University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.,
Wherein I become almost a Spanish Scholar, but
lose both my Teachers.

The next day Paul Bagby, having
heard of my adventure, called at the
printing-house. Learning that I was
about to visit the patient, he volunteered
to accompany me, saying that in his
two years' sketching tour on the Peninsula
he had made himself a tolerable
master of the Castilian. We found the
Spaniard lying upon a couch, reading,
while his little daughter sat near. He
seemed glad to see me, and when I
presented the artist, received him with
all the courtesy that his constrained
position would allow him to show.
They entered into conversation in Spanish,
at my instance, and while they
were thus engaged, I watched the
child, and noted the play of her features
as she listened. Occasionally I
joined in the conversation, Espinel appealing
to me at times in French.
Their conversation, I found by this, had
turned upon the Earl of Landys, who
seemed to be a subject of deep interest
to the Spaniard. The latter at length
said to me in French:

“Monsieur Bagby seems to admire
milord Landees very much.”

“My faith!” said Paul, in the same
language, “the admiration is merely
gratitude for patronage, of which I
have received a deal through the Landys'
interest.”

“D'Alembert pronounced quite a panegyric
upon Louis XIV., because the
king sent forty arm-chairs to the Academy,”
said the Spaniard.

“Exactly,” replied Paul, laughing,
“I might have bought as many as forty
sofas with the proceeds of Lord Landys'
direct patronage, throwing aside the
sitters he has sent me; consequently,
common gratitude requires that I should
admire him as much as D'Alembert did
Louis XIV.”

“He is fond of pictures then. Has
he many?”

“Yes, and some very fine ones. His
gallery contains a picture from every
modern artist of note, with some fine
specimens of the masters. By the by,
he has a picture painted by a foreign
artist, the portrait of a monk, which,
odd as it may seem, bears a striking
resemblance to you, senior.”

“Indeed! by one of the old masters?”

“No; modern, undoubtedly.”

The surgeon now entered the room,
and told us that the senior would not
be able to go about for some days, as
the internal injuries were severe. Bagby
translated this to the patient, who
merely replied that it was unfortunate,
as he desired to visit London at an early
date. Bagby now rose to leave, and
I, promising to return in a few minutes,
accompanied him down stairs.

“What do you think of the couple?”
I asked, when we were fairly out of
the room.

“I think the child is the most beautiful
creature of her age I ever saw,”
was the answer, “and I intend to paint
her portrait. As for her father, he is
no father at all, I fancy.”

“How do you come to that conclusion?”

“A child always bears some resemblance
to each parent. It may be only
such as those acquainted with those
matters can point out; but it is always
there. Sometimes the upper part of
the head is that of the father, and the
lower that of the mother, or vice versa.
Then the face may be that of one parent,
when the back part of the head
will have the configuration peculiar to
that of the other, or the reverse. Again,
there may be a mingling of the facial
points. I have been studying the two
with the eye of a naturalist, and the
analytical habit of an artist, and the
girl's face, head, and physical conformation,
are totally unlike his, except
in points that might be accidentally similar.
Besides, he is a monk, or has
been until recently.”

“How do you make that out?”

“His head bears the mark of the tonsure.
The hair has been only suffered
to grow a short while.”

“It may have been shaved through
illness.”

“Not a bit of it. In that case the
shaving would not have been so regular,
and scarcely on the top of the head.
Then you must remember, that although
she called him `father,' and he addressed
her as `daughter,' he spoke of her
to me all through as `this child,' `this
dear little girl,' and so on.”

“But,” said I, “he spoke of her to
me as `the child he was bound to protect.”'

“Precisely. It is not a parental obligation,
you see, on which a parent,
taking it as a matter of course, would
not insist. But you had better return
to your Spaniard. I'll see you again,
and we'll talk the matter over farther.
Call on me to-morrow before you come
here, and I will show you how far I
have gone in the way of painting her.”

“Do you expect her to sit, then?”

“Sit? No. A face so remarkable
is easily painted from memory. I won't
get its character and expression out of
my mind for a twelvemonth.”

He left, and I returned to Espinel.
The latter was reading when I came
in, but put the book down.

“Do not let me interrupt you,” said
I. “If you are interested, go on; but
first tell me if I can order anything
new for you of the landlord.”

