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Olalla

All day I lay there.  For a long time the cries of that nameless female thing, as she struggled with her half-witted whelp, resounded through the house, and pierced me with despairing sorrow and disgust.  They were the death-cry of my love; my love was murdered; was not only dead, but an offence to me; and yet, think as I pleased, feel as I must, it still swelled within me like a storm of sweetness, and my heart melted at her looks and touch.  This horror that had sprung out, this doubt upon Olalla, this savage and bestial strain that ran not only through the whole behaviour of her family, but found a place in the very foundations and story of our love—though it appalled, though it shocked and sickened me, was yet not of power to break the knot of my infatuation. When the cries had ceased, there came a scraping at the door, by which I knew Felipe was without; and Olalla went and spoke to him—I know not what.  With that exception, she stayed close beside me, now kneeling by my bed and fervently praying, now sitting with her eyes upon mine.  So then, for these six hours I drank in her beauty, and silently perused the story in her face.  I saw the golden coin hover on her breaths; I saw her eyes darken and brighter, and still speak no language but that of an unfathomable kindness; I saw the faultless face, and, through the robe, the lines of the faultless body.  Night came at last, and in the growing darkness of the chamber, the sight of her slowly melted; but even then the touch of her smooth hand lingered in mine and talked with me.  To lie thus in deadly weakness and drink in the traits of the beloved, is to reawake to love from whatever shock of disillusion.  I reasoned with myself; and I shut my eyes on horrors, and again I was very bold to accept the worst.  What mattered it, if that imperious sentiment survived; if her eyes still beckoned and attached me; if now, even as before, every fibre of my dull body yearned and turned to her?  Late on in the night some strength revived in me, and I spoke:— ‘Olalla,’ I said, ‘nothing matters; I ask nothing; I am content; I love you.’ She knelt down awhile and prayed, and I devoutly respected her devotions.  The moon had begun to shine in upon one side of each of the three windows, and make a misty clearness in the room, by which I saw her indistinctly.  When she rearose she made the sign of the cross. ‘It is for me to speak,’ she said, ‘and for you to listen.  I know; you can but guess.  I prayed, how I prayed for you to leave this place.  I begged it of you, and I know you would have granted me even this; or if not, O let me think so!’ ‘I love you,’ I said. ‘And yet you have lived in the world,’ she said; after a pause, ‘you are a man and wise; and I am but a child.  Forgive me, if I seem to teach, who am as ignorant as the trees of the mountain; but those who learn much do but skim the face of knowledge; they seize the laws, they conceive the dignity of the design—the horror of the living fact fades from their memory.  It is we who sit at home with evil who remember, I think, and are warned and pity.  Go, rather, go now, and keep me in mind.  So I shall have a life in the cherished places of your memory: a life as much my own, as that which I lead in this body.’ ‘I love you,’ I said once more; and reaching out my weak hand, took hers, and carried it to my lips, and kissed it.  Nor did she resist, but winced a little; and I could see her look upon me with a frown that was not unkindly, only sad and baffled.  And then it seemed she made a call upon her resolution; plucked my hand towards her, herself at the same time leaning somewhat forward, and laid it on the beating of her heart.  ‘There,’ she cried, ‘you feel the very footfall of my life.  It only moves for you; it is yours.  But is it even mine?  It is mine indeed to offer you, as I might take the coin from my neck, as I might break a live branch from a tree, and give it you.  And yet not mine!  I dwell, or I think I dwell (if I exist at all), somewhere apart, an impotent prisoner, and carried about and deafened by a mob that I disown.  This capsule, such as throbs against the sides of animals, knows you at a touch for its master; ay, it loves you!  But my soul, does my soul?  I think not; I know not, fearing to ask.  Yet when you spoke to me your words were of the soul; it is of the soul that you ask—it is only from the soul that you would take me.’ ‘Olalla,’ I said, ‘the soul and the body are one, and mostly so in love.  