FROTH

Heinemann's International Library.

Edited by EDMUND GOSSE.

Crown 8vo, in paper covers, 2s. 6d., or cloth limp, 3s. 6d.

IN GOD'S WAY. By Björnstjerne Björnson.
Translated from the Norwegian by Elizabeth
Carmichael.
PIERRE AND JEAN. By Guy de Maupassant.
Translated from the French by Clara Bell.
THE CHIEF JUSTICE. By Karl Emil
Franzos. Translated from the German by Miles
Corbet.
WORK WHILE YE HAVE THE LIGHT. By
Count Lvof Tolstoï. Translated from the Russian
by E. J. Dillon, Ph.D.
FANTASY. By Matilde Serao. Translated
from the Italian by Henry Harland and Paul Sylvester.
FROTH. By Armando Palacio Valdés.
Translated from the Spanish by Clara Bell.
THE COMMODORE'S DAUGHTERS. By
Jonas Lie. Translated from the Norwegian by H. L.
Brækstad and Gertrude Hughes.

Other Volumes will be announced later.
Each Volume contains a specially written
Introduction by the Editor.

London:
WILLIAM HEINEMANN, 21 Bedford St., W.C.

F R O T H

A NOVEL
BY
ARMANDO PALACIO VALDÉS
TRANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH
BY
C L A R A B E L L
LONDON
WILLIAM HEINEMANN
1891
(All rights reserved)

INTRODUCTION.

ACCORDING to the Spanish critics, the novel has flourished in Spain during only two epochs—the golden age of Cervantes and the period in which we are still living. That unbroken line of romance-writing which has existed for so long a time in France and in England, is not to be looked for in the Peninsula. The novel in Spain is a re-creation of our own days; but it has made, since the middle of the nineteenth century, two or three fresh starts. The first modern Spanish novelists were what are called the walter-scottistas, although they were inspired as much by George Sand as by the author of Waverley. These writers were of a romantic order, and Fernan Caballero, whose earliest novel dates from 1849, was at their head. The Revolution of September, 1868, marked an advance in Spanish fiction, and Valera came forward as the leader of a more national and more healthily vitalised species of imaginative work. The pure and exquisite style of Valera is, doubtless, only to be appreciated by a Castilian. Something of its charm may be divined, however, even in the English translation of his masterpiece, Pepita Jimenez. The mystical and aristocratic genius of Valera appealed to a small audience; he has confided to the world that when all were praising but few were buying his books.

Far greater fecundity and a more directly successful appeal to the public, were, somewhat later, the characteristics of Perez y Galdos, whose vigorous novels, spoiled a little for a foreign reader by their didactic diffuseness, are well-known in this country. In the hands of Galdos, a further step was taken by Spanish fiction towards the rejection of romantic optimism and the adoption of a modified realism. In Pereda, so the Spanish critics tell us, a still more valiant champion of naturalism was found, whose studies of local manners in the province of Santander recall to mind the paintings of Teniers. About 1875 was the date when the struggle commenced in good earnest between the schools of romanticism and realism. In 1881 Galdos definitely joined the ranks of the realists with his La Desheredada. An eminent Spanish writer, Emilio Pardo Bazan, thus described the position some six years ago: "It is true that the battle is not a noisy one, and excites no great warlike ardour. The question is not taken up amongst us with the same heat as in France, and this from several causes. In the first place, the idealists with us do not walk in the clouds so much as they do in France, nor do the realists load their palette so heavily. Neither school exaggerates in order to distinguish itself from the other. Perhaps our public is indifferent to literature, especially to printed literature, for what is represented on the stage produces more impression."

This indifference of the Spanish reading public, which has led a living novelist to declare that a person of good position in Madrid would rather spend his money on fireworks or on oranges than on a book, has at length been in a measure dissipated by a writer who is not merely admired and distinguished, but positively popular, and who, without sacrificing style, has conquered the unwilling Spanish public. This is Armando Palacio Valdés, who was born on the 4th of October, 1853, in a hamlet of Asturias, called Entralgo, where his family had at one time a mansion which has now disappeared. The family spent only the summer there; the remainder of the year they passed in Avilés, the maritime town which Valdés describes under the name of Nieva in his novel Marta y Maria. From Asturias he went, when still a youth, up to Madrid to study the law as a profession. But even in the lawyer's office, his dream was to become a man of letters. His ambition took the form of obtaining at some university a chair of political economy, to which science he had, or fancied himself to have, at that time, a great proclivity.

Before terminating his legal studies, the young man published several articles in the Revista Europea on philosophical and religious questions. These articles attracted the attention of the proprietor of that review, and Valdés presently joined the staff. Next year he became editor. He was at the head of the Revista Europea, at that time the most important periodical in Spain from a scientific point of view, for several years. During that time he published the main part of those articles of literary criticism, particularly on contemporary poets and novelists, which have since been collected in several volumes—Los Oradores del Ateneo ("The Orators of the Athenæum"); Los Novelistas Españoles ("The Spanish Novelists"); Un Nuevo Viaje al Parnaso ("A New Journey to Parnassus"), sketches of the living poets of Spain; and, in particular, a very bright collection of review articles, published in conjunction with Leopoldo Alas, La Literatura en 1881 ("Spanish Literature in 1881"). These gave Valdés a foremost rank among the critics of the day. He wrote no more criticism, or very little; he determined to place himself amongst those whose creative work demands the careful consideration of the best judges.

Soon after he took the direction of the Revista, Valdés wrote his first novel, El Señorito Octavio, which was not published until 1881. In 1883 he brought out his Marta y Maria, a book which, I know not why, is called "The Marquis of Peñalta" in its English version. This novel enjoyed an extraordinary success, and had more of the graphic and sprightly manner by which Valdés has since been distinguished, than the books which immediately followed it. Spanish critics, indeed, remembering the wonderful freshness of Marta y Maria, still often speak of it as the best of Valdés' stories. In this same year, 1883, he married, on the day when he completed his thirty years, a young lady of sixteen. His marriage was a honeymoon of a year and a half, of which El Idílio de un Enfermo ("The Idyl of an Invalid"), a short novel of 1884, portrays the earlier portion. His wife died early in 1885, leaving him with an infant son to be, as he says, "my illusion and my fascination." His subsequent career has been laborious and systematic. He has published one novel every year. In 1885 it was José, a shorter tale of sea-faring life on the stormy coast of the author's native province. About the same time appeared a collection of short stories, called Aguas Fuertes ("Strong Waters").

It was not until 1886, however, that Valdés began to rank among the foremost novelists of Europe. In that year he published his great story, Riverita, one of the characters in which, a charming child, became the heroine of his next book, Maximina, 1887. Of this character he writes to me: "My Maximina in these two books is but a pale reflection of that being from whom Providence parted me before she was eighteen years of age. In these novels I have painted a great part of my life." A Sevillian novice, who has helped to care for Maximina in Madrid, reigns supreme in a succeeding novel, La Hermana San Sulpício ("Sister San Sulpicio"), 1889. But between these two last there comes a massive novel, describing the adventures of a journalist who founds a newspaper in the provincial town of Sarrió, by which Santander seems to be intended. This book is called El Cuarto Poder ("The Fourth Power"), and was published in 1888. To these must now be added La Espuma ("Froth"), of which a translation is here given. When these words are published, the original will just have appeared in Madrid. It is by the kindness of the author, in supplying us with a set of proof-sheets, that I am able to speak of a book which even the critics of Madrid have not yet seen in Spanish.

In La Espuma Valdés has reverted from those country scenes and those streets of provincial cities which he has hitherto loved best to paint, and has given us a sternly satiric picture of the frothy surface of fashionable life in Madrid. From the illusions of the poor, pathetic and often beautiful, he has turned to the ugly cynicism of the wealthy. With his passion for honesty and simplicity, his heart burns within him at the parade and hollowness which he detects in aristocratic and bureaucratic Madrid. One conceives that, like his own Raimundo, he has been invited to enter it, has taken his fill of its pleasures, and has found his mouth filled with ashes. His talent for portraiture was never better employed. If he is occasionally tempted to commit the peculiarly Spanish fault of exaggeration—scarcely a fault there, where the shadows are so black and the colours so flaring—he has resisted it in his more important characters. The brutality of the Duke de Requena, the sagacity and urbanity of Father Ortega, the saintly sweetness of the Duchess, the naïveté of Raimundo, the sphinx-like charm of Clementina de Osorio, with her mysterious sweetness and duplicity, these are among the salient points of characterisation which stand out in this powerful book. La Espuma is a cry from the desert to those who wear soft raiment in kings' palaces. It is the ruthless tearing aside of the conventions by a Knox or a Savonarola. It is stringent satire, yet tempered with an artist's moderation, with a naturalist's self-suppression.

