The moonbeam Gustavus Becher I do not know if this is a story that seems a fairy tale or it seems history, I can say is that its background is a indeed a very sad truth, which perhaps I will be one of the last to take advantage, given my imagination conditions. Another
with this idea, it might have made a tearful philosophy tome, I have written this legend, who see nothing in your background, at least you can entertain them for a while.
was noble, was born amid the clash of arms, and the strange cry of a trumpet of war had not made him raise his head a moment and his eyes a dark point of parchment he was reading the last ballad of a troubadour.
Those who want to find, not what they had to look at the broad courtyard of his castle, where the grooms domaban foals, taught the pages fly falcons, and the soldiers entertained the Sabbath in sharpening the iron of his spear against a rock.
- Where is Manrique, where is your master? "Asked her mother sometimes.
We do not know, "replied his servants - perhaps will be in the cloister of the Rock, sitting on the edge of a grave, listening to see if any surprises word of the conversation from the dead, or on deck, looking run one after another the waves of the river below the arches, or curled up in the collapse of a rock and have fun at the stars of heaven, to follow a cloud with the view or watch the crossing as wisps exhalations on the face of the lakes. Either party is least where everybody is.
Indeed, Manrique loved solitude, and loved her so much that sometimes wished to have no shadow, because your shadow will not follow him everywhere.
loved the solitude, because within it, giving free rein to the imagination, they create a fantasy world inhabited by strange creations, daughters of his delusions and his dreams of a poet, therefore, that he had never been satisfied with the ways that could enclose their thoughts, and never had been locked up in writing them.
believed that among the red embers fire house inhabited by spirits of a thousand colors, as gold bugs running over logs on, or dancing in a round bright sparks at the height of the flames, and the long hours spent sitting on a stool next to High Gothic fireplace, motionless and staring into the fire.
thought in the back of the waves of the river between the mosses of the source and on lake steamers, lived a mysterious women, fairies, or mermaids Sylphs, exhaling moans and sighs, and sang and laughed in the monotonous Water rumor, rumor I heard in silence trying to translate.
in the clouds in the air, deep forest, in the cracks the rocks, I imagined perceive or hear sounds mysterious ways, ways of supernatural beings, unintelligible words could not understand.
Love! He was born to dream about love, not to feel it. He loved all women for a moment: the latter because she was blonde, a former because his lips were red, because the other walking swayed like a reed. Sometimes
his delirium came to the point of staying a whole night looking at the moon floating in the sky through a mist of silver, or the stars that tremble in the distance like the changing of the gemstones. In those long sleepless nights of poetry, exclaim,
"If it is true, as the prior of the Rock I said, it is possible that these points of light are worlds, if it is true that in that balloon of pearl clouds rolling on live people, why women are so beautiful women in those bright regions, and I may not see and I may not love them! ... What will your beauty? ... How is your love? ...
Manrique was not yet crazy enough to follow him boys, but enough to speak and gesture alone, which is where it starts.
on the Douro, which spent licking the decayed and dark stones of the walls of Soria, is a bridge leading from the city to the former convent of the Templars, whose possessions extended along the opposite riverbank.
At the time we are referring to the knights of the Order had already abandoned its historic strengths, but were still standing remains of the towers wide walls still looked like today are partly covered with ivy and snowdrops, the massive arches of the cloister, the ogival galleries extended its courtyard, where the wind sighed with a whimper, shaking the tall grass.
In orchards and gardens, whose paths untrodden many years the religious plants, vegetation, left to itself, displayed in all their finery, without fear that the mutilated human hand, believing embellish. The climbing rose vines by the aged trunks of the trees, the dark streets of poplars, whose tops touched and mingled with each other, were covered with grass, wild thistles and nettles sprouting amid the gravelled paths, and in two pieces from the factory, near collapse, the arugula, floating in the wind like a plume crest, and blue and white bells, swaying like a swing on their long, flexible stems, proclaimed the victory of the destruction and ruin.
was night, a night of summer, warm, full of gentle fragrances and rumors, and a white moon and calm, in the middle of a blue sky, bright and transparent.
Manrique, seized the imagination of a frenzy of poetry, after crossing the bridge, where watched a moment the dark silhouette of the city, which stood out against the background of white clouds and some light wound on the horizon, he went into the deserted ruins of the Templars.
Midnight drew to a point. The moon, which had been going up slowly, was already at the top of the sky when entering a dark avenue which led from the ruined cloisters at the edge of the Duero, Manrique gave a slight scream and drowned, strange mixture of surprise , fear and joy.
At the bottom of the dark Mall had been waving a white thing, that floated a moment and disappeared into the darkness. The hem of the dress of a woman, a woman who had crossed the road and hidden among the foliage, in the same instant the crazy dreamer of impossible chimeras or penetrated into the gardens.
