La prueba de Emilia Pardo Bazán 📚✨ | Un relato de pasión y desengaño
Welcome to Now for Stories. Today we bring you a work by Galician writer Emilia Pardo Bazán: The Test. In this story, the author introduces us to a world filled with emotional and psychological complexities , exploring the limits of passion, disappointment , and personal reflection. Through an intense and detailed narrative, Pardo Bazán invites us to delve into the lives of her characters, challenging our perceptions of love and morality. Join us on this literary journey that promises to spark more than one profound reflection. Chapter 1. I don’t know if I mentioned in the first part of these truthful notes that Luis Portal, my sensible, cunning, and opportunistic classmate, was quite ugly and ungainly, which probably greatly influenced his way of understanding life and his intransigence toward dreams, illusions, poetry, passion, and other things that give interest to our existence. Portal had a square, massive body; broad hands; short legs; a well-developed head, but round like a balcony goatee; a thick neck; high shoulders; features too large for his height, resulting in a face that was anything but vulgar, but rather like a figurehead; a “carofla,” as his classmates at the Orense High School used to call him, to annoy him when he was a boy . Portal’s clear understanding led him to suffer with a smiling calmness the jokes about his physique; but the self-esteem inherent in the human condition must have made him feel its sting at times, and he revealed it, unwittingly, in a certain affected contempt for male beauty, and in the taunts he would throw at those of us classmates whom he believed to be better treated by nature. I had never noticed Luis’s ungraceful and prosaic exterior as much as I did one day when he came to see me, finding me already convalescing from the illness I contracted upon leaving the Teatro Real—which I don’t know whether to call bronchopneumonia, capillary bronchitis, acute laryngitis, double pneumonia, or give it another of the infinite names that weave the complicated network of respiratory ailments. After having been in real danger, reaching those extremely high temperatures beyond which the organism disintegrates and death ensues, I suddenly began to feel much better, and I was now allowed to get up a little at favorable hours and remain sprawled out in an armchair by my little table. The day Portal came to accompany me—a Sunday, according to signs—the sky was overcast, something unusual in Madrid, and the comrade entered my room wrapped in a long, cheap raincoat, the kind that stinks of sulfur from a mile away. Hidden in that stiff cloth sentry box, with his cape, his hood draped over his back, and his bowler hat, Portal seemed plumper and more disrespectful, and the spleen color of the garment blended with the dirty tan of his large face. His face, however, radiated joy, which I attributed to the purchase and debut of the raincoat, and I told the buyer as much. “What a tone we give ourselves! How much are you worth today with the cover?” Portal smiled, turned on his heels, turned in profile, turned his back… “Isn’t it incredible that they’re giving it for four duros less a peseta? And let the showers come! One can go out into the countryside, go on as many expeditions as one wants… ” “Yes, but not being at the side of a convalescing friend. Son, that stinks of hell,” I noted, without noticing the oddness of Portal, so sedentary and easygoing, dreaming of going on country excursions when a raincoat is needed. My friend went out to hang the garment on the coat rack in the hall, and returned, now in a stately state, to sit near my armchair, asking me the classic question: “How’s that for courage?” I opened the valve. I so needed to expound! And with whom better than Luis, the friend who knows the strange history of my soul over the course of a year? “With the illness, very well; perfect. Every sip of broth is life I drink. I can walk now, you see? Without trembling in my legs or cobwebs in my eyes. I tried it: I stood up and took a few firm steps, stumbling. immediately with the wall, for my room was, as you know, very small. “Hey, not much courage!… Sit down,” ordered Luis. “So, I’ve become a hero? With the courage to do anything?” “Depends on what,” I replied, sinking into the armchair and wrapping my legs back in my threadbare cloak. “The flesh grows stronger; but the spirit… ps, ps.” Portal’s face clearly expressed this orthographic sign: “?” ” You don’t know the incredible things I dreamed on the days of greatest gravity, on the days of the fever, of 39 degrees and many tenths… I dreamed, but look, I was seeing and hearing it as clearly as I can see and hear you. If you speak to me now that I’ve had the fever… do you understand?” The real marmoset caressed me a thousand times, whispered tender words to me, hugged me, let me hug her… in short, we had solved the problem. Portal continued looking at me, perhaps thinking: “Let’s let this one spill the beans. Let’s see what happens.” “Well, son,” I continued, “the danger ending and the sleep dissipating were all in one. My marmoset is now the same as always: strong and impregnable, dressed in her duty like a coat of mail. Affectionate to me, yes; but what? The affection that no one refuses a sick person, that she doesn’t have the guts of a wild beast. None of that… nothing! So I miss the fever, and the antipyrine, and the nasty drugs that our countryman, Doctor Sauco, used to give me, and he’s driven me mad with his potions. Oh!” I was now gulping down a quart of white oxide in exchange for hearing some of those sugary little words… or for dreaming I was hearing them. My friend held his chin as if in reflection. Finally, he gasped: “And are you absolutely sure that you haven’t actually dreamed the marmoset’s demonstrations? When you have a high fever! ” “Since when have I been deluded about this woman?” “Lower your voice,” warned the prudent Orense native. “They could be walking down the hall, and if they hear us… ” “You’re right,” I answered, muting my voice. “Let it be known that I’m not deluded, nor are there any such sheep. I may have been delirious, I may have been rambling; but that… it wasn’t rambling or delirious. It’s as true as the fact that we’re both chatting here now. ” “And afterward,” Luis questioned, “nothing? ” “Absolutely nothing; not even this.” Portal was silent for a moment, and gently patting me on the shoulder, he emphatically declared: “My son, think carefully about whether it’s all the same to you whether you’re a loser or passing your classes. If it’s all the same to you, stay in love like Don Quixote with the beautiful Dulcinea; if not, send all your fantasies and delusions packing; grab those little books as soon as you’re completely well… and you’ll live. Ever since you fell in love, you talk and act as if you had two thousand duros guaranteed as an income and were pursuing a degree for show. Look, it’s April, and an illness can delay you. You know that our relentless studies are like the goats in the tale of the shepherdess Torralba: if we jump over a goat, we have to start the story all over again. Learn from me; I let myself go last year… It won’t happen again, I swear to God, no matter how many temptations come my way!” As he spoke thus, a mysterious smile lit up my friend’s broad face, and his eyes, expressive with intelligence, sparkled with pride, as if to say: “We’re not just straw men around here either, and we have our adventures like everyone else.” ” Chacho,” I asked, “what’s going on? Is there something fishy going on?… Since when do we have secrets for me? Don’t I tell you everything?” Portal’s smile spread across his broad face, and more than a smile, it was a glow of true joy. Men who have little luck with women smile like that when they can claim to have captivated one. “Psh…!” he responded, boasting of being modest and discreet, ” you see. Since it’s such a particular thing, so different from the usual… I don’t know if you’ll understand… eh? Because it’s something that’s not abundant. ” “Thank you for the glowing opinion you’ve formed of my understanding. ” “It’s not that, man… it’s not that.” It’s that not being in details… –Well, keep quiet if you want, but don’t come at me with all that nonsense. By my faith , if you want to explain yourself… –Well, I’ll try to find out for yourself… and find out for myself: I’m still like someone who sees visions. First of all, I’ll tell you that she’s a foreigner, an Englishwoman… –Englishwoman? –Yes, my boy; a true native, from London itself… A beautiful woman; the type from there, you know… tall, white as snow, very fresh, regular features, and hair of a pale, pale blond… almost ash-colored… Don’t think she’s dull… no! More malicious and saltier!… Two holes full of jokes in her cheeks. –You’re making my mouth water… Have mercy, man. –I’m not exaggerating in the least. I assure you that I have taken the matter with a certain serenity! I’m not like you, who goes on and on and on… until you lose your mind. Nothing like that; I’m in my element… But from there to closing your eyes and ignoring the person’s qualities… “Go on with them. English, tall, ashen hair, holes… What else? ” “Bah!… Am I some kind of simpleton? The holes and the hair are the least of my concerns. If anything interests me, or could ever interest me, it’s the girl’s personality. You know that I’m not happy with the stubborn ignorance of a Spanish woman. I like an educated girl , capable of conversing, carefree, with artistic interests and knowledge in all subjects… I think this is the woman of the future. Well, my _Mo_ fits that type. ” “You… what?” I asked, interrupting him. “What do you say that young lady’s name is?” Portal approached the table, took a pencil, and wrote on the first piece of paper he found at hand: _Maud_. “Ah!” I exclaimed, remembering my English pinned down. That’s what I think Matilda means. Why don’t you call her Matilda, that’s prettier and sounds better? “Well, what a sound! Mo is beautiful… Mo, Mo…” repeated Luis, licking his lips. “Well, agreed; the English woman answers Mo,” I said, understanding that my friend was fond of the British syllable. “And where did you discover this treasure? ” “The tram. I usually get on it in the afternoon, go to the end of the line, and then walk back. Many times I take the one from Puerta del Sol to Fuencarral Street, and I don’t get off until Glorieta de Bilbao; from there, I walk home to lunch. This is generally from six to seven. Two or three afternoons I noticed a young lady with a foreign appearance enter Puerta del Sol itself . Boy, from the first day she caught my attention. She was so determined, so simple, and so serious! On the way, he took out a book and was reading. I glanced sideways… and it must have been an edition of Shakespeare, because I made out a picture of Romeo ascending Juliet’s balcony. “A fine missal for a young lady,” I interrupted. “Do you know that for now I see nothing unusual in all that? ” “Nor will you later,” Portal replied with some anger. ” For you, anything that isn’t lowering yourself through a railing, robbing a _wife of the Lord_, or seducing a believing heroine… ” “Don’t get angry, and go ahead. ” “Well, I have little to add now,” my friend exclaimed, evidently annoyed by the interruption. “There are no burglaries or abductions in this story. I didn’t sing a song about it, nor did I propose _the escape_.” It was the most vulgar thing!… Instead of kneeling down, I went and paid for her tram… “And ten for ten cents, you and the Englishwoman messed around?” “I don’t know if it can be called messing around,” the opportunist continued. ” Three times after I paid, she already greeted me. On the next trip after the greeting, she asked me to borrow *El Imparcial*, which I had just bought, and we discussed some news together. She usually got off just beyond the Court of Auditors, at the entrance to a very lonely street, where she told me she lived. So the deal was established. I suggested that she go with me to the church in Chamberí, and then we would walk back; and she accepted the proposal without hesitation, because abroad there are no such ridiculous sillinesses as here, and a young lady and a man stroll together without the spheres trembling. We returned on foot, with a beautiful afternoon, and chatting like a blessing from God. “And what about rods? Is it well suited to luck? ” “Rods! You’re cool! You’ve got the wrong nation, son. My Englishwoman wasn’t born to be put to the test. With a Spanish woman, the mere fact of taking that little walk between two lights, we had the matter settled; but with those barbarians… You don’t even know where to begin! ” “Innocent!” I exclaimed, enjoying seeing the shrewd Luis caught in the net, like a doctrinaire. “Don’t you remember what Shakespeare says—you see I’m quoting an Englishman in Othello? “The wine she drinks is made of grapes. ”
“Yes? Well, apply that to your Carmiña, because Mo doesn’t fit. Because what didn’t work on the first walk… worked on the subsequent ones… But if you could see!” In the most natural way in the world. If I tell you how… “I’m all ears.” “Well, nothing… Imagine, we always talked about indifferent things, the kind that are forbidden conversation for Madrid women: politics, science, literature, the arts, even religion… and I couldn’t find the opportunity to blurt out the declaration and find out how she would take it… One afternoon when we were out for a longer walk than usual, I saw her say hello to a tall, gray-haired man who was passing by, and when she greeted him, she got quite embarrassed. I asked why, and who that man was, and she answered: “Oh! Nobody… The representative of the Stirling company, who knows my father very well. I blushed like that because it’s not customary here for young ladies to walk alone with their boyfriends… In my country it’s done, and it’s not unusual…” That’s how I found out he was Mo’s boyfriend. Imagine how I felt! “Hooray for perfidious Albion!” The girl who didn’t take any sticks! After all, she was the one who blurted out her daring thought to you. “Bah!… I don’t know how I tell you these things. It’s obvious that our ideal of love is as similar as an egg to a chestnut. It would have been better for me to keep my mouth shut. ” “No, man, no; it amuses me to see you happy and content, in possession of the woman you dream of. What is _Mo_? Well, that’s a joy! You see I’m more tolerant, much more so than you. You don’t compromise with mine… I accept yours, with her feet a yard long, which must look like two plaice… And on top of all this, we still don’t know what occupation or what benefit Miss _Mo_ has, or if she has a father, mother, or a dog to bark at her. ” “Strange thing!” Portal exclaimed, laughing. ” You’ve named precisely all the things _Mo_ possesses. A father and mother! I believe it! And excellent people.” A bit like that… well, very English in their type. A dog to bark at her? I forgot to tell you that on every afternoon she walks with me, she carries a black wool King Charles… a real cutie. “You’ll be very cute, indeed, the young lady, the little fellow, and you. ” “And,” my friend continued, disdaining the interruption, “as far as occupation and earnings are concerned… Mo is not like those women around here, who are looking for a husband to support them because their ineptitude and absurd social ideas don’t allow them to earn an honest living. Mo goes every day to Ancha de San Bernardo Street to give lessons in English, geography, and history to some young ladies, daughters of rich people. In many houses, they make her offers to be a governess; but she’s not suitable. She prefers to be with her family, with her little brothers and sisters.” “Oh, oh, oh!… Malorum!” I said, savoring the pleasure of insulting Portal. “You’re quite dazzled! This is going to end badly. ” “Who, me?” my friend asked, touching the lapel of his jacket with his left index finger. “A jacket for me, my father’s son? Quia, man! By the same token, since she’s dealing with an educated, well-educated woman, superior to her sex, do you think she’ll ask if I’m going with a good intention? God forbid! Mo and I are two friends… well… two who like each other, who go for walks together in the suburbs, and who will go on an excursion some Sunday to Alcalá or the Escorial… But from this to that ! To the Vicariate! What nonsense, man! She lives and manages; I’m also on the way to earning my position; I’m not at all a Quixote or a visionary; therefore, imagine if I’ll fall into that pit. “Are you coming into the house?” I asked. “Not yet,” my friend responded with some embarrassment. “But are you going to come in? ” “Ah! Yes; there’s no other option… But only as a friend of Mo. No official courtship. I’ve told her so, and she’s entirely happy about it. In her house, they don’t ask indiscreet questions either, nor will they be surprised if I bring a friend along for tea. Those are different customs, easier and more rational than ours. After I’m introduced, I’ll take you one day. It must be a patriarchal house. ” “So, little excursions? Now I see the practical reason for the four duros less a peseta for the stinking one,” I said to Portal, to tease him further . I succeeded. He continued telling me about his adventure and the merits of Miss Mo, who was a treasure trove of skills: she painted in watercolors, played the piano, wrote impressions, embroidered, and even knew how to draw maps—maps, no joke. It was clear that my friend was in that period when the most selfish, rather than altruistic, natures yield to the spell of believing in love and experience a vain plenitude that closely resembles true enthusiasm. Suddenly , he turned the conversation around and said mysteriously: “Belén has asked me about you more than ten times. She even offered a mass to some Virgin, so that she would heal you. You rascal!… What fortune! Be so kind. And… and your Uncle Felipe? How did he behave while he was ill? Explain that to me; it will be curious. Hasn’t he brought out the Christ of jealousy? If you could see how much I am surprised that you are no longer troubled by that cause!” “None,” I replied gloomily. “Admire yourself. In my opinion, that man is tired of his wife, and I even think he regrets his marriage. ” “Shh! Keep your voice down! Let’s not talk about it here!” my cautious friend begged. “We’re doing very wrong even to touch the conversation. If they don’t find out, the cook or the servant might, and worse still. I see this intrigue is taking on a new form… The first day they allow you to go out, we’ll chat.” Chapter 2. The day arrived in its measured steps, after the inevitable formalities of any convalescence: the chicken wing, devoured with pleasure and relish; the frequent soup broth; the walks around the house, with the same gusto as if they were on a journey through beautiful countries; And after performing so many indifferent actions with the enthusiasm they no longer produce when they are acts of daily life, the _discharge_, the return to the world of the healthy , which, instead of jubilation, causes an inexplicable melancholy, perhaps analogous to that of the navigator who, after having approached the safe harbor, throws himself into the ocean again. They allowed me to go out into the street wrapped in my cape, during the sunny hours, of that generous Madrid luminosity, relief for the ailing, joy for the lazy, and consolation for the sad. An unknown hand, undoubtedly the compassionate right hand of the marmoset, had taken the mirror down from the wall of my room, to prevent me from examining what doctors call the _external habit_ of illness. With my discharge, the mirror returned to its nail, and while I was dressing, I was able to glance at my _coram vobis_. My clothes revealed that I had grown a little, and the mercury moon gave me other, more surprising news, demonstrating that the cycle of my physical development had been completed and the fullness of my being had been realized. A kind of soft but dense vegetation adorned my chin, giving my physiognomy such a singular appearance that I hardly recognized myself. A beard, my God, a beard! The sign of virile dignity ; the noble attribute of honest manhood; the phenomenon that indicates the complete rhythm of physiological functions; the adornment that nature denied to the inferior, dark, and savage races; the symbol of loyalty; the badge of aristocracy in its origins; that which traitors repelled, and by which gentlemen swore. without blemish, as if upon a sacred relic! I could hardly believe that it was really a _beard_ that fringed my cheeks with a ring of such sweet shadow. I admired myself, like a man who sees arcane laws of nature fulfilled in his organism, without his consent . I touched that dark hair, caressed it, washed it with soap and water, combed it, and I found it difficult to repress the temptation to go and have my portrait taken immediately. I had never spent so much time with the mirror as at the moment when I convinced myself that I was a bearded man. Within me, with all my virility, a secret pride arose, along with a certain awareness of the legitimacy of passion. Before, when I thought alone about the enigma of my mad infatuation, and accused myself of letting myself be carried away defenselessly by the romantic current, I used to seek arguments against myself, remembering my almost hairless face, my smooth, round cheeks like a damsel’s, and the slight smudged line above my upper lip, the only serious feature that enhanced an otherwise youthful physiognomy. Now it seemed to me that even my mustache had grown thicker and stronger, and contemplating my eyes, enlarged by illness, and my features, accentuated by the transformation, I felt as if I had climbed a step on the human ladder, seeming to me that neither grand feelings nor grand actions were ridiculous in my eyes. Moreover—with some blushing, I declare this—I understood that my outward appearance, what Luis called my appearance, had improved by a third and a fifth with the appearance of the beard. Of course, I didn’t intend to appear handsome, nor was it such vanity that pleased me, but rather the idea that appearing more of a man lay the principal, and perhaps the sole, canon of masculine aesthetics. One thing held me back, dampening my enjoyment of beards. And it was a certain deficiency, not organic, but social: the lack of something as essential to existing among our peers, in the midst of our civilization, as blood is to the biological process. I lacked— who wouldn’t guess?—coined metal; and coined metal is the father of all poise and arrogance, and the foundation even of that imaginative labor that crystallizes in our brains our dreams and poetic aspirations . What does the human creature do deprived of such an indispensable emolument? Not even passion is lawful for one who lacks a golden lever. Put a man in the strength of youth, with energy and the plasticity of his dreams, and tie his hands for lack of a grimy piece of paper with the likeness of Mendizábal or Lope de Vega, and you’ll see what he’s good at in the matter of shameful tantrums. Without money, only the shameless petard doesn’t lower his ears, the corsair capable of stationing himself on the corner of an alley to hunt down other people’s pesetas, and who has already lost that delicate film of decorum that is to the soul what the epidermis is to the body. On that occasion, the lack of money translated for me into a great decline in the clothing business. Between the battle of the entire winter and the growth of the illness, there was no garment that would serve me. I noticed it when I was dressing for my first outing, and when my uncle saw me off at the door, telling me to “come back early because of the cold,” I was embarrassed by my tail-length trousers and my old cape. “I look like I’m unemployed,” I thought angrily. I remember that was the first thing Portal and I talked about as we walked down Serrano and Lista streets toward Paseo de la Castellana. We were heading for the Colón candlestick when I said to my friend: “Kid, there’s nothing more tiresome than not having a cent. Sometimes I feel like throwing everything away and going to Buenos Aires. What I know is enough to make me a living there. It’s ridiculous to be going the way I am, with this guy and this guy, and not be able to go straight to the tailor: ‘Make me a denim suit, it ‘s spring.'” Here I am, reduced to a _chupiturqui_ that looks like the pirate Barbarossa’s jacket, and this indecent cape. Let’s not go near Recoletos, or we’ll find familiar faces. The discoverer of the Americas orders us to turn back. So we did. Portal, jokingly making light of my annoyances, asked me: “And when are the swindles for mothers coming? ” “You’ll understand, it’s been on my mind all the time! I’ll end up like that… but it bothers me. My mother does too much; she works wonders. There’ll be no other way… The petition is going to sit badly with her, after my uncle warned her that he’ll send her the doctor’s bill. ” “Will he do that? ” “That’s it. What did you think? And I prefer it. I’d be ashamed if he paid the expenses of my illness. Thank God, my mother will bear them. My uncle’s undergoing a change in his character, for the worse, of course. Before, he was merely unpleasant. Now he’s become hateful. The slightest extraordinary thing excites him.” I peer at him and rub my hands together, because I see that a correlation of feelings is being established in my uncle, and that as he becomes more stingy, more greedy, and more harsh, she withdraws more, and marital intimacy goes to hell. “Chacho,” Portal warned, pausing with the characteristic movement we make when a conversation interests us, “in your uncles’ story I notice that you create such psychological tangles that, although nothing is happening in that marriage, at least on the outside, when you speak it seems like there’s a drama going on. I don’t understand either the husband or the suitor. Explain yourself. ” “You see,” I answered, leaning on his arm, because I still felt a little weak. “The situation seems quite simple to me, although in it, as in all matters of love and marriage, there is always something inexplicable. Neither in love nor in philosophy will you ever be able to understand the substance. I am the first to admit that my enthusiasm for that woman, neither conquerable nor beautiful, is an anomaly .” “Yes, son, an anomaly, or a mania, speaking briefly,” the opportunist affirmed. “I’ve seen little of that. If you lived secluded in some seminary… Cork! then… The repressed man is prone to committing _numerous_ absurdities for a broom in a skirt. But having freedom and the good fortune of having fallen into the good graces of a woman as important as Belén… Don’t you know? A car, she already has a car!” I made her so angry that the woman couldn’t calm down until she squeezed the stockbroker. I know this because yesterday she asked me again about your health… The girl doesn’t want you sick. ” “Leave me alone with Belén,” I answered. “Shall we sit on this bench?” I added, indicating one covered with leafy acacia. “Common. But we’ll sweep the house. Go confess completely. Let’s see if I can determine your true moral state.” The sun, which shone pleasantly, warming my legs and feet and the part of the trunk that I stuck out of the shade cast by the tree, infused my thoughts with clarity and optimism, at the same time giving me a certain impression that might be called the “unreality of sorrows”; a beneficial operation by which the soul eliminates the deadly gas of pain and breathes the oxygen of hope, without cause or reason, only by the restorative virtue that existence carries with it. “I too,” I replied, “have felt like taking a test. I think I live surrounded by ghosts, and that I’ve created these ghosts myself. I wonder if there isn’t such a passion, such hatred, or anything. Chacho, what do you think?” And as I said this, I placed my hand on Luis’s shoulder. My friend, always opposed to giving credence to the curiosity of passersby, and also very undemonstrative, at least with men, stepped aside and said, looking at me with a calmness full of intelligent sagacity: “A good sign when you recognize your extravagance.” Chapter One. Let’s make history. While you were ill, did you imagine that your uncle’s wife showed you affection, love, or I don’t know what? ” “Nor do I understand what it was. I wish it were _love_; but it could have been affection, pity, indulgence. ” “And when the danger passed, did the demonstrations cease? ” “Yes, suddenly. Today I only notice in her… the involuntary sympathy that I always noticed; a kind of attraction, which, compared to the repulsion that her husband inspires in her… is something. ” “And him? Him?” Chapter Two and Very Important. Is he suspicious? Is there Jealousy? No. She hardly entered my room. And to what do you attribute this indifference? It can be attributed to two things: first, that my uncle is no fool, and he knows what his wife is made of. Portal, without opening his mouth, let the sound of a repeated and prolonged u be heard. Don’t you think so? Second explanation. My uncle doesn’t care about his wife. He never loved her, and for the past two months he has completely distanced himself from her.
Why? I suspect it’s because of his father’s wedding, that gentleman from Aldao, who must be long gone, when he pulled the melodrama of secretly marrying a young girl, the daughter of a corporal in the carabinieri, who must be sixteen or seventeen years old and the biggest brainiac known in the four provinces. My uncle got caught up in the wedding; he started by making a fuss about his wife, as if she were responsible for her father’s whims; and since that day he has hardly spoken to her again. He ‘s away as much as he can, and he scrimps down to a farthing. He was never splendid; but now he’s suffering from a crisis of avarice. From repulsion, not out of jealousy, quirk! He trembles that I’m burdensome to him. One of the reasons I don’t want to talk to him about the poor state of my wardrobe is because I believe he’s capable of offering me some of his cast-offs. I’m telling you, the man is half-mad; he imagines that Señor de Aldao will have an heir, and that the marmoset will be disinherited, and he broods; no conversation distracts him; when people ask him what ails him, he replies that he doesn’t know, that he’s a bit of a pain… Just seeing him gives one hypochondria. Portal reflected for a few moments, and fixing his intense , searching pupils on me , he repeated: “Are you sure that man isn’t jealous? ” “No,” I replied forcefully. “I feel, I know that he isn’t. ” Even if barefoot friars swore to me, he’s not jealous. “Strange thing!” my friend murmured, shaking his head thoughtfully. “Because I can’t convince myself it’s just a matter of his father-in-law’s wedding… That would make him furious for a few days; but his grievances don’t depend on the wedding. If there’s no jealousy, there will be other troubles. A countryman of mine told me the day before yesterday that things are very bad in Pontevedra , that the Saint of the Orange Grove is elbowing Don Felipe and protecting his great enemy Dochán, the one who waged so much war against him so they wouldn’t put the post office in his house… That must be something to it; although, really, they’re futile reasons for so much despondency. I don’t understand it. No one can convince me that there’s a problem there. Jealousy would explain it perfectly; but you say ,” the stubborn man insisted, “that it’s not jealousy. ” “Not jealousy. I know!” “I wish I had them, and well-founded ones!” “Fools’ prayers don’t reach heaven. And after all,” Portal added, scratching his ear, “where do you get the idea that there’s no reason for jealousy? Haven’t you told me a hundred times that she looks at him with disgust? If you notice it, shouldn’t he? And don’t you say that she made many faces at you while you were sick? Well, I’m in my favor. If he notices something, and at the same time notices that his wife doesn’t like him… white and crumbly… ” “I tell you it’s not that!” I replied impatiently. “I tell you, if it were so, I wouldn’t have any joy in my body, nor would I need to sunbathe to revive myself. Oh, if only! But nothing. My happiness, as you know, lacks positive elements and is based on the negative of surprising in her, not only the mysterious disgust of before, but for some time now, another more declared and more active feeling.” Yes; no matter how much she represses herself and tries not to fall into what seems to her a very great evil, she does not succeed, and the feeling is reborn stronger than her will. Don’t you know that I study her constantly? –I know… Even if you studied your subjects! And what else do you find out? –That before it was only repulsion, and now it is hatred… Do not doubt it, no. My happiness has no other basis. I live on the fact that I hate her. Do you understand what hatred means in a creature like that? She, who is all sympathy and charity! Well, she hates him. I dissect her: nothing of what He might have escaped me. I notice that in the mornings, when he returns from Mass or the confessional, he overcomes himself, speaks to him sweetly, even affectionately, and doesn’t look at him, so as not to let the light of that which he tries to conceal at all costs shine into his eyes… But as the hours pass, his vehemence and spontaneity once again overcome him, and believe me, if willpower were poison… my uncle would be dead by now. “You amaze me! And where does this hatred come from? ” “I’ve already told you: in my opinion, from his current personality, and from the fact that a bitter antipathy can suddenly become invincible rage. I am not a person who has ever felt the impulse to attempt anyone’s life; but believe me, I would have very gladly killed my uncle some time ago.” The opportunist leaped onto the stone bench, looked at me the way one looks at madmen, and quickly crossed himself. “Son… son… son…! This is the truth! Completely finished, completely finished! It’s not just a figure of speech: I find you completely unbalanced; for God’s sake, without delay, showers, bromide, tonic regimen… ” “Leave me to it. Every madman with his own thing,” I replied, smiling. “My glory consists in a chimera, I know, and an extravagant chimera at that… What harm am I doing? It’s enough for me, and the others don’t care. I am satisfied with a certain parallelism of feelings between the woman I love and myself. If a person inspires repugnance in me, she inspires repugnance; what I hate, she hates: she may not love me, but no one denies that her affections are in step with mine.” You say that my aunt is a woman of another time, and that the Christian spirit and profound religiosity that dictate her actions make her incompatible with me, a rationalist. Well, look: we may understand things differently, but we feel the same. Don’t doubt it. Any bonehead who doesn’t understand these depths and delicacies will imagine that my uncle, her husband, her owner, is the obstacle between us… Fool who creates such things! My uncle is the bond that unites us. Don’t think that I dislike him because he’s married to her. What nonsense! You know that I’ve disliked my uncle for _number_ years… since I was born; and that now my repulsion has turned into aversion… because she detests him too. That’s all there is to it. My friend didn’t reply at once. Then he exclaimed, looking at me with compassion: “Let’s go home. You’ve got a fever. ” “Don’t think I’m crazy.” “I don’t say crazy! But you have a fever.” Your eyes are flashing . You’re going to relapse. Caution! Put your mask on… go home. When we had already passed the Colombian monument, Portal said to me in the tone used to deliver bad news: “Don’t you know who, in my opinion, is a hundred times worse than you were? But doomed?” “Who? ” “The nerd from Dolfos.” That’s what we called in our friendly, scholarly slang a poor , very short-sighted boy from Zamora, a classmate and also our roommate the previous year. He was a timid, dull, sad boy, the most tenacious and diligent of us all, because, orphaned by both father and mother, his tuition was paid for with the money of an almost octogenarian grandmother, who had told him: “I don’t want to die without seeing you as an engineer.” His real name was Restituto Suárez; But because of his homeland and his sad appearance, or, as the Portuguese say, _soturno_, we had named him _Dolfos_. “What’s wrong with him?” I asked. “What could be wrong with him? It’s natural. Brains are like stomachs; not everyone can resist the same meal, and a heavy meal at that: not everyone is capable of dining on lobster, for example. The poor fellow has had indigestion from his binge of _binomials_ and _polynomials_, _invariants_ and _covariants_, _canonizers of cubics_, and other such weeds. Do you think the only thing to do is to shove that into the mind of a poor mind, a poor mind without any _humus_? Of course! like shove… shove it in, with a mallet and chisel, by dint of spending many sleepless nights, of suppressing all exercise, and of brutalizing oneself. The unfortunate Dolfos has not enjoyed, one might say, a day off since he became a student. has ever said to a woman: “Rot there.” If that’s what living is…! And now he’s sick; really sick. He won’t eat; he has a soft cough, which I don’t like at all; he’s thinner than a ghost… and he’s always been giving books a try. He wants to win the year at all costs. If he doesn’t win the Sacramental… We agreed that I would go visit Dolfos soon. As we approached the corner onto Calle Alcalá, Portal gave me a shove, letting out a shout. “Look… look who’s going over there…” I turned my head. At the short trot of a nag, not very fiery or of very pure blood, Belén, my sinner, rolled up the avenue where she reclined, provocative and timid at the same time, as women of her trade are wont to do. Tightly cinched in by the corset, enhanced by the green cloth dress and the round beaver hat with feathers, Belén looked like what she really was: a great woman, worthy of knocking any splendid protector into the abyss. Christ, how soon she guided us! Because we were positioned in such a way that she couldn’t have passed without seeing us. Her big eyes shone: joy spilled over her beautiful face, pale and slightly touched with bleach; in her agitation, she couldn’t even tell the coachman to stop. I guessed her intentions, and dragging my friend along, I walked away after greeting Belén with a smile. “She’s capable of getting us into the carriage,” I said to Portal. “Let’s flee.” Already in Independence Square, I asked her about _Mo_. “What does Great Britain say?” “Yesterday I was introduced to her parents’ house,” my friend replied. ” Another day I’ll tell you… or, rather, I’ll take you there. You’ll see what people!” Chapter 3. I wrote Mama a legitimate student’s letter, which broke hearts by exaggerating my situation and the state of my wardrobe. “The impossible cape. I asked a shabby tailor how much it would cost to fix it, and he said twenty-five pesetas if he put on good covers, and twenty if he put on inferior ones. Since the poor thing is so tronitis, I think the ones that should be charged are of the latter kind . My hat, even more indecent than the cape; where it has fur, which isn’t everywhere by any means, it ‘s green, almost emerald-colored, and where it doesn’t, it’s covered with an iridescent varnish of grease, or rubber, or I don’t know what, that makes one’s stomach turn to look at it. Item: My best trousers are threatening to tear. The worst ones have already torn, and besides, they all fit my arms better than my legs. Enough of the calamities for today, but let it be known that I need clothes desperately.” Every mother attends to these demands if she has a single penny left. Mother sent me money to clothe me, although at the same time she urged me to be as frugal as possible, complaining bitterly, for a change, about my uncle. It’s true that my living in her house saved her some of the lodging expenses; but on the other hand, the doctor’s expenses, which hadn’t been lax, the pharmacy’s, and all the other expenses, of whatever kind, fell on the poor lady, overwhelming her precisely that year, when the income had been cut by half due to emigration and the cheapness of wheat from abroad. Mixed in with these economic woes were others that belonged to the realm of sentiment. My mother regretted that the seriousness of my illness had been hidden from her , because, of course, to come see me at such times, she would never lack money. He added —with his gracious way of confusing and juggling the most incoherent things—warm protests against Doctor Saúco, a boy from our country, “as Galician as we are,” who, after a year of being in Madrid looking for a living, already believed he had the right to charge a duro per visit, which was a real scandal. “The doctor from Cebre, who has been practicing for so long, treats me for six ferrados of wheat a year.” Forty-something duros for a doctor! My mother had this fact nailed to her heart, and, in her opinion, the fact that Doctor Saúco was Galician made the exorbitant amount of money even more scandalous. her fees. The pharmacy bills my uncle had sent her also horrified her. The medicines forced upon her must have been laced with gold. In short, the point is that I had gotten ahead, and was already healthy and handsome and with a full beard… For me, the point is that I had acceptable clothes, and with them I could present myself to people in a manner appropriate to the expansions and extensions of my body and the efflorescence of my beard. As soon as I was dressed from head to toe again, wearing a cheap, yet pleasantly colored and moderately cut mid-season suit, it seemed to me that I had regained true health. Until then, my illness had not ceased; it still weighed on me in the form of meager and poor clothing. When I went out into the street, I carried, frolicking inside me, a boisterous and childish joy, more appropriate for some brat than for a full-fledged, bearded man . The shell of clothing, the indispensable requirement or passport that society demands of us, has such an influence on our spirit ! Once that vague feeling of nostalgia I’d felt in the first moments of my convalescence dissipated, a kind of surge of vitality, a yearning for movement, set in. This translated into visiting all my acquaintances, making new acquaintances, going out, talking… everything except the necessary and desperate dedication to study. Books inspired boredom in me, a boredom I tried to hide from myself out of shame, but which was real and present; my head felt rusty, and the hinges of my understanding and memory refused to function. The first time I experienced this phenomenon, it filled me with a kind of terror. “I can’t, I can’t! Oh my God, what will become of me this year?” Two or three times I made the painful effort that consists of straining the will to force the intelligence to concentrate and function methodically, without going off on a tangent or surrendering to a sleepy inertia. The rogue refused to obey. And yet, my body, capricious and brimming with vitality, resisted restraint and confinement. My greatest desire was to flaunt, stroll, sunbathe, pause here and there aimlessly, stroll simply for the pleasure of feeling that my muscles and tendons possessed the elasticity and vigor of a gymnast. As often happens in years when the vital current is still ascending, after my illness I found myself more spirited than before, and the surge of spring sap, combined with my impetuous health, spurred me on, causing an internal, volcanic, semi-painful boiling. My first visit was to Calle del Clavel, to Doña Jesusa’s guesthouse . I found it as always, tidy, peaceful, as clean as possible, with its singing goldfinch in the same corner of the hallway; and its identical tenants, each following the slope of their character. I found Trinito sprawled out, lazing about, and poor Dolfos studying furiously. The Cuban, in those final days of his studies, needed nothing more than a quick review; his memory got him through trouble. Dolfos, on the other hand, whose powers of comprehension and assimilation diminished with the progressive weakness of his body and cerebral anemia, spent the day, and perhaps the night, hunched over his deadly book. How miserable he was! When he stood up to embrace me, I had that involuntary recoil we make when faced with death painted on a face. The regular was a specter. On his yellow face, not even his dull, astonishing eyes shone. What was clearly visible, due to the gauntness of his cheeks, were his dark teeth set in his pale, flaccid gums. His ears protruded from his skull in a terrifying way, as if they were about to fall to the ground. I felt his clammy hand between mine, and I noticed in it together the burning fever and the sweat of approaching agony. His breath was already the decomposition of a stomach that has no digestive juices. I told him the usual nonsense and vulgarity. “Take care… It seems to me you’re plowing too much… It’s not good to exaggerate… Number one above all… Prudence, prudence. Why don’t you go out and Are you taking on country airs? I find you a bit thin!… And the maniac, with an almost pleading smile, begging for excuses, answered me: “You see, now, for what’s missing… There are few bad fairies, as you say; only until June… After examining me and leaving safely… bang! home, with the old lady… She’s going to be delirious with joy… she’s going to start dancing, although she can’t move from her little chair. And me!” Interrupted at each word by a cough that seemed to come from a broken pot. “I… look, I… to be frank… very happy too. Because, boy, you’re right… it’s too much subjection, and as for this summer… I assure you, I’ll have to chase rabbits and drink must. No; it even occurs to me that this kind of life… will be harmful… to my health.” The food isn’t doing me any good, and I have a little… oh! just a little… expectoration. But it’s not worth it; I know the remedy. As soon as we get to Zamora… “Well, look,” I urged, “whatever’s best… do it soon. Those things that concern health, in time… because if not… who knows what you’re exposing yourself to? Come on, today you’re going for a walk with me… ” The regular became alarmed, as if I were proposing a crime. “A walk? You’re crazy. You don’t pay attention to what I have to do! Those damned _ports and maritime signals_ and that… indecent… _public works legislation_… you see it’s not the most difficult part…! Well, they just don’t sink in. Sometimes I think my head is a skimmer: I throw paragraphs and more paragraphs into it… In a minute there’s not a drop left. Oh! If only I could squeeze, squeeze my brains! Don’t believe it! One day I even tied a handkerchief around my temples… What’s gone now are the migraines I suffered from at the beginning. The least of it. I don’t even have to go to bed in the dark. Only… the stomach problem… But if I go to some mineral waters this year… Saúco already told me I’d be as good as new. What I have is nervousness, purely nervousness… A desire to finish. I left him with his consoling hopes and his honest and absurd obstinacy , to find out how good old Trini was doing. Ah! In terms of money, he was utterly bad: not a penny to make a blind man dance. But in exchange, in terms of glory… _ssss!_ Trinito, who possessed the same disastrous facility for everything, had learned the slang or caló of newspaper criticism, unscrupulously _copying_ phrases and even entire concepts from well-known and celebrated writers; And without omitting either the cold, humorous remarks that the genre demands, or a few amended and secondhand quotations, he would lavishly praise the world’s most distinguished masters and composers; for for now his specialty was music criticism, although he harbored sinister intentions of moving into art, drama, and literature, if necessary. Since few authors dedicate themselves to the field of music criticism, and he does _do well_ in a newspaper, although few readers find out about it, Trinito had quickly succeeded in getting a very authoritative and popular newspaper to “open its columns” for him; and for every musical event that occurred, he foisted on the subscribers two and a half of those columns that had been opened for him. He didn’t charge a cent for his prose; but his critical forays earned him free admission to theaters and concerts, acquaintances with singers, etc.; and he hoped that later , when he “made himself known,” they would bring him greater benefits. Portal was very funny describing Trini’s articles. “The most colossal pompadour of the century. He speaks the same of Mozart and Beethoven, as if he had addressed them as if he had been a child. He guesses Arrigo Boito’s intentions, and Saint Saëns must not be careless or fall, there will be no forgiveness for him. It’s a pleasure to see him confront Ambrosio Thomas, asking him if he thinks that path is going somewhere, and throwing himself like a cat into Wagner’s eyes when he falls into monotony. I assure you, the boy is divine. And with the singers? He put that poor Sgarbi back in my face and half because he says he didn’t get into some cavatina on time. He was with Sgarbi, about the delay, as if the unfortunate woman owed him money or had given him the cold shoulder. You already know how clumsy, how meek Trinito is on a daily basis… Well, when he writes, he’s like a dragon. He devours people . I also visited the house of Pepa Urrutia, my former employer in Biscay, because of the interest the disastrous Botello always inspired in me. I was disappointed. Botello had disappeared, perhaps swallowed by the dark mouth of poverty or thrown into unknown regions by the harsh hand of necessity. Pepa’s house was overflowing with students of Architecture and Mining, with some passing guests; and the place of Don Julian, that Valencian schemer who had once ruled the roost, was occupied, as I was able to infer from some indiscretions of the guests, among whom was one quite well known to me, Mauricio Parra, the lord of Téllez de los Roeles de Porcuna, a penniless nobleman, a man well advanced in years, of majestic presence, but more deranged than Botello himself, if more deranged were possible. This man came to Madrid on serious and extremely important business, for it involved nothing less than a land suit brought against perhaps the most illustrious house of our nobility, for he sought to recover some estates that were held by him quite against all reason and law. Every day, at the round table, the good Mr. Téllez de los Roeles recounted the causes, origins, bases, reasons, and foundations of his undisputed right to the two estates of Solera de Hijosa and Mohadín, which the ducal house of Puenteancha unjustly retained , citing the privilege granted to his ancestor, the Master of Alcántara, by virtue of which his line, adorned with the gift of masculinity, was unquestionably destined to succeed. I saw Mr. Téllez when Mauricio Parra presented him to me without ceremony, and I could not help but admire the evident aristocratic style of his figure, which was elongated, well-bearded like those of the apostles of the Museums, with a broad forehead crowned with dignity by gray locks; his height was impressive, his hands were fine, and his entire person was imbued with a character of authority, resignation , and almost mystical sadness that commanded consideration and respect. The very shabbiness of his clothing, threadbare and carefully brushed, made him endearing; the way his coat draped him was elegant, and his appearance never betrayed neglect, slovenliness, or sordidness. Looking at Señor Téllez, I judged the young students who supposed such a decent person to have extralegal influence over Pepa Urrutia to be malicious and shameless. Was he capable of exerting such influence? Was it not rather that the landlady’s heart, naturally soft and charitable, had melted even further upon seeing the relative of the Duke and Duchess of Puenteancha, successor to the Marquisate of Mohadín de los Infantes and perhaps to one or two grandeurs, reduced to the greatest poverty? The truth is that Pepita professed inexplicable veneration for Señor de Téllez; that everything seemed too little for her indulgence; It is well-founded to believe that he never presented the account to him, and that he was deliriously interested in the success of the Marquis of Mohadín’s claims… _in partibus infidelium_. That original character made a great impression on me, with whom I later had to establish relations that have no bearing on the course and development of this story. I would gladly tell the story of the respectable litigant, if I had the talents of a storyteller; but it is so strange that it will not be forgotten; it will compel the attention of those who spend their lives scrutinizing the recesses of another’s heart, perhaps to distract themselves from nostalgia for their own. I close the list of distractions I encountered during my convalescence, and with which I thought I could deceive the tyrannical affection that dominated my soul, by saying that I entered two very different social circles: the home of a lady who held meetings, and that of an important political figure, party leader, writer and scholar, to whom I was introduced by Mauricio Parra, who was one of his fervent followers. I also took communion, and with no less devotion in the belief that Mauricio; I counted myself among the devotees of that illustrious republic, whom I will call Don Alejo Nevada, and I recognized him as my leader when my amorous passions gave way to politics. I also believed, or rather, wished, that political enthusiasm would erase my other concerns, for I found myself in one of those moments in which we sincerely propose to combat our madness, applying all the derivatives known to science. My enthusiasm for Nevada filled me with hope that his sight and refreshing treatment would calm my mind, bringing me to that path of straight lines, which I had unluckily abandoned, to which the stern figure of the one I inwardly called my leader was supposed to help me return. I never set foot in his house without the religious emotion of a neophyte. I have noticed that when we approach famous figures, who are talked about everywhere and judged with very different and contradictory criteria, sometimes with the most savage rudeness and the most inconsiderate and poisonous slander; whom day after day the caricatures, the satires of the rags, and the malicious and barking loose candids of the political section expose to public shame; I have noticed, I say, that when we approach these figures, it seems that insult, slander, the smoke and dust of battle have placed a halo on them, and far from moving us to irreverence, everything we have heard and read redoubles our respect. I entered the residence of Don Alejo Nevada, possessed of that involuntary respect —which many, considering ridiculous, conceal under a vulgar and tasteless frankness . The house, however, had nothing imposing about it, except for its austere simplicity and its deliberate abstention from cheap modern luxury, dazzling to the unwary. The building was old, spacious, and high-ceilinged. After the reception, we rested in a room adorned with vast shelves crammed with books. There we waited, and newspapers were read or discussions held in hushed tones, while my turn arose to be ushered into the adjoining office and greet the great man. When my turn came, I entered dazed and blind, tangling in the furniture and tripping over chairs. When I shook Nevada’s hand, my right hand was moistened with a light sweat, and my heart was pounding. I was unable to utter more than stammering and clumsy phrases. I became aware of my lack of poise, and the cold kindness with which Nevada seated me next to him and asked me questions only stunned me. Little by little, however, my circulation returned to normal, and the fog that had obscured Nevada’s features until then dissipated: I clearly saw his wise man’s face, which seemed to have emerged from some medieval triptych, his snowy beard, his calm eyes, asleep behind his glasses, his rosy cheeks like a porcelain figure, the angular lines of his features, the calmness of his movements. That impassivity, untainted by any arrogance, that simplicity and tepidity of expression, that icy word, which served as a verb for an abstract, prophetic, and patient policy, seemed to me then the height of wisdom. Nothing could be more different from how we usually imagine an agitator and a radical than that peaceful old man, resembling the ceramic figurines that portray old age in the art of the peoples of the East. Nevada, with her affable, mellow demeanor and stiff conversation, wonderfully embodied the _straight lines_ that should predominate in my mind. So I recovered my courage, also appreciated the appearance of the office, and each and every detail contributed to strengthening my consideration in my spirit. Such modesty and seriousness captivated me. The armchair my boss occupied, made of black leather with large, gold studs; the wide table; the shelves loaded with books and reaching up to the ceiling, the same as those in the antechamber; the shelves, which instead of rich knick-knacks, displayed plaster reproductions, the cheapest and most modest art one can possess; the large photographs and engravings, the only adornment on the walls—everything revealed the same formality, the same lack. of pretensions, and the same purpose of escaping vulgarity through Spartan sobriety; and scientific interests were indicated by the observation instruments placed in other corners: thermometers and gyroscopes made by Benot or Echegaray, a microscope, a beautiful box of compasses. The republican’s conversation was like his nest: muffled, dull, without any brilliance, although at times important and firm, and at others profound. His words, spoken in a voice without inflection, a gray voice, and in a vernacular style, were engraved in my brain as if inscribed by a steely stylus. When I finally let my enthusiasm overflow somewhat, revealing it in two or three sentences, not a muscle or fiber of that face quivered ; the eyes didn’t shine, the glasses did; I didn’t observe in his countenance either the expansion of vanity, nor the unconscious effusion of sympathy that responds to sympathy; He only answered my protests with an inert “Come on, come on.” Nevada ‘s placidity drove me to extremes in my vehemence, determined to wring the spark from the piece of flint; I remember telling him I was determined to do anything and that he should consider me an “available recruit.” The chief then asked me my name and address, and carefully, with a steady hand, wrote it down in a book. I learned later that he also carried, on slips of paper, like a library catalog, the index of all the party committees in Spain, and it seemed to me that such an idea of cataloging, of classification, and of method, introduced into the heat of a youthful and enthusiastic communication, painted the perfect picture. I left just as a strong supporter of the party entered, a nobleman of such high birth as well as a substantial estate, a type quite different and opposite to Nevada’s, a head of energetic design, southern, breathing passion, molded with deep features and bold curves, as if in the lava of Vesuvius. The contrast between those two political figures made their close bond and friendship striking. Despite the presence of the distinguished figure, Nevada, upon saying goodbye, escorted me to the door. I continued going to my boss’s house on Sunday mornings, becoming fond of the gatherings in the anteroom, where current issues were discussed. The conversation, in addition to political miasmas, was occasionally laced with intellectual overtones, especially if Mauricio Parra was there. I tried to introduce Luis Portal there ; but the Orense native refused, because, as he said, ” No one but the devout enter that hermitage , and you know that I… nequaquam.” Our polemics in the anteroom were held in hushed tones. We generally read the newspapers, which piled up in great cascades on the central table. The prominent figures at the meeting were a winegrower’s trustee, a wealthy and influential man who often held high municipal offices; A certain socialist typographer, whom we sometimes, in our anxiety as fledgling conspirators, suspected of being an agent provocateur and secretly involved in Cánovas’s policy; a Zorrillista priest who never formed an opinion on anything divine or human until he had consulted Don Manuel, who resolved the matter—and the student element, not infrequent nor peaceful. So much so that often, when the distinguished gentleman or some other high- ranking figure entered, and when we heard the alternating murmur of conversation in the neighboring office, we were seized with a craving for that argumentative atmosphere that has long been the proper environment of Spanish politics; and, overcome by our whim, we resorted to the expedient of going to another floor of the same house, the editorial office of a Masonic newspaper, where the minutes of the Grand Orient of Mantua, the legitimate one, the one adjusted to the ancient Scottish rite, were published. There we could raise the bar and speak as we pleased. Mauricio Parra was in charge. That boy, endowed with intelligence no less than that of my friend Luis, was his opposite pole, in the sense that he had a combative temperament, a bitter and unruly character, very little compromise, a decided fondness for contradiction, and beneath these thorns and thistles, a great depth of tenderness and perhaps a candor. That the sagacious Portal does not suffer from. Life, with its friction and wear, had not managed to smooth the angles of Mauricio’s character, nor to attenuate the crudeness of his generally paradoxical opinions. As an example of this, I will quote what I said about my career and the spirit that dominates it. “Leave me alone,” Mauricio exclaimed angrily. “Your career , as it is understood here, is a career, if not of obstacles, then of nonsense. You study, there is no doubt, ten times more than French and Belgian engineers; but you study things that are damned lacking in the practice of the profession. Here we upset all careers by wanting to elevate them to their most sublime elements, disregarding the merely useful; and then it turns out that our engineers make plays, make laws, make politics, they do everything except railroads, bridges, and factory assembly. Do you want to know what, for me, is the ideal of an engineer?” The man who conscientiously supervises the construction of a railway, and on the day of the inauguration receives the commissioners and the King in a tailcoat, and immediately, when it comes to the King traveling along the line, takes off his tailcoat, puts on his blouse, climbs onto the locomotive, and acting as engineer, takes the train to the end of the journey. My father’s son wouldn’t get on a train directed by Echegaray or Sagasta! That fierce mathematical gymnastics, do you want to tell me what it’s for? In France, an engineer doesn’t study the theory of his profession for three years, and then he becomes a centralier, and his blouse is on, and practice, and practice, and more practice! Whereas here, you may know a lot about scientific bunnola… but you don’t know how to make what a master builder does: a wall! “Well!” someone would answer, scandalized. “Not so much, for God’s sake! ” “Not a wall!” I stand by it. You are, at this point, what doctors were back in the 18th century: people crammed with formulas, and without the slightest sense of reality. Doctors then stood on Aristotle; you are now on Euclid. A lot of nonsense of theories and propositions, a lot of abstract knowledge, and no anatomy or professional clinical practice. You look clumsy even for the simplest things. Someone asks you for a model of a bridge, for example, and you go to crazy trouble, spend five months, calculate everything very well, strengths, distances, bending coefficients… only for them to tell you later at Creusot: “Well , yes, sir, all that is excellent, and very meritorious and very laudable, you are very strong in calculations…” But you have wasted your time pitifully, because here we have little models of bridges already made, the results of which are known from experience, and by asking for model No. 2, or No. 3, you’d get out of this mess without so much trouble.” ” But that,” I exclaimed indignantly, “is making us practically less than artisans! Suppress us, and let the road foremen replace us. ” “Then make my profession into a priesthood, and leave the bridges in the air or open tunnels that later become theater glasses,” the furious paradoxist responded. “Have you ever seen Edisons or Eiffels graduate from any special school? Don’t you know that Eiffel tells anyone who will listen to him to “learn mathematics”? Do you think it’s healthy and good, in something of an eminently practical nature, to condemn practice to nothing, as you do? And besides, isn’t it painful to see students reduced to such a state that, in those years of their studies, the most flowery and artistic part of life, they have neither the time nor the mind to acquire any kind of knowledge but purely technical ones?” It’s a pain to see kids spend their youth without even acquiring that veneer so necessary today, which is called _general culture_ , and which is like the clean shirt of understanding. You come out of there flat, with brain atrophy, with brains filled with numbers. You and Portal are among the most lucid in the School, not in your career perhaps, but in terms of what you have tried. You, by leaps and bounds, acquire some ideas, read something other than the textbook. You retain a certain intellectual sap, which would be much greater if you weren’t subjected to this depressive regime. Your friend Luis is a stubborn man; a great statesman, an economist, could come from him… I don’t know! And you, who have so much sensitivity, so much imagination… why shouldn’t you be an artist, or a writer, or…? “Well, if you don’t want Echegaray to write plays,” I objected, “how do you advise me to study literature instead of my subjects?” Mauricio wasn’t the type to let himself be caught red-handed. He evaded matters with sophisticated skill. We attributed his great hatred for the school to the fact that he had once had to leave it through the carriage door . Chapter 4. The lady who held meetings lived on the first floor of my uncle’s house . She was the widow of an Undersecretary, and in her youth she must have boasted of being elegant; today she had white hair, exuberant figures, a curved nose, a demeanor somewhere between severe and saccharine, and all the pretensions expressed in her two pairs of daughters, girls of the dull, nervous, and lymphatic variety, whose uselessness and intolerable dullness are the combined fruit of a dull life, a lack of education, narrow-mindedness, and frivolity. “You can’t get enough of those four heads to make a brain-fry,” Luis asserted. The young ladies of the first were living proof that my friend was right to insist on the need to create a new woman, distinct from the general mesocratic type. Who could endure ordinary life with such dummies? They spent all day at the window, sometimes between glass panes, sometimes with their bodies out. When they weren’t doing this, perched like parrots, they tormented the piano, rummaged through figurines, chatted about fashions, read salon magazines to snoop on weddings and the outfits of the posh , criticized their friends, snooped around in the neighbors’ houses, looked at themselves in the mirror, or turned their hats and suits. Lacking any other kind of knowledge, their mother instilled in them ideas of trivial social propriety, explaining day and night what was “well-liked” and “unlikely” seen, what young ladies “could” and “couldn’t” do; already, to those children, capable of establishing telegraphic communication with the first scamp who passed by on the border sidewalk, it seemed as impossible to walk alone to the street corner as it was to take a train to the moon. In the absence of their mother —who suffered from the beginnings of valvular narrowing and couldn’t walk far—they were accompanied by a coarse and shameless maid, and with such excellent support, the girls dared to go out shopping, to mass, to the homes of trusted friends, while all four of them, together, but without the mare, wouldn’t have dared to even pick up a spool of thread from the store across the street. The fundamental moral notion inspired in the Barrientos girls was inseparability. Their mother went out of her way to impress upon her four offspring that the key to sisterhood lay not only in dressing so identically that if one of the sisters bought, for example, a rooster-head pin, the others would search all the stores in Madrid looking for three more identical roosters, but also in walking and, I think, even sneezing at the same hours and in the same way. When one of them had a headache, the other three would stop her from going out; if one of them learned, as a hobby, to saw wood, it was inevitable that the rest would develop the same obsession, filling the house with tiny little boxes and Gothic buildings five inches high; if one of them learned a certain piano sonata, the others had to learn it, and if one of them got up and left the study, the others would follow in a row like cranes. The mother, seeing them subjected to the regime of enforced brotherhood, would exclaim, drooling: “How close they are!” And those present would approve: “Oh! So close… It’s a pleasure!” “I was really scared to see a family like that!” According to Portal, whom I had introduced to Mrs. Barrientos, “what really excited me was the thought of preparing future wives and mothers of families on such a diet; the thought that those sawdust-stuffed dolls would, in time, be the foundation of a home, companions for an intelligent man who had tasted the bitterness and struggles of life, exercised his brain, developed his ideas, and contracted the need to express them. ” “I,” Luis exclaimed, “would kill myself if they ordered me to tie myself to the yoke with one of those insubstantial ones! Don’t think that I prefer your ideal ! Between the auntie and the Barrientos girls, I’d be left with neither; your uncle’s wife, who in my opinion is somewhat crazy, is a woman of another age, who happened to be born in the present century, adorned with virtues I don’t need and convictions that hinder me; And those from Barrientos, a pair of silly little coquettes who I don’t see the need for were born in this century or any other, because they’re damned if they’re good for anything. Believe me, kid. Any man with half a brain will be saddled with them after two months and administer some alkaloid. God save me from such plebs! Who’s saddled with those swindles? It was easy to guess who, since the Barrientos girls all had boyfriends, although with very different marital prognostications: two were in white-collar suits, and two were just for fun. The white-collar ones were aimed at the second and third-oldest girls, Aurora and Concha; the ones for entertainment were aimed at the eldest and youngest, Camila and Raimunda. The white-collar ones were a pair of good-looking lads, one hoping for the notary’s office and the other for the captain’s effectiveness, to offer their necks for the yoke; and the entertainment