Those exquisite descriptions of Nature in which Valdés sparingly illuminates the pages of his country-novels, must not be looked for here. There is nothing in La Espuma like the splendid approach to Seville in La Hermana San Sulpício, or the noble picture of the Asturian sea-board, ravaged by the ocean, in José. The desolation of the mining district, at the close of the book, is all that we can compare with these. But one descriptive gift of Valdés, his power of rendering with sustained vivacity a varied social scene, was never better exemplified than by the dinner-party at the Osorios', by Salabert's ball to Royalty, in which Clementina ejects the demi-mondaine, or by the scene in Pepe's dressing-room when the mad Marquis wants to shoot him. The absence of sensational emphasis of every kind is notable. This is the result of severe self-training on the novelist's part. He has confessed himself displeased with the end of his own Riverita as too theatrical, and in the prologue to La Hermana San Sulpício, he wears a white sheet, and holds a penitential candle for a too stagey episode in El Cuarto Poder. No charge of this kind can be brought against La Espuma. It is closely studied from life, and is careful not to affront the modesty of nature, which loves an occasional tragic catastrophe, but loathes the artifice of a smartly constructed plot.

Of the author of so many interesting books but little has yet been told to the public. In a private letter to myself, the eminent novelist gives a brief sketch of his mode of life, so interesting that I have secured his permission to translate and print it here:—"Since my wife died," Señor Valdés writes, "my life has continued to be tranquil and melancholy, dedicated to work and to my son. During the winters, I live in Asturias, and during the summers, in Madrid. I like the company of men of the world better than that of literary folks, because the former teach me more. I am given up to the study of metaphysics. I have a passion for physical exercises, for gymnastics, for fencing, and I try to live in an evenly-balanced temper, nothing being so repugnant to me as affectation and emphasis. I find a good deal of pleasure in going to bull-fights (although I do not take my son to the Plaza dressed up like a miniature torero, as an American writer declares I do), and I cultivate the theatre, because to see life from the stage point of view helps me in the composition of my stories."

EDMUND GOSSE.

F R O T H

CHAPTER I.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

AT three in the afternoon the sun was pouring its rays on the Calle de Serrano, bathing it in bright orange light which hurt the eyes of those who went down the left-hand side where the houses stood closest. But as the cold was intense the pedestrian was not eager to cross to the other pavement in search of shade, preferring to face the sunbeams which, though blinding, were at any rate warming. At this hour, tripping slowly and daintily along, her muff of handsome otter-skin held up to shade her eyes, an elegantly dressed woman was making her way down the street, leaving behind her a wake of perfume which the shopmen standing at their doors sniffed up with enjoyment, as they gazed in rapture at the being who exhaled such a delightful fragrance.

For the Calle de Serrano, albeit the widest and handsomest in Madrid, has an essentially provincial stamp; little traffic, shops devoid of display, and dedicated for the most part to the sale of the necessaries of life, children playing in front of the houses, door-keepers seated in committee and discussing matters at the top of their voices with the unemployed butchers' boys, fishmongers, and grocers. Hence a well-dressed woman could not pass unremarked, as she might in the more central parts of the town. The glances of the passers-by, as well as of the loungers, rested on her with pleasure; the women commented on the quality of the clothes she wore, and horrible jests were uttered by the dreadful apprentices, provoking their companions to outbursts of brutal glee. One of the most ruffianly and greasy looking threw out as she passed one of those coarse remarks which would bring the colour to the smooth cheek of an English Miss, and make her call the policeman, and almost exact an apology. But our valiant Spanish lady, her soul above prudery, did not even wince, but went on her triumphant way with the dainty and hesitating step of a woman who rarely sets foot in the dust of the highway.

For that hers was a triumphant progress there could be no doubt; no one could look at her without admiration, not so much of her luxurious attire, as of the severe beauty of her face and the distinction of her figure. She was five-and-thirty at least. There was something extremely original in the type of her features. Her complexion was clear and dark, her eyes, blue, her hair coppery red. Such a strange mingling of different races is rarely seen in a face: if it showed a stronger dash of one than another, it was of the Italian. It was one of those faces which suggest an English lady burnt under a Neapolitan sun. In some of Raphael's pictures we see heads which may give some notion of our fair pedestrian.

Her predominant expression at the present moment was one of proud disdain, to which perhaps the sun contributed by making her knit her smooth and delicate brows. There was not, it must be confessed, any sweetness in this face; its firm and regular lines betrayed a haughty spirit devoid of tenderness; those blue eyes had not the limpid serenity which lends perfect harmony to a certain virginal style of countenance, occasionally seen and admired in Spain, but more frequently in the north of Europe. They were made to express the tumult of vehement and violent passions, among which ardent love might, perhaps, have its turn, but never that humble and silent devotion which would consent to die unspoken.

She wore a high red hat, and a short thin veil, also red, reaching only to her lips. The hue of this veil contributed to lend her face that singular tinge which caught the eye of every one who met her. Her wrapper was a handsome fur cloak, over a dress of the same shade as her hat, with an overskirt of lace or grenadine such as was then the fashion.

She held up her muff, as has been said, to shade her eyes, and kept her eyes fixed on the ground as one who does not care to see or heed anything which may come in her way. Consequently, till she came to the Calle de Jorge Juan, she did not detect the presence of a young man, who, keeping pace with her on the opposite side of the way, gazed at her with even more admiration than curiosity. But on reaching the corner, without knowing why, she raised her head, and her eyes met those of her admirer. A very perceptible shade of annoyance clouded her face; she frowned with greater severity, and the haughty expression of her eyes was more marked than before. She walked a little faster, and, on reaching the Calle de Villanueva, she stood still, and looked down the street, hoping, no doubt, to see a tramcar. The youth dared not do the same; he went on his way, not without sending certain eager and significant glances after the graceful figure, to which she vouchsafed no notice. The car at last arrived; the lady stepped in, showing, as she did so, a pretty foot shod in a kid boot, and took her seat in the farthest corner. Finding herself safe from indiscreet observation, her eyes by degrees grew more serene, and rested with indifference on the few persons who were with her in the vehicle; still the cloud of anxious thought did not altogether disappear from her face, nor the touch of disdain which lent dignity to her beauty.

Her youthful admirer had not resigned himself to losing sight of her. He went on confidently down the Calle de Villanueva; but as the tramcar went by he nimbly caught it up, and got on the step without being observed. And contriving to place himself where the lady could not see him, behind other persons standing on the platform, he was able to gaze at her by stealth, with an enthusiasm which would have made any looker-on smile.

For the difference between their ages was considerable. Our young friend looked about eighteen; his face was as beardless, as fresh and as rosy as a girl's, his hair red, his eyes blue, gentle, and melancholy. Though he wore an overcoat and a felt hat, his appearance was that of a gentleman; he was in the deepest mourning, which contrasted strongly with the fairness of his complexion. Under the magnetic influence of a firm gaze, which we all have experienced, our heroine ere long turned her eyes to the spot whence the young man fired darts of passionate admiration. Her face grew dark again, and her lips twitched with impatience, as though the poor boy's adoration was an aggression. And she began to show signs of feeling ill at ease in the coach, turning her pretty head now this way and now that, with an evident desire to escape. However, she did not alight till they reached the church of San José, where she stopped the car and got out, passing her persecutor with a look of proud disdain, which might have annihilated him.

He must have been a very bold man, or quite devoid of shame, to jump out after her as he did, and follow her along the Calle del Caballero de Gracia, taking the opposite side-walk to be able to stare more at his ease on the face which had so taken possession of him. The lady proceeded at a leisurely pace, and every man who passed her turned to gaze. Her step was that of a goddess who condescends to quit her throne of clouds for an hour, to rejoice and fascinate mortal men, who, as they behold her, are enraptured and stumble in their walk.

"Merciful Virgin, what a woman!" exclaimed a young officer in a loud voice, clinging to his companion as if he were about to faint with surprise.

The fair one could not help smiling very slightly, and the flash of that smile seemed to light up her exceptional loveliness. Presently two gentlemen in an open carriage bowed respectfully to her, and she responded with an almost imperceptible nod. When she reached the corner where the streets part by San Luis she hesitated and paused, looking in every direction, and again catching sight of the red-haired youth, she turned her back on him with marked contempt, and went on at a more rapid pace down the Calle de la Montera, where her appearance caused the same excitement in the passers-by. Three or four times she stopped in front of the shop windows, though evidently she did so less out of curiosity than in consequence of the nervous state into which the youth's unrelenting pursuit had plunged her.

Near the Puerta del Sol, to avoid him no doubt, she made up her mind to go into Marbini's jewel shop. Seating herself with an air of indifference, she raised her veil a little, and began to examine without much attention the latest importations in gems which the shopman displayed before her. She could not have done worse by way of releasing herself from the observations of her boyish admirer, since he could pursue them at his leisure and with the greatest ease through the plate glass windows, and did so with a persistency which enraged her more and more every minute.

In point of fact, the elegantly decorated shop, glittering in every corner with precious stones and metals, was a worthy shrine for her beauty, the setting best fitted for so delicate a gem. And so the youth was thinking, to judge from the impassioned ecstasy of his eyes and the statue-like fixity of his attitude. At last, unable any longer to control her irritation, the lady abruptly rose, and with a brief "Good morning" to the attendant, who treated her with extraordinary deference, she quitted the shop, and set off as fast as she could walk, towards the Puerta del Sol.

