WHERE HIS BEAUTIFUL EXPECTATIONS WENT!
One morning Quentin met Juan, the gardener.
“You don’t come to the house any more, Señorito.”
“I’ve had lots to do these days.”
“Have you heard the important news?”
“What is it?”
“The Señorita is going to be married.”
“Rafaela?”
“Yes.”
“To whom?”
“To Juan de Dios.”
Quentin felt as if all his nerves had let go at once.
“The Marquis is getting worse every day,” the gardener continued, “so he
thought the Señorita ought to get married as soon as possible.”
“And she.... What does she say?”
“Nothing, at present.”
“But will she oppose it?”
“How do I know?”
“Are the family affairs in such bad shape that the Marquis was forced to
take this course?”
“They are very bad. The grandfather hasn’t much longer to live; the
Señorita’s father is a profligate; and El Pollo Real doesn’t care to do
anything at all. To whom will they leave the girls? Their stepmother,
La Aceitunera, is no good. Have you ever heard of a Señora Patrocinio
who has a house in Los Tejares? Well, she goes there every day. Why,
it’s a shame.”
“And this Juan de Dios ... is he rich?” asked Quentin.
“Very; but he is very coarse. When he was a little boy he used to say:
‘I want to be a horse,’ and he used to go out to the stable, pick up
some filth in his hands, and say to the people, ‘Look, look what I
did.’”
“He _is_ coarse, then--eh?”
“Yes; but he’s got noble blood in him.”
Quentin left Juan and went home perplexed. Indubitably, he was no
Bœotian, but a vulgar sentimentalist, a poor cadet, an unhappy wretch,
without strength enough to set aside, as useless and prejudicial, those
gloomy ideas and sentiments: love, self-denial, and the rest.
And he had thought himself an Epicurean! One of the few men capable of
following the advice of Horace: “Pluck today’s flower, and give no
thought to the morrow’s!” He! In love with a young lady of the
aristocracy; not for her money, nor even for her palace; but for her own
sake! He was on a level with any romantic carpenter of a provincial
capital. He was unworthy of having been in Eton, near Windsor, for eight
years; or of having walked through Piccadilly; or of having read Horace.
In the miserable state in which Quentin found himself, only nonsensical
ideas occurred to him. The first was to go to Rafaela and demand an
explanation; the second was to write her a letter; and he was as pleased
with this idiotic plan as if it had been really brilliant. He made
several rough drafts in succession, and was satisfied with none of
them. Sometimes his words were high-sounding and emphatic; again, he
unwittingly gave a clumsy and vulgar tone to his letter: one could read
between the lines a common and uncouth irony, as often as extraordinary
pride, or abject humility.
At last, seeing that he could not find a form clear enough to express
his thoughts, he decided to write a laconic letter, asking Rafaela to
grant him an interview.
He gave Juan the letter to give to his young mistress. He was waiting at
the door for some one to answer his ring, when Remedios appeared.
“See here,” said the child.
“What’s the matter?”
“Don’t you know? Rafaela is going to marry Juan de Dios.”
“Does she love him?”
“No; I don’t think she does.”
“Then why does she marry him?”
“Because Juan de Dios is very rich, and we have no money.”
“But will she want to do it?”
“She hasn’t said anything about it. Juan de Dios spoke to grandfather,
and grandfather spoke to Rafaela. Are you going to see sister?”
“Yes, this very minute.”
“She’s in the sewing-room.”
They went to the door.
“Tell her not to marry Juan de Dios.”
“Don’t you like him?”
“No. I hate him. He’s vulgar.”
Quentin went in, glided along the gallery, and knocked upon the door of
the sewing-room.
“Come in!” said some one.
Rafaela and the old woman servant were sewing. As Quentin appeared a
slight flush spread over the girl’s cheeks.
“What a long time it is since you have been here!” said Rafaela. “Won’t
you sit down?”
Quentin gave her to understand with a gesture that he preferred to
remain standing.
“Have you been so very busy?” asked the girl.
“No; I’ve had nothing to do,” answered Quentin gruffly. “I’ve spent my
time being furious these days.”
“Furious! At what?” said she with a certain smiling coquetry.
“At you.”
“At me?”
“Yes. Will you let me speak to you alone a minute?”
“You may speak here, before my nurse. She will defend me in case you
accuse me of anything.”
“Accuse you? No, not that.”
“Well, then, why were you so furious?”
“I was furious, first because they told me that you once had a
sweetheart whom you loved; and second, because they say that you are
going to get married.”
