LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume VII, Issue 701, 18 September 1876, Page 3

LITERATURE.

BLUE BLOOD AND RED. Chapter I. ( Continued..') * Moncada made an obeisance to each of the young gentlemen of the group, who, by the way, had stood a little apart while the brief dialogue was going on between Guzman and him, and made haste to leave a spot where his presence was manifestly out of place. 1 “ Gracias a Dios 1 ” exclaimed the old man, in a voice full of hope, wk«n he was fairly out of their hearing, “ God be paised ! he has promised to come at all events. So far it is well.” And in order to show his gratitude as he descended the steps, he bestowed a marvedi npon each of the pordioseros, who had a short time before vituperated him. The rascals received the alms, but, according to their wont, they abused him as much as ever, waiting only till he was a little way removed from them to bestow upon him the epithets of usurer, mean dog, and hunchback. 1 Moncada did not hear them, and if he had done so the matter would not have given him much concern ; and so he passed on his way out of the Puerta del Sol. ‘Senor, we will have another bottle of this Yaldepenas, if your worship has no objection.’ ‘ With all my heart,’ said I. ‘ That’s a capital glass of wine—fullbodied, rich, and fruity,’ said Don Baltasar, as he sipped his fresh importation and puffed his cigarito contemplatively for a moment. *lt is not easy to procure a genuine cuero of it even in Madrid; you Londoners rarely, if ever, get such a thing in your city. Pues, Senor, let us resume our narrative.’ And my friend resumed accordingly. Chapter 11. THE MERCHANT AND HIS DAUGHTER, ‘No doubt, Senor don Juanatan you are curious to know who this old man may be. He is not a very interesting person, you will say, with his sneaking manner, his patched garment, and dirty person, with all the humility of a poor man, and yet with certain indications of being a wealthy one. Well, then, let us follow his steps, and your curiosity shall soon be satisfied. He has turned into the Oalle Mayor, the street that runs out of the Puerta del Sol in the opposite direction from that one in which we are now sitting. And now you may see him entering a shop there. It is thronged with persons who have come to purchase goods. He opens a passage for himself through them with as much rudeness as he had shown consideration and humility a little time before in front of the church of San Felipe. This shop and this house are his. You would make a very great mistake were you to imagine that the tienda of Moncada was similar to those which you may now see in the same neighborhood. Very hand some indeed they are, but, if the truth must be told, immeasurably behind those of Borland Paris (though I would not for the world hint such an opinion to the worthy Madrilenos who have never been out of Spain). In the shop with which we have now to do there were no commodious and elegant seats, no magnificent lamps, no mirriors, no pillars, no gilding, no carving, no marble pavement —nothing of the sort. It was simply an apartment, low, narrow, and dark, the walls of which, moreover, were very much discolored. You had to descend three steps to reach the iloor, which was laid down in a rude and uneven fashion, aud, instead of a counter, there was only a large unpainted deal table, that looked like , boards put together in a slovenly manner. Such was a first class magasin do modes of that day in the capital of Spain, the mistress of two hemispheres, as our ancestors used to say. Nevertheless, in this tienda wore now congregated ladies of fashion in their farthingales, escorted by page and dueua; Caballeros in the dress of their orders ; seamstresses, tailors —men and ■women, young aud old. The moment Moucada made his appearance, the whole crowd of customers assailed him, clamorously demanding that he would serve them without further delay. The old man, in a peevish and nonchalant manner answered them all, and went inside to lake off his sombrero and capa. After a minute or two he appeared amongst the throng, with a little dirty, faded skull-cap pulled over his brows; and, having administered a buffet with the back of his hand upon the face of one of the apprentice lads that were arranging the bales and parcels, he began to enquire of each of his customers what it was that he or she desired. ‘ “ A muff of marten’s fur,’ said a senora, ‘ show me the richest you have got.’ ‘“I want silk stockings—of the best quality, mind,” said an exquisite young fop. ‘ Then came a babel of vociferous demands from all the rest—Satin! serge 1 camlet! silk! ribbons ! And so on, through every article of dress.

* “ I wish ye were all with the devil, with your screaming,” growled Moncada under