team, two law students, partners in those affairs, gossiping friends, but more suspicious of the Vicariate than a bull run from a goad. Since Barrientos’s girls were “so close,” I must truthfully say that when I attended their soirees it was impossible for me not to confuse them, and also their boyfriends, in a sometimes very comical way. Seeing them glued to their respective damsels, I managed to orient myself; but as soon as the duets broke up, I was left without a clue as to which one was Raimunda’s or which one was Concha’s. The amorous rigodon made me so dizzy that it got into my head that Aurora’s boyfriend, the future notary, a very proper and sweet young man, the best of the four suitors, spoke more with Camila, the eldest of the sisters, than with his girlfriend herself. Camila must have been twenty-six or twenty-seven years old, and although she conformed to the uniform pattern of fraternal insignificance, it seemed to me that sometimes, especially when Raimunda sang along with her on the piano, a different woman would reveal herself , certainly not at all spiritual. When she modulated the notes of some tango or ditty, her lips would part, the hoarse , lulling song would burst forth from them like a hot jet, her eyes would cloud over, and a kind of faintness would transform her pallid face. That poor young woman must have been very tired of her long spinsterhood. I would go down to Barrientos’s house with the marmoset once a week, on Thursdays, the day designated for receptions. Not knowing what to do, and unable to engage Carmiña in conversation, I would leave it to Camila, which distracted me somewhat, because slowly, beneath the artifice of her conventional education, the most fiery nature I had ever encountered was being revealed. The proximity of an individual of my sex produced in Camila an effect that she concealed by dissembling; sometimes she adopted the candid and silly expression of her sisters, but she could not always control her eyes or her telltale physiognomy. If I had not been so subjugated by another order of feelings, Camila would have been a danger to me; and not because I liked her, for I did not like her a little or a lot, but because women of such a condition do not need to be liked to constitute a risk. They are the classic fire next to the tow. At the Barrientesque soirees, tití manifested herself as befits her state, abstaining from anything that might be profane: always moderate in dress and adornment, she was as willing to chat, in the corner of the sofa, with the formal ladies, as she was to type out polkas and rigodons for the young people to dance. What she never agreed to do was play the piano there formally. I don’t know if the marmoset was a teacher, or something less: surely a notable amateur. It is impossible to get better out of a dry, ungrateful, and hard instrument like the piano, in which sound is not linked to sound except by the intelligence and sensitivity of the performer. Carmiña’s playing could not be compared to that cascade of sonorous, metallic, and brilliant notes that are so applauded at concerts; I never saw her break into a sweat while playing, nor do I recall her skipping a string in the rush of a series of octaves or a double chromatic scale. Her manner was noted for its softness, smoothness, nuance, and restraint. She never made a mistake , nor did she apply the pedal when it wasn’t necessary. She had taste in choosing pieces: I don’t remember her studying fantasies on themes from any opera. She would, indeed, take the entire opera and read it, rambling, dwelling more on the recognizably beautiful passages, and demonstrating when translating them that she had understood their hidden meaning very well, including the passionate ones. Her favorite pieces were sonatas by Beethoven or Schumann. She also played church music, but she said she wouldn’t lend herself a piano, and that she fancied a good harmonium. A whim, alas! that showed little sign of being fulfilled, since my uncle didn’t seem very inclined to spare money for purely recreational purposes. Every day it was confirmed that my uncle Felipe was suffering a deep crisis: he might not be sick in body, but he must be, and seriously, in spirit. His more sour and acrimonious character, his periods of gloom and silence, the indifference he occasionally lapsed into, indicated that his state of mind was not that of a man favored by fortune, who had triumphed in his petty skirmish for existence and was the owner of a young and enviable wife like Carmiña Aldao. I repeat, I watched him incessantly. I was occupied with nothing else; although I was apparently distracted, I always returned to the focus or center of my sentimental life, which was Carmiña and her husband—and I still believe I should reverse the order. Hatred can be more irritating and active than love, and out of hatred I became the anatomist of two souls. The story of my mad passion for the marmoset was reduced to espionage, for it was enough for me to know the vicissitudes of her spirit, judging myself happy if they were in accord with those of my own. Well then: around the time I’m referring to—the month of May—I had to notice, no mistake, that my uncle’s inexplicable bitterness toward his wife took on the character of absolute deviance. This deviance, gradually becoming more pronounced, manifested itself openly in two symptoms. The first was so significant on the material level that it would leave no doubt even to the most ignorant. In the house, adjacent to the study, there was a study or inner bedroom, plastered, which served as a wardrobe: there my uncle hung his clothes, there he hung some cumbersome junk, and there he washed. In this extra bedroom there was also an iron bedstead, folded up and pushed up against the wall. I was able to ascertain that at the beginning of May the bed received mattresses and sheets, and my uncle spent his nights in it. The second indication, purely moral, was even more illuminating for me and gave me greater inner satisfaction. It was possible to perceive in the marmoset’s countenance and entire person—from the moment this separation took place— a most favorable change. Have you seen the limp, withered flower, which, when its stem is delicately cut with scissors and placed in water, raises its head, acquires color, freshness, and grace, and blooms, bursting forth from the glass vase? For thus revived the incomparable woman, when, without her intervention, without having to accuse herself of anything, the bond that had unluckily tightened her generous decision was loosened. Surely the martyrs of Christian legend would have gone to their execution in high spirits , singing many hymns and whatever else you like; but let’s imagine that without needing to burn incense before idols, or to apostatize from the faith, or to receive a sad libel, in those terrible moments, they would have obtained the preservation of the sweet life… and believe me, the martyrs, especially being young and full of hope, would be so happy. So what? Didn’t the Son of Man himself, in the Garden, turn to his Father, imploring that the cup be passed from him, if possible? My uncle didn’t have to drink the cup now. It wasn’t her fault if her husband walked away. She could fulfill her moral program, be good at all costs, and at the same time not taste the gall of such bitter duties. I saw Carmiña’s black eyes regain their brilliance and the moist softness of happiness; that her dark circles, losing their purple color, only surrounded her eyes with a light, dark ring; that her complexion was losing the hue of stagnant and repressed bile, acquiring the pearly glow that blood lends when it circulates normally; that even her good appetite and her laughter betrayed the balance of her functions. My aunt was becoming more beautiful. Her satisfaction was revealed even in the way she struck the keys. Joyful and brilliant waltzes, cadenced polkas, sprang from her fingers, leaping like playful, winged butterflies in a thicket. Rapid arpeggios, marches, and sonorous gallops emerged from her little hands, now rounded and full, like those of happy women. At other times she returned to Schumann and Beethoven, but with a calm languor that gave those dreamy ramblings even greater charm. The keys no longer groaned, nor did they pray, or at least their prayer resembled fervent thanksgiving. Even in Carmiña’s dress, I thought I could detect signs of that moral rebirth that gives value to external objects and leads us to reflect in them the state of our spirit. She was more composed; her hairstyle, always simple, had some touches of modest coquetry ; sometimes she pinned a sprig of lilac to her chest; at other times, a pretty , clean white fichu brightened her usually dark dress. On this occasion, I had a thousand reasons to speak to her alone, because my uncle left home under various pretexts and was always lobbying for politics, weaving minor intrigues related to his summer plans in Pontevedra and the influence he hoped to regain there. Local tyrannies, although they require frequent trips to court, also require the tyrant to reside in their domains. My uncle suffered what happens to many chieftains of his same meager stature: lacking the ability to fly on their own in Madrid, they manage to dominate a province thanks to the favor of higher- ranking figures ; but lacking this pillar, the attack of another mediocre figure shakes their ephemeral power. My uncle’s adversary was Dochán, a groveling, ambitious little fellow of supreme skill, who had already undermined his every path and taken every turn. He had begun by founding, against El Teucrense, another little newspaper called La Aurora de Helenes; this barking and scurrilous piece filled its three pages with attacks on my uncle and certain of his henchmen who, ignored by Sotopeña, were leaning toward the conservative or reformist party, solely as a resource; because they saw the Saint indifferent to their complaints, deaf, from the top of the niche, to their postulates, and now they allowed themselves from time to time, certain that nothing would be achieved by means of incense, to appeal to intimidation and direct stabs at him. What a broad and generous hand and heroic patience the blessed Saint needed to satisfy all his fellow countrymen, who based on his miracles the aspiration of making the budget of the fifth Galician province! My uncle _La Aurora_ was giving it to him with the wire. Daily deals and shady deals came to light: the rental of the house for the Post Office, the famous lots, the highway files … everything, everything; the eternal misery of the scandals of province, garbage endlessly removed, never buried, not out of vengeful indignation, but out of personal hatred, or out of despair that someone else had been the author of the misdeed and also a beneficiary. Aside from the insults, he was also exposed to the hardness of his heart, oblivious to family affections, and his war against Luciano Aldao, whom he besieged with hunger, blocking his path to the coveted prebend of the Hospital: indeed, my uncle displayed horrific ferocity against his brother-in-law: if he could, he would reduce him to misery. I have said that I often found myself alone with Carmiña, sitting near the piano, listening to her play with the keys, or watching her doing her sewing and sorting the clothes, a domestic task she performed wonderfully. To say that it didn’t occur to me to take a decisive step would be a lie. Naturally, I thought not only of the possibility of declaring my love, but of the likelihood of surprising virtue asleep, and robbing her of her slumber of what her wakefulness would never grant me. I also thought that the temporary separation of the spouses would aid my purpose… Yes, I thought about everything, and did nothing then. I was afraid, deeply afraid that a slight on my part would spoil what I had already gained: was it not worth more to enjoy such sweet intimacy than to expose myself to a rupture, a punishment, an estrangement? Calm… What could I possibly wish for? With the relationship between her and her master interrupted, almost free, and me at her side… Time would do the rest… or some fortuitous circumstance like my illness , a circumstance I always awaited, with the lively faith of lovers, trusting that our living together and that woman’s solitude would eventually incline her toward me, as imperceptibly as a willow inclines toward water. And so it was. Without being fatuous, I understood that my presence was pleasing; that Carmiña amused herself by chatting with me; that her youthfulness mingled well with my youthfulness; that the interest of her life lay in my company, and that the saint, “painted on a background of gold,” as Portal put it, was gradually emerging from the mystical mist and entering into a more human atmosphere. My very respect, my caution not to frighten her, contributed to capturing my heart. Ah! It was evident: those beautiful days of the Tejo had blossomed again, because sometimes the marmoset’s pupils took on the same expression as the afternoon we went fishing in the estuary; and her voice, inflections very similar to those she had had in the supreme moments of my grave illness… I cannot overstate the sweetness of those close encounters and those conversations, so innocent on a positive level. She was beginning to show me great confidence. She spoke to me several times about family matters, about how Candidiña had written a letter apologizing for her marriage, and she had responded with another one full of good advice. “But I haven’t said anything to Felipe about this,” she added. “He would probably be very angry; and why provoke arguments, bad moods , and nonsense? Don’t you think I did the right thing? I don’t think I’ve done anything reprehensible in answering Candida. What good did we get by snorting at her? She wasn’t going to become more formal about it. On the contrary, perhaps my letter will help to put that foolish woman to rights… Look, I’m telling you this about Candidiña being a foolish woman: God forbid! If the first to discredit a woman are her own relatives, she will never have honor. I want Candida to have honor, since she married my father. I’m looking forward to getting there so I can tire her out with sermons. She’s no fool; I will show her the value of fulfilling her duty. Do you know what I am going to say to her? Well, the following, and in a very categorical tone: “Candida, look, be good, you will not regret it. If you are good, I promise you that even if you have no children, I will make sure that my father leaves you as much as he can; that he will secure your lot for life. My poor father, by the natural order, will not have long to live; he will keep his dignity as long as he lives, and then you will be free… I will make sure that poverty does not affect you.” anguish… I will be your best friend, I will love you very much, I will go with you everywhere , I will not suffer anyone to snub you or to give you a bad trip… I must get you to be on the same wavelength as the whole of Pontevedra… Oh! What were you thinking? With the Governor’s family, with the Marquises of Remo, with the Filgueira family… but don’t shame my father… do you hear? Because then you will have in me the worst enemy… I must impress all this upon the girl… and if this way I achieve nothing!… I hope I will achieve it… I wish!… Cándida is a fool, but I don’t believe she would dare to commit the greatest crime a woman can commit… which is to disrespect her husband. No, she can’t be capable of that! When she spoke like that, articulating words so fatal to me, I would eat her sacred mouth with kisses. “Unfortunately,” she added, “Philip will not allow me to meet with Candida. This I am truly afraid of. My advice would be so beneficial for the unfortunate woman! And it’s not the same… quia! It’s entirely different to advise by letter than by word of mouth. Philip won’t even hear of me meeting her. He says that if he addresses us in public, we must turn our backs on him. I assure you, this has me terribly upset. I promised I would arrange for him to have a clandestine interview with Candida, or that I would go myself to deliver the messages. ” “Bah! No… just your jokes,” replied the aunt. “Brave ambassador! What you would be doing would be to get my stepmother up on her heels. It’s not appropriate. You have neither the formality nor the prestige for such a dispatch of messages. I’m trembling, Sallust… That head… Look: another mess that has me very , very worried is the one involving my brother.” The poor man, burdened with family: every year a boy: Papa doesn’t give him much… and whatever he does give him, insignificant to keep so many little people in line. That’s why he’s applying for the hospital job or some other position… What kind of work would it cost Felipe to support him? Well, he’s waging a war against him… and my brother’s going to get it for Dochán… Imagine the shame! My husband’s greatest enemy! It seems that even Don Vicente Sotopeña expressed surprise and disgust at seeing Felipe slaughter his wife’s closest relative. You already know that Don Vicente Sotopeña is such a family man… Nothing, for Felipe, my brother would starve to death… “You,” I interrupted, “have little to thank your brother for… Remember, he didn’t want you in his house. ” Tití didn’t answer. She blinked, and her large pupils gazed at me for a second. She was undoubtedly becoming more human and emerging from the golden depths. “It doesn’t matter,” she replied . Whether he has behaved well or badly toward me doesn’t mean I don’t wish him luck or think it wrong to harm him. He’s my brother, he has many children, and he’s a neighbor. I don’t know what I wouldn’t give for God to touch Felipe’s heart. I assure you … I saw a favorable opportunity to get down to business, and I said: “Come on, Aunt, confess that you’re not very happy with your spouse.” Chapter 5. Carmiña wasn’t daunted. She had doubtless hoped, ever since we spoke thus confidentially, that sooner or later I would let my tongue slip and the forbidden subject, the eternal conjugal apple, would come out. She was, therefore, ready for combat. “And why shouldn’t I be happy?” she replied, letting a pure crimson appear on her cheeks. “Happiness—don’t laugh at these terms—is within ourselves. He who fulfills his obligation willingly is happy. You won’t deny it to me?” “Shall I not deny it to you? The happiness of a human being consists in fully realizing one’s destiny and the proper ends of life, and one of the most important ends of your sex is love and motherhood. You neither love nor have children; therefore…” When I touched this register, when I struck this poisoned dart against the heart of the noble woman, I saw that she had not expected such a rude attack. She turned the color of scarlet; her eyes narrowed painfully; she first opened her mouth to breathe and drink the air, like someone receiving a tremendous blow, and then closed it, like someone who understands the need to remain silent at all costs. I was able to better understand the The effect my thrust had caused her, and she remained silent. And finally, she came up with this flimsy argument: “When God hasn’t wanted to give me children, He will know why. We should never rebel against the will of God, who knows better than we do what we need. ” “Fine, ordinary; that’s how it is, but it’s one thing to resign oneself, that is, to be annoyed, and another to be happy. You’re not happy. ” “I don’t know where you get that from. It only seems,” she replied, seeking an escape, “that you see me crying in the corners of the house. Well, it seems to me that… ” “Oh, tit!” I exclaimed, approaching under the pretext of rummaging through the thread basket and playing with the spools and the crochet stars. “Oh, tit! The things I could answer you! Oh, if only I could tell you clearly why you don’t cry! Do you think we don’t peer, that we don’t look, that we don’t see others? You silly girl!” Well, I spend my life worrying about what you do… what you feel… listening to your breathing! Shouldn’t I know why this season your body is dancing with joy? I said this with all the passion the situation required. The poor marmoset hadn’t counted on the use of that treacherous knife, with its triangular blade that widens the wound. She changed, and, serious, whole, and firm, she stood up and left the office, heading into the house. Shall I dare relate the outcome of our conference? Yes; because in the story I’m telling, the reader can only see one aspect of the events: the one they represented for me; and it’s through my eyes that they must contemplate the soul of the strong woman. I don’t swear, then, that the facts were as I’m going to relate them; I only affirm that that’s how they appeared to me. It just so happened that the Barrientos ladies were having a party that day. These shenanigans always took place on Thursdays; but this was an extraordinary one, since Thursday coincided with the lady’s day off; she had the bad taste to be called Ascensión, a name extremely difficult to pronounce. The fact is that a ball was being held that night in honor of Doña Ascensión, with a crumb of a homely concert and a small buffet. My aunt dressed and arranged herself with obvious care; she put on her white dress, which she hadn’t worn since her wedding night; she arranged her jewels on her chest and head, not without grace; she powdered herself, curled her hair, somewhat concealing, as fashion demanded, her ample forehead; she half-opened her bodice, revealing her throat, and in short, she tried—remarkably!—to present herself in such a way as to attract attention and desire. She was already dressed up in this way when we sat down at the table; And I noticed that, with a kind of feverish coquetry, she was trying to get her husband to notice her. I was shaken to the core. I can’t explain what she was suffering, and I had prepared that torment myself, sowing suspicion and scruples in the wife’s soul , brutally tearing away the veil she still tried to cover herself with to hide the joy of her emancipation. My words had opened her eyes; in the light of my indiscreet statements, I saw her joy at the rupture of marital intimacy, and she was shocked by such a state, which did not seem orthodox to her, so she resolved to bravely take up her cross and reestablish relations with her husband. She was marching toward union, like a soldier toward the capture of a redoubt, where death will rain down upon his breast. And I was witnessing it, I was seeing it, I was suffering it, I was the involuntary cause of it! When the marmoset was fully adorned, she went to solicit the praises, the flattery, so to speak, of her husband. There was a profoundly tragic element in the actions of that saintly and pure woman, that most modest lady, imitating the artifices of courtesans when they seek to please, not only the indifferent newcomer, but also the very man who inspires repulsion and hatred in them. “What do you think, Felipe?” asked the unhappy woman. “What do you think? Is it all right? Do you like the way I’ve combed my hair? Is this rose doing any harm?” And my uncle—blessing of Providence!—cast a quick, distracted glance upon his wife, responding with profound indifference: “Perfectly… We men understand little of that. Her tricks of sublime and honest coquetry achieved nothing. Nothing, nothing. I had the pleasure of verifying it. But I swallowed no less saliva, nor tasted less bitterness. I would have kissed her feet, calling her a saint and a heroine… and I would have strangled her, considering that the saint was a woman, and this woman was offering herself to another man. The futility of the sacrifice illuminated the face of the pious priestess of the hearth. I read a serene joy on Carmiña’s face, that placid sedation we experience after having survived a great danger, and which lends such a sympathetic expression to the countenance of veteran sailors . The feeling of duty fulfilled joined with the indulgence of fate, to broaden her soul. But she certainly didn’t want me to tell her that; She feared my sagacity. She fled from me in the first few days. It was hard to resume those sweet, savory conversations of the long May afternoons, near the piano or the sewing box. I finally succeeded, and she agreed, once again accepting my confidence as soon as she could see that I made no allusions to the sordid matter. One day, along some slippery path I purposely smeared with soap , the marmoset came to question me about my love affairs and my courtships. She claimed I had a girlfriend. I used to entertain her by telling stories about my friends—the ones who were accountants, of course—for I would cut my tongue before I uttered an offensive word or one of dubious meaning in Carmiña’s ears. Never! And yet, when she asked me about myself, I burst into such a burst of frankness that I spilled everything, absolutely everything related to Belén, choosing forms and terms, but without missing a single comma from the essentials. A whole auricular confession, taking pleasure in sacrificing the black sheep of sin for the sake of virtue. Tití listened to me, his eyes dilated with curiosity, his breast constricted, his brow slightly furrowed; and, at the end, he could not help but exclaim in a dull voice: “Oh, my God! And _that_… continues? Are you going to see _that_… young lady many times? ” “Young lady!” I answered smiling. “What a brave young lady, may God grant us! No, Tití… I will not see that young lady again, as you say… ” “Well; that… woman. ” “That woman. It has been at least fifteen or twenty days since I set foot in that house. If you want me never to set foot there again, all you have to do is say: ‘Sallust, I forbid you to go near Bethlehem.’ And I will never go near it in my life. Nothing, I will not go near it. Word of honor. ” “Well… forbid!… I am nobody to forbid you that.” But it seems very wrong to me, very wrong, that you should go there or anywhere where you sin mortally; and if asking you is the same as ordering you to go… I beg you, don’t go. I beg you. It’s the same. I won’t go, tit, I won’t go. Sin is no big deal to me… but to please you, to please you… do you understand? Well, it doesn’t satisfy me that you do it to please me: you must do it so as not to offend God. Are you content that I don’t? If there’s no bread, cakes are good, she responded cheerfully, revealing that my promise caused her true joy. Malice and vanity! I imagined that she too was moved by a human impulse in begging me not to see the sinner again. Look, I said spontaneously, if I stop going to Bethlehem’s house, don’t thank me a bit. I can swear to you that I don’t love her; that this story doesn’t make me happy. “So why are you going? ” “Pssh… Nonsense one falls into for… for being dull. ” “Isn’t she pretty? ” “Pretty, yes; but what does her beauty matter? An object that doesn’t interest us is never beautiful, titi. This thing about beauty has its catch, like everything else. It’s in the heart. That’s where the beautiful and the ugly are clearly seen . ” I told her this, looking at her with such expressive eyes that, as far as I understand, she couldn’t doubt it. “You’re a fool,” her lips pronounced; but the animation of her face, The involuntary expansion of a smile seemed to murmur: “Thank you, nephew. I’m delighted with what you’re saying.” Soon we had another pretext for confidences and another shared interest. What do you think it was about? Well, an event that, apparently, must have been almost indifferent to both of us. The fact is that my companion Dolfos, the man from Zamora, couldn’t reach the coveted goal of his endeavors. Fate prevented him from completing the great and mortal undertaking. He lacked, to finish the climb, only two steps, a couple of subjects, a pittance; but nature stood firm, saying: “I’m not going any further. All the oil in the lamp has been consumed. I’m not to be trifled with with impunity.” The assiduous man fell into bed, and still, struggling with dyspnea, in the last stage of a caseiform consumption, insidious at first and which at last ran at a full gallop, he still wanted to fill his head with scientific lead. In bed, where he had come down with what he called his “spring cold,” he couldn’t let go of his books, and by a pious trick of the imagination, while the rest of us saw his body in the coffin and his poor, dull brain stuffed with undigested mathematics , he saw the decisive and final exam, the diploma, the departure from Madrid, the arrival in Zamora, and the paralyzed old woman who, upon hearing him, would raise her head, trembling with pleasure, and, unable to move from her armchair, would reach out her hands to touch her beloved grandson’s clothes as soon as possible … My aunt, aware of good Dolfos’s plight, wasn’t as moved by him as she was by the old woman who was waiting for her child, and who, instead of receiving her beloved one, would drop the horrible telegram into her lifeless hands’ lap… “My God, unhappy old woman, unhappy lady!” Carmiña exclaimed, flooded with compassion. Would you believe I dream about her many nights? I don’t know her, but I imagine her; it seems I’m seeing her. It breaks my heart. I don’t know what happens to me when I think about what awaits her. Say, and he’s not apprehensive at all? “Not so much. Full of dreams, convinced that as soon as the warmer weather sets in and this bad spell is over, and they take the exams and he passes and he graduates as an engineer, he’ll head off to Zamora dripping in health. The condition for his recovery is to finish his degree… and the poor fellow doesn’t finish it. ” “Leave him to his daydreams. He’ll have time to know the worst. When the doctor says he’s very seriously ill… that’s for sure… then… we have to prepare him and have him go to confession. Will you give me your word that he won’t go to the other world without the sacraments? ” “I give it to you,” I replied, also giving him my heart in a smile. ” For now, we won’t disabuse him, what for?” “If he’s happier that way!… Not even Grandma from Zamora is told anything. ” “And is there no hope? ” “Quia! Hope! We see each other and we long for each other to ensure that Doña Jesusa doesn’t throw him out of the house. We assure her that the doctor will be responsible for him…; but the landlady isn’t stupid, and she guesses very well that the guest is making trouble for him by post. A few days later, I warned Carmiña that I would stay that night watching over Dolfos, who was already in his last throes. My aunt burst into tears upon hearing this. With inexpressible vehemence, she exclaimed: “If you could see how willingly I would help you keep watch! I feel so sorry for him! ” “If you’re going to keep watch over him, be sure that he’ll heal,” I murmured piously. I was approaching the corridor when she called me to beg me “not to forget the confessor.” Dolfos wasn’t there to be cured, even if the seraphim kept watch over him. Death did not let go of its prey. The grandmother would never see him again in this world. Only a blue note would reach her, dry, brief, transmitted by lightning, which would be for the old woman another ray of pain… “Your daughter’s son is in the coffin; four candles light him. Even if you come and kiss him, and kiss him again with all the tenderness of your twice-motherly heart, he will not open his eyes, he will not repay your caresses, he will not smile to tell you: I have a career now… don’t worry… from today I will be your support.” No. The telegram, only the telegram… and for you eternal grief, until death, which seems to forget you, takes you in disdainfully and administer the great medicine. Chapter 6. I remember the last days of May, as one remembers critical dates ; and yet, nothing happened to me during them that apparently deserves to be reported; for my story is rich in internal details, but outwardly monotonous and vulgar. What happened in that fortnight, that I should distinguish it and mark it with red ink or with the blackest stone? What happened? Ah! A simple, legal thing, sanctioned by society and by God; something that ought to rejoice well-intentioned people … My uncle passed from the greatest indifference to his wife, from a kind of amicable separation, to an access of conjugal love, almost rabid. The bond of matrimony—until then half untied— once again tightly tightened the throats of the couple. How did that conjugal reconciliation or refrain come about? I ca n’t say: they evaded my vigilance, and I can assure you that it caught me so scared that two days before the phenomenon occurred, I would have sworn the couple’s separation would be eternal. In fact, I had reason to believe that my uncle was not only running away from his wife, but courting others, in love like a cadet. I learned this from Belén, whom —oh human weakness!—I made two or three visits then, at the sheer entreaty and ardent urging of the sinner. She, with profound indignation, informed me of my uncle’s erotic whims. “Would you believe that this mangy man has been stalking me for a few days ? He’s written me letters and everything… I had the door right in my face… For what I was going to get out of him… As if I saw it, I was going to leave a penny in change there… I’ll only receive him once, let’s see if he tells me anything about his wife. ” “About his wife!” “I exclaimed, bewildered. What have you to do with her? Leave her alone, and don’t bother about the ladies who don’t remember you. ” “Oh, oh!” the girl shrieked. “Well, son, she’s not even the Blessed Virgin! Don’t get so worked up, I’m not going to eat her. Is she made of meringue and will she break if you touch her? Do you know I already suspected that you’re in a lot of pain on that side of your body? And is there a fool like your uncle, who keeps you at home, right next to his wife? Oh, oh, oh! Nothing, what I’m saying; if I saw through it… I’m an old dog: you won’t give me any shit, nor twenty like you. ” That’s why you slip away from me and there’s no one to bring you here… I was furious with the wood pigeon, and I think I even had the indelicacy to say three or four more rude phrases to her, precisely because I was addressing someone to whom I owed recognition and consideration, in the absence of the love and intimate respect I couldn’t profess for her. My harshness angered Belén’s temper. Her face flushed with rage and her eyes filled with angry tears, she accused herself of loving me and cursed herself for having put so much affection into a chisgarabís. And seeing that instead of replying or mistreating her, I was getting up to take the door, she ran to stand in front of me and block me, opening her arms with a spontaneity and vigor of attitude that a soprano in the fourth act of _Huguenots_ would envy . “No, you’re not coming out! Come on, chulapo, indino… hit me if you want to get out!” In those brilliant black eyes, which sparkled; in the erect and rigid breast, highlighted by her posture; in the superb lines of that woman’s body that blocked my path, there was a challenge, a passionate provocation, which from a man of her same temperament, a man like the one Belén wished to awaken in me at that moment, would have earned her the desired slap, and then a shower of savage caresses to erase the trace. But with me, neither of those things succeeded. I armed myself with patience, sat down in a chair, and said with great seriousness: “My child, you’ll soon tire of being crucified there… You’ll lower your arms and let me go. I don’t think you’ll spend the whole day like this. It’s a very uncomfortable position. Come on, come to your senses and allow me to leave with my honors, escorting me to the door if you like. ” My calmness had a magical effect. He calmed down like the sea when a skin of oil is poured over its angry waves. The foam of the Her fury subsided, flattening; her angry pupils ceased to flash; her invective died on her red lips; her arms, languid and lifeless, swooned along her body… and the tamed and subdued sinner—I’m ashamed to write it!