Despertar Para Morir (Novela) 📖💔

📚 *Despertar Para Morir* de Concha Espina es una novela cautivadora que nos sumerge en las profundidades del alma humana. La historia sigue a una protagonista que lucha contra las adversidades de la vida, enfrentando dilemas éticos, amorosos y existenciales. Con una narración llena de emoción y reflexión, Espina nos presenta un viaje a través de los sentimientos más oscuros y luminosos. 🌟

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🔹 **Temas clave de la novela:**
– El conflicto interior
– El amor y la tragedia
– La búsqueda de la redención
– La crítica social

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-Despertar Para Morir (Novela) 📖💔[https://youtu.be/vgK1Ubep9PY]

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#novela #ConchaEspina #literaturaclasica #despertarparamorir #libros #lectura #novelasilenciosa #emocion #amor #tragico #clásicos #historia #literatura #feminismo #dramaticodiverso #romance #redencion #librosrecomendados #lectores #narrativa #reflexion

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In this intense and deeply symbolic work, Concha Espina immerses us in a reflection on life, death, and the meaning of existence. ‘Waking Up to Die’ is not simply a novel, but a spiritual experience that intertwines realism with the mystical, despair with revelation. Through characters marked by suffering and introspection, the author constructs an atmosphere charged with emotion and transcendence, inviting the reader to question their own destiny. Prepare to delve into a story where every word carries the weight of an existential truth. Chapter 1. “Here we live a true country life,” said the marchioness with a negligent gesture. Here we savor the pleasures of “the hidden path”… My daughters are delighted with this freedom… Years ago they had the desire to spend a summer at _Las Palmeras_, already bored with Biarritz, San Sebastián… Saint-Jean-de-Luz… Smiling amiably, López, the Marquis’s provincial schoolmate, repeated: “Very well… very well… perfectly…” And in his cold, gray eyes, which looked into the lady’s beautiful face, there was an expression of refined mischief. “The countryside,” added the Marquise, “is a delightful novelty to me.” These landscapes, this peace, this silence, are like a bath for the soul… One feels younger here… Isn’t that true, my friend?… In the big cities, life is lived so fast that even fifteen-year-old boys there show signs of premature old age… How could I live forever in the country!… Those of us who occupy a certain position in the world are like kings, prisoners of ourselves… Only the poor are free… In a tone of profound cordiality, López agreed: “Perfectly… very much so…” And the good gentleman was thinking: “My illustrious friend the Marchioness of Coronado is now inclined toward the pastoral life… toward holy poverty… The coquetries and whims of a beautiful and idle woman!… And mind you, she is beautiful… still! She seems to me to be a figure by Rubens… with a little southern malice… I could swear I’d seen her portrait in the Medici Gallery.” The tired and sad afternoon light, a melancholy northern afternoon, filtered through the windows of the parlor where the Marchioness of Coronado was entertaining her friends. The room was modern and elegant, but with some traces of bad taste in the decor and furniture. No doubt the owners of the house weren’t very particular about aesthetics. In a corner of the parlor, next to the piano, a group of girls were engaged in animated conversation. “This good López,” said one of them, whom they called Teresita, “is a delightful man… Everything seems fine to him… He’s a perfect minister for all ministries… He doesn’t find foolish men or ugly women… He seems like a parlor magazine racket… ” “If he were younger and had more income, he’d make an excellent husband,” remarked Clara, an ingenue, who had just dressed in her long gown. “A man who says ‘amen’ to everything is the ideal husband.” “Well, I wouldn’t want such an accommodating husband,” declared Benigna, the Marchioness’s eldest daughter. “I like men who know how to be so… men of energy and character… Instead of a Lopez, I prefer Petruchio in The Taming of the Shrew, and, if nothing else, Othello, the Moor of Venice…” All the girls laughed, and a mocking look shone in Benigna’s black, burning eyes . Her sister Isabel, a gentle, witty, and talkative girl, famous for her words and deeds, added very seriously: “This girl has plebeian tastes… A jealous husband! God forbid! That’s no longer in fashion anywhere… Jealousy is in bad taste… ” “There is no true love without jealousy,” replied Benigna enthusiastically. Optimism is indifference or hypocrisy… To say everything is “perfectly” is to think “what does it matter to me?” López’s optimism is coldness of heart… There you have, on the other hand, that eternal murmurer, Pizarro, who is worth much more than López. I am not saying that Pizarro discovered gunpowder or even conquered Peru… He is a “poor man,” but at least a man of character… She renounces everything, but she is capable of having traits… Benigna was still making sentences with her sententious chatter when Pizarro entered the living room, coughing loudly and rubbing his hands. “Very bad afternoons,” he said in a hoarse voice. “Because I suppose you won’t think they are good, with this subtle cold and these gray skies… I’ve caught my first cold…” Teresita spoke with a faint accent: “The first?… I’m on “the third season”… This is horrible… what a time! ” Pizarro corrected himself in a bad mood. “It’s not that I number this one I’m debuting today on a whim; I classify it using that kind of adjective that’s going around these days; they say: “the first scare”… “the first blow”… “Ah!… right…” the girl sighed, at the height of boredom. “Then,” the Marchioness said with a smile, “this will be ‘the first summer’… ” “Perfectly,” López assured her very courteously. And Pizarro, addressing the lady of the house, begged: “Will you give me permission to shiver… I can’t help it. ” The Marchioness condescendingly replied: “You are very exaggerated in your complaints, my friend; it’s a bit cool, the temperature typical of the country; I am very pleased with this cloudy sky and this refreshing, pure sea breeze … ” “Yes… yes…” Teresita murmured. The amiable López smiled at everyone, while Pizarro made a sour gesture of protest. “It’s scorching in Madrid… here we shiver with cold… Nature is an eternal paradox… And then they expect us men to be reasonable!” The girls who were at the other end of the room had approached the group of “serious” people. Only one young woman, blond and beautiful, dressed in white, remained seated by the gate, looking out at the garden. Teresita had changed chairs several times. She couldn’t stay in the same place for five minutes, and she left moans of annoyance throughout the room . The Marchioness’s two girls teased Pizarro, offering him a blanket, a hot punch, a pectoral pill… Clara appeared at one of the windows overlooking the grand avenue of Las Palmeras and soon turned her face toward the living room, announcing: “Here’s Eva, with her mother… Galán is with them.” The malicious and curious girls whispered. “They’re in agreement… ” “She’s chasing him…” “Well, he doesn’t seem to be a flashy one!” “He’s brave.” “He’s a fool.” The Marchioness intervened with prudent insinuation: “Come on, girls… why these jokes?… You all love Eva… Luis Galán is an excellent young man…” They fell silent, laughing, except for Isabelita, who whispered: “Yes… just in case…” and looked at her mother, who was walking away from there with an air of supreme dignity. Chapter 2. An announcement was made from behind the door: “The ladies of Guerrero… Don Luis Galán…” Doña Manuela entered first, flushed and panting, distributing shrill kisses and expressive greetings, struggling to maintain, amidst her fatigue, her composure and affectation. “I’m exhausted,” she sighed condolently. “These children insisted on coming on foot from the beach… how suffocating!… Of course, they ‘re so busy!… And this morning, out shopping… I only sat down to eat!” The girls were enjoying themselves, looking at each other with a joyful joking tone. The blonde girl in the white dress had left her contemplation to greet Mrs. Guerrero, and as she approached her, she folded her sweet, thoughtful mouth into a slight smile. Behind Doña Manuela appeared Eva, her daughter, a beautiful and arrogant woman, and in the background Luis Galán, a handsome, insubstantial, and conceited young man. Eva had already entered the room and was still carrying on with Galán a graceful game of affectionate little words, unfinished phrases, insinuating accents… a complete high-school flirtation. Following the beautiful girl, Galán smiled, showing off his magnificent teeth. After the conventional greetings, the girls returned to their favorite corner, taking Miss Guerrero with them, whose Her companion enveloped them in a smile, all white with the ivory of her precious teeth. Eva, raising her lush bust amidst the common girls of the house, dominated the room, attracting all their admiration. Over the plants and elegant furniture, Pizarro and López squinted to better approach the delightful image of that woman. The Marchioness also glanced furtively while talking with Doña Manuela, and the girls spelled out Eva’s beauty with hidden spite, with the exception of the silent, blond girl, who had quietly placed the naive admiration of her blue eyes upon her. There was a somber and overwhelming charm in Eva Guerrero’s countenance , tragic at times. In the dark pallor of her oval face, her sensual mouth opened like a bloody, trembling carnation, and her sovereign black eyes radiated from her cheeks with a metallic, ardent glow that was fascinating. Over those tyrant eyes, her eyebrows arched with the boldness of a Gothic arch, and the curly fringe of her eyelids fell with the majesty of twilight into the intense livor of her dark circles. The nervous elegance of her neck and hands; her round and robust breasts; the richness of her sloe-black hair; the slenderness of her waist; the fullness and proportion of her form; the grace and ease of her attitude—everything in that woman breathed strength and beauty, physical vehemence and firmness of will. Her voice, a little harsh, which when speaking to men became flexible and sweet, rose easily in frivolous conversation, with less wit than levity. And in the deep abyss of her eyes, sweet enough to deceive, strange flashes of lightning sometimes ignited, sparks of a wild spirit. She was accustomed to dressing with exaggerated luxury, displaying her primitive soul in the richness of her fabrics and the abundance of her jewels, without the elegant simplicity of refined and intelligent spirits. In the salon of Las Palmeras, before Galán’s foolish smile, the beautiful woman squandered her coquettishness and flirtations, the fireworks of an ardent and covetous heart, inclined to all the vain pleasures of the world. A beauty without a dowry, a hardened husband-hunter, she contemplated with anguish the decline of her youth; the lights of the setting sun that lit up her face burned her soul; she felt a secret envy of richer and younger women, even when they were less beautiful. Taking her gaze away for a moment from the insipid handsome man, she searched with rancor for those serene blue eyes of the girl in the white dress, whose sweet beauty irritated her. But the blond girl, elusive and silent, had sat down again by the window, her sky-blue eyes still stubbornly looking out at the garden. Chapter 3. A carriage stopped at the foot of the hall steps, and Teresita ran to the window grille to poke out her birdlike head and say at once: “It’s your carriage, Marchioness; Rafael is coming, and he’s bringing Luisa. ” There was then another malicious whisper among the young group, and a bold voice said: “They’re coming in pairs… ” The Marchioness went out to meet the arriving lady, an arrogant woman in the height of summer, dressed with exquisite simplicity and graceful in speech and gestures. In a silvery voice, upon entering, she declared: “Rafaelito, who came to visit me, has insisted on bringing me in the carriage… ” “I’ve never been better off,” assured the lady of the house. And after a few introductions and pleasantries, he took the beautiful girl by the arm and made room for her on the sofa. Rafaelito stood in the middle of the living room, bowing gracefully. Never had a man deserved the derogatory nickname “seven-month-old” more justly than the only son of the Marquis of Coronado. He was puny, small, and club-footed. On his puny torso, a huge head swayed , held with effort by a long, sinuous neck. His countenance was of such “perfect” ugliness that it inspired emotion; one could look at him with disgust or joy, never with indifference. From that caricature of a man came a dull, deep voice, which He had the rare privilege of dominating all conversations and reigning over all ears with a strange delight, even if the strange, booming voice only happened to utter a few words of substance. Rafaelito was loved by his sisters and adored by his parents; he enjoyed the sympathy of the most beautiful women and was sought after and preferred in all the centers of “good society.” No great party was without his presence, nor any aristocratic scandal without his involvement, and in forbidden love affairs in the kitchen and the drawing room, he always revolved successfully around some star of the first magnitude. That year, like his sisters, he had had the whim of spending the summer at Las Palmeras, perched above a wonderful beach, a short distance from a northern capital. Perhaps he would have been too bored, in the relative calm of that modest summer vacation, if Luisa Ramírez hadn’t captivated him there with the delicious attractions of her brilliant sunset… Luisa boasted of being an extravagant and brilliant artist. A great reader of all kinds of books, and a lover of all sorts of paradoxes, she boldly went out to meet the most daring gossipmongers. “Aesthetic emotion,” she used to say, speaking of Rafaelito, “lies in absolute beauty as much as in absolute ugliness. Ugly becomes beautiful through the energetic expression of character. This young man, a product of the old corrupt aristocracies, is a beautiful example of decadence, a work of art, worthy of the brush of Rembrandt or Goya. And in the end, it is preferable for a lady to have such a graceful little man behind her rather than one of those lapdogs so much to the Marchioness’s taste.” Rafaelito exchanged a few gallant remarks with the girls as he entered and hurried over to the group where Luisa was. Then, around the piano, the perverse criticism intensified in a low voice . “He’s gaining ground,” Teresita said, rocking in the rocking chair with too much freedom. “This boy is so lucky!” exclaimed Benigna proudly. “Why, he’s such a delightful boy!” affirmed her sister Isabel. “God save me from handsome men! They’re complete fools!” And she glanced at Luis Galán. “Talent’s useless,” said the handsome man, smiling. “It’s not even good enough to excuse poverty,” added Clarita, also calling her witty. “Being poor is worse than being stupid,” asserted Benigna very formally. “Perhaps they’re both the same thing…” Eva, who was on tenterhooks upon hearing such foolish allusions, tried to divert the conversation and said, with a disdainful gesture, that Ramírez’s seemed a bit too shabby to her. Galán clumsily allowed himself to contradict her, opining that the lady was very good-looking. When Eva tried to confuse him with a reproachful glance, he was deeply occupied in cultivating the symmetry of his silky beard. Meanwhile, Clarita was smiling, “That poor Luisa ‘has already fallen’… That’s what talent is for… Didn’t I tell you?” And she began to hum a popular tango, full of salt and pepper. The pensive, blond girl was too close to the cursing group to avoid hearing their ribald conversation. She had picked up a book to excuse her withdrawal; but the afternoon light was fading in the garden, and she had to fold the book on her knees. To make her take part in the conversation, Galán asked her: “And you, María, what do you say to this?” A soft, crystalline voice rose, responding a little uncertainly: “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Approaching the girl, Galán replied with a mysterious accent: “About Rafael’s Idyll.” And then María said, not without a certain timidity: “Doña Luisa is very good… ” “But, my God, who said she’s bad?” replied the Infante cynically. Everyone celebrated the idea, and the book trembled in María’s hands over the white skirt of her dress. Galán stared at her, not remembering to smile or smooth his beard; and Eva, watching him, hid a flash of anger in the sullen shadows of her eyes. Chapter 4. The Marchioness was telling Luisa Ramírez: “Of the two girls I introduced you to, Teresita Vidal, the one in the rocking chair, is the daughter of the famous doctor of the Palace. Orphaned by her mother, an only child, spoiled and full of whims, sickly and neurasthenic, they recommend fresh air and a peaceful life for her, but she gets bored and tired everywhere. Vidal is our doctor; in Madrid we see each other a lot; so now the girl, who came to this beach with a respected lady, spends most of the day with us; at the hotel she says she’s desperate… The other girl, Clara Infante, is also a good friend of my daughters, a cheerful and easygoing woman from Madrid who is always joking. To stay close to Benigna and Isabel, she came this year to the country house owned by some of her relatives nearby; but you could say she lives with us.” Most nights he sleeps here… That young man, Luis Galán, is a close friend of Rafael’s; despite this, I don’t know much about his background, but in Madrid he mixes with the best of society, and you see him ” everywhere”; he must be rich, because he has excellent connections, and then… with that figure! “Yes,” said Luisa a little mordantly, “he has exquisite teeth. ” “My son,” added the marchioness, “encouraged him to spend the summer here. ” “And is he happy? ” “Galán always is; and besides,” the lady confidentially insinuated, shying away from Doña Manuela, “he now has reason to be so… Eva, the prettiest girl you have in the capital, distinguishes him greatly, haven’t you noticed? ” “I’ve hardly had time… It would be good if she were finally “distinguished”… ” “Yes; She’s unlucky, because she’s very pretty, has an illustrious surname, and is “staying” … –Surnames and beauty are worth very little if they are not accompanied by shameful money. We live in such prosaic times! –But is it true that they are…? –Very crazy! –And this luxury, then? –The last effort to catch a husband, an effort full of vanity and anguish. –Bad system… –Yes, very bad… But tell me, Marchioness, is this friend of Rafael’s a fool?… The Marchioness laughed heartily and answered very quietly with sarcasm: –He seems so, but he can’t be… I’ve noticed that, despite his flirtations with Eva, he likes my niece María more… she has a lot of money… Pizarro was arguing in a lively group with Doña Manuela, happy not to let his polemical talents idle for a moment, and, close to both of them, López, patient and amiable, was nodding: –Agreed… agreed… very much so… Rafaelito was looking at Luisa avidly, sitting on the arm of an armchair. The horn of a car was heard nearby, and the room was lit up as the Marchioness was saying to her new friend: –Eva and Galán met here. This girl’s father was a close friend of the Marquis, and because the poor girl is ruined, my husband wants us to show her every possible attention… “Very well done,” Luisa affirmed, “it is a sign of piety that does you credit… And this Señor Pizarro? ” “Ah! He’s a very famous fellow: ex-soldier, ex-businessman, ex-politician… in eternal opposition to everything divine and human… He landed on this beach by chance, tired of traveling all the known ones and cursing them all… He amuses us greatly; he’s furious because the sun doesn’t rise… ” “Is he married? ” “Yes… but he’s separated from his wife… didn’t I tell you that he’s a dissident from everything established?” Chapter 5. The Marquis entered with great solemnity and punctually and courteously greeted the entire gathering, without omitting a single phrase or a smile appropriate for the occasion. Imagine a gentleman of an arrogant and majestic type, one of those archetypes often used to represent noble old age in marble and bronze . The broad, clear forehead; the large, lively eyes ; the aquiline nose; the abundant, silky hair, white as The snow, like his beard, an apostle’s beard, all curly; his body tall and muscular; his demeanor grave and stately… Can you imagine, with such a “beautiful covering,” a base and lazy understanding, a spirit of insurmountable vulgarity? Mother Nature is fond of playing these cruel jokes on us. Without moving his lips, the marquis imposed his presence: he was a nobleman of the old Castilian stock, with the appearance of a constable or a master; but as soon as he opened his mouth, all the commonplaces and epic nonsense made available to the unintelligent would burst forth in a fluent discourse. And the worst of it was that the good gentleman liked to talk about everything, with a self-sufficiency, with a pause and emphasis that was horrifying. Imagine for a moment Michelangelo ‘s Moses , opening his marble lips to utter a remark, and you’ll have a clear idea of ​​Señor Don Agustín María Celada y Osorio, Marquis of Coronado. After greeting his friends and caressing the beautiful face of the marchioness and the pale, malicious faces of his daughters with a protective gaze, he pompously announced, erecting his arrogant bust in the middle of the room. “Great news…” There was a movement of unease and curiosity. “Has the ministry fallen?” López asked in a soft voice. “Is the world coming to an end?” Teresita’s plaintive voice sighed tediously. “Has the queen given birth?” Pizarro asked. “It’s nothing like that… calm down,” replied the Marquis with an enigmatic gesture. “My news is a little more modest and of a nature that we might call internal… without universal or political scope… One of them is that Gracián Soberano is arriving tomorrow… ” “Gracián here!” exclaimed several voices. And many indiscreet eyes turned toward the Marchioness. Smiling, a little pale, the lady skillfully concealed her disquietude, despite the persistent stares of her children. “Who told you Gracián is coming?” asked Rafael, uneasy and frowning, without taking his eyes off his mother. “That’s another of my news,” added the nobleman, stroking his beard and smiling with great complacency. “A Madrid journalist… a poet… a playwright… a very good friend of mine told me … ” “He must be a good playwright, then!” whispered Clara in Teresita’s ear. “Of the small variety,” Teresa added disdainfully. “Nenúfar told me that he’s just arrived,” the Marquis said at last. “Has he come?” the Madrid crowd cried in chorus. Then Teresita murmured: “What a nuisance!” And Clara confessed: “What joy! ” “He’s come,” Don Agustín repeated, very satisfied, “and he’ll be here in half an hour; I’ve left him at the hotel and I’ve agreed to send the auto to bring him as soon as he’s dressed.” Clara, very fond of easy jokes, approached Coronado, asking him something in a low voice… To which he replied, dying of laughter: “My God, Clara… you are a delightful little devil… _Nenúfar_ is coming back from a long trip, and while you are here you will want to present yourself as he knows how to do… “Yes, all sentimental,” Isabel criticized implacably, “with a monocle and a gardenia… saying _blue_ words… reciting modernist verses, with _green_ nonsense…, and staying to eat every day with a _black_ appetite… But, Papa, what friends you have! ” With pouts of protest, Clara rushed to say, feigning great anger: “Well! I will not allow _my_ poet to be slandered…” The melodious voice of Luisa Ramírez cut short the flights of some equivocal jokes that were beginning to emerge from those malicious little mouths. “They had told me,” Luisa said, “that tonight the Marquis was going to introduce you to our poet… a true poet…” And Rafaelito’s hoarse accent resounded in the room, as he called out a name: “Diego Villamor… ” “It’s true,” the Marquis stated, “I love the friendship of intellectuals… Ah, madam! Literature, art, poetry… are… without a doubt… my most prized emblems… Talent… is my weakness… I greatly admire Villamor’s talent, and not tonight, but yes, very soon, I must bring him here… Oh, the poets!… I have always been a friend of all the poets… I myself wrote verses in my early youth… I had the honor of being awarded a prize at some Floral Games… Weakly, jumping to another chair, Teresita moaned: “Good heavens… a shower of poets!… This is intolerable!” Then Eva Guerrero said with an air of smugness: “Diego Villamor is also a great novelist… He has just achieved a resounding success with his work _Almas sedientas_. The highest critics have consecrated him as a master of the contemporary novel… They say he is destined to become an academic… A most brilliant future awaits him… You will have already read it in the newspapers…” Almost all the guests said yes, highly praising the high qualities of the Cantabrian poet. Only Clara, somewhat hostile toward the poet’s beautiful apologist, murmured disdainfully: “I’m very well-versed in matters of higher criticism, but I’ve never heard of “that” Villamor…” There were a few smiles. Doña Manuela came to her daughter’s aid in defending the absent countryman, and like someone offering the most complete praise of a gentleman, she explained: “He’s a good catch.” The joy of the gathering increased with these ingenuous words, and to hide the laughter that played on her lips, Luisa Ramírez said: “Villamor will find two friends here… Eva and María…” Eva replied with aplomb: “He’s a young man with a future.” And Maria sweetly assured them: “Diego is very good…” The girls laughed again, in time with the crystalline voice that sounded miraculously in the salon of Las Palmeras, and Clara, as if it were beyond dispute, secretly pronounced: “That girl is stupid…” While these minute events were taking place, Galán was stroking his beard with lazy delight; Pizarro was growling wildly after arguing with the marchioness about the feminine problem; the marquis was launching his comical eloquence into the middle of the salon, uttering heresies on matters of art; Rafaelito looked at Luisa with his large, saurian eyes, and López, “good López,” was constantly repeating his favorite crutches: “Very well… appropriate… perfectly…” Chapter 6. At last, _Nenúfar_ arrived, just as Isabel had described it; Dressed with boastful elegance, sporting romantic locks of hair, a gardenia , and a monocle. His face was shaven, his dark and sad face, with a tired and vicious expression, a mask of a bohemian and artificial life. He was received with mocking jubilation by the Madrid community; under the protective aegis of the marquis, he paraded through the salon in triumph, pursued by the curious glances of the provincial ladies. Immediately understanding and accepting his role as a distinguished actor, he brought to light the long repertoire of exalted gallantries he had displayed in verse and prose during his long career as an elegant rogue and salon poet. Brandishing his stubborn monocle insistently, he spoke volumes about the noble hospitality of that house: “Illustrious home, in whose old coat of arms, the caudal eagles made their nest and their nest, also, the nightingales… ” He then spoke of the excellences of …that wild coast, great singular orchestra, that intones the symphony, the barbaric symphony of the winds and the sea… As the marquis later explained to him, the repetition of the word _symphony_ in these verses was a marvelous display of “poetic instrumentation”… He also spoke of the landscape, of the admirable mountain landscape, ” pathetic sonata in gray major.” …Winter melancholy, profound melancholy, which lulls and enraptures like the image of the eternal… Grey sky, wet earth, silence, sadness, and an old abandoned tower, an old tower in love with the moon… These verses seemed to the poet “the last word of sensation,” and he said so with great pride and graceful petulance. He discoursed at length on classical poetry and modern poetry; on the mystics and decadents; on Saint Teresa and Saint John of the Cross, Verlaine and Rubén Darío; mixing the divine with the human, the old with the new, poetry with the extravagant; mentioning books and authors with astonishing boldness, dazzling the candid Marquis of Coronado with new theories of rhythm, the “color of vowels,” and others of that ilk. And as he noticed certain signs of boredom in the audience, he turned to the ladies, regaling them with absurd flirtations and thoughtful phrases. He found María “albescent,” Eva “red-faced,” and Ramírez’s wife “emerald-colored.” He compared the Marquis’s daughters to “daughters of the Rhine,” and called the Marchioness Walkyria, “a goddess immune to the crackling of fire.” He must have used such language in the lyrical expression of his admiration that the honored ladies, ignorant of that modernist jargon , were left speechless. López didn’t understand a word either, but, true to form, he repeated, enraptured: “Very well… agreed… perfectly…” When the rejoicing produced by Nenúfar’s words had subsided , the conversation turned to the imminent arrival of Gracián Soberano, and the young modernist extolled the traveler’s life and miracles to the skies , frequently tapping his monocle in the direction of the lady of the house. “Gracián is an extraordinary man,” affirmed Nenúfar, “he is the prototype of the superman. He has as much of the hero as of the discreet; both of valor and courtesy; his chest is of diamond and his word of gold… I see in him encrypted the star of the ancient “sculptors of towns”… Gracián is the hope of young Spain… Coronado and his girls joined their praises to the exaggerated praises of _Nenúfar_, and Clara and Galán also caught the contagious contagion of that enthusiastic apology. Even Vidal’s indifferent girl soliloquized devoutly, moving to another chair: “Gracián Soberano… I believe it!” The novelty of the matter had the provincial guests in suspense. Eva and Luisa listened with visible interest to this litany of praises, to which the marchioness joined in the chorus with the naturalness of a consummate actress. López was lavishing his crutches with the greatest satisfaction, and the stubborn murmurer, Pizarro, was in vain searching for a vulnerable side from which to assault, with a devastating argument, that bizarre fortress of flowers, over which a legend and a name triumphantly boasted. “Gracián… Gracián…” he muttered under his breath. “All crowds need an idol… And in Spain, when men are lacking, idols are created for greater comfort… A hero… a superman… that’s nothing! But, after all, who is Gracián? A fortunate adventurer, a clever man, an orator… here where we all live at random and are great orators and are too clever!… Poor Gracián… and poor Spain!” Dreamy, heavenly eyes opened with childlike curiosity over that name and that legend, and Rafaelito balanced his enormous, slightly faint and thoughtful Velazquez-style jester head in conversation… Chapter 7. One afternoon, behind the door, the name “Pilgrim” rang out, passing from mouth to mouth, illuminated by the brilliance of every eye. Gracián Soberano appeared in the doorway. María could not repress a movement of instinctive curiosity. She looked at the stranger and suddenly felt a certain disappointment. They had praised Gracián so much that she imagined she saw him as an extraordinary being, similar to a prince from a fairy tale. He was a man of medium height, simple in appearance, elegant without affectation. His curly black hair, his bold dark eyes, his fine straight nose, his strong, well-shaped lips, his dark, glowing complexion gave the impression of a virile and energetic beauty, of complete maturity. Upon entering the drawing-room, he paused for a moment to take him in at a glance. He advanced with elegant ease, approached the lady of the house, and, taking her hand, bowed gallantly. Then he greeted the other familiar people and allowed himself to be embraced by the Marquis, who tenderly said to him: “Blessed are your eyes!” He was solemnly presented to the new guests. Gracián had words and smiles of exquisite civility for all of them, fully proving that he was a perfect man of the world. “I come from Bilbao,” he said, explaining his presence in those places, “where I went to study a mining business… There I learned that you were at Las Palmeras… A new opportunity arose for me to see my favorite friends… I will spend a few days on this beach; it is a brief respite that I am allowing myself. ” “Always the same,” replied the delighted Marquis, “you cannot be idle. ” “I am attracted by the struggle, I am tempted by action, I am enamored with risk… I feel the poetry of travel and business, the fever of activity… I spent some time abroad seeking new directions for my endeavors; But, in the end, I felt the desire to return to our country… that mischievous nostalgia!… When I’m in my homeland, I hate it, and when I leave it, I love it; I am only a good Spaniard outside of Spain! That condition, after all, of Spaniards, of restless spirits who only adore what they don’t possess… He spoke of his travels abroad with extraordinary amenity, sprinkling the story with witty observations; he recounted some original adventures, recounting his triumphs under the veil of a studied modesty. He seemed a man of much learning and well-read , and the words came to his easy and submissive lips, fired by the fire of a vibrant eloquence. “Doesn’t politics attract you?” asked the Marquis, who listened to him raptly. “Psé!” “I had some flirtations with that lady,” Gracián responded smiling, “but I am more seduced by the life of business… Politics is the art of old nations, and I am enchanted by new nations, enamored of the future, resounding with factories and gold, crowned by the lofty virtues of labor and intelligence… The world lives and progresses for economic reasons… Statesmen are prisoners of businessmen… In Spain, everything is infected by politics, and it is necessary to guide the youth along the paths of free activity. It is necessary to awaken this great people, asleep in the shadow of its cathedrals, and launch it into modern life , into that torrent of beautiful energies that runs through the world… The Marquis’s companions, accustomed to the frivolous chatter of the salons, a foolish game of phrases with pretensions of elegance and wit, felt as if surprised by that impetuous word, full of imagery and penetrated with emotion. Gracián understood this, and encouraged by the religious anointing with which he listened, spoke of politics, art, literature, business… He did not delve deeply into such diverse subjects; but he touched on them with skill and boldness, imbuing his discourse with an admirable force of persuasion. Words inflamed him; intoxicated by his own words, his eyes shining and his face illuminated, he brought out the smallest thoughts with the vigor of his expression and the natural grace of his manner. From the first moment, he captured the ladies’ sympathies; Gracián was a master in the art of flattering women, flattering them, and attacking, like a cunning psychologist, the weak point of feminine vanity. “Woman,” he would say with his gallant smile, “is not only the ornament of life, but also the reason and the impulse of all great actions. Behind every hero there is always a heroine; that neither the heart nor the intelligence of men are moved without the help of a woman’s delicate hand… The guests had gathered around Gracián, spellbound by his conversation. Only Pizarro followed with a mocking gaze the bold and volatile flight of the moving word. Those superficial and impressionable people, although they did not understand much of Gracián’s speeches, were no less enchanted. López had a dazzling smile on his lips ; Clarita, with dazzled eyes, repeated in a low voice:
“Delicious!… delicious!… “A great artist!” Eva would say. “A nightingale!” thought the Ramírez woman. “Exciting,” asserted Nenúfar. The marquis looked at his wife and children as if to say: “These are the friends I have!” And the dissident Pizarro grumbled harshly under his breath. “Fin-de-siècle oratory… to épater les bourgeois…” The conversation finally became general; but as soon as the stranger opened his mouth, everyone listened with profound interest… María was standing by one of the windows. Evening was falling; the setting sun, tearing through the tenacious canopy of clouds, bathed the park in brilliant reflections, gently gilding the soft, wet earth. A lush rosebush climbed the wall of the villa and showed the purple of its roses through the glass. Everything was beautiful and sad that summer afternoon. “What a beautiful landscape!” murmured Gracián, leaning out of the window. “Isn’t it true that it’s moving?” he added, fixing his eyes on María. “These landscapes are touching and reach the depths of the heart… When you look at that horizon, your mind flies, like a swallow, to the land of dreams… It is so sweet to dream!” The young woman listened in silence, and moved by the caressing word , she thought she saw in the man’s face a great glow of youth. “Beautiful sunset!” continued Soberano. “It has a sadness and a sweetness! I don’t know why, I imagine that, when you look at it, you feel a brotherly tenderness… You are beautiful and sad like that twilight… Something of your soul floats in the soul of that landscape… ” María did not reply; She felt an inexplicable disturbance, something very sweet and profound that rose from her chest and trembled on her lips and shone in her eyes, in those blue and thoughtful eyes. Chapter 8. The days at Las Palmeras grew livelier from the moment Gracián arrived at the beach, preceded by Nenúfar. In the “feminine element,” the struggle of petty passions grew subdued around the two women, the pride of those gatherings, Eva and María, who stood out from the rest with easy dominance. Luisa Ramírez, whose youth was declining into a delightful summer maturity, was precisely the only one who gazed without anger at the triumphant beauty of the two girls. In María, she was the gift of beauty, a passive and melancholic grace, a divine light ignited in her countenance like a radiance of the soul; and in Eva, she was an aggressive and proud gift, a red flame of pride, a threat of slavery and pain. Heiress to a considerable fortune, María grew up in the sad peace of her ancestral home, nestled deep in a northern valley, near a heraldic town. Mourning the untimely death of her parents, she appeared in the world alone and as a child, with a vague longing filled with timidity and delicate wonder. She soothed the grave grief of her sorrows with her white summer robes when her uncle, the Marquis of Coronado, wanted her to accompany them for a few days to Las Palmeras, without abandoning the close guardianship of Doña Cándida, a blessed lady who cared for the girl with maternal solicitude, watching over her with her affection from any corner that was conducive to prayer, sighing and complaining, saying in a low voice: “Oh, my God!” María was alien to the worldly company of people; She only knew the patriarchal customs of good village society, and, during her brief visits to the capital, she had barely been introduced to the life of the salons. But from her native distinction emerged, with natural and highly elegant flair, an aristocratic aroma full of attractive simplicity, and in the noble repose of her manners, in her very observant and thoughtful silences, there was a romantic placidity, a grave lordly mystery. Her beauty seasoned by the maturity of her thirties, already skilled in the twists and turns of life, Eva Guerrero knew everything about the world that her young friend María Ensalmo quietly ignored. Neither her country background nor the long-standing relationships of both noble families united the two girls more than a weak, well-mannered friendship, rootless. and without flowers. The arrogant brunette with sultana eyes had a rebellious and ambitious heart. She believed herself entitled to happiness for having been born noble and beautiful; the setbacks of fortune, which placed a suicidal weapon in her father’s hands, irritated Eva’s pride without taming her harsh nature. She dominated her intemperance only through coquetry; but, even in the moments when her voice feigned soft cadences and honeyed laughter, a ruthless gleam shone in her eyes. She was a few years older than Maria, a new cause for resentment; she was already watching her star decline and the entire retinue of her ardent illusions disappear into the twilight . Between Eva and Maria, between these two women whose lives were to run side by side on different paths of pain, a border of ill- concealed feelings arose. The deep-set black eyes always gazed with secret perfidy into the blue eyes, bright and peaceful like a shred of the calm sky… For the prodigious traveler, whose name was Gracián Soberano, those two women were a tempting novelty, the “dish of the day” in his insatiable appetite for flirtation. Gracián didn’t care that his prolonged stay in those sandy Cantabrian beaches appeared as a whim or as a promise he was keeping with his complacent friend Generosa de la Dádiva, Marchioness of Coronado. In the majestic haughtiness with which he strode through life , never stumbling and always victorious, he also didn’t take care to hide the fact that Eva, María, and Luisa, the three flowers of the coast, seemed adorable to him; and he even allowed himself to declare publicly that in Las Palmeras there was another charming provincial woman, a very well-groomed and gentle maiden named Rosa. _Nenúfar_ had also noticed it, and stationed in the _hall_ of the villa, while slowly arranging his hat and cane, he had recited to the young woman a modernist prayer, so extravagant and pompous, that the good girl, believing that she was being spoken to in a strange language, red and confused, murmured: “I don’t understand… ” She was perceptive, however, in “understanding” the bold language of the bohemian’s hands, and she contained her “explanation” with such agility and courage, that the greedy man, warned, became prudent and humble with her, and, hidden from the ladies, in brief delightful consolations, confessed that his name was only Simón Ruiz, and that he was a poor vagabond, a talented rogue, who, besieged by hunger, “played the _Nenúfar_”… and other worse things… His pained accent wounded the tender heart of the girl, who became a little more humane at the loving demands of the young man; and without delay, before a mischievous and gentle smile from the young woman, _Nenúfar_ also declared that Clara Infante was a capricious pervert, and that he only liked the fresh poppies of the countryside, the pretty women of the village: Flowers of blood and sun, in whose lips, the pure essence of love is drunk… Chapter 9. While _Nenúfar_ demonstrated his hungry sagacity by soliciting Rosita’s appetizing favors and cultivating Clara’s, more refined and exquisite ones, Gracián, who did things in a big way, seized, in the crowded salon of _Las Palmeras_, the admiration and applause of all the women, squandering his arts and falling in love with them “in turn”… His elegant posture, his manly bearing, his grace and his eloquence gave him an indisputable dominance in society, where he played with his own prestige as with a card, in reckless displays of good fortune, always winning. Gracián had dazzled the “world,” that monstrous, anonymous entity that frightens many men of positive talent, with the bold brilliance of his eyes, the vibrant undulations of his voice, and the gallant gesture of his person. And the terrible world, deceived like a child, had mistaken the seductive farce in which Gracián lived for an admirable existence. Fascinated women and foolish or candid men assured him that Gracián was a great artist, a brilliant businessman, “an eagle and a “nightingale”; as Water Lily would say, a “superman”… Beneath the stupendous fable, there was only a perfect comedian, a highway robber, artfully disguised with imaginary virtues. One day he appeared at court with airs of fortune and distinction, saying he came from Paris, where he had studied at various faculties at the University. Since he seemed rich and handsome, and claimed to be “of good family,” he was admitted to very select circles, gaining the friendship of influential people. The Marchioness of Coronado took him under her wing, much to the detriment of the Marquis’s honor and money , and that young man of obscure origins rose like foam. His weakness cost the Marchioness of Coronado great troubles. Gracián was not what he seemed. An unscrupulous man, domineering and greedy, cold- hearted as snow, he only cared for his own advancement and the satisfaction of his fickle and capricious nature. Imagination took the place of feeling in him. He fabricated a world of images and fictions, of fabulous features and fantastic adventures, and lying was as natural in his thoughts as a living, present fact. He lied out of necessity and sport, exercising a most subtle art of falsehood, possessing his own inventions to such an extent that he incorporated them into his life, making them real by dint of believing and practicing them. All his power lay in words, in those words always ignited by fleeting enthusiasms; after speaking much, intoxicating himself with fictitious ardor, he was left feeling empty. He deflowered everything, becoming weary of them as soon as he possessed them. The Marchioness came to know him thoroughly when she was already bewitched by the attraction of such a strange character. He suffered in silence deceptions and humiliations, dragging along like a punishment that guilty love filled with ingratitude and bitterness. Gracián paid no attention to such things; Ready to hunt for “a good dowry” to make up for the emptiness of his imaginary fortune, he flitted among the women, even in the presence of his friend, the one from Coronado, with a brilliant and extremely elegant insolence… The marquises’ social gathering was nourished with new elements. The Madrid beach community found the Casino’s soirees dispiriting and “tacky,” and the most distinguished vacationers tacitly agreed to attend those that had been improvised at Las Palmeras, chained together with outings and walks around the spa’s surroundings. Taking advantage of the beginning of silence in these pleasant gatherings, Gracián’s sonorous voice skillfully began a curious tale; the pleased gentlemen gathered around the speaker, and to the accompaniment of an accent that repeated: “agreed… agreed…” the manly foreheads bowed in approval; All attention was subservient to the powerful charlatan, and all the ladies dreamed of being the favorite of that gallant miracle worker… Chapter 10. Finally, one night the Marquis introduced Diego Villamor to Las Palmeras. The poet was a pleasant-looking young man with fine, childlike features , blond hair, blue eyes, a smiling mouth, a medium height, and a timid expression. There was a certain native elegance in his figure; but his somewhat bent bust and uncertain gaze gave him an air of premature old age, of tiredness, or of sadness. As he entered the room, a spicy breeze of curiosity stirred the light heads of the summering girls. Clara was the only one who frowned at him; the others offered him protective smiles and pleasant conversation. Diego was not very communicative, and the flattering welcome he received seemed to increase his natural timidity and envelop him in a kind of disturbing awkwardness. With gracious kindness the Marchioness met this embarrassing malaise, and graciously taking the poet’s arm, she began to introduce him to the girls’ friendship, recounting to him, with lordly simplicity, the petty intrigues and trifles of that summer salon. The lady’s insinuating benevolence failed to dispel the artist’s embarrassment, and only when he glimpsed the Delicate figure of María, Diego felt accompanied in the gathering and guided toward a friendly face. Together, the two young people shared the placid intimacies of childhood in the same valley of their birth, and later, sheltered by a serene friendship, Diego had given María many bouquets of roses at the edge of the orchard, many sincere rhymes, improvised with that primitive and stammering art of adolescence, the uncultivated and brave perfume of the heart. María was his first muse, the revealer of his first emotions, a delicate reverie made flesh and the beauty of a woman. She had always smiled without coquettishness or complicity at the rapture ignited in the poet’s myopic eyes; and now, in the frivolous atmosphere of that room open to the world, she smiled back at him, naive and kind, as on the lonely roads of the village. Diego managed to sit beside her and, somewhat longingly, offer her the small, pretty rose he wore in his buttonhole. “She’s not as pretty as the ones in our valley, do you remember?” he said. “Yes… up there you looked for very beautiful ones,” the girl responded softly. But in vain Diego pursued the sky-blue eyes absorbed in the rose. The white girl, of chaste beauty, the muse of distant paths, raised her caressing pupils upon the little flower, only to let them fall without caution in the suggestion of other bold ones. Following the path of that gaze, the poet understood that Gracián was falling in love with his friend . And he felt alone again in the gathering, strange and sad in that frivolous society… Eva, too, was alone at that moment. Frequently, at her side, a disdainful void was formed by the girls, who could not forgive her beauty, nor the pride with which she flaunted it. On those occasions, María would kindly go to the snubbed beauty, without Eva showing any gratitude for such a favor or offense at the other cruel inconsiderations. Beneath the shield of her stern haughtiness, she smiled like a sphinx; attentive only to her plans of conquest, she silently contemplated the “battlefield,” like an expert general, and María was precisely the target of her fears. In front of the blond girl, Luis Galán displayed his most foolish and petulant smiles; _Nenúfar_ burned the incense of his conceited madrigals; the “superman” modulated his harmonious voice, and even the hoarse voice of the little marquis, when it resonated next to María, faded sweetly, like the sigh of a cello. Eva, scorned, contained herself with difficulty… Were Villamor’s gifts also going to be for the “romantic girl”?… Without a doubt, this insidious question grew restless wings, for it flew throughout the hall, landing in the ears of the summering young ladies, and the alarm of this suspicion reached the lady of the house, who had set her eyes on Diego with the secret intention of plotting revenge… Certainly, the ardent eyes of the Marchioness looked as if they had wept… Rosa, the genteel maiden, told _Nenúfar_ that afternoon that Señorito Gracián had had a heated argument with the Marchioness in a hidden corner of the park… Chapter 11. “I know that you are a great poet… and an excessively modest man,” said Gracián, fixing his eagle eyes on Villamor’s timid ones. Under the crude suggestion of that look, the poet hesitated, answering in an uncertain voice: “Thank you very much… you do me too much.” Gracián smiled, a little mockingly, and replied with an air somewhere between protective and disdainful: “Excessive modesty, shyness, is like a fog of talent. _Audaces fortuna juvat._ Men, my friend, to fulfill a lofty mission, need to become tough and courageous. It’s not enough to have talent; you need the strength to impose it. Every great thought is aggressive, cutting, effective like a sword… ” “Are you a poet?” Diego murmured, enraptured by Gracián’s sonorous words . “Yes…, something of a poet…, but a poet of action… I don’t write poetry…, I live it. Travels, business, realities, are My poems… What better stanza than a domineering thought that in an instant becomes master of the world? I abhor a sedentary life, and I confess to you that I do not admire that poetry of the furrow, the idle song of cicadas in the laziness of summer… Since you have talent and are a true poet, leave the corner of your province, launch yourself into the world, let go of that somewhat rustic shyness of yours and… one day you will thank me for the advice. You are very young… it seems. Go to Madrid for now, write for the press and the theaters, seek the general public, popularity, the flattery of fortune, the great emotions of life, money and glory. Once the ice is broken, the name established, everything else will be given to you in addition. The Marquis’s gathering was hanging on Gracián’s lips. That clear, harmonious voice, that tone of energy and self-sufficiency, capable of dressing up the most false and empty concepts with brilliant finery, produced a sure effect on the frivolous audience. The Marquis was radiant; the Marchioness was sad and moved; the girls were enthusiastic; and the optimistic López was a total dream. María remained silent, thoughtful; beside her, Eva plastered a smile on her hard face, and Pizarro, the eternal dissident, repeated in a corner: “Words… words… words… ” “I’m no good for fighting,” Diego said with naive simplicity, ” my world ends behind the walls of my garden. Other glories don’t seduce me… Love and poetry are reduced to a nest… Why search so far for what lies within the heart?” The poet’s humble phrases provoked a strange emotion. He spoke them in a thin, trembling voice; his nearsighted eyes shone with a burning light. Gracián, a little surprised, victoriously refuted the poet’s arguments , showering the trembling youth with a barrage of eloquent phrases and mortifying him with some unkind ironies in the process. Diego attempted to respond; but the suggestion of those eyes, fixed firmly upon him, cut short his speech, and he finally fell silent, stammering clumsy and weak apologies, astonished to discover on the women’s faces some ill-disguised smiles. He fled to hide his defeat in a corner of the room, where he was cordially welcomed by the grumpy Pizarro. The “superman,” after having “disabled” Villamor, as Clarita Infante put it, regally paraded his conquering graces among all the ladies in the gathering and finally decided, with a strange seriousness, to woo María. With her birdlike hops and daring intrusions, Teresita Vidal discovered the flirtation. Malicious comments flew like darts around the room when the discovery “became public,” and only Luisa Ramírez had a frank gesture of indifference toward this sensational news, which rolled through the gossip like a rare note of kindness. But in these hissing rumors, raised in the shadow of habitual smiles, there was neither as much spite nor as much fury as in the malignant silence with which Eva greeted the certainty that Gracián had become María Ensalmo’s “official” suitor. For several days, Eva cherished the hope of that singular conquest; in Gracián’s gallant flirtation, there were flattery and promises for her, and her vanity, fueled, her ambition fostered, she found herself suddenly overcome by the gentle beauty of that contemplative and sweet girl. Haughty and furious—it’s because she has a dowry—she had thought. The bitterness of irreparable disappointment carved a contemptuous sneer into her dark face, and her heart, much more agitated by jealousy than that of the abandoned Marchioness of Coronado, was a vessel swollen with anger… In that storm of her illusions, pressed by age and shameful poverty, Eva Guerrero looked Diego Villamor in the eye, taking advantage of that moment when the poet, easily overcome by Gracián, felt like a stranger and disoriented on the evening of Las Palmeras, with no other support than Pizarro’s stern cordiality. Diego was no stranger to Eva; neighbors of the same city, They knew each other as much as the artist’s seclusion had allowed him. He had always admired her for her beauty; she had never paid much attention to him, considering him poor, but lately Villamor’s name had spread throughout Spain with enthusiastic praise, and the success of his recent novel opened up broad horizons for him. A prominent position in the literary world was predicted for him , and this was no longer a mere trifle. In that very room, Doña Manuela had said, with good reason, that Diego was “a good catch,” and Eva gave a quick account of the young man’s merits in his aptitudes “for earning money,” and she saw him powerful and exalted in a short time, “making a name” in Madrid as a figure in salons, athenaeums, and academies, the shell of that shy , good-natured, mischievous character finally broken … Fully armed with all the power of her charms, Eva Guerrero went to the poet’s corner; She challenged him “to a brave and singular fight,” treacherously laying out the noose and first assuring him with honeyed little words. Finally, she besieged him with a formidable siege, dissembling between warblings and enticing mockery, and Diego, amazed, deceived, seduced, surrendered without much defense his exquisite soul, his noble soul, dreamer of orchards and nests… Chapter 12. Gracián was now María’s fiancé. The summer vacationers in a state of deserving, leaving those grave cases of passion as a fatal thing, dedicated themselves to other petty entanglements, and managed to make the mocking Clara Infante frown and sad, assuring her that she had a rival, and that _Nenúfar_ was unfaithful to her in the same villa of _Las Palmeras_. Teresita began to have a little fun watching Galán’s clear smile wander aimlessly , and observing in Rafaelito alarming symptoms of amorous madness. And when the duets of the unwary couples were being celebrated in the drawing room with ingenious pranks, from that corner of the park where the Marchioness and Gracián had argued so angrily, a wind of scandal entered the room and drove Benigna to her mother, to say to her, shamelessly and perversely: “Hadn’t you thought of Luis Galán… for a case… like this?” The lady looked at her daughter, without even blinking, for a long minute, and turning her head to the other side with that air of haughty dignity that was characteristic of her, she found herself faced with the harmless countenance of López, who was mechanically pronouncing: “Agreed… perfectly…” And in the hollow of a window Doña Cándida, drowsy and pitiful, stammered: “Oh… my God!… In that miserable prison of his breast Rafaelito Coronado had a compassionate heart. At times, the young man felt, deep within, certain inklings of nobility and even a touch of sentimental romanticism. Struck by one of these inner crises, he found his cousin sitting on the terrace in propitious solitude. He made himself horribly ugly to smile at her, and, caressing with a gentle gaze the fresh beauty of the white and sweet girl, he thrilled her with his thunderous voice. “Precious Maruja; tell me if it is true, with absolute certainty, that you are Gracián’s fiancée…” Blushing and surprised, María remained silent, her divine eyes a little frightened. “It is true… unfortunately,” then thundered the hoarse accent. “Unfortunately?” the girl questioned, raising her head sharply. Rafael softened his voice as much as possible, and taking his cousin’s small hand with brotherly confidence, almost to his ear, he begged her. “Marujilla… you’re good… you’re innocent… Don’t marry Gracián… Distrust him… and “them”… and everyone in this house, except Doña Cándida and me…” And no sooner had he said this than he turned on his deformed feet and disappeared into the hall. María soon saw him in the garden, as if searching or dreaming of something … He plucked the flowers, bit them, crushed them, and scattered them dead along the paths. The girl looked at him, suspended, with a vague terror, and only when she saw him sink into the mystery of the park did she sigh with relief, as if awakening from a gloomy nightmare. She leaned against the marble of the sturdy balustrade, and her curious pupils They trembled beneath the sky and above the sea, with a questioning expression filled with ineffable anxiety. But neither the heavens nor the waters responded to the silent consultation. The vast Cantabrian plain was a blue expanse, filled with sunshine. The sea enjoyed those hours of repose and beauty in which it seemed to be listening to an immortal quarrel. Its expectant and magnificent immobility broke lightly on the shore, with the gentle crash of waves and foam that sounded like prayer. Sea and sky kissed on the horizon, with the supreme majesty of two immense lovers celebrating peace and marriage before God… Absorbed in the grandeur of the spectacle, María felt her heart tremble in that colossal kiss of water and clouds; her imagination flew with the relaxed turns of a seagull through the blue immensity, but a deep and augurial voice repeated in the depths of her conscience, “Distrust him!” “Why? Why always be suspicious?” the lovelorn girl wondered. “Is life a perpetual ambush? Is love so blind that it doesn’t even know how to use its wings? Why fear when the earth wears a splendid ball gown, and the sea sleeps in sublime tranquility, and the sky has such noble gentleness?” “Why suffer, my God,” sighed Maria, “when life is a sunny morning, and the soul a sweet flame of love?” But the fearful, ominous voice did not silence its cruel prophecies, and in the girl’s blue contemplations, the blackness of a fatal presentiment remained floating, tragic and amorphous… Below the terrace, skirts were stirring and whispers were being heard. The Marquis’s daughters were leaving at that moment with Clara and Teresa for the spa. The four of them were dressed in light nudity, in transparent dresses , very beautiful and scandalous. They were chatting and laughing, coming down the steps, when Rosa found them, coming from the garden with an opulent load of flowers to adorn the apartments. Clara stopped the maiden with a torn impulse and asked her, full of anger: “Tell me… girl… have you really thought that the gentlemen who come to this house are courting you?” Hearing this, the girl remained motionless and absorbed, gently embracing her sisters, the flowers. Then, her face a little flushed and her voice somewhat breaking, she replied haughtily: “He who comes to this house to court me is not a gentleman… he is… Simón Ruiz. ” Clarita’s face turned to wax; She struggled angrily to untie her scurrilous tongue, paralyzed by spite, when her friends led her out into the garden, ordering the girl, with feigned severity, to be silent and continue on her way. She obeyed without reply, but bravely trod the delicate steps as she ascended. Agitated and trembling with jealousy and pride, she carelessly dropped some of the precious bouquets she was carrying. And so, on the grand staircase of Las Palmeras, witness to that shameful scene, Rosita’s graceful footprint remained triumphant, trailing flowers in the full glory of the sun… Chapter 13. As night fell on the coast, the guests of the villa went out into the garden and dispersed in gallant couples, under the still canopy of the trees. The pale moon in a sky of terse clarity, peeped through the clearings of the foliage, casting its gentle glow upon the mysterious terraces. There was a restless profile in the shadows intertwined beneath the fantastic light; a rebellious profile, which at one time seemed like a single body sweetly pacing in the peace of the path, as if split into two angry figures, simulated a combative and furious group, despairing in the enervating calm of the night. It was _Nenúfar_ and Clara, bitterly quarreling, strolling through the garden. They uttered grievances and complaints, arguing with ill-concealed anger; but then, an indiscreet ray of moonlight drew them on the lawn, motionless, and friends in fast-paced conversation… Along the central avenue, in full light, María and Gracián walked slowly , chatting like lovers, more attentive to the murmur of their words to the tranquil beauty of the night. Nearby, Diego and Eva, seated on a rustic sofa, were quietly reciting their love words with passionate devotion. And on another tree-lined street, a little darker, Luisa Ramírez’s silver laughter counterpointed Rafael’s booming voice. The young ladies of the house accompanied the other friends, and, through the picturesque groups, Pizarro complained about the heat, the moon, and the lovers, while López thought everything was perfect. Leaves, flowers, and breezes, cooled by the beneficial breath of the night, listened curiously to the laughter and conversations of those happy strikers on the beach… Also with the breezes and the flowers, Rosita the maid walked among the trees listening… The strings of a piano sounded languidly. Through the open windows of the living room, divine crystal notes fell into the shadow of the park. Schumann’s romantic silhouette strolled for a moment through the shady garden, singing with a delicate voice his _Secret Tears_, his _Nights of Anguish_… It was, without a doubt, a woman’s hand, nervous and sentimental, that struck the piano keys. Hearing those notes, Diego Villamor rose from his rustic seat, looking in surprise toward the windows of the villa, which projected the bright light of the salons into the shadow of the park. Suddenly Schumann’s voice died away in a sob, and after a pause of long musical silence, the chords of _Moonlight_, the sad _adagio_ from Beethoven’s sonata, vibrated. The deep, grave harmonies made a moving impression on the poet. That gust shook him like a merciless lash received naked in the heart; All the pain and sadness of life wept in that adagio like a de profundis sung on the shores of a nuptial bed, in the pious light of the night… Eva, noticing Diego’s emotion, burst into jubilant laughter, mocking the poet with sharp phrases… The vertiginous wheel of sensations, which revolved in silent vortex in the grove, then had a strange meshing of thoughts, and María also felt, alarmed, that a trembling accent of pain was remembered by the sounds of the piano with the warm tenderness of Gracián. A silent and painful superstition ached two hearts at the same time with a stabbing attack. The Marchioness, meanwhile, sitting in the parlor at the harpsichord, sweetly played the notes, while Galán, deeply absorbed by her side, slowly turned the pages of the score, displaying an intense, white smile, like that of the ivory keyboard submissive to the lady’s skillful fingers . Chapter 14. The heat was intensifying; all the solar gold that had fallen in warm torrents throughout the day was warming the sand of the beach and toasting the dense canopy of the pine groves. On the wild coast and in the gay riverside gardens, the flowers lay in summer dismay, their deep calyxes unbuttoned, surrendering to the ardent caress of the light. Evening was descending upon the Cantabrian Sea with exquisite clarity; the solemn hour had undoubtedly arrived that inspired the poet’s winged verses: “Perhaps satiated with lives, the sea has now calmed itself, the shores are silent; Tired or asleep, their turbulent waves do not battle. And if the beach sounds, if the water moves foam and murmurs, its voice on the sand does not threaten deaths, but sighs for love.” The marquises’ hall opened its doors wide onto the leafy park, and the family, with their usual friends, sought in lively groups the pleasant shade of the woods. In the chatter of those idle and novelistic people, fodder for all unhealthy curiosity, the wedding of Eva and Maria was a favorite topic. Judging such marriages as certain and inevitable, the marriageable young women who were in attendance became benevolent and affectionate around the bride and groom. It was said of them, not only that they made two gallant couples, but that the suitability of both unions was evident and correct. With their beautiful With the head of Apollo, his knowledge of life and his seductive manner, Gracián Soberano was the ideal husband for the noble, wealthy girl, a defenseless and timid dove. And the exalted beauty of Eva Guerrero, her noble lineage and her command of the salons, would be a worthy crown for the poet. Proud and ambitious, plotting greatness and splendor, Eva wanted to peek at the doors of the future. She dreamed of a soft and pampered life at court; a throne for her beauty in that aristocratic society; an existence of triumph and pleasure… And the artist fiancé, bewitched by the same dream and consumed by Eva in a voracious fire of the senses, placed on his head all the unbridled desires of that woman’s heart, a hard heart rebellious to the pain of life, only inclined and docile to ambition and flattery. In Diego’s tormented youth, Eva exerted a deadly fascination. Although Diego was a keen psychologist in his novels, he lacked all practical sense. Pain made him a poet, but it didn’t teach him how to live or train him in the cruel deceptions of the world. Driven by the mournful loneliness of his childhood, he fell to his knees in the black night of suffering, before the eternal spring where tears and sorrows flow with the incessant lament of life. He applied his feverish lips to the human spring, his soul open, his heart thirsty; and from his years of abandonment and smallness, he rose with the sacred lyre in his hands, his chest melting with pity and tenderness, his imagination filled with light and shadow. His inspiration filled with the healthy flow of tears, his songs were simultaneously virile and sentimental, sometimes stormy, sometimes serene and peaceful, always imbued with the northern poetry, romantic and sad. The Cantabrian Sea sobbed in his verses , the mountain oak groves groaned, and the mist spread its veils of sorrow across the world. A child and a poet, Diego Villamor, prematurely surrendered to solitude and silence, fell dazzled at Eva’s feet. All the pure feelings engendered by misfortune in his gallless heart went to decorate the empty breast of the beautiful woman like a devout offering. And there they lowered their trembling and wounded wings, unable to find an accessible corner of piety in the haughty wall of flesh, turned to marble. His artist’s soul remained surrendered and suspended before that living and luxuriant sculpture, promised to him in a loving toast from a traitorous henbane. And in his thirst for life, the poet, born, like all poets, to suffer and to love, felt the two roots of life tremble: desire and hope. Hope and desire also sparkled in the blue eyes of María Ensalmo, in those peaceful eyes that knew much of tears. A tumult of new sensations stirred restlessness and eagerness in the still calm of her spirit, and perhaps, slowly and subtly, a breeze of pride rocked the array of illusions of her blossoming youth. Credulous and dreamy, the wings of her imagination were quickly burned by the halo of superiority and grandeur that high-sounding worldly chronicles placed on Gracián’s brow. With childlike joy, she was his favorite lady during the intimate summer retreat at the villa; later, with secret delight, she was his beloved wife, and finally, with fervent surrender, his betrothed wife. Gracián wished to carry the engagement to a conclusion with the ardent haste of a fierce passion, and the Marquis of Coronado, as the bride’s tutor, willingly intervened in the matrimonial negotiations, shortening the routes and arrangements. Thus, at first, that white dove of the deep mountain valley was captured. And so, when the forests were dying and the serene days were gone, the orange blossoms blossomed in the pure meditation of a brow, and smiling horizons opened to the curious questions of a glance. Chapter 15. The month of October was passing. The low, gloomy sky floated; the seagulls, ominous and tenacious, flew in wide curves over the waves, and the roar of the surge mingled their voices in the pine forests with the harsh gale. The shadows of The ships, tragic shadows in the immense sadness of the twilight. There, on the beach, the hotels seemed asleep, their blinds drooping over doors and balconies; the ornate bathhouses , already dismantled, perched high above, tightly pressed and timid, against the foaming claws with which the sea rose over the sand. Of the festive decoration of those places of pleasure, only a few crude figures carved on the trunks of the pines remained, traces of fleeting love affairs; the ungrateful skeleton of some triumphant branch, or the torn rag of some streamer, fluttering in the wind in the desolation of the bare arches. The brief afternoons languished in anguish on the mountains and on the coast, over withered gardens and shuttered houses; the leaves were dead, the sea gray, and the landscape yellow. Only the Las Palmeras estate showed any signs of life in that autumnal setting. The Coronado family awaited María’s upcoming wedding , hoping to attend the joyous event before returning to Madrid. The girls grumbled and complained about their suitors; but Rafaelito, the god of the house, had sided with his parents in that desire, perhaps less to fulfill a family duty than to enliven his deep voice with Luisa Ramírez’s musical laughter. The Marquis, deeply interested in the casino with some serious games of baccarat, wasn’t overly impatient with that unpleasant wait. And his companion, Nenúfar, had become, with the greatest casualness, a guest at the estate, as soon as his protector told him so when the summer inns were closing. Clara, too, generously agreed to share the cruel extension of the summer with the Coronado girls, in that harsh solitude of Las Palmeras, without excursions or social gatherings, unleashing all the sadness of the North upon the sea shore. With the last evenings of summer fled with September, the girls no longer had anything to amuse themselves with, not even the brilliant antics of Pizarro, the first fugitive from the coast, nor the somewhat grotesque sayings of Doña Manuela, nor even the pitiful sighs of Doña Cándida. Shortly after María had hidden in her noble mansion in the valley to prepare for her marriage, Gracián went to court apparently with the same intention; and other close friends of the marquises also paraded in attendance, among them Teresita Vidal. Eva and Diego secluded themselves in the neighboring city to plot their magnificent projects alone, without mocking witnesses. And the graceful and beautiful Luisa Ramírez allowed herself to be courted by Rafaelito in her home with more gusto and ease than at the Las Palmeras estate, where she found herself somewhat distracted and suspicious as she began to experience some of the intimacies of those people whose company was new to her. The last summer visitor of the season had been Luis Galán. When the last hospital door had closed, the handsome young man’s teeth whitened among the disciplined curls of his beard in a smiling farewell, and the easygoing girls of Coronado made some cynical displays of mourning in their mother’s presence… This happened at the hour when a timid sunset inflamed the distant edge of the Cantabrian Sea; and that fleeting blush from the horizon reached the worldly estate like a red flash of anger, like a silent protest that the purity of the sea and the sky sent to the miserable earth. Chapter 16. The reason that kept _Nenúfar_ near his illustrious friends, in the intemperance of the autumn riverbank, remained unknown. It could have been a condescension of gratitude toward the marquis, a double demand of love, or the merciless pursuit of hunger. It was said at that time that he had lost the position he had at a newspaper in Madrid, and that of his literary glories there remained only the soft pseudonym of _Nenúfar_, the misshapen gardenia, and a summer suit, with large stripes, a little faded in color, and in places somewhat “smiling”… The truth was that poor _Nenúfar_ walked around the deserted places of the beach and the rooms of the villa, chilled and haggard. Stoically and icily enduring Rafael’s biting teasing as he extended his importunate hand in demand of a cigarette. The sadder his countenance, the more compassionate and credulous Rosa appeared. Adept and deceitful, he risked promises of marriage that the young woman was beginning to find plain and feasible. Once Simón Ruiz was unmasked, he appeared to her as an unfortunate, down-at-heels young gentleman, a humble salon mourner, who earned his living by “pulling stories and verses out of his head,” just as another day laborer extracts stones from a mine or crushes them on the high road. Already the youths of her class seemed ignorant and vulgar to Rosa, and as she trained herself to translate the picturesque language of *Nenúfar*, she found the flattering ingratiations of the craftsmen who combed her hair insipid and vulgar. Her haughty little head concocted a sensational fantasy, and she found herself paired with the poet for the future, dressed as an eccentric young lady, in the style of her husband, with gloves and hat, with free entry into distinguished houses , and with skillful practice in the use of rare and sonorous phrases. The wedding program finally accepted, they both agreed to celebrate it the following spring, and in the meantime, the promised bride demanded that her future self cease to honor Miss Clara, with whom she did not wish to share even a single glance of the poet. He agreed to everything, very surrendered and accommodating; but advising the girl to carefully conceal those plans, so that no one at the villa would prevent the bride and groom from furtively meeting each other. The bewitched Rosita the Beauty, and the astute unemployed man of letters, sought each other out at dusk under the withered canopy of the pine groves, bravely defying the icy gusts of the gale. She was brimming with pride as the young man’s “formal girlfriend,” and Waterlily vented her bad humor with the pampering air of Rosita’s words. “Speak to me ‘in French’… or whatever… go on!” the girl said, on a date, to her scoundrel of a boyfriend. “Speak to me in that fashion you say is currently in fashion in books and papers…” “Immaculate and viripotent Rosita,” replied Waterlily very seriously, “how I like you!… what an Olympian spectacle you offer me in this solitary place!… “Bear…” echoed in the hollow of a neighboring rock. ” Neonated at your feet in the beauty of the forest, I would forget the affairs of the world… ” “You are,” resounded in the rock, as soon as the gallant took a breath. –Enchanted by the monorhythmic… –_Monkey_–the sonorous space said immediately. Rosita let out the bells of a jovial laugh, and with wise simplicity objected: –The echo is making fun of you… First it called you _bear_, very clearly; And now, very gracefully, he has said to you: _you are… a monkey…_ The girl remained contemplating the lout, somewhat embarrassed by the singular little joke, and her keen observation quickly suggested to her the idea that, in effect, _Nenúfar_ was a monkey… Skinny, long-haired, dressed with shameful ridiculousness… he was a monkey!… But the romantic vein of the girl launched its warm stream of fantasy onto naked reality, and with the fervor of a fool she corrected her unconscious meditation, saying to herself: what can a monkey be… he is a “modernist poet”!… And the free madness of her mocking laughter was still trembling in the air when, returning to her sentimental rapture, she whispered: –Of all that you said, I only understood: _I like you very much…_ He stretched out his stingy hand towards the girl; But she, out of instinctive delicacy, took her role as a “bride to be married” very seriously and avoided the young man’s advances, thinking with disdain that such liberties were only to be consented to by a Doña Clara, puny and ugly, without shame or hope…, not by her, the gentle Rosa, covetous of a hundred future husbands… Victorious and proud, without letting herself be caught, she said to him: “It’s getting dark, tell me soon what you began…” _Nenúfar_ would have told him many things in regal intimacy, under the concealing protection of the pines, but he was sure that it was impossible. to lead that wild lamb back into her wolfish ways. The scoundrel, foolish, thought he would win the game whatever the odds might be , and so, one afternoon, in the same place, he said to Rosa with a grave demeanor: “I’m returning to court… As I say goodbye to you, precious, I want to swear that you will always live in my thoughts. ” “I’m lying,” replied the ironic echo implacably. Rosita became startled, somewhat fearful, and the trickster began to speak quietly, angry with the echo. “You will live in my thoughts like an absolute queen, until I return to look for you with the papers in my hand… ” “But are you really leaving? ” “Yes; The marquises are already leaving for their niece’s wedding, and I can’t stay without attracting attention… And the worst thing is, I’m afraid I won’t receive tomorrow the money I need to get to Madrid… _Nenúfar_ spoke “in Castilian” calmly, and looked at Rosita anxiously. “And who sent you that money?” After a brief hesitation, _Nenúfar’s expression became mischievous and amusing , as she replied: “Well… I don’t know if you’ve heard of him… a very distinguished gentleman, a certain Don Homero… who composes verses with me… ” “Don Homero?… No… I don’t think so… If only it were Don Honorio!… I know him very well because he goes to my town every summer…” Enjoying the girl’s credulity, and very cheerful, _Nenúfar immediately said: “This one has never been to your town… it seems to me… He’s a very absent-minded gentleman… _Aliquando dormitat…_ and if he doesn’t remember to send me those coins on time, I’m going to be in for a real shock tomorrow… ” “I have five duros… if they were enough…” The bohemian quickly and happily replied: “Yes, with five duros I can manage… As soon as I get to Madrid I’ll collect them from my partner and send them to you…” To the satisfaction of The gallant had raised his voice in triumph, and the coastal rock hastened to repeat: “Myth…” The echo remained caught in space like a warning or a reproach; but Rosita could not hear the strange warning, unaware that “myth” was an expressive and useful word, perhaps decreed in the air for her. And Waterlily was not one to notice acoustic coincidences, delighted not to come up empty-handed with his thriving hands on that singular summer adventure. Chapter 17. Beside the emblazoned gate, the marquis’s automobile, a magnificent double phaeton, was ready. The ladies occupied it while the marquis climbed into his son’s Panhard, who was also waiting. They set off for the beautiful and sad valley where María Ensalmo had built her wedding altar. The ladies were happy because very soon they would return to their beloved Madrid; it seemed that the marquise had aged a little; But the very subtle whiteness of the veil that surrounded her face and the graceful volatility of her speech gave her at that moment a youthful and pleasant air. López, the tireless provincial friend, a last visitor to Las Palmeras, had come to bid farewell to the travelers, and he gazed at the marchioness with such intense rapture that even his stubborn crutches trembled cowardly on his lips. Isabel and Benigna were madly teasing Rafaelito, who was silent and gloomy, and Clara Infante, a little distracted, gazed stubbornly toward the distant corner of the garden. From that side, Rosita, the maiden, appeared, bearing a bouquet of pale autumn flowers. She too was leaving that afternoon for her village, to wait in vain for the knight-errant of her dreams. The
