In spite of what Portal had said, I continued to study Carmen’s face and actions, and with the second sight of passion plainly perceived an aversion and dislike, growing all the while more marked and deep.

Ye dramatists, who strew daggers and poison throughout your terrifying creations; ye poets, who sing of horrible tragedies; ye novelists, who have as many murders as chapters,—tell me if there is any struggle more tremendous than that which goes on in a woman’s heart when she is united, subjected, fastened to the man whose presence is enough to make every fiber of her being quiver with aversion! And let those who believe that psychology is merely a science of facts like the positive and exact physical and natural sciences, tell us why that husband should so greatly disgust his wife. There is no sufficient cause for it. He had not wronged her by any grave fault. She is queen and mistress of her home; her husband is not unfaithful to her but, on the contrary, is very attentive to her and is devoted to his home, and the young wife waiting for him there.

Ah, it is evident that Carmen’s antipathy was irrational, and for that very reason all the stronger, deeper, and more impossible to attack and eradicate. One can fight against an adversary when he has a body, but not when he is an intangible shadow, real only in the dark recesses of our soul. There are some husbands who ill-treat their wives, who betray them, who drag them to ruin, and, notwithstanding, are still loved, or, at least, not shrunk from. Who can say precisely whence blows that breath of air called repulsion? It is not hatred. Hatred has its reasons, is based upon motives, can explain and justify itself; and if I have sometimes allowed myself to say that I hated my uncle, it is because I did not express myself with precision. It was not hatred which his wife and I felt for him, but something more invincible—a profound aversion. Hatred may turn into friendship, even into love, because, as it springs from some definite causes, other definite causes may obliterate it, but a mysterious repulsion, that antipathy which is born in the depths of our psychical being, that does not die nor become extirpated or transformed. No reasoning can conquer unreason, nor is there any logic which will avail against instinct, which acts on us like nature, directly and intuitively, by virtue of laws whose essence is, and forever will be for us, an impenetrable secret.

Grant that Carmen did not hate my uncle Felipe. She was incapable of feeling hatred toward anybody. My uncle had given her his name, a good position, such as it was; he did not treat her ill, nor did I even notice that he scrimped her in money-matters, although I clearly saw that if the wife were free to do as she desired she would enlarge her list of charities.

The married life of my uncle and aunt, thus, was only like that of so many husbands and wives we see nowadays; in appearance tranquil and even happy, upheld by that decorous and middle-class spirit of concord, so fashionable in our modern society, where customs as well as streets are drawn in a straight line, more precise and symmetrical every day. But as within the houses in those straight streets tragic events occur, and love, vice, and crime come and go just as they did in the crookedest alleys known to the Middle Ages, so under that couple’s cloak of harmony and mutual esteem I could perceive their incompatibility of temper; the husband’s inclination to be mean and tyrannical, and the wife’s cold, hard, and unconscious feeling of repulsion.

Sometimes I would say to myself: “Take care, for Luis is right and I am a fool! I ought not to pay the slightest attention to Carmen’s dislike to her husband, which I constantly observe. What should preoccupy me is the sentiment which I inspire in her. If she loved me as I love her, what would I care if she acted like some dramatic heroine we read of, and, without ceasing to love me madly, should still display toward her husband a most tender affection,—filial, or sisterly, or conjugal respect? Only let her return my love, and the rest, as far as I am concerned, shall be allowed to take place on the stage of the soul—where no one ought to venture. What inference can I draw from the fact that even if she does not care for her rightful lord, she never even looks at me?”

Well, I would not draw any inference, yet I kept on watching the signs of that antipathy with intense joy. Just as, when we begin to surmise that the woman we love will return our affection, we eagerly watch for a glance, a smile, a furtive blush, the trace of a passing emotion, that, tearing asunder the delicate veil which infolds a woman’s heart, betrays and lays bare the hidden flame, so I used to study the inflections of her voice, the ill-concealed flashing of her eyes, the scarcely perceptible tremor of her lips which revealed to me the wife’s moral state.

