Not until I found myself on the bridge of my steamer, between the sky
and the sea, could I take account of the impression that the wife of
Marti had made upon me. How many hours I have passed that way, in the
solitude of the ocean, given over to my thoughts! Seldom have they been
sad. My life, after the profound grief caused by the death of my
fiancee, of which I have spoken, has generally had a tranquil, if not
happy, course.
I was born in Alicante, my father a seafarer. In my school days I showed
a fondness for study. My father would have desired me to become a lawyer
or a physician; anything rather than a sailor. But I found such careers
prosaic, and impelled by the romanticism natural to youth, and to my
somewhat dreamy and fanciful temperament, I preferred that calling. My
father agreed to this with apparent reluctance, but was, perhaps,
pleased in reality by the appreciation that I showed for his own
profession. I soon learned navigation, and made two voyages to Cuba. But
my only sister having died and my mother feeling rather lonely, I felt
obliged to stay at home and lead the life of a young gentleman of
leisure. Nobody was surprised at this. As my father was said to have
amassed a reasonable fortune, I was to a good degree exempt from the
hard law of toil.
A few years later I fell in love. My marriage was arranged and would
have taken place had not Matilde, as she was named, been taken ill. Her
recovery was hoped for, but hoping and hoping, the good and beautiful
girl passed from life. My grief was so intense that my health and even
my reason were threatened. My parents could find no more adequate remedy
than to send me to sea again. I agreed with indifference. Now I went as
second officer in a steamer of the same company in which my father was
employed. After a few months my father was crippled by rheumatism, and
while he was undergoing treatment the owners placed me temporarily in
command of the _Urano_. Unfortunately he could not resume his place;
after dragging out a painful existence for some time he died. My mother
would have liked me to forsake the sea and again live leisurely at home
with her; but I had grown so accustomed to the sea, to the varied and
active existence of the navigator, to-day in one port, to-morrow in
another, that I could not be persuaded to forsake it. On board of my
steamer, therefore, to which I had become greatly attached, I reached my
thirty-sixth birthday. My mother died, and a little later the incident
took place that I have just related.
I have said that when alone with my thoughts I comprehended that Dona
Cristina had taken too much possession of them. Her image floated before
me like a dream. That look, now grave, now roguish, of her black eyes;
that impressionable shyness, her blushing like a schoolgirl in contrast
with her gracious self-possession; then her facile forgiveness, and the
repressed tenderness that she showed for her husband--all tended to
idealize her. But more than anything, I confess, my own temperament
contributed to this, and the solitude in which the mariner passes most
of his time. After the death of Matilde no true love had ever occupied
my heart again. Idle affairs, adventures for a few days, amused me along
various degrees of the scale. And so I had come to see the first gray
threads in my beard and hair. But my romantic nature, although dormant
in the depths of my heart, was by no means dead. The adventures in
folly, the coarse pleasures of the seaports, far from choking that
tendency, encouraged its revival. I never felt more thoughtful and
melancholy than after one of those affairs. To recover my equilibrium, I
would stretch out under the awning with a book in my hands; filling my
lungs with the pure sea air and opening my soul to the ideas of the
great poets and philosophers, peace and joy would return. Reading has
always been the supreme resource of my life, the most efficacious balm
for its troubles.
The adventure with Dona Cristina transported me to complete ideality,
and I breathed the atmosphere wherein I found myself most sane and
happy. So I occupied myself with pleasurable thoughts about her, without
considering that unhappy consequences might follow. Many a time, when a
pretty young woman had crossed my path in port, I would afterwards
tenaciously hold her image in my mind's eye. Again, in the solitude of
the sea, fancy would evoke her, I would imagine her in diverse
situations, I would make her talk and laugh, I would make her grow angry
and weep, and would endow her with a thousand charming qualities. And in
the companionship of this phantasm I would pass happy days, until on
arrival in port it would dissolve or be replaced by another.