girl’s lovely face was slightly tearful; Early that day, the innocent woman paid five duros, almost all her capital, for a bubble of illusion. _Nenúfar_ was on his way to Madrid in a third-class carriage, ready to plunge back into darkness until a lucky gust would bring him back to the salons to write saccharine chronicles and recite verses. Rosita offered the last flowers in the garden to the Marchioness and her daughters, without reserving any for Clara. From the luxurious train, the young lady leaned toward the young woman and repaid her for the slight with these cruel words: “Wait for him seated… idiot!… you’re cool now!” Rosita replied briskly in a low voice: “Go quickly and see if you can get enough… I only gave him five duros…” The automobile sped off as if, at the behest of that biting retort, it was flying in pursuit of something very precious and difficult to recover, lost, perhaps, beneath the leaves that wove sweet canopies for love on the wooded riverbank, leaves now withered like the remains of dead joys… Rosita and López were left alone, face to face, by the gate. Inside the villa, the servants were preparing their journey to Madrid, preceding the masters, and the doors were closing with a clatter in the silent stillness of the facades. To say something, López managed to say: “Perfectly…” And beneath the dense mist on the horizon, like a malignant and sentimental comment, floated a smile and a sigh from beautiful Rosita… BOOK TWO PATHS OF PAIN Chapter 18. “How beautiful you are!” the boy said, raising his pale face to her. “Why, Mother, don’t I have a rose-colored face like yours ? When we walk down the street, everyone looks at you and throws you flowers… You are so pretty… so tall… so strong!” And in the little boy’s passionate little voice, with the last words, trembled an unconfessed ambition for strength and power… the hidden pain of his sickly and ailing weakness. Eva didn’t notice that a sorrowful accent was crying a secret in the pondering phrases of that childish devotion. She accepted her son’s homage with an enigmatic smile and, without answering the sad question, murmured: “Yes… very pretty… very strong… and very elegant!… I’ve been wearing the same dress for a year now…” And she laughed bitterly, with a grim gaze that swept around the room, resting hostilely on the humble furniture. “I know,” said the boy with precocious reasoning, “but Papa earns very little and we’re poor… But don’t be sad, because if I grow up I’ll earn much more than my father and I’ll buy you many dresses and furniture and ornaments… You’ll see… if I get well… if I become a man…” And the promising voice broke into a thoughtful silence, like the waiting beat of a mournful music. At the sides of the beautiful, languid little face, the Nazarene curls fell over the child’s weak shoulders, with a somber undulation that made the anemic whiteness of his face more intense and lamentable. In Tristan’s deep-set eyes, African and beautiful like his mother’s, shone a strange anxiety, a mixture of haughtiness and fear. Attentive to her own innermost concerns, her heart touched by other worries, the lady didn’t notice the child’s gaunt expression, nor did she grieve for that pitiable expression except to say: “You’d get better if you went to the beach in the summers… if you took the expensive restoratives the doctors prescribe… if you had the luxury and entertainment like other delicate children… Like this… with the beggarly life we’re leading… you’ll die… ” “Are you saying I’ll die?” cried the child. “Is it true, Mother? Are you really saying I’m going to die? When? Soon? I’m afraid, Mother; very afraid… very cold… I don’t want to, I don’t want to die…” And he took refuge, mad with terror, in his mother’s lap. Her fierce smile softened and her untamed accent softened as she took the child to her heart. Caressing him in a soft, submissive voice, she calmed him: “Don’t be afraid, son; I just said it… just to say it… You’ll get better… you’ll be tall and strong like me… you’ll earn a lot of money, and then we’ll live together alone… we’ll be happy… ” “And Papa? ” “That one,” Eva said in a slow, cutting, icy voice, “has plenty of company with his verses… we’ll leave him alone with his poetry… ” “And we won’t give him any of our wealth?” “He doesn’t need it, fool… To dream and cry and compose poems, with _a painted pine table_ your father is happy now… We owe him nothing; look what he gives us… you see how he abandons us… We have lived for years in this horrible interior apartment, without sun and almost without air… I have no decent clothes to wear… you have no effective remedies for your illness… we eat poorly… we lead a miserable and hateful life… The child, saddened by this accusatory story, which he already knew from other times, asked impatiently: “And why does my father like to dream and cry?… Do you know?… Is he also sick like me, or is it that he does not want to work?” In a vibrant speech, which the child was unable to understand, the lady, inflamed with her quarrels, continued: “Work?… she doesn’t know how… she doesn’t want to… she’s out of this world… she suffers from “the sacred illness of poets,” the stupid “Leopardi illness,” and other such madmen… a very comfortable illness, no doubt, but one that should be punishable by law… at least in married men… because while they moan and sigh, and in the guise of madmen scrutinize human and divine mysteries, their house grows impoverished and their family drags out a shameful existence… ” Eva spoke with ill-contained fury, with biting spite, and her magnificent eyes radiated haughty under a light glass of tears. Night was slowly entering the room; it crept stealthily into the corners and fastened its invisible mantle over the furniture and the walls. Tristan watched thoughtfully as the impalpable darkness grew around him. Now only at the edge of the balcony lay a sliver of light, dying and cowardly. The child lifted the meditation of his eyes from the uncovered windowpanes and rested the timid anxiety of his gaze on a small patch of beautiful sky that appeared merciful at the edge of a neighboring roof. Eva, too, in unconscious pursuit of the light, had turned her angry face toward the blue wonder… The entire room fell into shadow, and the child had fallen asleep, shivering and sighing, in her maternal arms. Eva rose from the sofa with the light and painful burden of her sick child and laid him gently in bed, lovingly sheltering him. Bending over him, she tried to observe him, a little alarmed by the child’s increasing dejection and by the feverish sleep that fell upon him, tormented and complaining each evening. It was almost completely dark, and the mother saw only the tiny face, beneath the unfolded shadow, whitening like a wax votive offering, lying on a black altar. She turned abruptly from the bed and sank back onto the sofa, angry and agitated. Once again her agitated face turned toward the celestial fragment that loomed above the stained-glass window. Suspended above the darkness of the study, the tiny blue fragment of the sublime lie gave the silent picture a note of light and joy, so distant, so small, of such heartbreaking contrast, that Eva could not escape the influence of that intense impression, and, rebelling against the somber pain of her poor room, she fixed her sloe-colored eyes with audacious defiance on the remote heavenly promise. For a long time, with a brave expression, she defied the divine hope of the horizon. Suddenly, she rose, brutal and threatening, and with a violent bang closed the wooden doors of the balcony. She groped her way back to the sofa, sank down into it in despair, and burst into tears… She felt powerless against the infinite sadness that descended from that impossible blue upon her dark life. Chapter 19. She cautiously turned the door, and a globe of timid red light was lit in the study. Distraught and anxious, Diego asked at the threshold: “Why are you crying like that? What’s wrong? Is the child worse?” Eva rose haughtily amid her moans, and behind the curtain of her tears shone fleetingly the cruel joy of finding herself surprised in that desolation that justified a stormy scene between her and her husband. “It’s the same as always,” she answered in a warlike tone, “that this life is intolerable and the child will die because of you.” “Because of me?” Diego stammered. “Do you know what you’re talking about, woman? Do you hate me so much that you intend to defame me with the most horrible of crimes?” He spoke dully and bitterly, and he approached her in the uncertain light of the lamp, as if magnetized by the abyss of the dark eyes that watched him. Ever more erect and arrogant, Eva replied: “No, I don’t hate you… What I feel for you is pity… a lot of pity… You seem simply ridiculous to me, with your doctrinaire air and your childish weaknesses.” –But what is it you want?…, what do you demand of me?… Didn’t I do everything I could to give you happiness?… –Yours is a good happiness… A shabby and miserable love that only knows how to sigh…, a withered and cold home, a refuge from all poverty…, a trembling and cowardly spirit, full of worries and timidities… Keep your happiness and savor it yourself… I don’t want it. The artist drew back, ashamed and trembling, as if those intemperate phrases had slapped him in the face… With a wounded tone he murmured: “Ah, wicked and small creature!… How well you know how to plunge the dagger into the heart and press it there embedded!… Why did I not know you before as I know you now?… I loved you like a fool… Your ironies, your mockery, gently tore at my soul… I gave you the treasure of my faith and my love so that you would throw it away with contempt… ” “Insult me, since you cannot excuse yourself,” she moaned indomitably. Again her husband advanced desperately. –Shall I insult you?… If I tell the truth… the sad and tremendous truth… How I have loved you, woman!… I still love you!… If you only knew what I suffer… what I suffer for you!… –I have no advantage in your useless sentimental sufferings… what I want is not to suffer… –But what do you ask of me?… I have worked with perseverance and eagerness; if I have not always won, if I have not reached where you wanted, I am not responsible for my failures… Perhaps if you had encouraged me with tenderness and pity… if your hands had supported me in the struggle with love… –Blame me for your incapacity, for your timidity… blame me… go on!– Eva interrupted him provocatively. He too fixed her with a defiant look; and from close up, very close up, throwing her words in his face, rushed and piercing, she affirmed: “Yes, I blame you… I blame you for the material failure of our life… for the silent divorce of our souls… I wanted to place you so high that not even a breath of pain or sadness could reach you… I dreamed of a new happiness for you, a life full of joys… When I founded this home, I thought of my son… of the son I already sensed… I wanted to make with him and with you a work of human art… But you have broken my heart, you have shattered my destiny… you have been the evil enemy settled in my house and fed with the blood of my veins. I sought in you the warmth of a deep and chosen soul, the sweet companion to help me walk, to complete my nature and share with me the bread and salt of life… and in your arms I only found disdain and selfishness… ambitions, pettiness… Submitting to your whims, I erred in my artistic vocations… I became disoriented and lost… You stole my serenity for work, you pushed me, nullified and dejected, losing my faith and health… You squandered my parents’ modest patrimony… you have sown discord in my house and in my son the seed of lack of love… And yet you complain… you still rise up against me like a viper and fill my heart with poison… It was the guilty one leaning back on the sofa, and for a moment the surprise of that formidable accusation contained her silent and contemptuous, until once again she took refuge in tears as the only defense of her defeat. Pouring out her rage in tears, she wept loudly, she wept furiously, her beautiful face in her hands. Her beautiful body, sprawled on the couch, trembled with the harsh anguish. Those divinely shaped breasts, that waist Flexible, they bent beneath the weight of the trembling bust. The entire strange structure of the opulent figure, free and trembling beneath the soft fabric of the gown, writhed in anguish… The unleashed storm of moans awoke the child from his feverish lethargy . He opened his eyes in fright, and with the uncertainty of a nightmare, he raised his terrified face to the painful scene. Diego, with his back turned, had half-opened the balcony door and looked up at the sky, his soul overcome with pain and anger. High above the stained-glass window, at the edge of the neighboring roof, the pale , round moon revolved in the piece of blue chimera… Chapter 20. Long months had passed without Eva and María visiting each other. Newly married, the two had been on a somewhat intimate terms during their first season in Madrid. Afterwards, Eva gradually withdrew from María’s friendship without reason or pretext. They met frequently at the home of the Marquis of Coronado, but, in secret hostility, Eva distanced herself from her gentle countrywoman with weak dissimulation. As she consumed her husband’s small patrimony with thoughtless ostentation, the lavish existence enjoyed by María pained her with ever more bitter humiliation, and half-slumbering memories of yesteryear raised a subtle yet firm barrier of passion between the two women. In no one more than in María did the ambitious brunette envy the seductive luxury and apparent happiness… When Doña Manuela died, with affectionate compassion, María sought to forget the inexplicable departure of her friend, and in her hours of mourning , she accompanied her, simple and good. But once her mother’s mourning was relieved, Eva repeatedly excused herself from attending parties or gatherings at the exquisite little hotel on Goya Street, and María also retreated into prudent seclusion, making few visits to Vicálvaro Street. Recently, the kind lady heard some sad complaints at her uncles’ house about Eva and Diego’s situation. It was said that, the husband’s inheritance completely exhausted, poverty had come to visit them with all its fatal retinue of sorrows… That Diego, cowed by the prospect of having to maintain with his pen a difficult appearance of well-being, tried to emigrate to America in search of better markets for his literary works… In conflict with his artistic talents, tempted by the greed of profit or by the sting of necessity, he had premiered light and vulgar works in the theater, which failed without noise or hope… The poet exhausted himself and wasted away in the editing of a newspaper, dark and busy, producing entertaining and effective pieces of information, to bring home a piece of ungrateful bread… Eva was elusive and sullen, and the child, always sickly, was declining, dull and withered, more and more pitiful… All this was said on “a Monday” by the Marquises of Coronado, at the end of the room where they had A few people who knew the unfortunate couple gathered. Among them was María, who listened, silent and sad, to the story that curiosity glossed with fleeting condolence: “Poor woman, so beautiful!”… “Poor boy, such an artist!”… Thus they said, one after another , mechanically, without a single phrase springing from a pious heartbeat… Gracián, who was leaning negligently against an artistic column, also launched his brief comment into the conversation. “What a pity for the woman,” he said. And a flash of vile scheming shone in his bold eyes. Only María, the silent and beautiful one, opened her soul to compassion for the bitterness recounted. I savored them tenderly, thinking: They lack what I have in abundance, and I lack what they have… but my poverty cannot be remedied like theirs… I would like to give them relief and consolation… Eva has never loved me well, but she suffers, she suffers a lot and perhaps I will be able to cheer her up… Besides, Diego is my lifelong friend… the good friend who in the high valley looked for me for the most beautiful roses, and for me composed the sweetest songs… My parents were living then… I was a child and happy… it’s been a long time!… Then, he and I cried so much… poor Diego!… And this final exclamation of their intimate conversation, she exhaled in a sigh. Her slightly trembling hands passed over her forehead, like a placid cloud of calm that beneath her golden curls calms the threat of a storm. The “cloud” also passed over the sky of her eyes and her long, slender fingers descended to her slightly damp skirt. A thunderous voice said almost in her ear: “Are you crying, Maria?” She turned to smile at her cousin Rafael, murmuring: “What have I got to cry for!” And she decided in her now calmed, and always generous, heart: Tomorrow, because of the child’s illness, I will go see Eva. Chapter 21. Tristan had a little friend, a talkative and cheerful little girl who, one afternoon, came to visit him accompanied by a young, fair-haired, and very beautiful lady named Maria. When the lady and the child entered the modest study on Vicálvaro Street, a suggestive scent of elegant life spread through the room, and Eva blushed at the embarrassment of her poor attire… Looking around, she was confused and displeased, and did not acknowledge the visit. The ladies embraced each other with mutual shyness, while the two children befriended each other with their glances and smiles, and, hand in hand, they disappeared through the house… Somewhat hastily, Maria said, as she sat down: “I came because I was told that you were worried about the little one’s health… as I know what it is to worry about one’s children, I was thinking about you a lot and wanted to see you… I wanted to bring Lali to play with Tristan for a while… but I find him quite lively… that’s nothing to worry about…” The affectionate and friendly timidity of that introduction aroused an involuntary remorse in Eva’s conscience; Almost won over by Maria’s cordiality, she replied: “But this illness has been going on for a very long time and it inspires a great deal of suspicion in me… The child is getting weaker every day… At the time of the extra time it’s sad to look at him… ” “A little anaemic… as soon as spring comes along you’ll see how he’ll recover… ” “On the contrary, the Madrid summer is doing him a lot of damage…” They remained silent, as if both were afraid to continue the conversation. Finally, Maria, hesitant, observed: “You won’t be able to go to the Mountain this year either, if Diego doesn’t have a holiday… ” “Even if he did, we wouldn’t go,” Eva said, her tone bitter, her eyes fixed tenaciously on the shabby mat on the floor. Cautiously risking the difficulty of that conversation, Maria suggested: “In that case, you could entrust the child to me; I would gladly take him and care for him as if he were my own… Her black eyes lifted sharply, and, looking into her blue ones with genuine astonishment, Eva answered, moved despite herself: “Thank you… thank you… I appreciate it… ” “And you accept, don’t you? ” “You haven’t thought through what you’re offering me…; a sick, sad child is a lot to do… disturbing and a nuisance everywhere… ” “Well, I assure you, he wouldn’t be a nuisance in my house. He’d be entertainment for me…; for Lali, a delight… ” “And for your husband? ” “Gracián will hardly be with us this summer… he has a long trip planned … Besides, he likes children, and he never interferes with the things I arrange. ” “Yes… you have freedom for everything… you have pleasures and whims… you do well to take advantage of happiness… ” “Happiness!” sighed María with an indefinable smile. “I,” Eva added dully, “only know her by name… to me she has only had a mocking sneer… ” “For many she has, my child… don’t talk like that, for God’s sake… in your house there is a rare and enviable treasure… ” “A treasure, you say? ” “Yes… you have love… ” “Love?… how innocent you are!… did you really believe it?… Love… I don’t know that gentleman!” ” Hush, hush, woman, Diego adores you… ” “I care for nothing about him. ” “What are you saying, Eva?” “He torments me… He makes me unhappy… ” “You suffer and you’re delirious… Diego is good… ” Eva, precipitated into that unusual confidence, irascible and excessive, argued: “Diego is good!… You said those same words one night at Las Palmeras, seven years ago now… we were both single, do you remember well?… Then I could believe you; you knew Diego better than I… Today I know him better than anyone, and I’m not convinced by your benevolence… ” María’s forehead was terrified, anguished and surprised. She always believed that Eva didn’t love her husband very much, but she was far from supposing that she hated him. She recovered from that surprise in a sad silence, while Eva nervously unraveled the fringe of her knitted pelerine. Then, patiently and painfully, María spoke softly. Her crystalline, sweet voice did not calm her friend’s stormy spirits, but it was so discreet and affable that it at least soothed the threatening austerity of his dark face. Inspired by the flowing flow of those noble words, Eva allowed herself to be carried away by a strange feeling of trust, unique in the fragile friendship she professed for María. She confessed the painful straits they were in, and in the bursts of that impulsive frankness, she felt a satanic pleasure in heaping complaints and blame on Diego. María extended her generous hand of kindness and with exquisite delicacy offered him the help of her fortune in that predicament. The haughty woman refused to accept anything, and even felt, in the end, a sudden regret for having confided her lamentable secret to the hidden rival of her ambitions. The veiled, profound tone of the consolation offered her, the sentimental inflections of the hyaline, sad voice, revealed nothing intimate or personal to Eva, ignorant of the modest ailments of the heart, incapable of reading hidden grief in a clouded gaze or a piercing smile. María, very adept at divining other people’s troubles at the time, noticed her friend’s growing agitation and hastened to steer the conversation onto a less difficult path, resuming it where it had left off and insisting on inviting Tristán to spend the summer in the North. “Thank you very much,” Eva repeated, “but it can’t be… ” “Why do you refuse?… I offer it to you with all my heart. And if Diego were to embark soon, as you say, you could also come with the child… you would be doing me a great favor.” I’m going to spend the summer alone with Lali and Doña Cándida… Think it over carefully and make up your mind. We’ll leave in June, or even September… You’ll see how well it suits Tristanito… cheer up… We’ll take him to the beach and the village, we’ll take good care of him… he’ll get strong… Ingenious and effusive, María let her heart run wild in her pious words. Struggling between gratitude and resentment, Eva continued… “It can’t be… thank you… thank you…” Chapter 22. Tristán and Lali had also shared an intimate secret, a sensational secret, shared without beating around the bush or dissembling, with the thirsty curiosity of children and childlike simplicity, charming and wonderful. The first to break the fervor of questions was the girl, lively and communicative. Looking at her companion very attentively, she asked quietly: “Is your name Tristán, because you’re sad?” “No,” the boy said gravely, “I’m sad because I’m sick… My name is Tristán because it’s a name from a novel, a very pretty one. ” “From a novel? I don’t know what a “novel” is… My name is Eulalia, but everyone calls me Lali… Do you like that name? ” “Somewhat, I like it now…” “So tell me; do you have many toys? ” “I have few, and you? ” “I have a doll’s palace and many other things… Don’t you remember that once you came to my house and I showed you everything? A long time ago… you weren’t even in pants yet… ” “I’ve forgotten,” Tristán said slowly. They had reached the dining room, and in a corner, inside a wooden box, they went to look for the boy’s toys: a shotgun, a game of bowling, a saber, two carts… “And horses, don’t you have any?” asked Lali. “Horses, no… they’ve broken. I have a puzzle… look.” He opened a small chrome box, and the two of them knelt on the floor, examining with great interest the little square blocks, with colored lines, of various figures. “Shall I put them together, so you can see?” asked Tristán gallantly. “Yes… put them together… it must be very difficult…” And looking at her friend’s bloodless little hands, fluttering over the blocks, Lali added: “Your hands are so thin… why don’t they cure you of this ailment of yours?” Suspense Tristan turned his intelligent and sorrowful face towards the girl, murmuring: “My mother said I’m going to die…” The darkness of his curls rippled around his tragic and pure profile, and Lali opened her golden eyes in terror upon the disconsolate expression of the patient child. Swift and resolute, she decided: “Well, don’t die even if she says so… You tell God that you don’t want to die. ” “But if Mom says so while crying!… If it’s God who wants it!” The little girl’s thought quickly jumped to another idea, with the flight of a butterfly, and Lali exclaimed: “All mothers cry!” Kneeling together and absorbed, they looked at each other for a long time, until Tristan pronounced, with terrible logic: “When you grow up… you’ll cry too…” Chapter 23. Maria was no longer the shy and curious girl who avidly whispered to the celestial horizons. The disappointments she had suffered opened up for her, along the way, high above the very sky, a high and greedy path to the flight of fantasy. The innocent dove of the valley had been born, by a miracle of sorrow, the powerful and sovereign wings of a condor… The moral failure of her marriage, that tremendous error of her inexperience, which enslaved her to a life sentence of pain, found María endowed with virile energies, with prodigious determination, in that very feminine and sweet nature. It was the orchard of her soul, where the breezes of illusion entered triumphantly, a fertile ground that tears had fertilized. She grew strong in the trenches of her intimate virtues, and her thoughtful and serene gaze did not rest, as it had at other times, on the shifting charm of the firmament, gazing for signs of fleeting joys. Instead , brave and firm, she fell to the other side of the sky, beyond life, behind the dark secret of death, hopeful with the supreme ambition of an unknown, imperishable happiness. Mary always dreamed, dreamed a lot, proudly and divinely… What outstanding soul does not dream and rave in the human prison?… Pain made prodigious discoveries in that exquisite temperament; it struck chords of silent feelings, and the entire exceptional soul of that woman vibrated in an infinite chord of superhuman longings. Then Mary was a saint, with a romantic and secret sanctity that offered her in advance the sublime pleasure of immortality. She was an artist with the sublime inspiration of a native art of superior lineage. Her heart, thirsty for inextinguishable love, drunk with sorrow , created for itself an interior life of refined beauty ; a life touched with the gallant purple of sacrifice, haloed with red flowers of divine passion; roses of Calvary, unfading finery of the _eternal garden_. Her feelings poured into the immensity, spilled into infinity, like incense of the world, chosen for God; they descended upon beings and things in a generous vortex, and were lavished upon all that was beautiful, all that was noble and sad along the path. Mary loved greatly, she loved insatiably the grave and somber mysteries of eternity, the pilgrim secrets of nature… human beauties… human sorrows. She had made of her intense misfortune a fervent and strange cult, and she gave herself to it with bitter voluptuousness, with that morbid pleasure, delirious and ill-fated, which has often been called “the coquetry of the “Pain.” And this singular creature, all love and sadness, ablaze with the hidden flame of ardent feelings, deified in an interior work of spiritual art, passed through the world in the gentle guise of a happy woman, hiding with the blushes of a modest soul the hidden depths of her tormented existence. She gallantly occupied her place of honor in Madrid’s salons and was frequently seen in society, graceful and cheerful, elegant and charming, apparently very comfortable with the ailments of worldly life. Her appearance was that of one of those childlike women, always ready to forgive and smile, credulous and simple; a discreet little woman without malice or passion, very devoted to external well-being; good and prudent, who sacrificed her self-respect and even her dignity as a wife to the sweetness of domestic peace and was content with a decorative happiness. Only perceptive observation, a master science in unfolding hearts, could discover behind that jovial and peaceful appearance another second, artistic and sorrowful life. Now, in María’s celestial eyes, the imperturbable blue gaze seemed to come from far away, from a remote place of wonder, where it had taken a mysterious bath of emotion. The light of those eyes shone with an ineffable and new charm, and wherever it rested, it left behind the gift of a pure and sad grace, the impalpable shred of a divine nostalgia, which could be called “the evil of heaven”… Chapter 24. Gracián rejoiced in the good fortune that had brought him that fortunate marriage with a high-ranking and wealthy woman, so submissive and accommodating. He too, like the common people, considered María from the point of view of a passively kind creature, a luxurious wife, harmless and beautiful. He regarded her with a certain compassionate pleasure and a protective superiority that had much that was humiliating and contemptuous. He treated her with a vulgar courtesy, somewhere between gallant and disdainful, always somewhat ironic and always icy. He often called her “poor thing” and caressed her cheeks like a child, fatherly. He was indifferent and generous with her, and made no effort to hide his most scandalous dalliances. That great comedian, blinded by pride, could not imagine that “the poor thing” professed absolute contempt for him and that, with extraordinary foresight, she had penetrated all the emptiness of the fantastic, noisy, and dazzling existence that so filled him with pride. A few months of marriage were enough for the young woman to painfully understand her husband’s conceit and to discover, beneath that fascinating exterior, a depth of bastard passions and a hollow heart. So certain was the sadness of her grave misfortune that she didn’t even dream of finding a remedy for it. She plunged into it with courage, and, though it was so undeserved and treacherous, she knew how to disguise it with a tunic, like any other setback, one of those that roll over a blooming youth without hindering the path to happiness. And when, most conceited with his hollow and false triumphs, Gracián deigned to grant his wife the favor of a caress or a gesture of attention, she concealed in her calm eyes all the disdain that this cheap life inspired in him, and with a disciplined smile stood guard over the sorrows of her abandoned heart. Chapter 25. In the constant vigils of that heart, a ray of light shone mercifully and joyfully. She was the sun in Lali’s eyes, the laughing, chatty little girl, a graceful bird who filled the shadowy forest of María’s thoughts with trills and flights. Lali was a charming six-year-old girl, beautiful like her parents, mischievous and playful, with an angelic heart. Her hair was blond, her eyes golden, full of a trembling , laughing light, a warm, dazzling light like a sliver of sunlight. María would spend hours lulling her sad reveries with Lali’s pleasant little voice, as she spoke to her doll and Doña Cándida, interchangeably, in gentle laughter. A docile damask curtain separated the little girl’s room from the small sitting room where her mother always had an unfinished project, an open book, and a vase of fresh flowers… That afternoon it was raining, and the little girl, who hadn’t been able to take her usual stroll, was tirelessly pacing between two armchairs near the balcony. In one sat Doña Cándida, brooding and sighing, knitting a stocking bristling with aggressive needles; in another lay the large celluloid _baby_, his motionless turquoise eyes very frightened, his little arms outstretched, his pale linen hair shaggy, and the pink silk of his dress a little flattened. No doubt he was frightened by the quarrel Lali was directing at his lifeless person. With the most sincere indignation, the little girl lectured: “If you don’t obey me, I’ll punish you without a snack… I’m in charge of you, and no one can argue with me… You know you don’t have a father…” She changed her tone and remarked spitefully: “No way, you don’t need one… Fathers are very mean men… very stupid… very ugly… ” A manly voice protested at the door of the study, with a smiling boast. “How is that, little liar? Are all fathers ugly?” The little girl turned to face the insinuating reproach; and jumping onto Gracián’s neck, she answered with a loving kiss: “You are handsome. ” “Well, then?” She said it in jest, to deceive Mimí. “How much do you love me?… Let’s see… ” “I love you hundreds… thousands…” The father caressed her proudly, proud of the dignity of that creature, who was a living display of his existence; and he left the room, boastful and jovial, throwing kisses to the little girl, who was saying to him: “Come early… I never see you at night… I don’t have a father at night !” No sooner had Gracián’s firm steps died away in the corridor than the little girl went to lift the tapestry that bordered her mother’s little sitting room and found her with the embroidery fallen on her knees and her eyes wandering and distracted, absorbed in a stubborn meditation. Lali ran toward her with open arms, climbed into her lap, and said to her in a naive and fervent “listening”: “I love you millions of times over… much more than him… countless times more… I love you worlds and seas and skies of affection!” And nervously, vibrantly, she kissed her submissive eyelids, her sweet, silent mouth, and the halo of her hair. When Lali grew tired of talking to herself, when she grew bored with Doña Cándida’s muteness and Mimí’s immobility, she would often ask her mother: “Will you let Rosita play with me?” María would always answer yes, and Rosita, that beautiful country girl we met seven years ago at Las Palmeras, now a graceful and vigorous woman, became small and unruly like Lali, by dint of pretending to be so, and by imitating with childish joy the cries of a chastised child, the accents and mimes of a crafty child. On the inclement days of winter, when no little friend came all bundled up and brave to play with Lali, Rosa played her part of the cuddly, living doll to perfection in the snug little closet, near Doña Cándida’s watchful glasses. Between sighs, Doña Cándida smiled blissfully as she contemplated her child, so cheerful and playful. For two years, Rosa had been in Lali’s immediate service, performing a restful task that consisted solely of arranging the tiny young lady’s rooms; sewing and ironing her clothes, and even Mimí’s; organizing her closets and toys; dressing her, undressing her; and, on certain occasions, acting, as we have already said, as the crying, mischievous, flesh-like doll , who had to be locked in the darkroom. The girl carried out these duties with such skill and dedication that her care and company became indispensable around the little girl, and Maria developed a singular affection for this clever and witty young lady, who knew with such grace how to please Lali, obey Doña Cándida, and pay attention to the most common details of her duties. of condescension and sweetness, full of concern, for the lady of the house. Chapter 26. Years ago, when the Bohemian poet of our story dealt a blow with impunity to Rosita’s pocket and heart, the girl remained for some time dejected and sad, and even a little failing in health. The proud color of her cheeks faded, and with a sinister cloud the dazzling brilliance of her gypsy eyes was dimmed. She walked taciturnly through the village and ignored with increasing disdain the loving requests of the young men who loved her well. Her parents became concerned about the young woman’s ailing appearance, spoke of taking her to the doctor, and in low voices lamented: “Oh, our daughter… how they must have harmed her in the city!” More than four young women, envious of Rosita’s beauty, underlined with a perverse smile the sentiment circulating in the town that the girl had found the good life among noblemen so unpleasant. But as soon as one of these pernicious smiles struck the young woman full in the face, two rosy carnations lit up on her cheeks , and her pride rose above the aches and pains of her heart. Rosa no longer withheld her graceful presence from the pilgrimages, nor did she fail to attend the evening parades and the Sunday “corro.” With a new and vindictive vanity, she donned her fine city clothes, and it was a sight to behold on festive days on the way to the parish church, at the solemn hour of high mass, with her dark, tight skirt, her lace mantilla, covering her brown face, and her pleated, elegant blouse, like that of a young lady. The variety of smiles that followed her then no longer made her blush; they were clear symptoms of admiration in the young men and jealousy in the girls. Rosa found an unknown pleasure in the haughty ostentation with which she imposed herself in the village, and her worries were greatly distracted by that triumphant game of feminine vanity. Since her heart condition was not serious, with those stimulants and those diversions she gradually improved until she was almost completely cured, with no other damage remaining, perhaps incurable, than a mortal hatred for the rough labors of the village and a strong and determined affection for the delicate and beautiful things she had known in the opulent house of Coronado. Sharp and alert, like a good mountaineer, she barely freed herself from the deceitful lullaby with which _Nenúfar_ had enchanted her, when she recognized that the bohemian was a love smuggler, a professional exploiter of gullible women. She rejoiced at having been cautious and forward-thinking with him, and she didn’t even resent the cheap five-peso scam. But from that exotic love affair with “a poet,” the poor villager was left with a sentimental exaltation that detached her with profound weariness from her miserable peasant existence. At the same time that her stately clothes were fading, she watched with dismay as the rough tools of the field once again calloused her small hands and roughened her blossoming body. A rebellious feeling of protest rose in her restless and anxious spirit. She looked with terror at the women, young in years, now spent and aged, their beauty cut short in their prime by the harsh hazards of farming life. She cast her eyes around her in terror and noticed that, suddenly, the once sunny path of her youth had darkened. Once her miserable home had seemed benign and pleasant, and suddenly she found it all black with smoke from the walls, all tarnished with ugliness and sadness… And the mountain path, had it not once been blue?… She would have sworn it was so; but see how it appeared to her, brown and fearful, winding aimlessly and hopelessly through cruel weeds that tore apart with barbaric effort the youthful grace of the woodcutters. And what about the crops?