Tristana (16 page)

Saturday

“Ay, ay, ay! All my hopes are dashed. You must have been worried sick, having received no letter from me since Tuesday. Can you guess what has happened to me? I am so unhappy. I’m lame again and in absolute agony! I have spent three dreadful days. I was taken in by that treacherous pseudo-recovery on Tuesday. On Wednesday, after a hellish night, I woke up screaming. Don Lope brought in the doctor, a certain Dr. Miquis, a pleasant young man. How embarrassing! I had no alternative but to show him my leg. He saw the mole, ay, ay ay, and told me all kinds of jokes to make me laugh. His prognosis is not, I think, very hopeful, although Don Lepe assures me that it is, doubtless to cheer me up. How on earth am I ever going to be an actress if I’m lame? It’s simply not possible. I’m quite mad. I think only grim thoughts. And what exactly is wrong with me? Nothing really. Near the place where the mole is, there’s a hard lump and if I press it or try to walk, I see stars. That Dr. Miquis, damn him, has sent me all kinds of unguents and an endless bandage, which Saturna very, very carefully wraps around my leg. I bet I’m a real picture! Your Beatrice in a poultice! I must look hideous! What a sight! I’m writing to you from an armchair, from which I cannot move. Saturna is holding the inkwell. If you were to come back now, how could I possibly visit you? Don’t come until I’m well again. I pray to God and the Virgin that I get better soon. I don’t deserve such a punishment, after all, I haven’t been so very bad. What crime have I committed? Loving you? Is that a crime? Since I have the dreadful habit of looking for
il perche delle cose
,
*
I wonder if God has made a mistake, goodness, what blasphemy! No, He doesn’t make mistakes. We will suffer. Patience, although, to be frank, not being able to become an actress enrages me and makes me throw away all the patience I had managed to muster. But what if I do get better . . . because I will, I won’t have a limp or only one so slight that I can easily disguise it.

“If you weep not now, when will you ever weep? And if you don’t love me more and more and more, you deserve to have the Prince of Darkness take you and put out your eyes. I am so miserable! I don’t know whether it’s just my distress or the effect of the illness, but it’s as if all my ideas had fled, had flown away. Will they ever come back? Do you think they will? Then I start thinking and I say: Dear God, where are all the things I read about, all the things I learned from those big fat books? They must be flitting around my head, the way birds flitter around a tree before roosting for the night, and they will come back, they will. I’m just very sad and low in spirits, and the idea of having to walk on crutches weighs on me. No, I don’t want to be lame. I would rather . . .

“To distract me, Malvina suggested that we start learning German together. I sent her packing. I don’t want German, I don’t want languages, all I want is my health back, even if, afterwards, I’m a complete dolt. Will you love me if I’m lame? No, I will get better. Of course I will! It would be so unfair if I didn’t, a barbarous act on the part of Providence, of the Almighty, of the . . . oh, I don’t know. I’m going mad. I need to cry, to spend all day crying . . . but I’m too angry and I can’t cry when I’m angry. I hate the whole human race, apart from you. I wish they would hang Malvina, shoot Saturna, publicly whip Don Lope, parade him on a donkey, and then burn him alive. I’m in a terrible state; I don’t know what I’m thinking or what I’m saying . . .”

AS EVENING
fell on one of the last days in January, a melancholy, taciturn Don Lope Garrido entered his house like a man on whose spirit weighed the very heaviest of griefs and cares. In a matter of a few months, age had invaded the territory that the pride and spirit of his mature years had hitherto always managed to fend off; he was rather stooped now; his noble features had taken on a somber, earthy tinge; the gray hairs on his head were prospering and, to complete this picture of decay, there was also a certain air of neglect about his clothes, which was even more pitiful to see than the deterioration in his physical appearance. His habits had also been affected by this sudden change, for Don Lope now rarely went out at night and spent most of the day at home. One can understand the reason for such a decline because it is worth repeating that, apart from his complete moral blindness in the matter of love, this now redundant libertine was a man of good feelings and could not bear to see the people close to him suffer. True he had dishonored Tristana and ruined her for society and for marriage, trampling her fresh youth, but never confuse kindness with weakness, for he loved her deeply and it pained him immeasurably to see her ill and with little hope of a speedy recovery. According to what Dr. Miquis had said on his first visit, it would be a long process, and he had offered no assurances that she would get well again, that is, recover from her lameness.

