Dulce Dueño 🍬👑 | Una obra maestra de Emilia Pardo Bazán
Welcome to Now for Stories. Today we bring you a captivating story written by Countess Emilia Pardo Bazán, entitled ‘Sweet Owner’. In this work, the author immerses us in a tale that combines social and psychological realism, where the characters fight for their desires and their destinies in a context marked by class differences and human passions. Join us on this literary journey that will reveal the complexities of the human soul and the intricate relationships of power and love. Chapter 1. Listen. Outside, it is raining—a soft, spring rain. It is not sadness that flows from the sky; rather, the hilarity of a play of waters spraying each other with a refreshing, fine drip. Inside, in the peace of a quiet village evening , the feeling of calm well-being, of time to spare, is intensified by the lamplight, which projects an orange circle onto the tablecloth. The light shines brightly on a marvelous object. It is a rectangular plaque about ten centimeters high. Prominent in relief is a small figure of a woman, dressed with sumptuous elegance in the fashion of the 15th century. Her face and hands are enameled; the robe, of chased and also enameled gold, is encrusted with tiny gems, glittering stones as tiny as pinpoints. Crimson tones shine through with a glassy reflection on her tunic; smaragdite greens on her mantle . Her honey-colored hair falls to her shoulders, and a diadem of tiny diamonds surrounds her head, visible only in the spark of light they cast. The figure’s right hand rests on a dark gold wheel , bristling with points, like the back of an erect-finned fish. Behind it, an architecture of extremely fine columns and golden capitals. Three people sit around the table in armchairs covered in faded jute. A young, black-haired woman wrapped in the English crape of strict mourning. A lively, old man, as dry as a nut. A plump, fifty-something priest with a cassock draped in glitter, smooth over his bulging sternum. “Should I read history or not?” urges the clergyman, waving a roll of paper. “Hoax,” criticizes the layman. “Legend,” corrects the woman in mourning. “The sooner, Mr. Magistrate. I’m eager to know something about my Patroness. ” “Well, you’ll find out… I mean, in these matters, you can see that strictly historical information isn’t abundant. You have to offer some supposition, always reasoned, on the dubious points. I submit my work to the decision of our Holy Mother the Church. Come on, I would submit it if I were to publish. ” Here between us, even if I embellish a little… Without altering the essence… And I will skip a lot, avoiding prolixity. And sometimes I won’t read; we will converse. The black-haired woman leaned back and squinted to listen quietly. The old man, in a sign of superiority, lit a cigarette. The canon began to read. His voice was thick, with deep registers. Perhaps, in transcribing his lesson here, there will slip into it quite a few trappings of sentiment or aesthetics that the author would disapprove of. “Catherine was born the daughter of a tyrant, in Alexandria, Egypt. It is not clear who this tyrant was, named Costus. It is necessary to remember that after the siege and the frightful subjugation of the city by Diocletian the Persecutor, who ordered his soldiers to continue the slaughter until Caesar’s steed had bled to the knees, there came a period of anarchy in which dozens of rulers and petty tyrants sprang up, and there was, for example, a certain Firmus, a papyrus dealer, who dared to mint coins bearing his likeness… The old man interrupted. “For you, Carranza, the fact is that the story has an air of authenticity…” “Let me hear it, friend Polilla…” pleaded the one with the mournful crape. ” Without a bit of background, it is impossible to situate a historical figure. ” “Bah! This figure is not…” “Silence! ” “Alexandria, at that time, was the point where paganism fortified itself against new ideas. Because paganism was not only defended by martyring and killing Christians; even the cultured spirits of “At that time they doubted the effectiveness of such atrocious repression. Perhaps it would be doubly accurate to dissect beliefs and dogmas, to mock them, to infect and disintegrate them with heresies, sophisms, and philosophical malice…” Interlude. “The strategy of our good friend Don Antón…” Polilla puffed up his courage, pleased to be dangerous. “You are not unaware of the annals of that most singular city, from when Alexander founded it, giving it the form of the Macedonian chlamys, until it was razed to the ground by Omar. You will have forgotten, out of sheer common knowledge, that the first king of the Lagid dynasty, that Ptolemy Soterus, so ready for anything, upon instituting the famous School, made Alexandria the focus of culture. Decadent or not, the School shone brightly in the ancient world. The Alexandrian hegemony lasted longer than that of Athens; And if under Roman rule their thinkers became sophists, a similar phenomenon has been observed in other schools and in other countries. Under Domitian, Christianity began to make its way into Alexandria. It was noticed that many noble women, who had previously laughed heartily at feasts, now covered their hair with a woolen veil and lowered their eyes when passing in front of statues… thus… somewhat immodestly… ” -Come on, the first beatas…” Moth pecked. “-The fact is that Greeks and Jews,” the Magistrate spun, “were constantly at each other’s throats in Alexandria. With the advent of the Christians, the matter became more complicated. The confusion of sects and theologies became formidable. There, they already worshipped Jehovah or Jahveh, Aphrodite, called Hathor by the Egyptians, the bull Apis, and Serapis, who according to the Emperor Hadrian was nothing other than an emblem of Our Lord Jesus Christ, who, under his true name, began to be the hope and light of the people. And in Alexandria, in addition to pagan persecution, Egyptian persecution arose, and the fanatical people slaughtered many unfortunate Christians… “- ” “Uh?” satirized Don Antón. “I say, very fortunate! ” Diocletian, who seems the most persecutory of the Caesars, had his political skills, and in Egypt he didn’t want to interfere with the local gods. Seeing the unpopularity of the Christians, he took a strong stand against them. In that era, when Christianity still aroused hatred and contempt, Catherine’s personality stands out. This woman is of her time, and in another century it is inconceivable. And her time was one of pedantry and eyebrows burned by the lamplight. In Egypt, women devoted themselves to study like men, and there were notable queens and poetesses, such as the one who composed the famous hymn to the song of the statue of Memnon. It is no surprise that Catherine delved deeply into science and literature. As for her physique, it is to be assumed that, being of Hellenic lineage—as the name indicates—she did not resemble the yellowish Egyptian women, with slanted eyes and curly hair. She was raised amidst delicacies and pampering, in the guise of a haughty, knowledgeable, and disdainful princess. The time came when it seemed natural for her to assume a position, and she took her place in the cohort of illustrious youths of Alexandria, all of whom were ecstatic about her. They were introduced, and one for being dull, another for being untidy, this one for being a supporter of grape juice, that one for being corrupt and a friend of the daifas, the one on her right for being effeminate, and the one on her left for having an ill-shaped foot and a crooked leg, all of them for being ignorant and not frequenters of the Serapion and the Library, she gave them, as we would say today, the cold shoulder… With this she gained a reputation for being proud, and it was agreed that, beneath the magnificence of her bodice, not a heart beat. Without a doubt, Catherine was incapable of any love but her own; and she worshipped only herself, and not even the gods. There was some truth in this opinion, which was spread out of spite by the princess’s _focos_ or suitors. Catherine, convinced of the superiority she possessed, preferred to isolate herself and cultivate her spirit and groom her body, rather than entrust so many treasures to profane hands. Her existence had the intensity and breadth of the lives of In ancient times, when very few powerful people concentrated the power of wealth within themselves , and in contrast to the misery of the people and the submission of the slaves, the enjoyment of so many goods was more aesthetic. Catherine lived in a palace built with marble from Ionia, surrounded by gardens and cooled by the breeze from the port. The terraces of the gardens were stepped and dotted with fountains, filled with fragrant flowers brought from the valleys of Galilee and the regions of Attica, and adorned with artistic vases stolen from sacked cities or bought from patricians who, being ruined in Rome, could not maintain their villas in Campania and Sorrento. To furnish the palace , skilled workers in carving old cedar, turning ivory , and inlaying silver and bronze had been commissioned from Judea and Tyre, and painters from Italy who knew how to decorate walls with fresco and encaustic. And the princess, eager to give her home an original stamp, to distinguish her luxury from other luxuries, sought out unique and singular objects, and had her father send travelers or bring back on his own journeys rarities and masterpieces of painting and sculpture, strange jewels that had belonged to queens of barbarian countries, and pieces of arborescent agate in which a fern seemed to spread its branches or a miniature forest thicken its fronds… ” Haven’t you noticed something, Lina?” the Magistrate interrupted himself , turning to the black-haired woman and lowering his tone. “What is it? ” “That all the representations in art of Catherine of Alexandria present her dressed with ostentation and elegance. Of course, in every era, the dress is in the style of that time; because they didn’t have the scruples of exactitude that they have now. Look at this medal or plaque you’ve brought us.” What finery, eh? And she’s not like Mary Magdalene, who went from brocade to woven matting. Her hand on the knife wheel that will tear her to pieces, Catherine wears the same finery, which is a necessity of her aesthetic nature. She is passionate about the beautiful and the sumptuous, and for tangible beauty she turned toward the intelligible. Thus tradition, which knows how to get it right, makes such splendid images of the Saint… “I like Catherine of Alexandria.” Laconically, the woman in mourning blinked, smoothing her black “gaspar,” which darkened and tinted her pupils. “Well, it must be known that Costo’s emissaries brought to the palace, among other relics, two pieces of jewelry that, according to rumor, had belonged to Cleopatra: one was the companion pearl of the one they say was dissolved in vinegar by the daughter of the Lagids—which seems like a fable, since vinegar doesn’t dissolve pearls—and the other was a jewel, a cross with handles, a religious symbol, not a Christian one, that the queen wore on her chest. The pearl was so thick that when Catherine hung it around her neck—note, the Florentine artist who created that plaque didn’t omit the detail—there was a wave of envy and malice in the city. Did Costo’s daughter believe herself queen of Egypt? How dare she wear the jewels of the great Cleopatra, the last representative of independence, the one who stood in contrast to the power of Rome? For their part, the Romans didn’t take kindly to the display of the tyrant’s daughter. Was she ambitious? Did she intend to embody Egyptian national ideas ? Everything fit into her resolute and manly character! The Christians too—although for different reasons—viewed Catherine with suspicion. They knew that Christianity was repulsive to the princess. Catherine would not have persecuted anyone with torture and death; she would not order the eculeus or the leaded whips for anyone; something worse, or more humiliating, she held for the followers of the Galilean: disdain. It wasn’t even worth the trouble to rage against those who would hammer Greek statues, against those who fled the baths and neither washed nor perfumed their hair. Christianity, within the city, appeared to Catherine wrapped in the meshes of a thousand superstitious heresies ; and only a few flashes of the living flame of faith, coming from the desert, attracted her, momentarily, as all forces do. The solitary ones… The trembling Moth finally jumps up. “Yes, yes; good things came from the desert, from the fathers of the wilderness, isn’t that how they say it? Busy preparing Asia and Europe for the bubonic plague! ” “The bubonic plague?” Lina asks in surprise. “The bubonic plague. As if it didn’t exist, and it appeared in Egypt after, through preaching, they managed to stop the mummification of corpses, to abandon those perfect procedures of blackening, which the wise, although Egyptian priests, applied even to cats, dogs, and ichneumons… When the embalming stopped, the carrion and corpses were thrown into the Nile… and imagine the plague, which we still suffer today. ” “Good…” Lina shrugged her shoulders. “With you, Moth, you always learn … But now I like to listen to Carranza.” “We were among the desert fathers, the solitaries… There was one at that time who was very renowned for his terrifying penances. His name was Tryphon. He spent the year not standing on the capital of a column, like the Stylite, but sometimes on his knees or sitting on a rough stone that the sun scorched. When the people of the poor neighborhood of Racotis came with sick people to be cured by the ascetic, he would sit up, raise the stone a little, murmur “Come, little brother,” and a scorpion would come out, shake its claws, and land on the solitary man’s dry palm. He would crush the little beast with a song, and adding a little of the oil that was brought to him as an offering, he would bless the mixture, apply it to the wounds or to the chest of the sufferer and heal him… ” —Absurd!…— Moth?… “Grateful and tearful, the little women of the town would later chatter with the Saint, telling him of the cruelties of Caesar Maximinus, a thousand times worse than Diocletian; the Christians torn with hooks, whipped with leaded ropes, which, when girded around the belly and split, make the martyr’s entrails spill out onto the ground, steaming and hot… And they prayed to Trypho, since he had the power to charm scorpions, that he would pray to Jesus for the speedy coming of the day when every tongue would praise him and every nation confess him. “Pray also,” they implored, “that he may touch the heart of Princess Catherine, who helps the needy as if she were Christ’s, but is an enemy of the Lord and despises him. A pity indeed, for she is the most beautiful maiden of Alexandria and the wisest, and guards her virginity better than many Christian women! ” “Only God is beauty and wisdom,” the ascetic replied. “But when the humble ones had been dismissed, rejoicing in the cures, as he knelt on the hard stool, while the sun soaked his flesh and lit up his shaggy black beard, the thought of the princess came to him, disturbed him. “Why not cure her too, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit? She would be a white sheep, a propitiatory lamb…” One morning, as if in spite of himself, Trypho descended from the stone, reclaimed his staff, and began to walk. He walked half a day on horseback until he reached Alexandria, and near the city, he followed the ostentatious Canopic Way, and without asking anyone, he found himself directly before the outer gate of the palace of Costus. The January slaves laughed at his appearance, and even more at his pretension of seeing the princess immediately. “Tell her,” insisted the solitary man, “that I have not come to beg for alms, nor for any evil. I have come only to speak to her of love, and she will be pleased to hear me.” The laughter of the doormen increased, looking at that gallant, dried out by the sun, whose spartan nakedness was hidden only by dusty shreds of Cilician robe. “Take the message,” insisted the ascetic. “She will not laugh. I know more about love than the Greek sophists with whom she converses so much.” “He’s a philosopher!” the slaves whispered respectfully; and they decided to give effect to the strange message, for Catherine liked philosophers , who were not always dressed and neat. Catherine was in her peristyle hall; the colonnade was backed by a group of flowering bushes studded with blood-red stars. She was plump and in a harmonious posture on the leonine-shaped golden throne. and ivory, wrapped in long veils of Judean linen elaborately embroidered with silver, she had dropped the roll of vellum, the verses of Alcaeus, and leaning on her elbow, reclining her face in her closed hand, she was lost in a slow, infinite reverie. For some time now, with profound nostalgia, she had yearned for the love she did not feel. Love was the culmination, the divine clasp of an existence as full as hers; and love was lacking, it did not answer the call. Love was not brought to her from distant countries, in their fragrant bundles, amidst incense and silphium, by her father’s travelers. “What good are so many books in my library,” she thought, “if they do not teach me the science of love? Since I have steeped my understanding in the doctrines of the divine Plato, who is the fashionable philosopher here, I feel that everything is resolved in Beauty, and that Love is the radiance of that very beauty, which cannot be understood by anyone who does not love. Plotinus doesn’t know what he’s talking about when he denies that love is the reason for the world’s existence! Plotinus strikes me as short-sighted, failing to grasp the identity of the lover with the perfect. Where this Plotinus is right is in affirming that the world is a dark circle, illuminated only by the irradiation of the soul. But my soul, to illuminate my world, needs to be dazzled by love… By whom?… And the corporeal and spiritual images of her fools paraded before Catherine’s mind, and, scattering her melancholy, she laughed alone. “Sadness soon returned. ” “Where can I find that supreme beauty of form, which according to Plotinus transcends essence? Oh, Beauty! Reveal yourself to me! Let me know you, adore you, and melt in your flame to the marrow of my bones!” The silent tread of a barefoot, burnished black slave girl approached. “A certain ragged, vile little man, who claims to know about love, wishes to see you, Princess. ” “Some jester. Show him in. Prepare a chalice of wine and some coins.” Trypho entered, striking the polished jasper pavement with his knobbed staff. Seeing Catherine, he stopped, and instead of bowing, he looked at her intently, piercing her with fiery glances through the hairy eyebrows that gnawed at her wrinkled eyelids. “Sit down,” Catherine obliged, “speak, say what you know about love. Unfortunately, it won’t be much. ” “That’s all. I come from the school of love, which is the desert. ” “Are you one of those solitary ones? Indeed, your skin is baked and battered by the sun.” You will understand little about love, even though, as they say, you are not fond of contaminating your flesh with the bestial fury of the vicious, which is already a path to understanding. Love is the only thing worth studying. When we reason about being, about identity, about logos, about fundamental ideas… we reason about love without knowing it. Listen… Don’t you want to go to the caldarium before communicating your wisdom to me? My slaves will scrub you, anoint you, and fix that hair. Whenever a sophist comes, we scrub him. “I am not a sophist. I am as careless of my body as the cynics, but it is because I care for the clarity and purity of my soul. The body is corruptible, Catherine. Have you never seen a carrion boiling with worms? Why care for that which is rotting? ” “As you wish… Speak to me from a distance… ” “Catherine,” he began, asking, “why haven’t you married any of your suitors?” There are gallant ones, there are powerful ones. “Your question surprises me, if you truly understand love. It is not enough that my foes, or rather, some of my foes, are gallant, even if they were, for that is open to discussion. It would be necessary for me to embody in them the sublime idea of beauty. Didn’t you just say that the body decays? My suitors are already wormy, and they have not yet died. I dream of something that does not resemble my aspirants. I do not know where it is, nor what its name is. At night, when Diana sails through the ether, I stretch my arms high, where I think I see an adorable face, whose charm winds through my veins. ” “Then what you seek, Princess, I will bring it to you.” Instead of mocking, Catherine became grave. “Tell me your name, Father,” she exhaled, almost despite herself. –Trypho, the penitent. –Christian? –Yes. –Saint, as they say? –No. The greatest of sinners. Beneath the rock where I live there is a nest of festering scorpions, and thus I keep my passions subdued and crushed by penitence. But there they are, waiting to sting . –Whether you are a saint or a bandit, a worshipper of Christ, of Serapis, or of the sublime Beauty, which is the only truth… –Do not blaspheme, Catherine, poor sad turtledove who cannot find her mate, who moans for her beloved! –I say that whoever you are, for me you will be the very human incarnation of Apollo Kaleocrator, if you make me know the joy of love. –Are you capable of anything… of anything! to obtain it? –Do you want treasures? Do you want a unicorn cup, filled with my blood? “The cup… It could be that I would want it… not I, but your lover, the one you will soon meet. Do you see my ugliness? His beauty is infinitely greater. And leave aside your reasoning, your Plotinus and Plato. To love is an act. I lead you to love and I will not explain it to you. Do not tire yourself thinking. Love. ” “I would tread on hot coals to approach the one I am to love. Could he also be a prince? Because a man of low rank, to me he is not a man. ” “He is a prince far more illustrious than you. ” “That’s it, only Maximinus Caesar!” Catherine boasted. “Maximinus, before him… hyssop at the foot of the cedar!” “Tomorrow, at this very hour, alone, purified, humbly dressed, you will leave your palace unseen , and walk behind the Panoeum, to where you see a very poor building, a kind of cell, which we call a hermitage. The place will be deserted, the door open. Will you enter without fear? “I don’t know what fear is.” “There, within the hermitage, you will await the one you will love in life and beyond death. The one whose kisses intoxicate like new wine and in whose arms one faints with happiness. The one who, in the shadows, with discreet steps, is already approaching your heart…” Catherine closed her eyes. A vibrant, throbbing aura swayed the fragrance of the gardens. It seemed like a long, rhythmic sigh. When she opened her eyelids, the penitent had disappeared. The princess spent the night feverish and sleepless. She saw forms and mother ideas parade by, the archetypes of beauty, represented by the marvelous bodily wrappings of the Greek gods and heroes. Apollo Kaleocrator, arbiter of beauty, leaning on his tortoise lyre, his shoulders flooded with locks woven with rays of light; Dionysus, with the bright and spotted tiger’s spoils on his smooth and sturdy brown shoulders; Achilles, whom Catherine often wished to have met before Troy, envying Briseis, who had the good fortune to wear his tunic; and pious Aeneas, the unfaithful one to the wretched African queen… Could it be someone like these who awaited her in the hermitage? That the solitary man was a malefactor and lured her into a trap, Catherine did not suspect for a moment. He could perhaps be a sorcerer: Christians were accused of practicing magic. Doubtless, to resist martyrdom in this way , they possessed secrets and spells. Perhaps they were going to use the love potion on her … By the power of the potion, or some other means, the princess longed for love to appear! To love, to be consumed by love, to be devoured by love like an angry and royal lion! She followed Trypho’s instructions exactly. She bathed, purified herself, and perfumed herself, as if on a wedding day; she dressed herself in a tunic of the finest linen, girded with a belt embroidered with pearls; and over it she put on the coarse blue woolly garment that is still worn by the fellah women, the lower people of Egypt. She wore rope sandals, like slaves, first padding the soles of her feet with silk. A saffron-tinted woolen veil wrapped her head. Thus disguised and modest, she secretly left through a gate in the gardens that led to the quay and mingled with the crowd. Having skirted the quay, he turned towards the avenue of the Sphinxes, which ended at the special ascent of the Panoeum or sanctuary of the god Pan, a small hill whose opposite slope led to the hermitage, hidden among palm trees and sycamores. “Listen,” buzzed Polilla. ” Do you know that the princess is starting to seem a bit light-headed to me? If you don’t declare her a saint… ” “Don Antón,” threatened Lina, “either you let me hear in peace, or I’ll expel you ignominiously. ” On either side of the monumental avenue, on basalt pedestals, were the pink granite Sphinxes, of semi-colossal dimensions. In the oblique rays of the dying sun, the polished granite had the smoothness of a woman’s skin. The faces of the monsters reproduced the purest type of the Egyptian race: oval eyes, small features, perfect chins; the symmetrical headdress emphasized the delicate correctness of the melancholic profile. To the waist, the Sphinx’s body was feminine, but their arms ended in beastly claws, whose nails seemed to dig into the smoothness of the pedestal. It was as if they were contracting to stretch and leap with a roar. Catherine felt an indefinable apprehension. She breathed more easily as she undertook the spiral climb that led to the Panoeum, between hedges of myrtle, the shrub of godliness, where the roses of Hathor Aphrodite bloomed here and there, glowing against the somber greenery of the sacred plant. The evening breeze stirred the petals of the flowers, and Catherine’s spirit trembled slightly in anticipation of the unknown. She brushed past the temple and descended the other slope. Behind the sanctuary loomed an uncultivated hill, and in a fold of the ground crouched the humble hermitage; A construction similar to those in the Racotis neighborhood, made of unbaked adobe and with a thatched roof. At the top, a reed cross revealed the outline of the building. The small doorway opened wide . Catherine crossed it; there was not a living soul. At the back, an altar of uneven stones supported another cross no less crude than the one on the pediment, and in a crude glazed earthenware vase, a bundle of wild tuberoses dwelled . The princess, tired, leaned back on the altar, sitting on the stone step that supported her. Overcome by the feverish insomnia of the previous night, anesthetized by the coolness and silence, she grew lethargic, as if she had drunk poppy decoction. And this is what she saw in her dreams: She was once again ascending the avenue of the Sphinxes, not at dusk , but at night, with the turquoise firmament adorned with thick, stellar diamonds. In that flickering light, the semi-female monsters, with their virile rumps, seemed to take on a fantastic life. Stretching feline-like, they sat up on the pedestals, and the scraping of their nails on the polished hardness of the pedestal was nerve-racking. Their human faces, losing their resemblance, acquired individual expression and became like people. Catherine, astonished, recognized in the Sphinxes as her spurned suitors as the sophists and ergotists who argued in her presence. There were Mnesius, Theopompus, Charicles, and Gentheus, her companions, bristling with arguments, well-versed in controversy, some disciples of the Peripatetics, most of them disciples of Plato. From their lips flowed arguments, demonstrations, objections, definitions, an intellectual murmur that resounded like the waves; a confused tide in which float the notions of the created and the uncreated, the sensible and the intelligible, immutable substances and perishable accidents; and all in all, as so many concepts merged into a single sound, what stood out was a single word: _Love_. And the other Sphinxes, who had the countenance of scorned fools, also murmured with tenacious sing-song: _Love_; and their eyes sparkled, and their claws curled to begin their swipe, and they howled low and mournfully, like jackals in heat, and a stinking breath issued from their mouths, and their animal hindquarters arched epileptically. Catherine took to her heels, and the host of beasts, in turn, ran and galloped, lashing the sand and stirring it with their pounding hooves. The wild race of the monsters, their eager panting after their prey, was like the raging flood of a torrent. The princess could not hasten her flight any further: in anguish, she clutched her garments to her breast. which the Sphinxes had twice already grasped . “They’ll strip me,” she calculated, “and when I fall, ashamed and exhausted, they will feast on me…” Horror quickened her pace. Her feet, their sandals torn, bruised on the pebbles, were dishonored by the dust; and, in the midst of her terror, Catherine still lamented: “My rose-colored feet, my feet polished like agates, my feet without calluses! They are wasting away! Oh, my feet!” Her heart paralyzed with fatigue, she was about to collapse when a refuge was offered to her: the mouth of a cave… the hermitage. A faint light burned within. Catherine rushed forward… and believed she was in a bad dream. Behind her there was no one; not a trace of the monsters. Only the white marble mass of the Panoeum could be seen in the distance , and the sky, studded with luminaries, was visible as a canopy, like a triumphal cloak. A deep breath expanded Catherine’s lungs. Her blood circulated rapidly, deliciously distributed through her almost lifeless limbs. A diffuse light began to float in the air; the cave was illuminated. The light grew and was like that of a fiery-colored moon at birth, still reflecting the glow of the sun. And in the brightest focus , two figures emerged: a woman and a man. She seemed older, pale, her eyelids withered and numb from suffering; he was a young man, and his radiant youth was accompanied by prodigious beauty. Catherine, clasping her hands, stared at him in awe. She had neither seen nor believed such a being could exist. Curious about aesthetics, she would often order beautiful slaves to be presented to her, not for the purpose of impurity, but to admire the perfection of form in the various races of the world. She compared them to the creations of Phidias, to the sacred figures of the divinities, and understood that masterpieces are forged from such models. But the apparition was a hundred times more sublime. He combined the Apollonian perfection of form with an expression superior to human beauty. From his eyes, she beheld the unfathomable. His hair, parted in a single part, radiated clarity, radiating in curls the color of ripe dates, and the majesty of his extremely delicate face was something mysterious, imprinting itself on the inside and overwhelming the will. The youth must have been a tall man, as Tryphon had said; taller than Caesar. His bare feet curved, more beautifully defined than the Archer’s. His hands were like living ivory. And Catherine, prostrate, felt that at last Love, like a very old wine whose jar has broken, flooded her soul and submerged it. She stretched out her arms in supplication. The young man turned to the woman who accompanied him. “Is this the bride, my mother? ” “This is her,” affirmed a musical, ineffable voice. “I cannot receive her. She is not beautiful. I do not love her…” And he turned his back. The burning lunar light dimmed, was extinguished. The two figures dissolved into shadow. Catherine fell to the ground, with the heavy fall of one who receives a deep stab wound. Little by little, she regained consciousness. She stood up; at first she did not remember. Memory resumed its chain. It was an explosion of pain, of shame. She, Catherine, the wise, the desired, the powerful, the illustrious, was not beautiful, she could not inspire love! She left the hermitage and walked step by step, now under the true light of Selene: it had completely fallen night. The Sphinxes, motionless on their black basalt plinths, did not harass her; only the majesty of their grandiose symmetry imposed itself on her. Skirting the pier, where the drunken sailors were singing hoarse songs, she slipped toward the palace. The slaves came, disguising their surprise and malice with servile solicitude. They prepared the warm bath, presented the tall, polished silver mirrors . And the princess, tearing off her plebeian disguise, contemplated herself carefully. Wasn’t she beautiful? If she wasn’t, she must die. What is not beautiful has no right to life. And, besides, she couldn’t live without that unknown prince who disdained her. But the mirrors sent her their sincere flattery, returning the enchanting image of a beauty that evoked the Deas of old. Her sculptural torso lacked only Aphrodite’s belt, and her noble head, which the gold Calcined with honeyed gleams, her long hair was a diadem, the helmet of Pallas Athena. That thoughtful brow and those luminous green eyes would not be disdained by the one born from the mind of the Aquiline. Not to be beautiful? Her prince had not seen her… Perhaps the disguise of the common people concealed the brilliance of beauty! It was necessary to seek out the apparition, to force him to look at her more closely; and to discover where he was hiding, to speak to Trypho, the Solitary. With a strong escort, in her cushioned litter, at dawn of the following day, the daughter of Costus undertook the expedition to the desert. Her body exuded the fragrance of spikenard; her clothing was purple, fringed with the plumage of rare birds, through which, in the light, ran tremors of emerald and cobalt; her feet were shod in cothurillos brought from the East, made of fragrant leather; and from her neck cascaded pearls and strings of blue glass beads, mingled with amulets. Before the litter, a cart drawn by strong donkeys carried provisions, cold drinks, and tapestries for spreading. In a few hours , they reached the arid, scorched region, the lair of the Cenobites. When they discovered Tryphon, they immediately mistook him for a dead tree trunk. A bird was perched on his shoulders and flew away as the procession approached. Catherine ordered her retinue to distance itself; she dismounted and approached the ascetic, imploringly. “I have come,” she implored, “for you to give me back what you have taken from me. Give me my serenity, my reason! The dart has wounded me, and I do not know how to tear it out! Tell me where he is, and I will go and find him among the asps and dragons. If I do not seem beautiful to him, use your magic and your wisdom to make it seem so. ” Or make me die, for with life I can no longer live…» The narrator interrupted himself, noticing: “This phrase that I attribute to Saint Catherine, was first attributed to Mother Saint Teresa of Jesus in some verses dedicated to her and where she declares herself her rival “a pretender to enjoy her joy.” “Well, I remember,” Lina agreed, “another poem by Lope de Vega, if I’m not mistaken, dedicated to the same Catherine of Alexandria… What the Phoenix praises for Costo’s daughter is nothing! “A victorious palm with three crowns she adorns, for wise, martyr, and virgin, candid, purple, and green…” “There is a gloss,” Carranza noted, “that calls her “second among women…” Oh! Saint Catherine of Alexandria is a source of inspiration for art. From Memmling and Luini, to Pinturiccio, who painted her as Lucrezia Borgia, and the unknown author of this prodigious plaque, the paintings, enamels, and famous carvings number in the hundreds. “Of course, imagination unleashed! A beautiful woman who argued with philosophers!” criticized Polilla. “Anyway, go on, friend Carranza, for now comes the inevitable in such stories: the little conversion, the executioners, the open heavens, a little angel descending, Louis XV style, bearing a garland with a blue ribbon… ” “Polilla, you are a steely and implacable spirit,” asserted Lina. “ I only beg you to let us continue listening. ” Catalina remained at the feet of the solitary man, dragging her magnificent robes in the dry dust. Her breast, in the anguish of hope, rose and sank, panting. Triton stared at her for a moment, and finally, with a painful creaking of joints, he got down from the seat. He searched among his rags for the little phial of oil, and with a familiar movement, he deflected the boulder, beneath which Catherine saw the nest of scorpions swarming in a terrifying tangle. Raising his eyes to the metallic sky of pure blue, the penitent uttered the hallowed formula: “Come, little brother…” A horrible creature stood out from the group and advanced. Catherine looked at it, fascinated, with a chill that made her nerves writhe. The shape of the little beast was repulsive, and the Princess thought about the death its bite produces, with fever, delirium, and dementia. She saw the insect retract its palps and furiously raise its poisoned tail, at the end of which the venom began to ejaculate, a clear little drop. She already believed feel the bite, when suddenly the scorpion, tamed, rushed to the root-like hand that Tryphon extended to it, and the ascetic, noiselessly squeezing it, mixed and kneaded it with the oil. “Open your clothes, Catherine, and apply this mixture to your diseased heart,” he commanded imperiously. Catherine obeyed without hesitation. Tryphon had turned his back. Feeling the cold of the strange remedy on his turgid flesh, his heart leaped like a fawn sniffing at the nearby stream. The princess felt a delicious well-being, instead of fever, and as if her long string of Indian pearls were being unwound, vehement tears of love began to flow down her youthful cheeks. For a moment, that pilgrim’s understanding, adorned with so many sapiential trappings, dulled and extinguished, and only her heart, melting and dissolving, functioned actively. “I am a Christian,” she protested simply, understanding. Tryphon ran to the well where the pilgrims who came to consult her filled their wineskins; he raised the oozing bucket, and taking water in the hollow of his hand, poured it over the Virgin’s bowed head, uttering the words: “In the name…” Catherine had hardly unfolded her palms when the solitary man announced: “Come back tomorrow at the same hour to the hermitage. He will be there. ” “And will I seem beautiful to Him?” “So beautiful, that He will marry you. ” A current of beatitude ran through Catherine’s veins. The mystery was beginning to be revealed. Plato had whispered it in her ear, and Christ showed it to her resplendently. “What must I do to please my Husband, Tryphon?” she asked submissively. “Find in him perfect beauty; in him and only in him. And if necessary, proclaim it without fear. Go in peace, Catherine of Alexandria. When you see Tryphon again, it will be a radiant day for you.” Slowly, the princess returned to where her retinue was waiting. The tapestries were spread out, and refreshment awaited. Seasoned fruits and sweets laced with honey and spices tempted her appetite. She nibbled on a bunch of grapes, thirsty. “Refresh yourselves… It’s all for you…” As the litter rocked, she fell asleep like a child’s sleep, without nightmares or fevers. Drowsy, they carried her to her cedar bed inlaid with precious metals. Upon awakening, refreshed by such pleasant sleep, her first thought was one of anxiety. Could it really be that she was going to see her Husband? Would he judge her beautiful now? Would he not utter, with the same disdain as the first time, in that voice that rent the very walls of the soul: She is not beautiful, I do not love her? In the afternoon, disguised again, she followed the familiar route. The impenetrable Sphinxes did not twitch their granite claws. Their enigmatic stillness did not, as it had on other occasions, shake the princess, who had supposed them to be the knowers and guardians of the great mystery. She nimbly ascended the spiral of the Panoeum. Hathor’s roses were shedding their leaves, languid in the heat of the day, and in the center of a circle of myrtles, a sort of bower, the lascivious god stood in the form of an obscene Hermes, up which ivy climbed. The milk and honey from the offerings offered by the devotees in libation still dripped down the length of the shaft. Catherine, who had never worshipped capripedes or the lustful Aphrodite, felt violently sickened by that sanctuary and found herself filled with contempt for the carnal gods, even superior to her former deities. She hurried to leave the Panoeum and take refuge in the hermitage. It was deserted… The penitent had deceived her! Her Spouse did not come! With her face pressed to the ground, in a tone of cooing and moaning, she called to him tenderly. “Come, come, beloved, for I cannot resist. He who has seen you and does not have you cannot resign himself. I am wounded, and I do not know how. My soul leaves me to go to you…” Thus Catherine grieved until the sun set . When darkness surrounded her, she became even more desolate. The only sound to be heard was the small singing of a nearby fountain, where Christians used to secretly baptize their neophytes. When the darkness was complete, he raised a For a moment her eyes opened; a golden light flashed, and she saw the Woman. But the divine young man with the date-colored curls was not with her: he was holding a tiny boy by the hand, who impetuously threw himself into the princess’s arms, caressing her. The child, however, was a marvel. His head was entwined with spun and carded gold. His bud-like mouth gurgled with captivating tenderness, and his fresh lips ran down Catherine’s cheeks , moistening them with pearly saliva. She, trembling, did not dare respond to the infant’s flattery. Then the Woman advanced, interposed herself, and, holding the child in her lap, took Catherine’s right hand and joined it with his, as a sign of espousal. The child, clutching a glittering ring, looked at his mother with innocent, charming indecision. The mother guided the hollow little hand, and the ring passed to the bride’s finger. The ceremony over, the prince returned to hang around the princess’s neck, kissing her flatteringly. A swoon seized Catherine’s powers and left them enraptured. The rapture lasted a second. The daughter of Costus found herself alone again. Without knowing why, she stood up and began walking toward the city. Myriads of stars throbbed in the velvety and somber firmament; warm breezes rose from the sun-baked earth. And neither in the Panoeum, where on other nights impure couples emerged from among the bushes; nor on the long avenue, with its disquieting double row of monsters, whose enormous shadows stretched out; nor on the docks near brothels and wine taverns, did Catherine find a living person. She walked as if through a city abandoned by its inhabitants. In her bed, the princess fell asleep even more restful and complete than the night before. One of those dreams after which we believe we have been reborn. The past life is erased, the future is brought by the morning’s joy. A ray of sunlight, striking Catherine in the eyes, made the ring of her mystical wedding sparkle on her finger. Not much time had passed since Catherine’s expedition to the desert when Caesar Maximinus Dacius—resident in Alexandria because, in the division of the Empire between Licinius, Constantine, and himself, Egypt had fallen under his jurisdiction—celebrated an orgiastic feast . The dinner was attended by high-ranking officials of the city, military tribunes , poets, sophists, wild young men of the then high society, courtesans, and priestesses of Hathor. After the first libations, while the nectar of the Tenaid was being poured into agate cups, that wine of Copts that produces an enthusiastic exaltation of the senses, Caesar asked what was new in his capital; and the sophist Gnetes, a Cretan by birth, exclaimed that it was a shame that they should leave the divine Emperor so far behind in news, unaware that Princess Catherine now belonged to the filthy sect of the Galileans. “Catherine, daughter of Costus? The beautiful, the proud?” Maximinus was surprised. “The very one. I know of no such unworthy apostasy, O Caesar! For, in her cult of beauty and science, Catherine was consecrated to Athena and Kaleocrator. She has not renounced some minor numen of the countryside and family, but the great Gods.” You, diva,” he added with affected rudeness, “who understand beauty so well, since you teach us even the scholars, are obliged to inform yourself of any truth in this rumor. The high divinities have entrusted its defense to you. ” Gnetes thus intrigued, for more than once he had yellowly envied the princess’s wisdom, and although ugly and half- hunchbacked, the supposition of what Catherine’s possession would be had kept him awake in his sordid cubicle. On the other hand, all of Maximinus’s fellow soldiers prodded and excited him against the Galileans, for witnessing tortures having become one of the imperial pleasures and sports , if the Nazarenes were not utilized for that purpose, it might give Caesar the whim to try it out on some friend and guest. The martyrdoms were more entertaining than the fights in the arena, and when This is a haughty beauty, there’s the chance of seeing her, her clothes torn to shreds by the executioner… Maximin remained silent, reflecting. He thought of Catherine; not so much of her beauty, as of her reputation for learning and exquisiteness in life, and of her energy and determination, gifts that made her curious and desirable. He remembered the story of the pearl that had belonged to Cleopatra, and of Catherine’s probable aspirations to embody the patriotic sentiment of the Egyptians. And news of the treasures of Costus, of her sympathies among the Serapists, of her continuous travels to distant provinces, where she might conspire against the associated emperors, came to mind. He shared all this with himself, without deigning to reply to the sophist’s gossipy jab. The dancing girls had burst into the banquet hall with their rattlesnakes and their fine gauze tunics, and other wines were already being poured: the aromatic wine of Mareotis; those of Greece, seasoned with pitch; those of Italy, lively and sparkling. An hour later, Caesar, in an uncertain voice, called his confidant Hypermius and gave him an order. Hypermius shrugged his shoulders. Maximinus himself had decreed that no orders he might make at table should be obeyed, while the spirit of the vine coursed through his veins and filled his brain with vapor. The next morning, Caesar repeated the order. His head was now clear, although his scalp ached and his stomach was queasy. A numbing tedium overwhelmed him, and, since he suffered, the prospect of causing others to suffer was not unpleasant to him . However, beneath this cruel instinct lay a political design, dictated by the constant suspicion instilled in him by the firm and conscious ambition of the fearsome Constantine, his associate. “Draft,” he ordered his secretary, “an edict that public sacrifices be offered to the Gods. The old Egyptian superstitions must be extinguished , and the worshippers of the Galilean, who are so emboldened and defying us, must be put on a short leash. Let them know that Alexandria belongs to Maximinus. ” “To whom Jove grants the entire empire!” wished Hypermius, who was present and knew what Caesar was dreaming of. “Did I not give you this very order last night? ” “Yes, Augustus; but you know…” Maximinus frowned and curtly pronounced the formula: “Be it done!” At every street corner, in the middle of the squares, altars draped with ivy and flowers were erected, where calves, goats, bulls, and even pigs were being slaughtered with pomp. The sacrificers and the hierophants were busily engaged. Part of the people rejoiced because, in addition to the prospect of the Christians who would refuse to sacrifice and be tortured, sacred priapeia were now being held every night in the Panoeum, and the priestesses, representing nymphs, and the priests, wrapped in goatskins, set examples of stupidities that amused the rabble. However, not a few faithful to Serapis and the great Isis viewed these disgusting masquerades with disapproval , and the Christians, horrified, predicted fire from heaven upon the city. Many, without fear, resisted the sacrifice, or passed by erect, without showing any sign of respect to the gods; and the prisons began to fill with prisoners. Caesar felt the lack of unity: three Alexandrias, instead of one Rome, worried him. Would they rise up against him? He ordered the release of most of the prisoners, and asked anxiously: “And Princess Catherine? Does she obey the decree? ” “No, Augustus,” Hypermius satisfied himself. “There is no altar in front of her palace, even though she was ordered to build one, with the riches that such a splendid dwelling demands. ” “It is necessary that she and her father appear here today.” –Caesar…, as for her father, I do not believe that your command can be obeyed so soon, because he has gone away, no one knows where, after saying that, although his beliefs are those of ancient Egypt, he would gladly sacrifice to Apollo, because he considers him equal to Osiris, and, like him, represents the fertilizing principle. She who has resolutely refused is The princess. “She has refused, eh? Then let her be taken here. I wish to speak with her and ascertain that her high wit has not saved her from falling prey to the superstitions of the Jewish populace. ” When Catherine entered the magnificent peristyle hall where Caesar held his audiences, he gazed at her, as one gazes at a coveted jewel, without daring to lay his hands on her yet. The daughter of Costus came regally attired: her serica tunic, the blue of peacock feathers, was embroidered with thick green peridots and diamonds worked, as they were then worked, in the form called a tableau. Its majestic folds enhanced her dianesque figure, lance-like and upright, which, far from bowing humbly and lowering its eyes like most Christian women, stood tall with the haughty nobility of one who feels superior, not only to common life, but to common destiny. Intelligence sparkled on her white and spacious forehead, in her commanding green eyes, in her grave mouth, ready to emanate wisdom. Above the narrow neckline, hanging from her shapely throat, the famous pearl of Cleopatra Lagida trembled, dangling, held by a thin gold thread. A diadem without flourishes, all encrusted with precious stones, similar to those later worn by the empresses of Byzantium, recalled the princess’s high status. A veil of violet gauze hung from the royal attire and fell to the hem of her robes. Her shoes, made of Arabian leather with silver buckles, creaked harmoniously with the eurythmy of her gait. “Caesar, I am here. I wish to know why you call me.” Maximinus, hesitant, pointed to a seat. Catherine picked up her veil, wrapped it around herself, and sat down quietly. “I have heard, Princess, that you recently became a Galilean.” “You were deceived, Emperor…” After a brief pause, “I was already a Christian, for years. I was one because of my Platonic ideas, because of my contempt for sensuality and brutality. I was a Christian because I loved Beauty… Well, Augustus, I think I would bore you if I expounded philosophical theories to you. I await your orders to withdraw. ” “I am not as learned as you, Princess,” Caesar quipped, mortified, ” but I know that, when one is under the laws of an Empire, one must obey them, because from obedience to the law are born the order and strength of the State. The higher the people, the stricter their duty. And, with all your science and your erudition, today, before me, you will sacrifice a beautiful white heifer.” “Maximinus,” she asserted, arranging the folds of the veil, ” in principle, I refuse nothing that my reason approves. I suppose this will seem very fair to you. Convince me that Apollo and Demeter are true Gods and not symbols of the Sun, the Earth, or material things… and I will sacrifice. ” “Catherine,” Maximinus insisted, “I have already told you that I am neither a rhetorician nor a sophist, and I have not learned to contort arguments. The fight would be unequal. ” “It is not a question of you, O Augustus! I respect you, believe it, just as you are. I offer to argue, in your presence, with as many philosophers as you please. If I defeat them, Caesar… promise me that you will worship Christ! Do it, O Dacius, if you wish to reign for many years and die in your bed.” “Agreed, Catherine.” You will equal Pallas Athena, but there must be some wise man in the world who knows more than you! —He whom I carry in my heart knows more than all. —Blessed is he! —And Caesar’s smile was bold, while his words were gallant and affectionate. Self-love poisoned, in Maximinus’s soul, the sudden arrow of human desire. The son of an obscure Thracian shepherd, he had always resented being ignorant. He would like to possess the artistic inspiration of Nero, the philosophy of Marcus Aurelius, the political skill of Constantine. He sent messengers who sent word in Rome, Greece, Galilee, and other remote regions to famous rhetoricians and ergotists. The reward would be rich. And they came. Most came ragged, covered in filth and filth, and they had to be bathed and rid of parasites before Caesar saw them. On the other hand, two or three Latins draped their cloaks well. short and raised their clean, bald heads, perfumed with rose essence. Some had inherited the subtle art of Gorgias and Protagoras, others jealously guarded the cult of Peripatos, the majority were steeped in Plato and Philo, and there was no shortage of adherents of the ancient Cynicism, the doctrine that claims that a man should be ashamed of nothing human. Upon learning that they were summoned to joust with a lovely virgin princess, some sulked, fearing ridicule, but the majority were elated and allowed their gray beards to be perfumed and their rough skin anointed. The opinion of Alexandria was beginning to prevail over them, since in the city, by tradition, it was believed that women are very capable of discourse. On the day appointed for the contest, Maximinus had the throne raised in the largest courtyard of his residence, and ordered purple canopies to be hung and a spare set of seats to be brought. Catherine’s chair was decorated with flowers, and silver incense burners scattered a sweet smoke. The gallant Caesar promised himself a feast to distract his boredom, and a mistress whom he would be pleased to tame. For, certain of the maiden’s defeat, he planned to take revenge with a savory vengeance. Before Augustus appeared, the wise men lined up on the left side of the throne; the Praetorian Guard took its place; the people, contained by a bronze balustrade, were admitted , and Caesar appeared through the central door, leading Catherine by the hand. That murmur of admiration was heard, which resounded then as now. Catherine could not have been of the Galilean sect, since she had not renounced her sumptuous attire. Perhaps to lend greater solemnity to her public confession of faith, she was more richly attired than ever, furrowed by rivers of pearls, which spilled over her white tunic with its silvery highlights, like foams of pale water. Her veil was also white, and her wide forehead was crowned by a circlet studded with priceless _barekets_, or oriental emeralds, brought from Upper Egypt, near the Red Sea, where, according to legend, the Arimaspi pygmies had extracted them, battling with the ferocious griffins that guarded them in the bowels of the earth. Around her throat was the pearl of the Queen of Egypt, and on her breast, the Cross. Catherine’s imperious and serene eyes, more luminous and glaucous than the emeralds, scanned the crowd, wanting to guess which of those, struck by the dart of grace, would follow her to Jesus. And her deep-water gaze seemed to choose, pointing to martyrdom and glory.
