Part 12 (2/2)
”But, no; why should I complain? Why should I return insult for insult?
Why should I allow myself to be vanquished by anger! Many holy fathers have said, 'Anger in a priest is even worse than lasciviousness.' The anger of priests has caused many tears to be shed, and has been the cause of terrible evils.
”Anger perhaps it was--this terrible counselor--that at times persuaded them that it was necessary for the people to shed blood at the Divine command, and that brought before their sanguinary eyes the vision of Isaiah; they have then seen, and caused their fanatic followers to see, the meek Lamb converted into an inexorable avenger, descending from the summit of Edom, proud in the mult.i.tude of his strength, trampling the nations under foot, as the treader tramples the grapes in the wine-press, their garments raised, and covered with blood to the thighs.
Ah, no; my G.o.d! I am about to become thy minister. Thou art a G.o.d of peace, and my first duty should be meekness. Thou makest the sun to s.h.i.+ne on the just and the unjust, and pourest down upon all alike the fertilizing rain of thy inexhaustible goodness. Thou art our Father who dwellest in the heavens, and we should be perfect, even as thou art perfect, pardoning those who have offended us, and asking thee to pardon them, because they know not what they do. I should recall to mind the beat.i.tudes of the Scripture: Blessed are ye when they revile you and persecute you, and say all manner of evil things against you. The minister of G.o.d, or he who is about to become his minister, must be humble, peaceable, meek of heart; not like the oak that lifts itself up proudly, until the thunderbolt strike it, but like the fragrant herbs of the woods, and the modest flowers of the fields, that give sweeter and more grateful perfume after the rustic has trodden them under foot.”
In these and other meditations of a like nature the hours pa.s.sed until three o'clock, when Don Pedro, who had just returned from the country, entered his son's room to call him to dinner. The gay joviality of his father, his jest, his affectionate attentions daring the meal, were all of no avail to draw Don Luis from his melancholy, or to give him an appet.i.te; he ate little, and scarcely spoke while they were at table.
Although much troubled by the silent melancholy of his son, whose health, though indeed robust, was yet not beyond risk of being affected, Don Pedro, who rose with the dawn and had a busy time of it during the day, when he had finished his after-dinner cigar and taken his cup of coffee and his gla.s.s of anisette, felt fatigued, and went, according to his custom, to take his two or three hours of _siesta_.
Don Luis had taken good care not to draw the attention of his father to the offense done him by the Count of Genazahar. His father, who, for his part, had no intention of fitting himself to celebrate ma.s.s, and who, besides, was not of a very meek disposition, would have rushed instantly, had he done so, to take the vengeance Don Luis had failed to take.
When his father had retired, Don Luis also left the dining-room, that he might, in the seclusion of his own apartment, give himself up undisturbed to his thoughts.
He had been sunk in them for a long time, seated before his desk, with his elbows resting upon it, when he heard a noise close by. He raised his eyes, and saw standing beside him the meddlesome Antonona, who, although of such ma.s.sive proportions, had entered like a shadow, and was now watching him attentively with a mixture of pity and of anger in her glance.
Antonona, taking advantage of the hour in which the servants dined and Don Pedro slept, had penetrated thus far without being observed, and had opened the door of the room and closed it behind her so gently that Don Luis, even if he had been less absorbed in meditation than he was, would not have noticed it.
She had come resolved to hold a very serious conference with Don Luis, but she did not quite know what she was going to say to him.
Nevertheless, she had asked heaven or h.e.l.l, whichever of the two it may have been, to loosen her tongue and bestow upon her the gift of speech; not such grotesque and vulgar speech as she generally used, but correct, elegant, and adapted to the n.o.ble reflections and beautiful things she thought it necessary for the carrying out of her purpose to say.
When Don Luis saw Antonona, he frowned, and showed by his manner how much this visit displeased him, at the same time saying roughly:
”What do you want here? Go away!”
”I have come to call you to account about my young mistress,” returned Antonona, quietly, ”and I shall not go away until you have answered me.”
She then drew a chair toward the table and sat down in it, facing Don Luis with coolness and effrontery.
Don Luis, seeing there was no help for it, restrained his anger, armed himself with patience, and, in accents less harsh than before, exclaimed:
”Say what you have to say!”
”I have to say,” resumed Antonona, ”that what you are plotting against my mistress is a piece of wickedness. You are behaving like a villain.
You have bewitched her; you have given her some malignant potion. The poor angel is going to die; she neither eats nor sleeps, nor has a moment's peace, on account of you. To-day she has had two or three hysterical attacks at the bare thought of your going away. A good deed you have done before becoming a priest! Tell me, wretch, why did you not stay where you were, with your uncle, instead of coming here? She, who was so free, so completely mistress of her own will, enslaving that of others, and allowing her own to be taken captive by none, has fallen into your treacherous snares. Your hypocritical sanct.i.ty was, doubtless, the lure you employed. With your theologies and your pious humbugs you have acted like the wily and cruel sportsman, who attracts to him by his whistle the silly thrushes, only to strangle them in the net.”
”Antonona,” returned Don Luis, ”leave me in peace. For G.o.d's sake, cease to torture me! I am a villain; I confess it. I ought not to have looked at your mistress; I ought not to have allowed her to believe that I loved her; but I loved her, and I love her still, with my whole heart; and I have given her no other potion or philter than the love I have for her. It is my duty, nevertheless, to cast away, to forget this love. G.o.d commands me to do so. Do you imagine that the sacrifice I make will not be--is not already--a tremendous one? Pepita ought to arm herself with fort.i.tude and make a similar sacrifice.”
”You do not give even that consolation to the unhappy creature,” replied Antonona. ”You sacrifice voluntarily, on the altar, this woman who loves you, who is already yours--your victim. But she--what claim has she on you that she should offer you up as a sacrifice? What is the precious jewel she is going to renounce, what the beautiful ornament she is going to cast into the flames, but an ill-requited love? How is she going to give to G.o.d what she does not possess? Is she going to try to cheat G.o.d, and say to him: 'My G.o.d, since he does not love me, here he is; I offer him up to you; I will not love him either.' G.o.d never laughs--if he did, he would laugh at such a present as that!”
Don Luis, confounded, did not know what answer to return to these arguments of Antonona, more atrocious than her former pinches. Besides, it was repugnant to him to discuss the metaphysics of love with a servant.
”Let us leave aside,” he said, ”these idle discussions. I can not cure the malady of your mistress. What would you have me do?”
”What would I have you do?” replied Antonona, more gently, and with insinuating accents; ”I will tell you what I would have you do. If you can not cure the malady of my mistress, you should, at least, alleviate it a little. Are you not saintly? Well, the saints are compa.s.sionate, and courageous besides. Don't run away like an ill-mannered coward, without saying good-by. Come to see my mistress, who is sick. Do this work of mercy.”
”And what would be gained by such a visit? It would aggravate her malady, instead of curing it.”
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