el-comendador-mendoza (1)

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SOAP OPERAS
Commander Mendoza
COMPLETE WORKS VOLUME VII
JUAN VALERA
TO THE EXCMA. MRS DOÑA IDA DE BAUER
I never dreamed, dear lady and kind friend, of being a popular writer. I
can't explain the cause, but it is true that I have and will always have few
readers. My love for writing is, however, so strong that it overcomes the
indifference of the public and my disappointments.
Several times I gave up and even thought I was dead; but I barely
stopped being a writer when I revived as such in a different form.
First I was a lyric poet, then a journalist, then a critic, then I aspired to be
a philosopher, then I had my intentions and attempts as a zarzuelero
playwright, and eventually I tried to appear as a novelist in the long
catalog of our authors.
In this last form, people have received me less badly; but still, I don't
have them all with me.
My muse is so willful that she does what she wants and not what I tell
her to do. This is where it comes from that, if I get applause for this, it is
due to lack of foresight.
I wrote my first novel without realizing until the end that what I was writing
was a novel.
I had just read a multitude of devotional books.
The poetic nature of those books had me spellbound, but not captive.
My fantasy was exalted by such readings, but my cold heart remained
free and my dry spirit adhered to severe reason.
I then wanted to collect, as in a bouquet, all the most precious, or what seemed most
precious to me, of those mystical and ascetic flowers, and I invented a character who
would collect them with faith and enthusiasm, judging myself, for myself, incapable of
such a thing. . This is how a novel sprang spontaneously, when I was so far from
wanting to be a novelist.
Later I purposely started composing others, and they say I did worse.
This has discouraged me to such an extent that I have been on the verge of not
writing them again.
Among the few people who have given me new encouragement, V. stands out, pray
for the indulgence with which he celebrates my works, pray for the value that V.'s
praise, if we ignore for a moment the goodness that inspires them, must have for all
who know his rare discretion, his delicate taste and the deep and exquisite feeling
with which he perceives everything beautiful.
Even if I had not followed in advance the sentence of that wise Alexandrian who
stated that only beautiful people understood beauty, you would have moved me to
follow it, showing yourself a luminous and living example and gentle proof of its truth.
Do not be surprised, then, that, full of gratitude, I dedicate this book to you.
To be dedicated to you, I would like him to be better than Pepita Jiménez, whom you
celebrate so much; But it is well known that literary works, and particularly those of a
poetic nature, only thrive in happy moments of inspiration, which authors do not renew
at will.
In this, as in a thousand other things, poetry resembles magic. It requires the

intervention of heaven.
They say of Albert the Great that, going on a pilgrimage from Rome to
Germany, spent a night on the banks of the Po, in a fisherman's cabin. Being
very well entertained there, the doctor wanted to prove his gratitude to the guest,
and he made and gave him a wooden fish, so wonderful that, when placed in the
net, it attracted all the live fish. There is no need to ponder the fortune of the
fisherman with his magical fish. One day, however, he was careless, and the fish
was lost. Then he set out, went to Germany, looked for Alberto, and asked him to
make him another fish similar to the first. Alberto responded that he wanted it (I
also want to make another Pepita Jiménez;) but that, to make another fish that
had all the virtues of the old one, it was necessary to wait for the sky to present
the same appearance and disposition in constellations, signs and planets, which
on the night in which the first fish was made, which could not happen until thirty-
six thousand and a bit later.
years.
Since I cannot wait that long, I resign myself to dedicating myself to V.

ElComendador Mendoza.
This nice character, before going out in public, no longer hidden and in pieces, but
completely and on his own, goes, with Lucía's permission, to humbly kiss your pretty
feet and place himself under her protection. Mirroring an old colleague of mine, he
chooses you as his godmother. Do not disdain the new godson that I present to you,
even if he is not worth as much as Pepita, and believe me, your most affectionate and
respectful servant.
JUAN VALERA.
*Commander Mendoza.*
Despite the chores and cares that keep me in Madrid almost continuously, I still
go to Villabermeja from time to time and
to other places in Andalusia, to spend short periods of one or two

months.
The last time I was in Villabermeja , LasIlusiones del Doctor Faustino had already
come to light .
Mr. Juan Fresco initially showed me some anger that I had brought up his life and
those of several of his relatives in an entertainment book; But in the end, knowing that
I had not done it wrongly, he forgave me for my lack of secrecy. What's more: D.
Juan applauded the idea of writing novels based on real events, and encouraged me
to continue cultivating the genre. This moved us to talk about Commander Mendoza.
"Do the common people," I said, "still believe that the Commander walks around
grieving, during the night, in the attics of the Mendozas ancestral house, with his white
cloak of Santiago's habit?"
"My friend," answered D. Juan, "the common people already read El Citador and
other free-thinking books and newspapers." In disbelief, furthermore, the air that is
breathed is as if impregnated. There is no shortage of skeptical day laborers; but
women, in general, continue to believe at face value. The same skeptical day laborers
deny during the day and surrounded by people, and at night, alone, they are more
afraid of the supernatural than before, for the same reason that they have denied it
during the day. It turns out, then, that, even though we already live in the age of
reason and it is assumed that the age of faith has passed, there is no vermilion woman
who ventures to go up to the attics of the Mendozas' house without coming down
screaming. and sometimes affirming that he has seen the Commander, and there is
hardly a man who goes up to said attics alone without making a great effort of will to
overcome or conceal his fear. The Commander, apparently, has not yet completed his
time in purgatory, and he died at the beginning of this century. Some understand that
he is not in purgatory, but in hell; but it does not seem natural that, if he is in hell, he
should be allowed to leave there to
Let him come to mortify his countrymen. The most reasonable and plausible thing is
that he is in purgatory, and this is what most people believe.
—What can be inferred from everything, whether the Commander is in hell or in

purgatory, is that his sins must have been enormous.
"Well, look, V.," replied Don Juan Fresco, "the common people say nothing is strict
and clear in relation to the Commander." He tells, yes, a thousand confusing lies. In
Villabermeja it is known that he hurt the popular imagination more because of his way
of being and thinking than because of his actions. His known facts, except for some
missteps during his youth, qualify him more as a good person than as a bad person.
—Anyway, V. Do you think the Commander was a notable person?
—And I very much believe it. I will tell you what I know about him, and you will judge.
Don Juan Fresco then told me what he knew about Comendador Mendoza. I just put it
in writing now.
II
Don Fadrique López de Mendoza, commonly called the Commander, was the brother
of Don José, the mayorazgo, grandfather of
our D. Faustino, whom I suppose my readers know.
Nation D. Fadrique in 1744.
Since childhood they say that he showed a perverse inclination to laugh at everything
and not take anything seriously. This quality is the one that is least easily forgiven,
when it is seen that it does not come from lightness, but from having a man's spirit so
serious that he hardly
He finds something earthly and human that deserves his serious consideration; where,
by force of seriousness itself, disdain and mocking laughter are born.
Don Fadrique, according to general tradition, was a man of this type: a jocular man of
pure seriousness.
Of course, there are two kinds of jocular and purely serious men. To a class, which is
very numerous, belong those who are always so serious that they make others laugh,
and without meaning to be jocular. D. Fadrique belonged to another class, which
always has few individuals. Don Fadrique mocked vulgar and unmotivated seriousness,
by virtue of an exquisite and superlative seriousness; which is why it was humorous.
It is worth noting, however, that Don Fadrique's jocularity rarely touched on insolence
or cruelty, nor did he go out of his way to harm his neighbor. Their mockery was
benevolent and urbane, and often had a certain veneer of sweet melancholy.
The predominant trait in D. Fadrique's character cannot be denied that it implied a bad
condition: lack of respect. Since he saw the ridiculous and the comical in everything,
it turned out that he respected nothing or almost nothing, without being able to remedy
it. His teachers and superiors greatly regretted this.
Don Fadrique was agile and strong, and nothing and no one ever inspired him to fear,
more than his father, whom he loved dearly. That did not mean that he failed to know
and even to say in confidence, when he remembered his father, after his death, that,
although he had been a true gentleman, honest, honorable, a good husband and full
of charity towards the poor, he had been also a vandal.
In verification of this assertion, Mr. Fadrique told several anecdotes, among which he
liked none as much as the one about the bolero.
D. Fadrique danced this dance very well when he was a child, and D.
Diego, that was his father's name, was pleased that his son showed off his ability
when he took him on visits or received them with him.
in his house.
One day Don Diego took his son Don Fadrique to the small town, two leagues from
Villabermeja, whose name I have never wanted to say, and where I have set the
scene of my Pepita Jiménez. For the best understanding of everything, and in order
to avoid periphrases, I ask the reader that whenever I speak about the city from now
on, they understand that I am talking about the small city already mentioned.
Don Diego, as has been said, took Don Fadrique to the city.
Don Fadrique was thirteen years old, but he was very tall. As he was on ceremonial
visits, he wore a red damask jacket and jacket with burnished steel buttons, buckled
shoes and white silk stockings, so that he looked like a sun.
D. Fadrique's traveling clothes, which were worn and with some stains and tears,
were left at the inn, where they left the horses. Don Diego wanted his son to
accompany him in all his splendor. The boy was very happy to see himself so
handsome and in such a stately and luxurious suit. But the very idea of the aristocratic
elegance of the suit gave him a somewhat exaggerated feeling of the decorum and
composure that the wearer should have.
Unfortunately, on the first visit that Don Diego made to a widowed noblewoman, who
had two maiden daughters, they talked about the boy Fadrique and how grown up he
was, and the talent he had for dancing the bolero.
"Now," said Don Diego, "the boy dances worse than last year, because he is at the
age of turkey; unbearable age, between the palmette and the barber. You already
know that at that age boys become very clingy, because they begin to brag about
being men and they are not.
However, since you insist, the boy will show off his ability.
The ladies, who had shown a desire to see Don Fadrique dance, repeated their
requests, and one of the maids took a guitar and began to play so that Don
Fadrique would dance.
"Dance, Fadrique," said Don Diego, as soon as the music began.
Invincible repugnance to dancing, on that occasion, took possession of his soul.

I saw a monstrous contradiction, something of what they now call an antinomy,
between the bolero and the jacket. It is worth noting that on that day Mr.
Fadrique was wearing a jacket for the first time: he was wearing the garment
for the first time, if the use of the alteration or recasting of a dress, worn first by
the father and then by the mayorazgo, to whom it was had been narrow and
short.
"Dance, Fadrique," D. Diego repeated, quite dark-skinned.
Don Diego, whose field and road suit, to the use of the land, was in very good
condition, had not put on a jacket like his son. d.
Diego was all dressed up, with boots and spurs, and in his hand he carried the
whip with which he punished the horse and the hounds of a large pack that he
had for hunting.
"Dance, Fadrique," D. Diego exclaimed for the third time, already noticing a
certain alteration in his voice, caused by anger and surprise.
Don Diego's concept of paternal authority was so high that he marveled at that
rebellion.
"Leave him, Mr. de Mendoza," said the widowed noblewoman. "The boy is tired
of the road and doesn't want to dance."
—You have to dance now.
—Leave him V.; We will see him again,” said the one who played the guitar.
"You have to dance now," D. Diego repeated. "Dance, Fadrique."
"I don't dance in a jacket," he finally responded.
Here was Troy. D. Diego dispensed with the ladies and everything.
-Rebel! bad son! -he shouted:- I will send you to the Toribios: dance or I will
skin you; and he began whipping Don Fadrique.
The lady with the guitar stopped the music for a moment; but Don Diego looked
at her in such a terrible way that she was afraid he would make her play the
way she wanted to make her son dance, and she continued playing the bolero.
Don Fadrique, after receiving eight or ten lashes, danced the best he knew
how.
Tears suddenly came to his eyes; but then, considering that it had been his
father who had hit him, and offering the whole scene to his fantasy in a comical
way, and seeing himself dancing with whips and in a coat, he laughed, despite
the physical pain, and danced with inspiration and enthusiasm.
The ladies applauded wildly.
"Well, well," said Don Diego. "For the life of the devil!" Have I done you wrong,
my son?
"No, father," said Don Fadrique. "It's clear: I needed double accompaniment
today to dance."
—Man, hide it. Because you are dumb? What disgust could you have, if the
jacket suits you better, and the classic and good-school bolero is a very
gentlemanly dance? These ladies will forgive me. Is not true? I am a living
thing of genius.
This is how the bolero set ended.

That day Don Fadrique danced four more times on as many visits, at the slightest hint
from his father.
Priest Fernández, who knew and treated Don Fadrique, and about whom my friend
Don Juan Fresco knew many of these things, said that Don.
Fadrique lovingly recounted the anecdote of the bolero, and that he cried with filial
tenderness and laughed at the same time, saying my father was a vandal, when he
remembered him, whipping him, and recalling the terrified ladies to his memory, without
leaving one of them playing the guitar, and himself dancing the bolero better than ever.
It seems there was some family pride in all this. D. Fadrique's my father was a vandal
almost sounded like praise on his lips . D. Fadrique, educated in the place and in the
same way as his father, Mr. Fadrique Cerril, would have been even more of a vandal.
The fame of his pranks as a child lasted in the place for many years after he left to
serve the King.
Orphaned by his mother at three years of age, he had been raised and pampered by
a spinster aunt, who lived in the house, and whom they called the chacha Victoria.
She also had another aunt, who, although she did not live with the family, but rather in
a separate house, had also remained single and competed in pampering and flattery
with the chacha Victoria. This other aunt was called Chacha Ramoncica. Don Fadrique
was the right eye of both ladies, each of whom was already in their forties when our
hero was twelve.
The two aunts or chachas were similar in some ways and were very different.
They were similar in a certain kind and benevolent tone of nobles, in Catholic piety
and in profound ignorance. The latter did not come only from the fact that they had
been educated in the place, but from an idea of
so. I imagine that our grandparents, fed up with the women's high
school, the cultured Latin-speaking and the pedantic ease of the ladies
that Quevedo, Tirso and Calderón portray in their works, had fallen to
the opposite extreme of insisting that women They didn't learn
anything. Science in women had to be considered a source of
perversion. So in places, in wealthy and noble families, when they
were religious and moderate, girls were educated to be very industrious,
very well-groomed and very mistresses of their house. They learned
to sew, embroider and knit; many knew about cooking; not a few ironed
perfectly; but almost always they were prevented from learning to
write, and they were hardly ever taught to read straight through in The
Christian Year or in some other devout book.
The chachas Victoria and Ramoncica had been educated like this. The
diverse condition and character of each one later established notable
differences.
The chacha Victoria, tall, blonde, thin and good-looking, had been, and
continued to be until death, naturally sentimental and curious. By dint
of spelling, he was able to read almost without interruption when he
was already very good; and his readings were not only about the lives
of saints, but he also learned about some secular stories and the
works of several poets. His favorite authors were Doña María de
Zayas and Gerardo Lobo.
She prided herself on being experienced and disillusioned. Their

conversation was always punctuated by these two exclamations:
"What a world this is!" —What he who lives sees!— The chacha
Victoria felt as if she were fed up and tired from having seen so much,
and her travels had not extended beyond five or six leagues from
Villabermeja.
A passion, which today we would describe as romantic, had filled the

entire life of the chacha Victoria. When I was barely eighteen years old,
She met and loved a gentleman infantry cadet at a fair. The cadet
also loved the chacha, who was not one then; but the two lovers, as
noble as they were poor, could not marry due to lack of money. They
formed the firm intention of continuing to love each other, they swore
eternal constancy and decided to wait for the wedding until the cadet
became captain. Unfortunately, at that time people walked on
eggshells in the races, there were no civil wars or pronouncements,
and the cadet, firm as a rock and faithful as a dog, grew old without
ever advancing from lieutenant.
Whenever the military service permitted it, the cadet came to

Villabermeja; He was talking through the window with the chacha Victoria, and they
both said a thousand kindnesses to each other. During long absences they wrote love
letters every eight or ten days; extraordinary assiduity and frequency then.
This need to write forced the chacha Victoria to become literate. Love
was his schoolteacher, and taught him to draw some anarchic and
mysterious scribbles, which by revelation of love the cadet read,
understood and deciphered.
In this way, between seasons of hustling in Villabermeja, and other

longer periods of being absent, communicating by letters, nearly
twelve years passed. The cadet became a lieutenant.
Then there was a terrible moment: a heartbreaking farewell. The

cadet, already a lieutenant, went to the war in Italy. From there the
letters came very occasionally. Eventually they stopped altogether.
The chacha Victoria was filled with melancholic forebodings.
In 1747, with the Peace of Aachen already signed, the Spanish

soldiers returned from Italy to Spain; but our cadet, who had hoped to
return as captain, did not appear or write. Only his assistant, who was
from Vermilion, seemed to have complete permission.
The good assistant, in the best language he could, and with the
preparations and detours that seemed appropriate to cushion the blow,

Victoria gave the chacha the sad news that the cadet, when he was
about to see his wishes fulfilled, when he was going to be promoted to
captain, on the eve of peace, in the broken Trebia, had fallen pierced by
the spear of a Croat.
He did not die instantly. She lived two or three days with the mortal
wound, and had time to give the attendant, so that he could bring her
dear Victoria, a blonde lock that she wore on her chest in a locket, the
letters, and a gold ring with a nice diamond
The poor soldier faithfully fulfilled his commission.
Chacha Victoria received and bathed in tears the beloved relics.

He spent the rest of his life remembering the cadet, remaining faithful to
his memory and crying to him at times. Whatever love there was in her
soul was consumed by devotion and transformed into affection for her
nephew Fadriquito, who was three years old when the chacha Victoria
learned of the death of her perpetual and only boyfriend.
Poor girl Ramoncica had always been small and poorly built, extremely dark and
quite ugly in face. A certain natural and instinctive dignity made him understand, since
he was fifteen years old, that he was not born for love. If there was something of the
love with which women love men that was germinating in her soul, she managed to
suffocate it and it never sprung up. Instead, he had affection for everyone. His charity
extended to animals.
Since the age of twenty-four, when Ramoncica became an orphan and

lived alone in her own home, she was accompanied by half a dozen cats,
two or three dogs and a rook, which possessed various abilities.
Ramoncica also had a dovecote full of pigeons, and a corral full of
turkeys, ducks, chickens and rabbits.
A maid named Rafaela, who came to serve the chacha

Ramoncica, when she was still living at her parents' house, continued
serving her all her life. Mistress and maid were of the same age and
reached extreme old age together.
Rafaela was uglier than the chacha, and, even to imitate her, she always
remained single.
In the midst of her ugliness, there was something noble and distinguished
about the chacha Ramoncica, who was a very short-sighted lady. Rafaela,
on the other hand, despite being ugly, had the most ignoble appearance;
but it was endowed with a very great natural clearance.
For the rest, mistress and servant, each always maintaining their position
and rank in the social hierarchy, identified themselves by such art that it
would be said that there was nothing in them but one will, the same
thoughts and the same purposes.
Everything was order, method and arrangement in that house. It was barely
spent on eating, because the mistress and maid ate very little. A dress, a
skirt, a basquiña, any other garment, lasted for years and years on the
body of the chacha Ramoncica or stored in the closet.
Later, while still in good use, it became Rafaela's pledge.
The furniture was always the same and preserved, as if by magic, with a
luster and cleanliness that gave comfort.
With such a way of living, the Chacha Ramoncica, although she only had
very little income, barely spent a third of it. So she was accumulating and
hoarding, and soon she had the reputation of being rich. However, she
never felt brave enough to be squandered except at the insistence of her
nephew Fadrique, whom, as we have said, she pampered in competition
with the chacha Victoria.
Don Diego was always in the field, hunting or attending to work. Their two
sons, Don José and Don Fadrique, were left in the care of the chacha
Victoria and Father Jacinto, a Dominican friar, who was considered very
learned in the place, and who served as their tutor, teaching them the
first letters and Latin.
Don José was kind and calm, Don Fadrique a devil of mischief; but
D. José could not make himself loved, and D. Fadrique was madly
loved by both chachas, by the fierce D. Diego and by the
aforementioned P. Jacinto, who was barely thirty-six years old
when he taught the language of Cicero to the two lush buds of the
glorious and ancient trunk of the López de Mendoza of Bermej.
While the peaceful Don José stayed at home studying, or went to

the convent to help at mass, or spent his time on other quiet tasks,
Don Fadrique used to escape and cause a thousand disturbances
in the town.
As second son of the house, Don Fadrique was condemned to

dress in what was tight or short for his brother, who, in turn, used
to dress in his father's waste. The chacha Victoria made these
arrangements and transfers. We have already spoken of the red
jacket and jacket, which became memorable for the performance
of the bolero; but long before, D. Fadrique had inherited a cloak,
which became more famous, and which had successively served
D. Diego and D. José. The cape was white, and when it fell into the power of D.
Fadrique was named after the dove-cape.
The dove-cloak seemed to have given wings to the boy, who

became more restless and diabolical since he possessed it. Don
Fadrique, leader of the mutiny and faction among the most foolish
boys in the town, seemed to carry the dove-cape like a banner, like
a sign that everyone followed, like the white plume of Henry IV.
Don Fadrique's side was not very numerous, not because of a lack
of sympathies, but because he chose his supporters and followers
by doing tests similar to those that Gideon did to choose or reject
his soldiers. In this way, Mr. Fadrique managed to have about fifty or
sixty who followed him, so daring and devoted to his person, that
each one was worth ten.
An opposing party was formed, led by D. Casimirito, son of the richest

gentleman in the place. This party was for more people; but, both
because of the captain's personal attributes and because of the
courage and determination of the soldiers, he was always much
inferior to the Fadriqueños.
Several times both sides came to blows, now with fists and fighting
with both arms, now with stones, which was the theater of a plain that
is below a place called El Retamal.
Whenever there was an incident of these, Don Fadrique was the first
to go to the place of danger; But it is true that as soon as word spread
that the cape-dove was going down the Retamal, the streets and
squares were depopulated by the most bellicose children, and
everyone came in search of the idolized captain.
Victory, in all these disputes, always remained on the side of D.

Fadrique. Don Casimiro's men resisted little and at one point took to
shameful flight: but since Don Fadrique always ventured further than
what is appropriate for the prudence of a general, it turned out that he
twice watered the laurels with his blood, leaving him distraught.
Not only in a pitched battle, but in other exercises and doing all kinds of pranks, Don
Fadrique had also broken his head for the third time, had injured his chest with a pair of
scissors, had burned his hand and dislocated his arm: But from all these mishaps he
eventually emerged safe and sound, thanks to his robustness and the care of the
chacha Victoria, who said, amazed and crossing herself: - Oh, son of my soul, heaven
wants to reserve you for very great things, when you live like a miracle and don't die!
III
Casimiro was three years older than Don Fadrique, and he was also stockier
and taller. Irritated at always seeing himself defeated as a captain, he
wanted to test himself against Don Fadrique in single combat.
They fought, then, with fists and with both arms, and poor Casimiro always
came out exhausted and trampled, despite his apparent superiority.
The Dominican friars of the place never liked the Mendozas family well.
Despite the utmost piety of the chachas Victoria and Ramoncica, and the
humble devotion of Don José, they could not swallow
D. Diego, and they were scandalized by the outrages and insolence of D.
Fadrique.
Only Father Jacinto, who loved Don Fadrique tenderly, defended him from
the accusations and complaints of the other friars.
These, however, often threatened to catch him and send him to the Toribios,
or to have Brother Toribio himself come for him and take him away.
The friars knew well that the blessed brother Toribio had died more than
twenty years ago; but the institution created by him flourished, lending the
glorious founder an immortal and mythological existence.
Until well into the second third of the present century, Brother Toribio and
the Toribios in general have been the constant subject of all threats to instill
healthy terror in the mischievous kids.
Don Fadrique's mind did not enter into the idea of the fervent charity with
which Brother Toribio, in order to save and purify the souls of all the boys
he caught, martyred their bodies, giving them harsh lashes on their naked
flesh. Thus, in his imagination, the blessed brother Toribio presented himself
as a furious and perverse madman, an enemy of himself who would wound
himself with chains.
girded around the loins, and enemy of the entire human race, whom he
flayed and tormented in the age of childhood and earliest youth when
souls open to love and when nature and heaven should smile and caress
instead of spanking.
Since there had already been cases of taking to the Toribios, against the
will of their parents, several naughty boys, and since brother Toribio,
during his holy life, had gone out in search of such boys, not only
throughout Seville, but throughout other towns in Andalusia, from where
he led them to their terrible establishment, the threat of the friars seemed
like a very heavy joke to D. Diego, and in truth it seemed even heavier
to him. He therefore told the friars to refrain from teasing his son, and
much more from threatening him, that he would know how to punish the
boy when he deserved it; but that no one but him would dare to lay hands
on him. Don Diego added that the boy, although still small, would know
how to defend himself and even offend, if they attacked him, and that he
would also fly to their aid, if necessary, and would tear off the ears of all
the Toribios that there have been and are. in the world.
With these insinuations, which everyone well knew how effective D.

Diego was capable of making, the friars restrained their malevolence;
but since D. Fadrique (it must be confessed, if we are to be impartial)
continued to be worse than Pateta, the friars, no longer daring to wield
earthly and temporal weapons against him, resorted to the arsenal of
spiritual and eternal ones, and did not cease wanting to scare him with
hell and the devil.
Very serious harm was caused by this method of intimidation. d.

Fadrique, despite his chachas, became impious, before thinking and
reflecting, due to an instinctive feeling. Religion did not offer itself to his
mind on the side of love and infinite tenderness, but on the side of fear,
against which his courageous and independent nature rebelled. D.
Fadrique did not see the object of the soul's insatiable love, and the
worthy end of its last aspiration, in supernatural powers.
Don Fadrique saw in them nothing but tyrants, executioners or scarecrows without
consistency.
Each century has its spirit, which spreads and seems to dilute itself in the air we
breathe, perhaps infusing itself into the souls of men, without the need for ideas and
theories to pass from one understanding to another through the written word. or
spoken. Perhaps the 18th century was not critical, mocking, sensualist and
disbelieving because it had Voltaire, Kant and the encyclopedists, but because it was
critical, mocking, sensualist and disbelieving it had these thinkers, who formulated in
precise terms what was vague. and diffuse in the environment: the turn of human
thought in that period of its progressive civilization.
Only in this way can we understand that Don Fadrique became impious without reading or
hearing anything that would lead him to it.
This new quality that appeared in him was quite dangerous in those times. D. Diego
himself was frightened by certain ideas of his son. Fortunately, the development of
such a bad inclination almost coincided with D. Fadrique's departure to the College
of Marine Guards, and thus all scandal and displeasure in Villabermeja was avoided.
The girls Victoria and Ramoncica cried a lot for D.'s departure.
Fadrique; Father Jacinto felt it; D. Diego, who took him to the Island, was happy to
see his son put in the race, almost more than he was saddened to be separated from
him; and the friars, and Casimirito above all, had a day of joy the day they lost sight
of him.
Don Fadrique returned to the place ahead, but always for a very short time: once
when he left the College to go sailing; once again being a ship's second lieutenant.
Then years and years passed without any Bermejino seeing Don Fadrique. It was
known that he was, now in Peru, now in Asia, in the Far East.
IV
Of D. Fadrique's things, during such a long absence, the most fantastic and absurd
concept was had or was forged in the place.
D. Diego and the chacha Victoria, who were the most educated and intelligent people
in the family, died shortly after D. was found.
Fadrique in Peru. And as for the candid Ramoncica and the limited Don José, Don
Fadrique only wrote from time to time, and each letter was as brief as a faith of life.
To Father Jacinto, although Don Fadrique truly esteemed and loved him, he also
wrote little to him, due to the repulsion and distrust that the friars generally inspired in
him. So nothing was ever known for certain in the place of the wanderings and
adventures of the illustrious sailor.
The person who knew the most about it in his time was the priest Fernández, who, as
has been said, treated Don Fadrique and had some friendship with him. D. Juan
Fresco learned about it from the priest Fernández, who was greatly influenced by the
story of D.'s pilgrimages and fortune-telling.
Fadrique to become a pilot and follow in his footsteps.
Now collecting and organizing the scattered and vague news, I will write it down here
in summary.
Mr. Fadrique spent a short time at the College, where he showed great willingness to
study.
He soon set out to sail, and went to Havana on a very sad occasion.
Spain was at war with the English, and the capital of Cuba was attacked by Admiral
Pocok. The ship in which our Bermejino was found sank, the people of the crew, who
were able to save themselves, were assigned to the defense of the Morro castle,
under the orders of the brave Don Luis Velasco.
There was Don Fadrique wreaking havoc on the English squad with his
accurate cannon shots. Then, during the assault, he fought like a hero in
the breach, and saw D. Luis, his boss, die at his side. Finally, he was one
of the few who managed to save himself when, passing over a pile of
corpses and taking the living prisoners, the English general, Count of
Albemarle, arrived to raise the British flag over the main fortress of Havana.
Don Fadrique had the displeasure of attending the capitulation of that

important place, and, counted among the number of those who garrisoned
it, he was taken to Spain in compliance with the capitulation.
Then, as a ship's second lieutenant, he came to Villabermeja, and saw his

father for the last time.
The queen of the Antilles, many millions of duros and the best of our
warships had remained in the hands of the English.
Don Fadrique was not discouraged by such a tragic beginning. He was a

man little given to melancholy. He was optimistic and not complaining.
Furthermore, all the assets of the house were to be inherited by the estate,
and he longed to acquire honor, money and position.
He was in Villabermeja for a few days. He left before his leave was up.
King Charles III, after the sad peace of Paris, to which the disastrous Family Pact led
him, tried everywhere to improve the administration of his vast States. America was
where there were the most abuses, scandals, immorality, tyrannies and waste. In order
to remedy so much evil, the King sent Gálvez as a visitor to Mexico, and somewhat
later he sent D. Juan Antonio de Areche to Peru, with the same mission. On this
expedition D. Fadrique went to Lima.
He was there when the Tupac-Amaru rebellion took place.

In the impartial and philosophical mind of the Bermejino, it seemed like a horrible
contradiction that his Government tried to drown that rebellion in blood, at the same
time that it was aiding that of Washington and his partisans against the English; but
Don Fadrique, murmuring and censuring, served his Government with energy, and
contributed considerably to the pacification of Peru.
Don Fadrique accompanied Areche on his march to Cuzco, and from there,
commanding one of the six columns into which General Valle divided his forces, he
continued the campaign against the Indians, taking glorious part in many skirmishes,
firmly suffering the privations, the rains and cold in rugged heights at the foot of the
Andes, and not stopping until Tupac-Amaru was defeated and fell prisoner.
Don Fadrique, with great horror and disgust, was an eyewitness of the tremendous
punishments that our Government inflicted on the rebels.
He thought that the cruelties and infamies committed by the Indians did not justify
those of a cultured and European Government. It was going down to the level of
those semi-savage people. So he almost regretted having contributed to the triumph
when he saw in the plaza of Cuzco die
Tupac-Amaru, after a brutal martyrdom, which seemed like the invention of beasts
and not human beings.
Tupac-Amaru had to witness the death of his wife, one of his sons, and other relatives
and friends: another ten-year-old son of his was sentenced to watch those barbaric
tortures of his father and mother, and he himself was They cut out his tongue and
then tied him by the four oars to as many horses so that, running away, they would
tear him to pieces. The horses, although spurred hard by those riding them, did not
have enough strength to dismember the Indian, and he, disjointed, after pulling him
for a while in different directions, had to be untied from the horses and his head cut
off.
Despite his optimism, his cheerful disposition and his penchant for taking many events
on a comical side, Don Fadrique, unable to find anything comical in that event, fell ill
with fever and became very discouraged in his penchant for running. military.
Since then, the mania for being a philanthropist became more evident in him, a kind
of secularization of charity, which began to be very fashionable in the last century.
D. Fadrique's precocious impiety came to be based on reasons and speeches with

the passage of time and with the reading of the bad books that were published in
France at that time. The mocking and rejoicing character of D. Fadrique went poorly
with the gloomy misanthropy of Rousseau. Voltaire, on the other hand, loved it. His
most impious works seemed to echo his soul.
D. Fadrique's philosophy was the sensualism of Condillac, which he considered the

non plus ultra of human speculation.
As for politics, our Mr. Fadrique was an anachronistic liberal in Spain. In the years of
1783, when he saw Tupac-Amaru die, he was almost like a radical today.
All this was linked and based on a theodicy that was somewhat confusing and
superficial, but common at the time. D. Fadrique believed in God and imagined that
he had knowledge of God, representing him as a supreme and free intelligence, who
made the world because he wanted to, and then ordered and arranged it according
to the most profound principles of mechanics and physics. Despite Cándido, a novel
that made him cry with laughter, D. Fadrique was almost as optimistic as Dr.
Pangloss, and he was certain that everything was divinely well and that nothing could
be better than it was. The evil seemed to him an accident, even though he was often
amazed that it occurred so frequently and that it was so great, and the good seemed
to him to be the substantial, positive and important thing that was in everything.
About spirit and matter, about otherworldly life and about the justification
of Providence, based on compensations of eternal duration, D. Fadrique
was very doubtful; but his optimism was such that he saw the goodness
of heaven demonstrated and even evident, without leaving this sublunary
world and the life we live. It is true that for this purpose he had adopted
a theory, very new at the time. And we say that he had adopted it, and
not that he had invented it, because we do not know, although it could
well be that he invented it; since when the moment arrives and the hour
strikes for an idea to be born and for a system to be formulated, the idea
is born and the system is formulated in a thousand heads at the same
time, although the glory of the invention goes to the one who In writing
or orally it explains it with more clarity, precision or elegance.
The idea, or rather, the newest theory, as it was in D. Fadrique's mind,

was in summary the following:
The philosopher from Villabermeja understood that there was a

