The Joy of Captain Ribot Part 6

At this moment there appeared in the doorway a short stout man, of a pale complexion, bald, with small eyes, who greeted those present with a p.r.o.nounced Galician accent.

"Good evening! How do you do?"

"Hola! Uncle Diego! How do you do, Retamoso?"

Dona Clara, caught in the act, turned her eyes again to her periodical, without abating an atom of her dignity.

Her husband, who, so far as could be seen, had heard nothing, shook hands with those about him, kissed his daughter, and coming over to his wife, said to her in affectionate tones:

"Don't read at night, wife! Now, you know you are trying your eyes."

Dona Clara took no notice. Retamoso, turning to the others, declared with profound conviction:

"She never can be idle. Isabelita, my daughter, entreat your mamma not to read! Now, you know that she does too much. When she is not reading, she is casting up accounts; when not casting up accounts, she goes down to the warehouse to make out bills; when not making out bills, she writes letters; when not writing letters, she speaks English with the Ricartes's governess. Hers is a wonderful head! I don't understand how she is able to do so many things in turn, without being either disturbed or fatigued."

I owe it to Dona Clara to say that she seemed suspicious of this panegyric, for instead of acknowledging it and showing herself gratified by it, she made the gesture of an offended queen.

"I do not disturb myself for such little things, dear, because I have trained myself in a manner different from the women of your province. If there they still go on spinning by the fireside, in the rest of the world they hold a more brilliant position. Here is a sailor," she added, indicating me, "who has travelled much, and can confirm this."

I bowed and murmured some courteous phrases.

"Well, all this does not hinder my admiring your ability," went on Retamoso in a tone of exaggerated adulation. "Does not all the world know it in Valencia? Am I to be the only one who does not, or pretends not to know it? How many women might be educated like you, and yet not have the capacity to accomplish in a month what you do in a day!"

"Tell me, Ribot," queried Dona Clara, addressing me as if she had not heard her husband, who went on murmuring flattering phrases, opening his eyes wide and arching his eyebrows to express the admiration which possessed him, "among all the many ports that you have visited, have you not met women with as much business faculty as men, or more?"

"I have known some women at the head of powerful commercial houses, directing with much wisdom, carrying on correspondences in several languages, and keeping their books with perfect exact.i.tude. But--I confess freely that a woman engaging in industrial speculations, or inclined to politics or business, appears to me like a princess with a taste for selling matches and newspapers in the streets."

"What's this!" exclaimed Dona Clara, throwing up her Roman head. "Then you believe that the position of woman is nothing more than that of a domestic animal, caressed or beaten by man, according to his caprice?

Woman should, in this view, remain always in complete ignorance, without studying, without instruction!"

"Let her be instructed as much as she likes," I replied, "but in my notion woman has no need of learning anything, because she knows everything----"

"Just so!" interrupted Retamoso with enthusiasm. "That has always been my opinion. Isabelita," he went on, turning to his daughter, "have I not said to you a thousand times that your mamma knows everything before having to learn it?"

I saw a smile flit over Marti's lips. Cristina rose from the piano where she had been sitting and went out of the room.

"I do not understand what you wish to say," declared Dona Clara, with a certain acerbity.

"Women who know how to make us happy, make happiness for themselves also. What other knowledge can equal this upon the earth? The toils of men, the callings conquered by civilization, go to achieve slowly and painfully what woman performs at once and without endeavor, making life more supportable, and alleviating its woes. Being, as she is, the repository of charity and of the gentle and beneficent sentiments, she guards in her heart the secret of the destiny of humanity, and transmits it by heredity and education to her sons, contributing to progress in this way more truly than ourselves."

"That is more gallant than exact," interrupted Castell, impertinently.

"Woman is not the repository of progress, and has contributed nothing to it. You may study the history of the arts, the sciences, and the industries, and you will not find a single useful discovery that we owe to the genius or the industry of a woman. This demonstrates clearly that her mind is incapable of elevation to the sphere wherein move the high interests of civilization. Woman is not the repository of progress. She is solely the repository of being; and as this is the case, two things only ought to be demanded of her, health and beauty."

