Читать книгу The Marquis of Peñalta (Marta y María) - Armando Palacio Valdés - Страница 6

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DAY had hardly dawned, when our maiden arose suddenly from the floor. She stood motionless a moment with ear attent, but she did not catch the sound of the bells of San Felipe, which she thought she had heard in her dreams. She was mistaken; it was not yet six o'clock. She lighted her lamp, and going to her boudoir prostrated herself in humiliation before the image of Jesus and began to pray. As she wore nothing but a thin cambric night-dress, she naturally felt the cold through it, and began to shiver, but she would not yield, and she kept on with her prayers until her teeth chattered. Only then she decided to quit the position which she had taken and dress herself. Thereupon, she opened the four windows of her boudoir and blew out the lamp.

A peevish light, cold and chill, made its way into the Señorita de Elorza's room, giving the articles of furniture a lugubrious aspect quite different from what they usually bore. The morning chill also penetrated them as well as their mistress, and they stood silent and melancholy, doubtless hoping for the rays of the sun to show forth their beauty and splendor. Only in one spot or another, as the light fell on the varnish, there was a pale reflection which looked like the glassy, filmy eye of a dying person. The room was situated in a sort of square turret which was built in one of the rear angles of the mansion; it rose some yards above it, and was open to the light on all its four sides. The tower held only two apartments,—Maria's, composed of boudoir and bedroom, and her maid Genoveva's chamber, which was single. They were the coldest but at the same time the most cheerful rooms in the house. The few times that the sun deigned to visit Nieva he went straight to lodge in them, entered without as much as asking leave, in the way of sovereign guests, and spent the day, shining in the mirrors, brightening up the satin of the chairs, dulling the varnish of the clothes-presses, and in a word disporting himself in a thousand different ways,—all this, it may be said, would have been, had not Genoveva taken the precaution to draw the curtains in time. They were likewise the quietest; the noises of the house did not reach them, and those from outside had no possibility of disturbing them, owing to their situation. Only the wind, which almost never ceased to blow heavily around the tower, made strange noises, especially at night, sometimes moaning, sometimes screaming, and constantly complaining because the windows were kept hermetically sealed. During the daytime it was neither melancholy nor petulant, but contented itself with a perpetual but very dignified murmur like sea-shells held to the ear.

Maria, still shivering though she was wrapped up in her shawl, went to one of the windows which looked down into the garden whose earthwall was contiguous to the quay. From that window the whole length of the Nieva River could be seen down to El Moral, which was the place where it emptied into the sea. It would not measure more than a league in length, but its breadth varied wonderfully, according as it was seen at high or low water, at spring tide or neap tide. When there were full tides, it spread out half a league, lapping up against the foot of the pine-covered hills which shut in the valley on both sides. At low tide the water drew out almost completely, leaving barely a narrow, sinuous thread in the centre. Between the conterminous line of hills there lay on both sides of the channel wide flats of soft gray mud, dotted with pools of water where the ragamuffins of the quay took delight in splashing and wallowing until they had besmeared themselves thickly enough to go straight and wash it off by diving head first into the channel. Above the garden wall rose the masts of a few vessels, not a dozen in all, anchored by the quay, the majority of them smacks and schooners[5] of insignificant draught.

The young girl looked for an instant at the sky, which was still profoundly dark towards the west, hiding and confusing the outline of the distant mountains. In the zenith she noticed that it was completely overcast, of an ashen color, which grew lighter as she turned her face toward the east. There the clouds were not as yet compacted into a solid mass as in the opposite quarter; they stood out against the sweep of the sky in monstrous black piles, and opened sufficiently to let the few feeble, melancholy, ruddy rays pass through, which the sun, like a dying fire, was beginning to shed upon the earth. The tide was rising. The surface of the river absorbed the slender light of the sky, and gave forth nothing more than a tremulous metallic reflection in the far distance.

After watching the sunrise for a time, our maiden got a book which lay on the dressing-table in her room, and came back to the window to see if she could read; but it was not yet light enough. She laid the book on a chair and again went to the window, leaning her forehead against its panes. The sky kept growing brighter in the direction of El Moral; but it added no life or good cheer to the earth. The growing light seemed only to make more distinct its stern, forbidding face. A wretched and disagreeable day was in prospect, such as the natives of Nieva were accustomed to enjoy the larger part of the year.

But soon the windows of the east were closed; the huge, thick clouds which had stood out separate, allowing the light to pass, once more made one unbroken mass, by the impulse of some breath of air, and the rosy flush faded away. In their place remained a uniform pallid light, which, little by little, spread over the heavens, lazily struggling with the shadows in the west. The far-away reflections on the river likewise died out, leaving it all a monotonous color, like unpolished steel. The boudoir slowly filled with light; the pretty articles of furniture, and the objects adorning it, emerged from the obscurity, graceful, dainty, and fascinating, like the dancers in the opera, when at an outburst from the orchestra they throw aside the spectral mantles in which they had wrapped themselves. The light, however, did not smile; all the time it grew more melancholy and forbidding. Across the mighty masses of dark violet cloud which were rising above the four or five houses of El Moral, others, small and white, began to fly like wisps of gauze—a sure sign of storm.

