mistress, it is obvious, has need of living creatures on which to bestow
some of her affection; and besides several maid-servants that one would
suppose she had selected with care, since it can not be by mere chance
that they are all pretty, she has, after the fashion of old maids,
various animals to keep her company--a parrot, a little dog whose coat
is of the whitest, and two or three cats, so tame and sociable that they
jump up on one in the most friendly manner.
At one end of the principal saloon is a species of oratory, whose chief
ornament is an _Infant Jesus_, carved in wood, with red and white cheeks
and blue eyes, and altogether quite handsome. The dress is of white
satin, with a blue cloak full of little golden stars; and the image is
completely covered with jewels and trinkets. The little altar on which
the figure is placed is adorned with flowers, and around it are set pots
of broom and laurel; and on the altar itself, which is furnished with
steps, a great many wax tapers are kept burning. When I behold all this
I know not what to think, but for the most part I am inclined to believe
that the widow loves herself above all things, and that it is for her
recreation, and for the purpose of furnishing her with occasions for the
effusion of this love, that she keeps the cats, the canaries, the
flowers, and even the _Infant Jesus_ itself, which, in her secret soul,
perhaps, does not occupy a place very much higher than the canaries and
the cats.
It can not be denied that Pepita Ximenez is possessed of discretion. No
silly jest, no impertinent question in regard to my vocation, and, above
all, in regard to my approaching ordination, has crossed her lips. She
conversed with me on matters relating to the village, about agriculture,
the last crop of grapes and olives, and the means of improving the
methods of making wine, expressing herself always with modesty and
naturalness, and without manifesting any desire of appearing to know
more than others.
There were present at dinner the doctor, the notary, and the reverend
vicar, who is a great friend of the house, and the spiritual father of
Pepita.
The reverend vicar must have a very high opinion of the latter, for on
several occasions he spoke to me apart of her charity, of the many alms
she bestows, of her compassion and goodness toward every one. In a word,
he declared her to be a saint.
In view of what the vicar has told me, and relying on his judgment, I
can do no less than wish that my father may marry Pepita. As my father
is not fitted for a life of penance, in this way only could he hope to
change his mode of life, that up to the present has been so dissipated,
and settle down to a well-ordered and quiet, if not exemplary, old age.
When we reached our house, after leaving that of Pepita Ximenez, my
father spoke to me seriously of his projects. He told me that in his
time he had been very wild, that he had led a very bad life, and that he
saw no way of reforming, notwithstanding his years, unless Pepita were
to fall in love with and marry him.
Taking for granted, of course, that she would do so, my father then
spoke to me of business. He told me that he was very rich, and would
leave me amply provided for in his will, even though he should have
other children. I answered him that for my plans and purposes in life I
needed very little money, and that my greatest satisfaction would always
consist in knowing him to be happy with wife and children, his former
evil ways forgotten. My father then spoke to me of his tender hopes with
a candor and vivacity that might make one suppose me to be the father
and the old man, and he a youth of my age, or younger. In order to
enhance the merit of his mistress, and the difficulties of his conquest,
he recounted to me the accomplishments and the excellences of the
fifteen or twenty suitors who had already presented themselves to
Pepita, and who had all been rejected. As for himself, as he explained
to me, the same lot, to a certain extent, had been his also; but he
flattered himself that this want of success was not final, since Pepita
showed him so many kindnesses, and an affection so great that, if it
were not love, it might easily, with time, and the persistent homage he
dedicated to her, be converted into love. There was, besides, in my
father's opinion, a something fantastic and fallacious in the cause of
Pepita's coldness, that must in the end wear away. Pepita did not wish
to retire to a convent, nor did she incline to a penitential life.
Notwithstanding her seclusion and her piety, it was easy to see that she
took delight in pleasing. Her neatness and the exquisite care she took
of her person had in them little of the cenobite. The cause of her
coldness, then, my father declared to be, without a doubt, her pride--a
pride, to a certain extent, well founded. She is naturally elegant and
distinguished in appearance; both by her force of character and by her
intelligence she is superior to those who surround her, no matter how
she may seek, through modesty, to disguise it. How, then, should she
bestow her hand upon any of the rustics who, up to the present time,
have been her suitors? She imagines that her soul is filled with a
mystic love of God, and that God only can satisfy it, because thus far
no mortal has crossed her path intelligent enough and agreeable enough
to make her forget even her image of the _Infant Jesus_. "Although it
may seem to indicate a want of modesty on my part," added my father, "I
flatter myself with being such a one."
Such, dear uncle, are the occupations and the projects of my father
here, and such the matters, so foreign to my nature, and to my aims and
thoughts, of which he speaks to me with frequency, and on which he
requires me to give an opinion.
