II

Next day, Alicia spent the evening before her fireplace, with a book.

Don Manuel's visit to her had ended in a quarrel, and he had gone. A

great nervousness possessed the girl; she wanted to cry, to yawn, to

pull out her hair, to kick the little cabinets from behind whose crystal

panes all kinds of little figurines, porcelain dolls and extravagant

bibelots peeped out with roguish faces.

No one who has never been really bored can grasp the complete horror,

the abysmal blackness, the silence like that of a bottomless pit or an

endless tunnel, which lies in absolute boredom. Still, just as death is

the beginning of life, so at times tedium can become a spring of

vigorous action. Many men have sown wild oats in their youth till they

have tired of them, and have in riper years become model husbands,

applied themselves to business and died leaving millions. Boredom

sometimes turns out works of art. Had not Heine and Byron been

monumentally bored, they could never have risen to the heights of song.

Now, though Alicia Pardo was very young, she already suffered from this

malady--the malady of quietude which rubs out boundary-lines and

extinguishes contrasts. Never yet had she been in love. The selfishness

of her lovers had in the end endowed her soul--itself little inclined to

tenderness--with all the hardness of a diamond.

"I can't love any one," she often said. "I've made a regular man of

myself."

Since the human mind cannot long remain unoccupied by real emotions, she

had come to adore luxury. She was neither miserly nor greedy for money;

but she did indeed love purple and fine linen, noisy hats and precious

stones glimmering with sunlight. Her idea of life was to buy good

furnishings, appear in new gowns, show herself off, waste everything

without restraint. With her pretty hands, now craving money and now

throwing it to the four winds, she made ducks and drakes of men's

fortunes. She had many things and wanted more; and as one quickly tires

of what one has, her property did not increase.

The young woman was in high dudgeon, that evening. She knew not what to

do. Her money was running short, and that morning in a bazaar she had

seen all kinds of pretty gewgaws. She had taken up a book to amuse

herself, but had not been able to read much. Her irritation would not go

away. Why couldn't she be infinitely rich? Already she was beginning to

consider this poor life of ours a grotesque affair--this life in which

so many men think themselves happy in the possession of the

ten-millionth part of what they really want.

It was almost seven o'clock when Enrique Darlés arrived. As soon as

Alicia saw the student, she heaved a sigh of contentment and threw the

book into the fire.

"What are you doing, there?" cried Darlés, to whom every book was

sacred.

"Nothing," she answered. "It's a stupid novel. We ought to do the same

with everything that bores us."

Enrique sat down and asked:

"Don Manuel--?"

"He's been here a while, but he's gone. I mean, I sent him away. I tell

you I'm unbearable, to-day. I'd like to fight with everybody. I don't

know what I wouldn't give to feel some new sensation--something real and

strong. I'm in despair, I tell you! It's these nerves, these curséd

nerves, that wake up everything ugly and vulgar in us. To-day is one of

the black days when even the good luck of our friends makes us

miserable."

She stopped and peered closely at Darlés. His close-shaven face, his

southern eyes and wavy black hair made him look like some handsome,

gentle boy.

"I'm strange," she continued. "I'm a chatter-box, ungrateful and never

able to love anything very long. That's why you attracted my attention

the first minute. You look like a man of strong passions. I like radical

characters, good or bad. I like iron wills. Lukewarm temperaments,

undecided and ready to fit into any situation, look to me like

half-season clothes that are always disagreeable. In summer they're too

warm and in winter too cold."

Darlés ventured to say with some timidity:

"What's the reason you're put out to-day?"

"I don't know."

"What?"

"It's true. Unless it might be----"

She stopped, inwardly searching her thoughts, then went on:

"It's because you're very young that my words astonish you. Sometime

you'll be older, and then you'll understand the world better. You'll

know the cause of all these little vexations that embitter life can't be

found in concrete facts. We have to recognize such vexations as the

total, the corollary of our whole history, of everything we've lived

through. For example, we're sad now because we were sad before, or maybe

gay. In to-day's tears you'll find the bitter-aloes of the tears of long

ago; and there's the weariness of dead laughter there, too. Understand?

Don't wonder, therefore, that you can't comprehend exactly why I'm in

such a bad temper, to-day."

She grew quiet, sinking down into a brown study that drew a vertical

line upon her pretty brow. Then she asked:

"Do you often go through Calle Mayor?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Do you remember the jeweler's shop on the right, on the even-numbered

side, near the Puerta del Sol?"

The student nodded.

"Well, if you like jewels," continued Alicia, "take a look at that

emerald necklace in the middle of the window. I just happened to see it,

to-day, and it made such an impression on me that I haven't been able to

get it out of my mind. It's magnificent, not only in size and in the

wonderful luster of the stone, but also on account of its splendid

clasp."

"Worth a lot, eh?"

"Fifteen thousand pesetas."

Darlés said nothing to this. But his brows lifted with admiration. Such

figures filled his provincial simplicity with panic and confusion. By

comparison with the miserable shallowness of his purse, they seemed

enormous. Little Goldie continued:

"I told Don Manuel about it, but he's a clever fox. He's a sly one!

There's no way in this world to rake _him_ into spending any extra

money. That's partly what we've just now been quarreling about. Believe

me, it's men's own fault if we aren't more faithful to them."

Ignorant as he was of feminine psychology, Enrique understood that

Alicia's black humor was on account of that emerald necklace she so

deeply admired and so greatly wanted. Unsatisfied desires are like

undigested foods. At first they cause us a vague ill-ease, which soon

increases until indigestion sets in. Following this same line of

thought, is not disappointment or grief, in a way, the indigestion of a

caprice? Ingenuously, without realizing the indiscretion of promising

anything to women or children, Enrique exclaimed:

"If I were only rich--!"

The pause that followed was like that in a romance; one of those

silences during which women decide to do any and everything. Then all at

once, with the same bored gesture she had used when she had tossed the

book into the fire, Alicia put one of her little hands into the bony,

trembling hands of the student.

"Do you like my hands?" she queried.

"Enormously!"

"People say they're very big."

"Oh, no! Very small, indeed!"

With ravishment he examined the fine softness of her wrist, the

wandering lines traced by the blue veins beneath the whiteness of the

skin, the little dimples that adorned the back of her hand. That hand

was an artist's, a dancer's. Its fingers were showily covered with

rings. Alicia studied these rings. In their settings, the sapphires, the

blood-red rubies, the topazes and diamonds filled with light blent into

bouquets of tiny, never-fading flowers.

"Next time you go through Calle Mayor," directed the young woman, "take

a good look at the necklace I've told you about. There are two necklaces

in the window. One is of black pearls, the other of emeralds. I'm

talking about the emerald one. You'll find it a little to the left, on a

bust of white velvet."

The vision of the precious stones persisted in her memory with the

tenacity of an obsession. It filled her mind and dominated all her

thoughts with a dangerous kind of introspective tyranny.

Eight o'clock sounded. Enrique Darlés got up.

"Going, already?" asked the girl.

"Yes, I'm going to supper."

She looked him over, from head to foot, and saw that he was slender,

with an almost childish beauty, as he stood there in his modest suit of

black. Then she thought about having nothing to do, that night, and how

horribly bored she was going to be.

"Why not stay here and have a bite with me?" she questioned.

"What for?" he demanded.

"What a question! Why, so we shan't have to separate, so soon."

"I--well, all right. Anything you like. But I'm afraid I'll bother you."

"What an idiot you are! Quite the contrary. Your conversation will amuse

me. You'll see how quickly I'll be good-natured, again."

She got up with a swift, supple movement that made her petticoats rustle

and that infused a perfume of violets through the room. She pressed an

electric button. A maid appeared.

"Tell Leonor," she ordered, "that I have a guest. Señor Enrique is going

to have supper with me."

She approached a mirror, to arrange her hair. She seemed happy,

transfigured with joy.

"Have you seen the play they're giving at the Princess Theater

to-night?" asked she.

"No, I haven't."

"They say it's awfully good. Shall we take it in? There's time enough,

yet. We'll have supper right away."

Darlés felt a bit disconcerted, and secretly investigated his pockets,

estimating the money he had. Mentally he counted:

"Five pesetas, ten, fifteen."

Yes, there was enough for two seats and a carriage to come back in.

"All right, just as you like," he answered, more reassured.

"Then I'll go change my dress. I'll be back in a minute."

She vanished behind the crimson curtain that draped the door of her

bedroom. The student heard a little rustling of lingerie that slid to

the floor. He heard corset-steels being tightened over a soft breast;

heard mysterious, silken sounds of undressing and of dressing; heard

closet-doors vivaciously opened and shut.

Enrique felt upset and very happy. He had known Alicia more than a

month. During that time, using his visits to Don Manuel as a pretext, he

had seen the young woman several times. In spite of the intimacy of

these calls he had never dared let the girl see his love. His innocence

had been too great to let him approach any such difficult avowal. When

Alicia had tried to help him out of the embarrassment she had seen in

him, and had tried to turn the conversation into confidential channels,

he had evaded declaring himself. For he had been afraid of making some

stupid blunder and of appearing absurd.

But now he felt calmer, more self-confident. Without quite understanding

why, he suspected that Alicia's ill-humor was working to his benefit.

She was keeping him with her because she was bored, because she was

afraid to pass the night alone with that gnawing desire for the jewels

that in all probability could never be hers. And Enrique reflected that

the necklace, made to encircle some wonderful throat, might become the

symbol of a bond of love now growing up between them.

Then he realized there was something sweet and intimate in the

confidence Alicia manifested by dressing so very near him, and in the

complacency shown by the maid when Alicia had told her that Señor

Enrique was taking supper there. These were important details that

roused up his failing heart and made him understand that all this--if

his own cowardice were not too great--might lead to something much more

complete and exquisite than a mere chaste, warm friendship.

Enrique lost himself in pleasant fancies. He remembered many novels in

which the daring and eloquent heroes had taken part in situations quite

parallel to this now confronting him, poor country boy that he was. The

beveled mirror of a clothes-press flung back at him the reflection of

his tall, slim body, his black clothes, his rather poetic face. Pale,

beardless, romantic-looking, why might not he be a hero, too? What

surprises might not destiny have in store for his youthfulness?

To calm himself he began looking at the little bronze and porcelain

figures in the cabinets. There were cowled gnomes, dogs, cats looking

into a little mirror, with astonished grimaces. Then Darlés studied the

marble clock and the big vases on the chimney-piece. He examined the

portraits and the little fancy pictures, of slight merit but gaudily

framed, that covered the green wall-paper almost to the ceiling. And in

a kind of analytical way he reflected that these portraits, these little

paintings, these pretty, frivolous furnishings were the aftermath of all

the mercenary love-affairs which had taken place here in this apartment.

His attention was now called to a large collection of picture post-cards

stuck into a Japanese screen. There were dancers, love-making scenes and

all sorts of things. Nearly every card bore the signature of some man,

together with a line or two of dedication. Many of the cards were dated

from Paris--that City of the Sun, beloved by adventurers--while others

had come from America, from Egypt or elsewhere. And all the cards seemed

a kind of incense offered to the beauty of the same woman. Through all

the longings of exile, and from every zone, memories had come back to

her. You might almost have thought the warmth of her flesh had infused a

deathless glow in all those wanderers.

Alicia Pardo came in again, bringing with her a gust of violet perfume.

"Have I kept you waiting long?" asked she. "I hope not. Come on, now,

let's go to the dining-room. If we want to get to the theater in time,

we mustn't lose a minute."

It was a light, pleasant supper--vegetable soup, partridges _à

l'anglaise_, lobster and crisp bacon, then a bit of orange marmalade and

dead-ripe bananas. At the theater, they had a couple of seats in the

second row. The play had already begun, when they got there. None the

less, Goldie's presence roused up interest among the masculine element

in the boxes. Numbers of opera-glasses focused themselves at her. On the

stage, an actor profited by one of his exits to give her an almost

imperceptible smile, to which she replied with a nod.

Such marks of attention usually fill men of the world with pride and

complacency. But they disturb young lovers. According to the

temperaments of such youthful blades, public recognition of this kind

excites jealousy or shame. Enrique Darlés felt suppressed and ill at

ease. A wave of hot blood burned in his cheeks. Not for one instant did

it occur to him that these grave, rich gentlemen--old men who never win

the favors of the demi-monde along the flowery path of real

affection--might be envying his beauty and his youth.

Alicia felt, in the student's silence, something of the embarrassment

that possessed him.

"What's the matter with you?" asked she. "Are you ashamed of being seen

with me?"

Enrique tried to seem astonished.

"Ashamed?" he repeated. "How could I be? On the contrary----"

And his fingers closed over hers with unspeakable ardor.

At the end of the act, the audience began to applaud. Many enthusiastic

voices called: "Author! Author!" Alicia clapped her hands wildly.

"Oh, how I'd like to know him!" cried she.

Enrique also applauded noisily, to please her. The curtain rose again,

in the midst of that uproarious tempest of triumph, and the author

appeared. His profile was aquiline; his theatrical triumphs and loose

way of living had enveloped him in a cloud of prestige, blent of talent

and scandal. He looked a little above forty, but his lithe body still

kept all the graceful activity of youth. The spot-light brilliantly

illuminated him; he smiled, with the arrogant expression and gestures of

a conqueror. Still applauding, Alicia exclaimed to Enrique:

"_Isn't_ he lovely? I've got to get some one to introduce me to him. My

friend Candelas knows him very well."

