letter, excusing himself from going to see her, justifying his conduct,
consoling her, manifesting his tender sentiments toward her, while
letting her see that duty and Heaven were before everything, and
endeavoring to inspire her with the courage to make the same sacrifice
as he himself was making.
He made four or five different attempts to write this letter. He blotted
a great deal of paper which he afterward tore up, and could not, in the
end, succeed in getting the letter to his taste. Now it was dry, cold,
pedantic, like a poor sermon or a school-master's discourse; now its
contents betrayed a childish apprehension, as if Pepita were a monster
lying in wait to devour him; now it had other faults not less serious.
In fine, after wasting many sheets of paper in the attempt, the letter
remained unwritten.
"There is no help for it," said Don Luis to himself; "the die is cast. I
must only summon courage and go."
He comforted his spirit with the hope that his self-control would not
forsake him during the coming interview; and that God would endow his
lips with eloquence to persuade Pepita, who was so good, that it was she
herself who, sacrificing her earthly love, urged him to fulfill his
vocation, resembling in this those holy women of whom there are not
wanting examples, who not only renounced the society of a bridegroom or
a lover, but even the companionship of a husband, as is narrated, for
instance, in the life of St. Edward, of England, whose queen lived with
him as a sister.
Don Luis felt himself consoled and encouraged by this thought, and he
already pictured himself as St. Edward, and Pepita as Queen Edith. And
under the form and in the character of this virgin queen, Pepita
appeared to him, if possible, more graceful, charming, and romantic
than ever.
Don Luis was not, however, altogether so secure of himself, or so
tranquil, as he should have been, after forming the resolution of
following the example of St. Edward. There seemed to him something
almost criminal, which he could not well define, in the visit he was
about to make to Pepita without his father's knowledge. He felt tempted
to awaken him from his _siesta_, and to reveal everything to him; two or
three times he rose from his chair with this purpose; then he stopped,
feeling that such a revelation would be dishonoring, and a disgraceful
exhibition of childishness. He might betray his own secrets, but to
betray those of Pepita in order to set himself right with his father,
seemed to him contemptible enough. The baseness and the ridiculous
meanness of the action were still further increased in his eyes by the
reflection that what prompted him to it was the fear of not being strong
enough to resist temptation.
Don Luis kept silence, therefore, and revealed nothing to his father.
More than this, he did not even feel that he had the confidence and
composure necessary to present himself before his father, with the
consciousness of this secret interview interposing itself as a barrier
between them. He was indeed so excited and so beside himself, under the
influence of the contending emotions that disputed the possession of his
soul, that he felt as if the room, though a large one, was too small to
contain him. Starting to his feet, he paced with rapid strides up and
down the floor, like some wild animal in his cage, impatient of
confinement. At last, although--being summer--the window was open, he
felt as if he could remain here no longer, lest he should suffocate for
want of air; as if the roof pressed down upon his head; as if, to
breathe, he needed the whole atmosphere; to walk, he required space
without limits; to lift up his brow, and exhale his sighs, and elevate
his thoughts, to have nothing less than the immeasurable vault of heaven
above him.
Impelled by this necessity, he took his hat and cane and went out into
the street. Thence, avoiding every one he knew, he passed on into the
country, plunging into the leafiest and most sequestered recesses of the
gardens and walks that encompass the village, and make, for a radius of
more than half a league, a paradise of its surroundings.
We have said but little, thus far, concerning the personal appearance of
Don Luis. Be it known, then, that he was in every sense of the word a
handsome fellow--tall, well formed, with black hair, and eyes also black
and full of fire and sweetness. His complexion was dark, his teeth were
white, his lips delicate and curling slightly, which gave to his
countenance an appearance of disdain; his bearing was manly and bold,
notwithstanding the reserve and meekness proper to his sacred character.
The whole mien of Don Luis bore, in a word, that indescribable stamp of
distinction and nobility that seems to be--though this is not always the
case--the peculiar quality and exclusive privilege of aristocratic
families.
