Of the author of so many interesting books but little has yet been told to the public. In a private letter to myself, the eminent novelist gives a brief sketch of his mode of life, so interesting that I have secured his permission to translate and print it here:--"Since my wife died," Señor Valdés writes, "my life has continued to be tranquil and melancholy, dedicated to work and to my son. During the winters, I live in Asturias, and during the summers, in Madrid. I like the company of men of the world better than that of literary folks, because the former teach me more. I am given up to the study of metaphysics. I have a passion for physical exercises, for gymnastics, for fencing, and I try to live in an evenly-balanced temper, nothing being so repugnant to me as affectation and emphasis. I find a good deal of pleasure in going to bull-fights (although I do not take my son to the Plaza dressed up like a miniature _torero_, as an American writer declares I do), and I cultivate the theatre, because to see life from the stage point of view helps me in the composition of my stories."
It was ten o'clock at night, an hour when the number of those who frequented the streets of the noble city of Lancia was always of the scantiest, but in the depth of winter, when our story opens, with a bitter north-east wind and drenching rain, one would find it difficult to stumble upon a living soul. Not that all had surrendered themselves into the arms of Morpheus, for Lancia as capital of a province, albeit not one of the most important, had learnt to sit up late. But the people used to resort at an early hour to parties, whence they only sallied forth to supper and to bed at eleven o'clock. At that hour many noisy groups could be seen passing along under the shelter of umbrellas, the ladies enveloped in warm woollen cloaks, holding up their petticoats, and the gentlemen all wrapped in their cloaks, or _montecristos_, with their trousers well turned up, breaking the silence of the night by the loud clack of their wooden shoes. For at the time of which we speak there were few that despised this comfortable shoe of the country, unless it were some new-fledged medical student from Valladolid, who considered himself above such old-fashioned things, or some fanciful young lady, who pretended that she could not walk in them. But these were the exceptions. There were no carriages in the town, for only three existed in the place, belonging respectively to the Quiñones, the Countess of Onis, and to Estrada-Rosa; the last-mentioned being the only one that did not date from the middle of the last century. When either of these conveyances appeared in the street, it was followed by a crowd of little urchins, whose enthusiasm at the sight knew no bounds. The neighbours inside their houses could tell by the sound of the wheels, and the clink of the horseshoes to which of the above-mentioned magnates the carriage belonged. They were in fact three venerated institutions which the natives of the city had learnt to love and respect. So umbrellas and wooden shoes were the only protections against the rain that falls more than three parts of the year. India-rubber shoes came in later, as well as hooded waterproofs, which at certain times transform Lancia into a vast community of Carthusian friars.