La Gaviota

“My wife takes care of that,” he replied; “is it not true, brunette?”

“What I wish is, that you were already asleep,” replied Dolores.

“Liar! how can you thus speak in opposition to your heart?”

“Do you not know how to hold your peace?” said his brother-in-law to him, laughing.

“Listen, José,” continued Manuel, “have you found in the thickets of the fields, or in the grottoes, any thing which could close the mouth of a woman? If you have found it, there will not be wanting people who will pay you for the information in solid gold. As to me, I have never met with it in this world, and I have learned nothing of it in the life of God.”

Thereupon he began to sing —

“The sun’s sublimest heat,’Tis easier to put out,Than e’er with fear to worry,A woman in her fury.Try the caress, be gay;She with a stick will play:A traitress she will be,For good or bad, we’ll see.”

CHAPTER XIV

THREE years had passed. Stein, who could sojourn among these few men who required so little, believed himself happy. He loved his wife with tenderness, and was attached more every day to his father-in-law; and as to the excellent family, those who had rescued him, a dying man, his affection for them had never wavered. His uniform and rural life was in harmony with the modesty of his tastes, and with the tranquillity of his honest soul. And, besides, the monotony wanted not for attractions: an existence always uniformly calm resembles the man who peacefully sleeps without dreaming, or those melodies composed of a few words, but which charm us with so much sweetness. Perhaps there is nothing which leaves more agreeable souvenirs than this monotony of existence – this successive enchainment of days which have nothing to distinguish one from that which precedes, or from that which follows it.

What must have been the surprise to the inhabitants of the cabin when, one morning, Momo rushed in out of breath, calling to Stein to go to the convent without losing a single instant.

“Has any one of the family fallen ill?” asked Stein alarmed.

“No,” answered Momo, “it is a lord, whom they address as ‘your excellency,’ who has been hunting the wild boar and roebuck in the hillock with his friends; in leaping the ravine the horse missed, and both fell. The horse is slashed, the cavalier has broken as many bones as he has in his body, and they have conveyed him to the convent on a litter. The monastery was transformed into a real Babylon. They believed it was the day of judgment. People went and came like a crowd among which a wolf had forced his way. The only one who retained his tranquillity was he who had caused the excitement, and who at a glance it was seen was a man of the grand world, a real young man. There they were all in confusion, without knowing what to do. My grandma had told them that there was here a surgeon like whom there were few seen: they would not believe her; but as to obtain one from Cadiz would occupy two days, and three more to obtain one from Seville, his excellency said he would have the one recommended by my grandma. It is for this I am come here. Now I will give you my opinion. If I were in your place, at present, when they have despised you, I would not go to the convent if they dragged me there with two horses.”

“I am not capable,” replied Stein, “of forgetting my duties as a Christian, nor those of a surgeon. I should have a heart of bronze to see one of my kind suffer without alleviating his sufferings when I have the power to do it. Beyond this, they cannot have confidence in me, as I am unknown to them; it is not therefore an offence, it would not even be one if they knew me.”

Stein and Momo arrived promptly at the convent. Maria, who awaited the doctor with impatience, conducted him to the wounded man, who had been placed in the cell of the prior, where they had made up for him the best bed possible. Maria and Stein passed through the crowd of sportsmen and servants, by whom the invalid was surrounded. He was a tall young man; on his pale but tranquil face fell a profusion of black hair. So soon as Stein looked at him he uttered a cry, and rushed towards him; but, fearing to touch him, he suddenly stopped, and crossing his trembling hands he cried out —

“My God! the duke!”

“You know me?” demanded the stranger, for the person Stein had recognized was the Duke d’Almanza. “You know me?” repeated the duke, raising his head, and casting his large black eyes on Stein, without power to recall to his mind who it was that had addressed him.

“He does not recollect me,” murmured Stein, while the large tears trembled in his eyes; “that is not strange: generous souls forget the good they confer, preserving eternally the favors they receive.”

“Wretched beginning,” said one of the assistants; “a surgeon who weeps!”

“What sad chance!” added another.

