contemplated them with entire purity of thought, and, though it cost me
something to say it, and may cost you a little to hear it, I confess
that, if any cloud has arisen to dim the clear and serene image of
Pepita in the mirror of my soul, it has been owing to your harsh
suspicions, which, for an instant, have almost made me suspect myself.
But no; what thought have I ever entertained with regard to Pepita, what
have I seen or praised in her that should lead any one to suppose me to
have any other feeling for her than friendship, and the admiration, pure
and innocent, that a work of art may inspire, the more especially if it
be the work of the Supreme Artist, and nothing less than the temple
wherein he dwells?
Besides, dear uncle, I shall have to live in the world, to hold
intercourse with my fellow-beings, to see them, and I can not, for that
reason, pluck out my eyes. You have told me many times that you wish me
to devote myself to a life of action, preaching the divine law, and
making it known in the world, rather than to a contemplative life in the
midst of solitude and isolation. Well, then, this being so, how would
you have me act, in order to avoid seeing Pepita Ximenez? Unless I made
myself ridiculous by closing my own eyes in her presence, how could I
fail to notice the beauty of hers; the clearness, the roseate hue, and
the purity of her complexion, the evenness and pearly whiteness of her
teeth, which she discloses with frequency when she smiles, the fresh
carmin of her lips, the serenity and smoothness of her forehead, and a
thousand other attractions with which Heaven has endowed her? It is true
that for one who bears within his soul the germ of evil thoughts, the
leaven of vice, any one of the impressions that Pepita produces might be
the shock of the steel against the flint, kindling the spark that would
set fire to and consume all around it; but, prepared for this danger,
watching against it, and guarded with the shield of Christian prudence,
I do not think I have anything to fear. Besides, if it be rash to seek
danger, it is cowardly not to be able to face it, or to shun it when it
presents itself.
Have no fear; I see in Pepita only a beautiful creation of God; and in
God I love her as a sister. If I feel any predilection for her, it is
because of the praises I hear spoken of her by my father, by the
reverend vicar, and by almost every one here.
For my father's sake it would please me were Pepita to relinquish her
inclination for a life of seclusion, and her purpose to lead it, and to
marry him. But were it not for this--were I to see that my father had
only a caprice and not a genuine passion for her--then I should be glad
that Pepita would remain resolute in her chaste widowhood; and when I
should be far away from here, in India or Japan or some other yet more
dangerous mission, I might find a consolation in writing to her of my
wanderings and labors; and, when I returned here in my old age, it
would be a great pleasure for me to be on friendly terms with her, who
would also then be aged, and to hold spiritual colloquies with her, and
chats of the same sort as those the father vicar now holds with her. At
present, however, as I am but a young man, I see but little of Pepita; I
hardly speak to her. I prefer to be thought bashful, shy, ill-bred, and
rude, rather than give the least occasion--not that I should be thought
to feel for her in reality what I ought not to feel--but even for
suspicion or for scandal.
As for Pepita herself, not even in the most remote degree do I share the
apprehension that, as a vague suspicion, you allow me to perceive. What
projects could she form with respect to a man who, in two or three
months more, is to be a priest! She--who has treated so many others with
disdain--why should she be attracted by me? I know myself well, and I
know that, fortunately, I am not capable of inspiring a passion. They
say I am not ill-looking; but I am awkward, dull, shy, wanting in
amiability; I bear the stamp of what I am, a humble student. What am I,
compared with the gallant if somewhat rustic youths who have paid court
to Pepita--agile horsemen, discreet and agreeable in conversation,
Nimrods in the chase, skilled in all bodily exercises, singers of renown
in all the fairs of Andalusia, and graceful and accomplished in the
dance? If Pepita has scorned all these, how should she now think of me,
and conceive the diabolical desire, and the more than diabolical
project, of troubling the peace of my soul, of making me abandon my
vocation, perhaps of plunging me into perdition? No, it is not possible.
Pepita I believe to be good, and myself--and I say it in all
sincerity--insignificant; insignificant, be it understood, so far as
inspiring her with love is concerned, but not too insignificant to be
her friend, to merit her esteem, to be the object, one day, in a certain
sense, of her preference, when I shall have succeeded in making myself
worthy of this preference by a holy and laborious life.
