Chapter VII: Part 7

One evening the Moor told her in secret that the next morning he would remove the bandages from Jua eyes. Maria went to bed that night with great rejoicing, but thought to herself that when her father saw her (which would be with no little pleasure) he would be pleased three or four times more if he could see her with the pretty head-dress which she used to wear in her native town. Amidst such cavillation she donned the next day her best petticoat and ribands to hie to the Arabia house; and while she was sitting down to shoe herself she of a sudden felt something like a hood closing over her head, and, turning round, she saw behind her the muffled-up man of before, who, throwing aside his cloak, discovered himself to be the sword-cutler, Master Palomo, who, without speaking, presented Maria with a little Venetian mirror, in which she looked and saw herself with her own hair and garb in such wise that she wondered for a good time if it were not a dream that the Mayoress had shorn her. The fact was, that Master Palomo was a great crony of the old woman barber, and had seen in her house Mari tresses on the very same afternoon of the morning in which he saw Maria was bald, and keeping silence upon the matter, had wheedled the old woman into keeping Mari hair for him, and dressing for the Mayoress some other hair of the same hue which the crone had from a dead woman—a bargain by which the crafty old dame acquired many a bright crown. And the story relates that as soon as Maria regained her much-lamented and sighed-for hair by the hands of the gallant sword-cutler, the Master appeared to her much less ugly than before, and I do not know if it tells that from that moment she began to look on him with more favourable eyes, but i’sooth it is a fact that upon his asking her to accept his escort to the Moor’s house, she gave her assent, and the two set out hand in hand, the maiden holding her head up free from mufflers. As they both entered the physicia apartment her father threw himself into Mari arms, crying—

“Glory to God, I see thee now, my beloved daughter. How tall and beautiful thou art grown! Verily, it is worthwhile to become blind for five years to see on daughter matured thus! Now that I see daylight again, it is only right that I should no longer be a burden to thee. I shall work for myself, for as for thee it is already time for thee to marry.”

“For this very purpose am I come,” broke in at this opportune moment the silent sword-cutler; “I, as you will have already recognised by my voice, am your neighbour, Master Palomo. I love Maria, and ask you for her hand.”

“Lack-a-day, Master, but your exterior is not very prepossessing. Howbeit, if Maria doth accept you, I am content.”

“I,” replied Maria, wholly abashed, and smoothing the false hair (which then weighed upon her head and heart like a burden of five hundred weight)—“I, so may God enlighten me, for I durst not venture to reply.”

Palomo took her right hand without saying anything, and as he did so Maria looked at the Master’s wrists, and observed the wristbands of his shirt, neatly embroidered, and with some suspicion and beating of her heart said to him—

“If you wish to please me, good neighbour, tell me by what sempstress is this work?”

“It is the work,” replied the Master, jocularly—“the work of a pretty maiden who for five years has toiled for my person, albeit she hath not known it till now.”

“Now I perceive,” said Maria, “how that all the women who have come to give me linen to sew and embroider were sent by you, and that is why they paid me more than is customary.”

The Master did not reply, but he smiled and held out his arms to Maria. Maria threw herself into them, embracing him very caressingly; and Juan himself said to the two—

“In good sooth, you are made one for the other.”

“By my troth, my beloved one,” continued the sword-cutler after a while, “if my countenance had only been more pleasing, I should not have been silent towards you for so many long days, nor would I have been content with gazing at you from afar. I should have spoken to you, you would have made me the confidant of your troubles, and I would have given you the five hundred maravedies for the cure of your good father.” And whispering softly into her ear, he added, “And then you would not have passed that evil moment under the hands of the Mayoress. But if you fear that she may break the promise she made to you to keep silence as to your cropped head, let us, if it please you, set out for Seville, where nobody knows you, and thus——”

“No more,” exclaimed Maria, resolutely throwing on the ground the hair, which Juan picked up all astonished; “Send this hair to the Mayoress, since it was for this and not for that of the dead woman that she paid so dearly. For I, to cure myself of my vanity, now make a vow, with your good permission, to go shorn all my life; such artificial adornments are little befitting to the wives of honest burghers.”

“But rely upon it,” replied the Master-cutler, “that as soon as it is known that you have no hair, the girls of the city, envious of your beauty, will give you the nickname of _Mariquita the Bald_!”

“They may do so,” replied Maria, “and that they may see that I do not care a fig for this or any other nickname, I swear to you that from this day forth I will not suffer anybody to call me by another name than _Mariquita the Bald_.”

This was the event that rendered so famous throughout all Castille the beautiful daughter of good Juan Lanas, who in effect married Master Palomo, and became one of the most honourable and prolific women of the most illustrious city of Toledo.

_Juan Eugenio Hartzenbusch_ (1806-1880).

