The Torrent by Vicente Blasco Ibanez
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Vicente Blasco Ibanez >> The Torrent
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And then again, throwing her beautiful body back in her chair, as if in
her mind's eye she could see some old palatial hall festooned with
roses, and in it a maze of hoop skirts, powdered wigs, and red heels,
whirling in the dance, she would brush the keys with a minuet by Mozart,
as subtly fragrant as priceless perfume, as seductive as the smile of a
painted princess with beauty-patches and false dimples!
Rafael had not forgotten the first night of their friendship, nor the
fingers that had been offered to his lips in that selfsame parlor. Once
he was moved to repeat the scene, and bending low over the keys, had
tried to kiss Leonora's hand.
The actress started, as if awakening from a dream. Her eyes flashed
angrily, though her lips did not lose their smile; and she raised her
hand threateningly, with all its fantastic glitter of jewelry, and
pretended to strike at him:
"Take care, Rafael; you're a child and I'll treat you as such. You
already know that I don't like to be annoyed. I won't send you away this
time, but if you do it again, you'll get a good cuffing. Don't forget
that when I want my hand kissed I begin by giving it voluntarily. What a
nuisance! Such a thing happens only once in a life-time.... But, I
understand: no more music for today; it's all over! I'll have to
entertain the little boy so's he won't fuss."
And she began to tell him stories of her professional career, which
Rafael at once appraised as new progress toward intimacy with the divine
beauty.
He looked over her pictures for the various operas in which she had
sung; a rich collection of beautiful photographs, with studio signatures
in almost every European tongue, some of them in strange alphabets that
Rafael could not identify. That pale, mystic Elizabeth of _Tannhaeuser_
had been taken in Milan; that ideal, romantic Elsa of _Lohengrin_, in
Munich; here was a wide-eyed, bourgeois Eva from _die Meistersinger_,
photographed in Vienna; there a proud arrogant Brunhilde, with hostile,
flashing eyes, that bore the imprint of St. Petersburg. And there were
other souvenirs of seasons at Covent Garden, at the San Carlos of
Lisbon, the Scala of Milan, and opera houses of New York and Rio de
Janeiro.
As Rafael handled the large pasteboard mountings, he felt much like a
boy watching strange steamers entering a harbor and scattering the
perfumes of distant, mysterious lands all around. Each picture seemed
to wrap him in the atmosphere of its country, and from that peaceful
salon, murmuring with the breathing of the silent orchard, he seemed to
be traveling all over the earth.
The photographs were all of the same characters--heroines of Wagner.
Leonora, a fanatic worshipper of the German genius, was ever speaking of
him in terms of intimate familiarity, as if she had known him
personally, and wished to sing no operas but his. And in her eager
desire to compass all the Master's work, she did not hesitate to
compromise her reputation for power and vigor by attempting roles of
lighter or tenderer vein.
Rafael gazed at the portraits one by one; here she seemed emaciated,
wan, as if she had just recovered from an illness; there, she was strong
and proud, as if challenging the world with her beauty.
"Oh, Rafael!" she murmured pensively. "Life isn't all gaiety. I have had
my stormy times like everybody else. I have lived centuries, it seems,
and these strips of cardboard are chapters of my life-story."
And while she surrendered to a dreamy re-living of the past, Rafael
would go into ecstasies over a picture of Brunhilde, a beautiful
photograph which he had more than once thought of stealing.
That Brunhilde was Leonora herself; the arrogant Valkyrie, the strong,
the valiant Amazon, capable of trying to beat him for the slightest
unwarranted liberty he took--and of doing it besides. Beneath the helmet
of polished steel, with its two wings of white plumes, her blond locks
fell, while a savage flash glittered in her green eyes, and her
nostrils seemed to palpitate with indomitable fierceness. A cloak fell
from her shoulders that were round, muscular, powerful. A steel coat of
mail curved outward around her magnificent bust, and her bare arms, one
holding the lance, and the other resting on a burnished shield, as
shining and luminous as a sheet of crystal, showed vigor and strength
under feminine grace of line. There she was in all her goddess-like
majesty--the Pallas of a mythology of the North, as beautiful as
heroism, as terrible as war. Rafael could understand the mad enthusiasm,
the electrified commotion of her audiences as they saw her stepping out
among the rocks of painted canvas, setting the boards a-tremble with her
lithe footsteps, rudely raising her lance and shield above the white
wings of her helmet and shouting the cry of the Valkyries--"_Hojotoho!_"
which, repeated in the green tranquility of that Valencian orchard,
seemed to make the lanes of foliage quiver with a tremor of admiring
ecstasy.
