Zaragoza. English

by Benito Pérez Galdós

  CHAPTER VII

  Night came, and when a part of our troops fell back upon the city, allof the people hastened to the suburb to look at the field of battlefrom near at hand, and to gladden their imaginations by going over, oneby one, the scenes of heroism. The animation, the movement, the clatterof noise in that part of the city were immense. At one side were groupsof soldiers singing with feverish joy, on the other bands of mercifulpeople carrying the wounded into their houses. Everywhere was heartysatisfaction, which showed itself in lively dialogues, question, joyousexclamations,--tears and laughter mingling with the rejoicings andenthusiasm.

  It was, possibly, about nine o'clock before my battalion broke ranks;because, lacking quarters, we did not permit ourselves to leave theposition, although there was no danger.

  Augustine and I ran to Del Pilar, where a great crowd was rushing.We entered with difficulty. I was surprised to see how some personsjostled and pushed others in order to approach the chapel of theVirgin del Pilar. The prayers, the entreaties, and the demonstrationsof rejoicing, taken all together, did not seem like the prayers ofany class of the faithful. The prayers were like talks mingled withtears, groans, the most tender words, and other phrases of intimateand ingenuous affection, such as the Spanish people are wont to usewith their saints that are most beloved. They fell upon their knees;they kissed the pavement; they grasped the iron gratings of the chapel;they addressed the holy image, calling it by names the most familiarand the most pathetic of the language. Those who could not--because ofthe crowd of people--come near her were talking to her from afar off,waving their arms wildly about. There were no sacristans to stop thesewild ways and seemingly irreverent noises, because they were themselveschildren of this overflowing delirious devotion. The solemn silenceof sacred places was not observed. All there were as if in their ownhouse, as if the house of their cherished Virgin, their mother, theirbeloved, the queen of Saragossans, were also the house of her children,her servants and subjects.

  Astonished at such fervor which the familiarity made more interesting,I fought my way to the grating, and saw the celebrated image. Whohas not seen her, who does not know her, at least by the innumerablesculptures and portraits which have reproduced her endlessly from oneend of the peninsula to the other?

  She was at the left of the little altar which is in the depth of thechapel in a niche adorned with oriental luxury, a little statue, thenas now. A great profusion of wax candles illuminated her, and preciousstones covered her clothing and crown, darting dazzling reflections.Gold and diamonds gleamed in the circlet about her face, in the votivebracelets hung upon her breast, and in the rings on her hands. A livingcreature would have given way under so great a weight of treasure. Hergarments, falling without folds, stretched straight from head to feet,and left visible only her hands. The child Jesus, sustained on her leftside, revealed a bit of his brown little face between the brocade andthe jewels. The face of the Virgin, burnished by time, is also brown.A gentle serenity possesses her, symbol of her eternal blessedness.She looks outward, her sweet gaze scanning constantly the devotedconcourse. There shines in her eyes a ray of the clearest light, andthis artificial gleam seems like the intensity and fixedness of thehuman gaze. It was difficult when I saw her for the first time toremain indifferent in the midst of that religious demonstration, andnot to add a word to the concert of enthusiastic tongues talking withdistinct voices to the Se?ora.

  I was watching the statue, when Augustine pressed my arm, saying,--

  "Look, there she is!"

  "Who, the Virgin? I am looking at her now."

  "No, man, Mariquilla! There, in front, close to the column."

  I looked, but I saw only a great many people. We immediately quittedour place, looking about for a way to get through the multitude to theother side.

  "She is not with Candiola," said Augustine, joyously. "She has comewith the servant." And, saying this, he elbowed his way to one sideand the other to make a road, punching backs and breasts, steppingon feet, matting down hats, and rumpling clothing. I followed behindhim, causing equal destruction right and left. At last we came to thebeautiful young girl, and it was really she, as I could see at oncewith my own eyes.

  The enthusiastic passion of my good friend did not deceive me.Mariquilla was worth the trouble of being extravagantly, madly loved.Her pale brunette skin, her deeply black eyes, her perfect nose, herincomparable mouth, and her beautiful low forehead attracted attentionto her at once. There was in her face as in her body a certain lightand delicate voluptuousness. When she lowered her eyes, it seemed tome as if a sweet and lovely mist surrounded her. She smiled gravely;and when she approached us, her looks revealed timidity. Everythingabout her showed the reserved and circumspect passion of a woman ofcharacter, and she seemed to me little given to talking, lacking incoquetry, and poor in artifices. I afterwards had reason to confirmthis, my early judgment. There shone in the face of Mariquilla aheavenly calm, and a certain security in herself. Different from mostwomen, like few among them, that soul would not readily change, exceptfor just and righteous reasons.

  Other women of quick sensibility pour themselves out like wax before asmall fire; but Mariquilla was made of the best metal, yielding only toa great fire, and when that came she was of necessity like molten metalthat burns when it touches.