providential and eternal law for history, as indefectible as the mathematical
laws, according to which the stars rotate in their orbits. By virtue of this
law, humanity was always advancing along a path of indefinite
perfectibility; His ascension towards light, good, truth and beauty had no
pause or end. In this, the human lineage, as a whole, followed a
necessary impulse. All the glory of success went to the Supreme Being,
who had given that impulse; but, within the providential movement that
was born from it, in every action, in every idea, in every purpose, each
individual was free and responsible. The wonderful work of Providence,
the most beautiful mystery of its infinite wisdom, consisted in coordinating
with careful harmony all those results of human freedom so that they
would contribute to the fulfillment of the eternal law of progress, or in
having them foreseen with such divine foresight and success, that did
not disturb what was prescribed and ordered; Just as, although it is a low
comparison, the expert inventor and builder of a machine takes into
account friction and the environment.
Such a way of considering events suited Don Fadrique's character well, corroborating
his disdain for trifles, and his desire to classify as trifles what is extremely important to
most men, and transforming his propensity to joy and laughter in Olympic serenity,
worthy of the immortals.
In his morals he was still severe. He had not erased from his tables of the law a single
accent or a comma of the divine commandments. The only thing he did was give more
force, if possible, to any prohibition of acts that produce pain, and to relax somewhat
the prohibitions of everything that seemed to him to bring only delight or well-being with
it.
At that age, we have already said that thinking like this about Spain and its dominions
was exposed; but Don Fadrique had the gift of moderation and wisdom, and without
hypocrisy he managed not to clash or hurt opinions or beliefs.
Contributing to this was the good grace with which he won the will, not by inspiring
trivial affection in everyone, but by inspiring very lively the few he loved, who were
always worth many to defend and praise him.
In his early youth, Don Fadrique was endowed with such garments, and was also
beautiful and graceful in face, of good figure, daring and stealthy, and managed to
have gallant adventures rain down on him, and he had a high reputation for being lucky
in love.
After the Tupac-Amaru rebellion ended, he was promoted to frigate captain, and his
reputation as a good soldier and as a wise and skilled sailor reached its peak.
Almost when the last Indians partial to the independence of their homeland had just
breathed their last breath in Cuzco, some being held with hot tongs before being
hanged, the news arrived.
Lima that we had made peace with England, achieving the independence
of its colony, for which we fought.
Don Fadrique was then able to obtain a license to sail under the orders
of the Philippine Company, and he left for Calcutta sending a ship loaded
with precious merchandise. He made three trips from Lima to Calcutta
and from Calcutta to Lima; And since he had a very good salary and a
large salary, and achieved very advantageous sales, he soon found
himself in possession of several million reales.
In the long periods that Don Fadrique spent in India he became very
fond of the sweetness of the indigenous people of that country and took
a greater abhorrence of the religious and warrior fervor of other nations.
Tippoo, sultan of Misor, had insisted on converting all the Hindustanis to
Islam and expanding his empire to Cape Comorin, where the hosts of
other Muslim conquerors had never penetrated. The horrible devastation
of the flourishing kingdom of Travancor, under the beards of the English,
was the consequence of the ambition and Muslim zeal of the
aforementioned sultan. The Governor General of India finally resolved to
avenge and remedy what he should have prevented, and he left Calcutta
for Madras with many European soldiers and sepoys, and great war
supplies. On that occasion Don Fadrique had the pleasure of earning
quite a few rupees, serving a good cause and taking troops, provisions
and ammunition to Madras on his ship, with due authorization.
It seems that shortly after this event, and even before the rajah of
Travancor was restored to his throne, and Sultan Tippoo defeated and
forced to make peace, D. Fadrique, already tired of pilgrimages and
work, with the ambition subdued and with the desire for fortune more
than satisfied, she managed, upon returning to Lima, to obtain her
retirement, and came to Europe, eager to witness the great revolution
that was being carried out in France, whose principles were so in
accordance with the his, and whose fame filled the
world of wonder.
Don Fadrique, however, was only in Paris for a few months: from the end of 1791 to
September 1792. This time was enough for him to get tired and fed up with the great
revolution, to become somewhat disillusioned with his liberalism and to doubt his
theories of constant progress.
He finally lived in Madrid for two years, and he also became disillusioned about many
things.
Having already entered his fifties, although healthy and good, and appearing in his
countenance, in the robustness and gallantry of his body, and in the serenity and
liveliness of his spirit, he was much younger, he was overcome by the nostalgia that
almost all people suffer from. Bermejinos, and made the irrevocable resolution to
retire to Villabermeja to end his life peacefully there.
The letters he wrote to his brother Don José and to the chacha Ramoncica, who were
still alive, announcing his definitive and forever return, were brief, although very
affectionate. Instead, he wrote Father Jacinto an extensive letter, which is still
preserved and must be transferred to this site. The letter is as follows:
IN
My dear Father Jacinto: You will already know from my brother and from Chacha
Ramoncica that I am determined to go to that place to end my life where I spent the
best and most innocent years of it (good innocence was mine!) , playing dimple, tags,
jumping rope and sometimes cané, and walking with stones and mojicones with my
contemporaries and companions.
Then I was crazy; But you will realize that I have polished myself quite a bit by
wandering through those worlds, and that now my hobbies are different and my cares
are very diverse. The Friars
V.'s companions will no longer have the need to threaten me with the Toribios.
My stay in the place will not bring any disturbance; On the contrary, I flatter myself
that it brings some advantages. I have made money and I will use a lot of it to promote
agriculture. The wine produced there is abominable and can be excellent.
By working we will be able to make it drinkable and good.
I am dreaming of the pleasant evenings that we are going to spend in the winter,
playing malilla and tute, disputing about our not very agreeable theologies, and I am
referring to you my adventures in Peru, in India and in other remote regions. .
I know that you, despite the years, are firm as an oak, which is why I promise myself
that you will take long walks with me on horseback and on foot, and that you will
accompany me to hunt partridges. I have two magnificent English shotguns, which I
bought in Calcutta, and with which I have hunted tigers, some of them as big as
donkeys. You'll see
V. How well you shoot with any of these shotguns at the peaceful and enamored
partridges that come to the call during the mating season.
Despite our age, we still have to engage, if you do not object, in some very childish
things. We have to return to Pozo de la Solana, like forty years ago, to hunt buntings
and other birds, now with the net, now with garter and esparto grass. Have me ready
a good pair of cymbels.
All the things out there offer themselves to my memory with the charm of the first
years. I understand that I am going to be refreshed by seeing and enjoying them. I
want to go back to eating piñonate, salmorejo, hojuelas, gajorros, pestiños, lamb in
stew, goat in cochifrito, anchovy empanadas with chocolate, cake-maimón, gazpacho,
sausages and the other culinary delights and
pastries that Bermejinos gourmets usually treat themselves to. That is not why I will
break with the custom contracted in other lands, but I plan to take with me a gabacho
that I have brought from Paris, which spices up some delicacies that I am certain will
please Your Excellency, although they have almost impossible names. to pronounce
through a mouth from Villabermeja; But you will be convinced that, without pronouncing
them, you chew them, savor them, swallow them and they taste heavenly.
As strange as it may seem to you, I also bring wine to that land of wine. I remember
that V. was an excellent taster; that V. had a very fine palate and a very delicate nose.
I hope, then, that you will understand and appreciate the merit of the foreign wines that
I bring, and that they will not fall into your stomach as if they had fallen into the drain.
I am very happy that Chacha Ramoncica is still alive. They told me that everything at
home is still the same as before. The same furniture, the same maid Rafaela, and even
the rook, either the same one too, who by a miracle of our Patron Saint still lives, or
another one who replaced him in time, and looks like the phoenix reborn from its ashes.
I really want to give a hug to the girl Ramoncica, although, let it be said between us, I
loved the poor girl Victoria more.
What a noble woman that was! I assure you that I have not found a woman like her in
the world. If I had found it, I wouldn't be a bachelor.
At this point I have been less than happy. I have found nothing but light, clumsy,
frivolous and soulless women. Only one, there in Lima, truly loved me with fervent but
criminal love. I loved her too, unfortunately for me, because she had a hell of a temper,
and since we loved each other very much, the story of our loves was made up of a
series of daily fights. Those loves were a nightmare, and not a delight. She was very
devout, she had been a saint and was still in
opinion of such, because we always proceeded with caution and modesty. However,
in the depths of her troubled conscience, in the depths of her mind, proud and
fanatical at the same time, she felt ashamed of having humiliated her pride before
me and of having surrendered to my will, and she was afraid and horrified at having
left the right path for me, offending God and failing to fulfill his duties. Without realizing
what she was doing, she wanted to make me pay for all of this, considering me
extremely guilty. What I had to endure has no name. Believe me, Father Jacinto, in
sin I carried penance. So I was fed up with serious loves for years, and since then I
dedicated myself to light ones. Why torment yourself in a matter that should be all
about amenity, joy and joy?
Perhaps for this reason, and not because it is barely given in rerum natura, I never
achieved the love of a young Victoria chacha. If I had reached her, I am not very
tender at heart, but don't doubt it, Yours truly, I would have died blessing her, as the
cadet died, or I would have conquered for her and for her, not the rank of captain,
but the world.
Anyway, youth is over, and there is no need to think about novels.
I am disillusioned and bored, although with gentle disappointment and gentle boredom.
I ran out of ambition; I have no appetite for glory; I do not aspire to be the vain
pointed finger; I have more assets of fortune than I need; I am thirsty for rest,
darkness and calm, and for all this I retire to Villabermeja; but not to do penance, but
to give me a blessed, peaceful life, full of order and well-being, taking good care of
myself and seeing how long a well-preserved Comendador Mendoza lasts. Until now
I am. I don't look like I'm fifty, but less than forty. Not a gray hair. Not a wrinkle. They
still call me sir, and not sir, and there are no shortage of graceful females who
describe me as a royal young man, offending my modesty.
My greatest disappointment has been in my ideas and doctrines, although it

has not been enough to make me change.
God forgive me if I am wrong in believing him to be good. I, believing in him

and imagining him as a person, have to imagine everything good that I conceive
that a person can be.
Therefore, not completing my concept of his goodness the glory of the other
life, however immense it may be, I suppose in this life that we live, even if it
serves to gain the other, an end and a purpose in itself, and not only the
otherworldly. . This goal, this purpose is to walk towards perfection, and without
ever reaching it here, to get closer and closer to it. I believe, then, in progress;
that is, in the gradual and constant improvement of society and of the individual,
both in the material and in the moral, and in speculative science as well as in
that which is born from observation and experience, and gives rise to the arts
and to the industry.
The best means of this progress, and at the same time its best result in our
days, is, in my opinion, freedom. The most essential condition of this freedom
is that we all be equally free.
Imagine how much I would love the French Revolution and its Constituent
Assembly, which tended to carry out these principles of mine; who proclaimed
the rights of man.
I asked for my retirement, left my career, and came, full of impatience, from the
other hemisphere to bathe in the immortal light of the great revolution and to
kindle my enthusiasm in the sacred fire that burned in Paris, where I imagined
the heart and soul were. the mind of the world.
My hopes soon faded. The apostles of the new law seemed to me, for the most
part, infamous scoundrels or furious frenzies, full of envy and thirsty for blood. I
saw talent, virtue, beauty, knowledge, elegance, everything that stands out on
earth for something, be a victim of those fanatics or those
envious The exploits of the soldiers of the revolution against the allied kings of Europe
could not admire me. They did not seem to me to be the serene defense of someone
who trusts in his courage and his right, but rather the feverish vigor of madness, excited
by the intoxication of blood and by means of horrible murders. Paris seemed like hell
to me, and I can't now understand how I stayed in it for so long. Everything was
changed: brutality was called energy; simplicity the indecent dishonesty; Frankness is
rudeness, and virtue is not having the guts for compassion. I remembered the times of
greatest tyranny, and I could not find a worse time, especially considering that we were
in the center of Europe and that we had so many centuries of civilization and culture.
The tyrant was not one, there were several, and all of them were vulgar and dirty in
soul and body.
I fled Paris and came to Madrid. Another disappointment. If over there I thought I was
witnessing an abominable and barbaric tragedy, here I found myself in a grotesque,
disgusting and lascivious farce. Over there blood; filth here.
That did not mean I apostatized from my optimism nor put aside my doctrine of
indefinite progress. What I did was recognize my error in chronology calculations, for
which I had not taken into account the ferocious and disheveled revolution in France.
In view of this revolution, the relative good, the state of freedom and advancement for
societies, which I fantasized as immediate, sank inward, into the abysses of the future,
for at least two or three centuries.
Since I will not live by then, and since in the present state of the world I am already fed
up with practical life, I have resolved to take refuge in contemplation; and in order to
enjoy the spectacle of human things, mixing in them as little as possible, I am going to
take a seat, as a dispassionate spectator, in Villabermeja itself.
My brother, who already has a marriageable daughter, for whom he naturally

wants a good boyfriend, goes to live in the neighboring city, where he
already has a house taken, and leaves me at my ease and alone in the
ancestral house of the Mendozas, where I will give him shelter whenever
he comes to the place for his business.
I stick to the saying that says either court or cortijo; And since I'm fleeing
from Paris and Madrid, I don't want a provincial city, but a village.
In the great house of the Bermejino Mendoza I'm going to be like a chickpea
in a pot; but some rooms will be filled with the multitude of books that I am
going to bring.
We are going to have an enviable life; and I say let's go, because I suppose
and hope that you will keep me company often.
My determination is irrevocable, and I am going there, not to leave there,

except when I go on a horseback ride, to visit my brother and his family, in
the nearby city, which, despite its pompous title of city, also has a lot of
small and rural town, with forgiveness and in peace be said.
Goodbye, most blessed father. Please entrust me to God, on whose favor I

count to escape from this ridiculous confusion of the court, and to soon be
able to give you, in that charming Villabermeja, a tight embrace.
WE
Twenty days after receiving this letter by Father Jacinto, the solemn entry into
Villabermeja of the illustrious Commander Mendoza took place.
From Madrid to the capital of the province, which was then called the
kingdom, our hero came by collera car and spent nine days.
In the capital of the province he met his brother D. José,
with Father Jacinto and with other childhood friends, who were waiting
for him. Among them, Uncle Gorico stood out, a master skin maker, a
skilled maker of hides and very notable in the difficult art of adding
snacks to broken skins. This had been the most diabolical boy in the
place after D. Fadrique, and his lieutenant when the brawls, throwing
stones and other exploits against D.'s side.
Casimiro.
Uncle Gorico had no other defect than that he had given himself overly
fond of white drink. He loved anise brandy. And as when the dawn
appeared over the narrow horizon of Villabermeja, Uncle Gorico,
according to his expression, killed the bug,
It turned out that he was Calamocan almost all day, because that fire
that lit in his being with the first morning glow was nourished, during the
day, thanks to frequent libations.
For the rest, Uncle Gorico never lost his reason; What he managed to do
was wrap that light from the sky in a faint gauze, in an exquisite lantern,
which made him see the things of the outside world and everything inside
his soul and the treasures of his memory as if through magic glass. He
never reached complete drunkenness; and once alone, he said he had
had pain in his legs all his life.
He was, therefore, a man of wit in various ways, and no one had better
witticisms, nor told more spicy jokes, nor was he a more useful and
agreeable companion in a hunting party.
In the place he enjoyed an enviable celebrity for a thousand reasons,

and among others, because he played the role of Abraham in the Holy
Thursday morning pass, so admirably well that no one could equal him
for many leagues around. With a woman's dress for a tunic, a bed spread
for a cloak, his turban and his linen beard, he took on a venerable
appearance. And when he climbed Mount Moria, which was a stable
covered with vegetables, which rose in the middle of the square, he
acquired the pathetic majesty of a good actor. But what he shined most,
eliciting shouts of enthusiasm, was when he offered Isaac to the
Almighty before sacrificing him. Isaac was a little boy of at least ten years old. With his
right hand, Uncle Gorico lifted him towards the sky, and with his arm extended, as if it
were not made of bone and flesh, but of very firm steel, he remained for fourteen or
fifteen minutes.
Then came the moment of the most vivid emotions; tragic terror in all its force.
Abraham tied the boy to the altar, and took out a gruesome chafaro that he wore on
his belt. Three or four times he stabbed with incredible violence. The women covered
their eyes and gave frightful screams, believing that the throat of the boy who
prefigured Christ had already been cut; but Uncle Gorico stopped the blow before
striking, as if he did not dare to consummate the sacrifice. At last an angel appeared,
with wings of gold paper, on the balcony of the Town Hall, and sang the romance that
begins:
"Stop, stop, Abraham; Do not kill your son Isaac, For my God is already pleased
with your good will."
The sacrifice of the lamb instead of the son, with the rest of the step, was executed by
Uncle Gorico with no less mastery.
On more than one occasion they tried to win him over, offering him a lot of money so
that he could go and play Abraham in other towns; but he never wanted to be unfaithful
to his country and deprive it of that glory.
Don José, Father Jacinto, Uncle Gorico and the other friends, very happy to have
embraced Don Fadrique, also very happy to see themselves among the companions
of their childhood, began on horseback the trip to Villabermeja, which, getting up early
and chopping a lot, could be done in ten hours, everyone arriving at the place at dusk
on a beautiful spring day, in the year 1794.
Doña Antonia, wife of Don José, and her two children, Don Francisco, who was
fourteen years old, and Doña Lucía, who was already eighteen,
Accompanied by the chacha Ramoncica, they received with joy, with hugs and a
thousand other signs of affection the Commander, who already had the ancestral
house as his. D. José and his family had settled in the city, and for only two days
they had come to the town to receive their beloved relative.
This one, as he was very modest, was amazed and pleased to see that he
achieved more popularity in Villabermeja than he thought.
All the friars came to see him, from the most distinguished to the laymen, the
doctor, the apothecary, the schoolteacher, the mayor, the notary and many small
people.
The day after the arrival the chacha Ramoncica wanted to show off, and she showed off,
giving a magnificent pipiripao. Don Fadrique, when he heard this word, had to ask what it
meant, and they told him that it was something like a feast. On the other hand, they still
tell stories in Villabermeja of the great difficulties that Chacha Ramoncica was in that night
when she returned home, wondering what her nephew had asked her for the feast, and
that she wanted to be served, in order to give pleasure in everything. The word, unheard
of to her, with which her nephew had meant the thing he wanted, had almost been erased
from her mind. Finally, consulting the case with Rafaela, and making an effort of memory,
he came to recompose the word and declare that what his nephew had asked for was
economy.
—What is that, Rafaela? —he asked his faithful servant.
And Rafaela answered:
—Madam, what must it be? Ajorro!
There was none, however. That day the chacha Ramoncica threw the still life out
of the window.
The next it was the Commander's turn to show off, and despite all his
Philosophy took great joy in the fact that his relatives and countrymen saw
in wonder his porcelain tableware, his silver and the other rare or beautiful
objects that he had brought back from his travels, and that he had sent
ahead of him with his most trusted servant. Even the strange physiognomy
of this one, who was an Indian, astonished the Bermejinos, to the delight
and satisfaction of Don Fadrique. He also had an indescribable pleasure in
telling his adventures and in making descriptions of remote countries, of
pilgrim customs and of singular cases that he had seen or in which he had
taken part.
None of this should move us to lower the concept we have of the Commander.
As childish as it may seem, such vanity is more common than you think.
Who doesn't like it, when it comes back
to the place of your birth, give yourself a certain tone, without offending
anyone, expressing how important a role you have played in the world?
There are people who do not wait for this to go to their place. Born in a very
small town in Andalusia, I had a certain friend who, as he became a character
of great fame and many bells, found his greatest delight in sending his
people every year a copy of the Guide to Outsiders, with a record in the
several pages on which his name was stamped. One year the Guide was
with eight records, and the astonishment of the locals, shared by letter to my
friend, gave him a contentment that almost bordered on beatitude or
blessedness.
There is no less pleasure in recounting adventures and events and in

describing wonders. Hence, without a doubt, the saying: long ways, long
lies. Suffice it to say, then, in praise of Don Fadrique, that the proverb never
prayed with him, because it was truth in person.
What we will not ensure is that everything he said was always believed. The
locals are malicious and distrustful; They usually have a criterion there in
their own way, and often the most true things seem false or implausible to
them, and lies, on the contrary, very consistent with the truth. I remember
that an Andalusian butler of a certain unforgettable and discreet Duke, who
was ambassador in
Naples, went to his town with leave. When he returned we teased him, assuming that
he had told many lies.
He confessed to us that yes, and even added, boasting about it, that they had believed
everything, except one thing.
—What was that thing? —we asked him.
"Near Naples," he replied, "there is a mountain that emits sparks from the top."
In this way our Don Fadrique was able very well, without deviating one iota from the
truth, to stop being believed in something, without his countrymen daring to tell him,
as they said to the Duke's butler when he spoke of Vesuvius: "That is grid!"
On the third day after the arrival of D. Fadrique, his brother D.

Joseph and his family returned to the city; and then, with more rest, the Commander
was able to give himself over to another no less pleasant pleasure: that of visiting and
remembering the most beloved and frequented places of his childhood, and those
where something memorable had happened to him.
He was in Retamal and in Llanete, which is nearby, where he was shot twice; He
went to the fountain of Genazahar and the Pilar de Abajo; He climbed Laderón and
Nava, and extended his excursions to the hill of Jilena and Mount Horquera, then
populated by corpulent and centuries-old oaks.
Finally, Don Fadrique took true possession of his home, settling into it, so to speak,
putting in order the furniture he had brought, arranging the books and hanging the
pictures.
In these tasks, directed by him, Father was almost always present.

Hyacinth; and eventually Don Fadrique settled in, carving out a retirement, both rustic
and elegant, and a very pleasant solitude in the place where he was born.
VII
Don Fadrique was delighted with his way of living. Whether it was reading, whether it
was a gathering or a walk with Father Jacinto, or whether it was on field expeditions
and venatory expeditions with the same father and with the enlightened and entertaining
Uncle Gorico, time passed by in the most pleasant way.
Don Fadrique had no desire to go to another town, abandoning
Villabermeja; but Don José had a room prepared to receive him in his house in the
city, and his requests were such that there was nothing more to do than give in to them.
The Commander went to the city to spend the entire month of May. He arrived on the
afternoon of the last day of April, and since the trip is a walk, that night he was in
conversation until around eleven o'clock, which in 1794 was already a lot of staying
up. Two or three gentlemen; many other macho ladies; two young friends of Lucía,
niece of D. Fadrique; A respectable priest and a very elegant foreign gentleman made
up the meeting at Don José's house, which began before nightfall.
Nobody caught the attention of Don Fadrique, who was very distracted.
He needed to like or dislike people in order to notice them, and it was with great
difficulty that he managed to like people, much less dislike them. So, being very urban
with everyone, he barely noticed any of them.
At the sound of prayers they served refreshments.
First two maids passed by handing out plates, napkins and silver spoons; Then two
other maids entered, carrying trays full of glass cups with different syrups.
Each participant took a small cup of the syrup that he liked the most in his seat. The
maids with the trays passed by again, collecting the empty cups, and begging the
gentlemen to take another one of another syrup, as in fact many did.
The story, lengthy at this point, tells that the syrups were made from green walnuts,
angel hair, tomato and orange blossom leaves.
There was also peach syrup.
The mop nymphs, very composed and with many flowers in their buns, then served
glasses of rosoli, from which only the gentlemen drank; and finally they brought the
chocolate with sponge cake, Polvorones, oil bread and puff pastry. He finished
everything with water, which the maids also distributed in crystal glasses and in fragrant
jars.
This lasted until the spirits gave up.
The refreshment was drunk with all ceremony and with few words. The chairs were
pressed against the wall, and everyone was sitting without putting one leg over the
other, or leaning on any side, or reclining too much.
After drinking the refreshment, there was some more freedom and expansion, and
Lucia dared to ask the little gentleman to recite some
verses.
"Yes, yes," almost all the members of the gathering said in chorus; "let him recite."
"I'll recite something from Melendez," said the young man.
"No, from you," Lucía replied. "You should know, uncle," she added, addressing the
Commander, "that this man is a very poet and a great student." You'll see what beautiful
verses he composes.
—V. You are very kind, Miss Doña Lucía. The friendship she has for me deceives her.
Your uncle is going to be disappointed when he hears me.
"I trust so much in my niece's fine taste," said the Commander, "that I doubt she will be
wrong, no matter how fervent the friendship that you inspire in her." I'm almost
convinced the verses will be good.
—Come on, recite them V., Mr. Carlos.
—I don't know which ones to recite that are less tiring, and that leave you, who trusts
me, and I, who am the author, free from grace.
"Recite, V.," answered Lucía, "the last ones you have composed for
Clori.
-They are long.
-It doesn't matter.
Don Carlos did not have to wait any longer, and with a measured intonation and a
certain shyness that would have made him likable, even if he was not already likeable,
he recited the following:
The placid stream Breaks the ice bond, And unleashed in a crystalline wave
Fertilizes the meadow. Flora lends her
finery to Chiprina; Phoebus shines in the celestial sphere, And in the silent night The
chaste goddess kisses her sleeping shepherd, With tremulous brilliance, she kisses in
ecstasy. From the ancient roof to suspend its nest
The wandering swallow has already returned; Filomena spreads sweet trills; The sea
calms, the sky becomes serene; Only Zephyr lover, Airing the grass on the hills. AND
caressing the early flowers, With music and aroma the air stirs. In the rich season of
love Love beats in every heart; But in the soul of the young man Mirtilo he finds
perpetual asylum.
There, the ingenious god carves a model of charming grace,
where with faithful care he has portrayed
Beautiful Clori, the gentle shepherdess. For whom Mirtilo Clori,
go dead. meanwhile, friendly and compassionate, wants the boy to live, but does
not want to love him; Before, they say that she plans to give her hand to an old
Rabadan. With jealousy the boy's sorrow increases, And so in the hidden jungle he
laments:
—You don't know about love, my darling! Ah! your ignorance

virginal deceives you. I will be worthy of your detour, But I do not understand
the strange illusion That to give you so much beauty Useless gift, immaculate treasure,
display the To old age precipitates, withers. The poppy of the meadow does not
pomp of its leaves, Of modest red love, Until the sun pours into its veiled bosom its
summer flame; Not even the rose dares to open the chalice between frost and snow. I
would not censure that Galatea adored the Cyclops: beauty, strength and courage are
used; Well with a narrow, loving knot, The ivy girdles a firm rough trunk. But never to
whom can the weight of life Support To carry its barely chains, If Well in the
sweet, serious, love invites. The Camenas flee from the musty old man; If Pan's flute his
lip There the faint breath perishes, Without becoming a play, melodious wind, And the
he satyr's laughter provokes. With faltering foot wrong in the choir Of nymphs
enters; and the joyful turn And sonorous song of the Maenads, Or with a weak sigh, Or
with mournful woes perhaps disturbs; That, in the mystery of the holy orgy, Nor does the
hierophant entrust the thyrsus to him, Nor does he reach the summit of
Parnassus.
Hey Clori!
What madness leads you astray? Since for you My tender love is lost, my lush youth, Of
fresh roses and green myrtle Don't gird a gray head now.
Climb the vine to the leafy
poplar, And to the stinging nettle Let it adorn the ruined wall. What risk, what fatigue Will
my love not accept to please you?
For you in the forest I will defeat the beasts; For you
I will face the fury of Mars; And the king of the prairies, Whose bronzed forehead displays
a terrible weapon, which appears as the shining disk of the new moon, From my hard
pole He will feel the sting on his neck.
The rabadán, prostrated
by old age, Your solicitous eagerness would demand, Oh, Clori! while I, by your
command, I would descend to the abyss of the sea, Its pearls to see in your throat, And
I would harass the butcher wolf, Its hirsute skin with lead or with Cattle for the carpet of
your floor.
steel hallucinated nymph
rabadán wife. Throw away that delirium that leads you to be the old man's naïve,
Well what! Have I given you so much proof of love in vain?
You see that to follow you I leave The temple of Minerva and the verjeles By do Betis
copiously dilates. I distance myself from my parents, And I also flee from my faithful
friends To suffer cruelties from an ungrateful woman. Your disdain is not based on my
poverty, which does not hide your noble heart so lowly, and neither in wealth does
rabadán defeat me, nor in birth.
Just a fatal mistake, a madness, Oh,

Clori! Oh, rose of the divine pensil! It will
make him exhale your aroma and your freshness Among the dry thorn branches; It
will make you break the delicate brooch, Not for April, for frozen December. Don't hurt
me like that, if you want to kill me;
Look, this is how you kill yourself when you hurt.
As soon as they finished the verses, they were resoundingly applauded by the
benevolent audience; but, if we are to tell the truth, neither D.
José nor Doña Antonia paid attention during the reading; the older ladies fell asleep
with the singing; The priest found the composition too materialist and mythological and
a little heavy, and Lucía's friends were more enthusiastic about the poet's good looks
than about the literary merit of his work.
Don Carlos, in fact, was a very salty little dark-haired man between twenty-two and
twenty-three years old. His lively, large eyes shone with the fire of inspiration. Her
black hair, now without powder, looked and gave off bluish reflections like the wings
of a crow. The movements of his mouth when he spoke were funny. The teeth that he
showed, white and equal; the nose, straight, and the forehead, clear and serene.
Don Carlos was dressed with the utmost elegance, in the latest Paris fashion.
He was quite a fop. He seemed like the prince of golden youth, transported by magical
art from the banks of the Seine to the kidney of Andalusia. The collar of his shirt and
the cloth with which he tied it around him were low enough to reveal his throat and
mouth.
robust neck on which the head rested gracefully. The height, rather
tall than medium, and the waist, slender. The tight cashmere
breeches, the white silk stocking and the shoe with a silver buckle
allowed the gallant to show off his well-shaped leg and a small, long
foot raised at the tarsus.
Without a doubt the girls contemplated all these things more, and
were more delighted with the sweetness of the young man's voice
than with what we would dare to call an idyll, half of whose words
were in Greek for them.
Don Fadrique had noticed everything. Like most absent-minded

people, he was very observant, and paid intense attention when he
deigned to pay it.
The verses seemed regular to him, not inferior to those of Meléndez,

although not nearly as good as those of Andrés Chénier, which he
had heard in Paris. The boy seemed very handsome to her.
He also noticed, with a certain pleasure mixed with anxiety, that Lucía, his niece, had
listened with the gesture and gesture typical of someone who understands poetry,
and with a certain fondness, that he could not determine if it was merely literary, or if
he recognized another cause. personal and deeper.
For now, as a result of such observations, he described his niece,

whom until then he had barely paid any attention to, as pretty and
discreet. It can be said that he looked at her carefully for the first
time, and saw that she was blonde, white, with blue eyes, graceful
in body and very distinguished. He couldn't help but rejoice at all
these discoveries, like the good guy he was; but he made, or thought
he had made, other discoveries, which somewhat mortified him.
"Maybe it's just musings," he said to himself.
At ten o'clock the gathering ended.

With the family alone, Doña Antonia summoned the servants, and in the
company of everyone, and in a loud voice, the rosary was recited.
Finally, with chocolate and soft drinks not being enough, which could have
passed for a snack, for people who were then eating shortly after noon, the
indispensable dinner was served.
During this time Don Fadrique looked for and found an opportunity to have a
moment with his niece, and he spoke to her in this way:
—Girl, I see that you like the verses more than I thought.
She, turning very red and prettier from the first word the uncle spoke, answered
him, somewhat embarrassed:
—And why shouldn't I like them? Although raised in a place, I'm not that tough.
—It is enough to look at you, my daughter, to know that you are not. But the
fact that you like verses does not prevent you from liking poets.
—I think I like them. Br. Luis de León and Garcilaso are my favorites among Spanish
lyricists,” Lucía said very naturally.
D. Fadrique's suspicion was almost dispelled. Such dissimulation seemed

implausible in a girl of eighteen years old, who prayed the rosary every night,
went to mass and confessed frequently.
Don Fadrique had no time for detours and periphrases, and he went abruptly
to the matter that was mortifying him.
—Niece, frankly: were the verses we heard composed by D. Carlos for you?
-What a crazy think! —Lucía responded, letting out a laugh.
—And why should it be nonsense?
—Because none of that suits me: because I'm not Clori.
—You might as well be. The poet does not describe Clori. He vaguely and
indeterminately states that Clori is beautiful, and you are beautiful.
-Thanks dude; V. favors me.
-No; I do you justice.
—Be as you like. But tell me, where do we get my old rabadán
from? because I can't find him.
—Well, look, I thought I found him.
—How, uncle, if only the priest was at the gathering?
—And I, am I nobody?
—What do you mean by that?
—I mean that I am fifty years old, that I am thirty-two years older

than you, and that I am not crazy to aspire to be loved; but poets
pretend whatever they want, and the bearded D. Carlos may have
built that machine of absurd assumptions to write his idyll. In that
case, everything that the old rabadán can no longer handle his
bones, nor dance, nor run, nor fight, nor is he capable of hunting
wolves like the lad, is not very consistent with the truth. With my
half century behind me, I'm betting everything with this Mr. Carlitos.
Still, if I start dancing the bolero, I am sure that I will dance it better
than when my father made me dance to him with whips. And in
point of lungs and breath, no longer to climb Parnassus running
after the bacchantes, no longer to
play all the flutes and clarinets in the world, but to move the blades of a mill, I
understand that I have plenty.
—But, uncle, Mr. Carlos has not dreamed of you nor has he thought of me.
—Come on, girl, don't be hypocritical. It has gotten into my head that this boy
loves you, that he knew that I was coming to spend a month here, that he heard
that I was old, and, with this information, the insolent man assumed the rest.
Don Fadrique said all this with a laugh, to tease his niece; and, although
doubtful of his suspicion, somewhat stung by the poet's shamelessness, who
on the other hand had not failed to please him.
“Uncle,” Lucía finally said with as much gravity as she could, “

V. is not the old rabadán. The old rabadán is from Villabermeja like V.: he has been
established here for two years, and he deserves, in fact, the qualifications that the
poet lavishes on him, because he is very settled and damaged. The old rabadán is
called D. Casimiro. V. must know him.
-I think so! And boy do I know him! —said the Commander, remembering his
former adversary and childhood victim.
—But then, who is Clori? —he added immediately.
—Clori is a beautiful lady, a very good friend of mine. Her mother lives in great
seclusion and does not go out or let her daughter go out at night. That's why
Clori hasn't been at the gathering; but she is my neighbor, and her mother
consents to her coming with me for a walk, in the company of my mother. If
tomorrow you want to be our companion, we will go to the orchards, at ten
o'clock, after lunch, along paths where there is shade. Clori will come, and you
will meet Clori.
—I will go with pleasure.

—Ah, uncle! For the love of God, let it not escape your notice that D.
Carlos is in love with my friend and the fact that she is Clori. Look, V., it's a secret.
Nobody but me knows it in the population. You have to be very modest, because her
parents only love D. Casimiro and nothing shows of D. Carlos's love. I have entrusted
it to you so that you would not believe that I was Clori and that for no reason
whatsoever we had turned you into a weak old rabadan, in order to give reason to
the verses.
—I am satisfied, girl, and I will not say anything. I assure you that I am interested in
your friend Clori and that I am curious to see her.
Thus, suddenly, as soon as he arrived, Don Fadrique began to have a secret with
his niece, and to figure in intrigues and adventures.
love.
Thinking about this, he retired to his room, as the others each retired to their own,
and slept until eight in the morning, better than a twenty-year-old young man.
VIII
Doña Antonia woke up with a tremendous headache, an illness to which she was
very prone. He therefore had to stay in bed and could not accompany his daughter
Lucía on walks; But, since the illness was not serious, and Lucía had already
arranged a trip with her friend, it was decided that the Commander would accompany
them.
Lucía's friend lived in the immediate house. A wall separated the patios of one house
and another. At the agreed time, exactly nine thirty, Lucía was already ready to go
out and with her uncle at her side, she shouted from the patio, at the foot of the wall:
—Clara (that's Clori's name in real life), are you ready yet?
The answer was not long in coming.
First the voice of a servant was heard saying:
—Miss, miss, Doña Lucía is calling for your mercy.
A moment later a friendly, Argentine voice sounded in the adjoining patio,

answering:
-I'm going there; Go to the street; Why should I enter your house?
Don Fadrique and Doña Lucía came out, and they found Doña Clara at the
door.
The Commander, despite his distractions, looked at Doña Clara with

extraordinary curiosity. She was a girl of just over sixteen years old. The
color of her face, a clean tan, tinted on her cheeks and lips with the freshest
carmine. The complexion seemed so soft, delicate and transparent, that
through it he imagined seeing the blood circulate through the blue veins.
The eyes, black and large, were almost always asleep and veiled by the
eyelids and the long, curled eyelashes; although, when they fixed their gaze
and opened completely, sweet fire and living light flowed from them.
Everything about Doña Clara showed health and freshness, and yet, around
her eyes, pretending to be older and increasing their brilliance, a dark circle
could be seen, like the purple lily.
Doña Clara was taller than her friend Lucía, quite tall too, and, although thin,
her forms were beautiful and revealed the precocious and complete
development of the woman. Doña Clara's hair was very black, her hands
and feet were small, her head was well planted and graceful.
Both friends were dressed in black, with a mantilla and basquiña, and some
roses in their hair.
Lucía told her friend about her mother's indisposition, and that her uncle
the Commander, recently arrived from Villabermeja, would accompany
them on the walk. Except for the customary compliments and ceremonies,
there was nothing memorable in the conversation, until the three, who
were traveling together, left the city and reached the country.
The small town is surrounded by orchards everywhere.

