THE VOW.
Nothing of importance occurred on the two following days, but then
there came one on which the deed was done, the wonderful, crowning,
fateful deed. Teodoro Golfin, in whose hands the surgeon’s knife was
as the chisel of a Genius, had attempted to amend one of Nature’s most
delicate works. Unflinching and calm he took possession, as it were, in
virtue of his science and experience, of the marvellous speck in which
the glorious scheme of the Universe is epitomized and concentrated. The
task before him was nothing less than to stand face to face with the
mystery of Life; to investigate and discover the causes which hindered
a living eye from taking cognizance of things visible. For this a firm
soul was needed and a tender hand. The delicate tissue of the cornea
must be divided, the crystalline lens removed, carefully avoiding the
hyaloid membrane and the vitreous humor; the dimensions of the pupil
must be increased by an incision, and the condition of the inner
chamber of the eye ascertained by induction or by examination.
Few words were spoken after this daring expedition into a microcosm--an
enterprise not less bold than the attempt to measure the distance
between the stars, or to gauge the infinite realms of space. Those
who were present sat in silent suspense, as they might await the
resurrection of a dead man or the creation of a new world. Golfin said
nothing definite either:
“Iris contractile,” he muttered. “Retina sensitive.... Nerves living
and sound....” And yet the function, the fact, the act of seeing--where
was that?
“Time will show,” said Don Teodoro, as he carefully adjusted the
bandages. “Patience.”
And his leonine face expressed neither disappointment nor triumph,
neither hope nor doubt. Science had done all she could; it was almost
like an act of creation, like many others she has enabled us to
perform in this nineteenth century. Nature, thus boldly defied and
resenting such an intrusion on her secrets, held her peace.
The patient was strictly forbidden to see any one but his father,
who waited on him; no one else was admitted. Nela went several times
to enquire for the invalid; but she never crossed the threshold, she
waited outside till Don Manuel should come out, or his daughter, or
some member of the household. The young lady, after giving her the
fullest information and painting in lively colors the anxiety they all
felt, would go out to walk with her. One day Florentina insisted that
Nela should show her where she lived, and they went down to Centeno’s
hovel; the squalid interior horrified and disgusted Florentina; above
all, the baskets which served as the orphan’s bed.
“Well, Nela will very soon come to live with me,” said Florentina,
getting out of the stuffy hole as fast as she could, “and then she will
have a bedroom just like mine, and will dress and feed as I do.”
Dame Centeno and her two girls stood open-mouthed with astonishment at
this speech. They began to think that the hapless and neglected orphan
must have found her father in some Prince or King, as the orphans do in
the tales.
When they had left the house behind them Florentina said to her
companion: “Pray to God day and night that He may grant my dear cousin
the blessing which we all enjoy and which He has denied to him. What an
anxious state we live in! If he gains his sight a thousand delightful
things will follow and many difficulties will be removed. I have made a
solemn vow to the Virgin; I have promised that if she grants my cousin
his sight I will take under my care the very poorest creature I can
find, and give her all that can make her entirely forget her poverty,
making her my own equal in every respect, as happy and as comfortable
as I am. And it is not enough merely to give her clothes, or set her
down to a table with plenty of soup and meat. No, there is another
charity which is worth more than all the broken food and frippery in
the world--kindness, respect, consideration, and a name. I will give
her these too, and teach her to respect herself. I have found the
person I want, María--it is you. I have promised the Holy Virgin from
the bottom of my soul that if she will bestow the gift of sight on my
cousin, you shall be my sister. You shall be the same as myself, in my
house, exactly like my sister.” As she spoke Nela’s Virgin clasped the
girl in her arms and kissed her on the forehead.
It is impossible to give any idea of the poor little vagabond’s
feelings in this crowning hour of her life. An instinctive dread kept
her away from the house at Aldeacorba, a dread that was dimly mixed up
with the personality of her young benefactress, like the figures we see
in a nightmare; while, at the same time, she felt tender admiration and
reverence for her. Now and again, in her innocent bewilderment, she
fancied it must be the Virgin Mary in her actual presence; in no other
way could she conceive of the kind-heartedness which smiled upon her,
like the realms of Paradise, from the open soul of Florentina, with
its purity, tenderness, gentleness, and gracious consolations. Nela’s
honest instinct made her feel and understand at once that she could not
hate her self-constituted sister. Hate her! How could she? She felt
she must love her with all the strength of her soul. Her aversion and
repulsion sank to the bottom like a sediment after fermentation, and
there decomposed and vanished, their elements recombining to intensify
the admiration and respect she felt for her benefactress. Still, though
the feeling had disappeared, the cause remained--the sentiment which,
as it could no longer flourish singly in her soul, with that masterful
exclusiveness which is characteristic of such passions, revenged
itself by producing that utter dejection which is the very demon of
melancholy.
At Centeno’s they remarked that Nela did not eat, that she seemed
wearier than usual, that for long intervals she sat as silent and
motionless as a statue, and that she sang no longer, day or night. Her
incapacity for exertion had become absolute helplessness, and Tanasio,
having sent her to buy him some tobacco, she sat down in the road and
remained there for the rest of the day.
One morning, just a week after the operation had been performed, she
went up to the engineer’s house, and Sofía said to her: “A gift for
good news Nela! Have you heard? They have taken off the bandages
to-day, and they say he can see, that he will see quite well. Ulysses,
the foreman of the works, has just been to tell us. Teodoro has not
been here, but my husband has gone to Aldeacorba--we shall know the
truth very soon.”
Nela, as she heard it, felt more dead than alive, and crossing her
hands she exclaimed: “Blessed be the Holy Virgin who has worked this
wonder!--She, she alone has done it.”
“You are glad little one?--No wonder, for now Señorita Florentina
will keep her promise,” said Sofía in a bantering tone. “Allow me to
congratulate you, Señorita Doña Nela.--Why it is like a lottery! What
a big prize, Nelilla! And yet you may not be grateful--no, you will
not. I never yet knew any poor who were grateful. They are all proud,
and the more you give them the more they ask.--Well, it is a settled
thing that Pablo is to marry his cousin, and it is a very good match;
they are a handsome pair and she seems no fool--and she has a sweet
pretty face; what a pity to spoil such a face and figure by dressing so
villanously! No, no, if I want to dress well I will not apply to the
dressmaker at Santa Irene de Campó.”
As she spoke Don Cárlos came in; he was radiant with satisfaction and
delight.
“A complete success!” he shouted as he reached the door. “Next to God
stands my brother Teodoro!”
“It is quite certain?”
“As sure as daylight--I never believed it could be.--And what a
triumph, Sofía! What a triumph! It is my greatest pride and happiness
to be my brother’s brother. He is the king of men.--Yes, as I say:
First God, and then Teodoro!”