To an Angel · 8

Sister Apparition was named in the world Irene. Her parents were gentlefolk, wealthy villagers; they had several children, but lost them, and concentrated upon Irene the affection and indulgence due an only daughter. The village where she was born is called A——. And destiny, which with the sheets of the cradle begins to weave the rope that is to hang us, caused to see the light in that very village, some years before Irene, the famous poet...

I uttered an exclamation and pronounced, anticipating the narrator, the glorious name of the author of The Accursed Archangel—perhaps the most genuine representative of the romantic fever;—a name that bears in its syllables an echo of haughty arrogance, of mocking disdain, of bitter irony and desperate, blasphemous nostalgia. That name and the gaze of the nun merged in my imagination, without either as yet giving me the key to the other, but already heralding, upon appearing united, a drama of the heart of the kind that drips living blood.

—The very same—repeated my companion—the celebrated Juan de Camargo, pride of the little town of A——, which has neither mineral springs, nor miraculous saint, nor cathedral, nor Roman inscriptions, nor anything remarkable to show to those who visit it, but repeats with pride: “In this house on the square Camargo was born.”

“Come—I interrupted—now I understand; Sister Apparition... that is to say, Irene, fell in love with Camargo, he disdained her, and she, to forget, entered the cloister...”

—Hush!—exclaimed the narrator with a smile—; wait, wait, if that were all! That sort of thing is seen every day; it would not even be worth relating. No; Sister Apparition’s case has substance. Patience, and we shall reach the end.

As a child, Irene had seen Juan de Camargo a thousand times, without ever speaking to him, for he was already a young man, very sullen and solitary: he did not even mingle with the other boys of the town. When Irene burst her bud, Camargo, an orphan, was already studying law at Salamanca, and came only to his guardian’s house during the holidays. One summer, on entering A——, the student chanced to raise his eyes toward Irene’s window and noticed the girl, who fixed hers upon him... eyes that held one captive, two black suns, for you see what they are still today. Camargo checked his hired hack to feast upon that sovereign beauty; Irene was a wonder of comeliness. But the girl, flushed like a poppy, withdrew from the window, closing it abruptly. That very night, Camargo, who was already beginning to publish verses in petty journals, wrote some lovely ones, portraying the effect produced upon him by the sight of Irene at the moment of arriving at his native town... And wrapping a stone in the verses, at dusk he hurled it against Irene’s window. The pane broke, and the girl picked up the paper and read the verses, not once, but a hundred, a thousand times: she drank them, soaked herself in them. Nevertheless, those verses, which do not appear in the collection of Camargo’s poems, were no declarations of love, but something strange, a mixture of complaint and imprecation. The poet lamented that the purity and beauty of the girl at the window had not been made for him, who was a castaway. If he drew near, he would wither that lily... After the episode of the verses, Camargo gave no signs of remembering that Irene existed in the world, and in October set out for Madrid. The turbulent period of his life was beginning: political adventures and literary activity.

From the time Camargo departed, Irene grew sorrowful, falling ill of lovesickness. Her parents endeavoured to distract her; they took her for some time to Badajoz, made her meet young men, attend dances; she had admirers, heard flatteries... but did not improve in spirits or health.

She could think only of Camargo, to whom was applicable what Byron says of Lara: that those who saw him did not see him in vain; that his memory returned ever to the mind, for such men fling a challenge to disdain and oblivion. Irene herself did not believe she was in love; she deemed herself merely the victim of a spell, emanating from those verses so somber and strange. What is certain is that Irene had what they now call an obsession, and at all hours saw Camargo appear, pale, grave, his curling hair shading his pensive brow... Irene’s parents, observing that their daughter was dying, undermined by a mysterious suffering, decided to take her to the capital, where there are great physicians to consult and also great distractions.

When Irene arrived in Madrid, Camargo was famous. His fiery, haughty verses, of strong and nervous sentiment, set the fashion; his adventures and eccentricities were discussed. Associated with him a band of profligate, free-and-easy, witty bohemians invented fresh deviltries each night, now disturbing the sleep of respectable neighbours, now performing the orgiastic exploits alluded to in certain blasphemous and obscene poems which some critics maintain are not Camargo’s in reality. With drinking bouts and debauchery alternated sessions in masonic lodges and committees; Camargo was already preparing for himself the path of exile. Irene’s provincial and naive family was unaware of all this; and meeting the poet in the street, they greeted him cheerfully, for after all he was from back home.

