himself out of
breath, but Dona Rita muttering; "Too late, too
late," got her hands away from my grip and slipping
altogether out
of her fur coat seized some
garment lying on a chair near by (I
think it was her skirt), with the
intention of dressing herself, I
imagine, and rushing out of the house. Determined to prevent this,
but indeed without thinking very much what I was doing, I got hold
of her arm. That struggle was silent, too; but I used the least
force possible and she managed to give me an
unexpected push.
Stepping back to save myself from falling I overturned the little
table,
bearing the six-branched
candlestick. It hit the floor,
rebounded with a dull ring on the
carpet, and by the time it came
to a rest every single candle was out. He on the other side of the
door naturally heard the noise and greeted it with a triumphant
screech: "Aha! I've managed to wake you up," the very
savagery of
which had a laughable effect. I felt the weight of Dona Rita grow
on my arm and thought it best to let her sink on the floor, wishing
to be free in my movements and really afraid that now he had
actually heard a noise he would infallibly burst the door. But he
didn't even thump it. He seemed to have exhausted himself in that
scream. There was no other light in the room but the darkened glow
of the embers and I could hardly make out
amongst the shadows of
furniture Dona Rita sunk on her knees in a penitential and
despairing attitude. Before this
collapse I, who had been
wrestling
desperately with her a moment before, felt that I dare
not touch her. This
emotion, too, I could not understand; this
abandonment of herself, this conscience-stricken
humility. A
humbly imploring request to open the door came from the other side.
Ortega kept on repeating: "Open the door, open the door," in such
an
amazingvariety of intonations,
imperative, whining, persuasive,
insinuating, and even
unexpectedly" target="_blank" title="ad.意外地;突然地">
unexpectedly jocose, that I really stood
there smiling to myself, yet with a
gloomy and
uneasy heart. Then
he remarked, parenthetically as it were, "Oh, you know how to
torment a man, you brown-skinned, lean, grinning, dishevelled imp,
you. And mark," he expounded further, in a
curiously doctoral tone
- "you are in all your limbs
hateful: your eyes are
hateful and
your mouth is
hateful, and your hair is
hateful, and your body is
cold and
vicious like a snake - and
altogether you are perdition."
This statement was astonishingly
deliberate. He drew a moaning
breath after it and uttered in a heart-rending tone, "You know,
Rita, that I cannot live without you. I haven't lived. I am not
living now. This isn't life. Come, Rita, you can't take a boy's
soul away and then let him grow up and go about the world, poor
devil, while you go
amongst the rich from one pair of arms to
another, showing all your best tricks. But I will
forgive you if
you only open the door," he ended in an inflated tone: "You
remember how you swore time after time to be my wife. You are more
fit to be Satan's wife but I don't mind. You shall be my wife!"
A sound near the floor made me bend down
hastily with a stern:
"Don't laugh," for in his
grotesque, almost
burlesque discourses
there seemed to me to be truth,
passion, and
horror enough to move
a mountain.
Suddenly
suspicion seized him out there. With
perfectly farcical
unexpectedness he yelled
shrilly: "Oh, you
deceitful wretch! You
won't escape me! I will have you. . . ."
And in a manner of
speaking he vanished. Of course I couldn't see
him but somehow that was the
impression. I had hardly time to
receive it when crash! . . . he was already at the other door. I
suppose he thought that his prey was escaping him. His swiftness
was
amazing, almost inconceivable, more like the effect of a trick
or of a
mechanism. The thump on the door was awful as if he had
not been able to stop himself in time. The shock seemed enough to
stun an
elephant. It was really funny. And after the crash there
was a moment of silence as if he were recovering himself. The next
thing was a low grunt, and at once he picked up the thread of his
fixed idea.
"You will have to be my wife. I have no shame. You swore you
would be and so you will have to be." Stifled low sounds made me
bend down again to the kneeling form, white in the flush of the
dark red glow. "For goodness' sake don't," I whispered down. She
was struggling with an
appalling fit of
merriment, repeating to
herself, "Yes, every day, for two months. Sixty times at least,