Part 10

The Vizcaino, since the death of his wife, who had exercised a restraining influence upon him, had been taking more and more desperately to drinking habits, and treated his daughter very brutally. But even in her mother's lifetime she had become so accustomed to cruel treatment that it had never once occurred to her that she was living a very unhappy life; and when one day Enrique spoke of it in that way, after one of those barbarous deeds which the dairyman frequently committed, she looked at him in surprise and said, 'yes, that he was right, that she was very miserable'; but her tone seemed to say, "Man alive! don't you know that it isn't my fault?"

As day after day went by, Enrique, constantly visiting at the "dairy," enduring the _freshnesses_, the pushing, and occasionally even the slaps of this gentlest of _chulas_, when he went beyond the bounds of reason, spent his time very pleasantly in the toils of his love.

At first he had a few unpleasant encounters with the brute of a father; but afterwards they became great friends as soon as the dairyman discovered that the senorito knew a thing or two about bulls, that he had himself taken part in bull-fights, and was a great friend of the most famous _espadas_, to whom the plebeians of Madrid offer fervid worship.

When he came into the shop drunk, Enrique would take his hat and go, and the other was not in the least offended at him for it; in this way he avoided any collision with him. He spent not less than two hours every afternoon talking with Manolita; in the evening, after the shop was closed, he escorted her to the cafes to collect for the milk that they had used during the day; he would wait for her at the door while she settled her accounts with the proprietor.

As the _chula_ had her suitors, and they belonged to the "common people," and were jealous of a senorito paying attentions to her, our lieutenant was sometimes threatened, and even attacked; but we know that in his character of _bulldog_, he was most fierce and obstinate; he could defend himself so well with his iron cane, which he always took with him, that Manolita was perfectly tranquil about him, though she would bravely come to his aid and give his aggressors a few raps, as destructive as they were well directed.

What were Enrique's intentions when he first began this flirtation? They could not have been more perverse and insidious: he expected to ruin the _chula_ and afterwards back out of it, but after he had known her a month Manolita had him a prisoner at her feet, as tame and obedient as a mountebank's dog, and this (let us say it to his credit, since we have said unkind things of him) because he had a noble heart and felt sorry for the poor girl's fate, so sorry, indeed, that he made up his mind to marry her.

He spent several days pondering over this resolution, and then took courage to open his heart to his mother.

Dona Martina was annoyed beyond measure, all the more from remembering her own former position as laundress; but as she was a woman of excessive meekness, and Enrique was like the apple of her eye, she quickly took his part, although she could not bring herself to speak to her husband about it, since she knew his temper, and was perfectly assured that he would tear things in pieces rather than consent to such a match.

Finally the lieutenant, not having the courage to speak to his father, determined to write to him, and leave the letter on his table.

Don Bernardo did not answer, nor did he show the slightest sign of having received it; after a few days Enrique left another on the same spot with the same result.

The only sign that he could see was in his father's face: generally clouded, it was now more gloomy than ever. Then, after imploring his brothers, Vincente and Carlos to take his part, and after receiving from them a flat refusal, he went to ask a similar favor of his cousin Miguel, with whom he always kept on the most intimate terms of friendship.

"Fine recommendation mine would be!" replied Miguel. "If you want your father to kick you out of the house you could not find a better way."

"Don't you believe it; my father is fond of you--much more than he ever gives you reason to believe. That is the way with him ... stern in appearance ... but very affectionate at heart."

Miguel smiled, feeling respect for that judgment of a good son, and still he continued to decline the office; but Enrique insisted so strenuously, and with such fervent words, almost with tears in his eyes, that at last, though not with very good grace, Miguel consented to call upon his uncle and talk over the matter with him.

On the day set for the visit Enrique was waiting for him, walking up and down the corridor in a state of agitation easy to understand. When the door-bell rang he was the one that opened it.

"How pale you are, my friend!" exclaimed Miguel.

"My heart beats worse than if I were going to fight."

