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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b5feebd --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #69768 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/69768) diff --git a/old/69768-0.txt b/old/69768-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 6725508..0000000 --- a/old/69768-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,3646 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The bridge of San Luis Rey, by -Thornton Wilder - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The bridge of San Luis Rey - -Author: Thornton Wilder - -Illustrator: Amy Drevenstedt - -Release Date: January 11, 2023 [eBook #69768] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Laura Natal Rodrigues (Images generously made available by - Hathi Trust Digital Library.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BRIDGE OF SAN LUIS -REY *** - - - _The_ BRIDGE _of_ - SAN LUIS REY - - - - - _By_ - - - - - THORNTON WILDER - - - - - _Illustrated by_ - AMY DREVENSTEDT - - - - - 1927 - - ALBERT & CHARLES BONI: NEW YORK - - - - - Copyright, 1927, by - ALBERT & CHARLES BONI, INC. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -_To My Mother_ - - - - -CONTENTS - -PART ONE: PERHAPS AN ACCIDENT -PART TWO: THE MARQUESA DE MONTEMAYOR -PART THREE: ESTEBAN -PART FOUR: UNCLE PIO -PART FIVE: PERHAPS AN INTENTION - - - - -ILLUSTRATIONS - -First Plate -Second Plate -Third Plate -Fourth Plate -Fifth Plate -Sixth Plate -Seventh Plate -Eighth Plate -Ninth Plate -Tenth Plate - - - - -PART ONE: PERHAPS AN ACCIDENT - - -ON Friday noon, July the twentieth, 1714, the finest bridge in all Peru -broke and precipitated five travellers into the gulf below. This bridge -was on the highroad between Lima and Cuzco and hundreds of persons -passed over it every day. It had been woven of osier by the Incas more -than a century before and visitors to the city were always led out to -see it. It was a mere ladder of thin slats swung out over the gorge, -with handrails of dried vine. Horses and coaches and chairs had to go -down hundreds of feet below and pass over the narrow torrent on rafts, -but no one, not even the Viceroy, not even the Archbishop of Lima, had -descended with the baggage rather than cross by the famous bridge of San -Luis Rey. St. Louis of France himself protected it, by his name and by -the little mud church on the further side. The bridge seemed to be among -the things that last forever; it was unthinkable that it should break. -The moment a Peruvian heard of the accident he signed himself and made a -mental calculation as to how recently he had crossed by it and how soon -he had intended crossing by it again. People wandered about in a -trance-like state, muttering; they had the hallucination of seeing -themselves falling into a gulf. - -There was a great service in the Cathedral. The bodies of the victims -were approximately collected and approximately separated from one -another, and there was great searching of hearts in the beautiful city -of Lima. Servant girls returned bracelets which they had stolen from -their mistresses, and usurers harangued their wives angrily, in defense -of usury. Yet it was rather strange that this event should have so -impressed the Limeans, for in that country those catastrophes which -lawyers shockingly call the "acts of God" were more than usually -frequent. Tidal waves were continually washing away cities; earthquakes -arrived every week and towers fell upon good men and women all the time. -Diseases were forever flitting in and out of the provinces and old age -carried away some of the most admirable citizens. That is why it was so -surprising that the Peruvians should have been especially touched by the -rent in the bridge of San Luis Rey. - -Everyone was very deeply impressed, but only one person did anything -about it, and that was Brother Juniper. By a series of coincidences so -extraordinary that one almost suspects the presence of some Intention, -this little red-haired Franciscan from Northern Italy happened to be in -Peru converting the Indians and happened to witness the accident. - -It was a very hot noon, that fatal noon, and coming around the shoulder -of a hill Brother Juniper stopped to wipe his forehead and to gaze upon -the screen of snowy peaks in the distance, then into the gorge below him -filled with the dark plumage of green trees and green birds and -traversed by its ladder of osier. Joy was in him; things were not going -badly. He had opened several little abandoned churches and the Indians -were crawling in to early Mass and groaning at the moment of miracle as -though their hearts would break. Perhaps it was the pure air from the -snows before him; perhaps it was the memory that brushed him for a -moment of the poem that bade him raise his eyes to the helpful hills. At -all events he felt at peace. Then his glance fell upon the bridge, and -at that moment a twanging noise filled the air, as when the string of -some musical instrument snaps in a disused room, and he saw the bridge -divide and fling five gesticulating ants into the valley below. - -Anyone else would have said to himself with secret joy: "Within ten -minutes myself...!" But it was another thought that visited Brother -Juniper: "Why did thin happen to _those_ five?" If there were any plan -in the universe at all, if there were any pattern in a human life, -surely it could be discovered mysteriously latent in those lives so -suddenly cut off. Either we live by accident and die by accident, or we -live by plan and die by plan, And on that instant Brother Juniper made -the resolve to inquire into the secret lives of those five persons, that -moment falling through the air, and to surprise the reason of their -taking off. - - * * * * * * * - -It seemed to Brother Juniper that it was high time for theology to take -its place among the exact sciences and he had long intended putting it -there. What he had lacked hitherto was a laboratory. Oh, there had never -been any lack of specimens; any number of his charges had met -calamity,--spiders had stung them; their lungs had been touched; their -houses had burned down and things had happened to their children from -which one averts the mind. But these occasions of human woe had never -been quite fit for scientific examination. They had lacked what our good -savants were later to call _proper control_. The accident had been -dependent upon human error, for example, or had contained elements of -probability. But this collapse of the bridge of San Luis Rey was a sheer -Act of God. It afforded a perfect laboratory. Here at last one could -surprise His intentions in a pure state. - -You and I can see that coming from anyone but Brother Juniper this plan -would be the flower of a perfect skepticism. It resembled the effort of -those presumptuous souls who wanted to walk on the pavements of Heaven -and built the Tower of Babel to get there. But to our Franciscan there -was no element of doubt in the experiment. He knew the answer. He merely -wanted to prove it, historically, mathematically, to his converts,--poor -obstinate converts, so slow to believe that their pains were inserted -into their lives for their own good. People were always asking for good -sound proofs; doubt springs eternal in the human breast, even in -countries where the Inquisition can read your very thoughts in your -eyes. - -This was not the first time that Brother Juniper had tried to resort to -such methods. Often on the long trips he had to make (scurrying from -parish to parish, his robe tucked up about his knees, for haste) he -would fall to dreaming of experiments that justify the ways of God to -man. For instance, a complete record of the Prayers for Rain and their -results. Often he had stood on the steps of one of his little churches, -his flock kneeling before him on the baked street. Often he had -stretched his arms to the sky and declaimed the splendid ritual. Not -often, but several times, he had felt the virtue enter him and seen the -little cloud forming on the horizon. But there were many times when -weeks went by ... but why think of them? It was not himself he was -trying to convince that rain and drought were wisely apportioned. - -Thus it was that the determination rose within him at the moment of the -accident. It prompted him to busy himself for six years, knocking at all -the doors in Lima, asking thousands of questions, filling scores of -notebooks, in his effort at establishing the fact that each of the five -lost lives was a perfect whole. Everyone knew that he was working on -some sort of memorial of the accident and everyone was very helpful and -misleading. A few even knew the principal aim of his activity and there -were patrons in high places. - -The result of all this diligence was an enormous book, which as we shall -see later, was publicly burned on a beautiful Spring morning in the -great square. But there was a secret copy and after a great many years -and without much notice it found its way to the library of the -University of San Marco. There it lies between two great wooden covers -collecting dust in a cupboard. It deals with one after another of the -victims of the accident, cataloguing thousands of little facts and -anecdotes and testimonies, and concluding with a dignified passage -describing why God had settled upon that person and upon that day for -His demonstration of wisdom. Yet for all his diligence Brother Juniper -never knew the central passion of Doña María's life; nor of Uncle -Pio's, not even of Esteban's. And I, who claim to know so much more, -isn't it possible that even I have missed the very spring within the -spring? - -Some say that we shall never know and that to the gods we are like the -flies that the boys kill on a summer day, and some say, on the contrary, -that the very sparrows do not lose a feather that has not been brushed -away by the finger of God. - - - - -PART TWO: THE MARQUESA DE -MONTEMAYOR - - -ANY Spanish schoolboy is required to know today more about Doña María, -Marquesa de Montemayor, than Brother Juniper was to discover in years of -research. Within a century of her death her letters had become one of -the monuments of Spanish literature and her life and times have ever -since been the object of long studies. But her biographers have erred in -one direction as greatly as the Franciscan did in another; they have -tried to invest her with a host of graces, to read back into her life -and person some of the beauties that abound in her letters, whereas all -real knowledge of this wonderful woman must proceed from the act of -humiliating her and of divesting her of all beauties save one. - -She was the daughter of a cloth-merchant who had acquired the money and -the hatred of the Limeans within a stone's-throw of the Plaza. Her -childhood was unhappy: she was ugly; she stuttered; her mother -persecuted her with sarcasms in an effort to arouse some social charms -and forced her to go about the town in a veritable harness of jewels. -She lived alone and she thought alone. Many suitors presented -themselves, but as long as she could she fought against the convention -of her time and was determined to remain single. There were hysterical -scenes with her mother, recriminations, screams and slamming of doors. -At last at twenty-six she found herself penned into marriage with a -supercilious and ruined nobleman and the Cathedral of Lima fairly buzzed -with the sneers of her guests. Still she lived alone and thought alone, -and when an exquisite daughter was born to her she fastened upon her an -idolatrous love. But little Clara took after her father; she was cold -and intellectual. At the age of eight she was calmly correcting her -mother's speech and presently regarding her with astonishment and -repulsion. The frightened mother became meek and obsequious but she -could not prevent herself from persecuting Doña Clara with nervous -attention and a fatiguing love. Again there were hysterical -recriminations, screams and slamming of doors. From the offers of -marriage that fell to her, Doña Clara deliberately chose the one that -required her removal to Spain. So to Spain she went, to that land from -which it takes six months to receive an answer to one's letter. The -leave-taking before so long a voyage became in Peru one of the formal -services of the Church. The ship was blessed and as the space widened -between the vessel and the beach both companies knelt and sang a hymn -that never failed to sound weak and timid in all that open air. Doña -Clara sailed with most admirable composure, leaving her mother to gaze -after the bright ship, her hand pressing now her heart and now her -mouth. Blurred and streaked became her view of the serene Pacific and -the enormous clouds of pearl that hang forever motionless above it. - -Left alone in Lima the Marquesa's life grew more and more inward. She -became increasingly negligent in her dress and like all lonely people -she talked to herself audibly. All her existence lay in the burning -center of her mind. On that stage were performed endless dialogues with -her daughter, impossible reconciliations, scenes eternally recommenced -of remorse and forgiveness. On the street you beheld an old woman her -red wig fallen a little over one ear, her left cheek angry with a -leprous affection, her right with a complementary adjustment of rouge. -Her chin was never dry; her lips were never still. Lima was a city of -eccentrics, but even there she became its jest as she drove through the -streets or shuffled up the steps of its churches. She was thought to be -continuously drunk. Worse things were said of her and petitions were -afloat that she be locked up. She had been denounced three times before -the Inquisition. It is not impossible that she might have been burned -had her son-in-law been less influential in Spain and had she not -somehow collected a few friends about the viceregal court who suffered -her for her oddity and her wide reading. - -The distressing character of the relations between mother and daughter -were further embittered by misunderstandings over money. The Condesa -received a handsome allowance from her mother and frequent gifts. Doña -Clara soon became the outstanding woman of intelligence at the Spanish -court. All the wealth of Peru would have been insufficient to maintain -her in the grandiose style she fancied for herself. Strangely enough her -extravagance proceeded from one of the best traits in her nature: she -regarded her friends, her servants and all the interesting people in the -capital, as her children. In fact there seemed only one person in the -world towards whom she did not expend herself in kind offices. Among her -_protégés_ was the cartographer De Blasiis (whose _Maps of the New -World_ was dedicated to the Marquesa de Montemayor amid the roars of the -courtiers at Lima who read that she was the "_admiration of her city and -a rising sun in the West_"); another was the scientist Azuarius whose -treatise on the laws of hydraulics was suppressed by the Inquisition as -being too exciting. For a decade the Condesa literally sustained all the -arts and sciences of Spain; it was not her fault that nothing memorable -was produced in that time. - -About four years after Doña Clara's departure Doña María received her -permission to visit Europe. On both sides the visit was anticipated with -resolutions well nourished on self-reproach: the one to be patient, the -other to be undemonstrative. Both failed. Each tortured the other and -was on the point of losing her mind under the alternations of -self-rebuke and the outbursts of passion. At length one day Doña María -rose before dawn, daring no more than to kiss the door behind which her -daughter was sleeping, took ship and returned to America. Henceforth -letter-writing had to take the place of all the affection that could not -be lived. - -Hers were the letters that in an astonishing world have become the -text-book of schoolboys and the ant-hill of the grammarians. Doña -María would have invented her genius had she not been born with it, so -necessary was it to her love that she attract the attention, perhaps the -admiration, of her distant child. She forced herself to go out into -society in order to cull its ridicules; she taught her eye to observe; -she read the masterpieces of her language to discover its effects; she -insinuated herself into the company of those who were celebrated for -their conversation. Night after night in her baroque palace she wrote -and rewrote the incredible pages, forcing from her despairing mind those -miracles of wit and grace, those distilled chronicles of the viceregal -court. We know now that her daughter barely glanced at the letters and -that it is to the son-in-law that we owe their preservation. - -The Marquesa would have been astonished to learn that her letters were -immortal. Yet many critics have accused her of keeping one eye on -posterity and point to a number of letters that have all the air of -being bravura pieces. To them it seems impossible that Doña María -should have put herself to the same pains to dazzle her daughter that -most artists expend on dazzling the public. Like her son-in-law they -misunderstood her: the Conde delighted in her letters, but he thought -that when he had enjoyed the style he had extracted all their richness -and intention, missing (as most readers do) the whole purport of -literature, which is the notation of the heart. Style is but the faintly -contemptible vessel in which the bitter liquid is recommended to the -world. The Marquesa would even have been astonished to learn that her -letters were very good, for such authors live always in the noble -weather of their own minds and those productions which seem remarkable -to us are little better than a day's routine to them. - -This was the old woman who hour by hour would sit upon her balcony, her -odd straw hat casting a purple shadow across her lined and yellow face. -How often as she turned her pages with her gemmed hands, she would ask -herself, almost with amusement, whether the constant pain at her heart -had an organic seat. She wondered whether a subtle doctor cutting -through to that battered throne could at last discover a sign and -lifting his face to the amphitheatre cry out to his students: "This -woman has suffered, and her suffering has left its mark upon the -structure of her heart." This idea had so often visited her that one day -she wrote it into a letter and her daughter scolded her for an -introspective and for making a cult of sorrow. - -[Illustration] - - -The knowledge that she would never be loved in return acted upon her -ideas as a tide acts upon cliffs. Her religious beliefs went first, for -all she could ask of a god, or of immortality, was the gift of a place -where daughters love their mothers; the other attributes of Heaven you -could have for a song. Next she lost her belief in the sincerity of -those about her. She secretly refused to believe that anyone (herself -excepted) loved anyone. All families lived in a wasteful atmosphere of -custom and kissed one another with secret indifference. She saw that the -people of this world moved about in an armour of egotism, drunk with -self-gazing, athirst for compliments, hearing little of what was said to -them, unmoved by the accidents that befell their closest friends, in -dread of all appeals that might interrupt their long communion with -their own desires. These were the sons and daughters of Adam from Cathay -to Peru. And when on the balcony her thoughts reached this turn, her -mouth would contract with shame for she knew that she too sinned and -that though her love for her daughter was vast enough to include all the -colours of love, it was not without a shade of tyranny: she loved her -daughter not for her daughter's sake, but for her own. She longed to -free herself from this ignoble bond; but the passion was too fierce to -cope with. And then on that green balcony a strange warfare would shake -the hideous old lady, a singularly futile struggle against a temptation -to which she would never have the opportunity of succumbing. How could -she rule her daughter when her daughter saw to it that four thousand -miles lay between them? Nevertheless Doña María wrestled with the -ghost of her temptation and was worsted on every occasion. She wanted -her daughter for herself; she wanted to hear her say: "You are the best -of all possible mothers"; she longed to hear her whisper: "Forgive me." - -About two years after her return from Spain there took place a series of -inconspicuous events that had a great deal to tell about the inner life -of the Marquesa. Only the faintest allusion to them occurs in the -Correspondence, but as that is found in Letter XXII which contains other -signs I shall do my best to give a translation and commentary of the -first part of the letter: - -"_Are there no doctors in Spain? Where are those good men from Flanders -that used to help you so? Oh, my treasure, how can we punish you enough -for letting your cold endure so many weeks? Don Vicente, I implore you -to make my child see reason. Angels of Heaven, I implore you to make my -child see reason. Now that you are better, I beg of you, resolve that -when the first warning of a cold comes you will steam yourself well and -go to bed. Here in Peru I am helpless; I can do nothing. Do not be -self-willed, beloved. God bless you. I am enclosing in today's packet -the gum of some tree which the sisters of San Tomás peddle from door to -door. Whether it be of much use I know not. It can do no harm. I am told -that in the convent the silly sisters inhale it so diligently that one -cannot smell the incense at Mass. Whether it be worth anything I know -not; try it._ - -"_Rest easy, my love, I am sending His Mos. Catholic Majesty the perfect -gold chain_." (Her daughter had written her: "_The chain arrived in good -condition and I wore it at the christening of the Infante. His Most -Catholic Majesty was gracious enough to admire it and when I told Him -that you had given it me He sent you His compliments upon your taste. Do -not fail to send Him one as like it as possible; send it at once, by way -of the Chamberlain.") "He need never know that in order to obtain it I -had to walk into a picture. Do you remember that in the sacristy of San -Martín there is a portrait by Velasquez of the Viceroy who founded the -monastery and of his wife and brat? and that his wife is wearing a gold -chain? I resolved that only that chain would do. So one midnight I -slipped into the sacristy, climbed upon the robing-table like a girl of -twelve and walked in. The canvas resisted for a moment, but the painter -himself came forward to lift me through the pigment. I told him that the -most beautiful girl in Spain wished to present the finest gold chain -that could be found to the most gracious king in the world. It was as -simple as that, and there we stood talking, we four, in the gray and -silvery air that makes a Velasquez. Now I keep thinking about a more -golden light; I keep looking at the Palace: I must pass the evening in a -Titian. Would the Viceroy let me?_ - -"_But His Excellency has the gout again. I say 'again' because the -flattery of the court insists that there are times when he is free of -it. This being Saint Mark's day His Excellency started out to visit the -University where twenty-two new doctors were being brought into the -world. He had hardly been carried from his divan to his coach when he -screamed and refused to go any farther. He was carried back to his bed -where he broke a most delicious cigar and sent for the Perichole. And -while we listened to long doctrinal addresses, more or less in Latin, he -heard all about us, more or less in Spanish, from the reddest and -cruellest lips in town_." (Doña María permitted herself this passage, -although she had just read in her daughter's last letter: "_How many -times must I tell you to be more cautious in the things you say in your -letters? They often show signs of having been opened on the journey. -Nothing could be more ill-judged than your remarks on the -you-know-what-I-mean at Cuzco. Such remarks are not funny, even though -Vicente did compliment you upon them in his postscript, and they might -get us into a great deal of trouble with Certain Persons here in Spain. -I continue to be astonished that your indiscretions have not long since -led to your being ordered to retire to your farm_.") - -"_There was a great press at the Exercises and two women fell from the -balcony, but God in His goodness saw that they fell on Doña Merced. All -three are badly hurt, but will be thinking of other things within a -year. The President was speaking at the moment of the accident and being -short-sighted could not imagine what the disturbance of cries and talk -and falling bodies could be about. It was very pleasant to see him -bowing, under the impression that he was being applauded._ - -"_Speaking of the Perichole, and of applause, you should know that -Pepita and I decided to go to the Comedia this evening. The public still -idolizes its Perichole; it even forgives her her years. We are told that -she saves what she can, every morning, by passing alternate pencils of -ice and fire across her cheeks_." (Translation falls especially short of -this conceit which carries the whole flamboyance of the Spanish -language. It was intended as an obsequious flattery of the Condesa, and -was untrue. The great actress was twenty-eight at this time; her cheeks -had the smoothness and polish of dark yellow marble and would certainly -have retained that quality for many years. Apart from the cosmetics -required by her performances the only treatment Camila Perichole -afforded her face was to throw cold water at it twice a day, like a -peasant woman at a horse trough.) "_That curious man they call Uncle Pio -is by her all the time. Don Rubío says that he cannot make out whether -Uncle Pio is her father, her lover, or her son. The Perichole gave a -wonderful performance. Scold me all you like for a provincial ninny, you -have no such actresses in Spain_." And so on. - -It is on this visit to the theatre that further matter hangs. She -decided to go to the Comedia where the Perichole was playing Doña -Leonor in Moreto's _Trampa Adelante_; perhaps some material could be -derived from the visit for her daughter's next letter. She took with her -Pepita, a little girl about whom later we shall learn much. Doña María -had borrowed her from the orphanage connected with the Convent of Santa -María Rosa de las Rosas to be her companion. The Marquesa sat in her -box gazing with flagging attention at the brilliant stage. Between the -acts it was the Perichole's custom to lay aside the courtly rôle and -appear before the curtain to sing a few topical songs. The malicious -actress had seen the Marquesa arrive and presently began improvising -couplets alluding to her appearance, her avarice, her drunkenness, and -even to her daughter's flight from her. The attention of the house was -subtly directed to the old woman and a rising murmur of contempt -accompanied the laughter of the audience. But the Marquesa, deeply moved -by the first two acts of the comedy, scarcely saw the singer and sat -staring before her, thinking about Spain. Camila Perichole became bolder -and the air was electric with the hatred and glee of the crowd. At last -Pepita plucked the Marquesa's sleeve and whispered to her that they -should go. As they left the box the house arose and burst into a roar of -triumph; the Perichole flung herself into a frenzied dance, for she saw -the manager at the back of the hall and knew that her salary had been -increased. But the Marquesa remained unaware of what had taken place; in -fact she was quite pleased, for during the visit she had contrived a few -felicitous phrases, phrases (who knows) that might bring a smile to her -daughter's face and might make her murmur: "Really, my mother is -charming." - -In due time the report reached the Viceroy's ears that one of his -aristocrats had been openly baited in the theatre. He summoned the -Perichole to the Palace and ordered her to call upon the Marquesa and to -apologize. The trip was to be made barefoot and in a black dress. Camila -argued and fought, but all she gained was a pair of shoes. - -The Viceroy had three reasons for insisting. In the first place the -singer had taken liberties with his court. Don Andrés had contrived to -make exile endurable by building up a ceremonial so complicated that it -could be remembered only by a society that had nothing else to think -about. He nursed his little aristocracy and its minute distinctions and -any insult paid to a Marquesa was an insult to His Person. In the second -place, Doña María's son-in-law was an increasingly important personage -in Spain, laden with possibilities of injury to the Viceroy, nay with -the possibility of supplanting him. The Conde Vicente d'Abuirre must not -be vexed, even through his half-wit mother-in-law. Finally, the Viceroy -was delighted to humble the actress. He suspected that she was deceiving -him with a matador, perhaps with an actor,--between the flattery of the -court and the inertia of gout he could not quite make out who it was; at -all events, it was clear that the singer was beginning to forget that he -was one of the first men in the world. - -The Marquesa, beside not having heard the scurrilous songs, was in other -ways unprepared for the actress's visit. You should know that after the -departure of her daughter, Doña María had lighted upon a certain -consolation: she had taken to drinking. Everyone drank _chicha_ in Peru -and there was no particular disgrace in being found unconscious on a -feast day. Doña María had begun to discover that her feverish -monologues had a way of keeping her awake all night. Once she took a -delicate fluted glassful of _chicha_ on retiring. Oblivion was so sweet -that presently she stole larger amounts and tried dissimulating their -effects from Pepita; she hinted that she was not well, and represented -herself as going into a decline. At last she resigned all pretense. The -boats that carried her letter to Spain did not leave oftener than once a -month. During the week that preceded the making of the packet she -observed a strict regimen and cultivated the city assiduously for -material. At last on the eve of the post she wrote the letter, making up -the bundle towards dawn and leaving it for Pepita to deliver to the -agent. Then as the sun rose she would shut herself up in her room with -some flagons and drift through the next few weeks without the burden of -consciousness. Finally she would emerge from her happiness and prepare -to go into a state of "training" in preparation for the writing of -another letter. - -Thus on the night following the scandal in the theatre she wrote Letter -XXII and retired to bed with a carafe. All next day Pepita moved about -the room, glancing anxiously at the figure on the bed. The next -afternoon Pepita brought her needlework into the room. The Marquesa lay -staring at the ceiling with wide-open eyes, talking to herself. Towards -dusk Pepita was called to the door and informed that the Perichole had -come to see the mistress. Pepita remembered the theatre very well and -sent back word angrily that the mistress refused to see her. The man -carried the message to the street door, but returned awestruck with the -news that the Señora Perichole was armed with a letter from the Viceroy -presenting her to the lady. Pepita tiptoed to the bed and started -talking to the Marquesa. The glazed eyes moved to the girl's face. -Pepita shook her gently. With great effort Doña María tried to fix her -mind on what was being said to her. Twice she lay back, refusing to -seize the meaning, but at last, like a general calling together in a -rain and by night the dispersed division of his army she assembled -memory and attention and a few other faculties and painfully pressing -her hand to her forehead she asked for a bowl of snow. When it was -brought her, she long and drowsily pressed handfuls of it against her -temples and cheeks; then rising she stood for a long time leaning -against the bed and looking at her shoes. At last she raised her head -with decision, she called for her fur-trimmed cloak and a veil. She put -them on and tottered into her handsomest reception room where the -actress stood waiting for her. - -Camila had intended to be perfunctory and if possible impudent, but now -she was struck for the first time with the dignity of the old woman. The -mercer's daughter could carry herself at times with all the distinction -of the Montemayors and when she was drunk she wore the grandeur of -Hecuba. For Camila the half-closed eyes had the air of weary authority -and she began almost timidly: - -"I come, señora, to make sure that you could not have misunderstood -anything I said on the evening that Your Grace did me the honour to -visit my theatre." - -"Misunderstood? Misunderstood?" said the Marquesa. - -"Your Grace might have misunderstood and thought that my words were -intended to be disrespectful to Your Grace." - -"To me?" - -"Your Grace is not offended at her humble servant? Your Grace is aware -that a poor actress in my position may be carried beyond her -intentions ... that it is very difficult ... that everything...." - -"How can I be offended, señora? All that I can remember is that you -gave a beautiful performance. You are a great artist. You should be -happy, happy. My handkerchief, Pepita...." - -The Marquesa brought out these words very rapidly and vaguely, but the -Perichole was confounded. A piercing sense of shame filled her. She -turned crimson. At last she was able to murmur: - -"It was in the songs between the acts of the comedy. I was afraid Your -Grace ..." - -"Yes, yes. I remember now. I left early. Pepita, we left early, did we -not? But, señora, you are good enough to forgive my leaving early, yes, -even in the middle of your admirable performance. I forget why we left. -Pepita ... oh, some indisposition...." - -It was impossible that anyone in the theatre could have missed the -intention of the songs. Camila could only assume that the Marquesa, out -of a sort of fantastic magnanimity, was playing the farce of not having -noticed it. She was almost in tears: "But you are so good to overlook my -childishness, señora,--I mean Your Grace. I did not know. I did not -know your goodness, señora, permit me to kiss your hand." - -Doña María held out her hand astonished. She had not for a long time -been addressed with such consideration. Her neighbors, her tradespeople, -her servants--for even Pepita lived in awe of her,--her very daughter -had never approached her thus. It induced a new mood in her; one that -must very likely be called maudlin. She became loquacious: - -"Offended, offended at you, my beautiful, ... my gifted child? Who am I, -a ... an unwise and unloved old woman, to be offended at you? I felt, my -daughter, as though I were--what says the poet?--_surprising through a -cloud the conversation of the angels_. Your voice kept finding new -wonders in our Moreto. When you said: - - - '_Don Juan, si mi amor estimas, - Y la fe segura es necia, - Enojarte mis temores - Es no querarme discreta. - ¿Tan seguros_....' - - -and so on,--that was true! And what a gesture you made at the close of -the First Day. There, with your hand so. Such a gesture as the Virgin -made, saying to Gabriel: _How is it possible that I shall have a child_? -No, no, you will begin to have resentment at me, for I am going to tell -you about a gesture that you may remember to use some day. Yes, it would -fit well into that scene where you forgive your Don Juan de Lara. -Perhaps I should tell you that I saw it made one day by my daughter. My -daughter is a very beautiful woman ... everyone thinks. Did ... did you -know my Doña Clara, Señora?" - -"Her Grace often did me the honour of visiting my theatre. I knew the -Condesa well by sight." - -"Do not remain so, on one knee, my child.--Pepita, tell Jenarito to -bring this lady some sweet-cakes at once. Think, one day we fell out, I -forget over what. Oh, there is nothing strange in that; all we mothers -from time to time.... Look, can you come a little closer? You must not -believe the town that says she was unkind to me. You are a great woman -with a beautiful nature and you can see further than the crowd sees in -these matters.--It is a pleasure to talk to you. What beautiful hair you -have! What beautiful hair!--She had not a warm impulsive nature, I know -that. But, oh, my child, she has such a store of intelligence and -graciousness. Any misunderstandings between us are so plainly my fault; -is it not wonderful that she is so quick to forgive me? This day there -fell one of those little moments. We both said hasty things and went off -to our rooms. Then each turned back to be forgiven. Finally only a door -separated us and there we were pulling it in contrary ways. But at last -she ... took my ... face ... thus, in her two white hands. So! Look!" - -The Marquesa almost fell out of her chair as she leaned forward, her -face streaming with happy tears, and made the beatific gesture. I should -say the mythical gesture, for the incident was but a recurring dream. - -"I am glad you are here," she continued, "for now you have heard from my -own lips that she is not unkind to me, as some people say. Listen, -señora, the fault was mine. Look at me. Look at me. There was some -mistake that made me the mother of so beautiful a girl. I am difficult. -I am trying. You and she are great women. No, do not stop me: you are -rare women, and I am only a nervous ... a foolish ... a stupid woman. -Let me kiss your feet. I am impossible. I am impossible. I am -impossible." - -Here indeed the old woman did fall out of her chair and was gathered up -by Pepita and led back to her bed. The Perichole walked home in -consternation and sat for a long time gazing into her eyes in the -mirror, her palms pressed against her cheeks. - -But the person who saw most of the difficult hours of the Marquesa was -her little companion, Pepita. Pepita was an orphan and had been brought -up by that strange genius of Lima, the Abbess Madre María del Pilar. -The only occasion upon which the two great women of Peru (as the -perspective of history was to reveal them) met face to face was on the -day when Doña María called upon the directress of the Convent of Santa -María Rosa de las Rosas and asked if she might borrow some bright girl -from the orphanage to be her companion. The Abbess gazed hard at the -grotesque old woman. Even the wisest people in the world are not -perfectly wise and Madre María del Pilar who was able to divine the -poor human heart behind all the masks of folly and defiance, had always -refused to concede one to the Marquesa de Montemayor. She asked her a -great many questions and then paused to think. She wanted to give Pepita -the worldly experience of living in the palace. She also wanted to bend -the old woman to her own interests. And she was filled with a sombre -indignation, for she knew she was gazing at one of the richest women in -Peru, and the blindest. - -She was one of those persons who have allowed their lives to be gnawed -away because they have fallen in love with an idea several centuries -before its appointed appearance in the history of civilization. She -hurled herself against the obstinacy of her time in her desire to attach -a little dignity to women. At midnight when she had finished adding up -the accounts of the House she would fall into insane vision of an age -when women could be organized to protect women, women travelling, women -as servants, women when they are old or ill, the women she had -discovered in the mines of Potosi, or in the workrooms of the -cloth-merchants, the girls she had collected out of doorways on rainy -nights. But always the next morning she had to face the fact that the -women in Peru, even her nuns, went through life with two notions: one, -that all the misfortunes that might befall them were merely due to the -fact that they were not sufficiently attractive to bind some man to -their maintenance and, two, that all the misery in the world was worth -his caress. She had never known any country but the environs of Lima and -she assumed that all its corruption was the normal state of mankind. -Looking back from our century we can see the whole folly of her hope. -Twenty such women would have failed to make any impression on that age. -Yet she continued diligently in her task. She resembled the swallow in -the fable who once every thousand years transferred a grain of wheat, in -the hope of rearing a mountain to reach the moon. Such persons are -raised up in every age; they obstinately insist on transporting their -grains of wheat and they derive a certain exhilaration from the sneers -of the bystanders. "How queerly they dress!" we cry. "How queerly they -dress!" - -Her plain red face had great kindliness, and more idealism than -kindliness, and more generalship than idealism. All her work, her -hospitals, her orphanage, her convent, her sudden journeys of rescue, -depended upon money. No one harbored a fairer admiration for mere -goodness, but she had been obliged to watch herself sacrificing her -kindliness, almost her idealism, to generalship, so dreadful were the -struggles to obtain her subsidies from her superiors in the church. The -Archbishop of Lima, whom we shall know later in a more graceful -connection, hated her with what he called a Vatinian hate and counted -the cessation of her visits among the compensations for dying. - -Lately she had felt not only the breath of old age against her cheek, -but a graver warning. A chill of terror went through her, not for -herself, but for her work. Who was there in Peru to value the things she -had valued? And rising one day at dawn she had made a rapid journey -through her hospital and convent and orphanage, looking for a soul she -might train to be her successor. She hurried from empty face to empty -face, occasionally pausing more from hope than conviction. In the -courtyard she came upon a company of girls at work over the linen and -her eyes fell at once upon a girl of twelve who was directing the others -at the trough and at the same time recounting to them with great -dramatic fire the less probable miracles in the life of Saint Rose of -Lima. So it was that the search ended with Pepita. The education for -greatness is difficult enough at any time, but amid the sensibilities -and jealousies of a convent it must be conducted with fantastic -indirection. Pepita was assigned to the most disliked tasks in the -House, but she came to understand all the aspects of its administration. -She accompanied the Abbess on her journeys, even though it was in the -capacity of custodian of the eggs and vegetables. And everywhere, by -surprise, hours would open up in which the Directress suddenly appeared -and talked to her at great length, not only on religious experience, but -on how to manage women and how to plan contagious wards and how to beg -for money. It was a step in this education for greatness that led to -Pepita's arriving one day and entering upon the crazy duties of being -Doña María's companion. For the first two years she merely came for -occasional afternoons, but finally she came to the palace to live. She -never had been taught to expect happiness, and the inconveniences, not -to say terrors, of her new position did not seem to her excessive for a -girl of fourteen. She did not suspect that the Abbess, even there, was -hovering above the house, herself estimating the stresses and watching -for the moment when a burden harms and not strengthens. - -[Illustration] - - -A few of Pepita's trials were physical: for example, the servants in the -house took advantage of Doña María's indisposition; they opened up the -bedrooms of the palace to their relatives; they stole freely. Alone -Pepita stood out against them and suffered a persecution of small -discomforts and practical jokes. Her mind, similarly, had its -distresses: when she accompanied Doña María on her errands in the -city, the older woman would be seized with the desire to dash into a -church, for what she had lost of religion as faith she had replaced with -religion as magic. "Stay here in the sunlight, my dear child; I shall -not be long," she would say. Doña María would then forget herself in a -reverie before the altar and leave the church by another door. Pepita -had been brought up by Madre María del Pilar to an almost morbid -obedience and when after many hours she ventured into the church and -made sure that her mistress was no longer there, still she returned to -the street-corner and waited while the shadows fell gradually across the -square. Thus waiting in public she suffered all the torture of a little -girl's self-consciousness. She still wore the uniform of the orphanage -(which a minute's thoughtfulness on the part of Doña María could have -altered) and she suffered hallucinations wherein men seemed to be -staring at her and whispering--nor were these always hallucinations. No -less her heart suffered, for on some days Doña María would suddenly -become aware of her and would talk to her cordially and humorously, -would let appear for a few hours all the exquisite sensibility of the -Letters; then, on the morrow she would withdraw into herself again and, -while never harsh, would become impersonal and unseeing. The beginnings -of hope and affection that Pepita had such need to expend would be -wounded. She tiptoed about the palace, silent, bewildered, clinging only -to her sense of duty and her loyalty to her "mother in the Lord," Madre -María del Pilar, who had sent her there. - - * * * * * * * - -Finally a new fact appeared that was to have considerable effect on the -lives of both the Marquesa and her companion: "_My dear mother_," wrote -the Condesa, "_the weather has been most exhausting and the fact that -the orchards and gardens are in bloom only makes it the more trying. I -could endure flowers if only they had no perfume. I shall therefore ask -your permission to write you at less length than usual. If Vicente -returns before the post leaves he will be delighted to finish out the -leaf and supply you with those tiresome details about myself which you -seem to enjoy so. I shall not go to Grignan in Provence as I expected -this Fall, as child will be born in early October_." - -What child? The Marquesa leaned against the wall. Doña Clara had -foreseen the exhausting