On beholding Don Luis one could not but confess that Pepita Ximenez was
aesthetic by instinct.
Don Luis hurried on with precipitate steps in the course he had taken,
jumping across brooks and hardly glancing at surrounding objects, almost
as a bull stung by a hornet might do. The countrymen he met, the
market-gardeners who saw him pass, very possibly took him for a madman.
Tired at last of walking on aimlessly, he sat down at the foot of a
stone cross near the ruins of an ancient convent of St. Francis de Paul,
almost two miles from the village, and there plunged anew into
meditation, but of so confused a character that he himself was scarcely
conscious of what was passing in his mind.
The sound of the distant bells, calling the faithful to prayer and
reminding them of the salutation of the angel to the Most Holy Virgin,
reaching these solitudes through the rarefied atmosphere, drew Don Luis
at last from his meditations, and made him once more conscious of the
world of reality.
The sun had just sunk behind the gigantic peaks of the neighboring
mountains, making their summits--in the shape of pyramids, needles, and
broken obelisks--stand out in bold relief against a background of topaz
and amethyst--for such was the appearance of the heavens, gilded by the
beams of the setting sun. The shadows began to deepen over the plain,
and, on the mountains opposite to those behind which the sun was
sinking, the more elevated peaks shone like flaming gold or crystal.
The windows and the white walls of the distant sanctuary of the Virgin,
patroness of the village, which is situated on the summit of a distant
hill, as well as those of another small temple or hermitage, situated on
a nearer hill called Calvary, still shone like two beacon-lights,
touched by the oblique rays of the setting sun.
Nature exhaled a poetic melancholy, and all things seemed to intone a
hymn to the Creator, with that silent music heard only by the spirit.
The low sound of the bells, softened and almost lost in the distance,
hardly disturbed the repose of the earth, and invited to prayer, without
distracting the senses by their noise. Don Luis uncovered his head,
knelt down at the foot of the cross, the pedestal of which had served
him as a seat, and repeated with profound devotion the _Angelus Domini_.
The shades of evening were gathering fast; but when Night unfolds her
mantle, and spreads it over those favored regions, she delights to adorn
it with the most luminous stars, and with a still brighter moon. The
vault of heaven did not exchange its cerulean hue for the blackness of
night; it still retained it, though it had assumed a deeper shade. The
atmosphere was so clear and pure that myriads of stars could be descried
shining far into the limitless depths of space. The moon silvered the
tops of the trees, and touched with its splendor the waters of the
brooks that gleamed, luminous and transparent, with colors as changeful
and iridescent as the opal. In the leafy groves the nightingales were
singing. Herbs and flowers shed a rich perfume. Countless multitudes of
glow-worms shone like diamonds or carbuncles among the grass and wild
flowers along the banks of the brooks. In this region the winged
glow-worm is not found, but another and smaller species abounds, and
sheds a most brilliant light. Fruit-trees still in blossom, acacias and
roses without number, perfumed the air with their rich fragrance.
Don Luis felt himself swayed, seduced, vanquished, by this
voluptuousness of nature, and began to doubt himself. It was necessary,
however, to fulfill his promise and keep his appointment.
Deviating often from the straight path, hesitating at times whether he
should not rather push forward to the source of the river, where, at the
foot of a mountain and in the midst of the most enchanting surroundings,
the crystal torrent that waters the neighboring gardens and orchards
bursts from the living rock, he turned back, with slow and lingering
step, in the direction of the village.
In proportion as he approached the village, the terror inspired by the
thought of what he was about to do increased. He plunged into the
thickest of the wood, hoping there to behold some wonder, some sign,
some warning, that should draw him back. He thought often of the student
Lisardo, and wished that, like him, he might behold his own burial. But
heaven smiled with her thousand lights, and invited to love; the stars
looked at each other with love; the nightingales sang of love; even the
crickets amorously vibrated their sonorous elytra, as troubadours the
plectrum, in a serenade; all the earth on this tranquil and beautiful
night seemed given up to love. There was no warning; there was no sign;
there was no funeral pomp; all was life, peace, joy.