… Rosa had known them to be full of charms; promising in the spring, pomegranates in the summer, bountiful in the autumn… And they turned out to be different; they turned inhuman and ferocious, stretched out in the valley like an implacable curse that forced her to live in ambush on the earth; to live bent over, sweating, panting, withered without having blossomed in all her beauty… Rosa no longer had peace or joy. The desire for greatness, sown in her soul, grew with the absolute deprivation of the desired gifts, and determined in that uncultivated and delicate spirit a true delirium, ambitious for beautiful and subtle things, a mad passion for art that inflamed and tormented her. The young woman struggled for a long time with this constant fascination. She wanted to conquer it, and seeking a heroic remedy, she promised to marry a young pebble-pebble boy from the neighborhood who was wandering around her, lost in love. He was a brave worker and had his share of wealth and a reputation as a “good catch.” This unexpected event brought great joy to Rosa’s parents, breaking the young woman’s stubborn refusal of all marriage proposals that had been offered to her. Although they saw her shaken and anxious, they attributed it to the emotions of courtship. The wedding was rapidly approaching when, in a tragic hour of cowardice, Rosa fell into her mother’s arms in a flood of tears, confessing that her fiancé inspired an invincible repulsion in her, and declaring between sobs: “I won’t marry him, Mother, I can’t marry him… it’s impossible.” Lamentable scenes of grief and spite followed one another among the families of the engaged young men; gossip and rumors spread freely through the alleys , and the beautiful Rosita, desperate and confused, tried to leave the village, fleeing from a life that had become unbearable and from an environment that was hostile to her. Chapter 27. The wild little village of Rosa clung to the mountain range, near the valley where the noble manor of the Ensalmo family was located; and it was, in fact, the current owner of the palace who had brought the pretty young woman to the Las Palmeras estate years earlier, during a summer vacation of the marquises. Despite the gossip of the local residents, where Rosa had acquired a reputation for being foolish and fickle, María liked this lively and graceful peasant girl, with her refined manners and quick understanding, skilled and patient with the meticulous duties of a maid. When, after the abrupt end of her arranged marriage, the girl went to María seeking her favor to leave the village, she found the lady easy to win over and willing to grant her protection. Summer was ending, and Rosa, admitted to Lali’s service under the immediate orders of Doña Cándida, the very happy little adventurer of a villager went to Madrid with her new masters. Within a couple of courtly months, Rosita had once again become the exquisite creature who had captivated Nenúfar on the northern sandbank. Her dark complexion, artistically sun-kissed, softened with good treatment and shone silkily in her tiny hands and on her pilgrim face. The joy of her dreamed-of freedom came alive in her eyes and smile, and with her modern hairstyle and elegant dress, her entire harmonious figure became detailed and perfect, seducing with an insinuating note of country freshness, a suggestive aroma of wild flowers. That graceful figure had many gourmands at Court, and gallants of various ranks eagerly courted the mountain girl. But, warned by her mistress with prudent discretion, and taught by disappointment, she did not consent to any of them with words or attitudes, and in the circle of her suitors she soon acquired a reputation for being unsociable and proud. What excited Rosita in that sweet and amiable existence that she so coveted was not, of course, the awakening of amorous passions, but rather the knowledge that she deserved them and the feeling in her pampered beauty of the seductive allure of flattery. Above all, she wanted to see herself pretty and adorned in the mirror; to touch and look at beautiful things, to taste fine foods, to inhale delicate scents. She felt happy sleeping in a white bed, to tread on rich tapestries, to listen to a choice and elegant language. She suffered from an acute obsession with beauty, and wherever she found herself–better or worse defined, according to her artistic intuition , there she would rest her eyes in a most subtle recreation, so long that the object caressed by her admiration persisted in its absence for a long time, emerging in the void, amorphous and tempting, to receive the idolatrous worship of the obsessed one. Chapter 28. May triumphed in a combination of magnificent days, and Tristanito terrified his weak eyes, frightened by the intense light of that dazzling indigo sky. Every afternoon his mother took him to the Retiro to breathe the perfumed air in the urban foliage, but Tristan neither laughed nor played, nor did anything other than clasp his wax hands in an attitude of meditation and lower his slack head whose jet-black curls seemed to weigh him down with an overwhelming weight. In the anguished trembling of her gaze there was a funereal lure, and her pale lips, when she smiled, showed a tragic grimace of suffering and fatigue. Eva followed with desperate pain the advance of that invincible consumption that was annihilating the child, and she often had outbursts of rebellious protest against fate, and even against God and his saints. On their daily walk, mother and child had sought out a favorite spot where they would sit; and at a regular hour, Lali would appear on the shady avenue, running toward Tristan with obvious joy. Gazing at her, bouncing and joyful, Eva felt an impulse toward the child, so blind and angry that she would have been pleased to scratch her rose-colored face and tear her elegant little dress to pieces. Many times the little girl, with a vague feeling of danger, would stop in her tracks toward Tristan, and would remain, fearful and blushing, at the lady’s strange expression. The sick boy, on the other hand, had taken a passionate liking to Lali. He agreed to go out, simply because he wanted to find her; he spoke of her obstinately, and named her, deliriously, during his periods of fever. The girl’s smiling beauty was for Tristan a vision of enchanting magic; and Eva, to please him, endured the torment of seeing them together and of comparing, with bitter spite, her son’s troubled countenance with Lali’s proud elegance. One such afternoon, the daily meeting of the two little ones ended abruptly because of Eva’s irate intervention. Deceived by a fleeting flash of joy, Tristán tried to run alongside the little girl, who seemed like a sister to butterflies and breezes. Weak and clumsy, he fell face down and slightly injured his hand. Lali was flying to his aid, distressed and concerned, when Eva rushed up to them, very upset. She pushed the girl violently and, picking up the fallen man, exclaimed harshly: “The games with that little girl are over; each one for himself.” With both of her little hands, confused and disconsolate, Lali covered her flushed face and went to Doña Cándida, who appeared farther away, and who, not knowing what the matter was, greeted her with a sigh: “Oh, my God!” And with her skinny hands, she began to smooth down his messy, silky hair. Eva, meanwhile, walked away down the middle of the tree-lined street, her expression haughty, her step swift. As an ornament on her hat, crowning the lady’s haughty figure, a hostile bird was poised, presenting at that moment a singularly ferocious appearance: its plumage, talons, and beak assumed a sullen and threatening attitude above the lady’s erect forehead. Poor Tristan was practically carried, clinging to his mother’s firm, round arm; he sobbed deeply, his gaze earnestly turning toward the spot where Lali had remained. After walking a good distance in this manner, Eva, compassionate for the child’s affliction and fearful of his fatigue, slowed her pace and tried to console him. “Don’t cry anymore,” she began; “your head is going to ache, and you’ll be even more burdened today… don’t cry; I’ll find you someone to play with. ” “I want Lali,” Tristan moaned inconsolably. “And why only her, son?” She’s a troublemaker, I don’t like her. That little girl makes you sweat and tire trying to follow her, she makes you fall, you see, she hurt you… “Not her, it was only me who stumbled. ” “But why do you love her so much? Tell me…” Eva stopped, bent down toward the weeping child, and wiped his tears with her handkerchief. More calmly, with rare eloquence and a fervent tone, Tristan replied: “She is made of joy and sunshine, she knows how to run…, she knows how to laugh…, she seems all covered with gold and flowers… I love her… I love her!” And he stretched out his lily-like hands toward the now invisible place where the little girl used to look for him. Moved and absorbed, the mother asked: “So you, what are you like? ” “I am sick and sad; a pain I have, I don’t know where, is growing inside me and making me cry… I’m going to die! ” “No, no, be quiet. ” “You said it yourself. ” “When?” –One night… You said it was Dad’s fault, remember? Troubled and pained, the mother murmured vaguely: –I don’t want to remember anything… And they both continued on their way, discouraged and silent. Chapter 29. At the home of the Marquis of Coronado, the advantages of spending that year’s summer at the _Las Palmeras_ estate were being discussed. There were differing opinions and a tie in the vote on the project, because the Marchioness and her son advocated the convenience of a season of rest on the healthy and beautiful northern beach, while Isabel and Benigna, twisting their faces, preferred to publicly suffer from one of the fashionable ailments whose cure begins in Vichy, progresses in Carlsbad, consolidates in Baden, and then recurs the following year as a pretext for a new pilgrimage to the spas favored by the incurably ill that idleness and abundance produce. Since the Coronado family couldn’t reach an agreement in their discussions, Benigna playfully proposed, “We can consult Papa about the matter.” Everyone laughed at the joke without hesitation, and it was certain that Don Agustín accepted the consultation. He took his involvement in the family decisions seriously and gallantly voted in favor of the marchioness, who based her wishes on the powerful reason that she was too tired and dejected to embark on a luxurious summer vacation. It was true that the lady had lost her proverbial good humor; she seemed listless and sad, and even a little devout. It was said that, lately, already distrusting the power of her beauty, which was declining, her private, licentious existence had been experiencing hours of desperate torment. It was said that Luis Galán, after having devoted a few years of constancy to her, had treacherously severed his relations with her, having barely obtained a substantial monetary favor from the incorrigible “lovely woman,” who was not called the “Generous Gift” for nothing. But so many things are “said”!… All that was known for certain was that the marchioness prayed a lot and was dejected; and that Luis Galán had disappeared from the elegant circle known as “good Madrid society,” where the unchanging smile of that handsome young man deserved the privilege of exclusive patent. Having already decided on the trip to La Montaña, the young ladies of Coronado had to resign themselves to it and even tried philosophically to find him attractive. They evoked the cheerful days at the villa, which seven years earlier had slipped like a dream into the restless and turbulent youth of the two sisters. From the tumult of their memories there arose with strangeness and singularity that memory of a single summer, of a modest beach, between melancholic gardens and a wild coast, and there paraded with a penetrating aroma of joyful youth the images of that entire tranquil and sweet summer, without great parties, without famous adventures, strange and fleeting months that offered to the agitated life of these two women a peaceful pause and a beneficial gust of health and poetry. Unfolding thoughts and memories with a vague sadness and a remote illusion, Isabel and Benigna wanted at all costs to adorn the future with promises, and they looked at each other distrustfully and withered, their eyes without shine and their lips without laughter. lips. With a feeling of failure, the two sisters slowly put together a plan for invitations and a small party program. It was necessary to attract a good group of cheerful friends to the Cantabrian sands and prepare for a pleasant stay at Las Palmeras. The recounting of available friends for this occasion stirred up disconsolate memories and yielded a whole host of new names in our account. Not a single one of those we had met at the hospitable villa was within easy reach of the initiated invitation. Clara Infante, married to a Catalan banker and separated from her husband a month after the wedding, was traveling abroad at the time, well accompanied, according to scurrilous tongues. Pizarro, the famously discontented man, had returned, disillusioned as never before, from a long voyage to the Americas and, in bizarre protest against his rantings against all countries and all civilizations, he was trying to take part in an expedition to the North Pole. He lived shut up in an inn room, carrying on a fantastic correspondence with some Norwegian gentlemen and a Russian lady, who were part of the planned expedition. The unreasonableness of his whims made him forget that he was shivering in the Cantabrian summer and that even the mildest climates were hostile to his intemperance. The occasional poet, _Nenúfar_, had not managed to emerge from his recent social shipwreck and, with prudent discretion, had eclipsed himself on the luminous horizon of his aristocratic friendships. The young ladies of Coronado would not adorn their mountain salon with the blond beauty of María Ensalmo, nor with the dark loveliness of Eva Guerrero, nor would Teresita Vidal bring to Las Palmeras the strange note of her bored and ailing youth. Poor Teresita!… When the leaves fell, two years ago, her white and pompous funeral hearse slowly made its way down Alcalá Street in search of the cemetery of Nuestra Señora de la Almudena… Chirping restlessly and skipping like a little bird, she had taken a somersault one autumn afternoon, suddenly remaining motionless on the sofa where she had been squirming, annoyed and complaining. The tragic stillness left a grimace of weariness on her childlike face, and a few drops of discolored blood on her ironic lips. With more vanity than mercy, they dressed her in a gala dress, splendid in lace and flowers, as scanty at the neckline and sleeves as it was excessive in the train… Lace, flowers, and fabrics, along with the miserable flesh, all of this was comfortably accommodated in a coffin measuring one meter, because Teresita’s body, which had always been weak and tiny, in the clutches of death was left so small and diminished that it was almost impossible to suppose her twenty-five years of age. The young woman’s friends remembered with terror that last visit they paid her at the edge of the large _imperial bed_, under the emaciated light of the crackling candles. Over Teresita’s bedecked corpse, worldly flattery, which spares not even the dead, uttered a flattering phrase : “She looks like a bride.” That servile flattery sounded like an impious and burlesque comparison, with the cruelty of satire, where death, embraced by a miserable little figure of a woman, struck terror and contumely into the most insensitive hearts. Isabel and Benigna could not forget their terror and astonishment when they realized that that little wax doll, shrunken and frozen, insensitive and hard to the serum delight of the admirable dress, was the lively and pampered Teresita Vidal. And as she thought of the invitations to another summer getaway at Las Palmeras, the vision of that luxurious coffin, of that white burial that, on that sweet autumn afternoon, passed through life toward the livid mystery of the tomb, remained floating in her sad memory. Chapter 30. Tearing herself away from the memory of such a fearful event, Isabel said to her sister: “From that happy year we are remembering, we will only find one friend on the coast: Luisa Ramírez… ” “And one friend, López,” Benigna replied, smiling. “Yes; López is still there, and… who knows?” Isabel murmured with a singular accent. Changing her expression, she then exclaimed: “Do you know that Rafaelito will end up marrying Luisa? ” “I fear so. ” “I’m amazed at the duration of that affection. ” “It’s that sentimental love, they say, can become chronic… ” “Oh, how frightening, daughter!” “But did you believe Rafael capable of such constancy? ” “What would I have believed, child? ” “That love is a miracle. ” “It’s nonsense. Rafael can make a brilliant marriage; he can choose from the cream of the crop of good matches; without going any further, Casilda Manrique, countess and millionaire, is crazy about him. ” “And for Gracián… ” “Shut up, woman, that’s another matter.” There was a malicious and smiling silence; then Benigna resumed the conversation. “Listen; it seems to me that Rafael, at times, also falls a little in love with María. ” “What you’ve noticed is pity, not love. ” “Pity? And for what?” –Strange things about that boy. Don’t you know he’s romantic and pious?… He fancies María is unhappy. –If I were to say she’s stupid!… She could be “the first” woman in Madrid today. –I believe it… Look, she’s had pursuers… –And so many she has. –But she’s unapproachable. –So says Rafael, who admires her greatly; but you shouldn’t trust appearances. Those ladies who apparently haven’t broken a single dish in their lives inspire neither sympathy nor confidence. –Eva is also an incorruptible virtue. –Nor is he a saint of my devotion; I find her too proud and too pretty. –And she has an intolerable, poetic and sentimental husband. –They say Diego is embarking… –And the boy is dying… –They’ve been unhappy. –Well, she wouldn’t lack consolation if she wanted it; Gracián likes her a lot…
–Gracián likes them all. “But now the favorite is Casilda Manrique.” The two young ladies remained silent for a moment, and suddenly Benigna exclaimed triumphantly: “I have a magnificent idea. ” “Let’s see… ” “If Casilda were to come with us to La Montaña, we would already have guaranteed visits and entertainment. She would be a great attraction for our tour; perhaps Rafaelito would fall into the temptation of pursuing her formally, and in the end, his persistent affair with Luisa would be broken off, that strange infatuation with the threat of marriage, which displeases us all.” Isabel said pessimistically: “Manrique won’t go to Las Palmeras, my child; she has a summer vacation plan that “makes one squirm.” Malicious and stubborn, Benigna insinuated: “If she knows Gracián is going there, she’ll be happy, for sure. ” “But he’s only going to drop María off at her house in the valley.” “If Casilda is at the beach, Gracián will pay us a visit. ” “You’re right; you’re a magician.” A mischievous and shrewd laugh commented on the conversation. Chapter 31. Not a cloud passed over the blue crystal of the sky. The afternoon, in its slow fall, fainted on the horizon, as if the magnificent clouds were stopping it with a long farewell kiss… Gracián pretended to let himself be led by Lali, who tugged at his arm impatiently , repeating: “It’s this way, come on; if we take a little longer, they’ll have left.” The gentleman smiled and softly hummed a light song he had learned in the wings of a small theater. They circled the pond, turned to the right, and in the most canopy-like and fragrant corner of the Retiro Park, they saw a lady and a child sitting on a bench. She seemed to be reading something inane in a newspaper, while the boy seemed to be deciphering some dark mystery in the fine sand of the road, his eyes fixed on the ground, inquisitive and frightened. Two movements of different intent occurred on the bench when the girl and the gentleman stopped before him. Amazed and happy, Tristán simply said: “Lali!” And he stretched out his arms toward his little friend with a surge of fascination. Eva exclaimed with sincere astonishment: “Ah!” And she remained confused and smiling at Gracián’s humbled greeting. which, by way of explanation, he said with an insinuating tone: “The girl told me that you come to this place every afternoon, and today I wanted her to guide me to the blessed spot where you hide, more beautiful and more elusive every day.” The two little ones, arm in arm, walked away happily, and their childish confidence mingled with the sweet silence of the foliage, with the pearly murmur of a nearby fountain… The lady was slow to recover from her surprise, and seemed undecided about the manner she should adopt to respond to the amiable gentleman. It was true that Eva, then, was not always flattering and affable with her friends, as she had been when Gracián had first met her. The natural hardness of her beautiful countenance had been accentuated by a sullen expression, and through the sullen night of her eyes frequently passed flashes of threatening storm. She fixed her gaze like a dagger on all the women she considered happy, and on the men who admired her, she wreaked furious disdain on those other gallants who, though she was single and beautiful, had left her forgotten by the side of the road, alone and poor, tossing her, as they passed, the alms of a gallant flower. And the burning resentment that society inspired in her defended her, better than her meager virtue, from the stalking of some suitors, covetous of her charms. Loveless and ambitious, her small soul was filled with temptations and rages, leaving her honor no protection but the cold shield of pride. Behind such a flimsy defense, Eva reflected that among those who desired her, only one deserved the sacrifice of his reputation; perhaps the one who pursued her the least. It was Gracián. The conquest of that man meant triumph, power, and revenge to her… Three great desires for a petty heart. Chapter 32. After she had meditated for a few moments, Eva, staring at Gracián, burst into a laugh that was somewhere between ironic and mocking. But he, unperturbed, very joyful and pleased, sat down on the bench, “Look, he’s looking at the lady.” The playful phase of laughter passed, the glances prevailed, and the phrases of a witty and difficult conversation took flight discreetly in that propitious corner of the park. Deftly subtilizing the intention of his words with the skill of someone who knew that woman’s weaknesses intimately, Gracián unfolded before her a complete plan of conquest, cementing it in a supposed long-standing sympathy and constant admiration. He justified the silence that had prevailed until then with the profound respect he professed for his friend and his lady; and he filled this sentimental paragraph with a portion of vulgarity, which found an echo of novelty and emotion in his winning and regal voice. He lamented that youth was so brief, that the good hours that accompany beauty and love were fleeting… and that there were so many husbands unworthy of beautiful women, reluctant and clumsy in showering them with flattery and pleasure. Such husbands, in Gracián’s opinion, deserved neither fidelity nor any consideration. And when he spoke thus, with a measured and pious expression, the libertine gentleman appeared equable and reasoned, as if he could spit at the sky with impunity and exemplify with his life the admirable type of a _perfect married man_. The speech remained rounded and brilliant, swollen like a balloon; And overwhelmed by him, Eva struggled weakly in the trenches of her vanity. Silent in the passionate strains of prayer, she agreed bitterly when Gracián’s words were directed against Diego, or against the unhappiness with which she believed herself filled. And, engulfed in the juggling of that dangerous game, they saw with surprise that the afternoon had died and that night had been born. Fearful of the growing darkness, the children were now returning, together and silent, slowly, because Tristán was growing very tired. Eva, astonished by her carelessness, quickly got up and ran to touch her son’s forehead, which was burning and drooping. The sick man’s fatal crisis was signaling his cruel hour, and it was necessary to return home immediately. Gracián suggested leaving by way of the nearby Angel Caído promenade and taking a carriage so the child could travel at ease. At Tristán’s slow pace, advancing through the shadows of the park amid the scattering of straggling strollers, the gentleman still found a way to discern signs of his good or bad fortune at the beginning of that journey. Caught in the entanglement of such delicate nets, Eva failed to show herself impassive on that tempting occasion, and between dazzled and satisfied, she dropped a hope into her friend’s yearnings… Lali was very thoughtful and a little sad. Tristán stumbled at every moment, aimlessly and without strength, and along the blue paths of the night, the loving star of silence wandered its pure light. Chapter 33. “Paths of Sorrow” was the title of a book Diego was working on with pieces of his poet’s heart and admirable traits from his brilliant pen. The manuscript was nearing completion when Tristán, one night, a blue May night, returning from a walk with his mother, fell defeated by a burning fever, his slow illness worsening to an alarming degree. Consulted once more in the long process of that affliction, inexorable science had its last word on the child’s innocent head . Only a miracle could save him, and the creation of that miracle rightfully corresponded, in a fortunate event, to the fresh, mountainous air of the countryside. With insolent acrimony, Eva asked her husband, pointing at the sick man: “What are you going to do? Are you going to let him die or are you going to try to save him?” Diego, looking at him in terror, muttered a few incomplete words that sounded like a wail and a roar, and fled to lock himself in the hiding place where he worked and suffered during his inclement hours at home. But his wife pursued him relentlessly; she entered the room behind him, and sharpening her voice and gaze, like someone sharpening a murderous sword, she said: “If you don’t want to save him, I will… I am beautiful and… Don’t forget it. ” Diego, terrified, raised his hands to his chest and then to his forehead; he then placed them on the table, seeking support for his staggering body. He was mute and listless; he looked like a dead man standing up in some macabre fiction. Advancing toward him with the fierce complacency of the torment he caused, Eva insisted: “Aren’t you answering?” As if he had just regained life, Diego shuddered and looked around. There was such an expression of surprise and surprise on his face that one might have thought he had woken from a dream, or had returned from a faint in a strange place, and was about to ask, as in a novel: “Where am I?” But he asked nothing, but said by way of reply: “It’s all over now… At last, it’s broken; it’s undone, fallen… ” “Which one is undone and fallen?” asked Eve, believing that her husband had gone mad. “The idol that I once raised, deceived by the melodious lies of your mouth… I dragged myself toward your beauty with barbaric joy, with tempestuous desire; and I loved you with such senseless eagerness that only now do I truly despise you . ” “You said you despise me? ” “Yes; I am free from your chains now: I am mine again… You inspire in me nothing but pity… You accuse me of poverty, me, who have two inestimable treasures: sentiment and art… You treat me as a pauper, me, who have an eternal fortune: glory… And are you the one who accuses me of being needy, a miserable creature with no other good than your flesh made of earth?… What unfading grace do you possess, tell me? What immortal gift?… You gave me a despicable beauty in exchange for my heart, and now you threaten to take your beauty away from me… The fact is that I no longer want it, it is yours alone; you can sell it if you please… I paid you too much for it. You have returned the price I gave you for it; we are even… Go, woman, go and do not fear my anger… I pity you. Eve tried to speak, red with fury; but her husband seized her for a arm firmly, and led her to the door of the room. “With a soul, with a heart, with feeling and poetry, one cannot be eaten,” she managed to utter softly. “It is not seasoned bread that you have lacked; you covet finery and trains, and I, mad that I am, gave you my soul. An imperishable soul for an earthly beauty unlit by the divine breath of love!… You have done yourself justice, woman; you give me back my treasure and you keep your beauty… Sell it at its true value; for it they will give you what you desire: stones, metals, trinkets…” She opened the door, and a humble and wailing voice, like broken glass, faintly reached them . It was Tristanito, crying… Then Diego, standing up and trembling, murmured in his wife’s ear: “But do not use the life of that angel as a pretext for your infamy; if he can be saved with money, I will save him.” “Mama, Mama, I’m scared!” cried the boy. Gently pushing his mother, Diego added in a deep voice, “Go suffer by your son’s side… Go cry, child. Life is not pleasure; only in suffering is one lived fully… Let holy pain fill your spirit, so that God’s work will not remain empty…” Chapter 34. And it was certain that the poet had regained his freedom. Eva’s imprudent words were like a decisive blow of the axe that cut down the last, already diseased root of that love made only of human delight. Feeling himself redeemed from his captivity, the artist enjoyed a triumphant and restorative exaltation, the sweet inner praise of a profound peace. His spirit, atrophied in the prison of sensual passion, was bathed in pure and free grace, and he broke free lightly from the earth, meaningful and glorious, as he had once flown. That freed soul had a childish longing; He wanted to return to the open roads where he suffered singing and loved ideally; he longed for his first muse, the chaste illusion with blue eyes and a candid smile… Dressed in neat, new clothes, he went to find her, a wanderer through the invisible furrows that great loves have left in the immensity. But alas! the poet’s curious soul did not recognize the friendly orchards of other days; and found them abandoned and mute… Solitary then, she meditated. And one cannot meditate in the clouds without grave danger of falling… Out there on the high paths of dreams, one must travel, fly and fly, without stopping for a moment… The artist’s musings brought his efforts to the ground; and in the reality of life, Diego remembered… The village muse of his youth, blonde and smiling like an archangel, had a loving little heart that fell for a man; And at that time, that first dream of the poet was of a very beautiful lady, a little sad, celebrated and powerful, placed by fate at an enormous distance from the artist… Already tempted to reflect on the irremediable and tragic things of the world, Diego remembered that once, only once in a long time, he approached the beloved illusion of his adolescence, transformed into a genteel lady, queen of salons; and he looked into her eyes so, so much so, that she blushed while he was startled at having discovered in those ideal blue pupils a painful secret. Villamor was surprised that upon awakening, healthy and free to the life of beautiful art and pure feeling, the dormant memory of that event was tenaciously reawakened in his mind. And since poets often have very extravagant ideas, Diego wanted to celebrate the assumption of his imprisoned spirit with a solemn vow that would unite his new artistic existence with that poignant memory and his other distant yearnings. Thus he swore that his inspiration would forever have the ideal form of a slender lady with thoughtful blue eyes and golden hair; a creature who could be called quietly: “Mary?” and who with a seraphic, soundless voice would answer: “What do you want?”; a woman who would show the sculptural firmness of her flesh bathed in the blessed glow of sanctity; an angel who would know how to weep the holy pains of love, with tears filled with aromas and rumors… And the strange thing was that Diego made those singular vows and serenely reveled in those subtle machinations, watching over his son’s aching sleep in a night of vigil and poverty. He had his elbows resting on his work table, his face in his hands, his eyes closed, and scattered around him were the last pages of his novel _Caminos de dolor_. The manuscript, which was a marvel of style and originality, an intense and moving work, painful as life, had already been sold to a fortunate publisher who would offer the precise sum for Tristanito to go and pray for the miracle of health in the tonic breezes of the mountains. Diego would wait for his son’s fate to be decided, and, saving or losing him, he would depart for future American lands, a wanderer and dreamer with his lyre and his art, accompanied by that sweet and beautiful image to whom he had sworn romantic fidelity. Chapter 35. And with all this, beautiful Rosita began to appear distracted and saddened. One could even swear she was crying silently. When she played the doll with Lali, she remained as silent and still as the celluloid baby itself. The little girl would run to shake her by the shoulders, lift her chin with her dwarfish hands, and say to her: “But, woman, you’ve become silly; you don’t know how to play anymore!” Rosita would then apologize, smiling to hide her embarrassment, but she could not manage to compose the childish farce of the cuddly doll with the pleasure she had at other times. The sound of certain footsteps, the metallic sound of certain voices, made Rosita blush and tremble; And Doña Cándida, behind her scrutinizing spectacles and the bristling needles of her knitting needles, watched her suspiciously , murmuring: “Oh, my God!” One afternoon, when the annual trip to the Mountain was already being prepared at the little hotel on Goya Street, Rosita was greatly amused by a small incident that put her in a good mood, and for a few hours the ominous cloud that had been darkening her brow dissipated. It so happened that, as the maid was going to take a letter from the young lady to the Coronado family’s house , upon ascending the servants’ stairs she found herself face to face with someone coming down; and this “one,” who was young and mischievous by appearance, looked at her slowly and exclaimed: “Rosita!” To whose voice the young woman responded with an amused air and astonishment in her eyes: “Simon!… You this way!” As if poor Water Lily were an exotic plant in the house of the marquises, and even in the populous town and court… Although Rosita had been living in Madrid for some years, and although she jokingly and laughingly desired to meet the bohemian poet, she had not succeeded until that moment. So, very cheerful and mischievous, she struck up a conversation with him with the best will in the world, and teased him beautifully with mockery and compassion, for the timid and pitiful appearance of Water Lily lent itself to all this. He contemplated Rosita with a certain emotion and with a rapture that, as it grew by the minute, was mixed with a shameful memory, because in the Diogenian spirit of the gallant adventurer, that evil hand, deceitfully played against the mountain girl, had left a strange pricking of remorse. Waterlily wasn’t bad; he was just a miserable wanderer in life, always prone to decline greatly and rise little in the social tides. As he himself had naively confessed, his diminished destiny forced him to “act as Waterlily, as a modernist poet, and other, worse things.” Rosita’s radiant appearance and her ingenious conversation soon showed him that the young woman had grown in beauty and sagacity in a surprising way. And he tried in vain to explain the serious reasons that had forced her to break her marriage promises. She interrupted him, quick and silly, with sharp retorts so mocking that the young man, confused, felt stung in his pride and overwhelmed. Thus the young woman held him captive and dejected for a long time, until, humble and delicate as a glove, the troubadour once again offered her his hand. The girl’s frank laughter rolled down the stairs, and _Nenúfar_, clinging to the banister with the anguish of one who feels he is faltering, said to him: “I’ve given up journalism and poetry, which have often failed; now I intend to work seriously… I’m going to start a large tailor’s shop in partnership with another man … ” “Well, I already know,” Rosita interrupted him, still laughing, “who your first customer will be.” And she looked at his suit with care and condolence. “But tell me, Rosa the enchantress,” _Nenúfar murmured, “whether you will be my wife; my little wife, my comfort, and my happiness!” “Shut up, son; for a tailor, your speech seems very flowery… I don’t like industrialists… Besides, times have changed; I’m another man now… –Give me, at least, a sliver of hope… –I’m in a hurry… I’ve been holding myself back too long… If you want two pesetas… And she began to search for them in her elegant purse. Two sparks of greed and anger appeared on the gallant’s starving face. Stuttering and cowardly, he uttered: –You treat me like a poor beggar; don’t bother yourself, no… But he eagerly extended his rumpled hand. Rosita placed the alms in it, and with great grace and grace, she said goodbye, climbing in as quickly as she could, to save him the embarrassment of her gift. In two bounds, Waterlily was at the tavern on the corner, and more hungry than in love, he consoled himself for the girl’s irony by happily spending his coin… From that moment on, Rosita heard nothing of the bohemian… Chapter 36. Under the pretext of inquiring about Tristanito’s health, Gracián paid a visit to Vicálvaro Street, choosing the hour when Diego was usually out of the house. Eva received him with a start; but he, skillful and cautious, spoke to her very subtly, without fully revealing his intentions; they were only slightly glimpsed, as if the cloak of reason and prudence that enveloped them had been unconsciously lifted by a violent breath of passion. But, restless, struggling with the pride of her pure lineage and her ambitious instincts, the beautiful woman had all the appearance of a criminal; And guilt, already unhinged in her defenseless heart, appeared before her bewitching eyes with a somber fire. Since the child was doing much better and his transfer to the Mountain had already been decided, this plan was discussed with the tacit agreement of a delightful period of intimacy in the remote valley. The visit, which could well have passed as a proper compliment, took on the unhealthy air of a furtive confidence, which left Eva’s spirits with a stimulating bitterness of forbidden adventure. Relieved of the pain of seeing the child sick, and enjoying those days of a certain ease with the proceeds from the novel Diego gave her, the woman’s outward life brightened, and an unbridled desire for pleasure led her to consent to the idea of ​​sin. Her husband’s indifferent and contemptuous attitude had her in suspense. Her vanity was revealed by the utter disdain she saw in him, and a vague, indefinable feeling compelled her to lower her eyes and voice in his presence. For the first time since their marriage, Diego found peace in his home; but the sad peace of lack of love, a painful and bitter calm of an abandoned home. In order for Eva, at all costs, to launch herself into the pleasures of abundance, freely and willingly, it was necessary for her husband to leave as soon as possible. Villamor had already received advantageous offers from America as a result of his efforts as an emigrant writer. From Buenos Aires, a major Spanish newspaper promised him a substantial salary, and other American publications sought his signature, which, through diligent journalistic work, was gradually securing an enviable position in the world’s press. And having regained her confidence in the writer, Eva believed it prudent not to break with her husband at all. But it was necessary for Diego to humble himself before her. Despite her husband’s grave demeanor and the supreme disdain with which he treated her for the first time, she supposed that even the power of his beauty could render him spellbound and docile to her every design… The couple exchanged only the essential words; things concerning the child or the planned trip to the mountains; but Eva made sure that her phrases were as measured and sweet as Diego would wish them to be, as mediators of a conventional agreement. Her first saving measure, on such a rare occasion, was to push Tristán toward his father and get the child to abandon some of the passive hostility that, at her instigation, he had always shown him. Diego, who adored his son, seeing that the child showed him affection like never before, felt overwhelmed by the terror of losing him, perhaps in a few days, and being left alone in the world, alone and sad at the peak of life, without seeing the insatiable longing of his soul thirsty for tenderness fulfilled. It was then that, watching over Tristan’s sleep, he would place his tormented forehead in his hands and close his eyes to look upon his inner existence filled with worries, to swear fidelity and love to a muse made of longing, all beauty, a combination of archangel and woman.
