The _châlet_ hired at Vichy by the families of Miranda and Gonzalvo bore
the poetic name of “Châlet of the Roses.” In justification of its name,
along its open-work balusters had been trained the airy festoons of a
wilderness of climbing roses, at the extremities of whose branches
languidly drooped the last roses of the season. Roses of a pale yellow
contrasted with flame-hued Bengal roses; and dwarf-roses, of a warm
flesh-tint, looked like diminutive faces, curiously peeping in at the
windows of the _châlet_. In the peristyle grew in graceful confusion
roses of all sorts and colors. Pink Malmaison roses lifted themselves
proudly on their stems; tea-roses dropped their leaves languidly; roses
of Alexandria, beautiful and stately, poured from their cups their
intoxicating perfume; moss-roses smiled ironically, with their carmine
lips half hidden by their luxuriant green mustaches; white roses rivaled
the snow with their cold pure beauty, their modest primness like that of
artificial flowers. And among her lovely sisters the exotic
_viridiflora_ hid her sea-green buds, as if ashamed of the strange
lizard-like hue of her flowers, of her ugliness as a monstrosity,
interesting only to the botanist.
The _châlet_ had the usual two stories,--the _entresol_, consisting of
a dining-room, kitchen, small parlor, and reception-room; the main floor
being reserved for the bedrooms and dressing-rooms. Along the main story
ran a balcony protected by a railing of lace-like delicacy, and along
the _entresol_ ran a similar balcony, which was almost completely
covered by trailing vines. A delicate iron railing separated the
_châlet_ from the public road--an avenue bordered with trees; low walls
performed the same office with respect to the adjoining houses and
gardens. At either side of the entrance stood, on a massive gray column,
a bronze figure of a boy, holding up in his chubby arms a ground glass
globe, which protected a gas-jet. It was evident at a glance that the
_châlet_, with its thin wooden walls, could afford but slight protection
to its inhabitants against the cold of winter or the heat of summer; but
in the mild and genial autumn weather this fanciful building, with its
light and delicate ornamentation, carved like a drawing-room toy,
adorned with blooming rose-garlands, was the most coquettish and
delightful of abodes; the most appropriate nest possible to imagine for
a pair of loving turtle-doves. I regret to have to give these charming
dwellings, which abound in Vichy, the foreign name of _châlet_, but how
is it to be avoided if there is no corresponding term in our own
tongue? What we call cabin, cottage, or country house is not at all what
is understood by the word _châlet_, which is an architectural conception
peculiar to the Helvetian valleys, where art, deriving its inspiration
from nature, reproduced the forms of the larches and spruce trees and
the delicate arabesques of the ice and the hoar-frost, as the Egyptians
copied the capitals of their columns from the lotus-flower. The
_châlets_ of Vichy are built solely for the purpose of being rented to
foreigners. The wife of the _concierge_ undertakes the management of the
house, the marketing, and even the cooking; the _concierge_ himself
attends to the cleaning of the house, prunes the plants in the little
garden, trains the vines, sweeps the sanded walks, waits at table, and
opens the door. The Mirandas and the Gonzalvos, then, installed
themselves in the _châlet_ without further trouble than giving the
_concierge_ their wraps and taking their places at the dining-room
table.
Although Lucía, and still more Pilar, felt fatigued after the long
railway journey, they could not help admiring the beauty of the abode
which fate had allotted them. The balcony, especially, they thought
delightful for sewing or reading. It brought to Pilar’s mind the many
water-color scenes, landscapes painted on fans, and sentimental
pictures that she had seen representing the now hackneyed subject of a
young girl with her head framed in foliage. Lucía, on her side, compared
her house in Leon, antique, massive, bare and gloomy, with this
dwelling, where all was neat and bright, from the shining waxed floors
to the curtains of blue cretonne adorned with clusters of pink
bell-flowers. When Lucía sprang out of bed on the day following that of
their arrival, her first impulse was to go out into the balcony; from
thence she went down into the garden, fastening up her morning gown with
pins, to keep it from being wet by the damp grass. She looked at the
roses, fresh from their bath of dew, lifting themselves proudly on their
stems, each with its necklace of pearls or diamonds. She inhaled the
odor of each in turn, passing her fingers over their leaves without
daring to pluck them. At this hour the roses had scarcely any perfume;
what she perceived was, rather, the aroma of the general freshness and
moistness that rose from the beds of flowers and from the surrounding
trees. In Vichy there are trees everywhere; in the afternoon, when Lucía
and Pilar went out to see something of the town, they uttered
exclamations of delight at every turn at the sight of some tree, some
alley, or some park. Pilar thought Vichy had an elegant aspect; Lucía,
less well-informed in matters of elegance and fashion, enjoyed simply
the spectacle of so much verdure, so much nature, which rested her eyes,
making her think at times that, notwithstanding its crowded streets and
its brilliant shops, Vichy was a village, exactly suited to gratify her
secret desire and need for solitude. A village of palaces, with all the
adornments and refinements of comfort and luxury characteristic of our
age, but a village after all.
