PIROVANI’S house took on an entirely new appearance after the Torre Biancas moved in. The window panes shone now and through them could be seen new and gay-colored curtains. The servants no longer lolled about the verandah, unkempt and dirty, performing their household duties in full sight of the street. The presence of the beautiful and elegant new mistress of the house had inspired them all with a desire to present a somewhat less untidy appearance. Even the fat Sebastiana “wore her Sunday clothes every day,” as her friends put it.

The community around the Dam enjoyed other novelties too after Elena had taken possession of the contractor’s bungalow. There was in Pirovani’s parlor a grand piano of modest dimensions which until then had remained locked. It represented a purchase the Italian had made in Buenos Aires to oblige a friend who had invested too much money in his stock of musical instruments. Besides, the contractor had heard that no parlor was complete without a piano, but of course he had always thought he would have one with perpendicular strings and an upright case. However, on his friend’s recommendation, he had purchased the handsome instrument, although he had small hope that any one would ever come to the Dam who would prove capable of playing it.

Elena however paid it a great deal of attention, sitting in front of it for hours at a time, letting her fingers run up and down the keyboard, while the “romances” she had learned when she was a young girl came back to her; but invariably she interrupted them to dash off a fragment of the popular music she had heard in Paris before she came away.

Inspired by this evocation of her more youthful past, she sometimes added her voice to that of the instrument. When this happened Sebastiana and the other servants left their work in the corral or the balconies, and cautiously creeping nearing and nearer the drawing room listened with softened expressions and glances of admiration to the sounds issuing from it, subdued like the creatures of the wood who listened to Orpheus’ lyre.

The neighbors too yielded to the spell. As soon as it was night and the workmen had finished their meal, the women and children would start out for Pirovani’s. Squatting on the ground at a little distance they would gaze eagerly at the windows that glowed red from the lamp within. If some of the children grew impatient, and began their own games again, their mothers would cry out,

“Be still, you little gallows birds, the lady’s going to sing!”

And an almost religious emotion passed through them at the sound of the piano keys and Elena’s voice; for the melody that penetrated through the wooden walls to the crowd in the dark street seemed a message from another world; so many of them had, for years, heard no music but that of twanging guitars at the boliche.

Then, impelled by admiration and twinges of desire, some of the men would join the groups in the street. They were the same men who looked with indifference at the girl from the Rojas ranch with her boy’s clothes and boy’s ways; but this woman, when she rode by in her trim riding skirt, aroused their enthusiasm. What a woman, the marquesa de Torre Bianca! Some curves about her!

And, as they listened to her singing, they stood gaping with sensuous delight, firmly believing that only a beautiful woman could utter tones such as those vibrating in their ears....

A week after the Torre Biancas had moved into their new quarters, Sebastiana announced to her friends that henceforth the seÑora marquesa was going to be at home once a week just like the great ladies in Buenos Aires. This announcement was made in such fashion that the gossips of La Presa took it into their heads that these weekly parties were going to be extraordinary occasions. Scarcely was dinner over on the appointed night, when groups began to gather before the illuminated windows. Some of the women stood with hands raised to their ears so as to hear better, and they did not hesitate, by means of severe elbow thrusts, to impose silence on their chattering neighbors.

While her guests were arriving, Elena, at the piano, was singing sentimental lyrics of a bygone period.

The first to present themselves were Canterac and Moreno. The latter, in order to complete his evening attire, had thought it necessary to don a silk hat. Pirovani could top off his dress suit with a crush hat if he liked! Just the same the marquesa, who was a woman of such distinction, couldn’t help noticing things like that!... details of course, but how quickly they betray bad taste!

As Canterac stood on the first step of the stairway he said to his companion,

“I oughtn’t to go into this house, belonging as it does to that schemer Pirovani, whom I thoroughly detest. But I was afraid the marquesa wouldn’t like it if I didn’t come to her party.”

Moreno, the friend of everybody, and incapable of animosity, took up the defense of the absent contractor.

“But that Italian is a good fellow! I am certain he likes you very much.”

Canterac’s reply to these conciliating words was a threatening gesture,

“The fellow, tactless as he is, seems to take pains to cross my path.... There’s something coming to him....”

They entered the house and the marquÉs came forward to welcome them. Then they passed into the drawing-room, where all three men stood waiting, while Elena went on with her song as though she had not heard them come in.

As he approached the bungalow Robledo broke into a broad smile at sight of Pirovani in a new fur overcoat, and a brand new top hat, ordered from Bahia Blanca—for this occasion—as though some familiar spirit had informed him of his friend Moreno’s disparaging thoughts!