  Besides her beauty, the elegance and even luxury of her dress attractedmy attention. Having heard much of the avarice of Candiola, I supposedthat he would have reduced his daughter to the utmost extremes ofwretchedness in matters of dress. It was not so. As Montoria told meafterwards, the stingiest of the stingy not only permitted his daughtersome expenses, but now and then made her some little present which helooked upon as the _ne plus ultra_ of mundane splendor.

  If Candiola was capable of letting some of his relations die ofhunger, to his daughter he gave a phenomenal, a scandalous amount ofpocket-money. Although he was a miser, he was a father; he loved hisgirl very much, finding in his generosity to her perhaps the onlypleasure of his arid existence.

  Somewhat more must be said in regard to this, but it will appear littleby little in the course of the story. And now I must say that myfriend had not yet spoken ten words to his adored Mariquilla, when aman approached us abruptly, and after having looked at the two for aninstant with flashing eyes, spoke to the young girl, taking her by thearm, and saying, with a show of anger,--

  "What is going on here? And you, good Guedita, what brought you to thePilar at such an hour? Go to the house, go to the house immediately!"

  And pushing before him mistress and maid, he carried them both offtowards the door and the street, and the three disappeared from oursight.

  It was Candiola. I remember him well, and the remembrance makes metremble with horror. Further on you will know why. Since the briefscene in the church del Pilar, the image of that man has been engravenon my memory, and certainly his face was not one which would let itselfbe quickly forgotten. Old, bent, of miserable and sickly aspect,crooked and disagreeable, lean of face, with sunken cheeks, Candiolaroused antipathy from the first moment. His nose, sharp and hookedlike the beak of a bird, his chin, peaked also, the coarse hair ofhis grizzled eyebrows, the greenish eyes, the forehead furrowed asif by a ruler with deep parallel wrinkles, the cartilaginous ears,the yellowish skin, the metallic quality of the voice, the slovenlyclothes, the insulting grimaces,--all his personality from head tofoot, from his bag wig to the sole of his coarse shoe, produced atsight an unconquerable repulsion. It can readily be understood that hehad not a single friend.

  Candiola had no beard; his face, according to the fashion, was quiteclean shaven, although the razor did not enter the field more than oncea week. If Don Jeronimo had had a beard, it would have made him seemvery much like a certain Venetian shop-keeper whom I afterwards cameto know very well, travelling in the great world of books, and in whomI find certain traits of physiognomy that recalled the man who had sobrusquely presented himself to us in the temple del Pilar.

  "Did you see th
at miserable and ridiculous old man?" Augustine asked mewhen we were alone, looking towards the door where the three people haddisappeared.

  "He evidently doesn't like his daughter to have admirers."

  "But I am sure that he did not see me talking with her. He hassuspicions, nothing more. If he should pass from suspicion tocertitude, Mariquilla and I would be lost. Did you see that look hethrew us, the damned miser?--he is black from his soul to his Satanichide."

  "Bad sort of father-in-law to have."

  "Bad enough," said Montoria, sadly. "He would be dear in exchange fora spoonful of verdigris! I am sure he will abuse her to-night; butfortunately he is not in the habit of ill-treating her."

  "And would not the Se?or Candiola be pleased to see her married to theson of Don Jos? de Montoria?" I asked.

  "Are you mad? I see you talking to him of that! The wretched misernot only watches his daughter as if she were a bag of gold, and isnot disposed to give her to anybody; but he has also an ancient andprofound resentment against my father, because he freed some unhappydebtors from his fangs. I tell you, that if he discovers that hisdaughter loves me, he will keep her locked up in an iron chest in thatcellar of his where he keeps his hard cash. I don't know what wouldhappen if my father came to know of it. My flesh creeps just to thinkof it. The worst nightmare which disturbs my slumbers is that whichshows me the moment when se?or my father and se?ora my mother learn ofmy great love for Mariquilla. A son of Don Jos? de Montoria enamouredof a daughter of Candiola, a young man who is formally destined to be abishop,--a bishop, Gabriel! I am going to be a bishop, in the minds ofmy parents!"

  Saying this, Augustine dashed his head against the sacred wall on whichwe were leaning.

  "And do you think you will go on loving Mariquilla?"

  "Don't ask me that!" he replied with energy. "Did you see her? If yousaw her, how can you ask me if I will go on loving her? Her father andmine would rather see me dead than married to her. A bishop, Gabriel,they wish me to be a bishop! Think of being a bishop and lovingMariquilla for all of my life, here and hereafter, think of that andpity me!"

  "But God opens unknown ways," I said.

  "It is true, and sometimes my faith is boundless. Who knows whatto-morrow will bring forth? God and the Virgin shall guide mehenceforth."

  "Are you devoted to this Virgin?"

  "Yes. My mother places candles before the one we have in our house,that I may not fall in battle; and I say to her 'Sovereign Lady, maythis offering also serve to remind you that I cannot cease from lovingthe daughter of Candiola.'"

  We were in the nave upon which opened the chapel del Pilar. There ishere an aperture in the wall, by which the devout, descending two orthree steps, approach to kiss the pedestal which sustains the reveredimage. Augustine kissed the red marble. I kissed it also; then we leftthe church to go to our abode.