Tristana (8 page)

He spoke, and Tristana did not know how to respond, made giddy by such spirituality, as if her lover were hurling clouds of incense at her from a vast thurible. Inside her, emotion was kicking and stamping, like a living being far larger than the breast containing it, and she vented this emotion by laughing wildly or bursting into sudden, passionate tears. It was impossible to say if this feeling was a source of joy to them or a lacerating sorrow, because they both felt as if they had been wounded by a sting that plunged deep into their souls, and were both tormented by a desire for something beyond themselves. Tristana, in particular, was insatiable in her continuous demands for love. She would suddenly utter a bitter complaint that Horacio did not love her enough, that he should love her more, far more; and he would effortlessly provide her with that more-always-more, while demanding the same in return.

At sunset, they contemplated the vast horizon of the Sierra, a vivid turquoise blue with, here and there, different highlights and transparencies, as if that purest of blues had been poured over ice crystals. The curves of the bare hills, appearing and disappearing as if imitating the gentle movement of waves, repeated back to them that “more-always-more,” the inextinguishable longing of their hungry hearts. On some afternoons, strolling beside the Canal del Oeste—an undulating ribbon that winds, like an oasis, around the arid contours of the Madrid landscape—they savored the bucolic peace of that miniature valley. Cocks crowing, dogs barking, little laborers’ huts; fallen leaves that the gentle breeze swept into heaps around the trunks of the trees; the donkey grazing calmly and gravely; the slight trembling in the highest branches, which were gradually growing bare; all this aroused in them feelings of delight and amazement, and they spoke to each other of their impressions, in a back-and-forth exchange as if it were simply one impression flowing from lips to lips and springing from eye to eye.

They always returned at the same hour, so that she would not be scolded for staying out late; paying no heed to Saturna, who waited patiently for them, they would walk arm in arm along the Aceiteros path, which, as night fell, became more silent and solitary than the Carretera Mala de Francia. In the west, they saw the sky in flames, the splendid afterglow of the setting sun. Silhouetted against that backdrop, like sharp, black crenellations, stood the cypresses in the cemetery of San Ildefonso, interspersed with sad Grecian-style porticos which, in the half-light, seemed more elegant than they really were. There were few houses and, at that hour, few if any people. They nearly always saw one or two unyoked oxen, of the sort who seem as large as elephants, beautiful creatures bred in Ávila, usually black, with horns that strike fear into the heart of even the bravest of men; beasts made inoffensive by sheer tiredness and who, once the yoke has been removed, want only to lie down and rest and thus regard any passersby with scornful indifference. Tristana would go over to them and place her hands on their curved horns, wishing she had something to feed them.

“Ever since loving you,” she would tell her friend, “I haven’t felt afraid of anything, not of oxen nor of thieves. I feel almost heroically brave, and wouldn’t even flinch if confronted by the horned serpent or the lion.”

As they drew near the water tower, they saw, plunged in lonely gloom, the massive bulk of the carousel, where the wooden horses stood poised with their galloping legs outstretched as if bewitched. The strange shapes of the seesaws and the roller coaster loomed out of the darkness. Since there was no one else about, Tristana and Horacio would briefly monopolize those large toys intended for children, for they, too, were children. Not that far away, they could see the outline of the old water tower, surrounded by dense trees and, over toward the street, the lights of the tram or the passing carriages or some open-air café from which emanated the argumentative voices of a few lingering customers. There among that humble architecture, surrounded by rickety benches and rustic tables, Saturna would be waiting for them, and there they parted, sometimes as sadly and tragically as if Horacio were setting off to the ends of the earth or Tristana were bidding a last farewell before entering a convent. Finally, finally, after many attempts, they managed to part and go their separate ways, still looking back, still just able to make each other out in the gloom of night.

NOW THAT
she was in love, Tristana, to use her own words, feared neither the hefty oxen or the horned serpent or the fierce Atlas lion, but she was afraid of Don Lope, seeing him as a monster so large that he made all the wild, dangerous beasts of creation seem small. Analyzing her fear, though, she judged it to be such that it could, at any given moment, change into blind, bold valor. The differences between captive and tyrant grew more marked by the day. Don Lope reached new heights of impertinence and although, in agreement with Saturna, Tristana concealed from him her evening sorties, when the old gallant said to her, grim-faced, “You’re going out, Tristana, I know you are, I can see it on your face,” she at first denied it, but then acknowledged it with her disdainful silence. One day, she dared to answer back, “What if I am going out, what of it? Am I to remain shut up in the house for the rest of my life?”

Don Lope gave vent to his rage with threats and curses, and then, half angry, half mocking, said, “Because if you do go out, I can just imagine you being pestered by some good-for-nothing, some carrier of the
Bsacillus virgula
of love, the sole fruit of this feeble generation, and the nonsense he might spout could quite simply turn your head. I wouldn’t forgive you, my girl. If you’re going to be unfaithful to me, at least let it be with a man worthy of me. But then where would you find such a worthy rival? Nowhere! Such a man has not yet been born, nor will be. Indeed, even you must admit that I am not so easily supplanted. Oh, come here, enough of your airs and graces. Do you really think that I don’t love you any more? How I would miss you were you to leave me! Out there, you’ll find only men of quite staggering insipidness. Come, let us make our peace. Forgive me if I doubted you. You would never deceive me. You’re a superior woman, who appreciates the value of people and . . .”

Whatever words Don Lope uttered, whether placatory or angry, they only succeeded in arousing in his captive a deep, unspoken hatred, that sometimes disguised itself as scorn and, at others, as repugnance. She found his company so horribly tedious that she would count the minutes until she could leave and go out into the street. She was terrified that he might fall ill, because then she would not be able to go out. Good God, and what would become of her if she were thus imprisoned, if she couldn’t . . . ? No, that was impossible. She would have her evening walk even if Don Lope fell ill or died. At night, Tristana nearly always feigned a headache so that she could escape early from the sight and the odious caresses of that now decrepit Don Juan.

When alone with her passion and her conscience, she would say to herself, “The strange thing is that if this man were to understand that I cannot love him, if he were to erase the word ‘love’ from our relationship and we could relate to each other in a different way, then I could love him, yes, I could, although I’m not sure how, perhaps as one loves a good friend, because he isn’t a bad man, apart from his perverse, monomaniac obsession with pursuing women. I would even forgive him for the wrong he has done me, for my dishonor, I would forgive him with all my heart, as long as he would leave me in peace. Dear God, please make him leave me in peace, and I will forgive him and even feel affection for him, and I will become one of those daughters who is humble to the point of servitude, or like one of those loyal servants who sees a father in the master who feeds them.”

Fortunately for Tristana, not only did Don Lope’s health improve, thus dispelling her fear that she would have to spend her evenings at home, but he had clearly been offered some relief from his pecuniary difficulties, because his sullen mood lifted, and he regained his usual calm demeanor. Saturna, who was an old dog and a cunning one, told her mistress her thoughts on the matter.

“He’s obviously in funds again, because it no longer occurs to him that I should be prepared to work my fingers to the bone for half an endive, nor does he forget the respect he owes, as a gentleman, to those of us who wear a skirt, however darned and patched. The trouble is that when he collects the rent arrears, he spends it all in a week, and then it’s farewell chivalry and he’s back to his usual rude, fusspot, interfering self.”

At the same time, Don Lope once again began to lavish meticulous, almost aristocratic care upon his own person, dressing as carefully as he used to in better days. Both women gave thanks to God for this happy restoration of habits, and taking advantage of the tyrant’s regular absences, Tristana flung herself into the ineffable pleasure of going for walks with the man she loved.

In order to provide a change of scene and setting, he would bring a carriage most afternoons, and the two of them would set off to savor the enormous delights of driving so far out of Madrid that they could barely see it. Witnesses to their happiness were the hill at Chamartín, the two pagoda-like towers of the Jesuit college, and the mysterious pine forest; one day, they would follow the road to Fuencarral, the next they would explore the somber depths of El Pardo, where the ground was covered in prickly, metallic-looking leaves, the ash groves that border the Manzanares River, the bare peaks of Amaniel, or the deep ravines of Abroñigal. They would then leave the carriage and go for long walks along the edges of plowed fields, breathing in, along with the fresh air, the pleasures of solitude and stillness, enjoying all that they saw—for all seemed to them lovely, fresh, and new—not realizing that the charm of everything was a projection of their own selves. Turning their gaze on the source of such beauty, namely themselves, they would indulge in the innocent game of pondering their love, a game that, to those not in love, would have seemed cloying in the extreme. They would analyze the reasons for that love, try to explain the inexplicable, decipher the profound mystery of it all, only to end up as they always did: demanding and promising more love, defying eternity, giving guarantees of unalterable fidelity in successive lives lived out in the nebulous circles of that home of perfection, immortality, where souls shake off the dust of the worlds in which they suffered.

Dragging himself back to the more immediate and the more positive, Horacio urged her to come up to his studio, assuring her of the comfort and privacy it offered as a place for them to spend their evenings together. How she longed to see that studio! However, her desire to do so was as strong as her fear that she would become all too fond of that cozy nest and feel so at ease there that she would be unable to leave it. She could guess what might happen in her idol’s abode, which, as Saturna put it, had lightning rods for neighbors, or, rather, she did not need to guess, she could see the consequences as clear as day. And she was assailed by the bitter fear that he might then love her less, rather as one loses interest in a hieroglyph once it has been deciphered; she feared, too, that the wealth of her affections might be diminished if she were to take them to the highest level.

Now that love had illuminated her intelligence with new light, filling her mind with ideas and endowing her with the necessary subtlety of expression to be able to translate into words the deepest mysteries of her soul, she was able to explain her fears to her lover with such delicacy and such exquisite turns of phrase that she could express everything she felt without once offending against modesty. He understood, and since they were at one in all things, he responded with similarly tender, spiritual feelings. He did not, however, give up on his wish to take her to his studio.

“And what if we regret it afterwards?” she asked. “Happiness makes me afraid, because when I feel happy, I can feel evil watching me. Instead of draining our happiness to the dregs, what we need now is some difficulty, some tiny crumb of misfortune. Love means sacrifice, and we should always be prepared for self-denial and pain. Demand some major sacrifice of me, some painful obligation, and you will see with what delight I rush to fulfill it. Let’s suffer a little, let’s be good.”

“No one can outdo us when it comes to goodness,” said Horacio, smiling. “We are already purer than the angels, my love. And as for imposing suffering on ourselves, there’s no need, life will bring us quite enough of that without having to go looking for it. I, too, am a pessimist, which is why when I see goodness standing at the door, I usher it in and refuse to let it leave, just in case the rascal refuses to come back when I need him.”

These ideas fired both of them with ardent enthusiasm; words were succeeded by caresses, until a sudden burst of dignity and common sense made them both curb their impatience and clothe themselves once more in formality—an illusion, you might say, but one that saved them for the moment. They talked of serious moral matters; they praised the advantages of virtue and said how beautiful it was to love each other with such exquisite, celestial purity. How much finer and more subtle such a love was and how much more deeply it engraved itself upon the soul. These sweet deceptions bought them time and fed their passion, now with desires, now with the torments of Tantalus, exalting their passion with the very thing that seemed intended to contain it, humanizing it with what should have rendered it divine, so that the bed along which that torrent flowed widened the banks, both spiritual and material.

LITTLE
by little, more difficult confessions made their appearance, opening those biographical pages that most resist being opened because they affect one’s conscience and one’s pride. Asking questions and revealing secrets is all part of love. Confession springs from love, and for that reason twinges of conscience are all the more painful. Tristana wanted to tell Horacio the sad facts of her life and felt that she could not be happy until she did. He glimpsed or, rather, sensed some grave mystery in his beloved’s life, and if, at the beginning, out of refinement and delicacy, he preferred not to probe too deeply, the day came when the fears of the man and the curiosity of the lover proved stronger than all his fine intentions. When he met Tristana, he assumed, as did other people in Chamberí, that she was Don Lope’s daughter. However, when Saturna took him the second letter, she told him, “She’s married, and Don Lope, who you think is her father, is, in fact, her husband.”