JULY was an extremely hot month in Seville. People assembled in the delicious courts, or near the magnificent marble fountains, and the jets-d’eau fell behind the innumerable tufts of flowers. From the circular ceilings of the galleries were suspended large lamps incased in globes of crystal, and throwing out on every side torrents of light. The air was embalmed with the perfume of flowers. The richest furniture set off the sumptuousness of these fÊtes every evening, which imparted a peculiar grace to the beauty of the Sevilleans, whose animated and joyous conversation rivalled the sweet murmurs of the fountains.

One evening, towards the end of July, there was a grand reunion at the residence of the young, elegant, and beautiful Countess d’Algar. It was esteemed a great favor to be introduced into this house; the mistress was so amiable, and possessed of such graceful manners, that she received all her guests with the same smile and the same cordiality.

In her eagerness, she had gathered around her all those who had been presented to her, without consulting the will of her uncle. General Santa-Maria, warlike par excellence, and, according to the spirit of warriors in those times, a little exclusive, absolute, and disdainful; in fine, a classic son of the god Mars, fully convinced that all relations among men consist in those who command and those who obey, and that the principal object, the sole utility of society, is to class each of its members; above all, Spanish like Pelayo, and brave like Cid.

The general, with his sister, the Marchioness de Guadalcanal, mother of the countess, and some other persons, were playing a species of game of cards called tresillo. Several guests were walking under the galleries discussing politics. The young people of both sexes, seated near the tufts of flowers of a thousand colors, chatted and laughed as if the earth produced only flowers, as if echo should send back only their own joys.

The countess, half reclined on a sofa, complained of a headache, which, however, did not prevent her from laughing. Her figure was small, and delicately formed. Her thick blonde hair waved in long ringlets, as worn by the English, on her alabaster shoulders. Her large brown eyes, her teeth white as ivory, her mouth, and the oval of her face were models of perfection. As to her grace, nothing could surpass it. Passionately cherished by her mother, idolized by her husband, who, without loving the world, left his wife unlimited liberty, because he knew her to be virtuous, and had full confidence in her, the countess was truly an accomplished woman, abusing none of her privileges, such was the nobleness of her character. It is true she possessed in no degree grand intellectual faculties, but she had the talent of heart; her sentiments were just and delicate. All her ambition was reduced to the desire to amuse and please, without effort, like the bird which flies without knowing it, and sings because she sings. This evening she mingled in the promenade, fatigued, and a little indisposed. She had replaced her rich toilet by a robe of white muslin of great simplicity. The long hanging sleeves garnished with lace, exposed her white and rounded arms. A bracelet and some jewels were the only ornaments which she had retained of her first attire. Near her was seated a young colonel recently arrived from Madrid, after having been distinguished in the war of Navarre. The countess, with her accustomed frankness, fixed on him all her attentions.

General Santa-Maria regarded them from time to time, and bit his lips impatiently.

“New fruit!” said he. “She would not be a daughter of Eve if the novelty had not pleased her. A white-beak! Twenty-four years of age, and already colonel! Has one ever seen such prodigality of rank? Here, for five or six years one goes yet to school; and here one already commands a regiment! They will tell us no doubt that he owes his grade to his brilliant actions; for my part, I say that valor does not give experience, and without experience no one knows how to command. Colonel at twenty-four years of age! I was one at forty, after having been at Roussillon, in America, and in Portugal, and I gained the scarf of a general only on my return from the North, after having fought during the war of independence. By my faith, gentlemen, in Spain we are all becoming crazy, some by what they do, and others by what they leave undone.”

At this moment loud exclamations were heard. The countess herself shook off her languor, and suddenly rose up. “At last,” she cried, “we again see him whom we had lost! A thousand times welcome, unfortunate sportsman, ill-treated seÑor! You have caused a frightful alarm! But what is it then? You stand there as if nothing had happened! Is it true, what has been told us of a wonderful German doctor starting out from the ruins of a fort, and those of a convent, in the manner of fantastic creations? Relate to me then, duke, all these extraordinary things.”

