CHAPTER V
"Gabriel," he said to me one morning, "dost thou not feel like smashingsomething?"
"Augustine, dost thou not feel like smashing something?" I responded.It will be seen that we were "thee-ing" and "thou-ing" each other afterthree days' acquaintance.
"Not very much," he said, "suppose the first ball strikes us dead!"
"We shall die for our country, for Saragossa; and although posteritywill not remember us, it is always an honor to fall on the field ofbattle for a cause like this."
"You are right," he answered sadly; "but it is a pity to die. We areyoung. Who knows for what we are destined in life?"
"Life is a trifle, and its importance is not worth thinking of."
"That is for the aged to say, but not us who are just beginning tolive. Frankly, I do not wish to die in this terrible circle which theFrench have drawn about us. In the other siege, however, all thestudents of the Seminary took arms, and I confess that I was morevaliant then than now. A peculiar zeal filled my blood, and I threwmyself into places of greatest danger without fear of death. To-daydoes not find me the same. I am timid and afraid, and when a gun goesoff, it makes me tremble."
"That is natural. Fear does not exist when one does not realize thedanger. As far as that is concerned, they say the most valiant soldiersare the raw recruits."
"There is nothing in that. Indeed, Gabriel, I confess that the merequestion of dying does not strike me as the greatest evil. But if Idie, I am going to entrust you with a commission which I hope you willfulfil carefully like a good friend. Listen well to what I tell you.You see that tower that leans this way, as if to see what is passinghere, or hear what we are saying?"
"The Torre Nueva? I see it. What charge are you going to give me forthat lady?"
Day was breaking, and between the irregular-tiled roofs of the city,between the spires and minarets, the balconies and the cupolas of thechurches, the Torre Nueva, old and unfinished, stood out distinctly.
"Listen well!" said Augustine. "If I am killed with the first shot onthis day which is now dawning, when the battle is ended, and they breakranks, you must go there."
"To the Torre Nueva? Behold me! I arrive. I enter!"
"No, man, not enter. Listen, I will tell you. You arrive at the Plazade San Felipe where the tower is. Look yonder! Do you see there nearthe great pile there is another tower, a little belfry? It seems likean acolyte before his lord the canon, which is the great tower."
"Yes, now I see the altar-boy. And if I am not mistaken, it is thebelfry of San Felipe. And the damned thing is ringing this minute!"
"For mass, it is ringing for mass," said Augustine, with great emotion."Do you not hear the cracked bell?"
"Very plainly. Let us know what I have to say to this Mr. Altar-boy whois ringing the cracked bell."
"No, no, it is nothing about him. You arrive at the Plaza of SanFelipe. If you look at the belfry, you will see it is on a corner, andfrom this corner runs a narrow street. You enter there, and at the leftyou will find at a little distance another street, narrow and retired,called Anton Trillo. You follow this until you reach the back of thechurch. There you will see a house. You stop there--"
"And then I come back again?"
"No; close to the house there is a garden, with a little gatewaypainted the color of chocolate. You stop there."
"There I stop, and there I am!"
"No, old man. You will see--"
"You're whiter than your shirt, my Augustine. What do all these towersand stoppages signify?"
"They mean," continued my friend, with increasing embarrassment, "thatin a little while you will be there. I desire you to go by night. Allright, you arrive there. You stop. You wait a little, then you pass tothe opposite sidewalk. You stretch your neck, and you will see a windowover the wall of a garden. You pick up a pebble and throw it againstthe panes of glass lightly, to do little damage."
"And in a second she will come!"
"No; have patience. How do you know whether she will come or not come?"
"Well, let us suppose that she comes."
"Before I tell you another thing, you must understand that it is therethe goodman Candiola lives. Do you know who Candiola is? Well, he is acitizen of Saragossa, a man who, as they say, has in his house a cellarfull of money. He is avaricious and a usurer, and when he lends he gutshis customers. He knows more about debtors, laws, and foreclosures thanthe whole court and council of Castile. Whoever goes to law with him islost."
"From all this, the house with a gate painted chocolate color should bea magnificent palace."