Before beginning the dispute, the emperor’s command was awaited. Maximinus raised his hand. And first to come to the fore was that envious Gnetes, Catherine’s denouncer. He spoke with the malice of one who knows an adversary’s past and exploits it. He reminded Catherine of her cult of Beauty and argued that form is superior to all. He insinuated that the princess, an idolater of form, sought in the lines of slaves the likenesses of the Gods. This was a smear of slander that prepared the ground for the daughter of Costus to slip. A roguish murmur zigzagged through the audience; several Christians, who had taken their places among them, furrowed their brows in indignation. Gnetes, in a brilliant period, rebuked Catherine for having departed from the cult of Apollo Kaleocrator, immortal arbiter of aesthetics, father of art, who outlives generations and eternally enchants them. And in a burst of oratory, he pointed to the white statue of Numen, a naked youth crowned with rays. Catherine rose to briefly refute. She, who had always professed the adoration of Beauty, now knew it in its suprasensible essence. She did not disdain the Apollonian simulacrum, but she knew that Apollo Helios was the Sun, mere luminary of the earth, a creature of God, perishable and corruptible like all creatures. If the solar myth had other infamous representations in ithyphallic processions, at least that of Apollo was artistic; it was the noble, the sublime of the human structure. In this sense, Catherine was not at odds with Numen. The wise men whispered. Many of them could not ignore or deny Platonic doctrine. In the philosophical conscience, paganism The official was a dead thing. But in the crowd, the pagans groaned with mechanical terror: “He has blasphemed the divine Archer!” Gnetes, however, could not find a reply. In the depths of his soul, he did not believe in the spirit of Apollo either, although he did believe in his seductive appearance and the power of his lightning bolts. And the truth, rising to his throat, blocked his voice against his Adam’s apple when he argued. Terrified, he reflected: “Do I think entirely like Catherine?” And he decided to hide it, feigning indignation at the blasphemy. The Egyptian Necepssus, steeped in Philo and Plotinus, and whose fame emulated that of Porphyry, the one who had published the master’s Treatises, now came out to contend. Then something singular happened: Catherine requested permission to anticipate Necepsus’s reasoning, and, taking the offensive, expounded the philosopher’s own theories, finding in them full confirmation of Christianity. Restricting herself to the teachings of Plotinus, she showed this distinguished thinker developing the idea of the Trinity, of the divine hypostasis, in which the Son is the Word; and she expounded his doctrine that the human soul returns to its celestial focus through ecstasy and contemplation. “You, like me, Necepsus,” Catherine urged, “you, a disciple of Plotinus, have been a Christian without knowing it. Through the marrow you were nourished with, you will come to Christ, for the understanding that sees the light can no longer avoid bathing in it.” As she spoke thus, beneath the reflection of the purple veil, it seemed as if a luminous fluid enveloped the princess, that a clear fire burned behind her white garments. Maximinus looked at her, fascinated. No, she was not cold or severe like the Alexandrian virgin, the scientist! How she must have expressed love! How she must have felt it! What did those impertinent philosophers want from her? The only right thing to do would be to take her with him to the secret, cool, solitary chambers of the imperial palace, where the thick furs of wild beasts soften the wide beds of sweet-smelling wood. Neceps, meanwhile, surrendered. “If Christianity is what Plotinus taught, then I am a Christian,” he confessed. Catherine approached him, smiling and sisterly. –Christ takes you at your word… Remember that you belong to him… Pray for me when you reach him… A centurion was already placing his hard, swarthy hand on the Egyptian’s shoulder and dragging him toward the altar of Apollo, before which an old man with a venerable beard, crowned with laurel, was swinging the censer and offering it to Necepsus. At the latter’s refusal, two soldiers tied him up and led him away to prison. Once the public dispute was over, the edict would be carried out. Necepsus was to be flogged in the marketplace until the whiteness of his bones could be seen alive. The contest continued, but Necepsus’s case had spread a certain alarm among the wise men. Some feared that they would make fools of themselves if defeated by a woman; Others trembled for their lives if they failed to refute and pulverize the learned Catherine, skilled in verbal gymnastics and robust in reasoning. Some, upon contemplating her, forgot the arguments they had prepared. No one wished to engage in combat . What several did—without attacking the princess or Christianity—was develop their theories and expound the doctrine of their masters. And they paraded the attempts of human reason to discover the law of creation and that which governs the moral world. Amasis, who came from Persia steeped in Hindu doctrines, praised piety toward all beings, for in all there is something of God; and Catherine showed him that Christian charity tames the scorpion and makes it our younger brother. A follower of Zoroaster spoke of Ahrimanes and Ormuz, the principles of evil and good, and of their eternal struggle; and the princess described Christ, on the mountain of fasting, defeating the devil. A philosopher who had gone beyond the mountain ranges of Tibet in search of unknown wisdom, raised to the clouds a certain venerable man called Kungsee or Confucius, long before Christ, who professed high doctrines of justice and morality, and ordered that men should help each other; and The virgin, who knew Confucius well, recalled his maxims, proving that his system was nothing more than a limited and dry materialism. And a Hebrew from Palestine, of the Essenes, in an invincible burst of sincerity, turned to the audience and shouted: “Rabbi Jeshua ben Yusuf, who was a saint, has reduced himself to completing the admirable humanitarian doctrine of our great Hillel. Do not do to others what you would not want done to you. This is the truth, and this cannot be refuted .” Catherine nodded. The crowd was foaming and boiling like a troubled sea. The triumph of Costus’s daughter was visible. The Christians, in the turmoil, secretly shook hands. The Serapists, patriotically, rejoiced in the smacking of foreign gods. The Greek sophists were still missing, very numerous; but they found the ground ill-prepared. Expressed on that solemn occasion, his ideas, excessively simplistic or convoluted and convoluted, unusual, and unfamiliar in Alexandria, seemed like deformed creatures emerging from their lair to bask in the sun. Many of those listening, accustomed to lofty metaphysics, frowned and snapped their fingers in disdain when they heard a disciple of Thales come out with the antiquity that universal substance is analogous to water, and one of Anaximenes shouting that it is identical with air, and another of Heraclitus maintaining that everything is and is not, and Anaxagoras repeating that everything is in everything. Somewhat weary of the prolonged dispute, they impatiently stamped their feet on the marble pavement when a Pythagorean advanced that numbers are the only reality, and an Eleatic maintained that everything is motionless; that motion does not exist. A follower of Gorgias went further, asserting that nothing exists. The only one who was heard with signs of approval was an Athenian youth, the only youth among the contestants. His speech was grave and sweet; his features possessed the regularity of heroic heads in cameos. Self-confident, with lips anointed with Attic sweetness, he spoke of Socrates, the sublime martyr, and praised his teachings and his life. He recalled that Socrates had demonstrated the existence of God and his providence; and that, after proclaiming the moral law, he had died for not denying it. She drew a picture of that exemplary death, and described the just, tranquil man, engaging in sublime conversations during the thirty days it took for the fatal galley to return, heralding his final hour, and the august calm with which he drank the poisonous green gruel, certain of bequeathing the energy of his inner life to mankind . Catherine listened, thrilled with inspiration, radiant with ardent sympathy. For the first time during the entire contest, the thrill of moral beauty thrilled her with enthusiasm. Socrates! One of her ancient cults… However, her spirit of sharp, penetrating analysis emerged in her reply. Rewriting the biography of Aspasia’s friend, she compared it to that of Christ. Socrates, in his youth, had been a sculptor, and he never lost his fondness for the perishable beauty of form. Socrates had perhaps not been unaware of the straying of the pagan world, of the nefarious that cries out for fire from heaven. His noble soul had not been able to rise above the naturalistic sense of what surrounded him. Oh, if only Socrates could have known Christ, weep with him, followed his evangelizing feet! And, transported, the princess exclaimed: ” Socrates may have died like a just man; but Christ, my Lord and yours and the Lord of all who would have wings, died as only the Gods can die!” The Athenian drank in the philosopher’s words. Without analyzing the truth in her statements, he felt them piercing his spirit like sharp golden knives. Attracted, he left his place and approached, clasping and raising his hands as if imploring the implacable and terrible Divinities. Catherine sent him the irradiation of the mysterious sea and the deep waters of her pupils, and advanced towards him, murmuring: “Christ is your God, beloved brother; Christ has sealed you with his fiery blood!” Maximinus, in a rage, gave an order. The young man, with simple firmness, made signs of refusal to the request to incense. He was not yet entirely sure that he worshipped Christ, but he longed, before the princess, to accomplish something beautiful himself, with contempt for the miseries of the flesh. They tied him like Necepsus, and led him outside. While he could, he turned his head to look at his victor. The intense murmuring, the buzzing of excitement in the audience, had not yet died away , when the practical moralists and ironists came out into the square and attacked the Christians, mocking their rites, customs, and beliefs. Ill-informed, or with rotten intentions, they spread absurd rumors. One announced that a donkey’s head was being worshipped in the Galilean Assemblies , and another, as if he had witnessed them, recounted certain confabulations of Galileans, both men and women, where, with the lights out, indescribable blunders were committed. There were those who castigated the cowardice of the Christians, who refused to join the army; and a jester, with a crude sneer, swore that only slaves could profess a religion that commands us to kiss the ground and prostrate ourselves before those who beat us. The assembly, having lost all respect for Caesar’s presence, became agitated, dissatisfied with the base and vulgar turn the discussion was taking. The Alexandrians, accustomed to controversy, eager for good language and brilliant subtleties, protested. So when Catherine—also ironic, hiding the sword of her indignation beneath her embroidered virginal veil—riddled them with elegant mockery, with flashes of wit, with satires that had the playful grace of Apollo’s sword flaying the stinking, squalid satyr—the listeners could no longer contain themselves, and their acclamations sanctioned the princess’s victory. “Hail, hail to Catherine!” was heard repeated. And the Christians, emboldened, crazed, added: “Hail, doctor, teacher, confessor! The Holy Trinity be with you!” Some of the Proci, who in the front row awaited the defeat of their proud pretender, ended up being infected, and they struggled against the bronze barrier, longing to carry Catherine out in triumph, on their shoulders, amid cheers. The emperor, whom no one remembered, raised the heavy scepter. It was the signal that the test was over, and the order for the guard to clear the room. Maximinus descended the steps of the dais, took the princess by the hand, and led her into the palace through the back door to an inner chamber. The retinue, respectful, had remained behind. Caesar invited Catherine to sit in the leonine chair, surrounded by panther carcasses and feather tapestries that softened the footsteps. Then he clapped his hands, and silent slaves brought ice, fruit, jars of old wine, and a mixture of anise, saffron, and the juice of fortifying plants, a kind of cordial Maximinus used when he felt exhausted. “Drink, Princess,” he said wearily, remaining standing before the daughter of Costus. “Human strength has a limit. I saw you, and you seemed to me like a white doe resisting the teeth of the dogs.” I have admired you, and I recognize that you have defeated the wise men of the entire world. You are strong, you are learned, and yet you are not unaware of the virtue of grace, by which the soul is scattered. Catherine, the Emperor bows before your prodigious understanding and your charm, which is as overwhelming as this wine from the Mareotis that I offer you. To be measured, Catherine moistened her lips in the glass. “I am not tired, Caesar. I am joyful, and my feet are leaving the ground. I have won. ” “You have won,” he replied rapturously, sipping in turn from the glass she had begun. “There is no denying it.” “I have made at least three conquests for Christ. Necepsus, the Athenian Socratic, and… and you. Because you will not have forgotten our covenant. And above all, let Necepsus and the disciple of Socrates not be led to the torture. “Listen, Catherine…” Maximinus pulled up a bench and approached the agate table that held the refreshments. “Listen to me, for this is a great deal between us .” Catherine rested her elbow on the small table and her emerald-encrusted head in the palm of her hand . Maximinus understood that they were paying religious attention to him. “You, Princess, can render incalculable service to that Numen you adore. A service that all generations would remember, until the last day of the human race. For you to trust me, I must open my heart to you. I do not believe in our Gods. Perhaps at one time they would have had strength and virtue; but now I notice signs of decay in them. The oracles are senile. I have consulted the entrails of the victims, and they either lie or mislead. Those of Galileo are many now, Catherine; there are more of you than you believe; you are coming.” Whoever relies on you will be able to consolidate complete imperial power, as in the glorious days of Rome. The Virgin listened with all her faculties, deeply interested. “Catherine, when I looked at you yesterday, I thought of your form, of the tight snows of your bust, of the scent of your hair. Today I think that you are strong and wise and that the man you receive can rely on you for will and counsel. I have moments when I feel capable of taking over the world; but, as Helios advances in his career, I faint and drown my desire to aggrandize myself in vice and sensuality . I need a support, a loving hand to guide me. My partner Constantine is strengthened by the support of his mother. I have no one; traitors swarm around me, who, if it suits them , will stab me or drown me in the bath.” I distrust everyone, because I know their vices, equal to my own. You are incapable of treason. United with you, I will be another; I will regain the totality of the power that I now share with Licinius, the arbiter of the East, and Constantine, the innkeeper’s son, whom I detest. And, now exercising supreme power, I will extinguish persecution, I will tolerate your rites, as he does, who is cunning and sees from a distance! I will even take the initiative in erecting to the Prophet of Judea a temple as splendorous as the Serapion. You will lay the first stone with your ivory hands. And if you want more, even more. They say that to be one of you, one must receive a jet of pure water on the head. It will not be enough for that. Do you see where I am going, Catherine? Do you see what service you are offered to render to your God and to those who, like you, follow his law? “Is this not better than suffering for him for the hundredth time, ineffectively, with hooks and a rack?” “I swear by God and by my soul,” Polilla, who could not vent enough with his gaffes and head-swings, could no longer restrain himself, “that His Majesty Don Maximino was a good person at heart, and spoke like a good speaker. You will see how Her Highness Doña Catalina is going to come out with some silly little thing, because these martyrs do not listen to reason… ” “Catalina suspended her reply for a moment. She was withdrawing, struggling with the powerful, burning temptation. Her broad intelligence understood the importance of the proposition. More than three heroic centuries had matured and seasoned Christianity for victory, and perhaps it was time for the bloodshed to stop and the torture to cease. The struggle would continue, but under different conditions, and Catherine saw herself in a chair, in the open public square, teaching the truth, confounding heresies, errors, superstitions, and stupidities; or on the throne, sheltering under her Augustan mantle the poor, the humble, the believers, the ancient martyrs who would emerge from the desert or from the Ergastulum so that their wounds for Christ would be venerated by the new generation of Christians, now victorious and happy… In Catherine’s intimate dream, the temple of Jesus the Savior arose, doubly magnificent than the Serapion, which was said to hang in the air, and in whose underground funeral hall lay the remains of the idolized white ox. Perhaps it were possible to purify the Serapion itself, to expel the bovine spirit from there and raise the Cross to its summit. A word from Catherine would accomplish all this. Through her, Caesar would Christianize the immense Empire, and, the prophecies coming true, every language would confess the Lord and all people would worship Him, from the frigid regions of Scythia to the sands of Libya. Who prevented it?… What prevented it was a ring that a child had placed on her finger, and a kind of musical heartbeat that, deep inside, deeper in her own heart, repeated, slowly, gently, like a celestial caress: “You are beautiful… I love you… You are mine, mine… ” “Maximino…” she articulated slowly, “I gladly accept what you offer me: I will be your advisor, your friend, your sister, your partner.” But… as for being your wife… I have a master, and a master so sweet and so terrible, that he will not allow me infidelity. I have a Husband… And, moving his finger, he made the ring sparkle. “Are you mocking, Princess? You are wrong, because Maximinus has spoken to you as he will never speak to anyone else again. Are you not a virgin? ” “A virgin I am and I will be. ” “You will be my empress. I have already told you that for you I will go to your crucified Prophet. A thousand times have I felt that the gods of Rome do not satisfy me. Perhaps I prefer Serapis. I will prefer, however, yours. But bring me faith between your lips. The supreme truth is in what we love, in what exalts happiness in us. Another sip, Princess? ” “Caesar…” she insisted, rejecting the cup, “I do not know if you will believe me. I, although I have a master, love you also.” I love your poor, dark soul, which has glimpsed a ray of light and is now blinding again. Free yourself from the horrible fate that awaits you. Your future depends on your resolve. It won’t be long before Christ has altars and basilicas throughout the Empire and throughout the land. The emperor who brings about this transformation will live and conquer, and his name will fill the centuries. Whoever opposes it will not die in his bed, and perhaps will die by his own hand. Beware, Maximin! The die is about to be cast. Convert, ask for the water— but without demanding anything of me, without disputing Jesus’s promise. I have been tempted, but I will resist. Maximin turned pale with anger. Decadent even in passion, he lacked even the brutal impulse necessary to clasp the princess in his iron arms, to crush her with the force of a beast that digs its claws, sinks its teeth, and devours the breath of its dying prey. A shameful tremor, a fainting of his limp and nerveless will incited him to cruelty, to revenge for the weak and miserable. “Enough, princess; I no longer dispute with you the imaginary Spouse whom you call and invoke. I am not a dock worker, nor a soldier in the Thracian host, and I will not tie you with rope to a bed of oaks to desecrate your marvelous sculpture.” Maximinus also manages to attain something exquisite, especially when he has not buried his cursed reason in the juice of vines and the dangerous depths of amphorae. You have seen a Maximinus Daya who existed only for you. I respect you, oh Catherine! The same respect with which I made you proposals: I respect your virginity, your miraculous wedding ring. But I also respect the law, and I must obey it. He clapped his hands three times. Some men of his guard presented themselves. “Bring the priests of Apollo. The princess must incense God. If she does not obey the law, let her bear its weight.” Catherine, overcome with sudden joy, now certain of her course, straightened up and wrapped herself, erect and haughty, in the white and silver veil. Caesar was slowly withdrawing; the uncertain advance of his legs revealed the indecision of his soul. A compassionate exclamation from the virgin spurred his vanity. He shrugged his shoulders; with his left hand he made the gesture of someone throwing something away and walked away with an active, uneven, angry step. Minutes later he gave orders. That night, a feast. And the finest wines, and the most expert jugglers and harlots. Among the priests, who still treated her with submissive courtesy, Catherine returned to the extensive courtyard, on one side of which stood the image. of the God. The aesthetic organization of Catherine’s nature was revealed in her attitude toward the image. Generally, Christians, when confronted by effigies of the Gods of the Gentiles, made gestures of repulsion and disapproval. Then, as now, there were those who were incomprehensible and those who understood with subtlety. The princess did not take her eyes off it; on the contrary, she seemed to admire Praxiteles’ masterpiece for a brief moment, considering that the sculpture was a most noble representation of the human body, made in the image and likeness of the Creator , and under whose covering the divinity of Christ was hidden and suffered. The son of Latona, graceful, surrounded his temple with the artistic tangle of his magnificently coiled curls; Advancing a foot so elegant, curved, and elongated that one would say it was treading on clouds, instead of the red marble of the pedestal, she grasped the silver arch with her right hand, and with her left hand she threw back the mantle of harmonious folds, which a fibula held over her shoulder. Catherine uttered a few words of praise and even sympathy. Was this not the symbol of the most perfect and marvelous of creatures, the Sun that fertilizes the fields and seasons the harvest, that gives the bread by which men live, praising the Lord and enjoying the wholesome flavors of life? But the old pontiff of Helios did not understand it that way, and he handed the smoking bowl to the princess. She gently rejected it, without indignation or contempt. The pontiff could not elevate himself to the scientific interpretation of the solar myth: he was a ritualistic priest; a formula, incense… and, if not, death! And three times Catherine made the gesture with her hand that sentenced her; the gesture with which she bid farewell to her youth in bloom, to her inimitable existence, to her elevated studies that aristocratize thought; to art, to visible, gay, and varied beauty, present in the fragrant bush and in the chiseled canopy… “I come to you, O incorruptible beauty! Sweet master, I come to you! ” They removed her from the courtyard and locked her up, not in a horrid dungeon, but in a small, windowless room next to the guardroom, as a precaution against the Christians, getting agitated, trying to set her free. And the pontiff summoned the priests and some officials and even vermin from the palace, like that sophist Gnetes, the first to be defeated in the philosophical contest; and gathered in council, they deliberated on the fate of the new Galilee. In half-hearted conversation, they agreed that Caesar would be drunk that night, and that if the orders he had given in his intoxication were not to be carried out, as he had warned them, there was nothing to prevent them from executing those previously uttered. Catherine now belonged to the judges and priests, to whose avenging arm Maximinus had released her. Either she retracted in the face of torment and punishment, or what had been ordered would be carried out. And there was a tacit instinct among the deliberators to hurry, because they feared that the following morning, the so often irresolute Caesar would change his mind, which would be interpreted as an indication of his fear of the Christians and the Serapists, supporters of the petty tyrant Costus. The official religion needed to wound, to strike a blow, to impose itself. With no one better than with the proud Catherine. And they still had the hope of a retraction, in the face of a martyrdom that they would try to horrify and cruelize. The philosophical victory won in the morning’s contest had a deplorable effect on the beliefs of the Empire in Alexandria. The Christians were in turmoil as word spread that the maiden was to be tortured. There was no time for them to plot and hatch a conspiracy; the deed had to be carried out that very night… What a triumph if, in the presence of the instruments of torture, the wise woman were to renounce the Galilean! And Gentheus, raising his tortoise-like head from the depths of his hump, opined: “The only way to subdue such a proud woman would be to threaten her with a forced excursion to the brothel, or with a festival at the Panoeum, where she would play the nymph and we the capripedes.” Several young priests and courtiers approved, promising themselves a fun evening; but the cautious pontiff reproved. No, it was necessary to proceed with caution: Costus had power, many supporters among the Egyptian nationalists, and upon his return from his journey, if he conformed to the rigors of the law with his daughter, he might not tolerate the mockery. We were not in august Rome, but in a city where the majority of the inhabitants still polish their dead with naphtha, and where filthy Christians gnaw and undermine, like moles, the pavement and foundations of the Apollonian temple. The Virgin is dangerous. The sooner, and without venturing into any fantasy, get rid of her. Either renounce her or perish. The chief executioner, the Ethiopian Taonés, was summoned before the council. He prided himself on being a master of his craft and, recently, with savage artifice, had invented several instruments of torture. certain short-toothed iron combs , with which a real flaying was carried out, without going too deep, in order to avoid a quick death. “The god Apollo,” the black man boasted, “should have skinned Marsyas like that. The satyr would suffer infinitely more. ” The pontiff, attentive to the political aspect of the matter, commissioned him to devise a torture in which the executioners would not need to lay a hand on the martyr, and which would nevertheless be terrifying. After some thought, Taonés asked for carpenters and blacksmiths and shut himself in with them, supervising their work. One or two hours were enough to construct the machine. It was a simple, ingenious device. It consisted of four wheels, fitted on the outside with sharp points of nails, knives, and wires, firmly embedded in the wood. From afar, a rope attached to a crank set the wheels in motion, and between the double skein of the contraption, a standing human body could fit; so that, as it rotated, the chest, back, shoulders, and thighs would be torn apart. By the third revolution of the infernal device, the martyr would be a bloody mass, and shreds of her flesh would hang from the wheels, without any mortal wounds, for Taonés, faithful to his principles, had driven the nails and points deep. “Today,” the pontiff insisted anxiously. “The risk lies in delay . In addition to the philosophers whom the princess has duped, it is said that Porphyry, colonel of the First Legion, has become a Christian after the controversy . The altars of the Gods will crumble if we do not shore them up. Let us not ask Caesar any more questions. Has he not given the order? Well, that’s enough. ” And Gnetes suggested: “When the banquet is over, Caesar will be ready to witness it…” It had been two or three hours since the night without twilight of Egypt had turned the sky into a black hollow-cut sapphire, studded with glittering diamonds, when Catherine was taken from her confinement to be led to the courtyard where she would be judged. Her complexion was broken by abstinence, for, supposing that she would soon die, she had been fasting; and also by the fear of failing in the supreme ordeal. Inwardly she called upon the Spouse: “Do not abandon me. Do not despise my cowardice. You sweat blood at the sight of the chalice! Do not allow them to tear off my clothes, to disfigure my face. You are beauty…” “The ideal beauty, Catherine,” she thought she heard within her own heart. And she raised her forehead, her arrogance and stoic calm recovered. Despite the secrecy that had been sought to be kept, a large crowd gathered behind the railing. The interrogations of the martyrs, their torture, their execution, were acts that could not be carried out behind closed doors. Formalities of legality were observed. In the reddish light of the torches and the yellowish light of the lamps, Catherine appeared, and a tidal wave stirred the crowd. Her emerald ring flashed vividly. She smiled. Maximin presided over the tribunal—but unaware of what was about to happen. He left the table, crowned with ivy and withered roses, completely intoxicated, and furthermore, undressed by skillfully impure caresses . The scene appeared to him as if through a veil. of mist. From time to time she would lean her head back and take a momentary breath. Catherine responded to the invitation to incense with a disdainful gesture. Then, Taonés, followed by his assistants, entered through a side door. The machine was brought in, and the audience emitted a long, obscure exclamation. Perhaps they were protesting; perhaps they were sighing with pleasure at the interesting drama. The executioners approached the princess. Taonés’s vapor of sweat and filth made her mechanically retreat . A silent laugh revealed the Ethiopian’s white, bulldog teeth . She knew that the jewels and ornaments of the executed man were hers by right, and she cursed the Christian women dressed in wool, without bangles, without strings, without adornments. At least this was a magnificent, ostentatious Galilee ! He signaled to his first assistant, Sycamore, that when he tied Catherine up, he should tear off the priceless oriental diadem, the abundant strands of pearls as thick as the eyes of large fish, and, above all, the famous Cleopatra’s. If they wouldn’t grant him such an enormous treasure, at least the ransom would be worth a great deal. While an executioner tied a light cord around the martyr’s wrists, Sycamore, terrified, leaned close to Taonés’s ear. “I can’t obey you, master… My fingers have passed through the emeralds and pearls without being able to grasp them… They’re air… ” “Have the gods driven you mad? ” “I tell you, they’re air!” “There’s still time, Catherine!” the pontiff reiterated insinuatingly. ” You can still prostrate yourself before the sacred Numina.” Once again the beautiful head shook its head… Taonés adapted his body to the machine; Catherine herself helped, positioning herself as appropriate. At once, Maximinus seemed to shake off his sleep and asked what it was, what the strange mechanism meant. Before he knew the answer, the vapors of his drunkenness thickened, and he sprawled back, mouth agape, and snored. To cover the imperial snores and the moans of the victim, the pontiff ordered the musicians assigned to the Temple of Helios to play flutes and violently shake rattles. And the executioner, turning the crank, set the wheels in motion. A flash of sharp sparks, a torrent of carmine, flowing and soaking the philosopher’s white robes… From the crowd stood out a small, ragged, blackish man with two glowing coals for pupils. Threading himself between the balusters of the railing, he managed to approach the Virgin, who, covered in blood, gazed up at the metallic firmament, as if searching for the angels who would sustain her in her ordeal. The solitary man raised his jerky hand and traced the cross in the air… And the horrible machine was thrown into disarray, each wheel flying in a different direction, injuring the judges, the executioners, the spectators, and the Archer’s priests… The confusion was such that the pontiff thought it wise to take advantage of it. He ordered Taonés, who had been so clumsy in his construction, to hasten the completion; and the black man dared to separate the veil, already torn in a thousand places, and to take in his left hand, where it barely fit, the length of the princess’s hair, rolling it up and securing it vigorously. Catherine understood. Her heart beat and yearned like a captured wood pigeon. “I’m coming to you,” she sighed, looking at the luminous band of the impalpable ring that encircled her finger. She lowered her forehead; the executioner’s curved sword described a semicircle and fell, slashing, on the nape of her neck. The audience, taken by surprise, roared, shouted insults to Apollo, the feigned divine being, to the snoring Caesar the pig. Taones, alarmed, let go of Catherine’s long hair and head, which fell surrounded by the magnificent shroud of her hair, as long as her understanding, and like it, full of perfumes, reflections, and nuances. From her trunk flowed a sea, not of vermilion blood, but of the purest, densest milk; The waves rose, rose, and the executioners’ feet sank into them, and ascended beyond the steps of the platform, and settled into a lake of lunar whiteness, made of the brightness of a star and the whiteness of a silver cloud and Swan feathers. The martyr’s body and her pale, bloodless, perfect head floated in that lake, in which the Christians, no longer apprehensive, bathed their foreheads and arms up to the elbows, drenched their clothes, and cooled their lips. It was the milky torrent of science and truth that had flowed from the mind of the Alexandrian, from her winged words and her brave energies as a thinker and sufferer. And as if that blood were a fermented liquor infused with spices that exalted them, indignation boiled among the partisans of the new faith and among the Serapists themselves, who sympathized with them, because their consciences were already saturated with anger and protest at the three-century -old ordeal of martyrdoms; and, shaking their fists at the lethargic Caesar and his guard, they shouted: “Death, death to the tyrant Maximinus!” The guard, drawing their short Roman swords, struck down the mutineers, who faced each other, unarmed, with their fists. And while they fought, Maximinus, suddenly sobered, stared in astonishment, his teeth chattering with cold terror, at the pure swan-like body floating on the lake of candor, the head supernaturally haloed with hair that, instead of clinging to the temples, played around and spread out, revealing with its halo of shadow the pallor of the cheeks and the glaze of the dreamy eyes of the Virgin… The prophecies returned to the emperor’s memory; without a doubt, Catherine’s God was stronger than Apollo, Hathor, Serapis, even the Empire of the she-wolf—and had condemned him to lose his throne and his life, to a disastrous end, to the defeat of his banners, and to the frustration of all his ambitions. The canon suspended his story, or rather, seemed to have concluded it. “And the princess’s body?” Lina asked. “What happened to it? ” “Ah!” the Magistrate breathed. “I say that in the notes. The angels buried it on Mount Sinai, where it was venerated for a long time.” No doubt the Christians of Alexandria tried to ensure that the precious spoil did not suffer any vicissitudes, for in that city, until well into the fifth century of the Church, the bitterness of religious and philosophical struggles did not subside, and the opposite face of Catherine’s martyrdom was the stoning of Hypatia. ” “And Catherine’s killer? I seem to recall that Constantine eliminated that Maximinus Daya . ” “I’ll tell you. Constantine realized the brilliant idea that had occurred to his partner; he relied on Christianity and strengthened his power.” But it wouldn’t be accurate to say that he suppressed Maximinus. In the struggle between the associates, Daya was defeated, and in Tarsus he committed suicide. This is also extensively mentioned in the notes. “Everything is very good,” criticized Polilla, “except the miracles. Only… come on, Carranza, you must admit that the story of that third-century saint, at this point, matters even less to us than that of Baldovinos and the Twelve Peers of France. Who remembers Costo’s daughter? Talk to me about other things: inventions, progress, light. The rest… antiques, old junk… and… ” “And Polilla…” Lina smiled, slapping her black Swedish glove across her friend’s stiff face. Outside, the rain had cleared. The stones in the street were still damp. Under a tree, in the fading light of a long, calm afternoon, groups of girls, just outside the school, were singing in a circle. Their song passed through the glass. And one could hear: _Her name is Catalina–yes, yes…_ _her name is Catalina…_ –Listen, listen, Don Antón…, Lina ordered;–and the girls, with their silvery timbre of voice, continued: _They’re ordering a circle to be made,_ _they’re ordering a circle to be made_ _of knives and razors–yes, yes…_ _of knives and razors… _
A short space passed, and the fresh clamor flowed again like water from living, inexhaustible fountains: _Get up, Catalina,_ _get up, Catalina,_ _Jesus Christ is calling you–yes, yes,_ _Jesus Christ is calling you…_ The lanterns were already being lit, and the girls, clicking their flip-flops, dispersed in search of their homes, where the garlic soup would be steaming. Even the stubborn song returned from time to time: _Jesus Christ is calling you…_ _Lina._ Chapter 2. Like a bomb, the big news! When they bring the telegram, I am tidying my little room, because my only servant barely knows how to sweep an unpleasant broom, curled from sheer age. I tear open the mysterious clasp, take it out, and read: “Aunt Catherine has suddenly died. You, instituted universal heir. Come. Farnese.” Aunt Catherine! I, her sole heir! And I don’t feel dizzy, nor an effusion of gratitude. I find it curious; the strangeness wins. Why does she institute me as her heir, who in life gave me a pittance, spared no means of inducing me to become a nun, and had relegated me to the exile of Alcalá de Henares? I promise myself I’ll find out, although I know the dead take with them the true key to their actions, which is why I laugh at the story. My trip to Madrid is quickly arranged. I respond to Farnesio’s telegram, put on my little black cloth dress, my felt cap, fortunately also black, and walk along the neat brick sidewalk to the station. The train will leave at seven. I sit on a bench in front of the waiting room door; no noise is heard; a nearby acacia tree sways its branches, shedding golden flakes; a snotty, flat, and weather-beaten little girl watches me as if she were going to take my picture. For the first time, I realize I am opulent, powerful. I rummage through my worn brown suede jacket with its broken chain and hand the girl a peseta. She looks at him, looks at me, and, scared, assuming a joke, instead of accepting it, runs away. Wealth is frightening, apparently… I’ll go first class, for the first time.—I’m going alone.—The apartment is musty with soot and the old smells of greasy meals. The windows, stuffed and crusty with filth, don’t open without a titanic effort. I sit down, choosing a cushion that isn’t splashed with dubious stains. Do rich people travel like this? It’s not worth it! I’ll get myself the best car… And, at the same time as I’m thinking this, another occurs to me, and a cold sweat oozes down my temple.—Couldn’t the telegram be a joke by a joker?—I spend a bad fifteen minutes, because if the thing isn’t credible, the other thing is even more implausible. So great is my anguish that, yearning to breathe, I struggle and manage to open a window. The air enters, comforts me, and reassures me of reality. The banks of the Jarama are a marvel of vegetal delicacy, an exquisite landscape, in sepia, because it’s autumn. Thin willows, idyllic reeds, tangles of bushes with already diseased leaves, dissolve with watercolor tones in the blond peace, in the dying clarity of the short afternoon. The bulls graze, placid. The river is a pearly gray serpent, flattened, motionless. I feel the fervor of enthusiasm that beauty always produces in me. Now that I’m rich, I will see the world, which I don’t know; I will seek out the impressions I haven’t enjoyed. My existence has been boring and foolish, I affirm, feeling sorry for myself. And I immediately correct myself. Foolish, no; because I am not only intelligent but also sensitive, and within me there are no steppes. Boring… less so; boring is equivalent to foolish. Only fools are bored. Disappointed, yes, oh, how! Petty, too. Inhibited, held by an invisible hand. It would have been better if they had left me barefoot by the stream, because after two months of begging, I’m no longer begging—I’ve solved my problem. The bad thing was that they gave me a handful of birdseed and the duties of a “decent young lady.” Cornered, I could only vegetate…—I correct myself again : my body has vegetated; my spirit, what good bellyfuls of imaginative life it has had! Left to myself, in a town that had fallen into disrepair, but still grand in its monumental form and for its memories, I didn’t make friends with the ladies, because there was a certain atmosphere of suspicion around me, and I didn’t pay attention to the cajoling of the officers, because, at most, they might lead me to a wedding followed by a thousand privations. My only friends were two canons, those in charge of catechizing me for the monkhood, and a maniacally inclined, very Voltairean and very simple-minded old man, Don Antón de la Polilla, who immediately declared himself the devil’s advocate, recounting the horrors of the convents when those he called the Grand and Junior Inquisitor weren’t present, and sometimes even to their faces. I paid no attention to him except when he talked about history and antiquities; in that field, he sometimes regains his common sense, a treasure he had long since lost. Of the two canon catechists, one, poor Roa, died three years ago; the other, the Master, is a member of several Academies, and I suspect he has written many things that will never see the light of day, unless now, when I am a millionaire… I’ve devoured Mr. Carranza’s library; by the way, it contains some very good books. So I’m pretty strong in the classics, I almost know Latin, I know history, and I’m not lacking my dose of archaeology. Carranza laments that the time has passed when female doctors taught at the Complutense University. He would be consoled if I were one of those erudite nuns, whose engraved portraits depict them with a goose quill in hand, an inkwell in the margin, and against the background of a library of parchment folios. Because I had the curiosity to read some manuscripts in the Archive, the Judge’s daughters, who are the _lionnes_ of Alcalá, and who dislike me, have nicknamed me _la Literata_. Literata! I will not get involved in such a hornet’s nest. Spend my life amidst ridicule if I fail, and hostility if I succeed? And, besides, without being modest, I know that I’m not up to that task. Literature, that of others, which doesn’t cost you any trouble… How I congratulate myself now on the culture I have acquired! It will serve me as an instrument of enjoyment and superiority. At the station, Farnesio awaits me—Don Genaro Farnesio himself, with a gloomy and circumstantial face. He is surprised, and I even imagine he is indignant at my dry, deflated, and shining eyes, my poise as a frank heiress, who doesn’t cover her face with a handkerchief or blow her nose every three minutes. “What do you say to this?” he sighs deeply as he takes my hands. “What should I say?” I reply. “Poor aunt! Hers has arrived. ” A proper footman collects my humble coat, precedes me respectfully, and, raising his black livery hat, opens the lacquered door of a sedan chair, padded like a jewel case. “It’s my sedan chair, it’s my footman.” What a poignant sensation! What the announcement of a fortune couldn’t do, the detail of comfort and luxury can… Closing my eyes, I lean back. Farnesio enters and gives an order. We set off at the springy trot of the fiery bay horses. Doña Catalina’s steward glances at me furtively, studying me. Don Genaro Farnesio is that “completely trustworthy” person who inevitably emerges on the fringes of widowed and wealthy ladies. A cross between friend and administrator, mysterious and emphatic, Don Genaro Farnesio is considered better informed about everything pertaining to the House of Mascareñas—a resounding surname!