HUSBAND OR SOUL.
The dew of grace kept falling copiously on the soul of the eldest
daughter of the Elorzas. The Christian virtues flourished in her like
mystical roses replete with fragrance, and with the impatience and ardor
which characterized all her actions, she continued to mount one by one
the rounds on the ladder of perfection leading to heaven. Her deeds of
charity and humility not only filled those who lived near her with
astonishment, but were bruited about the whole town, serving as an
edifying example for young and old, and as a theme of conversation among
the clergy. Her fasts and penances, always growing more frequent and
severe, increased the enthusiasm and seraphic joy of her soul; but at
last they had a naturally weakening effect upon her health. Her delicate
constitution began to rebel against so much mortification of the flesh,
and to protest at every instant by pains, sometimes in her heart, at
others in her stomach, at others in her head, and yet she endured it all
with enviable resignation, and did not let it discourage her saintly
endeavors. She suffered frequently from fainting fits in which she
remained long unconscious, and from severe convulsions; some days she
could not retain the food that she ate, and on others she complained of
acute headaches. Don Maximo began to prescribe preparations of iron,
sea-baths, and wine of quinine, and this treatment brought about some
improvement, but not much; the doctor finally declared that unless she
entirely changed her mode of life, these attacks would not cease; but
it was impossible to persuade her.
Maria began to notice with a secret pride, of which she tearfully
accused herself to her father confessor, that she inspired admiration
and something more than respect among the people; that when she went
along the street, many saluted her with words of praise, and when she
was at church, all the faithful gazed at her with peculiar persistence.
Through the mouth of the servants many such flattering phrases came to
her ears, as that her virtues were worthy of the most venerable priests
and the most pious souls of the community, and, as she perceived a
certain sweet savor in them, she forbade their being repeated to her.
Many ladies consulted with her on matters concerning their consciences,
and she was appointed teacher of a Sunday-school for adult women, to
whom she began to explain the doctrine and moral precepts of
Christianity with so much clearness and eloquence that nothing else was
talked about. On the second Sunday the hall granted by the board of
magistrates[36] in an old convent was crowded not only with servants and
working-girls, for whom the institution had been founded, but also with
the most distinguished ladies in town, desirous of seeing for themselves
what was reported of the young woman. And indeed they had to agree that
she had decided gifts for teaching,--an artless, animated discourse,
manners free from conceit, and unwearied patience. The girls made
notable progress under her direction. Not satisfied with this, she asked
and obtained from her father permission to use a pavilion which he had
in his garden, and there she gathered every day a dozen orphan children,
whom she taught to read, write, and say their prayers, giving them an
education suitable to their sex and social position. The extreme
gentleness with which she treated her scholars soon won their love, and
even their adoration.
From every side our virtuous heroine received unimpeachable evidence of
the great regard in which she was held, but more especially in the
society of the devout and saintly, among whom she was considered as a
brilliant beacon kindled for the advantage of religion. In the age of
unbelief, whereunto we have attained, the spectacle of such a beautiful,
well-educated, and illustrious maiden, consecrating herself exclusively
to the practice of the virtues and religious deeds, could not fail to
have a heartfelt influence on the morals of the town.
One morning, as she was leaving the steps of the altar, where she had
just received holy communion, her face presented such a sanctified
expression that a woman left the throng, and, kneeling before her, asked
for her blessing. Maria, disturbed and perplexed, would have refused,
but finally she had no other escape than by yielding to her entreaties.
