HOW THE SINGLE PAINT THE LIFE OF THE MARRIED

Some hours after the events which happened in the encampment of the bandits, as we have just described, the scenes which we are about to relate took place in the Castle of Carrion.

Ten years before the period in which this history commenced, Don Gonzalo, Count of Carrion, died, leaving two sons, the elder named Gonzalo and the younger Suero, and also a daughter named Teresa. Gonzalo inherited the title of count, but also died in a short time, Suero succeeding him, to whom Teresa should be heiress, and after her two boys, both very young, Diego and Fernando, whom Gonzalo, the younger, had left behind when he died.

The heirs presumptive, within a certain degree of relationship, bore the name of Infantes, and that is the reason that Teresa and her nephews, Diego and Fernando, appear with that title in the "Chronicle."

Teresa was scarcely eighteen years of age at the time of which we are writing. God had endowed her soul with all the perfections and virtues that an angel might desire, if he left heaven in order to seek a mortal woman as his companion for eternity, just as all those perfections had been denied to her countenance, which are the only charms sought for by men, when they look on a woman as a material being. Teresa, then, was the reverse of her brother, both physically and morally; her soul was all compassion, all love, all sadness. Her face was as white and delicate as her soul, sad as her heart; and her entire physique was languid and infirm, by which the graces she had received from nature were concealed. That sweet and candid dove appeared always desirous of spreading her wings to mount again to heaven. If God had placed a lyre in the hands of Teresa, her soul would have exhaled itself in holy and immortal harmonies. But, alas! the sweet dove lived for ever trembling, threatened by the cruel falcon, and her angelic spirit was suffocating within the gloomy walls of the Castle of Carrion.

There was a narrow window in it, from which could be seen an extensive tract of country, covered with hamlets, the situation of each of which could be at once recognised by its belfry. Teresa delighted in sitting at that window, in order to gaze on the azure of the sky and the verdure of the fields; and to breathe the air sweetened by the perfumes of the flowers. But those were not the sole enticements which attracted her to that window: there were in addition happy souvenirs of her childhood. In the distance, on the slope of a hill, Teresa could see a smiling village; when gazing on it she was reminded of her mother, and tears trickled from her blue eyes; but to this remembrance of the loss of her mother was also joined that of the happiness which she had enjoyed by her side. She recalled to mind the delicious spring and autumn evenings, when her mother and she left the castle alone and went to wander through the fields, for then the affection of their vassals was to the lord and lady of Carrion as the wing of the guardian angel which protects the forehead of the righteous, just as, from the time that Suero inherited the title, the hatred of his retainers was as the sword of the archangel which constantly threatened the head of Luzbel. Teresa and her mother went in those times as far as that village, which could be seen from the castle window; visited, on their way, the cottages of their vassals, one by one, in order to console the sad and succour the needy; and when the sun was near setting behind the hill, they left the village crowned with blessings, and their hearts refreshed by tears of joy and gratitude, in order to return to the castle where the peace and tranquillity of the good, and a father and husband, as loving as he was honoured, were awaiting them. Some of the villagers accompanied them, in order to act as their protectors, till they were near the castle, and there, on the summit of a hill, crowned with evergreen oaks and sown with sweet-smelling herbs, from whence the eye could embrace an extensive view, the mother and daughter seated themselves, to gaze on the plain, illumined by the first rays of the moon, to listen to the songs of the shepherds who led their flocks to the sheepfolds, or those of the villager who was leaving the fields with his bullocks and plough, and proceeding to his home where his wife was impatiently awaiting him, or, if a youth, the loving maiden, who, pretending to her mother that she was going to the fountain, had left her house to meet him in the grove, through which ran the brook that served as a mirror to the country damsels. There also they could hear the toll of the vesper bell from all the church towers which were visible from the castle, and could lend an attentive ear to those numerous mysterious and confused sounds, which arise through the fields even when men and birds are silent.

At that window Teresa was standing, absorbed in her memories of former times, when she heard behind her the pitiful whining of a dog, which was running towards her, as if imploring her aid, and also the laughter of two boys, eight and ten years old, who were following it with much noisy hilarity.

"Poor Leal, what is the matter with you?" said Teresa, going up to the dog, which continued its sad whine. On caressing the poor animal, she hastily drew back her hand, feeling a painful sensation.

At the same time the boys came up.