"Nothing of the sort. You will see a wretched-looking house that seemsabout to fall down. I tell you that that goodman Candiola is a miser.He does not waste a real that he can help. And if you should see himabout here you would give him alms. I will tell you another thing;he is never seen in Saragossa, and they call him goodman Candiola inmockery and contempt. His name is Don Jeronimo de Candiola; he is anative of Mallorca, if I am not mistaken."
"And this Candiola has a daughter?"
"Wait, man, how impatient you are! How do you know whether or not hehas a daughter?" he answered, hiding his agitation by these evasions."Well, as I was just going to tell you, Candiola is detested in thecity for his great avarice and wicked heart. Many poor men has he putin prison after ruining them. Worse still, during the other siege hedid not give a farthing for the war, nor take up arms, nor receive thewounded into his house, nor could they wring a peseta from him; and,as he said one day it was all one to him whether he gave to John or toPeter, he was on the point of being arrested."
"Well, he is a pretty piece, this man of the house of the garden of thechocolate-colored gate! And what if when the pebble strikes the window,goodman Candiola comes out with a cudgel and gives me a good beatingfor flirting with his daughter?"
"Don't be an idiot! Hush! You must know that as soon as it gets dark,Candiola shuts himself in an underground room, and there he stayscounting his money until after midnight. Bah! He is well occupied now.The neighbors say they hear a muffled sound as if bags of coins werebeing tumbled out."
"Very well. I arrive there. I throw the stone. She comes, and I tellher--"
"You tell her that I am dead. No, don't be cruel; give her this amulet.No, tell her--no, it will be better to tell her nothing."
"Then I will give her the amulet?"
"By no means. Do not take the amulet to her."
"Now, now I understand. As soon as she comes I am to say good-night andmarch myself away singing, 'The Virgin del Pilar says--'"
"No, it is enough that she learns of my death. You must do as I tellyou."
"But if you don't tell me anything."
"How hasty you are! Wait. Perhaps they'll not kill me to-day."
"True. And what a bother about nothing!"
"There is one thing which I have left out, Gabriel, and I shall tell itto you frankly. I have had many, very many great desires to confide toyou this secret which weighs upon my breast. To whom could I tell itbut to you, my friend? If I did not tell you, my heart would break likea pomegranate. I have been greatly afraid of telling it at night in mydreams. Because of this fear I cannot sleep. If my father, my mother,my brother, suspected it, they would kill me."
"And the fathers at the Seminary?"
"Don't name the fathers. You shall see. I will tell you what hasbefallen me. Do you know Father Rincon? Well, Father Rincon loves mevery much, and every evening he used to make me come out for a walkby the river or towards Torrero or the Juslibol road. We would talkof theology and literature. Rincon is so enthusiastic about the greatpoet Horace that he used to say, 'It is a pity that that man wasn't aChristian so that he could be canonized.' He always carries with hima little Elzevir, which he loves more than the apple of his eye. Whenwe were tired walking, he would sit down and read, and between the twoof us we would make whatever comments occurred to us. Well, now I willtell you that Father Rincon was a kinsman of Do?a Maria Rincon, thedeceased wife of Cand
iola, who has a little property in the Monzalbarbaroad, with a wretched little country house, more like a hut than ahouse, but embowered in leafy trees, and with delightful views of theEbro. One afternoon, after we had been reading the _Quis multa graciliste puer in rosa_, my teacher desired to visit his relative. We wentthere; we entered the garden, and Candiola was not there; but hisdaughter came to meet us, and Rincon said to her, 'Mariquilla, get somepeaches for this young man, and get me a glass of you know what.'"
"And is Mariquilla nice?"
