THE ROAD TO PERFECTION.
The letter which we have just read led to a very important crisis in the
lives of our lovers. Ricardo at first was furious, and wrote a long
answer to his betrothed, announcing the end of their acquaintance, but
he did not send it. Then he held a consultation with her in which he
overwhelmed her with recriminations and insults, saving that all she had
written in her letter was nothing but a tissue of follies and
absurdities, manufactured on purpose to hide her treachery; that she
might have dismissed him in some way not so grotesque; that although he
had no claim upon her love, at least he might and ought to demand the
frankness and loyalty which he had always shown; that for a long time
back he had noticed her coldness and indifference, but he could never
have believed that she would make use of a pretext so ridiculous and so
absurd for breaking the tie that united them, etc., etc. Maria received
this storm of contumely with great humility, assuring him with gentle
words of persuasion, when he left her a moment's chance to speak, that
she still loved him with all her soul; that he might put her love to the
test as often as he pleased, since she was ready to make whatever
sacrifice he demanded, except what went against her conscience; that his
suspicions of her untruth and treachery cut her to the heart, but she
forgave him because she was aware of his excited state of mind; that she
likewise felt it keenly that he should call the motives of her
resolution grotesque and ridiculous when she found them so worthy; and,
in fine, that she begged him to calm himself.
After the young marquis had thoroughly vented his ill feeling without
result, he began to get off of his high horse and try the effect of
skilful reasoning, and then he changed to entreaties, but without any
better results. He employed all the device of genius and all the tender
and expressive words dictated by his honorable heart, in order to
convince her that neither of them was fortunately under the necessity of
mourning for their sins like two criminals; since if they were not
better than the average of humanity, they were at least as good; and as
for their skill and judgment in governing themselves and their children
in matrimony, he believed that they were no less fitted than the rest,
and that in the end they would come out as well as other people. All was
useless. The young woman met argument with argument, and her lover's
prayers, sprinkled with endearments, with a firm and obstinate silence.
Ricardo, in a state of tribulation which Father Rivadeneira does not
take account of as a matter of merit in his treatise, went straight to
Don Mariano, whom he loved like a father, to tell him the state of
things, and ask his aid and advice. The latter was highly surprised and
disturbed when he read his daughter's letter. He read it over many times
as though he could not get the key of it, and at each new reading he
found it more obscure and inexplicable. Finally he handed it back with a
gesture of dismay, signifying that his daughter must have lost her wits,
for he could not understand any such nonsense.
In point of fact, Don Mariano was a sincere believer, fulfilling
scrupulously the moral precepts of religion, but he looked upon the
things which relate to worship with some coolness, if not with scorn. He
had never doubted the religious truths learned in his childhood, but he
had never made much account of masses and sermons, and he never went to
church more than was strictly necessary. He could make a distinction,
when these subjects were up for discussion, between religion and the
priest, professing for these latter a decided Voltairian hostility,
which came from inheritance, according to Doña Gertrudis, since his
grandfather, the Mexican, had kept up friendly relations and a
voluminous correspondence with a member of the French Convention. He had
an insuperable faith in modern progress, and he made use of the
inventions constantly realized by human industry, in order to combat and
crush the fragile arguments of his constant enemies, the partisans of
tradition, among whom not the least obstinate and vexatious was his
wife. If, for example, a telegram from any relation or friend was
received in the house, Don Mariano, after reading it, would hold it out
to his wife with a triumphal smile, saying,--
"Here, this miserable modern invention brings us word that your brother
has reached Paris safely."