Chapter 37. June arrived, very out of breath, full of joy. The summering families lavished their visits or sent cards, bidding farewell to their friends. Eva also came out to bid them farewell, wearing a brand-new, very pretty dress; it was of light tones and had transparent trimmings on the sleeves and neckline . Her hat, jovial and graceful, adorned with flowers and cherries, spread its wings mysteriously over the lady’s beautiful countenance, and a joyful smile, long extinguished on that face, now gave it even more charm and poise. He made several visits that day, and after some hesitation, as night fell, he went to bid farewell to Maria Ensalmo. She found Maria’s carriage returning from a stroll with Lali at the hotel door; however, Eva wasn’t upset, humiliated, or annoyed as she had been on other occasions by her friend’s pomp. Instead, she greeted her with great pleasure and freedom and kissed the little girl. A little suspicious, the girl shrank back toward her mother, who concealed a look of surprise at seeing the woman from Villamor so solicitous and adorned. Together they climbed the carpeted marble staircase lined with leafy palm trees and, passing through a luxuriously paneled vestibule, entered the extremely elegant room where the lady of the house usually entertained. Since her last visit, now long gone, Eva had discovered artistic novelties in that space; however, she didn’t cast her eyes upon them with envy; rather, she contemplated them with delight, as if she were making them her own or delighting in the attempt to acquire similar precious objects. Meanwhile, María was mentally searching for the reasons for Eva’s move, and without finding them, she heard her say: “I wanted to thank you for your kindness before leaving, and to tell you that we are going to be neighbors this summer; I am also going to the Mountain, at last. Diego’s affairs seem to be getting better, and since the doctors say it is essential to take the child to the country, we have everything ready to leave here before the heat gets too much… ” “So, Diego is not going to embark now?” María interrupted happily. And Eva quickly said: “Yes, yes; he is determined to undertake the trip, but he is waiting for the child to recover. ” They both remained silent, and Lali, who was wrapping her little arm around her mother’s neck, asked with great interest: “Is Tristanito going to the village, to that house that is always closed? ” “Yes, darling; you will be very close.” The gardens are bordered by a wall of honeysuckle and boxwood, replied Maria. “Yes, now I remember; it’s that way where you say you used to play so much when you were little… How happy I am! I’ll go out and call Tristan from among the flowers…” The girl broke off her joyful speech as if suddenly seized by fear, and with charming vivacity, she approached Eva, declaring: “I didn’t throw Tristan that afternoon… ” “No, my child,” replied the lady smiling, “he only fell, because She is very clumsy, and the fright made you cry, poor thing!… And very flatteringly she gave her a kiss. Then she said, holding her in her arms: “There, in the village, you will play freely all day long. Tristán loves you very much . ” The joyful little girl broke free from the lady’s arms, exclaiming: ” I’ll tell Doña Cándida and Rosa right now. ” And clapping her hands, she ran out of the dressing room. “I know,” said María, “that children often meet at the Retiro, and that yours fell the other afternoon… Did he hurt himself? ” “Nothing, woman; but since he is delicate and affectionate, he cries for any little thing… Your baby was frightened. The two of you love each other very much. ” “True. Lali talks constantly about your baby… And tell me, Eva: can’t you prevent Diego from leaving? ” “I don’t even try; It is his duty to try every means to get ahead in life… It’s time he did it. “But they say he’s written a masterful novel, a worthy sister to the one that brought him so much fame. The publication of that work would be, for your husband, the definitive consecration of his reputation as a writer, and in Spain it could… ” “Literature is paid much better in America than here. You see how other prestigious writers emigrate as well. ” “Yes; especially to Argentina; but many go on voyages of exploration to promote their works under the sympathetic pretext of international conferences… They prepare their market, win over an audience, and return to their homeland. ” “But my husband isn’t in a position to make expensive artistic excursions. He’ll take up residence there to work. ” “Poor Diego!” María murmured in a very light accent. Eva hadn’t heard this exclamation, or pretended not to. With serenity and calm, she continued: “Some Spaniards, companions of his, live there; they encourage him and make his journey easier.” Not all of our artists who have crossed the seas return as quickly as you suppose… and Diego is here to stay. Seemingly indifferent, María asked: “Do you have much literary baggage? ” “Not much… The novel, already sold, and a small book of verses. ” “They will be very beautiful,” the blonde lady assured her with devotion. “I don’t know, because possessing her bores me, in rhymes, in landscapes, and in love. ” “I, being a true soul, adore her in all her forms. ” “Well, I,” Eva added with disdain, “am for the positive. I don’t believe that illusions, fantasies, and sentimentality can bring us happiness. ” With the calm of meditation or prayer, María murmured: “Perhaps happiness is a pipe dream, perhaps illusion is the only certainty in life. ” “You are romantic; you would have made a good match with my husband… He courted you once; She still has many verses dedicated to Eva, but she didn’t notice that her friend was a little emotional, because she was busy thinking that María and Diego truly complemented each other a lot, and she, on the other hand… She swept a covetous glance around the study, and in the depths of her eyes a spark of perversity shone. Throwing the name on her lips into the conversation, without a care, she asked: “And Gracián, when are you leaving on that long trip abroad? ” “He’s postponed it for the fall; he says he’s tired and is going to spend the summer in the country with us… He’ll make frequent trips to the city and visits to Las Palmeras so he won’t be so bored. ” “The village is a very boring and sad place. ” “That’s what Gracián says…” “I saw him the other afternoon at the Retiro with the girl. ” “He never goes out with her; only that afternoon you mention did he go to take her in search of Tristán. Lali told me… ” A little hastily, despite herself. Eva interrupted her friend’s words to explain her meeting with Gracián and their lengthy conversation in the pleasant corner of the park, assuming that the girl had shared all the details of the interview. But Lali, without any malice and attentive to her childish whims, only said that she herself had begged her father to take her. to the place where they had often found Tristán. And so, Eva’s explanation was so idle that María, looking at her in silence, felt the strange disturbance that her dealings with that incomprehensible woman always left in her spirit grow . Chapter 38. At this embarrassing point of the visit, Gracián discreetly announced himself , and soon entered the room with a happy gesture of vanity and triumph. The conversation then took a cheerful turn and turned to the upcoming trip of both families to the same mountain village. “Fishing village,” exclaimed Gracián, jubilantly. “I believe, ladies, that we should take it in small doses, as a kind of physical medicine, but with caution, so that our spirits remain free from nostalgia and sickly dejection… We must go frequently to the city beach , which is going to be very lively, according to what I hear.” “I am very much invited to Las Palmeras,” said the woman from Villamor, and turning to María, who remained silent, she added: “You will go as well. ” “I have no affection for that house,” replied the lady, in a tone very unusual for her. Eva, with a shrewd intention, hastened to say: “I thought I would have fond memories of you…” And she gave Gracián a glance, quick and fleeting, like a flash of summer lightning. Then she continued talking to her friend: “Aren’t you on good terms with your uncles? ” “Neither good nor bad… I have always liked them very little. ” “Well, they love you very much.” “Rafael loves me. ” “And are you ungrateful?” Eva questioned, dying of laughter. Without becoming agitated or ceasing to look attentively at the fine toe of his imperial boot, María said: “I am not ungrateful, for I love him too.” “You hear me, Gracián,” Eva exclaimed, a little mockingly. And he, with a laugh, sarcastically assured her: “This news is giving me a terrible worry.” Indifferent to these cutting jokes, the blond lady continued to gaze with great attention at her tiny boots, and Eva, stung by this attitude and this silence, suddenly said with penetrating accent: “Well, I’ll go and have fun at Las Palmeras if the child is all right.” And she stood up to leave. “We’ll try to make sure you have fun,” Gracián replied pointedly. And, very gallantly, he wanted to accompany her, because it was already nighttime, and a pretty woman was alone on the street in Madrid… Eva accepted the interested offer without excuse, and then it occurred to María to say: “Casilda Manrique is also going to Las Palmeras. ” Gracián looked at her fixedly and bitterly, replying: “And she’ll make a trip to your house in the valley; we’ll give a party in her honor .” Villamor, who was little acquainted with worldly intrigues at that time, was filled with curiosity to discover the truth behind her, whose veil happened to be lifted before her eyes. María asked her, without answering her husband: “What title does Diego give his novel? ” “A very sad one: _Paths of Sorrow…_” Already in the hall, Rosita, a little pale, presented her hat to the young gentleman and opened the rich door with its bronze hinges and frosted glass. Going overboard with his compliments to Eva, the gentleman took her by the arm. They descended the elegant staircase very cheerfully, in an auspicious conversation; and alone in her room, María approached the window that opened onto a small garden full of flowers, and raised her eyes to heaven, murmuring: “Paths of Sorrow… cruel paths!” BOOK THIRD THE SLAVE’S IRON Chapter 39. Beyond the town’s radius, fleeing towards the gorge, the house of Ensalmo dominated the mountain valley, a sad and beautiful valley, beset by mists and mountains, crossed by the railroad on a tragic path achieved between chasms and torrents, which seems more like a fantastic display of the imagination than a possible work of engineering. The historic and heralded population that calls this valley its own, remains in the distance, spread out on flatter and more spacious terrain, with crests of towers and crosses that adorn convents and towers, giving the town a strong and ancient character, with something of austerity and much of Classical haughtiness. This illustrious town, which ages proud of its memories, boastful of its coats of arms and heraldry, wanted nothing to do with the railroad that heralds modern industries, and, content with its quiet life of yesteryear, watched it pass in the distance, caring nothing for its fumes and whistles, looking askance, with a grave frown, zigzagging through the mountains like a fugitive monster that couldn’t find an exit in the Cantabrian mountain range. Similar to those in the town that slept alone, awaiting some fleeting summer vacation for capricious lords, María’s house gave the impression of having escaped from the populated enclosure, curious to see the train, to glimpse the road, or to peer into the Besaya in its stormy channels. Chance or pride placed her as queen in the middle of the valley, and in her noble class, she was known throughout the region by the pompous name of “the palace above.” It was old and austere, like a noble mansion, with walls of hazelnut-edged stones, a sturdy door with rough ironwork, large and sturdy balconies, projecting eaves filled with swallows’ nests, a coat of arms worn by rain and eaten away by moss, a wide entrance hall, and a proud doorway. In the quiet rooms of the building floated the great spirit of yesteryear, that aroma of time that lingers in the ancient furniture and worn paneling like the intangible breath of a soul. And adorning those silent rooms were sparse, massive furnishings of venerable carvings and dark colors; antique leathers and faded silks; twilight canvases from which emerged a pale face, burning eyes, an aristocratic hand; as well as many parchment books, some idle weapons, and old, moth-eaten walls through whose tears peeped the ironwork of a chest or the ivory of a writing desk. Several farmhouses , set at a respectful distance, paid court to this stately mansion, and as a lady-in-waiting, she had accompanied, for many years, a small bourgeois house whose garden bordered Ensalmo Park by a flowery boundary. This house was the only property Diego Villamor had been able to save from the voracious hands of his wife. By chance or premeditation, the two families, separated by a flowering border across the countryside, arrived at La Montaña within a few hours of each other, and immediately the children began such an intimate and sweet relationship that the relationship between the two couples remained open under the best auspices. Eva strove for this. Gracián, for his part, prepared to win Diego’s favor, though he had never been very cordial. And with the frequency of his visits and invitations, he showed himself to be extremely solicitous and friendly to the people of Villamor. But this vulgar system of ingratiating a husband whose wife is being pursued could only be implemented by Gracián for a few days, because it was the singular case that, while Diego was covetous of his beloved homeland and content to see the child better than ever, he suddenly declared that he had to return to Madrid immediately. He packed his suitcase and took the train at the station barely a kilometer from the estate. Why was Diego leaving in such an unexpected and abrupt manner? He was moved, agitated. What force was driving him away? Eva, happy to inspire it and proud, believed it was jealousy. Gracián assumed it was the atrocious cowardice of a rival, abandoning the square as soon as a formidable enemy was discovered. His interest in winning Eva over somewhat diminished then, finding himself incapable of playing the “traitorous friend.” that although the feat was neither new nor graceful, it seduced Gracián as an adventure never before accomplished , because perhaps neither in love affairs nor in other struggles was that prodigy more than “a poor man,” a fortunate parody of Rothschild and Don Juan. Chapter 40. The poet never imagined that this peaceful rest in his native valley would be so brief. While he fought at court, in a petty and sad struggle, he was sustained by the hope of resting his body and spirit with the soothing life of the mountains. But, barely reached the peasant home, saw her last hope dashed, and even then her misfortune did not allow her any peace. One afternoon, the neighboring families were in the garden, enjoying the sweetness of the surroundings. “I don’t know the park,” Eva said. And Gracián, very attentive, invited her to walk around. “Stay with me,” María begged Diego. He, a little embarrassed but very happy, sat down next to her as the other couple walked away. The two friends seemed absorbed in the placid stillness of the landscape ; but no, they were staring fixedly, doubtless obsessed with an idea, at the path Eva and Gracián were following. The strollers had already touched the edge of the woods; they had entered it… they had vanished into the shadows. “What silence!” María sighed. “Yes; what peace and what beauty in the valley!” “The valley, yours and mine… Don’t you remember when we were both happy here?” Neither did she doubt that Diego was now unhappy, nor did he try to deny that María was unhappy. He looked into her eyes for a long, long time, as he had that one time in a long time when he had come close enough to look at her, and said only: “I always remember. ” Holding the poet’s gaze, María’s eyes filled with tears. “Do you suffer a lot? Is it really?” he asked, with pious longing. “Words cannot describe what I suffer… ” “Why don’t you tell me and be relieved? We have lived here as brothers; trust in my friendship; you know how much I love you. ” “You suffer too… ” “But I am a man, and I can bear my sorrow and yours. ” “And are you going to go far away and alone, burdened with two sorrows? Poor Diego!” “If you pity me, I will no longer be so poor… Do you pity me? ” “Only pity? And affection too; and admiration; Crying, I have learned to love you… Now I know all your worth… “What joy, what mad joy!” exclaimed Diego, alone with his soul. “Do not pity me anymore,” he said immediately with a radiant expression, “I am happy. ” Incredulous, María replied: “Happy?… I do not believe it… It is that you dream it… ” “A divine dream of the love of an angel! ” “Love?… Love?… Oh, Diego, that beautiful word frightens me !… I love you like a sister to you; like your companion in misfortune…” And in a very soft voice, “but not with love… of that which you speak of,” he added, sighing. “Well, I,” said the poet, with an impetus between placid and fierce, “I have adored you since you were little like Lali; my love grew with you, and your disdain, while asleep, left it in my breast for some years; now it has awoken, María; He is awake, lush as ever, sprouting flowers, tears, and songs… Forgive me if I am not brave enough to tell you this at the first blessed hour when your eyes look at me with pity and tenderness… Forgive me, and do not reject my confession… “Perhaps you are mistaken, Diego,” she murmured, trembling. “I tried to deceive myself, supposing that what I felt was only will-o’-the-wisps of the imagination; the personified memory of the mountain valley; something of nebulous romanticism, of sentimental foam; but I have felt in my soul the stirring of deep roots, the intimate and strong voice of true love, that sublime rapture of feelings, that superhuman nourishment yearning for eternity… ” “You frighten me; don’t talk like that… Perhaps I myself provoked your confidence… I have been imprudent. ” “No; my secret has flown to find you, I don’t know how; it should not worry you; He reveals to you that above all pain and all obstacles there is someone who follows with love and respect the footsteps of your life, that there is a man in the world whose soul is pained by the unjust fate of such a noble and beautiful woman… Distraught, with her hands crossed on her chest, she exclaimed: “My God!… “Tell me that I do not offend you by loving you in this delicate and pure way. ” “Offend me?… If you force me to immense gratitude, to constant devotion … But I fear that we will offend God. ” “Fear nothing. This is a love mixed with all that is most exquisite and Noble as there may be in the depths of my nature, and which, for greater sanctity, has the leaven of sorrow; it is a selfless affection that wants nothing for itself, that only asks for a little mercy in exchange for the consolation it offers you. “My misfortunes attract you… ” “And your virtues; the admirable beauty of your soul; the gallantry with which you bear the cross that torments you… ” “It is my duty… ” “But a duty in the form of torture; a duty that oppresses and mistreats you… You have given me an example of strength and courage, so great that you have transformed me into another useful and valiant man. The despair that consumed me is now arrogance; I now feel capable of undertaking the highest undertakings, of fighting and winning in noble battles. ” “Hush, hush; you seem delirious… ” “My eloquence seems like delirium to you. I too am amazed by this divine fever of inspiration that beats in my words.” All the tumult of my feelings crowds into my heart, lit by the eternal flame of love, and I feel happy and powerful. “You’re deluded, you’re sick… You’re going to infect me with your madness,” Maria stammered, overcome with anxiety and emotion. “I am redeemed by you; the ideal breath of your spirit has penetrated mine, and this communion of our souls has given me strength. You have awakened the profound religious sentiment that slumbered within me, the longing for sacrifice… You have revealed my own heart to me, illuminating it with the light of truth. ” “And meanwhile, mine is falling into darkness… ” “Is yours in darkness? No, Maria, the shadow can never obscure you. ” “For your words fall upon my life like a fog that envelops me entirely. ” “It may be a fog that hides from you the fatal thorns of the path. ” “Or the abyss that treacherously lies in wait for me… ” “Do you distrust me?” “I distrust that passion you speak of… and mine too!” she exclaimed, her voice bitter and sobbing. Then Diego, with a heightened tone of tenderness, exclaimed: “Your passion! Blessed be this divine meeting of two souls! It doesn’t surprise me; I sensed it; I have come to this valley of yours and mine with the heavenly excitement of one who comes to a long-awaited rendezvous of love. ” Maria rose from her seat, stunned and trembling. “I didn’t make an appointment with you… When? Never! You must really be crazy… ” “It wasn’t your mouth that gave it to me, or your hand, or even your eyes. Your soul gave it to me, don’t deny it; mine sought you out by the will of God, by an irresistible and holy impulse; and yours, pious and obedient to the supreme plan, summoned me to this memorable orchard in the moonlight… Don’t you remember?” As if evoked by the artist’s devout accent, a beam of moonlight scattered its reflection across the landscape, herald of night. The infinite sadness of the Cantabrian sunset spread across the mountains, that slow and profound decline of the day that produces in sentimental souls a shock of tears and prayers. Pointing out to María the star that was setting in the sky, Diego murmured: “It has already come as a witness.” And she, seduced by the enchanting apparition, hesitantly replied: “You’re making me lose my mind. What you’re saying, did it actually happen, or is it one of those ballads you invent? ” “It’s a piece of throbbing poetry that I tear from our existence and offer it to you… It seems like a ballad because it’s so beautiful, and you and I live it. ” The lady shook her blond head as if to free herself from that fascination, and then affirmed: “One doesn’t live in ballads; we’re talking a lot of nonsense… Life is a torment that must be resisted firmly.” –What if God sends us the ineffable consolation of love? –Guilty love. God does not bless it. –I do not offer you a conditional and transitory love, entrusted to the present hour, a love of opportunity and revenge that God cannot consent to; I am speaking to you of our spiritual wedding, of the holy espousal of our hearts. Suffering unites souls with bonds much firmer than those of happiness… Let our sorrows bind us together! Sitting back on the bench next to Diego, her voice thin and slow, María murmured: “It’s impossible!” And he, filled with joy at seeing her moved and vibrant. “Don’t tremble,” he told her, “don’t be afraid of me; I am your friend and your brother, in addition to adoring you with all my soul as a man and as a poet, with all that is eternal and divine in it… We were predestined for each other, and we have traveled through pains to love each other better and to be better… Now destiny is fulfilled and here we are at the date of love, the wedding date… María, with her eyes wandering toward heaven, lost in a sentimental ecstasy, confirmed: “Yes, destiny is fulfilled…” Drunk with happiness, the poet wanted to kiss the lady’s beautiful hands, but she, returning from her ecstasy, said to him with fortitude and sweetness: “Not even the tips of your fingers.” He then, humble and reverent, knelt to kiss the hem of her dress. From the side of the woods, a murmur of laughter and words was heard, and Maria became restless, murmuring: “They’re coming back!” “If only they would never come back!” Diego exclaimed, and stood up, his face damp, perhaps from tears, or from the dew of some small flowers that he stroked in the grass as he bent down. A sigh of night slid over the fields and scented life. In the serene sky, the stars spread out with the gentleness of a priestly blessing. Chapter 41. Intense and miraculous hours followed for Maria her “love date” with the poet. She spent the entire night guarding her feelings, defying a storm of impressions, under which her conscience and her heart trembled. Alone in her room, alone in her bed, with her eyes closed and her soul open, she felt herself faint from fear and happiness. At first, her fear was dark and silent, voiceless and imageless, an unconscious dread, with a sensation of vertigo; and her happiness was precise and luminous, an unknown and pure delight, which rocked her as if in a hammock and sang to her, in Diego’s voice, delightful ballads, full of promises, glories, and joys. In her clear spirit, that new and powerful happiness could not remain undefined or confused, and so, at birth, it already had a name, a form, and even a destiny; it was the fulfillment of her silent longings, the ripe fruit of her heart, cultivated in a secret life of spiritual art, the reward for her undeserved sufferings. It was love in all its strength, in all its beauty; But alas! From the heights of this full love, vertigo stirred its threatening wings over Maria with a panicky breath of extermination… Enemy of shadows, skilled in fighting the phantoms of the imagination, she strove to discover the trace and origin of that fear, which made her tremble, like a leaf, in the sublime heights of happiness. She looked around, and a celestial light bathed her conscience and her heart, heart and conscience that trembled in the bath of light!… That fatal terror, where did it come from? The attraction of the abyss gave the lover the answer. It came from the earth, from humanity… The danger was certain, the threat inexorable… What was that danger called? Maria didn’t know; sin? dishonor? betrayal? She couldn’t think of the name, but it didn’t matter; any of those sad things, perhaps all at once; The searching and noble spirit found only the mouth of the abyss, the dark place from which the tragic sentence emerged… Whose voice was passing sentence on the innocent, newborn passion? It was a hidden voice, alluring and fatal; a dull and varied voice, which seemed at one moment to moan submissively and feebly, at the other to scream hoarsely with brutal accents. Attentive, very attentive ear, Maria listened to the threatening voice, her eyes fixed on the arcane secret where pain takes root; and she guessed who was speaking with powerful and haughty voices, with hoarse cries and truncated groans; it was life, nature, everything that is miserable and perishable in the creature… Tragic and great night! Mary lived it entirely in a fierce struggle between light and darkness, triumphing in the most exquisite pleasure on the brink of a chasm of tears. Not a doubt, not a confusion, left its somber mark on the silent drama of that woman. No evil artifice entangled her in its deceitful snares, so she bravely went forth to face the risks of her passion and her happiness. Certain that in love one does not live without pain, she chose the purest of these, and, above the holy rending of her young and beautiful flesh, she marked out for her heart a white and sad path, a high road of sacrifice and renunciation. She would guard her love like a spiritual jewel, in a greedy secret, all for herself. What else could be more hers, more eternally hers, than that sacred fire kindled in her heart? Thus hidden was the treasure, no one could harm or persecute it, and she would lodge in her breast, until death, that great sadness, filled with a strange joy. As dawn broke, through the balcony half-open to the fresh air of the mountains, the light timidly penetrated Mary’s deep chamber. From the orchard and the fields, the offering of aroma also drifted into the bedroom, and the beatitude of dawn took on an innocent expression of childish prayer. Along the peaks and mountain paths, the resounding bells of the cattle left a trail of brave and healthy life. The shrill little bell of the Virgin of the Road rang the Angelus, and the morning, unfolding over the plain in languid relaxation, was rocked in a mystical accent of prayer. Maria prayed to the sound of the bell, sitting up in bed, her blond tresses floating, her eyes tearful. Her prayer, sad and sweet, was laced with tears, fervent with praise and resignation, and the warm tones of a sworn promise. No sooner had she uttered it than the joy of peace descended upon her, and her soul, healthy and strong, was grazed by the light of a divine consolation. Chapter 42. The sun high in the heavens, Maria felt on her hands, stretched out on the bedspread, some very sweet and affectionate kisses. She awoke with a start… A name trembled on her lips, struggling between dream and reality; and, blushing, all shaken, she looked around. The kisses were from Lali, who was contemplating her, smiling, with a long caress of his golden eyes. “My daughter!” his trembling lips murmured, and Lali was enveloped in a frantic embrace. The little girl, surprised by the vehemence of that embrace, asked: “Do you love me more than yesterday?” “Always more, my angel… If you only knew how much!” The girl opened her eyes wide, with a gentle grimace of pleasure, saying: “How nice that you love me like this!” She kissed her mother’s hands again, still trembling, and raising a very cute and tiny finger to them, scolded her: “Sleepyhead! It’s eleven o’clock in the morning, and you’re in bed!” She ran to the half-opened balcony, and, opening it, she found the room filled with sunshine from the sky and the sunshine from the girl’s eyes… In the rugged region of Cantabria, the joy of summer, brief and unique in nature, is clothed in a wild joy that enraptures and moves, so strange is it in a country where, like souls, valleys, mountains, and skies always have a halo of sadness, a light of twilight and reverie that seems woven with tears and mist by the angel of melancholy. And even in the full triumph of summer, with dusk and dawn, Cantabrian sadness trembles in the landscapes and hearts! The splendor of July haloed around María, radiating in her room, and possessed by the immense joy of the hour, she felt that her existence was filled with sunshine. Life seemed new to her, golden and smiling like Lali’s pupils; The valley was different, a valley of legend and fantasy, a chimerical place where the most cherished illusions took shape and name in realities full of poetry and feeling… As beautiful as ever, with flashes of passion and heroism in her face, María went, hours later, to the planned walk of the day. The day before, Diego and Gracián had agreed to travel toward Reinosa, through the gorges, which Eva was unfamiliar with. They left at five in the afternoon, when the sullen shadow of the mountain range had already fallen on the deep path they were about to follow. The four of them were in a friendly group, and one might have assumed that the dark-skinned lady and the gallant gentleman who coveted her were audaciously entertaining themselves at the expense of the blond lady and the poet, judging by some glances and smiles, some double-crossing and biting phrases, saturated with malice and disdain. But it was difficult to imagine that behind the harmless appearance of the deceived gentlemen, there throbbed a story of gallant love, which was the tremendous revenge, the providential and magnificent vengeance of that petty whim of Gracián’s and that mad vanity of Eva’s. Aware of the worldly joke they were being played, Diego and María savored the subtle charm of holding in their hands the punishment for such a vulgar and frivolous mockery; because the possession of revenge that has not been sought nor realized is a subtle pleasure not disdained by the most delicate temperaments… A grain of savory Attic salt that seasons life—what noble, combative spirit could have been a stranger to it? In the eternal showbiz of the world, its bittersweet flavor always brings a bitter smile of skepticism, a grimace of pious irony to the most beautiful souls, beneath the placid masks… Gracián, the powerful, was unaware of having at his side a higher pleasure that he would never desire. Pondering the august majesty of the landscape, he faced Diego to say something insidious with a protective tone: “The mountain nightingale should sing to us of this splendid beauty…” Diego was no longer the timid young man whom Gracián had mistaken for with his commanding eyes and dazzling oratory; he looked at the handsome youth fixedly and answered very seriously: “I’m singing. ” “Well, I can’t hear anything… ” “Because you must be deaf to certain songs,” Diego said with such intonation that a soft, mocking smile froze on Gracián’s lips . To hide his displeasure, he asked the ladies: “And you, do you hear any singing?” “I’m deaf to songs too,” Eva murmured in a low voice. María, a little pale, remained silent, perhaps listening to the secret cantiga; and at Gracián’s prudent initiative, the conversation took a different course. But the cordiality between the two gentlemen remained somewhat strained. Despite his serene and retiring nature, Diego returned Gracián’s mockery and satire, more in a pointed attack than in a tolerant defense. Gracián behaved courteously, as if, like a successful rival, he wished to show himself generous to his victim. And with each passing moment, he looked at the poet with less boldness, with the vague suspicion that the man was more than a nightingale, perhaps a haughty bird with fearsome talons, like the goshawks that rent the air above those haughty mountains, raising the glory of their turns to the distant sky. Chapter 43. The walk was long, along a winding and tragic path that Diego knew. The unsettled features of the rugged path above the river, unbound in the deep bed of the gorges, lent themselves complacently to the intimate conversations of love and sadness, as well as to the vain games of coquetry and whim. Eva and Gracián seemed to be in a hurry; they moved ahead of their companions with as much lightness of step as of conversation and feeling. They moved swiftly, impatiently, lightly. When they had gone a long way from the other couple, they stopped for a moment to wait for them, and without ever joining them, they ran back along the path, crooked and dangerous, above the Besaya, which was moaning in torrential boiling waters. Maria and Diego walked slowly and absorbed in the language of their hearts, which rose to their lips, to their eyes, to the golden summit of the mountain range and to the sky itself, luminous and pure, to descend later, trembling and anguished, to the bottom of the torrent, its tresses trembling with verdant foam. Maria was the most diligent and courageous in breaking the spell of the The first moments of solitude, in which their gazes entered into a silent language of anxiety. “It is necessary,” she said, with a very sweet melody in her voice, “that we never speak again as we did last night. ” “Then you condemn me to never see you again. ” “No; we will speak as brothers and friends. ” “Do you demand it? ” “I beg you. ” “To obey you, it will be necessary for me to flee from your side. ” “Are you so courageous ? ” “Sometimes flight is a feat of valor and honesty. ” “Didn’t you say that a love without crime was possible between us two?” “Yesterday the poet spoke; today man does not fear the absolute love that you call crime, but the knight trembles at the thought that his passion might cast a shadow, a new pain over your holy life. ” “Yes, yes; pain and shadow, and sin too, threaten us, Diego. ” “Love of this lineage ennobles everything and God looks upon it with pity; I fear the world, and I fear it for you.” “A woman who tramples on her honor, who fails in her duties, neither God nor the world can forgive. ” “Honor… duty…” Diego murmured. “My conscience wavers in this atrocious struggle of feelings that contend with all the deeply rooted beliefs of my life, and I am hating this mass of laws and conventions that bind a heart in a perpetual yoke, leaving it no hope but death. ” “It is decrees from heaven that bind hearts in this way,” Maria protested meekly. “No; they are absurd ties with which the world chains. Love is a feeling that is born free by divine law. ” A flame of rebellious longing ignited in these words, and the gentle voice implored, heartbreakingly: “Don’t speak like that, out of compassion; your words are as alluring as the abyss.” Listening to you, vertigo envelops me and shakes me, and I am overcome by a mad temptation to throw myself into the regions of that mad passion that darkens consciences and paths, and turns beliefs upside down… You don’t want to lose me, condemn me, make me cry forever without consolation… “No, no, never!” the artist promised with ardent vehemence. They were in a gap in the path covered in flowers in the rocks. Far below, far below, the river sobbed among the rushes, hurled into the depths of the gorges. “Look,” said the woman’s muffled, pleading voice, “look how that tragic beauty of the torrent attracts, that depth of the chasm with the mystery of a tomb… Hear how the waters seem to scream and call to us to tell us an atrocious secret… If only we had watched for a moment, curious and yearning as we are now, vertigo would push us forward and there would be no salvation for us. And a hand, fragile and clear as the foam of the Besaya, stretched out toward the precipice in a prophetic gesture. Diego, terrified, took hold of the small hand, held it in his protective ones, and offered with a confident tone: “I’ll do whatever you want, whatever you command. Don’t think about the dangers or misfortunes that might come your way. Tomorrow I’ll return to Madrid under the pretext of some literary urgency; I’ll start preparing for my trip to America, and in September I’ll embark. ” “You’ll suffer greatly,” lamented the sad lover. “That’s what I want: to suffer until my insides are torn out, and to savor the sublime pleasure of living, dying for your love. ” “Do you love me that much?” the trembling carnation in María’s mouth inquired . With a burning voice, Diego exclaimed: “With a love so strong and decisive that it carries within it all divine and human loves… I love you as I loved my mother, as I adore my son, as I venerate God… and more still… much more.” The carnation of her inquisitive lips paled as she uttered: “Hush, hush; you blaspheme…” But the fiery voice questioned. “And you, do you love me very much?” The red and sweet mouth remained silent, and after a torturous silence, she answered firmly: “Yes; I love you also immensely.” Diego, transfigured, fervent, murmured: “Then do not cry, do not suffer without seeking the blessed sweetness of pain. We have in our hearts the secret of happiness, which we do not English: not only does it consist of peaceful bliss, but it is the exercise of all the faculties of the soul, the heroic struggle of all the feelings, around a great passion… Only those who love much know what happiness is… “And even if the years pass,” she said, stingy with the promised fortune, ” will you love me always? ” “For eternal feelings time does not exist, and mine is one of those that reach beyond time and death. ” These grave words of the poet fell into the deep mystery of the abyss and were remembered with the eternal song of the waters, with that immortal stanza that rolls through the world in a cadence of prayers, lullabies and sobs, interminable kisses, and desperate whistles of agony; because perhaps it is the human voice to whom God has entrusted the mission of perpetuating all the poetry, the pain, and the glory of the great loves that pass through the earth, pilgrims and wanderers in souls… The dying afternoon lay in the shadow of the mountains. Eva and Gracián finally made a decisive stop to enter the plain with the stragglers. The four of them walked in a strange agitation, as if they were carrying the weight of some surprising news… In such a strange attitude the moon found them when it appeared over the plain; the full moon, which showed great astonishment on its round face… Chapter 44. A very lingering kiss to his son, and to his wife a request like this: “I would like you to give me news of Tristán often. ” “But, are you going on a trip?… When?