Albar came down into the editorial room and, approaching me, picked up, one by one, the yet fresh sheets. He was satisfied, extremely so.
“Very good,” he said to me, “this will cause a sensation, and will exalt your name yet more. Attack fearlessly.”
At twelve, he called me up to his writing-room, not without my feeling a strange fear, presentiment of danger.
“I want you to take one matter on yourself,” he said, “because this Escorroza is of no use sometimes. Besides, I know you are from the State of X—— and I suppose you know its men, its history, its conditions, better than anyone else on the force.”
“I think so,” I replied, trembling.
“It is so,” affirmed Albar. “Put special care on the articles relative to the matter, to which I refer; because it is of importance to me and I entrust it to you because you are the best man on the staff.”
“You are very kind——”
“Not at all; it is mere justice——”
“And the matter——”
“In a moment, in a moment; you shall hear.”
The interest of the Director must indeed be great, when he was so friendly and courteous with me. His dark skin wrinkled more violently and a forced smile incessantly contracted his lips, separating yet more widely from each other, the two halves of his typically Indian moustache.
We heard, sounding in the patio, the footsteps of several persons. My suspicions had grown with Albar’s words, my fears increased, and that noise caused me such disturbance that I was forced to rise from the sofa to conceal it.
In spite of my efforts to control myself, I felt that I turned pale, when Don Mateo entered the room, accompanied by Bueso and Escorroza. Instinctively, I stepped back a step or two and appeared to occupy myself with something lying on the table.
Don Mateo awkwardly saluted Albar, with scant courtesy, and passed with him and Bueso into an adjoining room. As he passed near me, I noticed that the General looked at me and hesitated a moment as if he wished to stop. Albar, who went last, indicated to Escorroza, by a sign, that he might retire, and when he, in turn, repeated the signal to me, Albar said, shortly, “Wait here; I will call you.”
Escorroza withdrew, casting at me a glance of terrible hatred, which in some degree compensated me for my anxieties, by the vain satisfaction it caused me; but, hearing the first phrases exchanged between the three men, I understood at once that Pepe was right in telling me that I had lost my cause. I should have fled from the place, on feeling myself so completely routed, at comprehending the event and its significance to me; but, I know not what painful desire to know the end, held me, as if bound, to the chair in which I had seated myself near the door.
At first Don Mateo himself desired to present the matter; but his rustic awkwardness, little suited to the presentation of so difficult a matter, overcamehim, and it was necessary that Bueso should take up the conversation for him.
For some minutes his tranquil, unvarying, and unemotional voice was heard; for him, no matter was difficult of presentation, no circumlocutions were necessary to express the most delicate affairs. The General had seen, with surprise, a paragraph inEl Cuarto Poderwhich demanded evidence proving whatEl Labarohad stated concerning him; that his surprise was the greater from the fact that he had before considered Albar as his friend, although they had had merely business relations through correspondence. All that was printed inEl Labaro, and much more, was true, as could be testified by thousands of persons, who knew the General as their own hands. It could be proved (indeed it could!) with documents from State and Federal governments; with periodicals of different epochs which he had preserved; with this and with that——
But, why? Albar could not doubt the word of a gentleman. The important matter now is that the eminent Director should recognize in the General a good friend, and in place of raising doubts in regard to his glorious past, should strive, as a good friend, to make it well known, appreciated, and recompensed by the applause to which a man so distinguished as the General is entitled. While he understood this involved considerable expense, that was no obstacle.
At this critical point Albar interrupted Bueso with a grunt, which said neither yes nor no. It is not necessary to mention that; no, sir. The unlucky paragraph in question had crept into the paper, without the Director’s knowledge; but, as soon as he discovered it, he determined to apply the remedy; which would consist in publishing a complete biography of the General, stating that it had been written after inspection of convincing and authentic documents; and, even, that the portrait of the General should be printed in the paper, if he would have the kindness to furnish a photograph.
Clouds of blood, blinding me, passed before my eyes; my whole body trembled convulsively; with my contracted fingers I clutched the arms of the chair and dug my nails into the velvet upholstery. In the fury of my rage and anger, I scarcely heard some words about thirty subscriptions, which Don Mateo would send the following day, to be mailed to his friends in the State. Bueso asserted that this was important for the General, because the General was a man with a great political future, that he ought, therefore, to act promptly and vigorously, to augment his prestige and propagate his renown everywhere.
To me, nailed to my chair, that scene appeared for some minutes the horrible illusion of a cruel nightmare. I was perspiring and choked.
The door suddenly opened and the three actorsin the comedy entered the writing-room. Trying to compose myself, and rising, I heard Albar, who, pointing at me, said:
“Here is the best pen on my staff; this young man will be charged with writing all relative to your life.”