Many paths cut them in different directions. On either side of each path
there is a fence of pomegranate trees, blackberry bushes, osiers and
other plants. On many paths there is a crystal clear stream on each side;
in others, a single stream. All of them enjoy, in spring, summer and
autumn, abundant shade, thanks to the corpulent poplars and leafy
walnut trees, and other trees of all kinds that grow in the orchards.
The land there is so generous and fertile that you cannot imagine the
countless flowers and the mass of vegetables that surround the banks of
the streams, spreading a pleasant and country aroma. Bluebells, rose
hips, purple and white violets, lilies and daisies open their calyxes there
and show off their beauty.
The radiant sun, shining in the clear sky and gilding the clear air, makes
the scene more splendid. Incredible multitude of birds cheer her up and
cheer her up with their trills and chirps. In Andalusia, fleeing the dry land,
seeking water and shade, birds take refuge in these irrigated oases,
where there is freshness and dense bowers.
Such were the places where the Commander walked with the two pretty
girls. As soon as they left the town, they took the path they call the middle
path. They picked flowers, they delighted in hearing the colorful birds
sing or they laughed without knowing what. The Commander meditated,
felt great well-being, enjoyed everything, although more calmly than them.
When they reached a wider place, not just another path, but a path, the
three, who, since the path was almost always narrow, had gone one after
the other, stood in the same line. Clara was in the center.
Lucía then said, addressing her uncle:
—Come on, you will have already satisfied your curiosity. This is Clori. Isn't
it true that he deserves to have inspired the idyll?
Doña Clara, who, although younger than Lucía, was more thoughtful and
serious, was sorry that her friend had confided that secret to her uncle, and
could not repress the signs of her displeasure, frowning, becoming more
serious and at the same time becoming more serious. Time to scar their
cheeks with shame and anger.
Doña Clara said nothing, despite this; but Lucía noticed his displeasure and
continued like this:
—Don't be offended Clarita. Don't call me a talker. My uncle put me

between a rock and a hard place last night, and I had to confess everything to him.
I had to apologize and I had to excuse Mr. Carlos. My uncle got it into his
head that he was the old rabadán and that I was Clori.
Besides, my uncle is very secretive and won't say anything to anyone. Isn't that true
uncle?
"Don't worry, miss," replied the Commander, facing Doña Clara, who
became even more red: "no one will know from me who inspired the idyll,
which is, by the way, beautiful."
The Commander noticed that Clara was calming down, although she was
unable, due to her confusion, to utter a word.
Doña Lucía continued:
—Wow, the idyll is beautiful! Believe me V., uncle: from Vicente Espinel
until our age, Ronda has not produced a more ingenious poet than our
friend D. Carlos de Atienza, illustrious estate of
the aforementioned city, who lives in Seville with his parents, tries to take up the title
of doctor in both Laws at that University, and now neglects his studies quite a bit to
follow Clori, who, from Seville, has come here to settle with his family, whom you
undoubtedly know.
—Niece, I don't know whether or not I have the honor of knowing the family of this
young lady, whose last name you have not told me. How is a recently arrived stranger
to guess the family of someone who only knows that her name is Clori in poetry and
Clara in prose?
—Oh, it's true! How distracted I am! I had not told you what my friend's name was.
Well, man: this lady's name is Doña Clara de Solís y Roldán. And now, what does V.
say? Do you know or don't you know his family?
Upon hearing from Lucía's mouth the name and surname of his friend and the last innocent question,
the Commander trembled and became troubled; The red color, which had previously dyed Clarita's
delicate cheeks, seemed to have become more intensely lit on Don Fadrique's manly face, tanned by
the sun of India and the winds of the remote seas.
Lucía, without noticing her uncle's confusion, continued saying:
—But what do I say to his family? It is possible that you know Clara herself, you just
don't remember her anymore. When she was little, maybe when she was born, you
were in Lima. Clara is from Lima.
Finally controlling himself, the Commander replied to his niece:
—I can hardly remember and I can hardly have forgotten this young lady, whom I have
never seen. The one I have known and treated a lot is his father; and also, despite the
retired and austere life he has always led, I had the pleasure of treating and being
friends with my lady Doña Blanca Roldán. How is your mother of V., miss?
"She is still in good health," replied Doña Clara; "but, devoted as ever to her devotions,
she hardly lets anyone see her."
—And Mr. D. Valentín, is he good?
"Thank God, he is," said Clara.
"He has already retired from the magistracy," Lucía added; "he has inherited the
considerable assets of his eldest brother, who died without children, and lives here,
where he has his best estates, of which Clarita is the sole heir."
Like a new wave of blood then it rose to the Commander's face, turning it all red.
Reporting later, he said in the most natural way to his chatty niece:
—So this young lady, in addition to being so pretty, is very rich?
—For these places it is. Isn't it true, uncle, that it is very strange that they want to marry
her to Don Casimiro? If you could see how old and ugly he is! Come on, it's offending
God. If I were the Pope, I would deny the license that would have to be asked for.
"So," exclaimed Don Fadrique, "are you such close relatives?"
"Don Casimiro Solís is the closest relative my father has," Clara answered.
"He would be his immediate heir if Clara were not alive," added Lucía, who did not fail
to tell anything of what she knew, when she was among people, like Clara and her
uncle, who instilled in her so much trust and affection.
Don Fadrique did not carry the conversation forward. He remained silent and as if
thoughtful and melancholic.
In silence, they continued walking until they reached the birthplace. In the middle of a
forest of oaks and olive trees, which ends the orchards, rises a steep mountain, made
up of enormous cliffs and boulders, which seem as if suspended in the air, threatening
to collapse at every moment.
Wild figs, cistus of various species, rosemary and thyme, moss, broom and a thousand
other herbs, plants and flowers, grow in the crevices of those rocks or cover the
places where the living rock is not bare, and they find some vegetal layer where fix
and feed the roots.
The pierced rocks open the way to various grottoes or caves in many places on the
hill, at the foot of which, even lower than the level of the road, the stones are as if
undermined, forming a larger grotto with a larger entrance than the others. At the
bottom of this cave, which can be seen without entering there, a true river flows from
a crack, without any hyperbole. That is why that place is called the source of the river,
or simply the source.
The water that flows from between the rocks falls with a pleasant roar into a natural
pond, whose floor is strewn with very white, round stones. Through that pond the
water spreads calmly, continually creating and disappearing fleeting circles; But,
despite the circles, the waves are of such transparency that the bottom can be seen
through them, although it is more than a yard and a half deep, and in it all the pebbles
can be counted.
Reeds, sedge, watercress and other aquatic plants grow on the edge of the small lake.
The pond or lake fills the grotto and a good space expands outside it, reflecting the
sky in its glass. To the right and to the left there are two ditches, through which the
water flows, later dividing into infinite streams, and going to water the thousand and
five hundred orchards that make the terminus of that small city a green and flowery
paradise.
As everything in that vicinity is broken ground, the water descends into the hollows
with vigorous impetuosity: sometimes it precipitates in waterfalls, and sometimes it
sets in motion water mills, fulling mills, and hammers. However, near the source the
water flows over flat land, with a calm current and peaceful murmur, without any
greater noise in that pleasant solitude than that produced by the source itself; the
blow of the water that springs from the rock and falls into the cave.
On the edge of the rustic pond there are several willow trees, and next to the trunk
of the tallest and most leafy one a stone bench or seat. The Ronda poet D. Carlos
de Atienza was sitting there when the Commander, his niece and Doña Clara arrived.
Don Fadrique, as if he longed to put away sad and angry thoughts, inappropriate to
his character and cheerful philosophy, passed his hand over his forehead, and
believing that he was recovering his serene and happy condition, he said out loud:
—Hello, illustrious poet, what new idyll do you compose in these solitudes?
Don Carlos got up from his seat, and going towards the newcomers, said:
—Good morning, Mr. D. Fadrique. I kiss your feet, ladies.
The Commander paved the way for her to come with him and the girls and accompany
them on the walk for a while. He spoke to Don Carlos about his studies, praised him
how much he liked poetry, praised his love affair and made him repeat it.
It could not have given D. Carlos greater pleasure, nor greater satisfaction of self-
love; because, like all those who write, have written or will write verses in the world,
Don Carlos was extremely fond of reciting them in the presence of a benevolent and
discreet audience, and
He was always inclined to call him discreet, as long as he was benevolent.
Don Fadrique looked secretly, but with great attention, at Clarita while Don Carlos
recited the idyll. If he had still had the slightest doubt that Clara was Clori, the doubt
would have been dispelled. TO
Clarita, using an extremely vulgar expression, although very picturesque, one color
went away and another came back while the verses lasted. She was already turning
pale, her cheeks were already covered in purple. Until when D. Carlos exclaimed,
reciting:
"Well, what! Have I given you so much proof of love in vain?"
Don Fadrique saw or imagined he saw that Doña Clara's eyelids contracted more
than usual, as if to collect and hide indiscreet tears, which were eager to flow from
her beautiful eyes.
After reciting the verses, Don Carlos, less daring in prose, barely approached Clara,
and did not say a word that everyone could not hear.
Only with Lucía did he speak in a low voice and as if in secret.
The four of them went inside, continuing the walk and returning to the city by another
path, in the middle of a leafy avenue. There Clara, either going ahead or staying
behind and leaving the Commander with her niece, could have spoken at her
pleasure with D. Carlos; but it only seemed that he was afraid of him, that he
trembled at hearing his voice without a witness, and that he wanted to demonstrate
in the eyes of the Commander that he did not want to belong to D. Carlos, but to D.
Casimiro. This is because in the wildest places, Clara did not leave D's side.
Fadrique, as if she feared that a beast would come out to devour her and seek
refuge and defense in him.
Who knows what was happening in those moments in the Commander's soul? The
truth is that he hardly dared to speak to Clara; but suddenly, on one occasion when
Don Carlos and Lucía went ahead and were lost from sight among the trees, the
Commander
He stopped Clara, looked at her in a strange and sweet way, and taking on a
solemn and in a certain way venerable expression, he exclaimed:
-My daughter! You are very good, very beautiful... innocent of everything; God
bless you and make you as happy as you deserve.
And saying this, he raised his hands as if to bless the girl, took her head between
them and kissed her forehead.
Clara undoubtedly found everything very strange, outside of common usage and
style; but Don Fadrique's face was so serious, and his expression was so nice
and noble, that, despite the ideas with which devout characters had precociously
stained the girl's conscience, speaking to her about sins and faults, Clara could
not see there no light daring.
Even more, he confirmed the idea of the pure and impeccable quality of the
strange and unexpected kiss, when the Commander told him:
—Don Carlos seems like an excellent young man to me. Do you love him very much?
There was a soft empire in D. Fadrique's accent, which Clara did not know how
to resist.
"I have loved him very much," he answered, "but I will succeed in not loving him."
I have been very blamed. Without my mother knowing it, I have loved him. From
now on I won't love him. I will be a good daughter. I will obey my mother. She
knows better than me what is best for me.
Don Fadrique did not dare to reply or make a speech subversive of maternal authority.
Soon the four of them met again in a single group.
Before entering the city again, D. Carlos said goodbye

of the Commander and the two young ladies, and went to other places.
As soon as Lucía and her uncle left Clara at the door of her house, the uncle
asked the niece:
—What did Mr. Carlos tell you?
—What should he say? That he is desperate; that Clara disdains him, that
she rejects him, and that, to obey her mother, she will marry D.
Casimiro.
—And Mr. Valentín, what does he do?
-Nothing. What do you want me to do? So what, do you ignore that D.

Valentine is a gurrumino? A look from Doña Blanca confuses and terrifies
him; An angry word from that terrible woman makes Don Valentín tremble like
a quicksilver.
—So Doña Blanca is the one who has decided to marry Clara to Don Casimiro.
-Place; In that house, Doña Blanca is the one who decides everything. She
commands and the others obey. They do not dare to breathe without their
license. It cannot be denied that Doña Blanca is very talented and is a saint.
He knows more about the things of God than all the preachers combined.
Pray a lot; read and study pious books; He leads an exemplary and penitent
life, and gives many alms to the poor and the churches; but, despite so many
virtues and excellent attributes, there is nothing lovable about him. On the
contrary, it is terrible. It makes me afraid.
—I don't doubt it, niece; She was already like you describe her when I met her.
—Oh, man! And did you see her frequently?

—Not often, niece; but at last I treated her somewhat.
—Don't be surprised that they won't come home in a week, not even to
fulfill their duties. Doña Blanca lives with her mind so far from everything,
and she so resists being told things about the outside world that distract
her spirit from the intimate contemplation in which she lives, that surely
neither she nor her poor husband will know that you have arrived. . d.
I don't think Valentin is a very interior, spiritual and contemplative man; But since he is
so afraid of his wife and always wants to please her, he also lives mystically, separated
from human contact, and I judge him capable of whipping himself with disciplines, not
so much for the love of God, but for love and fear of Mrs. White.
Don Fadrique listened and remained silent. He was in no mood to open

his lips. Lucía, who was fond of talking, dropped the tarabilla and
continued saying:
—Poor Clara! Imagine how much fun you will have. I do not doubt it;
she will go to heaven; but what! Can't one go to heaven with less work?
I fail to praise to you the prodigies of cunning, the portents of skill,
although it is wrong for me to praise myself, what I have had to do to
gain a little of the will and trust of Doña Blanca and to get her daughter
to deal with me. and sometimes go out in my company. If it weren't for
me, Clara would be buried alive, between four walls. I don't know how
he could have understood D.
Carlos. Thanks to the fact that he is very smart and capable of
everything. Clara has been with him, I won't say in relationships, but
almost in relationships. That's because Clara loved him. Then she had
regrets about loving a man secretly from her mother, and especially
when her mother destined her for another. So now he rejects poor Don
Carlos, and the unhappy boy Mirtilo is dying of grief.
The Commander listened with interest to his niece, and did not utter
even a single exclamation in the conversation. It seemed that it had
He was speechless or didn't know what to say.
“Clara,” Lucía continued, “now that she believes it is a sin to love D.

Carlos, who finds it impossible to oppose his mother's will, sometimes thinks about
becoming a nun; but he does not even dare to confide this desire to his mother. She
considers, first of all, that her vocation is not good; who wants to take the veil out of
spite and in desperation; and, on the other hand, she believes that telling her mother
that she wants to be a nun is an act of rebellion, it is opposing her desire to marry her
to Don Casimiro. What do you think of my unfortunate friend's situation?
Questioned so directly, the Commander finally had to break the silence; but he
responded laconically:
—The situation is truly bad; but who knows? Everything has a remedy except death.
"Meanwhile," added Don Fadrique, speaking slowly and quietly, letting the words fall
one by one, as if they cost him great effort, and as if instead of responding to his niece
he was speaking to himself and responding to himself;— Meanwhile, Doña Blanca is
discreet, she is pious and she is a good mother. He has very strong reasons... without
a doubt... for wanting to marry his daughter to Don Casimiro. Anyway, girl, you are
still Clara's good friend; but do not brood or form judgments about Doña Blanca's
behavior. I am also going to make another request to you.
—Mande V., uncle.
—What I demand of you is something difficult.
-Because?
—Because you like to talk, and what I demand is that you shut up.
—And what should I keep silent about? You'll see how I keep quiet. I don't want that
V. gets upset and has a bad opinion of me.
-Well then; Keep quiet that you have informed me of the loves of Don Carlos and
Doña Clara, and also keep quiet about how much you know about these
loves.
—Dude, for God's sake! Don't think I'm such a friend of telling everything. The rogue
idyll is to blame. Without the idyll, I wouldn't have confided anything to you.
Hearing this, the Commander smiled at his niece; And since they were already in the
house, he left the girl, leaving somewhat meditative and absorbed, as if he were trying
to solve a difficult problem.
IX
While the Commander and Lucía were having the dialogue that we have just
described, Clara had entered her mother's room.
Doña Blanca was sitting in an armchair. In front of her there was a nightstand with
books and papers. D. Valentín was there, sitting in a chair, and not very far from his
wife.
Doña Blanca's appearance was noble and distinguished. Dressed with simplicity and
severity, a certain elegance and certain lordship were still noticeable in her dress.
Doña Blanca would be a little over forty years old.
Quite a few gray hairs already gave an ashy color to the primitive blackness of his
hair. His countenance, full of austere gravity, was very beautiful. The features, all of
the most perfect regularity.
Doña Blanca was tall and thin. His white hands seemed transparent. His eyes, black
like his daughter's, had a singular and indefinable fire, as if all the passions of heaven
and earth and all the feelings of angels and devils had come together to create him.
Don Valentín, shy and peaceful, in love with his wife in the first years of marriage,
and later filled with consideration for her, did not dare to joke in her presence unless
she ordered him to speak.
Don Valentín was a virtuous knight, but weak and pusillanimous.

He had been, out of love and respect for his honor, an upright magistrate.
Nothing had been able to keep him from fulfilling his duty, and he had even shown
admirable fortitude outside of home, where fortitude, no matter how great it must be,
only needs to last for a moment; but at home, with the domestic tyranny of a woman
endowed with an iron will, whose pressure is perpetual and incessant, Don Valentín
had not known how to resist, and had completely abdicated. The farm, the businesses,
the daughter's education, everything depended on and everything was directed and
governed by Doña Blanca.
Don Valentín's appearance was insignificant and neutral.
Neither tall nor short, neither black nor blonde, neither skinny nor fat. He seemed,
however, like a gentleman, so to speak, very correct in his manners, in his manner
and in his speech. His devout submission to his wife added to this quality of
correctness a tincture of meekness.
Don Valentín had been a very good Catholic in his youth, but without penitent fervor
and without mystical and contemplative inclinations.
Now, so as not to upset his wife, he strove to imitate Saint Hilarion or Saint Pachomius.
Don Valentín was nearly sixty years old, but he seemed much older, because there
is nothing that ages and ruins the spirit and strength of men more than this voluntary
and frightful servitude, to which by the rare mystery of the will They submit many,
giving in to the demonic persistence of their women.
As soon as Clara entered the room, Doña Blanca asked her:

"Where have you been, girl?"
—Mom, at birth.
—I don't know how my lady Doña Antonia has the feet to take such crazy
walks. Going and coming back, that's walking about a league.
"Doña Antonia has not been with us today," said Clara, not daring to lie,
or even to dissemble.
Doña Blanca's face took on a certain expression of surprise and notable

displeasure.
—So who has accompanied you on the walk? —Doña Blanca asked.
—Don't be angry, Mom: we have been in good company.
-Yeah; but by whom? For some mop? For some random aunt?
—Look, Mom, Doña Antonia had a migraine and couldn't accompany us.
Lucía's uncle came with us instead.
—And who is that guy?
—A sailor gentleman who was in India and Peru, who says he knows
you, who recently came to live in Villabermeja, and who arrived here last
night to spend some time.
"That's Commander Mendoza," said Don Valentín, with a certain joy of

knowing that an old friend had arrived.
—Precisely, dad, that's his name: Commander Mendoza; a very fine

gentleman, if somewhat strange.
"Hey, Blanca, we'll have to go see the Commander, who undoubtedly

lives in his brother's house," exclaimed Don Valentín.
"We will fulfill that duty that society imposes on us," said Doña Blanca
with rest and serene dignity; But you, Clara, must never go out for a walk
again or associate with that wicked and impious man. If the holy faith of
our fathers were not so lost; If the perverse doctrines of French philosophy
had not infected us, that man, instead of wearing the honorable uniform
of the navy, would wear the sanbenito; Instead of walking freely around,
a stone of scandal, a ferment of impiety, a yeast of hell, corrupting what
is still healthy in the social body, he would be in the dungeons of the
Inquisition or would have already died at the stake.
Clara was terrified when she heard that diatribe from her mother's mouth.
The Commander was represented in his mind as a devilish character;
and, remembering the tender kiss she had received from him, she was
filled with fear and shame.
Don Valentín, with the memory of the Commander, who brought to his
imagination better times, when he was less old and less submissive, felt,
contrary to his custom, in the mood to contradict and not completely
submit. So he said:
—God help me, woman, what a lack of charity that is! You are unfair to
our former friend. I won't deny that it was something esprit fort
in his youth but he will have already mended his ways. For the rest, the
Commander was always honorable, noble and good. What do you have
to say against their morality?
—Shut up, Valentín, you're talking nothing but nonsense. And I call them
nonsense, so as not to call them blasphemies. What morality, what
chivalry, what virtue can there be where religion and beliefs, which are
its foundation, are lacking? Without the holy fear of God all
Virtue is a lie and every moral action is a device of the devil to deceive fools who
presume to be discreet and who do not subordinate their judgment to those who
know more than them. I have already said it and I repeat it: Commander Mendoza
was an impious and a libertine, and will continue to be so. We will go to visit him
so as not to shock, trying not to find him at home and only see Doña Antonia and
her blessed husband. As for Clarita, any excuse will be found so that she no longer
goes out with Lucía, exposing herself to going in the company of that renegade,
Jacobin, Voltairean and atheist. First I would entrust Clara to the care of the most
vile and sinful of women. This woman, with the help of religion, can regenerate and
become a saint; But for those who deny God or hate Him, for those who are
inveterate all their lives, what hope is it permissible to conceive?
Clarita and Don Valentín were embarrassed and intimidated by DoñaBlanca's

sermon, and they did not know how to answer her.
It was therefore resolved that Clarita, because of the Commander and so that she
would not become contaminated, would not walk with Lucía again.
Doña Blanca Roldán's resolutions were irrevocable and effective. She knew how
to carry them out with persistent calm.
One morning, after hearing mass with Don Valentín, Doña Blanca came to visit
Doña Antonia and congratulate her on the arrival of her brother-in-law; and it was
done with such success that the Commander was not at home.
Neither before nor after this visit were Doña Blanca and D. seen.
Valentine's Day from your neighbors and friends. Always withdrawn to the back of
the old mansion in which they lived, and pretexting illness, they did not receive
visitors, despite how difficult and hateful it is to refuse to receive, while at home,
when one lives in a small town.
In vain Lucía tried repeatedly to take Clara out for a walk.

Whenever he sent a message, they answered that Clara was in poor health
or very busy and that it was impossible for her to go out.
Lucía herself went to see Clara, and was only able to see her twice, but in
the presence of her mother. These tests of withdrawal and even deviation
were softened by extreme courtesy on the part of Doña Blanca; although it
was well known that if this lady did whatever means her civility suggested on
her part in order not to give cause for grievance, she would prefer to offend,
if someone considered herself to be aggrieved, rather than give up a point in
her intention.
Outside of the day she visited Doña Antonia, Doña Blanca did not set foot on
the street until dawn, to go to church, mass and other devotions. Don Valentín
accompanied her almost always, like a layman or humble scholar, and Clara
always accompanied her, barely daring to raise her eyes from her salary.
Lucía, ruminating on the causes of that almost complete break in relations, came to
fear that Doña Blanca had found out about Clara's love affair with Don Carlos de
Atienza, his presence in the city and the entry and protection that she had. in his house.
Doña Clara did not speak alone nor write to her friend; Nothing could be
learned from the servants, because almost all of Doña Blanca's servants
were strangers, and either they had no confidence in the house, or they lived
a devout and secluded life, thus imitating and pleasing their masters.
It could only be stated that the only person who visited Mr. Valentín's house
was his close relative Mr. Casimiro.
In this way, ten days passed, which seemed like ten centuries to Don Carlos,
Lucía and the Commander, when at dusk, on a beautiful afternoon, the
Commander was in the patio of the house alone with his niece. She was
having a very animated conversation with her uncle,
showing him the plants and flowers that in beds and in a multitude of pots adorned
that patio, adjacent, as we have already said, to that of Don Valentín's house. By
overcoming the dividing wall, the voices of both interlocutors could reach the immediate
patio. The voice came, in fact, because in the middle of the conversation Lucía and
the Commander heard the noise of a small heavy object falling at their feet. Lucía
quickly got down to pick him up, and as soon as she had him in her hand, she said to
her uncle, all excited and in a low voice:
—It's a letter from Clarita. How good it is! He really loves me.
It is necessary to know her as I know her, to estimate what this fineness of her
friendship is worth. Deceive your mother's surveillance for me!
Write to me furtively! V Street... man... it seems impossible. For my sake, that
unfortunate woman, who is a saint, has failed in her duty of filial obedience! And how,
where, at what time could he have written to me? Come on, I'll tell you that it's a
… miracle of affection. And the scamp, with what anguish must she have been spying
on the opportunity to send me the letter, sure that I would pick it up? Bless your hands!
And saying this he had untied the Chinese paper in which he had been tied with a
thread, and it seemed that he wanted to eat him with kisses.
"Come read that letter," said the Commander, "where there is light and where they will
not come to interrupt us." There is no one in the office and now they have just lit the
candle. Come, it's already night and you won't see here.
Lucía went to the office with her uncle, and with a moved accent, almost in the
Commander's ear, she read the following:
"My dear Lucía: You know very well how much I love you.
Consider, then, how much it will grieve me to see you so little and not be able to speak
to you. My mother demands it, and a good daughter must please her mother. Don't
think that my mother has suspected anything about my behavior with Mr. Carlos de
Atienza. I start to tremble
represent to me that I could have suspected it. Nobody knows more than
you, the Commander and I, what D. Carlos intends for me; but God
knows my sin, of which I am sorry. It has been enormous perversity in
me to give wings to that gallant with sweet looks and profane smiles...
almost involuntary... I swear to you. That doesn't make them weigh less
on my conscience. I have done something, either carried away by my
native evil, or seduced by the common enemy of our lineage, to agitate
that young man, make him abandon his University and his studies, and
move him to come here in pursuit of me. In the midst of everything, I
have to thank Jesus and the Most Holy Mary, who take pity on me,
despite how unworthy I am, and ensure that my fault is not solemnized
with scandal. Supernatural favor from heaven is, without a doubt, that
the motive that has prompted D. Carlos to come here remains hidden.
People think he came and is here for you. How I should thank you for
taking this blame! If I had not been daring, if I had not encouraged Don
Carlos, if I had had the appropriate severity and modesty, I would not
find myself in such a bitter situation now. Oh, my dear Lucia! The human
heart is an abyss of iniquity… and contradictions. Do you want to believe
that, if on the one hand I despair of having given the opportunity for Don
Carlos to come chasing me, on the other hand he flatters me, I am
delighted that he came, and I realize that if he had not come I would be
more miserable? In the midst of everything... don't doubt it... I'm very bad.
I am ashamed of my hypocrisy. I'm fooling my mother, who is so

perceptive. My mother thinks I am too good... and watches over me, like
a miser watches over his treasure, when the treasure is already lost. I
can't tell you so that you don't get angry, and yet I want to tell you. I
wouldn't be fulfilling my duty of conscience if I didn't tell you. The reason
my mother took me away from you is your uncle. He seemed to me to be
a very fine and good gentleman; but my mother says how horrible! who
doesn't believe in God. Is it possible, my daughter! May the devil strike
the eyes of some souls with such abominable blindness?
Is it understandable that the copy, the image, the likeness, deny the
divine original, which gives them the only value and noble being they have?
If this is true, if the Commander is obsessed with his impieties,
Arm yourself with prudence and ask heaven to save you. Also try to
bring your uncle to the right path. You have extraordinary clarity and
the gift of expressing yourself with care and enthusiasm. The
Almighty, moreover, often uses the weak for his great victories.
Remember David, a young man, who was a shepherd boy without
strength, and he defeated and overthrew the giant in the valley of the
Terebinth. How many sisters, daughters, mothers and wives have
not managed to convince their wayward husbands, brothers, sons or
fathers? You must aspire to similar glory, and God will reward you
and give you the courage to achieve it. As for me, even though I am
such a child, I am a miserable sinner, and I have enough work to cry
for my follies and calm the storm of conflicting feelings that destroy
my chest. Give me the last and greatest proof of friendship. Persuade
Don Carlos that I do not love him. Tell him to go back to Seville and
leave me. Convince him that I am ugly, that I like Don Casimiro, that
my ingratitude towards him deserves his contempt. I should have
spoken to him in this sense; But I am so weak and so stupid that I
would not have managed to tell him, and perhaps I would have
stupidly induced him to believe the opposite. For the love of God,
Lucía of my soul, say goodbye to Don Carlos for me. I cannot, I must
not be his. Let him go; May he not displease his parents because of
me; that he does not lose his studies; Let it not cause a scandal when
it is known that he came for me and that I am evil, provocative,
seductive, who knows... Goodbye. I'm in a hurry. I have no one to
whom I can confide my things, to whom I can vent my sorrows, to
whom I can ask advice and remedy. I eagerly await the arrival of
Father Jacinto, who is the oracle of this house. I know that what I tell
you will fall like a pit, and that your advice is sound. He is the only
man who has any empire over my mother. When will he come from Villabermeja? G
CLARA."
XI
This innocent letter, so typical of a sixteen-year-old girl,
Discreet and educated with devotion and recollection, the Commander liked her very
much; but it also gave him a lot to think about. We will not enter into the depths of his
soul to scrutinize his thoughts, and we will limit ourselves to saying that he made three
resolutions as a result of that reading.
It was the first time to look for a way to see and speak to the very severe Doña Blanca;
the second, to probe well the spirit of Don Carlos to know to what extent he truly loved
the girl and deserved her love, and the third, to deal with Father Jacinto and provide
himself with an ally for the war that perhaps he would have. to declare to Clarita's
mother.
In order to achieve the first, instead of writing requesting an audience, which would
have been denied under any pretext and very politically, Mr. Fadrique decided to get
up early the next day, wait on the street for Doña Blanca when she came out to attend.
to the church, and go straight to speak to it, without any fear.
This is what the Commander did. Doña Blanca, before six, appeared on the street
with Clarita and Don Valentín. They went to mass at the Main Church. As soon as Don
Fadrique saw them leave, he approached very determined, and, greeting politely with
hat in hand, said:
—I kiss your feet, my lady Doña Blanca. Blessed are the eyes that manage to see
you and your family. Good morning, friend D. Valentín.
Clarita, good morning.
Don Valentín, upon hearing himself called friend so softly and by a familiar and friendly
voice, could not contain himself; He did not reflect, he let himself be carried away by
the first affectionate impulse and went towards Don Fadrique with open arms.
Fortunately, however, Don Valentín had the inveterate habit of not doing the slightest
thing without first looking at his wife to notice the face she was making and whether
she was holding him back from consummating or encouraging him to consummate his
attempt at action. Despite, then, how enthusiastically he was going to embrace Don
Fadrique, instinct led him to
who mechanically turned his face towards Doña Blanca before reaching out for the
hug. Indescribable is what he then saw in his wife's fulminating eyes. You can hardly
describe the effect that look had on him. Don Valentín thought he read in her the
deepest disdain, as if she were accusing him of stolid humiliation, of infamous
baseness; and he thought he saw, at the same time, anger and the imperious
prohibition against him carrying out what he had set out to do. Terror so overwhelmed
Don Valentín's spirit that he stopped, suddenly remained motionless, as if he had
turned into stone. Only with a muffled and barely perceptible voice did he finally
exhale, like a languid sigh, a
—Good morning, Mr. D. Fadrique.
"Good morning," Clara also said, no more encouragingly than her father.
Doña Blanca looked at the Commander from head to toe, and with calmness and soft
accent, without getting upset or upset in the slightest, she spoke to him in this way:
—Gentleman: God, who is infinitely merciful, keep you in his holy custody. Not for
your love, which you lack, but for the worldly honor that you boast of and for the
respect and considerations that every well-born man owes to ladies, I ask you not to
distract us from the path we are on. , nor disturb our retired and devout life.
And having said this, Doña Blanca made a ceremonious and cold bow to the
Commander, and began to walk with calm gravity, with Don Valentín following her and
leading Clara before him.
Don Fadrique paid the bow with another, he was somewhat dazed, and said between
his teeth:
—It is clear: it is necessary to resort to other means.

As soon as Solís' family had moved thirty steps away from the Commander, he saw
that Doña Blanca turned to talk to her husband.
It is evident that the Commander did not hear what he was saying; but the novelist
knows everything and hears everything. Doña Blanca, who always dealt with you and
with the greatest compliance with her lord husband when he gave her a lecture or
reprimand, spoke to you like this while Clara went ahead:
—I have told you this a thousand times, Mr. D. Valentín. That man, whom you insisted
on bringing into the house, there in Lima, is a libertine, impious and rude. Her
treatment, as long as it does not infect, stains or can stain the well-honed reputation
of any lady. I almost had to throw him out of the house. There were reasons, in his
lack of consideration and even respect, why in other barbaric ages, forgetting divine
law, someone would have given him a severe lesson, as knights used to give them.
This was not to be: it was impossible... Nothing that is more repugnant to my
conscience; nothing more contrary to my principles; but there is a happy medium... It
is a crime to kill someone who has offended... but it is vile to embrace him. Mr. D.
Valentín, V. has no blood in his veins.
He released all this, slowly and quietly, almost in the ear of Mr. Valentine, his
tremendous wife Doña Blanca.
The last phrases were so harsh and cruel that Don Valentín was on the verge of
raising the flag of rebellion, raising the slogan of God is Christ in the street and
answering his wife what she deserved; but the smell of a thousand flowers delighted
the sense of smell; people passed by with a happy appearance; The day was very
beautiful; peace reigned in heaven; A fresh spring wind refreshed and calmed the
most burning temples; Solís' family went to the bloodless sacrifice of the mass; Clara
walked ahead so pretty and so serene: how could she disturb all that with a horrible
dispute? D. Valentín clenched his fists and limited himself to exclaiming with
accent if it is not it is choleric:
-Lady!…
Then he added to himself, taking great care not to let Doña hear him.
White:
"Damn my luck!"
And as soon as the exclamation was uttered, Don Valentín was frightened by the
blasphemous rebellion against Providence that his exclamation implied, and for an
instant he considered himself to be the first cousin of Luzbel himself.
As can be seen, the Commander's success in this first attempt to

resume friendly relations with the Solís family could not have been more
unfortunate.
XII
Our hero was not deterred by that.
He waited a while in the middle of the street so that Doña Blanca could
not say or think that he was following her, and finally he went to the
Main Church, where he knew that Solís' family had gone.
Don Fadrique was not going there, however, with the intention of
approaching Doña Blanca again and suffering new rejection, but in
order to find D. Carlos, who, in his opinion, could not help but be in the
church, since there was no other way of seeing Clara.
In fact, Don Fadrique entered the church and began looking for the
poet, in the shadow of the pillars and in the places where someone's
presence was least noticeable. He soon found him, behind a pillar and
not far from the main altar. Don Carlos seemed so absorbed in his prayers or in
his thoughts, that nothing from the outside world, except Clara, could distract him or
attract his attention.
So Don Fadrique came to stand at his side. Then he noticed that Clara was not far away,
kneeling next to her mother; that Don Carlos was looking at her, and that, although her
eyes were almost always fixed on her prayer book, she raised them quickly from time to
time, and looked with surprise and tenderness towards where the gallant was, thus
declaring that she saw him, that she was glad to see him, and that she was afraid and
somewhat terrified of desecrating the temple and of seriously sinning by deceiving her
mother and encouraging that man, whose wife she said she could not be.
It should not be surprising that all this was seen in Clarita's eyes.
They were transparent gazes, in the depths of which the soul shone like the purest
diamond that, by wonder, burned with its own light in the bosom of a calm sea.
The Commander spent a while observing that silent scene, and became convinced
that neither Doña Blanca nor Don Valentín suspected anything of the girl's love. He
calculated, however, that his presence there might attract Doña Blanca's gaze towards
him, excite her anger again, make her notice the gentle young man who was at her
side, and make her suspect what she had not yet suspected.
Then, although with pain of interrupting those raptures and contemplative ecstasies,
he touched Don Carlos on the shoulder and said almost in his ear:
—Forgive me for distracting you from your devotions and disturbing the beatific vision
that you undoubtedly enjoy; But I urgently need to talk to V.
Do me the favor of coming with me, I have to talk to you about things that matter a lot
to you.
Without waiting for a response, D. Fadrique began to walk, and D. Carlos, although
with disgust, could not help but follow in his footsteps.
Once outside the church, Don Fadrique went out into the field; D. Carlos went after
him; and when they found themselves in a solitary place, where no one could hear
them or interrupt the conversation, Don Fadrique explained himself in these terms:
—I once again ask your forgiveness for my audacity in forcing you to leave the church,
and even more so in getting involved in your affairs without sufficient qualifications to
do so. I barely know V. This is the seventh or eighth time I have spoken to him. I have
seen Clarita today for the second time in my life. However, the good of Clarita and
that of V. interest me a lot. Attribute it to absurd sentimentalism; to the affection that I
profess for my niece Lucía, who comes to you out of rejection; to whatever you want.
What I beg of you is that you believe me to be a loyal and frank man, and do not doubt
my good will and best intentions. I want and can do a lot for you. Instead, I hope that
you listen to my advice and follow it.
Don Carlos listened to the Commander attentively and with signs of respect and
deference. Then he answered:
-Mr. Don Fadrique, for your sake and because you are the uncle of Miss Doña Lucía,
so kind and excellent, I am willing to listen to you and even to obey you to the extent
that it is on my side, without considering the benefit that for me. obedience V. promises
me.
"I have not explained myself well," replied Don Fadrique. "I do not promise rewards in
payment of obediences: what I mean is that by following certain of my advice you will
naturally achieve what would otherwise perhaps be lost, with great regret of all.
"Clarify your thoughts," said D. Carlos.
"I want to say," Don Fadrique continued, "that this way you have of making Clarita fall
in love with her has not been going in the right direction for days." Until now, no one in
this small city suspects his love for you, thanks to my niece. As she was, two months
ago, in Seville,
where you met her, and you later came here, and you go to her house for
social gatherings every night, and you talk a lot with her, and not infrequently
in secret; and since my niece is young and funny and pretty, if uncle's love
doesn't deceive me, everyone believes that you have come for her, that you
fall in love with her, that you are her boyfriend. Who would have imagined
that such a pretty girl and in such green years would limit herself to playing
the sad and inauspicious role of confidant? Because of this, then, the
curious are disoriented, and their loves for You remain secret; but Lucía pays for it.
Confess V. that it is a lot of generosity.
—Yo… Sr. D. Fadrique…
—Don't apologize, V. I'm not talking about it so that you can apologize, but
to narrate the events as they are in themselves. In this place everyone
believes that you have come, abandoning your parents, your home and
your studies, to pursue Lucía; but this deception cannot last. Imagine the
uproar, the gossip, the gossip that will give you occasion and motive the
day it is known, as it cannot but be known, that you intend Clarita, whom
everyone believes is already the betrothed wife of D.
Casimiro Solis.
"That will never happen as long as I live," exclaimed Don Carlos with great
vigor.
"Let's try to prevent it," Don Fadrique continued calmly. "I will help you as
much as I can, and I repeat that I can do something; but all your energy and
all the prudence that I use will be useless if you ignore my warnings and
advice.
—I have already told you that I wish to follow them.
—Well, my friend Don Carlos, it is necessary for you to be convinced that

Clarita, of whose love for you I am convinced, is raised with such a holy
fear of God and with such great, and even if you want to exaggerate,
irrational respect for her mother, who by obeying her, by not giving her grief,
by not rebelling, will be able to marry D.
Casimiro, even if he dies of love for you the day after you get married, even if your
wedding dress is the shroud in which you are buried.
—But if Clara tells her mother that she doesn't love Don Casimiro...
—Clara won't dare say it.
—If he declares to his mother that he loves me...
—He will sooner die than confess that love to his mother.
—And if you are so afraid of your mother, can't you run away with me?
—I don't think I'll ever take such a bad step. In any case, although so
If a bad step were possible, it should not be resorted to unless other more
prudent and judicious means were sought. I reiterate, however, my statement.
I believe Clarita is capable of dying from pain; But I don't think she's capable
of lending herself to the scandal of a kidnapping.
—So what do you want me to do?
—The first thing, return to Seville with your lords parents, and leave
DoñaClara calm down with her people.
—It is well known that you do not love. At your age...
—Come on... with the nonsense... Little poet gentleman... I'm neither old nor
rabadán... nor do I look anything like the one from the idyll. You go to Seville
today. You leave this city before Doña Blanca realizes that there are Moors on
the coast. I will look after V's interests here. And if they are in danger; If it is
necessary to resort to violent means, count on me too... even for the
kidnapping. I will soon venture to promise it to you, because I am firm that
Clarita will not allow herself to be stolen.
—And why, why should I go to Seville?
—Well, haven't I told you already? Because here all you do is harm yourself, without
pleasure and without advantage. I am sure that it will not succeed
V. more than seeing Clara in the church, with more anguish than delight on the part
of the poor girl. And this as long as Doña Blanca does not discover anything. The day
Doña Blanca discovers V.'s game will be a tremendous day for Clarita and V. will
never see her again. You go, then, to Seville.
—And what will I gain by leaving?
—May I work calmly in favor of V. You hinder my plans. If you stay, you will hasten
D. Casimiro's wedding and will cause him to flee by leave to Rome. If you leave, I do
not affirm that I will prevent Clara's wedding with the old rabadán and make it happen
for Mirtilo; But, either I must be of little value, or I must ensure that we are given time
and... who knows... I promise nothing. I only ask you to leave. You leave today.
The interest that the Commander showed him, his insistence that he leave, the
determination with which he interfered in his affairs, everything shocked D. Carlos
and made him distrustful and dissatisfied.
The Commander hurried all the reasons, used all the tones, but especially that of
supplication; D. Carlos answered him several times in a bad mood, and the prudent
superiority of the Commander was necessary to calm and contain D. Carlos and
prevent him from offending the one who advised him and almost ordered him.
Finally, Don Fadrique begged, promised and said so much that Don Carlos had to
submit and leave that same day for Seville, although only offering an absence of a
little more than a month: until the summer holidays arrived. Instead, he demanded
and obtained from D.
Fadrique that he had to write to him giving him news of Clara, and warning him of the
slightest danger that there was, to fly immediately
Where was she.
Don Carlos, although he was neither shy nor clumsy, had never gotten
Clara to receive a letter from him, much less write to him. But how much, if
Clara had not even given him to understand in words that she loved him?
Clara loved him, however. The gallant knew well that it was false, out of
pure modesty, that
…Friendly and compassionate, He wants the boy

alive, but she does not want to love him.
Clara loved him, and in spite of herself, against her will, she had declared
her love; but only with her eyes, where her soul went in search of the
bizarre and funny student, without all her religious and filial scruples being
powerful enough to stop her.
Don Fadrique was able to convince himself, in the long conversation he

had with Don Carlos, that his passion for Clara was true and deep. He was
even more convinced of Clara's love for the Ronda poet. With this double
conviction, of which he was happy, he further hastened the departure of D.
Carlos, and before noon he managed to get him to leave the town in the
direction of Seville.
Don Carlos left on horseback with his servant; and Don Fadrique, also on
horseback, joined him on the common land, and accompanied him for more
than a league, giving him hope and talking to him about his loves. Upon
reaching a crossroads, Don Fadrique bid the young man an affectionate
farewell, and took the road to Villabermeja with the intention of conferring
with Father Jacinto.
The simplicity and modesty of this holy man had not allowed anyone to see
D. Fadrique the immense importance that he had acquired during his long
absence.
As a preacher, the father enjoyed extraordinary fame throughout that

region. It was equally celebrated by all three styles
what he had to preach. In the plain or homily style he charmed the rustic people
and put religion and morality within their reach, enlivening such serious lessons with
jokes and jocularities that a severe critic would condemn, but which were too much
for the uncouth peasants to become fond of. to hear him and delight in hearing him.
In hard-hitting sermons, on days of great function, Father Jacinto was a different
man: he used many Latin words, hollowed out his voice and enamelled his speech
like a garden of flowers, like a veritable thicket of exuberant ornaments, which also
appealed to the discreet and the discreet. fine from those places. And it had, finally,
the pathetic style of Passion Week and Holy Week, during which the sermons, more
than spoken, were in Villabermeja, and still are, sung, without being liked any other
way. Holy Week sermon, without what they call there the tonillo, does not please
anyone nor is it considered a sermon. When a foreign priest goes to Villabermeja
during the day, he has to learn the tune. In this sense, Father Jacinto was a paragon
of perfection, which no one has surpassed until now. Upon hearing him, even if it is
a gentile reminiscence, they say that one understood how Gaius Gracchus was
accompanied by a flute player when he delivered his most passionate harangues in
the Forum. Father Jacinto also preached in the Forum, or in the middle of the public
square, during Holy Week. There all the steps were done in real life, and the father
explained them in the sermon as they occurred. Thus, there was a sermon that
lasted three hours, and always without leaving the tone, which did not prevent the
father from expressing the most diverse emotions, such as pity, pain and anger.
When the crier appeared on the balcony of the Town Hall and read the death
sentence against Jesus Christ, the fury with which the father turned against him has
remained in the memory of the Bermejinos, shouting:
"Be silent, false, mean, foolish and miserable preacher, and you will hear the voice
of the Angel saying:"
And then a very colorful angel came out from another balcony in the square, and
sang the ineffable mystery of the Redemption, beginning:
"This is the sentence that the Eternal Father commands to be fulfilled..." and the rest
that those of us who are from there have heard so many times.
But, returning to Father Jacinto, I will say that his merit as a preacher was perhaps
the least important thing. His great value was as a spiritual director.
He spent hours and hours in the confessional. From the vermilion convent she
frequently had to go to the convent of the nearby city, where she had quite a few
daughters of confession among the lordship.
He was also a man of counsel and wisdom in worldly affairs, and everyone came to
consult him when they were in tribulation, trouble or difficulty. In short, Father Jacinto
was a great doctor of souls, although sometimes harsh and ferocious in his remedies.
He liked to apply them heroically, as other local doctors usually do, who perhaps
prescribe to a man the medicine that should be prescribed to a horse. Despite this,
the father had such authority and discretion; He was so pleasant in his treatment and
such a resolute supporter and defender of women, that he enjoyed immense
popularity among them, and was fervently revered, both by humble day laborers and
by pompous noblewomen.
Although he was seventy years old, he was still firm and robust, although he had lost
certain youthful impetus, which had made him famous, leading him at times to imitate
the Divine Redeemer, more than in meekness, in that outburst he had when he made
a whipping. of some ropes and whipped the merchants out of the temple. Father
Jacinto had been a jayan and had shaken the dust of some heartless and stubborn
sinners, especially when they were husbands, who got drunk, spent money on wine
and gambling and beat their wives.
Father Jacinto had been really harsh against this class of men.
He no longer had those arrests of youth; but his virtue and his moral strength, together
with the memory of physics, commanded great respect among the rustics.
Such were the main qualities and the brilliant position of the Commander's
former teacher, with whom he was now going to consult and deal with arduous
business, and from whom he hoped to obtain powerful assistance.
XIII
As soon as the Commander arrived in Villabermeja and left the horse at his
house, he went to the convent, which was a few steps away, and as it was
siesta time, he found Father Jacinto in his cell, who was not sleeping, but was
reading, sitting at the table.
My readers must already form, from what has been said so far, a fairly
approximate idea of the condition of the aforementioned friar.
I need to add, to make the portrait complete, that he was tall and dry; that he saw and
heard well; who was familiar with the entire human race, and who prided himself on
not mincing words, that is, saying everything that occurred to him, with a frankness
that often touched and even exceeded its limits, entering with flags displayed
throughout the jurisdiction. and end of shamelessness. Only with Don Fadrique did the
Father show himself respectful and deferential, assuming that he had, without being
able to remedy it, an affection for his former disciple, which made him very weak.
"Boy," he said to Don Fadrique, as soon as he saw him enter, "what good
wind brings you here suddenly?"
“Master,” replied the Commander, “I have come expressly to consult with you.
—To consult me? And about what? What is there that you don't know better
than me and better than anyone else?
—My question is of utmost importance.

