To an Angel · 12

I raised my eyes and sought those of the portrait. Doña Magdalena’s gaze seemed to me more tenacious, more intense, more sorrowful. The great-grandson was silent and sighed, as though his heart were oppressed by the ancestral drama, as though he perceived the dampness of tears evaporated a century ago.

Sarah and Hagar

“Explain to me—I said to Señor de Bernárdez—a thing that has always aroused my curiosity. Why in your drawing-room do you have, in matching twin frames, the portraits of your late wife and of an unknown child who, as you assure me, is neither son, nor nephew, nor any kin of hers? Whose is that other photograph of a woman, placed opposite upon the piano...? Do you not know? A graceful young woman, with a fringe of little curls upon her forehead?”

The sexagenarian blinked, stopped, and a flush of pink crossed his withered cheeks. As we were walking up an incline on the highway, I attributed it to fatigue and offered him my arm, encouraging him to continue the stroll, so beneficial to his health; so much so that if he did not walk, he was wont to go to bed without supper and sleep poorly and little. He made a sign with his hand that he could continue the walk, and we went some hundred paces further in silence. Upon reaching the foot of the church, a bench, still warm from the sun and well situated to command the landscape, tempted us, and at the same moment we made our way toward it. No sooner had Bernárdez rested and caught his breath a little than he took up my question.

“It surprises me that you do not know the story of those portraits: in towns like Goyán, every mother’s son sticks his nose into his neighbour’s life, glossing what happens and what does not happen, and inventing what he cannot find out!”

I understood that the good gentleman must have been greatly annoyed in years past by the gossip and prying of the place, and I held my peace, nodding my head in approval. Two minutes later I was able to convince myself that, like almost all who have had joys and sorrows of a certain kind, Bernárdez took a childish pleasure in recounting them; for those proud souls are not numerous who prefer to be for themselves both Christ and Cyrenian and bear their own burden alone.—Here is Bernárdez’s story, just as he related it to me while the sun was sinking behind the green hill where Goyán sits.

«My wife and I married very young: two babes, with mother’s milk still upon our lips. She was fifteen, I eighteen. A piece of childish folly, no doubt of it. What happened with such early rising was that, loving each other and getting on like two angels, out of sheer good understanding, by the time I entered my thirty-fifth year, my wife began to seem to me... well, like my sister. I felt a boundless tenderness for her; I did nothing without consulting her, I took no step that she did not advise, I saw only through her eyes... but all fraternal, all very calm.

»We had no offspring, and we did not miss them. We never made novenas or vows to any saint that he might send us such a headache. The house ran like a chronometer: my notary practice flourished; our estate increased; we acquired land; we enjoyed a thousand comforts; we never exchanged a word louder than another, and we watched old age approach together without unease or alarm, like a mariner nearing the end of a prosperous voyage undertaken on his own initiative, for pleasure and for duty.

»One day my wife brought me word that the tenant of a hovel belonging to us had died. This tenant was a poor creature, the widow of a civil guard, and the orphan, a child of five years, was left alone in the world.—We could take her in, Hipólito—Romana added.—It breaks one’s heart to see her so. We could teach her to iron, to sew, to cook, and when she grows up we would have a faithful, humble little maidservant.—Say rather that we would perform a work of mercy and that you have a heart of butter.—That was what I answered, jesting. Alas! If only man could foresee where his destiny will spring upon him!

»We took in the child, whose name was Mercedes, and no sooner had we washed and tidied her than she turned out to be a little divinity, with hair curled like golden shavings, and eyes that looked like two violets, and such grace and wheedling ways... From the moment we saw her... farewell to plans of teaching her to iron and mind the stew-pot! We began to educate her in the manner young ladies are educated... just as we would educate a daughter if we had one. Of course in Goyán we could not polish her very much, but everything this remote corner permits was done. And as for pampering her... Good heavens! Romana especially... a complete disaster! Just imagine that poor Romana, so modest for herself that I never saw her fancy a single piece of finery... ordered Mercedes’s dresses and little coats from the finest dressmaker in Marineda. What do you think of that?

»When the lass grew up to think herself a woman, the young gentlemen also began to pay court to her and hover round her on fair days and holidays, and I was furious whenever I noticed them making sheep’s eyes at her. She would laugh and always say to me, looking straight into my face:—Godfather (she called me that), let us make fun of these silly fellows; I love you better than any of them.—It pleased me so much to hear her say it (the devil’s own doing!) that I scolded her merely to hear her repeat:—I love you better...—Until once, very softly, in my ear:—I love you better, and I like you best... and I shall never marry, never, godfather!—By my faith, that was how the girl spoke!

