The ponderous gate swung open, and we found ourselves in a court filled
with shrubs and creepers, which climbed all over the front of the villa,
almost concealing its architecture. The vines and shrubs were covered
with blossoms, and gave out a delightful fragrance--that divine perfume,
beyond the reach of the chemist’s art, which can be distilled nowhere
but in the mysterious laboratory of Nature.
Seated on stone benches and rustic iron chairs, enjoying the moonlight,
were several persons who rose as we entered and came forward to welcome
Father Moreno with joyful exclamations. They noticed no one but him at
first, and that gave me time to study them attentively. My uncle was
foremost, dressed in a white duck suit, and by his side was a young lady
of medium height, of light and elegant figure, who uttered a cry of joy
on seeing the father. On the left was a man pretty well advanced in
years, bald and with a mustache--the father-in-law. Behind him stood a
very young, little priest, almost a boy; and near him a tall girl of
about sixteen years, and a little girl who could not have been more than
twelve.
They all gathered around the father, bidding him welcome with a
confusion of voices. At last they remembered that I was in existence,
and my uncle introduced me:
“Señor de Aldao, this is Benigna’s son, my nephew,--Carmiña, this is
Salustio.”
My future auntie looked at me abstractedly. All her attention was
absorbed by the father. Nevertheless, after a little while she turned
toward me, and asked whether my mother would come, for she much desired
to see her. I made excuses for my mother’s absence as well as I could,
and Señorita Aldao returned to her attentions to the friar. “Wouldn’t
you like some water, orangeade, ale, sherry wine? A glass of milk? A sip
of chocolate?”
“My child!” cried the father, pushing her back familiarly, as one would
brush away a fly, “If you want to give me something I would wish,--good
gracious, give me half a cigarette, although it were of straw!”
In the twinkling of an eye two cigar-cases flew open, and Señor Aldao
and my uncle offered him their cigars, and several matches were
immediately lighted. My uncle’s Havana cigar was given the preference.
“You may well enjoy smoking it,” said he, for he was fond of praising
what he gave away. “It came from no one less than Don Vicente Sotopeña.”
“Ah, of course he wouldn’t have any but the very best--plague on him!”
“Sit down, sit down and smoke,” they all besought him.
Seated at last, with the cigar between his lips, he proceeded to answer
the questions of each and every individual. They wanted to know when he
had left Compostela, and how were the other friars, and what was going
on there.
I sat a little apart from the rest, overcome by a singular feeling of
abstraction, a sort of mental intoxication. Reclining on a bench, I
perceived that at my back the branches of a magnificent creeper were
spread like green silk tapestry. It was the Datura, or “Trumpet of the
Day of Judgment”; and it did not require a very vivid imagination to
compare its gigantic white blossoms to cups full of exquisite perfume. A
double jasmine, entwined with the Datura, stretched itself along the
wall. Those pleasant odors, set astir by the light breeze, mounted to my
brain and quickened my young blood, inspiring me with an eager longing
for love,--an ethereal, pure, and deep love--an absorbing passion, ready
to defy all laws, both human and divine. When we make a change of
abode,--even though our fortune may not be altered,--when we enter a
circle of unknown people, our imagination and self-love become excited,
and those to whom we were totally indifferent yesterday, suddenly become
of interest to us, and we feel anxious in regard to the opinion they may
form of us, and to the feelings with which we inspire them.
The government official, the army officer, who is sent to a distant
post, has a vague idea of the place where he is going to reside. But
scarcely has he set foot in it, when the past is blotted out, and the
present rules over him with the great power of the actual, and the
stimulus of the novel and unknown.
In that way, excited by my new horizon, though somewhat mortified in the
bottom of my heart because they paid no attention whatever to me, I
imagined that those people, barely seen for the first time, strangers to
me a few moments before, would yet have some decisive influence on my
heart or fortune. I began by imagining that in the bosom of that family,
so peacefully gathered together enjoying the moonlight, a very strange
moral drama was being unfolded, of which the friar undoubtedly knew the
mystery.
There are everywhere dramas behind the scenes, and secret histories, I
reflected, with my brain intoxicated by the delightful fragrance of the
jasmine. At Josefa Urrutia’s house there in Madrid the drama has a
grotesque form, but is none the less real. A famous farce might be made
of Botello’s life and fortunes. If there is anything going on here,
Father Moreno must know all about it. Why does this young lady,
remarkable as she seems, marry my disagreeable uncle? Is it true that
they treat her badly? No, for my mother herself, when I pressed her,
confessed that that was a rumor without the slightest foundation. And
these little girls I see here, what rôles do they take? And Señor
Aldao’s mistress, where is she? And that engaged couple, sitting in a
spot so fitted to stir the senses and the imagination, are they in love
with each other? And if they are not, why do they get married?
