Prefacio · II

At last Eve released her victim and gazed upon him... Love neither breathed nor stirred: he was dead—as dead as my grandmother.

The very moment she ascertained this, the guilty woman felt a terrible, strange, inexplicable anguish, like a wave of blood rushing to her brain, and an iron hoop tightening about her chest, suffocating her. She understood what had happened...

Love, whom she believed she held in her arms, was deeper within, in her very heart; and Eve, in murdering him, had slain herself.

The Traveller

Cold, icy was the night. The wind whistled fearful and angry, the rain fell steadily in gusts and heavy downpours; and the two or three times Martha had ventured to approach her window to see if the storm abated, the livid glare of lightning dazzled her, and the crash of thunder right above her head terrified her as though it would batter down the house.

At the very moment when the elements raged with greatest fury, Martha heard distinctly a knocking at her door, and caught a plaintive, urgent voice begging her to open. Prudence undoubtedly counselled Martha to turn a deaf ear, for on so dreadful a night, when no honest neighbour ventures abroad, only evil-doers and lost libertines brave wind and rain in search of adventures and spoil. Martha should have reflected that he who possesses a hearth, fire upon it, and at his side a mother, sister, or wife to comfort him, does not go out in January in a raging tempest, nor knock at strange doors, nor disturb the peace of modest maidens. But reflection, a most dignified personage, has the wretched habit of arriving late, serving only to embitter pleasures and season remorse. Martha’s reflection had lagged behind as usual, and the impulse of pity, the first to spring up in a woman’s heart, made the maiden ask compassionately through the wicket: “Who knocks?” A sweet, vibrant tenor voice answered in persuasive tones: “A traveller.” And blessed Martha, without further inquiry, unbarred the door, drew the bolt, and turned the key, moved by the charm of that voice so vibrant and sweet.

The traveller entered, bowing courteously; and taking off with easy grace his slouch hat, whose feathers dripped, and unwrapping his cloak soaked with rain, thanked her for her hospitality and took a seat near the fire Martha had brightly kindled. She scarcely dared look at him, for at that point tardy reflection began to play its part, and Martha saw that giving shelter to the first who knocked was sheer rashness. Yet even without venturing to raise her eyes, she saw askance that her guest was young and well-formed, fair-haired and pale, with a handsome, mournful face and the air of a lord accustomed to command. Martha felt constrained and full of confusion, though the traveller showed himself grateful and spoke flattering words; and to hide her embarrassment, she hastened to serve supper and offer him the best room in the house to sleep in.

Alarmed at her own indiscreet conduct, Martha could not sleep all night, waiting impatiently for daybreak that her guest might depart. But when he came down, refreshed and smiling, to breakfast, he said nothing of leaving, nor at dinner time, nor in the afternoon; and Martha, charmed and enchanted by his pleasant speech and chatter, lacked courage to tell him she was no innkeeper by trade.

Weeks ran on, months passed, and in Martha’s house there was no other master than that traveller whom on a stormy night she had the improvidence to shelter. He commanded, and Martha obeyed, submissive, silent, swift as thought.

Do not suppose, however, that Martha was truly happy. On the contrary, she lived in perpetual anxiety and sorrow. I have called the traveller a master, but tyrant I should have termed him, for his despotic whims and fickle humor drove Martha half distracted. At first he appeared obedient, affectionate, coaxing, and humble; but he grew bolder, until there was no enduring him. Worst of all, Martha could never guess his desires nor anticipate his displeasure: without rhyme or reason, when least expected, he was frantic or delighted, passing in a twinkling from anger to tenderness, from laughter to rage. He suffered fits of senseless fury, turning two minutes later into transports of affection; now sulking like a child, now despairing like a man; now heaping reproaches on Martha, now lavishing the sweetest names.

His extravagances were at times so unbearable that Martha, with frayed nerves and sinking heart, cursed the fatal hour when she gave shelter to her terrible guest. The worst was that just when Martha’s exhausted patience was on the point of snapping, he seemed to divine it and begged forgiveness with such childish grace that Martha not only forgot her injuries instantly, but for the exquisite joy of forgiving would have endured past troubles thrice over.

How completely had she forgotten them... when the guest, in guarded words and with roundabout phrases, announced that the time for his departure had now arrived! Martha turned to stone, and the slow tears despair wrung from her fell upon the hands of the traveller, who smiled mournfully and murmured in a low voice consoling phrases, promises to write, to return, to remember. And as Martha, in her bitterness, stammered reproaches, the guest, in that sweet, vibrant tenor voice, pleaded by way of excuse: “I told you plainly, girl, that I am a traveller. I halt, but do not abide; I alight, but do not settle.” And know that only upon hearing this frank declaration, only upon feeling the inmost fibres of her being torn asunder, did simple Martha realise that that fatal traveller was Love, and that she had opened her door unwittingly to the cruel dictator of the earth.