He delighted in making humorous conjectures on the fright that would
seize our forefathers if they were suddenly put in a railroad car, or
were told that they could communicate whenever they pleased with a
friend residing in Havana. Whenever he found in the papers a notice of
any wonderful invention, the audacious man hastened to read it to his
wife, and he kept the paper so as to read it also to the many
conservatives who frequented his house. If the invention was not costly,
he had the machine sent him, although it was not of the slightest use to
him; and so he kept the house stored with curious manufactures, almost
all of them covered with dust, and out of order by want of
use,--ice-making machines, churns, cider-mills, organs, etc., parlor
telegraphs, stereopticons, pans for cooking meat with a piece of paper,
life-preservers, canes with chairs and guns, waterproof umbrellas with
tent arrangement, and an endless array of strange articles. When the
machine did not work, Don Mariano was disgusted and felt humiliated, and
fearing lest the glory of modern science should be diminished in
consequence, he did not speak of the apparatus before his señora; or if
he were obliged to do so, he escaped the difficulty on a tangent, as he
used to say, by always attributing the unfortunate result to his own
stupidity, and not the quality of the machine. This eager love which he
professed for the incredible advances of the present age, and the
struggle which he waged both in his house and out of it with the friends
of tradition, occasionally impelled him to employ forbidden weapons, as
for example to exaggerate the power of modern industry, giving
fictitious accounts of the beginning of stupendous new enterprises which
had never as yet entered into the mind of man. One day he startled his
friends by assuring them that it was seriously intended to establish a
floating bridge between Europe and America, over which one could travel
by rail to the New World; another time he astonished them by declaring
that a telescope was in construction, which would bring the moon within
half a league of the earth, so that we could discover whether that
satellite had inhabitants. Again, he filled them with wonder by
informing them that in the United States a whole cathedral had been
moved at once from one town to another by means of hydraulic pressure.
In regard to mechanical advances, Don Mariano had more imagination than
Shakespeare. National politics engaged his attention little in
comparison with the incessant and sublime progress realized by humanity,
and he detested the exaggerations which in his view tended to hinder it.
His affiliations were with the liberal conservative party.
With these peculiarities, it is easy to imagine the effect made upon him
by his daughter's letter. He looked upon it as one of those many
extravagant hobbies which she had passed through in her life, and he
solemnly promised Ricardo to make her desist from such folly. But after
he had called her to his room and spent about two hours closeted with
her, he began to suspect that the thing was not so easy as it appeared
at first sight. Neither by turning her austere plan into ridicule by his
jests, nor by showing that he was annoyed, nor by descending to
entreaties, was our worthy caballero able to accomplish anything. Maria
met these attacks like her lover's, with a humble but resolute attitude
impossible to overcome. No other way was left them but to resign
themselves, and this they both did perforce with the secret hope that
the girl would very soon change of her own accord when once her caprice
was satisfied. Accordingly the wedding was indefinitely postponed, and
poor Ricardo began to play his part as Duke of Thuringen almost as ill
as a Spanish actor. From that time forth his interviews with Maria
became less frequent and familiar. The girl seemed to shun him and to
avoid opportunities of talking confidentially with him as she used.
Ricardo eagerly sought them, sometimes employing them in bitter
expostulations, at others in softly whispering a thousand passionate
phrases. She always appeared sweet and affectionate, but endeavored to
turn the conversation to serious subjects. Ricardo still caressed her
whenever he had an opportunity, but he no longer obtained from her the
usual reciprocation in spite of the incredible efforts which he made to
obtain it. And not only he did not obtain this grace, but little by
little the girl came to avoid his familiarities by always talking with
him in the presence of others. One day when he found her alone in the
dining-room, he said to himself with inward delight, "She is mine." And
creeping up behind her carefully, he gave her a ringing kiss on her
neck. Maria sprang suddenly from her chair and said, with a certain
sweetness not free from severity,--
"Ricardo, don't do that again!"
"Why not?"
"Because I don't like it."
"How long since?"
"I never did; don't be foolish." She said these words with asperity, and
another unpleasant stage in Ricardo's love was signalized. Almost
absolutely ceased those happy moments of fond raptures, sweet and
delicious as the pleasures of the angels in which the poesy of spirit
and matter is indistinguishable, the prospect of which kindles and stirs
the deepest roots of our being, and their remembrance throws over all
our lives, even for the most prosaic of men, a vague and poetical
melancholy helping us to endure the rebuffs of existence and to
contemplate without envy the felicity of others. The most that the young
marquis obtained grudgingly from his sweetheart was the permission to
give her a brotherly kiss on the forehead from time to time. And there
is no need of telling my experienced readers, for they must be able to
imagine it, that with this enforced fast the young man's love far from
growing less, increased and became violent beyond all power of words.
