Al Carbón

The organ vibrated with tremulous voices, vibrated accompanying the antiphon, filling the nave with its glorious harmony. The tapers burned, dripping their tears of wax amidst the cloud of incense that flooded the temple with its sacred fragrance; and yonder at the altar the priest, resplendent in gold, elevated the gem-encrusted monstrance, blessing the kneeling throng.

Suddenly I turned my gaze beside me, toward an angle of shadow. There was a woman praying. Clothed in black, wrapped in a mantle, her countenance stood out severe and sublime, set against the vague gloom of a confessional. It was a lovely angel’s face, with prayer in eyes and lips. Upon her brow was the pallor of a fleur-de-lis, and against the blackness of her mantle her white, adorable hands stood out together, diminutive. The lights were dying down, and moment by moment the darkness of the background deepened; and then, in a dazzlement, that face seemed to me illuminated by a mysterious white radiance, such as must dwell in the realm of prostrate choirs and burning cherubim: dawn light, snow dust, heavenly clarity, holy wave bathing the lily branches of the blessed.

And that pale virgin’s face, wrapped in mantle and night in that corner of shadow, would have made an admirable subject for a study in charcoal.

Yonder, upon the shores of the Quinta lake, stands a melancholy willow that continually dips its green tresses in the water reflecting sky and branches, as though harboring an enchanted realm in its depths.

To the ancient willow flock birds and lovers in pairs. There it was that one evening—when in the sky remained of the sun only a violet tint that faded away in waves, and upon the great snow-clad Andes a waning rose that was like the timid caress of enamored light—I heard a sound of kisses near the drooping trunk and a flutter of wings in the boughs.

There they sat, the beloved and the lover, upon a rustic bench beneath the willow’s canopy. Before them stretched the peaceful lake with its arched bridge and the trembling trees of the shore; and beyond, amidst the green foliage, rose the facade of the Exhibition palace with its bronze condors poised for flight.

The lady was fair; he a gallant youth, who caressed with fingers and lips her black tresses and her graceful nymph’s hands.

And above the two fervent souls and the two bodies close together, the two birds whispered in a winged, rhythmic tongue. And above, the sky with its immensity and pageant of clouds—golden plumes, wings of fire, purple fleeces, and azure expanses flecked with opal—poured forth the magnificence of its pomp, the pride of its august grandeur.

Beneath the waters, as in a swirl of living blood, darted the swift, gold-finned fish.

In the crepuscular glow, the whole landscape appeared wrapped in a dust of sifted sunlight, and the soul of the tableau were those two lovers: he dark, handsome, and vigorous, with a fine, silky beard such as women love to touch; she blond—a verse of Goethe!—clothed in a lustrous grey gown, and upon her bosom a fresh rose, like her red mouth that pleaded for a kiss.