Froth: A Novel

by Armando Palacio Valdés

Alcázar was not such a boy as Castro thought him; he was three-and-twenty. But his face was so youthful and delicate that he did not look more than eighteen. His health was variable and frail; especially, since his mother's death, he had been liable to attacks of the brain, when he lost sometimes his sight, and sometimes the power of speech, complicated with other evils, but happily of very short duration. He was a frequent prey to melancholy, ending in a violent crisis and floods of tears, like a hysterical woman. He was terrified of spiders; the sight of a surgical instrument gave him the horrors. Sometimes he suffered acute anguish from a dread of going mad; at others his fear was lest he should kill himself against his will. He never would have any kind of weapon within reach, and for fear of throwing himself from the balcony he always had his bedroom window locked at night and placed the key in his sister's keeping: she was the only witness and confidant of his vagaries. They were the outcome, partly of his temperament, and partly of the effeminate training he had received. But he kept them a secret, as every man does who suffers in this way—many more than are ever suspected of it—and by constant watchfulness he kept them under control, knowing how ridiculous a man thus constituted must appear.

It may easily be supposed what his fate must inevitably be when a woman like Clementina—a beautiful and experienced coquette—had set her heart on conquest. At first his extreme bashfulness kept him from understanding the lady's aim and tactics. He took her gracious bows and inviting smiles for the expression of her sympathy with their orphaned loneliness. And when she had made friends with them, and shown him every indication of her liking, when his sister even had given him a warning hint, he still could not believe that there could be anything between them beyond a more or less affectionate good-fellowship, protecting and motherly on her side, devoted and ardent on his. However, the elixir of love which Clementina shed drop by drop on his lips, as it were, made its way to his heart. When he was least expecting it, he found that he was madly in love. But the discovery filled him with bashful fears, and he thought that he could never dare to declare it. Though his idol's demeanour towards him, and constant demonstrations of sympathetic regard were enough to justify any hopes on his part, it seemed to him so strange as to be impossible that a shy and inexperienced man, devoid of all worldly advantages, should find favour with so rich and so beautiful a woman. Nor could he entirely free himself from the remorse which stung him from time to time. It was her resemblance to his mother which had first attracted him in Clementina. Was not his passion a profanation?

But in spite of his remorse, of his timidity, and of his reason, Raimundo felt himself every day more enslaved by this woman. Clementina, to be sure, brought every weapon into play; and she had many at her disposal. In proportion as she found her youthful adorer more bashful, her own audacity and coolness increased. This is almost always the case, but in the present instance, circumstances made the contrast all the more conspicuous. Timidity in him amounted to a disease, a peculiarity which he full well knew to be ridiculous while he could not overcome it; on the contrary, the greater the efforts he made, the more his nervousness betrayed itself. At first he could speak to her with sufficient calmness, and could allow himself some little compliment or jest, but he had now lost all his presence of mind, he could not go near her without losing his head, nor take her hand without trembling; if she did but look at him his cheeks tingled.

Clementina could not help smiling at these innocent symptoms of love. She was full of curiosity, and happy to find herself still handsome enough to inspire the boy with such a passion. Sometimes she would amuse herself by playing the fish, making him blush, and behaving with the license and frivolity of a grisette. At others she affected to fall in with his melancholy mood, making eyes at him like a school-girl; or, again, she treated him with tender familiarity, inquiring into his life, his work, and his thoughts, like a fond mother or elder sister. Then Raimundo would recover his spirits a little, and dare to look the goddess in the face. Clementina would occasionally cajole him by an affectation of scientific tastes, going up to his study and covering the table and the floor with his butterfly-boxes. This, which if any one else had done it, would have brought the house about their ears, only made the young naturalist smile.

But by this time the lady's acquaintances were beginning to make remarks on her last and most extravagant love-affair, assuming, of course, that it had gone much further than was really the case. One Saturday evening at the Osorios' house Pepa Frias ended by exclaiming to three or four of the "Savages," with whom she had been discussing the matter:

"You will see. Clementina will end by falling in love with a Newfoundland dog or a journalist!"

When Raimundo came into the room with his rosy, melancholy, cherubic face, his diffident, embarrassed air, every one looked at him with curiosity: there were smiles, murmurs, witticisms, and stupid remarks. He was much discussed. In general, and especially by men, Clementina was thought ridiculous; some of the ladies, however, looked more kindly on the youth, thought his candid looks very attractive, and sympathised with her whim.

Thus our young friend was regarded as amant en titre to Clementina before he had dared to kiss her finger-tips, or even dreamed of it. He was perfectly miserable if she was in the least disdainful, and was as happy as an angel if she made the smallest show of affection. Clementina was in no hurry to hear his declaration, though fully determined that he should make it. It amused her to watch the progress of the affair, noting the development of his passion, and the phenomena to which it gave rise. She had had her fill of ravings, and thought it delightful to be adored with this dumb devotion, and play the part of a goddess. A mere glance was enough to turn this worshipper red or pale, a word made him happy or reduced him to despair.

Raimundo went to the Opera whenever Clementina was to be there; he went up to pay his respects to her in her box, and often, by her invitation, sat there during two or three acts. Then she would retire to the back of the box and chat with him there, screened by the curtains. When she was tired of this, or if some important scene was being sung on the stage, she would lapse into silence, turn her back on her companion, and listen to the performance. Raimundo, his ears full of the echo of her tones, and his heart on fire from the ardour of her gaze, would also remain silent, though, in truth, more attentive to the music in his brain than to that performed for his delectation. Sure of not being seen, he could contemplate the alabaster shoulders of his idol with religious absorption, and bend down his head, on pretence of hearing better, to breathe the perfume she used, shutting his eyes and allowing it to intoxicate him. One evening he put his face so close to her head that he actually dared to let his lips touch the heavy plaits of her beautiful hair. No sooner had he done it than he was in great alarm lest Clementina should have felt it; but she sat unmoved, listening ecstatically to the music. At the same time, as the young man could see, her eyes sparkled with a conscious smile. Encouraged by this success, whenever she had her hair done in this particular way, he ventured, with the greatest precaution, and after much hesitation, to press it to his lips. The pleasure was so acute and delightful that it dwelt on his lips for many days.

But then, one evening—whether because she was out of temper or because it was her pleasure to mortify him—she treated him with such contempt all the time he was in the box, leaving him to entertain Pascuala while she chatted with some more aristocratic youth of her acquaintance, that poor Raimundo was thrown into despair. He had not even courage enough to take leave; he stood, pale and crestfallen, a frown of anxiety furrowing his brow. Clementina stole a glance at him from time to time. When the other gentleman made his bow, Raimundo, too, was about to take leave. The lady detained him, holding his hand.