It would almost seem as if your too indulgent opinion of my judgment had
extended itself to the people here, for they all tell me their troubles,
and ask my advice as to the course they should adopt. Even the reverend
vicar, exposing himself to the risk of betraying what might be called
secrets of confession, has already come to consult me in regard to
several cases of conscience that have presented themselves to him in the
confessional.
One of these cases, related, like all the others, with much mystery, and
without revealing the name of the person concerned, has greatly
interested me.
The reverend vicar tells me that a certain penitent of his is troubled
by scruples of conscience, because, while she feels herself irresistibly
attracted toward a solitary and contemplative life, she yet fears at
times that this devout fervor is not accompanied by a true humility, but
that it is in part excited by, and has its source in, the demon of pride
himself.
To love God in all things, to seek him in the inmost recesses of the
soul wherein he dwells, to purify ourselves from all earthly passions
and affections, in order to unite ourselves to him--these are, in truth,
pious aspirations and virtuous inclinations; but the doubt arises in
determining whether the source of these aspirations and inclinations be
not an exaggerated self-love. "Have they their origin," the penitent it
seems asks herself, "in the thought that I, although unworthy and a
sinner, presume my soul to be of more value than the souls of my
fellow-mortals?--that the interior beauty of my mind and of my will
would be dimmed by harboring affection for the human beings by whom I am
surrounded, and whom I deem unworthy of me? Do I love God above all
things, infinitely, or only more than the little things that I know,
and that I scorn and despise, that can not satisfy my heart? If my piety
is founded upon this feeling, then there are in it two great defects:
the first, that it is not based upon a pure love of God, full of
humility and charity, but on pride; and the second, that this piety,
because it is thus without foundation, is unstable and inefficacious.
For who can be certain that the soul will not forget the love of its
Creator, when it does not love him infinitely, but only because there is
no other being whom it deems worthy of endowing with its love?"
It is concerning this case of conscience, refined and subtle enough thus
to exercise the mind of a simple rustic, that the reverend vicar has
come to consult me. I would have excused myself from saying anything in
the matter, alleging, as a reason for doing so, my youth and
inexperience; but the reverend vicar has shown himself so persistent in
the matter that I could do no less than discuss the question with him. I
said--and it would rejoice me greatly should you concur in my
opinion--that what this troubled penitent requires is to regard those
who surround her with greater benevolence; to try to throw over their
faults--instead of analyzing and dissecting them with the scalpel of
criticism--the mantle of charity, bringing into relief and dwelling upon
their good qualities, to the end that she may esteem and love them; to
endeavor, in fine, to behold in every human being an object worthy of
her love, a true fellow-creature, her equal, a soul wherein there is a
treasure of good qualities and virtues--a being made, in short, in the
image and likeness of God. Entertaining this exalted view of our
surroundings, loving and esteeming others for what they are, and as more
than they are, striving not to hold ourselves superior to them in
anything, but, on the contrary, searching courageously in the depths of
our own conscience for the purpose of discovering all our faults and
sins, and thus acquiring a devout humility and contempt of self, the
heart will feel itself full of human affection, and, instead of
despising, will value highly the worth of things and of persons, so that
if afterward divine love should, with irresistible power, erect itself
upon and tower above this foundation, there can then be no fear but that
such a love has its origin, not in an exaggerated self-esteem, in pride,
or in an unjust contempt for our neighbor, but in a pure and holy
contemplation of the Infinite Beauty and Goodness.
If, as I suspect, it be Pepita Ximenez who has consulted the reverend
vicar in regard to these doubts and tribulations, I think my father can
not yet flatter himself with being very dear to her; but, if the vicar
should resolve on giving her my advice, and she accepts it and acts upon
it, then she will either become a sort of Maria de Agreda, a
self-conscious recluse, or, what is more probable, she will cast away
mysticism and coldness altogether, and will consent to accept, without
further caviling, the hand and heart of my father who is in no respect
her inferior.
_April 4th._
My life in this place begins, from its monotony, to be wearisome; and
not because it is, physically, less active here than it was elsewhere,
for I walk and ride a great deal, and make excursions into the country,
and, to please my father, visit the club-house and go to parties, and
live, in short, in a state of dissatisfaction with myself and with my
surroundings. But my intellectual life is a blank; I read nothing, and
there is hardly a moment left me in which to reflect and meditate with
tranquillity; and, as reflection and meditation were what constituted
the chief charm of my existence, my life without them seems to me
monotonous. Thanks to the patience which you have recommended to me for
every occasion, I am able to endure it.