On another occasion, as she was going through one of the suburbs with
Genoveva, a poor woman, who was standing at the door of a wretched hovel
with a dying child in her arms, begged her to take him into hers and
offer a Pater Noster for him; Maria did so to satisfy her, but protested
that she was a miserable sinner, to whom God could not listen. The
child, however, had scarcely felt the tender caress of her lovely hand
before it began to smile, and in a few days was entirely restored to
health. This miraculous cure, proclaimed by the grateful mother, made a
great noise among the people; whereupon the house of Elorza was besieged
by a throng of women who came with their sick children to ask Maria to
take them in her arms and bless them. As this partook of the nature of
wonder-working, according to report, Maria hastened to consult her
confessor whether she ought to continue yielding to the entreaties of
these afflicted mothers; and the priest, after taking a day to reflect,
replied that he saw no harm in it, but, on the other hand, believed that
it might redound to the advantage of the faith. "How is it possible,"
asked Maria, "for God to be willing to perform miraculous deeds through
the medium of such a low and sinful creature as I am?" And the confessor
replied that it showed great audacity to think of searching the high
purposes of God, and that she should abstain from making such irreverent
remarks; that God chose whomever He pleased to manifest His sacred will,
and that, at all events, even though no miracle took place, it was never
wrong to attribute to the power of the Almighty the blessings which we
experience both in soul and body. Maria accepted this reasoning, and
endeavored, by all the means at her command--by prayer, humility, and
penance--to make herself worthy of these incredible favors which God
gave into her hand.
Gradually, through the renunciation to which she was compelled by her
pious life, all the ties that bound her soul to things earthly began to
be relaxed. At first she shunned all worldly recreation and amusement,
such as balls, theatres, and promenades, where she used to shine by her
beauty and elegance, and she came to the point of abhorring them. Then
she abstained from certain proper recreation, such as singing and
playing secular music, taking part in games of cards, walking in the
garden, being present at tertulias at her home; in her craze for
crucifying the flesh, she went to the extreme of not gazing often at the
landscape from the windows of her room, and of depriving herself of
breathing the scent of the flowers and the perfume of her colognes.
Still, however, and for some time, she took pleasure in dressing
elegantly; this arose from a reflection that she had read in a French
devotional book, counselling young people not to neglect the neatness
and adornment of the body, since God took delight in seeing them
beautiful and knowing that they adorned themselves for Him alone. At the
same time that she grew more and more to hate the pleasures of this
world, she crushed out in her heart the sentiment of love towards human
beings, even towards those who were nearest and dearest to her.
Understanding that if one would love God, he must free himself from
earthly affections, since no other is worthy of entering into a heart
consecrated to the Creator, she constantly struggled against her love
not only for her betrothed but also that for her parents and sister. She
ceased those frequent outbursts of affection which she used to lavish on
them all and which had always proved the tenderness of her affectionate
spirit; when she met her father in the morning, she no longer threw her
arms around his neck and covered him with caresses; she no longer
revealed to her sister the secrets and sorrows of her heart; she kept
everybody at a distance by a cautious reserve veiled in sweetness and
humility. The Señorita de Elorza compelled herself to follow literally
the solemn words of Jesus: "_If any man come to me, and hate not his
father, and mother, and wife, and children, and brethren, and sisters,
yea, and his own life also, he cannot be my disciple_."[37]
The fervor which constantly died away, as far as human beings were
concerned, burned like a sweet-smelling incense on a lofty altar, to an
object infinitely more worthy of it. Her heart could not remain
inactive; she had to love, for it was the law of her being; she had to
overflow with enthusiasm for something on which she should engage her
thoughts every instant of her life, and offer continual sacrifices.
Maria could not desire anything or love anything, without feeling
herself stirred by a consuming fervor. When she was a child, she had
loved another little girl of her own age, a child of dark complexion,
with great, cruel, black eyes, and she loved her so passionately that
she became her willing slave; the little black-eyed girl, the daughter
of a poor mechanic, treated her with the authority of a queen and
mistress, demanded from her all the playthings that she possessed,
compelled her to submit to all her caprices, humiliated her whenever she
felt like it, and oftentimes abused her in word and deed, without the
affection of her enthusiastic friend being diminished in the least. On
one occasion, when the two were ironing a doll's skirt, the cruel little
girl said, in a disagreeable tone of mockery, "If you love me so dearly,
why don't you put this hot iron on your arm for me?" Maria, without a
moment's hesitation, pulled up the sleeve of her dress, and laid the
heated iron on her arm, making a terrible burn. On account of other such
actions as these, which had attracted Don Mariano's attention, he drove
this unworthy friend out into the street, and forbade her ever darkening
the door of his house again, a prohibition which broke his daughter's
heart with grief.