importunities that this news would waken in her -mother and had sought to mitigate them by the casualness of her -announcement. The ruse did not succeed. The famous Letter XLII was the -answer. - -Now at length the Marquesa had something to be anxious about: her -daughter was to become a mother. This event, which merely bored Doña -Clara, discovered a whole new scale of emotions in the Marquesa. She -became a mine of medical knowledge and suggestion. She combed the city -for wise old women and poured into her letters the whole folk-wisdom of -the New World. She fell into the most abominable superstition. She -practiced a degrading system of taboos for her child's protection. She -refused to allow a knot in the house. The maids were forbidden to tie up -their hair and she concealed upon her person ridiculous symbols of a -happy delivery. On the stairs the even steps were marked with red chalk -and a maid who accidentally stepped upon an even step was driven from -the house with tears and screams. Doña Clara was in the hands of -malignant Nature who reserves the right to inflict upon her children the -most terrifying jests. There was an etiquette of propitiation which -generations of peasant women had found comforting. So vast an army of -witnesses surely implied that there was some truth in it. At least it -could do no harm, and Perhaps it did good. But the Marquesa did not only -satisfy the rites of paganism; she studied the prescriptions of -Christianity as well. She arose in the dark and stumbled through the -streets to the earliest Masses. She hysterically hugged the altar-rails -trying to rend from the gaudy statuettes a sign, only a sign, the ghost -of a smile, the furtive nod of a waxen head. Would all be well? Sweet, -sweet Mother, would all be well? - -At times, after a day's frantic resort to such invocations, a revulsion -would sweep over her. Nature is deaf. God is indifferent. Nothing in -man's power can alter the course of law. Then on some street-corner she -would stop, dizzy with despair, and leaning against a wall would long to -be taken from a world that had no plan in it. But soon a belief in the -great Perhaps would surge up from the depths of her nature and she would -fairly run home to renew the candles above her daughter's bed. - -At last the time came to satisfy the supreme rite of Peruvian households -looking forward to this event: she made the pilgrimage to the shrine of -Santa María de Cluxambuqua. If there resided any efficacy in devotion -at all, surely it lay in a visit to this great shrine. The ground had -been holy through three religions; even before the Incan civilization -distraught human beings had hugged the rocks and lashed themselves with -whips to wring their will from the skies. Thither the Marquesa was -carried in her chair, crossing the bridge of San Luis Rey and ascending -up into the hills toward that city of large-girdled women, a tranquil -town, slow-moving and slow-smiling; a city of crystal air, cold as the -springs that fed its many fountains; a city of bells, soft and musical, -and tuned to carry on with one another the happiest quarrels. If -anything turned out for disappointment in the town of Cluxambuqua the -grief was somehow assimilated by the overwhelming immanence of the Andes -and by the weather of quiet joy that flowed in and about the -side-streets. No sooner did the Marquesa see from a distance the white -walls of this town perched on the knees of the highest peaks than her -fingers ceased turning the beads and the busy prayers of her fright were -cut short on her lips. - -She did not even alight at the inn, but leaving Pepita to arrange for -their stay she went on to the church and knelt for a long time patting -her hands softly together. She was listening to the new tide of -resignation that was rising within her. Perhaps she would learn in time -to permit both her daughter and her gods to govern their own affairs. -She was not annoyed by the whispering of the old women in padded -garments who sold candles and medals and talked about money from dawn to -dark. She was not even distracted by an officious sacristan who tried to -collect a fee for something or other and who, from spite, made her -change her place under the pretext of repairing a tile on the floor. -Presently she went out into the sunshine and sat on the steps of the -fountain. She watched the little processions of invalids slowly -revolving about the gardens. She watched three hawks plunging about the -sky. The children who had been playing by the fountain stared at her for -a moment, and went away alarmed, but a llama (a lady with a long neck -and sweet shallow eyes, burdened down by a fur cape too heavy for her -and picking her way delicately down an interminable staircase) came over -and offered her a velvet cleft nose to stroke. The llama is deeply -interested in the men about her, is even fond of pretending that she too -is one of them and of inserting her head into their conversations as -though in a moment she would lift her voice and contribute a wan and -helpful comment. Soon Doña María was surrounded by a number of these -sisters who seemed on the point of asking her why she clapped her hands -so and how much her veiling cost a yard. - -Doña María had arranged that any letters arriving from Spain should be -brought to her at once by a special messenger. She had travelled slowly -from Lima and even now as she sat in the square a boy from her farm ran -up and put into her hand a large packet wrapped in parchment and -dangling some nuggets of sealing-wax. Slowly she undid the wrappings. -With measured stoic gestures she read first an affectionate and jocose -note from her son-in-law; then her daughter's letter. It was full of -wounding remarks rather brilliantly said, perhaps said for the sheer -virtuosity of giving pain neatly. Each of its phrases found its way -through the eyes of the Marquesa, then, carefully wrapped in -understanding and forgiveness it sank into her heart. At last she arose, -gently dispersed the sympathetic llamas, and with a grave face returned -to the shrine. - -While Doña María was passing the late afternoon in the Church and in -the Square, Pepita was left to prepare their lodging. She showed the -porters where to lay down the great wicker hampers and set about -unpacking the altar, the brazier, the tapestries and the portraits of -Doña Clara. She descended into the kitchen and gave the cook exact -instructions as to the preparations of a certain porridge upon which the -Marquesa principally subsisted. Then she returned to the rooms and -waited. She resolved to write a letter to the Abbess. She hung for a -long time over the quill, staring into the distance with trembling lip. -She saw the face of Madre María del Pilar, so red and scrubbed, and the -wonderful black eyes. She heard her voice as at the close of supper (the -orphans sitting with lowered eyes and folded hands) she commented on the -events of the day, or as, by candlelight, she stood among the beds of the -hospital and announced the theme for meditation during the night. But -most clearly of all Pepita remembered the sudden interviews when the -Abbess (not daring to wait until the girl was older) had discussed with -her the duties of her office. She had talked to Pepita as to an equal. -Such speech is troubling and wonderful to an intelligent child and Madre -María del Pilar had abused it. She had expanded Pepita's vision of how -she should feel and act beyond the measure of her years. And she had -unthinkingly turned upon Pepita the full blaze of her personality, as -Jupiter had turned his upon Semele. Pepita was frightened by her sense -of insufficiency; she hid it and wept. And then the Abbess had cast the -child into the discipline of this long solitude, where Pepita struggled, -refusing to let herself believe that she had been abandoned. And now -from this strange inn in these strange mountains, where the altitude was -making her lightheaded, Pepita longed for the dear presence, the only -real thing in her life. - -[Illustration] - -She wrote a letter, all inkstains and incoherence. Then she went -downstairs to see about fresh charcoal and to taste the porridge. - -The Marquesa came in and sat down at the table. "I can do no more. What -will be, will be," she whispered. She unbound from her neck the amulets -of her superstition and dropped them into the glowing brazier. She had a -strange sense of having antagonized God by too much prayer and so -addressed Him now obliquely. "After all it is in the hands of another. I -no longer claim the least influence. What will be, will be." She sat for -a long time, her palms against her cheeks, making a blank of her mind. -Her eyes fell on Pepita's letter. She opened it mechanically and started -to read. She had read a full half of it before her attention was aware -of the meaning of the words: "... _but all this is nothing if you like -me and wish me to stay with her. I oughtn't to tell you but every now -and then the bad chambermaids lock me up in rooms and steal things and -perhaps My Lady will think that I steal them. I hope not. I hope you are -well and not having any trouble in the hospital or anywhere. Though I -never see you I think of you all the time and I remember what you told -me, my dear mother in God. I want to do only what you want, but if you -could let me come back for a few days to the convent, but not if you do -not wish it. But I am so much alone and not talking to anyone, and -everything. Sometimes I do not know whether you have forgotten me and if -you could find a minute to write me a little letter or something, I -could keep it, but I know how busy you are_...." - -Doña María read no further. She folded the letter and put it aside. -For a moment she was filled with envy: she longed to command another's -soul as completely as this nun was able to do. Most of all she longed to -be back in this simplicity of love, to throw off the burden of pride and -vanity that hers had always carried. To quiet the tumult in her mind she -picked up a book of devotion and tried to fix her attention upon the -words. But after a moment she suddenly felt the need to reread the whole -letter, to surprise, if possible, the secret of so much felicity. - -Pepita returned bringing the supper in her hands, followed by a maid. -Doña María watched her over the top of her book as she would have -watched a visitor from Heaven. Pepita tiptoed about the room laying the -table and whispering directions to her assistant. - -"Your supper is ready, My Lady," she said at last. - -"But, my child, you are going to eat with me?" In Lima Pepita generally -sat down at the table with her mistress. - -"I thought you would be tired, My Lady. I had my supper downstairs." - -"She does not wish to eat with me," thought the Marquesa. "She knows me -and has rejected me." - -"Would you like me to read aloud to you while you are eating, My Lady?" -asked Pepita, who felt that she had made a mistake. - -"No. You may go to bed, if you choose." - -"Thank you, My Lady." - -Doña María had risen and approached the table. With one hand on the -back of the chair she said haltingly: "My dear child, I am sending off a -letter to Lima in the morning. If you have one you can enclose it with -mine." - -"No, I have none," said Pepita. She added hastily: "I must go downstairs -and get you the new charcoal." - -"But, my dear, you have one for ... Madre María del Pilar. Wouldn't -you ...?" - -Pepita pretended to be busy over the brazier. "No, I'm not going to send -it," she said. She was aware during the long pause that followed that -the Marquesa was staring at her in stupefaction. "I've changed my mind." - -"I know she would like a letter from you, Pepita. It would make her very -happy. I know." - -Pepita was reddening. She said loudly: "The innkeeper said that there -would be some new charcoal ready for you at dark. I'll tell them to -bring it up now." She glanced hastily at the old woman and saw that she -had not ceased from staring at her with great sad inquiring eyes. Pepita -felt that these were not things one talked about, but the strange woman -seemed to be feeling the matter so strongly that Pepita was willing to -concede one more answer: "No, it was a bad letter. It wasn't a good -letter." - -Doña María fairly gasped. "Why, my dear Pepita, I think it was very -beautiful. Believe me, I know. No, no; what could have made it a bad -letter?" - -Pepita frowned, hunting for a word that would close the matter. - -"It wasn't ... it wasn't ... brave," she said. And then she would say no -more. She carried the letter off into her own room and could be heard -tearing it up. Then she got into bed and lay staring into the darkness, -still uncomfortable at having talked in such a fashion. And Doña María -sat down to her dish amazed. - -She had never brought courage to either life or love. Her eyes -ransacked her heart. She thought of the amulets and of her beads, her -drunkenness ... she thought of her daughter. She remembered the long -relationship, crowded with the wreckage of exhumed conversations, of -fancied slights, of inopportune confidences, of charges of neglect and -exclusion (but she must have been mad that day; she remembered beating upon -the table). "But it's not my fault," she cried. "It's not my fault that I -was so. It was circumstance. It was the way I was brought up. Tomorrow I -begin a new life. Wait and see, oh my child." At I last she cleared away -the table and sitting down wrote what she called her first letter, her -first stumbling misspelled letter in courage. She remembered with shame -that in the previous one she had piteously asked her daughter how much she -loved her, and had greedily quoted the few and hesitant endearments that -Doña Clara had lately ventured to her. Doña María could not recall -those pages, but she could write some new ones, free and generous. No -one else has regarded them as stumbling. It is the famous letter LVI, -known to the Encyclopedists as her Second Corinthians because of its -immortal paragraph about love: "Of the thousands of persons we meet in a -lifetime, my child ..." and so on. It was almost dawn when she finished -the letter. She opened the door upon her balcony and looked at the great -tiers of stars that glittered above the Andes. Throughout the hours of -the night, though there had been few to hear it, the whole sky had been -loud with the singing of these constellations. Then she took a candle -into the next room and looked at Pepita as she slept, and pushed back -the damp hair from the girl's face. "Let me live now," she whispered. -"Let me begin again." - -Two days later they started back to Lima, and while crossing the bridge -of San Luis Rey the accident which we know befell them. - -[Illustration] - - - - -PART THREE: ESTEBAN - - -ONE morning twin boys were discovered in the foundlings' basket before -the door of the Convent of Santa María Rosa de las Rosas. Names were -found for them almost before the arrival of the wet-nurse, but the names -were not as useful to them as our names are to most of us, for no one -ever succeeded in telling the boys apart. There was no way of knowing -who their parents were, but Limean gossips, noticing as the boys grew -older how straight they held themselves and how silent and sombre they -were, declared them to be Castilian and laid them in turn at all sorts -of crested doorways. The person in the world who came nearest to being -their guardian was the Abbess of the Convent. Madre María del Pilar had -come to hate all men, but she grew fond of Manuel and Esteban. In the -late afternoon she would call them into her office, send for some cakes -from the kitchen, and tell them stories about the Cid and Judas -Maccabeus and the thirty-six misfortunes of Harlequin. She grew to love -them so, that she would catch herself gazing deep into their black and -frowning eyes, looking for those traits that would appear when they grew -to be men, all that ugliness, all that soullessness that made hideous -the world she worked in. They grew up about the convent until they were -a little past the age when their presence began to be a slight -distraction to the dedicated sisters. From thence they became vaguely -attached to all the sacristies in town: they trimmed all the cloister -hedges; they polished every possible crucifix; they passed a damp cloth -once a year over most of the ecclesiastical ceilings. All Lima knew them -well. When the priest rushed through the streets carrying his precious -burden into a sickroom either Esteban or Manuel was to be seen striding -behind him, swinging a censer. As they grew older, however, they showed -no desire for the clerical life. They gradually assumed the profession -of the scribe. There were few printing presses in the New World and the -boys soon made a fair living transcribing comedies for the theatre, -ballads for the crowds, and advertisements for the merchants. Above all -they were the copyists of the choirmasters and made endless parts of the -motets of Morales and Vittoria. - -[Illustration] - -Because they had no family, because they were twins, and because they -were brought up by women, they were silent. There was in them a curious -shame in regard to their resemblance. They had to live in a world where -it was the subject of continual comment and joking. It was never funny -to them and they suffered the eternal pleasantries with stolid patience. -From the years when they first learned to speak they invented a secret -language for themselves, one that was scarcely dependent on the Spanish -for its vocabulary, or even for its syntax. They resorted to it only -when they were alone, or at great intervals in moments of stress -whispered it in the presence of others. The Archbishop of Lima was -something of a philologist; he dabbled in dialects; he had even evolved -quite a brilliant table for the vowel and consonant changes from Latin -into Spanish and from Spanish into Indian-Spanish. He was storing up -notebooks of quaint lore against an amusing old age he planned to offer -himself back on his estates outside Segovia. So when he heard one day -about the secret language of the twin brothers, he trimmed some quills -and sent for them. The boys stood humiliated upon the rich carpets of -his study while he tried to extract from them their _bread_ and _tree_ -and their _I see_ and _I saw_. They did not know why the experience was -I so horrible to them. They bled. Long shocked silences followed each of -the Archbishop's questions, until finally one or the other mumbled an -answer. The priest thought for a while that they were merely in awe -before his rank and before the luxury of his apartment, but at last, -much perplexed, he divined the presence of some deeper reluctance and -sadly let them go. - -This language was the symbol of their profound identity with one -another, for just as resignation was a word insufficient to describe the -spiritual change that came over the Marquesa de Montemayor on that night -in the inn at Cluxambuqua, so _love_ is inadequate to describe the tacit -almost ashamed oneness of these brothers. What relationship is it in -which few words are exchanged, and those only about the details of food, -clothing and occupation; in which the two persons have a curious -reluctance even to glance at one another; and in which there is a tacit -arrangement not to appear together in the city and to go on the same -errand by different streets? And yet side by side with this there -existed a need of one another so terrible that it produced miracles as -naturally as the charged air of a sultry day produces lightning. The -brothers were scarcely aware of it themselves, but telepathy was a -common occurrence in their lives, and when one returned home the other -was always aware of it when his brother was still several streets away. - -Suddenly they discovered that they were tired of writing. They went down -to the sea and found an occupation in loading and unloading vessels, not -ashamed of working side by side with Indians. They drove teams across -the provinces. They picked fruit. They were ferrymen. And always they -were silent. Their sombre faces took on from these labors a male and -gypsy cast. Their hair was seldom cut and under the dark mat their eyes -looked up suddenly surprised and a little sullen. All the world was -remote and strange and hostile except one's brother. - -But at last the first shadow fell across this unity and the shadow was -cast by the love of women. They had returned to the city and resumed the -copying of parts for the theatre. One night the manager, foreseeing a -thinning house, gave them a free admission. The boys did not like what -they found there. Even speech was for them a debased form of silence; -how much more futile is poetry which is a debased form of speech. All -those allusions to honour, reputation, and the flame of love, all the -metaphors about birds, Achilles and the jewels of Ceylon were fatiguing. -In the presence of literature they had the same darkling intelligence -that stirs for a time behind the eyes of a dog, but they sat on -patiently, gazing at the bright candles and the rich clothes. Between -the acts of the comedy the Perichole stepped out of her rôle, put on -twelve petticoats and danced before the curtain. Esteban had some -copying still to do, or pretended so, and went home early; but Manuel -stayed on. The red stockings and shoes of the Perichole had made their -impression. - -Both brothers had fetched and carried their manuscripts up and down the -dusty stairs behind the stage. There they had seen an irritable girl in -a soiled bodice mending her stockings before a mirror while her stage -director read aloud her lines for memorization. She had let fall upon -the boys for a moment the detonation of her amazing eyes, immediately -dissipated in her amused recognition that they were twins. Forthwith she -had dragged them into the room and placed them side by side. Carefully, -amusedly and remorselessly she had peered into every square inch of -their faces, until finally laying one hand on Esteban's shoulder she had -cried out: "This one is the younger!" That had been several years before -and neither brother had thought of the episode again. - -Henceforth all Manuel's errands seemed to lead him past the theatre. -Late at night he would drift about among the trees beneath her -dressing-room window. It was not the first time that Manuel had been -fascinated by a woman (both brothers had possessed women, and often, -especially during their years at the waterfront; but simply, latinly), -but it was the first time that his will and imagination had been thus -overwhelmed. He had lost that privilege of simple nature, the -dissociation of love and pleasure. Pleasure was no longer as simple as -eating; it was being complicated by love. Now was beginning that crazy -loss of one's self, that neglect of everything but one's dramatic -thoughts about the beloved, that feverish inner life all turning upon -the Perichole and which would so have astonished and disgusted her had -she been permitted to divine it. This Manuel had not fallen in love -through any imitation of literature. It was not of him, at all events, -that the bitterest tongue in France had remarked only fifty years -before: that many people would never have fallen in love if they had not -heard about it. Manuel read little; he had only been once to the theatre -(where above all there reigns the legend that love is a devotion) and -the Peruvian tavern-songs that he might have heard, unlike those of -Spain, reflected very little of the romantic cult of an idealized woman. -When he said over to himself that she was beautiful and rich and -fatiguingly witty and the Viceroy's mistress, none of these attributes -that made her less obtainable had the power to quench his curious and -tender excitement. So he leaned against the trees in the dark, his -knuckles between his teeth, and listened to his loud heart-beats. - -But the life that Esteban was leading had been full enough for him. -There was no room in his imagination for a new loyalty, not because his -heart was less large than Manuel's, but because it was of a simpler -texture. Now he discovered that secret from which one never quite -recovers, that even in the most perfect love one person loves less -profoundly than the other. There may be two equally good, equally -gifted, equally beautiful, but there may never be two that love one -another equally well. So Esteban sat up in their room by a guttering -candle, his knuckles between his teeth, and wondered why Manuel was so -changed and why the whole meaning had gone out of their life. - -One evening Manuel was stopped on the street by a small boy who -announced to him that the Perichole wished him to call upon her at once. -Manuel turned in his path and went to the theatre. Straight, sombre and -impersonal, he entered the actress's room and stood waiting. Camila had -a service to ask of Manuel and she thought a few preliminary -blandishments were necessary, but she scarcely paused in combing a blond -wig that was dressed upon the table before her. - -"You write letters for people, don't you? I want you to write a letter -for me, please. Please come in." - -He came forward two steps. - -"You never pay me the least visit either of you. That's not Spanish of -you."--meaning 'courteous.'--"Which are you, Manuel or Esteban?" - -"Manuel." - -"It doesn't matter. You are both unfriendly. Neither of you ever comes -to see me. Here I sit learning stupid lines all day and no one ever -comes to see me but a lot of peddlers. It is because I am an actress, -no?" - -This was not very artful, but for Manuel it was unspeakably complicated. -He merely stared at her from the shadows of his long hair and left her -to improvise. - -"I am going to engage you to write a letter for me, a very secret -letter. But now I can see that you don't like me and that to ask you to -write a letter would be as good as reading it aloud in all the -wine-shops. What does that look mean, Manuel? Are you my friend?" - -"Yes, señora." - -"Go away. Send me Esteban. You do not even say _Yes, señora_ as a -friend would say it." - -Long pause. Presently she raised her head: "Are you still there, -Unfriendly?" - -"Yes, señora ... you can trust me to do anything for you ... you can -trust ..." - -"If I ask you to write one letter for me, or two letters, you promise -never to mention to a human being what is in them, or even that you -wrote them?" - -"Yes, señora." - -"What do you promise by?--by the Virgin Mary?" - -"Yes, señora." - -"And by the heart of Saint Rose of Lima?" - -"Yes, señora." - -"Name of the Name, Manuel, anyone would think you were as stupid as an -ox. Manuel, I am very angry with you. You are not stupid. You don't look -stupid. Please don't say just _Yes, señora_ again. Don't be stupid or -I'll send for Esteban. Is anything the matter with you?" - -Here Manuel cast himself upon the Spanish language and exclaimed with -unnecessary vigor: "I swear by the Virgin Mary and the heart of St. Rose -of Lima that all that has to do with the letter will be secret." - -"Even from Esteban," prompted the Perichole. - -"Even from Esteban." - -"Well, that's better." She motioned him to sit down at a table where -writing materials were already laid out. As she dictated she strode -about the room, frowning, swinging her hips. With her arms akimbo, she -hugged her shawl about her shoulders defiantly. - -"_Camila Perichole kisses the hands of Your Excellency and says_--No, -take another piece of paper and begin again. _The señora Micaela -Villegas, artist, kisses the hands of Your Excellency and says that, -being the victim of the envious and lying friends that Y. E.'s goodness -permits about Him, she can no longer endure Y. E.'s suspicions and -jealousy. Y. E.'s servant has always valued Y. E.'s friendship and has -never committed, nor even thought, an offense against it, but she can no -longer fight against the calumnies that Y. E. believes so readily. -Señora Villegas, artist, called the Perichole, therefore returns -herewith such of Y. E.'s gifts as have not been placed beyond recall, -since without Y. E.'s confidence, Y. E.'s servant can take no pleasure -in them_." - -Camila continued walking about the room for several minutes, consumed by -her thoughts. Presently without so much as glancing at her secretary, -she commanded: "Take another leaf. _Have you gone mad? Do not ever think -of eating another bull to me again. It has caused a frightful war. -Heaven protect you, my colt. Friday night, the same place, the same -time. I may be a little late, for the fox is wide-awake_. That will be -all." - -Manuel rose. - -"You swear that you have made no errors?" - -"Yes, I swear." - -"There is your money." - -Manuel took the money. - -"I shall want you to write me more letters from time to time. My uncle -Pio generally writes my letters; these I do not wish him to know about. -Good night. Go with God." - -"Go with God." - -Manuel descended the stairs and stood for a long time among the trees, -not thinking, not moving. - -Esteban knew that his brother was continually brooding over the -Perichole, but he never suspected that he saw her. From time to time -during the next two months a small boy would approach him in great haste -and ask whether he were Manuel or Esteban, and being informed that he -was only Esteban, the boy would add that Manuel was wanted at the -theatre. Esteban assumed that the call was for copyist's work and was -therefore utterly unprepared for a visit that they received one night in -their room. - -It was almost midnight. Esteban had gone to bed, and lay gazing out from -under the blanket at the candle beside which his brother was working. -There was a light tap at the door and Manuel opened to admit a lady -heavily veiled, out of breath and nervous. She threw back the scarf from -her face and said hurriedly: - -"Quick, ink and paper. You are Manuel, yes? You must do a letter for me -at once." - -For a moment her glance fell on the two bright eyes that glared at her -from the edge of the cot. She murmured: "Eu ... you must excuse me. I -know it is late. It was necessary ... I must come." Then turning to -Manuel, she whispered into his ear: "Write this: _I Perichole, am not -accustomed to wait at a rendez-vous_. Have you finished that? _You are -only a cholo, and there are better matadors than you, even in Lima. I am -half Castilian and there are no better actresses in the world. You shall -not have the opportunity_--Have you got that?--_to keep me waiting -again, cholo, and I shall laugh the last, for even an actress does not -grow old as fast as a bullfighter_." - -To Esteban in the shadows the picture of Camila leaning over his -brother's hand and whispering into his ear was complete evidence that a -new congeniality had formed such as he would never know. He seemed to -shrink away into space, infinitely tiny, infinitely unwanted. He took -one more glance at the tableau of love, all the paradise from which he -was shut out, and turned his face to the wall. - -Camila seized the note the moment it was done, pushed a coin along the -table and in a last flurry of black lace, scarlet beads and excited -whispers left the room. Manuel turned from the door with his candle. He -sat down, put his hand over his ears, his elbows on his knees. He -worshipped her. He murmured to himself over and over again that he -worshipped her, making of the sound a sort of incantation and an -obstacle to thought. - -He emptied his mind of everything but a singsong, and it was this -vacancy that permitted him to become aware of Esteban's mood. He seemed -to hear a voice that proceeded from the shadows saying: "Go and follow -her, Manuel. Don't stay here. You'll be happy. There's room for us all -in the world." Then the realization became even more intense and he -received a mental image of Esteban going a long way off and saying -good-bye many times as he went. He was filled with terror; by the light -of it he saw that all the other attachments in the world were shadows, -or the illusions of fever, even Madre María del Pilar, even the -Perichole. He could not understand why Esteban's misery should present -itself as demanding a choice between him and the Perichole, but he could -understand Esteban's misery, as misery. And at once he sacrificed -everything to it, if it can be said we ever sacrifice anything save what -we know we can never attain, or what some secret wisdom tells us it -would be uncomfortable or saddening to possess. To be sure there was -nothing on which Esteban could base a complaint. It was not jealousy, -for in their earlier affairs it had never occurred to either of them -that their loyalty to one another had been diminished. It was merely -that in the heart of one of them there was left room for an elaborate -imaginative attachment and in the heart of the other there was not. -Manuel could not quite understand this and, as we shall see, he -nourished a dim sense of being accused unjustly. But he did understand -that Esteban was suffering. In his excitement he groped for a means of -holding this brother who seemed to be receding into the distance. And at -once, in one unhesitating stroke of the will, he removed the Perichole -from his heart. - -He blew out the candle and lay down on his bed. He was trembling. He -said aloud with exaggerated casualness: "Well, that's the last letter I -write for that woman. She can go and find a pander somewhere else. If -ever she calls here or sends for me when I'm out, tell her so. Make it -plain. That's the last I have to do with her," and with that he began -reciting his evening psalm aloud. But he had hardly reached _A sagitta -volante in die_ when he became aware that Esteban had risen and was -lighting the candle. - -"What's the matter?" he asked. - -"I'm going out for a walk," replied Esteban sombrely, fastening his -belt. After a moment, he broke out with an assumption of anger: "You -don't have to say ... what you just said, for me. I don't care whether -you write her letters or not. You don't have to change for me. I haven't -anything to do with that." - -"Go to bed, you fool. God, you're a fool, Esteban. What made you think I -said that, for you? Don't you believe I mean it when I say I'm through -with her? Do you think I want to write any more of her dirty letters and -get paid for them like that?" - -"It's all right. You love her. You don't have to change because of me." - -"'_Love_ her?' _Love_ her? You're crazy, Esteban. How could I love -her? What chance would there be for me? Do you suppose she'd give me -those letters to write if there were any chance? Do you suppose she'd -push a piece of money across the table every time.... You're crazy, -Esteban, that's all." - -There was a long pause. Esteban would not go to bed. He sat by the -candle in the middle of the room, tapping with his hand on the edge of -the table. - -"Go to bed, you fool," shouted Manuel, rising on one elbow under the -blanket. He was talking in their secret language and the new pain at his -heart, gave a greater ring of reality to his assumption of rage. "I'm -all right." - -"I won't. I'm going out for a walk," replied Esteban picking up his -coat. - -[Illustration] - -"You can't go out for a walk. It's two o'clock. It's raining. You can't -go and walk about for hours like that. Look, Esteban, I swear to you -there's nothing left to all that. I don't love her. I only did for a -time." - -By now Esteban stood in the dark of the open door. In the unnatural -voice with which we make the greatest declarations of our lives, he -muttered: "I'm in your way," and turned to go. - -Manuel leapt out of his bed. His head seemed to be full of a great din, -a voice crying out that Esteban was going away forever, was leaving him -alone forever. "In the name of God, in the name of God, Esteban, come -back here." - -Esteban came back and went to bed and the matter was not mentioned again -for many weeks. The very next evening Manuel had an opportunity of -declaring his position. A messenger arrived from the Perichole and was -told harshly to inform the actress that Manuel would write no more -letters for her. - - -One evening Manuel tore open the flesh on his knee against a piece of -metal. - -Neither brother had ever been ill for as much as a day in his life, and -now Manuel, utterly bewildered, watched his leg swell and felt the waves -of pain rise and fall in his body. Esteban sat by and stared at his face -trying to imagine what great pain was. At last one midnight Manuel -remembered that the signboard of a certain hairdresser in the city -described the proprietor as an experienced barber and surgeon. Esteban -ran through the streets to fetch him. He pounded on the door. Presently -a woman leaned out of a window and announced that her husband would be -back in the morning. During the fearful hours that followed, they told -one another that when the doctor had seen the leg all would be well. He -would do something about it, and Manuel would be out around the town in -a day or two, even in a day perhaps, even less than a day. - -The barber arrived and prescribed various draughts and ointments. -Esteban was instructed to lay cold cloths on his brother's leg every -hour. The barber withdrew and the brothers sat down to wait for the pain -to subside. But while they continued staring into one another's face -waiting for the miracle of science the pain grew worse. Hour after hour -Esteban approached with his dripping towel and they discovered that the -moment of its application was the worst of all. With all the fortitude -in the world Manuel could not prevent himself from shouting and from -flinging himself about upon the bed. Night came on and still Esteban -stolidly waited and watched and worked. Nine, ten, eleven. Now when the -time drew near to apply the cloths (the hour struck so musically from -all those towers) Manuel would plead with Esteban not to do his work. He -would resort to guile and declare that he scarcely felt it. But Esteban, -his heart bursting with pain and his lips a line of iron, would roll -back the blanket and bind the towel fiercely in its place. Manuel -gradually became delirious and under this application all the thoughts -he did not permit himself in his right mind would burst magnified from -his mouth. - -Finally at two o'clock, out of his mind with rage and pain, and flinging -himself half out of the bed until his head struck the floor, Manuel -cried: "God condemn your soul to the hottest hell there is. A thousand -devils torture you forever, Esteban. God condemn your soul, do you -hear?" At first, the air gone out of his body, Esteban went out into the -hall and leaned against the door, his mouth and eyes wide open. Still he -heard from within: "Yes, Esteban, may God damn your beastly soul -forever, do you hear that? For coming between me and what was mine by -right. She was mine, do you hear, and what right had you...." and he -would go off into an elaborate description of the Perichole. - -These outbursts recurred hourly. It was some time before Esteban was -able to realize that his brother's mind was not then clear. After some -moments of horror, in which his being a devout believer had its part, he -would return to the room and go about his duties with bent head. - -Towards dawn his brother became serener. (For what human ill does not -dawn seem to be an alleviation?) It was in one of these intervals that -Manuel said quite calmly: - -"God's son! I feel better, Esteban. Those cloths must be good after all. -You'll see. I'll be up and around tomorrow. You haven't slept for days. -You'll see I won't cause you any more trouble, Esteban." - -"It's no trouble, you fool." - -"You mustn't take me seriously when I try and stop you putting on the -old cloths, Esteban." - -A long pause. At last Esteban brought out, barely audible: - -"I think ... don't you think it would be fine if I sent for the -Perichole? She could just come and see you for a few minutes, I -mean...." - -"Her? You still thinking about her? I wouldn't have her here for -anything. No." - -But Esteban was not content yet. He dragged up a few more phrases from -the very centre of his being: - -"Manuel, you still feel, don't you, that I came between you and the -Perichole and you don't remember that I told you it was all right with -me. I swear to you I'd have been glad if you'd gone away with her, or -anything." - -"What are you bringing that up for, Esteban? I tell you, in God's own -name, I never think of that. She's nothing to me. When are you going to -forget that, Esteban? I tell you I'm glad things are as they are. Look, -I got to get angry when you keep going back to that." - -"Manuel, I wouldn't speak of it again, only when you get angry at me -about the cloths ... you, you get angry at me about that, too. And you -talk about it and you ..." - -"Look, I'm not responsible what I say. My old leg hurts then, see." - -"Then you don't damn me to hell because ... it looks like I came between -you and the Perichole?" - -"Damn you to ...? What makes you say that? You're going crazy, Esteban; -you're imagining things. You haven't had any sleep, Esteban. I been a -curse to you and you're losing your health because of me. But you'll -see, I won't trouble you much more. How could I damn you to hell, -Esteban, when you're all I've got? Understand, see, that when the cold -cloths go on, I just lose myself, see. You know. Don't think about it -twice. It's time to put them on now. I won't say a word." - -"No, Manuel, I'll skip this time. It won't do you any harm, I'll just -skip this time." - -"I've got to get well, Esteban. I've got to get up soon, you know. Put -them on. But one minute--give me the crucifix. I swear by the blood and -body of Christ that if I say anything against Esteban, I don't mean it -and it's just the foolish words when I'm dreaming because of the pain in -my leg. God make me well again soon, amen. Put it back. There. Now I'm -ready." - -"Look, Manuel, it won't hurt if I skip just this once, see. It'll be -good for you, sure, to not get it all stirred up just this once." - -"No, I've got to get well. The doctor said it had to be done. I won't -say a word, Esteban." - -And it would begin all over again. - -During the second night a prostitute in the next room started beating on -the wall, outraged at such language. A priest in the room on the other -side would come out into the hall and beat on the door. The whole floor -would gather before the room in exasperation. The innkeeper came up the -stairs, loudly promising his guests that the brothers would be dumped -into the street the very next morning. Esteban, holding his candle, -would go into the hall and permit them to rage at him for as long as -they pleased; but after that he took to pressing his hand firmly over -his brother's mouth during the moments of greatest stress. This -increased Manuel's personal rage at him and he would babble all through -the night. - -On the third night, Esteban sent for the priest and amidst the enormous -shadows Manuel received the sacrament, and died. - -Thereafter Esteban refused to come near the building. He would start off -upon long walks, but presently drifting back, would hang about, staring -at passers-by, within two streets of where his brother lay. The -innkeeper failing to make any impression upon him and remembering that -the boys were brought up at the Convent of Santa María Rosa de las -Rosas, sent for the Abbess. Simply and soundly she directed all that was -to be done. At last she went down to the street corner and spoke to -Esteban. He watched her approach him, a glance mixed of longing and -distrust. But when she stood near him he turned sideways and looked -away. - -"I want you to help me. Won't you come in and see your brother? Won't -you come in and help me?" - -"No." - -"You won't help me!" A long pause. Suddenly as she stood there full of -her helplessness there flashed through her mind an incident of many -years before: the twin brothers about fifteen years old were sitting at -her knee and she was telling them the story of the crucifixion. Their -large grave eyes were fixed upon her lips. Suddenly Manuel had cried out -loudly: "If Esteban and I had been there we would have prevented it." - -"Well, then, if you won't help me, will you tell me which you are?" - -"Manuel," said Esteban. - -"Manuel, won't you come and sit with me up there for just a short time?" - -After a long pause: "No." - -"But Manuel, dear Manuel, can't you remember as children how you did so -many things for me? You were willing to go across the town on some -little errand. When I was ill you made the cook let you bring me my -soup?" Another woman would have said: "Do you remember how much I did -for you?" - -"Yes." - -"I, too, Manuel have lost. I too ... once. We know that God has taken -them into His hands...." But this did not do at all. Esteban turned -vaguely and walked away from her. When he had gone about twenty paces he -stopped and stared down a side-street, like a dog who wants to go away, -but is reluctant to offend the master who calls him back. - -That was all they could get out of him. When the fearful procession -passed through the city, with its black hoods and masks, its candles in -broad daylight, its display of heaped-up skulls, its terrifying psalms, -Esteban followed it in the parallel streets, catching glimpses of it -from a distance, like a savage. - -All Lima was interested in this separation of the brothers. Housewives -whispered together sympathetically about it as they unfurled their -carpets from the balconies. The men in the wineshops, alluding to it, -shook their heads and smoked in silence for a while. Travellers from the -interior told of seeing Esteban as he strayed with eyes like coals along -the dried-up beds of rivers or through the great ruins of the old race. -A herder of llamas had come upon him standing upon a hilltop, asleep or -dazed, wet with dew under the stars. Some fishermen surprised him -swimming far out from shore. From time to time he would find work to do, -he would become a shepherd or a carter, but after a few months he would -disappear and stride from province to province. But he always returned -to Lima. One day he appeared at the door of the Perichole's -dressing-room; he made as though to speak, gazed earnestly at her and -vanished. One day a sister came running into the office of Madre María -del Pilar with the news that Esteban (whom the world called Manuel) was -lingering about the door of the convent. The Abbess hurried out into the -street. For months she had been asking herself what strategy could -reconcile this half-demented boy to living among them again. She -assembled as grave and calm a manner as she was able and appearing at -the street door murmured "My friend" and looked at him. He gazed back at -her with the same glance of longing and distrust that he had shown her -before, and stood trembling. Again she whispered "My friend" and moved a -step forward. Suddenly Esteban turned and breaking into a run -disappeared. Madre María del Pilar rushed stumbling back to her desk -and fell upon her knees, exclaiming angrily: "I have prayed for wisdom -and You have given me none. You have not chosen to give me the least -grace. I am a mere scrubber of floors...." But during the penance she -set herself for this impudence the thought came to her to send for -Captain Alvarado. Three weeks later she had a ten-minute conversation -with him. And the next day he started for Cuzco where, it was said, -Esteban was doing some copying for the University. - -There was this strange and noble figure in Peru during these years, the -Captain Alvarado, the traveller. He was blackened and cured by all -weathers. He stood in the Square with feet apart as though they were -planted on a shifting deck. His eyes were strange, unaccustomed to the -shorter range, too used to seizing the appearances of a constellation -between a cloud and a cloud, and the outline of a cape in rain. His -reticence was sufficiently explained for most of us by his voyages, but -the Marquesa de Montemayor had other light on the matter. "_Captain -Alvarado is bringing you this letter in person_," she wrote to her -daughter. "_Introduce him to some of your geographers, my treasure, -though it may make them a little uncomfortable, for he is the diamond of -sincerity. They will never see anyone who has travelled so far. Last -night he described to me some of his voyages. Imagine him pushing his -prow through a sea of weeds, stirring up a cloud of fish like -grasshoppers in June; or sailing between islands of ice. Oh, he has been -to China and up the rivers of Africa. But he is not merely an adventurer -and he seems to take no pride in discovering new places; nor is he a -mere merchant. One day I asked him narrowly why he lived so, and he -avoided my question. I found out from my laundress what I think is the -reason of his wandering: My child, he had a child; my daughter, he had a -daughter. She was just old enough to cook a holiday meal, and do a -little sewing for him. In those days he merely sailed between Mexico and -Peru and hundreds of times she waved him farewell or welcome. We have no -way of knowing whether she was more beautiful or intelligent than the -thousands of other girls that lived about him, but she was his. I -suppose it seems ignoble to you that a great oak of a man should go -about the world like a blind man about an empty house merely because a -chit of a girl has been withdrawn from it. No, no, you cannot understand -this, my adored one, but I understand and grow pale. Last night he sat -with me and talked of her. He laid his cheek against his hand and -looking into the fire, he said: 'It sometimes seems to me that she is -away upon a voyage and that I shall see her again. It seems to me that -she is in England.' You will laugh at me, but I think he goes about the -hemispheres to pass the time between now and his old age_." - -The brothers had always entertained a great respect for Captain -Alvarado. They had worked for him a short time and the silence of the -three of them had made a little kernel of sense in a world of boasting, -self-excuse and rhetoric. So now when the great traveller came into the -dark kitchen where Esteban was eating the boy drew his chair farther -into the shadow, but at a distance, he was glad. The Captain gave no -sign of recognizing or even of seeing him until he had finished his -meal. Esteban had finished long before, but not wishing to be spoken to, -waited until the Captain should have left the cave. At last the Captain -walked over to him and said: - -"You are Esteban or Manuel. You helped me once with some unloading. I am -Captain Alvarado." - -"Yes," said Esteban. - -"How are you?" - -Esteban muttered something. - -"I am looking for some strong fellows to go on my next trip with me." -Pause. "Would you like to come?" Longer pause. "England. And Russia.... -Hard work. Good wages.... A long way from Peru.