“That sounds very nice, but. ” I was pitifully, or fortunately, failing the situation. I was taking my friend literally and Garcia, still leaning on the tree, signaled me to keep quiet.
“I know all your objections, but, man, don’t be ungrateful, spring is here. Do not desecrate the moment. Do not fool yourself; this is the only dependable thing. Everything else passes and fades, but spring always comes.”
We were silent a while. Then Garcia said:
“Excuse me,” and he embraced the tree.
II
When I left Madrid, Garcia was about to take a position he had secured through the efforts of a good friend. I felt somewhat happy at the thought of leaving Garcia with something safe and to see that he was entering the path of normality and orderly living, for I will not deny that lately I had entertained vague fears about his sanity. I was, however, soon to be disappointed by a letter I received from him which shows that his old ideas had not left him:
“There is a latent poetry in the atmosphere of something vague and distant that is preparing itself, something that is gathering strength and elements to burst forth suddenly, and it is spring, the season which I always await because it brings me happiness. I don’t know what there is in spring that I always wait for it and always depend on it as if it were a great resource that never fails. For a long time I have felt this way.
“The other day I was explaining this to Lunarito, the girl who takes care of my room. I told her that upon awaking in the mornings, one could hear something like a distant roar, increasing as a wave that breaks in the sea. I told her that one could hear spring coming and that I have always heard it, that it comes from afar, not only in time but in space. I don’t think Lunarito understood me.
“In the mornings one can hear it more clearly, I believe, because one’s mind is just awake and more receptive. One’s senses are still half asleep and, therefore, more ready to fall under the influence of this element, so great and powerful.
“The balcony of my room is open and I can clearly hear all the noises of the city. But all these things reflect the approaching season and spring vibrates in all of them. There is a strange quality in this season which no other season has. It announces itself beforehand, we feel it in the distance. Luminous, warm days, sprouting in the middle of the winter, bringing us consolation, cheer and hope, like heralds of spring.
“And always at such a time I feel the same vagabond and willful spirit sweeping my conscience and senses, an irresistible desire to throw everything to the devil and seek adventure through the fields, throughout the world. To unite myself to the avalanche of spring and drift with it. Oh, Lord! Without worries of the morrow or unpleasant memories of the past, except perhaps those that are necessary and a bit sad, in order to lend happiness that diaphanous touch of melancholy which makes it so refined, so perfect, so poetical and so humane. And to be able to jump and roll all over the grass and find that there is an abundance of food and good drink, and all of that which I love. God! If for once things were as one wishes them to be!
“I would work almost with pleasure during the balance of the year if I could abandon myself completely to spring. This would compensate for everything. Of course, it would be much better not to work at all and do nothing but what we like, all year around, but, well. well, this season turns my head inside out. It drives me insane with pleasure. My natural dislike for all that which is holy and disagreeable rises to exorbitant proportions. I hear spring coming in the distance, I feel it, I scent it, and I am lost. I execrate everything that smacks of duty, of labor, anything that may bind me. To break all chains and bridles and lunge at full speed, ahead of the earth itself, in order to reach that place of dreams and realities, where spring is eternal.!
“But this not being possible, I must content myself with what I have and all these feelings find expression in eruptions like this letter. I must give them some outlet. But at least all of us who have feelings and an aesthetic attitude, somewhat refined; all of us who can hear spring coming in the distance, who are the chosen ones, must dedicate to it a thought every year, some kind of prayer like a tribute of thanks. We must congratulate each other upon its arrival, for notwithstanding the large crop of trouble we reap from life, we can always count on those moments of happiness, which, even if we cannot fully enjoy them, due to circumstances, at least cause our hearts to jump. And this is a great compensation, on this we can always count and it never fails. Bad and disagreeable things pass and fade, but spring always comes.
“I am writing you this because I consider it a duty to share with understanding beings we appreciate and love those things which, due to our subtle intuition, we have discovered to be fountains of joy. To try to share with others would be a disappointment, but you understand me. ”
I confess that I did not understand Garcia then, but I think I am beginning to understand now.
III
During the time I was away from Madrid, I did not have news of Garcia regularly. I received a letter from him now and then which always showed a marked decline in his mental faculties. Then I learned that he had given up his position. Some time passed and I returned to Madrid.
I found Garcia living alone in a little house with a garden in the Barrio de Salamanca.
I remember that Lunarito, his maid, opened the door and said that she was glad to see me. I asked after my friend and she told me that Señor Garcia was sick, very sick. That everybody feared for his sanity, that his mind was wandering and he was beginning to have difficulty in recognizing people.
I went upstairs and found Garcia sitting by a balcony, looking out. He seemed to recognize me immediately. He rose and came toward me with outstretched arms and embraced me fondly.
Then I noticed that he had grown fearfully old since I last saw him. He was bent. He wore his hair long as usual, but now it was completely white. Garcia had always walked without resolution as one who has lost his way, but now this characteristic was more noticeable. He almost dragged his feet and seemed to reel. And at that time Garcia could not have been more than thirty years old.
However, he spoke sensibly and with calm. He told me that a relative of his had died and left him some money and this house where he was now.
“Yes,” he said, “I am happy here. I have a garden and flowers.” He waved at the garden. “Just the kind of place I had always wanted. Peaceful like a mirror reflecting all the seasons of the year. Yes, I am happy.”
And I knew that he was not happy.