María

Translator’s Note

It is a part of the faithfulness of Isaac’s transcript of life in provincial Colombia that he uses many words which are Cauca localisms. Several of these have been left untranslated, as having no equivalent, either as word or thing, in English—or, indeed, in Spanish. It is always sufficiently clear from the context, however, that they are names of animals, often onomatopoetic, or of plants; and nothing more could be conveyed by a roundabout translation. Special acknowledgments are due Señor Carlos Martinez Silva LL.D., delegate from the republic of Colombia to the Pan-American Congress, for valuable aid kindly rendered the translator.

I

I was still a mere boy when sent away from home to study in ——— College, founded a few years before in Bogotá, and then well known all through Colombia. The night before my departure, after the family gathering in the evening, one of my sisters came into my room, and, without saying a single word, because she could not trust her voice, cut off a lock of my hair; when she had gone, I found my neck wet with her tears.

I fell asleep sorrowful, filled with a vague foreboding of coming trouble. That lock of hair taken from a boy’s head; that precaution of love against death, even in the presence of abounding life, caused my thoughts to wander all night about those scenes where I had passed, without knowing it, the happiest hours of my life.

The next morning, my father had to loosen my mother’s arms from my neck. My sisters tried to kiss away my tears. María quietly waited her turn, and stammering out a goodbye, touched her blushing cheek to mine, chilled by the first feeling of sorrow.

A few moments after, I was following my father, who hid his face from my eyes. The tramp of our horses on the pebbly path made my last sobs inaudible. The murmur of the Zabaletas, whose banks lay to our right, grew fainter and fainter. We were already rounding one of those hills in the path on which expected guests used to be looked for from the house; I threw a last glance backward: María was behind the creeper that climbed up by the windows of my mother’s room.

II

After six years, the last days of a splendid August saw me returning to my native valley. My heart was overflowing with love of home. It was the last day of my journey, and I was enjoying the most charming morning of the autumn. The sky was a pale blue; towards the east, and above the highest peaks, still half veiled, floated little clouds of gold, like the gauze of a dancer’s turban stirred by an amorous breath. In the south hung the mists which had cloaked the mountains during the night. I was crossing plains carpeted with the greenest grass and watered by little brooks, the resorts of droves of cattle which had left their resting-places for a plunge in the pools, or for browsing along paths arched over by trees thick with leaves and blossoms. My eyes turned eagerly to those spots, half hidden to the traveler by clumps of old giant-reeds, where were the houses of good friends of mine. My heart would have been unmoved then by the arias of U——’s piano; the perfumes I was drinking in were sweeter than those that clung to her rich garments, and captivating to my soul was the song of the numberless birds.

I was struck dumb by all this beauty, though I thought I had preserved it in my memory, because some verses of mine, admired by my fellow-students, gave faint suggestions of it. When, in a ballroom flooded with lights, echoing with voluptuous music, filled with a thousand mingled perfumes and with the rustling robes of fascinating women, we meet her of whom we dreamed at eighteen, and her glance makes the face flush, her voice hushes all other voices for us, and her flowers leave a nameless fragrance behind them—then we fall into a sort of celestial trance: our voices are powerless, hers we can scarcely hear, our eyes cannot rest upon her. But when, hours after, with our minds calmer, she comes again to the memory, our lips murmur songs in her praise, and it is that woman, her tones, her glance, her gliding over the carpet, we try to recall in the lyric which people think is purely ideal. So the sky, the horizon, the plains, the crests of Cauca, make those speechless who behold them. The great beauties of nature cannot be sung at the same time they are seen; they must return to the soul, made dim by a faulty memory.

Before sunset I had seen my father’s house whitening on the shoulder of the mountain. As I drew near it, I anxiously noted the groups of willows and orange-trees behind which I saw the glancing lights in the rooms. I was breathing, at last, the fragrance one never forgets of the garden he has seen planted. My horses’ hoofs rang upon the pavement of the court. I heard a vague cry; it was the voice of my mother. She caught me in her arms, and drew me to her bosom. A mist gathered before my eyes; it was the work of perfect joy in an innocent nature.

When I tried to recognize in the women I saw about me the sisters whom I had left children, I saw María standing by my side: her eyes were concealed behind their broad, heavily fringed lids. Her face was the one to wear the deepest blush as my arm touched her waist; and her eyes were yet moist when she smiled at my first affectionate word, like those of a child whose tears have been dried by a mother’s caress.

III

At eight we went to the dining-room, which had a most attractive eastern exposure. From it could be seen the naked summits of the mountains against the starry background of the sky. The desert breeze played through the garden gathering perfumes, and rustled in the rosebushes all around us. At times it would die down, and then could be heard the murmur of the river. Nature seemed to be displaying all her beauty that night, as if to welcome a guest.