The duke, after having received the congratulations which each one offered him on his happy return and cure, placed himself near the countess, and commenced the recital of events which the reader already knows.

Then, after having spoken much of Stein and Marisalada, he finished by saying, he had persuaded them to come and establish themselves at Seville, to become known and useful, he by his knowledge, and she by the extraordinary faculties with which nature had endowed her.

“It was badly done,” earnestly interrupted General Santa-Maria.

“Why so, my uncle?” asked the countess.

“Because these people were living contented, without ambition; and which once broken up will never more be the same. Do you recollect the Spanish comedy, the title of which has passed into a proverb: ‘Ninguno debe dejar lo cierto por lo dudoso.’” (Never quit a certainty for an uncertainty.)

“Do you believe, my uncle, that this woman, gifted with a voice so remarkable, can regret the oyster bank where she vegetated without glory, without profit to herself, or to society, or to the arts?”

“Come, my niece, would you seriously make us believe that human society would make much progress because a woman exhibits herself on the boards, and sings Di tanti palpiti?”

“Go along,” said the countess, “we see very well that you are not musical.”

“And I greatly thank the Lord that I am not so,” replied the general. “Would you that, like so many others, I lose my judgment by this melomaniac furor, by this deluge of notes which is showered on Europe like an avalanche, according to the expression now-a-days. Would you that I go, thanks to my stupid enthusiasm, and swell the excessive pride of those kings and queens of harmony? Would you that my money serve to increase their colossal receipts, while so many good officers covered with wounds die of hunger; while so many virtuous, and meritorious women pass their lives in tears, without having bread to eat? These things cry for vengeance! Here is a veritable sarcasm (as they say now-a-days), and that passes unheeded, while the mouths of our hypocrites are continually uttering the word humanity. Shall I go, and throw bouquets at the feet of a prima donna whose whole recommendable qualities are reduced to ‘do, rÉ, mi, fa, sol?’”

“My uncle is the most perfect personification of the statu quo. Every thing new annoys him. I will try to grow old soon, to please him.”

“You will take good care of yourself, my niece; but do not require of me that I grow young to please the new generation.”

“What is my brother discussing?” demanded the marchioness, who, until then occupied with her game, had taken no part in the conversation.

“My uncle,” said a young officer, who had entered without saying a word, and was seated near the duke, “my uncle is preaching a crusade against music. He has declared war against the andante, proscribed the moderato, and gives no quarter to allegro.”

The new speaker was of small form, but elegant, well proportioned, of a distinguished tournure, and a handsome face, too handsome, perhaps, for a man.

“Dear Raphael!” cried the duke, embracing the officer, who was his relation and his friend.

“And I,” added the young officer, affectionately pressing the hand of the duke, “I who would have broken my arms and legs to spare you the painful hours you have passed! But we were speaking of the opera, and I would not be impious towards the melodrama.”

“Well thought of,” said the duke; “you had better relate to me what has passed in my absence. What do they say?”

“That my cousin, the Countess d’Algar,” said Raphael, “is the pearl of women.”

“I asked you what was new,” replied the duke, “and not what everybody knows.”

“My lord duke,” continued Raphael, “Solomon has said, and many other wise men—I am of the number—that there is nothing new under the azure vault of heaven.”

“God grant it!” sighed the general, “but my dear nephew Raphael Arias is a living contradiction of his axiom. Every day he brings new faces to our reunions, and it is insupportable.”

“There, already, is my uncle,” said Raphael, “who ever tilts against strangers. A stranger is the blue-devil of General Santa-Maria. My lord duke, if you had not appointed me your aid-de-camp when you were minister of war, I could not have found so many acquaintances at Madrid among foreign diplomatists, and these gentlemen would not have pressed me so with their letters of introduction. Do you believe, uncle, that it is very amusing to me to act as cicerone to every traveller? It has been my only occupation since my arrival at Seville.”

“And who obliges you,” replied the general, “to open our doors—open them wide—to all new-comers, and put ourselves at their orders? That is not done in Paris, and much less so is it the custom in London.”

