To an Angel · 10

Never had Amelia been so happy. What could she desire? Germán was there, and the wedding was an agreed, settled affair, postponed only by the necessity of Germán finding a little position, a foundation upon which to establish himself; a public prosecutorsorship, for example. As another year passed and the position was not yet found, Germán decided to open a law office and dabble in local politics, to see whether in that way he might acquire influence and secure the coveted post. His new duties obliged him not to see Amelia for so long a time nor so often. When the girl lamented this, Germán fully vindicated himself; they had to think of the future; Amelia already knew that one day or another they would marry, and she ought not to dwell upon trifles, upon pruderies proper to those who are just beginning to love each other. In fact, Germán continued with the firm purpose of marrying as soon as circumstances permitted.

In the ninth year of their courtship Amelia’s parents noticed (and everyone ended by noticing) that the girl’s character seemed completely changed. Instead of the healthy cheerfulness and evenness of temper that adorned her, she showed herself full of oddities and caprices, now laughing boisterously, now shut up in sullen silence. Her health was affected also: she felt an unconquerable lack of appetite, cruel sleeplessness, which obliged her to spend the nights out of bed, because she said that her bed, with her sleeplessness, seemed her grave; moreover, she suffered from palpitations and nervous attacks. When asked what her ailment consisted in, she answered laconically: “I do not know.” And it was true; but at last she knew, and knowing it did her greater harm.

What tiny indications; what imperceptible but linked facts; what inexplicable revelations emanating from all that surrounds us, cause the yesterday ignorant maiden, without discovering anything new or concrete, without anyone informing her with shameless precision, suddenly to understand and the veil of Isis to be torn before her eyes? Amelia, suddenly, understood. Her ailment was nothing but desire, longing, haste, the need to marry. What shame, what blushing, what grief and what disillusionment if Germán came even to suspect it! Ah! Better to die first. Dissemble, dissemble at all costs, and let neither her betrothed, nor her parents, nor the world know it!

Seeing Germán so peaceful, so self-possessed, so armed with patience; growing stout while she was wasting away; jocular while she soaked her pillow with tears, Amelia accused herself, admiring the serenity, the prudence, the virtue of her betrothed. And to restrain herself and not throw herself weeping into his arms; not to commit the unworthy folly of going out one afternoon alone and proceeding to Germán’s house, Amelia needed all her courage, all her modesty, all the restraint of the notions of honour and honesty that had been inculcated into her from childhood.

One day... without knowing how, without any extraordinary event, any overheard conversation enlightening her, the last threads of the veil were rent... Amelia saw the light; in her soul flashed the terrible notion of reality; and on remembering that a little while before she had admired Germán’s resignation and envied his patience, and on explaining to herself now the true cause of that patience and that incomparable resignation, a sardonic burst of laughter curled her lips, while in her throat she fancied she felt a running knot tightening little by little and strangling her. The convulsion was horrible, long, tenacious; and barely was Amelia, shattered, able to form sentences, than she entreated her dismayed parents to inform Germán that their engagement was broken off. Letters from the bridegroom, entreaties, paternal advice, all were in vain: Amelia clung to her resolution, and persisted in it, offering neither reasons nor excuses.

—My daughter, in my opinion, you did very wrong—Father Incienso said to her, seeing her bathed in tears at the foot of the confessional—. A steady, hardworking young fellow, ready to marry, is not easily found. Even waiting to have a position before founding a family I find praiseworthy in him. As for the rest... those notions of yours... Men... unfortunately... While he is single, he will have had those diversions... But you...

“Father—exclaimed the young woman—believe me, for here I speak with God! I loved him... I love him... and for that very reason... for that very reason, father! If I do not leave him... I shall imitate him! I too...!”

Afra

The first time I attended the theatre in Marineda—when I was stationed with my regiment in the garrison of this pretty provincial capital—I remember that I directed my opera-glasses toward the triple tier of boxes, to inform myself well concerning the womankind and the hopes a youth not quite five-and-twenty years of age might build upon them.

The women of Marineda enjoy a reputation for beauty, and I saw that it was not usurped. I observed also that their beauty consists principally in their colouring. Fair (by the work of nature, not of the perfumer), with crimson lips, blooming cheeks, and soft flesh, the women of Marineda seemed to me a garland of roses spread upon a rail of dark velvet. Suddenly, in the glass of the spectacles I was passing slowly along the said garland, was framed a countenance that fixed my opera-glasses in the direction they then had. And it was not that that face surpassed the others in beauty, but that it differed from them all in expression and character.

Instead of a fresh complexion and a placid, roguish expression, I saw a pale face, of energetic lines, with green eyes crowned by very black eyebrows, almost meeting, which lent them a singular severity; a delicate and well-shaped nose, but with mobile nostrils, revealing vehement passion; a face of severe, almost masculine cut, crowned by a helmet of braids of inky blackness; a heavy head of hair that must have absorbed the vital juices and caused harm to its possessor... That countenance, while continuing to attract, alarmed, for it was of those that say clearly from the first moment to whoever contemplates them: “I am a will. I may bend, but not break. Beneath the elegant feminine mannequin, I conceal the steely spring of a soul.”

I have said that my opera-glasses halted, resting eagerly upon the pale young lady with the abundant hair. Taking advantage of the movements she made to converse with some ladies who accompanied her, I took in her profile, her pronounced chin, her slender and long neck, which seemed to bend beneath the weight of the voluminous knot of hair, her small, close-set ear, as though not to lose a sound. When I had remained thus for a good while, undoubtedly attracting attention by my persistence in regarding that woman, I felt a light tap upon my shoulder, and heard my comrade-in-arms Alberto Castro say to me:

“Take care!”

“Take care, why?—I replied, lowering the glasses.”

“Because I see you in danger of falling in love with Afra Reyes, and if it is ordained by God that it must happen, at least it shall not be without my warning you and informing you of her history. It is a service that we sons of Marineda owe to strangers.”

“Why, has she a history?—I murmured with a movement of repugnance; because, even without loving a woman, I like her purity, as one likes the cleanliness of houses where we never intend to dwell.”

“In the sense usually given to the word history, Afra has none... On the contrary, she is one of the most well-behaved and least coquettish girls to be found anywhere. No one can boast that Afra returns a glance, or says a word of those that give encouragement. And if you doubt it, make the trial: devote yourself to her; look at her more; she will not even deign to turn her head. I assure you that I have seen many who went mad over her and could not obtain even a glance from Afra Reyes.”

“Well, then... what?... Has she something... in secret? Something that stains her honour?”

“Her honour, or if you will, her purity... I repeat that she neither has nor had any stain. Afra, as to that... is like crystal. What there is I will tell you... but not here; when the theatre is over we will go out together, and yonder along the Espolón, where no one will overhear... For it concerns grave matters... of greater consequence.”

I waited with as little impatience as possible for them to finish singing The Sorceress, and as soon as the curtain fell, Alberto and I walked arm-in-arm toward the quays. The solitude was complete, although the warm night invited walking, and the moon silvered the waters of the bay, calm at that hour like a millpond, and mysteriously white in the distance.

“Do not suppose—said Alberto—that I have brought you here merely so that no one should hear me tell you Afra’s story. It is also that it seemed to me fitting to relate it upon the very stage of the drama this story contains. Do you see this sea so peaceful, so asleep, producing that soft, silky murmur against the wall of the sea-wall? Well, only this sea... and God, who made it, can boast of knowing the whole truth concerning the woman who attracted your attention at the theatre! The rest of us judge her by mere conjectures... and perhaps we slander in conjecturing! But there are such fatal coincidences, there are such accusing appearances in the world... that nothing could dispel them save the voice of God Himself, who sees hearts and knows how to distinguish the innocent from the guilty.”

«Afra Reyes is the daughter of a wealthy merchant; she was educated for some time in an English school, but her father suffered bankruptcies, and to lessen expenses brought the girl home, interrupting her education. Nevertheless, the English varnish was noticeable in her: she brought back certain tastes for independence and a great fondness for bodily exercises. When the bathing season arrived, nothing was spoken of in the town but her skill and vigour in swimming; a surprising thing.

»Afra was the intimate, inseparable friend of another young lady of this place, Flora Castillo; the intimacy of the two girls continued that of their families. They spent the day together; neither went out unless the other accompanied her; they dressed alike and showed each other, laughing, the love-letters written to them. They had no suitors, nor even showed predilection for anyone. There came from the Naval Department a certain very handsome and charming naval officer, Flora’s cousin, and folk began to say that the officer was courting Afra, and that Afra returned his affection with enthusiasm. And we all noticed it: Afra’s eyes never left the gallant, and in speaking to him, deep emotion was discernible even in her laboured breath and veiled voice. When a few months later it became known that the said officer had actually come to marry Flora, a storm of gossip and scandal arose, and it was presumed that the two friends would quarrel for ever. It was not so; though altered in looks and sad, Afra seemed resigned, and accompanied Flora from shop to shop to choose garments and finery for the wedding. This happened in August.

»In September, shortly before the date appointed for the wedding, the two friends went, as usual, to bathe together yonder... don’t you see? on the little beach of San Wintila, where the sea is usually rough. Generally the bridegroom accompanied them, but that day he undoubtedly had business, for he did not accompany them.