Across the whole world, and everywhere in triumph, that whimsical,
adventuresome, madcap woman, of whose life as an actress so many stories
were told, had carried the arrogance of the virgin warrior-maid
conceived by the master Wagner. In a bulky book, of uneven irregular
pages, where the singer with the minute conscientiousness of a child,
had preserved everything the newspapers of the globe had written about
her, Rafael found echos of her stormy ovations. Many of the printed
clippings were yellow with age, but they could still evoke before his
dazzled eyes, visions of theaters packed with elegant, sensuous women,
as beautiful as Wotan's daughter in the coat-of-mail; atmospheres hot
with light and enthusiasm, a-glitter with sparkling jewels and
sparkling eyes; and in the background, with her helmet and her lance,
the dominating Valkyrie herself greeted with frantic applause and
limitless admiration.
In the collection were newspaper reproductions of the singer's
photographs, biographical notices, critical articles relating to the
triumphs of the celebrated _diva_ Leonora Brunna--for such was the stage
name adopted by Doctor Moreno's daughter--clipping after clipping
printed in Castilian or South American Spanish; columns of the clear,
close print of English papers; paragraphs on the coarse, thin paper of
the French and Italian press; compact masses of Gothic characters, which
troubled Rafael's eyes, and unintelligible Russian letters, that, to
him, looked like whimsical scrawls of a childish hand. And all in praise
of Leonora, one universal tribute to the talent of that woman, who was
looked upon so scornfully by the citified peasants of the boy's native
town. A divinity, indeed! And Rafael felt a growing hatred and contempt
for the gross, uncouth virtue of those who had left her in a social
vacuum. Why had she come to Alcira, anyway? What could possibly have led
her to abandon a world of triumphs, where she was admired by everyone,
for the life, virtually, of a barnyard?
Later she showed him some of her more personal mementoes; jewels of rare
beauty, expensive baubles, "testimonials," reminiscent of "evenings of
honor," when admirers had surprised her in the green room while outside
the audience was applauding wildly, and she, lowering her lance, and
surrounded by ushers with huge bouquets, would step forward to the
footlights and make her bow of acknowledgment, under a deluge of tinsel
and flowers. One medallion bore the portrait of the venerable don Pedro
of Brazil, the artist-emperor, who paid tribute to the singer in a
greeting written in diamonds. Gem-incrusted frames of gold spoke of
enthusiasts who perhaps had begun by desiring the woman to resign
themselves in the end to admiration for the artist. Here was a
collection of illuminated diplomas from charitable societies thanking
her for assistance at benefits. Queen Victoria of England had given her
a fan with an autograph dated from a concert at Windsor Castle. From
Isabel II came a royal bracelet, as a souvenir of various evenings at
the Castilla Palace in Paris. Millionaires, princes, grand-dukes,
presidents of Spanish-American republics, had left a whole museum of
costly trinkets at her feet. Characteristic of adorers from the United
States, where people always temper enthusiasm with usefulness, were a
number of portfolios, their bindings much worn by time, containing
railroad shares, land titles, stocks in enterprises of varying
stability, suggesting the rambles of the American promotor from the
prairies of Canada to the pampas of the Argentine.
In the presence of all the trophies that the arrogant Valkyrie had
gathered in on her triumphal passage through the world, Rafael felt
pride, first of all, at being friends with such a woman; but at the same
time a sense of his own insignificance, exaggerating, if anything, the
difference that separated them. How in the world had he ever dared make
love to a person like Leonora Brunna?
Finally came the most interesting, the most intimate of all her
treasures--an album which she allowed him hurriedly to glimpse through,
forbidding him, however, even to look at certain of the pages. It was a
volume modestly bound in dark leather with silver clasps; but Rafael
gazed upon it as on a wonderful fetish, and with all the awe-struck
adoration inspired by great names. Kings and emperors were the least
among the celebrities who had knelt in homage before the goddess. The
overshadowing geniuses of art were there, dedicating a word of
affection, a line of verse, a bar of music, to the beautiful songstress.