--Well?" - -Apparently Esteban had not been listening. He sat with his eyes on the -table. At last the Captain raised his voice, as to a deaf person: - -"I said: Do you want to go on my next trip with me...." - -"Yes, I'll go," answered Esteban suddenly. - -"Fine. That's fine. I want your brother, too, of course." - -"No." - -"What's the matter? Wouldn't he want to come?" - -Esteban mumbled something, looking away. Then half rising, he said: "I -got to go now. I've got to see somebody about something." - -"Let me see your brother myself. Where is he?" - -"... 'dead," said Esteban. - -"Oh, I didn't know. I didn't know. I'm sorry." "Yes," said Esteban. "I -got to go." - -"Hmm.--Which are you? What's your name?" - -"Esteban." - -"When did Manuel die?" - -"Oh, just a ... just a few weeks. He hit his knee against something -and ... just a few weeks ago." - -They both kept their eyes on the floor. - -"How old are you, Esteban?" - -"Twenty-two." - -"Well, that's settled then, you're coming with me?" - -"Yes." - -"You may not be used to the cold." - -"Yes, I'm used to it.--I've got to go now. I got to go in the city and -see somebody about something." - -"Well, Esteban. Come back here for supper and we'll talk about the trip. -Come back and have some wine with me, see. Will you?" - -"Yes, I will." - -"Go with God." - -"Go with God." - -They had supper together and it was arranged that they were to start for -Lima the next morning. The Captain got him very drunk. At first they -poured and drank and poured and drank in silence. Then the Captain began -to talk about ships and their courses. He asked Esteban questions about -tackle and about the guide-stars. Then Esteban began to talk about other -things, and to talk very loudly: - -"On the ship you must give me something to do all the time. I'll do -anything, anything. I'll climb up high and fix ropes; and I'll watch all -night,--because, you know, I don't sleep well anyway. And, Captain -Alvarado, on the ship you must pretend that you don't know me. Pretend -that you hate me the most. So that you'll always give me things to do. I -can't sit still and write at a table any more.--And don't tell the other -men about me ... that is, about ..." - -"I hear you went into a burning house, Esteban, and pulled someone out." - -"Yes. I didn't get burned or anything. You know," cried Esteban, leaning -across the table, "you're not allowed to kill yourself; you know you're -not allowed. Everybody knows that. But if you jump into a burning house -to save somebody, that wouldn't be killing yourself. And if you became -a matador and the bull caught you that wouldn't be killing yourself. -Only you mustn't put yourself in the bull's way on purpose. Did you ever -notice that animals never kill themselves, even when they're sure to -lose? They never jump into a river or anything, even when they're sure -to lose. Some people say that horses run into bonfires. Is that true?" - -"No, I don't think that's true." - -"I don't think it's true. We had a dog once. Well, I mustn't think of -that.--Captain Alvarado, do you know Madre María del Pilar?" - -"Yes." - -"I want to give her a present before I go away. Captain Alvarado, I want -you to give me all my wages before I start--I won't need any money -anywhere--and I want to buy her a present now. The present isn't from me -only. She was ... was ..." Here Esteban wished to say his brother's -name, but was unable to. Instead he continued in a lower voice: "She had -a kind of a ... she had a serious loss, once. She said so. I don't know -who it was, and I want to give her a present. Women can't bear that kind -of a thing like we can." - -The Captain promised him that they would choose something in the -morning. Esteban talked about it at great length. At last the Captain -saw him slip under the table, and himself, rising up, went out into the -square before the inn. He looked at the line of the Andes and at the -streams of stars crowding forever across the sky. And there was that -wraith hanging in mid-air and smiling at him, the wraith with the -silvery voice that said for the thousandth time: "Don't be gone long. -But I'll be a big girl when you get back." Then he went within and -carried Esteban to his room and sat looking at him for a long while. - -The next morning he was waiting at the bottom of the stairs when -Esteban appeared: - -"We're starting when you're ready," said the Captain. - -The strange glitter had returned to the boy's eyes. He blurted out: "No, -I'm not coming. I'm not coming after all." - -"Aïe! Esteban! But you have promised me that you would come." - -"It's impossible. I can't come with you," and he turned back up the -stairs. - -"Come here a moment, Esteban, just a moment." - -"I can't come with you. I can't leave Peru." - -"I want to tell you something." - -Esteban came down to the foot of the stairs. - -"How about that present for Madre María del Pilar?" asked the Captain -in a low voice. Esteban was silent, looking over the mountains. "You -aren't going to take that present away from her? It might mean a lot to -her ... you know." - -"All right," murmured Esteban, as though much impressed. - -"Yes. Besides the ocean's better than Peru. You know Lima and Cuzco and -the road. You have nothing more to know about them. You see it's the -ocean you want. Besides on the boat you'll have something to do every -minute. I'll see to that. Go and get your things and we'll start." - -Esteban was trying to make a decision. It had always been Manuel who had -made the decisions and even Manuel had never been forced to make as -great a one as this. Esteban went slowly upstairs. The Captain waited -for him and waited so long that presently he ventured half the way up -the stairs and listened. At first there was silence; then a series of -noises that his imagination was able to identify at once. Esteban had -scraped away the plaster about a beam and was adjusting a rope about it. -The Captain stood on the stairs trembling: "Perhaps it's best," he said -to himself. "Perhaps I should leave him alone. Perhaps it's the only -thing possible for him." Then on hearing another sound he flung himself -against the door, fell into the room and caught the boy. "Go away," -cried Esteban. "Let me be. Don't come in now." - -Esteban fell face downward upon the floor. "I am alone, alone, alone" he -cried. The Captain stood above him, his great plain face ridged gray -with pain; it was his own old hours he was reliving. He was the -awkwardest speaker in the world apart from the lore of the sea, but -there are times when it requires a high courage to speak the banal. He -could not be sure the figure on the floor was listening, but he said "We -do what we can. We push on, Esteban, as best we can. It isn't for long, -you know. Time keeps going by. You'll be surprised at the way time -passes." - -They started for Lima. When they reached the bridge of San Luis Rey, the -Captain descended to the stream below in order to supervise the passage -of some merchandise, but Esteban crossed by the bridge and fell with it. - - - - -PART FOUR: UNCLE PIO - - -IN one of her letters (the XXIXth) the Marquesa de Montemayor tries to -describe the impression that Uncle Pio "_our aged Harlequin_" made upon -her: "_I have been sitting all morning on the green balcony making you a -pair of slippers, my soul_," she tells her daughter. "_As the golden -wire did not take up my whole attention I was able to follow the -activity of a coterie of ants in the wall beside me. Somewhere behind -the partition they were patiently destroying my house. Every three -minutes a little workman would appear between two boards and drop a -grain of wood upon the floor below. Then he would wave his antennae at -me and back busily into his mysterious corridor. In the meantime various -brothers and sisters of his were trotting back and forth on a certain -highway, stopping to massage one another's heads, or if the messages -they bore were of first importance, refusing angrily to massage or to be -massaged. And at once I thought of Uncle Pio. Why? Where else but with -him had I seen that very gesture with which he arrests a passing abbé -or a courtier's valet, and whispers, his lips laid against his victim's -ear? And surely enough, before noon I saw him hurry by on one of those -mysterious errands of his. As I am the idlest and silliest of women I -sent Pepita to get me a piece of nougat which I placed on the ant's -highway. Similarly I sent word to the Café Pizarro asking them to send -Uncle Pio to see me if he dropped in before sunset. I shall give him -that old bent salad fork with the turquoise in it, and he will bring me -a copy of the new ballad that everyone is singing about the d--q--a of -Ol--v--s. My child, you shall have the best of everything, and you shall -have it first_." - -And in the next letter: "_My dear, Uncle Pio is the most delightful man -in the world, your husband excepted. He is the second most delightful -man in the world. His conversation is enchanting. If he weren't so -disreputable I should make him my secretary. He could write all my -letters for me and generations would rise up and call me witty. Alas, -however, he is so moth-eaten by disease and bad company, that I shall -have to leave him to his underworld. He is not only like an ant, he is -like a soiled pack of cards. And I doubt whether the whole Pacific could -wash him sweet and fragrant again. But what divine Spanish he speaks and -what exquisite things he says in it! That's what one gets by hanging -around a theatre and hearing nothing but the conversation of Calderón. -Alas, what is the matter with this world, my soul, that it should treat -such a being so ill! His eyes are as sad as those of a cow that has been -separated from its tenth calf_." - - -You should know first that this Uncle Pio was Camila Perichole's maid. -He was also her singing-master, her coiffeur, her masseur, her reader, -her errand-boy, her banker; rumor added: her father. For example, he -taught her her parts. There was a whisper around town that Camila could -read and write. The compliment was unfounded; Uncle Pio did her reading -and writing for her. At the height of the season the company put on two -or three new plays a week, and as each one contained a long and flowery -part for the Perichole the mere task of memorization was not a trifle. - -Peru had passed within fifty years from a frontier state to a state in -renaissance. Its interest in music and the theatre was intense. Lima -celebrated its feast days by hearing a Mass of Tomás Luis da Victoria in -the morning and the glittering poetry of Calderón in the evening. It is -true that the Limeans were given to interpolating trivial songs into the -most exquisite comedies and some lachrymose effects into the austerest -music; but at least they never submitted to the boredom of a misplaced -veneration. If they had disliked heroic comedy the Limeans would not -have hesitated to remain at home; and if they had been deaf to polyphony -nothing would have prevented their going to an earlier service. When the -Archbishop returned from a short trip to Spain, all Lima kept asking: -"What has he brought?" The news finally spread abroad that he had -returned with tomes of masses and motets by Palestrina, Morales I and -Vittoria, as well as thirty-five plays by Tirso de Molina and Ruiz de -Alarçon and Moreto. There was a civic fête in his honor. The -choirboys' school and the green room of the Comedia were swamped with -the gifts of vegetables and wheat. All the world was eager to nourish -the interpreters of so much beauty. - -This was the theatre in which Camila Perichole gradually made her -reputation. So rich was the repertory and so dependable the prompter's -box that few plays were given more than four times a season. The manager -had the whole flowering of the 17th Century Spanish drama to draw upon, -including many that are now lost to us. The Perichole had appeared in a -hundred plays of Lope de Vega alone. There were many admirable actresses -in Lima during these years, but none better. The citizens were too far -away from the theatres of Spain to realize that she was the best in the -Spanish world. They kept sighing for a glimpse of the stars of Madrid -whom they had never seen and to whom they assigned vague new -excellences. Only one person knew for certain that the Perichole was a -great performer and that was her tutor Uncle Pio. - -[Illustration] - -Uncle Pio came of a good Castilian house, illegitimately. At the age of -ten he ran away to Madrid from his father's hacienda and was pursued -without diligence. He lived ever after by his wits. He possessed the six -attributes of the adventurer--a memory for names and faces, with the -aptitude for altering his own; the gift of tongues; inexhaustible -invention; secrecy; the talent for falling into conversation with -strangers; and that freedom from conscience that springs from a contempt -for the dozing rich he preyed upon. From ten to fifteen he distributed -handbills for merchants, held horses, and ran confidential errands. From -fifteen to twenty he trained bears and snakes for travelling circuses; -he cooked, and mixed punches; he hung about the entries of the more -expensive taverns and whispered informations into the travellers' -ears--sometimes nothing more dubious than that a certain noble house was -reduced to selling its plate and could thus dispense with the commission -of a silversmith. He was attached to all the theatres in town and could -applaud like ten. He spread slanders at so much a slander. He sold -rumors about crops and about the value of land. From twenty to thirty -his services came to be recognized in very high circles--he was sent out -by the government to inspirit some half-hearted rebellions in the -mountains, so that the government could presently arrive and -whole-heartedly crush them. His discretion was so profound that the -French party used him even when they knew that the Austrian party used -him also. He had long interviews with the Princesse des Ursins, but he -came and went by the back stairs. During this phase he was no longer -obliged to arrange gentlemen's pleasures, nor to plant little harvests -of calumny. - -He never did one thing for more than two weeks at a time even when -enormous gains seemed likely to follow upon it. He could have become a -circus manager, a theatrical director, a dealer in antiquities, an -importer of Italian silks, a secretary in the Palace or the Cathedral, a -dealer in provisions for the army, a speculator in houses and farms, a -merchant in dissipations and pleasures. But there seemed to have been -written into his personality, through some accident or early admiration -of his childhood, a reluctance to own anything, to be tied down, to be -held to a long engagement. It was this that prevented his thieving, for -example. He had stolen several times, but the gains had not been -sufficient to offset his dread of being locked up; he had sufficient -ingenuity to escape on the field itself all the police in the world, but -nothing could protect him against the talebearing of his enemies. -Similarly he had been reduced for a time to making investigations for -the Inquisition, but when he had seen several of his victims led off in -hoods he felt that he might be involving himself in an institution whose -movements were not evenly predictable. - -As he approached twenty, Uncle Pio came to see quite clearly that his -life had three aims. There was first this need of independence, cast -into a curious pattern, namely: the desire to be varied, secret and -omniscient. He was willing to renounce the dignities of public life, if -in secret he might feel that he looked down upon men from a great -distance, knowing more about them than they knew themselves; and with a -knowledge which occasionally passed into action and rendered him an -agent in the affairs of states and persons. In the second place he -wanted to be always near beautiful women, of whom he was always in the -best and worst sense the worshipper. To be near them was as necessary to -him as breathing. His reverence for beauty and charm was there for -anyone to see and to laugh at, and the ladies of the theatre and the -court and the houses of pleasure loved his connoisseurship. They -tormented him and insulted him and asked his advice and were singularly -comforted by his absurd devotion. He suffered greatly their rages and -their meannesses and their confiding tears; all he asked was to be -accepted casually, to be trusted, to be allowed like a friendly and -slightly foolish dog to come and go in their rooms and to write their -letters for them. He was insatiably curious about their minds and their -hearts. He never expected to be loved by them (borrowing for a moment -another sense of that word); for that, he carried his money to the -obscurer parts of the city; he was always desperately unprepossessing, -with his whisp of a moustache and his whisp of a beard and his big -ridiculous sad eyes. They constituted his parish; it was from them that -he acquired the name of Uncle Pio and it was when they were in trouble -that he most revealed himself; when they fell from favour he lent them -money, when they were ill he outlasted the flagging devotion of their -lovers and the exasperation of their maids; when time or disease robbed -them of their beauty, he served them still for their beauty's memory; -and when they died his was the honest grief that saw them as far as -possible on their journey. - -In the third place he wanted to be near those that loved Spanish -literature and its masterpieces, especially in the theatre. He had -discovered all that treasure for himself, borrowing or stealing from the -libraries of his patrons, feeding himself upon it in secrecy,--behind -the scenes, as it were, of his mad life. He was contemptuous of the -great persons who for all their education and usage, exhibited no care -nor astonishment before the miracles of word order in Calderón and -Cervantes. He longed himself to make verses. He never realized that many -of the satirical songs he had written for the vaudevilles passed into -folk-music and have been borne everywhere along the highroads. - -As the result of one of those quarrels that arise so naturally in -brothels his life became too complicated and he removed to Peru. Uncle -Pio in Peru was even more versatile than Uncle Pio in Europe. Here too -he touched upon real-estate, circuses, pleasures, insurrections and -antiques. A Chinese junk had been blown from Canton to America; he -dragged up the beach the bales of deep-red porcelain and sold the bowls -to the collectors of virtú. He traced down the sovereign remedies of the -Incas and started a smart trade in pills. Within four months he knew -practically everyone in Lima. He presently added to this acquaintance -the inhabitants of scores of seacoast towns, mining camps and -settlements in the interior. His pretensions to omniscience became more -and more plausible. The Viceroy discovered Uncle Pio and all this -richness of reference; he engaged his services in many affairs. In the -decay of his judgment Don Andrés had retained one talent, he was a -master of the technique of handling confidential servants. He treated -Uncle Pio with great tact and some deference; he understood which -errands the other should not be asked to undertake and he understood his -need for variety and intermission. Uncle Pio in turn was perpetually -astonished that a prince should make so little use of his position, for -power, or for fantasy, or for sheer delight in the manipulation of other -men's destinies; but the servant loved the master because he could quote -from any of Cervantes' prefaces and because his tongue had a little -Castilian salt about it still. Many a morning Uncle Pio entered the -Palace through corridors where there was no one to cross but a confessor -or a confidential bully and sat with the Viceroy over his morning -chocolate. - -But for all his activity nothing made Uncle Pio rich. One would have -said that he abandoned a venture when it threatened to prosper. Although -no one knew it, he owned a house. It was full of dogs that could add and -multiply and the top floor was reserved for birds. But even in this -kingdom he was lonely, and proud in his loneliness, as though there -resided a certain superiority in such a solitude. Finally he stumbled -upon an adventure that came like some strange gift from the skies and -that combined the three great aims of his life: his passion for -overseeing the lives of others, his worship of beautiful women, and his -admiration for the treasures of Spanish literature. He discovered Camila -Perichole. Her real name was Micaela Villegas. She was singing in cafés -at the age of twelve and Uncle Pio had always been the very soul of -cafés. Now as he sat among the guitarists and watched this awkward girl -singing ballads, imitating every inflection of the more experienced -singers who had preceded her, the determination entered his mind to play -Pygmalion. He bought her. Instead of sleeping locked up in the wine bin, -she inherited a cot in his house. He wrote songs for her, he taught her -how to listen to the quality of her tone, and bought her a new dress. At -first all she noticed was that it was wonderful not to be whipped, to be -offered hot soups, and to betaught something. But it was Uncle Pio who -was really dazzled. His rash experiment flourished beyond all prophecy. -The little twelve-year-old, silent and always a little sullen, devoured -work. He set her endless exercises in acting and mimicry; he set her -problems in conveying the atmosphere of a song; he took her to the -theatres and made her notice all the details of a performance. But it -was from Camila as a woman that he was to receive his greatest shock. -The long arms and legs were finally harmonized into a body of perfect -grace. The almost grotesque and hungry face became beautiful. Her whole -nature became gentle and mysterious and oddly wise; and it all turned to -him. She could find no fault in him and she was sturdily loyal. They -loved one another deeply but without passion. He resected the slight -nervous shadow that crossed her face when he came too near her. But -there arose out of this denial itself the perfume of a tenderness, that -ghost of passion which, in the most unexpected relationship, can make -even a whole lifetime devoted to irksome duty pass like a gracious -dream. - -They travelled a great deal, seeking new taverns, for the highest -attribute of a café singer will always be her novelty. They went to -Mexico, their odd clothes wrapped up in the self-same shawl. They slept -on beaches, they were whipped at Panama and shipwrecked on some tiny -Pacific islands plastered with the droppings of birds. They tramped -through jungles delicately picking their way among snakes and beetles. -They sold themselves out as harvesters in a hard season. Nothing in the -world was very surprising to them. - -Then began an even harder course of training for the girl, a regimen -that resembled more the preparation for an acrobat. The instruction was -a little complicated by the fact that her rise to favor was very rapid; -and there was some danger that the applause she received would make her -content with her work too soon. Uncle Pio never exactly beat her, but he -resorted to a sarcasm that had terrors of its own. - -At the close of a performance Camila would return to her dressing room -to find Uncle Pio whistling nonchalantly in one corner. She would divine -his attitude at once and cry angrily: - -"Now what is it? Mother of God, Mother of God, what is it now?" - -"Nothing, little pearl. My little Camila of Camilas, nothing." - -"There was something you didn't like. Ugly fault-finding thing that you -are. Come on now, what was it? Look, I'm ready." - -"No, little fish. Adorable morning star, I suppose you did as well as -you could." - -The suggestion that she was a limited artist and that certain felicities -would be forever closed to her never failed to make Camila frantic. She -would burst into tears: "I wish I had never known you. You poison my -whole life. You just think I did badly. It pleases you to pretend that -I was bad. All right then, be quiet." - -Uncle Pio went on whistling. - -"The fact is I know I was weak to-night, and don't need you to tell me -so. So there. Now go away. I don't want to see you around. It's hard -enough to play that part without coming back and finding you this way." - -Suddenly Uncle Pio would lean forward and ask with angry intensity: "Why -did you take that speech to the prisoner so fast?" - -More tears from the Perichole: "Oh God, let me die in peace! One day you -tell me to go faster and another to go slower. Anyway I shall be crazy -in a year or two and then it won't matter." - -More whistling. - -"Besides the audience applauded as never before. Do you hear me? _As -never before_. There! Too fast or too slow is nothing to them. They -wept. I was divine. That's all I care for. Now be silent. Be silent." - -He was absolutely silent. - -"You may comb my hair, but if you say another word I shall never play -again. You can find some other girl, that's all." - -Thereupon he would comb her hair soothingly for ten minutes, pretending -not to notice the sobs that were shaking her exhausted body. At last she -would turn quickly and catching one of his hands would kiss it -frantically: "Uncle Pio, was I so bad? Was I a disgrace to you? Was it -so awful _that you left the theatre_?" - -After a long pause Uncle Pio would admit judiciously: "You were good in -the scene on the ship." - -"But I've been better, Uncle Pio. You remember the night you came back -from Cuzco----?" - -"You were pretty good at the close." - -"Was I?" - -"But my flower, my pearl, _was the matter in the speech to the -prisoner_?" - -Here the Perichole would fling her face and arms upon the table amid the -pomades, caught up into a tremendous fit of weeping. Only perfection -would do, only perfection. And that had never come. - -Then beginning in a low voice Uncle Pio would talk for an hour, -analyzing the play, entering into a world of finesse in matters of voice -and gesture and tempo, and often until dawn they would remain there -declaiming to one another the lordly conversation of Calderón. - -Whom were these two seeking to please? Not the audiences of Lima. They -had long since been satisfied. We come from a world where we have known -incredible standards of excellence, and we dimly remember beauties which -we have not seized again; and we go back to that world. Uncle Pio and -Camila Perichole were tormenting themselves in an effort to establish in -Peru the standards of the theatres in some Heaven whither Calderón had -preceded them. The public for which masterpieces are intended is not on -this earth. - -With the passing of time Camila lost some of this absorption in her art. -A certain intermittent contempt for acting made her negligent. It was -due to the poverty of interest in women's rôles throughout Spanish -classical drama. At a time when the playwrights grouped about the courts -of England and France (a little later, of Venice) were enriching the -parts of women with studies in wit, charm, passion and hysteria, the -dramatists of Spain kept their eyes on their heroes, on gentlemen torn -between the conflicting claims of honour, or, as sinners, returning at -the last moment to the cross. For a number of years Uncle Pio spent -himself in discovering ways to interest the Perichole in the rôles that -fell to her. Upon one occasion he was able to announce to Camila that a -granddaughter of Vico de Barrera had arrived in Peru. Uncle Pio had long -since communicated to Camila his veneration for great poets and Camila -never questioned the view that they were a little above the kings and -not below the saints. So it was in great excitement that the two of them -chose one of the master's plays to perform before his granddaughter. -They rehearsed the poem a hundred times, now in the great joy of -invention, now in dejection. On the night of the performance Camila -peering out between the folds of the curtain had Uncle Pio point out to -her the little middle-aged woman worn with the cares of penury and a -large family; but it seemed to Camila that she was looking at all the -beauty and dignity in the world. As she waited for the lines that -preceded her entrance she clung to Uncle Pio in reverent silence, her -heart beating loudly. Between the acts she retired to the dusty corner -of the warehouse where no one would find her and sat staring into the -corners. At the close of the performance Uncle Pio brought the -granddaughter of Vico de Barrera into Camila's room. Camila stood among -the clothes that hung upon the wall, weeping with happiness and shame. -Finally she flung herself on her knees and kissed the older woman's -hands, and the older woman kissed hers, and while the audience went home -and went to bed the Visitor remained telling Camila the little stories -that had remained in the family, of Vico's work and of his habits. - -Uncle Pio was at his happiest when a new actress entered the company, -for the discovery of a new talent at her side never failed to bestir the -Perichole. To Uncle Pio (standing at the back of the auditorium, bent -double with joy and malice) it seemed that the body of the Perichole had -become an alabaster lamp in which a strong light had been placed. -Without any resort to tricks or to false emphasis, she set herself to -efface the newcomer. If the play were a comedy she became the very -abstraction of wit, and (as was more likely) it was a drama of wronged -ladies and implacable hates, the stage fairly smouldered with her -emotion. Her personality became so electric that if she so much as laid -her hand upon that of a fellow actor a sympathetic shudder ran through -the audience. But such occasions of excellence became less and less -frequent. As her technique became sounder, Camila's sincerity became -less necessary. Even when she was absentminded the audience did not -notice the difference and only Uncle Pio grieved. - -Camila had a very beautiful face, or rather a face beautiful save in -repose. In repose one was startled to discover that the nose was long -and thin, the mouth tired and a little childish, the eyes unsatisfied--a -rather pinched peasant girl, dragged from the cafés-chantants and quite -incapable of establishing any harmony between the claims of her art, of -her appetites, of her dreams, and of her crowded daily routine. Each of -these was a world in itself, and the warfare between them would soon -have reduced to idiocy (or triviality) a less tenacious physique. We -have seen that in spite of her discontent with her parts, the Perichole -knew very well the joy that might reside in acting and warmed herself -from time to time at that flame. But that of love attracted her more -often, though with no greater assurance of happiness, until Jupiter -himself sent her some pearls. - -Don Andrés de Ribera, the Viceroy of Peru, was the remnant of a -delightful man, broken by the table, the alcove, a grandeeship and ten -years of exile. As a youth he had accompanied embassies to Versailles -and Rome; he had fought in the wars in Austria; he had been in -Jerusalem. He was a widower and childless of an enormous and wealthy -woman; he had collected coins a little, wines, actresses, orders and -maps. From the table he had received the gout; from the alcove a -tendency to convulsions; from the grandeeship a pride so vast and -puerile that he seldom heard anything that was said to him and talked to -the ceiling in a perpetual monologue; from the exile, oceans of boredom, -a boredom so persuasive that it was like pain,--he woke up with it and -spent the day with it, and it sat by his bed all night watching his -sleep. Camila was passing the years in the hard-working routine of the -theatre, savoured by a few untidy love-affairs, when this Olympian -personage (for he had a face and port fit to play gods and heroes on the -scene) suddenly transported her to the most delicious midnight suppers -at the Palace. Contrary to all the traditions of the stage and state she -adored her elderly admirer; she thought she was going to be happy -forever. Don Andrés taught the Perichole a great many things and to her -bright eager mind that was one of the sweetest ingredients of love. He -taught her a little French; to be neat and clean; the modes of address. -Uncle Pio had taught her how great ladies carry themselves on great -occasions; he taught her how they relax. Uncle Pio and Calderón had -trained her in beautiful Spanish; Don Andrés furnished her with the -smart slang of _El Buen Retiro_. - -[Illustration] - -Uncle Pio was made anxious by Camila's invitation from the Palace. He -would have much preferred that she continue with her little vulgarian -love-affairs in the theatrical ware-house. But when he saw that her art -was gaining a new finish he was well content. He would sit in the back -of the theatre, rolling about in his seat for sheer joy and amusement, -watching the Perichole intimate to the audience that she frequented the -great world about whom the dramatists wrote. She had a new way of -fingering a wine-glass, of exchanging an adieu, a new way of entering a -door that told everything. To Uncle Pio nothing else mattered. What was -there in the world more lovely than a beautiful woman doing justice to a -Spanish masterpiece?--a performance (he asks you), packed with -observation, in which the very spacing of the words revealed a comment -on life and on the text--delivered by a beautiful voice--illustrated by -a faultless carriage, considerable personal beauty and irresistible -charm. "We are almost ready to take this marvel to Spain," he would -murmur to himself. After the performance he would go around to her -dressing-room and say "Very good!" But before taking his leave he would -manage to ask her where, in the name of the eleven thousand virgins of -Cologne, she had acquired that affected way of saying _Excelencia_. - -After a time the Viceroy asked the Perichole whether it would amuse her -to invite a few discreet guests to their midnight suppers, and he asked -her whether she would like to meet the Archbishop. Camila was delighted. -The Archbishop was delighted. On the eve of their first meeting he sent -the actress an emerald pendant as big as a playing-card. - -There was something in Lima that was wrapped up in yards of violet satin -from which protruded a great dropsical head and two fat pearly hands; -and that was its archbishop. Between the rolls of flesh that surrounded -them looked out two black eyes speaking discomfort, kindliness and wit. -A curious and eager soul was imprisoned in all this lard, but by dint of -never refusing himself a pheasant or a goose or his daily procession of -Roman wines, he was his own bitter jailer. He loved his cathedral; he -loved his duties; he was very devout. Some days he regarded his bulk -ruefully; but the distress of remorse was less poignant than the -distress of fasting and he was presently found deliberating over the -secret messages that a certain roast sends to the certain salad that -will follow it. And to punish himself he led an exemplary life in every -other respect. - -He had read all the literature of antiquity and forgotten all about it -except a general aroma of charm and disillusion. He had been learned in -the Fathers and the Councils and forgotten all about them save a -floating impression of dissensions that had no application to Peru. He -had read all the libertine masterpieces of Italy and France and reread -them annually; even in the torments of the stone (happily dissolved by -drinking the water from the springs of Santa María de Cluxambuqua), he -could find nothing more nourishing than the anecdotes of Brantôme and -the divine Aretino. - -The Archbishop knew that most of the priests of Peru were scoundrels. It -required all his delicate Epicurean education to prevent his doing -something about it; he had to repeat over to himself his favourite -notions: that the injustice and unhappiness in the world is a constant; -that the theory of progress is a delusion; that the poor, never having -known happiness, are insensible to misfortune. Like all the rich he -could not bring himself to believe that the poor (look at their houses, -look at their clothes) could really suffer. Like all the cultivated he -believed that only the widely-read could be said to _know_ that they -were unhappy. On one occasion, the iniquities in his see having been -called to his notice, he almost did something about it. He had just -heard that it was becoming a rule in Peru for priests to exact two -measures of meal for a fairly good absolution, and five measures, for a -really effective one. He trembled with indignation; he roared to his -secretary and bidding him bring up his writing materials, announced that -he was going to dictate an overwhelming message to his shepherds. But -there was no ink left in the inkwell; there was no ink left in the next -room; there was no ink to be found in the whole palace. This state of -things in his household so upset the good man that he fell ill of the -combined rages and learned to guard himself against indignations. - -The addition of the Archbishop to the suppers was so successful that Don -Andrés began to think of new names. He had grown increasingly dependent -upon Uncle Pio, but waited until Camila should propose his inclusion of -her own accord. And in due time Uncle Pio brought with him that courser -of the seas, the Captain Alvarado. Generally the reunion had been -several hours under way before Camila was able to join them after her -performance at the theatre. She would arrive towards one o'clock, -radiant and bejewelled and very tired. The four men received her as they -would a great queen. For an hour or so she would carry the conversation, -but gradually reclining more and more against Don Andrés' shoulder she -would follow the talk as it flitted from one humorous lined face to the -other. All night they talked, secretly comforting their hearts that -longed always for Spain and telling themselves that such a symposium was -after the manner of the high Spanish soul. They talked about ghosts and -second-sight, and about the earth before man appeared upon it and about -the possibility of the planets striking against one another; about -whether the soul can be seen, like a dove, fluttering away at the moment -of death; they wondered whether at the second coming of Christ to -Jerusalem, Peru would be long in receiving the news. They talked until -the sun rose, about wars and kings, about poets and scholars, and about -strange countries. Each one poured into the conversation his store of -wise sad anecdotes and his dry regret about the race of men. The flood -of golden light struck across the Andes and entering the great window -fell upon the piles of fruit, the stained brocade upon the table, and -the sweet thoughtful forehead of the Perichole as she lay sleeping -against the sleeve of her protector. There would ensue a long pause, no -one wishing to make the first move to go, and the glances of them all -would rest upon this strange beautiful bird who lived among them. But -Uncle Pio's glance had been upon her all night, a quick glance from his -black eyes, full of tenderness and anxiety, resting on the great secret -and reason of his life. - -But Uncle Pio never ceased watching Camila. He divided the inhabitants -of this world into two groups, into those who had loved and those who -had not. It was a horrible aristocracy, apparently, for those who had no -capacity for love (or rather for suffering in love) could not be said to -be alive and certainly would not live again after their death. They were -a kind of straw population, filling the world with their meaningless -laughter and tears and chatter and disappearing still lovable and vain -into thin air. For this distinction he cultivated his own definition of -love that was like no other and that had gathered all its bitterness and -pride from his odd life. He regarded love as a sort of cruel malady -through which the elect are required to pass in their late youth and -from which they emerge, pale and wrung, but ready for the business of -living. There was (he believed) a great repertory of errors mercifully -impossible to human beings who had recovered from this illness. -Unfortunately there remained to them a host of failings, but at least -(from among many illustrations) they never mistook a protracted -amiability for the whole conduct of life, they never again regarded any -human being, from a prince to a servant, as a mechanical object. Uncle -Pio never ceased watching Camila because it seemed to him that she had -never undergone this initiation. In the months that followed her -introduction to the Viceroy he held his breath and waited. He held his -breath for years. Camila bore the Viceroy three children, yet remained -the same. He knew that the first sign of her entrance into the true -possession of the world would be the mastery of certain effects in her -acting. There were certain passages in the plays that she would compass -some day, simply, easily, and with secret joy, because they alluded to -the new rich wisdom of her heart; but her treatment of such passages -became more and more cursory, not to say embarrassed. He presently saw -that she had tired of Don Andrés and had returned to a series of -furtive love-affairs with the actors and matadors and merchants of the -town. - -She became more and more impatient of acting and another parasite found -its way into her mind. She wanted to be a lady. She slowly contracted a -greed for respectability and began to refer to her acting as a pastime. -She acquired a duenna and some footmen and went to church at the -fashionable hours. She attended the prize days at the University and -appeared among the donors of the great charities. She even learned to -read and write a little. Any faint discrimination against, her as a -bohemian she challenged with fury. She led the Viceroy a horrible life -with her passion for concessions and her gradual usurpation of -privileges. The new vice displaced the old