“My uncle,” said the countess, “all people have their peculiar characteristics; each society its usages. Strangers are more reserved than we, and they have the same reserve among themselves: be just.”

“Has any one recently arrived?” demanded the duke. “I ask you this, because I expect Lord G., one of the most distinguished men I know. Is he in Seville?”

“I think not,” replied Raphael. “At present we have here, first, Major Fly, whom we call Mosca—it is the translation of his name. He serves in the Queen’s Guards, and is nephew of the Duke of W., one of the grand personages of England.”

“Yes, nephew of the Duke of W.,” said the general, “as I am of the Grand Turk.”

“He is young,” pursued Raphael, “elegant, and a good fellow, but of colossal stature: he should be placed at a certain distance from you to have his whole form appreciated; close, he appears so large, so robust, so angular, so stiff, that he loses a hundred per cent. When he is not at table, he is always at my side, whether I am at home, or whether I am out. When my servant told him I was out, he replied that he would wait for me; and when he came in at the door, I escaped by the window. He has the habit of using his cane as a weapon: his thrusts, however, are very innocent, and wound only the air. As he has very long and vigorous arms, and as my room is small, he damages all the walls; and he has already broken, I do not know how many squares of glass. Seated on a chair, he so moves about, so tosses, and stretches himself out in such a fashion, that he has already broken four of them.

“The sight of this man is sufficient to throw my hostess into a rage. Sometimes he takes a book; and it is the best thing he could do, for it puts him to sleep. But conquest is his mania—his fixed idea—his war-horse. In it lies all his hopes, which, however, are yet in embryo. He has for the fair sex the same illusion that the Castilian peasant who goes to Mexico has for the hard dollars: the poor man arrives in Mexico, believing that he has only to present himself to grasp them. I have tried to undeceive the major, but I have preached in the desert. When I speak reasonably to him, he smiles with an air of incredulity, caressing his enormous mustache. He is in correspondence with a millionaire heiress; and that which is very curious, is, that this Ajax of thirty years, who devours four pounds of beef-steak and drinks three bottles of sherry at a single repast, makes his betrothed believe that he is travelling for his health! The other knave, as my uncle would call him, is a Frenchman, the Baron de Maude.”

“Baron,” replied the general maliciously, “yes, a baron as I am a pope.”

“But in truth, my uncle,” replied the countess, “what reason is there that he should not be a baron?”

“The reason is, my niece, that real barons—not the barons of Napoleon, nor the Constitutional barons, but the barons of good stock, neither travel nor write books for money; and they are not either so badly educated, or so curious, or such fastidious questioners.”

“But, uncle, he can be both a baron and a questioner. They lose not their nobility because they question. On his return to his country he is to be married to the daughter of a peer of France.”

“Certainly he will marry her,” replied the general, “as I will marry the Grand Turk.”

“My uncle,” said Arias, “is like St. Thomas; he must see to believe. Let us come back to our baron: we must admit he is a very handsome man, and of noble deportment, although he has, like me, ceased to grow. His character is one of the most amiable; he has it as a man of learning and as a writer; he converses with the same ease on music, statistics, philosophy, agriculture, and the fashions. He is occupied at this moment in writing a serious book, which may serve as a ladder by which to mount to the Chamber of Deputies. This book is to be entitled: ‘Travels, scientific, philosophical, artistic, and geological, in Spain, formerly Iberia; with critical observations on the government, the cooks, the literature, the routes, the agriculture, the dances, and the system of imposts of that country.’ With an affected negligence in his toilet, he is grave, circumspect, economical in the extreme; it is an imperfect fruit of that warm greenhouse of public men, who give precocious products without spring, without vivifying breezes, and without free air—products without savor or perfume. These men precipitate themselves into the future blindly, at the discovery of what they call a position; and it is for that they sacrifice all: sad, tormented existences, for which life has no aurora.”

“Raphael, you talk like a philosopher,” said the duke, smiling; “do you know that if Socrates existed in our time, you would more likely be his disciple than my aid-de-camp?”