—than its owner ever was. He is the familiar spirit of the palace, now mine; and his cautious attitude and the gaze I feel resting on my profile undoubtedly stem from selfish anxiety: “Will there be a change of ministry? Will I lose the fig I’ve enjoyed for so many years?” We arrived… As I stepped out into the hallway and the solemn doorman—in a long frock coat, his lunar face between two well-polished black ribs—stood at attention before the new sovereign, I remembered the few times I’d come here, always urged by Don Genaro to return to Alcalá as soon as possible. I was once again struck by a disquieting surprise. Why would she who’d barely seen me bequeath me her millions? I conjured up memories. When I was ushered into the presence of Doña Catalina Mascareñas y Lacunza, widow of Céspedes, she would half rise from her chair; her cheeks would flush, she would lower her eyes, as if not to see me, and in a slightly hoarse voice she would ask: “How are you doing, Natalia? How is your health? ” “Very well, Aunt… ” “Is there anything missing? Is there anything you’re lacking, in other words, for your life?” “No, madam,” she responded, mortified and haughty. “I have enough. ” “Are you good? Are you behaving yourself? ” “I think so…” Briefly, as if eager to cut the conversation short—three in eleven years—the lady would get up, open a wardrobe, rummage through it a bit, and place an object in my hands, saying: “For you.” The first time, a rosary of gold and baroque pearls; the second, an enamel Saboneta watch ; the third, a weekly ring, a salad bowl. I liked this last gift very much. I’ve never had any other jewel, and I have a Magdalenian passion for jewels . ” “Well, well,” the lady would mumble as I murmured my thanks. “Be careful, don’t give us any trouble… ” Farnese, present at the interview, signaled to me. “Goodbye, Aunt Catalina…” “Goodbye, see you later, Natalia. Let me know if anything happens to you…” And I withdrew, head bowed, with the timid, oblique gait of poor relatives, of humiliated protégés. “Now!” I planted my foot on the carpet that climbed the marble staircase, with the violent energy of an inauguration. Farnese took me by the wrist and, in a low, stammering voice: “Do you want to see her?” I shuddered as if someone were breathing on my grandparents’ necks… See her! She’s physically present! So what? It wouldn’t be good for me to appear childish or timid! ” “I’m going. It’s only right that I say an Our Father.” The funeral chapel is the hall, sumptuous and antiquated, with a profusion of gilded carvings and mirrors, magnificent jars, exquisite paintings, and hangings of a free-standing brocade fabric. They have set up the altar at the back where mass will be said tomorrow; an ivory crucifix presides over it; at the foot of the altar, between candlesticks, is the coffin. The windows are open, the candles are burning. It smells like the smell of flowers after half an hour of contact with a dead body, and when their aroma mingles with scents of wax and chloride. I feel another small shudder: my eyes have gone directly, drawn without resistance, to the face of the deceased, gilded to green gold by the light of the sad candles. They have shrouded her in the habit of Carmel, and the ring of the headdress lends to her features a nobility and austerity that she did not possess in life. To anyone who enters a mortuary chamber, what happens to me happens: the face of the dead man captivates the eye. Two Servants of Mary sit vigil, reading from a black-covered book; an old servant, Mateo the gardener, kneels , chanting a prayer, clutching a well-worn soft hat to his chest with both hands. The Servants, upon seeing me, rise, greet me softly, and push a red cushion closer to me so I can kneel comfortably. “I am the heir!” With my spirit pressed to the earth, I murmur prayers. Farnese stands behind me. With that keen perception I possess, the entire time I pray, I feel the steward’s eyes scanning my neck and shoulders, disapproving of the superficiality of my conversation with God. I sit up, and inside me hums an urgent accent, coming from I don’t know where. “You must kiss her… You have the duty to kiss her… It would be very unpleasant if you didn’t …” I ignore the voice. “From today on, I know no law but my own…” I decide, withdrawing with a calm stride, not without having crossed myself and bowed ritually. As I face Farnese, I notice something resembling a snail’s slime flickering across his cheeks. Tears? Did he really love this foolish, uninteresting lady ? At the moment, foolishness might be irreverent, but are there such things as inner irreverence? “My bedroom, my boudoir?” I ask imperiously. I don’t know the layout of the apartment; but I suppose it won’t occur to them to show me the room where Donna Catherine took her last breath. Farnese precedes me, down a wide corridor, to a luxurious room, like the entire house. I calm down. It’s obvious it hasn’t been inhabited for some time. It boasts a lavish ebony bed, with a pink satin bedspread, a guipure veil, and ebony furniture, also massive. “My maid?” Surprised at first, Don Genaro blinked. Why? Am I not going to have a maid, and maids too, having millions? Perhaps Farnese thinks I’m going to continue with my Alcalá maritornes? Finally, she rings the bell, and an elderly servant appears, a sort of bewildered duenna, clearly preoccupied with me since before she met me. “Are you the first maid? ” “Yes, madam… To serve the lady. ” “Call the second. ” “No… she’s not here. ” “How do you mean? She’s not here?” “She’s out on errands… Don Genaro knows… ” “Well; from now on, you’re not to go out without my permission. ” “Very well, madam. I never go out. ” “Prepare a bath for me… There’ll be a bathroom, right? ” “I certainly do. ” “Put a whole bottle of cologne in the bathroom… Is there cologne? ” “Yes, madam, yes.” “And fine towels, and violet soap? ” “I don’t know if there’s any violet. In any case, it’ll be good soap. Shall we ask the perfumer for the violet? ” “It’s late. They’ll be closed. It doesn’t matter. Any soap. I wish to bathe soon. ” “Isn’t the lady having dinner? ” “After the bath… ” “Bon appetit,” Farnese said. “I won’t have dinner: I feel rather ill. Tomorrow we have much to discuss, but not in the morning, since…” His accent broke; a clearing of his throat ensued. “Now, the funeral!” I said naturally. “And I’m without a mourning cloak for mass! What’s your name?” I asked, turning to the duenna. “Eladia, to serve the lady. ” “See that I have a cloak first thing tomorrow morning. And a very thick one. ” Chapter 3. It wasn’t until the afternoon of the following day that the announced conference took place . The living room still retained the sweet, repulsive smell of disinfectants and flowers, poisoned and decomposing, from the very moment we placed them on a corpse. I had the windows thrown wide open; I ordered that no one be admitted, since the aunt’s few close friends had already attended mass, devouring me with glances of frenzied curiosity; and I walked around the house. Magnificent, granted… but stuffy, in terrible taste. I’ll air it out too. Houses age with their owners. I’ll give youth… My youth, concentrated by isolation and already filled with an experience as bitter and savory as an olive. Don Genaro and I chatted in the study next to my bedroom. Through it, one can go down to the garden. A green flowerbed, through the glass, flatters me. I am playful and affectionate with the sixty-year-old. “Do you know, Don Genaro, that this morning, when I woke up in a strange room, I thought the thing about the inheritance was a dream? ” “I wish!” he moaned. “Thank you very much, you wicked person! ” “You understand why I say this. ” “Well, Don Genaro, you are most sorry for the poor aunt’s death, but I also suspect you think I shouldn’t have inherited this fortune. I warn you that I don’t understand the luck of the draw either. Am I the closest relative ? Am I mistaken, or do your brother Don Juan Clímaco’s children exist there in Córdoba ? ” “Indeed, they do, not in Córdoba, but in Granada. ” “And am I not the daughter of a first cousin of the lady? Of a Mascareñas of the needy branch, of the unhappy branch? ” “That’s true, Natalia… But,” he added as if pleading for forgiveness, “for the same reason, you were poor, and Don Juan Clímaco’s children have their backs well covered. ” The lady was free, and she left you her belongings because she loved you. I leaned back in the strawberry silk armchair trimmed with green, and hummed: “What did she want? Do you know that I was hiding it? ” Farnesio’s chin trembled; his face changed, and the golden reflection of the rim of his glasses zigzagged for a moment. “That’s cruel,” he stammered. “You don’t know what you’re saying. If you only knew! ” “Don Genaro,” I responded, “let’s reason together. Don’t paint a picture for me of what hasn’t existed. Is it loving a girl to keep her confined, to give her an allowance that only because of the cheapness of Alcalá allowed me not to die of hunger, and plot to have her sent to a convent? “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he retorted. “When the time came for you to embrace that state—the happiest for a woman—Dieguito, Doña Catalina’s son, was still alive. Who would have thought that that handsome young man, in the prime of his life, would succumb to typhus in a few days?” I thought for a moment, grasping my beard. “And… what does that have to do with it? With Dieguito alive, I’m a nun? Were they afraid that Dieguito would fall in love with me? ” “From absurdity to absurdity!” Farnesio was inflamed with violent indignation. I insisted, wearily: “Well, I don’t understand, sir. And since it’s a question of me, myself, I have the right to understand. ” “And I expect you to respect what doesn’t concern you… What more do you want? Anyone, in your case, would have gone mad with joy.” On the other hand, Natalia, my role is not to censure the lady’s actions, but to put you in possession of your fortune, which is one of the most healthy and substantial in Spain, in terms of landed property and bank shares . I have been managing it for thirty-two years, and I am proud to say that it has grown in my hands and has become well rounded! If you want to change my general attorney, don’t hesitate; I have more than enough to live on; I have spent little of my salary, and I am a bachelor… Suddenly turning to me, with an incomprehensible transition, with anxiety, he questioned me: “Why didn’t you kiss her?” My solitude and my lifestyle have made me independent. I sometimes have the spontaneous gestures and movements of a wild beast. I don’t know how—but with expressive mimicry—I expressed my repulsion at the hypothesis of a kiss on frozen cheeks. And I spoke harshly: “What an idea!” I gave her the same kisses she gave me… I saw him so dismayed that, with equal quickness, I took his withered, rough, senile right hand and squeezed it affectionately. Under the pressure, the hand seemed to be refreshed: the blood flowed and the skin became supple. “You’ll stay with me for life. Well, I need you a lot! I’m not letting you go. Believe it or not, I have a duty to you. In the end, the only one who cared at all for me was M. de Farnesio… although you, rogue, were also in on the dark plot to have me… Isn’t that true?” With both my index fingers raised, I drew around the oval of my face—it’s quite perfect, mind you—the fringe of a monastic bonnet… My resonant laugh contrasted with the English crape of my attire, which had just been brought to me—a miracle of swiftness!—from the _Immortelle_, a specialty in hasty mourning. I noticed Farnesio’s drooling … Does this old man love me, or is he a sneaky enemy? He remained silent, ecstatic. “So I’m powerful?” I asked. “I believe it! ” “And tell me…” “Tell me!” “Did Doña Catalina have any jewels?” Farnesio took a shining key ring from his pocket and handed it to me with dignity. “They’re from her closets… from her room. I collected them when she was dying, following previous orders she had given me. I remember there are some magnificent jewels. Since Dieguito’s misfortune, she hasn’t worn them.” You, until you’re out of mourning, shouldn’t wear them either. The council frowned. Advice to me? I took the key ring and resolutely entered the mortuary chamber. It wasn’t a bedroom, but a spacious dormitory, with three balconies overlooking the garden, an adjoining dressing room , and a wardrobe. I changed my mind: this apartment, suitably refreshed, will be mine. The oil portrait of Dieguito occupies pride of place, on the dressing table, above the sofa. Around the frame, a strip of faded black tulle, held together with a bouquet of artificial violets. I never met Dieguito. How or where would I have met him? So I look at his image very slowly. He is a handsome, elegant young man, apparently full of robustness and vigor. His eyes follow me when I turn around. It’s a portrait that seems to speak, to emerge from the frame. Attention! He resembles me… There’s no doubt about it; he resembles me! The shape of his nose, the cut of his face… What’s so special about it? We are very close relatives. I hold the key ring in my hand, and the enormous rosewood cabinets attract me with their sumptuous mystery; but another enigma has come before me with this image of my cousin, to whose death I owe my fortune. The thought returns. Why, while he was alive, should the melancholic doors of some monastery have opened for me? I look again at the painting, as if the explanation lay within it, in its silent language. Then I notice that opposite, above the fireplace, there is another canvas, Doña Catalina, plump, dressed in dark blue satin, low-cut, very dressed up. I knew her in her decadence. Here she remains beautiful; she is lymphatic, with pale flesh, with amorous eyes, with dark circles under her eyes and long eyelids. Her oval face, still pure, is identical to mine and Dieguito’s. She is adorned with splendid pearls the size of chickpeas and diamonds the size of broad beans. a dressing that prompts me to open the closets immediately. In the first, linen in linen; a lot of it, very rich, without grace. Elegant lingerie shouldn’t be like this… Lace mantillas, fans, Manila shawls, furs, whole bottles of essence, hat boxes. In the second—there are four in a row forming one side of the vast room—a dazzling display of embossed and unembossed silver. Silver from top to bottom, like in the cupboards of cathedrals. Splendid tableware , which gives evidence of having hardly been used; Doña Catalina would be one of those who acquire silverware to bequeath it to their successors without dents. Trays, mancers, cruets, salvillas, jugs, basins, salt cellars, even… what cannot be said… of solid silver. The cutlery, by the dozen, and the plates, in piles, emblazoned with the lion tied to a tree, by Mascareñas. The jewels aren’t here. They’ll definitely be in the last closet I search. No… In the third. Many cases, many boxes. I take everything out and spread it out on the table in front of the sofa. I sit down. A slight fever reddens my cheeks; my heart beats fast. The jewels! The illusion of so many women, and I count myself among them. And I’ve never possessed them! On my trips to Madrid—so short, just hours long—I would stop in front of the shop windows, fascinated, enthralled… The stones, and above all, the pearls! The first thing I find is the case, lined with pink plush, shaped like a woman’s throat and décolletage, where the five-strand necklace is staggered. I try it on, trembling, over the black of my blouse; I caress it; I have a hard time taking it off. Ah! When I go to bed, we’ll do another, more convincing test… How round, how oriental, how equal these pearls are! Farnese is a true man, to have the keys in his possession so that I can find such precious objects in their proper place. There’s a treasure here. Why didn’t Doña Catalina keep it safe in the bank? Perhaps, old-fashioned, she feared banks. There’s a diadem of ivy leaves and diamonds; there’s the superb portrait decoration; there are bracelets, medallions, brooches, rings, not to mention rosaries, gold lockets, and dangling earrings. The jewels! Virginal skin of the pearl; velvety shadow of the emerald; infernal fire of the ruby; night sky of the sapphire… how beautiful you are! At last, I have you between my fingertips. I, the young lady of Alcalá, who out of necessity has done so many stitches without ever enjoying a well-carved gold thimble! I laugh with joy alone, and I search it, I turn everything over to make sure it’s mine. Wait a moment, curiosity takes over. Come on; the little fly is buzzing… If Dieguito were alive, I’d be condemned to sing in a choir… I forget the splendors and seek the secrets of the jewels. I profane the medallions. There are three: one studded with diamonds, to the brim, another of plain gold with an enormous solitaire in the center, another with numerals, roses , and rubies—CM, Catalina Mascareñas. They all enclose portraits, already pale photographs. A boy—it must be Dieguito—a gentleman in a frock coat, without a beard—Doña Catalina’s husband, Don Diego de Céspedes; there’s another portrait of him in the living room, an oil painting, with crosses and bands. —In the third medallion, the one with numerals, in the shape of a heart, a little girl… Jesus! Me, myself! No doubt about it! I possess another copy of this photograph, with my curly hair and a very starched white dress… Me! My aunt kept me with such affection, in her most personal jewel! Could it be true that, as Farnese claims, she loved me very much? In suspense, I hold my chin again, meditating… And I’m not used to meditating in vain. Could there be papers in cupboard number four? Of those letters filed down by the folds, in which one seems to have consumed the ink with longing, in which the paper has become silky and rancid like the skin of an elderly aristocrat? Do these epistles contain a revelation, or only clues, which would be enough for me? Turn the key gently. Cupboard number four holds a thousand objects, boxes, ribbons, gloves, opera glasses, new shoes, umbrellas, medicines, everything without a single atom of dust, everything in order… I look closely. The other cupboards were rather jumbled. In this one, where the papers might be, it’s obvious; it’s been cleaned, a search has been made. An embedded desk, where the lady would have written, is also in cold and meticulous order: the stamped paper forms pyramids with the envelopes; there’s not a line of manuscript, not a note. Doña Catalina couldn’t have done this because she was taken by illness, a stroke. The idea takes shape. I lift the mantelpiece. There, in the back, absolute cleanliness. However, in one corner, my fingers are slightly tarnished, not with soot, but with that winged tarnish formed by the embers of paper. Letters have been burned there… Recent, done before I came. And, in the difficulty of choosing, in the rush to make the most of the time, not only the dangerous ones were burned, but everything. I wasn’t warned until I had taken the precaution. Doña Catalina died yesterday, at six in the morning. I received the telegram at five in the afternoon. The cautious one—who can that be but Farnesio?—had plenty of hours at his disposal. It’s useless to search the furniture or the other corners of the house, because I won’t find anything. I call Don Genaro, who comes promptly. I notice that, behind his glasses, his swollen eyes are red. “How are you?” he asks me. “Have you thoroughly found out what belongs to you? ” “Do you know there are some magnificent things? But I’ve noticed something that surprises me. Those cupboards don’t contain a single paper.” Farnesio shuddered. He certainly hadn’t counted on this attack. “No papers?” she murmured, in a voice that tried to be clear and calm. “Of course there are no papers there. I’m the one who will deliver them to you, and they’re all in order. The documentation in this lady’s archive is among the best. No small amount of work has been done for this purpose! My entire life has been devoted to this task, so to speak. Don’t fear questions or lawsuits. The will will also be officially communicated to you. The inventories of the silver and jewelry were made during the lady’s lifetime and legalized. I believe she’s leaving some legacy to the children of Don Juan Climaco… ” “Don’t you understand me, or do you understand me too much?” I mused suspiciously. And, aloud , preparing the thrust: “What will you say I found in this medallion?” She became so agitated that she couldn’t even answer. In her inquisition of papers, she hadn’t thought about the jewels, that jewels can keep secrets. I saw him afflicted with a kind of dyspnea, and I wondered if I was committing the sacrilege of grave robbers. Perhaps Farnese feared that the medallion might hold something else. He breathed when he saw my portrait. “Let’s see? Shut up! Your portrait as a girl!” He was moved. And, with that phlegm in his throat that I had already noticed in moments of emotion, he came out with this joke: “You see, you see, your benefactress loved you! ” Chapter 4. I settle into the well-being—not the luxury—of my great fortune. Well-being is practical, and luxury, aesthetic. Luxury is not improvised. Luxury, highly intensified, constitutes one of the most difficult works of art to achieve. I have an ideal of luxury, a delayed hunger for a thousand refinements; now I understand what I have suffered in the prose of my life. Alcalá. Another woman might have found that hidden life sweet , but my imagination and the devotion I profess to my own person sometimes made me weep before a chipped pot or a pair of shoes whose heels were beginning to bend… My taste has not yet been refined enough to create my luxurious surroundings, and for now, I limit myself to comfort, to brightening this sumptuous house that exudes boredom. Doña Catalina’s mentality, her bourgeois instincts, were reflected in the furnishings. I call a pawnbroker and sell him an endless array of odds and ends. I understand that Farnese is horrified; he thinks I’m doing something crazy. I breathe a sigh of relief at finding myself free of these mirrors in such bad taste, these insets of fake bronze, these stuffed, re-enclosed armchairs that look like a nun’s pincushions. I turn everything upside down; I leave nothing alone; The little garden loses its earthy, parched appearance, and I arrange a miniature _serre_ in it, equipped with a heater. I have lunch there almost every day. I furnish my apartment in a modern, clear style, and sprinkle in some fine antiques. I have commissioned a high-class pawnbroker to find me paintings that don’t depict squalid people or martyrdoms; portraits of very ornate ladies, and porcelain from the Retiro and Saxony. The display cases are beginning to fill up. I live in seclusion; I have paid for my cards with others, and I don’t have any friends, because Doña Catalina’s are moth-eaten old women, people of her time, and I have formally refused to receive them. However, despite this seclusion that pleases Farnesio, when I go out in the afternoons in an open carriage to Moncloa, to the Casa de Campo, or to the solitudes of the Hippodrome, my carriage usually has an escort. There are two “boys,” one the son of the Countess of Páramos, the other the nephew of General Mansilla, who are stalking me. Both ladies were former socialites and companions of Doña Catalina’s Charity Committees, and they undoubtedly know my worth… They are the first suitors to appear on the horizon. I see them pass by, swooping, forcing their mounts, while I, wrapped in black fox and astrakhan furs, the only ones my mourning allows, and caressing the chilly Pomeranian Daisy, who takes refuge in the warmth of my muff and seems like another living muff, notice that the general’s nephew has slightly bowed legs, and the countess’s son, in the sun, has reddish eyes without a rim of eyelashes… Farnesio has repeatedly told me that I need a lady- in-waiting. I replied that, just as I lived for many years in Alcalá without that appendage, and nothing worth mentioning happened to me, I planned to remain in Madrid without grieving duennas. Indeed, in my solitude, in my abandonment, I have grown accustomed to being free. This one good they could not take from me; or rather, they didn’t even believe it was worth trying to take away from me. No doubt Roa and Carranza, the two canons, were watching me and sending reassuring notes. I committed no irregularities, I didn’t open the door to any suitor. Farnesio believes I should join the cohort of people who fall victim to formalities. It’s late, it’s late! I’m twenty-eight; I’m approaching twenty-nine. My character has been tempered by the bitter waters of my solitude and abandonment. The feeling of the injustice committed against me for so long has instilled in me a yearning for revenge, enjoyment, and self-exaltation that reaches out into the infinite. I need to savor the flavors of life, its honey, its myrrh, its nectar. I need to go to its center, its core, its essence, which are beauty and love! In these months, I have been able to ascertain that comfort and riches, in themselves, do not satisfy me, are not enough. When I was needy, darning my stockings, I perhaps thought, as if it were something inaccessible, of the contingency that Doña Catalina would die remembering me with a bequest that would represent a life of modest comfort. Bah! Now I smile at the puerilities of the first day, my physical pleasure when I reclined in the padded sedan chair, my parvenu pride when I despotically called the maid and demanded the bath… And, Having acquired a certain amount of good taste, I take pleasure in going out on foot, dressed simply, and combing my own hair. My own instinct prompts me to plan a short trip to Alcalá to see my old friends and unite the past with the present. Every night, alone, shut up in my rooms, I give myself a party. I take off my crape, dress in exquisite, colorful gowns, and pin on my jewels. I have had Doña Catalina’s jewels transformed and enlarged, at my whim. Freed from their heavy settings, the diamonds and emeralds are now like dreamy flowers or birds of strange plumage; The pearls emerge damp from their marine grotto, and some thick solitaire, dangling from a subtle, invisible chain, enameled the color of the skin, hangs just enough to illuminate the source of the breast like a beacon… First of all, I entered the bath, prepared by me, and into which I poured handfuls of soft almond pastes, foaming brans, and streams of perfumes, everything the body likes to absorb in the warm sweetness of the water. One of my first refinements has been—is this refinement?—to strain my bathwater through powerful filters, so as not to bathe in that slime in which Madrid generally bathes… the few Madrids that bathe. The heaters lit, my dressing table aglow with electric light, I step into it wrapped in the Turkish cloth. Thin, warm linens complete the task of drying me, and a light friction sets my blood in motion. I stretch out on the midday, wrapping myself in a white Liberty gown with lace. I rest for a few minutes. Then I proceed to a careful examination of my body and face, asking myself for the hundredth time the great feminine problem: Am I beautiful or not? The triple combination of mirrors reproduces my figure, multiplying it. I study myself, evoking Hellenic beauty. Hellenically… I’m not worth much . My head isn’t small, like that of the Greek goddesses. In relation to my body, it’s even a little large, and my abundant, dark, opaque hair makes it appear larger. My neck lacks the swanlike undulation, nor the dignity of an ivory stele on the shoulders of a classical Minerva. My feet and hands are too small for statuary proportions, and my morbid arms and nervous leg are a third shorter than they should be to fit a Phoebe. I begin to clothe my nakedness, and each garment consoles and revives me. The chemise, almost entirely lace, envelops my figure, lending it a vaporous mystery, and drawing my arms out from the foam, much more graceful than the strong arms of the lancer Palas. As the lacework of silky transparencies plays over my small, Spanish ankle, I imagine it’s impossible to remember the lower extremity of the Huntress. The matte satin corset, embroidered, trimmed with Valenciennes, adapts to my torso, girdles and gathers my small belly, and accommodates my virgin breasts. Further down, the sura skirt complicates its light adornments, rich without seeming so, and designs the silhouette of the datura flower, a swollen bud above, a billowing bell below. I suspect there’s no reason to regret that the Dea de Milo’s torso resembles, next to me, that of a strong boxer. Once the simple architecture of my chignon has been carved, my somber forelock that advances over my eyes, turning their expression into an enigma, I pin to it a jeweled bird, some ears of wheat radiating diamonds around my head, or two bold peacock feathers that diverge and shoot emeralds at me, or a mercury of ancient rock, whose stinging wings give my head the restlessness of flight. The dress, without frills, adherent, embroidered, falls like a solemn garment until it completely covers my feet, spilling out in artistically severe borders onto the carpet. It is the weight of its Byzantine embroidery, in red, greenish, muted, and pinkish golds , that produces that line like a Ravenna mosaic or a missal miniature. Over the simultaneously violent and sober luxury of the dress, and heightening its curiosity, the theatrical exit, also heavy, descends dragging. for their iridescent glass fringes and their intricate edgings, in skillfully combined hues. From my neck hang strands of pearls, arranged in my own way and descending to my waist. No other jewels, except the enormous rings on my polished fingers. The fingers of my hands—and even those of my toes—are for me objects of an ancient cult. In my scarcity in Alcalá, how many sacrifices I make to avoid dishonoring my little hands! I perpetually wear cotton gloves for housework and waste a paste to soften and season my skin. Now, I abuse the cases crammed with silver knick-knacks bearing my ciphers, the endless files, the scissors of all shapes and curves, the polishers and tweezers, the jars with chiseled lids containing polishes and polishing powders to accentuate the pinkness of my nails and preserve the silkiness of my skin. Now dressed in my finery, I stand before the mirrors that reflect me again and try to define myself. My figure is one of many that current fashion, artistically perfidious and revealing, molds. It has graceful features, and the fabric, as it clings tightly to the hips and thighs, marks lines of gentle inflection; but the same thing happens to almost all those who dress this way, unless they are in their fifties, or their structure is based on bacon or cured meat. I am neither crooked, nor fat, nor thin, and that is all the mirror tells me! My face… I consult it as one consults a sphinx, asking it the psychological secret that every face simultaneously hides and reveals. Shaded by the small canopy of hair in which a diamond-set shimmers , my rather faded face is neither minimally correct nor unevenly featured. I don’t have one side of my face distinct from the other, as is the case with so many people. My complexion is like a solid vellum, without spots, freckles, pimples, or redness. My eyebrows form an elegant double arch. My eyes, brown in color, in the sun, resemble one of those Roman stones in which molten particles of gold seem to boil. My mouth is medium-sized, not vermilion; but my teeth, more crystal than ivory, illuminate it, and are not shaded by downy skin. My lips have an intense design, and thanks to this, being full, they fall short of sensuality. My face is long; my nose characterizes it as aristocratic. I don’t attract attention from afar. Up close, I can please. I have never believed in the triumph of perfection. Besides, I am one of those women of finery. What surrounds me, if it is beautiful, conspires in my favor. The mystery of my soul is glimpsed in my adornment and attire. This is what I like to experience, far from human sight, in the brightly lit boudoir , in the late hours of the silent night, the sounds of the city fading away. Pearls pearl my complexion. Rubies, leaping in my ears, lend a fiery glow to my lips. The gauze and tissues, cut by master scissors, with disregard for utility, with an exquisite understanding of the female body, mine above all—I have sent my photograph and my description to the great couturier—enhance me like a setting enhances a precious stone. My foot is not my foot, it is my shoe, brought by a fairy for a prince to fit me. My hand is my glove, from supple Sweden, my imperial rings, my fragrant pastries . All of me wants to be the quintessential, the superior—because I feel superior, not in something as trivial as the cut of a mouth or the roses on some cheeks—but in my intimate will to elevate myself, to divinize myself if possible. An ancient will, which in my early youth was a dream, and now, in my summer, may well become reality. For me, love must appear tailored to my measure, the extraordinary master, superior to the mob that is going to besiege me, that begins to sniff out in me the powerful heiress and the socially inexperienced woman, easy to hunt. Not so much, gentlemen!—I am not a heroine of an old-fashioned novel. Invariably, in them, the protagonist, a millionaire, is afflicted because her millions prevent her from finding true love. I think just the opposite. This unexpected fortune will allow me to artistically transform the dream that It lies in our soul and dominates it. Like the man of art who, his wallet full, goes out into the street ready to choose, I, armed with my wealth, will throw myself into discovering this being who, unknown, is already my sweet master. And he will appear. He, too, will possess his own strength. He will be strong in some sense. Something will distinguish him from the crowd; when he appears, a virtue will be revealed: the virtue of dominance, of grandeur, of mystery. Heads will bow, or eyes will be captivated, or the heart will be unstuck from its center, turning toward him… Thinking of him, I prolong my time at the dressing table, and the high, limpid moons copy my expressive face, my anxious eyes, my bust sprouting from the neckline like a white dagger from its sheath of chiseled gold… And I try on more outfits; one blue, the blue of lakes, embroidered with green sparks of crystal and long ribbons of curly silk, and another white, on which swan’s fringes are frayed, and another the tawny hue of fulva furs , transparent, beneath which a lining of orange, saffron silk can be seen … And I smile, and open my fans, and play at pinning flowers, and pouring essences on the floor, and, finally, exhausted, I quickly throw away my finery, and shuddering from the horror of dawn, I run with my arms crossed on my breast to take refuge in my bed, where I huddle up, curl up into a ball, hunched up, trembling with fatigue, my feet frozen, my head feverish… Chapter 5. As the days begin to grow longer, the idea of going to Alcalá for a week, to see my old friends, lingers. This purpose is combined with my malicious misgivings. There is no doubt that those modest, isolated gentlemen, who have not paid me a single visit in three or four months, possess the key to my story; they know what I still do not understand, what I have searched for in vain in the filing cabinet. Farnesio is impenetrable; I will extract nothing from him; every day the truth blurs better in the mists of his sober speech. The secret, however, cannot be a true secret, since at least three people have known it: Farnesio, Carranza, and Roa, the deceased. I am making my travel arrangements. No fuss; I will stay in the house I lived in for so many years, and which is now mine, and Sidra will serve me, the same Maritornes of old… I have her there in charge of the furnishings. What furniture! The cook, however, will send the food every day, and a servant in charge of presenting it. I will invite the canon; He is bribed by the mouth: he is a friend of the table. It will be bad if he does not raise the veil. A circumstance, apparently insignificant, increases my ardent curiosity. On the occasion of the formalities of the will, I have seen my baptismal certificate. I was baptized in Segovia. And my Christian names are: Catherine, Natalia, Michaela… I questioned Farnese, as if casually: “If my name is Catherine, why did they call me Natalia?” Slight redness, stammering. “Because Natalia… it’s prettier! I mean, I suppose that’s why,” he adds, now calm, “but it’s impossible to find out, there being no way of asking your parents! ” “Well, from today on, I am Catherine again. In my sack, I keep a marvel of art that will be a pretext for my excursion, out of the desire for my friends to see and study it. It is a medal that seems to date from the 15th century.” I discovered it in Doña Catalina’s oratory, smeared with wax and protected by an oval glass pane and an indecorous frame of coarse coral and ornate filigree. Dressed in simple mourning, I go to the station completely alone. I savor the confusing surprise of finding that such a capital change in my fortune doesn’t alter my impressions. As always, I am enchanted by the landscape, which spring begins to enhance with timid, whitish touches of green; with watercolor ideals, spring is watercolor-like. The tranquil and stately feeling of Alcalá is the same, as is the impression of cleanliness of its brick sidewalks and its light-colored houses. I walk from the station to my house. Near the bronze figure of Cervantes— a traditional figure!—I pass, almost at the door of my home, the The Judge’s daughters, the ones who called me names. Suddenly, they freeze. They devour me with hostile looks. Then, with an air of suffering, they turn their faces. I am dressed without any pretensions, but my black headdress is Parisian, my cassock of cashmere, by the great couturier, my mourning attire an apotheosis. My little black leather purse shines with sparks. Money is as difficult to hide as poverty. What envy! What gossipy chatter! How furious they must be! Seeing my little house again, it strikes me as one of those places where we lived as children, and which we thought were much older. Sidra welcomes me with a mixture of family resentments and respectful terror. Her young lady, the one who scolded her for ten cents mismanaged! And now, not knowing where my fantastic fortune has gone! “Well, Sidra, shut up, sweep a lot, scrub a lot… They’ll bring the food from Madrid; You light the stove so they can warm it up… And send a boy to tell Mr. Doctoral and Don Antón. They’re having lunch with me! And if Mr. Doctoral is in the way of lunch, because of choir hours, I ‘ll wait for him at three for coffee, and he’ll have dinner here. No one could make it to lunch. At three, they arrived radiant. They attempted a belated condolence, which sounded like congratulations. “Leave the childishness. We already know this is cause for congratulations,” I warned. “Don’t hide it, since you’re thinking it.” They laughed. I read on their faces the satisfaction of seeing me, and of seeing me so happy, without a doubt. I laughed too. It was a delightful moment, in which the lukewarm affections and the faded intimacies of the past revived. I began to steer them full of extraordinary coffee, very old rum, and top-brand liqueurs . I’d given them enough rubbish in my life! “Do you remember, Carranza, when you used to give me, from time to time, a pound of ground beef, because my resources…? A good trade, eh? What if I listen to you and become a nun? No, don’t excuse yourself; your intentions were good, for sure. Circumstances rule us. With Dieguito Céspedes alive, I was better off walled in… ” The canon smiled in a self-effacing way, looking at his plump feet, which showed off shiny cowhide shoes with silver buckles. “Nevertheless,” I added, “Dieguito and I fit in with the world. What hindrance did this poor wretch cause him? My pension of two thousand pesetas didn’t diminish his wealth. ” And you know that I was incapable of asking for more, of bothering my…
“To your respectable aunt Doña Catalina,” the cunning and erudite ecclesiastic interrupted. “We are well aware of your delicacy. But, Nati, that business about the monk and the allowance is an old story. Almost prehistory, child. Doña Catalina Mascareñas has given you wonderful proof of her affection, and we are delighted that our Natalita has inherited it—because I suppose you allow us to call you that. ” He said it in a noble tone, with that dry and grave Castilian courtesy, which exudes dignity. “The only thing I don’t allow is to be called Natalia. Catalina was my first name. Call me Lina, eh? Is that agreed upon? ” “Common … Lina, advice from an old friend! I tried, a long time ago, to give you a husband without blemish.” Now, choose it carefully yourself… Look what you’re going to do… “This can’t be tolerated any longer!” I shouted, affected by indignation. “Yesterday you wanted to put me behind bars, today you wanted to get me married. Where do you get…?” From his corner, Don Antón de la Polilla winked at me mysteriously. “You’re not going to be dressing saints… It’s not good for a man to live alone. What shall we say about women? ” “A woman who possesses capital should consider herself as strong as a man, at least,” I declared. “Sometimes,” the Magistrate argued, “money is a danger. It exposes you to so many things! ” “Not me,” I responded calmly. “You know for a fact that I’ve studied in the classrooms of necessity. There’s no doctor from Complutense University who could teach me this subject. And I’ve seen that poor women don’t inspire passions. ” “Anyway… Polilla, stop making faces and help me. ” Don’t you also think that Nati… I mean, Lina… should get married? “There is,” the Voltairian emphasized, “an imperious law, engraved by nature in our hearts, that commands us to love. ” “Have you found any stele where that law is inscribed?” I asked maliciously. “And have you learned that we weren’t talking about love, but about marriage? ” “My child,” the old man slobbered, “you are pessimistic enough. You say that your poverty… I have seen more than one lieutenant strolling around this plaza looking toward your balconies. ” “It was their duty, like the guards. What is a lieutenant doing here if he doesn’t look at the balconies? They looked at me… like one looks at the sea when there is no intention of embarking. ” “I insist, Lina,” Carranza decreed. “You need shade. ” “I have Farnesio… He will shade me, as he shaded Doña Catalina.” The blow was treacherous. I studied Carranza’s physiognomy, that face like a Roman medal, with its rounded chin and ironic lips made by force of intelligence. I could have sworn he was slightly upset. “Farnesio is not… a relative or a kinsman of yours!… It takes family …
” “It takes love,” Polilla quipped sentimentally. “It’s funny! You, Carranza, live without a family, and a complete mess… And you, Don Antón, I don’t suppose you’ve ever been an Amadís… But, anyway, if it comes to love, I’ll love you. I’m capable of offering you my white hand. Human ridiculousness!” Polilla was moved. His small skull, smooth and satiny like a ripe apple—except for the gray fringe that borders the nape of his neck and climbs to his temple—blushed like a shrimp when it’s thrown into boiling water. And the fact is that he understood the joke and returned it. –Accepted, Linita… Carranza, bless us, although that’s not part of my principles. I looked at him with affection, with a touch of longing… The two gentlemen were my intellectual initiators. Through them I could more consciously savor the honey of wealth. In this decayed town, among these friends who had been cut off from their nests, seasoned with the spices of wisdom, I was a bee sipping secrets and curious about withered, still- fragrant flowers. Inside, I had lived more intensely than the fatuous words whose names are carried by salon magazine racks. I smiled with joy at my teachers. The Magistral, ceremonious and malicious, enemy of chimeras, anti-romantic, with his face wider at the bottom than at the top, his sharp eyes behind his glasses, his blue shaved chin, his understanding oriented toward the clear and crystalline sources of national classicism; Polilla, lively as a rodent and tender as a dove, with his face the color of rancid bone, his bristly mustache, his teeth like old keys turned green by the humidity, his ochre-colored suit, his tie with ragged edges, and his cracked boots, represented the light of my knowledge, the formation of my mentality; I was superior to them, not in knowledge, but in dreams… While I savor the cordiality of my emotion and the inevitable nostalgia for the past, I do not lose sight of my purpose. It is evident that I will get nothing from Carranza! The only one who will give in is Polilla. “We must be alone with him.” Chance fixes it. They have come to deliver to the Magistrate an urgent message from the Dean . Intrigues, lobbying. Carranza replies that he will come immediately, but he would not want to leave without seeing the 14th or 15th century plaque I had told him about. When I show it to him, free of frame and glass, clean, he bursts into exclamations. “What a marvel! But where does this come from! You say it’s from the oratory of the lady of Mascareñas? Naturally, since her patron saint is Saint Catherine of Alexandria… But I shouldn’t have seen her! ” “You never went into the lady’s oratory?” “No, never,” he replies, with the studied reserve of a Pope’s chamberlain. “I only went there two or three times to visit her, on administrative matters, since your aunt wanted to put me in charge of the estate you now own in Alcalá. But imagine my joy! I have written an account of the life of that saint, dedicated by chance to the lady of Céspedes . I thought of offering it to her, but God arranged it… ” “The life of the philosopher? Dedicate it to me. We will have her see the light. –Lina, you’re quite a lady! I don’t know how to thank you… –The plaque–I interrupted–could it be from the 14th century? –15th century–intervened Polilla. Don’t you notice the folds in the dress? And the enameling process… And everything, everything… –The Saint must have been very elegant… –Wow… Very refined! –Tomorrow, slowly, in the afternoon, you will read me the account, and I repeat that the edition is on me. The scholar’s face widened. He could already see himself packing copies to send to the scholars who sometimes write to him, simply to ask him about things in Alcalá and its surroundings. Now they would see that his pen can master other matters. –I will read–he said–only the narrative. The notes would be tiresome. They’ll be left for printing. –Good thinking. And he left me alone with Don Antón de la Polilla. Chapter 6. I don’t need diplomacy, or at least, I don’t need cunning with this friend, whose mouth can’t be locked. I was laughing, Don Antón, at the winks you were giving me. Yes, I noticed… That Carranza! What clerics! Before, he was determined to force you into a cloister, and now… Come on, they’re criminals; they don’t recognize moral law from the moment they’re ordained! I went along with it. Indeed, it seems to me that this isn’t right, and what bothers me most, Polillita, about clerics is their itch to dissemble; their lack of frankness. Carranza has a mania for making a mystery out of everything; out of unimportant nonsense. Crazy… The least is believed in the antechambers of the Vatican, stirring the black stew of that diplomacy. Oh! What an artistic thing, to retreat into discretion! To lavish details about what happened two thousand years ago, and to maintain a ridiculous reserve about what happened yesterday, and, furthermore, it matters absolutely nothing! “What end will the church people have in this, Don Antón? What is the point of such Machiavellianism?” Polilla pursed her mouth and raised her two little eyebrows. “Oh, my child! Do not doubt that they have some end; that this system of dissimulation gives them good results. There is no way to be a fox. People trust these little foxes . Not in an open man. You will see, you will see if Carranza manages to find you a bridegroom for himself; and of course, afterward he will rule over your house and over you and satisfy his ambitions. Do not be afraid of him getting lost! But I will try to get up early and defend you… ” “You are a very good friend,” I declared. “No, do not think that the Magistrate and I do not esteem each other. As I say one thing, I say another.” I in turn began to praise Carranza. “Oh! What are you going to tell me? He’s a very valuable person. Don Genaro Farnesio is also excellent, and he seems to truly love me. And… have you met Don Genaro? ” “Yes, for many years. He’s dropped by here on occasion on administrative matters for Doña Catalina. When you were a child, he came quite often. It was at the time when that Romana was looking after you, who later became so ill that they had to send her back to her hometown, Málaga, where she died. Afterwards, they placed you as a boarder in a school in Segovia. And then, when you were older, they brought you here with an old witch named Doña Corvita. You’ll remember: she was half-blind, and you did as you pleased. ” “And while I was in Segovia, did Señor Farnesio also come here ? ” “Let me remind you… No; I imagine he didn’t come back then.” –That surname Farnesio must be illustrious. Don Antón, you who know everything, do you know the origin of that surname? –There is a dynasty of princes who have had it, but Señor Don Genaro does not come from those princes, but probably from the village of Farneto, where the Farnesios were lords, and gave their name to the villagers, as has also happened sometimes in Spain. This thing about surnames is very deceptive. There are some that are known and are not; and there are those that are and are not known. Would you believe that, for example, Polilla is one of the principal Castilian surnames? The Polillas, as far as I can tell trace in Godoy Alcántara, they came from… “Yes, yes, I remember!” I exclaimed, preventing that enemy of all noble concern from asking me about his genealogy. “But it occurs to me: Don Genaro Farnesio, is he Italian? ” “No, him. His father was. ” “And did you also know his father? ” “Exactly, no. I learned that he was a cook for the Lord of Mascareñas, Doña Catalina’s father. Don Genaro was born in the house. ” “How well informed you always are, Polillita! It’s a pleasure to consult you. ” He smiles, flattered, showing the old keys of his teeth. “Tell me,” I insist, “would Don Genaro always live with the Lords of Mascareñas? ” “Not at all.” He was probably twenty-three when, having finished his law degree, he began to wander around, employed in Oviedo, Zamora, León, in civil government secretariats, and various other posts. “He never married? I thought he was a widower. ” “A bachelor, like me,” Polilla boasted. “You’ll find it odd that I’m so misinformed, but you’re aware of how little I’ve seen of him, and it’s good for me to know, to understand the background of someone so close to me today. After all, Farnesio is becoming my right-hand man, as he was Mr. de Mascareñas’s… and Mr. de Céspedes’s, Doña Catalina’s husband. ” “Right-hand man? No way! During those gentlemen’s lifetime, Farnesio wasn’t in administration.” When Doña Catalina was widowed, five years into their marriage, when Dieguito was still a child, Farnesio returned to the house to sort out the maelstrom of the estate and the thousand issues and lawsuits brought by the Céspedes family. And since Doña Catalina wasn’t very clever, Farnesio became indispensable. That’s true: he’s completely honest and understands the nitty-gritty. In his hands, the Mascareñas fortune must have grown like wildfire. So much the better for you, my daughter! Carranza knows all this… Let’s bet he won’t tell you! —Well, I don’t see any state secret in it. And… by the way… And have you met my parents? —Personally, neither… How could you? But there’s news, there’s news. —Come on… My poor parents! —Your father, Don Jerónimo Mascareñas, was the son of a first cousin of Doña Catalina’s father. That cousin brother, your grandfather, lost even his shirt gambling and other crazy activities. In short, he left his children to their own devices all day and night. Doña Catalina took great care of your father. He was good, because he went through every creak… Hey, doesn’t that seem bad to you? “Friend Polilla, what a question! Haven’t I been poor for so many years? ” “You’re right… Poverty elevates… Rolling and rolling, your father met a very pretty young lady, a tobacconist in Ribadeo… They say she was truly an image… She was sickly, the unfortunate woman. She died either when you were born, or shortly after, I don’t know for sure. The fact is that , by order of Doña Catalina, Mr. Farnesio took charge of you, and he gave you a nurse and left you in her care, in the land of Segovia. But you already know this very well. What am I telling you? ” “Don’t believe it. Childhood memories are confusing.” I know my father also died young. Not so young, but not old. He outlived his wife, and people even said he’d remarried; but it turned out to be a lie. People, fond of catalogs, gossiped that he’d sworn never to see you, because you reminded him of his saintly wife. I also believe this to be a fable. What’s certain is that, since they gave him a position there in the Philippines, where he contracted the dysentery that killed him, he didn’t have time to come and celebrate for you. Doña Catalina’s protection reassured him about your fate. Apparently, my father was a fool, like my grandfather. And it even seems that… I made a gesture of raising my elbow. Now that you know… Don Antón stammered, deeply disturbed. Those who have that custom and go to the Philippines leave their skin there. Polilla, watery, a model of sobriety, nodded sententiously . “Let’s see,” I insist affectionately, cajoling the bookworm , “that’s all very well, and I owe Doña Catalina a deep gratitude; but what was the point of wanting me to become a nun? Carranza and poor Roa, may he rest in peace, waged a campaign… “Don’t speak to me! Unworthy! I was about to send a communiqué to the Sunday Masses. A sinister conspiracy! You’re not unaware that I did everything possible to get her to have an abortion; you’ll well remember my protests, my advice. ” “What was the purpose of such an endeavor, Don Antón? ” “What? Innocent! And a girl as superior as you asks me? Fanaticism, black malice. They want to extinguish fertility, love; their hatred of life takes that form. ” “The fact is, Don Antón, that now Carranza is advising me to get married. ” “He’ll see some business in it. If not… ” “And what business could he see in my becoming a nun? ” “Go ahead, daughter! Brutal fanaticism. Pure Inquisition. ” “I think you’re right,” I agreed. And as for now, I will live prepared. But you, privately, will assist me with your warnings. “I will do something more… I have an idea… A sublime idea. Oh, ineffable Don Antón! I no longer need you. You, the man of data; the genius of the trifle… without realizing it, you have placed the torch in my hands. You have taught me, good teacher, what you do not know. I thought I interpreted your winks as a key to the truth you were going to reveal to me, now that it no longer matters that I know it; and the winks meant nothing more than the harmless venting of your warning against Carranza, whom I will not bear any grudge against for having saved my mother’s honor! Yes; now not a single thread is missing; The past emerges from its silent shadows and approaches me, evoked by the events Don Antón told me, and they are true, but they mean the exact opposite of what he understands… My contempt for events, my great idealistic contempt, how well-founded! The event is the shell, the wrapping of the bitter almond of truth… The event lives because we, with our imagination, clothe it in flesh and blood… The event is the key; it must be pressed… Now I possess the story, if you will, the novel, completely constructed… Its chapters parade by. Catalina Mascareñas and Genaro Farnesio, young, growing up together, playing together in the house. Genaro, like a clever boy, who excels at domesticity; Catalina, the daughter of a widowed father, somewhat abandoned to herself, careless at the age when the heart is formed and feelings emerge. A little love interest is born, and reveals himself, imprudent. The father takes the best course of action: seeking decent positions for him, he sends the boy away, far from Madrid. He protects him; he would be happy to see him married. In the meantime, he looks for a good groom for his daughter. Catalina joins Mr. de Céspedes. She probably doesn’t marry reluctantly. Catalina is very passive and accepts life, rather than creating it. She vegetates contentedly between her husband and son. The husband dies; the lady finds herself free, not knowing what to do with her freedom, with her affairs in tangled mess and a large estate. A calm affection, a pleasant memory, have replaced the old love; Farnesio writes her his condolences; she replies affectionately, deploring at the same time her widowhood and the burden of so much business, the impossibility of trusting anyone. Farnesio replies by offering his loyalty; a few days later he is in charge of the household, running it with absolute probity, with the zeal of a brother. He is the useful one, the indispensable one. The lady savors the happiness of not having to worry about anything. Farnese here, Farnese there… The presence, continuous; the trust, omnipresent… There are hours of solitude, face to face… Doña Catalina’s good position attracts suitors; but Farnese, skillfully, drives them away, discredits them… And what was bound to happen, and also something presumably, always unforeseen, happens; with the lady now engaged , Farnese does not want to jump the step; on the contrary, out of nobility, out of self-denial, he desires to remain the inferior, the dependent, the one who in the shadows watches over a lady and a lineage. The idea of marriage, which would not have been antipathetic to the passive Doña Catalina, he repeatedly and definitively rejects; he will not lower the woman he loves. I had already sensed love in that silent, profound pain, in the presence of the corpse. It will not make her feel ashamed before her son, it will not raise the slightest complication for the future. The altar of honor and decorum demands a victim; that victim will be me. They are looking for parents for me, that is, a father, because my supposed mother succumbs to giving birth to a girl, who will have lived a few hours. With money and influence, everything is arranged. My father is kept away from me, not only so that he will not be indiscreet, but also so as not to expose me to the contingencies of his disorderly life. This poor and vicious relative is forbidden from remarrying, to prevent someone else from entering into the secret, to spare me from having to become a stepmother. My apocryphal father also ignores that I am the work of Doña Catalina. Perhaps it suggests a Farnese affair. The mystery has thickened on all sides. The stray bullet heads for the Philippines… There it will live out its usual life… I reflect. When passion spurs, do you back down?