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                           A CHRISTIAN WOMAN

               [Illustration: DOÑA EMILIA PARDO BAZÁN.]




                           A CHRISTIAN WOMAN

                                  BY

                          EMILIA PARDO BAZÁN

                             TRANSLATED BY

                             MARY SPRINGER

                               NEW YORK
                      CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY
                        104 & 106 FOURTH AVENUE

                          COPYRIGHT, 1891, BY

                      CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY.

                        _All rights reserved._

                      THE MERSHON COMPANY PRESS,
                             RAHWAY, N. J.




INTRODUCTION.


“I have heard it told of a great-grandmother of mine, of noble family
(grandees, in fact), that she was obliged to teach herself to write,
copying the letters from a printed book, with a pointed stick for pen
and mulberry-juice for ink.” The great-granddaughter who said this is
the first woman of letters in Spain to-day; indeed, she is perhaps as
widely known as any contemporary Spanish writer, man or woman. Though
her achievements do not yet entitle her to rank, as a novelist, with
Galdós and Pereda, she has conquered a place only second to theirs, and
with long years of work before her (she is not yet forty) may even come
to rival their great fame. From the Spain that looked with suspicion
upon a woman who could more than barely read and write, to the Spain
that counts the literary renown of Emilia Pardo Bazán among its modern
glories, is a long way; and the chapters recording the struggles and
successive triumphs of Spanish women in their efforts to get within
reaching-distance of the tree of knowledge, will be, when they come to
be written, among the most striking in the history of the emancipation
of woman. Señora Bazán must always be a great figure in the record of
that educational development, and happily we are able to trace her own
progress pretty fully, taking advantage principally of the charming
autobiographical sketch which she prefixed to her novel “Los Pazos de
Ulloa.”

She was born in 1852, in Coruña, of a family which traced its descent on
both sides to the most distinguished among the ancient Galician
nobility. One of those children whose earliest memories are of
delightful hours passed in some safe retreat in company with a book, she
was fortunate in having a father with the good sense, rare in those
days, to let her follow her bent. She tells us of the happy days she had
when enjoying free swing at a library in the summer villa which the
family rented by the sea, and later when allowed to browse at her will
among her father’s books in Coruña. Plutarch and Homer (in translation,
of course,) thrilled her young fancy, and whole chapters of Cervantes
remain to this day photographed upon her memory, fixed there in those
early, sensitive days. Her first attempt to write came at the age of
eight, and was born of patriotic excitement. It was at the close of the
triumphant expedition of O’Donnell to Morocco, and the returned soldiers
were fairly apotheosized by their exuberant fellow-countrymen. The Pardo
Bazáns had two or three honest country louts among the volunteers to
entertain at their house, and to the little Emilia the good clodhoppers
embodied the idea of military glory as well as any Hector or Achilles.
The worthy fellows were up to their eyes in luck, given the best that
the mansion afforded, put to bed between lace-trimmed sheets in the best
room; but it all seemed too little to the enthusiastic child, and in a
passion of adoring homage she rushed off to her room to write a poem in
honor of the heroes! It could not have been long after this that she
addressed a sonnet to a deputy of her father’s party, and was exalted to
the seventh heaven by the great man’s extravagant praise of her
performance. However, it was not as a poet that she was to find
expression for her genius; and though she afterward published a volume
of verse for which she still professes a sneaking fondness, she admits
that she is not much more of a poet than can be met on every
street-corner in Spain.

Her education, so far as she did not get it by herself, was principally
obtained in a fashionable French boarding-school in Madrid, where
“Télémaque” was served up three times a day, and where Emilia was given
the idea that she had exhausted the possibilities of astronomical
science when she had looked at an eclipse through a bit of smoked glass.
Later she was turned over to the tender mercies of tutors. Instead of
lessons on the piano, she begged her father to allow her to study Latin;
but this was quite too wild a thing to ask, even of him, and his refusal
only gave her a lasting hatred for the piano. By the time she was
fourteen, she was allowed to read pretty much everything, though still
forbidden to look into the works of Hugo, Dumas, and the French
Romanticists generally. Instead of these, an uncle put into her hands
the novels of Fernan Caballero--a most suggestive incident, the woman
who worked out the beginnings of the modern Spanish novel, read by the
girl who was to help carry it to its highest development! However, her
unformed taste thought nothing worthy to be called a novel unless a man
was fired out of a cannon or flung over a cliff in every chapter, and
her furtive reading of Hugo--of course, she tasted the forbidden
waters--confirmed her in a liking which she was long in outgrowing.