So now I attempted to do the same. But I could not succeed, even
partially. Dona Cristina had not fleetingly passed me by like many other
handsome women. The impression that she had left with me was much
deeper; she had stirred nearly every fibre of my being. Instead of
representing her as I chose, I saw her as she had appeared in reality.
And again I felt the shame and the sadness that she had made me
experience. On the other hand, her condition as a married woman deprived
my dreams of the innocence that they had had on former occasions; it
tinged them with a sombre shade that was little pleasing to my
conscience.
I therefore determined to clear my mind of these thoughts. I sought to
distract myself from such imaginings, to forget the beautiful
Valenciana, and recover my peace. Thanks to my efforts, and even more to
my prosaic occupations, I succeeded. But on skirting the eastern coast
on my return trip from Hamburg, when I doubled the cape of San Antonio
and there spread before my view the incomparably lovely plain that holds
Valencia and surrounds it with its garden of eternal verdure like a
brooch of emerald, the image of Dona Cristina appeared to me in form
more ideal, more seductive than ever; it took possession of my
imagination never to leave it again.
I do not know how it was, but the day after arriving at Barcelona I
hastily adjusted the most important matters, left the ship in charge of
the first officer, and took the train for Valencia. I arrived at dusk,
went to a good hotel, dined, changed my clothes, and made the most
careful toilette I had ever made in my life. Then I went out to look up
the house of Marti.
Not until then did I take account of the folly I had committed. I well
knew that Marti would receive me with open arms, and would be delighted
at my visit. But what would his wife think of it? Would she not suspect
that its motive was an interested one, and put herself on her guard? The
idea that she might think that I sought payment in annoying gallantry
for my service at Gijon was abhorrent. I was tempted to return to the
hotel, go to bed, and leave the next day without letting anybody know
that I was in Valencia. Nevertheless, an irresistible impulse pressed me
to see her again. An instant, only for an instant, to engrave her image
most profoundly in my soul and then to go away and dream of it through
all my life!
Walking slowly I came to the Plaza de la Reina, the most central and
lively place in the city. The night was serene, the air warm, the
balconies were open; before the cafes people were sitting outdoors. And
to think that there in Hamburg I had left the poor Germans shivering
with cold! I took a seat under the awning of the Cafe del Siglo, as much
for the sake of calming myself as to wait until they had finished supper
at the house of Marti. When I thought it was time, I entered the Calle
del Mar, which was near by. I followed its course, agitated and joyous,
and stopped before the number that Marti had indicated. It was one of
the most sumptuous houses of the street, elegant, of modern
construction, with a high principal story, crowned by a handsome upper
story. The great portal was adorned by statues and plants and
illuminated by two clusters of gaslights. One of the windows was open
and at that moment there escaped the lively notes of a piano. "Is it she
who is playing?" I asked myself with emotion. I enjoyed the music for a
moment, and at last approached the door. The porter called a servant,
whom I told that I wished to see his master on urgent business. I was
shown into the office. Marti appeared without delay. What a cry of
surprise! what a cordial embrace he gave me! Then taking me through a
corridor, speaking to me meanwhile in a whisper that his wife might not
fail to be surprised, he ushered me into a room full of people.
"Cristina, here comes the bad man!"
She was at the piano. At the sound of her husband's voice she turned her
head; her eyes met mine. She instantly turned them away and back to the
piano just as quickly, as if she had seen something sad or alarming. But
controlling herself almost in the same moment, she rose, and, advancing
towards me with a forced smile, she extended her hand.
"I am very glad to see you, Captain Ribot. We are immensely pleased to
have you visit us."
I felt my heart constricted, and I could not help responding with a
certain carelessness:
"There is no occasion for such feeling. It is entirely casual. I had
some business to look after in Valencia and on that account you see me
here."
Marti embraced me anew.
