The Joy of Captain Ribot Part 1

The Joy of Captain Ribot.

by Armando Palacio Valdes.

Introduction

"We Americans are apt to think because we have banged the Spanish war-ships to pieces that we are superior to the Spaniards, but here in the field where there is always peace they shine our masters. If we have any novelists to compare with theirs at their best, I should be puzzled to think of them, and I should like to have some one else try"--wrote William Dean Howells in _Literature_.

When a work by one of the world's masters of fiction has called forth a remark like the foregoing from a leading man of letters in America, it would be a misfortune if the public to whom the remark is addressed might not enjoy the privilege of acquaintance with that work. And it was this most charming novel by Senor Armando Palacio Valdes, "La Alegria del Capitan Ribot," that prompted Mr. Howells to write those words. Any reader must be hard to please who would not take the keenest delight in a story presented with a touch so delicate. The scene is laid in Valencia, one of the earth's famous garden spots, where the touch of the cla.s.sic hand, laid upon the spot ages ago yet lingers. It is a story dominated by the purest joy, as its serene Mediterranean landscape is dominated by the purest sunshine.

Every novelist of character must have some purpose in mind in a given work, and the purpose of Senor Valdes in this is of no slight import. It happens that, from an unclean quality that distinguishes the fiction of a certain nation, the minds of many lands have been infected. For the almost universal aim of its authors has seemed to be so pervasively to color their pictures of life with one particular kind of sin as to give the impression that it is a main factor of modern civilization, instead of something that blots but a small proportion of the lives of men and women in any land. So, when Senor Valdes wrote to me, several months ago, about his new novel, he said: "It is a protest from the depths against the eternal adultery of the French novel." And when I read the book, I thought that "A Married Woman" would have been a good name for the story, so n.o.bly and so truly does it present a type of the true and devoted wife in Cristina Marti--one of the great creations in modern literature. The trait that makes Senor Valdes one of the most eminent of living novelists is greatness of soul, finding expression as it does in a consummate mastery of his art. That trait appears in his "La Fe" as in no other novel that I know; and in the present story it pervades the whole work, which, moreover, is clean, sweet, and wholesome in every part. Magnanimity is a word that somehow implies that greatness of soul derives itself from greatness of heart, and the magnanimity of Senor Valdes is of a degree that transcends limitations of race, of creed, and of patriotism.

He has given evidence that in his catholic sympathies the fact of a common humanity is sufficient for the inclusion of any man in his brotherly regard. Of such as he the nations as yet count too few among their sons. And when one of these speaks, no difference of tongue should be allowed to bar our listening.

In the same article that has furnished the text for these remarks, Mr.

Howells notes, among the admirable attributes in which this n.o.ble-minded Spaniard excels, "something very like our own boasted American humor with some other things which we cannot lay special claim to; as a certain sweetness, a gentle spirituality, a love of purity and goodness in themselves, and an insight into the workings of what used to be called the soul." As to the specific qualities of the book before us, I cannot better express my own sentiments than to continue in the words of Mr. Howells:

"La Alegria del Capitan Ribot is, as all the stories of this delightful author are, a novel of manners, the modern manners of provincial Spain; and, by the way, while we were spoiling our prostrate foe, I wish we could have got some of these, too; they would form an agreeable relief to our own, which they surpa.s.s so much in picturesqueness, to say the least. The scene is mostly at Valencia, where Capitan Ribot, who commands a steamer plying between Barcelona and Hamburg, is the guest of the civil engineer, Marti. The novel is, as far as Ribot and his two friends are concerned, a tender idyll, but on the other side it is an exquisite comedy, with some fine tragic implications. Around all is thrown the atmosphere of a civilization so different from our own, and of a humanity so like the Anglo-Saxon, as well as the Russian and the Scandinavian, even, that we find ourselves charmed at once by its strangeness and its familiarity. There are the same temptations, the same aspirations, the same strong desires, the same trembling resolutions, masking under southern skies and in alien air; but instantly recognizable by their truth to what all men feel and know."

Mr. Howells has expressed a desire to have Senor Valdes for our own. So far as a most intelligently sympathetic presentation of this beautiful story in English can do so, I am sure that my friend the translator has made him so.

SYLVESTER BAXTER.

The Joy of Captain Ribot

THE JOY OF CAPTAIN RIBOT

CHAPTER I.

In Malaga they cook it not at all badly; in Vigo better yet; in Bilbao I have eaten it deliciously seasoned on more than one occasion. But there is no comparison between any of these, or the way I have had it served in any of the other ports where I have been wont to touch, and the cooking of a Senora Ramona in a certain shop for wines and edibles called El Cometa, situated on the wharf at Gijon.

