Stories by Foreign Authors: Spanish

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For the piano no place could be found to please Berta. There was only one
common room in the villa, the parlor, which at times also served as a
dining-room. She was hesitating between the parlor and her bedroom, when
the idea occurred to her to put it in a small pavilion covered with vines
and honeysuckles, which stood in a corner of the garden and which was used
as a hot-house. The idea seemed to be a happy one, and she smiled as it
occurred to her, and the piano was placed in the pavilion, like a bird in
its cage.

The journey must have fatigued Berta, for she retired early to her room,
where the nurse left her in bed. Did she sleep? We cannot say; but at dawn
the songs of the birds that made their nests in the garden caused her to
rise. She opened the window-shutters and a flock of birds flew away
frightened, to hide themselves in the tops of the trees, gilded by the
first rays of the sun. Before long, however, the boldest of them returned
to hop before her window, looking at Berta with a certain audacious
familiarity as if they recognized in her an old friend. A few grains of
wheat and a few crumbs of bread scattered on the window-sill gradually
attracted the more timid, who grew at last to be familiar. The slightest
movement, indeed, caused them to take flight precipitately; but they soon
recovered their lost confidence and they returned again to hop gayly on
the iron railing of the window.

Berta watched them, and as she watched them she smiled; and at the end of
a few days she had induced them to come in and out with perfect
confidence. In her solitary walks through the garden and through the
avenue of lime trees which led to the villa, they followed her, flying
from tree to tree. She spent a few hours of the morning, every day, in the
pavilion, and there the birds came also, mingling their joyous carols
with the melancholy strains of the piano; but the mad gayety of the birds
was powerless to mitigate the profound sadness of Berta; her one thought
was still Adrian--Adrian Baker.

This name, which never escaped her lips, was to be seen written everywhere
by Berta's hand, on the garden walls, on the trunks of the trees; and even
the vines that covered the pavilion had interlaced their branches in such
a manner that "Adrian Baker" could be deciphered in them. This name was to
be met everywhere, like the mute echo of an undying memory.

During the morning hours Berta's countenance seemed to be more animated,
and her cheeks had even at times a rosy hue; but as the day declined her
transient animation faded away, as if the sun of her life too approached
its setting.

Seated at her window she contemplated in silence the clouds illumined by
the last rays of the setting sun. Juana, who had exhausted in vain all her
subjects of conversation, was with her. A sudden brightness hovered over
Berta's head for an instant, circled swiftly around it, and then vanished
from sight.

"Did you see it?" cried Berta.

"Yes," answered the nurse, "it was a white butterfly that wanted to settle
on your head."

"Well?" asked Berta.

"White butterflies," said the nurse, "are a sign of good luck; they always
bring good news."

"Yes," answered Berta, pressing her nurse's hand convulsively. "That is my
white butterfly, and this time it will not deceive me. Adrian is coming--
yes, he is coming for me; that is what it has come to tell me--I was
waiting for it."

The nurse gazed at her for a moment with dilated eyes; the setting sun
illumined Berta's countenance with a strange light, and the poor woman,
unable to support the look which burned in the eyes of the sick girl, bent
her head and clasped her hands, saying to herself:

"My God! She has lost her mind!"

The idea that Berta had lost her reason threw the housekeeper into a state
of distraction. She would hide herself in the remotest corners of the
house to cry by herself. She could not bear alone the burden of so
terrible a secret, but to whom could she confide it? How stab the father's
heart so cruelly! To tell him that Berta had lost her reason would be to
kill him. The good man watched over his daughter with the eyes of love,
but love itself made him blind and he did not perceive her madness.

And the housekeeper became every day more and more convinced of the
reality of this dreadful misfortune. During the night she stole many times
to the sleeping girl's bedside and listened to her calm breathing. No
extraordinary change, either in her habits, or her acts, or her words,
gave evidence of the wandering of her mind. True; but she was waiting for
Adrian Baker and she declared that he would come. It was in vain she tried
to persuade her that this was folly, for Berta either grew angry and
commanded her to be silent, or smiled with scornful pity at her arguments.
Was not this madness?

The housekeeper suddenly lost her appetite and her sleep; and she shunned
Berta's father, for she was not sure of being able to keep the secret
which she carried in her bosom. The same thought kept revolving in her
mind like a mill. It seemed as if Berta's madness was going to cost the
nurse also her reason.