_PULPETE AND BALBEJA; OR, AN ANDALUSIAN DUEL._

Through the little square of St. Anna, towards a certain tavern, where the best wine is to be quaffed in Seville, there walked in measured steps two men, whose demeanour clearly manifested the soil which gave them birth. He who walked in the middle of the street, taller than the other by about a finger’s length, sported with affected carelessness the wide, slouched hat of Ecija, with tassels of glass beads and a ribbon as black as his sins. He wore his cloak gathered under his left arm; the right, emerging from a turquoise lining, exposed the merino lambskin with silver clasps. The herdsman’s boots—white, with Turkish buttons,—the breeches gleaming red from below the cloak and covering the knee, and, above all, his strong and robust appearance, dark curly hair, and eye like a red-hot coal, proclaimed at a distance that all this combination belonged to one of those men who put an end to horses between their knees and tire out the bull with their lance. He walked on, arguing with his companion, who was rather spare than prodigal in his person, but marvellously lithe and supple. The latter was shod with low shoes, garters united the stockings to the light-blue breeches, the waistcoat was cane-coloured, his sash light green, and jaunty shoulder-knots, lappets, and rows of buttons ornamented the camelite jacket. The open cloak, the hat drawn over his ear, his short, clean steps, and the manifestations in all his limbs and movements of agility and elasticity beyond trial plainly showed that in the arena, carmine cloth in hand, he would mock at the most frenzied of Jarama bulls, or the best horned beasts from Utrera.

I—who adore and die for such people, though the compliment be not returned—went slowly in the wake of their worships, and, unable to restrain myself, entered with them the same tavern, or rather eating-house, since there they serve certain provocatives as well as wine, and I, as my readers perceive, love to call things by their right name. I entered and sat down at once, and in such a manner as not to interrupt my Oliver and Roland, and that they might not notice me, when I saw that, as if believing themselves alone, they threw their arms with an amicable gesture round each other’s neck, and thus began their discourse:—

“Pulpete,” said the taller, “now that we are going to meet each other, knife in hand—you here, I there,... _one, two,... on your guard,... triz, traz,... have that,... take this and call it what you like_ ...—let us first drain a tankard to the music and measure of some songs.”

“Señor Balbeja,” replied Pulpete, drawing his face aside and spitting with the greatest neatness and pulchritude towards his shoe, “I am not the kind of man either for la Gorja or other similar earthly matters, or because a steel tongue is sheathed in my body, or my weasand slit, or for any other such trifle, to be provoked or vexed with such a friend as Balbeja. Let the wine be brought, and then we will sing; and afterwards blood—blood to the hilt.”

The order was given, they clinked glasses, and, looking one at the other, sang a Sevillian song.

This done, they threw off their cloaks with an easy grace, and unsheathed their knives with which to prick one another, the one Flemish with a white haft, the other from Guadix, with a guard to the hilt, both blades dazzling in their brightness, and sharpened and ground enough for operating upon cataracts, much less ripping up bellies and bowels. The two had already cleft the air several times with the said lancets, their cloak wound round their left arm—first drawing closer, then back, now more boldly and in bounds—when Pulpete hoisted the flag for parley, and said—

“Balbeja, my friend, I only beg you to do me the favour not to fan my face _Juilon_ your knife, since a slash might use it so ill that my mother who bore me would not know me, and I should not like to be considered ugly; neither is it right to mar and destroy what God made in His likeness.”

“Agreed,” replied Balbeja; “I will aim lower.”

“Except—except my stomach also, for I was ever a friend to cleanliness, and I should not like to see myself fouled in a bad way, if your knife and arm played havoc with my liver and intestines.”

“I will strike higher; but let us go on.”

“Take care of my chest, it was always weak.”

“Then just tell me, friend, _where_ am I to sound or tap you?”

“My dear Balbeja, ther always plenty of time and space to hack at a man: I have here on my left arm a wen, of which you can make meat as much as you like.”

“Here goes for it,” said Balbeja, and he hurled himself like an arrow; the other warded off the thrust with his cloak, and both, like skilful penmen, began again tracing and signatures in the air with dashes and flourishes, without, however, raising a particle of skin.

I do not know what would have been the end of this onslaught, since my venerable, dry, and shrivelled person was not suitable for forming a point of exclamation between two combatants; and the tavern-keeper troubled so little about what was happening that he drowned the stamping of their feet and clatter of the tumbling stools and utensils by scraping street music on a guitar as loud as he could. Otherwise he was as calm as if he were entertaining two angels instead of two devils incarnate.

I do not know, I repeat, how this scene would have ended, when there crossed the threshold a personage who came to take a part in the development of the drama. There entered, I say, a woman of twenty to twenty-two years of age, diminutive in body, superlative in audacity and grace. Neat and clean hose and shoes, short, black flounced petticoat, a linked girdle, head-dress or mantilla of fringed taffeta caught together at the nape of her neck, and a corner of it over her shoulder, she passed before my eyes with swaying hips, arms akimbo, and moving her head to and fro as she looked about her on all sides.

Upon seeing her the tavern-keeper dropped his instrument, and I was overtaken by perturbation such as I had not experienced for thirty years (I am, after all, only flesh and blood); but, without halting for such lay-figures, she advanced to the field of battle.

There was a lively to-do here: Don Pulpete and Don Balbeja when they saw Doña Gorja appear, first cause of the disturbance and future prize for the victor, increased their feints, flourishes, curvets, onsets, crouching, and bounds—all, however, without touching a hair. Our Helen witnessed in silence for a long time this scene in history with that feminine pleasure which the daughters of Eve enjoy at such critical moments. But gradually her pretty brow clouded over, until, drawing from her delicate ear, not a flower or earring, but the stump of a cigar, she hurled it amidst the jousters. Not even Charles V.’s cane in the last duel in Spain produced such favourable effects. Both came forward immediately with formal respect, and each, by reason of the discomposure of his person and clothes, presumed to urge a title by which to recommend himself to the fair with the flounces. She, as though pensive, was going over the passage of arms in her mind, and then, with firm and confident resolution, spoke thus—

“And is this affair for me?”

