To an Angel · I

To an angel! What a coincidence!—he read eagerly, and, from the context of the poem, deduced that the angel lived upon earth and dwelt in a house in the city, whose address the poet gave minutely, describing the window grating draped in jasmine, the garden wall overflowing with climbing vines and rosebushes, and even the corner of the street, with the church tower around the bend. “One of my brethren,” thought the exile, “has undoubtedly committed another crime like mine, and they have inflicted the same punishment upon him as upon me. What immense consolation his soul will receive when he sees me! What happiness his, and mine too, upon finding a companion! Nor can I doubt that he is one. The poem says it quite clearly: that he came down from heaven, that he is here, in the world, by chance, and the poet fears that on the least expected day he will return to his homeland... Oh joyful fortune! To seek him out at once.”

No sooner said than done. The angel made his way toward the city. He did not know in which quarter his brother might dwell, but he was certain to find him soon. He even fancied that from the house inhabited by the angel a peculiar fragrance would exhale, betraying his celestial presence. He began, then, to roam streets and alleys. The moon shone bright, and by its clear light the angel could examine the iron grilles and garden walls, and see along which of them the jasmine climbed and the roses overflowed.

At last, in a very lonely street, an aroma borne on the breeze set the angel’s heart beating furiously; it did not smell of heavenly glory, but it did smell of jasmine; and the perfume was heady and subtle as a lover’s thought. At the same time as he caught the fragrance, he discerned behind the bars of an iron grating a very pretty face, exceedingly pretty, encircled by a halo of dark hair... There was no doubt; that was the other exiled angel, the one destined to lighten the sorrow of his solitude. He drew near the grating, trembling with emotion.

History archives no faithful transcript of what was spoken through the iron bars between the true angel and the supposed angel, who hid her face among the tiny foliage and pale blossoms of the fragrant jasmine. Without doubt, from the very first moment, without further explanations, it was agreed that the creature sheltered by the grating was indeed an angel; accustomed to being addressed thus in verse, she found it nowise strange that she should once more be credited with an angelic nature in prose.—Thus do clumsy rhymes pervert judgment, and paltry rhymers cause more ravage than locusts.

What the exiled angel also understood was that the other angel was doubly as wretched as he, for she complained of being unable to leave that place, of being closely guarded and watched, of being kept bound between four walls, and that her sole relief was to look out through that window to breathe the nocturnal air and spend a little while in idle chat. The exile promised to come faithfully every night to offer this solace to the recluse, and he fulfilled his promise so gladly that from then on the only thing that seemed long to him was the day, until the welcome hour of their colloquy arrived.

Each night grew longer than the last, and finally, only when dawn whitened and the gentle stars were extinguished did the angel withdraw from the grating, as blissful and steeped in boundless contentment as if he were still swimming in the light of the Empyrean, attended by perfect beatitude. Nevertheless, the captive was growing discontented and demanding. Putting her fingers through the grating and clasping those of her friend, she asked him, with hints of ill humour, when he intended to free her from that captivity.

The angel, to appease her, went on presenting her with daisies possessing hearts of gold and petals of pearl; until, hard pressed at last, he had to say that no doubt her confinement was the will of God, and that one must not oppose His holy decrees. A mocking burst of laughter was the captive’s answer, and on the following night, upon approaching the grating, the angel saw to his astonishment that through the little garden door a veiled and cloaked figure emerged, that an arm seized his own, and a sweet, passionate, and melodious voice whispered in his ear: “Now we are free... Take me with you... let us escape quickly, lest they miss me.”

The angel, bewildered, could find no words to answer: he quickened his pace and they fled, not only from the street, but from the city, taking refuge upon the mountain. The night was delightful, in the month of May: they sheltered beneath a leafy tree, he placidly savouring, as the angel he was, the bliss of being together; she—for readers will already have guessed that it was a woman—nervous, sardonic, shedding tiny tears, and giving herself disdainful airs.

She could not understand—now that the iron grating no longer stood between them—why her companion in flight showed no greater vehemence, why he laid no plans for life, why he did not speak of marriage and other matters of indisputable timeliness. Nothing: he remained there so serene, to all appearances so contented, entranced, smiling, sheltering her with his wide-folded cloak, and gazing at the sky, just as if from the moon some sweetmeat were about to drop into his mouth. The woman, who began by being amazed, ended by growing indignant and infuriated; she stepped back a few paces, and as the angel affectionately inquired the cause of her estrangement, she suddenly raised her hand and delivered upon the fair angelic cheek a solemn, resounding slap... after which she broke into a wild run in the direction of the city. And the abandoned angel, feeling neither pain nor affront, mournfully murmured:

“The poet lied! She was no angel! She was no angel!”

As he said this, he saw the clouds part and a legion of angels descend, but real, authentic angels, who surrounded him with rejoicing. He was forgiven: he had overcome the greatest temptation, which is that of woman, and God lifted his banishment. Mingling with the luminous choir, the angel ascended to heaven amid splendours of glory; but as he rose, he turned his head to look back stealthily at the earth, and a sigh swelled and oppressed his heart. Down there he had left behind a dream... And so sweet had smelled the jasmine on the grating!

The Phantom

When I was pursuing my university studies in Madrid, every Thursday I dined at the home of my distant relatives, Señor and Señora Cardona, who from the first day welcomed and treated me with the utmost affection. Husband and wife formed a most striking contrast: he was robust, sanguine, frank, cheerful, and in favour of practical solutions; she was pale, nervous, romantic, and a pursuer of the ideal. His name was Ramón; she bore the old-fashioned name of Leonor. To my youthful imagination, those two beings represented prose and poetry.

Leonor took great pains to serve me the dishes I liked best, my favourite dainties, and with her own hands she prepared for me, in a burnished Russian coffee pot, the strongest and most aromatic coffee an amateur could desire. Her long, slender fingers would offer me the eggshell-porcelain cup, and while I savoured the delicious infusion, Leonor’s eyes, of the same dark and warm hue as the coffee, fixed themselves upon me in a magnetic manner. It seemed as though they longed to enter into close communion with my soul.

Señor and Señora Cardona were wealthy and esteemed. Nothing was lacking them of all that contributes to providing the sum of happiness possible in this world. Nevertheless, I took to brooding that such a marriage between persons of such dissimilar moral and physical complexion could not be happy.

Although everyone affirmed that Don Ramón Cardona brimmed with goodness and his wife with decorum, for me a mystery existed in their home. Would those coffee-coloured pupils reveal it to me?

Little by little, Thursday after Thursday, I began to take an egotistical interest in the solution of the problem. It is not easy at twenty years of age to remain insensible before eyes so expressive, and already my peace of mind was beginning to be troubled and my resolve to falter. After dinner, Señor Cardona went out; he went to the club or to some social gathering, for he was companionable, and Leonor and I lingered over the table, playing the piano, discussing our readings, playing chess, or conversing. At times, the neighbours from the second floor came down to spend a little while; at other times we were alone until eleven, the hour at which I was accustomed to withdraw before the outer door was locked. And, with the conceit of a boy, I thought it exceedingly ridiculous that Don Ramón Cardona should not be jealous of me.

One of the nights when the neighbours did not come down—a warm, starlit night in May—with the balcony open and the fragrance of the acacias drifting in to intoxicate my heart, the devil tempted me more strongly, and I resolved to declare myself. Already I was stammering broken words, not precisely of passion, but of devotion, surrender, and tenderness, when Leonor checked me, telling me she was so certain of my loyal friendship that she wished to confide to me something very grave, the terrible secret of her life. I suspended my confessions to hear those of the lady, and it gave me little pleasure to listen from her lips, trembling with shame, to the narration of an amorous episode. “My sole remorse, my only error,” murmured Doña Leonor in distress, “is named the Marquis of Cazalla. He is, as everyone knows, a profligate and a swordsman. He holds in his possession my letters, written in moments of delirium. To recover them, I know not what I would give.” And I saw, by the light of the shining stars, a slow tear glide from her dark pupils...

Upon parting from Leonor, I bore the firm resolution of seeing the Marquis of Cazalla on the following day. My youthful presumption dictated such a course. The Marquis, to whom I sent in my card, received me at once in an artistic smoking-room, and at my first words concerning the matter that prompted my visit, he shrugged his shoulders and pronounced affably:

“I am not surprised by the step you take, but I beg you to believe me, and I pledge my word of honour that what I am about to tell you is the pure truth. I consider the case of Señora Cardona the strangest that has ever happened in my life. Not only do I not possess, nor have I ever possessed, the documents to which that lady refers, but I have never had the pleasure—for a pleasure it would be—of being acquainted with her... I repeat that I affirm it upon my word of honour!”

So improbable was the answer that, despite the Marquis’s tone of absolute sincerity, I put on a sceptical, perhaps even insolent countenance.

