Whether it were owing to this circumstance or not, it is not to be
denied that, after signing the truce with Rogelio, Esclavita’s manner
and appearance underwent a complete change. Her eyes brightened, her
cheeks grew rosy, her voice lost its melancholy accent, she was less
silent; and while her occupations continued the same, her manner of
performing them was so different, that if she had looked before like a
resigned victim to duty and had seemed to cast a shadow of gloom over
the house as she went about her work, her brisk and active movements now
filled it with cheerfulness.
Doña Aurora did not cease to congratulate herself on this change.
“Praised be God,” she would say. “That is the way I like to see people
around me look. I can’t endure those people who go about with
long-drawn, gloomy faces, without knowing why or wherefore. You see,
child. It was all on your account, neither more nor less. Now that you
treat her with a little friendliness see how she is a different person.”
And different indeed she was. Even her physique had undergone a
favorable change. Whether in sign of happiness or for some other reason
unknown to us, she had removed the black kerchief from her head,
allowing her hair to fall negligently down her neck, whose extraordinary
whiteness was set off by the black silk of her neck-kerchief. Her
complexion now was the complexion of the young maidens of Galicia, that
bright complexion that seems to preserve the dewy freshness of their
native land, and whose rosy tint puts to shame the sickly pallor of the
daughters of Madrid. Her expressive eyes, green, with yellowish lights,
emphasized the vernal and delicate character of Esclavita’s beauty,
reminding one of a valley watered by two crystalline rivulets. But the
girl’s chief beauty was her hair, auburn changing to gold where it
caught the light, that, parted in the middle, flowed in luxuriant
natural waves on either side of the head, crowning the low forehead and
the delicate temples. She wore it hanging down her back in two thick
braids, or gathered up in a heavy coil at the back of the head, and if
in the morning it looked smooth and even lustrous while damp with the
water which was the only cosmetic Esclavita used, as the day wore on,
and she went about her work, it curled up, and, rough and silky at the
same time, framed her face in an aureole like that of a saint in some
old painting. And indeed Esclavita, with her simple rustic manner of
wearing her hair, reminded one of some old Flemish painting on wood, or
one of the creations of early Italian art, the resemblance being
heightened by her modest air, her downcast look, that odor of incense
and the sacristy, which Rita Pardo had observed in her. Looking at her
full face when she smiled, the type of the rustic could be descried
through the angular outlines of the virgin.
All these perfections and graces, with many more that I refrain from
mentioning, were perceived through his spectacles, appreciated, talked
about, and lauded to the skies by the discreet octogenarian whom Rogelio
called Nuño Rasura, and whom we with more respect call Don Gaspar. Nor
did he wait to pronounce his panegyric until the transformation we have
spoken of took place, but from the very first day on which she had
opened the door for him the gallant old man began to extol her merits,
wearying the rest of the company with his exaggerated praises, his
rhapsodies, his silly effusions, and, in the words of the Crown
Solicitor, his archfooleries.
“Just see,” Señor de Febrero would say, throwing back his handsome
Orleanic head and gently smoothing the curls of his wig or stroking the
velvet cushion of his crutch, “what judgment our excellent friend Doña
Aurora has shown in choosing this girl, who is unique in her class. In
the first place, she is so handy, so careful, so industrious, and then
she has such a modest and truthful air, a great merit in my eyes, now
that good manners are out of date and that viragos and strapping jades
swarm around us. In former times--do you remember, friend Candás--women
were all like this girl, there was none of that effrontery that we see
nowadays.”
“Yes, yes, very demure, on the outside,” the incorrigible Don Nicanor
would respond, putting his ear-trumpet into requisition--“little saints,
all sweetness and softness. But within they made up for it. You may say
so indeed! But I have cut my wisdom teeth and I am not to be imposed
upon by those Madonna faces.”
