Woman and Puppet 3

Woman and Puppet 3

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.”

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER IV

 

 

Three years ago I had not the grey hairs that you now see, and was

thirty-seven years of age, though I felt but twenty-two. I do not

know precisely when my youth passed from me, and it is hard for me to

realize that it has reached its end. People have told you that I was

one of the gadabouts of passion. That is false. I respected Love and I

never degraded her. Scarcely ever have I caressed a woman whom I did

not passionately love. If I were to name or number these loves to you

you would be surprised for they were but a few. I easily remember that

I have never loved a blonde. I have always ignored those pale objects

of worship. What is furthermore true, is that, for me, love has not

been a mere pleasure or pastime. It has been my very life. If I were

to take out of my life all the thoughts and actions that had the woman

for their sole end, there would remain nothing but emptiness--space.

This much said, I may now recount to you what I know of Concha Perez.

 

I go first to three years and a half ago, and winter-time. I returned

from France, a bitter cold journey too, one twenty-sixth of December,

in the express that passes the bridge of the Bidassoa.

 

The snow, already very thick at Biarritz and Saint Sebastian, rendered

almost impracticable the traversing of the Guipuzcoa. The train stopped

two hours at Zumarraga, for snow to be cleared away. Later an avalanche

stopped us for three hours. All night this snow trouble went on. Sounds

were deadened by the fall, and so we were travelling in a silence to

which danger gave a touch of grandeur.

 

The morning of the morrow found us at Avila. We were eight hours late,

and had fasted for a day. We learnt at last that we should be “hung

up” at that place four days! Do you know Avila by any chance? It is

the place that they should send those people to who rave about Old

Spain being dead and done with. The inn I stopped at, Don Quixote could

easily have used also.

 

In resuming my journey I went third-class, for a change, in a

compartment nearly full of Spanish women. There were really four

compartments with partitions about shoulder high.

 

Well, we were passing the Sierra of Guadarrama, and suddenly the train

stopped again. We were blocked by another avalanche. When we realized

this there was a general request made to a gitana present to dance.

 

She did dance: a woman about thirty, of the ugly gipsy type, but she

seemed to have fire in the fingers that flashed the castanets and fire

in her limbs. Everyone knelt and listened, or beat time with their

hands. I now noticed in the corner facing me a young girl, who was

singing.

 

She wore a rose-coloured skirt, that made me guess she was from

Andalucia--that colour-loving province.

 

Her shoulders and bosom were swathed in a creamy shawl, and she had a

throat scarf of white foulard to protect her from the cold. The whole

carriage already knew that she was trained at the Convent of San José

d’Avila, was going to Madrid to find her mother, and bore the name of

Concha Perez.

 

Her voice was singularly penetrating. She sang without moving her body

about, hands in shawl, eyes closed.

 

The songs she was singing were not taught her by the Sisters, I can be

quite sure. They were the little songs of four lines, only loved by the

people. Into these quatrains they put much passion. I can hear again

in memory the caress in her voice as she sang--

 

“Thy bed is of jasmins,

Thy sheets of white roses;

Of lilies thy pillows,

And a dark rose there poses.”

 

There followed an angry scene between her and the gipsy. They fought,

but I stepped between, for I loathe to see women fighting. They do

it badly and dangerously. When it was all over, a gendarme came, and

after slapping Concha upon the cheeks put her in another compartment.

The train now went forward again, and my companions began to sleep.

The image of the little singer tormented me. Where had he put her? I

leant over the barrier of my carriage, and saw that she was there,

close enough to touch. She was sleeping like a tired child. I saw the

closed lids, the long lashes, the little nose and two small lips, that

seemed to be at one and the same time infantile and sensual. Gazing

for a long time at those amazing lips, I wondered whether their dream

movements were recalling the breast that nursed her or the lips of a

lover.

 

Daylight came, and with it the end of the journey. I aided the little

Concha to get together six parcels, and offered to carry them but was

refused. She managed with them somehow, and ran off. I soon lost sight

of her.

 

You see, do you not, this first meeting was insignificant, almost

vague. She had interested and amused me for a little while. That was

really all. Soon I ceased to think of her at all.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER V

 

 

The following summer I found her again. In August, I was alone in my

house, a house that a feminine presence had filled for years. One

afternoon, bored to death, I visited the Government Tobacco Manufactory

of Seville. It was a sweltering day. I entered alone, which was a

favour, in this immense harem of about five thousand women-workers, of

a rather free-and-easy type.

 

I have said the day was terribly hot? Most of the workers were

half-dressed only. It was a mixed spectacle, certainly: a sort of

panorama of women at all ages. I passed along, sometimes being asked

for a gift, sometimes being given a cynical pleasantry. Suddenly I

recognized Concha, and asked her what brought her into that place.

 

“Heaven knows, I have forgotten.”

 

“But your convent training?”

 

“When girls go there through the door, they leave through the window.”

 

“Did you?”