“That must be how my captain died too!” cried Doña Berta, leaping to her feet, reaching out one hand as if inspired. “Yes, my heart is telling me that he abandoned me for a glorious death!”
And Doña Berta, who had never been one for fancy phrases or sibylline gestures, fell back into her chair, crying and crying with a solemnity that touched the painter and made him think of a statue representing history shedding tears on the anonymous dust of obscure acts of heroism, virtues known to no one, great unrecorded griefs.
A cool breeze began to blow; Doña Berta shivered, got to her feet again, and beckoned to the painter to follow her. They returned to the living room, and there, almost lying on the sofa, Doña Berta continued to sob.
6
SABELONA silently entered the room and lit all the candles in the silver candlesticks adorning a console table. This idea of bringing light into the dark room without being asked seemed to her positively inspired, lending a touch of elegance to the household. Night was coming on, and yet neither the painter nor Doña Berta had noticed. While Doña Berta kept her face hidden so that Sabelona would not see how upset she was, the artist, head bowed, was pacing up and down the long room as a way of giving vent to all those intense new emotions. However, when he reached the console table, the light caught his eye and, looking up, he found himself face-to-face with the portrait of a young woman dressed and coiffed in a style that had been fashionable more than forty years ago. It took him a while to take in her every feature, but once the whole image was there before him in all its clarity, he felt a tremor run through his body. He gestured to Sabelona, wanting to know the woman’s identity, and Sabelona calmly indicated Doña Berta, who was still on the sofa, her face hidden in her hands. Sabelona tiptoed out of the room, which was her way of showing respect for the inexplicable griefs of her masters and mistresses; and the painter, who had suddenly turned pale and seemed almost afraid, continued to study the portrait, unaware that his eyes were filling with tears. And when he resumed his pacing of the creaking wooden floorboards, he was thinking, “These things go beyond painting, and are so dependent on chance, so implausible, that they have no place in poetry either; only in real life do such things happen and then only in hearts capable of grasping them.” And he paused to look at Doña Berta, who, calmer now, had stopped crying and was staring dully down at the floor, her hands resting on her bony knees. Her dead love, like a ghost, had returned to haunt that stiff, wrinkled heart of hers, much as the same scented breeze that wafts through a garden also caresses the marble tombs in a cemetery.
The old lady stood up and, wiping away the last traces of tears with fingers that were as thin as roots, said, “My friend, while we’ve been talking about my life, time has passed, and it’s far too late now for you to find shelter elsewhere. It’s nearly dark. People may gossip, of course,” she said with a smile, “but I’m afraid you’ll have to spend the night here at Posadorio.”
The painter accepted with alacrity.
“Although I’ll have to pay for my room and board,” he said.
“How?”
“Tomorrow, I’ll make a copy of that portrait, just a quick sketch so that I can paint another identical portrait when I get home . . . identical to the painting that is, for as to its resemblance to the original . . . assuming it is a good likeness. . . .”
“People say that it is,” said Doña Berta, shrugging with posthumous modesty, charming in her sad indifference. “They say,” she went on, “that it’s the very image of a Berta Rondaliego I can barely remember.”
“Well, mine, if I may say so without boasting, will be slightly better as a painting and utterly faithful to the original.”
No sooner said than done; the following morning, the painter, who had slept in the same walnut-wood bed in which the last of the Rondaliego brothers had died, rose very early, had them bring the portrait out into the garden, and there, in the open air, set about his task. He had lunch with Doña Berta, studying her intently whenever she wasn’t looking, and after coffee, he continued his work. By midafternoon, when he had completed his studies, he gathered all his things, bade farewell to his new friend with the fondest of embraces, and disappeared into the woods, waving a final farewell from afar with a white handkerchief that fluttered like a flag.