My father sat at the head of the table, and placed me at his right; my mother sat in her usual place at his left; my sisters and the children were promiscuously seated, and María was opposite me. My father, somewhat aged during my absence, cast pleased glances at me, and smiled with his own peculiar expression of mingled raillery and affection. My mother said little: she was the happiest of all present. My sisters pressed dainties upon me, and there was always a smile upon the face of the one to whom I spoke. María kept her eyes hidden from me resolutely; yet I could see that they had the brilliance and beauty belonging to those of the women of her race, in the instant when, in spite of herself, she let them fall full upon me. Her moist red lips had a prettily commanding curve; once they revealed to me the beautiful arch of her teeth. The waves of her dark hair were confined in two long braids, and on one side she wore a pink. Her dress was of light muslin, almost blue, and a fine cotton scarf, with its purple folds, was drawn over her bosom and up to her white throat. I admired her beautifully turned arms, and her hands as delicate as a queen’s.

When supper was over the slaves cleared the table: one of them said the Lord’s Prayer, and their master and mistress finished the evening devotions. I then fell into a quiet chat with my parents. María carried off the child that had fallen asleep in her lap, and my sisters followed her to their rooms; they loved her intensely, and would almost quarrel for her favor.

My mother wished me to go to see the room which had been assigned to me. María and my sisters, already less timid, came to witness the effect upon me of the way in which the room was adorned. It was in the front of the house, its single window-casing being about the right height for a table; the sashes and blinds were open, and branches of rosebushes, in full flower, pushed in to complete the ornamentation of the window-seat, where was placed a beautiful vase of blue porcelain filled with lilies and irises, pinks and yellow narcissuses from the river.

“What lovely flowers!” I exclaimed.

“María remembered how much you liked them,” remarked my mother.

I turned to thank her, and her eyes managed that time to meet my gaze.

“María,” I said, “won’t you keep them for me? for they are harmful in a sleeping-room.”

“Is that so?” said she; “then I will take them away until morning.”

What a lovely voice she had!

“Are there many as beautiful as these?”

“Oh, a great many; you can have them fresh every day.”

Then my mother kissed me good night, and Emma gave me her hand; María, too, yielding me hers for an instant, smiled upon me; it was the dimpled smile of my childish dreams of love—like the smile one detects on the face of a Virgin of Raphael’s.

IV

I slept as I used to when a child, after being lulled to slumber by a fairy story told me by the slave Pedro. I dreamed that María came in to renew the flowers on my table, and that when she went out she brushed against the curtains of my bed with her skirt of gauzy muslin dotted with blue flowers.

When I awoke the birds were fluttering about among the leaves of the orange-trees, in full song, and the perfume of the orange-blossoms filled my room as soon as I unfastened the shutters. Then María’s sweet, clear voice reached my ears; it was her childish voice become more serious, and ready now to lend itself to all the intonation of tenderness and passion. How many times in my dreams an echo of that voice has since come to my soul, and my eyes have searched in vain that garden where I saw her, in all her loveliness, that August morning!

As soon as I had lightly clothed myself I opened the window and perceived María, together with Emma, in one of the garden paths; her dress was darker than the one she had worn in the evening, and her purple scarf, belted at the waist, fell over her skirt like a sash; her long hair, parted into two masses, half hid her shoulder and breast. Both she and my sister were barefoot. She was carrying a little porcelain vase, scarcely whiter than her arms, which she was going to fill with roses that had opened in the night, rejecting the less dewy and luxuriant ones. Laughing with her companion, she buried her cheeks, fresher than the roses, in the odorous vase. Emma suddenly discovered me. María observed it, and without turning towards me, fell on her knees to hide her feet from me, loosened her scarf from her waist, and throwing it over her shoulders, pretended to be playing with the flowers. The daughters of the patriarchs, gathering flowers in the early dawn for the temple service, were not more beautiful.

After breakfast my mother summoned me to her sewing-room; she wanted me at her side constantly. Emma and María were there embroidering. The latter began to smile when I entered; she was thinking, perhaps, of the start I had given her in the morning. Emma began to ask me a thousand things about Bogotá; commanded me to describe to them magnificent balls, elegant dresses, and the most beautiful women then figuring in refined society. They listened without giving over their work. María rose to consult my mother about the embroidery; her light and noble walk revealed the unsubdued pride of our race, and the fascinating modesty of a pure and maiden soul. Her eyes lit up when my mother expressed a desire to have me give lessons to the girls in grammar and geography, studies in which they had made small advance. It was agreed that we should begin the lessons after a few days.

Somewhat later it was told me that my bath was ready, and I went to enjoy it. A thick and leafy orange-tree, loaded with ripe fruit, formed a pavilion above the broad tank of polished stone; roses were floating in the water; it was an Oriental bath, perfumed with the flowers which María had gathered in the morning.

V

After three days had passed, my father asked me to go with him to inspect his ranches in the valley. My mother insisted strongly that we should return soon. María did not ask, as did my sisters, that we should return the same week; but her eyes were continually upon me while we were preparing for the journey.