At the dinner hour I would watch her closely, though pretending to be absent-minded, playing with my fork or discussing politics with my uncle. I am sure that everything can be feigned, everything subjected to the will,—even the expression of the countenance,—but not the voice. Carmen was able to control the muscles of her face, to subdue her eyes, to prevent her delicate nostrils from dilating, but never could succeed in making her voice, usually even, soft and clear when she was addressing others, anything but harsh and muffled when she spoke to her husband. And, aside from that fact, there were a thousand plain indications. The plainest was her anxiety to prolong the evenings in the parlor. Of her own motion, that woman would never have gone to bed. What a delightful impression it made on me the few times that I succeeded in spending the evening with her, to see her retard the hour of retiring with a thousand pretexts; burying herself in her work, saying that she had a certain stint to finish, that she would not go to bed until she finished it; that she had to write to her father, or to some friends in Pontevedra; until, finally, my uncle would unceremoniously command her to retire. I was only able to make such observations on Saturday nights; the rest of the week I had to go to my room early on account of my lessons. I used to sit by the chimney in the boudoir next to her bedroom, which had moss-green plush portiÈres. They were drawn back, so that I could look into the hateful chamber, where was daily enacted the iniquitous mystery of absolute intimacy between two beings who did not love each other or perhaps feel any esteem for each other, who had no mutual understanding or any points of contact beyond the fact that the Moorish friar had thrown the stole over them at the same time.

One morning I received a letter from my mother, written in her usual precipitate and incoherent style, without punctuation, it is unnecessary to add, and wholly devoted to giving me some strange news.

“You don’t know the greatest joke of all that the old man Aldao fell into the trap set by that horrid girl CandidiÑa who turned his head bewitched and made him raving mad until finally he consented to marry her secretly not publicly and the priest denies it and the old man as well but I know it by one who saw it with his own eyes and some very indecent couplets are going the rounds in Pontevedra about this phenomenon and it seems that the editor of El Teucrense wrote them and they would make one die laughing an impudent girl can succeed in anything they say he gave her a mantilla and a black silk dress may the Lord grant that we may not lose our wits and get in our dotage I don’t know whether his daughter knows it but keep quiet and let somebody else tell her for they will surely write to Felipe about this scrape a nice mess it is and now he has a step-mother and I am glad of it as he took advantage of us.”

It is needless to say that as soon as I could find Carmen alone I hastened to tell her the great news, not without great preambles and much circumlocution. Far from being startled or sorrowful, SeÑor Aldao’s daughter displayed great satisfaction.

“God has heard my prayers,” she exclaimed, impetuously. “God has rewarded me, Salustio. At my father’s age he had better be married than—otherwise. I am glad for his own sake. You may be sure that I rejoice, though I should have liked him to make a different choice. But now that it is over, I hope it may turn out well.”

“I don’t want to spoil your joy,” I said; “but CarmiÑa, a man of your father’s age runs a great risk and loses something of his dignity by marrying a girl of sixteen.”

“That matter rests between her and her conscience,” argued my aunt. “Probably she will be very careful in the discharge of her new duties, now that she is married. She never had any before; some improprieties can be pardoned her.”

“But she is a regular weather-vane and will continue to be so, for it is innate in her. A nice one she is, to lead on that poor old gentleman to such an extreme! I assure you, your step-mother is a rare bird. No one knows what the future will bring forth.”

“Well, God is over all. Let us hope that the grace of the sacrament may do its office.”

“Do you believe in the grace of the sacrament?” I asked, remembering what Luis had said, and smiling, in spite of myself, at her words, which were in such marked contrast to my own ideas and convictions, though, coming from her lips, they seemed to me the very formula of propriety and moral beauty.

“What a question! Why shouldn’t I believe in it? Fine I’d look if I didn’t! When God instituted that sacrament he pledged Himself to help with His grace all who avail themselves of it. Without such aid marriage would not be possible.”

“Grace consists in loving each other, Carmen,” I murmured, drawing near to her and fixing my eyes on hers. I did not desire to convince her, or to lead her astray, God knows, but, on the contrary, I wanted her to display all the absurdities of her theological learning and brandish before me, like a warlike Amazon, the well-tempered weapons with which she guarded her virtue. But I reckoned without my host, because Carmen would not engage in controversy. She only replied, pleasantly:

“It is only natural that you should think that way, being only a boy, and having such ideas as you do. I am very sorry that you are not more religious. With years you will gain experience and will be able to judge better. Your head will get settled at last!”