“No; I am quite comfortable, and
if you will, would prefer to talk.”

He then asked me a great many
questions about the town and its vicinity,
more particularly about the Landys
family, all of which I answered as
well as I could. At length he said:

“How long since you commenced to
study French?”

“About a year since.”

“Are there many French people in
this town?”

“Only one that I know—the gentleman
who gave me lessons—M. de
Lille.”

“You must have great aptitude for
acquiring languages. Your accent is
defective in part, but wonderfully good
to have been acquired during a year.
How would you like to study Spanish?”

“Very much.”

“Repeat this;” and he uttered a few

words in Castilian.

I obeyed.

“Very good; very good, indeed,”
said he, while the little girl clapped her
hands in delight. “You have caught
the accent perfectly. You would find
the Spanish quite easy to master. Once
learn the alphabetical sounds, and all
after that is an effort of memory. I
know most European languages, but
not English. I have been thinking,
as I have nothing better to do while
fastened here, that I would like to
change lessons with you. I could get
along fastly, for I am familiar with the
Low Dutch, which is nearly identical
with the Low Saxon, one of the parents
of the English tongue. You shall teach
me English, and I will return it with
Spanish.”

I acceded to the proposition, and the
lessons began.

We continued our studies all the
time the Spaniard remained in Puttenham.
In a little time I had mastered
the sounds of the Spanish language,
and a good many phrases, as well as
the forms of its verbs. I was less fortunate
as a teacher than pupil. Espinel
found it very difficult to get over
some of our peculiar sounds, and our
exceptional orthography became a great
stumbling-block. Fortunately there
was in our printing-room a Spanish
grammar and dictionary, kept to determine
the proper spelling of Spanish
words, when such had to be used in the
Chronicle, and these books were of
great assistance.

It was nearly four weeks before Senor
Espinel was able to rise and walk
about the room. The shock had been
a severe one to a man over fifty-six—
for such he told me was his age—and
his recovery was slow. So earnestly
did I labor during this time that I had
acquired quite a smattering of Castilian,
and managed not only to translate
rapidly with the aid of the dictionary,
but to keep up a brisk conversation
on ordinary subjects. I found
myself, however, better able to converse
with the child than the old man.
Her prattle, simple as it was, I readily
understood, and my interest in her was
so deep, that it became my greatest
delight to talk with her. Zara, for
such was her name, had by this time
grown quite attached to me, and would
come and sit on my knee, and lay her
head on my shoulder, while I told her
some nursery ballad, or fairy story, in
my imperfect Spanish; or would prattle
to me in a curious mixture of her own
language with English, which last
tongue she acquired faster than Espinel.
The Senor Jose, meanwhile, with
a table wheeled up to where he sat,
worked hard in translating some English
book, and occasionally interrupted
Zara and me to ask me the proper form
of some verb, or an explanation of a
difficult idiom. How tenderly I loved
that pure and affectionate child! How
delighted I was with her growing attachment
to me!

At length the Senor Espinel was
able to walk without serious difficulty,
and managed to call on Mr. Guttenberg,
and thank him for permitting my
attendance. My protector recelved
him civilly enough, but did not feel
prepossessed in his favor. This arose
from the fact that Paul Bagby, then in
London, had intimated, previously to
his departure, that Espinel was, or had
been a monk. With all his many good
qualities, John Guttenberg had a strong
sectarian prejudice.

I left the Espinels one night about

ten o'clock, having shaken hands with
Don Jose, and kissed little Zara, who
always remained up from rest until I
left. She said, as we parted:

“Good night, brother Ambrosio.
Some day Zara grow great big; then
she spick English much gooder as
now.”

I smoothed her hair with my hand,
and turned to go. As I left the landlord
came with a letter which had arrived
by the evening mail, directed to
the Senor Jose Espinel. I noticed that
it had the London mark.

The next day, at noon, I went to see
my friends as usual, and was told that
the Spaniard and his daughter had taken
places the night before in the mail-coach
for London, and had departed at
daybreak.

“He left this for you,” said the landlord.

I tore open the letter. It was in
French, and read in English thus:

Enclosed in the letter was a packet,
containing a lock of hair, which I knew
at once to be Zara's.