CHAPTER VII.

HUSBAND OR SOUL.

The dew of grace kept falling copiously on the soul of the eldest daughter of the Elorzas. The Christian virtues flourished in her like mystical roses replete with fragrance, and with the impatience and ardor which characterized all her actions, she continued to mount one by one the rounds on the ladder of perfection leading to heaven. Her deeds of charity and humility not only filled those who lived near her with astonishment, but were bruited about the whole town, serving as an edifying example for young and old, and as a theme of conversation among the clergy. Her fasts and penances, always growing more frequent and severe, increased the enthusiasm and seraphic joy of her soul; but at last they had a naturally weakening effect upon her health. Her delicate constitution began to rebel against so much mortification of the flesh, and to protest at every instant by pains, sometimes in her heart, at others in her stomach, at others in her head, and yet she endured it all with enviable resignation, and did not let it discourage her saintly endeavors. She suffered frequently from fainting fits in which she remained long unconscious, and from severe convulsions; some days she could not retain the food that she ate, and on others she complained of acute headaches. Don Maximo began to prescribe preparations of iron, sea-baths, and wine of quinine, and this treatment brought about some improvement, but not much; the doctor finally declared that unless she entirely changed her mode of life, these attacks would not cease; but it was impossible to persuade her.

Maria began to notice with a secret pride, of which she tearfully accused herself to her father confessor, that she inspired admiration and something more than respect among the people; that when she went along the street, many saluted her with words of praise, and when she was at church, all the faithful gazed at her with peculiar persistence. Through the mouth of the servants many such flattering phrases came to her ears, as that her virtues were worthy of the most venerable priests and the most pious souls of the community, and, as she perceived a certain sweet savor in them, she forbade their being repeated to her. Many ladies consulted with her on matters concerning their consciences, and she was appointed teacher of a Sunday-school for adult women, to whom she began to explain the doctrine and moral precepts of Christianity with so much clearness and eloquence that nothing else was talked about. On the second Sunday the hall granted by the board of magistrates[36] in an old convent was crowded not only with servants and working-girls, for whom the institution had been founded, but also with the most distinguished ladies in town, desirous of seeing for themselves what was reported of the young woman. And indeed they had to agree that she had decided gifts for teaching,--an artless, animated discourse, manners free from conceit, and unwearied patience. The girls made notable progress under her direction. Not satisfied with this, she asked and obtained from her father permission to use a pavilion which he had in his garden, and there she gathered every day a dozen orphan children, whom she taught to read, write, and say their prayers, giving them an education suitable to their sex and social position. The extreme gentleness with which she treated her scholars soon won their love, and even their adoration.

From every side our virtuous heroine received unimpeachable evidence of the great regard in which she was held, but more especially in the society of the devout and saintly, among whom she was considered as a brilliant beacon kindled for the advantage of religion. In the age of unbelief, whereunto we have attained, the spectacle of such a beautiful, well-educated, and illustrious maiden, consecrating herself exclusively to the practice of the virtues and religious deeds, could not fail to have a heartfelt influence on the morals of the town.

One morning, as she was leaving the steps of the altar, where she had just received holy communion, her face presented such a sanctified expression that a woman left the throng, and, kneeling before her, asked for her blessing. Maria, disturbed and perplexed, would have refused, but finally she had no other escape than by yielding to her entreaties. On another occasion, as she was going through one of the suburbs with Genoveva, a poor woman, who was standing at the door of a wretched hovel with a dying child in her arms, begged her to take him into hers and offer a Pater Noster for him; Maria did so to satisfy her, but protested that she was a miserable sinner, to whom God could not listen. The child, however, had scarcely felt the tender caress of her lovely hand before it began to smile, and in a few days was entirely restored to health. This miraculous cure, proclaimed by the grateful mother, made a great noise among the people; whereupon the house of Elorza was besieged by a throng of women who came with their sick children to ask Maria to take them in her arms and bless them. As this partook of the nature of wonder-working, according to report, Maria hastened to consult her confessor whether she ought to continue yielding to the entreaties of these afflicted mothers; and the priest, after taking a day to reflect, replied that he saw no harm in it, but, on the other hand, believed that it might redound to the advantage of the faith. "How is it possible," asked Maria, "for God to be willing to perform miraculous deeds through the medium of such a low and sinful creature as I am?" And the confessor replied that it showed great audacity to think of searching the high purposes of God, and that she should abstain from making such irreverent remarks; that God chose whomever He pleased to manifest His sacred will, and that, at all events, even though no miracle took place, it was never wrong to attribute to the power of the Almighty the blessings which we experience both in soul and body. Maria accepted this reasoning, and endeavored, by all the means at her command--by prayer, humility, and penance--to make herself worthy of these incredible favors which God gave into her hand.

