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.