Tristana (NYRB Classics)

by Benito Perez Galdos

  The invalid replied that she would prefer to train her hand with a little copying, and Don Lope promised to bring her some fine studies of heads or landscapes so that she could choose.

  The poor gentleman was prepared to make any sacrifice in order to please his poor little lame girl and—such are the caprices of fickle fate!—when he had no idea where to find such pictorial studies, chance or the devil, in the shape of Saturna, solved the problem.

  “But sir,” said Saturna, “I know where to find them. Don’t be stubborn now. Leave it to me and I’ll . . .”

  And with her admirably expressive eyes and gestures, she completed her bold thought.

  “Do as you wish, woman,” said Don Lope, with shrug. “As far as I’m concerned . . .”

  Half an hour later, Saturna returned from the street with a pile of painted panels and stretchers, heads, naked torsos, sketches of landscapes, still lifes, fruits and flowers, all the work of a master’s hand.

  25

  THESE paintings made a deep impression on Señorita Reluz, like friendly faces seen again after a long absence, reminding her of happier times. Once, they had been for her like living people, and she did not need to strain her imagination overmuch to see them spring into life, moving their lips and fixing her with affectionate eyes. She ordered Saturna to arrange the canvases around her room so that she could enjoy looking at them, and she was transported back to the delicious afternoons she had spent with Horacio in his studio. She grew sad, however, when she compared her present with that past, and in the end begged Saturna to put them away until she could accustom herself to looking at them with less emotion; yet she appeared unsurprised that the paintings should have traveled from studio to house nor did she express any curiosity as to what the suspicious Don Lope thought about it. Saturna did not want to explain nor was she asked to and, shortly afterwards, at about midday, while she was serving the master his miserable lunch of potatoes and a morsel of meat claiming to be a cutlet, she ventured to tell him a few home truths, safe in the trust she inspired after her long service to the household.

  “Señorita Tristana’s friend wishes to see her, sir, as is only natural. Don’t be unkind now and bear in mind the circumstances. They are young, and you are better fitted now to be a father or grandfather than anything else. Aren’t you always saying what a big heart you have?”

  “Saturna,” retorted Don Lope, striking the table with the handle of his knife, “I have the biggest heart in the world, bigger than this house, bigger than the water tower over there.”

  “Well, then . . . let bygones be bygones! You’re not young anymore, thank God, I mean, unfortunately. Don’t be a dog in the manger. If you want God to forgive you all your mischief and naughtiness, all those deceived wives and husbands, just remember that the young are young, and that the world and life and all the good things in it are for those who are just beginning to live, not for those near the end . . . And so, Don Lepe, I mean, Don Lope, could you not make a—how can I put it—make a gesture . . .”

  Instead of getting angry, the poor gentleman took it as a joke.

  “A gesture, eh? And what makes you think I’m so very old? Do you think I’m completely useless? There are those who would be perfectly happy, yourself included, even at fifty—”

  “Fifty? Don’t egzaggerate, sir.”

  “All right, thirty . . . five.”

  “Thirty-two and not a year more!”

  “As you wish, but if I were of a mind and you . . . no, don’t blush. Anyone would think you were a gargoyle! If you cleaned yourself up a bit, you’d be quite presentable. Why, your eyes alone—”

  “Sir, please, you’re surely not going to start flirting with me, are you?” said Saturna, not hesitating to place the empty dish of meat on one side of the table and sit down opposite her master, arms akimbo.

  “No, you’re right, I’m in no state to cause any mischief now. You need fear nothing from me. I’ve hung up my spurs and that’s an end to my pranks and my evil ways. I love Tristana so much that the other love I bore her has, quite naturally, turned into fatherly love, and to make her happy, I’m capable of all kinds of gestures, as you put it. So what about this good-for-nothing, then?”

  “For heaven’s sake, don’t call him that. Don’t be so proud. He’s very handsome.”

  “And what would you know about handsome men?”

  “Sir, that’s something all women know about. And while comparisons may be odorous, I would say Don Horacio’s a very good-looking lad . . . not to be compared with you, of course. Everyone knows that you were the be-all and end-all of handsome men, but that’s over now. Look in the mirror and you’ll see that you’re certainly not handsome anymore. All you have to do is to recognize that Don Horacio—”

  “I’ve never even seen the lad, but I don’t need to see him to tell you that nowadays there are no proud, bold, handsome men capable of winning a woman’s love. That race of men is extinct. But anyway, let’s take it as read that the dauber is relatively handsome.”

  “Señorita Tristana loves him. Now don’t get angry, the truth first and foremost. And youth is youth.”

  “All right, so she loves him, but I can tell you now: That boy won’t make her happy.”

  “He says he doesn’t care that she’s lame.”

  “Saturna, how little you understand of human nature. I’m telling you: That young man will not make Tristana happy. I know about these things. And I’ll tell you something else: Tristana doesn’t expect to be made happy by that man—”

  “Sir!”

  “In order to understand these matters, Saturna, it is necessary to, well, understand them. You are not intelligent enough to see beyond the end of your nose. Tristana, believe it or not, is a woman of understanding and ardent imagination. She is in love—”

  “I know that much.”

  “No, you don’t. She is in love with a man who does not exist, because he doesn’t, Saturna; if he did, he would be God, and God doesn’t bother coming down to earth in order to amuse young girls. Anyway, that’s enough chitchat. Bring me my coffee.”

  Saturna ran into the kitchen and, when she returned with the coffee, made bold to comment on Don Lope’s last remarks.

  “Sir, all I’m saying is that, for good or ill, they love each other, and Don Horacio wants to see her. His intentions are honorable.”

  “Let him come then. His departure will be equally honorable, I’m sure.”

  “What a tyrant you are!”

  “I’m no tyrant. I won’t stop them seeing each other,” said the gentleman, lighting a cigarette. “But I must speak to him first. You see how kind I am. You said you wanted a gesture. Yes, I will speak to him and tell him . . . well, what I tell him is up to me.”

  “You’ll probably try and scare him off, I bet.”

  “No, I myself will bring him to her. That, Saturna, is what I call a gesture. Please inform him that I will visit him in his studio one afternoon this week . . . tomorrow, in fact. I’ve made up my mind,” he said, pacing restlessly up and down the dining room. “If Tristana wishes to see him, I will not deprive her of that pleasure. Whatever the child wants, her loving father will give her. I bought her paintbrushes, I bought her a harmonium, but that was not enough. She needs more toys. So let him come, her hope, her illusion. Tell me now, Saturna, that I am not a hero, a saint. With that one gesture I wash away all my guilt and deserve God to clasp me to Him as one of His own. So—”

  “I’ll tell him. But no tricks, eh? If you try and frighten the poor boy—”

  “Just seeing me will be enough to frighten him, Saturna, I am what I am . . . Oh, and another thing: prepare Tristana. Tell her that I will turn a blind eye, that I will leave the house one afternoon so that he can visit and they may talk for half an hour, no more . . . My dignity will permit no more than that. But I will, in fact, remain in the house, and you and I will open the door just a crack so that we can see how they behave and what they say.”

  “Sir!”

>   “It’s not your business. Do as I tell you.”

  “Well, do as I advise then. There’s no time to lose. Don Horacio is in a hurry.”

  “In a hurry? There speaks a young man. In that case, I will visit his studio this very afternoon. Tell him. Off you go. And afterwards, when you join your mistress, you may mention the matter to her, tell her that I neither consent to nor will I oppose the visit . . . rather, I tolerate it and am prepared to look the other way. And don’t let her know that I am going to the studio, because such an act, so out of character, might lower me in her esteem . . . although perhaps it wouldn’t . . . Anyway, prepare her so that she is not too overcome when she finds herself in the presence of that ideal beauty.”

  “Don’t mock.”

  “I’m not. By ‘ideal beauty’ I merely mean—”

  “Her type . . . her kind of man, I suppose.”

  “Well, you may suppose all you like,” he said with a laugh. “Enough talk. You prepare her for the meeting while I go and meet the young gallant.”