Where was now his guardian angel? Had he abandoned Don Luis as already
lost, or, deeming that he ran no risk, did he make no effort to turn him
from his purpose? Who can say? Perhaps from the danger that menaced him
would, in the end, result a triumph. St. Edward and Queen Edith
presented themselves again to the imagination of Don Luis, and
strengthened his resolution.
Engrossed in these meditations, he delayed his return, and was still
some distance from the village when ten, the hour appointed for his
interview with Pepita, struck from the parish clock. The ten strokes of
the bell were ten blows that, falling on his heart, wounded it as with a
physical pain--a pain in which dread and treacherous disquiet were
blended with a ravishing sweetness.
Don Luis hastened his steps that he might reach Pepita's house as soon
after the appointed hour as was now possible, and shortly found himself
in the village.
The village presented a most animated scene. Young girls flocked to wash
their faces at the fountain on the common--those who had sweethearts,
that their sweethearts might remain faithful to them; and those who had
not, that they might obtain sweethearts. Here and there women and
children were returning from the fields, with verbena, branches of
rosemary, and other plants, which they had been gathering, to burn as a
charm. Guitars tinkled on every side, words of love were to be
overheard, and everywhere happy and tender couples were to be seen
walking together. The vigil and the early morning of St. John's day,
although a Christian festival, still retain a certain savor of paganism
and primitive naturalism. This may be because of the approximate
concurrence of this festival and the summer solstice. In any case, the
scene to-night was of a purely mundane character, without any religious
mixture whatever. All was love and gallantry. In our old romances and
legends the Moor always carries off the beautiful Christian princess,
and the Christian knight receives the reward of his devotion to the
Moorish princess, on the eve or in the early morning of St. John's day;
and the traditionary custom of the old romances had been, to all
appearances, preserved in the village.
The streets were full of people. The whole village was out of doors, in
addition to the strangers from the surrounding country. Progress, thus
rendered extremely difficult, was still further impeded by the multitude
of little tables laden with _nougat_, honey-cakes, and toast,
fruit-stalls, booths for the sale of dolls and toys, and cake-shops,
where gypsies, young and old, by turns fried the dough, tainting the air
with the odor of oil, weighed and served the cakes, responded with
ready wit to the compliments of the gallants who passed by, and told
fortunes.
Don Luis sought to avoid meeting any of his acquaintances, and, when he
caught sight by chance of any one he knew, he turned his steps in
another direction. Thus, by degrees, he reached the entrance to Pepita's
house without having been stopped or spoken to by any one. His heart now
began to beat with violence, and he paused a moment to recover his
serenity. He looked at his watch; it was almost half-past ten.
"Good heavens!" he exclaimed; "she has been waiting for me nearly half
an hour."
He then hurried his pace and entered the hall. The lamp by which it was
always lighted was burning dimly on this particular evening.
No sooner had Don Luis entered the hall than a hand, or rather a talon,
seized him by the right arm. It belonged to Antoñona, who said to him
under her breath:
"A pretty fellow you are, for a collegian! Ingrate! good-for-nothing!
vagabond! I began to think you were not coming. Where have you been,
imbecile? How dare you delay, as if you had no interest in the matter,
when the salt of the earth is melting for you, and the sum of beauty
awaits you?"
While Antoñona was giving utterance to these complaints, she did not
stand still, but continued to go forward, dragging after her by the arm
the now cowed and silent collegian. They passed the grated door, which
Antoñona closed carefully and noiselessly behind them. They crossed the
court-yard, ascended the stairs, passed through some corridors and two
interjacent apartments, and arrived at last at the door of the library,
which was closed.
Profound silence reigned throughout the house. The library was situated
in its interior, and was thus inaccessible to the noises of the street.
The only sounds that reached it, confused and vague, were the shaking of
the castanets, the tinkle of the guitar, and the murmur of the voices of
Pepita's servants, who were holding their impromptu dance in the
farm-house.