Gradually, through the renunciation to which she was compelled by her pious life, all the ties that bound her soul to things earthly began to be relaxed. At first she shunned all worldly recreation and amusement, such as balls, theatres, and promenades, where she used to shine by her beauty and elegance, and she came to the point of abhorring them. Then she abstained from certain proper recreation, such as singing and playing secular music, taking part in games of cards, walking in the garden, being present at tertulias at her home; in her craze for crucifying the flesh, she went to the extreme of not gazing often at the landscape from the windows of her room, and of depriving herself of breathing the scent of the flowers and the perfume of her colognes. Still, however, and for some time, she took pleasure in dressing elegantly; this arose from a reflection that she had read in a French devotional book, counselling young people not to neglect the neatness and adornment of the body, since God took delight in seeing them beautiful and knowing that they adorned themselves for Him alone. At the same time that she grew more and more to hate the pleasures of this world, she crushed out in her heart the sentiment of love towards human beings, even towards those who were nearest and dearest to her. Understanding that if one would love God, he must free himself from earthly affections, since no other is worthy of entering into a heart consecrated to the Creator, she constantly struggled against her love not only for her betrothed but also that for her parents and sister. She ceased those frequent outbursts of affection which she used to lavish on them all and which had always proved the tenderness of her affectionate spirit; when she met her father in the morning, she no longer threw her arms around his neck and covered him with caresses; she no longer revealed to her sister the secrets and sorrows of her heart; she kept everybody at a distance by a cautious reserve veiled in sweetness and humility. The Señorita de Elorza compelled herself to follow literally the solemn words of Jesus: "_If any man come to me, and hate not his father, and mother, and wife, and children, and brethren, and sisters, yea, and his own life also, he cannot be my disciple_."[37]

The fervor which constantly died away, as far as human beings were concerned, burned like a sweet-smelling incense on a lofty altar, to an object infinitely more worthy of it. Her heart could not remain inactive; she had to love, for it was the law of her being; she had to overflow with enthusiasm for something on which she should engage her thoughts every instant of her life, and offer continual sacrifices. Maria could not desire anything or love anything, without feeling herself stirred by a consuming fervor. When she was a child, she had loved another little girl of her own age, a child of dark complexion, with great, cruel, black eyes, and she loved her so passionately that she became her willing slave; the little black-eyed girl, the daughter of a poor mechanic, treated her with the authority of a queen and mistress, demanded from her all the playthings that she possessed, compelled her to submit to all her caprices, humiliated her whenever she felt like it, and oftentimes abused her in word and deed, without the affection of her enthusiastic friend being diminished in the least. On one occasion, when the two were ironing a doll's skirt, the cruel little girl said, in a disagreeable tone of mockery, "If you love me so dearly, why don't you put this hot iron on your arm for me?" Maria, without a moment's hesitation, pulled up the sleeve of her dress, and laid the heated iron on her arm, making a terrible burn. On account of other such actions as these, which had attracted Don Mariano's attention, he drove this unworthy friend out into the street, and forbade her ever darkening the door of his house again, a prohibition which broke his daughter's heart with grief.