"Poor Enrique! Make up your mind that even if my meddling turns out ill, as I predict it will, you will not hesitate a moment to hang yourself on the beautiful tree that you have chosen!"

"See here, I can't wait for you in the house. My head is like a furnace; I must have some fresh air.... I will wait for you at the Imperial."

Before going to his uncle's room Miguel went straight to Vincente's, who was still master of ceremonies for the family.

Vincente received him with the affable gravity characteristic of him, and was amiable enough to give him a circumstantial and entertaining account of how the pipe that brought water to his wash-basin had, for a number of days, been afflicted with a small break, which had made it leak so that it had almost ruined a tapestry of the Catholic kings; but fortunately it had been discovered in time, and after a long search they had succeeded in finding the wretched leak.

Then he told him another story, no less interesting, about a curious system of bells which he had invented for communicating with the servants and the coachman. Finally, the oldest son of the Senores de Rivera, manifesting a generosity which was as honorable to him as to his cousin, brought from a closet a small ivory triptich, which he had recently bought at El Rastro. It was an exquisite work, a real jewel, as its owner declared, although somewhat the worse for wear. After both of them had looked at it and admired it, Vincente, as he was returning it to its place, and trying not to burst out laughing, said:--

"And do you know what Senor de Aguilar would be willing to give me for this triptich?"

"I haven't the slightest idea."

"Just imagine, Miguel!... a Trajan! Think of it! he wanted to take me in with a Trajan."

And Vincente, unable longer to contain himself, laughed till the tears ran.

"How absurd!" exclaimed Miguel, laughing in sympathy, but not having a very clear idea of what a Trajan was, and still less its value compared with the triptich. The good humor into which this recollection put Vincente resulted in his being anxious to do everything to gratify his cousin.

"You want to speak with papa, do you? Now see here, he's engaged in going through his gymnastic exercises; but I'll take you to him, at all events."

"Gymnastic exercises?" exclaimed Miguel, in surprise.

"It was prescribed by the doctor because he had lost his appetite; do you see? He did not eat a mouthful, and even now he takes very little. He has been sallow and weak this two months, so that you would scarcely know him."

On entering his uncle's stern and gloomy room, Miguel was, indeed, surprised to see the change that had taken place in that excellent gentleman's physique; the strange garb that he wore contributed in no small degree to give him a sinister and terrible appearance: he wore nothing except a gauze shirt, through which could be seen his lean and bony frame; also full trousers of drilling, in which his shins could scarcely be made out. His face, always broad and lean, seemed more fleshless than ever; the yellowish complexion, the sad and glassy eyes, and, as his razor never ceased to perform its devastating work, his mustache had come to be only a slight speck beneath his nose.

His library had been turned into a gymnasium; there were parallel bars, a few pairs of dumb-bells on the floor, and a number of iron rings swinging from the ceiling.

When Miguel went in, his uncle was going through his evolutions on the parallels; he had the opportunity of watching him at his ease, and it pained him. Seeing the rapid and astonishing decline, he could not help saying to himself:--

"It must be that my uncle has some grievous sorrow."

And as the old gentleman, absorbed in his painful task of walking on his hands over the bars, did not perceive his presence, he said aloud:--

"Good afternoon, uncle."

Don Bernardo dropped to the floor, and gazing with bleared, vacant eyes, replied:--

"_Hola!_ What brings you here?"

"Go ahead, uncle; don't let me interrupt you. How do you find yourself?"

"So, so. And your wife?"

"She is very well; go on, go on!"

Don Bernardo gave a jump, and again perched on the parallels.

"You can tell me what you want; I am listening."

Miguel looked at him a moment, and perceiving that the best thing to do was to attack the business in hand directly, and without any beating about the bush, he began to say:--

"I have come to talk with you on a subject which probably will be irksome to you, ... but I got myself into it with over-haste, and I have no way of retreat, but must fulfil it as well as I can.... Enrique has told me of his desire...."

Don Bernardo dropped a second time.

"Not one word about Enrique," said he, stretching out his arm imperiously.