Maria quickly felt the pane against which she was leaning tremble. A gust of wind and rain had savagely lashed the window. She stepped back a little and saw that all the panes were weeping at once. For some little time she occupied herself in watching the more or less rapid and uneven course which the drops of water followed as they rolled down the smooth surface of the glass. The sharp, intermittent pattering of the rain brought back to her memory the many afternoons that she had spent near that same window listening to it with an open book in her hand. The book had always been a novel. For more than four months she had incessantly begged her father to let her have the use of the boudoir in the tower so that she might give herself up entirely to her favorite occupation without fear of any one interrupting her. But Don Mariano feared to give his permission, because the apartments in the tower were cold, and the girl's health was delicate. At last, overcome by her entreaties and caresses, he yielded, after having the rooms carefully carpeted, and exacting the condition that Genoveva should sleep near by. It was a happy period for Maria. She was sixteen, and her mind was restless and high-spirited. Her music, in which she had made prodigious strides, had stimulated in her heart a decided tendency to melancholy and tears. She wept at the slightest provocation, sometimes without reason, and when it was least expected, but her tears were so sweet, and she experienced such intense pleasure in them, that on many occasions she fostered them artificially. How many times, gazing from that window upon the delicate clouds of the horizon tinted with rose or the last splendors of the dying sun, she felt her heart overcome by a depth of melancholy which found relief only in sobs! How many times she had pained her father with a storm of tears, the cause of which she could not tell, because she herself knew not! The knowledge of painting, in which she also excelled, turned her inclinations towards light and a wide outlook, and this equally contributed to make her long for the rooms in the tower. When once she had taken her quarters there with her piano, her paints, and her novels, Maria looked upon herself as the most fortunate girl on earth. If at noon of some magnificent sunny day, under an effulgent azure sky, she opened all the windows of her boudoir and admitted the fresh, keen wind which toyed with her hair and scattered the papers from the table over the floor, she imagined with delight that she had mounted upon a star, and that she was in the midst of space, swimming through the air at the mercy of every chance. And this illusion, though it was hard for her to keep it up, made her happy. Sometimes at night she used to open the blinds and light not only her lamp, but all the candles in the candlesticks, so as to imagine that she was stationed in a lofty lighthouse. "From the river this tower must seem like a beacon, and my room the lamp which has just been lighted," was what she used to say, in childish delight. And then she began to peer through the panes to see if any ship were on its way down to El Moral, until, frightened by the darkness without and dazzled by the light within, she finally grew terror-stricken at such an illumination and hastened to extinguish the lights.

Don Mariano called that gay, aerial boudoir Maria's bird-cage; and in truth the name was admirably appropriate, for the girl was constantly flitting about in it, moving the furniture and changing the things from one place to another, nervous and restless as a bird. To make the resemblance more complete, it often happened that when the family were gathered in the dining-room they heard the distant trills of some cavatina or romanza which Maria was studying. Don Mariano never failed to exclaim, with his usual benignant smile, "Our little bird is singing." And all would likewise smile, full of content, for everybody in the house loved and admired the girl.

In two or three years a cargo of novels had made their way into the tower boudoir, and been sent away again, after having diverted the long leisure hours of our young friend, who put under contribution, not only her father's library and her own purse, but likewise the book-shelves of all the friends of the family. Don Serapio was her first purveyor, and thus for a long time she read only blood-thirsty accounts of terrible and unnatural crimes, in which the proprietor of the canning factory took such intense delight. In this period she did not enjoy much, for, though these novels excited her curiosity to the highest degree, keeping it in suspense and under the spell of the reading a large part of the day and night, yet no sweet or poetic aftertaste was left in her mind for her delectation, and she forgot them the day after she read them.