Pilar and Miranda began to take the waters simultaneously, although with
the difference of method required by the different natures of their
maladies. Miranda drank the powerful water of the Grande Grille,
undergoing at the same time a complicated course of treatment of local
effusions, baths and douches, while the anæmic girl drank in small doses
the pungent, gaseous, and ferruginous water of the Source des Dames.
From this time forth a constant struggle went on between Pilar and those
who had charge of her. It was necessary to use heroic efforts to prevent
her leading the same life as the fashionable visitors, who spent the
entire day in displaying their toilets and amusing themselves. From this
point of view the presence in Vichy of some six or eight Spanish ladies,
acquaintances of the Gonzalvos, who intended to remain till the end of
the season, was pernicious to Pilar. The best and most brilliant part of
the season was over; the races, the pigeon-shooting, the public
excursions in chaise and omnibus to the Bourbonese, beginning in August,
had ended in the early part of September. But there still remained the
concerts in the Park, the promenade on the asphalt-paved avenue, the
nightly entertainments in the Casino; the theater, which, now soon to
close, was more and more crowded every night. Pilar was dying to join
the dozen or so of her fashionable compatriots who were participating in
the short-lived round of watering-place gayeties. The physician at Vichy
who attended Pilar, while he recommended amusements for Miranda,
prohibited strictly to the anæmic girl every species of excitement,
advising her strongly to avail herself of the semi-rural character of
the town to lead a country life as far as was possible, going to bed
with the chickens and rising with the sun. This regimen required a great
deal of perseverance on the part of the patient, and, more than this, to
have some one constantly at her side who should oblige her to follow
strictly the doctor’s orders. Neither Miranda nor Perico was calculated
for this office. Miranda complied with the social requirements,
exhorting Pilar to “take care of herself,” and “not to be imprudent,”
with that fictitious interest which egotists display when the health of
another is in question. Perico grew angry at seeing his sister pay so
little heed to the advice of the doctor, a neglect that might delay the
cure, and consequently prolong their stay in Vichy; but he was incapable
of watching over her and seeing that she carried out the orders she had
received. He would say to her at times:
“I hope the devil will fly away with you, fly away with you, and that
you may be as yellow as a lemon this winter. You will have it so, so let
it be.”
The only person, then, who devoted herself to the task of making Pilar
observe the regimen prescribed by the doctor, was Lucía. She did so,
moved by that need of self-sacrifice experienced by young and vigorous
natures, who must have an outlet for their superabundant energy, and by
the instinct which impels such natures to feed the animal neglected by
every one else, or to protect the child abandoned in the street. There
was no one within Lucía’s reach but Pilar, and on Pilar Lucía placed her
affections. Perico Gonzalvo did not sympathize with Lucía, whom he
thought very provincial and very little womanly, as far as the art of
pleasing was concerned. Miranda, now somewhat rejuvenated by the
favorable effects of the first week of the waters, went with Perico to
the Casino and to the Park, holding himself erect and twisting his
mustache once more. The two women, then, were thrown upon each other’s
society. Lucía subjected herself in everything to the mode of life of
the patient. At six she softly rose and went to awaken the sick girl, so
that prolonged sleep might not induce debilitating sweats. Then she
would take her out on the balcony on the ground floor to breathe the
pure air of morning, and both enjoyed the country sunrise, which seemed
to electrify Vichy, causing it to thrill with a sort of matutinal
expectancy.
The business of the day began very early in the town, for almost all of
the inhabitants kept boarders during the season, and were obliged to do
their marketing and be ready to give breakfast to their guests by the
time these should have returned from drinking their morning glass of
water. Usually the mornings were rather cloudy, and the summits of the
tall trees rustled as the breeze played through them. Now and then some
workman would pass by with long beard, ill-washed and shy face,
shuffling his feet, only half awake, unable to shake off fully the
leaden sleep which had overpowered him, exhausted by fatigue, the night
before. The domestic servants, with their baskets of coal on their arms,
their large aprons of gray or blue cloth, and their smoothly combed
hair--like that of a woman who has but ten minutes in the day for her
toilet, and who makes good use of them--walked with quick step, fearing
to be late. From a neighboring barracks came the soldiers, holding
themselves erect, their uniforms tightly buttoned across their chests,
their ears red from the vigorous rubbing they had given them during the
matutinal ablutions, the backs of their heads close shaven, their hands
in their trousers’ pockets, and whistling an air. An old woman, with a
clean white cap, her gown turned up, carefully swept up the dead leaves
which strewed the asphalt pavement, followed by a lap-dog that sniffed,
as if trying to recover the scent, at each heap of leaves swept up by
the diligent broom. There were vehicles in great number, and of various
forms and sizes, and Lucía amused herself by watching them and noting
the different styles and shapes to be seen. Some, mounted on enormous
wheels, were drawn by little donkeys with pricked-up ears, driven by
women with harsh and weather-beaten countenances, who wore the classic
Bourbonese hat, a species of straw basket with two black velvet ribbons
crossing each other over the crown; these were milk-wagons; at the back
of the wagon was a row of tin cans containing the milk. The carts
employed in the transport of earth and lime were more clumsy than these
and were drawn by strong percherons, with harnesses adorned by tassels
of red wool. Going for their load, they rolled along with a certain
carelessness; while, returning laden, the driver cracked his whip, the
horse trotted along spiritedly and the bells of the harness tinkled.
When the weather was fine, Lucía and Pilar would go down into the little
garden and stand with their faces pressed to the iron railing, looking
out into the avenue; but on rainy mornings they remained on the balcony,
sheltered by the carved projections of the _châlet_, and listening to
the noise of the raindrops plashing fast, fast on the leaves of the
plane trees that rustled with a silky murmur.
But the weather seemed determined to favor the travelers, and shortly
after their arrival in Vichy began a series of days as brilliant and
serene as it was possible for days to be in autumn, that season so
peculiarly serene, especially in its early part.
The sky was clear and cloudless, the air genial, vegetation in all the
plenitude of its splendor of coloring and growth; the afternoons were
long, the mornings were bright, and Lucía availed herself of this
conjunction of favorable circumstances to persuade Pilar to take a trip
into the country in accordance with the doctor’s advice. It was a part
of the treatment that Pilar should take rides on a donkey in order that
the uneven trot of the animal might serve her as exercise, setting her
blood in motion without fatiguing her; and although the sick girl
cordially detested this species of conveyance, and, until they emerged
from the town, persisted in going on foot, dragging herself laboriously
along rather than mount it, yet she consented to do so when they were
outside the town. The exercise excited her, and imparted a faint color
to her cheeks. Lucía would joke with her about her appearance.
“You see how beneficial it is to ride a spirited steed,” she would say.
“You look splendid; you look like a different person; see, to make a
conquest, all you have to do is to take a turn up and down as you are
now, before the Casino, when the band is playing.”
“Horrors!” exclaimed the sick girl, with a little cry. “What if the
Amézegas were to see me--they who never ride except in a jaunting car or
a brougham!”
The two friends would go sometimes to the Montagne Verte, sometimes to
the Source des Dames, sometimes to the intermittent spring of Vesse.
The Montagne Verte is the highest point in the neighborhood of Vichy.
The hill is covered with vegetation, but scrubby vegetation, scarcely
rising above the surface of the earth, so that from a distance it looked
to them like the head of a giant covered with short and very thick hair.
When they reached the summit, they ascended to the mirador, and looked
through the great field-glass, examining the immense panorama that lay
spread before them. The gentle slopes, clad with vines, descended to the
Allier, which wound in the distance like an enormous blue snake. Far
away the chain of the Fonez raised its snow-capped hills, the giants of
Auvergne, vaporous and gray, looked like cloud-phantoms; the castle of
Borbon Busset emerged from the mists, its seignorial towers casting into
the shade the peaceful palace of Randan, with all the disdain of a
legitimate Bourbon for the degenerate branch of Orleans. Lucía’s
favorite excursion was to the Source des Dames; a narrow footpath,
shaded by leafy trees, gently followed the course of the Sichon,
pausing, when the river paused to form a shallow lake, and then
continuing its winding course along the border of the tranquil stream.
At every step some picturesque accident broke the monotony of the rows
of poplars and elms,--now a lavatory, now a little house standing on the
river’s brink, now a dam, now a mill, now a duck pond. The mill, in
particular, seemed as if it might have been placed there by some
landscape painter for artistic effect. Ancient and moss-grown, it rested
on wooden posts that were slowly decaying in the water; in the center of
the structure the wheel gleamed like an enormous eye shining in the
brown and wrinkled forehead of a Cyclops. The drops of liquid silver
that leaped from spoke to spoke with every revolution one might fancy
tears dropping from the immense eye, and the groan to which the massive
wheel gave utterance as it turned completed the resemblance, imitating
the breathing of the monster. Through the ill-joined planks of a bridge,
boldly thrown across the very bend of the cataract which formed the dam,
could be caught glimpses of the water foaming and roaring below. In the
dam some half-dozen ducks were lazily paddling, and innumerable sparrows
flew hither and thither under the irregular eaves of the roof, while in
the dark aperture of one of the irregularly placed windows grew a pot of
petunias. Lucía loved to sit and watch the mill from the bank opposite,
lulled by the monotonous snore of the wheel and the gentle plash of the
water. Pilar preferred the intermittent spring, which procured her the
emotions of which her sickly organization was so avid. The spring was
reached by a pleasant path, and from the bridge could be obtained a fine
view of the surrounding country.
The Allier is a broad and deep stream, but at this season of the year
its waters are greatly diminished by the summer draughts, the channel
being almost dry, except in the deepest parts, leaving the sandy bed of
the river exposed to view in broad white bands. In places, dark rocks
intercepted the current, forming eddies where the water foamed angrily
and then went on its way, calm and placid as before. Beyond stretched an
open plain. Wide meadows, with here and there cows grazing and sheep
browsing, were bounded on the horizon line by pale green poplars,
straight, with pointed tops, like the artificial trees of the toy sets.
The osiers, on the contrary, were squat and round, looking like balls of
somber verdure dotting the meadow. In the distance could be seen the
summit of the Montagne Verte, outlined in pure dark green against the
sky with a certain hardness and distinctness, that reminded one of a
Flemish landscape. On the river bank the right arms of the washerwomen,
rising and falling like the arms of marionettes could be seen, and the
monotonous sound of the bat beating the linen could be heard. Carts
laden with sand and gravel slowly ascended the rough slope of the bank,
and then as slowly crossed the bridge, the team bathed in sweat, the
bells tinkling at rare intervals. Auvergnese peasant women walked along,
dressed in dull-colored garments, wearing the straw panier above the
white coif, guarding their cows, whose udders, swelling with milk, swung
as they went, and which, looking with melancholy gaze at the passers-by,
would suddenly start on an oblique run, lasting some ten seconds, after
which they resumed their former slow and resigned pace. At the corner of
the bridge a poor man, decently clad, and with the air of a soldier,
begged for charity with only a supplicating inflexion of the voice and a
sorrowful contraction of the brow.
In proportion as they left the bridge behind them, penetrating more
deeply into the shade of the road leading to Vesse, the heart of Lucía,
who felt herself now really in the country, would grow lighter. The
trees here were wilder, less straight and symmetrical than in Vichy; the
path less even and more natural; the grass borders less trim, and the
villas and houses on either side of the road less neatly kept and
handsome. No zealous hand removed the dry leaves that formed a natural
carpet for the ground. At intervals was to be seen some shed, in whose
dark shadow gleamed the agricultural implements, and the rural and
pungent odor of the turned-up earth penetrated the lungs, healthy and
strengthening as the wholesome vegetables growing in the neighboring
gardens. The distance from the bridge to the spring was short. Arrived
there they crossed the hall of the little house, entered the garden, and
directed their steps toward the vine-covered arbor containing the
fountain. They found the basin empty; from the brass tube of the jet not
a drop of water flowed. But Pilar knew beforehand the precise time at
which the singular phenomenon would occur, and made her calculations
with exactness. During the interval before the water made its
appearance, she would remain leaning over the basin, her heart
palpitating, silently listening, with her right hand held like an
ear-trumpet to her ear.
“He is coming; I hear him hissing,” Lucía would say, as if they were
speaking of some monster.
“You will see that he won’t come for five minutes yet,” Pilar would
answer in a tone of conviction.
“I tell you he is coming, my dear; he is sputtering now.”
“Let me listen. No, no! It is the noise of the wind shaking the trees.
You are dreaming.”
Then a short pause of complete silence would follow--a tragic interval.
“Hist! now, now!” the sick girl would cry, clapping her hands; “now it
is coming, and in earnest!”
In effect, a strange gurgling noise was heard, followed by a shrill
whistle, and then a jet of boiling water, which emitted an intolerable
odor of sulphur, rose straight, swift, and foaming to the very roof of
the high arbor. A thick steam enveloped the basin, and diffused itself
through the atmosphere, now filled with the sickening odor of the
sulphur. Thus the stream rose impetuously until the force below began to
diminish when, with the fury of impotence, it issued in wild leaps, like
the convulsions of an epileptic, writhing in anger, sputtering with
desperate articulation; at last it would fall down, vanquished and
powerless, sending forth only at rare intervals a thin stream, like the
last flashes of a dying taper. Its agony ended with two or three
hiccoughs from the tube at whose orifice the stream would appear, but
without sufficient force to emerge. The spring would not now flow again
for ten hours at least.
Lucía and Pilar would often dispute together about the termination of
the phenomenon as they had done about its beginning.
“It has stopped. He is going to sleep. Good-night, sir,” Lucía would
exclaim with a wave of the hand.
“No, child. He will make his appearance three or four times yet before
he goes to rest.”
“He can’t.”
“He can. You shall see; he will give a few _little spits_ more, as the
servant of a cousin of mine, an artillery officer says. Hush, listen,
listen to him still snoring! One, two, three, now he is spitting!”
“Four, five, six! There, he won’t come back again. The poor fellow is
tired out.”
“No, he won’t come again now; he has given his last gasp.”
Returning, the friends would find the bridge more animated than they had
found it on going to the spring. This was the hour at which the
townspeople and the bathers returned from their expeditions into the
country, and many equestrians were to be seen hastening to the town,
displaying their riding-trousers and buttoned gaiters, against which
gleamed brightly stirrup and spur. An occasional sociable, looking like
a light canoe, proceeded on its way, drawn by its handsome pair of
well-matched ponies, with lustrous coats and clean hoofs, proud of their
elegant burden. Hasty glimpses could be caught of wide straw hats,
profusely adorned with lilacs and poppies; of light gowns, laces, and
ribbons; light-colored muslin parasols; gay countenances, gay with the
gayety of good society, which is always set in a lower key than, the
gayety of common people. This latter was enjoyed by the pedestrians, for
the most part happy family parties, who wore contentedly the livery of
golden mediocrity or even of plain poverty; the father, obese,
gray-haired, red-faced, with gray or maroon coat, carrying on his
shoulder the long fishing pole; the daughter wearing a dark woolen gown,
a little black straw hat adorned with a single flower, carrying on her
left arm the little basket containing the flies and other piscatorial
appurtenances, and leading by the right hand the little brother who had
outgrown his trousers and jacket and who showed the ankles of his boots,
proudly holding the pail in which floated the foolish fishes, victims of
the death-dealing pastime of his father.
Lucía took such delight in the view of the bridge and the river that she
retarded her steps in passing them in order to prolong the pleasure.
The green curtain of the new park stretched before her view. The whole
of this beautiful garden was a marsh, until the massive dykes erected by
Napoleon III to prevent the inundations following the rise of the
Allier, and the draining of the ground, transformed it into a paradise.
The choice trees growing in the fertile soil had for the most part tones
intense and soft, like green plush; but some of them, now turning
yellow, shone, in the light of the setting sun, like pyramids of golden
filagree work. Others were reddish with a brick-like red, that, where
the sun fell, showed carmine. The sick girl, as they returned to the
town, liked to sit and rest awhile on one of the benches of the park.
