That conviction took possession of me, and I do not know whether it was pleasant or painful. I know that it caused a kind of revolution in me, renewing the feeling of unconquerable aversion with which my uncle inspired me, and strengthening it by all the lack of affection I thought I perceived in his future wife. At the same time I would ask myself with eager curiosity, “Why does she marry him?”

Three or four days sufficed to convince me that only my mother’s passionate hatred could insinuate that Carmen was not well treated at home. DoÑa Andrea scarcely had any part there, if it were not as an old family housekeeper, versed in domestic management, and a slave to her work. I believe that the only privilege DoÑa Andrea enjoyed, in her capacity as retired mistress, was to hold intercourse oftener than was seemly with the wine bottle or the demijohn of brandy. As for the rest, she always used to address SeÑorita Aldao with great affection, and the latter, in her turn, used to treat the old servant with indulgence and consideration. DoÑa Andrea never emerged from her own sphere of housekeeper, and did not make her appearance in the parlor, or make any pretensions incompatible with her position. The only person out of her place there was CandidiÑa. She was neither a young lady fit to associate with the daughter of Don RomÁn Aldao, nor a scullion devoted to her pots and kettles; she was a little of each, and her presence and ambiguous position, admitted to the drawing-room but excluded from the table, were not easily to be explained. Her younger sister, more humble, occupied a very different position, though no reason appeared for the distinction. Anyhow, it was evident that my uncle’s sweetheart did not live like a Cinderella, and that in getting married she was not simply obeying the desire to emancipate herself, to rule over her own household, which so often influences single women to accept the first man who offers himself.

What was the reason then? It was most probably due to the comfortable circumstances and well-assured prospects for the future which my uncle enjoyed. It could not be for any other cause. She had doubtless decided to marry him, if not purely for self-interest, at least because it was not advisable to disdain such an advantageous match. In that case, although SeÑorita Aldao’s conduct did not appear to be delicate or high-minded, nevertheless it was not rightly open to censure.

On the other hand, though I was convinced that this was the real motive of Carmen’s action, I noticed in her, while I observed her daily in the intimacy and familiarity produced by the country life, our near relationship, and the similarity of our ages, something which was contradictory to the practical and reasonable procedure I was attributing to her. Carmen displayed touches of vehemence and feeling which proved that she was naturally passionate. Sometimes her eyes would flash fire, her nostrils dilate, and a singular strength of will show itself in that dreamy face, with its ascetic lines. I fancied that under the surface there must be hidden fire, and a good deal of it.

As I am not a novelist, I am not compelled to make skillful transitions; and as I am not a hypocrite either, I shall mention one fact which I do not know whether any observer or moralist has ever spoken of so frankly. It is that the first glance a man gives a woman, when he is young and prone to love, as I was, is almost always an inquiring look, somewhat loving also,—a look which asks, “Could that woman love me? What would happen if she did?” This is not an affectation of cynicism, nor do I make out human nature worse than God created it; but it only indicates that the sexual instinct, like all other instincts, never rests, although reason may repress it. If I had felt affection and respect for my uncle, I would have silenced that confused murmur of instinct at once. But I did not; my uncle irritated me, and roused my whole soul secretly against him; and so, when I fancied that I perceived in his lady-love the germs of a similar feeling, I felt drawn toward her by a fellowship of mind which was right on the road to love.

Without a moment’s doubt, without feeling surprised at the thing in the least, and without hesitating for a moment in confessing it to myself,—always an easier confession than an auricular one,—I desired and determined to ingratiate myself with my future aunt, if possible. The temptation took hold of me with the greater ease because, as the wedding had not yet taken place, I was spared that brief inward struggle and that misgiving, which are aroused when it is a case of another man’s wife.

To tell the exact truth, I did not purpose to win her for myself or even to displace her lover. I was not capable of plotting in cold blood what Luis Portal called a family drama. All that I aspired to do was to discover whether my surmises in regard to Carmen’s inward shrinking from him were true, and whether she could treat me with indulgent kindness. I sincerely believed that if I were to succeed in that, my uneasiness would be soothed and would vanish.

Our manner of life at Tejo was conducive to intimacy. When we returned from bathing, we would take our breakfast whenever and wherever we desired; a liberty highly favorable to meetings with Carmen in agreeable isolation, in the orchard or in the garden. It cost me a great effort to get rid of the acolyte in order to carry out my plans, for he was fond of me, and stuck to me like a burr. While he was reading the papers, or playing checkers with Don RomÁn, or picking cherries and strawberries with CandidiÑa, I would steal off in search of Carmen. I would generally meet her coming out from the chapel, where she had been to hear Father Moreno say mass.

As soon as I approached I would offer her some flowers, and begin to chat. We talked on the subjects usually chosen for conversation with an unmarried girl; whether Pontevedra was lively, about the Virgin’s festival, about the balls at the Casino, about walks, about how they passed the winter there, about her friends, love affairs and engagements, and other such insipid subjects, fitted, in my opinion, to lead up to some gallant speech.

I found occasion to compliment her slyly, telling her how becoming her dress was, praising her hair, asking her to lean on my arm, while we walked around, assuring her that such a grateful pressure would not tire me.

She never put on a face of indignant virtue at my endeavors to ingratiate myself with her. She received my compliments with a careless, mischievous smile, as much as to say: “Very well; we understand each other; my future nephew is very agreeable.”

She would lean on my arm in accordance with my request, without the slightest hesitation and with decorous cordiality. One day, when I affected a slightly melancholy air, in order to change my tune, she thought I was ill and proposed to take care of me, offering me all sorts of remedies for the body, while I pretended to desire a moral cure. In fact, I could not find an open breach, whereby to attack that little heart.