Moreover, they terrified her too much; many and many times they disturbed her dreams, and even on some occasions she begged Genoveva to lie down beside her, for she was frightened to death. After exhausting Don Serapio's library, she asked one of the Delgado sisters to give her the freedom of hers, which had the reputation of being abundantly supplied. In fact, it was furnished with a great quantity of novels, all of the primitive romantic school, and elegantly bound, but many of them soiled by use. In the more tender passages many of the pages were marked by yellow spots, which was a manifest sign that the various ladies into whose hands the book had fallen had shed a few tears in tribute to the misfortunes of the hero. We already know that one Señorita de Delgado wept with great facility. Among the novels which she read at this time were Ivanhoe; The Lady of the Lake; Maclovia and Federico, or the Mines of the Tyrol; Saint Clair of the Isles, or the Exiles on the Island of Barra; Oscar and Amanda; The Castle of Aguila Negra; and others. These gave her very much greater enjoyment. Absolutely absorbed, heart and soul, she explored the region of those delicious fantasies with which the illustrious Walter Scott, and other novelists not so illustrious, delighted our fathers, creating for their use a middle age peopled with troubadours and tournaments, with stupendous deeds of prowess, with Gothic castles, heroes, and indomitable loves. What exercised the greatest fascination upon the Señorita de Elorza was the unchangeable steadfastness of affection always manifested by the protagonists of these novels. Whether man or woman, if a love passion seized them, it was labor wasted to raise any barriers, for everything was idle; across the opposition of fathers and guardians, and in spite of the crafty schemes laid by jilted suitors, purified by a thousand different tests, suffering much, and weeping much more, at the end they always came out triumphant and well deserved it all. The Señorita de Elorza vowed secretly in the sanctuary of her heart to show the same fealty to the first lover whom Providence should send her, and imitate his fortitude in adversities. Each one of these novels left a lasting impression on her youthful mind, and for several days, provided that the characters of some other did not succeed in captivating her, she ceaselessly thought of the beautiful miracles accomplished by the heroine's love, pure as the diamond and as unyielding, and taking up the action where the novelist had left it, which was always in the act of celebrating the nuptials of the afflicted lovers, she continued it in her imagination, conceiving with all its minutiæ the after-life spent by the husband and wife surrounded by their children, and re-reading with folded hands the places where her tears had so often been shed. Our maiden was anxious for one of these irresistible and melting passions to take possession of her heart, but it never entered her mind that any of the young fellows who visited her house dressed in a frock-coat or Americana could inspire it. Love, for her, always took the form of a warrior, whom she imagined with helmet and breastplate, coming breathlessly and covered with dust, after having unhorsed his competitor with a lance-thrust, to bend his knee before her and receive the crown from her hand, which he would kiss with tenderness and devotion. Again, stripped of his helmet, and in the disguise of a beggar, yet evincing by his gallant port the nobility and courage of his race, he came by night to the foot of her tower, and accompanying himself on the lute, sang some exquisite ditty in which he would invite her to fly with him across country to some unknown castle, far from the tyranny of her sire and the hated spouse whom he wished to force upon her. The night was dark, the sentinels of the castle benumbed with a philter, the ladder already clung close to the window, and the champing steeds were pawing the ground not very far away. "Why dost delay, O mistress mine, why dost delay?" Maria heard a gentle tapping on the panes, and more than once she had risen from her bed, in her bare feet, to satisfy herself that it was not her warrior but the wind who called her, sighing. At that time she could not see a vessel making for the port at night, without trembling; the mystery which always attends a vessel seen in the darkness made her vaguely imagine an ambuscade laid by some ignorant, brutal suitor, who, fearing lest he be rebuffed, wished to ravish her away by main force from her home, and bear her away to distant strands where he might enjoy with her his barbarous pleasure. All that she needed to become disillusionized was to perceive the vessel carefully warping up to the quay and discharging a few barrels and boxes. But the romance which made the profoundest impression upon her was, without question, that entitled Matilde, or the Crusades. This, better than any other, was able to carry her mind back to that strange, brilliant epoch of which it treated, causing her to be present during that heroic struggle under the walls of Jerusalem. It is easy to comprehend, however, that it was not the battles between Infidels and Christians which most interested her in the tale, but that weird, improbable love, tender and passionate at once, which sprang up in the heroine's heart for one of the Mohammedan warriors who had laid violent hands on the Sepulchre of the Lord. The Señorita de Elorza absolved and almost with her whole heart sympathized with this passion where the sin of loving one of the most terrible enemies of Christ offered a more powerful attraction and a keener zest. How was it possible not to fall in love with that famous Malec-Kadel, so fiery and terrible in battle, so gentle and submissive with his ladylove, so noble and generous on all occasions! Ah! if she had been in Matilde's place, she would have loved in the same way in spite of all laws, human and divine! This Infidel was the character who captivated her the most of all, even to the point of inspiring her to make a very clever painting in which she represented him on the deck of a ship where he was sailing with Matilde, saving her from the snares of her enemies, protecting her with his left hand, and hewing off heads with his right hand, as one reaps the grain in summer. What best brought her to realize her enthusiasm, was the arrival of a Turk at Nieva, selling mother-of-pearl ornaments and slippers. She was so surprised to see him pass in front of the house, and her curiosity was so excited, that she was not content until she had addressed him, and made him undergo a long series of questions about the fields of Jerusalem where the love scenes which so impressed her had taken place, about the customs, the dress, and the government of the Mohammedans; but the Turk, either because he was not in the humor of parleying, or because of his being a native of Reus in the province of Tarragona, and having never been in Palestine in his life, answered her questions with impudent curtness.

It had now been a long time, however, since Maria had taken up a novel. The recollection of the time when she had devoured so many caused a slight contraction of her features, and drew in her smooth brow a wide, deep furrow.