—Come on... what is it about?
—It is… it is… nothing less than a case of conscience.
Upon hearing the case of conscience, the father stared at the Commander
with an air of disbelief and suspicion, and finally exclaimed:
—Look, my son, if you get bored in these places and want to fool around
and have fun, take a board and two horns, and don't have fun or fool
around with me. The alcacer is already hard for panpipes.
—And where do you infer that I am joking or that I am making fun? I speak formally.
Why should I not formally present to you a case of conscience?
—Because every man of a certain education, raised within Christian

society, even if he has lost faith in Our Lord Jesus Christ, has a conscience
as clear as I, and there is no case that he does not resolve on his own,
without the need to consult me. If you had faith, you could come to me in
search of the consolations that religion gives. Not coming for this, what
can I tell you that you ignore? Your morality is identical to mine, although
in its fundamentals it differs. And at
Well, you know it well enough, there is no case of conscience, merely
moral, whose solution is not simple for every slightly cultivated
understanding. Without a doubt, God, to exercise our mental activity and
sharpen our ingenuity, or to give value to our faith, has surrounded the
great metaphysical problems with darkness; It has enveloped them in
mysteries, sometimes impenetrable; But as far as morality is concerned,
as far as the fulfillment of our duties is concerned, there is no mystery:
everything is clear as day. The sovereign Lord, in his infinite goodness
and mercy, has not wanted, despite our evils, that no one has to be a
Seneca to know perfectly what his obligation is, much less that no one has
to be a wonderful hero to fulfill it. Not even to know her
You lack understanding, nor should you lack will to comply with it. So
what are you looking for in me?
—Much could be argued against what you say; but I do not want to
dispute, but rather to consult. I want to agree that morality is not
hidden, and that it is not so difficult to comply with it.
“It is understood,” the Father interrupted, “for all those peoples where
the light of the Gospel has penetrated. You imagine that natural
discourse has been sufficient for men to form the moral law: I believe
that they have needed revelation; but you and I agree that, once that
law is presented, human reason accepts it as evident. It is great
mischief to suppose this dark and vague law, and to create terrible
cases, frightful conflicts between natural feelings and the simple
fulfillment of a duty. This would be equivalent to assuming the need
to be a well of science and to feel capable of superhuman efforts to
be a decent person.
You already understand that this would be to excuse and almost agree with the tunos.
After all, not all men are wise or have fibers of iron or hearts of diamond. To enhance
morality in this way is to make it almost impossible, except for some privileged and
first-class beings, deeper than Chrysippus and more constant than Regulus.
—The case I want to present has a lot to do with everything you are
saying. It is not idle curiosity, but a very respectable interest, that
induces me to resolve a doubt.
—Impossible… you can't doubt.
—Let me finish. I have no doubt about the case... I have formed my

judgment... which seems to me to be no less certain than this other:
two and three make five. My doubt is whether you, for reasons based
on inexhaustible divine goodness, have a wider sleeve than me, or
whether for reasons of the positive law, in which you believe, you have it.
narrower. Do you understand me now?
-I understand you very well; And of course I declare to you that I must not have a
sleeve that is neither wider nor narrower than you. We will both qualify a sin, a fault, a
crime in the same way, and we will also mark and determine the obligation that arises
from it. Theological reasons have to do with penance, with atonement, with forgiveness,
with glory or hell, there in the other world, and you have nothing to get involved in now.
Let's see, then, that case, since you want to consult me.
—Of course you will agree that what was stolen should be returned to its owner.
-Doubtless.
—And when, as a result of deception, something that belongs to one comes to belong
to another, what should we do?
—We must put an end to the deception so that what someone possesses without right
passes into the hands of its legitimate master.
—What if putting an end to the deception results in obviously greater evils?
—Here it is important to distinguish. If you have to speak, you should never tell a lie,
no matter how immense the harm that may result from telling the truth. Condemned is
the unofficial lie as well as the pernicious one. You should not lie either to save the life
of your neighbor, nor to save anyone's honor, nor for the good of religion; But I dare to
maintain that you should keep silent about the truth when no one asks for it from you
and when telling it results in more harm than good. To think anything against it is
delirium. I hold it without hesitation. I am going to explain my doctrine in brief words.
You commit a sin. You are, for example, a liar. You must remedy the evils that arise
from your sin to the extent possible and lawful, that is, without committing
new sin to remedy the old. God, to make clear to us the enormity of our faults,
sometimes allows evils to arise from them whose human remedies are worse. Trying
to avoid them or remedy them then is not humility, but arrogance, satanic pride; It is
fighting against God; It is taking the role of Providence; It is blindfolding; It is wanting
to straighten out the wrong that you yourself made, twisting and tilting what is straight,
and tending to upset the natural order of things.
"Speaking frankly," said the Commander, "your doctrine seems very comfortable to
me." I see that your sleeve is wider than I thought.
"Go for a walk, Commander," replied the father, quite angry.

On no occasion did I seem complacent. You address me the harshest accusation that
can be directed at a confessor. A saint has said: Non est pietas, sed impietas, tolerare
peccata, and I am far from being impious. It all comes, without a doubt, from you
confusing things. Here we are not talking about penance, expiation, punishment for
guilt. On this point I don't have to tell you what I would require of a penitent to absolve
him. Here we speak only of the obligation to satisfy the grievance that arises from sin
or crime. And to this I have responded with simplicity. The sinner or criminal must go
as far as possible and lawful. If you have to commit new sins, if you have to do new
evils and blunders, it is better that you leave it and not set out to remedy the evil you
have done. Well what! Would it be okay, for example, for you to injure someone, and
then, without knowing about surgery, try to cure him and end up killing him? You say
that such a doctrine is comfortable. Where is the comfort? Although I excuse you from
providing the remedy, I do not save you from penitence, remorse and punishment. On
the contrary, what is comfortable is the other thing: to remedy the evil in a bad way,
and to believe that one is already horrified and to consider oneself acquitted. Thus a
clumsy servant will one day break your most precious glass that you have brought
from China, then sloppily hit it with glue, and will remain as fresh as if he had not
caused you the slightest harm.
What the servant must do is to always be very careful not to break the glass, and if he
breaks it, he will feel the lack of it very much, and since he can neither repair the glass
properly nor buy you a new and identical one, he will humbly suffer the reprimand that
you throw him out.
—I am pleased to see that we are in general agreement on the doctrine. It is in the

application to particular cases that I see that there is room for much subtlety. Contrary
to V.'s opinion, the good path appears very clouded and confusing. How can I
sometimes determine to what extent what I want to do to repair the damage is possible
and legal?
-It is very simple. If you cause another greater damage to repair it, let the first one,
which is smaller, remain; and this even if in the second damage you cause there was
no sin on your part. Having a new sin, a new violation of the moral law in the remedy,
even if this second sin is less than the first one you committed, you should not commit
it. God, if He wants, will remedy the evil caused.
—So all you have to do is cross your arms; let the ball roll?
—You just have to let it roll, since by stopping it you can make everything roll. The
Sacred Letters come to my support with many texts. David said: Abissus abyssum
invoket; Solomon, Est processio in malis; the prophet Amos, Si erit malum quod
Dominus non fecerit? with which he implies that God allows or orders evil as a
punishment for sin and a lesson to creatures; and Solomon himself, quoted above,
says, more explicitly, that we cannot add to or subtract from what God made to be
feared: Non possumus quidquam addere nec auferre quae fecit Deus ut timeatur.
—Despite the texts, despite the Latin ones, that cowardly resignation disgusts me.
—How cowardly? Where did you see that with God there is
cowardice? Resignation to his will does not imply, on the other hand, that you
become calm and filled with self-contentment. Keep crying your guilt; flay your
soul with the scourge of conscience and your body with cruel disciplines; make
your life in the world a very harsh purgatory; but resign yourself and do not try to
remedy what only God should hope for a remedy. Even common sense agrees
on this, looking at human actions from the side of usefulness and convenience,
which, properly understood, agree with morality and justice. How accurate is the
saying that says: I don't feel that my son loses, but that he wants to get even! If
it is bad to play, it is even worse to play again; relapse into sin to remedy the evil
of sin. But in all this, you only speak of generalities, and the case of conscience
does not seem.
"I'll get to the point," said the Commander.
"I'm all ears," replied the friar.
—What should he do who is not the son of someone who passes for his father,
according to the law, and usurps a name, position and property that is not his?
[Author's note: This novel, which has been published in pieces in the newspaper
El Campo, has a plan drawn up in November 1876. Mr. Echegaray's drama Ó
madness or sanctity had not yet been performed. I didn't have the slightest news
about it, given that it was already written. It has been, therefore, a coincidence,
very unpleasant for me, the similarity or analogy of the subject of such applauded
drama with the subject of my poor novel. It should be understood that in making
this observation I do not want to defend myself from those who could accuse me
of imitating or imitating, but rather from those who are inclined to believe that I,
in the form of a story, interfere in censoring, challenging or controverting the
ideas or doctrines that I in the aforementioned drama they shine.]
—Man… you are famous! After so much preamble, do you

You come with such a trivial question? I now ignore the difficulty or impossibility
that this foster son would have in proving his mother's crime. I don't know about
laws; but natural reason tells me that against the faith of baptism, against the
series of official acts and documents that have made you pass until today as a
son of a certain and well-known López de Mendoza, only testimonies of an
exceptional and orderly order can be valid. almost impossible. I assume, however,
that you have such testimonies. I think, I decide that you should not use them. Do
you know the commandments of God's law?
Do you know that the order they are in is not arbitrary? Well then; what does the
seventh say?
—Do not steal.
—And the room?
—Honor father and mother.
—It is, therefore, evident that to get rid of the sin against the seventh you were
going to sin against the fourth, dishonoring your mother and your father, that father
would always be the one who had you as a son, raised you, fed you and He
educated, even if he did not engender you.
—You are right, Father Jacinto. And yet, the goods that are not mine, how do I
continue to enjoy them?
—And who tells you to enjoy them? Well what! Is it so difficult to give without
expressing the reason why it is given? Give them, then, to whom you owe. They
will take them... In taking there is no deception. And if, by a strange case, you find
someone who is improbably scrupulous about drinking, manage to get him to
drink. Far from opposing, I ask, I applaud the reparation, provided that to carry it
out it is not necessary to do greater atrocities than what is remedied.
—Okay... but if it's not the son, but the mother who is blamed... what should the
mother who is blamed do?
-The same as the son... not to publicly dishonor her husband... not to make his life
miserable... not to disappoint him with horrible disappointment... not to add to his sin
of fragility that of a cruel and heartless shamelessness.
—The mother, however, has no means of returning property that, due to her
fault, is going or has gone to someone who does not belong.
—And if he doesn't have them, what should be done? I said it already. Let
him resign. Let him submit to the will of God. He should have foreseen all this
before sinning, and not sinning. After sin, the remedy does not concern him if
it involves a new sin, but rather penance. Have you already stated the entire
case?
—No, father; It has other complications and points of view.
—A piece of work.
—What do you think the sinful man, the woman's accomplice, should do in
that crime whose consequence is the theft, the usurpation of which we have
spoken?
—The same thing I said about the son and the mother.
—And if he has assets to remedy the damage caused to the heirs?
—Remediate that damage, but with such modesty, discretion and secrecy
that nothing is known. In the book of Proverbs it is written: Melius est nomen
bonum quam divitiae tumbae. So, as a matter of interest, no one should be
harmed in their good name.
The historian of these events writes to narrate, and not to prove.

It does not decide, therefore, whether Father Jacinto was correct or not in
what he said; whether he spoke guided by common sense or by Christian
moral doctrine, or by both criteria in complete harmony; nor is he inclined to
believe that said father had a crude morality and
rudeness, and the audacity and confidence of an ignorant rustic.

Leave this for the discreet reader to resolve. Suffice it to note here that the Commander
showed great satisfaction in seeing that his teacher, as he called him, thought exactly
what he wanted him to think.
Father Jacinto, distrustful as a good local, did not notice the intense interest with which
his former disciple questioned him; And always fearing a mockery, a kind of test carried
out by the Commander to pass the time, he spoke again, somewhat embarrassed,
saying:
—It seems to me that I am arch-naive. Where are you going with so many questions?
Do you want to examine me? Are you thinking of withdrawing my license to confess if
you don't think I'm well educated?
—None of that, master. I don't know if you agree or not with his books on moral
theology; But you agree with me, which flatters me, and you also agree with my
purposes, which fills me with hope. I was looking for an ally in you. I always counted
on his friendship, but I didn't know if I could also count on his conscience. Now I
understand that your conscience does not oppose me. Your friendship, therefore, free
of all obstacles, will come to my aid.
Father Jacinto finally realized that it was a practical case, real, and not imagined, and
he offered to help the Commander in everything that was fair.
Waiting, therefore, for an important revelation, he wanted to catch his breath by

pausing, and tried to solemnize the revelation by going to a cupboard, which was not
far away, and taking out from it a lime of wine and two rods, which he placed on the
table, filling them. to the edge.
“This wine has no brandy, no apothecary, no composition of any kind,” the father said
to the Commander. “It is pure, clean and
without blemish He is as God made him. Drink and comfort yourself with
it, and then tell me what you have to tell.
"I drink to the success of my plans," replied the Commander, finishing

the wine from his cane.
"So be it, God willing," replied the friar, also drinking, and prepared to
attend to Don Fadrique with his five senses.
XIV
The cell didn't have much to attract attention. On the table or buffet,
which was made of walnut, there were writing notes, the Breviary and
other books. Two armchairs, facing each other, with the table in between,
and where our interlocutors sat, were also made of walnut. In addition to
the two armchairs, there were four chairs against the wall. The seats
were all made of reed. An Ecce-Homo, in oil, to whom the saying that
Christ needs a lot of blood fits, was the only painting that adorned the
walls of the cell. However, there was no lack of other more natural
decorations. In the window, sunbathing, were two flowering rose bushes;
Inside the room, four pots of brusco, and five cages hanging on the wall,
two with singing partridges, and three with buntings, excellent attractions.
Another beautiful kite, a skilled cymbal, clinging to the projecting rod that
was fixed to a pine board, flew at every moment as far as the long thread
that imprisoned it would allow, and returned with great grace to perch on
the rod.
The goldfinches sang from time to time and enlivened the room.
Arrested at an angle like the hunting shotguns.
And finally, in a little alcove that was barely visible, because the small
door was almost completely covered by a green cloth curtain, was the
bed of the good religious. The cupboard where this one is from
He took out the wine and that it was quite capable, it served as a cellar, wardrobe,
pantry, box or treasure and library at the same time.
Everything, although poor, seemed very neat.
Father Jacinto, with his elbow on the table, his hand on his cheek and his eyes
fixed on Don Fadrique, was waiting for him to speak.
Don Fadrique, in a low voice, spoke in this way:
—Although I am not a penitent who comes to confess, I demand the same secrecy
as if I were in the confessional.
The father, without responding in words, nodded his head in affirmation.
Then D. Fadrique continued:
—The man I have spoken to you about, the sinner who is the cause of deception
and theft, is myself. The lightness of my character had made me forget my crime
and not think about the fatal consequences that would flow from it. The chance...
what do I say the chance?... Provident God, in whom I believe, has put me back
in the presence of my accomplice and has made me see all the evils that, through
my fault, originated and still threaten to arise. I am willing to remedy and avoid
them, in accordance with V.'s doctrine, to the extent possible and lawful. It is a
comfort to me to see that you are
V. in agreement with me. I do not have to look for a remedy worse than the disease;
But there is a person who is looking for him, and it is necessary to oppose him at all
costs to finding him. It would be one abomination on top of another abomination.
—And who is that person? —said the father.
"My accomplice," replied the Commander.

—And who is your accomplice?
—V. he knows her. V. is your spiritual director. V. must have great influence over her.
My accomplice is... Tell me, teacher, that I have never made this revelation to anyone.
At least no one could ever call me scandalous. Few relationships have been more
hidden. The good reputation of this woman still appears, after seventeen years, more
resplendent than gold.
—Finish: who is your accomplice? Pretend that you throw your secret into a well. I
know how to shut up.
—My accomplice is Doña Blanca Roldán de Solís.
Father Jacinto was filled with astonishment, opened his eyes and mouth and crossed
himself very quickly half a dozen times, uttering these pious interjections:
-The Virgin Mary! Praise the Blessed Sacrament!

Jesus, Mary and Joseph!
—What do you admire so wildly? —said the Commander, thinking that the father was
surprised that such a virtuous and austere matron had never succumbed to a bad
temptation.
—What do I admire myself for?… Boy… What do I admire myself for?… Well, is that
not enough? Well they say... Live to see... The devil is the same devil. Look... and I'm
not saying this to offend anyone... look with what bunch of carnations our common
enemy caressed you and seduced you!... With a bunch of gorse. You transplanted a
soft flower to the garden of your loves… A thistle thistle! Doña Blanca must have been
beautiful… she still is; but man! Yes, it's a hedgehog! I... forgive me for her absence...
I didn't think she was impeccable, but I didn't think she was capable of sinning for love.
Don Fadrique responded only with a sigh, with an exclamation

inarticulate, which the father thought he could decipher as if it were saying that
seventeen years before Doña Blanca had been very different, and that furthermore,
the very hardness of her character and the spirited inflexibility of her temper made
every passion in her more vehement, even that of love. , once I got to feel it.
Recovering a little of his astonishment, Father Jacinto said:
—And tell me, son, what is Doña Blanca trying to do to remedy the evil? What
projects are hers that scare you so much?
—Who would be her husband's immediate heir if she did not have a daughter? —
asked the Commander.
"Don Casimiro Solís," was the response.
—Well, that's why he wants to marry his daughter to Don Casimiro.
—Sinner that I am! Stupid and foolish! —exclaimed the father, all full of violence and
banging the table a few times. “Do you want to believe that I am so selfish, that
selfishness had blinded me? I had not seen any bad trace in Doña Blanca's plan. It
seemed natural to me that he would marry Clarita to her uncle. I only looked out for
my mischievous interest: that no one would take Clarita away from these places. You
need to know... Clarita has me enthralled. For her, no more than for her, I put up with
her mother. What I wanted, like a good scoundrel, was for her to stay here... to go
see her and for her to entertain me, as she entertains me now, when I go to her
mother's house, serving me, with her white and beautiful hands, chocolate gourds
and cups of syrup. It seemed to me that Clarita was a doll for my amusement. I didn't
fall for anything... I didn't take charge... I only thought that, once married, she would
make an excellent lady of her house, and she would welcome me by the fire, and I
would bring her flowers, fruits and birds as gifts. If you saw what a roe I had brought
for her from Sierra Morena! It's a beauty. I have her downstairs in the corral... and I
was going to take her tomorrow. Nothing... have you seen
what barbaric?... without giving the slightest importance to the marriage.

Now I understand everything. What a monstrosity! Marry that pendant with
such a scammer! You can see... she doesn't hate it... she doesn't understand
it... who the hell knows?... but I understand it... and it scares me... it horrifies
me.
—You are right to be horrified... She repulses him... she understands him...
but she believes that she should not resist maternal authority.
—That will be what a tailor values. Well, nothing more was missing! He will
obey his mother; but first he will obey God. Diligendus est genitor, sed
praeponendus est Creator. It is a sentence of Saint Augustine.
"Besides," said the Commander, "Clarita loves another man."
-How is that? What's up? What lie, what mess have they made you believe? If she
loved a gallant, Clara would have confessed it to me.
—She herself is almost unaware that she loves him; but I know that she loves him.
—Come on, yes, I already get it: certain looks and smiles with a student… He
has confessed them to me. She's sorry... With a student!... Was Clarita going
to run away with the prickly pear?
—P. Jacinto, V. stir up.
-Shameless! How dare you say I'm crazy?
—The student is not one of those who go around with a torn manteo and with
a spoon placed in his three-cornered hat, begging for alms, but he is a leading
gentleman, a rich estate.
-Really? That's another story altogether. That innocent lamb hadn't told me
anything about that. Hey... and is he good looking?
—Like a golden pine.
—Good Christian?
-I think so.
-Honored?
—To the full letter.
—And do you love her very much?
—With all his soul.
—And he is discreet and brave?
—Like a Gonzalo from Córdoba. Furthermore, he is a very elegant poet, rides a horse
well, has a thousand other skills, is well read and knows how to fight.
—I'm glad, I'm glad and I'm glad. We will marry him to Clarita, even if Doña
Blanca rages.
—Yes, dear teacher. We will marry him... but we must be very cautious.
—Prudent sicut serpentes… Lose caution. I know very well who Doña Blanca
is. The empire he exercises over his daughter is omnipresent. The respect and
fear that he instills in him exceed all praise. And then, what vigor, what will of
that lady! No one is stubborn
enough
—I am no less stubborn... and I will not allow Clara to be the price of anyone's
ransom; May our faults weigh on her, who is blameless; that Doña Blanca sells
her to obtain her freedom. However, caution is very important. Mrs. White,
Taken to the extreme, it could do something crazy.
After this long conversation, and in perfect agreement between the Commander and
Father Jacinto, the former returned to the city that same day so that his absence
would not be missed.
Father Jacinto agreed to go to the city the next day tomorrow.
The details and procedures of the plan to be followed were left to be decided on the
spot.
Only the greatest secrecy and circumspection was observed in everything and to
conceal as much as possible the intimate friendship that existed between the friar
and the Commander, in order not to make the friar suspicious and hateful in the eyes
of Doña Blanca.
Finally, it was agreed that, despite the seriousness of the situation, it was not out of
character, nor did it have a comical or reprehensible inappropriateness, for Father
Jacinto to take the doe to Clarita and give it to her.
XV
Upon returning to the city that night, the Commander had to undergo a proper
interrogation from his niece, who was the most curious and questioning girl in the
entire region. He also had a style of questioning, already affirming the same thing that
he wanted to make sure, which made Father Jacinto's doctrine of keeping the truth
silent without telling the lie ineffective. Either you had to lie or you had to declare: there
was no middle ground.
"Uncle," said Lucía as soon as she saw him alone, "you have been in Villabermeja."
—Yes… I have been.

—Why did you go there? If Nicolasa's divine eyes will bring you enthusiasm!
—I don't know that Nicolasa.
—Who doesn't know her?… Bah!… Who doesn't know Nicolasa?

She is a prodigy of beauty. Many noblemen and rich people have already
sought it.
—Well, I don't count myself in that number. I repeat that I do not

know.
—V. Street, uncle... How do you want to make me believe that you don't know the
daughter of your friend Uncle Gorico?
—Well, I say for the third time that I don't know her.
—So, what is there to see in Villabermeja? Have you been to visit the Ramoncica
chacha?
The Commander had to respond frankly.
—I haven't visited her.
—Come on, I'm already falling. How good V. is!
—Why am I good?... Because I haven't visited the chacha Ramoncica, who

loves me so much?
-No Uncle. It is good... First of all because it is not bad.
—Nice and discreet reasoning.
—I want to say that you are good, because you are not like other gentlemen,
who, even though they already have one foot in the grave, from which you
are very far, thank God, they are always gallivanting and
stirring up the daughters of artisans and day laborers. Not now... because of
the courtship; but before... D. Casimiro visited Nicolasa.
—Well, I haven't visited it.
—Well, that is the first reason why I say that you are good.
Nicolasa is an honest girl... and it is not right for knights to try to lift her up by her
hooves...
—I approve of your rigidity. And the second reason why I'm good, do you want
to tell me?
—The second reason is that, having not gone to see Nicolasa or to see the
chacha Ramoncica, why would you have gone in such a hurry except to see
Father Jacinto and try to beat him? in favor of Mirtilo and Clori? Wow, have you
gone to that?
—I can't deny it to you.
-Thanks dude. You are not capable of emphasizing enough how proud I am.
-And because?
—Here... because, no matter how affectionate you are with everyone, in the
end you would not be so interested in two people who are almost strangers to
you, if it were not for the affection that you have for your little niece, who wants
to protect those two. people.
"That's the truth," said the Commander, letting out an officious lie, despite
Father Jacinto's theory.
Lucía turned red with pride and satisfaction, and continued speaking:
—I will bet that you have won the reverend's will. Is it already
from U.S?
—Yes, niece, he is on our side; But, for the love of God, be silent, secrecy
matters. Since you guess everything, try to be stealthy.
—You won't have to censure me. I will be stealthy. V., on the other hand, will
keep me up to date with everything. Is it true that you will tell me everything?
"Yes," said the Commander, having to lie for the second time.
Then he continued:
—Lucía, you said something that interests me. What kind of love affairs do you
suggest there was or is between Don Casimiro and that beautiful Nicolasa?
—Nothing, man... Haven't I already said it? They were before the courtship with
Clarita. D. Casimiro was not going well... and Nicolasa always disdained him;
but Father Jacinto will inform you of this better than I. The only thing I will add is
that this Mr. Casimiro seems to me to be a hypocriton and a complete scoundrel.
"It's not bad to know," thought the Commander.
—Ah! say V., uncle. I already know that he went to Seville D, Carlos. He sent a
message saying goodbye and apologizing for not having done it in person due
to the rush. It is evident that you have spoken to the soul and convinced it to
leave, assuring it that this was convenient for the achievement of our purpose.
Isn't that right, man?
"That's right, niece," replied the Commander. I see that nothing is hidden from you.
XVI
When the events we are referring to occurred, there were not so many
roads like now. From Villabermeja to the city today you can go by car. Then
he only went on foot or on horseback. The road was not a road, but a path,
opened by the footsteps of rational and irrational passers-by. When there was
heavy rain, the path became impassable: it was what they call in Andalusia a
royal partridge path.
Father Jacinto had a model donkey because it was big, gentle and safe. On
this donkey he always came and went, like a patriarch, from Villabermeja to
the city and from the city to Villabermeja. A robust layman accompanied him
on foot. On the trip he made to the city, the day after his long conversation
with the Commander, he was accompanied, in addition to the layman, by a
rustic secular or profane man, to take care of the
corza.
Followed, then, by his layman, the roe and the rustic, and a knight on his
gigantic donkey, Father Jacinto entered the city safely at ten in the morning.
As the convent of Santo Domingo is almost at the entrance, the father did not
have to cross streets with that entourage. At the convent he got off, and as
soon as he rested a little, he went to the house of Don Valentín Solís, or rather
to Doña Blanca's house. Don Valentín's care had been canceled in such a
way that no one in the place called his house Don Valentín's house. Her
vineyards, her olive groves, her orchards and her farmhouses were known to
Doña Blanca, and not to hers. That marital annulment had not, however,
reached the extreme of that of some husbands in Madrid, whom hardly anyone
knows except through their wives, whose notoriety and whose glory are
reflected in them and make them conspicuous.
But let us leave aside examples and comparisons, which can take on certain
overtones and glimpses of murmuring, and let us follow Fr.
Jacinto, and let us enter with him Doña Blanca's house, where it was so
difficult for ordinary mortals to enter.
Thanks to the authority of the reverend, and following him invisible, all
the doors are opened to us.
We are already in Doña Blanca's living room. Clara embroiders at his side. d.
Valentín, at a respectable distance and sitting next to a table, is patient
with a deck of cards. D. Casimiro speaks with the lady of the house and
her daughter.
The readers already know D. Casimiro, as if we were to say by fame, by

name and even by nickname, since they are not unaware that for D.
Carlos, Lucía, Clara and the Comendador, he was the old rabadán. Let's
see now if we can make his body portrait.
He was tall, skinny in arms and legs and very developed in his abdomen;
of a dark brown color, with little beard, which he shaved once a week,
and light green eyes that were a little crossed. She already had quite a
few wrinkles on her face, and the bright crimson of her nose did not
harmonize well with the paleness of her cheeks. In his own person there
was little care and cleanliness; but in the suit the care and neatness that
was lacking in the person were revealed, which certainly denoted that D.
Casimiro took more care of his clothes because he was tidy, economical
and fond of making the clothes last, than out of love for cleanliness.
He was dressed very much like a leading gentleman, although in the
fashion of fifteen or twenty years ago. His jacket, his jacket, his silk
breeches and stockings did not have a stain, and if they had any tears,
they were skillfully and exquisitely mended. He wore a wig with powder
and a ponytail, and wore many charms on the watch chains that he
carried in both pockets of his jacket. His tobacco box, which he showed
constantly, because he never stopped taking snuff, was an artistic
beauty, due to the enamels and precious stones that served as
decoration. When speaking, D. Casimiro used a certain solemnity and
highly intoned pause; but his voice was hoarse and unpleasant, and he
assured himself that this came partly from the fact that he did not dislike
liquor, and even more so from the fact that at home and stripped of the
trappings of a boyfriend or amorous suitor, he smoked a lot of black tobacco.
The expression of his countenance, his manners and gestures were not
unfriendly: they were insignificant; except that they could not help but
recognize in D. Casimiro a person of class, although raised in a place.
Finally, it was clear from all his appearance that Don Casimiro must have
been suffering from quite a few ailments. His poor health made him look
older.
Thus made known briefly, and not favorably, unfortunately, we can now
flatter ourselves by knowing how many people were occupying the room
when Father Jacinto entered it.
Doña Blanca, Clarita, Don Valentín and Don Casimiro rose to receive
him, and they all humbly kissed his hand. The father was smiling and very
kind to them, and he gave Clarita, as if she were no longer a woman, as
if she were an eight-year-old girl, and with the respectability that seventy
well-wishers gave her, two gentle pats on her cool cheek. , saying:
—Blessed be God, girl, who has made you so good and so beautiful!
"Your grace favors and honors me," Clarita answered.
Doña Blanca lamented the long time that her father had not come from
Villabermeja, and everyone joined her. They tried to get the father to have
something to eat until lunchtime, and the father didn't want to have
anything except a comfortable seat. From his seat he spoke of a thousand
things with an animated and joyful conversation, determined to wait there
for Don Casimiro to leave and for Don Valentín and Doña Clara to clear
up, to speak alone with Doña Blanca.
Doña Blanca guessed the friar's intention, became curious, and soon
found a way to dismiss Don Casimiro and throw Mr. Casimiro out of the room.
D. Valentín and Clarita.
Once the clearance was verified, Doña Blanca said:
—I suppose and hope that, after such a long absence, you will honor our table by
eating with us today.
Father Jacinto accepted the invitation, and Doña Blanca continued:
—I thought I noticed that you were impatient to speak to me alone.

This has piqued my curiosity. Everything that you tell me or can tell me inspires
me with the greatest interest. V. Speak, father.
"You are not stupid, my daughter," he replied. "Nothing escapes you." In fact, I
wanted to talk to you alone. And I wanted it so much, that I left for after your meal,
which I gladly accept, I left for after dinner the appearance of an object that I bring
as a present to our Clarita, and that she is going to love. Imagine that it is a
beautiful doe, so tame and domestic, that it eats from your hand and follows like
a dog. But let's get to the point: let's get to what I have to tell you. For God's sake,
don't make yourself uncomfortable. You have a very live genius: you are a
firebrand.
-It's true; I am very unhappy, and it is not easy for unfortunate people to be in a
good mood. You, however, have no right to complain about mine. When, since
we met, have I been unpleasant and harsh towards you?
—That is very true. You will agree, however, that I have not given a reason. I am
not like other friars, who give advice that is not asked for, and want to govern the
temporal and the eternal, and direct everything in every house they enter. It is not
like this?
-That's how it is. Rather, I have to regret that you advise me little.
—Well, today you won't complain about that. Maybe you'll complain that I give
you a lot of advice and that I get into my nightgown like hell.
-That never.
—We'll see there. Anyway, I have my excuses. You know that

Clarita is my charm. It's made me a fool. Who ignores my predilection
towards women? It has been necessary for all my severity so that
when I was young the cursers would not take my skin. Today, my
daughter (there must be some advantage to being old), with thirty-
five years in each leg, I can, without fear of censure, love you in my
own way and treat you with the intimate familiarity that delights me.
I confess to you that to love men I have to often remember that they
are neighbors and love them for the love of God. Women, on the
contrary, I love, not without effort, but by determined inclination. You
are sweet, benign, compassionate and much more religious than
men. If it had not been for you, I take it for granted, even the trace
of the primitive culture and revelation of Paradise would have been
lost, and men would never have left the savage state. If I were a
wise man, I would compose a book demonstrating that all this being
of today's Europe, that all these social advances that the world
boasts of, are due, in human terms, mainly to women. Calculate,
then, how high and flattering is the opinion I have of you.
Well then; In the last years of my life, your daughter Clara has come
to sublimate this concept in my mind even more. In my mind I had a
dream type of perfection, to which none of the women I have known
came even within ten leagues. Clarita has gone further. What
innocence is yours, so rare for its connection with discretion and
openness! What a healthy and accurate religious faith! What love
for his mother and what submission to her commands! Clara is a
little saint in this world, and when we see her we must praise God,
who has created her in order to let us trace and glimpse through her
what the little angels and the blessed virgins will be in heaven.
“My motherly pride flatters me a lot,” interposed Doña Blanca, “those

praises from Clarita that I hear in your mouth; but my love of justice
leads me to believe them exaggerated. I take them
I explain in a certain way, that I am going to have the sincerity to declare to

V. In the pure love that V. generally professes for women, there is something
of the ancient knight-errant, something of the spell that every strong being has
in giving protection to the weak and helpless. In the concept superior to reality
that V. forms of women, there is great goodness and instinctive poetry. All
these noble sentiments of yours have been used, during a long and holy life,
in local women, some day laborers, and others nobles or rich women, but the
most crude, in comparison with Clara, raised in big cities, with another veneer,
with another, higher culture, with greater delicacy and refinement.
Such advantages, merely external and due to chance, have surprised and
amazed V., and have made him think that what is on the surface is at the
bottom; that more distinguished manners, greater tact and moderation in
speech, and certain attentions and considerations that are born from more
careful education, and that come to be possessed mechanically, thanks to
custom, are virtues and excellences that spring from the very center of a soul
that rises above the others.
—No, my daughter; None of that is enough to explain my predilection for

Clarita.
—How is that not enough? Be frank. Don't you love and esteem Lucía almost as
much?
—Comparisons are hateful, and those of affection even more so.