Don Lope entered the house and, removing his cape in the hallway, went straight to his slave’s room. The poor girl looked so ill from enforced inactivity and from the moral and physical burden of her painful illness! She sat still and quiet in the armchair he had bought for her, and which could be opened out and extended so that she could rest whenever sleep overcame her; wrapped in a checkered shawl, with her hands folded and her head bare, Tristana wasn’t a shadow of her former self. Nothing could compare with the pallor of her skin; the paper pulp from which her lovely face seemed to be made was now incredibly diaphanous and white; her lips had taken on a purple tinge; and sadness and continual weeping had encircled her eyes with an opaline transparency.

“How are you, my dear?” Don Lope asked, stroking her cheek and sitting down beside her. “Better, eh? Miquis tells me that you’re on the road to recovery and that the pain is a sign that you’re improving. It’s not a dull pain anymore, is it? It really hurts, doesn’t it, the way a bad graze hurts. That’s what we want, pain. The swelling’s going down. Now, my dear, you must take this,” he said, showing her a small box from the pharmacist. “It doesn’t taste nasty or anything: just two pills every three hours. As for external medicine, Don Augusto says we should continue as before. So cheer up, in another month or so, you’ll be leaping about and even dancing a
malagueña
.”

“In another month? I don’t think so. You’re just saying that to console me. Thank you, but, alas, I won’t leap anywhere ever again.”

The note of profound sadness in her voice touched Don Lope, who was a brave man, uncowed by other things, but helpless in the face of illness. Seeing a person he loved in physical pain reduced him to being a child again.

“Don’t lose hope. I have confidence, and you must as well. Do you need more books to distract you? Do you want to do some drawing? You only have to ask. Shall I bring you some plays so that you can study your parts?” Tristana shook her head. “All right, then, I’ll bring you some nice novels or history books. Now that you’ve started cramming your head with knowledge, you don’t want to stop halfway. I have a feeling you’re going to be an extraordinary woman. I don’t know how I could have been so stupid as not to realize this before. I’ll never forgive myself.”

“You’re forgiven,” murmured Tristana, looking deeply bored.

“Shall we eat? Are you peckish? No? Well, you have to make an effort. At least have some soup and a small glass of sherry. What about a chicken leg? No? Well, I won’t insist. Now if the illustrious Saturna will give me a little food, I would be most grateful. I’m not that hungry really, but I feel slightly weak and one must feed the inner man.”

He went to the dining room, and not even noticing what was in the various dishes, for his thoughts were far removed from external things, he dispatched some soup, a little meat, and so on, then, still chewing the last mouthful, returned to Tristana.

“Now where were we? Did you have some soup? Good. I’m glad you haven’t entirely lost your appetite. I’ll stay and talk until you fall asleep. No, I’m not going out, I want to keep you company. And I don’t say that in order to be thanked. I know there was a time when I should have stayed with you and I didn’t. It’s late, very late, and these kindnesses of mine are latecomers too. But let’s not talk about that; don’t make me feel ashamed. If you don’t want me here, just say so; if you prefer to be alone, I’ll go to my room.”

“No, no, stay. When I’m alone, I think dark thoughts.”

“Dark thoughts, my dear? What nonsense. You haven’t fully grasped the myriad of good things that fate has in store for you. I recognize your qualities, rather late in the day, it’s true, but I do recognize them now. And I realize that I am not even worthy of the honor of offering you advice, but I will give the advice anyway and you can take it or leave it, as you wish.”

This was not the first time Don Lope had spoken to her in this way; and truth be told, Señorita Reluz listened to him with pleasure, because the smooth-talking gallant knew how to strike the right note, praising her taste and stimulating her dreaming imagination. It should be noted, moreover, that a few days before the scene we have described, the tyrant had given his victim proof of remarkable tolerance. Don Lope had burst in one morning when Tristana was deeply immersed in her epistolary activities, sitting in her chair, resting her letter on the piece of wood that Saturna had prepared for her as a writing tablet. Seeing her hurriedly hiding away both paper and inkwell, he smiled in kindly fashion and said, “No, no, child, you carry on writing your letters. I won’t bother you now.”