In 1868, just after she had first put on long dresses, she was married.
To make short work with her domestic life, let it be added, that her
husband’s name is Don José Quiroga, and that three children have been
born to them. During the troublous times that came in with the
Revolution of 1868, and throughout the reign of Amadeus, her family was
in political eclipse, and with her father she traveled extensively in
France and southern Europe, learning English and Italian, and from her
industrious practice of keeping a diary acquiring the writing habit. On
her return to Spain, she found the German philosophical influence in the
ascendant, and to put herself abreast of the intellectual movement of
the time, read deeply in philosophy and history. By this time she had
come fully to perceive the defective nature of her education, and set
herself rigorously to correct it, for some years devoting herself to the
severest studies. At a literary contest in Orense, in 1876, she carried
off the first prize both in prose and verse, though for three years
after that she wrote nothing except occasional articles for a Madrid
periodical. Finally, as a relaxation from her strenuous historical
studies, she began reading novels again, beginning with contemporary
English, French, and Italian writers; for in her provincial home, and in
her absorption in philosophical and historical reading, she had never
heard of the splendid development of the novel in her own country. At
last a friend put her on the track, and then she read with deepening
delight.

To her it was the chance magic touch that finally gave her genius its
full vent. If a novel was thus a description of real life, and not a
congeries of wild adventures, why could she not write one herself? That
was the question she put to herself, and the answer came in the shape
of her first novel, “Pascual López,” published in the _Revista de
España_, and afterward separately. She began her biography of Francis de
Assisi in 1880, but a temporary failure of health sent her off to Vichy.
Of this journey was born her “Un Viaje de Novios,” the first chapters of
which she wrote in Paris, and read to such distinguished auditors as
Balzac, Flaubert, Goncourt, and Daudet. Fully conscious now of the place
and method of the realistic novel, and of the high value of its
development in Spain, her course was clear. Since then her novels have
appeared with surprising rapidity. She has all along kept her feet on
the earth, writing of what she knows, and thus it happens that most of
her scenes are laid in Galicia. As a preparation for writing “La
Tribuna,” a study of working women, she went to a tobacco factory for
two months, morning and afternoon, to listen to the conversation and
observe the manners of the women employed there. Her work has been
steadily broadening, and “A Christian Woman,” with its sequel, is the
largest canvas she has filled.

Though now definitely and mainly a novelist, her literary activity has
been highly varied. Her letters on criticism, published in _La Epoca_ in
1882, evoked the widest discussion, and her lectures on “The
Revolutionary Movement and the Novel in Russia,” delivered before the
most brilliant literary circle of Madrid, have already been given an
English dress. Articles from her pen are a frequent attraction in the
leading magazines, and her vivacious series of letters about the Paris
Exposition won much attention. As might be inferred from her unflagging
productiveness, she is possessed of as much physical as mental vigor.
She is of winning appearance and unaffected manners. Since the death of
her father, in 1888, she has been entitled as his sole heir to be called
a countess; but she does not use the title. “Who would know me as a
countess?” she asks. “I shall be simply Pardo Bazán as long as I live.”

ROLLO OGDEN.




A CHRISTIAN WOMAN.




CHAPTER I.


You will see by the following list the course of studies that the State
obliged me to master in order to enter the School of Engineering:
arithmetic and algebra as a matter of course; geometry equally so;
besides, trigonometry and analytics, and, finally, descriptive geometry
and the differential calculus. In addition to these mathematical
studies, French, only held together with pins, if the truth must be
told, and English very hurriedly basted; and as for that dreadful
German, I would not put tooth to it even in jest--the Gothic letters
inspired me with such great respect. Then there was the everlasting
drawing--linear, topographic, and landscape even, the latter being
intended, I presume, to enable an engineer, while managing his
theodolite and sights, to divert himself innocently by scratching down
some picturesque scene in his album--after the manner of English misses
on their travels.

After entrance came the “little course,” so called, in order that we
might not be afraid of it. It embraced only four studies--to wit,
integral calculus, theoretical mechanics, physics, and chemistry. During
the year of the “little course,” we had no more drawing to do; but in
the following, which is the first year of the course properly speaking,
we were obliged, besides going deep into materials of construction,
applied mechanics, geology, and cubic mensuration, to take up new kinds
of drawing--pen-drawing, shading and washing.