“Who else should it be for? since I ... since nobody——” they replied in the same breath.

“Listen, gentlemen,” said she. “For females such as I and my parts, of my charms and descent—daughter of la Gatusa, niece of la Méndez, and granddaughter of la Astrosa—know that there are neither pacts nor compacts, nor any such futile things, nor are any of them worth a farthing. And when men challenge each other, let the knife do its work and the red blood flow, so as not to have my mother’s daughter present without giving her the pleasure of snapping her fingers in the face of the other. If you pretend you are fighting for me, it’s a lie; you are wholly mistaken, and that not by halves. I love neither of you. Mingalarios of Zafra is to my taste, and he and I look upon you with scorn and contempt. Good-bye, my braves; and, if you like, call my man to account.”

She spoke, spat, smoothed the saliva with the point of her shoe, looking Pulpete and Balbeja full in the face, and went out with the same expressive movements with which she entered.

The two unvarnished braggarts followed the valorous Doña Gorja with their eyes; and then with a despicable gesture drew their knives across their sleeve as though wiping off the blood there might have been, sheathed them at one and the same time, and said together—

“Through woman the world was lost, through a woman Spain was lost;[9] but it has never been known, nor do ballads relate, nor the blind beggars sing,[10] nor is it heard in the square or markets, that two valiant men killed each other for another lover.”

“Give me that fist, Don Pulpete.”

“Your hand, Don Balbeja.”

They spoke and strode out into the street, the best friends in the world, leaving me all amazed at such whimsicality.

_Estébanez Calderón_ (_El Solitario_) (1799-1867).

_SEVILLE._

Who Naples fair has never seen
never a marvel, sure, has seen;
Nor who to Sevill ever been
will ever wish to leave, I ween,
“See bella Napoli and die!”
is the Neapolitan’s cry.
The counsel the Sevillians give
is “Seville see and learn to live!”

_José Zorrilla_ (1817-1893).

_AFTER THE BULL-FIGHT._

Beg pardon, Mr. Magistrate, but it was as my husband tells it, for he stayed at home with Alfonsa and the baby, who was asleep, and he knew nothing about what happened.”

“Then, do you tell me how it happened.”

“I, sir? Well, you see, your Worship, an honest woman and do know how to explain myself well; but that gentleman there is my husband, and his conduct is such as your Honour sees, always drunk and out of work.”

“Come to the point.”

“Well, I’m coming; the cause of it all is a friend of the family and very intimate, as every one knows, and they call him Malgesto, and he can thrust a banderilla[11] into the morning star, much less into a bull; well, as I was saying, the same had told me: ‘Paca, I won’t have my lady friends look at el Chato, and if I see them do it, I’ll cut off the little nose he has left.’“All right!” said I, “but as you see, your Lordship or your Worship, taste is taste, and in no catechism have I seen it called a sin to look at somebody; so la Curra, who evil tongues say is Malgesto’s wife, and I paid no attention, you see, and....”

“Go on, you went to the bull-fight with the other man.”

“Tha just it, since he hired a fly and took me and la Curra, so that we might not go alone, and everybody would have done the same, and I....”

“To the point, to the point.”

“The point is a needle’s point, as one says, for take my word for it, the other from the arena never takes his eyes off us the whole time, and he placed the darts in a cross, and cursed them with gestures towards us, from which Heaven deliver us.”

“But at last....”

“At last the last bull was despatched as usual, and we all went away in peace and the grace of God, when as we were going out el Chato disappeared somehow, and I who expected to meet him at the door of the fly, who do you think I met? nobody more nor less than the banderillero, who said, ‘Ungrateful woman, is this how you obey my orders?’I said to him ... but no, I said nothing to him then, as if I were afraid, but I just shrugged my shoulders, and I do know if I did anything else. He answered nothing, except two or three oaths and a little blasphemy, and then seizing la Curra, he lifted her violently into the cab, and then he pushed me in, saying: ‘If you do go in I’ll kill el Chato’ and I, you see, your Honour, a decent woman, and do want anybody’s death.”

“And so what did you do?”

“What could I do? I got in.”

“And afterwards?”

“Afterwards came the row, for la Curra began to grumble, and so did I, he to keep us quiet gave us each two or three cuffs; and then we began to call him names and call each other names, for your Honour knows defence is only natural; to finish up, the horse took fright and nearly upset us; but at last we got out in the Calle del Barquillo; he set off running, la Curra after him, and tha the last I’ve seen of them.”

“So that you have nothing more to allege?”

“Nothing more.”

“And you swear to this?”

“I swear that I am a respectable woman, incapable of scandalous behaviour, though at times a poor female ca help ... but now I want to complain to your Worship, for I too have my wrongs.”

“Let us hear them.”

“In the first place I complain of all my neighbours, for they have stolen all I had in the house, inside and outside.”

“And how can you prove?”

“I can prove the things are gone, which is the principal thing; secondly, I complain of my husband, who does protect me in my danger; thirdly, I complain of la Curra for fourteen scratches and ten pinches, not to mention some kicks; besides this I complain of the policeman, who took me to prison only because I pulled a face at him on St. Anthony’s day,[12] when he tried to make love to me; lastly, I complain of your Worship, who are Justice of the Peace for this ward, and——”

“Silence, you baggage, or by Heavens I’ll put a gag in your mouth which it won’t be so easy to shake off.”

