Torn Lace

Emilia Pardo Bazán (1851-1921), writer, outstandig figure of XIX century Spanish literature, passionate advocate for the equality of women.
Published originally in «El Liberal», 19 September 1897.

Translated by Francisca González Arias

TORN LACE

I had been invited to the wedding of Micaelita Aránguiz and Bernardo de Meneses but I was unable to attend, so I was astonished to find out the next day —the ceremony was to have taken place at 10 p.m. at the bride’s home— that at the very foot of the altar, when the bishop of San Juan de Acre asked her if she took Bernardo for her husband, Micaelita let out a clear and energetic “No.” And when the clergyman repeated the question in a puzzled tone, the denial was pronounced once more, while the bridegroom, after enduring for a quarter of an hour the most ridiculous situation in the world, had no choice but to leave, dissolving the celebration and the ceremony simultaneously.

    Such cases are not unheard of, and we often read about them in the newspapers, but they tend to happen among people of humble origins, of more modest means, in circles where social conventions do not hinder the frank and spontaneous expression of feeling and choice.
    The singularity of the scene instigated by Micaelita was the environment in which it occurred. I conjured up the tableau, inconsolable at not having been able to see it with my own eyes. I imagined the packed reception room, the select assembly, the women dressed in silk and velvet, bedecked with jewels, their white mantillas over their arms, ready to cover their heads as soon as the ceremony began. The men with gleaming dress shirts and medals of various military orders pinned to their tuxedo jackets. The bride’s mother, richly attired, busy, solicitous, going from group to group, accepting congratulations. The bride’s pretty little sisters overcome with emotion: the older one dressed in pink, the younger in blue, showing off turquoise bracelets, gifts from their future brother-in-law. The bishop who was to bless the ceremony, alternately serious or affable and smiling, exchanging witty banter or bestowing discreet compliments as he saw fit. Meanwhile, one could glimpse the aura of mystery of the chapel sheathed in flowers, a flood of white roses rising from the floor to the little cupola crowned by wreaths of roses and snow-white lilies artistically crafted on green branches. And on the altar the statue of the Virgin, guardian of the aristocratic mansion, was half hidden by a curtain of orange blossoms, a train-carload of which was sent from Valencia by the wealthy landowner Aránguiz, the bride’s uncle and godfather, who had not come because of old age and bad health. These details spread from mouth to mouth while calculating the magnificent inheritance that was to be Micaelita’s, another sign of good fortune for the couple, who were to travel to Valencia on their honeymoon. I imagined the bridegroom in a small group of men, somewhat nervous, slightly pale, inadvertently biting on his mustache, bowing his head to respond to the amiable jokes and the flattering words addressed to him...
    And finally, I see emerge in the doorway a kind of apparition —the bride, whose features can barely be seen under the cloud of tulle, the silk of her dress rustling as she passes, while in her hair, as if sown with dew, sparkle the gemstones of the nuptial heirloom... And now the ceremony comes to life. The best man and the matron of honor lead the couple forward, and the innocent figure kneels next to the bridegroom’s slim and graceful shape... The family crams into the front, while the curious and friends search for a good spot, and amid the silence and respectful attention of the guests..., the bishop formulates a question, to which the bride responds with a “No” as sharp as the click of a trigger, as fatal as a bullet. And —once again in my imagination— I note the bridegroom’s gesture, as he turns, wounded. The mother’s energy as she springs forward to protect and shield her daughter. The bishop’s insistence, and the look of his astonishment. The tremor of the crowd; the anxious questions relayed in an instant: “What happened? What’s going on? Is the bride indisposed? She said ‘No’? That’s impossible... But is it true? What a scene!”
    In society, all of this constitutes a terrible drama. And in Micaelita’s case, a riddle as well. The reason for the unexpected “no” was never known for sure. 
    Micaelita would only say that she had changed her mind, and that she was completely free and had the right to turn back, even at the foot of the altar, as long as a “yes” had not issued from her lips. The family’s closest friends wracked their brains, offering unlikely suppositions. What was beyond a doubt was that, until that fateful moment, everyone had seen two people who were very much in love and happy with each other. The bride’s girlfriends reported that, when they entered to see her in all her finery minutes before the scandal, she was mad with joy, and so hopeful and content that she would not have traded places with anybody. These were facts that clouded even more the strange enigma that for a long time would give rise to gossip, irritated by the mystery and determined to decipher it unfavorably.
    Three years later, when almost nobody remembered what had happened at her wedding, I came across Micaelita at a fashionable spa where her mother was taking the waters. There’s nothing like the routine of a spa to encourage friendships, and the young woman and I became so close that one afternoon as we strolled toward the church, she revealed her secret to me, declaring that she gave me leave to divulge it, secure in the knowledge that such a simple explanation would not be believed.
    “It was the silliest thing, so silly in fact that I didn’t want to say it. People always attribute events to profound and transcendental reasons, unaware that sometimes our fate is determined by trivial matters, the littlest things... But they’re little things that have meaning, and for some people, they mean too much. I will tell you what happened; and I can’t believe that nobody noticed, because it occurred right there, in front of everybody. If they didn’t notice, it’s because it was over in a flash.”
    “As you know, my marriage to Bernardo de Meneses seemed to meet all the conditions and the guarantees of happiness. In addition, I admit that I was considerably attracted to my fiancé, more than to any other man that I ever knew or know. I believe that I was in love with him. The only thing that I lamented was not being able to study his character: some people judged him to be violent, but I always saw him to be courteous, deferential, and soft as a glove. Yet I was suspicious that he was adopting appearances aimed to deceive me and to hide a fierce and disagreeable personality. A thousand times I cursed the subjection of single women, for whom it is impossible to follow their fiancé closely, to delve into his reality, and obtain reports that are true and brutally sincere —the only ones that would have satisfied me. I tried to submit Bernardo to several tests, which he passed with success. His behavior was so correct that I came to believe that I could entrust my future and my happiness to him without any fear whatsoever.”
    “The day of the wedding arrived. Despite my understandable emotion, when I put on my white dress, I noticed once more the superb flounce of lace that adorned it, a gift from my fiancé. That ancient piece of authentic Alençon had belonged to his family; it was a foot wide —a marvel—, and of an exquisite design, perfectly preserved, worthy of a museum showcase. Bernardo had praised its value to the skies, which had begun to annoy me because, however much the lace was worth, my future husband should have realized that I was worth even more.”
    “At that solemn moment, as I observed the lace highlighted by the dress’s dense satin, it seemed to me that the very delicate piece of handiwork symbolized the promise of good fortune, and that its texture, so fragile and yet so resistant, subtly meshed two hearts together. I was entranced by this daydream while I walked toward the chapel at the entrance of which my fiancé awaited me. As I hurried to greet him, full of joy for the last time before I became his in body and soul, the lace snagged onto an iron nail of the door, with such bad luck that, as I tried to free myself, I heard an unmistakable ripping sound and noticed a strip of the magnificent lace hanging on the dress. But I saw something else: Bernardo’s face, contorted and disfigured by the most vivid rage; his eyes ablaze, his mouth half-open ready to berate or insult me... He didn’t, however, because there were people all around him; yet in that fleeting moment a curtain rose and a naked soul appeared behind it.”
    “I must have turned pale, but fortunately the tulle of the veil covered my face. Something shattered and broke into pieces inside me —the joy with which I had entered the room turning into profound revulsion. I could not let go of the image of Bernardo with that angry, hard, and contemptuous expression I had just glimpsed on his face. This certainty took hold of me, and with it the realization that I could not, that I would not give myself to such a man, not then, not ever... And yet I continued to go toward the altar; I knelt down, I listened to the bishop’s admonitions... But when I heard the question, the terrible and impetuous truth sprang to my lips... That ‘no’ burst forth, unplanned. I was saying it to myself... so that everyone could hear!”
    “But why didn’t you reveal the true motive, when so many different commentaries were made afterwards?”
    “I repeat, because of its very simplicity... No one would ever have believed it. What is natural and ordinary is never acknowledged. I preferred to let people think that there were reasons of the so-called serious kind.”