I was not one of the most hard-working students, nor yet one of the most
stupid--I say it as shouldn’t. I could grind away when it was necessary,
and could exercise both patience and perseverance in those branches
where, the power of intellect not being sufficient, one must have
recourse to a parrot-like memory. I failed to pass several times, but
it is impossible to avoid such mishaps in taking a professional course
in which they deliberately tighten the screws on the students, in order
that only a limited number may graduate to fill the vacant posts. I was
sure of success, sooner or later; and my mother, who paid for the cost
of my tuition, with the assistance of her only brother, was as patient
as her disposition would allow her to be with my failures. I assured her
that they were not numerous and that, when I finally emerged a
full-fledged civil engineer, I should have in my pocket the four hundred
and fifty dollar salary, besides extras.

Nor were all my failures avoidable, even if I had been as assiduous as
possible in my studies. I was all run down and sick for one year,
finally having an attack of varioloid; and this reason, with others not
necessary to enumerate, will explain why at the age of twenty-one I
found myself still in the second year of the course, although I enjoyed
the reputation of being a studious youth and quite well informed--that
is to say, I yet lacked three years.

The year before, the first year of the course strictly speaking, I was
obliged to let some studies go over to the September examinations. I
attribute that disagreeable occurrence to the bad influence I was under,
in a certain boarding-house, where the evil one tempted me to take up my
abode. The time I passed there left undying recollections in my memory,
which bring a smile to my lips and indiscreet joy to my soul whenever I
evoke them. I will give some idea of the place, so that the reader may
judge whether Archimedes himself would have been capable of studying
hard in such a den.

There are several houses in Madrid at the present date--for example, the
Corralillos, the Cuartelillos, the Tócame Roque--all very similar to the
one I am about to describe. Within that abode dwelt the population of a
small-sized village; it had three courts with balconies, on which opened
the doors of the small rooms,--or pigeon-holes one might call
them,--with their respective numbers on the lintels. There was no lack
of immodest and quarrelsome inmates; there were street musicians singing
couplets to the accompaniment of a tuneless guitar; cats in a state of
high nervous excitement scampering from garret to garret, or jumping
from balustrade to balustrade--now impelled by amorous feelings, now by
a brick thrown at them full force. Clothes and dish-cloths were hung out
to dry; ragged petticoats and patched underwear, all mixed up pell-mell.
There were pots of sweet basil and pinks in the windows; and in fact,
everything would be found there that abounds in such dens in Madrid--so
often described by novelists and shown forth by painters in their
sketches from real life.

The third suite on the right had been hired by Josefa Urrutia, a
Biscayan, the ex-maid of the marchioness of Torres-Nobles. At first her
business was pretty poor, and she sank deeper and deeper in debt. At
last she got plenty of boarders, and when I took up my abode in the
“dining-room bed-room,” the place was in its glory; she had not a single
vacant apartment. All the boarders paid their dues honestly, if they
had the money, with certain exceptions, and the reason of these I will
reveal under the seal of profound secrecy.

A certain Don Julián occupied the parlor, which was the best room on the
floor. He was a Valencian, jolly and gay; a great spendthrift, fond of
jokes and fun, and an inveterate gambler. They said that he had come to
Madrid in quest of an office, which he never succeeded in getting;
nevertheless the candidate lived like a prince, and instead of helping
with his board to keep up Pepa’s business, it was whispered about that
he lived there gratis, and even took from time to time small sums from
her, destined to go off in the dangerous coat-tails of the knave of
hearts.

However, these little private weaknesses of Pepa Urrutia’s would never
have come to light, if it had not been for the green-eyed monster. The
Biscayan was furiously jealous of a handsome neighbor, who was fond of
flirting with all the boarders opposite, as I have indubitable evidence.
In a fit of desperation Pepa would sometimes shriek at the top of her
lungs, and would call out “swindler; rogue!” adding, “If you had any
decency, you would pay me at once what you have wheedled out of me, and
what you owe me.”

On such occasions Don Julián would stick his hands in his pockets,
firmly shut his jaws, and, silent as the grave, pace up and down the
parlor. His silence would exasperate Pepa still more, and sometimes she
would go off into hysterics; and after showering injurious epithets on
the Valencian, she would rush out, slamming the door so as to shake the
whole building.

