María E-Book

Jorge Isaacs

• Herausgeber: CLXBX
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 458

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2026

Beschreibung

María by Jorge Isaacs is a timeless masterpiece of Latin American romantic literature, celebrated for its emotional depth, poetic beauty, and vivid portrayal of love and longing. First published in 1867, this classic novel tells a deeply moving story set in the lush countryside of Colombia, where passion, memory, and destiny intertwine. 🌿📚 The story follows Efraín, a young man who returns to his family's estate in the Cauca Valley after years of studying abroad. There he reunites with María, his beautiful and gentle cousin, who has grown up in his family's home. Their childhood affection soon blossoms into a profound and tender love, filled with hope and quiet devotion. Surrounded by the breathtaking landscapes of rural Colombia—flowing rivers, green hills, and flowering gardens—their love story unfolds in an atmosphere of beauty and tranquility. Yet beneath this idyllic setting lies a sense of fragile happiness, as María's delicate health casts a shadow over their future. The lovers must face the painful reality that their time together may be limited. Jorge Isaacs masterfully blends romance with rich descriptions of nature, creating a deeply emotional narrative that reflects both the beauty and sorrow of love. The novel explores themes of devotion, nostalgia, family bonds, and the bittersweet passage of time. Through Efraín's memories and reflections, the story becomes not only a love story but also a meditation on loss and remembrance. María is widely regarded as one of the most important romantic novels in Spanish-language literature. Its lyrical prose and heartfelt emotion helped define the literary movement of Romanticism in Latin America and influenced generations of writers. Today, the novel continues to captivate readers with its timeless portrayal of youthful love and the enduring power of memory. Through its unforgettable characters and evocative landscapes, María remains a moving tribute to love, beauty, and the profound emotions that shape the human heart.

Leseprobe

María

Jorge Isaacs

Copyright © 2026 by Jorge Isaacs

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter1

I was still a child when I was taken away from my parents' house to begin my studies at the school of Dr. Lorenzo María Lleras, established in Bogotá a few years earlier, and famous throughout the Republic at that time.

On the night before my trip, after the evening's festivities, one of my sisters entered my room, and without saying a single affectionate word to me, because her voice was choked with sobs, she cut some hairs from my head: when she left, some of her tears had rolled down my neck.

I fell asleep crying and experienced a vague premonition of the many sorrows I would suffer later. Those hairs plucked from a child's head; that precaution of love against death in the face of so much life, made my soul wander during sleep through all the places where I had spent, without understanding it, the happiest hours of my existence.

The next morning my father untied my mother's arms from my head, which was damp with so many tears. My sisters, as they said their goodbyes, wiped them away with kisses. Maria humbly waited her turn, and stammering her farewell, pressed her rosy cheek to mine, which was frozen by the first sensation of pain.

A few moments later I followed my father, who hid his face from my gaze. The hooves of our horses on the stony path muffled my last sobs. The murmur of the Sabaletas River, whose banks lay to our right, was fading by the moment. We were already rounding one of the hills along the path where we often spotted long-awaited travelers from the house; I turned my gaze toward it, searching for one of my many loved ones: María was under the vines that adorned the windows of my mother's room.

Chapter2

Six years later, the last days of a luxurious August greeted me upon my return to my native valley. My heart overflowed with patriotic love. It was the final day of my journey, and I was enjoying the most fragrant morning of the summer. The sky had a pale blue hue: to the east, above the towering mountain peaks, still half-shrouded in mourning, drifted a few golden clouds, like the wisps of a dancer's turban scattered by a loving breath. To the south floated the mists that had enveloped the distant mountains during the night. I crossed plains of green grasses, watered by streams whose passage was obstructed by beautiful herds of cattle, which left their resting places to venture into the lagoons or onto paths arched by flowering pine trees and leafy fig trees. My eyes had been eagerly drawn to those places half-hidden from the traveler by the canopies of ancient gruduales trees; in those farmhouses where I had left behind virtuous and friendly people. At such moments, the piano arias of U*** would not have moved my heart: the perfumes I inhaled were so pleasant compared to that of her luxurious dresses; the song of those nameless birds had such sweet harmonies for my heart!

I was speechless before such beauty, whose memory I had thought I preserved because some of my verses, admired by my classmates, bore pale hints of it. When in a ballroom, flooded with light, filled with voluptuous melodies, a thousand mingled aromas, and the whispers of so many seductive women's garments, we find her whom we dreamed of at eighteen, and a fleeting glance from her burns our brow, and her voice silences for an instant every other voice for us, and her blossoms leave behind unknown essences; then we fall into a celestial prostration: our voice is powerless, our ears no longer hear hers, our eyes can no longer follow her. But when, her mind refreshed, she returns to memory hours later, our lips murmur her praise in song, and it is that woman, her accent, her gaze, her light step on the carpets, that echoes that song, which the common folk will deem ideal. Thus the sky, the horizons, the plains, and the peaks of the Cauca silence those who behold them. The great beauties of creation cannot be seen and sung at once: they must return to the soul, paled by unfaithful memory.

Before sunset, I had already seen my parents' house gleaming white on the mountainside. As I approached, I eagerly counted the clumps of willows and orange trees, through which I soon saw the lights illuminating the rooms.

