Episode 1

Marianela

By

Benito Pérez Galdós

La Guirnalda Printing and Lithography House

Madrid

1878

-I-

Lost

The sun went down. Following the brief twilight came the quiet, dark night, into whose black bosom faded little by little the last stirrings of the slumbering earth; and the traveler pressed onward along his way, quickening his pace as the darkness deepened. He walked along a narrow path, one of those traced across the turf by the ceaseless tread of men and beasts, ascending tirelessly up a hill on whose slopes stood picturesque clusters of wild cherry trees, beeches, and oaks. (One can readily tell that we are in northern Spain.)

He was a man in middle life, stoutly built, of good stature, broad-shouldered, resolute of movement, firm of stride, with coarse features, a bold and lively glance, nimble despite a certain portliness, and (let it be said at once, premature though it be) an excellent fellow whichever way one looked at him. He wore the usual travelling suit of well-to-do gentlemen in summer, with that round hat whose ugliness has earned it the name of bowler, field glasses hanging from a strap, and a stout walking stick which, between steps, served to beat off the briars whenever they stretched forth their thorny claws to catch his garments.

He halted, and looking round the whole circle of the horizon, seemed impatient and uneasy. Doubtless he placed little reliance on the accuracy of his itinerary, and was waiting for some countryman to pass by and give him sound topographical directions so that he might reach his destination straightway.

“I cannot have gone astray,” he muttered. “They told me to cross the river by the stepping-stones... and so I did. Then to march onward, always onward. In truth, back there behind me lies that worthy town, which I would call Mudville for the handsome variety of mire to be found in its streets and lanes.... So by keeping on this way, forward, ever forward (I like the phrase, and if I had a coat of arms I would choose no other motto) I must come to the famous mines of Socartes.”

After walking a long stretch, he added:

“I am lost; there is no doubt that I am lost.... Here you have, Teodoro Golfín, the result of your onward, always onward. These yokels know nothing of the meaning of words. Either they took pleasure in fooling you, or they themselves do not know where the mines of Socartes lie. A great mining establishment ought to announce itself with chimneys, the rattle of haulage, the snorting of furnaces, the neighing of horses, the rumble of machinery, and I see, smell, and hear nothing at all.... I seem to be in a desert... what solitude! If I believed in witches, I would imagine that destiny had arranged for me the honor of being presented to them tonight.... Devil take it, is there no living soul in these parts?... Another half hour before the moon rises. Ah, jade, you are to blame for my wandering astray.... If only I could recognize where I am.... But what does it matter? (As he said this, he made a gesture worthy of a hardy man who scoffs at danger). Golfín, you who have journeyed around the world, are you to lose heart now?... Ah, the peasants were right: onward, ever onward. The universal law of locomotion cannot fail me now.”

And putting that bold law resolutely into practice, he covered another kilometer, following at random the paths that opened before him, crossing and branching off at a thousand angles, as though bent on deceiving and confusing him all the more. However great his determination and courage, he was at last forced to stop. The tracks, which at first had climbed, now began to slope downwards, winding around one another; and down they went so steeply that our traveler found himself upon a precipitous bluff, from which he could only have descended by letting himself roll headlong.

“A pretty situation!” he exclaimed with a smile, seeking in good humor a balm for the annoying predicament. “Where are you now, my dear Golfín? This looks like an abyss. Can you see anything down there? Nothing, absolutely nothing... but the grass has vanished; the ground is torn up. Everything here is loose rock and barren red earth, stained by iron oxide.... No doubt I am at the mines... yet not a living soul, no smoking chimneys, no sound, no train rumbling in the distance, not even a barking dog.... What shall I do? Here is a path turning upward again. Shall I follow it? Shall I retrace my steps?... Turn back! How preposterous! Either I am no longer myself, or tonight I shall reach the famous mines of Socartes and embrace my dear brother. Onward, always onward.”

He took a step forward and sank into the loose, shifting ground.

“Is that how it is, Sir Planet?... So you would swallow me up?... If only that lazy satellite would give a little light, you and I would soon settle accounts.... And upon my word, down this way lies no paradise. It looks like the crater of an extinct volcano.... One must tread softly down so delightful a precipice. What is this? Ah! A stone; a magnificent seat for enjoying a cigar while waiting for the moon to rise.”