There were generally visitors there at this hour, and sometimes they
would meet members of the Spanish colony, acquaintances of Perico or
Miranda, with whom they would exchange salutations and the trivial
phrases current in society. Sometimes, too, the rich Cubans, the de
Amézegas, would flash like comets on their sight, with their
extraordinary hats, their enormous parasols, and their fanciful
adornments, always in the height of the fashion. Pilar could distinguish
them a league away by their famous hats, impossible to confound with any
other head-covering whatsoever. They resembled two large pudding dishes,
completely covered with small, fine, red feathers and adorned each with
a natural bird, a species of pheasant, artistically mounted with
outspread wing, and head turned gracefully to one side. This strange
semi-Indian ornament suited well the tropical pallor and flashing eyes
of the two young Cubans. When they drew near, Lucía would give Pilar a
push with her elbow, saying, with a touch of malice:
“See, there come the wonderful foreign birds of those friends of yours.”
The meeting with “the Amézegas,” as Perico called them, always produced
a slight degree of fever in Pilar, which left her prostrate for a couple
of hours afterward. When she descried them in the distance she
instinctively arranged her hair, put forward her foot covered with a
little Louis XV shoe of Morocco leather, and nervously passed her hand
over the brown lace of her wrap, bringing into full view the turquoise
arrow that fastened it. They would enter into conversation, the de
Amézegas speaking in languid or disdainful accents, looking at the sky
or at the passers-by and striking the ground with the knobs of their
parasols as they spoke. Short answers, lazily given--“What would you
have, child?” “It was magnificent,” “More people there than ever,” “Of
course the Swede was there,” “Cream-colored satin and grenadine the
color of heliotrope, combined,” “As usual, devoted to her,” “Yes, yes,
it is warm,” “Well, I am glad you are better, child,”--responded to the
eager questions of Pilar. Then the Cubans would continue on their way
with titters politely suppressed, half-finished phrases, and a rustle of
new fabrics, planting their heels firmly on the ground as they walked.
For at least a quarter of an hour afterward, Pilar did nothing but
criticise the belles, and others, also.
“They are getting to be more and more extravagant and loud every day.
Now, do you like that odd gown with the head of a bird, to match the
bird on the hat, fastening every pleat? They look like a glass case in
the Museum of Natural History. Even on the fan a bird’s head! It is not
credible that Worth should have conceived that grotesque style. I
believe they make them at home themselves with the help of the maid and
then say they were ordered from Worth.”
“But it is said for a fact that their father is a very wealthy banker in
Havana.”
“Yes, yes; they have more tricks than _trapiches_,”[A] said Pilar,
repeating a jest that had been going the rounds of Madrid all the
winter, _à-propos_ of the Amézegas.
[A] A sugar plantation in Cuba.
“There is no doubt but that birds are a very curious ornament. I have
one, too, in a hat.”
“Yes, in a toque; but that is different. Besides, a married lady can use
certain things that in the dress of a young girl----”
“And for that reason Perico was quite right not to buy you that wrap
embroidered in colored beads that you took such a fancy to. It was very
striking.”
“Nothing of the kind. It was very distinguished-looking. What do you
know of those matters?”
“I? Nothing,” answered Lucía, smiling.
“The gown of the Swede must have been lovely--cream-color and
heliotrope! I like the combination. But how she is making herself talked
about with Albares--a married man! Good need they both have of the
waters!”
“Why, I heard your brother say that she does not take the slightest
notice of him.”
“Bah! unless you would have them pay the town-crier to publish it!
Albares is a fool, inside and out, who loves to attract attention. The
fact is that every one in Vichy is talking about them.”
Lucía remained thoughtful, her gaze fixed on the flower-knots of the
park, that looked like enameled medallions fastened on a green satin
skirt. They were formed of several varieties of the coleus; those in
the center had lance-shaped and brilliant leaves of dark brown, purplish
red, brick-red, red of the color of the turkey’s comb, rose-red. At the
edge, a row of ruins of Italy, showed their bluish disks against the
fresh vivid green of the grass. The larches and the pines formed, here
and there, in some retired corner of the park, woody, Swiss-like clumps,
their innumerable branches drooping languidly to the ground. Through the
light foliage of the majestic catalpas streamed the last rays of the
setting sun, and splashes of golden light danced here and there upon the
fine sanded walk. The place had the mysterious and secluded air of a
temple. A solemn, poetic silence prevailed, which it almost seemed a
sacrilege to break by a word or movement.
