IX.
During the first few days she was like a hen in a strange yard. In truth, whether it were owing to sad recollections, or to the strange malady of homesickness from which she had suffered ever since her arrival in Madrid, the girl began to decline visibly in looks and she fell into a state of dejection which, though it did not prevent her from working with diligence and even with ardor, deprived her of the elasticity which lightens toil. It was plain to be seen that she had grown thinner, and although from the slenderness of her form and from the expression of her face it was evident she was younger, from her serious turn of mind, and the gravity of her demeanor, she might be thought twenty-eight or thirty.
It is to be adverted that this species of melancholy or dejection did not interfere with the strict performance of her duties. On the contrary Esclavita was a model servant. She rose very early, almost with the sun, indeed, and before the cook had thought of lighting the fire she was already arranging everything for the breakfast of the mistress and the young master. From the very first day she took charge of the preparation of the chocolate, a duty which she performed with scrupulous care. The secret, which is fast becoming lost, of making chocolate—of the number of times necessary for it to boil up, and of the amount of beating required in order that a solution of cocoa should be aromatic, smooth, and nutritious—Esclavita knew so well that Doña Aurora declared she had never in her life tasted chocolate like hers. In the sweeping, too, she was no less skillful. With her handkerchief knotted at the back of her head and her skirt turned up around her and fastened behind, she would sweep quietly, not making a great disturbance and upsetting everything in the room, yet doing the work thoroughly. That she did not brush and beat too vigorously, annoying everybody in the house, under pretense of cleaning, was an additional merit in the eyes of Doña Aurora, who could not bear rough or noisy people. But what the new maid excelled most in was the mending. It was evident that she was less accustomed to cooking, ironing, or housework than to sedentary tasks. Seated in a low chair by the window, in a couple of hours she would empty the basket of linen, and her invisible darns, her skillful patches, her firmly sewed strings and her well-fastened buttons were Doña Aurora’s admiration. She would say to her friends:
“I am not afraid now of wearing my best linen every day. This Esclavita does not leave a bit of torn lace or embroidery unmended. It is a pleasure to see her with the needle in her hand.”
But at the same time Doña Aurora’s expansive disposition was little in accord with the reserved melancholy of the girl. The more pleased she was with her service the more she desired to see her go about with that lightheartedness that shows a cheerful conformity with one’s lot in life and the occupation in which one is engaged. All the consideration she had for that blessed girl, and yet she looked always dissatisfied and gloomy! In the kindness of the Señora de Pardiñas there was an element of selfishness, the natural outgrowth of that kindness; if she conferred a benefit on any one, she wished to enjoy in return the spectacle of that person’s felicity; and so strong was this feeling that in order to live tranquil and happy she needed to be persuaded that everybody around her was tranquil and happy too. In deciding to take Esclavita she had been influenced by two motives; the first was to spite “that hateful Rita Pardo”; the second to make a girl of so engaging an appearance as Esclavita happy, playing in a certain sense the rôle of Providence, and reconciling her with destiny, for her fatal and implacable from the very hour of her birth. And in the latter generous desire she could not succeed because the girl would not respond to her efforts and allow herself to be cheerful.
One day Doña Aurora noticed that Esclavita ate scarcely anything, persisting at the same time in going on with her work, saying in answer to her mistress’s questions that there was nothing the matter with her. Señora de Pardiñas was of a frank, impetuous, and straightforward character, such as is rarely to be met with among the Galicians; the moment a thought came into her mind she gave expression to it, and when anything prevented her doing this she felt as if she had something sticking in her throat. Without further delay, then, she brought the girl close to a window where the shade of her black silk handkerchief would not conceal the expression of her eyes or the working of her features.
“What is the matter with you, child?” she asked her without preface, with motherly solicitude. “Is there anything troubling you? Do you want for anything?”
The girl turned red, as was habitual with her when she was affected by any emotion, and answered in a low voice:
“No, Señora. How could I want for anything? May God reward you for your kindness.”
“But what is the matter, then? Are you not happy here, either? Do we treat you badly? Does the other girl not behave as she ought? Do you want more covering?”