Stories by Foreign Authors: Spanish
V >>
Various >> Stories by Foreign Authors: Spanish
Pages:
1 |
2 | 3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10
Sometimes, sitting beside Berta, he amuses himself winding the linen floss
or the silks with which she is embroidering, or in cutting fantastic
figures out of any scrap of paper that may be at hand. Then he is like a
child. At other times he speaks of the world and of men, of foreign
countries and of remote ages, with so much gravity and judgment that he
seems like an old man who has retired from the world laden with wisdom and
experience.
But when he seats himself at the piano, then one can only yield one's self
unresistingly to the caprices of his will. The keys, touched by his
fingers, produce melodies so sparkling, so joyous, that the soul is filled
with gayety; but suddenly he changes to another key and the piano moans
and sighs like a human voice, and the heart is moved and the eyes fill
with tears. But this is not all; for, when one least expects it, thunder
low and deep seems to roll through the instrument; and strains are heard,
now near, now distant, that thrill the heart, and tones that fill the soul
with terror; through the vibrating chords all the spirits of the other
world seem to be speaking in an unknown tongue.
It is all very well for the housekeeper to regard Adrian Baker as the
devil in person, or as a man possessed by the devil, or at least as an
extraordinary being, who possesses the diabolical secret of some
wonder-working philtre. It is all very well for Berta's father to see in
him a masterful mind and an eccentric nature. And who knows--he has
sometimes heard of mysterious fluids, of subtle forces which attract arid
repel, of dominating influences, of marvels of magnetism; and although he
has never given a great deal of thought to any of those matters, he thinks
about them since he has felt himself dominated by this singular personage,
and Adrian Baker has become, in fact, his fixed idea, his absorbing
thought, his unceasing preoccupation, his constant monomania. Berta's
father and the housekeeper may very well attribute to him marvellous
powers, suggested by their own excited imaginations; but we must not share
in those hallucinations, nor are we to conclude from them that Adrian
Baker is outside the common law to which ordinary mortals are subject.
This is evident; but, still, who is Adrian Baker?
We shall present here all the information that we have been able to gather
about him, and let each one draw from it the conclusion he pleases.
It is not yet quite two years since one of the carriages which transport
passengers from the railway station to the city which is the scene of our
story, drove rapidly from the station; the energy with which the coachman
whipped up his horses showed the haste or the importance of the travellers
it carried.
This carriage entered the city and stopped before the door of the best
hotel of the place; there the solitary traveller it carried alighted from
it, and this traveller was Adrian Baker. He was enveloped in a travelling
great-coat lined with costly fur. The eagerness with which the waiters of
the hotel hastened to meet him showed that they had discovered in the new
guest a mine of tips. The coachman took his leave of him, hat in hand, and
as he turned away looked around at the bystanders, displaying to them a
gold coin in his left eye.
Nothing more was needed to cause the luggage of the guest to be whisked
off to the most sumptuous room in the hotel. Seven cities of Greece
disputed with one another the honor of having been the birthplace of
Homer; more than seven waiters disputed with one another the honor of
carrying Adrian Baker's valise. He was like a king entering his palace.
For several days he was to be seen alone and on foot, traversing the
streets and visiting the most noteworthy buildings; then, alone also, but
in a carriage, he was to be seen viewing the wildest and most picturesque
spots in the neighborhood, with the attention of an artist, a philosopher,
or a poet.
He was affable and easy in his manners; and he soon had many friends who
talked admiringly of his eccentricities, of his riches, and of his
learning; so that he was for some time the lion of the day, and therefore
the favorite subject of every conversation. To win his friendship would
have been for the men a triumph; and to win his heart would have been for
the haughtiest woman more than a triumph; but Adrian Baker kept his inmost
heart closed alike to friendship and to love; so that only three things
were known about him--that he was young, that he was rich, and that he had
travelled over half the world.
He was supposed to be an Englishman, a German, or an American; in the
first place, because he was fair, and in the second place, because,
although he spoke Spanish as if it were his native tongue, a certain
foreign flavor was to be noticed in his accent, which each one interpreted
according to his fancy.
For the rest, he seemed pleased with the beauty of the sky and the gayety
of the landscape, and although he had told no one whether he intended to
remain there long or not, the fact was that he did not go away. Doubtless
he grew tired of the life at the hotel, for one day he suddenly bought a
fine house and established himself in it like a prince. This edifice,
venerable from its antiquity, had the grandiose aspect of a palace, and
one of its angles fronted Berta's house.
