Tristana de Benito Pérez Galdós 📚❤️ | Una historia de amor y libertad
Welcome to Now of Stories. Today we bring you a deeply human and moving work by Benito Pérez Galdós: Tristana. First published in 1892, this novel tells the story of a young woman struggling to find her identity in a world marked by social and personal tensions . The protagonist, Tristana, faces a relationship of love and submission that challenges her independence and desires. Join us on this literary journey that explores themes such as freedom, power, and personal transformation. Chapter 1. In the populous neighborhood of Chamberí, closer to the Water Deposit than to Cuatro Caminos, lived, not many years ago, a nobleman of good appearance and a pilgrim name. He did not live in a manor house, for there never were any such houses around that area, but in a plebeian rented room, one of the cheap ones, surrounded by a noisy neighborhood of a tavern, a snack bar, a goat farm, and a narrow interior courtyard of numbered rooms. The first time I became acquainted with this personage and was able to observe his old-fashioned military bearing, something like a pictorial reminiscence of the old Flanders regiments, I was told his name was Don Lope de Sosa, a name that transcends the dust of the theaters, or a romance from those brought in rhetoric books; and indeed, some of his criminal friends called him that; but he answered to Don Lope Garrido. Over time, I learned that his baptismal certificate read Don Juan López Garrido, resulting in that resounding Don Lope being a composition by the gentleman, like a precious polish applied to beautify his personality. And it suited his lean face, with its firm and noble lines, the name so well suited the tall, stiff frame, the bridge nose, the clear forehead, and the lively eyes, the salt-and-pepper mustache and the short, stiff, and provocative goatee, that the man could not be called anything else. Either he had to be killed or called Don Lope. The age of the good gentleman, according to his calculations when it came to this, was as impossible to determine as the hour on a broken clock whose hands stubbornly refused to move. He
had settled on forty-nine, as if the instinctive terror of fifty had stopped him on that dreaded threshold of half a century; but not even God himself, with all his power, could take away his fifty- seven, which, despite being well preserved, was no less effective. He dressed with all the neatness and care his small fortune allowed, always wearing a well-ironed top hat, a good cape in the winter, dark gloves at all times, an elegant cane in the summer, and suits more appropriate for the green age than the mature. Don Lope Garrido was, so to speak , a great strategist in the battles of love, and he prided himself on having stormed more towers of virtue and surrendered more squares of honesty than he had hairs on his head. Already worn out and of little worth, he could not deny his roguish inclination, and whenever he came across pretty women, or even those who were not pretty, he would put on a good front and, without any malice, would give them expressive glances that were more paternal than malicious, as if with them he were saying: “You got off easy, poor things! Thank God you weren’t born twenty years earlier.” Beware of those who today are what I was, although, if you push me, I will dare to say that these days there is no one who equals me. Young men are no longer emerging, much less gallants, nor men who know their duty to be with a good-looking woman. Without any professional occupation, the good Don Lope, who had enjoyed a decent fortune in better times and now owned only a usufruct in the province of Toledo, collected in fits and starts and with pitiful losses, spent his life in idle and pleasant casino gatherings, also methodically devoting some time to visits with friends, to drinking coffee, and to other centers, or rather corners, of recreation, which there is no need to name here. He lived in such an eccentric place for the sole reason of the cheapness of the houses, which even with the tram tax, cost very little in that area, in addition to the clearness, the ventilation and the smiling horizons that are there. They enjoy themselves. Garrido was no longer a night owl: he would get up at about eight o’clock, and shaving and grooming himself, for he took care of his person with the diligence and slowness of a man of the world, would take two hours. He would go out until one o’clock, the infallible hour of a frugal lunch. After this, he would go out again, until dinner, between seven and eight, no less sober than lunch, some days with shortages not well concealed by the most basic cooking skills. What must be noted above all is that if Don Lope was all affability and courtesy outside the home, and in the café or Cassines-style gatherings he attended, at home he knew how to combine attentive and familiar words with the authority of an undisputed master. Two women lived with him, one a maid, the other a miss by name, both mingling in the kitchen and in the rough chores of the house, without distinction of rank, with perfect and fraternal companionship, determined more by the mistress’s humiliation than by the maid’s pretensions. This woman’s name was Saturna, tall and wiry, with dark eyes, a bit masculine, and because of her recent widowhood, she dressed in strict mourning. Having lost her husband, a bricklayer who fell from a scaffolding on the bank construction site, she was able to place her son in the hospice and began to serve, her first assignment being Don Lope’s house, which certainly wasn’t a province of Jauja. The other, whom at certain times you would take for a servant and at others not, for she sat at the master’s table and addressed him informally with familiar ease, was young, pretty, slender, with an almost implausible whiteness of pure alabaster; her cheeks colorless, her black eyes more remarkable for their liveliness and luminosity than for their size; her eyebrows incredible, as if indicated in an arch with the tip of a very fine brush; her mouth small and red, her lips somewhat thick, plump, bursting with blood, as if they contained all that her face lacked; her teeth small, like bits of curdled crystal; her hair brown and not very abundant, shining like silk twists, and gathered in a graceful tangle on the crown of her head. But the most characteristic feature of such a singular creature was that she seemed entirely pure ermine and the spirit of cleanliness, for even when stooping to the coarsest domestic chores , she remained unstained. Her hands, perfectly formed—what hands!—had a mysterious virtue, like her body and clothes, capable of saying to the lower strata of the physical world: “Your misery is not my doing.” Her entire person bore the impression of an intrinsic, elemental, superior cleanliness, prior to any contact with anything unclean or impure. Made of rags, fox in hand, dust and garbage respected her; and when she groomed herself and put on her purple gown with white rosettes, the top knot, pierced with golden-headed hairpins, was a faithful image of a high-class Japanese lady. But what else could there be, if she seemed entirely made of paper, that warm, living, plastic paper in which those inspired Orientals represent the divine and the human, the comical tending toward the serious, and the seriousness that makes one laugh? Her matte white face was made of clear paper , her dress of paper, her extremely fine, shapely, incomparable hands of paper. It remains to be explained how Tristana, by that name the pretty girl went, was related to the great Don Lope, leader and lord of that place, to whom it would be unfair to give the family name. In the neighborhood, and among the few people who stopped by to visit or snoop, there were versions for all tastes. For periods of time , these or those opinions dominated on such an important point; within a period of two or three months, it was believed as gospel that the young lady was the niece of the grand old gentleman. The tendency to consider her a daughter soon emerged, quickly spreading, and there were ears in the neighborhood that heard her say “Papa,” like a talking doll. A new wind of opinion blew, and now you have her as the legitimate and authentic Lady of Garrido. After some time, no trace remained of these vain conjectures, and Tristana, in the opinion of the surrounding crowd, was neither the daughter, nor niece, nor wife, nor anything of the great Don Lope; she was nothing and It was everything, for it belonged to her like a money-bag, a piece of furniture, or a piece of clothing, with no one able to dispute it; and she seemed so resigned to being a money-bag, and always a money-bag…! Chapter 2. Not at all resigned, because more than once, in that year preceding what is about to be described, the pretty little paper figure would step out of line, wanting to show the character and conscience of a free person. Her owner exercised over her a despotism that we could call seductive, imposing his will with a sweetened firmness, sometimes with pampering or endearments, and destroying in her any initiative that wasn’t incidental and unimportant. The young woman was twenty-one years old when her yearnings for independence were awakened in her by the reflections that filled her mind about the extremely strange social situation in which she lived. She still retained the behavior and habits of a child when this situation began; her eyes didn’t know how to look into the future, and if they did, they saw nothing. But one day she noticed the shadow that the present projected into the spaces of the future, and that image of herself stretched into the distance, with such a distorted and broken silhouette, occupied her attention for a long time, suggesting a thousand thoughts that mortified and confused her. For a clear understanding of these concerns of Tristana’s, it is useful to shed as much light as possible on Don Lope, so that he is not taken for better or worse than he really was. This individual presumed to practice chivalry, or knighthood, in all its dogmatic purity, which we might well call sedentary in contrast to the idea of errantry or current; but he interpreted the laws of that religion with excessively free judgment, and from all this resulted a complex morality, which, although it was his, was nevertheless common, an abundant fruit of the times in which we live; a morality that, although it seemed of his own making, was strictly the concretization in his mind of the ideas floating in the metaphysical atmosphere of his time, like invisible bacteria in the physical atmosphere. Don Lope’s chivalry, as an external phenomenon, was readily apparent to everyone: he never took anything that wasn’t his, and in matters of interest, he took his delicacy to quixotic extremes. He navigated his hardship with gallantry and concealed it with dignity, frequently giving proof of self-denial and condemning the appetite for material things with accents of stoic fortitude. For him, coined metal was never anything but vile, nor did the joy of collecting it redeem him from the contempt of any well-born person. The ease with which it passed from his hands indicated this contempt better than the rhetoric with which he excoriated what he believed to be a source of corruption and the cause of the increasingly scarce number of chivalrous men in today’s society . Regarding personal decorum, he was so petty and of such fragile susceptibility that he would not tolerate the slightest insult, nor ambiguous words that might carry within them a shadow of inconsideration. He had a thousand incidents in his life, and he so upheld the rights of dignity that he became a living code for disputes of honor. It was well known that in all doubtful cases involving the intricate jurisdiction of duels, the great Don Lope was consulted, and he opined and ruled with priestly emphasis, as if it were a theological or philosophical point of the greatest transcendence. The point of honor was, therefore, for Garrido, the cipher and compendium of all the science of living, and this was completed with various negations. If his disinterestedness could be considered a virtue, his contempt for the State and Justice, as human organisms, certainly was not . The Curia disgusted him; The puny employees of the Treasury, interposed between the institutions and the taxpayer with an outstretched hand, were considered rabble worthy of rowing in the galleys. He deplored the fact that in our age of more paper than iron and so many empty formulas, gentlemen didn’t carry swords to account for so many impertinent idlers. Society, in his opinion, had created various mechanisms with the sole purpose of maintaining idlers and persecuting and robbing people. noble and well-born. With such ideas, Don Lope found smugglers and swindlers very sympathetic, and if he could have, he would have come to their defense in a serious predicament. He detested undercover or uniformed police , and heaped shame on the carabinieri and consumer watchmen , as well as the idiots they call Public Order, who, in his opinion, never protect the weak against the strong. He compromised with the Civil Guard, although he—what the devil!—would have organized it differently, with prosecutorial and executive powers, as a true religion of chivalry that would bring justice on the roads and in the wilderness. Regarding the Army, Don Lope’s ideas bordered on extravagance. As he knew it, it was nothing more than a political instrument, costly and foolish to boot. He believed it should be given a religious and military organization, like the ancient orders of chivalry, with a popular base, compulsory service, hereditary leaders, the entailment of generalship, and, in short, a system so complex and convoluted that even he didn’t understand it. As for the Church, he considered it a practical joke, one that past centuries have played on present-day people, and which the latter tolerate out of timidity and short-temperedness. And don’t think he was irreligious: on the contrary, his faith surpassed that of many who snout before altars and always hang around among priests. The ingenious Don Lope couldn’t bear to see these things written down , because he found no place for them in the pseudo-chivalric system his idle imagination had forged, and he used to say: “The true priests are we, those who regulate honor and morals, those who fight for the innocent, the enemies of evil, hypocrisy, injustice… and vile metal.” There were instances in this man’s life that glorified him to a high degree, and if some idle person were to write his history, those flashes of generosity and self-denial would, to a certain extent, make one forget the darknesses of his character and conduct. They must be mentioned, as antecedents or causes, which are what will be referred to later. Don Lope was always a great friend to his friends, and a man who would go out of his way to help his loved ones who found themselves in some serious predicament . Helpful to the point of heroism, he set no limits to his generous outbursts. His chivalry in this respect reached the point of vanity; and since all vanity must be paid for, and since the luxury of good feelings is the most wasteful known, Garrido suffered considerable losses to his fortune. His familiar refrain of “giving one’s shirt for a friend” was no mere rhetorical affectation. If not the shirt, he often gave half of his cloak, like San Martín; and lately, the most useful article of clothing, as it was closest to the flesh, had come to be in danger. A childhood friend, whom he loved dearly, named Don Antonio Reluz, a friend of more or less correct chivalry, put the altruistic fury, which was nothing less, of the good Don Lope to the test. Reluz, upon marrying for love a very distinguished young woman, departed from his friend’s chivalrous ideas and practices, calculating that they were neither a profession nor a means of sustenance, and dedicated himself to managing his wife’s small capital in good businesses. He fared well in his early years. He dabbled in the buying and selling of barley, military supply contracts , and other honorable dealings, which Garrido regarded with haughty disdain. Around 1880, when both had passed fifty, Reluz’s star suddenly faded, and he didn’t venture into any business that wouldn’t turn out badly. A partner in bad faith, a perfidious friend ended up losing him, and the setback was one of the heaviest, finding himself overnight penniless, dishonored, and, to top it all off, in prison… “You see?” his buddy would say to him, “are you convinced now that neither you nor I are fit to be hucksters? I warned you when you started, and you wouldn’t listen. We don’t belong to our time, dear Antonio; we’re too decent to be involved in these schemes, which are left behind for the rabble of the century.” As a consolation, he wasn’t one of the most efficient. Reluz listened to him without blinking, nor answer him anything, pondering how and when he would administer the little bandage with which he thought he would put an end to his horrible suffering. But Garrido didn’t wait, and immediately came out with the supreme resource of his shirt. “To save your honor, I’m capable of giving the… Anyway, you know it’s an obligation, not a favor, since we’re true friends, and what I do for you, you would do for me.” Although the overdrafts that would have ruined the business name of Reluz weren’t the moon, they were still heavy enough to crack the not-so-secure edifice of Don Lope’s little fortune. Lope, entrenched in his altruistic dogma, played the fool, and after liquidating a small house he kept in Toledo, he parted with his collection of old paintings, if not first-rate, which were quite valuable for the countless efforts and pleasures they represented. “Don’t worry,” he would say to his sad friend. Chest up against misfortune, and don’t consider this an extraordinarily meritorious act. In these rotten times, what is the duty of the most basic people is valued as virtue. What you have, you have, mind you, as long as another doesn’t need it. This is the law of human relations, and the rest is the fruit of selfishness and the metallization of customs. Money only ceases to be vile when it is offered to someone who has the misfortune of needing it. I have no children. Take what I have; we will never lack a piece of bread. That Reluz heard these things with deep emotion, there’s no need to say it. It’s true that he didn’t shoot himself, nor was there any reason for it; but it was the same thing to get out of jail and go home as to catch a malignant fever that dispatched him in seven days. It must have been due to the force of gratitude and the terrible emotions of that time. He left behind an inconsolable little widow, who, no matter how hard she tried to follow him to the grave (through a natural death), was unable to do so, and a nineteen- year-old daughter named Tristana. Chapter 3. Reluz’s widow had been beautiful before the troubles and mischief of her later years. But her aging was not so rapid or evident as to take away Don Lope’s desire to court her, for if his code of chivalry prohibited him from courting the wife of a living friend, the friend’s death left him free to fulfill the law of love as he pleased. It was a blessing, however, that this time the account didn’t come out right, because at the first few pesky tricks he threw at the inconsolable woman, he had to observe that she didn’t respond with good agreement to anything that was said to her, that her brain didn’t function as God intended, and in short, that poor Josefina Solís was missing almost all the pins that regulate discreet thinking and sound action. Two manias, among a thousand others, mainly disturbed her: the mania for moving house and the mania for cleanliness. Every week, or every month at least, she called for the removal trucks, and that year they made a killing wheeling her things along every street and avenue in Madrid. All the houses were magnificent on the day of the move, and detestable, inhospitable, horrible eight days later. In this one she froze with cold, in that one she was scorched; In one, there were scandalous neighbors; in another, shameless mice; in all, nostalgia for another home, for the moving van, and an endless yearning for the unknown. Don Lope tried to get his hands on this costly delirium; but he soon became convinced it was impossible. Josefina spent the short time between moves washing and scrubbing everything she could find, driven by nervous scruples and deep-seated disgust, more powerful than a strong instinctive impulse. She didn’t shake anyone’s hand, afraid of contracting herpetitis or repugnant pustules. She ate nothing but eggs after washing their shells, always suspicious that the hen that laid them had pecked at impure things. A fly would drive her mad. She fired the maids every Monday and Tuesday for any innocent violation of her extravagant cleaning methods. It wasn’t enough for him to dull the furniture with water and a scouring pad; he also washed the carpets, the spring mattresses, and even the piano, inside and out. She surrounded herself with disinfectants and antiseptics, and even her food smelled of camphor. To say that she washed her watches says it all. She dipped her daughter in the bath three times a day, and the cat fled the house snorting, not having the strength to endure the dips her mistress imposed on her. Don Lope wholeheartedly lamented the cerebral liquidation of his friend and missed the pleasant Josefina of yesteryear, a very pleasant lady, quite educated, and even with certain touches and edges of a true writer. She composed a few verses, which she only showed to trusted friends, and she judged all contemporary literature and writers with sound judgment. By temperament, by education, and by atavism—for he had two uncles who were academics, and another who emigrated to London with the Duke of Rivas and Alcalá Galiano—he detested modern realist tendencies; he adored the ideal and the noble and decorous phrase. He firmly believed that in taste there is aristocracy and people, and he did not hesitate to assign himself one of the most obscure places among the literary leaders. He adored ancient theater and knew by heart long lines from Don Gil de las calzas verdes, The Suspicious Truth, and The Prodigious Magician. He had a son, who died at the age of twelve, whom he named Lisardo, as if he were of the Tirso or Moreto family. His daughter owed the name Tristana to his passion for that chivalrous and noble art, which created an ideal society to constantly serve as a standard or example for our crude and vulgar realities. For all those refined tastes, which had beautified her by adding a thousand charms to her natural graces, disappeared without a trace . With her insane obsession with moving and tidiness, Josefina forgot all about her past years. Her memory, like a mirror lost to quicksilver , retained not a single idea, not a single name, not a single phrase from that fictitious world she had loved so much. One day Don Lope tried to reawaken the memories of the unfortunate lady, and he saw the stupidity painted on her face, as if she were being told of an existence prior to the present. She understood nothing, remembered nothing, didn’t know who Don Pedro Calderón could be, and at first thought he was some landlord, or the owner of the moving vans. Another day he surprised her washing her slippers, and beside her, he had the portrait albums hanging out to dry. Tristana contemplated, holding back her tears, that picture of desolation, and with expressive eyes begged her friend of the house not to upset the poor sick woman. The worst part was that the good gentleman resignedly endured the expenses of that unfortunate family, which, with the endless moves, the frequent breaking of dishes , and the deterioration of furniture, were mounting sky-high. That soapy deluge was suffocating them all. Fortunately, during one of the moves , either because she had settled into a new house, whose walls dripped with damp, or because Josephine wore shoes recently subjected to its sanitation system, the time came to surrender her soul to God. A rheumatic fever that swept through her, sword in hand, ended her sad days. But the worst was that, to pay the doctor, the pharmacy, and the funeral, as well as the perfume and grocery bills, Don Lope had to take another swipe at his depleted fortune, sacrificing that part of his possessions he loved most, his collection of ancient and modern weapons, gathered with such great care and the intimate pleasures of an intelligent searcher. Rare muskets and shabby arquebuses, pistols, halberds, Moorish shotguns and Christian rifles, broadswords, and also breastplates and backplates that adorned the knight’s parlor among a thousand showy war and hunting trappings, forming the noblest and most austere ensemble imaginable, passed at a paltry price into the hands of hucksters. When Don Lope saw his precious arsenal leave, he was distressed and in suspense, although his great spirit knew how to shackle the anguish that welled up in his chest and put on his face the mask of A stoic and dignified serenity. All that remained was her collection of portraits of beautiful women, ranging from delicate miniatures to modern photographs in which truth replaces art, a museum that served as a testament to her history of amorous struggles, like those of cannons and flags that, in another order, proclaim the grandeur of a glorious reign . All that remained was this: a few eloquent, though mute, images that meant much as trophies, but very little, alas, as a representative species of base metal. At the hour of her death, Josefina regained, as often happens, some of the sense she had lost, and with that sense, her former self was momentarily revived , recognizing, like Don Quixote on his deathbed, the absurdities of her widowhood and abhorring them. She turned her eyes to God, and still had time to turn them also to Don Lope, who was present, and she entrusted her orphaned daughter to him, placing her under his protection, and the noble knight accepted the charge with effusion, promising what is required in such solemn cases. In short: Reluz’s widow closed the window, improving with her passage to a better life the lives of the people who here groaned under the despotism of her moving and washing; Tristana went to live with Don Lope, and this… it must be said, however hard and pitiful it may be two months after taking her away, added to the already long list of his battles won for innocence. Chapter 4. The conscience of the warrior of love threw out, as has been seen, the splendors of an incandescent star; but it also occasionally revealed the horrible aridity of a star extinguished and dead. It was that the moral sense of the good knight was missing an important component, like an organ that has suffered a mutilation and only functions with deplorable limitations or stops. Don Lope, by the long-held dogma of his sedentary chivalry, did not admit crime, misdemeanor, or responsibility in matters of skirts. Apart from the case of courting the lady, wife, or mistress of a close friend, in love he considered everything permissible. Men like him, pampered children of Adam, had received from Heaven a tacit papal bull that exempted them from all morality, more the policing of the common people than the law of chivalry. His conscience, so sensitive in other areas, in this one was harder and more dead than a pebble, with the difference that a pebble, struck by the rim of a cart, usually gives off some spark, and Don Lope’s conscience, in cases of love, even if crushed by the horseshoes of Santiago’s horse, did not ignite. He professed the most erroneous and dissolving principles and reinforced them with historical insights, in which ingenuity did not negate the sacrilegious. He maintained that in the relations between man and woman there is no law but anarchy, if anarchy is law; that sovereign love should be subject only to its own intrinsic canon, and that the external limitations of its sovereignty serve only to diminish the race, to impoverish the bloodstream of humanity. He said, not without humor, that the articles of the Decalogue that deal with all the _peccata minuta_ were a tack added by Moses to the work of God, obeying purely political reasons; that these reasons of state continued to influence successive ages, making it necessary to police the passions; but that with the course of civilization they lost their logical force, and it is only due to human routine and laziness that the effects still persist after the causes have disappeared. The repeal of those outdated articles is imperative, and legislators must take action without mincing words. Society itself clearly demonstrates this need, effectively repealing what its directors strive to preserve against the pressure of customs and the realities of life. Ah! If good old Moisés would raise his head, he and no one else would correct his work, recognizing that there are times and times. It seems pointless to note that everyone who knew Garrido, including the one writing this, abhorred and abhors such ideas, deploring with all their hearts that the foolish gentleman’s conduct was a faithful one. application of their perverse doctrines. It must be added that those of us who hold the great principles on which it is based – etc., etc. – are made to stand on end just thinking about how the social machine would function if its enlightened manipulators had the whim to sponsor Don Lope’s nonsense and repeal the little articles or commandments whose uselessness he proclaimed in word and deed . If there were no hell, one would have to be created just for Don Lope , so that there he could eternally purge his mockeries of morality and serve as a perpetual warning to the many who, without declaring themselves his followers, actually become so throughout the roundabouts of this sinful earth. The gentleman was pleased with his acquisition, because the girl was pretty, quick-witted, with graceful gestures, a fresh complexion, and a seductive conversation. “Say what you will,” he argued to his cloak, recalling his sacrifices to support his mother and save his father from dishonor, “I have earned it well. Didn’t Josephine ask me to protect her? Well, more protection is impossible. I have her well defended from all danger; now no one will dare to touch her hair. ” In the early days, the gallant guarded his treasure with exquisite and shrewd precautions; he feared the girl’s rebellion, startled by the age difference, undoubtedly greater than the internal canon of love dictates. Fears and distrusts assailed him; he almost felt in his conscience something like a timid tickling, a precursor to remorse. But this lasted little, and the gentleman recovered his brave composure. Finally, the devastating action of time dampened her enthusiasm, softening the rigors of her restless vigilance, and she found herself in a situation similar to that of married couples who have exhausted the capital of tenderness and are beginning to spend, with prudent economy, the small income of their calm and somewhat insipid affection. It should be noted that not for a moment did it occur to the gentleman to marry his victim, for he abhorred marriage; he considered it the most horrific form of slavery devised by the powers of the earth to crush poor humanity. Tristana accepted this way of life almost without realizing its gravity. Her own innocence, while timidly suggesting defensive means that she was unable to employ, blindfolded her, and only time and the methodical continuity of her dishonor gave her the light to measure and appreciate her sad situation. Her careless upbringing greatly harmed her , and what ultimately ruined her were the witchcraft and trickery that Don Lope knew how to employ. He compensated for what the years were taking away from him with a very subtle art of speech and gallant refinements of superior temper, the kind that are rarely used anymore, because those who knew how to use them are dying. Rather than captivating the young woman’s heart, the mature gallant knew how to skillfully move the springs of her imagination, and with them produce a state of counterfeit passion, which for him, occasionally, resembled the true one. Miss Reluz passed through that tempestuous ordeal, like someone going through periods of acute feverish illness, and in it she had moments of short and pale happiness, like suspicions of what the fortunes of love can be. Don Lope carefully cultivated her imagination, sowing in it ideas that would foster conformity with such a life; This stimulated the young woman’s easy disposition to idealize things, to see everything as it is not, or as it suits us or as we would like it to be. The most unusual thing was that Tristana, in the early days, did not attach importance to the monstrous fact that her tyrant’s age was almost three times her own. To express it as clearly as possible, it must be said that she did not see the disproportion, due no doubt to the consummate arts of the seducer, and to the perfidious complicity with which nature aided him in his treacherous undertakings, granting him an almost miraculous preservation. His personal attractions were of such superior quality that time had great difficulty destroying them. Despite everything, the artifice, the distorted illusion of love, could not last: one day Don Lope realized that the fascination he had exerted on the unhappy girl had ended, and upon her coming to her senses, she produced a terrible impression from which she would take a long time to recover. Suddenly she saw in Don Lope the old man, and her imagination amplified the ridiculous presumption of the old man who, contrary to the law of nature, plays the part of a gallant. And Don Lope was not yet as old as Tristana felt him to be, nor had he disgraced himself to the point of being ordered to be picked up like a useless piece of junk. But as in intimate coexistence , the privileges of age impose themselves, and dissimulation is not as easy as when flirting away from home, in chosen places and at convenient hours, a thousand reasons for disillusionment arose at every moment, without the degenerate flirt, with all his art and all his talent, being able to avoid it. This awakening of Tristana’s was merely a phase of the profound crisis she suffered eight months after her dishonor, when she turned twenty-two. Until then, Reluz’s daughter, retarded in her moral development, had been entirely thoughtless and passive, without ideas of her own, living off the projections of others’ thoughts, and with such docility in her feelings that it was very easy to evoke them in any form and with any intention one wished. But days came when her mind blossomed suddenly, like a perennial plant upon a fine spring day, and filled with ideas, first in tight buds, then in splendid bouquets. Indecipherable longings took shape in her soul. She felt restless, ambitious, without knowing what for, for something very distant, very high that her eyes could not see from any angle; anxious fears sometimes troubled her, sometimes with smiling confidences; She saw her situation with lucidity, and the part of humanity that she represented with her misfortunes; she noticed something within herself that had crept in through the doors of her soul: pride, the awareness of not being a common person; she was surprised by the stirrings, growing stronger every day, of her intelligence that told her: “Here I am. Don’t you see how I think great things?” And as the tow on her wrist changed into the blood and marrow of a woman, she began to grow in abhorrence and repugnance for the miserable life she led under the power of Don Lope Garrido. Chapter 5. And among the thousand things Tristana learned in those days, without anyone teaching them to her, she also learned to dissemble, to make use of the flexibility of words, to put into the mechanism of life those springs that make it flexible, those dampers that deafen noise, those skillful deviations from the almost always dangerous rectilinear movement . It was that Don Lope, without either of them realizing it, had made her his disciple, and some of the ideas that flourished so luxuriantly in the young woman’s mind came from the seedbed of her lover and, by fate, teacher. Tristana was at that age and stage when ideas stick, when the most serious contagions of personal vocabulary, manners, and even character occur. The young lady and the maid got along very well. Without Saturna’s company and hospitality, Tristana’s life would have been intolerable. They chatted while working, and during their breaks, they chatted even more. The maid recounted events from her life, painting the world and its people with sincere realism, without blackening or poeticizing the pictures; And the young lady , who had hardly any past to tell, threw herself into the spaces of supposition and presumption, building castles of future life like the construction games of childhood with four tiles and some mounds of earth. They were history and poetry associated in a happy marriage. Saturna taught, Don Lope’s daughter created, basing her daring ideals on the deeds of the other. “Look,” Tristana said to the one who, more than a servant, was for her a faithful friend, “not everything this perverse man teaches us is nonsense, and some of what he talks about has a lot of intrigue… Because as far as talent is concerned, it cannot be denied that he has plenty. Don’t you think so?” That what he says about marriage is pure reason? I… I confess it to you , even if you scold me. I believe, like him, that chaining oneself to another person for life is an invention of the devil… Don’t you believe it? You’ll laugh when I tell you that I never want to marry, that I’d like to live always free. Yes, I know what you’re thinking; I’m playing it safe, because after what happened to me with this man, and being poor as I am, no one will want to put up with me. Isn’t that a woman, is that it? “Oh, no, miss, I didn’t think such a thing,” replied the maid promptly. “One always finds a pair of trousers for everything, even for getting married. I was married once, and I didn’t regret it; but I won’t go back to the Vicarage fountain for water. Liberty, miss is right , liberty, although this word doesn’t sound good in the mouths of women. Does miss know what they call those who stick their necks out of the water? Well, they call them, for good reason, “free.” Consequently, if there is to be a bit of reputation, there must be two bits of slavery. If women had jobs and careers, like those scoundrels of men, it would be better for God. But, look, only three careers can those who wear skirts follow: either getting married, which is a career, or the theater… well, being a comedian, which is a good way to live, or… I don’t want to mention the other. Imagine. “Well, look, of these three careers, the only ones for women, I like the first little, the third less, the middle one I would follow if I had the talents; but I don’t think I do… I know, I know that it is difficult to be free… and honorable. And how does a woman live without income?” If they made us doctors, lawyers, even apothecaries or notaries, if not ministers and senators, well, we could… But sewing, sewing… Calculate the stitches it takes to keep a house… When I think about what will become of me, I feel like crying. Oh, if I were fit to be a nun, I’d already be asking for a place in some convent! But I’m not good, no, for lifelong heists. I want to live, see the world, and find out why and for what purpose they brought us to this land where we are. I want to live and be free… Say another thing: can’t someone be a painter and earn a living painting pretty pictures? Paintings are very expensive. For one that only had some mountains far away, with four dead trees closer, and in the foreground a puddle and two ducklings, my father gave a thousand pesetas. So you see. And couldn’t a woman become a writer and write comedies…, prayer books, or even fables, sir? Well, it seems to me that this is easy. You can believe me that these last few nights, lying awake and not knowing how to pass the time, I’ve invented I don’t know how many dramas that make you cry, and plays that make you laugh, and novels with a lot of plot twists and tremendous passions, and what have you. The trouble is that I don’t know how to write… I mean, with good handwriting, I make a lot of mistakes in grammar, and even in spelling. But ideas, what we call ideas, you think I have no shortage of. “Oh, miss,” said Saturna, smiling and raising her admirable black eyes from the stocking she was examining, “how deluded she is if she thinks that all that can feed an honest lady at liberty! That’s for men, and even they… wow, those who live off legendary things have a fine head of hair !” They may be making pens, but what’s more, they’re making hair… Pepe Ruiz, my deceased’s foster brother, who is a very knowledgeable man in the field, as he works in the foundry where they make the lead letters for printing, used to tell us that among those who make pens, everything is hunger and need, and that here you don’t earn your bread by the sweat of your brow, but by the sweat of your tongue; more clearly: only the politicians get a cut, they spend their lives making speeches. Hard work?… Get out of there! Dramas, stories, and books to laugh or cry about? Conversation. Those who invent them wouldn’t even make enough for a stew if they didn’t scheme with the Government to steal the positions. That’s how things are going in the Ministry. –Well, I’ll tell you _quite frankly_ that it seems to me that I would be good even for that matter of Government and politics. Don’t laugh. I know Making speeches. It’s a very easy thing to do. If you read a little bit of the sessions of the Cortes, I’ll soon get you enough to fill half a newspaper. “Good heavens! You have to be a man for that, miss. The damned petticoat is in the way, just like riding a horse. My late friend used to say that if he hadn’t been so short-tempered, he would have gotten where few others get, because he came up with such gypsy ideas as those Castelar and Cánovas throw at you in the Cortes, things that would truly save the country ; but the son of God, whenever he wanted to let loose in the Circle of Artisans, or in the metingues of his _companions_, he felt a clamp in his throat, and he couldn’t find the first word, which is the most difficult… well, he didn’t break through. Of course, if he didn’t break through, he couldn’t be an orator or a politician. ” “Oh, what a fool! Well, I would break through, I would certainly break through.” _With discouragement._ We live without movement, tied down by a thousand ties… It also occurs to me that I could study languages. I