… Where?” asked Eva, astonished. And Diego, in a voice without inflection or nuance, said: “Tomorrow, on the mail that passes through Santa Cruz at eight, I’m returning to Madrid. Among the newspapers that have arrived, I found some news that compels me to leave. ” “Will you be back soon?” the lady hinted, wanting to be polite. “We’ll see,” the deserter replied evasively. And there was no way to get him to give any further explanations about his sudden decision. In vain Eva fluttered around the traveler, showing herself eager to help him with his preparations. He, mute and serious, quickly concluded them and retired to his room with no more farewell than a brief “goodbye.” An hour earlier, when he had said goodnight in the Ensalmo garden, his whole soul had been offered to Maria in an intense flame of his eyes and a broken accent of his voice. Pretending his departure was unexpected, Diego left a message at her house bidding farewell to the neighboring nobles, and María watched with an impassive face as Gracián commented on the incident the following morning, calling the trip an escape. He raised such a loud laugh, and showed himself so unconcerned in his mockery and allusions, that her peaceful blue eyes stared at him for a long moment, fixed, fixed, and disdainful, with an expression that forced the daring man to blink cautiously, as if the sun were shining full on his face. After cautiously avoiding the piercing arrow of that glance, Gracián twice in succession turned to look at his wife, wondering whether what surprised him in her was haughtiness, threat, or contempt. Whatever it was, it suited the blond lady so well that her husband, looking at her, added to the surprise of his discovery an unusual admiration. And although he tried to speak to her in a gallant and refined way, she slowly walked away with a distracted air. The foamy whiteness of her robe left a gentle note floating in the dark hallway, which caught Gracián’s curious pupils. After the charm of her silhouette faded , those pupils, confused in the shadows, revealed a vain thought that expressed: “Perhaps María is capable of feeling jealousy…” And a wide, happy smile glossed this comment. At the same time, Eva’s mocking lips revealed a cruel gesture of satisfaction, supposing, like Gracián, that Diego was leaving jealous and hurt and that María was very close to feeling a similar torment. Meanwhile, the poet walked away submissively to one of the most acute pains of love: that of absence. Diego was once again a slave, but now with a definitive slavery. and solemn in all that was most precious and enviable in him. That dreamy and nostalgic love had matured imperceptibly in the sun of suffering, and now it showed itself in all its reason and plenitude, revealed and confessed in the abandonment of the tempting occasion. The inner strength, the spiritual anxiety that had led Diego to be a poet, exploded in the impetuous feeling that drew him toward María. Beneath the calm appearance of that man, a tempestuous and romantic soul satisfied its voracious desires with the tasty fruit of that passion. So strong were the longings of that outstanding and brave soul that neither art, nor glory, nor pain could appease them. Now, his inexhaustible tenderness found a fulfilled channel, and it was unleashed in immense ambitions. The uncertainties, the prohibitions, the suppressed desires, the unbreakable chains, kindled, punished, and purified that love, transforming it into the highest and most subtle happiness. But at the same time, all those worries and obstacles pierced the lover’s heart in a violent torment. The land fled, his beloved land of Cantabria, now placed between him and Maria like a barrier; then, mountains, cities, and plains would separate them; and if this were not enough, the immense and mysterious sea, like the world’s grave, would lie between them, perhaps forever… Under the painful pang of this thought, all the bitterness lodged in his heart, all the human rebellions rose up against Diego to make him desire that woman who was his only happiness. He contemplated her ever more admirable, full of feeling and grace, tenderness and piety, enraptured by the ardent passion that united them, living within him with soul and mind, pure and chaste like the dove of Saint John of the Cross, and it seemed to him that desiring the happiness embodied in that ideal creature was legitimate and holy in him. To further the refined torment of his anxious fever of love, the train, after racing like mad through the depths of the mountains, peered again and again into the tiny valley where the house of Ensalmo rose, with the majesty of a queen, next to the small house of Villamor. The railway, hanging over the wild gorges, in improbable and reckless twists, passed the convoy three times over the station of Santacruz. Climbing, climbing ever steep slopes, passing through tunnels and over precipices, he contemplated, in each ascending curve, the gentle plain, tributary to the noble house of María. On a balcony, surrounded by roses, Diego clearly made out the slender figure of his beloved… That was her bedroom, that her graceful body, wrapped in a white robe… It was she, she herself, pursuing the train with her merciful blue eyes; she, who raised a white canvas in the snowflake in her hand to say: Goodbye… Goodbye… The entire deep bed of the Besaya was marked with a sad, light mist that seemed to Diego a cloud of tears. The morning was pale and sweet, with a melancholy Cantabrian beauty. The poet’s hesitant hand, waving a handkerchief at the window, responded to the farewell sent to him from the rose-lined throne on the balcony… The convoy entered a gloomy tunnel and, after a black, whistling race, emerged onto a spacious plain, leaving behind the imposing gorges of Bárcena and the tributary plain of the Ensalmo estate. On that wide plain, which seemed to smile pleasantly at life, Diego felt a sudden sensation of loneliness and abandonment, as if all humanity had perished and he were the only survivor of the catastrophe. Chapter 45. So high I saw her fly, a dovecote eagle, then I saw her descend, more humble than the mountains… In the marvelous calm of the night, a strong and manly voice hurled this song straight at a lit window that opened, like an investigative eye, in the dark facade of the palace. It was Rosita’s window, and she was on the second floor, watching the road with great curiosity. Beneath that square of light, flickering like a star, a group of country folk were milling about. As many as seven of them, talking softly between chirps and laughter, selecting from their village repertoire of verses some heartfelt ones, like that of the “pigeon eagle.” Upstairs in the bright room, Rosita sat on the edge of her unbroken bed, sleepless and yearning, listening to the young men’s sing-song; and as she smiled after each song, you might have thought her eyes were full of tears; they shone so brightly on her brown, moist, and sad face. Suddenly, the whispering downstairs took on the proportions of an argument; a few crude phrases were heard, and a resounding oath calmed all the voices. Rosita blew out her candle with a puff and went over to listen, at the edge of the window. A familiar accent, the same one that had sworn the oath, she uttered with fortitude: “Songs that ‘sting’ her, yes; but not that damage her; I’ve already told you I’ve got a law for her. ” A murmur of agreement arose around a farewell couplet, and soon after, the group of young men slowly moved away, along the white ribbon of a path that twisted between meadows and woods, in the narrow valley, seeking an exit through the deep ravine, beside the river. Rosita leaned against her window, and, watching the group disappear , she exclaimed quietly, with deep bitterness: “Manuel still loves me.” Then her eyes, clouded with sadness, began to pray at the solemn altar of heaven. Under the voiceless prayer of her gaze, the young woman’s sincere heart confessed to God, courageously hurling a great secret into infinite space. She believed that as the night rolled by, that secret would remain wrapped in a cloud, or imprisoned within a star, or perhaps lost in a fold of the blue firmament. But it so happened that Rosa’s contrite confession spread across the sky with a new and strange clarity that was not of the stars, and that could only be the miraculous and pure light of an honorable conscience. Then, the unhappy woman saw how, on the moon and in a clear and shining morning star, which she had called her own since childhood, and in all the stars, the image of her guilt glided through the smooth, immaculate crystal; a moral guilt, involuntary, but black and odious as ingratitude. Trembling and anguished, she raised both hands to her eyes, heavy with dew, the dew of the soul that is tears; and after quickly wiping them, she looked anxiously upward again, believing she had found them cleansed of her revelation. But the clearer the skies were from her face, the more clearly they saw how the entire pilgrim canopy of night was clouded by the terrible secret of her life… Rosa fell to her knees in the half-darkness of her room, and in the accusatory mirror of the sky she saw the whole story of her betrayal pass by, luminous and naked. It was true that, forgetting gratitude and loyalty, like a madwoman, she had long loved Señor Gracián, the husband of the woman as saintly as she was beautiful, who had been her guardian angel for years. That disordered passion was born from her fondness for brilliant beings and things. From loving the portentous and dazzling, she fell in love with the most gallant man she knew, that fortunate and handsome man, daring and triumphant like no one the girl had ever seen. By the time she had realized what a misfortune that gentleman could be for her—nothing but ruin, a sure cause of ingratitude and dishonor—it was too late. Fatal passion had already conquered her heart and soul, and a fire of love consumed her with an inextinguishable flame. But this sorrow, so painful and grave, was no sin for the young girl’s troubled soul. The tremendous thing about the mishap was that she was so prompt and diligent in making herself known to the young gentleman; he, deeply occupied with various problems in his life, had scarcely paused to confirm that the maiden was beautiful, according to him, at the same time that _Nenúfar_ had said so down there on the beach when Rosa was a child. Undoubtedly, Lucifer himself inspired the girl with perverse plans, which were boldly put into practice without thought or conscience. She, whose sole responsibility was to care for Lali, showed herself eager to enter Gracián’s room under clever pretexts and serve him with an assiduity as extreme as it was full of perfidious coquettishness. And the angel who guarded Rosita was surely the one who preoccupied Gracián with such arduous economic matters, or such lofty amorous conquests, that her many worries blindfolded him. Chapter 46. But the angel, at last, grew weary of taking saving precautions in favor of the poor sweetheart, and the gentleman suddenly looked at her, surprised to find her new to his admiration and his greed… Rosita was frightened to remember now, with mortifying clarity, the efforts she had made to produce this admiring surprise in Gracián… What audacity, that wavy hairdo, done with curling irons and hairpieces… Well, what about the blue blouse, all pulled down over the chest and arms?… With the intention of appearing beautiful, she had asked the dressmaker: “Tell me, which color will suit me best?” And the dressmaker, without hesitation, answered: “Pale blue, which is a spell on brunettes…” After making the hairdo and the blouse, one afternoon, as the light was fading, she entered the young master’s room to close the blinds. It was the hour when he usually arrived to change his clothes and, probably, to announce that he would not stay for dinner. Rosa waited at the foot of a window, pretending to be very distractedly gazing at the garden; and when she heard footsteps in the room, she turned around with a frightened air, just as a skilled comedian might have done on stage. With that ingenious theatrical effect, all her tempting and mature beauty entered the young gentleman’s eyes. Like the suitors the young woman had seen in comedies, Gracián approached her, his gaze and voice very inflamed, to say: “Don’t you know that I like you and love you?… Don’t you know that you’ve become a beautiful woman?” And he took her hand in his, and then her waist with his firm arm. A couple of very discreet knocks sounded at the door, and in an anguished voice, like Doña Cándida’s, he said: “Rosita, are you here?” Lali calls you…—The guardian angel, taking pity on the blind girl, wanted to protect her even more!… After that afternoon, other miracles of divine compassion enveloped the young woman like a protective cloak. Gracián made a quick and mysterious trip like all his others; then, the baby was somewhat ill, and Rosa did not stop watching over her for a moment. Afterwards… the convex crystals, always tilted over Doña Cándida’s endless knitting needles , rested on the girl with such persistence that she saw them, peering and penetrating, following her even in her dreams, like a magic lens through which God himself read her troubled heart. Fleeing, then, the stubborn reflection of those crystals, Rosa withdrew, modest and timid, avoiding any private meeting with the young master, until he watched for an opportunity to say to her: —I have many things to talk to you about… And he wanted to embrace her. Rosita broke away from the embrace, pleading fearfully. “Let me go, for God’s sake.” But very affectionately, the young gentleman repeated: “We must talk; I’ll tell you when; fear not, beautiful.” This was on the eve of the trip to the Mountain, and once in the valley, Gracián very easily sought out Rosita alone in the spacious quarters of the house and informed her without further ado: “One of these nights I will come up to your room; don’t be frightened, and wait for me.” She said nothing, moved by fear and love, and from that moment on she lived in the terrible confusion of a bad dream, measuring with the steps of a sleepwalker those tumultuous days of her life, so peaceful in appearance. The strangest thing about this hidden incident was that the gentleman, so amorous and capricious, did not keep the appointment for twelve nights; twelve long and cruel nights that Rosita waited for him, half mad with passion and Remorse. She, so elusive and like marble to all who loved her, sometimes with honorable intentions, sometimes with gallant refinements; she who only once , through romantic fancy, had captured the imagination of a man who called himself a poet; the haughty, dreamy woman; the country artist, there she was shaken by the spasm of passion, shattered by the sudden awakening of her rustic nature, which, protesting a long captivity under spiritual lordship, revealed itself in all its arrogant power, wild and ardent, like the mountain range where Rosa was born in summer. Jealousy and rage added a greater torment to what awaited the young woman. Her shrewd, enamored eyes had seen before Gracián the haughty and graceful figure of another woman. It was the same woman he had accompanied to Madrid one recent evening, from the hotel whose door Rosita had opened, already feeling a jealous suspicion toward the one who accepted, with such obvious pleasure, the obsequious company of the young gentleman. Rosa had known her for a long time, and even more so the poet-gentleman who gave her her name, a native of the valley and well-liked in the region. She also knew their son, that gaunt, whiny boy of whom Lali spoke so much; and the girl had happily told her that those gentlemen, owners of the house next to the palace, were also going to the Mountain. The young woman’s suspicions increased when she noticed the graceful, dark-skinned lady flirting sweetly with Señor Gracián as soon as the two families arrived in the valley. Together they strolled through the fields and the forest; together they climbed the mountain in the guise of hunters, or chatted in the garden under the jasmine of an arbor while the children played. Together they had undertaken a long excursion on horseback , plunging into the grim gorge along the Reinosa road. Miss Maria watched them come and go with icy indifference, while Rosita conceived a mortal hatred for that lady who entranced Gracián, to the point, no doubt, of making him forget that he had said to another woman: “Wait for me…” And waiting, already desperate that night for her confession, after weeping on her knees on the ground, her conscience washed clean by tears, Rosa found herself so guilty of indulgences and desires that a burning embarrassment reddened her cheeks with a painful flame. She called upon God for help and fervently mentioned the Virgin of the Way, the patron saint of the valley. She looked at her morning star, and its white light was a little red; what could it be? With a vehement impulse, the girl went to bolt the door and said to herself: “Even if I knock a hundred times, I won’t open it.” I want to be good, I want to always have a white light in the sky, a light of my own… She heard a murmur, barely perceptible, close to the door. She listened anxiously, and the murmur grew louder. Footsteps perhaps? Yes; very light footsteps that stopped… Were they knocking? Yes; indeed; they were knocking softly. Rosa turned on the light and opened the door with a mad joy. A black cat made a very wild fu in front of the girl and began to gallop wildly, its eyes dazzled and its tail raised… Disheveled and tearful, Rosita fell asleep much later, tired of moaning and praying in her bed, by a divine miracle she defended. She had left her window open, and the night, joyful, entered the room, all filled with a vague sound of life; voice of flowing foam on the river, of kisses from the leaves in the forest, of the breeze’s love with the flower… Poor human love slept there, exhausted by sorrow, and Rosa’s morning star, white and pure, trembled in the plain of the heavens. Chapter 47. It was undeniable that Gracián was bored; a stay in the country of nearly a month was too much of a georgic poem for that great multifaceted artist, even taking into account the incentive of pursuing a couple of amorous conquests. The famous suitor considered them successful, and with cynicism and boastfulness he classified them in his imagination in this way: “Eva, who will make herself desired in order to assert herself… is equivalent to saying that she will cost me a fortune… Rosa, who awaits my orders, surrendered at my discretion…” for free and with grace”… In short, two small-time endeavors, without difficulties or risks… Two women acquired simply by extending a hand, so to speak…” And as he made these gallant calculations, Gracián’s triumphant smile turned into a prolonged and annoying yawn. He tried to hide from himself that if any snare was holding him back in the valley of growing and mortifying desire, it was his own wife, the abandoned and offended spouse who now seemed more beautiful and desirable than ever. He found her different at every moment, and always more charming than she had ever seemed. Sometimes María was the child bride with candid eyes and a childlike attitude, but haughtier, more arrogant and disdainful than when Gracián had first wooed her in Las Palmeras, in a very easy skirmish between a suitor; At other times she would take on the ideal expression of a Sorrowful One, and with her blue pupils flushed with tears, her less lily-like eyes intertwined, and the golden halo of her hair, glittering like a crown, it seemed to Gracián as if he had seen her covered in a mournful tunic, with a dagger stuck in her heart, carried on a litter through the streets in a procession of tears and prayers. And that unbeliever, who held not a single religious idea firmly in his soul, contemplated with strange respect, as something new and fascinating, the holy sorrow of the woman he had brought to the altar, with deceit and perjury, to brand her with the iron of slavery, in irremediable martyrdom. But suddenly, that pure contracted brow, that clouded gaze, that twitching mouth, subsided in a sudden transformation, and the whole beautiful countenance became sweet and joyful, as when a calm wind blows across a stormy, wooded sea. Then María’s eyes would remain suspended in some divine apparition, and a smile would tremble on her lips, full of promises, which made Gracián shudder. These abrupt and unusual changes worried her husband greatly and caused him a restlessness that was gradually turning into a loving temptation. He had held his wife in such low regard and always held her in such low esteem that indifference or guilt prevented him from protesting the tacit separation initiated between them by María, which was consummated in discreet dissimulation, with all the pomp of a cordial agreement. And in that strange situation, Gracián the victorious, the ever-happy lover, felt a singular uneasiness when approaching his wife with slight insinuations of intimate conversation. She knew how to detain him in such a way on that path, long useless between them, that without speaking, with a look, with a gesture, she would make him retreat, intimidated. Unwilling to admit defeat, the superman calmed his immense vanity by supposing that María, in silent worship, adored him, and that his persistent and submissive flirtations with Eva made her angry and jealous. Several times, within her own home, María endured Gracián’s amorous entanglements and unforgivable insults; but he struggled to believe that she had not noticed then, as she did now, the effect the shamelessness of his exploits had on that patient and noble woman. He wanted to believe that chance, and not an aroused affection, had brought to light Maria’s supposed jealous nature, and, stifling his inner unease with terrible pride, he would caress his wife with protective eyes , murmuring compassionately: “Poor thing!” To distract himself from the dull irritation that was stirring in him, he strove to court Eva without any restraint, improvising hunts and walks to the most picturesque places in the region; and although he always invited his wife to take part in these excursions, she invariably excused herself from attending with such futile and unjustifiable pretexts that Eva, annoyed by this mortifying indifference, accepted Gracián’s projects with a spirit of revenge against Maria, and threw herself into imprudent revelry with her suitor, scandalizing that quiet and timid neighborhood. Maria remained very comfortable in the sweet solitude of her garden or her rooms, free to savor the painful happiness of her soul, and meanwhile the two hikers struggled to conceal their mutual boredom. Eva was already feeling genuine astonishment at her husband’s obstinate silence , and Gracián was losing ground in the beautiful woman’s mind, as she became more concerned by the stubborn attitude of the absent man and more pained like an unjust humiliation by the indifference of the one she had forever believed to be her slave. For his part, Gracián grew weary of the alternations of resistance and encouragement to which Eva subjected him, and supposing them to be in accordance with plans of feminine cunning, he grew impatient and displeased. Thus the days passed, weaving paradoxes around our characters. Rosa, on the lookout for the young master’s steps, fainted in atrocious struggles of senseless passion. Her poor little heart, macerated by grief, was torn apart by remorse when the young girl’s eyes contemplated Miss Maria, so abandoned and so beautiful, her face divinized by a peaceful light that sometimes seemed one of resignation and sometimes of happiness… Chapter 48. One of those August mornings, warm and radiant, early in the morning there came a knock at the door of the closet where Eva slept with Tristan. The lady had just dressed when a child’s voice asked, “May I come?” And without waiting for an answer, Lali’s curly little head peeked into the room. “Come , come,” Tristanito cried eagerly, “will you bring me some flowers? ” “I only brought a carnation,” said the girl, holding it, red and wet, in her tiny hand. She approached the bed where the boy had sat, very happy, and added with a delightful maternal air: “I came very quickly; later I’ll pick more flowers for you, darling; now they’re full of dew. ” “You’ve gotten up very early!” Eva told her pleasantly. Very lively, the girl jumped up: “Because today we all got up early at home. My father decided to leave for Las Palmeras on the mail train, and since it arrives at eight o’clock, suitcases and wardrobes have been dancing since dawn… I don’t know what things he’s turned upside down… and he’s been going for two days!” Eva was stupefied, and with a vague terror, she murmured under her breath: “Another escape!” Tristán had the same idea, and he remembered with frightened mystery: “My father also left suddenly one morning, with his suitcase… Where do all the fathers go in such a hurry? ” Lali began to laugh. “You fool!” she said sententiously. “They’re going fast because the train isn’t waiting. Mother told me that your father has gone to Madrid to write verses and books that are worth a lot of money, and afterward he’s going to buy you many things… many things… My father has gone to Las Palmeras… Do you know where it is? Well, down there, on a beach… Do you know what a beach is? The sand where the waves reach… The sea is like a big, big river… like a sky all made of water… It’s a little frightening! Well, my uncles have a country house there, and in the newspaper they write in that town we “read” last night that a very pretty lady from Madrid had come to visit them , called the Countess of Manrique… And my father went to see her.” The lady’s African eyes sparkled, and Tristán raised his anxiously lit eyes to them to question: “How come you say that poetry is nonsense and that Papa doesn’t know how to earn money?… Don’t you hear that he’s going to buy me many things?” No. Eva heard only those words from Lali’s speech, “a very beautiful lady, the Countess of Manrique.” She remembered the brief enigmatic scene between Gracián and his wife the day he said goodbye to them in Madrid… They spoke of Casilda Manrique with a singular intonation. She was surely a woman of whom María was jealous; a ” concerned” rival for Eva’s dreams as well… She began mechanically to dress the child; then she sent him and Lali into the garden to be served breakfast, and nervously, agitated, she began to comb her hair in front of the mirror. In her sloe hair the first gray hairs were timidly appearing, so few and with such caution that only she had noticed them; That morning, they seemed to Eva to be much more than usual; she would part the silky skein, and with an angry grimace, upon uncovering them, cursing her age and fate, she would stamp the floor with the sharp heel of her boot. That day, everything went wrong for her; her hairdo, as difficult and time-consuming as ever, was ruined in waves that, in her opinion, “didn’t suit her.” She found her face faded and vulgar, marked with the marks of time; her modest everyday clothes seemed like indecorous tunics; her shoes, useless; her room, miserable… She believed herself abandoned and sold, the victim of stupendous betrayals and infamous abuses… Like a fury, she struggled in her room against an imaginary storm of misfortune, and at noon, she emerged from her confinement with the sudden hope that , clumsy as the servant, she hadn’t delivered some gallant message from Gracián. But her premonition was frustrated. Not a word of courteous farewell did her fervent admirer of the day before offer her … She even tried to excuse him, imagining he would return soon and not wanting to compromise her with letters or announcements. But the resounding name of the Countess of Manrique fell upon the weak apology like a cruel sarcasm. She spent the entire afternoon in a desperate mood, and, as night fell, unable to endure alone that silent meditation of twilight, she went to visit the Ensalmo mansion. In the sunroom, she found María playing with Lali and Tristán like a child; she was beautiful and smiling, with a youthful, charming air. Eva’s threatening figure advanced upon the joyful group like a tragic shadow, and her voice, imbued with hidden reproaches, drowned out the laughter in a fatal silence. Chapter 49. At Las Palmeras, the most varied and curious emotions took place, hidden, as far as possible, beneath the smiling habits of dancing, strolling, and other summer revelry. Every face, except the Marquis’s, wore a dazzling mask. The one worn by the Marchioness often tore with a rebellious, bitter expression, so anguished and desperate that it moved one to pity. From the moment the illustrious family arrived at the beach, the park, the garden, and the salons took on a continual festive air. Foreign vacationers and prominent families from the northern capital rushed to fill the Marquises’ aristocratic mansion with a brilliant array . Rafael’s absence was missed in these festivities ; absorbed in his endless duet with Luisa Ramírez, he barely paused for the family festivities. The graceful provincial girl, who attracted the young marquis with such invincible power, was always beautiful, with a twilight charm, sweet as a beautiful memory. Her laughter continued to flow, lilting and healthy, like a benevolent stream. The affection this woman inspired in Coronado had transformed into a profound feeling, full of sweetness and sympathy; a gentle tenderness, somewhat filial, somewhat romantic and pious, that imperceptibly began to dignify the young man’s existence. Under the influence of that noble affection, the liberties of his youth being restrained, Rafael began to think of the serene pleasures of matrimony; but , having vaguely begun this marriage plan, Coronado’s family opposed him with serious arguments about surnames, lineages, and fortunes, intimate matters of the utmost importance, all entrusted to the offspring of the future marquis. The matter seemed serious , but Rafaelito was stimulated by the difficulties, igniting with a strong flame his purpose of declaring Luisa a marquise. To discourage him from this whim, his sisters came to assure him that Casilda Manrique, the goddess of the Madrid aristocracy, preferred him to all her worshippers—and they were many and chosen— but he celebrated his happy fate with a joyful laugh that made him horribly ugly. “Casilda Manrique?” he said in his deep voice, “thank you very much!… I want a woman all to myself.” Since that celebrated countess was so capable and so beautiful, the Coronado women were deluded with the hope of wooing the little marquise at her feet. and with ingenious tricks, they managed to bring her to Las Palmeras for a while. It was all flattery and entertainment to detain the “fashionable” beauty there, a widow so green and so magnificent that she had appropriated the finest tributes of gilded society. The Countess’s prestige was not very lustrous, but the stains on her reputation were no obstacle to the worthy heirs’ admiring glimpses of her millions, which, it was said, enjoyed a perfect purity. Manrique accepted courtesies and compliments with sovereign omnipotence, and kept a very splendid flock of aristocratic sheep hanging over her romantic choice . But, when the desire to know the Countess’s wishes was greatest , it was whispered among elegant salon critics that Casilda was having a love affair, or something like that, and that the one favored by fate was named Gracián Soberano. Gracián’s skillful boasting played a significant role in the news, which was untrue, and he was tempted by the greed to add a laurel to his nickname of “irresistible,” compromising the celebrated lady with false boasts . When he learned that the countess had arrived on the beach, he hastened to pay the marquises a visit that was prolonged by pleasant encounters. Manrique, with easy mischief, allowed herself to be entertained by the Sovereign, but with clear evidence that she desired a husband much more than a flirt. It was a curious and surprising event to see the widow take advantage of the few opportunities when Rafael approached her to cozy up to the puny little man, leaving the handsome young man with a face full of shame. Gracián was frantic in favor of his radiant face, and Coronado’s women were driven to despair by the laughter with which Rafael would tell his mature fiancée about these successes, so that they would serve as solace and pride… López, the imperturbable assent, the complacent and simple friend, endured the marquis’s insipid chatter with blessed conformity, gazing at the marchioness with mischievous, languid eyes that made Benigno smile. And suddenly, as if sent from heaven, Luis Galán appeared on the beach, very elegant, very proud, with very white teeth… and with the face of a fool, which was the only thing one could ask of him. But the marchioness had already said on another occasion that he was no fool, although he seemed one. He demonstrated an insolent coolness by appearing at Coronado’s house “as if nothing had happened” and with the determined attempt to court Isabelita. The serious thing about the case was that the girl was a sweetheart for Galán, and that Don Agustín María Celada y Osorio welcomed this love under his aegis with such enthusiasm that the marriage was soon considered a sure thing… Thus summer passed through the estate, bright and flowery. At sea, the murmur was a lullaby; on the shore, the wind a blessing; the light in the sky was an ardent and generous grace. Chapter 50. The calm of the valley and its silence became a torture for Eva. Her empty heart gave her no company in her solitude, nor meekness in her sadness; she was alone with her passions, in the most horrible of solitudes. Persisting in the supposition that everyone betrayed her, she was seized by the terror of seeing her body abandoned of beauty, material idol of that woman, only pleasure that gave her its fruit of false sweetness, bitter in the end… She contemplated herself in the mirror for hours on end, scrutinizing the eurhythmy of her forms and features, with aggressive eyes, spiteful and sullen remembering the cruel and prophetic phrases with which Diego one night called her “poor creature with no more treasure than her miserable flesh”… Those words now seemed to her a curse that was beginning to be fulfilled, and mad with fear, from the murky depths of her conscience, she assumed for sure that everything was unfaithful to her, that everything was fleeing between her weak and anxious hands, unless the image of her son rose looking at her, looking at her with silent and sad reproach… Her son who adored her, who was all hers, her flesh, her soul!… who would love her? had called poor?… Frowning and domineering, with a grim pleasure without smiles, she looked for the child and She would hold him in a hard embrace that made Tristan moan: “Mummy, you’re hurting me!” and, fearful, he would escape his mother’s ardent caress to run with Lali to her games… One of those September nights, long and still peaceful, Eva woke up in the early hours, dreaming that her face was wrinkled, her eyes dead and her hair white; she gave a pitiful voice and jumped out of bed in terror to search for the mirror in the darkness of the bedroom. She found it with the skill of a sleepwalker, and she wanted to look at herself in it without light, with a desperate stubbornness. Her eyes bulging in the blackness of the void, with a feverish and superstitious crossing of the eyes, she cried out in horror: “I’m blind, my God, I’m blind!” Her hands trembling, cold and clumsy, searched above her eyes, and screaming like one possessed, Eve implored: “Light… light… mercy!” The child awoke, filled with fright, and his weeping voice fell into the gloom of the room like the wail of a young lamb: “Mother, I’m scared; it’s dark…” That warning was a breeze of mercy for the mother’s desolation. With mad haste, she lit a candle, and without heeding the little one’s astonishment, went to the dressing table glass, which, indifferent to the tragic gesture, offered her an image as beautiful as it was pale and harsh. The candle flame, enveloping the woman in a trembling halo, lent her such a charm in the mirror that, already out of sleep, moved by the joy of finding herself always beautiful, Eve let out a prolonged sigh of well-being. Half naked, with her silky shock of hair untied over her shoulders, white with emotion, her complexion dark, smiling for a moment, the lady exclaimed triumphantly, “I still have my beauty!” “Mother,” cried the child, “why do you talk to yourself, and cry out, and not sleep?” The mother turned to his side and calmed herself down to put him to sleep. She kissed him and said mentally: “I have my son too; here he is, I have him forever .” And as she held him in her strong, bare arms, she made him moan: “You hurt me!” By loosening the chain of love, the mother managed to get the child to sleep, but with a light and anxious sleep, the sleep of a nightmare or of illness. Eva contemplated him with anguish; her wounded maternal pride rested on the innocent body of that angel, always struggling with pain, poor sad angel, with his wings drooping toward the earth!… Only in that summer, already dying, had Tristanito enjoyed a bit of health. And when thinking this, the memory of Lali, happy and healthy, struck Eva’s heart like a dart. The hesitant rosiness of Tristan’s cheeks was like a blush for Tristan that painted roses on Lali’s face; the child’s voice, an echo of the gentle grace with which the girl sang of the healthy joy of life… Everything about Lali was joyful and pleasant, and seeing her next to Tristán, pale and astonished, one would say that it was the sun in the child’s eyes that gave her a pious warmth to live, and that the faint breath of her existence was an aroma of Lali’s health… Never as then had Eve desired that son who slept in her arms, pitiful and recumbent like the marble angel of a tomb. In the hardened breast of that mother, the hidden breasts of tenderness dilated with a heartbreaking anxiety; the woman had trembled with the terror that her beauty was truly miserable flesh, a bitter and painful fruit; and she also trembled for the weak flesh of her son, the despicable fruit of a love lie… As if resuming her recent dream with a funereal epilogue, she found herself thrown along devastated roads, beautiful and naked, with a treasure in her arms. She walked, walked in the vastness of that shoreless desert, and found something reverberant that attracted her; it was a crystal or a lake, a smooth sheet that reproduced images. She approached trembling to discover it, and saw herself in a mirror, old and frowning, by the light of a trembling flame… Her precious treasure was a marble angel, hard and cold… She was poor, alone, burdened with her withered flesh and with her dead child… Dawn broke on the peaks of the Cantabrian mountain range, and even Eve felt weighing on their eyelids the frightful darkness of an endless night. Chapter 51. As the landscape paled with a light autumnal withering, the Ensalmo mansion found itself morally distant from Eva’s cottage; only the affection of Tristán and Lali connected them, stretched like a lifeline between two shipwrecked people in their death throes. María, locked in the sweet sorrows of her love, barely crossed the boundaries of the park or the garden; but the children, always together like well-found little brothers and sisters, were an occasion for the mothers’ visits and conversations, just enough to keep the fragile friendship between the two ladies from breaking completely… One day, Lali said: “How long it takes my dad to come back!” And María shuddered with painful surprise, as if she had forgotten that Gracián was in the world… She was frightened by the certainty of that return, and the yoke of her captivity struck her with implacable punishment. The poor slave longed for freedom with such a deep and strong yearning that her entire existence was a wandering impulse, a broken flight… From the slumber of her life she awoke so that happiness could die in her hands; many times, seeing her die so beautiful and smiling, María was on the verge of losing her mind, and the stream of her sorrows, unbridled and roaring, overflowed into an endless plain . The sad, blond lady relished the night, which is the bride of sorrow, as never before. On her favorite bench in the garden—on the one of the unforgettable “rendezvous” —or in her wicker chair in the sunroom, she lost herself in thoughts that were both sorrowful and sweet. Those hours in the mountain valley possessed a rare display of sadness and calm. The haughty profile of the peaks, outlined against a peaceful awning, provided a frame of enchanting unreality to the depths of the gorges, all wrapped in the pale faintness of the moon. A warm breeze, like the breath of a south wind, stirred the air with the fierce and penetrating aromas of freshly cut grass, and the forests, long and mysterious, prayed with the languid murmur of a breeze or the rustling of leaves. In that scene of meditation and magic, the fascinating figure of the lover lay as if in her own bed, in divine abandonment. Often, radiating in her blue eyes a holy light of immolation, her lips whispered reverent words of sacrifice and obedience, and a fleeting, self-sacrificing smile soothed her beautiful countenance. But, soon , the woman’s beauty became humanized with the ardent glow of passion. María would remain, listening anxiously to the grave secrets of the pensive landscape, and the scented fragrance of the garden would make her tremble. Her face hidden in her hair and tears, she would then murmur a mad supplication, her poor, imploring heart unable to know by which paths her bitter voice would reach heaven… During her amorous ecstasies, the lady would often see a silhouette wandering through the garden as if intoxicated by the pleasant rapture of the night; marveling at this discovery, she observed it, suspicious of the ghost, and was able to discover that it was Rosita, that sad and adventurous apparition, sleepless among the flowers. One of those times, the maiden happened to cross by the seat where María was weaving her reveries, completely oblivious of the sleepwalking girl. The lady rose from her seat, seeing that wandering profile advance, and the girl uttered a frightful cry at the gentle figure of the lady, whom she imagined to be a just shadow. With a pained tone, like an elegy, on her knees she murmured, “Forgive me, forgive me!” “What are you saying? Forgive me for what?” And the whiteness of the stately robes swayed like a serene cloud over the young woman’s dejection. “How have you offended me?” the lady asked in astonishment. And she sweetly held out her hands, which in Rosita’s brown hands looked like two moonlit tears. “In everything, in everything,” the girl sobbed, humiliated and trembling. “In everything?” Maria repeated with an incredulous expression, “tell me, let’s see…” But the girl, contemplating the peaceful attitude of the The lady feared to distress her with the cruel secret, and filled with blushes and fright, she stammered: “I will tell the young lady tomorrow…” And she kissed her hands with such deep tenderness that Maria, feeling the emotion of those sublime moments, placed her lips benignly on the maiden’s forehead… The two of them walked along various paths in the garden, moved and disconsolate, toward the big house. The pale and supernatural face of the moon was looking down at them from heaven with a tragic smile… Chapter 52. At noon, a car crossed the road with a crash, turned down a country lane among the crops, and stopped at the proud doorway of the house of Ensalmo. In the serious building there was a stir of curiosity, and Eva’s little house was also moved by the rapid fluttering of some blinds. Rafaelito, advantageously disguised with the floating sack and the driver’s license plate, got out of the carriage with a lady who, stripped of gauze, tunic, and hat, turned out to be Benigna. With jubilation and shouts, the two brothers stormed the house, demanding their place at the table and asserting that they were ravenously hungry, and that the hay in the fields had given them a terrible urge to graze… Lali was dying of laughter, and María, welcoming her cousins, affectionately ordered that the meal be served soon. Coronado’s men hurriedly explained their intention to take María and Eva with the children that afternoon; they were determined to get them back; it was necessary to get the two ladies out of that abyss of gorges and torrents, of parched fields and languid groves… The beach was still beautiful; the children needed to swim… But what kind of confinement was this? A vow, perhaps?… And husbands are all over the world!