Here she stopped; then she went a little way towards a hackney cab, as though intending to take it; but, suddenly changing her mind, she turned with a determined step towards the Calle Mayor, still escorted by the youth at no great distance. Half-way down the street she vanished into a handsome house, not without sending a hasty but furious glance at her follower, who took it with perfect and wonderful coolness. The porter who was standing in the portico, gravely clipping his bushy black whiskers, hastily pulled off his braided cap, made her a low bow, and flew to open the glass door to the staircase, pressing, as he did so, the button of an electric bell. She slowly mounted the carpeted steps, and by the time she reached the first floor the door was already open, and a servant in livery was awaiting her.

The house was that of the Excellentisimo Señor Don Julian Calderón, the head of the banking firm of Calderón Brothers, who occupied the whole of the first floor, with a staircase apart from that which led to the rest of the apartments, let to other persons. This Calderón was the son of another Calderón, well known, in the commercial circles of Madrid, as a wholesale importer of hides and leather, by which he had made a good fortune, and in the later years of his life he had greatly augmented it by devoting himself, not to trade alone, but also to circulating and discounting bills of exchange. He being dead, his son Julian followed in his footsteps, without deviating from them in any particular, managing with his own property that of his two sisters—both married, one to a medical man, and the other to a landowner of La Mancha. He, too, had been married for some years to the daughter of a wealthy merchant of Zaragoza, Don Tomas Osorio by name; the father of the well-known Madrid banker, whose house in the Salamanca quarter of the town, Calle de D. Ramon de la Cruz, was kept upon a princely footing. The handsome lady who had just entered the Calderón's house was this banker's wife, and consequently the sister-in-law of Señora de Calderón.

She passed in front of the servant without waiting to be announced, walking on as one who had a right there; crossed three or four large, elegantly decorated rooms, and, pulling aside with her own hand the rich velvet curtain with its embroidered fringing, entered a much smaller drawing-room where several persons were sitting.

In the seat nearest to the fire reclined the mistress of the house; a woman of some forty years, stout, with regular features, and large black eyes, but devoid of sparkle; her skin was fair, her hair chestnut, and remarkably soft and fine. By her, in a low easy chair, sat another lady, a complete contrast in every respect; brunette, slight, delicate, and full of excessive vivacity, not only in her keen, bright eyes, but in her whole person. This was the Marquesa de Alcudia, of one of the first families in Spain. The three young girls, who sat in a row on straight chairs, were her daughters, all very like her in physique though they did not imitate her restlessness, but remained motionless and silent, their eyes cast down with such an affectation of modesty and composure that it was easy to see in what severe order they were kept by their lively and nervous mamma. To one of them every now and then the daughter of the house spoke in an undertone. She was a child of thirteen or fourteen, with round cheeks, small eyes, a turn-up nose, and scars in the throat which argued a delicate constitution. Her hair was plaited into a long tail tied at the end with a ribbon, as was that of the youngest Alcudia, with whom she carried on a subdued and intermittent conversation. This young lady and her sisters wore fanciful hats, all alike, while Esperanza Calderón sat with her little round head uncovered, and wore a blue morning frock much too short for a girl of her age.

Facing the Señora, and lounging, like her, in an arm-chair, was General Patiño, Conde de Morillejo. He was between fifty and sixty years of age, but his eyes sparkled with all the fire of youth; his grey hair was carefully dressed, and large moustaches à la Victor Emmanuel, a pointed beard and aquiline nose, gave him a gallant and attractive appearance. He was the ideal of a veteran aristocrat. By him sat Calderón, a man of about fifty, stout, with a fat florid face, graced with short grey whiskers, his eyes round, vacant, and dull. Not far from him was an elderly woman, his mother-in-law, but quite unlike her daughter in face and figure; so thin, that she was no more than skin and bone, dark, and with deep-set, penetrating eyes, every feature stamped with intelligence and decision. Talking to her was Pinedo, the occupant of the third-floor rooms. His moustache showed no grey hairs, but it was easy to see that it was dyed; his face was that of a man verging on the sixties; a good-humoured face too, with prominent eyes full of eager movement—those of an observant character; he was dressed with care and elegance, his whole person exquisitely clean.

On seeing the beautiful lady in the doorway, the whole party showed some excitement; all rose, excepting the mistress of the house, on whose placid face a faint smile of pleasure showed dimly.

"Ah! Clementina! What a miracle to see you here!"

The lady in question went forward with a smile, and, while she embraced the ladies and shook hands with the gentlemen, she replied to her sister-in-law's affectionate reproach.

"Come, come. Fit the cap to your own head—you who never come to my house above once in six months."

"I have my children to think of, my dear."

"What an excuse; I ask you! I, too, have children."

"Yes, at Chamartin."

"Well, but having sons does not hinder you from going to the opera or out driving."

Clementina seated herself between her sister-in-law and the Marquesa de Alcudia; the rest resumed their seats.

"Oh, my dear!" Señora de Calderón went on, "if you could have seen what a cold I caught at the play the other night. It was all the fault of that goose Ramon Maldonado; with all his bowing and scraping he could not manage to shut the door of the box. The draught pierced my very bones."

"Happy was that draught!" remarked General Patiño with a gallant smile.

Every one else smiled, excepting the lady addressed, who gazed at him in amazement, opening her eyes very wide.

"How—happy?" said she.

The General had to explain that it was a covert compliment, and not till then did she reward him with a smile.

"And was not Gayarre delightful?" said Clementina.

"Admirable, as he always is," replied Señora de Calderón.

"He seems to me to want style of manner," the General suggested.

"Oh no, General, I beg your pardon——" And they went off into a discussion as to whether the famous tenor had or had not the actor's art, whether he dressed well or ill. The ladies were all on his side; the men were against him.

From the tenor they went on to the soprano.

"She is altogether charming," said the General, with the confidence and conviction of a connoisseur.

"Oh! delicious," exclaimed Calderón.

"Well, for my part I regard the Tosti as extremely commonplace. Do you not think so, Clementina?"

Clementina agreed.

"Do not say so, pray, Marquesa," the General hastened to put in, glancing as he spoke at Señora de Calderón. "The mere fact that a woman is tall and stout does not make her commonplace if she holds herself proudly and has a distinguished manner."

"I do not say so, General; do not make such a mistake," replied the Marquesa, with some vehemence. But she proceeded to criticise the grace and fine figure of the soprano with much humour and some little temper.

The argument became general, and the issue proved the reverse of the former discussion; the men were favourable to the actress and the ladies adverse. Pinedo summed up by saying in a grave and solemn tone, which, however, betrayed some covert meaning, "A fine figure is more essential to a woman than to a man."

Clementina and the General exchanged significant glances. The Marquesa frowned sternly at the dandy, and then hastily looked at her daughters, who sat with their eyes downcast, in the same rigid and expressionless attitude as before. Pinedo himself was quite unmoved, as though he had said the most natural thing in the world.

"For my part, friend Pinedo, it seems to me that a man too should have a good figure," said slow-witted Señora de Calderón.

As she spoke a faint gasp was heard as of laughter hardly controlled. It was the youngest of the Alcudia girls, at whom her mother shot a pulverising look, and the damsel's face immediately resumed its original expression of timidity and propriety.

"That is a matter of opinion," replied Pinedo with a respectful bow.

This Pinedo, who occupied one of the apartments on the third floor of the house, the whole belonging to Señor de Calderón, held a place of some importance in one of the public offices. The changes of political administration did not affect his tenure; he had friends of every party, and had never thrown himself into the scale for either. He lived as a man of the world; was received at the most aristocratic houses in the metropolis; was on terms of intimacy with almost every one who figured in finance or politics; was an early member of the Savage Club (Club de los Salvajes), where he delighted in making fun every evening with the young aristocrats who assembled there, and who treated him with a familiarity which not rarely degenerated into rudeness. He was a genial and intelligent man, with considerable knowledge and experience of the world; tolerant towards every form of vanity from sheer contempt for all; and nevertheless, under the exterior of a courteous and inoffensive creature, he had in the depths of his nature a power of satire which enabled him to take vengeance quite gracefully, by some incisive and opportune phrase, for the impertinence of his young friends the juveniles of the club, who professed an affection for him mingled with contempt and fear.

No one knew whence he had sprung, though it was regarded as beyond doubt that he was of humble birth. Some declared that he was the son of a butcher at Seville; others said that in his youth he had been a waif on the beach at Malaga. All that was positively known was that, many years since, he had come to Madrid as hanger-on to an Andalucian of rank, who, after dissipating his fortune, blew his brains out. Under his protection Pinedo had made a great many useful acquaintances; he came to know and be known by everybody who was anybody, and was popular with all. He had the tact to efface himself when he crossed the path of a pompous and overbearing man, letting him pass first; he gave rise to no jealousies, and this is a certain means of exciting no hostility. At the same time his cleverness, and his caustic wit, which he always kept within certain bounds, were a constant amusement at social meetings, and sufficed to give him a certain importance which he otherwise would not have enjoyed.