only know the scraps of French they taught me at school, and I’m already forgetting them. What a pleasure to speak English, German, Italian! It seems to me that if I tried, I’d learn it soon. I feel… I don’t know how to tell you… I feel as if I already knew a little bit before I knew it, as if in another life I had been English or German, and a trace remained… “Well, that matter of languages,” Saturna affirmed, looking at the young lady with maternal solicitude, “it would behoove her to learn it, because whoever gives lessons earns it, and besides, it’s a pleasure to be able to understand everything that foreigners speak. The master might as well give her a good teacher. ” “Don’t mention your master to me. I expect nothing from him.” _Pensive, looking at the light._ I don’t know, I don’t know when or how this will end; but somehow it must end.” The young lady fell silent, sinking into a somber reflection. Harassed by the idea of leaving Don Lope’s home, she heard in her mind the deep tumult of Madrid, saw the dusty clouds of lights that glittered in the distance , and felt enraptured by the feeling of her independence. Returning from that meditation as if from a lethargy, she sighed aloud. How alone she would be in the world outside the house of her poor and outdated lover! She had no relatives, and the only two people to whom she could give such a name were far away: her maternal uncle, Don Fernando, in the Philippines, and her cousin Cuesta, in Majorca, and neither of them had ever shown any desire to protect her. She also remembered all these things. Saturna observed her with compassionate eyes. The families who had visited and been friends with her mother now regarded her with suspicion and detachment, the effect of Don Lope’s devilish shadow . Against this, however, Tristana found an effective defense in her pride, and, scorning those who offended her, she indulged herself in one of those ardent satisfactions that fortify for the moment like alcohol, although in the long run they destroy. “Come on! Don’t think sad thoughts,” Saturna told her, passing her hand in front of her eyes, as if chasing away a fly. Chapter 6. “Then what do you want me to think about, happy thoughts? Tell me where they are, tell me quickly.” To liven up the conversation, Saturna quickly resorted to any jovial subject, bringing up anecdotes and gossip from the garrulous society that surrounded them. Some nights they amused themselves by ridiculing Don Lope, who, seeing himself in such great decline, denied the splendid habits of his entire life, becoming somewhat squalid. Pressed by growing penury, he bargained the meager household expenses, educating himself—at a good time!—in domestic administration, so at odds with his chivalry. Meticulous and meticulous, he intervened in things that he had previously deemed unbecoming of his lordly decorum, and he displayed a temper and grumbling that disfigured him more than the deep furrows on his face and the whitening of his hair. For from these miseries, from these outdated prose about the life of the fallen Don Juan, the two women found material to laugh at and pass the time. The funny thing about the case was that, as Don Lope was completely ignorant of the domestic economy, the more he pretended to be a financier and a good butler, the more easily he was deceived by Saturna, a consummate master of scrimping and other tricks of a cook and buyer. With Tristana, the gentleman was always as generous as his ever-increasing poverty allowed. The shortage began with the saddest characteristics, and it was in the expensive line of clothing that the painful reduction of savings was first felt; but Don Lope sacrificed his presumption to that of his slave, a sacrifice no small one for a man so devoted to himself. The day came when scarcity showed all the dry ugliness of its deathly face, and both were equal in the antiquated and worn-out nature of their clothing. The poor girl would burn her eyebrows, making with her rags, helped by Saturna, a thousand reworkings that were a marvel of skill and patience. In those fleeting times, which we might well call happy or golden, Garrido would occasionally take her to the theater; But necessity, with its heretical face, finally decreed the absolute suppression of all public spectacles. The horizons of life closed in and darkened every day before Miss Reluz, and that unwelcome home, cold of affection, poor, completely devoid of pleasant pursuits, overwhelmed her spirit. For the house, which displayed the remains of once luxurious furnishings, was becoming as ugly and sad as it was possible to imagine: everything foreshadowed penury and decay: nothing broken or deteriorated was fixed or repaired. In the bewildered and icy little living room, all that remained, among the most ugly junk, was a cabinet, damaged by moving, in which Don Lope kept his gallant archives. On the walls, the nails from which the panoplies had once been hung could be seen . In the study, there was a heaping of things that must have had room in a larger room, and in the dining room, there was no furniture other than the table and some rickety chairs with torn and dirty leather. Don Lope’s bed, made of wood with columns and a graceful canopy, was imposing with its monumental bulk; but the blue damask curtains could no longer bear any more tears. Tristana ‘s room , next to its master’s, was the least marked by the stamp of disaster, thanks to the exquisite care with which she defended her trousseau from decay and misery. And if the house declared, with the expressive language of things, the irremediable decline of sedentary chivalry, the person of the gallant was quickly becoming a pitiful image of the fleeting and vain nature of human glories. Discouragement, the sadness of his ruin, must have had a considerable influence on the despondent gentleman’s depression, deepening the wrinkles at his temples more than the years, and more than the hustle and bustle he had been carrying on since his twenties. His hair, which had begun to whiten at forty , had remained thick and strong; but strands were already falling out , which he would have replaced if there had been some alchemy that would allow it. His teeth were still in good condition, in the most visible parts; but his once admirable molars were beginning to rebel, refusing to chew properly, or breaking into pieces, as if one were biting another. The face of a Flemish soldier was losing its severe lines, and his body could not maintain its former slenderness without the aid of an iron will. Inside the house, his willpower gave way, reserving his efforts for the street, walks, and the casino. Usually, if he came in at night and found the two women awake, he would have a short conversation with them, a short one with Saturna, whom he ordered to go to bed, a long one with Tristana. But there came a time when he almost always entered silently and sulkily, and went into his room, where the unfortunate captive had to listen and endure his cries for his persistent cough, rheumatic pain, or chest pain. Don Lope would complain and cry out to the heavens, as if he believed that Nature had no right to make him suffer, or if he considered himself a favored mortal, relieved of the miseries that afflict humanity. And to top it all off, he was forced to sleep. with his head wrapped in an ugly handkerchief, and his bedroom stank of the concoctions he used to treat rheumatism or a cold. But these trifles, which wounded Don Lope to the very core of his conceit, did not affect Tristana as much as the annoying tricks the poor gentleman was displaying, for as he collapsed so pitifully, both physically and morally, she gave way to the flower of jealousy. He who never granted any newborn the honors of rivalry, when he felt the lion’s age within him, he was filled with anxiety and saw robbers and enemies in his own shadow. Recognizing himself as outmoded, selfishness devoured him like a senile leprosy, and the idea that the poor young woman would compare him, even if only mentally, with dreamed-of exemplars of beauty and youth, soured his life. His good judgment, truth be told, did not entirely abandon him, and in his lucid moments, which were usually in the morning, he recognized all the importunity and unreasonableness of his behavior, and tried to lull the captive with words of affection and trust. This peace was short-lived, because when night fell, when the old man and the girl were alone, the former would regain his Semitic selfishness, subjecting her to humiliating interrogations, and once, exalted by the torment he was subjected to by the alarming disproportion between his sickly flaccidity and Tristana’s youth, he went so far as to say to her: “If I catch you in any misstep, I’ll kill you, believe me. I’d rather end tragically than be ridiculous in my decline. Commend yourself to God before failing me. Because I know, I know; for me there are no secrets.” I possess infinite knowledge of these things, and experience and a nose… that it’s not possible to rub it off on me, no, it’s not possible. Chapter 7. Tristana was somewhat frightened, without reaching the point of feeling terror, nor of believing literally the fierce threats of her master, whose displays of sense of smell and divination she regarded as a ruse to dominate her. The peace of her conscience gave her courage against the tyrant, and she didn’t even bother to obey his endless prohibitions. Although he had ordered her not to go for walks with Saturna, she slipped away almost every afternoon: but they didn’t go to Madrid, but rather toward Cuatro Caminos, the Partidor, the Canalillo, or toward the heights overlooking the Hippodrome: a walk in the countryside, usually with a snack, and wholesome recreation. These were the only moments in her life when the poor slave could set aside her sadness, and she enjoyed them with childish abandon, allowing herself to run and jump, and play tag with the tavern owner’s girl, who usually accompanied her, or some other little friend from the neighborhood. On Sundays, the walk was of a very different nature. Saturna had her son in the hospice, and, following the custom of all mothers in a similar situation, she would go out to meet him on the walk. Usually, when the group of children arrived at a prearranged place in the new streets of Chamberí, they were told to break ranks and began to play. There, the mothers, grandmothers, or aunts of the one who had them were already waiting for them, with a handkerchief of oranges, peanuts, hazelnuts, buns, or crusts of bread. Some ran around and jumped, playing tag; others stuck to the groups of women. There were those who begged passersby for money, and almost all of them surrounded the vendors selling long candies, hazelnuts, and pine nuts. Tristana enjoyed such scenes very much, and every Sunday, as long as the weather was good, she would not fail to share with her servant the pleasant occupation of entertaining the little hospice boy, who was named Saturno, like his mother, and was plump, knock-kneed, with swollen, fleshy cheeks that were a living testament to the provincial establishment’s good management. His coarse cloth clothes didn’t allow him to move very gracefully, and his braided cap didn’t fit well on his large head, which had hair as coarse and bristly as the bristles of a brush. His mother and Tristana found him very salty; but it must be admitted that he wasn’t salty at all; he was, yes, docile, noble, and diligent, with a taste for street bullfighting. The young lady always gave him an orange and also brought him a dog. girl to buy any trinket she liked; and no matter how much her mother encouraged her to save, suggesting the idea of stashing away all the cash she earned, she could never manage to put a stop to her extravagance, and every penny acquired was every penny released into circulation. Thus prospered the trade of paper windmills, bullfighting banderillas, and roasted meats and acorns. After unwelcome rains, that year brought a peaceful fortnight in October, with a bright sun, clear skies, and still air; and although Madrid dawned shrouded in fog in the mornings, and at night the radiation cooled the ground considerably, the afternoons, from two to five, were delightful. On Sundays, not a living creature remained in the house, and all the streets of Chamberí, the heights of Maudes, the avenues of the Hipódromo, and the hills of Amaniel, teemed with people. Along the highway, the hurried procession toward the Tetuán picnic areas continued unabated . One Sunday in that beautiful October, Saturna and Tristana went to wait for the orphans on Ríos Rosas Street, which connects the Santa Engracia hills with Castellana Street. On that beautiful, sun-drenched, wide, and straight road overlooking a cheerful and extensive field, the double line of prisoners was released. Some clung to the mothers, who had been following them from a distance; others immediately set up the indispensable bullfight with bulls on points, complete with a precinct, pens, a section, alleys, a barrier, music from the orphanage, and other aspects. At that moment, the deaf-mutes passed by, coming from Castellana Street, in groups of one mute and one blind, with their blue overcoats and braided caps. In each pair, the eyes of the mute were enough for the blind to walk without stumbling; They communicated by touch, with such devilish garatusas that it was marvelous to see them speak. Thanks to the precision of that language, the blind soon realized that the orphans were there, while the mutes, all eyes, were desperate to throw in a couple of veronicas. As if for this they had no need of the gift of speech! In some deaf couples, the garatusas were a very rapid movement or vibration, as agile and flexible as the human voice. The mischievous faces of the mutes, in whose eyes shone all human speech, contrasted with the dull, dead faces of the blind, horribly pockmarked with smallpox, their eyes empty and closed between thick eyelashes, or open, though insensitive to the light, with pupils of clotted glass. They paused there, and for a moment fraternity reigned between them . Gestures, grimaces, a thousand grimaces. The blind, unable to take part in any game, withdrew disconsolately. Some allowed themselves to smile as if they could see, learning things by the rapid tapping of their fingers. Such compassion did these unfortunates inspire in Tristana that it almost hurt to look at them. They weren’t really human: they lacked the ability to understand, and what a chore it was to have to understand everything by thinking! Saturn left his mother to join a group that, stationed in a convenient place, robbed passersby not of money, but of matches. “Match or life” was the motto, and with such plunder the boys gathered enough material for their fireworks, or to light the bonfires of the Inquisition. Tristana went in search of them; Before approaching the arsonists, she saw a man talking to the teacher of the deaf and dumb, and when her gaze met that of the man—for in both of them seeing and looking at each other were a single action—she felt an internal shock, like an instant suspension of the flow of blood. What man was that? She had seen him before, no doubt; she didn’t remember when or where, there or elsewhere; but that was the first time that upon seeing him she felt a profound surprise, mingled with confusion, joy , and fear. Turning her back on him, she spoke to Saturn to convince him of the danger of playing with fire, and she heard the voice of the stranger speaking with piquant vivacity of things that she could not understand. Looking at him again, Again, she found his eyes searching for her. She felt ashamed and moved away, not without deciding to cast another glance from afar, wanting to examine with a woman’s eyes the man who was so wantonly absorbing her attention, to see if he was blond or dark-haired, if he dressed gracefully, if he had the airs of an important person, for she had not yet noticed any of this . The man was moving away: he was young, of good height, dressed like an elegant person who is in no mood to dress, on his head a light, unaffectedly squashed, flopping over his head, awkwardly held in his right hand, a well-worn summer overcoat. He carried it like someone who values nothing in clothing. The suit was gray, the tie was carelessly tied by hand. Jesus observed all this in a jiffy, and, in truth, the gentleman, or whatever he was, seemed to her to be quite sympathetic… very dark-skinned, with a short beard… She thought at first that he was wearing pince-nez… but no; no superimposed eyes; only the natural ones, which… Tristana, because of the great distance, could not appreciate what they looked like. The individual disappeared, his image lingering in the mind of Don Lope’s slave, and the next day, she, out walking with Saturna, saw him again. He was wearing the same suit; but he was wearing his overcoat, and a white scarf around his neck, because a sharp breeze was blowing. She looked at him with innocent impudence, delighted to see him, and he looked at her too, stopping at a discreet distance. “It seems he wants to talk to me,” the young woman thought. “And truly, I don’t know why he doesn’t tell me what he has to say.” Saturna laughed at this insipid flirtation, and the young lady, turning red, pretended to mock her as well. During the night she had no rest, and without daring to tell Saturna what she felt, she confessed the most serious things to herself. “How I like that man!” I don’t know what I would give for him to dare… I don’t know who he is, and I think about him night and day. What is this? Am I crazy? Does this mean the desperation of a prisoner who discovers a little hole through which to escape? I don’t know what this is; I only know that I need him to speak to me, even if it’s by telegraph, like deaf-mutes, or to write to me. I’m not afraid of writing to him, or of saying yes, before he asks me… What madness! But who could he be? He could be a scoundrel, a… No, it’s clear that he’s a person who’s not like other people. He’s alone, unique… quite clear. There is no other. And to find the only one, and see that this only one is more afraid than I am, and doesn’t dare tell me that I am his only one! No, no, I talk to him, I talk to him… I go up to him, I ask him what time it is, anything… or I tell him, like the hospice workers, to do me the favor of a little match… What nonsense! What would he think of me! He’d think me a frivolous woman. No, no, he’s the one who should break it… The next afternoon, almost at night, the young lady and the maid were coming on the open-top tram—he too! They saw him get on at the Glorieta de Quevedo: but since there were quite a few people, she had to remain standing on the front platform. Tristana felt such a suffocation in her chest that at times she had to stand up to breathe. An enormous weight weighed on her lungs, and the idea that, upon getting out of the car, the stranger would decide to break the silence filled her with confusion and anxiety. And what would she answer? Well, sir, she had no choice but to express her surprise, refuse, be alarmed, be offended, and say no, and what have you… This was the nice and decent thing to do. They got out, and the incognito gentleman followed them at a very decent distance. Don Lope’s slave didn’t dare turn her head, but Saturna took it upon herself to watch for both of them. They stopped with far-fetched pretexts; they stepped back as if to look in a shop window… and nothing. The gallant… mute as a Carthusian. The two women, in their disorderly walk, tripped over some children playing on the sidewalk, and one of them fell to the ground shrieking, while the others ran toward the doors of the houses, making a racket like demons. Confusion, a children’s uproar, angry mothers rushing in… So many hands tried to raise their hands. the boy who had fallen, another fell, and the commotion increased. When Saturna observed at this point that her young lady and the unknown gentleman were not a foot apart, she quietly moved away. “Thank God,” she thought, gazing at them from afar, “it’s time to bite: they’re talking.” What did that fellow say to Tristana? No one knows. All that is known is that Tristana answered yes, yes, yes! louder and louder, like someone who, overcome by a feeling stronger than her will, has completely lost all sense of propriety. Her situation was similar to that of someone drowning who sees a piece of wood and grabs onto it, believing she will find salvation in it. It is absurd to ask a shipwrecked person to adopt decorous postures when clinging to the plank. Deep voices of the instinct for salvation were the brief and categorical replies of Don Lope’s daughter , that “yes” uttered three times with increasing intensity of tone, a cry for help from a desperate soul… The little scene was short but fruitful . When Tristana returned to Saturna’s side, she put a hand to her temple and, trembling, said: “But I’m crazy!” Now I understand my madness. I had no tact, no malice, no dignity. I sold myself, Saturna… What will she think of me! Without knowing what I was doing… swept away by a vertigo… to everything she said I answered yes… but how…! Oh, you don’t know… emptying my soul through my eyes. Hers burned me. And I thought I knew something about these hypocrisies that are so suitable for a woman! She might think me a fool… she might think I have no shame… It’s just that I couldn’t dissimulate, or play the part of a shy young lady. The truth spills out onto my lips, and my feelings overflow… I want to smother it, and it’s smothering me. Is this being in love? I only know that I love him with all my soul, and I’ve let him know so; what an affront! I love him without knowing him, without even knowing who he is or his name. I understand that love shouldn’t begin like this… at least it’s not the norm, but rather it proceeds in stages, with very skillful yeses and noes, with cunning… But I can’t be like that, and I give my all when she tells me she wants to give it to me… Saturna, what do you think? Does he think I’m a wicked woman? Advise me, direct me. I don’t know about these things… Wait, listen: tomorrow, when you come back from shopping, you’ll find him on that corner where we spoke, and he’ll give you a little letter for me. For whatever you love most, for the health of your beloved son, Saturna, do not refuse me this favor, for he will be grateful to you all his life. Bring me, for God’s sake, the note, bring it to me, if you don’t want me to die tomorrow. Chapter 8. “I loved you since I was born…” This was what the first letter said…; no, no, the second, which was preceded by a brief interview in the street, under a lamppost, an interview intervened with hypocritical severity by Saturna, and in which the lovers addressed each other informally without prior agreement, as if no other forms of address existed, nor could exist . She was astonished at the deceitfulness of her eyes in her first assessments of the stranger’s person. When she noticed him, that afternoon of the deaf-mutes, she took him for a man of about thirty or more. What a fool! He was a boy… And his age was certainly no more than twenty-five, except that he had a certain reflective and melancholic air, more characteristic of middle age than youth. She no longer doubted that his eyes were like sparks, his brown color warmed by the sun, his voice like soft music that Tristana had never heard before, and that flattered her brain even more after hearing it. “I have been loving you, I have been searching for you since before I was born,” said her third letter, drenched in a delirious spiritualism. “Do not form a bad impression of me if I present myself to you without a veil, because the one of false decorum with which the world commands that our feelings be hooded, dissolved in my hands when I tried to put it on. Love me as I am; and if I were to understand that my sincerity seemed to you like casualness or a lack of shame, I would not hesitate to take my own life.” And he to her: “The day I discovered you was the last of a long exile.” She: “If one day you find something in me that displeases you, do me the charity of hiding your discovery. You are good, and if for any reason you stop loving or esteeming me, you will deceive me, won’t you, into believing that I am the same to you. Before you stop loving me, give me death a thousand times.” And after writing these things, the world did not fall apart. On the contrary, everything remained the same on Earth and in Heaven. But who was he, who? Horacio Díaz, son of a Spaniard and an Austrian woman, from the country they call _Irredeemable Italy_; born at sea, his parents sailing from Fiume to Algeria; raised in Oran until the age of five, in Savannah, United States, until the age of nine, in Shanghai, China, until the age of twelve; rocked by the waves of the sea, transported from one world to another, innocent victim of the wandering and always expatriated existence of a consul father. With so many comings and goings, and the tiring travels around the globe, and the influence of those devilish climates, she lost her mother at twelve, and her father at thirteen, and later ended up in the power of her paternal grandfather, with whom she lived for fifteen years in Alicante, suffering under his iron despotism more than the unfortunate galley slaves who pulled the heavy old ships by oars. For more news, listen to what Saturna’s mouth spewed hastily , more whispered than spoken: “Miss… what things! I’m going to look for him, since we agreed on it, at number 5 on that street further down… and I’ll take it so tenderly with the blessed little staircase. He had told me that at the last minute, at the last minute, and while I was watching steps ahead, always going up. What a laugh! New house; inside a courtyard of Sunday rooms, apartments and more apartments, and finally… It’s like a dovecote, close to the lightning rods, and with a view of the clouds themselves. I thought I wouldn’t reach it. Finally, with all my might, there I am. Imagine a very large room, with a large window through which all the light of the sky filters in, red walls , and on them paintings, canvas stretchers, disembodied heads, headless bodies, women’s figures, including breasts, hairy men , lifeless arms, and faces without ears, all the very color of our flesh. Believe me, so much nakedness is embarrassing… Divans, chairs that look antique, plaster figures with bare eyes, bare hands and feet… plaster too… A large easel, a smaller one, and on the chairs or nailed to the wall, short paintings, whole or broken, let’s say, unfinished, some with their little blue sky, as vivid as the real sky, and then a piece of tree, a parapet… flowerpots; in another, oranges and some peaches… but very nice… Anyway, not to tire you, precious fabrics, and a garment from an ironmonger’s, the kind that warriors used to wear. How funny! And there he was with the letter already written. Since I’m so curious, I wanted to know if he lived in that well-ventilated room , and he told me no, and that, well… He sleeps at an aunt’s house , over by Monteleón; But he spends all day here, and eats at one of the picnic areas next to the Depot. “He’s a painter; I know it,” Tristana said, flushed with joy. “That ‘s his studio you saw, silly girl. Oh, how lovely it must be!” In addition to corresponding daily with true ferocity, they saw each other every afternoon. Tristana went out with Saturna, and he waited for them a little beyond Cuatro Caminos. The maid let them go alone, with enough patience and discretion to wait for them as long as they spent wandering along the green banks of the Western Irrigation Canal, or the arid hills of Amaniel, along the Lozoya Canal. He wore a cape, she wore a veil and short coat, armbands, forgetting the world and its toils and vanities, living for each other and both for a double selves, dreaming step by step, or sitting in an ecstatic group. They talked a lot about the present; but the autobiography infiltrated, without knowing how, into their sweet and trusting conversations, all of them Love, idealism, and cooing, with the occasional mimosa of complaint or plea uttered from mouth to mouth by an insatiable selfishness that demands promises of wanting more, more, and in turn offers incredible increases in love, without seeing the limits of human things. In biographical references, Horacio was more talkative than Don Lope’s daughter . The latter, eager to show off her sincerity, felt gagged by the fear of certain dark spots. He, on the other hand, was burning with desire to recount his life, the most wretched and painful youth imaginable, and because he was already happy, he enjoyed stirring up that depth of sadness and martyrdom. Upon losing his parents, he was taken in by his paternal grandfather, under whose tyrannical power he suffered and groaned in the years between adolescence and manhood. Youth! He almost didn’t know what this meant. Innocent pleasures , pranks, the frivolous restlessness with which a child rehearses the deeds of a man—all of this was a dead letter to him. No beast could have compared to his grandfather, nor a prison more horrendous than that pestilent and filthy drugstore where he was kept locked up for about fifteen years, obstinately thwarting his innate love of painting, putting the odious shackles of arithmetic on him, and stuffing into his mind, like plugs to contain his thoughts, a thousand unpleasant tasks of accounting, invoices, and crowned demons. A man of a temperament similar to that of the cruelest tyrants of antiquity or of the modern Turkish empire, his grandfather had been and was the terror of the entire family. He reluctantly killed his wife, and his sons fled to exile to avoid him. Two of his daughters allowed themselves to be stolen, and the others married unfairly to lose sight of their paternal home. Well, sir, that tiger caught poor Horacito at the age of thirteen, and as a preventive measure, he tied his legs to the legs of the writing table so that he wouldn’t go out to the shop or stray from the tiresome work it imposed on him. And if he caught him drawing stick figures with a pen, the beatings would never end. At all costs, he longed to awaken in his grandson a taste for commerce, since all that stuff about painting, art, and paintbrushes was nothing more, in his opinion, than a very foolish way to starve to death. Horacio ‘s companion in these labors and torments was an old servant , balder than a bladder of butter, thin, and ochre-colored. He quietly, rather than dare to displease his master, to whom he was like a faithful dog, lovingly protected the little boy, covering up his faults and finding pretexts to take him with him on errands and commissions, so that he could stretch his legs and relax his spirits. The boy was docile and had very weak resources against despotism. He resigned himself to suffering unspeakably rather than put his tyrant in the firing line, and the man’s demon was triggered by the smallest thing. The victim submitted, and his feet were no longer tied to the table, and he was able to move about with a certain freedom in that unpleasant, pestilent, and dark hovel, where the gas lamp had to be lit at four in the afternoon. He gradually adapted to such a horrible mold, renouncing being a child, aging at fifteen, involuntarily imitating the suffering attitude and mechanical gestures of Hermogenes, the bald, yellow shopkeeper who, lacking personality, even lacked age. He was neither young nor old. In that dreadful life, passing away in body and soul, like grapes left in the sun, Horacio retained his inner fire, his artistic passion , and when his grandfather allowed him a few hours of freedom on Sundays, and granted him the right to be a human person, giving him a penny for his recreation, what did the boy do? Get himself paper and pencils and draw whatever he saw. It was a great torment for him that, with so much paint in tubes, brushes, palettes, and all the materials for that art he adored in the store , he wasn’t allowed to use them. He always hoped and hoped for better times, watching the The monotonous days, always the same, as the grains of sand on a water-clock are equal. Faith in his destiny sustained him, and thanks to it he endured such a miserable and base existence. The ferocious grandfather was also a miser, following the school of Licentiate Cabra, and he fed his grandson and Hermogenes only the bare minimum , without the refinements of cooking that, in his opinion, only served to foul the stomach. He didn’t allow him to mingle with other boys, because company, even if not entirely bad, only serves to ruin one’s life these days: boys are as rife with vices as men. Women!