“Doctor,” said the duke to Stein, “I place myself in your hands, I confide myself to God, to you, and to my lucky star. I am ready, do not lose time.”

At these words Stein raised his head; his countenance remained calm, and by a silent gesture, but imperative and firm, he banished the spectators to a distance. Then he felt the duke with an accustomed and experienced hand. He displayed so much assurance and dexterity that every one kept silent. No sound was heard in the cell but the agitated breathing of the patient.

“Duke,” said Stein, after having completed his examination of the sprained ankle and the broken leg, “without doubt it is here the weight of the horse has fallen. Still, I believe I shall succeed in effecting a complete cure.”

“Will I become a cripple for life?” asked the duke.

“In my opinion, I can assure you, no.”

“Prove it so, and I will say that you are the best surgeon in the world.”

Stein, without stirring, sent for Manuel, whose strength and punctuality he knew. With his assistance he commenced operations which were more painful than can be imagined; but Stein seemed to take no notice of the pain the invalid felt, and whom he made almost to lose consciousness.

In about half an hour the duke reposed, suffering, but relieved.

In lieu of marks of contempt and fear, Stein received from the duke’s friends congratulations and the most lively expressions of esteem and admiration; the good doctor, restored to his natural modesty and timidity, replied politely to all.

But do you know who “took a bath of roses?” it was Maria.

“Did I not tell you so?” she incessantly repeated to all the sportsmen, “did I not tell you so?”

The duke’s friends, entirely tranquillized, went to attend the prayers about to be offered up. The invalid had demanded to be left alone, under the care of his excellent doctor, his old friend as he called him, and sent away nearly all his servants.

In this way the duke and his doctor could renew their acquaintance at their ease. The first was one of those men of a character, elevated, and but little material, with whom neither habit the attachment injured his physical well-being; one of those privileged beings who knew how to come down to the level of circumstances, not by a start or caprice, but constantly, by an energetic nature, and by a firm will, an impenetrable breastplate of iron, which may be symbolized in these words – “What matters it?” His was one of those hearts which beat under the armor of the fifteenth century, and the traces of which cannot now be met with except in Spain.

Stein related his campaigns, his misadventures, his arrival at the convent, his love, and his marriage.

The duke listened with much interest; and the recital gave him a great desire to know Marisalada, the fisherman, and the cabin which Stein preferred to a palace. Thus, on the occasion of his first going out, he directed his walk, accompanied by his doctor, to the sea-coast. Spring had commenced, and the freshness of the breeze, the pure breath of the immense element, lent its charm to their pilgrimage. The fort of St. Cristobal appeared to be ornamented with a green crown, in honor of the noble personage in regard to whom it is presented for the first time. The flowers which covered the roof of the cabin, real garden of Semiramis, crowded against each other, were agitated by the zephyrs, and resembled timid young girls who have love whispered in their ears. The sea, beautiful and calm, wafted its waves just to the feet of the duke, as if they would bid him welcome. The lark careering through space sent forth his sweet and faint notes, until he was lost to sight. The duke, a little fatigued, seated himself on a piece of rock: he was poetic, and he silently enjoyed the magnificent spectacle. Suddenly was heard a voice, simple and melancholy. The duke, surprised, looked at Stein. The doctor sighed. The voice continued to be heard.

“Stein,” said the duke to him, “are these sirens on the waves or angels in the air?”

Stein, as his response, took his flute, and repeated the same melancholy strain. Then the duke saw approaching, half running, half leaping, a young woman, who stopped suddenly on perceiving him.

“This is my wife,” said Stein, “my Mariquita.”

“Who possesses,” said the duke with enthusiasm, “the most wonderful voice in the world. Señora, I have visited all the theatres of Europe, but never have enchanting accents excited me to this point of admiration.”

If the brown and lustrous skin of Marisalada could change to another color, the blush of pride and pleasure would have shown in her cheeks, when she heard these exalted praises from the lips of so eminent a person, and so competent a judge.

“You two,” continued the duke, “have all that you could require to make your way in the world; and you would remain hidden in obscurity, and forgotten! This must not be. Will you not let society share in your brilliant qualities? I repeat, this cannot be, this must not be.”