“See how far our friend Candás carries his evil-mindedness! That may be
the case in Asturia, in your part of the country, but it is not so in
ours; am I not right, Doña Aurora? And there is no denying that as
boldness and want of decorum in a woman repel, so neatness and modesty
are an additional attraction.”
Here Señora de Pardiñas was obliged to use all her efforts to keep from
bursting out laughing, for Rogelio, who had followed the conversation
from his corner on the sofa, made a comical grimace and winked at her
roguishly to give point to the old man’s remarks.
But before many days were over the benevolent admiration of Señor de
Febrero was converted into a keen interest, an irrepressible curiosity
to know all that related to “our little country-woman.”
“Tell me how you came to get her?” he asked Señora de Pardiñas, speaking
rather with his half-closed and expressive eyes that sparkled behind his
glasses than with his voice.
“She was recommended to me by the daughters of Romera, whom you must
know.”
“Ah-h-h-h yes, yes! Romera, Romera. Of course.” And he settled his
glasses on his well-shaped nose. “But our little friends, the Romeras,”
he continued, with the persistence of a judge who is conducting a
cross-examination and the obstinacy of an old man who is bent on gaining
the information he desires, “they did not bring her from Galicia, did
they? I did not know they had ever been there. Is not the girl a
Galician?”
“A Galician, yes,” said Doña Aurora, without volunteering any further
information.
“She belongs to a decent family, eh?” continued the undaunted Nuño
Rasura. “So I should judge, at least--and I have a keen scent,” he
added, laying his finger on his classical nose. “As for her language,
she speaks well, with the exception of an occasional solecism. Her
appearance is refined and lady-like. So she belongs to a decent family,
eh?”
“Decent, yes,” Señora Pardiñas was obliged to answer, making a mental
reservation.
“But what are they? Artisans? Householders? Employees?”
“No, she is the niece” (Doña Aurora’s voice grew slightly husky) “of a
village priest.”
“So, so, so!” exclaimed the dean emphatically. “Did I not say so? The
niece of a clergyman! _Boccato di cardinale!_ Those girls are always
very pious, admirably brought up, and above temptation. So, so!”
Señora de Pardiñas tried to turn the conversation, but if there is
anything in the world more persistent than a child’s caprice, it is an
old man’s whim. Don Gaspar played with his crutch, turning it round and
round, and then, unable to restrain himself longer, said:
“Do you know, friend Aurora, if I may say so, that I have not yet taken
a good look at the face of that girl? And I am curious to know if she
really resembles a certain Señorita de Vivero--a lovely girl she was, by
the way--that we boys used to call the little Magdelen--somewhere about
the year ’24 or ’25. Could you not call her with the excuse of bringing
a glass of water, or the like?”
The meaning look that passed between mother and son was observed by
Lain Calvo, who exclaimed with simulated terror, and forgetting for the
moment his pretended deafness:
“_Caray_, my dear Doña Aurora, don’t call that nymph, I beg of you; if
you do, you will be responsible for the ruin of our friend Señor de
Febrero. At Don Gaspar’s age, the passions make sad havoc. Prudence, Don
Gasparin, remember that there is a heaven above us.”
When Esclavita, whom Doña Aurora called under some pretext, entered the
room, no one could help smiling. This embarrassed the girl, who, not
knowing the cause of their merriment, blushed furiously, and as a
consequence, looked lovelier than ever, with that charm peculiar to her,
that chaste and modest air, through which could be divined a firmness of
character bordering on obstinacy. Señor de Febrero devoured her with his
eyes. The old man’s head was turned. When Esclavita had left the room
Lain Calvo whispered to Señora de Pardiñas:
“Well, the girl may be a treasure, but as for me”--and he touched his
throat significantly--“I can’t swallow her. I steer clear of those girls
that grow confused the moment one looks at them. Keep an eye upon her,
Doña Aurora. Take care!”
“I don’t know why you should say that, Señor Candás,” said Señora de
Pardiñas with displeasure, wounded in the affection she felt for the
girl.
