Benito PErez Galdos

THE MARQUESA TELLERÍA.

The TellerÍa family occupied the whole of their house, so Leon Roch, willing that there should be as large an expanse as possible of the habitable globe between them, had taken a pretty house at the furthest east end of the town. There, two years after his marriage, we may find him.

“Good-morning, Leon.... Alone? Where is Mariquilla? Ah, at Mass of course; I had half thought of going too—but now it is too late.... I will go to the eleven o’clock service at San Prudencio.... But what is the matter? You are pale. Have you quarrelled?... I will sit down a while—tell me, what did you give for those statues? They are lovely. You have certainly a beautiful collection of bronzes.... But tell me, are you going to put more books into this study of yours? It is like the library of Alexandria already. Well! You are not at all like the young men of the present day. A silly set of boys. What will become of the world when the vicious, idle, sickly creatures who are the ornament of society nowadays are the men of their time, I do not know! ... However, there is a greater evil still, for if the young men are frivolous and impudent the old ones are worse; more vicious, more dissipated, and more indolent.... But I am forgetting the matter—a very delicate matter—that I came to speak about, my dear son. Sit down and listen to me for a minute or two.”

The marquesa waving a pretty hand and arm pointed to a seat close by, and Leon, obeying her, prepared to hear what his mother-in-law had to say.

She was a woman of good figure, who had grown suddenly old after a prolonged youth and fallen a victim to those ravages which are severe in proportion as they are staved off. Nevertheless, certain traces of past beauty were still visible in the lady’s face; though her sun was setting behind mists of paint and powder, not always judiciously or skilfully applied, and it was not a glorious evening of life. Her tall figure, which had formerly been dignified, was now bent, as though in anticipation of her descent into the chill tomb, though the steel ribs of a pair of stiff stays did what they could to buttress up the decrepit form. Her eyes, still bright and black, were the only living sparks in the dilapidated mass; they, from time to time, glistened with eagerness and vivacity, reminding one of a flash of true inspiration in the midst of the academic dulness of archaic and commonplace ideas. Her hair, which had long since exchanged its Andalusian blackness for Venetian gold, had now passed from Venetian gold to a dull and powdery white. Her complexion, always coarse and sheenless, was disguised under an artificial texture commingled with various perfumed chemicals intended to deceive the spectator, just as in a theatre the painted scenes simulate the greenery of a glade and even the diaphanous purity of the sky. The effect, successful to a certain point in embellishing the withered cheeks of the faded beauty, failed of its result now and then, because when she smiled the dead whiteness of the paint gave a yellow hue to her teeth, though they were still perfectly sound and even; and she constantly displayed them with her gracious and condescending smile—an old habit that would need to be modified if once that double row of ivory keys should begin to desert, like an army that has had enough of fighting. She was always well and elegantly dressed; she talked indefatigably, attempting—sometimes not without success—to insinuate some more intelligent formula among the flood of empty words that usually form the basis of conversation among such brainless individuals.

“I am listening, SeÑora,” said Leon.

“I hate circumlocution,” said the lady; “and besides, MarÍa has doubtless spoken to you on the subject. Your father-in-law is a lost wretch....”

“Nay—that, as it strikes me, is an exaggeration. The marquis likes amusement.... It is not an uncommon taste with men who have nothing to do.”

“No, no. It is of no use to try to defend him. His conduct is indefensible ... and at his age! The strange thing is that in the prime of life he was a steady and prudent man, content to stay quietly at home. I assure you I cannot bear to see him behave like an elderly boy—that describes him exactly: an elderly boy! about two years since—just about the time when you married my daughter—my worthy husband began to go to the young men’s club; there he met with some young fellows who turned his head; he took up a new set of words, and a new style of dress, stayed out at night, took to gambling ... you must have noticed that he has grown quite young again; you must have laughed, if you confess the truth, to see his efforts to look like a boy among boys. Why, you may see him any day with some party of dandies, fluttering like a butterfly about Madrid.—It really is too ridiculous—with a flower in his button-hole. Only this morning I spoke to him rather sharply about it. How he is ever to pay his tailor I do not know for his outlay in dress is frightful to think of! ... In short, to you, in the strictest confidence I can say all this: the fact is my husband spends more money than he has got, or ever will have as long as he lives. He never was economical, but, on the other hand, he was not extravagant; he never kept any kind of accounts but then he never let himself do a mean thing for the sake of some impossible luxury ... and who is the victim? I—I, who after having had always to sacrifice myself, must do so now when my health is failing and I need care and rest and peace of mind. Oh! how I envy the mistress of this house, and how thankfully I would accept a corner here, even the humblest. My life is one incessant misery. My husband spends what he has not got; Gustavo is well conducted and careful it is true, but he has no great affection for his parents; Leopoldo neither is, nor ever will be, good for anything, he is a helpless being and has idle and dissipated habits in spite of all I have done to prevent his acquiring them. I can only thank God, who has given me so many trials, for having at the same time given me such proofs of his mercy; for what greater pride can a mother have than to be the parent of two such children as Luis Gonzaga and MarÍa?—He, so devoted to his vocation, and promising, as I am told, to be a shining light in the church; she, married to you, happy with you, a pattern with you of perfect and harmonious union.—But what a pity it is that you should have no children!” At this point the marquesa, giving way to her feelings, shed a few tears, which she promptly dried with her handkerchief before they could roll down her cheeks. Then she went on with her description of her woes as a wife and a mother.