What the body chooses, the soul loves; where the body clings, the soul cleaves; body for body, soul to soul, they come together at God’s signal; and the lower part (if we can call aught low) is only the footstool and foundation of the highest.’ ‘Have you,’ she said, ‘seen the portraits in the house of my fathers?  Have you looked at my mother or at Felipe?  Have your eyes never rested on that picture that hangs by your bed?  She who sat for it died ages ago; and she did evil in her life.  But, look-again: there is my hand to the least line, there are my eyes and my hair.  What is mine, then, and what am I?  If not a curve in this poor body of mine (which you love, and for the sake of which you dotingly dream that you love me) not a gesture that I can frame, not a tone of my voice, not any look from my eyes, no, not even now when I speak to him I love, but has belonged to others?  Others, ages dead, have wooed other men with my eyes; other men have heard the pleading of the same voice that now sounds in your ears.  The hands of the dead are in my bosom; they move me, they pluck me, they guide me; I am a puppet at their command; and I but reinform features and attributes that have long been laid aside from evil in the quiet of the grave.  Is it me you love, friend? or the race that made me?  The girl who does not know and cannot answer for the least portion of herself? or the stream of which she is a transitory eddy, the tree of which she is the passing fruit?  The race exists; it is old, it is ever young, it carries its eternal destiny in its bosom; upon it, like waves upon the sea, individual succeeds to individual, mocked with a semblance of self-control, but they are nothing.  We speak of the soul, but the soul is in the race.’ ‘You fret against the common law,’ I said.  ‘You rebel against the voice of God, which he has made so winning to convince, so imperious to command.  Hear it, and how it speaks between us!  Your hand clings to mine, your heart leaps at my touch, the unknown elements of which we are compounded awake and run together at a look; the clay of the earth remembers its independent life and yearns to join us; we are drawn together as the stars are turned about in space, or as the tides ebb and flow, by things older and greater than we ourselves.’ ‘Alas!’ she said, ‘what can I say to you?  My fathers, eight hundred years ago, ruled all this province: they were wise, great, cunning, and cruel; they were a picked race of the Spanish; their flags led in war; the king called them his cousin; the people, when the rope was slung for them or when they returned and found their hovels smoking, blasphemed their name.  Presently a change began.  Man has risen; if he has sprung from the brutes, he can descend again to the same level.  The breath of weariness blew on their humanity and the cords relaxed; they began to go down; their minds fell on sleep, their passions awoke in gusts, heady and senseless like the wind in the gutters of the mountains; beauty was still handed down, but no longer the guiding wit nor the human heart; the seed passed on, it was wrapped in flesh, the flesh covered the bones, but they were the bones and the flesh of brutes, and their mind was as the mind of flies.  I speak to you as I dare; but you have seen for yourself how the wheel has gone backward with my doomed race.  I stand, as it were, upon a little rising ground in this desperate descent, and see both before and behind, both what we have lost and to what we are condemned to go farther downward.  And shall I—I that dwell apart in the house of the dead, my body, loathing its ways—shall I repeat the spell?  Shall I bind another spirit, reluctant as my own, into this bewitched and tempest-broken tenement that I now suffer in?  Shall I hand down this cursed vessel of humanity, charge it with fresh life as with fresh poison, and dash it, like a fire, in the faces of posterity?  But my vow has been given; the race shall cease from off the earth.  At this hour my brother is making ready; his foot will soon be on the stair; and you will go with him and pass out of my sight for ever.  Think of me sometimes as one to whom the lesson of life was very harshly told, but who heard it with courage; as one who loved you indeed, but who hated herself so deeply that her love was hateful to her; as one who sent you away and yet would have longed to keep you for ever; who had no dearer hope than to forget you, and no greater fear than to be forgotten.’ She had drawn towards the door as she spoke, her rich voice sounding softer and farther away; and with the last word she was gone, and I lay alone in the moonlit chamber.  What I might have done had not I lain bound by my extreme weakness, I know not; but as it was there fell upon me a great and blank despair.  It was not long before there shone in at the door the ruddy glimmer of a lantern, and Felipe coming, charged me without a word upon his shoulders, and carried me down to the great gate, where the cart was waiting.  In the moonlight the hills stood out sharply, as if they were of cardboard; on the glimmering surface of the plateau, and from among the low trees which swung together and sparkled in the wind, the great black cube of the residencia stood out bulkily, its mass only broken by three dimly lighted windows in the northern front above the gate.  They were Olalla’s windows, and as the cart jolted onwards I kept my eyes fixed upon them till, where the road dipped into a valley, they were lost to my view forever.  Felipe walked in silence beside the shafts, but from time to time he would cheek the mule and seem to look back upon me; and at length drew quite near and laid his hand upon my head.  There was such kindness in the touch, and such a simplicity, as of the brutes, that tears broke from me like the bursting of an artery. ‘Felipe,’ I said, ‘take me where they will ask no questions.’ He said never a word, but he turned his mule about, end for end, retraced some part of the way we had gone, and, striking into another path, led me to the mountain village, which was, as we say in Scotland, the kirkton of that thinly peopled district.  Some broken memories dwell in my mind of the day breaking over the plain, of the cart stopping, of arms that helped me down, of a bare room into which I was carried, and of a swoon that fell upon me like sleep. The next day and the days following the old priest was often at my side with his snuff-box and prayer book, and after a while, when I began to pick up strength, he told me that I was now on a fair way to recovery, and must as soon as possible hurry my departure; whereupon, without naming any reason, he took snuff and looked at me sideways.  I did not affect ignorance; I knew he must have seen Olalla.  ‘Sir,’ said I, ‘you know that I do not ask in wantonness.  What of that family?’ He said they were very unfortunate; that it seemed a declining race, and that they were very poor and had been much neglected. ‘But she has not,’ I said.  ‘Thanks, doubtless, to yourself, she is instructed and wise beyond the use of women.’ ‘Yes,’ he said; ‘the Senorita is well-informed.  But the family has been neglected.’ ‘The mother?’ I queried. ‘Yes, the mother too,’ said the Padre, taking snuff.  ‘But Felipe is a well-intentioned lad.’ ‘The mother is odd?’ I asked. ‘Very odd,’ replied the priest. ‘I think, sir, we beat about the bush,’ said I.  ‘You must know more of my affairs than you allow.  You must know my curiosity to be justified on many grounds.  Will you not be frank with me?’ ‘My son,’ said the old gentleman, ‘I will be very frank with you on matters within my competence; on those of which I know nothing it does not require much discretion to be silent.  I will not fence with you, I take your meaning perfectly; and what can I say, but that we are all in God’s hands, and that His ways are not as our ways?  I have even advised with my superiors in the church, but they, too, were dumb.  It is a great mystery.’ ‘Is she mad?’ I asked. ‘I will answer you according to my belief.  She is not,’ returned the Padre, ‘or she was not.  When she was young—God help me, I fear I neglected that wild lamb—she was surely sane; and yet, although it did not run to such heights, the same strain was already notable; it had been so before her in her father, ay, and before him, and this inclined me, perhaps, to think too lightly of it.  But these things go on growing, not only in the individual but in the race.’ ‘When she was young,’ I began, and my voice failed me for a moment, and it was only with a great effort that I was able to add, ‘was she like Olalla?’ ‘Now God forbid!’ exclaimed the Padre.  ‘God forbid that any man should think so slightingly of my favourite penitent.  No, no; the Senorita (but for her beauty, which I wish most honestly she had less of) has not a hair’s resemblance to what her mother was at the same age.  I could not bear to have you think so; though, Heaven knows, it were, perhaps, better that you should.’ At this, I raised myself in bed, and opened my heart to the old man; telling him of our love and of her decision, owning my own horrors, my own passing fancies, but telling him that these were at an end; and with something more than a purely formal submission, appealing to his judgment. He heard me very patiently and without surprise; and when I had done, he sat for some time silent.  