Toward the end of May Letitia gave birth to twins--both girls.
Stephen had the feeling that this was rather excessive; nevertheless
festivities were arranged. The house and garden were hung with gay
lanterns, the neighbours were invited, and the common people fed. There
was music and dancing and shouting. His brothers got drunk and brawled,
and there were wild goings-on.
Letitia lay in her handsome bed under the sky-blue canopy. From time
to time she asked to see the twins. Each was presented appetizingly
reposing on a pillow. They were mysteriously alike. The nurse, who bore
the mellifluous name Eleutheria, brought them in--one on her right arm,
one on her left. One had a red riband fastened to its shoulder, the
other a green; this was for identification. The red-ribanded baby was
to be christened Georgette, the other Christina. Such was Letitia’s
wish. Stephen desired each child to have in addition a string of richer
and more gorgeous names. Tirelessly he turned the pages of all the
novels and chronicles within reach, and finally brought a florilegium
of names to his wife: Honorata, Friedegunda, Reinilda, Roswitha,
Portiuncula, Symphorosa, Sigolina, Amalberga. Letitia laughed until she
cried. She pointed to the ugly nurse and said: “None has so beautiful a
sound as Eleutheria. I insist on Georgette and Christina.” And already
she knew that Christina was going to be her favourite.
She looked so charming as she lay there that people came to admire her
as one admires a painting. These people were all uneducated and stupid,
and Letitia was bored. Sometimes she played chess with Esmeralda, and
the girl, drunk with curiosity, asked her a thousand questions. When
Letitia was in labour, the girl had lain huddled on the verandah, and
her crude and sensual imagination was filled with images that both
allured and horrified her. Letitia felt that and said: “Go away! I
don’t like you to-day.”
She seemed to herself beloved of God and blessed by His angels. She was
proud of being what she was--an unusual being chosen for an unusual
fate. She seemed new to herself in every way. She loved herself, but
there was no raw selfishness nor idle admiration in this love. It was
something akin to the gratitude and joy of one who had been found
worthy of great gifts.
The fact that she possessed two children, two real children with little
hands and feet, who could struggle and cry, who could be dressed and
undressed, who could be fed and caressed--no, it was not this fact that
filled her so full of happiness. It was the expectation that grew out
of the children, the mystery of these unknown personalities whose being
and becoming proceeded from her own. And so she lay there, lovely,
dainty, serene, given over to her dreams.
In the meantime Stephen and old Gunderam renewed their old fight over
the Escurial. “The contract’s a scrap of paper,” the old man jeered.
“Two girls don’t make one boy. I’m not looking out for quantity. Two
hens don’t make a rooster.” Stephen shouted that he was not going to
be cheated of his rightful inheritance, that he would take the matter
into court, and make a public scandal of it. The old man, his hands at
his hips, had no reply but an evil chuckle. So the quarrelling went
on, morning, noon, and night. The old man locked his door, and had
the boxes that had stood packed for twenty years gotten into final
readiness. Stephen smashed plates and glasses, threw chairs about,
cursed and threatened, rode horses half to death, was himself seized
with convulsions, sent for a doctor, and had morphine injections
prescribed to quiet him.
Partisanship rose high. The old man gained the support of his wife,
Stephen that of his brothers. The latter made the servants rebellious,
and Doña Barbara shrieked and cursed them. The brawls increased in
violence; night was full of ghastly rumours. Once the report of a
pistol rang out, and every one rushed into the open. Stephen was
missing. He lay abed with a smoking revolver and moaned. He had aimed
at his heart and hit a medicine bottle. Its fragments swam in a yellow
liquid on the floor. The old man said: “I’m not surprised that a man
who’s such a fool as a lawyer can’t shoot straight. But it takes a
damned lot of malice to aim as badly as that.” Whereupon Doña Barbara
could not help observing: “Only a Gunderam could say anything so vile!”
And so the two old people quarrelled until dawn.
Stephen succumbed more and more to the use of morphine. When he was not
under its influence he tormented man and beast. His brothers finally
rebelled against the insults which he heaped upon them. They laid a
plot, and fell upon him and beat him so that he roared like a buffalo.