Rafael stared in open-mouthed wonderment at the signatures of the old
Verdi and of Boito. Then came the younger masters, of the new Italian
school, noisy and triumphant with the clamor of art brought within range
of the mob. In gallant phrases the Frenchmen, Massenet and Saint-Saens,
paid their respects to the greatest interpreter of the greatest of
composers; Rafael could decipher what was in Italian, scenting the sweet
perfume of Latin adulation despite the fact that he scarcely knew the
language. A sonnet by Illica moved him actually to tears. Other
inscriptions were meaningless to him--the lines from Hans Keller,
especially, the great orchestral conductor, disciple and confidant of
Wagner, the artistic executor, charged with watching over the master's
glory--that Hans Keller of whom Leonora was speaking all the time with
the fondness of a woman and the admiration of an artist--all of which
did not prevent her from adding that he was "a barbarian." Stanzas in
German, in Russian and in English, which, as the singer re-read them
brought a contented smile to her features, Rafael, to his great
despair, could not induce her to translate.
"Those are matters you wouldn't understand. Go on to the next page. I
mustn't make you blush."
And that was the only explanation she would give--as though he were a
child.
Some Italian verses, written in a tremulous hand and in crooked lines,
attracted Rafael's attention. He could half make their meaning out, but
Leonora would never let him finish reading them. It was an amorous,
desperate lament; a cry of racking passion condemned to disappointment,
writhing in isolation like a wild beast in its cage: Luigi Macchia.
"And who is Luigi Macchia?" asked Rafael. "Why such despair?"
"He was a young fellow from Naples," Leonora answered, at last, one
afternoon, in a sad voice, and turning her head, as if to conceal the
tears that had come to her eyes. "One day they found him under the pine
trees of Posilipo, with a bullet through his head. He wanted to die, you
see, and he killed himself.... But put all this aside and let's go down
to the garden. I need a breath of air."
They sauntered along the avenue that was bordered with rose-bushes, and
several minutes went by before either of them spoke. Leonora seemed
quite absorbed in her thoughts. Her brows were knitted and her lips
pressed tightly together, as if she were suffering the sting of painful
recollections.
"Suicide!" she said at last. "Doesn't that seem a silly thing to do,
Rafael? Kill yourself for a woman? Just as if we women were obliged to
love every man who thinks he's in love with us!... How stupid men are!
We have to be their servants, love them willy-nilly. And if we don't,
they kill themselves just to spite us."
And she was silent for a time.
"Poor Macchia! He was a good boy, and deserved to be happy. But if I
were to surrender to every desperate protestation made to me!...
However, he went and did just what he said he would do.... How crazy
they get! And the worst of it is, I have found others like him in my
travels."
She explained no farther. Rafael gazed at her, but respected her
silence, trying in vain to guess the thoughts that were stirring behind
her shining eyes, as green and golden as the sea under a noonday sun.
What a wealth of romance must be hidden in that woman's past! What
tragedies must have been woven into the checkered fabric of her
wonderful career!...
So the days went by, and election time came around. Rafael, in passive
rebellion against his mother, who rarely spoke a word to him now, had
completely neglected the campaign. But on the decisive Sunday he
triumphed completely, and Rafael Brull, Deputy from Alcira, spent the
night shaking hands, receiving congratulations, listening to serenades,
waiting for morning to come that he might run to the Blue House and
receive Leonora's ironic good wishes.
"I'm very glad to hear it," the actress said. "Now you'll be leaving
very soon and I'll lose sight of you. It was high time really! You know,
my dear child, you were beginning to get tiresome with your assiduous
worship, that mute, persistent, tenacious adoration of yours. But up in
Madrid you'll get over it all. Tut, tut, now ... don't say you won't. No
need to perjure yourself. I guess I know what young men are like! And
you're a young man. The next time we meet, you'll have other things in
your head. I'll be a friend, just a friend; and that's what--and all--I
want to be."
"But will I find you here when I come back?" Rafael asked, anxiously.
"You want to know more things than anybody I ever knew! How can I say
whether I'll be here or not? Nobody in the world was ever sure of
holding me. I don't know where I'll be tomorrow myself.... But, no," she
continued, gravely, "if you come back by next spring, you'll find me
here. I'm thinking of staying surely until then. I want to see the
orange-trees in bloom, go back to my early childhood--the only memories
of my past that have followed me everywhere. Many a time I have gone to
Nice, spending a fortune and crossing half the world to get there--and
just to see a handful of puny orange-trees in bloom; now I want to take
one great, deep, plunge into the deluge of orange blossoms that
inundates these fields every year. It's the one thing that keeps me in
Alcira.... I'm sure. So if you come back about that season, you will
find me; and we will meet for one last time; for that will be the limit
of my endurance. I shall simply have to fly away, however hard poor
auntie takes it.... For the present, however, I am quite comfortable.