Let us suppose, despite everything, that I esteem and love Lucía almost as
much. That would only prove that Lucía is worth almost as much as Clara.
—And that both are educated with more care.
—Well... So what?... I grant that it is so. Who has denied you the power of
education? What I deny is that education is worth up to that point on a sterile
and ungrateful spirit; And what I also deny is that its influence does not go
beyond the surface and does not penetrate deep down, and does not improve
people's being. It is, therefore, evident that Clara must
much to God, and then to you, who has educated her well; but what he owes to you is
not superficial and external: manners, words, attentions and considerations are not
vain signs. When there is no affectation in them, it is because they spring from the
soul itself, better created by God or by men than other sister souls. It is true that I
have not seen or known more people in my life than those from this city and
Villabermeja; but I guess and see clearly that there must be duchesses and even
princesses whose veneer would not deceive me or hallucinate me. I would know
immediately that it was false and flashy, and that deep down they were those ladies
more vulgar than your cook. Let it be known, therefore, that I am not delusional when
I praise Clarita.
"And wouldn't the hallucination come from," said Doña Blanca, "from
Clarita's candid and spontaneous propensity to make herself agreeable?"
—No doubt it will come; but that same propensity, being spontaneous
and candid, proves the goodness of soul of the one who has it.
—V. Don't you know, father, that this is qualified by a very new word in
Spanish, and that it sounds bad and like censorship?
—What word is that?
-Coquetry.
-Well then; If the coquetry is without malice, if the desire to please and
the effort made to achieve it do not cross certain limits, and if the goal
that a woman proposes by pleasing does not go beyond the pure delight
of instilling cordial affection and gratitude, I say that I approve coquetry
Doña Blanca and Father Jacinto were afraid of each other. She feared
the friar's shamelessness, and the friar feared her very violent temper.
From this mutual fear arose that they usually treated each other with
extreme finesse and with the most exquisite and restrained restraint.
circumspect, so as not to end any conversation in a fight or dispute.
Carried away by this consideration, Doña Blanca did not contest the defense
of coquetry; She considered her motherly modesty satisfied, and ended up
accepting her daughter Clara's praise as fair and deserved.
Then he added:
—In short, my daughter is a prodigy. Only justice takes part in your praises.
Glad to hear it. What greater joy for a mother? I imagine, however, that such
a flattering panegyric could well have been delivered in the presence of
witnesses. What you secretly had to tell me has not yet left your lips.
Father Jacinto stopped to reflect then, seeing himself so directly questioned,

and almost regretted having come to discuss the matter of Clarita's wedding,
allowing himself to be carried away by an impatient zeal, without first coming
to an agreement with the Commander, according to they had agreed; But
Father Jacinto was not a man who would give up once he had taken the first
step, and after a moment of hesitation, which he did not allow to be perceived
by eyes as sharp as those of his interlocutor, he said in this way:
—There I go, daughter; Be calm, everything will work out. My praise of

Clarita was very in place, because I am going to talk to you about Clarita. I
know, as his spiritual director that I am, that he will obey you in everything;
But tell me, don't you consider that for some things of the greatest importance,
it would be advisable to consult his will?
—And who has informed you that I do not consult you when it is convenient?
—Have you asked Clara, then, if she wants to get married when she is so young?
—Yes, father, and he said yes.

—Have you asked her if she will accept Don Casimiro as her husband?
—Yes, father, and he also said yes.
—And won't the fear and respect you inspire in your daughter be part of those
answers?
—I believe that I not only deserve to inspire in my daughter respect and fear, but also
affection and trust. Taking advantage, then, of the affection and trust that I must inspire
in her, my daughter could have answered that she did not want to marry Don Casimiro.
Nobody has violated her to make her say what she wants. He will want when he says
it.
-It's true; will want, when he says it. However, for a decision of the will to be valid, it is
important that the will be previously illustrated by the understanding about what it
decides about. Do you think Clarita knows what she wants and why she wants it?
—You have just made the most extreme praise of my daughter, and now you lead me
to think that you consider her stupid, incapable of the sacrament. How do you want a
sixteen-year-old woman to ignore the duties that holy matrimony brings with it?
—She doesn't ignore them... but don't come at me with sophistry... a sixteen-year-old
girl doesn't know the full significance of the yes she's going to give at the altars.
—That's why she has her mother, to enlighten her, advise her and direct her.
—And you have enlightened, advised and directed her according to your conscience?
—The slightest doubt about that, the mere question that you ask me is a terrible and
gratuitous offense. How could I presume, suspect, even for a moment, that I had to
advise my daughter against what my
conscience dictate to me? Do you think I'm that bad?
-Sorry; I explained myself awkwardly. I do not believe, nor can I believe, that you
have advised your daughter against your conscience; But I can believe that there is
room for error in your understanding, and that, led by some error, you induce your
daughter to take a deplorable step.
—I really miss your reasoning today.

How different from what they were before! What change has there been in V.?
I will be the victim of an error, and by virtue of that error I will give bad advice and
make disastrous resolutions; but you knew it a long time ago, and you had said
nothing against it when there was still no commitment made. How has this error,
which you did not perceive before, suddenly become evident in your eyes? What light
from heaven has illuminated your soul? What saint or blessed angel has come down
to earth to reveal to you the good and to distinguish it from the bad?
Doña Blanca, as can be seen, was already losing her poise and difficult sweetness.
Father Jacinto also began to look pale; but he made a heroic effort, and instead of
continuing forward and exciting the storm, he tried to calm it by every means he could
think of.
"You're right," he replied with great humility. "I should have dissuaded you from
arranging that wedding in time." Of the error that I notice in you, I confess that I have
participated. At least, it has been an atrocious carelessness on my part, an unforgivable
lightness, not to speak to you before as I am speaking to you today. But if I made a
mistake, by recognizing it now and turning away from the error, I induce you to imitate
me, even if it gives you weapons against me. What you affirm will prove my
inconsistency, but it proves nothing against my advice.
—How does it not prove anything? It removes from your council all the authority that
it would otherwise have had. Advice given so suddenly... one might even suspect...
that it is not based on
counselor's own thinking.
Doña Blanca, when pronouncing this last phrase, gave the father a penetrating and
scrutinizing look. The father, who was not shy, was a little embarrassed and lowered
his eyes. Instantly calming down, he replied:
—This is not about authority other than the authority of reason.

To give you advice, the friendship and affection that I have for you and your family is
worth it: for you to accept it or reject it, I do not claim that it is worth anything except
the ingenuity, which I ask God to grant me, to carry the conviction to your soul
-Alright. Do you want to tell me what reasons there are for Clara not to marry Mr.
Casimiro? V. is Clara's confessor. Does Clara love another man?
—Because I am her confessor, if Clara loved another man and she had confided it to
me, I would not tell you without her giving me her permission, which I would know how
to ask and demand if necessary. Fortunately, the question of whether Clara loves
another man or not has nothing to come into here.
—Don't come to me with detours and subtleties. I have raised my daughter with such
rigidity and such recollection that I have not the slightest doubt that she has not had
affairs. Clara has never looked maliciously at any man.
-That's what it will be like. But won't she be able to look at him tomorrow? Can't he
love if he doesn't love yet?
—She will love her husband. Why shouldn't she love him?
"Come on, madam," Father Jacinto said, his patience already lost:
She will not love her husband, because her husband is ugly, old, sickly and annoying.
"I want to assume," answered Doña Blanca with the calm tone she took when she
became most terrible, "I want to assume that your charitable qualifications fit perfectly
with the subject, with the person in my family, whom you honor with them." Your
exquisite taste in the arts of drawing finds D. Casimiro ugly; Your knowledge of
medicine has made you understand that there is poor health, and the amenity and
discretion that prevail in You, it is natural that they induce you to get annoyed with any
human being who is not so pleasant and so ingenious. like V., something, unfortunately,
very rare; but you will not deny me that my daughter, less educated in the proportions
and beauties of the human figure, may not find D. Casimiro ugly, as she does not find
him ugly; less learned in medical sciences, she may believe him to be healthier, and
less humorous than V., she may very well find some joke in D. Casimiro and not get
bored of his conversation.
And on the other hand, even if my daughter saw in D. Casimiro the defects that you
point out, why shouldn't she love him? So what, a woman of honor, a good Christian,
must love only physical beauty and ease of speech? Is it necessary to find her a
husband, not for a gentleman of her class, honest, God-fearing, virtuous, full of
attention and good desire to make her happy, but for some robust mountebank, some
amusing knave, who provokes her with his brawls? unseemly laughter and dishonest
mirth?
"Look, Doña Blanca," said the friar, who never abandoned his familiarity, even if it
made him uncomfortable, "don't think that you need to be an Apelles or a Phidias to
know that Don Casimiro is ugly." Its ugliness is so obvious and superficial that you
don't have to delve very deep to discover it. And as for his poor health and poor
amenities, I assure you the same. Without having studied medicine, without being a
Hippocrates, anyone can see that Don Casimiro is extremely damaged. And without
having studied Huarte's Examen de ingenios , one immediately discovers that Don
Casimiro's is blunt and hollow. I do not intend that you seek for Clarita Pythagoras and
Milo of Croton in one piece; But what mischief leads you to give her as a husband?
on Tersites?
Father Jacinto refrained from using Latin when he spoke to women; but he could not
help but quote in romance, whenever he addressed ladies of distinction, facts,
characters and sentences from classical antiquity and the Holy Scriptures. For the
rest, the meaning of what he said was so clear that Doña Blanca, even if she had not
known more or less confusedly the condition of the characters mentioned, would not
have had the slightest doubt about what the friar meant. So he responded:
—Reverend father, those are insults and not advice; but I will never be angry
with you. The only thing I affirm is that all the defects that you put in my future
son-in-law must be less exposed than what you suppose now, when before now
you have not known them. And if I knew them, why didn't you tell me before? I
repeat that someone has come to illustrate your clear understanding of V.
Someone induces you to take this step. There is no need to hide. Please be
loyal and frank with me.
V. has spoken to someone about Clarita's planned wedding.
Your advice from V. is not advice, but a sneaky message.
Father Jacinto was truly cool; but with Doña Blanca there was no freshness that
mattered. The poor friar was suffocated, red to the ears. For him he could have
invented that phrase that denotes that someone has been seriously ill: his ears
were red like a visiting friar.
Even his tongue, which was usually so loose, had gotten a little stuck and he
couldn't answer.
Doña Blanca, noticing that silence, encouraged him to explain himself and
added:
-I do not have doubt. You are convicted and almost confessed. You disapprove
today of what you approved yesterday, because an enemy of mine has filled
your head with absurd ideas. You dare to deny the truth.
Questioned, accused with such excessive audacity and with such rude
serenity, Father Jacinto gained strength from his weakness; He put aside the
cause of his unusual timidity, which was only the fear of harming the interests
of Clara and his friend and former disciple, and, now free of obstacles, he
answered so energetically and wisely that his answer, the reply to that gave
rise and all the rest of the dialogue took on a different and solemn character,
for which they deserve a separate chapter, which will be one of the most
important in this story.
XVII
Father Jacinto, without getting upset, imitating the toned repose of his
illustrious friend, answered the following:
—I have already confessed naively that I should have advised you before. I
did not do it, not because I approved of your plan, but because, carried away
by shameful levity and villainous and rude indifference, I did not realize the
full horror of the wedding you have arranged. Should I now warn my own
spirit, or that of another person who has enlightened me?
This is a point that may interest you God knows why and that may affect my
reputation as a knowledgeable man; but it in no way alters the value of my
advice. I do not want to nor can I justify my inconsistency. I can and must,
however, mitigate a little the harshness of your accusation, and I will do so by
explaining the reasons on which I base my current advice. I will be sorry to
express myself inappropriately, although I hope in your good faith that you will
not argue with me about the words, if you understand the idea and the healthy
intention with which I express it. Perhaps Clara is educated with rigidity that
borders on dangerous extremes.
Fearing that one day he might fall, you have exaggerated his setbacks.
Fearing that the ship could capsize and sink, you have pondered the reefs
and shoals that exist in the sea of the world, the impetus and violence of the
winds that fight the ship and even its fragility and mismanagement. This also
has its dangers. This instills a distrust in one's own strength that borders on
cowardice. This makes us form a concept of life and the world much worse
than it should be. How can a believer deny that as a result of our sins the
world is a valley of tears; that the devil continually spreads his net to lose us;
that our weak condition is prone to evil, and that the favor of heaven is
necessary to avoid falling into temptations? All this is undeniable, but it is
advisable not to exaggerate it. Once it is too exaggerated, or you have to flee
to the desert and live the ascetic life of hermits, and then everything is fine,
because the beauty and goodness that are not seen on earth, are expected,
sensed and almost seen already. in heaven, in ecstasy and raptures, or one
must give, lacking divine love, lacking fervent charity, in a desperate contempt
for oneself and in such disdain and hatred for everything created and for our
fellow men, that they make anyone Thus he lives hateful and annoying to
himself and to other beings.
Daughter, I don't know if I explain myself, but you are perceptive and you will
understand me. Another serious danger also arises from your method of
educating. The conscience is with it more prepared and prepared for the
fight; but by staining everything, it becomes stained; By infecting everything,
it becomes infected; By sensing a crime, an impurity in everything, it provokes
and even evokes impurities and crimes. Clarita has a very healthy
understanding, an excellent nature: but, do not doubt it, by tormenting her
soul so that she confesses faults that she has not incurred, she could one
day twist and dislocate the most beautiful feelings and turn them into sinful
feelings. ; could conceive from the scruples of his conscience, inquisitor of
sin, the very sin that did not exist before. I do not have to assure you that for
a thousand reasons I have not tried to relax the rigidity of the principles that
you have instilled in Clarita, although my way of being leads me, on the
contrary, to indulgence; to see the good side in everything, and to take a long
time to see the bad side, and not to discover it until after long meditation. So
at first, when we got involved in the matter of the wedding, I only saw the
good side. I saw that Don Casimiro is a gentleman of your class, honest,
religious, in love with Clarita and wanting to make her happy. I saw that by
marrying her, she would still be here
and they would not take her away from her mother and from us, who love her
so much. I saw that with her and her husband's large property she would do immense
good in these places, using herself in works of charity. And I saw in the same austerity
with which she was educated the guarantee that for Clarita marriage could not be the
means of satisfying and even sanctifying, thanks to a sacred and indissoluble bond, a
violent, profane and somewhat impious passion, since it consecrates to man a certain
adoration and worship that is due to God alone, and an outdated, ephemeral illusion
that dissipates all the sooner the more vivid and ardent is the brilliance with which
fantasy feigns and colors it. I saw all this, and because I saw it I try to be honest, since
I don't apologize, for not having opposed the wedding before. I also imagined that
Clarita did not disgust her. Clarita has said nothing to me afterwards; but my eyes
have been opened, and now I understand that he repulses her with invincible
repugnance, deep down in his soul. Now I understand that Clarita does not only see
in marriage a vow of devotion and sacrifice.
Clarita wants to love and for marriage to sanction and purify her love. Marriage,
therefore, cannot be for her the mere fulfillment of a social duty, an act of self-denial,
a suffering to which one must resign oneself, a penance, a test, a punishment. The
deep respect she has for you, the blind obedience with which she submits to your will,
the belief that almost everything is a sin, will not allow her to ever confess to herself
what I tell you; but I don't doubt since he feels it. However; Is Clarita worthy of that
penance? Is she worthy of that punishment? What right do you have to impose
yourself on him? And if it is proof, who gives you permission to put his goodness to
the test? Why, if the seriousness and harshness of a duty, such as that of marriage,
can be mixed and combined with licit joys that lighten the cross and with satisfactions
and pleasures that soften the harshness of the path, do you want harshness only for
your daughter? of the path and the heaviness of the cross, and not also the permitted
sweetness?
Doña Blanca listened impassively, and apparently very calmly, to the good friar's
entire sermon. Seeing that he did not continue, he said, after a moment of silence:
—Even agreeing that marrying a good man, full of affection and

judgment, was a penance, a cross, Clarita should bear it and resign
herself. Woman has not come into the world for her pleasure and
for the satisfaction of her will and her appetite, but to serve God in
this temporal life, in order to enjoy Him in the eternal. And you will
agree with me, if in these days you have not dealt with people who
have disturbed your reason and have separated you from the right
path, that the best way to serve God is, for a daughter, to obey her
parents. You yourself recognize that the holy sacrament of marriage
was not instituted to sanctify dalliances. It is true that it is better to
marry than to burn; But it is still better to marry without burning, in
order to be the faithful companion of a just man and found or
perpetuate with him a Christian, exemplary and pious family. This
pure, Christian and very honest concept of marriage is not easy to
achieve; But that is why I have educated Clarita so severely: so that
with the grace of God she may have the glory of fulfilling it, instead
of seeking in marriage a means of making licit and tolerable the
achievement of ill-governed desires and impure passions. I could
say more in my subscription about this matter, but this is not an
academic discussion here. I lack the studies and the ability to speak
to you to discuss with you the general question of whether marriage
should be a state as difficult and narrow as any other that is taken
to serve God, and not a worldly expedient to disguise frivolities. .
Here we must focus on the singular case of Clarita, and for this I
return to what I said: I need, I demand that you be loyal and sincere.
Who sends you to speak to me?
Who advises you to advise me? Who has opened your eyes, which
you had so closed, and made you see that Clarita, if she does not
love, will love? Come on, answer me V. Why hide it or keep it quiet?
There is a man who has spoken to you about all this.
—I will not deny it, since you insist that I declare it.
—That man is Commander Mendoza.

"It's Commander Mendoza," the friar repeated.
Such a declaration, although well anticipated, left both interlocutors

silent and as if in deep meditation for a long minute, which seemed
like a century.
Doña Blanca, although without rushing her words, already showing, in the trembling
of her voice and in the brightness of her eyes, a lively and painful emotion that had
been poorly repressed, then spoke like this:
—You know everything and I'm glad. Perhaps I was wrong in not
telling you myself the first time I knelt before you in the penitential
court. My excuse is that my greatest crime had already been
confessed several times, and the consideration that each time I
confess again I make one more person aware of the dishonor of the
person who gave me his name. You know everything without me
having told you. Blessed be God, who humiliates me as I deserve,
without me, so guilty, committing the new guilt of defaming my poor husband.
Well, knowing everything, how dare you advise me what you advise
me? How do you want to take me away from the path I am on, the
only possible path for a repair, even if incomplete? If, against your
opinion, if against the law of decorum, we tarnished Clara's
conscience by revealing her origin, what do you think she would do?
Wouldn't you despise her if she didn't seek reparation? And to do
this, without making public the infamy of her mother and the one
whom she must venerate as a father, what other recourse does
Clara have but to enter a convent or shake hands with Don Casimiro? Why, you w
V., must Clara pay for the fault she did not commit? I pay a lot,
father. The remorse, the shame, murder me. But Clara must also
pay for it. If this seems wicked to you, become impious and
blasphemous against Providence, and not against me. Providence,
in its inscrutable designs, on the occasion of my guilt, has put my
daughter in the alternative of either sacrificing herself or being a
forger and unworthy possessor of wealth that does not belong to her.
"I certainly must not be the one," the friar interrupted, "who disguises or
attenuates the difficulty of the situation and the truth in what you say." I agree
with you. I know Clara's nobility of soul. If she knew who he was... but no, it's
better that she doesn't know.
—What do you think you would do if you knew?
—Without hesitation… Clara would retire to a convent. Your plan to marry her to Don
Casimiro would seem absurd and bad to her, not only because Don Casimiro was
ugly and old, but even if he were beautiful and she was in love with him. With that
marriage the evil born of lying or falsehood is not remedied, nor is your daughter
stripped of property that is not hers.
—It is, however, the only possible repair, although incomplete, Clara ignoring
the reason for the repair. I agree that by entering Clara into a cloister the evil
would be remedied better, less incompletely. But how can the daughter of an
atheist have a vocation to be the wife of Jesus Christ?
As she uttered these last words, Doña Blanca's face took on a sublime
expression of pain; his cheeks were stained with an ominous crimson like that
of an acute fever; two thick tears suddenly flowed from her eyes.
Father Jacinto saw Doña Blanca transfigured; He recognized in her a woman's

heart that he had not previously suspected was still under the harshness of her
bad temper, and he pitied her and looked at her with compassionate eyes. She
continued:
—I have meditated on long sleepless nights about the resolution of this

problem, and I see nothing better than Clara's marriage to Don Casimiro. Don't
think that I lack courage for anything else. I don't lack courage; I have plenty of
pity. A thousand times, anxious that he would kill me, I have been on the point
of revealing my sin to the man whom I offended by committing it. I myself would
have gladly put the dagger in his hand; but, I know him, unhappy! I would have
cried like a child; I
I would have died of grief, instead of receiving the deserved punishment;

He, with evangelical meekness, would have forgiven me, and my hard
chest and my diabolical pride, far from being grateful for the forgiveness,
would have even more despised the man who granted it to me. Meek,
peaceful, benign, Valentine would have drained a chalice of gall and
poison upon hearing my revelation; He would not have been my
inexorable judge, if he had not ended up being my victim, and I,
reprobate, full of satanic pride, would have drowned the spring of
compassion and tenderness with disdain, even with disgust, with a
holy resignation, which the The devil himself would have painted me
as enervated weakness. My duty was, therefore, to remain silent; to
make the life of this weak and sweet companion that heaven has given
me as little bitter as possible, to disguise, to hide, as far as possible...
my lack of love... my unjust, impious, irrational, involuntary lack of
esteem. This explains deception and persistence in deception; but the
vileness of theft does not fit into me. My soul does not suffer it. Does
that evil atheist perhaps intend for me to debase myself with theft?
What reason, what right, what paternal feeling invokes someone who
so forgotten for years had the fruit of his love... and divine anger? V.
says well: the best thing would be for Clara to be buried in a cloister,
to consecrate herself to God. I have done everything possible to
disgust her with the world by painting it as horrible; but in it, more than
my words, youthful confidence, the cursed brio of blood, the delight
and exuberance of life have been able to do so. What choice do I have
left but to marry her to Don Casimiro? Why does V. pity her? Well,
don't you win? The daughter of sin should have no property, no honor,
not even a name, and she will keep all this and will be able to enjoy everything witho
In the last part of her speech, Doña Blanca was beautiful, sublime like
an irritated and mortally wounded panther. He had stood up. The friar
imagined that he had grown up and that he was touching the ceiling
with his head. He spoke softly, but each of his words had a steel point
like an arrow.
Father Jacinto knew that he had trusted too much in his serenity
and in his eloquence. He got confused and didn't know how to say anything. He found
himself in such a hurry that Clarita's return to the living room took a weight off his
shoulders and gave him respite so he could reply at more favorable moments and
after thinking about it.
Doña Blanca, as soon as her daughter entered, knew how to control herself and regain
her usual calm.
A little later the benign Don Valentín came, and everyone went to eat as if nothing had
happened.
Father Jacinto gave the blessing at the beginning of the meal, and prayed as he sat
down and stood up.
After dinner, the pleasant surprise of the doe took effect. Clarita found her charming.
The doe let Clarita kiss the white star on her forehead, and ate four biscuits that she
herself gave him with her hand.
Don Valentín marveled, sympathized and was even moved by the tameness of that
cute little animal.
When, with everything finished, Father Jacinto left Doña Blanca's house, he hurried to
go see the Commander, who was waiting for him impatiently, not having seen him
when he arrived from Villabermeja, because the friar had brought forward his arrival
to the city by more than an hour. the city.
Excusing himself for this and for his haste in taking steps without consulting the
Commander, Father Jacinto told him what had happened.
Don Fadrique López de Mendoza was not one of those who condemn everything that
is done when they are not consulted. He found what his teacher had done well, and
applauded him. Even the friar's confusion and final silence seemed appropriate,
because they had not brought a commitment, because no pledge had been released.
We have already said that the Commander was optimistic by philosophy and cheerful
by nature.
XVIII
After having learned of the conversation between the friar and Doña Blanca, the
Commander refrained from making a hasty decision. He contented himself with
begging his teacher not to return to
Villabermeja, to continue frequenting Doña Blanca's house and to try to dispel all
misgivings in said lady, promising not to talk to Clarita about the planned wedding or
say anything against her mother's wishes.
The Commander wanted to meditate, and he meditated at length, on the matter. His
meditations (we have already said that the Commander was a disbeliever) could not
have been very pious. The Commander was also cheerful, fine and serene, and there
could be nothing passionate about his meditations. His analytical spirit presented him,
however, with all the difficulties of the case.
There was no doubt. The most beautiful and friendly creature who owed her being to
him was condemned either to live as an unworthy usurper of what did not belong to
her, or to marry Don Casimiro, or to be a nun.
One of these three extremes was inevitable, so as not to cause a terrible scandal or
to carry out a difficult rescue.
Doña Blanca was right, except that to be right it was not necessary to appear so sullen
and so unfriendly towards the entire human race, starting with her unhappy husband.
For D. Fadrique there was an economic ideal more fundamental than the political one.
This ideal was that all wealth, all the goods of fortune would come to be one day,
when society had reached the desired perfection, an infallible sign of industry, talent
and honesty in those who had acquired them; that being rich was like an undeniable
title of nobility, earned by oneself or by the parent who left him the assets.
Don Fadrique knew well that this term was still very remote, but he also knew that
the best way to approach him was to do all business assuming he had already
arrived; that is, as if there were no ill-gotten wealth on earth. The opposite would be
to conspire to prevail the villainous saying that whoever steals from a thief has a
hundred years of forgiveness, and to contribute to life, history, and the civilizing
development of society being an endless plot of mischief.
Founded on these principles, Don Fadrique rejected the thought that in every part of
the world there would surely be a swarm of mothers in the case of Doña Blanca and
a multitude of daughters or sons in the case of Clarita, for whom The moral problem,
with such a difficult solution, that tormented Doña Blanca, was as if it did not exist,
leaving them to enjoy the property that luck and the law granted them, without the
slightest scruples and with the greatest freshness.
He also rejected the idea, somewhat comical, but more than possible, that Don
Casimiro himself, due to similar circumstances, could have less right to the inheritance
than Clarita, even if it were all linked; that D. Valentín, his father or his grandfather,
could also not have had the right, and that only God knows, although perhaps the
devil is not unaware, through what underground arcades and by what intricate paths
each one has come. which he enjoys by inheritance. In these cases faith must save;
but in the case of Doña Blanca there was no faith that could go against the evidence
she had.
Closing one's eyes, blindfolding them and imitating faith was infamy. d.
Fadrique, condemning in his heart and in his serene intelligence Doña Blanca's fury,
applauded her and praised her for thinking righteously and nobly. Whoever it goes
to, whether he deserves it or not, whether the person to whom a good is intended has
the right or not, are things that matter little given the superior consideration that I
know that this good is not mine and that I only enjoy it by deception. , for crime and
for lying.
Since Mr. Fadrique was a person of great sense and common sense,
Although he was in a time of reforms, systems and dreams of all kinds, he did not
think of condemning the inheritance. Without the great delight of leaving our children
rich, the greatest incentive for work, for good order, for application, and for sharpening
and exercising ingenuity would be lost. D. Fadrique recognized, however, that if the
day was still far away when it would be almost impossible to acquire badly what one
acquired, the day was even further away when it would be almost impossible to badly
inherit what one inherited. The way not to push the dawn of that day deeper into the
future was to set a good example against it. Doña Blanca's reason always emerged
triumphant from every labyrinth of reflections in which Don Fadrique immersed himself.
There was a moral evil that asked for a remedy. D. Fadrique was going up to this point
in accordance with Doña Blanca's idea. Was the remedy worse than the evil? The
remedy was harsh; but Don Fadrique understood that it was not worse than the illness,
and that it was necessary to apply it, not having
other.
The remedy could be applied in two ways. Either by marrying Clarita to Don Casimiro,
and this was easy, or by making her take the veil. This second, despite how worldly,
impious and anti-religious D. was.
Fadrique, it seemed a thousand times better to him. She understood, however, that
for Clarita to enter a convent without knowing why, it was necessary for someone to
instill in her the vocation. His mother could not take such a job. Only Father Jacinto
could persuade Clarita to retire to the cloister.
For a man full of the spirit of the 18th century, nourished by the reading of the
encyclopedists, a believer in God, but always speaking of nature, there is no need to
explain here how horrible the sacrifice of beauty, of life, of youthful vigor appeared. ,
no doubt already feeling love fervently and demanding, for the sake of a mysterious
feeling, an object, in his view, impalpable and even incomprehensible. To the
Commander this seemed like a nefarious monstrosity; but I preferred her to seeing, to
imagining, Clara
between the dry arms of D. Casimiro; and in his nobleman's pride, and in his desire
not to see himself as a liar and cheater, and not to think less nobly than a fanatical and
foolish woman, he preferred everything to Clarita rising in her day with D.'s assets.
Valentine.
The final point of Don Fadrique's meditations was always the same, no matter how
many paths and detours he tried to reach it. He did not want Clara to be the possessor
of what he knew was not his; He did not want her as D. Casimiro's wife; He didn't want
her to be a nun either, and he didn't want to cause scandal or embitter Don Valentín's
life with shameful disappointment. It was, therefore, essential that he be the liberator,
the rescuer of Clarita.
Despite having his mind preoccupied with these things, the Commander exercised so
much control over himself that nothing was noticeable.
He walked with Lucía through the orchards or chatted with her and tried to avoid her
inquisitorial questions.
Eight days passed like this. During them the Commander was informed, with the
greatest secrecy and diligence, of the exact value of all of D. Valentín's assets. They
were over four million reais.
He was quite sad, we must not hide it, that Don Valentín had become so rich. The
Commander had very little more capital, adding the value of some farms that he had
bought near Villabermeja, and what he had in several banking houses in Great Britain
and in Madrid. His decision, despite the sadness, was firm, however.
The Commander knew and estimated how much money is worth. The vanity of having
acquired it skillfully and honestly gave it greater charm for him. But how better could
the wealth, profit and savings of an entire active life, the fruit of spirit, work and
ingenuity, be used than in saving a being so loved and so worthy of
be?
Supposing that the Commander was already deprived of four million, he

saw himself reduced to the sad condition of a peasant nobleman, who
would either have to go out again to seek his fortune, or would have to
settle to live poorly and humbly in Villabermeja. This did not deter him.
Having thus eliminated several solutions, the problem became clear and
simple. The only difficulty that had to be overcome was to pass into the
power of D. Casimiro, in such a natural way that all suspicion would be
removed, a sum of four million, and to have this sacrifice validated and
recorded, as was just, near Doña Blanca. , so that the terrible lady would
recognize her daughter as free from all obligations and as capable of
receiving, in due course, all of Don Valentín's assets, as a return, and not
as an inheritance.
XIX
Solís' family remained incommunicado with their neighbors.
Only Don Casimiro and the friar entered that house. This one, despite her
advice, had managed to manage, return to grace and regain the trust of
that stern lady. It is not so simple to reject a spiritual director, who is
considered a saint or something less, even if this director annoys us, and
above all does things contrary to our way of thinking. Father Jacinto's
greatest fault, which Doña Blanca could barely explain, was that that
virtuous man, that son of Santo Domingo de Guzmán, was so
close friend of a man whom he should rather have taken to the stake, if
times were not so perverted and Christianity so relaxed.
Doña Blanca did not remain silent on this point, and several times
expressed her surprise to the friar; but the friar answered him:
—My daughter, think whatever you want. I don't want to worry about explaining it to
you. It is enough for you to know that I consider Don Fadrique a very good friend,
although an incredulous, just as he considers me a very close friend, although a friar.
Thinking about it scares me, and I prefer not to think. I do not want to take it for granted
that there is something in human souls that, despite the radical opposition of beliefs, is
a bond of friendly and constant union and a foundation of high mutual esteem.
"Well, you do well not to brood," replied Doña Blanca.

Don't worry, V., don't fall into heresy at the end of your years, fantasizing something
more essential, more sublime than religious belief.
"I will not fall into heresy," replied the friar, who we have already said was very
shameless; "I will not fall into heresy when you did not fall."
My friendship will never be more inexplicable than your love was.
With this Doña Blanca exhaled a sigh, which had a bit of a snort, and she calmed
down and remained silent.
For the rest, Father Jacinto was loyal and did not abuse his right to speak secretly with
Clarita to excite her against the wedding with Don Casimiro.
He only dared to give Clarita one piece of news at D. Fadrique's instigation: that D.
Carlos, reprimanded by the Commander, had returned to Seville with his parents.
In this way, Clarita had to calm down and not be shocked at not seeing Don Carlos in
the morning in the church. The one she saw several times almost in the same place
where Don Carlos was standing was the Commander, whose evil her mother had
praised, and whom she was irresistibly inclined to believe to be good.
The Commander, as if to make amends for having forgotten that token of his love for
so many years, was not content to prepare himself for
make a great sacrifice for her, but he longed to see her and admire her, even if it was
from a distance.
Thus events were progressing slowly, when one morning, when Doña Antonia had
had one of her migraines and was not in the mood to go out, Lucía went for a walk
alone with the Commander. Both arrived at the source or birth of the river that we
already know. Sitting in the shade of the willow tree, listening to the murmur of the
water, they talked about the stars, the flowers, and a thousand different subjects, to
which the uncle tried to draw his niece's attention, to distract her from her curiosity
about Clara's affairs.
Lucia, not being distracted enough, finally said:
—Uncle, you are going to make me a wise man. Sometimes you talk to me about the
sun and how big it is and how it attracts planets and comets; and sometimes he
describes to me the abysses of the sky, and points out to me the most beautiful stars,
and declares to me their names and the immense distance they are from us, and the
time it takes for the winged rays of their light to hit our pupils. All this delights and
amazes me, making me conceive a more adequate concept of the infinite power of
God. You have also explained to me strange mysteries of flowers, and this has
interested me more, instilling in my superior soul the idea of the goodness and wisdom
of the Almighty. But rejecting the dissimulation, I suspect that you are not instructing
me so much as not to answer my questions about your plans regarding Clarita. Such
suspicion, I confess, takes away my desire to listen to your lessons, which would
otherwise excite me; Such suspicion diminishes the value of these lessons, which
seem interested and malicious to me: more than a means of teaching me, they seem
to me a means of deceiving me.
"You put the malice on it, niece," replied the Commander. "I proceed with the greatest
simplicity." You know how much there is to know about Clarita better than me. What
can I add to what you know?
—Listen V., uncle: although a girl, I'm not that easy to fool. There are several
dark, inexplicable points here, and I won't rest until everything is explained to me.
—Well, you are already prepared, my daughter, if you do not calm down until you find
the explanation for everything. You are condemned to perpetual restlessness.
—Let's not confuse the species. I calm down without explanation on many points
on which you, unfortunately, do not calm down. I'm not talking about that. I speak
of simpler subjects and more within the reach of my intelligence. In these I require
explanation, and without explanation there is no rest. What the hell of a convoluted
word was that that you used the other day to signify an assumption that one forms
to explain things, and that is taken as true when he explains them?
—That word is hypothesis.
-Well then; I do nothing more than forge hypotheses to see if I explain certain
things. Do you want me to explain any of my hypotheses?
—Expon.
The Commander responded, appearing serene indifference when giving that

permission; but he turned red, and was afraid that Lucía, by magic or a little less,
had guessed the bond that united them.
Clara with him.
Lucía, taking advantage of the permission and encouraged by the little

embarrassment that she noticed in her uncle, presented one of her hypotheses like this:
—Well, sir, I was blinded at first by excess of vanity.