… No! The climate of the Philippines is deadly for subjects like my father… The monastic idea is instilled in me. The only one who is in on the secret —totally? Partially?—is Carranza, and Carranza holds the key. Work is done, the ground is prepared… From a convent, I will never be able to affront Doña Catalina. I am content with a meager pension so that I may live obscurely, so that I may not find suitors, and so that it is easier for me to renounce a world in which I even suffer privations. I resist. There is strength, nerve, and will within me. Diego dies. Then the catechism ceases… Doña Catalina’s long illness ensues. She wants no excitement; the sight of me horrifies her; I am, now that I see things in the setting light of old age, its remorse, its fall… And Don Genaro keeps me at a distance, but works, always in the shadows, to secure for me the fortune he has increased. And he succeeds! I no longer ignore anything that concerns me. I quickly resolve the internal conflict. I stay with my “official parents.” If they really are, because they are; and if not, because I cooperate in this well-crafted deception. It is more comfortable, more decorous for me to accept the version they give me ready-made. And I find singular pleasure in recognizing myself incapable of anticipated and theatrical sentimentality; of acting out one of those melodramas in which one cries: “Daughter! Father!” and tears and arms mingle. Have they wanted me this way, by chance? No; they have imposed secrecy, silence, and lies on me. Lying is not unattractive. It suits me. Mistress of the truth, I lock this naked sword in an iron cabinet and throw the key down the well. Farnese will be my general agent for life; I will treat him with the utmost consideration, but from my position, and through nuances, I will maintain the distance he wished to exist… “Thank you very much, friend Polilla… I’m going to see if I can find photographs of Dad and Mom, to commission two canvases from the best portraitist. I want to have them in my living room. ” “That’s only fair! I don’t understand,” here we speak without hypocrisy, “any religion other than that of our ancestors.” The morality of the great Confucius, on which it is based… I gave him a go, and he served me a stew of candid disbeliefs, based on the fact that Joshua could not stop the sun, that the Inquisition roasted many people, and that—this was his hobbyhorse—the bodies of the child martyrs Justo and Pastor were not discovered because Bishop Asturio had a revelation, but because of the tradition sustained by the verses of Prudentius and Saint Paulinus. “I have gathered proof,” he repeated, “and I will debunk that ridiculous fable. You will see what it is to purify the facts down to the smallest detail. I have written three hundred and twenty pages! I have gone back to the sources!” The Fools. Chapter 7. DREAMED EPISODE I returned from Alcalá with one less bandage on the eyes of my soul. The wealth of experience seems complete and is always diminished. Suspicion, when confirmed, leaves a residue that eternally saturates our lives. If only the intimate history of each person were known, how bitter it would be! The wound bleeds internally. I remember my mother, denying me not only her company, but a caress, a hug; pushing me into a cloister to avoid blushing on her wrinkled brow… Misery all! A need for hope, for immense idealism, surges within me. Lilies, lilies! Because I’m suffocating from the vapors of the disturbed earth, from the coarse soil of the cemetery, where the past rots. Where are there lilies…? Where there is everything… Within ourselves is, closed and hidden, the virginal garden. A love I created and no one knew about; a love white and golden like the flower itself… And for whom? I don’t know anyone in Madrid who would suggest anything to me… nothing of what seems indispensable now, to rid me of this bad taste of bitter reality. Those who follow my carriage on horseback are grotesque. Those who have written me inflamed and bombastic declarations have shown me their ears. Who will pour me the liquor I crave, into a pure cup…? Secluded as I am, it’s difficult; and if I were among people, it might be even more difficult. I must renounce such a strange endeavor, which, due to its cerebral nature, even seems somewhat perverse. A deep impression of art will suffice. Hearing music might provoke in my irritated and dry sensitivity the reaction of tears. At the Teatro Real, which is giving its last performances of the season—this year Easter falls very late—I will, at any price, order one of the mourning boxes, from which one can be seen without being seen much. And entirely alone—because Farnese, whose tie seems blacker every day, refuses to accompany me, tucking his chin into his chest and veiling his eyes with scandalized eyelids—I crouch down in the best spot and listen, already entranced , to the Lohengrin symphony. I have never heard an opera sung. My freshness of sensation casts a brilliant veil over the thousand deficiencies of the stage. I don’t see the roughness of the chorus, the elderly chorus girls, imposingly ugly, or pregnant, in their later months; the unshaven chorus girls, in darned cotton stockings over their shins, all of which, to a worn-out spirit, spoils a divine impression. I am fortunate enough to be able to lose myself in the delights of the poem and the music. I have read opinions before; who was the true author? Can the third part of the trilogy be attributed, yes or no, to Wolfgang von Eschenbach…? I remember none of this, from the first bars of the prelude. With mysterious suggestion, the magic phrase takes hold of me. “Do not try to know who I am… Never ask my name… ” Such must be love, the great adversary of reality. From distant countries, from an unknown land, with the prestige of spells and enchantments, the one who rules the heart must come. Gliding down the slanted current of a blue river, his swan-like craft will bring him to fight our battle, to conquer our fates. We will have him at our side for only one night, but that night will be the supreme one, and afterward, even if we die of pain, like Elsa of Brabant, we will have lived. The prelude accentuates its magnificent crescendo. I savor the thrill of the heroic theme that vibrates in its notes. The curtain rises. The herald’s cry announces the hope of the knight’s arrival. And… the little boat appears, with its fantastic rowing. Its prow reflects a flashing dazzle of silver. The knight disembarks, amidst the mystical excitement of everyone, Elsa’s palpitating breath, Ortruda and Telramondo’s shuddering terror. He advances toward the battery, and I press myself against the railing of the box to get a better look at him. He is a kind of archangel, all armored with scales, on which the electric light shimmers, snaking. As fate would have it, he is neither fat nor excessively thin, nor has short or lopsided legs, nor any ignoble features. How afraid I was of seeing a caricature of Lohengrin emerge! No, by my great fortune. His name is Cristalli, and even the name seems appropriate, trembling and delicate like the clash of two muslin glasses. His age? Shaven, with The soft blond curls of his wig, simulating the cut of a youthful face, would give him a look of twenty-two to twenty-five, but his virile wrist and sinewy neck betray more age. And all this talk of age, how secondary! Lohengrin is not the boy hero, like Siegfred. He is the paladin; he can count from twenty to forty. He knows how to walk gravely and deliberately; he knows how to lean on his sash sword; he knows how to remain still, slender, majestic. Sober in his movements, he is extremely elegant in his attitude. And I am enraptured by the whiteness of his war attire. The theme of silence, of the arcane, returns, insistent, piercing my soul. “Do not ask where I come from, never inquire about my name or my country…” This is how one should love! My soul is electrified. My previous life has disappeared. I don’t feel the weight of my body. Who knows? Doesn’t there exist, in ecstatic moments, the sensation of levitation? Will our wretched, heavy flesh never be lifted from the ground ? Elsa’s foolishness, determined to tear the veil, exasperates me. Knowledge, what? A word, a point on the globe? Knowledge, when she has her fiancé at her side? Knowledge, when the notes of the wedding march still swirl in the air? I would close my eyes; I would lean with delight on the chest covered with flashing silver flakes. “Take me from reality, beloved… Far, far from reality, sweet master…” And, indeed, I close my eyes; it is enough for me to listen, when the _raconto_ rises, imbued with chivalrous contempt for abject deceit and vileness, celebrating the glory of those who, with their lance and their sword, uphold honor and virtue… Slowly, I open my eyelids. Applause thunders. It’s as if the entire audience admires those of the Grail, dreams like me of the pilgrimage to the peaks of Monsalvato… They want the raconto to be repeated. And the tenor pleases the audience. His voice, which in the first phrases seemed slightly muffled, has acquired sonority, timbre, substance, and range. Satisfied with the ovations, he surpasses himself. The intimate passion that beats in the raconto, that ideal made life, takes my breath away; it overwhelms me to such an extent. I long to die, to dissolve; I stretch out my arms as if calling out to my destiny… urging it on. Magnetized by the deep feeling so close to him , Lohengrin raises his head and looks at me . Fascinated, I respond to the look. All of it for a second. An infinity. “Brabant, there is your natural lord…” Lohengrin is already sailing downriver on his symbolic swan. I follow him with my thoughts. Return to the mountain of Monsalvato, to the chaste sanctuary where the Vessel of the Chosen, the miraculous Blood, is adored. There I will go, crawling on my knees, until I find it again. I have not been like Eve and Elsa; I have not bitten the fruit, I have not profaned the secret. The knight in white armor may welcome me and murmur his ineffable words to me… I wrap myself in my coat, slowly, prolonging the unique hour, amid the rustling of conversations and the tapping of chairs moved as the room empties. Little by little I go down the stairs. I lose myself in a maze of grimy, uncarpeted corridors, flooded with people who block my path, push me, and elbow me impiously, forcing me to defend myself and profaning my spiritual elevation. Finally, fleeing the foyer, the curiosity, I reach the exit through the accounting office, where my sedan chair will be waiting for me. And while the footman runs to give the news, I lean against the wall and groups parade before me, commenting on Cristalli’s victory. “Not this diva, nor that one, nor the other… Phrasing like that, such precision of intonation…” Applause breaks out… It’s the diva passing by! With the collar of my coat turned up, despite the lateness of the season, for fear of Madrid bronchitis, terrible for singers; the blanquette badly blotted out, I cut my hair short on the strong nape of my neck, my jaw slightly protruding, my mouth smiling, betraying the satisfaction of a triumphant night, crosses my reverie for an instant; the puppet on whose frame I stretched the fabric of a psychic reverie… And, with my ability to represent the sensible in the most plastic and Living, almost in figure, I see what Cristalli will do now, his artistic work over: I imagine him invited to a dinner with admirers, vigorously chewing the unspiced dishes, ordered ad hoc so they wouldn’t scratch his throat, sipping Champagne, his eyes shining with pride, not because he is the champion of the Grail, but because he has justified his thousands of francs contract, payable in gold; and, so that he won’t be thought effeminate, going overboard with the flamenco dancers who are part of the entertainment and characterize the feast of the diva’s passionate admirers. I exhale a sigh that I smother in my boa, made of black, very subtle marabou, and, awake, I jump into the carriage, hearing a group of curious people whispering. “Who is it? ” “I don’t know her. ” “Good woman!” Chapter 8. THE ONE WITH THE MOTH. One morning, surprise!—Good old Don Antón appears at my house, familiarly asking for lunch. I welcome him cheerfully, and from the first moment, I address the question of the bodies of the child martyrs…— You know it’s my responsibility to print the dissertation, Polillita. With engravings, if you like. And lots of notes. What did Carranza think he was? They’re scholars around here too. The little man laughs, and I notice a kind of quicksilver trepidation, typical of his mousy nature. At coffee time, which I serve him in the _serre_, after the servants have left, he becomes spontaneous. —Hey, Nati… I mean, Lina! It’s custom! You know I’m afraid for you! I’m afraid they’ll entangle you in thick nets and marry you off to a schemer or a bigot. You are a jewel, a treasure, and you must dedicate yourself to something great and lofty. If precautions are not taken, you will fall victim to underhanded schemes, child. I don’t know from what hidden and shadowy caverns the order to seize you, who can wield so much strength, will come; but it will, I’m sure it will. I say it incorrectly; it will have already come. Only I’m watching over you. Oh, yes, I am watching over you! And chance has it that this modest thinker, tucked away in a village, far from the intellectual hubbub and ferment, can not only forge your happiness, but also render humanity an eminent service. “Green or yellow chartreuse? ” “Green, green… As soon as you get to know the subject, he will impress you. Because, despite a certain skepticism you sometimes boast about, the seeds of all that is noble and enthusiastic reside in your heart. He and you will understand each other: you were born for it. Do you doubt it? ” “Not at all, Don Antón.” I swear. I’m dying to meet my proco. Isn’t that what my Patrona’s suitors were called? What a load of rubbish, the story of your Patrona! Carranza is either deluded… or a very long-winded scoundrel. I’m inclined to lean toward the latter hypothesis. Polillita, my impatience is natural. When am I going to meet this great suitor? Whenever you want. That’s all I came for; to put you in touch. I warn you, he’s a guy… well, a studio brain. You’re driving me crazy. Come on, show me at least a portrait, the size of a grain of rye. Portrait… Man, how careless of me! I should have stocked up… Anyway, tomorrow you’ll see the original. Give me details. Your bit of biography. You won’t be surprised by this demand… You must know his name. I’ve probably spoken to you about him more than once, by chance. Imagine, he’s the son of my closest friend, a classmate, who married a cousin of mine, and I’ve spent long periods of time at his house in the village. I saw this boy born. Yes, ever since he was a little boy…! He doesn’t have the fame he deserves, but even so, and even taking into account Spain’s indifference toward those who are worth something… “Is his name? ” “Listen… Think back… Hilario Aparicio, the author of * Collective Government of the State*, *Fecundo Sweat*, *The Exploiters*, and many other works that remain unpublished, because of our sins and the laziness and reluctance to read that we suffer here! I won’t hide from you that the candidate is poor, my daughter. ” “I suspected as much. You know that greed doesn’t blind me.” In a burst of true sensitivity, Polilla stood up, still barely able to finish the truncated globe where I had poured her the oily liqueur, and tenderly took my hands. “I must not know your heart, Lina! There is something in you that makes you superior to the common good. Your intelligence is that of an eagle. And within you must be fermenting a generous indignation against those who, not content with relegating you to a village, tried to satisfy their fanaticism by imprisoning you within the greenish-black walls of a convent. You must be on the side of the oppressed, and yearn for revenge. Let’s be clear: not a vile and base revenge. A revenge such as the philosopher Jesus would practice. Redeeming those who, like you, are victims of those assassins. Opening the door to life and motherhood for them; ensuring that the child is educated in the awareness of his rights. What a mission you have!” “And what does that have to do with your courtship, Don Antón? ” “Fool! Together you will realize such a beautiful ideal!” I was slow to reply. I looked with interest at the flowing hem of my undergarment, made of crepe de Chine, embroidered with loose silk, and trimmed with Chantilly. I had already relaxed the severity of my mourning considerably. “An expensive gramophone, somewhat distant, sent us, without a metallic clearing of its throat, the notes of the _Rêverie_ from _Manon_, sung by Anselmi. ” “A sublime mission, indeed. And tell me, Polilla, couldn’t I fulfill it without joining Don… Don Hilario? ” “Oh! No, my child. Women need support, sustenance. I have my own special ideas about women. I’m not saying you are inferior to men; but you are different… very different.” The sacred maternal duty, on the other hand, sometimes prevents you from dedicating yourselves… –But if I don’t marry… the sacred maternal duty… –Yes; but by marrying… as the law of life commands… you will be a disciple of the man you love, and your science and your high role in history will be dictated by love: love, beware! not only for your husband, but for all of humanity. –Isn’t that too much love? So many millions of men that make up humanity! More chartreuse? And, noticing the philanthropist’s emotion, I compromise. –Your doctrine, Polilla, is truly Christian. –As if this is true Christianity, and not what those in black robes preach . I am a hundred times more Christian than Carranza’s cunning fox . –What are we left with? Aren’t you a freethinker? –If by freethinker is meant not admitting things that are repugnant to my reason… –And I, Don Antoncito, should I submit to what my reason has not accepted? Because this thing about the love of humanity… Come on, to speak bluntly… He felt the blow and was stunned. –According to me, child, according to me… If what you call reason is, on the contrary, concern… you will have the strict duty to seek the light! And no one to illuminate your intelligence like Aparicio. I was listening to the heavenly, “Oh, Manon!”, dissolved in tears with which the sentimental _rêverie_ ends. At that moment, Polilla was in my way with his buzzing. I turned around, cruelly planning malicious things. –Come on, Aparicio. –Come!… And how? If I tell him to pay you a visit, perhaps he’ll cut it short, afraid of playing a bad role… what do I know! Hilario was not raised in salons. His talent is of a different kind, a higher kind. Why not invest your first interview with a poetic hue? I clapped my hands. “That’s it, that’s it… The poetic hue! These loves based on philanthropy cannot be compared to the loves of the common people. Tomorrow you are taking your illustrious friend for a stroll through Moncloa, around six in the evening. I go there every day, in my mourning… I drive by in a carriage; you pass me; I order the coachman to stop; Don Hilario, at first, discreetly remains in the background; I give him a smile, pretend I know him by fame, and ask for an introduction… The rest is up to me . ” Polilla was trembling. “How clever you are! How well you arrange everything! Look, Lina, how It’s about a person so different from the rest… you have to put in the effort! And that’s very nice… The place and time were agreed upon. It was about a quarter past six when I sank into the noble, age-old foliage. Spring was turning them green, the lavender was opening its reddish amethyst calyxes, and scents of fresh rubber were emanating from the heather. What a shame about love! The frame was claiming the painting… Reclining, with a hairy, light fur on my knees, even though it wasn’t cold, with Daisy, the gentle lulu, curled up in the corner of the carriage; savoring that warm afternoon that announced a pleasant evening, I had looked with a poet’s eyes at the picturesque appearance of the banks of the Manzanares, at the special physiognomy of the popular types who swarm there, bustling and shouting. People also scrutinized me, eager to get closer, with a hostile, ironic, cocky curiosity. All of them—beggars, rascals, scoundrels, laundresses, workers preparing to leave with relish their work, done reluctantly and between two bouts of smoking—stab me with their eyes, cracking bawdy jokes, sexually motivated. Their impression is unhealthy and clumsy; mine, one of repulsion and infinite tedium.—This is the humanity that, according to Polilla, I must tenderly love and redeem! The beggars, crawling or limping; the urchins clacking their broken soles against the dust of the roadway, came as close to me and the carriage as they could. In the expressions of the urchins as they clutch the vehicle’s gleaming patent leather, as they fondle my luxury with greased hands, I read a bottomless lust, the burning desire to touch me, to entangle their fingers in the wool of Daisy, the aristocratic little dog, who, upon receiving the pungent emanations of filth and misery, quivers an ear and growls in a falsetto. After pleading for “half a cent,” the comments: “You, what a mutt! Go on, a silver collar!” And the bold fingers stretch out, seeking contact… It is the movement of the sick man trying to touch the relic. Their suffering consists in not having money. The symbol of money is luxury. They want to touch luxury, to see if it sticks. And perhaps for the first time—as I escape the mob among the trees—I meditate on money. Strange thing! What strength wealth lends! What calm! Don Antón de la Polilla assures me that I can redeem countless slaves. What kind of slaves are these? No doubt the same ones who just commented on the thickness of my fur and the collar of my cusculetillo; those who, between puffs of fetid tobacco, exchanged, upon seeing me pass, a phrase learned in some salacious theater . They are people I don’t love, just as they don’t love me, nor would they love me if they were in my place. So… And Don Hilario, for his part, does he love them? I won’t be long in finding out… And me? Of course, Don Antón hasn’t rubbed off on me. If at this moment my proco’s pulse has quickened, it’s not because he’s waiting for me; it’s because he’s waiting for my strength, my millions… And, almost out loud, I burst out laughing. The thought has occurred to me that this is my first love tryst… Chapter 9. The dull echo of my laughter fading, the whiff of bitter fragrance—thyme, rockrose, heather, mint—well absorbed , I see two men advancing along the path lit by the setting sun. We are acting out the play.—”You this way, Don Antón!”—”And the rest.” Having been authorized, his companion approaches. The setting light ignites his face, a hue in which pallor seems blurred with clay. He uncovers his head, and I see his thick, curly hair, his forehead still burnished with youth, his blue, myopic, indecisive eyes behind his pince-nez, which have opened a violet furrow on either side of his nose. He is short , with a hollow chest, and it is evident that he is dressed in a neat dress; there is nothing worse than dressing oneself up when one is out of habit. The proco smells of cheap perfume and ordinary brilliantine. He’s wearing brand-new, stiff gloves. His boots, also brand-new, squeak. After a minute of conversation, I make them get into the car, much to Daisy’s displeasure, who grunts softly and occasionally throws out a A comical, desperate little brick. If he dared, he would bite with his invisible little teeth. If the lulu can’t tolerate the mist of misery, perhaps the bad perfume does doubly exasperate him. A somewhat embarrassing conversation ensues. The intellectual, sitting next to me, conceals the shyness of a man unaccustomed to society with a reserve and a silence that make it all the more evident. Feline, I flatter him, to reassure him. I place him on favorable ground, I speak to him of his works, his fame, his regenerative ideas. Finally, I get him to open up, verbosely. All the evil of humanity—according to him—emanates from authority, laws, and religions… “Will this young lady not be scandalized?” “Certainly not… I listen delightedly… ” “We must aspire to a natural, direct society, founded solely on goodness… It’s not that I am not, in my own way, very religious; But my altar would be a forest, a fountain, the sea… My approval encourages him. Docile, I ask him what will happen the day when… –That is not easy to guess. This great transformation has no _after_. It is not one of those movements that last a day, a month, a year, and create something stable that, by the mere fact of being so, is already bad. For evolution to take place freely and without hindrance, all authority will have to disappear from the earth. I agree, and he continues, exalting himself in the void, since no one challenges him: –To destroy the rotten social state that crushes us, we need to use the same weapons as _them_… Force and money are necessary. I have never doubted this. –It seems obvious, indeed, –I slip in with softness and grace. –Hold still, Daisy! What does this mean about wanting to bite? –When I speak of force, I don’t mean only brute force… It’s about the force of facts, the force that drives the world… And sometimes, violence is also necessary! –Unquestionable! Daisy, watch out, I’ll hit you! And that violence… in what form?… –In all forms!–he declares, knotting his brow over the shine of the pince-nez lenses, which the dying sun has turned into two glowing embers. –For example… armies… cannons… –Yes, it’s probably appropriate to appeal to all of that against authority and exploitation. Afterwards, they will be dissolved. –If there is an after?… –Ah! In that sense, there is always an after. We have to dissolve so much, so much! We must disband the political swindlers who remain in the parliamentary scene due to their complete lack of shame… “Come on, don’t exaggerate so much, my son,” Polilla intervened, alarmed, “for Lina, for now, is not a very convinced proselyte… ” “Shut up, Don Antón… I’m in fifth heaven! So, when I wanted to meet your friend–because I wanted to–did I promise to meet some nobody, with ready-made ideas? Tell me your opinion about everything… For example… about love… How do you understand it in this transformed society? ” “I… If you have the high courage to prefer the truth… ” “Ah! It’s clear you don’t know me!” –Well, I believe that love, so slandered by official religions, which have made it something reprehensible and shameful—when it is the most sublime, the most noble, the most truly divine—has to be rehabilitated. –And how, and how? –To banish the idea that love is something shameful, a radical change in pedagogy is necessary. It is essential that children be taught in school the august, the sacred nature of this instinct! The child must be made to feel the beauty of the universal laws of creation, the transcendence of the sexual mystery, its powerful poetry… Aren’t you going to be uncomfortable? –No, sir. Consider me as one of those children who must learn all these things in school . –By the time childhood is introduced to such serious problems, we will have destroyed the empire of the priest over women. “You tell Linita about that!” Polilla exploded. “Blind fanaticism He placed two cassocks beside her, to make her a nun against her will. And if she doesn’t have that much strength of mind, she’d be praying Matins at this hour. And if I may boast, I wouldn’t be there, by her side… “Come on, one of so many hidden crimes,” Aparicio agreed. “That’s it… But another question,” I dared to object. “Doesn’t this scientific explanation given to the children at the school of the… of the…” “Everything is foreseen. I explain it in detail in one of my books, which has not yet seen the light of day. I will have the honor of dedicating it to you, to your understanding, elevated spirit… You’ll see there… The explanation is verified by means of examples taken from plant life. Oh! It’s best that the demonstration be done with great tact… ” He hesitated suddenly and blushed! –I mean, with art… with dignity… presenting, for example, phanerogamic plants… From the grain of pollen, from the stigmas of flowers, we will ascend to the animal species… And, based on that, there is scope to demonstrate the law of sacrifice and beauty that surrounds procreation… –So animals perform sacrifice?… –Careful, Hilario!– warned Polilla.–By dint of intelligence, Lina is terrible … A critical spirit: she finds fault in everything… –We will convince her… He who preserves and propagates life sacrifices himself, miss, it is evident. There is more sacrifice in uniting oneself with a man than in shuttling oneself in a monastery. –I am beginning to believe it. –A proselyte like you!– Aparicio was enraptured. –The woman, attracted to our cause! And what’s more: fully knowing the law of life will diminish the woman’s nervous emotionality. All the evils you suffer come from erroneous ideas, from the religious prejudice of sin, from the absurd assumption that it is shameful… “What?” I urged candidly. “Nothing… Love,” she corrected herself seconds later. I displayed a Gatesque skill in encouraging him to express himself without hesitation. The more I insisted, the more persuaded I became. In turn, I spoke, expressing my desire to dedicate myself to something great, unique, and worthy of memory. This desire had tormented me, back in my retirement, when I had no strength at my disposal. Now, with the leverage that chance had placed in my hands, I believed I could turn the world upside down… If _someone_ directed me, assisted me, lent me that mental vigor that we women lack… “I knew, gently, how to make him believe that I expected the favor from him. I provided the material, but my substance required a soul… ” Polilla trembled with joy. “I told you so! It had to be! You were prepared… They committed an injustice against you… and injustice cries out for revenge and an act of redemption! With what joy will I see it from my corner, because, old and poor, I can only admire you! Heroism is for youth! Lina, Lina! ” It was getting dark, and the joke was beginning to seem tiresome. The profane’s brilliantine stank and was making my head heavy. “I’m going to leave you at the Plaza de Oriente, where there’s a streetcar,” I advised. “I would be pleased if Don Hilario could continue to inform me of his theories, which I don’t quite understand yet. Why don’t you go have lunch with me tomorrow, Don Antón, and Mr. Aparicio accompany you? ” “My daughter,” replied the scholar, “I have no choice but to return to Alcalá tomorrow.” You know that my meager way of life is my destiny in the Archives… Common! I know the secret of those lives without horizon, which create a circle of petty duties, and imperious, tyrannical habits. On the other hand, it suits me that Polilla disappears and leaves me in the ring face to face with the profane. “I’ll wait for you…” I insinuate, shaking his hand, stiff and rigid in the prison of the gloves. It merges with gratitude… “At one o’clock!” I insist, as I release them on the sidewalk. Chapter 10. Collision with Farnese, when he finds out I have a guest for lunch to an unknown man, a new relationship. I put the question resolutely. “My friend, I love you very much, don’t doubt it, but I intend to do my bidding. ” “You’re going to discredit yourself… You’ll be the stuff of Madrid. ” “No one knows me in Madrid, Farnesio. That I am the heiress of Doña Catalina Mascareñas is known to the four long-standing friends of… my aunt; friendships I have not wished to continue. My aunt had become quite obscure in recent years. Madrid ignores me, just as I ignore Madrid. They know me in Alcalá… But what does Alcalá matter? When I was vegetating there, among old people, in the antechamber of the cloister, what mistress or what stake have you put in place to guard me? I have decided to live as I please. ” Farnesio hears me, purple with anger. “I have done my duty.” I can’t go any further… “While you’re leaving, would you like to arrange for both places to be put in the _serre_?” And I emphasize the _two_ places because Farnese sometimes has lunch with me, and it’s not a matter of me being installed there today, as a guard. I reserve the liberty of my _tête à tête_. The proco is more than punctual. He arrives exactly an hour early. At twelve o’clock, the office already reeks of brilliantine. I didn’t appear until a quarter of an hour before the appointed time, dressed in black gauze with jet trim, elbow-length sleeves and an openwork bodice, and my hands, very well-groomed, diamond-studded, without a single colored stone. When I greeted him, I noticed he was high. I anesthetized his vanity with excuses and jokes, and took his arm to go to the serre, where the lace-covered little table was a coquettish sight, centered with red roses, served with fine Saxon flowers, and shaded by the flabules of a lustrous palm tree. From sheer excitement, Aparicio couldn’t manage to swallow his consommé. Evidently, he was afraid of eating badly, spilling the contents of his spoon, staining the tablecloth, knocking over the light glass where the beautiful Bordeaux wine laughs and rests. And he was alert, restless, unable to enjoy the hour. For him, I am a lady of the great world… Of a world I have not seen, but that will cause me neither embarrassment nor surprise when I finally see it. I dedicate myself to calming the spirit of the intellectual, and I boast of admiration, of a certain respect, of pleasant and decent cordiality. With the playful malice I always have ready for Polilla, I amuse myself by playing this easy, _made_ role. I give the fool a moment of delicious illusion. Isn’t illusion the best, the rarest thing? The coffee, the rocking chairs, that moment of bliss, when digestion begins… He, now at ease, moves his chair a little closer, and I don’t move mine. I’m in an excellent mood, and I don’t perceive a trace of that emotionality that, according to Aparicio, characterizes women. My heart is as calm as a stuffed bird. “Lina,” he ventures, “you can’t imagine…” “Come on ,” I reckon, “it’s time… It’s decided… ” “You can’t imagine…” he insists. “There are things that, truly, have something fantastic, unreal about them… How could I have imagined that… that…” You can guess what Don Hilario adds, and the thread of his discourse unravels easily . Just as my answer, ambiguously syrupy and captious, is presumed . After the first sweet spoonfuls, I position my batteries. “Hilario, between you and I there’s no room for vulgarities… We are different beings from the crowd. And we’ve drawn closer and felt attracted to each other, for something greater than… than the mere attraction of… of sex. Am I mistaken? No, it’s not possible that I’m mistaken. We’re gathered here to discuss a saving idea… ” “For that… and for something perhaps better,” he objects, agitated. “Didn’t we agree that love was a sacrifice? ” “According to… according to,” he stammered. “Lina, there are times when one forgets what one thinks, what one discourses, what one writes. The impression one suffers is one of those that… Be merciful! Don’t force me to remember now my hard, incessant labor, my bitter struggle for existence!” –Yes, let us remember it–I argued–because I am here to make it fruitful. That It’s my providential office. I possess a considerable fortune, and you have taught me how I should invest it. He made a gesture, as if the fact were negligible, minimal. “No, I can guess at his disinterest. I’ve gone ahead of him. The fortune won’t be ours: it will be entirely dedicated to the triumph of ideals. We won’t even manage it. This will be arranged in such a way that not even the most viperous malice can attribute any baseness to us, and especially to you. We, united freely, of course, will renounce everything, we will live from our work, from our apostolate… How fun it will be! Why are you so cold, Aparicio…? Have I missed the point? Is it the madness of an enthusiastic woman? Isn’t that what you intended, the fulfillment of your dream? ” “Yes, yes… It’s just that, out of sheer splendor, so suddenly, the plan dazzles me… Let me breathe. What’s happening to me is so new, so unprecedented!” Since yesterday I’ve thought I’ve been dreaming and that I’m going to wake up surrounded, as before, by misery, by disappointments! May the angel of salvation appear to me… and may he take your form! Such a beautiful form! Because you are very beautiful, Lina. I don’t know what’s happening to me… “Careful, Aparicio,” and I feign confusion, blushing, upset, “let’s not lose sight of the object… the object…” The glitter is coming so close to me that I must be making a strange face. “No, I haven’t lost sight of it… The object is the happiness of many human beings. If we start with our own, so much the better. That way we’d be on the safe side. ” “Aren’t you altruistic? ” “Altruistic… yes… and also, you see… I’m also a Kirkegaardian… ” “How so? How so? ” “Yes, I’ll explain that philosopher to you… There is no collective ethics… Morality must be ours, individual… ” “I’m starting to like that,” I smiled. “It’s clear… It can’t be otherwise. You have too much insight. And that’s why, even in our redemptive work of apostolate, we must start with ourselves. ” “And dispense with Polilla,” I observed childishly. “And dispense with Polilla. We’ll fix it perfectly. There’s no need to go to extremes. No one better than us to administer… just administer, well… the riches you possess… and which, in other hands, might be stolen, squandered… And as for our union… Lina, for you… for you, for your respectability… I lend myself, I assent to all the formulas, to all the consecrations… The ideal is one thing, its incarnation in reality another…”
I couldn’t contain myself. I let out a jovial, victorious laugh. That bull, from the first moment, was coming where the fluttering, classic capes summoned him . A husband like any other, before the church and the law. Because that way, I belonged to him, and my possessions belonged to him, or at least to their enjoyment. Don’t be alarmed, Hilario… I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing at our unbeatable Polilla. Imagine my satisfaction. I’ve won the bet. I bet with him that, despite appearances, you were a man of talent. Wait, wait, I’ll explain myself… Forgive me for the innocent trick, the silken net I’ve laid for you. Appearances present you as a theorist who spins tangles of ideas, basing himself on the instinct all men feel to demand as much as they can from life and to acquire what others enjoy. But you claim all this for the individual, and the individual who matters most to you is, naturally, yourself. Of course! If within current circumstances your individual can find what he desires, you no longer need to modify those circumstances in the slightest . You have no need to transform society and the world. For you, the world has already changed in the most favorable and just way… Am I right? He didn’t answer me. His mouth was open, his eyes fixed, paler than usual, terrified, he looked at me; he didn’t realize how and from what direction he was going to take my speech. Was it a stinging mockery? Was it originality of his own? capricious lady? What did it all mean? “I’m sure you’re right,” I flattered. “You, a person of superior understanding, have two criteria, two systems; one to serve as a weapon of combat in that fierce struggle I foresee, in which you squandered your youth, your health, and your brains, to no avail; the other to govern your existence internally and not be seen as a Quixote without chivalry… and without the great sanity of Don Quixote, who seems to me one of the most sane of all men! I ask again. Am I mistaken? ” “In several respects…” he stammered indecisively, “no… All that… Looking at it from the point of view… However… Why…?” “Listen, Hilario… I see in you a superior man, wading through a swamp where his feet have become trapped. I pull you out of that swamp… with this very hand. I held it out to you.” Resurrected, crazed, he kissed the diamonds, bumping and his fingers, anxious. “I’m getting you out of the swamp. Believe me. You’re going where you should, to Congress, to the Ministry, to the peaks. And you accept everything that exists, from the cedar to the hyssop. As if it were accepted within you. As if you were some fool! Agreed? If I had said to Don Antón: “I’ll be your nymph, your Egeria… if you happen to have talent, despite such theories and such books…” Am I right? Then obey me… He half-knelt. “I surrender myself to my fairy…” When she left—obeying an order, because her brilliantine was already making me very ill—I felt something like remorse. And I wrote a few lines to Polilla; essentially this: “When Aparicio needs protection, money, let me know. And as soon as I can, and make friends with some political figure, I must place him according to his merits, which are many. He has extraordinary abilities… I am most grateful to you for having made it possible for me to meet him… I called a servant. “This letter to the post office. And when this gentleman who has lunched here returns, always tell him that I have left. ” _That of Farnesio._ Chapter 11. The breaths of spring, with their kind of illusory renewal, everything remains the same, but in the end, _in us_, in the only thing that is perhaps real, there are fervors of sap and swells of buds, they suggest to me a restlessness of transfer. I would like to travel. Weren’t travel one of the pleasures I dreamed impossible during my exile? At the first suggestion I make to Farnesio, asking him to provide me with funds, I notice satisfaction in him; my plans, without a doubt, fit into his. It is perhaps the only moment when his face, which must have been very attractive, is pleasantly dilated. He must have had the pale olive complexion common in individuals of southern origin, and against which his black mustache, now made of spun lead, stands out with provocative grace . His eyes must have been passionate, intense; they still retain the velvet and shadows of his eyelashes. His body remains slender, lean, with legs like electrified wire. He hasn’t acquired the selfish laziness of his fifties: he retains an anxiety, a dramatic sense of life. I notice all this more clearly now, perhaps because I know his background… “Travel? What a great idea you had, Lina! I was just going to propose… ” “What?” I gasp. “What your uncle Don Juan Clímaco wrote me, asking me to share it with you. He says the whole family is very much looking forward to meeting you, and he’s inviting you to spend some time with them in Granada.” You see… –I see… That wasn’t the free and whimsical trip I was fantasizing about… But Granada _does sound familiar_… And what kind of family does my uncle have? I don’t suspect it. Farnesio’s face, always sentimental, took on a more meaningful expression as he gave me the details I requested. He spoke like someone dealing with a vital matter, of the highest and most profound importance. –For now, your uncle, a gentleman… a serious one, a formidable one. Since I’ve known him, he’s doubled his fortune, and is on the way to tripling it. He’s the widower of a very noble lady, from the Fernández de Córdoba family, and who had more than a quarter of Moorish blood, as illustrious in it as Christian! Descent of kings, or emirs, or what have you… He has three children left: José María, Estebanillo, and Angustias. –Single? –All of them. The eldest, José María, must be about twenty-nine to thirty years old… –Then I understand the mechanism of the trip, my friend! Yes, yes, yes? Never keep secrets from me, Farnesio; otherwise it won’t be worth it! Don Juan Clímaco Mascareñas was to be my… aunt’s heir, and I’ve taken that fig from between his teeth. From the way you paint it to me, greedy, the good gentleman must have felt it close to his soul. Since he is also intelligent, he has decided to keep quiet and hatch another plan, based on a marriageable son… And since you have the misfortune of having… a good conscience… you feel it is your duty to assist Don Juan in the revenge he yearns for… and to approach cousin José María or cousin Estebanillo… “Oh! What a cousin Estebanillo… that one… ” “Yes! It’s José María…” Farnesio remains silent, deeply moved, his breath coming in short bursts of breath. He does not dare to launch into a warm praise; he trembles and shrinks before my tirades and harangues. “Be frank…” He makes up his mind, all shaken, and speaks hoarsely, deeply. “I don’t see why not… Indeed, I think that your cousin José María could be an excellent husband for you, and I believe that, in conscience, since you spoke of conscience, Lina… since you are thinking of conscience… because it is necessary to think of it!… it would be better if, in that way, the Mascareñas could never… never… ” “Was Doña Catalina mistress of her fortune or not?” I insist, cornering and upsetting him. “Mistress! Who doubts it!… However… Anyway…” And, taking my hands, with a stammering in which there are tears, Don Genaro adds: “It is not only a question of conscience… nor of the harm and loss of your relatives… It is for you… do you understand? For you… When danger threatens you, when something could come against you…, listen to Farnesio… What does Farnesio yearn for but your happiness, your well-being!” My heart softened for a moment, beneath the crust of my old grievances, the unjust way I was raised, which almost turned me into a female Segismundo, analogous to the anarchist created by Calderón. “I believe so, Don Genaro. And since seeing nothing is lost… I’ll go to Granada. It will, by the way, be amusing. Wouldn’t you like to accompany me? ” He changes his expression again. “No, no… It’s better for me to stay… Why don’t we look for a proper lady? ” “Leave me alone with formalities and ladies! I’ll take Octavia, the Frenchwoman. ” “A good bell.” “She’s going to clean my boots and hang up my suits. For the rest, I’ll go.” He resigns himself. “He’ll write, so that they’ll wait for me at the station…” My work with Octavia begins. She’s a maid I ordered from the Agency, and she looks like she was cut from a Parisian department store catalogue.” At no time do I catch her without her lace apron, her spicy blue ribbon under her straight, snowy collar, her little headdress dripping with Valenciennes, her hair divinely coiffed. She transcends the Ideal and is full of contempt for anything cheap, for anything old-fashioned, les horreurs. Old Eladia, whom I have relegated to the position of housekeeper, absolutely hates the French woman. Octavia brilliantly packs my luggage, thinking of saving me the trouble of trifles, the petits riens, what mortifies me most, the folded rose leaf. Trifle! Spending the night on the train! We must be prepared… “When is the departure, madame? ” “In a week, ma fille… When they deliver everything we have ordered… ” “Isn’t the young lady in a hurry? ” “Damn… Imagine I’m going looking for a boyfriend!” She laughs; she supposes I’m joking. She is a woman with an uneven face, a tanned complexion, and a delicate figure. Neither ugly nor pretty; perhaps, on the inside, worn and flaccid; striking like the picaresque caricatures in the kiosks. Perhaps not very suitable to serve a lady. But so willing, so Pleasing… Her shoes are so well fitted… her nails are so neat! In planning this trip, I notice more than ever the lack—amidst my opulence—of refined luxuries. From Doña Catalina, who never traveled, I did not inherit a decent suitcase. I find a heaped silver toiletry bag, belonging to her husband, with razors, brushes, and hairs still in them. Octavia examines it. “L’horreur!” I go through shops: there is nothing but petty ugliness. I don’t have time to order from London, the only place in the world where presentable travel accessories are made… In Madrid, Octavia laments, “there is no _rien de rien_… Stumblingly, I stock up on _sauts de lit_, ribboned coquettishness, which is a foam . I am already blooming my mourning in white, in lilac, in the sweet tones of relief. Batiste, lace, spring… And silk draped on my feet, which the manicure has smoothed and filed as if they were hands. “All this for the cousin from Granada, whom I don’t know? No; for my aesthetic self-cultivation. Well-being isn’t enough for me. I want the note of the superfluous, which distances us from the crowd. The thing is, procuring the superfluous is more difficult than procuring the necessary. You don’t have the superfluous because you have money; it requires the painstaking, incessant work of quintessentializing ourselves and everything around us. Ordinariness, vulgarity, the unsightly, lurk at every step and invade us, insidiously, like dust, damp , and moths. At the first carelessness, we are clothed and furnished with odious things, and the aesthetic dream vanishes. I won’t allow it!” I’d rather conceive myself poor, like in Alcalá, than in a coarse and ossified wealth, like that of Doña Catalina Mascareñas, my… my aunt! On the other hand, since I’m not a prize for beauty, and what enhances me is the frame, I want that frame, a marvel of chiseling, well encrusted with artistic gems, like the attire of my patroness, the Alexandrine, who loved Beauty to the point of death. As for the proco… bah! I don’t know if I’ll marry soon or late, or if I desire it, or if I fear it. What lies dormant in the depths of my instinct? It’s still mysterious. To marry will be to have an owner… Sweet owner?… The day I no longer love, my owner will be able to demand that I make the amorous gestures… The day my lungs crave wild air, they will want me docile and solicitous… Material freedom is not what I would most regret losing. Our freedom is within; in the spirit. So, calmly, I’m not seduced by Farnesio’s proposition. I recall that in Alcalá, reading the old comedies, I was surprised by the ease with which the ladies and gentlemen, in the final scene, rush into marriage. “Don Juan, you will marry Doña Leonor, and you, Don Gutierre, give Doña Inés the hand of a husband… Illustrious Senate, pardon my many faults… ” And I remember that in one of those same comedies, by Don Diego Hurtado de Mendoza, there is a character who says to two newlyweds : “You are his, after all; but see that you are no longer yours…” Few husbands remember the same character’s admonition: “And you, Don Sancho and Don Juan, each of you be warned that entering into husbandhood is not the same as leaving being a gentleman…” In short, my case is not the common one of the woman who repels marriage because she repels subjection. There is something else… There is this high, intimate esteem for myself; There is the fear of not being able to value the man I accept so highly. The fear of uniting myself with an inferior… Inferiority does not lie in position, nor in money, nor in birth… This fear, it would be good if I felt it now! I felt it in Alcalá, when my maid swept with useless brooms… Perhaps it has preserved me from some vulgar love interest. Will there be something that will produce in me the necessary rapture to forget that ” I am no longer my own”? I do not know from where the disenchantment will come; but it will come. I am like someone who knows that there exists an island full of greenery, of gurgling waters, of grottos, of streams, and understands that he will never land on its shores. I will not land on the beach of love. And, if I analyze myself deeply, it is that I desire to love… how much and in what manner! With All the violence of my chosen, singular being; like the deer yearns for hidden springs… Why do I desire it? I don’t define this well either. In so many years of compressed youth and solitude, I have undoubtedly passed my reverie through the sieve of my intelligence; I have polished and filigreed my sentimental demands; I have had time to nourish them; I have refined them, and their essence is strong. My longing is demanding; my brain has descended to my heart, has encircled it with gold flakes, but in its center it has lit a flame that devours. And, hopelessly in love, I consider it impossible to fall in love… Chapter 12. At the Granada station, the Mascareñas are waiting for me. For an hour before, Octavia and I have worked to conceal the traces of the night on the train. And I have called myself stupid. Why not have come by car? But a decent road car, too, would suddenly be unavailable in Madrid. Fortunately, I’ve slept, and I don’t present the sagging mask of insomnia. My breath doesn’t betray the turmoil of my churning stomach. I blow it several times toward my nostrils, and I convince myself of its purity. As a precaution, I rinse with water and elixir and chew a raspberry pastille, one of those enclosed in my little gold candy, the lid of which is a cabochon amethyst, adorned with sparks. In jewelry, Madrid is more advanced than in comfort. I refresh my complexion, my hairstyle, my suit. I change the white collar . I renew my gloves, a supple Swedish one. I tighten my transparent silk stockings, not openwork; openwork, for travel, is a bad kind. And I did well, because when the train stops and cousin José María rushes to give me his hand to get off, his gaze goes directly, not to my face, but to the foot I put forward, to the delicate, round ankle. My face, it’s true, is covered with a veil of thick black gauze, beneath which a white tulle still obscures the features. Barely visible, I can see my cousins perfectly. José María is a Moor; he’s missing the jaique. Estebanillo is a young lad, blond as a candle. My cousin is just like José María, older and leaning toward the dry and serious southern style, more serious and dry than the English. Uncle Juan Climaco… There will be much to tell about him on the way. There are greetings, lisps, offers, cordialities. Two carriages, each better harnessed than the last, await us. In one we get the women, Uncle Climaco—that’s what I’ve called him from the start—and the eldest son. In the other, Octavia and the suitcases. Estebanillo drives them. The house is a semi-palace, on a central, old, and serious street. What a pity! A new, well-designed, vast building, replacing an old one “that was no longer comfortable.” In the current one, the work of my uncle, nothing is missing of the demands of modern hygiene and life. Intimate, old furniture has been preserved—bargues, elaborate chairs, paintings, braziers studded with silver—but the superimposed, white lacquer, and English-style furniture dominate. Estebanillo points this out to me. Angustias—whom her brothers call Gugú, a childish transformation of an ugly name—is also proud of the upbringing she received in a Yorkshire convent, of the fact that “the boy” was raised in London, of the milk-like porcelain bathrooms and sinks, of that Anglophilic veneer that today covers so much of the Andalusian aristocracy. They lead me to my room, show me the dressing table full of taps, all sorts of metal devices for calling, dispensing boiling or cold water… They warn me that lunch begins at twelve-thirty. And the languid, fine lisp of my cousin José María intervenes: “Don’t be so hasty; the truth is, we always sit down at one. ” I appreciate it. Octavia prepares the bath, unpacks things, and after two hours of messing around and tidying myself up somewhat, I emerge a wreck, wrapped in ash-gray cloth, and hungry. They seat me between my uncle and my cousin, who, just as he indiscreetly scrutinized the start of my faucet, now searches the back of my neck, my throat, and sinks his eyes into the shadow of my dull hair. He serves me with an air of adoring devotion, and at the same time with a gentle whisper, mocking my appetite. He eats little; when he finishes, he stands up quickly, asks permission, takes out very elegant smoking accessories, and lights an exquisite cigar, with a captivating aroma that my senses savor. It is the first time that a man has smoked with refinement, with polished hands, with grace and grace.—Carranza, as he smoked, was panting like a seal.—The wave of smoke intoxicates me slightly. José María has the classic type. He is dark-skinned, with straight, blue hair, a scissor-shaped mouth, pine teeth, splendidly shining and somber, genuine Arabic eyes, a rounded waist, agile gestures, and a calm demeanor. His slow, witless speech has a childlike, spontaneous charm. He doesn’t chat; he looks at me in a hundred ways. Once the coffee has settled, the inevitable arises. “Would you like to see the Jalambra, cousin? Yes, I want to see the Alhambra!” But not like this; on my own, without anyone shouting my amazement. Chest in the water. Let it out. ” “Ah!” Estebanillo celebrates. “Like the English… ” “Do what you want, child,” Uncle Climaco declares. “It’s the healthiest thing to do…” Uncle Climaco also resembles his eldest son; but evidently the blood of the lady who descended from Moorish kings has corrected the degenerations of the Mascareñas woman, which are very evident in this specimen. While José María’s profile has the nobility of a Nasrid emir’s profile, his father’s is one of rapacity and prey and leans toward the gypsy type. I don’t see in him the slightest hint of an illustrious race. Who would be able to guess the crossbreeding and grafting of a lineage? Don’t I know well that there are frauds? And let me be killed if Don Juan Climaco isn’t sick of knowing the secret story of my birth… Perhaps the more villainous, rather than roguish, features of this gentleman come from another, even more popular novel . He affects a certain charming naturalness, yet beneath that cloak he must conceal unbridled selfishness, an absolute lack of moral sense. How have I noticed this in the space of a few hours? Intuition… Uncle Climaco thinks I should do as I please. I excuse myself for my lack of sociability; they provide the carriage; I offer to return for a walk at dusk , to the laurel tree of Zubia, and with no other company than the one who never leaves us, I head for the Alhambra. I go there… not to satisfy curiosity irritated by reading, but because I sense it is the most appropriate place to desire love. And my premonition is confirmed. The place surpasses my already excited imagination. I don’t believe such a combination of landscape and buildings exists in the world . I hope it remains solitary, or nearly so. I hope the court doesn’t decide to settle here. Hidden beauty, even your restorers hinder me. You would live, half-ruined, all by myself, and your divine form would collapse to the ground when my mortal form collapses. This architecture could be described to me a thousand times, and I wouldn’t understand it, for isolated from its depths, in the odious yet faithful reproductions that circulate, it acquires traces of the husk of a santi boniti. What the Alhambra is saying is that it should not be separated from its own landscape, should not be detailed, should not be sold. The Parthenon can be cut up and sold piecemeal. The Alhambra of Alhamar won’t allow it. I can’t get enough of the Alhambra’s dreamlike depths. I bathe my pupils in the plush green masses of the old trees, in the pyramids of the cypresses, in the silvery gray of the distance, in the hollows densely gilded by fire, baked, iridescent by the sun. I don’t deny the charm of the historic halls, tiled, openwork, polychrome, of the alhamís (cottages), whose stucco is like lace, of the mullioned windows and balconies, of the delightful slippers, where I think I see the sultana’s snakeskin slippers ; but if we place these buildings against the sky of Castile, against its stark horizons, its sublime and scorched deserts, goodbye magic! It’s the features of the terrain, the vegetation, and especially the water, that compose the filter. To them I attribute the feeling that overwhelmed me—not only on the first day, but every day—at the Alhambra. A feeling new to me. A dissolution of the will, an invasion of a passionate melancholy. I would like to sit, to remain seated all my life, listening to the slow, sad, and sensual song of the water, which sleeps lazily in ponds and pools, pearls its jet in the jets, pulverizes and diamonds the air, slides slantingly through ancient channels, between stones greened with moss, and forms the gardens almost alone, strange gardens with hardly any flowers! And it glides as in the time of the Zegris, as when the same state of soul that dominates me was cultivated here: the honey of languid living, without the prose of cares. It is water from yesterday, and in the water that has flowed for so many centuries there is weeping, there is blood; Here there are knights beheaded inside the bowls of fountains, whose spout continued to spin, on the light purple, its clear pearls. And the feet of history, little by little, burnished the marbles, still flecked with red. They let me spend the afternoons here without protest, although Gugú—I read it on her face—finds my behavior shocking. If I had been born in Great Britain, good heavens! We already know that English women are lunatics. A Spanish woman is not suited for eccentricity. However, on the fourth day of my stay in Granada, I notice that Gugú smiles openly and pleasantly upon learning that I will also go, after lunch, to the same place. And, as I sit on a bench at the Lindaraja viewpoint, contemplating the glory of the blond and pink light in which the mountains are enveloped, a low, intense voice sounds near my ear: “What is the sultaniyah thinking?” I smile at my cousin. It doesn’t even occur to me to be formal. He, foresighted, excuses himself. “You wanted to come alone. Coming alone isn’t so much as being alone all afternoon. If I’m in the way… ” “You’re not in the way. Sit on that bench, and don’t talk.” He obeys with graceful and festive submission. The magnetism of his dark gaze finally draws me in. I tear my gaze from the landscape and rest it on him. “Do you know what I think? ” “I wish so much! ” “I wish you were dressed as a Moor. ” “It’s so easy! They rent things here; and you can dress up as a Moorish queen too, and they’ll take our photograph. You’ll see what a couple they are. Saide and Saida… ” “I said it wrong,” I correct myself. “What I would like is not for you to dress up in a mask, but for you to be a full-fledged Moor.” “Well, girl, I am a Moor.” Baptized Moor, but Moor, believe me, to the soul. I like what Moors liked: flowers, women, horses. Those who go around in disguise are Granadans like my brother Estebaniyo, who catches me with a scene that breaks my heart, and at six he sniffs a hot herb because that’s how they do it in London right away. By way of London! Now they’ve got that Andalusian-style fart… Girl, we weren’t born for that. I wanted to be educated here, and I’m not a wise man in Greece, but young gentlemen like Estebaniyo are even more brutal. That land where sweethearts go arm in arm and can’t see each other’s faces because of the fog… you do it, like a cat with a dog. The road is short, enchantment… and he who has Granada… why would he want anything else? The words coincided so perfectly with my impression that my face revealed it. “And it’s the same with you. If we’re one…” From that day on, my cousin invariably came to court me in the palace of the fairies. And I couldn’t resist, I didn’t demand that my solitude be respected . I couldn’t shake off my delightful torpor, rhythmed by the flow of centuries-old water, which had seen empires and kingdoms fall, bathed white feet, ankles with anklets, and which whispered of the eternity of nature and the transience of man. Reclining, I remained silent for long periods, delighting in the musical “risssch!” of my fan as it opened. As the afternoon progressed, the myrtles in the courtyard of the Alberca, where we were sitting, exhaled a bitter aroma, and the gurgling of the water grew more melodious. José María managed—and it’s no small feat!—to not spoil these sensations for me. I admit it: he thinks I’m waiting for him… I don’t deny the gentleness of his sententiousness, which never degenerates into insipid chatter, and yet, at his side is the ghost of a Moor, a contemporary of Muley Hazem, whom I ask to decipher the Arabic verses, the suras of the Koran inscribed on the friezes and elegant arches. And the ghost murmurs, with the voice of weeping, plaintive water: “Only Allah is victorious. Those golden letters on the tiling say so. I am Audalla; my bay mare has dark green trappings, the color of dead hope; an impetuous mare, all splashed with bridle foam. I am Daraja’s lover. Do not say that he who does not serve as a Zegri lady serves as a lady. And may the Gomel and Almoradí ladies be angry …” ” What is the sultanah thinking about?” “I’m thinking of Audalla… Haven’t you read the Romancero? ” “I’ve read so many silly things! Now I’d like to read you. You’re a book of simple letters. You’re not like other women. With you, I’m short, I promise. ” “Do you know I want to see the Alhambra by moonlight? And I think they don’t allow it, because of the fire. ” “Didn’t I allow this young man? With a tip… Indeed, the obstacles are overcome. We carry a small electric lamp for dark places. The Courtyard of the Lions, at this hour, surpasses anything I could have imagined. The filigrees are aerial.” Everything seems unreal, because, with the color fading, what remains is the fragility of the lines, the implausibility of the infinite columns of light silver, the delicacy and exquisiteness of the small arches, which, I observe with pleasure, have the good taste of not being horseshoe-shaped. It’s as if everything is light here, for the shadows seem translucent, like clear sapphire. We are dominated by the voluptuous charm of this despicable art, fleeting as love, miraculously preserved, always on the verge of disappearing, leaving behind a legend inferior to itself. We don’t feel the heaviness of this sylph-like architecture, which perhaps doesn’t exist; which is the setting in which our whim unfolds our inner life. We are free here from the oppressive stone, as in the palace gardens we are free from the earth, and we see nothing but water and ancient plants. And always the impression of unreality. Did sultanas exist who left their microscopic slippers in the gold, blue, and purple slippers? Surely they are a poetic myth. Did perfumes ever sprout and spread from these incense burners embedded in the floor? Did anyone bathe in these chambers from whose ceiling luminous stars rained down upon the water? No, never… I assure José María, who laughs, bringing his face as close as he can to mine. “All dreams and lies, cousin… An old, oriental dream, of myrtles, laurels, and balconies, under the snowy hood of a mountain range… Why do I like Granada? Because I’m sure it doesn’t exist. ” “Little girl, you must be a poet. The truth is. Haven’t you won some prize, come on, at the Juego Florale? Go on, go on, because when I heard you, it seemed to me that thing had already occurred to me.” And don’t believe it: I read Sorriya’s verses a year ago. “I’m not a poet, thank God! Mind you, cousin. The Alhambra doesn’t exist. On the other hand, those lions, those monsters, are alive. I’m afraid of them. They remind me of some sphinxes of Alexandria that persecuted a saint… The verses carved on the edge of the fountain say they are on guard, and that not having life prevents them from executing their fury… Life, I believe those beasts have it. “I love everything you say!” stammers the baptized Moor in an adoring tone. “Go on, go on, Saida…” “Hush, hush… Let’s look without speaking… ” “Let’s look,” he replies, and takes my hand, initiating me into the slow, semi-chaste delights of pressure… It is something subtle, insidious, not enough to absorb me, but it makes me see the fountain of terrible monsters through a veil of Argentine gauze with gusts of sky, like a striped bayadère’s shawl. The Alhambra, through love… a tenuous gauze of love, floating, dissolved in the lunar ray… And the verses to be carved on the pylon composed by the unknown Muslim poet, stand out among the light buzzing in my ears. The water appears to me as he describes it, made of dancing pearls and resplendent light, and as it melts in profusions over the whiteness of the marble, it seems to liquidate it as well… And the silence! A silence oversaturated with ideal life, with sighs that were exhaled, with certain tears of which the inscription speaks, jealous tears that did not roll out of the tear ducts; a Moorish silence, enhanced by the silky whisper of the poplars and by the breath of the fresh air of the snowfall, which tore its wings in the prickly pears! And the perfume! Dry perfume of sun-baked laurels, remnants of the incense burners that were exhausted, jasmine breeze, and perhaps, burning vapor of blood spilled by tragic amorous adventures! When places like the Alhambra exist, love must exist. Why doesn’t it come faster? Why doesn’t it devour me? Chapter 13. At my uncle’s house, they don’t know what to make of me. Am I a maniac? Am I a flirt? Am I a “tough woman,” with whom you have to watch your step? Gugú doesn’t understand me. She’s trying hard to give me gifts, unsure of the outcome. Estebanillo, the young Anglophile, with a clean-shaven lip, although he affects coldness and superiority, fears me a little. José María, who is no idiot, but whose thoughts don’t go beyond the sensuality of his race, is disconcerted: with another woman, he would have stood firm… Oh! His shrewd feminine instinct advises him not to take risks with me, not to slip up… And, above all, my uncle, the gypsy gentleman, is suspicious: he’s beginning to devote excessive study to me, a concealed, constant attention. How can I get out of this? He’s too cunning not to know that José María and I, despite appearances, have n’t yet… well, no… In his usual tone of playful, spicy, popular, and stately gallantry, Uncle Climaco analyzes me, wants to unravel my aspirations, to know what this millionaire and extravagant niece’s foot is limping on, who goes off at night to the Alhambra with a handsome young man, to really watch the waters flow… Am I made of marble, like the lions? Am I a romantic? What hypotheses! The truth is, it’s not possible for the one with the gray sideburns, the shark who has designated me as his own, to interpret it, so that the deception doesn’t prevail and branch returns to branch and trunk to trunk… There must be a legend circulating in Granada about me. I can tell from the keen curiosity that greets me, from the euphemisms with which people speak to me. What has most contributed to giving substance to the legend is my originality in not wanting to see, in the city, anything but the Alhambra! The first day they took me to the Laurel de la Reina. Afterwards, I flatly refused. No Cathedral, no Charterhouse, no Catholic tomb, no Albaicín, no Sacred Mount… Nothing that could mix its lines, its colors, and its shapes with those of the Alhambra. “That’s it, my dear: the Jalambra has bewitched you…” To unbewitch me, my uncle suggests a few days in Loja. He has business there; You have to see those corners, where he owns two palaces and a farmhouse, towards the Sierra. “You might like those mansions more than this one here. ” “If they’re old, definitely. ” “What a fondness for antiques!” whispers the fool, giving the impression of being harmless. “I’m going to ask the Virgin of Victory in Loja to make me go gray-haired…” And, indeed, the mansion in Loja captivates me as much as the comfortable dwelling in Granada, and its “comfortable” English architecture, leaves me cold. It’s an Italian-style building, with a vestibule and attic of Serrano marble, and columns of pink jasper. It’s not in Loja itself: from the estate to the town there is a short walk , between fields and avenues. It doesn’t have the palace, a classic Andalusian construction, but rather the large central courtyard, but without arcades. In the middle, the fountain, with a large basin, is surrounded by pots of carnations, and the jet sings its verse, an inseparable companion of Granada life. Upon entering the residence, lisping duets and dark-eyed girls they direct compliments. My room overlooks the garden, where nightingales sing all night long . Jasmine and rose hips entwine the twisted iron gate. At dawn, I go out to get some air, and from the parapet I see, through a crystal window, the panorama of Loja, the hard place to win, the one that gave Christians trouble, for which reason the Kings gave their Virgin the title of _Victory_. I make out the two arches of the bridge over the Genil, the white houses, the dense foliage, the ruins, the mountains, the church towers, the round dome of the largest standing out… And José María appears, emerging from I don’t know where. “Do you like the town? I’ll take you to see the place… I know this … I grew up here… I go with him to tour such _places_. Gugú has things to do at home; Uncle Climaco spends his life sitting in the courtyard, listening to the locals, who come to talk to him about crops, rents, and work; Estebanillo has stayed there, in Granada, with some English friends, who might take him for a drive around Biarritz… And I belong to José María, but I keep him at bay: he continues to sense psychological enigmas in me, not understood by his feminine science. He takes me to the Alfaguara or the Mora fountain, a torrent that springs, it seems, from an immense wall flooded with weeds, and flows clear through twenty-five spouts. The water! Always the mysterious water, several hundred years old, that those who died must have drunk! If we climb the steep flanks of the Sierra, toward some farmhouse, to eat porridge and cut wild albespinas, the water rolls down the slopes, pouring from the boulders, roasted, burning hot… If we continue along the plain, turning onto a path, we come across the strange waterfall of Los Infiernos, hidden in a fold, betrayed by its terrifying roar, leaping foaming, twisted, and convulsive. And if we visit the marble sawmill at the foot of the Nevada, the water is the delight. We climb the gentle slopes, strewn with fragments of yellow marble, with blue and white veins, and of a red agate, in which quartz veins meander. The sky has that purity and those orange hues that made Fortuny stay for two years where he had thought to stay for fifteen days, and that enraptured Regnault. Not without protests from José María—”I’d rather spoil my little hands!”—I lifted a piece of stone and found imprinted on it the fossil footprint, the beautiful volutes of the primitive anmonite. My cousin looked at him, raising his eyebrows. “Haven’t you thought of climbing the peaks of the Sierra?” I asked him. “No… Why? But if it’s a craving, I’ll go with you! They’re looking for a mule, and at least as far as Pico de Veleta… Because after that, it’s possible, it’s possible… but only by airplane, hiha! ” “Who knows, cousin, if I’ll take you at your word? ” “With you, to the Pole. ” We went down to the sawmill; they showed us the polished marble panels; we continued to a bend formed by the stream, where the feathery leaves of maidenhair ferns and centipedes swayed in the still current. A lad approaches, pulling the rope holding a beautiful Fulva goat, one of those from Granada, whose milk is delicious. Before our eyes, he milks it and lowers the jug into the pool. From the sawmill, they bring us pestiños, alfajores, honey on flakes, almond doughnuts, samples of the delicious confectionery of Loja, where they sell more egg yolks and buns than slaughtered meat. Laughing, we drink the milk: in the bath it has almost frozen. It is a divine hour, a collection of fluid sensations, light as water, pink as the sky, pouring luminous gusts onto the snowy peaks. We return slowly, along paths smelling of marjoram and wild mint. José María takes me by the arm. His sense of femininity tells him that the moments are becoming propitious. Suddenly, he shows enthusiasm for the expedition to the Alpujarras, and tells me wonders about the peak of Mulhacén, about the picturesque aspects of the villages in the mountains, which he has never seen. I understand his intention, and who knows if a secret complicity beats within me. After the Moorish poetry of the Alhambra, the mountains are the complement, the key. There the defeated race had taken refuge … The centuries-old waters flowed from there, from the cliffs where, unexpectedly, in oasis, the orange tree sets its orange blossom. José María, for the excursion, would dress—and it wouldn’t be a disguise, for that’s how he usually goes about the countryside—in short, graceful dresses, with a Marseilles, a sash, a wide hat , and elegant boots. I would wear a short skirt, and the mules’ bells, clanging loudly, would awaken a melancholic echo in the hoarse throats of the mountain landscape. As night descends, clear and warm, I forge my Alpujarra novel. José María begins to produce the same effect on me as the Alhambra; he dissolves, seizes my will. There is a dark attraction about him, which little by little dominates me. This is what I think about as Octavia undresses me, scandalized by the accidents to my attire during these excursions: my scuffed and dusty shoes; my hair, in which twigs have become entangled; my underskirts, which are in tatters. “If God can do it! What a fool, madam! What a fool!” She, who revolts and dazzles the servants and peasants who come to confer with my uncle, and I even suspect my own uncle, “who, though old, is fiery, quick to joke, and a womanizer,” is, on the other hand, more dressed up and frizzy than ever, and has learned from the Andalusian women the impropriety of the carnation pinned behind the ear… I think about this tide that grows inside me, about this arcane dominion that another being exercises over me. I cannot doubt that my cousin is courting me because I am the sole heir of Doña Catalina Mascareñas, and just as one family’s interests once sought to make me a nun, another’s now determine whether I should marry… But it also seems to me that I produce in my cousin the greatest effect that a woman produces in a man. Is this called love? Is there another way to feel it? What is love? Where is this talisman hidden, that I should go and kill the dragon who guards it? I have noticed that my cousin, when he speaks to me, exaggerates his sadness; he seems like a very unhappy man, two fingers away from suicide because of the disdain of an ingrate. And when he speaks to others, his tone becomes natural and humorous. The funny thing is that the sententious duennas and the young women with flowers in their buns, who make up the servants, speak of “Zenito José María” with an accent of commiseration, as if I were murdering him. And a barman has come to tell me: “Zeñita, it’s heaven… when are the zies?” The places, the choir, conspire in favor of the defeated proco. And, in the midst of this atmosphere, I try to unravel my sensations through reflection. No, love can’t be _this_. However, even less can intellectual communication be! This bewilderment, this nervous slackness mean something… Perhaps they mean everything. One night on a day when we haven’t gone out for a long walk, through the thick grille of my living room, which is on the ground floor, I hear a guitar playing. José María calls me, invites me to look out of the dining room windows , which overlook the patio, to see the commotion. It is he who has summoned the very few fandango dancers left in Loja and its surroundings, all of them now old and worn out, because the young women are now learning other dances, these more modern, achulados, not Moorish. These windows have no bars, and my cousin and I are leaning on the windowsill. Don Juan Clímaco and Gugú have brought chairs out into the courtyard. The fandango music is a kind of Arabian neigh, a wildly voluptuous, monotonous, and ultimately unnerving cadence. The moon, hanging like a silver lamp in a blue-painted mirrab, illuminates the dance, and the movement lends the dancers’ already stiff bodies some of the slenderness they’ve lost over the years. Their rusty joints seem to be oiled, and amidst the ironic cheers and stifled laughter of the gathered peasants, the old ladies dance, making a fool of themselves. The Past dances with their legs, the legend of the ancient water, where the blackberries dissolved their burning flames. Tears… I feel José María’s vehement, rapid breathing; the respect I hold back makes him more dangerous to me. I sense his emotion and cannot rebuke the audacity he yearns for but doesn’t commit. I extend my hand, as if in a dream , and he grasps it for a long time, melting my palm between his own, then pressing it against a heart that leaps and beats. As I draw back my arm, our bodies come closer, and he, lowering himself a little, devours my temples, my ears, with a mouth that is a flame. Outside they continue dancing, and the hoarse verses wail jealous loves, Mohammedan sorrows, the tears that were shed in the time of Boabdil… The broken babble of the lips that seize me repeats, with confusion, the word “Moor,” the deep and cruel word: “My blood! Blood!” My little bloody girl… I loosen up, I recover… But he already knows that from the incident we have emerged as sweethearts, engaged husbands–and when Don Juan Climaco returns, having ordered that those involved in the commotion be treated to long wine–José María, running his well-cut and polished hand through his youthful mustache, says to his father: “This girl and I are not going to the Sierra on Monday… She wants to see that beautiful town… of the Moor’s time… They need a mule and a guide.” Alone in my room, still dazed, the trembling returns. Is this love? Is this happiness? It seems as if the liquor has a bitter aftertaste, which hasn’t even intoxicated me yet. I go to bed agitated, sleepless, and when I turn out the light, the darkness seems red to me. I light the candle several times, drink water, toss and turn, I think I have a fever. And, already convinced that I won’t be able to sleep, at the first faint glimmer of dawn that enters through the cracks in the windows, I leap out of bed in disarray, thread myself into the lace of my dressing gown, slip on my silk slippers, and go out into the hall, muffling the sound of my footsteps, to call Octavia, who will make me a cup of linden tea on my razor. The Frenchwoman’s room is at the end of the hall, opposite my apartment, which includes a bedroom, a dressing table, a study, and a lower parlor. There are no electric bells in this palace, to which its owners rarely come. Cousinly, I continue on in the shadows, advancing. As I approach, I see Octavia’s door open, and a figure emerge from her room, hesitate for a moment, and finally sneak in furtively through the parlor door, which has an exit through the dining room to the central courtyard. It doesn’t matter that I was in such a hurry. I know the silhouette, I know the gait. It’s my cousin. He’s seen me too , he’s seen me perfectly! Thank you, cousin José María! Ill-tempered, serene, I step back, shed my scrutiny, and meditate, with satisfaction, on my resolution. When I go out to the courtyard at ten in the morning in search of the family, he’s not there. My uncle is teasing me. Come on, it’s known that I also danced the fandango, exhausted myself, and got up late! “Maybe that’s what it was… ” “And how are we feeling? Joseliyo will be working a miracle to get you to the Sierra more comfortably… ” “Uncle, I won’t go to the Sierra. I’m feeling a little tired, and besides, I’ve received notice that my presence is needed in Madrid for business. Please drive me to the station today in your carriage…” The transformation of the gentleman’s face was something I regret not having photographed. From a slobbering, jovial paternity, he leaped into a tigerish rage. I could have sworn he guessed…! His instinct, that of a primitive man, who has borrowed from civilization what is necessary to ensure hunting and prey, guided him with the certainty of witchcraft, except in the psychological, which he was unable to explain. “What are you saying, girl? Huh? Do we have a monkey? History? Seliyo? Look at that… Take you to the train? So Joseliyo could shoot me? You’re not leaving. Are you crazy?” Beneath the tone that was meant to be joking, there was a threatening indication. We were occupying rocking chairs under the awning, and the cool air from the fountain flattered us . I adopted a courteous, steely style, the best form of resistance. “Uncle, I suppose you don’t want to detain me by force. I’m sorry in my soul; I appreciate such affectionate hospitality, but I need to go. And I tell you, you’re not leaving until I’ve made them. Will I ever meet the children? Niece, do you think Uncle Climacus is blind or a fool? You two scurried around like doves in the dining room last night. The more you quarreled, the more alike. And this wedding, mountain woman, may seem like no marriage to you, but it’s necessary. Don’t make me talk anymore, you’re not stupid either, and you understand me halfway through speaking, and that’s it, and we won’t have to give the devil anything to laugh about. There’s no wedding, no cooing, Uncle. At least for now, I compromised. Excuse me; I never change my mind. Even less would I change in the face of violence. How violent, nor… If the boy has gotten into your heart. If you love him. It’s a good thing it’s that way, because it saves you a lot of trouble that was waiting for you… I’m a wretch, but having something that belongs to you taken away doesn’t bother anyone. And there are ways and ways of taking it away. No way, I’m not going to let my tongue run! Nor is it necessary, because, after all, my son and you…–And he put the pads of his thumbs together. I stood up calmly, even smiling–although inside, an earthquake of indignation shook me at that gypsy gunfighter, who was demanding my purse or my life, stationed in a ravine in the Sierra. All his flimsy Britishness was falling to pieces, and his true self was appearing… his natural self, perhaps the most aesthetic and picturesque. I decided to outwit him; I made an effort, controlled myself, leaned toward him, and, stroking his characteristic sideburns with my fan, I murmured with a smile: “Soniche!” He sat up in turn. His features distorted, and a malicious spark shone in his eyes, coming from far away. The look of someone who would murder, if he could… Me out of terror? I resisted the look, and with a cold heart, I pronounced: “Now I’m telling you that I’m leaving, not in the afternoon, but immediately, on foot, for Loja. From there, in a carriage, wherever I please. My maid will be there to pack my luggage. And be careful that no one follows me or hinders me. Goodbye, Uncle Juan. In case we never see each other again, the hand…” He angrily squeezed mine and shook it. I managed not to scream, not to reveal the pain of the bruise. “Not see each other? We’ll see each other!” I’ll trust you with that…–And when I started walking, he put his finger to his forehead, as if to say he didn’t believe me in my right mind. Chapter 14. _Lyrical Interlude._ I arrived in Madrid by surprise, and Farnesio’s alarm was indescribable. –But what happened? Weren’t you feeling well? Some upset? –Nothing… Convince yourself that I am wherever I please. –It’s that your uncle wrote me that you would stay with them until autumn, and that you were going to take a trip to Biarritz and Paris. –Those were his plans. Mine were different. Don Genaro’s face took on an expression of anxiety, as if he saw an abyss opening up. –So… about José María…? I made the eloquent chattering sound with my fingers that indicates “Frrrt… flew.” Violent in his mimicry, due to his Italian origin, Farnesio held his head in both hands, stammering: “My God! My God! What’s going to happen here? ” “Nothing!” I respond haphazardly, since I essentially don’t know what might happen, although I suspect where the terrors of my… steward lie. “Be it as you wish!” Don Genaro sighs from the depths. “So it must be… Listen: it is necessary to send today to my cousin Angustias the earrings and the emerald brooch that belonged to my… to my aunt, Doña Catalina, who in glory… Ah! I wish to ask by telephone the Concierge of the English Consulate if they can order for me from England a good maid, what is to be called superior, without regard for price. The best they can spend. A hefty tip for the intermediary… ” “I thought that little French girl… How cheeky!” Eladia warned me … She even winked at me… I had to take a look at her… Where has that little bitch gone? I smile and shrug. “She’ll arrive on the afternoon train with my trunks. Would you do me a favor?” to settle the score, reward her, and send her off. I just want to practice my English a little. Alone, sprawled in my tiny little corner, I recall the brief episode in Granada. Not to vent my indignation at the rest, but to plunge into myself. How did I let myself be carried away by instinct? By surrendering—because morally I was surrendered—to a quidam, for José María isn’t a scoundrel, as a jealous woman would say, but he’s the first one who passes by on the opposite sidewalk—I also behaved like anyone else… Was that instinct that nearly overwhelmed me bad or good? Perhaps it’s merely inferior; a base curiosity. And is there no greater love than that? If that were love, I would laugh at myself, and I would see myself with such contempt that… And if it were jealousy, the repugnance instilled in me by the hypothesis of Octavia fastening my pearl necklace, of her hand brushing my skin; if this physical disgust were jealousy, I would find myself a caricature. In any case, I have discovered within myself a fierce little beast… to which I believed myself superior. At the first bite, I almost gave my life, my soul, my future, in exchange… In exchange… for what? For what, let’s see, Lina? It’s funny, it’s remarkable! I don’t know. Nothing, I don’t know. Could it be ridiculous? Well… I don’t know, anyway! I am a spinster who has lived freely and is not entirely a child. I have read, I have learned more than most women, and perhaps men. But what do books teach us about the intimate? My friends from Alcalá have had the idea of calling me wise. Wise, and I don’t know the key to life, its secret, the science of the tree and the serpent! Of those illiterate women who will be crossing the street at this moment— modest seamstresses, maids, with dirty underwear and shapeless hands—few will be those who, next to me, cannot call themselves doctors! And what is terrible for me, what defeats me, is the mystery. My understanding does not defend my sensitivity; I don’t know where the course of my blood takes me, which I also cannot see, and yet which, nevertheless, rules me! I close my eyes and hear again the babbling of José María, flattering, greedily sucking my eyelids with his mouth… “My little bloody one…! ” Ah! It is necessary that I investigate what love is, love, love! And that I find out without humiliating myself, without soiling myself. But how? By acquiring certain works? Between print and reality, there’s a wall. By disguising myself à la Maupín…? No, because I’m not looking for adventure, but disillusionment. I want to travel, and first, like swallowing medicine, swallow the remedy for the surprises of the imagination. Associating the idea of the lesson I desire with that of a salutary drug, I recall a reading, that of the _Physician of His Honor_. The Doctor’s intervention in a matter of honor and jealousy; medical science as a solution to moral conflicts—had surprised me. It couldn’t have been just any executioner who “bled” Doña Mencía de Acuña, but Ludovico, the doctor. And I also evoked the personages and kings who made use of the doctor in critical situations, for the effective mixtures slipped onto a plate or a glass… The doctor, an actor in the physical drama , like the confessor in the moral one… The doctor… But which one? Doña Catalina had had several: some eminent; others, practitioners. None of them, however, seemed appropriate to appeal to their science. Science! I laughed to myself. The waiter at the café across the street, the innkeeper on the corner, knows that! What a science, that of the apple of paradise!