Therefore, when that most intelligent woman hears that the _Urano_ has entered port, she begins to get her stewpans ready for my reception. I prefer to go alone and at night, like the selfish and luxurious being that I am. She sets my table for me in a corner of the back shop; and there, at my ease, I enjoy pleasures ineffable and have taken more than one indigestion.

I arrived the 9th of February, at eleven in the morning, and according to my custom I ate little, preparing myself by healthful abstinence for the ceremony of the evening. G.o.d willed otherwise. A little before the striking of the hour a heathen of a sailor broke a lantern; the burning wick fell upon a cask of petroleum and started a fire, which we got the better of by throwing the barrel overboard with several others. But the pilot-house was burned, together with much of the rigging and some of the upper works of the steamer. In short, the consequences kept us busy and on our feet nearly all night.

And this was the reason why I did not go to eat my dish of tripe at the Senora Ramona's, but notified her, by means of the speaking trumpet, to be ready for me that evening without fail.

It was about ten o'clock. Peaceful and contented, I descended the ladder of the Urano, jumped into a boat, and in four strokes of my boat-man's oars I was taken to the wharf, which stood deserted and shadowy. The hulls of the vessels could hardly be made out and absolute silence reigned on board them. Only the silhouette of the guards on their rounds or that of some melancholy-looking pa.s.ser-by was vaguely outlined in the gloom. But the obscurity, that the few street-lamps were insufficient to dissipate, was soon enlivened by the wave of light that proceeded from the two open doorways of El Cometa. I fluttered away in that direction like an eager b.u.t.terfly. There were only three or four customers left in the shop; the others had departed--some spontaneously, some because of intimations, each time more or less peremptory, given by Senora Ramona, who always closed up promptly at half after ten.

This woman greeted my appearance with a peal of laughter. I cannot say what curious and mysterious t.i.tillation affected her nerves in my presence; but I can affirm that she never saw me after an absence more or less prolonged without being violently shaken by merriment, which in turn inevitably resulted in severe attacks of coughing, inflaming her cheeks and transforming them from their hue of grainy red to violet. Yet I was profoundly gratified by that peal of laughter and that attack of coughing, considering them a pledge of unalterable friendship, and that I could count, in life and in death, upon her culinary accomplishments.

On such occasions it was my duty to double my spine, shake my head, and laugh boisterously until Dame Ramona recovered herself. And I complied therewith religiously.

"Ay, but how good it was yesterday, Don Julian!"

"And why not to-day?"

"Because yesterday was yesterday, and to-day is to-day."

Before this invincible reason I grew serious, and a sigh escaped me.

Dame Ramona went off in a fresh fit of laughter, followed by a corresponding attack of asthmatic coughing. When at last she recovered herself she finished washing the gla.s.s in her hands, and called to three or four sailors chatting in a corner:

"Come, up with you! I am going to lock up."

One of them ventured to say:

"Wait a bit, Dame Ramona. We'll go when that gentleman does."

The hostess, frowning grimly, volunteered in solemn accents:

"This gentleman has come to eat some stewed tripe, and the table is set for him."

Thereupon the customers, feeling the weight of this hint, and comprehending the gravity of the occasion, lost no time in rising to depart. Gazing at me for an instant with a mixture of respect and admiration they went out, wishing us good-night.

"Well, Don Julian!" exclaimed Dame Ramona, her face brightening again, "that tripe of yesterday fairly was of a kind to make one's mouth water with delight."

My face must have expressed the most profound despair.

"And that of to-day--won't it do anything?" I inquired in tones of woe.

"To-day--to-day--you will see for yourself."

She waved her fat hand in a way calculated to leave me submerged in a sea of doubt.

While she was giving the last touches to her work, I took some absinthe to prepare my stomach adequately for its task, at the same time meditating upon the serious words that I had heard.

Would it, or would it not, be so well seasoned, piquant, and aromatic as my imagination depicted?

But when I had seated myself at the table; when I saw the dish before me and felt its bland fragrance penetrating my nostrils, a ray of light illumining my brain dissipated that dark spectral doubt. My heart began to palpitate with inexplicable pleasure. I comprehended that the G.o.ds still held in reserve some moments of happiness in this world.

Dame Ramona divined the emotion that overpowered my soul, and smiled with maternal benevolence.

"What's that, Dame Ramona?" I exclaimed, pausing with my fork held motionless in the air. "Did you hear it?"

"Yes, senor; I heard a scream."

"It called 'Help!'"