The ñaltaMartayMarímotive or occasion of this book being written is as follows: I found myself one afternoon in Don Fernando Fe's bookstore, turning over recent publications and periodicals, when there fell into my hands a number of the _Ilustración Española y Americana_, in which appeared a capital cut representing "The Taking of the Veil in a Convent of Carmelite Nuns." A pretty young girl was seen on her knees before the inner door of the convent, from which three sisters, bundled up in great thick robes of black, were coming forth to receive her, with a coarse wooden cross. In the background an aged bishop was calling down upon her the blessing of heaven; and a lady, in whom the mother was to be instantly recognized, was looking on with ecstatic and troubled eyes. Still farther back there was a numerous group of people, pre-eminent among them being two other young ladies, elegantly dressed, whose resemblance to the novice quickly told that they were her sisters. The first was sadly contemplating the ceremony, while the other hid her face in her hands, as if she were trying to smother her sobs.
I felt impressed in presence of this scene so admirably interpreted by the artist, and as a natural consequence I was assailed by many memories and not a few reflections connected with the same subject, and I came to the conclusion that it was worth while to make a study of it. It did not deal with anything ancient and remote which might serve merely as a theme for the investigations of the historian, but with a most curious and interesting fact taking place before our very eyes. The enthusiasm, the ardent raptures, the ecstasies, and even the frenzies of these souls at once simple and passionate, who find no way to quench the thirst devouring them, to calm the unrest torturing them, by intercourse with the world, and who seek in the mystery of the cloister, medicine for their ills, seemed to me a theme worthy for the contemporary novelist to master and offer with due respect to the consideration of the public. A certain series of events which took place a few years ago, and happened to come under my observation, occurred to my mind, and instantly the desire seized me to write a novel. But one circumstance proved to be a stumbling-block. It had never entered into my calculations to write novels with transcendental themes, especially those based upon religious subjects. This I declared without qualification in a little line of parenthesis which I put under the title of my first novel, _El Señorito Octavio_ (a novel without transcendental thought). And in truth I was afraid to bring myself so soon into conflict with my æsthetic programme in a country where everything is pardoned except contradiction. But among the honorable pleasures conferred by the Supreme Creator upon the heroic Spanish public, there is none more keen and delectable than that of breaking the laws and programmes which they have freely imposed upon themselves. In this particular, sybaritism has reached the point of making itself every morning some rule for the pleasure afforded by breaking it in the afternoon. Therefore as soon as I saw the contradiction, the problem was solved. I will write the novel, I said, for my conscience, so that I may have to endure fifteen literary sessions of the Athenæum without stirring from my place.