I was suddenly aroused from these reveries by the young priest, who
approaching me said in a boyish voice and an unpleasant Galician accent:
“Pardon my curiosity, but are you Doña Benigna’s son?”
“Yes, I am.”
“The one who is studying to be an electric, magnetic scientist?”
At first I did not understand his poor attempt at wit, so he added:
“Who is studying to be an ingenious,--I mean, an engineer.”
“Ah, yes.”
“Well, I am glad to meet you. Do you want anything? Do you feel tired?
Do you smoke?”
“And are you the parish priest at San Andrés de Louza?” I inquired, just
to say something.
With the most unwarrantable familiarity the little priest put his hand
on my head, and, forcing me to bow it till it touched my knees, he
shrilled:
“Come down, come down, your Excellency, for I am not up so high as that.
Parish priest! Oh, if you had called me one of the clergy,
_contentaverit mihi_. I am still an apprentice, or, in other words, a
raw recruit in the sacred militia.”
He sat down by me, and began to talk to me in the most nonsensical
fashion, though I scarcely paid him any attention, because, in truth, my
thoughts were quite otherwise engaged. Meanwhile the hour was
approaching when the heavy dew, and the dampness which impregnates the
air, makes it unpleasant in Galicia to remain out of doors. Our host
arose and had us enter and go up to a little parlor, adorned with
cretonne hangings; thence we passed into the spacious dining-room, where
the supper was served by two attendants; one with the appearance of a
rough country lout, the other somewhat more polished, both being under
the direction of a fat old woman, who shuffled her feet as she walked,
and who, in spite of the decay into which her attractions had fallen, I
fancied must be Señor Aldao’s ex-mistress. The two girls that I had met
in the court had vanished, and did not make their appearance either at
the table or in the parlor.
I was seated opposite my uncle’s betrothed, and the lamp shone full on
her face, so that I could satisfy my curiosity by gazing at her--fairly
devouring her face, in fact. I at once acknowledged to myself that
Father Moreno was right; she was neither beautiful nor plain. Her lithe,
graceful figure was finer than her face; the latter having a somewhat
sharp profile, and lacking the clear complexion and regular features
which are the primary elements of beauty. But after a brief study, I
came to the conclusion that if she was not handsome, she was at least
very fascinating.
When she opened her black eyes, with their animated expression; when she
smiled; when she turned in answer to some question, her mobile face
became expressive, life flashed through all those features which I had
imagined to be always cold and in repose, in spite of my having already
seen in her photograph, by the light of the street lamp in Madrid, some
indefinable revelation of spirit.
Carmiña Aldao laughed but seldom, and yet she did not appear to be
melancholy. Her animation was that of the will. She even seemed
demonstrative in the extreme when I gave her my little offering after
supper, and praised the poor trinket in the most enthusiastic manner.
“What good taste! Look here, papa, Felipe! How cunning it is! And did
you choose it yourself? Just think of it, a student! Ah, it is clear
that you can be intrusted with commissions. Why, it is beautiful!”
Father Moreno also put in his oar, saying: “I declare it is beautiful,
indeed. That’s what rich people can do, but we poor friars do not dare
to be so extravagant. Our gifts are more simple--”
As he spoke, he went off in search of his traveling bag, his only
luggage, which a boy had brought from San Andrés de Louza; and produced
from its depths a pearl crucifix of the kind they bring from Jerusalem,
which, though of modern make, shows the body of the Lord carved with a
certain Byzantine stiffness. It was half a yard long.
“It is all that I can give you, my daughter,” he said. “This crucifix
has touched the Stone of Golgotha, where our Lord’s cross was erected.”
The young girl did not reply, but with a rapid movement she bent over
and kissed either the crucifix or the hand which offered it to her, I do
not know which.
The friar went on bringing out from his bag a variety of rosaries, some
of pearl, others of black olive-pits strung on a cord and not yet
clasped into a circle. “These come from the olive-trees on the Mount of
Olives,” he explained, while he separated and distributed them among
those who were present. When it came to my turn, I must have made a
movement of surprise, for the friar said, with stately courtesy:
“Don’t you want it? You must take things, remembering from whom they
come; we are poor by vocation, so we cannot offer gifts of more material
value, Sir Salustio.”
I took the rosary, somewhat embarrassed by the lesson he gave me.