And her big green eyes widened with emotion. Her curly reddish hair

shook like a lion's mane, over her willful forehead. At that moment,

Enrique Darlés once more felt himself small and obscure. He saw his love

meant nothing in the exuberant life of this girl. While he had been

holding her pretty little hand, a few minutes before, he had thought her

conquered and in love with him. Now all of a sudden he beheld her

transfigured, beside herself, her scatter-brained little head flung back

in an attitude of giving, that offered the victorious playwright her

snowy throat. Ethnological reasons underlie woman's adoration of

everything strong, shining, violent.

"If I were not here," thought Darlés with melancholy, "surely she would

go to him."

The student got back his gayety, during the second act. Alicia pressed

up against him, slyly and nervously, and her restless curls produced

little electric ticklings on his temples. When the play was done, the

ovation broke out again, and the author once more appeared. Enrique's

applause was only mild. For a moment he thought the playwright's eyes

fell with avidity on Alicia. This painful impression still lay upon the

student as they went out into the street. The young woman walked beside

him, holding his arm and shivering with cold in her handsome gray cloak.

The night was sharp. Rain had been falling. Alicia said:

"Well, where are we going?"

He answered, in surprise:

"I'm going to take you home. We'll call a carriage."

"No, I don't want to go home."

"What?"

"Come on! I'm going to give you a treat, to-night."

She looked up at him, smiling in a fascinating, promising way that

foreshadowed paradise. In anguish the poor fellow remembered he had

hardly ten pesetas left. To escape the jostling and rude staring of the

passers-by, Alicia took refuge in a doorway. Her feet were stiff with

cold. The wetness of the pavement was soaking through the thin soles of

her shoes.

"Decide on something, quick," she shivered. "I'm dying of cold!"

Enrique exclaimed, with a resolution he thought very like that of a man

of the world:

"If you want to eat, we'll go to Fornos."

The girl made a grimace of horror.

"Never!" she cried. "Everybody knows me there!"

"Well then, let's go to Moran's."

"Worse still! I'd be sure to run into some friend or other."

"How about Viña P?"

"I should say not! I don't dare." Then with cruel frankness she added:

"Do you know why I don't dare? The women there look down on girls like

me. And if any of my friends--they're all serious men--should see me

with you, there, they'd call me flighty. They'd think me mad."

Enrique understood but little. He vaguely felt, however, that all this

held some kind of humiliation for him. Suddenly, like one who clutches

at a saving idea, Alicia exclaimed:

"What time is it?"

"Quarter past one."

"Well then, see here. Let's go to Las Ventas, or La Bombilla. The same

carriage that takes us out can bring us back."

"Well--it----"

He hesitated, knowing not how to confess his absurdity, how to own up to

the enormous, unpardonable stupidity of being poor. At last he made up

his mind to speak, wounded by the questions of Alicia, who by no means

understood his uncertainty.

"You know, I--forgive me, but--I haven't got money enough," said he.

"What a boy you are!" she answered. "Why, you don't need hardly any, at

all. Haven't you even got, say, two hundred pesetas?"

"Two hundred pesetas!" stammered Enrique, horror-stricken. "No, no, I

haven't."

"Well, a hundred, then?"

"No."

"All right. Come, tell me. How much _have_ you got?"

Enrique would have gladly died. Gnawing his lips with desperation, he

answered:

"I've hardly got ten left."

She burst out laughing, one of those frank, bold laughs such as perhaps

she had never known since the time when some rich man, setting her feet

on the path of sin, had taken from her the gentle happiness of being

poor.

"And you were talking about going to Fornos?" she demanded.

Enrique answered, in shame:

"I'm not good enough for you, Alicia! I'm not worthy of you! I'll take

you home."

The girl answered, charmed by the bohemian novelty of the adventure:

"Never mind about the money. I want to have something to eat with you.

Take me to some tavern or other, some cheap little dive. It's all

right."

He still hesitated. She insisted. The terror of falling from her good

graces enfolded him.

"What if the food is bad, and you don't like it?" he asked.

"Fool! I don't want luxury, to-night. I want memories of other times.

Was I always rich, do you think?"

"Well, in that case----"

"Yes, yes, take me along! Show me something of your life!"

Arm in arm they went down the street. Their feet kept time, together.

Feverishly he repeated:

"Alicia! Oh, my Alicia!"

Then, as he buried his white and trembling lips in the hair of the

greatly desired one, it seemed to him that all Madrid was filled with

perfumes of fresh violets.