The Shadow of a Mistake

A few years ago, while I was at work on a book about Spain in its golden age, I had in Seville — where I had gone to celebrate the feast of the Lord — an encounter that has always seemed to me one of the strangest things that ever happened to me in my life.

It was the eve of summer and the heat was terrible. Awnings had been stretched above the narrow streets, casting deep shade. But the sun pelted the squares mercilessly with its rays. That afternoon I made my way to the palace of the Duke of Alba, hoping to enjoy the sight of a lush and lovely garden and, in one of the rooms, a splendid ceiling made — so it is said — by Moorish captives before the fall of Granada.

A disappointment awaited me. The keeper announced to me that the palace was under repair, and that no one could visit it without written permission issued by the Duke's representative. Since I had nothing else to do, I resumed my stroll. The streets in the old quarters of Seville are narrow and winding. It is pleasant to wander at random through them under the shelter of the eaves, but it is easy to lose one's way among them. That is what happened to me. I had given up all hope of getting out of this fix when I caught sight of a man coming toward me. I went up to him to ask him to direct me to my road, and he said:

— You will never manage it. I will walk a few steps with you and set you on the right way.

And he insisted on guiding me, assuring me that it would not trouble him in the least.

I said to him:

— I have come from the palace of the Duke of Alba. I wanted to see the Moorish ceiling, but I was not allowed to visit it.

— So Arab art interests you?

— Of course. I have heard that this ceiling is among the finest things one can see in Seville.

— I believe I can show you something no less splendid. If you have ten minutes, I will take you to it.

I thanked him warmly, and we retraced our steps. We chatted of one thing and another until we found ourselves before a large house painted a yellowish green. My guide knocked at the door with his hands, and one of the servants, after a glance through the window, pulled a cord.

— What house is this?

— It is my house.

The heavy iron door swung wide and we entered the courtyard. We crossed it and took a narrow passage. Suddenly I found myself in the midst of an enchanting garden. Three of its sides were bounded by high walls whose old red tiles, blackened by time, were covered with roses of intoxicating fragrance. The fourth side formed a Moorish loggia. When we entered it I saw the magnificent ceiling. It appeared to have been taken from the palace; its colors were brilliant. A veritable jewel!

In the shade of a palm tree I saw a lady seated on one of those earthenware benches that one sees in the palace gardens, absorbed in her embroidery. He said to me:

— Allow me to introduce you to my wife.

She was of exquisite beauty, with wonderful eyes, a straight nose with delicate nostrils, and a soft, pale skin; not a line marred her face. She could not have been more than thirty, yet it seemed to me that something in her had died — impossible as that was, considering her age and her beauty.

She asked her husband:

— You two, no doubt, would like to sit here?

— If you permit it, and only for a few minutes.

— I will leave you to yourselves.

She gathered up her silken threads and the piece of stuff in her hands and rose.

We sat down on the bench painted in gay colors. I offered my host a cigarette. He glanced at the volume of the novelist "Calderón" that I carried under my arm and asked me:

— Which play are you reading?

— "The Physician of His Honor."

— And what do you think of it?

— I find it startling. There are notions in it utterly foreign to our modern conceptions.

— What notions?

— The question of honor. We come upon it in so many of the Spanish tragedies. It is what drives a man of honor to kill his wife without emotion if she betrays him, or even if her conduct — however blameless — causes some scandal.

My host said:

— That is in the Spanish blood, whether the foreigner acknowledges it or not.

— Ah! Much water has flowed down the Guadalquivir since Calderón's day. You cannot maintain, all the same, that one must act on that pattern today.

— On the contrary, I maintain that even today, if a husband finds himself in a shameful situation, he can recover some measure of dignity only by killing the guilty woman.

He smiled ironically, then said:

— Have you heard of Don Pedro Aguria?

— No.

— The name is not unknown in the history of Spain: one member of this family was an admiral in the reign of King Philip II, and another was the intimate friend of King Philip IV. The painter Velázquez made a portrait of him by royal command.

