The sky darkened. The monsters flew toward me, and wanted to peck at me with their curved beaks. Suddenly I grew a pair of wings, and from the neck down I turned into a bird. I tried to fly away to escape the pecking, but my attempts to get off the ground were useless. I was stuck to it as if I had grown roots as well as wings.
I woke up bathed in sweat.
María, María! Have Consuelo come here, so that she can set my pillow straight. No, I don’t want you to do it. What have we got that woman for? Have her bring clean sheets. I hope she’s put dried thyme on them so they smell like a summer meadow. And have her change my nightgown. I want to put on the lilac one with ivory-colored lace. Have her fix my hair and put wild flowers, daisies, forget-me-nots in it, whatever is on hand. And you, meanwhile, uncover the harpsichord and call José Antonio. He’s there. Good. And I want Piti to sing. You can invite a few people to the concert, not many. I don’t want crowds of people in here. Just before the concert—come on, come on, everybody in! And once the concert is over, move, come on, out, quick! No useless chatter. Shake your head should anyone ask me about my health or if I feel better, or say that I look a lot better. Otherwise, I shall throw something at them, and at you too. Draw the curtains of my bed so that I may listen and not see anyone. I want Ariadna a Naxos, by Haydn, to be played and sung. Is that clear?
After José’s death, I played different pieces by Haydn most of all. I myself sung many of the arias. Music offered me some consolation. Then I also discovered the score of Monteverdi’s Il lamento d’Arianna. Every day I sang, or gave orders to have sung, the aria “Lasciate me morire” from that piece, which awoke in me a strange and sad voluptuousness. In fact, I suffocated my bad feelings in music, just as poor José had done. Are not all us mortals the same as one another? From Monteverdi I passed on to Haydn’s Ariadna, much more realistic. After so many weeks of singing it, I could have organized a concert to sing it without having to be ashamed of my performance. And in the end I sang only the last song of the series, the most cheerful. How could I forget it?
Hurt me no more, pain of my heart,
I have not the strength to suffer;
may the mourning time be far from me,
I do not wish my heart to beat so.
Approach now, daughter of the sea,
may love come with you to seek pleasure
the graces will also come with you
the dance shall delight the sure of foot.
Like this at all times will I be able
to spend a pleasing time and will not mourn;
sadness will be with me no longer
and the grieved heart shall breathe.
I sang and while singing I felt like living again. I decided that I would abandon Seville, where the entire palace was in mourning and where they had kidnapped José’s memory so that nothing was left over for me. I took my carriage, a few servants, and, almost without luggage, I fled. Like a thief! I laughed on the way. I left a few letters behind and nothing else. One I sent urgently to Madrid:
Francisco,
I await you in one of my Andalusian estates, in the Palacio del Rocío near the town of Sanlúcar de Barrameda. At once! Do not allow your coachmen to stop cracking the whip for a moment!
María Teresa
Thank you, Consuelo. Clean clothes make one feel like new. Wait, one more thing. Tell María that I don’t want them to play Ariadna a Naxos. I would prefer someone to play Vivaldi’s La tempesta di mare for me. Why? You ask too many questions, girl.
Why, indeed? Well, because I’m not in the mood to listen to Haydn. I want to think about other things. I ran away from Seville at tremendous speed, and my newfound freedom added to my feeling of vertigo. On the way I stopped wherever struck my fancy. Arcos de la Frontera, El Puerto de Santa María, San Fernando, Cadiz—ports in which I walked under the dusty palm trees; amid the crowds of maids and sailors I began to dream once more. I had dresses made for me, many, many dresses, and in the