After a little steep and dark slope, and after skipping over the dry trees from the last felling of the highlander, I found myself in the little place planted with vegetables, from where I could see the little house in the midst of the green hills, which I had left among seemingly indestructible woods, smoking. The cows, beautiful in their size and colour, bellowed at the corral gate in search of their calves. The domestic fowls were in an uproar, receiving their morning ration; in the palm trees near by, which had been spared by the axe of the husbandmen, the oropendolas swayed noisily in their hanging nests, and in the midst of such a pleasant hubbub, one could sometimes hear the shrill cry of the birdcatcher, who, from his barbecue and armed with a slingshot, shooed away the hungry macaws that fluttered over the cornfield.
The Antioquian's dogs gave him warning of my arrival with their barking. Mayo, fearful of them, approached me sullenly. José came out to greet me, axe in one hand and hat in the other.
The little dwelling denoted industriousness, economy and cleanliness: everything was rustic, but comfortably arranged, and everything in its place. The living-room of the little house, perfectly swept, with bamboo benches all round, covered with reed mats and bearskins, some illuminated paper prints representing saints, and pinned with orange thorns to the unbleached walls, had on the right and left the bedroom of Joseph's wife and that of the girls. The kitchen, made of reed and with a roof of leaves of the same plant, was separated from the house by a small vegetable garden where parsley, camomile, pennyroyal and basil mingled their aromas.
The women seemed more neatly dressed than usual. The girls, Lucia and Transito, wore petticoats of purple sarsen, and very white shirts with lace gowns trimmed with black braid, under which they hid part of their rosaries, and chokers of opal-coloured glass bulbs. The thick, jet-coloured plaits of their hair played on their backs at the slightest movement of their bare, careful, restless feet. They spoke to me with great shyness; and it was their father who, noticing this, encouraged them, saying: "Is not Ephraim the same child, because he comes from school wise and grown up? Then they became more jovial and smiling: they linked us amicably with the memories of childhood games, powerful in the imagination of poets and women. With old age, José's physiognomy had gained a lot: although he did not grow a beard, his face had something biblical about it, like almost all those of the old men of good manners in the country where he was born: abundant grey hair shaded his broad, toasted forehead, and his smiles revealed a calmness of soul. Luisa, his wife, happier than he in the struggle with the years, retained in her dress something of the Antioquian manner, and her constant joviality made it clear that she was content with her lot.
José led me to the river, and told me of his sowing and hunting, while I plunged into the diaphanous backwater from which the water cascaded in a small waterfall. On our return we found the provocative lunch served at the only table in the house. Corn was everywhere: in the mote soup served in glazed earthenware dishes and in golden arepas scattered on the tablecloth. The only piece of cutlery was crossed over my white plate and bordered with blue.
Mayo sat at my feet looking attentive, but more humble than usual.
José was mending a fishing line while his daughters, clever but shameful, served me with care, trying to guess in my eyes what I might be lacking. They had beautified themselves, and from being little girls, they had become official women.
After gulping down a glass of thick, frothy milk, the dessert of that patriarchal lunch, José and I went out to look around the orchard and the brushwood I was picking. He was amazed at my theoretical knowledge of sowing, and we returned to the house an hour later to say goodbye to the girls and my mother.
I put the good old man's mountain knife, which I had brought him from the kingdom, round his waist; around the necks of Tránsito and Lucía, precious rosaries, and in Luisa's hands a locket that she had entrusted to my mother. I took the turn of the mountain when it was noon by the edge of the day, according to José's examination of the sun.
Chapter X
On my return, which I did slowly, the image of Mary came back to my memory. Those solitudes, its silent forests, its flowers, its birds and its waters, why did they speak to me of her? What was there of Mary in the damp shadows, in the breeze that moved the foliage, in the murmur of the river? It was that I saw Eden, but she was missing; it was that I could not stop loving her, even though she did not love me. And I breathed in the perfume of the bouquet of wild lilies that Joseph's daughters had formed for me, thinking that perhaps they would deserve to be touched by Mary's lips: thus my heroic resolutions of the night had been weakened in so few hours.