“Well, CarmiÑa, suppose I only need a word from you to settle it? Do you say that that about loving each other is all nonsense? Well, I’ll believe it if you say so. But at least you cannot deny that in order to be happy, no matter how holy the married pair may be, they must have some affection for each other; must at least not hate each other or be mutually repugnant. Am I not right?”

CarmiÑa turned pale, and her eyelashes quivered slightly. She suddenly looked at me with a pained expression as though saying: “That is a forbidden subject and I am surprised that you should allude to it.”

I carried away from that brief dialogue, broken off by the coming in of my uncle, a greater supply of hope. My uncle entered hastily, with a very abrupt and surprised air. As soon as he saw his wife he drew a letter from his pocket.

“Carmen, what is the meaning of this? Did you know anything about it? Why, Castro Mera writes to me saying that everybody declares that your father is secretly married to his maid-servant’s niece!”

My aunt tried to control her voice as she answered bravely:

“It must be true, for Benigna also has written about it to Salustio.”

“And you say so in that quiet way?” cried her husband.

There are moments in which the curtain is drawn back, and you surprise the soul in all its nakedness and perceive its mysterious shapes, however quickly the surprised one may try to cover them up. That cry fully revealed my uncle’s soul, hard, dry, and vilely mercenary—like a great many others which roam around the world inclosed in bodies less Jewish in appearance.

“It is a great joke—your taking it so coolly,” he continued, excited and beside himself. “According to that you don’t care if your father is crazy! Because that is what it is—senile imbecility, dotage! But your brother and I will take steps to annul the marriage, and have that old man put under a guardian. Getting married! What a farce! That is what is called laughing in the face of all the world and making fools of stupid sons-in-law!”

His eyes flashed fire, his hooked nose gave emphasis to the expression of avarice and rapacity on his coarse lips, his face was flushed and almost as red as his beard, while his trembling hand mechanically took up and laid down again on the table already set for lunch, knife, fork, and napkin.

“What do you expect,” replied his wife, firmly, taking her place at the table as though nothing had occurred. “My father is master of his own actions for the very reason that he is so old. It is not true that he is in his dotage, and the respect we owe him ought to prohibit us from opposing his will. Let us be patient. It would be worse if he were to live in a scandalous manner.”

“You are a fool!” exclaimed her husband, losing all restraint for the first time, and determined to free his mind. “At your father’s age there is no scandal possible, or any such nonsense; all that there is, is folly and imbecility and ridiculousness—that most absurd of all things, marrying a young girl of low birth, a servant! Within a month’s time he will find that his head is too big for his hat. You women don’t know about such matters, or know what you are talking about. It is your lack of experience and ignorance of the world, which you do not know, nor have you any reason to know it. So you would do better to keep quiet most of the time. And, by Jove! if you will hear it, your father ought to have told me, before marrying off his daughter: ‘Felipe, don’t be too sure of me; although I am so old that my pantaloons fall off me, I feel lively and wont be long in getting married again. And as at my age a man always has children I shall have two or three boys who will leave my daughter out in the cold.’ How nice, hey? How nice!”

My aunt kept quiet. The pallor of her cheeks, her quick breathing and her flashing eyes indicated the indignation and protest which raged in her soul. But instead of opening the valve, she repressed her feelings and took a glass of water which was on the table. I heard the glass click against her teeth while she drank, showing how rapidly her pulse was beating. My uncle, without paying the slightest regard to her agitation and her brave silence, went on, growing more and more excited with his own words:

“I shall write him a scorching letter at once and tell him what I think. He shall hear from me, I swear it. That deviltry will be thrown in his face, or my name is not Felipe. I’ll give him so much trouble that he’ll have cause to remember the saint of my name. And he, of course, will think that I shall allow you to associate with your precious step-mother!”

“In the first place,” replied my aunt slowly, with an effort, “I believe that their marriage is still a secret; and in the second place, I used to associate with her when I was at home and when she was exposed to worse things. Why shouldn’t I associate with her now that she is my father’s wife, if she behaves herself properly?”

“Behaves herself; no trouble about behavior!” exclaimed my uncle, ironically. “Behaves herself well! The young fellows at Pontevedra and San AndrÉs can tell you all about that. However, as far as that is concerned I don’t care anything about it—”

“Well, as for me, that’s the only thing I do care about,” answered my aunt, vehemently, unable to restrain herself any longer. “I hope that my father may not have cause to feel ashamed of his choice, and let the rest be as God wills,—as it will be, after all.”