Rafaela, who perhaps did not expect such a brusque way of putting the
matter, dropped her sewing and rose to her feet.
“You, too, are a child,” she murmured at length. “What can one do with
what is gone by? I had a sweetheart, it is true, for six years--and I
was in love with him.”
“Yes; I know it,” said Quentin furiously.
“If he acted badly,” Rafaela continued, as if talking to herself, “so
much the worse for him. There is no recollection of my childhood that
is not connected with him. In his company I went to the theatre for the
first time, and to my first dance. What little happiness I have had in
my life, came to me during the time I knew him. My mother was living
then; my family was considered wealthy.... Yet, if that man were free,
and wished to marry me now, I would not marry him; not from spite,
no--but because to me he is a different man.... I say this to you
because I feel I know you, and because you are like my sister Remedios:
you demand an exclusive affection.”
“And don’t you?” demanded Quentin brusquely.
“I do too; perhaps not as much as you; but neither do I believe that I
could share my affection with another. I must not deceive you in this.
You would be capable of being jealous of the past.”
“Probably,” said Quentin.
“I know it. I don’t believe that I have flirted with you; have I?”
Rafaela spoke at some length. She had that graciousness of those persons
whose emotions are not easily stirred. Her heart needed time to feel
affection; an impulse of the moment could not make her believe herself
in love.
She was a woman destined for the hearth; to be seen going to and fro,
arranging everything, directing everything; to be heard playing the
piano in the afternoons. In a burst of frankness, Rafaela said:
“Had I listened to your hints, I should have made you unhappy without
wishing to, and you would have made me miserable.”
“Then how is it that you are going to marry Juan de Dios?” asked Quentin
brutally.
Rafaela was confused.
“That’s different,” she stammered; “in the first place, I have not
decided yet; and besides, I have made my conditions. Then again, there
is this great difference: Juan de Dios is not jealous of my past love
affair ... he wants my title. [In this moment, Rafaela is sure that she
is calumniating her betrothed in order to get out of her difficulty.]
Moreover, my whole family is interested in my marrying him. If I do so,
my grandfather, poor dear, will be easy in his mind; Remedios will be
sure of being able to live according to her station,--and so shall I.”
“You are very discreet; too discreet--and calculating,” said Quentin
bitterly.
“No; not too much so. What would happen to us girls otherwise?”
“What about me?”
“You?”
“Yes, me; I would work for you if you loved me.”
“That could never be.”
“Why?”
“For many reasons. First of all, because I am older than you....”
“Bah!”
“Let me speak. First, because I am older than you; second, because you
would be jealous of me and would continually mortify me; and lastly,
most important of all, because you and I are both poor.”
“I shall make money,” said Quentin.
“How? With what? Why aren’t you making it now?”
“Now?” questioned Quentin after a pause. “Now I have no ideal; it’s all
the same to me whether I’m rich or poor. But if you believed in me,
you’d find that I could snatch money from the very bowels of the earth.”
“Possibly, yes,” said Rafaela calmly; “because you are clever. But those
are my reasons. Some day, when you recall our conversation, you will
say: ‘she was right.’”
“You are very discreet,” said Quentin as he turned toward the door; “too
discreet; and you have discreetly torn asunder all my illusions, and
have left my soul in shreds.”
“Do you hate me now?” she said sadly.
“Hate you, no!” exclaimed Quentin with emotion, effusively pressing the
hand Rafaela held out to him. “You are an admirable woman in every
respect!”
And trembling violently, he left the room.
As he went down the stairs Remedios rushed up to him.
“What did she say to you?” she asked.
“It’s no use; she’s going to marry him.”
“Did she tell you that herself?”
“Yes.”
“And you. What are you going to do?”
“What can I do?”
“I’d kill Juan de Dios,” murmured the girl resolutely.
“If she wished it, I would, too,” replied Quentin, and he stepped into
the street.
He walked along in a daze; he repeated Rafaela’s words to himself, and
discovered better arguments that he might have put forward in the
interview, but which did not occur to him at the moment. Sometimes he
thought, more rationally: “At least I came out of it well;” but this
consolation was too metaphysical to satisfy him.
He spent a sleepless night at his window watching the stars and
thinking. He analyzed and studied his moral problem, proposing
solutions, only to reject them.
At dawn he went to bed. He believed that he had hit upon a definite
solution--the norm of his existence. Condensed into a single phrase, it
was this:
“I must become a man of action.”