Section 2

The Marquesa would have been astonished to learn that her letters were immortal. Yet many critics have accused her of keeping one eye on posterity and point to a number of letters that have all the air of being bravura pieces. To them it seems impossible that Doña Maria should have put herself to the same pains to dazzle her daughter that most artists expend on dazzling the public. Like her son-in-law they misunder- stood her: the Conde delighted in her letters, but he thought that when he had enjoyed the style he had extracted all their richness and intention, missing (as most readers do) the whole purport of literature, which is the notation of the heart. Style is but the faintly contemptible vessel in
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which the bitter liquid is recommended to the world. The Marquesa would even have been as- tonished to learn that her letters were very good, for such authors live always in the noble weather of their own minds and those productions which seem remarkable to us are little better than a day’s routine to them.
This was the old woman who hour by hour would sit upon her balcony, her odd straw hat casting a purple shadow across her lined and yel- low face. How often as she turned her pages with her gemmed hands, she would ask herself, al- most with amusement, whether the constant pain at her heart had an organic seat. She wondered whether a subtle doctor cutting through to that battered throne could at last discover a sign and lifting his face to the amphitheatre cry out to his students: “This woman has suffered, and her sufiering has left its mark upon the structure of her heart.” This idea had so often visited her
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THE BRIDGE OF SAN LUIS REY that one day she wrote it into a letter and her daughter scolded her for an introspective and for making a cult of sorrow.
The knowledge that she would never be loved in return acted upon her ideas as a tide acts upon cliffs. Her religious beliefs went first, for all she could ask of a god, or of immortality, was the gift of a place where daughters love their moth- ers; the other attributes of Heaven you could have for a song. Next she lost her belief in the sincerity of those about her. She secretly refused to believe that anyone (herself excepted) loved anyone. All families lived in a wasteful atmosphere of cus- tom and kissed one another with secret indiffer- ence. She saw that the people of this world moved about in an armour of egotism, drunk with self- gazing, athirst for compliments, hearing little of what was said to them, unmoved by the acci- dents that befell their closest friends, in dread of all appeals that might interrupt their long com-
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THE MARQUESA DE MONTEMAYOR munion with their own desires. These were the sons and daughters of Adam from Cathay to Peru. And when on the balcony her thoughts reached this turn, her mouth would contract with shame for she knew that she too sinned and that though her love for her daughter was vast enough to include all the colours of love, it was not with- out a shade of tyranny: she loved her daughter not for her daughter’s sake, but for her own. She longed to free herself from this ignoble bond; but the passion was too fierce to cope with. And then on that green balcony a strange warfare would shake the hideous old lady, a singularly futile struggle against a temptation to which she would never have the opportunity of succumbing. How could she rule her daughter when her daughter saw to it that four thousand miles lay between them? Nevertheless Doña Maria wrestled with the ghost of her temptation and was worsted on every occasion. She wanted her daughter for her-
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THE BRIDGE OF SAN LUIS REY self; she wanted to hear her say: “You are the best of all possible mothers”; she longed to hear her whisper: “Forgive me.”
About two years after her return from Spain there took place a series of inconspicuous events that had a great deal to tell about the inner life of the Marquesa. Only the faintest allusion to them occurs in the Correspondence, but as that is found in Letter XXII which contains other signs I shail do my best to give a translation and commentary of the first part of the letter:
“Are there no doctors in Spain? Where are those good men from Flanders that used to help you so? Oh, my treasure, how can we punish you enough for letting your cold endure so many ` weeks? Don Vicente, I implore you to make my child see reason. Angels of Heaven, I implore you to make my child see reason. Now that you are better, I beg of you, resolve that when the first warning of a cold comes you will steam yourself well and go to bed. Here in Peru I am helpless; I
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THE MARQUESA DE MONTEMAYOR can do nothing. Do not be self-willed, my beloved. God bless you. I am enclosing in today’s packet the gum of some tree which the sisters of San Tomás peddle from door to door. Whether it be of much use I know not. It can do no harm. I am told that in the convent the silly sisters inhale it so diligently that one cannot smell the incense at Mass. Whether it be worth anything I know not; try й.