His family consisted of one daughter aged eighteen, and named Pilar. His wife, whom no one had known, had died many years before. His salary amounted to forty thousand reals,[A] on which the father and daughter lived very thriftily in the third-floor rooms which Calderón let to them for twenty-two dollars a month. Pinedo's chief outlay was on "appearances"; that is to say, as he moved in a rank of society above his own he was obliged to dress well and frequent the theatres. Understanding the necessity for keeping up his acquaintances—the pillars on which his continuance in office rested—he indulged in such expenses without hesitation, pinching himself in other departments of domestic economy. Thus he lived in a state of stable equilibrium; his position enabled him to move in the society of the great, while they unconsciously helped to keep him in his position. No Minister could venture to dismiss a man whom he would inevitably meet at every evening party and ball in the capital. As Pinedo had occasionally had the honour of speaking with Royalty, certain sayings of his were current in fashionable drawing-rooms, where they enjoyed a fame out of all proportion to their merits, since, as a rule, there is a conspicuous lack of wit in most drawing-rooms; he was a good shot with pistol or rifle, and possessed a voluminous library on the culinary arts. The very highest personages were flattered when they heard that Pinedo had praised their cook.

"How long is it since you were at the Colegio, Pacita?" asked Esperanza of the youngest de Alcudia, in an undertone.

"On Friday last. Do not you know that mamma takes us to confession every Friday? And you?"

"It is at least three weeks since I was there. Mamma and I confess once a month."

"And is Father Ortega satisfied with that?"

"He says nothing about it to me. I do not know whether he does to mamma."

"He would say nothing to her; he knows better than to put his foot in it. Have you seen the Mariani girls?"

"Yes; I met them in the Retiro Gardens a few days ago."

"Do you know that Maria is engaged?"

"She did not tell me."

"Yes. In the cavalry, a son of Brigadier Arcos. Such a queer-looking fellow; not ugly, but his legs tremble when he walks, as if he had just come out of the hospital. You see, as the brigadier is her mamma's most devoted—it is all in the family."

"And you? Do you keep it up with your cousin?"

"I really cannot tell you. On Monday he went off in a huff and has not been to the house since. My cousin is not what he seems; he is no simpleton, but a very presuming fellow; if you give him an inch he takes an ell. If I did not keep a very sharp look out there is no knowing to what lengths he would go at the pace he makes. Do you know that the other day he insisted on kissing me?"

Esperanza gazed at her, smiling and curious. Pacita put her mouth close to Esperanza's ear and whispered a few words.

"Mercy!" exclaimed the girl, turning scarlet.

"As I tell you, child. Of course I told him he was a horrid wretch, and I would not touch him with a pair of tongs. He went off very much nettled, but he will come back."

"Your cousin rides very well. I saw him on horseback yesterday."

"It is the only thing he can do. Books make him idiotic. He has been examined six times already in Roman law, and has failed to pass every time."

"What does that matter!" exclaimed Esperanza, with a scorn which might have made Heinecius turn in his grave. And she went on, "Did Madame Clément make those hats?"

"No. Mamma had them bought in Paris by Señora de Carvajal, who arrived on Saturday."

"They are very pretty."

"Yes, prettier than any Madame Clément makes."

Little Esperanza de Calderón, though plain enough, was nevertheless not without attractions, consisting partly perhaps in her youth, and partly in her mouth, on which, with its full fresh lips and even white teeth, sensuality had already set its seal. The youngest of the Alcudias was a delicate creature, all bones and eyes.

At this point another lady was shown in—a woman of forty or more, pretty still, though painted, and marked with lines left by a life of dissipation rather than by years.

"Here is Pepa Frias," said Mariana—the Señora de Calderón—with a smile.

"Quite right; here is Pepa Frias," said the lady so named, with an affectation of bad humour. "A woman who is not in the very least ashamed to set foot in this house." The company all laughed.

"You would suppose by my appearance that I had come out of the workhouse? That I had no home of my own? But I have. Calle de Salesas, Number 60—first floor. That is to say, the landlord has—but I pay him, which is more than all your tenants do, I am very sure. Oh! Pinedo, I beg your pardon, I did not see you. And I am at home on Saturdays—it is not so hot as you are here, oof! And I give chocolate and tea and conversation and everything—just as you do here."

And while she spoke she went from one to another shaking hands with a look of fury. But as every one knew her for an oddity they took it as a joke and laughed.

She was a woman of substantial build, her hair artificially red, her eyes rather prominent, but handsome, her lips rosy and sensual—a decidedly attractive woman, in short, who had had, and, in spite of advancing years, still had, many devoted admirers.

"What there is not at my house," she went on to Señora de Calderón, giving her a sounding kiss on each cheek, "is a woman so graceless and so insignificant as you. For, of course, I am not come to see you, but my dear Señor Don Julian, who now and then comes to wish me good evening, and tell me the latest prices of stocks. And à propos to prices, Clementina, tell your husband to hold his hand till I give him notice. No, you had better say nothing about it. I will call at your house this evening."

"But, child, how you are always loaded with papers about shares and stocks!" exclaimed Mariana.

"And so would you be if you had not such an energetic husband, who heats his head over them that you may keep yours cool and easy."

"Come, come, Pepa, do not be calling me names, or you will make me blush," said Calderón.

"I am saying no more than the truth. You may imagine that it is pure joy to be always thinking whether shares are going up or down, and writing letters and endorsements, and walking to and from the bank."

"I imagine, Pepa," said the General, with a gallant smile, "that, from all I hear, you have a perfect talent for business."

"You imagine! That is an event!"

"I have not so much imagination as you, but I have some," retorted the General, somewhat put out by the laugh Pepa's speech had raised.

Pepa enjoyed the reputation in society of being a very funny person, though, in fact, her wit was hardly to be distinguished from audacity. Speaking always with an affectation of anger, calling things bluntly by their names, however coarse they might be, saying the most insolent things without respect of persons—these were the characteristics which had won her a certain popularity. She had been left a widow while still young, with two children, a boy who had entered the navy and was at sea, and a girl who had now been married about a year. Her husband had been a merchant, and in his later years had gambled successfully on the Bourse. At that time Pepa had caught the same passion, and, as a widow, she had cultivated it. Prudence, or more probably the timidity which generally hampers a woman in such a business, had hitherto saved her from the ruin which, as a rule, inevitably overtakes gamblers. She had somewhat impaired her fortune, but still enjoyed a very enviable competency.

"Pepa, the matter is going on famously," said Pinedo. "Zaragoza wishes to have one volcano, and at Coruña the authorities have decided on making two, one on the east and one on the west of the town."

"I am glad; I am delighted. So that the shares will not be put on the market?"

"No; the syndicate has ample security that they will be at three hundred before the month is out."

The few who were in the joke laughed at this. The rest stared at them with intense curiosity.

"What is all this about volcanoes, Pepa?" asked Señora de Calderón.

"Señora, a society has been formed for establishing volcanoes in various districts."

"Indeed. And of what use are volcanoes?"

"For warming, and as decorative objects."

Every one understood the joke excepting the lymphatic mistress of the house, who still inquired into the details of the affair with continued interest, her friends laughing till Calderón, half amused and half annoyed, exclaimed:

"Why, my dear, do not be so simple. Do you not see that it is a joke between Pepa and Pinedo?"

The couple protested, affecting the greatest gravity. But Pepa whispered in her friend's ear: "Mariana is such a simpleton that for the last three months that carpet-knight, the General, has been making love to her and she has never found it out."

Pepa was not far wrong in styling General Patiño a carpet-knight. In spite of his swagger, his somewhat damaged features and his martial airs, Patiño was but a sham veteran. He had got his promotion without losing a drop of blood—first as military instructor to one of the princes, then as member of various scientific committees, and finally as holding a place under the Minister of War; cultivating the favour of political personages; returned as deputy several times; senator at last and a member of the Supreme Court of Naval and Military Jurisdiction, he had never been on the field of battle excepting in pursuit of a revolutionary general, and then with the firm determination never to come up with him.

As he had travelled a little and boasted of having seen every implement in the arts of war, he passed for an accomplished soldier. He subscribed to two or three scientific reviews; when his profession was under discussion he would quote a few German authorities, and he spoke in an emphatic tone and a deep chest voice which impressed his audience. But in fact the reviews were always left to lie open on his table, and the German names, though correctly pronounced, were no more than empty sounds to him. He piqued himself on being a soldier of the modern school, and for this reason he was never seen in his uniform. He was fond of the arts, especially of music, and was a regular subscriber to the Opera House and the Conservatorium Quartetts. He was fond of flowers, too, and of women—more especially of his neighbour's wife; insatiable in tasting the fruits of other men's gardens. His life glided on in simple contentment, in watering the gardenias in his little garden—Calle de Ferraz—and making love to his friends' wives.

This he did as one who makes it his business, and in the most business-like way. He devoted all his mind to it, and all the powers of his considerable intelligence, as a man must who means to achieve anything great or profitable in this world. His strategical knowledge, which he had never had occasion to display in the battle-field, served him a good turn in storming the fair ones of the metropolis. First he established a blockade with languishing glances, appearing at the theatre, in the parks, in the churches frequented by the lady; where-ever she went Patiño's shining new hat, gleaming in the air, proclaimed the ardent and respectful passion of its owner. Then he narrowed the cordon, making himself intimate in the house, bringing bonbons to the children, buying them toys and picture-books, taking them out to breakfast occasionally and bribing the servants by opportune gifts. Then came the attack; by letter or by word of mouth. And here our General displayed a daring, an intrepidity, which contrasted splendidly with the prudence and skill of the siege. Such a combination of talents have always characterised the great captains of the world: Alexander, Cæsar, Hernan Cortés, Napoleon.