“We are so happy here, duke,” replied Stein, “that if I make the least change in my situation I would believe myself an ingrate towards my destiny.”

“Stein,” exclaimed the duke, “where is that firm and calm courage which I admired in you when we were on the voyage together on board the ‘Royal Sovereign?’ What have you done with your love of science, the desire to consecrate yourself to suffering humanity? Have you allowed yourself to be enervated by your happiness? Can it be true that felicity renders a man selfish?”

Stein drooped his head.

“Señora,” continued the duke, “at your age, and with these happy gifts of nature, can you decide to remain forever attached to this rock, and to these ruins?”

Mariquita, whose heart beat under the influence of an ardent joy and a tempting hope, replied with, however, an apparent coldness —

“What will I gain by it?”

“And your father,” her husband asked of her; “do you believe he will give his consent?”

“He is a fisherman,” replied the Gaviota, feigning not to understand the true sense of the question.

The duke then entered into a long explanation of all the advantages which might arise for her distinction and a fortune.

Mariquita listened with avidity, while the duke contemplated with rapture the play of this countenance, alternately cold and full of enthusiasm, alternately impassible and energetic.

When the duke retired, Mariquita pinched the ear of Stein, and said to him eagerly —

“We will go! we will go! and whatever happens, I feel called to go. Crowns are promised me, and will I remain deaf to all that? No! no!”

Stein sorrowfully followed the duke.

CHAPTER XV

WHEN they entered the convent, old Maria demanded of the noble convalescent, who always received his nurse with much kindness, how he had found her dear Marisalada.

“Is she not a beautiful creature?” she said.

“Certainly,” replied the duke. “Her eyes, as a poet says, are such as an eagle only can look at.”

“And her grace?” pursued the old woman; “and her voice?”

“Her voice! it is too beautiful to be lost in this solitude. You have nightingales enough, and goldfinches. Husband and wife must go with me.”

The thunder had fallen at the feet of Maria; and all the other words he spoke were as nothing.

“And do they wish it?” she cried in affright.

“They must wish it,” replied the duke, leaving the room.

Maria remained some moments confused and in a state of consternation. Then she went to find brother Gabriel.

“They are going,” she said to him, her eyes filled with tears, “they are going!”

“Thank God!” replied the brother. “They have enough deteriorated the marble pavement of the Prior’s cell. What will his reverence say when he comes back?”

“You have not understood me. Those who are going are Don Frederico and his wife.”

“They are going away! It’s impossible,” said the brother.

“Is it true?” asked Maria of Stein, who came in.

“She wishes it,” he replied dejectedly.

“That is what her father has always said,” continued Maria; “and with this response he would have let her die, if it had not been for us. Ah! Don Frederico, you are so well here! You would be like that Spaniard who being well would be better.”

“I hope for nothing better; I believe in nothing better in the world, my good Maria.”

“One day you will repent it. And poor Pedro! My God! why has this earthquake fallen on us?”

Don Modesto entered. For some time his visits had been very rare, not but the duke would have received him most amiably, nor but that his lordship would have exercised on him the same irresistible attraction which was felt by all who approached him, but Modesto was the slave of ceremony, and he imposed upon himself the rule not to present himself before the duke, general, and ex-minister of war, but in grand and rigorous ceremony.

Rosa Mistica had told him that his grand uniform could not stand active service, and this was the cause of the suspension of his visits. When Maria learned that the duke contemplated to depart in two days, Don Modesto retired immediately. He had formed a project, and he required time to realize it.

When Marisalada announced to her father the resolution she had taken to follow the advice of the duke, the grief which attacked the poor old Pedro would have softened a heart of stone.

He listened silently to the magnificent plans of his child, without either condemning or approving them; to her promises to revisit him in his cabin, he neither made request nor refusal. He regarded his child as a bird regards her offspring, when they try to quit the nest which they may never again enter. In one word, this excellent father wept in secret.

Next day the servants, horses, and mules which the duke had ordered for his departure arrived.

The cries, the good wishes, and the preparations for travel resounded throughout the convent.

