Читать книгу Woman and Puppet, Etc - Pierre Louys - Страница 6

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On the morning of the morrow André Stévenol had a radiant awakening. The light flooded his room, which had four windows. There also came to him the murmurs of the town. There were the feet of horses passing, street cries, mules’ bells, and the bells of convents.

He could not recall having known a morning as happy as this present one was; no, not for a long time. He flung out his arms and stretched them; then held them tightly folded around his breast as though to give himself the illusion or the anticipation of that eagerly awaited embrace.

“How easy, how simple the affairs of life are, after all!” So he mused, smiling. “Yesterday, at this hour I was alone, without an object to fill my mind, almost without a thought. It was merely necessary to take a walk and, behold! a change of scene, a love-affair in view. What is the use of taking any notice of refusals, of disdain, or any such things. We desire and demand, and the women give themselves. Why should it ever be otherwise?”

He rose, and in dressing-gown and slippers rang for his bath to be prepared. Whilst waiting with his forehead pressed to the window-panes he stared into the thoroughfare before him, now full of the stir of day. The houses in sight were painted in light colours that Seville favours as a rule: colours like the gay tints of women’s dresses—cream, rose, green, orange, violet, but not the fearful brown of Cadiz or Madrid, or the crude white of Jérez. There were orange-trees in sight, bearing fruit; running fountains and laughing girls, holding their shawls close. From all sides come the sound of the mules’ bells. André could not then imagine any other place in which to live but—Seville.

He finished dressing, and slowly sipped a little cup of the thick Spanish chocolate, then, easy in mind, almost aimlessly he went out into the busy street.

By chance he went the shortest way, to the Plaza del Triunfo. Then he remembered that he was not to haunt the residence of his “mistress,” as he called her to himself, so he went to Las Delicias. The place was strewn with paper and the usual signs of the Carnival. It was also deserted, for Lent had recommenced. Nevertheless, by a way that led from the city’s outskirts, André saw coming towards him one whom he recognized.

“Good-day, Don Mateo,” he said, holding out his hand. “I had not thought of seeing you so soon.”

“Well, here I am, alone, idle and at a loose end. I stroll about in the morning and evening, and fill up most of the day reading or playing in some way. It’s a dull sort of existence.”

“But you have nights that console the monotony of the days, if one may credit the chatter of the city busybody?”

“Whoever says so says wrongly. From now to the day of his death Don Mateo Diaz has no woman about him. But do not let us talk about me. For how long are you still going to remain here?”

Don Mateo was a Spaniard, forty years old, to whom André had been introduced during his first stay in Spain. He was a man of florid phrase and declamatory gesture, very rich, and famed for his love affairs. So André was surprised to hear that he had renounced the pomps and vanities of the flesh, but did not attempt to weary him with questions.

They walked by the river for a time, and all their talk was of Spain, its people, its policy, and history.

Then, “You will come and break your fast or lunch,” said Don Mateo. “My place is there, near the route D’Empalme. We shall be there in a half-hour, and, if you will permit me, I will keep you till the evening. I have some fine horses I should like to show off before you.”

“I agree to take lunch with you,” said André, “but I cannot stay. This evening I have a rendezvous that I must not fail to keep; that is a fact.”

“A lady … I ask no questions. But stay as long as you can. When I was your age I did not want to be bothered with the outer world during my ’days of mystery.’ The only person I loved to speak to on such days was the woman of the moment.”

Don Mateo was silent for a while, then said in a tone of advice—

“Ah, guard yourself against the women! I should be the last man to say fly from them, for I have spent my life upon them until now. And if I had my life to live again, the hours passed with women are those I would most desire to revive. But guard yourself; guard yourself!”

Then, as though he had found a phrase that fitted exactly to his thoughts, Don Mateo added more slowly—

“There are two kinds of women that one should avoid, at all cost: those who do not love you, and those who do. Between these two extremes there are thousands of women of great charm, but we do not know how to appreciate them.”

The lunch would have been very slow indeed if the animation of Don Mateo had not replaced by a monologue the interchange of thought for thought that should have taken place. André was mentally preoccupied, and only appeared to hear the half of what his host said to him. As the hour of his assignation drew nearer, the throbbing of his heart, as on the Carnival day, came back to him, but intensified. It was a kind of persistent appeal within him, and all thoughts save the thought of the longed-for woman were driven out of him. He would have given much for the hands of the dial near him to have pointed to the next hour, but the face of the clock was cold to his emotion, and time would no more flow than the water of a stagnant pond.

At last, almost incapable of holding his tongue any longer, he surprised his host by saying—

“Don Mateo, you have always given me the best advice. May I confide a secret to you and appeal to your advice again?”

“I am entirely yours,” replied the Spaniard, rising and making for the smoking-room.

“I would not ask any one but you,” said André hesitatingly. “Do you know a lady of Seville named Donna Concepcion Garcia?”

Mateo leaped up, then rapidly uttered—

“Concepcion Garcia! Concepcion Garcia! But which one? Explain. There are twenty thousand Concepcion Garcias, in Spain to-day. It is a name as common as Jeanne Duval or Marie Lambert in France. For Heaven’s sake tell me what is her other name. Is it Perez, Concha Perez?”

“Yes,” said André, completely astonished.

Then Don Mateo continued in precise tones—

“Concepcion Perez de Garcia: twenty-two, Plaza del Triunfo, eighteen years old, hair almost black, and a mouth, Heavens what a divine mouth!”

“Yes,” again answered André.

“Ah! You have done well to mention her name. If I can stop you at the gate in this affair, it will be a good action on my part, and a piece of good luck for you!”

“Is she a girl who would go to the arms of any one?”

“No. She has had but few lovers. For these times, she is chaste and very intelligent, with wit and a knowledge of life. She dances with eloquence, speaks as well as she dances, and sings equally well. Have I said enough?”

André could hardly get a word out before Don Mateo resumed—

“And she is the worst of women. I hope that God will never pardon her!”

André rose as if to go.

“Nevertheless, Don Mateo, I—who am not yet able to speak of this woman as you are—I, at present, am still less able to fail to keep an assignation she has made with me. I have made you a confession, and I regret to break yours by a premature departure.” He held out his hand.

Mateo placed himself before the door.

“Hear me, I beg of you. I speak to you, man to man, and I say Stop! return as you came. Forget who you have seen, who has spoken to you and written to you. If you would know peace, calm nights and a life lacking in black care, do not approach Concha Perez! Do not approach this woman. Let me save you. Have mercy upon yourself, in fact.”

“Don Mateo. Do you then love her? …”

The Spaniard stroked his forehead, and answered—

“Oh no! I do not now love or hate. It is all over and done with, all trace effaced.”

Mateo gazed at André, then, quite changing to a tone of banter, said—

“Besides, one should never go to the first rendezvous a woman gives one.”

“Why not?”

“Because she never comes there.”

A memory of an affair made André smile, and admit it was often true.

“Very often. And if by chance she comes, be sure your absence will deepen her liking for you.”

A short silence came. They had reseated themselves, and Mateo said—

“Now listen, please.”