I thought that the uncle's affection that you have for me led you, to please me, to
look with interest at Clori and Mirtilo, and to seek the good end of your loves. I
have already changed my opinion. The hypothesis is different. V.'s interest is too
much to be reflexive. I also notice that it is very uneven: less than average for
Mirtilo; immense for
Clori. Oh, man, man! Will you want to play a trick on the poor boy? Everything is
known. Well, do you think that I have not heard that you have become a devotee
(I wish devotion were a good law!) and that every morning at dawn you go to the
Main Church for first mass?
"Niece, no nonsense," the Commander interrupted.
—I'm not nonsense. I find this devotion of Yours strange, to be explained only by
any sympathy, and I suspect that the saint who instills it in You has captivated
You with sweeter chains than those of piety.
"I repeat, no nonsense," the Commander said again, becoming very serious. "I
confess that it is difficult to explain the extraordinary affection that Clarita instills
in me." I assure you, however, on my honor, that it has nothing of what you
imagine. If you love me a little, and if you respect me, I beg you, and if you think I
can command you, I command you to take that thought away from you. I love
Clarita, although there are no blood ties between her and me, in the same way
that I love you, who are my niece: with almost paternal love, with the love that is
typical of old people.
—But you're not old, man!
—Well, even if it isn't. I don't love Clarita any other way. And if this still seems
strange to you, don't think or look for more hypotheses to explain it satisfactorily.
—It's okay, man. I will suspend my tasks of forging hypotheses.
—That is the most prudent thing to do.
—Since hypotheses are not valid, is it worth asking questions?
—Do them.
—Do you persist in favoring Mirtilo's loves?
—I persist and I will persist as long as Clara believes that she loves him.
—Do you hope to triumph over Doña Blanca's tenacity and prevent the wedding with
Don Casimiro?
—I hope so, although it is difficult.
—May I dare to ask what means you are going to use to overcome this difficulty?
-Dare yourself; But I will also dare to tell you that you have no reason to
know those means. Trust me.
-Although you, uncle, are so mysterious with me that you keep everything
quiet, I am going to behave generously: I am going to reveal my secrets to
you. I know that Don Carlos de Atienza writes to you. He has also written to
me. But you haven't done what I have. V. has not put the poor exile in
communication with Clara: I have. I have written to Clara no less than three
letters, and by force of supplication I have managed to get Fr.
Jacinto gave them to him. In my letters I copy to Clara some paragraphs
that D. Carlos has written to me.
—I knew that secret in part. Father Jacinto had told me that he had delivered
your letters.
—Well, don't you know anything else?
-That?
—That Clara has answered me. The answer came through the air yesterday,
like the first letter we read together.
—Do you have the new letter there?

-Place.
—Do you want to read it?
—You don't deserve it; but I'm so good, I'll read it.
Lucía took out a paper from her breast.
Before reading, he said:
—Actually, man, this makes me very careful and startled. Clara, in the days she has
been alone, has changed a lot. There is in your letter such singular exaltation, such
deep sadness, such bitter thoughts!…
"Read, read," said the Commander with lively emotion. Lucia read as follows:
"Beloved Lucía: Thank you very much for everything you are doing for me.
I would be disloyal if I hid anything of what I feel from you. I have not even trusted
Father Jacinto until now; But I entrust everything to you. Something strange is
happening in my being, which I cannot understand. I still love D.
Carlos. And yet I know that I should not give him hope; that I should never marry him;
that I have to obey my mother, who longs for my wedding with Don Casimiro. But the
singular thing is that, in these days, a feeling of humility so deep has entered into my
soul that I find myself unworthy even of Don Casimiro. Alone with myself I have
penetrated into the depths of my conscience and I have lost myself there in dark
abysses. When my mother, who is good and loves me, finds in me I don't know what
yeast, I don't know what germ of perversion, I don't know what blacker stain of original
sin than in other creatures, my mother will be right. Yes, Lucía: perhaps in this chest of
mine, apparently calm; Under the innocence and superficial simplicity of my few years,
vehement and bad passions are already acquiring being and life, like a nest of vipers
under crowded roses. I know it: my mother trembles for me; suspicious of my future,
and he is right. I examine myself, I study myself and I get scared. I discover in myself
the propensity, difficult to resist, to everything bad. I see my native evil and my
inclination to sin by instinct. How can I understand in any other way that I, raised with
so much recollection and in such holy ignorance of the things of the world, had the
diabolical malice to put myself in relations with Don Carlos, to make him believe that I
loved him, by only looking at him (imagine with what perversity would look at him), and
to lure him here, forcing him to follow me, and all with such infernal dissimulation, that
my mother knows nothing? Still, if possible, there is something worse in me. I notice it,
I perceive it and I do not know, nor do I want to, nor do I dare to examine it. What I will
tell you is that for me the world must be more dangerous than for other women, who
are better by nature. What is not in me by nature I must ask heaven for grace. I place
my hope in him. It is fitting, then, that I separate myself from the world and seek the
favor of heaven. You already know how much I have disliked entering into religion until
now. I did not judge myself worthy of being the wife of Christ. In this I have not
changed, except to judge myself even less deserving. What I have changed is in
recognizing that, no matter how bad a person is, they should never despair of the
goodness of God. Your Divine Majesty, if I live a holy life, if I repent, if I mortify myself
during the novitiate, you will give me the strength and merits later to take the veil,
without it being insolent audacity to take it. I have not yet said anything to anyone
about this recent resolution; but I'm determined. I will talk about this to Father Jacinto
so that he can talk to my mother, convince her that it suits me and that I want to be a
nun, and in view of my resolution disappoint D.
Casimir. You, of course, disabuse the unhappy Don Carlos. I do not deny that I have
loved him, that I still love him; but don't tell him. Tell him that I love another; that in my
heart there is an immense void, where terrifying darkness reigns. Don Carlos is not
enough to fill or illuminate this void, and if God does not fill and illuminate him, I will die
of fear, and the least painful thing that will happen will be that I fill my disturbed
imagination with horrible specters that arise from my troubled conscience. . Bye bye."
XX
Reading such a melancholic writing dampened the joy of the Commander and his
niece's walk. They barely spoke until they returned home.
That sudden crisis of Clara's soul made Don Fadrique taciturn.
The ideas that came to his mind were not to be revealed to his niece.
The Commander thought that the perpetual friction of Doña Blanca's spirit with that of
her daughter; that the pressure exerted on that sixteen-year-old girl by her mother's
severe and atrabilious character, and that the terrors with which her conscience had
been burdened, had poor Clara in a state of mind not far removed from delirium. The
letter to Lucía was the alarming sign that Clara gave of that state.
The Commander, however, although full of anxiety, decided not to intervene in anything
yet. The resolution of the crisis could be favorable if he did not intervene. Your
intervention could make it more dangerous.
Clara's sincerity was evident. Suddenly, without Father Jacinto, or anyone, inspiring
her, she had changed her purpose and was determined to be a nun. It is quite
understandable that for the Commander's beliefs this resolution was fatal; but by virtue
of this resolution it was almost certain that D. Casimiro would be fired. An obstacle was
going to be removed; an adversary was going to be ruled out.
Don Fadrique decided, therefore, to wait calmly, without ceasing to be on the lookout.
He did not give Father Jacinto himself any warning that could serve as a rule of
conduct. He trusted completely, in his good nature, and
He let his own inspirations freely follow.
The Commander's prudence was crowned with success after a few

days.
Doña Blanca, convinced that her daughter's sudden vocation was

sincere and profound, had a very affectionate and serious conversation
with Don Casimiro, and gave him her passports.
Father Jacinto praised Clara's fervor and encouraged Doña Blanca to

let her as a novice enter a convent of barefoot Carmelites in the city as
soon as possible.
Don Valentín agreed to everything without a word.
Clarita would have, therefore, immediately entered the convent, as she

desired and requested; but the crisis of her soul had powerfully
influenced her beautiful body. His circles under his eyes were darker
and more extensive than usual; I had lost a lot of weight; the paleness
of his face would have inspired fear, if his face had not been so
beautiful; His distraction and his intoxication seemed at times more
typical of a being from the other world than a creature of this one, and
in his unsteady walk and in the momentary brightness of his eyes,
always followed by the prolonged drowsiness of such divine lights,
there was like a bad omen, like a fateful announcement, which could
not help but disturb Doña Blanca's iron conscience, break her inflexibility
quite a bit, and finally terrify her.
The causes of Clara's change were vague and confusing; but Doña
Blanca recognized that from her way of educating Clara, from her
involuntary and tenacious desire to mortify and frighten her with the
dangers of the world and with her own condition as a sinner, and with
that harsh yoke that since childhood had weighed on her, awareness
of his unhappy daughter, came largely from the situation in which he
found himself. The reason, or rather, the occasion for exacerbating the
illness and suddenly appearing with such fearful symptoms, was to
all a mystery. This did not prevent Doña Blanca from beginning to fear
that the crime of infanticide could fall on her for avoiding the crime of
theft.
Doña Blanca proceeded, therefore, with unusual softness and exquisite

prudence; but without denying its character and without failing its most
important purpose.
Not content with being persuaded of Clara's firm resolution to take the
veil, she made her promise that she would profess. And this so that
the promise did not seem to be taken at Doña Blanca's instigation, but
rather in spite of her. Thus Doña Blanca ensured that her daughter,
renouncing the world, would renounce Don Valentín's assets and would
not be able to transmit them to anyone.
But Doña Blanca did not want to kill her daughter. He previously
tormented himself with remorse that she would go to the cloister
desperate and mortally wounded. I wanted to see her profess, but
happy, fresh, full of life; not appearing as a victim, but with the delight,
joy and satisfaction of a wife who flies into the arms of her gallant and
happy fiancé.
In order to make things happen this way, Doña Blanca put aside her constant severity;
He began to treat Clara even with care, and eager for her to regain her joy and health,
he broke the interdict; He opened the doors of his house for Lucía, and allowed Clara
to go out with her for a walk again, even in spite of the Commander.
Doña Blanca, however, before giving this permission, prepared her

daughter against Don Fadrique, painting him as a monster of impiety
and infamy, and strongly recommending that she speak with him as
little as possible.
Doña Blanca, meanwhile, decided to remain confined in her mansion,

without seeing anyone except Father Jacinto, and Lucía, if anything.
XXI
The fate of D. Casimiro is the strangest and most capricious among
all the characters that appear in this story. In the fabric of his life he
had put an enviable order and spent very little. So, even though D.
Casimiro was far from being an eagle in anything, he had managed to
give himself such a good appearance with economy and judgment,
that he was a wealthy gentleman for what was then used in
Villabermeja. This he owed to himself, and he could rightly be proud
of it. What was due to chance, to a set of facts that were inexplicable
to him, was the momentary elevation of his pretty and rich niece, Miss
Doña Clara, to the fiancee.
At fifty-six years of age, with many sufferings and the appearance that
we have already described, Don Casimiro himself, despite his self-
esteem, which was not weak, had found, there in the center of his
conscience, a yes or no. It is unlikely that they would want to marry
that kid. Self-love, however, is extremely ingenious, its ingenuity
almost always being in inverse proportion to the ingenuity of people;
where Don Casimiro soon imagined that in his soul there must be
such hidden treasures of goodness and beauty, and that in his
manners and bearing such noble distinction and such innate elegance
would transcend, that, discovered everything by the dowsing eyes of
Doña Blanca, it was enough and more than enough for her to long to
have Don Casimiro as her son-in-law. Don Casimiro, then, since he
began to be Clara's boyfriend, became plumper and more satisfied than before.
The disappointment was terrible when Doña Blanca fired him. Don
Casimiro's inner anger was no less terrible; but he was shy and very
clumsy in expressing himself; Doña Blanca spoke well and with
authority and empire, and Mr. D. Casimiro swallowed his anger, and
received the passports, like a meek lamb.
As happens to all weak and arrogant people at the same time, D.

Casimiro's anger gradually agglomerated in the
heart, when he stopped to consider the disappointment that was given him and
the very great slight that was done to him.
It is true that the rival for whom Clara left him was God himself; but D. Casimiro
was not appeased by this.
"Will she want to be a nun," he said, "so as not to marry me?" It would be better
to have thought about it in advance and not make a fool of myself now.
Without a doubt, it is less cruel for me that she leaves me for such a holy reason than
that she leaves me to marry another mortal. I would not have consented to the latter.
The deaf would have heard us. I would have had a fight with my rival. But what should
I do against God?
Don Casimiro found some solace in the impossibility of having a fight with God,
and even in the pious obligation he felt to resign himself.
His resentment against Doña Blanca and Clarita was not mitigated, despite
everything. There was not a dog or cat left, within ten leagues around, to whom
Don Casimiro had not reported his fortune.
Now, his fall and his misfortune must have been and were being no less famous,
and, unfortunately, much more applauded.
The vanity of the Bermejino nobleman received ungodly blows. But how to get
revenge?
"Revenge is the pleasure of the gods," exclaimed the happy hidalgo alone; "but
I am decidedly not a god." What should I do? It is a frail saying, and very discreet,
that the injury that is not well avenged must be well concealed.
Let's hide it then. There is also another saying that says: Cachaça and bad
intentions. Let us follow what these sayings prescribe. The first thing that matters
to me is to show that I am not bothered by Clarita's disdain. If she doesn't love
me, someone else who is worth as much as her, more than her, I'm sure she will
love me. I'm going to pretend again
Nicolasa. She is not rich, but she is a better girl than Clarita.
Without giving up, therefore, from taking revenge if a convenient opportunity

for it presented itself, D. Casimiro resolved to fall resoundingly in love with
Nicolasa, hoping that in this way he would give the future Carmelite a chance,
or at least prove that he had a woman of great merit as a friend.
Nicolasa, indeed, was. Daughter of Uncle Gorico and his first wife, she
achieved fame throughout almost the entire province for her unique beauty,
discretion and direction. Gentlemen, rich landowners and even usías or lords
of title, less common then than now, had sighed in vain for Nicolasa, who,
with modest dignity, had always responded in prose to what a certain lady in
an old comedy says in verse no less. that to the King:
For your lady, a lot; For your wife, little.
Nicolasa excited and provoked with her laughter, with her languid glances
and with her freedom and ease. Men fell in love with her, pursued her and
were filled with hope; but, as soon as they wanted to go overboard to achieve
them, Nicolasa put on the gravity and tone, typical of Calderón's best heroine,
she spoke of the inestimable jewel of her chastity and very clean honor, and
put at bay all daring, all mischief and all. loving purpose something positive
that would not lead to the priest father.
Nicolasa had inherited from her mother certain items that are worth more than wealth,
because they preserve them, if they exist, and usually provide them, if they do not
exist. He had the gift of command and the gift of people, extraordinary energy of will
and perseverance in his plans. She had decided to either be a leading lady or remain
to dress images, and, using this as a guideline, she adjusted all the actions of her life
to it.
Although Uncle Gorico had remarried, and Nicolasa had a stepmother instead
of a mother almost from childhood, far from
This contributed to him being raised with less care, had caused the opposite. Nicolasa's
mother had been tremendous, dominant, fierce: a rustic Doña Blanca; while Juana,
Uncle Gorico's second wife, was sweetness herself, always subject to her husband,
who in turn did nothing but what Nicolasa thought of. Nicolasa could and ruled
everything in her father's house, except preventing Uncle Gorico from stopping
drinking white drink.
The amorous preliminaries of Nicolasa, who was between twenty and thirty years of
age, had already been innumerable. All his loves had died at birth. Nicolasa had
dismissed the arrogant suitors, appealing to the priest. He had disdained the suitors
of his class when they got down to business and talked about the priest themselves.
Nicolasa, however, like all cold, thoughtful and mischievous women, had known how
to retain in her nets, in this twilight of love, which they describe as platonic, several
perpetual sighers, the kind they call ducklings in Italy. One, above all, could serve as
a portentous example for his pertinacity, resignation and fervor in incessant adoration.
Such was the son of the master farrier, Tomasuelo.
From the time I was seventeen to the age of twenty-five, I was like in bittersweet
captivity. Nicolasa never told him that she loved him out of love, and she never took
away his hope that perhaps one day she could love him. Instead, he continually
declared to him that he loved him more as a friend than any other human being; and
when he declared this to him, you could see the boy's last teeth, he felt a sovereign
beatitude, and considered his useless and perennial sighs well spent for other things.
And don't think that Tomasuelo was weak, mean and stupid. Tomasuelo was smart,
clear-headed and strong: the most handsome young man in the place; but Nicolasa
had cast a spell on him. With a ray of light from his eyes he could
give him a dose of apparent bliss that would last a week. With a single word he could
make him cry as if he were a four-year-old child.
The chains in which Tomasuelo moaned and enjoyed at the same time being held
captive were softened for the young man, and in a certain way justified for the public,
with notable skill and profound instinct. Tomasuelo could enter Uncle Gorico's house
whenever he wanted, see Nicolasa, comfort her, look at her with love, accompany her
when she left; In short, serve and care for her, without anyone daring to censure in
the slightest. Although there was not the remotest degree of kinship between Nicolasa
and the farrier's son, Nicolasa had recommended Tomasuelo as his brother. God had
naturally given him no object in which to put brotherly love; But she, who felt this love
vividly and deeply, offered herself to Tomasuelo to consecrate herself to him. With
simple phrases and with an imperturbable spirit, Nicolasa explained her strange
relationships with Tomasuelo in this way; and as Tomasuelo displayed his spiritual
adoration and resignedly lamented that he was not loved in any other way, everyone
in the place, far from censuring, marveled at that very pure and angelic bond that thus
strengthened two souls.
Every suitor who approached Nicolasa was respected by Tomasuelo, who did not
hinder him in the slightest during the preliminaries and flirtations; But if later he
overstepped his bounds and let it be seen that he was coming with a bad end, he
could already fear the anger and the heavy hands of that adoptive brother, jealous of
his family's honor.
Likewise, Tomasuelo became rude and unpleasant in his dealings with any rival who,
for whatever reason, was permanently fired and continued to pester him.
Before his courtship with Clara, Don Casimiro had been in a long period of flirting with
Nicolasa, who, with exquisite circumspection, had known how to temper and moderate
the machine of effects, so as not to rush the gentleman into declarations and
such demonstrations that they had no choice but to put him in the dilemma of promising
to marry or abandoning the company. Thanks to this conduct, which goes from skillful
to bordering on exquisite, Don Casimiro had not been fired; His loves with Nicolasa
had been like aurora, like the poetic dawn of a day, which did not come because the
engagement with Clarita had come in the way.
Once this commitment was broken, Don Casimiro was able to return, after being
forgiven for his inconsistency, humbly requested and magnanimously granted, to the
same point where he had left him: at dawn, at dawn.
Things were arranged with such art that instead of a suitor falling for Tomasuelo, the
first thing he had to do was how to ask for the approval of that spiritual brother, so
jealous, vigilant and interested in the good of his little sister. d.
Casimiro obtained Tomasuelo's trust and approval, and considered it a good sign.
Having abandoned the city, and Don Casimiro returned to the real estate of
Villabermeja, he began to court Nicolasa with the imprudence and impetus of a scorned
man. She was too discreet not to know then or never: that fortune offered her the
upper hand and that it was important to seize it. D. Casimiro sought refuge and
compensation in Nicolasa against Clarita's disdain. D. Casimiro was in his power.
Nicolasa provoked the serious and definitive statement. Once this was done, he
proposed the two terms of the fatal dilemma: either a formal promise of marriage, or
goodbye and new noisy pumpkins. D. Casimiro could not resist and promised to get
married.
A terrible day of trial was that in which the Platonist Tomasuelo knew this triumph. Until
then he had had no rival who was happier than him. I already had him. The bitterness
of jealousy filled his heart; Tears flowed profusely from her eyes.
When he saw Nicolasa alone, with her eyes red from crying and with a trembling
voice, he said to her:
—So you give in to the love of Don Casimiro? So are you going to get married?
So you kill me?
"Shut up, my fool," she replied. "What are these complaints about?" Have I ever
deceived you?
-No; You haven't fooled me.
—Did you want me to let go of such a good proportion of being a leading lady and a
millionaire? Do you love me that badly, selfish?
—Not because I love you badly, but because I love you as a blanket, I feel it and I cry.
And Tomasuelo was indeed crying.
—Come on, don't cry, idiot. If you saw how ugly you look! Who has seen a man cry
like a castle?
—But I can't help it!
-Yes you can; make an effort, have courage and calm down. Keep in mind that, from
now on, you will not only find in me a sister, but a godmother and a very wealthy
protector.
—And what's the point of all that to me? Nothing. What I coveted was your affection.
—And you don't have it like before, ungrateful? So what, do good little brothers stop
loving each other even if one of them gets married?
—Don't be a big deal, don't stun me. You already know that the law that I have for you
cannot suffer...
-Go Go; stop being petty. Who do you think occupies and fills the most
beautiful, main and hidden place in my heart? You.
My soul is yours. I gave it all to you with the love that is bred in it; with sisterly
affection. What shadow can it make you that I am D. Casimiro's legitimate
wife? Is that why we have to stop loving each other like we have up to now,
more than up to here? We will love each other as much as you want and as
much as it is possible to love each other, without offending God. I don't
suppose you want to offend God? Answer.
-No woman; How should I want to offend God? Well, am I not a good
Christian?
-You are. It's one of the parts I appreciate most about you. That's why I trust
that you think I'm going to be someone else's wife and don't want anything.
Only desire is already a sin. Remember the commandments.
—Hey, and is it in my power not to desire?
-Yeah. Be quiet; Don't say anything to anyone, not even yourself, when you want,
and silence will kill the desire.
—He will kill me first.
Tomasuelo cried harder than ever. Tears fell like rain, accompanied by a
storm of sobs.
—For the life of weak men! —Nicolasa exclaimed.—What

madness is this? Calm down, for God's sake, and have a broad chest.
Nicolasa, with great gentleness, wiped the young man's tears with her own
handkerchief; then he gave it three or four pats on the thick and robust neck;
then he made a few faces at him as if imitating the disconsolate face he was
making, and, finally, he gave him an affectionate and familiar tug on the nose.
Tomasuelo did not know how to resist so much favor and gift. like rays of sun
among clouds, joy and satisfaction appeared in her eyes through tears. Tomasuelo's
mouth opened, showing his white, complete and healthy teeth. He couldn't smile,
because he remained speechless and as if transfixed.
Nicolasa then repeated the slaps; He added to the tugging of the nose a few tugs of
the ears, and Tomasuelo thought that they were taking him to paradise and that he
was the happiest of mortals.
In this state of mind he agreed that Nicolasa should marry D. Casimiro; that he had to
continue being his brother, without thinking, or at least without saying that he was
thinking about something else; and he clearly conceived, more than by the speech
and the reasons, by the gentle smacks of the neck and the pulling of the ears, all the
softness, charm, consistency and delight of the spiritual love that linked him to Nicolasa.
Thus Nicolasa overcame all obstacles and secured her planned wedding with D.
Casimiro.
Fame immediately spread the news throughout Villabermeja; He then saved its
territory and took it to the city, and to the ears of the Commander, his family and the
lords of Solís.
The Commander had been visited by D. Casimiro and had paid him the visit. They had
not been at home and had not seen each other.
The coldness of their relations did not make more frequent contact necessary.
As soon as the Commander learned of the resolved wedding plan between D.

Casimiro and Nicolasa went to Villabermeja; He visited the Ramoncica chacha and
had a long conference with her, the purpose of which the curious reader will learn
later. After this Don Fadrique returned to the city.
XXII
Clara had gone out for a walk again with Lucía and accompanied by the Commander
and Doña Antonia; but Clara was changed.
His paleness and weakness were to inspire serious fears. His continuous distraction
also frightened the Commander. When he spoke to her, Clara shuddered as if she
had been taken out of a dream, as if the soaring flight of her spirit had been cut off
and she had suddenly fallen from the sky to the earth, like a little bird wounded by
lead up there. sum of the air.
Despite Clara's benign and sweet condition, Don Fadrique noticed with sadness that
that pretty creature avoided his conversation; She hardly responded to him except in
monosyllables, and even tried to keep him from speaking to her.
With Lucía Clara was more expansive, and Lucía always continued to be that way
with the Commander. Through Lucía, then, the Commander still penetrated the spirit
of that loved one and communicated something with him.
The news that Lucía gave him was always essentially the same, although more
disturbing each time.
"I don't understand it, uncle," Lucía said, "but sometimes I think that Clara has been
given a drink." He has such unmotivated terrors! He feels such unreasonable
remorse!… I don't know what it is. Doña Blanca has put such fierce scruples in her
soul, she has made her so suspicious of her passionate natural condition... that the
unfortunate woman believes herself to be a monster, and she is an angel. Perhaps
she imagines that she is being pursued by the furies of hell, the enemies of the soul,
an entire legion of devils, and then she does not consider herself safe except by taking
refuge at the foot of the altar. It is necessary that we notify
Don Carlos, let him come soon, to see if he frees Clara from this kind of madness.
The Commander and Lucía wrote to D. Carlos on the same date

de Atienza, sharing the news of D.'s farewell.

Casimiro, of Clara's resolution to retire to a convent and the unsatisfactory state of her
health. Don Carlos left Seville unattended, and was in the city shortly.
With the same modesty and dissimulation as always, Don Carlos saw Clara again on
the walks she took with Lucía; but Clara's delicate health filled him with despair. And
even more, if possible, it tormented and distressed him to see Clara elusive, timid as
ever, withdrawing from him and hardly wanting to speak to him, although sometimes
looking at him with involuntary loving glances, which it was known that she let escape
in spite of herself, and with which, more than love, he demanded pity, commiseration
and even forgiveness for his inconsistency in leaving him, for having encouraged his
hopes, and for killing them now by entering the cloister.
The desperation of D. Carlos de Atienza reached its peak. With no little bitterness he
blamed everything on the Commander.
"For this," he said, "you forced me to be absent." This is what the promises of fixing
everything in less than a month have stopped: that Clara is dying on me, and that she
has also stopped loving me and wants to be a nun; in which I end up taking the veil...
and then the shroud. But I will die too. I don't want to survive. I will kill myself if I don't
die.
The Commander did not know how to respond to such complaints. He tried to console
Don Carlos, who considered him indifferent and strange; who was unaware that he
had a greater need for comfort.
Don Fadrique was going to look for him at P. Jacinto. I was also going to look for some
light in him on that mystery; but strange case! Father Jacinto, all frankness and joviality
before, had become very serious, very mysterious and very quiet.
Don Fadrique senses, however, that Father Jacinto approved the

Clara's resolution to be a nun. This put him out of his mind, and sometimes he
was on the verge of breaking up with Father Jacinto and regarding him as a
disloyal friend or as a gutless fanatic.
However, in the midst of his tribulations the Commander reported and did not lose his
calm. He had taken his measurements. His conduct was prescribed and firmly
determined, and he calmly awaited the result.
This one didn't take long to come.
It was very early in the morning when a servant brought a letter from Villabermeja
to Don Fadrique. Don Fadrique read it quickly, while still in bed. He got up quickly,
got dressed and went to the convent of Santo Domingo in search of his teacher.
The father had just gotten up and received Don Fadrique in his cell.
Sitting both, as in the other cell in Villabermeja, they spoke in this way.
XXIII
"Father Jacinto," said the Commander with an air of jubilant triumph.
, Clara is free now. It is not necessary for her to marry Mr. Casimiro or
Let her be a nun.
—How is that, my son?
—I have given for her a sum equal to the entire estate of Don Valentín.
-Whom?
—Á D. Casimiro.
—And for what reason? Under what pretext could you have accepted it?
—He has accepted it with a reason that he promises to keep silent; for a reason
secret.
—God help me, my son! What a delirium! What a useless sacrifice: And tell me... that
secret reason... To entrust Don Casimiro with the honor of an illustrious family!...
—I haven't trusted him with anything.
—So what means did you use?
—Of a lie; but an indispensable lie and with which no one loses.
—Can I know that lie?
—You will know everything.
The father paid the greatest attention. Don Fadrique continued saying:
—You know very well that Paca, Uncle Gorico's first wife, was a bad sinner.
-It is obvious. God has forgiven her.
—Paca's good reputation has nothing to lose.
-Absolutely nothing.
-Well then. There is a happy coincidence that Nicolasa was born a few months after I
left Villabermeja, when I was there on my way back from Havana.
-And?
—I have first made the chacha Ramoncica believe, with the greatest secrecy, that
Nicolasa is my daughter. I have told you that it is an imperative duty
conscience forces me to provide her, now that she is getting married.

The chacha understands little about numbers. He was shocked,
however, at the enormous amount I wanted to give as a dowry; but I
have made it look splendid and I have supposed myself to be richer
than I am. To the observations that the chacha made to me, I responded
that my resolution was irrevocable. Finally, I have persuaded the chacha
that it is not appropriate for Nicolasa to know the ties that bind me to
her, and that it is more delicate and honest for only the person who is
going to be her husband to know. I have, therefore, managed to get the
chacha in charge of persuading Mr. Casimiro to take what he frees,
although mysteriously, I want to give and give to his future. I don't think
that the chacha had to make great expenditures of eloquence to
convince D. Casimiro that he should accept. Don Casimiro has written
me this letter, where he tells me that he accepts, showers me with praise
for my generosity, and promises to keep quiet about the reason for the
donation I make to him, and the donation itself, to the extent possible.
Father Jacinto read the letter that Don Fadrique gave him. Then he took
a packet of papers out of his pocket. He put it on the table and said:
—Here are all the papers required to formalize the donation, which I
wish to be brought to a successful conclusion through V. This is the
broadest power, granted before a notary of this city, for V. to dispose of,
sell , dispose of and do what is convenient with everything that belongs
to me. These are the letters to the bankers who have my funds, putting
them all at the order of V. This, finally, is the list, inventory, account or
whatever you want to call it, of what I have in the possession of said
bankers until now; and this other is the account of what Mr. Valentín's
assets are worth, valued by experts. Mine will barely cover the amount
that said gentleman enjoys; but you know that I have some estates, and,
if necessary, I will make up for the lack. Dear teacher, you are going to
be the faithful and prompt executor of my determined will, of which I
intend that you give news and testimony to Doña Blanca, demanding in
exchange for my part the freedom of my daughter. And I say
demanding the freedom of my daughter, because if he does not give her freedom, if
he does not try to remove so much insane delirium from her head, if he does not
determine to cure her of the mortal illness of soul and body, that her pride, her
fanaticism and her remorse, a thousand times more hateful than sin, have given
birth, I must take revenge, causing the most insolent scandal that has ever occurred
in the world. I hope that you will gladly accept my order.
"I accept you," replied the father; "but not without conditions." I will not be the
instrument of your ruin, if your ruin is useless.
—And why useless?
—Because Clara, in my opinion, will no longer give up taking the veil.
—How can you not give up? The iron yoke of her mother weighs on Clara. Let us
remove that yoke from her, and Clara will live again, and will love her gallant student
again, and will marry him, and will be happy.
-I doubt it.
-I do not doubt it. What I can't understand is how you have become so gloomy.
"I think it's already late," said Father Jacinto, sighing.
"I vote for Satan himself," replied Don Fadrique: "it is not too late yet, if the happiness
is good." You go today to see Doña Blanca.
Inform her of everything. Convince her that Clara is free; that the assets that Mr.
Valentín is to inherit have already been paid for. Let Doña Blanca know that I
mysteriously rescue our daughter. Know also that if you do not admit the ransom, I
will break every restraint; I will say it all; I will be capable of villainy; I will disgrace her
in public; I will read D.
Valentin letters that I still have from her; I will do two hundred thousand atrocities.
—Come on, man, moderate yourself. I'll go talk to Doña Blanca right away. She is
an early riser. It will already be on point and will receive me.
Wait for me at your house, and I will go there to tell you about my interview.
—At home I will wait for you. Hurry, father, because I am consumed by impatience.
Having said this, the friar and Don Fadrique got up and left the cell together to the
street, along which they walked in silence, until one entered his brother's house and
the other entered Doña Blanca Roldán's house.
Taking walks around your stay; Saying a rude farewell to the curious Lucía, who
stuck her blonde head at the door, and asked, as usual, what was new, and full of
excitement, Don Fadrique waited for more than an hour and a half.
The friar reached the cape; but, before he opened his lips, Don Fadrique realized, in
his melancholy mood, that he was the bearer of bad news.
As soon as the friar entered, the Commander locked the door, so that no one would
come to interrupt them, and in a low voice he said, while he and his master took their
seats:
—Tell V. what happened. Don't hide anything from me.
—I will speak in summary, because the discussion has been long. Doña Blanca has
celebrated your generosity. He says that he cannot understand how an impious
person is capable of such a noble action. He assumes it is the work of pride; but in
the end he celebrates it. But that doesn't make you excited to consume the sacrifice.
He claims that it will be useless, and begs you not to do it to him. Doña Blanca
considers that her daughter today has a true vocation; that God calls her to be his
wife; that God wants to separate her from the dangers of the world; that God wants
to save her, and that she cannot, without very serious guilt, now withdraw her
daughter from so
holy purposes.
-Hypocrisy! Refinement of evil! —D interrupted.

Fadrique: And you haven't threatened her with my revenge? Have you not told
him that I am determined to do everything; that I will tear off his mask; that he
will remember me; that the mockery he makes of me will not go without shameful
punishment?
—I have told you everything; but Doña Blanca has replied that, although she
believes you to be a man without religion, she still considers you a gentleman,
and that she is not afraid of those villainous and infamous actions from you with
which you threaten her in your rage. He adds, however, that even if he were
deceived, even if you forgot honor and took revenge like this, he would suffer
everything before dissuading his daughter against what her conscience dictates.
—That woman is crazy, P. Jacinto. That woman is crazy, and I think her
madness is contagious; that Clara and V. are already crazy, and that it won't be
long until I am too. But, I swear by my honor, by God, by what is most sacred:
my madness will be of a very diverse nature. He will dream of my madness. So
what, imagine that I am a second Mr. Valentine? Do you think I will submit to
your monstrous whims? Does she understand that I am foolish and that I am
going to believe what she wants to make me believe? Clara has a crazy head,
and that's why she suddenly wants to be a nun. What vocation must she have,
when I know that she was, that she still is, in love with that boy from Ronda,
with whom she could be very happy? There is some abominable mystery here.
Something has been done to instill delirium in Clara and disturb her natural
clarity. I neither can, nor want, nor should I consent to such criminal
extravagances. Does that woman of Satan not understand that the education
she has given her daughter, that those terrors she has instilled in her, are like
poison? Do you want to satisfy the hatred you have for me by murdering your
daughter, because she is also my daughter?
—Commander, be cold-blooded; Look how deceived you are. Look, Clara

doesn't feel a religious vocation today because of her mother.
—I don't care if it was today or yesterday that his mother gave him the poison.
My heart tells me that the oddities, that Clara's aberrations come from the
spiritual torment that her mother has been giving her since the girl can
remember. This must end. If Clara, when she is in complete tranquility and
serenity of spirit, her body and soul healthy, persists in being a nun, let her be
one: I will not object. My sacrifice will have been useless. I will not breathe a
complaint.
May you enjoy all my assets, Mr. Casimiro. But as long as Clara is sick, almost
out of her mind, with a kind of continuous fever, I will not have to suffer that
feverish state being taken for mystical ecstasy, and those nervous attacks for
calls from heaven. She's my daughter, I swear to fifteen thousand demons,
and I don't want them to kill her. Right now I'm going to see Doña Blanca. I
will break the password to enter. I will break the head of anyone who wants to
oppose my entry. If I don't see it and talk to it, I'll explode like a bomb. Don't
stop me, Father Jacinto.
Let me go out.
The Commander had opened the door, had put on his hat, and was struggling
to get out with Father Jacinto, who was trying to stop him.
"You're the one who's wrong," the father said. "Where are you going?"
Don't you calculate the scandal of what you propose to do?
—Leave me, Father. I don't calculate anything.
—This is a loss. God has left you in his hand. Listen to four words with rest
and then do whatever you want. I lack the strength to stop you.
Father Jacinto gave up his resistance and the Commander stopped to listen to him.
—You want to see Doña Blanca, and you will see her, but with less danger of
incidents and scandal. The day after tomorrow Don Valentín goes to the
farmhouse with the attendant, to sell some jars of wine. Then you will be able
to see and speak to Doña Blanca. To avoid greater evils, I will take you
same. I will entertain Clara so that you can speak alone with Doña Blanca and
tell her everything you have to tell her. You see what I'm doing. You see what
I'm committing to. You are going to unpleasantly surprise Doña Blanca with your
unexpected visit. Your conversation is going to have something of a duel to the
death; But I prefer to intervene in it, to be complicit in the crime of your horrible
dialogue, rather than have worse things happen. For the blessed souls,
Commander, wait until the day after tomorrow. You will come with me.
You will see Doña Blanca. For the friendship that you have for me, for the
passion and death of Christ, I beg you to calm down for then, and try to make
the interview that I am going to give you the least cruelty possible.
The Commander gave in to everything, and thanked Father Jacinto for the
advice he gave him and the protection he offered him.
XXIV
With feverish impatience Don Fadrique awaited the deadline that his father had
asked of him.
There is no deadline that is not met, and said deadline was eventually met.
The Father's predictions were also fulfilled. Don Valentín left that day very early
in the morning with the driver to go to the farmhouse, from where he did not plan
to return until nightfall.
The Commander, who spied on everything, prepared for the promised interview. Father
Jacinto did not wait long and came to look for him.
Recognizing that the least dangerous thing, the least cause of harm, was for
both of them to see each other as accomplices, in case they managed to
understand each other and agree on something about the beautiful Clarita, the
father did not want to speak with Doña Blanca and propose a conference with
the Commander. I was sure that he would refuse, and that, with warning, he
would make it more difficult, almost impossible, to get the man in.
Commander to wherever she was. So, it was resolved by surprise. He knew

