Benito PErez Galdos

THE MARQUIS DE FÚCAR ENJOYS THE SPECIAL FAVOUR OF HEAVEN.

From this moment Ramona’s illness needed no special attention, and as soon as its favourable termination was known in Madrid, the great house was filled with friends who called to congratulate the mother, just as they had before called to condole with her and make enquiries. There are people to whom this is the whole of life, who spend year after year in congratulating or condoling, and who would perish for want of occupation if there were no deaths or christenings, no carriages and visiting cards.

Leon set out for Madrid when the carriages with their gaudy coats of arms were beginning to stream into the park of Suertebella. Even when he had got half way he turned back to leave a message about some medicine that he feared might be forgotten, and his mind was so full of Monina that all day long he was thinking: “If they let her get up too soon—if they do not keep her warm enough.... If they put too much chloral in the cough mixture.... If they let her eat sweets....”

After settling various matters of business and paying one or two indispensable visits in the evening, he went to bed early. He did not see his wife and she took no steps to see him.

Next morning he set out for Suertebella where a surprise awaited him; the Marquis de FÚcar had just arrived there, accompanied by his French friend, the Baron de Soligny, who, like FÚcar himself, was one of those banker-princes who go about the world in search of those tremendous strokes of business which seem most easy to meet with in bankrupt or impecunious communities, just as there are certain trees that grow spontaneously and flourish best on the poorest soil.

They were soon joined by the Marquis JoaquÍn de OnÉsimo whom FÚcar had invited to discuss, without loss of time, a grand project for a national loan.

Leon found the marquis unusually grave and thoughtful, with gleams however of good spirits; a most unaccountable state of affairs, for the most precarious business never seemed to affect the serenity of his perfectly artificial exterior. When he spoke of Monina’s illness and marvellous recovery, Don Pedro, who was devoted to his little grandchild, was quite happy; but his eyes fell again and he frowned—he smiled—then he was solemn; and at length, putting his arm through Leon’s and taking him aside, he said:

“We must prepare Pepa for some bad news.”

“Bad news?”

“Yes, and I say bad news because.... Well, I hardly know why. Still, the news of a death, whoever the victim may be, is in a way bad news.” And the marquis fumbled in his pockets which were full of cards, letters and papers, covered with notes in pencil scribbled in his carriage, in the train, in his office.

“Here is the message. It is a frightful catastrophe—the wreck of an American steamer between Puerto-Cabello and Savanilla.... The papers here have not mentioned it, but my Havana correspondent telegraphs this.... Do you see? The steam packet City of Tampico....”

Leon turned pale as he read the message.

“So that Pepa....” he murmured.

“Hush, not a word; she might hear you and she is quite unprepared. Yes, my daughter is a widow.”

Leon Roch was speechless.

“Between ourselves, and in the strictest confidence,” Don Pedro went on, putting his mouth close to Leon’s ear that he might not be overheard, “it is a real mercy for Pepa, and for me too, in spite of the shock of the catastrophe. If Federico had returned to Europe he would have ruined her and me too. A merciful providence, it would seem, has cut the knot in a sudden and tragical manner, and released my daughter and me from the miserable position in which we were placed by her marriage with that gambling, swindling, forger. It was a girl’s fancy which cost us all very dear. Do me the favour to shut that door that we may talk freely. We must not be overheard.”

Leon did as he was desired.

“You,” he said, “are the proper person to tell her.”

“There is no help for it; I must confess that I do not think that Pepa will be heart-broken or even grieved. It will be a painful shock—not even that perhaps. Between you and me ...” and he lowered his voice to a whisper, although the door was shut—“I believe that Pepa loved her husband as little as it is possible to love a husband, do you understand? I cannot help thinking that her feelings towards that scoundrel of the first water were very nearly akin to mine, and I never concealed the fact that I hated him—hated him with all my heart. Pepitinilla will not shed many tears—By Heaven! Very likely none at all!”