This is all that was known about Adrian Baker. We now know, therefore,
that the mysterious Adrian Baker was neither more nor less than Berta's
neighbor himself.
One night, returning from his daily visit to Berta, he entered the house,
crossed the hall, and shut himself up in his own apartments. Shortly
afterwards the great door of the palace, creaking harshly on its hinges,
was closed; the lights were extinguished one by one, and everything
remained in profound silence. Adrian Baker, however, was not asleep.
At the further end of the room, which was lighted by the soft light of a
lamp, he sat with his elbows resting on a mahogany table and his face
buried in his hands, seemingly lost in thought. And his thoughts could not
be of a pleasant nature, for the stern frown upon his brow showed that
some storm was raging behind that forehead smooth as a child's and pale as
death. The light of the lamp, reflected from his golden hair, seemed to
envelop his head in fantastic lights and shadows.
After many moments of immobility and silence, he struck the table
violently with the palm of his hand, exclaiming:
"Accursed riches! Odious learning! Cruel experience!"
Then he rose to his feet, and striding up and down the room like a madman,
he cried in smothered accents:
"Faith! Faith! Doubt is killing me!"
A moment later he shook his beautiful head and burst into a terrible
laugh.
"Very well," he said. "The proof is a terrible one, but I require this
proof. I must descend into the tomb to obtain it: well, then, I will
descend into the tomb. I must consult the sombre oracle of death
concerning the mysteries of life: well, then, I will consult it."
At this moment the glass chimney of the lamp burst, falling to the floor
in a thousand fragments; the lurid flame sent forth a black smoke that
filled the room with shadows which crept along the walls, mingled together
on the ceiling, and crossed one another on the floor; the furniture seemed
to be moving, the ceiling sinking down, and the walls receding.
In the midst of this demon dance of lights and shadows, the flame of the
lamp went out, as if in obedience to an invisible breath, and in the
darkness that followed all was silence.
Something extraordinary must have occurred in Berta's house, for the nurse
seemed to have been seized by a sudden fit of restlessness that would not
let her sit still for a moment. She went to and fro, upstairs and down,
out and in, with the mechanical movement of an automaton. It was a sort of
nervous attack that had in a moment increased twofold the housekeeper's
domestic activity. Suddenly she would stand still, and placing her
forefinger on her upper lip she would remain motionless, as if she were
seeking in her mind the explanation of some mystery or the key to some
riddle, gesticulating with expressive eloquence, and, so to say, thinking
in gestures.
But the cause of the agitation which we observe in her could not be a very
alarming one, for in the midst of it all there was apparent something like
joy, a secret joy which in spite of herself was perceptible through her
restlessness and her gesticulations. In our poor human nature, joy and
sorrow often manifest themselves by the same symptoms; and a piece of good
news will agitate us in the same way as a piece of bad news.
Be this as it may, what is certain is that the housekeeper seemed to be
excited by some secret thought which she turned over and over in her mind,
and that she was waiting for something with impatience, for from time to
time she stood still, stretched out her neck, and listened.
Suddenly the door-bell rang twice; slowly, deliberately, producing on the
nurse the effect of an electric shock. She threw down some house-linen
which she had in her hands, overturned a chair or two that stood in her
way, and tore a curtain that opposed her progress, leaving devastation and
destruction in her wake, like a storm.
She pulled the cord which opened the door, and she pulled it so violently
that the door sprang wide open, giving admittance to Berta's father, who
entered slowly, leaning on his cane like a man whose vitality is beginning
to fail. As he entered, he raised his eyes with a look of melancholy
discouragement, and at the head of the stairs he saw the housekeeper, who
seemed to be trying to tell him something, gesticulating violently and
waving her arms like the apparatus of a semaphore. The good man did not
understand a word of this telegraphic language, and he stopped at the foot
of the stairs, endeavoring to comprehend the meaning of the signs which
the housekeeper was excitedly making above his head. But, naturally, he
was not very skilful in this kind of investigation, and his not very vivid
imagination was at this moment paralyzed. Finally, he shrugged his
shoulders with a sort of resigned and patient desperation, as if to say,
"What are you trying to tell me?" The housekeeper folded her arms and
shook her head three times; this meant: "Stupid! stupid! stupid!" The good
man bent his head under the triple accusation, and proceeded to ascend the
stairs. At the head Nurse Juana was waiting for him, and without further
ceremony she took him by the hand and drew him into his room; and there,
after assuring herself that no one was within hearing, she put her mouth
close to the ear of Berta's father, and in a mysterious voice, and with an
air of profound mystery, she said to him:
"He is going away!"