When a heart is to this degree inflammable, its constant tendency is to
take fire and be consumed with some extraordinary love; and if the
object is not at hand, it seeks for it as one athirst seeks the fountain
of crystalline water. Maria had sought hard for it and found it,--a love
pure and immortal, sublime and marvellous; love for a God who crushes
the stars to powder and enters the enamored soul like a gentle lamb.
This love, which took more and more violent possession of her soul, was
not only manifested in almost incomprehensible deeds of humility and
mortification, but also escaped continually from her lips in passionate
phrases, which winged themselves away like timid birdlings to take
refuge in the sacred heart of Jesus. At first she had prayed with
respectful worship, with soul and body prostrate, terrified rather than
melted, like one who makes a declaration of love; but according as she
understood, by a thousand manifest signs, that Jesus replied to her
passionate affection and returned it with increase, she found greater
freedom and eloquence in her words and a more enduring felicity in her
whole being.
The happiest moments of her life were those which she consecrated to
prayer, which in her case was a sweet colloquy of two lovers,
incomprehensible for those who have never fathomed the secret depths of
the divine love or tasted the delights of the mystical union. By dint of
holding converse with God, of communicating to Him her most occult
thoughts and feelings, of confessing with tears each day the most
trivial spots on her conscience, she succeeded in bringing about with
the Almighty a sacred familiarity, full of joy and consolation. At the
twilight hour, after she had ceased from the pious tasks which kept her
busy all the day, she was in the habit of retiring to her room to enjoy
at her ease the sweet delights which Jesus granted to her fervent
prayers as a recompense for the labors and humiliations of the day.
One calm, quiet evening, toward the end of winter, Maria found herself
in her room, prostrate in prayer, before the image of Jesus. All the
blinds were open to let in the slowly fading light. From the one that
looked inland could be seen the wide stretch of level meadows, and the
gentle hills on the horizon bathed in a purple vapor, which grew thicker
and thicker till it changed to mist. From the one facing the river could
be seen its tranquil surface, motionless as though all that sheet of
water had been suddenly changed to stone; near El Moral were four or
five low sand-hills called appropriately Los Arenales, which, struck by
the last rays of the setting sun, gleamed like mighty topazes. Not the
slightest sound disturbed the silence of the boudoir, which at that
moment, by reason of its gloom and loneliness, was like a great
confessional.
For a long hour the young woman had been communing with the Beloved of
her heart, and no earthly thought had made its way into her enraptured
spirit. Never had she felt herself so abstracted and lifted above the
flesh, above mundane interests. All the life of her body had gone to her
heart, which beat with unwonted violence. She kept her eyes closed.
After she had repeated all the prayers that she could remember, some of
them composed purposely for her, she allowed her lips to rest, and
abandoned herself to a delicious meditation in which her imagination
wandered away as if in a boundless field enamelled with flowers. Both
her confessor and her books of devotion counselled her to think often on
the bloody passion and death of the Redeemer, and so she had done until
she was filled with grief and burdened with tears. In her mind she saw
that agonized, grief-stricken face of Jesus nailed upon the cross, those
dying eyes lifted, wherein still burned the eternal love and compassion
of a God. When she saw him going toward Calvary, laden with the heavy
cross and stumbling, once, again, and yet again, overcome by fatigue,
not finding in the bloodthirsty faces of those who surrounded him one
look of sympathy, she felt her throat contract and her breast choke with
sobs. She had been present at all the agonies of Christ, one after the
other, from the memorable night in the garden until the moment when he
closed his eyes forever between the two thieves, the victim of the
perfidy of men. The sublime words of pardon which he uttered as he died
rang in her ears like a promise of heaven and a hope of seeing him once
more, haloed with glory, in the other life.
But at this moment her thought shunned the death scenes. Around her
floated smiling, glorious forms, which filled her with a delicious joy
such as she had but few times experienced before, accompanied by an
unspeakable physical comfort. It seemed to her that she felt a most
delicious sensation of warmth radiating from her heart even to her hands
and feet, as though she were plunged in a bath of warm milk. At the same
time soft fragrant hands held her eyelids closed, while a gentle breeze
cooled her brow. The boudoir in the tower was filled with vague, subtle
sounds, which her imagination transformed into mysterious harmonies. She
was so beside herself that she could not tell whether she was in reality
awake, although she had possession of all her faculties. Little by
little she began to lose her power of volition; she tried to open her
eyes and could not; she tried to separate her hands, which she kept
folded, and she had no better success. A superior power held her in its
sway, but so gently that for nothing in the world would she have broken
those bands; it was a celestial swooning of her whole being, which
carried her away into ecstasies such as she had never known before.
Tears streamed down over her face like an exquisite ichor, bathing her
lips with sweetness, and flowing from her lips into the very centre of
her being, filling her heart as with a most gentle unction, as with a
mighty perfume. This ichor intoxicated her and strengthened her at once,
and she did not weary of drinking it. Its salubrious strength penetrated
her emaciated body, bestowing on it an incomprehensible force. She
entered into a life full and divine, where no pains existed; into an
ecstatic lethargy full of soft delight, from which were born a throng of
vague longings, like flowers opening for an instant and shedding perfume
from their calyxes. The longings of her soul likewise spread and were
quenched in the immense joy which took hold of her.
While her body was sleeping in this sweet hallucination of the senses,
her mind was attent with a marvellous activity. Her memory was bathed in
brilliancy, and her imagination, in precipitate flight, darted out into
the universe. Instead of meditating on the death of the Lord, she
thought with deep delight about his adorable life, and, completely
enchanted, she reviewed all its occurrences, representing them with as
much accuracy as though she had really been present at the time. First,
she beheld Jesus at his birth in the grotto near Bethlehem, embracing
with his sweet arms the Virgin's neck, and smiling at the shepherds and
the Magi, who from far-distant countries came to adore him. She beheld
him secretly transported to Egypt, crossing the deserts of Arabia,
sleeping on his mother's lap under some tree or in the depths of some
cavern. Then she found him in the porticos of the Temple of Jerusalem,
seated in the midst of the doctors, though he was only twelve years of
age, with his long golden hair curling in ringlets over his shoulders,
and his white tunic falling in graceful folds till it hid his feet,
astonishing them all by his more than human beauty as well as by the
profound wisdom of his words. She contemplated him in his modest
dwelling in Nazareth in the peace of an obscure and contemplative life,
nourishing his divine spirit with the sublime truths which the Eternal
Father vouchsafed him during his frequent solitary walks. Then she was
present at his first ministrations through Galilee, and at the first
miracle, with which he manifested his infinite power at the wedding of
Cana. She accompanied him to Capernaum when, as he stood in a
fishing-boat gently rocking on the waves, he addressed to the multitude
gathered on the shore his discourse, clearer than the sun which shone
upon them, sweeter than the evening breeze. She returned with him to
Nazareth, where his stubborn, ungrateful countrymen were unmoved by his
gentleness and power of speech and rejected him. She went to Bethany,
where her name-saint Mary Magdalene and Martha her sister had the
blessedness of giving him hospitality, and the former of sitting long at
his feet and listening to his words. She saw him everywhere serene and
beautiful, as he is represented by tradition, with his blue eyes of
wonderful sweetness, his skin rosy and transparent, his beard pointed,
and his golden hair parted in the middle and falling in waves on his
shoulders. The numerous pictures which she had seen, not only of his
divine person, but of the country where his ministrations had taken
place, united to her powerful imagination, carried her back to the time
of the Redeemer's life more vividly than one could conceive. But where
her imagination most revelled was in seeing his entrance into Jerusalem
followed by a multitude carried away by enthusiasm, amid hosannas and
shouts of welcome; then his beautiful face, which almost disappeared
amid the foliage of the palm-branches, assumed an expression of
divinity, his eyes so gentle flashed with the effulgence of omnipotence,
and he spread out his hands toward the city, granting it pardon in
advance for its barbarous deicide. Oh, how her soul delighted in this
fine, poetic scene where Jesus was given on earth a little of the
adoration which was his due! If she had been in those happy places, she
would have taken part in the cortege of the King of kings, and raised
her voice in acclamation. The union in him of power and humility, of
force and gentleness, filled her with enthusiasm and admiration.