"Aunt," said one of them, "give us some pins to stick in Leal's other ear."

Teresa knew then why the dog was whining, and understood the reason of the pain which she had felt in her hand when stroking it. The boys had stuck pins in its ear.

"You cruel boys," she said to them, "what has Leal done to you, that you should torture him so?"

"It's to make him sing," replied the elder brother.

"Aunt," said Fernando, the other boy, "give us pins to stick them in his other ear, and you will hear him singing and see him dancing."

Teresa heaved a sigh on seeing such cruelty on the part of the boys, and hastened to extract the pins from the ear of the dog, which ceased its whining and showed its gratitude by caressing her and licking the hand from which blood still trickled, caused by punctures of the pins.

At the same time the bell of the town church tolled for evening prayer. The children continued, with much noise, to make fun of what they had done to the dog.

"Be silent!" said Teresa to them, in a severe tone of voice; "kneel down and pray for your mother."

"What's the good when we won't be heard?" replied Diego. "Our uncle says that when one dies it is just the same as when a dog dies."

"Yes, aunt," added Fernando; "our uncle says that, and you know that he never says prayers."

"Alas!" exclaimed Teresa, filled with grief, "cruel and impious at the same time." She then added, raising her eyes towards heaven, "O my God! have pity on the house of Carrion!"

She then knelt down, and directing her gaze on the blue and star-covered firmament, which could be seen through the window, she prayed fervently, moistening the floor with her tears.

"Alas!" she murmured, shortly afterwards, again standing at the window; "my heart is very sad! I fear and desire, without knowing what! How sad and long the nights are, O my God! Where can Guillen be? He has not come this evening, as usual, to make more bearable, with his pleasant conversation, this solitude which surrounds me. He is the only one who feels compassion for me; he is the sole person here who understands me, for his is the only generous and good heart in the castle. What lofty feeling he has! With what enthusiasm he speaks of everything that is good and noble! The ambition which animates him is worthy of a cavalier. Son of a poor commoner, he has a soul as noble as those of the best grandees of Castile. Happy would be the maiden who could gain his love!"

Teresa interrupted her meditations, as a soft and respectful voice just then asked permission to appear in her presence. The maiden willingly conceded it, and Guillen entered the chamber.

"I thought you would not have come this evening, Guillen, as it is now so late," remarked Teresa in a tone of sweet reproach.

"Pardon me, lady," replied the page, with great sweetness; "your brother, my master, has kept me occupied till now"—

"Well, then," interrupted the sad maiden, with one of her melancholy smiles, "as a punishment for your delay, I desire that you sit down in that chair, and here, near the window, and by the light of the moon, converse with me for a short time, and relate to me the news of Burgos, for you have not yet told it to me."

"Ah!" exclaimed Guillen, moved by the kindness of Teresa, "how generous and indulgent you are towards me, my lady!"

He then seated himself opposite the young lady, near the embrasure of the window; looking, however, at the face of Teresa, he saw a tear still on her pale cheek, a tear which sparkled in the rays of the moon, as the drop of dew suspended on the leaf of a flower shines in the light of the rising sun. Guillen was troubled, and said—

"Lady, have you been weeping? Who has offended you? Tell me, tell me, as I, though a humble page, son of a poor man, have an arm and a heart to chastise anyone who dares to offend my mistress"—

And Guillen stopped, fearing that the sentiments of his heart might tempt him to say something which his position would not warrant.

"No one has offended me, Guillen," replied Teresa, much moved; "I thank you, however, for the interest you take in me, for you are generous and good. I was thinking of my mother, and that is why you have seen my cheek moist with tears."

These words tranquillised the page.

"Will you tell me the news from Burgos?" continued the maiden. "Since the Court moved thither, many things must have happened worthy of being related. I have been told that splendid festivities were celebrated in that city, on the occasion of the marriage of the son of Diego Lainez and the daughter of the Count of Gormaz."

"That, my lady, was the most notable event during our stay in Burgos," answered Guillen in a low voice; "but I cannot venture to speak of it, for you know that your brother, my master, has commanded that the name of any of the family of Vivar should not be mentioned in his castle."

"I know it," said Teresa; "but do not fear, for the count cannot hear you in this chamber. Has the marriage been one of love, or only by order of the king, as some say, in order to prevent feuds which might have arisen between the two families? Do not be surprised at my curiosity, Guillen, for, knowing that the daughter of Don Gome and the son of Diego Lainez are honourable and good, their happiness interests me."