Maria was able fully to devote herself to the life of perfection toward
which she had felt such vehement aspiration. The hours of the day seemed
to her too few for her prayers, both at church and at home, and for the
repentance of her sins. She attended the sacraments more and more, and
she was present and assisted with her sympathy and money in all the
religious solemnities which were celebrated in the town. The time left
free from her prayers she spent in reading books of devotion, which, in
a short time, formed a library almost as numerous as her novels. The
lives of the saints pleased her above all, and she soon devoured a
multitude of them, paying most attention, as was logical, to the lives
of those who reached the greatest glory and brought the greatest
splendor to the Church,--the life of Saint Teresa, that of Saint
Catalina of Sienna, of Saint Gertrudis, of Saint Isabel, Saint Eulalia,
Saint Monica, and many others who, without having been canonized, were
celebrated for their piety and for the spiritual graces which God
bestowed upon them, like the holy Margarita of Alacoque, Mademoiselle de
Melun, and others. These works made a very profound impression on our
young lady's ardent and enthusiastic mind, driving her farther and
farther along the road to perfection. The incredible and marvellous
powers of those heroic souls, who, through love and charity, succeeded
in lifting themselves to heaven, and in enjoying through anticipation,
while still on earth, the delights reserved for the blessed, filled her
with deep, fervent admiration. She felt an ecstasy over the most
insignificant incidents in the lives of the saints, where God often
showed them that He held them as His chosen ones, and would not let the
world entice them away, as, for example, the scene of the miraculous
toad which Saint Teresa saw talking in the garden with a caballero
toward whom she felt a drawing; the sudden death of Buenaventura, Saint
Catalina's sister, who was leading that holy woman along the worldly
path of bodily adornments and pleasures; and many others which filled
the books aforesaid. Maria regarded these notable heroines of religion
with the same emotion and astonishment as one regards the phenomena and
marvels of nature. A long time passed before she dared to lift her eyes
toward them in the way of imitation; she contented herself with
beseeching them, through interminable prayers, to intercede with God to
pardon her sins. She bought the finest effigies that she found and, when
she had caused them to be richly framed, she hung them up on the walls
of her room. To do this she had to take down Malec-Kadel and many other
warriors of the Middle Ages which had invaded them. She was especially
carried away by the scenes of their infancy, and by the first steps
which these blessed women had taken along the road to perfection; but
when she reached that part of their lives which marked the apogee of
their glory on earth, when God, overcome by their steadfast love, their
fidelity, and the wonderful penances imposed upon themselves, began to
grant them favors and spiritual gifts by means of ecstasies and visions,
she remained somewhat disturbed and even cast down. She did not as yet
comprehend the mystic delight of direct communication through the senses
between the soul and God, and she confessed with great compunction that
if one of these miraculous visions were to be vouchsafed her, she should
feel much greater fear than pleasure.
Nevertheless, before long, the desire to imitate them sprang up in her
heart. It is always a short step from admiration to imitation. She
began where it was proper, that is, by imitating their humility.
Hitherto she had been modest, but not to such a degree as not to enjoy
being flattered and applauded; but from this time forth she not only
carefully avoided all praise, but she repelled those who offered it, and
even tried to hide her talents so as to give her friends no chance to
praise her. She began to talk as little as possible with friends or
members of the family, and to do on the instant whatever they asked her
to, lamenting in her heart that they did not give her harsh commands.
She managed to have the servants help her at table after all the rest,
and always give her stale bread instead of fresh. To conquer the natural
impulses of selfishness she showed those who had offended her more
affability than others, and any one had only to offend her pride more or
less for her immediately to overwhelm them with attentions, as though
she owed them gratitude. On the other hand, to those who, as she knew,
loved and admired her, she took delight in seeming peevish, so that they
might not think her better than she really was.
