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    First Love (Little Blue Book #1195) And Other Fascinating Stories of Spanish Life
    First Love (Little Blue Book #1195) And Other Fascinating Stories of Spanish Life
    First Love (Little Blue Book #1195) And Other Fascinating Stories of Spanish Life
    Ebook82 pages1 hour

    First Love (Little Blue Book #1195) And Other Fascinating Stories of Spanish Life

    By E. (Emanuel) Haldeman-Julius, Serafín Estébanez Calderón, Juan Eugenio Hartzenbusch and

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 27, 2013
    First Love (Little Blue Book #1195) And Other Fascinating Stories of Spanish Life

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      Book preview

      First Love (Little Blue Book #1195) And Other Fascinating Stories of Spanish Life - E. (Emanuel) Haldeman-Julius

      Project Gutenberg's First Love (Little Blue Book #1195), by Various

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with

      almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or

      re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included

      with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net

      Title: First Love (Little Blue Book #1195)

      And Other Fascinating Stories of Spanish Life

      Author: Various

      Release Date: April 12, 2005 [EBook #15610]

      Language: English

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FIRST LOVE (LITTLE BLUE BOOK ***

      Produced by Ted Garvin and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.

      First Love

      And Other Fascinating Stories

      of Spanish Life

      Emilia Pardo-Bazan

      and Others

      LITTLE BLUE BOOK NO. 1195

      Edited by E. Haldeman-Julius  

      HALDEMAN-JULIUS COMPANY

      GIRARD, KANSAS

      CONTENTS

      First Love

      Emilia Pardo-Bazan.

      An Andalusian Duel

      Serafin Estebanez Calderon.

      Mariquita the Bald

      Juan Eugenio Hartzenbusch.

      The Love of Clotilde

      Armando Palacio Valdés.

      Captain Veneno's Proposal of Marriage

      Pedro Antonio de Alarcón.

      FIRST LOVE

      Emilia Pardo-Bazan

      How old was I then? Eleven or twelve years? More probably thirteen, for before then is too early to be seriously in love; but I won't venture to be certain, considering that in Southern countries the heart matures early, if that organ is to blame for such perturbations.

      If I do not remember well when, I can at least say exactly how my first love revealed itself. I was very fond—as soon as my aunt had gone to church to perform her evening devotions—of slipping into her bedroom and rummaging her chest of drawers, which she kept in admirable order. Those drawers were to me a museum; in them I always came across something rare or antique, which exhaled an archaic and mysterious scent, the aroma of the sandalwood fans which perfumed her white linen. Pin-cushions of satin now faded; knitted mittens, carefully wrapped in tissue paper; prints of saints; sewing materials; a reticule of blue velvet embroidered with bugles, an amber and silver rosary would appear from the corners: I used to ponder over them, and return them to their place. But one day—I remember as well as if it were today—in the corner of the top drawer, and lying on some collars of old lace, I saw something gold glittering—I put in my hand, unwittingly crumpled the lace, and drew out a portrait, an ivory miniature, about three inches long, in a frame of gold.

      I was struck at first sight. A sunbeam streamed through the window and fell upon the alluring form, which seemed to wish to step out of its dark background and come towards me. It was the most lovely creature, such as I had never seen except in the dreams of my adolescence. The lady of the portrait must have been some twenty odd years; she was no simple maiden, no half-opened rosebud, but a woman in the full resplendency of her beauty. Her face was oval, but not too long, her lips full, half-open and smiling, her eyes cast a languishing side-glance, and she had a dimple on her chin as if formed by the tip of Cupid's playful finger. Her head-dress was strange but elegant; a compact group of curls plastered conewise one over the other covered her temples, and a basket of braided hair rose on the top of her head. This old-fashioned head-dress, which was trussed up from the nape of her neck, disclosed all the softness of her fresh young throat, on which the dimple of her chin was reduplicated more vaguely and delicately.

      As for the dress—I do not venture to consider whether our grandmothers were less modest than our wives are, or if the confessors of past times were more indulgent than those of the present; I am inclined to think the latter, for seventy years ago women prided themselves upon being Christianlike and devout, and would not have disobeyed the director of their conscience in so grave and important a matter. What is undeniable is, that if in the present day any lady were to present herself in the garb of the lady of the portrait, there would be a scandal; for from her waist (which began at her armpits) upwards, she was only veiled by light folds of diaphanous gauze, which marked out, rather than covered, two mountains of snow, between which meandered a thread of pearls. With further lack of modesty she stretched out two rounded arms worthy of Juno, ending in finely molded hands—when I say hands I am not exact, for, strictly speaking, only one hand could be seen, and that held a richly embroidered handkerchief.

      Even today I am astonished at the startling effect which the contemplation of that miniature produced upon me, and how I remained in ecstasy, scarcely breathing, devouring the portrait with my eyes. I had already seen here and there prints representing beautiful women. It often happened that in the illustrated papers, in the mythological engravings of our dining-room, or in a shop-window, that a beautiful face, or a harmonious and graceful figure attracted my precociously artistic gaze. But the miniature encountered in my aunt's drawer, apart from its great beauty, appeared to me as if animated by a subtle and vital breath; you could see it was not the caprice of a painter, but the image of a real and actual person of flesh and blood. The warm and rich tone of the tints made you surmise that the blood was tepid beneath that mother-of-pearl skin. The lips were slightly parted to disclose the enameled teeth; and to complete the illusion there ran round the frame a border of natural hair, chestnut in color, wavy and silky, which had grown on the temples of the original.

      As I

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