and she became noisily -virtuous. She invented some parents and produced some cousins. She -obtained an undocumented legitimatization of her children. In society -she cultivated a delicate and languid magdelinism, as a great lady -might, and she carried a candle in the penitential parades, side by side -with ladies who had nothing to regret but an outburst of temper and a -furtive glance into Descartes. Her sin had been acting and everyone -knows that there were even saints who had been actors,--there was Saint -Gelasius and Saint Genesius and Saint Margaret of Antioch and Saint -Pelagia. - -There was a fashionable watering place in the hills not far from Santa -María de Cluxambuqua. Don Andrés had travelled in France and had -thought to build himself a little mock Vichy; there was a pagoda, some -drawing-rooms, a theatre, a little arena for bull-fights and some French -gardens. Camila's health had never known a shadow, but she built herself -a villa in the vicinity and sipped the hateful waters at eleven o'clock. -The Marquesa de Montemayor has left a brilliant picture of this _opéra -bouffe_ paradise with the reigning divinity parading her fierce -sensitiveness along the avenues of powdered shell and receiving the -homage of all those who could not afford to offend the Viceroy. Doña -María draws a portrait of this ruler, stately and weary, gambling all -through the night in sums that would have raised another Escurial. And -beside him she sets the portrait of his son, Camila's little Don Jaime. -Don Jaime, at seven years, was a rachitic little body who seemed to have -inherited not only his mother's forehead and eyes, but his father's -liability to convulsions. He bore his pain with the silent bewilderment -of an animal, and like an animal he was mortally ashamed when any -evidences of it occurred in public. He was so beautiful that the more -trivial forms of pity were hushed in his presence and his long thoughts -about his difficulties had given his face a patient and startling -dignity. His mother dressed him in garnet velvet, and when he was able -he followed her about at a distance of several yards, extricating -himself gravely from the ladies who tried to detain him in conversation. -Camila was never cross to Don Jaime and she was never demonstrative. -When the sun was shining the two could be seen walking along those -artificial terraces in silence, Camila wondering when the felicity would -begin that she had always associated with social position, Don Jaime -rejoicing merely in the sunlight and anxiously estimating the approach -of a cloud. They looked like figures that had strayed there from some -remote country, or out of an old ballad, that had not yet learned the -new language and had not yet found any friends. - -Camila was about thirty when she left the stage and it required five -years for her to achieve her place in society. She gradually became -almost stout, though her head seemed to grow more beautiful every year. -She took to overdressing and the floors of the drawing-rooms reflected a -veritable tower of jewels and scarves and plumes. Her face and hands -were covered with a bluish powder against which she drew an irritable -mouth in scarlet and orange. The almost distraught fury of her temper -was varied by the unnatural sweetness of her address in the company of -the dowagers. In the earliest stages of her progress upward she had -intimated to Uncle Pio that he was not to be seen with her in public, -but finally she became impatient even of his discreeter visits. She -conducted the interviews with formality and evasion. Her eyes never -crossed his and she angled for pretexts to quarrel with him. Still he -ventured out once a month to try her patience and when the call had -become impossible he would climb the stairs and finish the hour among -her children. - -One day he arrived at her villa in the hills and, through her maid, -begged for an opportunity to talk with her. He was told that she would -see him in the French gardens a little before sunset. He had come up -from Lima on a strange sentimental impulse. Like all solitary persons he -had invested friendship with a divine glamour: he imagined that the -people he passed on the street, laughing together and embracing when -they parted, the people who dined together with so many smiles,--you -will scarcely believe me, but he imagined that they were extracting from -all that congeniality great store of satisfaction. So that suddenly he -was filled with the excitement of seeing her again, of being called -"Uncle Pio," and of reviving for a moment the trust and humour of their -long vagabondage. - -The French Gardens were at the southern end of the town. Behind them -rose the higher Andes and before them there was a parapet overlooking a -deep valley and overlooking wave after wave of hills that stretched -toward the Pacific. It was the hour when bats fly low and the smaller -animals play recklessly underfoot. A few solitaries lingered about the -gardens, gazing dreamily into the sky that was being gradually emptied -of its colour, or leaned upon the balustrade and looked down into the -valley, noting in which village a dog was barking. It was the hour when -the father returns home from the fields and plays for a moment in the -yard with the dog that jumps upon him, holding his muzzle closed or -throwing him upon his back. The young girls look about for the first -star to fix a wish upon it, and the boys grow restless for supper. Even -the busiest mother stands for a moment idle-handed, smiling at her dear -and exasperating family. - -Uncle Pio stood against one of the chipped marble benches and watched -Camila coming towards him: - -"I am late," she said. "I am sorry. What is it you wish to say to me?" - -"Camila,--" he began. - -"My name is Doña Micaela." - -"I do not wish to offend you, Doña Micaela, but when you let me call -you Camila for twenty years, I should think----" - -"Oh, do as you like. Do as you like." - -"Camila, promise me that you will listen to me. Promise me that you will -not run away at my first sentence." - -At once she burst out with unexpected passion: "Uncle Pio, listen to me. -You are mad if you think you can make me return to the theatre. I look -back at the theatre with horror. Understand that. The theatre! The -theatre, indeed! The daily payment of insults in that filthy place. -Understand that you are wasting your time." - -He answered gently: "I would not have you come back if you are happy -with these new friends." - -"You don't like my new friends, then?" she answered quickly. "Whom do -you offer me in their stead?" - -"Camila, I only remember ..." - -"I will not be criticized. I don't want any advice. It will be cold in a -moment, I must go back to my house. Just give me up, that's all. Just -put me out of your mind." - -"Dear Camila, don't be angry. Let me talk to you. Just suffer me for ten -minutes." - -He did not understand why she was weeping. He did not know what to say. -He talked at random: "You never even come to see the theatre, and they -all notice it. The audiences are falling away now, too. They only put on -the Old Comedy twice a week; all the other nights there are these new -farces in prose. All is dull and childish and indecent. No one can speak -Spanish any more. No one can even walk correctly any more. On Corpus -Christi Day they gave _Belshazzar's Feast_ where you were so wonderful. -Now it was shameful." - -There was a pause. A beautiful procession of clouds, like a flock of -sheep, was straying up from the sea, slipping up the valleys between the -hills. Camila suddenly touched his knee, and her face was like her face -twenty years before: "Forgive me, Uncle Pio, for being so bad. Jaime was -ill this afternoon. There's nothing one can do. He lies there, so white -and ... so surprised. One must just think of other things. Uncle Pio, it -would be no good if I went back to the theatre. The audiences come for -the prose farces. We were foolish to try and keep alive the Old Comedy. -Let people read the old plays in books if they choose to. It is not -worth while fighting with the crowd." - -"Wonderful Camila, I was not just to you when you were on the stage. It -was some foolish pride in me. I grudged you the praise that you -deserved. Forgive me. You have always been a very great artist. If you -come to see that you are not happy among these people you might think -about going to Madrid. You would have a great triumph there. You are -still young and beautiful. There will be time later to be called Doña -Micaela. We shall be old soon. We shall be dead soon." - -"No, I shall never see Spain. All the world is alike, Madrid or Lima." - -"Oh, if we could go away to some island where the people would know you -for yourself. And love you." - -"You are fifty years old and you are still dreaming of such islands, -Uncle Pio." - -He bent his head and mumbled: "Of course I love you, Camila, as I always -must and more than I can say. To have known you is enough for my whole -life. You are a great lady now. And you are rich. There is no longer any -way that I can help you. But I am always ready." - -"How absurd you are," she said smiling. "You said that as boys say it. -You don't seem to learn as you grow older, Uncle Pio. There is no such -thing as that kind of love and that kind of island. It's in the theatre -you find such things." - -He look shamefaced, but unconvinced. - -At last she rose and said sadly: "What are we talking about! It is -growing cold. I must be going in. You must be resigned. I have no heart -for the theatre." There was a pause. "And for the rest?... Oh, I do not -understand. It is just circumstance. I must be what I must. Do not try -to understand either. Don't think about me, Uncle Pio. Just forgive, -that's all. Just try to forgive." - -She stood still a moment, searching for something deeply felt to say to -him. The first cloud reached the terrace; it was dark; the last -stragglers were leaving the gardens. She was thinking of Don Jaime, and -of Don Andrés and of himself. She could not find the words. Suddenly -she bent down and kissed his fingers and went quickly away. But he sat -for a long time in the gathering clouds trembling with happiness and -trying to penetrate into the meaning of these things. - -Suddenly the news was all over Lima. Doña Micaela Villegas, the lady -that used to be Camila the Perichole, had the small-pox. Several hundred -other persons had the small-pox also, but popular interest and malignity -were concentrated upon the actress. A wild hope ran about the town that -the beauty would be impaired that had enabled her to despise the class -from which she sprang. The news escaped from the sick-room that Camila -had become ludicrous in homeliness and the cup of the envious -overflowed. As soon as she was able she had herself carried from the -city to her villa in the hills; she ordered the sale of her elegant -little palace. She returned her jewels to their givers and she sold her -fine clothes. The Viceroy, the Archbishop, and the few men at court who -had been her sincerest admirers besieged her door still with messages -and gifts; the messages were ignored and the gifts were returned without -comment. No one but her nurse and maids had been permitted to see her -since the commencement of her illness. As an answer to his repeated -attempts Don Andrés received a large sum of money from her with a -letter compounded of all that is possible in bitterness and pride. - -Like all beautiful women who have been brought up amid continual -tributes to her beauty she assumed without cynicism that it must -necessarily be the basis of anyone's attachment to herself; henceforth -any attention paid to her must spring from a pity full of condescension -and faintly perfumed with satisfaction at so complete a reversal. This -assumption that she need look for no more devotion now that her beauty -had passed proceeded from the fact that she had never realized any love -save love as passion. Such love, though it expends itself in generosity -and thoughtfulness, though it give birth to visions and to great poetry, -remains among the sharpest expressions of self-interest. Not until it -has passed through a long servitude, through its own self-hatred, -through mockery, through great doubts, can it take its place among the -loyalties. Many who have spent a lifetime in it can tell us less of love -than the child that lost a dog yesterday. As her friends continued in -their efforts to draw her again into society she grew more and more -angry and dispatched insulting messages to the city. It was said for a -time that she was retiring into religion. But new rumours that all was -fury and despair on the little farm, contradicted the old. For those -near to her the despair was fearful to behold. She was convinced that -her life was over, her life and children's. In her hysterical pride she -had given back more than she owed and the approach of poverty was added -to the loneliness and the gloom of her future. There was nothing left -for her to do but to draw out her days in jealous solitude in the center -of the little farm that was falling into decay. She brooded for hours -upon the joy of her enemies and could be heard striding about her room -with strange cries. - -Uncle Pio did not allow himself to be discouraged. By dint of making -himself useful to the children, by taking a hand in the management of -the farm and by discreetly lending her some money he obtained his -entrance into the house and even into the presence of its veiled -mistress. But even then Camila, convinced in her pride that he _pitied_ -her, lashed him with the blade of her tongue and derived some strange -comfort from heaping him with sneers. He loved her the more, -understanding better than she did herself all the stages in the -convalescence of her humiliated spirit. But one day an accident befell -that lost him his share in her progress. He pushed open a door. - -She thought she had locked it. For just one hour a foolish secret hope -had come to her; she wondered whether she could make a paste of chalk -and cream to spread upon her face. She who had sneered so often at the -befloured grandmothers of the court wondered for a few moments whether -she had learned anything on the stage that would aid her now. She -thought she had locked the door and with hurried hands and beating heart -she laid on the coat, the grotesque pallor, and as she gazed into the -mirror and recognized the futility of her attempt she caught the image -of Uncle Pio standing in the door amazed. She rose from the chair with a -cry and covered her face with her hands. - -"Go away. Go away out of my house forever," she screamed. "I never want -to see you again." In her shame she drove him out with blasphemy and -hatred, she pursued him down the corridor and hurled objects down the -stairs. She gave her farmer orders that Uncle Pio was forbidden to come -into the grounds. But he continued for a week trying to see her again. -At last he went back to Lima; he filled in the time as best he could, -but he longed to be by her as a boy of eighteen would long. At last he -devised a stratagem and returned up into the hills to put it into -effect. - -One morning before dawn he arose and lay on the ground below her window. -He imitated in the darkness the sound of weeping, and, as nearly as he -could, of a young girl's weeping. He continued in this for the whole -quarter of an hour. He did not let his voice rise above that degree of -loudness which Italian musicians would represent by the direction piano, -but he frequently intermitted the sound trusting that if she were asleep -it would insinuate itself into her mind as well by duration as by -degree. The air was cool and agreeable. The first faint streak of -sapphire was appearing behind the peaks and in the east the star of -morning was pulsating every moment with a more tender intention. A -profound silence wrapped all the farm buildings, only an occasional -breeze set all the grasses sighing. Suddenly a lamp was lit in her room -and a moment later the shutter was thrown back and a head wrapped in -veils leaned far out. - -"Who is there?" asked the beautiful voice. - -Uncle Pio remained silent. - -Camila said again in a tone edged with impatience: - -"Who is there? Who is there weeping?" - -"Doña Micaela, my lady, I beg of you to come here to me." - -"Who are you and what do you want?" - -"I am a poor girl. I am Estrella. I beg of you to come and help me. Do -not call your maid. I pray you, Doña Micaela, to come yourself." - -Camila was silent a moment, then said abruptly: "Very well," and closed -the shutter. Presently she appeared around the corner of the house. She -wore a thick cloak that dragged in the dew. She stood at a distance and -said: "Come over here to where I am standing,--Who are you?" - -Uncle Pio rose up. "Camila, it is I,--Uncle Pio. Forgive me, but I must -speak to you." - -"Mother of God, when shall I be free of this dreadful person! -Understand: I want to see no one. I don't want to speak to a soul. My -life is over. That is all." - -"Camila, by our long life together, I beg of you to grant me one thing. -I shall go away and never trouble you again." - -"I grant you nothing, nothing. Stay away from me." - -"I promise you I shall never trouble you again if you listen to me this -once." She was hurrying around to the door on the other side of the -house and Uncle Pio was obliged to run beside her to make sure that she -heard what he was saying. She stopped: - -"What is it then? Hurry. It is cold. I am not well. I must go back to my -room." - -"Camila, let me take Don Jaime for a year to live with me in Lima. Let -me be his teacher. Let me teach him the Castilian. Here he is left among -the servants. He is learning nothing." - -"No." - -"Camila, what will become of him? He has a good mind and he wants to -learn." - -"He is sick. He is delicate. Your house is a sty. Only the country is -good for him." - -"But he has been much better these last few months. I promise you I -shall clean out my house. I shall apply to Madre María del Pilar for a -housekeeper. Here he is in your stables all day. I shall teach him all -that a gentleman should know,--fencing and Latin and music. We shall -read all...." - -"A mother cannot be separated from her child like that. It is -impossible. You are crazy to have thought of it. Give up thinking of me -and of everything about me. I no longer exist. I and my children will -get on as best we can. Do not try to disturb me again. I do not want to -see any human being." - -Now it was that Uncle Pio felt obliged to use a hard measure. "Then pay -me the money that you owe me," he said. - -Camila stood still, confounded. To herself she said: "Life is too -fearful to bear. When may I die?" After a moment she answered him, in a -hoarse voice: "I have very little money. I will pay you what I can. I -will pay you now. I have a few jewels here. Then we need never see one -another again." She was ashamed of her poverty. She took a few steps, -then turned and said: "Now I see that you are a very hard man. But it is -right that I pay you what I owe you." - -"No, Camila, I only said that to enforce my request. I shall take no -money from you. But lend me Don Jaime for one year. I shall love him and -take every care of him. Did I harm you? Was I a bad teacher to you in -those other years?" - -"It is cruel of you to keep urging gratitude, gratitude, gratitude. I -was grateful,--good, good! but now that I am no longer the same woman -there remains nothing to be grateful for." There was a silence. Her eyes -were resting on the star that seemed to be leading forth the whole sky -in its wonder. A great pain lay at her heart, the pain of a world that -was meaningless. Then she said: "If Jaime wishes to go with you, very -well. I shall talk to, him in the morning. If he wishes to go with you, -you will find him at the Inn about noon. Good night. Go with God." - -"Go with God." - -[Illustration] - -She returned to the house. The next day the grave little boy appeared at -the Inn. His fine clothes were torn and stained now and he carried a -small bundle for change. His mother had given him a gold piece for -spending-money and a little stone that shown in the dark to look at in -his sleepless nights. They set off together in a cart, but soon Uncle -Pio became aware that the jolting was not good for the boy. He carried -him on his shoulder. As they drew near to the bridge of San Luis Rey, -Jaime tried to conceal his shame for he knew that one of those moments -was coming that separated him from other people. He was especially -ashamed because Uncle Pio had just overtaken a friend of his, a -sea-captain. And just as they got to the bridge he spoke to an old lady -who was travelling with a little girl. Uncle Pio said that when they had -crossed the bridge they would sit down and rest, but it turned out not -to be necessary. - - - - -PART FIVE: PERHAPS AN INTENTION - - -A NEW bridge of stone has been built in the place of the old, but the -event has not been forgotten. It has passed into proverbial expressions. -"I may see you Tuesday," says a Limean, "unless the bridge falls." "My -cousin lives by the bridge of San Luis Rey," says another, and a smile -goes around the company, for that also means: under the sword of -Damocles. There are some poems about the accident, classics to be found -in every Peruvian anthology, but the real literary monument is Brother -Juniper's book. - -There are a hundred ways of wondering at circumstance. Brother Juniper -would never have arrived at his method had it not been for his -friendship with a certain master in the University of San Martín. This -student's wife had stolen away one morning on a boat for Spain, -following a soldier, and had left him the care of two daughters in their -cradle. He was possessed of all the bitterness that Brother Juniper -lacked and derived a sort of joy from the conviction that all was wrong -in the world. He whispered into the Franciscan's ear such thoughts and -anecdotes as belied the notion of a guided world. For a moment a look of -distress, almost of defeat, would come into the Brother's eyes; then he -would begin patiently explaining why such stories held no difficulty for -a believer. "There was a queen of Naples and Sicily," the student would -say, "who discovered that she was carrying an angry tumor in her side. -In great dismay she commanded her subjects to fall to their prayers and -ordered that all the garments in Sicily and Naples be sewn with votive -crosses. She was well loved by her people and all their prayers and -embroideries were sincere, but ineffectual. Now she lies in the splendor -of Monreale, and a few inches above her heart may be read the words: _I -shall fear no evil_." - -It was by dint of hearing a great many such sneers at faith that Brother -Juniper became convinced that the world's time had come for proof, -tabulated proof, of the conviction that was so bright and exciting -within him. When the pestilence visited his dear village of Puerto and -carried off a large number of peasants, he secretly drew up a diagram of -the characteristics of fifteen victims and fifteen survivors, the -statistics of their value _sub specie aeternitatis_. Each soul was rated -upon a basis of ten as regards its goodness, its diligence in religious -observance, and its importance to its family group. Here is a fragment -of this ambitious chart: - - - Goodness Piety Usefulness - -Alfonso G. 4 4 10 -Nina 2 5 10 -Manuel B. 10 10 0 -Alfonso V. -8 —10 10 -Vera N. 0 10 10 - - -The thing was more difficult than he had foreseen. Almost every soul in -a difficult frontier community turned out to be indispensable -economically, and the third column was all but useless. The examiner was -driven to the use of minus terms when he confronted the personal -character of Alfonso V., who was not, like Vera N., merely bad: he was a -propagandist for badness and not merely avoided church but led others to -avoid it. Vera N. was indeed bad, but she was a model worshipper and the -mainstay of a full hut. From all this saddening data Brother Juniper -contrived an index for each peasant. He added up the total for victims -and compared it with the total for survivors, to discover that the dead -were five times more worth saving. It almost looked as though the -pestilence had been directed against the really valuable people in the -village of Puerto. And on that afternoon Brother Juniper took a walk -along the edge of the Pacific. He tore up his findings and cast them -into the waves; he gazed for an hour upon the great clouds of pearl that -hang forever upon the horizon of that sea, and extracted from their -beauty a resignation that he did not permit his reason to examine. The -discrepancy between faith and the facts is greater than is generally -assumed. - -But there was another story of the master of San Martín (not so -subversive, this one) that probably gave to Brother Juniper the hint for -his procedure after the fall of the bridge of San Luis Rey. - -This master was one day walking through the Cathedral of Lima and -stopped to read the epitaph of a lady. He read with an increasingly -prominent lower lip that she had been for twenty years the centre and -joy of her home, that she had been the delight of her friends, that all -who met her went away in astonishment at her goodness and beauty, and -that there she lay awaiting the return of her Lord. Now on the day that -he read these words, the master of San Martín had had much to fret him, -and raising his eyes from the tablet he spoke aloud in his rage: "The -shame of it, the persecution of it! Everyone knows that in the world we -do nothing but feed our wills. Why perpetuate this legend of -selflessness? Why keep this thing alive, this rumour of -disinterestedness?" - -And so saying he resolved to expose this conspiracy of the -stone-cutters. The lady had been dead only twelve years. He sought out -her servants, her children and her friends. And everywhere he went, like -a perfume, her dear traits had survived her and wherever she was -mentioned there arose a suffering smile and the protest that words could -not describe the gracious ways of her. Even the eager youth of her -grandchildren, who had never seen her, was made more difficult by the -news that it was possible to be as good as that. And the man stood -amazed; only at last he muttered: "Nevertheless, what I said was true. -This woman was an exception, perhaps an exception." - -In compiling his book about these people Brother Juniper seemed to be -pursued by the fear that in omitting the slightest detail he might lose -some guiding hint. The longer he worked the more he felt that he was -stumbling about among great dim intimations. He was forever being -cheated by details that looked as though they were significant if only -he could find their setting. So he put everything down on the notion -perhaps that if he (or a keener head) reread the book twenty times, the -countless facts would suddenly start to move, to assemble, and to betray -their secret. The Marquesa de Montemayor's cook told him that she lived -almost entirely on rice, fish and a little fruit and Brother Juniper put -it down on the chance that it would some day reveal a spiritual trait. -Don Rubío said of her that she used to appear at his receptions without -invitation in order to steal the spoons. A midwife on the edge of the -town declared that Doña María called upon her with morbid questions -until she had been obliged to order her away from the door like a -beggar. The bookseller of the town reported that she was one of the -three most cultivated persons in Lima. Her farmer's wife declared that -she was absent-minded, but compact of goodness. The art of biography is -more difficult than is generally supposed. - -Brother Juniper found that there was least to be learned from those who -had been most closely associated with the subjects of his inquiry. Madre -María del Pilar talked to him at length about Pepita, but she did not -tell him of her own ambitions for her. The Perichole was at first -difficult of approach, but presently even liked the Franciscan. Her -characterization of Uncle Pio flatly contradicted the stores of unsavory -testimonies that he had acquired elsewhere. Her allusions to her son -were few and conceded with pain. They closed the interview abruptly. The -Captain Alvarado told what he could of Esteban and of Uncle Pio. Those -who know most in this realm, venture least. - -I shall spare you Brother Juniper's generalizations. They are always -with us. He thought he saw in the same accident, the wicked visited by -destruction and the good called early to Heaven. He thought he saw pride -and wealth confounded as an object lesson to the world, and he thought -he saw humility crowned and rewarded for the edification of the city. -But Brother Juniper was not satisfied with his reasons. It was just -possible that the Marquesa de Montemayor was not a monster of avarice, -and Uncle Pio of self-indulgence. - -The book being done fell under the eyes of some judges and was suddenly -pronounced heretical. It was ordered to be burned in the Square with its -author. Brother Juniper submitted to the decision that the devil had -made use of him to effect a brilliant campaign in Peru. He sat in his -cell that last night trying to seek in his own life the pattern that had -escaped him in five others. He was not rebellious. He was willing to lay -down his life for the purity of the church, but he longed for one voice -somewhere to testify for him that his intention, at least, had been for -faith; he thought there was no one in the world who believed him. But -the next morning in all that crowd and sunlight there were many who -believed, for he was much loved. - -[Illustration] - -There was a little delegation from the village of Puerto, and Nina -(Goodness 2, Piety 5, Usefulness 10) and others stood with drawn puzzled -faces while their little friar was given to the congenial flames. Even -then, even then, there remained in his heart an obstinate nerve -insisting that at least St. Francis would not utterly have condemned -him, and (not daring to call upon a greater name, since he seemed so -open to error in these matters) he called twice upon St. Francis I and -leaning upon a flame he smiled and died. - - * * * * * * * - -The day of the service was clear and warm. The Limeans, their black eyes -wide with awe, poured through the streets into their Cathedral and stood -gazing at the mound of black velvet and silver. The Archbishop enclosed -in his wonderful and almost wooden vestments perspired upon his throne, -lending from time to time a connoisseur's ear to the felicities of -Vittoria's counterpoint. The choir had restudied the pages that, as his -farewell to music, Tomás Luis had composed for his friend and patron, -the Empress of Austria, and all that grief and sweetness, all that -Spanish realism filtering through an Italian mode, rose and fell above -the sea of mantillas. Don. Andrés, under the colours and feathered -hangings of his office, knelt, ill and troubled. He knew that the crowd -was furtively glancing at him, expecting him to play the father who has -lost his only son. He wondered whether the Perichole was present. He had -never been obliged to go so long without smoking. The Captain Alvarado -pushed in from the sunny square for a moment. He looked across the -fields of black hair and lace at the trooping of the candles and the -ropes of incense. "How false, how unreal," he said and pushed his way -out. He descended to the sea and sat on the edge of his boat, gazing -down into the clear water. "Happy are the drowned, Esteban," he said. - -Behind the screen the Abbess sat among her girls. The night before she -had torn an idol from her heart and the experience had left her pale but -firm. She had accepted the fact that it was of no importance whether her -work went on or not; it was enough to work. She was the nurse who tends -the sick who never recover; she was the priest who perpetually renews -the office before an altar to which no worshippers come. There would be -no Pepita to enlarge her work; it would relapse into the indolence and -the indifference of her colleagues. It seemed to be sufficient for -Heaven that for a while in Peru a disinterested love had flowered and -faded. She leaned her forehead upon her hand, following the long tender -curve that the soprano lifts in the Kyrie. "My affection should have had -more of that colour, Pepita. My whole life should have had more of that -quality. I have been too busy," she added ruefully and her mind drifted -into prayer. - -Camila had started from the farm to attend the service. Her heart was -filled with consternation and amazement. Here was another comment from -the skies; that was the third time she had been spoken to. Her -small-pox, Jaime's illness, and now the fall of the bridge,--oh, these -were not accidents. She was as ashamed as though letters had appeared on -her forehead. An order from the Palace announced that the Viceroy was -sending her two daughters to a convent-school in Spain. That was right. -She was alone. She gathered a few things together mechanically and -started to the city for the Service. But she fell to thinking of the -crowds gaping over her Uncle Pio and over her son; she thought of the -vast ritual of the church, like a chasm into which the beloved falls, -and of the storm of the _dies irae_ where the individual is lost among -the millions of the dead, features grow dim and traits fade. At a little -more than half the journey, at the mud church of San Luis Rey she -slipped in and knelt against a pillar to rest. She wandered through her -memory, searching for the faces of her two. She waited for some emotion -to appear. "But I feel nothing," she whispered to herself. "I have no -heart. I am a poor meaningless woman, that's all. I am shut out. I have -no heart. Look, I won't try and think of anything; let me just rest -here." And scarcely had she paused when again that terrible -incommunicable pain swept through her, the pain that could not speak -once to Uncle Pio and tell him of her love and just once offer her -courage to Jaime in his sufferings. She started up wildly: "I fail -everybody," she cried. "They love me and I fail them." She returned to -the farm and carried for a year the mood of her self-despair. One day -she heard by accident that the wonderful Abbess had lost two persons -whom she loved in the same accident. Her sewing fell from her hand: then -she would know, she would explain. "But no, what would she say to me! -She would not even believe that such a person as I could love or could -lose." Camila decided to go to Lima and look at the Abbess from a -distance. "If her face tells me that she would not despise me, I will -speak to her," she said. - -Camila lurked about the convent church and fell humbly in love with the -homely old face, though it frightened her a little. At last she called -upon her. - -"Mother," she said, "I ... I ..." - -"Do I know you, my daughter?" - -"I was the actress, I was the Perichole." - -"Oh, yes. Oh, I have wished to know you for a long while, but they told -me you did not wish to be seen. You too, I know, lost in the fall of the -bridge of San...." - -Camila rose and swayed. There! again that access of pain, the hands of -the dead she could not reach. Her lips were white. Her head brushed the -Abbess's knee: "Mother, what shall I do? I am all alone. I have nothing -in the world. I love them. What shall I do?" - -The Abbess looked at her closely. "My daughter, it is warm here. Let us -go into the garden. You can rest there." She made a sign to a girl in -the cloister to bring some water. She continued talking mechanically to -Camila. "I have wished to know you for a long while, señora. Even -before the accident I had wished much to know you. They told me that in -the _autos sacrementales_ you were a very great and beautiful actress, -in _Belshazzar's Feast_." - -"Oh, Mother, you must not say that. I am a sinner. You must not say -that." - -"Here, drink this, my child. We have a beautiful garden, do you not -think so? You will come and see us often and some day you will meet -Sister Juana who is our gardener-in-chief. Before she entered religion -she had almost never seen a garden, for she worked in the mines high up -in the mountains. Now everything grows under her hand.--A year has gone -by, señora, since our accident. I lost two who had been children in my -orphanage, but you lost a real child of your own?" - -"Yes, Mother." - -"And a great friend?" - -"Yes, Mother." - -"Tell me...." - -And then the whole tide of Camila's long despair, her lonely obstinate -despair since her girlhood, found its rest on that dusty friendly lap -among Sister Juana's fountains and roses. - - * * * * * * * - -But where are sufficient books to contain the events that would not have -been the same without the fall of the bridge? From such a number I -choose one more. - -"The Condesa d'Abuirre wishes to see you," said a lay-sister at the door -of the Abbess's office. - -"Well," said the Abbess, laying down her pen, "who is she?" - -"She has just come from Spain. I don't know." - -"Oh, it is some money, Inez, some money for my house for the blind. -Quick, bid her come in." - -The tall, rather languorous beauty entered the room. Doña Clara, who was -generally so adequate, seemed constrained for once. "Are you busy, dear -Mother, may I talk to you for a while?" - -"I am quite free, my daughter. You will excuse an old woman's memory; -have I known you before?" - -"My mother was the Marquesa de Montemayor...." Doña Clara suspected -that the Abbess had not admired her mother and would not let the older -woman speak until she herself had made a long passionate defense of -Doña María. The languor fell away in her self-reproach. At last the -Abbess told her of Pepita and Esteban, and of Camila's visit. "All, all -of us have failed. One wishes to be punished. One is willing to assume -all kinds of penance, but do you know, my daughter, that in love--I -scarcely dare say it--but in love our very mistakes don't seem to be -able to last long?" - -The Condesa showed the Abbess Doña María's last letter. Madre María -dared not say aloud how great her astonishment was that such words -(words that since then the whole world has murmured over with joy) could -spring in the heart of Pepita's mistress. "Now learn," she commanded -herself, "learn at last that anywhere you may expect grace." And she was -filled with happiness like a girl at this new proof that the traits she -lived for were everywhere, that the world was ready. "Will you do me a -kindness, my daughter? Will you let me show you my work?" - -The sun had gone down, but the Abbess led the way with a lantern down -corridor after corridor. Doña Clara saw the old and the young, the sick -and the blind, but most of all she saw the tired, bright old woman who -was leading her. The Abbess would stop in a passageway and say suddenly: -"I can't help thinking that something could be done for the -deaf-and-dumb. It seems to me that some patient person could, ... could -study out a language for them. You know there are hundreds and hundreds -in Peru. Do you remember whether anyone in Spain has found a way for -them? Well, some day they will." Or a little later: "Do you know, I keep -thinking that something can be done for the insane. I am old, you know, -and I cannot go where these things are talked about, but I watch them -sometimes and it seems to me ... In Spain, now, they are gentle with -them? It seems to me that there is a secret about it, just hidden from -us, just around the corner. Some day back in Spain, if you hear of -anything that would help us, you will write me a letter ... if you are -not too busy?" - -At last after Doña Clara had seen even the kitchens, the Abbess said: -"Now will you excuse me, for I must go into the room of the very sick -and say a few words for them to think about when they cannot sleep. I -will not ask you to come with me there, for you are not accustomed to -such ... such sounds and things. And besides I only talk to them as one -talks to children." She looked up at her with her modest rueful smile. -Suddenly she disappeared a moment to return with one of her helpers, one -who had likewise been involved in the affair of the bridge and who had -formerly been an actress. "She is leaving me," said the Abbess, "for -some work across the city and when I have spoken here I must leave you -both, for the flour-broker will not wait for me any longer, and our -argument will take a long time." - -But Doña Clara stood in the door as the Abbess talked to them, the lamp -placed on the floor beside her. Madre María stood with her back against -a post; the sick lay in rows gazing at the ceiling and trying to hold -their breaths. She talked that night of all those out in the dark (she -was thinking of Esteban alone, she was thinking of Pepita alone) who had -no one to turn to, for whom the world perhaps was more than difficult, -without meaning. And those who lay in their beds there felt that they -were within a wall that the Abbess had built for them; within all was -light and warmth, and without was the darkness they would not exchange -even for a relief from pain and from dying. But even while she was -talking, other thoughts were passing in the back of her mind. "Even -now," she thought, "almost no one remembers Esteban and Pepita, but -myself. Camila alone remembers her Uncle Pio and her son; this woman, -her mother. But soon we shall die and all memory of those five will have -left the earth, and we ourselves shall be loved for a while and -forgotten. But the love will have been enough; all those impulses of -love return to the love that made them. Even memory is not necessary for -love. There is a land of the living and a land of the dead and the -bridge is love, the only survival, the only meaning." - - - - -THE END - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BRIDGE OF SAN LUIS -REY *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ -concept and trademark. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The bridge of San Luis Rey</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Thornton Wilder</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Illustrator: Amy Drevenstedt</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: January 11, 2023 [eBook #69768]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: Laura Natal Rodrigues (Images generously made available by Hathi Trust Digital Library.)</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BRIDGE OF SAN LUIS REY ***</div> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="500" alt="500"> -</div> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/frontispiece.jpg" width="500" alt="500"> -</div> - - -<h1><i>The</i> BRIDGE <i>of</i><br> -SAN LUIS REY</h1> - -<p><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b><i>By</i></b></p> - -<p><br><br></p> - -<h2>THORNTON WILDER</h2> - -<p><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b><i>Illustrated by</i></b><br> -<b>AMY DREVENSTEDT</b></p> - -<p><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>1927</b></p> - -<p class="center"><b>ALBERT & CHARLES BONI: NEW YORK</b></p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center">Copyright, 1927, by<br> -ALBERT & CHARLES BONI, INC.</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b><i>To My Mother</i></b></p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<h2>CONTENTS</h2> -<p class="nind"> -PART ONE: <a href="#chap01">PERHAPS AN ACCIDENT</a><br> -PART TWO: <a href="#chap02">THE MARQUESA DE MONTEMAYOR</a><br> -PART THREE: <a href="#chap03">ESTEBAN</a><br> -PART FOUR: <a href="#chap04">UNCLE PIO</a><br> -PART FIVE: <a href="#chap05">PERHAPS AN INTENTION</a></p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<h2>ILLUSTRATIONS</h2> - -<p class="nind"> -<a href="#figure01">First Plate</a><br> -<a href="#figure02">Second Plate</a><br> -<a href="#figure03">Third Plate</a><br> -<a href="#figure04">Fourth Plate</a><br> -<a href="#figure05">Fifth Plate</a><br> -<a href="#figure06">Sixth Plate</a><br> -<a href="#figure07">Seventh Plate</a><br> -<a href="#figure08">Eighth Plate</a><br> -<a href="#figure09">Ninth Plate</a><br> -<a href="#figure10">Tenth Plate</a><br> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b><a id="chap01"></a>PART ONE: PERHAPS AN ACCIDENT</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">O</span>N Friday noon, July the twentieth, 1714, -the finest bridge in all Peru broke and precipitated five travellers -into the gulf below. This bridge was on the highroad between Lima and -Cuzco and hundreds of persons passed over it every day. It had been -woven of osier by the Incas more than a century before and visitors to -the city were always led out to see it. It was a mere ladder of thin -slats swung out over the gorge, with handrails of dried vine. Horses and -coaches and chairs had to go down hundreds of feet below and pass over -the narrow torrent on rafts, but no one, not even the Viceroy, not even -the Archbishop of Lima, had descended with the baggage rather than cross -by the famous bridge of San Luis Rey. St. Louis of France himself -protected it, by his name and by the little mud church on the further -side. The bridge seemed to be among the things that last forever; it was -unthinkable that it should break. The moment a Peruvian heard of the -accident he signed himself and made a mental calculation as to how -recently he had crossed by it and how soon he had intended crossing by -it again. People wandered about in a trance-like state, muttering; they -had the hallucination of seeing themselves falling into a gulf. -</p> -<p> -There was a great service in the Cathedral. The bodies of the victims -were approximately collected and approximately separated from one -another, and there was great searching of hearts in the beautiful city -of Lima. Servant girls returned bracelets which they had stolen from -their mistresses, and usurers harangued their wives angrily, in defense -of usury. Yet it was rather strange that this event should have so -impressed the Limeans, for in that country those catastrophes which -lawyers shockingly call the "acts of God" were more than usually -frequent. Tidal waves were continually washing away cities; earthquakes -arrived every week and towers fell upon good men and women all the time. -Diseases were forever flitting in and out of the provinces and old age -carried away some of the most admirable citizens. That is why it was so -surprising that the Peruvians should have been especially touched by the -rent in the bridge of San Luis Rey. -</p> -<p> -Everyone was very deeply impressed, but only one person did anything -about it, and that was Brother Juniper. By a series of coincidences so -extraordinary that one almost suspects the presence of some Intention, -this little red-haired Franciscan from Northern Italy happened to be in -Peru converting the Indians and happened to witness the accident. -</p> -<p> -It was a very hot noon, that fatal noon, and coming around the shoulder -of a hill Brother Juniper stopped to wipe his forehead and to gaze upon -the screen of snowy peaks in the distance, then into the gorge below him -filled with the dark plumage of green trees and green birds and -traversed by its ladder of osier. Joy was in him; things were not going -badly. He had opened several little abandoned churches and the Indians -were crawling in to early Mass and groaning at the moment of miracle as -though their hearts would break. Perhaps it was the pure air from the -snows before him; perhaps it was the memory that brushed him for a -moment of the poem that bade him raise his eyes to the helpful hills. At -all events he felt at peace. Then his glance fell upon the bridge, and -at that moment a twanging noise filled the air, as when the string of -some musical instrument snaps in a disused room, and he saw the bridge -divide and fling five gesticulating ants into the valley below. -</p> -<p> -Anyone else would have said to himself with secret joy: "Within ten -minutes myself...!" But it was another thought that visited Brother -Juniper: "Why did thin happen to <i>those</i> five?" If there were any plan -in the universe at all, if there were any pattern in a human life, -surely it could be discovered mysteriously latent in those lives so -suddenly cut off. Either we live by accident and die by accident, or we -live by plan and die by plan, And on that instant Brother Juniper made -the resolve to inquire into the secret lives of those five persons, that -moment falling through the air, and to surprise the reason of their -taking off. -</p> - -<div class="tb">* * * * * * *</div> - -<p> -It seemed to Brother Juniper that it was high time for theology to take -its place among the exact sciences and he had long intended putting it -there. What he had lacked hitherto was a laboratory. Oh, there had never -been any lack of specimens; any number of his charges had met -calamity,—spiders had stung them; their lungs had been touched; their -houses had burned down and things had happened to their children from -which one averts the mind. But these occasions of human woe had never -been quite fit for scientific examination. They had lacked what our good -savants were later to call <i>proper control</i>. The accident had been -dependent upon human error, for example, or had contained elements of -probability. But this collapse of the bridge of San Luis Rey was a sheer -Act of God. It afforded a perfect laboratory. Here at last one could -surprise His intentions in a pure state. -</p> -<p> -You and I can see that coming from anyone but Brother Juniper this plan -would be the flower of a perfect skepticism. It resembled the effort of -those presumptuous souls who wanted to walk on the pavements of Heaven -and built the Tower of Babel to get there. But to our Franciscan there -was no element of doubt in the experiment. He knew the answer. He -merely wanted to prove it, historically, mathematically, to his -converts,—poor obstinate converts, so slow to believe that their -pains were inserted into their lives for their own good. People were -always asking for good sound proofs; doubt springs eternal in the human -breast, even in countries where the Inquisition can read your very -thoughts in your eyes. -</p> -<p> -This was not the first time that Brother Juniper had tried to resort to -such methods. Often on the long trips he had to make (scurrying from -parish to parish, his robe tucked up about his knees, for haste) he -would fall to dreaming of experiments that justify the ways of God to -man. For instance, a complete record of the Prayers for Rain and their -results. Often he had stood on the steps of one of his little churches, -his flock kneeling before him on the baked street. Often he had -stretched his arms to the sky and declaimed the splendid ritual. Not -often, but several times, he had felt the virtue enter him and seen the -little cloud forming on the horizon. But there were many times when -weeks went by ... but why think of them? It was not himself he was -trying to convince that rain and drought were wisely apportioned. -</p> -<p> -Thus it was that the determination rose within him at the moment of the -accident. It prompted him to busy himself for six years, knocking at all -the doors in Lima, asking thousands of questions, filling scores of -notebooks, in his effort at establishing the fact that each of the five -lost lives was a perfect whole. Everyone knew that he was working on -some sort of memorial of the accident and everyone was very helpful and -misleading. A few even knew the principal aim of his activity and there -were patrons in high places. -</p> -<p> -The result of all this diligence was an enormous book, which as we shall -see later, was publicly burned on a beautiful Spring morning in the -great square. But there was a secret copy and after a great many years -and without much notice it found its way to the library of the -University of San Marco. There it lies between two great wooden covers -collecting dust in a cupboard. It deals with one after another of the -victims of the accident, cataloguing thousands of little facts and -anecdotes and testimonies, and concluding with a dignified passage -describing why God had settled upon that person and upon that day for -His demonstration of wisdom. Yet for all his diligence Brother Juniper -never knew the central passion of Doña María's life; nor of Uncle -Pio's, not even of Esteban's. And I, who claim to know so much more, -isn't it possible that even I have missed the very spring within the -spring? -</p> -<p> -Some say that we shall never know and that to the gods we are like the -flies that the boys kill on a summer day, and some say, on the contrary, -that the very sparrows do not lose a feather that has not been brushed -away by the finger of God. -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b><a id="chap02"></a>PART TWO: THE MARQUESA DE -MONTEMAYOR</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">A</span>NY Spanish schoolboy is required to know -today more about Doña María, Marquesa de Montemayor, than Brother -Juniper was to discover in years of research. Within a century of her -death her letters had become one of the monuments of Spanish literature -and her life and times have ever since been the object of long studies. -But her biographers have erred in one direction as greatly as the -Franciscan did in another; they have tried to invest her with a host of -graces, to read back into her life and person some of the beauties that -abound in her letters, whereas all real knowledge of this wonderful -woman must proceed from the act of humiliating her and of divesting her -of all beauties save one. -</p> -<p> -She was the daughter of a cloth-merchant who had acquired the money and -the hatred of the Limeans within a stone's-throw of the Plaza. Her -childhood was unhappy: she was ugly; she stuttered; her mother -persecuted her with sarcasms in an effort to arouse some social charms -and forced her to go about the town in a veritable harness of jewels. -She lived alone and she thought alone. Many suitors presented -themselves, but as long as she could she fought against the convention -of her time and was determined to remain single. There were hysterical -scenes with her mother, recriminations, screams and slamming of doors. -At last at twenty-six she found herself penned into marriage with a -supercilious and ruined nobleman and the Cathedral of Lima fairly buzzed -with the sneers of her guests. Still she lived alone and thought alone, -and when an exquisite daughter was born to her she fastened upon her an -idolatrous love. But little Clara took after her father; she was cold -and intellectual. At the age of eight she was calmly correcting her -mother's speech and presently regarding her with astonishment and -repulsion. The frightened mother became meek and obsequious but she -could not prevent herself from persecuting Doña Clara with nervous -attention and a fatiguing love. Again there were hysterical -recriminations, screams and slamming of doors. From the offers of -marriage that fell to her, Doña Clara deliberately chose the one that -required her removal to Spain. So to Spain she went, to that land from -which it takes six months to receive an answer to one's letter. The -leave-taking before so long a voyage became in Peru one of the formal -services of the Church. The ship was blessed and as the space widened -between the vessel and the beach both companies knelt and sang a hymn -that never failed to sound weak and timid in all that open air. Doña -Clara sailed with most admirable composure, leaving her mother to gaze -after the bright ship, her hand pressing now her heart and now her -mouth. Blurred and streaked became her view of the serene Pacific and -the enormous clouds of pearl that hang forever motionless above it. -</p> -<p> -Left alone in Lima the Marquesa's life grew more and more inward. She -became increasingly negligent in her dress and like all lonely people -she talked to herself audibly. All her existence lay in the burning -center of her mind. On that stage were performed endless dialogues with -her daughter, impossible reconciliations, scenes eternally recommenced -of remorse and forgiveness. On the street you beheld an old woman her -red wig fallen a little over one ear, her left cheek angry with a -leprous affection, her right with a complementary adjustment of rouge. -Her chin was never dry; her lips were never still. Lima was a city of -eccentrics, but even there she became its jest as she drove through the -streets or shuffled up the steps of its churches. She was thought to be -continuously drunk. Worse things were said of her and petitions were -afloat that she be locked up. She had been denounced three times before -the Inquisition. It is not impossible that she might have been burned -had her son-in-law been less influential in Spain and had she not -somehow collected a few friends about the viceregal court who suffered -her for her oddity and her wide reading. -</p> -<p> -The distressing character of the relations between mother and daughter -were further embittered by misunderstandings over money. The Condesa -received a handsome allowance from her mother and frequent gifts. Doña -Clara soon became the outstanding woman of intelligence at the Spanish -court. All the wealth of Peru would have been insufficient to maintain -her in the grandiose style she fancied for herself. Strangely enough her -extravagance proceeded from one of the best traits in her nature: she -regarded her friends, her servants and all the interesting people in the -capital, as her children. In fact there seemed only one person in the -world towards whom she did not expend herself in kind offices. Among her -<i>protégés</i> was the cartographer De Blasiis (whose <i>Maps of the New -World</i> was dedicated to the Marquesa de Montemayor amid the roars of the -courtiers at Lima who read that she was the "<i>admiration of her city and -a rising sun in the West</i>"); another was the scientist Azuarius whose -treatise on the laws of hydraulics was suppressed by the Inquisition as -being too exciting. For a decade the Condesa literally sustained all the -arts and sciences of Spain; it was not her fault that nothing memorable -was produced in that time. -</p> -<p> -About four years after Doña Clara's departure Doña María received her -permission to visit Europe. On both sides the visit was anticipated with -resolutions well nourished on self-reproach: the one to be patient, the -other to be undemonstrative. Both failed. Each tortured the other and -was on the point of losing her mind under the alternations of -self-rebuke and the outbursts of passion. At length one day Doña María -rose before dawn, daring no more than to kiss the door behind which her -daughter was sleeping, took ship and returned to America. Henceforth -letter-writing had to take the place of all the affection that could not -be lived. -</p> -<p> -Hers were the letters that in an astonishing world have become the -text-book of schoolboys and the ant-hill of the grammarians. Doña -María would have invented her genius had she not been born with it, so -necessary was it to her love that she attract the attention, perhaps the -admiration, of her distant child. She forced herself to go out into -society in order to cull its ridicules; she taught her eye to observe; -she read the masterpieces of her language to discover its effects; she -insinuated herself into the company of those who were celebrated for -their conversation. Night after night in her baroque palace she wrote -and rewrote the incredible pages, forcing from her despairing mind those -miracles of wit and grace, those distilled chronicles of the viceregal -court. We know now that her daughter barely glanced at the letters and -that it is to the son-in-law that we owe their preservation. -</p> -<p> -The Marquesa would have been astonished to learn that her letters were -immortal. Yet many critics have accused her of keeping one eye on -posterity and point to a number of letters that have all the air of -being bravura pieces. To them it seems impossible that Doña María -should have put herself to the same pains to dazzle her daughter that -most artists expend on dazzling the public. Like her son-in-law they -misunderstood her: the Conde delighted in her letters, but he thought -that when he had enjoyed the style he had extracted all their richness -and intention, missing (as most readers do) the whole purport of -literature, which is the notation of the heart. Style is but the faintly -contemptible vessel in which the bitter liquid is recommended to the -world. The Marquesa would even have been astonished to learn that her -letters were very good, for such authors live always in the noble -weather of their own minds and those productions which seem remarkable -to us are little better than a day's routine to them. -</p> -<p> -This was the old woman who hour by hour would sit upon her balcony, her -odd straw hat casting a purple shadow across her lined and yellow face. -How often as she turned her pages with her gemmed hands, she would ask -herself, almost with amusement, whether the constant pain at her heart -had an organic seat. She wondered whether a subtle doctor cutting -through to that battered throne could at last discover a sign and -lifting his face to the amphitheatre cry out to his students: "This -woman has suffered, and her suffering has left its mark upon the -structure of her heart." This idea had so often visited her that one day -she wrote it into a letter and her daughter scolded her for an -introspective and for making a cult of sorrow. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 300px;"> -<a id="figure01"></a> -<br> -<img src="images/figure01.jpg" width="300" alt="300"> -</div> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -The knowledge that she would never be loved in return acted upon her -ideas as a tide acts upon cliffs. Her religious beliefs went first, for -all she could ask of a god, or of immortality, was the gift of a place -where daughters love their mothers; the other attributes of Heaven you -could have for a song. Next she lost her belief in the sincerity of -those about her. She secretly refused to believe that anyone (herself -excepted) loved anyone. All families lived in a wasteful atmosphere of -custom and kissed one another with secret indifference. She saw that the -people of this world moved about in an armour of egotism, drunk with -self-gazing, athirst for compliments, hearing little of what was said to -them, unmoved by the accidents that befell their closest friends, in -dread of all appeals that might interrupt their long communion with -their own desires. These were the sons and daughters of Adam from Cathay -to Peru. And when on the balcony her thoughts reached this turn, her -mouth would contract with shame for she knew that she too sinned and -that though her love for her daughter was vast enough to include all the -colours of love, it was not without a shade of tyranny: she loved her -daughter not for her daughter's sake, but for her own. She longed to -free herself from this ignoble bond; but the passion was too fierce to -cope with. And then on that green balcony a strange warfare would shake -the hideous old lady, a singularly futile struggle against a temptation -to which she would never have the opportunity of succumbing. How could -she rule her daughter when her daughter saw to it that four thousand -miles lay between them? Nevertheless Doña María wrestled with the -ghost of her temptation and was worsted on every occasion. She wanted -her daughter for herself; she wanted to hear her say: "You are the best -of all possible mothers"; she longed to hear her whisper: "Forgive me." -</p> -<p> -About two years after her return from Spain there took place a series of -inconspicuous events that had a great deal to tell about the inner life -of the Marquesa. Only the faintest allusion to them occurs in the -Correspondence, but as that is found in Letter XXII which contains other -signs I shall do my best to give a translation and commentary of the -first part of the letter: -</p> -<p> -"<i>Are there no doctors in Spain? Where are those good men from Flanders -that used to help you so? Oh, my treasure, how can we punish you enough -for letting your cold endure so many weeks? Don Vicente, I implore you -to make my child see reason. Angels of Heaven, I implore you to make my -child see reason. Now that you are better, I beg of you, resolve that -when the first warning of a cold comes you will steam yourself well and -go to bed. Here in Peru I am helpless; I can do nothing. Do not be -self-willed, beloved. God bless you. I am enclosing in today's packet -the gum of some tree which the sisters of San Tomás peddle from door to -door. Whether it be of much use I know not. It can do no harm. I am told -that in the convent the silly sisters inhale it so diligently that one -cannot smell the incense at Mass. Whether it be worth anything I know -not; try it.</i> -</p> -<p> -"<i>Rest easy, my love, I am sending His Mos. Catholic Majesty the perfect -gold chain</i>." (Her daughter had written her: "<i>The chain arrived in -good condition and I wore it at the christening of the Infante. His Most -Catholic Majesty was gracious enough to admire it and when I told Him -that you had given it me He sent you His compliments upon your taste. Do -not fail to send Him one as like it as possible; send it at once, by way -of the Chamberlain.") "He need never know that in order to obtain it I -had to walk into a picture. Do you remember that in the sacristy of San -Martín there is a portrait by Velasquez of the Viceroy who founded the -monastery and of his wife and brat? and that his wife is wearing a gold -chain? I resolved that only that chain would do. So one midnight I -slipped into the sacristy, climbed upon the robing-table like a girl of -twelve and walked in. The canvas resisted for a moment, but the painter -himself came forward to lift me through the pigment. I told him that the -most beautiful girl in Spain wished to present the finest gold chain -that could be found to the most gracious king in the world. It was as -simple as that, and there we stood talking, we four, in the gray and -silvery air that makes a Velasquez. Now I keep thinking about a more -golden light; I keep looking at the Palace: I must pass the evening in a -Titian. Would the Viceroy let me?</i> -</p> -<p> -"<i>But His Excellency has the gout again. I say 'again' because the -flattery of the court insists that there are times when he is free of -it. This being Saint Mark's day His Excellency started out to visit the -University where twenty-two new doctors were being brought into the -world. He had hardly been carried from his divan to his coach when he -screamed and refused to go any farther. He was carried back to his bed -where he broke a most delicious cigar and sent for the Perichole. And -while we listened to long doctrinal addresses, more or less in Latin, he -heard all about us, more or less in Spanish, from the reddest and -cruellest lips in town</i>." (Doña María permitted herself this passage, -although she had just read in her daughter's last letter: "<i>How many -times must I tell you to be more cautious in the things you say in your -letters? They often show signs of having been opened on the journey. -Nothing could be more ill-judged than your remarks on the -you-know-what-I-mean at Cuzco. Such remarks are not funny, even though -Vicente did compliment you upon them in his postscript, and they might -get us into a great deal of trouble with Certain Persons here in Spain. -I continue to be astonished that your indiscretions have not long since -led to your being ordered to retire to your farm</i>.") -</p> -<p> -"<i>There was a great press at the Exercises and two women fell from the -balcony, but God in His goodness saw that they fell on Doña Merced. All -three are badly hurt, but will be thinking of other things within a -year. The President was speaking at the moment of the accident and being -short-sighted could not imagine what the disturbance of cries and talk -and falling bodies could be about. It was very pleasant to see him -bowing, under the impression that he was being applauded.</i> -</p> -<p> -"<i>Speaking of the Perichole, and of applause, you should know that -Pepita and I decided to go to the Comedia this evening. The public still -idolizes its Perichole; it even forgives her her years. We are told that -she saves what she can, every morning, by passing alternate pencils of -ice and fire across her cheeks</i>." (Translation falls especially short of -this conceit which carries the whole flamboyance of the Spanish -language. It was intended as an obsequious flattery of the Condesa, and -was untrue. The great actress was twenty-eight at this time; her cheeks -had the smoothness and polish of dark yellow marble and would certainly -have retained that quality for many years. Apart from the cosmetics -required by her performances the only treatment Camila Perichole -afforded her face was to throw cold water at it twice a day, like a -peasant woman at a horse trough.) "<i>That curious man they call Uncle Pio -is by her all the time. Don Rubío says that he cannot make out whether -Uncle Pio is her father, her lover, or her son. The Perichole gave a -wonderful performance. Scold me all you like for a provincial ninny, you -have no such actresses in Spain</i>." And so on. -</p> -<p> -It is on this visit to the theatre that further matter hangs. She -decided to go to the Comedia where the Perichole was playing Doña -Leonor in Moreto's <i>Trampa Adelante</i>; perhaps some material could be -derived from the visit for her daughter's next letter. She took with her -Pepita, a little girl about whom later we shall learn much. Doña María -had borrowed her from the orphanage connected with the Convent of Santa -María Rosa de las Rosas to be her companion. The Marquesa sat in her -box gazing with flagging attention at the brilliant stage. Between the -acts it was the Perichole's custom to lay aside the courtly rôle and -appear before the curtain to sing a few topical songs. The malicious -actress had seen the Marquesa arrive and presently began improvising -couplets alluding to her appearance, her avarice, her drunkenness, and -even to her daughter's flight from her. The attention of the house was -subtly directed to the old woman and a rising murmur of contempt -accompanied the laughter of the audience. But the Marquesa, deeply moved -by the first two acts of the comedy, scarcely saw the singer and sat -staring before her, thinking about Spain. Camila Perichole became bolder -and the air was electric with the hatred and glee of the crowd. At last -Pepita plucked the Marquesa's sleeve and whispered to her that they -should go. As they left the box the house arose and burst into a roar of -triumph; the Perichole flung herself into a frenzied dance, for she saw -the manager at the back of the hall and knew that her salary had been -increased. But the Marquesa remained unaware of what had taken place; in -fact she was quite pleased, for during the visit she had contrived a few -felicitous phrases, phrases (who knows) that might bring a smile to her -daughter's face and might make her murmur: "Really, my mother is -charming." -</p> -<p> -In due time the report reached the Viceroy's ears that one of his -aristocrats had been openly baited in the theatre. He summoned the -Perichole to the Palace and ordered her to call upon the Marquesa and to -apologize. The trip was to be made barefoot and in a black dress. Camila -argued and fought, but all she gained was a pair of shoes. -</p> -<p> -The Viceroy had three reasons for insisting. In the first place the -singer had taken liberties with his court. Don Andrés had contrived to -make exile endurable by building up a ceremonial so complicated that it -could be remembered only by a society that had nothing else to think -about. He nursed his little aristocracy and its minute distinctions and -any insult paid to a Marquesa was an insult to His Person. In the second -place, Doña María's son-in-law was an increasingly important personage -in Spain, laden with possibilities of injury to the Viceroy, nay with -the possibility of supplanting him. The Conde Vicente d'Abuirre must not -be vexed, even through his half-wit mother-in-law. Finally, the Viceroy -was delighted to humble the actress. He suspected that she was deceiving -him with a matador, perhaps with an actor,—between the flattery of -the court and the inertia of gout he could not quite make out who it -was; at all events, it was clear that the singer was beginning to forget -that he was one of the first men in the world. -</p> -<p> -The Marquesa, beside not having heard the scurrilous songs, was in other -ways unprepared for the actress's visit. You should know that after the -departure of her daughter, Doña María had lighted upon a certain -consolation: she had taken to drinking. Everyone drank <i>chicha</i> in -Peru and there was no particular disgrace in being found unconscious on -a feast day. Doña María had begun to discover that her feverish -monologues had a way of keeping her awake all night. Once she took a -delicate fluted glassful of <i>chicha</i> on retiring. Oblivion was so -sweet that presently she stole larger amounts and tried dissimulating -their effects from Pepita; she hinted that she was not well, and -represented herself as going into a decline. At last she resigned all -pretense. The boats that carried her letter to Spain did not leave -oftener than once a month. During the week that preceded the making of -the packet she observed a strict regimen and cultivated the city -assiduously for material. At last on the eve of the post she wrote the -letter, making up the bundle towards dawn and leaving it for Pepita to -deliver to the agent. Then as the sun rose she would shut herself up in -her room with some flagons and drift through the next few weeks without -the burden of consciousness. Finally she would emerge from her happiness -and prepare to go into a state of "training" in preparation for the -writing of another letter. -</p> -<p> -Thus on the night following the scandal in the theatre she wrote Letter -XXII and retired to bed with a carafe. All next day Pepita moved about -the room, glancing anxiously at the figure on the bed. The next -afternoon Pepita brought her needlework into the room. The Marquesa lay -staring at the ceiling with wide-open eyes, talking to herself. Towards -dusk Pepita was called to the door and informed that the Perichole had -come to see the mistress. Pepita remembered the theatre very well and -sent back word angrily that the mistress refused to see her. The man -carried the message to the street door, but returned awestruck with the -news that the Señora Perichole was armed with a letter from the Viceroy -presenting her to the lady. Pepita tiptoed to the bed and started -talking to the Marquesa. The glazed eyes moved to the girl's face. -Pepita shook her gently. With great effort Doña María tried to fix her -mind on what was being said to her. Twice she lay back, refusing to -seize the meaning, but at last, like a general calling together in a -rain and by night the dispersed division of his army she assembled -memory and attention and a few other faculties and painfully pressing -her hand to her forehead she asked for a bowl of snow. When it was -brought her, she long and drowsily pressed handfuls of it against her -temples and cheeks; then rising she stood for a long time leaning -against the bed and looking at her shoes. At last she raised her head -with decision, she called for her fur-trimmed cloak and a veil. She put -them on and tottered into her handsomest reception room where the -actress stood waiting for her. -</p> -<p> -Camila had intended to be perfunctory and if possible impudent, but now -she was struck for the first time with the dignity of the old woman. The -mercer's daughter could carry herself at times with all the distinction -of the Montemayors and when she was drunk she wore the grandeur of -Hecuba. For Camila the half-closed eyes had the air of weary authority -and she began almost timidly: -</p> -<p> -"I come, señora, to make sure that you could not have misunderstood -anything I said on the evening that Your Grace did me the honour to -visit my theatre." -</p> -<p> -"Misunderstood? Misunderstood?" said the Marquesa. -</p> -<p> -"Your Grace might have misunderstood and thought that my words were -intended to be disrespectful to Your Grace." -</p> -<p> -"To me?" -</p> -<p> -"Your Grace is not offended at her humble servant? Your Grace is aware -that a poor actress in my position may be carried beyond her -intentions ... that it is very difficult ... that everything...." -</p> -<p> -"How can I be offended, señora? All that I can remember is that you -gave a beautiful performance. You are a great artist. You should be -happy, happy. My handkerchief, Pepita...." -</p> -<p> -The Marquesa brought out these words very rapidly and vaguely, but the -Perichole was confounded. A piercing sense of shame filled her. She -turned crimson. At last she was able to murmur: -</p> -<p> -"It was in the songs between the acts of the comedy. I was afraid Your -Grace ..." -</p> -<p> -"Yes, yes. I remember now. I left early. Pepita, we left early, did we -not? But, señora, you are good enough to forgive my leaving early, yes, -even in the middle of your admirable performance. I forget why we left. -Pepita ... oh, some indisposition...." -</p> -<p> -It was impossible that anyone in the theatre could have missed the -intention of the songs. Camila could only assume that the Marquesa, out -of a sort of fantastic magnanimity, was playing the farce of not having -noticed it. She was almost in tears: "But you are so good to overlook my -childishness, señora,—I mean Your Grace. I did not know. I did not -know your goodness, señora, permit me to kiss your hand." -</p> -<p> -Doña María held out her hand astonished. She had not for a long time -been addressed with such consideration. Her neighbors, her tradespeople, -her servants—for even Pepita lived in awe of her,—her very -daughter had never approached her thus. It induced a new mood in her; -one that must very likely be called maudlin. She became loquacious: -</p> -<p> -"Offended, offended at you, my beautiful, ... my gifted child? Who am I, -a ... an unwise and unloved old woman, to be offended at you? I felt, my -daughter, as though I were—what says the poet?—<i>surprising -through a cloud the conversation of the angels</i>. Your voice kept finding -new wonders in our Moreto. When you said: -</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">'<i>Don Juan, si mi amor estimas,</i></span><br> -<span class="i2"><i>Y la fe segura es necia,</i></span><br> -<span class="i2"><i>Enojarte mis temores</i></span><br> -<span class="i2"><i>Es no querarme discreta.</i></span><br> -<span class="i2"><i>¿Tan seguros</i>....'</span> -</div></div></div> - -<p class="nind"> -and so on,—that was true! And what a gesture you made at the close -of the First Day. There, with your hand so. Such a gesture as the Virgin -made, saying to Gabriel: <i>How is it possible that I shall have a -child</i>? No, no, you will begin to have resentment at me, for I am -going to tell you about a gesture that you may remember to use some day. -Yes, it would fit well into that scene where you forgive your Don Juan -de Lara. Perhaps I should tell you that I saw it made one day by my -daughter. My daughter is a very beautiful woman ... everyone thinks. -Did ... did you know my Doña Clara, Señora?" - - -</p> -<p> -"Her Grace often did me the honour of visiting my theatre. I knew the -Condesa well by sight." -</p> -<p> -"Do not remain so, on one knee, my child.—Pepita, tell Jenarito to -bring this lady some sweet-cakes at once. Think, one day we fell out, I -forget over what. Oh, there is nothing strange in that; all we mothers -from time to time.... Look, can you come a little closer? You must not -believe the town that says she was unkind to me. You are a great woman -with a beautiful nature and you can see further than the crowd sees in -these matters.—It is a pleasure to talk to you. What beautiful -hair you have! What beautiful hair!—She had not a warm impulsive -nature, I know that. But, oh, my child, she has such a store of -intelligence and graciousness. Any misunderstandings between us are so -plainly my fault; is it not wonderful that she is so quick to forgive -me? This day there fell one of those little moments. We both said hasty -things and went off to our rooms. Then each turned back to be forgiven. -Finally only a door separated us and there we were pulling it in -contrary ways. But at last she ... took my ... face ... thus, in her two -white hands. So! Look!" -</p> -<p> -The Marquesa almost fell out of her chair as she leaned forward, her -face streaming with happy tears, and made the beatific gesture. I should -say the mythical gesture, for the incident was but a recurring dream. -</p> -<p> -"I am glad you are here," she continued, "for now you have heard from my -own lips that she is not unkind to me, as some people say. Listen, -señora, the fault was mine. Look at me. Look at me. There was some -mistake that made me the mother of so beautiful a girl. I am difficult. -I am trying. You and she are great women. No, do not stop me: you are -rare women, and I am only a nervous ... a foolish ... a stupid woman. -Let me kiss your feet. I am impossible. I am impossible. I am -impossible." -</p> -<p> -Here indeed the old woman did fall out of her chair and was gathered up -by Pepita and led back to her bed. The Perichole walked home in -consternation and sat for a long time gazing into her eyes in the -mirror, her palms pressed against her cheeks. -</p> -<p> -But the person who saw most of the difficult hours of the Marquesa was -her little companion, Pepita. Pepita was an orphan and had been brought -up by that strange genius of Lima, the Abbess Madre María del Pilar. -The only occasion upon which the two great women of Peru (as the -perspective of history was to reveal them) met face to face was on the -day when Doña María called upon the directress of the Convent of Santa -María Rosa de las Rosas and asked if she might borrow some bright girl -from the orphanage to be her companion. The Abbess gazed hard at the -grotesque old woman. Even the wisest people in the world are not -perfectly wise and Madre María del Pilar who was able to divine the -poor human heart behind all the masks of folly and defiance, had always -refused to concede one to the Marquesa de Montemayor. She asked her a -great many questions and then paused to think. She wanted to give Pepita -the worldly experience of living in the palace. She also wanted to bend -the old woman to her own interests. And she was filled with a sombre -indignation, for she knew she was gazing at one of the richest women in -Peru, and the blindest. -</p> -<p> -She was one of those persons who have allowed their lives to be gnawed -away because they have fallen in love with an idea several centuries -before its appointed appearance in the history of civilization. She -hurled herself against the obstinacy of her time in her desire to attach -a little dignity to women. At midnight when she had finished adding up -the accounts of the House she would fall into insane vision of an age -when women could be organized to protect women, women travelling, women -as servants, women when they are old or ill, the women she had -discovered in the mines of Potosi, or in the workrooms of the -cloth-merchants, the girls she had collected out of doorways on rainy -nights. But always the next morning she had to face the fact that the -women in Peru, even her nuns, went through life with two notions: one, -that all the misfortunes that might befall them were merely due to the -fact that they were not sufficiently attractive to bind some man to -their maintenance and, two, that all the misery in the world was worth -his caress. She had never known any country but the environs of Lima and -she assumed that all its corruption was the normal state of mankind. -Looking back from our century we can see the whole folly of her hope. -Twenty such women would have failed to make any impression on that age. -Yet she continued diligently in her task. She resembled the swallow in -the fable who once every thousand years transferred a grain of wheat, in -the hope of rearing a mountain to reach the moon. Such persons are -raised up in every age; they obstinately insist on transporting their -grains of wheat and they derive a certain exhilaration from the sneers -of the bystanders. "How queerly they dress!" we cry. "How queerly they -dress!" -</p> -<p> -Her plain red face had great kindliness, and more idealism than -kindliness, and more generalship than idealism. All her work, her -hospitals, her orphanage, her convent, her sudden journeys of rescue, -depended upon money. No one harbored a fairer admiration for mere -goodness, but she had been obliged to watch herself sacrificing her -kindliness, almost her idealism, to generalship, so dreadful were the -struggles to obtain her subsidies from her superiors in the church. The -Archbishop of Lima, whom we shall know later in a more graceful -connection, hated her with what he called a Vatinian hate and counted -the cessation of her visits among the compensations for dying. -</p> -<p> -Lately she had felt not only the breath of old age against her cheek, -but a graver warning. A chill of terror went through her, not for -herself, but for her work. Who was there in Peru to value the things she -had valued? And rising one day at dawn she had made a rapid journey -through her hospital and convent and orphanage, looking for a soul she -might train to be her successor. She hurried from empty face to empty -face, occasionally pausing more from hope than conviction. In the -courtyard she came upon a company of girls at work over the linen and -her eyes fell at once upon a girl of twelve who was directing the others -at the trough and at the same time recounting to them with great -dramatic fire the less probable miracles in the life of Saint Rose of -Lima. So it was that the search ended with Pepita. The education for -greatness is difficult enough at any time, but amid the sensibilities -and jealousies of a convent it must be conducted with fantastic -indirection. Pepita was assigned to the most disliked tasks in the -House, but she came to understand all the aspects of its administration. -She accompanied the Abbess on her journeys, even though it was in the -capacity of custodian of the eggs and vegetables. And everywhere, by -surprise, hours would open up in which the Directress suddenly appeared -and talked to her at great length, not only on religious experience, but -on how to manage women and how to plan contagious wards and how to beg -for money. It was a step in this education for greatness that led to -Pepita's arriving one day and entering upon the crazy duties of being -Doña María's companion. For the first two years she merely came for -occasional afternoons, but finally she came to the palace to live. She -never had been taught to expect happiness, and the inconveniences, not -to say terrors, of her new position did not seem to her excessive for a -girl of fourteen. She did not suspect that the Abbess, even there, was -hovering above the house, herself estimating the stresses and watching -for the moment when a burden harms and not strengthens. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 300px;"> -<a id="figure02"></a> -<br> -<img src="images/figure02.jpg" width="300" alt="300"> -</div> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -A few of Pepita's trials were physical: for example, the servants in the -house took advantage of Doña María's indisposition; they opened up the -bedrooms of the palace to their relatives; they stole freely. Alone -Pepita stood out against them and suffered a persecution of small -discomforts and practical jokes. Her mind, similarly, had its -distresses: when she accompanied Doña María on her errands in the -city, the older woman would be seized with the desire to dash into a -church, for what she had lost of religion as faith she had replaced with -religion as magic. "Stay here in the sunlight, my dear child; I shall -not be long," she would say. Doña María would then forget herself in a -reverie before the altar and leave the church by another door. Pepita -had been brought up by Madre María del Pilar to an almost morbid -obedience and when after many hours she ventured into the church and -made sure that her mistress was no longer there, still she returned to -the street-corner and waited while the shadows fell gradually across the -square. Thus waiting in public she suffered all the torture of a little -girl's self-consciousness. She still wore the uniform of the orphanage -(which a minute's thoughtfulness on the part of Doña María could have -altered) and she suffered hallucinations wherein men seemed to be -staring at her and whispering—nor were these always hallucinations. -No less her heart suffered, for on some days Doña María would suddenly -become aware of her and would talk to her cordially and humorously, -would let appear for a few hours all the exquisite sensibility of the -Letters; then, on the morrow she would withdraw into herself again and, -while never harsh, would become impersonal and unseeing. The beginnings -of hope and affection that Pepita had such need to expend would be -wounded. She tiptoed about the palace, silent, bewildered, clinging only -to her sense of duty and her loyalty to her "mother in the Lord," Madre -María del Pilar, who had sent her there. -</p> - -<div class="tb">* * * * * * *</div> - -<p> -Finally a new fact appeared that was to have considerable effect on the -lives of both the Marquesa and her companion: "<i>My dear mother</i>," -wrote the Condesa, "<i>the weather has been most exhausting and the fact -that the orchards and gardens are in bloom only makes it the more -trying. I could endure flowers if only they had no perfume. I shall -therefore ask your permission to write you at less length than usual. If -Vicente returns before the post leaves he will be delighted to finish -out the leaf and supply you with those tiresome details about myself -which you seem to enjoy so. I shall not go to Grignan in Provence as I -expected this Fall, as child will be born in early October</i>." -</p> -<p> -What child? The Marquesa leaned against the wall. Doña Clara had -foreseen the exhausting importunities that this news would waken in her -mother and had sought to mitigate them by the casualness of her -announcement. The ruse did not succeed. The famous Letter XLII was the -answer. -</p> -<p> -Now at length the Marquesa had something to be anxious about: her -daughter was to become a mother. This event, which merely bored Doña -Clara, discovered a whole new scale of emotions in the Marquesa. She -became a mine of medical knowledge and suggestion. She combed the city -for wise old women and poured into her letters the whole folk-wisdom of -the New World. She fell into the most abominable superstition. She -practiced a degrading system of taboos for her child's protection. She -refused to allow a knot in the house. The maids were forbidden to tie up -their hair and she concealed upon her person ridiculous symbols of a -happy delivery. On the stairs the even steps were marked with red chalk -and a maid who accidentally stepped upon an even step was driven from -the house with tears and screams. Doña Clara was in the hands of -malignant Nature who reserves the right to inflict upon her children the -most terrifying jests. There was an etiquette of propitiation which -generations of peasant women had found comforting. So vast an army of -witnesses surely implied that there was some truth in it. At least it -could do no harm, and Perhaps it did good. But the Marquesa did not only -satisfy the rites of paganism; she studied the prescriptions of -Christianity as well. She arose in the dark and stumbled through the -streets to the earliest Masses. She hysterically hugged the altar-rails -trying to rend from the gaudy statuettes a sign, only a sign, the ghost -of a smile, the furtive nod of a waxen head. Would all be well? Sweet, -sweet Mother, would all be well? -</p> -<p> -At times, after a day's frantic resort to such invocations, a revulsion -would sweep over her. Nature is deaf. God is indifferent. Nothing in -man's power can alter the course of law. Then on some street-corner she -would stop, dizzy with despair, and leaning against a wall would long to -be taken from a world that had no plan in it. But soon a belief in the -great Perhaps would surge up from the depths of her nature and she would -fairly run home to renew the candles above her daughter's bed. -</p> -<p> -At last the time came to satisfy the supreme rite of Peruvian households -looking forward to this event: she made the pilgrimage to the shrine of -Santa María de Cluxambuqua. If there resided any efficacy in devotion -at all, surely it lay in a visit to this great shrine. The ground had -been holy through three religions; even before the Incan civilization -distraught human beings had hugged the rocks and lashed themselves with -whips to wring their will from the skies. Thither the Marquesa was -carried in her chair, crossing the bridge of San Luis Rey and ascending -up into the hills toward that city of large-girdled women, a tranquil -town, slow-moving and slow-smiling; a city of crystal air, cold as the -springs that fed its many fountains; a city of bells, soft and musical, -and tuned to carry on with one another the happiest quarrels. If -anything turned out for disappointment in the town of Cluxambuqua the -grief was somehow assimilated by the overwhelming immanence of the Andes -and by the weather of quiet joy that flowed in and about the -side-streets. No sooner did the Marquesa see from a distance the white -walls of this town perched on the knees of the highest peaks than her -fingers ceased turning the beads and the busy prayers of her fright were -cut short on her lips. -</p> -<p> -She did not even alight at the inn, but leaving Pepita to arrange for -their stay she went on to the church and knelt for a long time patting -her hands softly together. She was listening to the new tide of -resignation that was rising within her. Perhaps she would learn in time -to permit both her daughter and her gods to govern their own affairs. -She was not annoyed by the whispering of the old women in padded -garments who sold candles and medals and talked about money from dawn to -dark. She was not even distracted by an officious sacristan who tried to -collect a fee for something or other and who, from spite, made her -change her place under the pretext of repairing a tile on the floor. -Presently she went out into the sunshine and sat on the steps of the -fountain. She watched the little processions of invalids slowly -revolving about the gardens. She watched three hawks plunging about the -sky. The children who had been playing by the fountain stared at her for -a moment, and went away alarmed, but a llama (a lady with a long neck -and sweet shallow eyes, burdened down by a fur cape too heavy for her -and picking her way delicately down an interminable staircase) came over -and offered her a velvet cleft nose to stroke. The llama is deeply -interested in the men about her, is even fond of pretending that she too -is one of them and of inserting her head into their conversations as -though in a moment she would lift her voice and contribute a wan and -helpful comment. Soon Doña María was surrounded by a number of these -sisters who seemed on the point of asking her why she clapped her hands -so and how much her veiling cost a yard. -</p> -<p> -Doña María had arranged that any letters arriving from Spain should be -brought to her at once by a special messenger. She had travelled slowly -from Lima and even now as she sat in the square a boy from her farm ran -up and put into her hand a large packet wrapped in parchment and -dangling some nuggets of sealing-wax. Slowly she undid the wrappings. -With measured stoic gestures she read first an affectionate and jocose -note from her son-in-law; then her daughter's letter. It was full of -wounding remarks rather brilliantly said, perhaps said for the sheer -virtuosity of giving pain neatly. Each of its phrases found its way -through the eyes of the Marquesa, then, carefully wrapped in -understanding and forgiveness it sank into her heart. At last she arose, -gently dispersed the sympathetic llamas, and with a grave face returned -to the shrine. -</p> -<p> -While Doña María was passing the late afternoon in the Church and in -the Square, Pepita was left to prepare their lodging. She showed the -porters where to lay down the great wicker hampers and set about -unpacking the altar, the brazier, the tapestries and the portraits of -Doña Clara. She descended into the kitchen and gave the cook exact -instructions as to the preparations of a certain porridge upon which the -Marquesa principally subsisted. Then she returned to the rooms and -waited. She resolved to write a letter to the Abbess. She hung for a -long time over the quill, staring into the distance with trembling lip. -She saw the face of Madre María del Pilar, so red and scrubbed, and the -wonderful black eyes. She heard her voice as at the close of supper (the -orphans sitting with lowered eyes and folded hands) she commented on the -events of the day, or as, by candlelight, she stood among the beds of the -hospital and announced the theme for meditation during the night. But -most clearly of all Pepita remembered the sudden interviews when the -Abbess (not daring to wait until the girl was older) had discussed with -her the duties of her office. She had talked to Pepita as to an equal. -Such speech is troubling and wonderful to an intelligent child and Madre -María del Pilar had abused it. She had expanded Pepita's vision of how -she should feel and act beyond the measure of her years. And she had -unthinkingly turned upon Pepita the full blaze of her personality, as -Jupiter had turned his upon Semele. Pepita was frightened by her sense -of insufficiency; she hid it and wept. And then the Abbess had cast the -child into the discipline of this long solitude, where Pepita struggled, -refusing to let herself believe that she had been abandoned. And now -from this strange inn in these strange mountains, where the altitude was -making her lightheaded, Pepita longed for the dear presence, the only -real thing in her life. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 300px;"> -<a id="figure03"></a> -<br> -<img src="images/figure03.jpg" width="300" alt="300"> -</div> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -She wrote a letter, all inkstains and incoherence. Then she went -downstairs to see about fresh charcoal and to taste the porridge. -</p> -<p> -The Marquesa came in and sat down at the table. "I can do no more. What -will be, will be," she whispered. She unbound from her neck the amulets -of her superstition and dropped them into the glowing brazier. She had a -strange sense of having antagonized God by too much prayer and so -addressed Him now obliquely. "After all it is in the hands of another. I -no longer claim the least influence. What will be, will be." She sat for -a long time, her palms against her cheeks, making a blank of her mind. -Her eyes fell on Pepita's letter. She opened it mechanically and started -to read. She had read a full half of it before her attention was aware -of the meaning of the words: "... <i>but all this is nothing if you like -me and wish me to stay with her. I oughtn't to tell you but every now -and then the bad chambermaids lock me up in rooms and steal things and -perhaps My Lady will think that I steal them. I hope not. I hope you are -well and not having any trouble in the hospital or anywhere. Though I -never see you I think of you all the time and I remember what you told -me, my dear mother in God. I want to do only what you want, but if you -could let me come back for a few days to the convent, but not if you do -not wish it. But I am so much alone and not talking to anyone, and -everything. Sometimes I do not know whether you have forgotten me and if -you could find a minute to write me a little letter or something, I -could keep it, but I know how busy you are</i>...." -</p> -<p> -Doña María read no further. She folded the letter and put it aside. -For a moment she was filled with envy: she longed to command another's -soul as completely as this nun was able to do. Most of all she longed to -be back in this simplicity of love, to throw off the burden of pride and -vanity that hers had always carried. To quiet the tumult in her mind she -picked up a book of devotion and tried to fix her attention upon the -words. But after a moment she suddenly felt the need to reread the whole -letter, to surprise, if possible, the secret of so much felicity. -</p> -<p> -Pepita returned bringing the supper in her hands, followed by a maid. -Doña María watched her over the top of her book as she would have -watched a visitor from Heaven. Pepita tiptoed about the room laying the -table and whispering directions to her assistant. -</p> -<p> -"Your supper is ready, My Lady," she said at last. -</p> -<p> -"But, my child, you are going to eat with me?" In Lima Pepita generally -sat down at the table with her mistress. -</p> -<p> -"I thought you would be tired, My Lady. I had my supper downstairs." -</p> -<p> -"She does not wish to eat with me," thought the Marquesa. "She knows me -and has rejected me." -</p> -<p> -"Would you like me to read aloud to you while you are eating, My Lady?" -asked Pepita, who felt that she had made a mistake. -</p> -<p> -"No. You may go to bed, if you choose." -</p> -<p> -"Thank you, My Lady." -</p> -<p> -Doña María had risen and approached the table. With one hand on the -back of the chair she said haltingly: "My dear child, I am sending off a -letter to Lima in the morning. If you have one you can enclose it with -mine." -</p> -<p> -"No, I have none," said Pepita. She added hastily: "I must go downstairs -and get you the new charcoal." -</p> -<p> -"But, my dear, you have one for ... Madre María del Pilar. Wouldn't -you ...?" -</p> -<p> -Pepita pretended to be busy over the brazier. "No, I'm not going to send -it," she said. She was aware during the long pause that followed that -the Marquesa was staring at her in stupefaction. "I've changed my mind." -</p> -<p> -"I know she would like a letter from you, Pepita. It would make her very -happy. I know." -</p> -<p> -Pepita was reddening. She said loudly: "The innkeeper said that there -would be some new charcoal ready for you at dark. I'll tell them to -bring it up now." She glanced hastily at the old woman and saw that she -had not ceased from staring at her with great sad inquiring eyes. Pepita -felt that these were not things one talked about, but the strange woman -seemed to be feeling the matter so strongly that Pepita was willing to -concede one more answer: "No, it was a bad letter. It wasn't a good -letter." -</p> -<p> -Doña María fairly gasped. "Why, my dear Pepita, I think it was very -beautiful. Believe me, I know. No, no; what could have made it a bad -letter?" -</p> -<p> -Pepita frowned, hunting for a word that would close the matter. -</p> -<p> -"It wasn't ... it wasn't ... brave," she said. And then she would say no -more. She carried the letter off into her own room and could be heard -tearing it up. Then she got into bed and lay staring into the darkness, -still uncomfortable at having talked in such a fashion. And Doña María -sat down to her dish amazed. -</p> -<p> -She had never brought courage to either life or love. Her eyes -ransacked her heart. She thought of the amulets and of her beads, her -drunkenness ... she thought of her daughter. She remembered the long -relationship, crowded with the wreckage of exhumed conversations, of -fancied slights, of inopportune confidences, of charges of neglect and -exclusion (but she must have been mad that day; she remembered beating upon -the table). "But it's not my fault," she cried. "It's not my fault that I -was so. It was circumstance. It was the way I was brought up. Tomorrow I -begin a new life. Wait and see, oh my child." At I last she cleared away -the table and sitting down wrote what she called her first letter, her -first stumbling misspelled letter in courage. She remembered with shame -that in the previous one she had piteously asked her daughter how much she -loved her, and had greedily quoted the few and hesitant endearments that -Doña Clara had lately ventured to her. Doña María could not recall -those pages, but she could write some new ones, free and generous. No -one else has regarded them as stumbling. It is the famous letter LVI, -known to the Encyclopedists as her Second Corinthians because of its -immortal paragraph about love: "Of the thousands of persons we meet in a -lifetime, my child ..." and so on. It was almost dawn when she finished -the letter. She opened the door upon her balcony and looked at the great -tiers of stars that glittered above the Andes. Throughout the hours of -the night, though there had been few to hear it, the whole sky had been -loud with the singing of these constellations. Then she took a candle -into the next room and looked at Pepita as she slept, and pushed back -the damp hair from the girl's face. "Let me live now," she whispered. -"Let me begin again." -</p> -<p> -Two days later they started back to Lima, and while crossing the bridge -of San Luis Rey the accident which we know befell them. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 250px;"> -<a id="figure04"></a> -<br> -<img src="images/figure04.jpg" width="250" alt="250"> -</div> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b><a id="chap03"></a>PART THREE: ESTEBAN</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">O</span>NE morning twin boys were discovered in -the foundlings' basket before the door of the Convent of Santa María -Rosa de las Rosas. Names were found for them almost before the arrival -of the wet-nurse, but the names were not as useful to them as our names -are to most of us, for no one ever succeeded in telling the boys apart. -There was no way of knowing who their parents were, but Limean gossips, -noticing as the boys grew older how straight they held themselves and -how silent and sombre they were, declared them to be Castilian and laid -them in turn at all sorts of crested doorways. The person in the world -who came nearest to being their guardian was the Abbess of the Convent. -Madre María del Pilar had come to hate all men, but she grew fond of -Manuel and Esteban. In the late afternoon she would call them into her -office, send for some cakes from the kitchen, and tell them stories -about the Cid and Judas Maccabeus and the thirty-six misfortunes of -Harlequin. She grew to love them so, that she would catch herself gazing -deep into their black and frowning eyes, looking for those traits that -would appear when they grew to be men, all that ugliness, all that -soullessness that made hideous the world she worked in. They grew up -about the convent until they were a little past the age when their -presence began to be a slight distraction to the dedicated sisters. From -thence they became vaguely attached to all the sacristies in town: they -trimmed all the cloister hedges; they polished every possible crucifix; -they passed a damp cloth once a year over most of the ecclesiastical -ceilings. All Lima knew them well. When the priest rushed through the -streets carrying his precious burden into a sickroom either Esteban or -Manuel was to be seen striding behind him, swinging a censer. As they -grew older, however, they showed no desire for the clerical life. They -gradually assumed the profession of the scribe. There were few printing -presses in the New World and the boys soon made a fair living -transcribing comedies for the theatre, ballads for the crowds, and -advertisements for the merchants. Above all they were the copyists of -the choirmasters and made endless parts of the motets of Morales and -Vittoria. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 300px;"> -<a id="figure05"></a> -<br> -<img src="images/figure05.jpg" width="300" alt="300"> -</div> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -Because they had no family, because they were twins, and because they -were brought up by women, they were silent. There was in them a curious -shame in regard to their resemblance. They had to live in a world where -it was the subject of continual comment and joking. It was never funny -to them and they suffered the eternal pleasantries with stolid patience. -From the years when they first learned to speak they invented a secret -language for themselves, one that was scarcely dependent on the Spanish -for its vocabulary, or even for its syntax. They resorted to it only -when they were alone, or at great intervals in moments of stress -whispered it in the presence of others. The Archbishop of Lima was -something of a philologist; he dabbled in dialects; he had even evolved -quite a brilliant table for the vowel and consonant changes from Latin -into Spanish and from Spanish into Indian-Spanish. He was storing up -notebooks of quaint lore against an amusing old age he planned to offer -himself back on his estates outside Segovia. So when he heard one day -about the secret language of the twin brothers, he trimmed some quills -and sent for them. The boys stood humiliated upon the rich carpets of -his study while he tried to extract from them their <i>bread</i> and -<i>tree</i> and their <i>I see</i> and <i>I saw</i>. They did not know -why the experience was I so horrible to them. They bled. Long shocked -silences followed each of the Archbishop's questions, until finally one -or the other mumbled an answer. The priest thought for a while that they -were merely in awe before his rank and before the luxury of his -apartment, but at last, much perplexed, he divined the presence of some -deeper reluctance and sadly let them go. -</p> -<p> -This language was the symbol of their profound identity with one -another, for just as resignation was a word insufficient to describe the -spiritual change that came over the Marquesa de Montemayor on that night -in the inn at Cluxambuqua, so <i>love</i> is inadequate to describe the -tacit almost ashamed oneness of these brothers. What relationship is it -in which few words are exchanged, and those only about the details of -food, clothing and occupation; in which the two persons have a curious -reluctance even to glance at one another; and in which there is a tacit -arrangement not to appear together in the city and to go on the same -errand by different streets? And yet side by side with this there -existed a need of one another so terrible that it produced miracles as -naturally as the charged air of a sultry day produces lightning. The -brothers were scarcely aware of it themselves, but telepathy was a -common occurrence in their lives, and when one returned home the other -was always aware of it when his brother was still several streets away. -</p> -<p> -Suddenly they discovered that they were tired of writing. They went down -to the sea and found an occupation in loading and unloading vessels, not -ashamed of working side by side with Indians. They drove teams across -the provinces. They picked fruit. They were ferrymen. And always they -were silent. Their sombre faces took on from these labors a male and -gypsy cast. Their hair was seldom cut and under the dark mat their eyes -looked up suddenly surprised and a little sullen. All the world was -remote and strange and hostile except one's brother. -</p> -<p> -But at last the first shadow fell across this unity and the shadow was -cast by the love of women. They had returned to the city and resumed the -copying of parts for the theatre. One night the manager, foreseeing a -thinning house, gave them a free admission. The boys did not like what -they found there. Even speech was for them a debased form of silence; -how much more futile is poetry which is a debased form of speech. All -those allusions to honour, reputation, and the flame of love, all the -metaphors about birds, Achilles and the jewels of Ceylon were fatiguing. -In the presence of literature they had the same darkling intelligence -that stirs for a time behind the eyes of a dog, but they sat on -patiently, gazing at the bright candles and the rich clothes. Between -the acts of the comedy the Perichole stepped out of her rôle, put on -twelve petticoats and danced before the curtain. Esteban had some -copying still to do, or pretended so, and went home early; but Manuel -stayed on. The red stockings and shoes of the Perichole had made their -impression. -</p> -<p> -Both brothers had fetched and carried their manuscripts up and down the -dusty stairs behind the stage. There they had seen an irritable girl in -a soiled bodice mending her stockings before a mirror while her stage -director read aloud her lines for memorization. She had let fall upon -the boys for a moment the detonation of her amazing eyes, immediately -dissipated in her amused recognition that they were twins. Forthwith she -had dragged them into the room and placed them side by side. Carefully, -amusedly and remorselessly she had peered into every square inch of -their faces, until finally laying one hand on Esteban's shoulder she had -cried out: "This one is the younger!" That had been several years before -and neither brother had thought of the episode again. -</p> -<p> -Henceforth all Manuel's errands seemed to lead him past the theatre. -Late at night he would drift about among the trees beneath her -dressing-room window. It was not the first time that Manuel had been -fascinated by a woman (both brothers had possessed women, and often, -especially during their years at the waterfront; but simply, latinly), -but it was the first time that his will and imagination had been thus -overwhelmed. He had lost that privilege of simple nature, the -dissociation of love and pleasure. Pleasure was no longer as simple as -eating; it was being complicated by love. Now was beginning that crazy -loss of one's self, that neglect of everything but one's dramatic -thoughts about the beloved, that feverish inner life all turning upon -the Perichole and which would so have astonished and disgusted her had -she been permitted to divine it. This Manuel had not fallen in love -through any imitation of literature. It was not of him, at all events, -that the bitterest tongue in France had remarked only fifty years -before: that many people would never have fallen in love if they had not -heard about it. Manuel read little; he had only been once to the theatre -(where above all there reigns the legend that love is a devotion) and -the Peruvian tavern-songs that he might have heard, unlike those of -Spain, reflected very little of the romantic cult of an idealized woman. -When he said over to himself that she was beautiful and rich and -fatiguingly witty and the Viceroy's mistress, none of these attributes -that made her less obtainable had the power to quench his curious and -tender excitement. So he leaned against the trees in the dark, his -knuckles between his teeth, and listened to his loud heart-beats. -</p> -<p> -But the life that Esteban was leading had been full enough for him. -There was no room in his imagination for a new loyalty, not because his -heart was less large than Manuel's, but because it was of a simpler -texture. Now he discovered that secret from which one never quite -recovers, that even in the most perfect love one person loves less -profoundly than the other. There may be two equally good, equally -gifted, equally beautiful, but there may never be two that love one -another equally well. So Esteban sat up in their room by a guttering -candle, his knuckles between his teeth, and wondered why Manuel was so -changed and why the whole meaning had gone out of their life. -</p> -<p> -One evening Manuel was stopped on the street by a small boy who -announced to him that the Perichole wished him to call upon her at once. -Manuel turned in his path and went to the theatre. Straight, sombre and -impersonal, he entered the actress's room and stood waiting. Camila had -a service to ask of Manuel and she thought a few preliminary -blandishments were necessary, but she scarcely paused in combing a blond -wig that was dressed upon the table before her. -</p> -<p> -"You write letters for people, don't you? I want you to write a letter -for me, please. Please come in." -</p> -<p> -He came forward two steps. -</p> -<p> -"You never pay me the least visit either of you. That's not Spanish of -you."—meaning 'courteous.'—"Which are you, Manuel or Esteban?" -</p> -<p> -"Manuel." -</p> -<p> -"It doesn't matter. You are both unfriendly. Neither of you ever comes -to see me. Here I sit learning stupid lines all day and no one ever -comes to see me but a lot of peddlers. It is because I am an actress, -no?" -</p> -<p> -This was not very artful, but for Manuel it was unspeakably complicated. -He merely stared at her from the shadows of his long hair and left her -to improvise. -</p> -<p> -"I am going to engage you to write a letter for me, a very secret -letter. But now I can see that you don't like me and that to ask you to -write a letter would be as good as reading it aloud in all the -wine-shops. What does that look mean, Manuel? Are you my friend?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, señora." -</p> -<p> -"Go away. Send me Esteban. You do not even say <i>Yes, señora</i> as a -friend would say it." -</p> -<p> -Long pause. Presently she raised her head: "Are you still there, -Unfriendly?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, señora ... you can trust me to do anything for you ... you can -trust ..." -</p> -<p> -"If I ask you to write one letter for me, or two letters, you promise -never to mention to a human being what is in them, or even that you -wrote them?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, señora." -</p> -<p> -"What do you promise by?—by the Virgin Mary?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, señora." -</p> -<p> -"And by the heart of Saint Rose of Lima?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, señora." -</p> -<p> -"Name of the Name, Manuel, anyone would think you were as stupid as an -ox. Manuel, I am very angry with you. You are not stupid. You don't look -stupid. Please don't say just <i>Yes, señora</i> again. Don't be stupid or -I'll send for Esteban. Is anything the matter with you?" -</p> -<p> -Here Manuel cast himself upon the Spanish language and exclaimed with -unnecessary vigor: "I swear by the Virgin Mary and the heart of St. Rose -of Lima that all that has to do with the letter will be secret." -</p> -<p> -"Even from Esteban," prompted the Perichole. -</p> -<p> -"Even from Esteban." -</p> -<p> -"Well, that's better." She motioned him to sit down at a table where -writing materials were already laid out. As she dictated she strode -about the room, frowning, swinging her hips. With her arms akimbo, she -hugged her shawl about her shoulders defiantly. -</p> -<p> -"<i>Camila Perichole kisses the hands of Your Excellency and -says</i>—No, take another piece of paper and begin again. <i>The -señora Micaela Villegas, artist, kisses the hands of Your Excellency -and says that, being the victim of the envious and lying friends that Y. -E.'s goodness permits about Him, she can no longer endure Y. E.'s -suspicions and jealousy. Y. E.'s servant has always valued Y. E.'s -friendship and has never committed, nor even thought, an offense against -it, but she can no longer fight against the calumnies that Y. E. -believes so readily. Señora Villegas, artist, called the Perichole, -therefore returns herewith such of Y. E.'s gifts as have not been placed -beyond recall, since without Y. E.'s confidence, Y. E.'s servant can -take no pleasure in them</i>." -</p> -<p> -Camila continued walking about the room for several minutes, consumed by -her thoughts. Presently without so much as glancing at her secretary, -she commanded: "Take another leaf. <i>Have you gone mad? Do not ever think -of eating another bull to me again. It has caused a frightful war. -Heaven protect you, my colt. Friday night, the same place, the same -time. I may be a little late, for the fox is wide-awake</i>. That will be -all." -</p> -<p> -Manuel rose. -</p> -<p> -"You swear that you have made no errors?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, I swear." -</p> -<p> -"There is your money." -</p> -<p> -Manuel took the money. -</p> -<p> -"I shall want you to write me more letters from time to time. My uncle -Pio generally writes my letters; these I do not wish him to know about. -Good night. Go with God." -</p> -<p> -"Go with God." -</p> -<p> -Manuel descended the stairs and stood for a long time among the trees, -not thinking, not moving. -</p> -<p> -Esteban knew that his brother was continually brooding over the -Perichole, but he never suspected that he saw her. From time to time -during the next two months a small boy would approach him in great haste -and ask whether he were Manuel or Esteban, and being informed that he -was only Esteban, the boy would add that Manuel was wanted at the -theatre. Esteban assumed that the call was for copyist's work and was -therefore utterly unprepared for a visit that they received one night in -their room. -</p> -<p> -It was almost midnight. Esteban had gone to bed, and lay gazing out from -under the blanket at the candle beside which his brother was working. -There was a light tap at the door and Manuel opened to admit a lady -heavily veiled, out of breath and nervous. She threw back the scarf from -her face and said hurriedly: -</p> -<p> -"Quick, ink and paper. You are Manuel, yes? You must do a letter for me -at once." -</p> -<p> -For a moment her glance fell on the two bright eyes that glared at her -from the edge of the cot. She murmured: "Eu ... you must excuse me. I -know it is late. It was necessary ... I must come." Then turning to -Manuel, she whispered into his ear: "Write this: <i>I Perichole, am not -accustomed to wait at a rendez-vous</i>. Have you finished that? <i>You are -only a cholo, and there are better matadors than you, even in Lima. I am -half Castilian and there are no better actresses in the world. You shall -not have the opportunity</i>—Have you got that?—<i>to keep me -waiting again, cholo, and I shall laugh the last, for even an actress does -not grow old as fast as a bullfighter</i>." -</p> -<p> -To Esteban in the shadows the picture of Camila leaning over his -brother's hand and whispering into his ear was complete evidence that a -new congeniality had formed such as he would never know. He seemed to -shrink away into space, infinitely tiny, infinitely unwanted. He took -one more glance at the tableau of love, all the paradise from which he -was shut out, and turned his face to the wall. -</p> -<p> -Camila seized the note the moment it was done, pushed a coin along the -table and in a last flurry of black lace, scarlet beads and excited -whispers left the room. Manuel turned from the door with his candle. He -sat down, put his hand over his ears, his elbows on his knees. He -worshipped her. He murmured to himself over and over again that he -worshipped her, making of the sound a sort of incantation and an -obstacle to thought. -</p> -<p> -He emptied his mind of everything but a singsong, and it was this -vacancy that permitted him to become aware of Esteban's mood. He seemed -to hear a voice that proceeded from the shadows saying: "Go and follow -her, Manuel. Don't stay here. You'll be happy. There's room for us all -in the world." Then the realization became even more intense and he -received a mental image of Esteban going a long way off and saying -good-bye many times as he went. He was filled with terror; by the light -of it he saw that all the other attachments in the world were shadows, -or the illusions of fever, even Madre María del Pilar, even the -Perichole. He could not understand why Esteban's misery should present -itself as demanding a choice between him and the Perichole, but he could -understand Esteban's misery, as misery. And at once he sacrificed -everything to it, if it can be said we ever sacrifice anything save what -we know we can never attain, or what some secret wisdom tells us it -would be uncomfortable or saddening to possess. To be sure there was -nothing on which Esteban could base a complaint. It was not jealousy, -for in their earlier affairs it had never occurred to either of them -that their loyalty to one another had been diminished. It was merely -that in the heart of one of them there was left room for an elaborate -imaginative attachment and in the heart of the other there was not. -Manuel could not quite understand this and, as we shall see, he -nourished a dim sense of being accused unjustly. But he did understand -that Esteban was suffering. In his excitement he groped for a means of -holding this brother who seemed to be receding into the distance. And at -once, in one unhesitating stroke of the will, he removed the Perichole -from his heart. -</p> -<p> -He blew out the candle and lay down on his bed. He was trembling. He -said aloud with exaggerated casualness: "Well, that's the last letter I -write for that woman. She can go and find a pander somewhere else. If -ever she calls here or sends for me when I'm out, tell her so. Make it -plain. That's the last I have to do with her," and with that he began -reciting his evening psalm aloud. But he had hardly reached <i>A sagitta -volante in die</i> when he became aware that Esteban had risen and was -lighting the candle. -</p> -<p> -"What's the matter?" he asked. -</p> -<p> -"I'm going out for a walk," replied Esteban sombrely, fastening his -belt. After a moment, he broke out with an assumption of anger: "You -don't have to say ... what you just said, for me. I don't care whether -you write her letters or not. You don't have to change for me. I haven't -anything to do with that." -</p> -<p> -"Go to bed, you fool. God, you're a fool, Esteban. What made you think I -said that, for you? Don't you believe I mean it when I say I'm through -with her? Do you think I want to write any more of her dirty letters and -get paid for them like that?" -</p> -<p> -"It's all right. You love her. You don't have to change because of me." -</p> -<p> -"'<i>Love</i> her?' <i>Love</i> her? You're crazy, Esteban. How could I -love her? What chance would there be for me? Do you suppose she'd give me -those letters to write if there were any chance? Do you suppose she'd -push a piece of money across the table every time.... You're crazy, -Esteban, that's all." -</p> -<p> -There was a long pause. Esteban would not go to bed. He sat by the -candle in the middle of the room, tapping with his hand on the edge of -the table. -</p> -<p> -"Go to bed, you fool," shouted Manuel, rising on one elbow under the -blanket. He was talking in their secret language and the new pain at his -heart, gave a greater ring of reality to his assumption of rage. "I'm -all right." -</p> -<p> -"I won't. I'm going out for a walk," replied Esteban picking up his -coat. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 300px;"> -<a id="figure06"></a> -<br> -<img src="images/figure06.jpg" width="300" alt="300"> -</div> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -"You can't go out for a walk. It's two o'clock. It's raining. You can't -go and walk about for hours like that. Look, Esteban, I swear to you -there's nothing left to all that. I don't love her. I only did for a -time." -</p> -<p> -By now Esteban stood in the dark of the open door. In the unnatural -voice with which we make the greatest declarations of our lives, he -muttered: "I'm in your way," and turned to go. -</p> -<p> -Manuel leapt out of his bed. His head seemed to be full of a great din, -a voice crying out that Esteban was going away forever, was leaving him -alone forever. "In the name of God, in the name of God, Esteban, come -back here." -</p> -<p> -Esteban came back and went to bed and the matter was not mentioned again -for many weeks. The very next evening Manuel had an opportunity of -declaring his position. A messenger arrived from the Perichole and was -told harshly to inform the actress that Manuel would write no more -letters for her. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -One evening Manuel tore open the flesh on his knee against a piece of -metal. -</p> -<p> -Neither brother had ever been ill for as much as a day in his life, and -now Manuel, utterly bewildered, watched his leg swell and felt the waves -of pain rise and fall in his body. Esteban sat by and stared at his face -trying to imagine what great pain was. At last one midnight Manuel -remembered that the signboard of a certain hairdresser in the city -described the proprietor as an experienced barber and surgeon. Esteban -ran through the streets to fetch him. He pounded on the door. Presently -a woman leaned out of a window and announced that her husband would be -back in the morning. During the fearful hours that followed, they told -one another that when the doctor had seen the leg all would be well. He -would do something about it, and Manuel would be out around the town in -a day or two, even in a day perhaps, even less than a day. -</p> -<p> -The barber arrived and prescribed various draughts and ointments. -Esteban was instructed to lay cold cloths on his brother's leg every -hour. The barber withdrew and the brothers sat down to wait for the pain -to subside. But while they continued staring into one another's face -waiting for the miracle of science the pain grew worse. Hour after hour -Esteban approached with his dripping towel and they discovered that the -moment of its application was the worst of all. With all the fortitude -in the world Manuel could not prevent himself from shouting and from -flinging himself about upon the bed. Night came on and still Esteban -stolidly waited and watched and worked. Nine, ten, eleven. Now when the -time drew near to apply the cloths (the hour struck so musically from -all those towers) Manuel would plead with Esteban not to do his work. He -would resort to guile and declare that he scarcely felt it. But Esteban, -his heart bursting with pain and his lips a line of iron, would roll -back the blanket and bind the towel fiercely in its place. Manuel -gradually became delirious and under this application all the thoughts -he did not permit himself in his right mind would burst magnified from -his mouth. -</p> -<p> -Finally at two o'clock, out of his mind with rage and pain, and flinging -himself half out of the bed until his head struck the floor, Manuel -cried: "God condemn your soul to the hottest hell there is. A thousand -devils torture you forever, Esteban. God condemn your soul, do you -hear?" At first, the air gone out of his body, Esteban went out into the -hall and leaned against the door, his mouth and eyes wide open. Still he -heard from within: "Yes, Esteban, may God damn your beastly soul -forever, do you hear that? For coming between me and what was mine by -right. She was mine, do you hear, and what right had you...." and he -would go off into an elaborate description of the Perichole. -</p> -<p> -These outbursts recurred hourly. It was some time before Esteban was -able to realize that his brother's mind was not then clear. After some -moments of horror, in which his being a devout believer had its part, he -would return to the room and go about his duties with bent head. -</p> -<p> -Towards dawn his brother became serener. (For what human ill does not -dawn seem to be an alleviation?) It was in one of these intervals that -Manuel said quite calmly: -</p> -<p> -"God's son! I feel better, Esteban. Those cloths must be good after all. -You'll see. I'll be up and around tomorrow. You haven't slept for days. -You'll see I won't cause you any more trouble, Esteban." -</p> -<p> -"It's no trouble, you fool." -</p> -<p> -"You mustn't take me seriously when I try and stop you putting on the -old cloths, Esteban." -</p> -<p> -A long pause. At last Esteban brought out, barely audible: -</p> -<p> -"I think ... don't you think it would be fine if I sent for the -Perichole? She could just come and see you for a few minutes, I -mean...." -</p> -<p> -"Her? You still thinking about her? I wouldn't have her here for -anything. No." -</p> -<p> -But Esteban was not content yet. He dragged up a few more phrases from -the very centre of his being: -</p> -<p> -"Manuel, you still feel, don't you, that I came between you and the -Perichole and you don't remember that I told you it was all right with -me. I swear to you I'd have been glad if you'd gone away with her, or -anything." -</p> -<p> -"What are you bringing that up for, Esteban? I tell you, in God's own -name, I never think of that. She's nothing to me. When are you going to -forget that, Esteban? I tell you I'm glad things are as they are. Look, -I got to get angry when you keep going back to that." -</p> -<p> -"Manuel, I wouldn't speak of it again, only when you get angry at me -about the cloths ... you, you get angry at me about that, too. And you -talk about it and you ..." -</p> -<p> -"Look, I'm not responsible what I say. My old leg hurts then, see." -</p> -<p> -"Then you don't damn me to hell because ... it looks like I came between -you and the Perichole?" -</p> -<p> -"Damn you to ...? What makes you say that? You're going crazy, Esteban; -you're imagining things. You haven't had any sleep, Esteban. I been a -curse to you and you're losing your health because of me. But you'll -see, I won't trouble you much more. How could I damn you to hell, -Esteban, when you're all I've got? Understand, see, that when the cold -cloths go on, I just lose myself, see. You know. Don't think about it -twice. It's time to put them on now. I won't say a word." -</p> -<p> -"No, Manuel, I'll skip this time. It won't do you any harm, I'll just -skip this time." -</p> -<p> -"I've got to get well, Esteban. I've got to get up soon, you know. Put them -on. But one minute—give me the crucifix. I swear by the blood and -body of Christ that if I say anything against Esteban, I don't mean it -and it's just the foolish words when I'm dreaming because of the pain in -my leg. God make me well again soon, amen. Put it back. There. Now I'm -ready." -</p> -<p> -"Look, Manuel, it won't hurt if I skip just this once, see. It'll be -good for you, sure, to not get it all stirred up just this once." -</p> -<p> -"No, I've got to get well. The doctor said it had to be done. I won't -say a word, Esteban." -</p> -<p> -And it would begin all over again. -</p> -<p> -During the second night a prostitute in the next room started beating on -the wall, outraged at such language. A priest in the room on the other -side would come out into the hall and beat on the door. The whole floor -would gather before the room in exasperation. The innkeeper came up the -stairs, loudly promising his guests that the brothers would be dumped -into the street the very next morning. Esteban, holding his candle, -would go into the hall and permit them to rage at him for as long as -they pleased; but after that he took to pressing his hand firmly over -his brother's mouth during the moments of greatest stress. This -increased Manuel's personal rage at him and he would babble all through -the night. -</p> -<p> -On the third night, Esteban sent for the priest and amidst the enormous -shadows Manuel received the sacrament, and died. -</p> -<p> -Thereafter Esteban refused to come near the building. He would start off -upon long walks, but presently drifting back, would hang about, staring -at passers-by, within two streets of where his brother lay. The -innkeeper failing to make any impression upon him and remembering that -the boys were brought up at the Convent of Santa María Rosa de las -Rosas, sent for the Abbess. Simply and soundly she directed all that was -to be done. At last she went down to the street corner and spoke to -Esteban. He watched her approach him, a glance mixed of longing and -distrust. But when she stood near him he turned sideways and looked -away. -</p> -<p> -"I want you to help me. Won't you come in and see your brother? Won't -you come in and help me?" -</p> -<p> -"No." -</p> -<p> -"You won't help me!" A long pause. Suddenly as she stood there full of -her helplessness there flashed through her mind an incident of many -years before: the twin brothers about fifteen years old were sitting at -her knee and she was telling them the story of the crucifixion. Their -large grave eyes were fixed upon her lips. Suddenly Manuel had cried out -loudly: "If Esteban and I had been there we would have prevented it." -</p> -<p> -"Well, then, if you won't help me, will you tell me which you are?" -</p> -<p> -"Manuel," said Esteban. -</p> -<p> -"Manuel, won't you come and sit with me up there for just a short time?" -</p> -<p> -After a long pause: "No." -</p> -<p> -"But Manuel, dear Manuel, can't you remember as children how you did so -many things for me? You were willing to go across the town on some -little errand. When I was ill you made the cook let you bring me my -soup?" Another woman would have said: "Do you remember how much I did -for you?