Having started out on this pious path, which has been travelled by all
the saints for the glory of God and of the human race, since the virtue
of humility raises man above his own nature, conquering the passions
deepest rooted in the human heart, and, of all virtues is the one that
best proves the power of the spirit, and inspires respect even in the
most unbelieving of men; having started out, I say on this pious path,
and being aided by vivid imagination, she performed a number of strange
deeds, wellnigh incomprehensible to those whose attention is turned to
the world and not to religious things, deeds which the illustrious
biographers of Saint Isabel calls _secret_ and _holy fancies_,[20]
serving as the mystic steps whereby the soul mounts to perfection and
communicates with God. One day, for example, it came into her mind to
eat humbly with the servants as though she were one of them. In order to
do this, when dinner-time came, she pretended to have a headache, and
kept in her chamber; but when the family were gathered in the
dining-room, she softly ran down stairs to the kitchen, and there she
stayed all through the dinner-hour, helping herself to the remains of
the food, to the surprise and admiration of the servants. Another day,
when it seemed to her that she had not answered her father with
sufficient respect, she suddenly presented herself in his office, fell
on her knees, and begged his pardon. Don Mariano lifted her from the
floor, with startled eyes:--
"But, my daughter, suppose you have not offended me or committed any
fault? And even if you had, there is no need of going to these extremes.
What nonsense! Come, give me a kiss, and go and sew with your sister,
and don't frighten me again with such absurdities!"
Maria did not meet with the contrarieties in the bosom of her family
that she would have liked, in the way of test. Her father and sister,
though they did not encourage her in her devotions, said nothing to
oppose her; and each day they showed her more and more affection, which
was the natural consequence of the growing sweetness and gentleness of
her character. Her mother adored her with foolish frenzy, blindly
applauded all her acts of piety, and never wearied of praising to the
skies the virtue and talent of her first-born. The servants, and
particularly Genoveva, likewise joined their voices in a chorus of
flatteries, spreading all over town the fame of her virtues, and
crowning her with a halo of respect and sanctity. As far as such things
influenced her salvation, our maiden would have preferred a cruel,
tyrannical father, who laid harsh commands upon her, or a disagreeable
mother or an envious sister, who would not let her live in peace, since,
according to the biographies which she read, no saint had been free from
suffering persecutions in her own family. She grieved inwardly at the
ease and comfort which she enjoyed at home, and she thought that she
suffered nothing for the God who had redeemed us with His blood. She
would have liked it had a calumny been breathed about her, such as
Palmerina caused Saint Catalina of Sienna to suffer, so that she might
be scorned and maltreated; but no one in the house or out of it dreamed
of doing such a thing.
To compensate for this absence of persecutions, she mortified her flesh
with fasting and penances, always performing those which were most
unpleasant to her. Some dish on the table was distasteful to her; then
she imposed upon herself the penance of eating it, leaving others, of
which she was extremely fond, untouched. She went so far as to put aloes
in some, in imitation of what was done by Saint Nicolas of Tolentino. On
Fridays she fasted rigorously on bread and water, performing miracles of
shrewdness to prevent her father from discovering it; for she felt
certain that if he knew it, he would not give his consent.
She always wore a locket around her neck, containing the picture of her
betrothed. One day, when he had succeeded in having a moment's
conversation alone with her, she said to him,--
"Listen, Ricardo; if you would not be vexed, I would tell you
something."
"What is it?" hastily asked the young man, with the sudden alarm of one
who is always afraid of some misfortune.
"I see that I am going to offend you--but I will tell you. I have taken
your picture out of the locket."
Ricardo's face expressed amazement.
"And the worst is, that I have put another in its place."
The expression of amazement changed into one of such pain, that Maria,
on looking in his contracted and grief-stricken face, could not refrain
from breaking out into a fresh, ringing peal of merry laughter, such as
in former times used to ripple from her lips all the time, and which
little by little had decreased, as though the fire of light and joy from
which they came had died down.
"Good Heavens! what a long face!--Wait! Now I'll show your substitute,
so as to make you suffer more."
And taking the locket from her neck she showed it to him. It held the
effigy of Jesus crowned with thorns. Ricardo, half satisfied and half
vexed, answered with a smile.
"Now kiss it!"
The young man obeyed instantly, placing his lips on the picture of the
Lord, and at the same time touching the rosy fingers which held it out
to him. Maria withdrew them and ran away.
Equally as she schooled herself in humility, so she gave much heed to
that other virtue, which is, so to speak, the foundation of our religion
and the chief crown of glory that the creature can offer to God,--the
virtue of charity. Our maiden's excellent heart and the example of her
parents were sufficient reason for her to alleviate as far as possible
the miseries of her neighbors, but beside this there was now the
continual inducement in the incredible powers of abnegation and charity
shown by the saints, whom she worshipped with the greatest fervor,
particularly the holy Duchess of Thuringen, who bore the name of Mother
of the Poor. And so she visited her compassion on all the wretched, and
lost no opportunity to supply their needs with lavish hand. All the
money which her father gave her she employed in almsgiving. In company
with Genoveva she visited the houses of many poor people, whom she
assisted not only with money but also with words of council, on the
ground that man lives not by bread alone. In order to school herself in
humility in the same way that was practised by Margaret, the sainted
queen of Scotland, she had some beggars come secretly to her room, and
washed their feet with the greatest scrupulousness. Each one of these
pious deeds filled her with a holy inward joy such as she had never
before experienced. She took up the habit of never allowing any poor
person who asked alms to go without receiving them, since in addition to
the dictates of her heart she remembered the multitude of cases in which
our Lord or the Virgin had appeared to many saints in the disguise of
beggars. Her desire, mixed with fear, that something of this sort might
happen in her case, impelled her to scrutinize with considerable care
the faces of the poor. But as her own resources did not suffice for her
attention to such numerous charities, she had to scheme in order to
obtain money from her father, using a thousand innocent devices: one day
asking it for a parasol, another for a clock, another for a case of
scissors, etc., etc. She went to such extremes, however, that Don
Mariano began to suspect the truth, and put a limit to his munificence.
His daughter had impoverished him with the greatest innocence.
Carried away by her ardent charity, she likewise wanted to put herself
to the test by caring for the sick; above all, for those who were
suffering from disgusting diseases. She heard that a woman near her
house was suffering from a sore breast, and she made the resolution to
go every morning and dress it, and this she instantly put into practice;
but at the very first visit, wishing to add what she had read in the
history of Saint Catalina, that is, wishing to kiss the sick woman's
sore, the loathing and horror which overcame her were so great that she
grew faint, became very ill, and Genoveva had to take her in her arms
and carry her home.
The poor girl attributed her misfortune not to the feebleness of her
stomach, but to her lack of virtue, and she applied herself with
increased anxiety to better her life.
Genoveva took part in all these exercises of piety, but rather as her
companion and confidential friend than as her maid. She aided her,
oftentimes without understanding where she was going to stop, absolutely
persuaded that she could not go on the wrong track, for she had blind
faith in her señorita's discretion. It was not so much affection which
she felt for her, as a species of idolatry in which was mingled
admiration for her beauty, respect for her talent, and pride in having
seen the birth of a prodigy in the creation of which she had had a
share. Maria was unable to arouse in her the mystic enthusiasm which
possessed herself, for Genoveva was not of an inflammable nature, and a
supine ignorance shielded her from all sorts of enthusiasms; but she
succeeded through her acts and religious discourses in awakening in her
the fanaticism which is always dormant in the depths of vulgar, ignorant
souls.
One night after Maria had retired from the family circle, and Genoveva
had left the kitchen, they found themselves in the boudoir in the tower.
Maria was reading by the light of her polished iron lamp,[21] while
Genoveva was seated in another chair in front of her, engaged in
knitting stockings. They often spent an hour or two in this way before
going to bed, since the señorita was accustomed of old to read till the
small hours of the night.
She did not seem so absorbed in her reading as usual. She often laid the
book on the table and remained a long while thoughtful, with her cheek
resting in her hand: then she took it up again, only to lay it down very
hastily; she was nervous, judging by the creaking of the chair. From
time to time she fastened a long gaze on Genoveva in which gleamed a
timid, restless desire and a sort of inner struggle with some thought
preoccupying her. Genoveva, on the other hand, was more than ever
absorbed in her stocking, doubtless mixing with her stitches a crowd of
more or less philosophical considerations which obliged her, from time
to time, to lean forward towards her hands just as if she were asleep.
At last the señorita decided to break the silence.
"Genoveva, don't you want to read this passage from the life of Saint
Isabel?" she asked, handing her the book.
"With all my heart,[22] señorita."
"Look here where it says: 'When her husband.'"
Genoveva began to read the paragraph to herself, but very soon Maria
interrupted her, saying,--
"No, no; read it aloud!"
Whereupon she obeyed, reading what follows:--
_"When her husband was absent, she spent the whole night watching with
Jesus, the spouse of her soul. But the penances which the innocent young
princess imposed upon herself were not limited to this alone. Under her
most splendid garments she always wore a haircloth cilicium next her
flesh. Every Friday she let herself be severely whipped in secret in
memory of the dolorous passion of our Lord, and daily during Lent (in
order, says a biographer, to requite the Lord in some measure for the
punishment of the lash), coming thereafter to Court, her face full of
joy and serenity. As time went on she carried this austerity into the
small hours of the night, and entering into an apartment next the
chamber where she slept with her husband, she caused her damsels to
inflict a severe scourging upon her, thence returning to her husband's
side more joyful and amiable than ever, having gained comfort from these
severities practised on herself and against her own weakness. Thus it
was, as a contemporary poet says, she succeeded in drawing near to God
and breaking the bonds of the prison of the flesh like a brave warrior
of the love of the Lord."_
"That'll do; don't read any more; what do you think about it?"
"I have often read that same thing before."
"That's true; but what should you think if I decided to do the same?"
she asked impetuously, like one who determines to propose something long
thought about.
Genoveva stared at her with wide-open eyes, failing to understand her.
"Don't you understand?"
"No, señorita."
Maria got up, and throwing her arms around her neck, she whispered, her
face aflame,--
"I mean, silly one,[23] that if you would be willing to do the office of
Saint Isabel's damsels, I would imitate the saint to-night."
Genoveva vaguely understood, but still she asked,--
"What office?"
"Oh! you stupid and more than stupid, that of giving me a few blows with
the lash in memory of those which our Lord received, and all the saints
in example of him."
"Señorita, what are you saying? How did such a thing ever enter into
your head?"
"It entered my head because I wish to mortify and humiliate myself at
one and the same time. That is the true penance and the most pleasing in
the eyes of the Lord, for the reason that he himself suffered it for us.
I intended to inflict it upon myself, but I could not; and besides, it
is not so efficacious as to suffer the humiliation of receiving it from
the hands of another. And so you won't be willing to do this for me?"
"No, Señorita, not for anything. I couldn't do it--"
"Why not, _tonta_? Don't you see that it is for my good? If I should
fail of freeing myself from a few days of purgatory because I did not do
what I ask you, wouldn't you feel remorse?"
"But, my heart's dove,[24] how could you want me to maltreat you even
though it were for your good?"
"Why, you have nothing left but to do it because it is a vow, and I must
fulfil it; you have helped me hitherto in the road to virtue. Don't
abandon me when I least expect it. You won't, Genovita? You won't, will
you?"
"Señorita, for God's sake don't make me do this!"
"Come, Genovita, I beg of you by the love that you bear me--"
"No! no! no! don't ask me to do it--"
"Come, you old darling,[25] do this favor for me. You don't know how bad
I shall feel if you don't do it. I shall believe that you have ceased to
love me."
Maria exhausted all the resources of her genius to convince her. She sat
on her lap and overwhelmed her with caresses; she fondled her, now
getting vexed, now entreating her, and always fixing her eyes upon her
in a wheedling way impossible to resist. She was like a child asking for
a forbidden toy. When she saw that her maid was softening a little, or
rather was very tired of refusing, she said, with fascinating
volubility:--
"Truly, _tonta_, don't believe that it is a thing of such great
consequence. A bad toothache is much worse, and you know that I have had
them often enough. Your imagination makes you think that it is terrible,
when in reality it is a trifling thing. It all comes from the fact that
it isn't done nowadays because virtue is vanished from the world, but in
the good old times of religion it was a common, every-day occurrence,
and no one who claimed to be a good Christian failed to perform this
penance. Come, make up your mind to grant me this favor, and at the same
time to do a good work.--Wait a moment, I will find what we need--"
And running to the bureau, she opened a drawer, and took out a scourge,
a genuine scourge, with round wooden handle and leather cords. Then, all
excited and nervous, with her cheeks on fire, she brought it to
Genoveva, and thrust it into her hand. She took it mechanically, without
knowing what she did. She was perfectly stupefied. The girl began to
caress her again, encouraging her with persuasive accents; but she did
not answer a word. Then the Señorita de Elorza, with trembling hand,
began to unloose the blue silk dress which she wore. On her face glowed
the excited, anxious joy of a caprice about to be gratified. Her eyes
shone with unwonted light, hinting at keen, mysterious joys; her lips
were dry, as one athirst; the violet circle around her eyes was larger
than usual, and bright crimson spots burned in her cheeks. She breathed
excitedly through her nostrils, which were more than ordinarily dilated.