I breathed at last that unforgettable scent of the orchard I had watched grow. My horse's hooves sparked on the cobblestones of the courtyard. I heard an indefinable cry; it was my mother's voice: as she embraced me and drew me close to her breast, a shadow covered my eyes: a supreme pleasure that stirred a virgin nature.

When I tried to recognize in the women I saw the sisters I had left as children, Maria stood beside me, her eyes veiled by wide eyelids fringed with long lashes. It was her face that flushed most noticeably when, as my arm slipped from her shoulders, it brushed against her waist; and her eyes were still moist when she smiled at my first affectionate gesture, like those of a child whose tears have been soothed by a mother's caress.

Chapter3

At eight o'clock we went to the dining room, which was picturesquely situated in the eastern part of the house. From there, we could see the bare mountain peaks against the starry sky. Desert breezes drifted through the garden, gathering scents to play among the rose bushes that surrounded us. The fickle wind occasionally carried the murmur of the river. Nature seemed to display all the beauty of its nights, as if to welcome a friendly guest.

My father took the head of the table and made me sit to his right; my mother sat to the left, as usual; my sisters and the children sat wherever they pleased, and Maria sat opposite me.

My father, his hair turning gray during my absence, cast me satisfied glances and smiled with that mischievous yet sweet smile of his, which I have never seen on other lips. My mother spoke little, for at that moment she was happier than all those around her. My sisters insisted I taste the snacks and creams; and the one to whom I addressed a flattering word or an examining look would blush. Maria stubbornly hid her eyes from me; but I was able to admire in them the brilliance and beauty of the eyes of women of her race, on the two or three occasions when, against her will, they met mine; her red, moist, and gracefully commanding lips revealed to me for only an instant the veiled beauty of her lovely teeth. Like my sisters, she wore her abundant dark brown hair arranged in two braids, above the base of one of which was a crimson carnation. She wore a dress of light, almost blue, muslin, of which only part of the bodice and skirt were visible, for a fine purple cotton shawl concealed her breasts down to the base of her matte white throat. As she turned her braids back, from where they fell when she bent to serve, I admired the undersides of her exquisitely shapely arms and her hands, as well-cared for as those of a queen.

After dinner, the slaves lifted the tablecloths; one of them recited the Lord's Prayer, and we, their masters, completed the prayer.

The conversation then became confidential between my parents and me.

Mary took the sleeping child in her arms, and my sisters followed her to the chambers: they loved her very much and vied for her sweet affection.

Back in the parlor, my father, before retiring, kissed his daughters on the forehead. My mother wanted me to see the room that had been prepared for me. My sisters and Maria, now less shy, wanted to observe what effect the care with which it was decorated had on me. The room was at the end of the front corridor of the house: its single window was as high as a comfortable table on the inside; at that moment, with the leaves and grilles open, flowering rosebushes drifted in to complete the table's adornment, where a beautiful blue porcelain vase held lilies, carnations, and purple river bells in its bowl. The curtains over the bed were of white gauze, tied to the posts with wide pink ribbons; and near the headboard, thanks to my mother's thoughtfulness, stood the small statue of Our Lady of Sorrows that had been used for my altars when I was a child. Some maps, comfortable chairs, and a beautiful bath set completed the furnishings.

"What beautiful flowers!" I exclaimed when I saw all the ones from the garden and the vase covering the table.

"Maria remembered how much you liked them," my mother observed.

I turned my eyes to thank him, and his eyes seemed to be struggling to withstand my gaze that time.

"Maria," I said, "is going to keep them for me, because they are harmful in the room where one sleeps."

"Is that true?" he replied; "well, I'll replace them tomorrow."

How sweet her accent was!

-Are there that many like that?

-Many; they will be restocked every day.

After my mother hugged me, Emma held out her hand to me, and Maria, abandoning hers for a moment, smiled as she smiled at me in childhood: that dimpled smile was that of the girl of my childhood loves surprised in the face of a Raphael virgin.

Chapter4

I slept peacefully, like when I used to fall asleep as a child to one of the wonderful tales of the slave Peter.

I dreamed that Maria came in to renew the flowers on my table, and that as she left she had brushed against the curtains of my bed with her vaporous muslin skirt sprinkled with little blue flowers.

When I awoke, the birds were singing, fluttering in the foliage of the orange and rose apple trees, and the orange blossoms filled my room with their aroma as soon as I opened the door a crack.

Maria's voice then reached my ears, sweet and pure: it was her childlike voice, but deeper and ready to lend itself to all the modulations of tenderness and passion. Alas! How many times in my dreams an echo of that same accent has reached my soul since, and my eyes have searched in vain for that garden where I saw her so beautiful on that August morning!

The little girl whose innocent caresses had all been for me, would no longer be the companion of my games; but on golden summer afternoons she would be by my side on walks, in the middle of my sisters' group; I would help her cultivate her favorite flowers; in the evenings I would hear her voice, her eyes would look at me, we would be separated by only one step.

After I had tidied my clothes slightly, I opened the window and saw Maria in one of the garden paths, accompanied by Emma. She was wearing a darker dress than the day before, and the purple shawl tied at her waist fell like a band over her skirt. Her long hair, parted in two braids, partially concealed her back and chest. She and my sister were barefoot. She was carrying a porcelain vase, barely whiter than the arms that held it, which she was filling with roses that had bloomed during the night, discarding the less moist and vibrant ones as withered. Laughing with her companion, she plunged her cheeks, fresher than the roses, into the overflowing bowl. Emma noticed me. Maria saw her, and without turning to face me, she knelt down to hide her feet, untied her shawl from her waist, and covering her shoulders with it, pretended to play with the flowers. The nubile daughters of the patriarchs were no more beautiful at dawn when they gathered flowers for their altars.

