Marianela 31

Marianela 31

"When I picked her up at _la Trascava_ she was in a high fever."

 

"But that is not enough; no, not enough to kill her!"

 

"You say it is not enough. God and Nature say that it is."

 

"It is as if she had been stabbed."

 

"Remember what those eyes--now closing forever--saw a short while

since. Remember that a blind man loved her and that he is blind no

longer; that he has seen her--seen her! The shock was a death-blow...."

 

"Oh what a terrible mysterious...."

 

"No, it is no mystery," cried the surgeon, almost wildly. "It is the

awful collapse of an illusion; the rude blow of reality; the miserable

destroyer which has come between two noble souls. And I--I brought that

reality home to them!"

 

"Oh it is a wretched mystery!" repeated Florentina, not understanding

the current of his thoughts.

 

"A mystery? No," repeated Teodoro with increasing agitation: "It is

bare reality; the sudden swallowing up of a whole world of illusions.

Reality to him meant a new life--to her, anguish, suffocation,

humiliation, sorrow, contempt, an empty life, jealousy,--Death!"

 

"And all for...."

 

"And all for one pair of eyes opened to see light--and reality.

Reality! I cannot get the word out of my brain. It seems to be written

there in letters of fire."

 

"All for one pair of eyes.--And grief can kill so quickly--without

giving us time to try a remedy?"

 

"I do not know," said Golfin, bewildered, confounded, helpless, in view

of the mystic characters of the Book of Life and Death, which science

may pore over but may not decipher its dark riddle.

 

"You do not know!" cried Florentina desperately. "Then why are you a

doctor?"

 

"I do not know, I do not know!" he reiterated, striking his dishevelled

head with his heavy hands.--"Yes, one thing I know, and that is that we

know nothing but the skin-deep phenomena of life. I--I am a mender of

eyes and nothing more."

 

He fixed his gaze with absorbed attention on the little figure which

was hovering on the border-land between a living woman and a corpse.

"Soul!" he exclaimed in a tone of bitter questioning: "What is passing

in you now?"

 

Florentina burst into tears.

 

"The soul!" she murmured, and her head drooped on her breast: "It is

fled!"

 

"No ..." said Teodoro, taking Nela's hand. "There is still some life

left--but so little, that it would seem as if the soul were indeed far

away and had left only the breath behind."

 

"Lord have mercy!" exclaimed the young girl and began to pray.

 

"Alas! hapless spirit!" murmured the surgeon. "You were but ill-lodged

indeed...."

 

They both bent over her, watching her closely.

 

"Her lips are moving," cried Florentina. "She is speaking."

 

Yes, her lips parted; she said something--a word, two, three.

 

"What is she saying?" each asked the other; but neither of them could

understand her.

 

She spoke perhaps in the tongue that is known to those who live the

life eternal.

 

This was the end; her lips moved no more; they remained half-open

showing a row of little white teeth. Teodoro bent over her and, kissing

Nela's forehead, he said in a steady voice:

 

"Woman, you did well to quit this world." But Florentina's voice was

choked with tears and sobs as she said: "I wanted to make her happy,

and she would not be."

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXII.

 

FAREWELL.

 

 

Strange and wonderful to tell! Nela, who had never in her life had a

room, nor clothes, nor shoes, nor food, nor sympathy, nor relations,

nor any earthly thing of her own, not even a name--was buried in

a style which caused no small amount of envy among the living in

Socartes. This posthumous splendor was the bitterest irony ever known

in these metalliferous regions. Señorita Florentina, acting on her

generous impulses, consoled herself for the disappointment of not

having been able to help Nela alive, by the satisfaction of doing honor

to her hapless remains after death. Some hard-hearted materialists

criticised her severely; but, for our part, we regarded it as an

additional proof of her refined kind-heartedness.