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes." -</p> -<p> -"I, too, Manuel have lost. I too ... once. We know that God has taken -them into His hands...." But this did not do at all. Esteban turned -vaguely and walked away from her. When he had gone about twenty paces he -stopped and stared down a side-street, like a dog who wants to go away, -but is reluctant to offend the master who calls him back. -</p> -<p> -That was all they could get out of him. When the fearful procession -passed through the city, with its black hoods and masks, its candles in -broad daylight, its display of heaped-up skulls, its terrifying psalms, -Esteban followed it in the parallel streets, catching glimpses of it -from a distance, like a savage. -</p> -<p> -All Lima was interested in this separation of the brothers. Housewives -whispered together sympathetically about it as they unfurled their -carpets from the balconies. The men in the wineshops, alluding to it, -shook their heads and smoked in silence for a while. Travellers from the -interior told of seeing Esteban as he strayed with eyes like coals along -the dried-up beds of rivers or through the great ruins of the old race. -A herder of llamas had come upon him standing upon a hilltop, asleep or -dazed, wet with dew under the stars. Some fishermen surprised him -swimming far out from shore. From time to time he would find work to do, -he would become a shepherd or a carter, but after a few months he would -disappear and stride from province to province. But he always returned -to Lima. One day he appeared at the door of the Perichole's -dressing-room; he made as though to speak, gazed earnestly at her and -vanished. One day a sister came running into the office of Madre María -del Pilar with the news that Esteban (whom the world called Manuel) was -lingering about the door of the convent. The Abbess hurried out into the -street. For months she had been asking herself what strategy could -reconcile this half-demented boy to living among them again. She -assembled as grave and calm a manner as she was able and appearing at -the street door murmured "My friend" and looked at him. He gazed back at -her with the same glance of longing and distrust that he had shown her -before, and stood trembling. Again she whispered "My friend" and moved a -step forward. Suddenly Esteban turned and breaking into a run -disappeared. Madre María del Pilar rushed stumbling back to her desk -and fell upon her knees, exclaiming angrily: "I have prayed for wisdom -and You have given me none. You have not chosen to give me the least -grace. I am a mere scrubber of floors...." But during the penance she -set herself for this impudence the thought came to her to send for -Captain Alvarado. Three weeks later she had a ten-minute conversation -with him. And the next day he started for Cuzco where, it was said, -Esteban was doing some copying for the University. -</p> -<p> -There was this strange and noble figure in Peru during these years, the -Captain Alvarado, the traveller. He was blackened and cured by all -weathers. He stood in the Square with feet apart as though they were -planted on a shifting deck. His eyes were strange, unaccustomed to the -shorter range, too used to seizing the appearances of a constellation -between a cloud and a cloud, and the outline of a cape in rain. His -reticence was sufficiently explained for most of us by his voyages, but -the Marquesa de Montemayor had other light on the matter. "<i>Captain -Alvarado is bringing you this letter in person</i>," she wrote to her -daughter. "<i>Introduce him to some of your geographers, my treasure, -though it may make them a little uncomfortable, for he is the diamond of -sincerity. They will never see anyone who has travelled so far. Last -night he described to me some of his voyages. Imagine him pushing his -prow through a sea of weeds, stirring up a cloud of fish like -grasshoppers in June; or sailing between islands of ice. Oh, he has been -to China and up the rivers of Africa. But he is not merely an adventurer -and he seems to take no pride in discovering new places; nor is he a -mere merchant. One day I asked him narrowly why he lived so, and he -avoided my question. I found out from my laundress what I think is the -reason of his wandering: My child, he had a child; my daughter, he had a -daughter. She was just old enough to cook a holiday meal, and do a -little sewing for him. In those days he merely sailed between Mexico and -Peru and hundreds of times she waved him farewell or welcome. We have no -way of knowing whether she was more beautiful or intelligent than the -thousands of other girls that lived about him, but she was his. I -suppose it seems ignoble to you that a great oak of a man should go -about the world like a blind man about an empty house merely because a -chit of a girl has been withdrawn from it. No, no, you cannot understand -this, my adored one, but I understand and grow pale. Last night he sat -with me and talked of her. He laid his cheek against his hand and -looking into the fire, he said: 'It sometimes seems to me that she is -away upon a voyage and that I shall see her again. It seems to me that -she is in England.' You will laugh at me, but I think he goes about the -hemispheres to pass the time between now and his old age</i>." -</p> -<p> -The brothers had always entertained a great respect for Captain -Alvarado. They had worked for him a short time and the silence of the -three of them had made a little kernel of sense in a world of boasting, -self-excuse and rhetoric. So now when the great traveller came into the -dark kitchen where Esteban was eating the boy drew his chair farther -into the shadow, but at a distance, he was glad. The Captain gave no -sign of recognizing or even of seeing him until he had finished his -meal. Esteban had finished long before, but not wishing to be spoken to, -waited until the Captain should have left the cave. At last the Captain -walked over to him and said: -</p> -<p> -"You are Esteban or Manuel. You helped me once with some unloading. I am -Captain Alvarado." -</p> -<p> -"Yes," said Esteban. -</p> -<p> -"How are you?" -</p> -<p> -Esteban muttered something. -</p> -<p> -"I am looking for some strong fellows to go on my next trip with me." -Pause. "Would you like to come?" Longer pause. "England. And Russia.... -Hard work. Good wages.... A long way from Peru.—Well?" -</p> -<p> -Apparently Esteban had not been listening. He sat with his eyes on the -table. At last the Captain raised his voice, as to a deaf person: -</p> -<p> -"I said: Do you want to go on my next trip with me...." -</p> -<p> -"Yes, I'll go," answered Esteban suddenly. -</p> -<p> -"Fine. That's fine. I want your brother, too, of course." -</p> -<p> -"No." -</p> -<p> -"What's the matter? Wouldn't he want to come?" -</p> -<p> -Esteban mumbled something, looking away. Then half rising, he said: "I -got to go now. I've got to see somebody about something." -</p> -<p> -"Let me see your brother myself. Where is he?" -</p> -<p> -"... 'dead," said Esteban. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, I didn't know. I didn't know. I'm sorry." "Yes," said Esteban. "I -got to go." -</p> -<p> -"Hmm.—Which are you? What's your name?" -</p> -<p> -"Esteban." -</p> -<p> -"When did Manuel die?" -</p> -<p> -"Oh, just a ... just a few weeks. He hit his knee against something -and ... just a few weeks ago." -</p> -<p> -They both kept their eyes on the floor. -</p> -<p> -"How old are you, Esteban?" -</p> -<p> -"Twenty-two." -</p> -<p> -"Well, that's settled then, you're coming with me?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes." -</p> -<p> -"You may not be used to the cold." -</p> -<p> -"Yes, I'm used to it.—I've got to go now. I got to go in the city and -see somebody about something." -</p> -<p> -"Well, Esteban. Come back here for supper and we'll talk about the trip. -Come back and have some wine with me, see. Will you?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, I will." -</p> -<p> -"Go with God." -</p> -<p> -"Go with God." -</p> -<p> -They had supper together and it was arranged that they were to start for -Lima the next morning. The Captain got him very drunk. At first they -poured and drank and poured and drank in silence. Then the Captain began -to talk about ships and their courses. He asked Esteban questions about -tackle and about the guide-stars. Then Esteban began to talk about other -things, and to talk very loudly: -</p> -<p> -"On the ship you must give me something to do all the time. I'll do -anything, anything. I'll climb up high and fix ropes; and I'll watch all -night,—because, you know, I don't sleep well anyway. And, Captain -Alvarado, on the ship you must pretend that you don't know me. Pretend -that you hate me the most. So that you'll always give me things to do. I -can't sit still and write at a table any more.—And don't tell the -other men about me ... that is, about ..." -</p> -<p> -"I hear you went into a burning house, Esteban, and pulled someone out." -</p> -<p> -"Yes. I didn't get burned or anything. You know," cried Esteban, leaning -across the table, "you're not allowed to kill yourself; you know you're -not allowed. Everybody knows that. But if you jump into a burning house -to save somebody, that wouldn't be killing yourself. And if you became -a matador and the bull caught you that wouldn't be killing yourself. -Only you mustn't put yourself in the bull's way on purpose. Did you ever -notice that animals never kill themselves, even when they're sure to -lose? They never jump into a river or anything, even when they're sure -to lose. Some people say that horses run into bonfires. Is that true?" -</p> -<p> -"No, I don't think that's true." -</p> -<p> -"I don't think it's true. We had a dog once. Well, I mustn't think of -that.—Captain Alvarado, do you know Madre María del Pilar?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes." -</p> -<p> -"I want to give her a present before I go away. Captain Alvarado, I want -you to give me all my wages before I start—I won't need any money -anywhere—and I want to buy her a present now. The present isn't from -me only. She was ... was ..." Here Esteban wished to say his brother's -name, but was unable to. Instead he continued in a lower voice: "She had -a kind of a ... she had a serious loss, once. She said so. I don't know -who it was, and I want to give her a present. Women can't bear that kind -of a thing like we can." -</p> -<p> -The Captain promised him that they would choose something in the -morning. Esteban talked about it at great length. At last the Captain -saw him slip under the table, and himself, rising up, went out into the -square before the inn. He looked at the line of the Andes and at the -streams of stars crowding forever across the sky. And there was that -wraith hanging in mid-air and smiling at him, the wraith with the -silvery voice that said for the thousandth time: "Don't be gone long. -But I'll be a big girl when you get back." Then he went within and -carried Esteban to his room and sat looking at him for a long while. -</p> -<p> -The next morning he was waiting at the bottom of the stairs when -Esteban appeared: -</p> -<p> -"We're starting when you're ready," said the Captain. -</p> -<p> -The strange glitter had returned to the boy's eyes. He blurted out: "No, -I'm not coming. I'm not coming after all." -</p> -<p> -"Aïe! Esteban! But you have promised me that you would come." -</p> -<p> -"It's impossible. I can't come with you," and he turned back up the -stairs. -</p> -<p> -"Come here a moment, Esteban, just a moment." -</p> -<p> -"I can't come with you. I can't leave Peru." -</p> -<p> -"I want to tell you something." -</p> -<p> -Esteban came down to the foot of the stairs. -</p> -<p> -"How about that present for Madre María del Pilar?" asked the Captain -in a low voice. Esteban was silent, looking over the mountains. "You -aren't going to take that present away from her? It might mean a lot to -her ... you know." -</p> -<p> -"All right," murmured Esteban, as though much impressed. -</p> -<p> -"Yes. Besides the ocean's better than Peru. You know Lima and Cuzco and -the road. You have nothing more to know about them. You see it's the -ocean you want. Besides on the boat you'll have something to do every -minute. I'll see to that. Go and get your things and we'll start." -</p> -<p> -Esteban was trying to make a decision. It had always been Manuel who had -made the decisions and even Manuel had never been forced to make as -great a one as this. Esteban went slowly upstairs. The Captain waited -for him and waited so long that presently he ventured half the way up -the stairs and listened. At first there was silence; then a series of -noises that his imagination was able to identify at once. Esteban had -scraped away the plaster about a beam and was adjusting a rope about it. -The Captain stood on the stairs trembling: "Perhaps it's best," he said -to himself. "Perhaps I should leave him alone. Perhaps it's the only -thing possible for him." Then on hearing another sound he flung himself -against the door, fell into the room and caught the boy. "Go away," -cried Esteban. "Let me be. Don't come in now." -</p> -<p> -Esteban fell face downward upon the floor. "I am alone, alone, alone" he -cried. The Captain stood above him, his great plain face ridged gray -with pain; it was his own old hours he was reliving. He was the -awkwardest speaker in the world apart from the lore of the sea, but -there are times when it requires a high courage to speak the banal. He -could not be sure the figure on the floor was listening, but he said "We -do what we can. We push on, Esteban, as best we can. It isn't for long, -you know. Time keeps going by. You'll be surprised at the way time -passes." -</p> -<p> -They started for Lima. When they reached the bridge of San Luis Rey, the -Captain descended to the stream below in order to supervise the passage -of some merchandise, but Esteban crossed by the bridge and fell with it. -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b><a id="chap04"></a>PART FOUR: UNCLE PIO</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">I</span>N one of her letters (the XXIXth) the -Marquesa de Montemayor tries to describe the impression that Uncle Pio -"<i>our aged Harlequin</i>" made upon her: "<i>I have been sitting all -morning on the green balcony making you a pair of slippers, my -soul</i>," she tells her daughter. "<i>As the golden wire did not take -up my whole attention I was able to follow the activity of a coterie of -ants in the wall beside me. Somewhere behind the partition they were -patiently destroying my house. Every three minutes a little workman -would appear between two boards and drop a grain of wood upon the floor -below. Then he would wave his antennae at me and back busily into his -mysterious corridor. In the meantime various brothers and sisters of his -were trotting back and forth on a certain highway, stopping to massage -one another's heads, or if the messages they bore were of first -importance, refusing angrily to massage or to be massaged. And at once I -thought of Uncle Pio. Why? Where else but with him had I seen that very -gesture with which he arrests a passing abbé or a courtier's valet, and -whispers, his lips laid against his victim's ear? And surely enough, -before noon I saw him hurry by on one of those mysterious errands of -his. As I am the idlest and silliest of women I sent Pepita to get me a -piece of nougat which I placed on the ant's highway. Similarly I sent -word to the Café Pizarro asking them to send Uncle Pio to see me if he -dropped in before sunset. I shall give him that old bent salad fork with -the turquoise in it, and he will bring me a copy of the new ballad that -everyone is singing about the d—q—a of Ol—v—s. -My child, you shall have the best of everything, and you shall have it -first</i>." -</p> -<p> -And in the next letter: "<i>My dear, Uncle Pio is the most delightful man -in the world, your husband excepted. He is the second most delightful -man in the world. His conversation is enchanting. If he weren't so -disreputable I should make him my secretary. He could write all my -letters for me and generations would rise up and call me witty. Alas, -however, he is so moth-eaten by disease and bad company, that I shall -have to leave him to his underworld. He is not only like an ant, he is -like a soiled pack of cards. And I doubt whether the whole Pacific could -wash him sweet and fragrant again. But what divine Spanish he speaks and -what exquisite things he says in it! That's what one gets by hanging -around a theatre and hearing nothing but the conversation of Calderón. -Alas, what is the matter with this world, my soul, that it should treat -such a being so ill! His eyes are as sad as those of a cow that has been -separated from its tenth calf</i>." -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -You should know first that this Uncle Pio was Camila Perichole's maid. -He was also her singing-master, her coiffeur, her masseur, her reader, -her errand-boy, her banker; rumor added: her father. For example, he -taught her her parts. There was a whisper around town that Camila could -read and write. The compliment was unfounded; Uncle Pio did her reading -and writing for her. At the height of the season the company put on two -or three new plays a week, and as each one contained a long and flowery -part for the Perichole the mere task of memorization was not a trifle. -</p> -<p> -Peru had passed within fifty years from a frontier state to a state in -renaissance. Its interest in music and the theatre was intense. Lima -celebrated its feast days by hearing a Mass of Tomás Luis da Victoria in -the morning and the glittering poetry of Calderón in the evening. It is -true that the Limeans were given to interpolating trivial songs into the -most exquisite comedies and some lachrymose effects into the austerest -music; but at least they never submitted to the boredom of a misplaced -veneration. If they had disliked heroic comedy the Limeans would not -have hesitated to remain at home; and if they had been deaf to polyphony -nothing would have prevented their going to an earlier service. When the -Archbishop returned from a short trip to Spain, all Lima kept asking: -"What has he brought?" The news finally spread abroad that he had -returned with tomes of masses and motets by Palestrina, Morales I and -Vittoria, as well as thirty-five plays by Tirso de Molina and Ruiz de -Alarçon and Moreto. There was a civic fête in his honor. The -choirboys' school and the green room of the Comedia were swamped with -the gifts of vegetables and wheat. All the world was eager to nourish -the interpreters of so much beauty. -</p> -<p> -This was the theatre in which Camila Perichole gradually made her -reputation. So rich was the repertory and so dependable the prompter's -box that few plays were given more than four times a season. The manager -had the whole flowering of the 17th Century Spanish drama to draw upon, -including many that are now lost to us. The Perichole had appeared in a -hundred plays of Lope de Vega alone. There were many admirable actresses -in Lima during these years, but none better. The citizens were too far -away from the theatres of Spain to realize that she was the best in the -Spanish world. They kept sighing for a glimpse of the stars of Madrid -whom they had never seen and to whom they assigned vague new -excellences. Only one person knew for certain that the Perichole was a -great performer and that was her tutor Uncle Pio. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 300px;"> -<a id="figure07"></a> -<br> -<img src="images/figure07.jpg" width="300" alt="300"> -</div> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -Uncle Pio came of a good Castilian house, illegitimately. At the age of -ten he ran away to Madrid from his father's hacienda and was pursued -without diligence. He lived ever after by his wits. He possessed the six -attributes of the adventurer—a memory for names and faces, with -the aptitude for altering his own; the gift of tongues; inexhaustible -invention; secrecy; the talent for falling into conversation with -strangers; and that freedom from conscience that springs from a contempt -for the dozing rich he preyed upon. From ten to fifteen he distributed -handbills for merchants, held horses, and ran confidential errands. From -fifteen to twenty he trained bears and snakes for travelling circuses; -he cooked, and mixed punches; he hung about the entries of the more -expensive taverns and whispered informations into the travellers' -ears—sometimes nothing more dubious than that a certain noble -house was reduced to selling its plate and could thus dispense with the -commission of a silversmith. He was attached to all the theatres in town -and could applaud like ten. He spread slanders at so much a slander. He -sold rumors about crops and about the value of land. From twenty to -thirty his services came to be recognized in very high circles—he -was sent out by the government to inspirit some half-hearted rebellions -in the mountains, so that the government could presently arrive and -whole-heartedly crush them. His discretion was so profound that the -French party used him even when they knew that the Austrian party used -him also. He had long interviews with the Princesse des Ursins, but he -came and went by the back stairs. During this phase he was no longer -obliged to arrange gentlemen's pleasures, nor to plant little harvests -of calumny. -</p> -<p> -He never did one thing for more than two weeks at a time even when -enormous gains seemed likely to follow upon it. He could have become a -circus manager, a theatrical director, a dealer in antiquities, an -importer of Italian silks, a secretary in the Palace or the Cathedral, a -dealer in provisions for the army, a speculator in houses and farms, a -merchant in dissipations and pleasures. But there seemed to have been -written into his personality, through some accident or early admiration -of his childhood, a reluctance to own anything, to be tied down, to be -held to a long engagement. It was this that prevented his thieving, for -example. He had stolen several times, but the gains had not been -sufficient to offset his dread of being locked up; he had sufficient -ingenuity to escape on the field itself all the police in the world, but -nothing could protect him against the talebearing of his enemies. -Similarly he had been reduced for a time to making investigations for -the Inquisition, but when he had seen several of his victims led off in -hoods he felt that he might be involving himself in an institution whose -movements were not evenly predictable. -</p> -<p> -As he approached twenty, Uncle Pio came to see quite clearly that his -life had three aims. There was first this need of independence, cast -into a curious pattern, namely: the desire to be varied, secret and -omniscient. He was willing to renounce the dignities of public life, if -in secret he might feel that he looked down upon men from a great -distance, knowing more about them than they knew themselves; and with a -knowledge which occasionally passed into action and rendered him an -agent in the affairs of states and persons. In the second place he -wanted to be always near beautiful women, of whom he was always in the -best and worst sense the worshipper. To be near them was as necessary to -him as breathing. His reverence for beauty and charm was there for -anyone to see and to laugh at, and the ladies of the theatre and the -court and the houses of pleasure loved his connoisseurship. They -tormented him and insulted him and asked his advice and were singularly -comforted by his absurd devotion. He suffered greatly their rages and -their meannesses and their confiding tears; all he asked was to be -accepted casually, to be trusted, to be allowed like a friendly and -slightly foolish dog to come and go in their rooms and to write their -letters for them. He was insatiably curious about their minds and their -hearts. He never expected to be loved by them (borrowing for a moment -another sense of that word); for that, he carried his money to the -obscurer parts of the city; he was always desperately unprepossessing, -with his whisp of a moustache and his whisp of a beard and his big -ridiculous sad eyes. They constituted his parish; it was from them that -he acquired the name of Uncle Pio and it was when they were in trouble -that he most revealed himself; when they fell from favour he lent them -money, when they were ill he outlasted the flagging devotion of their -lovers and the exasperation of their maids; when time or disease robbed -them of their beauty, he served them still for their beauty's memory; -and when they died his was the honest grief that saw them as far as -possible on their journey. -</p> -<p> -In the third place he wanted to be near those that loved Spanish -literature and its masterpieces, especially in the theatre. He had -discovered all that treasure for himself, borrowing or stealing from the -libraries of his patrons, feeding himself upon it in secrecy,—behind -the scenes, as it were, of his mad life. He was contemptuous of the -great persons who for all their education and usage, exhibited no care -nor astonishment before the miracles of word order in Calderón and -Cervantes. He longed himself to make verses. He never realized that many -of the satirical songs he had written for the vaudevilles passed into -folk-music and have been borne everywhere along the highroads. -</p> -<p> -As the result of one of those quarrels that arise so naturally in -brothels his life became too complicated and he removed to Peru. Uncle -Pio in Peru was even more versatile than Uncle Pio in Europe. Here too -he touched upon real-estate, circuses, pleasures, insurrections and -antiques. A Chinese junk had been blown from Canton to America; he -dragged up the beach the bales of deep-red porcelain and sold the bowls -to the collectors of virtú. He traced down the sovereign remedies of the -Incas and started a smart trade in pills. Within four months he knew -practically everyone in Lima. He presently added to this acquaintance -the inhabitants of scores of seacoast towns, mining camps and -settlements in the interior. His pretensions to omniscience became more -and more plausible. The Viceroy discovered Uncle Pio and all this -richness of reference; he engaged his services in many affairs. In the -decay of his judgment Don Andrés had retained one talent, he was a -master of the technique of handling confidential servants. He treated -Uncle Pio with great tact and some deference; he understood which -errands the other should not be asked to undertake and he understood his -need for variety and intermission. Uncle Pio in turn was perpetually -astonished that a prince should make so little use of his position, for -power, or for fantasy, or for sheer delight in the manipulation of other -men's destinies; but the servant loved the master because he could quote -from any of Cervantes' prefaces and because his tongue had a little -Castilian salt about it still. Many a morning Uncle Pio entered the -Palace through corridors where there was no one to cross but a confessor -or a confidential bully and sat with the Viceroy over his morning -chocolate. -</p> -<p> -But for all his activity nothing made Uncle Pio rich. One would have -said that he abandoned a venture when it threatened to prosper. Although -no one knew it, he owned a house. It was full of dogs that could add and -multiply and the top floor was reserved for birds. But even in this -kingdom he was lonely, and proud in his loneliness, as though there -resided a certain superiority in such a solitude. Finally he stumbled -upon an adventure that came like some strange gift from the skies and -that combined the three great aims of his life: his passion for -overseeing the lives of others, his worship of beautiful women, and his -admiration for the treasures of Spanish literature. He discovered Camila -Perichole. Her real name was Micaela Villegas. She was singing in cafés -at the age of twelve and Uncle Pio had always been the very soul of -cafés. Now as he sat among the guitarists and watched this awkward girl -singing ballads, imitating every inflection of the more experienced -singers who had preceded her, the determination entered his mind to play -Pygmalion. He bought her. Instead of sleeping locked up in the wine bin, -she inherited a cot in his house. He wrote songs for her, he taught her -how to listen to the quality of her tone, and bought her a new dress. At -first all she noticed was that it was wonderful not to be whipped, to be -offered hot soups, and to betaught something. But it was Uncle Pio who -was really dazzled. His rash experiment flourished beyond all prophecy. -The little twelve-year-old, silent and always a little sullen, devoured -work. He set her endless exercises in acting and mimicry; he set her -problems in conveying the atmosphere of a song; he took her to the -theatres and made her notice all the details of a performance. But it -was from Camila as a woman that he was to receive his greatest shock. -The long arms and legs were finally harmonized into a body of perfect -grace. The almost grotesque and hungry face became beautiful. Her whole -nature became gentle and mysterious and oddly wise; and it all turned to -him. She could find no fault in him and she was sturdily loyal. They -loved one another deeply but without passion. He resected the slight -nervous shadow that crossed her face when he came too near her. But -there arose out of this denial itself the perfume of a tenderness, that -ghost of passion which, in the most unexpected relationship, can make -even a whole lifetime devoted to irksome duty pass like a gracious -dream. -</p> -<p> -They travelled a great deal, seeking new taverns, for the highest -attribute of a café singer will always be her novelty. They went to -Mexico, their odd clothes wrapped up in the self-same shawl. They slept -on beaches, they were whipped at Panama and shipwrecked on some tiny -Pacific islands plastered with the droppings of birds. They tramped -through jungles delicately picking their way among snakes and beetles. -They sold themselves out as harvesters in a hard season. Nothing in the -world was very surprising to them. -</p> -<p> -Then began an even harder course of training for the girl, a regimen -that resembled more the preparation for an acrobat. The instruction was -a little complicated by the fact that her rise to favor was very rapid; -and there was some danger that the applause she received would make her -content with her work too soon. Uncle Pio never exactly beat her, but he -resorted to a sarcasm that had terrors of its own. -</p> -<p> -At the close of a performance Camila would return to her dressing room -to find Uncle Pio whistling nonchalantly in one corner. She would divine -his attitude at once and cry angrily: -</p> -<p> -"Now what is it? Mother of God, Mother of God, what is it now?" -</p> -<p> -"Nothing, little pearl. My little Camila of Camilas, nothing." -</p> -<p> -"There was something you didn't like. Ugly fault-finding thing that you -are. Come on now, what was it? Look, I'm ready." -</p> -<p> -"No, little fish. Adorable morning star, I suppose you did as well as -you could." -</p> -<p> -The suggestion that she was a limited artist and that certain felicities -would be forever closed to her never failed to make Camila frantic. She -would burst into tears: "I wish I had never known you. You poison my -whole life. You just think I did badly. It pleases you to pretend that -I was bad. All right then, be quiet." -</p> -<p> -Uncle Pio went on whistling. -</p> -<p> -"The fact is I know I was weak to-night, and don't need you to tell me -so. So there. Now go away. I don't want to see you around. It's hard -enough to play that part without coming back and finding you this way." -</p> -<p> -Suddenly Uncle Pio would lean forward and ask with angry intensity: "Why -did you take that speech to the prisoner so fast?" -</p> -<p> -More tears from the Perichole: "Oh God, let me die in peace! One day you -tell me to go faster and another to go slower. Anyway I shall be crazy -in a year or two and then it won't matter." -</p> -<p> -More whistling. -</p> -<p> -"Besides the audience applauded as never before. Do you hear me? <i>As -never before</i>. There! Too fast or too slow is nothing to them. They -wept. I was divine. That's all I care for. Now be silent. Be silent." -</p> -<p> -He was absolutely silent. -</p> -<p> -"You may comb my hair, but if you say another word I shall never play -again. You can find some other girl, that's all." -</p> -<p> -Thereupon he would comb her hair soothingly for ten minutes, pretending -not to notice the sobs that were shaking her exhausted body. At last she -would turn quickly and catching one of his hands would kiss it -frantically: "Uncle Pio, was I so bad? Was I a disgrace to you? Was it -so awful <i>that you left the theatre</i>?" -</p> -<p> -After a long pause Uncle Pio would admit judiciously: "You were good in -the scene on the ship." -</p> -<p> -"But I've been better, Uncle Pio. You remember the night you came back -from Cuzco——?" -</p> -<p> -"You were pretty good at the close." -</p> -<p> -"Was I?" -</p> -<p> -"But my flower, my pearl, <i>was the matter in the speech to the -prisoner</i>?" -</p> -<p> -Here the Perichole would fling her face and arms upon the table amid the -pomades, caught up into a tremendous fit of weeping. Only perfection -would do, only perfection. And that had never come. -</p> -<p> -Then beginning in a low voice Uncle Pio would talk for an hour, -analyzing the play, entering into a world of finesse in matters of voice -and gesture and tempo, and often until dawn they would remain there -declaiming to one another the lordly conversation of Calderón. -</p> -<p> -Whom were these two seeking to please? Not the audiences of Lima. They -had long since been satisfied. We come from a world where we have known -incredible standards of excellence, and we dimly remember beauties which -we have not seized again; and we go back to that world. Uncle Pio and -Camila Perichole were tormenting themselves in an effort to establish in -Peru the standards of the theatres in some Heaven whither Calderón had -preceded them. The public for which masterpieces are intended is not on -this earth. -</p> -<p> -With the passing of time Camila lost some of this absorption in her art. -A certain intermittent contempt for acting made her negligent. It was -due to the poverty of interest in women's rôles throughout Spanish -classical drama. At a time when the playwrights grouped about the courts -of England and France (a little later, of Venice) were enriching the -parts of women with studies in wit, charm, passion and hysteria, the -dramatists of Spain kept their eyes on their heroes, on gentlemen torn -between the conflicting claims of honour, or, as sinners, returning at -the last moment to the cross. For a number of years Uncle Pio spent -himself in discovering ways to interest the Perichole in the rôles that -fell to her. Upon one occasion he was able to announce to Camila that a -granddaughter of Vico de Barrera had arrived in Peru. Uncle Pio had long -since communicated to Camila his veneration for great poets and Camila -never questioned the view that they were a little above the kings and -not below the saints. So it was in great excitement that the two of them -chose one of the master's plays to perform before his granddaughter. -They rehearsed the poem a hundred times, now in the great joy of -invention, now in dejection. On the night of the performance Camila -peering out between the folds of the curtain had Uncle Pio point out to -her the little middle-aged woman worn with the cares of penury and a -large family; but it seemed to Camila that she was looking at all the -beauty and dignity in the world. As she waited for the lines that -preceded her entrance she clung to Uncle Pio in reverent silence, her -heart beating loudly. Between the acts she retired to the dusty corner -of the warehouse where no one would find her and sat staring into the -corners. At the close of the performance Uncle Pio brought the -granddaughter of Vico de Barrera into Camila's room. Camila stood among -the clothes that hung upon the wall, weeping with happiness and shame. -Finally she flung herself on her knees and kissed the older woman's -hands, and the older woman kissed hers, and while the audience went home -and went to bed the Visitor remained telling Camila the little stories -that had remained in the family, of Vico's work and of his habits. -</p> -<p> -Uncle Pio was at his happiest when a new actress entered the company, -for the discovery of a new talent at her side never failed to bestir the -Perichole. To Uncle Pio (standing at the back of the auditorium, bent -double with joy and malice) it seemed that the body of the Perichole had -become an alabaster lamp in which a strong light had been placed. -Without any resort to tricks or to false emphasis, she set herself to -efface the newcomer. If the play were a comedy she became the very -abstraction of wit, and (as was more likely) it was a drama of wronged -ladies and implacable hates, the stage fairly smouldered with her -emotion. Her personality became so electric that if she so much as laid -her hand upon that of a fellow actor a sympathetic shudder ran through -the audience. But such occasions of excellence became less and less -frequent. As her technique became sounder, Camila's sincerity became -less necessary. Even when she was absentminded the audience did not -notice the difference and only Uncle Pio grieved. -</p> -<p> -Camila had a very beautiful face, or rather a face beautiful save in -repose. In repose one was startled to discover that the nose was -long and thin, the mouth tired and a little childish, the eyes -unsatisfied—a rather pinched peasant girl, dragged from the -cafés-chantants and quite incapable of establishing any harmony between -the claims of her art, of her appetites, of her dreams, and of her -crowded daily routine. Each of these was a world in itself, and the -warfare between them would soon have reduced to idiocy (or triviality) a -less tenacious physique. We have seen that in spite of her discontent -with her parts, the Perichole knew very well the joy that might reside -in acting and warmed herself from time to time at that flame. But that -of love attracted her more often, though with no greater assurance of -happiness, until Jupiter himself sent her some pearls. -</p> -<p> -Don Andrés de Ribera, the Viceroy of Peru, was the remnant of a -delightful man, broken by the table, the alcove, a grandeeship and ten -years of exile. As a youth he had accompanied embassies to Versailles -and Rome; he had fought in the wars in Austria; he had been in -Jerusalem. He was a widower and childless of an enormous and wealthy -woman; he had collected coins a little, wines, actresses, orders and -maps. From the table he had received the gout; from the alcove a -tendency to convulsions; from the grandeeship a pride so vast and -puerile that he seldom heard anything that was said to him and talked to -the ceiling in a perpetual monologue; from the exile, oceans of boredom, -a boredom so persuasive that it was like pain,—he woke up with it and -spent the day with it, and it sat by his bed all night watching his -sleep. Camila was passing the years in the hard-working routine of the -theatre, savoured by a few untidy love-affairs, when this Olympian -personage (for he had a face and port fit to play gods and heroes on the -scene) suddenly transported her to the most delicious midnight suppers -at the Palace. Contrary to all the traditions of the stage and state she -adored her elderly admirer; she thought she was going to be happy -forever. Don Andrés taught the Perichole a great many things and to her -bright eager mind that was one of the sweetest ingredients of love. He -taught her a little French; to be neat and clean; the modes of address. -Uncle Pio had taught her how great ladies carry themselves on great -occasions; he taught her how they relax. Uncle Pio and Calderón had -trained her in beautiful Spanish; Don Andrés furnished her with the -smart slang of <i>El Buen Retiro</i>. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 300px;"> -<a id="figure08"></a> -<br> -<img src="images/figure08.jpg" width="300" alt="300"> -</div> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -Uncle Pio was made anxious by Camila's invitation from the Palace. He -would have much preferred that she continue with her little vulgarian -love-affairs in the theatrical ware-house. But when he saw that her art -was gaining a new finish he was well content. He would sit in the back -of the theatre, rolling about in his seat for sheer joy and amusement, -watching the Perichole intimate to the audience that she frequented the -great world about whom the dramatists wrote. She had a new way of -fingering a wine-glass, of exchanging an adieu, a new way of entering a -door that told everything. To Uncle Pio nothing else mattered. What was -there in the world more lovely than a beautiful woman doing justice to a -Spanish masterpiece?—a performance (he asks you), packed with -observation, in which the very spacing of the words revealed a comment on -life and on the text—delivered by a beautiful voice—illustrated -by a faultless carriage, considerable personal beauty and irresistible -charm. "We are almost ready to take this marvel to Spain," he would -murmur to himself. After the performance he would go around to her -dressing-room and say "Very good!" But before taking his leave he would -manage to ask her where, in the name of the eleven thousand virgins of -Cologne, she had acquired that affected way of saying <i>Excelencia</i>. -</p> -<p> -After a time the Viceroy asked the Perichole whether it would amuse her -to invite a few discreet guests to their midnight suppers, and he asked -her whether she would like to meet the Archbishop. Camila was delighted. -The Archbishop was delighted. On the eve of their first meeting he sent -the actress an emerald pendant as big as a playing-card. -</p> -<p> -There was something in Lima that was wrapped up in yards of violet satin -from which protruded a great dropsical head and two fat pearly hands; -and that was its archbishop. Between the rolls of flesh that surrounded -them looked out two black eyes speaking discomfort, kindliness and wit. -A curious and eager soul was imprisoned in all this lard, but by dint of -never refusing himself a pheasant or a goose or his daily procession of -Roman wines, he was his own bitter jailer. He loved his cathedral; he -loved his duties; he was very devout. Some days he regarded his bulk -ruefully; but the distress of remorse was less poignant than the -distress of fasting and he was presently found deliberating over the -secret messages that a certain roast sends to the certain salad that -will follow it. And to punish himself he led an exemplary life in every -other respect. -</p> -<p> -He had read all the literature of antiquity and forgotten all about it -except a general aroma of charm and disillusion. He had been learned in -the Fathers and the Councils and forgotten all about them save a -floating impression of dissensions that had no application to Peru. He -had read all the libertine masterpieces of Italy and France and reread -them annually; even in the torments of the stone (happily dissolved by -drinking the water from the springs of Santa María de Cluxambuqua), he -could find nothing more nourishing than the anecdotes of Brantôme and -the divine Aretino. -</p> -<p> -The Archbishop knew that most of the priests of Peru were scoundrels. It -required all his delicate Epicurean education to prevent his doing -something about it; he had to repeat over to himself his favourite -notions: that the injustice and unhappiness in the world is a constant; -that the theory of progress is a delusion; that the poor, never having -known happiness, are insensible to misfortune. Like all the rich he -could not bring himself to believe that the poor (look at their houses, -look at their clothes) could really suffer. Like all the cultivated he -believed that only the widely-read could be said to <i>know</i> that they -were unhappy. On one occasion, the iniquities in his see having been -called to his notice, he almost did something about it. He had just -heard that it was becoming a rule in Peru for priests to exact two -measures of meal for a fairly good absolution, and five measures, for a -really effective one. He trembled with indignation; he roared to his -secretary and bidding him bring up his writing materials, announced that -he was going to dictate an overwhelming message to his shepherds. But -there was no ink left in the inkwell; there was no ink left in the next -room; there was no ink to be found in the whole palace. This state of -things in his household so upset the good man that he fell ill of the -combined rages and learned to guard himself against indignations. -</p> -<p> -The addition of the Archbishop to the suppers was so successful that Don -Andrés began to think of new names. He had grown increasingly dependent -upon Uncle Pio, but waited until Camila should propose his inclusion of -her own accord. And in due time Uncle Pio brought with him that courser -of the seas, the Captain Alvarado. Generally the reunion had been -several hours under way before Camila was able to join them after her -performance at the theatre. She would arrive towards one o'clock, -radiant and bejewelled and very tired. The four men received her as they -would a great queen. For an hour or so she would carry the conversation, -but gradually reclining more and more against Don Andrés' shoulder she -would follow the talk as it flitted from one humorous lined face to the -other. All night they talked, secretly comforting their hearts that -longed always for Spain and telling themselves that such a symposium was -after the manner of the high Spanish soul. They talked about ghosts and -second-sight, and about the earth before man appeared upon it and about -the possibility of the planets striking against one another; about -whether the soul can be seen, like a dove, fluttering away at the moment -of death; they wondered whether at the second coming of Christ to -Jerusalem, Peru would be long in receiving the news. They talked until -the sun rose, about wars and kings, about poets and scholars, and about -strange countries. Each one poured into the conversation his store of -wise sad anecdotes and his dry regret about the race of men. The flood -of golden light struck across the Andes and entering the great window -fell upon the piles of fruit, the stained brocade upon the table, and -the sweet thoughtful forehead of the Perichole as she lay sleeping -against the sleeve of her protector. There would ensue a long pause, no -one wishing to make the first move to go, and the glances of them all -would rest upon this strange beautiful bird who lived among them. But -Uncle Pio's glance had been upon her all night, a quick glance from his -black eyes, full of tenderness and anxiety, resting on the great secret -and reason of his life. -</p> -<p> -But Uncle Pio never ceased watching Camila. He divided the inhabitants -of this world into two groups, into those who had loved and those who -had not. It was a horrible aristocracy, apparently, for those who had no -capacity for love (or rather for suffering in love) could not be said to -be alive and certainly would not live again after their death. They were -a kind of straw population, filling the world with their meaningless -laughter and tears and chatter and disappearing still lovable and vain -into thin air. For this distinction he cultivated his own definition of -love that was like no other and that had gathered all its bitterness and -pride from his odd life. He regarded love as a sort of cruel malady -through which the elect are required to pass in their late youth and -from which they emerge, pale and wrung, but ready for the business of -living. There was (he believed) a great repertory of errors mercifully -impossible to human beings who had recovered from this illness. -Unfortunately there remained to them a host of failings, but at least -(from among many illustrations) they never mistook a protracted -amiability for the whole conduct of life, they never again regarded any -human being, from a prince to a servant, as a mechanical object. Uncle -Pio