Camargo, surprised once more by the young girl’s beauty; noticing that upon seeing him the pale cheeks of so lovely a maiden were dyed with crimson, accompanied them and promised to visit his townspeople. The poor provincials were flattered, and their satisfaction grew upon observing that a few days later, Camargo having kept his promise, Irene revived. Unacquainted with gossip, Camargo seemed to them a possible son-in-law, and they allowed his visits to become frequent.

I see by your face that you think you divine the outcome... You do not divine it! Irene, fascinated, bewildered as though she had drunk the juice of herbs, nevertheless took six months to consent to an interview alone, in Camargo’s own house. The girl’s virtuous resistance was the cause of the poet’s profligate companions mocking him, and pride, which is the poisonous root of certain romanticisms like Byron’s and Camargo’s, inspired in the latter a wager, a satanic, hellish revenge. He begged, pleaded, withdrew, returned, gave cause for jealousy, feigned plans of suicide, and did so much that Irene, riding roughshod over everything, consented to attend the dangerous tryst. Thanks to a miracle of courage and propriety, she emerged from it pure and unstained, and Camargo endured a mockery that maddened him with vexation.

At the second interview Irene’s strength failed, her reason darkened, and she was vanquished. And when, confused and trembling, she lay with closed eyelids in the arms of the villain, he uttered a loud burst of laughter, drew back some curtains, and Irene saw that the impure eyes of eight or ten young men were devouring her, who also laughed and clapped ironically...

Irene started up, gave a leap, and without covering herself, with dishevelled hair and bare shoulders, rushed to the stairs and into the street. She reached her dwelling followed by a crowd of street urchins throwing mud and stones at her. She never consented to say whence she came, nor what had happened to her.—My father found it out because, as it chanced, he was a friend of one of those in Camargo’s wager.—Irene suffered a severe fever in which she was despaired of; as soon as she convalesced, she entered this convent—as far as possible from A——.—Her penance has terrified the nuns: incredible fasts; mixing her bread with ashes; going three days without drinking; winter nights barefoot and upon her knees in prayer; scourging herself, wearing an iron collar about her neck, a crown of thorns beneath her wimple, a rasp at her waist...

What most edified her companions, who consider her a saint, was her continual weeping. They relate—though it may be an old wives’ tale—that once she filled the water bowl with tears. And who would tell you that suddenly her eyes remained dry, without a tear, and gleaming in that manner you have observed!—This happened more than twenty years ago; pious folk believe it was the sign of God’s forgiveness. Nevertheless, Sister Apparition, no doubt, does not believe herself forgiven, for, like a mummy, she continues fasting and prostrating herself and wearing the horsehair cilice...

—It is because she is doing penance for two—I answered, wondering that on this point my chronicler’s discernment should fail—. Do you suppose that Sister Apparition does not remember the unhappy soul of Camargo?

Justice?

Without being a philosopher or a scholar, by the sheer liveliness of natural reasoning, Pablo Roldán had come to form for himself on many questions a strange and independent judgment; I do not say superior, for I do not think it was so,—but at least different from that of the generality of mortals.—In all times these divergences must have existed between collective thinking and that of certain excessively innovating or retrograde individuals, since we separate ourselves from our era quite as much by advancing beyond it as by lagging behind.

One of the problems Pablo Roldán considered in an original and even startling manner was that of a wife’s infidelity. It should be noted that Pablo Roldán was married, and to a lady so distinguished, youthful, handsome, and elegant that she captivated the eyes and perhaps the hearts of all who beheld her. Such a treasure should have made her keeper vigilant; but Pablo Roldán not only boasted a blind confidence bordering on carelessness, but declared that vigilance seemed to him useless, because not deeming himself the proprietor of his better half, he did not believe himself called upon to guard her as one guards a vineyard, an orchard, or a strongbox. A woman—Pablo used to say with a smile—differs from a peach and a roll of banknotes in that she has a conscience and a tongue. It has occurred to no one to hold the peach responsible if a pilferer steals it and eats it. A woman is capable and responsible—and see how in truth, seeming so easy-going, I am more rigid than you jealous Extremadurans.—A woman is responsible, guilty... let us understand each other: when she deceives. Of course mine, morally, will never succeed in deceiving me, for I should be the flower of simpletons if on approaching her I did not understand the impression I produce upon her; whether she loves me, or I am indifferent to her, or she cannot endure me. Of the state of her soul my wife will not need to render me an account: I shall divine it... That would be the last straw! And upon divining it—as surely as my name is Pablo Roldán and I consider myself a man of honour—I shall consider broken the bond that binds her to me, and shall not do the Author of souls the affront of doing violence to a soul essentially equal to my own... From the day she ceases to love me, my wife will be inwardly free as air. Nevertheless—since the legal knot is indissoluble and the mistake mutual,—I shall warn her that she is bound to save appearances, to have great regard for exteriority, not to make me the target of mockery; and I, for my part, shall consider it my duty to continue sheltering her, shielding her against contempt. Bah! My friend, this is talking for the sake of talking; Felicia seems not yet to have lost her affection for me... These are theories, and you well know that, when the practical case arrives, rare is the man who applies them rigorously.