 

When Nela was carried to the grave, the curious who came to gaze at

her, thought her almost pretty--wonderful to say! At least so they

said. It was the first time a compliment had ever been paid her. The

funeral was magnificent, and the priests of Villamojada opened their

mouths wide in astonishment when they found themselves receiving money

to pray for the soul of La Canela's daughter. It was bewildering,

amazing, to think that a being whose social importance had been about

equal to that of a worm or a fly, should prove the occasion of so much

burning of tapers, of so much hanging of drapery, and of making so many

choristers and sacristans hoarse. Nay, it was so astounding as to be

positively amusing; nothing else was talked of for at least six weeks.

 

The surprise, and indeed--to be frank--the indignation of this worthy

little world, culminated one day when two waggons, loaded with enormous

blocks of fine white stone, were descried approaching by the high-road.

In Señana's mind, particularly, a hideous subversion of ideas took

place, a cataclysm resulting in mental chaos, when she brought herself

to believe that those fine white stones were to build Nela's tomb. If

an ox had taken to flying or her husband to making speeches, it could

not have roused her from her stupefaction.

 

The parish registers of Villamojada were searched, for of course it

was indispensable that she should have a name now she was dead, though

she had done without one during her life; as is proved by this very

history, where she has borne various names. And this indispensable

requisite having been found, and duly placed on the records of the

dead, the magnificent tomb, which stood up proudly among the rustic

crosses of the graveyard at Aldeacorba, had this epitaph engraved on it:

 

R. I. P.

 

MARÍA MANUELA TELLEZ.

 

RECALLED TO HEAVEN

 

October the 12th, 186 ...

 

And a wreath of flowers prettily carved in the marble, crowned the

inscription. Many months later, when Florentina and Pablo Penáguilas

had been some time married and no one--to tell the truth, for truth is

the first consideration--no one in Aldeacorba de Suso remembered Nela

any longer, some travellers of the tourist genus, in crossing that part

of the country, happened to observe the grand marble sepulchre erected

in the cemetery by the piety and affection of an exemplary friend,

and were struck with admiration. Without more ado they proceeded to

write down in their note-book these remarks, which were subsequently

published under the title of "Sketches from Cantábria," in an English

newspaper.

 

"The most remarkable object to be seen at Aldeacorba is a magnificent

monument, erected in the cemetery over the grave of a young lady of

rank, famous in that part of the country for her beauty. Doña Mariquita

Manuela Tellez belonged to one of the noblest and wealthiest families

in Cantábria, that of Tellez Giron y de Trastamara. Witty, romantic,

and capricious, she took a fancy to wander about the roads, playing

the guitar and singing Calderon's odes, and she would dress herself up

in rags to enable her to mix with the herd of beggars, pick-pockets,

troubadours, bull-fighters, friars, _hidalgos_, gypsies, and muleteers,

which at the great _kermesas_, constitute that motley scene of Spanish

low life which still exists and always must exist, independent and

picturesque, in spite of the railways and newspapers which have begun

to force their way into the Spanish Peninsula.

 

"The _abad_[6] of Villamojada wept as he told us of the whims, the

virtues, and the beauty of this wealthy gentlewoman, who, whenever

she appeared at the balls, banquets, or _cañas_ of Madrid, was

distinguished for her aristocratic deportment. The number of

_romanceros_, sonnets and madrigals composed in honor of this noble

damsel by all the Spanish poets, is beyond all calculation."[7]

 

On reading this I saw at once that the worthy reporters had dreamed

dreams. I determined to tell the truth, and the truth, as I have told

it, has resulted in this book.

 

* * * * *

 

We must now bid farewell forever to this tomb. We will fix our eyes on

another object, seek out another figure--searching diligently, for he

whom we want is but a small personage, a minute insect, as it were, no

larger on the face of the earth than the Phylloxera on the vine. But we

have found him--there he is, tiny, squalid, a mere atomy. But he lives

and breathes, and will grow great in time. Listen to his story, for it

is an interesting one I promise you.

 

Well, Sir....

 

But no; it does not belong to this book. If you like the history of Marianela, in good time you shall hear that of Celipin.