* * * * *

“What is it, constable?”

“Notice has just been brought, sir, that two men have been fighting with knives in front of Mother Alfons tavern, and are both badly wounded.”

“Who are they?”

“El Chato and Malgesto.”

“_Scenes in Madrid._” _Mesonero Romanos_ (_El Curioso Parlante_) (1803-1882).

_DELIGHTS OF A MADRID WINTER._

No, sir, you cannot deny that the best season of the year is winter. The theatres fill up. Gastronomists return to the juicy oyster; and as soon as it begins to freeze still their appetites with the tasty sea-bream. The crown ministers can infringe the laws with impunity, fearless of tumults and insurrections, for the people’s blood does not boil as in the month of July, and patriots prefer roasting chestnuts and toasting themselves over the brazier to haranguing in rain and snow. The shoeblacks dance with joy, for the mud is all in their favour. The doctors make their fortunes with colds and lung diseases. The apothecaries sell cough lozenges to their hearts’ content. The maid-servants make a new conquest every day of the Savoyards who cross the Pyrenees to clean out our chimneys and purses with their monkeys and hurdy-gurdies. But besides these and other votaries, who have powerful reasons for liking winter, there are other admirers of this season dubbed _rigorous_ by the ignorant vulgar. These devotees are the only really intelligent beings, and nobody will be able to deny they are right, when they patent the advantages of the months of November, December, and January over those of May, June, and July.

The monotony of summer is insipid. The sun shines upon everything with the very same rays. The flowers unceasingly diffuse the identical scent. The country is always green.... It is unsupportable, horrible! The votaries of summer say that all this makes the little birds charm with their trills and warbles every heart sensible to the delights of harmony. And we defenders of winter reply, who can compare the feeble song of the timid nightingale to the animated and piercing duets intoned by enamoured cats on our roofs in January? And the rain? Can anything be more delicious than rain? Oh, how I rave for the rain! Let us talk about the rain!

Some people say the rain is monotonous. Ignorant idiots! Let them apply that epithet to the sun, but the rain—monotonous? Bah! Could anybody adduce anything more varied and agreeable than rain? Clouds, mists, dew, hail, drizzle, showers, snow-storms ... what a charming mosaic of precious things!

Is there a more sublime spectacle than a shower? ... especially when contemplated from behind a well-glazed window? When the cataracts of heaven are opened on Sundays, it is worth while hiring a balcony in the Puerta del Sol. Those who have been so imprudent as to sally out without their wife and umbrella, recognise the advantage of the latter article over the former. But what a pleasing sight is the picturesque group of a married pair and their little children under the protection of one umbrella! And when the crystalline rain is accompanied by a strong soester, which the most impermeable of taffety cannot resist—that boisterous blast which removes hats and wigs ... oh, then the respectable couple who have issued forth to air their Sunday-best present a marvellous and really romantic spectacle. The husband, fearful for his precious umbrella abandons the arm of his better-half, and presses his feet firmly to the ground to save the article in question, for the wind has turned it inside out like a stocking, and seems desirous of snatching it from his hands, in the same way that it has whirled off his hat just as a flower-pot falls from one of the houses and smashes his skull. The modest spouse pays no attention either to her husband’s catastrophe, or to the gusts or downpour, but thinks only of her angelical prudicity, and how she may best avoid making a display of her person, for the wind against which she is struggling marks out all her contour, seeming to take a pleasure in exposing to the spectators the most hidden curves of his victim.

But I should never end if I gave a minute description of all the fascinations of my favourite season. I have said enough about the beauties of rain. In another article I hope to illustrate the pleasures of the cold, the charm of chilblains, and particularly all tha heroic in cerebral rheums, fully persuaded that once the reasons upon which I base my opinions are read, all my readers will agree with me that there is nothing to be compared with the delights of winter.

_Wenceslao Ayguals de Izco._

_IN THE EARLIER DAYS OF PHOTOGRAPHY._

“I tell you it’s not good at all,” vociferated a newly-elected parliamentary representative of some rural locality. “Why my constituency would recognise me in that portrait. It’s detestable!”

“It’s excellent!” replied the exasperated photographer. “There’s not a better photographer than myself in Madrid.”

“I do doubt it; but it’s clear you have not been successful with me.”

“But what’s the matter with it?”

“The matter?... Look at me!... Have I two eyes?”

“Certainly.”

“Well, in the photograph there’s only one.”

“But....”

“Have I two ears?”

“Of course, but....”

“Well, you’ve only given me one too.”

“But you are taken in profile....”

“Tut, tut, tut.... Do you take me for a simple rustic? However much I placed myself in profile, does that prevent my having two eyes and two ears?”

(_Aside_) “And very long ones....” (_Aloud_) “But....”

“Again, is my neck black?”

“That is the shade....”

“No imputations, sir! ther nothing shady in me or my political life, and in my district they will tell you who I am; and if, though I am mayor, I never served my two years in the militia, why....”

“But the photograph, the photograph!”

“The photograph is not like me.”

“Then you wo take it?”

“No, sir.”

“Good; then I shall put it in the window, with the inscription, ‘The original of this is a cheat.’”

“You can do it....”

“Everybody who knows you....”

“Who would recognise me?... My electors know perfectly well that I have two eyes and two ears.”

“Then go, sir, in Heave name.”

“And to think that people say photography is so true to life!” growled, as he departed, this father of his country.