I ask you to forgive me if I have vindicated myself too warmly from
certain half-expressed suspicions in your letter--suspicions that sound
like accusations, or like prophetic warnings.
I do not complain of these suspicions: you have given me judicious
advice, the greater part of which I accept, and intend to follow; if you
have gone a little beyond what is just, in your suspicions, it is owing,
without doubt, to the interest you take in me, and for which I am
grateful to you with all my heart.
_May 4th._
It is strange that in so many days I should not have had time to write
to you, but such is the fact. My father does not let me rest a moment,
and I am besieged by visitors.
In large cities it is easy to avoid seeing visitors, to isolate one's
self, to create for one's self a solitude, a Thebaid in the midst of the
tumult; in an Andalusian village, and, above all, when one has the honor
of being the son of the squire, it is necessary to live in public. Not
only now to my study, but even to my bedroom, do the reverend vicar, the
notary, my cousin Currito, the son of Doña Casilda, and a hundred
others, penetrate without any one daring to oppose them, waken me if I
am asleep, and carry me off with them wherever they wish.
The club-house here is not a place of amusement for the evening only,
but for all the hours of the day. From eleven o'clock in the morning it
is full of people, who chat, glance over a paper to learn the news, and
play at _hombra._ There are persons here who spend ten or twelve hours a
day at this game. In short, there is as much enjoyment here as one could
well desire. In order that this enjoyment may be uninterrupted, there
are a great many amusements. Besides _hombra,_ there are many other
games at cards. Checkers, chess, and dominoes are not neglected. And,
finally, there is a decided passion for cock-fighting.
All this, together with making calls, going to the fields to inspect the
work, settling accounts every night with the overseer, visiting the
wine-vaults and cask-stores, superintending the clarifying, decanting,
and perfecting of the wines, treating with gypsies and horse-dealers for
the purchase, sale, or barter of horses, mules, and donkeys, or with
dealers from Jeres who come to buy our wine in order to convert it into
sherry, are here the daily occupation of the gentry, squirearchy, or
whatever else they may choose to call themselves. On extraordinary
occasions there are other tasks and amusements that give a greater
appearance of animation to everything: as in harvest-time, at the
vintage, and the gathering in of the olives; or when there is a fair or
a bull-fight, either here or in the neighboring village; or when there
is a pilgrimage to the sanctuary of some miraculous image of the Holy
Virgin, where, if it be true that many go through curiosity, or to amuse
themselves, and give to their sweethearts a fairing of a Cupid or a
scapula, many more go through devotion, or in fulfillment of a vow or
promise. One of these sanctuaries is situated at the top of a very high
mountain, yet there are delicate women who, to reach it, will climb,
with bare feet, wounded by the stones and brambles, the steep and
rugged path that leads to it.
There is, in the life here, a certain charm. For one who has no desire
for fame, no ambition, I can understand that it might be a very easy and
agreeable life. Even solitude may be obtained by an effort. As I am here
only for a short time, I can neither make this effort, nor ought I to do
so; but if I were settled here, I should find no difficulty in secluding
myself--and that, too, without offending any one--for several hours, or
for the whole day, if it were necessary, in order to devote myself to my
studies and meditations.
Your last letter has troubled me a little. I see that you persist in
your suspicions, and I know not what answer to make, in order to justify
myself, but the answer I have already made you.
You say that the victory, in a certain kind of warfare, consists in
flight; that to fly is to conquer. Why should I seek to deny what the
apostle and so many holy fathers and doctors of the Church have said?
But you well know that, in this case, flight does not depend upon me. My
father is resolved that I shall not go; he keeps me here against my
will, and I must obey him. The victory must be gained by other means,
then, than by flight.
To set your mind at rest, I repeat that matters have not gone so far as
you think; that you see them in a much more advanced stage than they
really are.
There is not the slightest sign that Pepita Ximenez loves me. And even
did she love me, it would be in a different way from that in which those
women loved whom you cite as a salutary warning to me. A lady of our
times, virtuous and well brought up, is neither so susceptible nor so
wanting in decorum as those matrons of whose adventures ancient history
is full.