Miguel felt annoyed by such haughtiness, and said ironically:--

"What! have you decided to blot him out from the memory of men?"

Senor de Rivera gave him a cold and haughty stare, which Miguel returned with equal pride and coldness. The uncle mounted the parallels again, and feeling that he had acted rather discourteously, said with some difficulty, for his gymnastic effort took away his breath:--

"Enrique is a fool. After annoying me to death all his life with his follies he wants now to finish his career by bringing dishonor on his family."

"I have always understood that one who does some vile act dishonors his family.... But, however, since you do not wish to talk about Enrique, we will not. He is of age, and he will know what it becomes him to do."

He said these last words with the intention of preparing his uncle for what might take place.

Don Bernardo made no reply: he descended from the bars, and after getting his breath he mounted them again, and began to practise the "frog movement." As Miguel did not immediately take his departure, he renewed the conversation, saying:--

"It seems to me that you have grown rather thin since I saw you last, uncle."

"Yes!" replied Don Bernardo, pausing, and sitting astride of the wooden bars. "But you will see me much more so. There is a reason for it."

"Does your stomach trouble you?"

The _caballero_ was for a moment motionless, with eyes fixed, and then said in a tone of deep melancholy:--

"I suffer in my mind."

And he took up his exercise with more violence than ever.

Never had Miguel heard from his uncle's lips any reference to his innermost feelings; in his eyes he had always been in this respect a man of iron. Thus when he heard that tender confession, it seemed to him as though he were in a dream.

And imagining that Enrique was the cause of his uncle's griefs, although the man had no reason to be grieved on account of his son, Miguel still pitied him sincerely.

"I see that Enrique, of whom I am so fond, is the cause of your troubles.... But you have two other sons, who must be the source of unalloyed satisfaction."

"No, Miguel, it is not Enrique.... Enrique has caused me some sorrow, ... but what I feel now has its source far deeper."

Miguel began to puzzle over what he meant, and was inclined to imagine that it might be some loss or diminution of his property.

Don Bernardo dismounted, leaned against one of the bars to rest, and rubbed his sweaty forehead with his handkerchief, heaving a deep sigh; then he took some iron balls and began to open and shut his arms with the solemnity that accompanied all his acts.

After a few moments' silence, which his nephew dared not interrupt in spite of the curiosity that piqued him, the old gentleman dropped the weights, and approaching him with his eyes fixed and open like those of a spectre, he said in a hoarse tone:--

"Forty years ago I married.... Forty years have I been cherishing a viper in my bosom! At last its poison has made its way into my blood, and I shall perish of the wound!"

Miguel did not understand, nor did he wish to understand, those strange words. However, he said:--

"I have always supposed that you were happy in your marriage."

"I was, Miguel! I was because I had a bandage over my eyes. Would to God that it had never been taken off!... There is a day in my life, as you know well, when, in order to rescue the honor of our family, I descended to give my hand to a women of very different rank from mine. In return for this immense sacrifice, don't you think that this woman ought to kiss the very dust on which I walk?... Now then, this woman is a Messalina!"

"Uncle!"

"More correctly an Agrippina."

"But after forty years, when my aunt Martina is already old and venerable!"

"That makes her crime all the more odious."

"Aren't you blinded, uncle?"

"It has cost me much to believe it; but I can no longer have any doubt."

"I regret your annoyance from the bottom of my heart; but allow me to doubt it absolutely...."

"Do you know who the infamous wretch is who has dishonored my name," demanded Senor de Rivera, coming closer and speaking into Miguel's ear,--"This viper, also, I have warmed in my bosom!"

"Who?"

"Facundo! My fraternal friend, Facundo!"

"Senor Hojeda!"

"Not another word more!" exclaimed Don Bernardo, raising his arm majestically. "You are a member of my family; you are married, and I have told you my secret--to prepare your mind. A terrible catastrophe is threatening all our heads."

"But, uncle!"

"Not another word!"