… “Gracián enjoying himself like a single lad,” Benigna assured her, smiling and perverse. Then, insinuatingly, she added: “Why shouldn’t you come with us?” The lady’s blond head turned in a sweet refusal; that year, María resolved not to leave the valley until returning to Madrid at the end of October, or a little later if the autumn proved mild… She was very grateful for this determination… And a singular firmness was accentuated in her words of gratitude, leaving the applicants with little hope of success. Benigna, however, persisted in her invitation, while Rafael’s eyes celebrated a feast of admiration over the lady; and while the meal was being served, Coronado’s men wanted to visit Eva. The three of them passed through the pleasant border of the garden to the neighboring house. Villamor was already waiting for them, practicing multiple precautions of refinement, inquiries, and dissimulation. She was beautiful; her eyes were satanic, the dark circles under her eyes deep, and her complexion paler than usual. Feasted on a most cordial invitation, she allowed herself to be begged, hesitating; but upon learning that María was staying in the valley, she seemed determined to consent. “Nothing, nothing, it’s settled,” Rafael declared. “You and the child are coming with us this afternoon; now it’s necessary that we win María over to be victorious. ” The blond, cherubic head, moving firmly, said again, “No… no…” Burning with impatience, Eva wanted to know. “Do you have many guests? ” “In our house,” Benigna replied, “only Manrique’s wife and her mother, Gracián, and the girl from Alfaro, Isabel’s close friend, remain; but there are still many people from Madrid in the hotels, and we had a wonderful time.” “The Countess is leaving one of these days,” Rafaelito ventured in his deep voice. And Benigna, turning to the woman from Ensalmo, said, “Gracián too will set off from Las Palmeras on an excursion before coming to find you… you’ll know…” With discreet restraint, the musical voice of his wife, who was unaware of the unfaithful man’s plans, replied: “Yes; I already knew…” and an air of subtle indifference enveloped these words like a vaporous tulle that floated mysteriously through the conversation… María’s eyes were fixed in remote meditation, at the edge of a writing table covered in papers and books. That cheerful room, with balconies overlooking the mansion and the garden, was the poet’s favorite room, his literary studio in the past; a distant time, forever gone! Her dreamy blue pupils turned childlike, so candid, as they rhymed the memories of an adolescence shared fraternally with the man, now loved, in misfortune… Benigna and Eva discussed the inconveniences of taking the child to the beach; Villamor’s wife suddenly resisted , with new scruples, accepting the invitation for the baby, so delicate, so cuddly… It was a drag to go out with him … ” But that air will do him good; perhaps the baths… this month’s are the best,” Benigna announced. “No, no; it’s too much trouble for you. ” “No way…” María intervened quickly: “Leave him to me; he’ll be very happy with Lali.” And the little boy, who had slipped into the visit and listened at his mother’s side, whispered: “Yes; I shall be very happy.” Eva, inclined to give in, in a jovial tone complained to the child: “I’m going to be jealous of your Lali… You love her more than me…” Then, irresolutely: “I don’t know what to do,” she said, ” the village has tested him so well! ” Maria insisted. “Leave him…” And Tristan, very quietly: “Yes… yes… I’ll keep Lali. ” “Two or three days, if that,” the mother conceded. Everyone was satisfied. In Las Palmeras the child was not needed; only Eva to amuse Gracián, or María to restrain him, to see if by freeing Casilda from his siege, she would intensify her insinuations about Rafael, and before leaving the Countess left the constant lover of Luisa Ramírez compromised with a categorical declaration… A whole plan of entanglements and artifices, hatched in the leisure time of the villa… They told the big house that the meal was waiting; and Eva was left with her travel preparations, restless, feverish, wondering if it would be madness to leave Tristán to run off and have fun with that strange and perfidious man, who was making fun of several women at once. Her pride held her back, but she was driven by a burning curiosity to meet the woman from Manrique, and she felt a diabolical desire to rival her, perhaps to overcome her, in that frivolous tournament of vanities that was the charm of her life… As she rummaged through her wardrobe, she forgot the child; and, out of temper, furious, she found every item in her trousseau to be shabby, and she was certain that she was the most unfortunate creature in the world… Skirts, bodices, charms, and headdresses suffered tugs and jerks during a cruel hour that passed over Eva like an ordeal. After bitter perplexities, a small suitcase was prepared with the best that the vain woman could choose from her finery, and after giving a few orders to the only servant in the family and writing a brief note to her husband, Eva, dressed in her holiday attire, always beautiful, appeared at Ensalmo’s house. Benigna was already impatient to return; not so the little marquis, for whom the afternoon seemed like a breeze in the company of the blond lady. Tristán and Lali celebrated with innocent joy the joy of living together under the same roof, and María was finally freed from her cousins’ tenacious invitation, because Rafael suddenly interrupted another consultation from his sister, saying: “Don’t insist any more; María is right to stay in the valley,” and he looked with rare tenderness into her blue eyes, which also looked at him gratefully. The time came to leave, and they all went out together to find the automobile that was waiting surrounded by astonished and curious children. The woman from Villamor said goodbye to María in a very embarrassed tone; she would have liked to be pleasant to her, to thank her in a cordial tone for the lodging she was offering the child, but she felt ashamed of her behavior, remorseful for that furtive trip. As she kissed Tristán, she trembled for a moment with intense anxiety; But the little one, joyful and animated, returned the kisses without No affliction at all, and the mother felt calm now. “Let’s go before nightfall,” Benigna begged, looking with frightened eyes toward the sad road to Reinosa. “That way,” she added, pointing, “the goblins, the wolves, and the thieves must arrive… I don’t know how many horrible things!… Besaya seems to be crazy, with the screams he’s making… I would die if I had to stay a month in this valley.” And turning to her cousin, who was smiling, she asked: “Aren’t you terrified when nightfall comes? ” “On the contrary, I’m glad…” The brave reply resounded with tragic pleasure, and Rafaelito, in the lady’s ear, murmured: “Would that I could accompany you in this solitude all your life!” Settled on the speeding train, they said: “Goodbye, goodbye…” “See you soon ,” Eva’s voice added, fading into the distance. They set off, hectic and swift, down the road, and disappeared around a sharp bend in the path… The children ran home, hand in hand, and María remained at the threshold of the doorway, alone and silent, carved in stone, like an angel holding a shield. The beautiful woman’s eyes rose to the summit of the mist-shrouded mountains, and from there to the heavens in search of some sign of hope; but the confines were closed with pale curtains, and she found no light, no direction, no sign of consolation . Chapter 53. “I’m going to Las Palmeras with Benigna and Rafael, who are coming to get me. The boy is left in the care of Doña Cándida and María; he is very well and very happy with Lali.” Thus read Diego in a few laconic lines, a pattern of strange correspondence; He wasn’t particularly surprised by his wife’s audacity, and although she placed María in second place as Tristán’s guardian, the thought of imagining his son sheltered by his beloved stirred a deep emotion in him. A very pretentious and somewhat corny newspaper, published on the beach under the title *Summer Magazine*, had told Villamor at the time that Gracián was at the marquises’ villa; and in the syrupy chronicles of that same publication, the poet often read the sonorous name of *Soberano*. Then María was alone with the children, alone with her sorrows and her meekness. Did she think about him much?… Did she forget him?… If forgetting him were a blessing for her, Diego, with heroic eagerness, would have desired that oblivion. But no; to live was to love; Maria never ceased to love him, for with him she awakened to a life of intense feeling… But isn’t a love without hope a cruel death?… To love one another in that way, wasn’t it as much as awakening on the brink of the grave?… And life was a lovable gift, the supreme gift we have the right to defend; for its sake all battles are lawful and all paths are good… Diego, thinking thus of his terrible hours of misfortune, rebelled with insane reasons against the sublime pain of his beloved. He felt a heart-rending pity for her, a tenderness full of charity, an infinite mercy. He would like to open his heart to take her into it, to shelter her, to always have her with him, protected, defended by the strong wall of his flesh, by the impetuous torrent of his veins, like a child in a mother’s womb. In a few minutes he enjoyed and suffered a thousand tortures and pleasures, his whole being thrown into the mad whirls of his imagination. Absorbed in his yearnings, he perceived the sweetest metal in the beloved voice, and forgot all that made him fear and suffer, to dream that the two lovers had been reborn, one for the other, and that they were walking together through life, their eyes and hearts very close…; and even in the street, amid the bustle of the people, María would approach Diego, in illusion, beautiful and in love, like a divine miracle. Shortly after, anxiety and impatience would devour the dreamer; he would stretch out his hands in the shadows, and happiness would escape him, finding only emptiness, the emptiness of an eternal, irremediable fall… Suddenly he would be reborn to an ineffable confidence, firmly believing that a love won through pain had to blossom into roses of happiness, with the holiest of justices. The logic of a lover led him to accept the idea that superior souls have the right and the pleasure of courageously redeeming themselves from all foreign dominions, judging their own feelings in the supreme tribunal of consciences , and hiding their necks, even out of dignity, from the verdict of an unjust sentence… Over life and property, the artist thought, the will of a man or the mandate of a law may have weighed; but over souls, neither before, nor now, nor ever, who but God can command ? Love also has its rights, and when it is of the highest quality and untainted by impurities, it rises above all codes and all prohibitions… From one concession to another, Diego delved into his conscience along dangerous paths, to the detriment of firm laws of morality and healthy social customs; And among the burning flames of divine love, the red embers of human love also appeared, by a natural evolution. Along with the knight and the poet, the man, shaken by the muffled voices of life, thirsting for his beloved, wanted to drink the cup of delight full; he claimed his right to live in the full enjoyment of love, without scruples, without reservations, facing everything, conquering everything, until he felt happiness in his heart become a slave… But his poor ambitious heart ached from so much wanting and hoping! In the midst of these crises of sentiment and nature, these struggles between instinct and ideal, a letter in an envelope from María reached Villamor, the handwriting somewhat trembling, the artist’s name somewhat frightened, written in tiny characters. A sheet of wavy lines marked by difficult handwriting, it read: “Daddy, I love you very much; write me some verses and buy me a horse.” Every day I pray for you with Lali and his mother, and so you can see I haven’t forgotten you, I’m sending you this letter full of caresses… Tristán.» Pious lines for Diego were those that María’s hand traced with the child’s hand. They were a symbol and pledge of a delicate and blessed memory, and the soul of that man was lost in infinite gratitude toward the author of such a sweet miracle. Tristán’s innocent heart, prompted by a holy influence, flew toward the unfortunate father from whom his son’s love had been stolen, and the deformed and nervous letters that brought the gift seemed to Diego a living and trembling image of the love of the absent one. Chapter 54. The edge of the orchards shook, and an upright, slow shadow, advancing across the grass, lay down at María’s feet, under the impalpable command of the moon. A bubbling cry pierced the silence from the lady’s lips: “You… you!” “I…; don’t tremble or blame me,” said Villamor in his fervent, opaque voice. “But why have you come? Why have you come, Diego? ” “Because it’s right that I come; because it’s just… Because you’re alone and sad, in a barbaric abandonment of sadness… And I’ve come to console you… and to love you. ” “You come like a thief; at night, suddenly, shattering your resolutions and my serenity… You’ve frightened me greatly.” And the voice faded away, surrendered and sweet, trembling in the calm of the landscape. The indulgent caress of the accent forgave the poet’s audacity, who, victorious and proud, said: “Love is a friend of the night, and it comes thus, silently, when least expected… ” “That’s how temptations come too!” lamented the caressing voice; and the other voice, ardent, sang of her triumph: “I have come to steal nothing, because you have given me the best thing you had: your soul. And because it is mine, I want to receive it from your lips like a communion. ” “You’re crazy again,” Maria murmured, drowning her reproaches in a rhythm of sorrow; “you’ve already forgotten our pact and the peace you offered me. ” “I must be somewhat crazy, since I intend to snatch from life, by force if necessary, all the happiness it hides between us… Tell me that you will help me; tell me that you love me above all things and that you want to be mine in body and soul; tell me that you are divinely mad, as I am, and that nothing frightens you or stops you… “Shut up, out of mercy… I am afraid… A horrible fear… ” “Of happiness? ” “Of you, who no longer know how to be my brother. ” “I know how to adore you with the sublime madness of a passion that cares only for itself, without caring about anything else. I adore you divinely and humanly, with all that is in you of eternal spirit and human misfortune, and I want to share with you the greatest treasure in the world, which is love; nothing is worth so much, nothing is so worth the pain of living. Thanks to its admirable power, we will wrest from life its best fruits, and in our passage through the earth we will leave a mark of poetry and passion that tomorrow will ignite other hearts… ” “So that they wake up and die?” interrupted Maria with grief. “No; so that we may live in them as the sacred light of lovers from other centuries lives in ours … It is the eternal torch that, as in classical games, passes from heart to heart without ever going out… When the world ends, I imagine that on the dead planet that torch will still burn as the symbol of an immortal love… –And after this world, there in the next, what account will we give God of these loves? –He united our souls here below… –Souls?… Perhaps so,–the woman stammered with infinite anxiety.– But only souls… For us to speak this way in favor of the night is a bad thing… it is a danger… But Diego was reasoning in his own way. “Why should it be so bad for us to be together, loving each other so much and having also suffered so much?… What is so bad is not loving each other, carrying hatred in one’s soul, causing unhappiness in a good creature, being the occasion of misfortune and tears, using the implacable rigor of a sacrament or the harshness of a law to torment those who hunger and thirst for love and justice…” The fascinating voice suggested Maria’s suspended spirit. That spirit was fading into shadow, and with a yearning for light, it leaped into her blue eyes, all of it, and came to rest on a fragment of moonlight that had fallen onto the lawn from a shred of clouds. A gentle breath came from the grove, caressing for a moment the agony of the roses, and in the shadowy depths of the garden, rhythmic as a heart, a fountain beat. Diego, impassioned and feverish, launched his copious eloquence into the silence, in the light of his thoughtful, moon-stained eyes. “Who can think we are _bad_,” he said, “because we love each other? All of nature is responsible for these sins. We would have to go about destroying and annihilating all the germs of life, from the seed of flowers to our own hearts, to punish the _crimes_ of love… What fault is it of us, poor, suffering, passionate beings, that the world was made this way? Are we going to tear out our hearts, the only true thing in us? How ridiculous all human concerns, laws, conveniences, dissimulations, hypocrisies, all these prohibitions with which they try to subdue all the rights of love must seem from “up there”! Sky and moon listened captive in Maria’s eyes; A dark oak grove, with the music of sighing leaves, chatted with the river in a happy conversation, and the night, perfumed and serene, continued walking through the valley. With indomitable eagerness, Diego approached the thoughtful listener and begged: “Do not hide your heart from me… Tell me what you meditate, what you suffer… ” She, condescending, told him: “I think that your sorrows lead you astray, that everything you say is harmful… The value of happiness is that it can never be possessed; if we were to hold it in our arms like a child, it would lose its divine perfume… Happiness, like beauty, like all high and serious immaterial things, rejects all possession, all contact…; it is an aroma, a light, a passing breeze…; we feel it, perhaps we enjoy it … but we do not possess it! If our life knows anything about it, it will be through “On condition that you respect the oath that separates us. ” “I will do as you command,” said Diego, overcome with piercing anguish. “I promised to obey you, and I know how to keep it; but thus we punish our love with cruel subtleties, frightening it with invincible phantoms… We are poor fools, and instead of loving one another with all our hearts, we toil fruitlessly in a tournament of mad reasons, when the supreme reason that protects us is love itself… And you only live once!” With an exalted tone of torture, Maria replied: “Once… on earth… Sacrifice also has its joys and beauties… ” “But when it is sterile, it takes the form of pride, and sometimes of cruelty. This passive meekness will not have the greatness you suppose… My love offers you another kind of sacrifice, active, fruitful, full of mercy and consolation, much more noble and beautiful than all the useless and solitary torments of your abandoned heart.” “My torments are useless!” the valiant woman moaned bitterly. “Yours and mine… We accept the iron of slavery at the pleasure of our executioners… Would they do it like this for us? ” “They… they…” the gentle voice murmured in pain. And then, with a transport that made two rival loves tremble, “For you,” she said, “I could forget what I am, sacrifice my honor… if it were mine.” And Diego, hoarse and sullen, finished: “But she’s his!” “No!… she’s hers… my daughter’s. ” “Ah!… yes… Lali!” the poet stammered, with humble respect. And so absorbed was he in his misfortune that the woman, with the utmost holy piety, went to say to him in a low voice: “Neither you nor I are two blind lovers; our love is not made of passion or instinct, it is the sweet fruit of feeling and pain; Let us not embitter him with guilt… let us let him live, dying, like a glimpse of the supreme happiness that through him will be given to us one day. “When?” sobbed the man, hungry for that promise, impatient and complaining like a child. With the poem of her tears, she wove a distant hope. “Soon,” she said, “there where everything is possible and everything is good; when the flesh turns to dust in the earth.” And he looked at her in an ecstasy of ineffable tenderness, assuring her: “To me, your body seems made entirely of soul…” He clasped in his strong hands Maria’s hands, damp with tears, white and trembling like jasmines bent by the rain. But she, terrified, pulled away from the pure caress, wept: “For to me our souls… seem made of flesh… ” Then, imploring, trembling, she begged: “Go… go… Until tomorrow.” He obeyed submissively, and like an echo, he repeated with fear: “Until tomorrow…” Under the blessed veil of the moon, María sobbed, tearing herself apart in painful triumph, and the gentle figure of Rosita rose up in a hiding place behind the lady. The maiden glided toward the house with an unprecedented fear on her face, and in her soul a fervor and amazement that made her tread lightly, hardly touching the ground. The edge of the garden stirred again; the shadow of the poet, fleeing between flowerbeds, lay down among the autumn flowers… The night was as if asleep with pleasure, and the landscape stirred with a shudder of passion. Chapter 55. How many days? One? A thousand?… A lifetime?… A minute?… The sublime madness of love paralyzed time in the valley, for the lovers inert in their idyll, all fog and sweetness, all insecurity and pain. It was a running between shadows and splendor, a wandering through the heavens and the earth, a delirium so pure and so human!… No one was surprised that Diego had appeared in his little house, nor that he shut himself away to write tenaciously, or to pace the length of the room for hours on end, leaving his privacy only to pay his daily visit to the lady of the palace. The poet’s coarse servant said that the young master had arrived on the night train, without asking for the lady or the child, because he would know, without a doubt, that they were not at home… She said that he barely ate the A gentleman, who talked to himself and gave his pen a great deal of work. It was a joyful surprise for Tristán to see his father one morning on the balcony, rejoicing in the amazement of his two little friends, who ran to embrace him. With the frank selfishness of childhood, the boy said to the man: “Will you bring me a horse? ” “I couldn’t… The stores were closed when I came…” “And the verses? ” “Ah! Yes, I’ve brought many, for you and Lali. ” “Verses,” said the chatty girl, “they’re tiny little lines that go well together… They’re songs. ” “Yes,” repeated Tristán with wonder; “they’re songs, and they’re worth the money… your mother said so. ” Villamor listened, enthralled, to the children’s graceful chatter, and a tender joy filled him, seeing them so united in the enviable glory of innocence. Without the pretense of dissimulation, Tristán continued to express his whims: “Daddy, I don’t want to stay in this house; come to the palace too, because Mommy has gone I don’t know where… ” “Where is my daddy?” the little girl chirped in, resolving the problem easily. Diego sweetened a very bitter smile by kissing the little ones and telling them that he would be alone while they would be together with Lali’s mother. That the two of them would go to see him from time to time, and that every afternoon he would take them for walks and pay them a visit. The children were satisfied and carried out their program to such an extent that every half hour they called out to the study door: “Open up, a butterfly is dying; let’s see if you can cure it… Tell us a story… Make us a song… Look, we brought flowers…” Sometimes they would find the artist with his eyes full of tears. “Are you crying?” Lali asked him on one occasion. And Tristán, moved, jumped into his father’s arms, murmuring: “Don’t cry, I already love you so much. ” “And you didn’t before?” Villamor asked between caresses. “Before… not long. ” “Since when have you loved me?” Incarnate and confused, the child stammered with eloquent truth: “Since this one’s mother told me you were good…” Lali, absorbed, looked at that scene with her golden pupils dilated in profound compassion. She felt so sorry for that sad man , who always kissed her eyes with warm and sweet kisses, long, long… very soft. And the poet, enamored of the girl, enjoyed superhuman emotions every time the light from those eyes entered his consciousness, cooling and pure, like the sun of the heavens… Harassed by a crowd of ineffable and ardent ideas, Villamor wanted to condense them into happy lines, into stanzas of immortal gallantry, a spark of perennial fire eternalized in art with the romantic light of passion. He wanted to place his soul, undone in tempest, beneath his pen, and crush it on paper, and leave it in a song to Mary, burning forever with flames of inextinguishable glory in infinite love. In his hours of solitary emotion, it seemed to him that the entire universe vibrated within him, and he remained in ecstasy, finding no more worthy eloquence than that of tears; his nerves, like the strings of an immense lyre, trembled, and his sensations enveloped him in waves of light, music, and color. But in those moments of vital and aesthetic plenitude, he could not wring from the heart its best secrets; his pen clumsy, his words lax, his thoughts imprisoned in sentimental exaltation, the poet fell into moral frenzies, into fits of sadness and tears, which brought him to the threshold of madness. Among his piles of torn pages at that time, only a few by chance were forgotten, scorned by the desperation of the artist, who failed to pour into them the aroma of his soul. Chapter 56. The villa was as wooded as the sea; it seemed that the storm of the waves reached the living room, the terrace, the already withered garden and the park defeated by autumn. Under the rent of the leaves, Rafael paced nervously and sullenly, treading with cruel complacency the Crisp leaves. The Marquis searched in vain for his son in the rooms of the villa. “Rafael… Rafaelito!” he kept saying. “Where are you, boy?… Everything will be all right, don’t worry. These are just family fluff, women’s whims…” Don Agustín opened the doors, crossed the rooms, and his sonorous, calm accent faded among the furniture and curtains, tapestries and moldings. At the end of his useless excursion, a glass window on the ground floor allowed him to see, like a stranger in the park, his son’s wretched appearance . The nobleman approached his heir with a conciliatory and pleasing attitude, and in paternal tones, a little high-flown and resounding, spoke to him about compromising his desire for marriage; He had acted as his servant to the ladies, who were infatuated with Luisa Ramírez… Love marriages were always poetic and beautiful affairs, worthy of sympathy; that is why, as a father and as a romantic, Don Agustín sponsored the ideal love of Isabel and Galán… Nothing, nothing: two “altruistic” marriages, two displays of aristocratic insurrection against the conventionalities of lineage and purses, and they would be happy for many years!… The Marquis never forgot that adage : “marry your daughter as you can and your son as you wish”; but he too married with no other incentive than that of a disinterested passion, and his conjugal happiness was an eloquent example of how many rewards pure love and noble feelings receive in the world. Coronado expanded on other sentimental considerations, and his speech, comic and lyrical, had the gift of folding Rafael’s brave expression with a difficult smile . The father went on to say that Isabelita, as if in love, had sided with her brother, in defense of his marriage to Luisa; and that, there being now two in support of him against the opinion of Benigna and the Marchioness, they were yielding in their opposition, and now desired a frank and prompt peace with his favorite… Everything would be arranged; the ladies, with autumn now advanced and the beach unpleasant, would return to Madrid immediately, and he would remain with the groom in a hotel in the city to prepare with solicitous interest all the matters of the wedding, to which, on the appointed day, the Marchioness and the girls would come. Then, everyone would cordially attend Isabel’s wedding at court… So that the ladies would not have to travel alone, López, “the good López,” the constant and kind friend, was happy to accompany them; he would stay with them for a few days, until the wedding date , and on both trips his company would be very useful… “Eh?… How are you?” Don Agustín asked, very satisfied, triumphant with plans and solutions. Rafaelito bit his lip, between pity and mockery, and the Marquis took him by the arm towards the house, where the heir was received with caresses from his mother and pampering from the girls… From Isabel above all, who, a little while ago, she had heard Rafael’s furious threat: “If you continue conspiring against my marriage, I will ruin yours in ten minutes… I will speak to Papa in such a way that, however naive and blind he may be, he will oppose your marrying that… ” “Understood,” interrupted the wise young lady; omit the epithets, brother, and count on my support… and calm down; we will both be married very soon… I believe it!” Isabel and Benigna conferred after Rafael’s threat; Then, the two of them locked themselves with their mother in a bitter and sad discussion, and finally, the Marchioness, calling her husband to a transcendental conversation, dismissed him instantly, haughty in his conciliatory role, looking for the stubborn Rafaelito, who would definitively impose his resolution to marry Luisa Ramírez without delaying more than a month… That family storm calmed, the house was silent in a crisis of rest, all the cries that could be heard were from the wind and the waves, and the torn clothing of the trees. But on the terrace of the villa another tempest broke out, peering into the deep eyes of a woman. Embers and darkness, lightning and Hurricanes passed through those sloe eyes that gazed defiantly at the swell of the sea in its surging ferocity. Waves more cruel than those of the furious Cantabrian Sea, raged in Eva’s heart. The sinister curiosity and spite that drove her toward the villa turned into implacable punishment, because Gracián, proud as ever of his boastful achievements, used her as a stimulus to win the countess. And when Manrique’s wife left for Vichy, certain she wouldn’t find a husband at Las Palmeras, he wanted to make a public display of his supposed conquest, accompanying her on the trip, forgetting everything that wasn’t that haughty effort to affirm his fortune as a landed gentry. Gracián’s humiliating insult coincided with Eva’s receiving a letter from María, giving her good news of the child’s health and adding that, “although Villamor was there, she was very happy to keep the boy by her side.” This return, unannounced and unexplained, was yet another shock to Eva in the strange behavior she attributed to Diego. For the first time, it occurred to her that her husband, while truly despising her, had left in a moment of boredom and was returning to enjoy the valley, taking advantage of the despised woman’s absence… It was certain, then, that she no longer inspired affection or admiration, that she no longer had power over anyone’s soul… that abandonment and loneliness laid siege to her with tireless cunning… Once again she suffered the terror of the solitary plain, the untamed horror of the shoreless desert, tortuous and sterile paths where fate drove her, alone and poor, without youth or beauty, unable to hold on even to her own heart, which, silent and cowardly, seemed dead… Tristanito’s pale face flashed through her memory vividly, like a shooting star in a dark night. At the memory of the boy, Eva stood up with indomitable pride, placing before her brave expression the sweet and beautiful image of a little girl. “They want to take him away from me,” she roared angrily. “It’s Lali who’s taking him home, who’s bewitching him and stealing him away… he loves her more than me!” A fierce surge of passions shook the woman, tormented by her own baseness. Contemplating the stormy Cantabrian Sea, the vanishing flowers, and her existence isolated, without consolation or direction, she came to think, obsessed with her terrors, that Tristán, her only treasure, was suffering a malevolent kidnapping at the hands of a tiny fairy with sun-kissed eyes, rose-colored cheeks, and a snarling laugh; a sorceress named Lali, the embodiment of the happy woman whose eyes had been painted a sky of ardent blue by all the flattery in the world… Eva wanted to return to the valley immediately. Having prolonged her stay at Las Palmeras for many more days than she had intended, her desire to leave as soon as Gracián did seemed too significant ; but the arrival of her husband served as justification for her sudden decision. No one stopped her, because the return to Madrid was already throwing the marquises’ household into a formidable turmoil. López entered into that rejoicing, rubbing his hands and muttering the glorious “perfectly” that made history in the gallant chronicles of the beach… Caught in the pale fogs of the coast, the Cantabrian Sea, in fury, bid farewell with loud voices to that caravan of travelers. Shouts, sobs, blowing of the gales, spitting, a harsh and arrogant accusation sent the sea storm to the shore… Not otherwise , in immortal psalms, does the Gospel tell us that to the scandalous people: “Be ashamed, O Sidon!” the sea said… Chapter 57. Tristanito had a high fever and a great cowardice in his gaze. It would have been said that he did not want to open his eyes to the light, from the hour in which he heard his parents speaking to each other with very harsh and cruel words, just as they had done in Madrid for some time, just as on other unforgettable occasions for the child… It was in the afternoon that Eva arrived; it was in that white and cheerful little room where Diego wrote and walked, where Tristán and Lali braided rushes and daisies to make crowns, raising with their childish chatter marvelous castles, under the The poet’s caressing gaze… The child between the two, Eva angrily apostrophized Diego, as if she were not to blame for the distance between their hearts, for the secret divorce of their lives. With despotic haughtiness, she demanded the reason for his disdain, news of his plans, and an account of his hours. She called herself abandoned and offended, and gave no respite to reproaches or respite from accusatory speech. In similar cases, the child would rush to calm his mother with caresses, saving all his compassionate feelings for her; but this time, frightened, he took refuge in the artist’s arms and with sweet compassion consoled him with broken phrases of innocent sorrow. In the height of her fury, the mother then tried to tear her son away from Diego; but the child clung to the manly arms, and the father defended his treasure. They argued for a moment with brutal folly, and the man, finally, fearing to hurt him, let go of the child. Diego spoke of leaving immediately for distant lands never to return; he spoke of the heartbreak of his soul, leaving his son in hands that would stir up horrendous hatred against his absent father… Tristán listened with mute stupor to the poet’s bitter predictions; he looked at him longingly, and, imprisoned in his mother’s arms, he did not even dare to cry. A little later, he was trembling like a leaf, shaken by fatal breaths; his eyelids drooped in exhaustion from terror or tears. The next morning, the town doctor was summoned, and he arrived, riding on a scrawny colt, to visit the child. He examined him with attentive kindness, slowly shaking his head. He found out if the child had a sad disposition, if he had always been weak as he had been then, if he had ever had any strong emotions. With his gentle, compassionate fingers, he lifted the eyelids, tenacious in their fateful crease. He lit a match and waved it before his eyes, deceiving them: “Look at that beautiful light… Look again… More, a little more…” The veiled pupils turned weakly; the doctor uncovered the motionless little body and made a line on its stomach with his fingertip, observing with the greatest interest that sign of experience. He laid out a diet and took great care to note, every two hours, the fever curves. He prescribed ice for the head, applied continuously, and in a reserved tone, said: ” I’ll return tonight…” To Diego, who was anxiously questioning him, accompanying him to the doorway, he pessimistically confessed: “I fear meningitis; the child’s temperament and the symptoms he is presenting don’t give me much confidence… But it could only be a threat. ” “What if it were meningitis?” the terrified father asked. “If it were so… a miracle might save him.” The two men shook hands in a grave and afflicted silence, and the doctor rode away very slowly on his brave , heroic-looking colt. When Villamor returned to Tristán’s room, Eva looked at him questioningly, and in her husband’s fearful expression, she read the dreadful diagnosis. Possessed by immense anxiety, she cast her eyes to the floor, and with a voice as soft as ever, she stammered: “I’ll make all the necessary arrangements.” The father remained at the side of the bed where the beloved angel was suffering, and the woman fled, blinded by anxiety, finding the idea of ​​returning to the child to contemplate him, inert and stupendous, with his eyes closed like a corpse and the inexorable threat on his pure forehead, unbearable. She paced like a madwoman around the house; she tried in vain to cry, searching for a prayer, but in vain. She arrived at the study and found on the sofa limp rushes and meadow flowers, dead that night in the nets of a humble little wreath. The discovery caused her a superstitious fear; weak and hesitant, she went to sit beside the table, and with impatient, cold hands she began to rummage through the papers and scrutinize the books. Between blank sheets, her eyes stumbled upon some verses, without beginning or end, truncated rhymes. And she read with mad amazement this thread of lines: My destiny is you. I loved you since before I was born; I dreamed of you from the distant sky where they dwell, Still disembodied, our souls. Your eyes were little golden candles upon the horizons of my childhood; your kisses were the first kisses I felt in my dreams. I searched for you, but never reached you. Since I was a child, my poor heart divined you, sensing the vivid emotions of our sweet hours, our tragic hours. The eternal history of human love will gather within its pages, like gold in cloth, our names. The day will come when other souls will quench their thirst in the pure fountain of our tears… Our life will be like a poem, our death will be like a hosanna… We will never die; we will live like a dream of love, in other souls. There is no madrigal, cantiga, or quarrel, carnation or passionflower in an old correspondence or songbook that holds within its pages a fragrance as subtle as the fragrance of our sweet hours, of our tragic hours. The sheet of paper where Diego had written these sentimental and sincere stanzas trembled in Eva’s hands , seemingly useless, as they lay carelessly, with a red pencil cross crossed across the page up to the four corners. The curious woman’s imagination whirled wildly , oblivious to anything but the search for the muse of that song… She couldn’t find her… She wouldn’t exist. It was, without a doubt, the image of a poet. Diego, withdrawn, almost sullen with women, perhaps only knew how to love them in his verses, in his artistic delirium… No. Diego had no violent passions, no true desires… He was an abnormal, a deluded man, a dreamer… But the verses hurt Eva’s memory like a cruel scratch. Looking at the page, sprinkled with her husband’s fine handwriting, each sentence seemed like a grain of seed that another happy woman would gather in a harvest of immortal flowers… The red lines, stretched across the sheet, were a bleeding scratch… Suspecting similar encounters, she continued folding books and pages with feverish impatience. She found notes, uncertain lines, a prison of lofty ideas trembling like sparks of light on the ungrateful snow of the paper; and at the end of her bold inspection, she found a sonnet, placed like a register between verses by Fray Luis. She read avidly: Love that is assured in infinity and ignites in silent eternity, is a noble flame, that transcends beyond the sad grave. It shines serenely in the dark darkness, its light ignites in the immortal light; neither the sun extinguishes it nor its light offends it, nor does it heal men or centuries. The trace of our life will fade , and our tongues will turn to ice, and our flesh to rigid alabaster. However, the flame of love in our longing will shine brighter, like a star in the tranquil immensity of the sky. This time the furtive reader had no doubts; a warm breath of feeling ran through those stanzas, assuring her that behind them was a woman, a passionate woman who shared with Diego that infinite and superhuman love; a love that conquers “the sad grave”; a love that immortalizes, a fire with an everlasting flame “like a star”… But did those loves exist?… Were they not the fictions of poets, the penances of martyrs, or the manias of madmen?… To love, only to suffer; To live dying, and dying of love to be born to immortality… What mystery was that impenetrable to Eve ‘s eyes ?… She felt seized by a strange and luminous terror, in the center of which burned that immense love that she denied, and the glorious light warmed her frozen heart for an instant. In profound restlessness , she crossed the room several times as if searching for reasons and truths to hold on to so as not to fall to the floor. Suddenly she turned toward the table, shaking papers and books in a hurricane of anxious research. She found nothing new, and the poet’s studio was disturbed, on the verge of an earthquake. Eve leaned against the window, waiting for the earth or the sky what she could not find within the shelter of the walls… Night was already falling over the fields, and a star trembled in the blue. In the garden, Lali walked on tiptoe, as if through a sick room; she searched among the pale flowerbeds for the last dying flowers, and in her attitude of stealth and sadness, she gathered all the emotion of that moment. The painful memory of Tristan struck his mother then, with a treacherous pang, and from the unknown warmth that had recently touched her breast like a spiritual gust, a cloud of tears rose to her eyes. Along with her copious tears, in the silent valley throbbed the unconscious and mysterious moan of nature. Chapter 58. Uncertainties and pain increased in the poet’s humble house. Tristan, seized by acute meningitis, struggled under the implacable grip of death; scourged by the harsh torment, he cried out with heartbreaking energy; All her strength, all her life, escaped her in those wails, sharp as daggers. She cried for help, she cried for mercy; the melody of her tormented voice ran through the rooms like a breath of mournful madness, and flung itself out into the withered garden and the leafless orchard, and even reached the fields and the road, like an echo of terrifying agony. Her hope shattered, Eva covered her ears in the corners of the house, fleeing from the martyr’s complaints. Meanwhile, María bathed her heart in Diego’s sorrows and, with tenderness and compassion, cared for the child. The poet, a pilgrim of grief, also watched over the condemned man with futile efforts. As far removed as possible from that desolate scene, Lali learned that her friend was very ill and was about to go to heaven. Very confused and astonished, the little girl overwhelmed Doña Cándida with questions: Wasn’t heaven a silk palace, with sweets and toys and little angels?… Why, then, was Tristán screaming and complaining like that?… Didn’t he want to leave?… And why was they taking him by force?… Was he afraid of going alone?