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  MARIANELA

  BY

  B. PEREZ GALDÓS
  Author of "Gloria," etc.

  From the Spanish by CLARA BELL

  REVISED AND CORRECTED IN THE UNITED STATES

  NEW YORK
  WILLIAM S. GOTTSBERGER, PUBLISHER
  11 MURRAY STREET
  1883




  Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1883
  By William S. Gottsberger
  In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington

  THIS TRANSLATION WAS MADE EXPRESSLY FOR THE PUBLISHER

  Press of
  William S. Gottsberger
  New York




TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE.


Those who have read "Gloria" will, it is hoped, hail with pleasure
another work by the same writer, Perez Galdós--different it is true,
but in its way not less delightful.

The strongly-marked humor and darkly-painted tragedy of "Gloria" are
not to be found in "Marianela;" the characters are distinct and crisply
sketched, but with a tender hand, the catastrophe is pitiable, rather
shocking; the whole tone is idyllic.

I have not hesitated to translate literally the Spanish words of
endearment; for though they are foreign to the calmer spirit of our
northern tongue they are too characteristic to be lost, and they are
strangely pathetic as the only outlet found for the imprisoned spirit
of the hapless little heroine.

  CLARA BELL.




CONTENTS.


  CHAP.                                     PAGE.

  I.--Gone Astray.                              1

  II.--Guided Right.                           10

  III.--A Dialogue which explains much.        24

  IV.--Stony Hearts.                           35

  V.--Labor, and a Landscape with Figures.     52

  VI.--Absurdities.                            62

  VII.--More Absurdities.                      73

  VIII.--And yet more.                         84

  IX.--The Brothers Golfin.                    98

  X.--Nobody's Children.                      117

  XI.--The Patriarch of Aldeacorba.           124

  XII.--Doctor Celipin.                       136

  XIII.--Between two Baskets.                 144

  XIV.--How the Virgin Mary appeared to Nela. 151

  XV.--The Three Children.                    164

  XVI.--The Vow.                              172

  XVII.--A Fugitive.                          179

  XVIII.--Nela decides that she must go.      192

  XIX.--Nela is Tamed.                        201

  XX.--A New World.                           220

  XXI.--Eyes that Kill.                       234

  XXII.--Farewell.                            260




MARIANELA.




CHAPTER I.

GONE ASTRAY.


The sun had set. After the brief interval of twilight the night fell
calm and dark, and in its gloomy bosom the last sounds of a sleepy
world died gently away. The traveller went forward on his way,
hastening his step as night came on; the path he followed was narrow
and worn by the constant tread of men and beasts, and led gently up a
hill on whose verdant <DW72>s grew picturesque clumps of wild cherry
trees, beeches and oaks.--The reader perceives that we are in the north
of Spain.

Our traveller was a man of middle age, strongly built, tall and
broad-shouldered; his movements were brisk and resolute, his step
firm, his manner somewhat rugged, his eye bold and bright; his pace
was nimble, considering that he was decidedly stout, and he was--the
reader may at once be told, though somewhat prematurely--as good a
soul as you may meet with anywhere. He was dressed, as a man in easy
circumstances should be dressed for a journey in spring weather, with
one of those round shady hats, which, from their ugly shape, have been
nicknamed mushrooms (_hongo_), a pair of field-glasses hanging to a
strap, and a knotted stick which, when he did not use it to support his
steps, served to push aside the brambles when they flung their thorny
branches across so as to catch his dress.

He presently stopped, and gazing round the dim horizon, he seemed vexed
and puzzled. He evidently was not sure of his way and was looking
round for some passing native of the district who might give him such
topographical information as might enable him to reach his destination.

"I cannot be mistaken," he said to himself. "They told me to cross the
river by the stepping-stones--and I did so--then to walk on, straight
on. And there, to my right, I do in fact, see that detestable town
which I should call _Villafangosa_ by reason of the enormous amount of
mud that chokes the streets.--Well then, I can but go 'on, straight
on'--I rather like the phrase, and if I bore arms, I would adopt it
for my motto--in order to find myself at last at the famous mines of
Socartes."