You see I was so tired! I find this solitude a welcome refuge after a
stormy voyage. Only something very important indeed could persuade me to
leave it at once."
But they saw each other on many another afternoon in the garden, there.
It was saturated now with the fragrance of ripe oranges. The vast valley
lay blue beneath the winter sun. Oranges, oranges, everywhere, reaching
out, it seemed, through the foliage, to the industrious hands that were
plucking them from the branches. Carts were creaking all along the
roads, trundling heaps of golden fruit over the ruts. The large shipping
houses rang again with the voices of girls singing at their work as they
selected and wrapped the oranges in paper. Hammers were pounding at the
wooden crates, and off toward France and England in great golden waves
those daughters of the South rolled--capsules of golden skin, filled
with sweet juice--the quintessence of Spanish sunshine.
Leonora, standing on tiptoe under an old tree, with her back toward
Rafael, was looking for a particularly choice orange among the dense
branches. As she swayed this way and that, the proud, graceful curves of
her vigorous slenderness became more beautiful than ever.
"I'm leaving tomorrow," the young man said, dispiritedly.
Leonora turned around. She had found her orange and was peeling it with
her long pink nails.
"Tomorrow?" she said, smiling. "Everything comes if you wait long
enough!... The best of success to you, senor deputy."
And bringing the fragrant fruit to her lips, she sank her white,
glistening teeth into the golden pulp, closing her eyes rapturously, to
sense the full warm sweetness of the juice.
Rafael stood there pale and trembling, as if something desperate were
in his mind.
"Leonora! Leonora!... Surely you are not going to send me away like
this?"
And then suddenly, carried away by a passion so long restrained, so long
crushed under timidity and fear, he ran up to her, seized her hands and
hungrily sought her lips.
"Oh! What in the world are you up to, Rafael?... How dare you!" she
cried. And with one thrust of her powerful arms she threw him back,
staggering, against the orange-tree. The young man stood there with
lowered head, humiliation and shame written on every line of his face.
"You see, I'm a strong woman," said Leonora, in a voice quivering with
anger. "None of your foolish tricks, or you'll be sorry!"
She glared at him for a long time; but then gradually recovered her
equanimity, and began to laugh at the pitiable spectacle before her.
"But what a child you are, Rafael!... Is that what you call a friendly
good-bye?... How little you know me, silly! You force matters, you do, I
see. Well just understand, I'm impregnable, unless I choose to be
otherwise. Why, men have died without being able to kiss so much as the
tip of my fingers. It's time you were going, Rafael. We'll still be
friends, of course.... But in case we are to see each other again, don't
forget what I tell you. We are through with such nonsense once and for
all. Don't waste your time. I cannot be yours. I'm tired of men; perhaps
I hate them. I have known the handsomest, the most elegant, the most
famous of them all. I have been almost a queen; queen 'on the left hand
side,' as the French say, but so much mistress of the situation that,
had I cared to get mixed up in such vulgarity, I could have changed
ministries and overturned thrones. Men renowned in Europe for their
elegance--and their follies--have grovelled at my feet, and I have
treated them worse than I have treated you. The most celebrated women
have envied me and hated me--copying my dresses and my poses. And when,
tired of all that brilliancy and noise, I said 'Good-bye' and came to
this retreat, do you think it was to give myself to a village
_senorito_, though a few hundred country bumpkins think he is a
wonder?... Oh, say, Rafael, really...."
And she laughed a cruel, mocking laugh--that cut Rafael to the quick.
The young man bowed his head and his chest heaved painfully, as if the
tears that could not find issue through his eyes were stifling, choking
him. He seemed on the point of utter collapse.
Leonora repented of her cruelty.
She stepped up to the boy until she was almost touching him. Then taking
his chin in her two hands, she made him raise his head.
"Oh, I have hurt you, haven't I! What mean things I said to the poor
child! Let me see now. Lift that head up! Look me straight in the eye!
Say that you forgive me.... That cursed habit I have of never holding my
tongue! I have offended you; but please, don't pay any attention to
that! I was joking! What a fine way of repaying you for what you did
that night!... No; Rafael, you are a very handsome chap indeed ... and
very distinguished ... and you will make a great name for yourself, up
in Madrid!... You'll be what they call a 'personage,' and you'll
marry--oh my--a very stylish, elegant, society girl! I can see all
that.... But, meanwhile, my dear boy, don't depend on me. We are going
to be friends, and nothing more than friends, ever! Why, there are tears
in your eyes! Well, here. Come ... kiss my hand, I will let you ... as
you did that night--there, like that! I could be yours only if I loved
you; but alas! I shall never fall in love with the dashing Rafaelito!
I'm an old woman, already, and I've been so lavish with my heart, spent
it so freely, I'm afraid I have none left.... Poor, poor little Rafael!
I'm so sorry ... but, you see, you came so late ... so late ...!"
PART TWO
I
Hidden in the tall, thick rose-bushes that bounded the _plazoleta_ in
front of the Blue House, and under four old dead palms that drooped
their branches dry and melancholy under the vigorous tufts of younger
trees, were two rubblework benches, white-washed, the backs and armrests
of ancient Valencian tiles, the glazed surfaces flecked with arabesques
and varicolored fancies inherited from days of Saracen rule--sturdy, but
comfortable seats, with the graceful lines of the sofas of the
Eighteenth Century; and in them Leonora liked to spend her time in late
afternoons especially, when the palm trees covered the little square
with a cool, delightful shade.
On that warm March day, dona Pepa was sitting in one of them, her
silver-rimmed spectacles on her nose, reading the "Life" of the day's
saint. At her side was the maid. A true daughter of the _campagna_ of
Rome, Beppa had been trained to piety from her earliest years; and she
was listening attentively so as not to miss a word.
On the other bench were Leonora and Rafael. The actress, with lowered
head, was following the movements of her hands, busily engaged on some
embroidery.
Rafael found Leonora much changed after his months of absence.
She was dressed simply, like any young lady of the city; her face and
hands, so white and marble-like before, had taken on the golden
transparency of ripened grain under the continued caress of the
Valencian sun. Her slender fingers were bare of all rings, and her pink
ears were not, as formerly, a-gleam with thick clusters of diamonds.
"I've become a regular peasant, haven't I?" she said, as if she could
read in Rafael's eyes his astonishment at the transformation she had
undergone. "It's life in the open that works such miracles: today one
frill, tomorrow another, and a woman eventually gets rid of everything
that was once a part of her body almost. I feel better this way....
Would you believe it? I've actually deserted my dressing-table, and the
perfume I used lies all forsaken and forlorn. Fresh water, plenty of
fresh water ... that's what I like. I'm a long way from the Leonora who
had to paint herself every night like a clown before she could appear
before an audience. Take a good look at me! Well ... what do you think?
You might mistake me for one of your vassals almost, eh? I'll bet that
if I had gone out this morning to join your demonstration at the station
you wouldn't have recognized me in the crowd."
Rafael was going to say--and quite seriously, too--that he thought her
more beautiful than ever. Leonora seemed to have descended from her
height and drawn closer to him. But she guessed what was coming, and to
forestall any compliments, hastened to resume control of the
conversation.
"Now don't say you like me better this way. What nonsense! Remember, you
come from Madrid, from real elegance, a world you did not know
before!... But, to tell the truth, I like this simplicity; and the
important thing in life is to please yourself, isn't it? It was a slow
transformation, but an irresistible one; this country life gradually
filled me with its peace and calm; it went to my head like a bland
delicious wine. I just sleep and sleep, living the life of a human
animal, free from every emotion, and quite willing never to wake up
again. Why, Rafaelito! If nothing extraordinary happens and the devil
doesn't give an unexpected tug at my sleeve, I can conceive of staying
on here forever. I think of the outer world as a sailor must of the sea,
when he finds himself all cosy at home after a voyage of continuous
tempest."
"That's right, do stay," said Rafael. "You can't imagine how I worried
up in Madrid wondering whether or not I'd find you here on my return."
"Don't go telling any fibs," said Leonora, gently, smiling with just a
suggestion of gratification. "Do you think we haven't been following
your doings in Madrid? Though you never were a friend, exactly, of good
old Cupido, you've been writing him frequently--and all sorts of
nonsense; just as a pretext for the really important thing--the
postscript, with your regards to the 'illustrious artist,' sure to
provoke the consoling reply that the 'illustrious artist' was still
here. How those letters made me laugh!"
"Anyway, that will prove I wasn't lying that day when I assured you I
would not forget, in Madrid. Well, Leonora; I didn't! The separation has
made me worse, much worse, in fact."
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