Part 1 (2/2)

”Is Perez Galdos a pessimist?” asks the critic Clarin. ”No, certainly; but if he is not, why does he paint us sorrows that seem inconsolable?

Is it from love of paradox? Is it to show that his genius, which can do so much, can paint the shadow lovelier than the light? Nothing of this.

Nothing that is not serious, honest, and n.o.ble, is to be found in this novelist. Are they pessimistic, those ballads of the North, that always end with vague resonances of woe? Are they pessimists, those singers of our own land, who surprise us with tears in the midst of laughter? Is Nature pessimistic, who is so sad at nightfall that it seems as if day were dying forever? . . . The sadness of art, like that of nature, is a form of hope. Why is Christianity so artistic? Because it is the religion of sadness.”

W. D. HOWELLS.

DONA PERFECTA

CHAPTER I

VILLAHORRENDA! FIVE MINUTES!

When the down train No. 65--of what line it is unnecessary to say--stopped at the little station between kilometres 171 and 172, almost all the second-and third-cla.s.s pa.s.sengers remained in the cars, yawning or asleep, for the penetrating cold of the early morning did not invite to a walk on the unsheltered platform. The only first-cla.s.s pa.s.senger on the train alighted quickly, and addressing a group of the employes asked them if this was the Villahorrenda station.

”We are in Villahorrenda,” answered the conductor whose voice was drowned by the cackling of the hens which were at that moment being lifted into the freight car. ”I forgot to call you, Senor de Rey. I think they are waiting for you at the station with the beasts.”

”Why, how terribly cold it is here!” said the traveller, drawing his cloak more closely about him. ”Is there no place in the station where I could rest for a while, and get warm, before undertaking a journey on horseback through this frozen country?”

Before he had finished speaking the conductor, called away by the urgent duties of his position, went off, leaving our unknown cavalier's question unanswered. The latter saw that another employe was coming toward him, holding a lantern in his right hand, that swung back and forth as he walked, casting the light on the platform of the station in a series of zigzags, like those described by the shower from a watering-pot.

”Is there a restaurant or a bedroom in the station of Villahorrenda?”

said the traveller to the man with the lantern.

”There is nothing here,” answered the latter brusquely, running toward the men who were putting the freight on board the cars, and a.s.suaging them with such a volley of oaths, blasphemies, and abusive epithets that the very chickens, scandalized by his brutality, protested against it from their baskets.

”The best thing I can do is to get away from this place as quickly as possible,” said the gentlemen to himself. ”The conductor said that the beasts were here.”

Just as he had come to this conclusion he felt a thin hand pulling him gently and respectfully by the cloak. He turned round and saw a figure enveloped in a gray cloak, and out of whose voluminous folds peeped the shrivelled and astute countenance of a Castilian peasant. He looked at the ungainly figure, which reminded one of the black poplar among trees; he observed the shrewd eyes that shone from beneath the wide brim of the old velvet hat; the sinewy brown hand that grasped a green switch, and the broad foot that, with every movement, made the iron spur jingle.

”Are you Senor Don Jose de Rey?” asked the peasant, raising his hand to his hat.

”Yes; and you, I take it,” answered the traveller joyfully, ”are Dona Perfecta's servant, who have come to the station to meet me and show me the way to Orbajosa?”

”The same. Whenever you are ready to start. The pony runs like the wind. And Senor Don Jose, I am sure, is a good rider. For what comes by race--”

”Which is the way out?” asked the traveller, with impatience. ”Come, let us start, senor--What is your name?”

”My name is Pedro Lucas,” answered the man of the gray cloak, again making a motion to take off his hat; ”but they call me Uncle Licurgo.

Where is the young gentleman's baggage?”

”There it is--there under the cloak. There are three pieces--two portmanteaus and a box of books for Senor Don Cayetano. Here is the check.”

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