Who Is to Blame?

I was my mother's only child... We lived in a secluded, out-of-the-way place, withdrawn into ourselves... All I know of my father is that he abandoned my mother for reasons unknown to me; but I would notice that my mother had no wish to speak of him. Whenever I brought up his name her face darkened, her features clouded over, and a look of hatred came over her that made me shrink into myself, defeated... Still, from what she used to repeat in my hearing now and then, I was able to conclude that my father had not been an ideal man... For she never ceased, on every occasion and none, to warn me, saying: Beware of men, my little girl — that wicked, scheming, deceitful sex... those treacherous wolves who tear at human flesh with no check or restraint from their conscience... And she would fall silent, furious and resentful, grinding her teeth in menace and threat... and I would nod my small head as though I had taken in what she said...

I loved my mother — indeed, the word love is not enough to convey the deep, rooted bond that tied me to her... She devoted her life to my comfort, working night and day to secure my living and provide me with every comfort... The loveliest hours for me were those I spent sitting with her, trading talk... I would tell her of my troubles at school, of my teachers and companions, and she in turn would tell me of childhood memories and hold me long in her arms... It was enough for my mother to hint, ever so covertly, that she did not want something, for me to hasten away from it and never return to it... I remember once coming home with a group of my girlfriends, some of whom were accompanied by their young brothers — I was then no more than ten years old... No sooner did my mother catch sight of them than her face darkened, her features contracted, and I felt a wave of anger running through her expression... I supposed she was angry that I had brought these little ones along, when she wanted me to herself so we could talk quietly as we always did... I went on introducing them to her, and I sensed that she was forcing a smile to welcome the little ones. Hardly had they gone when I went back to my mother, clasped her to my breast, and asked her whether something was troubling her, and whether the children's coming to our house had upset her... She pressed me tenderly to her breast and went on murmuring words from which I understood that she did not want to lose me, and tears streamed abundantly from her eyes. I pitied her and buried my head in her breast, repeating in her ear that I loved her dearly and that I would never let those little ones share her with me... Yet I did not learn the real reason for her outburst until evening, when we had finished the supper we swallowed in calm and silence. She had barely taken up the cup of coffee she was accustomed to drink right after the meal when she turned to me, a look of pity in her eyes full of tenderness and affection; then she put her arm around me and whispered: Who were those boys who came with your friends?! I answered in astonishment: Didn't I introduce them to you? They are their brothers... A forced laugh escaped her, upon which her face darkened; then she began muttering, staring at the coffee cup before her: — I do not like those boys... They are wicked... wicked... They belong to that vile sex... the sex of wolves.

Those words were enough to make me grasp what was passing through her mind... yet I remained unable to grasp fully what she meant by saying wicked — wolves... I raised imploring eyes to her and asked, seeking to understand:

— What do you mean by wicked... wolves... Do you mean that they eat little ones like me...

A delicate smile crossed her lips as she answered:

— Tomorrow, when you grow up, my little girl, you will understand what I mean by this...

And I fell silent, half convinced... for my mother is never wrong...

★

I took to waiting for that day when I would grow up and understand what my mother meant by her words: wicked... wolves... A kind of terror and trembling would seize me whenever my eye fell on a boy or a man. On my way to and from school I would hurry my steps and come back in haste, feeling my heartbeats quicken one upon another until I reached the school exhausted and shaken; then I would plunge into the circle of my girlfriends and try to dispel whatever fear and agitation had clung to me along the way. And if one of the boys in class tried to join our circle, I would drive him off, scolding, furious, letting him understand that we did not want his friendship — he was a beast of prey...

When I came home in the evening I would recount to my mother everything that had happened to me during the day, including my keeping away from the wicked wolves, and she would pat my shoulder, saying: Bravo! Bravo! That is how I want you, my girl — bold and strong, not a meek lamb whom everyone who sees her wants to ravish...

*

The days went by in succession... I was nearing seventeen, and my troubles began to grow day by day, my pains multiplying hour by hour... I felt an anxiety and agitation whose source I did not know; I felt I wanted something, but did not know what it was; I was searching for something, but had no knowledge of it. This feeling wore me down, and this strange sensation exhausted me; I would go on thinking and thinking to no avail... So it was that I became like one dazed and absent; my glances became false, restless, wandering; my face pale and withered, my body thin and worn. I was weary of myself... and my mother was no less weary than I... She would ask me anxiously from time to time what pained me, what robbed me of sleep, what brought this withering and pallor upon me — and I did not know how to answer her...

The days passed and with them my condition went from bad to worse... My mother's anxiety grew, and she saw nothing better than to take me to a doctor, in the hope that he might disclose to her the hidden cause of my collapse...

*

The doctor was a young man in the prime of life, handsome and elegant... He welcomed us with a broad smile, seated me facing him, and went on putting question after question to me; then he set about examining me limb by limb with care and deliberation. When he had finished that operation, he looked at my mother and said:

— What ails her is no particular physical illness, but a general wasting brought on by certain complicated matters of the psyche... If you care for your daughter's life, my advice to you is to bring her out of her isolation into the wide world...

My mother asked him, eager and alarmed:

— And what is to be done now, Doctor?...

— You will get her certain medicines; then she must come to me every other day so I can give her some nourishing injections...