Don Mateo and I faced each other, exchanging a glance of profound hatred; hatred, kneaded with the passion of purest love, as mud is kneaded with water from the skies.
I knew not what to say, much as I desired to speak, but Don Mateo, incapable of controlling himself, said insultingly:
“This young man going to write? And what doesheknow?”
And, filled with rage, he turned his back on me, pretending to despise me.
“I know more than will suit you, for writing your biography,” I replied, “but I warn Señor Albar that my pen shall never be employed in the service of a man like you.”
Don Mateo made a motion as if he would throw himself upon me, and I made one as if seizing a bust of bronze to hurl at him.
Albar leaped between us.
“What is this?” he cried, in terror.
“You are a miserable puppet,” thundered Don Mateo, shaking his fists at me above Albar’s head. “When I meet you in the street I will pull your ears.”
“We shall see,” I replied.
“Wretched, insignificant boy.”
“Stop! enough of this,” cried Albar, with all the force of his lungs. “What is the matter?”
“Señor Albar,” I said, “I heard all that was said. I can write nothing about this man; not a word.”
“Nor will I permit that he shall write,” bellowed Don Mateo, choked with rage; “I will not consent to it.”
“Then he shall not write; enough said,” replied Albar.
Bueso stood before me undisturbed; with his hands in his pockets he looked me over with an air of curiosity.
“That means that Javier will write it,” he said completing Don Pablo’s thought.
Escorroza, at the sound of voices, had come upstairs and, at this moment, arrived.
“Very well,” said the Director, “let it be so. As Quiñones refuses and the General does not consent, Escorroza will be charged with writing all relative to——”
“To the Señor General? With the greatest pleasure,” broke in Don Javier.
“And he will do it much better,” said Bueso.
Don Mateo looked at me with an air of triumph and derision.
“The Señor Director may order what seems best to him,” I said, restraining myself with difficulty, “but I ought to inform him that I withdraw from the staff, the moment when the paper publishes the least eulogy of this man.”
And without saluting, with clenched fists and gritted teeth, I left the room. While in the corridor I heard the voices of Cabezudo, Bueso, and Escorroza, who cried at once:
“Canasto! this puppet——”
“Talked to you, in that manner!”
“How can you permit——”
The noise of the loud voices reached the editorial room. Pepe and Carrasco asked me what had happened, but I simply shrugged my shoulders and the two became discreetly silent.
The noise continued for half an hour. At the end of that time the footsteps of the three men were heard in thepatio, and their yet angry voices. As they passed the doorway I heard them saying:
“Astonishing how much Don Pablo thinks this boy to be!”
“Canasto! recanasto! this I will never forgive.”
Elevated pride, satisfied hatred, gratified and exalted vanity, almost choked me and I had to rise for breath. Pepe and Sabas looked at me astonished, and I, my face twitching and working with a nervous smile, threw my pen upon the table.
“This pen is worth more than most persons imagine.”
Rafael Delgado was born in Cordoba, State of Vera Cruz, August 20, 1853, of a highly honorable and respected family. His father was for many years the Jefe politico of Cordoba, but at the close of his service retired to Orizaba. This removal was made when Rafael was but two months old, and it was in Orizaba that he was reared and has spent most of his life. After receiving his earlier instruction in theColegio de Nuestra Senora de Guadalupe, he was sent, in1865, to the City of Mexico, where, however, on account of the turbulence of that time, he spent but one year. On account of the disturbances due to civil war his father lost the greater part of his fortune. In May, 1868, Rafael entered theColegio Nacional de Orizaba, then just organized, where he completed his studies. From 1875 on, for a space of eighteen years, he was teacher of geography and history in that institution. The salary was so small and irregular that, at times, he was compelled to give elementary instruction in other schools in order to meet expenses. In his own personal studies, outside of his professional work, he was especially interested in the drama, and he carefully read and studied the Greek, Latin, French and Italian dramatists, as well as the Spanish. In 1878 he wrote two dramas,La caja de dulces(The Box of Sweets), prose in three acts, andUna taza de te(A Cup of Tea) in verse in a single act. These were staged and met a good reception. At a banquet tendered to the author after the first rendering ofLa caja de dulces, his friends presented him a silver crown and a gold pen. In 1879, Rafael Delgado published a translation of Octave Feuillet’sA Case of Conscienceand later an original monologue—Antes de la boda(Before the Wedding).