Her white, aristocratic hands, with their slender fingers and rosy
nails, loosed with strange haste the buttons of her dress. With a quick
movement she freed herself from it.
"You shall see; I have on only my chemise and underwaist. I am all
ready."
In truth, she took off, or rather tore off, her underwaist and a skirt
or two, and was left only in her chemise. She stood an instant, glanced
at the instrument in Genoveva's hand, and over her body ran a tremor of
chill, of pleasure, of anguish, of terror, and of eagerness, all at
once. In a low voice, changed by emotion, she said, "Papa must not know
this."
And her linen chemise slipped down on her body, catching for an instant
on her hips, and then falling slowly to the floor. She was now entirely
naked. Genoveva looked at her with ecstatic eyes, and the girl felt
somewhat abashed.
"You won't be angry with me, Genovita?" she asked, smiling.
The serving woman could only say,--
"Señorita, for God's sake!"
"The sooner, the better, for I shall get cold."
In this way she wished to bring still greater pressure to bear on her
servant. With a nervous movement she snatched the scourge from her left
hand, thrust it into her right; again threw her arms around her neck,
and giving her a kiss, whispered very softly, in a joyous tone,--
"You must ply it vigorously, for so I have promised God."
A violent trembling took possession of her body, as she said these
words; but it was a delicious trembling, which penetrated to the very
depths of her being. Then, taking Genoveva by the hand, she pulled her
toward the table where the Saviour's image stood.
"Here it must be,--kneeling before our Lord."
Her voice choked in her throat. She was pale. She bent humbly before the
image, rapidly made the sign of the cross, folded her hands over her
breast, and turning her face toward her maid, said, with a sweet
smile,--
"Now you can begin."
"Señorita, for God's sake!" exclaimed Genoveva, in perfect trepidation.
Through the señorita's eyes flashed a gleam of anger, which instantly
died away; but she said, in a tone of considerable irritation:--
"Do we believe in this? Obey me, and don't be obstinate."
The woman, overawed, and persuaded that she was aiding in a work of
piety, obeyed, laying the scourge gently enough on the señorita's naked
shoulders.
The first blows struck by the maid were so soft and gentle that they
left no sign on that precious skin. But Maria was excited; she desired
them to be heavier:--
"No, not like that; but with force--but wait a moment; let me take off
these jewels, which are out of place at such a moment."
And hastily she tore off all the rings from her fingers, pulled out her
earrings, and laid the handful of gold and precious stones at the feet
of Jesus. In that same way Saint Isabel, when she prayed in church, laid
her ducal crown at the foot of the altar.
She resumed her humble posture, and Genoveva, seeing that there was no
escape, began relentlessly to bruise her pious mistress's flesh. The
lamp shed a soft, diffused light, bathing the little boudoir in subdued
brilliancy; only as it touched the jewels lying at the Redeemer's feet,
it broke into beautiful fleeting sparkles. The silence at this moment
was absolute; not even the mournful voice of the wind in the casements
was to be heard. The room breathed an atmosphere of mystery and
seclusion, which enraptured Maria and filled her with an intoxicating
pleasure. Her lovely body, bared, shuddered every time that the straps
of the scourge curled around it with a pang not without voluptuous
pleasure. She pressed her brow to the Redeemer's feet, breathing quickly
and with a certain oppression, and she felt the blood beating in her
temples with strange violence, while the light golden hair at the back
of the neck rose slightly under the impulse of the emotion which filled
her. From time to time her pale, trembling lips said softly,--
"Go on, go on."
The lashes had already raised many rose-colored weals in her shining
skin, and she did not ask for a truce. But at last the barbarous
instrument brought a drop of blood. Genoveva could not restrain herself;
she threw the scourge far from her, and hastened to embrace her
señorita, covering her with caresses and begging her by the salvation
of her soul not to make her do such an atrocious thing again. Maria
consoled her, assuring her that the flagellation had hurt her very
little; and now that her ardor was somewhat cooled, and her ascetic
impulses calmed, she said good night and went to her bedroom to lie
down.