- An unknown woman! ... This site !..., these hours! This, this is the woman that I look, "cried Manrique, and launched a follow-up, swift as an arrow.
got to the point that had been lost in the thicket of branches to the mysterious woman. Had disappeared. Where? Far away, far away, thought spotted by between cross trunks of trees as a clear or a white that moved.
- Is she, is she, who has wings on his feet and flees like a shadow! He said, and hurried after her, spreading his hands ivy networks spread like a carpet of each other poplars. Came tearing through the bush and parasitic plants to a kind of landing that illuminated the clear sky ... No!
- Ah, here, here goes then cried. I hear their footsteps on dry leaves, and the rustle of her dress that drags along the ground and slashing at the bushes, and ran and ran like crazy back and forth, and not seen. "But still ringing in his footsteps," he murmured again, - I think he has spoken, no doubt, has spoken ... The wind sighs through the branches, leaves, which seems to quietly pray, have prevented me from hearing what he said, but no doubt, goes around, talked ... has spoken ... What language? I do not know, but it is a foreign language ... And he returned to run follow-up, sometimes to believe her, thinking others hear, and noting that the branches, among which was gone, moving, and imagining in the sand distinguishing mark of his own feet, then firmly persuaded of a special perfume aimed at intervals was a scent belonging to the woman who made fun of him indulging in between those intricate outrun by weeds. Worry useless!
wandered some hours back and forth beside himself, and pausing to listen, and sliding with the utmost care on the grass, and in a frantic and desperate career.
Moving, moving up from the vast gardens that line the banks of the river, came to an end at the foot of the rocks on which stands the church of San Saturio.
"Perhaps, from this height I can steer me to continue my research through this confusing maze," said climbing from rock to rock with the help of his dagger.
reached the top, from which the city is found in the distance and a large part of the Duero that writhes at his feet, dragging a mighty stream, dark and curved margins between the jail.
Manrique, once at the top of the rocks, lay the view around him, but to lie down and fix it after a point, could not blasphemy.
The shimmering moonlight sparkling in the wake left behind them a boat bound for all rowing to shore.
In that boat was believed to distinguish a white, slim, certainly a woman, the woman he had seen in the Knights Templar, the woman of his dreams, the realization of their wildest hopes. It picked up the rocks with the agility of a deer, threw down his cap, as long round pen could become pregnant to run, and stripping width velvet cape, started like a shot to the bridge.
thought through and reach the city before the boat touched on the other side. Madness! When Manrique was panting and covered in sweat at the entrance, and those who had crossed the Douro by the San Saturio, Soria entered one of the gates in the wall, which at that time ran to the river bank, in which portrayed its brown waters battlements.
Although faint hope of reaching those who had entered the wicket of San Saturio, not that our hero lost to know the house that the city could house them. Fixed idea in his mind, entered the town, and heading toward the neighborhood of San Juan, began to roam the streets at random. Soria
streets were then and are still, narrow, dark and winding. A deep silence reigned in them, silence interrupted only, sometimes the distant barking of a dog, now the sound of a door closing, now the neighing of a horse that sounded pawing the string that held the manger in the stable ground .
Manrique, with an attentive ear to these sounds of the night, which sometimes seemed to him the steps of someone who had doubled since the last corner a deserted alley, others confused voices of people speaking on their backs and every moment expected to see him, he walked a few hours, running at random from one place to another.
Finally, he stopped at the foot of a stone mansion, dark and ancient, and to stop her eyes shone with an indescribable expression of joy. In one of the tall arched windows of that might be called the palace, saw a ray of warm, soft light, passing through a light silk hangings pink, reflected in the black and cranny of the house wall front.
"No doubt, here lives my unknown," murmured the young man quietly without taking a point your eyes from the Gothic window, - lives here. She went through the wicket of San Saturio ... for the wicket of San Saturio comes to this neighborhood ... in this neighborhood is a house, where after midnight there are still people awake ... What candle? Who but she, who returns from his nocturnal excursions, you might be at this hour? ... No more, this is their home.
This firm persuasion, and stirring in his mind the most insane and fantastic imaginations, waited for the dawn in front of the Gothic window, which all night did not miss the light and he spread it a moment.
When the day arrived, the massive gates of the arch that led into the mansion, and key on which were carved the arms of its owner, focused heavily on its hinges, to a halt long and sharp. A squire reappeared in the doorway with a bunch of keys in his hand, rubbing his eyes and yawning showing a box of teeth capable of envy a crocodile. Verle
Manrique and go to the door, everything was the work of a moment.
- Who lives in this house? What do you call it? Where is it? What has come to Soria? Does husband? Respond, respond, animal-it was the salutation that shook his arm violently, led to poor squire, who, after watching him a good space time with frightened eyes and stupid, he replied, his voice breaking with surprise:
"In this house lived the honored Mr. D. Alonso de Valdecuellos, hounds of our lord the king, who injured in the war against the Moors, in this city is recovering from his fatigues.
"But what about your daughter? "Interrupted the impatient young man, - what about your daughter or your sister or your wife or whatever?
