The Woman and the Puppet

by Pierre Louys

  “I kissed you because I like you; but you can only kiss me if you love me.”

  “Don’t you believe that I love you then, my child?”

  “No. You find me amusing and attractive; but I’m not the only one, right, caballero? Plenty of girls have black hair, and plenty of girls throw inviting glances as they go by in the street. There’s no shortage of them at the Fábrica, just as pretty as I am, and who’ll happily let you tell them so. You can go and do what you like with them – I’ll even give you some names, if you ask me to. But as for me: I’m me, and there’s no-one else like me from San Roque to Triana, and so I’ve no intention of being bought like a doll at a bazaar, because once I’d been carried off, no-one would ever find me again.”

  Footsteps could be heard coming upstairs. She turned round, and opened the door to her mother.

  “The gentleman came to see how you were,” she said. “He thought you were looking a little off-colour yesterday and wondered if you were ill.”

  *

  I left an hour later, feeling extremely tense and irritated, and privately doubting whether I’d ever go back there again.

  Alas! I did go back; and not just once, but dozens of times. I was head over heels in love, like a man half my age – you must have known such insane passions yourself. What am I saying! You’re experiencing one right now, even as I speak, and so you understand what I’m talking about. Every time I left her room, I’d say to myself: ‘twenty-two hours to go’ or ‘twenty more hours till tomorrow’, and those one thousand two hundred minutes always seemed to drag on for ever.

  Little by little, I came to spend the whole day with them, like one of the family. I met all their household expenses and even their debts which, to judge from the sums I handed over, must have been considerable. This was really a point in their favour, and what’s more there was no gossip about them in the neighbourhood. I’d no trouble in convincing myself that I was the first friend that these poor, solitary women had ever had.

  It’s true that I experienced little difficulty in getting to be on close terms with them; but then are men ever surprised at the ease with which they seem to get their way? Something that was rather more suspicious, but to which I paid no attention, might have put me on my guard. I refer to the lack of secrecy or formality apparent in their behaviour towards me. I was free to enter their rooms at any hour I chose, and Concha, ever affectionate, if reserved, even let me watch her making her toilette without raising any objections. In the morning I often found her still in bed, for she’d started getting up late now that she wasn’t working any more. Once her mother had gone out, she’d draw her legs up so that her knees were touching, and she’d invite me to sit down beside her on the bed.

  Then we’d chat; but I found her inscrutable.

  In Tangiers I’ve seen Moorish women whose costume left nothing uncovered except for a pair of eyes between two veils, but through them I could see right into the depths of their souls. Concha, on the other hand, hid nothing from me – neither her way of life nor her shapely figure – and yet I felt there was a wall between us.

  She appeared to love me. Perhaps she really did love me. Even today, I don’t know what to think. To all my entreaties, she replied: “Later”, and I was unable to break her resolve. When I threatened to leave her, she told me to go ahead. When I threatened her with violence, she said I wouldn’t dare. When I showered her with gifts, she accepted them; but her gratitude always remained strictly within bounds.

  And yet, when I entered her room, the way her eyes would suddenly light up was anything but deceitful.

  She slept for nine hours at night, and for three more in the middle of the day. Apart from that, she did nothing. When she got up, it was to stretch herself out in her peignoir on a cool mat, with a couple of cushions under her head, and another supporting the small of her back. I could never induce her to occupy herself with anything whatsoever. She hadn’t so much as touched a book, a game, or her needlework, ever since the day on which, because of me, she’d left the Fábrica. She wasn’t even interested in the household tasks: it was her mother who tidied the apartment, made the beds, did the cooking and, every morning, spent half an hour dressing Concha’s thick head of hair – even though my little friend still wasn’t properly awake yet.

  For a whole week, she refused to leave her bed. It wasn’t that she felt unwell; she’d simply discovered that if it was pointless to walk about the streets without good reason, then it was even more futile to take three steps across her room and abandon her sheets for the mat, where the mandatory dress requirements were at odds with her habitual sloth. All Spanish women are like that. Anyone seeing them in public would imagine their fiery glances, loud voices and quick movements all sprang from some perpetually gushing source; and yet, as soon as they find themselves alone, their lives slip by in a state of relaxation which, for them, constitutes their most exquisite pleasure. They stretch themselves out on a chaise longue in a room with lowered blinds, and they dream of the jewels they might one day own, the palaces they ought to be living in, and the handsome strangers whose beloved weight they’d like to feel pressing down upon their breast. And so the hours pass.

  In her conception of her daily duties, Concha was typically Spanish. But I don’t know where on earth her particular conception of love came from. After twelve weeks of devoted attentions, I still found in her smile both the same promises and the same resistance as before.

  *

  * *

  At last one day, unable to bear this perpetual waiting any longer, nor the incessant anxiety that had so unsettled my existence during the three months that this had been going on as to render it empty and pointless, I took the old woman aside, when Concha wasn’t there, and spoke to her quite frankly and in the most pressing terms.