After lunch, my mother called me to her sewing room. Emma and Maria were embroidering nearby. Maria blushed again when I introduced myself; perhaps she remembered the surprise I had unintentionally given her that morning.

My mother wanted to see and hear me constantly.

Emma, ​​now more suggestive, asked me a thousand questions about Bogotá; she demanded that I describe splendid dances, beautiful ladies' dresses that were in fashion, and the most beautiful women then in high society. They listened without interrupting their work. María sometimes glanced at me casually, or made quiet remarks to her seatmate; and when she stood up to approach my mother to ask something about the embroidery, I could see her exquisitely shod feet: her light and dignified gait revealed all the undiminished pride of our race, and the seductive modesty of the Christian virgin. Her eyes lit up when my mother expressed a desire that I give the girls some lessons in grammar and geography, subjects in which they had only a very rudimentary understanding. It was agreed that we would begin the lessons in six or eight days, during which time I could assess each girl's level of knowledge.

Hours later I was told that the bath was ready and I went to it. A leafy and stout orange tree, laden with ripe fruit, formed a canopy over the wide pool of burnished quarry stones: many roses floated on the water: it resembled an oriental bath, and was perfumed with the flowers that Maria had picked in the morning.

Chapter5

Three days had passed when my father invited me to visit his estates in the valley, and I had to oblige; besides, I had a genuine interest in his ventures. My mother was keen for our prompt return. My sisters were saddened. Maria did not beg me, as they did, to return within the same week; but she watched me constantly during the travel preparations.

In my absence, my father had considerably improved his properties: a costly and beautiful sugar mill, many acres of sugarcane to supply it, extensive pastures with cattle and horses, good fattening farms, and a luxurious main house constituted the most remarkable features of his lowland estates. The slaves, well-dressed and content, as much as one can be in servitude, were submissive and affectionate toward their master. I found men who, as children, had taught me how to set traps for agoutis and pacas in the thick of the forests: they and their fathers returned to see me with unmistakable signs of pleasure. Only Pedro, my good friend and faithful tutor, was not to be found: he had shed tears as he placed me on the horse the day of my departure for Bogotá, saying, "My master, I will never see you again." His heart told him that he would die before my return.

I could tell that my father, while still being the master, treated his slaves with affection, was jealous of his wives' good behavior, and caressed the children.

One afternoon, as the sun was setting, my father, Higinio (the foreman), and I were returning from the fields to the factory. They were talking about work done and work yet to be done; I was preoccupied with less serious things: I was thinking about my childhood. The peculiar smell of the recently felled forests and the ripening pineapples; the squawking of the parrots in the neighboring bamboo and guava groves; the distant sound of a shepherd's horn, echoing through the mountains; the huts of the slaves who returned leisurely from their work with their tools on their shoulders; The sunsets seen through the swaying cane fields: everything reminded me of the afternoons when my sisters, Maria and I, taking advantage of some permission from my mother, obtained through sheer tenacity, would amuse ourselves by picking guavas from our favorite trees, taking out pineapple nests, often with serious injury to our arms and hands, and spying on parakeet chicks on the fences of the corrals.

Upon encountering a group of slaves, my father said to a handsome young black man:

-So, Bruno, everything about your wedding is arranged for the day after tomorrow?

"Yes, my master," he replied, taking off his straw hat and leaning on the handle of his shovel.

-Who are the godparents?

-Mrs. Dolores and Mr. Anselmo, if your grace wishes.

-Well. Remigia and you will both be properly confessed. Did you buy everything you needed for her and yourself with the money I sent you?

-Everything is ready, my master.

-And is that all you want?

-Your Grace will see.

-Is the fourth one that Higinio pointed out to you any good?

-Yes, my master.

-Ah! I know. What you want is dancing.

Bruno laughed then, showing his dazzlingly white teeth, and looked back at his companions.

"That's fair; you're behaving very well. You know," he added, turning to Higinio, "fix that, and make them happy."

"And are their Mercedes leaving earlier?" Bruno asked.

"No," I replied; "we'll accept your invitation."

In the early hours of Saturday morning, Bruno and Remigia were married. That night at seven, my father and I mounted our horses to go to the dance, whose music we could just begin to hear. When we arrived, Julián, the slave captain of the group, came out to take our stirrups and receive our horses. He was dressed in his Sunday best, and hanging from his waist was the long machete with a silver handle, the insignia of his position. A room in our old house had been cleared of its working tools to hold the dance. It had been surrounded by platforms: half a dozen lights revolved in a wooden chandelier suspended from one of the beams; the musicians and singers, a mixture of tenants, slaves, and freedmen, occupied one of the doorways. There were only two cane flutes, an improvised drum, two tambourines, and a tambourine; but the delicate voices of the young Black people sang the bambucos with such mastery; There was such a heartfelt combination of melancholic, joyful, and light chords in their songs; the verses they sang were so tenderly simple that even the most cultured dilettante would have listened to that semi-wild music in ecstasy. We entered the room wearing sheepskin chaps and hats. Remigia and Bruno were dancing at that moment: she, in a blue bolero skirt, a shawl of red flowers, a white blouse embroidered in black, and a necklace and earrings of ruby-colored crystal, danced with all the grace and charm one would expect from her swaying figure. Bruno, with the folds of his linen ruana draped over his shoulders, wearing bright cotton trousers, an ironed white shirt, and a new white sash at his waist, tapped his feet with admirable skill.

