XLVIII

I had been two weeks in London, when one night I received letters from home. With trembling hand I opened the package. There was a letter from María. Before unfolding it, I sought for traces of her perfume in it. They were there; and a bit of the calyx of a lily was folded in. My eyes were filled with mist, so that I could not read the first lines. I opened a window, as it seemed to me that I could not breathe the air in the room. Oh for the roses of the beloved garden! for my mountains! and the clear, starlit nights! The great city, still murmurous, and half cloaked in fog, seemed to be sleeping under the thick curtains of a leaden sky. A chill wind beat against my face. I closed the shutters, and was alone with my grief. Here are some parts of María’s letter:

“While they are still sitting at the table, I have come to your room to write to you. Here I can imagine that I am seeing you and talking with you. Everything is just as you left it. The last flowers which I put on your table have been falling withered to the bottom of the vase, until now not one is left. The chairs are in the same places. The books are as they were⁠—the last one you were reading is open on the table. Your hunting suit is where you hung it when you came from the mountain the last time. The calendar on the shelf still reads the 30th of January, that dreaded and dreadful day, now past! Even at this moment the roses at your window thrust in their branches to look for you. They quiver as I touch them, and tell them that you will return.

“Where are you? What are you doing now? It is all in vain that I asked you so many times to show me on the map where you were going, for I cannot imagine it at all. I am afraid as I think of you on that ocean, in the midst of which I see you all the time. But after you reach London, you will tell me everything. You will tell me of the landscape about the house where you live. You will describe to me all the particulars of your rooms⁠—your furniture and ornaments. You will tell me what you do each day⁠—when you study, when you rest, when you exercise, and when you think of your María. Tell me again what hours here correspond to those there, for I have forgotten.

“Not even Mayo forgets you. The day after you went away, he ran all over the house and garden looking for you. He went on the mountain in search of you, and when he came back, at the time of evening prayers, sat down upon the knoll, and howled. I saw him afterwards lying at your door. I opened it and he went in joyfully. But when he did not find you, after sniffing about on all sides, he sadly came to me again, and seemed to ask after you with his eyes. He did everything but cry. When I spoke your name he lifted his head eagerly, expecting to see you come in. Poor thing! he imagines that you are hiding from him, as you used to do sometimes to tease him, and goes slowly and silently through all the rooms, hoping to surprise you.

“I did not finish this letter last night, as mamma and Emma came to look for me. They think it does me harm to be here; while, if they prevent me from coming to your room, I do not know what I should do.

“Juan woke up this morning, and asked if you had come back; in his sleep he heard me speak your name.

“The first lily has blossomed, and a piece of it goes in this letter. Aren’t you sure the plant will keep on flowering? I must believe it will, as I do that the rosebush will bear the most beautiful roses in the whole garden.”