… This branch of life was the one that caused the tyrant the greatest concern , and surely, if he happened to catch his grandson in the act of love, even the most innocent, he would have broken his back. In short, he wouldn’t allow the boy to have a will, because the will of others hampered him like his own physical ailments, and when he noticed any signs of character in someone, he suffered as if he had a toothache. He wanted Horacio to be a druggist, to develop an interest in the genre, in scrupulous bookkeeping, in business integrity, in running the store; he wanted to make him a man and make him rich; he would see to it that he married him off in a timely manner, that is, that he would provide him with a mother for the children he would have; that he would build a modest and orderly home for him, and that he would regulate his existence until old age, and the existence of his successors. To achieve this goal, which Don Felipe Díaz considered as noble as the endless goal of saving one’s soul, the first thing he needed to do was to cure Horacio of that stupid childishness of trying to represent objects by means of a paste applied to a board or canvas. What nonsense! To want to reproduce nature, when we have nature itself right before our eyes! Who would come up with such nonsense? What is a painting? A lie, like comedies, a silent performance, and no matter how well painted a sky is, it can never be compared to heaven itself. Artists were, according to him, fools, madmen, and falsifiers of things, and their only usefulness consisted of the expense they incurred in stores buying the tools of the trade. They were also vile usurpers of divine faculty, and insulted God by wanting to imitate him, creating phantasms or figurations of things that only divine action can and knows how to create, and for such a crime, the warmest place in Hell must be theirs. Don Felipe equally despised actors and poets; he boasted of never having read a verse or seen a theatrical performance. And he also boasted of never having traveled , neither by train, nor by stagecoach, nor by wagon, of never having left his shop except to go to mass, or to attend to some urgent matter. Well, all his efforts were to recast his grandson with this very hard stamp, and when the boy grew into a man, the old man’s desire to imprint his habits and his stale manias on him grew. Because it must be said that he loved him, yes, why deny it? He had grown fond of him, an extravagant fondness, like all his affections and his character. Horacio’s will, meanwhile, outside of his ever-present vocation for painting, had become slack from lack of use. Lately, secretly from his grandfather, in a small upper room of the house, which he allowed him to enjoy, he painted, and there is some indication that the ferocious old man suspected it and turned a blind eye. It was the first weakness of his life, perhaps a precursor to serious events. Some cataclysm was bound to occur, and so it did: one morning, as Don Felipe was at his desk reviewing some English invoices for potassium chlorate and zinc sulfate, he bent his head over the paper and died without a groan. The day before, he had turned ninety. Chapter 9. All this, and other things that will come to light, Horacio told his lady, and she listened with delight, confirmed in her belief that the man Heaven had given her was an exception among “That event took me,” Díaz continued, “at the age of twenty-eight, with the habits of an old man and a child, for on the one hand the terrible discipline of my grandfather had preserved in me an innocence and ignorance of the world inappropriate for my age, and on the other I possessed properly senile virtues , a lack of appetite for things I barely knew, a tiredness, a tedium that made me consider a man forever numb and stiff… Well, sir, I must tell you that my grandfather left a good fortune, amassed quart by quart in that filthy, smelly store . A fifth of it was due to me; They gave me a very nice house in Villajoyosa, two small rural properties, and the corresponding share in the drugstore, which continues under the business name _Sobrinos de Felipe Díaz_. When I found myself free, it took me a while to recover from the stupor my independence produced in me; I felt so timid that when I tried to take a few steps in the world, I fell, daughter of my soul, I fell, like someone who doesn’t know how to walk because they haven’t exercised their legs in a long time. My artistic vocation, now freed from that cursed restraint, saved me, made me a man. Without caring about intervening in the affairs of the estate, I took flight, and with the first jerk, I landed in Italy, my illusion, my dream. I had come to think that Italy didn’t exist, that so much beauty was a lie, a deception of the mind. I ran there, and… what would happen! I was like a seminarian without a vocation who is released into the world after fifteen years of forced virtue. You’ll understand… the touch of life awakened in me a mad desire to collect all my debts, to live out in months the years that time owed me, swindling them from me in an unworthy manner, with the complicity of that old maniac. Don’t you understand? Well, in Venice, I gave myself over to dissipation, my conduct overcoming my own instincts, for the old boy wasn’t as vicious as he pretended to be out of revenge, out of vengeance for his past dullness and ridiculousness. I came to believe that if I didn’t go to extremes of debauchery, I wasn’t man enough, and I amused myself by looking at myself in that mirror, filthy if you will, but in which I saw myself much more graceful than I had been in my grandfather’s back room… Naturally, I grew tired of it; of course. In Florence and Rome, art cured me of that diabolical zeal, and since my tests were over, and the idea of getting a doctorate in manhood no longer tormented me, I dedicated myself to study; I copied, vigorously attacking nature; but the more I learned, the greater torment my deficient artistic training caused me. In coloring we were doing well: I handled it easily; but in drawing, I grew clumsier every day. How much I suffered, and what vigils, what toils day and night, searching for the line, struggling with it, and concluding by declaring myself defeated, only to return immediately to the frightful battle, with vigor, with fury! What rage! But it could not be otherwise. Since I had not cultivated drawing as a child, it was difficult for me to fit a contour… I will tell you that in my days of slavery, when tracing endless numbers on Don Felipe’s desk, I amused myself by giving them the intention of human forms. I gave the sevens a certain shaggy air, as if I were strumming a foreshortened version of a man; With the eights I would outline the outline of a woman’s breast, and what do I know… the threes served to indicate my grandfather’s profile, similar to a turtle’s beak… But this childish exercise wasn’t enough. I lacked the habit of seriously seeing the line and reproducing it. I worked, I sweated, I complained… and finally, I learned something. I spent a year in Rome, completely devoted to formal study, and although I also had my share of drunken binges there, similar to those in Venice, they were more leisurely, and I was no longer the lazy man who arrives late to the feast of life and eats hastily with a delayed appetite the dishes already served, in order to catch up with the rest of the world. which in due time began. “From Rome I returned to Alicante, where my uncles settled the inheritance, assigning me the share they wanted, without any disagreement or haggling on my part, and I said my last goodbyes to the transformed and modernized drugstore , to come here, where I have an aunt who I don’t deserve, better than the angels, a widow without children, and who loves me as such, and takes care of me and entertains me. She too was a victim of the one who tyrannized the entire family. As if I only gave her a peseta a day, and in all her letters I told her to save… As soon as I arrived in Madrid, I began studying, and I dedicated myself heart and soul to work. I have ambition, I desire applause, glory, a name. To be zero, to be worth no more than the grain that, with others like it, makes the crowd, saddens me. Until I am convinced otherwise, I will believe that a part, perhaps not a large one, but a part nonetheless, of the divine essence that God has scattered upon the heap has fallen within me, wherever it may fall. “I’ll tell you something else. Months before discovering you in this Madrid, I suffered from melancholy… I found myself once again at thirty years of age, thrown to the winds, for although I knew a little about life and the pleasures of youth, and I also savored aesthetic enjoyment, I lacked love, the feeling of our fusion into another being. I gave myself over to abstruse philosophies , and in the solitude of my study, struggling with the human form, I thought that love exists only in the aspiration to obtain it. I returned to my bitter sadness as a teenager; in dreams I saw silhouettes, tempting vaguenesses that beckoned me, lips that hissed at me . I understood then the most subtle things; The most convoluted psychologies seemed as clear to me as the four rules of Arithmetic… I saw you at last; you came out to meet me. I asked you if it was you… I don’t know what I said. I was so disturbed that you must have found me ridiculous. But God wanted you to know how to see the grave and serious through the foolish. Our romanticism, our exaltation, did not seem absurd to us. We were surprised by a belated hunger, the spiritual hunger , noble and pure, that moves the world, and by which we exist, and will exist thousands of generations after us. I recognized you as mine, and you declared me yours. This is living; the rest, what is it? ” He said, and Tristana, stunned by that spiritualism, which was like puffs of incense that her lover threw at her with a huge botafumeiro, did not know how to respond. She felt emotion kicking inside her chest, like a living being larger than the breast that contained it, and it was venting itself with frantic laughter or with sudden, burning streams of tears. It wasn’t even possible to say whether this was happiness for both of them or a lacerating sorrow, because both felt as if wounded by a sting that reached their souls, and tormented by the desire for a beyond. Tristana, in particular, was insatiable in the constant demands of her passion. She would suddenly burst into a bitter complaint, lamenting that Horacio didn’t love her enough, that he should love her more, much more; and he effortlessly granted more, always more, demanding the same in return. As evening fell, they contemplated the magnificent horizon of the Sierra, a vivid shade of turquoise, with uneven touches and transparencies, as if the purest blue were spilling over ice crystals. The curves of the bare ground, disappearing and dragging like lines that want to imitate a gentle swell, repeated to them that _more, always more_, inextinguishable longing of their thirsty hearts. Some afternoons, strolling along the western canal, a wavy strip of oasis that encircles the arid contours of Madrid’s land, they delighted in the bucolic placidity of that miniature valley. Roosters crowing, dogs barking, farmhouses; the swirl of fallen leaves, which the gentle wind gently swept, piling them up next to the trunks; the donkey, grazing with grave restraint; the slight trembling of the highest branches of the trees, which were becoming bare, all caused them enchantment and marvel, and they communicated their impressions, giving them and taking them away as if it were a single impression that ran from lip to lip and leaped from eye to eye. They always returned at a fixed hour, so that she wouldn’t get into trouble at home, and without worrying about Saturna, who was waiting for them, they walked arm in arm along the Aceiteros road, at dusk more silent and solitary than the Evil Lady of France. To the west, they saw the inflamed sky, a splendid trace of the sunset. Against that strip, like a black crest with sharp points, the cypresses of the San Ildefonso cemetery stood out, cut by sad Greek-style porticos, which in the half-light seem more elegant than they are. There were few rooms around there, and few or no people were to be found at that hour. They almost always saw one or two unyoked oxen lying down, the kind that look like elephants in size, beautiful animals of the Ávila breed, usually black, with antlers that strike fear into the bravest spirit; beasts rendered harmless by exhaustion, and which, when released from the yoke, only care to rest, looking with disdain at passersby. Tristana would approach them until she placed her hands on their twisted antlers, and she would have been glad to have something to feed them . “Since I’ve loved you,” she would say to her friend, “I’m not afraid of anything, not bulls nor thieves. I feel brave to the point of heroism, and neither the boa constrictor nor the jungle lion would make me blink. Near the old water depot, they saw the hulking merry- go-rounds, surrounded by gloomy solitude. The wooden horses, their legs stretched out as if to run, seemed enchanted. The seesaws, the roller coaster, stood out in the middle of the night with their extravagant shapes. Since there was no one around, Tristana and Horacio would briefly seize all the large toys that the village children play with… They were children too. Not far from that place, they saw the shadow of the old depot, surrounded by dense stands of trees, and toward the road, lights shone: those of the tram or passing cars, those of some snack bar where the quarrelsome murmur of latecomers still rang out. Among those buildings of humble architecture, surrounded by clumsy benches and rustic tables, Saturna was waiting for them, and there the separation was, some nights as painful and pathetic as if Horacio were leaving for the end of the world or Tristana were saying goodbye to become a nun. Finally, finally, after much tug-of-war, they managed to separate themselves, and each half went their separate ways. They still gazed at each other from afar, divining, rather than seeing, each other in the shadows of the night. Chapter 10. Tristana, according to her expression, after falling in love, feared neither the burly bull, nor the boa constrictor, nor the fierce lion of Atlas; but she was afraid of Don Lope, seeing him now as a monster who dwarfed all the beasts and harmful animals that exist in creation. Analyzing her fear, Miss Reluz believed she found it of such a quality that it could, at any given moment, turn into reckless and blind courage. The disagreement between captive and tyrant grew more pronounced day by day. Don Lope reached the height of impertinence, and although she , in agreement with Saturna, concealed their evening outings from him, when the elderly gentleman would say to her with a sullen expression: “You’re going out, Tristana, I know you’re going out; I know it by your face.” If at first the girl denied it, then she nodded with her disdainful silence. One day she dared to answer him: “Well, I’m going out, so what? Do I have to be locked up all my life?” Don Lope vented his anger with threats and oaths, and then, between anger and mockery, he would say to her: “Because it will be no surprise if, if you go out, some scamp harasses you, one of those _bacillus virgula_ of love who are out there, the only fruit of this puny generation, and that you, by dint of hearing nonsense, get dizzy and pay attention to him. Look, little girl, look, I won’t forgive you. If you fail me, let it be with a man worthy of me. And Where is that man, a worthy rival of the present? Nowhere, by God! He believes he has not been born… nor will he be born. Even so, you yourself will admit that I am not so easily ousted… Come here: enough with the buns. You must think I don’t love you already! How you would miss me if you left me! You would find nothing but types, of overwhelming insipidity … Come on, let’s make peace. Forgive me if I doubted you. No, no, you don’t fool me. You are a superior woman, who knows merit and… With these things, no less than with his outbursts of temper, Don Lope came to inspire in his captive a deep, dull hatred, which sometimes disguised itself as contempt, sometimes as repugnance. Horribly weary of his company, she counted the minutes waiting for the moment when he would take to the street. The idea of him falling ill terrified her , because then she wouldn’t be able to get out, thank God! And what would become of her, a prisoner, without the power…? No, no; this was impossible. There would be a stroll, even if Don Lope fell ill or died. At night, Tristana almost always feigned a headache in order to quickly withdraw from the sight and hated caresses of the defunct Don Juan. “And the strange thing is,” the girl said, alone with her passion and her conscience, “that if this man understood that I couldn’t love him, if he erased the word love from our relationship and established between us… another kinship, I would love him, yes sir, I would love him, I don’t know how, as one loves a good friend, because he isn’t bad, apart from the monomaniacal perversity of the pursuit of women. I would even forgive him for the wrong he has done me, my dishonor, I would forgive him with all my heart, yes, yes, if only he would leave me in peace… My God, inspire him to leave me in peace, and I will forgive him, and I will even love him, and I will be like the overly humble daughters who seem like servants, or like loyal maids, who see a father in the master who feeds them. Fortunately for Tristana, not only did Garrido’s health improve, dispelling with this her fears that he would stay at home in the evenings, but he must have had some relief from his financial difficulties, because his impertinent grumblings ceased, and he seemed to be in the calm state in which he was accustomed to live. Saturna, an old, weather-beaten dog, communicated to the young lady her observations on this matter. “It’s clear the master is in a good place, because it no longer occurs to him that I might soil myself for a quarter of a piece of escarole, nor does he forget the respect he, as a gentleman, owes to those of us who wear a skirt, even a patched one. The trouble is that when he collects the arrears, he spends them in a week, and then… goodbye chivalry, and once again vulgar, vulgar, and busybody. ” At the same time, Don Lope returned to caring for his person with a meticulous, lordly care, grooming himself as in his best days. Both women thanked God for this happy restoration of morals, and taking advantage of the tyrant’s methodical absences, the girl freely gave herself over to the ineffable joy of her strolls with the man she loved. He, for a change of scenery and decor, drove a carriage most afternoons, and the two of them getting into it, gave themselves the pleasure of getting away from Madrid almost to the point of losing sight of him. Witnesses to their happiness were Chamartín Hill, the two pagoda-like towers of the Jesuit college, and the mysterious pine grove; today the Fuencarral road, tomorrow the dark thickets of El Pardo, with its ground of metallic leaves bristling with spikes, the ash groves bordering the Manzanares, the bare eminences of Amaniel, and the deep ravines of El Abroñigal. Leaving the carriage, they strolled a long way along the borders of the cultivated lands, and breathed in the air the delights of solitude and placid stillness, delighting in everything they saw, for everything seemed beautiful, fresh, and new to them, without realizing that the charm of things was a projection of themselves. Drawing their eyes back toward the cause of such beauty, which resided within them, they gave themselves over to the innocent play of their discretion, which to those not in love would have been A cloying resemblance. They refined the reasons for their affection, seeking to explain the inexplicable, to decipher the profound mystery, and finally settled on the same old thing: demanding and promising more love from each other, defying eternity, guaranteeing each other an unshakeable faith in successive lives, in the nebulous circles of immortality, where perfection resides and souls shake off the dust of the worlds in which they suffered. Looking to the immediate and positive, Horacio encouraged her to go up to the study with him, demonstrating the comfort and privacy that the place offered them to spend the afternoon together. She had little desire to see the study! But as great as her desire was her fear of becoming too attached to the nest, and feeling so comfortable there that she wouldn’t be able to leave. She sensed what could happen to her in her idol’s home, next to the lightning rods, according to Saturna; that is to say, she didn’t sense it; she saw it so clearly that it couldn’t be more. And she was assailed by the bitterest fear of being less loved after what had happened there, as the interest of a hieroglyphic is lost after it has been deciphered; she also feared that the flow of her own affection would diminish, even though it was so lavish. Since love had lit new lights in her intelligence, filling her brain with ideas, and also giving her a great subtlety of expression to translate the deepest mysteries of the soul into language, she was able to express those fears to her lover in such delicate phrases and such exquisite tropes, expressing everything that is humanly possible, without saying anything that might offend modesty. He understood her, and since they were in harmony in everything, he returned her own feelings with spiritual tenderness. Nevertheless, he did not cease in his desire to draw her to study. “What if we regret it later?” she would say. “I fear happiness, for when I feel happy, it seems to me that evil is lurking.” Believe me, instead of rushing into happiness, a little bit of misfortune would do us good now, a bit of misfortune. Love is sacrifice, and we must always be prepared for self-denial and pain. Impose a great sacrifice on me, a painful obligation, and you’ll see how gladly I’ll throw myself into fulfilling it. Let’s suffer a little; let’s be good… “No, when it comes to goodness, no one can beat us,” Horacio would say gracefully. “We’re already too angelic, my dear. And this imposing of suffering on us is music, because life brings enough of it without anyone seeking it. I’m also a pessimist; that’s why, when I see good at the door, I knock on it and don’t let it go, lest later, when I need it, the rascal insist on not coming…” A burning enthusiasm arose in both of us, at these and other things; Words were followed by tenderness, until a burst of dignity and sanity brought them into perfect agreement to contain their anxiety and clothe themselves in formality, deceptive if you will, but which saved them for the moment. They said serious things, pertinent to morality; they praised the advantages of virtue, and how beautiful it is to love one another with exquisite and heavenly purity. As if love is more refined and subtle this way , and it is more deeply engraved in the soul. With these sweet pretenses they gained time and fed their passion, today with longings, tomorrow with the torments of Tantalus, exalting it with the very thing that seemed destined to restrain it, humanizing it with that which should divinize it, widening, along the margins of the spirit as well as the material, the channel through which that torrent of life flowed. Chapter 11. Through their recounted steps came the difficult confidences, the biographical pages that most resist revelation were opened, because they affect conscience and self-esteem. It is the law of love to inquire, and so is its revelation. Confession proceeds from love, and through it the pressures of conscience are more painful. Tristana wished to confide to Horacio the sad events of her life, and she did not consider herself happy until she did so. The artist glimpsed, or rather guessed, a grave mystery in the existence of his beloved, and if at first, out of refined delicacy, he did not want to probe, the day came when the The man’s suspicions and the lover’s curiosity were stronger than his fine considerations. Upon meeting Tristana, Horacio believed her, like some people in Chamberí, to be the daughter of Don Lope. But Saturna, upon bringing him the second letter, told him: “The young lady is married, and this Don Lope, whom you believe to be Papa, is even her own husband.” The young artist was astonished; but his astonishment did not prevent his credulity… Thus things remained, and for several days Horacio persisted in the habit of seeing in his conquest the legitimate wife of the respectable and gallant knight, who seemed like a figure escaped from the Painting of the Lances. Whenever he mentioned him to her, he would say: “Your husband here, your husband there…” and she was in no hurry to dispel the error. But one day, finally, word after word, question after question, feeling an invincible repugnance to the lie, and finding the strength to close in on it, Tristana, choked with shame and pain, decided to set things straight. “I’m lying to you, and I shouldn’t and don’t want to lie to you. The truth is spilling out of my mouth, and I can’t hold it back any longer. I’m not married to my husband—I mean, to my father—I mean, to that man…” Day after day, I thought about telling you; but I couldn’t bring myself to do so, son, I couldn’t bring myself to do so… I didn’t know, I still don’t know if you’re sorry or glad, if I’m worth more or less in your eyes… I’m a dishonored woman, but I’m free. What would you prefer…? For me to be an unfaithful wife, or a spinster who’s lost her honor? In any case, I think that, by telling you, I’m filling myself with disgrace… and I don’t know… I don’t know.” She couldn’t finish, and bursting into bitter tears, she hid her face in her friend’s chest. That spasm of sensitivity lasted a long time. Neither of them said anything. Finally, she jumped in with the obvious question: “Do you love me more or less?” “I love you the same… no; more, more, always more.” The girl didn’t need any prompting to describe, in broad strokes, the how and when of her dishonor. Endless tears were shed that afternoon; but her sincerity, her noble desire for confession as a sure means of purification, omitted nothing. “He took me in when I was left an orphan. He was, it’s fair to say, very generous with my parents. I respected and loved him; I had no idea what was going to happen to me. The surprise didn’t allow me to resist. I was a little more foolish then than I am now, and that cursed man dominated me, making of me whatever he wanted. Before, long before I met you, I loathed my weakness of spirit; How much more now that I know you. How much I’ve cried, my God!… The tears it cost me to see myself as I see myself…! And when I loved you, I felt like killing myself, because I couldn’t offer you what you deserve… What do you think? Do you love me less or more? Tell me more, always more. Strictly speaking , I must seem less guilty to you now, because I’m not an adulteress; I only deceive those who have no right to tyrannize me. My infidelity isn’t really infidelity, what do you think? But punishment for his infamy; and this insult he receives from me is well deserved. Horacio couldn’t help but appear more jealous upon learning of the illegitimate ties that bound Tristana to Don Lope. “No, I don’t love him,” she said emphatically, “nor have I ever loved him.” To express it all at once, I will add that from the moment I met you I began to feel a terrible aversion towards him… Then… Oh, Jesus, such strange things happen to me…! Sometimes it seems to me that I loathe him, that I feel a hatred for him as great as the evil he did to me; sometimes … I confess everything to you, everything… I feel a certain affection for him, like a daughter, and it seems to me that if he treated me as he should, like a father, I would love him… Because he is not bad, don’t go thinking that he is very bad, very bad… No; there is everything there: it is a monstrous combination of good qualities and horrible defects; he has two consciences, one very pure and noble for certain things, another that is like a quagmire; and he uses them according to the situation: he puts them on like shirts. He uses the black and dirty conscience for everything that concerns love. Oh, believe it or not! He’s been very fortunate in love. His conquests are so many they can’t be counted. If you only knew! Aristocracy, middle class, common people… everywhere he left a sad memory, just like Don Juan Tenorio. He snuck into palaces and cottages, and the bastard respected nothing, neither virtue, nor domestic peace, nor holy religion. The damned man has even had affairs with nuns and bigots, and his successes seem like the work of the Devil. His victims are countless: scorned husbands and fathers; wives who have gone to Hell, or will go when they die; children… whose children no one knows. In short, he’s a very harmful man, because he also shoots weapons with great skill; he’s already sent more than four to the other world. In his youth, he had an arrogant figure, and until recently he was still a disappointment. You’ll soon understand that his conquests have diminished in importance as he grew older. It’s my lot to be the last. I belong to their decline… Díaz heard these things with indignation at first, with astonishment later, and the only thing he could think of to say to his beloved was that she should break off those nefarious relationships as soon as possible. To this, the girl replied, very distressed, that this was easier said than done, since the cunning man, whenever he noticed in her symptoms of weariness and the itch to separate, would act like a father, showing himself tyrannically affectionate. Nevertheless, she had to pull hard to tear herself away from such an ignominious and unpleasant life. Horacio urged her to act firmly, and as the figure of Don Lope grew larger in her mind , her resolve to outwit the trickster and snatch his victim, perhaps the last, and undoubtedly the most precious, grew stronger . Tristana returned home in a pitiful state of mind and spirit, on edge, feverish, and ready to commit any folly. That night it was her duty to detest her tyrant, and when she saw him arrive, smiling and joking, she was so enraged that she would have gladly thrown the soup bowl at his head. During the meal, Don Lope was talkative, and he made small talk with Saturna, saying, among other things: “Yes, I know you have a boyfriend there in Tetouan, the one they call ‘Juan y Medio’ because he’s so tall, the blacksmith… you know. Pepe, the tram driver, told me . That’s why, at dusk, you wander around those roads like crazy, looking for dark corners, and there’s always a long, thin shadow that can be mistaken for yours.” “I have nothing to do with Juan y Medio, sir… Whether he’s courting me… I don’t know; it could be. Others who are worth more are in my wheelhouse… even young gentlemen. What does he think, that he alone has someone who loves him?” Saturna continued the joke, while Tristana was seething inside, and the little she ate turned to poison. Don Lope was not lacking in appetite that night, and he leisurely ate the chickpeas in his stew like the most indifferent bourgeois, the modest starter, more mutton than beef, and the grapes for dessert, all washed down with gulps of wine from the nearby tavern, a very bad one, which the good gentleman drank with true resignation, grimacing every time he brought it to his mouth . After finishing the meal, he retired to his room and lit a cigar, calling Tristana to keep him company. And stretching out in the armchair, he spoke these words, which made the young woman tremble: “It’s not just Saturna who’s having a nocturnal affair. You have it too. No, no one has told me anything… But I know it, I’ve been reading it for days… in your face, in your voice.” Tristana paled. Her pearly whiteness took on bluish tints in the light from the lampshaded candle that illuminated the study. She looked like a very beautiful dead woman, and stood out against the sofa with the violent foreshortening of a Japanese figure, one of those whose stability is incomprehensible, and that seem like laughing corpses glued to a tree, a cloud, or incomprehensible decorative bands. Finally, she forced a small smile on her bloodless face and, overwhelmed, answered: “You’re mistaken… I don’t have one…” Don Lope imposed himself on her so much, and fascinated her with such mysterious authority, that before him, even with so many reasons to rebel, she was unable to retain even a single glimmer of willpower. Chapter 12. “I know,” added Don Juan, fading into oblivion, taking off his boots and putting on the slippers that Tristana, to conceal her stupefaction, had brought him from the nearby bedroom. “I am very clever in these matters, and the person who will deceive and mock me has not yet been born . Tristana, you have found an idyll somewhere; I know it in your restlessness these days, in your way of looking, in the squint of your eyes, in a thousand details that do not escape me. I am an old dog, and I know that every young woman of your age, if she goes out daily , stumbles upon her idyll. It will happen one way or another. Sometimes you find what is good, sometimes what is detestable. I do not know how you found it; But don’t deny it, for your life. Tristana denied it again with gestures and words; but so badly, so badly, that it would have been better for her to remain silent. Don Lope’s penetrating eyes, fixed on her, frightened her, dominated her, causing her terror and extraordinary difficulty in lying. With great effort she tried to overcome the fascination of that gaze, and repeated her denials. “Well, defend yourself as best you can,” the gentleman continued, “but I remain firm. I am an old tailor and I know my stuff. I’ll warn you ahead of time, Tristana, so that you realize your error and back off, because I don’t like street romances, which I think have remained, until now , childishness and innocent games. Because if they were anything else…” As he said this, he cast such a lively and threatening look upon the poor young woman that Tristana drew back a little, as if instead of a look it were a hand that came upon her face. “Be very careful, child,” said the gentleman, biting fiercely into the tobacconist’s cigar because he couldn’t use up the others he was smoking. “And if you, through thoughtlessness or confusion, put me in a sedan chair and give wings to some scamp to take me for a… No, I don’t doubt you’ll see reason. Listen carefully, no one in the world until now has ever made a fool of me. I’m not yet old enough to bear certain insults, girl… So I won’t tell you any more. In the final analysis, I assume the authority to prevent you from going astray, and if you don’t like anything else , I declare myself a father, because as a father I will have to treat you if necessary.” Your mother entrusted you to me for protection, and I protected you, and I am determined to protect you against all kinds of ambushes and to defend your honor… Hearing this, Miss Reluz could not contain herself, and feeling a gust of anger, coming from who knows where, like a gust of wind, lash out at her soul, she stood up and said to him: “What are you talking about honor? I don’t have it; you have taken it from me, you have lost me.” She burst into tears so inconsolably that Don Lope abruptly changed his tone and expression. He went to her, placing his cigar on a nightstand, and shaking her hands, he kissed them, and he also kissed her head with unaffected tenderness. “My child, you astonish me by judging me in such an aggressive manner. It is true that… Yes, you are right… But you know very well that I cannot look at you as just one of many, whom… No, it is not that.” Tristana, be indulgent with me; you are not a victim; I cannot abandon you, I will never abandon you, and as long as this sad old man has a piece of bread, it will be yours. ‘ ‘Hypocrite, false, liar !’ exclaimed the slave, feeling strong. ‘Well, child, unburden yourself, tell me as many naughty things as you like,’ taking up her cigar again, ‘but let me do with you what I have never done with any woman: look at you as a loved one…; this is quite new to me… as a being of my own flesh and blood… You don’t believe it? ‘ ‘No, I don’t believe it. ‘ ‘Well, you’ll find out. For now, I’ve discovered that you’re up to no good. Don’t deny it, for God’s sake. Tell me it’s nonsense, frivolous, something unimportant; but don’t deny it. For if I wanted to keep an eye on you…! But no, no, spying seems beneath me.’ You and me. I’m merely giving you a little warning, telling you that I see you, that I divine you, that in the end you’ll be able to hide nothing from me, because if I set my mind to it, I’ll even extract the thoughts from your mind to see and examine; I’ll bring out even your most hidden impressions when you least expect it. Little girl, be careful, come to your senses. There will be no more talk of it if you promise to be good and faithful; but if you deceive me, if you sell my dignity for a handful of tenderness offered by some insipid brat… don’t be surprised that I’m defending myself. No one has put ashes on my forehead yet. “It’s all unfounded, all your ruminations,” Tristana said for the sake of saying something. “I haven’t thought about… ” “We’ll see,” the tyrant replied, once again piercing her with his scrutinizing gaze. “That’s enough. You’re free to come and go as you please.” But I warn you that I cannot be deceived… I look upon you as a wife and as a daughter, as it suits me. I invoke the memory of your parents… “My parents!” exclaimed the girl, reviving. “If they were to rise again and see what you have done to their daughter…” “God knows if alone in the world, or in other hands than mine, your fate would have been worse,” replied Don Lope, defending himself as best he could. “The good, the perfect, where is it? Thank God that he grants us the least evil, and the relative good. I do not expect you to venerate me as a saint; I tell you to see in me the man who loves you with all kinds of affection possible, the man who at all costs will keep you away from evil, and… “What I see,” interrupted Tristana, “is a brutal, monstrous selfishness, a selfishness that… ” “The tone you’re taking,” said Garrido sourly, “and the energy with which you answer me confirms me in the same way, you senseless girl. We have an affair, yes. There’s something outside the home that inspires you with abhorrence of what’s inside, and at the same time suggests ideas of freedom, of emancipation. Put that little mask down. Well, I’m not letting you go, no. I esteem you too much to surrender you to the hazards of the unknown, and to dangerous adventures. You’re an insane fool. I may have been a bad father to you. Well, look, now I feel like being a good father. ” And adopting the attitude of nobility and dignity that so well suited his figure, and that he used with such skill when it suited him; Putting it on and making it creak like armor of tempered steel, he said these grave words: “My child, I will not forbid you from leaving the house, because such a prohibition is unworthy of me and contrary to my habits. I do not wish to play the jealous man of a comedy, nor the domestic tyrant, whose ridiculousness I know better than anyone. But if I do not forbid you from going out, I tell you with all formality that I do not like to see you go out. You are materially free, and you yourself are the one who must point out the limitations that your freedom may have, considering my decorum and the affection I have for you. It was a pity he did not speak in verse to be a perfect image of the ” noble father” of ancient comedy! But the prose and the slippers, which due to the decadence in which he lived were not of the most elegant, partly destroyed that effect. The words of the damaged gallant made an impression on the young woman, and she withdrew to weep alone, there in the kitchen, on the friendly and loyal breast of Saturna; But not half an hour had passed when Don Lope rang the bell to summon her. From the manner of ringing it, the young lady knew that he was calling her and not the maid, and she came, yielding to a purely mechanical habit. No, she was not asking for the mallow flower or the warm cloths: what she was asking for was the sweet company of the slave, to amuse his sleepless, broken-down libertine, whom the years torment like accusing specters. She found him pacing about the room, with an old overcoat over his shoulders, because his poverty no longer permitted him to wear a new and elegant dressing gown; his head uncovered, for before she entered, he had taken off the cap with which he usually covered it at night. He was undoubtedly handsome, with the manly, nutty beauty of a Painting of Lances. “I called you, my child,” he said, lying down in an armchair and seating the slave on his knees, “because I didn’t want to go to bed without talking a little more. I know I won’t sleep if I go to bed leaving you upset… So let’s see… tell me your affair… ” “I have no story to tell,” Tristana replied, politely rejecting his caresses, as if pretending to be distracted. “Well, I’ll find out. No, I won’t scold you. Even if you treat me badly, I have much to be thankful for! You loved me in my old age, you gave me your youth, your candor; I picked flowers at an age when it was only right for me to touch thistles. I admit that I have been bad to you, and that I shouldn’t have plucked you from the stem. But I can’t help it; I can’t convince myself that I’m old, because God seems to put a feeling of eternal youth in my soul… What do you say to this? What do you think?” Are you making fun of me? Laugh all you want; but don’t leave me. I know I can’t gild your prison with vivid bitterness, because I am poor. Poverty is also a form of old age; but I resign myself to this less than to the other. Being poor overwhelms me, not for myself, but for you, because I would like to surround you with the comforts, the trappings that are your due. You deserve to live like a princess, and I have you here like a poor little hospice girl… I can’t dress you as I would like. Thank goodness you’re fine anyway, and in this poverty, in our ill-disguised misery, you always, always are and always will be a pearl. With gestures more than words, Tristana made it clear that she didn’t care a fig about poverty… “Ah… no!” These things are said, but rarely felt. We resign ourselves because there’s no other option; but poverty is a very bad thing, my daughter, and all of us, more or less sincerely, deny it. She believes my greatest torment is not being able to gild your little cage. And how well I would gild it for you! Because I understand, she believes I understand. I was rich; at least I had enough to live comfortably, even luxuriously, on my own. You won’t remember, because you were still a little girl then, my bachelor’s room on Luzón Street. Josefina took you there once, and you were afraid of the suits of armor that adorned my living room. How many times I held you in my arms and paraded you around the house, showing you my paintings, my lion and tiger skins, my panoplies, portraits of beautiful ladies… and you still never quite lost your fear! It was a premonition, wasn’t it? Who would have told us then that as the years went by…! I, who foresee everything , when it comes to possible loves, didn’t foresee this, it didn’t occur to me. Oh, how I’ve fallen so far down since then! Step by step I have descended, until I reached this shameful misery. First I had to deprive myself of my horses, my carriage… I left the room on Luzón Street when it became too expensive for me. I took another, and then, every few years, I sought cheaper ones, until I had to take refuge in this eccentric and vulgar suburb. With each stage, with each step, I was losing something of the good and comfortable things that surrounded me. Now I deprived myself of my cellar, well stocked with exquisite wines; now of my Flemish and Spanish tapestries; then of my paintings; then of my precious weapons, and finally, I am left with only four indecent pieces of junk… But I must not complain of God’s rigor, because I still have you, and you are worth more than all the jewels I have lost. Affected by the noble expressions of the knight in decline, Tristana did not know how to respond, for she did not want to be evasive with him, so as not to seem ungrateful, nor kind, fearing the consequences. She did not dare to utter a single tender word that would indicate weakness of spirit, because she was aware of the advantage that the very cunning man would instantly take from such a situation. An idea crossed Garrido’s mind that he did not want to express. He was gagged by delicacy, in which he was so extreme, that not once, when he spoke of his hardship, did he bring up his sacrifices for Tristana’s family. That night she felt a certain urge to settle accounts of gratitude; but the phrase expired on her lips, and only with the A thought told her: “Don’t forget that your parents devoured almost all my fortune . And isn’t this also weighed and measured? Is it all my fault? Doesn’t it occur to you that something ought to be thrown into the other dish? Is that a fair way of weighing, child, and judging?” ” Finally,” he said aloud after a pause, in which he judged and weighed the coldness of his captive, “we agreed that you have no desire to tell me your affair. You’re a fool. Without speaking, you’re telling me this with the repugnance you have for me, which you can’t hide. Understood, child, understood.” Putting her on her feet and getting up himself. “I’m not accustomed to inspiring disgust, frankly, nor am I a man who likes to go to such lengths to get what’s his. I don’t think so little of myself. What did you think? That I was going to ask you on my knees…?” Save your youthful charms for some of these modern-day puppets, yes, those we can’t call men without shortening the word or stretching the persona. Go to your little room and meditate on what we’ve discussed. It might well happen that your affair would leave me indifferent… seeing it as an easy means for you to learn, by experimental demonstration, what goes from man to man… But it might also happen that it would be indigestible, and that without getting too upset, because the case doesn’t merit it, like someone crushing ants, I would teach you… The girl was so indignant at this threat, and she must have found it so insolent, that she felt the hatred that her tyrant sometimes inspired in her resurfacing in her breast. And since the tumultuous appearances of that feeling magically removed her cowardice, she felt strong before him and gave him a round, brave reply. “Well, better yet: I fear nothing. Kill me whenever you want.” And Don Lope, seeing her leave in such a determined and arrogant attitude, put his hands to his head and said to himself: “He doesn’t fear me anymore. The truth is that the outcome is certain. ” Meanwhile, Tristana ran to the kitchen in search of Saturna, and between whispers and tears, gave her her orders, which were more or less as follows: “Tomorrow, when you go for the little letter, tell him not to bring a carriage, not to go out, to wait for me in the studio, because I’m going there even if I die… Listen; warn him to fire the model, if he has one tomorrow, and not to receive anyone… let him be alone, come on… If this man kills me, let him kill me with reason.” Chapter 13. And from that day on they strolled no more. They strolled, yes, in the brief field of the studio, from the pole of the ideal to that of reality; They traversed the entire sphere, from the human to the divine, without being able to easily determine the dividing line between the two , for the human seemed to them to be from heaven, and the divine, to their eyes, was clothed in mortal flesh. When her joyful intoxication allowed Tristana to learn of the environment in which she spent such sweet hours, a new aspiration was revealed to her spirit: art, until then merely dreamed of by her, now seen up close and understood. Her imagination was ignited and her eyes captivated by the human or inanimate forms that, translated from Nature, filled her lover’s studio; and although she had seen paintings before that occasion, she had never seen the natural process at such close range. And she touched the fresh paste with her little finger, believing she could better appreciate the secrets of the painted work and surprise it in its mysterious gestation. After watching Díaz work, she became even more enamored with that delightful art, which seemed effortless in its process, and she longed to test his talent as well. He placed the palette in her left hand, the brush in her right, and encouraged her to copy a piece. At first, alas, between peals of laughter and writhing, she could only cover the canvas with shapeless blotches; but on the second day, wow! she managed to skillfully mix two or three colors and place them, and even blend them with a certain dexterity. What a laugh! If only she were a painter too! She was not lacking in aptitude, for her hand lost its clumsiness hour by hour , and if her hand didn’t help her, her mind became very haughty. ahead, knowing how to do it, even if she couldn’t do it. Discouraged by the difficulties of the procedure, she grew impatient, and Horacio laughed, saying to her: “Well, what do you think, that this is just a game?” She complained bitterly of not having had at her side, for so long, people who knew how to see in her an aptitude for something, applying it to the study of some art. “Now it seems to me that if I had been taught to draw as a child, I would know how to paint today, and could earn a living and be independent with my honest work.” But my poor mother thought of nothing more than giving me the insubstantial education that girls learn to bring a good son-in-law home with them, namely: a little piano playing, the indispensable lick of French, and what have you… nonsense. If only they had taught me languages, so that, being left alone and poor, I could be a language teacher …!” Then, this cursed man has educated me for idleness and for his own pleasure, truly Turkish, son… So I find myself useless beyond all uselessness. You see, I love painting; I feel a vocation, a facility. Is it immodesty? No, tell me no; give me a boost, encourage me… For if with willpower, patience, and constant application difficulties could be overcome, I would overcome them, and I would be a painter, and we would study together, and my paintings… die of envy! would dwarf yours… Ah, no, not that; you are the king of painters! No, don’t be angry; you are, because I tell you so. I have an instinct…! I may not know how to do things, but I know how to judge them. These artistic impulses, these outbursts of a superior woman, enchanted good Díaz, who, shortly after those intimate conversations, began to notice that the enamored young woman was growing in his eyes and dwarfing him. Truly, this surprised him, and almost began to annoy him, because he had dreamed of Tristana as a woman subordinate to man in intelligence and will, a wife who lives off the moral and intellectual sap of her husband, and who sees and feels with his eyes and heart. But it turned out that the girl was thinking on her own, launching herself into the free spaces of thought, and demonstrating the most daring aspirations. “Look, my beloved son,” she would say to him in those delightful ramblings that swung them from the transports of love to the most serious problems of life, “I love you with all my soul; I am sure I could not live without you. Every woman aspires to marry the man she loves; I do not. According to the rules of society, I am already unable to marry. ” I couldn’t do it, not even with you, with my head held high, because no matter how good you were to me, I would always harbor a certain resentment toward you for having given you less than you deserved, and I would fear that sooner or later, in a moment of ill humor or fatigue, you would tell me that you had to close your eyes to be my husband… No, no. Is this pride, or what? I love you and I will always love you; but I wish to be free. That’s why I long for a way of living; a difficult thing, isn’t it? Saturna ridicules me and says there are only three careers for women: marriage, the theater, and… None of the three appeal to me. We’ll look for another. But I ask: is it madness to possess an art, to cultivate it, and to live off it? Do I understand so little about the world that I consider the impossible possible? You explain it to me, you who know more than I do. And Horace, in a great hurry, after much hesitation, finally agreed with Saturna’s assertion. “But you,” she added, “are an exceptional woman, and that rule doesn’t apply to you. You will find the formula, you will perhaps resolve the devilish problem of the free woman… ” “And an honorable one, of course, because I also tell you that I don’t believe I am lacking in honor by loving you, whether we live together or not… Are you going to tell me that I have lost all sense of morality? ” “No, for God’s sake. I believe… ” “I am very bad. Hadn’t you known him? Confess to me that you were a little frightened when you heard the last thing I said to you. For a long time, a very long time, I have been dreaming of that honorable freedom; and ever since I I want, since my intelligence has been awakened, and I find myself surprised by gusts of knowledge that enter my mind, like the wind through a door that is not properly closed, I see this matter of free honesty very clearly. I think about this all the time, thinking of you, and I never cease to rail against those who didn’t know how to teach me an art, even a trade, because if they had put me to hem shoes, by now I would be a good journeywoman, and perhaps a teacher. But I’m still young. Don’t you think I’m young? I see you putting on a mocking face. That means I’m young for love, but I have the tough bones to learn an art. Well, look, I’ll grow younger; I’ll take years off; I’ll return to childhood, and my diligence will make up for lost time. A firm will conquers all. Don’t you think so? Subdued by so much firmness, Horacio showed himself more loving every day, reinforcing his love with admiration. At the touch of her exuberant fantasy , powerful mental energies were awakened within him; the cycle of their ideas expanded; and, communicating from one to the other the powerful stimulus of feeling strongly and thinking deeply, they reached a very high degree of tempestuous intoxication of the senses, with flashes of daring erotic and social utopias. They philosophized with a pilgrim’s ease amid delirious tenderness, and, overcome by fatigue, they wandered languidly until they lost their breath. Their mouths remained silent, and their spirits continued fluttering through space. Meanwhile, nothing worth mentioning occurred in Tristana’s relationship with her master, who had adopted an observant and expectant attitude, showing himself very attentive, but not affectionate, toward her. He saw her come in late some nights, and he watched her attentively; but he did not reprimand her , sensing that, at the slightest clash, the slave would show signs of not being so. Some nights they chatted about various matters, with Don Lope coldly avoiding the subject of romance. The girl displayed such a lively spirit, her pearly Japanese face so transfigured as her black eyes reflected sovereign intelligence, that Don Lope, restraining his desire to devour her with kisses, became filled with melancholy, saying to himself: “She has talent… She certainly loves.” More than once he caught her in the dining room at unusual hours, beneath the bright spotlight of the hanging lamp, drawing the outline of some figure in an engraving, or copying some object in the room . “Good, good,” he said to her on the third or fourth time he found her engaged in such endeavor. “You’re making progress, my child, you’re making progress. Since the night before last, I’ve noticed a great difference.” And shutting himself up in his bedroom with his melancholy, the poor, decadent gentleman would exclaim, banging his fist on the table: “Another piece of information. This fellow is a painter.” But he didn’t want to get involved in direct inquiries, believing them to be offensive to his decorum and unbecoming of his never-before-defiled chivalry. One afternoon, however, on the tram platform, chatting with one of the conductors, who was his friend, he asked: “Pepe, is there a painter’s studio around here?” Just at that moment, they were passing the cross street, lined with new, shabby buildings, among which stood out a large, useful, exposed-brick house topped with some kind of stove, like a photographer’s or artist’s studio. “Over there,” said the conductor, “we have Mr. Díaz, an oil portraitist… ” “Oh, yes, I know him,” replied Don Lope. “That one… ” “That one who comes and goes morning and afternoon.” He doesn’t sleep here. Handsome boy! –Yes, I know… Dark, tiny. –No, he’s tall. –Tall, yes; but a bit round-shouldered. –No, graceful. –Just right, with long hair… –He’s got his hair shaved. –He’ll have cut it now. He looks like one of those Italians who play the harp. –I don’t know if he plays the harp. But he’s very dedicated with the paintbrushes. He took a friend of ours as a model for an apostle… Believe me, he got him talking. –Well, I thought he painted landscapes. –Also… and cavalry… He paints flowers that look alive; very ripe fruit, and dead quail. Properly everything. And the naked women he has in his studio are dazzling. –Naked girls too? –Or half-dressed, with a cloth that covers and doesn’t. Go up and see it all, Don Lope. That Don Horacio is a good fellow, and he will receive you well. –I’ve grown used to fright, Pepe. I don’t know how to admire those painted women. I’ve always liked the live ones better. Well… with God. Chapter 14. It is fair to say that the stormy series of lovebirds taken by the spiritual artist during that period diverted him from his noble profession. He painted little, and always without a model; he began to feel the worker’s remorse, that pain caused by unfinished pieces that demand workmanship and fitting; But between art and love, he preferred the latter, because it was something new to him, awakening the sweetest emotions of his soul; a newly discovered world, flowery, exuberant, rich, which he had to take possession of, firmly establishing himself in it as a geographer and conqueror. Art could wait; it would return when his mad desires calmed down; and they would calm down, and love would take on a peaceful character, more of a leisurely colonization than a furious conquest. Good old Horacio sincerely believed that this was the love of his life, that no other woman could please him anymore, nor replace the exalted and charming Tristana in his heart; and he was pleased to suppose that time would temper her fever of ideation, since for a wife or perpetual lover, such a rash flow of thought seemed excessive. She hoped that her constant affection and the passing of time would somewhat lessen her idol’s imaginative and reasoning stature, making her more womanly, more domestic, more ordinary, and more useful. This she thought; but she didn’t say it. One night, as they were chatting together, gazing at the sunset and savoring the sweetest melancholy of a foggy afternoon, Díaz was startled to hear her express herself in these terms: “What happens to me is very peculiar: I learn difficult things easily; I appropriate the ideas and rules of an art… even of a science, if you ask me; but I can’t grasp the practical details of life. Whenever I buy something, I’m cheated; I don’t know how to appreciate the value of things; I have no idea of government or order, and if Saturna didn’t manage everything in my house, it would be a mess. Undoubtedly, everyone is good for one thing; I could be good for many, but it’s clear I’m not good enough for that one.” I ‘m like men in that I don’t know the cost of a pound of potatoes and a hundredweight of coal. Saturna has told me this a thousand times, and it goes in one ear and out the other. Was I born to be a great lady? Perhaps so. Be that as it may, it’s best for me to apply myself, learn all this, and without prejudice to possessing an art, I must know how to raise chickens and mend clothes. I work hard at home, but without initiative. I’m Saturna’s assistant ; I help her, I sweep, clean, and mop, yes; but wretched house if I were in charge! I need to learn it, don’t I? That damned Don Lope hasn’t even bothered to teach me that. I’ve never been anything more to him than a Circassian bought for his pleasure, and he’s been content to see me pretty, clean, and amiable. The painter replied that she shouldn’t rush into acquiring domestic skills , as practice would easily teach them to her. “You’re a girl,” he added, “with a great deal of talent and great disposition.” You only lack the details, the minute knowledge that independence and necessity give. “I have one fear,” Tristana said, throwing her arms around his neck, ” that you might stop loving me because I don’t know what a penny can buy… because you’re afraid I’ll turn your house into a dancing school . The truth is, if I paint like you, or discover another profession where I can shine and work with confidence, how are we going to get along, my darling? It’s a frightening thing.” She expressed her confusion in such a gracious way that Horacio couldn’t understand. less than bursting into laughter. “Don’t worry, child. We’ll see. I’ll wear the skirts. What else can I do! ” “No, no,” said Tristana, raising a little finger and using it to emphasize her expressions in a very salty way. “If I find my way of life, I’ll live alone. Long live independence…!, without prejudice to loving you and always being yours. I understand myself: I have my little ideas here. No marriage, so as not to argue about who has the skirts and who doesn’t. I think you’ll love me less if you make me your slave; I think I’ll love you less if I get you in my face. Honorable liberty is my theme… or, if you prefer, my dogma. I know it’s difficult, very difficult, because _society_, as Saturna says… I don’t quite understand it… But I’m launching into the attempt… What failure? Well. And if I don’t fail, my son, if I get my way, what will you say? Oh! You’ll see me in my little house, alone, loving you very much, of course, and working, working on my art to earn a living; you in yours, together at times, separated for many hours, because… you see, this thing of always being together, always together, night and day, is like that, a bit… “How funny you are, and I love you so little! I can’t stand being separated from you for part of the day. We’ll be two in one, Siamese twins ; and if you want to wear trousers, put them on; if you want to be a tomboy, go with God… But now a serious difficulty occurs to me. Shall I tell you? ” “Yes, man, say it.” “No, I don’t want to. It’s soon. ” “How soon? Tell me, or I’ll tear off one of your ears. ” “Well, I… Do you remember what we were talking about last night?” “Shh. ” “You don’t remember.” –Yes, you fool. I have a memory…! You told me that to complete the illusion of your life you wished… –Say it. –No, say it yourself. –You wished for a little boy. –Oh! No, no; I would love him so much that I would die of grief if God took him away from me. Because they all die _with excitement_. Don’t you see the hearses passing by all the time with the little white boxes? It makes me so sad…! I don’t even know why God allows them to come into the world if he has to take them so soon… No, no; a child born is a stillborn child…, and ours would die too. It’s better if we don’t have him. Say no. –I say yes. Leave him, silly. And why should he die? Suppose he lives…, and here comes the problem. Since we must live separately, each in our own house, I independent, you free and honorable, each in their own home, most honorable and _most free_… I mean, most free, in which of the homes will the little angel live? Tristana remained absorbed, staring at the lines on the floorboards. She hadn’t expected the dreaded proposition, and at first she found no way to resolve it. Suddenly, her thoughts congested with a world of ideas that assailed her in a rush, she burst out laughing, quite certain that she possessed the truth, and expressed it in this way: “Take it then, with me, with me… what doubt can there be? If he’s mine, mine, with whom will he be? ” “But as he will be mine too, as he will be between both of us… ” “Yes… but I’ll tell you… yours, because… come on, I don’t want to say… Yours, yes; but he’s more mine than yours. No one can doubt that he’s mine, because Nature tears him from my own self. What’s yours is beyond doubt; but… it’s not that obvious, to the world, of course… Oh! Don’t make me talk like this, or give these explanations. –On the contrary, it’s better to explain everything. We’ll find ourselves in such a situation that I can say: mine, mine. –I could say it more forcefully: mine, mine, and eternally mine. –And mine too. –I agree; but… –There’s no but that’s worth it. –You don’t understand. Of course it’s yours… But it belongs more to me. –No, equally. –Shut up, man; never equally. You understand well: there could be other cases in which… I’m speaking in general. –We only speak in particular. –Well, I tell you in particular that it’s mine, and I won’t let it go, yeah! –It’s that… we would see… –There’s no but that’s worth it. –Mine, mine. “Yours, yes; but… look carefully… I mean, this ‘yours’ thing isn’t so clear in most cases. Then again, Nature gives me more rights than you… And he’ll be called like me, with my last name only. Why all the fuss? ” “Tristana, what are you saying?” _annoyed_. “What, are you angry? Son, it’s your fault. Why…? No, for God’s sake, don’t get angry. I’m backing down, I’m taking it back…” The little cloud passed, and soon there was all clarity and light in the sky of those happy occasions, slightly clouded over. But Díaz was a little sad. With her sweet endearments, Tristana tried to dispel that fleeting apprehension, and more charming and charming than ever, she said to him: “Well, arguing over something so remote, about something that might not happen! Forgive me. I can’t help it.” Ideas come to me, just as pimples might appear on my face. What’s my fault? When I least expect it, I think things I shouldn’t think… But don’t pay attention. Another time, you take a stick and hit me. Consider this a nervous or cerebral disease, which can be corrected with ointments of ash. What nonsense, to worry about what doesn’t exist, about what we don’t know will ever exist, when we have such an easy, such a beautiful present to enjoy! Chapter 15. The present was beautiful, truly beautiful beyond belief, and Horace was enraptured by it, as if transported to a corner of eternal glory. But he was a man of serious character, trained in meditative solitude , and by habit he measured and weighed all things, foreseeing the possible development of events. He was not one of those who easily become intoxicated by joys without seeing the other side. His clear understanding allowed him to analyze himself with confident observation, carefully examining his immutable being through the deliriums or tempests that occurred within him. The first thing he discovered in that analysis was the irresistible seduction that the Japanese lady exerted over him, a phenomenon that was like a sweet illness for him, from which he absolutely did not want to be cured. He considered it impossible to live without her charms, without her indescribable charms, without the thousand fascinating forms that divinity took in her when she became human. He was enchanted by her modesty when she appeared humble, and by her pride when she became enraged. Her mad enthusiasms and her discouragement or sadness captivated him in the same way. The girl was jovial and delightful; when she was angry, too. She combined an endless array of gifts and qualities, some serious, others frivolous and mundane; sometimes his intelligence judged everything with clear meaning, sometimes with seductive delirium. She knew how to be sweet and bitter, soft and fresh like water, fiery like fire, vague and murmuring like the air. She invented witty pranks, dressing up in the models’ costumes and improvising monologues or comedies in which she alone played two or three characters; she gave the most savage speeches; she imitated her old Don Lope; and in short, she displayed such talents and wit that the good Díaz, in love like a savage, thought his little friend epitomized and summarized all the gifts granted to mortal nature. For in the field, if it can be called that, of tenderness, Miss Reluz was equally prodigious. She knew how to express her affection in ever-new terms; to be sweet without being cloying, candid without being insipid, daring without a trace of corruption, with sincerity always foremost, as the first and most visible of her infinite graces. And Horacio, also seeing in her something that epitomized the precious merit of constancy, believed that the passion would last in both of them as long as life, and even longer; because, as a sincere believer, he did not consider his ideals extinguished in the darkness of death. Art was the one that lost out with these eternal passions and these growing ardors. In the mornings he amused himself by painting flowers or dead animals. They brought him lunch from the Riojano’s snack bar, and he ate voraciously, leaving the remains on any small table in the studio. The studio was charmingly disordered, and the caretaker, who tried to tidy it up every morning, increased the confusion and the Disarray. On the wide divan were scattered books, a Morellan blanket ; on the floor were boxes of paint, flowerpots, dead partridges; on the crooked chairs were half-painted boards; more books, folders of prints; in the adjoining room, used as a washroom and storage room , more boards, the water jug with bush branches left to cool, a Tristana gown hanging on a hanger, and beautiful dresses scattered everywhere; an Arab alquicel, a Japanese gown, masks, chirotecas, embroidered jackets and jackets, wigs, odalisque slippers , and Roman peasant aprons. Greek cardboard masks and chasuble fabrics decorated the walls, among thousands of portraits and photographs of horses, ships, dogs, and bulls. After lunch, Díaz waited for half an hour, and when his beloved didn’t appear, he grew impatient, and to entertain himself, he began to read Leopardi. He knew the Italian his mother taught him with pure perfection , and although during the long period of his grandfather’s tyranny he forgot some phrases, the root of that knowledge lived on in him forever, and in Venice, Rome, and Naples he trained himself to such an extent that he easily passed for Italian anywhere, even in Italy itself. Dante was his sole literary passion. He would repeat, without forgetting a single verse, entire canticles from Inferno and Purgatorio. It is said that, almost without meaning to, he gave his little friend lessons in bel parlare. With her prodigious assimilation, Tristana mastered pronunciation in a few days, and reading occasionally as if for fun, and listening to him read, within two weeks she was reciting with the admirable intonation of a consummate actress the passages from Francesca, Ugolino, and others. So, to the point: Horace fooled time reading the melancholy poet from Recanati, and he paused thoughtfully before that profound thought: _e discoprendo, solo il nulla s’accresce_, when he heard the little steps he longed to hear; and he no longer remembered Leopardi, nor did he care whether _il nulla_ grew or waned _discoprendo_. Thank God! Tristana entered with that childlike agility that did not yield even to the fatigue of the interminable staircase, and went straight to him to embrace him, as if she had gone a year without seeing him. –Rich, handsome, darling, show-off, how long it’s been since yesterday! I’ve been dying to see you… Have you remembered me? I bet you haven’t dreamed of me like I have of you? I dreamed that… I won’t tell you. I want to make you angry. –You’re meaner than a typhoid. Give me those lips, give them to me or I’ll strangle you right now. –Satrap, Corsican, gypsy! _falling tiredly onto the couch_. You don’t fool me with your _parlare honest_… Hey! _she seals her lip_… _Denez the sun’s blond locks_… My Jesus, such nonsense! Don’t pay attention: I’m crazy; it’s your fault. Oh, I have so many things to tell you, _darling_! How beautiful Italian is and how sweet, how pleasing to the soul it is to say _mio diletto_! I want you to teach it to me well, and I’ll be a teacher. But let’s get to the point. First of all, answer me: shall we kiss her? This mixture of jocular language and Italian words, with other stylistic oddities that will emerge, clearly demonstrated that they were in possession of that vocabulary of lovers, composed of a thousand forms of speech suggested by any picaresque anecdote, by this or that joke, by the reading of a serious passage or some famous verse. Such incidents enrich the family dictionary of those who live in absolute community of ideas and feelings. From a story she heard from Saturna came the phrase “shall we kiss her?” a playful way of expressing her plans to escape; and from another humorous little tale Horacio knew came the fact that Tristana never called him by his name, but rather by “Seño Juan,” who was a very rude and ill-tempered gypsy. In the harshest voice she could, Tristana grabbed him by the ear and said, “Señó Juan, do you love me?” He rarely called her by her name. Sometimes it was Beatrice, sometimes Francesca, or rather Paca from Rimini; sometimes Spark, or Seña Restituta_. These nicknames, and the grotesque terms or lyrical expressions that were the flavor of their passionate conversation, varied every few days, according to the anecdotes that came out. “We’ll set it up when you decide, dear Restituta,” replied Díaz. “If I wish for nothing else…! Do you think a man can remain _in ecstasy of love_ for so long?… Let’s go: _for you the gray nag, the one who, as you say, embroiders the fields_… ” “For a foreigner, for a foreigner _clapping_. I want you and I to be foreigners somewhere, and for us to go arm in arm without anyone knowing us. ” “Yes, my life. Who will see you?…” “Among the _French_ _singing_ and among the _English_… Well, I’ll tell you. I can’t resist my _tyrant of Syracuse_ any longer. You know?” Saturna calls him none other than Don Lepe, and that’s what I’ll call him as well. He’s taken on a pathetic attitude. He barely speaks to me, which makes me very happy. He acts interesting, hoping I’ll warm to his heart. Last night, you see, he was very kind to me and told me some of his adventures. The scoundrel no doubt thinks that such examples make him greater in my eyes; but he’s mistaken. I can’t see him. There are days when I have to look at him with pity; days when I have to loathe him, and last night I loathed him, because in the account of his schemes, which are tremendous, tremendous, I saw a depraved plan to fire my imagination. He’s the most devious thing in the world. I felt like telling him that I’m not interested in any adventure other than that of my beloved Senora Juan, whom I adore with all my irrational powers, as the other guy said. “Well, I’ll tell you the truth: I’d like to hear Don Lope tell his romantic stories. ” “As beautiful as they are, he thinks they are. The story of the Marchioness of Cabañal is the most ridiculous…! Her husband himself, more jealous than Othello, was… But it seems to me I’ve told you. And what about when he stole the little nun from the convent of San Pablo in Toledo…? That same year he killed in a duel the general who called himself the husband of the most virtuous woman in Spain, and she ran away with Don Lope to Barcelona. There he had seven adventures in one month, all very romantic. The man must have been daring , very well-built, and very brave in every way. ” “Restituta, don’t get so carried away with your disused Tenorio. ” “I only get so carried away with this show-off. What bad taste I have! Look at those eyes… oh, how ugly and graceless! And that mouth? It’s disgusting to look at it.” and that ungainly air… ugh, I don’t know why I look at you. No; if you already disgust me, get out of there. “And you, how horrible!… with those wild boar teeth, and that beetroot nose, and that body like a jug. Oh, your fingers are pincers! ” “Pincers, yes, iron pincers, to tear off your donkey skin strip by strip. Why are you like that?” “Great God, die if I grow!” “Cute, cuter than the Holy Fathers, and more of a witch than the Council of Trent and Don Alfonso the Wise… listen to something that occurs to me. If this door were to open now and your Don Lope were to appear… ?