»A storm was threatening; the sea was very choppy; the seagulls were shrieking mournfully, and the maid who took charge of their clothes and helped the young ladies to dress related afterwards that Flora, the fair and timid Flora, felt afraid on seeing the threatening aspect of the great green billows breaking against the sands. But Afra, intrepid, her sailor costume of dark blue serge already donned, encouraged her friend with pleasantries. They went out into the sea hand in hand, and soon they were seen swimming, still clinging to each other, enveloped in the foam of the waves.

»A little more than a quarter of an hour later Afra came out upon the beach alone, dishevelled, hoarse, livid, screaming, crying for help, sobbing that Flora had been carried away by the sea...

»And so truly had it carried her away, that of the pretty blonde only a disfigured corpse reappeared the next day, wounded in the forehead... The account of the accident given by Afra amid groans and swoons was that Flora, exhausted from swimming and without strength, cried ‘I am drowning’; that she, Afra, hearing it, darted to support and save her; that Flora, struggling not to sink, was dragging Afra into the abyss; but that, even so, they might perhaps have succeeded in reaching the shore, had not fatality driven them toward a transatlantic liner anchored in the bay since morning. Striking against the keel, Flora received the horrible wound, and Afra also received the scratches and bruises discernible on her hands and face...

»Whether I believe that Afra...?

»I will only add that the naval officer, Flora’s betrothed, was never seen here again; and Afra, from that time, has never smiled...

»For the rest, remember what Wisdom says: the heart of man... a dark forest. Imagine that of woman!»

Dreamed Tale

There was once a princess whom her father, a very sullen, brooding, beetle-browed king, compelled to live a recluse in a somber fortress, without permitting her to leave the highest tower, at whose foot sentinels kept watch night and day, armed cap-a-pie and ready to impale upon their lances or run through with their sharp javelins whoever dared approach. The princess was very lovely; she had a complexion the colour of moonlight, hair of golden threads, eyes like the waves of a calm sea, and her slender, graceful silhouette recalled that of white lilies when the coolness of the water holds them erect. In all the district nothing was spoken of but the captive princess and her rare beauty, and of how terribly she must be bored between the four stout walls of the tower, without seeing from the windows a living soul, other than the motionless guards resembling iron statues.

The peasants crossed themselves in terror if by chance they had to pass before the tower, even at a very respectful distance. Into the ancient forest surrounding the fortress, not even hunters ventured to penetrate, fearful of being hunted. Silence and solitude around the tower, silence and solitude within it: such was the lot of the poor maiden, condemned to the eternal contemplation of sky and forest, and of the copious river winding and lapping the walls of the enclosure.

Leaning upon the ledge of the narrow window, the princess was wont to abandon herself to vague daydreams, aspiring to blessings she did not know, of which she formed an idea from the reports of her ladies and from conversations half heard and surprised—for it was forbidden to speak before the princess of the world and its pleasures.—Even so, gathering scattered details and reconciling them with the aid of fancy, the captive imagined magnificent festivities, magical illuminations suspended among the foliage of shrubs laden with blossom and exhaling intoxicating fragrances; she heard the harmonies of musical instruments, winged melodies that flew like swans upon the surface of lakes, and saw the couples who, clasping each other by the waist, displaying silks, lace, and jewels, danced with unwearied ardour, the gallants whispering honeyed words into the ears of the damsels, blushing with modesty and happiness, their curls loose and their bosoms heaving. While the princess pictured these scenes, the clouds were dyed with carmine toward the West, a grave and deep murmur ascended from the river and the forest, and the captive, oppressed with longing for freedom, murmured to herself: “What must love be like?”

Yonder where the bare mountain commanded river and forest, a miserable little hut with a thatch of straw served as a dwelling for a certain shepherd boy, who by custom came down to pasture ten or twelve white sheep on the very edge of the forest. More resolute than the other peasants, the lad did not fear to approach the castle and glide through the underwood with agility and stealth, to look toward the tower. After finding a tiny path, almost obliterated, that ended in the bed of the river, the shepherd also succeeded in discovering that at the end of the path opened the mouth of a cave; and entering through it intrepidly, he was able to satisfy himself that, passing beneath the river, the cave had another outlet leading into the interior of the fortified enclosure. The discovery made the shepherd lad’s heart beat fast, for he was in love with the princess (though he had never seen her). He supposed that by taking advantage of the passage through the cave he would succeed in seeing her to his heart’s content, without being hindered by the armed men, who, having no suspicion that anyone could enter the enclosure almost at the foot of the tower, watched only the opposite bank and the river. It is true that between the captive’s tower and the shepherd extensive courtyards, wide moats, and stout ramparts intervened; for all that, the youth deemed himself happy: he was within the fortress, and soon he would see his beloved.