Roldán did not converse thus except with the few he regarded as true friends and men of heart and understanding; with others he believed such delicate points should not be discussed. To all appearances, Pablo’s broad and generous system yielded excellent results: the couple lived united, respected, contented. Nevertheless, I, who watched them unceasingly, attracted by that curious experiment, began to notice, after several years had passed—shortly after Pablo’s wife entered the period of the splendour of feminine beauty, her thirtieth year—certain symptoms that disquieted me a little. Pablo was at times sad and brooding; he had days of gloom, moments of distraction and absence of mind, though he recovered himself afterwards and returned to his customary equanimity. His wife, on the other hand, displayed an exaggerated and feverish cheerfulness and animation, and surrendered herself more than ever to society and festivities. They continued always going together; good conjugal habits had not altered in the slightest; but I, who am also not the flower of simpletons, could not doubt that in that formerly happy couple there existed some dislocation, some hidden flaw, something that altered their intimate structure. To the public, the Roldán marriage remained unaltered; to me, the Roldán marriage was dissolved.

About that time the wedding of a certain opulent young lady was announced, and the parents invited their acquaintances to examine the trousseau and rich gifts forming the bride’s corbeille. I was pleasantly engaged in admiring a long string of pearls, the bridegroom’s present, when I saw Pablo Roldán and his wife enter. They approached the table laden with magnificent jewels, and the crowded spectators made way for them with difficulty. Señora Roldán went into ecstasies over the string of pearls: how well matched! how large! what pearly, pure lustre! While she was expressing her admiration for the jewel, I noticed...—who could explain why I watched anxiously the movements of Pablo’s wife?—I noticed, I say, slipping toward her, as if to share her admiration, Dámaso Vargas Padilla, a youth better known for escapades and squandering than for deeds of charity, and I happened to see that upon the hazel-brown Swedish glove of the lady gleamed a small white object, immediately transferred to the dominions of a reddish Tyrolese glove... And I felt the same shudder as if my own affairs were at stake, upon ascertaining that Pablo Roldán, altered and with a corpse-like countenance, had seen as I had, and surprised as I had, the passage of the note from his wife’s hands into the hands of Vargas...

I feared he would throw himself upon those who thus derided him in public. He did not throw himself upon them; he gave not the slightest sign of anger or sorrow. On the contrary, he continued looking about and praising the pretty finery, turning over and mixing the objects placed nearest, lingering and obliging his wife to linger and observe the merit of each one. So deliberately did he proceed with this examination that the company withdrew little by little, and there remained in the room only half a dozen persons. And when I was preparing to cross the threshold, in a glance cast inadvertently, I saw once more something that produced upon me the effect of the dreadful head of Medusa, paralysing me with horror, leaving me without voice, without thought, without breath... Pablo Roldán had swiftly slipped into his waistcoat pocket the string of pearls, and walked out calm, his head held high, jesting with his wife, praising a painting, upon which he succeeded in concentrating all the attention of the bystanders.

From the next day they began to gossip on the subject of the theft, first in a low voice, afterwards with scandalous publicity. There were newspapers that hinted at it; the outcry was horrible. The many distinguished persons who had admired the bride’s finery cried to heaven and showed, naturally, a furious desire that the thief should be discovered. Several innocent persons were slandered, and rancour sought means of wounding, returning the shaft. All breathed freely at last on learning that the magistrate, advised by an anonymous denunciation, had just searched Pablo’s house, finding the string of pearls in a wardrobe in Señora Roldán’s dressing-room...

I alone understood the terrible vengeance. I alone succeeded in penetrating the sinister enigma, unsolved by the lady herself, who is not far from expiating with years of penal servitude the crime she did not commit. And one day when I met Pablo and opened my soul to him and confessed my perplexities, my doubts as to whether I ought or ought not to reveal the truth, since I knew it, Pablo answered me with tears of rage upon the brim of his eyelids:

“Do not intervene; make way for justice, make way!... She ceased to love me, and I did not deem myself entitled even to complain; she loved another, and I merely entreated her not to deliver me over to the laughter of the world... You know how she heeded my plea... you know! Before she could make me ridiculous, I disgraced her... The means were bad, but... she was forewarned! If you are one of those who believe that vengeance belongs to God, depart from me, for we do not understand each other. Love, hatred, and revenge... where is there anything more human?”