—came to kneel before me, embracing me by the waist, with a kind of desperate humility. “Oh, son, you can use the fact that you know I need you and can’t do without you!… Forgive me, don’t act like that with that expression and that face… and don’t laugh either , that’s what irritates me most. Am I some kind of monkey to be laughed at? No; laugh, no… Especially not like that, serious and as if you were going to eat me. Well; she has such quick tempers and levity… Only God is perfect. Now I’m going to be a model girl. But don’t go away, son, and above all, stinking.” Will you give me your word of honor that you’ll return? You never come… once a month! Galleguito, it can’t be… I’m going to get sick. That’s why he says nonsense and messes with the ladies… If you come, I’ll be a mallow. Oh, sweetheart, how good peace tastes to me! Fulfill my whim. Slap me… don’t be afraid; it won’t hurt at all… if it’s for pleasure; just for pleasure… The least of my concerns was that stormy episode with my surrendered sinner. On the other hand, my uncle kept me thinking, returning to his old ways and ready to prevaricate. But what happened when I saw the amorous impulses of the Hebrew restored to their legitimate channel, concentrated on his wife! The phenomenon manifested itself without preliminaries, without transition. Two days after Belén had refused my uncle’s homages, he, sacrificing to the Penates, dedicated himself to his wife with enthusiasm. Just as they say there’s no key for a burglar, I’ll say that for the observer at home, there’s no curtain or screen. By virtue of our fatal cohabitation, I was struck by the gradations and nuances of that renewed honeymoon. I saw the husband communicative at lunchtime, solicitous at the stroll, dazzled at the dinner table, and nervous and impatient at the evening table. Unfortunately , it was Saturday, and I had given up on a little play to which Mauricio Parra and some other friends had invited me, intending to accompany my uncle, amused by watching the wools cross and the wooden needles play through the Tunisian stitch, or by listening to passages from Don Juan or Roberto. And look, my decision to stay forced me into the torment of witnessing… As if I were witnessing it, gentlemen. I interpreted the unmistakable attitude of that man anxious to break up the sleepy gathering to be alone with his little wife; his glances at his clock, his impatient gestures when Camila Barrientos, who had gone upstairs for a while to deliver some errand for her mother, took a long time to leave and was leafing through the latest issues of La Ilustración. I knew the expression on my uncle’s face on certain occasions; I didn’t need to ask what shone in his eyes and inflamed his complexion… I became so nervous, so beside myself, that Camila asked me: “Salustio, is something wrong with you?” Carmiña, involuntarily, turned her head and fixed her pupils on me… I returned the look. I don’t think we ever understood each other as we did at that moment. Her glance said categorically: “What is this? An unexpected trial, a punishment from God we hadn’t counted on. But don’t be scared: I have courage and strength. You’ll see how I grow.” After all, I’ll only be doing my duty.” And my gaze answered him: “You take it that way, like an angel that you are; but I, who am a devil, suffer and writhe, as devils must writhe and suffer down there in the infernal mansions.” My uncle got his way. It hadn’t even struck eleven when he managed to throw us out. Camila Barrientos stabbed me to the cross, saying to the aunt: “Today your husband looked at you as if he were making love to you. He was drooling. A novena for another one like that to come to us.” I ran to my room and locked myself in, more crazed than on our wedding night, in the Tejo. I tried to immerse myself in my studies, in reading. newspapers, leafing through a novel… Impossible! Roaring with anger and grief, I turned out the light, locked myself in, and lay down on the bed. I remembered Luis Portal, who used to tell me: “When one is rabid and given to Barrabas, a cigar is the best entertainment. Taking a few puffs allows one’s imagination to wander wildly…” At that moment, I bitterly regretted not smoking or owning cigarettes; and by a whim of my sick soul, it seemed to me that if I smoked, that malaise, that poison of acrid saliva, that fever of scorched blood would pass as if by magic. The next day, at lunchtime, I had a consolation of a negative order, like all my consolations on such an unfortunate love story; and it was seeing on the marmoset’s face, even more marked than on my own, the marks of a moral struggle and a very deep physical breakdown. It had only taken one night to distort her face and give her features, where the freshness of youth had once shone, an agonized expression like the face of the Virgin Mary that painters depict watching her Son expire on the Cross. The marmoset’s pallor was bluish, her dark circles livid, and the movements she made to unfold her napkin, pour herself a drink, or drink seemed automatic. Neither of us ate, so to speak. My uncle, on the other hand, ate eagerly; however, when the third course arrived at the table, he began to notice Carmiña’s attitude, and for the first time I noticed on his face an expression of surprise and suspicion, as if he had just realized that his wife… He fixed his gaze on her, and his suspicious gaze sought to search her soul: thoughts that perhaps had not crossed his mind condensed, and an ironic expression rang in his voice as he said: “What’s wrong, Carmen?” “Aren’t you eating? You seem to have no appetite. ” “I’ve eaten,” she replied. “That’s not true. You haven’t tasted the omelet or the kidneys, and the chop remains there. Doesn’t the cook cook it to your liking? Why don’t you order something else? Shadow of suspicion, light cloud that barely grazes the spirit and leaves your darkness within it forever! Did you then pass through the imagination of the Hebrew? Did the cautious genius of his race reveal itself in those decisive moments of his life? Did you also illuminate with sinister light the conscience of that pure, chaste, noble woman, but ultimately a woman of flesh and blood, daughter and descendant of Eve, vehement and passionate at heart, although bound to the yoke of virtue by the golden bonds of the most profound faith? Did you tell her what she didn’t want to believe?” When the husband noticed his wife’s concern and reluctance, her cheeks turned from pale to bright red; A violent tremor shook her, and with its indispensable retinue of anguished sobs, a nervous breakdown broke out in her… which, whatever the farcical and festive writers may say, rarely occurs unless provoked by a deep, psychic cause, something that wounds profound feelings or hidden, sacred modesty in the feminine heart… The attack lasted a short time: barely a minute. The marmoset reacted immediately : she drank water, got up, and answered her husband’s stubborn and suspicious questions: “Yes, maybe I’m not well… What nonsense! What’s the point of calling a doctor? I’ll lie down for a while… Drinking some linden tea… I’ve got nothing left; absolutely nothing.” I couldn’t stand it any longer: I said my goodbyes and left. I went out into the street in order to dissipate an excitement that, if compressed, would ferment and lead me to some crazy extreme. I went in search of the tranquilizer: Luis Portal’s. But I wasn’t lucky enough to find him. It was Sunday, and I learned from Trinito that he was with Mo on an expedition to El Pardo. Chapter 7. When I recall the days that followed, I think I’m evoking that of a long nightmare; and yet, they couldn’t have lasted more than fifteen; but during them my moral state was so violent and painful! My uncle, after the episode in the dining room, instead of distancing himself from his wife, was more attentive to her. who never… shall I say exhausted? No; but solicitous and eager, like someone who realizes he has neglected the cultivation of an important estate and intends to make up for the omission. Some similar idea, characteristic of the covetous nature of the Hebrew, undoubtedly responded to his not leaving Carmiña’s side day or night, that kind of conjugal frenzy, that fully reestablished intimacy, with circumstances proper to a honeymoon. And if these were not the traits of a proprietor jealous of his rights, what did the sudden coldness he showed me mean? His not speaking to me at the table, his granting me only a few sharp, dry phrases, when before, one might say, he only chatted with me? My position in the house, during the cruel fortnight, became humiliating, analogous to that of a relative supported by charity, or an importunate person tacitly dismissed at every turn and who never quite understands hints. That tension must have been perceived even by the servants, although they were two Celtic specimens brought from the heart of Galicia, who were barely beginning to unravel, let alone to read their masters’ minds—a reading that is the doctor’s tassel of servants. But my uncle’s hostility and disdain were such that they were obvious. Camila Barrientos noted them, and one night he emancipated himself to the point of teasing me surreptitiously about how jealous my uncle was and how unpleasant the position of a young man staying in a married couple’s house was. Since I was so unbalanced, I remember that I let my tongue slip and responded very rudely to the supposedly naive young lady. Instead of formally addressing her, she quietly apologized, and when I begged her in return, she said something that worried me, I don’t know if because at the time everything worried me. “Your uncle seems to me to have changed his character considerably. Before, he was quite an ordinary person; he joked with us, was in a good mood… he argued… Now he seems either ill or manic. Haven’t you noticed? Well, look: Mama noticed it just as we did.” Camila, as she said this, placed her finger on her forehead. The idea suggested by the young lady stuck in my head in the same place. “Indeed,” I thought, “it is rare to go from total indifference to a woman to such extremes. Is my uncle a lunatic? Such a conjecture… shall I confess it? presented itself to me from the first instant, not black and funereal as it should be, but in a certain way, pleasant and consoling. “If he goes mad, he actually loses domestic sovereignty, authority over his wife, moral strength, and the character of head of the family. A madman is a being who lacks a soul, and rational humanity expels him from its bosom.” A madman possesses no social or civil rights ; a madman has no wife, no children, not even friends. If my uncle goes mad, it’s just as if he were divorced. The bond is broken, and she is alone in the world, because a madman does not accompany, either present or absent. Could there, indeed, be mania?…” The tension of my will reached the point of desiring it. And from there it is so close to other desires! It was not long before I took the step that separated me from the terrain where volitions are already unleashed and drag us to crime—to mental crime, the only one frequent in our enervated age. I remember that in those days the devil tempted me to dedicate myself to dramatic and stormy readings, the kind that agitate the heart and cloud the conscience, and among them was a translation of Hamlet, which had a very profound effect on me, inducing me to compare the irresolution, the moral turmoil, and the physical inaction of the strange Prince of Denmark with my own feelings. And in the midst of reading, I was suddenly struck, seizing my powers, by that strange phrase: “When I caress my second husband, I kill the first a second time.” I understood then that the more virtuous and invincible a woman is, the more fatally her lover desires the death of her husband; and I also saw, in a very clear way, that my unleashed passion was nothing but the ancient hatred for my uncle the Hebrew, an inveterate hatred now, which had taken a different form, but which subsisted. Relentless. If desire could kill like strychnine, my uncle would perish a hundred times over by willpower. Alone, with my elbows on the table and my forehead held between my feverish palms, I sated myself with funereal sleep and gave myself over to the detestable pleasure of imagining Don Felipe stretched out in the coffin, his eyes closed and his hands crossed. The power with which this desire dominated me was such that I had never been so subdued by amorous yearning. If they had told me then: “Choose between your defeated, demented aunt, red with shame and passion, or your rigid, stiff, corpse-like uncle,” I would have opted for the latter without hesitation. Of course, the monstrosity of the idea was not hidden from me. I understood her so much that, yearning to free myself from the absurd and sterile imagination, I sought out Portal more than ever, the only person capable of freeing me from my obsessions and combating the detritus and vestiges of fantasy with the weapons of laughter and wit. Unfortunately, my amiable Sancho Panza was then extremely busy, not only with his final year’s work, but also with his other great sentimental endeavor. Despite his displays of independence and indifference, his assurances that he took this with extraordinary calm and philosophy, if my opportunist were to get lost, they could look for him at Mo’s song. He didn’t waste an opportunity to love himself madly. To see Portal for a few moments, it was necessary to follow him to his magnetic pole, that is, to the Mos’ house. I insisted on being introduced, and not half an hour had passed since the introduction when I perceived what my Orense native was careful not to confess: that Mo’s father was also the head of a patriarchal family… a minister of the Lord, or in more plain language, a Protestant clergyman. Why would the comrade keep it so quiet? I had suspected it on occasion, without real foundation, since Luis, when asked about the conditions of the future father-in-law, invariably replied: “Let it be known that I am not going there as a son-in-law… but Mo’s father is a very esteemed fellow… and his mother… Ah! What a thing … I have never seen anything like it.” The care taken not to specify the profession of this esteemed fellow had not failed to puzzle me… I repeat that I became certain of the truth shortly after sitting down on Mr. Baldwin’s sofa—that is the name of the pastor. This man had the gigantic and plethoric appearance of the pure Saxon race: his sideburns were the same color as his complexion, except for his forehead, white and smooth as a child’s. In three years of residence in Madrid, he had not managed to adapt his larynx to Spanish pronunciation; and no Englishman in a farce or caricature says more grotesque things than Mr. Baldwin when he tried to use our language for something other than growling: “_Buons dis… com stá._” No one would find a satisfactory explanation for the phenomenon of the evangelical communion having sent such a crude missionary to apostolic lands, if it were not for the missionary or pastor Mrs. Baldwin , a singular woman, whom I considered from the first moment a miracle of her kind. Nothing of the dry and angular Englishwoman, a conventional type in letters and art. Quite the contrary. To paint Mrs. Baldwin faithfully, one must use the most harmonious and soft tones, the most exquisite lines, and the most discreet chiaroscuro. Her face possessed that uniformity of color that makes pastel heads so aristocratic ; against their pearly whiteness stood out the steely gray of her eyes, in which a few golden sparks shone when she smiled. Her fine but magnificently drawn features expressed a constant, artificial affability, almost natural with persistence. She dressed with dignity and the utmost decorum: in navy blue or black, generally silk, which gave her clothes a stately rustle when she walked or sat; she wore a many-stranded gold chain around her neck, supporting her sabonetilla always in place, gleaming with use; and over her gray hair, the dusty gray that blondes turn gray, smoothed into fringes, she wore a kind of A small white lace plate, crisp and clean, ironed like a napkin, accentuating the somewhat worn but pure oval of her face. From the moment one entered the sphere of this woman of such distinguished appearance, it was impossible not to see in her the mathematical point where all the radii had to converge and unite. Her husband, a hulking man who would have pulverized her with a slap; her sons, some of them already twenty years old and with an air of vigor that would have made the rickety Spanish race envious; her daughters, among whom _Mo_ stood out; her socialites, and… it must be said at once, her parishioners, her sheep, marched at a brisk pace along the route indicated to them by the shepherdess’s long, flexible hand, adorned with antiquated rings . Such a woman was born for the throne, or rather, to be the cardinal minister of an absolute king. She exuded that gift for command, that authority concealed by the sweetest manners, the heritage of abbesses. Her smile and her refined, adoring manner concealed the most tempered and iron will ever produced by the land of perseverance and closed fanaticism. Beneath her husband’s Herculean appearance, there was nothing but a puppet, a rag doll, who never possessed the necessary energy to sustain his disgraced role as apostle of a belief abhorrent to the vast majority of Spaniards, and which even we, the unbelievers and rationalists, dislike. Mr. Baldwin would have fled Spain with a fresh breeze at the first opportunity, if he weren’t kept in power by the steel bar, covered in glove leather, that he had for a wife. She, the shepherdess, was the one who clung to the idea of reviving the golden times of Madeira Street during the revolutionary years; she, the one who devised pious works for propaganda purposes and published catechetical books; She, who… But where am I going with recounting the exploits of the distinguished matron? The truth is, seeing Mrs. Baldwin like that, reclining in her armchair, her feet propped up on a cushion, her elbow on the nightstand laden with albums, illustrations, magazines, and enormous English diaries, one would have thought that this lady lived exclusively dedicated to receiving her friends with the chic of an elderly duchess. When I entered the shepherds’ house, it was about five in the afternoon. The shepherdess extended a most attentive welcome; and I don’t say cordial, because cordiality was not the issue there. She made me sit opposite her and asked me in detail about my family, my studies, my hobbies. Upon learning that I liked music, she rolled her eyes, and her face took on a beatific expression. Oh! La miousica! Then, when it came to my career, she raised another enthusiastic psalm to science. Oh! La sciensia! Then, smiling at me with a smile that seemed new to me, she showed me a multitude of treasures that formed a small museum: weeds, seaweed, and shells she had collected in Australia and kept pressed between the pages of books. And finally, in a mysterious and confidential tone, she placed her finger on her mouth and, with the same ecstatic expression, she spelled out: “The girls are going to sing.” I saw Four approaching the piano, but already among them, my eyes had distinguished Mo, without needing to follow the direction of Luis’s gaze . I had to confess inwardly that, regarding beauty, the opportunist was not exaggerating. We are usually inclined to find physical defects in our friends’ girlfriends, as if in this way we were venting the involuntary spite caused by the happiness of others, especially in love. For despite this tendency, I was forced to admit that Miss Mo was worth an empire. A delicious blend or fusion of the two paternal and maternal types, it attested both to the faithfulness and legality of the shepherdess and to the advantages of crossbreeding between Saxons and Normans for sexual selection. The color, the freshness of dawn, the plasticity of the type, undoubtedly came from the shepherd, who in his green years would have been a young man as tall as an oak; and the fineness of her features, the distinction and neatness of her mother. Her eyes were those of a shepherdess, already steely and domineering, still bathed in the amorous fluid of youth. As for the rest, Portal had photographed her: the golden, almost ashen color of her hair, the whiteness, and even the tempting hollows that emerged, with every hint of laughter, on her smooth cheeks, velvety with the down of a northern complexion not yet tanned by the harsh continental climate of the Spanish metropolis, were absolutely exact. Such a woman explained all the delirium into which even the most skeptical and sensible of mortals could fall. If Miss Mo combined with natural gifts that surprising culture my friend always spoke of, it could not be denied that Luis, in discovering the British jewel, had made a discovery. Involuntarily, I felt filled with consideration for Portal; I agreed that the young man had known how to unearth the great woman, and I justified his hyperbole and his boasting. At first, the Mos house made the same favorable impression on me, due to its appearance of order and well-being. The Baldwin family had chosen a clean, quiet street, without unpleasant smells from markets and shops, or the din of cars; from their windows, a view could be enjoyed of the trees in a border garden, a priceless window in Madrid; in their small living room, the furniture was practical and comfortable: there were books, prints, flowers; the family appeared clean, sociable, disciplined… My respect for Luis’s inquisition grew, and I surreptitiously gave him a wink that, in our family conversation, translated thus: “Seriously !” After the first few moments, after having seen and admired the shepherdess’s botanical and zoological treasures, when the girls approached the piano to sing, I remembered that Luis had praised his _Mo_ as “the woman of the future,” a female superior to the general level of her sex, free from unhealthy worries; manly in the best sense of the word, which is the one that implies strength, understanding, and determination. I speak, of course, putting myself in Luis’s place; for anyone who has followed the development of my emotional life through these pages will understand only too well that I do not prefer that kind of woman, but rather that I am for _the other_, the one from the past, the one who for nineteen centuries has been the ideal of humanity; the one who, in a certain way, was already so before, for her essential features differ little from those drawn by Solomon in a sketch that has not been erased from human memory. But even if I couldn’t accept any more feminine types than those Carmen identified, placing myself in my friend ‘s point of view , I was able to discern whether Mo embodied that prodigy of future society: the New Woman. If she did, she would soon manifest it, and I would soon perceive it. I followed her attentively with my eyes as she approached the piano, in order to accompany Alicia, her second sister, who appeared to be fourteen or fifteen years old, and who still wore her beautiful semi-albino hair loose and hanging down. The girl sang an English song, which is to say dull and sour, whose sentimental lyrics dealt—as far as I could discern—with an orphan child, abandoned by some very cruel uncles, who begs for alms, and ends up freezing stiff in the snow one Christmas night, at the door of a palace where a splendid feast is being held. The ditty over, Alice’s sister Beth or Elizabeth took over, singing another song no less insipid, only it wasn’t about an orphan child, but about the soul’s aspiration to have wings to fly to glory, to the cherubs’ truth. “Wings!” the little girl meowed. “Wings… my God… wings!” I thought that after the second cantata they wouldn’t give us any more music, but I was mistaken, because immediately a little boy, Edward, came into the ring, wearing short socks, bare legs, and blond hair; who gave us the trio of “the rats” in “A” Gran Vía_. The _rats_ trio! Who would have imagined seeing it coming from the lips of that little angel, born in a fifth of the world, for Edward was Australian! The catalogue of surprises was not exhausted: as soon as the youngest child was sung and acted, I saw the shepherdess get up, choose a music book, and approach the piano, surrounded by her children. The shepherdess put on her gold spectacles; she delicately took off her silk mittens, which she placed neatly folded on the nightstand; and, contracting her eyebrows and pressing her lips together like someone performing an important and absorbing action, and accompanying herself, she began to intone a religious hymn, in which the _souls_ and _sins_ were as if in her own home . I couldn’t understand any more of the text. As the first verse concluded, the whole family, gathered around the instrument, sang the refrain, and the Reverend Baldwin himself, approaching, placed his right hand on the piano top, arching his powerful, elephantine breastbone, and supported the girls’ falsettos with a calf-like voice. I looked at the shepherdess’s face, and also at Mo’s. The usual expression, one delicate and insinuating, the other cheerful and youthful, was gone from the two women’s faces—especially the mother’s—and replaced them with a certain somber and harsh exaltation, such as is noticeable in the figures of some martyrdom paintings. I turned to see what expression Luis was wearing and saw that he was not in the room. After the concert, we were offered an excellent cup of tea, accompanied by a glass of sherry and certain sweets which, if I remember correctly, are called cracknells. They invited me to return, to visit the house, and the shepherdess, above all, said to me with surprising courtesy: “Oh! Oh! We believe that you will not fail to come and see us from time to time…” As I left, I opened my mouth to Portal: “These people may be very good, as much as you like; but, come on, in devotion they are not far behind the marmoset. They smell more like a vestry to me: I warn you. ” “You know,” my friend responded dryly, “that Protestants observe and practice their religion. They are not like us. ” “Are you saying this in a tone of praise? ” “Yes and no,” he replied, a little annoyed. ” There would be much to discuss about that . ” “And why does your _Mo_, that very learned young lady, let her brothers sing nonsense and sing it herself? ” “What do I know!” exclaimed the opportunist. “What does it matter! Come on, how is she? Isn’t she pretty?” “First-rate.” I cannot deny you that. Chapter 8. And meanwhile, what did the marmoset do? Alas! It was the only thing that relieved my raging torment: suffering, probably suffering a hundred times more than I did. Surprised by her husband’s sudden assiduity, she bent her neck; but she grew worse, her face became gaunt, and her eyes glowed, like embers fanned by fever, behind their black eyelids. Any indifferent person, looking at her, would think: “This woman is sick. She’s in danger if she doesn’t take care of herself.” One day it occurred to me to do something I had never done: to follow her when she went to her devotions in the morning. Not suspecting that anyone was watching, she would freely give herself over to that pain, the only relief from my own. I put my resolution into practice. Leaving classes and everything—what did classes matter to me! What did anything matter to me!—I stood on the corner waiting for Carmen to come out. I saw her appear, prayer book in hand, rosary on her wrist, lace veil over her face, I don’t know if out of modesty or because a woman’s eternal instinct for coquettishness teaches her to cover her face when the ravages of grief or age appear on it. She walked briskly, like someone eager for exercise and fresh air. She walked down Jorge Juan Street to the Plaza de Colón, and from there, to my great surprise, instead of heading toward the Prado to attend the Pascualas, she walked up the Ronda de Recoletos. It seemed that, more than church and prayers, she needed recreation, solitude, a brisk walk, the illusion of a certain momentary freedom . She walked quickly, so quickly that keeping up with her was difficult. She ran as if she were fleeing from herself or from some pursuer. Not from me: she hadn’t seen me, nor would she avoid me even if she had seen me; at least that was my inner conviction. At the end of her round, she hesitated for a moment which direction she would take; finally, briskly describing a circular arc, she turned into the long Calle Almagro. “Strange thing!” I reasoned. “Around here, there isn’t a church of the kind she usually frequents. Nor was there one on Calle del Cisne, where she turned toward Chamberí. It was evident that this senseless scamper had no purpose, no aim, nothing worthwhile. Finally, she reached the outskirts of a church; she hesitated for a few moments, and finally, she didn’t cross the threshold . This event, seemingly insignificant, gave me something to think about. Wasn’t she going to church? Why? Didn’t she dare to consult God about her thoughts? Did God no longer have the strength to console her? Did despair so overwhelm her spirit that he wouldn’t allow her to go where her ills always found relief? By chance, that same afternoon, my uncle was forced to go to the conference room to activate some intrigue, and Carmen stayed at home. To avoid instilling suspicion in her, I also went out, but returned fifteen minutes later. I knocked softly, so that she wouldn’t pay attention to the ringing of the bell. I entered her room with as little noise as possible and surprised her as I wished. Seated, or rather, slumped on the couch; with her work abandoned on her lap; the basket of balls of wool at her feet; her hands crossed and almost clenched around her knees; her eyes clouded with pain; her mouth drawn into a bitter crease; her feet together, as if tired of traveling arduous paths, they aspired to eternal inaction… that was how I found her. She had entered without seeing me, and I was able to contemplate her for a long time. Finally, I don’t know if the magnetism with which a gaze attracts a glance, or some other inexplicable cause, alerted her to my presence: she shuddered, stood up, and without saying a word let me approach. When she saw me at her side, suddenly forming a resolution, she uttered something similar to what you will read: “Listen, Sallust: I’m going to ask you a favor, for God’s sake and for whatever you love most. Don’t do this nonsense of stalking me and following me. You may have the best intentions in the world; but confess that it’s strange behavior… and, above all, that you do me a lot of harm, thinking you’re doing me good; that you distress me. I repeat: you afflict me, you mortify me terribly. If that’s what you’re up to… ” “Carmen,” I answered with no less vehemence, and naming her, perhaps for the first time, without the regional diminutive, “you see visions, and you want to make me see them.” Neither does the interest I show you bother you , nor is that the way. On the contrary, you like it: it’s the only thing that consoles you. And since it consoles you and pleases you, poor martyr, that ‘s why, precisely for that reason, you have scruples about such insignificant compensation , and you’ve decided to deprive yourself of it. I know, I know, I can guess… “Well, you’re guessing nonsense, and you don’t know what you’re talking about,” she answered briskly, very nervously. “There is no such relief, no such compensation, nor absolutely nothing of the sort. Calling me a martyr is silly romanticism. Do me the favor of telling me what I’m a martyr about. Martyr, martyr! They call anything a martyrdom! How ridiculous!” Under the influence of her exaltation, she acted, her cheeks flushed, her eyes filled with pent-up tears. I wasn’t daunted: I realized how fierce the battle was, and that my aunt’s own anger belied her assertions. I realized that Mrs. Unceta was in one of those moments when emotion boils and overflows, and when one can take advantage of the fermentation of the soul. If I had been completely in control of myself, calm and cool, I would have been assured of the best part in the fight; but the worst part was that I too was beginning to decompose. My blood was boiling, my tongue unable to form my thoughts. “Titi , calm down,” I said. “Let’s reason with it. Don’t deny that your life is a martyrdom… Look, with this mania for stalking you, I know better than you do what’s happening to you. I’ve followed you day after day. I can’t think of anything else! ” “Very badly done,” declared the titi, almost weeping. “Very badly, agreed upon, whatever you want… detestably… but it’s true. Since the Yew, since your conference with the friar… you see that I confess it to you without any hesitation… since the Yew, I haven’t missed a beat. I’ve seen the valiant patience of the first days… and the procession that was going on inside; that was going on, madam, don’t hide it from me . Then the joy of emancipation, when… when certain ties were… loosened. Oh, titi! How happy and how beautiful you had become then!” And then… _what happened now_… the fever, the quinine you swallow, what you’re wasting away inside… No, let me finish, I have to tell you. So this isn’t torture, and a cruel torture at that? Or do martyrdoms consist only of those savagery recounted in the Christian Year, the colts and the eculeans, and the iron hooks that tear out ribs? Carmen, Carmen! You’ll deceive others, but not me. You’re not only a martyr, but you’re a saint, even the saints… I completed the sentence with action; I bent down, and grabbing my aunt’s dressing gown by the loosest of hands, I kissed her. She drew back violently , and cried out between stifled tears: “If you say or do such silly things again… either I’ll leave the house, or I’ll tell my husband to throw you out on the street.” You’re really bothering me with your consolations, your novelty, and your comedies. If you call me a saint again, believe me, I’ll never speak to you again , supposing you’re making a mockery of me shamelessly. Beware of my holiness! And who’s bringing you into the fray about saints? You have religious ideas… well… nothing more than average; as for saints, confess you don’t understand a thing. Gosh, if I were a saint… what more would I want? Well, I’d already hit the jackpot! Saint! I’d be content just being good, without any frills. You haven’t read the lives of saints or saintly men. The least they did was let their heads be cut off or roasted on the grill. When they said this, she laughed nervously. Do you think they were content to die, and that for that feat alone they went straight to heaven? Go on, go on! The lives of the saints, before the moment of trial, had already been a series of merits. They had hated no one; they had constantly mastered their passions, and had lived like angels. And I… “And you join the one you hate,” I interrupted, “and you distance yourself from the one… you like… and you crush your passions like the most painted saint. Don’t come to me with saints… None did more than you. ” “Hail Mary, how outrageous!” she exclaimed sincerely. “If I weren’t so inconvenienced by your nonsense, I’d be laughing out loud right now. You could spend a year laughing,” and as she said this, a large, quick tear fell , one of those beautiful pearl-shaped tears that images have. I tell you, yes, I was laughing out loud. The saints who, as queens, went to hospitals to care for disgusting patients; The saints who walked around covered in hair shirts that caused sores and scabs; the saints who ate daily a crust of bread or some boiled herbs mixed with ashes… Son! No more nonsense; I am a sinner… and this conversation is idle and extremely foolish. There’s no point in carrying it on. I felt a revolution in my being. I wouldn’t hold back at that moment if they offered me glory. We were alone in the house, because the servants were confined to the kitchen, at the end of the long corridor. I understood that I would rarely see my little cousin so far from her usual reserve; or rather, I didn’t reflect on the situation, but rather I allowed myself to be guided by instinct, the surest counselor in war and love, and I attacked the poor girl with this unexpected ruse: “Well, since you insist… you must be a sinner. If sin is what is done against all will, what is imposed on us by a force superior to us.” same… then, you are a sinner, despite your good intentions. She raised her head and looked at me with disquiet and anxiety. “Is your husband repugnant to you?” she said boldly. “Is it because you cannot bear him? Well, all the more merit if you suffer him. Is my company giving you… some distraction… or some consolation? Well, all the more merit… all the more merit if you flee from me, and do not allow me to approach, and right now you turn aside and corner yourself on the couch so as not to touch even a hair on my clothes. Saint, little saint! For you too there is temptation and crown… Not all hair shirts are made of bristles, nor is stale bread and unsalted herbs the worst tasting food… True, Carmiña? True? Say yes.” I uttered these last words in a low voice, and with that passionate tone that is neither feigned nor heard with impunity. Fascinated by the same terror that her impressions caused her, my marmoset fell silent, turning her face away. She remained like that for a moment, which I took advantage of to grab her dress again —I didn’t dare to put my hands to it—and kiss it with such unction that she cried out as if I were biting her flesh: “Sallust! Sallust!