“Girls like that, that look as quiet as mice, are very limbs of Satan,”
declared the malicious Asturian. “They pretend to be modest, and all
they want is to be coaxed; they pretend to be innocent, and they are
more full of wiles than the devil himself. They are the kind of women
who say, ‘Don’t ask me for a kiss, that would be shocking! But if you
steal one, why, it can’t be helped.’”
“Señor Candás, there are certain insinuations that can only be qualified
as venomous,” Nuño Rasura exclaimed angrily, striking the floor with his
crutch. “When the honor of the fair sex is in question, one cannot be
too careful; one should consider well what one says and not speak
lightly of any one.”
“So, so!” replied the Crown Solicitor, taking refuge in his deafness. “I
see this class of women give you, too, something to think about. It is
not for nothing that we have lived all these years, and have lost our
teeth and our hair. But tell me, Doña Aurora, how this wandering
princess happened to come here. Was she forsaken by some Galician Æneas?
There seems to be some mystery in the affair.”
“Not at all, Señor,” exclaimed Señora de Pardiñas sharply. “Don’t fancy
that by thinking evil in this case you will think right. On account of
the death of--of her uncle, she was obliged to go out to service.”
“And how long has she been at service?”
“Well, for a year and a half, more or less.”
“And she has been in two situations already. Bad! bad!”
“What do you mean by bad? Nothing of the kind! You are altogether
mistaken, Don Nicanor. The poor girl was affected with a sort of
homesickness, the homesickness that we Galicians feel when we leave our
country for the first time, and she wanted at least to be with some
family from there. As you Asturians are a more mixed race, you can’t
understand that. Ask the Romeras if they have any complaint to make of
the girl; for it was from there she came to this house--which is very
much at your service.”
“Ah! ah! homesickness, eh? Romantic notions and affectations,
_carapuche_! Now, indeed, I can safely predict that you will be obliged
to take that princess lime-leaf tea for her nerves, every morning. She
has more airs than Lucifer! When she has good food and is well treated,
I don’t see what the deuce it matters to her what may be the nationality
of the people she is with.”
“You are mistaken,” said Señor de Febrero angrily. “This malady called
homesickness is a serious affection with our country people, Señor de
Candás, and I have even known persons to die of it. Don’t laugh; every
one there, even to the cats, knows that, and if you don’t know it, learn
it now. Sometimes it is cured by evoking in the mind of the patient a
recollection of home. Have you never heard of the conscript who was
dying of homesickness in the hospital at Havana? Well, how do you think
he was cured, and that like magic? By hearing the _muñeira_ played on
the bagpipes of his native place. Exactly as I say, by hearing the
_muñeira_.”
“Don’t be a fool, man, for Heaven’s sake. That conscript must have been
as drunk as a fiddler. Pure drunkenness. I would soon cure him with a
good flogging.”
“There is no use in talking to you, Don Nicanor. You refuse to believe
what we all know to be true. It would be better to pretend to be deaf,
as you do. If our little countrywoman does not suit you, Doña Aurora,
for such a servant I----”
“Well, I protest! If this man doesn’t want to carry off the fair Helen
that you have discovered! It is a crime against public morality. Say
no, Doña Aurora; this is something serious!”
“Of course I shall say no, for my own sake. I am too well pleased with
Esclavita to wish to part with her.”
Rogelio had been listening in silence to the dispute between Nuña Rasura
and Lain Calvo. He was inclined to share the indulgent views of his
mother and the ex-president of the court. With all this, however, he was
at times tempted to believe that the spiteful Asturian knew more about
life and was a better judge of human nature than they. By an illusion
common to the inexperienced, cynicism and pessimism seemed to him the
highest expression of human knowledge. His own inclination to think well
of everybody must be the result, he thought, of his youth and
inexperience. “Any one can throw dust in my eyes,” he said to himself.
“I am a child, but I am determined not to remain one forever.”