Night came, and when a part of our troops fell back upon the city, all
of the people hastened to the suburb to look at the field of battle
from near at hand, and to gladden their imaginations by going over, one
by one, the scenes of heroism. The animation, the movement, the clatter
of noise in that part of the city were immense. At one side were groups
of soldiers singing with feverish joy, on the other bands of merciful
people carrying the wounded into their houses. Everywhere was hearty
satisfaction, which showed itself in lively dialogues, question, joyous
exclamations,--tears and laughter mingling with the rejoicings and
enthusiasm.
It was, possibly, about nine o'clock before my battalion broke ranks;
because, lacking quarters, we did not permit ourselves to leave the
position, although there was no danger.
Augustine and I ran to Del Pilar, where a great crowd was rushing.
We entered with difficulty. I was surprised to see how some persons
jostled and pushed others in order to approach the chapel of the
Virgin del Pilar. The prayers, the entreaties, and the demonstrations
of rejoicing, taken all together, did not seem like the prayers of
any class of the faithful. The prayers were like talks mingled with
tears, groans, the most tender words, and other phrases of intimate
and ingenuous affection, such as the Spanish people are wont to use
with their saints that are most beloved. They fell upon their knees;
they kissed the pavement; they grasped the iron gratings of the chapel;
they addressed the holy image, calling it by names the most familiar
and the most pathetic of the language. Those who could not--because of
the crowd of people--come near her were talking to her from afar off,
waving their arms wildly about. There were no sacristans to stop these
wild ways and seemingly irreverent noises, because they were themselves
children of this overflowing delirious devotion. The solemn silence
of sacred places was not observed. All there were as if in their own
house, as if the house of their cherished Virgin, their mother, their
beloved, the queen of Saragossans, were also the house of her children,
her servants and subjects.
Astonished at such fervor which the familiarity made more interesting,
I fought my way to the grating, and saw the celebrated image. Who
has not seen her, who does not know her, at least by the innumerable
sculptures and portraits which have reproduced her endlessly from one
end of the peninsula to the other?
She was at the left of the little altar which is in the depth of the
chapel in a niche adorned with oriental luxury, a little statue, then
as now. A great profusion of wax candles illuminated her, and precious
stones covered her clothing and crown, darting dazzling reflections.
Gold and diamonds gleamed in the circlet about her face, in the votive
bracelets hung upon her breast, and in the rings on her hands. A living
creature would have given way under so great a weight of treasure. Her
garments, falling without folds, stretched straight from head to feet,
and left visible only her hands. The child Jesus, sustained on her left
side, revealed a bit of his brown little face between the brocade and
the jewels. The face of the Virgin, burnished by time, is also brown.
A gentle serenity possesses her, symbol of her eternal blessedness.
She looks outward, her sweet gaze scanning constantly the devoted
concourse. There shines in her eyes a ray of the clearest light, and
this artificial gleam seems like the intensity and fixedness of the
human gaze. It was difficult when I saw her for the first time to
remain indifferent in the midst of that religious demonstration, and
not to add a word to the concert of enthusiastic tongues talking with
distinct voices to the Señora.
I was watching the statue, when Augustine pressed my arm, saying,--
"Look, there she is!"
"Who, the Virgin? I am looking at her now."
"No, man, Mariquilla! There, in front, close to the column."
I looked, but I saw only a great many people. We immediately quitted
our place, looking about for a way to get through the multitude to the
other side.
"She is not with Candiola," said Augustine, joyously. "She has come
with the servant." And, saying this, he elbowed his way to one side
and the other to make a road, punching backs and breasts, stepping
on feet, matting down hats, and rumpling clothing. I followed behind
him, causing equal destruction right and left. At last we came to the
beautiful young girl, and it was really she, as I could see at once
with my own eyes.
The enthusiastic passion of my good friend did not deceive me.
Mariquilla was worth the trouble of being extravagantly, madly loved.
Her pale brunette skin, her deeply black eyes, her perfect nose, her
incomparable mouth, and her beautiful low forehead attracted attention
to her at once. There was in her face as in her body a certain light
and delicate voluptuousness. When she lowered her eyes, it seemed to
me as if a sweet and lovely mist surrounded her. She smiled gravely;
and when she approached us, her looks revealed timidity. Everything
about her showed the reserved and circumspect passion of a woman of
character, and she seemed to me little given to talking, lacking in
coquetry, and poor in artifices. I afterwards had reason to confirm
this, my early judgment. There shone in the face of Mariquilla a
heavenly calm, and a certain security in herself. Different from most
women, like few among them, that soul would not readily change, except
for just and righteous reasons.
Other women of quick sensibility pour themselves out like wax before a
small fire; but Mariquilla was made of the best metal, yielding only to
a great fire, and when that came she was of necessity like molten metal
that burns when it touches.