Years did not avail to cool his ardour for great enterprises, nor to diminish his extraordinary faculties; or, to be accurate, what he lost in energy he gained in art; thus the balance was preserved in this privileged nature. But since fortune—as many philosophers have taught us—refuses her aid to the old, in spite of his skill the General had of late experienced certain repulses which he could not ascribe to any defect of foresight or courage, but only to the vagaries of fate. Two young wives in succession had snubbed him severely. But, as is always the case with men of real genius, in whom reverses do not produce any womanly weakness, but, on the contrary, only prompt them to concentrate and brace their spirit and power, Patiño did not weep like Augustus over his legions. But he meditated, and meditated long. And his meditations were rich in results; a new scheme of tactics, wonderful as all his schemes were, rose up from the labour of his lofty thoughts. Taking stock very accurately of his means of attack, and calculating with admirable precision the amount of resistance which the fair foe could offer, he perceived that he could no longer besiege new citadels, where the fortifications were always comparatively recent, but only those which, being ancient, were beginning to show weak spots. Such keen penetration in planning the attack and such skill in execution as the General could bring to bear, promised him certain victory. And in fact, as a result of this new and sure plan of action, first one and then another of the most seasoned and mature beauties of the capital surrendered to his siege, and at the feet of these silver-haired Venuses he won the reward due to his prudence and courage.

Like Hannibal of Carthage Patiño could vary his tactics as circumstances required, according to the position and temperament of the enemy. Certain strongholds demanded severity, a display of the means of coercion; in other cases craftier measures were needed, a stealthy and noiseless approach. One fair enemy preferred the martial and manly aspect of the conquering hero: she would listen with delight to the history of the famous days of Garrovillas and Jarandilla, when he was in pursuit of the rebels. Another took pleasure in hearing him discourse in his highest style of oratory and richest chest notes on political and military problems. A third, again, went into ecstasies over his interpretation of some famous melody of Mozart's or Schumann's, on the violoncello. For our hero played the 'cello remarkably well, and it must be confessed that this elegant instrument had helped him considerably in his most successful achievements. He brought out the notes in a quite irresistible manner, revealing very clearly that, in spite of his dashing and bellicose temperament, he had an impressionable heart, alive to the blandishments of love. And lest the long-drawn notes should not express this with absolute clearness, they were corroborated by eyes upturned till they disappeared in their sockets at each impassioned or pathetic point of the melody—eyes which really could not fail of their effect on any beauty, however stony-hearted.

Pepa's malicious insinuation was not unfounded. The gallant general had for some time past been turning his guns on Señora de Calderón without her showing any signs of being aware of it. Never in the course of his many and brilliant campaigns had he met with a similar case. To bombard a citadel for several months, to pelt it with shell as big as your head—and to see it as undisturbed, as sound asleep, as though they had been pellets of paper! When the General came out, point-blank, with some perfervid address Mariana smiled complacently.

"Hush, wretch! A nice specimen you must have been in your day!"

Patiño would bite his lips with annoyance. In his day! He who fancied his day was still at its noon! But his amazing diplomatic talent enabled him to dissimulate, and smile in bland reply.

"How much did you give for that bracelet?" Pacita inquired of Esperanza, who was wearing a very pretty and fanciful trinket.

"The General gave it me a few days ago."

"Indeed! The General evidently makes you a great many presents then?" said her friend, with a slightly ironical tone which the girl did not understand.

"Oh, yes. He is very kind. He is always giving us things. He gave my little sister a beautiful locket to wear at her neck."

"And does he make presents to your mamma?"

"Yes, sometimes."

"And what does your papa say?"

"Papa!" exclaimed Esperanza, opening her eyes in surprise, "What should he say?"

Pacita, without replying, called the attention of one of her sisters.

"Mercedes, look what a pretty bracelet the General has given to Esperanza."

The second of the Alcudias abandoned her rigidity for a moment, and taking Esperanza's arm examined the bracelet with interest.

"It is very pretty. And the General gave you that?" she asked, exchanging a meaning glance with her sister.

"Here comes Ramoncito," said Esperanza, looking towards the door.

"Ah! Ramoncito Maldonado."

A tall young man, slight and thin, very pale, with black whiskers which encroached on his nose, in the style adopted by his Majesty the King, and, following his example, by many of the youthful aristocracy, came into the room with a smile and proceeded to greet the company without any sign of shyness, taking their hands with a slight shake, and pressing them to his breast in the affected style which, a few years since, was the correct thing among the coxcombs of Madrid society. As he came in he filled the room with some penetrating scent.

"Heavens, what a poisonous atmosphere!" Pepa exclaimed in an undertone, after shaking hands with him. "What a puppy that fellow is!"

"Hallo! Old boy!" exclaimed this youngster, coolly taking Pinedo by the beard. "What were you doing yesterday? Pepe Castro called on you——"

"Pepe Castro called on me! So much honour overwhelms me!"

Such familiarity on Maldonado's part to a man already of mature age and venerable appearance was somewhat startling. But all the gilded youth of the Savage Club treated Pinedo in the same way without his taking offence at it.

"And here is Mariana," Pinedo went on, "who has just been abusing you; and with reason."

"Indeed."

"Do not believe him, Ramoncito," exclaimed Señora de Calderón, much surprised.

"Oh, and Pepa too."

"You, Pepa?" asked the youth, trying to appear indifferent, but in fact somewhat uneasy; for Pepa de Frias was very generally feared, and not without cause.

"I? Oh yes, and I will have it out with you. What do you mean by soaking yourself with scent? Do you hope to subdue us all through our olfactory organs?"

"I only wish I could subdue you through any organ, Pepa."

The retort was generally acceptable. There was a spontaneous burst of laughter, led by Pacita. Her mother bit her lip with rage and whispered to the daughter next her to tell the second, to communicate to the youngest that she was a shameless minx, and that she would hear more of it when she got home.

"Well said, boy! Shake hands on it!" exclaimed Pepa, holding out her hand to Ramoncito. "That is the first sensible speech I ever heard you make. Generally you only talk nonsense."

"Thank you very much."

"There is nothing to thank me for."

"We have just read the question you put in the Assembly, Ramoncito," said Señora de Calderón, trying by amiability to discredit Pinedo's accusation.

"Pshaw! Half a dozen words!"

"Every one must make a beginning, young man," said Calderón, with a patronising air.

"No, no. That is not the way to begin," said Pinedo, gravely, "You begin by dissentient murmurs; next come interruptions"—"That is inaccurate; prove it, prove it; you are misinformed"—"Then you go on to appeals and questions. Next comes the explaining of your own vote, or the defence of some incidental motion. Finally a speech on some great financial question. So you see Ramon is at the third stage, that of appeals and questions."

"Thanks, Pinedito, thanks!" replied the young man, somewhat piqued. "Then, having reached that stage, I appeal to you not to be so devilish clever."

"I declare! That too is not so bad," exclaimed Señora de Frias in a tone of surprise. "Why Ramoncito, you are sparkling with wit!"

The youthful deputy found himself a seat between the daughter of the house and Pacita de Alcudia who parted reluctantly to make room for his chair. Maldonado, a man of good family, not altogether devoid of fortune, and recently elected member of the Chamber, had for some time been paying his addresses to Esperanza de Calderón. It was in the opinion of their friends a very suitable match. Esperanza would be richer than Ramoncito, since Don Julian's business was soundly established on an extensive scale; still, the young man, who was by no means a beggar, had begun his political career with credit. The young girl's parents neither opposed nor encouraged his advances—Calderón, with the dignity and superiority which money gives, hardly troubled himself as to who might profess an attachment to his daughter, satisfied with the certainty that when the time came for marrying her she would have no lack of suitors. Indeed, five or six young fellows of the most elegant and superfine society in Madrid buzzed in the parks, at evening parties, and at the theatre, round the wealthy heiress, like drones round a beehive.

Ramon had many rivals, some of them men of position. But this did not trouble him so greatly as that the damsel, by nature so subdued, and usually so silent and shy, with him was saucy and at her ease, allowing herself sundry more or less harmless little jests, and blunt answers, and grimaces, which amply proved that she did not take him seriously. And for this reason, Pepe Castro, his friend and confidant, constantly told him that he should make himself more scarce, that he should seem less eager and less anxious, that a woman was the better for being treated with a little contempt.

Now Pepe Castro was not merely his friend and confidant, but his model for every action of social or private life. The verdicts he pronounced on persons, horses, politics—of which however he rarely spoke at all—shirts and walking-sticks were to the young deputy incontrovertible axioms. He copied his dress, his walk, his laugh. If Castro appeared on a Spanish mare, Ramon sold his English cob to buy such another as his friend's; if he took to a military salute, raising his hand to the side of his head, in a few days Ramon saluted like a recruit; if he set up a flirtation with a shop-girl, it was not long before our youth was haunting the low quarters of the city, in search of her fellow. Pepe Castro combed all his hair forward to hide a patch that was prematurely bald; Ramon, who had a fine head of hair, also combed his hair forward; nay, he would very willingly have imitated the baldness to appear more chic.

