“Yes, I am happy,” he repeated as if he had read my thoughts. “You should see spring here. ”
In the quietness of that moment his last sentence went through me like a chill. Here was his mania again, here was the thing that had wrapped itself about his existence. Here was spring.
And then his mind began to wander. He spoke incoherently, in a disconnected manner. I suggested that we go down in the garden, and we went down. This was summer. There were beautiful flower beds and bushes, and the whole garden had an air of abandon which made it densely poetic.
Across the street I discovered a man watering the flowers of his garden. He saw us and waved. I asked Garcia who the gentleman was and Garcia shook his head and sighed:
“The poor fellow. He is a doctor; Dr. José de los Rios.” Garcia had assumed a strange expression. “He is. ” Garcia made a drilling motion with his finger on his temple. “You know? One of the strangest cases I have seen.”
At first I believed Garcia and did not know what to say. He was speaking with great seriousness.
“Do you know? Sometimes I have watched him from behind the curtains. He comes out to his garden and performs strange things. I saw him one day talk to the flowers and then he began to dance and all the flowers beat time for him.”
Now I knew and tried to soothe Garcia, but he was strong on the subject of his neighbor.
“He seems to have an uncanny power upon nature. He has a little cane with which he performs all his tricks and once I saw him plant the cane in the ground and the cane grew and flourished like a tree.”
I tried to distract Garcia, to change the conversation, but he insisted with that eagerness peculiar to such cases:
“Yes. Another day I saw him at El Retiro. He did not see me and I followed him at a distance. And do you know what he did? He had that little cane of his and he tapped the trees there with it. Then he produced a stethoscope and applied it to a tree as if he were listening to its heart, and then he would shake his head and approach another tree and repeat the same operation. I overtook him and arrived in time to hear him say:
“ ‘The spring is not coming this year. I cannot hear it.’
“Well, that lack of faith made me indignant. I addressed him and he seemed to be in great confusion. And then I told him that I always heard the spring without the aid of such devices, that I could hear spring in everything, yes, in everything. that he could never hear it through that apparatus and that it took a poet and not a doctor to sense the approaching of spring. I told him that he was insane to doubt that it was coming, that other things may fail, but spring. always. comes. ”
Garcia’s voice broke here and he hung his head as if with deep resignation under the fatality of that last statement which sounded cruelly ominous. I could not stand that much longer. I made a last effort to change the course of conversation:
“Calm yourself, Garcia; you are a happy man. You said so yourself. I was just thinking how happy you must be in this beautiful garden. ”
He looked at me as if he did not understand what I was saying, almost as if he did not know who I was. And then he turned and walked away from me. He staggered forth, his arms stretched in front as if drawn by that eternal vision.
I followed. He stopped before a bush that was in full bloom and caressed the flowers and the leaves with trembling hands, with hungry eyes melting in tears. At last he held two branches and pressed them tightly. He was shaking all over and looked at me profoundly as if seeking understanding and sympathy. I approached him, but he held me away with a hand.
“It is this. it is this “
I knew he was trying to find the words that could express his feelings, but I knew that there could be no such words, and I nodded to him my understanding.
There came a grateful look into his eyes and for a long time we remained silent.
Then Garcia said:
“Excuse me,” and he wept.
IV
One day I went to call on Garcia and found his house closed and nobody answered my bell. Dr. José de los Rios was across the street in his garden and I inquired of him. He came over and told me of the sad incident which had taken place during my absence.
It was toward the end of the winter. It seems that during the days previous to this happening, Garcia had remained in his room, the windows and door shut. This Dr. de los Rios had gathered from the explanations of Lunarito, who was the only person who had seen Garcia at the time, when she brought him something to eat.
Then one day Dr. de los Rios, who was as usual in his garden, saw Garcia rush out of his front door; he saw him throw the garden gate open and run down the street yelling:
“Spring is coming.! Spring is coming.!”
Dr. de los Rios followed him and found him farther down the street, surrounded by people who were trying to calm him and children who mocked him. Dr. de los Rios took him home and administered some drug, and it was the doctor who afterwards took Garcia to the insane asylum.
And I thought:
So it was Dr. de los Rios, the man whom Garcia had accused of insanity, the same man whose sanity I had doubted for a moment, who had finally taken my friend to the asylum. And I kept on thinking about the strange irony of life while Dr. José de los Rios explained to me the case of Garcia.
According to him, it was a case of temporary insanity and he did not doubt that with the proper treatment my friend could recover permanently. Dr. de los Rios spoke of nervous disorders, of their causes and effects. He mentioned weakening of the spine and then commented on bad habits. But he spoke without the slightest shade of moralizing.
I received the impression that he had been watching over Garcia for some time and that Garcia had confided in him. I also received a pleasant impression from Dr. de los Rios. His whole personality was very agreeable. He was a man who created the impression of being clear physically and mentally. His eyes were blue, his hair and pointed beard as well as his mustache blond, and his complexion fair. He spoke with a quiet voice and air, and also with precision free from pedantry. I liked Dr. José de los Rios very much and should like to dedicate a chapter or two to him, but will leave that for a better occasion.
Dr. de los Rios was right. Garcia only suffered temporary insanity. He spent only one year at the asylum and was released.
When Garcia returned to his house I called on him. I had lacked the courage to visit him at the asylum. Another sad blow awaited me. I remember that Lunarito led the way upstairs and that I saw Garcia sitting by the balcony in his room, in exactly the same position in which I had seen him the last time. But this time he did not rise to meet me. Lunarito led him by the hand to me and then I discovered that he was blind.
My feelings are easy to imagine. I had already grown so fond of Garcia.! We embraced each other long and tightly and I stroked his white head but made no comments.
And then I noticed another novelty: two huge mastiff dogs who made their entrance silently into the room and stood at both sides of the chair where Garcia sat, after our greetings. I have forgotten to mention that Garcia all his life had experienced a mixture of fear and repugnance toward dogs that was one of the most marked features of his character. I was consequently greatly surprised at the appearance of these two magnificent specimens of the canine family, whom Garcia seemed to treat with decided friendliness.
I remember my friend’s speech and I can still hear his resigned voice:
“That whole year of darkness. like a void in my existence of which I hardly remember a thing. And then to recover my reason only to be more conscious of this new misfortune, of this new darkness from which I shall never emerge. Can you realize it?”