From the groups of curiosity-seekers, half-hidden in the shadow, came bursts of laughter and whispers. Some of them were making fun of the tube of shining silk which the contractor had put on his head; others were admiring it, their starved vanity making them feel that somehow this high silk hat was adding to the importance of the life they all led out there in the desert.

“Here I am, a visitor in my own house,” said Pirovani laughing, and as though startled by the extravagant novelty of his performance.

“You made a mistake in giving it up,” replied Robledo drily.

Pirovani assumed a superior air.

“You must admit, my dear fellow, that your quarters weren’t quite the proper place for a lady, at least a lady of such distinction.... Even though I never went to college, I know what a man with any claims to being anybody owes to such a woman, and that’s why....”

With a shrug Robledo moved on as though he did not wish to hear further. The contractor puffed along behind him, and, pointing towards the glowing windows, he exclaimed in a transport of enthusiasm;

“What a voice! What an artist, eh?”

Once more Robledo shrugged, and then both men went into the house.

On reaching the drawing room they joined the other three men who were standing there listening. No sooner had Elena uttered the last note than the contractor burst into applause amid loud exclamations of enthusiasm. Canterac, Robledo, and Moreno, although less explosively, also expressed their admiration, each in his own fashion.

It at once became evident that in the new house the gatherings were going to be less simple and austere than in Robledo’s lodgings. Sebastiana, who held firmly to the opinion that mate was the remedy for every kind of infirmity, as well as the supreme delight of the human palate, was forced to serve cups of boiling water with a thing called tea in it to the guests.... The two little half-breed servants followed shyly in Sebastiana’s wake, bearing sugar and cakes.

Under pretext of attending to the serving of the refreshments, Elena came and went among those guests of hers, whose eyes avidly followed her about as she balanced her cup, sometimes spilling a little of its contents on the saucer. Her three privileged admirers tried to engage her in conversation; but, gently evading them, she always brought it about that sooner or later, they found themselves carrying on a dialogue with her husband.... Meanwhile, she was in pursuit of the only man who, so it seemed, cared nothing about talking to her, and who had been silent most of the evening. Finally, by skilful manoeuvres, she found herself sitting at the far end of the room with Robledo beside her.

“Evidently Watson didn’t care to come,” Elena was saying. “I am more firmly convinced every day that he doesn’t like me, and I sometimes think that you don’t like me very much either....”

Robledo remonstrated, more in gestures than words, at this accusation; but as Elena was pleased to make herself out the victim of an unjust antipathy on the part of the two business associates, the Spaniard finally replied,

“Watson and I are your husband’s friends, and on his account it alarms us to see how lightly you arouse certain equivocal hopes in all these men who come to see you.”

Elena began to laugh, as if pleased by Robledo’s words, and the grave tone in which he uttered them.

“You needn’t worry about that. A woman of experience, who knows the world as I know it, isn’t likely to compromise herself with any of these people you speak of.”

And she cast an ironic glance at her three admirers who were still sitting beside her husband.

“Of course I do not allow myself to make any suppositions,” Robledo continued in the same tone, “I simply see the present, just as in Paris I saw ... and I am a little worried about the future.”

Elena could not decide, as she looked at the engineer, whether to continue to treat the subject lightly or to become angry. Finally she took up the dialogue again with the grave expression of one who has been offended by the tone of the discussion.

“I do not think myself either better or worse than other women. It is simply that I was born to live in luxury, and I have never in my whole life met anyone able to give me all that I wanted.”

During a long pause they looked at one another; then she added,

“The men who wanted to win me could never give me all that I need in life; and those who might have satisfied my desires never noticed me.”

She lowered her head as though her courage had suddenly abandoned her.

“You have no idea what my life has been.... I need wealth, I cannot live without money; and I spent the best part of my youth running after it ... uselessly! Just as I thought I held it in my hand, it vanished, to reappear again farther on.... Again I had to give chase.... And again.... Always the same story!”

She was silent for a few moments, assembling her thoughts; then she added, as though making a confession,

“Men cannot understand the anxieties and desires of the women of today. We need so much more to live on than the women of former times! An automobile and a pearl necklace are the modern woman’s uniform. Without them any women who thinks at all knows that she is unhappy, helpless.... Sometimes I had these indispensable articles, but I never felt sure of them.... I never could count on being able to keep them ... there was always the prospect of losing them the next day. And we all need to hope, don’t we, in order to live! So I am living on the hope now that my husband will make a fortune ... even though I cannot foresee when that might happen. Yet even so, it is enough to help me stand this horrible exile.”

Then, in a tone of discouragement, she went on,

“And what is he likely to make? Sous, perhaps, where you make thousands of pesos! No ... I ought never to have married Federico!”

She raised her head and smiled sadly at Robledo.