As soon as I got home, I went to my mother's sewing room: Maria was with her; my sisters had gone to the bathroom. After answering my greeting, Maria lowered her eyes to her sewing. My mother expressed her delight at my return; they had been startled at home by the delay, and had sent for me at that moment. I talked to her, pondering over Joseph's progress, and Mayo tongued my dresses to get rid of the hips that had got caught in the weeds.
Mary raised her eyes again, and fixed them on the bunch of lilies which I held in my left hand, while I leaned with my right on the shotgun: I thought I understood that she wanted them, but an indefinable fear, a certain respect for my mother and my intentions for the evening, prevented me from offering them to her. But I delighted in imagining how beautiful one of my little lilies would look on her lustrous brown hair. They must have been for her, for she would have gathered orange blossoms and violets in the morning for the vase on my table. When I went into my room I did not see a flower there. If I had found a viper rolled up on the table, I would not have felt the same emotion as the absence of the flowers: its fragrance had become something of Mary's spirit that wandered around me in the hours of study, that swayed in the curtains of my bed during the night.... Ah, so it was true that she did not love me, so my visionary imagination had been able to deceive me so much! And what could I do with the bouquet I had brought for her? If another woman, beautiful and seductive, had been there at that moment, at that moment of resentment against my pride, of resentment against Mary, I would have given it to her on condition that she would show it to all and beautify herself with it. I lifted it to my lips as if to bid farewell for the last time to a cherished illusion, and threw it out of the window.
Chapter XI
I made efforts to be jovial for the rest of the day. At the table I spoke enthusiastically about the beautiful women of Bogotá, and intentionally praised P***'s graces and wit. My father was pleased to hear me: Eloísa would have wanted the after-dinner conversation to last into the night. Maria was silent; but it seemed to me that her cheeks sometimes grew pale, and that their primitive colour had not returned to them, like that of the roses which during the night have adorned a feast.
Towards the latter part of the conversation, Mary had pretended to play with the hair of John, my three-year-old brother whom she spoiled. She put up with it to the end; but as soon as I got to my feet, she went with the child into the garden.
All the rest of the afternoon and into the early evening it was necessary to help my father with his desk work.
At eight o'clock, after the women had said their usual prayers, we were called into the dining room. As we sat down to table, I was surprised to see one of the lilies on Mary's head. There was such an air of noble, innocent, sweet resignation in her beautiful face that, as if magnetised by something unknown to me in her until then, I could not help looking at her.
Loving, laughing girl, as pure and seductive a woman as those I had dreamed of, so I knew her; but resigned to my disdain, she was new to me. Divinised by resignation, I felt unworthy to fix a glance on her brow.
I answered wrongly to some questions that were put to me about Joseph and his family. My father could not conceal my embarrassment; and turning to Mary, he said with a smile:
Beautiful lily in your hair: I have not seen such in the garden.
Maria, trying to conceal her bewilderment, replied in an almost imperceptible voice:
There are only lilies of this kind in the mountains.
I caught at that moment a kindly smile on Emma's lips.
And who sent them? -asked my father.
Mary's confusion was already noticeable. I looked at her; and she must have found something new and encouraging in my eyes, for she answered with a firmer accent:
Ephraim threw some into the garden; and it seemed to us that, being so rare, it was a pity they should be lost: this is one of them.
Mary," said I, "if I had known that these flowers were so dear, I should have kept them for you; but I have found them less beautiful than those which are daily placed in the vase on my table.
She understood the cause of my resentment, and a glance of hers told me so plainly, that I feared the palpitations of my heart might be heard.
That evening, just as the family was leaving the salon, Maria happened to be sitting near me. After hesitating for a long time, I finally said to her in a voice that betrayed my emotion: "Maria, they were for you, but I couldn't find yours".
She stammered some apology when, tripping over my hand on the sofa, I held hers by a movement beyond my control. She stopped talking. Her eyes looked at me in astonishment and fled from mine. He ran his free hand anxiously across his forehead, and leaned his head on it, sinking his bare arm into the immediate cushion. At last, making an effort to undo that double bond of matter and soul which at such a moment united us, she rose to her feet; and as if concluding a commenced reflection, she said to me so quietly that I could scarcely hear her, "Then I will pick the prettiest flowers every day," and disappeared.