"I am enchanted with the rude frankness of you sailors! That is just the
way to speak! Away with these conventional lies that deceive nobody and
simply serve to show what actors we are. The main thing is that we have
you here and that your visit gives us genuine pleasure."
Then turning to the company he added, not without a certain emphasis:
"Senores, I present you to the captain of the _Urano_. I have nothing
more to say."
An extraordinarily lean young man approached to give me his hand. His
skin was rough and weather-marked, as if he had come from long and
painful labors in the sun. He was prematurely bald, and from his mouth
there depended an enormous pipe stuffed with tobacco. He was dressed
with elegance, though a little carelessly.
"My brother-in-law, Sabas."
He was followed by a person of about the age of Marti, more or less,
tall rather than short, blonde, his mustache small and silky, his skin
flaccid, most carefully shaven. He was likewise fashionably dressed, and
with a care that contrasted with the negligence of the other.
"My intimate friend and partner, Don Enrique Castell."
These were the only men present. I was next taken before Dona Amparo,
who was working at her crochet, seated in a crimson-velvet chair; I was
then presented to the wife of his brother-in-law, a plump little woman,
round-faced, blonde, and blue-eyed, sitting on a divan and at work with
an embroidery frame on her lap. Beside her was a young girl of seventeen
years whose face of admirable correctness, soft and ivory-like, had the
same expression of timid innocence as the virgins of Murillo. She was
the daughter of a white-haired lady with an aquiline nose and severe and
imposing physiognomy, seated beside a gilded table with a newspaper in
her hands. Marti presented me to her as his Aunt Clara, a cousin of his
mother-in-law.
The entire company welcomed me most kindly, particularly Dona Amparo,
who with tearful eyes seized both my hands, retaining them until the
excess of her emotion obliged her to drop them in order to raise her
handkerchief to her eyes. The conversation first turned upon the mishap
of that lady. My conduct was eulogized to a degree that put me to shame
and made me uneasy, and they discussed the causes of the accident. The
brother-in-law of Marti, with voice cavernous and husky, perhaps from
abuse of tobacco, bitterly censured the conduct of the authorities of
Gijon for not having properly lighted the wharf. I replied that almost
all wharves were lighted in the same way, since they were not intended
for purposes of public pleasure but for the loading and unloading of
merchandise. He insisted upon his position, showing that in all maritime
cities the wharves are places of recreation. I replied that in that case
people must look out for themselves. Marti cut short the dispute by
asking me to what hotel I had gone, that he might send for my luggage.
In vain I opposed his doing so. Seeing that he felt hurt by my refusal I
gave way at last, all the more since the entire family joined in urging
me.
In the meantime Cristina played the piano with careless fingers, talking
all the while with her sister-in-law. She was elegantly dressed in a
loose crimson gown beneath whose folds were revealed the lines of coming
maternity. Whenever I could I gazed at her with intense attention. And
when she observed it she seemed restless and nervous, and took pains
that her eyes should not meet mine. Marti went out to give some orders
about my chamber. His friend and partner, who had kept silent, reclining
negligently in an easy-chair with legs crossed, began to ask me various
questions about my voyages, the fleet of steamers, the ports where we
touched, and everything relating to the commerce in which the ships of
our line were engaged. The talk acquired the character of an
examination, for Castell showed that he knew as much as I did, or more,
about such things. He had travelled much, knew two or three languages
perfectly, and on his travels had not only gained knowledge useful in
commercial affairs but a multitude of ethnographic, historical, and
artistic facts that I was far from possessing. He was a really
accomplished man, but I could not help noting that he was fond of
exhibiting his learning, that he carefully rounded his periods in his
talk and listened to himself, and that, without lacking in courtesy, he
did not conceal his slight appreciation of the opinions of others. On
the whole the man was not congenial to me, although I recognized his
excellent qualities. He had a voice clear and mellow like a preacher,
with grave and noble gestures that enabled him to display his hand,
which was short and beautiful, and ornamented with rings.
