MARISALADA was already convalescent, as if nature had desired to recompense the excellent treatment of Stein, and the charitable care of the good Maria. She was decently dressed; and her hair, well combed and gathered behind her neck, bore evidence of the attention which Dolores had shown in putting her coiffure in order.

One day when Stein was reading in his chamber, whose window overlooked the grand court where the children amused themselves in company with Marisalada, he heard her imitate the songs of various birds with such rare perfection, that he closed his book to admire this really extraordinary talent.

Soon after commenced one of those recitations so common in Spain, and which consist of playing and singing at the same time. Marisalada took the part of the mother; Pepe that of a young cavalier who came to demand of her the hand of her daughter; the mother refused him; the young man would take possession of her by force of his love; and all this dialogue, composed of couplets, was sung with exquisite melody.

The book fell from the hands of Stein, who, like all good Germans, passionately loved music.

Never had so beautiful a voice struck his ear. It was a metal pure and ringing like crystal, smooth and flexible as silk. Stein hardly dared to breathe, so much did he fear to lose a single note.

“You are there, all ears,” said Maria, who entered the chamber unknown to Stein. “Have I not warned you that she is a canary set free?”

And upon this she descended to the court and asked Marisalada to sing her a song.

She refused, with her accustomed tartness.

At this moment Momo entered, singularly dressed and driving before him the ass laden with charcoal. He had his hands and face bedaubed and black as ink.

“El Rey Melchor! El Rey Melchor!” cried Marisalada on seeing him. “El Rey Melchor! El Rey Melchor!” repeated the children.

“If I had nothing else to do,” replied Momo furiously, “but to sing like you, great mountebank, I would not be daubed from head to foot. Fortunately, Don Frederico has forbidden you to sing, and you will not stun my ears.”

Marisalada, as a response, struck out in a song in her loudest tones. The Andalusian people have at their command an infinite quantity of songs. There are the boleros, now joyous, now sad; the ole, the fandango, the cano, so pretty and so difficult to execute; and many others, among which is distinguished the romance. The tone of the romance is monotonous, and we dare not affirm that this song, receiving the honors of written notation, could satisfy the dilettante and the melodrama. But its charm, or, if you will, its enchanting grace, consists in the modulations of the voice in singing, as it were to cast out certain notes, to blend them, to balance them, so to say, very softly, in raising or lowering the tone, in swelling it or allowing it to die. It is thus that the romance, composed of a number of notes strongly bound, presents the great difficulties of expression, and the purity of execution.

The song belongs so essentially to the peasantry, that the common class of the people alone, and very few among them, attain perfection. Those who sing well appear to sing by intuition. When towards evening, in the country, one hears at a distance a fine voice singing the romance with a melancholy full of originality, he feels an extraordinary emotion, which can only be compared to that produced in Germany by the sounds of the postilion’s cornet, so deliciously repeated by the echoes in the magnificent forests, and on the splendid lakes. The words of the romance refer generally to some history of the Moors, or recount either pious legends or the sad exploits of brigands. That ancient and celebrated romance which we have received from our fathers like a melodious tradition, has been more lasting as to some of its notes than all the grandeur of Spain achieved by her cannon, and sustained by the mines of Peru. There are still many other popular songs, very pretty, very expressive, of which the music is specially adapted to words. Witness that which was sung by Marisalada, and which we transcribe here in all its simplicity.

Marisalada had scarcely finished singing this ballad, when Stein, who had an excellent ear for music, took his flute and repeated, note by note, the song he had just heard. At this the young girl nearly fainted with astonishment; she looked around on all sides to discover whence came this echo so pure and faithful.

“It was not an echo,” cried the little girls, “it was Don Frederico, who whistled in a reed pierced with holes.”

Marisalada then quietly entered the chamber of Stein, and began to listen with the greatest attention, her body bent forward, a smile on her lips, and her soul in her eyes.

Within this instant the rude ferocity of the fisherman’s daughter was changed, and her regard for Stein induced a certain confidence and docility which caused the greatest surprise to all the family.

Maria advised Stein to profit by the ascendency he obtained day by day over the mind of Marisalada, to engage her to be instructed and employ her time in learning the law of God, and to try and become a good Christian; a woman of sense and reason; a good manager.

The grandmother added, that to obtain the end proposed, to bend the entire character of Marisalada, and to make her abandon her bad habits, the best thing would be to pray the SeÑora Rosita, the mistress of the school, to be so good as to take charge of her, because she was a very honest woman, fearing God, and very expert in all her handy-work.

Stein much approved of this idea, and obtained the consent of Marisalada. He promised, in return, to go and see her every day, and play airs on the flute to divert her.

The disposition of the young girl awakened in her an extraordinary taste for the study of music, and the first impulse was given her by the ability of Stein.

When Momo found that Marisalada had put herself under the tuition of Rosa Mistica, to learn there to sew, to sweep, to cook, and above all, as he said, to have judgment; when he knew that it was the doctor who had decided this, he declared he believed what Don Frederico had recounted respecting his country, where there were certain men whom all the mice followed when they heard a whistle.

Since the death of her mother, SeÑorita Rosa had established a school for little girls. School is the name which they give in villages; but the school in cities bears a more pompous title, and it is called an academy. The little village children attend school from the morning until midday; all the information is composed of Christian doctrine and of sewing. In cities they learn to read, to write, to embroider, and to sketch. It is true that these schools cannot create the wells of science, nor become the nurseries of artists, or produce models of an education equal to that of a mujer emancipada; but in return they produce ordinarily good workers and excellent mothers of families, which is still better.

