To an Angel · 15

Hitherto the story is simple enough... The romantic part begins now... and consists in a single fact, which you may explain as you please... for I explain it in my own way, and perhaps I am mistaken! A month after the Zingaro tribe had departed from my city, it was learned through the press that in the rugged heights of the Sierra de los Castros some shepherds had discovered the body of a very young woman, whose unmistakable description coincided with that of my gypsy girl. The body had been buried at considerable depth, but scented out by the dogs and promptly disinterred, it gave the authorities indications that they were upon the trail of a horrendous crime. Proceedings were instituted without any result, because the members of the wandering tribe were unanimous in declaring that the gypsy girl had fled, separating from them, and that they had not approached within twenty leagues of the Sierra de los Castros. The gypsy girl’s death was one more dark mystery of the many that justice never unravels. I alone believed I saw clearly into the affair... I recalled the words that Cervantes puts into the mouth of the old gypsy: «Free and exempt do we live from the bitter pestilence of jealousy; we are the judges and executioners of our wives and mistresses; with the same ease we kill them and bury them among the mountains and deserts, as though they were noxious beasts; there is no kinsman to avenge them, nor parents to demand their death...»

The Torn Lace

Invited to the wedding of Micaelita Aránguiz with Bernardo de Meneses, and having been unable to attend, great was my surprise when I learned the following day—the ceremony was to take place at ten at night at the bride’s house—that she, at the foot of the very altar, on being asked by the Bishop of Saint John of Acre whether she took Bernardo for her husband, uttered a clear and energetic no; and as the question was reiterated with astonishment and the refusal was repeated, the bridegroom, after facing for a quarter of an hour the most ridiculous situation in the world, had to retire, the gathering and the match being dissolved at one and the same time.

Such cases are not unheard-of, and we are wont to read of them in the newspapers; but they occur among people of humble class, of very modest station, in spheres where social conventions do not embarrass the frank and spontaneous expression of feeling and will.

The peculiar feature of the scene provoked by Micaelita was the environment in which it unfolded. I seemed to see the picture, and could not console myself for not having witnessed it with my own eyes. I imagined the crowded drawing-room, the choice company, the ladies clad in silk and velvet, with necklaces of precious stones, on their arms the white mantilla to be put on at the moment of the ceremony; the men with glittering plaques or displaying the badges of Military Orders upon the front of their dress-coats; the bride’s mother, richly attired, busy, solicitous, moving from group to group, receiving congratulations; the younger sisters, moved, very pretty, the elder in pink, the younger in blue, displaying the turquoise bracelets, the gift of the future brother-in-law; the Bishop who was to bless the marriage, mingling gravely and affably, smiling, deigning to utter polite pleasantries or discreet compliments, while far in the background one divined the mystery of the flower-decked oratory, a flood of white roses from the floor to the little dome, where rays of roses and snow-white lilacs converged upon green boughs, artistically arranged; and upon the altar, the effigy of the Virgin protector of the aristocratic mansion, half concealed by a curtain of orange blossom, the contents of a whole compartment filled with orange blossom which the exceedingly wealthy proprietor Aránguiz, the bride’s uncle and godfather, had sent from Valencia, not coming in person because of age and infirmity—details that flew from mouth to mouth, the magnificent inheritance that would fall to Micaelita being calculated, one more hope of happiness for the couple, who were to go to Valencia to spend their honeymoon.—In a group of men I pictured the bridegroom, somewhat nervous, slightly pale, biting his moustache involuntarily, bowing his head to reply to the delicate jokes and flattering remarks addressed to him...

And lastly, I saw appear in the frame of the door leading to the inner rooms a kind of apparition, the bride, whose features were barely discernible beneath the cloudlet of tulle, and who passed by making the silk of her gown rustle, while in her hair, as though strewn with dew, sparkled the antique gems of the bridal parure... And now the ceremony is arranged, the couple advance conducted by the sponsors, the candid figure kneels beside the slender, graceful form of the bridegroom... The family crowds in the foreground, friends and onlookers seeking a good place to see, and amid the silence and respectful attention of the bystanders... the Bishop formulates a question, to which answers a no as sharp as a gunshot, as round as a bullet. And—ever in imagination—I noted the bridegroom’s start, recoiling wounded; the mother’s forward rush to protect and shelter her daughter, the Bishop’s insistence, the form taken by his astonishment, the shudder running through the company, the anxious question transmitted in a second: «What is happening? What is the matter? Has the bride been taken ill? Did she say no? Impossible... But is it certain? What a scene!...»