Marti returned, and his Aunt Clara, without giving up her newspaper,
questioned him.
"How is it with olives, now, Emilio? Have they not risen twenty centimos
this week?"
"Yes, aunt, I am informed that they have risen and will rise still
further."
"It couldn't be otherwise," she exclaimed in triumphant tones. "I told
Retamoso so last month, and he paid no attention to me. He is obstinate,
like a good Galician, and so short-sighted in business that he can
scarcely see the length of his nose. If it weren't for me, I believe
that he would soon go into bankruptcy."
The voice of the lady was vibrant and powerful; her sculptural head
raised itself so proudly when she spoke, her aquiline nose was held so
high, and her eyes flashed so imposingly that in her presence one might
fancy himself transported to the heroic age of the Roman republic.
Cornelia, the mother of the Gracchi, could not have been more severe and
majestic.
Marti coughed, to avoid replying, desiring neither to contradict his
aunt nor to offend his uncle.
"And what do you say to the fall in cocoa?" she continued, with the
heroic accent that might be employed in asking a consul about a legion
surprised and overwhelmed by the Gauls.
Marti contented himself with shrugging his shoulders.
"Yet he had the assurance to deny that it is anything serious," she
continued with increasing scorn. "It could only be hid from a man of the
narrowest, most limited judgment, altogether unadapted to ventures in
the wholesale trade. When I saw the Ibarra steamers arriving, loaded
with Guayaquil, I said to myself, 'Yes, indeed, this staple is bound to
fall.'"
"Uncle Diego knows how to tell where the shoe pinches, all the same,"
Marti ventured to remark.
"Yes, indeed! Behind a counter, selling cheese and codfish by the
quarter pound, he would be invaluable. But as a man of business he is a
good-for-nothing; it is only because I have taken the trouble to think
for the two of us that we have been able to get where we are."
At this moment there appeared in the doorway a short stout man, of a
pale complexion, bald, with small eyes, who greeted those present with a
pronounced Galician accent.
"Good evening! How do you do?"
"Hola! Uncle Diego! How do you do, Retamoso?"
Dona Clara, caught in the act, turned her eyes again to her periodical,
without abating an atom of her dignity.
Her husband, who, so far as could be seen, had heard nothing, shook
hands with those about him, kissed his daughter, and coming over to his
wife, said to her in affectionate tones:
"Don't read at night, wife! Now, you know you are trying your eyes."
Dona Clara took no notice. Retamoso, turning to the others, declared
with profound conviction:
"She never can be idle. Isabelita, my daughter, entreat your mamma not
to read! Now, you know that she does too much. When she is not reading,
she is casting up accounts; when not casting up accounts, she goes down
to the warehouse to make out bills; when not making out bills, she
writes letters; when not writing letters, she speaks English with the
Ricartes's governess. Hers is a wonderful head! I don't understand how
she is able to do so many things in turn, without being either disturbed
or fatigued."
I owe it to Dona Clara to say that she seemed suspicious of this
panegyric, for instead of acknowledging it and showing herself gratified
by it, she made the gesture of an offended queen.
"I do not disturb myself for such little things, dear, because I have
trained myself in a manner different from the women of your province. If
there they still go on spinning by the fireside, in the rest of the
world they hold a more brilliant position. Here is a sailor," she added,
indicating me, "who has travelled much, and can confirm this."
I bowed and murmured some courteous phrases.
"Well, all this does not hinder my admiring your ability," went on
Retamoso in a tone of exaggerated adulation. "Does not all the world
know it in Valencia? Am I to be the only one who does not, or pretends
not to know it? How many women might be educated like you, and yet not
have the capacity to accomplish in a month what you do in a day!"
"Tell me, Ribot," queried Dona Clara, addressing me as if she had not
heard her husband, who went on murmuring flattering phrases, opening
his eyes wide and arching his eyebrows to express the admiration which
possessed him, "among all the many ports that you have visited, have you
not met women with as much business faculty as men, or more?"
