Free Tristana by Benito Pérez Galdós Page B

at ease there that she would be unable to leave it. She could guess what might happen in her idol’s abode, which, as Saturna put it, had lightning rods for neighbors, or, rather, she did not need to guess, she could see the consequences as clear as day. And she was assailed by the bitter fear that he might then love her less, rather as one loses interest in a hieroglyph once it has been deciphered; she feared, too, that the wealth of her affections might be diminished if she were to take them to the highest level.
    Now that love had illuminated her intelligence with new light, filling her mind with ideas and endowing her with the necessary subtlety of expression to be able to translate into words the deepest mysteries of her soul, she was able to explain her fears to her lover with such delicacy and such exquisite turns of phrase that she could express everything she felt without once offending against modesty. He understood, and since they were at one in all things, he responded with similarly tender, spiritual feelings. He did not, however, give up on his wish to take her to his studio.
    “And what if we regret it afterwards?” she asked. “Happiness makes me afraid, because when I feel happy, I can feel evil watching me. Instead of draining our happiness to the dregs, what we need now is some difficulty, some tiny crumb of misfortune. Love means sacrifice, and we should always be prepared for self-denial and pain. Demand some major sacrifice of me, some painful obligation, and you will see with what delight I rush to fulfill it. Let’s suffer a little, let’s be good.”
    “No one can outdo us when it comes to goodness,” said Horacio, smiling. “We are already purer than the angels, my love. And as for imposing suffering on ourselves, there’s no need, life will bring us quite enough of that without having to go looking for it. I, too, am a pessimist, which is why when I see goodness standing at the door, I usher it in and refuse to let it leave, just in case the rascal refuses to come back when I need him.”
    These ideas fired both of them with ardent enthusiasm; words were succeeded by caresses, until a sudden burst of dignity and common sense made them both curb their impatience and clothe themselves once more in formality—an illusion, you might say, but one that saved them for the moment. They talked of serious moral matters; they praised the advantages of virtue and said how beautiful it was to love each other with such exquisite, celestial purity. How much finer and more subtle such a love was and how much more deeply it engraved itself upon the soul. These sweet deceptions bought them time and fed their passion, now with desires, now with the torments of Tantalus, exalting their passion with the very thing that seemed intended to contain it, humanizing it with what should have rendered it divine, so that the bed along which that torrent flowed widened the banks, both spiritual and material.

11
    LITTLE by little, more difficult confessions made their appearance, opening those biographical pages that most resist being opened because they affect one’s conscience and one’s pride. Asking questions and revealing secrets is all part of love. Confession springs from love, and for that reason twinges of conscience are all the more painful. Tristana wanted to tell Horacio the sad facts of her life and felt that she could not be happy until she did. He glimpsed or, rather, sensed some grave mystery in his beloved’s life, and if, at the beginning, out of refinement and delicacy, he preferred not to probe too deeply, the day came when the fears of the man and the curiosity of the lover proved stronger than all his fine intentions. When he met Tristana, he assumed, as did other people in Chamberí, that she was Don Lope’s daughter. However, when Saturna took him the second letter, she told him, “She’s married, and Don Lope, who you think is her father, is, in fact, her husband.”
    The young artist was