All this, within social life, constitutes a terrible drama. And in Micaelita’s case, as well as a drama, it was a riddle. The cause of the sudden refusal was never certainly known.

Micaelita confined herself to saying that she had changed her mind, and that she was quite free and mistress of herself to draw back, even at the foot of the altar, so long as the yes had not passed her lips. The intimates of the house racked their brains, putting forward improbable suppositions. What was indubitable was that everyone had seen, up to the fatal moment, the bridal pair contented and deeply enamoured; and the young friends who went in to admire the adorned bride, minutes before the scandal, reported that she was crazy with delight, and so happy and satisfied that she would not have changed places with anyone. These were facts to obscure still more the strange enigma which for a long time provided fuel for gossip, irritated by the mystery and disposed to explain it unfavourably.

Three years later, when almost no one was any longer remembering the occurrence at Micaelita’s wedding, I met her at a fashionable watering-place where her mother was taking the waters. There is nothing that facilitates acquaintance like life at a spa, and Señorita de Aránguiz became so intimate with me that one afternoon, walking toward the church, she revealed her secret to me, affirming that she permitted me to divulge it, in the certainty that so simple an explanation would be believed by no one.

“It was the silliest thing... From sheer silliness I would not tell it; people always attribute events to profound and momentous causes, without observing that sometimes our destiny is determined by trifles, by the smallest petty details... But they are trifles that signify something, and to certain persons they signify too much. You will see what happened; and I cannot conceive how no one noticed, because the affair occurred right there, before everyone; only they paid no attention, because it was, truly, over in the twinkling of an eye.”

You already know that my marriage with Bernardo de Meneses seemed to unite all the conditions and guarantees of happiness. Moreover, I confess that I liked my betrothed very much, more than any man I had known or know; I believe I was in love with him. The only thing I regretted was being unable to study his character: some people judged him violent; but I always saw him courteous, deferential, soft as a glove, and I suspected that he adopted appearances designed to deceive me and conceal a fierce and sour disposition. A thousand times I cursed the constraint of the unmarried woman, for whom it is impossible to follow her suitor’s steps, probe reality, and obtain honest reports, sincere even to bluntness—the only ones that would reassure me. I attempted to subject Bernardo to several tests, and he came out of them well; his conduct was so correct that I came to believe I could entrust my future and my happiness to him without any fear.

The wedding day arrived. In spite of natural emotion, on putting on the white gown I noticed once more the superb lace flounce that adorned it, which was a gift from my betrothed. That genuine antique Alençon had belonged to his family, a span in width—a marvel—of exquisite design, perfectly preserved, worthy of a museum showcase. Bernardo had presented it to me, extolling its value, which came to irritate me, for however much the lace might be worth, my future husband ought to have assumed that it was little enough for me.

At that solemn moment, seeing it set off by the dense satin of the dress, it seemed to me that the delicate work signified a promise of bliss, and that its fabric, so fragile and at the same time so strong, caught two hearts in subtle meshes. This dream was fascinating me when I set off toward the drawing-room, at whose door my betrothed was awaiting me. As I rushed forward to greet him full of joy, for the last time before belonging to him in soul and body, the lace caught upon an iron fitting of the door, with such ill luck that, on trying to free myself, I heard the peculiar sound of tearing, and could see that a shred of the magnificent ornament hung upon the skirt. Only I saw another thing too: Bernardo’s face, contracted and disfigured by the liveliest rage; his flashing eyes, his mouth already half open to utter reproaches and abuse... He did not go so far, because he found himself surrounded by people; but in that fleeting instant a curtain was lifted, and behind it a soul appeared naked.

I must have changed countenance; fortunately, the tulle of my veil covered my face. In my innermost being something creaked and fell to pieces, and the joy with which I had crossed the threshold of the drawing-room turned to profound horror. Bernardo appeared before me ever with that expression of wrath, hardness, and contempt which I had just surprised upon his face; this conviction seized upon me, and with it came another: that I could not, that I would not surrender myself to such a man, neither then nor ever... And yet, I went on drawing near the altar, I knelt, I listened to the Bishop’s exhortations... But when they questioned me, the truth sprang to my lips, impetuous, terrible...

That no welled up without my intending it; I was saying it to myself... so that everyone should hear it!

“And why did you not declare the real motive, when so many comments were made?”

“I repeat: on account of its very simplicity... They would never have been convinced. I preferred to let them believe there were reasons of the kind they call serious...”