The blasts of wind fraught with rain lashed the panes of glass for a long time, until they had given them a thorough washing. Gradually its gusts became less frequent, and at last they completely ceased. The light, meantime, had increased, mantling the whole of the murky heavens, and now bringing into relief the forms of the far western hills which were visible through the opposite casement. But the windows of the sky which gave passage to the rosy rays when the sunrise first began, did not open again, and all the clouds of the celestial vault united into one, like an ash-colored or grayish mantle, which gave free course to the rain and hindered the light. The storm, as usual, dissolved into a fine drizzle, which began to fall slowly, filling the atmosphere with an evanescent, tremulous veil, woven of watery threads, which still more diminished the brilliancy of the growing light, and hid the outlines of distant objects. The tide was still flowing; the wide sheet of water which stretched away to El Moral assumed a color earthy near its edges, but dark and heavy in the centre.

Maria again took up her book, brought her chair to the window, and sitting down, began to read, it now being light enough to allow it. It was the Life of Saint Teresa, written by herself,—a book bound in solid pasteboard covers, which were stamped with the gilt ornamentations characteristic of religious works.

According as the young girl became absorbed in her reading, her face grew more and more serene, and the deep frown on her brow disappeared. She was reading the second chapter in which the Saint sets forth how in the years of her youth she was enamored with books of knight-errantry, and the vanities of the toilet, and hints at the love affairs which at the same time she had passed through. When Maria raised her eyes from the book, they shone with a peculiar delight of inward content.

The bells of San Felipe at last actually began to ring. Maria quickly threw down her book and opened her maid's chamber-door.

"Genoveva! Genoveva!"

"I am awake, señorita."

"Get up; San Felipe's bells are ringing!"

In a twinkling Genoveva was up, dressed, and on hand in her mistress' room. She was a woman of forty years, more or less, short, fat, swarthy, with puffy cheeks, with great, protuberant gray eyes which were expressionless, absolutely expressionless, and with thin hair waving on her temples. She wore a plain carmelite skirt, and the black merino cloak gathered at the shoulders, such as are used by all provincial serving-women. She had entered the household when Maria was not yet a year old, to be her nurse, and she had never left her, being a notable example of a faithful, steadfast servant.

"How long has my little dove[6] been dressed?"

"About an hour already, Genoveva. I thought I heard the bells, but I was mistaken. Now they are ringing in good earnest. Let us not lose any time; take the umbrellas, and let us go."

"Whenever you please, señorita; I am all ready."

Both put on their mantillas, and trying not to make any noise, they went down to the entry, carefully unlocked and opened the door, and sallied forth into the street, which they crossed with open umbrellas until they reached the opposite arcade.

The little city of Nieva, as it seems to me I have already said, has almost all of its streets lined with an arcade on one side or the other, sometimes on both. As a general thing it is small, low, uneven, and supported by single round stone pillars, without ornamentation of any sort. Likewise it is ill paved. Only in occasional localities, where some house had been reconstructed, it was wider and had more comfortable pavement. If all the houses were to be rebuilt,—and there is no doubt that this will come in time,—the town, owing to this system of construction, would have a certain monumental aspect, making it well worthy of being seen. Even as it is now, though it does not boast of much beauty, it is very convenient for pedestrians, who need not get wet except when they may wish to pass from one sidewalk to the other. And certainly its illustrious founders were far-sighted, for, as regards constant, ceaseless rain, there is no other place in Spain that can hold a candle to our town.

Protected from the rain, mistress and maid crossed through one corner of the Plaza, and entered a long, narrow, solitary street. The worthy inhabitants were sleeping the sweet sleep of morning. Only from time to time they met some sailor wrapped up in his rough waterproof capote, who, with fishing utensils in his hand, and making a great clatter with his enormous boots, was striding towards the quay.

"Are you well protected, señorita? See, there's been a frost; one would think it was already January."

"Yes; I put on a velvet waist, and besides, this sacque is well wadded."

"Well, well, sweetheart.[7] If your papa knew that we were out so early, he would scold me for consenting to it. You are exceedingly virtuous, señorita. Few or none would lead such a saintly life at your age."

"Hush, hush, Genoveva! don't say such a thing. I am only a miserable sinner; much more miserable than you have any idea of."

"Señorita, for Heaven's sake—I am not the only one who says so; but everybody. Yesterday Doña Filomela told me that she was edified to see you go to mass, and take the Blessed Sacrament, and she would give anything if her daughters would do the same. And I don't wonder she wishes so, for one of 'em, the youngest, is the devil's own. Would you believe, the other day, señorita, she scratched her sister right in church because one was to confess before the other. Pretty kind of repentance! It's shameful, señorita, it's shameful to see how some women go to church! One would think that they were in their own houses! Ay! the poor little things don't realize that they are in the house of the Lord of heaven and earth, who will ask them to give account of their sin. Hasn't Doña Filomela shown you the rosary which her brother sent her from Havana? It is a marvel! all ivory and gold, with a great crucifix of solid gold. To say your prayers there's no need of such extravagance, is there, señorita?"

"To pray one needs only a pure and humble heart."

"Ay! señorita, how well you speak! It seems as if they were mistaken who say that you are not more than twenty years old. But when God wishes to pour out his gifts on one of his creatures, it makes no difference whether she be young or old, rich or poor. Every day I pray the most Blessed Virgin to preserve your health, so that you may serve as an example for those who are in mortal sin."