… I’m so ashamed I don’t know what’s happening to me… Either you go, or I’ll go to the window and shout… I’m telling you to go… and also to never speak to me about such things again in your life… It’s ridiculous and shameful… But you, what have you imagined? Even my voice is trembling… Don’t you understand that it’s a great cowardice to interfere with someone who has no defense?… Coward! I don’t care if you think it’s wrong… Seeing you so inconvenient, I’m growing… Now I’m telling you, you’re going to leave by the post.” I had somewhat spilled the beans in that strange conversation. I couldn’t back out; there were no skillful terms. Besides, my blood, my head, my heart, were raging craters. I didn’t answer, but my very silence gave me the strength to grab her by the clothes and seize her tiny hands with sweet violence, against which I rested my burning cheeks and my eyes, and rubbed my forehead, feeling indescribable happiness, stammering syllables that tried, but failed, to form words. Then I raised my face and looked at Carmiña, smiling, ecstatic with bliss, without letting go of her slender wrists. My gaze was more eloquent than any declarations one could make to a woman. She didn’t need me to tell her what I felt; my eyes, my attitude, my troubled voice were enough to declare them. There was a moment when another smile as luminous as mine spread across her face ; but it lasted very little, replaced by an expression of vivid terror. Without anger, without rage, in a pleading tone , she exclaimed: “Let me go, for God’s sake.” I have to get ready and go down to Barrientos’s house. “It’s not true. They just went out for a walk. I saw them. I’m not touching you, nor am I holding you,” and as I said this, I loosened my hands. “I want to convince you how easy it is to kill someone with joy. Oh! Let me breathe, because I’m capable of drowning.” I got up and took three or four agitated walks around the office. I was laughing and crying at the same time. The conviction of the long- suspected reality stunned me, and, if I could, I would have left there like a child who steals candy and is in a hurry to escape to eat it alone. Carmiña, huddled in the corner of the couch, hid her head in her hands. What for me was a revelation of good fortune, for her constituted the discovery of a crime. Now the strong woman saw that I was not merely the affectionate and lively nephew, the sympathetic face of the family, but the _man_ – that being that woman desires as matter desires form – the only _man_ in the world, because the others have no real existence in the sphere of feeling… Now I understood that her soul, fleeing from the conjugal arms, where only the inert body remained, went in search of another soul, mine, without knowing it and without the permission of the honorable will. Now I found out why she did not have the courage to enter the church, why she was losing weight, why she suffered, why the sound of the keys hurt her as her fingers ran over them, why she felt so upset and so… like that… when a good woman must possess a gentle spirit, breathe placidity and serenity, and leave the tensions and storms to guilty consciences and stained and unfaithful hearts… In the midst of my agitation, I divined all this. Respect, pity, delirious affection dictated the most discreet course of conduct. And so I approached her and said: “Carmiña, I’m leaving now… I’m leaving the house. I don’t want you to have even a minute of annoyance towards me. I’m not asking you anything. I know how much it mattered to me to know. I won’t stalk you now. I’m like a brother to you… do you hear? Take those hands off your face, and let me see you… I’m leaving now.” She separated her hands and appeared with dry, astonished eyes, deathly pale. But when she saw me smile and head toward the door, her gaze calmed and sparkled with light. Chapter 9. There are coincidences. Whoever denies it is unaware of the varied and complicated game of sentimental life; Whoever denies it vegetates; he does not live. The day after the memorable date for me, of what in novelistic style would be called _the scene on the couch_, my uncle came in at lunchtime , holding a letter in his hands; and as he unfolded it, he said with the tone of one delivering rare news: “Don’t you know who’s in Madrid?” Carmiña, raising her eyes, which she had fixed on the tablecloth, asked with the indifference of one who expects few happy contingencies: “Who? ” “Father Moreno. ” What if the news echoed him! A fulminating impression. She jumped in her chair and exclaimed with a voice breaking with joy: “Is he… here? Since when? And why hasn’t he come to see us yet?” “Well, he’s been here two days ago… but here, find out about the letter, and you’ll see why he hasn’t come.” Tití seized the paper with that swiftness of movement that betrays emotion. She read to herself quickly, interrupting her reading with frequent exclamations. “Oh, Jesus! And I didn’t know anything! The Father hadn’t even written this to me! Hail Mary Most Pure! How determined! Oh, poor thing! I ‘ll take the veil and off I go. Are you coming, Felipe? ” “You go now,” said the husband, showing that he wasn’t interested in the excursion. “I’ll go in the afternoon, or tomorrow. I’m not dressed, and I have to answer a very long letter to Castro Mera. ” “But what’s the matter with the Father?” I asked curiously. “May I ask? I’m sorry it’s something bad. ” “It’s bad indeed!” my aunt exclaimed with her usual vehemence. ” And I was always prophesying it to him. They’re taking him out of Morocco, such a hot climate, and putting him there in Compostela to endure the damp and cold. It’s only natural; he’s already contracted an illness in Andalusia in search of a better temperature.” And as soon as she arrives in Andalusia, she sees that the condition is more serious than she thought, and she has to come here for an operation, probably a painful one. And do you know where he is? In San Carlos. He has a friend there, Dr. Sánchez del Abrojo. We must go see him without delay. His letter is alarming; it’s known that the Father is apprehensive. Well, he wasn’t usually very apprehensive… Brave as can be. For him to say he’s going to die… I’m off right there. “Have lunch first,” her husband warned. “A brave lunch!” It would fit in a bird’s trough. Before dessert , she got up, and a little while later she reappeared in her morning clothes, with that simple little black dress and that lace veil I knew so well. She entered as if hesitant, leaning on the iridescent taffeta parasol and shaking her gloves, which she hadn’t yet put on. She looked at her husband and signaled him, taking him to a corner to say something very private. Out of discretion, I stepped aside, but not so much that I didn’t see the indefinable gesture my uncle made when he was forced to make expenses that weren’t included in his budget. The aunt was not long, however, in slipping a bill given by her husband into her pocket. In the afternoon, I took advantage of the few free hours I had, also going to San Carlos. As chance would have it, Doctor Saúco was on guard duty that day, since he was one of the six professors who They take turns attending the hospital. My fellow countryman expressed great joy at seeing me and insisted on honoring me properly. “You must see the clinics, the baths, the museum, and the auditorium, with its Padró ceiling… Look, your friar isn’t in any clinic, you’ll soon guess: we’ve given him the room reserved for the most afflicted. He’s a very sociable friar; we’ve already become such good friends in the few hours I’ve known him. Come up… it’s this way, at the end of this corridor, before the balcony… May I go in? Yes… Come in, man.” I did, and the friar, seeing a visitor enter, sat up with difficulty in his armchair. At the same time, I saw two figures, and both were of Father Moreno; but how different! The first, the one I had met at the Tejo a few months before: that Moor tanned by the African sun, with bright eyes, sallow complexion, vigorous proportions, black hair, a robust neck, a resonant and virile voice, strong muscles, a lively complexion, and a resolute spirit. And the second, the present one, a man as yellow as the candles, wasted, with pale eyes, sunken cheeks, where his unkempt beard had a sad blue touch, blackish in places; hair that had almost turned gray; withered hands, sunken lips, and a curved back. It was painful to see Aben Jusuf like this. I think if I had met him on the street I wouldn’t recognize him; his illness had aged and disfigured him so much. He, on the other hand, recognized me despite my beard, and in a voice that tried to be as it had been in the past, greeted me: “Hello!… Happy days, Don Salustio… So you too have come to see this poor friar?” “Well!” I said quickly, half-embracing him, “and with great pleasure. You know that you are loved, Father Moreno, and that you have a true friend in me. I was quite sorry to hear that you are ill. How are you feeling? What is it?” With traces of his former martial spirit, Aben Jusuf answered me: “What is the matter? Son, it’s nothing… A leg that I hardly know if it belongs to my body or someone else’s. A leg that perhaps needs… rsss or ssrrr! ” He made the gesture of someone slicing with a scalpel and someone else sawing with a saw. I protested, shuddering. “Come on, Father… Noise will be worth more than nothing. Just saying that they examine you and wash your wound with sublimate… you’re already discharged. ” “Good, good; that will be seen and seen… and that is the least of it. God knows what He will do with me.” “Didn’t we all tell you,” I interrupted, scolding, “back in Ullosa, do you remember? That the climate of Compostela wasn’t good for you? That dampness, that cold… For a Saracen! ” “Look here, Sir Salustio… the best thing to do is to do what you must. Believe me… Do you see me in this state, with my leg like this and with this face that looks like I’ve just been dug up? Well, I’m not dissatisfied, nor anything worth being. You can catch illnesses anywhere … everywhere. Illnesses come quickly. Patience. Say ,” he added, making an effort and pointing to the small table at his side, “would you like a good cigar? Don’t hesitate to accept, for you could almost be said to be smoking your own. Doctor Saúco was already kind enough to accept one, and he praised it.” I turned my head and saw the open drawer, missing only two cigars, with their little ties in the national colors, and I understood why Carmiña had asked her husband for a quarter. “Father Moreno,” I replied, “I neither smoke nor can I give you cigars, because I’m a student who doesn’t allow himself such luxuries; but I will do something for you. I will come here often; and if you need a wake or a companion, I am willing to do anything. ” “Thank you very much. I am looked after perfectly here. No patient with a family can boast of better care. Only Dr. Saúco, who has abandoned me… He is dying of thirst. ” “You don’t want to accept favors of mine?” I exclaimed, somewhat annoyed by the tone in which the friar expressed himself. “On the contrary. I want to accept them, yes. And I want to accept them so much…” I have to ask you for a very large one. “What is it about?” “We’ll talk later, we’ll talk later,” he replied, biting the end of his cigar and preparing to light it. Elder, understanding at half a word, approached the friar and, pointing to a small bottle: “There is the potion… Don’t forget to take it every fifteen minutes.” He left us free, and then the friar prepared to speak, taking a slow, greedy drag. “And this favor you want to ask me… let us know… is it in my power to do it? ” “Of course. Otherwise, I wouldn’t ask it. ” “Let us know what the favor is eaten with. ” “Well, here it is. My illness is not in the tongue. I speak more clearly than ever. I’ll say it in a nutshell. Under any pretext… it is up to you to invent it, and without any delay… I beg you… to leave your uncle’s house for an inn.” I remained speechless, not knowing what face to put on. “I beg you, sir,” the friar insisted. “You see how Father Moreno’s ailments are, that he would go so far as to beg for such things. If I were in my normal state, able to walk on my legs and use my arms… I wouldn’t ask you… Sweet! What would I ask for!” He sat up in his chair, forgetting his ailment, transfigured, fuming. Since the brief exchange had begun, he had gradually become more animated; his waxy cheekbones revealed the infusion of blood, and I thought I saw him restored to his pristine self, arrogant, intrepid, as in his happiest days. “Father…” I murmured. “Little by little… That’s not as easy as you think; and it seems to me that, at the very least, I have the right to ask: why am I being asked to take this step? ” “I have the right not to answer you,” the Father replied. But I don’t want to use it, and I answer bluntly, categorically, according to my temperament and my type. I want you to leave Don Felipe’s house, because you should never have entered it; because if my father’s son is here, such a blunder wouldn’t be committed; because your uncle was blinded by good intentions… or the base idea of saving a few pennies… when the incongruity of you living at table and cloth with a young couple… or new, or whatever you wish to call them occurred to him; and because in this whole arrangement of family life, there has been little prudence or tact and no salt in the brain, and it’s time to put an end to such botched work. The Father said this in an increasingly coercive tone; but suddenly I saw him turn pale, put his hand to his thigh, and collapse into the armchair, exhaling a muffled groan. “Oh… oh… Moreno, Moreno!” “–he said, speaking to himself–: Moreno, you’re so spoiled! Son, you’re a real bore… Salustio, would you pass me this glass of water or this filth that ‘s over there? The little spoon? Let’s finish this potion.” I did as he asked; he took the medicine and leaned his head back on the cushioned backrest. As soon as he showed signs of recovering, I resumed the wild conversation: “Father… you understand that I can’t leave my uncles’ house now. It would attract attention. The exams are approaching; we’re at the gates of June… ” The Father looked at me with a slightly mocking expression. “Don’t take the exam. Silvestre Moreno advises you. This year’s situation is… a real pain, as you say.” I was constantly annoyed by this irony and this eagerness to involve myself in something that, in my opinion, was of no use to the Moorish friar. “Let’s talk calmly, Father,” I said resolutely. You, with this request, or rather, this order to clear the ground that you are giving me, seem to assume things that… well… that could result in offense against Carmen. –About your uncle’s wife. –Well, about my uncle’s wife… As you wish. Let’s talk without circumlocution or mental reservations. I don’t mind. We met nearly a year ago… right? And that same day I also met Miss Aldao. At the same time, you and I knew she was marrying without love and even with true repugnance; and upon learning this… you, Father, approved… and I disapproved and protested, and I said so. Do you remember our conversation, the afternoon of the wedding in the Yew Grove, when you were praying your hours so peacefully and I was almost crying? Yes or no? Do you remember? “Yes, sir… I remember…” the friar replied. “And why remind me? ” “Why? I swore there was still a way to break up the wedding; I prophesied it was a big mistake… and you told me to take my leave… and told me you had a jumera. Is it true, or is it a lie? ” “Like the Gospel. And you had one; only it was pathetic and subtle. ” “Well: the fact is that you paid no attention to my premonitions. A year has passed, and in it you have lost sight of Carmiña.” He finds her again… and just as I predicted: unhappy, sad, sick with repulsion … and now the Father won’t want to admit that I was right by a hair! “What I’m hearing,” cried the friar, already in a rage, “makes me want to send the wrong foot to hell, get up and commit an atrocity against you. It’s all pure nonsense and absurdities without any foundation: pardon me if I express myself so categorically… Carmen unhappy? And why? You’re going to unravel the enigma for me. How does her husband fail her? What reasonable reasons does he give for displeasure? Doesn’t he love her, doesn’t he accompany her? Doesn’t he treat her well, according to her character, for each of us has our own? What dish have you thrown at his head? I’m outraged —and I repeat that I beg your pardon if the manner is rude and unparliamentary—by the fuss you make at me!” “And I’m outraged by your way of feeling and thinking, Father ,” I replied, no less angry than the Moor. “So, by not throwing plates, or singing solfeggio with a club, or bringing home a whore, a woman like Carmen Aldao no longer has the right to complain? Do you believe this in good faith? Would you dare swear that parity and sympathy of souls, mutual affection, all of which are lacking and always will be lacking, are not indispensable in marriage? Do you think that a noble, sincere, effusive, loving woman can resign herself to living with a sordid, base, immoral, and scheming man, a slave to substance? Is that so? According to your judgment, by spreading your fingers and grumbling a few words in Latin, the deepest incompatibilities disappear, and spirits assimilate and merge magically. A blessing… and that’s it. Is that all there is to it?” “And for you,” replied the Father, controlling himself and articulating in a deep, sonorous voice, “marriage is a matter of mere pleasure; if one spouse doesn’t like the other, and vice versa… the bond is broken. God must create for our own and exclusive use a being free from faults, entirely in conformity with the pattern our fancy traces; and if that proves not to be the case, bang! There goes the sacrament and its duties . Sensuality… ” This crude, theological word struck me to the soul, and I jumped up in protest. “Father, you priests who serve in the confessional and have abstained from intercourse with women, you don’t distinguish between colors, you see only one side of things, and sometimes you slander the noblest and cleanest sentiments. Involuntary slander, but slander nonetheless , and slander that irritates those of us who consider ourselves innocent.” You seem to attribute to me the supposition that my aunt is unhappy with her husband because he does not please her in this way… materially, in his physical condition. Which is an enormity, and I will not forgive you for it! “Oranges and pine nuts!” exclaimed the friar, already beside himself. “So there is no sensuality of the spirit or strayings of the imagination? And, besides, don’t come to me with rhetorical flowers. I do not go along with millstones. Behind these discontents you suppose, there would be—if they were not invented by you—what lies at the bottom of all things of the same kind: the fire of concupiscence and the sting of the devil. Fortunately, none of this exists except in the imagination. of you. Carmen is happy with her husband, as happy as one can be around here, in this valley of… tantrums: her conscience and her honor are intact, and if I want you to leave the house, it’s not because I see danger in your presence, but because the world can see it, and reputation is clouded with a breath. You, who recently reminded me of our conversation in the Tejo grove, do you also remember what we discussed at Ullosa? I think I told you that I wouldn’t consider you an honorable man if you approached your uncle’s wife in a suspicious manner. Why did these words from the friar sting me so much? Did I see a formidable obstacle arising, not to the fulfillment of my desires, since I didn’t fix them on anything concrete, but to my recent and delicious plenitude of ideal happiness? I don’t know. I only affirm that his words infuriated me, and in a burst of independence and rebellion, determined to upset everything, I exclaimed: “Well, Father, I feel like telling you what I haven’t told you to this day. That you are, in my eyes, a highly respectable person, esteemed like few others, sympathetic, dignified; I am convinced of this and will repeat it everywhere; but from there to taking you as an infallible doctor in matters of morality is as far as from here to Montevideo. I can be completely honest, even if it doesn’t seem so, and if, because I am interested in a woman who is unhappy—unhappy, unhappy, even if you deny it—I lose my prestige as an honest man in your eyes, I swear I don’t care a fig. Let’s take the matter to the most difficult terrain so you can see that I am frank and that I am no more concerned about my details than you are. Suppose that, indeed, I am in love with my Aunt Carmen.” Well, this will be a misfortune for me, and perhaps a danger for her— you see I concede enough; but what is to my honesty… it neither adds nor subtracts from it.” I deliberately paused, so that the next sentence would fall like a stone on Aben Jusuf’s skull. “Nor on hers either! Who will paint the metamorphosis that, upon hearing this last heresy, took place in the countenance of the Saracen friar? His eyes vibrated with flames and fire, rolling in their sockets with all the vigor of their happiest days; his features, already so pronounced in themselves, moved as if lifted by an internal cataclysm, forming deep, strong wrinkles, rigid, almost metallic; at first, unable to speak, he desperately gasped for air, as one who is suffocating must do. But that violent impression did not spill over into words, because the second man, the one whom the religion of Christ had grafted onto the brave trunk of that African soul, overcame and won; and, recovering, through an unprecedented effort, his serenity… he answered me in a somewhat gruff voice: “Well… my lord… if you are so content with yourself and see nothing worthy of censure in your behavior, we have no more to talk about. You believe that intruding into homes, under the protection and shelter of close relatives, in order to in one way or another attack their honor and combining (pian pianino) adultery and incest, are not reprehensible actions, nor is there anything in them that contradicts the principles of a consummate gentleman. I think differently; but since you, on the other hand, have no religious principles, my voice lacks authority over you, and everything I say sounds like nonsense to you.” Cease, then, all idle conversation, and from today on, also cease seeing and associating with Father Moreno. Because I, in fulfilling my duty, could not help but address you with some warning that would certainly seem impertinent to you… and we do not have the phlegm in our pockets either. Leave this poor sick man and continue on your way. But understand what I am going to add: there will be no struggle here; because Carmen, although she is neither a saint nor a virgin, as you sacrilegiously say, is a good woman and knows what she is obliged to do; and if there were a struggle… between you, young and full of resources and charms, and Silvestre Moreno, Already old, and probably sick from what will lead him to the pit… Moreno would be the victor. I’ll tell you no more. I listened, pacing up and down the room with my hands in my pockets, feeling within me, in my stomach and in my entrails, that burning trepidation that we feel in critical circumstances. My battle was secret, and no less determined and furious for that. I fought with my pride, with my passion, with my whole being, to avoid turning around and telling the friar… what I finally told him, by an irresistible impulse of my conscience and my soul. “Father… regarding battles and victories, we’ll talk; but as for the other stuff… so you see… you’re right! You’re right enough . It’s not a delicate thing to live in that house… I understand, I recognize it: my very position is humiliating, particularly for some time now… and I’ll get out of it, on my word of honor, soon, soon… as soon as possible. Don’t doubt that I’ll get out… and goodbye, Father.” I showed signs of wanting to leave without extending my hands, and he called me with sudden cordiality. “Come here, come here… You may think as you wish about religion, but you retain a fund of delicate feelings that please me. And let’s see, what harm has Carmen done to you to make you doubt that I would be the victor in the struggle, if such a struggle existed? ” “Father, I didn’t want to talk about that; note that it’s you who’s prodding me. Let’s suppose there is a struggle… otherwise… what’s the point of this discussion? There is a struggle… well, you will win… I’m certain it will! On the outside, on the positive level… do I make myself clear? Do you understand? ” “Too much!” the friar replied gravely. “And best of all… in that particular, I don’t wish—as certainly as I love my mother—for you to be defeated. ” “Go ahead,” Aben Jusuf said, frowning and thoughtful. “My victory is of another kind… My kingdom is not of this world!” I said with a slight irony, which the Father must have found tiresome. “There is one sphere in which I will always emerge triumphant… and that is enough for me… And you cannot reach it! That is the empire of liberty. On the fifth floor of the soul, Father… not you… nor anyone else!” The Moor remained silent. He raised his eyes to the ceiling of the infirmary, and the moving features of his face took on an expression, almost unknown to me, of exalted mysticism. He smiled brightly and said to me with a mixture of unction and disdain: “Jesus Christ enters every floor whenever he pleases.” As I left, I asked Doctor Sauco what the friar was suffering from. My countryman shook his head. “What could be wrong with him? He was a man as big as a hill… He had enough life for a hundred years; but he led a life unworthy of such robust natures. Machines of that power are better off running than standing still. ” He, if he hasn’t stopped completely, has at least nailed down some very important wheels… and there you have the results. What he’s suffering from is serious. Surgery will usually be necessary. Chapter 10. My position at my uncle’s house was extremely embarrassing from that day on. I couldn’t see a way out of there, and I really wanted to , because in addition to my uncle’s attitude, the Moor’s statement that it was depressing to support oneself at the expense of Carmen’s husband had been etched in my mind’s eye. The sterile and painful coexistence, which forced me to guess at and almost witness marital intimacies and attacked the romantic nature of my love, was completely unbearable . What was the point of living under the same roof? Since the interview with the friar, a change had taken place in the mare. She spoke to me only the essential words and turned away from me as if I were plagued. I didn’t completely despair, because I understood the cause, and I guessed the secret battle of that superior spirit; nevertheless, my situation involved such tension, so many painful frictions, such a great deal of laziness at certain moments, that there was no resistance I could muster, nor could I guarantee that the spring might not spring. For now, the friar’s victory was purely material. Of morale I could boast. And whatever the Moor might say… how weak my weapons and equipment! The Father, relying on beliefs and principles rooted in that woman’s soul; having the law and society as accomplices; with heaven in one hand and hell in the other, to reward virtue or punish crime… and I, with nothing but sentiment; I, who represented for Carmen the breach of duty, the stain of honor, the violation of convictions, shame, crime, and the loss of soul. Militating in my favor was only the force that in minerals is known by affinity, and by love in organic-rational beings: a force that exists latent in all and only awaits a favorable occasion to reveal its power. And so, defenseless, or rather, armed only with natural weapons, I knew that triumph would fall to me; that all the dictates of reason, all the precepts and commandments of religion, all the sermons of the Father, would not be enough to prevent that woman from _hating_ her husband and from _loving_ me deeply… This was the laurel! A laurel nobly earned if I left my uncle’s house as soon as possible. Leave soon… How? That little problem is certainly not easily resolved in my circumstances. I had to tell Don Felipe: “I’m leaving.” To my mother: “Be prepared to pay a fortune for a room, or what, according to your means, amounts to a fortune.” And to the world, to the microcosm of our circle: “I’m leaving here. Think what you like, I’m leaving. You’ll understand there’s something fishy about me when I leave fifteen or twenty days before the exams.” Determined to break with everything rather than give up, I nevertheless dragged my feet. I didn’t dare return to San Carlos until I put my resolution into effect. My aunt, on the other hand, visited the Father daily, and through her and Doctor Saúco I learned of the sick man’s condition, which, to tell the truth, was pitiful. They had played real tricks on poor Aben Jusuf: supposing he had the disease in the bone of his leg, they chloroformed him twice to open pits in his tibia with drills and braces. “Nothing,” exclaimed the doctor, “for with all their knowledge, let’s say it very lowly, Sánchez del Abrojo and the Marquis de la Salud have missed the cure. They worked on him like carpenters on wood. I tell you, they’ve destroyed the poor fellow; he thought two or three times it was time to go, and he asked for the sacraments and got ready properly… He’s a young and brave young man. He wasn’t afraid at all, even though he confessed that he didn’t find dying a joke. What a pitiful man! Well , I’ll cut you here, and I’ll cut you there, and I’ll prick you there… and then we came out with the idea that there wasn’t any bone decay, but an inflammation of the periosteum… –Speak to me in Spanish clearly. No swear words. –Kid, periosteum is the membrane that surrounds… –Well, what can we deduce from that membrane? That the friar is escaping or that he’s going to get into trouble? –We don’t know. He’s in a very bad situation, and he’ll be on crutches for a long time, if he ever tells anyone. There’ll always be a loophole. What I swear to you is that I’ve never seen a man with more friendships or who inspires greater sympathy. We all love him, both the boarders and the teachers; the nuns and the boys in the amphitheater. He’s seduced us by his affability and his spirit. Many ladies come to visit him every day. We feel sorry for him. He’s a guy who has fulfilled the obligations of his profession well, making a life and following a diet very contrary to his temperament… What’s happening is logical; he shouldn’t complain; so he doesn’t complain; he says and repeats that he is content with whatever God decides. I repeat it; spoiled by ladies, like no one else. One of the most assiduous is your aunt. It occurred to me, as the little doctor said this, that to speak for a moment alone with Carmen, the best thing would be to wait for her at the entrance or exit of the hospital. So I did. When I saw her get off the Atocha tram, I approached her quickly. She was surprised, and through the veil of I could see the bright blush spread across her face. “Hello… Are you here, Sallust?” she asked dissemblingly. “Have you come to see the Father? Come in, we’ll go in together. ” “I didn’t come to see the Father, but you,” I answered resolutely. ” Since you slip through my fingers at home, I’ll have to manage to find you elsewhere. Will you do me the favor of moving away from the door and hearing me? It’ll only take a minute.” She hesitated, and finally agreed to approach the corner of Rue du Fucar. “I want to tell you,” I said, trying to speak with composure and unable to suppress my agitation, “that I’m leaving your house. I’m leaving without waiting for the exams to be over. Just an excuse. I’ll look for him; don’t worry. But I don’t want to be there anymore. ” “You… Well, you’re right… I expected as much. ” “I’m right, aren’t I?” “Yes… I think so.” “That’s what I wanted to know… Nothing more. Now… go back to San Carlos. If anyone passes by and sees us here… Go back. No: first, listen to another little word. I’m leaving your house, but I’m not leaving your side. I’m with you always, at all hours. Do you understand me?” From behind the lace latticework, I saw her blink, frown, want to answer something and can’t… It seemed to me that the beating of her heart was intermittently striking the stretched silk of her bodice, and that on her lips a phrase was throbbing, trying to escape… But instead of speaking, she reached out her hand, which I took and undid in mine. Oh, God! I didn’t know how to let go… The evidence of being loved was so overwhelming and so delightful to me that I felt completely alienated, in that psychic situation in which we are capable of folly, and knowing well that it is folly, we equally know that we could not help committing it. We both stood there, stunned, she not letting go of her hand, I not letting go… A little boy passed by, whistling and dragging a wooden cart; the roar of the tram made the ground shake… and we found ourselves untethered, she walking toward the hospital, me motionless on the same corner. That day, upon returning home, I brought up the question of changing accommodations. The pretext had occurred to me when I was stuck at the corner like a policeman. I assured my uncle that to pass the exams, I needed to review with my classmates. He looked at me, his hard pupils penetrating the depths of my thoughts. “You’ll see what you do,” he replied. “I’m not saying yes or no. Inns cost money. I don’t know how your mother will take it.” And at the same time, his expression, more repulsive each time, seemed to