I began taking the medicine... and my mother began accompanying me to the doctor every other day, for him to give me the nourishing injections and see how far I had improved... The doctor was of the open, merry sort, one of those who look at the world through a bright, shining glass... He did not catch my eye at first; in my view he was like an instrument or a machine a person uses to find the fault and then try to correct and treat it... But no sooner had my visits to him multiplied than I began to see in him a human being... I do not say a man... for had I seen a man in him from the start, I would have recoiled and shrunk into myself, shaken and terrified. But I saw in him a human being like my mother... merciful... compassionate... a graceful talker... understanding of the ways of things... trying with all the strength he possessed to work for my comfort and happiness...

Before I knew it, I had begun awaiting my visits with longing and eagerness... I came to find great pleasure in sitting with him, answering his questions, and hearing his biting, comical remarks. Nothing spoiled those short delightful minutes for me save the glances my mother cast at me covertly, especially if a merry laugh escaped me, or I ran on at length in some piece of talk... And chance would not leave me to enjoy those brief innocent interludes, in which I forgot the constant anxiety and hidden agitation that robbed me of sleep... for my mother was struck by an indisposition that confined her to bed... and but for that, I would never have thought of going to the doctor by myself...

I do not know how I dared one day to ask my mother to allow me to bring the doctor to her, that he might ease her ailment... nor do I quite know what drove me to do what I did — was it truly my wish to ease my mother's pain, or was it my longing for those quiet sittings I so yearned for, which were an outlet for my distress and an escape from my monotonous, dull, quiet life...

The doctor was examining a patient when I knocked at the inner door of his clinic, and I sensed his face brighten at the sight of me. He quickly showed me in, asking about my long absence, then about my mother; and when I told him she was ill, he showed alarm, but I reassured him that what ailed her posed no grave danger. Hardly had he finished with his patient when he seated me facing him and began gazing into my face, saying:

— Your health, praise God, has much improved. — And I agreed with a nod of my head...

He went on, drawing a little nearer to me:

— Has no one told you that you have become more beautiful now than before...

A wave of crimson swept over my face... but he went on, as though unaware of my confusion — "In any case, you are always beautiful..." And before I knew it, his arms were around me. Suddenly — I know not how — my mother rose before me, her face darkened and her features clouded, crying: That other sex... wicked wolves... Tomorrow, when you grow up, you will understand what I mean...

I slipped from his arms, terrified and trembling, and fled to the far end of the room, crying: Away, you wicked wolf,

you beast of prey...

A mocking laugh escaped him as he said:

— You are still a child, my dear... I mean you no harm... You do not yet know life...

He had barely taken two steps toward me when a fit of madness swept over me. Before I knew it, my hand had seized one of the medical instruments and I hurled it at him, screaming in terror: Do not come near me, you wolf — beware of coming near...

And I heard him say, as he staggered and sank to the floor:

— You have struck me a mortal blow... you fool... you ignorant girl...

*

I did not know what happened after that, for I fell into a long faint, from which I woke to an uproar in our house. Then from certain voices I managed to gather that the doctor had been taken to the hospital, and that his condition gave no cause for comfort... No sooner had I opened my eyes than they met my mother's... She was stroking my brow gently, tears pouring down her cheeks, while signs of satisfaction and pride were drawn upon her face...

— Thank God for your safety, my girl...

She followed these words with a look from which I understood that she wished to say she was proud of me and of what my hands had wrought...

And for the first time in my life, I felt that a thick barrier stood between me and my mother... I felt a fit of madness sweep over me and take hold of me... I wanted to scream at her in fury and resentment, flinging in her face all the counsels she had given me and all the upbringing she had reared me on...

But I pitied her, and pitied myself, and kept silent, feeling desolation flood my soul and pain wring my heart... Then before long I broke into a violent fit of weeping, repeating over and over: I want to see him... take me to him... I am a criminal... I want to beg his pardon and forgiveness...

Yielding to my insistent wish, my mother took me to the hospital where he lay. My heart pounded with dread; I was afraid, wondering what I should do if I found him in a dangerous state... The moment I saw the doctor in charge of him, I forgot everything and began questioning him eagerly about his condition. He reassured me, saying that the gash on his head was quite superficial, and that his condition gave no cause for worry... I felt a heavy burden lifted from my shoulders... Yet my fears soon returned when we entered his room, and there he was, sunk in deep slumber, his head bound in white wrappings that struck terror into my heart...

No sooner had we drawn near him than he suddenly opened his eyes, as if he had been feigning sleep, and startled me by saying, the shadow of a smile appearing on his lips:

— Is it you, sinner?

Then he looked at my mother and continued:

— Your daughter, madam, is a criminal who deserves the severest punishment... She very nearly took my life... and I in turn shall exact my due of her...

Alarm showed on my mother's face; she tried to say something, but the words stumbled and faltered in her mouth and would not come out...

I looked at him with imploring eyes, and was on the point of pleading with him: I am sorry, forgive me... or do with me what you will, for I deserve punishment...

He went on, addressing my mother:

— Have you heard, madam? I mean to exact my due of your daughter, and you in turn will consent to the punishment in spite of yourself... And here I pronounce the sentence now...

Our gazes hung upon his lips... As for him, he was lost in thought a moment, as though pondering what he would say; then he said, with deliberate gravity:

— The punishment, madam, is that you give her to me in marriage...

My mother's mouth fell open... and I stared wide-eyed...

And he continued:

— That is the punishment... Do you consent?

I held my breath to catch the answer, my face flushed, my features brightening, and my eyes shining... My mother looked at me with tenderness — and behold, she consented with a nod of her head. Never in my life had I loved my mother as I loved her in that hour... And with an involuntary movement — I might even say an unconscious one — I sprang from my place, clasped my mother to my breast, and covered her with my kisses, repeating: How I love you now, mother... God, how I love you!!