When a heart is to this degree inflammable, its constant tendency is to take fire and be consumed with some extraordinary love; and if the object is not at hand, it seeks for it as one athirst seeks the fountain of crystalline water. Maria had sought hard for it and found it,--a love pure and immortal, sublime and marvellous; love for a God who crushes the stars to powder and enters the enamored soul like a gentle lamb. This love, which took more and more violent possession of her soul, was not only manifested in almost incomprehensible deeds of humility and mortification, but also escaped continually from her lips in passionate phrases, which winged themselves away like timid birdlings to take refuge in the sacred heart of Jesus. At first she had prayed with respectful worship, with soul and body prostrate, terrified rather than melted, like one who makes a declaration of love; but according as she understood, by a thousand manifest signs, that Jesus replied to her passionate affection and returned it with increase, she found greater freedom and eloquence in her words and a more enduring felicity in her whole being.

The happiest moments of her life were those which she consecrated to prayer, which in her case was a sweet colloquy of two lovers, incomprehensible for those who have never fathomed the secret depths of the divine love or tasted the delights of the mystical union. By dint of holding converse with God, of communicating to Him her most occult thoughts and feelings, of confessing with tears each day the most trivial spots on her conscience, she succeeded in bringing about with the Almighty a sacred familiarity, full of joy and consolation. At the twilight hour, after she had ceased from the pious tasks which kept her busy all the day, she was in the habit of retiring to her room to enjoy at her ease the sweet delights which Jesus granted to her fervent prayers as a recompense for the labors and humiliations of the day.

One calm, quiet evening, toward the end of winter, Maria found herself in her room, prostrate in prayer, before the image of Jesus. All the blinds were open to let in the slowly fading light. From the one that looked inland could be seen the wide stretch of level meadows, and the gentle hills on the horizon bathed in a purple vapor, which grew thicker and thicker till it changed to mist. From the one facing the river could be seen its tranquil surface, motionless as though all that sheet of water had been suddenly changed to stone; near El Moral were four or five low sand-hills called appropriately Los Arenales, which, struck by the last rays of the setting sun, gleamed like mighty topazes. Not the slightest sound disturbed the silence of the boudoir, which at that moment, by reason of its gloom and loneliness, was like a great confessional.

For a long hour the young woman had been communing with the Beloved of her heart, and no earthly thought had made its way into her enraptured spirit. Never had she felt herself so abstracted and lifted above the flesh, above mundane interests. All the life of her body had gone to her heart, which beat with unwonted violence. She kept her eyes closed. After she had repeated all the prayers that she could remember, some of them composed purposely for her, she allowed her lips to rest, and abandoned herself to a delicious meditation in which her imagination wandered away as if in a boundless field enamelled with flowers. Both her confessor and her books of devotion counselled her to think often on the bloody passion and death of the Redeemer, and so she had done until she was filled with grief and burdened with tears. In her mind she saw that agonized, grief-stricken face of Jesus nailed upon the cross, those dying eyes lifted, wherein still burned the eternal love and compassion of a God. When she saw him going toward Calvary, laden with the heavy cross and stumbling, once, again, and yet again, overcome by fatigue, not finding in the bloodthirsty faces of those who surrounded him one look of sympathy, she felt her throat contract and her breast choke with sobs. She had been present at all the agonies of Christ, one after the other, from the memorable night in the garden until the moment when he closed his eyes forever between the two thieves, the victim of the perfidy of men. The sublime words of pardon which he uttered as he died rang in her ears like a promise of heaven and a hope of seeing him once more, haloed with glory, in the other life.