add: “Go, congratulations. Your presence is annoying.” I was wrong to bring you with me. The fewer the packages, the more clarity. Out of there, then, I wrote to my mother that I’d better review… etc…. and I settled in with Doña Jesusa. Portal’s company did me good, and for the first time, in quite a few months, I thought about something very simple, very insignificant, very silly… That it would be advisable to pass the course! Brutal and oppressive reality! Just when we most want to freely construct the edifice of the life we dream of, you come and give us a shove, reminding us that there is in our existence part of a mechanism, a fatal gear, from which we only escape through poetry, madness, love, or death. Insufferable series of toothed wheels, which go on biting and communicating the enslaving movement of our fantasy and our impetuous blood, which demand unexpected events, adventure, romance, drama! All of the above means that I wasn’t very willing to endure the exam. Woe is me! The already warm atmosphere of those June days smelled terribly of pumpkins. There were those of us from the School who were too short to fit in; and especially those who, like me, had indulged in digressions and extraordinary exams, a luxury forbidden to engineering students. I remembered with horror that I had on my record unjustified absences, along with others for punctuality, which if they didn’t reach the small regulatory number, enough to found the The loss of the course was enough to brand me a careless student and arouse a warning in the examining board that was to be translated into greater rigor in the questions. Just as an acrobat who has rested for a long time knows the lack of flexibility in his joints and fears failing on the first plank, I, rusty from my long residence in the imaginary country, shuddered thinking about the critical moment of the call. With last-minute zeal, I immersed myself in my books. Certain subjects eluded me, not so much because of their difficulty, but because before I could sink my teeth into them, I had to shake off the layer of gray dust of boredom and annoyance. It doesn’t take much intellectual effort to understand passages like the following, from the _Treatise on Constructions at Sea_: “Poëy draws attention to a cloud of a special shape _cirrus balloon_ and _cumulus balloon_, resembling bags or bladders, a sure sign of an imminent storm, which English meteorologists call _Pocky cloud_ or _pustulate cloud_…” Nor does it take a Newton to realize that ” fracto cumulus clouds are, according to Poëy, the lowest clouds, irregular and torn at the edges, which, moving with great speed, quickly cross the zenithal region; in this way they differ from cumulus clouds, which appear to stand still on the horizon, even though, according to some, this immobility is only apparent.” But learn the story by heart without omitting a syllable and taking great care not to stutter the _fracto cumulus_ and _cumulus_! Crammed into two or three weeks’ worth of ports and maritime signals, railways , political economy, administrative law, and public works legislation, when in the mind there is nothing but conflagration and storm, and in the head the blue and golden vegetation of the garden of fantasy! Do you remember that sort of symbol with which I used to express my moral and psychological state, supposing my brain to be a battlefield where straight lines and curves were incessantly battling, the straight lines embodying real life, common sense, and severe studies, and the curves imagination and passion? For in the last period of my labors, when it was convenient to tighten the screws and throw myself into the arms of the straight lines, the curves had won, and an impossibility, a novel, a straying, a phantom drove me mad, delivering me over to disorder and irregularity, and once again delaying the goal of my career—emancipation. I wanted to quickly recover the time I’d so desperately lost. My uncles’ departure for their summer outing gave me back a bit of serenity so I could devote myself to books. I buried myself in them, spending the nights awake, drinking cups of that concoction we call ” exam coffee,” which we make by boiling a handful of coffee in a pot until all the juice is released, and then gulping down the bitter infusion. It was a desperate mental gymnastics, a mad race to recover what can’t be assimilated in days, or even months. Sometimes I felt dizzy; it seemed as if my brain was turning to soup and my blood was carbonized, from lack of sleep, walking, and rest. I went to bed when the birds were already singing; I slept barely four hours; and my body didn’t ask for food; at certain times of the day I even had a fever. As often happens in such cases, I ended up with the easiest option : the damned _administrative law_. I answered two questions brilliantly, and when I asked myself the third, which was completely unimportant, I noticed a hole in my head, an empty space where not even the slightest idea could be seen regarding that part of the interrogation. I said it with absolute sincerity: “I don’t remember.” And when I returned home, with the _suspense_ hanging over my mind, the necessary answer began to take shape in the depths of my memory…! Like a phonograph record that at certain moments repeats the sounds for a while. deposited in it, my memory automatically returned—when it was no longer needed—the definition and the very words of the book… This useless and belated faculty irritated me so much that I punched myself in the forehead. If I could start a fight with my memory… I would, for sure. Chapter 11. How my mother took it to heart! The stumble moments before reaching the goal knocked her off her feet. Her letters had to be read. She told me clearly that she believed I was given over to vices or dominated by some rascal, which rascality was keeping me from studying. “Your mother is very logical and reasonable about that,” Portal affirmed. “How can she conceive that because of your clumsiness and dullness you have failed the year! The truth is, no one can imagine it. If Belén were the culprit… well, then… ” The result of my mother’s suspicions was that she called me to Galicia. She wanted to see me through her own eyes, scold me with her own mouth, find out how the illness had left me, find out for sure the name and the tricks of the supposed swindler, the deceiver and coaxer of innocent students… From Ullosa, Mama pretended to know every single risk, ambush, and pitfall that a young man my age could face, lost in the whirlwind of the court. From this point of view, her letters were sometimes a treasure trove of comical warnings. Her first question, when I arrived at Ullosa, was something like this: “Whose hand did you fall into? Come on, be frank with your mother. Don’t hide anything from me. Are you sick? I’ll have the doctor in Cebre see you, he’s a big deal. And your uncles? They finally kicked you out, right? Did you leave because you couldn’t resist them? Is your aunt a cloying woman? I suspected as much.” Good old Mama suspected everything, except for the one thing that was certain…; and if anyone pointed it out to her, she would respond indignantly: “My son isn’t capable of getting into trouble with married women. He has more decency and better principles than all that. Do you hear that?” Ever since I rested at Ullosa, my greatest wish—who wouldn’t guess?—was to see the marmoset. Where was she? Surely in the Tejo or Pontevedra… It didn’t take me long to find out: my mother, with her gang of spies and newsreels, always showed herself well- informed about the outside life of that married couple. It was precisely at that time that Mama revealed great joy and satisfaction over a particular fact that flattered her greatly: Carmen Aldao wasn’t pregnant… “Perhaps they don’t have children,” she would tell me without hiding her joy. And I, in a very different tone and accent, driven by other hopes, quite different from my mother’s, would answer dully: “Perhaps they don’t!” A few days later, my mother appeared agitated and worried about the news, also concerning the marriage. One morning, she came to wake me with a mysterious air, carrying a letter from Pontevedra. “Don’t you know what Josefina Montero is writing?” she asked in an emphatic tone, which was incomprehensible due to the importance of the news. “Your uncles have gone to the baths at La Toja. ” “Is Carmen ill?” I asked anxiously. “No, it’s him… He has a fierce bout of erysipelas. ” Mama added another gossipy little paragraph. “In Pontevedra, there’s no other conversation but about Candidiña, the wife of Mr. Aldao, and what’s going to happen between her and her stepdaughter. Don’t you know? The old man, after secretly marrying and denying the marriage for the first few months, suddenly became shameless and… he’s running headlong into the girl.” It’s a joke to see them on the streets, she so nice and so outstanding, and he dragging his feet. I don’t want to tell you how much Don Román has gone downhill in such a short time. He’s a phantom. She seems to have made him swallow that he’s had a bad birth; and the old man is drooling. I tell you, a farce is brewing there. Some people are talking about whether Castro Mera visits them or not… Gossip; but it’s well spent by the old man. Recently she ordered a hat from Paris . How about it? A candid girl with a hat from Paris! I expressed my indignation at such abuse, and a few days later I learned, through the usual dispatch that informed Mama of events, that my uncle and his wife would soon be returning to Pontevedra . “They say Felipe is feeling much better. I doubt it.” And when I asked why I doubted his improvement, he replied, shaking his head: “Anyway, now they’re coming to Pontevedra because they want to throw some very elaborate festivities, more elaborate than the previous year’s; your uncle and Castro Mera are the ones stirring things up… They say they’ve never seen anything like them before. It’s their plots; I’ll tell you, so you don’t suck your thumb like a fool. Dochán… don’t you know Dochán? Well, he’s a very long-time fool, even longer-timed than your uncle, at least when it comes to these little intrigues around here; I don’t know about Madrid; I’m talking about this area.” So Dochán saw that your uncle was getting married, took the bull by storm , and left the field open. He figured he could become master of the province by hanging on to Sotopeña’s coattails. He tried to get in the way of Lupercio Pimentel, played along with him, and knew how to flatter him on two or three issues… In short, he managed to get Sotopeña to elbow your uncle in the side and start using Dochán for everything. They almost blew up his post office deal; only Castro Mera stopped the coup. But they undermined the situation as far as the Provincial Council was concerned: they ousted the President, who was theirs, and installed another one: two quarters of the same in the Committees; in short, there’s no one your uncle’s work doesn’t work. Now, just to slap him in the face—since Don Román got married, your uncle has been feuding with his brother-in-law—they gave him the hospital position he was aiming for. Felipe is raging; and not knowing what to do to discredit the Saint, they say he ordered some terrible articles to be published in El Teucrense, uncovering a thousand mischief-making schemes… Furthermore, Castro Mera, who is as sharp as a whip, stirred so much and did so much that he managed to get Lupercio Pimentel not to be offered the presidency of the Literary Competition… is that how you say it? That’s right, the Competition. Under the pretext that we needed a very famous writer, he put it into their heads to invite someone named… do I remember? Yes… Don Apolo Añejo… Make me laugh: I knew the character from the taunts of the festive critics, from the constant jeering of the students, who had personified in the famous author chosen by the people of Pontevedra the literature of the flask and mummified poetry. “It seems,” continued Mama very seriously, “that that gentleman is the most famous in Madrid.” I’m telling you this just so you can see how much your uncle and Dochán are taking the fight to every corner. They’re going all out. No one knows who will win; but it’s already become such a heated issue that they’re furious and will one day come to blows. And the newspapers! El Teucrense and La Aurora do nothing but insult each other. If they eat each other… imagine what a lucky break. We give La Peregrina a mass. Upon learning that my uncles were back in Pontevedra, I became invincible in my desire to see Carmen again and resolved to go to the festivities at all costs. It was still quite an arduous undertaking: Mama, shocked by my failure in the race, far from telling me as she had in other years: “Have fun and eat, you’re working hard enough in the winter,” repeated the motto to study, to study hard, to make up for what I’d lost. Nevertheless, I was so determined that I obtained the desired permission: and my mother decided to accompany me, because my stay at the inn would cost her more than in her little house. So we left for the capital, the Helenes of the magazine racks. As soon as we arrived, I went to see my uncles; not so Mama, detained by a matter of etiquette. “Let Carmen come first,” she said, “she’s younger.” I didn’t bother with such demands and went… what is going? I ran; I think my legs carried me to that house by themselves. It was a small apartment, where they had hurriedly stuffed some furniture, leftovers from my uncle Felipe’s old room, now rented out as a post office. The junk was old and few, but my uncle had managed to find it. to give them a very pleasant appearance of order and cleanliness. The maid, the Galician girl who hadn’t been in Madrid, recognized me, greeted me with applause, and let me in, without even bothering to announce myself, considering me an integral part of the family. I entered. I always liked to surprise Carmiña this way, because given her vehemence, it was very difficult for her to restrain herself in the first moments and not let her soul surface. I was right on target , for when she heard the sound of my footsteps, seeing me in the small room where she was working, the impression was so strong that she didn’t know what to reply to my greeting: her tongue was tied. She was so startled that I was the one who remained relatively calm, master of myself, despite my student’s inexperience in matters of passion. I took her hands, the palms of which were moistened with light, icy sweat; I dragged her to the window and fixed my eyes on her face, which I found paler and more haggard than ever. She strove for us to sit as if we were visiting, very formally; but I wouldn’t let that happen, and I kept her by the windowpane, never satiated with the sight of her face. We were so close that, being taller, I could easily lean over and steal from her the supreme gift, the seal of love, the longed-for kiss, a sweetest favor that implies the rest. But what held me back, more than respect, was pity, was the fear of covering those withered cheeks with shame. If I kissed her, there would surely be a red stain on her face. Yes; I saw the desired kiss marked like the mark once imprinted by the executioner’s hot iron. No; never kiss her. Suppressing the temptation, I wrung her hands, digging my fingers into her trembling palm. She finally managed to lead me to the sofa, and sitting down, she pointed to the armchair, where I sank down. Then, in a pleading, opaque tone, she murmured: “Leave me alone, Sallust; come on.” That voice rent my heart. I let go. I was now as troubled as she was and understood that neither of us could express ourselves through words, and the only language would be a long, silent embrace. To my great surprise, Carmen recovered, took a breath, stepped back, and said firmly: “Sallust, I once told you not to follow me or bother me. The time has come to repeat it. Don’t come back here, especially when I ‘m alone. Don’t make me more miserable than I already am. Do you want to force me to warn your uncle and close the door on you? Well, I’m not afraid to do it. There are times when I break down for anything.” I was slow to reply, calling upon my composure. I composed myself, and without anger, like one begging, I objected: “Since you’re sending me away, allow me to speak. You want me not to come. I can’t live without seeing you. You’re not breathing either; you’re in very poor health, sick, and sad. You’ve been getting this way since your wedding. Isn’t it a relief to see me and talk to me for a while? Why do you refuse this distraction or this consolation? If you could see how you’ve changed since I left you! No? Well, I won’t bother you again; but at least explain to me how my visits harm you. Is it your husband who objects? Or are you the one who is scrupulous and dismissing me?” She leaned back again on the sofa, and before answering, she looked at me. For a moment, her eyes shone and her face was transfigured. Her voice was whole and pure as she answered me: “Both of us.” My husband, if he understood what was happening, would naturally disapprove; and I, who know, disapprove. Yes, it is true that I am sick and sad, and it seems that I have no desire to live; but it is not because you do not come… On the contrary. How shall I explain it to you? Listen carefully, I will try to explain it to you. One day you told me that you would not attack my honor… My honor is mine and no one will attack it, because I will not allow it ; but to talk like this, it is because I have given you reason to think nonsense. This is my fault, my fault alone; I tell you, of course, that there is much to criticize in my conduct. Instead of giving advice to Candida, it would be better if I observed myself… Now it seems to me that I have I have uttered a nonsense. Neither in my conduct nor in my actions do I discover anything that can really shame me… only that it would be better if certain… nonsense, nonsense of yours had not intervened between us! I am wrong to speak to you about these things; but I feel deep down that it is better for us to explain ourselves. “Let us explain ourselves,” I sighed. “You will see how clearly. You have imagined that I do not love my husband, and even that I feel for him… thus… a kind of… repugnance. You have had the courage to tell me so. Well, suppose it were true. A woman who fears God… look, I am serious! must love her husband… and I have resolved to love mine… or die. I am quite certain that if I do not succeed in loving him so much that you yourself will confess it… I will die. The mere fact that strangers can doubt this affection convinces me that I have acted wrongly up to this day.” I have solemnly bound myself to _love_ her, in the presence of one who neither forgets promises nor consents to perjury. I owe her not only fidelity, but _love_, and… on that point… That’s why I get irritated when you call me _saint_. How _saintly_ I am! What a mockery you’ll have of me! But that’s over now… You mustn’t laugh. I didn’t know what to reply. I had no arguments against that woman. Deep down in my conscience, her sacrifice seemed to me at times hollow and vain, at others admirable and sublime; at times quintessential, artificial, and sterile, at others spontaneous, heroic, and extremely beneficial to the morality of future generations. It was my dual nature presenting me with the pros and cons of the idea of Christian marriage; it was the traditionalist and the rationalist within me, scuffling and clawing at each other. “Do you know,” she continued, “the first thing one should do when one wants to go straight down the right path?” Remove obstacles and stumbling blocks. That’s why I repeat to you that it’s not enough to have left the house, but it’s necessary not to come here much, especially when Felipe isn’t here. It’s neither decorous nor appropriate; understand it yourself and it will be better. The decree didn’t shock me. I expected it. I was sure that Carmen would barricade herself behind that paper wall that consists in physically removing a man, when that man is aware that he is loved. The banishment mattered little: not so that gallantry of the never-conquered will, which in its own suffering sought new strength… “Good,” I murmured, taking the hat. “You’re throwing me out of your house, without taking into account how respectful my demeanor has always been toward you and the absolute consideration I have shown you. I think you’ll do me justice by confessing that I have never overstepped my bounds. I saw you dejected and hurt, and I longed to be of comfort to you. You won’t allow it.” Well, since what’s inside the soul must come out in front of the face, I tell you that, since I can’t see you up close for even a minute, I’ll do the foolish things that are natural: I’ll follow you when you go out, I’ll walk you through the streets, and I’ll watch you at the theater. “You won’t do that,” she replied, “because since I won’t give anyone any attention, people will think you’re crazy. ” “I’ve often wondered if I am,” I responded in a fit of lyricism, feeling my heart soften like butter in summer. “At other times, it seems to me that you’re not in your right mind either. This plan of loving your husband or dying… you’ll see my frankness… is beautiful, very beautiful: you don’t even presume all the beauty it contains. Only it’s the beauty of mental alienation. Have you read Don Quixote? Well, that’s it… well, that’s it. You’re a female Quixote. You bid me farewell… You’ll remember me! You sweep me away… Your heart will take me in.” Goodbye, I tell you for the second time… I am a prophet. In time. I went out into the street and wandered aimlessly, eventually landing on a bench in the Alameda, solitary at such an hour. The shade of the gigantic trees , the freshness, the perspective of the river, should have entertained me; but I didn’t even notice the scene. My fixed idea prevented me from contemplating nature. Each defeat exalted my spirit more; each clear demonstration of Tití’s moral strength left me more hopeful, more Convinced that in her, and only in her, feminine perfection lay. And on the other hand, the difficulties and setbacks leading to the sterility of the aspiration were clearly visible to me, which, if it could be fulfilled and satisfied, would leave in its wake nothing but drama, conflict, shame, and pain for that same woman whom I was trying to raise to the pinnacle and for whom I desired so many blessings and glories. Winding through these thoughts, I went through the Pilgrim’s festivities without noticing their dizzying bustle. For me, neither the walks along the Alameda, with its music and its young ladies dressed in cheerful summer colors, nor the theater with its zarzuela troupe that brought us _La Mascota_ for the tenth time, nor the church services, nor the dances of the recreation clubs, nothing, in short, that makes up the program of these provincial festivities, had the slightest attraction, unless it served as an excuse for me to see my tití, even if only in passing; to see her pass by with her husband, faded, wasted, sad, ugly to everyone, except me! On the walk I dodged the turns to cross paths with her once more. In the mornings at church, I would often find her, and while she was listening to Mass, praying, or reading from her book, I would remain there, until my friends and my mother herself found out—for even the smallest piece of news spreads quickly in the villages—that I frequented church, and they teased me about my devotion, supposing some pretty girl was the magnet that attracted me. At the theater, while they imagined me absorbed in the contemplation of this or that young lady who stood out for her figure or her elegance of dress, I would glance furtively toward that box where my uncle’s wife sat modestly dressed, her hair unpretentious, her manner composed and grave. Did she notice me looking at her? Did she turn her head in the direction I was looking at? I would be lying if I said no. She did turn her head, indeed, several times, surreptitiously, but with a kind of anguish. Probably that movement only meant: “Nephew, see if you’ll get me to agree.” During those days of festivities, a great uproar broke out in Pontevedra: the struggle between my uncle and Dochán was reaching its peak, and, overexcited by the presence of the belligerents, it gave way to a horrible war of personalities and crude attacks, sometimes directed with open faces. El Teucrense and La Aurora de Helenes were the strategic positions chosen by the combatants to fire at the enemy. My uncle’s organ, El Teucrense, had gone so far as to openly accuse Dochán of actions punishable by the Code, not the least serious of which was that of having taken into his house furniture purchased to furnish the halls of the Provincial Council. There was a certain sofa, certain curtains, and a certain carpet that El Teucrense never ceased to dust . The Dochanistas, on the other hand, accused my uncle’s men of major schemes: and like a corpse rising from the surface of the water, the old, buried scams , those that have already expired, those that in Madrid are never mentioned again—the expropriated land plots, for example—rose back to the turbulent surface of local politics. But even these weapons, as sharp-edged as they were, weren’t enough for the Dochanistas, who began to interfere in private life, talking about Don Felipe Unceta’s motive in marrying the daughter of “a wealthy landowner”; how his father-in-law’s remarriage was “killing” him; the animosity between his son-in-law, his father-in-law, and his brother-in-law; and finally, slipping in insinuations about ill treatment of his wife, based on her physical decline… Everything was alluded to at that time, except what truly existed in the depths of my soul and in that of the poor marmoset… It is that the evil ones and the slanderers, by force of their own harmful instinct that guides them and the brutality of their rage, do not take into account the purely sentimental motives of human conduct, nor psychic delicacies, and they end up having eyes and not seeing, having ears and not hearing. Before that modest, withdrawn woman, Barely dressed, battered and thin, a type entirely opposite to the adulteress of melodrama portrayed in moral articles and serials, no one could have imagined, not even remotely, that her heart would leap in her chest when she saw an engineering student, her husband’s nephew, pass by, or that this nephew would soon be determined to give his entire future to her and look with indifference at the rest of the women. Ah! If only they could suspect it! What a find for the Dochán faction! Although my uncle pretended great serenity and sovereign disdain—a political style learned in Madrid—for the pestilent gossip of La Aurora, I understood that it touched his soul, and behind closed doors I saw him exasperated, further accentuating the acrimony and unevenness of character already demonstrated in Madrid; a strange thing, since my uncle’s equanimity was once a form proper to his cautious and prudent nature. In Pontevedra, it was whispered that the attack of erysipelas had been very serious, and even certain rumors were bandied about, which it is not lawful to repeat or print, slandering his conduct and attributing to him unbridled debauchery. The Dochanistas in particular emphasized with atrocious malice the following: “Don’t you know? He was in La Toja for a long time; twenty days at least.” Observing my uncle, I could not help but notice in him a very gradual physical decline, the first symptoms of which had been noticed almost simultaneously by Miss Barrientos and myself. Two or three times he came to see us complaining of loss of appetite, and saying to my mother: “Benigna, woman, make me some potatoes your way… just like in the village… to see if they will wake up my stomach.” At first, the steaming dish attracted him, and opening a hole in the cornmeal , he would pour the milk into it and prepare to devour; But by the second spoonful, his appetite had died. “There’s nothing I like. Besides, I’m so tired… if you could see! And I think I must have lost weight. My trousers are falling down.” While the Hebrew was complaining these words, my mother was staring at him with a lively expression of intelligent curiosity. Mama’s eyes were speaking; they wanted to say something very important, and then… hush. One circumstance surprised me then, and that was noticing how my mother carefully put away the glass, plate, napkin, and cutlery that my uncle had used, and locked them in the sideboard. One day when the maid knocked on that storage room, my mother started shrieking fiercely at her. “I’ve been told not in there… That’s for Don Felipe… There are plenty of cups on the stoop, woman. ” Nevertheless, when the festivities were over, a favorable change took place in my uncle’s condition: I saw that he was suddenly cheerful and lively; he assured me that his appetite was returning; And I don’t know if it was because of this or because the arrival of Don Apolo Añejo was imminent, whom he himself had invited to preside over the Contest, in order to deal a blow to Pimentel and the Sotopeñistas, he threw himself once again into combat against Dochán, and made a great show of himself, in the company of his wife, in the streets, promenades , and at entertainments. Don Apolo Añejo was much talked about those days in Pontevedra, his merits and aptitudes for presiding over nothing less than a local Contest being boldly discussed . It was a notorious injustice to even begrudge such a distinguished man the palm, already withered with age, and the laurel, drier than that of kitchen shelving, sanctioned by fifty years of literary consistency, of fidelity to the poetic school, whose crux is in naming things in a way absolutely contrary to how everyone else names them, calling water _lymph_; vessels, _craters_; coffee, _sleepless bean_; And to tea, _a salutary Sinense drug_! Nor were Don Apolo’s rhymes so fossilized that they would not have served as a stepping stone to climb to certain administrative positions, and even a political shadow, where he remained, not without fruit. At first glance, it would seem that for Don Apolo the speech at the Contest had to be a compromise; but the classic poet managed to hide his ignorance in almost all human and divine matters so skillfully that We expected the same thing to happen at the Helenes Floral Games. My uncle constantly repeated a phrase taken from a chronicle in El Teucrense to organize a splendid reception for Don Apolo. The Dochanistas created a thousand difficulties for him. They were now in talks with the director of the “Ecos del Lérez” choir, trying to prevent him from offering a serenade to Señor de Añejo; they were now intriguing at the Casino, creating obstacles to the literary evening in his honor; they were now stirring up regional pride in favor of Lupercio Pimentel, who was, after all, a son of the country and more likely to be entrusted with the presidency of the Contest. However , the arrival of Don Apolo brought about a period of truce; urban pride, the desire to make his city look good, calmed the spirits of the contenders; the poet’s sober appearance, his half-words, emphasized and accentuated with enigmatic smiles, won him esteem and respect. The press then, without distinction of color, dissolved into eulogistic phrases, and gave a detailed account of the steps and movements of the distinguished writer: today he had gone out into the street in the company of So-and-so and So-and-so; in the afternoon it was his turn to be enraptured before this church or ruin; at night it was certain that he would go to “admire” the illuminations of the Alameda; yesterday it was said that the women of Pontevedra are made of cinnamon and sugar… On the morning of the Contest—the eve of the performance of the Divina Peregrina— I relived in a certain way that month of the previous year, in which Carmen’s wedding had taken place and true youth had begun for me with the first stirrings of passion. On the streets of Pontevedra I met Serafín Espiña, as far from the priesthood as when I had first met him; the Mayor of San Andrés; the Assistant to the Navy, with his entire family, wife, sisters-in-law, and suckling pigs; Don Wenceslao Viñal, a member of the jury, squeezed into his frock coat and dignified with his top hat, and Castro Mera, also a member of the jury, putting on carrot-colored gloves. And then I saw a couple enter the theater, where the literary solemnity was to take place, who attracted attention, provoked malicious laughter, made everyone’s heads turn, and projected with their shadow a caricature of silhouette. They were Señor de Aldao, a trembling man with a hanging lip and dragging his feet, and his wife, beautiful, fresh, white as milk, now in tune, upright, and gentle, elegantly dressed in lilac silk with black flecks, and sporting her little straw bonnet adorned, tucked into her blond hair, with a tea rose. They walked like gangsters, and Cándida—I must confess— showed neither shame nor conceit with her new position; only a certain graceful childish bewilderment, which induced her, when she saw me, to threaten me with her fan, and to smile at me with her mouth and eyes, showing teeth like pine nuts between the split cherry of her lips. I didn’t enter the contest. Because it was daytime and all the lights were on, a stifling heat reigned inside, and it wasn’t worth the effort to endure it to hear the legend _Os Turrichaos_, in royal octaves and dialect, and awarded with a copy of the _Obras de Cervantes_; the _Hymn to Helenes_, silver inkwell; the _Romance to Our Excelsa Patrona la Divina Peregrina_, bronze and crystal vase… and other works destined for the well of oblivion, despite the fact that Don Apolo called them _fragrant flowers of the poetic Galician orchard_. Nor did Añejo’s speech , with its expositions on gay knowledge and the troubadours of the Middle Ages, appeal to me much. I knew Carmen was there; but I preferred to see her on my way out, rather than drown and endure the downpour of laurel-like rhymes. And by the way, since I’m writing my autobiography, I will declare that I have no great fondness for even excellent verses, and that bad ones, of the Trinito variety, far from exalting my imagination, provoke in me a kind of comic contempt and a reaction of prosaicism. I have the arrogance to believe that my story with Carmiña Aldao is more poetry than the Hymn to Helens. At the end of the speech, applause resounded, and they went out the door. A few spectators, exhausted from the heat, grateful that the speech had only lasted an hour and a half. Among them was the director of El Teucrense, who touched me on the shoulder. “Don’t you know what your uncle just did?” he asked. ” He’s in the aisles with his father-in-law and his wife, and he doesn’t even greet them. The only conversation in the theater is about. ” “And Añejo’s speech? ” “Man!