THE CONFESSION
Meanwhile Rosario--with her heart torn and bleeding, unable to shed
tears, unable to be at peace or rest, transpierced by grief as by a
sharp sword, with her thoughts passing swiftly from the world to God and
from God to the world, bewildered and half-crazed, her hands clasped,
her bare feet resting on the floor--was kneeling, late in the evening,
in her own room, beside her bed, on the edge of which she rested her
burning forehead, in darkness, in solitude, and in silence. She was
careful not to make the slightest noise, in order not to attract the
attention of her mother, who was asleep, or seemed to be asleep, in the
adjoining room. She lifted up her distracted thoughts to Heaven in this
form:
“Lord, my God, why is it that before I did not know how to lie, and now
I know? Why did I not know before how to deceive, and now I deceive? Am
I a vile woman? Is this that I feel, is this that is happening to me,
a fall from which there can be no arising? Have I ceased to be virtuous
and good? I do not recognize myself. Is it I or is it some one else
who is in this place? How many terrible things in a few days! How many
different sensations! My heart is consumed with all it has felt. Lord,
my God, dost thou hear my voice, or am I condemned to pray eternally
without being heard? I am good, nothing will convince me that I am not
good. To love, to love boundlessly, is that wickedness? But no--it is
no illusion, no error--I am worse than the worst woman on earth. A great
serpent is within me, and has fastened his poisonous fangs in my heart.
What is this that I feel? My God, why dost thou not kill me? Why dost
thou not plunge me forever into the depths of hell? It is frightful,
but I confess it to the priest--I hate my mother. Why is this? I cannot
explain it to myself. He has not said a word to me against my mother. I
do not know how this is come to pass. How wicked I am! The demons have
taken possession of me. Lord, come to my help, for with my own strength
alone I cannot vanquish myself. A terrible impulse urges me to leave
this house. I wish to escape, to fly from it. If he does not take me, I
will drag myself after him through the streets. What divine joy is this
that mingles in my breast with so cruel a grief? Lord God, my father,
illumine me. I desire only to love. I was not born for this hatred that
is consuming me. I was not born to deceive, to lie, to cheat. To-morrow
I will go out into the streets and cry aloud to all the passers-by: ‘I
love! I hate!’ My heart will relieve itself in this way. What happiness
it would be to be able to reconcile every thing, to love and respect
every one! May the Most Holy Virgin protect me. Again that terrible
idea! I don’t wish to think it, and I think it. Ah! I cannot deceive
myself in regard to this. I can neither destroy it nor diminish it--but
I can confess it; and I confess it, saying to thee: ‘Lord, I hate my
mother!’”
At last she fell into a doze. In her uneasy sleep her imagination
reproduced in her mind all she had done that night, distorting it,
without altering it in substance. She heard again the clock of the
cathedral striking nine; she saw with joy the old servant fall into a
peaceful sleep; and she left the room very slowly, in order to make no
noise; she descended the stairs softly, step by step and on tiptoe, in
order to avoid making the slightest sound. She went into the garden,
going around through the servants’ quarters and the kitchen; in the
garden she paused for a moment to look up at the sky, which was dark
and studded with stars. The wind was hushed. Not a breath disturbed
the profound stillness of the night. It seemed to maintain a fixed and
silent attention--the attention of eyes that look without winking and
ears that listen attentively, awaiting a great event. The night was
watching.
She then approached the glass door of the dining-room and looked
cautiously through it, from a little distance, fearing that those within
might perceive her. By the light of the dining-room lamp she saw her
mother sitting with her back toward her. The Penitentiary was on her
right, and his profile seemed to undergo a strange transformation, his
nose grew larger and larger, seeming like the beak of some fabulous
bird; and his whole face became a black silhouette with angles here and
there, sharp derisive, irritating. In front of him sat Caballuco, who
resembled a dragon rather than a man. Rosario could see his green eyes,
like two lanterns of convex glass. This glow, and the imposing figure
of the animal, inspired her with fear. Uncle Licurgo and the other three
men appeared to her imagination like grotesque little figures. She had
seen somewhere, doubtless in some of the clay figures at the fairs, that
foolish smile, those coarse faces, that stupid look. The dragon moved
his arms which, instead of gesticulating, turned round, like the arms of
a windmill, and the green globes, like the lights of a pharmacy, moved
from side to side. His glance was blinding. The conversation appeared
to be interesting. The Penitentiary was flapping his wings. He was a
presumptuous bird, who tried to fly and could not. His beak lengthened
itself, twisting round and round. His feathers stood out, as if with
rage; and then, collecting himself and becoming pacified, he hid his
bald head under his wings. Then the little clay figures began to move,
wishing to be persons, and Frasquito Gonzalez was trying to pass for a
man.
Rosario felt an inexplicable terror, witnessing this friendly
conference. She went away from the door and advanced, step by step,
looking around her to see if she was observed. Although she saw no one,
she fancied that a million eyes were fastened upon her. But suddenly her
fears and her shame were dispelled. At the window of the room occupied
by Señor Pinzon appeared a man, dressed in blue; the buttons on his coat
shone like rows of little lights. She approached. At the same instant
she felt a pair of arms with galloons lift her up as if she were
a feather and with a swift movement place her in the room. All was
changed. Suddenly a crash was heard, a violent blow that shook the house
to its foundations. Neither knew the cause of the noise. They trembled
and were silent.
It was the moment in which the dragon had broken the table in the
dining-room.