"I have known some women at the head of powerful commercial houses,
directing with much wisdom, carrying on correspondences in several
languages, and keeping their books with perfect exactitude. But--I
confess freely that a woman engaging in industrial speculations, or
inclined to politics or business, appears to me like a princess with a
taste for selling matches and newspapers in the streets."
"What's this!" exclaimed Dona Clara, throwing up her Roman head. "Then
you believe that the position of woman is nothing more than that of a
domestic animal, caressed or beaten by man, according to his caprice?
Woman should, in this view, remain always in complete ignorance, without
studying, without instruction!"
"Let her be instructed as much as she likes," I replied, "but in my
notion woman has no need of learning anything, because she knows
everything----"
"Just so!" interrupted Retamoso with enthusiasm. "That has always been
my opinion. Isabelita," he went on, turning to his daughter, "have I
not said to you a thousand times that your mamma knows everything before
having to learn it?"
I saw a smile flit over Marti's lips. Cristina rose from the piano where
she had been sitting and went out of the room.
"I do not understand what you wish to say," declared Dona Clara, with a
certain acerbity.
"Women who know how to make us happy, make happiness for themselves
also. What other knowledge can equal this upon the earth? The toils of
men, the callings conquered by civilization, go to achieve slowly and
painfully what woman performs at once and without endeavor, making life
more supportable, and alleviating its woes. Being, as she is, the
repository of charity and of the gentle and beneficent sentiments, she
guards in her heart the secret of the destiny of humanity, and transmits
it by heredity and education to her sons, contributing to progress in
this way more truly than ourselves."
"That is more gallant than exact," interrupted Castell, impertinently.
"Woman is not the repository of progress, and has contributed nothing to
it. You may study the history of the arts, the sciences, and the
industries, and you will not find a single useful discovery that we owe
to the genius or the industry of a woman. This demonstrates clearly that
her mind is incapable of elevation to the sphere wherein move the high
interests of civilization. Woman is not the repository of progress. She
is solely the repository of being; and as this is the case, two things
only ought to be demanded of her, health and beauty."
"You would be right," I replied, "if the unique phase of progress lay in
useful discoveries. But there are others; and, as I understand them,
more important ones--the brotherhood of man, the moral law. This is the
true goal of the world."
Castell smiled, and, without looking at me, said in a low voice:
"For all that, I believe that I could name about fifty-seven other
goals, if I know the world."
And lifting his voice he added: "I have discussed life with many men,
and I can declare that scarcely one has failed to assign his own
especial goal to the world. Among clergymen it is the triumph of the
Church; among democrats, political liberty; among musicians, music; and
among dancers, the dance. And yet the poor world contents itself with
existing, laughing once in a while at so much folly, and trampling
everybody under foot as it goes its way."
He paused and settled himself more comfortably in his arm-chair. I felt
annoyed at those words, and especially at the scornful tone in which
they were uttered. I was going to reply with energy, but Castell
continued his discourse, tranquilly expounding his thoughts in a series
of reasonings held together with logic, and expressed in elegant and
precise fashion. I could not help admiring the varied qualities of his
erudition, his penetrative talent, and, above all, the clarity and grace
of his choice of words. Like submissive slaves, all of those in the
dictionary came trooping to his tongue's end, to express his thoughts
easily and harmoniously.
His theories seemed strange and sad to me. The world bears its goal in
its own existence. Morality is the result of especial conditions that
life has unfolded for itself upon our planet. If the human race had been
produced under conditions of life like those of the bees, it would be a
duty for unmarried women to deal out death to their brothers, as the
workers do. All manifestations of life, even to the highest, are ruled
by instinct. The virtuous man, like the degenerate, is moved by an
irresistible impulse of his nature. Morality, which the religious man
admires as a divine revelation, is nothing more than an invention
destined to satisfy this or that instinct.