She knew, however, that Jesus' triumphal entrance into Jerusalem was
repeated daily in a mystic sense; that the divine Lord takes more
pleasure in entering into the soul of his elect than into the ungrateful
daughter of Zion; that love was efficacious against the absolute master
of all things, and took pleasure in receiving whoever professed his
name. But for this it was necessary to love him much, to love him in
such a manner as to prefer pain and torment coming from his hand to the
most exquisite delight of earth, to love him even to fainting and dying
in his presence and falling prone at his feet under the majesty of his
gaze; it was necessary to spend long hours watching for him in the
depths of the sky, in the calm of the eventide, in the beauty of
flowers, of birds, and of all creatures, at the bedside of the sick and
dying, in the midst of sorrows and penances; it was necessary to let the
hours pass in ecstatic prayer, feeling the tears stealing down, and the
cheeks on fire; it was necessary to be obedient to all men, the humble
servant of all men, to turn the mind from accepting all favors, even
from one's parents, and to despise one's self, to be the beloved of
Jesus. Thus, thus she loved him! How many hours of the day and night she
had spent thinking of him! How many tears she had shed for his sake! How
many times in the silence of the night had her soul gone forth, fired
with sickness of love, like the bride of the mystic Song of Solomon, in
search for the Lord and Master of her heart! And when she had, in this
manner, sought for him, kindled with amorous yearning, she never failed
to find him. On one occasion, having spent the whole day ministering to
the sick in the hospital, she had felt at the hour of retiring such keen
delight in her soul and body that she almost fell ¡n a swoon. When she
humbled herself before any one, she felt an exquisite delight; in
crucifying her flesh with sharp cruelties she had felt more pleasure
than the world with its harassing joys had ever given. In this way Jesus
began to return a thousand-fold the love which she professed for him,
transforming in her case into comfort what to others was pain and
penance.
This last consideration pierced so sharply into her spirit that it
caused her to indulge in an infinitude of thanksgivings and blessings,
which remained locked in her heart without issuing from her lips. Her
lips were silent, motionless as those of the sphynx; for she did not
dare to reproduce by the medium of sounds the ineffable thoughts that
passed through her mind. She heard within herself a thousand sweet
voices speaking to her, but she could not understand what they said; she
felt as though she were lifted up by gentle arms which ceaselessly
lavished caresses upon her, and she was conscious, though not by visual
proof, of the presence of a supernatural being, consoling her with its
power. Then she became suddenly convinced that the Lord loved her; she
saw clearly with the eyes of the Spirit that the Bridegroom listened to
the voice of the bride, and had no deeper desire than to take her to
himself, to pour out upon her all riches and joys forevermore. Even now
he was near at hand; she felt him at her side, and she was melted with
desire to look upon him; but he showed himself not; he refused to yield
to her warm, affectionate entreaties. As one who shows a dainty to a
child and then hides it, and again brings it forth and once more hides
it in order to stir his appetite, so the heavenly Bridegroom kept her in
suspense and ravishment, kindling more and more her desire. The
impassioned stanza of San Juan de la Cruz came into her mind:--
_"Ay! who else has power to mend me!_
_Prithee deign to make my humble heart thy dwelling;_
_I beseech thee now to send me_
_Faithful angels not incapable of telling_
_Truly all the longing in me welling!"_[38]
And a thousand times she repeated it mentally, with a sublime
solicitude, in which it seemed as though her soul were going to burst
forth through her lips. But her lips remained speechless; she wished to
cry out, to break into praises of Jesus, to give vent to the passionate
impulses of her breast, and it was impossible. She felt a strange
oppression, torturing her with celestial death, which she would not
exchange for a hundred lives.
A keen, eager, resistless desire suddenly took possession of her heart.
Jesus, the King of souls, had granted to more than one favors which
were terrible by their very grandeur and incomprehensibility. He had
appeared to Saint Isabel after her prodigious deeds of charity and
penance, and had said, "Isabel, if thou art willing to be mine, I also
am willing to be thine and will never leave thee." Frequently he had
come to Saint Catalina of Siena in her convent cell, had conversed with
her, had walked with and many times had helped her offer up her prayers.