"What you ought to pray for, Genoveva, is that He will purify my soul and pardon the many sins that I have committed."

"God have mercy! if you need to be forgiven, you who are so pious and humble-minded, what would the rest of us need? Don't be so severe upon yourself. Fray Ignacio has so much esteem for you that he never wearies of sounding your praises; and that too, though he's not very indulgent, as you know. At this very moment I suppose that holy man's in the sacristy, listening to people! What a healthy man he is! It must be because God makes him so. He doesn't eat, he doesn't sleep, he doesn't rest a moment. And yet every day he grows stronger and stronger, and has greater and greater zeal in serving God. I don't see how he can spend so many hours in the confessional, without taking something to eat. Only the Lord can give him the power. Blessed be His name forever! Amen!"

"That's true; God works real miracles in him because there is need in the world. Oh, God! what would have become of my soul if these holy missioners had not come to open my eyes!"

"Though they have helped greatly in the way of salvation, still, before they came you were very good and used to attend the Sacraments."

"How little that amounts to, Genoveva, when the deepest nooks and corners of the conscience are not looked into!"

"Tell me, señorita, did you see in your dreams last night that beautiful bird with fiery feathers, with a cross in its bill, which you have seen lately?"

Maria stopped suddenly short and raised her hand to her breast as though she had received a blow. Then she began to walk on again, exclaiming in an undertone,—

"Last night I was not allowed to see it!"

"Why not, sweetheart?"

She made no reply. She walked on a while, and a groan escaped her. Then she stopped once more, and throwing her arms around her maid's neck, she began to sob bitterly.

"I am very wicked, Genoveva, very wicked! My heart has not yet been freed from impurities; the flesh and the devil will hold me in their sway. If you knew what a sin I committed yesterday!"

"Hush, hush! don't be discouraged! What sin could you have committed, you lamb?"[8]

"Yes, yes; I am more wicked than you imagine. The more light I receive from God, the deeper I seem to sink into the darkness; the more He heaps blessings upon me, the more ungrateful I am toward Him."

"God is infinitely merciful, señorita."

"But infinitely just, as well."

"Beseech the aid of Saint Joseph the blessed; there is no fault which the Lord does not forgive through his intercession. Come, stop crying now; you are going to confession, and all is going to be forgiven."

After the girl had calmed down a little, they proceeded on their way, till they reached a rather diminutive plaza, fronted by the stern, gray façade of a great church which attracted attention neither by its beauty nor by any other quality, good or bad. They crossed a portico, huge and gray like the façade, and entered the temple, which was likewise gray and enormous; these qualities were its only characteristics. It consisted of three naves, the central one broad and lofty like a cathedral; those on the sides narrow and low; all three had been whitewashed at some time very remote, but were now thick with dust, peeling in various places and stained with wide-spread, mysterious spots. The altars, which were profusely adorned, presented a gray color, very distinct from the gilding which originally had covered them. Through its dirty glass could be seen the stiff image of some saint with metal aureole, or the sad anguished face of an Ecce-Homo.

It was too early in the morning to find many people. Nevertheless, scattered here and there, praying on bended knees before the altars, a few women with covered heads were to be seen; others pressed up to the latticed windows of the confessional and held their mantillas on both sides of their faces, while with a half-audible whispering they confided their misdeeds to the sacred tribunal of the Church. A few priests, who kept the doors of the confessionals open, could be seen in cassock and hood, bending forward, with their ears to the window, reflecting in their frowning faces and negligent attitude the weariness which they felt; others kept theirs hermetically sealed, and scarcely could any one in passing perceive the presence of a human being.

A few places in the sanctuary were bathed in a melancholy light, but the corners and the hollows between the pillars were left in almost perfect darkness. The huge brazen lamps swung in the spaces on cords attached to the roof. The leaded window of the two huge, open oriels, high up in the walls of the great central nave, admitted a sad sheet of light, extending like a pale altar-cloth before the principal shrine. On one side of this, at some little distance, was another small portable altar, upon which was raised an image of the Saviour with perforated breast, wherein was seen a bleeding heart, wearing a crown of thorns and haloed with flames; around the image were a host of lighted candles, the hissing and crackling of which sounded lugubriously in the immense, silent circuit of the church. It was a temporary altar set up because of the Nine Days' Festival of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, which was celebrated at that time.

Genoveva went to the sacristy to ask Fray Ignacio if her señorita could make her confession. The latter remained kneeling near the confessional, waiting for the priest. She felt a peculiar, timid impatience; a bit of fear mingled with anxiety and desire. The sanctuary was filled with a mingled odor of dampness and dust, of extinguished candles and of faded flowers, which inspired her with veneration. The moments preceding confession were filled with a delicious suspense for Maria. The circumstance and mystery which surrounded that intimate confidence, the most intimate in the world, exerted a certain fascination over her mind, and agitated her to the very depths of her being, without loathing. She felt slight chills run over her body, followed by flushes of heat, which mounted to her face and set it on fire. At that moment she thought not so much of her sins as of the way in which she should try to tell them.