“I would not change my place of aid-de-camp for an apostleship, my general,” replied Arias. “But the truth is, that were there not so many ignorant disciples, there would not be so many bad masters.”

“Well said, my good nephew,” cried the old general. “What of new masters! each one of them teaches his dogma, preaches his doctrine more and more new and advanced: the progress! the magnificent and inevitable progress!”

“General,” replied the duke, “to maintain the equilibrium of our globe, it is necessary that there be fluid, that there be solid materials; these two forces ought to regard each other reciprocally as necessary, in lieu of wishing to destroy them with so much fury.”

“What you advance,” replied the general, “savors of the doctrines of the odious half-way, which, more than all others, have ruined us with these shameful opinions, and these discourses, as low as insipid, as the people say, who often have more good sense than the learned sectarians of moderatism, grand hypocrites of beautiful outward show and bad heart, adorers of the Supreme Being, who do not believe in Jesus Christ.”

“My uncle,” hinted Raphael, “so hates the moderate, that he loses all moderation in combating them.”

“Hold your tongue, Raphael,” replied the countess; “you attack and rail at all opinions, and you have none yourself, without doubt, so as to avoid the trouble of defending them.”

“My cousin,” said Raphael, “I am liberal; my empty purse says so.”

“What have you to be liberal with?” exclaimed the general, in a commanding voice.

“And why should I not be? The duke is so.”

“You would be liberal!” said anew the old soldier in a terrible tone, sounding like the roll of a drum.

“Well!” murmured Raphael, “one easily sees that my uncle will only accord the title liberal to the arts which bear that denomination. General,” he added, excited with refined joy, “why cannot the duke and I be liberal?”

“Because the military,” replied the general, “have no right to be any thing but the supporters of the throne, the sustainers of order, and the defenders of their country. Do you understand, my nephew?”

“But, my uncle—”

“Raphael,” interrupted the countess, “do not take so much trouble: continue your recital.”

“I obey. Ah! cousin, in the army which you command, I have never committed the fault of insubordination. We have still another stranger in Seville, a Sir John Burnwood. He is a young man of fifty years, somewhat fair, smiling, with hair worthy of the veriest lion of Atlas; an eye-glass unremovable—smile ditto; great talker, hullaballoo, turbulent, full of vivacity, like that German who, for a whim, threw himself out of a window; great lover of jollity, celebrated sportsman, and proprietor of vast coal-mines, which produce him an income of twenty thousand pounds sterling.”

“Twenty thousand pounds of coals, perhaps,” said the general.

“My uncle,” replied Raphael, “resembles the frequenters of the exchange, who cause the funds to rise or fall, according to their caprice. Sir John has bet that he will appear on horseback at the Giralda, and it is the grand motive that has brought him to Seville. He is in despair, because they have not permitted him to take part in this royal pastime. Now he wishes, in imitation of Lord Elgin and Baron Taylor, to purchase Alcazar, and to carry him to his lordly residence.”

“My general,” said the duke, “do you not see that Raphael changes the colors of his tableaux, and that he relates to us only extravagances?”

“There are no extravagances,” replied the general, “that are not possible to the English.”

“You do not yet know the best!” continued Raphael, fixing his looks on a young and handsome person seated beside the marchioness, and noticing her play. “Sir John is in love with my Cousin Rita, and has asked her hand. Rita, who does not at all know how to pronounce the monosyllable yes, replied to him by a dry, hard no.”

“Is it possible, Rita,” said the duke, “you have refused twenty thousand pounds a year?”

“I have not refused the money,” replied the young girl; “I have refused the money’s master.”

“You have done well,” replied the general, “everybody should marry in his own country, it is the way to avoid exposing ourselves to taking a cat for a hare.”

“It was well done,” added the marchioness. “A protestant! God preserve us!”

“And what do you say, countess?” asked the duke.

“I am of my mother’s opinion,” she replied.

“And besides,” said Rita, “he is in love with the dancer, Lucea del Salto; and thus, when even if he had been to my taste, I ought to have made him the same answer. I do not like to share, and, above all, with these seÑoritas of the green-room.”