THE BACHELOR HUSBAND.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXI, Issue XXIII, 3 December 1898, Page 717

THE BACHELOR HUSBAND.

A celebrated painter of Madrid, whose real name it will be more discreet not to disclose, but whom I shall call Morales, had just completed a superb picture for the convent of the Escurial. He had received a large sum of money for his work, and by way of a little relaxation after the long continued toil bestowed upon it, he had assembled around a well-spread table a few choice spirits from among his fellow artists. It was a bachelor entertainment. Not a lady was to sit down with them. Even the mistress of the house herself. Donna Casilda. had been excluded. Morales had sent her oft with her maid to pass the day with one of her cousins.

But, Donna Casilda, having a little curiosity in her composition, was very anxious to know what was to take place in her absence, and had a strong desire to find out what so many men could have to talk about when there were no women present. Instead, therefore, of remaining at the house of her cousin she quickly returned, bringing the latter with her, and the twcr were presently ensconced in a little closet adjoining the studio, where with eye and ear closely applied to the keyhole they remained eagerly listening to all that passed. ‘But tell us, my friend.’ said one of the guests, ‘why are we deprived of the pleasure of Senora Morales’ company? Surely her beauty and wit would not have diminished the <*harm of the delightful meeting.’ ‘There.’ whispered the lady to her cousin, ‘that is the first sensible speech I have heard.’ ‘Bosh!’ replied the husband, pouring out a glass of golden sherry, ‘women know nothing of the poetry of life.’ ‘That is true.’ added another: ‘women are mere matter-of-fact beings —commonplace, essentially prosaic. What do they know about the arts, or the enjoyments of artists?’ ‘Fools!’ exclaimed Casilda. ‘Yes,’ continued Morales, ‘take from women love, intrigues and household affairs and they absolutely have nothing that they can think or talk about.’ ‘lmpertinent fellow!’ was the comment of the listeners. ‘Why,’ added the painter, ‘they cannot comprehend a rich joke or one of those capital pieces of humour which the air of the studio inspires. They eannot appreciate them. When a woman plays us a trick it is always at the expense of our honour.’ ‘Wretch!’ This word escaped the two cousins at the same instant, and was uttered in a loud tone. But the noise of the guests and the rattling of glasses prevented its being heard. ‘Ah. Master Simple, and so you defy us to play you a trick without touching your honour, do you? By our Lady of Atocha. I vow that before Lent is over I will have my revenge.’

Casilda set her wits to work, and you shall hear what came of it. On the following Thursday she engaged her brother to procure from the Palace Cabeda, where they are accustomed to sell fragments of old buildings, a door of the same dimensions as their own which fronted on the street. She charged him to get one of an antique pattern, covered with iron work and heavy mouldings. This she had conveyed to her house with all secrecy, and kept closely concealed until the favourable moment. She had communicated her design to her brother and a few friends in the neighbourhood. on whose aid she relied in carrying out her plot. On a certain evening When Morales had returned home at a late hour from a convent where he had just completed the painting of a chapel, which the monks were to have opened at Easter, Casilda received him with much warmth, and a greater profusion of caresses than usual. It was very late when they retired to rest, for Morales must first have his supper. The night was cold and stormy. Towards midnight Morales’ wife began to utter deep groans, intermingled with piercing cries, as if suffering intense pain. ‘Holy Mother!’ exclaimed she, ‘1 am dying. My dear husband, my last hour is come!’

Her husband in consoling tones tried to quiet her. ‘1 can bear it no longer,’ she cried. Get me a confessor—the sacraments! It is almost over with me!’ At these cries the domestics hastened to her assistance: but nothing relieved the sufferer. Poor Morales,

though sore against his will, was forced to leave his bed. ‘I know what it is that ails you, mistress,’ said the girl. ‘lt is that'bad vinegar you mixed with the salad. You know it served you the same way last time. Mother Castinoja cured you then.’ The painter at this began to scold his wife because experience had not made her more careful, but she only sobbed out in half-suffocated words: ‘AI hecho no ay remedio.’ What is done cannot be undone. For mercy’s sake, go for Mother Castinoja. She is the only one who can give me relief. Bring her quickly, or there will be nothing left for you but to open my grave.’ ‘My little wife,’ replied her husband, in a dismal tone, ‘my dearest wife. Mother Castinoja has moved to the other end of the city; the night is very cold, and the rain is pouring in torrents. Even if I could find Mother Castinoja, do you think she would come to see you through this terrible storm? Compose yourself, my dear, and do not force me to take such a long walk, which I am sure will be of no use.’ At this Casilda began to sob anew. ‘See what a husband God has given me! I only ask him to go for a nurse at the risk of wetting his shoes and he refuses. But I know what it is you want—you wish to be a widower and live over again your bachelor life. Ah. I am dying! A priest! I’m poisoned!’ Morales, really believing that his wife was at the last extremity, and fearing if she died that the accusations she had thrown out against him

might have serious consequences, endeavoured to soothe her by caresses and prepared to light a lantern. He then drew on a pair of stout boots, threw a cloak over his shoulders, and manfully set forth on his nocturnal expedition in search of Mother Castinoja.

The painter knew that she lived somewhere in the Rue Foncarral. but of the precise location he was totally ignorant. The rain fell in torrents. The night was as dark as Egypt, and Morales eursed the day on which he was married. It may readily be imagined that in such a mood he was not likely to find the object of his search.