The passage you cite from St. John Chrysostom is indeed worthy of
consideration; but it is not altogether applicable to the circumstances.
The great lady that in Of, Thebes, or Diospolis Magna, fell in love with
the favorite son of Jacob, was in all probability extremely handsome. By
such a supposition only can one comprehend the words of the saint, that
it was a greater miracle that Joseph should have passed through this
ordeal unscathed, than that the three young men whom Nebuchadnezzar
caused to be placed in the fiery furnace were not reduced to ashes!
As far as beauty is concerned, I confess frankly that I can not think
that the wife of the Egyptian prince, chamberlain of the palace of the
Pharaohs, or whatever else may have been his title, was in any degree
superior to Pepita Ximenez. But neither am I endowed with as many gifts
and excellences as was Joseph, nor is Pepita a woman without religion
and without decorum. And even were the circumstances such as he relates,
were all those horrors true, I can only account for the exaggerated
language of St. John Chrysostom by the fact that he lived in the corrupt
capital, half Gentile still, of the Lower Empire, in the midst of that
court whose vices he so harshly censures, and where even the Empress
Eudoxia herself gave an example of scandal and corruption.
But in our day, when the morality taught in the gospel has penetrated
more deeply into the strata of society, it seems to me an exaggeration
to think the chaste scorn of the son of Jacob any more miraculous than
the material incombustibility of the three young men of Babylon.
There is one point on which you touch in your letter that encourages and
pleases me greatly. You condemn, as is right, the exaggerated
sentimentality, and the tendency to be easily moved and to weep from
childish motives, from which I told you that I suffered at times; but,
since this disposition of soul, so necessary to combat, exists in me,
you rejoice that it does not affect my prayers and meditations, and
contaminate them. You recognize and praise in me the virile energy that
should animate the passions and the mind that seek to elevate themselves
to God.
The intelligence that strives to comprehend him must be a vigorous one;
the will that submits itself entirely to him must first have triumphed,
fighting bravely against every appetite, and defeating and putting to
flight every temptation over self. The very passion that, purified and
ardent, has power, even in weak and miserable mortals, to exalt itself,
by an ecstasy of love, to God himself, attaining by a supernatural
illumination to the knowledge of him, is the offspring of a steadfast
and upright character, as well as of the divine grace. This languor,
this debility of the will, this morbid tenderness have nothing in them
in common with charity, with piety, or with divine love. The former are
the attributes of a nature less than feminine; the latter are passions,
if passions they can be called, of angels rather than of men. God will
be my surety, and with his help I will fight for my own salvation. But,
should I sink into perdition, not in disguise nor by capitulation shall
the enemies of the soul and the sins of the flesh enter into the
fortress of my conscience, but with banners flying, laying waste
everything before them by fire and sword, and after a desperate
conflict.
In the past few days I have had occasion to practice patience in an
extreme degree, and to mortify my self-love in the most cruel manner. My
father, wishing to reciprocate Pepita's compliment of the garden-party,
invited her to visit his villa of the _Pozo de la Solana_. The excursion
took place on the 22d of April. I shall not soon forget that date.
The _Pozo de la Solana_ is about two leagues distant from the village,
and the only road to it is a bridle-path. We all had to go on horseback.
As I never learned to ride, I had on former occasions accompanied my
father mounted on a pacing mule, gentle and, according to the expression
of Dientes the muleteer, as good as gold, and of easier motion than a
carriage. On the journey to the _Pozo de la Solana_ I went in the same
manner.
My father, the notary, the apothecary, and my cousin Currito, were
mounted on good horses. My aunt, Doña Casilda, who weighs more than two
hundred and fifty pounds, rode on a large and powerful donkey, seated in
a commodious side-saddle. The reverend vicar rode a gentle and easy mule
like mine.
As for Pepita Ximenez, who, I supposed, would go also mounted on a
donkey, in the same sort of easy saddle as my aunt--for I was ignorant
that she knew how to ride--she surprised me by making her appearance on
a black and white horse full of fire and spirit. She wore a
riding-habit, and managed her horse with admirable grace and skill.