“Number 25,” cried the manservant, putting his head in at the door of the waiting-room.

And Number 25, who is not a bad-looking lady, passes through the corridor and enters the studio.

The photographer bows, and the following conversation begins:—

“Sir,” said the lady, “my happiness lies in your hands.”

“I am very pleased, sure; but I do quite understand....”

“I am a single lady, sir, as yet single....”

“Been so long?”

“What?”

“I beg your pardon, I mean ... at your service.”

“I must tell you that a gentleman I do not love wants to marry me perforce.... He resides at Havana, and I do not wish to have my husband so far away.”

“I understand.”

“Now, tell me, if a man persisted in marrying you from Havana....”

“The hypothesis is not admissible, mm.”

“Ah, true! well, if a woman....”

“There are matters, madam, in which the person interested can alone....”

“It is true; for this reason, wishing at all costs to break off the projected marriage, I have determined to send my likeness to my suitor.”

“Your looks, mm, will captivate him more than ever.”

“That’s why; ... I wish my likeness not to be my likeness: I want to come out ugly, very ugly.”

“That’s impossible, madam; photography always tells the truth.”

“Do you refuse?”

“Decidedly. Even if I tried you would not come out ugly.”

“That’s what my cousin the lieutenant says.”

“And he’s right.”

“But I must carry out my plan, and if you will not do it I shall go to a photographer I saw in the Calle de Francia, where some hideous women are exhibited.”

“As you like, madam.”

The lady withdraws, and the manservant calls out, “Number 26.”

Number 26 is a stalwart country bumpkin in a russet suit, who, after entering the studio, is asked if he desires his photograph on a card or on glass.

“I want those that cost twelve reals by the notice,” says he.

“Good. Sit down in that chair.”

“But it must be exactly like me; I give you warning.”

“You will see, sir.”

“And I must appear in the fancy dress I wear at home in our village for the Carnival.”

“Have you brought it with you?”

“No; ought I to have?”

“Most certainly.”

“Take me now, and the first time I come to Madrid again I’ll bring the dress.”

“Impossible!”

“Well, I am surprised; to think that....”

“Come, come, it’s getting late, and other people are waiting for me.” [_Exit bumpkin._

“Number 27.”

“_Viaje crítico alrededor de la Puerta del Sol._”

_M. Ossorio y Bernard._

_THE OLD CASTILIAN._

Since I have grown older I very seldom care to change the order of my way of living, which has now been settled a long time, and I base this repugnance upon the fact that I have never for a single day abandoned my Lares to break my system without being overtaken by a most sincere repentance as the presumption of my deluded hopes. Nevertheless a remnant of the old-fashioned courtesy adopted by our forefathers in their intercourse obliges me at times to accept certain invitations, which to refuse would be rudeness, or at least a ridiculous affectation of delicacy.

Some days ago I was walking through the streets in search of material for my articles. Buried in my thoughts, I surprised myself several times, laughing like a poor wretch at my own fancies, and mechanically moving my lips. A stumble or so reminded me now and again that to walk on the pavements of Madrid it is not the best of circumstances to be either poet or philosopher; more than one malicious smile, more than one look of wonder from the passers-by, made me reflect that soliloquies should not be made in public; and when turning corners not a few collisions with those who turned them as heedlessly as I made me recognise that the absent-minded are not among the number of elastic bodies, much less among glorious and impassable beings. Such being my frame of mind, imagine my sensations upon receiving a horrible smack which a huge hand attached (it seemed to me) to a brawny arm administered to one of my shoulders, which unfortunately bear not the slightest resemblance to those of Atlas!

Not wishing to make it understood that I would not recognise this energetic way of announcing on self, nor to rebuff the goodwill, which doubtless wished to show itself to be more than mediocre by leaving me crooked for the rest of the day, I was merely about to turn round to see who was so much my friend as to treat me so badly. But my Old Castilian is a man who, when he is joking, does not stop half-way. What? my reader will ask. He gave further proofs of his intimacy and affection? He clasped his hands tightly over my eyes from behind, crying out, “Who am I?” bubbling over with delight at the success of his pretty trick. “Who you are? A brute,” I was about to reply; but I suddenly remembered who it might be, and substituted the words, “I Braulio.” Upon hearing me he loosened his hands, held his sides for laughter, disturbing the whole street, and making us both very conspicuous.

“Good, good! How did you recognise me?”

“Who could it be but you?...”

“Well, so you’ve come from your dear Biscay?”

“No, Braulio, I have not come?”

“Always the same merry humour. What does it matter? I a way we have of talking in Spain.... Do you know it’s my birthday to-morrow?”

“I wish you many happy returns of the day.”

“Oh, no formalities between us; you know a plain fellow and an Old Castilian, and call a spade a spade; consequently I require no compliments from you, but consider yourself invited——”

“To what?”

“To dine with me.”

“Impossible.”

“You must.”

“I cannot,” I insist, trembling.

“You ca?”

“Very many thanks——”

“Thanks? Very well, my dear friend; as not the Duke of F., or Count P., of course——”

Who can resist an attack of this kind? Who cares to appear proud? “It is not that, but——”

“Well, if it’s not that,” he breaks in, “I shall expect you at two. We dine early at my house—Spanish style. I expect a lot of people; there will be the famous improvisor X.; T. will sing after dinner in his usual first-rate style; and in the evening J. will play and sing some trifles.”