"Under the five kings who bore the name Philip, the Agurias enjoyed great wealth, but that wealth had dwindled by the time my friend Don Pedro succeeded his father. So all Seville was astonished when his engagement was announced to Soledad, daughter of Count Acaba, for debts weighed heavily upon him and his reputation was bad. But Soledad was beautiful, and Don Pedro was madly in love with her. They married. He worshipped her with that burning passion of which none but Spaniards are capable. But, as ill luck would have it, he soon discovered that she did not love him, and he grieved deeply. After suffering terribly over it, he ended by telling himself that hers was a nature of the utmost nobility, an ideal spirit, which kept her from stooping to earthly passions; and he resigned his affair to God."

I was beginning to feel somewhat impatient: this Spaniard let his eloquence run on at length. He continued:

"You know that the opera season in Seville lasts only the six weeks that follow Easter. The Aguria family, like everyone else, had a private box at the theater. They attended the opening night. During the interval Count Acaba, Soledad's father, came to her box accompanied by a young artillery officer whom Don Pedro had never seen before. But Soledad, it seemed, knew him well. The Count said:

— Here is Pepe Alvarez; he is back from Cuba, and he asked me to bring him to you.

Soledad smiled as she held out her hand to him. She presented the newcomer to her husband, saying:

— Pepe is the son of the notary at Carmona. How often we played together in our young days.

The Aguria couple and Pepe Alvarez met often during the feasts and seasons of Seville, and Don Pedro found the young officer a companion of pleasant company. The tragedy would never have broken out but for the unintended chatter of the Duchess de Santaguador, Don Pedro's cousin. One evening, as the two of them were dancing, they passed close by Soledad and Pepe Alvarez, and the Duchess said to her cousin:

— Soledad is looking radiantly beautiful tonight!

And Don Pedro added:

— And she seems very happy!

— Is it true that she was once engaged to Pepe Alvarez?

— Certainly not.

But this question troubled Don Pedro. When he and his wife had come home, he repeated the Duchess's remark to her. Soledad said:

— As a matter of fact, I was engaged to Pepe!

— And why did you never tell me so frankly?

— It is an old story! He went off to Cuba and I thought I should never see him again. But have you lost your trust in me?

— No. All the same, you must stop seeing him.

— And if I refuse?

— I shall kill him!

The day after this conversation, Soledad pleaded that she was suffering from an indisposition and did not leave her room. She did the same the following day. Don Pedro visited her in her chamber morning and evening, and they would talk together. On the third day Conchita de Santaguador was giving a ball, the last of the season, which no one belonging to their narrow circle would miss. Soledad announced that she was still out of sorts and would keep to the house. Don Pedro asked her:

— Are you refusing the invitation because of our conversation the other night?

She answered:

— I have thought long over what you said, and I found your demand unreasonable; yet I accept it all the same. And the only way to break off my friendship with Pepe is to avoid meeting him in the places he is likely to frequent.

— Do you still love him?

— Yes.

— Then why did you marry me?

— Pepe was in Cuba, and no one knew when he would return. He might never have returned at all. And my father implored me to marry you.

— I pity you.

He went alone to the ball and entered the gaming room. There was a vacant seat at one of the tables, and he sat down to play baccarat. Luck was with him, and he won a great deal of money. One of his partners asked him jestingly where Soledad was. Don Pedro saw one of his neighbors start on hearing this question, but he contented himself with laughing and saying she was confined to her bed. Then something disquieting happened. Some young men entered the room and addressed an artillery officer, asking him about Pepe Alvarez. The officer said:

— Isn't he here?

— No.

A dreadful silence settled upon the company. Don Pedro could not command his nerves enough to hide his anxiety. The thought crossed his mind that Pepe was with Soledad, and that everyone around him believed as he believed. He forced himself to go on playing another hour, and luck clung to him in spite of himself. The play ended, and he returned to the ballroom and approached his cousin, saying to her:

— I have hardly been able to get a word with you. Come to another room, where we can sit and talk at our ease.