"He is going away!" repeated Berta's father, exhaling a profound sigh.
"Yes," she added; "we are going to be free."
"Free!" repeated the good man, shaking his head with an air of
incredulity. Then he asked:
"And where is he going?"
"He is going very far away," answered the nurse. "That is certain. He is
going very far away, to some place, I don't know where, at the other end
of the earth. It is a sudden journey."
The good man sighed again despondently; Nurse Juana looked at him with
amazement, saying:
"Any one would suppose that I had just given you a piece of bad news. Can
that man have bewitched you to the extent--"
"Yes," he interrupted, "for if he goes he will not go alone; he will take
Berta with him, and then what is to become of us?"
"Nothing of the kind," replied Juana. "He will go alone--entirely alone."
"Worse and worse," said the father, "for then, what is to become of
Berta?"
"Nothing," said the nurse. "Out of sight, out of mind. The absent are
forgotten; the dead are buried. That is the way of the world. Berta knows
all about it; she told me herself, and she is as calm and as cool as
possible. Bah, she won't need any cordial to keep her up when she is
bidding him good-bye."
As she uttered the last word she turned her head and she could not
restrain the cry that rose to her lips as she saw Adrian Baker, who had
just entered--Adrian Baker, in person, paler than ever, dressed in a
handsome travelling suit. His eyes shone with a strange lustre, and a
smile, half sad, half mocking, curved his lips.
He begged a thousand pardons for the surprise which he had caused them,
and said that unforeseen circumstances obliged him to undertake a sudden
journey to New York, where he was urgently called by affairs of the
greatest importance, but that he would return soon.
"I am going away," he ended, "but I leave my heart here and I will come
back for it."
Saying this, he embraced Berta's father so affectionately that the worthy
man was deeply moved, and Nurse Juana, dominated by the voice and the
presence of this singular man, felt a tear or two spring to her eyes,
which she hastened to wipe away with the corner of her apron.
Adrian Baker laid his hand on her shoulder, a hand which the nurse felt
tremble, and she trembled herself as she heard him say:
"That is the way of the world, eh? Well, we shall see."
Then he left the room, and the father and the nurse followed him
mechanically.
Berta came out to meet them, and her hand sought Adrian Baker's, and both
hands remained clasped for a long time.
"You will come back soon?" asked Berta, in soft and trembling accents.
"Soon," he answered.
"When?" she asked.
"Soon," repeated Baker. "If you wait for me your heart will announce my
return to you."
"I will wait for ever for you," said Berta, in a choking voice, but
without a tear in her eyes.
Their hands unclasped, Adrian Baker hurried to the stairs, ran down
precipitately, and shortly afterward they heard the rolling of the
carriage which bore him away.
Bertha gave her father a gentle smile and then ran to shut herself up in
her room.
As the noise of the carriage wheels died away in the distance, like a
dying peal of thunder, the housekeeper crossed herself, and said:
"He is gone; now we can breathe freely."
Apparently Nurse Juana knew the human heart well, or at least Berta's
heart, for three months had passed since Adrian Baker had sailed for New
York, and not once had she been able to surprise a tear in the eyes of the
girl to whom she had taken the place of a mother. Berta apparently felt no
grief at his absence.
It is true that during these three months of absence a letter had been
received from New York, in which Adrian Baker said to Berta all that is
said in such cases; it was a simple, tender and earnest letter, that did
not seem to have been written three thousand miles away; on the other side
of the great ocean in which the most ardent and the most profound passions
are wrecked. It is true that this letter was answered by return of mail,
and that it traversed the stormy solitudes of the sea full of promises and
hopes.