One night she lay tossing about, unable to sleep, her imagination filled
with dreadful spectres. In the midst of the darkness she saw faces
approaching and receding from her, that laughed and wept, that vanished to
appear again, and all these faces that danced before her eyes had,
notwithstanding their grotesque features, a diabolical likeness to the
head of Adrian Baker. The nurse, terrified, shut her eyes, that she might
not see them, but notwithstanding she still continued seeing them.

She thought that she was under the influence of a nightmare, and making an
effort she sat up in the bed. Suddenly she heard a distant sound of sweet
music, a mysterious melody whose notes died away on the breeze.

She listened attentively, and she soon comprehended that the music she
heard came from the piano; and she sprang out of bed, crying:

"Berta! Berta!"

She began to dress herself quickly, groping for her things in the
darkness, saying as she did so, in a voice full of anguish:

"Alone, in the pavilion, and at this hour! Child of my heart, you are
mad!"

All the visions she had seen disappeared; she saw nothing, she only heard
the distant notes of the piano breaking the silence of the night.

Going into the hall she groped her way to Berta's room. She gently pushed
in the door, which opened noiselessly, and an indistinct glimmer, like the
last gleam of twilight, met her eyes. It was the light of the night-lamp
burning softly in its porcelain vase.

Her first glance was at the bed, which, in the indistinct light, presented
to her eyes only a shapeless object; but in a moment more she saw that the
bed was empty.

She thought of taking the lamp that burned in the corner of the room to
light her way and going to the pavilion, but at this moment she felt a
breath of cold damp air blowing softly on her face.

She turned her eyes in the direction from which the breeze had come, and
observed that the window was wide open and that outside all was profound
darkness.

And filled with indescribable amazement, unwilling to believe the evidence
of her eyes, she saw what appeared to be a human figure standing
motionless in front of the window, its hands clasped and its forehead
resting against the window-frame.

A cold perspiration, like that of death, broke out over her; she would
have shuddered, but she could not; she attempted to cry out, but her voice
died away in her throat; she attempted to fly, but her feet, fastened to
the ground, refused to carry her.

With her eyes starting from their sockets, her mouth wide open, and terror
depicted on her countenance, she stood as if petrified, without the
strength to keep erect or the will to fall.

And in truth she had some reason to be terrified.

Before her stood Berta, leaning motionless against the window, drinking in
with rapt attention the notes which at that moment came in a torrent from
the piano.

It was not Berta, then, who was breaking the silence of the night with
that mysterious music.

What unknown hand, what invisible hand was it that drew those sounds from
the chords of the piano in the midst of the silence and the solitude of
the night! Was what her eyes saw real! Was what her ears were listening to
real! Or was it all the dreadful hallucination of a terrible dream!

And this was not all; for the memory of the terrified nurse recalls with a
secret shudder those mysterious melodies which now enchain her ear. Yes;
through the piano roll sounds like the rumbling of thunder, and strains
are heard, now near, now far, 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.

I do not know how long the housekeeper might have stood silent and
motionless, under the influence of the terror which mastered her, if Berta
had not observed her.

It caused her neither surprise nor alarm to see her nurse there.
Approaching her she took her by the hand, and, shaking her gently, said:

"Do you see?--Do you hear?--It is Adrian--Adrian who has come for me; the
white butterfly did not deceive me."

The housekeeper had by this time recovered herself sufficiently to pass
her hand over her forehead and to rub her eyes.

"I knew that he would come," continued Berta; "I have been waiting for him
every day."

The nurse, as if by a supreme effort, drew a deep breath.

"Do you hear those sighs that come from the piano?" said Berta. "It is he;
he is calling me; and since you are here, let us go to meet him."

And taking the lamp in her hand as she spoke, she added:

"Follow me."

Nurse Juana followed her like a ghost.

They entered the garden and walked toward the pavilion. The pale light of
the lamp illumined Berta's countenance, shedding around it a fantastic
light that made the surrounding darkness seem more intense.

The nurse felt herself drawn along by Berta; she walked mechanically; a
power stronger than her terror impelled her.

In this way they crossed the garden and reached the door of the pavilion.
There Berta stopped, and called softly:

"Adrian!"

But there was no response to her call.

Then they entered the pavilion.

Juana caught hold of Berta to keep from falling, and closed her eyes.

The light of the lamp illumined the pavilion, whose solitude seemed
startled by this unexpected visit; the piano was open and mute.

"No one!" exclaimed Berta, sighing.

"No one," repeated Juana, opening her eyes.

