What was the reason then? It was most probably due to the comfortable circumstances and well-assured prospects for the future which my uncle enjoyed. It could not be for any other cause. She had doubtless decided to marry him, if not purely for self-interest, at least because it was not advisable to disdain such an advantageous match. In that case, although Señorita Aldao’s conduct did not appear to be delicate or high-minded, nevertheless it was not rightly open to censure.
On the other hand, though I was convinced that this was the real motive of Carmen’s action, I noticed in her, while I observed her daily in the intimacy and familiarity produced by the country life, our near relationship, and the similarity of our ages, something which was contradictory to the practical and reasonable procedure I was attributing to her. Carmen displayed touches of vehemence and feeling which proved that she was naturally passionate. Sometimes her eyes would flash fire, her nostrils dilate, and a singular strength of will show itself in that dreamy face, with its ascetic lines. I fancied that under the surface there must be hidden fire, and a good deal of it.
As I am not a novelist, I am not compelled to make skillful transitions; and as I am not a hypocrite either, I shall mention one fact which I do not know whether any observer or moralist has ever spoken of so frankly. It is that the first glance a man gives a woman, when he is young and prone to love, as I was, is almost always an inquiring look, somewhat loving also,—a look which asks, “Could that woman love me? What would happen if she did?” This is not an affectation of cynicism, nor do I make out human nature worse than God created it; but it only indicates that the sexual instinct, like all other instincts, never rests, although reason may repress it. If I had felt affection and respect for my uncle, I would have silenced that confused murmur of instinct at once. But I did not; my uncle irritated me, and roused my whole soul secretly against him; and so, when I fancied that I perceived in his lady-love the germs of a similar feeling, I felt drawn toward her by a fellowship of mind which was right on the road to love.
Without a moment’s doubt, without feeling surprised at the thing in the least, and without hesitating for a moment in confessing it to myself,—always an easier confession than an auricular one,—I desired and determined to ingratiate myself with my future aunt, if possible. The temptation took hold of me with the greater ease because, as the wedding had not yet taken place, I was spared that brief inward struggle and that misgiving, which are aroused when it is a case of another man’s wife.
To tell the exact truth, I did not purpose to win her for myself or even to displace her lover. I was not capable of plotting in cold blood what Luis Portal called a family drama. All that I aspired to do was to discover whether my surmises in regard to Carmen’s inward shrinking from him were true, and whether she could treat me with indulgent kindness. I sincerely believed that if I were to succeed in that, my uneasiness would be soothed and would vanish.
Our manner of life at Tejo was conducive to intimacy. When we returned from bathing, we would take our breakfast whenever and wherever we desired; a liberty highly favorable to meetings with Carmen in agreeable isolation, in the orchard or in the garden. It cost me a great effort to get rid of the acolyte in order to carry out my plans, for he was fond of me, and stuck to me like a burr. While he was reading the papers, or playing checkers with Don Román, or picking cherries and strawberries with Candidiña, I would steal off in search of Carmen. I would generally meet her coming out from the chapel, where she had been to hear Father Moreno say mass.
As soon as I approached I would offer her some flowers, and begin to chat. We talked on the subjects usually chosen for conversation with an unmarried girl; whether Pontevedra was lively, about the Virgin’s festival, about the balls at the Casino, about walks, about how they passed the winter there, about her friends, love affairs and engagements, and other such insipid subjects, fitted, in my opinion, to lead up to some gallant speech.
I found occasion to compliment her slyly, telling her how becoming her dress was, praising her hair, asking her to lean on my arm, while we walked around, assuring her that such a grateful pressure would not tire me.
She never put on a face of indignant virtue at my endeavors to ingratiate myself with her. She received my compliments with a careless, mischievous smile, as much as to say: “Very well; we understand each other; my future nephew is very agreeable.”
She would lean on my arm in accordance with my request, without the slightest hesitation and with decorous cordiality. One day, when I affected a slightly melancholy air, in order to change my tune, she thought I was ill and proposed to take care of me, offering me all sorts of remedies for the body, while I pretended to desire a moral cure. In fact, I could not find an open breach, whereby to attack that little heart.