»My wits were turned. I did wrong, very wrong, and yet, in my shoes, I know not what more than a hundred pious folk would have done. In short, I repeat that I became like a lunatic, and without intention, without weighing the consequences (for I repeat that I completely lost my head), I, who had lived for more than twenty years as an honest man and a loyal husband, threw everything to the winds in a single day... in a quarter of an hour...

»Not quite everything to the winds; for as truly as God hears us, I continued to cherish a deep, unalterable affection for my wife, and had they proposed that I leave her and wander the wide world with Mercedes—I confessed as much to Mercedes herself, make no mistake, and she wept oceans—I would sooner have parted from a hundred Mercedes than from my wife. After so many years of life together, it seemed to me that Romana and I had been born at the same moment, and that united, hand in hand, we ought to die. Only Mercedes had turned my head, and whenever I felt her draw near me, my blood rushed from head to foot, my palate was parched, and in my ears it seemed as if the thundering gallop of horses resounded, a clamour that stunned me.»

“Is that Mercedes’s portrait on the piano?—I asked the old man.”

“Mercedes’s it is. Well, you see: Romana suspected something, and malicious busybodies saw to the rest. Then, to avoid unpleasantness, I concocted a story: I said that some gentlefolk from Marineda, who were going to spend a long season in Madrid, wished to take Mercedes with them; and what I did was furnish an apartment in Marineda, where Mercedes established herself decorously with a little maid. Under the pretext of business, I saw the girl at least once a week. Thus matters were better... well, more tolerable than if both women had been beneath the same roof, with me between them.”

»Romana held her peace—she was very prudent—but she went about uneasy, pensive, troubled; and I said to myself: from what quarter will the blow fall? And it fell... where do you suppose? One afternoon when I returned from Marineda, my wife, without giving me time to take off my cloak, shut herself up with me in her room and told me she was not ignorant of Mercedes’s condition... You can well imagine what Mercedes’s condition was!... and that, since she had suffered so much and with such patience, whatever was born had to belong to her, to Romana, in full ownership... just as though Romana herself had borne it.

»I was struck dumb. And the fact is that my wife spoke in such a manner, with such a tone and such words! And besides, she was so entirely in the right and had such an abundance of reasons to command and demand, that no sooner was the boy born and I saw him swaddled, than I wrapped him in a knitted shawl that Romana gave me for that purpose, and in the carriage from Marineda to Goyán he made his first journey in this world.»

“Is that boy the one portrayed beside your wife, within the twin frames?”

“Aha! Exactly. Look you: I doubt that any child, not even Alfonso XIII, was ever better cared for and more cherished! Romana, from the moment she took possession of the little one, paid no heed to me, nor to anyone, but only to him. The child slept in her room; she dressed him, she undressed him, she held him upon her lap, she taught him to put letters together, and she made him say his prayers. She even resolved to make her will in the child’s favour... Only he died before Romana; for the lad caught smallpox on the twentieth of March, and a week later he flew to glory... and as for Romana, it was on the seventh of April that the doctor gave her up, and I lost her the following morning.»”

“Did she catch the smallpox from him?—I asked Señor de Bernárdez, who was dabbing his folded handkerchief to his red-rimmed, lusterless eyes.”

“Naturally... When she never left the child’s side!”

“And you, why did you not marry Mercedes?”

“Because I am bad, but not so bad as that—he replied in a quavering voice, while a watery drop that failed to round itself into a tear appeared in his dry tear-ducts.”

The Gypsy’s Curse

Whenever omens and superstitions are discussed among people with pretensions to education, there is no one who does not declare himself exempt from childish fears, and almost as carefree as Don Juan before the statues of his victims. Nevertheless, once the ten minutes devoted to vaunting a strong mind have elapsed, everyone knows some strange story, some inexplicable happening, a «coincidence». (Coincidences pay the expenses.)

The most frequent occasion for speaking of superstitions is afforded by dinner parties. Of the fourteen or fifteen guests, one or two send their excuses: on sitting down at table, someone notices that there are thirteen diners—and at once the animation flags, forced laughter and insincere jokes are heard, and the hosts find themselves obliged to seek, even if in the nether regions, a fourteenth person. The ill omen once averted, good cheer revives; the ladies’ giggles ring true; one sees that lungs breathe freely. Who has not witnessed an episode of this kind?

At the last one I attended, I was able to observe that Gustavo Lizana, a fairly untroubled young fellow, was the longest-faced on counting thirteen, and the one whose brow cleared most when we became fourteen. I had not thought that indefatigable huntsman and sportsman so superstitious, and being surprised to see him visibly altered at first, at coffee-time I drew him toward a corner of the small Japanese parlour and questioned him directly.

