To an Angel · 9

I turned away from Pablo Roldán and wish never to see him again. I know not how to judge him; now I pity him, now he inspires me with horror.

Beyond

It was a fashionable spa; but not one of those where wealthy, capricious, and whimsical folk nurse imaginary ailments, but of those that receive every year, from the beginning of June, strings of truly sick persons, pale and feeble, and where, at consultation hours, one sees at the physician’s door anxious gestures, reddened eyelids, and grey-haired ladies giving their arm to and supporting emaciated young ladies of laboured gait. To put it briefly: those waters suited consumptives.

Separated by a single wall were the two. She, the passionate and romantic girl, the interesting invalid who—indifferent to death as the annihilation of physical being—did not accept it as the abdication of grace and beauty; who, on passing through the drawing-rooms, as she crossed them with the graceful bearing of a young nymph, was wont to raise a flattering rumour, a perfidious murmur of a sea that caresses and devours; and defending to the last moment her crown of charms, which was to wither in the grave, surrounded herself with flowers and perfumes, smiled sweetly, wrapped her wasted body in fine China crêpe and delicate lace, and shod her tiny foot in white morocco leather with the same coquetry as if she were about to lead a merry and swift cotillion.—He, the gallant youth who had squandered his vital energies with regal prodigality, despising the warnings of his tender and anxious mother and the hereditary hint of his two maternal uncles snatched away in the prime of life—until one day he felt in his turn the dull blow that struck his chest and slowly dissolved his lung, reviving, instead of extinguishing, the fire that had always consumed his soul.

Separated by a wall were the two, without knowing each other or knowing that they existed, and yet the ailment that was bearing them to the grave had an identical origin; the same insatiable longing had attacked in them the springs of life. She and he, fascinated by the same dream, made passion the sole ideal of existence, and aspired to a love that was great, profoundly aesthetic, ardent and resolute as if criminal, noble and haughty as if lawful, pure by dint of intensity, burning by dint of purity. And like one seeking the phoenix or a powerful talisman, both had sought the enchanted isle of their dreams, she amid the insipid incidents of daily flirting, he amid the no less vulgar episodes of orgiastic dissipation; until a series of sad, comical, or unworthy deceptions ruined their health, leaving intact the treasure of illusions and aspirations never satisfied, the unquenched thirst for loving, rather exacerbated by fever and high nervous tension, the fruit of suffering.

Who would have told them that there, behind the partition in whose wallpaper of fanciful patterns their bored eyes found mechanical entertainment, was to be found what they had sought in vain for so long, what they needed to cling once more to existence!

For now neither he nor she could leave their room, nor descend the stairs, nor eat in the dining-room. Prostrate and lifeless, they were brought the mineral water in a glass placed upside down on a saucer; lately, they did not even venture to drink, and the physician, foreseeing a fatal termination, remarked that it would be advisable to attend to the soul, an almost always sinister sign for the poor body.

He and she prepared to receive Jesus Christ with all the hospitality such a visit deserves. No human power could prevent them from dressing and adorning themselves as for a ball. She washed with fragrant essences and exquisite soaps, had her thick black hair carefully dressed, put on a gown of white grosgrain, and with smiling coquetry pinned her turquoise pins into her mantilla; he smoothed his neatly trimmed beard, chose his most lustrous and smooth shirt, the best-fitting waistcoat, and in evening dress and white tie awaited his God. And he and she, on feeling upon their lips the sacred wafer, enjoyed a moment of delicious emotion: it seemed to them that the outpouring expected in vain, the supreme transport of ecstasy, would come after the carnal garment was cast off, when the soul, free and blissful, should fly to the bosom of its Creator...

And so they had their last hours edifying, exemplary, of a sublime mystical ardor that drew tears from those who surrounded the bed. Their words of hope sounded moving and mysterious, spoken from the brink of the grave. They spoke of heaven, and one would have said that in naming it they already saw it; so brightly did their eyes light up and beatitude and transfiguring faith shine upon their countenances.

At the same hour they expired, and their spirits met on the way to the other world, before taking different paths, for he was wending toward purgatory in the form of a reddish flame, and she toward heaven, converted into a light blue fire. Then they saw each other for the first time, and surprised, paused to contemplate each other. As at those heights everything is divined, immediately they divined of what they had died and the likeness of their destinies during earthly life. And just as they understood clearly that both had died of a plethora of passion unsatisfied and misunderstood, they observed also with wonder that he was the soul born for her, and she the heart capable of enclosing that infinite love by which he felt undermined and consumed, like the tree that melts entirely into gum. And no sooner did they perceive it than the two spirits joined impetuously, the reddish flame mingling with the light blue fire so closely that they became a single light.

