“Aren’t you exciting yourself, Don Jeronimo?”

“Well, as I was telling you, I observed that as the rehearsals progressed the ascendency of Inocencio over our young friend increased.  The tone in which he addressed her was no longer the humble and courteous tone of earlier days; he corrected her frequently in her manner of delivery, he dictated the attitudes and gestures which she should adopt, and sometimes, when the actress did not quite understand his wishes, he allowed himself to address her publicly in rather severe terms, and the way he looked at her was severer still.  Our poet was already thundering and lightning like a true lord and master.

“Clotilde accepted it with good grace.  She, who had always been so haughty, even towards the most distinguished authors, stretched out and shrank back like soft wax in the hands of that insignificant jackanapes.  You ought to have seen the humility with which she accepted his suggestions, and the distress which his censures caused her.  All the time that the rehearsal lasted she kept her eyes steadily fixed upon him, watching like a submissive slave to catch the wishes of her master.  The poet, lolling at ease in an arm-chair, with a brazier of hot coals before him, directed the action in as dictatorial a manner as either Gracia Gutierrez or Ayala could have done.  A mere glance from him sufficed to make Clotilde flush crimson or turn pale.  The other actors made no protest, out of consideration for her.  When she had finished her scene she came eagerly to take her seat beside her betrothed, who sometimes deigned to welcome her with a haughty smile, and at other times with an Olympian indifference.  I, meanwhile, looked on, scandalized.

“On one occasion I came upon them from behind, and overheard what they were saying.  Clotilde was speaking, and hotly maintaining that Inocencio’s Stooping to Conquer or Conquering to Stoop was better than A New Drama.  The young man protested feebly.  On another occasion they were speaking of their future union.  Clotilde was picturing in impassioned phrases the nook to which they would go to hide their happiness; some lofty spot on the hills of Salamanca, a dear little nest, bathed in sunlight, where Inocencio could work in his private study, writing plays, while she sat by his side and embroidered in absolute silence.  When he was tired they could talk for a while, to let him rest, and then she would give him a kiss and go back again to her work.  In the evening they would go out, arm in arm, to take a short walk, and then home again.  But no more of the theater; she abhorred it with all her soul.  In the spring they would go every morning to take a walk in the Retiro and take chocolate under the trees; in the summer they would spend a month or two in Inocencio’s birthplace, so as to bring back from the country a supply of good color and health for the coming winter.

“The description of this tender idyl, which, even if I am a confirmed bachelor, set my heart beating within my breast, produced no other effect upon the new author than an insolent somnolence which would not disappear until he suddenly raised his imperious voice to admonish some one of the actors.