-Xxi- · I

Eyes that Kill

The room destined for Florentina at Aldeacorba was the cheerfulest in the house. No one had lived in it since the death of Señora de Penáguilas; but Don Francisco, deeming his niece worthy to be lodged there, had arranged the chamber with neatness and certain elegant refinements unknown during his wife’s lifetime. The balcony opened to the south and looked upon the orchard, so that the room was daily flooded with pleasant fragrances and light, and enlivened by the melodious chirping of birds. Florentina, in the few days of her stay there, had given the room the impress, so to speak, of her own person. Various objects and corners made clear what manner of woman dwelt there, just as a nest reveals the bird. If there are people who turn a palace into a hell, there are others who, to turn a hut into a palace, need only step inside it.

It was a tempestuous day (and we say that day because we know not what day it was: we only know it was a day). It had rained all morning. Afterward the sky cleared, and at last, upon the moist white atmosphere, a majestic rainbow appeared. The immense arch rested one foot upon the hills of Ficóbriga, beside the sea, and the other upon the forest of Saldeoro. Sovereignly beautiful in its simplicity, it was such as could be compared to nothing, unless to the absolute and essential representation of form. A rainbow is like the epitome, or rather the beginning and the end, of all things visible.

In the room was Florentina, not stringing pearls nor embroidering satin with fine threads of gold, but cutting out a gown with patterns made from copies of El Imparcial and other newspapers. She was upon the floor, in a posture similar to that taken by unruly children at play, now sitting upon her heels, now on her knees, giving no rest to the scissors. Beside her lay a heap of remnants of wool, calico, madapolam, and other stuffs she had ordered brought in all haste that morning from Villamojada; and cutting here, trimming there, Florentina fashioned sleeves, skirts, and bodices. They were no models of tailoring, nor was much reliance to be placed on the regularity of the patterns, which were also Florentina’s work; but she, recognizing the defects of the garments, thought that in such an art good intentions redeem the result. Her excellent father had said to her that morning on seeing her begin the task:

“For heaven’s sake, Florentinilla, it seems there are no dressmakers left in the world. It gives me a strange turn to see a young lady of good society dragging herself across God’s floors with scissors in hand.... That is not seemly. It displeases me that you should work to clothe yourself, and should it please me that you work for others?... What are dressmakers for?... What are dressmakers for, eh?”

“Any dressmaker would do this better than I,” Florentina replied, laughing, “but then I should not be doing it, papa dear; and it is precisely myself who wish to do it.”

Afterward Florentina was left alone—no, she was not left alone, for against the main wall of the alcove, between the bed and the wardrobe, stood an antique sofa, and upon the sofa two blankets, one over the other. At one end, among pillows, lay a head resting in utter abandonment. It was a haggard, bloodless countenance. She was asleep. Her sleep was a restless lethargy interrupted at every moment by violent starts and terrors. Nevertheless, she seemed somewhat more tranquil when at midday Florentina’s father re-entered the room, accompanied by Teodoro Golfín.

Golfín went to the sofa, and bringing his face near, observed Nela’s.

“Her sleep seems more peaceful now,” he said. “Let us make no noise.”

“What do you think of my daughter?” said Don Manuel, laughing. “Do you not see the tasks she sets herself?... Be impartial, Señor Don Teodoro: have I not cause to be annoyed? Frankly, when there is no need to take trouble upon oneself, why take it? It is all very well for my daughter to give to her neighbor everything I allot her for pin-money; but this—this mania of busying herself in menial drudgery... in menial drudgery....”

“Leave her be,” replied Golfín, contemplating the young lady of Penáguilas with a certain rapt admiration. “Everyone, Señor Don Manuel, has their own peculiar way of spending pin-money.”

“I do not object to her charities reaching extravagance, or even bankruptcy,” said Don Manuel, pacing pompously up and down the room with his hands in his pockets. “But is there no better way of doing good? She wished to give thanks to God for the cure of my nephew... very well, that is most evangelical... but let us see... let us see.”

He paused before Nela to favor her with a look.

“Would it not have been more sensible,” he added, “instead of bringing this poor girl into the house, for my daughter to have organized one of those useful solemnities in vogue at Court, wherein the flower of society knows how to display its good feelings? Why did it not occur to you to hold a raffle? Among our friends we could have disposed of all the tickets, collecting a handsome sum to bestow upon charitable institutions. You might have formed a society with all the gentry of Villamojada and its district, or with all the gentlefolk of Santa Irene de Campó, holding meetings and gathering much money.... What do you think? You might also have devised a bullfight with young bulls. I would have taken charge of the cattle and the fighters.... Oh! Last night Señora Doña Sofía and I were talking about that very matter.... Learn, learn from that lady. To her the poor owe heaven knows how many things. And what of the many families that live by managing raffles? And what of the profits actors reap from such benefits? Oh, those in the poorhouse are not the only poor. Sofía told me that in the masked balls given this winter they took in a mint of money. True, a great part was consumed by the gas company, the theater hire, the attendants... but a crust of bread did reach the poor.... If you doubt it, my girl, read the statistics... read the statistics, my child.”