Fray Ignacio's dark, resolute, and stern figure hastened up to the confessional, and without vouchsafing his penitent a single glance, took his place within it. Maria, tremulous and with melting heart, drew near the little window. When at the end of a half-hour she turned away, her eyes were red and her cheeks were pale.

The church, meantime, had been slowly filling, although almost exclusively with women. A few ventured as far as the centre, making with their wooden shoes a real clatter as they walked on the tiled pavement; the most took them off at the door and carried them in their hands. The women of the people were in the majority, but there were a goodly number of señoras: men were few. The multitude for some time remained scattered about, kneeling at the altar rails, all making their devotions. From time to time an acolyte in flesh-colored balandran and white surplice, with shaven head and crafty eyes, rang his bronze hand-bell, and a few women left their places and stationed themselves before some altar where a priest, decked with golden ornaments, was beginning the sacrifice of the mass. After consuming the elements, he would administer the communion to two or three sets of women. Maria, with head bent on her bosom and hands devoutly crossed, joined them to receive the Holy Eucharist. When the priest placed on her tongue the consecrated particle, amid the dull, hushed murmur of the throng, she felt her cheeks slightly inflamed by the grandeur of the miracle which had taken place within her; then she withdrew three or four steps from the altar, overwhelmed with veneration, and without venturing to cast a look on either side, at the end of a short space she left her place and went to repeat the prayers imposed as her penance. An elderly clergyman in a surplice mounted the pulpit, which was covered with a cloth of gold tissue. The faithful came flocking from the remotest parts of the church towards the centre, forming a dense throng about the pulpit. Maria and Genoveva stood in the midst of it. The priest made the sign of the cross, and began his Ave Marias and Pater Nosters in a loud voice. When the rosary was ended, he began the service, the novena of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. The clergyman put on an enormous pair of spectacles, and in a snuffling, doleful tone exclaimed:—

"O Heart (Corazón)"—the multitude repeated after him with solemn acclaim, prolonging the words—"O Heart (Corazoooón)—most lovable (amantísimo)—most lovable (amantísimooo)—most sacred (santísimo)—most sacred (santísimooo)—and honey-sweet (melífluo)—and honey-sweet (melífluoo)—of my divine Jesus—of my divine Jesus—full of flames—full of flames—of purest love (amor)—of purest love (amooor)—consume me entirely—consume me entirely—and grant me—and grant me—a new life—a new life—of love and of grace—of love and of grace;—kindle and consume—kindle and consume—my lukewarmness—my lukewarmness.—O Heart (Corazón)—O Heart (Corazoooón)—most comfortable (dulcísimo)—most comfortable (dulcísimooo)—I adore thee—I adore thee—most profoundly—most profoundly.—Grant me grace—Grant me grace—O loving Heart (Corazón)—O loving Heart (Corazooón)—to atone for—to atone for—the insults and ingratitudes—the insults and ingratitudes—done against thee (Vos)—done against thee (Vooos)—and what I pray thee for—and what I pray thee for—in this novena—in this novena—is for the greater glory of God (Dios)—is for the greater glory of God (Diooos)—and of my soul—and of my soul—Amen—Amen."

Maria merely whispered the words of the orison and kept her eyes fastened on the ground. Genoveva repeated them aloud, looking straight into the priest's face. The multitude sighed after they said Amen.

When the orison was ended, the priest repeated three Pater Nosters and three Ave Marias in honor of the three marks of the passion with which the divine Heart of Jesus showed itself to the Blessed Mother Margarita of Alacoque. The faithful knelt in reply. Immediately began a new orison like the first, addressed to the Sacred Hearts of Jesus and Mary. Then the priest recommended all to beseech God through the mediation of the Sacred Hearts for whatever each most needed, and the congregation meditated silently for a few moments. Maria prayed fervently that God would make her a better woman. Genoveva spent some time in hesitation, without knowing what to ask for, and at last she asked for patience to endure the suffering of her influenza. The priest read with his snuffling voice, which drawled over the syllables like a lamentation, the following

ILLUSTRATION.

"In the city of Munich there lived not many years ago a lady of extraordinary beauty, who led such an exemplary life, that all gave her the name of saint. It happened that one day there came to her house a very lively young man to visit her, on the ground that she was one of his own cousins, and instantly the devil managed to get complete possession of him. His passion was so mad and wretched that at the end of some time she yielded to an impure sin, thus gravely offending God. After she fell into this sin she found herself sunk in a deep abyss of melancholy, for though the unhappy woman immediately sent away the one who had been the cause of her fault, she believed that she was doomed to hell. She began to lead an austere life, mortifying herself with fasting and penitence, and yet she could not escape the horrible thought. At length, by the advice of a pilgrim who happened to pass that way, she determined to make a novena to the Sacred Heart of Jesus. On the night of the fifth day of constant prayer, being in bed, she heard a great disturbance, and saw flying from her house a demon, horribly howling and leaving behind him an intolerably fetid odor. On the following morning she found herself cured of her melancholy, and very confident of the infinite mercy of God."