“Rest easy, my love, I am sending His Mosv Catholic Majesty the perfect gold chain.” (Her daughter had written her: “The chain arrived in good condition and I wore it at the christening of the Infante. His Most Catholic Majesty was gracious enough to admire it and when I told Him that you had given it me He sent you His compliments upon your taste. Do not fail to send Him one as like it as possible; send it at once, by way of the Chamberlain.”) “He need never know that in order to obtain it I had to walk into a picture. Do you remember that in the sacristy
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BT A ag > Su I aerial eh A A Ri \ \
THE BRIDGE OF SAN LUIS REY
of San Martin there is a portrait by Velasquez of the Viceroy who founded the monastery and of his wife and brat? and that his wife is wearing a gold chain? I resolved that only that chain would do. So one midnight I slipped into the sac- risty, climbed upon the robing-table like a girl of twelve and walked in. The canvas resisted for a moment, but ihe painter himself came forward to lift me through the pigment. I told him that the most beautiful girl in Spain wished to present the finest gold chain that could be found to the most gracious king in the world. It was as simple as that, and there we stood talking, we four, in the gray and silvery air that makes a Velasquez. Now I keep thinking about a more golden light; I keep looking at the Palace: I must pass the evening in a Titian. Would the Viceroy let me?
“But His Excellency has the gout again. I say ‘again’ because the flattery of the court insists that there are times when he is free of it. This being Saint Mark’s day His Excellency started out to
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THE MARQUESA DE MONTEMAYOR visit the University where twenty-two new doc- tors were being brought into the world. He had hardly been carried from his divan to his coach when he screamed and refused to go any farther. He was carried back to his bed where he broke a most delicious cigar and sent for the Perichole. And while we listened to long doctrinal addresses, more or less in Latin, he heard all about us, more or less in Spanish, from the reddest and cruellest lips in town.” (Dofia Maria permitted herself this passage, although she had just read in her daughter’s last letter: “How many times must I tell you to be more cautious in the things you say in your letters? They often show signs of having been opened on the journey. Nothing could be more ill-judged than your remarks on the you-know-what-I-mean at Cuzco. Such re- marks are not funny, even though Vicente did compliment you upon them in his postscript, and they might get us into a great deal of trouble with Certain Persons here in Spain. I continue to be
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THE BRIDGE OF SAN LUIS REY astonished that your indiscretions have not long since led to your being ordered to retire to your farm.”)
“There was a great press at the Exercises and two women fell from the balcony, but God in His goodness saw that they fell on Dona Merced. All three are badly hurt, but will be thinking of other things within a year. The President was speak- ing at the moment of the accident and being short-sighted could not imagine what the disturb- ance of cries and talk and falling bodies could be about. It was very pleasant to see him bowing, under the impression that he was being ap- plauded.
“Speaking of the Perichole, and of applause, you should know that Pepita and I decided to go to the Comedia this evening. The public still idol- - izes its Perichole; it even forgives her her years. We are told that she saves what she can, every morning, by passing alternate pencils of ice and fire across her cheeks.” (Translation falls espe-
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cially short of this conceit which carries the whole flamboyance of the Spanish language. It was in- tended as an obsequious flattery of the Condesa, and was untrue. The great actress was twenty- eight at this time; her cheeks had the smooth- ness and polish of dark yellow marble and would certainiy have retained that quality for many years. Apart from the cosmetics required by her performances the only treatment Camila Peri- chole afforded her face was to throw cold water at ittwice a day, like a peasant woman at a horse trough.) “That curious man they call Uncle Pio is by her all the time. Don Rubio says that he cannot make out whether Uncle Pio is her father, her lover, or her son. The Perichole gave a won- derful performance. Scold me all you like for a provincial ninny, you have no such actresses in Spain.” And so on.
It is on this visit to the theatre that further matter hangs. She decided to go to the Comedia where the Perichole was playing Dona Leonor in
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THE BRIDGE OF SAN LUIS REY Moreto’s Trampa Adelante; perhaps some ma- terial could be derived from the visit for her daughter’s next letter. She took with her Pepita, a little girl about whom later we shall learn much. Dona Maria had borrowed her from the orphan- age connected with the Convent of Santa Maria Rosa de las Rosas to be her companion. The Marquesa sat in her box gazing with flagging at- tention at the brilliant stage. Between the acts it was the Perichole’s custom to lay aside the courtly rôle and appear before the curtain to sing a few topical songs. The malicious actress had seen the Marquesa arrive and presently began improvis- ing couplets alluding to her appearance, her avar- ice, her drunkenness, and even to her daughter’s flight from her. The attention of the house was subtly directed to the old woman and a rising murmur of contempt accompanied the laughter of the audience. But the Marquesa, deeply moved by the first two acts of the comedy, scarcely saw the singer and sat staring before her, thinking about
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THE MARQUESA DE MONTEMAYOR Spain. Camila Perichole became bolder and the air was electric with the hatred and glee of the crowd. At last Pepita plucked the Marquesa’s sleeve and whispered to her that they should go. As they left the box the house arose and burst into a roar of triumph; the Perichole flung her- self into a frenzied dance, for she saw the man- ager at the back of the hall and knew that her salary had been increased. But the Marquesa re- mained unaware of what had taken place; in fact she was quite pleased, for during the visit she had contrived a few felicitous phrases, phrases (who knows) that might bring a smile to her daughter’s face and might make her murmur: “Really, my mother is charming.”
