MARIA REMEDIOS
There is nothing more entertaining than to search for the cause of
some interesting event which surprises or agitates us, and nothing more
satisfactory than to discover it. When, seeing violent passions in open
or concealed conflict, and led by the natural intuitive impulse which
always accompanies human observation we succeed in discovering the
hidden source from which that turbulent river had derived its waters,
we experience a sensation very similar to the delight of the explorer or
the discoverer of an unknown land.
This delight Providence has now bestowed upon us; for, exploring
the hidden recesses of the hearts which beat in this story, we have
discovered an event that is assuredly the source of the most important
events that we have narrated; a passion which is the first drop of water
of the impetuous current whose course we are observing.
Let us go on with our story, then. To do so, let us leave Señora de
Polentinos, without concerning ourselves in regard to what may have
happened to her on the morning of her conversation with Maria Remedios.
Returning to her house, full of anxiety, she found herself obliged to
endure the apologies and the civilities of Señor Pinzon, who assured
her that while he lived her house should not be searched. Doña Perfecta
responded haughtily, without deigning to look at him, for which reason
he asked her politely for an explanation of her coldness, to which
she replied requesting Señor Pinzon to leave her house, deferring to a
future occasion the explanation which she would require from him of his
perfidious conduct while in it. Don Cayetano arriving at this moment,
words were exchanged between the two gentlemen, as between man and man;
but as we are more interested at present in another matter, we will
leave the Polentinos and the lieutenant-colonel to settle matters
between them as best they can, and proceed to examine the question of
the sources above mentioned.
Let us fix our attention on Maria Remedios, an estimable woman, to whom
it is indispensably necessary to devote a few words. She was a lady, a
real lady--for, notwithstanding her humble origin, the virtues of her
uncle, Señor Don Inocencio, also of low origin, but elevated by his
learning and his estimable qualities, had shed extraordinary lustre over
the whole family.
The love of Remedios for Jacinto was one of the strongest passions of
which the maternal heart is capable. She loved him with delirium; her
son’s welfare was her first earthly consideration; she regarded him as
the most perfect type of beauty and talent ever created by God, and to
see him happy and great and powerful she would have given her whole life
and even a part of the life to come. The maternal sentiment is the
only one which, because of its nobility and its sanctity, will admit
of exaggeration; the only one which the delirium of passion does not
debase. Nevertheless it is a singular phenomenon, frequently observed,
that this exaltation of maternal affection, if not accompanied with
absolute purity of heart and with perfect uprightness is apt to become
perverted and transformed into a lamentable frenzy, which may lead, like
any other ungoverned passion, to great errors and catastrophies.
In Orbajosa Maria Remedios passed for a model of virtue and a model
niece--perhaps she was so in reality. She served with affection all who
needed her services; she never gave occasion for gossip or for scandal;
she never mixed herself up in intrigues. She carried her religion to the
extreme of an offensive fanaticism; she practised charity; she managed
her uncle’s house with the utmost ability; she was well received,
admired and kindly treated everywhere, in spite of the almost
intolerable annoyance produced by her persistent habit of sighing and
speaking always in a complaining voice.
But in Doña Perfecta’s house this excellent lady suffered a species of
_capitis diminutio_. In times far distant and very bitter for the family
of the good Penitentiary, Maria Remedios (since it is the truth, why
should it not be told?) had been a laundress in the house of Polentinos.
And let it not be supposed that Doña Perfecta looked down upon her
on this account--nothing of the kind. She behaved to her without any
haughtiness; she felt a real sisterly affection for her; they ate
together; they prayed together; they confided their troubles to each
other; they aided each other in their charities and in their devotions
as well as in domestic matters; but, truth to say, there was always a
something, there was always a line, invisible but which could not be
crossed between the improvised lady and the lady by birth and ancestry.
Doña Perfecta addressed Maria as “thou,” while the latter could never
lay aside certain ceremonial forms. Maria Remedios always felt herself
so insignificant in the presence of her uncle’s friend that her natural
humility had acquired through this feeling a strange tinge of sadness.
She saw that the good canon was a species of perpetual Aulic councillor
in the house; she saw her idolized Jacintillo mingling on terms of
almost lover-like familiarity with the young lady, and nevertheless the
poor mother and niece visited the house as little as possible. It is to
be observed that Maria Remedios’ dignity as a lady suffered not a little
in Doña Perfecta’s house, and this was disagreeable to her; for in this
sighing spirit, too, there was, as there is in every living thing, a
little pride. To see her son married to Rosarito, to see him rich and
powerful; to see him related to Doña Perfecta, to the señora--ah! this
was for Maria Remedios earth and heaven, this life and the next, the
present and the future, the supreme totality of existence. For years
her mind and her heart had been filled by the light of this sweet hope.
