“Put it in order, then, Suriña. The putting in order of wardrobes is a part of the lesson in Galician.”
X.
Whether it were owing to this circumstance or not, it is not to be denied that, after signing the truce with Rogelio, Esclavita’s manner and appearance underwent a complete change. Her eyes brightened, her cheeks grew rosy, her voice lost its melancholy accent, she was less silent; and while her occupations continued the same, her manner of performing them was so different, that if she had looked before like a resigned victim to duty and had seemed to cast a shadow of gloom over the house as she went about her work, her brisk and active movements now filled it with cheerfulness.
Doña Aurora did not cease to congratulate herself on this change. “Praised be God,” she would say. “That is the way I like to see people around me look. I can’t endure those people who go about with long-drawn, gloomy faces, without knowing why or wherefore. You see, child. It was all on your account, neither more nor less. Now that you treat her with a little friendliness see how she is a different person.”
And different indeed she was. Even her physique had undergone a favorable change. Whether in sign of happiness or for some other reason unknown to us, she had removed the black kerchief from her head, allowing her hair to fall negligently down her neck, whose extraordinary whiteness was set off by the black silk of her neck-kerchief. Her complexion now was the complexion of the young maidens of Galicia, that bright complexion that seems to preserve the dewy freshness of their native land, and whose rosy tint puts to shame the sickly pallor of the daughters of Madrid. Her expressive eyes, green, with yellowish lights, emphasized the vernal and delicate character of Esclavita’s beauty, reminding one of a valley watered by two crystalline rivulets. But the girl’s chief beauty was her hair, auburn changing to gold where it caught the light, that, parted in the middle, flowed in luxuriant natural waves on either side of the head, crowning the low forehead and the delicate temples. She wore it hanging down her back in two thick braids, or gathered up in a heavy coil at the back of the head, and if in the morning it looked smooth and even lustrous while damp with the water which was the only cosmetic Esclavita used, as the day wore on, and she went about her work, it curled up, and, rough and silky at the same time, framed her face in an aureole like that of a saint in some old painting. And indeed Esclavita, with her simple rustic manner of wearing her hair, reminded one of some old Flemish painting on wood, or one of the creations of early Italian art, the resemblance being heightened by her modest air, her downcast look, that odor of incense and the sacristy, which Rita Pardo had observed in her. Looking at her full face when she smiled, the type of the rustic could be descried through the angular outlines of the virgin.
All these perfections and graces, with many more that I refrain from mentioning, were perceived through his spectacles, appreciated, talked about, and lauded to the skies by the discreet octogenarian whom Rogelio called Nuño Rasura, and whom we with more respect call Don Gaspar. Nor did he wait to pronounce his panegyric until the transformation we have spoken of took place, but from the very first day on which she had opened the door for him the gallant old man began to extol her merits, wearying the rest of the company with his exaggerated praises, his rhapsodies, his silly effusions, and, in the words of the Crown Solicitor, his archfooleries.
“Just see,” Señor de Febrero would say, throwing back his handsome Orleanic head and gently smoothing the curls of his wig or stroking the velvet cushion of his crutch, “what judgment our excellent friend Doña Aurora has shown in choosing this girl, who is unique in her class. In the first place, she is so handy, so careful, so industrious, and then she has such a modest and truthful air, a great merit in my eyes, now that good manners are out of date and that viragos and strapping jades swarm around us. In former times—do you remember, friend Candás—women were all like this girl, there was none of that effrontery that we see nowadays.”
“Yes, yes, very demure, on the outside,” the incorrigible Don Nicanor would respond, putting his ear-trumpet into requisition—“little saints, all sweetness and softness. But within they made up for it. You may say so indeed! But I have cut my wisdom teeth and I am not to be imposed upon by those Madonna faces.”
“See how far our friend Candás carries his evil-mindedness! That may be the case in Asturia, in your part of the country, but it is not so in ours; am I not right, Doña Aurora? And there is no denying that as boldness and want of decorum in a woman repel, so neatness and modesty are an additional attraction.”
Here Señora de Pardiñas was obliged to use all her efforts to keep from bursting out laughing, for Rogelio, who had followed the conversation from his corner on the sofa, made a comical grimace and winked at her roguishly to give point to the old man’s remarks.