“Yes, I know that,” she replied, confirming the very thing she was just beginning to doubt.
The conversation continued in the most affectionate terms, but never achieved the tone and texture of genuine trust. In the very first moments, Tristana felt immediate disappointment. This man was not the same man who had been erased from her memory by distance, and whose image she had then laboriously reconstructed with all the force of her creative faculties. He seemed to her rough and vulgar, his face devoid of intelligence, and as for his ideas, they struck her as extraordinarily banal! From Señó Juan’s lips there emerged only the kind of commiserative remarks one would offer any patient, albeit clothed in a kind of friendly tenderness. And anything he said about the constancy of his love was clearly an artifice painstakingly built out of compassion.
Meanwhile, shod in silent slippers, so that they would not hear his footsteps, Don Lope paced restlessly about the house and every now and then went over to the door in case anything should happen that required his intervention. Since spying was repugnant to his dignity, he did not put his ear to the door; however, on orders from her master, on her own initiative, and out of a desire to pry, Saturna put her ear to the crack left open for that purpose and was able to catch a little of what the lovers were saying. Calling her out into the corridor, Don Lope plied her with urgent questions.
“Tell me, has marriage been mentioned?”
“I’ve heard nothing that suggested they might marry,” said Saturna. “Plenty about love and loving each other always, and so on, but—”
“Not a word about sacred bonds, though. As I said, it’s over. How could it be otherwise? How could he keep his promise to a woman who is going to have to walk on crutches? Nature will out. That’s what I say. Lots of talk, lots of high-flown words, but no substance. When it comes to hard facts, all that verbiage gets swept away like so many dead leaves and nothing is left. Anyway, Saturna, that’s all to the good and precisely as I hoped. Let’s see what the girl does next. Keep listening out for any formal future commitment.”
The diligent servant returned to her listening post but was unable to hear much more because the two young people were talking so quietly. Finally, Horacio proposed bringing the visit to an end.
“If it was up to me,” he said, “I would stay with you until tomorrow and the day after tomorrow too, but I have to bear in mind that, in allowing me to see you, Don Lope is acting with enormous generosity and high-mindedness, which does him honor and obliges me not to abuse that generosity. Should I leave now, do you think? I’ll do as you think fit. But I hope that if my visits are not too long, then he will permit me to come every day.”
Tristana agreed with her friend, who withdrew, having first kissed her tenderly and reiterated the affection which, although far from lukewarm, was taking on an increasingly fraternal tone. Tristana watched his departure quite calmly, and as they said goodbye, she arranged to have her first painting lesson with him the following day, which hugely pleased the artist, who, as he left the room, came across Don Lope loitering in the corridor and, going straight over to him, greeted him respectfully. They went into the aging gallant’s room and there spoke of things which, to Don Lope, seemed highly significant.
For the moment, the painter said nothing that hinted at marriage plans. He showed intense interest in Tristana, deep pity for her state, and a discreet degree of love, a discretion that Don Lope interpreted as delicacy on Horacio’s part or, rather, a feeling of repugnance at the idea of breaking off their relationship too brusquely, which, given Señorita Reluz’s sad situation, would have been an act of rank inhumanity. Finally, Horacio was keen to give the interest he felt for Tristana a markedly positivist character. Having learned from Saturna that Don Lope was afflicted by certain financial difficulties, Horacio made a suggestion that proud, dignified Don Lope could not accept.
“Look, my friend,” he said in friendly fashion, “I . . . and I hope you don’t think I’m speaking out of turn . . . I have certain duties toward Tristana. She’s an orphan. All those who love and esteem her as they should have an obligation to look after her. It doesn’t seem right to me that you should have a monopoly on the joy of being able to help the invalid. You would be doing me a considerable favor, for which I will be eternally grateful, if you would allow me to—”
“What? Please, Señor Díaz, don’t make me blush. Allow you to do what?”
“Take it as you wish, sir, but what do you mean? That it would be indelicate of me to propose that I pay for Tristana’s medical care? Well, you would be quite wrong to think that. Accept my proposal and then we can be even better friends.”
“Better friends, Señor Díaz? Better friends once you have established that I have no shame!”
“Please, Don Lope!”
“Don Horacio, that’s enough.”
“All right, why then shouldn’t I make a present to my young friend of a better-quality organ, the best of its kind, along with a complete library of music, including studies, easy pieces, and concertos, and, finally, that I pay for her music teacher?”
“Now that I can accept. You see how reasonable I am. You may give the organ and the music, but I cannot allow you to pay for the lessons.”
“Why not?”
“Because the gift of an organ can be seen as a proof of affections past or present, but I’ve never heard of anyone making a gift of music lessons.”
“Don Lope, why these subtle distinctions?”
“Soon you’ll be suggesting that you pay for her clothes and tell her what food to eat . . . and that, quite frankly, seems insulting to me . . . unless you were to come to me with certain proposals and aims.”
Seeing where he was going, Horacio tried to change the subject slightly.
“My proposal is that she should learn a skill in which she can shine and find an outlet for all the creative fluid that must have accumulated in her nervous system, all the treasures of artistic passion and noble ambition filling her soul.”
“Well, if that’s what you are proposing, I am perfectly capable of doing the same. I may not be rich, but I have enough money to open up for Tristana whatever paths to glory are available to a poor little cripple. To be honest, I thought that you . . .”
Wanting to draw from Horacio a categorical statement and seeing that he was getting nowhere with these oblique tactics, he attacked head-on.
“I thought that, in coming here, you were intending to marry her.”
“Marry! Oh, no,” said Horacio, caught momentarily off guard by that sudden blow, but immediately recovering. “Tristana is an irreconcilable enemy of matrimony. Didn’t you know?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Oh, yes, she loathes it. Perhaps she sees more keenly than we do; perhaps her perspicacious gaze or perhaps a certain instinct for divination given only to superior women, can see the way society is going more clearly than we can.”
“Yes, perhaps. These spoiled, capricious girls do tend to be farsighted. Anyway, Señor Díaz, we accept the gift of the organ, but nothing else. We are duly grateful, but we cannot accept the rest for decorum’s sake.”
“It’s agreed though,” said Horacio as he was about to leave, “that I will spend a little time with her each day painting.”
“Yes, once she’s out of bed, because she can’t paint while she’s still in bed.”
“No, of course, but in the meantime, I can come—”
“Oh, yes, to talk to her and distract her. You can tell her about your lovely estate.”
“Oh, no,” said Horacio, frowning. “She doesn’t like the country, or gardening, or Nature, or chickens, or the quiet, obscure life, all of which I adore. I’m very earthbound, very practical, whereas she’s a dreamer, with wings of such extraordinary power that she can fly up into endless space.”
“Quite so,” said Don Lope, shaking his hand. “Well, come and visit whenever you wish, Señor Díaz. You’ll always be welcome.”
He accompanied him to the door, then wen
t back to his room, gleefully rubbing his hands and saying to himself, “Incompatibility, complete and utter incompatibility, insurmountable differences.”
27
DON LOPE noticed that his invalid seemed slightly stunned after Horacio’s visit. Tristana, in response to the crafty old man’s questions, said frankly, “How that man has changed! He’s a different person, and I can’t help remembering how he used to be.”
“Has he lost or gained in the transformation?”
“Oh, he’s definitely lost, at least for the moment.”
“He seems a nice enough fellow, though, and he clearly cares about you. He offered to pay your medical expenses, but I refused, of course. I mean, imagine . . .”
Tristana blushed scarlet.
“And he’s not the sort,” added Don Lope, “who, when he stops loving a woman, simply leaves without saying goodbye. No, no, he seems very attentive and sensitive. He’s going to buy you a new harmonium, an organ, a really good one, plus all the music you could possibly need. I accepted that offer, well, it seemed imprudent to turn him down. In short, he’s a good man and he feels sorry for you. He realizes that, in your position, having lost your leg, you need to be pampered and surrounded with distractions and things to do and, like the kind, sincere friend he is, he will, first of all, be giving you a few little painting lessons.”