I was pleased to see Pepita look so charming on horseback, but I soon
began to foresee and to be mortified by the sorry part I would play,
jogging on in the rear beside my corpulent aunt Casilda and the vicar,
all three as quiet and tranquil as if we were seated in a carriage,
while the gay cavalcade in front would caracole, gallop, trot, and make
a thousand other displays of their horsemanship.
I fancied on the instant that there was something of compassion in
Pepita's glance as she noted the pitiable appearance I no doubt
presented, seated on my mule. My cousin Currito looked at me with a
mocking smile, and immediately began to make fun of me and to tease me.
Confess that I deserve credit for my resignation and courage. I
submitted to everything with a good grace, and Currito's jests soon
ceased when he saw that I was invulnerable to them. But what did I not
suffer in secret! The others, now trotting, now galloping, rode in
advance of us, both in going and returning. The vicar and I, with Doña
Casilda between us, rode on, tranquil as the mules we were seated upon,
without hastening or retarding our pace.
I had not even the consolation of chatting with the vicar, in whose
conversation I find so much pleasure, nor of wrapping myself up in my
own thoughts and giving the reign to my fancy, nor of silently admiring
the beauty of the scenery around us. Doña Casilda is gifted with an
abominable loquacity, and we were obliged to listen to her. She told us
all there is to be told of the gossip of the village; she recounted to
us all her accomplishments; she told us how to make sausages,
brain-puddings, pastry, and innumerable other dishes and delicacies.
There is no one, according to herself, who can rival her in matters
pertaining to the kitchen, or to the dressing of hogs, but Antoñona, the
nurse of Pepita, and now her housekeeper and general manager. I am
already acquainted with this Antoñona, for she goes back and forth
between her mistress's house and ours with messages, and is in truth
extremely handy; as loquacious as Aunt Casilda, but a great deal more
discreet.
The scenery on the road to the _Pozo de la Solana_ is charming, but my
mind was so disturbed during our journey that I could not enjoy it. When
we arrived at the villa and dismounted, I was relieved of a great load,
as if it had been I who carried the mule, and not the mule who carried
me.
We then proceeded on foot through the estate, which is magnificent, of
varied character, and extensive. There are vines, old and newly planted,
all on the same boundary-line, that produce more than a hundred and
twenty bushels of grapes; olive-trees that yield to the same amount;
and, finally, a grove of the most majestic oaks that are to be found in
all Andalusia. The water of the _Pozo de la Solana_ forms a clear and
deep brook at which all the birds of the neighborhood come to drink, and
on whose borders they are caught by hundreds, by means of reeds smeared
with bird-lime, or of nets, in the center of which are fastened a cord
and a decoy. All this carried my thoughts back to the sports of my
childhood, and to the many times that I too had gone to catch birds in
the same manner.
Following the course of the brook, and especially in the ravines, are
many poplars and other tall trees, that, together with the bushes and
the shrubs, form a dark and labyrinthine wood. A thousand fragrant wild
flowers grow there spontaneously, and it would, in truth, be difficult
to imagine anything more secluded and sylvan, more solitary, peaceful,
and silent than this spot. The mind is invaded here, during all the
fervor of noonday, when the sun pours down his light in torrents from a
heaven without a cloud, by the same mysterious terror that visits it at
times in the silent hours of the night. One can understand here the
manner of life of the patriarchs of old, and of the primitive shepherds
and heroes; and the visions and apparitions that appeared to them of
nymphs, of gods, and of angels, in the midst of the noonday brightness.
As we walked through this thicket, there arrived a moment in which, I
know not how, Pepita and I found ourselves alone together. The others
had remained behind.
I felt a sudden thrill pass through me. For the first time, and in a
place so solitary, I found myself alone with this woman, while my
thoughts were still dwelling on the noontide apparitions, now sinister,
now gracious, but always supernatural, vouchsafed to the men of remote
ages.
Pepita had left the long skirt of her riding-habit in the house, and now
wore a short dress that did not interfere with the graceful ease of her
movements. She had on her head a little Andalusian hat, which became her
extremely. She carried in her hand her riding-whip, which I fancied to
myself to be a magic wand by means of which this enchantress might cast
her spells over me.