And the marquis rubbed his hands as he did when he had concluded a good stroke of business. The very Exchequer office quaked in the recesses of its empty vaults when the Marquis de FÚcar rubbed his hands. “It is a mercy, a real mercy, for her and for me,” he repeated, as if he were talking to himself, “Providence has interfered to save us. If that man had come back to Europe—and he would have come back when he had spent all his money—Ah! Vampire! You were not satisfied with fleecing me in Madrid but you must need get hold of all the moneys in the hands of my Havana correspondent, you were not content with forging letters to rob me of the thirty thousand dollars I had in Ferguson’s house in London, but when we sent you to Cuba you must try the same trick again. Rascally gambler! But God can punish, God will not let a rogue escape!...” and he ground one fist into the palm of the other hand. Then, as if he had remembered the duty imposed upon him by human dignity and christian charity, he added:

“But we must forgive the dead, and I forgive him with all my heart. His punishment has been terrible. What awful disasters these fires on American vessels are! Not a soul was saved on board the City of Tampico but the cabin boys and one passenger—a mad Quaker. Federico embarked in her with the intention of going to Colon, and on to California, the natural home of adventurers; he had made away with all the money I had in a house there—how wonderfully Providence has put a stop to his criminal career! And then you freethinkers declare that the Almighty is too great to trouble himself about our miserable little lives! I tell you he does; I tell you he does! Of course we must not exaggerate, and I do not pretend to say that he attends to every trifle when he is asked. But you see?—my daughter filled the house with tapers when Monina was ill and put up prayers to all the saints.... They would have enough to do up there if they attended to all the mothers whenever a child coughs or sneezes; but great crimes, great rogues....”

Leon had nothing to say to this interpretation of the working and ways of Providence.

“Well, well,” the marquis went on. “He disgraced my name and tormented my little fool of a daughter. But it is all over; may the earth—the waters—lie lightly on him.... There is one thing I never could comprehend, and that will always, always be a mystery to me....”

“I can guess what,” said Leon quickly. “You cannot imagine what made Pepa marry Cimarra. She is kind-hearted, intelligent, and full of feeling; Federico was always a heartless reprobate; you had only to talk to him for half an hour to discover what a shallow, selfish creature he was.”

“Just so. Well, I do not deny that I brought up Pepa very badly. She is very much altered; her troubles have done for her what I failed to do. Only four years ago she was so capricious.... But you can remember her. Really, but that she has a heart of gold, my daughter might have been my greatest grief, I own it.—But then, what a soul she has! What noble sentiments, and what a depth of tenderness under the whims and airs that come to the surface.... Mere bubbles, mere bubbles—I can find no other word—while her true self is sound and good to the core. I will tell you one thing that I am as sure of as I am of the Gospel: if my daughter had but married a good man, judicious and at the same time attractive, whom she could have loved without reserve, she would have been a woman out of a thousand—a model wife and mother....”

“I am sure of it,” said Leon gloomily.

“And the more I feel it,” FÚcar went on, folding his arms, “the less can I understand her fancy for Cimarra; a fancy, I say, for I can think of no other word. She never even tried to justify herself by the attraction that a handsome man always has for a woman, though Cimarra was what you call a good-looking man....”

“Decidedly.”

“In spite of that I cannot comprehend it, for Pepa felt no charm, no fascination; in short, her choice seemed to me a very bad one; however, I could not oppose her, I had not the strength to oppose her. That has always been my weak point. When Pepa was but a baby she used to whip me and I laughed at it; when she grew to be a woman she wasted a perfect fortune in trifles, and still I laughed. When Federico asked for her hand, when I spoke to her about it and she said she would accept him—well, I did not feel inclined to laugh; but I consented. What could I do? At the same time Pepa did not seem to me to be very much in love; still Federico suited her for a husband.

“In short, on an evil day they were married—I spent a hundred thousand dollars on the wedding! What a day! If the whole human race had married on that day it could not have brought more misfortunes on my devoted head. My poor child has never had a happy hour since. She seemed to be consumed by some mysterious anguish—moral? physical? God only knows! She was mad after every form of entertainment and luxury—it is madness. Look at the girls of the present day; they marry for nothing on earth but to be free to amuse themselves, to spend money and whirl giddily through life. Not even during the honeymoon did I ever see Pepa and her husband really loving to each other. ‘This is like having a wooden doll for a husband,’ I said to myself. Sometimes she was silent, sometimes drunk—I can find no other word—drunk with banquets, balls, trumpery novelties, and fine clothes. Every day she must have something new, and sometimes not all the marvels of the Arabian Nights would have cheered her melancholy. Poor foolish child! As for Federico, she troubled herself no more about him than if he had been a chair. She treated him as if he were an idiot. Ah! Leon, my good friend, we live in a strange world. A vale of mistakes, that is what I call it.”