Then he began: ‘The church,’ and instantly broke off again to apologise.  ‘I had forgotten, my child, that you were not a Christian,’ said he.  ‘And indeed, upon a point so highly unusual, even the church can scarce be said to have decided.  But would you have my opinion?  The Senorita is, in a matter of this kind, the best judge; I would accept her judgment.’ On the back of that he went away, nor was he thenceforward so assiduous in his visits; indeed, even when I began to get about again, he plainly feared and deprecated my society, not as in distaste but much as a man might be disposed to flee from the riddling sphynx.  The villagers, too, avoided me; they were unwilling to be my guides upon the mountain.  I thought they looked at me askance, and I made sure that the more superstitious crossed themselves on my approach.  At first I set this down to my heretical opinions; but it began at length to dawn upon me that if I was thus redoubted it was because I had stayed at the residencia.  All men despise the savage notions of such peasantry; and yet I was conscious of a chill shadow that seemed to fall and dwell upon my love.  It did not conquer, but I may not deify that it restrained my ardour. Some miles westward of the village there was a gap in the sierra, from which the eye plunged direct upon the residencia; and thither it became my daily habit to repair.  A wood crowned the summit; and just where the pathway issued from its fringes, it was overhung by a considerable shelf of rock, and that, in its turn, was surmounted by a crucifix of the size of life and more than usually painful in design.  This was my perch; thence, day after day, I looked down upon the plateau, and the great old house, and could see Felipe, no bigger than a fly, going to and fro about the garden.  Sometimes mists would draw across the view, and be broken up again by mountain winds; sometimes the plain slumbered below me in unbroken sunshine; it would sometimes be all blotted out by rain.  This distant post, these interrupted sights of the place where my life had been so strangely changed, suited the indecision of my humour.  I passed whole days there, debating with myself the various elements of our position; now leaning to the suggestions of love, now giving an ear to prudence, and in the end halting irresolute between the two. One day, as I was sitting on my rock, there came by that way a somewhat gaunt peasant wrapped in a mantle.  He was a stranger, and plainly did not know me even by repute; for, instead of keeping the other side, he drew near and sat down beside me, and we had soon fallen in talk.  Among other things he told me he had been a muleteer, and in former years had much frequented these mountains; later on, he had followed the army with his mules, had realised a competence, and was now living retired with his family. ‘Do you know that house?’ I inquired, at last, pointing to the residencia, for I readily wearied of any talk that kept me from the thought of Olalla. He looked at me darkly and crossed himself. ‘Too well,’ he said, ‘it was there that one of my comrades sold himself to Satan; the Virgin shield us from temptations!  He has paid the price; he is now burning in the reddest place in Hell!’ A fear came upon me; I could answer nothing; and presently the man resumed, as if to himself: ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘O yes, I know it.  I have passed its doors.  There was snow upon the pass, the wind was driving it; sure enough there was death that night upon the mountains, but there was worse beside the hearth.  I took him by the arm, Senor, and dragged him to the gate; I conjured him, by all he loved and respected, to go forth with me; I went on my knees before him in the snow; and I could see he was moved by my entreaty.  And just then she came out on the gallery, and called him by his name; and he turned, and there was she standing with a lamp in her hand and smiling on him to come back.  I cried out aloud to God, and threw my arms about him, but he put me by, and left me alone.  He had made his choice; God help us.  I would pray for him, but to what end? there are sins that not even the Pope can loose.’ ‘And your friend,’ I asked, ‘what became of him?’ ‘Nay, God knows,’ said the muleteer.  ‘If all be true that we hear, his end was like his sin, a thing to raise the hair.’ ‘Do you mean that he was killed?’ I asked. ‘Sure enough, he was killed,’ returned the man.  ‘But how?  Ay, how?  But these are things that it is sin to speak of.’ ‘The people of that house . . . ’ I began. But he interrupted me with a savage outburst.  ‘The people?’ he cried.  ‘What people?  There are neither men nor women in that house of Satan’s!  What? have you lived here so long, and never heard?’  And here he put his mouth to my ear and whispered, as if even the fowls of the mountain might have over-heard and been stricken with horror. What he told me was not true, nor was it even original; being, indeed, but a new edition, vamped up again by village ignorance and superstition, of stories nearly as ancient as the race of man.  It was rather the application that appalled me.  In the old days, he said, the church would have burned out that nest of basilisks; but the arm of the church was now shortened; his friend Miguel had been unpunished by the hands of men, and left to the more awful judgment of an offended God.  This was wrong; but it should be so no more.  The Padre was sunk in age; he was even bewitched himself; but the eyes of his flock were now awake to their own danger; and some day—ay, and before long—the smoke of that house should go up to heaven. He left me filled with horror and fear.  Which way to turn I knew not; whether first to warn the Padre, or to carry my ill-news direct to the threatened inhabitants of the residencia.  Fate was to decide for me; for, while I was still hesitating, I beheld the veiled figure of a woman drawing near to me up the pathway.  No veil could deceive my penetration; by every line and every movement I recognised Olalla; and keeping hidden behind a corner of the rock, I suffered her to gain the summit.  Then I came forward.  She knew me and paused, but did not speak; I, too, remained silent; and we continued for some time to gaze upon each other with a passionate sadness. ‘I thought you had gone,’ she said at length.  ‘It is all that you can do for me—to go.  It is all I ever asked of you.  And you still stay.  But do you know, that every day heaps up the peril of death, not only on your head, but on ours?  A report has gone about the mountain; it is thought you love me, and the people will not suffer it.’ I saw she was already informed of her danger, and I rejoiced at it.  ‘Olalla,’ I said, ‘I am ready to go this day, this very hour, but not alone.’ She stepped aside and knelt down before the crucifix to pray, and I stood by and looked now at her and now at the object of her adoration, now at the living figure of the penitent, and now at the ghastly, daubed countenance, the painted wounds, and the projected ribs of the image.  The silence was only broken by the wailing of some large birds that circled sidelong, as if in surprise or alarm, about the summit of the hills.  Presently Olalla rose again, turned towards me, raised her veil, and, still leaning with one hand on the shaft of the crucifix, looked upon me with a pale and sorrowful countenance. ‘I have laid my hand upon the cross,’ she said.  ‘The Padre says you are no Christian; but look up for a moment with my eyes, and behold the face of the Man of Sorrows.  We are all such as He was—the inheritors of sin; we must all bear and expiate a past which was not ours; there is in all of us—ay, even in me—a sparkle of the divine.  Like Him, we must endure for a little while, until morning returns bringing peace.  Suffer me to pass on upon my way alone; it is thus that I shall be least lonely, counting for my friend Him who is the friend of all the distressed; it is thus that I shall be the most happy, having taken my farewell of earthly happiness, and willingly accepted sorrow for my portion.’ I looked at the face of the crucifix, and, though I was no friend to images, and despised that imitative and grimacing art of which it was a rude example, some sense of what the thing implied was carried home to my intelligence.  The face looked down upon me with a painful and deadly contraction; but the rays of a glory encircled it, and reminded me that the sacrifice was voluntary.  It stood there, crowning the rock, as it still stands on so many highway sides, vainly preaching to passers-by, an emblem of sad and noble truths; that pleasure is not an end, but an accident; that pain is the choice of the magnanimous; that it is best to suffer all things and do well.  I turned and went down the mountain in silence; and when I looked back for the last time before the wood closed about my path, I saw Olalla still leaning on the crucifix. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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