“Perhaps it would have meant happiness for me to have met a man like you, spirited, energetic, able to master his destiny. And you, to become all that you had it in you to be, ought to have had a woman to inspire you....”

It was now Robledo’s turn to smile.

“It is a little late to talk of that.”

But she looked at him obstinately while she protested at his words. Is it ever too late for anything while one lives? And there are men of such supreme energy that they are like tropical regions where death is known but not old age, and they are forever renewing themselves, like the springtime. They have that commanding will which imagination obeys; and imagination is the artist who touches up the dull grey canvas of existence with the colors of his crazy palette.

Elena’s face was close to him, her eyes searching his. For a moment he was troubled. Then, with a gesture of negation, he took possession of himself.

“What you say, my dear friend, is very interesting. But men who are really energetic do not care to be revived to false springtimes. That always brings complications.”

As they went on talking she alluded again to her past experiences.

“If I were to tell you my life! Of course every woman cherishes the belief that her history needs only to be adequately told in order to make the most interesting novel ever written. I don’t pretend that my experiences have invariably been interesting. But they have made me unhappy because there was always such a disproportion between what I thought I deserved and what life gave me.”

She paused, as if a painful thought had suggested itself.

“Don’t think that I am one of those parvenues who hunger for the pleasures and comforts that they have never enjoyed. Quite the contrary! I need luxury and money in order to live, because I had them when I was a child. Then, when I was a young girl I was very poor. What struggles I went through to win my way back to the position I had formerly occupied! The position I had been educated to.... And the struggle never ends.... All kinds of catastrophes repeat themselves until I am sick of them ... and all the while I am farther and farther away from the place that should belong to me in life. Here I am now, in one of the most god-forsaken corners of the earth, leading an existence that must be very like that of the people who lived in the most primitive times.... And yet you blame me!”

Robledo took up his own defence.

“I am your friend, and your husband’s. When I see you heading in a wrong direction, I merely give you some good advice. The game you are playing with these men is a dangerous one.”

He indicated clearly enough that he was talking about the men sitting at the other end of the room with Torre Bianca.

“Moreover, before you came, life here was monotonous, it is true, but it was at least peaceful and fraternal. Now your presence seems to have changed these men. They look at one another with scarcely concealed hostility, and I am afraid that their rivalry, which up to the present is merely childish, will sooner or later take a turn toward the tragic. You forget that we are living far removed from other human groups and this isolation makes us by slow degrees revert to barbarism. Our passions, domesticated as they are in city life, lose their manners here, and run wild. Take care! It is dangerous to play with them as though they were feeble toys.”

She laughed at his fears; and there was in her laugh something scornful. She couldn’t understand such love of caution in a strong man.

“You must let me have my court! I need to have people who admire me about me, or I can’t live.... Yes, like a pampered actress, if you like. What would become of me if I couldn’t have the fun of coquetting and flirting?”

Then frowning, and in an irritable voice she inquired,

“What else is there to do here, will you tell me? You have your work, your battle with the river, your contests from time to time with the workmen. All day long I am bored to death. On some of those interminable afternoons I cannot get away from the thought of killing myself ... and it is only when night finally arrives and these admirers of mine come to see me, that I find this desert endurable. In some other part of the world no doubt I should laugh at them, but here I find them interesting. They are my only comfort in this horrible loneliness....”

With a mocking smile she looked in the direction of the three men; and then she added,

“Don’t worry, Robledo. I am not likely to lose my head over any one of them. I know what I am doing.”

And, somewhat bitterly, she compared herself to a traveller on the Patagonian table-lands who, with only one cartridge in his revolver, might be attacked by several of the vagabonds who prowl about in the mountains. If he were to fire he would get rid of only one enemy, and leave himself quite defenceless against the attacks of the others. Wasn’t it better to prolong the situation, and threaten them all without firing?

“You needn’t fear that I shall take any one of these men for my lover. They are not the kind to lose one’s head over. But even though some one of them should interest me, I would be cautious, for fear of what the others might say and do when they found that there was no chance for them. It’s far better to keep them all restlessly happy with hope.”

And, noticing that her prolonged conversation with Robledo was arousing uneasiness among the other visitors, and in fact quite scandalizing them, she got up and moved towards them. All three at once came towards her, surrounding her as though they were going to fight with one another for each one of her words and gestures.

It was after midnight when the marquesa’s first tertulia came to an end. The lateness of the hour was unprecedented in the social annals of La Presa. It was only on those Saturday nights when the workmen received their bi-monthly pay that some of the Galician’s customers stayed out as late as that, and usually it was because they couldn’t get home.

