“Particularly your prospective nephew,” replied the friar. “I don’t
really know what is the matter with that young gentleman, but it seems
as though he were watching us. Sometimes I feel tempted to send him to
the deuce. Because if he and all the rest did not keep close to our
heels, we should not be obliged to make use of this secrecy, which does
not please me, my child, because it might give occasion to malicious
interpretations; and it is not enough to be good, one must appear so
also.”
“That’s true; but if I did not unbosom myself to you, I believe that I
should die. There are certain things one cannot explain clearly in the
confessional.”
“To be sure; well, now that we are here, let us hope that the Lord will
bring us some good out of this bad business. My child, open your heart,
and say all you wish. Here is Father Moreno to listen to you and advise
you, not now as a confessor but as a friend. I am really your
friend--you know that very well, so further words are useless.
“Well, Father, I have no better friend than you. I am so unfortunate
that it is impossible for me to confide either in my father or my
brother; we do not understand each other; there is a barrier--I do not
know what. I believe that you already guess what I want to consult you
about.”
The father smoothed his chin with his hand, as though in deep
meditation.
“According to what you said to me, you marry in order to prevent greater
evils. I believe that I have understood.”
“No, no, Father, it is not that. The evils that may occur here, I cannot
now prevent. I have done all that I could; I have turned myself into a
watchman, a police agent, a spy,--everything that one can turn one’s
self into,--certainly a repugnant and sorrowful part to play. But I am
convinced that it is impossible to protect a woman who will not protect
herself, and that the whims of old men are harder to combat than those
of children.”
My aunt hesitated a little.
“My papa,” she said, resolutely, at last, “is like a boy of fifteen. He
is wild after that girl; blindly following her around, putting up with
her mockery, and acting perfectly moon-struck if she makes a silly
grimace at him. I should not mind it, if--at least--”
“You mean you would like to have him marry her?”
“Certainly. If the man who gave me being does not lose his soul, I shall
feel resigned to all the rest. You know the trouble I had on Doña
Andrea’s account. While she and my father lived--in that way--all I
wanted was that they should get married. I should have my mother’s maid
for a stepmother, but on the other hand papa would be living at peace
with God. Doña Andrea is an unhappy being--believe me, she has a good
heart. She has never shown the least disrespect for me, and has taken
care of me with a real affection that I cannot describe to you. Only,
she has no--what shall I say?--has no--”
“No moral sense.”
“That is it. She is naturally good, but she cannot discriminate between
good and evil.”
“That is what I call being idiotic in respect of conscience,” said the
father.
“Just so. So when she found that she was old and ugly, she considered it
the most natural thing in the world to bring this girl to our house,
without doubt, in order to regain her ascendency over my father, or in
order that some member of her family might inherit that honorable post!”
“My child, as you are going to get married, it is better to speak
plainly--so that we may understand each other. Formerly your father
lived maritally with Doña Andrea, and now--he does not?”
“You are right; he does not now.”
“Well, then, it does not make much difference now whether your father
marries her or not, if he has abandoned that sin. Still, so long as she
remains here the scandal continues.”
“Oh, no, sir; there is no scandal at all! Doña Andrea is in such a
condition that it seems to me she cannot scandalize any one,” replied
my aunt, with a jocose and somewhat mischievous smile.
“So much the better, so much the better; though when people are bound to
be scandalized, my daughter, they do not look to see whether a face is
pretty or ugly.”
“Father, unhappily, there will soon be here another cause for scandal,
and that is what they look at. Don’t believe that people do not notice
it. Not a bit of it. I blush with shame whenever I perceive that anybody
notices certain things.”
“You surely have no cause to be ashamed, my daughter. Shame was not made
for you,” murmured the friar in so endearing and affectionate a tone
that Carmen blushed slightly, though I believe it was with pleasure.
“I can’t help it,” she stammered. “A father is so sacred that you do not
know how much a daughter suffers when she finds that she can no longer
respect him, as she ought to do, according to God’s holy commandments.
Outwardly I treat him with respect, but inwardly--no, I can’t live this
way. There are times when I think I shall go mad!”
“Hoity, toity!” exclaimed the friar, gayly. “Mad; nothing less! I have
already told you that your head is like a volcano. I suppose you refer
to what you have already told me--Candidiña!”
“Yes, sir; he runs after her like a cadet. And I don’t know what to do,
nor on whom to call. He has controlled himself during the last few days
in the presence of his guests and of strangers; but when we were alone,
all I can tell you about the way he pursues her does not do justice to
it. I will not enter into details which are unseemly; suffice it to say
that one morning I witnessed such a scene that I fell down on my knees
at papa’s feet that night, and begged him, in the name of God and the
Virgin, to marry that girl at once, or to send her away into service
somewhere else.”
“Do you think that the girl gives him any encouragement?”
“Yes, Father, encouragement; yet at the same time, when things go too
far she defends herself, and leaves me puzzled. Well, I am not obliged
to look out for her. I have tried to persuade her; I have scolded her
and given her good advice; I have her in my own room. Her own mother
could not do more for her. What horrifies me is that my father,--believe
me,--papa does not know what he is doing; he is crazy,--perfectly crazy.
He is passionately in love with the girl; I counted upon that when I
begged him to marry her; but he replied that the world--the people--and
his social standing--oh, Father, I can bear it no longer! I cannot!”
“God bless me!” sighed the friar. “What folly! and, allow me to add,
what stupidity! At his age--at his age!”
“Fancy it; he has even gone so far as to say, ‘I will not marry her,
because that would be nonsense; but, if Candidiña leaves by one door,
you shall leave by the other and go to your brother’s house.’ And he
said it with such a tone and air that--why, I shed more tears that day,
Father, than I should if my father had died! If he had died! Oh, I wish
that he had died, if he were at peace with his Maker! I would rather
see him dead a thousand times than this way--his gray hairs dishonored!”
As she said this, Señorita Aldao seemed to me very handsome. Her eyes
flashed, and her nostrils dilated with enthusiasm and indignation. Her
bosom rose and fell convulsively. The friar looked at her in amazement.
“You are more than right!” he exclaimed at last. “How much better it
would be to die than to wallow in disgusting sins! Death is nature’s
law; we all have to pay that tribute sooner or later; but, my child, at
least let us refrain from paying another to the devil so that he may
laugh at the way he cheats us. How slight a thing man is, my child, and
for what vile toys he will go to destruction! Lucifer’s sin consisted in
pride, an ugly sin, but it is not so vile, so indecent as--faugh!” and
here the friar gave a start like a man seeing some disgusting animal.
“Unfortunately,” said the young girl, trying to calm herself, “there is
a little of everything here, and pride plays an active part in this
affair. If it were not for pride, papa would marry that girl who has
turned his head so completely. People would laugh at him a little,--that
is, a good deal,--but there would be no disgrace, no crime. I should not
be obliged to submit to what has caused me such bitter sorrow ever since
I reached the years of discretion. Furthermore, I should not have
to----”
She hesitated, but finally added:
“I should not be obliged to get married.” Her revelation was of such
serious import that the friar sat amazed, shaking his head and
tightening his lips, as though saying to himself, “Bad, very bad.”
“So you----” he added, “Carmiña, let us speak without reserve, for we
are here, in a sense, as though in the confessional. You are not
marrying willingly?”
“Yes, Father, I marry willingly because I have made up my mind to do it,
and when I make up my mind to do a thing---- I formed that resolution
the day that my father told me that if Candidiña left the house, I
should leave, too. Anything rather than hear and see what I have to. I
have no other way of protesting. My filial respect ties my hands and
even my tongue. But to sanction it by my presence; no, never!”
“And your brother?” asked the friar, eagerly.
“My brother--my brother has a child every year, and they need money, and
my father gives it to them. That closes his eyes to everything; and he
has even scolded me many times for urging papa to get married. He says
that if he gets married he may have more children, and injure our
prospects. I once thought of taking refuge with my brother, but his wife
does not want me there, nor he neither. I shall not force my presence
where it is not wanted.”
The friar remained silent for a few moments, his brow knit, and his
hands pulling at the tassels of the cord which bound his waist. His face
revealed the greatest anxiety, and he coughed and breathed heavily
before venturing to speak, as though he were about to make some decisive
and weighty remark.
“Well, my child,” he said, at last, “my advice is only what any person
of ordinary judgment would give you. It is not a joke to get married,
nor does it last only for a day. No, my child, it is the most decisive
step of the whole life, for an honorable woman as you are, by the mercy
of God. Tell me the truth, do you dislike that man?”
“Dislike him?”
Another long period of silence ensued. I held my breath. The rough
branches of the yew tree cut into my flesh and the hand with which I was
clinging to the tree began to get numb.
At length Carmen spoke in a changed tone:
“Dislike him? I do not know. What I do know is that I do not feel any
great affection toward him, nor any of that enthusiastic--don’t get
frightened, Father. I do not mean enthusiastic love. Let’s see if I can
make my meaning clearer. I should like, when I get married, to be able
to look on the husband whom I am to take, in the sight of God, as a
person worthy of the respect of all the world. Father, do you think that
Felipe is--that?”
“Daughter, I speak with entire candor. I have never heard that he has
committed any crime, but his reputation is not very high in regard to
political machinations, and he is not much liked. As you have asked me,
I must tell you this.”
“That he is not much liked,” said Carmen, with remarkable sagacity,
“cannot be due to political machinations, for in that respect let him
who can win. So I think it is for some other reason. Have you noticed
his face?”
“Yes, I have. It is--goodness, I do not know how to tell you, daughter!”
“It is the face of a Jew,” said Carmen, resolutely. “It may seem
singular to you that I should say so,--I should dare say so only to you.
It is a Jewish face, indeed; so marked that it cannot be mistaken. For
that reason, when you asked me whether I disliked him, I was undecided.