Morrongo climbed upon the top of the roof and slept in the sun, and cast a look of contempt upon the tumult raised below him.

Palomo barked, growled, and protested so energetically against the strange invasion, that Manuel ordered Momo to fasten him up.

“There is no doubt,” said Momo, “but my grandma, who is a charlatan the most skilful to be found under the canopy of heaven, has no lover now to attract invalids to this house.”

The day of departure arrived. The duke was ready in his room. Stein and the Gaviota had arrived, followed by the poor fisherman, whose looks were on the ground, and his body bent double under the weight of his grief. This grief had made him old more than his years, more than ocean’s tempests; he let himself fall on the steps of the marble cross.

As to Modesto, he was there also; consternation was painted in his face. The infinitely small lock of hair on his head fell flabby and soft on one side; profound sighs escaped him.

“What ails you, my commandant?” asked Maria of him.

“Good Maria,” he replied, “to-day is the 15th of June, the day of my holy patron, a day sad and memorable in the past of my life. O San Modesto! is it possible that you treat me thus, even on the day which the church celebrates?”

“But what new thing has happened?” asked Maria, with impatience.

“See!” said the veteran, raising his arms and displaying a large rent, across which was seen the white lining of his uniform, like a row of teeth behind a laughing mocker.

Don Modesto was identified with his uniform; in losing it, there would have vanished the last hope of his profession.

“What a misfortune!” Maria sadly sighed.

“Rosita is laid up with a cold,” continued Don Modesto.

A servant entered.

“His excellency prays the commandant to have the goodness to go to him.”

Don Modesto rose proudly, took in his hand a letter carefully folded and sealed, pressed as near as possible the arm nearest his unfortunate rent, and presented himself to the duke, and saluted him respectfully in the strict military position.

“I wish your excellency,” he said, “a pleasant journey; and I hope that you will find the duchess and all your family in good health. I take, also, the liberty to pray your excellency to deliver into the hands of the minister of war this report, relative to the fort which I have the honor to command. Your excellency can be convinced by personal observation, of the urgency for repairs to re-establish the fort San Cristobal, now above all, when there is the question of a war with the Emperor of Morocco.”

“My dear Don Modesto,” the duke replied to him, “I cannot risk the promise of success to your report, but I advise you to plant a cross upon the battlement of your fort, as upon a sepulchre. In any case, I promise to recommend you, so that you will be paid the arrears for your services.”

This agreeable promise was not sufficiently powerful to efface the sad impression made on his heart by the sentence of death which the duke had pronounced against the citadel.

“Meantime,” said the duke, “I pray you to accept this as the souvenir of a friend.”

And, so saying, he pointed with his finger to a chair which was near to him. What was the surprise of this brave man when he saw exposed on that chair a complete uniform, new and bright, with two epaulets worthy to adorn the greatest captain of the age! Don Modesto, it was very natural, remained confused, astonished, dazzled at the sight of so much splendor and magnificence.

“I hope, commandant,” said the duke, “that you will live to such an age that this uniform may last you at least as long as its predecessor.”

“Ah! excellent señor,” replied Don Modesto, recovering by degrees the use of speech, “it is far too much for me.”

“Not at all,” replied the duke; “how many people are there who wear more splendid uniforms than this, who do not merit it as you do! I know, also, that you have a friend, an excellent hostess, to whom you would not be sorry to convey a souvenir. Do me the pleasure to convey this bijou to her.”

It was a chaplet of filigree, in gold and coral.

Then, without giving Don Modesto time to recover from his astonishment, the duke joined the family, which he had called together, to express to them his gratitude, and to leave them some gifts.