I really found myself without enough courage to contradict successfully
his audacious assertions. My reading was wide, but desultory, as I had
read more for entertainment than for instruction.
Then, too, I had never cultivated expression; because my profession did
not require it, and I wrestled with great difficulties whenever I tried
to express my thoughts.
Marti came to my aid, cutting off the discussion in a jocular fashion.
"Do you know what is the destiny of woman according to my
brother-in-law, Sabas?"
All looked up, including the one spoken of.
"Sewing on buttons."
"I don't see why you say that," muttered Sabas, ill-humoredly, taking
his pipe in his hand.
"Why shouldn't I say it? There isn't a man in the Peninsula who has lost
more buttons than you! Yet I could not mention one of having gone to
your house and not finding Matilde sewing on some."
Sabas muttered some unintelligible words.
"What does _she_ say?" asked Marti.
"Yes, he loses enough!" said the plump lady, laughing.
But her husband, coloring, gave Marti a severe glance.
"If he loses as many as there are in the world," interrupted Dona
Amparo, from her little red-satin elbow-chair, "buttons are not
everlasting, and I believe that my son would rather go like Adam than
trouble others to sew on his buttons!"
She spoke these words with emotion as if they were accusing her son of a
fault.
"Although he loses more than there are in the world, it is a matter of
no importance, and not worth while for you to put yourself out about, or
be vexed with us," replied Marti.
"I am put out about it because it seems to me that everybody has a
desire to find fault with my son. The poor fellow is always in disgrace.
But until the day he dies his mother will always defend him!"
She uttered these words with even more emotion. I saw with astonishment
that she was preparing to weep.
"But, mamma!" exclaimed her son-in-law.
"But, mamma!" exclaimed her daughter-in-law.
Both of them appeared contrite and concerned.
"Such is my maternal passion, my children!" went on Dona Amparo,
struggling not to weep. "I cannot help it! We all have faults in this
world, but a mother is not able to endure those of her children. I
suffer horribly when anyone points them out to me, and much more when it
is a member of the family. Some such sad ideas come into my head! It
seems to me that you do not care for--I believe that I could die content
if I knew that you cared as much for one another as I care for you."
Excess of emotion prevented her from saying more. She let her needlework
fall upon her lap, leaned her forehead upon her hand, and seemed half
ready to faint away.
Her daughter-in-law hurried to bring her flask of salts, and she began
to smell it. Marti also assisted, with filial solicitude. Both showered
a thousand affectionate attentions upon her, soothing her and making
excuses. Thanks more to their tender words, I think, than to the salts,
the sensitive mother recovered her faculties. When these were restored,
she tenderly kissed her daughter-in-law's brow and seized Marti's hand,
begging pardon for having offended them.
As I already knew a little of the character and whims of Dona Amparo, I
was not surprised that Retamoso and his wife, Isabelita and Castell,
paid scarcely any attention to this incident, and went on talking among
themselves as if nothing had happened. Sabas, the cause of the disquiet,
tranquilly smoked his pipe.
As soon as he had calmed his mother-in-law, Marti invited me to come
with him that he might show me the room intended for me. It was
luxurious and elegant, exceedingly luxurious it seemed to me who had
passed my life in the narrow confines of a ship's cabin, or in our
modest dwelling at Alicante. When we reached this room, a maid was
making ready my bed under the senora's inspection. As we entered unheard
she was herself smoothing the sheets with her delicate hands. Our
footsteps made her lift her head, and as if she had been caught doing
something wrong, she seemed annoyed, relinquished her task, and said to
the maid with an ill-tempered accent:
"Well, you may go on with this, and see if you can finish it quickly."
She was going out, but her husband detained her, taking her hand.
"Have orders been given for bringing up cold coffee and cognac?"
"Yes, yes; Regina will stay and see to everything," she replied with
some impatience, drawing away her hand and walking out.
