LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXI, Issue 1800, 27 November 1879, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THE DUMB FAINTEB. The warm, glowing afternoon of a Spanish day was waning to its sunset, and the dimness of the room where Maraquita waß sitting was lighted np by little flecks of western rays that came through the lattices and played upon her white dress and the cool white of the marble floor. She was sitting upon a couch of light construction, the whole being twisted from canes ; while her small feet, with their delicate silken slippers, were resting upon another couch of the same material. Around her swept the waves of her long black hair, which she was colling and uncoiling alternately ; now gathering the heavy masses into one or two long, rick braids, and then flinging down the wreath of tressea. until they covered her like a bridal ▼eil. The poor little Spanish maiden was evidently ill at Mie, The elastic lounge, upon

which her slender figure waa supported, swayed and bent with her nervous movements ; and the pet dog that lay bcEide her, vainly trying to lick her hand, seemed astonished that it would not lie still long enough for the operation. ' What cm I do, Max ?' she said addressing the dog. 'I am a silly little maiden, and dread to have it found out that I am so. Here are my good father and mother, in whose eyes I have been all perfection, and who thought that even this grandiose Don Carlos was not more than half good enough for me, will now believe that the spirit of evil has taken me. Max, you are a good dog, but I don't believe yon have wit enough to get poor Maraquita de Mona out of this difficulty.' Max laid his paw on her arm, closed and unolosed his eyes, and looked as wise as some others might when expecting a tale of confidence from a young damsel ; but Maraquita's playful mood had passed, and she rose and paced the room with restless steps.

By this time the sun had sunk out of sight, and the voics of Don Albert de Mona, calling to his daughter to be ready for a drive to the plaza, was heard as he descended the stairs and knocked at the door.

'Not to-night, father,' she replied; 'I am ill. My head aches terribly—pray excuse me. I will remain here quietly until you and mother return.'

'Well, the afternoon has been snltry,' said her father. ' Lie down and rest while we are absent. Shall I call your maid.'

' No, father,' she replied, *I do not need her—l shall be better alone.'

Better alone! Ah, Donna Maraquita, thy poor father is deceived, bat thou canst not hide it to thyself that it is only to see the handsome painter of Logrono that thou sittest braiding thy beautiful hair—only to watoh him, as he comes down the street in the twilight, and he looks up with eager glanoe at the lattice, to throw a moss rosebud at his feet. Thou knowest, too, that at the token he will venture to enter thy presence, and that his lips will greet thee aa the one dearest to his heart. Not with words will be that greeting, but with another language, always understood—the language of kisses. No, not with words—for the painter, Navarette, is both deaf and dumb! But there is no need of words for lovers. And so it was with these two lovers ; they met and parted, with only the soul's telegraphic signals, and they needed no echo from the lips. Donna Maraquita had been invited by a friend, some months before, to visit the studio of Juan Fernandes Ximenes Navarette, to see a beautiful painting of the Virgin which he had recently executed. This young painter, who was called El Mudo, from his misfortune, was rapidly gaining fame, and this very painting was the great stepping-stone to public favor. The exciteable Spanards warmed with enthusiasm at the beauty of the bead, which was said to Lave been copied from that of the artist's mother, Donna Catalina Ximenes.

Amony the many who visited the studio were Don Albert and his daughter. The beauty of the painting, the filial, admiring reverence of the artist in taking his mother's head as a model, the ' silent world' in which he lived, all wrought npon the susceptible imagination o£ the young girl, and from thenceforward £1 Mudo was associated in all her dreams.

On his part the painter had seen a vision of beauty such as he thought he never before beheld ; and yet it must have been only the sympathetic and cordial manner of Donna Maraquita that induoed the thought—for, although she was indeed noble-looking, and with a grace blended with dignity, yet so were many others. Again and again she came, sometimes accompanied by her father, but oftener alone ; and at last the painter was delighted to find that she could converse freely with him in deaf-and-dumb alphabet. With what joy he now related to her his whole life—its mournful childhood and youth, when no sound of bird or breeze or human voice could reach his ear ; and how he used to go wandering for whole days through picture-galleries, until tho idea seized him that he, too, must paint, and how that, ever since that hour, he had lived in a higher and more exalted sphere, and was no longer the lonely man, apart from his fellowcreatures, bnt that his art was the one great link that bound him and them together. But what more did Fernandez impart ? He told her, too, that the moment he saw her he felt that she was to be the connecting link between him and happiness. ' And yet how —oh, how can I take yon from the living, speaking music of the world, and bind yon to the speechless silence that ever surrounds me ?'