Oh, obdurate hardness of heart of the Hebrew race, with how much justice did Christ reprove you! Those words, prompted by a sublime impulse of faith, would have moved a stone; but my uncle was harder than a stone, and, throwing away his napkin, he arose from the table, muttering between his teeth:

“As if that was not enough to come upon one, I must listen to stupidities and twaddle. He must have nerve. Just think of that scarecrow getting married now; and then to hear him defended here,—here in my own house!”

He rushed out of the dining-room. I followed him, for I wanted to know where he was going, and I had an object in leaving Carmen alone. I heard my uncle shut himself up in his study, doubtless in order to write the “scorching” letter to his father-in-law. Then I went back, and entering the dining-room, suddenly, drew near to Carmen and seated myself beside her, murmuring tenderly: “Don’t cry, my aunt; come, now, don’t cry. Foolish one, don’t trouble yourself about that.”

I had not deceived myself in my surmises.

Startled, she turned around, and I saw her eyes swimming in tears, though her energy of will instantly dried them. In a voice which was almost steady she answered me, drawing away a little:

“Thanks, Salustio. It is all over. One can’t help it sometimes, one is so foolish.”

“That man talks to you in a way which arouses my indignation. I had a hard time to keep still. How can you bear it?”

“No, no, not that; don’t even say it! He is my husband, and can’t stop to choose his words.”

“Indeed, he ought to choose them. To a woman like you, who are goodness and holiness in person, one ought to speak in this posture—so—do you see?” I murmured, kneeling before her.

“If you don’t get up I shall be angry, and so I shall if you ever say that again,” answered she, standing up resolutely. “I don’t thank you for this attempt to comfort me, Salustio; it seems more like flattery, and flattering me is lost time. Do you want me to tell you the truth? Well, then, I am to blame, entirely to blame, for that unpleasant scene. I ought not to have gone contrary to Felipe, but to have waited till the first outburst was over, and then have reasoned with him. It is only natural that he should feel annoyed at papa’s marriage. Let us be fair. No husband ever gets angry with his wife if she does not contradict him. The tongue causes all matrimonial dissensions. It is a wife’s duty to keep quiet.”

“No, you foolish girl, your duty is to speak when you are right; the same as we do, although we often talk a great deal when we are wrong. So you think that even if your husband were to break forth with some barbarous remark,—such as to say there is no God,—you ought not to answer him?”

“Not while he is irritated—no, what good would it do! It would be like throwing wood into the fire, and would never persuade him. But as soon as he gets calm, then I ought to tell him my objections, affectionately and mildly, as well as I know how, and then he would listen to me and would be persuaded.”

I did not know what to reply, since, even though a thousand reflections occurred to me, my aunt’s way of reasoning conquered me completely, and seemed the only one worthy of her.

It was a very cloudy day. The dining-room opened into the court, and the thick curtains cut off the light and made it more gloomy. The folds of those dark, thick woolen curtains seemed to me, by a sudden freak of the imagination, to look like a friar’s garb, the heavy cord that looped them up helping to make the resemblance all the more striking. The arabesque patterns on the curtain, at a certain height, looked to me like a man’s face. It was a strange bit of self-suggestion that evoked there the shadow of Father Moreno, listening to our conversation, and ridiculing me with a mocking air. “Cursed friar!” I ejaculated mentally, addressing the curtain. “You are going to be disappointed, I promise you. Because nothing that outrages human nature and is contrary to its laws will last, and this heroic abnegation of my aunt and the violence she does to her own deepest feelings cannot go on indefinitely; the time will come when the spring will break, and I shall watch for that hour to come. I swear to you, you stupid friar, you have never tasted the only real happiness in life.”

By chance my aunt fixed her eyes on the curtain with the intensity of those who gaze into vacancy and are distracted by their sad reflections. I fancied that she also saw what I did in the folds of the curtains, and that to her eyes also the shadow of the friar stood forth, silent but eloquent in its attitude.

What would I not have given then to penetrate into the hidden recesses of that woman’s mind, and read the revolutionary proclamation which was undoubtedly written there by an invisible hand! But the wife allowed nothing to come to the surface. She arose and went into the kitchen to ask whether lunch was ready. “For you must be hungry by this time, Salustio,” she said when she came back, calm and self-possessed.