Then a stout, florid, bald-headed man, about fifty years old, with a
nice pleasant face, would appear in the passage-way, and with a strongly
marked Portuguese accent, inquire of the irate landlady:

“Pepiña, what ails you?”

“Nothing at all,” she would reply, making a stampede into the kitchen,
and muttering dreadful oaths in her Basque dialect. We would hear her
knocking the kettles and frying pans about, and after a little while the
cheerful sputtering of oil would announce to us that anyhow potatoes
and eggs were frying, and that breakfast would soon be ready.

The stout, bald-headed gentleman, who had the back parlor, was a
Portuguese physician who had come to Madrid to bring a lawsuit against
the Administration for some claim or other he had against it. He was an
ardent admirer of Spanish popular music, like most Portuguese, and he
would pass the whole blessed day in a chair, near the balcony,--dressed
as lightly as possible in jacket and linen pantaloons (it was in the
month of June, I must observe), a Scotch cap, with floating streamers
concealing his bald pate,--and strumming on a guitar, to the harsh and
discordant accompaniment of which he would sing the following words:

    Love me, girl of Seville, beauteous maid, spotless flower,
    For with the sound of my guitar my heart beats for thee,

Here he would break off his song to look toward the window of a young
washerwoman, ugly enough in appearance, but lively and sociable. She
would stand at the window laughing and making eyes at him. The
Portuguese would sigh, and exclaim in broken Spanish: “_Moy bunita!_”
and then, attacking his guitar with renewed zest, would finish his song:

    Oh, what grief, if she is false--no, fatal doubt flee far from me.
    Ah, what joy is love when one finds a heavenly soul!

When he was done, he would draw a straw cigar-case from his breast
pocket, with a package of cigarettes and some matches. Hardly would he
have finished lighting the first one, when a young man, twenty-four
years old,--one of Pepa’s boarders also, whom I looked upon for a long
time as the personification of an artist,--would burst into the room.
His surname was Botello, but I never thought to inquire his Christian
name. He was fine looking, of good height, wore his hair rumpled, not
too long, but thick and curly, and he looked something like a
mulatto--like Alexandre Dumas, with his great thick lips, mustache like
Van <DW18>’s, bright black eyes, and a fine, dark complexion. We used to
tease him, calling him Little Dumas every hour of the day.

Why had Pepa Urrutia’s boarders made up their minds that Botello was an
artist? Even now, when I think of it, I cannot understand why. Botello
had never drawn a line, nor murdered a sonata, nor scrawled an article,
nor written a poor drama, not even a simple farce in one act; yet we all
had the firm conviction that Botello was a finished artist.

I think that this conviction sprang from his careless and slovenly
attire more than from his way of living, or his striking and genial
countenance. In all sorts of weather, he would wear a close-fitting blue
cloth overcoat, which he declared belonged to the Order of the Golden
Fleece, because the collar and cuffs displayed a broad band of grease,
and the front a lamb, figured in stains. This precious article of
apparel was such an inseparable companion that he wore it in the street,
washed and shaved in it, and even threw it over his bed, as a covering,
while he slept. His trousers were frayed around the bottom, his boots
were worn down at the heels, and the cracked leather allowed his
stockings to be seen, smeared with ink so that their incautious
whiteness might not appear. With all that, Botello’s handsome head and
graceful form did not lose all their attractiveness even in such a
guise; on the contrary, his very rags, when seen upon his elegant
figure, acquired a certain mysterious grace.

Another distinctive phase of Botello’s character, which made him
resemble a Bohemian of the artistic type, was his happy-go-lucky
disposition, as well as his contempt for labor, and utter ignorance of
the realities of life. Botello was the son of a judge, and the nephew of
a nobleman’s steward. When Botello’s father died, he was left under his
uncle’s charge, who lodged and fed him, and gave him an allowance of two
hundred and fifty dollars, only demanding that Botello should be in bed
by twelve o’clock. He did not oblige him to study, nor take any pains to
give him an education; but when he discovered that his nephew passed
every evening at the Bohemian _café_ or at some low resort, and came
home at all hours of the night, letting himself in with a latch-key so
as not to be heard, he made the welkin ring. Instead of trying to
reform him, he ignominiously drove him out of his house.