Heedless of Martha’s tears (as if he cared for crying!), reckless of the trail of inextinguishable sorrow he left behind, Love went his way, muffled in his cloak, his slouch hat cocked—its feathers, dry now, curling and floating bravely in the wind—in search of fresh horizons, to knock at other doors better barred and defended. And Martha remained in peace, mistress of her home, free from alarms and fears, given over to the company of grave, excellent reflection, which gives such good counsel, though a trifle late. We know not what they may have discussed; we only know with certainty that on nights of raging storm, when the wind whistles and rain beats against the panes, Martha, pressing her hand upon her heart, which aches with rapid beating, never ceases to listen, in case the guest should knock at the door.

The Lost Heart

Walking one evening through the streets of the city, I saw a red object on the ground: I stooped; it was a bleeding, living heart, which I picked up carefully. Some woman must have lost it, I thought, observing the softness and delicacy of the tender organ which, at the touch of my fingers, throbbed as though still within its owner’s breast. I wrapped it carefully in a white cloth, covered it warmly, hid it beneath my clothes, and set about discovering what woman had lost her heart in the street. To investigate better, I procured a pair of wonderful spectacles, which enabled me to see through bodice, linen, flesh, and ribs—as through those reliquaries shaped like the bust of a saint with a glass window in the breast—the place occupied by the heart.

No sooner had I put on my magic spectacles than I looked eagerly at the first woman who passed, and, oh wonder! she had no heart. She must unquestionably be the owner of my find. The strange thing was that when I told her how I had found her heart and held it at her disposal should she care to claim it, the indignant woman swore repeatedly that she had lost nothing; that her heart was where it had always been, and that she felt it beat, receive, and expel blood perfectly. Seeing the woman’s obstinacy, I left her and turned towards another, young, pretty, seductive, and merry. Good heavens! In her white breast I saw the same hollow, the same rosy cavity, with nothing within, nothing at all. She too had no heart! And when I offered her respectfully the one I kept so safely, she refused it still more firmly, alleging that it was a gross insult to suppose either that she lacked a heart, or was so careless as to have lost it in the public street without noticing.

And hundreds of women passed by, old and young, fair and foul, dark and blonde, melancholy and lively; and at all I directed my spectacles, and in all I observed that of a heart they had only the place, but that the organ either had never existed or had been lost long ago. And all, without exception, when I wished to restore to them the heart they lacked, refused to accept it, whether because they believed they possessed it, or because without it they found themselves wonderfully well, or because they felt insulted by the offer, or dared not face the danger of possessing a heart. I was despairing of restoring the poor abandoned heart to a woman’s breast when by chance, with the aid of my marvelous lenses, I happened to see a pale girl passing along the street, and in her breast—at last!—I discerned a heart, a true heart of flesh, that leaped, throbbed, and felt. I know not why—for I confess it was absurd to offer a heart to one who possessed one so living and awake—it occurred to me to try offering her the one all others had rejected; and lo! the girl, instead of turning from me like the rest, opened her bosom and received the heart which I, in my weariness, was about to let fall once more upon the stones.

Enriched with two hearts, the pale girl grew paler still: emotions, however slight, shook her to the marrow; feelings vibrated in her with cruel intensity; friendship, compassion, sorrow, joy, love, jealousy—everything was deep and terrible in her; and the foolish girl, instead of resolving to suppress one of her two hearts, or both at once, seemed to delight in living a double spiritual life, loving, rejoicing, and suffering twofold, accumulating impressions sufficient to extinguish life. The creature was like a candle lit at both ends, consumed in brief moments. And in truth, she was consumed. Stretched upon her deathbed, livid and so emaciated that she seemed a little bird, the doctors came and affirmed that what carried her from this world was the rupture of an aneurysm. None of them (they are so dull!) guessed the truth: none understood that the girl had died from committing the imprudence of sheltering in her breast a heart lost in the street.

My Suicide

To Campoamor.

Now that she was dead; stretched inert in the horrible coffin of polished mahogany which I still fancied I saw with its gilt mouldings of unpleasant brightness, what was left for me in the world? In her was centred my light, my joy, my illusion, my whole delight... and to disappear thus, suddenly, snatched away in the flower of youth and beauty, was as much as to say to me in melodious tones—that magic voice vibrating within me: “Since thou lovest me, follow me.”

Follow her! Yes; it was the only resolve worthy of my affection, equal to my grief, and the remedy for the eternal loneliness to which the adored creature condemned me by fleeing to distant realms. Follow her, rejoin her, surprise her upon the other shore of the dark river... and clasp her in delirium, crying: “Here I am. Didst thou think I could live without thee? See how I have found thee, that henceforth no power of earth or heaven may divide us.”