Letitia rushed to help him, and summoned men servants. A regular battle
ensued. “Don’t leave me,” Stephen whined, and she had to sit down by
him, and offer him consolation from the depths of her contempt. He
asked her to read him poetry, and she consented. She did not read poems
of her own choice, but easy, sentimental verses by second-rate writers.
Among the fifteen or sixteen volumes which formed the family library,
there was a greasy copy of an old-fashioned anthology of German verse.
She read from it, and Stephen said: “What wonderful words!” And he wept.
But at other times he treated her with coldness and contempt; for,
in the last analysis, she seemed to him to bear the guilt of all his
failures and troubles. Letitia was quite indifferent; her mind was made
up. Strength was given her will by the very horror with which the house
and its inhabitants, the family and its life, the land and its whole
atmosphere filled her. Whenever Stephen wanted to kiss her, she grew
very pale, and looked at him as though he had lost his senses. Then he
would rage, and threaten her with the cowhide whip. But she had learned
to smile in a way that tamed him and robbed him of inner assurance.
For six weeks Friedrich Pestel had now been in Buenos Ayres. She
corresponded with him secretly. The Indian boy who had once accompanied
her to the observatory was her faithful and discreet messenger. She
promised to take him along to Europe, for this was his great wish.
Eleutheria desired the same, and swore eternal devotion when Letitia
carefully and gradually gave her her confidence. All details of the
flight were discussed with Friedrich Pestel. Letitia was to be in
Buenos Ayres on the day of the sailing of the Portuguese steamer _Dom
Pedro_. An intricate intrigue was needed to convey the twins to the
city. Letitia thought out a clever plan; it was like the plot of a
detective novel.
There lived in the capital city an aged and childless couple, Señor and
Señora Herzales. The old man was a brother of Doña Barbara, and his
wealth would, upon his death, fall to the Gunderam children. But since
both he and his wife were misers of the filthiest kind, there was
always the fear lest by some whim or in some rage they should make a
will to the disadvantage of their kinsmen. They had not written to the
Gunderams in years. There were no personal contacts except visits of
state, which Stephen and his brothers occasionally paid them. Letitia
was, of course, aware of all this. She forged a letter, supposedly from
Señora Herzales, in which the old woman expressed the desire to see the
young wife of Stephen and her children, and, in order that the uncle
and aunt might get the better acquainted with her, the letter demanded
that Letitia come alone, although there was no objection to Stephen’s
coming to fetch her home at the end of a week.
This letter, cleverly written by Letitia in a handwriting unlike her
own, arrived with the proper postmark from Buenos Ayres and caused a
great stir in the Gunderam clan. A solemn family council was held;
greed and fear conquered all hesitation. Doña Barbara dictated to
Letitia a humble and grateful letter of acceptance, in which she was
permitted to announce her arrival on a day set by herself. This letter
Letitia succeeded in intercepting.
On the fateful morning her heart beat like an alarm clock. The rickety
coach drew up; Eleutheria got in; the slumbering twins were handed to
her. Stephen examined the carriage, tested the harness, and graciously
patted the horses. The Indian boy brought the hand luggage, stowed it
away properly, and calmly mounted the box. Don Gottfried, Doña Barbara,
Esmeralda and her brothers solemnly awaited Letitia. Five minutes
passed, and ten and twenty, and still Letitia did not come. Stephen
grumbled, Don Gottfried laughed a jeering laugh, Doña Barbara glanced
furiously up at Letitia’s windows. At last she appeared.
At the last moment she had mislaid the little bag that held her jewels.
They were her one possession. She had no money at all.
With a radiant smile she gave her hand to each in turn, permitted
her husband to kiss the tip of her chin, and cried out in a slightly
husky and long-drawn-out and lamenting voice: “Don’t forget me, and
remember me to Father Theodore!” The latter was a Capuchin monk, who
occasionally came to the farm to beg. It was a sheer, joyous whim that
made her mention him at this moment.
The wintry sun disappeared in the fog. Letitia thought: “Where I am
going now it is summer.”
Twenty-four hours later she stood with Friedrich Pestel on the deck of
the _Dom Pedro_, and looked back with happy eyes upon the disappearing
shore.