I
Hidden in the tall, thick rose-bushes that bounded the _plazoleta_ in
front of the Blue House, and under four old dead palms that drooped
their branches dry and melancholy under the vigorous tufts of younger
trees, were two rubblework benches, white-washed, the backs and armrests
of ancient Valencian tiles, the glazed surfaces flecked with arabesques
and varicolored fancies inherited from days of Saracen rule--sturdy, but
comfortable seats, with the graceful lines of the sofas of the
Eighteenth Century; and in them Leonora liked to spend her time in late
afternoons especially, when the palm trees covered the little square
with a cool, delightful shade.
On that warm March day, doña Pepa was sitting in one of them, her
silver-rimmed spectacles on her nose, reading the "Life" of the day's
saint. At her side was the maid. A true daughter of the _campagna_ of
Rome, Beppa had been trained to piety from her earliest years; and she
was listening attentively so as not to miss a word.
On the other bench were Leonora and Rafael. The actress, with lowered
head, was following the movements of her hands, busily engaged on some
embroidery.
Rafael found Leonora much changed after his months of absence.
She was dressed simply, like any young lady of the city; her face and
hands, so white and marble-like before, had taken on the golden
transparency of ripened grain under the continued caress of the
Valencian sun. Her slender fingers were bare of all rings, and her pink
ears were not, as formerly, a-gleam with thick clusters of diamonds.
"I've become a regular peasant, haven't I?" she said, as if she could
read in Rafael's eyes his astonishment at the transformation she had
undergone. "It's life in the open that works such miracles: today one
frill, tomorrow another, and a woman eventually gets rid of everything
that was once a part of her body almost. I feel better this way....
Would you believe it? I've actually deserted my dressing-table, and the
perfume I used lies all forsaken and forlorn. Fresh water, plenty of
fresh water ... that's what I like. I'm a long way from the Leonora who
had to paint herself every night like a clown before she could appear
before an audience. Take a good look at me! Well ... what do you think?
You might mistake me for one of your vassals almost, eh? I'll bet that
if I had gone out this morning to join your demonstration at the station
you wouldn't have recognized me in the crowd."
Rafael was going to say--and quite seriously, too--that he thought her
more beautiful than ever. Leonora seemed to have descended from her
height and drawn closer to him. But she guessed what was coming, and to
forestall any compliments, hastened to resume control of the
conversation.
"Now don't say you like me better this way. What nonsense! Remember, you
come from Madrid, from real elegance, a world you did not know
before!... But, to tell the truth, I like this simplicity; and the
important thing in life is to please yourself, isn't it? It was a slow
transformation, but an irresistible one; this country life gradually
filled me with its peace and calm; it went to my head like a bland
delicious wine. I just sleep and sleep, living the life of a human
animal, free from every emotion, and quite willing never to wake up
again. Why, Rafaelito! If nothing extraordinary happens and the devil
doesn't give an unexpected tug at my sleeve, I can conceive of staying
on here forever. I think of the outer world as a sailor must of the sea,
when he finds himself all cosy at home after a voyage of continuous
tempest."
"That's right, do stay," said Rafael. "You can't imagine how I worried
up in Madrid wondering whether or not I'd find you here on my return."
"Don't go telling any fibs," said Leonora, gently, smiling with just a
suggestion of gratification. "Do you think we haven't been following
your doings in Madrid? Though you never were a friend, exactly, of good
old Cupido, you've been writing him frequently--and all sorts of
nonsense; just as a pretext for the really important thing--the
postscript, with your regards to the 'illustrious artist,' sure to
provoke the consoling reply that the 'illustrious artist' was still
here. How those letters made me laugh!"
"Anyway, that will prove I wasn't lying that day when I assured you I
would not forget, in Madrid. Well, Leonora; I didn't! The separation has
made me worse, much worse, in fact."
"Thanks, Rafael," Leonora answered, quite seriously, as if she had lost
mastery over the irony of former days. "I know you're telling the
truth. And it saddens me, because it really is too bad. You understand,
of course, that I can't love you.... So--if you don't mind--let's talk
of something else."
And hastily, to shift the conversation from such dangerous ground, she
began to chat about her rustic pleasures.
"I have a hen-coop that's too charming for anything. If you could only
see me mornings, in a circle of cackling feathers, throwing fusillades
of corn about to keep the roosters away. You see they get under my
skirts and peck at my feet. It's hard to realize I can be the same woman
who, just a few months ago, was brandishing a stage lance and
interpreting Wagner's dreams, no less, as finely as you please! You'll
soon see _my_ vassals. I have the most astonishing layers you ever saw;
and every morning I rummage around in the straw like a thief to get the
eggs, and when I find them, they are still warm.... I've forgotten the
piano. I hadn't opened it for more than a week, but this afternoon--I
don't know why--I just felt like spending a little while in the society
of the geniuses. I was thirsty for music ... one of those moody whims of
the olden days. Perhaps the presentiment that you were coming: the
thought of those afternoons when you were upstairs, sitting like a booby
in the corner, listening to me.... But don't jump to the conclusion, my
dear deputy, that everything here is mere play--just chickens and the
simple life. No, sir! I have turned my leisure to serious account. I
have done big things to the house. You would never guess! A bathroom, if
you please! And it just scandalizes poor auntie; while Beppa says it's
a sin to give so much thought to matters of the body. I could give up
many of my old habits, but not my bath; it's the one luxury I have kept,
and I sent to Valencia for the plumbers, the marble, and the wood and...
well ... it's a gem. I'll show it to you, by and by. If some fine day I
should suddenly take it into my head to fly away, that bath will remain
here, for my poor aunt to preach about and show how her madcap niece
squandered a mint of money on sinful folly, as she calls it."
And she laughed, with a glance at the innocent doña Pepa, who, there on
the other bench, was for the hundredth time explaining to the Italian
maid the prodigious miracles wrought by the patron of Alcira, and trying
to persuade the "foreigner" to transfer her faith to that saint, and
waste no more time on the second or third raters of Italy.
"Don't imagine," the actress continued, "that I forgot you during all
this time. I am a real friend, you see, and take an interest! I learned
through Cupido, who ferrets out everything, just what you were doing in
Madrid. I, too, figured among your admirers. That proves what friendship
can do! ... I don't know why, but when señor Brull is concerned, I
swallow the biggest whoppers, though I know they're lies. When you made
your speech in the Chambers on that matter of flood protection, I sent
to Alcira for the paper and read the story through I don't know how many
times, believing blindly everything said in praise of you. I once met
Gladstone at a concert given by the Queen at Windsor Castle; I have
known men who got to be presidents of their countries on sheer
eloquence--not to mention the politicians of Spain. The majority of
them I've had, one time or another, as hangers-on in my
dressing-room--once I had sung at the 'Real.' Well, despite all that, I
took the exaggerations your party friends printed about you quite
seriously for some days, putting you on a level with all the solemn
top-notchers I have known. And why, do you suppose? Perhaps from my
isolation and tranquillity here, which do make you lose perspective; or
perhaps it was the influence of environment! It is impossible to live in
this region without being a subject of the Brulls!... Can I be falling
in love with you unawares?"
And once more she laughed the gleeful, candid, mocking laugh of other
days. At first she had received him seriously, simply, under the
influence still of solitude, country life and the longing for rest and
quiet. But once in actual contact with him again, the sight, again, of
that lovesick expression in eyes which now, however, showed a trace of
self-possession, the old teaser had reappeared in her; and her irony cut
into the youth's flesh like a steel blade.
"Stranger things than that have happened," Rafael snapped boldly, and
imitating her sarcastic smile. "It's humanly conceivable that even you
should wind up by falling in love with even me--out of pity, of course!"
"No," answered Leonora bluntly. "It's not even humanly conceivable. I'll
never fall in love with you ... And even if I should," she continued in
a gentle, almost mothering tone, "you would never know about it. I
should keep it jolly well to myself--so as to prevent your going crazy
on finding your affections returned. All afternoon I have been trying
to evade this explanation. I have brought up a thousand subjects, I have
inquired about your life in Madrid--even going into details that haven't
the slightest interest for me--all to keep the talk off love. But with
you, that's impossible; you always come back to that sooner or later.
Very well, so be it ... But I'll never love you--I must not love you. If
I had made your acquaintance somewhere else, but under the same romantic
circumstances, I don't say it mightn't have happened. But here!... My
scruples may make you laugh, but I feel as though I'd be committing a
crime to love you. It would be like entering a home and repaying the
hospitality by purloining the silverware."
"That's a new kind of nonsense you are talking," Rafael exclaimed. "Just
what do you mean? I don't think I understand, exactly."
"Well, you live here, you see, and you hardly realize what it's all
like. Love for love's sake alone! That may happen in the world where I
come from. There folks aren't scandalized at things. Virtue is
broad-minded and tolerant; and people, through a selfish desire to have
their own weaknesses condoned, are careful not to censure others too
harshly. But here!... Here love is the straight and narrow path that
leads to marriage. Now let's see how good a liar you are! Would you be
capable of saying that you would marry me?..."
She gazed straight at the youth out of her green, luminous, mocking
eyes, and with such frankness that Rafael bowed his head, stuttering as
he started to speak.
"Exactly," she went on. "You wouldn't, and you are right. For that
would be a piece of solemn, deliberate barbarity. I'm not one of the
women who are made for such things. Many men have proposed marriage to
me in my time, to prove what fools they were, I suppose. More than once
they've offered me their ducal crowns or the prestige of their
marquisates, with the idea that title and social position would hold me
back when I got bored and tried to fly away. But imagine me married!
Could anything be more absurd?"
She laughed hysterically, almost, but with an undertone that hurt Rafael
deeply. There was a ring of sarcasm, of unspeakable scorn in it, which
reminded the young man of Mephisto's mirth during his infernal serenade
to Marguerite.
"Moreover," continued Leonora, recovering her composure, "you don't seem
to realize just how I stand in this community. Don't imagine what's said
about me in town escapes me ... I just have to notice the way the women
look at me the few times I go in there. And I know also what happened to
you before you left for Madrid. We find out everything here, Rafaelito.
The gossip of these people carries--it reaches even this solitary spot.
I know perfectly well how your mother hates me, and I've even heard
about the squabbles you've had at home over coming here. Well, we must
put a stop to all that! I am going to ask you not to visit me any more.
I will always be your friend; but if we stop seeing each other it will
be to the advantage of us both."
That was a painful thrust for Rafael. So she knew! But to escape from
what he felt to be a ridiculous position, he affected an air of
independence.
"Don't you believe such bosh! It's just election gossip spread by my
enemies. I am of age, and I daresay I can go where I please, without
asking mamma."
"Very well; keep on coming, if you really want to; but all the same, it
shows how people feel toward me--a declaration of war, virtually. And if
I should ever fall in love with you ... heavens! What would they say
then? They'd be sure I had come here for the sole purpose of capturing
their don Rafael! You can see how far such a thing is from my mind. It
would be the end of the peace and quiet I came here to find. If they
talk that way now, when I'm as innocent as a lamb, imagine how their
tongues would wag then!... No, I'm not looking for excitement! Let them
snap at me as much as they please; but I mustn't be to blame. It must be
out of pure envy on their part. I wouldn't stoop to provoking them!"
And with a turn of her head in the direction of the city that was hidden
from view behind the rows of orange-trees, she laughed disdainfully.
Then her gleeful frankness returned once more--a candor of which she was
always ready to make herself the first victim--and in a low,
confidential, affectionate tone she continued:
"Besides, Rafaelito, you haven't had a good look at me. Why, I'm almost
an old woman!... Oh, I know it, I know it. You don't have to tell me.
You and I are of the same age; but you are a man; and I'm a woman. And
the way I've lived has added considerably to my years. You are still on
the very threshold of life. I've been knocking about the world since I
was sixteen, from one theatre to another. And my accursed disposition,
my mania for concealing nothing, for refusing to lie, has helped make me
worse than I really am. I have many enemies in this world who are just
gloating, I am sure, because I have suddenly disappeared. You can't
advance a step on the stage without rousing the jealousy of someone; and
that kind of jealousy is the most bloodthirsty of human passions. Can
you imagine what my kind colleagues say about me? That I've gotten along
as a woman of the _demimonde_ rather than as an artist--that I'm a
_cocotte_, using my voice and the stage for soliciting, as it were."
"Damn the liars!" cried Rafael hotly. "I'd like to have someone say that
in my hearing."
"Bah! Don't be a child. Liars, yes, but what they say has a grain of
truth in it. I have been something of the sort, really; though the blame
had not been wholly mine ... I've done crazy foolish things--giving a
loose rein to my whims, for the fun of the thing. Sometimes it would be
wealth, magnificence, luxury; then again bravery; then again just plain,
ordinary, good looks! And I would be off the moment the excitement, the
novelty, was gone, without a thought for the desperation of my lovers at
finding their dreams shattered. And from all this wild career of
mine--it has taken in a good part of Europe--I have come to one
conclusion: either that what the poets call love is a lie, a pleasant
lie, if you wish; or else that I was not born to love, that I am immune;
for as I go back over my exciting and variegated past, I have to
recognize that in my life love has not amounted to this!"
And she gave a sharp snap with her pink fingers.
"I am telling you everything, you see," she continued. "During your long
absence I thought of you often. Somehow I want you to know me
thoroughly, once and for all. In that way perhaps we can get along
together better. I can understand now why it is a peasant woman will
walk miles and miles, under a scorching sun or a pouring rain, to have a
priest listen to her confession. I am in that mood this afternoon. I
feel as though I must tell everything. Even if I tried not to, I should
not succeed. There's a little demon inside me here urging me, compelling
me, to unveil all my past."
"Please feel quite free to do so. To be a confessor even, to deserve
your confidence, is some progress for me, at any rate."
"Progress? But why should you care to progress ... into my heart! My
heart is only an empty shell! Do you think you'd be getting much if you
got me? I'm absolutely, absolutely worthless! Don't laugh, please! I
mean it! Absolutely worthless. Here in this solitude I have been able to
study myself at leisure, see myself as I really am. I recognize it plain
as day: I am nothing, nothing. Good looking?... Well, yes; I confess I
am not what you'd call ugly. Even if, with a ridiculous false modesty, I
were to say I was, there's my past history to prove that plenty of men
have found me beautiful. But, alas, Rafaelito! That's only the outside,
my facade, so to speak. A few winter rains will wash the paint off and
show the mould that's underneath. Inside, believe me, Rafael, I am a
ruin. The walls are crumbling, the floors are giving way. I have burned
my life out in gaiety. I have singed my wings in a headlong rush into
the candle-flame of life. Do you know what I am? I am one of those old
hulks drawn up on the beach. From a distance their paint seems to have
all the color of their first voyages; but when you get closer you see
that all they ask for is to be let alone to grow old and crumble away on
the sand in peace. And you, who are setting out on your life voyage,
come gaily asking for a berth on a wreck that will go to the bottom as
soon as it strikes deep water, and carry you down with it!... Rafael, my
dear boy, don't be foolish. I am all right to have as a friend; but it's
too late for me to be anything more ... even if I were to love you. We
are of a different breed. I have been studying you, and I see that you
are a sensible, honest, plodding sort of fellow. Whereas I--I belong to
the butterflies, to the opposite of all you are. I am a conscript under
the banner of Bohemia, and I cannot desert the colors. Each of us on his
own road then. You'll easily find a woman to make you happy.... The
sillier she is, the better.... You were born to be a family man."
It occurred to Rafael that she might be poking fun at him, as she so
often did. But no; there was a ring of sincerity in her voice. The
forced smile had vanished from her face. She was speaking tenderly,
affectionately, as if in motherly counsel to a son in danger of going
wrong.
"And don't make yourself over, Rafael. If the world were made up of
people like me, life would be impossible. I too have moments when I
should like to become a different person entirely--a fowl, a cow, or
something, like the folks around me, thinking of money all the time, and
of what I'll eat tomorrow; buying land, haggling with farmers on the
market, studying fertilizers, having children who'd keep me busy with
their colds and the shoes they'd tear, my widest vision limited to
getting a good price for the fall crop. There are times when I envy a
hen. How good it must be, to be a hen! A fence around me to mark the
boundaries of my world, my meals for the trouble of pecking at them, my
life-work to sit hour after hour in the sun, balanced on a roost.... You
laugh? Well, I've made a good start already toward becoming a hen, and
the career suits me to a 't.' Every Wednesday I go to market, to buy a
pullet and some eggs; and I haggle with the vendors just for the fun of
it, finally giving them the price they ask for; I invite the peasant
women to have a cup of chocolate with me, and come home escorted by a
whole crowd of them; and they listen in astonishment when I talk to
Beppa in Italian! If you could only see how fond they are of me!... They
can hardly believe their eyes when they see the _siñorita_ isn't half so
black as the city people paint her. You remember that poor woman we saw
up at the Hermitage that afternoon? Well, she's a frequent visitor, and
I always give her something. She, too, is fond of me.... Now all that is
agreeable, isn't it? Peace; the affection of the humble; an innocent old
woman, my poor aunt, who seems to have grown younger since I came here!
Nevertheless, some fine day, this shell, this rustic bark that has
formed around me in the sun and the air of the orchards, will burst, and
the woman of old--the Valkyrie--will step out of it again. And then, to
horse, to horse! Off on another gallop around the world, in a tempest of
pleasure, acclaimed by a chorus of brutal libertines!... I am sure that
is bound to happen. I swore to remain here until Spring. Well, Spring is
almost here! Look at those rose-bushes! Look at those orange-trees!
Bursting with life! Oh, Rafael, I'm afraid of Springtime. Spring has
always been a season of disaster for me."
And she was lost in thought for a moment. Doña Pepa and the Italian maid
had gone into the house. The good old woman could never keep away from
the kitchen long.
Leonora had dropped her embroidery upon the bench and was looking
upward, her head thrown back, the muscles of her arching neck tense and
drawn. She seemed wrapt in ecstacy, as if visions of the past were
filing by in front of her. Suddenly she shuddered and sat up.
"I'm afraid I'm ill, Rafael. I don't know what's the matter with me
today. Perhaps it's the surprise of seeing you; this talk of ours that
has called me back to the past, after so many months of tranquillity....
Please don't speak! No, not a word, please. You have the rare skill,
though you don't know it, of making me talk, of reminding me of things I
was determined to forget.... Come, give me your arm; let's walk out
through the garden; it will do me good."
They arose, and began to saunter along over the broad avenue that led
from the gate to the little square. The house was soon behind them, lost
in the thick crests of the orange-trees. Leonora smiled mischievously
and lifted a forefinger in warning.
"I took it for granted you had returned from your trip a more serious,
a more well-behaved person. No nonsense, no familiarities, eh? Besides,
you know already that I'm strong, and can fight--if I have to."