The faithful crowded closer around the pulpit to hear the illustration, and they took in with delight its romantic flavor. The novena ended with a sermon in Latin. The congregation repeated an Ave Maria and a Credo. The clergyman descended from the desk.

There was a loud and prolonged noise in the church. The throng of women spread out, dispersed, moved to and fro, gossiping and chattering all at once. The clattering of the wooden shoes again was heard on the damp and filthy blocks of the pavement. An acolyte began to snuff out the candles burning around the image of Jesus and, standing on the altar, with his shorn head and mischievous eyes made profane grimaces at the other boys, whose mothers kept them on their knees saying their prayers. A few of the clergy issued from the confessionals and crossed over to the sacristy with long strides. One was detained in the centre of the church by various ladies, and stood talking with them a long time, though with evident anxiety to escape from them. Through the leaded panes of the great oriels poured all the daylight evaporating the mysteriousness of the temple, and making it seem melancholy, wretched, and dirty, as in reality it was. Two or three gay fellows, with coat-collars turned up and sleeves well pulled down, came in, casting quick glances of curiosity at all the places. A sacristan took it into his head to throw wide open the wooden screen at the door, and a restless, noisy multitude, who had not been early enough to take part in the novena, surged into the vast room to listen to the word of a missioner, who at that moment mounted the pulpit with a contemplative, zealous gesture.

When he stood up dominating the multitude, with the sacred dove made of painted wood above his head, the noise gradually subsided. The congregation, wonderfully increased, again crowded together beneath the lecturer. There were many men who came not out of pure devotion, but rather with the intention of judging the sermon from a literary point of view.

Meantime great throngs of people came pouring in through the door, disturbing the faithful, and hindering the establishment of silence. Maria and Genoveva were pulled to and fro many times by the fluctuation of the multitude. The orator waited vainly for the bustle to cease. At last he extended his arm in academic style toward the door, and shouted emphatically, as though he were in the heart of his discourse,--

"Close that screen!"

The doors closed slowly, as though no one had touched them. The faithful were seating themselves in their places. For a time much coughing was heard; at last it ceased, and the church preserved a fragile, artificial silence, frequently broken by some stubborn cold or by the trumpet blast of some nose being blown. The jet and mother-of-pearl beads of the ladies' rosaries, clinking together, made a soft, melancholy tintillation.

The orator was young, tall, and slender, with great black eyes deep set in a pale, classic face. He also wore a cassock with surplice and cowl. He inspired respect by his sweet, gentle gravity.

He took off his cowl, and said a few words in Latin which no one could hear. Then putting on his cowl again, and leaning far over the railing, he exclaimed in a loud voice,—

"Beloved Brethren in Jesus Christ!"

He possessed a ringing voice, of a sweet and sympathetic quality, which lent a greater effect to the solemnity of the face. He began by showing an ironical astonishment that there were to be found any at all willing to abandon the vanities of the world to listen to the word of God, and he warmly congratulated the faithful who had come to take part in the Nine Days' Festival of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. Of all the forms of devotion, invented by piety, most grateful in the eyes of the Lord was this; for it summed up and included all the rest, since, "as the heart in the human body represents the sum and substance,—the very centre of the physical life,—so in the same way the Sacred Heart of our Redeemer is the centre of pious souls and the focus of light around which revolve our aspirations for immortal glory." He ended his exordium by invoking with impassioned phrases the aid of this Sacred Heart in letting his discourse bring forth fruit. He offered in behalf of all an Ave Maria.

He devoted the first part of his sermon to the description of the torment of the soul alienated from God by sin, and he drew a circumstantial and complete picture of the griefs and insults which we daily inflict upon the gentle Heart of Jesus. When he came to paint the sufferings caused by sin, he abandoned the beaten track of speaking of the material torments of hell and described nothing but the spiritual anguish, the pangs, and the heartbreak felt by the soul when it sees itself deprived through its own fault of the love of the Creator; but he painted them in such gloomy colorings, and with such power of expressions, that that infinite affliction, that depth of solitude, that silence and darkness made a greater impression on the imagination of the throng than the fire and the worm usually invoked.

Maria was filled with fear and sadness. She remembered her sins, and thought with horror that she might die suddenly and be lost forever. Thereupon she made a solemn vow to grow better. But how? To change her way of living meant nothing else than to break the bond which most powerfully fettered her to the earth and sin. She became the prey to a profound disturbance replete with tears, and she could not throw it off. The clear, musical voice of the priest resounded through the great room, unweariedly relating one by one the sufferings of the damned. The congregation listened motionless and terrified. Far away in the background, near the principal altar, the image of the Saviour, encircled with candles, looked like a great red blur whose rays cast fugitive shadows across the walls of the edifice.