Between the ages of sixteen and thirty years, Delgado wrote much lyric poetry. Francisco Sosa compares his work in this field with that of Pesado,and adds: “Greater commendation cannot be given.” From the time when he was a student in theColegio Nacionalat Orizaba, Delgado always received the helpful encouragement of his old teacher, the head of that school, Silvestre Moreno Cora. It was due to this truly great man’s efforts that theSociedad Sánchez Oropezawas founded in Orizaba, in the literary section of which Rafael Delgado was active. At this society he gave a series of brilliantConversacionesand to its Bulletin he contributed both prose and verse. He has writtenCuentos(Tales) of excellence, showing the influence of Daudet. More important, however, than his lyric poems and his stories, are Delgado’s novels, three in number,La Calandria,Angelina,Los parientes ricos(Rich Relations). In fiction he is a realist. He prefers to deal with the common people; he is ever a poet in form and spirit; his satire is never bitter; beauty in nature ever appeals strongly to him. Without being a servile imitator, he has been influenced by Daudet and the Goncourts. His plots are simple—almost nothing. In regard to this, he himself, in speaking ofLos parientes ricos, says: “Plot does not enter much into my plan. It is true that it gives interest to a novel, but it usually distracts the mind from the truth. For me the novel is history, and thus does not always have the machinery and arrangement of the spectacular drama. In my judgment it ought to be the artistic copy of the truth; somewhat, that is, as history, a fine art. I have desired thatLos parientes ricosshould be something of that sort; an exact page from Mexican life.”
InCalandria, the story opens with the death of Guadalupe, an abandoned woman, poor and consumptive. The man of wealth, who betrayed her, has a lovely home and a beautiful daughter. Carmen, “the Calandria,” as she is nicknamed by those about her on account of her singing, the illegitimate daughter of Don Eduardo by Guadalupe, is left in poverty. An appeal, made in her behalf, by a priest to Don Eduardo fails to secure her full recognition and reception into his home, but leads to his arranging for her care in the tenement where she lives and where Guadalupe died. An old woman, Doña Pancha, who had been kind to her mother, receives the orphan into her home. Her son, Gabriel, an excellent young man, a cabinet-maker by trade, loves her, and she reciprocates his love. A neighbor in the tenement, Magdalena, exerts an unhappy influence upon Carmen, leading to estrangement between her and Doña Pancha. Magdalena encourages her to receive the attentions of a worthless and vicious, wealthy youth named Rosas. At a dance given in Magdalena’s room, Rosas is attentive, and Carmen, flattered and dazzled, is guilty of some indiscretions. This leads to a rupture between her and Gabriel. To escape the persecutions of Rosas, Carmen goes with the friendly priest to a retreat at some littledistance. The troubles between the lovers approach adjustment, but at the critical moment Rosas appears upon the scene, and the girl, though she rejects him, is compromised. Gabriel stifles his love and actually casts her off. In despair, the girl yields to the appeals of Rosas, who promises marriage. He is false, and soon tiring, abandons her. From then her downward career is rapid and soon ends in suicide.
And she sighed and spent long hours in gazing at the landscape; attentive to the rustling of the trees, to the flitting to and fro of the butterflies, to the echoes of the valley, which repeated, sonorously, the regular stroke of the woodman’s axe, to the rushing of the neighboring stream, to the cooing of the turtle-dove living in the neighboring cottonwood.
I need to be loved and Gabriel has despised me. I need to be happy and cannot because Gabriel, my Gabriel, is offended. He has repulsed me, he has refused my caresses, he has not cared for my kisses. I desire to be happy as this sparrow, graceful and coquettish, which nests in this orange tree. How she chirps and flutters her wings when she sees her mate coming. I cannot forget what took place that night. Never did I love him more, never! I was going to confess all to him, repentant, resolved to end completely with Alberto, to say to Gabriel: “I did this; pardon me! Are you noble, generous, do you love me? Pardon me! I do not covet riches, nor conveniences, nor elegance. Are you poor? Poor, I love you. Are you of humble birth? So, I love you! Pardon me, Gabriel! See how I adore you! I have erred—I have offended you—I forgot that my heart was yours. Take pity on this poor orphan, who has no one to counsel her. Pardon me! You are good, very good, are you not? Forget all, forget it, Gabriel. See, I am worthy of you. I do not love this man; I do not love him. I told him I loved him because I did not know what to do. I let him give me a kiss because I could not prevent it. Forgive me! And he appears to be of iron. He showed himself haughty, proud, and cruel as a tiger. But, he was right; he loved me, and I had offended him. One kiss? Yes—and what is a kiss? Air, nothing! I wanted to calm his annoyance, sweetly, with my caresses, and I could not. Weeping, I begged him to pardon me, and he refused. I said to him—resolved to all—what more could I do?—I said to him, here you have me—I am yours—do with me what you will! And, he remained mute, reserved, did not look at me. He did not see me; he did not speak to me, but I read distrust, contempt, restrained rage, in his face. He almost insulted me. If he had not loved me so much, I believe hewould have killed me! Again I tried to conquer him with my caresses. I wished to give him a kiss—and he repulsed me! Ah, Gabriel! How much you deceive yourself! How self-satisfied you are! You are poor, of humble birth, an artisan—and you have the pride of a king! Thus I love you, thus I have loved you. Haughty, proud, indomitable, thus I would wish you for my love! I would have softened your character; I would have dominated your pride; I would have conquered you with my kisses. You love me, but my tears have not moved you! You are strong and boast of your strength, for which I adore you! You are generous, and yet you do not know how to pardon a weak woman! And we would have been happy. One word from you and nothing more! If it were still possible—and—why not?”
