Maria was able fully to devote herself to the life of perfection toward which she had felt such vehement aspiration. The hours of the day seemed to her too few for her prayers, both at church and at home, and for the repentance of her sins. She attended the sacraments more and more, and she was present and assisted with her sympathy and money in all the religious solemnities which were celebrated in the town. The time left free from her prayers she spent in reading books of devotion, which, in a short time, formed a library almost as numerous as her novels. The lives of the saints pleased her above all, and she soon devoured a multitude of them, paying most attention, as was logical, to the lives of those who reached the greatest glory and brought the greatest splendor to the Church,—the life of Saint Teresa, that of Saint Catalina of Sienna, of Saint Gertrudis, of Saint Isabel, Saint Eulalia, Saint Monica, and many others who, without having been canonized, were celebrated for their piety and for the spiritual graces which God bestowed upon them, like the holy Margarita of Alacoque, Mademoiselle de Melun, and others. These works made a very profound impression on our young lady's ardent and enthusiastic mind, driving her farther and farther along the road to perfection. The incredible and marvellous powers of those heroic souls, who, through love and charity, succeeded in lifting themselves to heaven, and in enjoying through anticipation, while still on earth, the delights reserved for the blessed, filled her with deep, fervent admiration. She felt an ecstasy over the most insignificant incidents in the lives of the saints, where God often showed them that He held them as His chosen ones, and would not let the world entice them away, as, for example, the scene of the miraculous toad which Saint Teresa saw talking in the garden with a caballero toward whom she felt a drawing; the sudden death of Buenaventura, Saint Catalina's sister, who was leading that holy woman along the worldly path of bodily adornments and pleasures; and many others which filled the books aforesaid. Maria regarded these notable heroines of religion with the same emotion and astonishment as one regards the phenomena and marvels of nature. A long time passed before she dared to lift her eyes toward them in the way of imitation; she contented herself with beseeching them, through interminable prayers, to intercede with God to pardon her sins. She bought the finest effigies that she found and, when she had caused them to be richly framed, she hung them up on the walls of her room. To do this she had to take down Malec-Kadel and many other warriors of the Middle Ages which had invaded them. She was especially carried away by the scenes of their infancy, and by the first steps which these blessed women had taken along the road to perfection; but when she reached that part of their lives which marked the apogee of their glory on earth, when God, overcome by their steadfast love, their fidelity, and the wonderful penances imposed upon themselves, began to grant them favors and spiritual gifts by means of ecstasies and visions, she remained somewhat disturbed and even cast down. She did not as yet comprehend the mystic delight of direct communication through the senses between the soul and God, and she confessed with great compunction that if one of these miraculous visions were to be vouchsafed her, she should feel much greater fear than pleasure.
Nevertheless, before long, the desire to imitate them sprang up in her heart. It is always a short step from admiration to imitation. She began where it was proper, that is, by imitating their humility. Hitherto she had been modest, but not to such a degree as not to enjoy being flattered and applauded; but from this time forth she not only carefully avoided all praise, but she repelled those who offered it, and even tried to hide her talents so as to give her friends no chance to praise her. She began to talk as little as possible with friends or members of the family, and to do on the instant whatever they asked her to, lamenting in her heart that they did not give her harsh commands. She managed to have the servants help her at table after all the rest, and always give her stale bread instead of fresh. To conquer the natural impulses of selfishness she showed those who had offended her more affability than others, and any one had only to offend her pride more or less for her immediately to overwhelm them with attentions, as though she owed them gratitude. On the other hand, to those who, as she knew, loved and admired her, she took delight in seeming peevish, so that they might not think her better than she really was.
Having started out on this pious path, which has been travelled by all the saints for the glory of God and of the human race, since the virtue of humility raises man above his own nature, conquering the passions deepest rooted in the human heart, and, of all virtues is the one that best proves the power of the spirit, and inspires respect even in the most unbelieving of men; having started out, I say on this pious path, and being aided by vivid imagination, she performed a number of strange deeds, wellnigh incomprehensible to those whose attention is turned to the world and not to religious things, deeds which the illustrious biographers of Saint Isabel calls secret and holy fancies,[20] serving as the mystic steps whereby the soul mounts to perfection and communicates with God. One day, for example, it came into her mind to eat humbly with the servants as though she were one of them. In order to do this, when dinner-time came, she pretended to have a headache, and kept in her chamber; but when the family were gathered in the dining-room, she softly ran down stairs to the kitchen, and there she stayed all through the dinner-hour, helping herself to the remains of the food, to the surprise and admiration of the servants. Another day, when it seemed to her that she had not answered her father with sufficient respect, she suddenly presented herself in his office, fell on her knees, and begged his pardon. Don Mariano lifted her from the floor, with startled eyes:—
"But, my daughter, suppose you have not offended me or committed any fault? And even if you had, there is no need of going to these extremes. What nonsense! Come, give me a kiss, and go and sew with your sister, and don't frighten me again with such absurdities!"
Maria did not meet with the contrarieties in the bosom of her family that she would have liked, in the way of test. Her father and sister, though they did not encourage her in her devotions, said nothing to oppose her; and each day they showed her more and more affection, which was the natural consequence of the growing sweetness and gentleness of her character. Her mother adored her with foolish frenzy, blindly applauded all her acts of piety, and never wearied of praising to the skies the virtue and talent of her first-born. The servants, and particularly Genoveva, likewise joined their voices in a chorus of flatteries, spreading all over town the fame of her virtues, and crowning her with a halo of respect and sanctity. As far as such things influenced her salvation, our maiden would have preferred a cruel, tyrannical father, who laid harsh commands upon her, or a disagreeable mother or an envious sister, who would not let her live in peace, since, according to the biographies which she read, no saint had been free from suffering persecutions in her own family. She grieved inwardly at the ease and comfort which she enjoyed at home, and she thought that she suffered nothing for the God who had redeemed us with His blood. She would have liked it had a calumny been breathed about her, such as Palmerina caused Saint Catalina of Sienna to suffer, so that she might be scorned and maltreated; but no one in the house or out of it dreamed of doing such a thing.
To compensate for this absence of persecutions, she mortified her flesh with fasting and penances, always performing those which were most unpleasant to her. Some dish on the table was distasteful to her; then she imposed upon herself the penance of eating it, leaving others, of which she was extremely fond, untouched. She went so far as to put aloes in some, in imitation of what was done by Saint Nicolas of Tolentino. On Fridays she fasted rigorously on bread and water, performing miracles of shrewdness to prevent her father from discovering it; for she felt certain that if he knew it, he would not give his consent.
She always wore a locket around her neck, containing the picture of her betrothed. One day, when he had succeeded in having a moment's conversation alone with her, she said to him,—
"Listen, Ricardo; if you would not be vexed, I would tell you something."
"What is it?" hastily asked the young man, with the sudden alarm of one who is always afraid of some misfortune.
"I see that I am going to offend you—but I will tell you. I have taken your picture out of the locket."