That face,--it has cost me a great deal to get accustomed to it. I don’t
know whether he is ugly or good-looking, but that face----”
I was listening with all my might when, owing to a circumstance foreign
to the conversation, I was seized with sudden anguish. The fact is, I
felt the branch of which I was astride begin to creak with an ominous
slowness as though notifying me that it was not made to hold birds of my
size. Nevertheless, I kept on listening:
“Well, my child,” said the friar, resolutely, “if you feel such an
antipathy or dislike toward him as you really seem to, you should not
marry him. At least, consider whether you are able to go through with
it. Reflect well on what a married woman’s condition is. Remember that
the husband you take, whether he pleases you or not, is your life-long
companion; the only man whom it is lawful for you to love, who will be
with you one flesh,--that is what the Church says,--one flesh. He will
be the father of your children, and you owe him not only fidelity but
love; do you understand? I’ll repeat it to you,--_love_. Child, reflect,
now that there is still time; don’t be obstinate. I know it would make a
stir and trouble to break off the engagement, but so long as the
indissoluble tie does not exist--pshaw! These things furnish food for
foolish tongues for a couple of days and then are forgotten. While as
for the other, my child, death alone,--only the death of one of the
two,--can dissolve it. Do you understand what the sacrament of marriage
signifies? Do you know what a husband is to a Christian woman? I want
you to study that question well, my child. Don’t say afterward that your
friend Moreno did not warn you in time!”
Just then I broke into a cold sweat. It was not fear; no, though the
branch was breaking. The danger of falling from so great a height was
not enough to frighten me at that moment; but I dreaded the
mortification of being caught in such unworthy eavesdropping. For then I
could see clearly that my eavesdropping was unworthy, my curiosity an
affront, and my lying in ambush an outrage.
The cracking of the dry wood, that dull and agonizing cra-a-a-ck!
cra-a-a-ck! seemed to say, in its thick and broken tones: “Impertinent
meddler, gossip, Paul Pry!” I seemed to hear the Father’s disdainful
voice lashing me with these scornful words: “I had already spotted you.
I knew before that you were watching us. Fool, you thought that we were
all complacent slaves of passion, and that this young lady and I--well,
now you have seen that we are two decent people.”
Making up my mind to renounce hearing the rest of their dialogue, I
tried to slide down the branch, mount astride the next, and, branch by
branch, descend to the ball-room, and thence to the ground. The
operation as a gymnastic exercise was not difficult; but it was
impossible to carry it out without making any noise--noise which would
surely attract the attention of the two speakers and immediately betray
my hiding place. The attempts I made to measure the distance were
causing a prolonged rustling of the leaves. My only choice was to keep
calm, to hold out, not to breathe, to commend my soul to God, and to
hope everything of the strength and good nature of that branch.
Consequently, I tried not to bear my whole weight on it, and remained
half suspended in the air, in a very painful position. What exasperated
me most was not to be able to pay due attention to their conversation,
which was then more animated than ever. I do not know whether I heard
the last part very well; but I believe that the following is more or
less what Carmen said:
“It is evident that we cannot do anything without God’s assistance, but
I do not consider it vanity on my part to assure you that I shall
fulfill the duties I assume. If you knew, Father, how that word duty
sounds to me! I assure you with all the truthfulness of my soul, if I
imagined that I should fail in my duty toward him, as time goes on, I
would a thousand times rather die first. No; neither my husband, nor my
father, nor God, shall ever have any cause of complaint against me. In
that way I shall live--or shall die happy. If it were to be otherwise, I
would kill myself! I am marrying with my eyes open. Circumstances have
placed me in this peculiar position--well, then, with my eyes open, I
will be good. I don’t want to make excuses beforehand; I will be good,
even if the earth should sink!”
Let the reader smile; but these words made me wild with enthusiasm; so
much so that I even forgot my dangerous situation. I arose, as though
to applaud her, reaching out my hands toward my angel of an aunt, when,
by an involuntary movement, I fell heavily upon the branch; a terrible
noise was heard, which seemed to me like the blast of an unchained
tempest, and I instantly became aware that I was falling, slowly
falling, the heavy, thick foliage seeming to retard my fall, though I
scratched and bruised myself fearfully on the sharp points of the
smaller branches and the knobs on the larger ones. It seemed as though I
was a century falling; and in the midst of my bewilderment I thought I
heard overhead, up in the tree, exclamations, cries, and a confused
clamor.
Finally, my descent grew faster and faster. I tore some of my clothing,
and at last fell flat on my face on the turf. I bounced up like a ball,
and went off, running like a hunted deer. What I wanted was to hide
myself--to disappear--to cover up, if possible, my wrong-doing and its
ludicrous result.
This thought spurred me on, and gave me wings, and even sharpened my
wits, leading me to plunge into the covered walk through the fruit
trees, where they could not see me from the yew. From that to the little
grove was but a step, and from the grove to the arbor covered with
honeysuckle, no distance at all. Into that I rushed, and without paying
any attention to my scratched and bloody hands or my bruised condition,
excited, beside myself, I lowered myself over the wall, and, once out of
the orchard, did not consider myself safe till, pushing on through short
cuts and cross-paths, I reached the beach. “A perfect _alibi_!--I was
bathing!”
I undressed myself in a twinkling.