As he went up the stairs he saw his mother on the
first landing, in the semi-darkness of the closed
house, illumined only by the light that entered through
the window gratings. She stood there, erect, frowning,
tempestuous, like a statue of Avenging Justice.
But Rafael did not waver. He went straight on
up the stairs, fearless and without a tremor, like
a proprietor who had been away from home for some
time and strides arrogantly back Into a house that
is all his own.
“You’re right, don Andres. Rafael
is not my son. He has changed. That wanton
woman has made another man of him. Worse, a thousand
times worse, than his father! Crazy over the
huzzy! Capable of trampling on me if I should
step between him and her. You complain of his
lack of respect to you! Well, what about me?...
You wouldn’t have thought it possible! The
other morning, when he came into the house, he treated
me just as he treated you. Only a few words,
but plain enough! He’ll do just as he pleases,
or—what amounts to the same thing—he’ll
keep up his affair with that woman until he wearies
of her, or else blows up in one grand debauch, like
his father.... My God! And that’s what
I’ve suffered for all these years. That’s
what I get for sacrificing myself, day in day out,
trying to make somebody out of him!”
The austere dona Bernarda, dethroned by her son’s
resolute rebelliousness, wept as she said this.
In her tears of a mother’s grief there was something
also of the chagrin of the authoritarian on finding
in her own home a will rebellious to hers and stronger
than hers.
Between sobs she told don Andres how her son had been
carrying on since his declaration of independence.
He was no longer cautious about spending the night
away from home. He was coming in now in broad
daylight; and, afternoons, with his meals “still
in his mouth” as she said, he would take the
road to the Blue House, on the run almost, as if he
could not get to perdition soon enough. The dead
hand of his father was upon him!
All you had to do was look at him. His face discolored,
yellow, pale; his skin drawn tight over his cheekbones;
and—the only sign of life—the
fire that gleamed in his eyes like a spark of wild
joy! Oh, a curse was on the family! They
were all alike ...!
The mother did her best to conceal the truth from
Remedios. Poor girl! She was going about
crestfallen and in deep dejection, unable to explain
Rafael’s sudden withdrawal.
The matter had to be kept secret; and that was what
held dona Bernarda’s rage within bounds during
her rapid, heated exchanges with her son.
Perhaps everything would come out all right in the
end—something unforeseen would turn up
to undo the evil spell that had been cast over Rafael.
And in this hope she used every effort to keep Remedios
and her father from learning what had happened.
She feigned contentment in their presence, and invented
a thousand pretexts—studies, work, even
illness—to justify her son’s neglect
of his “fiancee.” At the same time,
the disconsolate mother feared the people around her—the
gossip of a small town, bored with itself, ever on
the alert, hunting for something interesting to talk
about and get scandalized about.