Antoñona opened the door of the library and pushed Don Luis toward it,
at the same time announcing him in these words:
"Here is Don Luis, who has come to take leave of you."
This announcement being made with due ceremony, the discreet Antoñona
withdrew, leaving the visitor and her mistress at their ease, and
closing behind her the door of the outer saloon.
* * * * *
At this point in our narrative we can not refrain from calling attention
to the character of authenticity that stamps the present history, and
paying a tribute of admiration to the scrupulous exactness of the person
who composed it. For, were the incidents related in these _paralipomena_
fictitious, as in a novel, there is nor the least doubt but that an
interview so important and of such transcendent interest as that of
Pepita and Don Luis would have been brought about by less vulgar means
than those here employed. Perhaps our hero and heroine, in the course of
some new excursion into the country, might have been surprised by a
sudden and frightful tempest, thus finding themselves obliged to take
refuge in the ruins of some ancient castle or Moorish tower, with the
reputation, of course, of being haunted by ghosts or other supernatural
visitants. Perhaps our hero and heroine might have fallen into the power
of a party of bandits, from whom they would have escaped, thanks to the
presence of mind and courage of Don Luis; taking shelter afterward for
the night--they two alone, and without the possibility of avoiding
it--in a cavern or grotto. Or, finally, perhaps the author would have
arranged the matter in such a way as that Pepita and her vacillating
admirer would have been obliged to make a journey by sea, and, although
at the present day there are neither pirates nor Algerine corsairs, it
is not difficult to invent a good shipwreck, during which Don Luis
could have saved Pepita's life, taking refuge with her afterward on a
desert island, or some other equally romantic and solitary place. Any
one of these devices would more artfully prepare the way for the tender
colloquy of the lovers, and would better serve to exculpate Don Luis. We
are of the opinion, nevertheless, that, instead of censuring the author
for not having had recourse to such complications as those we have
mentioned, we ought rather to thank him for his conscientiousness in
sacrificing to the truth of his relation the marvelous effect he might
have produced, had he ventured to ornament and adorn it with incidents
and episodes drawn from his own fancy.
If the means by which this interview was brought about were, in reality,
only the officiousness and the skill of Antoñona, and the weakness with
which Don Luis acceded to her request that he should grant it, why forge
lies, and cause the two lovers to be impelled, as it were, by Fate, to
see and speak with each other alone, to the great danger of the virtue
and honor of both? There was nothing of this. Whether Don Luis did well
or ill in keeping his appointment, and whether Pepita Ximenez, whom
Antoñona had already told that Don Luis was coming of his own accord to
see her, did well or ill in rejoicing over that somewhat mysterious and
inopportune visit, let us not throw the blame on Fate, but on the
personages themselves who figure in this history, and on the passions
by which they are actuated. We confess to a great affection for Pepita;
but the truth is before everything, and must be declared, even should it
be to the prejudice of our heroine.
At eight o'clock, then, Antoñona had told her that Don Luis was coming,
and Pepita, who had been talking of dying, whose eyes were red, whose
eyelids were slightly inflamed with weeping, and whose hair was in some
disorder, thought of nothing, thereafter, but of adorning and arranging
herself for the purpose of receiving Don Luis. She bathed her face with
warm water, so that the ravages her tears had made might be effaced to
the exact point of leaving her beauty unimpaired, while still allowing
it to be seen that she had wept. She arranged her hair, so as to
display, rather than a studied care in its arrangement, a certain
graceful and artistic carelessness, that fell short of disorder,
however, which would have been indecorous; she polished her nails, and,
as it was not fit that she should receive Don Luis in a wrapper, she put
on a simple house-dress. In fine, she managed instinctively that all the
details of her toilet should concur in heightening her beauty and grace,
but without allowing any trace to be perceived of the art, the labor,
and the time employed in the details. She would have it appear, on the
contrary, as if all this beauty and grace were the free gift of nature,
something inherent in her person, no matter how she might, owing to the
vehemence of her passions, neglect it on occasion.