the customs of the house, he knew the hours of everything, and he arranged
everything with simplicity and skill.
Before ten in the morning, an hour after lunch, Clara retired to her room and Doña
Blanca was left alone in the room where she was every day.
The father set off at ten o'clock, taking the Commander after him. They entered the
hallway, and the father knocked twice.
The voice of a maid shouted from above:
-Who is it?
-The Virgin Mary. People of peace,” answered the father.
The girl, who recognized the voice, pulled the rope from a balcony on the
main floor that overlooked the patio. With this string the door was opened
without going down the stairs.
The door opened, and the Commander and the friar entered, without anyone
seeing them, not even the maid who had opened it for them, because
between the patio, where the balcony on which the maid was located, and
the door of the street, there was another hallway, from which the main or
master's staircase started.
As soon as Father Jacinto entered with his companion, he closed the door
again and said out loud:
—God preserve you, girl.
"God preserve you," she answered.
Then the Commander and his guide quickly climbed the stairs.
Already in the anteroom, where there was not a soul either, the friar said to D.
Fadrique, pointing to a door:
—There is Doña Blanca. Come in… talk to him; but have judgment.
Don Fadrique, with a determined spirit, with true courage, went to the indicated door,
entered, and closed it again.
As soon as Don Fadrique disappeared, the maid arrived.
-Hello! —said Father Jacinto.—Is Doña Blanca alone?
-Yes father. Doesn't your grace come in to see her?
-No; later. Leave her alone. Don't come in now, she'll be busy with her business. Let's
not distract her. Is Clarita in her room?
-Yes father.
—Hey, go to your chores, I'm going to see Clarita.
And, in fact, Father Jacinto and the maid each went their own way.
Meanwhile, Don Fadrique was already in the presence of Doña Blanca, surprised,
stunned, angry at such unforeseen audacity.
Sitting in an armchair, she had raised her head when the latch clicked and the door
opened, she had seen the person who had entered close it again, she had immediately
recognized the Commander, and still almost motionless, silent, she looked at him
blankly. Step by step, he suspected whether he was dreaming, and he barely dared
to believe his eyes.
The Commander slowly advanced two or three steps.
He didn't say hello; He did not utter a single one: he could not find, without a doubt, a
formula of greeting that did not disagree on that occasion; but with him
The gesture, the gesture, the expression of his entire physiognomy, showed
that he was a respectful gentleman, who humbly asked forgiveness for the
cunning and audacity he had been forced to use to get there. On his face
you could see the apologies that he did not give in words. If he trampled
respect, he did so with sufficient reason. In addition to these things, one
could also read on the Commander's manly face the firm resolution not to
leave there until the
I heard him.
Doña Blanca immediately took charge of all this. I knew that man so well that
I didn't sometimes need to hear him speak to understand his intentions and
feelings. Doña Blanca understood that the least bad thing was to listen to
him; that he could not fire him without exposing himself to the greatest
scandal. She did not want, however, to appear resigned. He rose from his
seat, and before the Commander spoke, he said:
—Go away, D. Fadrique, go away, V. What words, what explanations can mediate
between us that do not produce a storm, especially if we speak to each other without
witnesses? Why are you looking for me? What does it provoke me for? We can't talk
to each other; We can barely look at each other without being mortally wounded. Are
you so cruel that you want to kill me?
"Madam," the Commander replied, "if I did not believe that I was fulfilling an
imperative duty by coming here, I would not have come." When I stealthily
enter this room, it is because I have sufficient reasons to do so.
—What reasons do you allege for coming to disturb my rest?
—The interest that inspires me in a being to whom I have a very close bond.
—Very hidden, very hidden, you have had that interest for sixteen years.
You have not remembered that being until you have accidentally bumped
into him on your way. It has been necessary that
Go out for a walk with one of your nieces, and may this niece have a friend, and may
this friend go with her, so that the paternal love, which lived latent and not even
suspected there in the depths of his magnanimous heart, may be revealed. suddenly
and give a gallant and spirited display of himself. If chance had not brought us to live
in the same town, or if Clara had not been a friend of Lucía, even if we lived in the
same town, his interest in you, his paternal love, his imperious duties, confess it, V.,
would sleep calm in the depths of that enviable and very comfortable conscience.
—It's fair that V calls me out. I shouldn't defend myself. I confess my guilt. I am going,
however, to try to explain it and mitigate it. I could not suspect that at your side, under
the protection of a loving mother, my daughter would be in any danger, would find any
reason to be unfortunate.
—Your misfortune does not come from me alone. Her misfortune comes from the sin
in which she was conceived, and from which neither you nor I, who are the sinners,
can save her or redeem her.
—She is not responsible: no one is responsible for mistakes they do not commit. That
transmission is absurd. It is a blasphemy against the sovereign justice and goodness
of the Eternal.
—Let's not take the conversation down that path, Mr. D. Fadrique. Yes to
What I believe seems blasphemy to you, what you say and think seems impiety and
blasphemy to me. Why, then, talk to me about God? Leave God alone, if by chance
you believe in Him, there in His own way. My daughter's misfortune, call it V. fatal, call
it whatever you like, comes from her birth. Well, haven't you yourself recognized that
misfortune, by wanting to free my daughter from it, making a great sacrifice, for which
I thank you, but which I now judge to be useless?
—There is some truth in what you say. I recognize that Clara, without guilt, was
condemned by fate either to sacrifice herself or to be a
unworthy usurper.
—We agree, except that where you say for luck, I say for sin, and not for
her sin, but for the sin of others. This is iniquitous for you, who does not
abide by the inscrutable designs of Providence. This is just mysterious
to me. That is why it is best not to touch on such issues. Let's talk about
what we agree on. We agree that Clara was, through no fault of her own,
condemned to a penalty.
—We agree; but you also agree that I have freed her.
—If you have freed her, it will have been due to a series of fortuitous
events: because you saw Clara and recognized her; because Clara is
pretty, since, if she had been ugly, you would not have been so
enthusiastic, nor would your father's vanity have provoked your father's
love so strongly, and because, in short, you have enough money to give,
and you find V. a gentleman with enough little shame to take him without
just cause.
—In turn, I also beg you not to enter into useless questions. I have not
come here to discreet or philosophize.
—I am neither a discreet nor a philosopher. I say what is true. The sin

was not a chance; It was not something independent of our free will.
That you have found Clara; The fact that she is pretty, from what you
judge that she should not marry D. Casimiro or be a nun, and the fact
that you have more than four million, are not things that have depended
on your will. For you, they are coincidental, although by God they were
planned and prepared, as is everything that happens in the universe.
—Come on, madam, don't try my patience. All of this will be as

coincidental as the fact that I found you in Lima, that you were pretty and
that I was not an ugly monster. What was not accidental, but voluntary,
was the fall; But neither is the rescue accidental, but voluntary. It will be
coincidental, it will not depend on my will.
have four million; but it is voluntary, it is my own will to give them.

Clara, not by chance, but by a free act, is already rescued from
captivity, to which, according to you, and not without reason, she was
subjected by another act, which I do not suppose you consider more
voluntary, more thoughtful. , more meditated and more deliberate with
perfect clarity in consciousness.
Up to this point the dialogue had been standing. Doña Blanca neither
sat down nor offered a seat to the Commander. The latter, after a
moment's pause, because Doña Blanca did not immediately respond
to his last reasoning, said calmly:
—Look, ma'am: I don't want us to talk or digress.

I have, however, much to talk; and for the conference to be brief, it is
important to proceed without disorder. Disorder can only be avoided
with comfort and rest. So, don't you think it would be good for us to sit
down?
Doña Blanca remained silent, she cast a look at the Commander, half
angry and contemptuous, and sank back into the armchair, as if
flattened. Then the Commander sat down in a chair, and continued
speaking.
"My resolution," he said, "is irrevocable." Whatever it may be: on a

whim, because Clara is pretty, because I have accidentally bumped
into her on my way, for whatever you want, I have rescued her.
Everything that she inherits due to the death of her husband from V.
will already be enjoyed, years in advance, by the person who should
inherit her, if Clara were not alive. Long live Clara. I come to ask you for your life.
—What you are coming to is to insult me. Do I kill Clara?
—Far be it from me to insult you. Without meaning to, you could

perhaps kill Clara, and this is what I have come to avoid. To achieve
this, I am determined to appeal to all means.
—Are you threatening me?
—I'm not threatening. I declare my thoughts without rebore.
—And what do I have to do, according to you, to prevent Clara from dying?
—Dissuade her from becoming a nun.
-That's impossible. I don't believe that becoming a nun means dying, but rather following the
best life.
—I have already said that I do not discuss or discuss theologies with you. I grant, therefore,
that the life of the cloister is the best life; but it is when there is a vocation to follow it; When
she doesn't go to the cloister desperate, almost crazy, full of misguided terrors.
—I repeat to you that you leave me, Mr. D. Fadrique. Why talk? We will torment each other
and we will not understand each other. You call the holy fear of God misguided terrors,
despair at the contempt of the world, and madness at Christian humility and at the fear of
falling into temptation and failing in one's duties. You consider death the life that in this world
most resembles the life of angels. How, then, are we to understand each other? You honor
me more than I deserve, thinking that you accuse me, by supposing that I have inspired
such ideas and such feelings in my daughter.
—For heaven's sake, my lady Doña Blanca, I don't know who to conjure up with you, in
whose name to beg you, not to involve things, not to listen to me with caution, to attend to
the good of your daughter, and to Do not doubt that I come here, I annoy you with my
presence and mortify you with my words, without prevention too, and only out of the desire
for that driven good. How can I condemn the holy fear of God, the contempt for the world, if
it is reasonable, and the Christian humility, which leads us to distrust our weak and sinful
nature? What I condemn is delirium. I would allow Clara to take the veil even if she did not
take it after
think about it reflectively; even if he took it for a fervent rapture of

devotion; But what I do not allow, what I do not consent to, is that I
take him in a fit of desperation. It would be an abominable and
sacrilegious suicide.
—And where do you infer that Clara is desperate? Who told V.? What
reasons does she have to despair?
—No one has told me. Just look at Clara to know it. You know it
yourself. Do not hide that you know him. If you didn't even fear for
your physical life, wouldn't you have already let him enter the convent?
By giving him the freedom you now give him, aren't you excited by the
desire for his health to improve? As for the reasons for his despair,
specifically I do not know them; but I perceive them in a certain
confusing way. You have made her doubt herself more than she
should: without foreseeing such a disastrous result, you have instilled
in her spirit that she is predestined to sin if she does not seek asylum
at the foot of the altars. In short, V. has poisoned her with such distrust
that she, feeling the beating of her youthful heart and the freshness of
life in her green spring; seeing the fire, if pure, burning in his eyes;
upon hearing the voice of nature, which incites her to love; Perhaps
dreaming of licit fortunes, achieved in this world alongside a being of
the same human condition, she has imagined that she was a prey to
impure passions, she has believed herself to be persecuted by the
monsters of hell, and in order not to be a monster, He wanted to take
refuge in the sanctuary.
"Let's assume that all of this is accurate," Doña Blanca replied

imperturbably. "Let's assume that the facts are the same for you and me."
The difference will always remain in the way of appreciating them. If
Clara goes to the cloister, not out of pure love for God, but out of fear
of offending him, because she considers herself too fragile to withstand
the storms of the world and out of fear of herself and of hell, Clara, in
my opinion, does not make a mistake: Clara proceeds with sound
judgment and consummate prudence. The reasons for your vocation for life
religious, if they are not the highest, they are good. Far be it from me to
try to dissuade her, even if I could. In order for Clara to enjoy an ephemeral
and uncertain happiness on earth, I will not oppose her taking the path
that can most directly take her to heaven. Not to please you, should I
advise Clara, when the ship of her life is about to enter the safest and
most sheltered port, to turn the bow and plunge into the stormy sea,
where she may capsize and sink with eternal sinking.
"Yes," the Commander interrupted, already fed up, "it is best that he die
so that he can be saved."
—And how to deny it? —Doña Blanca responded out of her mind. “It is better to die
than to sin.” If she has to live to be a sinner, to her eternal damnation, to her shame
and disgrace, let her die. Take her away, my God! That's how I would have died. How
much better would it be for me not to have been born!
—The same rages as always. You are as if tormented by an evil spirit. I

knew it. I am to blame for everything. I should have stolen my daughter
from your house, and raised her with me, and made her happy, and given
her my name.
—Bless God because it has not been like that. My daughter raised by a
wicked man! What would have become of her? A woman without religion
must be disgusting!
-I don't know what a woman without religion will be like, nor would it have
been my intention for my daughter not to have one. What I know is that a
woman exalted by religious fanaticism can become insufferable.
—How happy I would be if such had appeared in your eyes from the
beginning! How many evils would have been avoided! But then you
thought differently, and you persecuted me with perseverance, you
pursued me with stubbornness, and there was no means of seduction,
nor lies, nor deception, nor softness of gifted words, nor exaggeration of
lover who dies of love, nor promise to give me his whole soul, that you
would not use to overcome my honest deviation. You came to
hallucinate me to the point where I longed to lose myself to save you.
That was delirium! Did I not dream that, by falling, I would win his soul
from you and free it from the impiety in which it was mired? Well, didn't
I faint to the point of believing that, having committed sin with you, I
would raise you up and then bring you with me in purification and
penance? What tricks does the devil use to envelop us in his nets? I
was blind.
I thought I saw in you a lost man who made me fall in love, who was
in love with me, whose soul for my love I was going to captivate,
making it capable of higher loves. I did not realize that you were not
even capable of the low and criminal love of the earth. You were only
looking for the satisfaction of a whim, an easy enjoyment, a triumph of self-love.
You believed that, once my deviation was overcome, that after a
moment of passion and abandonment, everything would be peace, I
would forget everything for You, so that You would always find me
submissive, happy, with laughter in my eyes. lips. You imagined that I
was going to kill in my soul all remorse, all shame, all idea of the duty
I had failed to perform, all fear of God, all respect for my honor, all
bitter feeling of its loss, all fear of the pains of the hell, every sting in
the conscience. You were wrong, and that's why you found me
insufferable. You were the owner of my soul; But, just as in a land of
the brave and generous, who never forget what they owe to their
country, only the fierce conqueror possesses the land he steps on, so
Your Excellency did not possess me until I even forgot myself. When
not, I would rise up against you, I would try to cleanse my guilt with
penance, and I would always fight to free myself. How much, however,
should each of your victories have made you proud, even if you were
impious, if you had managed to understand the sublime and
tempestuous greatness of the great passions? Horrible were those
frequent fights; but V., when I triumphed, I triumphed, not only of me,
but of the angels who assisted me; of my deep faith; from heaven,
whom I invoked; of the principle of honor rooted in my soul, and of my
conscience accusing and severe against myself. V., who only
He sought joy and delight, he became tired of fighting. Thus I freed myself from
infamous captivity. Praise God, who arranged it. Praise be to God, who has so justly
punished my guilt; But, I confess to you, the punishment that has always hurt me the
most, the one that hurts me even the most, is having to despise the man I have
loved. You already know. You find me insufferable: I find you despicable. Get away
from here. Get out of here, or I'll have you thrown out.
Do you want to give me away? Do you want to declare me guilty? Do it. I no longer
fear misfortune or humiliation, however great it may be. V. know once and for all: I
am glad that Clara enters a convent.
I will not be so vile that, out of fear of you, I fail in my duty by instilling in you the
opposite. Now, go away; leave my house; leave me alone
Doña Blanca, standing again, with an imperious gesture, pointing to the door with
her hand, expelled the Commander. What was he to do, what was he to answer?
Doña Blanca seemed frantic in the Commander's eyes, full of pity and almost fright.
He feared he would be cruel and a bad gentleman if he responded. He remained silent.

He saw the matter lost, at least on that side, and did not want to prolong the double
martyrdom any longer.
Don Fadrique bowed his head and left the room very sad. As soon as he saw himself
in the anteroom, he went down the stairs, opened the hallway door and threw himself
out onto the street, breathing in the atmosphere with delight, like someone who is
drowning and manages to lift his head out of the water in which he was submerged.
XXV
Despite his optimistic and joyful philosophy; Despite his natural propensity to laugh
and see things from the comic side, D.
Fadrique was meditative that whole day, silent, with a melancholic seriousness that
was very strange to him.
At mealtime he barely ate a bite; He barely spoke to his

brother, with his sister-in-law and with his niece, who, each in their own way,
entertained him a lot.
Don José was an excellent gentleman, who did nothing but take care of his property,
play malilla at the pharmacy meeting, and please his friends.
Mrs. Antonia.
This lady had the best money: she took care of the house carefully, she sewed and
embroidered. She was a good Christian, she went to mass every day and prayed the
rosary with the servants every night; But in all of this there was something mechanical,
of formula, custom or routine, without Doña Antonia delving into religious depths. He
only came out of his temper a little and showed a certain passionate enthusiasm in
favor of the Virgin of Araceli, of Lucena (Doña Antonia was from Lucena), preferring
her to the other Virgins and finding her more miraculous.
As for spiritual director, Doña Antonia had a fervent and eloquent Capuchin, whose
fame then eclipsed that of Father.
Hyacinth, who, being more lukewarm in preaching and rebuking, did not make as
many conversions nor bring back as many stray sheep as his bearded brother.
Lucía had Father Jacinto as her confessor, and she got along so well with her mother
that the only discussions between them were about the merits of their respective
confessors. For the rest, since Doña Antonia had no will or opinion, and she cared
about the same thing about everything, frankly it was not a great proof of submission
and deference in Lucía to never argue with her mother, except about the cappuccino,
and the occasional time, although rare, about the Virgin of Araceli.
Lucia was not very devout, and lacking another favorite Virgin, she soon granted her
mother the superior excellence of her own.
The only cause of dissent was, therefore, Father Jacinto, in whom Lucía found
superior understanding and illustration; but in the end, like the good daughter that
she was, and in order to please her mother, she declared that the
The Capuchin had brought together a countless number of bad married men, who
were roaming around for their respects and living separately engulfed in a thousand
marmorenas, and had managed to get quite a few sinners to leave bad company and
worse treatment, and live an exemplary and penitent life: everything which Father
Jacinto could boast much less; from which Lucía inferred that the Capuchin was a
better spiritual director of those who went astray, and Father Jacinto a better director
of those who were on the right path or within the sheepfold.
One was worth defeating and reducing the rebels to obedience; the other to govern
the submissive wisely and softly.
With this Doña Antonia calmed down and lived in holy and sweet peace with her
daughter, to whom she had taught all her household skills, the teacher recognizing,
without envy and with joy, that she almost always surpassed her disciple. Lucía
embroidered with great beauty, in white, silk and gold; He did openwork, stitching and
hemstitching like few others, and in stews and sweets no one stood in front of him, so
that he wouldn't come out with ashes on his forehead. Only Doña Antonia's superiority
in the slaughter tasks still shone. He was a prodigy of skill in seasoning and seasoning
the dough for chorizos, blood sausages, sausages and sausages; in marinating the
loin to keep it fried all year round, and in giving its respective flavor, with the appropriate
spices, to the offal, which once composed always carry the name of little birds, no
doubt because they brighten the little birds of those who eat them, and the kidneys,
gizzards, liver and spleen, which are prepared in various ways, with cloves, pepper
and other finer species, excluding cumin, paprika and oregano.
The reader should not be surprised that we go into these details.

It was appropriate to say them, and, distracted by the main action, we had not said
them.
The elder boy, son of Don José and Doña Antonia, had recently gone to the island's
Marine Guard College, with good letters of recommendation from his uncle.
Doña Antonia always walked with the keys from one place to another, now in the
pastry shop, now in the pantry, now in the oil cellar, now in the wine cellar, now in the
vinegar cellar.
The house had all this, like a farmer's house, as well as a gentleman's house, since
Don José, upon moving to the city, had brought many of his fruits to it to sell them with
greater appreciation and give them an easier outlet.
Don José, when he was not settling accounts with the operator, either listened to the
landlords, who came to see him and inform him about everything from the farmhouses,
or he went to the pharmacy, where there was perpetual gathering and games morning,
afternoon and night. .
It turned out, then, that the Commander, except at the time of the three meals, and for
a while at night, when there was a social gathering, from which Don Carlos de Atienza
never missed, was in a pleasant and peaceful solitude, uninterrupted. but for his
blonde niece, who always looked for him, asking him what was new about him.
Clara.
Don José and Doña Antonia, who were in Babia, knew nothing of the Commander's
troubles and cares. Lucía half knew them; infinitely far from assuming, despite his
hypotheses, that Clara was linked to her uncle with such a natural bond.
The servants of the house and the public remained disoriented regarding D. Carlos de
Atienza. Seeing him young, elegant and handsome, who frequently came to the house,
and who always whispered with Lucía, they reasonably assumed that he was her
boyfriend, and in the house they already called him the young lady's boyfriend.
Such was the situation of each of the secondary characters in this story when the
Commander, after his interview with Doña Blanca, was so upset.
During the meal they showered him with care, believing him to be unwell.
Doña Antonia assumed that he had a headache and urged him to go and rest. Don
José, after telling him the same thing, went to the pharmacy.
Lucia, with more keen interest, tried a thousand times to find out the cause of her
uncle's displeasure; but he got nothing.
The Commander, alone, did nothing but think about his dialogue with Doña Blanca,
and conceive the most contradictory thoughts, although always unpleasant.
He already imagined that this lady had satanic pride, an infernal genius, and then he
blamed himself for not having stolen her daughter; of having left her in his power to
drive her crazy and make her miserable. I already imagined, on the contrary, that,
from her point of view, Doña Blanca was right about everything.
The Commander then described his pursuit of Doña Blanca and his subsequent
victory (which in other times he had regarded as a forgivable levity, as a bizarre act of
youth) as clearly iniquitous and evil conduct, even judged by his moral criteria. full of
laxity in certain matters.
"I certainly don't deserve forgiveness," Don Fadrique said to himself. "Damn vanity
made me infamous." There were so many beautiful women when I was young, for
whom it costs so little another stumble, a fall more or less! Why, then, not being
carried away by a vehement passion, for which I do not even have this excuse, go to
disturb the peace of the soul of that austere lady? You are quite right. I am worthy of
being hated or despised. The only thing that somewhat mitigates the enormity of my
crime is the bad opinion I had of almost all women at the time. It didn't occur to me
that anyone could (after all) take remorse and guilt so seriously... Anyway, I didn't
foresee what happened next.
If I had foreseen it... I would have been careful not to pretend to

Mrs. White. Even if there had been no other woman on earth... her
heart would have remained whole for Don Valentín, without me
stealing it from her. But nothing... this mischievous habit of laughing
at everything... of only seeing the bad side! I liked it... I fell in love...
yes... I was in love... and since I believed that prudery was salt and
pepper that would make the achievement of my desire spicier and
tastier, and that it would then dissipate, I insisted, I persisted, I did
mischief... yes... I did mischief: I created within his conscience a
horrible hell; For a light and fugitive delight I left a twister in his
spirit, a horrible machine of torment, which incessantly destroys his
chest, seventeen years ago. How do I have such a humorous
character!… The reeds turned into spears. The mockery was
heavy. But my God... I couldn't suspect it! Even if a thousand and
a thousand people had assured me of it, I would not have believed
it. I repeat, it didn't fit in my head. I did not understand repentance
so fierce and so persistent, almost simultaneous with sin. I had not
measured all the violence of a passion that, despite the angry and
fierce cry of conscience, that despite the bloody lash with which
the spirit punishes it, breaks every restraint and emerges victorious.
When she exclaimed, almost already surrendered to my will, falling
into my arms, bending brokenly at the touch of my lips, receiving
my kisses and my caresses, yielding to an irresistible impulse, and
yet fighting: "My God, kill me before fall from your grace! I prefer to
die than sin!;" When he said this, which he repeated today regarding
his daughter, it did not inspire me with compassion, it did not deter
me from my evil intention; rather it was a spur with which I spurred
my unbridled appetite. How beautiful it seemed to me then, as I
pronounced, with a voice broken by sobs, those words, to which I
only gave a vague poetic meaning, and in whose profound truth I
did not believe! Even the sweetness of his own religion was
corrupted and vitiated in my mind, interpreted by my concupiscence,
and took away all value in my eyes from that desolation of his, from
that anguish with which I looked at and repulsed the fall, without
finding the strength to avoid it. I dared to decide that it was not
such a great evil that had such an easy remedy. I became the redeemer of the s
savior of the soul I was losing, parodying the divine sentence and saying within
myself: "Get up: you are forgiven, for how much you have loved." Oh dear! Why
hide it from me? I proceeded with villainy. I was so low and so vile that I never
understood the vigor, the energy of the passion that I had undeservedly excited.
I was like a savage who, without knowing a weapon, shoots it and mortally
wounds.
The greatness and omnipotence of love were as unknown to me as the
persistence and indomitable power of a right conscience, which accepts duty
and fulfills it, or never forgives itself if it does not fulfill it.
Am I miserable? Will the friars and clerics be right in maintaining that there is no true
virtue without true religion?
In this way Don Fadrique tormented himself in an eager soliloquy, in which he

repeated the same thing a hundred and a hundred times.
The fact that Father Jacinto did not come to speak with him inspired the
Commander with the greatest concern. Several times he looked out on the
balcony of his room, which overlooked the street, to see if he could see him
leaving Doña Blanca's house. Several times he went out into the street and went
to the convent of Santo Domingo, although it was far away, to ask if Father
Jacinto had returned. Father Jacinto was nowhere to be seen.
At the end of the afternoon, while D. Fadrique was in his room, he heard the
footsteps of horses stopping nearby. He went out to the balcony and saw Don
Valentín, who was returning from the farm, get out.
Night came and Father Jacinto did not appear.
Don Fadrique let his imagination fly with sinister flight.

He made the strangest and most painful assumptions. "What had happened?"
he wondered.
At eight at night, finally, the Commander saw Fr.

Jacinto lowered the lintel of the door to his room.
Seeing him made her heart skip a beat. The father had the most serious and
melancholic face he had ever had in his life.
-What is this? What's happening? —said the Commander. —Where have you been
until now?
—Where must I have been? At Doña Blanca's house, where I was wrong and wrong
to introduce you treacherously. You did a good job!
What the hell did they advise you when you were speaking? What did you say to the
unfortunate woman? What a tantrum he's had! It's bad. God forbid it doesn't get worse!
The Commander was shocked, he remained mute. The friar added:
—Clarita is a saint. I left her there taking care of her mother. I don't know why all these
troubles. The girl is determined, firmly resolved. Everything is useless. Your devilish
conversation with your mother could well have been avoided. There is still time to
prevent you from ruining yourself foolishly.
The Commander, recovering his speech, responded:
-What done is done. I don't like to regret it. I don't break my promises. I never go back.
What I promised D. Casimiro and he has accepted, has to be fulfilled. But what illness
is that of Doña Blanca? Is Clara still possessed by her gloomy madness? I thank all
the demons and condemned people in hell, that I could never have dreamed that I
would be a victim of such convoluted sentimentalism.
The Commander walked with long steps through the room. The father looked at him
with pity and somewhat stunned.
At this, Lucía, who had seen her father enter, poked her fair and pretty head at the
door, which had been left ajar, and said with
sweet anxiety
—Dude, what's new?
-Nothing girl. For God's sake, leave us alone now that we are going to deal with very
serious matters.
Lucía withdrew, hurt at inspiring so little trust.
XXVI
When the father and the Commander were left alone again, he closed the door and
questioned the father in a low voice about what he had heard from Doña Blanca, about
what he had talked to Clarita; but nothing came of it.
Father Jacinto seemed different from what he used to be. He seemed worried; He
looked for evasion so as not to answer directly: his mysteries and reticence gave his
interlocutor a confusing alarm.
Finally Don Fadrique had to let the friar leave, without finding out anything more than
what he already knew.
That night he did not leave his room; He didn't want to see anyone; He pretexted that
he was unwell, to lock himself up and isolate himself.
Hours and hours passed, and although he lay down in bed, he could not sleep. A
thousand sad ideas tormented him and kept him awake.
Surrendered by fatigue, he fell asleep for a moment; but he had terrifying visions.
He dreamed that he had murdered Doña Blanca, and he dreamed that he had
murdered his daughter. They both forgave him sweetly, after they were dead; but this
sweet forgiveness hurt him more than the
stinging words that he had heard that day from the mouth of his former
lover. This and Clara offered themselves to his imagination with the
pallor of death, with fixed and glassy eyes, but as if triumphant and
serene, slowly rising through the air, towards the region of heaven, and
singing an ancient religious hymn, which had always been attacked the
nerves and upset the very gentle feelings of the Commander by his
funereal tenderness, by his identification of love and death, and by his
misanthropic exaltation of the being of the spirit above all delight,
contentment, hope, consolation or good possible in the earth.
The women, who were ascending to heaven, sang; and D. Fadrique

heard, through the quiet atmosphere, the last verses of the hymn, which
said:
Death died, death healed An insane mind
With these two verses in his mind, D. Fadrique woke up.
As soon as he had dressed, he heard a knock on the door.
-Who is it? -asked?
"It's me, uncle," said Lucía's sweet voice. "I have to talk to V. Can I come
in?"
"Come in," the Commander answered, quite anxious that Lucía was
bringing bad news.
Lucía's face was changed. The eyes were somewhat red, as if they had
shed tears.
-What's up? —said Mr. Fadrique.
—That Doña Blanca is very bad. Clara writes to me telling me this, and
asks me to do the kindness of going to accompany her.
—And do you know what Doña Blanca has?
—Yo, man, I don't know. The evil has come suddenly. The maid, who brought me
Clarita's letter, said that her mistress fell ill as if struck by lightning; That is true,
the lady was delicate, but in the end she was having a normal time, like almost
everyone else, when suddenly, as if she had had some appearance from the bad
guys and had fought with them, she fell into such prostration that it was necessary
to put her in bed, where she is still feverish.
Don Fadrique felt a sudden cold, which ran through his entire body and penetrated
his bones. He imagined his hair was standing on end. He flinched; but with inner
speech he said to himself:
—Indeed, could I have been so brutal that I murdered her?
Later noticing that Lucía had nothing more to say and was waiting for a response,
the Commander made an effort to appear calm, and said to his niece:
—Go, my daughter; Go fulfill that duty of charity and friendship towards Clarita.
Try to console her. I hope that Doña Blanca's illness does not have worse
consequences!
"I'm flying," Lucía replied.
And without waiting any longer, with the permission of his mother, which he already had, he
went down the stairs and went to the next house.
XXVII
The Commander's niece had as happy a character as her uncle.
He was, by nature, as optimistic as he was. He saw almost everything in rosy
colors; but, compassionate and good, she felt sorry for the ills and troubles of
others, although she tried more to console or comfort them.
remedy them than share them.
With this mood, Lucía entered to see Clara. As soon as they saw each
other, they hugged each other closely.
Clara, unlike Lucía, was melancholic, vehement and passionate, like her
mother. About this condition of character, which was innate in her, Doña
Blanca's very severe education, her continuous talk of our native perversity,
her concept of the world and of living as a valley of tears and a time of trial,
and her terror of eternal damnation. and because of how easy it is to fall
into sin, they had spread throughout Clara's soul a shadow of bitter sadness
and fearful distrust. Fortunately, Clara lacked that pride, that empire of her
mother, and the dark and dark side of her spirit was gently illuminated by a
celestial ray of humility, resignation and meekness.
Clara was a thousand times more loving than her mother, and she abandoned herself to
the sweetness of loving, although she was always wary of sinning while loving.
Both friends were in a room next to Doña Blanca's bedroom.
The worried Mr. Valentín did not know what to do: he was restless; He
bustled from one side to the other, not daring to enter his wife's bedroom
lest she shout goodbye, because he came to disturb her rest, and not
daring not to be there so that his wife would not accuse him of being
indifferent. , selfish and heartless, who did not look with interest at his
illnesses, and did not even ask about his health. In this perplexity, Don
Valentín entered and left; From time to time he would peek his nose into
the bedroom to see if Doña Blanca would see him and would tell her to
come in, and, without deciding to go in, while he couldn't reach the
permission, he would ask Clara about her mother, not even in a loud voice
for her. Dona Blanca would be uncomfortable, not even in a very low voice
so that it would be possible for Doña Blanca to hear him and understand that her husband
she and he was not a man without guts.
This very prudent procedure did not work for him, however. Once, as she had often
repeated about poking her nose at the bedroom door, Doña Blanca had said:
-What are you doing there? Are you coming to bother me? You look like an owl that
scares me with its eyes. Leave me alone, for God's sake.
Shortly after, Don Valentín became somewhat careless, he raised his voice too
much when asking Clara about her mother, and she exclaimed from the bedroom:
—What a nightmare of a man! He has decided not to let me rest.

It looks like it's hollow! Valentine, speak softly and don't kill me.
D. Valentín then stormed out of the room where Clara and Lucía were, and left them
alone.
Although Doña Blanca was a good Christian, these outbursts of bad humor against
her husband are understood and explained as somehow independent of her will.
Doña Blanca had not found in him an atom of poetry, nor a spark of the sublimities
that she had dreamed of finding, in her inexperience, in the man to whom she gave
her hand, when she was still very young. Then, seventeen years ago, she saw in
Don Valentín nothing but a man whose serenity was the perpetual sarcasm of the
storms of her heart; whose union with her had made what could have been a lawful
good, a sanctified happiness, an abominable sin, and whose bodily health seemed
a mockery of the ailments and sufferings that tormented her. Even the patience with
which Don Valentín suffered her was hateful to Doña Blanca, as if it implied
baseness, desire not to be bothered by not bothering, disdain or contempt.
In vain did Doña Blanca try to form a better opinion of her husband, in order to
respect him, as she reflexively knew was her duty: Doña Blanca could not achieve
it. The best soul clothes
D. Valentín, with the intervention perhaps of some cunning demon, were transformed,
in Doña Blanca's soul, into ridiculous defects. In vain did Doña Blanca ask God to
grant her, if not to love, to esteem her husband. God didn't hear her.
With Mr. Valentín zapped, Doña Blanca was left alone in the bedroom, lost, no doubt,
in her deep and bitter thoughts, and Clara and Lucía, almost within earshot of each
other, spoke like this:
—What did the doctor say, Clara? What does your mother have? -asked
Lucy.
“The doctor until now,” Clara answered, “has said nothing more than what any of us
see and understand: that my mother has a fever; but the fever is only a symptom of
an illness that the doctor is still unaware of. Last night the fever was very strong and
we were very scared. Today tomorrow has given way.
—Come on, Clarita, I see that you exaggerated in your letter and alarmed me for no
reason. Your mother will be cured soon. I bet the cause of all his illness was some
tantrum he had with D.
Valentin.
-Well, you are wrong. My mother hasn't had the slightest tantrum with anyone all day
yesterday. Dad was in the field.
—Then it is conceivable that he would not be angry with him. And he didn't get angry with you?
—My mother has been very sweet to me for days. I repeat that yesterday Mom did
not suffocate with anyone; He did not scold any maid; It was peaceful and silent.
Clara, although she was a creature of singular self-confidence, formed the strange
illusion that a good mother of a family had to be angry, and so she said nothing of
what she said to censure her mother, but rather candidly.
Lucía did not insist on searching for the origin of Doña Blanca's illness: she
was inclined to believe that this illness was small, so as not to have to grieve;
and turning the conversation to other points, she asked her friend:
—Clara, are you still firm in your resolution to take the veil?
—I am more determined than ever. A mysterious voice screams at me in the

depths of my soul that I must flee from the world; that the world is full of
dangers for me.
—I confess that I don't understand you. What dangers will the world have for
you that it does not have for others?
—Oh, dear Lucia; the disorder of my spirit, the strange impulses of my heart,
the violence of my affections!
—But, girl, what violence, nor what disorder is that? I do not find it disorderly
or violent that you love Don Carlos, who is very handsome and young, and
that you do not like Don Casimiro, who is old and ugly.
This seems very natural to me.
—It will be natural, because nature is sin.
—Where is the sin?
—In disobeying my mother, in deceiving her, in having attracted D.

Carlos with loving and profane looks, to please me that he likes me and that
he pursues me, to wish that he continues to love me even at this moment,
when I am already determined not to be his. In short, Lucía, my soul is a web
of tangles and entanglements, which the devil himself plots and stirs up.
Furthermore, I have promised my mother that I will be a nun, and in order for
me to be one, she has fired D.
Casimir. How can I now break my promise, mock my mother and even Christ,
to whom I have given my wife's word? What infamy do you propose to me?
—It is true, my daughter: the case is urgent; But who told you to say that
you wanted to be a nun and to promise it? Why didn't you boldly declare
to your mother that you didn't love Don Casimiro and that you didn't want
to be a nun either?
“God knows well,” Clara answered, “that I wish to unburden myself with
you, to deposit the secret of my misfortune in your friendly heart, to
confide everything to you; but I only understand myself imperfectly, and
what I understand about myself is so tangled that I cannot find words to
explain it to you. I feel the reason and cause of all my actions, and I do
not perceive them well enough to expose them. I want, however, to be
honest and try to prove to you that my behavior is not absurd. I'll see if I
can. I have loved, I still love, D. Carlos de Atienza. I detest Don Casimiro.
This is true; but my love for Don Carlos and my hatred for Don Casimiro
have never had enough energy to make me face my mother's anger,
declaring to her that I loved one and hated the other.
So, then, I assure you that for months I have been resigned to suffocate
in my soul the nascent love for D. Carlos and to marry D.
Casimiro to be an obedient daughter. I would have preferred more than
anything to be the wife of Christ; but I considered myself unworthy. For
being D. Casimiro's wife, I felt strong. I hoped to overcome my fatal
inclination towards Don Carlos, and, having achieved this, be a model
for married women: to take care of the ailing Don Casimiro, and even
love him, imposing affection on me as a duty. Finding myself this way,
new and strange feelings have fought my soul and made my spirit doubt
itself more. I have been filled with terror. In my humility, I have not
believed myself worthy of being D. Casimiro's wife. I was frightened by
my weakness, by the perversity of my inclinations, and then I thought
about taking refuge in the cloister. Judging myself less worthy than
before of being the wife of Christ, I have thought about the infinite
goodness of that Sovereign Lord, father of mercies, and I have understood
that, even though I was unworthy of everything, I could go to Him and
take refuge in His bosom, safe. that he would not reject me, that he
would lovingly welcome me, purifying and sanctifying me with his grace.
"You tell me about new and strange feelings, but without saying what they are," said
Lucía. "There is a mystery here that you don't let me penetrate."
-Oh! - Clara exclaimed - I barely penetrate him. How to propose to him? Look, Lucía,
I know that I always love D. Carlos.
If I pretend to be completely free to choose my life, it seems to me that my choice
will be to be D. Carlos's wife. His talent, his kindness, his delicate tenderness, make
me feel that I would be happy living at his side. I will confess it to you. Despite the
horror that my mother has been able to inspire in me at the indulgence of the senses,
the material image of D. Carlos, his bearing, the gallantry of his body, the elegance
and neatness of his dress, the fire in his eyes and the liveliness The animation of his
countenance and the freshness of his mouth torment and wound me, and distract
me from my pious meditations.
—I repeat, Clarita: in none of this do I see the work of the devil; I discover no
supernatural influences in anything: everything is very natural. And if, as you affirm,
nature is sin, it is either necessary that God give us supernatural means to overcome
it, or that He forgive us with great generosity when it overcomes us. Where are those
unique feelings that disturb you?
—Lucía, you speak very lightly. Your reasons have I don't know what basis of
impiety. I'm scared of it. My mother was not deceived. The deal, the conversation
with your uncle must be very dangerous.
—No nonsense, Clara. It has never occurred to my uncle to give me lessons on

impiety. If what I maintain is unpious, the fault is entirely mine. I'll be the one who's
deviled. But let's leave those questions aside: let's get to what matters. Tell me what
strange feelings assault your soul, inspiring that humility, that deep distrust, that
induces you to take the veil.
—I can't tell you. I lack courage.