Don Bernardo immediately grasped the rings, energetically raised his feet, and began to do "the siren."

Miguel left the library, convinced that if his uncle was not already crazy, he was in a fair way to go to the mad-ouse.

XI.

"FELLOW CITIZENS: the cry of liberty raised in Cadiz re-echoes all over the peninsula. Citizens, be proud! be proud of the name of liberals! The sun of liberty has at last pierced through the fogs of tyranny which have dimmed it for so many centuries, and it shines more gloriously bright than ever before, ready to blot out the miserable traces of a deadly and spurious brood...."

These and other similar metaphors the hirsute Marroquin was shouting from one of the balconies of the editorial office of _La Independencia_. He was surrounded by about half a dozen red banners, and his face was distorted by emotion, and his hands were tremulous. At his side could be seen some of his comrades, all rather pale, though not as pale as he. Now and then the orator turned to them as though demanding their concurrence, and this was for the most part generously granted, all murmuring, in a low voice, at the end of each period. _bravo! bravo!_ and other exclamations which imparted a new and powerful inspiration to the professor for continuing his harangue to the masses.

The masses, packed together in the Calle del Lobo, were listening with open mouths, and with their shouts and acclamations were likewise filling him with new spirit.

When at last all his astronomical metaphors were exhausted, and he had nothing more to say, he gathered all his forces and screamed in a stentorian voice:--

"Citizens! Long live liberty!"

"_Vivaaaaa!_"

"Long live the sovereign people!"

"_Vivaaaaa!_"

And now, having finished his discourse, he withdrew from the balcony.

A voice shouted from the street:--

"Down with property!"

"_Abajoooo!_"

The throng again started on its march, and in a short time Marroquin and all his comrades had joined it, raising aloft a tremendous blue standard on which could be read these words:--

"IMMEDIATE ABOLITION OF RELIGION AND THE CLERGY!"

All was tumult, noise, and gayety on that day, the thirtieth of September, in the capital of Spain. Brass bands marched through the street, playing patriotic airs; all the balconies (especial pains were taken that there should be no exceptions) were decked with variegated hangings; the church bells pealed forth a hypocritical jubilee; triumphal arches were built in all haste on the principal streets to receive the conquerors of Alcolea, the emigres and martyrs of the revolution; numerous patriotic crowds rushed through the city, ready at any instant to listen to the words of all the orators, more or less improvised for the occasion.

The one which Marroquin had joined was not the least noisy and enthusiastic.

Miguel was informed of its exploits by his ancient professor, Don Juan Vigil, the chaplain of the Colegio de la Merced, whom he met a few days afterwards in the street.

"You have triumphed. _Barajoles!_ God knows I am proud of you and other good friends whom I have had in the thick of the affair. The only thing that I regret is the excesses, don't you know? the excesses against our Holy Mother, the Church.... In front of the house passed that hog of a Marroquin at the head of a regular mob; I saw that you were not with him, and I congratulate you for not being mixed up with such rude people.... He had a card on which was printed, _Down with religion and the clergy!_ He appeared in front of the college, and began to wave the flag, bellowing like a calf: 'Death to the priest! Down with the night-hawks!'"

"I was standing behind the blinds, and _barajoles_! I felt strongly like going down into the street and giving the hog a good basting!"

Miguel could not restrain a smile as he remembered the slaps which, in days gone by, the priest had given him, and, lest the reason for his smile should be misinterpreted, he hastened to say:--

"Don't you remember, Don Juan, the caning which you gave me one day for having shouted during recess time, _Viva Garibaldi_?"

"Certainly I remember. And you did not thank me for it, I wager?"

"Not at all."

"That is the way! Do your best to inculcate in your pupils sound ideas of religion and morals, direct their steps in the path of virtue, correct their faults with paternal hand, and then when they become men they do not even thank you for all your vigilance!"

"Let us not dispute about that, Don Juan; for that I thank you with all my heart; but the canings, paternal as they may seem, I shall never feel grateful for--not a shilling's worth!"