* * * *
But, when he heard from the mouth of Angelito that Carmen had responded to the gallantries of Rosas, when the boy described the scene which he had witnessed, and in which, yielding to the desires of Alberto, the orphan had permitted herself to be kissed, the very heavens seemed to fall; he raged at seeing his love mocked and dragged in the mud, and promptly told Doña Pancha all he had learned. The old woman strove to calm him; made just remarks about Carmen’s origin, telling him that she might have inherited the tendency to evil from her mother and the desire for luxury,which had beenherperdition; she begged him to cut completely loose from the orphan, and, fearful that he might, after the first impression caused by what Angelito described had passed, involve himself in humiliating love entanglements, appealed to her son’s generous sentiments, not to again think of the girl. And she succeeded.
Gabriel armed himself with courage and fulfilled his promise. Hard, most cruel, was the interview; his heart said:pardon her. Offended dignity cried:despise her. Love repeated:she loves you; is repentant, have pity on her; see how you are trifling with your dearest illusions, with all your hopes; but in his ears resounded his mother’s voice, tender, trembling with sympathy, supplicating, sad,Gabriel, my boy, if you love me, if you wish to repay me for all my cares, if you are a good son, forget her!He loved her and he ought not to love her. He wanted to despise her, to offend her, to outrage her, but he could not. He loved her so much! Wounded self-esteem said with stern and imperious accent:leave her.
When the cabinetmaker left his home that night, wishing to escape from his grief, almost repenting what he had done, wandering aimlessly, he journeyed through street after street, without note of distance. The main street of the city, broad and endless, lay before him, with its crooked line of lamps on either side, obscure and dismal in the distance. So the future looks to us, when we arevictims of some unhappy disappointment, which shakes the soul as a cataclysm,—with not a light of counsel, not a ray of hope on the horizon.
He arrived at the end of the city and on seeing the broad cart-road that began there, passed a bridge, at the foot of a historic hill; he felt tempted to undertake an endless journey to distant lands, where no one knew him; to flee from Pluviosilla, that city fatal to his happiness, forever. But, he thought—my mother?
The river flowed serene, silent. The cabinet-maker, with his elbow on the hand-rail of the bridge, contemplated the black current of the river; the great plain which lost itself in the frightful shadow of the open country. A sentiment of gentle melancholy, consoling and soothing, came over his soul. Meantime, the more he dwelt on his misfortune, the more desolate appeared his life’s horizon, and something akin to that sad homesickness, which he experienced in his soul, when the maiden first said to him,I love you, passed like a refreshing wave through his soul. The abyss at his feet attracted him, called him. What did Gabriel think in those moments? Who can know? “No!” he murmured, turning and taking his way to the city.
The next day, he told Doña Pancha in a few words what had happened and then said no more of the matter. In vain Tacho, Solis, and López questioned him, on various occasions. He did notagain mention Carmen. He learned that she had left Pluviosilla, but made no effort to learn where she had gone; and, not because he had forgotten her, but because he had resolved never to speak of her again. The journeyman and Doña Pancha repeated to him the conversation of Alberto and his friends, what they said of the planned elopement, but he scarcely deigned to listen, and answered with a scornful and profoundly sad smile.
When Angelito found him and told him that Carmen was at Xochiapan, repeating all that she had said, he hung his head as if he sought his answer on the ground, and exclaimed:
“Say you have not seen me. No—tell her that I beg she will not think of me again.”
And he turned away, disdainful and sad.
* * * *
The young man placed himself in a good position, resolved to hear the mass with the utmost devotion; but he could not do it. There, near by, was Carmen; there was the woman for whom he would have given all that he had, even to his life. He did not wish to see her, and yet did nothing else. He turned his face toward the altar, and without knowing how, when he least expected it, found his eyes fixed upon the maiden, whose graceful head, covered with a rebozo, did not remain still an instant, turning to all sides, in search of him. Gabriel remained concealed behind the statue ofSan Ysidro which, placed on a table, surrounded by candles and great sprays of paper roses, served him as a screen.
Why had he come? Was he determined to reunite the interrupted loves? Would he yield to Carmen’s wishes? He had come to look at her, not desiring to see her; he had come to Xochiapan dragged by an irresistible power, but he would not yield. How could he blot out of his memory that kiss, that thundered kiss, which he had not heard but, which, nevertheless resounded for him like an injury, like an insulting word which demands blood? And yet he had seen her; there she was, near him, never so beautiful.