Martina

The only daughter of affectionate parents who had brought her up tenderly, without a scolding or a punishment, Martina was the joy of the honest home where she was born and grew up. When she put on long skirts, people began to say that she was pretty, and her mother, filled with innocent vanity, took great pains in dressing and adorning her so that her fresh, virginal beauty should stand out. At the theatre, at balls, on the promenade on winter afternoons and summer nights, Martina, dressed in the height of fashion and in attire ever delicate and graceful, found favour and ranked in the first rank among the young ladies of Marineda. Her good sense, her lively wit, and her pleasing manner were also praised, which was not coquetry, and her cheerfulness, as natural as song in birds. An atmosphere of sympathy sweetened her life. She believed that everyone was good, because everyone spoke to her with kindness in their eyes and honey on their lips. She felt happy, but promised herself for the future greater joys, richer and deeper, which were to begin on the day she fell in love. None of the young gallants who fluttered round Martina, attracted by her youth and good looks, united to no negligible fortune, deserved that the girl should fix her large, laughing eyes upon him for more than a minute. And in that minute, rather than the merits and charms of the gallant, Martina was wont to see his little defects, jesting about them afterwards with her friends. Harmless jests, in which maidens, with mischievous candour, dissect their suitors, obeying that instinct of mocking hostility which characterizes the first period of youth.

Thus three or four winters passed; in Marineda it began to be whispered that Martina was fastidious in her taste, that she flew high, and that finding her other half would be difficult for her.

Nevertheless, upon Captain of Artillery Lorenzo Mendoza appearing in the city, it was evident that Martina had received lead in her wing. Lorenzo Mendoza came from Madrid: he was handsome, courteous, reserved, grave, rather a little sad, although in society he strove to appear agreeable and expansive; his dress and manners revealed the habit of choice company and a self-respect that degenerated neither into conceit nor into affectation; without his priding himself on being a handsome man, his dark countenance, with its black beard and expressive features, was exceedingly attractive. With all this, there is more than enough to turn the head of a provincial girl, even without intending it, as indeed Mendoza did not intend it at first. The jokes of his comrades, Martina’s reputation for aiming high, and also her charms and graces, her beauty then in full bloom, impelled Mendoza to draw near her, to prefer her conversation, and, little by little, to pay court to her.

The painter who wished to portray a personification of happiness might have taken Martina as a model in that delicious period when she fancied she felt her blood circulating like a river of nectar and her heart illuminating itself like a glowing ruby in the perpetual festival of her divine hopes.

Upon Lorenzo occupying the vacant chair beside the girl, she turned alternately red and pale: her ears hummed, her eyes shone, her hands grew cold with emotion; and at the captain’s first words, an intoxicating joy fixed upon Martina’s lips a smile as of ecstasy.

Rarely do such felicities fail to provoke envy, and the more so when they are not concealed, as Martina did not conceal hers, seeing no reason to hide a pure and legitimate sentiment. If it was not envy, it was curiosity that peered into Mendoza’s past, as a house is searched to find a hidden weapon and wound with it. And it was ascertained without great effort—for almost everything is known, even if known truncated and without logical sequence—that Mendoza, on coming away, had broken off one of those passionate, stormy, long, complicated affairs, a beloved and fatal impossible, one of those ties which compel flight to the ends of the earth and which, elastic in proportion to absence, do not always snap however much they are stretched. With the lack of penetration that characterizes the crowd, the inquisitive folk of Marineda were of opinion that Mendoza must have forgotten his tyrant immediately, who, besides costing him boundless vexations and bitternesses, was neither young nor handsome. Beside that bud, beside that Martina, candid and radiant as a dawn, who brought a fortune in her pretty hands, what could the dashing captain of artillery miss?

Even so, charitable souls took delight in informing Martina’s father of the old story, certain that he, solicitous and anxious, would tell his daughter of it. They were not mistaken: one night, on the embankment promenade, at the hour when the salty breeze from the sea refreshes the face and invigorates the spirit, and when military music, loud and vibrant, drowns the voice and permits only the sweet, intimate whispering of lovers, Martina asked honestly, and Lorenzo answered troubled and gloomy... Who had told her?... Nonsense. They were past things, well past; dead and well dead. Mendoza could not understand either why anyone remembered them or why Martina brought them up... And she, raising her eyes filled with tears and glistening with passion, smiling in that ecstatic manner, forgetting the place where she was, murmured deeply: «I shall marry no other but you, and it seems to me only right to know if there is anything to hinder it». Moved, without realizing what he was doing, Mendoza bent down, and stealthily seeking the girl’s hand, and pressing it with a furtive squeeze amid the swirl of promenaders which conceals such outpourings, murmured in her ear: