A Wedding Trip

by condesa de Emilia Pardo Bazán

“Just think of it!” she added, nodding her head gravely and thoughtfully. “And I, who fancied that when a woman married she had some one to keep her company and to take care of her! Some one to give her his protection and support! Well, if this can happen before twenty-four hours have passed—what is to be expected afterward!”

“Undoubtedly—undoubtedly your husband is much more distressed at what has happened than you are. Believe me, something has occurred of which we know nothing, and which will explain the conduct of Señor Miranda. Or have you any reason, any motive to suspect that—that he wished to abandon you?”

“Motive! Of course not! None whatever! Señor de Miranda is a very reliable person.”

“You call him Señor de Miranda?”

“No—he told me yesterday to call him Aurelio—but as I have not much confidence with him yet—and as he is older than I—in short, it did not come to my tongue.”

The traveler closed his lips, forcing back a whole flood of indiscreet questions which crowded to his mind, and turned again to the window in order not to lose the magnificent spectacle offered him by nature. The sun was rising above the summit of a neighboring mountain, dispelling by his rays the morning mists that sank slowly into the valley in lace-like fragments, and flooding the clear blue atmosphere with a fresh, soft light. Down the granite flank of the mountain, glistening with mica, descended a foaming torrent, and through the dark shadow of the oak groves could be caught a glimpse of a little meadow in the tender green tones of young grass, where a flock of sheep were browsing; their white forms starred the verdant carpet like enormous flakes of wool. Through the deafening noise of the train one might fancy one could hear, in that picturesque and sunny spot, distant trills of birds, and the silvery tinkling of bells.

After gazing for some time at the beautiful view, now fading into the distance, the traveler sank back wearily into his corner, his arms dropped powerless by his side, and a faint sigh, which told of fatigue rather than of sorrow, escaped from his lips.

The sun was mounting in the heavens, and his rays began to dance on the windows of the carriage and on the brows of its two occupants, seeming to invite them to look at each other, and, simultaneously, they furtively measured each other with their glances, whence resulted a scene in dumb show, represented by the girl with infantile naturalness and with frowning reserve by the man.

The traveler was a man in the vigor of his age and in the age of vigor. He might be, at a rough guess, from twenty-eight to thirty-two years of age. His pale countenance was a degree more pale on the cheeks, generally the seat of what, in the language of poetry, are called “roses.” Notwithstanding this, he did not seem to be of a sickly constitution. His frame was well proportioned, his beard was black and fine, his hair soft and wavy, straying where it would without regard to symmetry or art, but not without a certain fitness in its natural arrangement that gave character and beauty to the head. His features were well formed, but overshadowed by melancholy and stamped with the traces of suffering—not the physical suffering which undermines the health, wastes the tissues, withers the skin, and dulls or glazes the eye, but the moral, or, rather, the intellectual suffering which only deepens the circles under the eyes, furrows the brow, blanches the temples, and concentrates the gaze, at the same time rendering the bearing careless and apathetic. Apathy—this was what was most apparent in the traveler’s manner. All his attitudes and gestures expressed fatigue and exhaustion. Something there was broken or out of order in that noble mechanism,—some one of the springs, which, when snapped, interrupt the functions of the inner life. Even in his attire the languor and despondency which were so plainly visible in his countenance were perceptible. It was not negligence, it was indifference and dejection of spirits that were expressed by the dark gray suit, the gold chain,—out of place on a journey,—the cravat, carelessly and loosely tied, the new Suède gloves of delicate color, that ten minutes’ wear would soil. The traveler did not possess that exquisite and intelligent taste in dress which gives attention to details, which makes a science of the toilet; in him was revealed the man who is superior to fashion because, while not ignorant of it, he disdains it—a grade of culture which belongs to a higher sphere than fashion, which after all is a social distinction, and he who rises superior to fashion is also superior to social distinctions. Miranda wore the livery of elegance, and therefore, before being attracted by Miranda’s person, the gaze was attracted by his attire, while that which attracted the attention in Artegui was Artegui himself. The carelessness of his attire did not detract from, it rather made more evident the distinction of his person; the various articles composing his dress were rich of their kind: the cloth was English, the linen of the finest quality, and both shoes and gloves were of the best make. All this Lucía noted instinctively rather than intelligently, for, inexperienced and new to the world, she had not yet arrived at an understanding of the philosophy of dress,—a science in which women in general are so learned.

Artegui, on his side, regarded her as the traveler, returning from snow-clad and desert lands, regards some smiling valley which he chances upon by the way. Never before had he seen united to the grace of youth so much vigor and luxuriant bloom. Notwithstanding the night spent in the railway-carriage, the face of Lucía was as fresh as a rose, and her disordered hair, flattened down in places, gave her the air of a naiad, emerging bareheaded and dewy from the bath. Her eyes, her features, all were smiling, and the sun, indiscreet chronicler of faded complexions, played harmlessly over the golden down that covered the cheeks of the young girl, imparting to them the warm tones of antique marble.