… It would be necessary for her to accompany him… Restless and thoughtful, Lali spied on the conversations and events, and listened, trembling, to the cries that broke the silence of that drama. She prayed fervently, and the salt of her first tears, on the flower of her lips, embittered her smile… Sometimes she managed to penetrate the sick man’s room; she showed her curls and her eyes over the bed railing, and remained absorbed in the horror of that cruel illness. Her mother, caressing her, allowed her to kiss Tristán’s hand, so as not to disturb him; and Diego, gently, led her from the room, sympathetic to the child’s agonizing pain. While Tristán remained conscious, only Lali’s name persuaded him to lift the leaden light from his burning eyelids. He tried to look at her and smile, and he reached out his hands toward her with devotion. It was necessary to call her so that the child would take his medicine and food; they would sit her at the edge of the bed, and the child’s caressing voice, with a note of tears and pity, murmured the request: “Take this, Tristanito; take it so that you will heal soon and so that we can play together.” And, docile to the insinuating urging, the sick man opened his pale lips to take whatever they gave him. Then he began to lose his sight and his memory. With brief intervals of drowsiness, the wounded angel writhed in violent convulsions, and with trembling voices he begged: “Come, Lali, run; take off this crown that’s squeezing me… These flowers have thorns that have drawn blood… Look, do you see? I’m bleeding… it hurts so much… so much…” His little hands, trembling and cowardly, rose to his forehead, and clumsily tangled themselves in his curls, like wax claws in a mourning crepe. He remained tragic and pitiful, and in a convulsive prayer he repeated: “Let’s go, Lali; let’s go so they can treat this wound; take me to another road where the flowers won’t prick me; where the trains won’t run over my head… They’re killing me!… I’m dying!… Run, Lali, for God’s sake, take me away from here!” One morning, when Lali came to see him early, he turned his face toward the girl’s voice and asked impatiently: “Is it still night? ” “It is day,” Lali replied in astonishment, “can’t you see the sun and the sky?” The boy tried to sit up, wearily passed the white butterflies on his hands over his eyes, and with insurmountable terror said: “I can’t see! I can’t see you, Lali; and besides, I can’t remember what your face looks like… Don’t say it’s sunny, because everything is black… look… everything!” He waved his arms in the air, feeling the darkness of his life, and, as his forehead fell onto the pillow, his disordered curls formed a halo of mortal blackness. His lightless pupils, dead and turbid, rolled in the eternal night… They came to deceive him with pious tricks; But neither love nor knowledge were able to alleviate the innocent man’s torture. Soon his hearing, also paralyzed by that calm yet cruel death, denied him the words of comfort that love spoke to him. In vain Lali cried out: “Tristan… Tristanito, don’t you know me? Don’t you love me?” The martyr, blind and deaf, moaned his desperate complaints, alive to pain, dead to a respite of hope or rest. The ice melted in a warm rain on his temples, heated by torture, swollen with bitter pangs; and his imploring cries turned into a slow bubbling of broken phrases, of tears and deliriums that faded in supreme fatigue. But Lali’s name remained stereotyped in his memory, and with a mechanical accent he repeated it every moment. Tristan was now nothing more than a wreck of life. The most moving expression of human pain had contorted his features, with such a piercing intensity of grief that no one could look at him without bursting into tears. In that tragic breath of existence, the girl’s name, vibrating like an inextinguishable echo, seemed a drop of light, a tenuous thread of memory and love. Already inert and cold—”Lali… Lali…”—the dying man stammered, in a voice from the other world. On his lips, cracked by laments, the sweet word remained imprinted as his holy heart stopped beating, and his final breath was moistened with his last tears in the hint of a smile… It was an October night, a peaceful and romantic moonlit night. In the gloom of the bedroom, the window opened sweetly onto the sky like a chimerical flower of hope. Eva and Diego watched over the child, overwhelmed with anguish. At the foot of the bed, Mary, compassionate and generous, bidding farewell to the dying man, implored the Lord for divine consolation for the sad parents… And the hour struck. A hoarse hiss rose from the lifeless chest of the child, with final pangs of agony; his livid head, crowned with Nazarene curls, rolled on the pillow, and an indefinable shudder separated the glorious soul claimed by God from the perishable flesh. With a wasted voice, Diego cried: “He’s gone… he’s gone!” And he fell to his knees, hiding his face in the tangled bedclothes . Eve gazed at the corpse in terror; her precious hands went to close his eyes and waved in the air, their fingers wet with the child’s last tears. Mary’s lips, anointed with sacred piety, sprinkled the room with prayers and consolation. The music of their phrases harmonized with the light breeze that sighed in the garden, while a sliver of moonlight swooped in through the window to caress the dead child. Chapter 59. At the edge of that bed where the angel broke their bonds, a great love of two good souls had their last conversation. While Eve, exhausted by fatigue, fell asleep in a distant chamber, Mary, tireless in her works of compassion, with the obliging help of Rose, dressed Tristan for the last time and arranged his bed of repose with the improvised ornaments that could be found in the palace coffers. The poet, immersed in profound meditation, paced from his study to the mortuary chamber, his forehead bowed and his arms crossed. on his chest. He considered his life impossible without a sacred duty chaining him to the earth, and he allowed himself to be seduced by the temptations of final rest, by the placid tranquility of the grave, which, breaking the mystery of souls, would open the endless path where love and happiness are eternal brothers, in the shadow of God. Human sorrow overcame him; pain now caused him a burning restlessness, a disquiet that forced him to pace around as if seeking exhaustion so that he might fall more comfortably into the grave, overcome by sleep and fatigue, supremely forgetful of all sorrows. In that wandering anxiety, he often paused, contemplating Tristanito’s rigid profile, caressed by Maria’s compassionate hands. Her funereal task completed, the lady retreated to the window and leaned against it, silent and grieving. Discreetly, Rosita then went to join the other palace maids, who were watching by Maria’s orders, and who were forming quiet groups in the doorway and in the corridors with some helpful village girls. With quick resolve, Diego closed the door of the sad chamber and approached his beloved, who welcomed him with a predictable impatience. He, in a opaque tone, raised a murmur that said: “Nothing stops me now… Only the child weakly pulled at my life…” Without letting him finish, the lady, fearful and pleading, murmured: “I want proof, proof of the love you have revealed to me. ” “Proof? You will have it soon, because I am going to die… ” “No!” she cried, white as Tristan, mad with fear, “I need you to live; I beg you… ” “To live dying at every cruel moment of existence… To live without hope of achieving you… Is that what you ask of me?” Overwhelmed with grief, “That’s what I ask of you,” the unfortunate woman stammered. And Diego, in a hushed tone, questioned: “What do you offer me in return for a life filled with bitterness? ” “I offer you another, similar life: mine,” she moaned, desolate and humble. Pityed by that holy and courageous sorrow, humbled by that heroic suffering, the artist surrendered once more to the invincible attraction that the woman exerted on his soul. He hesitated before repeating: “To live without life; to wander the world dead!” And he began to retreat as if fleeing from a fearful vision; the vision of a solitary and adverse path where he would never manage to pluck a healthy and sweet shoot from which happiness would never sprout… He remained in front of Maria, on the other side of the child’s bed, between two woodcutters who were guarding the corpse. It was dawning on the mountaintops, and a light dawn, struggling with the flickering light of the candles, gave the room the strange hues of a fantastic cloud… That room of white walls , half-lit by flashes of mystery and sorrow… that marble child sleeping… that beautiful woman weeping! Diego felt himself detached from the world in a moment of sacred emotion. Everything in him was spirit, a yearning for sacrifice and virtue, a desire for eternity and infinite glory. María, transfigured in a struggle of passionate feelings, approached the poet, holding out her hands. He took them in his own above Tristán’s body; they were cold, displaying a mystical transparency of ideality. Diego’s hands were burning, and that alabaster flesh he caressed on the child and the woman made him shudder to death. Once again the man’s heart quailed with sorrow, and Mary, who felt him tremble like a leaf, promised in a prayerful voice: “I will remain faithful to you as if you were my beloved husband… Always, always you will be my chosen one… You will not be alone; my heart is entwined with yours… But swear to me that you will live until God calls you. ” “I will live,” murmured the poet, “I swear it by my soul, which will follow you like a tormented and aching shadow. ” “No; as a consolation; as a promise of heavenly happiness… ” “And in the meantime, until we reach the threshold of eternal bliss, will our souls kiss each other at all hours, with lips of stars and breezes, of flowers and verses?” The woman’s mystical hands beat like a dove’s wings in his manly hands… Day was already falling on the mountain range. A few bells slowly rang out, and as if the clock had a terrified and alarming chime, Diego and María separated with a sudden and terrible shock. Tristán’s bed trembled at the contact of the fleeing bodies, and the light of the candles rose in resounding tongues, with a livid glow. María, desolate, kept saying, “Yes… yes… they will kiss each other eternally.” Chapter 60. The morning passed slowly and gray. The bells, in a transit of glory, launched their cries into the valley, which spread gently, opening wide waves of music in the space with distant and yearning echoes. That holy clamor awakened Eva from the weary sleep of a few hours, and sensations fell upon her stunned imagination in a rush, fighting one with another fiercely. She opened her eyes wide, wide: she felt his clothed body on the bed… It was true that she was awake; that she was alive; that they were ringing for glory for her son; that Diego was leaving forever…; that she was left alone in the world, without the flower of consolation or hope… It was true that those premonitions of hers, of abandonment and poverty, were coming true; that the tragic path of her feverish visions was opening at her feet, like an abyss… Neither the soul nor the flesh of her son were hers anymore… all the seductions of life deceived her in the end! Her beauty had won neither happiness nor friendship, nor even compassion. Only Diego loved her; he no longer loved her, because she never knew of those deep immortal affections cultivated by him in gardens of poetry… Divine loves of “sweet and tragic hours”; who weep, who sacrifice, who suffer, and who “shine eternally like a star in the tranquil immensity of the sky!”… The verses of her husband, in love with another woman, now resounded in Eva’s ear like a suggestive music never heard before, and the repercussions of those notes, beautiful and silent, rolled in the heart of the unfortunate woman with the sonorous accents of the passing of glory… She got up with an invincible fear of entering the silence of the house, saturated with the vague perfume of dead flowers. In every corner lay withered wreaths of Tristan and Lali… Eva’s footsteps in the corridor caused a convulsive trepidation throughout the building. Frightened by her own footprints, she looked around anxiously, and through some half-closed windows she saw some drops of sinister light, suspended over Tristan’s bed, like tears of fire. Fleeing from that burning weeping , she hurriedly fled to the study. There was Villamor, face down on the table, sleeping or crying; motionless, silent. With an irresistible desire for protection, Eva called to him. “Diego!” The artist slowly stood up. “What do you want? ” “That you not abandon me, that you not go away, have pity on me… I suffer greatly. ” He looked at her slowly. “Are you suffering?” he said, “for you are already on the path to redemption. Only pain can save you… Wake up, sleeping soul! Come out of your dark sleep and bless the blow that makes you wake…” “Tears are blinding me.” –Cry, cry… Life is not a pleasant revelry, but the hard and noble learning of truth… Listen: the river cries… the wind cries… the bells cry… Existence is a stream of tears that flows in an endless current, fertilizing the eternal paradise of souls…
–How do you know all that? –I learned it crying. –I want to know something that will serve as relief and light, something that will offer me the secret consolations that you enjoy. –You will cry a lot first. Only when the pain reached deep into the roots of your heart did you feel the sacred trembling of truth in your entrails… Awake, sleeping soul! Diego spoke with solemn fervor; his poet’s forehead appeared haloed with radiances of spiritual grace, and Eva, seduced by that halo of divine lineage, looked at him anxiously, lamenting: “But I’m left alone, without any protection… ” “From afar, I will give you support and encouragement. ” “You want another woman,” the wife stammered. Without surprise or dissimulation, Villamor responded: “Yes; another who has been crying for many years, being innocent and saintly. ” With a sudden inspiration, Eva exclaimed: “María! ” The name remained sweet in the air, like a banner unfurled high, and the envious woman, with a bitter tone, murmured: “Always her!” But she didn’t protest. She remained silent, listening to the voice of her conscience. The mocking image of Gracián crossed her mind with a guilty pang. A gust of pride finally made her raise her head. She had been imprudent, but not guilty to the point of infamy. She wanted to defend herself against a supposed accusation that would debase her in the eyes of her husband, and she spoke in a confused way, a little proud and a little repentant. But Diego cut short her explanations with dignity and pity; he wanted to know nothing; he forgave everything . He would protect her with the fruits of his labors; he would set an example of courage and gentleness for her… everything else was settled between them; it had been broken for her long ago; it was buried in the realm of withered things… Rebelling against the weight of her guilt, Eva wanted to prove that it was the harmful influence of another woman that was driving her away from her husband; but he offered such an easy and eloquent defense to the accusation that María’s name remained raised with glory above the sad conversation. Eva’s impulse to throw herself at her husband’s feet and confess her mistakes grew stronger, but her brave demeanor still sealed her proud lips, and, in a sullen arrogance, she went to hide, desperate and silent, in a secluded room. Meanwhile, a tiny hand pushed open the glass doors that covered Tristán’s room, and Lali, absorbed, entered slowly to the bed. She was clutching a handful of languid little flowers, the remains of the autumn garden. Half asleep, Lali heard that her friend had died, and easily thwarted Doña Cándida’s foresight to go visit him. That morning, the girl felt a barbaric curiosity about death, mixed with a grave and profound bitterness. “To be dead,” she thought, “what would it be? Would it be to have wings and fly to heaven? Would it be to be asleep in a very precious box? Lali stood on tiptoe at the foot of her friend’s bed and saw nothing but a silky cloth, and on top of it, some very stiff slippers, which looked like Tristán’s. On the floor, there were enormous candelabras with lit candles. She circled the bed, very curious, and approached, and terror dilated in her peaceful, golden eyes. Tristanito had turned to wax; he was lying without a pillow, and his hands were crossed on his chest as if he were praying. She called out to him in a voice that said, “I’m listening”: “Hey, Tristan, Tristan!” He didn’t respond… She leaned over to touch him… What terrible fear! Holy Mary! Tristan was no longer a child; he was a stone, a stone of ice that left Lali’s little hand aching and trembling! The little girl threw her handful of flowers at the dead man and ran to the door, still looking at the boy in terror. She paused there for a moment with a strange fascination; it seemed to her that Tristan had moved… Perhaps he wanted to speak to her and couldn’t; perhaps he was struggling to say goodbye between the hardness of his yellow lips… A touching pity rose in the little girl’s chest. All the sunlight from her eyes, veiled with tears, fell like a burning farewell upon the stone angel; she raised her hand in a gesture of greeting, and sighed, terrified and sorrowful: “Goodbye, Tristan… Goodbye!” Chapter 61. That “morning” had not yet arrived when Rosa would tell Mademoiselle the secret she had revealed in the garden one night of dreams and moonlight. Since the girl possessed another secret as deep and beautiful as the sea, her own seemed so wretched and ugly that she would never dare reveal it to her. Maria did not demand the fulfillment of the girl’s timid promise, and Rosa devoted herself to studying and surprising, with true eagerness, admirable things. on the young lady’s angelic face. Such progress did she make in her observations, and such interest did her good soul take in those subtle riddles, that, brave and patient, like the woman she had as a model, she resolved to fulfill her humble destiny with virtuous intrepidity, breaking down at the root all the violent temptations that seduced her. Serene and firm in that resolution, she opened the small window of her room to the songs of the village patrol, which often crossed the road and stopped at the edge of the palace… No longer did the patrolmen sing hurtful couplets there, nor bitter rhymes of betrayal and jealousy; now Manuel, the sturdy young man always in love with the maiden, would sing songs laced with hope on their nights of patrol; and through a thoughtful and sad expression, the young woman had recovered her sweet smile and her tranquil air. Winds of resignation and peace blew gently over the girl’s restless passions when Gracián Soberano appeared in the valley in search of his family, October already well underway and the weather grim. The young gentleman arrived like a hurricane; a mad breeze of confusion and the bustle of the world seemed to enter with him; inside the silent, old palace, there, in that corner of the valley where Tristán’s moans still echoed, where every face bore traces of melancholy, under a cloudy sky, a canopy of solitary paths and devastated orchards… Gracián, with his elegant attire, his sonorous voice, and his musical laugh, boldly shook up the passive and withered existence of the two neighboring houses. No one asked where the fantastic traveler had arrived from, and only he asked questions, chasing news that his wife’s insignificant letters hadn’t told him in his absence . Gracián learned nothing new , apart from Tristanito’s death, but he was once again troubled by the traces of mystery and charm he saw in his wife. The gentleman clearly displayed his petulant, conquering persona, as if seeking revenge for some personal failure in a romantic contest. Being a connoisseur, on that occasion he honored María with his gallant favors, no doubt forgetting how unfamiliar she was with such obliging acts. And to distract himself from the distress caused by his wife’s cold disdain, he compassionately remembered Rosita. Granting her the favor of a beautiful smile, he stalked her and said, with the gallant command of a victor: “Tomorrow afternoon, starting at four, I’ll expect you at the Santacruz mill… we’ll be alone. ” She, confused and agitated, smiled without responding, and the young gentleman was left very confident and satisfied with his plans. That night was a night for prowling, fortunately. When the young men stopped at Rosita’s window, a proud song pierced the silence of the place: “I have sorrow and joy, I have two things at the same time; when sorrow kills me, joy gives me encouragement…” The verse seemed invented by a wise and courageous poet, a rustic poet who, with the plain and firm voice of a night watchman, slid his wholesome philosophy into several hearts at once, from the walls of the palace. The brave stanzas swayed in the stillness of the night over the quiet dramas hidden in that corner of the mountain valley, and more than one heart sighed, moved by the encouraging rhyme, while Rosita softly called out to Manuel to tell him to wait for her the following afternoon on the road to Santacruz, as she left the plain. And on that day of mysterious appointments, the girl’s appearance was very strange. She walked restlessly and frantically behind the young lady, looking at her a lot, talking to her without reason and without need; she kissed Lali constantly and had a lump of tears in her voice that made her stammer and truncate her sentences. At noon, she stealthily entered the lady’s room and placed a small piece of paper on the table; it was a fervent and noble farewell in which, expressing her gratitude to the lady, she apologized for saying goodbye in that manner, because of the great pain she felt at leaving; she told how her parents had called for her and that She had decided to return to the village, never to leave it again, perhaps to get married… The letter was incoherent and splattered with tears; when it reached María, Rosa was already walking beside Manuel along a steep, rugged path toward the mountain. The lad was stunned; he had never imagined his happiness so complete. He mentioned plans for marriage, while Rosa never ceased to smile and speak to him kindly; and although it was true that her eyes were moist and her words blurred with sorrow, she went to the village of her own free will, assuring him that she would spend her whole life there… To climb the mountains to the small, poor village where both travelers were born, one had to pass, precisely, by the Santacruz mill, property of the House of Ensalmo, a place of disrepute in the surrounding area, frequently serving as a refuge for Gracián’s infamous whims. Rosa trembled as she set foot on the creaking plank spread across the mill bed. The benevolent water sang with gallant murmurs of caresses, and the saddened sky of Cantabria wept a light, sweet rain, like the watering of flowers. Behind the travelers, the noisy gallop of a horse could be heard, and Manuel, towering over the plain with his towering height, looked and said that Señor Gracián was coming that way. “He’ll be coming to the mill,” murmured Rosita, pale and anxious; and quickening her pace, using the cloud as an excuse, the goose won, beside her lover, before the knight could reach them. Among the leafless alders, they sought the wild path that climbed the mountain, and, once they had ascended, both turned their faces toward the valley. Manuel, indifferent to the sweetness of the plains and the gentle life of the valleys, only had the attention to say: “The young gentleman was coming to the mill.” He extended his arm, pointing at her. “Look; he’s left his horse loose, and he has the key to the gate… It’s known he’s coming ‘hunting’… ” “Hunting?” Rosa exclaimed. And the peasant, smiling: “You know he’s a young man,” he replied, “he’ll have a date with some unfortunate woman… Out of respect for the lady, he won’t have courted you, otherwise!” The young woman remained troubled and pale, looking with a mad eagerness at the young gentleman who was waiting for her, seductive and graceful, completely unaware of her escape. As the rain thickened on the mountain, a grim mist closed the horizon, descending to the plain in a calm cloud, like dew, like a blessing. The mountain road, confusing and full of corn, grew turbulent, offering the girl a barbaric image of her future life. Down below, the soft, easy earth undulated, and the waters sang among the alders, while the man, ideal for the girl, was attentive to their love’s rendezvous… Rosita placed in her burning eyes an immense, shattered ambition, and her gentle, citizen’s hand made a small cross on the forehead that throbbed with a cruel storm of thoughts. She faced the mountain and planted her delicate feet fiercely on the stones and thistles. Manuel, with his formidable stick, tried to subdue the road’s fierceness… Both, mute and slow, vanished into the gray darkness of the mountain. Chapter 62. That stormy lunation, which was born over Tristan’s tomb, roared the wind in the torn goslings, and the low, gloomy clouds cast inclement omens over the plain. Just as dusk fell, Diego saw a stately gown float through Maria’s orchard ; he went down to chase it, and for a minute the lovers spoke in the pale light of that hour. The brief conversation broke into plaintive words, which seemed to darken the sky even further, expanding the horizon in an immensity of sorrow. “Goodbye!” ” Goodbye!” The farewell remained palpitating in the silence, suspended among the shadows, like a tragic tearing of flesh or a supreme trembling of hearts… As if he were fleeing, pursued by atrocious threats, Villamor left very early the next day. He took a train to the mountain capital, where he needed to settle some matters related to his expatriation, and that night he would cross his native valley for the last time, on his way to La Coruña, to leave there for Argentina on an English ship about to set sail. Eva endured a terrible struggle between her vanity and her desire to beg her husband for his trust and company. She would have liked to go with him, to embrace him, to ask him for a little affection, please. But on her lips, the brakes of pride halted the words; and the hours flew by, and the tragedy of those young and strong lives was consummated in the cruelest silence, without the holy murmur of tears and kisses, which in great sorrow sing a hymn of consoling peace… The humane and generous artist left his wife the means to await further help from him, and the freedom to live wherever she wished, but this, which a few months before had been the ambition’s sole concern, now caused her anxiety and grief. Seeing how that man walked away, so alone, so sad, his brilliant and youthful brow so defeated , a new and painful pity awoke in his wife’s heart. She remained lost in dark thoughts where sudden flashes of passion shone. A yearning for home, a deep tenderness, gripped her heart, so idle and inert for good. With a mother’s care, she remembered how ill-prepared Diego was for a long journey. He was carrying paltry luggage improvised in a few hours… She looked on her lap at some banknotes that surely represented a heroic sacrifice, an act of nobility she didn’t deserve. A clear light from heaven illuminated her past errors; she confessed her guilt; she felt remorse and loving care; she finally forgot her well-deserved misfortune to think with pious compassion about her husband’s unjust fate. And she wept a lot, with a deep and sincere pain, like that afternoon when she had seen the implacable threat on Tristan’s pure brow. She was suffering from a state of forgetfulness about everything, except for her regrets, when Lali entered, saying between sobs: “My mother doesn’t appear… she’s gone…” Eva stood up, stupefied. “What are you saying?… has she left?… with whom?” she inquired, suspicion blazing in her eyes and voice. “We don’t know,” said the little girl, frightened and whimpering. Gracián appeared at the door and, without any greetings or preambles, said in a theatrical tone: “You know my wife has disappeared.” In the height of her stupor, Eva covered her face with her hands and managed to stammer: “But is it really? ” “I think so: very early on, they saw her going alone along the Santacruz road, she who never goes out… It’s one in the afternoon and she hasn’t returned; we’ve searched for her in vain… I’ve sent emissaries around the area ; “No one can find her … ” “I know who will find her,” Eva exclaimed abruptly, with unbridled bitterness . “Who?” asked Gracián, curious and a little distraught. “My husband. ” “Villamor!” pronounced the knight, pausing over that name with the appearance of having found the key to some enigma. And he added with more surprise than indignation or grief: “Who would have believed it!” Then, disguising his astonishment and rage, he murmured with vile jokes: “They won’t go far, and they’ll return too soon. Nothing in the world should surprise us, and you and I can console each other… mutually. ” He approached the woman, finding her beautiful as ever, with that somber and icy air. But she stopped him with a gesture of disgust, ordering him: “Get out right now!” Lali, unable to understand the scene, cried inconsolably: “My Mother!” Clouds as thick as those in the sky gathered inside the palace. Doña Cándida, the girl, and the servants were confused in lamentations and worries, unable to find a reasonable explanation for María’s absence. Gracián stumbled around the house; then he explored the orchards and the woods, and in childish inquiries he searched with his eyes the pale flowerbeds and the edge of the bushes, as if the absent woman were a breeze or a butterfly that could fly among the dead leaves. Everything was absurd confusion and childish delirium in the mind of that man . A frivolous man. He had accepted without the slightest resistance the betrayal of a wife so long a model of virtue, and he didn’t know if he was sorry or flattered by some insane pleasure, thinking about the noise of that adventure, which was going to bring him a challenge, a divorce, a new phase of notorious and popular life. He was already adopting gallant attitudes, and mentally choosing hollow phrases of honor and revenge and severe words of justice. Then he distracted himself by remembering his wife’s singular appearance in recent months… And beware, how enchanting she was!… What sweet sadness… what noble repose… what a look she had!… It was a spell!… How could that Villamor, so quiet and so serious, manage to win her over?… Well, what a poet!… He began to whistle, and suddenly, his wandering thoughts fell savagely on Eva: the very foolish woman, now she wanted to give herself the tone of a proper lady and a dignified woman; Ha, ha, ha!… All that nonsense was in spite of his conduct… Such cruelty couldn’t be used against women!… And poor María was becoming another victim of his disdain; forgotten, jealous, she wanted revenge, she wanted a little consolation. She would surely return, repentant, to implore his forgiveness… And she was so beautiful! The worst part was the scandal of her escape… She would have to fight… And that Villamor must be stubborn and brave, beneath his peaceful timidity!… He worried again about the possible consequences of that event, and he wandered with uncertain steps, distracted by the rain that was slowly falling. The wind danced autumnal dances in clothing of crunching leaves, and raised dust devils on the roads with sinister apparatus; the clouds raced swiftly by as if they were carrying bad news. Gazing at the fury of the landscape, Gracián took refuge in the mansion, engaged in a fleeting meditation on the change of seasons and the fickleness of women… María, Eva, Rosa… what strange surprises they had in store for him, and what sudden and interesting changes their love for him had subjected them to! He wanted to boast about the passionate ravages his person was causing around him, but a shred of ill-concealed rage contracted his features into the habit of pride; and vaguely, with dragging, reptilian undulations, the accusation denoted by the young gentleman’s violent countenance spread among the servants. The name of Villamor was joined “downstairs” in infamous union with that of the lady… Doña Cándida, who heard this rumor, half dead with fright, repeated her fervent “My God!” many times and kissed the child incessantly. The afternoon ended slowly and turbidly, with no trace of María to be seen. Chapter 63. Trembling with humility, the ever-haughty one, her hard heart enamored, completely subservient to her nascent desires, Eva decided to leave for Santa Cruz when the train carrying her husband departed that night passed. The idea of ​​María accompanying Diego in a guilty friendship was very confused in her mind. The fervent words with which he spoke of that woman, elevating her above all passions and all human misery, were settling with medicinal sweetness in Eva’s heart, opened by pain to noble sentiments. What her lips had uttered in an instant of surprise, what Gracián had so easily believed, was not possible, so that all villainy could find shelter in the perfidy of that man. Perhaps María would flee from him, but not with Diego… The wings of doubt relentlessly whipped the healthy thoughts that were born weak and small in the sickly soul of the unfortunate woman. With a courageous spirit, she resolved to face all the risks of an interview with her husband. She would make him stop; she would speak to him on her knees if necessary; she would ask for his forgiveness and charity with all the humiliation he desired… Eva wasn’t the same; she had just been born, or she was awakening from a long sleep, a sleep of lies and selfishness… She wanted to go with Diego, forging a new and pious life; she would fight with him; she would work with him; they would, perhaps, have other children; another land and another sky would be theirs… “Yes… yes… I’ll go right away,” she murmured with a delirious, rapturous, feverish excitement, assailed by uncertainties and hopes. As the afternoon was turning threatening, Eva wanted to leave before nightfall ; she would wait at the station until eight o’clock when the train was due. And she left, hiding behind the neighboring house; she went alone, quickly, wrapped in a coat, armed with a fragile city umbrella; she negotiated the uncertain paths of the valley, erased by disuse during that time of farmworker’s laziness, and soaked with rain. The traveler’s feet sank many times in the mud, impatient at feeling overtaken by the shadow and the storm. The wind increased, and the water condensed into hail; and thunder came down the mountain with a blaze of blinding flashes. Along the way, the trees suffered and tore, and the river’s hoarse voice, raging in its flood, rolled down the valley. Eva found herself rocked by the rigors of the cloud, feeling only one fear: that of getting lost in the fields, ravaged by the storm, and not reaching the station before the train passed. She raised a vehement plea to the horrid blackness of the skies and continued walking fearlessly over the slippery mire of the plain. In the desolation of the plain, the tangle of rain broke with a white line; it was the facade of the Santacruz mill. The pilgrim lady stopped, examining the place, very happy that she hadn’t mistaken her route. On the other side of the riverbed, crossing the short “ansar,” a path more frequented than the grain fields led to the village, and in a few minutes to the station. The lady had walked quickly, despite the harsh north winds; she calculated that it was very early, and that she could perhaps rest until the cloud passed. The factory, which had been shut down for many months, had a pleasant shed; Eva made a good guess and took up shelter, in keeping with the rusticity of that refuge, like a sturdy peasant woman accustomed to such adventures. She felt strong and almost happy; her robust nature, prone to victory, was easily seized by hope. After the spiritual darkness in which she had lived during those days, struggling with her passions and her blindness, she rejoiced in triumphing over herself, in mastering herself with sovereign mastery; it seemed to her that she was establishing her footing on healthy and fertile ground, that her horizon was brightening with the dawn of a new existence. She wasn’t troubled by the gloom of the overcast, nor by the dampness of her clothes, nor by the atrocious threat of the millwaters, boiling in the riverbed; the woman’s physical strength gave a spirited and determined push to the awakening of her conscience and her heart. Hungry for the new emotions she enjoyed in embryo, she already felt the desire to humble herself and suffer in order to later achieve divine rewards; harvests of immortal pleasures… Seated on a bundle of firewood, as if in a soft armchair, and stranger to the wildness of that panicky solitude, she quickly amassed a strange mixture of bouncing and miscellaneous thoughts. She spent at least two minutes meditating on Isabelita’s imminent marriage to Luis Galán… Then she thought about Rafael’s. Regarding that marriage, she remembered when it was said that Ramírez’s wife could be the mother of her fiancé, and María replied, serious and sad: “That’s what Rafael needs; a mother… Mary was right… “A mother!” murmured Eve, her insides shaking with immense, maternal tenderness. “Yes: every woman should be a wife and a mother to her lifelong companion.” She rose, anxious to reach the arms or feet of the man to whom she owed doubly sacred cares… The clouds faintly shone a glimmer of moonlight, and the storm was moving away towards the gorges, a fugitive from the valley. With firmness and haste, Eve reached the mill bridge; she walked a few steps, full of anxiety, and suddenly, her feet slipped on the gnawed and tottering plank, wet with rain. A fateful cry rent the night. Eve’s body was buried in the waters, swept away in foam by the raging current. The moon appeared in the heavens with a dead face, and in the nearby “ansar” the wind stopped mercifully to support the weak wings of a sigh; Deep sigh of a soul that had awakened from the deceptions of life in the eternal truth of death… Chapter 64. To distract himself from the slowness of those strange hours, Gracián went out on the road once more, searching the paths and the turns with stubborn persistence; the night had calmed down and he was moving away from the big house under the skeleton trees, without direction or purpose. By chance, he took the Santacruz path, the most open in the valley; he hadn’t returned along it since his ill-fated date with Rosa, and the memory of the girl, running away with her fiancé at the very moment he deemed her his, caused him a stinging annoyance, a sharp sting that hurt. In vain he tried to convince himself that the girl was besotted with him ; reality made a mocking grimace at him, too visible for the “superman” to avoid it; But he wanted to think of the maiden and weave a thousand different thoughts, to escape the shameful present, which he took as the supreme joke of fate. Neither honor nor dignity rose in his soul before that misfortune that he had taken for granted; but his philandering modesty suffered, as did his recent infatuation with the wife he had abandoned years ago, outraged; his habitual optimism even inspired in him, arrogance, this contempt: “Bah! Women!… there are always plenty of them…” And as if to affirm that phrase, a woman appeared on the path. She arrived alone and gentle. Gracián approached her, a bold twist of his mouth, and said only slowly and with astonishment: “You… María!” Then, his overwhelming curiosity filled her with questions, but she, without slowing down or giving importance to her husband’s uncertainties, explained indifferently: “I went to pray at the hermitage of the Patron Saint, I lingered too long, and when I returned, it was raining heavily. The hermit wouldn’t let me leave; the poor thing gave me the best of her food and kept me there while the storm lasted. She then accompanied me to the plain, and I didn’t allow her to come here because it pained me that she would return to the mountains alone at night. She left the baby she’s raising, asleep in his crib, locked up in the house, in the care of the older girl…; her husband is in Reinosa, sawing wood…” She spoke very calmly, her voice sweet as ever, with supple silvery cadences. A great confusion paralyzed Gracián’s tongue; disguising his villainous suppositions, not knowing what to say, he asked her: “And you weren’t afraid?” “No; I know the plain as well as my own house, and everyone here loves me. Only by the mill did I get a little frightened; the slippery plank trembled , and it seemed as if a woman were crying in the stream. ” “Voices that water feigns. ” “Yes; it is life crying…” Recovering his composure, Gracián said: “Do you know that Villamor left this morning? ” “I know,” replied María very calmly. And from then on, she only opened her lips in brief replies to Gracián’s nervous chatter. They arrived at the house, where the lady was received with unprecedented surprise, like a soul from another world. Her husband, by way of public reparation for the insolent rumors he had provoked, announced her from the doorway, shouting very joyfully: “Here she is, safe and sound; She spent the whole day praying in the hermitage of the Patron Saint. And, compassionately, she murmured in an intimate soliloquy: “Poor thing, she is unhappy!” Lali, tired of crying, had fallen asleep, dressed, on the bed; her mother tried to undress her, and, as she did so, the child opened her eyes, dilated with ardent joy. Caressing the beautiful face that bent over her, she stammered: “Did you get lost?” With a whisper of her voice the lady said: “Lost me?… You watch over me. ” “Did you go very far? ” “Very far, with the Virgin… ” “And who brought you? ” “An angel… a very beautiful angel. ” “What is her name?” Maria, with a kiss on the child’s mouth, said with devotion: “Her name is Lali…” A whistling train attacked the gorges where the storm reverberated with Barbaric wailing of waters and hurricanes; the road, riven by serpents of angry lights, darkened, resembling a scene from the end of the world. Diego Villamor peered into the hostile darkness with the blue abyss of his artist’s eyes, feeling that the sickles were so many monstrous teeth that were devouring him with bites… Behind him lay the valley, plunged in the mist of a sad cloud; And when, upon crossing it, the river raised its roar higher than the train’s whistle, the poet thought he heard in the waters, mingled and confused, the cries of Tristan, the anguish of a fugitive soul, and the broken and sorrowful farewells of a love in torture… Then, the thunder, the Besaya, and the train began to shout, together and madly, the enormous sadness of life, cradling the traveler like a corpse with a funeral march… It was the hour when a clumsy hand was knocking at Maria’s chamber. Gracián knocked softly; then, louder… A sepulchre-like peace answered the calls of desire in the chaste confines of the woman captive and sad in her human prison, queen and mistress in the glorious triumph of the heart. It was a beautiful night when the slave rose up in rebellion, breaking, with all the vigor of her free soul, the ignominious iron of material submission, and raising the canopy of honor over the torment of her sacrificed youth… Mary wept bitterly, undone by pain, on her knees, in her chamber, closed like a tomb… Outside, the gentle dew of the cloud, a trace of the storm, resembled an endless lament of the landscape… You have accompanied an emotional and philosophical journey woven with the delicate prose of Concha Espina. ‘Waking Up to Die’ has left us with indelible images, characters who dwell between reality and dreams, and questions that remain open beyond the last page. It is a work that moves and awakens, that forces us to look within and reconsider the value of the soul and of pain. Thank you for listening to this story on Ahora de Cuentos. If you were moved by this story, we invite you to share it and continue discovering more literary gems with us.