"You would be right," I replied, "if the unique phase of progress lay in useful discoveries. But there are others; and, as I understand them, more important ones--the brotherhood of man, the moral law. This is the true goal of the world."

Castell smiled, and, without looking at me, said in a low voice:

"For all that, I believe that I could name about fifty-seven other goals, if I know the world."

And lifting his voice he added: "I have discussed life with many men, and I can declare that scarcely one has failed to a.s.sign his own especial goal to the world. Among clergymen it is the triumph of the Church; among democrats, political liberty; among musicians, music; and among dancers, the dance. And yet the poor world contents itself with existing, laughing once in a while at so much folly, and trampling everybody under foot as it goes its way."

He paused and settled himself more comfortably in his arm-chair. I felt annoyed at those words, and especially at the scornful tone in which they were uttered. I was going to reply with energy, but Castell continued his discourse, tranquilly expounding his thoughts in a series of reasonings held together with logic, and expressed in elegant and precise fas.h.i.+on. I could not help admiring the varied qualities of his erudition, his penetrative talent, and, above all, the clarity and grace of his choice of words. Like submissive slaves, all of those in the dictionary came trooping to his tongue's end, to express his thoughts easily and harmoniously.

His theories seemed strange and sad to me. The world bears its goal in its own existence. Morality is the result of especial conditions that life has unfolded for itself upon our planet. If the human race had been produced under conditions of life like those of the bees, it would be a duty for unmarried women to deal out death to their brothers, as the workers do. All manifestations of life, even to the highest, are ruled by instinct. The virtuous man, like the degenerate, is moved by an irresistible impulse of his nature. Morality, which the religious man admires as a divine revelation, is nothing more than an invention destined to satisfy this or that instinct.

I really found myself without enough courage to contradict successfully his audacious a.s.sertions. My reading was wide, but desultory, as I had read more for entertainment than for instruction.

Then, too, I had never cultivated expression; because my profession did not require it, and I wrestled with great difficulties whenever I tried to express my thoughts.

Marti came to my aid, cutting off the discussion in a jocular fas.h.i.+on.

"Do you know what is the destiny of woman according to my brother-in-law, Sabas?"

All looked up, including the one spoken of.

"Sewing on b.u.t.tons."

"I don't see why you say that," muttered Sabas, ill-humoredly, taking his pipe in his hand.

"Why shouldn't I say it? There isn't a man in the Peninsula who has lost more b.u.t.tons than you! Yet I could not mention one of having gone to your house and not finding Matilde sewing on some."

Sabas muttered some unintelligible words.

"What does _she_ say?" asked Marti.

"Yes, he loses enough!" said the plump lady, laughing.

But her husband, coloring, gave Marti a severe glance.

"If he loses as many as there are in the world," interrupted Dona Amparo, from her little red-satin elbow-chair, "b.u.t.tons are not everlasting, and I believe that my son would rather go like Adam than trouble others to sew on his b.u.t.tons!"

She spoke these words with emotion as if they were accusing her son of a fault.

"Although he loses more than there are in the world, it is a matter of no importance, and not worth while for you to put yourself out about, or be vexed with us," replied Marti.

"I am put out about it because it seems to me that everybody has a desire to find fault with my son. The poor fellow is always in disgrace.

But until the day he dies his mother will always defend him!"

She uttered these words with even more emotion. I saw with astonishment that she was preparing to weep.

"But, mamma!" exclaimed her son-in-law.

"But, mamma!" exclaimed her daughter-in-law.

Both of them appeared contrite and concerned.

"Such is my maternal pa.s.sion, my children!" went on Dona Amparo, struggling not to weep. "I cannot help it! We all have faults in this world, but a mother is not able to endure those of her children. I suffer horribly when anyone points them out to me, and much more when it is a member of the family. Some such sad ideas come into my head! It seems to me that you do not care for--I believe that I could die content if I knew that you cared as much for one another as I care for you."

Excess of emotion prevented her from saying more. She let her needlework fall upon her lap, leaned her forehead upon her hand, and seemed half ready to faint away.