But at this moment her thought shunned the death scenes. Around her floated smiling, glorious forms, which filled her with a delicious joy such as she had but few times experienced before, accompanied by an unspeakable physical comfort. It seemed to her that she felt a most delicious sensation of warmth radiating from her heart even to her hands and feet, as though she were plunged in a bath of warm milk. At the same time soft fragrant hands held her eyelids closed, while a gentle breeze cooled her brow. The boudoir in the tower was filled with vague, subtle sounds, which her imagination transformed into mysterious harmonies. She was so beside herself that she could not tell whether she was in reality awake, although she had possession of all her faculties. Little by little she began to lose her power of volition; she tried to open her eyes and could not; she tried to separate her hands, which she kept folded, and she had no better success. A superior power held her in its sway, but so gently that for nothing in the world would she have broken those bands; it was a celestial swooning of her whole being, which carried her away into ecstasies such as she had never known before. Tears streamed down over her face like an exquisite ichor, bathing her lips with sweetness, and flowing from her lips into the very centre of her being, filling her heart as with a most gentle unction, as with a mighty perfume. This ichor intoxicated her and strengthened her at once, and she did not weary of drinking it. Its salubrious strength penetrated her emaciated body, bestowing on it an incomprehensible force. She entered into a life full and divine, where no pains existed; into an ecstatic lethargy full of soft delight, from which were born a throng of vague longings, like flowers opening for an instant and shedding perfume from their calyxes. The longings of her soul likewise spread and were quenched in the immense joy which took hold of her.

While her body was sleeping in this sweet hallucination of the senses, her mind was attent with a marvellous activity. Her memory was bathed in brilliancy, and her imagination, in precipitate flight, darted out into the universe. Instead of meditating on the death of the Lord, she thought with deep delight about his adorable life, and, completely enchanted, she reviewed all its occurrences, representing them with as much accuracy as though she had really been present at the time. First, she beheld Jesus at his birth in the grotto near Bethlehem, embracing with his sweet arms the Virgin's neck, and smiling at the shepherds and the Magi, who from far-distant countries came to adore him. She beheld him secretly transported to Egypt, crossing the deserts of Arabia, sleeping on his mother's lap under some tree or in the depths of some cavern. Then she found him in the porticos of the Temple of Jerusalem, seated in the midst of the doctors, though he was only twelve years of age, with his long golden hair curling in ringlets over his shoulders, and his white tunic falling in graceful folds till it hid his feet, astonishing them all by his more than human beauty as well as by the profound wisdom of his words. She contemplated him in his modest dwelling in Nazareth in the peace of an obscure and contemplative life, nourishing his divine spirit with the sublime truths which the Eternal Father vouchsafed him during his frequent solitary walks. Then she was present at his first ministrations through Galilee, and at the first miracle, with which he manifested his infinite power at the wedding of Cana. She accompanied him to Capernaum when, as he stood in a fishing-boat gently rocking on the waves, he addressed to the multitude gathered on the shore his discourse, clearer than the sun which shone upon them, sweeter than the evening breeze. She returned with him to Nazareth, where his stubborn, ungrateful countrymen were unmoved by his gentleness and power of speech and rejected him. She went to Bethany, where her name-saint Mary Magdalene and Martha her sister had the blessedness of giving him hospitality, and the former of sitting long at his feet and listening to his words. She saw him everywhere serene and beautiful, as he is represented by tradition, with his blue eyes of wonderful sweetness, his skin rosy and transparent, his beard pointed, and his golden hair parted in the middle and falling in waves on his shoulders. The numerous pictures which she had seen, not only of his divine person, but of the country where his ministrations had taken place, united to her powerful imagination, carried her back to the time of the Redeemer's life more vividly than one could conceive. But where her imagination most revelled was in seeing his entrance into Jerusalem followed by a multitude carried away by enthusiasm, amid hosannas and shouts of welcome; then his beautiful face, which almost disappeared amid the foliage of the palm-branches, assumed an expression of divinity, his eyes so gentle flashed with the effulgence of omnipotence, and he spread out his hands toward the city, granting it pardon in advance for its barbarous deicide. Oh, how her soul delighted in this fine, poetic scene where Jesus was given on earth a little of the adoration which was his due! If she had been in those happy places, she would have taken part in the cortege of the King of kings, and raised her voice in acclamation. The union in him of power and humility, of force and gentleness, filled her with enthusiasm and admiration.