At the close of the service, at theite misa est, Gabriel left promptly, so that when the faithful flocked out to the market-place, he was mounting his horse. On crossing theplaza, he met somerancheros, his friends, who invited him to drink a cup and then to eat at the ranch, which was not far distant. He accepted; it was necessary to distract himself. To leave theplaza, on the way to the house of his friends, it was necessary to pass along one side of the church; almost between the lines of vendors.
The Cura, Doña Mercedes, Angelito and Carmen were in the graveyard. Gabriel did not wish nor dare to greet his love; he turned his face away, but could see and feel the gaze of those darkeyes fixed upon him, a gaze profoundly sad which pierced his heart.
After dinner he returned to the town to take the road to Pluviosilla. His friends proposed to accompany him, but he refused their offer. He wished to be alone, alone, to meditate upon the thought which for hours had pursued him.
She loves me—he was thinking as he entered the town.—She loves me! Poor child! I have been cruel to her.—I ought to forgive her.—Why not? I will be generous. I will forgive all.
The energetic resolutions of the young man became a sentiment of tender compassion. His dignity and pride, of which he gave such grand examples a month before, yielded now to the impulses of his heart. He could resist no longer. Carmen triumphed; love triumphed.
I will speak with her; yes, I will speak with her; I will tell her that I love her with all my soul; that I cannot forget her; that I cannot live without her! I will tell her that I pardon; that we shall again be happy. Poor child! She is pale, ill——. I do not wish to increase her unhappiness.
At the end of the street, through which at the moment he was passing, the cabinet-maker saw two men on horseback, one on an English, the other on a Mexican saddle. Apparently, people of Pluviosilla.
The riders stopped a square away from the Curacy. The one dressed incharro, dismounted and cautiously advanced along the hedge. A terrible suspicion flashed through the young man’s mind. He quickly recognized the cautious individual. While this person was going along on tiptoe, as if awaiting a signal to approach, Gabriel took the lane to the right, then turned to the left and passed slowly in front of the window of the Curacy, at the moment when Rosas was speaking with Carmen at the grating.
His first idea was to kill his rival like a dog and then the infamous woman who was thus deceiving him—but—he was unarmed. He cursed his bad luck, hesitated a moment, between remaining and going, and, at last, whipping up his horse, went almost at a gallop, by the Pluviosilla road.
Federico Gamboa was born in the City of Mexico, December 22, 1864. After his elementary studies he attended theEscuela Nacional Preparatoria(National Preparatory School), for five years, and theEscuela de Jurisprudencia(Law School) for three more. After an examination, he entered the Mexican Diplomatic Corps, October 9, 1888, and was sent to Guatemala in the capacity of Second Secretary of the Mexican Legation in Central America. In 1890, he was appointed First Secretary of the Mexican Legation to Argentinaand Brazil. In 1896, he returned to Mexico, where he remained until the end of 1898, as Chief of the Division of Chancery of the Department of Foreign Affairs. He was then sent again to Guatemala, asCharge-d’affaires. In December, 1902, he was appointed Secretary of the Mexican Embassy at Washington, which position he now holds.
Through the year 1898, Señor Gamboa was Lecturer on the History of Geographical Discovery in theEscuela Nacional Preparatoria. From 1886 to 1888, inclusive, he was engaged in newspaper work in the City of Mexico. In June, 1888, he presented on the Mexican stage a Spanish translation of the Parisian operetta,Mam’selle Nitouche, under the title,La Señorita Inocencia(Miss Innocence). In 1889, he presented a translationLa Moral Electrica(Electric morality) of a French vaudeville. Besides these translations, Señor Gamboa has produced original dramatic compositions—La Ultima Campaña(The Last Campaign), a three act drama, andDivertirse(To amuse oneself), a monologue; these appeared in 1894. Señor Gamboa has written several books.Del Natural—Esbozos Contemporáneos(Contemporary Sketches: from nature) was published when he was first in Guatemala and has gone through three editions.Apariencias(Appearances), a novel, was published while he was at Buenos Ayres, in 1892.Impresiones y Recuerdos(Impressions andRecollections) appeared in 1894. Three novels, which have been well received areSuprema Ley(The Supreme Law), 1895,Metamorfosis(Metamorphosis), 1899, andSanta, 1900. At present Señor Gamboa is writing a new novelReconquista(Reconquest), and his biographicalMi Diario(My Journal), the latter in three volumes.
As may be seen from this brief sketch Señor Gamboa has been a considerable traveler. He has made two European journeys, has twice visited Africa, and has traveled over America from Canada to Argentina. He lived in New York in 1880 and 1881 and holds a city schools certificate for elementary teaching. He was elected a Corresponding Member of the Royal Spanish Academy in 1889, an officer of the French Academy in 1900, and a Knight Commander of Carlos III in 1901.
InSuprema Leywe have a tale of common life. Julio Ortegal is a poor court clerk, of good ideals, decent, married, and the father of six children. His wife Carmen is hard-working, a good wife and a devoted mother. Clothilde, well-born and well-bred is a native of Mazatlan, where she becomes infatuated with a young man named Alberto; they live together and, on the discovery of dishonest dealings on his part, flee to the interior and to the City of Mexico, where he suicides. Clothilde, suspected of his murder, is thrown into jail; there she meets Julio, in the discharge ofhis duties, whose kindness awakens her gratitude. After her acquittal, her father, who does not wish her return to Mazatlan, arranges, through Julio, for her support in Mexico. She goes first to Julio’s home and, later, to a hired house. Julio’s love for her is kindled; it grows during the time she lives in his house and is the real cause of her removal. He finally abandons wife and children although he still turns over his regular earnings at court to their support, working nights at a theatre for his own necessities. Meantime, consumption, from which he has long suffered, continues its ravages. Clothilde’s parents, who can no longer endure her absence, finally send her aunt to bear their pardon and implore her return. Clothilde, repentant, casts off Julio and returns to Mazatlan. He is furious, crushed; but repentant he determines to rejoin his abandoned wife and family; his old and normal love revives, but in that moment, he dies.
Julito no longer resisted and he also lay down to sleep; he would make his aunt’s acquaintance in the morning. Carmen, sitting by the spread table, solitary and silent, after the fatiguing day, could not sleep.
She was thinking——.
Through her thoughts passed vague fears ofcoming misfortunes and dangers; of a radical change in her existence. Her poor brain, of a vulgar and unintellectual woman, performed prodigies in analyzing the unfounded presentiments; what did she fear? On what did she base these fears? While she attempted to define them they weakened, though they still persisted. She reviewed her whole life of hard struggle and scanty rewards; she examined her conduct as an honorable wife and a decent mother of a family, and neither the one nor the other, justified her fear. This stranger woman, this stranger who was about to come; would she rob her of something? Of what? Her children? Surely, no. Of her husband, perhaps? Her presentiment was founded in this doubt; yes, it was only of her husband that she could rob her. And her humble idyl of love, which she had cherished among the ancient things of her memory, as she cherished in her clothes-press some few artificial flowers, shriveled and yellowed, from her bridal crown, her idyl revived, shriveled and yellowed also, but demanding an absolute fidelity in Julio; not equal to her own; no, Julio’s fidelity had to be different, but it must be; but, however much Carmen assured herself, with the mute assurances of her will, that Julio was faithful, she continued to be possessed by the idea that he would sometime prove unfaithful, just because of the long period of their marriage, that cruel irony of the years which respect nothing,neither a loving marriage nor the hearth which belonged to us in infancy; the marital affection is choked by the ivy of disgust and the bind-weed of custom; the home disappears covered by the weeds, which grow and grow until they overtop the very pinnacle of the façade. Carmen then appreciated some things before not understood; all the little repugnances and the shrinking apart of two bodies, which had long lived in contact and no longer have surprises to exchange, no new sensations to offer, no curves that are not known, no kisses that are unlike those other kisses, those of sweethearts and the newly-wed, then novel and celestial, afterward repeated without enthusiasm as a faint memory of those gone never to return. Believing that Julio was yet in word and deed her own, she resolved to carry on a slow reconquest, displaying the charms of a chaste coquetry; her instincts of a woman, assuring her that this was the infallible mode of salvation.
But on considering her attractions marred by child-bearing; her features sharpened by vicissitude; her hands, the innocent pride of her girlhood, deformed by cooking and washing; she felt two tears burn her eyeballs and, unable to gain in a contest of graces and attractions, her face fell upon the table, supported by her arms, in silent grief for her lost youth and her perished beauty.
* * * *
At two o’clock in the morning there was aknocking at the gate and then at her door. It was they, Clothilde and Julio.
“Carmen, the Señora Granada.”
They embraced, without speaking; Clothilde, because gratitude sealed her lips; Carmen, because she could not.
The supper was disagreeable; the dishes were cold, the servant sleepy, those at the table watching one another.
When, in the silence of the night and of the sleeping house, Julio realized the magnitude of what he had done, he read, yes, he read in the darkness of the room, the fatal and human biblical sentence, and began to understand its meaning:
“The woman shall draw thee, where she will, with only a hair of her head.”
Clothilde’s first impulse was to conceal herself; to tell her servant that she was not accustomed to receive evening visits; but, besides the fact that Julio had certainly already seen her, the truth is that she felt pleasure, a sort of consolation and discreet satisfaction. Thank God the test was about to commence; she was about to prove to herself the strength of her resolution.
