THE OLD, OLD DRAMA.
“María dear, are we alone?” asked Luis pressing his sister’s hand to
his heart.
“No,” said she, looking anxiously at a dark shadow that came towards
them from the other side of the garden, “here comes.... No,” she
added, after watching it for a minute, “he has turned round; he is
walking up and down.... He does not seem to dare to join us--he seems
to be afraid of you, or, if not afraid, to feel a respect--a great
respect for you. His conscience cannot be at ease in your presence.”
“Do not talk nonsense. Respect for me, a miserable sinner! Besides,
my dear, men like your husband respect no one and nothing. In his
heart he mocks and scorns us.”
“No, that he does not, I assure you,” said María firmly. “I assure
you he does not scorn us. Leon is thoroughly good and he will learn
to believe; yes, he will believe. There, do you see he has turned
again, but he keeps away.”
“He is very sad,” said Luis, gazing at the shadow slowly wandering
up and down like a soul in torment. “He looks as if some great
misfortune had crushed him; and yet he has health, he is rich, he
has this world’s goods in abundance. Look at me--sick, dying, bereft
of everything, poor and unknown, and yet I am happy. This evening
my soul is full of peace and contentment--it is as though a strong
and tender hand were lifting it up to heaven.” He put his face quite
close to María’s, looking straight into her eyes and added: “María, I
am dying.”
“For God’s sake do not say that!” she cried in terror. “You are
better, you will get well....”
“I cannot bear to hear these empty platitudes from your lips; they
are all very well for doctors and people who have no true Christian
faith. I am dying, and I am glad to die. This morning when I was at
Mass I fancied I heard a celestial voice announcing that my end was
near, and from that moment I have felt that triumphant rapture which
still possesses me. All my thoughts to-day have been of thankfulness
and joy; when they sang the _Te Deum_ I felt such a rapture of
happiness that at last I began to fear lest it should in fact veil
some kind of human pride and be an offence to God.”
“But you will not die.... You will not die!” said María caressing his
head.
“Ah! your soul, contaminated by the world’s breath, cannot understand
the exquisite joy of dying. To you the word has no other sense than
that given it in the dictionary and in the conversation of the
unrighteous. Rejoice at my death, child, rejoice as I do, and thus
you may learn to long for your own! Ah! my dear sister, one, and only
one thought mars my happiness, one single worldly anxiety still links
me to the burden of the flesh. Do you know what it is? Bring your
chair quite close for I cannot raise my voice.”
She did as he desired.
“My great trouble is to know that your precious soul, the twin of my
own, as your body is to mine, remains in constant danger of being
infected by him.... This idea disturbs my last hours on earth, and
though I hope to gain much by entreating the Lord for you, still I am
uneasy.”
“I--infected! with what? You know me very little, nor the heroism and
constancy with which I can defend my faith, small as it is, humble
and dim, a mere reflection of yours, which is as great and as bright
as the sun. Have no fears for me. I told you before that there was no
danger; I explained to you that, loving him even as I do, I always
preserve a fixed impassable gulf between us. He wished to bridge the
abyss. So did I, and we made the attempt; but since talking to you I
see that nothing can do it short of a miracle.”
“Well, not a miracle, but a special intervention of His grace ... and
this you ought still to hope for. Ask it of Him without ceasing, and
meanwhile do not neglect for a day--for an instant--the precious work
of your own salvation. Devote yourself to that, María; regard your
life on earth as a ladder by which to scale Heaven; cultivate the
inner life, strengthen it by unfailing devotion, arm yourself with
patience and crown yourself with sacrifice, for your situation is a
perilous one. Your liberty is fettered; through a fatal error of your
youth you are bound to a man who will strain every nerve to drag you
out of the only path that leads to eternal glory. So that you have
in fact a double task before you. Your sorrows will be terrible--you
must sweat blood, drink gall, and suffer those lacerating tortures
of the soul which are more acute than the flames of the martyr’s
stake.... Poor, poor, darling sister!... When the Fathers of the
Seminary sent me home to Madrid I was miserable. ‘Why,’ said I,
‘will you send me to that hotbed of sin? Why not let me die here in
peace?’ But I was resigned to obey when a sudden thought flashed upon
me: ‘Rely upon it the Lord has some good work for you to do there’
... and I soon saw what it was. This voice, so soon to be silent
to the world, might yet utter some precious words to the sweet and
innocent soul that the Lord would fain keep for his own. God knew
full well that you were the being I most love on earth; he formed
us as one, and our feelings, like our faces are intimately kin; we
both had a natural taste for the spiritual life; why, when we were
little enough to play games we would make believe we were martyrs.