Pepita, so far as we have been able to discover, spent more than an hour
in these labors of the toilet, which were to be perceived only by their
results. She then, with ill-concealed satisfaction, gave herself the
final touch before the looking-glass. At last, at about half-past nine,
taking a candle in her hand, she descended to the apartment, in which
was the _Infant Jesus_. She first lighted the altar-candles which had
been extinguished; she saw with something of sorrow that the flowers
were drooping; she asked pardon of the sacred Image for neglecting it so
long, and, throwing herself on her knees before it, prayed in her
solitude with her whole heart, and with that frankness and confidence
that a guest inspires who has been so long an inmate of the house. Of a
_Jesus of Nazareth_ bearing the cross upon his shoulders, and crowned
with thorns; of an _Ecce Homo_, insulted and scourged, with a reed for
derisive scepter, and his hands bound with a rough cord; of a _Christ
crucified_, bleeding and moribund, Pepita would not have dared to ask
what she now asked of a Saviour, still a child, smiling, beautiful,
untouched by suffering, and pleasing to the eye. Pepita asked him to
leave her Don Luis; not to take him away from her, since he, who was so
rich and so well provided with everything, might, without any great
sacrifice, deny himself this one of his servants, and give him up to
her.
Having completed these preparations, which we may classify as cosmetic,
indumentary, and religious, Pepita installed herself in the library, and
there awaited the arrival of Don Luis with feverish impatience.
Antoñona had acted with prudence in not telling her mistress that Don
Luis was coming to see her until a short time before the appointed hour.
Even as it was, thanks to the delay of the gallant, poor Pepita, from
the moment in which she had finished her prayers and supplications to
the _Infant Jesus_, to that in which she beheld Don Luis standing in the
library, was a prey to anguish and disquietude.
The visit began in the most grave and ceremonious manner. The customary
salutations were mechanically interchanged, and Don Luis, at the
invitation of Pepita, seated himself in an easy-chair, without laying
aside his hat or cane, and at a short distance from her. Pepita was
seated on the sofa; beside her was a little table on which were some
books, and a candle, the light from which illuminated her countenance.
On the desk also burned a lamp. Notwithstanding these two lights,
however, the apartment, which was large, remained for the greater part
in obscurity. A large window, which looked out on an inner garden, was
open on account of the heat; and although the grating of the window was
covered with climbing roses and jasmine, the clear beams of the moon
penetrated through the interlaced leaves and flowers, and struggled with
the light of the lamp and candle. Through the open window came, too, the
distant and confused sounds of the dance at the farm-house, which was at
the other extremity of the garden, the monotonous murmur of the fountain
below, and the fragrance of the jasmine and roses that curtained the
window, mingled with that of the mignonette, sweet-basil, and other
plants that adorned the borders beneath.
There was a long pause--a silence as difficult to maintain as it was to
break. Neither of the two interlocutors ventured to speak. The situation
was, in truth, embarrassing. They found it as difficult to express
themselves then, as we find it now to reproduce their words; but there
is nothing else for it than to make the effort. Let us allow them to
speak for themselves, transcribing their words with exactitude.
* * * * *
"So you have finally condescended to come and take leave of me before
your departure," said Pepita; "I had already given up the hope that you
would do so."
The part Don Luis had to perform was a serious one; and, besides this,
in this kind of dialogue, the man, not only if he be a novice, but even
when he is old in the business and an expert, is apt to begin with some
piece of folly. Let us not condemn Don Luis, therefore, because he also
began unwisely.
"Your complaint is unjust," he said. "I came here with my father to take
leave of you, and, as we had not the pleasure of being received by you,
we left cards. We were told that your health was somewhat delicate, and
we have sent every day since to inquire for you. We were greatly pleased
to learn that you were improving. I hope you are now much better."
"I am almost tempted to say I am no better," answered Pepita, "but, as I
see that you have come as the embassador of your father, and I do not
want to distress so excellent a friend, it is but right that I should
tell you, that you may repeat it to him, that I am much better now. But
it is strange that you have come alone. Don Pedro must be very much
occupied indeed, not to accompany you."