"Oh, they are completely happy, my lady," exclaimed the page. "You must know that Don Rodrigo and DoÑa Ximena have loved each other since they were children, so you can easily imagine how great their joy must be now that they are united for ever! A garland of sweet flowers must be the bonds of that marriage which joins those whose hearts were already united by love."

An involuntary sigh escaped from the breast of Teresa on hearing Guillen utter these words. She had contemplated in her parents the happiness which the page described in such enthusiastic words, and even without an example like that, her own heart revealed such felicity to her. But, alas! the only thing that Teresa had to expect was that some day her brother would say to her, "I wish you to marry such or such a nobleman; the interests of our family demand it; prepare to go to the altar." And, miserable and resigned victim, she would have to ascend the altar of sacrifice, to which fraternal tyranny was leading her. And even if she had sufficient courage to open her lips and say to her brother, "That which you demand of me is the most barbarous of sacrifices; I do not even know the man with whom you are about to unite me with eternal bonds; the chains which are to bind me from to-day are those of interest, are those of vanity, are those of mean ambition, the tyranny of which may cause my soul to rebel, and look with horror on her most sacred duties. The nuptial blessing should only be the sanction of an agreement arranged beforehand between two hearts. Permit that mine may be united with another which throbs in unison with it, and then I shall be a good wife, and a good mother, and will bless the brother who left open for me the gates of Paradise." Yes, it would be indeed useless to say this to her brother, for that man without God, without law, without pity, would put a gag in her mouth before she had even finished her entreaties, and drag her, mute and helpless, to the altar of the inhuman sacrifice. How could Don Suero understand the yearnings of a soul, tender, loving, and compassionate, as was that of his sister? How could he understand it, who himself did not comprehend what love and compassion were—he who found in violence the only means of triumphing over women?

All these bitter reflections crowded into the mind of Teresa when the page had spoken that beautiful panegyric of a marriage contracted through love. The two young people remained silent for some moments: the thoughts of Guillen were not less sad than those of Teresa: first he thought of the happiness that would be his if Teresa loved him, and if they could be united, and this dream lulled him for a moment; he then awoke from it, and thought how difficult, if not impossible, the realisation of it would be. Who was he, to aspire to be the husband of the noble sister of the Count of Carrion, of the Infanta DoÑa Teresa, whose hand would honour the most noble of the Castilian lords? And if Teresa, the goodness of whose soul was of far greater worth than her birth, should ever love him, was she mistress of her own hand? Would the count, full of ambition, of pride, of hatred for common people, permit his sister to bestow her hand on a poor page, the son of a humble man? Then, however, a ray of hope shone upon his mind, for hope and gilded illusions are the inheritance of hearts which are enthusiastic and in love, generous and good. He repeated to himself what he said to his friends in Burgos on the day of the wedding of Rodrigo and Ximena: "I am young, and not wanting in courage; I will take a lance and fight against the Moors; I shall be armed a knight, and then a hundred brave men will follow me; I shall enter the Moorish territories, shall conquer them, and shall be a lord over vassals, and then Don Suero will not refuse me the hand of his sister." These foolish hopes, these vain illusions, again strengthened his heart.

"The idea which you have conceived of those bonds is very beautiful, Guillen!" said Teresa, abandoning her gloomy reflections.

"Lady, is it not the same idea which you yourself have formed?" replied the page.

"You will please me exceedingly if you explain yours to me more fully, so that I may see if it corresponds with mine," said Teresa. "The watches in the castle are so long and gloomy that it is necessary to endeavour to pass them some way or other."

"I shall do so, my lady, if it pleases you," replied Guillen with delight; for Teresa had afforded him an opportunity of unburdening his soul, of telling her indirectly how he would love her, and what the happiness of both of them would be if a day should ever arrive when they could become husband and wife.