I observed her conduct toward my uncle. While she treated me, after we were once acquainted, with gay cordiality, her deportment toward her lover was polite and correct, at the same time that it was submissive and attentive. It might be considered the result of bashfulness or modesty by the uninitiated, but to me, viewed in the sinister light which was in my mind, it seemed the unmistakable symptom of absolute coldness.

When I fancied that I had made this discovery, I experienced a mysterious feeling of sympathy with the poor girl. If she really felt the same aversion toward my uncle that I did, what stronger mental tie could bind us than that? “The bridegroom is repugnant to the bride. Perhaps she is unaware of it, but it is so. It is evident; and that proves her good taste and moral delicacy. I said so all along.” Then the same old question would arise, “Why, then, does she marry him?”

While I was propounding this enigma to myself, I did not neglect to ingratiate myself with Carmen. I fancied that all I needed to carry out my plan was time. It lacked but a few days of the date set for the wedding, and evidently, in order to obtain if not the affection, at least the friendship and entire confidence of that young lady, it was necessary to see her frequently, so that every hour might bring forth its fruit little by little; as the dried and withered leaves of the Jericho rose unfold when the stalk is moistened with water. “Of course,” I would say to myself, when I saw her so amiable but so reserved in all matters of the heart, “this girl is not going to intrust me with the key to the treasure all at once. It will not be an easy matter to find out from her own lips why she has accepted my uncle.”

Meanwhile, I was very attentive to her, joked with her, and tried to gain a few inches of ground. My first attempt at a joke was to call her auntie. At first she did not relish my conceit, but finally she made up her mind to join in the joke and to call me nephew. As soon as I heard her pronounce that name, which implied a certain familiarity, I returned to the charge, and asked her permission to call her Auntie Carmen. These two names, the first rather childish, and still more the second, with its aroma of youth and beauty, appeared charming to me, and henceforth I fastened them upon SeÑorita Aldao, whom I never called by any other name during the rest of my life.

There was a time when I imagined that Auntie Carmen had entered on that stage in which, deliberately or unconsciously, we reflect some of the feelings of others, and through sympathy share the pangs they suffer.

It was one afternoon when my uncle was in Pontevedra, managing and playing the scale of small politics, which he declared that he understood so well. In order to amuse us, Don RomÁn proposed to go fishing for sunfish in the tranquil waters of the estuary. This was usually done on pleasant days, letting the boat float along very slowly, and throwing out the hooks baited with bits of meat or earth-worms. It is really a pleasant excursion on the water, at the most enjoyable hour of the day, for the country. We all went in one launch. Auntie, who was seated at my side, kept joking me because my line never felt the sharp nibble of the fish, while hers was incessantly on the stretch, catching sunfish and some other kinds of small fry. I proposed to change rods, and she consented, but the fish were not to be deceived, and still slighted me. I took advantage of the fact that CandidiÑa was quarreling with SerafÍn, and that Father Moreno, of whose acuteness I was afraid, was amusing himself with the fishing like a boy and seemed unobservant, and ventured to say something very sweet to my auntie. She replied, smiling at me with a look I cannot define, except by saying that it seemed a mingling of brightness and innocent archness. If that was mocking, it was mocking coated with honey, adorned with roses, and seasoned with affectionate mirth.

Suddenly it seemed to me that her glorious eyes were overshadowed by deep sadness, and that a sigh came from that breast—a deep sigh that could only mean: “This is all very well, my dear nephew, but unfortunately I am already bound to your disagreeable uncle, and consequently we cannot come to a good understanding. Don’t be foolish, or I shall have to say to you, ‘Much too late.’”

Nightfall put an end to our fishing. We returned to Tejo on foot by the path already described. There was a moon—that kind of a moon which always seems more silvery in the country, more melancholy and even larger than when it lights up a city. Auntie went on ahead, leaning on CandidiÑa, and would turn occasionally to speak to Father Moreno or to me. In order to go by a shorter route, we went through some plowed fields, and even through an inclosure, rousing the fury of a mastiff, who desired to take a nip at our legs.

On arriving at Tejo and entering the parlor, where a multitude of moths and tiny butterflies were fluttering around the lamp, coming in through the open windows, auntie gave an exclamation, saying:

“Oh, in passing through the inclosure I have covered myself with loves!”

I understood what she meant; some of those little flowers, or stiff, hooked plants, had stuck to her so closely that she could not get them off. Immediately I knelt down, and commenced to take off the loves, right and left. The pests stuck to my clothes also. Without changing my position, I raised my eyes toward her and murmured softly:

“They cling to me, too.”

Just at that moment an ugly bat came in, with its heavy and stupid flight, and made the circuit of the room several times; making its appearance where we least expected it, and beating its wings against the wall or brushing against our heads, when we were most unprepared. We laughed and shouted, and armed ourselves with whatever we could lay our hands on—handkerchiefs, tidies—and pursued the hideous monster. SerafÍn was the first to lay hand upon it. In spite of the sharp cries it uttered on being caught, the acolyte held it tightly, asked for two pins, and, stretching out its membranous wings, fastened it against the window frame. Afterward he stuck a cigarette into its mouth, and lit it with a match; and while the bat struggled in its death agony, its persecutor made a thousand gestures and grimaces at it.

It was a grotesque scene which caused us to shout with laughter, and I was giving myself up to the enjoyment of it when I heard Carmen, ask impatiently:

“CandidiÑa,—where is CandidiÑa?”

The girl did not appear. Then Carmen went to the window, and cried:

“Papa, papa, come up here. Come and see the bat we have caught.”

Don RomÁn answered from the garden, “I am coming;” and presently the old man came in with flashing eyes.

The torment of the bat amused him very much; but Carmen interceded for the victim.

“SerafÍn, leave that poor thing alone. It is all right to kill it, but not to torture it. Don’t be a Jew!”