—Hey… cheer up… say what it is.
—My mother has done nothing but talk to me about your uncle since he
appeared in this city... since I saw him and walked with him one afternoon. He
has painted me as he could have painted Luzbel, still surrounded by the beautiful
radiance of his primitive angelic nature, brave, bold, intelligent like few human
beings.
He has made me believe that he exercises such an empire over souls that he
attracts and captivates them, and loses them if he pleases. In his gaze there is
a sinister light that blinds or leads astray. In his word, a seductive music that
enchants the understanding and deafens the voice of duty in the conscience.
According to my mother, your uncle is evil personified, the paragon of irreligion,
a rebel against God, from whom it is advisable to distance oneself so as not to
become contaminated. In short, everything my mother has said about your uncle
should make me hate him, a very great aversion. I know from my mother that
the Commander is a reprobate. There is no hope for him to be saved. He is
condemned. It's like Luzbel. And yet, far from my mother's speeches producing
in me the horror towards the Commander that she desired, such is my perversity,
so sinful is my spirit of contradiction, that they have fueled my sympathies
towards your uncle. I shouldn't tell you, I don't know how I have the nerve to tell
you. I have barely let my confessor glimpse anything of what I feel in the black
abyss of my heart.
But, if I don't tell you... who do I vent to?... Lucía, you are my best friend... I love
the Commander in an inexplicable way. I feel drawn towards him. I believe in all
their evil because my mother told me; and I believe that God, to whom the
Commander is sympathetic, is going to forgive them, as I forgive them. Isn't this
affection towards an almost unknown person a monstrosity, isn't it an aberration?
I condemned myself before for my inclination towards Don Carlos, in spite of
myself, hidden from my mother. Now almost the same thing happens to me as
you: my inclination towards D.
Carlos seems natural to me. The diabolical, the abominable is my inclination

towards your uncle. It is such a different feeling that it does not destroy or lessen
my affection for Don Carlos. This proves my messy
nature, my sinful and disturbed way of being. I don't know under what pretext,
under what title, under what affectionate name I have to approach him, talk to
him, reach his intimacy, and I want it. How many detestable qualities my
mother attributes to him, it seems to me that they are not so in him, because
he is a being of superior natural hierarchy and is exempt from the common law
for other mortals.
With his gaze fixed, with his face not smiling, as he usually had, but sad and
serious, and without being able to answer a word, he heard
It looked like Clara's unexpected confession.
After a few moments of silence Clara continued:
—You answer me nothing; you observe nothing; you shut up; You recognize
that I am a monster. It will be love of another kind, it will be an indefinite feeling,
which lacks a name in the class and history of passions; But I love your uncle
and I love him for that same painting with which my mother has tried to make
me hate him.
Clara was reaching this point, when her voice came to interrupt her.
Doña Blanca, who said:
-Daughter daughter!
Lucia and Clara shuddered. Although it was impossible for Doña Blanca to
have heard them, they imagined for a moment that she had miraculously heard
them and that she was going to intervene in the conversation in a terrible way.
—What do you have to say, mom? —said Clara trembling.
-Water. Give me some water. I'm drowning!
The two friends went to the bedroom to give water to the sick woman.
Then they noticed with sadness and shock that the fever had grown.
Doña Blanca's heart palpitations were so violent,
that were perceptible to the ear.
—What do you feel, ma'am? —Lucia asked...
"An anxiety... a fatigue..." answered Doña Blanca, "my heart is beating so hard."
Lucía gently placed her hand on Doña Blanca's chest.

Then he noticed with sadness that the beats of his heart had lost their natural
rhythm: they were disordered and abnormal; but he did not say anything so as
not to frighten the patient and her daughter.
The care that Doña Blanca required did not allow the dialogue between Clara
and Lucía to continue.
XXVIII
So many years of sorrow and torment had been destroying Doña Blanca's
health. His sadness without respite; his hidden shame, with which he
continually had to come face to face, without being able to find relief by
communicating it and confiding in a friendly person; her struggles of
compassion and contempt for her husband and of love and hatred for the
Commander; her horror of the sin that she believed she felt upon her and that
weighed on her like a disgusting and incurable leprosy; his pride offended; her
fear of hell, to which she sometimes believed she was predestined, and her
incessant concern for the fate of Clara, whom she loved with fervor and whom
she sometimes hated, as a living testimony of her most serious fault and her
most unforgivable humiliation, They had pitifully influenced all the organs of
that bodily life.
Doña Blanca had long been subject to frequent hysterical paroxysms. There
were times when it seemed like he was drowning: an obstacle stuck in his
throat and took his breath away. Then he would have convulsions that ended
in
sobs and tears. Afterwards she used to calm down and remain calm for a few days,
although pale and weak.
The extremely violent character of that woman, exacerbated by the continuous

contemplation of a misfortune, which increased her melancholic fantasy, drove her to
treat her husband, her daughter and many of those around her, with a detachment,
with a harshness. cruel, of which in the depths of her heart, which was good, she
ultimately regretted, this repentance not being fruitful but in new reasons for displeasure
and bitterness.
The energy of the passions had thus, little by little, materially fatigued Doña Blanca's
heart, exciting it to move with an impulse greater than its strength. He was not only
suffering from the nervous palpitations that he was showing at that moment. Perhaps
(the doctors had at least stated it) Doña Blanca had a chronic disease in that very
important organ.
Despite his fatigue, perhaps excessive exercise had dangerously enlarged and
strengthened that active heart.
Whatever the case, Doña Blanca had been tired of living for a long time.
The only idea, the only purpose, the only goal that he esteemed in his life was to fulfill
a terrible duty: to prevent his daughter from inheriting
D. Valentin
When his daughter promised him with a solemn promise to enter the cloister, and
when he later learned, from the mouth of Father Jacinto, and later from the lips of Don
Fadrique himself, the rescue of Clara, although he rejected him and judged him
useless Now, she calmed down, believing her purpose fulfilled in any event, and
considering herself detached from the world; with nothing to do in it but torment itself,
and without any reason to desire, esteem and preserve life.
The relative rest of Doña Blanca's spirit when she thought she had found the solution
to her difficult problem caused her to fall into prostration, into a dangerous atony. On
the other hand, however, her imagination, fertile in tormenting her, offered her a
thousand reasons for affliction and anger. The Commander's generosity humiliated
her pride, and no matter how much she tried to belittle it or to disfigure and debase
her causes by pretending they were vulgar, absurd or capricious, said generosity
always shined and offended her.
Doña Blanca's will was iron: few people were more stubborn and firm than her; but
his spirit wavered and never calmed down. The force of any conflicting thought was
enough to make her dissatisfied with what she had done, and it was not enough to
make her change and move her to do something else. It produced nothing but new
sterile mortification.
So Doña Blanca keenly perceived the pressure she had exerted on her daughter's
soul, that, unintentionally, she had perhaps made her unhappy, and that her daughter
was going to lock herself up in a convent, not devout, but desperate. The rude
accusations of the Commander during the fatal interview, accusations against which
she had defended herself with courage and skill, once that fight of words was over,
came to her mind with greater force, without the Commander saying them, without
being able to reject them by mercy. in the heat of the dispute, and working in his spirit
like a deep wound.
The ardent love that the Commander had instilled in her, causing her to humiliate
herself, had turned into a frightful hatred and without losing this character, without
returning to her original being, because it was no longer possible, because her soul
had too much gall to power to love, had worsened within him during the interview with
the man who inspired him.
All these pains, tribulations and spiritual combats, it is no wonder that they produced
an acute illness in Doña Blanca,
overexciting their chronic illnesses.
Shortly after the conversation between Clara and Lucía, of which we have just reported,
the two best doctors in the city visited the patient. They both agreed that his illness
was a serious one. Both recognized a certain alarming alteration in blood circulation,
which could not be explained by fever alone. The heart had unhealthy activity and
excessive development. The pulse was vibrant and hard. The left side of the patient's
chest shook with palpitations. A bright crimson stained Doña Blanca's cheeks, which
were usually pale.
The doctors predicted badly about these and other symptoms: the main ailment was
complicated by many others. Finding no effective remedy for the time being, they
prescribed some palliatives, including digitalis in small doses.
Although they quite concealed the seriousness and unflattering nature of their
observations and forecasts, they left the two friends extremely affected.
All that day Lucía remained by Clara's side, helping her in her tasks and care; but it
was no longer a favorable occasion to return to confidences.
Although Clara did not speak again about the state of her soul, she was undoubtedly
thinking about it, given how worried she was. What she had perceived in vague and
blurred images before entrusting herself to Lucía had acquired, in her own mind,
greater being, consistency and a certain figure when formulated in words. So, in the
midst of the anxiety and pain that she felt for her mother, Clara was tormented by the
idea of that inclination towards a subject, in favor of whom, by an extraordinary spell,
all of her feelings were transformed into causes and motives of sympathy and affection.
the reasons they gave him to hate him.
Lucía, for her part, was also meditative and extremely sad.
Her taciturn sadness, given her joyful character, seemed greater than the
sorrow she might feel for Doña Blanca's illness, and even the same disgust
that her friend's mental wanderings and fantastic pains should cause her.
Don Valentín, overcome by the opposite feelings of compassion and terror

that his wife inspired in him, continued to come frequently to find out about
the patient's condition; But, instead of entering the room and sticking his
nose into the bedroom, he stayed outside and only stuck his nose into the
room, asking his daughter:
—How is your mother?
Clara responded: —The same;—and D. Valentín left.
Apart from the most trusted maid, who was already coming to bring a
message, or to give some essential help, no one other than Father Jacinto
entered the room where Clara and Lucía were.
At dusk, Doña Blanca's feverish agitation increased and reached its peak. Father
Jacinto was accompanying the two friends and assisting the sick woman with them.
She, who had been sleepy and prostrate during the afternoon, began to
show signs of intense excitement: she complained that her head hurt; He
showed a certain convulsive mobility in his countenance; He uttered
sentences without order or concert. What he repeated most was:
—Go away, Valentin. Leave me, don't torment me. —No doubt the patient
had the hallucination of seeing Don Valentín, who was not there.
Doña Blanca remained like that until around ten o'clock. Then the evil
worsened: delirium declared itself; It exploded with impetus.
The brain completely felt the reaction of the evil that the unhappy
I had it in my gut. All the thoughts that had tormented her for years, and that more
than thirty hours ago had gained greater vigor, were shuffled in a tumult; They
rebelled against the will, they became independent of it, they broke every restraint;
and, mechanically and instinctively searching and finding suitable words in which
to formulate themselves, they came out of the chest in discomposed voices.
Doña Blanca sat up in bed; looked with lost eyes at

Lucia and Clara and the friar, and spoke in this way:
—Go away, Valentine! Why do you want to kill me with your presence?
Kill me with a knife... with a gun. Put a rope around my neck and hang me. Don't be
a coward. Take due revenge.
“Calm down, Doña Blanca,” interrupted the friar, whom she addressed as if he
were Don Valentín. “Calm down; "Your husband is away... Go away, girls," she
added, addressing the two friends.
Leave me alone with the sick woman, let's see if I can make her calm down.
Clara and Lucía, as if they were stuck there, did not move.
DoñaBlanca continued:
—Have courage and kill me. Your honor demands it. You also need to kill the
Commander. He is condemned. He's going to hell and taking me with him.
—Mother, mother, you are delirious! —Clara exclaimed.
"No, I'm not delusional," replied Doña Blanca. "And you, fool," she added,
addressing the friar, "are you blind?" you do not see? —and he pointed his finger
at his daughter. —How similar she is! My God! How similar it is! It's a portrait of
him. Get out of my sight, I live testimony of my shame!
Clara, filled with horror and anxious curiosity at the same time, listened to her
mother and struggled to understand all the tremendous mystery. When ringing
The last words, which were addressed to her, Clara covered her face with both hands.
"You may well be satisfied," continued Doña Blanca. "I had forgotten you; but at the
end he remembered you and made a great sacrifice. He has already paid in advance
what you are to inherit from my husband. He rescued you from God to give you to the
world. Stay in the world. You can't be a nun. The Commander's bad blood boils in
your veins.
How can you doubt that you are the cursed daughter of that wicked man?
Clara, upon hearing these last words, gave an inarticulate scream and fell unconscious
in Lucía's arms.
Lucía took Clara out of the bedroom, holding her under her arms and pulling her.
Doña Blanca, meanwhile, no longer able to resist the deep emotion, exhausted,
exhausted, fell back into bed, with convulsive trembling and stiffness of the tendons,
which slowly subsided and gave rise to a profound fainting.
Father Jacinto then went to where Clara was, who Lucía had lay down on a sofa.
Clara came to her senses from fainting, heaved a sigh and began to cry with unbridled
and copious tears.
—Clara, dear friend! Lucia said.
"Calm down, girl, calm down," Father Jacinto exclaimed.
—Holy and merciful God! —said Clara.—Your omnipotent hand hurts me and heals
me at the same time. Poor mother of my soul! How unhappy have you been! And
he… oh! He... cannot be impious and perverse as you suppose... Now I understand
why and how I loved him!
XXIX
The disease continued its upward course. Three days after the scene we have
described, Doña Blanca was in such bad shape that there was no hope of saving her.
Her daughter and Lucía had taken care of her, they had watched over her with the
greatest affection and care.
The attacks of delirium had been renewed with long intervals of prostration.
Doña Blanca's head eventually cleared completely; but his condition was pitiable: his
breathing was short and longing; the voice, altered and hoarse; inability to lie down;
need to be incorporated.
The doctors declared to Father Jacinto that a serious impediment had occurred to the
circulation of blood in the heart itself, and that, if the impediment grew, death would
follow.
The father let Clara perceive that terrible prognosis, with the greatest delicacy he
could, and he confessed and administered to the patient.
In that supreme moment, at the gates of eternity, Doña Blanca laid down the hardness
of her genius, her pride and her bitterness, and kept in her soul nothing but the most
vivid faith, which made otherworldly hopes reborn in her and opened the spring of the
purest consolations.
Doña Blanca called Don Valentín, hugged him and begged him to forgive her. Don
Valentín, very afflicted and tearful, and no less humble, answered that he had nothing
to forgive; that he was the one to blame, because he had not known how to make
such a holy and good woman happy.
Doña Blanca's haggard face was then tinged with a light blush.
His lips heaved a sad sigh.
He called Clara Doña Blanca, gave her a kiss on the forehead, and said in her ear
with a barely perceptible accent:
—Tell your father that I forgive him. You, my daughter, follow the impulses of your
heart. You're free. Be honest. Don't get married if you don't love him very much.
Look, don't fool yourself. I know everything... Father Jacinto told me. If you love him
and he deserves your love, marry him.
A few moments later, Doña Blanca breathed her last breath, saying in a muffled and
submissive voice:
—Jesus help me!
Clara's pain was deep. He silently mourned the death of his mother.
Lucía also cried and tried to alleviate her friend's pain with her affection.
Father Jacinto, accustomed to the spectacle of death and familiar with it, piously
closed the eyes and mouth of the deceased, which had remained open; He put his
hands in a cross, and spread it on the bed.
The weak Don Valentín, when he saw his wife dead, felt on the one hand a very
intense sorrow, because he still loved her; but, on the other hand, according to bad
tongues, which are always in abundance, he noticed a certain relief, a certain relief, a
certain infamous delight in his soul, as if an enormous weight had been lifted from his
shoulders, as if he had been freed from slavery. Such opposing passions, battling
within his nervous and weak constitution, made him burst into sardonic laughter. Then
he was afraid of himself; He thought he was worse than he was, he was afraid of the
devil; He was ashamed that God, who
See, he saw the dirty ugliness of his conscience, and he became sorry and
dismayed. Then the past loves came to his memory, the sweet days of illusion,
the time when his wife loved him; and all of this so touched that unmanly chest
that the unfortunate man burst into tears, sobbing, moaning, and even screaming,
moved to great compassion by seeing and hearing him.
Father Jacinto brought the news of the catastrophe to Don Fadrique.
Don Fadrique, retired in his room, always anxiously awaited news of the sick
woman. This time, looking at Father Jacinto, the Commander read in his face
what had happened.
"He is dead," said the Commander.
"He is dead," replied the friar.
The Commander did not reply a word. Motionless, standing, silent, he felt a pain
mixed with remorse. Two thick, bitter tears rolled down her cheeks.
"He has forgiven you," said Father Jacinto.
—Ah, father!... I do not forgive myself... The memory of an unavenged affront

would be less insufferable in my memory... of a villainy that I had incurred... of a
stain on my honor... In any other case it would be more easy to reconcile with
myself.
Even if God forgives me... I don't forgive myself.
XXX
Six months after Doña Blanca's death, in the middle of winter, they gathered
every night around the fireplace, on the upper floor of the house of the estate
Mr. José López de Mendoza, along with his wife and daughter. Lucía,
Commander D. Fadrique, the widower D. Valentín,
Clara and sometimes Father Jacinto.
The young Don Carlos de Atienza had been to Seville two or three times to see
his parents; but immediately he had turned back. He had abandoned the
University; I didn't think about studies or career. He had devoted himself entirely
to idolizing, consoling, adoring Clarita, whom he now saw without difficulty,
daily.
Don Fadrique and Father Jacinto came and went to Villabermeja; but they
spent more time in the city.
The donation of D. Fadrique's assets had been done in full rule and with
possible secrecy.
Don Fadrique lived modestly on his retired officer's pay.

However, he lived in the estate's house in Villabermeja, decorated with the
precious furniture he brought when he came.
D. Fadrique's character had not changed, but it had been modified. His natural
optimism suffered frequent interruptions.
A black cloud of sadness often obscured the radiance of his open and frank
physiognomy.
Although the pain over Doña Blanca's death had been mitigating in all those
hearts, Clara remembered her with melancholic tenderness, and the
Commander with affection and with painful regret at the same time.
Only Don Valentín, who ate like a vulture, and who had gained weight, and
could not find anyone to scold him or anyone to dominate him, believed he had
the obligation to cry when he least felt like it. Then the consideration of what he
judged himself obliged to do, and the seeing that the affliction and crying did
not come out of him, stricken him again and produced in him itching and
discharge. D. Valentín was a sea of tears two or three times a week.
Clara, now seeing Don Carlos and Don Fadrique at all hours, had penetrated the
difference in the affections that linked her to both, and every day she found them more
compatible. Every day the Commander inspired him with more veneration, tenderness
and gratitude for his generous sacrifice. d.
Carlos seemed to her every day more graceful, beautiful, in love, witty and a poet.
A few more months passed like this. Spring came. Summer has arrived.
The first anniversary of Doña Blanca's death was solemnized with tears and with
masses and other devotions.
The scruple of breaking her promise to be a nun was finally erased from Clarita's mind.
Her mother, upon dying, had absolved her of the promise. The inspired and felt love
excited her not to fulfill it. The good Father Jacinto, Clarita's confessor, assured her
that the promise was void.
Clarita eventually annulled it, making another sweet promise to D.Carlos. She promised
to give him her hand, finally confessing that she loved him.
A complicated musing had stopped Clara from saying yes to D.

Carlos. Clara judged it probable that Don Casimiro would die without succession and
that some part of the ransom assets would come to her; but even this doubt, which,
although thin and subtle, mortified her, completely dissipated.
Nicolasa, or rather, Mrs. Doña Nicolasa Lobo de Solís, legitimate wife of D. Casimiro,
gave birth to a robust infant.
When the Commander, returning one day from Villabermeja, brought this news, Lucía
was the first person to whom he communicated it.
"Calle V., uncle," the girl exclaimed; "D. Casimiro's child will surely be a creep; It will
look like a skinned sheep.
"No, niece," replied the Commander; "the newborn Solís is strong as a calf."
This was the truth, as we later learned. The firstborn of the Solises looked not like a
calf, but like a bull.
Don Casimiro was the most blessed man on earth. He was full of satisfaction and pride
at seeing himself so loved by his wife, and at having a Theban Hercules as his son,
without thinking about Saturn and without seeing himself as Amphitryon, since he was
ignorant of mythology.
Uncle Gorico, since Nicolasa's marriage, had begun to fight to be called Don Gregorio;
She had retired from Abraham's job and from that of a leather worker, and only spent
her time drinking brandy and rosoli, and pondering the fortune and greatness of her
daughter, her virtues, and the blessed life she gave to her illustrious husband.
After the baptism of the baby, Uncle Gorico went from house to house, recounting the
joy of his son-in-law, who now turned towards the bed where Nicolasa was, now
towards the crib where the child was, and now stopped at an equal distance. from the
bed and the cradle, and exclaimed, raising his hands to heaven:
-My God! My God! What have I done to be so happy?
In fact, happiness got the better of Don Casimiro, and soon plunged him into the grave.
Even if it is to advance the events, it will be said here that the widow led a retired life,
without receiving or treating, for a year, except the platonic Tomasuelo, and that she
had two posthumous twins, who, if the firstborn deserved to be called Hercules, did
not deserve less going through Castor and Pollux.
The rectitude of Doña Blanca's conscience and her severe failures, finding a loyal and
determined executor in D. Fadrique, thus gave their
natural results, providing a rich inheritance to those mythological little angels, fresh
offspring of the Solís family.
Whatever it may be, every delicate and nobly proud person does not notice the
baseness and mischief of the common mortals and the usefulness they provide: they
never accept, except in an ironic and mocking sense, the picaresque sentence of the
fable:
"Take it for your life: consider That another will eat it, if you do not want it."
So Don Fadrique laughed at the consequences of his detachment, and that didn't stop
him from applauding himself for having had him. What mattered to him was that his
pure and beautiful daughter did not enjoy anything that was not hers or that in
compensation he would not have given the equivalent with usury.
The wedding of Clara and D. Carlos de Atienza was celebrated on a beautiful day in
October 1795, a year and a half after Doña Blanca died.
D. Carlos's parents came from Seville to attend the wedding.
The couple stayed to live in the city where it has been the scene of our history.
During the year and a half, which we have traveled so quickly, the Commander had
lived, now in Villabermeja, now in the city in his brother's house; but more in the city
than in Villabermeja.
His affection for Clara attracted him to the city; But, since Clara was very distracted by
her loves and was very happy, she did not console the Commander's melancholy as
much as her blonde niece.
This was the one who called the Commander when it took him a while to return from
Villabermeja; the one who wrote to him the most telling him to come, and the
that he sent him messages with the mule driver and with the handler so that he
would leave the vermilion solitude.
Since Lucía was already aware of all her friend Clara's secrets, and since
important things were not happening either, there was no reason or pretext to go
to her uncle every moment, asking him, as in other times, what was new. On the
other hand, Lucía, now free from the care in which her friend's fate had placed
her, felt the most lively scientific curiosity awaken in her soul. Astronomy and
botany, which had previously angered her when there were Clara's secrets that
she longed to penetrate, now excited her extraordinarily, and she never tired of
listening to the lessons her uncle gave her, excited by her. There was no lesson
that did not seem short. There was no mystery about flowers that I did not want
to discover. There was no star he didn't want to meet.
The disciple put the teacher in great trouble, because if it was about the
movement of the stars, their magnitude, the distance they were from the earth
and other similar statements, she wanted to know the reason and the foundation
of the statements, and D.
Fadrique found it absurd and even absurd to teach mathematics to such a pretty,
happy and funny niece; and, on the contrary, if it were flowers, Lucía wanted her
uncle to explain to her what life was and what the organism was, and here the
Commander found that there was no science that responded to mathematics and
explained anything. Without wanting to, he then elevated himself to a first and
fundamental philosophy, and Lucía listened to him, engrossed, and, as it is
commonly said, she also put in her spoonful, because every person of imagination
and liveliness speaks of philosophy, willingly, and does not speak evil.
In short, Lucía was becoming a wise woman. The more he learned, the more his
passion and desire to know grew. The lessons and lectures lasted hours and
hours.
The Commander became so accustomed to that sweet teaching that the day in which
he did not teach seemed to him as if he had not lived.
His days in Villabermeja became shorter, and those he spent with his disciple became
longer and longer.
Whenever he returned from Villabermeja, the Commander brought his disciple books
from his library, flowers and plants from his garden, and birds that he hunted alive.
Lucía liked birds very much, and, thanks to the Commander, there was no longer a
breed of birds in the entire province, either passing or permanent, that Lucía did not
have a sample pair in her aviary.
When Clara and D. Carlos noticed all this, it gave rise to innocent jokes, but they
somewhat disturbed the Commander and put him at risk.
She looked red as scarlet.
The couple spoke to Lucía with a certain tone about their excessive love of science.
In short, although the Commander and Lucía had not realized, nor had they wanted
to realize, what was happening to them, Clara and D.
Carlos would have made them reflect, think about themselves and clear up the
mystery.
The Commander and Lucía, despite the age difference, were madly in love with each
other.
Lucía admired her uncle's discretion, nobility of character, knowledge and natural
elegance of bearing and manners. She found him beautiful, of manly beauty, and it
did not seem possible to her that there was another man like him in the whole world.
D. Fadrique thought Lucía was as pretty, as good and as intelligent as Clara, which
was all he could make the price more expensive.
praise, there in his thoughts. Lucía's joy also agreed much better with the
Commander's character than the somewhat sad seriousness that Clara had inherited
from her mother.
The Commander, who in the end was not an inexperienced creature, soon knew that
he loved Lucia and that he was loved by her; but, thinking about her age and the idyll
of Don Carlos, she did not dare to declare her love, although she expressed it with
her constant concern to serve
Lucy.
She could not, meanwhile, understand the shyness of the Commander, whom she
judged to be in love.
Hence all kinds of pleasantries and niceties were said, which could literally be taken
as the effect of tender friendship, but which hid the fervent spirit of true love.
Don Fadrique, beyond his years, believed he had another drawback, which in his
delicacy did not allow him to aspire to be loved by Lucía. This other drawback was its
poverty; but Lucía, precisely because of that poverty and the reason that had caused
it, loved and admired the Commander more. The careless disdain, the joyful calm
and the neither laborious nor regretted abandonment with which D. Fadrique had
parted with more than four million, were worth more than a thousand in the poetic
and generous mind of Lucía.
She sometimes went so far as to ask her uncle (it was known that she had the defect
of being very inquisitive) why he didn't get married.
When the uncle answered that it was because he was old, Lucía assured him that he
was young or that he was better than the best young men. When the uncle answered
that because he was poor, Lucía affirmed that the retired officer's pay was more than
enough; Furthermore, the Ramoncica girl was very powerful with what she had
saved, and she was going to leave him as an heir, and that, finally, he could marry a
rich woman.
Lucía said all this with a thousand detours and dissimulations; but the
Commander, although he understood it, still judged that she could
deceive herself and take for love other feelings of respect and almost
filial affection; where he did not find it fair or honest to perhaps take
advantage of a hallucination of that pretty girl to achieve what he
considered happiness for himself.
Lucía and the Commander were in this situation the night Clara and D.
Carlos's wedding took place at D.'s house.
Valentin.
The Commander was happy, although deeply moved, on that solemn

occasion, in which a person so dear to his soul was united with an
indissoluble bond to the man who was supposed to make her happy.
Don José and Doña Antonia returned home early.
Lucia remained at Clara's side until later. The Commander also stayed
with her.
Together and alone they both returned to the house. The night was
beautiful, the street silent and lonely, the atmosphere warm and
perfumed, the sky full of stars and without a moon.
Lucía was silent, happy, thinking about her friend's fortune.
D. Fadrique was not as dreamy as he is imaginative.
The transition from one house to another was very short; but, without
reflecting, they extended it, stopping in the middle of the street and
contemplating the immense vault of the firmament, as if they wanted
to question the eternal lights, which shone there, about the fate of the
newlyweds and perhaps about their own fate.
Lucia, giving a sigh, finally said:

—Don't hesitate, V... they will be very happy!
"Just be happy and don't be envious," replied the Commander;

You will also find a man who deserves you, who loves you and whom you love
with all the energy of your heart.
"No, uncle, he won't love me," Lucía replied. "I'm very unfortunate."
And Lucia sighed again. The Commander, in the sweet and scarce light of the
stars, then saw that two beautiful tears were running down Lucía's cheeks. The
light of the stars broke on those liquid diamonds and gave iris reflections.
The Commander was not master of himself. He brought his face closer to Lucía's and
put his lips on one of those tears. Then he exclaimed:
-I love you!
Lucia did not answer a word. He started walking towards his house; She called, they
opened, and she entered followed by the Commander.
When he reached the stairs, he turned and said:
-Goodnight uncle. Goodbye, see you tomorrow. Mom will be waiting for me.
The Commander made the most distressed face in the world, seeing how dryly
the girl responded, or rather, did not respond to his sudden and vehement
declaration.
She took pity then, no doubt, and added smiling:
—Talk to mom tomorrow...
"So what?..." D. Fadrique interrupted.

—And ask Rome for permission.
Having said this, very embarrassed, but very satisfied, Lucía jumped up the stairs, and
left the Commander no less happy than she was.
When Clara learned that Lucía and the Commander had decided to get married, she
was extremely happy.
Don Carlos de Atienza shared his wife's joy, and remembering that he owed a kind of
satisfaction to the Commander, who had believed he was referring to him when he
heard him read the idyll against the old rabadán, he composed another idyll in defense
of a not so old rabadán and in praise of the love of the rabadanes.
This second idyll, which is like the palinode of the first, is still preserved in the archives
of Villabermeja, from where my friend D. Juan Fresco has sent me an exact and
reliable copy, which I transfer here to finish. The idyll is as follows:
idyll
On the vine, with its lush branches, the clusters shine like topaz.
Take away the early rain from the earth's soul the summer
aridity, and the opium fruits thrive with new juices in the olive and in the almond tree
that sprouts between cliffs. Recover the
clear river The flow it lost in the summer; And the rough acorn Matures and sweetens
among the pompous Foliage, where the wind, For the people of the first age, With
fateful accent The will of Jupiter said. Not like in spring The field is nuanced with
flowers; That the tired farmer pinned his hope on the flowers, And now in the seasoned
harvest he achieves the reward of his effort and his care. Embalms the quince with its
aroma The light zephyrs; And in the lemon and in the ripe poma, And in the
tasty buts The gold shines and the carmine appears. That shone While, out of jealousy
pomegranate its rind, of its flower, Á begins in roses and alelíes; break the
rubies. With the autumnal freshness the Discovering a treasure of
new grass is born, and its greenery covers the paleness of the stubble.
Serene is the
crystalline sphere, And towards the red West the sun declines On a beautiful October
afternoon. Philis, the dreaming shepherd
girl, Beautiful as the light of dawn, Now abandoning Her quiet abode, She goes from the
nymphs to the sacred grotto; And instead of flowers, he brings a basket of fragrant fruit
as a present. With which to overcome the resistance proves that the Nymphs that on the
ground make Cupids to their mischievous and minor loves Give life and being against the
footprint, Where shadows love of Heaven. No sooner has the den with its sole
and rest reign, With religious terror The timid maiden shudders.
His present places Of the wild Nymphs in the era. And

high reasons of rare prudence, Who puts the Numen in his fresh mouth, With careful
concision he declares: "Nymphs, do not be offended by my deviation; Do not give your
favor to the youths Who seek to captivate my will.
They are like rose bushes, Which look great in the flowering season
And produce bitter, tasteless fruit. From his proud youth the vigor He desires and does
not love; And with anger in his words I read That poetic call Neither ennobles nor
illustrates his desire; And that the attempt that nature imprinted on every living being is
not purified there nor purified from Heaven with the resplendent light. I already know that
the Cupids, Your dear children, Give the earth its creative vile tude; But love, which dwells
in the Empyrean.
That same virtue pours into them,

And spreads everywhere its arcane life, Victorious of evil and death.
Well then; the one who strives The hidden and supreme
mysteries To know about this Love, can she achieve it With a simple boy without doctrine?
Those of us who
want to enjoy such joy, isn't it better that we look for the wise man to whom God grants
the living lamp of his light?
divine? For this reason, Nymphs, I adore my Irenius: As in a sacred ark, Keep
the treasure within the immaculate soul of Love; And its flame burns under the clean
ice With which the tenacious work of the mind already crowns its forehead, as the gray-
haired Mongibelo crowns.
Thus Irenius recovers through science What inclemency
steals from time. How many young men with tireless
hands play the rebec in vain for lacking grace and mastery; While Irenius, with his soft
tone And his divine plectrum, Produces charming melody, And makes the soul feel
what it wants, As soon as the string strikes!
If the boy
inexperienced chases the pellet in the race, he either loses it or catches the
one half dead; But the wise right hand In the hidden nest, Where Poses Irenio
the bird rests carelessly, And its nascent feather Without destroying, its wings do not
tire, And it imprisons it at last for its friend.
Nor does the
ingenuity of the most learned Irenio shine less in composing songs and in telling singular
stories. When I reach
for the tender nut from the green branch, the delicate blossom, Choose the best, without
breaking anything. When a little lamb
gets lost, He looks for it and brings it home; And His sincere affection, Ó continually
making From the cherry pits Now a little boat, gives me gifts and tries carefully
now a pretty basket. Or teaching my goldfinch to take out the small birdseed From
between my lips with its sharp beak.
It only disturbs me and reveals to me that Irenius sometimes flies with

his soul Where I doubt his earthly love.
But if Irenius truly loved me, A greater triumph would be to achieve victory,
Not of graceful shepherds But of poetry, Of science, art and glory."
method,
Irenius to Philis, hidden, listened; And appearing and giving him a hug,
He said with very modest sweetness: "This loving bond, That makes my fortune, In
vain, Philis, you try to explain With your convoluted discretions.
Oh,
naive Phillies! Don't you understand that, despite the knowledge that you suppose in
me, Love would not instill in you Your rabadán if very
old man out? "No, When you prefer my love to the boy's By
old man, you love me for Rabadán."

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Machine Translated by Google

TO THE EXCMA. MRS DOÑA IDA DE BAUER

I had just read a multitude of devotional books.

In this, as in a thousand other things, poetry resembles magic. It requires the

Since I cannot wait that long, I resign myself to dedicating myself to V.

to other places in Andalusia, to spend short periods of one or two

—What can be inferred from everything, whether the Commander is in hell or in

—Anyway, V. Do you think the Commander was a notable person?

Nation D. Fadrique in 1744.

"Dance, Fadrique," said Don Diego, as soon as the music began.

Invincible repugnance to dancing, on that occasion, took possession of his soul.

"Dance, Fadrique," D. Diego repeated, quite dark-skinned.

—You have to dance now.

"You have to dance now," D. Diego repeated. "Dance, Fadrique."

"I don't dance in a jacket," he finally responded.

The ladies applauded wildly.

This is how the bolero set ended.

She prided herself on being experienced and disillusioned. Their

A passion, which today we would describe as romantic, had filled the

Whenever the military service permitted it, the cadet came to

In this way, between seasons of hustling in Villabermeja, and other

Then there was a terrible moment: a heartbreaking farewell. The

In 1747, with the Peace of Aachen already signed, the Spanish

preparations and detours that seemed appropriate to cushion the blow,

The poor soldier faithfully fulfilled his commission.

Chacha Victoria received and bathed in tears the beloved relics.

Since the age of twenty-four, when Ramoncica became an orphan and

A maid named Rafaela, who came to serve the chacha

first letters and Latin.

While the peaceful Don José stayed at home studying, or went to

As second son of the house, Don Fadrique was condemned to

The dove-cloak seemed to have given wings to the boy, who

An opposing party was formed, led by D. Casimirito, son of the richest

Victory, in all these disputes, always remained on the side of D.

With these insinuations, which everyone well knew how effective D.

Very serious harm was caused by this method of intimidation. d.

Don Fadrique had the displeasure of attending the capitulation of that

Then, as a ship's second lieutenant, he came to Villabermeja, and saw his

Don Fadrique was not discouraged by such a tragic beginning. He was a

He was there when the Tupac-Amaru rebellion took place.

D. Fadrique's precocious impiety came to be based on reasons and speeches with

D. Fadrique's philosophy was the sensualism of Condillac, which he considered the

The idea, or rather, the newest theory, as it was in D. Fadrique's mind,

The philosopher from Villabermeja understood that there was a

By working we will be able to make it drinkable and good.

Anyway, youth is over, and there is no need to think about novels.

My greatest disappointment has been in my ideas and doctrines, although it

God forgive me if I am wrong in believing him to be good. I, believing in him

My brother, who already has a marriageable daughter, for whom he naturally

My determination is irrevocable, and I am going there, not to leave there,

Goodbye, most blessed father. Please entrust me to God, on whose favor I

In the place he enjoyed an enviable celebrity for a thousand reasons,

—What is that, Rafaela? —he asked his faithful servant.

And Rafaela answered:

—Madam, what must it be? Ajorro!

There is no less pleasure in recounting adventures and events and in

—What was that thing? —we asked him.

On the third day after the arrival of D. Fadrique, his brother D.

In these tasks, directed by him, Father was almost always present.