Marianela 1

Marianela 1

 Marianela

 

Author: Benito Pérez Galdós

 

 

TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE.

 

 

Those who have read "Gloria" will, it is hoped, hail with pleasure

another work by the same writer, Perez Galdós--different it is true,

but in its way not less delightful.

 

The strongly-marked humor and darkly-painted tragedy of "Gloria" are

not to be found in "Marianela;" the characters are distinct and crisply

sketched, but with a tender hand, the catastrophe is pitiable, rather

shocking; the whole tone is idyllic.

 

I have not hesitated to translate literally the Spanish words of

endearment; for though they are foreign to the calmer spirit of our

northern tongue they are too characteristic to be lost, and they are

strangely pathetic as the only outlet found for the imprisoned spirit

of the hapless little heroine.

 

CLARA BELL.

 

 

 

 

CONTENTS.

 

 

CHAP. PAGE.

 

I.--Gone Astray. 1

 

II.--Guided Right. 10

 

III.--A Dialogue which explains much. 24

 

IV.--Stony Hearts. 35

 

V.--Labor, and a Landscape with Figures. 52

 

VI.--Absurdities. 62

 

VII.--More Absurdities. 73

 

VIII.--And yet more. 84

 

IX.--The Brothers Golfin. 98

 

X.--Nobody's Children. 117

 

XI.--The Patriarch of Aldeacorba. 124

 

XII.--Doctor Celipin. 136

 

XIII.--Between two Baskets. 144

 

XIV.--How the Virgin Mary appeared to Nela. 151

 

XV.--The Three Children. 164

 

XVI.--The Vow. 172

 

XVII.--A Fugitive. 179

 

XVIII.--Nela decides that she must go. 192

 

XIX.--Nela is Tamed. 201

 

XX.--A New World. 220

 

XXI.--Eyes that Kill. 234

 

XXII.--Farewell. 260

 

 

 

 

MARIANELA.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER I.

 

GONE ASTRAY.

 

 

The sun had set. After the brief interval of twilight the night fell

calm and dark, and in its gloomy bosom the last sounds of a sleepy

world died gently away. The traveller went forward on his way,

hastening his step as night came on; the path he followed was narrow

and worn by the constant tread of men and beasts, and led gently up a

hill on whose verdant slopes grew picturesque clumps of wild cherry

trees, beeches and oaks.--The reader perceives that we are in the north

of Spain.

 

Our traveller was a man of middle age, strongly built, tall and

broad-shouldered; his movements were brisk and resolute, his step

firm, his manner somewhat rugged, his eye bold and bright; his pace

was nimble, considering that he was decidedly stout, and he was--the

reader may at once be told, though somewhat prematurely--as good a

soul as you may meet with anywhere. He was dressed, as a man in easy

circumstances should be dressed for a journey in spring weather, with

one of those round shady hats, which, from their ugly shape, have been

nicknamed mushrooms (_hongo_), a pair of field-glasses hanging to a

strap, and a knotted stick which, when he did not use it to support his

steps, served to push aside the brambles when they flung their thorny

branches across so as to catch his dress.

 

He presently stopped, and gazing round the dim horizon, he seemed vexed

and puzzled. He evidently was not sure of his way and was looking

round for some passing native of the district who might give him such

topographical information as might enable him to reach his destination.

 

"I cannot be mistaken," he said to himself. "They told me to cross the

river by the stepping-stones--and I did so--then to walk on, straight

on. And there, to my right, I do in fact, see that detestable town

which I should call _Villafangosa_ by reason of the enormous amount of

mud that chokes the streets.--Well then, I can but go 'on, straight

on'--I rather like the phrase, and if I bore arms, I would adopt it

for my motto--in order to find myself at last at the famous mines of

Socartes."

 

But before he had gone much farther, he added: "I have lost my way,

beyond a doubt I have lost my way.--This, Teodoro Golfin, is the

result of your 'on, straight on.' Bah! these blockheads do not know

the meaning of words; either they meant to laugh at you or else

they did not know the way to the mines of Socartes. A huge mining

establishment must be evident to the senses, with its buildings and

chimneys, its noise of hammers and snorting of furnaces, neighing of

horses and clattering of machinery--and I neither see, nor hear, nor

smell anything. I might be in a desert! How absolutely solitary! If I

believed in witches, I could fancy that Fate intended me this night to

have the honor of making acquaintance with some. Deuce take it! why is

there no one to be seen in these parts? And it will be half an hour

yet before the moon rises. Ah! treacherous Luna, it is you who are to

blame for my misadventure.--If only I could see what sort of place I

am in.--However, what could I expect?" and he shrugged his shoulders

with the air of a vigorous man who scorns danger. "What, Golfin, after

having wandered all round the world are you going to give in now? The

peasants were right after all: 'on, straight on.' The universal law of

locomotion cannot fail me here."

 

And he bravely set out to test the law, and went on about a kilometre

farther, following the paths which seemed to start from under his feet,

crossing each other and breaking off at a short distance, in a thousand

angles which puzzled and tired him. Stout as his resolution was, at

last he grew weary of his vain efforts. The paths, which had at first

all led upwards, began to slope downwards as they crossed each other,

and at last he came to so steep a slope that he could only hope to get

to the bottom by rolling down it.

 

"A pretty state of things!" he exclaimed, trying to console himself for

this provoking situation by his sense of the ridiculous. "Where have

you got to now my friend? This is a perfect abyss. Is anything to be

seen at the bottom. No, nothing, absolutely nothing--the hill-side has

disappeared, the earth has been dug away. There is nothing to be seen

but stones and barren soil tinged red with iron. I have reached the

mines, no doubt of that--and yet there is not a living soul to be seen,

no smoky chimneys; no noise, not a train in the distance, not even a

dog barking. What am I to do? Out there the path seems to slope up

again.--Shall I follow that? Shall I leave the beaten track? Shall I go

back again? Oh! this is absurd! Either I am not myself or I will reach

Socartes to-night, and be welcomed by my worthy brother! 'On, straight

on.'"

 

He took a step, and his foot sank in the soft and crumbling soil.

"What next, ye ruling stars? Am I to be swallowed up alive? If only

that lazy moon would favor us with a little light we might see each

other's faces--and, upon my soul, I can hardly expect to find Paradise

at the bottom of this hole. It seems to be the crater of some extinct

volcano.... Nothing could be easier than a slide down this beautiful

precipice. What have we here?... A stone; capital--a good seat while I

smoke a cigar and wait for the moon to rise."

 

The philosophical Golfin seated himself as calmly as if it were a

bench by a promenade, and was preparing for his smoke, when he heard a

voice--yes, beyond a doubt, a human voice, at some little distance--a

plaintive air, or to speak more accurately, a melancholy chant of a

single phrase, of which the last cadence was prolonged into a "dying

fall," and which at last sank into the silence of the night, so softly

that the ear could not detect when it ceased.

 

"Come," said the listener, well pleased, "there are some human beings

about. That was a girl's voice; yes, certainly a girl's, and a lovely

voice too. I like the popular airs of this country-side. Now it has

stopped.... Hark! it will soon begin again.... Yes, I hear it once

more. What a beautiful voice, and what a pathetic air! You might

believe that it rose from the bowels of the earth, and that Señor

Golfin, the most matter-of-fact and least superstitious man in this

world, was going to make acquaintance with sylphs, nymphs, gnomes,

dryads, and all the rabble rout that obey the mysterious spirit of the place.--But, if I am not mistaken, the voice is going farther away--the fair singer is departing.... Hi, girl, child, stop--wait a minute!..."