” “Oh! You don’t know Don Lepe. Don Lepe doesn’t come here, nor for anything in the world would he act the jealous joke.” I would think his chivalry was filled with disgrace. Aside from the seduction of more or less virtuous women, he is all dignity. “And if I were to enter your house one night, and he caught me there? ” “Then perhaps, as a preventive measure, he would split you in two , or turn your skull into a piggy bank to store all the pellets in his revolver. With such chivalry, he knows how to be very rude when his delicate point is touched. That’s why it’s better if you don’t go. I don’t know how he knew this; but he does. The damned man learns everything , with his shrewdness like an old dog and his experience like a master of mischief. Yesterday he said to me with a sly undertone: “So we have some little painters?” I didn’t answer him. I don’t pay any attention to him now. One fine day he comes into the house, and the bird flies away… “Ahi Pisa, vituperio delle genti.” “Where are we going, my beloved son? Where will you lead me?” “Singing.” _La ci darem la mano_… I know there is no consistency in anything I say. The ideas They crowd around me here, fighting over who shall go out first, as when a crowd throngs at the door of a church, and they jostle and jostle… Love me, love me very much, for all the rest is music. Sometimes sad thoughts occur to me; for example, that I shall be very unhappy, that all my dreams of happiness will go up in smoke. That is why I cling more firmly to the idea of conquering my independence, and of making do with my wits as best I can. If it is true that I have some talent, why should I not use it worthily, as others exploit beauty or grace? “Your wish could not be more noble,” Horace told her thoughtfully. “But do not worry, do not cling so tightly to this aspiration, for it might prove impracticable. Give yourself to me without reserve. To be my companion for life ; to help me and support me with your affection…! Do you think there is a better profession, or a more beautiful art?” Make a man happy, that will make you happy, what else? –What else! _Looking at the ground._ _Diverse language, horrible faults… words of pain, accents of anger_… Yes, yes; congruence is what doesn’t seem… _Señor Juan_, do you love me very much? Well; you said: “what else?” Nothing, nothing. I’m content if there’s nothing else. I warn you that I’m a calamity as a housewife. I’m not quite right, and I’ll cause you a thousand troubles. And outside the home, in all kinds of shopping or minor womanly business, I’m also golden. Suffice it to say that I don’t know a single street, nor do I know how to walk alone without getting lost! The other day I couldn’t find my way from Puerta del Sol to Calle de Peligros, and I ended up there in the Plaza de la Cebada. I don’t have the slightest topographical sense. That same day, while buying some hairpins at the Bazaar, I spent a penny and didn’t bother collecting the change. When I remembered, I was already on the tram… by the way, I made a mistake and got on the Barrio tram. From all this and something else I observe in myself, I deduce… What are you thinking? Isn’t it true that you’ll never love anyone but your _Paquita de Rimini_…? Well, I keep telling you… No, I won’t tell you. –Tell me what you were thinking, _growing uncomfortable_. I have to break you of this mischievous habit of saying things halfway… –Hit me, man, hit me…, break my rib. You have a genius…! _not even the gilded ceiling… is admired, made… by the wise Moor, supported by jasper._ This doesn’t make sense either. –Damn. What can it have? –Well, _go ahead, Inés, the thing_… Listen. _Embracing him._ What I’ve thought about myself, studying myself a great deal—because I do study myself, you know— is that I’m useful, that I could be useful for great things; but that I’m definitely not useful for small things. What Horatio replied to him was lost in the wave of tenderness that followed, filling the placid solitude of the study with vague murmurs. Chapter 16. As a moral and physical counterweight to the enormous exaltation of the afternoons, Horacio, upon retiring at night to his house, would collapse into the dark bosom of a melancholy without ideas, or with vague ideas, all indefinable languor and anxiety. What was wrong with him? It wasn’t easy for him to answer himself. Since the days of his slow martyrdom in his grandfather’s power , he was accustomed to suffering strong periodic attacks of spleen, which were renewed in all the abnormal circumstances of his life. And it wasn’t that in those hours of contemplation he grew weary of Tristana, or harbored bitter aftertastes of the day; no; the sight of her haunted him; the fresh memory of her charms continually thrilled his soul, and rather than seek an end to such scorching emotions, he longed to repeat them, fearful that one day they might be gone. At the same time that he considered his destiny inseparable from that singular woman’s, a dull terror stirred in the depths of his soul, and no matter how hard he tried, furiously working his imagination, to picture his future with Tristana, he couldn’t succeed. His idol’s aspirations for great things amazed him; but when he tried to follow her along the paths she pointed out with gracious tenacity, her enchanting figure vanished into a nebulous horizon. The misery of her nephew did not cause concern to Doña Trinidad—that was the name of the lady with whom Horacio lived—until, after some time, she noticed a suspicious flatness in him. He fell into a kind of drowsiness, his eyes always open, and there was no way to get a word out of him. He could be seen motionless in an armchair in the dining room, paying not the slightest attention to the conversation of two or three people who enlivened Doña Trini’s sad nights. She had a very sweet disposition, ailing, though not very old, and overcome by the sorrows that had weighed upon her, for she had no peace of mind until she was left without a father and without a husband. She blessed solitude and owed much gratitude to death. From her life of toil, she was left with a nervous weakness and a slackening of the muscles in her eyelids. She only opened her eyes halfway, and this was difficult on certain days, or when certain types of air prevailed, sometimes reaching the painful extreme of having to lift her eyelid with her fingers if she wanted to see someone properly. In addition, her chest was very delicate, and as soon as winter came, she became ill, choked with a cough, with horrible coldness in her hands and feet, and she became desperate for defenses against the cold, both in the house and in her own person. She adored her nephew, and for nothing in the world would she leave him. One night, after dinner, and before the social gatherings began, Doña Trini sat curled up in front of the armchair where Horacio was smoking, and said to him: “If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be able to bear the harshness of this cursed cold that’s killing me. And to think that by going to your house in Villajoyosa I’d be resurrected! But how can I leave you here alone? Impossible, impossible. ” The nephew replied that he might as well go and leave him, since no one would eat him. “Who knows, who knows if they’ll eat you…! You’re also in a delicate state. I’m not leaving; I won’t leave you for anything in this world.” From that night on, a tenacious struggle began between the lady’s desire to emigrate and the young gentleman’s sedentary passivity. Doña Trini longed to leave; he too wanted her to leave, because the Madrid climate was quickly wearing her down. He would have been happy to accompany her; but how, good God! If he saw no human way to break her amorous chain, or even to loosen it? “I’ll go and take you,” he said to his aunt, looking for a compromise, “and I’ll come back right away. ” “No, no.” “I’ll go and look for you later, at the beginning of spring. ” “Nor.” Doña Trini’s tenacity was not based solely on her horror of winter, which that year came with a sword in hand. She knew nothing concretely about Horacio’s dalliances; But she suspected that something abnormal and dangerous was happening in the young man’s life, and with a happy instinct, she thought it best to take him away from Madrid. Raising her head to look at him properly, for that night her eyelids were functioning very poorly, and she could only open a third of them, she said to him: “Well, it seems to me that in Villajoyosa you would paint as well as you do here, and even better. There is Nature and nature everywhere… And above all, silly one, there you will be free of so much headache, and the anguish you are suffering. This is told to you by someone who loves you well, who knows something about this treacherous world. There is nothing worse than clinging to a vice of love… Let go of it at once. Put some distance between you and me. ” Having said this, Doña Trini let her eyelid droop, like a loophole that closes after a shot has been fired. Horacio replied nothing; but his aunt’s ideas remained in his mind like seeds ready to germinate. The friendly widow repeated her wise exhortations the following night, and after two days the idea of leaving no longer seemed so crazy to the painter , nor did he see, as before, in the separation from his beloved an event as serious as the planet breaking into a thousand pieces. Suddenly he felt an itch coming from the depths of his nature, a demand for rest. His whole existence called for a truce, one of those parentheses that war and love usually request with absolute necessity. to be able to continue fighting and living. The first time he told Tristana about Doña Trini’s wishes, she raised a hue and cry. He too was indignant; they both protested against the importunate trip, and… _I’d rather die than consent to tyrants_. But another day, discussing the same thing, Tristana seemed to conform. She felt sorry for the poor widow. It was so natural that she wouldn’t want to go alone…! Horacio affirmed that Doña Trini would not survive the rigors of winter in Madrid, nor was she determined to separate from her nephew. Reluz showed herself more compassionate, and finally… Could it be that her body and soul were also asking for a respite, a parenthesis, a solution of continuity? Neither of them yielded to their loving longing; but the separation didn’t frighten them; on the contrary, they wanted to experience the unknown charm of getting away, knowing that it was only for a short time; to taste the flavor of absence, with its anxieties, the waiting and receiving of letters, the mutual desire for each other, and the recounting of what was missing to have each other again. In short, Horacio took the road to Villadiego. The farewell was tender: they were mistaken, believing themselves serene enough to bear it, and in the end they found themselves as if condemned to the gallows. Horacio, in truth, did not feel very sad on the journey; he breathed easily, like a day laborer on a Saturday afternoon, after a week of hard work; he savored the moral relief, the pale pleasure of not feeling strong emotions. The first day in Villajoyosa, nothing new occurred. The man was so content, and very well found in his exile. But on the second day, that tranquil sea of his spirit began to stir and churn with a slight undulation, and then it began to grow, to ripple. After four days, the man could not live with loneliness, sadness, or deprivation. Everything bored her: the house, Doña Trini, her relatives. She called on art for help, and art gave her nothing but discouragement and rage. The beautiful landscape, the blue sea, the picturesque rocks, the wild pines—everything gave her a dark look. The first letter consoled her in her solitude; it couldn’t lack the sweetest absences, nor that well-worn “nessun maggior dolore” (a “nothing like pain”), nor the vocabulary formed during their constant conversations about love. They had agreed to write two letters a week, and it amounted to a letter “every day, every day,” as Tristana said. If his burned, hers burned. See the class: “I have spent a cruel day and a night tormented by every dog in Satan’s pack. Why did you leave?… Today I am calmer; I heard mass, I prayed a lot. I have understood that I shouldn’t complain, that we must put a stop to selfishness.” God has given me too much good, and I shouldn’t be demanding. I deserve to be scolded and beaten, and even if you love me a little less—no, for God’s sake!—when I grieve for a brief and necessary absence … You command me to be calm, and I am. _Your duca_, _your maestro_, _your signore_. I know that my _Señó Juan_ will return soon, that he must love me always, and _Paquita de Rimini_ waits confidently, and resigns herself with her _soleá_. From him to her: «My little girl, what days I’m having! Today I wanted to paint a donkey, and it came out… something like a wineskin with ears. I’m exhausted; I don’t see color, I don’t see line, I see nothing but my _Restituta_, who dazzles my eyes with her cuteness. Day and night the image of my mountain monster haunts me , with all the searching of the Holy Spirit and all the salt in the _medicine chest_. » _Collector’s note_: They called the sea a _medicine cabinet_ because of that Andalusian tale about the ship’s doctor, who cured everything with salt water. «… My aunt isn’t well. I can’t abandon her. If I were to commit such an atrocity, you yourself wouldn’t forgive me. My boredom is a horrible torture that our friend Alighieri forgot. » I have reread your letter of Thursday, the one with the bow ties, the one with the ecstasies… _inteligenti pauca_. When God brought you into the world, he put his hands to his august head, repentant and regretful of having spent on you all the ingenuity he had available to make a hundred generations. Please don’t tell me you’re worthless, that you’re a zero. Zeros to me! Well, I tell you, even if modesty flares up in your face like the Northern Lights, I tell you, oh Restituta, that all the goods in the world are a mere penny compared to what you’re worth; and that all human glories, dreamed of by ambition and pursued by fortune, are an old shoe compared to the glory of being your master… I won’t trade places with anyone… No, no, I’m wrong: I’d like to be Bismarck, create an empire, and make you empress. Little girl, I’ll be your humble vassal; trample on me, spit on me, and order me to be whipped. From her to him: “… Don’t even jokingly tell me that my Master John can stop loving me. You don’t know your _Panchita de Rimini_ well, who isn’t afraid of death, and feels brave enough to _commit suicide_ with the greatest salt in the world. I kill myself like someone drinking a glass of water. What a pleasure, what a sweet stimulus of curiosity! To find out everything there is over there! And to see the face of the _pusuntra_!… To be radically cured of that annoying little doubt of _to be or not to be_, as _Chispecrís_ said…! Anyway, don’t tell me that again about loving me a little less, because look at you… if you could see what a nice collection of revolvers my Mr. _Lepe_ has! And I warn you that I know how to handle it, and if I get suffocated, pim! I’m going to sleep a siesta with the Holy Spirit… And when the train was bringing and taking away all this cargo of sentimentality, the axles of the mail car did not catch fire, nor did the locomotive shoot off, like a steed with red-hot spurs applied to its flanks! So many ardors remained latent in the little note on which they were written. Chapter 17. So fickle and extreme was Miss Reluz’s impressions that she easily passed from unbridled and epileptic joy to a gloomy despair. Here is an example: “Dear bene, my dear, is it true that you love me so much and that you esteem me so much? Well, I am beginning to doubt that such beauty is true. Tell me: do you exist, or are you nothing more than a vain phantom, the work of fever, of this illusion of beauty and grandeur that upsets me? Please send me an unpaid letter or a telegram that says: I exist. Signed, Mr. Juan… I am so happy that sometimes it seems to me I’m suspended in the air, that my feet don’t touch the ground, that I smell eternity and breathe the breeze that blows beyond the sun. I don’t sleep. Nor do I need to sleep!… Rather, I’d rather spend the whole night thinking that you like me and counting the minutes until I see your beautiful face. The righteous who are in ecstasy at the truth of the Holy Trinity are not as happy as I am; they are not, they cannot be… Only a tiny, annoying suspicion, like the grain of dirt that gets into our eyes and makes us suffer so much, prevents me from absolute happiness. And it’s the suspicion that you still don’t love me enough, that you haven’t reached the supreme limit of wanting—what do I say limit, if there isn’t one? —at the beginning of the last heaven, for I can’t tire of asking for more, more, always more; and I don’t want, I don’t want anything but infinite things, get this straight… everything infinite, infinitely many, or nothing… How many hugs do you think I’m going to give you when you arrive? Start counting. Well, as many as it takes an ant seconds to circle the globe. No; more, much more. As many as it takes an ant seconds to split the little terrestrial sphere in two with its legs, always circling it along the same line… So do the math, fool. And another day: I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I don’t live within myself, I can’t live on anxiety, on fear. Since yesterday I’ve done nothing but imagine misfortunes, suppose sad things: either that you’re going to die, and Don Lope comes to tell me with a look of glee, or that I’m going to die and they’re going to put me in that horrible box and throw earth over me. No, no; I don’t want to die, I don’t want to. I don’t want to know about there, it doesn’t interest me. Let them resurrect me, let them give me back my dear little life. I’m terrified of my own skull. Give me back my fresh, beautiful flesh, with all the kisses you’ve given me on it. I don’t want to be just cold bones and then dust. No, this is a deception. Nor do I like my spirit asking for hospitality from star to star, nor do I like Saint Peter, bald and sullen-faced , slamming the door in my face… For even if I knew I had to enter there, don’t talk to me about death; come my little mortal life and the land where I suffered and enjoyed, where my rogue is, said Juan. I don’t want wings or wings, nor to walk among dull angels playing the harp. Leave me with harps and accordions and celestial splendors. Come mortal life, and health and love, and everything I desire. The problem of my life annoys me more the more I think about it. I want to be something in the world, to cultivate an art, to live off myself. Discouragement overwhelms me. Is it true, my God, that I’m aiming for the impossible? I want a profession, and I’m good for nothing, and I know nothing about anything. This is horrendous. I aspire to be independent of anyone, not even of the man I adore. I don’t want to be his mistress, an ignoble type, the female some individuals keep for their amusement, like a hunting dog; nor do I want the man of my dreams to become my husband. I don’t see happiness in marriage. I want, to put it my way, to be married to myself, and to be my own head of the family. I won’t know how to love out of obligation; only in freedom do I understand my constant faith and my boundless loyalty. I protest, I feel like protesting against men, who have taken the whole world for themselves, and have left us nothing but the narrow paths where they don’t know how to walk… I’m annoying, aren’t I? Don’t pay any attention to me. What madness! I don’t know what I think, nor what I write; my head is a nest of nonsense. Poor me! Pity me; make fun of me… Order them to put me in a straitjacket and lock me in a cage. Today I can’t write you a joke; there’s no dough for doughnuts. All I know is tears, and this paper brings you a first-aid kit of tears. Tell me, why was I born? Why didn’t I stay there, in the lap of Lady Nothing, so beautiful, so peaceful, so sleepy, so…? I don’t know how to finish. While these tempestuous gusts crossed the long space between the Mediterranean villa and Madrid, a crisis began in Horace’s mind , the work of the inexorable law of adaptation, which had to find suitable local conditions to be fulfilled. The mildness of the climate enthralled him, and the charms of the landscape finally made their way , so to speak, through the mists that enveloped his soul. Art conspired with Nature to conquer him, and having painted one day, after a thousand fruitless attempts, a superb seascape, he remained forever enthralled by the blue sea, the luminous beaches, and the smiling contour of the land. The near and distant landscapes, the picturesque amphitheater of the town, the almond groves, the types of farmers and sailors inspired in him a strong desire to convey it all to canvas. The fever of work took hold, and finally, time, once so drawn-out and tiresome, became short and fleeting; so that, after a month of residing in Villajoyosa, the afternoons ate up the mornings, and the nights ate up the afternoons, without the artist remembering to snack or eat. Beyond this, he began to feel the proprietor’s affections, those vague attractions that bind the plant to the ground, and the spirit to domestic pettiness. His was the beautiful house in which he lived with Doña Trini: it took him a month to take in its comfort and its charming location. The orchard populated with ancient fruit trees, some of them very rare species, all in good condition, was also his, and the thick strawberry field, the asparagus vine, and the lush vegetable plantations; his was the irrigation ditch that flowed swiftly through the orchard and adjoining lands. Not far from the house, he could also gaze with the eyes of an owner at a group of graceful palm trees of biblical beauty, and an olive grove of austere color, with old, twisted, and warty specimens. like those of Gethsemane. When he wasn’t painting, he would take long walks in the company of simple townspeople, and his eyes never tired of contemplating the cerulean expanse, the ever-admirable _medicine cabinet_, which changed hue every moment, like an immense living being, endowed with infinite impressionability. The lateen sails that dotted it, sometimes white, sometimes resplendent like burnished gold ingots, added spicy touches to the majesty of the grandiose element, which some afternoons seemed milky and sleepy, others rippled and transparent, revealing, on its still margins, crystalline banks of emerald. What Horacio observed, it is said, was immediately communicated to Tristana. From the same to the same: “Oh, my child, you don’t know how beautiful this is! But how can you understand it, if I myself lived until recently blind to so much beauty and poetry? I admire and love this corner of the planet, thinking that one day we will love and admire it together. But if you are here with me, if I carry you in me, and I have no doubt that your eyes see within mine what mine see… Oh, Restitutilla, how you would love my house, our house, if you could see yourself there! It does not satisfy me, no, to have you here in spirit. In spirit! Rhetoric, daughter, that fills the lips and leaves the heart empty. Come, and you will see. Resolve to leave that old absurdity, and let us marry before this incomparable altar, or before any other little altar that the world designates for us, and that we will accept to be on good terms with it… Don’t you know? I have been frank with my illustrious aunt. It is impossible to keep the secret any longer. Be amazed, child; she did not frown. But even if she did… so what? I told her I had a point, that I couldn’t live without you, and she burst out laughing. Gosh, making a joke of such a serious thing! But it’s better this way… Tell me that what I’m telling you today pleases you, and that reading it makes you want to run over here. Tell me you’ve packed your bags, and I’ll rush out to find you. I don’t know what my aunt will think of such a sudden decision. Let her think what she will. Tell me that you’ll like this dark and delightful life; that you’ll love this peaceful countryside; that here you’ll be cured of the mad turmoil that troubles your spirit, and that you long to be a happy and robust villager, rich in the midst of simplicity and abundance, having as your husband the craziest of artists, the most spiritual inhabitant of this land of light, fertility, and poetry. Nota bene. I have a dovecote that tells the hour, with thirty or more pairs. I get up at dawn, and my first order of business is to open the door for them. My beloved little friends come out, and to greet the new day, they spin a few times in the air, tracing graceful spirals; then they come to eat from my hand, or around me, speaking to me with their coos a language that I regret I cannot transmit to you. It would be good if you could hear it and find out for yourself. Chapter 18. From Tristana to Horace: How enthusiastic and how foolish Mr. Juan is! And how, with the glories of that homeland, he forgets the memories of this wasteland where I live! You’ve even forgotten our vocabulary, and I’m no longer the Frasquita of Rimini. Well, well. I would very much like to be enthusiastic about your rusticity; you know that I invent words, for it makes one forget gold and scepters. I do what you command, and I obey you… as far as I can. _It must be a beautiful country… _ Me, a villain raising chickens, getting fatter every day, like an animal, and with a charm they call _maridillo_ hanging from the end of my nose! How pretty I must be, and you, how salty, with your early tomatoes and your late oranges, going out to catch shrimp, and painting donkeys in breeches, or rational people with packsails… I mean, the other way around. I can hear the doves from here, and I understand their cooing. Ask them why I have this crazy ambition that won’t let me live; why I aspire to the impossible, and will always aspire, until the impossible itself stands in front of me and says: “But can’t you see me, you…?” Ask them why I daydream of myself transported to another world, in which I see myself free and honored, loving you more than the young ladies of my eyes, and… Enough, enough, per pietá. I’m drunk today. I’ve drunk your letters from the previous days, and I find them horribly loaded with amyl. You deceiver! Fresh news. Don Lope, the great Don Lope, before whom the earth bowed in muteness , is in a bad way. The rheumatism is taking charge of avenging the countless husbands he mocked, and the honest virgins or fragile wives he sacrificed on the nefarious altar of his frivolity. What a little figure…! Well, this doesn’t mean that I don’t feel sorry for poor fallen Don Juan, because apart from his very little shame in the business of women, he is good and chivalrous. Now that he’s limping and useless , he’s finally arrived at the point of understanding me, of valuing my eagerness to learn a profession. Poor Don Lepe! Before, he laughed at me; now he applauds me and tears out his remaining hair, furious at not having understood the reasonableness of my desire before. “Well, you see: making a great sacrifice, he’s given me an English teacher—I mean, a teacher, although you’d rather think she was masculine or neuter—a tall, bony, wandering lady with a very ugly face made of roses and milk, and a hat that looks like a birdcage . Her name is Doña Malvina, and she was in the evangelical chapel, serving as a Protestant priest, until her provisions were cut off, and she devoted herself to giving lessons… Well, wait for now and you’ll hear the worst part: my teacher says I have a terrible disposition, and she’s astonished to see that she’s barely taught me anything before I already know it.” He assures me that in six months I’ll know as much English as Chaskaperas, or Lord Mascaole himself. And while he’s teaching me English, he’ll make me remember French, and then we’ll get our teeth into German. Give me a kiss, you stupid fool. It’s incredible that you’re so ignorant that you don’t understand this. English is beautiful, almost as beautiful as you, for you’re a fresh May rose… if May roses were black like my shoes. Well, I say I’m caught up in some dreadful troubles. I study all the time, and I devour the subjects. Forgive my immodesty; but I can’t contain myself: I’m a prodigy. I’m amazed to find that I know things when I try to know them. And by the way, Mr. Juan, orange-seller and in baggy trousers, get me out of this doubt: “Did you buy the steel pen from your neighbor’s gardener’s son?” I’m not a fool; What you’ve bought is the ivory candlestick of the Sultan of Morocco’s mother-in-law. I’ll bite off one of your ears. Expressions for doves. To be or nor to be… All the world a stage. From Señó Juan to Señá Restituta: My darling, my little thing, don’t pretend to be so wise. You scare me. For myself, I can tell you that in this admitted rusticity, the new word almost makes me want to forget how little I know. Long live Nature! Down with science! I would like to share your hatred of the dark life; but I can’t. My orange trees are loaded with orange blossoms, so you know, rage, rage! And golden fruit. It’s a joy to see them. I have some hens that every time they lay an egg, they cackle and ask the sky what reason there is for you not to come and eat them. They’re so big they seem to have a little elephant inside them. The pigeons say they want nothing to do with Englishmen, not even those who emulate the great Saspirr. Otherwise, they understand and practice honorable freedom, or free honesty. I forgot to tell you that I have three goats, each with an udder like a lottery drum. Don’t compare this milk to the one they sell at your local goat farm, to those innocent virgin dairy products that disgusted us so much. The goats are waiting for you, you cheap English girl , to offer you their perky breasts. Tell me something else… Have you eaten nougat this Christmas? I have enough almonds and hazelnuts here to fill you and your whole family. Come, and I’ll show you how to make the Jijona stuff, the Alicante stuff, and the delicious egg yolk stuff, less sweet than your gypsy soul. Do you like roasted goat? I say this because if you tried the stuff from my homeland, you’d lick your finger; no, the I’d suck that San Juan _deíto_ for you. You see I remember the vocabulary. Today the _medicine cabinet_ is in turmoil, because the West wind is tickling him a lot, making him nervous… »If you don’t get angry, or call me prosaic, I’ll tell you that I eat for seven. I extraordinarily like toasted garlic soup, cod and rice _in its many forms_, turkey poults and red mullet with pine nuts. I drink endlessly of the delicious _Engadi liqueur_, I mean, from Aspe, and I’m getting fat, and even handsome, so that you ‘ll fall in love with me when you see me, and be _enthusiastic_ in front of my charms or _appas_, as the French say, and us. Oh, what _appases_ mine are! And you? Please don’t make yourself skinny with so much study. I fear that Miss Malvina will infect you with her dry, mannish ugliness. Don’t get too philosophical on me, don’t climb to the stars, because my flesh is weighing heavily on me, and I can’t climb up to pick you, as I would pick a lemon from my lemon trees… But aren’t you envious of my way of life? What are you waiting for? If we don’t make her now, when, per Baco? Come, come. I’m already arranging your room, which will be magnificent, a worthy case for such a jewel. Tell me yes, and I’m off, I’m off… not from the mountains, I mean, I’m running to fetch you. Oh, donna di virtú! Even if you become more know-it-all than Minerva, and speak to me in Greek for greater clarity; even if you know the False Decretals and the Table of Logarithms by heart , I will adore you with all the strength of my utter barbarism. From Miss Reluz: “What sorrow, what anxiety, what fear! All I think about is bad things. All I do is bless this bad cold, which serves as an excuse to wipe my eyes every moment. Crying consoles me. If you ask me why I cry, I won’t know how to answer. Ah! Yes, yes, I know: I cry because I don’t see you, because I don’t know when I’ll see you. This absence is killing me. I’m jealous of the blue sea, the little boats, the oranges, the doves, and I think that all those beautiful things will be galleys for my Master Juan’s infidelity… Where there is so much good, must there not also be beautiful girls? Because with all my smart-aleckiness, keep a note of the words I invent, I’ll kill myself if you abandon me. You are responsible for the tragedy that could happen, and… ” I just received your letter. How it consoles me! I really laughed. My temper has stopped; I no longer cry; I am happy, so happy that I don’t know how to express it. But you don’t entice me, no, with your lemon trees and your flowing irrigation ditches. I, free and honorable, accept you as you are, a villager and a chicken farmer. You as you are, I as I am. That two people who love each other must become equal and think the same way, is beyond me. One for the other! Two in one! What nonsense selfishness invents! Why this confusion of characters? Let each person be as God made them, and being different, they will love each other more. Let me go, don’t tie me up, don’t erase my… shall I say it? These wise words choke me; but anyway, I will let it go… my doisingracia. “By the way. My teacher says that soon I will know more than she does. Pronunciation is the workhorse; But I’ll let go, don’t worry, this little tongue of mine does everything I want. And now, here are the blows with the censer that I give myself. How modest the girl is! Well, sir, you know that I master Grammar, that I devour the Dictionary, that my memory is prodigious, just as my understanding isn’t, if I don’t say so; Miss Malvina says so. She doesn’t mess around, and she maintains that with me you have to begin at the end. Hand to mouth we have begun to read Don Guillermo, the immense poet, the one who has created the most after God, as Seneca said… no, no, Alexandre Dumas. Doña Malvina knows the Glossary by heart, and knows the texts of all the plays and comedies by heart . She gave me a choice, and I chose Macbeth, because that lady from Macbeth has always been very nice to me. She’s my friend… Anyway, we sunk our teeth into the tragedy. The witches have _told_ me that I shall be queen… and I believe it. But anyway, that’s what we’re translating. Oh, my son, that exclamation of Señá Macbeth, when she cries out to heaven with all her soul _unsex me here_, makes me shudder, and awakens I know not what terrible emotions in the depths of my nature! Since you do not belong to the _educated classes_, you will not understand what that means, nor can I explain it to you, because it would be like throwing daisies to… No, you are my heaven, my hell, my _maznetic_ pole, and your compass always points towards you, your beloved maid, your… _Lady Restitute_. Thursday 14. Oh! I hadn’t told you anything. The great Don Lope, _terror of families_, is with me like a meringue. His rheumatism continues to torment him, but he always has words of affection and sweetness for me. Now he takes to calling me his daughter, to recreate my spirit —that’s what he says by calling himself my father—and to pretend that he is. “E se non piangi, de che pianger suoli?” He regrets not having understood me, not having cultivated my intelligence. He curses his abandonment… But there’s still time; we can still make up for lost ground. So that I may have a profession that allows me to be honestly free, he’ll sell his shirt, if necessary. He’s started by bringing me a cartload of books, since we never had any at home. They’re from the library of his friend the Marquis of Cicero. Needless to say, I’ve fallen upon them like a hungry wolf; now I want this one, now I don’t want that one, I’ve gorged myself so much that now, now… My God, how much I know! In eight days I’ve swallowed more pages than lentils can cost a thousand duros. If you saw the inside of my little brain, you’d be scared. There are ideas slapping each other around… I have too many, and I don’t know which ones to keep… And I’ll sink my teeth into a history volume as well as a philosophy treatise. Don’t you know what Mr. Leibniz’s monads are? Fool, do you think I’m saying monads? Yours are monads , you’ll say, and with good reason. Well, if I stumble across a medical book, don’t think I’m doing it wrong. I struggle with everything. I want to know, know, know. Certainly… No, I won’t tell you. Another day. It’s very late: I’ve been watching to write to you; the pale torch is going out, my love. I hear the cock’s crow, _herald_ of the new day, and already the placid henbane flows through my veins… Come on, you country bumpkin, confess that you found the henbane funny… Anyway, I’m done for, and I’m going to bed… yes, sir, I’m not going back: bed, bed. Chapter 19. From the same to the same: “Little puppet, why is it that the more I know, and I already know a lot, the more I idolize you?