Our life together in that dreary little town laid the foundation on
which we each had to build up a structure of piety. My vocation to
the priesthood preserved me from contact with the world. You wandered
from the path of light into darkness; and in that darkness, when the
eyes of your soul were blinded, you married ... but whom? I do not
condemn marriage, which is a holy estate, but your choice. However,
the good seed in your soul will fructify in spite of everything; yes,
thrive and fructify.... I, by a special mercy, have come to die in
your arms; I was sent to you that you might see and hear me.”
“Blessed be God for that,” cried María passionately. “I thought that
in your pious retreat you knew nothing of what was going on here; I
thought you knew nothing of my husband’s views.”
“We know everything there; I knew his deeds, his opinions, I had
heard of his amiable person and of his many natural good qualities. I
knew too of the vices that are undermining our wretched family--vices
which between you and me can be no secret. Our poor father does
not lead the life of a Christian gentleman; our mother is wholly
given up to worldly vanities; Leopoldo is a dissolute rake, sunk in
wickedness; and Gustavo, though he is an energetic defender of the
faith, does it with too much ostentation and more out of vainglory
than from any religious zeal. They all forget that beauty, human
glory, riches, honours and applause, are at last no more than food
for the worms that eat our bodies, and that whatever pains they spend
on anything that is not a gain to the soul, profits no one but those
same horrible worms ... you alone seem to me to have some light of
holiness and virtue, which shines conspicuous; but even you, superior
as you are to the others, are not devoid of evil and are in danger of
losing your soul....” As he spoke his voice suddenly failed him and
his words died away in a gurgle, as though a hand on his throat were
strangling him.
“I am suffocating,” he murmured indistinctly, throwing back his head.
“I cannot....” He could scarcely breathe and he writhed in his seat
with pain and helplessness.
“Leon, Leon!” María called in extreme alarm.
“It is nothing ... do not call,” said Luis with great difficulty, as
he began to recover his breath. “The hour has come ... it is not far
off ... give me your hand, do not leave me.”
Leon ran to his wife’s assistance.
“It is nothing,” Luis repeated. “There is nothing to be alarmed
about.... I thought I was dying ... but not yet, no, I have something
more to say.”
Then they were all three silent. “It is not wise to stay out here,”
said Leon. “The evening air has been heated by the day’s sun and it
is like a furnace. Shall we take you to the eastern side, where it is
a little cooler?”
“Yes, and it is better there because we hear less of the noise of the
road and the bustle of the people.”
Luis rose and went a few steps quite briskly, leaning on his sister’s
arm, while Leon followed with the two seats; but suddenly the invalid
lost his footing and, clinging to María’s arm, tottered like a
drunken man.
“Leon, Leon, for heaven’s sake!”
Held up between them, the hapless youth reached his seat on the
other side of the garden and sat gazing at the vault of sky that bent
over the plain.
“This reminds me,” he said, as he recovered his breath, “of our
beloved wilderness of Avila which was such a perfect emblem of human
life; of that glorious night landscape, consisting of a bare stretch
of land, and a blazing sky suggesting a sort of mystic tree of which
nothing could be seen but the root and the shining flowers.... It is
the same here--do you see? The roots in the earth, the flowers in
Heaven ... rocks below and blossoms above--eternal, unfading, and
shedding their promise of everlasting joys.”
Then there was a long silence while nothing was heard but his painful
breathing. His eyes were fixed on the stars and he seemed to be
counting them, as in his infancy. María was praying speechlessly.
Leon took his brother-in-law’s hand, felt his pulse and laid his hand
on his forehead, watching him carefully for some time.
