To an Angel · 19

Fuel to the fire—I interrupted.”

“Fuel to the fire, yes, perhaps!... In short, I told her roundly that I was resolved never to marry; that I would not marry even Eugénie de Montijo, Empress of the French...”

“And she?...”

“She... She... after weeping and turning paler and redder and more trembling than a condemned criminal... ended by telling me that... bachelor or married, bad or good, rich or poor...”

“I understand!...”

“Well, then, I... not only refused, turned aside, held back, but sought out a husband, young, handsome, worthy... and with all my influence, with my command, I made her accept him...”

“I thought as much!—I exclaimed enthusiastically.—A generous, beautiful deed! How could you do less!”

“A detestable deed—replied the Viscount, whose lips trembled slightly.—No sooner was my niece married than the scales fell from my eyes, and I realized that I was dying for her... And I sought her, and pursued her, and besieged her, and exhausted all resources, and met only with rebuff, icy disdain, a rigour so systematic and so persevering that I gave myself up for beaten, and my first grey hairs appeared...”

“Well, the little niece was comfortable with the husband you chose...”

“So comfortable—the Don Juan added gloomily—that within six months my niece fell sick of heart’s passion; and in ten, at death’s door, she summoned me to bid me farewell and tell me in my ear that... as ever!”

Tresmes bowed his head, and I seemed to see a cloud pass over his Olympian brow.

“There you have—he murmured after a pause—my remorse. No one should depart from his vocation, and mine was not to lead anyone into the path of duty and virtue.”

Early and in the Sun...

The clerk who dispensed the tickets at the booking-office of the Northern station could not repress a movement of surprise when the childish little voice pronounced in an imperative tone:

“Two first-class... to Paris!...”

Putting his head as close to the aperture of the window as possible, he looked at his interlocutress, and saw that she was a brunette of eleven or twelve years, with eyes like inkstands, a thick mop of black hair, dressed in a rich and well-cut cloak of red English flannel, and wearing a garnet velvet jockey cap that suited her to perfection. Clasping her hand, the young lady brought a little gentleman of about the same age, more or less, who also bore traces in countenance and attire of belonging to a very distinguished class and a very wealthy family. The boy seemed bewildered; the girl, cheerful, with a nervous cheerfulness. The clerk smiled upon the graceful pair, and murmured in the manner of one giving paternal advice:

“Through or to the frontier? To the frontier... it is a hundred and fifty pesetas, and...”

“There is money—answered the intrepid young lady, holding out an open purse. The clerk smiled again, now with marked surprise and pity, and remarked:”

“Here we have not enough...”

“There are fifteen dollars and three pesetas!—exclaimed the little traveller.”

“Well, it does not suffice... And to convince yourselves, ask your parents.”

As the clerk said this, a vivid crimson dyed the ears of the gallant, whose hand the damsel had not released, and she, stamping an impatient foot upon the ground, cried:

“Well... then... a cheaper ticket!”

“How cheaper? Second class? Third class? To a nearer station? El Escorial, Ávila...?”

“Ávila, yes... Ávila... exactly, Ávila...!—answered she of the red cloak energetically. The clerk hesitated a moment; at length he shrugged his shoulders as one who says: «What is it to me? This knot will untie itself;» and held out the two tickets, returning the considerably lightened purse...”

The warning bell rang; the children darted out onto the platform; slipped into the first carriage they saw, without thinking of seeking a compartment where they might be alone; and to the great astonishment of the British tourist who was stowing his leather bag in a corner of the rack, upon finding themselves inside the carriage they clasped each other by the waist and began to caper...

How did that devouring, frantic, incendiary passion begin? Ah! The first origins of what is grave and momentous in our lives are insignificant trifles, wretched petty details, moral atoms that combine in a little molecular whirlwind, and by dint of turning round and round upon itself, the whirlwind rounds itself, solidifies, acquires form, takes on the consistency of the diamond... Never distrust in life the great things that present themselves with imposing apparatus; those give warning, and there is a means to take precautions: fear petty temptations, subtle and insidious perils. The whole theory of microbes, now accepted, what is it but a demonstration of the capital importance of the infinitely small?

The passion began, then, in the simplest, most innocent, and silliest manner... It began with a craze... Both were collectors.—Of what? You may well guess, you who border upon the age of my heroes. The fondness for collecting usually develops between forty and sixty: I have rarely seen a young bibliomaniac, and the shops of second-hand dealers are more frequented by respectable gentlemen than by cheerful youths. There is, however, an exception to this general rule, and that is the craze for gathering postage stamps. Without my denying that very grave personages may suffer from it, the truth is that the period in which it usually works havoc is the stage between ten and fifteen. And in that dawn-like lustrum that separates the age of the top and the skipping-rope from the awkward age, my two runaway lovers of the train were living.