However, in spite of all this devout imitation of his model, he could not obey him in the matter of his incipient passion. And for this reason: strange as it may seem, Ramoncito was beginning really to care for the girl. Love is but rarely a single-minded impulse; various other passions often contribute to suggest it and vivify it: vanity, avarice, sensuality, and ambition. Still it is hardly to be distinguished from the real thing; it inspires the same watchful care, and causes the same doubts and torments; the touch-stone lies in unselfishness and constancy. Else it is very easy to mistake them. Ramon believed himself to be sincerely in love with Esperanza, and perhaps he was justified, for he admired her and thought of her night and day, he sought every opportunity of pleasing her, and hated his rivals mortally. However he might try to follow the advice of the infallible Pepe and to conceal his devotion, or at any rate the ardour of his feelings, he could not succeed. He had begun to court her out of self-interest with all the unconcern of a man whose heart is free, and the young lady's disdainful indifference had quickly brought him to thinking of her constantly, and feeling himself confused and fascinated in her presence. Then the rivalry of other suitors had fired his blood and his desire to win her hand as soon as possible. And in deference to the truth it must be said that he had almost forgotten Calderón's thousands, and was almost disinterested in his attachment.

"So you really made a speech in the Chamber, Ramon?" asked Pacita. "And what did you say?"

"Nothing! Half a dozen words about the service of the bridges," replied the young man, with an air of affected modesty.

"Can ladies go to the Chamber?"

"Why not?"

"Because I should so much like to hear a debate one day. And Esperanza, too, I am sure."

"No, no. Not I," Esperanza hastily put in.

"Nonsense, child; do not make any pretence. Do not you want to hear your lover speak?"

Esperanza turned as red as a poppy and burst out: "I have no lover, and do not wish for one."

Ramon, too, coloured scarlet.

"Paz, what horrible things you say," Esperanza went on, in indignant confusion. "If you say any such thing again I will go away and leave you."

"I beg your pardon, my dear," said the malicious little thing, enchanted at having put her friend and the deputy to such confusion. "I quite thought—so many people say—Well, if it is not Ramon it is Federico."

Maldonado frowned.

"Neither Federico nor any one else. Leave me in peace. Look, here comes Father Ortega. Get up!"

CHAPTER II.
MORE OF THE ACTORS.

A TALL priest, still young, with a full, pale face, blue eyes, and the vague gaze of short sight, was standing in the doorway. Every one rose. The Marquesa was the first to come forward and kiss his hand. After her, her daughters did the same, and then Mariana and the other ladies.

"Good-evening, Father." "Delighted to see you, Father." "Sit here, Father." "No, no, not there; come near the fire, Father."

The men shook hands with him affectionately and respectfully. The priest's voice, as he returned their greetings, was sweet and very low, as though there were a sick person in the adjoining room; his smile was grave, patronising, and insinuating. He had an air of having been dragged from his cell and his books with extreme difficulty—of coming hither much against his will, simply to do some good to the Calderóns, whose spiritual director he was, by the mere contact of his learned and virtuous person. His clothes and robe were fine and well cut; his shoes of patent leather with silver buckles; his stockings of silk.

Every one complimented him enthusiastically on a sermon he had delivered the day before at the Oratory Del Caballero de Gracia. He merely smiled, and murmured sweetly: "I am only glad, ladies, if you derived any benefit from it."

Padre Ortega was no common priest—at any rate, in the opinion of the fashionable society of the metropolis, among whom he had a large following. Without being a meddler, he was a constant guest in the houses of persons of distinction. He did not love to make a noise, or attract the attention of the company to himself; he neither made jokes nor allowed joking; he had none of the frank, gossiping temper which is commonly found in those priests who are addicted to social intercourse. If he had any love of intrigue it must have been of a different type to that usually seen in the world. Discreet and affable, modest, grave, and silent in society, effacing himself completely and mingling with the crowd, he stood out in full relief when he mounted the pulpit, as he very frequently did. Then he expressed himself with amazing ease and fluency; he did not move his audience to emotion, and never attempted it, but he displayed very remarkable talents, and a distinction rare among his order.

For he was one of those very few ecclesiastics who are—or who at any rate seem to be—up to the mark of modern science. Instead of the moral platitudes, the empty and absurd declamation, which are hurled by his brethren against science and logic, his sermons boldly rose to the level of the literature of the day; he invariably ended by proving directly or indirectly that there is no essential incompatibility between the advance of science and the dogmas of the Church. He would discourse of evolution, of transmutation, of the struggle for existence; would quote Hegel sometimes, allude to the Malthusian theory of population, to the antagonism of Labour and Capital; and from each in turn would deduce something in support of Catholic doctrine; to meet new modes of attack new weapons must be employed. He even confessed himself an advocate, in principle, of Darwin's theories—a fact which surprised and alarmed some of his more timid friends and penitents, although at the same time it enhanced their respect and admiration. When he addressed himself to women only, he avoided all erudition which might bore them, adopted a worldly tone, spoke of their little parties and balls, their dress and their fashions like an adept, and drew similes and arguments from social life. This delighted his fair audience, and brought them to his feet.

He was the director of many of the principal families of Madrid, and in this capacity he showed exquisite discretion and tact, treating each one with due regard to his or her temperament and past and present position. When he met with a woman like the Marquesa de Alcudia, devout, enthusiastic, and fervent, the shrewd priest pressed the keys firmly, was exacting and imperious, inquired into the smallest domestic details, and laid down the law. In the Alcudia's household not a step was taken without his sanction; and in such cases, as though he enjoyed exerting his power, he adopted a stern and grave demeanour which, under other circumstances, was quite foreign to him.

If he had to do with a family of worldlings, indifferent to the Church, he played with a lighter hand, was benign and tolerant, requiring them only to conform outwardly, and refrain from setting a bad example. He did all he could to consolidate the beautiful alliance which in our days has been concluded between religion and fashion; every day he found some new means to this end, some derived from the French, some the offspring of his own brain. On certain days of the year he would collect an evening congregation of ladies of his acquaintance in the chapel or oratory of some noble house. Then there were delightful matinées, when he would extemporise a prayer, some accomplished musician would play the harmonium, he himself would speak a short friendly address, and then discuss religious questions with the ladies present; those who chose might confess, and, to conclude, the party would adjourn to the dining-room, where they took tea,—and changed the subject.

When any member of one of these families died, Padre Ortega had his name inserted on the letters of formal announcement, as Spiritual Director, requesting the prayers of the faithful for the departed soul; and then he would distribute printed pamphlets of souvenirs or memoirs, with prayers in which he besought the Supreme Redeemer, in persuasive and honeyed words, that by this or that special feature of His most Holy Passion, he would forgive Count T—— or Baroness M—— the sin of pride or avarice, or what not; but, as a rule, not the sin to which the deceased had been most prone, for the worthy father had no mind to cause a scandal or hurt the feelings of the family. He also undertook the business of arranging for the acquisition of the greatest possible number of indulgences, for the Papal benediction in articulo mortis, for the prayers of any particular sisterhood, and so forth. Those who were his friends and of his flock, might be quite certain of not departing for the other world unprovided with good introductions. What we do not know is how far they proved useful in the sight of God: whether He passed them with a superscription in blue pencil as an ambassador does, or whether, like the lady in the story, He asked: "And you, Padre Ortega—who introduces you?"

When he had exchanged a few polite words with every person present, with such courtesy as was due to the position of each, the Marquesa de Alcudia took possession of him, carrying him off into a corner of the room, where, seated face to face in two armchairs, they began a conversation in an undertone, as though she were making confession. The priest, his elbow resting on the arm of his seat, and his shaven chin in his hand, listened to her with downcast eyes, in an attitude of humility; now and then he put in a measured word to which the lady listened with respect and submission; though she immediately returned to the charge, gesticulating vehemently, but without raising her voice.

Soon after the ecclesiastic, a youth had made his appearance—a fat youth, very round and rosy, with little whiskers which came but just below his ears, his eyes deep set in flesh, and a fine fresh colour in his cheeks. His clothes looked too tight for him; his voice was hoarse, and he seemed to produce it with difficulty. Ramon Maldonado's face clouded over as he came in. This new-comer was the heir of the Conde de Casa-Ramirez, and one of the suitors for the first born of the house of Calderón. Jacobo—or Cobo Ramirez, as he was generally called, was regarded as a comic personage for the same reasons as Pepa Frias, but with less foundation. He too displayed great freedom of speech, cynical disrespect of persons, even of the most respectable, and an almost incredible degree of ignorance. His jests were the coarsest and grossest which decent people could by any means endure. Sometimes, indeed, they hit the nail on the head, that is to say, he had a happy thought; but as a rule his sallies were purely and unmitigatedly indecent.

And yet the company were pleased to see him. A smile of satisfaction lighted up every face but that of Ramoncito.