"Don't ask that. What if she is nice? You shall see. Father Rinconstroked his beard, and turning towards me said, 'Augustine, confessthat in your lifetime you have never seen a more perfect face thanthis one. Look at those eyes of fire, that angel's mouth, and that bitof heaven for a brow.' I was trembling, and Mariquilla laughed, herface all rosy red. Then Rincon continued, saying, 'To you, who area future father of the church, an example, a young pattern, withoutother passion than that for books, this divinity may show herself.Jove! admire here the admirable work of the Supreme Creator. Observethe expression of that face, the sweetness of those glances, thegrace of that smile, the freshness, the delicacy of that complexion,the fineness of that skin, and confess that if heaven is beautiful,flowers, mountains, light, all the creations of God are nothing besidewoman, the most perfect and finished work of the immortal hand.'Thus spoke my teacher, and I, mute and astonished, did not cease tocontemplate that master work which was certainly better than the?neid. I cannot tell you what I felt. Imagine the Ebro, that greatriver, which descends from its springs to give itself to the sea, allat once changing its channel and trying to run upward, returning tothe Asturias. The same thing took place in my spirit. I myself wasastonished that all my ideas had been changed from their wonted courseand turned backward, cutting I know not what new channels. I assure youI was astonished, and I am yet. Looking at her without satisfying thelonging of my soul or of my eyes, I said to myself, 'I love her in awonderful way! How is it that until now I have never fallen in love?' Ihad never seen Mariquilla until that moment."
"And the peaches?"
"Mariquilla was as much disturbed before me as I before her. FatherRincon went to talk with the gardener about the encroachments thatthe French had made upon the property (that was soon after the firstof September, a month after the raising of the first siege), andMariquilla and I remained alone. Alone! My first impulse was to cut andrun; and she, as she has told me, also felt the same. Neither she norI ran. We stayed there. All at once I felt an extraordinary movementof my intellect. Breaking the silence, I began to talk with her. Wetalked about all sorts of indifferent things at first, but to me camethoughts beyond my usual understanding, surpassing the ordinary, andall, all, all, I uttered. Mariquilla answered me little, but her eyeswere only more eloquent than when I was talking to her. At last FatherRincon called, and we marched away. I took leave of her, and in a lowvoice said that we would soon meet again. We returned to Saragossa.Yes, the street, the trees, the Ebro, the cupola of the Pilar, thebelfries of Saragossa, the passers-by, the houses, the walls of thegarden, the pavements, the sound of the wind, the dogs of the street,all seemed different to me, all, heaven and earth had been changed.My good teacher began to read again in Horace, and I said that Horacewasn't worth anything. He wished me to dine with him, and threatened mewith the loss of his friendship. I praised Virgil with enthusiasm, andrepeated the celebrated lines--
"'_Est mollis flamma medullas interea et tacitum vivit sub pectore vulnus._'"
"This was about the first of September," said I, "and since then?"
"From that day a new life began for me. It commenced with a burningdisquiet that robbed me of sleep, making distasteful to me all that wasnot Mariquilla. My own father's house was hateful to me; and wanderingabout the environs of Saragossa without any companion, I sought peacefor my spirit in solitude. I hated the college, all books and theology,and when October came, and they wished me to bind myself to live shutup in the holy house, I feigned illness in order to remain in my own.Thanks to the war that has made us all soldiers, I have been able tolive free, to go at all hours, day and night, and see and talk withher frequently. I go to her house, make the signal agreed upon; shedescends, opens her grated window; we talk long hours. People pass by,but I am muffled in my cloak even up to the eyes. With this and thedarkness of night, no one recognizes me. As far as that is concerned,the boys in the street ask one another, 'Who is this admirer of theCandiola?' The other night, fearing discovery, we stopped our talksat the grating. Mariquilla came down, opened the garden gate, and Ientered. No one could discover us, because Don Jeronimo, believingher to be in bed, retired to his room to count his money, and the oldservant, the only one in the house, took us under her wing. Alone inthe garden we sat down upon some stone steps and watched the brightnessof the moonlight through the boughs of a great black poplar. In thatmajestic silence our souls contemplated the divine, and we experienceda deep sentiment, beyond words to express. Our felicity is so greatthat at times it is a living torment. If there are moments in which onemight desire to be a hundred beings, there are also moments in whichone might desire not to exist. We pass long hours there. The nightbefore last we were there until daybreak. My teacher believed me to bewith the guards, so I was not obliged to hasten. When morning firstbegan to dawn, we separated. Over the top of the wall of the gardenappeared the roofs of the neighboring houses and the top of the TorreNueva. Pointing it out to me, Mariquilla said, 'When that tower standsstraight, then only shall I cease to love you.'"
Augustine said no more. A cannon-shot sounded from the side of MountTorrero, and we both turned in that direction.
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