Without any occupation, with only twenty-one dollars a month to keep
him, Botello wandered from boarding-house to boarding-house, each one
worse than the last, until in a gaming-saloon he made the acquaintance
of Don Julián, the lord and master of Pepa’s heart. Thus he came to our
dwelling, drawn by this new bond of friendship. From that hour, Botello
found an exemplary guardian in the Valencian. Don Julián took it upon
himself to draw the young man’s monthly allowance, and then off he would
rush to the tavern or gaming-house to try his luck. If he got a windfall
of one or two hundred dollars, he could give Botello his twenty-one, and
even, occasionally, add a few more; but if fate were unpropitious,
Botello might take leave of his money forever. As he sorely needed
funds, the ward would then engage in a lively tussle with his guardian.

“Well, now, _señor mio_, how shall I get along this month?” he would
ask. Just then a providential apparition would present itself in Pepa,
who would come to the rescue of her dear extortioner, while she screamed
loudly, threatening Botello:

“Be quiet, be quiet! I will wait.”

“What of that?” the unfortunate youth would reply; “he has not left me
even a dime to buy tobacco.”

Pepa would then put her hand in her pocket, and, drawing out a grimy
quarter, would exclaim:

“There now, buy yourself a package of cigarettes.”

But when Pepa’s quarters were scarce, or even when they were not,
Botello would have recourse to the Portuguese. He would be in the
latter’s room as soon as he heard him strike a match to light a
cigarette, and half jokingly, half in earnest, would tease for some,
until the best part of the package would find its way into the
Bohemian’s pocket. As the Portuguese was accustomed to the ways and
disposition of little Dumas,--who was a genuine artist, as he solemnly
assured everybody he met,--he never took his jokes seriously, nor did he
get offended on account of the marauding inroads into his pockets. On
the contrary, one would say that the musical physician’s heart was
wonderfully drawn to Botello by his very pranks, even though he often
carried his practical jokes too far. I will mention one as an instance.

As the Portuguese was obliged to make calls and to present his letters
of recommendation, in order to hasten the execution of his business, he
ordered a hundred very glossy visiting-cards with his name, “Miguel de
los Santos Pinto,” engraved in beautiful script. Botello happened to see
them, and showed them to everybody in the house; expressing his
amazement that a Portuguese should have so few surnames. He wanted to
add at least, “Teixeira de Vasconcellos Palmeirim Junior de Santarem do
Morgado das Ameixeiras,” so that it should be more in character. We got
that out of his head, but his next idea was even worse. He
surreptitiously laid hold of the pen and India ink, which I used for my
drawings and my plans, and wrote carefully under “Miguel de los Santos
Pinto” this appendage, “Corno de Boy” (Ox-horn). In order not to take
the trouble of adding it to all the cards, he did so to twenty-five
only, and hid the rest.

The next day the Portuguese went out to make some calls, and left ten or
twelve of the cards at different places. The following Sunday he met an
acquaintance in Arenal Street, who, half-choked with laughter, stopped
him, saying, “Why, Don Miguel, is your name really Corno de Boy? Is
there any such name in your country?”

“What do you mean?” said the embarrassed Portuguese. “Of course not; my
name is simply Santos Pinto; nothing more.”

“Well, just look at this card.”

“Let me see, let me see!” murmured the poor man. “It really does say
so!” he exclaimed in amazement, on reading the addition.

“The engraver must have made a mistake,” added his friend, jocosely.

But Don Miguel did not swallow that, and as soon as he reached the house
showed the card to Botello, and demanded an explanation of the sorry
jest. The big scamp so warmly protested that he was innocent, that he
succeeded in diverting Don Miguel’s suspicions toward me.

“Don’t you see,” he said, “Salustio has the very pen and ink with which
that was written, in his room now? Don’t trust those quiet people. Oh,
these proper fellows!”

In consequence of this Macchiavellian scheme, the good-natured
Portuguese singled me out for his jealous suspicion, although I had
never meddled with him in my life. But I firmly believe that his
blindness was voluntary, because he could not have had the slightest
doubt in regard to some other malicious pranks that Botello perpetrated.

One day when he was playing dominoes with his victim, Botello managed to
put a paper crown, with donkey’s ears, on the latter’s head, so that the
nymph of the ironing-table might be convulsed with laughter, for she was
watching the whole performance. Then, one day, he pinned long strips of
paper upon his coat-tails, so that when he went out in the street all
the street Arabs hooted at him. Nevertheless, the fondness of the
Portuguese for Botello never failed. When Botello lacked money to pay
for a ball ticket, he would go to Don Miguel and ask for half a dollar,
and exhaust all his eloquence in trying to persuade him that he ought to
go on a frolic also. When the Portuguese would refuse, making the excuse
that he did not want to displease the washerwoman, Botello would retort,
calling him a booby. As the Portuguese did not understand that word, and
appeared somewhat offended, Botello would make a movement as if to
return the half-dollar. “Take it, take it, if you are angry with me,”
the sly youth would exclaim. “My personal dignity will not allow me to
accept favors from any one who looks at me in that way. You are angry,
aren’t you now?”