But while he is groping along the streets let us return to the sick lady. No sooner did she see her husband fairly off on his expedition than she summoned her brother and a few chosen friends who were lying hid in the cellar. In a twinkling they had the old street door off its hinges and its place supplied by the one bought for the occasion. Above it they placed a huge white sign, on which was displayed in large letters the fol-

lowing inscription: ‘The Hotel of the ( id. Good Entertainment for Man and Beast!’ This done, a large party of friends from the neighbourhood who had been let into the secret were speedily assembled. Castanets and guitars were put in requisition. A repast was prepared, and the merry guests began to eat. drink and dance by way of celebrating the dismal expedition of the poor husband who had gone in search of Mother Castinoja. Meanwhile, having proceeded from street to street, and roused and angered the whole neighliourhood. our good painter was at length obliged to return without the nurse. He was drenched to the skin, and his patience was completely exhausted. On approaching his house the sou ml of musical instruments, singing and peals of laughter burst upon bis astonished ears. Thinking he had made a mistake he raised the lantern, and discovering a different door irom his own. with the sign of a hotel over it. he became completely l»ewildercd. and l»egan to traverse the pavement anew.

‘lt is indeed the Rue de Lapaire.’ said he. ‘Here is the bookstore of Pedro Trappal. and this is the house of Diego le Boiteux. and then surely comes mine.’ He recognised the doors of all his neighbours—his alone was changed. ‘God help me!' said he. making fifty signs of the cross, ‘this indeed must be mv house*. It is but an hour ami a half since I left it. My wife was then weeping and groaning with pain, and now they are singing ami dancing. I have never noticed a tavern in this street, and surely it is not in my house they would establish one.’ He began to make a closer examination. passing his hand over the door, but could not find the knocker. At hist, determining to make himself heard in hopes that as soon as he affected an entrance he would learn the cause of this mysterious transformation. he began to thump on the door with blows loud enough to rouse the whole neighliourhood. The merry makers within pretended not to hear him. He knocked still more loudly.

At length, after he had stood a long time under the drippings of the roof, a man. with head covered by an old handkerchief, opened the window above.

"Halloa! my good man! what in the devil do you want at- this time of night? There is no room for you here. Go elsewhere for your lodging!’

"But I wish to enter my own house.' ‘My friend, it is not our custom to open our doors at this unusual hour.'

" “Morbleu!” but I tell you this is my house, and my father. Diego Morales, paid a round sum for it with his own deniers.’ "Hark ye. my fine fellow. I know not if the wine which disturbs your noddle was “Vai de Pequas" or “Logroquo." but I'll be sworn it was capital. and the water from the gutters will not hurt you. So go on. or I'll let loose the mastiff. Good-night!’ Thus saying, he closed the window. The singing and laughter were renewed within. Morales commenced knocking again, when presently he heard some one call out:

‘Antonio, unloose the dogs!’ At this the door was thrown open and forth came a man with two huge dogs, which might have made the joke a rather serious one. had they not been held back by the keeper.

‘You cursed fellow." he said, ‘what do you mean by making this clamour? Were yoti not told there was no room for vou here?"

"But. my good friend, this is my house, and T cannot comprehend what piece of sorcery has converted it into a tavern."

"My good man, you are certainly under a strange delusion. There are neither Morales nor mulberries in this neighbourhood."

"I am a painter, well-known in this city, and of some celebrity in this quarter. Call my wife. Casilda: if she is not transformed into a landlady she will doubtless extricate me from this labyrinth.’ ‘The landlady is Maria Perez. For more than six years this has been one of the most frequented hotels in Madrid. Its master is Piedro Carasco. and T am his valet. And now. take vourself off!’

The poor painter made the best of his way by groping along through the darkness to the house of a friend. From the lamentable voice in which Morales asked admittance the friend thought some serious calamity had befallen him. and hastened to let him in. Morales related his adventure, but his friend listened with incredulity. However, he prepared him a bed. and advised him to go to sleep, for he doubted not that Morales had been making a little too free with the ‘jocund grape.’ In the morning the painter still persisted in maintaining the truth of rhe story, and his friend, curious to behold the enchanted mansion, accompanied him home.

But to the utter astonishment of the mystified artist, another change had come over the spirit of his dream. The marvellous sign had disappeared, the house was secured by its accustomed portal, and everything had resumed its former quiet and peaceful appearance.

"Come. Morales." said his friend, slapping him on the shoulder, ‘confess that you had taken a drop too much last night, and were afraid to return home.’ ‘On my honour as a man and as an artist.’ replied Morales. ‘I have told vou nothing but the truth."

Morales rapped sharply at the door. Bridget, the maid-servant, hastened to open it. ‘Oh. Senor Morales." cried she. in tones of well-feigned astonishment, ‘how could you have the heart to stay out all night, carousing with your friends, and your poor wife lying here at death's door? And to go off under pretence of finding Mother Castinoja! Shame on you!’ ‘Shame on you!’ cried a dozen shrill voices from the neighbouring windows. ‘You have an angel for a wife: and you leave her in this cruel way to die without assistance!’ ‘Ah. indeed! And where have you been all night? In some filthy tavern. I guess, drinking with your good-for-nothing companions. What

an abominable thing a man is who plays the bachelor!*

‘But it is with me he has the account to settle.’ cried Casilda. who now came up. looking wan and pale.

as was natural, after a night of dissipation. ’And so you believed I was

dead, and you thought to come back and squander my dower on your liachelor parties! But you did not reckon ou the kind services of the neighbours.’

‘My dear little wife,’ said Morales soothingly, "if you will only listen to me you will find that I am much more to l>e pitied than blamed."