When they were in Conchita's boudoir he asked her in a broken voice:

— Where is Pepe Alvarez tonight?

— I don't know.

— Were you expecting him?

— Of course.

— Conchita, I beg you to tell me the truth. Don't they say he is Soledad's lover?

— What a strange question to put to me, Pedrito!

But he noticed her uneasiness and the involuntary movement of her hand toward her face, and he said:

— You have answered!

He rose and went away. He returned to his house, and as he was crossing the courtyard he lifted his eyes to his wife's room and saw it blazing with light. He went up and knocked at the door. Hearing no answer, he opened it and entered. To his great astonishment — for the hour was late — he found Soledad bent over the piece of embroidery on which she worked and to which she devoted most of her time. He asked her:

— Why are you working at this late hour?

— I could not sleep, and I could not read, so I thought this work would occupy my mind.

— I have something to tell you, Soledad, but it will cause you great pain. You must be brave. Pepe Alvarez was not at Conchita's tonight. And I am sorry you did not go as well. Everyone believed the two of you were together.

— How absurd!

— Yes, but that changes nothing. You could have gone out without anyone noticing anything. And it is truly a wonder that Pepe should stay away from the most splendid ball of the season, and the last.

The wife held for a moment to her silence, then presently said:

— The day after our conversation about his case, I wrote to him saying that in future we should meet only when circumstances forced us to meet. Perhaps that is the reason why neither of us went to the ball tonight.

They were silent a few moments. Don Pedro looked at the floor, but he felt his wife's eyes fastened upon him. I forgot to tell you that Don Pedro had one advantage over all his friends — an inconvenient one, alas. He was the finest shot in Andalusia.

Soledad asked him:

— What are we to do?

He answered as he went out:

— You know that I have no choice in the matter.

The next day he went to his club and mingled with a group who were watching the passers-by from the window. Pepe Alvarez was among them, and the talk turned on last night's ball. Someone asked him:

— Where were you, Pepe?

He answered:

— My mother was ill and I had to go to Carmona. I was very sorry indeed, but it was much better so.

And he turned laughing to Don Pedro:

— I hear you were in luck yesterday, and that you won all evening.

Someone asked him:

— When will you give us the chance for our revenge, Pedrito?

He answered:

— I fear it will not be possible very soon. I must go to Córdoba. It has come to light that the notary is robbing me. I know that all notaries are thieves. But I was dull enough to believe this one honest.

He seemed to be speaking freely, and Pepe Alvarez broke in, speaking with equal freedom:

— I think you exaggerate, Pedrito. Do not forget that my father is a notary, and that he, at least, is an honest man.

Don Pedro answered, laughing:

— I believe some part of that; and I am certain your father is a thief like the others.

The insult was unexpected and uncalled-for, and Pepe Alvarez stood dumbfounded for a few moments. Then he said:

— That is a slander, and you know it perfectly well. I ask you to withdraw your words at once...

Don Pedro burst out laughing:

— I will not withdraw a word of what I said. Your father is a thief and one of the rabble.

And Pepe did the only fitting thing. He sprang to his feet at one bound and slapped Don Pedro's face... And the inevitable result followed. The next day the two men met on the Portuguese frontier. Pepe Alvarez, the notary's son, fell with a bullet in the heart, and died the death of men of honor!"

The Spaniard ended his story in the same natural, even tone with which he had begun it at the first moment, so that I almost failed to grasp its conclusion. But anger quickly took hold of me and I said:

— What barbarity! It is a hideous crime!

My host stood up, saying:

— You understand nothing, my friend. Don Pedro could have done nothing else on such an occasion...

★

I left Seville the next day, and I was never able to learn the name of the man who told me that strange story. And how often I have wondered whether the lady I saw — that pale-complexioned lady with the white lock of hair — was poor Soledad!