And it happened that, once united, he could not enter purgatory by reason of the part of heaven he carried, nor could she enter heaven by reason of the part of purgatory she carried. He, generous, proposed to her that they should separate, she going to enjoy the bliss of the Empyrean; but she preferred to remain united to him, even at the cost of eternal beatitude; and since then the light wanders errant, and the two spirits find no other nest for their posthumous love than the top of some ship’s mast, where sailors mistake them for the fire of Saint Elmo.

The Guilty Woman

Elisa was a most unhappy woman throughout her married life, and died, while still young, worn out by grief. It is true that she had committed a very grave fault, so grave that for it there is no forgiveness: running away with her husband before he became so, and spending twenty-four hours in his company on a train... Afterwards, what usually happens occurred: the authorities took charge of her, placed her in a convent, and a fortnight later she was married, without her parents attending the wedding; a very dignified attitude, in the opinion of sensible persons.

They had not openly opposed Elisa’s relations with Adolfo; but since the suitor did not please them in the least, and they believed they knew him and foresaw his moral character, they raised a thousand petty difficulties and managed to spin out the matter and delay it for the space of five years. They consented, to be sure, that Adolfo should visit the house, because he had little of the seducer and was even antipathetic, and they hoped that Elisa would lose all illusion on seeing him close at hand. The contrary happened: in the endless colloquies beside the fireplace, in the daily billing and cooing, Elisa’s loving heart allowed itself to be captivated for ever, and Adolfo secured his prize of the wealthy girl. After deliberate and strategic manoeuvres on the bridegroom’s part, the moment of the elopement arrived, preliminary to the marriage.

Elisa’s family took the scandal deeply to heart, all the more because they were well-known people, well connected, proud of their propriety, intransigent on matters of outward morality. There was in the house one of those periods of gloom, close, serious, deep, in which even the servants go about sullen; periods that dig a foot of grave for elderly persons. The fugitive’s two sisters were so ashamed and distressed that for many months they dared not go out into the street. One in particular was so affected that it was necessary to take her away from Madrid lest her health should suffer. The mother never pronounced Elisa’s name without sighing, as when the dead are named. The father carried the procedure to extremes: he shut himself up stubbornly and never named Elisa again. If asked how many daughters he had, he answered that he had two. “The other I lost,” he added, compressing his lips.

Once united with the man she had chosen, Elisa resolved to be blameless and perfect in everything to redeem her fault. There was no wife more tender and attentive than Elisa, no house better managed than hers, no lady who with greater self-denial effaced herself and withdrew more modestly into the shadow of the home. As after all she was young and at times the blood seethed in her veins with youthful vigour, when she saw other married women adorning themselves, covering themselves with jewels, going to balls and parties and smiling at the mirror, while she remained shut up in a dressing-gown at home, she said to herself: “Well, but they did not run away with their husbands before the wedding.” And even if she knew that they ran away afterwards... or something like it... with others,—she still persisted in regarding them as of better condition.

To such an extent did she consider herself bound to give pledges of her conduct, that she never went out alone, nor consented to receive a visit when her husband was absent. To men, whether young or old, she spoke coldly and ungraciously, cutting short the conversation at once. Her dress was dark, buttoned up to her ears, and her hair studiedly simple and without coquetry. Fond of essences and toilet waters, she suppressed them entirely from the moment she heard it said that “a virtuous woman should neither smell ill nor smell well.” To be accounted a virtuous woman was her ambition and her dream; but she despaired of ever achieving it, because of that affair of the elopement...

When the short honeymoon was over, Adolfo began to seek distraction, and under colour of politics, grew accustomed to returning late, spending his days away, without even coming home to meals. Elisa wept in silence: wept bitterly, because she loved him, loved him with all her soul, and could live happily only with him and for him, to whom she had sacrificed everything.

One day, searching her husband’s wardrobe to clean and arrange his clothes, she found mislaid in a summer coat an unequivocal letter... The grief was so sharp that Elisa took to her bed and was several days without wishing to eat and with a great desire to die. As soon as she gathered some courage, she rose and went on living. She uttered not a complaint: with what right? They could stop her mouth at the first words! And if that matter of the elopement were brought up!...

Children came, a boy and a girl; but Elisa, who bore the whole burden of rearing them, did not intervene in their education, nor ever exercised that authority of the dignified and proud mother who wears maternity like a crown. Her children grew accustomed to the fact that “Mamma did not command.”