"That is all right; I won't say anything more about the matter; the greatest reward for my cares is to see you an earnest man, and well received in society.... But, by the way, you can't imagine the sensation that this devil of a Brutandor gave me the other day. I was walking down the Calle de Alcala, with the purpose of witnessing the entrance of the leaders of liberty (as you call them now). I was accompanied by the mayordomo and two pupils, when I saw in the procession, lounging in a barouche in which rode two generals in full uniform, my Brutandor, saluting the people as though he were an emperor!... _Ave Maria Purisima!_ I said to myself, making the sign of the cross; I could scarcely believe the evidence of my own eyes. Of course I knew that this clown mixed in politics, and that he had slobbered a few articles in the papers, although I always imagine that they are about as much his as the compositions that you used to write for him in school; but how could I ever imagine that I should be destined to behold him transformed into a person of importance, riding underneath the triumphal arches as though he had just been conquering the Gauls or overcoming the Scythians? And I declare the idiot was swelling up, swaying round in the barouche, as though he had ridden all his life in one!"

"You have always been unjust toward Mendoza, Don Juan. More portentous things than that remain to be seen."

"I believe you, even if you don't take your oath on it. If these are the men by whom you expect to regenerate the country, I have no doubt that I shall see him very soon made into mince-meat."

And cursing the glorious revolution, and scorning in the person of Brutandor the whole confraternity, he took a most friendly farewell of Rivera, for whom he had never ceased to feel a genuine fondness.

Little had Miguel cared for the revolutionary movement, although he figured as one of the most earnest adepts of democratic doctrines. The cultivation of his mind by an incessant devotion to the best reading, and his domestic life, took too much of his attention for him to give to politics more than a very small part of his energies; the very journal, the management of which he had taken hold of with enthusiasm, began to bore him; the everlasting polemics, the disgusting phraseology of the leaders, soon wearied him, and he longed for the time to come when he could resign his position, and give himself altogether to more serious and useful labors.

He was happy in his home life, but not in the way that he had expected to be. For he had imagined before he was married that love and the joyful experiences which love would bring would be sufficient to fill his life absolutely and entirely, without leaving him time or desire for other things. And to discover that love occupied in his life a place apparently accessory or secondary, and that he was constantly occupied in other pursuits, some pertaining to his outward life, others to his studies and thoughts; that a slight disappointment would annoy him, and any inappropriate word vex him as much as before; that time and again he would return home from the cafe stirred up by some discussion, and his wife's caresses were not enough to calm him,--all this surprised him, and he was obliged to confess that domestic life had to take a place subordinate to other influences and pursuits.

Maximina herself had sometimes to suffer for the outside annoyances caused by others; when he was in an irritable frame of mind, it took a very slight annoyance to upset him; and although he was conscious of his unfairness, he nevertheless did not fail to speak his mind to his wife when the neatness of his room, or of his linen, or any trifling detail was not up to the mark.

To be sure, as soon as he saw her eyes fill with tears, he was sorry, and immediately gave her a loving embrace and many kisses. As for Maximina, as soon as she felt her husband's lips on her face, all her griefs would fade away as if by magic; so that their quarrels--if such a name can be applied when one does the disputing and the other makes no reply--never lasted more than a few minutes.

In a word, as our hero suffered from the complaint, which among children is called _mimos_, or--what amounts to the same thing--as he was accustomed to see his wife constantly sweet-tempered, affectionate, and patient, it never once occurred to him that she could be anything else, and for that very reason he could not appreciate the value of that peace and home comfort which so many men seek in vain.

Maximina, on the other hand, enjoyed a happiness almost celestial. The presence of her husband, with whom she each day fell deeper in love, was sufficient to keep her in a state of felicity which shone in her eyes, and was manifested in all her words and movements. When he was in the house, she could scarcely take her eyes from him; she would follow him about wherever he went; she even liked to watch him when he was washing and dressing himself. Miguel used to make sport of her on account of this constant pursuit; occasionally when he was in bad humor he would say:--