And so it was; the pavilion was empty.

It is beyond a doubt that Berta's piano has the marvellous quality of
making its strings sound without the intervention of the human hand. And
this being the case, it must be admitted that this marvellous instrument
is, in addition, a consummate musician, for it plays with the skill
attained only by great artists.

But since Nurse Juana cannot conceive how a piano can play of itself,
without a hand moving the keys, she has decided that in this diabolical
affair an invisible hand, the ghostly hand of some spirit from the other
world, has intervened.

This supposition is not altogether admissible, for it seems to have been
sufficiently proved that spirits do not possess hands. But the nurse does
not stop for such fine distinctions, and she firmly believes that the
spirit of Adrian Baker is wandering about the villa. Condemned perhaps to
eternal torment, he takes pleasure in torturing the living even after his
death.

And it is indeed a diabolical amusement, for the serenade is repeated
nightly; the family are aroused from sleep; they hasten to the pavilion
and the piano becomes silent; they enter it and they find no one. They
have observed that the airs played by Berta in the morning are repeated by
the piano at night.

Juana is assailed by continual terrors; there is no peace in the house.
Berta's father is unable to explain the mystery, and his mind is filled
with confusion and his heart is a prey to sudden alarms. The light of day
dissipates the agitation of their minds, they fancy themselves the victims
of vain hallucinations, and, arming themselves with heroic valor, they
make plans for unravelling the awesome mystery.

The most courageous among them would hide in the pavilion, and there await
in concealment the hour of the strange occurrence; in this way they would
discover what fingers drew those sounds from the piano.

Strong in this purpose they awaited the first shades of night; but then
the courage of the strongest failed. The air became filled with fearful
shadows, the silence with mysterious noises, and no one ventured to leave
the house. They spent the nights in vigil and the terror by which all were
possessed made them seem interminable.

And for Berta, on the other hand, the days were interminable, and she
awaited the nights with eager impatience.

One afternoon she expressed a desire to visit the ruins of the monastery,
and she showed so much eagerness in the matter that there was no resource
but to accede to her wish. Her father and her nurse resolved to accompany
her, and the three set out.

The distance between the villa and the monastery was not great, but the
party walked slowly. In the winding path the ruins disappeared suddenly
behind a hill, as if the earth had swallowed them; a few steps further on
they suddenly reappeared; and the travellers stood before the ruined
portico.

From this point the eye could contemplate the ruined walls, the broken
partitions, the ceilings fallen in, and between the loose stones the
solitary flowers of the ruin. Only the arches which supported the vaulted
roof of the chapel had resisted the corroding influence of time.

The nurse would have now willingly returned to the villa, and Berta's
father had no desire to go any further, but Berta passed through the
ruined portico, and they were obliged to follow her.

She made her way into the chapel, passing under the crumbling arches which
threatened at every moment to fall down and crush her, and she emerged at
what must have been the centre of the monastery, for the remains of the
wall and some broken and unsteady pilasters showed four paths which,
uniting at their extremities, formed a square. This must have been the
cloister, in the middle were vestiges of a choked-up cistern.

Here Berta sat down on a piece of cornice which was imbedded in the
rubbish. She seemed pleased in the midst of this desolation. Her father
and the nurse joined her with terror depicted on their countenances; they
had heard the noise of footsteps in the chapel; more, Juana had seen a
shadow glide away; how or where she did not know, but she was sure that
she had seen it.

Berta smiled and said:

"The noise of footsteps and a shadow? Very well; what harm can those
footsteps or that shadow do us? They are perhaps the footsteps of Adrian
Baker following us; it is his shade that accompanies us. What is there
strange in that? Do you not know that I carry him in my heart? Do you not
know that I am waiting for him, that I am always waiting for him?"

At the name of Adrian Baker, Berta's father and the nurse shuddered.

"Yes, my child," said the former, "but we are far from the villa, the sun
is setting--it is growing late."

"Yes, yes," said Juana, "let us go back."

Berta drew her father affectionately toward her and said:

"Dear father, I am not mad. Juana, I am not mad. Adrian promised me that
he would return, and he will return. I am waiting for him. Why should that
be madness? I know that I grieve you, and I do not wish to grieve you. I
have begged God a thousand times on my knees to tear his image from my
heart and his memory from my mind; but God, who sees all things, from whom
nothing is hidden, to whom all things are possible, has not wished to do
it. Why? He alone knows."