She had suffered much, she explained, from her husband’s levity, and the refractory or venial conduct of her two eldest sons had necessitated her passing her youth, and indeed chief part of her life in heroic efforts to avert the ruin of the family; she had indeed given up some of her own fortune, which had been considerable; still she had kept back the larger portion of it, and she intended to keep it till her husband’s gallantries and her sons’ extravagance drove her to extremities. She could not expose herself to a pinched and miserable old age nor look forward to living on the charity of her daughter and a rich son-in-law. Her habits, her principles, and her dignity would not allow her to sacrifice her whole fortune to the reckless man who had dissipated the patrimony of the TellerÍas on the green tables of the gaming houses and in the dressing-rooms of ballet-dancers. If she were only to tell him all the things she knew!

“Yes, but I will tell you—I can say anything to you,” she exclaimed, looking at her son-in-law with a vehement flash. “Are you not my son—the husband of my child? It is your duty and your right to know your father’s weakness—I am told that the marquis is entangled with ... but you must know her, you must have heard of her ... some woman they call Paca or Paquilla—no matter which—she is very pretty and very charming. She ruined the Duke of Florunda of the little he had left—and would you believe that that old idiot AgustÍn, with one foot in the grave!—it is too pitiable to be angry about, do not you think?”

Leon did not answer.

“What are you thinking of?” she asked.

“That the cardinal virtue in married life is indeed patience,” he replied.

“Which is as much as to say endurance and fortitude ... but my whole life has been a martyrdom!—and I could bear everything if my husband’s extravagance and follies did not threaten to compromise the honour and good name of the family. But I am terribly afraid of that.... What do you think? And I feel very deeply having to tell you that I cannot pay you the sixty thousand reales that you lent me and that I was to have repaid you this month.”

“It is of no consequence,” said Leon, wishing to avoid this delicate subject; “do not let that trouble you.”

“Not only that I cannot pay you those three thousand dollars, but that I am in desperate need of three thousand more.”

“You can have them.”

“What! three thousand more? But it is outrageous—it is abusing your generosity! It shall be the last time, for I have quite made up my mind to practise the narrowest economy in the house—I will give you a lien on my house at Corrales de Arriba.”

“It is quite unnecessary—I assure you....”

“Thanks, a thousand thanks! How good you are, how dear a son! How can I ever repay you?” cried the marquesa, evidently agitated by sincere feeling. “You cannot imagine what a kindness you are doing me.... But I am always thinking of you, and not unfrequently I am able to intercept half-way some cloud that threatens your happiness. Last night I had quite a quarrel with your wife.”

“With MarÍa?”

“Yes, with MarÍa: even she has her faults, though they are only the excessive side of her virtues. You know that she is very devout—devout to excess; indeed, at times I have felt that this question of religion has given rise to some little differences between you.” Leon sighed.

“To some,” he said, “but nothing serious.”

“Well, you need not speak of your annoyance as a mere trifle,” said the marquesa, vexed that Leon should speak lightly of a matter that it suited her to treat as important. “The poor child is blindly attached to you: her love for you is the ruling motive of her life, and your reputation as an atheist is a standing misery to her. And you know that my daughter’s opinions are as independent and as indomitable as the beasts of the desert.” Leon nodded a sad assent.

“You can understand that she sees your lack of religion with very great pain; that is but natural. We have instilled a faith in which she will live and die. But she weeps with despair because you will not go to prayers every day as she does, will not confess once a month, will not spend your money on trumpery—it is really quite absurd! How I lectured her last night—in short, she vexed me, I got angry, I hammered away at her as if her stupid little head had been an anvil, and at last....”

“Well—at last?...”

“At last I convinced her that it was preposterous to expect men to carry out practices, which, in us, are all very well, but, in them, would be ridiculous, purely ridiculous. The men of the present day have something else to do than to be sitting in church. It seems to me that MarÍa and you—she spending her time in devotions, and you spending yours at your studies—may both be very happy. What is the use of discussion? You do not want to prevent her praying to her heart’s content. The men of the present day have their own ideas and it is senseless to try to combat them. No one need be more religious than I am, but I have no notion of enquiring into things that I do not understand. Women are not learned; their part is to believe, believe, believe.

“That a married couple should quarrel over that appears to me the height of folly. But do you know that her ambition is to convert you? To lead you to abhor your own views and devote yourself to hers—upon my word I can hardly help laughing when I think of it. Do you know what she says? That it would be her highest happiness to burn all those books of yours—what a sin! So beautifully bound as they are! Much I should care whether my husband were as regular at Mass as I am, so long as he loved me and cared for no one else—jealous of his books! Not I indeed, such a woman must be a perfect fool!

“You cannot think how strongly I spoke to her; I told her that you were the best man living—to that she agreed—I told her that you were far superior to her—infinitely superior; that all this talk about atheism is a mere bogey; that though we hear people speak of atheists there are no atheists—just as we talk of magicians but there are no magicians. I told her that she was not to think of such nonsense as trying to convert you, and that the best thing she could do was to keep the peace in her home and get rid of her monomania—do not you think so?—She had better change her confessor—do not you think so? She should do as I do. I am extremely religious, I perform all my devotions with the greatest exactitude, I give all I can afford to the church, but that is all; do not you think that MarÍa should do the same?”

Leon did not reply; he sat silent and gloomy. Suddenly he seemed to shake off some depressing idea, as we wave off a bee that buzzes in our ears, and looking at his mother-in-law he said:

“I will send you that money to-day.”

“Ah! is that what you were thinking about?” cried the marquesa and her face shone with satisfaction till it seemed positively phosphorescent. “Very good; do so, and I will give you a receipt.... But here I have stayed chattering, and in your delightful society I forget that I have business to attend to—heaps of business! Eleven o’clock! I shall be too late for Mass!”

She bustled up and held out her hand to her son-in-law. “And Padre Paoletti is to preach.—Good-bye, I must fly. What shall I say to your wife? I will tell her to make haste home and that you are very dull without her.”