I enjoyed her embarrassment with ill-concealed delight. As we went out
again into the corridor I said to Marti, to make talk, and also out of
curiosity:
"It seems to me that Dona Amparo was a good deal upset."
"You saw that!" he exclaimed, laughing in the frank and cordial manner
that characterized him. "The least thing upsets her. The poor thing is
so good! I am as fond of her as if she were my own mother. Her one
desire is for us to love her. She is so sensitive that the least little
sign of indifference, the smallest neglect, affects her deeply, and
almost makes her ill. For that matter, although we all go on carefully,
and are very attentive to her, it is not enough. Fancy this! I have
taken up the custom of kissing her good-night before going to bed! If by
bad luck I forget it for one day, the poor lady cannot sleep, thinking
that I am vexed with her, wondering if she has offended me without
knowing it; and next day she casts timid, anguished glances at me that I
do not understand until my wife explains the enigma to me. I laugh, and
go and smooth her down."
When we returned to the parlor, the company was dispersing. Castell gave
me his well-cared-for hand, shaking mine, expressing with the careless
coolness of a man of the world his pleasure in knowing me. Sabas and his
wife showed more warmth. Dona Clara, majestic and severe, said
good-night to me without mentioning Jupiter or Pollux, or any other
pagan divinity, which surprised me. Retamoso improved a moment of
confusion to say to me half in Galician:
"It may be that you are right, Senor de Ribot, and that women are not
made for business. But mine is an exception, you know. Oh, a marvel! You
have already had opportunity to be convinced of this. A veritable
marvel. Phs!"
And he arched his eyebrows and showed the whites of his eyes, as if he
beheld before him the Himalayas or the pyramids of Egypt.
Cristina took leave of them all from the head of the stair with the
gracious gravity that suited so well her attractive face. I had eyes
for nobody but her. Dona Amparo kissed everybody, kissed her son, her
daughter-in-law, Dona Clara, Isabelita, and also, even, Retamoso. I do
not say she kissed Castell, but I believe it was more from lack of
courage than lack of inclination.
At last we four found ourselves alone. In order to prolong the waking
moments, I begged Cristina to play on the piano a piece from an opera.
She showed herself willing, and, without replying, seated herself on the
piano stool, fingered the keys lightly for a moment, then commenced to
sing in a half-voice the serenade from Mozart's "Don Juan." As I did not
know of this accomplishment my surprise was great, but even greater my
pleasure. Hers was a contralto voice, grave and sweet. The music of the
great masters has always the power to move us, but when the voice of an
adored woman transports the soul, music truly seems as if it had come
hither from the heavens. I enjoyed for some moments a happiness
impossible to describe. My very being was transformed, enlarged,
quickened with love and joy. When the last notes of the lovely
accompaniment died away, I remained swallowed up in a delicious ecstasy,
scarcely knowing where I was.
Marti pulled me out of that abruptly.
"Come, come! The Captain is falling asleep!"
We all rose. Dona Amparo retired to her room, but not until Marti had
kissed her hand, giving me at the same time a mischievous wink.
"If you need anything," said Cristina to me, "you have only to ring the
bell."
And without giving me her hand, she wished me good-night. Marti
accompanied me to my room, and took himself off, chaffing me
affectionately.
"If you are not able to sleep without the smell of pitch, Captain, I
will order a piece brought up and we will set it on fire."
When I found myself alone, all the impressions of the evening were
loosed in my heart like imprisoned birds, and began fluttering about in
a bewildering whirl. Why was I there? What did I expect? How was this
going to end? The kind welcome and frank cordiality of this noble family
moved me. The heartiness of Marti filled me with confusion and shame,
but the lovely form of Cristina rose up before me, adorable,
bewildering, blotting out all the rest. The thought of being so near
her, when I had resigned myself to see her no more, overwhelmed me with
felicity. I asked again and again, how would this end? At last I slept,
kissing the hem of the sheet that her hands had smoothed.