I am not afraid to transcribe here these eulogies of her beauty. In this
sylvan scene she appeared to me more beautiful than ever. The precaution
recommended in similar cases by ascetics, to think of her beauty
defaced by sickness and old age, to picture her to myself dead, the prey
of corruption and of the worm, presented itself, against my will, to my
imagination; and I say _against my will_, for I do not concur in the
necessity for such a precaution. No thought of the material, no
suggestion of the evil spirit, troubled my reason, or infected my will
or my senses.
What did occur to me was an argument, at least to my mind, in disproof
of the efficacy of this precaution. Beauty, the creation of a Sovereign
and Divine Power, may, indeed, be frail and ephemeral, may vanish in an
instant; but the idea of beauty is eternal, and, once perceived by the
mind, it lives there an immortal life. The beauty of this woman, such as
it manifests itself to-day, will disappear in a few short years; the
graceful form, those charming contours, the noble head that raises
itself so proudly above her shoulders, all will be food for loathsome
worms; but though the material must of necessity be transformed, its
idea, the thought through which it was created, abstract beauty, in a
word, who shall destroy this? Does it not exist in the Divine Mind? Once
perceived and known by me, shall it not continue to live in my soul,
triumphing over age and even over death?
I was meditating thus, striving to tranquillize my spirit and to
dissipate the doubts which you have succeeded in infusing into my mind,
when Pepita and I encountered each other. I was pleased and at the same
time troubled to find myself alone with her--hoping and yet fearing that
the others would join us.
The silvery voice of Pepita broke the silence, and drew me from my
meditations, saying:
"How silent you are, Don Luis, and how sad! I am pained to think that it
is, perhaps, through my fault, or partly so at least, that your father
has caused you to spend a disagreeable day in these solitudes, taking
you away from a solitude more congenial, where there would be nothing to
distract your attention from your prayers and pious books."
I know not what answer I made to this. It must have been something
nonsensical, for my mind was troubled. I did not wish to flatter Pepita
by paying her profane compliments, nor, on the other hand, did I wish to
answer her rudely.
She continued:
"You must forgive me if I am wrong, but I fancy that, in addition to the
annoyance of seeing yourself deprived to-day of your favorite
occupation, there is something else that powerfully contributes to your
ill-humor."
"And what is this something else?" I said; "since you have discovered
it, or fancy you have done so."
"This something else," responded Pepita, "is a feeling not altogether
becoming in one who is going to be a priest so soon, but very natural in
a young man of twenty-two."
On hearing this I felt the blood mount to my face, and my face burn. I
imagined a thousand absurdities; I thought myself beset by evil spirits;
I fancied myself tempted by Pepita, who was doubtless about to let me
understand that she knew I loved her. Then my timidity gave place to
haughtiness, and I looked her steadily in the face. There must have been
something laughable in my look, but either Pepita did not observe it,
or, if she did, she concealed the fact with amiable discretion; for she
exclaimed, in the most natural manner:
"Do not be offended because I find you are not without fault. This that
I have observed seems to me a slight one. You are hurt by the jests of
Currito, and by being compelled to play--speaking profanely--a not very
dignified _rôle_, mounted, like the reverend vicar with his eighty
years, on a placid mule, and not, as a youth of your age and condition
should be, on a spirited horse. The fault is the reverend dean's, to
whom it did not occur that you should learn to ride. To know how to
manage a horse is not opposed to the career you intend to follow, and I
think, now that you are here, that your father might in a few days give
you the necessary instruction to enable you to do so. If you should go
to Persia or to China, where there are no railroads yet, you will make
but a sorry figure in those countries as a bad horseman. It is possible,
even, that, through this want of foresight of the dean's, the missionary
himself may come to lose prestige in the eyes of those barbarians, which
will make it all the more difficult for him to reap the fruits of his
labors."
This and other arguments Pepita adduced in order to persuade me to learn
to ride on horseback; and I was so convinced of the necessity of a
missionary's being a good horseman, that I promised her to learn at
once, taking my father for a teacher.
"On the very next expedition we make," I said, "I shall ride the most
spirited horse my father has, instead of the mule I am riding to-day."
"I shall be very glad of it," responded Pepita, with a smile of
indescribable sweetness.