Because of this hope she was good and she was bad; because of it she
was religious and humble, or fierce and daring; because of it she was
whatever she was--for without this idea Maria, who was the incarnation
of her project, would not exist.
In person, Maria Remedios could not be more insignificant than she was.
She was remarkable for a surprising freshness and robustness which made
her look much younger than she really was, and she always dressed in
mourning, although her widowhood was now of long standing.
Five days had passed since the entrance of Caballuco into the
Penitentiary’s house. It was evening. Remedios entered her uncle’s room
with the lighted lamp, which she placed on the table. She then seated
herself in front of the old man, who, for a great part of the afternoon,
had been sitting motionless and thoughtful in his easy chair. His
fingers supported his chin, wrinkling up the brown skin, unshaven for
the past three days.
“Did Caballuco say he would come here to supper to-night?” he asked his
niece.
“Yes, señor, he will come. It is in a respectable house like this that
the poor fellow is most secure.”
“Well, I am not altogether easy in my mind, in spite of the
respectability of the house,” answered the Penitentiary. “How the brave
Ramos exposes himself! And I am told that in Villahorrenda and the
surrounding country there are a great many men. I don’t know how many
men----What have you heard?”
“That the soldiers are committing atrocities.”
“It is a miracle that those Hottentots have not searched the house! I
declare that if I see one of the red-trousered gentry enter the house, I
shall fall down speechless.”
“This is a nice condition of things!” said Remedios, exhaling half her
soul in a sigh. “I cannot get out of my head the idea of the tribulation
in which Señora Doña Perfecta finds herself. Uncle, you ought to go
there.”
“Go there to-night? The military are parading the streets! Imagine that
some insolent soldier should take it into his head to----The señora is
well protected. The other day they searched the house and they carried
off the six armed men she had there; but afterward they sent them back
to her. We have no one to protect us in case of an attack.”
“I sent Jacinto to the señora’s, to keep her company for a while. If
Caballuco comes, we will tell him to stop in there, too. No one can
put it out of my head but that those rascals are plotting some piece of
villany against our friend. Poor señora, poor Rosarito! When one thinks
that this might have been avoided by what I proposed to Doña Perfecta
two days ago----”
“My dear niece,” said the Penitentiary phlegmatically, “we have done all
that it was in human power to do to carry out our virtuous purpose.
More we cannot do. Convince yourself of this, and do not be obstinate.
Rosarito cannot be the wife of our idolized Jacintillo. Your golden
dream, your ideal of happiness, that at one time seemed attainable,
and to which like a good uncle, I devoted all the powers of my
understanding, has become chimerical, has vanished into smoke. Serious
obstructions, the wickedness of a man, the indubitable love of the girl,
and other things, regarding which I am silent, have altered altogether
the condition of affairs. We were in a fair way to conquer, and suddenly
we are conquered. Ah, niece! convince yourself of one thing. As matters
are now, Jacinto deserves something a great deal better than that crazy
girl.”
“Caprices and obstinate notions!” responded Maria, with an ill-humor
that was far from respectful. “That’s a pretty thing to say now, uncle!
The great minds are outshining themselves, now. Doña Perfecta with her
lofty ideas, and you with your doubts and fears--of much use either
of you is. It is a pity that God made me such a fool and gave me an
understanding of brick and mortar, as the señora says, for if that
wasn’t the case I would soon settle the question.”
“You?”
“If she and you had allowed me, it would be settled already.”
“By the beating?”
“There’s no occasion for you to be frightened or to open your eyes like
that. There is no question of killing any body. What an idea!”
“Beating,” said the canon, smiling, “is like scratching--when one begins
one doesn’t know when to leave off.”
“Bah! say too that I am cruel and blood-thirsty. I wouldn’t have the
courage to kill a fly; it’s not very likely that I should desire the
death of a man.”
“In fine, child, no matter what objections you may make, Señor Don Pepe
Rey will carry off the girl. It is not possible now to prevent it. He
is ready to employ every means, including dishonor. If Rosarito--how
she deceived us with that demure little face and those heavenly eyes,
eh!--if Rosarito, I say, did not herself wish it, then all might be
arranged, but alas! she loves him as the sinner loves Satan; she is
consumed with a criminal passion; she has fallen, niece, into the snares
of the Evil One. Let us be virtuous and upright; let us turn our eyes
away from the ignoble pair, and think no more about either of them.”
“You know nothing about women, uncle,” said Remedios, with flattering
hypocrisy; “you are a holy man; you do not understand that Rosario’s
feeling is only a passing caprice, one of those caprices that are cured
by a sound whipping.”