“I do not deny it; but it is even more a vale of tears.”

“Just so. Well, as I was saying, I began to be very anxious about my Pepilla’s health and even her reason. Happily her child was born, and from that time I date her regeneration. She ceased to be captious and extravagant; she devoted herself to the care of the little girl and gained that balance of mind, that majestic dignity—I can find no other word—that she has never lost. It was just at the time when the child was born that Cimarra showed himself the blackguard he was. But you know—all Madrid knows the history of his infamy, his swindling villainy. He shortened my life by ten years, the scoundrel! How many tears has my poor girl shed in this very room! How many times has she begged my pardon for having given me such a rascally son-in-law! ‘I was mad,’ she would say, ‘I did not know what I was doing.’ While he was ruining me, she would kiss me and implore my forgiveness. ‘We must set one thing against the other,’ I said.... Well, it is all over! God Almighty ... Providence ... You had better prepare her for the news.”

“I?”

“Yes, you are clever; now I should not know what to do but just go in and say: ‘Pepa, your husband is dead....’ Now you can go in and take up a newspaper, and say: ‘What a terrible fire at sea!’”

“I? No, not I. Excuse me, I cannot invent a scene. It is your duty, or that of some member of the family.”

“My dear fellow, do me the favour. You are such an old friend.”

At this moment the door opened and Pepa came in fresh and smiling. Leon Roch felt a thrill at the sight; she seemed to him more beautiful than he had ever before thought her, and his heart leaped with joy. It was a shock of surprise and exquisite pleasure, like that of a happy memory, or the flash of a new idea in the mind, filling his soul with brightness. He gazed at her a moment in silence, seeing her in a haze of glory; she was transfigured in his sight, and her commonplace features, by some miracle, had adapted themselves to the type of the ideal woman.

“You have come at the right moment, Pepinilla.“

“Papa,” she said, “Monina is awake now, come and see her. How are you, Leon?”

“Stop a moment, child? Leon wants to speak to you, he wants to read you something—some paper in which....”

“It is all Don Pedro’s nonsense; I have read nothing.”

“What a lovely day,” said Pepa, going to the window through which the sun was shining gloriously, “look Leon. Do you see a roof there among the trees? That is the house of which I was speaking. Do you know Papa that he is looking out for a solitude where he may retire from the vanities of the world. I recommended him to look at the little house belonging to Trompeta, where the priest of Polvoranca lived.”

“It is a pretty place, and not two steps from here. Do you really want to come to this suburb? Well, my dear boy, if you want to find a den where you can devote yourself to gnawing at your books....”

“I hardly know, I am quite undecided,” said Leon, staring vacantly at the roof which he could just see among the verdure. “Let us go to see Mona.”

Pepa led the way.

“What is worrying you, my dear fellow?” said FÚcar to the younger man in a tone of kindly familiarity and laying his hand on Leon’s shoulder. “I know of course that your wife—ah, this is the deplorable result of exaggeration. You have it in a nutshell: piety is a virtue; but carry it to excess and what is the consequence? Misery and horrors.”

Then, as they went on, FÚcar leaning on Leon’s arm, he said in a low voice:

“My poor Ramona was just such another. There was no bearing it. Still this sort of infidelity—a religious passion—must be winked at, must be forgiven. I ask you, what is a man to do in such a case? It is frightful but irremediable. When a wife is faithful to her husband there is no reason, no excuse even for a separation and nevertheless she may be too much for endurance. I feel for you. I can only repeat what I said: we live in a vale of mistakes.”

Not long after Leon took his leave. He was so absorbed in thought that he failed to bow to Don JoaquÍn OnÉsimo who was walking in the park with the French baron, and discussing the pending loan with the deep interest that some men feel in a public calamity. On reaching Madrid he got out of his carriage to walk home, and he wandered through endless streets and turnings like a man walking in his sleep, seeing nothing and hearing nothing but a voice within which said again and again: “A widow!”