  At the agreed hour—Saturna having warned Don Horacio in advance—Don Lope went to the studio, and as he climbed somewhat wearily up the interminable staircase, he was thinking, as he coughed and wheezed his way upwards, “What very strange things I’ve been obliged to do lately! Sometimes I feel like asking myself: Are you really Don Lope? I never thought I would reach the stage where I didn’t even resemble myself. I will try not to frighten the innocent boy too much.”

  That first encounter was somewhat strained, neither man knowing quite what attitude to take, torn between benevolence and what one might call a decorative dignity. The painter was prepared to treat Don Lope as Don Lope treated him. And after the usual greetings and compliments, the older gallant behaved toward him with a somewhat disdainful courtesy, treating the young man as if he were an inferior being, whom he was honoring with this brief meeting, imposed on him by chance.

  “You know, of course, about the misfortune that has befallen the child. Terrible, isn’t it? And she had such talent, such grace! Her life has been quite ruined. You will understand my grief. I look on her as a daughter and love her deeply, with the most pure and disinterested of affections, and since I was unable to preserve her health or save her from that vile amputation, I wish to bring her a little cheer, to make her life more pleasant, insofar as that is possible, and to divert her mind. In short, her unpredictable spirit needs toys. Painting is not enough to distract her, although music may . . . Her tireless enthusiasms demand more, always more. I happen to know that you—”

  “So you consider me a toy, Don Lope,” said Horacio with polite good humor.

  “No, not a toy exactly, but . . . as you can see, I am old, but I have vast experience of life’s passions and affections, and I know that youthful inclinations always do have something of the nursery about them. Don’t be offended, please. We perceive things differently depending on our age. The prism through which we look when we are twenty-five or thirty distorts things in the most charming way, so that we see them in a fresh, new light. The lens I look through now shows things quite differently. In a word: I view Tristana’s inclination with fatherly indulgence, the indulgence with which I would treat any ailing creature, whose every whim and fancy, however extravagant, must be met.”

  “Forgive me, sir,” said Horacio gravely, resisting the fascination of the other gentleman’s penetrating gaze, which was slowly sapping his courage, “but I cannot see Tristana’s ‘inclination’ for me, still less my inclination for her, from the point of view of a doting grandfather.”

  “Well, let’s not argue about that,” answered Garrido, exaggerating his urbane and scornful tone. “My thoughts are such as I have laid before you; you may think as you wish. Later on, who knows, you may change your mind. I am too long in both tooth and experience to change mine. Anyway, I leave you free to think as you wish. I have come to tell you that since you want to see Tristanita and since Tristanita would be happy to see you, I will not oppose your honoring my house with your presence; on the contrary, I would be most pleased. Did you perhaps imagine that I was going to play the jealous father or the domestic tyrant? No, I dislike deceit of any kind, still less when it comes to something as innocent as your visit. It would be most indecorous for Tristana’s sweetheart to try and slip into the house behind my back. Neither of us would gain anything by that, either you sidling in without my permission or me bolting the door as if against some mischief. So, Don Horacio, you may visit Tristana—at an hour of my choosing, of course. And should it prove necessary for you to visit her again, always assuming that your visits bring consolation to my patient, you must promise me never to enter my house without my knowledge.”

  “That seems most reasonable,” said Horacio, who was gradually being won over by the elegant old man’s sharp mind and worldly wisdom. “I am entirely at your disposal.”

  Horacio was conscious of his interlocutor’s superiority and felt almost—no, there was no “almost” about it, he felt genuinely pleased to meet him and to admire, for the first time, this curious example of a highly developed social fauna, a legendary, almost poetic figure. This attraction only grew with Don Lope’s extremely witty comments on the life of the gallant, on women, and on matrimony. In short, Horacio liked him, and the two men parted with Horacio promising to obey Don Lope’s orders and to visit the poor invalid the following afternoon.

  26

  “A VERITABLE angel!” thought Don Lope as he descended the stairs from the studio, feeling rather less assured than he had on the way up. “And he seems so honest and decent. He doesn’t appear to be so very bound to that childish mania for marriage, and he never once mentioned ‘the beautiful ideal,’ or anything about loving her until death did them part, with leg or without it. No, that’s all over . . . Here I was expecting to meet a romantic, with the face of one who had tasted the vinegar of frustrated passion, and instead I find a healthy young man with a good color and a serene mind, a sensible fellow, who will, in the end, see matters as I do. One wouldn’t think that he was so very much in love as, one assumes, he must have been once. Rather, he seems confused, as if he didn’t quite know how he should react when he sees her or how to present himself. What will come of all this? For my part, I think it’s over and done with, dead and buried, like Tristana’s leg.”

  The marvelous prospect of Horacio’s imminent visit troubled Tristana, who, while appearing to believe everything she was told, could not, deep down, quite accept the reality of that visit, for in the days preceding her operation she had grown accustomed to the idea that her beautiful ideal was no longer there; and his very beauty and his rare perfection presented themselves in her mind as things that would shrivel and vanish with proximity. At the same time, a purely human and selfish desire to see and hear the object of her desires struggled in her soul with that unbridled idealism, which, far from seeking proximity, tended, without her realizing it, to avoid it. Distance had come to be one of the most voluptuous aspects of that subtle love striving to detach itself from all sensory influence.

  It was while she was in this state of mind that the hour of their interview arrived. Don Lope pretended to absent himself without making any reference to the meeting; instead, though, he stayed in his room ready to emerge should anything happen that might require his presence. Tristana arranged her hair as she had in happier times, and having recovered somewhat during the past few days, she looked very well. She, however, put down the mirror, feeling dissatisfied and anxious, for her idealism did not preclude vanity. When she heard Horacio arrive—Saturna having ushered him into the drawing room—Tristana grew pale and felt almost as if she were about to faint. The little blood in her veins rushed to her heart; she could barely breathe, overwhelmed by a curiosity stronger by far than any other feeling. “Now,” she said to herself, “I will find out what he is like, I will see his face, which was long ago erased, forcing me to invent another for my own personal use.”

  Finally, Horacio came in. At first, t
o Tristana’s surprise, he seemed like a stranger. He walked straight over to her with open arms and tenderly caressed her. For some time, neither of them could speak. Tristana was surprised, too, by the timbre of her former lover’s voice, as if she had never heard it before. And then, what a face, what skin, so bronzed by the sun!

  “How you’ve suffered, my poor love!” Horacio said, when sheer emotion allowed him to speak clearly. “And I could not be by your side! It would have been such a solace to me to be able to accompany my Paquilla de Rimini throughout that torment, to keep her spirits up . . . but, as you know, my aunt was very ill. The poor woman only just survived.”

  “No, you were quite right not to come. What good would it have done?” Tristana replied, instantly recovering her composure. “Such a sorry sight would have broken your heart. But it’s over now. I’m better and getting used to the idea of having only one leg.”

  “What does that matter, my love?” said Horacio, in order to say something.

  “Well, we’ll see. I haven’t yet tried to walk on crutches. The first day will be difficult, but I’ll get used to it. I’ll have to.”

  “It’s all a question of habit. Naturally, you won’t look quite so elegant to begin with . . . although, of course, you could never be anything but elegant—”

  “No, please. Such empty adulation really isn’t right between us. A few compliments, of a charitable nature, fine, but—”

  “Your most important qualities, grace, wit, intelligence, remain, needless to say, undiminished as do the charm of your face, the admirable proportions of your body—”

  “Shhh,” said Tristana gravely, “I am a sedentary beauty now . . . a woman with only half a body, an upper body, nothing more.”

  “How can you say ‘nothing more,’ when the body in question is so very beautiful? Then there is your peerless intelligence, which will always make of you a creature of infinite charm.”

  Horacio was scouring his mind for all the flowers one can throw at a woman who now has only one leg. They weren’t hard to find, but once he had heaped the wretched invalid with them, he had nothing more to add. Slightly embarrassed, an embarrassment he himself barely noticed, he said, “And I love you and will always love you just the same.”