… I assumed, I don’t know why, that the explanation would be easier with a completely unknown doctor. I decided to leave the choice of the one who was to treat my cataracts to chance. And one afternoon I went out at random, remembering some address, an advertisement I had read the day before in a newspaper. They weren’t the address of a specialist—oh, what anticipatory repugnance!—but of someone soliciting clients; probably a young man… By streetcar, then on foot, I make the walk. A secluded street, a mesocratic house, a doorkeeper in a red shawl. Here is the temple of the Eleusinian mysteries… I climb to the third floor, with the honors of a second floor, where so many second-rate people live. A metal sign—Doctor Barnuevo, three to five…—Luck protects me; there’s no one in the office. This fate probably frequents Doctor Barnuevo’s anteroom… A young maid, a local, lets me in; the doctor looks at me, impressed by my appearance of an elegant woman, dressed in Paris, wearing a string of pearls half-hidden under the collar of my blouse. The doctor may not analyze all this at first, but he notes it in general; and, respectfully, he pushes a chair forward for me. The doctor is still young, indeed, but bald, prematurely droopy, with a forced smile, saddened eyes, and a dark beard already redolent of salt and pepper. His youth is evident in his white teeth, in his voice, in everything—despite the visible wear and tear and fatigue. He begins an interrogation. “No, I’m not suffering from anything… I’ve come to ask you for a service… strange. Very great.” An uneasiness, a sudden misgiving, makes the doctor’s withered silk complexion redden a little . I smile and reassure him. “Madam… ” “Miss… ” “Fine, then, miss… ” “It’s just a matter of you explaining something to me that I don’t understand…” And I expand, and I state my intention and I reason it and I support it and I argue: it’s likely that I’ll marry soon, it’s almost certain… ” “Who can commit to something they don’t know? Don’t you think so, doctor? And you don’t talk about these things calmly with a fiancé… Am I the first woman to ask a doctor such a question?” I think I detect a kind of admiration in Barnuevo’s surprise. I insist, fearless, doubling down on my sincerity. I relate the story of Granada without too many veils. And, as my frankness grows, the doctor’s defenses crumble in his mind. I’m taking hold of him. “I don’t know if what you’re asking me is good or bad… It’s definitely singular… ” “Arduous, why? Bad, why? Are you a slave to the concept of good and bad? We, for ourselves, cut ourselves the bread of good; we dose ourselves the poison of evil. ” “Surely you’re a lady… ” “Miss! ” “Ah, of course! Naturally!” He smiled. “An exceptional young lady. That’s why I’ll lend myself to whatever you want. To what limit should my lessons go? ” “To where my decorum begins… mine, understand me clearly, my own, not someone else’s. And my decorum does not consist in not knowing how others fail to be decorous. The limit of my decorum is not set where other people’s are; but, on the other hand, it is fixed and immovable; I believe that you, Doctor, understand a word. Thus muzzled, the immortal fatuity of man, I advanced with more ease. “Some personal observation, Mr. Barnuevo, has now replaced experience for me … which I may never have. ” “I must warn you that experience, in the full sense of the phrase, is perhaps something irreplaceable… at least in this terrain we tread. All my… teachings will not break a certain veil… ” “That may be so; but already, through that veil, the truth shines forth. I would almost say that it has shone forth, even before hearing your learned explanations! Allow me, Doctor, to inform you of what I have perceived, profane… For I have noticed that the most fixed and constant feeling that accompanies displays of love is shame. Am I mistaken?” “You’re not wrong… It’s an idea!” ” And don’t you find that this shame, so persistent, so painful, so humiliating, is like a dirty fly that falls into the nectar of amorous poetry and infects it, and makes it, for a delicate person, impossible to swallow? ” “Miss… little lady, there are those who don’t even know shame by name!” he argued festively. “Oh, Doctor, I’m going to contradict you! Excuse me; as soon as you explain it to me, you’ll agree, because you’re more observant than I am, poor me… Except for some cases that will be morbid, this painful shame It is not suppressed even in the midst of abjection. It may hide under appearances, but it exists, and sometimes it reveals itself so spontaneously! “Well, I confess it!” he agreed. “There are cynicisms, in certain professions, that are nothing but shame turned inside out! ” “And doesn’t that mean… ? Doctor, is anyone ashamed of beauty? ” “The function, Mademoiselle, may not be beautiful; but it is necessary. Because it is necessary, nature has clothed it with attractiveness, surrounded it with enchanting mists. The species demands… ” “I want nothing to do with the species… I am the individual. The species is the herd; the individual is the solitary one, the one who lives apart and at the top. And, in truth, that acrid, sad shame, that peculiar, constant, and acute shame, warns me against it. There is a reason religious reprobation weighs on it; There’s a reason society covers it up with so many cloths and uses so many euphemisms to refer to it… You don’t pick up with tongs what doesn’t stain. —Perhaps hypocrisy… You, miss, before entering the hell where I am going to guide you, remember Paradise! Motherhood ! Sacred motherhood! A cruel irony drew a phrase from me, the scope of which the Doctor could not measure. —I too have had a mother… a very tender mother! The doctor, with a glance, scrutinized me. —Are you in a hurry? —No one is waiting for me… He rang a bell, and the local maid appeared, fixing me with distrustful, swarthy little eyes. —Cipriana, I’m not home. Whoever comes, don’t come in. She approaches her shelves, makes room at the table, brings a stack of thick, half-folio books. She begins to turn the pages. The engravings, artless, simple in their shamelessness, simultaneously attract and repel the eye. The explanation, without embroidery, concise, grave, is the complement, the key to the figures. Gloom and salivation reveal their inner suffering; the doctor, equal to the occasion, without malice, without false reservations, teaches, points, insists, when he reads into my turbid pupils that I haven’t understood. Sometimes, the repulsion makes me turn so pale that he interrupts, gives me a break, and fans me with a newspaper… What a vaccination of horror! What surprises me most is the monotony of it all. What graceful and varied lines a catalog of plants, shells, or crystallizations offers! Here, the idea of the harmony of the divine plan, the natural elegance that inspires art, disappears. The forms are grotesque, vile, tumbling. One might say they proclaim the ignominy of needs… Needs? Misery… “I feel nauseous,” I sigh at last. “Where does this window open, Doctor? ” “An interior courtyard… I’m not rich… My dream would be to have a garden the size of a handkerchief… Wait, we’ll open the door…” From my mesh bag woven with diamonds, I take the gold and crystal bottle of salts. I breathe. “Go on… The bad road, take it quickly…” “I think, miss, you’re doing something crazy. I have scruples. ” “Go on, I said… You’re not going to leave me halfway up the hill.” And I approach the book, brushing the arm of this man, who is neither old nor unfriendly, and with whom I feel as safe as I could be in the company of the gravedigger. He goes back to throwing in shovelfuls of more fetid earth. When the standard sheets are gone , others come along, and I have to stifle a scream… They’re also colorful… How colorful! What vermilions, what siennas, what greenish lacquers, what mortuary asphalts! What flora of putrefaction! And the relief! What a sculptor of monstrosities played with his chopsticks, revealing human flesh in disgusting mounds, trimming it into horrendous jagged edges! “This is wrong,” Barnuevo insists, closing an album of horrors. “I ‘m repenting, miss! ” “Doctor, what you feel, and I too, is nothing but the usual shame! Shame, and nothing more! We are ashamed of belonging to the species. Let’s drink the chalice at once! Is something missing, Doctor…? Don’t omit anything. The abnormalities?” –That too? –Also. –What brutality… mine! –Mine, if you will. Soon, for God’s sake, Mr. de Barnuevo. And the hidden depths of filth are revealed, in which the original corruption of the species reaches the borders of madness; the anomalies of the secret museum, the primitive teratologies, today re-flowering in the rot and mold of ancient civilizations; the childish delusions, the iniquities cursed in all languages, the ritual infamies of demonic cults… Tears roll down my cheeks, saving me from a nervous breakdown. The Doctor, moved, asks: –Enough? –Enough. Give me your hand, with… He finds the phrase delicate and appropriate. –With the most fraternal feeling. “And who will ever be able to grow another one!” I shouted, in a fit of rage. “Doctor, I owe you gratitude… Allow me… not to send you anything for your fees. ” “I’m not going to get rich, miss; I have bad luck in my profession… But if you were to send me something… believe me, I’m capable of… I don’t know… of feeling even greater shame, the kind that mortifies you so much! And of crying… like you! ” “Wouldn’t you accept a portrait of mine? To remember such a… unusual client? ” “I would always remember you!… I eagerly await the portrait. And pardon, and… no shame. May I offer you a sip of Malaga? You look so out of sorts… Perhaps you have a fever. ” “Thank you… I’m getting late…” It was one of those reddish, warm evenings of spring in Madrid. As I reached the crowded streets, the crowd harassed me with intolerable contact. They elbowed me. I felt like slapping someone. I ran, fleeing the central streets. I found myself on Paseo de la Castellana, where the streetlights were beginning to be lit. The scent of the acacia trees exacerbated my nascent headache. I didn’t even realize how unwise it was to walk alone in a place that was becoming deserted, wearing a string of pearls over my black suit. An elegant carriage rolled slowly past. The coachman looked at me. I understood. “Can you take me home? ” “Get in, madam.” The door was emblazoned, the interior lined with white epinglé, and smelled of Russian leather. What a stroke of luck, having found a private coachman looking for a little extra money! A cab would be unbearable, stinking… At home, I bathed, went to bed… The freshness of the sheets woke me up. The electric fan, from the ceiling, sent waves of refreshingly cold air my way . My fever was increasing. Later, I compared my physical condition to that of a person attending a bullfight for the first time . All night long I spent revisiting the engravings, feeling ashamed of having been born. This was what the ancient trees of the Alhambra suggested, the romanticism of the centuries-old waters in which the tears of lovelorn sultanas dissolved, the gentleness of the zegris, the scent of the jasmine, the enervation of the endless afternoons, the song of the fountains, and the bewitching bitterness of the myrtles ! And, turning over thorns, I repeated: “Never! Never!” _The one from Carranza._ Chapter 15. A nervous fever, not serious, kept me down for several days. I recovered serenely. Farnesio was like a madman. On the one hand, he thought I was dying; on the other, he thought Uncle Climacus had come determined to do one. It’s only true that my uncle is in Madrid and hasn’t visited me. “He must have his business. We can’t deny that gentleman the right to travel.” A frown on Don Genaro’s brow; his face, more drawn out and worried than usual, tells me that suspicion is undermining him and sapping his spirit. I can imagine what he fears. However, the undertaking won’t be so light. I’ll know how to defend myself, now that the phantasmagoria of love have vanished, and all that remains is the desire for a strong, intense life, with other joys and other triumphs; those that my brilliant position assures me, for me who now have on my tongue, if not the pulp, at least The acrid and strong juice of the apple of good and evil… The old and dusty summer of Castile arrives, sweaty. I dedicate myself to planning my summer vacation. I remember, with relish, the dull heat of the Alcalá summers. The boiling of my blood demanded other airs, other horizons, and the lack of money tied me to the dead and silent town. The water heated in the jug. The only sound in the house was the maid’s slippery gait, dragging my discarded shoes. I couldn’t stop her from appearing before me with her topless figure, her sleeves rolled up above her elbows. I didn’t even have the consolation of my friends’ company: Carranza had gone on vacation to his homeland, La Rioja, where he owns vineyards, and Polilla to the mountains, to the house of a sister-in-law , whose children he gave lessons to… And when I was absorbed in recalling my old tediums and my new glories, the servant came with a little message: “Mr. Carranza is here. If the young lady is busy, he’ll wait. And if it’s not inconvenient, he’ll have lunch with the young lady. ” “Have him covered. Let him come into the office.” In a dressing gown, with a loose bun, with the prerogatives of a convalescent, I came out and shook the canon’s thick hand, robustly muscled despite his adiposity. I couldn’t explain why I felt entirely reconciled to him. “Blessed are your eyes. You could have come sooner. ” “I come on time. I come when there’s something important to say.” It’s half past twelve, and I’m certainly hungry. We’ll have lunch in peace, and afterward… Can we chat without witnesses? “I certainly will!” he exclaimed, asserting my independence. Orders to the chief to get his act together. Despair in the kitchen: getting busy so late, and with a young lady who for a fortnight has tasted nothing but milk, broth, and boiled chicken! At half past one, however, they serve a passable, ordinary lunch, to which Carranza does full honor. The melon with ice in the middle, the cold consommé, the eggs à la Morny, the epigrams of lamb, the valewsky… he loves everything. Gourmet and unsatisfied, he enjoys himself like a child. Until he sips his coffee, with his select liqueurs, and finishes the first-class Caruncho, he doesn’t decide to start talking. “My child, I have a lot in my satchel.” I’ll do my best to dispatch quickly: with you we can get straight to the point… First of all, you should know that your uncle Climacus has been in Alcalá for a few days. And I believe he also made a little stop in Segovia… Faced with my silence and the play of my satin slipper on the rug, he tightened his grip, now revealing his weapons. “Look, Lina, I’ve always thought you a woman of uncommon understanding. One can speak to you as one would to another… You’re in grave danger. Your uncle wants to attack the will and prove that you are not the daughter of Jerónimo Mascareñas, nor anything worthwhile; that there was a trick, and that the true owner of the fortune of Doña Catalina Mascareñas, widow of Céspedes, is he. It seems your uncle is furious with you because you refused to accept your cousin José María as your fiancé, who’s a lazy bum.” “You see if Carranza is well informed,” he boasted, beating his broad pectoral muscles and the majestic curve of his stomach. “It seems that the gypsy Señor de Mascareñas has left Alcalá firmly convinced that he has an ally in me. But he won’t sell me the blind-eyed donkey with bruises. A true Riojan won’t be fooled by an almiforero of that ilk. I’ve decided to spoil the situation and get you out of the mess, without anything coming to light that… that shouldn’t come to light. So, cheer up, don’t get angry with me… and laugh at _pindorós_, as they call such gypsies. ” “Carranza, thank you very much. It seems to me you’re sincere… on this occasion. ” “No reticence… There are different times, says the Apostle: there was a time when… it was appropriate… a certain dissimulation… Now, it’s all fair.” I profess affection for you, but in showing it to you, by saving you, I won’t deny that I also have an interest… a legitimate interest, in which I harm no one. This isn’t to be criticized. Isn’t it? –Not at all. I know for sure how you’ll save me. “In a pleasant way. I propose a fiancé. ” “You’ve arrived at a good time! Even the name repels me; the idea would make me sick again. ” “Hello, hello. Were you the one who dreaded the convent? ” “Do you want to hear the same thing I hear in confession?” A crease of severe unease in the greedy, shaven mouth… Carranza listens; his ear, on the lookout, seems to capture, to drink in my singular words. I tell him everything, in abbreviation, from the fleeting reveries of Chevalier Lohengrin to the visit to the doctor… “I understand,” he nods, “that you are under an impression of disgust and even loathing. Those things, from the point of view you chose, are odious. I have known you for many years, and I have never seen anything but idealism in you. Your imagination elevates, refines everything.” However, you must reflect that if we studied other functions in that way, for example, those of nutrition, we would let ourselves die of hunger. And it would be a shame if lunches like yours… Seriously, the situation is serious. Either the cloister, or marriage. “Single, I will live very much as I please. ” “You will return to Alcalá, poor again, and perhaps they will not even give you the little income you enjoyed then. Neither you, nor Don Genaro, nor I, can defend this bad and lost cause. Evidence of substitution, of rigging, has appeared; the thing was not done, it seems, with much skill; it was not foreseen that one day, with Dieguito dead, the question of inheritance might arise. Don Juan Clímaco is not short of keyholes. The house of cards is crumbling. There is, however, someone who will hold it up with just one finger. ” “As much as that? ” “Well!” Your future, the boyfriend I’m proposing to you. Agustín Almonte, son of Don Federico Almonte. The name wasn’t new to me. In Alcalá, Carranza spoke a thousand times of Almonte Sr., a fellow countryman of his, to whom he owed, according to Polilla’s reports, the canonry and decisive protection. “Almonte, wasn’t he a minister last year? ” “I certainly was. Of the Treasury. But his eldest son, Agustín, who was also Undersecretary of the Interior last year, must go much further than his father. He spends some time in La Rioja; I know him well; we talk a lot… and I’ll be damned if he doesn’t become a minister in his party’s first election. Do you know the campaigns he ran in Parliament? His father is getting old; he suffers from asthma. On the other hand, his son… A future like his, no Spaniard in their thirties today will have. He brings together a thousand different elements. His talent as a speaker, his extraordinary talent, you’ll see when you meet him… and the path is smooth, because from the first moment, his father’s position made him stand out from the crowd. The father is like a hen who has hatched a duckling and sees it take to the water; Agustín’s stature, his flights of fancy, go beyond Don Federico’s. So, upon learning that you are so educated, the boy has been electrified. He, precisely, wanted a superior woman… –Am I a superior woman, according to that? –Come on, as if you were surprised. Your qualities… –Damn! My first quality will be my money… –Your money, your money! You’re not the only rich girl, darling. Without leaving La Rioja itself, I would have found good matches for Agustín. Money is a very necessary thing, it’s the foundation; but walls are needed. And, besides, my dear Lina, your money is in the air! Don’t forget it. If Agustín doesn’t fix it, when you least expect it… You have a bad enemy. Don Juan Clímaco is very experienced in tricks and lawsuits… Think about it, girl. “Bring me Don Agustín Almonte whenever you like.” Carranza fixed on me his shrewd, calm eyes, those of a practical confessor. He searched my soul. “What does this mean, ‘bring me’?” he joked. “Is it some kind of bundle? He’s a boyfriend the likes of which you could never have dreamed. May God grant that he likes you; because, child, no one is a doubloon of eight. If he likes you, he will like you, of course, and he will sweep from your thoughts those romantic cobwebs of repugnance to the natural, to what God himself instituted… then…” I suppose you don’t think anyone else would give your blessings but this poor, cornered canon and disreputable writer… “Only,” I objected, “since the bride and groom are such high-ranking personages as you say, it seems only natural that a bishop should marry them…” A gesture and a laugh completed the suggestion. Carranza patted me on the hand. “There’s a reason I told Agustín you’re worth an empire…” Chapter 16. What does the new proco look like? By my faith, he’s extremely pleasant. Good height, not too fat yet, although he shows a tendency to bend; dark, with a chestnut and silky forked beard; his cheeks as pale as his forehead, with somewhat protruding eyes, a sign of eloquence, his hair abundant, well-placed, with a five- pointed part; he would easily resemble a tenor, if intelligence and willpower did not predominate in the character of his physiognomy. From the first moment—it’s a vivid impression—his head reminds me of that of Saint John the Baptist on a platter; the beautiful head that appears, livid, in the starlight , through the mouth of the well in Salome. A highly aesthetic thing. The honorable pretext for the visit is that, informed by Carranza of the risk my interests may be in and the odious plot that “someone” wants to make me a victim of, to strip me of what rightfully belongs to me, he has come to offer himself as an advisor and guide, and when the time comes, as a lawyer, in order to stop the coup. He says this naturally, with the ease of politicians, accustomed to unraveling the most intricate intrigues and seeking formulas that make everything easier. Politicians are undoubtedly people who spend their lives suffering the onslaught of selfish and greedy interests, stumbling upon raw self-love and vanity, always threatened with defection and a treacherous stab in the back. Nothing is offered to politicians for free, and everyone, when addressing them, makes a calculation of value, of convenience. Thus, they weigh their words and measure their actions. Almonte never utters a phrase that doesn’t serve a purpose… And if I am the disillusioned one, he must be the skeptic. Our eyes, when they meet, seem to say: “Our sorrow is one and the same…” Our two arid disenchantments magnetize each other. He finds me on the defensive; he studies me. I consider him as one considers an object, a mechanism. He is a machine that I need. I am a field that offers him the harvest. He has seen the depths of human misery in its aspiration to power and in the first steps of its ascension; I’ve seen him in a doctor’s office. That’s quite all right! Let’s put aside the question of love, the repugnant question… and I’ll be able to take pleasure in the company, the companionship, and even the sight of this man, who is no ordinary man. If only I could have a friend in him! A friend almost my age, not a deluded old man like Polilla, nor a subtle fox like Carranza! I’ve been so alone since my reverie has been left, a poor, light flower, pressed and dried between the pages of Dr. Barnuevo’s horrible books, a museum of flesh corrupted by sin ! A friend! A friend… who isn’t a husband! My proco—it’s quite evident—has that gift of engaging in conversation, which the Castelars, the Cánovas, the Silvelas have all left a mark and memory of in their exercise of it . This is the gift and grace of politicians. He relates amusing anecdotes; He gently and playfully mocks Carranza, while making the gold of his miter gleam nearby; he draws a series of humorous pictures of an election in La Rioja; and my sick, misanthropic fatigue disappears; I laugh heartily at simple things, soothing to the nerves. I remember the Arabic muteness of my cousin José María. Almonte, at least, entertains me. Without knowing how, and fortunately, without any attempt at gallantry on his part, I would say that we now understand each other in many respects. I tell him the case of Hilario Aparicio, and he praises it highly. He knows Polilla’s friend a little; and with the fairness of a man accustomed to discernment, amidst the jokes, he defends him and praises him. “Don’t believe it. He’s a young man who’s studied, who’s worth something. ” “Would you do me the favor of protecting him, of setting him on his way? ” “Very willingly. It’s easy to be an acquisition. These young men are distinguished by what they’ve written, in the hope that, once they’re in a better situation, they’ll do exactly the opposite of what they wrote. Your trait, Lina, is of a most charming malice; it’s delightful. ” “My conscience sometimes reproves it. ” “Don’t worry. We’ll do everything possible for the Kirkegaardian”—didn’t you say that?—”I’ll see how we’ll return him to his natural self, stripping him of the false skin of his philosophies. And, on the other hand, you know for a fact that he’s not even sincere in the utopias he professes. I’m inviting you to lunch with Carranza the next day.” He excuses himself because he’s leaving that same afternoon for Zaragoza, where a matter of great interest calls him; and he adds without hesitation: “Where do you intend to spend the summer? ” “I confess I haven’t decided yet.” And then I beg: “Why don’t you make me a travel plan? ” “With great pleasure. I know Europe; I go out for two months every year to breathe it. It’s part of my duties and my studies, what they’ve come to call ‘Europeanization’. Before it was invented, I practiced it. It’s like that with so many things! You, Lina, could spend two weeks in Paris—the ladies in Paris always have so much to do.” “First, you should stop in Biarritz and San Sebastián… I’ll write to the Duchess of Ambas Castillas, who is there and is a very good friend of mine, so that she may see you and accompany you.” I will devote this time, while you are pleasantly occupied, to thoroughly inspecting your affairs and leaving the defense of your patrimony in order. Of course! The good Don Juan Clímaco Mascareñas and I know each other; I have intervened quite a bit in the affairs of his lifelong senatorship; he owes it to my father. I will find out properly; Señor Farnesio will enlighten me. And the gypsy will be careful. I have weapons, if he does. I will answer for that. Don’t worry. From Paris you can continue to Switzerland. I usually head that way. There I would have the honor of paying my respects… I will return from Zaragoza on the 15th. Do you think you will have set out by then? “Not likely. I am waiting for an English maid they are sending me, and without whom… ” “Indeed! Well, that being the case, on the 15th… Do you insist on inviting me to lunch?” When the procures arrive on my return, I already have Maggie, the maid, not English but Scottish, but dressed and trained in London, in the house of no less than Lady Mounteagle, the most superfirolithic. This woman, judging by the signs, is a pearl. Flat-chested, in her forties, with brown hair tinged with copper, a reddish complexion, and colorless eyes, she possesses a special elegance in her service. One feels elevated, having such a servant. Indirectly, with a gesture, she rectifies my lack of good taste, whatever is inconsistent with my position and status; and yet, Maggie does not go beyond her authority, and shows me an unlikely respect. Never familiarity, never interference, never neglect. She recommends a fairly young English servant, who will be extremely useful to us on the journey. He ‘ll pay bills, issue invoices, think about Daisy’s well-being, the _lulu_, and take care of annoying details. Maggie speaks French fairly poorly; the servant, Dick, speaks it with great ease. With both of them, I expect a comfortable journey. Almonte thinks the same; however, and agreeing that Maggie is an acquisition, he advises me to be careful. “You can imagine that the English also have their flaws. I have been naive, and I have believed in the superiority of the Anglo-Saxons; childishness… One of the things that civilization has at once most perfected and most corrupted is domestic service. Today they are served wonderfully, but hatred is the basis of these relationships. We demand so much from them, in our selfishness, that in turn, the idea of interest is the only one that They cultivate. Will you forgive me, Lina, for these warnings? I am old in comparison to you… that is to say, I am old inwardly; you, morally, are a child, full of candor. I am offended as if you had insulted me. She smiles, taking a spoonful of the praline ice cream. “Don’t you like to be candid? But candor, at certain times in life, is the sign of intelligence!” Always avoiding that personalization to which those who harass a woman tend , Augustine relates stories of the court, the annals of a society that I know only through the newspapers—worse than not knowing it at all. “From these conversations it seems to be inferred that love does not exist. It is as if it were a terrible ancient myth, a fabulous one. Augustine presents the actions of men from the point of view of convenience, utility, reason.” Undoubtedly, the attraction of the sexes exerts an influence, but the secret key is usually interest, vanity, ambition, a thousand springs that act, not only in the passionate age, but in all the ages of existence. Augustine’s words, nourished, sure, pour over my aching spirit, bruised from the fall, like a soothing balm. It consoles me to think that there is more than that love I longed for with mad longing. It rehabilitates me in my own eyes to agree with my progenitor that such a senseless desire is nothing but an accident, a feverish crisis, and that life is filled with many other things that lend it attraction and even a flavor of drama. “The conquest of power!” Augustine suggests. “No one who has never tried it knows what that is ! Since it is based on reality, not on fluid reverie of mystical adventures—because you are a mystic, Lina; Your years of solitude and unjust isolation have led you to mysticism and romanticism; I say that, since it is based on reality, on the most concrete realities, and at the same time on the depths of positive psychology… it has the charm of war, the violent flavor of conquest. Ah, if only you could prove it! “I don’t know how I would prove it. ” “I do know,” he responds, without the slightest mischievous intention. ” We will have a lot to talk about this. I pride myself on convincing you. There is nothing easier than convincing people of talent… and of a keen sensitivity to sense beautiful horizons, dispensing with, as you know how to do without, madrigals and corny romances. I look at you with smiling benignity. I am so grateful that, even through artifice, you hide from me the horrifying memory, from which I am still ill! You have the art of treating me as I now wish to be treated; to deceive my convalescent melancholy with prospects that, without enchanting me, distract me. “My friend Lina, there are things that, before you know them, seem to hold the secret of happiness, and when you know them, they are more bitter than death. We must flee from such things. We have all been twenty-five years old, and suffered vertigo and paid tribute to deceit, to farces, to paper lanterns with a match inside… We see more clearly now. Another fight, ardent, calls us. Another _sport_, as they say now… Do you suppose that women cannot play that game? Yes, they can. Behind every combatant there is usually an Amazon; behind every powerful man, a social queen. Allow me, at least, to initiate it. Afterwards, if you do not get into the game, our friendship will persist: I will always be equally determined to prevent Mascareñas from succeeding with his evil intentions.” I’ll settle the score with you, don’t doubt it… When I said goodbye the next day at the station, he whispered in my ear, handing me a lovely box of chocolates: “A little postcard… I want to know what impression Paris makes on you. Ah, Carranza! I recognize your ecclesiastical, diplomatic, future cardinal hand in the way you have indoctrinated this fool. You have revealed to him my wound and the precaution that is needed not to irritate the living wound… You have revealed to him my spirit tense with horror, my nerves in turmoil, my mind clouded by shadows and Goyaesque caricatures, by visions worse than the macabre, – oh, death is less Nauseating! –And perhaps so… Chapter 17. Biarritz is magical, with its briny, lively air, its angry sea water, the joy of its modern buildings, and the appetite I’ve recovered, and the youthful humor to move, to exercise, to bathe in the sea, probably without necessity. On the other hand, in Biarritz I begin to glimpse that intense activity, without lyricism, those springs and those ends that evoke not the infinite, but what is within reach, not of all hands–that would be despicable then–but of few, wise and skillful ones… I glimpse that attractive game, of which the other game is a very crude image, the one spoken of here and in which the “points” are plucked. This is what I write to Augustine, not in the little postcard he humbly requested, but in a friendly letter, in which I point out the camaraderie. The pretext for convincing myself that I should write to you soon and at length is that it seems natural to inform you of the welcome accorded me by the Ambas Castillas, by means of the note of introduction, couched in terms of urgent interest. The Duchess, to whom I sent the note through Dick, replies through him, announcing an immediate visit; and half an hour later she appears, agile and graceful, her face veiled in tulle, in order to conceal and soften the ravages that the impious years have wrought on her celebrated beauty. Her features still remain, beneath the stucco; her foot is curved, her hand elegant through Sweden; her bust, bold, obeys the masterpiece of the corset; and in her sixty-something maceration, an arrogant grace persists that I would like to imitate. I envy her delicate gestures, of coquetry and triumphant beauty, of gentle poise and haughty modesty . I envy this air, which only lends a certain atmosphere… to the atmosphere that must become mine. The visit is short. In the afternoon, in his car, he takes me along picturesque roads to San Sebastián. We pass other cars, crowded with people: older women, children with modernist silhouettes, men who greet each other with gallant respect; two cars stop, ours the same; Ambas Castillas introduces itself; sharp curiosities strike me; I hear names, whose murmur I had heard from afar. With us comes a sister from Ambas Castillas, insignificant, quiet, and apparently devout, since she crosses herself as she passes in front of churches. The Duchess riddles me with questions. “How long have I known Agustín Almonte and Don Federico? ” “I don’t know Don Federico. Don Agustín is going to deal with important matters of mine. ” “Is he your lawyer? ” “Yes, Duchess.” Afterward, the suits come out into the square. My gray attire, a relief, my hat, over which flies a bird with bold wings, an impossible bird, constructed with feathers of the finest batiste, curled I don’t know how and sprinkled with diamond-like dew, my strands of magnificent, round pearls ; the details of my adornment capture the Duchess’s expert attention. She finds me up to par; what I wear is impeccable. “Who dresses you?” I carelessly pronounce the couturier’s name. “Ah!” The exclamation is a poem. “Of course, that must be it… But the bit is expensive…” The questions, delicately strung, continue. Do I have siblings? Do I live alone in Madrid? Will I continue to Paris? Where will I go to finish the summer? The plans for Switzerland determine a discreet smile. “Our friend Almonte also, I believe, often goes that way to rest from his political, parliamentary, and professional labors… What a brilliant future Almonte has!” He’ll get wherever he wants. His father, in his own confidence, hasn’t reached the stature of other great politicians of his time: Cánovas, Sagasta, and that very likeable Silvela, such a man of the world… But since some have now died and others are as old as a palm grove, poor gentlemen!—the lady added with a youthful, almost childish display, which despite everything didn’t displease her—”do you think that Almonte… I don’t understand that; it’s just that I hear; my husband is very fond of it, he goes to Congress a lot… The sun that rises is Almonte.” I completed the eulogy. The duchess echoed me. Her insignificant sister sighed. “It’s a shame that his ideas… ” “My child, his ideas!” the duchess hastened. “Manolo, my husband, assures us that Agustín, when he rules, will respect what he should respect!” And changing her tone: “It’s certain that when Almonte starts a family, that will also have a beneficial influence on his way of life. Oh, the family! If he finds a talented and good woman… And he will. Don’t you think the same, Lina?” The familiarity of the given name was a compliment to the elegant lady, undoubtedly the arbiter of society, although her sun is now setting. This once splendid sun has completely set, a reflection of its radiance will still remain. The intention of flattering me, in case I am something more to Almonte than a wealthy client, is revealed in the effort to accompany and pilot me around the Casino—without unwelcome intrusiveness—to invent entertaining excursions for me, to socialize with me. Word must have spread, a password , because there were courtesies, I found facilities, I found myself surrounded, teased, invited left and right to luncheons and dinners. I had a foretaste of the rewards that power inspires; I felt the infatuation of the upward march along the flowery path. In a few days, I didn’t have time to deeply observe what lay before me. My enjoyment was doubled by the physical well-being that the invigorating bathing brought me, and by the feminine pleasure of dressing up and acquiring unnecessary things in the rich shops. I also felt proud to invite the Duchess, her sister, and some of those who had given me gifts to lunch at my hotel. They heard about Dick and Maggie, and I saw the admiring expressions on their faces when I added: “Well, my Scottish girl… She came to serve me from Lady Mounteagle’s house. Indeed, she knows her duty… After all, Biarritz is a small town!” Within a week, there wasn’t a single person who didn’t know me. They knew nothing of my true self; however, they even knew the number of small bottles of chiseled vermeil contained in my suitcase, brought by Maggie from Mapping and Web, queen of expensive and exquisite shops where such London-style articles are sold. Not everyone, however, gave me the same welcome. There were his coldnesses, his distances, his impertinences, both aristocratic and plutocratic. With my thin skin, I felt some icy feelings, some ironies, poorly concealed by apparent acquiescence; there were his huddles that isolated themselves from me, his stiff greetings, worse than a head turned away from seeing. And then I really began to “get into the game.” By return mail, Agustín replied: “That’s the struggle. That’s what prepares for you the delight of victory. Jot down names. You’ll see what an exquisite delight it will be to remember them later… When the time comes, my friend Lina… And go to Paris soon. It’s better that you’ve passed through there like a meteor…” I followed his advice. “I wasn’t fascinated by Paris. It’s a capital where there are comforts, entertainment, and recreation for the eyes, but not intense and strange sensations, as your artful writers would have us believe.” The fact is that my imagination was somewhat agitated regarding Notre Dame. This monument has been seasoned, pickled, and recooked in romantic literature. Its architecture undoubtedly offers a typical example, but it lacks the suggestiveness of Spanish cathedrals , with their gilded, dusty crust, mysterious chapels, wax-dripped tombs, and saints dressed in tissue. Notre Dame… A hall. Clean, swept, taught with ease and with boniment by an industrious sacristan with an emphatic, oily voice. Notre Dame lacks feeling. I would break some of the figurines from the portico, plant brambles and weeds in the atrium. And yet, here, those of the Cenacle felt deeply. They brought Notre Dame out of themselves . I, a Spaniard, cannot feel deeply here, not even in contrast to the streets infested with taximeters, buses, and other Ugly things. It’s probably better not to feel. Lyricism, like strong liquor, damages me. I slouch in Parisian prose. Manicures, hairdressers, dressmakers, rag kings, living mannequins parade in affected attitudes. My nails are shells polished by the sea. My hairdo becomes spiritualized. My shoes are refined. I leave the few old-fashioned jewels of Doña Catalina Mascareñas that I didn’t transform in Madrid to be retouched on Calle de la Paz , so they can make me Marie Antoinette-style or original modernist pieces. I go to the theaters, where the intermissions bore me. I take a plunge in art and curiosity at the Louvre. How much fun Don Antón de la Polilla would have here! I could have made him happy for a fortnight … Except it would bore me, because I would admire everything in this city and in this way of being of a bourgeois, Jacobin people. I would consider every single Voltaire-like innocent! And if only he had grace! But a tiresome Voltaire, smoke-cured in Alcalá… And what suffocates me in Paris, what makes its atmosphere leaden, is the continuous display of human misery, the industrialized, feigned, shaved filth, cultivated like a field of potatoes or a field of alcacer. The bareness and crudeness of the theaters; the illuminated illustrations on the kiosks; the chili-colored titles of the volumes that bookstores bring out onto the sidewalk; the advertisements with mustard and cayenne pepper, renew my moral nausea, the suffering of sad shame , the repugnance for having a body. The boring hours return , and upon returning to the hotel, I slump on the midday sun while Maggie gives me hygienic advice and recommends the potion Lady Mounteagle used for her vapors… “To Switzerland!” I order laconically. “Let’s go directly to Geneva… Pack your luggage.” Chapter 18. I notice in Switzerland the opposite of what I did in Granada. I could have made Granada for myself. Switzerland is made: so made that I discover nothing new, intimate, in it. The sedation of Switzerland, its frigid purity of horizons, do me, however, a great deal of good. I understand why one seeks rest here after a bone-crunching fall. Active rest; not the dissolving languor of the Alhambra. Since Augustine writes to me that his chores will detain him for another fortnight and that we will meet in Geneva, I dedicate this time to cities and lakes. Of the Alps, I visit everything that doesn’t require displays of mountaineering. I’m from the Castilian plateau! I climb, from within, to the inaccessible mountains; not with my feet. I’ve visited Freiburg and Bern, finding the hotels superior to the cities; Lucerne and Zurich, and, via Schaaffhausen, I’ve headed for Lake Constance, a place less infested with English tourists than the rest of Switzerland. The Rhine, which forms these two lakes, between which Constance resembles the brooch of a chlamys, is at least a river whose image I’ve seen in my desires, a river of legend. Constance is little more than a small town; however, the hotels are no less suitable than those of any other country. Switzerland has reached perfection, in terms of hotels. And it is a sensation of calm and physical enjoyment, restorative, that this solitary and magnificent life brings me, after the enervation of the train, with Maggie, who doesn’t give me time to formulate a wish, and spending the whole day outdoors, the virgin air purified by the eternal snows, on a balcony or veranda overlooking the lake, which is strewn with climbing roses and graceful goatsfoot. Beside me, sitting lazily, a little English girl is reading a novel; from time to time her flax-flower eyes anxiously seek the eyes of a terra cotta Englishman, who, without caring about his companion, is rocking in the shelter of a huge newspaper sheet. Poor creature, do you know what you long for? What power must deception have to make your little head of a Pre-Raphaelite archangel, haloed with fluid gold, turn with such insistence towards that piece of ruddy meat, kneaded with slices of raw beef, and inflamed with skin-piercing mustard and the stinging aromas of rabid spices! Of Constance, I also like that her memories do not provoke in me Lyricism… Here, no shadows float except those of recalcitrant heretics roasted at the stake, and emperors, counts, and barons whose wealth had to be seized because they wouldn’t pay for the city’s bourgeois lodging . It’s clear to see that the Swiss have been convinced, throughout the ages, of two things: that one must be independent and that one must collect one’s hotel bills on time. The Rhine attracts me; I would gladly cross the border and tour Bavaria and the Tyrol, although I suspect they might look exactly like Switzerland; the same glaciers, the same precipices, and those mountains where those who manage to reach the summit bleed from their ears. I don’t make the excursion because I feel a certain anxiety about seeing Augustine again; I like the prospect of his presence. No disturbance, no emotion distorts this simple, friendly desire. A postcard warns me, and I return via Lake Como to Geneva , where I hadn’t wanted to linger on the way. I settle in, not in the best hotel, but in the one with the best view of the Blue Lake. It’s not just a phrase: in Lake Geneva, the waters of the Rhône, as they settle, sediment their slime and acquire a clarity and color like a very clear sapphire. Some believe this explanation isn’t enough, and that some mineral or soil of special composition has dissolved in them, making them resemble a shred of sky. I remember those centuries-old waters of Granada, where the past rolls its voluptuous tears… and it seems to me that this lake is like my soul, where the slime has settled and only the purity of repose remains. I never tire of looking at it and understanding it. It forms a half-moon, and in one of its horns is set Geneva, like a diamond at the end of a jewel. No Swiss lake, not even Lake Constance, where the Rhine flows into, surpasses it in magnitude. It is rightly called the Ocean in miniature. The ferryman who takes me around it in a little boat repainted white, a charming little walnut shell, informs me, with Swiss sincerity, that the lake is worse than the sea: its treachery, more unexpected. On stormy days, the level of the Geneva River suddenly rises two meters; suddenly , it deflates; half an hour later, it swells again. And, thinking I’m frightened, the poor man adds: “But today there’s no need to worry. We know when there’s no need to worry.” I smile disdainfully, because eventual danger has never seemed to me very worthy of consideration, among the thousand that threaten human life, knowing that, in the end, it is a sure prey to death. I am as aware as the boatman of this singular phenomenon, which is especially noticeable at both ends of the lake, and, consequently, near Geneva. When Augustine comes, I will spread the word to him: we will stroll along this tiny, feline sea, and we will make the excursion around it, along its picturesque shores. A telegram… Almonte arrives this afternoon. Naturally, I do not wait for him: he is the one who, now trimmed and clean, requests permission to introduce himself to me. I order that a tablecloth be placed on the table I am occupying, near a window through which the blue vision of the lake enters. And, familiarly, we eat together, as if we were already husband and wife… I once again experience the pleasant impression of Madrid, which bears none of the characteristic signs of love, and for that reason does not refresh my still poorly healed wounds. Augustine is the _friend_… We both have the problem of life posed to us, with a magnificent curve of development; We both need to eliminate the lyrical poison, in the gymnastics and games of ambition. He tells me so, telling me old stories of bitterness and disappointment, which resemble mine… –All the so-called amorous adventures are very similar, Lina. One of the mirages of that fever is to suppose that there is in it a varied background of psychology. There is only the simplicity of the instinct, from which it emanates. The meal is placid, full of charm. We discover our predilections, we communicate secrets of the palate. Augustine barely drinks a couple of glasses of Bordeaux; I one of Rhine, with the fish, one of Champagne, very cold, with the roast. We both like exquisite freshwater fish, which were better in Constance because we were at the foot of the Rhine, and trout, salmon, and eels had a special flavor. All this is of utmost importance: Augustine believes that, in one’s hours of peaceful rest, one should refine oneself, enjoy the delights of all the good things in the world. “Yes, Lina, that’s the system… When you fight, you attack and resist without caring about the blows, the pain, the risk. But when we recover with a parenthesis of well-being and forgetfulness, then come all the epicureanism and sybaritism! We have in our hands a sweet fruit: let’s not lose a drop of its juice! From the first moment, we establish and define our situation. The world is one thing, we are another. We are two allies, two forces that must complement each other. He takes it for granted that he sets the direction. And I am astonished to find myself so inclined to submit, to accept a leadership position, and to accept it happily. I submit to this man whom I do not love; I submit to him because he can and knows more about the profane science that elevates his masters. My former ideal analyzed and destroyed, he promises me a life filled with haughty satisfactions; an “inimitable” life, as Mark Antony and the daughter of the Lagids called theirs when they united to dominate the world. And he also induces me to admit as a guide the prescience or tact he reveals in setting aside the question of love, the weaknesses of sex. The painful shrinking of shame has thus suppressed him. He has understood me, he has penetrated my abyss. Since he is not fatuous, he admits the hypothesis of not making a certain order of impressions in me. And, since he has the manly patience of the ambitious, he waits. And, since something more than the vulgar episode of turmoil in the senses is proposed , he respects me, and we understand each other in the infinite realms where man and woman can understand each other, when they have succeeded in trampling the serpent’s head before it distills its venom in the heart. Hours are regulated, a program is drawn up for our stay at the oasis. We see each other incessantly. Not only do we eat lunch and dinner together, but on the veranda we simultaneously have the same poetic breakfast: blond tea with fragrant, blond honey, which here, as in Zurich, is served in seductively clean little bottles. The village women in Zurich sell this honey, carrying the mountain flowers from which the bees sip it in one of the donkey’s baskets . The idea of a flowery hill, of an idyllic scene, is linked to this delightful tea. One day, laughing, Augustine points out to me that, after all, we unite in the cultivation of sensation; only it’s a gastronomic sensation. “Those aren’t embarrassing,” I reply. “And he approves. He has approved! We spend long hours contemplating the panorama, the enormous mountains superimposed on each other, each one wanting to get closer to the firmament; and, crowning it all, Mont Blanc, the colossus, which suggests daring thoughts, desires to climb it… We confess, however, that we have no vocation as mountaineers, nor have we thought of parodying Tartarin. “The cold… The fatigue… The crevasses, the avalanches, the ice that you slip on. That’s a bone to take,” he declares. “Don’t think, Lina, that I’m a coward.” But, as I know that my career is not lacking in dangers, and that if you fear them you don’t get where you ought to go, I avoid the other, the luxurious dangers. –Danger has its flavor… –Ah, lyrical, lyrical! Have you dreamed that I would bring you an edelweiss that I picked from the edge of a frightful precipice? Come, you’re not entirely cured yet. Leave that to the English, people without any imagination. When we climb, it’s higher than the mountains; it’s to peaks of another kind. This serves us only as a background. And the English climb, and climb, and what do they find? The same thing they left below. That is to say, worse. Snow and inaccessible cliffs. There you have it. He who climbs, must climb to reach something. Otherwise, he’s a fool. We laugh. The English are our buffoons. They constantly offer us some ultra-comic peculiarity. Their women are simply energetic caricatures, unless they are vaporous angels. We agree on the physical strength of the race. As for their mentality, we are not entirely convinced that it reaches the average Iberian mentality. “I am attracted by their cleanliness,” I declare. “An English crowd must not smell like a crowd from other countries. The human odor in that nation… ” “That’s what I thought until I spent a short time in London, and, above all, until I visited Scotland. The smell of people in Scotland is pungent. It’s a good idea for us to leave our homes to learn what we should imitate and what we should remember, so as not to be too pessimistic. Lina, I’ve decided that I must leave a deep mark on the history of Spain. That we must; because ever since I’ve known you, I’ve been counting on you. Very serious events are being prepared in our country .” Which ones? For now… But that they are being prepared, only a blind man would doubt it. Whoever succeeds in taking control of these events when they occur will reach the limits of his power; it is not easy to calculate where he will end up! I await my hour, not waiting for fortune to awaken me, but awake, with my loins girded, like the Israelite leaders. Complete solitude would sap me of strength, and a dull , unintelligent companion would serve as a hindrance. If you…? –The matter is worth considering, Agustín… carefully considered. –No, it is not worth considering, because I am not asking for love. What I am requesting is a friend, one who is interested in my enterprise. You already know that I am leaving your uncle, Don Juan Climaco, very muzzled. He will not bark, not even growl. He knows that he cannot indulge in certain jokes with me. Ah! Don’t believe it; the net was well woven. You would have been caught in the net. The man set his trap with the skill of a gypsy at a fair. He bought testimonies that seriously compromised Don Genaro Farnesio; he would have gone… who knows! to prison. I imagine I’ve saved him and you . Do I deserve any gratitude? “A great deal,” I reply, extending my hand, which he shakes and grasps, without flattery or insinuation. “Only… it’s a delicate thing to say, Agustín… ” “Don’t say it… I already know. And I accept it. I’m sure you ‘ll change. ” “And if I don’t change? ” “Not one iota less respect or friendly cordiality. I believe the agreement is fair. All I ask is that the prohibition to which I subscribe for myself not be repealed for the benefit of another. If for someone you are to be more than a friend… ” “Ah! Not that! Don’t fear that.” –Well, not fearing that… Believe me, Lina, we’ll make a fortunate couple. Let’s give time its due. Everything passes; we are changeable in our feelings. I always trust in your intelligence, which is for me the great attraction you possess. Before meeting you, your fortune seemed a necessary basis for my aspirations—you won’t complain that I’m not frank—but now, it seems to me that even without fortune, I would desire your company and moral support. For a politician, being single is a danger. There’s a dark side to his future; most likely, he’ll find a woman who will either diminish him or put him in a bad light. –That’s true, and, since you’ve been so sincere, I tell you that a poor woman isn’t good for a politician either. I find the question of a politician’s honesty to be somewhat childish; the slightest error, in matters of government, is twice as important and twice as damaging to the country as a fraud. Except that it’s an arsenal for enemies, and a stumbling block for the unwary. That’s why a politician must be higher up, legitimately possess millions. That exempts him from suspicion. “Golden words!” he jokes, “and I don’t know where you got such experience… There was a man in the history of Spain who was, at one point, an arbiter, like a king. But he had a wife; and in the afternoon, she would sell the offices and honors that he would grant the next day. And the Mud reached his beard; and his power was short-lived, and he fell amidst scorn. Our strength is given to us by women. If you will not help me for love, do it for companionship. Let us go up hand in hand… I believe this dialogue took place one night when the lake reflected an enormous moon, still lit by the kisses of the setting sun. We were on the veranda, very close to each other, and the waiters, when called by some traveler ordering whiskey and soda, beer, or snacks, quickened their pace so as not to bother the enamored Spaniards. And yet, at the suggestive moment, our trembling hands did not approach, nor did our bodies lean toward one another. Chapter 19. And the singular courtship advances, cold and clear as the snows that coat those peaks and those jagged needles, which bite eternally into the pure blue sky. I’ll even say that courtship was colder than snow, since it sometimes lit up in the reflection of the sun. Augustine pointed this out to me one day. He wouldn’t regret a change in the situation; but he pursued it with careful attention, knowing that I was immune to surprises. He applied the science of psychology and mathematics to the conquest of my spirit while studying other people, pieces in his chess game. Master of long hours and propitious opportunities, considering the hazards of a journey as accomplices, he assumed—I later understood—that the fifteen minutes always arrive. I must admit that this idea, somewhat brutal at its core, was applied by the proco with artistic finesse. His attitude was that of a man seeking affection, and, to achieve it profoundly, he wants it complete, without restrictions. He was sure of my friendship; he counted on me as a partner… but what if, while he abandoned in me what should not be abandoned, another man…? “Not even hypothetically,” I stubbornly confirmed. To demonstrate his point with a lofty historical example, he reminded me of the bond between the conquistador Hernán Cortés and the Indian woman Doña Marina. “Isn’t it true that when we think of this couple, we don’t see in them amorous lovers, but rather two beings superior to those around them, united for a lofty political purpose? Cortés needed Doña Marina, her knowledge of the environment, her loyalty to prevent ambushes and betrayals. The Indian woman had become aware of the conquistador’s intentions. However, the way the two wills fused was through natural human union. In that, Lina, there is not even a hint of anything repugnant. It is a fact like breathing. By different paths than you, I have also come to despise matter, the stupid blindness of instinct.” But in the life of two people like you and me, this communion would be more spiritual than anything else… Do you deny me the right to defend my ideas…?–he interrupted himself with a pleasant, sagacious smile, like that of an Italian disciple of Machiavelli. “No,” I agreed. “It’s likely you won’t persuade me; but if I close my ears, one might infer fear. Spread your wings and persuade me, if you’re capable.” This conversation took place at Chillon Castle, which, following the flock, we had the idea of visiting on our excursion to Vevey, which was included in our trip around the lake. The place is, without a doubt, picturesque, somewhere between wild and peaceful; the tower and the dungeons only recall political episodes; Almonte points out to me how this aspect of life has changed: for political reasons, no one is usually put in irons anymore; and the Jews, whom these peaceful Swiss and Savoyards dragged out of the fortress to be burned alive, as some terrible Spanish inquisitors would have done, are today partisans of liberty of conscience… –The memories of Chillon will not be troublesome to you. The cupid does not flutter around here… –Yes, it does. Here Rousseau places scenes from his _Nouvelle Heloise_, which is a pestilent book, and, after considering who wrote it, very cloyingly disgusting. A skilled combatant, taking advantage of the advantage granted to him, Almonte knew how to discourse. On our journey around the mysterious lake, he displayed the resources of his art. I had not forbidden physical contact with his voice. His beautiful, full voice, that of a great orator, was aided by his eyes, somewhat protruding, but of an expressive blackness and whiteness . Little by little, his voice enters my soul. I experience a subtle pleasure in hearing it, whatever it says; only when calling the waiter. I am pleased that he unfolds his plans, doing the opposite of Mephistopheles with Faust; presenting to me, as the culmination of life, instead of the prospect of love, the triumph of an intense ambition. I listen with interest to the unprecedented and dramatic stories he tells me about well-known people, and he, to justify himself, argues: “Politics is increasingly a matter of people. There is no one who does not have an interest in their life, a secret driving force.” He who knows them is the master of many people, if they believe they can fulfill those desires that are not generally exhibited before the public, and even if they are exhibited… The haughty, frivolous, and dissolute society that I saw in passing in Biarritz is dissected by Augustine with a golden instrument, with the confident gestures of a man of science… of that science. “So-and-so? Towards the senate. So-and-so? The reinstatement of a title with Grandee. Perengano? Something more solid; a famous matter in litigation… Millions. Perencejo? All his life he has wanted to minister… and being no more inept than others, he has not achieved it. Ciclanito? That’s serious; he aims high, high… And, comment: “We will reach the top. God knows how high! However high it may be, neither you nor I are among those who suffer from vertigo… Here we do not arm ourselves with alpenstocks, because it does not amuse us.” From below we see the play of light… Anyway, I want you to be the second wife in Spain… unless by then events have taken such a turn that I could be the first. Well, the first! They won’t take that turn; at least, I don’t believe it; but the fact is that there are many ways of occupying first places… If I’m the master, you’re the master… If I’m Gaius, you’ll be Gaia… as the Romans used to say at wedding ceremonies. Ah! Excuse me, Lina… I addressed you informally… It was a historic form of informality. Never mind; it’s going to really bother me to go back to… Lina, I believe you’re a superior woman. Don’t friends address each other informally?… In reality… And the informality wasn’t embarrassing, based on this frank friendship. On the
contrary, it established something so pleasant between us that I couldn’t remember a period when I would have been so happy to live. Plans, projects, hopes—everyone knows how much they surpass reality in delicious suggestion, even when it turns out according to those same plans or improves on them. A yearning for self-interest made me madly desire the craziest desire: to approach death: that the years had flown by, and that Agustín and I were already the masters, the arbiters, those before whom everything would bow… He, smiling, moderated my impatience. “Calm… calm… And store up plenty of strength and happiness so that the moment of apotheosis doesn’t catch us weak… which is certain. ” “The fact is, Agustín, I have an ideal, and if that moment arrives, I would like that, tomorrow, history… ” “The ideal, in politics, is built on small realities.” It is born from the facts, without cultivation, like those furry edelweisses on the snow… Meanwhile, Lina, let’s be selfish, let’s think of ourselves… And I noticed, indeed, that my friend was beginning to give the “we” a new meaning, different from the one I had attributed to it until then. Like on the high peaks that the sun tinged with pale amethyst and the oranges of gold lit by fire—as summer advanced, the ice melted. From the familiar form of address, Agustín was, little by little, showing himself to be in love, pierced, surrendered. It was an inconsistency, it was a transgression, it was breaking the agreement; and yet, I wavered. An indulgence that seemed criminal to me, invaded me like a stupor. What most contributed to my indulgence—I admit the reason is strange—was that I did not share the agitation I was experiencing in Almonte. The enervation of the Alhambra and Loja was not reproduced when I saw Mont Blanc. And since it was not in others but in myself that I found the suggestion of certain transports especially repulsive , it did not alarm me or upset me as it would have upset me if I had realized that I felt them. “Let it burn, well… The fault is not mine… I am not an accomplice…” I remember that our situation became clearer when, heading for Chambery, we stopped in Annecy, an old and curious little town, where the remains of two very pure friends of opposite sex were buried, the amiable and pleasant Saint Francis de Sales and the most noble Mother Chantal. Why—I thought, remembering the Bishop of Geneva and his collaborator—should this spiritual union not be reproduced? Surely it is not madness on my part to aspire to it, when something so similar to what I dream of has already been seen on earth ? Did not this mystical baroness, who engraved the name of Jesus on her breast with a hot iron, chastely unite her entire will, her entire existence, with that of a man, the elegant and delicate author of Philothea? Did they not have an end, spiritual as one may wish, but human? Did not Chantal, for the sake of this union, abandon her family, children, and society, and devote herself to founding the Order of the Visitation? These are the fruits of pure, serene friendships… We were walking along the cool shores of the tiny Lake Annecy—next to Lake Geneva, a plaything—and had strayed slightly from the public promenade, losing ourselves on a path lined with fir trees, very shady at that time of the afternoon. Augustine gave me his arm. Suddenly, I heard a sort of muffled, muffled moan, and I saw him lean in, attempting a mad embrace… He was stammering, trembling, palpitating, panting, and in a man so self-possessed, so accustomed to keeping his cool in difficult times, the explosion was like a volcano. “I can’t take it anymore… I can’t… Do with me what you want… Reject me, dismiss me… You have won, or the devil has won.” I’m lost… You’ve taken hold of me… Everything I’ve promised, the agreements we’ve made, were absurd, foolish… It’s impossible for me to fulfill such conditions… and if there’s a man in the world who can do it, then I admit I’m miserable, I admit I’m infamous, whatever you want! Lina, it doesn’t matter: here we don’t argue, there are no arguments. What there is is the truth, the depths of things. I prefer to break the contract. Yes, I’m breaking it. It’s over. And I’m leaving, I’m leaving tonight, forever. What we agreed to do together was a contradiction. You don’t understand; I don’t know what obfuscation you suffer from, to have dislocated the notions of reality and ask for the moon… You’re made of a different material than the rest of humanity. Fine. Not me. Let’s say goodbye right here, Lina; let’s say goodbye… or let’s embrace, like this, in delirium… The arms were like pincers. Between them, I remained frozen, like the magnificent ice of a glacier. “Enough… Agustín… listen…” He made a mad gesture as if to run away. “I don’t recognize you… It’s incredible! Didn’t you say…? Didn’t you think…? ” “Whatever he thought or said, I didn’t count on an unexpected complication, a ridiculous and fatal event. I’ve fallen in love. It’s a stupid reason, I agree. I can’t find another. I’ve fallen in love. Don’t think I’m joking. I’ve fallen so much in love that I realize that, for a long time, I won’t be able to resign myself to life. You ‘ll be able to miss him! Don’t miss him, Lina,” he sighed with romantic sorrow. “You haven’t realized your worth!” Intelligence, culture, soul, beauty… Everything, everything, brought together by my bad luck in a singular woman, who has decided… –But if I… –You, you… You allow me… to burn… There is what you allow me… Your company, your friendship, the prospect of a marriage… Seeing you incessantly, walking together and alone through these places that invite one to love… I am not a phenomenon, I am a man… How can it be! By separating from you, I destroy a great future, the future of both of us; it was something splendid… But I am at that hour when , not to say interest, existence, is thrown out the window! I understand that I am proceeding in desperation. It is not my fault. I stopped and signaled to him to calm down and listen. The lake sparkled under a warm sun. I sat down on the parapet. I signaled to Augustine to sit down too. “Was it a passion, what one calls a passion? Did passion manifest itself like that? Was passion limited to these flares? Or would he be capable, for me, of sacrifices, of self-denial? ” “Of everything… To what extent! You would not doubt it if you understood how different you are from the others… You are surrounded by a special atmosphere, your own, that no other woman has… Ah! Sacrifices, you say? I repeat it seriously: Life!” The wound is deep inside! –If that’s the case… But look carefully if it is so?… Be careful, Augustine, be careful! –That’s right! I wish it weren’t so. Chapter 20. And we arranged the wedding. The necessary papers were written. We would remain in Geneva until mid-September, while everything was arranged. We would be married in Paris. When I recall that period, I remember being somewhat surprised by the placidity Augustine displayed after his outbursts at Annecy, imbued with a character of somber and flattering violence. Passionate placidity, gallant, tender, but placid. Did I expect him to apply flaming torches to me? Did he want a fiercely amorous martyrdom? There were endearments, there were a thousand courtesies. Embers well contained within a proper stove, with a bronze fire guard. –Remember, Augustine, that you are my fiancé… With these words the turn of the conversation changed. My qualities were brought to light for the hundredth time, what set me apart from the rest of the women in the world, what explained that unique feeling, elevated to the highest level, inspired by me… Almonte knew how to perfectly express the nuances of his feelings. There were moments when conviction won over me. Without a doubt, in reality, I had fallen deeply in his lap. He didn’t use excessive hyperbole or colorful, Arab-style imagery to prove it to me; his way of courting me had something simple, natural, and strong about him. “You are everything to me. Try leaving me. That will be the end of Agustín Almonte’s career and dreams. Join me, and you’ll see… No one will break ground like the one I break ground on. Every man finds hundreds of women along his path, and only one determines his existence. There is a woman for every man. That’s you, for me. Is it any wonder I don’t melt in my arms, without waiting…? It’s because I respect you, with a superstitious respect!” And it is that, by dint of loving you, I know how to love you anyway… The form of friendship, the one we first contracted, persists. Only it goes beyond friendship, and is a kind of affection… an affection like that which one has for mothers and sisters, for whom there would be no danger that we would not face… What joy, to face dangers for you! To save you, at the cost of my existence! I remembered later, amidst other orientations, this phrase from the Procan. The waves of the air, stirred by the voice, decide destiny. It seems that the word dissolves, and yet it remains stuck, embedded in who knows where, piercing and making the conscience bleed. In mine, something was sounding the alarm. As much as I had tried to remain above the turbidity of the affair, it was as if someone, covered in mud, were trying not to be stained by it. An example of this impossibility had been given to me by a natural spectacle, that of the junction of the Arve, which descends from the gorges, with the Rhône. It is the Arve, a furious torrent that descends from the glaciers of Mont Blanc, swollen by the melting snow, and crosses the valley of Chamounix. It carries with it dissolved silt; its color, of turbid and dirty milk, and the yellowish foam it raises, contrast with the cerulean, sapphire-colored Rhône, into whose bosom it will pour out the impurity. The clumsy river, now in its midst , violently violating the celestial current, does not want to suffer the brutal onslaught, and does not mix its waters, of liquid turquoise, with the waves of mud. The dividing line between virgin water and contaminated water is visible for a long time. In the end, the desecrator triumphs, the two lymphs mingle, and the blue, already stained and sullied, will not regain its divine transparency, not even close to being lost and dissolving in the immense sea… “Such will be my fate…” I thought, rereading stanzas by Lamartine, no more and no less as if we were in the era of curls framing the oval of the face and the ham-like sleeves. Bah! In secret, one can still read Lamartine… My revenge is to read him alone… Augustine would perhaps tease me if I told him about this _rococo_ exercise. Wrapped in my old lace, enlivened with new colored bows, made of soft, squishy Liberty ribbon; while Maggie, silent, prepares my bath and arranges the clothes I am to wear to go down to lunch, my tourist attire, my short twill or flannel tennis skirts, my shirt blouses with a spicy masculine air, my Yankee shoes, I learn by heart, childishly. “Thus, always laid down to new shores, in the eternal night carried without return, never pour us, on the ocean of ages, throw the anchor for a single day…?” “A day, do you remember it?” nous voguions en silence…» The poet seemed to translate the dull restlessness of my spirit, which so often wondered why everything is transitory. And if the idea of the unclean cannot be associated with that of love, neither can that of the transitory and ephemeral. A love that slips through the fingers! Lamartine placed the pain of the despicable here, in this Lake Geneva, so vividly painted by him, when he implored it to preserve, at least, the memory of what passed, of what he thought filled the world. “Who is in your sleep, who is in your mornings, a beautiful lake, and in the sight of your laughing mountains, and in these black frogs, and in these wild rocks, hanging over your waters!…” Was it the reading… the reading, the melody, the suppressed, nostalgic sigh of this now antiquated feeling, that made me guilty of such a grave, irreparable sin?… Can I ever be forgiven? I don’t know how this inconceivable idea was born in me. Or rather, I don’t consider it worthy of being called an idea; at most, an impulse. And not even an impulse, if that’s understood as a conscious volition. It was something cloudy, indefinite; I can’t recall my memory to go back to the origin of the series of events that produced the catastrophe. No judge in the world would find a basis for imputing responsibility to me. Everyone would absolve me. Only I, although I cannot pinpoint the circumstances, know that there was within me that fervor that prepares events and, in a vague vision, even solidifies and sculpts them in advance. There is a strange psychological phenomenon in which, upon hearing a conversation or witnessing the development of a scene, we would swear that we had already heard the same words, witnessed the same events. Where? When? In what world? We would not know how to explain that; it is one of the enigmas of our organization. That must have happened to me with what happened on the lake. Not only was I not surprised, but I seemed to be able to repeat, before it had even happened, phrases, concepts, and details related to an event so extraordinary and, if you look at it properly, so unexpected… Because who would claim that I foresaw it? That I could have foreseen it for even a single instant? And if I did not foresee it, if I did not cooperate in making it happen through a series of inflections and movements of the will, how could it have returned to my consciousness in the form of a previous state of my knowledge? I repeat that my notions are confused and my part of the responsibility constitutes a terrible problem for me… What I can say is that, as our courtship advanced and the date drew near when it would become a tangible reality; according to my future– I should no longer call it _proco_,–he increased his demonstrations and refined his refinements; to the extent that I should have been penetrating the conviction that that love existed in him, and love imbued with that yearning for sacrifice that bears the hallmarks of moral heroism, a restlessness, an indefinable impulse was born in me, which took the form of a yearning for an active and agitatedly dangerous life, in the midst of a nature that counts danger among its elements of attraction. Instead of enjoying spending long, lazy hours on the veranda or in the reading room, dressed up, adorned, perfumed, listening to Agustín’s cheerful and reflective conversation, I experienced a continual desire to learn about the mountain’s aspects, to explore it, to confront its terrifying whims. “Hadn’t we agreed that we weren’t mountaineers? That we wouldn’t compete with Tartarín?” Almonte asked without anger. “Do you want me to justify my surname? Do as you wish… but allow me to regret it, because it wastes some time for delightful chatter.” And, provided with guides, we made alpine expeditions. I was flattered by the hope of encountering any of the various forms of avalanche, whether it was the dusty avalanche, that shower of snow as fine as flour, which buries so quickly those it reaches; whether it was the one that suddenly precipitates an enormous ice floe; whether it was the slow, almost imperceptible and treacherous detachment, the sliding avalanche that, with perfidious smoothness, sweeps away fir trees and houses; whether it was the most terrible of all, the dull one, the one that lies latent in silence and bursts forth with fulminating impetuosity at the slightest noise, the tinkling of a goat’s bell. Since it was not spring, I was met with only the theatrical and harmless avalanche, the sommer lauissen, like a silver river surrounded by foaming snow. When a deep roll, like thunder, announced it, I looked at Augustine, in case he turned pale. What he did was furrow his eyebrows imperceptibly. We did, however, suffer a blizzard, and we returned to the hotel, lost, arousing the respectful admiration of Maggie, for whom only he who suffers such hazards deserves to be a person. The blizzard wasn’t dangerous; it was a tragicomic adventure; we were ridiculous, wet, shivering, with red noses, soaked clothes , and hair matted and limp. In retaliation, the Alps offered us their magic, their peaks illuminated by the west wind, flaming and regal. When the sun sets, the firmament, to the west, on clear afternoons, shines like white crystal, and on cloudy days, against the same hyaline background, it takes on a transparent chrome, orange, and auroral ruby . Turning to the east, dense darkness covers the plain, while the mountain peaks shine like beacons, and the distant reaches of the intermediate peaks acquire a somber purple veil. And the shadow ascends, ascending, not slowly, but with tragic, swift steps, and the mountain’s brilliance dies, giving way to the cadaverous hue of its extinction. The dark shroud now envelops the mountain, and the sky, instead of its former gleaming whiteness, displays a bloody crimson; the shadow’s black hair highlights its russet lips. A blue of tarnished metal then appears on the horizon, and for a moment the mountain is resurrected, reemerges, once again dons its golden helmet. A mysterious, sublime phenomenon! One night when we were witnessing it, my chest swelled, my throat tightened, my eyes moistened, and I stammered, clasping Augustine’s hand and leaning close to his ear, my eyes melting: “God! ” “Do you want to know what’s the matter with you, my Lina?” he admonished later on the veranda. “You’re getting drunk on poetry, and it’s going to your head. Oh, lyric poet, incorrigible lyric poet! And the fact is, I thought I’d cured you, or almost less… Little girl, for your own good, let’s leave the Alps; let’s go to the very prosaic and accommodating Paris. Just like that, you must be making many a fuss there in the shops of intellectual dressmakers… ” “Stop it, Augustine!” I implored. “Stop it… ” “What’s the matter?” –That everything you’re telling me you’ve already told me… I don’t know when… I don’t know where.–And with a choked, throbbing voice, I admitted: “I’m afraid!” ” You’re afraid!” Augustine smiled. “Afraid of the unknown… Don’t you understand that we’re entering the realm of the unknown, of the strange? ” “What I understand is that Switzerland isn’t good for you. This peaceful country upsets you, Lina; I must give your great soul something concrete , so that it won’t be a sickly, tortured, and hysterical soul. Think of yourself, Lina. Think of our love… ” Why did she speak of love and play with the word “sacred”? Perhaps her fate wanted it that way. I remember answering her: “We’ll be leaving soon… First, I want to say goodbye to Léman, to which I know I will always profess a fanatical devotion. Don’t you like the lake? ” “I like whatever you like,” was her acquiescence, too prompt, too analogous to that which is shown to the whims of creatures. Then, obeying an unknown prompting, I secretly called the boatman who usually served us, a tall, blond, athletic lad, and questioned him with refined and discreet skill, trying to find out when there might be a storm on the miniature ocean. “Now is the time,” the Swiss lad replied, his face closed and insensitive, like that of a man accustomed to following the risky whims of the English. “These days there’s a lardeyre, and when there’s one… ” “Lardeyre?” I repeated. “The ebb and flow of the lake, which is a sign of a storm. ” “Five hundred francs if you let me know when it’s closest and provide us with the boat. ” Forty-eight hours later, the call came. I remember that in the morning, Augustin suggested we spend the day at Coppet, to see the residence and the portrait of Madame de Staël. I had vehemently, without reasoning, refused. Well-wrapped in our thick wool coats, with our quarter-paneled caps pulled down, we took our seats in the boat. A snowy wind blew. The water, sinisterly blue, throbbed irregularly, like a troubled heart. It felt the approaching convulsion it was about to suffer, and it convulsed, troubled to its core. We rowed in silence, like the lovers immortalized by Lamartine, although the liquid reverie of sleeping water did not envelop us. Augustine seemed worried. Taking advantage of the fact that the boatman didn’t speak Spanish, I struck up a conversation, warning him that, indeed, there would certainly be some cause for apprehension for those whose souls were not well-grounded. The lash had its effect. The cheeks, pale with cold, colored, and the brows knitted together in irritation. “I’m not one of those who choose a future without struggle or risk, Lina… Every profession has its own peculiar heroism… Seeking danger for the sake of it is another matter, and I think we should return to land, because the lake looks bad… Unless you find pleasure. Then… it’s different. ” “I find pleasure.” He fell silent again. I insisted. “What could happen?” “That the flood comes and the boat gets in our way. ” “In that case, would you save me? ” “What a question, my love! I would at least exhaust all the means to achieve it. ” “Is it true you love me?” Sighing, affectionately, he brought his body close to mine and effused: “So much, so much!” I must have looked at him with an infinity in the deliquescence of my pupils. It was that I _believed_. How good it is to believe! It’s like a wave of burning liquor, effective on my lips, throat, and veins… I already had in my mouth the order to return to the dock, from which we had distanced ourselves until we lost sight of it… My tongue didn’t form a sound. Mute, I let myself be carried away. A wild voluptuousness began to invade me; I clearly perceived that this was the decisive moment… How did I recognize it? I don’t know, but there was something physical in it. A heavy, stinging electricity snaked through my nerves. Dense clouds gathered. The boat groaned; I looked at the boatman; on his changed face, the bites of the north wind were violet marks. He gave me a kind of wink, which I interpreted thus: “Courage!” And at that same moment, the frightful thing happened: a sudden, furious swelling rose in my chest. I saw the entire lake; it was the impetuous rise, sudden, inexplicable, like the boiling of milk that overflows. The boat also lurched and half-tipped over. I fell. Since then, my impressions are difficult to describe. However , I retained a fair amount of lucidity, and as in a nightmare, I saw scenes and even heard voices, even though the water was entering my ears and mouth. Mechanically, I stroked, struggling to return to the surface. A figure passed by me, struggling, almost on the surface of the water. “Agustín!” I spat out with spurts of liquid. “Save me, Agustín!” A face expressing horrible terror floated for a moment, so close that I turned to it again, and without realizing it, I grabbed the neck of the other unfortunate man who was drowning. Two rigid, clenched arms repelled me; A fist struck my face, a sprain ripped me free; the expression of the supreme instinct, the desire to preserve life, life at all costs, mortal life, trampling the heroic ideal of love… Before noticing in my head the sensation of a purple sea, of red, swarming water, as if flecked with darkness, I had time to dream that I was shouting—it’s clear I couldn’t— “Coward! Liar!” And the rest, I learned from the boatman. The strong Swiss, also thrown into that furious two-meter dive, but a master swimmer, tried to catch one of the two crazy tourists, who, wearing coats as thick as lead sheets, were sinking into the lake. He managed to grab my foot, dislocating it at the ankle. The boat, fortunately, wasn’t keel up. He placed me in it and tried to maneuver to reveal my companion. But Agustín was already drifting toward the black, limbo-like lakes where the mournful shadows of those who die without fulfillment swim… And when, after my long, new bout of nervous fever, much more serious than the one in Madrid, I returned to coordinate my activities, I found Farnesio at my bedside, aged and gloomy. The world press had reported on the catastrophe in exciting telegrams from news agencies; we were “the two Spanish lovers,” victims of a romantic imprudence on the lake. In Spain, my unknown name became popular; my figure was of interest, my illness no less so, and the commotion in the political world over Almonte’s disappearance was unusual. That boy with so much promise, so much promise! The devastated father, called to Geneva by the atrocious event, took a cold wreck to the family pantheon in La Rioja… All his ambition was locked away in a niche of brick and lime, in the hope of a mausoleum paid for by friends, people from the district, a core of faithful supporters… And Don Genaro, joyful to see me open my eyes, repeats: “You won’t die… You won’t die… You were here so alone! Don’t you know, child? Your Maggie and your Dick, when they brought you back dying, took advantage of the opportunity and disappeared with your money and your jewels… I think they understood each other, despite the difference in years… She got drunk… What a nasty woman! They’ll be in America…” “Leave them,” I answer; and taking Farnesio’s hand, I bring it to my lips and say: “Forgive me… Forgive me… ” Sweet master . Chapter 21. Upon arriving in Madrid in January, still very weak and listless, I am seen in succession by two or three renowned doctors. They talk about nerves, depression, exhaustion from a tremendous shock; in short, a truism. They make a plan, based mainly on diet. One prescribes milk and eggs, another, kola nut and vegetables, stews and porridge, that one prescribes warm baths, purées, fresh ham, white meat… and, above all, calm! Rest! Sedation! My nervous system can play tricks on me… In short, I reveal that they are afraid of my reason… Reason! What do they know of my secret! Out of selfishness—not for the sake of my health—I have closed the door to the curious, to the newsreels, to the impressionists. As I begin to recover somewhat, regaining, thanks to the approaching spring, a semblance of strength, I cannot refuse the tragic interview with Agustín Almonte’s father and mother. When the father collected the body In Switzerland, I was delirious and burning with fever in the hotel. They believe that my long illness, my state of dejection, of “neurasthenia,” the doctors say in their special jargon, recognize no other cause than the shock of the unfortunate death of their son, my future. The legend has spread: it is original to note how, under her witch’s wand, the essence of the facts has been transformed, without altering the slightest appearance. The two lovers “rowed in silence”—remember Lamartine—with no other concern than dreaming that love, as the poet teaches us, is not eternal, that such delightful hours flee, and should be seized with avidity. We were a couple for whom “everything smiled,” for whom triumphant destinies were prepared. Suddenly, the Léman swelled its perfidious bosom, took the horrible leap of two meters and fifty, and our boat capsized. Terrified, Augustine shouted to the boatman to save me, and he tried to do it himself. The thick, soaked coat dragged him to the bottom, while the Swiss rescued me from certain death. When I regained consciousness and learned the tremendous truth, the pain was on the verge of ending my life as well. That profound sadness, that prostration, were the tribute paid by my soul to the suffering of such a loss. The precious flower of my candid illusions had been cut short . A very tender, very interesting thing. The paragraphs the newspapers devoted to us, publishing our portraits— mine obtained through the stratagems of Red Indian hunters, for I resisted, horrified, the “graphic information”—were vehement, elegiac in their sensitivity. I then received feverish letters from strangers, revealing a repressed love, ready to grow and burst forth. And it was necessary to set a time and day to receive the inconsolable parents, who came accompanied by Carranza, the involuntary author of the tragedy; he who, wearing his miter, wielding his crosier, was to bless our marriage… As the two mourning figures appeared in the doorway, I stood up and came forward; and, without giving me time to greet them, the weak arms of a woman sick and worn down by age clasped me around the neck; and on my face I feel the touch of wrinkled, dry, feverish skin , and I hear a truncated babble: “My child… my child… mine from the a… mine!” and tears of ember begin to flow down my own cheeks, to heat them, to burn my skin like a caustic, to reach my mouth, which the suffocation half-opens, and into which a terrible, salty taste introduces the bitterness of our life, the nothingness of our existence… And this embrace, which kills me, lasts a quarter of an hour, eternal, without ceasing the mother’s anguish, without interrupting her poorly articulated complaint, the flow of her crying, the panting of her weak chest… The father, more serene,–at last months have passed–, suitably sad, choked by asthma, intervenes and unties the tie, Carranza cooperating in the work. “Enough, María, a little resignation… Don’t you see the poor thing is still sick! Ours is a real pain… Miss, will you allow me to give you a kiss on the forehead? And you don’t give it to me, but instead you cry out for help! Because it seems that, when Mrs. Almonte releases me, I’m going to faint…” When I regain consciousness, everyone a little calmer, in a moment of respite, amid the smell of ether, we speak at length, interrupted by sobs, sighs, and bowed heads. Carranza, grave, frowning, but without losing his diplomatic bearing, sagacity, and good sense, leads the cruel conference. The parents finally say goodbye. They will always look at me as a daughter. They will come to see me sometimes; I am something dear to them, “what they have left” of their poor Agustín… If only I knew what Agustín was worth! If only I understood what “we had lost”! And not only us. Because Augustine was for his country something more than a hope: he was becoming a reality, so extraordinary, so superior to everything! Perhaps–insisted the father–the evil genius who seems dedicated to directing events in the most disastrous way for Spain, was the one who had arranged the strange event at Lake Geneva. Because he, after meditating extensively on the catastrophe, saw in such an unexpected drama something fateful, something that goes beyond the natural combination of events… “You don’t know it well!” I responded sincerely, as if thinking aloud , amid the last long pressures of cold, trembling hands. When the two old men left, Carranza stayed by my side, murmuring consoling phrases without conviction. Slowly, I knelt on the carpet before the canon. “Eh? What’s the matter, my daughter? ” “I would gladly confess. ” “Confess?” Surprise filled his features with a berroque-like seriousness. The Magistrate’s face was a stone medallion. “Yes, Carranza; confess.” I can’t bear the weight of what’s inside me. Help me unburden my spirit a little.’ The brows drew closer together. A world of thoughts and vague misgivings fit within the crease. ‘Look, Lina, you wanted to… And then, as now, I’ll answer you: since when, between us, has confession ever happened? You’ve always said that I was too much of a friend of yours to make a good confessor. This matter of confession… that’s serious. ‘ ‘What I have to tell you is also serious.’ ‘ No matter… Do me the favor, Lina, and excuse me. In the case of unburdening your heart, it’s just as well if you speak to me outside the tribunal of penance. For spiritual purposes, you’ll very easily find someone better than me… ‘ ‘And the friend… will he keep the same secret? ‘ ‘The same, exactly the same. If you wish, the conference will take place in the oratory.’ I will consider myself as obliged to remain silent as if I were confessing to you… I have my reasons… We went to the oratory of Doña Catalina Mascareñas. I had limited myself to refreshing and tidying it up a bit. On the altar, on a fine Italian canvas, the noble figure of the Alexandrian was displayed. Beside my kneeler, in a frame of chased gold, in her style, shone the famous 15th-century plaque, which I had brought to Alcalá the day Carranza read us the story. How much time seemed to me to have passed since that rainy spring afternoon! I evoked the mysterious sensation of the girls’ song: “Rise, Catalina, rise, Catalina, for Jesus Christ is calling you!” I sat on my kneeler, and the canon sat in an armchair. I spoke as if I were addressing my own conscience. Carranza listened to me, astonished, grim, his eyes half-closed, veiling the sudden flashes of his gaze. When he reached the climax, the one where my responsibility was specified, he could no longer restrain himself. “Hello! Come on, if only I had the heart to! I swear; I suspected it; I suspected it! Not exactly that; any atrocity of that kind… That’s why I didn’t want to confess you! My virtue isn’t that great! To absolve you of… of murder… ” “Murder! ” “Murder! You have murdered someone who was worth a thousand times more than you. Don’t be surprised if I express myself like this! I loved Agustín very much, and my remorse for having placed him in your hands, knowing you as I do, will be eternal. I have known you since you made other unheard-of, inconceivable confidences to me .” I didn’t want to be your confessor then either! Women like you are doubly dangerous than the Delilahs and the Messalinas. The latter were natural, at least. You are a case of horrible, unnatural perversion, masquerading as chastity and purity. You were born in an evil hour! I remained silent, and held my anguish in check with an iron will, turning pale. Carranza insisted. “In your modernist degenerations, you premeditated suicide, accompanied by homicide. You sought catastrophe among avalanches and mountain slides, and when you didn’t find it that way, you turned to the treachery of the lake. If that failed you, you would have resorted to a dynamite bomb… Or poison! You’re fit to poison your father!” “Since we’re not confessing, Carranza,” I declared, my chest pounding with anxiety, “I’ll be allowed to defend myself. I can say something in my defense. Almonte was less noble than I. We had made a pact; we joined together in friendship for domination and power, discarding the subject of love. And he wanted it all, and acted out the most unworthy comedy, that of passionate, ardent, unconditional love… And he swore to me that he would give his life for my life… He swore this to me! He died by such perjury, and I’ve fallen to the bottom…” My desperate gesture completed the sentence. “You wretch! What crime is it to swear such nonsense to a woman? Did you love Agustín as much, as much, as in the novels? ” “I’ve never loved him, not him, not anyone else!” And since I didn’t love him, I didn’t tell him. I didn’t lie. To lie, how base!” Agustín was no gentleman, he wasn’t even brave. For fear of dying, he jabbed me in the chest with his elbow, struck me, and pushed me away. And, the day before, he claimed… Carranza, without paying attention to the place, which deserved respect, struck the arm of the chair with his fist and muttered something loud that came to his violet, astute, shaven, and vigorously outlined lips. “Look, Lina, I don’t mean to insult you; you’re a woman… although you seem to me more like Melusina, who begins with a woman and ends with a serpent’s tail! There’s something monstrous about you, and I’m a pure man, of sound judgment, of clear ideas, and I don’t understand you, nor will I ever understand you. You resisted, at one time, becoming a nun. Well; you undoubtedly preferred to get married. Nothing more legitimate. Fate has gifted you a stupendous position; you’re now free to choose a husband, from among the best.” Your position has since been threatened by circumstances of which you are aware: I am seeking for you the only person to save you from the worst shipwreck; that person is a young, sympathetic man, the man of tomorrow—poor Augustine! This is crying out to heaven!—and you do not calm down, viper…—God keep me by his hand!—until you kill him… And then, hypocritically, you receive the parents, you let the mother, that Sorrowful Virgin, kiss you! Your punishment will come, it will come… In the first place, you will remain poor… because now there is no one to breathe life into Don Juan Climaco… And, secondly … I don’t know if you will find a confessor who will absolve you! This is so revolting, Lina! It was an evil hour, an evil hour that I made you meet that man, worthy of a woman who was not a phenomenon of evil… and of useless evil! Because there you have the outrage, that the object of your offenses… of your crimes is neither known nor seen ! Sobbing hysterically, I fall to my knees, and repeat the word that is fixed in my thoughts, the word of the defeated: “Forgiveness! Forgiveness!” “Forgiveness! I am not here for that,” insists Carranza, petrified with rage. “I am here to protest a crime that justice will not punish, that the world ignores, and that even you are capable, with your harmful understanding, of presenting as a poetic trait of superiority, as something sublime… Because you have arrogance infiltrated your heart, in that perverse heart that does not know how to love, that does not know how to cherish, that never knew how , and that will never learn how!” Carranza was already thundering, getting excited with his own words, thundering with indignation. And he threatened: “The first thing I’ll do is prevent those unfortunate parents from continuing to call you _daughter_, which is a mockery… And don’t remember your old friend Carranza anymore. You’ve driven me crazy; madness is contagious. I don’t know what I would do to you! I feel like slapping you… It’s better if I retire… Goodbye, Lina; I have always distrusted women … You teach me that the abyss of evil can only be filled by feminine malignity. I’m sorry I’ve become so upset… I look like a lout… Agustín, poor Agustín! Who would have thought it! And it’s my fault!” Chapter 22. The slam of the door that Carranza slammed resounded in my head, so that a sharp dart of nervous migraine stung. Perhaps it would have gone away with eating , but my throat, clogged, did not allow passage, not even to the Sticky, burning saliva that scanned, rather than moistened, my jaws. I left the oratory. I retreated to my chambers. A quicksilver swell wouldn’t let me sit down, or lie down on the balcony, or do anything to relieve my restlessness. I restrained myself from banging my head against the walls, from breaking and shattering porcelain, glass, and paintings; from tearing my own clothes and face with my nails… An onyx and bronze clock, with its monotonous ticking, exasperated me. With a swipe, I threw it to the floor. The blow stopped the mechanism. At the sound, my maid, the former Eladia, triumphant over the foreigner with the two disastrous episodes involving Octavia and Maggie, rushed in… “Jesus a thousand times! I thought it was the young lady who had fallen… Shall I pick up the clock? What a pity!” It’s broken at the corner… I didn’t answer. I realized I wasn’t in a state to respond properly . I simply ordered: “My cloth coat, my dark hat. ” “Is the lady going out? Should I call for someone to hook up? ” “My coat, my hat!” I repeat, in such a tone that Eladia rushes in. Five minutes later, I’m on the street. I myself don’t know where I’m going. The sort of instinctive impulse that has sometimes guided me is pushing me now. I’m going towards myself… I wander along the central streets, where it’s already getting a little dark. I leave Arenal Street, go up Montera Street, looking around, as if trying to get my bearings. I enter a narrow alley, which opens its fetid, suspicious mouth, peering out onto the street flooded with light and bustling with people. To the right, there is a doorway of very poor design. A woman, standing, wrapped in a shawl, stands sentry. I approach the venal priestess resolutely. “What do you offer me, madam? Eh, madam? ” “Do you want to do me a favor? ” “I… you? Daughter, that, according to… What favor can I do you? It’s funny! ” The patchouli fumes made my soul dizzy, nauseated my spirit. “The favor… don’t shock you, don’t be frightened! It’s… trampling on me. ” “What are you saying? Madam, are you hot, or should we tie you up? Damn it… We’re joking! ” “A fifty-peseta note, if you trample on me, quickly and hard. ” I opened my purse and showed the note, a sovereign reason. I was still hesitating. I swiftly deflected it, and, hiding in the shadows of the doorway, I lay down on the floor, foul and stiff, and waited. The woman, troubled, shrugged her shoulders and made up her mind. Her heels bruised my right arm, without vigor or cruelty. “Hard, hard, I said… ” “Go on! If she likes it… For me…” Then she danced violently on my hips, on my breasts, on my shoulders, instinctively sparing my face, which was whitening in the shadows. I didn’t utter a cry. I only exclaimed dully. “My face, my face too!” I closed my eyes… I felt the heel, the sole, against my mouth… Sharp pain made me moan. The daifa lifted me up, covering my lips with her foul-smelling handkerchief. “You see? I hurt you badly. Even if she gives me a thousand duros, I won’t step on you again.” If you’re slashed, I’m no criminal, do you understand? Go on! You’ve left a tooth in the handkerchief! The peculiar taste of blood flooded my mouth. I tested the notch with my fingers. My body ached in several places. “Thank you,” I murmured, spitting bloody blood. “You’re a good woman. Don’t think I’m crazy. It’s just that I’ve been bad, worse than you a thousand times, and I want to spy. Now I’m happy! ” The little whore looked at me with a kind of respect, frightened, constantly wiping my face and mouth with gentle dabs. “Good heavens! What things happen in the world! Poor lady! Oh! If you were careless… It’s a big deal! We’re women after all. My dear, now they’ll rip my soul out before they can slap it… Do you want me to go get some aniseed? You’re freezing… Shall I get you something from the pharmacy?” Two steps are… I held her back. I rewarded her, doubling the sum. I smiled at her, with my torn lips. And, my former self reborn, I said to her: “Another greater penance!… Give me a hug… A friend’s hug. Did you understand? That’s why she hugged me, moved, vehement, protective. I went into the pharmacy, where they washed my face with diluted arnica, bandaging it. I saw the curiosity in their sharp glances, in their stubborn questions. I took a cab, gave the directions to my house. When I arrived, sore and broken, but calm and satisfied, I looked at myself in the mirror; I saw the gap from my broken tooth… At first, a pity… “The Beauty I seek,” I thought, “neither breaks nor rends. Beauty has begun to come to me. The first sacrifice is made. Now, the other… The sooner it comes!” It was about ten o’clock when Farnese came to me at my request, and rushed to me, seeing me lying on the midday sun, my cheek bandaged, my eyes faint, and the exhausted attitude of those who have exhausted their strength and are resting . “What’s wrong? Toothache? Should I call the doctor? Tell me, child! ” “Nothing… A broth… a little sherry in it… I feel weak. Bring me the broth yourself…” Happy, eager, he cooled it, measured the sherry. Watching me swallow, he seemed to revive too. As he removed the bandage, as I opened my mouth, an exclamation came out. “You’re hurt! But you’re missing a tooth! Jesus! What’s happened, Lina! Little one! Baby! What’s happened to you, what? ” “Nothing, nothing’s happened… Allow me not to tell you.” A trifling incident … “Don’t tell me that… Wound! A broken tooth! ” “Please…” I implore him with such urgency that, terrified inside, he falls silent. My mystery, in the end, has always been impenetrable to him. “Do it as you wish… Are you better? Let’s see these little hands? This pulse? It seems you don’t have it. ” “I have a pulse; my eyelids no longer droop from weakness… I feel strong. Listen to me, Farnese, for your life. Without waiting any longer for tomorrow’s post, the first one, you are going to write to my uncle, the one in Granada: Don Juan Climaco. ” “But… ” “No buts. You are going to write to him, telling him—attention!—that I am ready to restore to him what I unduly inherited. ” The man staggered, under the weight and force of the hammer that struck his skull. His eyes wandered wildly over my face. His tongue undoubtedly froze, for it made no sound: there was no verbal protest. The protest lay in his attitude, similar to that of one led to the executioner. I stood up, threw my arms around his neck, and pressed my aching face to his. My tenderness and caresses softened his pain. He recovered his speech. He insulted me. “What are you saying, you fool, you madwoman, you senseless woman…? I won’t write that . Of course not! ” “Come here… If you don’t write it, I’ll write it, and it’s the same. Look carefully. Aunt Catalina’s will is invalid. There is a fraud involved in my birth. You know it better than I do, and none of this should surprise you. Reflect on it. Something very serious could come of it; you are in danger, I am. Outside is greed, outside is temporal riches. They weigh on my heart like a stone.” Believe me, there is prudence in my determination, although it is not prudence that moves me. I don’t want to deceive you: it is not prudence. It is… something else… Musings, nonsense… Delirium! No, my friend, my friend, my protector, whom I have not fully thanked for his affection! There were other nonsense… So many! Believe me, I have awakened from my nightmare; that now is when I see, when I understand, when I truly live, in truth. And I long, with a thirsty longing, to be poor. Poor! Poor you! But don’t you remember that I was that for many years…? And that was a relative poverty. Today I long to go out there, begging for either work or alms. Alms, better yet. He put both hands to his head. So, no more discussion. Write, because it is annoying for me to have to worry about things, and, besides, as soon as I settle a few things, I am going to take a trip; My soul needs my body to tire itself out. I’ll go with you. It’s not possible to leave you… like this… under these circumstances. –Under what circumstances? –Sick, wounded, exalted… –Exalted, no. Sick, neither. Wounded… damn! A few abrasions, which I consider caresses, and a few bruises and contusions. I am fine, very fine, and inside, as happy as I have ever been. Inside me, there is living water… Before, there was dryness, heat, sterility… It is not exaltation. It is true; it is what I feel inside. Don’t make that face. I have never been so sane. She sighed deeply. Gaunt, mortal, she hid her face in the shadow of the corner. –I don’t want you to be distressed. The first sign of my sanity, of which it is now that my reason is illuminating me, is that I wish you not to suffer for my sake; it is that I recognize that I owe you love, respect… I know that, for you, I am forgiven. She shook her body, her hands, she trembled. She threw herself at my feet. “Don’t say such things. You hurt me, child. It is I who needs your forgiveness; I banished you, I locked you up, I abandoned you. I wanted to confine you. I thought I was doing the right thing. I obeyed motives, scruples… I was wrong. I was… a scoundrel. Your character became twisted, your imagination became deranged in that solitude… My fault… Curse me.” We embraced; warm moisture soaked our temples. I kissed his gray hair, his gaunt cheeks. “I bless you. You cannot imagine the good you have done me. The greatest good. ” “Do you not wish me ill?” My flattery was answered. He breathed. “Well, I ask one thing of you, nothing more! For me, for old Farnese! Postpone your resolution to write to Monsieur de Mascarenes. Grant me a little time . I am not saying that you will not do it; it is only a delay that I ask.” Before adopting such a decisive resolution, too many matters must be put in order. You yourself, if you are truly calm, serene about the future, must understand that these decisions must be matured somewhat. We always regret our haste. Time will tell. The only favor Farnesio begs of you… You’re wrong. The good, immediately. The only favor. Won’t you grant it to me, my child? I don’t want to refuse it. You have a year’s notice. In the meantime, I will live as if I were not the owner of this capital, which I no longer consider mine. I reserve for myself… what Doña Catalina gave me in life. The strictly necessary. You, Farnesio, command and dispose of everything and in everything… And after a pause: Except for me. Chapter 23. I left Madrid two weeks later, at dusk, with an old suitcase as my luggage. I was wearing the simplest thing I could find in my wardrobe: a tailored twill suit, and a coffee-with- milk cloth coat. No gloves, no hat. A veil protected my head and my already deflated face, where only the gap in my tooth remained a reminder of the incident. My hair was all recollection and modesty. Before setting out on my walk that morning, I had knelt in the Church of Jesus, at the feet of a young Capuchin, with a yellow complexion streaked with blue, a bearded man, wasted and sad. He listened to me almost impassively; a slight movement of his eyelids, a twitching of his sharp nostrils. For a moment I saw him only agitated, expressing passion. “That priest who told you that you would not be absolved… has sinned gravely against hope and charity. Who is he to set limits on mercy? Don’t believe that, sister… God always forgives!” “The man whose death I caused was necessary to the interests of that priest…” “Tell me about yourself; don’t accuse anyone…” And I continued, slowly, stammering, searching, explaining… The waxy ear that strained toward my voice listened with ever more keen attention. When I related the origin of the marks that could be seen on my mouth, the friar turned and looked at me, in a flash of brotherhood… “Is that what you did, Sister? ” “I did…” When I came to my conversation with Farnese, about the inheritance, there was another start. “Is that what you did, Sister?” “That’s what I’ve resolved to do…” Before exhorting me, the Capuchin retreated, closing his faded blue eyes. His lips moved, but no sound came from them. Finally, in a low, tired, sick voice, he murmured: “I’m not learned, Sister. I don’t know the world, and you’re proposing things strange to me. You’d be better off confessing to Father Coloma, for example. May Jesus Christ make up for my ignorance, in whose holy name…” I see a great pride and a great personal focus standing out among your sins. This is the evil of this century; it’s the active poison that infects us. You have believed yourself superior to all, or, better said, detached, independent of all. Furthermore, you have refined your thoughts excessively . From there originated corruption. Be simple, natural, humble. Consider yourself the last, the most vulgar of women. I see no other path for you, and there will be no more rigorous penance.” –And… by that path… will I reach love? –Divine love? Who doubts it! You sensed it, Sister, when you let yourself be trampled underfoot by a woman of ill repute, made despicable by her. That action means nothing but a desire to humiliate yourself. Humble yourself, humble that haughty neck… But not for an instant, not in a violent, extreme, sudden act. Always, always! –Nothing more? –Nothing more. Enough. I have no other advice to give you… And here I am in the third-class carriage, mean, dirty, in contact with the common people, the rabble… Yes, I can do this. I can sit on a hard, uncomfortable bench ; I can travel almost without clothes, badly made, breathing in the wild smell of two country bumpkins—a sort of beggar and an old woman clutching an enormous basket; I can even reach out my hand, ask for help… What I cannot, what the Capuchin has not seen that I cannot, is to believe myself–inside myself–on the level of those who travel with me, of the one who gave me alms, of the one who crosses by my side… I do not express myself well. While the train advances, trembling on the rails, I delve deeper, I refine my case.–It is not perhaps that I believe myself to be superior or inferior. It is that I believe myself to be _another_. I do not recognize any bond that unites me with them. Perhaps it is not a matter of pride, of arrogance, as Carranza and the Capuchin suppose. It is that, in the depths of my conscience, in the midst of my penitential acts, I do not persuade myself that there is anything in common between the others and me. I even go so far as to suppose that the others do not exist; that it is I who exist, only I, and that only what is produced in me is true; within me, for me… And it is within me that I aspire to the radiant, beatific, divine life of love. It is within me that I wish to divinize myself, to be the celestial of beauty. How can I seek inner heaven? Not with external acts, not with my trampled body, my disfigured face, and my vulgar clothes. If the heaven of love is within, the way to conquer it must be within . And I remember my Patroness, the Alexandrian. Happy woman! She didn’t need to dress like a donkey, nor bow her princely brow, to be loved, to have the Lover in her very heart. With her sumptuous robes , her jewels, her aristocratic disdain for all that is base, for ugliness, for misery, she managed to know that love—now I understand—the only one worth wishing for, dreaming about, yearning for; and married that Owner—the only one who is accepted and desired without baseness, when one despises everything that does not arise from the secret sources of our being! Night was already enveloping us; the broken voices of the employees sang names. The emptiness of the solitary steppes surrounded the train. The journey would soon end. I got off at the station in an old city and resolved to sleep the rest of the night in the inn at the station itself. Upon awakening, I would decide how to transport myself to where I had decided to live. A conversation with the innkeeper was extremely useful. I learned that, in the desert that had attracted me as the object of my trip, there is a Carmelite convent, and, a short distance from the convent, scattered shacks, some of which they might rent me. “Will it be very expensive?” I ask, worried, for I am no longer rich. “Yes, yes, they’ll still let me ask for it… Less than twenty duros a year, they won’t give it up. ” A barouche takes me through the gray, silent fields, dotted with cork oaks, toward the desert, a valley hidden by small mountains that mirror the sun. Once past the small mamelons, the valley appears, and the sight of it thrills me with joy, for it is a marvelous oasis. Everything turns to flowers and fragrant plants. Rosemary, lavender, marjoram, thyme, mastranzo, borage, they glaze it like a living, moving carpet embroidered with vivid colors. And the flowery carpet moves, undulates, agitated by the buzzing and the fluttering and the ardent, sucking kiss of thousands of bees, whose hives I see on the borders. To the right, the convent’s bell tower stands out against the blue. The houses—two or three of them—have a garden that is even more attractive, if possible, than the countryside itself. At the turn of a path, at the door of one of these hovels, a woman sits. Her eyes, open and motionless, unblinking, covered by a white film: she is blind. Beside her, a little girl of about twelve or thirteen is knitting, dark-skinned, with coarse features, with two ripe blackberries for pupils. I approach, start a conversation. “Would you rent me the house? A room, at least?” The distrust of the needy confronts me. “What am I looking for? I ‘m a young lady. How am I going to spend it there? It’s impossible for me to feel well… ” “I’ll feel perfectly fine. I’ll pay in advance. I’ll do the cooking, my bed, the cleaning. ” The old woman hesitates; Strangeness and curiosity crease her lips, with wrinkled corners, sunken by toothlessness. The little girl doesn’t know what to say, and with one foot she taps the shin of her other leg. Her hair, matted together, inspires indefinable suspicion in me. I have no sympathy for these two beings. And yet, I insist on staying in their company. I take out a couple of coins. “Grandma, this lady gave me two duros.” The greed of the blind is painted on her bony, expressionless face. “Daca…” She puts them in her patched pouch and grumbles: “I’m happy… Only, since there’s nothing I need … ” “It doesn’t matter. Tonight I’ll sleep wrapped in my blanket. Tomorrow they’ll bring…” It’s agreed. I give my orders to the coachman. And, as if I were in my own home, I enter the house. It’s a sordidly poor place. Perhaps avarice competes with misery here. The blind woman must have a clay piggy bank hidden somewhere… Perhaps that’s why she was suspicious of me… Am I a thief in disguise? Gradually, her fear dissipates. A certain respect for me develops in her spirit when she notices that I work, that I help Torcuata—that’s the girl’s name—with her household chores, and that I even serve both of them, watching over them, making sure that the blind woman doesn’t spill her soup and that the girl doesn’t gorge herself on honey, which harms her. Because both women live off honey and wax; they are beekeepers, like the other inhabitants of the valley, and they also make some money selling their harvest of aromatic plants to druggists and herbalists. They’re beginning to believe I’m some kind of saint, not only because of my incessant care for them and their needs, without demanding anything from them, not even the slightest service, but also because I go to the convent church every day, and many afternoons Torcuata sees me sitting thoughtfully at the door, knitting like them, with a resigned air. I answer their questions without impatience. “Do you have family, madam? Are you a foreigner or from here?” etc. In turn, I ask; I hear the story of Torcuata’s parents, who died, he “gumming” blood, she from a difficult birth; and, boasting of knowing more than I do, they explain to me the habits of bees, habits almost incredible, a natural wonder that no one admires. The events of our existence in the valley are the migrating swarm that must be gathered, calling it with a soft ringing of the bell and having the new hive ready, rubbed with honey and fragrant plants; the operation of castrating the honeycombs, the thousand delicate tasks required for harvesting, the transfer of honey into tubs and then into jars, the melting of the wax, its packaging in wooden bowls, the complicated manipulations of the small agricultural industry. I quickly came to Torcuata’s effective aid, to the great joy and wonder of the blind woman, who didn’t believe in such good things. Since her children were gone, the harvest diminished each year. “What can a creature do? Just eat the honey?”… Thus, the most complete cordiality was established between my hosts and me. Once the relationship was reversed, I became her maid. Without scruple, I disinfected Torcuata’s sinful head, washed her hair, soaked in oil, earwax, and dirt, tied a blue ribbon to her locks, already fluffy and always as stiff as a rustic mare’s tail. I sewed shirts for the blind woman. I allowed myself to be exploited. I gave gifts. “Saint! She’s a saint!” the old woman repeated, astonished. ” The Virgin of Calmen brought her to us ! Saint!” No… Deep down, in the hiding place of truth, I felt no affection for the two women. Insignificant examples of humanity, ordinary clay quickly kneaded by the potter, they were as indifferent to me as one of the cork oaks that shaded the replete valley. Neither were capable of any act of self-denial, nor did I feel the slightest emotional pleasure in performing them for them. My aesthetic instinct even made them repulsive to me. The medlar face of the greedy old woman was ugly, and perhaps even uglier was the cork-oak adolescence of the young woman. No matter! I had to act as if I loved them. Isn’t that what you ask, sweet Owner? Ah! In the evenings, breathing in the intoxicating scent of the blossoms, whose pollen the bees carried from one place to another, aiding in fertilization, I turn to you, Lord who does not come… Why have the times passed when, at the price of torture, of torn skin, of severed heads, you came, exact to the appointment, transported by ardor? Why am I not granted the right to buy you at that price? What I am doing costs me more, a greater effort, a long, tedious, endless victory. Like Teresa, she who loved you so much, I am thirsty for martyrdom, and I would go to the land of the Moors if she were martyred there. Wretched age is ours, when the beautiful garnet of efficacious blood no longer sets, no longer shines! Of the two excellent bloods, that of martyrdom and that of war, the former is already something like the fabulous and magical stones that have been lost; and the other, they also want to turn into a rare, historic ruby, kept behind a museum glass case! My diminished age! Not being able to be a martyr! In an hour, I could win you, unite myself to you… If you would, sweet Master, I would offer you liquor to cool the wounds of your bloody wounds… I would give you with which to renew the Grail. I am very unfortunate because it is not granted to me to let the fountains of my veins run. Not being able to suffer, not being able to die! Chapter 24. And, little by little, while I perform prosaic, commonplace things, unpleasant to my senses, there, hidden, in the reserved part of myself , I notice the signs of a transformation. I row laboriously toward my ideal, deflecting logs, colliding with stones. The spirit of docility and renunciation are deposited in me, as honey is deposited in a prepared cell. As the honey is purified, I feel my spirit being purified. I am cutting the circuits of my impurities, analogous to those formed by neurons, which reproduce the vicious act independently of our will. I carry out the material part of my espionage without thinking about it, without attributing any value to it. I focus rather on the intimate. I live interiorly. The convent has no influence on this. I go to church, but I avoid the Carmelites. I do this out of prudence, to avoid the chatter among the malicious yokels. The Carmelites, I suppose for the same reason, don’t even seem to suspect my existence. They are few in number and they lock themselves in their tenement, whose cells and cloisters are lined with cork. Silence, stillness, and solitude. I will not steal it from them, nor they from me. It is right that a great good be respected. And who knows whether or not these friars resemble the unintelligent directors castigated by Saint John of the Cross? I understand that patience is not enough. I need love. It is necessary that bitterness be sweet to me. That these annoyances I take for two base, coarse women taste like honey. Will I have to love them, in order to love you, so that you will love me? Could this be the secret, the word to the enigma? And how is it done? I am so early in my deification! I lack stages, I lack degrees. There are moments when I distrust, I doubt, and a sense of uncertainty invades me. The first thing I need is to abandon myself, to close my eyes… Perhaps I torment myself in vain. Perhaps I don’t need to do more than I do, nor suffer more than I suffer: it is enough for my heart to change. Only then will I be, as the great poet said, “loved in the beloved transformed.” I am not. I don’t find Him when I search within. I don’t find Him… How sad not to find Him! Perhaps I am united to Him in conformity, but not in a transformative union. We are not one. There is no nuptial night. There is no sign of a ring of light on my fingers, which work begins to deform… And yet, I should gain something, because my spirit is not like that of the crowd: I am unique. My resolve, my life, are not like those of women who do not suffer from the yearning for supreme beauty! Perhaps what I think is a temptation against humility… But it is true! Does the truth offend you? Should I take myself for just anyone? Do I ignore what I am? Will I be confused with people who do not go beyond the senses, who neither understand nor crave ineffable beauty? Surely the elegant Alexandrian, my patroness, did not believe herself equal to Gentheus. She fully understood the loftiness of her own soul. And you gave her the ring. What should I do? Everything will be easy for me, except believing what I don’t believe. What do you ask of me? Take my youth; I have already offered you my womanly vanity: disfigure me further if I become more beautiful for you… Take my existence, short or long, day by day… Isn’t that what you desire? I want to go through all the stages, walk the path to the end, moan, weep, cry out, watch by night, fast by day. I want fire, faintness, the desire to die, spiritual flight, transport; I want your spear, your knife… And it seems to me I’ll never obtain them. I feel alone, abandoned in this flowery desert, amid aromas of intense honey, which make me dizzy, which fill me with nostalgia and inner pain. And yet, there have been other women who united themselves to you, who kept you with them, to whom you said: “You are I and I am you…” Others who dwelt in you, to whom you extended your hand in the ceremony of betrothal; who drank life in you; who were godlike in you. And, however many my errors may have been, I do not believe that they could feel you and call you more deeply than I call you! This was my musing, in an hour of desolation, when, as the sun was already approaching sunset, the bees had retired to their hives, and, the restless flitting of their sipping and fluttering had subsided, the countryside lay in a mysterious, sad calm . In the convent the bell rang for prayer. As the bells died away, I turned with a start. Someone had just placed their hand on my shoulder. “Oh? Is that you, Torcuata?” “Yes, madam… Don’t you know? A friar is dead. ” “When?” I asked mechanically. “This morning. I saw him dead at the church, don’t you know? He was black, completely black. ” “Black? Why?” “Because he was a black man, they say, the disease. A bad black man. Very bad! ” We went home. Torcuata is shaken. She has seen the mystery of death up close, without understanding it; and her puberty has shuddered, with a vague shudder of horror. Not even she knows. The two black violets in her pupils retain, however, the inexplicable cloudiness of the funereal vision. The next afternoon, the girl faints. “Things of age.” “Soon she’s going to be a young girl,” murmurs the blind woman, squeezing honeycombs over a pot with her knobby fingers, so that they release the molasses and reduce them to a meltable paste. A twinge, a feeling… What if it were so? Bah! What do I care! Two days later, Torcuata comes down with a fever. We put her to bed. I settle at her bedside. I send a messenger to the city to bring a doctor and medicine. I have no doubt: it’s smallpox, and in this young organism, never vaccinated, it comes with a force and a malice… With an armed hand, ready to harvest grapes. The girl complains of sharp pain in her loins. She has suffered a brief seizure. At times, she is delirious. I give her lemonade, mineral water, and soft drinks to drink. The doctor hasn’t decided yet. As long as the rash doesn’t break out… As soon as it does, he and I will know the same thing. In lucid moments, the girl speaks to me, even smiles at me, with an effort, murmuring: “Ñora…” Stretching out a burning, hardened hand, she takes mine and shakes it. “Madam… Don’t go… Grandma can’t see… She can’t look after me.” The blind woman, huddled in a corner, moans, mumbles prayers, and repeats at intervals: “What God has sent us! Now Torcuata is so sick! What God has sent us! ” “I’m not leaving, child. I’m here, with you… ” “If she’s there, Madam, the Virgin of Calm is with me!” I don’t know how the innocent woman said this. I know I felt something, a warmth, a blow, in my very entrails. Could it be the knife of mercy that, at last, was sinking into them…? The doctor has returned. The uncertainty has ceased. The reddish spots have become more prominent. The sick woman’s body has the characteristic smell of freshly baked bread. Blood is coming from her nostrils. –Smallpox, and the worst kind… Confluent… Madam, I have the duty to warn you that the disease is extraordinarily contagious, especially in the approaching period… –Thank you, doctor. I won’t move from here. Come daily… I’ll pay the carriage and other expenses. I’m not opulent, I’m almost a pauper; but I want Torcuata to lack nothing. The blind woman, raising her hands, insisted: –She is a saint, she is a saint. The horrid eruption broke out with fury. The face soon became that of a monster. The blackberries of the pupils, such an intense, so fresh violet black , disappeared behind the swollen eyelid. The girl couldn’t see. –Another little blind girl like Grandma…–she sighed. –Ñora Lina, are you there? Ñora , will I die like the friar? Again I perceived the wound in the secret of the soul; and more vivid, more cutting, more divinely painful. Pity at last; human pity, the recognition that someone exists for me, that another’s pain is my own pain. An irresistible, ardent, unbridled impulse of infinite tenderness, of love, of boundless love… On the girl’s face, from the cork-colored palette, drips the honey of my charity, wrapped, diluted in tears. And my lips, kissing that frightful face, stammer: “No, my child, you are not dying. You are not dying, because I love you very much!” Through the open window, the air and the fragrance of the blossoming, loving earth enter. I close my eyes. Inside me, everything lights up. Around me, a musical murmur rises from the ground scorched by the day’s heat; my head resonates, my heart vibrates; delirium takes hold of me. I don’t know where I am; a sea of golden waves envelops me; a fire that does not destroy penetrates me; my heart dissolves, it liquidates; I remain, for a long, incalculable instant, deprived of consciousness, in a transport so gentle that I believe I will melt like soft wax… The Owner, at last, who arrives, who surrounds me, who marries me in this supreme, divine hour of dusk!… Interrupted, my words are a series of sighs. My mouth, half-open, inhales the bliss of ecstasy. I implore, I beg, amidst the alienation of unexpected, lightning-fast good. –Don’t leave me, don’t ever leave me… Always yours, always mine… Take from me what you want, do with me what you please, come what you command, reduce me to nothing, let me be a disgrace, let me be a mockery, let me be debased, let me be infamous… Come ignominy, horrible ugliness, pain, illness, blindness; come what may, hurt me, tear me to pieces… But don’t go away, stay, be with me, because I could no longer live without you, without you, without you… And, throbbing on my lips, the delicious complaint repeats, without saying it, without tearing the air: “Sweet Master…” Chapter 25. In this asylum, where they confined me, I write these notes, which no one will see, and only I review, for the pleasure of convincing myself that I am sane, healthy in soul and body, and that, by the will of someone who can, I am what I have never been: happy. My happiness has, for those who look at the exterior, what is not, the aspect of complete misfortune. In the best of my years, I find myself locked up, leading the monotonous life of the Establishment; Subjected to the will of others, without resources, without distractions, seeing nothing but doctors, nurses, and the sick… Compared to my present fate, the convent they once intended for me to enter would be a paradise. And I am happy. I am where He wants me to be. Here, He visits me, He accompanies me, and the peace of mind, in conformity with His command, is my reward. There are still doubly delicious gifts, hours in which our union is strengthened , moments when, there in the arcane, He reveals Himself to me and communicates with me. What more can I ask for? I accept everything… I love everything, in Him and for Him. I love these plain walls, adorned by no art object; this characterless furniture, like that of a hospital or sanatorium; These leafless trees , this roseless garden, this cramped bedroom, these people who don’t suspect what comforts me, and who marvel at the lively, cheerful expression on my face, and call me—I’ve found out—”the contented one…” And while my fingers are busy crocheting , my soul is so far away, so far away… Or rather, my soul is so deep…! Courageously, I converse with him, I listen to him, and his accent is like a bird’s chirping in a shadowy forest gilded by the setting sun… At other times, I wait for him with the impatience of a bride, eager to hear the sand crunch under a resolute, youthful step… and I ask him not to be long, not to make me languish. And I languish, and sometimes, a faintness, a rapture, surprises me in the midst of my anxious wait. Farnese has come to visit me, in a state of agitation and anguish that is pitiful. “Do you see?” he repeats. “Do you see? It had to happen… I said so! I told you so! It’s horrible… And not being able, not being able to prevent these things! ” “But what was it you wanted to prevent?” “And you ask me! I’m afraid it’s true that your reason has gone mad. What was it you wanted to prevent? Being taken to the madhouse. What infamy! To the madhouse!” “I feel perfectly fine there. ” “Good heavens, child! It can’t be; and even if it were, am I going to allow it? Am I going to allow your wicked uncle to lock you up here, perhaps for the rest of your life? ” “So it was my uncle? Bah! I forgive him. ” “Forgive?” If you don’t get out of here soon, he’ll have to know who Genaro Farnesio is. Filthy gypsy! I was negotiating with him to compromise and recover at least half of your fortune—because don’t imagine he had an easy case, or that he’d overwhelm us so easily—when he came up with another, more substantial combination: to declare you insane and legally administer your assets, while waiting for the moment when either he or his offspring inherits them. We’ll see eye to eye! Are you crazy? This is crying out to heaven. I have my friends in the press; I have my backers; I know politicians. We’re going to raise a ruckus. “My dear Don Genaro, don’t do that. Look, there’s nothing more likely than my insanity. If you didn’t love me so much, you’d join in the chorus, saying I’m…” I touched my forehead with my finger. “Nonsense!” Things you throw out there in jest… Look, look how you can’t spill the beans… It’s incredible! What a web, what a tangle, what a series of ambushes, what a dark conspiracy against you, poor thing, who doesn’t care about anyone ! You did harm! —You’re mistaken. I did harm. I regret it. What lesser punishment could I suffer for what I did? —What harm you would do… And everyone against you, in cahoots… Would you believe it? Even that fool Polilla declares that you have committed certain acts of extravagance unbecoming a proper young lady… Carranza is the worst. He declares you a dangerous, malignant madman. He even believes you capable of crimes. He says you do evil for evil’s sake. It’s obvious he hates you. What disappointments one suffers in the world! Carranza! I believe there was some mediation… Rubbing his thumb and forefinger, he made that expressive gesture that indicates _money_. —Don’t suppose so. Carranza isn’t capable of that. He has a warning… quite justified. —Well! Your uncle must have bribed him. Yes, he’s a man of his own! There are atrocious details. You don’t know the whole truth. There’s a statement from a woman of ill repute and an apothecary… “I know. The one who trampled on me, at my request. How did they find out?” “Apparently, they were spying on you. They were following your steps. That fateful night, you went into the apothecary’s to have them dress you in taffeta, or I don’t know what. You said you’d fallen. Then you got into a carriage, gave your house address . The apothecary heard them. It’s all been revealed. What an idea! How childish!… ” Lowering his voice: “The boatman who took you and Almonte around the lake also testified… He says… ” “Whatever he says is true. ” “Bigardo! And that rascal Eladia… will you believe it? I know she took money… I fired her, and if I don’t restrain myself, I’ll beat her to the punches. They’ve really driven me crazy.” The witch, who said that you deliberately knocked down and broke a magnificent clock, that you treated her badly, that this, that… That the light in your room stayed on all night, that the bathroom was filled with scents… “Such childishness, Farnesio, doesn’t deserve your anger, or your mistreating anyone. Believe me. Leave them alone. My uncle… So much the worse for him. ” “And the doctors! Delightful!” The moment the word “madness” was mentioned, they wasted no time in asserting that they had already noticed it and had kept quiet out of prudence. Just like that, just like you hear it. Neurasthenia here, insanity there. God knows what means the gypsy has used… ” “None. The doctors are in good faith. The best faith. They are worthy, respectable people. I understand their error, which, within their scientific understanding, is probably not an error.” “Now, do you know what they’re up to? So your monomanias have recently taken on a religious, mystical form. That you went off dressed like the people, in your third year, to practice penance in a Carmelite convent in the desert. That you lived by making honey, and that you adopted a very ugly little girl, and a thousand other oddities, attributable only to the wanderings of your mind. You’ll soon understand that they refer to Torcuata… In short, they’ve managed to weave you a thick mesh… But I’ll unravel it. Don’t fear; I’ll unravel it. ” “For your life, stay still, Don Genaro, don’t unravel anything. We must leave our fate in the hands of the one who knows it. He, and only He… ” “Come on, no!” he cried impetuously, embracing me. “It’s not God who put you here: it’s the rascality of men. And I can’t stand it.” Trust me , and be calm, and do everything right… It breaks my heart to see you here. You don’t know how much Farnese loves you! “I know…” I exclaimed, with a meaningful tone. “What’s not necessary is to feel sorry for you. I’m happy here. ” Overwhelmed with emotion, the old man remained silent, caressing me. “And Torquata?” I asked. “The devil take her… For your kindness to her… She’s a wreck. Of course, with a thousand holes in her face. She wants to see you. I’ll bring her. ” “Don’t abandon them, not her, nor the blind woman. Look, I’m asking you a lot. ” “I believe I must protect them, if only because they are the only ones who speak of you with enthusiasm. ” “Really? ” “Well! As if they affirm that you are a saint, a saint, to put yourself in the altars… –Well, what they say and what others say… perhaps it’s the same. The declaration of my holiness, for that matter, don’t think that it wouldn’t be the same as that of my madness… If you want to get me out of here, Farnesio, don’t sanctify me. –I see you haven’t lost your good humor… When he withdrew, determined to rescue the princess from the power of evil enchanters, I sighed. I hope he doesn’t succeed! I was better off in the port, without fights, without hurricanes. Will the one who brought me to the material world succeed in taking me back to the world of danger and temptations ? I was so happy alone with you, Sweet Owner! Thy will be done in me… Thank you for listening to ‘Sweet Owner’ by Countess Emilia Pardo Bazán in Ahora de Cuentos. We hope you enjoyed this profound reflection on society and personal conflicts. Don’t forget to subscribe to our channel for more classic stories. Leave your comments and share this story with those who appreciate good literature. See you in the next story.
📚 **Dulce Dueño** es una obra profunda de la renombrada autora **Emilia Pardo Bazán** que explora las complejidades de la sociedad, las pasiones humanas y las tensiones de clase. En esta historia, los personajes se enfrentan a los desafíos del amor, el poder y la lealtad en un contexto marcado por el realismo social y psicológico. A través de sus páginas, nos sumergimos en un mundo lleno de emociones intensas y momentos de reflexión que revelan lo mejor y lo peor de la naturaleza humana.
🔑 **¿De qué trata ‘Dulce Dueño’?**
– **Un conflicto interno**: La protagonista vive atrapada entre los deseos personales y las expectativas de una sociedad rígida. 🤔💭
– **Pasiones encontradas**: Los lazos entre los personajes son intensos y complejos, desafiando las normas de su tiempo. ❤️🔥💔
– **Un retrato de la lucha de clases**: La historia aborda las diferencias sociales y cómo estas afectan a las decisiones de los personajes. 🏰💸
👉 **¿Qué te espera al escuchar ‘Dulce Dueño’?**
– **Una trama envolvente** llena de giros inesperados. 🎭
– **Reflexiones profundas** sobre el amor, la traición, la lealtad y el poder. 💭
– **Un retrato vívido** de la sociedad española de la época. 🇪🇸
🔥 **No te pierdas esta increíble obra** de Emilia Pardo Bazán, una de las escritoras más importantes de la literatura española. Haz clic en el enlace de abajo y acompáñanos en esta aventura literaria. 🔔 **Suscríbete a Ahora de Cuentos** para más relatos como este.
🔗 [Suscríbete aquí para más historias clásicas](https://bit.ly/AhoradeCuentos)
-Novelas de la Costa Azul 🌊📚 [https://youtu.be/kx5SVuqOAw4]
#DulceDueño #EmiliaPardoBazán #LiteraturaEspañola #RealismoSocial #AmorYPoder #PasionesHumanas #ObraMaestra #CuentosClásicos #NarrativaClásica #LecturaRecomendada #LiteraturaUniversal #ClásicosDeLaLiteratura #PardoBazán #LibrosQueInspiran #HistoriasDeAmor #RealismoLiterario #NovelaDelSigloXIX #LiteraturaDeLaÉpoca #NarraciónDeCuentos #CuentosDeLaLiteratura #CulturaEspañola #SuscríbeteAhora #CuentosClásicosDeEspaña #LiteraturaConMensaje #PasionesYConflictos #EvoluciónDeLosPersonajes #ClásicosDeSiempre
**Navigate by Chapters or Titles:**
00:00:33 Capítulo 1.
01:49:46 Capítulo 2.
02:05:59 Capítulo 3.
02:22:58 Capítulo 4.
02:39:29 Capítulo 5.
02:53:06 Capítulo 6.
03:10:58 Capítulo 7.
03:22:01 Capítulo 8.
03:34:24 Capítulo 9.
03:44:47 Capítulo 10.
03:57:04 Capítulo 11.
04:09:53 Capítulo 12.
04:29:19 Capítulo 13.
04:50:19 Capítulo 14.
05:10:26 Capítulo 15.
05:21:30 Capítulo 16.
05:35:26 Capítulo 17.
05:47:11 Capítulo 18.
06:04:51 Capítulo 19.
06:19:45 Capítulo 20.
06:41:37 Capítulo 21.
06:56:58 Capítulo 22.
07:10:18 Capítulo 23.
07:25:21 Capítulo 24.
07:36:53 Capítulo 25.
1 Comment
¡Dale like 👍, comparte 📤 y suscríbete 🔔!