his breath—“ill betide your clamorous tongues ! ” Then he called out, “ Geutly 1 gently ! every one in his turn —have patience—let me take my time—what good is being in a hurry ? ” Such were the civility and politeness which the shopkeepers of Spain displayed in those times, when selling their goods to their customers. It is very different, Senor Pedro, now-a-days. If Moncada were in a shop in Regent street, or the Palais Royal, I don’t think he would earn garlic for his soup. Well, in fine, between scolding, and remonstrating, and chaffering, Moncada contrived at last to satisfy the wants of every one, making in most cases each pay what he demanded. By the time he had cleared his shop of all buyers, it was near dinner time. So he closed the door of the tienda for the midday meal and the siesta, and went upstairs to see his daughter. * Moncada was a wealthy merchant, and one might perhaps expect that the same magnificence would be displayed in the dress of his daughter as was seen on the counter of his shop. If so, he would be disappointed. Beatriz awaited her father in a homely robe of woollen stuff. In the apartment where she was seated, unlike the salons of our modern merchants, there was to be seen neither pianoforte nor harp—there was no elegant table with a mirror upon it —no rich ornaments —no objects of vertu—no drawings or embroideries, the work of the young lady’s own hand, set in rich frames—nor upon the plain table you discover more books than an “ Ordonario de la Misa” (the edition, by the way, of Ambares, with vignettes), a present from her father confessor, and the “Flos Sanctorum,” with its quaint florid initials. There was, nevertheless, a tradition in the household which seemed not to be ill-founded, that the maiden had, concealed in her wardrobe, the novels of Montalvan, and an odd volume of the comedies of Master Tirso de Molina.

‘ Let us pause a moment, my dear Senor, while the old man is getting upstairs, to take a peep at his daughter. Despite of her modest attire —perhaps I should rather say by reason of it—Beatrix was a girl, to say the least for her, that would interest you at the very first glance. She was occupied at needlework, from which now and then she raised her eyes and looked anxiously towards the door. They were fine black eyes, Senor Pedro, full and soft; and they suited well with the languor of a cheek upon which the roses were somewhat paling, as if some early trouble had come upon her young heart. And yet that pallor would have been less perceptible were it not in contrast with the rich dark complexion of face and brow that told of Moorish blood mingling with that of Spain. So far as you could form a judgment of her figure, as she sat with the folds of the thick stuff robe draping it, you would pronounce it rather plump, and not ungraceful; and the head, with its black hair, was wall set on a neck that swelled into a decidedly good bust. On the whole, Senor, don’t yon think old Mocanda’s daughter, Beatrix, a pretty girl?’ * Decidedly, Don Baltasar,’ I answered. ‘You have sketched her off quite to my satisfaction, and I am not over easily pleased I can tell you.’ I You ought not to be, Senor, considering all you have seen, especially your own ladies of England.’ < Ay, and of Scotland and Ireland too, Don Baltasar,’ I added. My friend laid his hand on his heart, silently, aud made a reverential inclination of the head, The grave and courtly homage of the Spanish gentleman was more eloquent of praise than a thousand complimentary speeches uttered in all the exaggerated phraseology of Spanish gallantry. My national pride was satisfied. I I pledge you, Don Baltasar, to the lovely daughters of Spain,’ said I, with enthusiasm, and I filled a glass of Yaldepenas, ‘ rich and sparkling as this ruddy wine.’ 1 1 drink to the fair women of the British Isles,’ responded Don Baltasar, with stately courtesy, as he touched my glass ceremoniously with the edge of his own. ‘ Beso a ellas los pies—l kiss their feet, Beno.r Slingsby.’ This little matter being despatched, my friend resumed his narration. Chapter 111, LOST. ‘ Well, then, let us suffer Moncada to open the door and enter. We have kept him waiting a long time. ‘ Beatrix, as I said, was engaged with her needle —I’m afraid she made but blundering work of it—and the moment her father made his appearance, she fixed her eyes inquiringly upon him, and she divined at the first glance that he had something of interest to tell her. With great anxiety the girl awaited the moment when her father should open hia lips, and though she could not conceal her impatience, she did not dare to put a question to him. Moncada was in no hurry. After a period of silence, which tried the poor girl sorely, he at length broke in by saying—- ‘ “ I have spoken to Don Guzman, Beatrix. ”

‘ “God’s goodness be praised,” was the reply. ‘“We shall receive him here to-night,” continued the old man; “he said he was thinking of coming to see me.” * “ Ah ! father, I told you that he would surely come.” ‘“Ay ; he won’t fail, I’ll be sworn. He wants a hundred ducats.”

* “ Is that what brings him, then?’’said Beatrix, with a sigh, “ And pray, girl, what should bring one of those court gallants to the house of a humble and artless trader ? What, but to wheedle him out of his money and to insult his daughter ? ” ‘ “ Father, for God’s sake do not say this —do not think it. Ido not deserve this—indeed I do not.”

* “ When will you learn to understand,” continued the old man, almost sternly, not regarding the girl’s distress, “that a maiden’s honor is not untarnished, if she gives occasion to the world to suspect her even of having too little circumspection ? I tell thee, girl, people have seen thee conversing with this young man, who, in an evil hour, set his eyes on thee; and thereby thou hast damaged thy reputation, it may be, just as much as if thou hadst committed a graver fault. Thinkest thou that this young gallant, to gratify his vanity, will not have boasted of favors which he never was granted? Beatrix ! Beatrix ? thou art injured in character and honor in the eyes of the world, and if this Don Guzman do not make thea his wife, there is nothing for thee, girl, but to take refuge in a convent, and hide thy shame and thy sorrow there.” {To be continued.)