This consoled me somewhat, and I had to give way. “Everybody,” said I to myself, “has an evil day sometimes. In this world, if one wishes to preserve friends, one must endure their civilities.”

“You wo fail, unless you want to quarrel with me?”

“I shall not fail,” I said in a lifeless voice and low spirits, like a fox vainly revolving in the trap in which it has allowed itself to be caught.

“Then good-bye till to-morrow,” and he gave me a parting slap.

I watched him go as the sower watches the decreasing cloud of his seed, and remained wondering how one should take such adverse and fatal friendships.

* * * * *

Two lock arrived. As I knew my friend Braulio, I did not think it advisable to make myself too fine for his party; that, I am sure, would have annoyed him; nevertheless I could not dispense with a light frock-coat and a white pocket-handkerchief as essential for such birthday festivities. Above all, I dressed myself as slowly as possible, like the wretched criminal confessing at the foot of the gallows, who would like to have committed a hundred more sins the which to confess in order to gain more time. I was invited at two, and I entered the state-parlour at half-past two.

I will not dwell on the ceremonious calls made before dinner-time by an infinite number of visitors, among which were not least all the officials of his department with their spouses and children, their cloaks, umbrellas, galoshes, and house-dogs; I will be silent as to the foolish compliments paid to the head of the family on his birthday, nor describe the monstrous circle which was formed in the parlour by the assembly of so many heterogeneous people, discoursing upon how the weather was about to change, and how the winter is generally colder than the summer. Let us come to the point: four lock struck, and we, the invited guests, found ourselves alone. Unluckily for me, Señor X., who was to have entertained us, being a connoisseur of this class of invitation, had had the good idea to fall sick that morning; the celebrated T. found himself opportunely compromised by another invitation, and the young lady who was to sing and play so well was hoarse to such a degree that she was appalled lest a single word should drop from her lips, while she had a rag round one of her fingers. Alas, for my beguiled expectations!

“I suppose all who are to dine are here,” exclaimed Don Braulio. “Let us go to table, my dear.”

“Wait a bit,” replied his wife in a loud whisper. “Such a lot of callers prevented my being in the kitchen, and....”

“But, look, it’s five lock....”

“Dinner will be ready in a moment....”

It was five lock when we sat down.

“Ladies and gentleman,” said our amphitryon, as we staggered into our respective chairs, “I insist upon your making yourselves quite at home; we do stand upon ceremony in my house. Oh, Figaro! I want _you_ to be quite comfortable; you are a poet, and besides, these gentlemen who know how intimate we are will not be offended if I make an exception of you; take off your coat; it wo do to stain it.”

“Why should I stain it?” I replied, biting my lips.

“Oh, tha all right; I’ll lend you a loose jacket; sorry I have one for everybody.”

“I’d sooner not, thank you.”

“Nonsense! My jacket! Here it is; it will be a little large for you!”

“But, Braulio....”

“You must have it—bother etiquette!” and he thereupon pulled off my coat himself, _velis nolis_, and buried me in a great striped jacket, through which only my feet and head protruded, and the sleeves of which would probably not permit me to eat. I thanked him; he thought he was doing me a favour.

The days upon which my friend has no visitors he contents himself with a low table, little more than a cobble bench, because he and his wife, as he says, what should they want more? From this little table he carries his food, like water drawn up a well, to his mouth, where it arrives dripping after its long journey; for to imagine that these people keep a proper table and eat comfortably every day in the year is to expect too much. It is easy, therefore, to conceive that the installations of a large table for a dinner-party was an event in that house, so much so that a table at which scarcely eight people could have eaten comfortably had been considered capable of sitting the whole fourteen of us. We had to sit sideways with one shoulder towards the dinner, and the elbows of the guests entered on intimate relationship with each other in the most confiding fashion possible. They put me as in a place of honour between a child five years old, raised on some cushions, which I had to arrange every minute, as the natural restlessness of my youthful neighbour caused them to slip, and one of those men that occupy in this world the room of three, whose corpulency rose from the basis of the armchair (the only one) in which he was sitting as from the point of a needle. The table-napkins which we silently unfolded were new, for they were just as little commodities of daily use, and were pulled by these good gentlemen through a button-hole of their frock-coats to serve as intermediary bodies between the sauces and their broadcloth.

“You will have to do penance, gentlemen,” exclaimed our amphitryon as soon as he had sat down.

“What ridiculous affectation if untrue,” said I to myself; “and if it is true, what folly to invite on friends to do penance.” Unfortunately it was not long before I knew that there was in that expression more truth than my good Braulio imagined. Interminable and of poor taste were the compliments with which, upon passing and receiving each dish, we wearied one another. “Pray help yourself.” “Do me the favour.” “I could think of it.” “Pass it on to the lady.” “Ah, tha right.” “Pardon me.” “Thank you.”

“No ceremony, gentlemen,” exclaimed Braulio, and was the first to dip his spoon into his plate.

The soup was followed by an olla, an assortment of the most savoury impertinences of that most annoying but excellent dish; here was some meat, there some green stuff; here the dried beans,[13] there the ham; the chicken to the right, the bacon in the middle, and the Estremaduran sausage to the left. Then came some larded veal, upon which may the curse of Heaven alight, and after this another dish, and another and another and another, half of which were brought over from an hotel, which will suffice to excuse our praising them, the other half made at home by their own maid and a Biscayan wench, a help hired for this festivity, and the mistress of the house, who on such occasions is supposed to have a hand in everything, and can consequently superintend nothing properly.