"But the divine compassion is inexhaustible. There is no sin so enormous that it cannot be blotted out by the mercy of God. The Saviour's love for the souls that he has redeemed by his blood is not weak and limited like that of men; like a loving father, like an affectionate spouse, He is even ready to open his arms for the repentant sinner. Man sooner tires of sinning than God of granting forgiveness, for we have at His right hand an advocate who never wearies of interceding for us. Sin not, offend not the Divine Majesty, either with words or deeds; but if ye should give way to sin, be not discouraged, keep up good heart and return to God. Sed et si quis pecaverit, advocatum habemus apud Patrem, Jesum Christum justum, says Saint John.[9] If ye should sin, wash with repentant tears the Redeemer's feet after the pattern of Saint Mary Magdalene, and ye shall be saved. Remember that sad, sinful woman, who, worn out with grief, appalled with love, threw herself at Jesus' feet and washed them with her tears and wiped them with her hair and anointed them with ointment, while not a word fell from her lips because she was consumed with the fire of love. Oh, tears shed for God! how much ye avail, how great your power, how mighty your results! In winning forgiveness tears are more potential than words; for tears, as Saint Maximus says, are silent prayers, and demand not forgiveness if forgiveness be undeserved. There is no deception possible with tears as with words, and thus it was Saint Peter to win forgiveness for his fault used not words, since with them he had sinned, had blasphemed and denied his Lord; but he wept with bitter lamentation and was believed and pardoned. Tears are money which cannot be counterfeited, our only refuge: they purge the spots caused by our transgressions, they appease the anger of God, they win us forgiveness, they enliven the soul, they strengthen faith, magnify hope, kindle charity. The divine Jesus himself has said, 'Blessed are they who mourn; for they shall be comforted.'"

Maria felt her heart melt within her. That fervid eulogy of tears drove fear from her breast. The thought of the inexhaustible good will of Jesus Christ, who, after suffering so much and shedding his precious blood for us, forgets each moment the greatest sins, if only they are confessed to him with repentance, stirred her to the depths of her soul. She seemed to see the saint whose name she bore, Mary Magdalene, bathed in tears at the Redeemer's feet, and she felt that she had done the same. A torrent of tears burst from her eyes as she imagined herself prone before Jesus. The women around her saw her weep, and they cast respectful glances of admiration at her as they whispered among themselves.

The sermon ended by exhorting the faithful, with lofty flights of eloquence rich in imagery, to devote themselves to the Sacred Heart of Jesus. "A quarter of an hour every day of loving discourse with this Sacred Heart brings to the soul the purest joy that it can have on earth. Gustate, et videte quoniam suavis est Dominus.[10] Try to hold converse a while with the Lord, and ye will enjoy the delights of heaven and the rarest satisfactions, such as those have who love. All that is in this world is folly and deception: banquets, comedies, receptions, amusements, and all the rest that the world considers good are mingled with gall and sown with thorns. Doubt not that the Heart of Jesus gives greater delight and comfort to those souls which seek it with devotion and self-abnegation, than the world with all its pastimes and insipid pleasures. What delight to be speaking for one instant with the most lovable Jesus, forever ready to hearken to our prayers! To unbosom one's self to him alone as to a most intimate friend. To demand his grace, his love, and his glory! Oh, my dear friends gustate et videte, gustate et videte!"

The orator ended the final clauses of his sermon always with those words, gustate et videte, gustate et videte. When he ended by expressing his wish that all might have eternal glory, he was pale with weariness. Drops of perspiration rolled down his wide brow. He had uttered the last part of his discourse with growing agitation and enthusiasm which he succeeded in communicating to his hearers. Maria, after her first fit of weeping, remained comforted and almost happy. Genoveva whispered in her ear while the priest was descending from the pulpit,—

"Señorita, I just saw Don César in the congregation."

The young girl's face changed slightly. The crowd began to dissolve, spreading out over the whole area of the church. The majority of the people crowded tumultuously to the door, struggling to get out. After some difficulty Maria and Genoveva succeeded in reaching the portico, and started on their homeward way. But the Señorita de Elorza kept frequently turning her head. An elderly gentleman, tall, slender, and pale, with goatee and long white mustachios, dressed in black from head to foot, was following them at a considerable distance. As they entered the arcade of a narrow and lonely street, the caballero hastened his steps, and the two women lingered for him, so that very soon they were together. The caballero turned to Maria and said in a low voice,—

"Señorita, last night I returned from where you know."

"I have prayed God to bring you back in safety, Don César."

"Thanks, thanks.[11] Have you finished embroidering the banner?"

"Yes, señor!"

"And the flannel hearts?"

"Those also."

"That is good, señorita; I shall not forget your diligence and enthusiasm."

Don César did not move a line of his vigorous face during this conversation. His eyes, which were of a strange intensity gleaming with ferocity, did not for a moment leave the girl's face. He said nothing for a time, having something in his mind, and then he broke the silence, speaking in the curt tone of command,—

"To-morrow at this time be on hand again. We have some commissions to give you."

"I will not fail you."

Don César noticed that two young men had just turned the corner and were coming toward them; thereupon, without saying farewell, he left the women, crossing to the opposite sidewalk.