"There's no woman with him.
- do not have any! ... For who sleeps there in that room, where every night I have seen a light burning?
- There? There sleeps my lord D. Alonso, who, as is sick, keep your lamp lit until dawn.
Lightning suddenly falling at his feet caused him no more wonder that he caused these words.
"I'll have to find, I find, and if I find I'm pretty sure I know ... What? ... That's what I can not say ... but I must know. The echo of his footsteps or a word from you to re-hear, one end of his suit, one end to see her again, enough to get me. Night and day I'm looking to float before my eyes those diaphanous folds of cloth and-white, night and day are ringing me in here, inside the head, the rustle of his suit, the confused sound of unintelligible words ... Say what? ... What did he say? Ah, if I could know what he said, perhaps ... but without knowing I will find ... I'll find, I give it heart, and my heart are never wrong. Truth is that I have already covered all the streets in vain Soria, I've spent nights and nights under the stars, made a corner post, I've spent more than twenty fold in gold to talk to ladies and squires, who have given holy water San Nicolas in an old, wrapped with so much art in its mantle of anascote, that I figured a deity, and out of the collegiate a night of matins, I followed like a fool litter Archdeacon believing that the end of their holapandas was the costume of my unknown, but no matter ... I have to find, and the glory of possessing exceed likely to look for work.
How are your eyes? ... Should be blue, blue and wet as the night sky, I like both the eyes of that color, they are so expressive, so melancholy, so ... Yes .. no doubt, must be blue, blue are surely, and his black hair, very black and long to float ... I think I saw that night float, the pair that suit, and they were black ... I am not mistaken, no, they were black. And how well
feel blue eyes, very ragged and adormidos, and loose hair, floating and dark, a tall woman ... because ... she is tall, tall and slender like those angels in the front pages of our basilica, whose oval face wrapped in a mysterious twilight shadows of a granite canopy! His voice! ... I heard his voice ... his voice is soft like the sound of wind in the leaves of poplars, and rhythmic gait and majestic as the cadences of music.
And that woman who is beautiful as the most beautiful of my dreams as a teenager, who thinks like I think, that like as I love, hates what I hate, which is a human spirit of my spirit, which is the complement of my being, do not have to feel shocked to find me? Did not have to love me as I love you like I love ya, with all the strength of my life, with all the powers of my soul?
Come, come to where I saw the first and only time I've seen ... Who knows, capricious like me, a friend of solitude and mystery, like all dreamers souls, is happy to wander through the ruins, in the silence of the night?
Two months had passed since the squire D. Alonso Manrique Valdecuellos disabused the dreamer, and two months during which each time had formed a castle in the air, that reality vanished in a puff, two months, during which he had searched in vain for that unknown woman, whose foolish love grew in his soul, thanks to its even more absurd to imagine, when after these ideas absorbed through the bridge leading to the Templars, the young love lost between the intricate paths of the gardens.
The night was serene and beautiful, the moon shone in all its fullness at the top of the sky and the wind sighed with a sweet sound in the leaves of the trees. Manrique was the cloister
tended the light for his room and looked through the massive columns of the arcades ... It was empty.
came out of it, directed his steps toward the dark avenue which leads to the Duero, and had not yet entered it, when he escaped from his lips a cry of joy.
was seen floating a moment and disappear the end of the white suit, white costume of the woman of his dreams, the woman who loved him as a madman.
Run, run after her, arrives at the site that has been disappearing, but to get stops, the frightened eyes fixed on the ground, remain motionless for a while, a slight nervous tremor shakes its members, a tremor that is growing , which is growing and offers a true seizure symptoms, and finally bursts out laughing, laughing sound, loud, horrible. The thing
white, light, floating, had returned to shine in their eyes, but had stood at his feet a moment, no more than an instant.
was a moonbeam, a ray of moonlight penetrated intervals between the green canopy of trees when the wind moved the branches.
few years had passed. Manrique, sitting in a seat next to the fireplace high Gothic castle, immobile and with a vague and uneasy look like an idiot, or just paying attention to the caresses of his mother, or the consolations of their servers.
"You're young, you're beautiful," I said it, - why do you eat in solitude? Why do not you find a woman I love, and loving can make you happy?
- Love! ... Love is a moonbeam murmured the young.
- Why not awake from the lethargy? "Said one of his squires, - iron clothe you from head to toe, you send your outdoor display banner nobleman, and marched to war: the war is glory.
- The glory ... Glory is a moonbeam.
- Shall I tell you a ballad, the latter has made Arnaldo Mosen, the troubadour of Provence?
- No! No! Cried the young man angry at his stall joining, "I do not want anything ... that is, if you want ... I want to leave me alone ... Cantigas ... women ... glory ... happiness ... lies all in vain that we are ghosts in our imagination and dress as we please, and we love and run after them, why?, why?, to find a moonbeam.
Manrique was crazy: at least everyone thought so. To me, however, I figured that I had done was to recover the trial. End
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