“You must be indulgent with this dish,” said the latter of some pigeons, “they are a little burnt.”

“But, my dear....”

“I only left them for a moment, and you know what servants are.”

“What a pity this turkey was not half an hour longer before the fire! It was put down too late. And do you think that stew is a little smoked?”

“What can you expect? A woman ca be everywhere at once.”

“Oh, thee excellent!” we all exclaimed, leaving the pieces on our plates—“delicious!”

“This fish is bad.”

“Well, they said in the office of the fresh fish delivery that it had only just arrived; the man there is so stupid!”

“Where does this wine come from?”

“Now there yoe wrong, for it’s....”

“Detestable.”

These short dialogues were accompanied by a number of furtive glances from the husband to acquaint his wife of some negligence, and both tried to give us to understand that they were quite at home in all those formulæ which in similar cases are reputed correct, and that all the blunders were the fault of the servants, who can never learn to wait. But these omissions were so numerous, and looks were of such little avail, that the husband had recourse to pinches and kicks, and his wife, who, until the present, had barely succeeded in rising superior to her spouse’s persecution, now became inflamed in the face, and had tears in her eyes.

“Dear madam, do not distress yourself about such trifles,” said her neighbour.

“Ah! I assure you I shall not do this kind of thing in the house again; you do know what it means; another time, Braulio, we’ll dine at the hotel, and then you’ll not have ...”

“You, madam, shall do what I ...”

“Braulio! Braulio!”

A terrible storm was about to burst; however, all the guests vied with each other in settling these disputes born of the desire to demonstrate the greatest refinement, and of which not the smallest components were Braulio’s mania, and the concluding remark which he again directed to the assembly with regard to the inutility of ceremony, by which he understood being properly served and knowing how to eat. Is there anything more ridiculous than those people who wish to pass for refined in the depths of the crassest ignorance of social usage, and who, to favour you, forcibly oblige you to eat and drink, and will not allow you to do what you like? And why are there people who only care to eat with a little more comfort on birthdays?

To add to all this, the child to my left violently knocked against a dish of ham and tomatoes a saucer of olives, of which one hit one of my eyes, and prevented me seeing clearly for the rest of the day; the stout gentleman to my right had taken the precaution to heap up on the cloth by the side of my bread the crumbs of his own and the bones of the birds which he had picked; and the guest opposite me, who piqued himself on his carving, had taken upon himself to make the autopsy of a capon, or cock, for nobody knew which, and whether by reason of the advanced age of the victim, or the lack of anatomical science of the executioner, the joints would not sever.

“This bird has no joints!” exclaimed the poor wretch, the drops of perspiration running down his face from his struggles, “for the carver is the labourer who digs that I may eat,” and then a wonderful occurrence took place. Upon one of the attacks the fork, as if in resentment, slipped on the animal, which, thus violently despatched, took a flight as in its happier days, and then quietly alighted on the tablecloth, as on a roost in the poultry yard.

The fright was general, and the alarm reached its climax when a sauce-boat, impelled by the bird’s wild career, upset, splashing my snow-white shirt. At this point the carver rose hastily, with a mind to chase the fugitive fowl, and as he precipitated himself upon it, a bottle to the right, which he knocked with his arm, abandoning its perpendicular position, poured out an abundant stream of Valdepeñas[14] over the capon and the cloth. The wine ran; the uproar increased; salt was abundantly sprinkled on the top of the wine to save the cloth; to save the table a napkin was inserted below the cloth, and an eminence arose on the site of so many ruins. A terrified maid-servant, who was bidden bear away the capon, now reposing in its own gravy, tilted the dish as she lifted it over me, and an accursed shower of grease descended like the dew upon the meadows to leave lasting traces on my pearl-grey pantaloons. The anguish and confusion of the girl are beyond bounds; she withdraws, unsuccessful in her excuses, and, turning round, collides with the waiter, who is carrying a dozen clean plates and a salver for the dessert wines, and the whole machine comes to the ground with the most horrible clatter and commotion.

“By St. Peter!” roars our host, and a mortal pallor diffused itself over his features, while a fire broke out on his wif face. “But no matter; let us continue, friends,” said he, calming down.

Oh, honest homes where a modest olla and a single dish constitute the daily happiness of a family, shun the perturbation of a birthday dinner-party! The custom of eating well and being well served every day can alone avert similar discomfiture.

Are there any more disasters? Alas, there are for my miserable self! Doña Juana, the lady with the black and yellow teeth, holds out to me from her plate and with her own fork a dainty bit, which I am bound to accept and swallow; the child diverts himself by shooting cherry-stones at the eyes of the assembly; Don Leandro makes me taste the delicious orange, which I had refused, squeezed into his glass, which preserves the indelible traces of his greasy lips; my fat friend is smoking, and makes me the flue of his chimney; finally, oh last of miseries! the clamour and uproar increase, voices already hoarse demand couplets and stanzas, and Figaro is the only poet present.

“You must.” “I for you to say something,” they all shout. “Start him with the first line; let him compose a couplet for each of us.” “I’ll start him:

‘To Don Braulio on this day.’”

“Gentlemen, for Heave sake!”

“Ther no getting out of it.”

“I’ve never improvised in my life.”

“Do play the bashful.”

“I shall go.”

“Lock the door. He sha’n’t leave the room till he recites something.”