"Lady," continued the page, "what great happiness it would be if the soul could be shown on the palm of one's hand, like a material object! If it were so, I would say to you, 'Gaze on my thoughts, gaze on my soul, examine its deepest secrets.' And you would read it with one look, you would know it such as it is, you would comprehend the idea which you ask me to explain to you with my lips. In the lives of two married persons, united by love, joy and sadness, pleasures and pains, happiness and grief, are mingled together and become common to both; all sentiments, all feelings are dual, for each thinks and feels for both. The maiden and the youth who have desired for a long time to belong to each other, body and soul, considering such a union as the supreme felicity of this world, and one to which they have been looking forward from day to day, from year to year, and reflecting over its future, from the happy day on which they will be united by the priest, to that on which death must separate them. Both would thus say, 'In the early days of our marriage we shall enjoy all the illusions and joys of both lovers and spouses, and our hopes will be even sweeter than now, for we shall have more confidence in their realisation; new bonds will soon come to unite us closer and closer, and those bonds will be beautiful little creatures, whom we will love as parts of ourselves, and by whom we shall be loved, not alone for the life which we have given them, but also for the ceaseless care and affection which we have lavished on them. We will not feel that our lives proceed on towards the grave, for the plants which the sun of our love has caused to spring up will remain beautiful and luxuriant, above the tomb which shall cover our ashes, as the reproductions of our beings.' Will not the maiden and the youth who have had such ambitions, who have so reflected and have so spoken, consider themselves happy? will they not believe that they shall find that supreme felicity on the day when their hopes begin to be realised, the day on which they become each other's for ever? That, lady, is the way in which I look on the happiness of those who are united to each other by love. I do not even imagine them rich and surrounded by all kinds of comforts and luxuries, although in that case the picture would be still more enchanting, for misery and hard work irritate the soul. I suppose them to be only poor labourers, who by instinct alone preserve their souls pure and open to good and elevated sentiments, for education and intelligence have not perfected and developed their feelings. They live in a rustic hut; the gardens which surround them have been formed by nature, and it is nature that takes care of them. In them grow the carnation, the mignonette, the thyme, the sage, and a thousand other flowers and plants, the perfumes of which rival those of the gardens created and cared for by the hands of man. There are no trees there planted in rows to form beautiful and shady walks, no fountains of water to sparkle in the sunshine; but there grow there, scattered and without order, trees bearing cherries, pears, figs, apples, nuts, and other fruits, which exhale rich perfumes, delight the eye, and supply food for the frugal rustics; and near that poor dwelling is a spring which bubbles from the rocks, and which fertilises the fields and quenches the thirst of those simple people. The sounds of music and the incessant noise of cities do not awake those peasants, but the crow of the cock, and, later on, the warbling of the birds, which salute the dawn from the leafy trees, amid which the humble dwelling appears like a white dove, half concealed in foliage. Then the labourer leaves his bed, in which he has enjoyed sound sleep, caused by a good conscience, wakes up his wife with a loving kiss, and impresses another on the smiling cheek of his child, who still sleeps on, and dreams, sometimes imagining he is with his mother, and sometimes that he is with the angels, who, as he has been told, come down every night to watch over him. The father then proceeds to the adjoining field, just as the east is beginning to be tinged with gold and purple, announcing the rising of the sun. Whilst he is working he hears, coming from his cottage, songs which rejoice his heart. His wife is singing whilst she performs her household duties, and her songs sound to the ears of her husband as pleasing as the most perfect music, for they are the same which she sang for him in her maiden days, when they lovingly wandered through the woods and fields. The sun shines fiercely and the work is hard, but the labourer is not discouraged, for hopes encourage him. In that field which he moistens with his sweat will grow up golden corn which will enrich his granary. Evening comes on, and then he realises another of the sweet hopes which animate him; he quits the field and returns to his cottage, where he is welcomed with tenderness and delight by his wife, who has looked forward to that moment as a rich reward for the labours of the day. What a beautiful picture is then presented by that family, reunited around their hearth! Lady, my words are too poor to describe it; your own heart can imagine it."

Oh yes! the heart of Teresa pictured to itself that which the page could not find words to describe, and understood the scenes which Guillen had so imperfectly sketched.

"Guillen," said Teresa, feeling her heart throb rapidly, "you were right when you said that the idea you had conceived of nuptial bonds sanctified by mutual love was the same as that which I had formed of them. Alas! why were not my parents poor peasants?"

"Why were not mine nobles?" exclaimed the page; and as if frightened by his words, and fearful of revealing to that noble maiden the love which burned in his heart for her, he stood up from his seat, and said—

"Allow me to retire, my lady, for I am sure the count is expecting me, and you know what punctuality he requires from his attendants."

Teresa made no objection, and the page departed.

Was that indifference?

But when Guillen left her side she felt sad and unhappy, in her heart was a great void.

Was that love?