The father's eyes filled with tears, and the nurse hid her face in her
hands to keep back the sobs that rose in her throat.

Berta continued:

"Yes, it is growing late. But I am very tired. Let us wait a moment."

They had nothing to say in answer to her words, nor could they have said
anything, for their voices failed them.

All three remained silent.

Suddenly they looked at one another with indescribable anxiety, for all
three had heard a sigh, a human sigh that seemed exhaled by the ruins
around them.

Could it have been the wind, moaning as it swept through the sharp points
of the broken walls?

Berta rose to her feet, and cried twice in a loud voice:

"Adrian! Adrian!"

Her voice was borne away on the breeze, losing itself in the distance. But
before the last notes died away, another voice resounded among the ruins,
saying:

"Berta! Berta!"

The sun had just set, and the twilight shadows gathered swiftly, as if
they had sprung up from among the ruins, hiding the broken pillars and the
crumbling walls.

In one of the angles of the cloister appeared a moving shadow. This shadow
advanced slowly until it reached the middle of the court where the remains
of the disused cistern were seen. There it stopped, and in a soft clear
voice uttered the words:

"It is I, Berta; it is I."

"He!" she cried, extending her arms in the air.

Juana uttered a cry of terror and caught hold of Berta with all the
strength left her; the father tried to rise, but, unable to sustain
himself, fell on his knees beside his daughter.

It was not possible to reject the evidence of their senses. Whatever might
be the hidden cause of the marvel, the dark key of the mystery, the shadow
which had just appeared in the angle of the cloister was clearly the
authentic image, the _vera effigies_, the very person of Adrian Baker. The
astonished eyes of Berta, of her father, and of the nurse could not refuse
to believe it.

His fair curls, his pale brow, the outlines of his figure, his air, his
glance, his voice--all were there before the amazed eyes of Berta, her
father, and the nurse.

Now, was this a fantastic creation of their troubled senses? Was it a
phantom of the brain, or a reality? Did all three suffer at the same time
the same hallucination? The fixed thought of all three was Adrian Baker--
and the senses often counterfeit the reality of our vain imaginings. The
state of their minds, the place, the hour--and then, the air produces
sounds that deceive; the light and the darkness mingling together in the
mysterious hour of twilight people the solitude with strange visions. And
in the midst of those ruins, which began to assume fantastic forms, and
which seemed to move, in the gathering shades of twilight, Berta, her
father, and the nurse might well believe themselves in the presence of a
spectre evoked there by their presence.

But the fact was, that the shadow, instead of vanishing, instead of
changing its shape, as happens with chimeras of the brain, assumed before
their eyes a more distinct form, more definite outlines, according as he
approached the group.

Reaching them, he took gently in his the hands Berta held out to him. His
eyes shone with the light of a supreme triumph.

"It is I," he said, in a moved voice. "I, Adrian Baker. I am not a spectre
risen from the tomb."

Berta felt herself growing faint and was obliged to sit down; and Adrian
Baker continued thus:

"Forgive me. I have put your heart to a terrible proof, but the doubts of
my soul were still more terrible. The world had filled my spirit with
horrible distrust and I desired to sound the uttermost depths of your
love. It has resisted absence, and it has resisted death. Your love for me
was not a passing fancy; you did not deceive yourself when you vowed me an
eternal love. I left you in order to watch you and I died to comprehend
you. I have followed you everywhere; I have not separated from you a
single moment. My sweet Berta! You waited for me living, and you have
waited for me dead. 'If you wait for me,' I said, 'your own heart will
announce my return to you,' and you see I have returned. I felt for you an
immense tenderness, but a terrible doubt consumed my heart. Had my riches
dazzled you? Forgive me, Berta. A fatal learning had frozen faith in my
soul; I doubted everything, and I doubted your heart also--I doubted you."

Berta clasped her hands, and raising her eyes to heaven, exclaimed
mournfully:

"My God! what cruel injustice!"

"Yes!" burst out Adrian Baker; "cruel injustice! but you have resuscitated
my heart; you have brought my soul back to life."

"Ah," said Berta, laying her hands on his breast, "what if it were too
late!"

Then, turning to her father and the nurse, she said:

"I feel very cold; let us return to the villa;" and leaning on Adrian
Baker's arm, she led the way.

Her father and the nurse followed her in silence. The good man had
comprehended everything, but the poor woman comprehended nothing.