Tristana said nothing, but all day she felt sad. Her interview with Horacio on the following afternoon was rather chilly. The painter could not have been more amiable, but he spoke not one word of love. Don Lope entered the room unannounced and joined in the conversation, which was entirely about artistic matters. When he urged Horacio to talk about the joys of life in Villajoyosa, the painter spoke at length on the subject, which, contrary to Don Lope’s belief, seemed to please Tristana. She listened intently to his descriptions of that pleasant existence and of the pure delights of domesticity in the heart of the country. A metamorphosis had doubtless taken place in her heart after the mutilation of her body, and what she had once despised now presented itself to her as the smiling prospect of a new world.
On subsequent visits, Horacio skillfully avoided all reference to the delightful life that was now his most ardent passion. He also revealed himself to be indifferent to art, saying that he felt no interest now in glory and in laurels. And when he said this—which was a faithful reproduction of the ideas expressed in his letters from Villajoyosa—he noticed that Tristana seemed not at all displeased. On the contrary, and much to Horacio’s astonishment, for his memory still bore the indelible imprint of the exalted ideas with which his lover had filled her letters, she sometimes appeared to share his view and to look with equal disdain on artistic enterprises and successes.
When she was finally allowed to leave her bed, the narrow room in which the poor invalid spent her hours stuck in an armchair was transformed into an artist’s studio. Horacio’s patience and solicitude as a teacher knew no bounds, but a strange thing happened: not only did Tristana seem rather uninterested in the art of Apelles; her aptitude too, so evident months before, waned and disappeared, doubtless due to a lack of confidence. Horacio could not believe it, remembering how effortlessly his pupil had understood and manipulated color; and, in the end, to their mutual amazement, both of them began to lose interest and grow bored, either postponing their lessons or cutting them short. After only a few days of such attempts, they barely painted at all, but spent the time talking, until conversation languished too, as it does between people who have said all they have to say to each other and are reduced to speaking only of the ordinary, everyday things of life.
When Tristana tried walking on crutches, her first attempt at that strange system of locomotion was an occasion for much laughter and joking.
“It’s quite impossible,” she said cheerily, “for anyone to walk elegantly on crutches. However hard I try, I will never be able to skip along on these sticks. I’ll be like one of those crippled women who beg for alms at the door of the church. Not that it matters. I will simply have to accept it!”
Horacio proposed sending her a wheelchair so that she could take a turn outdoors. She thanked him for the gift, which duly arrived two days later, although she did not use it for another three or four months. Saddest of all, though, were Horacio’s frequent absences. His withdrawal was so slow and gradual that it went almost unnoticed. He began by missing a day, saying that he had various urgent errands to run; the next week, he played truant twice; then three times, then five, and finally no one even bothered to count the days he missed but only the days on which he appeared. Tristana did not seem put out by these absences; she always received him affectionately and watched him leave without apparent sadness. She never asked him why he had not come, still less told him off. Another circumstance worthy of note was the fact that they never spoke about the past: that particular novel, they both seemed to agree, was over and done with, doubtless because it seemed so improbable and false, rather like the books we were mad about in our youth and which, in our maturity, seem somewhat paltry.
With her first music and organ lessons, Tristana emerged almost abruptly, as if by magic, from the spiritual stagnation into which she had sunk. It was like a sudden resurrection, full of life, enthusiasm, and passion, an affirmation of Señorita Reluz’s true nature, revealing in her, in the first flush of that new experience, a marvelous talent. Her teacher was a small, affable man endowed with phenomenal patience, so practiced as a teacher and so adept at communicating his methods that he could have made an organist out of a deaf-mute. Under his intelligent guidance, Tristana quickly overcame any initial difficulties, to the surprise and excitement of all who witnessed that miracle. Don Lope was stunned and filled with admiration, and when Tristana pressed down the keys, eliciting from them the sweetest of chords, the poor gentleman waxed positively sentimental, like a grandfather whose sole purpose in life is to spoil the grandchildren on whom he dotes. Her teacher soon added a few notions about harmony to the lessons about mechanisms, fingering, and sight-reading, and it was amazing to see how easily the young woman absorbed these difficult concepts. It was as if she knew the rules before they were revealed to her; she leapt ahead, and whatever she learned remained deeply engraved on her mind. Her diminutive teacher, a devout Christian, who spent his life going from choir to choir and from chapel to chapel, playing solemn masses, funerals, and novenas, saw in his pupil an example of God’s favor, of artistic and religious predestination.
“The girl’s a genius,” he said, gazing at her admiringly, “and sometimes she seems almost a saint.”
“Saint Cecilia!” cried Don Lope gaily, his voice almost breaking. “What a daughter, what a woman, what a divinity!”
Horacio could barely conceal his emotion when he heard Tristana playing music of a liturgical nature or a fugue, shaping each musical phrase with astonishing skill; he was hard put to hide his tears, embarrassed to be shedding them. When Tristana, aflame with religious inspiration, immersed herself in the music, translating that grave instrument into the language of her very soul, she was unaware of anyone and oblivious to her small but fervent audience. Emotion and the expression of that emotion absorbed her entirely; her face became transfigured, taking on a celestial beauty; her soul abandoned earthly things in order to be rocked in the vaporous breast of the sweetest of ideals. One day, when her kindly teacher heard her improvising with unusual grace and boldness, his admiration reached new heights for the ease with which she modulated her playing, shifted keys, and generally revealed a knowledge of harmony he had never taught her, as if she were possessed of a mysterious divinatory power, given only to certain privileged souls, for whom art holds no secrets. From that day on, her teacher attended the lessons with an interest that went beyond the purely educational, pouring all his five senses into his pupil, as if she were a much-adored only child. The aging musician and the aging gallant sat in ecstasy before the invalid, and while one, with paternal love, showed her the arcane secrets of the art, the other revealed hi
s pure and tender feelings through sighs and the occasional passionate look. Once the lesson was over, Tristana would take a turn about the room on her crutches, and Don Lope and the other old man both felt, as they watched her, that Saint Cecilia herself could not have moved or walked in any other way.
At around this time, that is, when Tristana was making these leaps of progress, Horacio’s visits again became more frequent, then suddenly grew notably less so. With the arrival of summer, two whole weeks went by without a visit from him, but when he did come, Tristana, to please and amuse him, would favor him with a performance; he would sit alone in the darkest corner of the room listening, in profound, trancelike concentration, to her wonderful playing, his eyes fixed on some indeterminate point in space, while his soul wandered free in those regions where dream and reality mingle. And Tristana was so absorbed by that art, which she had so eagerly cultivated, that she did not and could not think of anything else. Each day she wanted more and better music. Her mind was in the grip of perfection, which held her fascinated. Oblivious to what was happening in the outside world, her isolation became complete, absolute. One day, Horacio went to see her and left without her even realizing he had been there.
That afternoon, when no one was expecting it, he set off for Villajoyosa, as it was said that his aunt, who was still living there, was close to death. And it was true, for three days after her nephew arrived, Doña Trini closed the heavy gates of her eyes never to open them again. Shortly afterwards, at the beginning of autumn, Horacio fell ill, although not gravely so. Friendly letters passed between him and Tristana and even Don Lope, and these continued to come and go every two or three weeks, following the same route taken by the incendiary letters once written by Señó Juan and Paquita de Rimini. Tristana wrote hers very quickly and hurriedly, topping and tailing them with only polite expressions of friendship. Under the influence of one of those inspirations that fills the mind with a profound and true knowledge of things, Tristana believed, as firmly as one believes in the light from the sun, that she would never see Horacio again. And so it was. One November morning, a grave-faced Don Lope entered her room, and in a tone that was neither joyful nor sad, as if he were merely commenting on the weather, he gave her the news coolly and tersely.
Tristana (NYRB Classics) Page 17