The visitors had begun to leave the park, the light crunching of the
gravel under their feet sounding fainter and fainter in the distance.
But the two friends were in the habit of remaining to “lock up the
place” as the saying is, for it was precisely at the sunset hour that
Lucía thought the park most beautiful in this melancholy autumnal
season. The dying rays of the sun, now low in the western sky, fell
almost horizontally on the grassy meads, lighting them up with hues like
liquid gold. The dark cones of the fir trees dotted this ocean of light
in which their shadows were disproportionately prolonged. The plane
trees and the Indian chestnuts were dropping their leaves, and from time
to time a burr would fall to the ground with a hard, dull sound, and
opening allow the shining chestnut to roll out. In the large
flower-knots, which contrasted with the green of the grass, the pale
eglantine dropped its fragile petals at the faintest breeze, the
verbenas trailed themselves languidly, as if weary of life, their
capriciously growing stalks breaking the oval outlines of the bed; the
sweet milfoil raised its shower of blue stars, and the rare coleuses
displayed the exotic tints and the metallic luster of their spotted
leaves, resembling the scales of a serpent, white with black spots,
green with flesh-colored veins, dark amaranth striped with copperish
red. A profound thrill, precursor of winter, ran through all nature, who
seemed to have adorned herself in her richest attire for her death.
Thus, the virgin vine was arrayed in her splendid purple robe and the
white poplar raised coquettishly its plumy white crest; thus the
coralline decked itself with chains and rings of blood-red coral and the
zinnias ran through the whole scale of vivid colors in their broidered
petticoats. The striped maize shook its green and white-striped silken
skirts with melodious rustle, and far away on the edge of the meadow,
bathed in sunlight, a few tender saplings bent their youthful heads. The
dead leaves covered the paths in such abundance that Lucía felt with
delight her foot sink up to the ankle in the soft carpet. The contact of
the edge of her gown with the leaves produced a quick murmuring sound,
like the hurried breathing of some one following close behind; and, a
prey to childish terror, she would turn back her head now and again and
smile at herself when she saw that her fears were illusory. There were
many varieties of leaves, some dark, decayed, almost rotted; others dry,
brittle, shriveled; others yellow or still greenish, moist with the sap
of the branch through which they had drawn their life. The carpet lay
thicker in the shady spots by the borders of the lake, whose surface
rippled like undulating glass at the light contact of the evening
breeze, breaking into innumerable wavelets, that dashed unceasingly
against one another.
Tall weeping-willows bent with a melancholy air above the water, that
reflected back their tremulous branches, among which could be seen the
disk of the sun, whose rays, concentrated by this species of camera
obscura, struck the eye with the force of arrows. In a labyrinth in the
lake, an enormous clump of malangas displayed their exuberant tropical
vegetation, their gigantic fan-like leaves motionless in the still air.
Swans and ducks paddled--the former, with their accustomed fantastic
grace, swaying their long necks, the latter, quacking harshly,--toward
the bank, the moment Lucía and Pilar appeared, in quest of bits of
bread, which they swallowed greedily, raising their tails in the air as
each mouthful went down. The islet, with its pine tree, cast a
mysterious shade over the surface of the lake. A sheaf of reeds raised
their slender forms and by their side the sharp poas shook their brushes
of chestnut velvet.
A delightful coolness rose from the water. The landscape breathed a
tender melancholy, a gentle drowsiness, the repose of mother nature,
fatigued with the continued production of the summer, and preparing for
her winter sleep. Lucía was no longer a child; external objects now
spoke to her eloquently, and she began to listen to their voice. The
scene before her plunged her into vague meditation. Her soul seemed to
detach itself from her body, as the leaf detaches itself from the
branch, and like it to wander without aim or object, yielding itself up
to the delight of annihilation, to the sweetness of non-existence. And
how pleasant death must be, a death like that of the leaves,--a gentle
loosening of the bonds of life, the passage to more beautiful regions,
the satisfaction of the mysterious longings hidden in the recesses of
the soul! When ideas like these thronged to her mind, a bird, perhaps,
would fly down from some tree; she would hear the fluttering of its
wings in the air; it would hop along the sanded walk, ruffling its
feathers among the dead leaves; she would approach, and suddenly it
would fly away and go to perch on the topmost branch of the murmuring
acacias.