Souls like Mary's are ignorant of the worldly language of love; but they shudder at the first caress of the one they love, like the poppy of the woods under the wing of the winds.
I had just confessed my love to Mary; she had encouraged me to confess it to her, humbling herself like a slave to pick those flowers. I repeated her last words to myself with delight; her voice still whispered in my ear: "Then I will pick the most beautiful flowers every day".
Chapter XII
The moon, which had just risen full and large under a deep sky over the towering crests of the mountains, illuminated the jungle slopes, whitened in places by the tops of the yarumos, silvering the foams of the torrents and spreading its melancholy clarity to the bottom of the valley. The plants exhaled their softest and most mysterious aromas. That silence, interrupted only by the murmur of the river, was more pleasing than ever to my soul.
Leaning on my elbows on my window frame, I imagined seeing her in the midst of the rose bushes among which I had surprised her on that first morning: she was there gathering the bouquet of lilies, sacrificing her pride to her love. It was I who would henceforth disturb the childish sleep of her heart: I could already speak to her of my love, make her the object of my life. Tomorrow! magical word, the night when we are told that we are loved! Her gaze, meeting mine, would have nothing more to hide from me; she would be beautified for my happiness and pride.
Never were the July dawns in the Cauca as beautiful as Maria when she presented herself to me the next day, moments after coming out of the bath, her tortoiseshell hair shaded loose and half curled, her cheeks a softly faded rose-colour, but at times fanned by blushing; and playing on her affectionate lips that most chaste smile which reveals in women like Maria a happiness which it is not possible for them to conceal. Her looks, now more sweet than bright, showed that her sleep was not so peaceful as it had been. As I approached her, I noticed on her forehead a graceful and barely perceptible contraction, a sort of feigned severity that she often used with me when, after dazzling me with all the light of her beauty, she would impose silence on my lips, about to repeat what she knew so well.
It was already a necessity for me to have her constantly by my side; not to lose a single instant of her existence abandoned to my love; and happy with what I possessed, and still eager for happiness, I tried to make a paradise of the paternal house. I spoke to Maria and my sister of the desire they had expressed to do some elementary studies under my direction: they were again enthusiastic about the project, and it was decided that from that very day it would begin.
They turned one of the corners of the living room into a study cabinet; they unpinned some maps from my room; they dusted off the geographic globe that had hitherto been ignored on my father's desk; two consoles were cleared of ornaments and made into study tables. My mother smiled as she witnessed all the disarray that our project entailed.
We met every day for two hours, during which time I would explain a chapter or two of geography, and we would read a little universal history, and more often than not many pages of the Genius of Christianity. I was then able to appreciate the full extent of Maria's intelligence: my sentences were indelibly engraved on her memory, and her comprehension almost always preceded my explanations with childlike triumph.
Emma had surprised the secret, and was pleased with our innocent happiness; how could I conceal from her, in those frequent conferences, what was going on in my heart? She must have observed my motionless gaze on her companion's bewitching face as she gave a requested explanation. She had seen Maria's hand tremble if I placed it on some point sought in vain on the map. And whenever, sitting near the table, with them standing on either side of my seat, Mary bent down to get a better view of something in my book or on the cards, her breath, brushing my hair, her tresses, rolling from her shoulders, disturbed my explanations, and Emma could see her straighten up modestly.
Occasionally, household chores would come to the attention of my disciples, and my sister would always take it upon herself to go and do them, only to return a little later to join us. Then my heart was pounding. Mary, with her childishly grave forehead and almost laughing lips, would abandon to mine some of her dimpled, aristocratic hands, made for pressing foreheads like Byron's; and her accent, without ceasing to have that music which was peculiar to her, became slow and deep as she pronounced softly articulated words which in vain would I try to remember to-day; for I have not heard them again, because pronounced by other lips they are not the same, and written on these pages they would appear meaningless. They belong to another language, of which for many years not a sentence has come to my memory.