Maria (GB English). Jorge Isaacs

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

      Chapter XIII

      The pages of Chateaubriand were slowly giving a touch of colour to Mary's imagination. So Christian and full of faith, she rejoiced to find the beauties she had foreseen in Catholic worship. Her soul took from the palette that I offered her the most precious colours to beautify everything; and the poetic fire, a gift of Heaven that makes men admirable who possess it and divinises women who reveal it in spite of themselves, gave her countenance charms hitherto unknown to me in the human face. The poet's thoughts, welcomed in the soul of that woman so seductive in the midst of her innocence, came back to me like the echo of a distant and familiar harmony that stirs the heart.

      One evening, an evening like those of my country, adorned with clouds of violet and pale gold, beautiful as Mary, beautiful and transitory as it was for me, she, my sister and I, seated on the broad stone of the slope, from where we could see to the right in the deep valley roll the noisy currents of the river, and with the majestic and silent valley at our feet, I read the episode of Atala, and the two of them, admirable in their immobility and abandonment, heard from my lips all that melancholy that the poet had gathered to "make the world weep". My sister, resting her right arm on one of my shoulders, her head almost joined to mine, followed with her eyes the lines I was reading. Maria, half-kneeling near me, did not take her wet eyes off my face.

      The sun had gone down as I read the last pages of the poem in an altered voice. Emma's pale head rested on my shoulder. Maria hid her face with both hands. After I had read that heart-rending farewell of Chactas over the grave of his beloved, a farewell which has so often wrung a sob from my breast: "Sleep in peace in a foreign land, young wretch! In reward for thy love, thy banishment and thy death, thou art forsaken even of Chactas himself," Mary, ceasing to hear my voice, uncovered her face, and thick tears rolled down her face. She was as beautiful as the poet's creation, and I loved her with the love he imagined. We walked slowly and silently to the house, and my soul and Maria's were not only moved by the reading, they were overwhelmed with foreboding.

      Chapter XIV

      After three days, on coming down from the mountain one evening, I seemed to notice a start in the countenances of the servants whom I met in the inner corridors. My sister told me that Maria had had a nervous attack; and, adding that she was still senseless, endeavoured to soothe my painful anxiety as much as possible.

      Forgetting all precaution, I entered the bedchamber where Maria was, and mastering the frenzy that would have made me clasp her to my heart to bring her back to life, I approached her bed in bewilderment. At the foot of it sat my father: he fixed on me one of his intense glances, and then turning it on Mary, seemed to want to remonstrate with me by showing her to me. My mother was there; but she did not raise her eyes to look for me, for, knowing my love, she pitied me as a good mother pities her child, as a good mother pities her own child in a woman loved by her child.

      I stood motionless gazing at her, not daring to find out what was wrong with her. She was as if asleep: her face, covered with a deadly pallor, was half hidden by her dishevelled hair, in which the flowers I had given her СКАЧАТЬ