I would compress the history of the ten days following into as many
words. I would not weary you with the details of my love--a love that
in the space of a few hours became a passion deep and ardent.
I was young at the time; at just such an age as to be impressed by the
romantic incidents that surrounded me, and had thrown this beautiful
being in my way; at that age when the heart, unguarded by cold
calculations of the future, yields unresistingly to the electrical
impressions of love. I say electrical. I believe that at this age the
sympathies that spring up between heart and heart are purely of this
nature.
At a later period of life that power is dissipated and divided. Reason
rules it. We become conscious of the capability of transferring our
affections, for they have already broken faith; and we lose that sweet
confidence that comforted the loves of our youth. We are either
imperious or jealous, as the advantages appear in our favour or against
us. A gross alloy enters into the love of our middle life, sadly
detracting from the divinity of its character.
I might call that which I then felt my first real passion. I thought I
had loved before, but no, it was only a dream; the dream of the village
schoolboy, who saw heaven in the bright eyes of his coy class-mate; or
perhaps at the family picnic, in some romantic dell, had tasted the rosy
cheek of his pretty cousin.
I grew strong, and with a rapidity that surprised the skilful man of
herbs. Love fed and nourished the fire of life. The will often effects
the deed, and say as you may, volition has its power upon the body. The
wish to be well, to live, an object to live for, are often the speediest
restoratives. They were mine.
I grew stronger, and rose from my couch. A glance at the mirror told me
that my colour was returning.
Instinct teaches the bird while wooing his mate to plume his pinions to
their highest gloss; and a similar feeling now rendered me solicitous
about my toilet. My portmanteau was ransacked, my razors were drawn
forth, the beard disappeared from my chin, and my moustache was trimmed
to its wonted dimensions.
I confess all this. The world had told me I was not ill-looking, and I
believed what it said. I am mortal in my vanities. Are not you?
There was a guitar in the house. I had learnt in my college days to
touch the strings, and its music delighted both Zoe and her mother. I
sang to them the songs of my own land--songs of love; and with a
throbbing heart watched whether the burning words produced any
impression upon her. More than once I have laid aside the instrument
with feelings of disappointment. From day to day, strange reflections
passed through my mind. Could it be that she was too young to
understand the import of the word love? too young to be inspired with a
passion? She was but twelve years of age, but then she was the child of
a sunny clime; and I had often seen at that age, under the warm sky of
Mexico, the wedded bride, the fond mother.
Day after day we were together alone. The botanist was busy with his
studies, and the silent mother occupied with the duties of her
household.
Love is not blind. It may be to all the world beside; but to its own
object it is as watchful as Argus.
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I was skilled in the use of the crayon, and I amused my companion by
sketches upon scraps of paper and the blank leaves of her music. Many
of these were the figures of females, in different attitudes and
costumes. In one respect they resembled each other: their faces were
alike.
The child, without divining the cause, had noticed this peculiarity in
the drawings.
"Why is it?" she asked one day, as we sat together. "These ladies are
all in different costumes, of different nations; are they not? and yet
there is a resemblance in their faces! They have all the same features;
indeed, exactly the same, I think."
"It is your face, Zoe; I can sketch no other."
She raised her large eyes, and bent them upon me with an expression of
innocent wonder. Was she blushing? No!
"Is that like me?"
"It is, as nearly as I can make it."
"And why do you not sketch other faces?"
"Why! because I--Zoe, I fear you would not understand me."
"Oh, Enrique; do you think me so bad a scholar? Do I not understand all
that you tell me of the far countries where you have been? Surely I may
comprehend this as well."
"I will tell you, then, Zoe."