But before he had gone much farther, he added: "I have lost my way,
beyond a doubt I have lost my way.--This, Teodoro Golfin, is the
result of your 'on, straight on.' Bah! these blockheads do not know
the meaning of words; either they meant to laugh at you or else
they did not know the way to the mines of Socartes. A huge mining
establishment must be evident to the senses, with its buildings and
chimneys, its noise of hammers and snorting of furnaces, neighing of
horses and clattering of machinery--and I neither see, nor hear, nor
smell anything. I might be in a desert! How absolutely solitary! If I
believed in witches, I could fancy that Fate intended me this night to
have the honor of making acquaintance with some. Deuce take it! why is
there no one to be seen in these parts? And it will be half an hour
yet before the moon rises. Ah! treacherous Luna, it is you who are to
blame for my misadventure.--If only I could see what sort of place I
am in.--However, what could I expect?" and he shrugged his shoulders
with the air of a vigorous man who scorns danger. "What, Golfin, after
having wandered all round the world are you going to give in now? The
peasants were right after all: 'on, straight on.' The universal law of
locomotion cannot fail me here."

And he bravely set out to test the law, and went on about a kilometre
farther, following the paths which seemed to start from under his feet,
crossing each other and breaking off at a short distance, in a thousand
angles which puzzled and tired him. Stout as his resolution was, at
last he grew weary of his vain efforts. The paths, which had at first
all led upwards, began to <DW72> downwards as they crossed each other,
and at last he came to so steep a <DW72> that he could only hope to get
to the bottom by rolling down it.

"A pretty state of things!" he exclaimed, trying to console himself for
this provoking situation by his sense of the ridiculous. "Where have
you got to now my friend? This is a perfect abyss. Is anything to be
seen at the bottom. No, nothing, absolutely nothing--the hill-side has
disappeared, the earth has been dug away. There is nothing to be seen
but stones and barren soil tinged red with iron. I have reached the
mines, no doubt of that--and yet there is not a living soul to be seen,
no smoky chimneys; no noise, not a train in the distance, not even a
dog barking. What am I to do? Out there the path seems to <DW72> up
again.--Shall I follow that? Shall I leave the beaten track? Shall I go
back again? Oh! this is absurd! Either I am not myself or I will reach
Socartes to-night, and be welcomed by my worthy brother! 'On, straight
on.'"

He took a step, and his foot sank in the soft and crumbling soil.
"What next, ye ruling stars? Am I to be swallowed up alive? If only
that lazy moon would favor us with a little light we might see each
other's faces--and, upon my soul, I can hardly expect to find Paradise
at the bottom of this hole. It seems to be the crater of some extinct
volcano.... Nothing could be easier than a slide down this beautiful
precipice. What have we here?... A stone; capital--a good seat while I
smoke a cigar and wait for the moon to rise."

The philosophical Golfin seated himself as calmly as if it were a
bench by a promenade, and was preparing for his smoke, when he heard a
voice--yes, beyond a doubt, a human voice, at some little distance--a
plaintive air, or to speak more accurately, a melancholy chant of a
single phrase, of which the last cadence was prolonged into a "dying
fall," and which at last sank into the silence of the night, so softly
that the ear could not detect when it ceased.

"Come," said the listener, well pleased, "there are some human beings
about. That was a girl's voice; yes, certainly a girl's, and a lovely
voice too. I like the popular airs of this country-side. Now it has
stopped.... Hark! it will soon begin again.... Yes, I hear it once
more. What a beautiful voice, and what a pathetic air! You might
believe that it rose from the bowels of the earth, and that Señor
Golfin, the most matter-of-fact and least superstitious man in this
world, was going to make acquaintance with sylphs, nymphs, gnomes,
dryads, and all the rabble rout that obey the mysterious spirit of the
place.--But, if I am not mistaken, the voice is going farther away--the
fair singer is departing.... Hi, girl, child, stop--wait a minute!..."

The voice which had for a few minutes so charmed the lost wanderer with
its enchanting strains was dying away in the dark void, and at the
shouts of Golfin it was suddenly silent. Beyond a doubt the mysterious
gnome, who was solacing its underground loneliness by singing its
plaintive loves, had taken fright at this rough interruption by a human
being, and fled to the deepest caverns