During my absence at Bogotá my father had made great improvements: a fine and expensive sugar-mill, many acres of cane to supply it, large pastures with droves of cattle and horses in them, good stables, and an excellent house for the overseer were the most notable things about his farms in the tierra caliente. The slaves were well clad, and as happy as it is possible for slaves to be, and were docile and even affectionate towards their master. I found that the boys who, years before, had taught me to set snares for chilacoas and guatines in the thick woods were now men; they and their parents gave unmistakable signs of pleasure at seeing me again. But I was not to meet Pedro, my faithful friend and servant; he had shed tears when he placed me on my horse the day I set out for Bogotá, saying, “Dear little master, I shall never see you again.” His heart told him that he would die before my return.

It was easy to see that my father, without ceasing to be a master, treated his slaves with kindness. He was anxious for their domestic happiness, and fondled the little ones.

One evening, just at sunset, we were coming back with Higinio, the overseer, from the fields to the mill. They were talking about the work to be done; I was occupied with less serious things: I was thinking about the days of my childhood. The peculiar odor of trees just cut down, and of ripe cypress-cones; the clamor of the parrots in the neighboring reeds and among the guava-trees; the distant note of some shepherd’s horn echoing among the mountains; the piping of the slaves as they slowly came from their work with their tools on their shoulders; the red glow in the sky seen beyond the fields of waving cane—all reminded me of the afternoons in which I, with María and my sisters, taking advantage of permission wrung with difficulty from my mother, used to gather guavas from our favorite trees, pluck bunches of cypress-cones, often at cost of many scratches on hands and arms, and spy out the fledgeling parrots in the hedges about the yards.

As we met a group of slaves, my father said to a young negro of remarkably pleasant appearance, “Well, Bruno, your wedding is all arranged for the day after tomorrow?”

“Yes, master,” he replied, taking off his hat made of rushes, and leaning upon the handle of his shovel.

“Who are going to stand up with you?”

“Dolores and Anselmo, if your honor pleases.”

“Very well. You and Remigia must be sure to go to confession first. Have you bought everything which you two need with the money I ordered given you?”

“Everything, master.”

“And you want nothing more?”

“Your honor will see to that.”

“Is it a good cabin Higinio has given you?”

“Yes, master.”

“Ah, now I know what it is. You want a ball!”

Bruno laughed at this, showing his gleaming white teeth, and looking around at his companions.

“That’s right; you conduct yourself well. Now you know what to do,” he added, addressing Higinio, “you attend to this and make them happy.”

“And will your honors go away before the wedding?”

“No,” I answered him, “and we understand we are invited.”

Bruno and Remigia were married the next Saturday morning. That night at seven, my father and I mounted our horses to go to the ball; we could hear the music from afar. When we arrived Julian, the slave captain of the gang, came out to help us dismount and to care for our horses. He was in his Sunday’s best, and there hung from his belt the long knife with silver-plated sheath which was the sign of his office. One large room of the old farmhouse had been cleared of its furniture for a ballroom. They had built a platform around it; in a wooden chandelier hanging from one of the beams a half-dozen candles were swinging; the musicians and singers, a mixture of slaves and freedmen, were stationed at one of the doors. There were only two reed flutes, an improvised drum, two rattles, and a timbrel; yet the fine voices of the negroes struck into the chants with such skill, there was in their songs such an affecting combination of melancholy and light and joyful chords, the verses they sang were so simple and tender, that the most cultivated ear would have listened with the highest pleasure to that half-savage music. We entered the room in leggings and hats. Remigia and Bruno were then dancing. She, with a blue flounced skirt, a girdle red-flowered, a white chemise embroidered with black, and necklace and earrings of ruby-colored glass, was dancing with all the ease and grace to be expected of her lithe figure. Bruno, with his woollen cloak folded about his shoulders, breeches of fine cotton cloth, a starched white shirt, and a new knife in his belt, was footing it with admirable dexterity.

That dance over, the musicians struck up their best tune, for Julian told them it was to be for the master. Remigia, urged on by her husband and by the captain, at last agreed to dance a few moments with my father; but she dared not lift her eyes while she was doing it, and her dancing was rather constrained. At the end of an hour we went away.

My father was pleased with my attentiveness during our visit to the farms; but when I told him that in the future I wished to share his labors, and stay by his side, he informed me, almost sorrowfully, that it was necessary for him to sacrifice his ease for my sake, and that he should keep the promise made to me before of sending me to Europe to study medicine; I should have to begin the journey, he said, at the end of four months at the latest. When he told me this his face wore an expression of unaffected gravity, which was always to be observed in him when he had taken an irrevocable resolution. This happened the afternoon when we were going back to the uplands. It was growing dark, and but for this he must have observed the emotion which his decision caused me. How gladly should I have returned to see María, had not this announcement thrust itself in between my hopes and her!