“I can never be angry with you,” the Portuguese would reply, putting the
money into his hand by main force; then turning toward the rest of us
who were witnessing this scene, he would say with the most kindly smile
I have ever seen on any human countenance: “This rapacious rogue! But he
is a great artist.”

Then he would go back to his place at the window, and strum on his
guitar.

The reader must acknowledge that there was no opportunity for applying
one’s mind to methodical, engrossing, and difficult study in a house
where such scenes occurred every moment of the day. The bursts of
laughter, alternating with frequent squabbles; the racing up and down
the halls; the continual going in and out of lazy fellows who, not
knowing how to kill time, endeavor to make the studious ones lose it;
the irregularity of our meals; the confidential way we had of living in
each other’s rooms; the being up all night, and getting out of bed at
midday, did not greatly help a student to win distinction in the School
of Engineering. On the other hand, the contagion of joking and mirth
could not possibly be withstood at my age.

Other students boarded there; some attending the University, others the
School of Mountain Engineering, and others the School of Architecture;
but none of them was a prodigy of learning. Perhaps I was ahead of them
all in diligent application to my studies; but as my subjects were very
difficult, it turned out that I found myself put over to the September
examinations that year. Consequently I was obliged to spend my vacation
in Madrid, and was unable to enjoy the cool breezes of my home in the
province.

That summer would have been wearisome indeed, and unbearable, if I had
not been surrounded by such jolly and frolicsome people, and if the
good-natured Portuguese had not afforded us such fun by submitting to
the endless pranks of Botello.

When there was no other way of killing an afternoon, little Dumas would
snap his fingers and say, throwing back his perspiring head so as to
brush away the thick black mane, which was suffocating him:

“Let us play a trick on Corno de Boy. Who will help me catch some bugs?”

“Catch bugs?”

“Yes, just make a cornucopia and fill it with bugs to the top. The small
ones will not do; they must be big ones.”

Then every one would go to his room to engage in the strange hunt.
Unfortunately, it was not difficult. As soon as we searched under our
beds, or our pillows, we would quickly collect a dozen or more fearful
fellows. We would carry our tributes to the inventor of the practical
joke, and he would put them all together. As soon as we knew that the
Portuguese was in bed, we would take off our shoes, and, repressing our
desire to laugh, would station ourselves at his door. As soon as Don
Miguel began to snore, Botello would softly raise the latch, and, as the
headboard was next the door, all that the imp of an artist had to do was
to open the cornucopia and scatter the contents over the head and face
of the sleeping man. After this was accomplished, Botello would close
the door very quietly, while we, convulsed with laughter, and pinching
one another in sheer excitement, would wait for the pitched battle to
begin. Hardly two minutes would elapse before we would hear the
Portuguese turn over in bed. Then we would hear broken and
unintelligible phrases; then strong ejaculations; then the scratching of
a match, and his astonished exclamation, “By Jove!”

We would come forward with great hypocrisy, inquiring whether he was
sick or whether anything had happened. “By Jove!” the good man would
exclaim; “pests here, and pests everywhere. By Jove! Ugh!”

The next day we would advise him to change his room; and he would do so,
hoping to find some relief; but we would repeat the same performance.

So we managed to kill time during the dog-days, with these stupid
practical jokes. What most surprised me was that the Portuguese, who was
always the butt of them, never thought of changing his boarding-house
nor even gave his persecutor a drubbing.

When I passed in my deficient subjects in September, I was obliged to
exert all my energy and resolution in order to do what I thought the
Portuguese should have done--that is, to change my boarding-house. The
attraction of a gay and idle life, my pleasant intercourse with Botello,
for whom it was impossible not to feel a compassionate regard, similar
to tenderness; the very defects and inconveniences of that abode, made
me much fonder of it than was expedient. But reason finally triumphed.
“Life is a treasure too precious to be squandered in boyish pranks and
stupid practical jokes,” I reflected, as I was packing up my effects
preparatory to taking myself off somewhere else. “