It is also true that Berta put away Adrian Baker's letter carefully,
treasuring it as one treasures a relic. It is true that she passed whole
hours seated at her piano running her fingers up and down the keys,
playing Adrian Baker's favorite airs, which he himself had taught her. But
except this, Berta lived like other girls; she had an excellent appetite
and she slept the tranquil sleep of a happy heart. She spent the usual
time at her toilet table and she took pleasure in making herself
beautiful. Some of the asperities of her character had become softened;
she spoke with all her natural vivacity, and, finally, she never mentioned
Adrian Baker's name.
Her father and her nurse observed all this and deduced as a consequence
that the traveller had left no trace in Berta's heart. Only one fear
troubled them,--the fear that he would return.
In this way another month passed, and the memory of Adrian Baker began to
wear away; if his name was sometimes mentioned, it was as one evokes the
memory of a dream.
The dream, however, at times assumed the aspect of an impending reality.
He might return, and beyond a doubt he had not intended to remain away for
ever; his last farewell had not been an eternal one. If he himself was on
the other side of the ocean, three thousand miles away, that is, in New
York, at the other end of the earth, more, in the other world, his house
was there, opposite them, open, kept by his servants with the same luxury
and the same pomp as before he had gone away; his house that seemed like
an enchanted palace waiting for its owner; and the order and care with
which everything was conducted in it indicated that the servants did not
wish to be surprised by the sudden appearance of their master; that is to
say, that Adrian Baker might return at any moment. The plants on the
terrace spread their branches as full of life as if they were tended by
the hands of Adrian Baker himself.
Berta's father and the housekeeper saw in this house a constant menace; it
came to be for them the shadow, so to say, of Adrian Baker; but for all
that, time passed and the traveller did not return.
Spring came, and nature bloomed again with all the richness of vegetation
which she displays in southern climes; and it is in the heart of the South
that the scene of our story is laid. Everything put on its fairest and
most smiling aspect, and the soul felt the vague happiness of a hope that
is about to be realized.
Berta shared in this beautiful awakening of nature, and it might be said
that her every beauty had acquired a new charm; her eyes seemed larger,
her glance gentler, calmer, more profound; her cheeks fresher, softer, and
rosier; and her smile more tender, innocent, and enchanting. Her figure
had acquired a majestic ease, which gave to her movements voluptuousness
and firmness. It seemed as if youth had made a supreme effort, and in
giving the last touch to her beauty had obtained a masterpiece. She was in
the full splendor of her loveliness.
In exchange, Adrian Baker's palace one morning appeared as gloomy as a
sepulchre; the drawn blinds and the closed hall-door gave it the aspect of
a deserted house; profound silence reigned within it, and yet the palace
of Adrian Baker was still inhabited.
In the hall the figure of the porter appeared like a shade; he was dressed
entirely in black, and all the other servants of the house were also clad
in mourning, and in their faces were to be observed signs of sadness.
What had happened?
What had happened was simply that Adrian Baker had died in New York of
an acute attack of pneumonia. The news had spread through the city with
the rapidity with which bad news spreads, and it had also penetrated
into Berta's house. At first it seemed incredible that Adrian Baker should
have died, as if the life of this man were not subject to the
contingencies to which the lives of other mortals are subject. But the
tidings had been confirmed and they must be believed. Besides, the aspect
of the palace bore testimony to the authenticity of the news. In that
house hung with black the very stones seemed to mourn. The news had come
in a black-bordered letter dated in New York and signed by the head
of the house of Wilson and Company, with which Adrian Baker had large sums
deposited.
Berta's father and the housekeeper looked at each other with amazement,
and repeated, one after the other:
"He is dead!"
"He is dead!"
Berta, pale as death itself, surprised them as they uttered these words,
and in a sepulchral voice she said:
"Yes, he has died in New York, but he lives in my heart."
And turning from them she fled to her room and seated herself at the
window from which she could see the terrace of the palace. The flowers,
agitated gently by the breezes of spring, leaned toward Berta as if
sending her a melancholy greeting. She gazed at them without a tear in her
eyes. The extreme pallor of her face and the slight trembling of her lips
alone revealed the grief that afflicted her soul.
Suddenly the flight of a white butterfly circling in the air attracted her
gaze. She followed it absently with her eyes, and the butterfly, as if
drawn by Berta's gaze, tracing capricious circles, left the terrace, flew
swiftly to Berta's window and entered the room.