Another thing that prevents my spirit from being completely at rest is
the longing, that becomes every day more ardent within me, to embrace
that life to which, without a moment's vacillation, I have been for
years inclined. It seems to me that, in those moments when I feel
myself so near to the realization of the constant dream of my life, it
is something like a profanation to allow my mind to be distracted by
other objects. So much does this idea torment me, and to so many doubts
does it give rise within me, that my admiration for the beauty of things
created--of the heavens so full of stars, in these serene nights of
spring, and in this favored region of Andalusia; of these smiling
fields, now covered with verdure, and of these cool and pleasant
gardens, abounding in shady and delightful walks, in gently flowing
streams and rivulets, in sequestered nooks, in birds that enliven them
with song, and in flowers and odorous herbs--this admiration and
enthusiasm, I repeat, which formerly seemed to me in perfect harmony
with the religious feeling that filled my soul, animating and exalting
it, instead of weakening it, seems to me now almost a sinful
distraction, and an unpardonable forgetfulness of the eternal for the
temporal, of the uncreated and the spiritual for the material and
created. Although I have made but little progress in virtue, although my
mind is never free from the phantasms of the imagination, although the
interior man is never exempt in me from the influence of external
impressions, and from the need of employing in meditation the fatiguing
argumentative method; although I can not, by an effort of love, withdraw
myself to the very center of pure intelligence, to the loftiest sphere
of thought, in order to behold there goodness and truth divested of
images and forms, yet I confess to you that the method of mental prayer,
unrestricted by set forms, makes me afraid. Even rational meditation
inspires me with distrust. I do not want to employ a process of
reasoning in order to know God, nor to adduce arguments for loving, in
order to love him. I desire, by a single effort of the will, to elevate
myself to and be absorbed in the divine contemplation. Oh, that I had
the wings of a dove, to fly to the bosom of him whom my soul loveth! But
what and where are my merits? Where the mortifications, the extended
prayers, and the fasting? What have I done, O my God, that thou shouldst
favor me?
I know that the ungodly of the present day accuse--though without any
foundation whatever--our holy religion of inciting souls to abhor the
things of this world, to despise or to contemn nature, perhaps to fear
it also, as if there were in it something diabolical, placing all their
affections on what these ungodly call the monstrous egotism of divine
love, for it is herself, they say, the soul loves in loving God; I know,
too, that this is not the case; that the divine love is charity, and
that to love God is to love all things, for all things are in God, in a
supreme and ineffable manner. I know that I commit no sin in loving
material things for the love of God, which is to love them for
themselves, righteously; for what are material things but the
manifestation, the creation of the love of God? And, notwithstanding, I
know not what undefinable fear, what unwonted scruple, what vague and
scarcely perceptible remorse torments me now, when, as formerly, as in
other days of my youth, as in childhood itself, I feel an effusion of
tenderness, a sort of ecstasy of enthusiasm, on penetrating into some
leafy grove, on hearing the song of the nightingale, or the twittering
of the swallows, or the tender cooing of the dove; on looking at the
flowers, on beholding the stars. I imagine, at times, that there is in
all this something of sensual pleasure, a something that makes me
forget, for the moment at least, more lofty aspirations. I do not desire
that in me the spirit should sin against the flesh; but neither do I
desire, on the other hand, that the beauty of the material world--that
its delights, even those most delicate, subtle, and ethereal ones that
are perceived rather by the spirit than by the senses, such as the soft
sigh of the zephyr, laden with rural scents, the song of the birds, the
peaceful and majestic silence of the night in these gardens and
orchards--should distract me from the contemplation of higher beauty, or
weaken, even for a moment, my love toward Him who has created this
harmonious fabric of the world.
I know that all these material things are like the letters of a book,
the signs and characters in which the soul, eager for knowledge, may
find a hidden meaning, and decipher and discover the beauty of God that,
though but dimly, is shadowed forth in them, and of which they are the
pictures or rather emblems, because they do not represent, but only
symbolize it. On this distinction I dwell at times to strengthen my
scruples and mortify the flesh. For, I consider, if I love the beauty of
earthly things as they are, it is idolatry; I ought to love this beauty
as a sign, as the symbol of a beauty occult and divine, and infinitely
superior to it in all things.
A few days ago I completed my twenty-second year. Heretofore, my
religious fervor has been such that I have felt no other love than the
immaculate love of God himself and of his holy religion, which I desire
to diffuse and see triumphant in all the regions of the earth. I confess
that something of a profane sentiment has mingled itself with this
purity of affection. You are aware of this; I have told it to you many
times, and you, regarding me with your accustomed indulgence, have
answered me that man is not an angel, and that even to aspire to so
great a degree of perfection is pride; that I should endeavor to
moderate these sentiments rather than seek to eradicate them entirely.
Love of knowledge, a desire for the reputation which is founded on the
possession of knowledge, even a not unfavorable opinion of one's own
merits, these, even when kept within just bounds, though guarded and
moderated by Christian humility, and directed toward a good end, have in
them, doubtless, something of selfishness, but they may serve as a
stimulus and a support to the noblest and most constant resolutions. The
scruples that trouble my conscience now, therefore, have not their
source in pride, in an overweening self-confidence, in a desire for
worldly fame, or in a too great love of knowledge. Nothing of this
nature it is that troubles me; nothing bearing any relation to
self-conceit, but, in a certain sense, something entirely opposed to it.
