After a night of sleepless anguish, Anna rose, apparently more
tranquil; drawing some slight hope from the determination she had
taken to speak with Rita; show her the precipice toward which she was
running blindly, and persuade her to recede.
Anna had a dignity that would have impressed any one in whom the noble
quality of respect had not been suffocated by pride--the worst enemy
of man because the most daring; no other like it elevates itself in
the presence of virtue; no other is so obstinate and so lordly; no
other so hides perversity under forms of goodness; no other so
falsifies ideas and qualifies and condemns as servile that sentiment
of respect which entered into the world with the first benediction of
God. Pride sometimes wishes to elevate itself into dignity, but
without success, for dignity never seeks to set itself up at the cost
of another, but leaves and maintains everything in its own place; its
attitude being even more noble when it honors than when it is honored.
Dignity owes its place neither to riches nor knowledge, and least of
all is it indebted to pride. It is the simple reflection of an
elevated soul which feels its strength. It is natural, like the flush
of health; not put on like the color of those who paint. But there are
beings who place themselves above everything else, and rest with
portentous composure upon a fake and insecure base, parading an
intrepidity and an arrogance which they do not assume who rest on the
firm rock of infallible justice and eternal truth. Rita, treading a
crooked path with fearless step and serene countenance, was one of
these beings.
The good sense of the villager, who felt profoundly what we have
expressed, and understood perfectly the character of both women,
defined it better in their concise laconism when, in speaking of Anna,
they said, "Aunt Anna teaches without talking;" and of Rita, "She
fears neither God nor the devil."
Rita was sewing when Anna entered. The latter deliberately drew the
bolt of the door and sat down facing her daughter-in-law.
"You already know, Rita," she said calmly, "That I was never pleased
with your marriage."
"And have you come to receive my thanks?"
Without noticing the question Anna continued:
"I had penetrated your character."
"It was not necessary to be a seer to do that," replied Rita, "I am
perfectly open and frank. I say what I think."
{671}
"The evil is not in saying what you think, but in thinking what you
say."
"It is plain that it would be better for me to play the dead fox, or
still water, like some who appear flakes of snow, but are in reality
grains of salt."
This was a fling at Elvira which Anna fully understood, but of which
she took no notice, and proceeded.
"Notwithstanding, I was deceived. I had not entirely fathomed you."
"Go on," said Rita, "there is a squall to-day."
"I never thought that what has come to pass would happen."
"Now it escapes and rains pitchforks," said Rita.
"Since," proceeded Anna, "you do not fear to deceive my son--"
"Ho, is that the matter?" said Rita coolly.
"And kill my poor daughter--"
"That will do," interrupted Rita, "there is where the shoe pinches;
because Ventura does not want to marry a spectre, that to go out has
to ask permission of the gravedigger, I must answer for it. And for no
other reason than because he is gay and likes better to jest with one
who is cheerful like me than to drink herb-tea with her, can I help
it?"
Anna allowed Rita to conclude, her countenance showing no alteration
except a mortal paleness.
"Rita," she said, when the latter had finished, "a woman cannot be
false to her marriage vows with impunity."
"What are you saying!" exclaimed Rita, springing to her feet and
throwing away her work, her cheeks and eyes on fire. "What have you
said, madam? I fake to my marriage vows? To that which your eyes did
not see you have brought in your hand! I false! I! You have always
borne me ill-will, like a mother-in-law in fact, and a bad
mother-in-law, but I never knew before that the saint-eaters bore
_such_ testimony."
"I do not say that you are so," replied Anna, in the same grave and
moderate tone which she had observed from the beginning, "but that you
are in the way, that you are going to be false if God does not prevent
it by opening your eyes."
"Now, as formerly, and always a prophetess, Jonah in person, and" (she
added between her teeth) "may the whale swallow you also."
"Yes, Rita, yes," said Anna, "and I have come--"
"To threaten me?" asked Rita, with an air of bold defiance.
"No, Rita, no, my daughter; I have come to beg of you in the name of
God, for the love of my son, for the sake of your children, and for
your own sake, to consider what you are doing, to examine your heart
while there is yet time."
"Did Perico send you?"
"No, my dear son suspects nothing, God forbid that we should awaken a
sleeping lion."
"Well, then, why do you put yourself into so wide a garment? Go along!
The one who is being hanged does not feel it but the witness feels it!
Perico, madam, is not and never has been jealous; neither does he
suspect the fingers of his guests, or go in quest of trouble. He is no
dirty hypocrite, crying to heaven because people joke, and he does not
bully because somebody draws a few buckets of water for his wife when
she is washing. Do you think that I shall lose my soul for that?"
"Rita, Rita, do not trifle with men."
"Nor you with women. Good heavens! it would seem that I am
scandalizing the town."
"Consider, Rita," continued Anna with increased severity, "that with
men an affront is often the cause of bloodshed."
"You would bathe in rose-water," responded Rita "if matters seemed to
be running a little toward the fulfilment of those predictions of
yours about _kindred blood not harmonizing_, and others of the same
kind, by which you wished to prevent your son from marrying; and you
were disappointed; {672} and you will be now if you attempt, as I see
you are attempting, to make trouble between us. I know what I am
doing; Perico is a lover of quiet, and knows the wife he has. Leave us
in peace, and we will live so, if you do not heat your son's skull by
your meddling; you take care of the wedding finery of your daughter,
the flower of the family."
At this string of taunts and insults, the prudent long-suffering of
that respectable matron, wavered for an instant; but the angel of
patience that God sends to women from the moment they become mothers,
to help them bear their crosses, vanquished, and Anna went out,
looking at Rita with a sad smile, in which there was as much or more
compassion than contempt.
The worthy woman remained in a state of depression and anguish, on
account of the failure of the step she had taken, and determined to
open her heart to Pedro, in order to have him send his son away.
Finally there was a guard wanting at the estate on which Ventura had
served, and he was called to fill the place. This absence, though
interrupted by frequent visits to the village, gave some respite to
the afflicted Anna, who said to herself, "a day of life is life."