… Now that I’m sick and sad, I think about you more… Curious, you want to know everything. What I have is nothing, nothing; but it bothers me. Let’s not talk about it… There’s such a din in my head that I don’t know if this is my head or the madhouse where the crickets who have lost their cricket-like reason are locked up… A bewilderment, always thinking and thinking a thousand things, rather millions, of things beautiful and ugly, big and small! The strangest thing that’s happening to me is that your image has been erased from me: I can’t see your pretty face clearly; I see it as if wrapped in a mist, and I can’t define the features, nor grasp the expression, the gaze. How mad!… Sometimes it seems to me that the mist is clearing… I open the little eyes of my imagination wide, and I say to myself: “Now, now I’m going to see him.” But it turns out that I see less, that you become more obscure, that you are completely erased, and I’m bored, Mr. Juan. You become pure spirit, an intangible being, a… I don’t know how to put it. When I consider the poverty of words, I feel like inventing many more, so that everything can be said. Could you be my myth? “I think that all this talk about you being a fool is just to make fun of me. No, child, you are a great artist, and you have the divine light in your brain; you will make a name for yourself, and you will astonish the world with your marvelous genius. I want it to be said that Velázquez and Rafael were door-pinchers compared to you. They have to say it. You You’re deceiving me: pretending to be a lout, an egg-maker, and an orange-picker, you work in silence, and you prepare the big surprise for me. These aren’t bad eggs you’re hatching! You’re preparing, with partial studies, the great painting that was your dream and mine, the Embarkation of the Expelled Moriscos, for which you’ve already noted some figures. Do it, for God’s sake, work on it. A historical subject, profoundly human and pathetic! Don’t hesitate, and leave aside your henpecked ways and stupid vulgarities. Art! Glory, _Seno Juanico_! It’s the only rival I’m not jealous of. Climb onto the horns of the moon, for you can do it quite well. If there are others who will water the vegetables better than you, why don’t you try what no one else can do? Shouldn’t everyone be in their own field? Well, that’s your field, the divine art, in which you lack so little to be a master. I said.” Monday. “Shall I tell you? No, I won’t. You’ll be scared, thinking it’s more than it is. No, let me not tell you anything. I can already see the pout you give me for this system of mine of aiming and not firing , saying things mysteriously and keeping quiet about them without ceasing to say them. Well, find out, prick up your ears and listen. Oh, oh, oh! Can’t you hear how your Beatrice is complaining? Do you think she’s complaining of love, that she coos like your doves? No, she’s complaining of physical pain. Do you think I’m completely consumptive, like the Lady of the Camellias? No, my son. It’s just that Don Lope gave me his rheumatism. Man, don’t be scared; Don Lope can’t give me anything, because… you know… It’s no use. But intentional infections do happen.” I mean to say that my tyrant has taken revenge for my disdain by communicating to me, by gypsy art or the evil eye, the devilish illness from which he suffers. Two days ago, upon getting out of bed, I felt such a sharp pain—so sharp, my son… I won’t tell you where: you know that a young lady, an English lady at that, Miss Restitute, cannot decorously name, in front of a man, any parts of her body other than the face and the hands. But, anyway, you have no great shame! I trust you, and I want to tell you plainly: my leg hurts. Oh, oh, oh! Do you know where? Next to the knee, where that mole is… Come on, if this isn’t trust…! Don’t you think what God does to me is cruel? May he load that wastrel with ailments in his old age, as punishment for a youthful act of crimes against morality, very saintly and very good; But I, a young girl who is just beginning to sin, who barely…, and this with extenuating circumstances, should be afflicted, at the first opportunity, with such a fierce punishment…! That may be as just as one would like, but I don’t understand it. It’s true that we are fools. It would be lacking if we understood the designs, etc…! In short, the decrees of the Almighty make me very sad. What can this be? Won’t it go away soon? I despair at times, and I think it’s not God, not the Almighty, but the _Low_ who has brought this alifafe upon me. The Devil is a bad person and wants revenge on me for what I made him angry. Shortly before I met you, my despair was in dealing with him; but I met you, and I told him to go to hell. You saved me from falling into his clutches. The damned man swore revenge, and now you see. Oh, oh, oh! Your Restituta, your Curra of Rimini, is limping. Don’t think I’m joking: I can’t walk… The thought that, if you were here, I wouldn’t be able to go to your studio terrifies me. Although yes, I would go, oh yes, I would, crawling. And do you want me to be limping? Won’t you make fun of me? Won’t you lose hope? Tell me no; tell me this little limp is temporary. Come here; I want to see you; it mortifies me horribly to have lost the memory of your face. I spend long stretches of the night imagining what you look like, without being able to do so. And what does the girl do? Reconstruct you in her own way, create you with the violence of her imagination. Come quickly, and on the way, ask God, as I ask him, that when you arrive, your freak will no longer limp. Tuesday. “Good news, _Seño Juan_, rustic and pedestrian man, clod-digging, date-fruit Moor, good news! I’m not in pain anymore. I don’t limp today. What a Relief, what joy! Don Lope celebrates my recovery; but it seems to me that deep down, a forum in many corners regrets that the slave does not give in, because the limp is like a shackle that binds her more tightly to his damned person… Your letter made me laugh a lot. That you see in my illness nothing more than a dislocation from the leaps I make to climb the high seat of immortality has a lot of salt in it. What afflicts me is that you persist in being so brutal and in clinging to such vulgar nonsense. Life is short and one must enjoy it! Art and glory aren’t worth two cents! You didn’t say that when we met, you great rascal. Instead of jumping, I should sit very lazily on the warm flagstones of domestic life! Son, I can’t; I’m becoming less domestic every day! The more lessons Saturna gives her, the more clumsy the child becomes. If this is a serious fault, pity me. How happy I am! First: you tell me you will come soon. Second: I no longer limp. Third… no, I won’t tell you the third. Come on, so you don’t rack your brains, here it is. Last night I was very awake, and an idea fluttered around me until it got into my head and stayed there; and once it’s made its nest, you have me with my plague of little ideas that are tormenting me, and which I will communicate to you immediately. You will know that I have already solved the dreaded problem. The sphinx of my destiny opened her marble lips and told me that to be free and honorable, to enjoy independence and live off myself, I must be an actress. And I said yes; I approve; I feel like an actress. Until now I doubted that I possessed the faculties of the scenic art; But I’m already sure I possess them. They themselves tell me so, shouting inside me. To represent affections, passions, to feign life! Jesus, how easy it is! If I know how to feel, not only what I feel, but what I would feel in the various situations in life that may occur! With this, and a good voice, and a figure that… come on, isn’t bad, I have everything I need. “Yes, I see what you’re telling me: that I’ll lack the presence of mind to bear the gaze of an audience, that I’ll cut myself off… Step aside, man, what should I be upset about! I have no shame, to put it mildly . I swear that at this moment I have the strength to act out the most difficult passion plays, the most delicate comedies of grace and coquetry. What? Are you making fun of me? Don’t believe me? Well, then, try it. Let them bring me out on stage, and you’ll see who your Restituta is.” Nothing, man, you’ll convince yourself, you’ll start to convince yourself. What do you think? I can already imagine you won’t like it, that you’ll be jealous of the theater. The idea of a gallant embracing me, the idea of me having to pet some little actor and say a thousand endearing things to him, you don’t like it, do you? It’s not even a damn thing that twenty thousand fools cling to me, and carry me bouquets, and think they’re authorized to declare their fervent passions for me. No, don’t be silly. I love you more than my life. But do me the favor of granting me that the performing arts are a noble art, one of the few that a woman can honestly cultivate. Grant it to me, you idiot, and also that this profession will give me independence, and that in it I will know how and be able to love you more, always more, especially if you decide to be a great man. Do me the favor of being one, child, and don’t let me see you turned into a vulgar and obscure landowner. Don’t talk to me about sweet darkness. I want light, more light, always more light. Saturday. “Oh, oh, oh! My joy is in a well. You’ll be on tenterhooks, without a letter from me since Tuesday. But don’t you know what’s happening to me? I’m dying of grief… Lame again, with horrible pains! I’ve had three cruel days. The treacherous improvement of Tuesday deceived me. On Wednesday, after a hellish night, I woke up screaming. Don Lope brought the doctor, a certain Miquis, young and pleasant. How embarrassing! I had no choice but to show him my leg. He saw the little mole—oh, oh, oh!—and he told me I don’t know what jokes to make me laugh. I don’t think his prognosis is very reassuring, although Don Lepe assures me otherwise, no doubt to Cheer up. My God, how can I be an actress with this cursed limp? It can’t be, it can’t be. I’m crazy: all I think about is horrors. And what is all this? Nothing; around the little mole, a hardness… and if I touch it, I see stars, just as if I were walking. That Miquis, who strikes a chord, has sent me I don’t know what ointments, and an endless bandage, which Saturna is wrapping around me with the utmost care… I’m fine, by God! You’ve got your Beatrice wrapped up in a poultice. I must be very ugly, and what a sight!… I’m writing to you in the armchair, from which I can’t move. Saturna is holding the inkwell… And how do I see you now if you come? No, don’t come until this goes away. I pray to God and the Virgin to cure me soon. I haven’t been so bad that I deserve this punishment. What crime have I committed? Loving you? What a crime! Since I have this damned habit of always looking for the perfect thing, I think God has made a mistake about me. Jesus, what blasphemy! No, when He does it…! We will suffer; come on, be patient, although frankly, this thing of not being able to be an actress is driving me crazy and making me throw away all the patience I had been able to muster… But what if I get better? Because this will get better, and I won’t limp, or I’ll limp so little that I can hide it. “Come on, if you don’t feel sorry for me now, I don’t know when you’ll keep it. And if now you don’t love me more, more, more, you deserve that the Most Lowly will take you on His own and tear your eyes out. I am so miserable! I don’t know if it’s because of the anguish I feel or the effect of the illness, but all my ideas have escaped me, as if they were taking flight. They will come back, don’t you think they will? And I start to think and say: but, Lord, everything I read, everything I learned in so many books, where is it? It must be fluttering around my head, like the little birds flutter around a tree before going to bed, and they’ll come in, they’ll all come in again. The thing is, I’m very sad, very discouraged, and the idea of walking with crutches overwhelms me. No, I don’t want to be lame. Rather… “Malvina, to distract me, suggests that we take up German. I’ve sent her packing. I don’t want German, I don’t want languages, I want nothing but good health, even if I’m dumber than a bolt. Do you want me lame? No, I’ll be cured…! Of course! If not, it would be a huge injustice, an outrage on the part of Providence, of the Almighty, of… I don’t know what to say. I’m going crazy. I need to cry, to spend all day crying… English: but I am furious, and in rage I cannot cry. I hate all mankind, except you. I would like them to hang Doña Malvina, to shoot Saturna, to have Don Lope publicly flogged, paraded on a donkey, and then burned alive. I am terrified, I don’t know what I think, I don’t know what I say… Chapter 20. At nightfall, on one of the last days of January, Don Lope Garrido entered his house, melancholic and taciturn; like a man weighed down by the gravest sadness and cares. In a few months, old age had gained the ground that the presumption and the courageous spirit of his mature years had been able to defend ; he bowed towards the earth; his noble countenance took on an earthy and somber color; The gray hair was thriving on his head, and to complete the picture of decline, even his dress showed a certain negligence, more pitiful than his person’s descent. And his habits were not far behind in this change, because Don Lope hardly went out at night, and spent the day almost entirely at home. The reason for such havoc was easy to understand, because, it must be repeated, apart from his absolute moral blindness in matters of love, the worthless libertine was a man of good feelings, and could not see those close to him suffer. It was true that he had dishonored Tristana, killing her for society and marriage, trampling on her fresh youth; but courtesy did not take away from his courage; he loved her with a deep affection, and was distressed to see her sick and with little hope of a quick cure. It was a long-term matter, alas!, as Miquis said on the first visit, without to ensure that she was well, that is, free of any limp. Don Lope entered, then, and, dropping his cloak in the reception, went straight to his slave’s room. How the poor thing had deteriorated with inactivity, with the moral and physical pain of her painful illness! Wedged and still in a spring chair that her old man had bought for her, which she extended to sleep when the need for sleep overwhelmed her; wrapped in a checked shawl, her hands crossed and her head uncovered , Tristana was no longer even a shadow of herself. Her pallor could not be compared to anything; the paper paste that her pretty face seemed to be made of was now incredibly clear and white; her lips had turned purple; sadness and continuous crying surrounded her eyes with a circle of opaline transparencies. “How are you, darling?” Don Lope said, caressing her chin and sitting down beside her. “Better, aren’t you?” Miquis told me that you’re doing well now, and that the severe pain is a sign of improvement. Of course, you don’t have that dull, deep pain anymore, right? Now it hurts, it hurts really hard; but like a raw skin rash… that’s it. That’s precisely what we want: for it to hurt. The swelling is going down. Now… girl, taking out a small pharmacy box, you’re going to take this. It doesn’t taste bad: two little pills every three hours. As for the external medicine, Don Augusto says we should continue the same. So cheer up, in a month you’ll be able to jump and even dance some malagueñas. “In a month! Oh! I bet not. You say that to console me. I appreciate it; but oh!… I won’t jump anymore. ” The tone of profound sadness with which he said this moved Don Lope, a brave man with a big heart in other things, but who was of no use in front of a sick person. The physical pain of her intimacy instilled in her the heart of a child. “Hey, there’s no need to be intimidated. I have confidence; you have it too. Do you want more books to distract yourself? Do you want to draw? Ask out loud. Shall I bring you comedies so you can study your papers? ” Tristana shook her head. “Well, I’ll bring you beautiful novels, or history books. Since you’ve started filling your head with wisdom, don’t stop halfway. My heart tells me you must be an extraordinary woman. And I was so stupid that I didn’t understand your great abilities from the beginning! I’ll never forgive myself. ” “All’s forgiven,” Tristana murmured, showing signs of profound boredom. “And now, shall we eat? Are you hungry? Aren’t you? Well, my dear, we have to make an effort. If nothing else, the broth and the glass of sherry. Would you suck a chicken leg? No?” Well, I won’t insist… Now, if the illustrious Saturna wishes to give me some food, I’ll be grateful. I don’t feel like it much; but I feel faint, and something must be given to my miserable body. He went to the dining room, and without noticing the contents of the dishes, for his thoughts completely distracted him from everything external, he finished off some soup, a little meat, and something else. With the last morsel between his teeth, he returned to Tristana’s side. “How are you?… Have you had the broth? Fine, I’m glad you don’t turn down food. Now I’ll keep you company until you get sleepy. I’m not going out, to keep you company… No, I’m not telling you this so you’ll thank me. I know that I should have done it in the past, but I didn’t. It’s late, it’s already late, and these pamperings seem somewhat stale. But let’s not talk about that; don’t embarrass me… If I bother you, tell me; if you’d like to be alone, I’ll go to my room.” “No, no. Stay here. When I’m alone, I think bad thoughts. ” “Bad thoughts, my love? Don’t be so off-the-wall. You haven’t realized how much good and great your destiny has in store for you. I realized your merit a little late ; but I understand it at last. I recognize that I am not worthy of the honor of giving you my advice; but I give it to you, and you take it or leave it, as it suits you.” It wasn’t the first time Don Lope had spoken to her in this tone; and Miss Reluz, truth be told, listened with joy, because the cunning gallant knew how to wound her to the most sensitive part of her being, flattering her. her tastes and stimulating her dreamy imagination. It should also be noted that a few days before the scene in question, the tyrant gave his victim proof of incredible tolerance. She wrote her letters without moving from her armchair, on a table that Saturna had conveniently prepared for the occasion. One morning, when the young woman was in the midst of her epistolary work, Don Lope entered unexpectedly, and seeing her hastily hide away paper and ink, he said to her with smiling kindness: “No, no, brat, don’t deprive yourself of writing your letters. I’m leaving so as not to disturb you. ” Tristana heard, astonished, the gallant expressions that in one point belied the suspicious and selfish character of the old gallant, and she continued writing as calmly as ever. Meanwhile, Don Lepe, shut up in his room, now alone with his conscience, vented to himself as he pleased in this way: “No, I can’t make her more unhappy than she is… I feel so sorry for her, so sorry for her… poor thing…! That last season, finding herself alone, bored, she met some scamp out there and he upset her with a few amorous words… Come on… come on… I don’t want to do that dancer the honor of worrying about him… Well, well; they love each other, they’ve made a thousand stupid promises… Young people today don’t know how to make love; but they easily fill the head of a girl as dreamy and excited as this one with wind. He’s certainly offered to marry her, and she believes him… It’s quite clear that letters are coming and going… My God, the nonsense they’ll say…! As if she were reading them. And marriage on high, marriage on low, the same old refrain. Such imbecility would make me laugh, if it weren’t for this bewitching girl, my last trophy, and like the last, the most precious to my heart. By God, if I stupidly let her be taken from me, she will return to me; not for any evil, God knows, for I am already ordered to be collected, but so that I may have the pleasure of wresting her from the wimp, whoever he may be, who stole her from me, and proving that when the great Don Lope gets angry, no one can stop him! I will love her as a daughter, I will defend her against everyone, against all the various forms and kinds of love, whether through marriage or without it… And now, for the life of…!, now I feel like being her father, and keeping her for myself alone, for myself alone, for I still intend to live many years, and if it doesn’t suit me to keep her as a wife, I will keep her as a beloved daughter; but let no one touch her, by God! no one even look at her. The profound selfishness these ideas contained was expressed by the old gentleman with a lion’s snort, a characteristic of his in the critical moments of his life. He then went to Tristana’s side and, with a gentleness that seemed to spring effortlessly from his soul, caressed her cheeks, saying: “My poor soul, calm down. The time for supreme indulgence has arrived. You need a loving father, and you will have that in me… I know you’ve given up morally, before you limp off on your little leg… No, don’t worry, I’m not scolding you… It’s my fault; yes, it’s me, and only me, who must take my time for this flirtation of yours, the result of my abandonment, of my forgetfulness… You’re young, pretty. How strange is it that every puppet who sees you on the street flirts with you?” How strange that among so many, one stood out, less bad than the rest, and that he has fallen into your favor… and that you believe in his foolish promises, and with him you launch yourself into little projects of happiness, which soon turn into smoke…? Come on, let’s not talk about it anymore. I forgive you… Total absolution. You see… I want to be your father, and I’ll begin with… Trembling, suspicious that such expressions were a clever ruse to reduce her to confessing her secret, and feeling more than ever the mysterious despotism that Don Lope exercised over her, the captive denied it, stammering excuses; but the tyrant, with incredible condescension, redoubled his tenderness and paternal pampering in these terms: “It is useless for you to deny what your disturbance reveals. I know nothing, and I know everything. I ignore and I guess. The heart of a woman has no Secrets for me. I’ve seen a lot of the world. I’m not asking you who the young gentleman is, nor do I care to know. I know the story, which is one of the oldest, most common, and vulgar in the human repertoire. This guy must have driven you crazy with that corny illusion of marriage, good for tacky people and little people. He must have told you about the little altar, the blessings, and the vulgar and obscure life, with its silly soup, little creatures, a ball of cotton, a brazier, a stretcher, and other such nonsense. And if you swallow such a bait, pretend you’re lost, that you’re throwing your future into the wind, and you’re slapping your destiny in the face… “My destiny!” Tristana exclaimed, perking up; and her eyes filled with light. “Your destiny, yes. You were born for something very great, which we can’t yet define. Marriage would plunge you into vulgarity.” You cannot and should not belong to anyone but yourself. This idea of yours about free honesty, dedicated to a noble profession; this idea that I didn’t appreciate before and that has finally won me over, demonstrates the profound logic of your vocation, of your ambition, I will say, if you will. You are ambitious because you are worthy. If your will is stretched, it’s because your understanding doesn’t fit within you… There’s no getting around this, my dear girl! _Adopting a mocking tone._ It would be strange if a woman of your character were to come up with this nonsense about scissors and thimbles, about throwing eggs, about loving the fire, and about being with you, bread and onions! Be very careful, my child, very careful with these seductions for seamstresses and low-class young ladies… Because your leg will heal, and you will be such an extraordinary actress that there will be no other in the world. And if being a comedienne isn’t suitable for you, you’ll be something else, whatever you want, whatever you fancy… I don’t know… you yourself do n’t know yet; all we know is that you have wings. Where will you fly? Ah!… if we knew, we would penetrate the mysteries of destiny, and that can’t be. Chapter 21. “Oh, my God,” Tristana said to herself, crossing her hands and staring fixedly at her old man, “how much this damned man knows! He’s a complete rascal, without a conscience; but how much he knows… oh, how much he knows!” “Are you happy with what I’m telling you, darling?” Don Lepe asked her, kissing her hands, without disguising the joy that the intimate feeling of his victory caused him. “I’ll tell you… yes… I don’t think I’m good for domestic work; come on, I can’t understand… But I don’t know, I don’t know if the things I dream of will ever come true… ” “Oh, I see it as clearly as this light!” “—replied Garrido, with the tone of honest conviction that he knew how to adopt in his formulas of perjury. “Believe me… A father doesn’t deceive, and I, repentant of the harm I did you, want to be a father to you, and nothing more than a father.” They continued talking about the same thing, and Don Lope, with great strategic skill, evolved to outmaneuver the enemy, and there he ridiculed the foolish life, the eternal union with a vulgar being, and the prose of matrimonial intimacy. At the same time that these ideas flattered the young lady, they served as a palliative for her grave illness. She felt better that afternoon, and when she was alone with Saturna, before she put her to bed, she had moments of ideal jubilation, her ambitions more awake than ever, and rejoicing in the idea of seeing them realized. “Yes, yes, why shouldn’t I be an actress?” If not, I’ll be whatever I want… I’ll live in decent ease, without being eternally tied to anyone, not even to the man I love and will always love. I’ll love him more the more I am free. With Saturna’s help, she went to bed after she had treated her ailing knee with exquisite care, renewing the bandages. She spent the night uneasily; but she consoled herself with the effluvia of her ardent imagination, and with the thought of a speedy recovery. She anxiously awaited the day to write to Horacio, and at dawn, before Don Lope got up, she composed a long and nervous epistle. “My love, my little country bumpkin, my darling, I’m still not well; but I’m happy. Look at this strange thing… Oh, who will understand me, if I myself I don’t understand myself! I am happy, yes, and full of hope, which creeps into my soul when I least call for it. God is good and sends me these joys, no doubt because I deserve them. I fancy that I ‘ll be cured, even if I don’t improve; but I fancy it, and that’s enough. It occurs to me that my wishes will be granted, that I will be an actress of the tragic genre, that I will be able to adore you from the castle of my comical independence. We will love each other from castle to castle, absolute masters of our respective wills, you free, I free, and as much a lady as anyone , with our own domains, and without a common life, nor sacred bond, nor garlic soup, nor anything like that. “Don’t speak to me about that little altar, because you’ll shrink so much to me that I can’t see you as tiny as you’re becoming. This must be delirious; but I was born to be chronically delirious, and I am… like sheep’s meat: take me or leave me.” No, don’t leave me: I hold you back, I tie you down, for my madness needs your love to become reason. Without you, I would become a fool, which is the worst thing that could happen to me. And I don’t want to be a fool, nor for you to be one. I make you great with my imagination when you want to shrink, and I make you beautiful when you insist on becoming ugly, abandoning your sublime art to grow radishes and pumpkins. Don’t oppose my desire, don’t dash my hope; I love you, great man, and I will have my way. I feel it, I see it… it can’t be any other way. My inner voice amuses itself by describing to me the perfections of your being… Don’t deny that you are as I dream of you. Let me make you… no, that’s not the word; let me compose you… no, … Leave me, leave me.’ This letter was followed by others, in which the poor sick woman’s imagination launched itself unchecked into the spaces of the ideal, traversing them like a runaway steed, seeking the impossible end of infinity, feeling no fatigue in its mad and gallant race. Consider the genre: ‘My lord, what are you like? The more I adore you, the more I forget your physiognomy; but I invent another one for you to my liking, according to my ideas, according to the perfections with which I wish to see your sublime person adorned. Do you want me to tell you a little about myself? Oh, I suffer so much! I thought I was getting better; but no, God forbid. He knows why. Your beautiful ideal, your Tristanita, may be, in time, a celebrity; but I assure you she won’t be a dancer… What a thing! My little leg would oppose it. And I’m also beginning to believe she won’t be an actress, for the same reason. I’m furious… worse every day, with horrible suffering. What doctors these are! They don’t understand a word of the art of healing… I never believed that a person’s destiny could be so influenced by such an insignificant thing as a leg, a sad leg, good only for walking. The brain, the heart, I believed they would always rule; but now, a stupid knee has erected itself as a tyrant, and those noble organs obey it… I mean, they don’t obey it, nor do they pay any attention to it; but they suffer an absurd despotism, which I trust will be temporary. It’s as if the soldiery were in revolt… In the end, in the end, the rabble will have to submit. “And you, my dear king, what are you saying? If it weren’t for your love that sustains me, I would have already succumbed to the sedition of this leg that wants to go to my head. But no, I’m not intimidated, and I think the daring things I’ve always thought… no, I think more, much more, and I rise, I always rise. My aspirations are now more pronounced than ever; My ambition, if you will, is unleashed and leaping like mad. Believe me, you and I must do something great in the world. Can’t you guess how? Well, I can’t explain it to you; but I know. My heart tells me, which knows everything, which has never deceived me, nor can it deceive me. You yourself have no clear idea of what you are and what you are worth. Will it be necessary for me to reveal yourself to you? Look at yourself in me, for I am your mirror, and you will see yourself in the supreme Tabor of artistic glorification. I am sure you are not laughing at what I say, How certain I am that you are just as I think you are, the ultimate moral and physical perfection. There are no defects in you, nor can there be, even if the eyes of the common people see them. Know yourself; listen to me; surrender yourself without hesitation to one who knows you better than yourself… I can’t go on… It hurts horribly… That a bone, a miserable bone…! Thursday. What a day yesterday, and what a night! But I’m not daunted. My spirit grows with suffering. Will you believe one thing? Last night, when the wicked pain gave me a few moments of rest, all the knowledge I had acquired while reading came back to me, and which had seemed to fade and evaporate. Ideas entered one after another, tumbling over each other, and memory, once it had caught them inside, bang! closed the door to keep them out. Don’t be surprised; not only do I know everything I knew, but I know more, much more. Along with the ideas from home, new, unknown ones have entered. I must have an _ideón_, a thieving pigeon, who, upon leaving those airs, seduces as many little ideas as he finds, and brings them back to me. I know more, much more than before. I know everything… no; this is saying too much… Today I felt very relieved, and I dedicate myself to thinking about you. How good you are! Your intelligence knows no equal; for your artistic genius, there are no difficulties. I love you with more soul than ever, because you respect my freedom, because you don’t tie me to a chair leg or a table leg with the marriage string. My passion demands freedom. Without that field I could not live. I need to freely eat the grass, which will grow more torn from the ground by my teeth. The stable was not made for me . I need the endless meadow. In her last letters, Tristana had already forgotten the vocabulary that they both used to wittily display in their intimate spoken or written expositions. She no longer used “Señó Juan” or “Paca de Rimini,” nor the grammatical terms and liberties that were the spice of her spicy style. All of this was erased from her memory, just as the person of Horacio himself faded, replaced by an ideal being , a daring work of her own thought, a being in whom all visible and invisible beauties were encapsulated . Her heart was inflamed with a fondness that could well be called mystical, due to the incorporeal and purely dreamlike nature of the being that moved such affections. The new, intangible Horacio resembled the real one a little, but only a little. From that beautiful phantasm, Tristana was making the elemental truth of her existence, for she lived only for him, unaware that she was worshipping a God of her own making. And this devotion was expressed in scintillating letters, written with a tremulous hand, between the alternating excitements of insomnia and fever, and which were only addressed to Villajoyosa out of mechanical habit, since in reality they had to be sent by the relay of dreams toward the station of imaginary spaces. Wednesday. “Master and lord, my pains take me to you, as my joys would take me if I had any. Pain and joy are the same impulse to fly… when one has wings. In the midst of the misfortunes that afflict me, God does me the immense favor of granting me your love. What does physical pain matter? Nothing. I will bear it with resignation, as long as… you do not hurt me. And do not tell me you are far away! I bring you to my side, I feel you next to me and I see you and touch you; I have enough power of imagination to suppress distance, and contract time as I please.” Thursday. «Even if you don’t tell me, I know you are as you should be. I feel it in me. Your peerless intelligence, your artistic genius, send their sparks into my own brain. Your lofty sense of goodness seems to have made its nest in my own heart… Oh, so you can see the virtue of the spirit! When I think of you a lot, the pain goes away. You are my medicine, or at least an anesthetic that my doctor doesn’t understand. If you only saw…! Miquis is amazed at my serenity. He knows I adore you; but he doesn’t know your worth, nor that you are the most select bit of divinity. If he knew, he would be sparing in prescribing painkillers, much less more active than the idea of you… I’ve bottled up the pain because I needed a rest to write to you. With my willpower, which is enormous, and with the power of thought, I find some respite. Let the Devil take my leg. Let it be cut off. I need it at all. I will