It has already been said that their Pandarus, the book of Lancelot and Guinevere wherein they drank the amorous poison, was collecting, the craze for philately common to them both. The father of Serafina, commonly called Finita, and the mother of Francisco, commonly called Currín, had little acquaintance; they did not even visit each other, despite living in the same opulent mansion in the Salamanca quarter: on the principal floor Finita’s father, and on the second Currín’s mother. Currín and Finita, on the other hand, met very often upon the staircase, when he was going to school and she was setting out for her academy; but truth to tell: they would not have noticed each other, had it not been that a certain morning, on going downstairs, Currín noticed that Finita was carrying under her arm an object, a book bound in red morocco... a book so often coveted and dreamed of by him! «Mama ought to have bought me one like that, by Jove! As soon as I pass my examinations and get top marks, she must buy it for me. Why not, indeed! Mine is a piece of trash...» From this to begging Finita to show him the magnificent stamp album was but a step. Finita, upon the very landing of the stairs, acceded to Currín’s entreaties: they placed the album upon the window-sill and fell to turning its leaves with animation.—«This page is Peru... Look at the Hawaiian Islands... I have the complete set...»

And there filed past the tiny and artistic little engravings with which each nation marks and authorizes its correspondence: the aristocratic profiles of the Saxon dynasties, which disdain to look us in the face, and the bourgeois, honest countenances of the Presidents of American States, always full-face; the French Republic with its two graceful figures clasping hands, and the little Spanish King with his round baby head; the Chinese stamps and their dragon, the Turkish and their scimitar; Don Carlos, a memory of our political vicissitudes, and Don Amadeo, an ephemeral souvenir of the same agitated era; the precious stamps of Newfoundland with the then ideal head of the Prince of Wales, and the sumptuous stamps of the British colonies in which grandmamma Victoria appears officiating as empress... Currín was entranced, and shouted from time to time, skipping about: «Oh! Oh! By jingo, how pretty! This one I haven’t got...» At length, upon arriving at a very rare one, that of the Republic of Liberia, he could not contain himself: «Will you give it to me?»—«Take it», Finita answered with effusion.—«Thank you, beauty», the gallant replied; and as Finita, on hearing the compliment, turned the colour of the cover of her album, Currín noticed that Finita was very pretty, above all thus, flushed with pleasure and with her black eyes shining, overflowing with joy. «Do you know I have something to tell you?»—the boy murmured.—«Go on, tell me.»—«Not today.»—The French maid who accompanied Finita to school had displayed up to that moment a smiling tolerance toward the philatelic digression; but it seemed to her that it was lasting too long, and she uttered a «Mademoiselle, s’il vous plaît», which signified: «We must go to school whether we like it or not, so... come to a decision.»

Currín remained admiring his stamp... and thinking of Finita. Currín was a boy of gentle disposition, not very mischievous, fond of sad dramas, of novels of extraordinary adventures, and of reading verses and learning them by heart. He was always thinking that something strange and wonderful was to happen to him; at night he dreamed a great deal, of things of the other world or of something arising from his reading. Since he had been collecting stamps, he also dreamed of voyages of circumnavigation and unknown lands, to which being a decided admirer of Jules Verne greatly contributed... That night he accomplished in his sleep a brief little excursion... to Newfoundland, to the land of handsome stamps. Rather, it was no excursion, but an instantaneous translation; and upon a shore fringed with monoliths of ice, illuminated by an aurora borealis, Finita and he were strolling very gravely, arm in arm...

The next day, a fresh encounter upon the stairs. Currín was carrying duplicate stamps to present to Finita. As soon as the lady saw the gallant, she smiled and drew near with mystery. «Here I bring you these...» he stammered... Finita put a finger to her lips, as if to indicate to the boy that he should be cautious before the Frenchwoman; but Currín knowing that there was no harm in the gift of the stamps, went very resolutely to deliver them. Finita was left, seemingly, somewhat disappointed; she doubtless expected something else; and stepping quickly up to Currín, she said between her teeth:

“And... and that?”

“That...?”

“What you were going to tell me yesterday...”

Currín sighed, looked down at his boots, and came out with this clumsy excuse:

“Why, it was nothing...”

“What do you mean, nothing!—articulated Finita furious.—You seem soft in the head! Nothing, eh?”

And the lad, tormenting King Leopold of Belgium whom he was clutching between his fingers, came very close to the girl’s ear, and murmured softly: «Yes, it was something... I wanted to tell you that you are... so pretty!» And terrified at his daring, he set off running down the stairs, and from the doorway flew out into the street.

The next day Currín wrote some verses (I possess the original) in which he said to his tormentress:

Love is born of nothing; from a tranquil glance; at the turning of an eye a soul is caught in trance...

Frail though they were, grave authors assert that Currín took them from a book lent him by a schoolfellow... But what does it matter? The fact is that Currín felt as the verses painted it: in love, atrociously in love... He thought of nothing but Finita; he parted his hair with consummate care, bought himself a new necktie, and sighed in secret.

By the end of the week they were regular sweethearts. The French maid closed her eyes... or did not see, innocently believing that stamps were what was being talked of, and took advantage of the brief moments to chat about whatever she pleased with her countryman the cook...