In due time the report reached the Viceroy’s ears that one of his aristocrats had been openly baited in the theatre. He summoned the Perichole to the Palace and ordered her to call upon the Marquesa and to apologize. The trip was to be made barefoot and in a black dress. Camila
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THE BRIDGE OF SAN LUIS REY argued and fought, but all she gained was a pair of shoes.
The Viceroy had three reasons for insisting. In the first place the singer had taken liberties with his court. Don Andres had contrived to make exile endurable by building up a ceremonial so complicated that it could be remembered only by a society that had nothing else to think about. He nursed his little aristocracy and its minute distinctions and any insult paid to a Marquesa was an insult to His Person. In the second place, Dona Maria’s son-in-law was an increasingly im- portant personage in Spain, laden with possibil- ities of injury to the Viceroy, nay with the pos- sibility of supplanting him. The Conde Vicente d’Abuirre must not be vexed, even through his half-wit mother-in-law. Finally, the Viceroy was delighted to humble the actress. He suspected that she was deceiving him with a matador, per- haps with an actor,—between the flattery of the court and the inertia of gout he could not quite
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make out who it was; at all events, it was clear that the singer was beginning to forget that he was one of the first men in the world.
The Marquesa, beside not having heard the scurrilous songs, was in other ways unprepared for the actress’s visit. You should know that after the departure of her daughter, Doña Maria had lighted upon a certain consolation: she had taken to drinking. Everyone drank chicha in Peru and there was no particular disgrace in being found unconscious on a feast day. Dona Maria had be- gun to discover that her feverish monologues had a way of keeping her awake all night. Once she took a delicate fluted glassful of chicha on retir- ing. Oblivion was so sweet that presently she stole larger amounts and tried dissimulating their effects from Pepita; she hinted that she was not well, and represented herself as going into a de- cline. At last she resigned all pretense. The boats that carried her letter to Spain did not leave oftener than once a month. During the week that
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THE BRIDGE OF SAN LUIS REY preceded the making of the packet she observed a strict regimen and cultivated the city assiduously for material. At last on the eve of the post she wrote the letter, making up the bundle towards dawn and leaving it for Pepita to deliver to the agent. Then as the sun rose she would shut her- self up in her room with some flagons and drift through the next few weeks without the burden of consciousness. Finally she would emerge from her happiness and prepare to go into a state of “training” in preparation for the writing of an- other letter.
Thus on the night following the scandal in the theatre she wrote Letter XXII and retired to bed with a carafe. All next day Pepita moved about the room, glancing anxiously at the figure on the bed. The next afternoon Pepita brought her needlework into the room. The Marquesa lay staring at the ceiling with wide-open eyes, talk- ing to herself. Towards dusk Pepita was called to the door and informed that the Perichole had
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THE MARQUESA DE MONTEMAYOR come to see the mistress. Pepita remembered the theatre very well and sent back word angrily that the mistress refused to see her. The man carried the message to the street door, but returned awe- struck with the news that the Señora Perichole was armed with a letter from the Viceroy present- ing her to the lady. Pepita tiptoed to the bed and started talking to the Marquesa. The glazed eyes moved to the girl’s face. Pepita shook her gently. With great effort Doña Maria tried to fix her mind on what was being said to her. Twice she lay back, refusing to seize the meaning, but at last, like a general calling together in a rain and by night the dispersed division of his army she assembled memory and attention and a few other faculties and painfully pressing her hand to her forehead she asked for a bowl of snow. When it was brought her, she long and drowsily pressed handfuls of it against her temples and cheeks; then rising she stood for a long time leaning against the bed and looking at her shoes. At last
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THE BRIDGE OF-SAN LUIS REY she raised her head with decision, she called for her fur-trimmed cloak and a veil. She put them on and tottered into her handsomest reception room where the actress stood waiting for her.
Camila had intended to be perfunctory and if possible impudent, but now she was struck for the first time with the dignity of the old woman. The mercer’s daughter could carry herself at times with all the distinction of the Montemayors and when she was drunk she wore the grandeur of Hecuba. For Camila the half-closed eyes had the air of weary authority and she began almost timidly: