The Lines Between Us

by Rebecca D'Harlingue

  4 November

  Once again, I have failed to understand the elements of a play as my father had wished. I am trying not to be discouraged, but I am afraid that he will lose his confidence in my ability to discuss my studies with him, and I so hoped that I could make him proud of me.

  19

  ANA

  The next morning, Ana pondered the strictness of her brother, though she knew that he loved his daughter most deeply. She herself felt some satisfaction that she had indeed read a little of her niece’s heart, in supposing that she had been interested in a young man. Relief that Ana had found nothing so far for which to reprove herself mingled with hurt that she had not been worth a mention in her niece’s reflections. She knew these thoughts to be unworthy of her and of Juliana, but it was hard to push them away.

  After leaving her room, Ana spied the innkeeper’s wife, Josefa, and began to help her in her tasks, the better to have the chance to speak with her in private.

  “Señora, I was speaking to your husband last night, and he told me that, as this morning, you are the one who sees the guests on their way each day.”

  “That is so, señora,” the woman replied, pleasantly enough, but without pausing from her duties, which, Ana could see, had taken their toll on the woman’s beauty, as her husband had lamented.

  “He also mentioned that he was late in returning to the inn three evenings ago.”

  “The days all run together here, but if that is what my husband says, I’m sure it must be so. Why do you ask, señora?”

  “As I told your husband, I am on my way to Sevilla, to my sick mother’s bedside, and I wondered whether my brother and niece, who left three days before I did, had stopped here. My niece’s dueña would also have been with them. Do you remember any such party?”

  “Three nights ago . . . Now I recall. There was a group from a caravan who stopped that night, but there was no gentleman or girl among them.”

  “You are quite certain? There was no one else here at all?”

  “No, señora. There was no other group here that night.”

  Ana hoped that her face did not betray her distress. Perhaps they had not traveled this way after all. Perhaps Sevilla was not even their destination.

  “There are other places one could stop, señora,” Josefa pointed out. “I am sure that must be the case, and that all is well with them.”

  “Of course you are right. Thank you for your help.”

  A half hour later, Ana climbed back into Señor Monsalve’s carriage, along with her companions. It was certainly possible that Sebastián and Juliana had stopped elsewhere, but there were not a great number of inns along the way, and this was generally recognized as by far the best route to Sevilla. Still, they might have found another inn, or even gone another way. Even if she were to concede that they might not be destined for Sevilla at all, there was little she could do to change her plans now. Traveling alone, she could not leave the protection of Señor Monsalve’s carriage. She had taken the initial step to embark and, having done so, must follow her decision to its end.

  The knowledge gave her little comfort, and after most of the morning had passed in silence, Ana decided to endeavor to make the time pass through conversation with her fellow passengers. Father Del Valle had successfully nodded off, but Andrea seemed more disposed to conversation today. The monotonous journey must be difficult for the girl, and though there was nothing in her looks or manner that resembled Juliana, her youth alone reminded Ana of her niece.

  “How did you find the inn, Andrea?”

  “Oh, it was very nice, señora,” and the answer held all the enthusiasm of one whose opinion is not often solicited. Ana wondered how much comfort the inn had afforded the girl, for she knew herself to have occupied the only private room. Still, Andrea was hardly likely to have ever had the luxury of her own room, and her innocence might easily have invited slumber.

  “Did you rest well after our long day’s journey?”

  “Oh, yes, although I must admit I did lose some sleep worrying about my ability to please my new employers. It was so kind of Señor Monsalve to recommend me for the position, and even allow me to travel in his carriage. Did you sleep well?” Andrea ventured to ask, and then stopped abruptly, as though she were afraid that this was too personal a question to ask of a lady. She seemed relieved at Ana’s easy response.

  “I am afraid that I do not sleep very well in general.”

  Perhaps mystified as to why a fine lady would be unable to sleep, Andrea changed the subject. “I was able to help Josefa with the smaller children this morning. I love children, but at the house of Señor Monsalve, only the dueña was allowed to play with them.”

  “You had other duties, I expect.”

  “Yes, but still, in the evening, I would have been glad of the opportunity to help with the children.”

  Ana smiled at the girl, so young herself but already years in service. She hoped that Juliana was properly grateful for the life she led.

  “I hope that in my new position in Sevilla, there will be children. Do you think that I will be able to play with the children there, since I will be in a higher position than I was at Señor Monsalve’s house?”

  “You will have to wait and see, I suppose,” replied Ana, unwilling to squelch the girl’s simple hopes by replying that a lady’s maid would hardly have occasion to take care of the children, being required more for the comfort of the lady than for the care of her offspring.

  A loud, pounding rain started to beat upon the roof of the carriage, and they fell into silence for some time after this, each absorbed in her own thoughts. Ana realized that, in some ways, this girl’s immediate future was more certain than her own. At least Andrea knew for certain why Sevilla should be her destination, where she would go, and what she would do when she arrived there.

  The inn at which they stayed that night barely deserved the name, but Ana didn’t dwell on that. She decided that in questioning Josefa that morning, she had been too specific about the day on which Sebastián and Juliana might have arrived. She would not repeat her error.

  Shortly after their arrival, Ana made her inquiry, asking whether there had been a gentleman traveling with his daughter and the girl’s dueña.

  “No, señora.”

  “Over any of the past few nights?”

  “No” came the curt reply of the innkeeper, whose level of friendliness seemed perfectly matched to the surroundings. His unwillingness to converse prevented Ana from indulging in the fabrication of the evening before. She would not oblige this man with a lie to explain her curiosity.

  “Please, think. It is quite important.”

  “It is hardly likely that I would forget a gentleman and his daughter. Most men would not subject their daughter to the hazards of the open road,” the man replied, eyeing Ana with suspicion, as though she shared the culpability in such a father’s lax behavior.

  Ana would not be put off. She had spent much of the day in the carriage belittling herself for not having been more persistent in her questioning of Josefa. “No one came in at all?”

  “Only some members of a caravan one evening, with its merchants. Even the muleteers paid to stay here, which was unusual, since they usually sleep in the open. Still, occasionally they stop here, for the conveniences we offer.”

  Ana wondered what conveniences those might be, having already surveyed the filth about her.

  “No one traveled with them?”

  “Only a boy, who must have paid to allow him to travel in the safety of their company, though he looked like he could not have afforded to pay much. There was also an old woman, who waited on the others. That can’t be much of a life.”

  Ana was surprised at the man’s sudden magnanimity in worrying about the life of another. “Indeed, it could not.” Surely she had exhausted every line of questioning. The results of it increased her anxiety, but she would have nothing for which to reproach herself during the next day’s long hours.

  The
re was no private room that night, and Ana spread her blankets on one of a group of pallets in a corner, next to Andrea and within a protective square that Señor Rojas and Father Del Valle attempted to create through the placement of their pallets. It was evident that they were both quite disturbed at the necessity of Ana’s sleeping in a common room, so, to ease their concern, she had attempted to appear not in the least distressed by the indignity. Her apparent natural acceptance of the situation was a pretense, for she did find it extremely difficult to relax in such an atmosphere. One by one, the other guests’ breathing calmed to a slow rhythm, and finally she judged that all must be asleep. She carefully reached into her bag and found Juliana’s journal, then rose and went to the fireplace, which afforded the only light in the room. If anyone did awaken, she hoped they would think that, unable to sleep, she had risen to read her prayers.

  20

  Juliana

  10 November

  Much as I have always enjoyed my studies and found a deep gratification from them, I lately find it difficult to concentrate. There is a matter much concerning me of late. I have begun to wonder why my father has done nothing to find a husband for me. I am already sixteen, past the time when many girls are already wed. Yet yesterday, when I ventured to speak to Father on this subject, he reacted strangely.

  When I asked him about it, he simply answered softly, “Are you so anxious to leave me, daughter? Marriage does not always bring happiness, you know.”

  “I know that to be the case, sir,” I replied, “yet I believe that you and Silvia have taught me well, and that I could make a good and conscientious wife. I have faith that you would find me a husband who would love and honor me.”

  At this he only looked at me oddly and said, “We do not always have control over the demands of honor.”

  I do not know what to think of this reply. Surely it is every father’s desire to see his daughter married and settled, so that she may bring him grandchildren to comfort his old age. Why does he doubt that marriage will make me happy? It is the desire of most of the young girls of my acquaintance. Although my education has been more broad than that of most of my friends, I am one with them in my desire to be a wife and mother. Of what use can a young girl’s knowledge be but to converse with her husband when he so desires, and to oversee her children’s training?

  I had hoped this discussion might have gone better. In my imagination, I had even dreamed that perhaps Father might have asked me if there was any young man in particular to whose father I might wish him to speak. Then I had been prepared to be so bold as to name Antonio, for I am convinced that, for his part, at least, the idea would not be altogether unacceptable. And, after all, his father and mine have been fast friends these many years. What more fitting, happy match?

  25 November

  I have had somewhat better success in my discussions with my father, though I feel little satisfaction. This evening I nervously approached him and informed him that I had finished another work that he had given me to study, The Mayor of Zalamea, by Don Calderón de la Barca. The play presents a prosperous peasant, Pedro Crespo; his son, Juan; and his daughter, Isabel. The king’s army is traveling through the town of Zalamea, and a captain of the army abducts Isabel and violates her. At first she runs from her brother, for fear that he will kill her, as the symbol of the family’s dishonor. She comes upon her father, however, and offers herself to him: “And men will say that in your daughter’s blood/ You have your own dead honor now revived.” But Crespo does not kill her and later stops his son from redeeming their honor with her death.

  Crespo tries to convince the captain to marry Isabel, offering him all of his family’s wealth, but the captain disdains the offer. Then, in his capacity as mayor, Crespo has the captain arrested and executed. The king deems the judgment just, for, as Crespo says, a man’s honor is his patrimony. Isabel will enter a convent.

  In my presentation to my father of my understanding of the play, I pointed out the overriding importance of Pedro Crespo’s honor, and that his actions were justified because they were done to restore that honor. Father seemed pleased with the points that I made, and I was emboldened to express my feeling of sadness that the character of Isabel would have to enter a convent. For, although for many this is a happy and a holy choice, it did not seem that this is one that Isabel would have embraced had she been untainted. My father pointed out that her father and her brother had spared her.

  “And who would marry such a girl? Where could a father find a husband, once her shame was known? Honor is satisfied by her entrance into the convent.”

  I persisted: “It is unjust for her to be sent away from the father she loves.”

  Father frowned and seemed to gaze into a distance I could not see.

  “She had been dishonored.”

  “But through no fault of her own!” I protested.

  “In Spain we live by a very strict code. Sometimes we fall victim to it, but it is still our definition of ourselves. Without it, we would be lost. Go to bed now, daughter, and do not trouble yourself any longer with the fate of a character in a play.”

  Yet I ponder it still. Father was the one who wished me to gain understanding from these plays, and I cannot help but question the cruel message that they teach.

  19 December

  Six days ago, I again approached my father on the subject of marriage, and I still shake when I think of it, so unexpected was his reaction.

  “Have you been conversing with some young man without my knowledge?” he demanded quickly.

  “Of course not, Father,” I replied meekly, stunned by his accusation though feeling somehow guilty for the quick looks and smiles I had stolen with Antonio in public. “It is just that it is a girl’s duty, if she is not to be consecrated as a bride of Christ in the convent, to become wife and mother, or so the Church tells us. I am already of an age—”

  “Silence! How dare you quote to me Holy Mother Church’s teachings to conceal your own immodest behavior! I can see that I have been too lenient with you.”

  When I tried to protest my innocence, he left the room. Perhaps most peculiar of all is that he has not returned to the subject again, though I have lived in fear of another such episode these several days. Nor has his demeanor toward me changed from what it was before this scene. He is once again the kind, loving, and indulgent father I have always known and cared for.

  Yet I cannot let the subject go. It seems I am obsessed with the question of what is to become of me. I will not deny that I have thought overly much of some of the young men I have seen, particularly of Antonio. Is it possible that my father has noticed my attention to him? But how wrong can my feelings be? Though I am but a maiden, I shall soon be a woman, and I look to have only what all ladies want: husband and household of my own, children to love and who will love me in return.

  I told Silvia of my discussions with my father. Though I was somewhat embarrassed, my perplexity and desire for her insight overcame this sentiment, and she has ever been my confidant. I cannot understand her response any more than I do that of my father. She urges me to let go of these desires and allow my father to lead me in all things. She seemed saddened as she said this, and I cannot help but feel she is concealing some knowledge that is beyond my understanding.

  6 January 1661

  We have passed a holy and a happy Epiphany this day, and Father told me of a wonderful surprise he has in store for me. He recognizes that I have been working diligently on my studies, and he believes that a trip to the theater will aid my understanding of the dramas. He has already booked places for us, he with the gentlemen and I with the ladies. Although some of my friends have been to the theater, Father usually prefers the quiet of his study. When he has attended the theater in the past, his friends have always accompanied him and I have never been invited. I am anxiously awaiting the day!

  My father has still not returned to the subject of finding me a husband, and I am now afraid to mention it. His anger was so sudden, and
so unlooked for, that I dare not try again.

  21

  ANA

  The room was chilly, and even the embers from the night before had gone cold. Her pallet had afforded Ana only a fitful night of sleep. The phrase happy match had come to her each time she half woke, but she could not discern the meaning of it. As she came to full consciousness, she remembered Juliana’s confusion and desire. There was a reason why Sebastián would be reluctant to endeavor to find Juliana a husband, though Juliana might never be told that.

  Ana was anxious to leave the inn. It had afforded little comfort and no new information, unless one could term it information that her brother and niece had apparently not stopped at this particular place. She could find no consolation in this thought, however, and as the carriage pulled away, she had to acknowledge that their stop had served only to increase her anxiety over the course that she had chosen to follow.

  After they had traveled for almost an hour, Father Del Valle had already fallen into sleep, and, should he follow the pattern he had already established, there was little that could awaken him. Ana wondered at his limitless ability to slumber, and whether its cause was some long-endured exhaustion or something more akin to the many days of sleep through which she had sought to escape her grief upon Emilio’s death.