As for the property, it may readily be inferred that Adolfo managed it solely and exclusively, and Elisa would not have ventured to spend fifty pesetas on anything out of the common without the necessary permission. When Elisa’s father died and her portion was received, still handsome, though curtailed by paternal anger, Adolfo took charge of everything and devoted the greater part to his pleasures, not without Elisa often hearing harsh reproaches and bitter allusions based upon her father having disinherited her or very nearly so.

Elisa’s health suffered: the physicians spoke of heart lesions, which were degenerating into dropsy. As the patient grew worse, she asked for a confessor, and for the hundredth time accused herself of her crime, the fatal elopement. The confessor bade her accuse herself of sins of her present life, because God is not accustomed to recount those already forgiven and absolved. But heaven’s absolution was not enough for Elisa: it is well known that God is very good; but, on the other hand, men never forget certain things, and the stain of shame is there upon one’s forehead until the last hour of life!

With eyes glazed with tears, Elisa asked that Adolfo should come, and as soon as she saw him at her bedside, throwing her arms about his neck, she whispered in his ear: “My soul, my treasure, I know well that I have no right whatever to ask you... not to marry again... but at least... look, in this solemn hour... truly forgive me that... and do not forget me so... so soon... so soon!”

Adolfo did not answer; nevertheless, it seemed natural to him to bend down and kiss her. And the guilty woman, letting her head fall upon the pillow, expired contented.

The Faithful Betrothed

It was a very great surprise to all Marineda that relations were broken off between Germán Riaza and Amelia Sirvián. Not even the separation of a married couple gives rise to so many comments. People had grown accustomed to believing that Germán and Amelia could not fail to marry. No one could explain the event, not even the bridegroom himself. Only Amelia’s confessor possessed the key to the enigma.

The fact is that those relations were already of such long standing that they had almost attained to the rank of an institution. A ten years’ courtship is no trifle. Amelia had been Germán’s betrothed from the first ball she attended when she put on long skirts.

How pretty she looked at that ball! Dressed in white crêpe, with barely any décolletage, just enough to show the beginning of her virginal shoulders and the bosom that throbbed with emotion and pleasure, her blond hair powdered, wherein rosebuds were withering, Amelia was, as was said in a group of elderly ladies, “a picture,” “an engraving from La Ilustración.” Germán led her out to dance, and when he pressed that supple waist and felt the freshness of that child-like breath, he lost his head, and in a trembling voice, bewildered, without choosing words, made a most sincere declaration, and received a spontaneous, half-involuntary, doubly delicious yes. They corresponded from the next day, and there followed that period of watching from windows and following in the street which is like the dawn of such love affairs. Neither Amelia’s parents, modest property-owners, nor Germán’s, merchants of fair means but with a numerous family, opposed the young people’s inclination, taking it for granted from the first moment that it would end in lawful wedlock, as soon as Germán should finish his law studies and be able to support a family.

The first six years were delightful. Germán spent his winters in Compostela, attending the University and writing long, tender epistles; between reading them, re-reading them, answering them, and longing for the holidays to arrive, time slipped by imperceptibly for Amelia. The holidays were a pleasant interlude, and during all the time they lasted Amelia knew that her betrothed would devote himself entirely to her. He did not yet enter the house, but accompanied Amelia on the promenade, and at night they talked by moonlight from a balcony overlooking the sea. Absence, interrupted by frequent returns, was almost an incentive, an added charm, a continuous interest, something that filled Amelia’s existence without leaving room for sadness or tedium.

As soon as Germán had his law degree in his pocket, he resolved to go to Madrid to attend the courses for the doctorate. A year of trial for the bride-to-be! Germán scarcely wrote: notes scrawled in haste, perhaps upon a café table, concise, insipid, without a drop of tenderness. And her charitable friends, who saw Amelia with dark rings under her eyes, preoccupied, holding aloof from distractions, said to her with mocking malice:—Go on, you silly girl, enjoy yourself... God knows what he is doing over there! You would be very naive if you believed he was not deceiving you...! My cousin Lorenzo writes to me that he saw Germán very lively at the theatre with some women...

The joy of Germán’s return compensated for these sorrows. In two days Amelia no longer remembered what she had suffered, her doubts, her suspicions. Authorised to frequent his betrothed’s house, Germán attended the family gathering every evening, and in the half-light of the piano corner, far from the lamp veiled by a silk shade, the lovers carried on an endless dialogue, seeking each other’s hands from time to time to exchange a furtive pressure, and always looking into each other’s eyes to drink the gaze down to the very depths of the pupils.