love you as spiritually with one leg as with two… as with none. Friday. I don’t need to see the refinements of your marvelous art. I imagine them as if they were before my eyes. Nature has no secrets for you. More than your teacher, she is your friend. Suddenly she enters your works, without your request, and your gaze fixes her on the canvas before your brushes. When I get well, I will do the same. I am stirred here inside by the certainty that I must do it. We will work together, because I will no longer be able to be an actress; I am seeing that it is impossible… But as for a painter…! No one can get that out of my head. Three or four lessons of yours will be enough for me to follow in your footsteps, always at a distance, of course… Will you teach me? Yes, because your greatness of soul goes hand in hand with your understanding, and you are the supreme good, absolute goodness, as you are… even if you do not want to admit it, the supreme beauty. Chapter 22. The effect that these disjointed and subtle reasons had on Horacio will easily be understood. He saw himself transformed into an ideal being, and with each letter he received, he was seized with doubts about his own personality, reaching the incredible extreme of wondering if he was as he really was, or as the visionary girl from Don Lepe painted him with her indomitable pen. But his restlessness and confusion did not prevent him from seeing the danger hidden behind them, and he began to believe that Paquita de Rimini suffered more from her head than from her limbs. Assailed by pessimistic thoughts, and filled with anxiety and brooding, he resolved to leave for Madrid, and had already arranged everything for the trip at the end of February, when a sudden attack of hemoptysis on Doña Trinidad’s part chained him to Villajoyosa on such an unfortunate occasion. During the same days of this incident, extremely serious events were taking place in Madrid and at Don Lope’s house , which must be described in detail. Tristana worsened so much that her willpower was no match for the intense pain, accompanied by fever, vomiting, and general malaise. Desperate and dazed, lacking the presence of mind the situation required , Don Lope believed he could avert the danger by crying out to Heaven, sometimes with pity, sometimes with threats and blasphemies. Her thoughtless fear made her see the patient’s salvation in the changes in treatment: Miquis was dismissed and he had to be recalled because his successor was one of those who cured everything with leeches, and this medication, if it initially provided some relief, later annihilated the patient ‘s failing strength . Tristana was delighted with Miquis’s return because he inspired sympathy and confidence, lifting her spirits with the therapeutic power of his affability. The powerful sedatives restored to her, for a few hours each day, the precious ability to console herself with her own imagination, to forget danger, thinking of imaginary goods and remote glories. She took advantage of the moments of sedation to write a few brief, concise letters, which Don Lope himself, no longer making a mystery of his indulgence, took it upon himself to post. “Enough with the cover-ups, my child,” he said with displays of paternal confidence . “There are no secrets from me.” And if your little letters console you, I won’t scold you, nor will I object to your writing them. No one understands you as I do, and the same one who has the good fortune to read your scribbles is not on their level, nor does he deserve such honor. Well, you’ll gradually convince yourself… In the meantime, my darling, write all you want, and if one day you don’t feel like handling a pen, dictate to me, and I’ll be your secretary. You see the importance I attach to that childish game… Childish things, which I understand perfectly, because I too have been twenty years old, I too have been stupid, and I called every girl who came my way my beautiful ideal, and I offered my snowy white hand… He ended these jokes with a not very sincere chuckle, which he tried in vain to communicate to Tristana, and in the end he only laughed at his own jokes, disguising the terrible procession that was going on inside him. Augusto Miquis came three times a day, and Don Lope was still not satisfied, determined to employ all the resources of medical science to cure his unfortunate doll. In that case, he wasn’t content with giving his shirt, since even his skin would have seemed a small sacrifice for such a great purpose. “If my resources are completely exhausted,” he said, “which is not impossible at the rate we’re going, I’ll do what has always repugnant to me, and still repugns me: I’ll strike out, I’ll lower myself to ask for help from my relatives in Jaén, which is for me the height of humiliation and shame. My dignity isn’t worth a damn before the tremendous misfortune that tears my heart apart, this heart that was made of bronze and is now pure butter.” Who would have told me! Nothing affected me, and the feelings of all humanity meant nothing to me… Well, now, it seems to me that this poor woman’s little leg is about to bring about the unbalance of the Universe. I believe that until this present moment I have never known how much I love her, poor thing! She is the love of my life, and I will not consent to lose her for anything in this world. I will dispute her with God Himself even with death. I recognize in myself a selfishness capable of moving mountains, a selfishness that I do not hesitate to call holy, because it leads me to the reform of my character and of my entire being. For its sake, I abhor my adventures, my scandals; for its sake, if God grants me what I ask, I will dedicate myself to the good and happiness of this peerless woman, who is not a woman, but an angel of wisdom and grace. And I held her in my hands and did not know how to understand her! Confess and declare, my friend Lope, that you are a fool, that only life instructs, and that true science grows only in the wastelands of old age… In his insane state, he turned his eyes as quickly to medicine as to charlatanism. One morning Saturna brought him the story that a certain healer, established in Tetuán, and whose fame and prestige reached as far away as Cuatro Caminos here and as far away as the very walls of Fuencarral, cured white tumors by applying what were known as “herbas calleras.” Don Lope hearing it and ordering the one who performed such miracles to come was one and the same, and it mattered little to him that Don Augusto looked down. The gossip came down with a very optimistic prognosis and assured him that it would only be a matter of days. Hope revived in Don Lepe; everything the old woman had arranged was done; Miquis found out that same afternoon and didn’t get angry, implying that the poultice of the free professor from Tetouan would do neither harm nor benefit to the sick woman. Don Lope cursed all the charlatans past and present, sending them packing with a hundred thousand pairs of demons, and the plans and styles of science were restored. Tristana spent a hellish night, with violent bouts of fever, interspersed with intense cold in her back. Garrido, who could have been strangled with a hair, only had to see the doctor’s face during his morning visit to understand that the illness was entering a period of critical gravity, because although good old Augusto knew how to disguise his diagnostic impression from the patients, that day grief was stronger than dissimulation. Tristana herself got ahead of him, saying with apparent serenity: “Understood, Doctor… This one… I won’t tell. I don’t care. I like death .” She’s becoming a little endearing to me. So much suffering is wearing away my will to live… Until last night, I thought that living was a beautiful thing… sometimes… But now I’m warming to the idea that the funniest thing is to die… to not feel pain… What a delight, what a pleasure!… She began to cry, and the brave Don Lepe needed to summon all his courage not to pout. After consoling the sick woman with four well-crafted lies, Miquis locked himself and Don Lope in the latter’s room, leaving his jokes and mask of charitable kindness at the door, and spoke to him with the solemnity appropriate to the case. “My friend Don Lope,” he said, placing both hands on the shoulders of the gentleman, who seemed more dead than alive, “we have arrived at what I feared. Tristanita is very serious. A man like you, brave and of serene spirit, capable of accommodating himself to the most anguishing circumstances of life, should be spoken to clearly. ” “Yes,” murmured the gentleman, acting brave, and believing that the heavens were falling on him, so, with an instinctive movement, he raised his hands as if to support him. “Well, yes… The very high fever, the cold in the marrow, do you know what it is? Well, the infallible symptom of resorption…” “Yes, I understand now…” “Resorption… the poisoning of the blood… the…” “Yes… and… ” “Nothing, my friend. Take heart. There’s no choice but to operate… ” “Operate!” “—exclaimed Garrido, at the height of his bewilderment. “Cut… isn’t that it? And you believe…?” “She can be saved, though I’m not sure. ” “And when…?” “Today. There’s no time to lose… An hour lost would make us late. ” Don Lope was seized with a kind of madness upon hearing this, and jumping about like a wounded beast, stumbling over furniture and banging his skull, he uttered these incongruous and inattentive expressions: “Poor girl…! Cut off her… Oh! Mutilate her horribly… And what a leg, doctor…! A masterpiece of Nature… Phidias himself would want it to model his immortal statues… But what science is this, that can only cure by cutting? Ah! You don’t know the half-mass… Don Augusto, for the salvation of her soul, invent some other expedient. Take away a leg!” If that could be fixed by cutting both of them off… right now, here they are… Come on, start … and without chloroform. The good gentleman’s screams must have been heard in Tristana’s room , because Saturna came in, terrified, to see what the hell was wrong with her master. “Get out of here, you rascal… it’s your fault. I mean, no… How bad is my head!… Go, Saturna, and tell the girl that I won’t allow her leg to be cut off, or anything like that. I’ll cut off my own head first… No, don’t tell him… Shut up… Don’t let him find out… But we’ll have to tell him… I’ll take care of it… Saturna, be very careful what you say… Go away, leave us… And turning to the doctor, he said: “Excuse me, dear Augusto, I don’t know what I’m thinking. I’m crazy… Everything will be done, everything the faculty decides… What are you saying? That today…?” “Yes, the sooner the better. My friend Dr. Ruiz Alonso, a top surgeon, will come and… We’ll see. I believe that if the amputation is successfully performed, the young lady will be saved. ” “She will be saved! So even then it’s not certain… Oh, doctor, don’t blame me for my cowardice! I’m no good for these things… I’m becoming a little boy of ten. Who would have said it! I, who have known how to face the greatest dangers without a frown…! ” “Sir Lope,” said Miquis in a sad tone, “in these trying times we see the extent to which our capacity for misfortune lies. Many who consider themselves cowards turn out to be courageous, and others who think they’re roosters turn out to be hens. You’ll know how to rise to the occasion. ” “And you’ll have to prepare for it… My God, what a predicament! I’m dying… I’m no good, Don Augusto… ” “Poor thing!” We won’t tell her straight. We’ll deceive her. ‘ ‘Deceive her! You haven’t even realized your insight yet. ‘ ‘Anyway, let’s get to it, for in these matters, my lord, we must always reckon with some unexpected and favorable circumstance. It’s easy for her, if she’s so perceptive, to have understood, and we won’t need… The sick man usually sees very clearly. Chapter 23. The shrewd student of Hippocrates was not mistaken. When they entered to see Tristana, she greeted them with a face somewhere between smiling and tearful. She was laughing, and two large tears were running down her papery cheeks. “Yes, I know what you have to tell me… There’s no need to worry. I’m brave… I’m almost glad… And without almost… because it’s better to have it cut off… That way I won’t suffer… What does it matter if I only have one leg? I mean, how does it matter… But if I don’t really have it anymore, if it’s useless to me…! Away with it, and I’ll get better, and I’ll walk… with crutches, or whatever God gives me to understand… ” “My child, you’ll be very fine,” said Don Lope, growing courageous at seeing her so cheerful. “Well, if I only knew that by cutting off both of them I’d be free of rheumatism today… After all, legs are replaced by mechanical devices made by the English and Germans, and they are better for walking than with these cursed oars that Nature has stuck in for us. ” “Anyway,” added Miquis, “don’t be scared of your wrist, we won’t make it suffer at all… not at all… You won’t even notice.” And then she’ll feel very well, and in a few days she’ll be able to amuse herself with painting… “Right now,” said the old man, forcing himself to bear it and trying to swallow the lump in his throat, “I’ll bring you the easel, the box of paints… You’ll see, you’ll see what beautiful pictures you’ll paint for us.” With a cordial handshake, Augusto said goodbye, announcing his imminent return, without specifying the time, and Tristana and Don Lope were alone for a moment without speaking to each other. “Ah! I have to write,” said the sick woman. “Will you be able to, my love? You’re very weak. Dictate to me, and I’ll write.” As she said this, she carried the board that served as a table, the remnant of paper, and the inkwell to the side of the bed. “No… I can write… It’s unusual what’s happening to me now. It doesn’t hurt anymore. I can hardly feel anything. I can write! Come on… My hand is shaking a little, but it doesn’t matter.” In front of the tyrant , he wrote these lines: “Here’s some news that I don’t know if it’s good or bad. They’re cutting it off. Poor little leg! But it’s its fault… what’s its bad for? I don’t know if I’m glad, because, truly, that little leg is of no use to me. I don’t know if I’m sorry, because they’re taking away what was once a part of me… and without it I’m going to have a body different from the one I had… What do you think? Truly, it’s not a matter of worrying about a leg. You, who are all spirit, will believe so. I believe it too. And you must love me just as much with one oar as with two. Now I think I would have done wrong to dedicate myself to the stage. Phew! A low art, which tires the body and sickens the soul. Painting!… that’s something else… They tell me I won’t suffer at all during the… shall I say it? during the operation… Oh! To put it bluntly, this is very sad, and I won’t bear it unless I know that I’ll be the same to you after the carnage… Do you remember that cricket we had, and that sang louder and better after I tore off one of its legs? I know you well, and I know I’ll be of no worth to you… You don’t need to assure me of that for me to believe and affirm it… Come on, so in the end it turns out that I’m happy?… Yes, because I won’t suffer anymore. God encourages me, tells me that I’ll come out of this all right, and that afterward I’ll be healthy and happy, and I’ll be able to love you all I want, and be a painter, or a wise woman, and a top-notch philosopher … No, I can’t be happy. I want to be dazzled, and… I can’t seem to… That’s enough for today. Although I know that you’ll always love me, tell me so that it goes on record. Since you cannot deceive me, nor is there room for lies in a being who embodies all the forms of good, whatever you tell me will be my Gospel… If you had no arms or legs, I would love you just the same. So…” The last lines were barely understandable, due to the trembling of the writing. As she dropped the pen, the unhappy doll fell into a deep dejection. She wanted to tear up the letter, regretted it, and finally handed it to Don Lope, open so he could put the envelope back in and send it on its way. It was the first time she hadn’t taken any care to protect the secrecy of letters. Garrido took the note to his room and read it slowly, surprised by the serenity with which the girl treated such a serious matter. “What is now,” he said as he wrote on the envelope, as if speaking to the person whose name his pen was tracing, “I no longer fear you. You have lost her, lost her forever, for those silly things about eternal love, ideal love, without legs or arms, are nothing more than an insane boiling of the imagination. I have defeated you. My victory is sad, but certain. God knows that I rejoice in it only by discarding the motive, which is the greatest sorrow of my life… She already belongs to me completely until my days are over. Poor doll with wings! She wanted to get away from me, she wanted to fly; but she didn’t reckon with her destiny, which doesn’t allow her to flutter or dart; she didn’t reckon with God, who has a law for me… I don’t know why… for He always takes my side in these battles… He will know the reason… and when what I want escapes me… He brings it back to me tied hand and foot. ” My poor soul, my adorable little girl, I love her, I will always love her like a father! No one can take her from me now, not now… At the bottom of these very sad feelings, which Don Lope never brought from his heart to his lips, there throbbed a self-satisfied, an elemental and human selfishness of which he himself was unaware. “Subdue her forever! No more straying from me!” By repeating this thought, he seemed to want to postpone the joy that derived from it, for it was not a very propitious occasion to rejoice in anything. Afterwards, he found the young woman quite dejected, and to revive her, he employed either pious reasoning or ingenious considerations about the uselessness of our lower limbs. Tristana barely ate anything; good Garrido could pass nothing. At two o’clock, Miquis, Ruiz Alonso, and a medical student, who was acting as an assistant, entered the room, silent and grave. One of the three carried, carefully wrapped in a cloth, the case containing the tools of the trade. Shortly after, a servant entered carrying bottles filled with antiseptic liquids. Don Lope received them as if he were receiving the executioner about to apologize to someone condemned to death and prepare him for the execution. “Gentlemen,” he said, “this is very sad, very sad…” And he couldn’t utter another word. Miquis went to the sick room and announced himself gracefully: “Beautiful young lady, we haven’t come yet… I mean… I came alone. Let’s see, how’s that pulse?” Tristana turned pale, fixing the doctor with a fearful, childlike, pleading look. To reassure her, Miquis assured her that he trusted in curing her completely and radically, that her excitement was a precursor to a clear and certain improvement, and that to calm her, he was going to give her a tiny bit of ether… “Nothing, my dear, all it takes is a few drops of liquid on a handkerchief and a smell to get those mischievous nerves to calm down.” But it wasn’t easy to fool her. The poor young lady understood Augusto’s intentions and said, forcing a smile: “It’s that you want to put me to sleep… Good. I’m glad to know that deep sleep , which no pain can stop, no matter how terrible. How nice! And if I don’t wake up, if I stay there…? ” “Why, I’ll stay there…! We’d be fools…” said Augusto, just as Don Lope entered, dismayed, half-dead. And he resolutely began to prepare the drug, turning his back on the sick woman, leaving the little bottle of the precious anesthetic on a dresser. She made a sort of tiny nest with her handkerchief, in which she placed the cotton balls soaked in chloroform, and meanwhile a strong smell of apples spread through the room. “How lovely it smells!” said the young lady, closing her eyes, as if she were praying mentally. And immediately Augusto applied the hollow of the handkerchief to her nose. The first effect of drowsiness was followed by a start, epileptic restlessness, convulsions, and a disordered verbosity, as if from alcoholic intoxication. “I don’t want to, I don’t want to… It doesn’t hurt anymore… Why cut…? I’m playing all of Beethoven’s sonatas, playing them so well… on the piano, when these indecent fellows come along to pinch one of your fingers.” legs…! Well, let them cut, let them cut…, and I’ll keep playing. The piano holds no secrets for me… I am Beethoven himself, his heart, his body, even if my hands are different… Let them not take my hands too, because then… Nothing, I won’t let this hand be taken away; I grab it with the other so they won’t take me away…, and I grab the other with this one, and so they won’t take me away. Miquis, you are not a gentleman, nor have you ever been one, nor do you know how to treat ladies, much less eminent artists… I don’t want Horacio to come and see me like this. He’ll imagine some bad thing… If he were here, -Senor Juan-, he wouldn’t allow this infamy… Tying up a poor woman, putting such a huge stone on her chest , such a huge stone… , and then filling her palette with ashes so she can’t paint… What an extraordinary thing! How the flowers I’ve painted smell! But if I painted them believing I was painting them, how is it that now they seem alive to me… alive? Power of artistic genius! I must retouch the painting of the Spinners again to see if I can do it a little better. Perfection, that devilish perfection, where is it…? Saturna, Saturna… come, I’m suffocating… This smell of the flowers… No, no, it’s the paint, which the more beautiful, the more poisonous… At last, she remained motionless, her mouth half-open, her pupil still… From time to time she uttered a moan like a child’s mime, a timid effort of a being crushed beneath the slab of that brutal sleep. Before the chloroforming was complete, the other two assassins, as Don Lope called them in her mind, entered, and as soon as they believed the patient well prepared, they placed her on a cot with a mattress, prepared for the task, and, gaining not just minutes, but seconds, they set to work on the sad task. Don Lope ground his teeth, and at times, unable to bear witness to such a pitiful sight, he would leave the room only to return immediately, ashamed of his pusillanimity. He saw the Esmarch bandage applied, a strip of rubber resembling a snake. Then the incision began at the so-called chosen site; and as they carved the flap, the skin that would later be used to form the stump; when the first strokes of the diligent scalpel saw Don Lope’s first blood, his cowardice turned into stoic, haughty courage, incapable of faltering. His heart turned to bronze, his face to parchment, and he witnessed to the end with unwavering courage the cruel operation, performed with the utmost skill and speed by the three doctors. An hour and a quarter after they had begun to chloroform the patient, Saturna hurried out of the room with a long, narrow object wrapped in a sheet. Shortly after, with the arteries securely tied, the skin of the stump stitched, and the antiseptic treatment carefully applied, the slow and sad awakening of Miss Reluz began, her new life after that simulated death, her resurrection, leaving one foot and two-thirds of her leg in the heart of that tomb that smelled of apples.
Chapter 24. “Oh, it still hurts!” were the first words she uttered upon returning from the dark abyss. And then, her pale and haggard countenance revealed a kind of profound self-analysis, something similar to the intense force of observation that the apprehensive direct at their own organs, listening to their breathing and the flow of their blood, mentally palpating their muscles, and stalking the vibration of their nerves. Without a doubt, the poor girl concentrated all the forces of her mind on that emptiness of her lower extremity, to replace the lost member, and she managed to restore it to what it had been before the illness, healthy, vigorous, and agile. Without great effort, she imagined that she had two legs, and that she walked gracefully on them, with that light step that took her in a jiffy to Horacio’s study. “How are you, my girl?” Don Lope asked her, caressing her. And she, gently touching the white hair of the aging gentleman, answered graciously: “Very well… I feel very rested. If you would let me, I would do it right now. ” I would run away… I mean, not run away… We’re not in the mood for such jokes. Augusto and Don Lope, when the other two doctors had left, assured her of a complete recovery and congratulated themselves on the surgical success with an enthusiasm they couldn’t communicate. They carefully placed her in bed in the best possible conditions of hygiene and comfort, and there was nothing left to do but wait for the ten or fifteen critical days following the operation. During this period, good old Garrido had no rest, because although the trauma presented itself in the best possible condition, the girl’s dejection and prostration were alarming. She didn’t seem the same, and she denied her own identity; not once did she even think of writing letters, nor did those sublime aspirations or whims of her always restless and ambitious spirit come to light ; nor did it occur to her what wit and pranks she was accustomed to playing even in the cruelest hours of her illness. Stupefied and flattened, her superior spirit suffered a total eclipse. Such passivity and meekness pleased Don Lope at first; but the good gentleman soon began to grieve for this change in character. He never left her side for a moment, setting an example of paternal concern, with extremes of affection that bordered on pampering. Finally, on the tenth day, Miquis declared with great satisfaction that the healing was going perfectly, and that the lame girl would soon be discharged. This coincided with a sudden resurrection of the invalid’s spirituality, and one morning, as if dissatisfied with herself, she said to Don Lope: “Well, so many days without writing! How badly I’m behaving! ” “Don’t worry, my daughter,” the old gentleman replied gracefully. Ideal and perfect beings don’t get angry about not receiving a letter, and they console themselves for forgetting by strolling impassively through the ethereal regions where they live… But if you want to write, here are the tools. Dictate to me: I’m your secretary. “No; I’ll write myself… Or if you like… you write. A few words. ” “Let’s see; I’m ready,” said Garrido, pen in hand and the paper in front of him. “Well, as I was saying,” Tristana dictated, “I only have one little leg now. I’m better. It doesn’t hurt anymore… I suffer very little… now…” “What… aren’t you continuing? ” “It would be better if I wrote it myself. I can’t get them, I can’t get any ideas from dictating. ” “Well, here… You write, and do what you want,” giving him the pen and placing the clipboard with the folder and paper in front of him. “What… are you so rushed? And that inspiration and those bursts of energy, where the hell have they gone?” “How clumsy I am! I can’t think of anything.” “Do you want me to dictate to you? Well, listen: ‘How handsome you are, what a rascal God made you, and what… how tasteless are so many perfections!… No, I’m not marrying you or any seraph on earth or in heaven…” ” What the hell! Are you laughing? Go ahead. “Well, I’m not marrying you… Whether I’m lame or not , that’s none of your business. I have someone who loves me just as I am now, and with one leg I’m worth more than before with two. Just so you know, my angel…” “No, this angel thing is a bit corny… “Well, just so you know, I’ll tell you that I have wings… I’ve grown wings.” My father plans to bring me all my painting supplies, and _even more_, he’ll buy me a little organ, and he’ll hire me a teacher so I can learn to play good music… You’ll see… Compared to me, the angels in heaven will be mere street musicians… They both burst out laughing, and Don Lope, encouraged by his success, continued to pluck at that string, until Tristana had to abruptly cut off the conversation, saying in all seriousness: “No, no; I’ll write… by myself. ” Don Lope left her for a moment, and the little lame girl wrote her letter, brief and heartfelt. “Lord of my soul: Tristana is not what she was. Will you love me the same? My heart tells me you will. I see you even further away than I saw you before, more beautiful, more inspired, more generous and good. Will I be able to reach you with the wooden leg they think they’ll give me? How pretty I’ll be! Goodbye. Don’t come. I adore you far away, I praise you when you are absent. You are my God, and as God, invisible. Your own greatness drives you away from my eyes… I speak of those of the face… because with those of the spirit I see you clearly. Until another day. She sealed the letter herself and put the envelope in it, giving it to Saturna, who, upon taking it, made a mocking pout. In the afternoon, finding themselves alone for a moment, the maid opened up in this way: “Look, this morning I didn’t want to say anything to the young lady because Don Lepe was present. The letter… here it is. Why mail it if Don Horacio is in Madrid? I will deliver it to him personally tonight . ” The invalid paled upon hearing this, and then her face lit up. She didn’t know what to say, nor could she think of anything. “You’re mistaken,” she said at last. “You must have seen someone who looks like him. ” “Young lady, how I could have mistaken…! What traits he has! The same one.” We spoke for more than half an hour. The man insisted that she tell him everything, point by point. Oh, if the young lady could see him! He’s blacker than a shoe. He says he’s spent his life running through mountains and seas, and that it’s very precious… very precious… Well, nothing; I told him everything, and the poor thing… since he loves you so much, he devoured me with his eyes when I spoke to him… He says he’ll meet with Don Lope to sing to him clearly. “Sing to him clearly!… What? ” “He’ll know. And he’s dying to see the young lady. We must arrange it by taking advantage of the gentleman’s outing…” Tristana said nothing. A moment later she asked Saturna to bring her a mirror, and looking into it, she became extremely distressed. “Well, you’re not so disfigured… come on. ” “Don’t say anything. I look like death… I look horrible…” _beginning to cry_. “He’ll never recognize me. Do you see? What color is this?” It looks like brown paper. My eyes are hideous, they’re so big… And what a mouth, good Lord! Saturna, take the mirror away, and don’t bring it back to me even if I ask you to. Against his wishes, which tied him to the house, Don Lope went out very often, driven by necessity, which in those sad circumstances filled his existence with bitterness and anxiety. The enormous expenses of the girl’s illness consumed the meager remains of his squandered fortune, and days came, alas!, when the noble gentleman had to violate his delicacy and deny his character, knocking on the door of a friend with pretensions that seemed ignominious to him. What the unfortunate gentleman suffered is beyond recounting. In a few days, he felt as if fifty years older had been added to his life. “Who would have told me… my God… I… Lope Garrido, would descend to…” “I, with my pride, with my fussy idea of dignity, would stoop to asking for certain favors…! And the day will come when insolvency will force me to ask for what I will never be able to repay… God knows that just to support this poor girl and brighten her existence, I endure so much shame and degradation. I would shoot myself, and be at peace. To the other world with my soul, to the grave with my weary bones! Death and not shame… But circumstances dictate otherwise: life without dignity… I would never have believed it. And then they say character… No, I don’t believe in character. There are only facts, accidents. The lives of others are the mold of our own lives and the stamp of our actions.” In the presence of the young lady, poor Don Lepe concealed the horrible hardships he was enduring, and even allowed himself to pretend that his situation was one of the most flourishing. Not only did he bring her the painting supplies—two boxes of oil and watercolor paints, brushes, an easel, and so on— but also the small organ or harmonium he had promised her, so that she could amuse herself with music in the free time that painting left her. Tristana had only the elementary school instruction on the piano, enough to hum along to polkas and waltzes or some easy piece. It was already a bit late to acquire the skill that only early and hard work can provide; but with a good teacher she could overcome the difficulties, and besides, the organ didn’t require very fast fingering. She became excited about music more than painting, and she longed to get out of bed to test her aptitude. She would manage with only one foot to move the pedals. Waiting with feverish impatience for the teacher announced by Don Lope, she heard in her mind the sweet harmonies of the instrument, less heartfelt and beautiful than those that sounded in the depths of her soul. She believed herself destined to soon become a celebrity, a first-rate concert pianist, and with this idea she was encouraged, and had a few hours of happiness. Garrido took care to stimulate her ambitious enthusiasm, and meanwhile , he reminded her of her drawing experiments, inciting her to sketch on canvas or panel some pretty subject, copied from life. “Come on, why don’t you try my portrait… or Saturna’s?” The invalid replied that it would be more beneficial for her to train her hand on a copy, and Don Lope promised to bring her good studies of a head or landscape for her to choose from. The poor gentleman spared no sacrifice to be pleasing to his poor little lame girl, and… finally, oh whims of fickle fate! finding himself perplexed at not knowing how to procure the pictorial studies, chance, the devil, Saturna, resolved the difficulty by common consent . “But, sir,” said Saturna, “we have some there… ! Don’t be silly, leave me and I’ll bring it to you…” And with her expressive eyes and admirable facial expressions she completed the daring thought. “Do what you want, woman,” indicated Don Lope, shrugging his shoulders. “It ‘s up to me…” Half an hour later, Saturna came in from the street with a pile of painted panels and stretchers, heads, nude torsos, landscape sketches, still lifes, fruits and flowers, all by the hand of a master. Chapter 25. The sight of those paintings made a deep impression on Miss Reluz , friendly faces she saw after a long absence, and which reminded her of happy hours. To her, on such an occasion, they were like living people, and she didn’t need to strain her imagination to see them animated, moving their lips and fixing affectionate gazes on her. She ordered Saturna to hang the paintings in her room so she could enjoy contemplating them, and she was transported back to the days of her study and those delightful afternoons in Horacio’s company. She became very sad, comparing her present with the past, and finally begged the maid to put those objects away until she could get used to looking at them without so much emotion; but she didn’t express surprise at the ease with which the paintings had moved from the studio to the house, nor did she show any curiosity to know what the suspicious Don Lope thought of it. The servant refused to go into explanations, which weren’t required of her, and a little later, around twelve o’clock, while giving the master a meager luncheon of potato omelet and a piece of meat with the representation and honors of a chop, she ventured to tell him a few truths, taking advantage of the confidence that her long service in the house had given her. “Sir, you know that the friend wants to see the young lady, and it’s only natural… Come, don’t be mean, and consider the circumstances. They’re young, and you’re already more like a father or a grandfather than anything else. Don’t you say you have a big heart? ” “Saturna,” replied Don Lope, rapping on the table with the handle of his knife, “it’s bigger than a pine tree, bigger than this house, and bigger than the water depot, which is right across the street.