“A coincidence—he replied, as was to be expected; and seeing me smile, he offered me with a gesture the embroidered sofa, upon whose cushions a flock of white cranes with pink feet flew above a golden reed-bed rising from a fantastic lagoon: he sat down upon a bamboo chair, and rapidly, punctuating his narrative with agitated movements, related to me his coincidence of the fatal number.”

“My two intimate friends—those of my heart—were the two Mayoral boys, of an ancient and wealthy Extremaduran family. We had been together at the Jesuit college, and when we went out into the world, our friendship grew closer. The elder was named Leoncio and the other Santiago; and you have rarely seen two handsomer figures, few more engaging lads, and few brothers who loved each other so dearly. Bereft of father and mother, and masters of their fortune, they knew no mine and thine: common purse, complete confidence, and despite the difference in temperaments—Leoncio nervous and vehement in the highest degree, and Santiago of an even, peaceful temper—unalterable harmony. They called me, in jest, their other brother, and people, through seeing us constantly together, had come to think that we were, at the very least, close kin, the Mayorals and I.”

Passionate huntsmen all three, we used to go for weeks together to the pastures and preserves that the Mayorals possessed in La Mancha and Extremadura, where there is every creature God ever made, from partridges and rabbits to roe-deer, stags, wild boars, genets, and wildcats.

With a good reinforcement of black shotguns and a pack of excellent hounds, we conducted drives and beats that were the wonder of the region. Of these excursions we planned one on a certain feast day of Saint Leoncio; the date cannot be forgotten. We had been invited together by an aunt of the Mayorals, a most discreet lady and mother of a charming girl, for whom Santiago was hopelessly smitten: refining upon it, I believe this passion of Santiago’s had its share of blame in the misfortune that occurred: I will presently explain why.

The fact is that we gathered at the house, where, on account of the festival, there were several other guests: little friends of the girl, grave gentlemen, intimates of the mother... And I, who never used to count the diners in those days, upon passing into the dining-room, involuntarily glanced at the place-settings... We were thirteen, exactly thirteen!

It never even occurred to me to say a word: on the other hand, I felt no apprehension. We must have been half-way through dinner when the mistress of the house noticed it, and said laughing:—«Well, well! With Julia’s cold, which prevented her coming, we are left at the baker’s dozen! Do not be frightened, gentlemen; for no one here has reached sixty except myself, and in any case I shall be the chosen one.»—What were we to do? We took it as a joke too, and drank cheerfully to falsify the augury. And there was a gentleman there who, fancying himself witty, said with dry humour:—«It is very bad to dine thirteen... when there is only food for twelve.»

Early the following morning we took the train and set out for the hunting-ground. The expedition promised to be magnificent; the temperature was, as of mid-September, mild and delightful; each evening the game-bags returned stuffed with quarry, and to our greater satisfaction, we had been informed that deer were roaming the hills, and that the first beat promised us rich booty. We decided that this beat should begin on a Wednesday morning, and no sooner had we dispatched our bread-crumbs and chocolate than we went out to mount our hacks, which awaited us at the door amid the throng of black shotguns and the clamour and excitement of the dogs. As I recall so vividly the slightest circumstances of that day, I remember that I was greatly surprised by the fury with which the animals barked, and on looking out, I saw, leaning against one of the posts of the trellised vine that shaded the door, a swarthy, squalid, ragged gypsy woman.

She might be about twenty, and had dirt, bare feet, and dishevelled locks not disfigured her, she would not have lacked a certain wild charm, for her eyes shone in her sallow face like black diamonds, her teeth were blanched pine-nuts, and her waist a slender reed. The tatters of her skirt barely covered her thin, bare ankles, and about her neck hung a string of glass beads mingled with I know not what amulets. I said her eyes shone, and it was true; they shone in a strange way that I knew not how to define; she kept them fixed on Santiago—who, I repeat, was a gallant lad, fair and white, and at that moment, standing upon the mounting-block with one foot in the stirrup, with his broad-brimmed hat, his dashing cloak made of a Zamora blanket with an upturned collar of green velvet, and his high hunting chaps, which displayed the straightness of his leg, seemed even more handsome and debonair.—And it was to Santiago that the Egyptian directed her litanies, tossing him those strange compliments they use, and offering to tell his fortune. At that moment Santiago was surely thinking of the sweet face of his betrothed, and the contrast with that of the gypsy woman must have caused him a feeling of repugnance toward her; for he was gallant with all women, and yet he let fly a harsh and even cruel phrase, a fatal phrase... so I believe...

“What fortune are you going to give me?—exclaimed Santiago.—You would wish it for yourself! If you had any fortune, you wouldn’t be so ugly and so black, my girl!”