… A weak voice, very little grace… words so convoluted they’re almost hard to understand… He spoke to us about troubadours and trouvères… he told us to walk towards the apotheosis of Galicia, holding many competitions similar to this one he presides over… and he asked us not to go astray by imitating the decadentists… decadentists, as it sounds. I don’t know of any decadentists in Pontevedra . I think the audience understood: dentists.” Tomorrow in _El Teucrense_ I’ll see if I can publish an excerpt of the speech: that’s why I’ve taken notes. Now back to the oven, let’s see when this can of poetry ends. We’re all pressed for time, for fear that the author of _Os Turrichaos_ will saddle us with his legend without sparing an octave. We hope the President will put a stop to such abuse. If not, as the stuttering priest used to say, we… we… have mass until four o’clock. What are you doing there? Come in to hear the Muse sing . Come in! I preferred to take a stroll around the town and return to stand at the door when I rationally assumed the performance was almost over . But undoubtedly the author of _Os Turrichaos_ hadn’t spared the audience even an octave, because I waited for a long time. Finally, the place began to empty. Everyone, upon leaving, breathed like someone freed from a burdensome task: their faces expanded in the fresh air, and the sun filled them with joy; there were sighs of satisfaction and voices that sounded joyful, shaking off the enervation of the insufferable ceremony. Carmen left between her husband and Don Apolo: as this group passed, people made way, and murmurs of curiosity could be heard. Chapter 12. The day after the Contest, the Casino ball was being held. The marmoset would attend because her husband required her to exhibit herself continuously while the festivities lasted, and it was necessary to impose herself and gain prestige against the Dochanistas. I also prepared to attend the _festival_, as _La Aurora_ would say, and at ten o’clock I was already wandering like a lost soul through those rooms, occupied at that time by only the President and some member of the board of directors, who were putting the finishing touches on the decorations and finding out how we were doing with flowers, rice powder, and hairpins on the dressing table, “worthy of _The Thousand and One Nights_,” as _La Aurora_ also stated. People began to arrive in groups, since it’s rare for a single family to attend provincial dances; they usually gather first to face the embarrassing situation of the first moments. Divans and stools were brightened by the delicate colors of the young ladies’ dresses, and when the orchestra played the first polka, six or eight couples came out dancing vigorously, taking the room as their own. In a short time, the crowd increased so much that movement became difficult. And Carmiña didn’t even show up. At about a quarter to twelve, she made her entrance arm in arm with Don Apolo, who displayed senile gallantry with her. There is no woman in the world, at least the world as we know it today, who, no matter how saintly , does not try to look a little better at a ball; and Carmen, despite her complete self-denial, had definitely devoted a little time to the mirror that evening. She wore her usual white dress, but refreshed, adorned with cones of roses; natural flowers in her hair and a few discreetly pinned jewels. Her long Swedish gloves concealed the already angular line of her arms. I won’t say she was pretty: there were so many radiant, youthful faces there, that the honors of plastic beauty rightfully belonged to them . My eyes, however, turning away from the lush blossoms, went in search of of the mystical rose, of purely spiritual beauty, evident in a face consumed by passion and struggle. If I hadn’t seen that face there, perhaps I would have danced with the pretty girls waiting for a partner. But I didn’t want to. It was better to look at her furtively. Añejo was at her side. She listened to him and answered affably, trying not to raise her voice or make gestures that would draw attention to the audience. What could Don Apolo have been talking to her about so often and so heatedly? I learned later that it was about the success of his great Elegy to the Rota of the Guadalete, heard with the utmost kindness by King Alfonso XII and printed at the expense of a very learned group. My uncle left his wife devoted to the Rota of the Guadalete, and taking a walk around the drawing room, he soon met the editor of El Teucrense, who, very deferential and solicitous, approached him, saying: “Don Felipe, what’s up?” What’s on your mind? They were so close to me that I could hear the answer. In a more broken voice than usual, my uncle replied: “Man, I felt very well a few days ago… But today I don’t know how I’m feeling. I feel tired and tingling in my feet… And sometimes pain. I think I’m going through with rheumatism. Old-age pensions, which are already starting to come in. ” “Hey, what old age, no way, you’re a young man!” the journalist protested. “Take care of yourself and don’t raise any temper, or you’ll just annoy those at La Aurora and the people the Saint imposes on us. If he feels like ruling, let him rule in Compostela, where he has his district and where he’s even employed the dog-runners from the cathedral. We’ll have to scare him away from here. Look, Don Vicente will have all the talent he wants and that people recognize in him; But in his protections he plays the violin more than anyone. Be careful not to have handed the town over to Dochán, Paredes, Rivas Moure, Requenita, and all that rabble from La Aurora! There are days when one feels like doing something outrageous. Yesterday at the Contest I tired of calling them crooks; and they swallowed it, because today they don’t squeak. My uncle moderated the seide’s zeal, repeating: “Calm, calm and bad intentions… We will make Don Vicente see that he has no choice but to come to terms and compromise. Believe me , at this hour he is fed up with Dochán and the commitments he puts him in… the matter of the furniture…” I didn’t want to hear any more, and leaving the chief and the journalist engrossed in their dialogue, I went into the living room, attracted by the marmoset. I noticed that she was in great company; Several ladies from the elite of the population had been approaching and forming around her and Mr. Añejo that upper core that inevitably forms at every dance or soiree, to the despair of those who have no place there . An incident came to highlight what I’m saying. When the ladies manage to organize the aforementioned core, they display feline skill in defending it and preventing the interference of foreign or heterogeneous elements. The half-dozen ladies who, with my marmoset in their midst, morally presided over the dance, ingeniously capturing the couches, spreading their skirts, pretending not to see, had achieved the desired isolation. Two or three attempts at infusion were quickly disconcerted. But one occurred that demonstrated the unity, the surprising harmony with which the movements were verified in the small female army corps. And so it was that Señor de Aldao entered through the large door—almost adjacent to the divan—turning his wife to her right, who, to tell the truth, was very pretty in her light suit and her powdered, curly blond hair . The couple headed like a dart toward the divan; and the ladies, with admirable promptness, widened their shoulders, fluffed up their dresses, and, feigning distraction and fanning themselves hastily, made it impossible for the intruder to get into position. She, full of sagacity, despite her inexperience, saw the maneuver from afar, and pulling her sixty-year-old husband’s arm, pulled him away from the dangerous spot. There was a moment of curious anxiety in the living room; the incident occurred during the interval. and the men had left, leaving the center of the room almost clear , allowing everyone to learn everything. The improvised lady hesitated; she didn’t know which way to turn; she feared another slight. Finally, she went to the left, sitting on the corner of a bench occupied by some of the least prominent ladies in the town; among them, for example, was the family of a councilman, a wine merchant, and a developer of San Andrés. Candidiña’s husband, after seating her, had to do what everyone else did: withdraw, leaving her in the embarrassing position of a woman alone, the target of unsympathetic glances , and to whom no one would speak. She looked around with some anxiety, and her rosy, cherubic face suddenly became serious. To appear less self-conscious, she made gestures, adjusted the lace on her neckline, ran her hand through her hair, tucked her train in, fanned herself, and smelled the flower she was wearing on her shoulder, almost touching it with her cheek. Her spirit was begging for a savior… and the savior was not long in appearing, in the form of Castro Mera, who, in a tailcoat, obsequious and sweet, with a flirtatious tone on his lips and insolence in his eyes, crossed the room and approached Mrs. Aldao, displaying more nonchalance than was appropriate. The conversation between Candidiña and the provincial deputy turned into lively whispers, and the ladies seated next to Don Román’s wife began to whisper among themselves, not without a severe furrowing of the eyebrows and the occasional vigorously disapproving nod. I watched my uncle from a distance, and I could see that he didn’t miss a single detail of this scene. Two or three times I noticed signs of annoyance and repressed unease on her face, along with those ill-disguised nervous movements that escape a woman when social propriety obliges her to remain in one place and her desire drives her to another. Unable to contain herself any longer, she made a graceful gesture to Don Apolo with her head and hand, and the singer from Guadalete bowed, offering his arm with haste and deference. They crossed the room, and, to my mind, she performed it with the dignity of a queen, with the lightness of a fairy, and with the divine smile of a virgin. And without ceasing to smile, amidst the general expectation, she approached her stepmother, held out her hand, and while Cándida stammered, trembling with emotion and surprise: “Thank you very much… Carmiña…”, the honest and sublime woman bent down, placed her lips on the girl’s forehead, and, pushing her familiarly by the shoulders, hooked her almost by Añejo’s arm at the same time that she took Castro Mera’s, saying with sweet authority: “It’s my turn!” When they crossed the room to go and settle themselves on the couch, the buzzing of a fly could be heard. However, half a minute later, the heated conversations _otto voce_ imitated the buzzing of a beehive: “She did wrong.” “No, well, it seems very right to me. ” “It’s a scene, anyway.” “Would you do it? ” “Not I; I think otherwise; I am very undemocratic; That fregatria isn’t one to mix with the ladies from the very beginning. –But, after all, she’s your father’s wife, and to allow her to put you in a sedan chair… –Do you think she won’t put you in after all? It’s a show of effect. –No, a sign of humility and modesty. Carmiña is a very good girl: look, I’ve known her since she was born. –Me too, madam. –And her husband? –Oh! Unceta! He’s as bad as Cain; he’s going to raise hell , because his father-in-law hasn’t wanted to see him since he got married. –Jesus! Let’s see what face he makes when he comes back from the lounge!… –Look at the way his stepdaughter speaks to her stepmother… Etcetera, etcetera. My aunt, in fact, addressed Cándida affectionately, honored her, and introduced her to the other ladies of the group, who, understanding the good deed, joined in with her with smiles and attentions. By common consent, they expressed a certain coldness toward Castro Mera , and the provincial linguist ceased to hover around them. of the group. Then I approached. Señor de Aldao, leaning out of the parlor door, was looking for his wife, and she, beaming with pride, signaled to him, which the old man obeyed with all the agility his years allowed, approaching the couch. If my uncle had not found her generous action amply rewarded by the satisfaction of her conscience, she would have been better rewarded by the childish joy that lit up the old man’s face when he found his wife sitting there, amidst the cream of society. Between the daughter and the father, a dialogue began in which words meant nothing, and expression everything. On Carmiña’s face, colored by the excitement of the event, I thought I saw written in letters of light this motto: “Honor father and mother.” The reverse of the medal was the entrance of my uncle. I cannot express the transformation of his Jewish face when, upon returning to the parlor, he realized the great news. At first, he seemed reluctant to approach the couch; then he changed his mind and approached slowly. Now at his wife’s side, and pretending not to see Don Román or Cándida, he ordered: “Let’s go, it’s late. ” Carmiña wasn’t daunted. Obedient to the point of fanaticism on so many occasions, on some occasions she was insubordinate to the point of heroism. She stood up , without rushing anything; she said goodbye to her father, to Don Apolo, to the ladies; and finally, throwing her arms around Cándida’s neck, she whispered something in her ear. The effect of the whispering was such that the girl exclaimed decisively: “If you’re going, I want to go too: Román, let’s leave at once.” And, in fact, the two ladies simultaneously took their coats, and only on the street did they separate, heading for their respective homes. Whoever has the patience to read me can judge from the commotion that arose at the ball. The stormiest situation was among Dochán’s camp. A circle formed, in which an editor from La Aurora, Requenita, harshly commented on the removal of Mrs. Unceta from the dance, slipping from that terrain into his assessments of my uncle’s political and private conduct. The editor of El Teucrense was nearby, and he responded insultingly, saying that at least my uncle’s furniture wasn’t purchased by any corporation, and then firing back at Requenita himself, alluding to the funds from a certain subscription, which had ended up in the pocket of the editor of La Aurora. The dispute ended in a kind of challenge. “You can tell me out there, if you want,” Requenita replied to her adversary’s most direct provocation . We intervened, calmed them down, and apparently everything was settled. At about five in the morning, which is to say it was clear daylight, the director of El Teucrense and I were leaving the casino together. We had had dinner, and, dazed by sleep and a few glasses of detestable pseudo-champagne, we were staring in surprise, blinking in the sunlight, when, as we set foot on the street, four or five individuals rushed at us , shouting interjections. They were from the shady newspaper La Aurora. We were being beaten by blows in the morning. They came armed with clubs, and the first blow fell, resounding and magnificent, on the back of the director of El Teucrense, who recoiled, pale with fright, shouting: “Indecent… scoundrels!” The next one was for me, and it hit me in the hat, which fortunately protected my head. But they seconded, and I felt the blow on my hand, so painful that it ignited my fury, and instead of calling for help, I threw myself at the one who had just wounded me, disarmed him, and with his own stick I pursued him, without succeeding in hitting him, because he resorted to fleeing. By this time several stragglers from the dance had gathered, with that promptness that people have in learning of events and rushing to their theater. They lifted the Teucrense from the floor, who was complaining of kicks and stampings, as well as blows with the stick; and they also tried to assist me with pharmaceutical and home remedies , ether, water, vinegar. My youthful pride He rebelled. I protested. “I don’t have anything. It’s just a stick in my hand. You see? There’s no broken bone. I handle it well.” The attack had been so unexpected that I didn’t know the name of my beater. “His name is Rivas Moure. He’s someone who, through Dochán’s influence, temporarily holds a chair at the Institute.” Unintentionally, and as if I were chewing something heavy and indigestible, as I went home I kept muttering: “Rivas Moure, Rivas Moure.” My hand was smarting. Fortunately, it was my left one. Chapter 13. And I say fortunately, because, in truth, being beaten and rendered useless because of and in defense of my uncle seemed like the greatest honor in the world. There was no doubt that, as the nephew of Don Felipe Unceta, I had been beaten, and this injustice of fate poisoned my blood. Until then, in various brawls with comrades, I had beaten without receiving any. Now they were hitting me from behind my back, and the blow to my uncle was aimed at morality; but in the end, it hit me. Thunder and lightning! Inside, I kept saying, “Rivas Moure… Ah! I’ll get you.” I would have devoted the day to this hunt, if chance hadn’t arranged it differently, perhaps more opportune and conducive to my plans. The editor of El Teucrense appeared at my house, extremely bewildered, around eleven o’clock, while I still had my hand wrapped in arnica cloths. He looked pale and haggard, and in a few words he informed me that something had happened to him… a very serious, very compromising incident. La Aurora, after having looked so unpleasant for him, had now, at ten in the morning , sent him two sponsors, Messrs. Dochán and Rivas Moure, whose visit was to seek an “honorable solution” to the conflict that had arisen that morning at the end of the ball. “So,” said the poor devil, for in reality he was nothing less than the editor, “here I am, after being brutally attacked, headlong into nothing less than a challenge. I tell you, our mission is a series of bitter moments!” A challenge… I had thought of you as a godfather: you and Don Felipe, if you would like… but you certainly won’t… so, if it’s okay with you, we’ll go now and solicit the help of Mr. Castro Mera. No, don’t think I’m intimidated by the prospect as a prospect… It’s just that there are always disagreements: one has sisters, a family to which one owes oneself… and the idea of leaving them helpless doesn’t please… I turned over in bed—I was lying down—and burst out laughing. “Calm down,” I replied to the good director. “You won’t leave your sisters helpless just yet. In fact, if you follow my lead, and if Castro Mera understands me and follows my instructions, I promise you there won’t even be a challenge. I’m going to get up and we’ll go out together. Please do me the favor of straightening up, tilting your hat, and lighting a cigar and smoking gracefully while we walk through those streets of God.” Because I can be sure that they’re following us and watching us. On the way to Castro Mera’s house, we’ll make a detour to pass in front of the editorial office of La Aurora… Yes, man, yes; no one will come out, not even with a rush. I’ll answer. Oh!… And on the street… not a word about the object of our escapade. We ‘ll try to talk loudly, and about indifferent things: about Os Turrichaos, Don Apolo Añejo’s tailcoat, or about pretty girls, or about a lightning bolt that might split them… but about the challenge, not even that. We did, in fact, go out together, not without me, for all intents and purposes, having provided myself with a sturdy gorse tree, cut down in my private forest in La Ullosa, and capable of giving a lot of play, if handled skillfully. The editor of Teucrense, following my advice, was dressed up and firm, although not as provocative and thuggish as I would have liked. As we approached the corner where we had to turn to pass the editorial office of _La Aurora_, he seemed to forget what had been agreed upon and was inclined to take the shortest route; but I didn’t tolerate it, and turning resolutely to the left, I entered the street that led us to the very mouth of the wolf, to the dreaded editorial office… “Cheer up. Don’t rush. Don’t turn your head around,” I whispered in his ear. My godson. I was not deceived in assuming that our slightest steps and movements would be noticed. Behind the glass of the shop windows there were curious eyes, ears intent on catching some fragment of our conversation, tongues commenting on our attitude, and particularly that of the journalist. The printing press of La Aurora, on the ground floor, was half-open: far away in the background could be seen the machine, the galleries with the typesetting, and two or three men in blouses surrounding a man in a jacket, in whom we immediately recognized the famous Requenita, initiator of the Casino zambra. “Now they’re upon us,” murmured the man from El Teucrense, squeezing my elbow. “Do as I do,” I replied; look inside, frowning deeply.” He did so; Requenita, pretending not to have seen us, went deeper into the newsroom: no one appeared, nor did anyone want to, and in peace and by the grace of God we arrived at the entrance of Castro Mera. The provincial deputy, wearing white slippers and shirtsleeves , received us ; he too had just gotten out of bed at that moment and was preparing to shave. As soon as I learned the purpose of our visit, I noticed with surprise that he was so flustered and suspicious, as if it were he, and not the journalist, who had to cross the border. Seeing that he could be picked up with a spoon, I understood the need for me to assume dictatorial powers. “Leave me alone,” I told them. “I’ll be responsible for whatever happens. In the final analysis, I’ll fight for the gentleman. But don’t worry, there won’t be any bloodshed. All this about challenges is a joke. I don’t know why you have such a dislike for them, if in the end we never see any individual killed in a moment of honor buried.” This morning we were in more danger from those thugs’ clubs. Do you want to look good, yes or no? Then give me full powers and absolute authority. You, Mr. Editor, are no longer a damned thing to us. Go to your editorial office, or your house, or wherever you please, and write an article for tomorrow’s issue that essentially says this: “The hustlers and ruffians who gather in groups of five to attack two unarmed people are victims of a sudden case of _canguelitis_ when things become formal and are taken to the realm of honor.” Since what is most in your party’s interest is to render Dochán useless, allude clearly to Dochán himself, and assure me that his followers form the new gang of thugs. This afternoon we will read the article and I will approve it. The rest is up to me. I remember Castro Mera tapping me on the back, murmuring: “Clever boy! I see you know the compass… Supporting your uncle through thick and thin… Superb! Dochán doesn’t have a second of that . I handled that business militarily. Castro Mera and I appeared at Dochán’s house, without waiting for him to come looking for us and suspect that we were fleeing the burning. Somewhat surprised by our energetic attitude, the leader of my uncle’s enemies called Rivas Moure, who entered the room with his head down and greeted us without looking us in the face. From the first moment, I measured him with a disdainful glance, pretending to direct the conversation exclusively to Dochán. My speech was divided into three points: first, that we were sorry that the gentlemen of La Aurora had gotten ahead of us, because since the ambush at the Casino, our clients had wanted to find someone on whom to properly punish the unworthy attack; Second, since the offended party was the director of _El Teucrense_, he understood that the duel would last until one of the combatants was disabled; third, that he could not be content with one more blow, delivered with the blade of a blunt saber, but rather demanded the pistol, advancing at twenty paces, until he achieved “his purposes.” As I spoke, Dochán’s ironic and cautious expression darkened, and Rivas Moure, who had a weasel-like snout, bloodless and badly bearded, fixed his pupils with bewilderment on the tip from their boots, not daring to raise their dismayed faces. Finally, they broke the silence, decided to look at each other, and, having agreed with that glance, Dochán articulated: “What you’re proposing… you haven’t noticed… I can’t accept such grave responsibilities. We live in a civilized time and country… ” “Well, sometimes it seems unbelievable, and if not, let Mr. Rivas Moure tell you so ,” I replied, turning to the substitute professor, who twisted his head and turned green. “Anyway, we…” Dochán stammered. “Our duty is to prevent a bloody scene… on a day of mourning… ” “Mourning is immoral,” Dochán added sententiously, raising a short, hairy finger. “The immoral thing, Mr. Dochán,” I responded very slowly, emphasizing the syllables, “is that our political customs have been so debased that insults, beatings, and treacherous aggression are part of them, without anyone protesting with a worthy act. The editor of El Teucrense has been attacked in the most vile manner, when he had no means of defense or friends to guard his back ; and he does quite well to admit satisfaction in the field where gentlemen tread, for he would be within his rights if, imitating and carrying out to perfection the procedures of his adversary, he put a bullet in his temple, wherever he found him. Let it be recorded, and I ask you to take this matter with all the seriousness we demand. We await a prompt response, and we will return to collect it at four in the afternoon. Castro Mera and I left there arguing. The lawyer was astonished by my ardor, and at the same time extremely alarmed, fearing that the others would have a tough time. “Friend Castro,” I told him, “this afternoon, at 4:30, you will draw up a model report that will be issued at 12:00. These people are as bold and cynical as they are white-blooded. Capable of attacking from behind when they are in greater numbers, they are not capable of standing one-on-one in front of the barrel of a gun. I only ask for a deadline of 4:30. I am so sure of the outcome that I won’t bet, because it would, strictly speaking, be robbing you of your money. My predictions came true. That afternoon, Dochán and Rivas Moure, utterly courteous, offered us every kind of satisfaction, swearing that only the exaggerated chivalry and delicacy of their client had been the cause of a misunderstanding and a provocation that, in their opinion, “was not appropriate.” Not only does the editor-in-chief of La Aurora, Mr. Requena, give you the most complete satisfaction… “Yes… but what about the beating?” I asked, confronting Rivas Moure. “We’re formal people here,” Dochán interrupted. “We don’t attach importance to things that lack it… A fit of temper… When you go to dances and parties and spend some time at the buffet… You understand… For the rest… ” “Well, let the record show the editor’s drunkenness ,” Castro Mera indicated, who, already emboldened by the turn things were taking, even allowed himself to tell jokes… “And what were you going to do besides give you the most complete satisfaction right away?” –Well, furthermore… we wanted to tell you… that from now on, _La Aurora_ will not… come, that it will show consideration… to _El Teucrense_… and… now to its director… Because it is truly distressing that such boxing matches are taking place in the _press stadium_… The press, in fulfillment of… of its sacred mission… must march unanimously, managing the vital interests of the region… It hurts to witness certain spectacles. –Come on, –I said in a low voice, but not so much that Rivas Moure couldn’t hear it . –From yesterday to today, you have discovered that the mission of the press… Fools! Scalded cat… Castro Mera drew up the document, with all those retractions and satisfactions that we could wish for; they signed it for their sponsor , and we for ours; and as soon as we folded it and Castro Mera put it in his pocket, an embarrassing silence reigned, until Dochán broke it off, suggesting that we go to the café to celebrate the auspicious conclusion of such a vexing affair. We accepted and sat down at a table where the waiter immediately placed the coffee service and the classic carafe of cognac. The ice melted, and the conversation became lively. The godfathers of La Aurora were undoubtedly satisfied with the, if not glorious, at least quite peaceful conclusion of the affair, and they even allowed themselves to joke with us and display a cordiality that seemed to herald an imminent reconciliation between the Dochán and UNCist parties. This was the opportunity I was looking for to extract the bitterness from my body. Breaking the silence I had maintained and leaving my coffee untouched, I stood up and said as loudly as I could: “Mr. Rivas Moure… you undoubtedly believed that when I sat here it was with the intention of drinking coffee in your company. Well, you were mistaken, very mistaken. ” What I was looking for was a favorable opportunity to tell you that I take no glory! with cowards who beat up from behind their backs. And without another word, I grabbed the scalding coffee cup and threw it at Rivas, where it shattered, making him look perfect. A tumult arose; they intervened; Castro Mera got me out of there… I was barely able to hear a regular sermon from my mother, trembling with fear and indignation against “that rascal Rivas, who last year deceived a girl and left her with a child in her womb.” Chapter 14. Divine Pilgrim, and how good old La Aurora came the next day! Some muffled and mysterious loose ends; others that were becoming clearer; a long article entitled Hidden Hands; some macaronic verses that took up almost the entire third page; the entire issue, in short; dedicated to demonstrating this obvious truth: that my uncle Felipe Unceta had an army of swordsmen in his pay, among whom were, in the first line, his nephew and the director of El Teucrense; that with this army he terrorized, inhibited, and stifled the voice of the impartial press; but that the ruse would not work, because those of La Aurora were determined to stick to their guns and stop wasting time with scarecrows and front men, imposing severe punishment on anyone who cowardly hid behind their retinues, since they would find a way to reach their inviolable person. Mixed with these indirect remarks from Father Cobos came others no less offensive; The plots were appearing for the hundredth time, with a wealth of details yet unpublished, and there was talk of certain incidents that had occurred at a dance between a father-in-law and a son-in-law, a stepdaughter and a stepmother, incidents that had provided the delightful spectacle of a family reconciliation, carried out in public by the wife without her husband’s consent. With the newspaper in my pocket, I went out to have my temper. Drawing on all the philosophy I had in reserve, I thought to myself: “What are we doing here? Should we really stand up to them, or tell them to go to hell? Deliberate, Sallust. I understand that certain stupidities bother you somewhat, that you are indignant at the bad faith of presenting yourself as your uncle’s squire , a sort of hired assassin to throw scalding cups of coffee in the faces of his political adversaries. But reflect and take one thing into account, it will cool your blood, preventing you from committing the barbarities that occur to you.” The reasoning you should follow to calm yourself is unequivocal. _La Aurora_ is not read outside of here, and everyone here knows how things have happened: therefore, neither here nor outside can it harm you. The one who will be harmed a little will be your uncle and his political prestige. I suppose you will say that they will give you everything. With these reflections, I calmed down. However, I spent the afternoon strolling through the most public places, so that they would not say that I was hiding, and I can assure you that at no point on the horizon did I see a trace of Rivas Moure or other people of his ilk. Although the pilgrim’s after-party was still going on, they had withdrawn, fleeing from the madding crowd. When I returned home for dinner, I found my mother extremely agitated: He was waiting for me on the stairs to unburden himself more quickly. “Don’t you know?” he said hastily. “Everything is turning into a mess. Now we’re going to have guests at Ullosa. I’m leaving tomorrow in the afternoon carriage, and they’re leaving the next day in a rented wagon. What a mess I’m in for! And I think I don’t have any sugar there, and I’ve run out of pear jam. I don’t know how I’m going to get out of this mess. This was the only thing missing: running into your uncle and his wife in tow… ” “What?” I asked, no less agitated than my mother. “Are you saying my uncle and his wife are going to Ullosa? But why? What ‘s the news? Did you invite them? ” “Invite them? Kid, what are you saying? What’s the news? Fear… zerotype… or whatever you call fear, so as not to call it by its true name.” Felipe is so overwhelmed by what “La Aurora” was saying yesterday and all the nativity scenes of the past few days. The way I see it, he’s afraid that those from Dochán are planning to disable him or kill him, so that he won’t overshadow them. He’s so apprehensive that he doesn’t see where he’s going. “But has he told you? ” “Well, no; he blames it on his illness, and the doctors are telling him to breathe country air…; and since he doesn’t want to go to the Tejo because he doesn’t feel like making peace with his father-in-law, look how much this trouble is falling on me… ” “Mother! What does it matter?” I answered eagerly. “We’ll give them the best we can. It’s certainly not very graceful for my uncle to leave now. They’ll think he’s scared to death… ” “You can see it! And they’ll believe the pure truth,” my implacable mother confirmed. The next day he left in the bus, leaving me to accompany his uncles in the carriage. I protested, although the commission was a matter of honor to me; but when he warned me that it was Felipe’s express request , I allowed myself to be persuaded, and at six in the morning I found myself locked in the cramped prison of a box supported by four wheels, facing the woman I loved, breathing in her atmosphere and feeling for the first time, since the famous Waltz of the Tejo, a year ago, the contact of her delicate little feet and her delicate body; a contact that would make me forget all restraint, if the fear of offending her had not served as a powerful restraint… As the heat increased and the dust from the road rose in murky gusts, entering through the carriage windows, my uncle, overcome by sleep or drowsiness, leaned his head in the corner and closed his eyelids. The sun, filtering through the calico curtains, poured in, where they didn’t fit, a shaft of light that bathed the Hebrew’s face—where a certain emaciation was noticeable—and his neck, dotted with reddish patches. Thus asleep, with his eyes closed and somewhat retracted toward his skull, his mouth compressed, and his nostrils filled with transparent shadow, he resembled a corpse, and for the first time my thoughts focused on the hypothesis of the man’s natural death, the only obstacle to my happiness. “He’s really ill: I imagine he’s seriously ill. He’s changed a lot, I can see it now. His type was sanguine and strong, whereas now…” And after looking at him again, I reasoned: “I can’t feel it. If he dies, I say he’s right, leaving his wife free and me at heaven’s door.” I don’t know if Carmen interpreted the expression on my face; the truth is that she looked at me in a strange and indefinable way, her eyes darting from her husband to me, and from me to her husband. The conversation dragged on: we exchanged only a few sentences, drowsy and enervated by the heat and dust, rocked by the lurching of the carriage, which barely moved the horses, exhausted from other journeys and burdened by horseflies and flies. My marmoset fanned itself, and the breeze raised by its fan cooled the sweat on my temples, giving me a delicious sensation… We arrived at my estate at three, exhausted from fatigue, as if we had made the journey on foot. My mother was already waiting for us and had refreshments, milk, and fruit ready. We spent the afternoon pleasantly. Outside the house, Carmiña, in a calico gown and a coarse straw hat, was having a great time with the chicken coop and the stables—for in my humble little house there were no gardens, although rosebushes, marigolds, and geraniums grew against the wall, common flowers with which I made a bouquet to give to the marmoset. Rest after the inconvenience of the journey; the serenity of nature, which always communicates itself to the spirit; the freedom and pleasantness of the countryside lent Carmen a bit of vitality, a touch of carmine on her cheeks, and freedom of movement, instilled by the certainty that no one was watching her. My uncle, complaining of pain in his bones, had lain down on a sofa, and Carmen, my mother, and I were left in charge of the garden. That afternoon, and also the next day, the place, the occasion, and my age explain, if not excuse, the phenomenon. The barrier of inner respect I offered Carmen as a holocaust broke somewhat . Blood did its work, and I noticed with terror that if before I had dominated her when I was near her or alone with her, now Dantesque love revealed itself alive and human, rooted in my very core. I felt capable of committing outrages, not only indelicate but odious, that would forever alienate a will secretly mine and shame me afterward. I feared myself, as those prone to suicide fear approaching the mouth of an abyss or hauling their body out over the railing of a tower. I was determined to conquer myself completely; but I wasn’t sure I could succeed unless circumstances helped me. How horribly they helped me! On the third day of our stay in Ullosa, my mother and my uncle went out together to see some of the fields and vineyards, the pride of the farmer. Both wore straw hats and carried woven umbrellas covered in green. I stayed reading and dreaming, my blood stirred by the thought that Carmiña was just a few steps away from me, in the solitude of that house, where only the heavy buzzing of flies could be heard, and occasionally, in the distance, the proud and defiant voice of the rooster in the yard. The sun, the silence, the mystery of the windows half-opened to provide a bit of fresh air, were stimulants to my imagination, drops of lava pouring through my veins. To have her there, so close, and not be certain that she truly loved me! And the fact is that I imagined that if she would come and give me , just a word, the comforting balm of hope and promise, that passion and that painful anxiety would vanish in a breath. Where would she be? Locked up in her room for good, so as not to be alone with me. This is what I was thinking when, listening closely, I heard her voice in the stable at my feet. The stables, in Ullosa, make up the ground floor, and above them we, the rational ones, sleep, which is why my mother maintains that no mansion in the world exists that meets such conditions of health. I listened to the voice, which pronounced affectionate adjectives in dialect, tender words: I soon understood that they were directed at the young cow, the young cow. The mother had undoubtedly gone out to graze in the mountains, and the calf, alone in the stable, was mooing sassily, despite my aunt saying so many sweet things to it and offering it bread. I hesitated at first, but finally went down to the stable, and in the half- darkness that reigns in such places, I saw Carmiña in her calico gown, her arms rolled up, and presenting the calf with a handful of tender, damp grass. The graceful animal poked out its warm, silky snout, running its rough tongue over my aunt’s hands, moistening them with slime as clear and pure as a child’s. Its eyes looked at us, candid and astonished; its short golden ears perked up on its childish head. It was impossible not to be delighted with such a gentle and precious creature, and the marmoset told me so as soon as I approached. “Cutest thing!