With an involuntary movement Berta extended her hands to catch it, but the
butterfly darted between them, and circled swiftly and silently about her
head, forming around her brow a sort of aureole, which appeared and
disappeared like a succession of lightning flashes. The wings of the
butterfly glowed above Bertha's head with a light like the first splendors
of the dawn. Then it passed before her eyes, she saw it hovering over the
flowers on the terrace, and then it disappeared from her gaze as if it had
vanished into air. Her eyes sought it with indescribable eagerness, but in
vain; she saw it no more.
She clasped her hands and two large tears rose to her eyes and rolled down
her cheeks.
On the following day the housekeeper, entering Berta's room, saw a shadow
outlined against the wall above the head of her bed. This shadow, as the
nurse looked, took the form of a human head.
It was the head of Adrian Baker, the same head, with its pale forehead,
its compelling glance, and its smile, at once sweet, sad, and mocking.
The housekeeper, out of her wits with terror, crossed herself as if she
had seen a diabolical vision and hurried out of the room.
Adrian Baker's death has wrought terrible ravages in Berta. She does not
distress those around her by ceaseless sighs and tears; she does not
continually proclaim in words the depth of her sorrow; on the contrary,
she hides her grief in her own breast, devours her tears in secret, chokes
back her sighs and utters no unavailing complaints; Adrian Baker's name is
never heard from her lips.
It might be thought that she had consoled herself easily, if in her eyes
there did not lie the shadow of a deep grief, if the pallor of her cheeks
did not cover her youthful beauty like a funeral pall, if her hollow voice
did not reveal the profound loneliness of her heart. At times she smiles
at her father, but in her smiles there is an inexpressible bitterness. She
can be seen fading away, like the flame of an expiring lamp. Like a miser
she hides her grief in the bottom of her heart, as if she feared that it
might be taken from her.
Her father and her nurse see her growing thin, they see her fading away,
they see her dying, without being able to stop the ravages of the
persistent, voiceless, inconsolable grief that is slowly sapping her youth
and her life, and they curse the name of Adrian Baker, and they would at
the same time give their lives to bring him back to life; but death does
not give up its prey, and only one hope remains to them, the last hope--
time.
But time passes, and the memory of Adrian Baker, like a slow poison, is
gradually consuming Berta's life.
Everything has been done: she has been surrounded with all the delights of
the world; the most eligible suitors have sued for her favor; youth,
beauty, and wealth have disputed her affection with one another, but her
grief has remained inaccessible; she has been subjected to every proof,
but it has not been possible to tear from her soul the demon image of
Adrian Baker. Medical skill has been appealed to, and science has
exhausted its resources in vain, for Berta's malady is incurable.
The nurse firmly believes that Adrian Baker has bewitched her; he has
diffused through her blood a diabolical philtre. Strong love will survive
absence, but no love will survive death. Berta, consequently, was
bewitched.
Her father has only one thought, expressed in these words: "He has gone
away and he is taking her with him; after all, he is taking her with
him."
But there is still one other resource to be appealed to--solitude, the
fields, nature. Who can tell! the sky, the sun, the air of the country,
may revive her; the poetry of nature may awaken in her heart new feelings
and new hopes; the murmur of the waters, the song of the birds, the shade
of the trees--why not? There is no human sorrow, however great it may be,
that does not sink into insignificance before the grandeur of the heavens.
At a little distance from the city Berta's father has a small villa, whose
white walls and red roof can be seen through the trees which surround it.
There could not be a more picturesque situation. To the right, the
mountain; to the left, the plain; in front, the sea, stretching far in the
distance, until it blends with the horizon; and that nothing may be
wanting to complete the picture, the ruins of an ancient monastery, seated
on the slope of the mountain, can be seen from the villa.
Berta offered no resistance, for it was a matter of indifference to her
whether she lived in the city or in the country; the only thing she showed
any desire about was that the piano should be taken with them, as if she
regarded it as a dear friend and her only confidant; and the family
removed to the villa and established themselves in it.
Berta herself arranged the room which she was to occupy in the villa. This
opened on the garden and served her both as bedroom and dressing-room.
Above her bed she hung a beautiful life-size photograph of a head. It was
that of Adrian Baker, with his pale, smooth brow, his large blue eyes and
his beautiful golden curls--the head of Adrian Baker admirably
photographed, and which she herself had shaded.
Pages:
1 |
2 | 3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10