Florentina laughed, and finding no better answer than to repeat Teodoro Golfín’s phrase, said to her father:

“Everyone has their own way of spending pin-money.”

“Señor Don Teodoro,” observed Don Manuel with a touch of chagrin, “admit that there is no one like my daughter.”

“Yes, indeed,” declared Teodoro with deep meaning, contemplating the maiden, “there is no one like Florentina.”

“With all her faults,” said the father, caressing the young lady, “I love her more than my life. This rogue is worth more than her weight in gold.... Come now, what pleases you better: Aldeacorba de Suso or Santa Irene de Campó?”

“I do not dislike Aldeacorba.”

“Ah, you rogue... I see which way the wind blows.... Well and good, it seems right to me. Do you know that at this very hour my brother is preaching a sermon to his son? Family matters: something good must come of it. Look, Don Teodoro, how my daughter blushes; already her face wears all the roses of May. I am going to see what my brother says... to see what my brother says.”

The good gentleman withdrew. Teodoro drew near Nela to observe her once more.

“Did she sleep last night?” he asked Florentina.

“Little. All night long I heard her sigh and weep. Tonight she will have a proper bed, which I ordered brought from Villamojada. I will place it in that little room beside mine.”

“Poor Nela!” exclaimed the physician. “You cannot imagine the interest I feel for this unhappy creature. Someone might laugh at it; but we are not made of stone. Whatever we do to uplift this poor being and better her condition must be understood as done on behalf of no small portion of mankind. Like Nela there are many thousands of beings in the world. Who knows them? Where are they? They are lost in social deserts... for there are social deserts too; they are in the darkest corners of towns, in the loneliest wastes of the countryside, in mines, in workshops. Frequently we pass beside them and do not see them.... We give them alms without knowing them.... We cannot fix our attention on that wretched portion of society. At first I thought Nela an exceptional case; but no: I have reflected, I have recalled, and I see she is of the commonest sort. This is an example of the condition to which beings arrive who are morally organized for good, for knowledge, for virtue, yet through neglect and isolation cannot unfold the faculties of their soul. They live blind in spirit, as Pablo Penáguilas lived blind in body despite having eyes.”

Florentina, deeply moved, seemed to understand Golfín’s observations.

“Here you have her,” the latter added. “She possesses an exquisite imagination, a vivid sensibility; she knows how to love with tenderness and passion; her soul has a marvelous aptitude for all that depends on the soul; but at the same time she is filled with the grossest superstitions; her religious ideas are vague, monstrous, mistaken; her moral notions have no guide beyond natural instinct. She has had no education save that which she gave herself, like a plant fertilized by its own withered leaves. She owes nothing to others. During her childhood she never heard a single lesson, nor a loving counsel, nor a holy homily. She is guided by examples she applies at whim. Her judgment is her own, strictly her own. Having imagination and sensibility, and her soul having been inclined from the beginning to worship something, she has worshipped Nature just like primitive peoples. Her ideals are naturalistic; and if you do not quite understand me, dear Florentina, I will explain it better on another occasion.”

“Her spirit gives systematic preference to form, to beauty. Her whole being, all her affections, revolve around this idea. The pre-eminences and lofty gifts of the spirit are to her a confused region, a land barely discovered, of which only vague tidings are had from some shipwrecked traveler. The great evangelical conquest, which is one of the most glorious our spirit has achieved, scarcely reaches her ears as a rumor... it is like a suspicion akin to that which Asiatic nations have of European knowledge; and if you do not quite understand me, dear Florentina, later I will explain it better....”

“Yet she is framed to make great progress in a short time and place herself upon our level. Shed a little light upon her, and she will traverse centuries with giant strides... she is far behind, she sees little; but having light, she will walk. That light no one has given her until now, because Pablo Penáguilas, through his ignorance of visible reality, unwittingly contributed to increasing her errors. That exaggerated, mad idealist is not the best teacher for a spirit of this kind. We will teach the truth to this poor creature, a resurrected specimen of bygone centuries; we will make her know the gifts of the soul; we will bring her into our own century; we will give her spirit a strength it lacks; we will replace her naturalism and crude superstitions with a noble Christian conscience. Here we have an admirable field, a primitive nature upon which we shall try the teaching of the centuries; we will roll time over her with the manifold truths discovered; we will create a new being—for this, dear Florentina (do not misunderstand me), is the very same as creating a new being; and if you do not understand, another time I will explain it better.”