Besides her beauty, the elegance and even luxury of her dress attracted
my attention. Having heard much of the avarice of Candiola, I supposed
that he would have reduced his daughter to the utmost extremes of
wretchedness in matters of dress. It was not so. As Montoria told me
afterwards, the stingiest of the stingy not only permitted his daughter
some expenses, but now and then made her some little present which he
looked upon as the _ne plus ultra_ of mundane splendor.
If Candiola was capable of letting some of his relations die of
hunger, to his daughter he gave a phenomenal, a scandalous amount of
pocket-money. Although he was a miser, he was a father; he loved his
girl very much, finding in his generosity to her perhaps the only
pleasure of his arid existence.
Somewhat more must be said in regard to this, but it will appear little
by little in the course of the story. And now I must say that my
friend had not yet spoken ten words to his adored Mariquilla, when a
man approached us abruptly, and after having looked at the two for an
instant with flashing eyes, spoke to the young girl, taking her by the
arm, and saying, with a show of anger,--
"What is going on here? And you, good Guedita, what brought you to the
Pilar at such an hour? Go to the house, go to the house immediately!"
And pushing before him mistress and maid, he carried them both off
towards the door and the street, and the three disappeared from our
sight.
It was Candiola. I remember him well, and the remembrance makes me
tremble with horror. Further on you will know why. Since the brief
scene in the church del Pilar, the image of that man has been engraven
on my memory, and certainly his face was not one which would let itself
be quickly forgotten. Old, bent, of miserable and sickly aspect,
crooked and disagreeable, lean of face, with sunken cheeks, Candiola
roused antipathy from the first moment. His nose, sharp and hooked
like the beak of a bird, his chin, peaked also, the coarse hair of
his grizzled eyebrows, the greenish eyes, the forehead furrowed as
if by a ruler with deep parallel wrinkles, the cartilaginous ears,
the yellowish skin, the metallic quality of the voice, the slovenly
clothes, the insulting grimaces,--all his personality from head to
foot, from his bag wig to the sole of his coarse shoe, produced at
sight an unconquerable repulsion. It can readily be understood that he
had not a single friend.
Candiola had no beard; his face, according to the fashion, was quite
clean shaven, although the razor did not enter the field more than once
a week. If Don Jeronimo had had a beard, it would have made him seem
very much like a certain Venetian shop-keeper whom I afterwards came
to know very well, travelling in the great world of books, and in whom
I find certain traits of physiognomy that recalled the man who had so
brusquely presented himself to us in the temple del Pilar.
"Did you see that miserable and ridiculous old man?" Augustine asked me
when we were alone, looking towards the door where the three people had
disappeared.
"He evidently doesn't like his daughter to have admirers."
"But I am sure that he did not see me talking with her. He has
suspicions, nothing more. If he should pass from suspicion to
certitude, Mariquilla and I would be lost. Did you see that look he
threw us, the damned miser?--he is black from his soul to his Satanic
hide."
"Bad sort of father-in-law to have."
"Bad enough," said Montoria, sadly. "He would be dear in exchange for
a spoonful of verdigris! I am sure he will abuse her to-night; but
fortunately he is not in the habit of ill-treating her."
"And would not the Señor Candiola be pleased to see her married to the
son of Don José de Montoria?" I asked.
"Are you mad? I see you talking to him of that! The wretched miser
not only watches his daughter as if she were a bag of gold, and is
not disposed to give her to anybody; but he has also an ancient and
profound resentment against my father, because he freed some unhappy
debtors from his fangs. I tell you, that if he discovers that his
daughter loves me, he will keep her locked up in an iron chest in that
cellar of his where he keeps his hard cash. I don't know what would
happen if my father came to know of it. My flesh creeps just to think
of it. The worst nightmare which disturbs my slumbers is that which
shows me the moment when señor my father and señora my mother learn of
my great love for Mariquilla. A son of Don José de Montoria enamoured
of a daughter of Candiola, a young man who is formally destined to be a
bishop,--a bishop, Gabriel! I am going to be a bishop, in the minds of
my parents!"
Saying this, Augustine dashed his head against the sacred wall on which
we were leaning.
"And do you think you will go on loving Mariquilla?"
"Don't ask me that!" he replied with energy. "Did you see her? If you
saw her, how can you ask me if I will go on loving her? Her father and
mine would rather see me dead than married to her. A bishop, Gabriel,
they wish me to be a bishop! Think of being a bishop and loving
Mariquilla for all of my life, here and hereafter, think of that and
pity me!"
"But God opens unknown ways," I said.
"It is true, and sometimes my faith is boundless. Who knows what
to-morrow will bring forth? God and the Virgin shall guide me
henceforth."
"Are you devoted to this Virgin?"
"Yes. My mother places candles before the one we have in our house,
that I may not fall in battle; and I say to her 'Sovereign Lady, may
this offering also serve to remind you that I cannot cease from loving
the daughter of Candiola.'"
We were in the nave upon which opened the chapel del Pilar. There is
here an aperture in the wall, by which the devout, descending two or
three steps, approach to kiss the pedestal which sustains the revered
image. Augustine kissed the red marble. I kissed it also; then we left
the church to go to our abode.