—I see you do not believe me—added the Marquis then—. I take no offense. I counted upon that. You may doubt my word, but neither you nor anyone has the right to suppose that I am a man who avoids, by means of subterfuges, a personal encounter. If what you seek is a duel, you have me at your disposal. I only entreat you that, before settling this matter one way or another, you consult... Señor Cardona. I said the gentleman. Do not look at me with such startled eyes... Hear me out to the end. Doña Leonor Cardona, who according to general opinion is a lady of the highest honour, must have suffered a nightmare and dreamed that we had an intrigue, that we met, that she had written to me, and so forth. Under the influence of illusory remorses, she told her husband everything... that is to say, nothing... yet everything to her; and the husband came here, just as you have, only more enraged, naturally, to demand satisfaction, longing to drink my blood. Had I not kept a sufficiently cool head, by this hour Cardona’s murder would weigh upon my conscience... or he would have killed me (I do not say it could not have happened). Fortunately I did not lose my composure, and asking Cardona for the dates on which his wife asserted our criminal interviews had taken place, I was able to demonstrate to him in an irrefutable manner that at the time I was in Paris, Seville, or London. With equal ease I proved to him the inaccuracy of other details adduced by Doña Leonor. And so Señor Cardona, greatly confused and astonished, had to withdraw offering me his apologies. If you ask me how I explain so extraordinary an occurrence, I will tell you that I believe that lady, whom I have since endeavoured to see (by the memory of my mother I swear to you that before, not even by sight...!), suffers from some moral affliction... and has had a vision...; in short, that a spectre of love has appeared to her..., and that spectre, goodness knows why, has taken my form. And that is all... Do not wonder so greatly. Ten years hence, if you have dealings with women, you will be accustomed to wondering at almost nothing.

I left the Marquis’s house in an indefinable state of mind. There was no means of giving him the lie, and at the same time incredulity persisted. Impressed, nevertheless, by the firm and categorical declarations of the dandy, I devoted myself from that moment on, not to courting Leonor, but to observing Cardona. I endeavoured to talk with him often, to make him speak, and thread by thread drew out conversations concerning conjugal fidelity, the entanglements that an error can cause, the hallucinations from which we sometimes suffer, the havoc wrought by fancy... At last, one day, as if inadvertently, I let slip into our dialogue the name of the Marquis of Cazalla and an allusion to his conquests... And then Cardona, looking me full in the face, with an expression between mocking and grave, inquired:

“What? Have they sent you there too already? Poor little Leonor, it is clear she has no cure!”

I needed nothing more to confess my errand outright, and Cardona, smiling, though his resonant voice sounded somewhat altered, said to me:

“You must know that when I went to the house of the Marquis of Cazalla, I already harboured certain inklings and suspicions of Leonor’s hallucination, of which I was afterwards fully convinced. Although I do not appear jealous, and one might even say I ruin myself through over-trustfulness, I have always watched over Leonor, because I love her dearly, and at no time could she have committed, without my knowing it, the offences of which she accused herself. I understood that it was a phantom of the mind, a dream, and I resigned myself to the hypothesis of an imaginary fault... Who knows whether that phantom of passion and repentance serves her as a shield against reality! What I can assure you is that while I live, Leonor will never emerge from the realm of phantoms... And let us never speak of this again as long as we live!”

I profited by the warning, and from then on I avoided remaining alone with Leonor, and even fixing my gaze upon her dark eyes, clouded by chimera.

The Pink Pearl

Only the man who by day shuts himself up and watches through many hours of the night to earn the means of satisfying the whims of a beloved woman (said my unhappy friend in a broken voice) will understand the pleasure of secretly gathering a fair sum, and as soon as it is complete, going forth to invest it in the most chimerical, the most extravagant and useless whim of that woman. What she gazed upon from afar as an unrealisable dream, what barely touched her imagination with the prick of a wild desire, is what my initiative, my industry, and my affection are about to give her in a moment... and already I fancy I see the wonder in her eyes, and already I seem to feel her arms clasped around my neck, holding me in a frenzy of gratitude.

My only fear, as I stepped into the street with my wallet well laden and my soul flooded with joy, was that the jeweller might already have disposed of the two charming pink pearls that so enchanted Lucila on the afternoon she stopped, leaning upon my arm, to feast her eyes upon the shop window. It is so difficult to bring together two pearls of that rare and extraordinary tint, of such fine lustre, of such perfectly spherical shape, of such absolute equality, that I judged it impossible that some capricious lady like my wife, and wealthier than she, should not already have locked them away in her jewel-box. And it would grieve me so much had that happened, that my heart positively fluttered when upon the clear glass, between a magnificent necklace and a cascade of gold bracelets, I saw the fine white velvet case wherein mysteriously shone the two pink pearls bordered with diamonds.