  I told her that I loved her daughter, that I intended to join my life to hers, and that although, for obvious reasons, I couldn’t agree to any kind of openly acknowledged relationship, I was nevertheless determined to let her share in a deep and exclusive love to which she couldn’t possibly take exception.

  “I’ve every reason to believe,” I concluded, “that Conchita would love me, if only she didn’t distrust me. Should, however, she really feel no love for me at all, then I’ve no intention of trying to force her to; but if my only misfortune is to have left her in some uncertainty, then will you please talk her round.”

  I added that, in return, not only would I provide for her now, I’d also furnish her with a private income in the future. And so as not to leave her in any doubt as to the sincerity of my intentions, I presented the old woman with a thick wad of banknotes, instructing her to use all her maternal experience to convince her child that she wouldn’t in any way be deceived.

  I returned home more excited than ever. I found it impossible to go to bed that night. Instead, I spent hours pacing up and down the patio. It was a glorious night, and already quite cool, but that wasn’t enough to calm me down. I drew up endless plans, in the hope of lighting upon what I was determined should be a happy conclusion to the affair now in hand. At sunrise I had all the flowers cut in three of the beds, and I strewed them along the drive, up the steps and around the entrance to the house, so that her feet should tread a path of crimson and saffron that would lead her right up to me. I pictured her everywhere: leaning against a tree, sitting on a bench, lying on the lawn, looking down over the bannisters or raising her arms in the sunlight towards a fruit-laden bough. The spirit of both house and garden had assumed the form of her body.

  And then, after a whole night spent in unbearable waiting, followed by a morning that seemed as if it should never end, I received through the post, towards 11 o’clock, a brief letter. You won’t be surprised to hear that I still know it by heart.

  This is what it said:

  ‘If you had loved me, you would have waited for me. I wanted to give myself to you; but you asked that I be sold. You will never see me again.

  CONCHITA.’

 
Two minutes later I was heading for Seville on horseback. I arrived before midday had struck, almost in a daze from the heat and my own anxiety.

  I rushed upstairs and banged repeatedly on their door.

  Silence.

  Finally a door on the landing behind me opened, and a neighbour explained to me at great length that the two women had set off in the direction of the station that morning with all their bags, and that no-one even knew which train they’d taken.

  “Were they alone?” I asked.

  “Yes, all alone.”

  “There was no man with them, was there? You’re quite sure now?”

  “Good Lord! You’re the only man I’ve ever seen in their company.”

  “They didn’t leave anything for me, did they?”

  “No, nothing. If I’m to believe what they told me, they’ve fallen out with you.”

  “Will they be coming back?”

  “Heaven knows. They didn’t say.”

  “They’ll have to come back for their furniture though.”

  “I’m afraid not. It’s a furnished apartment. They took everything they own with them. And by now, señor, they must be miles away.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  WHICH ENDS IN A TAILPIECE OF BLACK TRESSES

  Autumn passed. Winter came and went. But every detail of these events remained as fresh as ever in my memory, and I can think of few periods in my life as disastrous, or few months as empty, as those were.

  I’d thought that I was making a fresh start, that my private love-life was going to be settled for a long time to come, and perhaps for always – and now everything was falling apart before the final ceremony had taken place. I couldn’t even call to mind a single hour’s genuine intimacy with that little girl; no, nor any particular bond between us, nor anything that had been accomplished or that might enable me to console myself with the vain thought that, even if she were no longer mine, at least she had been mine, and that no-one could take that away from me.

  And I loved her! My God, how I loved her! I’d come to believe that she was right, and that I had indeed behaved churlishly towards this young virgin, this figure of legend. If ever I see her again – I told myself – if Heaven grants me that favour, I’ll fall down at her feet, and I won’t move until she acknowledges my presence, even if it means waiting for years. I won’t rush her. I understand how she feels. She knows that women of her condition are usually taken as mistresses by the month, and she wants the way she’s treated to be in keeping with her true worth. She wants to put me to the test, to be sure of me; and, if she gives herself, to give herself freely, and not simply hire herself out. Very well then. If that’s what she wishes, I won’t disappoint her. But will I ever see her again?

  And my old feeling of despair immediately returned.

  I did see her again, though.

  It was a spring evening. After spending a few hours at the Teatro del Duque, where the incomparable Orejón was performing in several roles, I went outside and, in the silence of the night, I wandered about for a long while in the spacious, deserted Alameda.

  As I was returning home along the calle Trajano, alone and having a smoke, I heard someone softly calling my name, and a shudder ran through me, for I recognised the voice.

  “Don Mateo!”

  I turned round; there was no-one there. And yet I certainly hadn’t imagined it.

  “Concha!” I shouted, “Concha! Where are you?”

  “Sh! – Be quiet, will you! You’ll wake mama.”

  She was speaking to me from a barred window whose stone ledge was roughly on a level with my shoulders. I could see her now, there in her nightclothes, with the two corners of a puce-coloured shawl draped over her arms, leaning with her elbows on the marble sill behind the iron bars.

  “Well, my friend!” she continued in a low voice, “so that’s how you’ve treated me!”

  I was quite incapable of defending myself.

  “Lean forward,” I said. “Further, my sweet … I can’t see you in the shadow there … A bit more to the left now, in the moonlight …”

  She silently did as I wished, and I gazed up at her in absolute rapture, for I don’t know how long.

  Then I said:

  “Give me your hand.”

  She held it out to me through the bars, and I lingeringly pressed my lips to her fingers and into her palm, and then all along her warm, naked arm. I was quite delirious. I couldn’t believe what was happening. It was her skin, her flesh, her smell … It was really and truly her that I was holding there beneath my kisses – and after so many sleepless nights!

  Then I said:

  “Give me your lips.”

  But she shook her head and withdrew her hand.

  “Later.”

  Oh! That word again! How many times had I heard it already, and now here it was once more, at our very first meeting, like a barrier between us!

  I plied her with questions. What had she been doing? Why had she gone away so suddenly? If she’d only said something, I’d have obeyed her every wish. But to disappear like that, leaving only a short note – it was too cruel!

  “It’s your own fault,” she replied.

  I agreed. But what wouldn’t I have owned up to! Then I fell silent.

  All the same, I wanted to know. What had become of her during the long intervening months? Where had she been? Since when had she been living in this house with its iron bars?

  “We went to Madrid first, then to Carabanchel, where we’ve relatives, and from there we came back to Seville; and so here I am.”

  “You occupy the whole house?”

  “Yes. It’s not very big, but it’s still more than enough for the two of us.”

  “And how could you afford to rent it?”

  “Thanks to you. Mama always put by part of what you gave her.”

  “That won’t last you for long …”

  “We’ve still got enough to go on living here honestly for another month.”

  “And afterwards?”

  “Afterwards? Do you really believe, my friend, that I’ll be at any loss to know what to do?”

  I made no reply; but I could quite happily have murdered her.

  “You misunderstand me,” she went on. “If I want to stay here, I know how to go about it. But who says I particularly want to? I spent three weeks last year living under the ramparts in the Macarema district. I slept on the ground there, just by the corner of the calle San Luis – you know, where the night watchman stands. He’s a good sort, and he’d never have let anyone come near me while I was asleep. There was a bit of flirting, but nothing ever happened to me. I could go back tomorrow if I wanted to. I’ve got my little patch of grass, and it’s not so bad there, believe me. In the daytime I’d work at the Fábrica, or somewhere like that. I expect I could sell bananas, couldn’t I? And I know how to knit a shawl, knot tassels for skirts, make up a bouquet, and dance the flamenco and the sevillana. So don’t you worry about me, Don Mateo, I’ll get by all right!”

  She wasn’t speaking loudly, and yet I could hear each word resounding like a commandment in the empty, moonlit street. In fact I wasn’t so much listening to her, as watching the movements made by the double line of her lips, whilst her voice rang out in rippling tones as clear as the chiming of convent bells.

  Still leaning forward on her elbows, with her right hand thrust into her thick hair and her head supported by her fingers, she continued, with a sigh:

  “Mateo, I’ll be your mistress the day after tomorrow.”

  Trembling all over, I replied:

  “You don’t mean it.”

  “I do though.”

  “Then why wait till then, my darling? If you’re willing, if you love me …”

  “I’ve always loved you.”

  “… then why not right now? See how far apart the bars are from the wall. I could get through between them and the window …”

  “You can get through that way on Sunday evening. Today I’m blacker with sin than
a gypsy, and I don’t want to become a woman whilst in such a state of damnation. If you got me pregnant, my child would be cursed for life. Tomorrow I’ll tell my confessor everything I’ve done during the past week, and even what I’m going to do when I’m in your arms, so that he’ll give me absolution beforehand – it’s safer that way. On Sunday morning I’ll go to High Mass and receive Holy Communion, and when the body of Our Lord is in my bosom, I’ll ask Him to let me be happy that evening, and loved for the rest of my life. Amen!”

  Yes, I know: it’s a very strange sort of religion, but it’s the only one Spanish women are familiar with. They firmly believe that the Almighty has an inexhaustible supply of indulgences for girls in love who attend Mass, and that if need be He shows them His favour, watches over their beds, and exalts their loins – just as long as they don’t forget to tell Him all their most precious secrets. But just imagine if they were right! How many chaste souls would spend eternity weeping over the empty lives they’d led down here on earth!

  “Right,” Concha said, “leave me now, Mateo. You can see that my room’s empty. Don’t be jealous or impatient on my account. You’ll find me here late on Sunday night, my lover; but first you’re going to promise me that you’ll never breathe a word to my mother, and that in the morning you’ll leave before she wakes up. It’s not that I’m afraid of being seen; I’m my own mistress, as you know, and so I don’t need her advice, whether for you or against you. Do I have your word of honour?”

  “Just as you wish.”

  “Good. Be bound by this.”

  And, tilting her head back, she let her hair tumble down between the bars, like a richly-scented stream. I took it in my hands, I pressed it to my lips, I bathed my face in its warm, dark waves …