“Niece,” said Don Inocencio gravely and sententiously, “when serious
things have taken place, caprices are not called caprices, but by
another name.”
“Uncle, you don’t know what you are talking about,” responded Maria
Remedios, her face flushing suddenly. “What! would you be capable of
supposing that Rosarito--what an atrocity! I will defend her; yes, I
will defend her. She is as pure as an angel. Why, uncle, those things
bring a blush to my cheek, and make me indignant with you.”
As she spoke the good priest’s face was darkened by a cloud of sadness
that made him look ten years older.
“My dear Remedios,” he said, “we have done all that is humanly possible,
and all that in conscience we can or ought to do. Nothing could be more
natural than our desire to see Jacintillo connected with that great
family, the first in Orbajosa; nothing more natural than our desire
to see him master of the seven houses in the town, the meadow of
Mundogrande, the three gardens of the upper farm, La Encomienda, and the
other lands and houses which that girl owns. Your son has great merit,
every one knows it well. Rosarito liked him, and he liked Rosarito.
The matter seemed settled. Doña Perfecta herself, without being very
enthusiastic, doubtless on account of our origin, seemed favorably
disposed toward it, because of her great esteem and veneration for
me, as her confessor and friend. But suddenly this unlucky young man
presents himself. The señora tells me that she has given her word to
her brother, and that she cannot reject the proposal made by him. A
difficult situation! But what do I do in view of all this? Ah, you don’t
know every thing! I will be frank with you. If I had found Señor de
Rey to be a man of good principles, calculated to make Rosario happy, I
would not have interfered in the matter; but the young man appeared to
me to be a wretch, and, as the spiritual director of the house, it was
my duty to take a hand in the business, and I took it. You know already
that I determined to unmask him. I exposed his vices; I made manifest
his atheism; I laid bare to the view of all the rottenness of that
materialistic heart, and the señora was convinced that in giving her
daughter to him, she would be delivering her up to vice. Ah, what
anxieties I endured! The señora vacillated; I strengthened her wavering
mind; I advised her concerning the means she might lawfully employ to
send her nephew away without scandal. I suggested ingenious ideas to
her; and as she often spoke to me of the scruples that troubled her
tender conscience, I tranquillized her, pointing out to her how far
it was allowable for us to go in our fight against that lawless enemy.
Never did I counsel violent or sanguinary measures or base outrages, but
always subtle artifices, in which there was no sin. My mind is tranquil,
my dear niece. But you know that I struggled hard, that I worked like a
negro. Ah! when I used to come home every night and say, ‘Mariquilla, we
are getting on well, we are getting on very well,’ you used to be wild
with delight, and you would kiss my hands again and again, and say I was
the best man on earth. Why do you fly into a passion now, disfiguring
your noble character and peaceable disposition? Why do you scold me? Why
do you say that you are indignant, and tell me in plain terms that I am
nothing better than an idiot?”
“Because,” said the woman, without any diminution of her rage, “because
you have grown faint-hearted all of a sudden.”
“The thing is that every thing is going against us, woman. That
confounded engineer, protected as he is by the army, is resolved to dare
every thing. The girl loves him, the girl--I will say no more. It cannot
be; I tell you that it cannot be.”
“The army! But do you believe, like Doña Perfecta, that there is
going to be a war, and that to drive Don Pepe from the town it will be
necessary for one half of the nation to rise up against the other
half? The señora has lost her senses, and you are in a fair way to lose
yours.”
“I believe as she does. In view of the intimate connection of Rey with
the soldiers the personal question assumes larger proportions. But, ah,
niece! if two days ago I entertained the hope that our valiant townsmen
would kick the soldiers out of the town, since I have seen the turn
things have taken, since I have seen that most of them have been
surprised before fighting, and that Caballuco is in hiding and that
the insurrection is going to the devil, I have lost confidence in every
thing. The good doctrines have not yet acquired sufficient material
force to tear in pieces the ministers and the emissaries of error. Ah,
niece! resignation, resignation!”
And Don Inocencio, employing the method of expression which
characterized his niece, heaved two or three profound sighs. Maria,
contrary to what might have been expected, maintained absolute silence.
She showed now neither anger nor the superficial sentimentality of her
ordinary life; but only a profound and humble grief. Shortly after the
good canon had ended his peroration two tears rolled down his niece’s
rosy cheeks; before long were heard a few half-suppressed sighs, and
gradually, as the swell and tumult of a sea that is beginning to be
stormy rise higher and higher and become louder and louder, so the surge
of Maria Remedios’ grief rose and swelled, until it at last broke forth
in a flood of tears.