What passed that night in the villa it is not necessary to relate; it was
a night of pain, of agitation, and of anguish. It was necessary to go to
the city for a physician; why? Because Berta was dying. Adrian Baker was
the image of despair; the unhappy father wept as if his heart would break,
and the nurse stole away from time to time to cry, unable to restrain her
tears.

At dawn it was necessary to go again to the city, for the physician of the
body had exhausted the resources of science, and they were obliged to have
recourse to the physician of the soul.

Dawn was just breaking when a priest alighted at the door of the villa.
The sick girl received him, if we may be allowed the expression, with
melancholy gladness, and a little later all was over.

In the middle of the room, on a funeral bier, lighted by six large wax
tapers, which cast a melancholy light around, lay the body of the dead
girl. The window admitted the morning light; and the autumn wind, tearing
the dead leaves from the trees in the garden, scattered them over the
inanimate form of Berta, as if death thus rendered homage to death.

Attracted by the light of the torches, a white butterfly flew silently in
and circled around and around the head of the dead girl.

Watching the body were the father, leaning over the bier, bowed down under
the weight of an immeasurable grief; the nurse dissolved in tears; Adrian,
with dry and glittering eyes, pale, motionless, mute, terrible in his
anguish; and the priest with folded arms and head bent over his breast,
murmuring pious prayers.

Such was the scene which the morning sun lighted in Berta's room. The
birds of the garden alighted on the rail of the window, but did not
venture to enter; they looked in apprehensively and flew away terrified;
they twittered on the branches of the trees, and their melancholy
chirpings seemed like sighs.

Breathing a sigh torn from the inmost depths of his soul, Adrian Baker
exclaimed in a hollow voice:

"Miserable man that I am! I have killed her!"

"Ah, yes," said the priest, slowly shaking his head. "Divine Justice--
Doubt kills."

MAESE PEREZ, THE ORGANIST
By Gustavo Adolfo Becquer
From "Modern Ghosts." Translated by Rollo Ogden.

MAESE PEREZ, THE ORGANIST

I.

"Do you see that man with the scarlet cloak, and the white plume in his
hat, and the gold-embroidered vest? I mean the one just getting out of his
litter and going to greet that lady--the one coming along after those four
pages who are carrying torches? Well, that is the Marquis of Mascoso,
lover of the widow, the Countess of Villapineda. They say that before he
began paying court to her he had sought the hand of a very wealthy man's
daughter, but the girl's father, who they say is a trifle close-fisted--
but hush! Speaking of the devil--do you see that man closely wrapped in
his cloak coming on foot under the arch of San Felipe? Well, he is the
father in question. Everybody in Seville knows him on account of his
immense fortune.

"Look--look at that group of stately men! They are the twenty-four
knights. Aha! there's that Heming, too. They say that the gentlemen of the
green cross have not challenged him yet, thanks to his influence with the
great ones at Madrid. All he comes to church for is to hear the music.

"Alas! neighbor, that looks bad. I fear there's going to be a scuffle.
I shall take refuge in the church, for, according to my guess, there will
be more blows than Paternosters. Look, look! the Duke of Alcala's people
are coming round the corner of Saint Peter's Square, and I think I see
the Duke of Medinasidonia's men in Duenas Alley. Didn't I tell you?
There--there! The blows are beginning. Neighbor, neighbor, this way before
they close the doors!

"But what's that? They've left off. What's that light? Torches! a litter!
It's the bishop himself! God preserve him in his office as many centuries
as I desire to live myself! If it were not for him, half Seville would
have been burned up by this time with these quarrels of the dukes. Look at
them, look at them, the hypocrites, how they both press forward to kiss
the bishop's ring!

"But come, neighbor--come into the church before it is packed full. Some
nights like this it is so crowded that you could not get in if you were no
larger than a grain of wheat. The nuns have a prize in their organist.
Other sisterhoods have made Maese Perez magnificent offers; nothing
strange about that, though, for the very archbishop has offered him
mountains of gold if he would go to the cathedral. But he would not listen
to them. He would sooner die than give up his beloved organ. You don't
know Maese Perez? Oh, I forgot you had just come to the neighborhood.
Well, he is a holy man; poor, to be sure, but as charitable as any man
that ever lived. With no relative but a daughter, and no friend but his
organ, he spends all his time in caring for the one and repairing the
other. The organ is an old affair, you must know; but that makes no
difference to him. He handles it so that its tone is a wonder. How he does
know it! and all by touch, too, for did I tell you that the poor man was
born blind?

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