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[Illustration: image of the book's cover]




THE ENEMIES OF WOMEN

WORKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR

THE FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE

MARE NOSTRUM (OUR SEA)

BLOOD AND SAND

LA BODEGA (THE FRUIT OF THE VINE)

THE SHADOW OF THE CATHEDRAL

WOMAN TRIUMPHANT

MEXICO IN REVOLUTION

_In Preparation_

THE ARGONAUTS

E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY




THE ENEMIES
OF WOMEN

_(LOS ENEMIGOS DE LA MUJER)_

BY
VICENTE BLASCO IBANEZ

TRANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH
BY
IRVING BROWN

[Illustration: colophon]

NEW YORK
E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY
681 FIFTH AVENUE

    Copyright, 1918, by
    E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY

    _All Rights Reserved_

    _First printing         Oct., 1920_
    _Second printing        Oct., 1920_
    _Third printing         Oct., 1920_
    _Fourth printing        Oct., 1920_
    _Fifth printing         Oct., 1920_
    _Sixth printing         Oct., 1920_
    _Seventh printing       Oct., 1920_
    _Eighth printing        Oct., 1920_
    _Ninth printing         Oct., 1920_
    _Tenth printing         Oct., 1920_

    Printed in the United States of America




        CONTENTS


    CHAPTER      PAGE

    I.              1

    II.            28

    III.           71

    IV.           103

    V.            151

    VI.           189

    VII.          260

    VIII.         324

    IX.           371

    X.            450

    XI.           499

    XII.          512




THE ENEMIES OF WOMEN




CHAPTER I


The Prince repeated his statement:

"Man's greatest wisdom consists in getting along without women."

He intended to go on but was interrupted. There was a slight stir of the
heavy window curtains. Through their parting was seen below, as in a
frame, the intense azure of the Mediterranean. A dull roar reached the
dining-room. It seemed to come from the side of the house facing the
Alps. It was a faint vibration, deadened by the walls, the curtains, and
the carpets, distant, like the working of some underground monster; but
there rose above the sound of revolving steel and the puffing of steam a
clamor of human beings, a sudden burst of shouts and whistling.

"A train full of soldiers!" exclaimed Don Marcos Toledo, leaving his
chair.

"The Colonel is at it again, always the hero, always enthusiastic about
everything that has to do with his profession," said Atilio Castro, with
a smile of amusement.

In spite of his years, the man whom they called the Colonel sprang to
the nearest window. Above the foliage of the sloping garden, he could
see a small section of the Corniche railroad, swallowed up in the smoky
entrance of a tunnel, and reappearing farther on, beyond the hill,
among the groves and rose  villas of Cap-Martin. Under the
mid-day sun the rails quivered like rills of molten steel. Although the
train had not yet reached this side of the tunnel, the whole
country-side was filled with the ever-increasing roar. The windows,
terraces, and gardens of the villas were dotted black with people who
were leaving their luncheon tables to see the train pass. From the
mountain <DW72> to the seashore, from walls and buildings on both sides
of the track, flags of all colors began to wave.

Don Marcos ran to the opposite window overlooking the city. All he could
see was an expanse of roofs with no trace of Nature's touch save here
and there the feathery green of the gardens against the red of the
tiles. It was like a stage setting broken into a succession of wings: in
the foreground, amid trees, isolated villas with green balustrades and
flower-strewn walls; next, the mass of Monte Carlo, its huge hotels
bristling with pointed turrets and cupolas; and hazy in the background,
as though floating in golden dust, the rocky cliffs of Monaco, with its
promenades; the enormous pile of the Oceanographic Museum; the New
Cathedral, a glaring white; and the square crested tower of the palace
of the Prince. Buildings stretched from the edge of the sea halfway up
the mountains. It was a country without fields, with no open land,
covered completely with houses, from one frontier to the other.

But Don Marcos had known the view for years, and at once detected the
unfamiliar detail. A long, interminable train was moving slowly along
the hillside. He counted aloud more than forty cars, without coming to
the rear coaches still hidden in a hollow.

"It must be a battalion... a whole battalion on a war footing. More
than a thousand soldiers," he said in an authoritative manner, pleased
at showing off his keen professional judgment before his fellow guests,
who, for that matter, were not listening.

The train was filled with men, tiny