This noble lord did not confer his gifts with that disdainful generosity, and therefore wounding, which is so often met with among the rich; he conferred them knowing how to address those on whom fortune had not lavished her favors; he studied the needs and the tastes of each one. Thus all the inhabitants of the convent received what was the most necessary and the most agreeable to them. Manuel had a clock and a good watch; Momo a complete suit of clothes, a belt of yellow silk, and a fowling-piece; the women and children stuffs for their toilet and playthings; Anis, a kite of such vast dimensions that she disappeared behind this plaything as a rat would disappear behind the shield of Achilles. To the grandma Maria, the indefatigable nurse, the skilful maker of substantial soups, the duke gave a regular pension. As to poor brother Gabriel, he had nothing. He made so little noise in the world, and was so much hidden from the eyes of the duke, that he had never been seen by him. The grandma cut, at the suggestion of everybody, some ells from a piece of cloth the duke had given her; she added two cotton handkerchiefs, and went to find her protégé.

“Here, brother Gabriel,” she said to him, “here is a little present the duke makes you; I will take care to make the shirt.”

The poor brother remained as confused as the commandant. Gabriel was more than modest, he was humble.

All being ready to depart, the duke entered the court.

“Adieu, Momo,” said Marisalada. “Honor to Villamar! If I have ever seen you, I have forgotten you.”

“Adieu, Gaviota,” replied Momo, “if everybody weeps your departure as my mother’s son weeps, they will ring the bells to the whole bevy.”

Old Pedro remained seated on the steps of the cross. Maria was near him, and wept burning tears.

“Do not believe,” said the Gaviota, “that I depart for China, and that we will never come back again, when I tell you that I will come back! See – one would think you were assisting at the death of Bohemians! Have you taken a vow to spoil my pleasure in going to the city?”

“Mother,” said Manuel, much affected in witnessing the grief of the good Maria, “if you weep so much now, what will you do when I die?”

“I will not weep, son of my heart,” replied the mother, smiling in spite of her grief; “I shall not live to weep for thy death.”

The horses arrived. Stein cast himself into Maria’s arms.

“Do not forget us, Don Frederico,” said the old woman, sobbing: “return!”

“If I return not,” replied Stein, “it will be because I am dead.”

The duke, to distract Marisalada, in this painful separation, wished her at once to mount the mule which, by his orders, was destined for her use. The animal set off on a trot, the others followed, and all the cortège soon disappeared behind the angle of the convent. The poor father stretched out his arms towards his daughter.

“I shall never see her more!” he cried, suffocated by his grief; and he let fall his head on the steps of the cross.

The travellers continued their route, falling into a trot. Stein, arrived at Calvary, soothed his heart in addressing a fervent prayer to the Lord of Good-help, whose kind influence spread over all this country like the light around the sun.

Rosa Mistica was at her window when the travellers passed through the village.

“God pardon me!” she exclaimed, on seeing Marisalada on her mule at the duke’s side, “she does not even look at me! She does not even salute me! The demon of pride has already whispered in her heart. I bet,” she said, advancing nearer the window, “that she will not either salute the cura, who is below under the porch of the church; but the duke has set her the example. Hollo! he stops to speak to the pastor. He hands him a purse for the poor. He is so good, so generous a man! he does well, and God will recompense him!”

Rosa Mistica knew not yet the double surprise which was to happen to her. When Stein passed, he sadly saluted her with his hand.

“God accompany thee,” said Rosita, waving her handkerchief. “He is the best of men! Yesterday on quitting me he wept like a child. What a misfortune that he remains not in the village! He would not have left if he had not espoused this fool of a Gaviota, as Momo so well calls her.”

The little troop had arrived at the summit of a hill, and commenced to descend it. The houses of Villamar soon disappeared to Stein’s view, who could not tear himself away from this spot where he had lived so happily and so tranquilly.

The duke, all this time, imposed on himself the useless task of consoling Marisalada, and painting to her, in colors the most flattering, the brilliant projects of the future. Stein had no eyes but to contemplate the country which he was abandoning.

The cross of Calvary and the chapel of our Lord of Good-help were lost in the distance; then the grand mass of convent walls was effaced little by little. At last, in all this corner of the world, so calm and so peaceful, there was soon nothing seen but the ruins of the fort, its sombre form reflected upon the horizon of the azure firmament, and the tower which, according to the expression of a poet, like a gigantic finger pointed ceaselessly to Heaven with an irresistible eloquence.

Then all vanished. Stein burst into tears, covering his face with his hands.

CHAPTER XVI