The friar’s arguments pierced my brain like a sword. Rather it was not his arguments, but the tone of conviction and veracity with which he uttered them, aided by my state of mind, and the silly admiration of the “high and sublime,” as the Father put it, induced by my tipsiness. At any rate, my pessimistic opinions sprang up afresh, and so did my desire to make an end of my wretched existence, or at least of its hurtful illusions. Repressing a longing to throw myself into the friar’s arms, I exclaimed:
“Alas, Father, how correct you are in that! Oh, if one might only enjoy your belief and wear your garb! Tell me whether a rationalist may enter a convent. I believe he can. Oh, I feel so sad, so sad. It seems as though my life were at an end.”
The friar looked at me with singular penetration. His eyes seemed like two lancets probing my heart, and dissecting its fibers. His tone became more severe as he said:
“Take care that you do not lose your self-respect, or forget your purpose to behave yourself like a man of honor. However, looking closely at the matter, provided you do not make an end of the lives of the others—do what you please with your own.”
I did not turn my head, or droop my eyes, or blush. If the friar’s eyes accused, mine made an open confession; they almost challenged him, as though I said: “Agreed, you can read my thoughts, I make no attempt to conceal them. Judged by my views of morality, what I feel is no crime. The only crime is to have performed that marriage ceremony.”
I turned my back on him, and, jumping over the fence, passed on into the fields.
CHAPTER XVIII.
I do not know whether the desire to get away from Tejo or to seek greater solitude, induced me to stroll toward the beach. Night had fallen. The moon had risen red and angry, but was resuming her serene appearance as she mounted into the sky. The murmuring waves broke against the rocks, when I seated myself with a dull sense of pain and an inclination to give myself up to all the dreams and chimeras of an imagination heated by the after effects of the champagne. The soft ripple of the placid estuary, the tremulous glimmer of the moon on the water, and the mysterious effusiveness inspired by nature, predisposed me to the following monologue: “If she and I had been married to-day, I would get rid of these troublesome people, and would lead her here on my arm; I would sit close to her on this very rock, which seems made on purpose for an experience like that, which one never could forget. Encircling her waist with my arm, resting her head against my breast, without startling her, without offending her delicacy, I would gently prepare her to share with me the full rapture of passion, to yield herself joyfully to the fated unfolding of human love. And these would be the most joyous, most delicious moments in our whole life. We would be wrapt in silent and profound bliss. How sweet our silence would be! Perhaps such joy would be too great for our hearts to bear. It might be so intense that we could not endure it. For that reason it lasts but a short time, and is rarely found. And,” I went on in my soliloquy, “the fact is, such happiness will never be yours, my boy. Auntie Carmen is like all women, and only possesses one innocency. She will lose it to-day. To-day another man will pluck the lily. To-day, what you respect more than anything else in the world, is given over to profanation. No matter how many years may pass, or how many favors you may obtain from that woman, you will never be able to bring her to this beach in the moonlight, through paths overgrown by honeysuckle, to taste emotions never felt before, to enter into life through the gateway of illusion.”
This was the substance of the wild fancies which floated through my brain during the paroxysm of my grief, while I struggled against the depression caused by my partial intoxication. A vague idea floated through my mind dominating all the rest: “If Carmen’s lord were not my uncle, I should not be so given over to misery and rage. My romantic fancy for her is only my everlasting prejudice against him, taking on another form.”
I went up to Tejo feeling more desperate than if I were suffering under some real and terrible affliction. I believe that on my way there I threw down and trampled on the spray of orange blossoms I had so eagerly begged her to give me that morning. I endeavored to control myself so as not to commit greater acts of folly, and when I entered the house I avoided meeting anybody and went directly to my room, longing to throw myself on my bed, to fall to cursing, or to toss around until I should fall asleep, overcome by fatigue.