To an Angel · 13

The gypsy woman did not flinch in appearance, but I noticed in her eyes something that seemed like the shadow of an abyss; and fixing them once more upon Santiago, who was already on horseback, she articulated slowly, with atrocious indifference and in a hoarse voice:

“You want no good fortune, handsome lad? Then take my curses... May God grant... May God grant... that you ride out mounted and return laid out!”

I know not in what tone the wicked creature could have said it, that we were frozen to the marrow. Leoncio, especially, as he adored his brother, turned somewhat pale and advanced toward the gypsy with a threatening air; the dogs, who know their masters’ intentions so perfectly, sprang forward barking furiously; one of them sank its teeth into the woman’s bare leg, and she uttered a scream. This was enough for Leoncio and me, and everyone, including Santiago, to be distracted from the curse and think only of saving the young witch, who was in imminent danger of being torn to pieces by the pack. The dogs once restrained, when we turned our heads, the gypsy was no longer to be seen; she had doubtless taken to cover, though no one knew where.

Upon Gustavo reaching this point in his narrative, a memory suddenly struck me.

“Wait, wait—I murmured, reflecting.—I believe I know the end of the story... When you named the Mayorals, my mind began to work... The name sounded familiar... I have an idea that I know the two brothers, and I am already reconstructing their figures... Leoncio, lively, dark, slender; Santiago, fair and somewhat stouter... Was it on that hunt where?...”

“Where Leoncio, believing he was firing at a roebuck, shot Santiago through the head with a bullet—Gustavo replied slowly, clasping his hands in involuntary anguish.—Santiago returned laid out... I lost both my friends at once; for the slayer, if he did not go mad at once, as happens in novels and plays, remained in a state of bewilderment and stupor that grew every day; and perhaps to forget for brief moments the horrible scene, he gave himself up—he who was so steady that we used to tease him—to a thousand excesses, thus completing his ruin. After learning of this coincidence, will you wonder that I take little pleasure in sitting at a table of thirteen? However much I try to control myself, my fear shows... Fear, yes; one must call things by their right name!”

“And did the gypsy woman ever appear again?—I asked with curiosity.”

“The gypsy woman! Who knows where those ill-omened crows fly!—exclaimed Gustavo gloomily.—Those of that tribe have neither stay nor dwelling-place... As Cervantes says, their fleetness is not hindered by fetters, nor halted by ravines, nor checked by walls... When we were waking poor Santiago, and striving to prevent the despairing Leoncio from taking his own life, the witch must have been already among the crags, on the road to Huelva or Portugal.”

The Viper

“Have you read Selgas?—asked the discreet widow, closing her antique fan of vernis Martin, one of those jewels that serve for everything except fanning oneself.—Have you read Selgas?”

Those of us who formed a little circle in the heated conservatory, fleeing the suffocating and crowded drawing-rooms, shook our heads. Selgas? An author on whom, as the saying goes, «the sun has gone down»... A name now almost erased...

“Well, he was witty—declared the little widow—and amused me immensely... In I know not which book of his—exact citations are for the pedants—he sets forth a substantial theory, make no mistake. Apropos of the parliamentary system, which annoyed him greatly, he says that while no one complains of what he does not choose, everyone fumes at what he did choose; that we rarely show ourselves dissatisfied with our parents or our children, but of spouses and servants there is always something bad to tell. Is that not amusing? Only in that chapter on conjugal choice he failed to distinguish... He forgot to say that only men choose, while women take what presents itself... And the fact is that conjugal choice confirms Selgas’s theory: men, who choose broadly and freely, are the ones who choose worst.”

This assertion by the widow raised a whirlwind of humorous protests among the masculine element of the circle.

“There is no need to crowd me—the lady exclaimed boldly.—Men who choose well, hit the mark like the fellow in the fable... And if not... to the proof. Every Thursday that we meet here—in this corner, in the shade of these colossal pandanus trees, near this pretty fountain with electric light—I offer to tell you a story of masculine conjugal choice... which will seem incredible to you. We shall begin this very evening... Here is today’s.”

When I lost my husband, I had to live for several years in a provincial capital, unravelling business matters of great moment to myself and my children. You know that I am not unsociable, and once my mourning was past, I took advantage of the few opportunities to see company that were offered there. There was a recreation society that gave two or three masked balls during Carnival, and I liked to go and sit in a box, accompanied by several friends of both sexes who were wont to visit me, and amuse myself by looking down at the fanciful disguises, the animation, and the jests running below in the teeming hall. They were balls in which the gentry and the middle class mingled with many artisan families, without the distinctions between these social classes being very noticeable—for the working women of M—— dress, comb their hair, and adorn themselves with taste, are handsome, and have a refined air.—The board of directors only rigorously excluded notoriously disreputable women; and imagine the consternation of the assembly when, on the night of Carnival Monday, the rumour began to spread that the celebrated Natalia, otherwise known as The Viper (the Snake), was at the ball, masked and on the arm of a member; they gave her this nickname because of her reputation for wickedness and deceit, or, according to others, because she had a tiny head, an olive complexion, and hair almost bluish from sheer blackness; particulars of whose accuracy we were all able to satisfy ourselves, as you shall see.

Upon the news becoming known, the president of the society happened to be in my box, a wealthy and respectable widower, father of a charming little girl whom I used to take home in the afternoons to play with my own child. Startled and perturbed, the president fidgeted in his seat, screwing up his courage, as they say, to go down and perform his duty of expelling the intruder. You will understand that there is no more painful duty: to go and administer a public slap in the face to a woman... whoever she may be! We all followed the suspicious mask with our eyes, and indignation was brewing. Deserted at the first whisper by the member who had introduced her and who hastened to vanish; assailed by a few striplings who pelted her with insolent gibes and banter; isolated at the same time in an open space—for all the other women drew back—the Snake, pressing her mask to her face, gathering the folds of her devout woman’s cloak as if to conceal herself, remained leaning against one of the pillars supporting the boxes, in the posture of a hunted beast. At last the president made up his mind, and, hastily taking his hat, stepped out into the corridor; soon we saw him appear in the ballroom and make his way to where the Snake was. At the dry, rapid phrases of the president, like whip-lashes, the striplings drew aside, leaving the woman alone; and she, with a haughty movement that mimicked dignity, turning under the outrage, suddenly snatched off her black satin mask, threw back her cloak, and with head bared, neck erect, and eyes flashing fire, looked, challenged, and blasted first the president, then, in a circle, the entire assembly, the ladies and young ladies who turned their heads blushing, the men who whispered and laughed... And slowly, without lowering her brow, she passed through the crowded throng that shrank at her touch, and still, from the doorway, turning, shot the venom of her pupils (what a gaze that was, good heavens!) at the president, who was gesticulating among a ring of committee members and gentlemen congratulating him on his action... A few minutes later, greatly excited, the good gentleman returned to the box, and while escorting me out, was still talking of the minx’s impudence, relating to us, with as much reserve as possible, her life and adventures, capable indeed of bringing a blush to a statue of stone.

At the end of five months, when idyllic country outings and rural pilgrimages replace the frivolous diversions of Carnival, it began to be whispered in M—— that the president of the Friends’ Club, the upright and reputable Don Mariano Subleiras, with his fifty-odd years, his widowerhood, and his charming little girl, was entering upon a second marriage... Have you already guessed with whom?... With Natalia herself, the Viper, the disreputable woman cast out from the ball!—On hearing it, know that I did not doubt it for a single moment. You will say that I am a pessimist... Say what you will, the fact is that I at once firmly believed to be the sober truth that which seemed to everyone else the height of absurdity!—«Don’t you remember?»—they objected.—«Why, it was he himself who showed her the door...»—«Well, for that reason, precisely for that reason»—I answered, leaving them dumbfounded. At last they turned my head so much with the wretched wedding, that between the desire to oblige and the pity inspired in me by the little girl, that sweetest of fair-haired darlings threatened with such a stepmother, I decided to meddle where I was not called and bestow upon Don Mariano the ever unwelcome gift of good advice... I called him to account, I preached him a sermon worthy of a Capuchin friar; I was eloquent, I assure you I was... And I felt very proud when, at the conclusion of my discourse, Don Mariano, seemingly moved, murmured as he touched the corner of his handkerchief to his eyes:—«I promise you that I will not marry Natalia...»

“And did he marry her shortly after?—those of the circle asked maliciously.”

“No, gentlemen... He did not marry her shortly after... When he was pledging me his inviolable word... he was already married... secretly!”

There were exclamations, laughter, and comments in the group, and Ramiro Nozales, who fancied himself an observer, uttered with emphasis:

“How human that is!”

“What concerned me greatly then—the lady continued—was to find out how the reptile had managed to make Don Mariano her prey. Her motive was obvious: a vengeance that makes the hair stand on end... But what means had she employed? When she was expelled from the ball, Don Mariano knew her only by sight and by her deplorable reputation... My curiosity excited, into which entered so much concern for the poor child, I was able to find out something... Something that you too will say is very human, my friend Nozales, for I know your school! It seems that the Viper presented herself at Don Mariano’s house a few days after the expulsion, and bathed in tears, with plentiful swoons and sighs, asked him for reparation for the outrage; reparation... how shall I put it? A private reparation, a kind word, an apology, something to comfort her, because ever since that episode she felt ill, dejected, and at death’s door... «From another person, you see, it would not have mattered to me; but from you... well, from you... so worthy a gentleman, so virtuous a gentleman...», they say the Snake hissed, beginning imperceptibly to coil herself... From this to a glass of water, to telling a long story, to being listened to and pitied, visited afterwards, to linking with the first ring, to gliding, to embracing already with flexible coils chest, head, and whole body... the road is neither long nor difficult, and in four months and a half the Viper traversed it... until reaching the church.—The following year, on the night of Carnival Monday, Don Mariano and his lady occupied the box opposite mine... It was the first time they appeared together in public. Afterwards we never saw Don Mariano alone; her, yes. They said his wife commanded him in such fashion that, whenever she left the house, she locked him in...”

“And the little girl?—asked Nozales with sad eagerness.”

“Ah!—sighed the lady.—The little girl... they have written to me from there that she died of consumption!...”

Blood from the Arm

On Easter Monday, beneath a resplendent sun and a warm, perfumed air that provoked springtide impatiences and fervours in the fresh shoots of the trees and upon the paths that longed to blossom—where the last faded violets competed with the first white bellflowers and pink-rimmed daisies—the fair heiress of the noble house and estates of Abencerraje united her destiny in the chapel of the restored ancestral castle with the handsome and gallant young Marquess of Alcalá de los Hidalgos.

Everything smiled upon that wedding, nature no less than the future of the bridal pair. To the picture of their youth, of the bridegroom’s love, revealed by a thousand delicate attentions and fond excesses, and to the candid beauty of the bride, an ample fortune, illustrious birth, the respect and affection of the worthy countryfolk, and even the fortunate circumstance of seeing united by it, before heaven and the world, the two richest and noblest houses of the province, which represented it in national history, served as a frame of gold and roses.

At the chapel door the family carriage awaited to convey the couple to the railway station. They were about to undertake one of those journeys which are the realization of a divine dream: Italy and its museum cities; Switzerland and its lakes, fragments of the blue vault of heaven fallen upon the snow; Germany with its rivers, where undines swim beneath the moonbeam; then the East, Greece, Constantinople, and lastly, winter in Paris, amid the glamours of luxury and the magic of an exquisitely refined civilization; Paris with its festivities and exquisite elegances, its nests of coquetry and soft ease for renewed bliss... The prospect of so many smiling and fortunate days; above all that of pure, noble, legitimate love, constant rejoicing and sweet, secret effusion of the soul, made the heart of the bride, the fair and tender María de las Azucenas, leap with joy when the carriage started off at the long trot of the four spirited horses that drew it, bearing away herself, him who was now her master, and her maid, Luisilla, a lively and faithful country girl, chosen and appointed to accompany and serve María throughout the journey...

For the space of some months auspicious tidings of the bridal pair kept reaching the castle. Even though the secluded village of Abencerraje lay so far from those distant lands where they displayed the pride of their happiness, through a thousand unsuspected channels—letters, newspaper paragraphs, reports of other travellers, of consuls, of friends, of strangers perhaps—it was known confusedly in Abencerraje that the journey was happy, joyful, fruitful in pleasing incidents, and that husband and wife enjoyed health and contentment. Thus summer slipped by, autumn passed, and it was ascertained that, strictly fulfilling the programme, the Marquess and Marchioness were already in the capital of the French Republic, entertained, fêted, whirling in the vortex of pleasure. Toward February or March there was talk of the young wife suffering from a serious illness, but the ailment and the improvement were learned almost at the same moment. And a few weeks later, on Easter Monday, toward the close of an afternoon admirable for its serenity, when the last faded violets exhaled their delicate perfume and the trees unfolded their spring blossoms, the village saw with astonishment that the family carriage was returning from the station with a loud chiming of bells, and the people, peering curiously from the doors of their cottages, descried inside the carriage only María de las Azucenas, as pale as the last violets of the pathways, and Luisilla seated at her side, likewise worn and sallow, supporting upon her shoulder the weary head of her mistress; both silent, both sad, both bearing the trace of suffering upon their countenances.—And neither on that day, nor on the following, nor ever again, did the Marquess of Alcalá show himself at his wife’s castle, nor even in the district, and María and Luisilla lived alone, ever together, more than mistress and maid, like fond and inseparable sisters.