Doña Berta was once more left alone with her thoughts, but how different those thoughts were! She was convinced now that the reason her captain had not come back was because he had not been able to; he was not, as her brothers had said, a villain but a hero. Yes, just like the painter’s gambler-captain, who had risked his honor in order to gain glory. Doña Berta’s feelings of remorse—which were not so much remorse as feelings of intense regret and sadness—grew ever stronger after that first sudden intuition bringing her the absolute belief that her lover had been a hero and that the reason he had not come back to her was because he had died in the war. If that were so, how would she ever explain her utter inertia about their son! What efforts had she made to find the fruit of their love? Almost none. She had allowed herself to be intimidated, and she recalled with horror the days when she herself had come to believe that embarking on some secret mission to discover her son’s whereabouts would only increase her ignominy. And now it was too late to do anything! Her son would be either dead or lost forever. Why even dream of finding him? She herself had lost all sense of being a mother, and indeed was already old enough to be a grandmother. She was vaguely aware that she did not feel those old emotions with the same intensity as before; the trivial details of day-to-day life, the prosaic nature of her various chores distracted her from her sorrow and from her meditations; those emotions did come back, it was true, but they did not linger in her mind, and that constant rhythm of forgetting and remembering made her quite dizzy. She herself came to think, “I must be going soft in the head! This is more an obsession than a feeling.” And nevertheless, especially after supper and before going to bed, while she walked around the spacious, lamp-lit kitchen, she did sometimes feel that she possessed a kind of hidden strength that could, were there a good enough reason, lead her to make a great sacrifice, an act of utter self-denial. “Where would I not go for my son, be he dead or alive! If only to kiss his bare bones, what years would I not give, if not years of life, which I can no longer offer, then years in Purgatory rather than in Heaven! I don’t know whether it’s because I myself am like a tomb, a soul in the process of decomposition, or because I can already sense the presence of death, but whenever I imagine searching for and finding my son, I always imagine that I will find only his remains, not his open arms waiting to embrace me.” Imagining these and other griefs, Doña Berta was surprised to receive a parcel delivered to her a week or so later via a messenger, a villager, who left at once, without waiting to receive either money or refreshment, having first placed in Doña Berta’s hands the large package containing the painter’s card and two portraits in oils. One was of her younger self, a faithful copy of the painting that hung above the console table in the living room in Posadorio, but which, thanks to his great skill as an artist, was full of life and expression. Doña Berta could barely recognize herself in the portrait in the living room, but when she saw this new version, it was like looking at herself in a mirror . . . more than forty years ago. The other portrait bore a label underneath, which said in small, red letters: “My captain.” It showed only his captain’s head, but when Doña Berta saw it, she caught her breath and gave a cry of astonishment. The painter’s captain was also hers . . . but mixed up with the Berta of forty years ago who was there in the other portrait. She put the two paintings side by side and saw the perfect resemblance that the painter had seen between the portrait in the living room and the captain he remembered, the one depicted in his masterpiece; more than that, and above all, she saw another even more marked resemblance, in certain features and in the general expression of that face, with the image that still lived on in her mind, indelibly engraved, just as a drop of water wears away stone. That dead and secret
love had left in her imagination a deep and lasting impression, rather like the granite left smooth and shiny by many generations of believers who go to weep and wait at the feet of a Virgin or a stone saint. The painter’s captain was like a restored version of the portrait of that other captain whom she could still see in her mind’s eye, slightly blurred by time and by the dark patina of her long and long-hidden worship, stained with smoke from the fire of her ancient love, as paintings in churches are by the smoke from candles and incense. And so when Sabelona went to find Doña Berta, she found her pale and almost fainting, her face contorted with sorrow. Doña Berta said only “I’m not feeling well” and allowed Sabelona to put her to bed. The following day, the local doctor came, shrugged, and prescribed nothing. “It’s just her age,” he said. Three days later, Doña Berta was back on her feet, more agile than ever, and with an almost feverish glint in her eyes. The next morning, Sabelona was astonished to see a messenger leave Posadorio bearing a letter with a wax seal. Who was her lady writing to? What could possibly interest her out there in the distant world? Her mistress had written to the painter; she knew his name and that of the town where he used to spend his summers, but nothing more, not the name of the parish where he had his rustic abode, nor if he would be at home or off on one of his many trips.