And so I repeat some verses at last, and vomit absurdities, which they praise, and the smoke, the hubbub, and the purgatory increases.

Thank Heavens, I succeed in escaping from this new pandemonium. At last I again breathe the pure air of the street; there are now no more lunatics, no more Old Castilians around me.

“Ye gods, I thank you!” I exclaimed, breathing freely like a stag who has just escaped a dozen dogs and can barely hear their distant barks. “Henceforward I do not pray for riches, office, or honours. But deliver me from those houses in which a dinner-party is an event, in which a decent table is only laid for visitors, in which they think they are doing you a good turn while they are doing you a bad one, in which they are over-polite, in which they recite verses, in which there are children, in which there are fat men, in which, finally, there reigns the brutal frankness of the Old Castilians! If I fall again by similar temptations, may I ever lack roast beef, may beefsteaks vanish from this world, may timbales of macaroni be annihilated, may there be no turkeys in Perigueux, nor pies in Perigord, may the wines of Bordeaux dry up, and everybody but myself drink the delicious foam of champagne!”

_Mariano José de Larra_ (_Figaro_) (1809-1837).

_A DEMAGOGIC JOURNALIST._

Eleven was striking by the nearest clock; and as the last stroke vibrated upon Don Liberato Plebist tympanum an instantaneous electric commotion was transmitted from it to his brain, which made him hastily sit up in bed and begin to dress. He violently rubbed his eyes with his knuckles, which, together with the use of his pocket-handkerchief and four or five loud hollow coughs, sufficed to cause him to regain entire possession of his senses and natural powers, and shook him out of that kind of lethargy, or state of doze, which between a deep sleep and being wide awake occupies the function of a scruple.

He had fallen asleep with a fixed idea that he must rise early to write a long, forcible, and brilliant article, and seeing the sun already so advanced on its course, he jumped out of bed, and made towards his study in a rich dressing-gown and canvas slippers delicately embroidered by some feminine hand. He leaned back in an armchair before a solid mahogany writing-table, pulled the bell loudly three times by a silken rope; a footman appeared, who placed upon the table the silver brazier with some large red-hot pieces of charcoal; and then, when he had demanded breakfast with an imperative manner, and the man had withdrawn, Don Liberato lit a fragrant Havana, seized it between his teeth, grasped the pen with his right hand, rested his brow on his left, and leaning his elbow on the desk and gently tapping his right foot on the carpet, as if to excite ideas by this slight motion, remained in this attitude for five minutes, at the end of which he put his pen to paper and began to write to the following effect:—

“The incarnate enemies of the unhappy people—those wicked and egoistic men, who live under the shadow of privileges (_Don Liberato smiled to himself_) and grow fat with the substance of the poor—take very good care in all their writings and perorations to speak of nothing but principles and political questions, more or less metaphysical and vague, astutely keeping silence when there is any reference to social questions, upon which is actually based the revolution, which in this our age agitates Spain, disturbs Europe, and threatens the world.”

(_Liberato, savouring the sonority of this rounded period, expelled from his cigar a dense cloud of azure and aromatic smoke ... and continued writing._)

“The priority of certain castes, the inequality with which property is distributed, the malign influence of priesthood, the tyranny of the rich and potential over the masses, and other thousand obstacles which oppose the felicity of the people, are those which must be destroyed, but with regard to which the partisans of abuses ever succeed in embroiling a discussion. You, unhappy day-labourers, unfortunate artisans, fathers of a numerous family, who to gain bread for your unfortunate offspring must abandon your narrow bed at break of day....”

(_At this moment Don Liberato’s clock struck a quarter to twelve, and the rays of the noonday sun, penetrating the green curtains, succeeded in bathing with light the richly furnished room of the journalist, who went on writing thus_):—

“You will tell me if what interests you most is to discuss the preference for this or that method of electing representatives, or, on the contrary, the monstrous superiority of the potentate swimming in pleasures, of the sensual sybarite passing the night amidst the delicacies of the table, while you earn with the sweat of your brow the bread you must eat soaked in your tears.”

(_The room door is opened, and Don Liberato’s footman enters carrying an exquisite china tea-service, with a savoury dish, tea, milk, and buttered toast. Placing his burden on a small table, covered with a fine white embroidered cloth, he draws it in the greatest silence within reach of his master to the right of the desk, and retires stealthily, so as not to interrupt the sublime composition which continues multiplying sheets of paper thus wise_):—

“Ye hungry and naked sons of the unfortunate Spanish people (_The writer throws away the stump of the Havana, and crams his mouth full with sweet-bread_) rear your naked and hungry children with anxiety and fatigue, and rear them to be the slaves of a rich, powerful, and proud aristocracy....”

(_Don Liberato again smiles to himself, and devours the rest of the sweet-bread._)

“Rear them to till _their_ land, to build _their_ palaces, to weave _their_ rich clothes, to wrench from the bowels of the earth the precious metals with which _their_ ostentatious apparel is embroidered, and _their_ ornaments and furniture covered in scandalous profusion.”

(_The writer imbibes about a quart of tea, and attacks the buttered toast._)

“Rear them that they may be dragged into misery with you, while the gilded chariots of the great, bearing their mistresses to shows and pageants, roll by, threatening to run over them, and bespattering them with mud....”

“Sir,” said the Gallegan servant, entering timidly.

“Wha the matter?” replied Don Liberato.

“They have brought this letter from the lady. It is urgent.”

Having read the note, he replied thus—