Florentina, though no blue-stocking, fancied she understood something of what Golfín had expressed in his original style. She too was about to make her observations upon the subject; but at that moment Nela awoke. Her eyes turned fearfully about, scanning the entire room, and then rested alternately upon the two persons gazing at her.

“Are you afraid of us?” Florentina asked her gently.

“No, señora, not afraid,” faltered Nela. “You are very kind. Señor Don Teodoro is too.”

“Are you not glad to be here? What do you fear?”

Golfín took one of her hands.

“Speak to us frankly,” he said. “Which of us two do you love best: Florentina or me?”

Nela did not answer. Florentina and Golfín smiled; but she maintained a taciturn gravity.

“Listen to this, little silly,” the physician went on. “Now you are to live with one of us. Florentina remains here; I am going away. Decide between the two. Which do you choose?”

Marianela turned her gaze from one face to the other without giving a categorical reply. At last her eyes rested on Golfín’s countenance.

“I fancy I am the favored one.... It is an injustice, Nela; Florentina will take offense.”

The poor sufferer then smiled, and extending one of her frail hands toward the young lady of Penáguilas, murmured:

“I do not want her to be angry.”

As she said this, María turned pale; she stretched her neck, and her eyes grew wild. Her ear caught a terrible sound. She had heard footsteps.

“He is coming!” exclaimed Golfín, sharing his patient’s terror.

“It is he,” said Florentina, leaving the sofa and hurrying toward the door.

It was he. Pablo had pushed open the door and entered slowly, walking straight ahead from the habit acquired during his long blindness. He came in smiling, and his eyes, free of the bandage he had lifted himself, looked straight before him. Not yet being accustomed to the rotating movements of the eye, he scarcely perceived lateral images. It might have been said of him, as of many who were never blind of eye, that he only saw what lay directly before him.

“Cousin,” he said, advancing toward her. “Why did you not come to see me today? I have come in search of you. Your papa told me you were making clothes for the poor. For that reason I forgive you.”

Florentina did not know what to reply. She was vexed. Pablo had seen neither the doctor nor Nela. To draw him away from the sofa, Florentina had moved toward the balcony, and gathering up some pieces of cloth, had seated herself as though about to work. The cheerful sunlight bathed her, splendidly coloring her left side and lending her beautiful brownish-pink complexion the most enchanting radiance. Her beauty then shone forth as a witching personification of light itself. Her disordered hair, her flowing gown carried to the highest degree the natural elegance of the graceful maiden, whose pure and noble attitude surpassed the most perfect conceptions of art.

“Cousin,” she said, slightly contracting her lovely brow, “Don Teodoro has not yet given you permission to remove the bandage today. That is not right.”

“He will give it to me afterward,” replied the youth, laughing. “Nothing can happen to me. I feel well. And if anything should happen, I do not care. No, I do not care if I become blind again after having seen you.”

“A fine thing that would be!...” said Florentina in a tone of rebuke.

“I was alone in my room; my father had gone out, after speaking to me of you.... You already know what he told me....”

“No, I know nothing,” replied the maiden, fixing her eyes upon her needlework.

“Well, I know it... My father is very reasonable. He loves us both dearly.... When my father went out, I lifted the bandage and looked out upon the fields.... I saw the rainbow and was amazed, struck dumb with wonder and religious fervor.... I know not why that sublime spectacle, unknown to me until today, gave me the most perfect idea of the world’s harmony.... I know not why, on looking at the perfect union of its colors, I thought of you.... I know not why, seeing the rainbow, I said: ‘I have felt this before somewhere...’ It produced in me an emotion equal to that which I felt on seeing you, Florentina of my soul. My heart could not contain itself within my breast: I wished to weep... I wept copiously, and tears blinded my eyes for a moment. I called you, you did not answer.... When my eyes could see once more, the rainbow had vanished.... I came out to seek you, thinking you were in the garden... I went down, I came up, and here I am.... I find you so marvelously beautiful that it seems to me I never saw you well until today... never until today, for now I have had time to compare.... I have seen many women... all are hideous beside you.... I find it hard to believe you could have existed during my blindness.... No, no: what happens is that you were born the moment light was made within me, that my thought created you at the instant of becoming master of the visible world.... They told me no creature could compare with you. I would not believe it; but now I believe it, I believe it as I believe in the light.”