Julio, now nearer, saluted, lifting his hat; Clothilde answered with a wave of the hand, in all confidence, as two friends ought to salute. She waited for him smilingly, without changing herplace or posture, determined not only to show a lack of love but even of undue friendliness. Julio, paler than usual, crossed the threshold.
“Bravo, Señor Ortegal, this is friendly; come in and I will give you a cup of coffee.”
Julio gave her his hand with extraordinary emotion and looked searchingly into her eyes as if to read her thoughts. Clothilde, scenting danger, led the way to the dining-room. How were they all at home? Carmen and the children? Do they miss her a little?
Julio promptly answered that all were well, all well but himself, and that is her fault, Clothilde’s.
“My fault?”
“Yes, your fault. And I ought to have spoken with you alone, long ago.” And, saying this he covered his face with his hands.
The coffee-pot boiled noisily; the servant placed two cups upon the table and Clothilde, not entirely prepared, because she had not counted upon so abrupt an attack, betook herself to her armory of prayers. She served the coffee with a trembling hand, putting in two lumps of sugar, which she remembered Ortegal always took.
“Will you tell me the truth?” he burst out.
“Certainly.”
Ortegal collected all his nervous energy and without taking his hands from his face, as if he did not desire to look at Clothilde, and poured out his words in a torrent:
“Clothilde, I am a wretch to offend you; to dare to speak to you as I do, but I can endure it no longer; I adore you, Clothilde, I adore you and you know it! You have known it—— Pardon me, I beg you; and love me just a little—nothing more,” he added, sobbing, “have pity on my life and soul. Do you love me sometimes?”
“No,” replied Clothilde, closing her eyes, with a transport of cruelty and the consciousness that she caused immense suffering, and terrified at having caused such a passion. “I can never love you because I idolize and will ever idolize the memory of Alberto.”
When he heard the sentence, Julio bowed his head upon his arm as it rested on the table; pushed back the coffee without tasting it and rose.
“You forgive me?”
“Yes,” said Clothilde, “and I pray God to cure you.”
“Will you not come to my house? Will I not see you again?” exclaimed Julio with a sweeping gesture of his arm that indicated that his suffering was incurable.
“Yes, yes, but the least possible.”
The two felt that the interview was ended; and Julio believed himself finally cast off. As in all critical situations, there was a tragic silence; Clothilde looked at the floor; Julio gazed at her with the yearning love, with which the dying look for the last time upon the familiar objects and thedear faces, never so beautiful as in that awful moment. Thus he gazed, long, long, taking her hand and kissing it with the respect of a priest for a holy thing. Then he passed the wicket of the little garden, and departed without once turning his head, staggering like a drunken man; he was lost on the broad pavement, his worn garments of the poor office hack, hanging in the sunlight in such folds as to throw into relief the narrow shoulders of the consumptive.
I am dismissed, he thought, and I am glad that it was with a “no.” What folly to think that a woman like Clothilde could ever care for a man like me! What can I offer her?—A worthless trifle, an illegal love, a legitimate wife, children, poverties! How could I pay her house rent, the most necessary expenses, the most trifling luxuries? Better, much better, that they despise me, the more I will occupy myself with my wife and my children, what is earned they will have; I will return to the path of rectitude, to my old companion; I will cure myself of this attack of love. And walking, walking, he reached the Alameda, seated himself in the Glorieta of San Diego, on a deserted bench, in front of two students, who were reading aloud.
“But what has happened to you, Señorita?” and the lie presenting itself for sole response; thelie which augments the crime and the risks of what is foreseen. Her situation was not new; the eternal sufferings, one day a little worse than another. Then, in the little alcove, where she had thought herself strong enough to resist, the encounter with Alberto’s portrait, a life-size bust photograph, in a plain frame, with an oil lamp and two bunches of violets on the bureau, upon which it stood. It was there waiting for her, as it waited for her every night, to watch her undressing as he had in life, seated on the edge of the bed or on a low chair, mute with idolatrous admiration, until she had completed her preparations, and, coquettish and submissive, came to him, who, with open arms and waiting lips embraced her closely, closely, saying, between kisses, “How much I love you.”
Clothilde remained leaning against the bureau, unable to withdraw her gaze from the portrait or her thought from what had just happened. Why had she yielded? Why had she not screamed, or drawn the cord of the coach, or called the passersby or the police? Scarcely a year a widow, because shewasa widow although the marriage ceremony had not been performed, and she had already forgotten her vows and promises, and had already enshrined within her heart another man, who was not the dead, her dead, her poor dear dead, lying yonder in his grave between two strangers, without protest or opposition to infidelity and perjury; enclosed in the narrow confines of the grave, withoutlight, nor air, nor love, nor life; lost among so many tombs, among so many faded flowers, among so many lies written in marbles and bronzes. She could redeem her fault with nothing, not only was she not content to dwell at the graveside, but she had given herself to another and still dared to present herself before his portrait, defying its wrath. Trembling with terror she recalled a mutual oath sworn in those happy times, when in their flight across half the Republic, they enjoyed a relative calm in hotels and wayside inns. The sight of a country graveyard, peculiarly situated, had saddened them; with hands clasped, they were walking after supper before the inn, when Alberto, affected by one of those presentiments which so often appear in the midst of joy, as if to remind us that no happiness is lasting, clasped her to his bosom, and stroking her hair, had asked her: “What would you do, if I should die?”
She had answered him with tears, shuddering; had stopped his mouth with her hand; had promised him, sincerely, with all her loving heart and her voice broken with sobs, that she would die also, but Alberto had insisted, who can say whether already possessed with his coming suicide, had begged her to make him an answer.
“Come tell me what you will do, since that will not cause it to happen, and I will tell you what I would do if you should prove false.”
“Why do you say such things? Why do youinvoke death?” And Alberto, with solemn face had replied, what she had never since forgotten. “Because disillusionment and death are the two irreconcilable enemies of life and one ought ever to reckon with them.”
As Clothilde remained silent, Alberto, after drying her eyes, which were immediately again filled with tears, demanded a solemn oath from her, not of the many with which sweethearts constantly regale each other, but of those which fix themselves forever, which impress us by their very solemnity; would she swear it by her mother? Would she fulfil it whatever happens? Truly—? If—?
“Then swear to me, that only in honest wedlock will you ever belong to another man!”
And Clothilde swore; and now, before that portrait and that scene as it rose in her memory, she felt herself criminal, very criminal, lost, and unhappy. She did not leave the bureau; she could see the road, obscure in the night; she could see the little inn; some muleteers, the tavernkeeper, who spoke of robbers, ghosts, crops, and horses; she could see Alberto and now she dared not raise her eyes to look at his face in the plain frame. Turning her back to it, she lay down in the bed, buried her head among the pillows, and closed her eyes; but instead of conciliating sleep, there presented themselves before her, pictures of her brief domestic life with Alberto; and, worst of all, amid these pictures, the figure of Julio, of Julio supplicatingand ill, of Julio wearied and weighed down with cares, was not hateful to her.
“Here is the fortnight’s pay, do me the favor of handling it.”
In the handling the cashier came out bankrupt, but could never make up her mind to tell Julio that to meet necessities she was forced to take in sewing, at night, while others slept and her loneliness was emphasized. The little Julio kept her company, studying his lessons or reading aloud one of those continued stories, which delight women and children by the complexity of their plot and by the happy exit, which ever favors virtue. Sometimes, the romantic history contrasted with her own, so mean and prosaic, and a tear or two, unnoticed by the reader absorbed in the story, fell upon the white stuff of the sewing and expanded in it as in a proper handkerchief. But if Julito learned of the tears, he stopped his reading and kneeling before his mother dried them, more by the loving words with which he overwhelmed her, than with his coarse schoolboy’s kerchief.
“Come, foolish mama; why are you crying? Don’t you know it isn’t true? The whole book is made up.”
He never added that he knew well that she was not weeping for the characters of the story, but for the neglect of her husband; but, as her husbandwas also his father, he employed this pretext in order not to condemn Julio, openly and aloud, to Carmen. Thus, there happened, what was to be expected, that between Carmen and Julito there grew up love in one of its sublimest forms, the love of mother and son, with open caresses, but caresses the most pure, with no touch of sin; and ideal love which illumines our spirit and assures us that we would have loved our mother so, had we not lost her too early.
Julito’s fifteen years spent in tenements and public schools, had acquired for him an undesirable stock of had habits, of which perhaps the least was smoking, inveterate, demanding his withdrawal at the end of each chapter, to the corridor to smoke a cigarette in the open air. One night Carmen, who knew not how to show him the extreme affection, which by his treatment of her he had gained, said, unexpectedly: “If you wish to smoke, you may do it before me.” And the boy, who, on the streets, at school, and in the neighborhood, was a positive terror, could not smoke near Carmen, look you! He could not; he loved her too much to be willing to puff smoke from mouth and nostrils in her presence. He did not smoke secretly, but as before, in the corridor, after each chapter.
How sadly beautiful was the sight of these two in the dismantled dining room of their miserable tenement! The immense house, the squalid quarter, so noisy and turbulent during the day, presented the silence of the tomb in the late hours of the night. Carmen and Julito, separated by a corner of the table with its tattered cover of oil-cloth, and a tallow dip, which needed snuffing every little while; Julito greatly interested in his reading and Carmen, sewing at her fastest, contemplating, with infinite love the black and curly head of her son, when she stopped a moment to thread her needle. Now and again, the coughing of the other children came to them from the adjoining room, and Julito exclaimed: “Listen to my brothers.”
“Yes, I hear them; poor little things.”