The prudent Golfín sat down as calmly as if he had taken a seat on a park bench; and he was just about to light up when he heard a voice... yes, unmistakably a human voice sounding in the distance, a plaintive cry or rather a melancholy song, consisting of a single strain whose lingering cadence died away softly in the manner musicians call morendo, fading at last into the placid silence of the night without the ear being able to catch its final vibration.

“Well now,” said the traveler with delight, “we have humanity here. That is a girl singing; yes, a woman’s voice, and an exquisite one. I like the folk music of this country.... Now she is silent.... Let us listen; she will surely start again soon.... Yes, there it is once more. What a lovely voice, what a touching melody! One would think it rose from the depths of the earth, and that Señor de Golfín, the most sober and least superstitious man in the world, were about to hold converse with sylphs, undines, gnomes, fairies, and all the tribe born of the unruly imagination.... But unless my ears deceive me, the voice is drawing away.... The charming songstress is leaving.... Hey! Girl, wait, stop your steps!”

The voice, which for a brief moment had charmed the ears of the lost wanderer with its sweet melody, gradually died away into the gloomy darkness; and at Golfín’s shouts, the singing ceased altogether. Doubtless the mysterious gnomelike creature, who beguiled her subterranean solitude by chanting sorrowful love-songs, had taken fright at the man’s abrupt intrusion and fled into the deepest bowels of the earth, where precious stones dwell, jealous of their own brilliance.

“This is a delightful predicament,” murmured Golfín, reflecting that he could do no better than light his cigar. “Every cloud has a silver lining. Let us wait and smoke. A fine mess I have made of wanting to come alone and on foot to the mines of Socartes. My luggage will have arrived before me, which undeniably proves the virtue of onward, always onward.”

A light breeze then began to stir, and Teodoro thought he heard distant footsteps in the bottom of the unfamiliar gulf that yawned before him. He listened attentively and soon felt certain that someone was moving down there. Rising to his feet, he called out:

“Girl, man, or whoever you may be, can one get to the Socartes mines by this way?”

Scarcely had he spoken when the fierce barking of a dog was heard, followed by a man’s voice saying:

“Choto, Choto, come here!”

“Hey!” cried the traveler. “Good friend, devilish boy, or whatever you are, hold back that dog of yours; I am a man of peace!”

“Choto, Choto!”

Golfín saw a large black dog approaching him; but the creature, after growling near his legs, retreated when called by its master. At that point and moment, the traveler could make out a figure, a man, who stood motionless and devoid of expression, like a stone statue, some ten paces below him on a cross-path that wound irregularly along the slope. This track and the human figure halted upon it strongly caught Golfín’s attention, and casting a joyful glance toward the sky, he exclaimed:

“Thank God! At last that wild moon has shown her face. Now we can see where we are. I had no idea that this path was so close to me.... Why, it is a road.... Halloo, my young friend, can you tell me if I am at the Socartes mines?”

“Yes, sir, these are the Socartes mines, though we are somewhat far from the main works.”

The voice that uttered these words was youthful and pleasant, ringing with that sympathetic inflection that denotes a readiness to be of service with goodwill and courtesy. The doctor was delighted to hear it, and still more pleased to observe the soft radiance that, spreading through the previously dark spaces, brought heaven and earth back to life, as though summoning them out of nothingness.

“Fiat lux,” he said as he clambered down. “It seems to me I have just emerged from primeval chaos. Now we are back in reality.... Well, my lad, I thank you for the information you have given me and that which you have yet to give.... I set out from Villamojada at sunset. They told me forward, always forward....”

“Are you going to the works?” inquired the mysterious youth, remaining motionless and rigid, without looking at the doctor, who was now close at hand.

“Yes, sir; but I undoubtedly took the wrong turning.”

“This is not the entrance to the mines. The entrance is by the Rabagones stepping-stones, where the road and the railway are being built. That way you would have reached the works in ten minutes. By this path we shall take longer, for the distance is considerable and the way very rough. We are in the outermost zone of excavation, and we must pass through several galleries and tunnels, descend steps, cross trenches, climb embankments, and go down the inclined plane; in short, traverse the entire Socartes mines from one end, which is this, to the other, where the workshops, the furnaces, the machinery, the laboratory, and the offices are situated.”

“Upon my word, mine was no small blunder,” said Golfín with a laugh.

“I will guide you with great pleasure, for I know these places thoroughly.”

