As soon as Miguel and his sister reached the capital, they learned of an
event which grieved them intensely. Let us relate it from the beginning.
On account of the affectionate preference which Julia had shown on the
evening of the party, our heroic friend Utrilla had recovered sufficient
spirits to last at least half a year.
His sweet enemy made him drain the cup of triumph at one draught.
Intoxicated with love and pride, it took two consecutive months of
continual rebuffs, before this glorious young fellow came clearly to
understand that her humor had changed a little. It is evident that such
a change was not sufficient to affect him very seriously, since he was
very certain, now more than ever, of the irresistible fascination which
he exercised over the beauty. That closing of the window when he passed
along the street, that turning of the eyes in the opposite direction,
and not replying to his letters, were for the lad only "open strategies"
by which the girl was trying to make him fall in love with her, and keep
him more than ever her slave.
As a proof of this, let us say that once, happening to be at the
theatre, he took a place opposite to where she was, and not taking his
eyes from her through a whole _entr'acte_, a friend, touching him on the
shoulder, said:--
"_Hola_, comrade! evidently that little brunette pleases you."
"That's an old story," replied the ex-cadet, dryly and with dignity.
"And the girl; how about her?"
"Poor girl!" he exclaimed, shaking his head, and smiling
compassionately.
The friend observed, however, that during the whole evening the young
girl did not once turn her eyes in that direction, though she often
looked toward a lower proscenium box, where there were a number of young
aristocrats.
Very far, therefore, from being discouraged, Utrilla was almost happy.
He would have been entirely so if, instead of having to keep account of
candles put out, he had been occupied in some more congenial business,
and had had the good fortune to have killed, or at least dangerously
wounded, some one in a duel. But up to the present time, unfortunately,
no favorable opportunity had presented itself. Still, he was waiting
anxiously for one, for, in truth, his conscience troubled him for being
now eighteen years old, and "never having once been into the field."
Of late he had begun to take lessons in the use of the foils at a
fencing-school, and in presence of the professor and his companions he
had made allusion to some deadly project which he had conceived, and
which, in our opinion could not have been anything else than the
riddance of his rival Don Alfonso.
Months passed, and at regular hours, with a constancy worthy of a more
fortunate result, Utrilla wore out the heels of his boots along the
sidewalks of the Calle Mayor.
Occasionally Julita would deign to greet him with a wave of the hand, in
answer to the energetic way in which her suitor took off his hat to her
from the street. Still, the greater number of times it happened that
when the brigadier's daughter caught sight of him looming around the
corner, she would hastily close the balcony, and this our young man took
as a sign of exquisite modesty and timidity at his penetrating glances.
The most that he felt called upon to say in complaint was:--
"This Julita--when will she cease being a mere child!"
The unshaken faith which he had in the fascinating virtue of his smile
and his genteel appearance was sufficient to sustain him in this
illusion; but it must be confessed that some help was given toward it by
the fact that Julita herself, though very mercifully, made use of him on
occasion, to wake Saavedra's jealousy, when she was vexed with him. And
sometimes at the theatre she would talk with him in the presence of the
_caballero_ himself.
This was the position of affairs when the bomb exploded; that is, when
Julita eloped that evening with her cousin. The first news of this that
Utrilla received was communicated to him by _la brigadiera's_ door-maid,
with whom he sustained cordial relations, strengthened from time to time
by a chance peseta. As was to be expected, the ex-cadet resolutely
refused to believe it. But when he found the evidence overwhelming, he
stood like a statue--not a Greek one, however; his nostrils dropped, and
his dull, myoptic eyes expressed absolutely nothing except imbecility:
his Adam's apple stood out in a manner truly monstrous.
After the first shock was past, Utrilla considered what was befitting
for him to do in this most extraordinary juncture. He thought of
starting after the fugitives, overtaking them, and killing the seducer
with one stab; but above and beyond the great difficulty of overtaking
them, in what character should he present himself before them, being
neither brother nor husband of the stolen damsel. This project having
been rejected, it came to him clear as the day that the only thing left
worthy of such a misfortune was suicide. After racking his brains for a
whole day he found no other adequate solution.
Jacobo Utrilla, with that marvellous perspicacity with which he was
endowed in these delicate matters pertaining to honor, made up his mind
that the world would never forgive him unless he put an end to his
existence on this occasion. And as a man who valued his dignity above
all things, he resolved to sacrifice on this altar his own life, so
sweet to all created things.
Melancholy night that which preceded this tragic event! Utrilla was
perfectly well aware of what he had to do in such a situation as this;
without any trouble at all, he could have written a _Handbook of
Suicide_. Thus he spent the time till dawn in writing letters and
drinking black coffee.