Tristana was astonished to hear these considerate words, which partly gave the lie to the old rogue’s jealous, egotistical nature, and so she happily carried on writing. Meanwhile, alone in his room with his conscience, Don Lepe gave himself a good talking-to: “I mustn’t make her any more unhappy than she already is. I feel so very sorry for her, the poor love! All right, so recently, feeling alone and bored, she met some good-for-nothing, who turned her head with a few tender words. I don’t want to do that nincompoop the honor of worrying about him. Yes, yes, they love each other and have made a thousand foolish promises. Really, young people today have no idea how to win someone’s heart, but it would be easy enough to fill with hot air the head of a girl as dreamy and excitable as Tristana. He has doubtless offered to marry her, and she believes him. And of course they exchange little notes and letters. I don’t even need to read them to know the kind of nonsense they write. Marriage, marriage, marriage, the usual refrain. Such imbecility would make me laugh if it didn’t involve this bewitching child, my last and, therefore, dearest trophy. Good God, to think that I stupidly let her slip away, but I’ll get her back, not for any nefarious purposes, of course, I’m not up to that kind of thing anymore, but simply to have the pleasure of snatching her back from that interloper—whoever he is—the man who stole her from me, and to prove that when the great Don Lope’s anger is aroused, there isn’t a man alive can get the better of him. I will love her like a daughter, I will defend her against all comers, against the various forms and types of love, whether with marriage or without . . . I want to be her father now and keep her to myself, all to myself, because I intend to live for many more years yet, and if she can’t be my wife, then I’ll have her as my beloved daughter, not that I want anyone else to touch her, mind, or even look at her.”

The profound egotism of these ideas was accompanied by a leonine snarl, as usually happened at critical moments in the old gallant’s life. He then went immediately to Tristana’s side and with a meekness that seemed to come quite naturally to him, he stroked her cheek, saying, “Don’t you worry, my poor little love. It is time to bestow a plenary indulgence. I know that you stumbled morally, even before your little leg went lame. No, it’s all right, I’m not going to tell you off. It was my fault, yes, mine and mine alone. I must take full blame for your flirtation, which was the result of my neglect and my forgetfulness. You are young and pretty. It’s hardly surprising that every young man who sees you flirts with you, or that one of them, slightly better than the others, should have pleased you, and that you should have believed his foolish promises and thrown yourself into plans of happiness that quickly turned to smoke. But let’s speak no more of that. I forgive you. Total absolution. You see, I want to be your father now, and I am beginning by . . .”

Tremulous and fearful lest these words were merely a cunning trick to make her confess her secret, and feeling more than ever under Don Lope’s mysterious sway, the captive denied everything, stammering excuses; but the tyrant, with rare affability, redoubled his kind words and fatherly expressions of affection, saying, “There’s no point denying what your confusion so clearly declares. I know nothing and I know everything. I know nothing but divine everything. The female heart holds no secrets for me. I have lived. I’m not asking you to tell me who the young gentleman is, because I really don’t care. I know the story, it’s one of the oldest in the world, one of the most ordinary, common or garden stories in the human repertoire. He will have made you dizzy with the vulgar hope of marriage, suitable only for shop assistants and the lower orders. He will have spoken to you of the altar, the blessings of matrimony, and of a life as coarse as it is obscure, complete with scrap soup, several brats of your own making, knitting while you all sit cozily by the fire in your armchairs, and other such idiocies. And if you swallow the bait, you will be lost, you will ruin your future and give a slap in the face to your destiny—”

“My destiny!” exclaimed Tristana, reviving, her eyes bright.

“Yes, your destiny. You were born for great things, even though, as yet, we do not know what those things are. Matrimony would plunge you back into the common herd. You cannot and must not belong to anyone, only to yourself. Your idea of honorable freedom, devoted to a noble profession—an idea I did not appreciate before, but which has finally won me over—demonstrates the profound logic of your vocation or, if you like, your ambition. And you are worthy of your ambitions. Your will keeps overflowing because your intelligence has burst its banks. There are no two ways about it, my dear child,” he went on in a slightly mocking tone. “Fancy talking to a woman like you about such trivialities as scissors and thimbles and egg-laying, fireside chats and a cozy life
à deux
. Be very careful, my child, with these seductions intended for seamstresses and would-be ladies, because your leg
will
get better and you will become the finest actress the world has ever seen. And if the stage doesn’t suit you, then you will be something else, whatever you want, whatever you wish to be. I don’t know what that will be, neither do you; all we know is that you have wings, but where you will fly to . . . ah, if we knew that, we would penetrate the very mysteries of destiny, and that is forbidden to us.”