never ceased watching Camila because it seemed to him that she had -never undergone this initiation. In the months that followed her -introduction to the Viceroy he held his breath and waited. He held his -breath for years. Camila bore the Viceroy three children, yet remained -the same. He knew that the first sign of her entrance into the true -possession of the world would be the mastery of certain effects in her -acting. There were certain passages in the plays that she would compass -some day, simply, easily, and with secret joy, because they alluded to -the new rich wisdom of her heart; but her treatment of such passages -became more and more cursory, not to say embarrassed. He presently saw -that she had tired of Don Andrés and had returned to a series of -furtive love-affairs with the actors and matadors and merchants of the -town. -</p> -<p> -She became more and more impatient of acting and another parasite found -its way into her mind. She wanted to be a lady. She slowly contracted a -greed for respectability and began to refer to her acting as a pastime. -She acquired a duenna and some footmen and went to church at the -fashionable hours. She attended the prize days at the University and -appeared among the donors of the great charities. She even learned to -read and write a little. Any faint discrimination against, her as a -bohemian she challenged with fury. She led the Viceroy a horrible life -with her passion for concessions and her gradual usurpation of -privileges. The new vice displaced the old and she became noisily -virtuous. She invented some parents and produced some cousins. She -obtained an undocumented legitimatization of her children. In society -she cultivated a delicate and languid magdelinism, as a great lady -might, and she carried a candle in the penitential parades, side by side -with ladies who had nothing to regret but an outburst of temper and a -furtive glance into Descartes. Her sin had been acting and everyone -knows that there were even saints who had been actors,—there was -Saint Gelasius and Saint Genesius and Saint Margaret of Antioch and Saint -Pelagia. -</p> -<p> -There was a fashionable watering place in the hills not far from Santa -María de Cluxambuqua. Don Andrés had travelled in France and had -thought to build himself a little mock Vichy; there was a pagoda, some -drawing-rooms, a theatre, a little arena for bull-fights and some French -gardens. Camila's health had never known a shadow, but she built herself -a villa in the vicinity and sipped the hateful waters at eleven o'clock. -The Marquesa de Montemayor has left a brilliant picture of this <i>opéra -bouffe</i> paradise with the reigning divinity parading her fierce -sensitiveness along the avenues of powdered shell and receiving the -homage of all those who could not afford to offend the Viceroy. Doña -María draws a portrait of this ruler, stately and weary, gambling all -through the night in sums that would have raised another Escurial. And -beside him she sets the portrait of his son, Camila's little Don Jaime. -Don Jaime, at seven years, was a rachitic little body who seemed to have -inherited not only his mother's forehead and eyes, but his father's -liability to convulsions. He bore his pain with the silent bewilderment -of an animal, and like an animal he was mortally ashamed when any -evidences of it occurred in public. He was so beautiful that the more -trivial forms of pity were hushed in his presence and his long thoughts -about his difficulties had given his face a patient and startling -dignity. His mother dressed him in garnet velvet, and when he was able -he followed her about at a distance of several yards, extricating -himself gravely from the ladies who tried to detain him in conversation. -Camila was never cross to Don Jaime and she was never demonstrative. -When the sun was shining the two could be seen walking along those -artificial terraces in silence, Camila wondering when the felicity would -begin that she had always associated with social position, Don Jaime -rejoicing merely in the sunlight and anxiously estimating the approach -of a cloud. They looked like figures that had strayed there from some -remote country, or out of an old ballad, that had not yet learned the -new language and had not yet found any friends. -</p> -<p> -Camila was about thirty when she left the stage and it required five -years for her to achieve her place in society. She gradually became -almost stout, though her head seemed to grow more beautiful every year. -She took to overdressing and the floors of the drawing-rooms reflected a -veritable tower of jewels and scarves and plumes. Her face and hands -were covered with a bluish powder against which she drew an irritable -mouth in scarlet and orange. The almost distraught fury of her temper -was varied by the unnatural sweetness of her address in the company of -the dowagers. In the earliest stages of her progress upward she had -intimated to Uncle Pio that he was not to be seen with her in public, -but finally she became impatient even of his discreeter visits. She -conducted the interviews with formality and evasion. Her eyes never -crossed his and she angled for pretexts to quarrel with him. Still he -ventured out once a month to try her patience and when the call had -become impossible he would climb the stairs and finish the hour among -her children. -</p> -<p> -One day he arrived at her villa in the hills and, through her maid, -begged for an opportunity to talk with her. He was told that she would -see him in the French gardens a little before sunset. He had come up -from Lima on a strange sentimental impulse. Like all solitary persons he -had invested friendship with a divine glamour: he imagined that the -people he passed on the street, laughing together and embracing when -they parted, the people who dined together with so many smiles,—you -will scarcely believe me, but he imagined that they were extracting from -all that congeniality great store of satisfaction. So that suddenly he -was filled with the excitement of seeing her again, of being called -"Uncle Pio," and of reviving for a moment the trust and humour of their -long vagabondage. -</p> -<p> -The French Gardens were at the southern end of the town. Behind them -rose the higher Andes and before them there was a parapet overlooking a -deep valley and overlooking wave after wave of hills that stretched -toward the Pacific. It was the hour when bats fly low and the smaller -animals play recklessly underfoot. A few solitaries lingered about the -gardens, gazing dreamily into the sky that was being gradually emptied -of its colour, or leaned upon the balustrade and looked down into the -valley, noting in which village a dog was barking. It was the hour when -the father returns home from the fields and plays for a moment in the -yard with the dog that jumps upon him, holding his muzzle closed or -throwing him upon his back. The young girls look about for the first -star to fix a wish upon it, and the boys grow restless for supper. Even -the busiest mother stands for a moment idle-handed, smiling at her dear -and exasperating family. -</p> -<p> -Uncle Pio stood against one of the chipped marble benches and watched -Camila coming towards him: -</p> -<p> -"I am late," she said. "I am sorry. What is it you wish to say to me?" -</p> -<p> -"Camila,—" he began. -</p> -<p> -"My name is Doña Micaela." -</p> -<p> -"I do not wish to offend you, Doña Micaela, but when you let me call -you Camila for twenty years, I should think——" -</p> -<p> -"Oh, do as you like. Do as you like." -</p> -<p> -"Camila, promise me that you will listen to me. Promise me that you will -not run away at my first sentence." -</p> -<p> -At once she burst out with unexpected passion: "Uncle Pio, listen to me. -You are mad if you think you can make me return to the theatre. I look -back at the theatre with horror. Understand that. The theatre! The -theatre, indeed! The daily payment of insults in that filthy place. -Understand that you are wasting your time." -</p> -<p> -He answered gently: "I would not have you come back if you are happy -with these new friends." -</p> -<p> -"You don't like my new friends, then?" she answered quickly. "Whom do -you offer me in their stead?" -</p> -<p> -"Camila, I only remember ..." -</p> -<p> -"I will not be criticized. I don't want any advice. It will be cold in a -moment, I must go back to my house. Just give me up, that's all. Just -put me out of your mind." -</p> -<p> -"Dear Camila, don't be angry. Let me talk to you. Just suffer me for ten -minutes." -</p> -<p> -He did not understand why she was weeping. He did not know what to say. -He talked at random: "You never even come to see the theatre, and they -all notice it. The audiences are falling away now, too. They only put on -the Old Comedy twice a week; all the other nights there are these new -farces in prose. All is dull and childish and indecent. No one can speak -Spanish any more. No one can even walk correctly any more. On Corpus -Christi Day they gave <i>Belshazzar's Feast</i> where you were so -wonderful. Now it was shameful." -</p> -<p> -There was a pause. A beautiful procession of clouds, like a flock of -sheep, was straying up from the sea, slipping up the valleys between the -hills. Camila suddenly touched his knee, and her face was like her face -twenty years before: "Forgive me, Uncle Pio, for being so bad. Jaime was -ill this afternoon. There's nothing one can do. He lies there, so white -and ... so surprised. One must just think of other things. Uncle Pio, it -would be no good if I went back to the theatre. The audiences come for -the prose farces. We were foolish to try and keep alive the Old Comedy. -Let people read the old plays in books if they choose to. It is not -worth while fighting with the crowd." -</p> -<p> -"Wonderful Camila, I was not just to you when you were on the stage. It -was some foolish pride in me. I grudged you the praise that you -deserved. Forgive me. You have always been a very great artist. If you -come to see that you are not happy among these people you might think -about going to Madrid. You would have a great triumph there. You are -still young and beautiful. There will be time later to be called Doña -Micaela. We shall be old soon. We shall be dead soon." -</p> -<p> -"No, I shall never see Spain. All the world is alike, Madrid or Lima." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, if we could go away to some island where the people would know you -for yourself. And love you." -</p> -<p> -"You are fifty years old and you are still dreaming of such islands, -Uncle Pio." -</p> -<p> -He bent his head and mumbled: "Of course I love you, Camila, as I always -must and more than I can say. To have known you is enough for my whole -life. You are a great lady now. And you are rich. There is no longer any -way that I can help you. But I am always ready." -</p> -<p> -"How absurd you are," she said smiling. "You said that as boys say it. -You don't seem to learn as you grow older, Uncle Pio. There is no such -thing as that kind of love and that kind of island. It's in the theatre -you find such things." -</p> -<p> -He look shamefaced, but unconvinced. -</p> -<p> -At last she rose and said sadly: "What are we talking about! It is -growing cold. I must be going in. You must be resigned. I have no heart -for the theatre." There was a pause. "And for the rest?... Oh, I do not -understand. It is just circumstance. I must be what I must. Do not try -to understand either. Don't think about me, Uncle Pio. Just forgive, -that's all. Just try to forgive." -</p> -<p> -She stood still a moment, searching for something deeply felt to say to -him. The first cloud reached the terrace; it was dark; the last -stragglers were leaving the gardens. She was thinking of Don Jaime, and -of Don Andrés and of himself. She could not find the words. Suddenly -she bent down and kissed his fingers and went quickly away. But he sat -for a long time in the gathering clouds trembling with happiness and -trying to penetrate into the meaning of these things. -</p> -<p> -Suddenly the news was all over Lima. Doña Micaela Villegas, the lady -that used to be Camila the Perichole, had the small-pox. Several hundred -other persons had the small-pox also, but popular interest and malignity -were concentrated upon the actress. A wild hope ran about the town that -the beauty would be impaired that had enabled her to despise the class -from which she sprang. The news escaped from the sick-room that Camila -had become ludicrous in homeliness and the cup of the envious -overflowed. As soon as she was able she had herself carried from the -city to her villa in the hills; she ordered the sale of her elegant -little palace. She returned her jewels to their givers and she sold her -fine clothes. The Viceroy, the Archbishop, and the few men at court who -had been her sincerest admirers besieged her door still with messages -and gifts; the messages were ignored and the gifts were returned without -comment. No one but her nurse and maids had been permitted to see her -since the commencement of her illness. As an answer to his repeated -attempts Don Andrés received a large sum of money from her with a -letter compounded of all that is possible in bitterness and pride. -</p> -<p> -Like all beautiful women who have been brought up amid continual -tributes to her beauty she assumed without cynicism that it must -necessarily be the basis of anyone's attachment to herself; henceforth -any attention paid to her must spring from a pity full of condescension -and faintly perfumed with satisfaction at so complete a reversal. This -assumption that she need look for no more devotion now that her beauty -had passed proceeded from the fact that she had never realized any love -save love as passion. Such love, though it expends itself in generosity -and thoughtfulness, though it give birth to visions and to great poetry, -remains among the sharpest expressions of self-interest. Not until it -has passed through a long servitude, through its own self-hatred, -through mockery, through great doubts, can it take its place among the -loyalties. Many who have spent a lifetime in it can tell us less of love -than the child that lost a dog yesterday. As her friends continued in -their efforts to draw her again into society she grew more and more -angry and dispatched insulting messages to the city. It was said for a -time that she was retiring into religion. But new rumours that all was -fury and despair on the little farm, contradicted the old. For those -near to her the despair was fearful to behold. She was convinced that -her life was over, her life and children's. In her hysterical pride she -had given back more than she owed and the approach of poverty was added -to the loneliness and the gloom of her future. There was nothing left -for her to do but to draw out her days in jealous solitude in the center -of the little farm that was falling into decay. She brooded for hours -upon the joy of her enemies and could be heard striding about her room -with strange cries. -</p> -<p> -Uncle Pio did not allow himself to be discouraged. By dint of making -himself useful to the children, by taking a hand in the management of -the farm and by discreetly lending her some money he obtained his -entrance into the house and even into the presence of its veiled -mistress. But even then Camila, convinced in her pride that he -<i>pitied</i> her, lashed him with the blade of her tongue and derived -some strange comfort from heaping him with sneers. He loved her the -more, understanding better than she did herself all the stages in the -convalescence of her humiliated spirit. But one day an accident befell -that lost him his share in her progress. He pushed open a door. -</p> -<p> -She thought she had locked it. For just one hour a foolish secret hope -had come to her; she wondered whether she could make a paste of chalk -and cream to spread upon her face. She who had sneered so often at the -befloured grandmothers of the court wondered for a few moments whether -she had learned anything on the stage that would aid her now. She -thought she had locked the door and with hurried hands and beating heart -she laid on the coat, the grotesque pallor, and as she gazed into the -mirror and recognized the futility of her attempt she caught the image -of Uncle Pio standing in the door amazed. She rose from the chair with a -cry and covered her face with her hands. -</p> -<p> -"Go away. Go away out of my house forever," she screamed. "I never want -to see you again." In her shame she drove him out with blasphemy and -hatred, she pursued him down the corridor and hurled objects down the -stairs. She gave her farmer orders that Uncle Pio was forbidden to come -into the grounds. But he continued for a week trying to see her again. -At last he went back to Lima; he filled in the time as best he could, -but he longed to be by her as a boy of eighteen would long. At last he -devised a stratagem and returned up into the hills to put it into -effect. -</p> -<p> -One morning before dawn he arose and lay on the ground below her window. -He imitated in the darkness the sound of weeping, and, as nearly as he -could, of a young girl's weeping. He continued in this for the whole -quarter of an hour. He did not let his voice rise above that degree of -loudness which Italian musicians would represent by the direction piano, -but he frequently intermitted the sound trusting that if she were asleep -it would insinuate itself into her mind as well by duration as by -degree. The air was cool and agreeable. The first faint streak of -sapphire was appearing behind the peaks and in the east the star of -morning was pulsating every moment with a more tender intention. A -profound silence wrapped all the farm buildings, only an occasional -breeze set all the grasses sighing. Suddenly a lamp was lit in her room -and a moment later the shutter was thrown back and a head wrapped in -veils leaned far out. -</p> -<p> -"Who is there?" asked the beautiful voice. -</p> -<p> -Uncle Pio remained silent. -</p> -<p> -Camila said again in a tone edged with impatience: -</p> -<p> -"Who is there? Who is there weeping?" -</p> -<p> -"Doña Micaela, my lady, I beg of you to come here to me." -</p> -<p> -"Who are you and what do you want?" -</p> -<p> -"I am a poor girl. I am Estrella. I beg of you to come and help me. Do -not call your maid. I pray you, Doña Micaela, to come yourself." -</p> -<p> -Camila was silent a moment, then said abruptly: "Very well," and closed -the shutter. Presently she appeared around the corner of the house. She -wore a thick cloak that dragged in the dew. She stood at a distance and -said: "Come over here to where I am standing,—Who are you?" -</p> -<p> -Uncle Pio rose up. "Camila, it is I,—Uncle Pio. Forgive me, but I -must speak to you." -</p> -<p> -"Mother of God, when shall I be free of this dreadful person! -Understand: I want to see no one. I don't want to speak to a soul. My -life is over. That is all." -</p> -<p> -"Camila, by our long life together, I beg of you to grant me one thing. -I shall go away and never trouble you again." -</p> -<p> -"I grant you nothing, nothing. Stay away from me." -</p> -<p> -"I promise you I shall never trouble you again if you listen to me this -once." She was hurrying around to the door on the other side of the -house and Uncle Pio was obliged to run beside her to make sure that she -heard what he was saying. She stopped: -</p> -<p> -"What is it then? Hurry. It is cold. I am not well. I must go back to my -room." -</p> -<p> -"Camila, let me take Don Jaime for a year to live with me in Lima. Let -me be his teacher. Let me teach him the Castilian. Here he is left among -the servants. He is learning nothing." -</p> -<p> -"No." -</p> -<p> -"Camila, what will become of him? He has a good mind and he wants to -learn." -</p> -<p> -"He is sick. He is delicate. Your house is a sty. Only the country is -good for him." -</p> -<p> -"But he has been much better these last few months. I promise you I -shall clean out my house. I shall apply to Madre María del Pilar for a -housekeeper. Here he is in your stables all day. I shall teach him all -that a gentleman should know,—fencing and Latin and music. We shall -read all...." -</p> -<p> -"A mother cannot be separated from her child like that. It is -impossible. You are crazy to have thought of it. Give up thinking of me -and of everything about me. I no longer exist. I and my children will -get on as best we can. Do not try to disturb me again. I do not want to -see any human being." -</p> -<p> -Now it was that Uncle Pio felt obliged to use a hard measure. "Then pay -me the money that you owe me," he said. -</p> -<p> -Camila stood still, confounded. To herself she said: "Life is too -fearful to bear. When may I die?" After a moment she answered him, in a -hoarse voice: "I have very little money. I will pay you what I can. I -will pay you now. I have a few jewels here. Then we need never see one -another again." She was ashamed of her poverty. She took a few steps, -then turned and said: "Now I see that you are a very hard man. But it is -right that I pay you what I owe you." -</p> -<p> -"No, Camila, I only said that to enforce my request. I shall take no -money from you. But lend me Don Jaime for one year. I shall love him and -take every care of him. Did I harm you? Was I a bad teacher to you in -those other years?" -</p> -<p> -"It is cruel of you to keep urging gratitude, gratitude, gratitude. I -was grateful,—good, good! but now that I am no longer the same woman -there remains nothing to be grateful for." There was a silence. Her eyes -were resting on the star that seemed to be leading forth the whole sky -in its wonder. A great pain lay at her heart, the pain of a world that -was meaningless. Then she said: "If Jaime wishes to go with you, very -well. I shall talk to, him in the morning. If he wishes to go with you, -you will find him at the Inn about noon. Good night. Go with God." -</p> -<p> -"Go with God." -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 300px;"> -<a id="figure09"></a> -<br> -<img src="images/figure09.jpg" width="300" alt="300"> -</div> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -She returned to the house. The next day the grave little boy appeared at -the Inn. His fine clothes were torn and stained now and he carried a -small bundle for change. His mother had given him a gold piece for -spending-money and a little stone that shown in the dark to look at in -his sleepless nights. They set off together in a cart, but soon Uncle -Pio became aware that the jolting was not good for the boy. He carried -him on his shoulder. As they drew near to the bridge of San Luis Rey, -Jaime tried to conceal his shame for he knew that one of those moments -was coming that separated him from other people. He was especially -ashamed because Uncle Pio had just overtaken a friend of his, a -sea-captain. And just as they got to the bridge he spoke to an old lady -who was travelling with a little girl. Uncle Pio said that when they had -crossed the bridge they would sit down and rest, but it turned out not -to be necessary. -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b><a id="chap05"></a>PART FIVE: PERHAPS AN INTENTION</b></p> -<br><br> -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">A</span> NEW bridge of stone has been built in the -place of the old, but the event has not been forgotten. It has passed -into proverbial expressions. "I may see you Tuesday," says a Limean, -"unless the bridge falls." "My cousin lives by the bridge of San Luis -Rey," says another, and a smile goes around the company, for that also -means: under the sword of Damocles. There are some poems about the -accident, classics to be found in every Peruvian anthology, but the real -literary monument is Brother Juniper's book. -</p> -<p> -There are a hundred ways of wondering at circumstance. Brother Juniper -would never have arrived at his method had it not been for his -friendship with a certain master in the University of San Martín. This -student's wife had stolen away one morning on a boat for Spain, -following a soldier, and had left him the care of two daughters in their -cradle. He was possessed of all the bitterness that Brother Juniper -lacked and derived a sort of joy from the conviction that all was wrong -in the world. He whispered into the Franciscan's ear such thoughts and -anecdotes as belied the notion of a guided world. For a moment a look of -distress, almost of defeat, would come into the Brother's eyes; then he -would begin patiently explaining why such stories held no difficulty for -a believer. "There was a queen of Naples and Sicily," the student would -say, "who discovered that she was carrying an angry tumor in her side. -In great dismay she commanded her subjects to fall to their prayers and -ordered that all the garments in Sicily and Naples be sewn with votive -crosses. She was well loved by her people and all their prayers and -embroideries were sincere, but ineffectual. Now she lies in the splendor -of Monreale, and a few inches above her heart may be read the words: <i>I -shall fear no evil</i>." -</p> -<p> -It was by dint of hearing a great many such sneers at faith that Brother -Juniper became convinced that the world's time had come for proof, -tabulated proof, of the conviction that was so bright and exciting -within him. When the pestilence visited his dear village of Puerto and -carried off a large number of peasants, he secretly drew up a diagram of -the characteristics of fifteen victims and fifteen survivors, the -statistics of their value <i>sub specie aeternitatis</i>. Each soul was -rated upon a basis of ten as regards its goodness, its diligence in -religious observance, and its importance to its family group. Here is a -fragment of this ambitious chart: -</p> - -<table style="border-spacing: 0px;padding: 1px;border-width: 0px;"> -<colgroup><col span="4"> -</colgroup> -<thead> -<tr> -<th style="width:150px"> </th> -<th style="width:100px">Goodness</th> -<th style="width:100px">Piety</th> -<th style="width:100px">Usefulness</th> -</tr> -</thead> -<tbody> -<tr> -<td style="text-align: left;">Alfonso G.</td> -<td style="text-align: center;"> 4</td> -<td style="text-align: center;"> 4</td> -<td style="text-align: center;">10</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td style="text-align: left;">Nina</td> -<td style="text-align: center;"> 2</td> -<td style="text-align: center;"> 5</td> -<td style="text-align: center;">10</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td style="text-align: left;">Manuel B.</td> -<td style="text-align: center;">10</td> -<td style="text-align: center;"> 10</td> -<td style="text-align: center;"> 0</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td style="text-align: left;">Alfonso V.</td> -<td style="text-align: center;">-8</td> -<td style="text-align: center;">-10</td> -<td style="text-align: center;">10</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td style="text-align: left;">Vera N.</td> -<td style="text-align: center;"> 0</td> -<td style="text-align: center;"> 10</td> -<td style="text-align: center;">10</td> -</tr> -</tbody></table> - -<p> -The thing was more difficult than he had foreseen. Almost every soul in -a difficult frontier community turned out to be indispensable -economically, and the third column was all but useless. The examiner was -driven to the use of minus terms when he confronted the personal -character of Alfonso V., who was not, like Vera N., merely bad: he was a -propagandist for badness and not merely avoided church but led others to -avoid it. Vera N. was indeed bad, but she was a model worshipper and the -mainstay of a full hut. From all this saddening data Brother Juniper -contrived an index for each peasant. He added up the total for victims -and compared it with the total for survivors, to discover that the dead -were five times more worth saving. It almost looked as though the -pestilence had been directed against the really valuable people in the -village of Puerto. And on that afternoon Brother Juniper took a walk -along the edge of the Pacific. He tore up his findings and cast them -into the waves; he gazed for an hour upon the great clouds of pearl that -hang forever upon the horizon of that sea, and extracted from their -beauty a resignation that he did not permit his reason to examine. The -discrepancy between faith and the facts is greater than is generally -assumed. -</p> -<p> -But there was another story of the master of San Martín (not so -subversive, this one) that probably gave to Brother Juniper the hint for -his procedure after the fall of the bridge of San Luis Rey. -</p> -<p> -This master was one day walking through the Cathedral of Lima and -stopped to read the epitaph of a lady. He read with an increasingly -prominent lower lip that she had been for twenty years the centre and -joy of her home, that she had been the delight of her friends, that all -who met her went away in astonishment at her goodness and beauty, and -that there she lay awaiting the return of her Lord. Now on the day that -he read these words, the master of San Martín had had much to fret him, -and raising his eyes from the tablet he spoke aloud in his rage: "The -shame of it, the persecution of it! Everyone knows that in the world we -do nothing but feed our wills. Why perpetuate this legend of -selflessness? Why keep this thing alive, this rumour of -disinterestedness?" -</p> -<p> -And so saying he resolved to expose this conspiracy of the -stone-cutters. The lady had been dead only twelve years. He sought out -her servants, her children and her friends. And everywhere he went, like -a perfume, her dear traits had survived her and wherever she was -mentioned there arose a suffering smile and the protest that words could -not describe the gracious ways of her. Even the eager youth of her -grandchildren, who had never seen her, was made more difficult by the -news that it was possible to be as good as that. And the man stood -amazed; only at last he muttered: "Nevertheless, what I said was true. -This woman was an exception, perhaps an exception." -</p> -<p> -In compiling his book about these people Brother Juniper seemed to be -pursued by the fear that in omitting the slightest detail he might lose -some guiding hint. The longer he worked the more he felt that he was -stumbling about among great dim intimations. He was forever being -cheated by details that looked as though they were significant if only -he could find their setting. So he put everything down on the notion -perhaps that if he (or a keener head) reread the book twenty times, the -countless facts would suddenly start to move, to assemble, and to betray -their secret. The Marquesa de Montemayor's cook told him that she lived -almost entirely on rice, fish and a little fruit and Brother Juniper put -it down on the chance that it would some day reveal a spiritual trait. -Don Rubío said of her that she used to appear at his receptions without -invitation in order to steal the spoons. A midwife on the edge of the -town declared that Doña María called upon her with morbid questions -until she had been obliged to order her away from the door like a -beggar. The bookseller of the town reported that she was one of the -three most cultivated persons in Lima. Her farmer's wife declared that -she was absent-minded, but compact of goodness. The art of biography is -more difficult than is generally supposed. -</p> -<p> -Brother Juniper found that there was least to be learned from those who -had been most closely associated with the subjects of his inquiry. Madre -María del Pilar talked to him at length about Pepita, but she did not -tell him of her own ambitions for her. The Perichole was at first -difficult of approach, but presently even liked the Franciscan. Her -characterization of Uncle Pio flatly contradicted the stores of unsavory -testimonies that he had acquired elsewhere. Her allusions to her son -were few and conceded with pain. They closed the interview abruptly. The -Captain Alvarado told what he could of Esteban and of Uncle Pio. Those -who know most in this realm, venture least. -</p> -<p> -I shall spare you Brother Juniper's generalizations. They are always -with us. He thought he saw in the same accident, the wicked visited by -destruction and the good called early to Heaven. He thought he saw pride -and wealth confounded as an object lesson to the world, and he thought -he saw humility crowned and rewarded for the edification of the city. -But Brother Juniper was not satisfied with his reasons. It was just -possible that the Marquesa de Montemayor was not a monster of avarice, -and Uncle Pio of self-indulgence. -</p> -<p> -The book being done fell under the eyes of some judges and was suddenly -pronounced heretical. It was ordered to be burned in the Square with its -author. Brother Juniper submitted to the decision that the devil had -made use of him to effect a brilliant campaign in Peru. He sat in his -cell that last night trying to seek in his own life the pattern that had -escaped him in five others. He was not rebellious. He was willing to lay -down his life for the purity of the church, but he longed for one voice -somewhere to testify for him that his intention, at least, had been for -faith; he thought there was no one in the world who believed him. But -the next morning in all that crowd and sunlight there were many who -believed, for he was much loved. -</p> - -<p><br></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 300px;"> -<a id="figure10"></a> -<br> -<img src="images/figure10.jpg" width="300" alt="300"> -</div> - -<p><br></p> - -<p> -There was a little delegation from the village of Puerto, and Nina -(Goodness 2, Piety 5, Usefulness 10) and others stood with drawn puzzled -faces while their little friar was given to the congenial flames. Even -then, even then, there remained in his heart an obstinate nerve -insisting that at least St. Francis would not utterly have condemned -him, and (not daring to call upon a greater name, since he seemed so -open to error in these matters) he called twice upon St. Francis I and -leaning upon a flame he smiled and died. -</p> - -<div class="tb">* * * * * * *</div> - -<p> -The day of the service was clear and warm. The Limeans, their black eyes -wide with awe, poured through the streets into their Cathedral and stood -gazing at the mound of black velvet and silver. The Archbishop enclosed -in his wonderful and almost wooden vestments perspired upon his throne, -lending from time to time a connoisseur's ear to the felicities of -Vittoria's counterpoint. The choir had restudied the pages that, as his -farewell to music, Tomás Luis had composed for his friend and patron, -the Empress of Austria, and all that grief and sweetness, all that -Spanish realism filtering through an Italian mode, rose and fell above -the sea of mantillas. Don. Andrés, under the colours and feathered -hangings of his office, knelt, ill and troubled. He knew that the crowd -was furtively glancing at him, expecting him to play the father who has -lost his only son. He wondered whether the Perichole was present. He had -never been obliged to go so long without smoking. The Captain Alvarado -pushed in from the sunny square for a moment. He looked across the -fields of black hair and lace at the trooping of the candles and the -ropes of incense. "How false, how unreal," he said and pushed his way -out. He descended to the sea and sat on the edge of his boat, gazing -down into the clear water. "Happy are the drowned, Esteban," he said. -</p> -<p> -Behind the screen the Abbess sat among her girls. The night before she -had torn an idol from her heart and the experience had left her pale but -firm. She had accepted the fact that it was of no importance whether her -work went on or not; it was enough to work. She was the nurse who tends -the sick who never recover; she was the priest who perpetually renews -the office before an altar to which no worshippers come. There would be -no Pepita to enlarge her work; it would relapse into the indolence and -the indifference of her colleagues. It seemed to be sufficient for -Heaven that for a while in Peru a disinterested love had flowered and -faded. She leaned her forehead upon her hand, following the long tender -curve that the soprano lifts in the Kyrie. "My affection should have had -more of that colour, Pepita. My whole life should have had more of that -quality. I have been too busy," she added ruefully and her mind drifted -into prayer. -</p> -<p> -Camila had started from the farm to attend the service. Her heart was -filled with consternation and amazement. Here was another comment from -the skies; that was the third time she had been spoken to. Her -small-pox, Jaime's illness, and now the fall of the bridge,—oh, these -were not accidents. She was as ashamed as though letters had appeared on -her forehead. An order from the Palace announced that the Viceroy was -sending her two daughters to a convent-school in Spain. That was right. -She was alone. She gathered a few things together mechanically and -started to the city for the Service. But she fell to thinking of the -crowds gaping over her Uncle Pio and over her son; she thought of the -vast ritual of the church, like a chasm into which the beloved falls, -and of the storm of the <i>dies irae</i> where the individual is lost among -the millions of the dead, features grow dim and traits fade. At a little -more than half the journey, at the mud church of San Luis Rey she -slipped in and knelt against a pillar to rest. She wandered through her -memory, searching for the faces of her two. She waited for some emotion -to appear. "But I feel nothing," she whispered to herself. "I have no -heart. I am a poor meaningless woman, that's all. I am shut out. I have -no heart. Look, I won't try and think of anything; let me just rest -here." And scarcely had she paused when again that terrible -incommunicable pain swept through her, the pain that could not speak -once to Uncle Pio and tell him of her love and just once offer her -courage to Jaime in his sufferings. She started up wildly: "I fail -everybody," she cried. "They love me and I fail them." She returned to -the farm and carried for a year the mood of her self-despair. One day -she heard by accident that the wonderful Abbess had lost two persons -whom she loved in the same accident. Her sewing fell from her hand: then -she would know, she would explain. "But no, what would she say to me! -She would not even believe that such a person as I could love or could -lose." Camila decided to go to Lima and look at the Abbess from a -distance. "If her face tells me that she would not despise me, I will -speak to her," she said. -</p> -<p> -Camila lurked about the convent church and fell humbly in love with the -homely old face, though it frightened her a little. At last she called -upon her. -</p> -<p> -"Mother," she said, "I ... I ..." -</p> -<p> -"Do I know you, my daughter?" -</p> -<p> -"I was the actress, I was the Perichole." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, yes. Oh, I have wished to know you for a long while, but they told -me you did not wish to be seen. You too, I know, lost in the fall of the -bridge of San...." -</p> -<p> -Camila rose and swayed. There! again that access of pain, the hands of -the dead she could not reach. Her lips were white. Her head brushed the -Abbess's knee: "Mother, what shall I do? I am all alone. I have nothing -in the world. I love them. What shall I do?" -</p> -<p> -The Abbess looked at her closely. "My daughter, it is warm here. Let us -go into the garden. You can rest there." She made a sign to a girl in -the cloister to bring some water. She continued talking mechanically to -Camila. "I have wished to know you for a long while, señora. Even -before the accident I had wished much to know you. They told me that in -the <i>autos sacrementales</i> you were a very great and beautiful actress, -in <i>Belshazzar's Feast</i>." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, Mother, you must not say that. I am a sinner. You must not say -that." -</p> -<p> -"Here, drink this, my child. We have a beautiful garden, do you not -think so? You will come and see us often and some day you will meet -Sister Juana who is our gardener-in-chief. Before she entered religion -she had almost never seen a garden, for she worked in the mines high up -in the mountains. Now everything grows under her hand.—A year has -gone by, señora, since our accident. I lost two who had been children in my -orphanage, but you lost a real child of your own?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, Mother." -</p> -<p> -"And a great friend?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, Mother." -</p> -<p> -"Tell me...." -</p> -<p> -And then the whole tide of Camila's long despair, her lonely obstinate -despair since her girlhood, found its rest on that dusty friendly lap -among Sister Juana's fountains and roses. -</p> - -<div class="tb">* * * * * * *</div> - -<p> -But where are sufficient books to contain the events that would not have -been the same without the fall of the bridge? From such a number I -choose one more. -</p> -<p> -"The Condesa d'Abuirre wishes to see you," said a lay-sister at the door -of the Abbess's office. -</p> -<p> -"Well," said the Abbess, laying down her pen, "who is she?" -</p> -<p> -"She has just come from Spain. I don't know." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, it is some money, Inez, some money for my house for the blind. -Quick, bid her come in." -</p> -<p> -The tall, rather languorous beauty entered the room. Doña Clara, who was -generally so adequate, seemed constrained for once. "Are you busy, dear -Mother, may I talk to you for a while?" -</p> -<p> -"I am quite free, my daughter. You will excuse an old woman's memory; -have I known you before?" -</p> -<p> -"My mother was the Marquesa de Montemayor...." Doña Clara suspected -that the Abbess had not admired her mother and would not let the older -woman speak until she herself had made a long passionate defense of -Doña María. The languor fell away in her self-reproach. At last the -Abbess told her of Pepita and Esteban, and of Camila's visit. "All, all -of us have failed. One wishes to be punished. One is willing to assume -all kinds of penance, but do you know, my daughter, that in love—I -scarcely dare say it—but in love our very mistakes don't seem to be -able to last long?" -</p> -<p> -The Condesa showed the Abbess Doña María's last letter. Madre María -dared not say aloud how great her astonishment was that such words -(words that since then the whole world has murmured over with joy) could -spring in the heart of Pepita's mistress. "Now learn," she commanded -herself, "learn at last that anywhere you may expect grace." And she was -filled with happiness like a girl at this new proof that the traits she -lived for were everywhere, that the world was ready. "Will you do me a -kindness, my daughter? Will you let me show you my work?" -</p> -<p> -The sun had gone down, but the Abbess led the way with a lantern down -corridor after corridor. Doña Clara saw the old and the young, the sick -and the blind, but most of all she saw the tired, bright old woman who -was leading her. The Abbess would stop in a passageway and say suddenly: -"I can't help thinking that something could be done for the -deaf-and-dumb. It seems to me that some patient person could, ... could -study out a language for them. You know there are hundreds and hundreds -in Peru. Do you remember whether anyone in Spain has found a way for -them? Well, some day they will." Or a little later: "Do you know, I keep -thinking that something can be done for the insane. I am old, you know, -and I cannot go where these things are talked about, but I watch them -sometimes and it seems to me ... In Spain, now, they are gentle with -them? It seems to me that there is a secret about it, just hidden from -us, just around the corner. Some day back in Spain, if you hear of -anything that would help us, you will write me a letter ... if you are -not too busy?" -</p> -<p> -At last after Doña Clara had seen even the kitchens, the Abbess said: -"Now will you excuse me, for I must go into the room of the very sick -and say a few words for them to think about when they cannot sleep. I -will not ask you to come with me there, for you are not accustomed to -such ... such sounds and things. And besides I only talk to them as one -talks to children." She looked up at her with her modest rueful smile. -Suddenly she disappeared a moment to return with one of her helpers, one -who had likewise been involved in the affair of the bridge and who had -formerly been an actress. "She is leaving me," said the Abbess, "for -some work across the city and when I have spoken here I must leave you -both, for the flour-broker will not wait for me any longer, and our -argument will take a long time." -</p> -<p> -But Doña Clara stood in the door as the Abbess talked to them, the lamp -placed on the floor beside her. Madre María stood with her back against -a post; the sick lay in rows gazing at the ceiling and trying to hold -their breaths. She talked that night of all those out in the dark (she -was thinking of Esteban alone, she was thinking of Pepita alone) who had -no one to turn to, for whom the world perhaps was more than difficult, -without meaning. And those who lay in their beds there felt that they -were within a wall that the Abbess had built for them; within all was -light and warmth, and without was the darkness they would not exchange -even for a relief from pain and from dying. But even while she was -talking, other thoughts were passing in the back of her mind. "Even -now," she thought, "almost no one remembers Esteban and Pepita, but -myself. Camila alone remembers her Uncle Pio and her son; this woman, -her mother. But soon we shall die and all memory of those five will have -left the earth, and we ourselves shall be loved for a while and -forgotten. But the love will have been enough; all those impulses of -love return to the love that made them. Even memory is not necessary for -love. There is a land of the living and a land of the dead and the -bridge is love, the only survival, the only meaning." -</p> - -<p><br><br><br></p> - -<p class="center"><b>THE END</b></p> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BRIDGE OF SAN LUIS REY ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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