“I am quite comfortable,” said Luis without looking at him.
Leon presently rose and left them; his step rang on the path with
that bell-like clink that sometimes is more soothing than music. When
the faintness of the sound showed that the master of the house had
turned the corner of the garden, Luis called his sister.
“María,” he murmured without moving.
“What is it dear?”
“Soon, very soon, my soul will escape among those hosts of stars,
which look as though they waited there to receive triumphant souls
... ah how glad, how happy I am!... If I could only make you feel
how happy; if I could only make you understand what joy there is in
casting off this weary burthen and soaring free. Up, away, to the
immensity of space made everlastingly glorious by the rejoicings of
the redeemed!... Away, alone, without casting a glance back at this
miserable earth. Do you see that wondrous vault of stars? If they,
which are so splendid, are not worthy to be compared with the dust
that the blessed tread under foot, what must those be which crown the
head of the immaculate Mother in the furthest distance, the supremest
height ... where our gaze cannot pierce?”
“For pity’s sake do not talk so much!” said María anxiously. “Be calm
... you are excited.”
“María, I talk to you as a prisoner might when awaiting his release
and you interrupt me with your commonplace remarks!--Stupid doctors’
saws.--What now can the health of my body matter to me? The life of
the merest insect that settles on my face to sting me is of more
value than mine! And how can you expect me to care for your useless
precaution when I know that to-morrow--yes, dearest to-morrow,
after attending mass, I must bid farewell to this world? I am sure
of it; I hear the same voice that has warned me of so many things
in my secluded life. I cannot doubt it--it is an announcement from
Heaven!--To-morrow, to-morrow.”
María was speechless with dismay. Her brother’s face was like that of
a dead man who has suddenly recovered speech and sight; she dared
not leave his side for an instant; his sufferings alarmed her, but
his eager flow of speech fascinated her.
“Listen to my words,” said Luis, holding her hands, “and mark them,
so that they may sound in your ears throughout the rest of your
existence. They are the last exhortations of your dying but happy
brother; and even if my person lends them no authority my death
will, since there is something of the prophet in every departing
soul. María, I quite admit that you have already done something
towards saving your soul; that you have started on the right path,
carrying out, besides the devotions which are incumbent on us all,
others of a more special character addressed to the Blessed Virgin
and the Saints; but this is not enough, my darling sister; nay, it
is as nothing so long as you give up part of your thoughts and time
to the vanities and delusions of the world. The devotions in vogue,
which allow you to frequent theatres and gay society, to dress with
audacious luxury, to drive out always in a carriage, and to foster
your pride and extravagance, are a mere farce of piety. Reform your
life altogether; flee from the world, avoid gaieties, renounce
splendour, rich clothing, and the elegancies of life, walk instead
of riding, give up the show and comfort ...” and as he spoke he
waved his hand as if to strike out each item of the catalogue. “Let
it be your aim to be looked down upon,” he went on in his saintly
and poetical vehemence. “To be laughed at, to be caluminated, to be
despised as ridiculous and unsociable, to be forgotten and rejected
by the whole human race. Have no care for the things of earth, but
only for heavenly things.... We were born together, and as our bodies
have been twins, growing with one growth even before our birth, so
let our souls be as one in the life to come. We will be twins to all
eternity, María. Say, do you desire this? Do you long to be for ever
one with me in the presence of our Father, can you desire, as I do,
that our righteousness may be as that of one, and that the praises we
shall sing before the throne of God may sound as one hymn?”
“Yes, yes, I do,” sobbed María, as she flung herself into her
brother’s arms. He was in a state of feverish exaltation, almost
amounting to delirium, and her brain too was on fire; it was as
though she had felt the sweep of some blazing comet in this critical
moment of her existence.
“Yes,” she continued, and her hot tears fell on the dying man’s
breast. “I long to soar with you, eternally one with you, to be
indeed inseparably your twin, to save my soul with yours, and to
enjoy the same bliss and glory that you attain to!”