A certain afternoon the hall-porter thought he was dreaming, and rubbed his eyes. Was not that Señorita Serafina passing alone, with a leather travelling-bag upon her arm? And was not that young Master Currín following behind? And were they not both getting into a cab that drove off like the devil? Good heavens! How times and manners are changing! And whither can they be going? Shall I warn the parents or not? What does an honest man do in such a fix? Will they dismiss me roughly... or will a handsome tip fall to my lot?

“Listen—Finita was saying to Currín as soon as the train was in motion—what is Ávila like? Very big? Beautiful like Paris?”

“No...—Currín replied with a certain bitter scepticism.—It must be a fishing village.”

“Well then... it won’t do to stay there. We must go on to Paris. I want to see Paris at all costs; and I also want to see the Pyramids of Egypt.”

“Yes...—murmured Currín, through whose mouth good sense and reality were speaking—but... what about the cash?”

“The cash?—replied Finita mimicking him.—You are sillier than the man who roasted butter. We’ll borrow!”

“And from whom?”

“From anyone!”

“And if they won’t give it to us?”

“And why shouldn’t they, you blockhead? I have a watch to pawn. You too. Besides, I’ll pawn my new coat: it is roasting me with heat. You are good for nothing... We’ll write to our parents to send us... a... a voucher... no, a draft! Papa is sending them every day to Paris and everywhere.”

“Your papa will be furious... He’ll send us the deuce!... Like my mama... We’ve done it, Finita!... I don’t know what will become of us.”

“Well, the watch is pawned, and that’s an end of it... Oh! What fun we shall have in Ávila! You will take me to the café... and to the theatre... and for walks...”

When they heard the porter call «Ávila! Twenty-five minutes!...» they jumped from the train, but on setting foot upon the platform they stood undecided, bewildered. The people were leaving, crowding toward the refreshment-room, and the lovers knew not what to do. «Which is the way to Ávila?»—Currín asked a porter, who, seeing two children without luggage, shrugged his shoulders and walked away. By instinct they made for an exit, gave up their tickets, and beset by a solicitous hotel waiter, got into the omnibus which conveyed them to the Hotel del Inglés...

The civil governor of Ávila had just received a telegram from Madrid, «requesting the arrest» of the passionate pair. The notice was most urgent, and betrayed the moral condition of a family plunged in anguish and despair—or rather, two families must have been the desperate ones.—The capture was effected in due form, not without laughter on the one hand and speeches concerning how «immorality spreads» on the other. The runaways were taken to Madrid, and immediately Finita was placed in the convent of the English Dames, and Currín in a boarding-school whence he was not permitted to stir for a year, not even on Sundays. On account of the tragic event Finita’s papa and Currín’s mama made acquaintance, and conferred at great length, agreeing that it was necessary to «hush it up», «mislead public opinion...» «form a conspiracy of silence». On this occasion Finita’s papa observed how well preserved Currín’s mama was, and she noted in the banker excellent qualities of a practical man of business and a gallant gentleman with ladies. Their friendship was consolidated, and there are those who believe they visit each other frequently. It is not presumed, however, that they have ever run away together... What for?

Yes, Sir

What I am about to relate I have not invented. If someone had invented it, if it were not the exact truth, I should say it was well invented; but it also belongs to me to declare that I heard it recounted... Which greatly diminishes the merit of this tale, and compels the supposition that my imagination is not so fertile as has been wont to be assumed in moments of indulgence.

Are you bashful, oh you who read me? For bashfulness is one of the ridiculous martyrdoms; it puts us in the pillory, it binds us to a hard bench. Bashfulness is a halter at the throat, a millstone at the neck, a leaden shirt upon the shoulders, a chain upon the wrists, fetters upon the feet... And the worst kind of bashfulness is not that which arises from modesty, from fear of insufficiency of faculties. There is another more terrible: bashfulness from excess of emotion; the bashfulness of the lover before his beloved, of the devotee before his idol.

A lover is concerned in this story, and so deeply in love that I know not whether ever Romeo of Verona, Marsilla of Teruel, or Macías of Galicia loved with greater vehemence. Never envy this class of madmen. Those who loved much may be forgiven; but to envy them would be not to know life. They are more wretched than the beggar who asks an alms; more than the condemned criminal who in his cell counts the hours of horrible life that remain to him... They are wretched because their soul is dislocated, and it pains them at every movement... Double their misfortune if it is accompanied by the torment of bashfulness. And bashfulness, in many cases, is cured by familiarity; but there is a chronic and invincible kind; there is such in husbands who have had twenty years of wedded life and have not grown accustomed to speak freely with their wives; in wives who, living with a man in the closest intimacy, do not approach him without fear and trembling... Generally, however, the phenomenon presents itself during that period when love, without privileges and without gallantries, shudders before a gesture or a word... And this was the case of Agustín Oriol, hopelessly the slave of the coquettish and charming dowager Countess of Dolfos.