The messenger returned four days later with no answer and without the letter. After great effort and many inquiries, the letter had finally been accepted by someone at a boardinghouse, who assured the messenger that he would hand it to the painter when he returned in a few days’ time. There was no point trying to locate him before that, he was told. He could as easily be just around the corner or twenty leagues away. Days and days slipped by, and Doña Berta, almost mad with impatience, waited in vain for news. Meanwhile, her letter, in which she had half confessed the secret of her dishonor, was wandering about the world in the hands of who knows who. More sad weeks passed, and the poor lady, whose memory was equally poor, began to forget what she had written in the letter. All she could remember, albeit vaguely, was that she had made an implicit declaration of her sin and had asked him, for pity’s sake, to send her news of his captain—his name, his status, his origins, his family—and asking, too, to be told who had given the money to the poor hero who had died before he could repay it and how she could find the creditor. . . . Lastly—what madness!—she had asked about the painting, his masterpiece. Did it still belong to him? Had it been sold? How much would he sell it for? Would what money she had left, once she had sold all her possessions and paid back the captain’s creditor, would that be enough to buy the painting? Yes, she had put all those things in the letter, although she could no longer remember how she had worded it; of one thing she was sure, though: There was no going back. During her few days in bed, she had wholeheartedly embraced that madness and felt no regrets. Yes, she was determined now: She would pay off her son’s debt and buy the painting depicting the very moment of his heroic death. She had not the faintest idea how much money she would get from the sale of Susacasa, Posadorio, and Aren; nor did she have the remotest idea of what her son’s debt would amount to or how much the painting would cost. Nor did she care. That was why she had written to the painter. The reasons that lay behind her madness were equally straightforward. She had given nothing to her son while the poor child was alive and, having found him now that he was dead, she wanted to give him everything; her son’s honor was her honor; his debt was her debt, and she wanted to pay it back, and then live by begging for alms; and if, once she had paid the debt, she still had money enough to buy the painting, she would buy it, then die of starvation, because that would be like burying the two captains, restoring their honor, as well as possessing, in the form of a painting, the faithful image of her adored son and the reflection of that other adored image. Her overpowering, absolute, irrevocable resolve owed its strength, she felt, to an extraordinary invisible impulse that had crept into her mind like an alien body that now held tyrannical sway over her every thought. “Which means,” she thought, “that I am definitely mad, but so much the better, I’m also happier, less anxious; my resolve gives me something to hold on to; far better some real, physical pain than the insufferable tick-tock of my old regrets, the same ideas going around and around. . . .” In order to embrace that heroic resolve and carry out her sacrifice more easily—for her own pleasure and satisfaction, rather than at the bidding of that irresistible impulse, which seemed to come not from her but from elsewhere—Doña Berta dedicated herself to awakening her maternal feelings, the tender feelings of a mother, but her mind struggled in vain; suitably touching images failed to come when called; she did not know what it was to be a mother. She tried to imagine her son, her child, abandoned with no one there to protect his innocence. In vain: The son she saw was a brave captain, defending the stronghold, surrounded by flames and smoke . . . his face was the one the painter had sent her. “It’s like trying to fall in love at my great age . . . and failing.” And yet her resolve remained unshaken. Whether with the painter’s help or without it, she would find that painting, she would see it, yes, she would see it before she died, and she would seek out the creditor or his heirs and repay her son’s debt. She would sometimes think, “It’s as if we had two souls, one that ages along with the body, which is the one that imagines and is filled with strong, colorful emotions; and another deeper, purer soul, one that weeps without tears, loves without the need of memory or even a beating pulse . . . and that is the soul that God takes up to Heaven.”
After some months had passed with no word from the painter, Doña Berta decided to take matters into her own hands. There was no need to tell Sabelona anything until the final moment when they would part. Farewell, Zaornín, farewell, Susacasa, farewell, Aren, farewell, Posadorio! However, when her mistress received a surprising visitor, Sabelona’s suspicions were aroused.
Señor Casto Pumariega, a retired notary public and a usurer still in active service, a general scavenger and parasite on the parish, and a great collector of large estates and property in general, turned up at Posadorio, asking for Señorita de Rondaliego and wearing the perennial smile that had made all the destitute in the area weep bitter tears. This gentleman lived in the provincial capital, several miles from Zaornín. He arrived on horseback, dismounted, and, still smiling, ordered that his horse be given grass to eat, but not the new-mown variety; then, on second thought, he himself went to the stable and filled the manger with hay.