"I say, Calderón," he exclaimed as he came in, without any sort of preliminary greeting; "how do you manage to have such good-looking boys for your servants? As I came in, in the dim light, by the mezzo-soprano voice I heard, I took one of them for a girl."

"Nonsense, man," said the banker, laughing.

"I tell you I did, man, not that I care if you have as many Romeos as you please. Is your friend Pinazo coming this evening?"

All understood the allusion; almost every one burst out laughing.

"No, no, he is not coming," replied Calderón, choking with laughter.

"What are they laughing at, Pacita?" asked Esperanza, in a low voice.

"I do not know," she replied with perfect sincerity, shrugging her shoulders; "Cobo has said something horrid no doubt. I will ask Julia by-and-bye; she will be sure to know."

They both looked at the eldest of the three sisters, but she sat unmoved and stiff, with downcast eyes as usual; nevertheless the corners of her mouth quivered with a faint smile of comprehension which showed that her youngest sister's confidence in her profound intuition was amply justified.

"Hallo! Ramoncillo!" said Cobo, going up to Maldonado, and patting him familiarly on the cheek. "Always the same sweet and seductive youth?"

The tone was half affectionate and half ironical, which the other took very much amiss.

"Not to compare with you; but getting on," replied Ramoncito.

"No, no, you are the beauty of the two—let these young ladies decide. You are a little too thin perhaps, especially of late, but you will double your weight as soon as you have got over this."

"I have nothing to get over. And after all, no one can run to as many pounds as you," retorted Ramon, much nettled.

"You have more graces."

"Come, that will do; do not come talking such nonsense here, for it is very bad form, especially in the presence of these young ladies."

"Why must you two always be quarrelling?" exclaimed Pepa Frias. "Have done with this squabbling, or the world will not be wide enough to hold you both."

"No, the place that is not wide enough for these two, is Calderón's house," said Pinedo, in an undertone.

"Nothing of the kind," Cobo exclaimed, in a cheerful voice "friends who quarrel are the best friends—eh old fellow?"

And taking Ramoncito's head between his hands, he shook it affectionately. Maldonado pushed him away crossly.

"Have done, have done; you are too rough."

Cobo and Maldonado were intimate friends. They had known each other from infancy, they had been at school together; then in the world of fashion they had kept up a close acquaintance, chiefly at the club which both frequented regularly. As they followed the same profession, that, namely, of "men about town," on horseback, on foot, or in a carriage, as they visited the same houses, and met everywhere and every day, their mutual confidence was unlimited. At the same time, they were always on terms of mild hostility, for Cobo had a true contempt for Ramon, and Ramon, suspecting the fact, was constantly on his guard. This hostility did not exclude liking; they were insolent to each other, and would quarrel for hours on end, but afterwards they would drive out together, just as if nothing had occurred, and arrange to meet at the theatre. Maldonado took everything Cobo said quite seriously, and Cobo delighted in contradicting him whenever he spoke, till he had succeeded in putting him out of patience.

But all affection vanished from the moment when they had both cast their eyes on Esperanza de Calderón; hostility alone remained. Their relations were apparently the same as before, they met every day at the club, often walked out, and went hunting together, but at the bottom of their hearts they hated each other. Each spoke ill of the other behind his back; Cobo, of course, with more wit than Ramon, because, with or without good reason, he had a real and sincere contempt for his rival.

"Come, you are just like my daughter and her husband," said Señora de Frias.

"Not so bad, not so bad, Pepa!" Ramirez put in, with affected horror.

"What a shameless fellow you are!" exclaimed the lady, trying to control her laughter, which ill-matched her affectation of wrath. "They are just like you two, for they are always squabbling and making it up again."

And then she went on to describe in racy terms her daughter's married life. She and her husband alike were a couple of children, dear children, but quite insupportable. If he did not hand her a dish as quickly as she expected, or had not poured her out a glass of water; if his shirt-buttons were off, or his clothes not brushed; or if there was too much oil in the salad, there were frightful rows. They were both equally susceptible and touchy. Sometimes they did not exchange a word for a week at a time, and to carry on the affairs of life they would write little notes to each other in the most distant terms: "Asuncion has asked me to go with her to the play at eight o'clock. Is there any objection to my going?" she would write, and leave the note on his study-table.

"You may go wherever you choose," he would reply in the same way.

"What will you have for dinner, to-morrow; do you like pickled tongue?"

"You ought to know by this time that I never eat tongue. Do me the favour to order the cook to get some fish; but not fresh anchovies, as we had them the other day; and desire her not to burn the fritters."

Neither of them chose to give way to the other, so that this nonsense would go on indefinitely, till she, Pepa, took them both by the ears, gave them a piece of her mind and obliged them to make it up. Then they went to the other extreme in their reconciliation.

"Do you know, Pepa, that I should not care to be there at the moment of reconciliation?" said Cobo, with another outburst of malignant vulgarity.

"Nor I, my friend," she replied with a sigh of resignation, that was very laughable. "But, what can I do? I am a mother-in-law, which is the lowest function one can fill in this world, and I must endure that penance and many more of which you know nothing."

"I can imagine them."

"You cannot possibly imagine them."

"But then, my dear, it would be a great joy to me, to see my children friends once more," said the gentle Mariana, in her slow, drawling, lethargic way. "There is nothing more odious than a quarrelsome couple."

"And to me, too—when the scene is over," replied Pepa, exchanging smiles with Cobo Ramirez and Pinedo.

"How gladly would I make friends with you, Mariana, on the same terms," said the insinuating general, in a low voice, taking advantage of a moment when Calderón's wife stooped down to stir the fire with an enamelled iron poker. At the same time, as if he wished to take it from her, and save her the trouble, the General's fingers were laid on the lady's, and without exceeding the truth, may be said to have lightly pressed them.

"Make friends?" said she, in her usual voice. "But first we should have to quarrel, and thank God we have not done that."

The old beau did not venture to reply; he laughed awkwardly with an uneasy glance at Calderón. If he persisted, this simpleton was capable of repeating aloud the audacious speech he had just made.

"Of course," Pepa went on, "I interfere as little as possible in their disputes. I hardly ever go to their house even—Pah! I loathe playing the part of mother-in-law."

"Well, Pepa, I only wish you were my mother-in-law," said Cobo, with a meaning look into her eyes.

"Good! I will tell my daughter; she will be much flattered."

"No, it has nothing to do with your daughter! It is that—that I should like you to interfere in my concerns."

"Stuff and nonsense! Cease your compliments," replied the lady, half vexed. But a symptom of a smile which curled her lips showed nevertheless that the speech had pleased her.

Ramoncito now brought the conversation back to the opera—the hare which runs in every fashionable meeting in Madrid. The opera is, indeed, to the subscribers, no mere amusement, but an institution. It is not, however, a love of music which makes it a constant subject of discussion, but the fact that they have nothing else to think about. To Ramoncito Maldonado, to Señora de Calderón, and to hundreds of others, the world is divided into two classes: those who subscribe to the opera and those who do not. The former alone really and completely represent the essential part of humanity.

Gayarre and Tosti once more came under discussion. Those of the party who had just come in gave their opinion on the merits as well as on the physical advantages or defects of the two singers.

Ramoncito began to tell Esperanza and Paz in a low voice how that he had last evening been presented to La Tosti in her dressing-room. A very amiable and refined woman; she had received him with wonderful graciousness and friendliness. She had heard much of him—Ramoncito—and had been most anxious to know him personally. When she was told that he was a member of the Assembly she was amazed to think of his having risen to such a position while still so young. "So absurd you know; it would seem that in other countries it is the custom only to elect old men.—She is even handsomer near than from a distance—a skin like velvet, exquisite teeth; then a splendid figure—a noble bust, and such arms!"

Vanity had made the young man not only a blunderer—for it is a well-known rule that in courting one woman it is never wise to praise another too vehemently—but a little over free in speaking to two such young girls. They looked at each other and smiled; their eyes sparkling with mischievous fun, which the young deputy did not detect.

"And tell me now, Ramon, did you not make her a declaration on the spot?" Pacita inquired.

"Certainly not," replied he, seeing through the ironical meaning of the question.

"Then you will."

"Never! I love another lady." And as he spoke he shot a languishing glance at Esperanza. The young girl suddenly turned serious.

"Really? Tell me, tell me——."

"It is a secret."

"Well, we can keep a secret. You will not tell, will you, Esperanza?"

And the mischievous little thing looked slily at her friend, enjoying her vexation and Ramoncito's discomfiture.

"I do not want to know anything about it."

"There, Ramon, do you hear? Esperanza does not want to hear anything about your love affairs. I know why, though I shall not say."

"What a silly thing you are, child," exclaimed Esperanza, now really angry.

The young man, flattered by these hints from an intimate friend, nevertheless thought it well to change the subject, for he saw that Esperanza was seriously annoyed.

"But you must not believe that it would be so very difficult to make a declaration to La Tosti, and for her to respond to it. Ask Pepe Castro; you can depend on what he says about it."

"But Pepe Castro is not you," said Esperanza, with marked disdain.