One of them was to his father, asking his pardon, but, at the same time,
making him to see by weighty reasons that if he had acted in any other
way, he would have dishonored the noble name that he bore; another, to
Julia, very dignified, very courteous, very generous; the only favor
that he asked was that sometimes she should place a flower on his tomb;
the last was, in fact, to the judge of the police, giving him to
understand "that no one was to blame for his death," etc.
Having scrupulously fulfilled those lofty duties, he washed his face and
hands, and dressed with all care, and asked for chocolate. Dona
Adelaida, who always arose at peep of day, gave it to him, though she
was not a little surprised to see him so early in the morning dressed in
such elegant style.
"Jacobito, why have you dressed all in black? Are you going to a
funeral?"
"Yes, senora.... To the funeral of a friend of yours," he replied with
admirable self-control.
"Who is it?"
"You will know in good time."
While he took his chocolate, he was genial and jolly, as never before,
making the good senora roar with his anecdotes. Utrilla was not
naturally facetious, nor was he apt to be good-natured when he got up
early; but he felt that, in these exceptional circumstances, it was very
necessary to vary his habits; for he was a practical man, and had no
rival as a connoisseur in such matters.
"Come, now, I am going from here to the Campo Santo," said he, putting
on his hat and taking his cane.
"But is the service in the cemetery, Jacobito?"
"No; there is a mass in the chapel.... You would not like me to remain
there, would you?"
"Where?"
"In the cemetery."
"_Ave Maria!_ What jokes you do make, Jacobito!"
He gave a laugh that partook of an hysterical character. He took his
gloves from his pocket; but before putting them on, he drew off a finger
ring and handed it to the housekeeper, saying:--
"This ring you will please send to Don Miguel Rivera's house, and ask
them to give it to him when he returns."
"Is it a present?"
"Yes; in return for the many favors that he has done for me."
Immediately this great-souled and punctilious young man sallied forth
from the house with firm step, bent upon accomplishing his duty. Neither
the beauty of the day, which was more than usually bright and glorious,
nor the sight of the pleasures to which life invited him, nor the tender
recollection of his father, caused him to pause in his serene and
majestic march. As he passed near the Cibeles fountain, a hand-organ was
playing a waltz-polka which reminded him of a certain experience that he
had had in the saloon of Capellanes. He felt a little melancholy; but
his heroic soul immediately recovered from this impulse of weakness.
He reached the Retiro: he was alone. He walked along with deliberate
step in search of a hidden and mysterious spot. When he had found such,
he sat down on a stone bench, took off his hat, and laid it carefully by
his side; then he opened his frock coat and threw one leg over the
other, taking care to pull down his trousers so as not to expose his
stocking. Then thrusting one hand into his pocket and assuring himself
that his letters were in their place, he drew out a small nickel-plated
revolver.
At that moment a powerful temptation assailed the young lad's constant
soul. It occurred to him that perhaps there was no reason for him to
commit suicide; that it would be better to let things run their course;
that the world had many revolutions to make, and he was too young to
deprive himself of existence. If Julita had run away, that was her own
affair: to kill himself was a serious, a very serious matter!
Still his bravery, which had never yet played him false, was able to
conquer this horrible temptation. "No," he said to himself, "I cannot
live honorably any longer. All those who were acquainted with these
relations of mine would have the right to laugh at me. And Jacobo was
not born that any one should laugh at him!"
He leaned back, placed his left elbow on the back of the bench, with his
head poetically resting on his hand. With his right hand he aimed his
revolver at his temple and fired.
Either because his hand trembled a little (a suspicion which would not
amount to anything if it were not regarding this invincible youth of
indomitable courage), or because the pistol did not shoot quite
accurately, at all events Utrilla fell, badly wounded, but not killed.
He was taken to the hospital,[61] and thence home. His condition was
very serious.
When Miguel arrived from Lisbon three days after this tragic event, he
immediately went to see him. He was deeply and painfully impressed. The
bullet had cut the optic nerve, and the unhappy boy was hopelessly
blind. The consultation of doctors had not given a favorable verdict. As
the ball was still in the head, very near the brain, they judged that it
was impossible for him to live very long. Any movement might bring with
it instant death.
But the strange and terrible part of the affair was, that the hapless
lad, already blind, lying in his bed suffering tremendous and unceasing
anguish, did not want to die. With lamentable cries, which tore the
heart and brought tears from all who were present, he begged his father
and brothers to _make_ him live--to live under any circumstances, even
though he should be blind.
It was impossible. In the course of twelve days that intrepid and
unfortunate young man had passed away. Miguel was with him till the very
last.