He still had a few strands of hay stuck to his beard and spectacles when he was received in the living room by Doña Berta, who, though pale, her voice tremulous, was still resolved to make this sacrifice. She came straight to the point; it would have been absurd and even shameful to tell Señor Pumariega the sentimental reasons that lay behind her extraordinary decision. He did not need to know; what mattered was what she needed, namely, every penny that Susacasa, Aren, and Posadorio would fetch if sold at a fair price. The house, its outbuildings, the llosa, the wood, the meadow, everything, but converted into hard cash that she could put in her purse. If she got the loan by mortgaging said properties, that was fine too, because she did not intend to pay much interest, expecting, as she did, to die very soon, and then Señor Pumariega could have the lot; if he so chose, he could simply sell it.
Just as Señor Pumariega was about to express his astonishment at this extraordinary decision, it occurred to him that he would be much better advised to consider the advantages of the deal and show no surprise at all. Any expression of amazement seemed inappropriate. And so, just as if she were selling him a few crates of apples or that season’s hay, he plunged straight in without a flicker of surprise or even curiosity.
As was his custom, he set out his arguments by naming the contracting parties A and B. “Let’s call the lender B, the mortgage M, the property C. . . .” That was how he always spoke, for he preferred, wherever possible, to avoid the personal, seeing the other party not as a living being, a fellow human being, but as a letter, part of a formula
he had to resolve. Although she had managed her own affairs for many years and acquired a certain degree of experience and even skill, Doña Berta felt like a fly caught in a spider’s web, not that she cared. Don Casto persisted in trying to deceive her, by demonstrating that she would not necessarily lose Susacasa if she accepted his proposed arrangement; and she pretended to fall into his trap, knowing that he would emerge from this adventure as the owner of the Rondaliego estate, but knowing, too, that this was what her sacrifice meant: allowing this executioner to crucify her. And once this was decided, she waited eagerly, hanging on this obsequious, fawning, servile usurer’s every word, to find out how much, how many thousands of duros the moneylender would hand over. When he came up with a figure, Doña Berta felt her heart leap with joy, for he was offering her far more than she could have hoped for; she had never imagined that her diminished, impoverished estate could possibly be worth so many thousands. When Pumariega left Posadorio, Sabelona and the caretaker observed him out of the corner of their eye as they helped him onto his horse, and they saw him smile his perennial smile, but saw too that, behind his spectacles, his little eyes were sparkling. Shortly afterward, he paused at the top of a hill and turned his horse to contemplate the extent and quality of his “new possessions,” for he always described as “possessions” the things he knew he could eventually make his by using all the claws and talons of the property laws provided by the land registry’s official stamps and records. Three days later, he was back at Posadorio accompanied by a new notary, of his choosing, and various witnesses and experts, all of whom were in his debt. The matter did not prove as simple or as brief as Doña Berta had hoped and assumed, ready as she was to leave everything for Señor Pumariega to sort out; he, however, wanted to impose all kinds of guarantees and to bewilder the other party by dint of legal ceremonies and complications. The only thing Doña Berta absolutely refused to do was to go in person to the provincial capital. No, she did not want to move from Susacasa until the day came when she would take the train to Madrid. Once everything was finalized, Doña Berta had in her little chest of ancient secrets the thousands of duros that the usurer was “lending” her. She knew perfectly well that she was saying goodbye forever to Posadorio, to Aren, to everything. . . . How would she ever pay back the enormous sum given to her? How, if she lived a few more years, would she even pay the interest? Perhaps a miracle would occur. That would be the only way. If a miracle did occur, Susacasa would still be hers, and that hope was an advantage, or at least a consolation. Yes, she was losing everything, but what mattered was paying off her son’s debts and buying the painting, and then, if necessary, starving to death. And what about Sabelona? Don Casto had made it very clear that he required guarantees for the safety of his mortgage through the vigilance of a diligent paterfamilias who would keep an eye on the mortgaged property; he was therefore quite happy for the caretaker to remain on the estate for the moment; but as for the keys to Posadorio, the house, and its outbuildings, he would prefer to take care of that himself. This meant that Sabelona could not stay in Posadorio. Her mistress hesitated before suggesting that she should accompany her; she had to be very frugal and spend as little money as possible, for she still did not know if she would have enough to both repay the debt and buy the painting; she had to avoid all but essential expenditures. Sabelona would be another mouth to feed, another guest, another traveler. Almost twice the expense. Nevertheless, promising herself that she would make up for this by sacrificing her own personal comforts, Doña Berta proposed to Sabelona that she come with her to Madrid.