Meanwhile some people had arrived from San Andrés to help pass the
evening pleasantly, and make up a game at cards: the parish priest, the
druggist, and an adjutant of the Marines. They offered me the fourth
seat at the table, but I refused, as I feared I might lose, and find
myself without money in a stranger’s house. My uncle sat down by his
sweetheart and began to talk to her. Father Moreno went off to read his
breviary, and I was again left to the tender mercies of the clerical
apprentice.
“Where is my room?” I inquired. “Do you know? I should like to go to
bed.”
“I don’t know,” he said; “but he who has a tongue--goes to Rome. Come
on, take hold of my little finger.”
We went through the dining-room. The lamp was still lit, and the old
woman was overlooking the operation of taking off the table-cloth,
gathering up the glasses and plates, and putting away the dessert. I
again fixed my attention on the retired sultana. She certainly must have
been good-looking in former times, but now her scanty gray locks, her
skin blotched with erysipelas, together with her great obesity, rendered
her abominable. She appeared to be industrious, fond of scolding, but at
the same time quite humble, and resigned to her life below stairs.
The little priest, preparatory to asking her a question, squeezed her
right arm.
“Oh, Serafín, be quiet. What impudent tricks you do play! My, what a
fellow!”
“_Mulier_, one can pinch you without danger; for you are at least proof
against all temptation. Where is the _cubiculo_, or, in other words,
bed-room of this young gentleman?”
“Right next to yours. May the Lord give the unlucky man patience to
stand you so near! Candidiña, Candidiña, bring a light, and show these
gentlemen their way.”
The tall maid before-mentioned appeared, candle in hand. She had a fair
light complexion, innocent, and even slightly stupid features,--which
somewhat resembled a wooden cherub’s; but her little eyes were speaking
and mischievous, and she lowered them so that they should not betray
her. She went on ahead, and we followed her up a steep staircase. She
led us to our rooms up in the tower, which were separated from each
other by a narrow hall. These rooms had not been made over, when Señor
Aldao had the tower reconstructed, and were very old. Probably they were
ordinarily used for storing chestnuts or squashes. The furniture
consisted only of a bed, two chairs, a small table, and a wash-stand.
The girl left the candle on the table and said:
“That’s Serafín’s room, and this is yours. They are plenty large
enough.”
“Even enough for you, too,” said the clerical apprentice, in a most
impudent manner.
The girl winked and laughed aloud, while she waved her hand
threateningly at Serafín; but immediately afterward she turned toward me
and, assuming a most modest demeanor, asked, in a humble tone, whether I
had any orders to give her. I said I should like to have some writing
materials, and she replied that she would run and get them at once. As
she carried off the candle, I was left almost in the dark, and could
only see by the reflection of the moon. I went up to the window, and
beheld, close by, a vast, dark mass stretching itself out; a sort of
vegetable lake, which resembled a single tree--although I doubted it
could be, on account of its size. Afar off, the river gleamed like a
gray satin robe, dotted with silver spangles; the crescent moon was
multiplied in its bosom, and the imperceptible sound of the lapping of
the waves against the beach mingled with the soft night breeze, which
shook the branches near by.
A cool, moist breeze caressed my cheeks. Candidiña interrupted my
meditation, stealing in without knocking at the door. She brought in
one hand an inkstand, almost running over; and in the other, besides the
candle, paper, envelopes, a stub of a pen, and a cornucopia filled with
sand.
“Aunt Andrea says that you must excuse us for having everything so
topsy-turvy. She says that to-morrow, without fail, she will give you
the sand-box. She says that in the country one must overlook a great
deal.”
I began to gather things together preparatory to writing to Luis Portal,
but the girl, instead of going off, remained standing there, gazing at
me as if my person and my actions were matters of great curiosity. When
she peeped over my shoulders to see how I arranged my paper, she said,
with almost childish surprise, and with the sweet accent peculiar to the
people who live on the seashore of Galicia:
“Oh, are you going to write to-night, when it is so late?”
A capricious fancy flashed through my imagination, a thrill ran along my
veins, which I repressed with the comparative effort needed to subject
purely physical impulses.
“Be a little careful, Salustio. You are excited to-day. Go very slowly.”
Then, in order to say something to the girl, I asked:
“Is that a single tree I see from the window?”
“Why, don’t you know it is the Tejo (the yew-tree)?”
“A single yew cover that immense space! Santa Bárbara! It must be at
least half a league in circumference.”
“Half a league! How absurd! Don’t exaggerate so. It is not half a league
from this place to San Andrés. But I tell you it is three stories high.”
“Three stories in a tree!”
“Oh, it’s so, you’ll see! One is the ball-room, the other is where they
take coffee, and from the third you can see a great deal of land--and
the river, and everything.”