Maldonado fell from the celestial spaces where he had been soaring. This pointed speech, uttered in a tone of contempt, touched him to the quick. For, as it happened, the transcendent superiority of Pepe Castro was one of the few truths which dwelt in his mind as absolutely indisputable. There might be doubts as to Homer's, but as to Pepito's—none. The certainty of never rising, however much he might try, to the supreme height of elegance, indifference, contempt, and sovereign scorn of all creation, which characterised his admired friend, humiliated him and made him miserable.

Esperanza had laid her finger on the wound which was threatening his existence. He could not reply; the shock was so great.

Clementina was depressed and uneasy. As soon as she had entered her sister-in-law's drawing-room, she had sought a pretext for leaving; but she could find none. She was compelled to let some little time elapse; the minutes seemed ages. She had chatted for a few moments with the Marquesa de Alcudia, but that lady had quitted her when Father Ortega had come in. Her sister was appropriated by General Patiño, who was giving her an elaborate account of the mode of rearing and feeding nightingales in captivity. The two Alcudia girls, who sat next to her, might have been wax dolls, they were so stiff and motionless, answering only in monosyllables to the few questions she addressed to them. By degrees a sort of obscure irritation took possession of her; to a woman of her temperament it was a matter of minutes only before she would cast all conventionality to the winds and take an abrupt departure. But on hearing the name of Pepe Castro, she looked up eagerly, and listened with keen interest. At Ramoncito's abrupt allusion to him she suddenly turned pale; however, she immediately recovered herself, and, joining in the conversation with a smile, she said: "Nay, nay, Ramon, do not be malignant. We poor women, if you begin to talk of us——!"

"I speak ill of none who do not deserve it, Clementina," replied the youth, encouraged by the rope thus thrown out for him.

"You men discuss us all. It strikes me that your friend Pepe Castro is not a man to bite his tongue out rather than sully a woman's reputation."

"But, indeed, Clementina, I never yet found him out in a falsehood. All Madrid knows him for a favourite with women."

"I cannot imagine why!" exclaimed the lady, with a disdainful pout.

"I am no connoisseur in male beauty," said the young man, laughing at his own phrase, "but everybody says that Pepito is handsome."

"Pshaw! That is a matter of individual taste. Pacita, who is his relation, will excuse me—but I, who am one of the 'everybody' do not say so."

"It is quite true," said Esperanza timidly, "that Pepito is not considered bad-looking. Besides he is very elegant and distingué. Do you not think so?" And she turned to Pacita, colouring slightly as she spoke. Clementina glanced at her with a penetrating and singular expression which deepened the blush.

"What are you talking about?" asked Cobo Ramirez, joining the little circle.

He hardly ever sat down. He liked wandering from group to group, breathing as hard as an ox, and firing some audacious remark at each in turn. Ramoncito's brow darkened at his rival's approach. Cobo did not fail to perceive it and looked at him with a slight sneer.

"Well, Ramoncito? Tell me, how do you contrive to keep these ladies so well amused? I was just saying to Pepa that you really sparkle with wit."

"No, indeed. How should I sparkle when you monopolise it?" said the deputy, with some irritation.

"Well, well, my son, if you are afraid of me I will go."

An ironical smile, both bitter and triumphant, beamed on Ramoncito's sharp features. He had the enemy in a trap. It should be said that, a few days since, a learned discussion had given rise to a decision by an expert philologist that afraid was wrong and afeard alone was right.

"My dear Cobo," he exclaimed, throwing himself back in his chair and gazing at him with ironical amazement. "Before you talk in the presence of persons of quality you might learn to speak your mother-tongue. I mean—it seems to me——"

"Well?" said the other, in surprise.

"That no one now says afraid but afeard, my dear Cobo. I give you the information for your satisfaction and future guidance."

Ramon's manner as he spoke was so arrogant, and his smile so impertinent that Cobo, disconcerted for a moment, asked in a fury:

"And why afeard rather than afraid?"

"Because it is so—because I say so! That is why," replied the other, not ceasing to smile with increasing sarcasm, and casting a triumphant look at Esperanza.

The two rushed into an animated and violent discussion. Cobo held his own, maintaining with great spirit that no one ever said afeard, that he had never heard the word in his life, and that he was in the habit of talking to educated persons. The young and scented deputy answered him briefly, still smiling impertinently, and sure of his triumph. The more angry Cobo became, the more Ramon gloated over his humiliation in the presence of the damsel to whom they both were paying court. But the tables were turned when Cobo, thoroughly provoked and seeing himself beaten, called General Patiño to the rescue.

"Come here, General; you who are eminent as an authority—Do you think it correct to say afeard?"

The General, greatly flattered by this opportune mouthful of honey, replied, addressing Maldonado in a tone of paternal instruction:

"No, Ramoncito, no. You are mistaken. Such a word as afeard was never heard of."

The young man jumped in his chair. Suddenly abandoning all irony, and his eyes flashing, he began to exclaim that they did not know what they were talking about, that it would seem that the best authorities were liars, and so on, and so on—that he was quite certain he was right, and that he wanted a dictionary forthwith.

"To tell you the truth," said Don Julian, scratching his head, "the dictionary I used to possess has disappeared. I do not know who can have taken it. But it seems to me—I agree with the General—that we say afraid and not afeard."

This fresh blow was too much for Maldonado; pale already, and tremulous with vexation, he uttered a last cry of despair.

"But afeard is derived from fear, gentlemen!"

"Fear or small beer, it is all the same!" exclaimed Cobo, with an insolent peal of laughter. "Confess now that you have put your foot in it, and promise not to do it any more."

Maldonado's disgust and rage knew no bounds. He struggled on a few minutes with incoherent words and gestures; but as the only reply to his energetic protests were laughter and sarcasm, he resigned himself to an attitude of dignity and scorn, chewing the cud of bitterness, his lips quivering, his looks grim, a snort of indignation now and again inflating his nostrils. Cobo remained unmoved, taking every opportunity that offered for shooting a poisoned dart of repartee at the foe, which enchanted the girls and made their elders smile soberly. No one in this world ever hungered and thirsted for justice as did Ramoncito at this moment.

The arrival of another visitor ended, or at any rate, suspended, his torments. The Duke of Requena was announced. His entrance produced an agitation which sufficiently indicated his consequence. Calderón went forward to receive him, offering him both hands with much effusion. All the men rose in haste, and left their seats to meet him with smiles and gestures expressive of the reverence he inspired. The ladies turned their heads to greet him with curiosity and respect, and Pepa Frias rose to shake hands with him. Even Father Ortega deserted his Marquesa and went forward with a submissive and engaging bow, smiling at him with his bright eyes behind the strong spectacles for short sight which he wore. For a few minutes the only words to be heard in the room were "Señor Duque," "Señor Duque"—"Oh Señor Duque!"

The object of all these attentions was a short, stout man with a lividly-pale face, prominent squinting eyes, white hair, and a grizzled moustache as stiff and harsh as the quills of a porcupine. His lips were thick and mobile, stained by the juice of a cigar which he held, not lighted, between his teeth, incessantly passing it from one corner of his mouth to the other. He might be about sixty years of age, more rather than less. He was wrapped in a magnificent loose fur coat, which he had not removed in the ante-room, having a cold. But on setting foot in the little drawing-room, the heat struck him as unpleasant, and hardly replying to the greetings and smiles which hailed him from all sides, he only muttered rudely, in the hoarse, thick voice characteristic of men with a short neck: "Poof! a perfect furnace!" And he added a Valencian expletive more vehement than choice. At the same time he unbuttoned his overcoat. Twenty hands were laid on it to help him to take it off, which somewhat hindered the process.

And now, in the Calderón's drawing-room, was repeated the scene which has oftener than any other been performed in this world, of the Israelites in the desert worshipping the Golden Calf. The new-comer was no less a person than Don Antonio Salabert, Duke of Requena—the famous Salabert, the richest of the rich in Spain, one of the colossal figures of finance, and, beyond a doubt, the most famous for the extent and importance of his transactions. He was a native of Valencia. No one had ever heard of his family. Some said he had been a mere waif in the streets; others that he had begun as a footman to some banker, and had risen to be a sort of messenger and errand man, others that he had been an adventurer under Cabrera in the first civil war, and that the origin of his fortunes was a valise full of gold, of which he had robbed a traveller. Some even went so far as to credit him with having belonged to one of the notorious troops of banditti who infested Spain just after the war. He, however, explained the growth of his fortune—which amounted to no less than four hundred millions of reales[B]—in the simplest and most graphic way. When he was angry with any of his clerks—as very frequently happened—and found that they took offence at his gross abuse, he would say to them, shouting like a possessed creature: "Do you know how I came by my money? By taking many a kick behind. Nothing but kicks will ever help you up the ladder. Do you understand?"

It must be confessed that there was something a little vague about this explanation, but the authority with which it was delivered gave it irrefragable value. Assuming it as the basis of the inquiry, we might perhaps be able to form a just estimate of the character and the achievements of the wealthy banker.

"Hallo, little lady," said he, going up to Clementina and taking her by the chin as if she were a child. "You here? I did not see your carriage below."

"No, Papa; I came on foot."

"You are a wonder. You can take mine if you like."

"No, I would rather walk. I have been out of spirits lately."