He had taken Saint Teresa in his arms so that she could not move, and
had lavished caresses and kisses upon her. If she might only win such
regalement! Scarcely had this overweening thought been born in her mind
before she was filled with fear, and felt such shame that she would
gladly have had the earth open and swallow her up. "Oh, no, my God! Who
am I to receive such a favor, granted only to the martyrs of charity and
the seraphic virgins who shine in heaven like bright stars. Pardon me,
Jesus mine, pardon me!"
But her audacious thought would not depart from her mind; it kept
following her in spite of her strongest efforts to shake it off. She was
unworthy of such glory, she knew well, but her yearning was the child of
the love with which the divine Jesus had filled her heart to
overflowing; thus not she but Jesus himself was the author of this
desire. If he had not kindled in her his celestial love, and had not
begun to pour out upon her favors as sweet as they were undeserved, such
an absurd idea would never have entered her head. No; she asked not so
great a grace, so great a consolation; it was enough for her that Jesus
was willing to give himself to her, that she had a few particles of his
immortal love. She should consider herself the most blessed among the
virgin daughters of heaven, if at the end of long years of prayer and
penance, of bitterness and tribulations, Jesus should allow her once
only to touch her lips to his divine face. "O Jesus mine, is it sinful
to ask this? Could such a base worm as I ever deserve a joy so
infinite?"
She opened her eyes. Jesus, with his golden aureole shining amid the
shadows, as it reflected the last melancholy light that came through the
window, lifted his hands towards her, at the same time fastening upon
her a profound, sweet gaze. Through her veins ran a sensation of chill,
as though she were near to death; but instantly this was supplanted by
another of such intense heat that it made the sweat start from all the
pores of her body. She comprehended vaguely that an adorable mystery was
taking place in her presence, and a holy fear seized her. The boudoir
was wrapt in shadow: the windows seemed like great, colorless eyes
gazing through the walls. A sweet, languid delectation took possession
of her whole being, and overwhelmed her with bliss. Her fear vanished.
She was filled with the certainty that she was loved by Jesus, that she
was the bride-elect of a God. Tenderness, worship, joy, welled up in her
bosom, and she could not take her eyes from the eyes of the Lord,
drinking from them the mysterious, ineffable delight of glory.
Once more the desire came back to her mind. This time she promulgated it
with words, the warm breath of which stole through her hands crossed
before her face.
"Jesus mine, wouldst thou permit thy servant to touch her lips to thy
divine person?"
Jesus bent forward still more graciously. Maria felt her hair stand on
end, and her heart wanted to leap from her breast. His voice like music
penetrated into the soul of the young girl, who believed that she was
dead and translated to heaven.
Jesus had said,--
_"Arise, my beloved, my fair one, and come."_
"Lord, I am not worthy!" exclaimed Maria, with a cry at once of anguish
and of joy.
Again Jesus said,--
_"Thou art all beautiful, my beloved; there is no blemish in thee."_
"My Jesus, thee I love above all things!"
_"My dove, show me thy face, let thy voice sound in mine ears, for thy
voice is sweet, and thy face is beautiful,"_ replied Jesus, bending
still nearer.
Then the girl, carried away by glory and enthusiasm, threw her arms
about the knees of the Lord, and flooded them with her tears, saying,
between her sobs, like the bride in the sacred book,--
"My soul melted within me when my beloved spake."
And little by little, her arms clinging to the body of Jesus, stole
slowly, slowly upwards, till they were fastened around his neck. Her
breath failed her, and she felt her memory, her imagination, and all her
powers give way, fading into an immense, eager bliss, in which her whole
being was plunged as in the purest ether. Her face drew near the Lord's.
She touched with her cheeks the cheeks of the Bridegroom; she put her
lips to the whiteness of his brow, to the effulgence of his eyes, to the
coral of his lips.
And in the chief room of the tower, silent, buried in darkness, was long
heard the sound of sobs and subdued kisses. At last, a human body, the
body of the Señorita de Elorza, senseless, fell heavily at full length
upon the floor. Genoveva, when she came in with a light, found her there
still in the swoon, with eyes open and fixed, reflecting in her face a
celestial joy.