All next day Sebastiana went about half asleep, and with lagging feet, for she had got up at dawn as usual, in spite of having stayed up the night before until the last guest had gone.

She stood on the balcony scolding one of the little half-breeds, who “with all her noise was going to wake up the mistress,” when suddenly she seemed to forget her anger, and stood, one hand over her eyes, peering at the street. A horse was rearing there, too abruptly reined in by his rider, who was quite carelessly waving a hand at the voluble house-keeper.

“Mi seÑorita ... I never know her with those clothes! How is my little one?”

And hastily she clambered down the steps and crossed the street to welcome Celinda Rojas.

Mistress and servant had not met since the day Sebastiana had left the ranch. Out of spite for don Rojas, the half-breed made haste to enumerate all the advantages of her new position.

“It’s a fine house I’m in, seÑorita mÍa! No offence to your own, of course. Money flows through it like water in the irrigation ditch. And the mistress is a fine gringa, they say she was born a marquesa over there in her country. The Italian fellow, they say too, is a demon with his workmen, but he seems half foolish over the seÑora marquesa, and he takes good care that she lacks for nothing. Last night we had a party with music. I thought of my pretty dove when I heard it, and I said to myself, ‘How my little mistress would love to hear this marquesa sing!’”

Celinda nodded as she listened, as though what she heard excited her curiosity, making her eager to hear more.

Meanwhile Sebastiana, so as further to impress her, went on to enumerate the guests who had been present at the party.

“Haven’t you forgotten someone?” the girl asked when Sebastiana came to a pause. “Wasn’t don Ricardo there, the young man who works with don Manuel, the engineer?”

The half-breed shook her head.

“No. I never once the whole evening long saw the gringo.”

Then she burst out laughing, slapping the enormous muscles of her thighs, which served to bring them into still greater relief under the thin stuff of her skirt.

“I knew it, niniÑa, I knew it! I’ve heard how you and the gringo are always riding around together, and how not a day goes by that you don’t see each other. But if ever you give him your lips to kiss, little one, be sure to pick out a spot where no one can see you, to do it in. These people around here talk too much, it’s meat and drink to them. And don’t forget that those folks down at the river have very long spectacles, and they can see for miles and miles....”

Celinda blushed, and at the same time protested at her nurse’s insinuations.

“Yes, he’s a fine young man,” the half-breed went on. “That don Ricardo is a handsome gringo, and he’d make a grand husband for you if don Carlos, with his contrary nature, doesn’t stand in the way of your marrying him. When these gringos from America don’t drink, they make fine husbands. I had a friend who married one of them, and she leads him about by the nose. And I know another one who....”

But Celinda wasn’t interested in Sebastiana’s friends and interrupted her.

“So don Ricardo wasn’t here last night?”

“Neither last night, nor any other night. I’ve never seen him around here at all.”

Sebastiana looked at the girl with a gleam of amusement in her eyes, while a good-natured smile spread over her wide, copper-colored face.

“So you’re a little bit jealous, child? No need to blush about that. We’re all the same when we’re in love with a man. The first thing we think about is that some one is going to take him away from us.... But you’ve no reason to worry.... A pearl the like of you, niÑa, mÍa! The lady in the house there is handsome too, especially when she’s just got through fixing her hair, and putting all those things that smell so good and that came all the way from Buenos Aires on her face.... But, when you are in the game, what hope has she? Didn’t I see my little girl here come into the world, you might say? And I’ll bet the seÑora marquesa can’t remember when she was born.”

Then, as a result of her own thoughts, she considered it well to add,

“To tell the truth, I don’t think the marquesa is so old, at that—but anyone would seem old alongside of you, precious! We can’t all be rose-buds!”

She stopped talking for a moment while she looked about, and then lowering her voice, and standing on the tips of her toes, she said, as joyfully as any gossip who has found someone to whom to impart a tit-bit, “You must know, pretty one, that there are plenty of them running after her ... but don Ricardo is none of those! The poor gringo has enough on his hands looking after you, my jasmine-blossom! The others are all chasing after the marquesa like ostriches ... the captain, and the Italian, and the government fellow, the one who always carries so many papers.... All of them out of their heads and bristling at sight of one another like so many dogs. The husband never sees a thing ... and she laughs at them all and has a good time making them squirm.... To tell the truth I don’t think she cares a picayune for any one of the whole lot that comes to the house.”

But Celinda’s uneasiness was not set at rest by these words. On the contrary she protested mentally,

“How can Richard Watson be compared with these people?”

Then she felt that she must express a part at least of what she was thinking.

“It may be true,” she observed, “that she doesn’t care much about the others, but Richard is younger than any of them, and I know that these women who have run about a lot in the world, and are beginning to grow old ... well, they’re often very capricious!”