The invalid perfectly cured. Stein urged upon her father that he would confide his daughter for some time, to the honest woman who would replace the mother she had been deprived of, and who would instruct her in the duties of her sex.

When it was proposed to the SeÑorita Rosa to admit to her house the indomitable daughter of the fisherman, her first reply was decidedly negative, as she was accustomed to make, in such circumstances, to persons of her character.

Notwithstanding, she finished by consenting, when she was made to understand the good effects expected to result from this work of charity. It is impossible to recount all that the unfortunate schoolmistress suffered during the time she had Marisalada in charge. On one side were mockeries and rebellion; on the other, sermons without profit, and exhortations without result. Two causes exhausted the patience of Rosa; with her patience was not an inborn virtue, but laboriously acquired.

Marisalada had succeeded in organizing a kind of conspiracy in the little battalion commanded by Rosa. This conspiracy burst forth one fine morning, timid and undecided at first, then audacious and walking with a lofty head. Thus was the event:

“The rose mallow does not please me,” suddenly said Marisalada.

“Silence!” cried the mistress, whose severe discipline forbade conversation during school-hours.

Silence was re-established.

Five minutes after a voice, sharp and insolent, was heard:

“The moon-roses do not please me.”

“No one asked your opinion,” said the SeÑorita Rosa, believing that this declaration had been provoked by Marisalada.

Five minutes after, another conspirator said, on picking up her thimble which had fallen—

“I do not like white roses.”

“What does it signify?” cried Rosa, whose black eye shone like a beacon. “You mock me!”

“Moss roses do not please me,” said one of the smallest girls, hastily hiding under the table.

“Nor the passion roses, me.”

“Nor the roses of Jericho, me.”

“Nor the yellow roses, me.”

The strong and clear voice of Marisalada drowned all other voices—

“I cannot bear dry roses,” cried she.

“I cannot bear dry roses,” repeated all the scholars in chorus.

Rosa Mistica, who at the commencement was only astonished, rose up on seeing so much insolence, ran to the kitchen, and returned armed with a broom.

At sight of this all the conspirators fled like a flock of birds. Rosa remained alone, let fall her broom and crossed her arms.

“Patience, Lord!” she exclaimed, after having done every thing possible to subdue her emotion. “I will support a sobriquet with resignation, as thou, Lord, supported thy cross; but I yet lack that crown of thorns. Thy will be done!”

Perhaps she might have decided to pardon Marisalada this escapade, but the adventure which soon after followed obliged her to send her away.

The son of the barber, Ramon Perez, a great amateur of the guitar, came every night to touch the chords of his guitar and sing amorous couplets under the strongly fastened windows of the devotee.

“Don Modesto,” said she to him one day, “when you hear this bird of night, Ramon, whose voice wounds your hearing, do me the kindness to go out and order him to carry his music elsewhere.”

“But, Rosita,” replied Don Modesto, “would you that I get on bad terms with this eccentric fellow, when his father (may God repay him!) has shaved me for nothing since my arrival in Villamar? And, see how it is. I like to listen to it, because none can deny that he draws from his voice and instrument modulations of excellent taste.”

“I congratulate you,” said Rosa. “It is possible that your ears are proof against a bomb-shell. If it pleases you, it is not convenient to me that he comes and sings under the windows of an honest woman. It produces neither honor nor profit.”

The physiognomy of Don Modesto expressed a mute answer divided into three parts. In the first place—astonishment, which seemed to say, What! Ramon make love to my hostess! In the second place—doubt; as if he had said, Is it possible? Lastly—the certainty embodied in these phrases: The thing is sure; Ramon is audacious.

After this reflection, Rosa continued:

“You might cool yourself in passing from the heat of your bed to the fresh sea air; you had better remain quiet, and it is I who will say to this magpie, Do you wish to divert yourself? then buy yourself a doll.”

Precisely at midnight was heard the sounds of a guitar, and a voice which sang—

“What folly!” cried Rosa Mistica, springing out of her bed. “See how he continues this annoyance which he sings so profitlessly.”

The voice continued:

“God assist us!” murmured Rosa, in putting on her third petticoat: “he mixes up the Church with his profane couplets, and those who hear him will say that he sings thus to insult me. This beardless barber! does he believe he can mock me? It required only that.”

Rosa entered into the saloon, and caught a view of Marisalada, who, leaning against the shutter, listened to the singer with all the attention she was capable of. Then she made the sign of the cross, exclaiming—

“And she is not yet thirteen years old! There are no more children.”

Taking her scholar by the arm, she drew her away from the window, and placed herself there at the moment when Ramon powerfully touched his guitar, and strained his throat to entone the following couplet:

Then the music of the guitar continued the air with more vehemence and ardor than ever.

“It is I who will lighten thee with a torch of hell!” cried Rosa Mistica, in a sharp and angry voice. “Libertine! Profaner! Everlasting and insupportable singer!”

Ramon Perez, recovered from his first surprise, set off to run lighter than a buck, and without casting a single look behind.

This was the decisive coup. Marisalada was sent back to her room, in spite of the timid efforts at reconciliation tendered in her favor by Don Modesto.

“SeÑor,” replied Rosita to her guest, “charges are charges, and while this shameless girl is under my responsibility, I must render account of her actions to God and to men; each one has enough of his own sins, without charging himself or herself, in addition, with those of others. You view it otherwise, she is a creature who will never follow the good path. When she is pointed to the right, she turns always to the left.”