After that first dance—that's what the peasants call each dance step—the musicians played their most beautiful bambuco, because Julián had announced it was for the master. Remigia, encouraged by her husband and the captain, finally decided to dance a few moments with my father; but then she didn't dare raise her eyes, and her movements in the dance were less spontaneous. After an hour we left.

My father was pleased with my attentiveness during our visit to the haciendas; but when I told him that from then on I wished to share in his labors by staying by his side, he told me, almost with regret, that he felt compelled to sacrifice his own well-being for my sake, fulfilling the promise he had made me some time ago to send me to Europe to complete my medical studies, and that I should embark on the journey within four months at the latest. As he spoke to me thus, his expression took on a solemn, unaffected seriousness, the kind he displayed when making irrevocable decisions. This happened the afternoon we were returning to the mountains. Night was beginning to fall; had it not, he would have noticed the emotion his refusal caused me. The rest of the journey was made in silence. How happy I would have been to see Maria again, if the news of this trip had not, from that moment on, come between my hopes and her!

Chapter6

What had happened in Maria's soul during those four days?

She was about to place a lamp on one of the parlor tables when I approached to greet her; and I had already noticed her absence from the group of family members in the stands where we had just dismounted. The trembling of her hand revealed the lamp; and I offered her assistance, less at ease than I had thought I would be. She seemed slightly pale, and around her eyes was a faint shadow, imperceptible to anyone who had seen her without looking. She turned her face toward my mother, who was speaking at that moment, thus preventing me from examining it in the nearby light: I noticed then that at the base of one of her braids she wore a withered carnation; and it was undoubtedly the one I had given her the day before my departure for the Valley. The small enameled coral cross I had brought for her, identical to those of my sisters, hung around her neck from a black hair cord. She remained silent, seated between the armchairs occupied by my mother and me. Since my father's decision about my trip was still fresh in my mind, I must have seemed sad to her, for she said to me in an almost whisper:

-Did the trip hurt you?

"No, Maria," I replied; "but we've been out in the sun and we've walked so much..."

I was going to say something else to her, but the confidential tone of her voice, the new light I noticed in her eyes, prevented me from doing anything but looking at her, until, noticing that she was embarrassed by the involuntary fixity of my gaze, and finding myself being examined by one of my father's eyes (more fearsome when a certain fleeting smile wandered on his lips), I left the room and headed to my bedroom.

I closed the doors. There were the flowers she had picked for me: I kissed them; I wanted to inhale all their scents at once, searching for the aromas of Maria's dresses; I bathed them with my tears... Ah! You who have not wept with happiness like this, weep with despair, if your adolescence has passed, because in this way you will never love again!

First love!... noble pride of feeling loved: sweet sacrifice of all that was once dear to us for the sake of the beloved woman: happiness bought for a single day with the tears of a lifetime, received as a gift from God: perfume for all the hours of the future: inextinguishable light of the past: flower kept in the soul, untouched by disillusionment: the only treasure that the envy of men cannot steal from us: delightful delirium... inspiration from heaven... Mary! Mary! How much I loved you! How much I will love you!...

Chapter7

When my father made his last trip to the Antilles, his cousin Solomon, whom he had loved dearly since childhood, had just lost his wife. They had come to South America together when they were very young; and on one of his trips, my father fell in love with the daughter of a Spanish naval captain, an intrepid captain who, after having left the service for some years, was forced in 1819 to take up arms again in defense of the kings of Spain, and who was shot in Majagual on May 20, 1820.

The mother of the young woman my father loved demanded, as a condition for giving her to him in marriage, that he renounce the Jewish religion. My father became a Christian at the age of twenty. His cousin became fond of the Catholic religion in those days, but refused to yield to the pleas to be baptized as well, for he knew that what my father had done to get him the wife he desired would prevent him from being accepted by the woman he loved in Jamaica.

After some years of separation, the two friends met again. Solomon was now a widower. His wife, Sarah, had left him a daughter who was then three years old. My father found him disfigured both morally and physically by grief, and then his new religion gave him solace for his cousin, solace that his relatives had sought in vain to save him. He urged Solomon to give him his daughter so that he could raise her with us; and he dared to propose that he would make her a Christian. Solomon agreed, saying to him: “It is true that only my daughter has prevented me from undertaking a journey to India, which would have improved my spirits and alleviated my poverty; she has also been my only comfort since Sarah’s death; but you wish her to be your daughter. Christian women are gentle and good, and your wife must be a saintly mother. If Christianity offers in the deepest misfortunes the relief that you have given me, perhaps I would make my daughter unhappy by keeping her a Jew.” "Don't tell our relatives, but when you reach the first coast where there is a Catholic priest, have her baptized and have her name changed from Esther to Mary." This the unfortunate man said, shedding many tears.

A few days later, the schooner that was to take my father to the shores of New Granada set sail from Montego Bay. The light vessel tested its white wings, like a heron in our forests testing its wings before taking a long flight. Solomon entered my father's room, where he had just finished preparing his sailing clothes, carrying Esther seated in one arm, and hanging from the other a chest containing the child's belongings. She stretched out her little arms to her uncle, and Solomon, placing her in his friend's arms, let himself fall sobbing onto the small chest. That child, whose precious head had just been bathed in a shower of tears by the baptism of sorrow before the baptism of the faith of Jesus, was a sacred treasure; my father knew it well, and he never forgot it. Solomon was reminded of a promise by his friend, as the latter jumped into the boat that was going to separate them, and he replied with a choked voice: "My daughter's prayers for me and mine for her and her mother, will rise together to the feet of the Crucified."

I was seven years old when my father returned, and I scorned the precious toys he brought me from his trip, admiring that beautiful, sweet, and smiling little girl. My mother showered her with caresses, and my sisters adored her tenderly, from the moment my father, placing her on his wife's lap, said to her: "This is Solomon's daughter, whom he is sending you."

During our childhood games, her lips began to modulate Castilian accents, so harmonious and seductive in a pretty woman's mouth and in the smiling mouth of a child.

About six years had passed. One afternoon, as I entered my father's room, I heard him sobbing. His arms were crossed on the table, his forehead resting on them. Nearby, my mother wept, and Maria laid her head on her knees, not understanding his grief and almost indifferent to her uncle's laments. A letter from Kingston, received that day, brought news of Solomon's death. I remember only one word my father uttered that afternoon: "If everyone is leaving me without my being able to receive their final farewells, why should I ever return to my country?" Alas! His ashes had to rest in a foreign land, without the winds of the Ocean, on whose shores he frolicked as a child, whose immensity he crossed young and ardent, coming to sweep away from his tombstone the dried blossoms of the acacias and the dust of the years!

Few people who knew our family could have suspected that Maria wasn't my parents' daughter. She spoke our language well, was kind, lively, and intelligent. When my mother stroked her head, along with my sisters and me, no one could have guessed which one was the orphan.

She was nine years old. Her abundant hair, still light brown, loose and playful over her slender, slender waist; her talkative eyes; her accent with a touch of melancholy that our voices lacked; such was the image I carried of her when I left my father's house: that's how she was on the morning of that sad day, under the vines at my mother's windows.

Chapter8

Early in the evening Emma knocked on my door and asked me to come to the table. I washed my face to hide the traces of tears, and changed my clothes to apologize for being late.

Maria wasn't in the dining room, and I vainly imagined that her duties had kept her longer than usual. Noticing an empty seat, my father asked for her, and Emma excused her, saying that she'd had a headache since that afternoon and was already asleep. I tried not to show my dismay, and making every effort to keep the conversation pleasant, I spoke enthusiastically about all the improvements I'd found on the farms we'd just visited. But it was all in vain: my father was more tired than I was and retired early; Emma and my mother got up to put the children to bed and check on Maria, which I thanked them for, though I was no longer surprised by that same feeling of gratitude.

Although Emma returned to the dining room, the after-dinner conversation didn't last long. Felipe and Eloísa, who had insisted I join their card game, complained that my eyes looked sleepy. He had unsuccessfully asked my mother for permission to accompany me to the mountains the following day, and so he left in a huff.

Meditating in my room, I thought I had guessed the cause of Maria's suffering. I remembered how I had left the parlor after my arrival and how the impression her confidential tone had made on me caused me to answer her with the tactlessness of someone suppressing an emotion. Knowing the source of her sorrow, I would have given a thousand lives to obtain her forgiveness; but doubt only intensified the turmoil in my spirit. I doubted Maria's love. Why, I wondered, did my heart strive to believe she was subjected to this same torment? I considered myself unworthy of possessing such beauty, such innocence. I reproached myself for that pride which had blinded me to the point of believing myself the object of her love, when I was only worthy of her sisterly affection. In my folly, I thought with less terror, almost with pleasure, of my upcoming journey.

Chapter9

I awoke the next day at dawn. The rays of the sun, outlining the peaks of the central mountain range to the east, gilded a few wispy clouds in a semicircle above it, clouds that drifted away and disappeared. The green plains and forests of the valley appeared as if seen through a bluish pane of glass, and amidst them, a few white cabins, plumes of smoke from the recently burned mountains spiraling upward, and occasionally the eddies of a river. The western mountain range, with its folds and valleys, resembled cloaks of dark blue velvet suspended from their centers by the hands of genies veiled by mists. In front of my window, the rosebushes and the foliage of the orchard trees seemed to fear the first breezes that would come to scatter the dew that glistened on their leaves and flowers. Everything seemed sad to me. I grabbed the shotgun and signaled to the affectionate Mayo, who, perched on his hind legs, stared at me intently, his brow furrowed with excessive attention, awaiting my first command. Then, leaping over the stone wall, I took the mountain path. As I ventured deeper, I found the mountain cool and shivering under the caresses of the last breezes of the night. Herons were leaving their roosts, their flight forming undulating lines that the sun silvered, like ribbons left to the whims of the wind. Numerous flocks of parrots rose from the bamboo groves to head for the neighboring cornfields, and the great kiskadee greeted the day with its mournful, monotonous song from the heart of the mountains.

I descended to the mountainous river valley by the same path I had taken so many times six years before. The thunder of its rushing waters grew louder, and soon I discovered the currents, impetuous as they plunged over the falls, transformed into boiling foam within them, crystalline and smooth in the pools, always rolling over a bed of moss-covered boulders, fringed along the banks by iracales, ferns, and reeds with yellow stalks, silky plumes, and purple seedbeds.

I stopped in the middle of the bridge, formed by the hurricane with a stout cedar, the same one I had crossed before. Parasitic flowers hung from its slats, and iridescent bluebells cascaded down from my feet to sway in the waves. Lush, towering vegetation arched the river in places, and through it penetrated a few rays of the rising sun, as through the broken roof of an abandoned Indian temple. Mayo howled cowardly on the bank I had just left, and at my urging, he resolved to cross the fantastic bridge, immediately taking, before me, the path that led to old José's property, where he expected me that day to repay his welcome visit.

After a short, steep, and dark climb, and after hopping across the dry trees left by the mountain man's last fellings, I found myself in the small clearing planted with vegetables. From there, I could see the little house, steaming, nestled among the green hills I had left behind amidst seemingly indestructible forests. The cows, beautiful in size and color, were bellowing at the corral gate, searching for their calves. The domestic fowls were making a racket as they received their morning feed. In the nearby palm trees, which the farmers' axes had spared, the noisy orioles swayed in their hanging nests, and amidst this pleasant commotion, one could sometimes hear the sharp cry of the birdcatcher, who, from his perch and armed with a slingshot, was scaring away the hungry macaws that were circling the cornfield.

The Antioquian's dogs barked to warn him of my arrival. Mayo, fearful of them, approached me sullenly. José came out to meet me, the axe in one hand and his hat in the other.

The small dwelling spoke of industriousness, thrift, and cleanliness: everything was rustic, yet comfortably arranged, and each thing in its place. The living room of the little house, perfectly swept, with bamboo benches around it, covered with rush mats and bearskins, and a few illuminated paper prints depicting saints pinned to the unwhitewashed walls with orange thorns, had to the right and left the bedroom of José's wife and that of the girls. The kitchen, made of thin cane and with a roof of leaves from the same plant, was separated from the house by a small garden where parsley, chamomile, pennyroyal, and basil mingled their aromas.

The women seemed dressed with more care than usual. The girls, Lucía and Tránsito, wore purple calico petticoats and very white blouses with lace ruffs trimmed with black braid, beneath which they concealed some of their rosaries, and chokers of opal-colored glass bulbs. Their thick, jet-black braids danced down their backs with the slightest movement of their bare, well-groomed, and restless feet. They spoke to me with great shyness; and it was their father who, noticing this, encouraged them, saying, "Isn't he still the same little boy, Efraín, just because he comes home from school, wise and grown up?" Then they became more cheerful and smiling: memories of childhood games, so powerful in the imaginations of poets and women, mingled amicably with us. With old age, José's features had improved considerably: although he didn't grow a beard, his face had something biblical about it, like almost all the faces of well-mannered old men from the country where he was born: a thick head of gray hair shaded his broad, tanned forehead, and his smiles revealed a peaceful soul. Luisa, his wife, happier than he in her struggle with the passing years, retained something of the Antioquian style in her dress, and her constant joviality made it clear that she was content with her lot.

José led me to the river and told me about his crops and hunting trips, while I waded into the clear pool from which the waters tumbled, forming a small waterfall. Upon our return, we found a tempting lunch laid out on the house's only table. Corn was everywhere: in the hominy soup served in glazed earthenware bowls and in golden arepas scattered across the tablecloth. The only piece of cutlery in the set was crossed over my white plate with its blue rim.

Mayo sat at my feet with an attentive gaze, but more humble than usual.

José mended a fishing net while his daughters, clever but shy, served me with great care, trying to guess from my eyes what I might need. They had become much more beautiful, and from the mischievous girls they once were, they had grown into industrious women.

Having finished the glass of thick, frothy milk, the dessert of that patriarchal lunch, José and I went out to explore the vegetable garden and the clearing I was clearing. He was amazed by my theoretical knowledge of planting, and we returned to the house an hour later so I could say goodbye to the girls and their mother.

I placed the hunting knife I had brought him from the kingdom at the good old man's waist, precious rosaries around Tránsito and Lucía's necks, and in Luisa's hands a reliquary she had commissioned from my mother. I set off around the mountain at midday, according to José's observation of the sun.

Chapter10

On my return, which I made slowly, the image of Mary clung once more to my memory. Those solitudes, their silent woods, their flowers, their birds, and their waters—why did they speak to me of her? What was there of Mary? In the damp shadows, in the breeze that stirred the foliage, in the murmur of the river… It was that I saw Eden, but she was missing; it was that I couldn't help but love her, even though she didn't love me. And I inhaled the fragrance of the bouquet of wild lilies that Joseph's daughters had arranged for me, thinking that perhaps they deserved to be touched by Mary's lips: thus, in so few hours, my heroic resolutions of the night had weakened.

As soon as I got home, I went straight to my mother's sewing room. María was with her; my sisters had gone to the bathroom. After returning my greeting, María lowered her eyes to her sewing. My mother was overjoyed at my return, for they had been alarmed at home by my delay and had sent for me just then. I was talking with her, praising José's progress, and Mayo was licking the burrs that had gotten caught in the weeds off my clothes.

Maria raised her eyes again, fixing them on the bouquet of lilies I held in my left hand, while my right rested on the shotgun. I thought I understood that she desired them, but an indefinable fear, a certain respect for my mother and my plans for the evening, prevented me from offering them to her. Yet I delighted in imagining how beautiful one of my small lilies would look upon her shining chestnut hair. They must be for her, for she must have gathered orange blossoms and violets that morning for the vase on my table. When I entered my room, I did not see a single flower there. Had I found a viper coiled on the table, I would not have felt the same emotion as the absence of the flowers caused me: their fragrance had become something of Maria's spirit that wandered around me during my study hours, that swayed in the curtains of my bed at night... Ah! So it was true that she did not love me! So my visionary imagination had been able to deceive me so much! And what could I do with that bouquet I had brought for her? If another woman, beautiful and alluring, had been there at that moment, in that instant of resentment against my pride, of resentment toward Maria, I would have given it to her on the condition that she show it to everyone and adorn herself with it. I raised it to my lips as if to bid a final farewell to a cherished illusion, and I threw it out the window.

Chapter11

I made an effort to appear jovial for the rest of the day. At the table, I spoke enthusiastically about the beautiful women of Bogotá, and intentionally praised P***'s charm and wit. My father was pleased to hear me: Eloísa would have liked the conversation to last until nightfall. María remained silent; but it seemed to me that her cheeks sometimes paled, and that their original color had not returned, like the color of roses that have adorned a feast overnight.

Towards the end of the conversation, Maria had pretended to play with the hair of Juan, my three-year-old brother whom she doted on. She endured it until the very end; but as soon as I stood up, she went with the child to the garden.

For the rest of the afternoon and into the early evening, I had to help my father with his desk work.

At eight o'clock, after the women had said their usual prayers, we were called to the dining room. As we sat down at the table, I was surprised to see one of the lilies in Maria's hair. There was such an air of noble, innocent, and sweet resignation on her beautiful face that, as if drawn by something previously unknown to me, I couldn't take my eyes off her.

A loving and cheerful girl, a woman as pure and alluring as those I had dreamed of, that's how I knew her; but resigned to my disdain, she was new to me. Divine in her resignation, I felt unworthy to even look upon her brow.

I answered incorrectly some questions I was asked about Joseph and his family. My father could not hide my embarrassment; and turning to Mary, he said with a smile:

-You have a beautiful lily in your hair: I haven't seen any of those in the garden.

Maria, trying to hide her bewilderment, replied in an almost imperceptible voice:

-These lilies only grow in the mountains.

At that moment, I was surprised to see a kind smile on Emma's lips.

"And who sent them?" my father asked.

Maria's distress was now noticeable. I was looking at her; and she must have found something new and encouraging in my eyes, for she replied with a firmer tone:

-Efraín threw some into the garden; and it seemed to us that, being so rare, it was a shame that they would be lost: this is one of them.

"Maria," I told her, "if I had known that those flowers were so valuable, I would have kept them... for you; but they seemed less beautiful to me than those that are put daily in the vase on my table."

She understood the cause of my resentment, and she told me so clearly with a look from her, that I feared my heartbeat could be heard.

That evening, as the family was leaving the room, Maria happened to be sitting near me. After much hesitation, I finally said to her, my voice betraying my emotion, "Maria, these were for you, but I couldn't find yours."

She was stammering some apology when, my hand bumping against hers on the sofa, I stopped it with a movement beyond my control. She stopped speaking. Her eyes looked at me in astonishment and fled from mine. She anxiously ran her free hand across her forehead and rested her head on it, burying her bare arm in the nearest cushion. Finally making an effort to undo that double bond of matter and soul that united us at that moment, she stood up; and as if concluding a thought she had begun, she said so softly that I could barely hear her: "Then... I will pick the most beautiful flowers every day"; and she disappeared.

Souls like Maria's are ignorant of the worldly language of love; but they bend, trembling, at the first caress of the one they love, like the poppy of the forests under the wing of the winds.

I had just confessed my love to Maria; she had encouraged me to confess it, humbling herself like a slave to gather those flowers. I repeated her last words to myself with delight; her voice still whispered in my ear: "Then I will gather the most beautiful flowers every day."

Chapter12

The moon, which had just risen full and large beneath a deep sky above the towering mountain ridges, illuminated the wooded slopes, whitened here and there by the crowns of the yarumo trees, silvering the foam of the streams and spreading its melancholic light to the valley floor. The plants exhaled their softest and most mysterious aromas. That silence, broken only by the murmur of the river, was more pleasing to my soul than ever before.

Leaning on my elbows against the window frame, I imagined her among the rosebushes where I had surprised her that first morning: there she was, gathering the bouquet of lilies, sacrificing her pride to her love. It was I who would henceforth disturb the childlike slumber of her heart: I could finally speak to her of my love, make her the object of my life. Tomorrow! What a magical word, the night when we are told we are loved! Her gaze, meeting mine, would have nothing left to hide; she would adorn herself for my happiness and pride.

Never were the July dawns in Cauca as beautiful as María appeared to me the next day, moments after she emerged from the bath, her tortoiseshell hair loose and already half-curled, her cheeks a soft, faded pink, though occasionally enlivened by a blush; and on her affectionate lips played that chaste smile that reveals in women like María a happiness they cannot conceal. Her gaze, now more sweet than bright, showed that her sleep was not as peaceful as it had seemed. As I approached her, I noticed a graceful, barely perceptible twitch on her forehead, a kind of feigned severity she often used with me when, after dazzling me with the full light of her beauty, she silenced my lips, which were about to repeat what she knew so well.

It had become a necessity for me to have her constantly by my side; not to lose a single instant of her existence surrendered to my love; and happy with what I possessed and still yearning for happiness, I tried to make my father's house a paradise. I spoke to Maria and my sister about their expressed desire to pursue some elementary studies under my direction: they became enthusiastic about the project once more, and it was decided that it would begin that very day.

They converted one corner of the living room into a study; they took down some maps from my room; they dusted off the globe that had remained undisturbed on my father's desk until then; they stripped two console tables of their ornaments to make them study tables. My mother smiled as she witnessed all the disarray that our project entailed.

We met every day for two hours, during which I would explain a chapter of geography, we would read some world history, and most often many pages of The Genius of Christianity. It was then that I could truly appreciate Maria's intelligence: my words were indelibly etched in her memory, and her understanding almost always surpassed my explanations with childlike triumph.

Emma had discovered the secret and delighted in our innocent happiness. How could I hide from her, during those frequent conversations, what was happening in my heart? She must have noticed my unwavering gaze fixed on her companion's enchanting face as she gave a requested explanation. She had seen Maria's hand tremble whenever I placed it on some point I was futilely searching for on the map. And whenever, sitting near the table, with them standing on either side of my seat, Maria leaned forward to get a better look at something in my book or on the cards, her breath, brushing against my hair, her braids, as they tumbled from her shoulders, would interrupt my explanations, and Emma could see her straighten up, embarrassed.

Sometimes household chores would catch my students' attention, and my sister would always take it upon herself to run them, returning a little later to join us. Then my heart would pound. Maria, with her childlike brow grave and lips almost smiling, would offer one of her aristocratic, dimpled hands—hands made for pressing foreheads like Byron's—to mine; and her accent, while still possessing that peculiar musicality of hers, would become slow and deep as she spoke softly articulated words that I would try in vain to recall today; for I have not heard them again, for spoken by other lips they are not the same, and written on these pages they would appear meaningless. They belong to another language, of which not a single phrase has come to mind for many years.

Chapter13

Chateaubriand's pages slowly painted Maria's imagination. So Christian and full of faith, she rejoiced to find beauties she had sensed in Catholic worship. Her soul took from the palette I offered her the most precious colors to embellish everything; and the poetic fire, a gift from Heaven that makes men who possess it admirable and divinizes women who, despite themselves, reveal it, bestowed upon her countenance charms I had never before encountered in the human face. The poet's thoughts, embraced by the soul of that woman so captivating in her innocence, returned to me like the echo of a distant yet familiar harmony that stirs the heart once more.

One afternoon, an afternoon like those in my country, adorned with violet clouds and flashes of pale gold, beautiful as Maria, beautiful and fleeting as she was for me, she, my sister, and I sat on the broad stone of the slope, from where we could see to the right, in the deep valley below, the boisterous currents of the river rolling by, and with the majestic and silent valley at our feet, I was reading the episode of Atala, and the two of them, admirable in their stillness and surrender, heard all that melancholy, gathered by the poet to "make the world weep," pour forth from my lips. My sister, her right arm resting on one of my shoulders, her head almost touching mine, followed with her eyes the lines I was reading. Maria, half-kneeling near me, kept her now moist gaze fixed on my face.

The sun had set when, in a trembling voice, I read the last pages of the poem. Emma's pale head rested on my shoulder. Maria hid her face with both hands. After I read that heart-rending farewell from Chactas at his beloved's tomb, a farewell that has so often brought tears to my eyes: "Sleep in peace in a foreign land, unfortunate maiden! In reward for your love, your exile, and your death, you are abandoned even by Chactas himself," Maria, no longer listening to my voice, uncovered her face, and large tears streamed down it. She was as beautiful as the poet's creation, and I loved her with the love he imagined. We walked silently and slowly to the house. Alas! My soul and Maria's were not only moved by that reading, they were overwhelmed by a premonition.

Chapter14

Three days later, as I was coming down the mountain one afternoon, I thought I noticed some alarm on the faces of the servants I encountered in the inner corridors. My sister told me that Maria had suffered a nervous breakdown; and adding that she was still unconscious, she tried as much as she could to calm my painful anxiety.

Forgetting all caution, I entered the room where Maria lay, and, suppressing the frenzy that would have made me clutch her to my heart to bring her back to life, I approached her bed, bewildered. My father sat at its foot: he fixed one of his intense gazes upon me, and turning it then upon Maria, seemed to want to reprimand me as he showed her to me. My mother was there; but she did not look up to find me, for, knowing my love, she pitied me as a good mother can pity her son, the woman he loves.

I stood motionless, gazing at her, not daring to ask what was wrong with her. She was as if asleep: her face, covered with a deathly pallor, was half-hidden by her disheveled hair, in which the flowers I had given her that morning were now crumpled; her furrowed brow revealed unbearable suffering, and a light sweat dampened her temples; tears had tried to well up in her closed eyes, glistening and trapped on her eyelashes.