Golfín, his feet sinking into the earth, slipping here and stumbling there, reached at last the solid footing of the path, and his first act was to inspect the obliging youth. For a moment the doctor was overcome with surprise.

“You are...” he murmured.

“I am blind, yes, sir,” added the young man; “yet without sight I know my way from one end of the Socartes mines to the other. The stick I carry prevents me from stumbling, and Choto keeps me company when Nela is not with me, for she is my guide. So follow me and trust yourself to my lead.”

-II-

Guided

“Blind from birth?” inquired Golfín with keen interest, inspired by something more than mere pity.

“Yes, sir, from birth,” replied the blind man naturally. “I know the world only through thought, touch, and hearing. I have come to understand that the most wondrous part of the universe is that which is withheld from me. I know that the eyes of other men are not like mine, but perceive things of themselves; yet this gift seems so extraordinary to me that I cannot even conceive the possibility of possessing it.”

“Who knows...” observed Teodoro. “But what is this that I see, my friend? What astonishing spectacle is this?”

The traveler, who had walked a few steps beside his guide, halted in amazement at the fantastical vista spread out before his eyes. He stood in a deep hollow resembling the crater of a volcano, with an uneven bottom and walls more irregular still. Along the rims and in the center of the vast cauldron, whose magnitude was heightened by the deceptive chiaroscuro of the night, colossal figures rose up: misshapen men, overturned monsters lying belly-up, huge arms stretching out, truncated feet, scattered shapes like those formed by the capricious drifting of clouds in the sky, yet still, motionless, and petrified. Their color was that of mummies, an earthy red; their posture that of feverish motion surprised and cut short by death. It looked like the petrification of an orgiastic revelry of gigantic demons; their frantic gestures and the mocking thrusts of their disproportionate heads had remained frozen like the unalterable poses of sculpture. The silence filling the bounds of this supposed crater was a silence that inspired dread. One could fancy that a thousand voices and shrieks had likewise turned to stone, and had been stone for untold ages.

“Where are we, my good friend?” said Golfín. “This is like a nightmare.”

“This part of the mine is called La Terrible,” replied the blind youth, indifferent to his companion’s bewilderment. “It was worked until the calamine ore was exhausted two years ago. Now the mining goes on in other sections higher up. What astonishes you are the blocks of what they call chalky stone and hardened ferruginous clay left behind after the ore was removed. They say it makes a magnificent spectacle, especially by moonlight. I understand nothing of such things myself.”

“An astonishing spectacle, truly,” said the stranger, stopping to contemplate it, “though to me it causes dread rather than pleasure, for I associate it with the memory of my neuralgic attacks. Do you know what it seems like to me? It feels as if I were journeying through the interior of a brain seized with a violent sick headache. These shapes resemble the sensible forms assumed by cephalalgic pain, mingling with the terrifying phantoms and shadows bred by fever.”

“Choto, Choto, here!” said the blind youth. “Sir, take great care now, for we are about to enter a gallery.”

Golfín indeed saw the blind youth, tapping the ground with his stick, make his way toward a narrow opening framed by three stout beams.

The dog entered first, sniffing into the black cavity. The blind youth followed with the fearless composure of one who dwells in perpetual darkness. Teodoro came behind, not without feeling a certain instinctive aversion to this untimely excursion beneath the earth.

“It is amazing,” he remarked, “that you can pass in and out of here without stumbling.”

“I was raised in these parts and know them as my own home. It feels cold in here; wrap yourself well if you have a cloak. We shall not be long in getting out.”

He felt his way with his right hand along the wall of upright timbers. Then he added:

“Take care not to trip over the rails on the ground. The ore from the workings above is hauled along here. Are you cold?”

“Tell me, my good friend,” the doctor asked playfully, “are you certain the earth has not swallowed us up? This gallery is an esophagus. We are poor vermin fallen into the stomach of some huge insectivore. And do you, young man, walk often amid these pleasant haunts?”

“I walk here constantly at all hours, and it pleases me exceedingly. Now we have reached the drier part. This is pure sand.... Now comes the stone again.... Here are seepages of sulfurous water; along here is a layer of earth where little stone shells are found.... There are also beds of slate; they call these schists.... Do you hear the toad singing? We are already near the mouth. The lazy fellow settles there every evening. I know him well; he has a deep, slow croak.”