“That is well,” said Luis, “then never forget me. I must depart;
but I leave my hopes, my words with you. Listen to me,” he went on
in sentences broken by coughing, “your husband, utterly corrupt
through his philosophical speculations and his atheism, will always
be a terrible obstacle to your salvation. You must surmount these
obstacles without failing in the duties imposed on you by the
sacrament of marriage. A more difficult position I cannot conceive
of; still, I think I can point out to you the right way. None but
a superficial union can ever exist between you; your souls are
parted by the gulf that lies between belief and infidelity. No true
marriage-tie can bind your souls. Still your faith forbids that you
should abhor him. Love him with that christian charity which the law
of Christ enjoins towards the reprobate; obey him in all that does
not contravene your religious practices, acknowledge him as your lord
and master in all things so long as you never let his tyrannical
atheism enslave your conscience as a Catholic. Always pay him due
respect, do him no wrong, and pray for him every day--every hour--not
forgetting our parents and brothers, who also need our intercessions.
God has given you no children; do you not see in this a curse on your
marriage? It is a curse, but at the same time a special sign of grace
so far as you are concerned, since, by leaving you childless, the
Lord plainly shows that he claims you as wholly his own and signifies
his will that you should dedicate yourself solely to him. Ah! we poor
twins have much to be thankful for.”
“Much, much!” exclaimed María, carried away by his flood of feeling.
“But while you are a saint, I am a sinner!”
“Nay, you will be as much and more a saint than I, for you will
suffer and strive, and your triumph will be all the more meritorious.
Having no children you can consecrate yourself entirely to the
improvement of your inner life. By breaking entirely with the world
you can have nothing to fear; and the utter opposition of your ideas
to your husband’s, leaves your conscience perfectly free. If, in
external matters, he plays the tyrant, you must be his slave; but
if he tries to domineer in matters of opinion, pay no more heed to
him than to the dropping of the rain. If he revenges himself, suffer
in silence; if he smites one cheek, offer the other; but if by
insidious argument or diabolical persuasions he tries to insinuate
any heretical notions, shut your ears and flee from him in spirit.
By yielding superficial obedience you will preserve your liberty
of thought. If he forbids you to go to church, stay away, and make
up for your absence from public worship by constant meditation and
silent prayer; if on the contrary he allows you to go, do so as
often as possible, and aim at that exaltation of spirit which may
fit you to receive the Eucharist every day. If he does not seek your
society, do not seek his; if he insists on being supreme in all your
actions, still let me be supreme in all your thoughts; do all you
can for his salvation, but never for an instant neglect your own. Do
not try to convert him by talking; it will only excite his atheism,
and your best arguments will be your virtues and humility. Never on
any consideration join evening parties, either in your own house or
elsewhere, and make no friends of either sex; though you cannot make
your home a sanctuary, never permit the slightest scandal; an orgy or
a meeting of infidels will amply justify you in flying from his roof.
And if, after all, some day God should in his mercy touch the heart
of your most wretched husband, and enlighten his mind--if he should
at length confess the true faith, entreat him at once to consent to
a separation so that you may each of you retire to a convent and
dedicate the remainder of your lives, apart, to winning heaven.”
“Oh! my dear brother,” cried María beside herself, “I cannot doubt
that God himself speaks to me through you.”
Luis pressed his sister’s head to his breast. Then suddenly he gasped
for breath, moaning as he threw his head back. Life seemed fast
ebbing in the struggle; his eyes rolled, till presently he closed
them as if to shut out a blinding light; his breathing was a hoarse
and laboured sobbing.
“Leon, Leon,” María screamed in terror; but all was silent, not a
footstep was to be heard.
“Leon, Leon!... It will pass away,” she added putting her face close
to her brother’s and trying to revive him by her appeal.
Then she called again and again, but Leon was not in the garden. She
heard no servants, nor any sound but the noises in the road where the
children were at play, and a party of thieving dogs were prowling
about the gutters. There was not a breath of air to stir the leaves
on the trees; all was so still, with a sort of awe-stricken peace,
that the very stars seemed to María to twinkle less fitfully than
usual, and to gaze down like anxious eyes. She glanced round her and
shuddered at finding herself so completely alone with her brother
who, to all appearance, was dying. Again she called--nay, screamed;
and at last she heard her husband’s step coming slowly towards her.