I feel a lassitude, a debility and abandonment of the will so great--I
am so ready to weep for tenderness when I see a little flower, when I
contemplate the ray, mysterious, tenuous, and swift, of a remote
star--that it almost makes me afraid.
Tell me what you think of these things; and if there be not something
morbid in this disposition of my mind.
_April 8th._
The amusements of the country, in which, very much against my will, I am
compelled to take part, still go on.
My father has taken me to see almost all his plantations, and he and his
friends are astonished to find me not altogether ignorant in matters
pertaining to the country. It would seem as if, in their eyes, the study
of theology, to which I have dedicated myself, were incompatible with a
familiarity with Nature. How much have they not wondered at my
knowledge, on seeing me discriminate, among the vines that have only
just begun to sprout, the common from the choice varieties! How much
have they not wondered, too, at my being able to distinguish, among the
young plants in the fields, the shoots of the barley from those of the
bean; at my being familiar with many fruit and shade trees; at my
knowing the names of many plants, even, that grow spontaneously in the
woods, as well as something of their properties and virtues!
Pepita Ximenez, who has heard through my father of the delight I take in
the gardens here, has invited me to visit one that she owns at a short
distance from the village, and eat the early strawberries that grow
there. This caprice of Pepita's to show so many little attentions to my
father, while at the same time she declines his addresses, seems to me
at times to partake somewhat of coquetry, and to be worthy of
reprobation. But when next I see her, and find her so natural, so frank
and so simple, this bad opinion is dispelled, and I can not believe her
to have any other end in view than to maintain the friendly relations
that exist between her and our family.
Be this as it may, yesterday afternoon we went to Pepita's garden. It is
charmingly situated, and as delightful and picturesque a place as one
can imagine. The river, that by means of innumerable drains waters
almost all these gardens, falls into a deep ravine, bordered on both
sides by white and black poplars, osiers, flowering oleanders, and other
leafy trees. The waterfall, clear and transparent, precipitates itself
into this ravine, sending up a cloud of spray, and then follows its
tortuous course by a channel formed for it by Nature herself, enameling
its banks with a thousand plants and flowers, and just now covering them
with a multitude of violets. The declivity at the end of the garden is
full of walnut, hazel, fig, and other fruit trees; and in the level
portion are beds planted with strawberries and vegetables, tomatoes,
potatoes, beans, and peppers. There is also a little flower-garden, with
a great abundance of flowers, of the kinds most commonly cultivated
here. Roses especially abound, and of these there are innumerable
varieties. The house of the gardener is prettier and cleaner than the
houses of its class that one is accustomed to see in this part of the
country; and near it there is another smaller building, dedicated to the
use of the mistress of the place, where Pepita regaled us with a
sumptuous collation. The pretext for this collation was the
strawberries, to eat which was the chief purpose of our visit. The
quantity of strawberries, considering the earliness of the season, was
astonishing. They were served with the milk of goats belonging also to
Pepita.
There were present at this banquet the doctor, the notary, my aunt
Casilda, my father, and myself, and of course the indispensable vicar,
spiritual father, and, more than spiritual father, admirer and perpetual
eulogist of Pepita.
By a sort of sybaritic refinement, it was not by the gardener, nor his
wife, nor the son of the gardener, nor by any other rustic, that we were
served at this banquet, but by two lovely girls, confidential servants,
in a manner, of Pepita's, dressed like peasants, but with the greatest
neatness and even elegance. They wore gowns of gay-colored percale,
short, and confined at the waist, and around their shoulders silk
handkerchiefs. Their lustrous and abundant black hair, without covering,
was braided and arranged in a knot behind; and in front they wore curls
confined to the head by large hair-pins, here called _caracols_. Above
the knot or _chignon_ they each displayed a bunch of fresh roses.
Pepita's attire, except that it was black and of rich material, was
equally unpretending. Her merino gown, made in the same style as those
of her maids, without being short, was yet not long enough to catch the
dust of the ground. A modest handkerchief of black silk covered also,
according to the usage of the country, her shoulders and bosom; and on
her head she wore no other ornament, either flower or jewel, than that
of her own blonde tresses.
The only particular, with respect to Pepita, in which I observed a
certain fastidiousness, and in which she departed from the customs of
the country-people, was in wearing gloves. It is evident that she takes
great care of her hands, and is, perhaps, to a certain extent, vain of
their beauty and whiteness, as well as of her rose-colored and polished
nails; but if this be so, it is to be pardoned to the weakness of the
flesh; and indeed, if I remember aright, I think that St. Theresa, in
her youth, had this same species of vanity, which did not prevent her,
however, from becoming a great saint.