Her trembling fingers telegraphed to his mind that she wanted no higher destiny. It was enough for the affectionate girl that he loved her. She would give worlds that his lipß could speak ; but her love could never be lessened because they were silent.

How to break the tidings to her parents was now the great object of her solicitude ; and on this very night she had promised Fernandez that it should be told them. Ho came at the twilight, held a brief interview with her, and then left her to tell what he felt it impossible for him to make them comprehend. When Don Albert and hia wife returned, they heard all from the lips of the trembling girl. Tenderly as they loved her, they could not give her np to a fate like this. They entreated her not to give him any hope j their decision now could never be reversed, Maraquita yielded to their tears what she could not have done to their commands ; but the storm in her soul was no less severe. Her patting with Fernandez the next day was a terrible scene. The sight of his dumb and powerless anguish _ was more affecting than the most impassioned speech. The only consolation he could receive was the solemn assurance of her continued affection. Tbey parted—Maraquita to go to her lonely room, which no persuasion could Snduoe her to leave, and Fernandez to the country villa where his mother lived in quiet comfort ; for it was not povety that induced her son to paint, but to fill the time hanging so wearily .upon a person with his privation. All the comforts which the mother could imparb to his mute agony was given, but the wound was deep and lasting. He had no [time, however, to give to grief, _ for he was summoned to Madrid, by _Philip_ 11., and appointed painter to the King, with a pension of 200 ducats. Here he painted ••The Shepherds Announcing the Birth of Our Saviour," and his representation of them was so very exquisite that every one exclaimed, " What beautiful shepherds !" This exclamation afterwards became the name of this painting, it being everywhere known as " The Beautiful Shepherda." Still Maraquita mourned, in almost utter loneliness, the loss of her lover, Still did Donna Catalina cherish bitterness toward her whom she could not acquit of coquetry toward her innocent and unfortunate son. Every one concerned in tVe affair was unhappy. Don Albert and his wife were miserable, for, although Maraquita made no complaint, her pale thin face was a perpetual reproach ; and her refusal to go into company distressed and annoyed them, Maraquita had heard of the appointment, bub she heard also that Fernandez had again left Madrid; Bhe did not know why ; but one evening a courier brought her a note from Donna Catalina, couched partly in bitter and partly in humble terms, informing her that her son, 'whom her cruelty had nearly destroyed,' was lying dangerously ill, and that she must come and look upon the wreck she had made. It closed with a frantic appeal for her to come immediately. She showed it to her father, and he could not resist the pleading look which she gave him A few moments later they were on the road with a pair of horses that seemed almost to fly. The mute appeal of that sorrow-stricken faoe that lay upon the pillow almost unmanned Don Albert He marked the agony of his daughter, and the prond, Btately grief of Fernandez's beautiful mother, and he asked himself if he could bestow ought upon either from his wealth that could compensate for this anguish of this hour. One word from him would bring joy baok to all. Should he speak it P Could he give up hia cherished hope of seeing Maraquita the wife of one of the proud Spanish grandees, and allow her to marry a painter ! Yet everything here betokened wealth and the utmost refinement—almost, Indeed, to fastidiousness.

Ho did speak the word. Ilia daughter uttered a glad shriik. Donna Catalina. pr?ssed hia hand to her heart and wept happy tears, and the nrrto sufferer himself was not elow to comprehend the general happiness. They were soon unittd, never more to be separated until death. No cloud ever came over that perfect and enduring lore. The noble Spanish, wife devoted her time, her talents, and her affections, wholly to him she loved, and almost ceased to regret that she eoald not hear the voice when the eyes were bo eloquent.

Still did his mother's b> autifnl and noble face look out from his canvae, but Maraquita's never. It was in his heart too deeply to bring it to the gaze of the world, He kept it there, shrined and holy, within the bosom's innermost depths. It was that mute unexpressed love, that needs not Bpeech to declare it—the love of the dumL painter of Logrono.