To an Angel · II

Although I had gone prepared to be made to pay for the whim, the high price at which the jeweller valued the pearls disconcerted me. All my savings, and a good bit more, were about to be swallowed up in that pair of little studs, no larger than a tiny chickpea. The doubt assailed me—I am so inexpert in luxury purchases!—whether the jeweller might be seeking to exploit my ignorance by asking an absurd sum merely for the sake of asking, believing perhaps that my coat was not that of a man capable of acquiring two pink pearls. Just as I was thinking thus, I observed, through the high, crystal pane of the shop, my former schoolfellow and closest friend Gonzaga Llorente passing along the pavement. Seeing his handsome figure and darting out to call him was the work of an instant. Who better to enlighten and advise me than the elegant Gonzaga, so well abreast of fashion, so involved in society, so well connected, that each visit he paid to our modest, bourgeois home—and he had paid a good many of late—I regarded as a most special proof of affection?

Showing cordial surprise, Gonzaga turned and entered the jewellery shop with me, taking in the situation. Immediately he declared himself an admirer of the pink pearls, and added that he knew certain high-and-mighty ladies were pining to acquire them, among whom he mentioned two or three of high-sounding titles. In a discreet aside he assured me that the price demanded by the jeweller was by no means excessive, in view of the rarity of the pearls. And as I still hesitated, troubled by the balance which at that moment I was unable to pay, Gonzaga, with his engaging frankness, opened his wallet and handed me several banknotes, jesting and swearing that if I did not accept so slight a service, he would never look me in the face again for the rest of his days. What wretched creatures we are! I ought not to have accepted the loan; I ought to have brought home only what I could pay for in cash... but passion mastered me, and I would have kissed upon my knees the hand that offered me the means of satisfying it. We agreed that Gonzaga should lunch with us on the following day to celebrate the first wearing of the pink pearls, and with the case in my pocket I hastened home at top speed; I wished I had wings.

Lucila was pottering about when I entered, and seeing me standing before her, saying with a blissful face, “Search me,” she understood and murmured, “We have a present.” Lively and mischievous (her natural way!), she rummaged through my pockets, tickling me delightfully, until she hit upon the case. The cry she uttered upon seeing the pearls is one of those things never forgotten. In the overflow of her gratitude, she fondled my face and even kissed me... It may be that in that moment she loved me a little! She could not bring herself to believe that so coveted and splendid a jewel was hers; she could not convince herself that she was about to display it. And I myself, unfastening the simple gold hoop earrings Lucila was wearing, fastened the pink pearls in her little ears, which were flushed with delight. It hurts me deeply to remember these foolish trifles, but I remember them always.

The next day, which was Sunday, Gonzaga lunched at our house and we were all lively and talkative. Lucila had put on her grey silk dress, which suited her admirably, and a rose upon her bosom—a rose of the very colour of the pearls.—Gonzaga invited us to the theatre and took us to the Apolo, to a merry performance where we laughed without ceasing. The following day I returned eagerly to my tasks, for I wished to pay off as soon as possible the outstanding balance for the pearls. I returned home at the usual hour, and upon sitting down at the table, my first glance was for Lucila’s ears. I gave a start and let out an exclamation on seeing that one of the pink pearls was missing from the tiny circle of diamonds.

“You have lost a pearl!—I exclaimed.”

—How, a pearl?—stammered my wife, clapping her hands to her ears and feeling the pendants—. On seeing that it was true, she turned so terrified that I grew alarmed, not for the pearl, but for Lucila’s fright.

—Calm yourself—I told her—. Let us search, and it will turn up.

Needless to say, we began to look and search everywhere, going over the carpet, shaking the curtains, lifting the furniture, scrutinising even drawers that Lucila affirmed she had not opened for a month past. At each fruitless search, Lucila’s eyes brimmed with tears. While we were turning things upside down, it occurred to me to ask her:

“Have you been out this afternoon?”

“Yes... I think so...—she replied hesitatingly.”

“Where?”

“To various places... that is to say... I went... out... shopping...”

“But... to which shops?”

“How do I know! To the Calle de Postas... to the Plazuela del Ángel... to the Carrera...”

“On foot or in a carriage?”

“On foot... Then I took a cab.”

“Do you not remember the stand... the number?”

“How do you expect me to remember it? Good heavens! It was just a cab passing by—Lucila objected nervously, bursting into bitter sobs.”

“But the shops you surely remember... Tell me which they were, and I will go one by one, to see whether on the floor or the counter... We will put in advertisements...”

“I tell you I don’t remember! For heaven’s sake, leave me in peace!—she exclaimed, so distressed that I dared not insist, and preferred to wait until she calmed down.”

We spent a night of anxiety and sleeplessness; I heard Lucila sighing and tossing in bed, as though unable to sleep. I, meanwhile, was turning over schemes to recover the pink pearl. I rose early, dressed, and at eight o’clock was knocking at Gonzaga Llorente’s door. I had heard it said that the police, in special cases, easily ascertain the whereabouts of lost or stolen articles, and I hoped that Gonzaga, with his influence and high connections, would help me employ this last resort.

“The young master is asleep, but step into the study, for in ten minutes I will take him his chocolate and ask if you may see him—said the servant, observing my insistence and urgency.”

I agreed to wait. The servant threw open the shutters of the study, in whose atmosphere floated perfumes and the smell of cigars. When I think how different my fate would be had that servant shown me into the bedroom at once...!

The simple truth is... that at the first cheerful sunbeam that crossed the windowpanes, and before the servant could say to me, “Take a seat,” I had seen gleaming upon the blue cloth border of the white bearskin rug, spread at the foot of the soft Turkish divan, the pearl, the pink pearl!

If what befell me were to befall you, and you were to ask me what ought to be done under such circumstances, I should assuredly reply with great energy: “Seize a sword from the trophy of arms above the divan, and run it through the chest of the man sleeping next door, so that he never wakes again.”

Do you know what I did? I stooped down; I picked up the pearl; I put it in my pocket; I walked out of that house; I went up to my own; I found my wife up and looking terribly haggard; I looked at her, and did not strangle her; in a calm voice I ordered her to put on the earrings; I took the pearl from my pocket... and holding it between two fingers, I said to her: “Here is what you lost. Well, did I not find it quickly?”

It is true that when I finished, some strange fit or vertigo of madness came over me; I laid hands on those tiny ears, tore the earrings from them, and trampled everything underfoot. Fortunately, I was able to master myself on the spot... and go down the stairs and take refuge in the nearest café, where I ordered brandy...

Whether I have seen Lucila again?... Once... She was walking on the arm of another, who was no longer Gonzaga. By the way, I noticed that the lobe of her left ear is torn in two. No doubt I tore it myself... involuntarily.

A Likeness

There is no discussion more barren than that concerning beauty. A thousand times we engaged in it, in that sort of little senate of folk at once disillusioned and inquisitive, where so many problems both attractive and insoluble were stirred up; and always—though dissertations were not lacking—we ended in greater confusion. One maintained that beauty was correctness of line; another, harmony of colour; this one, the fusion of both elements; that one, youth; a third, health and robustness, or grace, wit, and charm, or the art of the dressing-table, or the melody of the voice, and someone even identified beauty with goodness and intelligence... And the eccentric Donato Abreu, who usually listened in silence, at last came out with the following judgment:—Beauty is nothing.

Accustomed to his odd sallies, we fell silent to see how he would extricate himself, and it was thus:

“It is nothing, absolutely nothing. If ophthalmia attacks those present here, there is an end of lines, colours, air of health, youth, adornment... All that was in our retina... and nowhere else.”

—A pretty joke!—we exclaimed—. If you begin by striking us blind...

“The fact is that you are already blind when you take for reality what does not exist outside ourselves. Let me proceed! I will adduce examples. First of all, I presume we are speaking of feminine beauty?”

—Ah, rogue!—protested the sculptor—. You take refuge there... because that is where your heresies meet with least refutation! You cannot blind sculptors: remember the one who, deprived of sight, admired with the tips of his fingers the torso of a Greek statue...

“Bah! Neither do you sculptors recognize any fixed law, any unalterable type... The Venus Sleeping in Her Shell, which you exhibited two years ago and carried off the medal with, does not resemble the classical Venus, and is none the less beautiful for that... that is to say, none the less seemingly so... But let us not stray from the general ground, for art is the heritage of the few. Were we speaking of women, yes or no?”

—Of women? Always!—affirmed the Viscount of Tresmes, who, according to evil tongues, had a rather stormy past—. What else in this world is worth discussing?

—Then my case is won—insisted Donato, settling back in his armchair—. Do you maintain that the beauty of a given woman is the cause of the special feelings that woman inspires in us?

—What else could it be?—retorted Tresmes—. Her ugliness? Either she is beautiful, or we believe her beautiful, and with that beauty we fall in love... more or less... for in that there is an infinite scale of degrees and nuances!

“Listen—pleaded Donato—not to my arguments, but to the very true story of a friend of mine who died abroad, because, failing to find relief from an amorous delirium, he took to travelling, and in Rome a marsh fever—what they know there as malaria—cured him of the disease of living...”

My friend was the son of a second marriage of a rather wealthy gentleman; the other sons, fruit of the first bed, adored him, and sheltered him like fathers when they were all left orphans. The eldest of his brothers married a young lady named Jacinta, and my friend—let us call him Marcelo, so as not to divulge his real name—went to live in Madrid with the newlyweds to finish his studies in architecture. His little sister-in-law Jacinta was very beautiful—you see I employ the ordinary language—and Marcelo, day after day, with growing intimacy and blandishments, became enamoured of Jacinta with the most tyrannical passion. When he understood his condition, when he interpreted his longing, he was horrified by so guilty an inclination and resolved to hide it, as one hides a stain and a shame, and not allow even the reflection of the bonfire consuming the marrow of his bones to peep through any crevice. And he would have kept his resolve had not a still more terrible thing happened: that the lady, object of so reprehensible a fancy—either because she guessed it or caught the contagion without guessing—came at length to suffer from the same ailment, and, less cautious, revealed it by indications so clear that Marcelo, feeling weak and vanquished before fighting, resorted to putting distance between them... He told his brother he was unwell—and this was only a relative falsehood—and that by the doctor’s prescription he needed to breathe pure air, country air; and the brother, attentive and compassionate, sent him to an estate he had inherited from his father-in-law, which, being situated in the most flowery and leafy part of the Córdoba mountains and the month being April, must have been transformed into a delightful garden.

“There will be comfort enough for you—he remarked—because my Jacinta’s father was fond of that place and visited it from time to time, though Jacinta has never set foot there, nor I either. I have heard whispers of something about the bailiff’s wife...; but if one believed all one heard! In short, the essential thing is that you will lack neither linen nor furniture... And if anything is wanting, send for it at once.”

Marcelo departed in no small despair for his Thebaid, and the bailiff welcomed him hospitably, bidding his daughter, a girl of about twenty, wait upon and attend to the stranger. Imagine the shock the latter must have experienced when, fixing his eyes upon the countenance of the bailiff’s daughter, he saw in it a most perfect copy, a consummate counterpart of Jacinta’s! It was a likeness not merely of features, but of expression, manner, and gesture, and—what troubled Marcelo most—even of the timbre of voice, with an Andalusian lisp that made Manuelita the country girl’s speech delightful.—The enamoured youth recognised the dark eyes he carried pierced into his heart, the waist whose undulations caused him dizziness, the broken colour of the soft complexion that drove him mad, and recalling his brother’s hints concerning the bailiff’s wife, he was not surprised to find a new Jacinta in the sierra. As the days passed he observed that the mountain girl possessed a thousand precious qualities: neat, refined in her own way, as lively and clever as could be; now merry, now melancholy; prompt in reply, keen in understanding, sensitive by turns and standoffish in season; she knew, moreover, how to strum the guitar and sing the polo with a charm that took away one’s senses. Marcelo, enthralled, thought that Providence itself was providing him so delectable a cure for his moral ailments, and devoted himself to the mountain girl, paying court to her and pursuing her unceasingly, favoured by that freedom the country affords and the ready opportunities offered by living under the same roof. Manuelita defended herself; but at length she began to soften, and consented to come to a low window-grating, where without peril to her modesty she could converse at length with Marcelo. But what usually costs effort in these contests is the first triumph, for the remainder come inevitably in their own time, and Manuelita, though she made herself much entreated, ended by granting Marcelo that one night, instead of talking through the grating, they should talk inside the chamber the grating protected...

The narrator paused an instant, as if preparing the effect of what remained for him to tell.

“Marcelo entered that room trembling with joy, tasting in imagination the bliss he anticipated. Manuelita had not ventured to light a lamp, but the moonlight streamed in waves through the grating—against which the maiden leaned, blushing and perhaps already half repentant—and illuminated her face fully, making it appear paler, of the hue of the jasmine blossoms she wore clustered in her black knot of hair. Marcelo advanced like one walking in a dream, and upon approaching Manuelita, upon encircling with his arms the curving waist that yielded, upon inhaling with his lips the perfume of the white blossoms so near the fresh cheek and the supple throat, his mouth exhaled, amid a deep sigh, a name... the name of Jacinta! And upon hearing himself, upon involuntarily repeating that name, terrified as though he had seen a serpent, he tore himself away, shrank back, staggered, and finally fled, groping his way up the stairs and locking himself in his bedroom... where he spent the night amid remorse and tears, to set out at dawn on the road to Córdoba, and from Córdoba to Paris...—Do you understand the motive for Marcelo’s conduct?”

“That for him only Jacinta existed; Manuelita had never existed, except through the fleeting reality communicated to her by her likeness to the other...—we answered, somewhat impressed, reflecting in spite of ourselves.”

“Exactly... I see you are discerning... When Marcelo thought he was freeing himself from his guilty passion, what he was doing was relapsing into it entirely, indulging it, surrendering himself... And beauty? Manuela the country girl was quite as pretty as Jacinta the great lady. Perhaps more so!”