She knew, however, that Jesus' triumphal entrance into Jerusalem was repeated daily in a mystic sense; that the divine Lord takes more pleasure in entering into the soul of his elect than into the ungrateful daughter of Zion; that love was efficacious against the absolute master of all things, and took pleasure in receiving whoever professed his name. But for this it was necessary to love him much, to love him in such a manner as to prefer pain and torment coming from his hand to the most exquisite delight of earth, to love him even to fainting and dying in his presence and falling prone at his feet under the majesty of his gaze; it was necessary to spend long hours watching for him in the depths of the sky, in the calm of the eventide, in the beauty of flowers, of birds, and of all creatures, at the bedside of the sick and dying, in the midst of sorrows and penances; it was necessary to let the hours pass in ecstatic prayer, feeling the tears stealing down, and the cheeks on fire; it was necessary to be obedient to all men, the humble servant of all men, to turn the mind from accepting all favors, even from one's parents, and to despise one's self, to be the beloved of Jesus. Thus, thus she loved him! How many hours of the day and night she had spent thinking of him! How many tears she had shed for his sake! How many times in the silence of the night had her soul gone forth, fired with sickness of love, like the bride of the mystic Song of Solomon, in search for the Lord and Master of her heart! And when she had, in this manner, sought for him, kindled with amorous yearning, she never failed to find him. On one occasion, having spent the whole day ministering to the sick in the hospital, she had felt at the hour of retiring such keen delight in her soul and body that she almost fell ¡n a swoon. When she humbled herself before any one, she felt an exquisite delight; in crucifying her flesh with sharp cruelties she had felt more pleasure than the world with its harassing joys had ever given. In this way Jesus began to return a thousand-fold the love which she professed for him, transforming in her case into comfort what to others was pain and penance.

This last consideration pierced so sharply into her spirit that it caused her to indulge in an infinitude of thanksgivings and blessings, which remained locked in her heart without issuing from her lips. Her lips were silent, motionless as those of the sphynx; for she did not dare to reproduce by the medium of sounds the ineffable thoughts that passed through her mind. She heard within herself a thousand sweet voices speaking to her, but she could not understand what they said; she felt as though she were lifted up by gentle arms which ceaselessly lavished caresses upon her, and she was conscious, though not by visual proof, of the presence of a supernatural being, consoling her with its power. Then she became suddenly convinced that the Lord loved her; she saw clearly with the eyes of the Spirit that the Bridegroom listened to the voice of the bride, and had no deeper desire than to take her to himself, to pour out upon her all riches and joys forevermore. Even now he was near at hand; she felt him at her side, and she was melted with desire to look upon him; but he showed himself not; he refused to yield to her warm, affectionate entreaties. As one who shows a dainty to a child and then hides it, and again brings it forth and once more hides it in order to stir his appetite, so the heavenly Bridegroom kept her in suspense and ravishment, kindling more and more her desire. The impassioned stanza of San Juan de la Cruz came into her mind:--

_"Ay! who else has power to mend me!_ _Prithee deign to make my humble heart thy dwelling;_ _I beseech thee now to send me_ _Faithful angels not incapable of telling_ _Truly all the longing in me welling!"_[38]

And a thousand times she repeated it mentally, with a sublime solicitude, in which it seemed as though her soul were going to burst forth through her lips. But her lips remained speechless; she wished to cry out, to break into praises of Jesus, to give vent to the passionate impulses of her breast, and it was impossible. She felt a strange oppression, torturing her with celestial death, which she would not exchange for a hundred lives.

A keen, eager, resistless desire suddenly took possession of her heart. Jesus, the King of souls, had granted to more than one favors which were terrible by their very grandeur and incomprehensibility. He had appeared to Saint Isabel after her prodigious deeds of charity and penance, and had said, "Isabel, if thou art willing to be mine, I also am willing to be thine and will never leave thee." Frequently he had come to Saint Catalina of Siena in her convent cell, had conversed with her, had walked with and many times had helped her offer up her prayers. He had taken Saint Teresa in his arms so that she could not move, and had lavished caresses and kisses upon her. If she might only win such regalement! Scarcely had this overweening thought been born in her mind before she was filled with fear, and felt such shame that she would gladly have had the earth open and swallow her up. "Oh, no, my God! Who am I to receive such a favor, granted only to the martyrs of charity and the seraphic virgins who shine in heaven like bright stars. Pardon me, Jesus mine, pardon me!"

But her audacious thought would not depart from her mind; it kept following her in spite of her strongest efforts to shake it off. She was unworthy of such glory, she knew well, but her yearning was the child of the love with which the divine Jesus had filled her heart to overflowing; thus not she but Jesus himself was the author of this desire. If he had not kindled in her his celestial love, and had not begun to pour out upon her favors as sweet as they were undeserved, such an absurd idea would never have entered her head. No; she asked not so great a grace, so great a consolation; it was enough for her that Jesus was willing to give himself to her, that she had a few particles of his immortal love. She should consider herself the most blessed among the virgin daughters of heaven, if at the end of long years of prayer and penance, of bitterness and tribulations, Jesus should allow her once only to touch her lips to his divine face. "O Jesus mine, is it sinful to ask this? Could such a base worm as I ever deserve a joy so infinite?"

She opened her eyes. Jesus, with his golden aureole shining amid the shadows, as it reflected the last melancholy light that came through the window, lifted his hands towards her, at the same time fastening upon her a profound, sweet gaze. Through her veins ran a sensation of chill, as though she were near to death; but instantly this was supplanted by another of such intense heat that it made the sweat start from all the pores of her body. She comprehended vaguely that an adorable mystery was taking place in her presence, and a holy fear seized her. The boudoir was wrapt in shadow: the windows seemed like great, colorless eyes gazing through the walls. A sweet, languid delectation took possession of her whole being, and overwhelmed her with bliss. Her fear vanished. She was filled with the certainty that she was loved by Jesus, that she was the bride-elect of a God. Tenderness, worship, joy, welled up in her bosom, and she could not take her eyes from the eyes of the Lord, drinking from them the mysterious, ineffable delight of glory.

Once more the desire came back to her mind. This time she promulgated it with words, the warm breath of which stole through her hands crossed before her face.

"Jesus mine, wouldst thou permit thy servant to touch her lips to thy divine person?"

Jesus bent forward still more graciously. Maria felt her hair stand on end, and her heart wanted to leap from her breast. His voice like music penetrated into the soul of the young girl, who believed that she was dead and translated to heaven.

Jesus had said,--

_"Arise, my beloved, my fair one, and come."_

"Lord, I am not worthy!" exclaimed Maria, with a cry at once of anguish and of joy.

Again Jesus said,--

_"Thou art all beautiful, my beloved; there is no blemish in thee."_

"My Jesus, thee I love above all things!"

_"My dove, show me thy face, let thy voice sound in mine ears, for thy voice is sweet, and thy face is beautiful,"_ replied Jesus, bending still nearer.

Then the girl, carried away by glory and enthusiasm, threw her arms about the knees of the Lord, and flooded them with her tears, saying, between her sobs, like the bride in the sacred book,--

"My soul melted within me when my beloved spake."

And little by little, her arms clinging to the body of Jesus, stole slowly, slowly upwards, till they were fastened around his neck. Her breath failed her, and she felt her memory, her imagination, and all her powers give way, fading into an immense, eager bliss, in which her whole being was plunged as in the purest ether. Her face drew near the Lord's. She touched with her cheeks the cheeks of the Bridegroom; she put her lips to the whiteness of his brow, to the effulgence of his eyes, to the coral of his lips.

And in the chief room of the tower, silent, buried in darkness, was long heard the sound of sobs and subdued kisses. At last, a human body, the body of the Señorita de Elorza, senseless, fell heavily at full length upon the floor. Genoveva, when she came in with a light, found her there still in the swoon, with eyes open and fixed, reflecting in her face a celestial joy.