” “Well then… let’s leave it at that. You’re not young anymore, thank God; I mean… unfortunately.” Don’t be the dog in the manger, who neither eats nor lets others eat. If you want God to forgive you for all your shenanigans and mischief, all your deceitfulness of wives and mockery of husbands, realize that young people are young, and that the world, and life, and the good things are for those who are just beginning to live, not for those who are ending… If you have a… how do you say it? a trait, Don Lepe, I mean, Don Lope…, and… Instead of being annoyed, the unfortunate gentleman decided to take it in stride. “A trait, then…? Let’s see: and where do you get the idea that I’m so old? Do you think I’m no good for anything anymore? Many would like to, you yourself.” with your fifty… “Fifty! Take it away _jierro_, sir. ” “Let’s say thirty… and five. ” “And two. Not one more. Go on! ” “Well, stick to what you like. Well, I say that you yourself, if I were in the mood and… No, don’t blush… You must think you’re a freak! No; with a little bit of tidying up, you’d be very acceptable. You have eyes that more than four would love. ” “Sir… come on… But what… are you trying to sweet-talk me too?” said the maid, becoming so familiar that she didn’t hesitate to put the empty meat platter to one side of the table and sit down opposite her master, her arms akimbo. “No… I’m not up for any mischief anymore. Don’t fear me at all. I’ve cut off my pigtail, and that’s the end of jokes and nasty little things.” I love the girl so much that I’ll certainly turn the other love into a father’s love, you know… and I’m capable, to make her happy, of all the traits, as you say, that… Well, what’s up?… That scamp…? –For God’s sake, don’t call him that. Don’t be arrogant. He’s very handsome. –What do you know about handsome men? –Move out of the way. Every woman knows about that. Go on! And without comparing, which is a bad thing, I say that Don Horacio is a fine young man… improving on the present. That you were the end of the world, he keeps quiet because it’s known; but that’s over. Look at yourself in the mirror, and you’ll see that your handsomeness has already gone. You have no choice but to admit that the little painter… –I’ve never seen him… But I don’t need to see him to maintain, as I maintain, that there are no longer handsome, graceful, daring men who know how to make people fall in love. That breed is extinct. But anyway, let’s pretend the show-off is relatively handsome. “The girl loves him… Don’t get angry… truth be told… Youth is youth. ” “Well… she loves him… What I can assure you is that this boy will not make her happy. ” “He says he doesn’t mind the lame leg.” “Saturna, how poorly you understand human nature! That man will not make the girl happy, I repeat. I know all about these things! And I’ll add more: the girl does not expect her happiness from such a guy… ” “Lord!” “To understand these things, Saturna, it is necessary… to understand them. You are very hard-headed, and you only see what is right in front of your nose. Tristana is a woman of great understanding, just from where you see her, with a fiery imagination… She is in love… ” “I already know that.” “You don’t know.” In love with a man who doesn’t exist, because he can’t exist, because if he did exist, Saturna would be God, and God doesn’t bother coming into the world for the amusement of girls. Come on, enough chatter; bring me the coffee. Saturna ran into the kitchen, and upon returning with the coffee, she allowed herself to comment on Don Lope’s latest thoughts. “Sir, what I’m saying is that they love each other, whether for their fine or their coarse qualities, and that Don Horacio wants to see the young lady… He’s coming with a good intention. ” “Then let him come. He’ll be leaving with a bad start. ” “Oh, what a tyrant! ” “It’s not that… I’m not opposed to them seeing each other,” said the gentleman, lighting a cigar. “But first, it’s best that I speak with that fellow myself. You’ll see how good I am. And this trait…? Speak with him, yes, and tell him… well, I’ll know… ” “Shall we bet it frightens him? ” “No; I’ll bring him, I’ll bring him myself. Saturna, this is called a trait. See that you tell him to expect me in his study one of these afternoons… tomorrow. I’ve decided. _Walking restlessly around the dining room_ If Tristana wants to see him, I won’t deprive her of that pleasure. Whatever the child’s craving may be, her loving father will satisfy it. I brought her the brushes, I brought her the harmonium, and that’s not enough. More toys are needed. Well, come on, the man, the illusion, the… Saturna, say now that I’m not a hero, a saint. With this single outburst, I wash away all my sins, and I deserve to be considered by God as His own. So… —I’ll warn him… But don’t come up with some nonsense. Gosh, if you decide to frighten that poor boy… —He’ll be frightened just by seeing me. Saturna, I am who I am… Another thing: with skill you’re preparing the child… You tell her that I’ll turn a blind eye, “I’ll go out on purpose one afternoon so he can come in, and they can talk, for just half an hour… More time isn’t convenient. My dignity won’t allow it. But I’ll be at home, and… Look, a little crack will be opened in the door so you and I can see how they receive each other , and hear what they chat about. ” “Sir…” “What do you know…? Do as I command. ” “Then do as I advise. There’s no time to lose. Don Horacio is in a great hurry… ” “Hurry? That word means youth. Well, then, this very afternoon I’ll go up to the study. Tell him… go on… and then, when you accompany the young lady, you drop in… do you understand? Tell her that I neither consent nor oppose… or rather, that I tolerate and pretend not to notice.” Don’t even let her understand that I’m going to the study, because this act of inconsistency, which belies my character, might lower me in her own eyes… although no… perhaps not… Anyway, prepare her, so that she won’t be affected when she sees in her presence the… handsome ideal. “Don’t mock. ” “If I’m not mocking. Handsome ideal means…” “His type… one’s type, let’s suppose… ” “You really are a type,” bursting into laughter. “Anyway, let’s say no more. You prepare her, and I’ll go confront the young gentleman.” At the appointed time, after having been given notice by Saturna, Don Lope headed for the study, and as he climbed, not without fatigue, the interminable staircase, he said to himself between hoarse coughs and stifled sighs: “But, my God, what strange things I’ve been doing for some time now ! Sometimes I feel like asking myself: And are you that Don Lope…?” I never thought it would be the case that one wouldn’t look like oneself … Anyway, I’ll try not to inspire too much fear in that innocent man. The first impression on both of them was somewhat painful, not knowing what attitude to take, vacillating between benevolence and a dignity that might well be called decorative. The painter was prepared to treat Don Lope according to the airs he carried. After the usual greetings and pleasantries, the elderly gentleman displayed a disdainful courtesy, regarding the young man as an inferior being, to whom the honor of a temporary acquaintance imposed by chance is being dispensed. “Well, yes, sir… you know the girl’s misfortune. What a pity, isn’t it? With that talent, with that grace…! She is now a useless woman forever. You will understand my sorrow.” I look upon her as a daughter, I love her dearly with pure and selfless affection, and since I have not been able to preserve her health or save her from that very sad amputation, I want to brighten her days, make her life as pleasant as possible, and give her soul all the recreation it… In short, her fickle spirit needs toys. Painting doesn’t quite distract her… music perhaps … Her insatiable eagerness demands more, always more. I knew that you… “So, Mr. Don Lope,” said Horacio with courteous grace, “you consider me a toy. ” “No, not exactly a toy… But… I am old, as you see, very practical in the affairs of life, in passions and affections, and I know that youthful inclinations always have a certain air of being a doll’s game… Don’t take this the wrong way. Everyone sees these things according to their age.” The prism of twenty-five or thirty years decomposes objects in a graceful way, and gives them fresh and brilliant nuances. My crystal presents things to me differently. In a word: I view the girl’s inclination with paternal indulgence, yes, with that indulgence that a sickly child always deserves, to whom we must dispense whims and pampering, however extravagant. “Excuse me, my lord,” said Horacio gravely, overcoming the fascination that the gentleman’s penetrating gaze exerted on him, sinking his spirits. “Excuse me. I cannot appreciate with that judgment of a doddering grandfather the inclination that Tristana has for me, much less the one I feel for her. ” “Well, that’s why we shouldn’t quarrel,” replied Garrido, emphasizing even more the civility and disdain with which he spoke to him. “I think what I have had.” I have the honor of expressing this to you; think what you like. I don’t know if you will correct your opinion of these things. I am very old, very seasoned, and I don’t know how to correct myself. The fact is, leaving it to you to think what you like, I have come to tell you that, since you wish to see Tristanita, and Tristanita will be pleased to see you, I have no objection to you honoring my house; on the contrary, I shall take satisfaction in it. Did you perhaps think I was going to be branded a jealous father or a domestic tyrant? No, sir. I don’t like cover-ups, especially not in something as innocent as this visit. No, it is not proper for my fiancé to go around trying to get me into the house. You and I gain nothing, one sneaking in without my permission, the other barring the doors as if there were some malice in it. Yes, Señor D. Horacio, you may go, at the time I designate, of course. And if it turns out that the visits must be repeated, because it is in the best interest of my sick woman’s peace, you must promise me never to enter without my consent. ” “That seems very good to me,” affirmed Díaz, who was gradually allowing himself to be won over by the sharpness and worldly expertise of the dapper old man. “I am at your service. ” Horacio felt the superiority of his interlocutor, and almost… and without almost, he was pleased to meet him, admiring up close, for the first time, a most curious specimen of the most developed social fauna, a character that seemed legendary, and invested with a certain poetic tone. The attraction was accentuated by the extremely amusing things that Don Lope later said pertinent to the gallant life, to women, and to marriage. In short, he liked him very much, and they said their goodbyes, Horacio promising to obey his instructions, and setting the appointment with the poor invalid for the following afternoon. Chapter 26. “What a piece of angel!” said Don Lope, leaving behind, with less calm than on the way up, the endless steps of the study staircase. ” And he seems honorable and decent. I don’t see him clinging to the childish obsession with marriage, nor has he told me anything about a beautiful ideal, nor that bit about loving her to the death, with or without a leg… Nothing; this is a done deal… I thought I’d found a romantic, with a face as if he’d drunk the vinegar of thwarted passions, but instead I find a young fellow of healthy complexion and serene spirit, a thoughtful man, who in the end will see things as I do. He doesn’t even seem madly in love, as he must have been before, who knows when. Rather, he seems confused, not knowing what attitude to take when he sees her, or how to present himself to her… Anyway, what will come of this…? For me, it’s a finished deal… finished… yes sir… a dead, fallen, buried deal… like the leg.” The wonderful news of Horacio’s impending visit disturbed Tristana, who, while pretending to believe everything she was told, harbored a certain inner distrust of the reality of the event. Her mental work in the days preceding the operation had familiarized her with the idea of assuming the beautiful ideal was absent; and his very beauty and his rare perfections appeared in the girl’s mind as withered and vanished by the grace and power of the approach. At the same time, the purely human and selfish desire to see her beloved, to hear him, struggled in her soul with that unbridled idealism, by virtue of which, rather than seeking the approach, she tended, without realizing it, to avoid it. The distance became like a voluptuousness of that subtle love, which struggled to detach itself from all sensory influence. In this state of mind, the moment of the interview arrived. Don Lope pretended
to be absent, without making the slightest allusion to the matter; but he remained in his room, ready to come out if any accident made his presence necessary. Tristana arranged her hair, remembering her better days, and since she had recovered somewhat in the last few days, she looked very well. Nevertheless, discontented and distressed, she put the mirror away, for idealism did not exclude presumption. When she felt Horatio entered, and Saturna ushered him into the room, her face paled, and she was almost unconscious. The little blood in her veins rushed to her heart; she could hardly breathe, and a curiosity more powerful than all feeling seized her. “Now,” she said to herself, “I shall see what he looks like, I shall learn about his face, which has been lost to me long ago, which has been erased, forcing me to invent another for my own use.” At last, Horatio entered… To Tristana’s surprise, who at first almost saw him as a stranger. He went straight to her with open arms and caressed her tenderly. Neither of them could speak for a short time… And Tristana was surprised by the metallic voice of her former lover, as if she had never heard it before. And then… what a face, what a complexion, what a color like bronze, burnished by the sun! “How you have suffered, poor thing!” said Horatio, when emotion allowed him to express himself clearly. And I couldn’t be by your side! It would have been a great consolation to me to be with my Paquilla of Rimini in that moment, to support her spirit… but you know; my aunt is so ill! The poor thing almost didn’t tell the tale. “Yes… you were right not to come… Why?” Tristana replied, instantly recovering her composure. “Such a pitiful picture would have torn your heart out. Well, it’s over now; I’m better, and I’m getting used to the idea of having only one little leg. ” “What does it matter, my love?” said the painter, for the sake of saying something. ” We’ll see. I haven’t tried walking with crutches yet. I’ll have a hard time the first day; but I’ll get used to it eventually. What can I do…?” “It’s all a question of habit. Of course, at first you’ll be less graceful… I mean, you’ll always be graceful… ” “No… be quiet. That level of flattery shouldn’t be tolerated between us.” A little gallantry, or rather charity, will do… “What is most valuable in you, grace, spirit, intelligence, has not suffered, nor can it suffer, any impairment. Neither the charm of your face, nor the admirable proportions of your bust… either. ” “Shut up,” Tristana said gravely. “I am a seated beauty… forever seated, a half-length woman, a bust and nothing more. ” “And does that seem little to you? A bust; but how beautiful! Then, your peerless intelligence will always make you a charming woman…” Horatio searched in his mind for all the flowers that could be thrown to a woman who has only one leg. It wasn’t difficult for him to find them, and once they were thrown upon the unfortunate invalid, he had nothing more to add. With a little violence, which he himself could hardly appreciate , he added the following: “And I love you, and I will always love you the same. ” “I already know that,” she replied, affirming it for the very reason that he was beginning to doubt it. The conversation continued in the most affectionate terms, without reaching the tone or attitude of true trust. In the first moments, Tristana felt a sudden disappointment. That man was not the same one , erased from her memory by distance, whom she had laboriously reconstructed with her creative and formative talents. His figure seemed crude and ordinary to her, his face lacking any intelligent expression, and as for his ideas… Ah, his ideas seemed most vulgar ! From the lips of Mr. Juan came nothing but the sympathy bestowed upon any sick person, clothed in a form of tender friendship. And in everything he said regarding the constancy of his love, one could see the artifice laboriously constructed out of compassion. Meanwhile, Don Lope paced restlessly around the interior of the house, wearing silent slippers so that his footsteps could not be heard, and he approached the door in case something happened that would require his intervention. Since her dignity abhorred spying, she didn’t listen to the door. More than at her master’s command, out of her own inspiration and a desire to pry, Saturna placed her ear to the crack left open for the occasion, and was able to glean something of what the lovers were saying. Calling her into the hallway, Don Lope questioned her with keen interest: “Tell me, have you talked about marriage?” “I haven’t heard anything that means getting married,” said Saturna. “Love, yes, loving each other forever, and what do I know… but… ” “Of a sacred bond, not a word. What I say is a done deal. And it couldn’t be any other way. How can he keep his promise to a woman who has to walk with crutches…? Nature prevails. That’s what I say… Much chatter, many flashy phrases, and no substance. When they get down to business, all the fluff disappears and nothing remains… Anyway, Saturna, this is going well and just as I wish. We’ll see where the girl turns next. Go on, keep listening, to see if she springs upon some phrase of formal commitment for the future.” The diligent maid returned to her vigil; but she got nothing out of it, because they spoke very softly. Finally, Horace proposed to his beloved that they end their visit. “If I please,” he said, “I would not leave you until tomorrow… nor tomorrow either… But I must consider that Don Lope, in granting me permission to see you, is acting with a generosity and a high-mindedness that does him great credit, and which obliges me not to abuse it. Do you think I should retire now? As you wish. And I trust that since the visits are not very long, your old man will allow me to repeat them every day. ” The invalid agreed with her friend, and he withdrew after kissing her affectionately and reiterating those affections that, although not cold, were taking on a fraternal character. Tristana watched him leave very calmly, and when she said goodbye, she scheduled the first painting lesson for the following afternoon , which greatly pleased the artist, who, upon leaving the room, surprised Don Lope in the corridor and went straight to him, greeting him with profound respect. They went into the room of the aging gentleman, and there they chatted about matters that seemed to him of singular significance. For the time being, the painter didn’t utter a word that transcended marriage plans. He expressed a keen interest in Tristana, profound pity for her condition, and a discreet degree of love for her, a discretion interpreted by Don Lope as delicacy, or rather, repugnance for a sudden breakup, which would have been inhumane in the sad situation of Miss Reluz. Finally, Horacio had no problem in giving the interest his friend inspired a distinctly positive character. Since he knew from Saturna the difficulties of a certain kind that overwhelmed Don Lope, he began to propose to him something that the gentleman, in his haughty dignity, could not admit. “Because, look, my friend,” he said in a friendly tone, “I… and don’t be offended by my officiousness… I have certain duties to fulfill toward Tristana. She is an orphan. Those who love her and value her are obliged to look out for her. It doesn’t seem right to me that you should monopolize the sublime virtue of protecting the helpless… If you want to grant me a favor, for which I will be grateful all my life, allow me… ” “What? For God’s sake, Sir Díaz, don’t embarrass me. How can I consent? ” “Take it however you want… What do you mean? That it’s impolite to suggest that I should cover the costs of Tristana’s illness ? Well, you are wrong, very wrong, to think so. Accept it, and afterward we’ll be better friends. ” “More friends, Sir Díaz? More friends after I’ve proven I have no shame! ” “Don Lope, for the love of God!” “Don Horacio… that’s enough. ” “And as a last resort, why shouldn’t I be allowed to give my little friend an expressive organ of superior quality, the best of its kind, to add to it a complete library of organ music, including studies, easy and concert pieces, and, finally, to pay for the teacher?” “Yes… yes… You see how I compromise. The gift of the instrument and the papers is acceptable . As for the teacher, that’s out of the question, Sir Díaz.
” “Why? ” “Because an object is given as a testimony of present or past affections ; but I don’t know of anyone who gives music lessons.” “Don Lope… stop making distinctions. ” “At that rate, you’d be tempted to propose paying for your clothes and paying for your food… and this, frankly, seems degrading to me… unless you came with purposes and ends of a certain kind.” Seeing him coming, Horacio wanted to change the conversation. “My intention is for you to learn an art in which you can display and expend that immense amount of fluid accumulated in your nervous system, the treasures of artistic passion, of noble ambition that fill your soul. ” “If nothing else, I’m more than enough for myself. I’m not rich; but I have enough to open up to Tristana the paths by which a poor little lame girl can run to glory. I… frankly, I thought that you…” Wanting to obtain a categorical declaration, and seeing that he couldn’t get it through oblique attacks, he attacked him head-on: “Well, I thought that when you came here, you had the intention of marrying her.” “Get married! Oh! No,” said Horacio, disconcerted by the sudden blow, but recovering immediately. “Tristana is an irreconcilable enemy of marriage. Didn’t you know that? ” “I? No. ” “Yes, she detests it. Perhaps she sees more than all of us; perhaps her discerning eye, or a certain instinct of divination granted to superior women, sees the future society that we do not. ” “Perhaps… These spoiled and capricious girls usually have very far-sightedness. Anyway, Señor Díaz, we agreed that the gift of the barrel organ is accepted; but not the rest: it is appreciated, of course; but it cannot be accepted, because decorum prohibits it. ” “And we agreed,” said Horacio, taking his leave, “that I will come and paint with her for a while. ” “A little while… when we get her up, because she must not paint in bed.” “Exactly…; but in the meantime, may I come…?” “Oh, yes, to chat, to distract her. Tell her things about that beautiful country. ” “Ah, no, no,” said Horacio, frowning. “She doesn’t like the countryside, or gardening, or Nature, or domestic birds, or the luxurious, obscure life, which I love and enamor. I’m very down-to-earth, very practical, and she’s very dreamy, with wings of extraordinary strength to soar into endless spaces. ” “Yes, yes…” shaking his hands. “Then come whenever it suits you, Señor Díaz. And you know that…” He dismissed him at the door; then went into his room, very happy, and rubbing his hands together, he said to himself: “Incompatibility of characters… absolute incompatibility, irreconcilable differences.” Chapter 27. The good Garrido noticed a certain stupefaction in his invalid after the interview. Questioned paternally by the astute old man, Tristana said bluntly: “How much that man has changed, how much! It seems to me that he is not the same, and I cannot stop picturing him as he was before. ” “So what, does he gain or lose in the transformation?” “Lose… at least for now. ” “He seems like a good fellow, yes. And he esteems you. He offered to pay your medical expenses . I refused… Imagine… ” Tristana’s face lit up. “He is not one of those,” added Don Lope, “who, when they cease to love a woman, say goodbye in French fashion. No, no; he seems attentive and delicate. He gives you the best expressive organ, and all the music you could ever need. I accepted this; I did not think it prudent to refuse. In short, the man is good, and he pities you; He understands that your social situation, after the loss of your little paw, demands that you be pampered and surrounded by distractions and care; and he begins by offering, as a sincere and kind friend, to give you painting lessons. Tristana said nothing, and was very sad all day. The next day, the interview with Horacio was quite cold. The painter was very friendly, but without saying a word of love. Don Lope entered the room when least expected, putting his two cents into the conversation, which dealt exclusively with matters of art. As he later prodded Horacio to talk about the charms of life In Villajoyosa, the painter elaborated on that subject, which, contrary to Don Lope’s belief, seemed to please Tristana. She listened with keen interest to the descriptions of that pleasant life and the pure joys of domesticity in the open countryside. Undoubtedly, due to the effect of a metamorphosis that had taken place in her soul after the mutilation of her body, what she had previously disdained now seemed to her like the bright prospect of a new world. During subsequent visits, Horacio skillfully avoided any reference to the delightful life that was already his most ardent passion. He also displayed indifference to art, asserting that glory and laurels did not arouse enthusiasm in his soul. And in saying this, a faithful reproduction of the ideas expressed in his letters from Villajoyosa, he observed that Tristana was not displeased. On the contrary, at times she seemed to share the same opinion, looking with disdain on the artistic undertakings and victories, much to Horace’s astonishment, in whose memory the exalted thoughts of his lover’s correspondence remained indelible. Finally, she was removed, and the cramped study where the poor invalid spent her hours, crammed into an armchair, was converted into a painting studio. The patience and diligence with which Horace acted as a teacher were not worthy of praise. But a very strange thing happened: not only did the young lady show little interest in Apelles’ art, but her aptitude, clearly manifested months before, was obscured and eclipsed, no doubt due to a lack of faith. The painter never recovered from his astonishment, recalling the ease with which his pupil understood and handled color, and both of them, astonished by such a change, ended up fainting and becoming bored, postponing the lessons or making them very short. After three or four days of these attempts, they were barely making a move; they spent hours chatting; and it often happened that the conversation languished, as between people who have already said everything they need to say and only discuss the ordinary, regular things of life . The first day Tristana tried the crutches, her first attempts at such a strange system of transportation were an occasion for laughter and mockery. “There’s no way,” she said with a certain foreboding, “to give one’s gait an elegant air. No, no matter how much I think, I won’t invent a beautiful way to walk with these sticks. I’ll always be like the crippled women who beg at the doors of churches. I don’t care. What choice do I have but to be content!” Horacio suggested sending her a handcart for her to go for a walk, and the girl didn’t take this offer badly, and it was carried out two days later, although it wasn’t used until three or four months after the vehicle was given to her. The saddest thing of all that happened there was that Horacio stopped being a regular visitor. The withdrawal was so slow and gradual that it was barely noticeable. He began by missing one day, excusing himself with essential duties; the following week he skipped school twice, then three, five… and finally, they no longer counted the days he missed, but the days he came. Tristana didn’t seem too upset by these shortcomings; she always received him warmly and saw him leave without apparent displeasure. She never asked him the reason for his absences, much less scolded him for them. Another notable circumstance was that they never spoke of the past: both seemed in agreement in considering that novel, which undoubtedly seemed implausible and false to them, as finished and definitively finished, producing an effect similar to that produced in mature age by the entertaining books that have excited and enthralled us in our youth. Tristana emerged from the spiritual slump she found herself in almost abruptly, as if by magic, with her first lessons in music and organ. It was like a sudden resurrection, with breaths of life, enthusiasm, and passion that confirmed Mademoiselle de Reluz’s true character and, with the ardor of this new study, awakened in her marvelous aptitudes. The teacher was a A tiny, affable man of phenomenal patience, so practical in his teaching and so skillful in transmitting his method that he would have made an organist out of a deaf-mute. Under his intelligent direction, Tristana overcame the initial difficulties in a very short time, to the great surprise and delight of all who witnessed this miracle. Don Lope was truly delirious with admiration, and when Tristana pressed the keys, producing the sweetest chords, the poor gentleman became doting, like a grandfather who no longer lives except to pamper his tiny offspring and drool over them. To the lessons in mechanism, fingering, and reading, the teacher soon added some notions of harmony, and it was marvelous to see the young woman assimilate this arduous knowledge. It was as if the rules were familiar to her before they were revealed to her; she was ahead of the game, and what she learned was deeply engraved in her spirit. The tiny professor, a very Christian man who spent his life going from choir to choir and from chapel to chapel, playing at solemn masses, funerals, and novenas, saw in his disciple an example of God’s favor, an artistic and religious predestination. “This girl is a genius,” he affirmed, admiring her with contemplative effusion, “and at times she seems like a saint to me. ” “Saint Cecilia!” Don Lope exclaimed with enthusiasm that made him hoarse. “What a daughter, what a woman, what a divinity!” It was not easy for Horacio to hide his emotion when he heard Tristana modulate liturgical chords on the organ, in fugal style, staggering the melodic members with astonishing skill; and the artist had a hard time hiding his tears, ashamed to shed them. When the young lady, inflamed by religious inspiration, immersed herself in her music, turning the gravelly instrument into the language of her soul, she saw no one, nor did she care for her small but fervent audience. Feeling, as well as the style of expressing it, absorbed her completely; her face was transfigured, acquiring a celestial beauty; her soul was detached from all earthly elements to rock itself in the vaporous bosom of a sweetest ideality. One day, the good organist reached the height of admiration, hearing her improvise with gallant daring, and he was amazed at the ease with which she modulated, linking tones, and adding to her knowledge of harmony others that no one knew where she had obtained, the work of a mysterious power of divination, granted only to privileged souls , for whom the art holds no secrets. From that day on, the teacher attended the lessons with interest greater than pure instruction could inspire, and he focused all his senses on his pupil, raising her like an only and adored child. The old musician and the elderly gentleman were enraptured by the invalid’s side, and while one showed her the mysteries of the art with paternal love, the other betrayed his deep tenderness with sighs and a few fervent expressions. The lesson over, Tristana strolled around the room on crutches, and Don Lope and the other old man imagined, as they watched her, that Saint Cecilia herself couldn’t move or walk any other way. During this time, that is, when the young woman’s progress had become so noticeable, Horacio began to make his visits more frequent again, and then they suddenly became noticeably scarce. When summer came, up to two weeks would pass without the painter making any contributions, and when he did, Tristana, to please and entertain him, would treat him to a session of music. The artist would sit in the darkest part of the room to follow the beautiful psalmody with profound abstraction, as if in ecstasy, gazing vaguely at an indeterminate point in space, while his soul wandered freely through the regions where dream and reality merge. And in such a way did art absorb Tristana with such cultivated longing that she did not and could not think of anything else. Every day she craved more and better music. Perfection filled her spirit, holding it as if fascinated. Ignorant of everything that was happening in the world, her The isolation was complete, absolute. One day Horacio left and withdrew, without her even realizing he had been there. One afternoon, without anyone having foreseen it, the painter left for Villajoyosa, because, according to him, his aunt, who continued to live there, was in danger of dying. This was the truth, and three days after her nephew arrived, Doña Trini closed the heavy floodgates of her eyes, never to open them again. Shortly after, at the beginning of autumn, Díaz fell ill, though not seriously. Friendly letters exchanged between him and Tristana, and Don Lope himself, which throughout the following year continued to come and go every two, every three weeks, along the same path where the incendiary letters from Seño Juan and Paquita de Rímini had previously flown. Tristana wrote hers quickly, putting nothing in them but phrases of courteous friendship. By one of those inspirations that bring to the mind a profound and certain knowledge of things, the invalid firmly believed, as one believes in the light of the sun, that she would never see Horacio again. And so it was, so it was… One November morning, Don Lope entered the young woman’s room with a grave face, and without expressing joy or sorrow, as if saying the most natural thing in the world, he broke the news to her with this cold laconicism: “Don’t you know? Our Don Horacio is getting married.” Chapter 28. The old gallant thought he noticed that Tristana was disconcerted by the blow; but she came back to herself so quickly and with such determination that it was not easy for Don Lepe to know for certain the state of mind of his captive after the final end of her mad love. Like someone throwing herself into a calm sea, the young lady plunged into the musical maelstrom, and there she spent her hours, sometimes sinking into the depths, sometimes gracefully rising to the surface, truly cut off from all human affairs, yet trying to remain at peace with some of her own thoughts that still tormented her. She never mentioned Horacio again, and although the painter never cut off relations with her, and occasionally wrote friendly letters, Garrido was in charge of reading and answering them. The old man was careful not to mention to the girl his former adorer, and with all his sagacity and experience, he never knew for sure whether Tristana’s sad and serene demeanor concealed disappointment or the feeling of having been deeply mistaken in believing herself disillusioned in the days following Horacio’s return. But how could Don Lope know this, if she herself didn’t know? On fine winter evenings, she would go out into the street in the stroller, pushed by Saturna. The absence of all presumption was one of the most characteristic features of this new metamorphosis of Miss Reluz: she took little care to beautify her person; she dressed simply with a shawl and a silk scarf on her head; but she never lost the habit of fitting her shoes properly, and she continually consulted with the shoemaker to see if he could fit her… only one boot more or less perfectly. How strange it always seemed to her to wear only one foot! Years would pass without her ever getting used to not seeing the boot and shoe of her right foot anywhere . A year after the operation, her face had thinned so much that many who had known her in her prime barely recognized her when they saw her go by in the little carriage. She looked forty years old, when she was barely twenty-five. The wooden leg they gave her two months after the real one had been removed was the most perfect of its kind; But the invalid could not get used to walking with her, aided only by a cane. She preferred crutches, even though they raised her shoulders, destroying the grace of her neck and bust. She took to spending the afternoon hours in church, and to facilitate this innocent inclination, Don Lope moved from the top of the Paseo de Santa Engracia to the Obelisco, where four or five modern and beautiful churches were close at hand , as well as the parish church of Chamberí. And the change of address was good for Don Lope financially, since In the rent for the new house, she saved a small amount, which was not bad for other expenses in such calamitous times. But the most unusual thing was that Tristana’s fondness for the church was communicated to her old tyrant, and without him noticing the decline, she came to spend pleasant moments at the Siervas, the Reparatrices, and at San Fermín, attending novenas and manifestos. When Don Lope noticed this new phase of her senile habits, he was no longer in a condition to appreciate the strangeness of such a change. Her understanding clouded; her body aged with terrible rapidity; she dragged her feet like an octogenarian, and her head and hands trembled. Finally, Tristana’s enthusiasm for the peace of the church, for the placidity of the worship ceremonies, and the gossip of the devout women became such that she shortened the hours dedicated to musical art in order to increase those devoted to religious contemplation. Nor did he notice this new metamorphosis, which he arrived at by slow gradations; and if at first there was nothing in it but pure affection, without true zeal, if his visits to church were at first acts of what might be called pious dilettantism, they soon became acts of true piety, and by imperceptible stages came Catholic practices, hearing Mass, penance, and communion. And since the good Don Lepe, no longer living except for her and through her, reflected her feelings and had become a plagiarist of her ideas, it turned out that he too gradually entered into that life, in which his sad old age found childish consolation. Occasionally, coming back to himself in lucid moments, which seemed like the brief interruptions of an uncertain dream, he would cast a questioning glance at himself, saying to himself: “But am I really, Lope Garrido, the one who does these things?” It’s that I’m stupid… yes, stupid… The man has died in me… my whole being has been dying within me, beginning with the present, advancing in dying toward the past; and finally, nothing remains but the child… Yes, I am a child, and as such I think and live. I see it clearly in the affection of that woman. I have pampered her. Now she pampers me… As for Tristana, could this perhaps be her final metamorphosis? Or perhaps this change was only external, and within, the astonishing unity of her passion for the ideal subsisted? The beautiful and perfect being she had loved, constructing him herself with materials taken from reality, had vanished, it is true, with the reappearance of the person who had been, as it were, the genesis of that creation of the mind; but the type, in its essential and flawless beauty, remained alive in the thought of the young invalid. If this had changed anything in the way she loved him, that number of all perfections had changed no less in her mind. If before he was a man, then he was God, the beginning and end of all that exists. The young woman felt a certain rest, an ineffable consolation, for the mental contemplation of the idol was easier for her in church than outside of it; the plastic forms of worship helped her to feel it. The transformation of man into God was so complete after some time that Tristana came to forget the first aspect of her ideal, and in the end saw only the second, which was surely the definitive one. Three years had passed since the operation performed so successfully by Miquis and his friend, when Miss Reluz, without completely forgetting the art of music, now regarded it with disdain, as something inferior and of little value. She spent her afternoons in the church of the Servants, on a pew, which, due to the firmness and constancy with which she occupied it, seemed to belong to her. Her crutches, leaning against one side, kept her company. The little sisters eventually became friends with her, and this led to a certain ecclesiastical familiarity: at some solemn functions, Tristanita played the organ, to the great delight of the nuns and all those present. The lame lady became popular among those who regularly attended the morning and evening services , and the acolytes now considered her an integral part of the church. of the building and even of the institution. Chapter 29. Don Lope’s old age did not have all the sadness and loneliness he deserved, as the end of a dissipated and vicious life, because his relatives saved him from the frightful misery that threatened him. Without the help of his cousins, the ladies of Garrido Godoy, who resided in Jaén, and without the generous generosity of his nephew, the archdeacon of Baeza, Don Primitivo de Acuña, the gallant in decline would have had to beg for alms or deliver his noble bones to San Bernardino. But although these ladies, spinsters, hysterical and old-fashioned, deeply involved in the church and of timid customs, saw in their illustrious relative a monster, or rather a devil who walked loose in the world, the force of blood was stronger than the bad opinion they had of him, and in a discreet way they protected him in his poverty. As for the good archdeacon, on a trip to Madrid, he tried to obtain certain moral concessions from his uncle. They conferred. Don Lope, indignant, left, very disheartened, and the matter was discussed no further. Some time later, five years after Tristana’s illness, the clergyman returned to the attack in this manner, aided by arguments in whose persuasive power he trusted. “Uncle, you’ve spent your life offending God, and the most infamous, the most ignominious thing is this criminal consort… ” “But son, if now… no… ” “It doesn’t matter; she and you will go to hell, and your good intentions today will be of no use to you. In short, the good archdeacon wanted to marry you off. Implausibility, life’s horrible sarcasm, in the case of a man of radical and dissolving ideas, like Don Lope!” “Although I’m a fool,” he said, struggling up onto his toes, “although I’m a brat and a baby… not so much, Primitivo, don’t make me such an idiot.” The good priest explained his plans simply. He wasn’t asking, he was kidnapping. See how. “The aunts,” he said, “who are very Christian and God-fearing, are offering you, if you will accept the offer and abide by the commandments of divine law… are offering, I repeat, to deed you the two pastures of Arjonilla, by which means you will not only be able to live comfortably for as long as the Lord grants you, but also leave your widow… ” “My widow! ” “Yes; because the aunts, quite rightly, demand that you marry.” Don Lope burst out laughing. But he wasn’t laughing at the extravagant proposition, alas! but at himself… Deal.” How could she reject the proposal, if accepting it ensured Tristana’s existence when he was gone? Deal… Who would have thought it! Don Lope, who in those days had learned to make the sign of the cross on his forehead and mouth, never stopped crossing himself. In short, they were married… and when they left the church, Don Lope was still not sure he had renounced and cursed his cherished doctrine of celibacy. Contrary to what he believed, the young lady had nothing to say to the absurd project. She accepted it with indifference; she had come to view everything earthly with the utmost disdain… She hardly realized that she was married, that a few brief instructions had made her Garrido’s legitimate wife, pigeonholing her into an honorable place in society. She didn’t regret the act; she accepted it as a fact imposed by the outside world, like registration in the census, like taxation, like the rules of the police. And Mr. Garrido, when his fortunes improved, took a larger house on the same Paseo del Obelisco, which had a courtyard with the honors of a garden. The old gentleman revived with his new state; he seemed less doting, less foolish, and without knowing how or when, nearing the end of his life, he felt the birth of inclinations he had never had, the manias and affections of a peaceful bourgeois. He was completely unaware of that burning desire that had filled him to plant a little tree, not stopping until he achieved his wish, until he saw the seedling take root and be covered with fresh leaves. And the time that the lady spent in the church praying, he, somewhat Already disillusioned with his religious hobby, he spent it looking after the six hens and the arrogant rooster he kept in the courtyard. What delightful moments! What a pleasant emotion… seeing if they would lay an egg, if it was a big one, and, finally, preparing the hatching to hatch chicks, which finally emerged, oh!, graceful, daring, and with the will to live a long life! Don Lope was beside himself with joy, and Tristana shared his delight. During those days, the little lame girl was introduced to a new hobby: the culinary arts in its important branch of baking. A very skilled teacher taught her two or three types of cakes, and she made them so well, so well, that Don Lope, after tasting them, licked his fingers and never stopped praising God. Were they both happy…? Perhaps. Thank you for joining us for reading Tristana, a work that invites us to reflect on the struggle for autonomy and the complexities of love and power. If you enjoyed this story, don’t forget to leave a comment, subscribe to the channel, and activate the bell so you don’t miss our future readings. See you next time on Ahora de Cuentos.
¡Bienvenidos a Ahora de Cuentos! En este video les traemos la fascinante novela *Tristana* de Benito Pérez Galdós, un relato apasionante sobre el amor, la libertad y las tensiones sociales del siglo XIX. 🌟
📖 *Tristana* es una de las obras más significativas de la literatura española, donde se exploran los dilemas de una joven que lucha por encontrar su propia identidad y libertad, mientras se enfrenta a las complejidades del amor y el poder. A lo largo de la historia, Tristana, una mujer joven y brillante, se ve atrapada en una relación con un hombre dominante, Don Lope, que marca su destino de maneras que jamás imaginó. Pero, ¿puede una mujer alcanzar su independencia en una sociedad que la limita? ¡Descúbranlo a lo largo de esta poderosa narrativa!
🔹 **Lo que encontrarás en este video**:
– Un análisis profundo sobre los personajes y sus relaciones 🧠
– La crítica social de Benito Pérez Galdós hacia la España de su tiempo ⚖️
– Temas como el amor, la sumisión y la búsqueda de libertad 🕊️
– La lucha interna de Tristana, una mujer que desafía su destino 💪
🔹 **Sobre Benito Pérez Galdós**:
Benito Pérez Galdós es uno de los escritores más importantes del realismo español. Su obra refleja la sociedad española de su época, mostrando la vida de las clases populares y la lucha por la justicia social. *Tristana* es una de sus novelas más destacadas, en la que aborda temas universales como el amor, el poder y la emancipación femenina.
📚 *Tristana* es una obra que, aunque ambientada en el siglo XIX, sigue tocando temas que resuenan en el mundo actual. El sufrimiento y las contradicciones de los personajes nos invitan a reflexionar sobre la naturaleza humana y nuestras propias luchas internas.
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🔹 :
-Tristana de Benito Pérez Galdós 📚❤️ | Una historia de amor y libertad [https://youtu.be/abGFXgs2fqc]
#Tristana #BenitoPérezGaldós #literaturaespañola #libros #lecturasrecomendadas #clásicosliterarios #novela #amor #libertad #feminismo #mujeresenlaliteratura #sufrimiento #poder #sociedad #mujer #feminismoenliteratura #España #realismo #literatura #historia #novelafemenina #psicología #independencia #clásicos #literaturaclasica #ahoradecuentos #lecturaenvozalta
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05:41:04 Capítulo 28.
05:48:49 Capítulo 29.