… Bring him some grass, you’ll see how he’ll gobble it up… I’m telling you , it’s a real shame to leave him all alone. Poor thing… go on, eat, silly, eat!” The gloom of the stable prevented me from seeing my interlocutor properly. and encouraged me to utter bold words. I was surely about to slip up, when a farmhand, my mother’s farmhand, entered, sweating and wiping his forehead with his sleeve. He presented us, tightly wrapped in a cotton handkerchief so the envelopes wouldn’t get dirty, with ten or twelve letters and a few newspapers. I went out into the light, looked at the envelopes one by one, and since they were all addressed to my uncle, I gave them to Carmiña. I was going to keep the newspapers; but seeing among them two issues of La Aurora, I unwrapped them in a jiffy and searched the text for anything that referred to our recent tragedies, fearing to find allusions to the hasty departure, which might well seem like a cowardly escape, and indeed it was, on my uncle’s part at least. The first thing my eyes came across was an article entitled: “Shameful Retreat.” In it, they criticized my uncle for having gone against the grain. And in the following issue, another article, whose heading and context struck me as far more serious. The epigraph read: “The Children of Israel, or a Piece of Retrospective History”; and there, displayed with a wealth of erudition —no doubt stolen from the cowardly complacency of Don Wenceslao Viñal— a physical description of my uncle was given, linking it to his Jewish origins; it spoke of the Judaizers punished by the Inquisition, especially the flogged Juan Manuel Cardoso Muiño; it criticized the “aristocrats” who mixed their blood with such impure blood, and it established a certain parallel between his origins and the tricks of Don Felipe, who, unable to lend on usury like his grandparents, dedicated himself to sucking the blood of the province. The article, though full of insolence and vulgarity, revealed a skill in evading legal action, while still mortifying, wounding , and raising a rash. I don’t know why, as I crumpled it up in involuntary anger, the thought crossed my mind: “Does she know she’s married to a Jew?” I believe the familiar word “judiada” (Jewish), used by the marmoset to describe the act of separating a calf from its mother, suggested such a bad idea to me. I didn’t even consider that if my uncle was Jewish, I shared the family taint. And handing the newspaper to the marmoset, I said: “Carmiña, read. See how far political grudges lead.” She also leaned out of the stable door and read. I watched her all the while. No doubt her reading confirmed old premonitions, hitherto indefinable repugnances, shudders of the soul that couldn’t be justified by any positive reason. The aversion was now explained. That _Jewish face_ wasn’t drawn by a fanciful imagination; her husband looked like an executioner… because he was one; and instinctive horror was more accurate than reasoning. He returned the newspaper to me without a word, and going upstairs, he locked himself in his room. Mama and my uncle returned soon after. We ate and even took a short nap , because in the little valley of Ullosa, enclosed by hills, the heat, at midday, was intolerable. Around four o’clock, my uncle came knocking at my door and entered the room, saying to me: “Salustio… Do you know of any decent doctor around here who knows his job? ” “Nearby?” I replied. “The one from Cebre isn’t bad; he’s a studious man who takes an interest in the sick… He once treated Mama for a sore throat. But… what’s going on? Is my aunt unwell?” “No… How far is it to Cebre?” “There are three leagues to walk, at least. No matter; we’ll send the servant. ” “Bah!” he replied. “It’s not worth it. I’ll go to Pontevedra… it’s preferable. What I have is probably worthless. In the morning we had a more than average dose of sun; I was already burned with the nativity scenes of the last few days… and I think the erysipelas has cleared up a bit. Little blisters have formed… you see?” he added, rolling up his shirt cuff and showing his hairy arm. ” They’ll burst later… Sunlight is extremely harmful to the humors.” No doubt because of the antipathy I felt for the patient, the appearance of the blisters seemed very repugnant to me, and it was difficult for me to fix my eyes on them. I offered to go to Cebre in person and fetch the doctor if necessary. “No,” my uncle replied. “I’ll go to Pontevedra, the other way around, to consult Saúco, who is there, according to what I’ve seen in the newspapers. But I don’t think there’s any need. With a little old man’s water… I was imprudent in exposing myself to the blazing sun this morning. Your mother would have died if she didn’t show me the new vineyard. Besides, it’s unnerving, because those people… Anyway, it’s a question of refreshment. Irritation and nothing more. The illness was not mentioned again that day. Nor was I thinking about it, as I was busy studying Carmiña’s face the effects of the revelation contained in the article in La Aurora. Ah! They were as obvious as if written by a fiery finger on her face. Her effort to love her husband was useless; her instinctive deviation was now overcoming, nature was regaining its rights, and at the touch of the deicide, the Christian woman shuddered profoundly… The following morning, the sheets clung to me. I had been kept awake all night by my suggestions of passion and hatred, my vague thoughts, and the uneasiness of turning in that sort of vicious circle or sterile daydream in which I was consuming my best years, the sap of my brain, and the strength of my soul. As the night hours passed, I pondered whether it might not be better to do something right away, bad or good, absurd or reasonable, but decisive; something that would put an end to the ambiguous and almost foolish situation of being a platonic lover; something, in short, that would loosen my grip and resolve the problem, even if it meant upsetting everything. Thus fluctuating, I repeat, I passed from dawn to dawn through the hot summer night, and only at dawn did I fall into a lethargic sleep; so that at about ten o’clock I had still not stirred. I awoke with a start to hear someone entering my bedroom , who suddenly opened the shutters, throwing a torrent of sunlight into my eyes and face, and exclaiming in the tone in which one might cry “Fire!” “Sallust! Sallust!” I opened my eyelids, still dazed. It was Mama. Although overcome with sleep, I sensed or guessed that something serious had caused her to enter my room at such an untimely hour. I rubbed my eyes, stretched myself, shook my head, and saw that Mama’s face expressed a mixed emotion: surprise, fear, terror, and a certain mysterious satisfaction… She bent over my bed and uttered these words: “Do you know what is it? Sallust… do you know? ” “What? No… how should I know?” Carmiña… “Carmiña! Yes, good Carmiña, may God bless you! Your uncle… ” “Did he quarrel with her?… Her?” “Your uncle,” she said briskly and quickly, “has spent the night with a fever and pains; he thinks he has an attack of erysipelas, an inflammation of the blood… ” “Well, so?” “And what he has is Saint Lazarus’ disease!” my mother articulated, her eyes wide with horror. Chapter 15. “Saint Lazarus’ disease?” I repeated, still not fully understanding the meaning of the tremendous word. “Well, leprosy,” she replied, her voice emitting from between her clenched teeth and with an expression that cannot be imitated. The revelation produced its natural effect. I, dumb with stupor at first, and she, silent to allow the full impact of the news to sink in, stared at each other, and, after a flurry of ideas occurred to us, we formulated none. My mother was the first to speak, and with the dramatic accent of a village woman recounting a murder she witnessed , she gave vent to the torrent of her impressions. “I swear it’s leprosy, as certain as your father being in the grave. I’d already believed it a long time ago. Don’t think it frightens me . But these things always affect you when you see them like this. Felipe is the spitting image of his grandmother… and his grandmother was killed by a knife.” Also. Didn’t I tell you that God is very just and doesn’t leave misdeeds unpunished ? “Mama, you’re crazy!” I exclaimed, interrupting her. “It can’t be; that evil no longer exists; it’s a disease from other times, from back in the Middle Ages, and now no one is seen or known to suffer from it. It’s nonsense; come on, no. ” “No one has it? No one suffers from it?” Mama burst out furiously . “Yes, trust in God and don’t run… In Marín, I could show you more than five poor lepers; and they don’t hide it. The thing is, among the nobles it’s always called erysipelas or herpetic humor. They don’t even confess the truth on the rack—gladly! And we should do the same, because it’s a very big stain on the family and a horrible shame . ” “Shame or stain, no,” I protested. “What’s anyone’s fault in their suffering?” “Being sick is no disgrace,” I responded, while an involuntary contrariety contradicted me inside. “What crazy ideas you bring back from Madrid!” my mother insisted. ” Don’t you think it’s shameful to be from a family of Jews and Lazarists? There are things it’s laughable to hear. You’re even more extravagant! Shame, and a huge one; and if word got out, it would hurt you if you were to get married today or tomorrow. You keep saying it’s erysipelas, and I’m not getting out of it. But I wanted to tell you, first to get it off my chest, second so you’d be warned, and also so you could advise me on what we do. ” “What we do?” I repeated, not understanding the scope of the question. “Of course!” my mother replied, surprised. “Do you think I’m going to stay home with leprosy, all fresh and content? Do you think I’m going to risk catching it? Any day now!” “Since I’ve convinced myself that things are what I supposed, I’ve had no peace of mind. I’d leave them hanging in Ullosa and go off to where Christ spoke three times, with you, of course. ” “But that’s inhuman!” I objected, alarmed. “Leaving Carmiña alone with her husband, in such circumstances! Don’t you know that it can’t be? ” “That it can’t be?” she answered, deeply amazed. “And why? What obligation do I have to put up with Felipe now? His wife is his wife; let her take care of him, that’s why she took him as her husband; but us? Will you do me the favor of telling me what saint we should suffer? What do we owe him? He’s robbed us, he’s stolen from us… ” “Shh! Don’t raise your voice…” I said pleadingly, getting out of bed and looking for my shoes and socks. “He’s stolen the best of my inheritance; “As it is the pure truth, there is no reason to hide it,” argued my mother, whom the terror of the repugnant illness had made lose all sense of prudence, and even forget her own interests. “He has left me naked, you know very well that I have told you, and what is happening to him is God’s punishment; I already told you that one day it would fall on his head. ” “Mama,” I answered, tucking into my trousers, “you don’t know how much it annoys me to hear nonsense. So God goes around with a rod in his hand beating those who annoy you? ” “Your nonsense!” she replied fearlessly. “So God neither rewards nor punishes? So God does not give scoundrels their just deserts, here in this world and in the next? So anyone can do whatever they want, take bread from the orphan and the widow, and God doesn’t find out?” Salustiño, I don’t know as much as you, nor have I studied, nor do I read books; but I understand certain things as well as the wise… and woe betide us if it takes a great deal of wisdom to understand them! I fretfully buttoned my waistcoat. I couldn’t get the buttons into the buttonholes. My clumsy fingers refused to do any good. Giving up arguing with Mama, certain that I wouldn’t be able to dislodge her from her hard, spiteful, biblical convictions, my only desire was to see Carmiña, ascertain the truth of the atrocious case, and figure out how to lessen the seriousness of the conflict. I was thinking about this as I carelessly tied the bow of my scarf, my faculties already being completely clear, as is often the case when she surprises us in a Halfway through the dream, some important news called us into action. Still uncertain, I turned to my mother, insisting: “Are you absolutely sure it’s leprosy, genuine leprosy? Your knowledge of medicine… ” “Am I sure? If I were a doctor, others would be better at science… but at a glance! I have the eye of a devil. Besides, I’ve seen massacres a thousand times. There are dozens of them in La Toja. In Marín, we had one who came to the house every day to beg for alms: he would bring his cup for the broth, and we would leave him a full one in the doorway; because you can imagine, a thousand precautions were taken, and they were all too few. That makes me cringe!” ” Well, Mama, if we have it in our blood, we should be the least frightened. ” “Well… we have it, and we don’t have it,” he replied with his illogical tenacity. “The one who looked like a Jew here is your Uncle Felipe, and he’s the one to whom the disease has been transmitted.” The proof is that I never had any fear of suffering from it, nor of you suffering from it. “So,” I argued, “why do you insist that we isolate the uncle now, if we’re not going to contract the disease? ” “Nonsense!” he shouted stubbornly. “There’s no need for care. First things first . Let him sort himself out. He’s very rich: he won’t lack nurses or doctors. ” “Is there no doubt? ” “Doubt! I saw the ulcer!… This morning his underwear was stuck to his body! ” “And he… suspects?” “Not in the least! Erysipelas and more erysipelas. He blames it on yesterday’s sun. I was already dressed, and had passed a damp towel over my sleepy eyes. I stood before my mother, in an interrogative attitude, as if to say: “Well, so what? How do we resolve the situation? Let’s come to an agreement.” “Well, son,” Mama declared with her usual vivacity, “I’m not one to get bogged down. This very afternoon to Pontevedra, either them or us. The prudent and natural thing to do would be for them to do it, in search of a doctor; but since Felipe is so terrified of being beaten up by those at La Aurora, he might decide to stay here until God knows when, perhaps until he returns to Madrid: you see how troublesome that would be. So if they don’t leave, it’s you and I who will take the lead this very afternoon, by coach. There’s the house, the maid, the clothes… I’ll have to burn them all when your uncle leaves, because I don’t sleep in his sheets; first I beg to buy new ones…” He listened to her, terrified. So Carmiña was going to stay there, alone, with her husband stricken with such a terrible illness? “Mama, you go, if you want.” I have no apprehension. I’ll stay for whatever is necessary. “Aren’t you coming? Are you really finished? Do you think I’m going to leave you here, or allow you to become ill through madness and quixotism? Do you owe your uncle so many obligations that you’re risking your health for him? Salustiño, see that you don’t inconvenience me… You’re accompanying me in the evening. ” “Wasted time, Mother… I shouldn’t go. ” “What do you mean, no?” exclaimed my mother, her meager supply of patience now exhausted. “What do you mean, no? Who in charge here? ” “You, in everything except this,” I replied, anxious not to anger her, teasing her as a joke as I often did. “No; don’t come at me with jokes, or I’ll become even more frantic, ” cried the vehement creature in an indescribable tone. “You’ve done everything you wanted; You’ve wasted my year, and I haven’t even said a word to you—which wasn’t true, because he had said many to me. But if now you feel like catching leprosy, that’s it!… For God’s sake, don’t raise your voice… Shut up… Carmiña will find out ! Well, let her find out. Damn, with so many considerations and so many circumlocutions! I don’t understand what’s happening to you with your uncles, but for them you’re all melted and caramelized. Felipe is forcing you to believe that today or tomorrow he will protect you. Don’t trust him… and now even less than by natural order… Don’t get involved, your uncle advises you. Mother!… Those last few days in Pontevedra, you put yourself in danger of having your ribs broken… You came to my house with a ruined left hand!… You still have the mark… don’t hide it! And all for what? To support your uncle’s game against Dochán! I didn’t think you loved him so much… Now you’re going to expose yourself to death… Send him packing, because I’m capable of serving you so you can finish your career!… He said these incoherent things, acting and gesticulating a lot, in a tone now pleading, now angry, until finally, grabbing me by the lapel of my jacket, he issued the ultimatum: “If you don’t want to obey me, I who speak only for your own good, I’ll slap you … and you’ll have no choice but to come.” I took her in my arms, triumphing over her desperate resistance, and kissing her hair, because she was hiding her face, I replied: “We’ll turn the other cheek. It’ll be funny if you hit me on the beard! Mama, don’t be so senile. Neither you nor I can get out of here, leaving your sick brother and his wife alone with him. ” “Well, you’ll see if I let them or not,” Mama replied. “And I ‘ll have the cattle boy tie you up, and I’ll take you away tied up. ” Chance or luck meant that these heroic remedies weren’t necessary . The Hebrew appeared at breakfast time, as usual, but very haggard and limp, announcing that that same afternoon, by coach, he was going to take the train to Vigo, for he understood that his state of health required a formal, proper consultation . “This erysipelas is extremely troublesome.” It’s necessary to address the vice of blood, which has now revealed itself stronger than before going to La Toja. I understand that Sánchez del Arroyo is in Vigo giving baths to his family. I’ll be able to find out his opinion. Without touching the chocolate or the glass of milk they’d served me, I regarded my uncle with burning curiosity, suffering from that fascination that the repulsive and the horrible exert over us, which poses the enigma of human pain and misery. I wanted to read in his pale, heart-stricken face, in his neck, covered with red blisters, the secret of the incurable disease, passed down from parents to children, or rather, from grandparents to grandchildren, dissolved in the drops of Jewish blood that ran through the veins of our race. “She doesn’t know what she has,” I thought, “nor does she suspect it. What a situation! What shall we do now? Do we tell her or hide it? Which will be more pious: to reveal the truth, or to cover it up until science speaks?” Will the doctor have the courage to disabuse her? What will become of this unhappy woman? How can she bear the disgust, the fear, and the anguish? A woman who has always regarded her husband with invincible repulsion—what will she be now? As soon as she finds out, life will become impossible for her. And by instantaneous virtue of the terrible mystery whose veil had been lifted from me, I noticed a singular change in my heart and my senses. Instead of the youthful and ardent desire that had tortured me a few hours before, I perceived a kind of numbing of sensory life: it seemed to me that everything in me was being purified; that I could look at Carmiña as one looks at angels; moreover , the idea of her forced coexistence with the leper instilled in me that purity or frigidity that develops at the bedside of a seriously ill patient, at the foot of a deathbed, in the supremely painful moments of our poor humanity. I felt my love mutilated or purified—depending on how you understand it—and it seemed to me, upon offering that great intimate oblation, that it would remain so until the end of time; that everything was blank in my life. In the afternoon I watched them leave with the despair of not being able to accompany them, of not having exchanged two words alone with Carmiña, of not knowing if my mother was mistaken, and of losing sight of the lost being when such cruel hours awaited him. The deepest fibers of my soul ached as I said goodbye to the woman tied to the man sentenced to such a frightful kind of death. I sensed her ordeal, I guessed her tortures, and I trembled for her. Wasn’t the disease contagious? Wouldn’t she fall over her head like lightning? Wasn’t she going to be a leper too? As soon as she had seen them off on the road, my mother returned home. With her own hands, she carried firewood, piled it up, placed some dry twigs under it, and, lighting it with a twisted piece of paper soaked in petroleum, made a bonfire in the courtyard just like the ones children make on St. John’s Eve. So the wood crackled, she tore the sheets off my uncles’ bed—the sheets she held so dear, homespun and woven from the flax she herself grew; she took out the towels, the glasses, the napkins, the tablecloth, the plates, the cutlery—everything she had served for the guests, and without a moment’s hesitation, quickly, armfuls of it, she threw it into the flames. There remained in the guest room a handkerchief that Tití wore around her neck, a silk handkerchief. She threw that too; And until the fire had consumed everything, melting the white metal and shattering the glass, the inquisitor left. Chapter 16. I heard no more news of the couple for at least two weeks. To say what was consuming and driving me to despair in the meantime! Oh, lack of money, hindrance to any great action, invisible hindrance that holds us more tightly than all the chains and prisons in the world, eternal restraint on our best impulses, cable that ties us to reality, killer of dreams and enemy of liberty like no tyrant! Wrath of God! To see myself with a beard, full of love and anxiety, knowing that the woman I loved was going through the bitterest moment, and not being able to offer her help, company, or consolation! Sometimes I was somewhat calmed by the hope that Mama had been completely wrong, which would not be surprising. She was no medical authority, far from it, and her fiery imagination and traditional preoccupations could lead her astray. Is there leprosy in the world? Does that biblical and Gothic disease still exist? Who remembers Saint Lazarus anymore? Where do we see a leper colony? Does anyone of a certain education, of average means, suffer from such ailments? Wasn’t it a nightmare or a feverish whim to imagine that my uncle suffered from it? After a fortnight, a letter from Carmiña to my mother gave me a glimpse of some light. It said that Felipe’s illness wasn’t showing any noticeable improvement; that Sánchez del Arroyo wasn’t in Vigo, and that, eager to consult a luminary, they had decided to return to Madrid sooner. “Felipe is apprehensive, very apprehensive,” his wife added. Since she’s losing her appetite and the pain is bothering her, she figures that the doctor she sees in Madrid will send her, taking advantage of the remainder of autumn, to some baths or waters that feel better than those at La Toja. He believes these were contraindicated, and that’s where all her trouble comes from.” And at the end of the letter, he added: “I’m doing very well. I’m eating perfectly here, and the sea baths have restored me.” These suggestions made me think. “A generous lie!” I thought. “Its object is to persuade me that she has enough strength to fulfill the duties of a wife, however difficult they may be.” She tells me surreptitiously : “I’m not wavering. You’ll see how courageous I am.” But she doesn’t deceive me. I understand her condition better than anyone. The repugnance, the disgust, the fear, nature’s protest against an illness of that kind! An indissoluble marriage! The impossibility of getting away from him and the impossibility of getting close… My imagination, now unbridled, wove cruel variations on this theme, picturing things done deliberately to fray my nerves. But do you think I was resigned to letting events unfold as God pleased? Not at all. I had my plans and resolutions, which I had to put into action. It was as if I intended nothing less than to be my aunt’s savior and redeem her from that dreadful tribulation. I was becoming her guardian angel or a companion in her martyrdom. My love, having been refined, had acquired greater refinements and delicacies, and I felt moved by idealism. generous, who urged me to self-denial. I couldn’t wait to leave for court. I longed—I think more than ever—to speak with Carmiña, to know the truth, what the state of her health and spirit was, and to offer and give myself without reservation. When the moment arrived, my mother shut herself in with me to read me the riot act and charge me to do… precisely the opposite of what I had determined to do. “At your uncle’s house, contribute as little as you can. You’ll stop at Doña Jesusa’s inn. Try, I’m charging you, not to see them; excuse yourself by saying you have a lot of studying to do; and if Felipe offers you his hand, don’t take it; discreetly, move away, pretending to be distracted… you see? like that,” and Mama vividly reenacted the scene of playing dumb. “Look, this illness is contagious; you have the same blood; after all, let the doctors say what they want, we’re from a caste that we can’t deny.” And it wouldn’t be a miracle if it sprouted where you least expect it… I’ll leave it to you. I’ll pay for the inn; you don’t need to go around pleasing him to help us: if by seeking an inheritance we risk death, that’s ruin indeed. No, my son: each one should look out for himself: don’t act like a knight-errant. I promised to follow such wise advice to the letter, and I set out on my journey, eager to arrive. As for the lodging, I obeyed, settling into Doña Jesusa’s house, even though at that time I would have liked with all my soul to live with my aunt and uncle; and it wasn’t that I had any crooked and sinister end in mind. Bear witness to this, trees of the Ullosa grove, who saw me many afternoons lost in dreams worthy of a La Mancha nobleman on the cliffs of the mountain range! The time of the mail’s arrival was not a good time to visit anyone. One more night of uncertainty! In the morning, as soon as I could, I ran to Claudio Coello Street. In the doorway, I had a moment of skepticism. Seeing the caretaker greeting me, leaning on her ancient broom; finding the staircase unchanged, the evonymus in the courtyard not at all grown, the appearance of things identical to their own… I clung to the idea of the unreality of the inner drama. “There is no such leprosy, no such sacrifices, no such love, if you ask me.” I put my hands in my pockets, hesitated for a second… and finally took the stairs, climbing them three steps at a time, like the boys. The maid led me into the living room… A great polka danced by the heart! The curtain of the study was raised… and to my true surprise, she came out to greet me… Who will the reader think? No more and no less than the Moorish friar. “You this way, Father!” “I am more surprised than you are to find myself in the world of the living,” replied the friar, whose appearance fully confirmed his assertion. He was wasted, yellowish, with lifeless eyes, and limping, leaning on a smooth wooden crutch, without a pad or adornment of gold studs. “I am no longer the Father Moreno you knew,” he added sadly. “My robustness has melted like foam. I have undergone two horrific operations, both with the application of chloroform; they have drilled into my bones, and I believe they have extracted my marrow at the same time. If I tell you that one day, during my treatment, I asked what it was they were removing… they told me it was some threads… and it was the tendon they call Achilles, which was coming out shredded! But what can be done? God has not wanted to take me yet… and here I am.” “Have you come to inquire about your uncle?” ” Exactly…” I stammered. “I wanted to find out how he’s doing, and to say hello to Carmen. ” “Well, I don’t know if she’ll be able to leave now. I think they’re treating him… and how can you say that she’s the one doing it, because she never allows the practitioner to rest… ” “So,” I asked, articulating slowly and fixing my inquisitive eyes, almost magnetic from their radiant will, on those of the friar, “so that the illness continues its course? ” “The erysipelas?” answered Aben Yusuf, crossing his gaze with mine with superhuman vigor . “It continues, of course!” “The erysipelas?” I pronounced, now entirely sure of what he intended. find out, that is, that my mother hadn’t been mistaken, and the friar knew it too. “Erysipelas, the ailment that struck her this summer in Pontevedra,” he said calmly. “Listen, Father,” I begged, inspired by a sudden idea. “Would you do me a favor? Since I can’t see my uncles right now… come for a little walk with me… and a cup of coffee. ” “Oh! A little walk! Do you think you’re talking to Silvestre Moreno from last summer!” he answered, resigned and pained. “With this lame leg, I won’t be able to walk properly for at least ten months… Start postponing the walk until then. ” “Then come to my inn… Let’s be honest: I need to talk to you privately. We’ll take a carriage, and you won’t have to ruin your bad leg. ” “And what’s the point of such a conference?” —the Moor questioned, selling himself dearly. —Imagine if it were a question of confession,— I replied, bringing my temper to him. —Confession! They’re green…— he objected, shaking his graying head. Nevertheless, I managed to get him to come with me. I served as his support until we got into a carriage, and believing it to be the safest place to talk, I took the carriage for hours and ordered him to pace the patrol. And there, boxed in, encouraged by the proximity, I explained myself with complete frankness. The loyalty of my purpose lent me energy. —Father, you know better than I what Carmen’s husband suffers from. You are familiar with this disease; in Africa you have had a thousand occasions to see it, to know that it is contagious, and that it is fatal. Do not deny it. —What I cannot understand,—the friar replied, frowning, —is how Sir Salustio is so informed. That is something that amazes me. “I know,” I said, smiling disdainfully, “not because of any epistolary indiscretion , as you suspect, but because in our family this disease is hereditary; it skips a generation and strikes when we least expect it. We have Israelite blood in us, and this cruel legacy… ” “Quite cruel, indeed,” Aben Jusuf responded compassionately. “It’s a tremendous thing, and believe me, if I had known about this antecedent before Carmen married, I would have said to her: ‘Consider what you’re exposing yourself to.'” “Do you see?” I exclaimed triumphantly. “Do you see how right I was when I thought that wedding was an attack?” “Little by little. Not as much as an attack, anyway. You believe that life should be made up of a series of joys and fortunes, and in that you are very wrong, because life is a test, and sometimes a succession of tests that ends in death.” Your aunt, Mrs. Don Felipe, was sent by God through a harder and more bitter trial; but God knows where it strikes, for her soul is not of the common kind. Carmen is the Christian woman, I told you on one occasion… precisely when I had the pleasure of meeting her … and if, humanly speaking, I would prefer that she had been happy here and in the next world, as your confessor I will tell you that I am not unduly sorry to see her in this predicament. It is a means of making the beauty of her soul shine forth in all its splendor. “Father Moreno,” I objected in a sullen tone, “you are such a good friar, such a good friar… that you no longer have guts or heart. By dint of virtue, you suppress humanity, like one suppresses a hindrance, or you trample it underfoot like a vermin.” Not content with that, you look at yourself in the mirror of your own perfection, to the point of distrusting mere mortals, judging them radically incapable of honest intentions and clean purpose. I’ll bet you a penny that you won’t consent to what I want to propose to you! —Let’s be clear. Of course, your judgment of me is manifestly exaggerated; in other words, you see me through a glass tinted with entirely fantastic colors. You, Mr. Positivist, make Father Moreno—who is prose itself, the most down-to-earth man—one of those friars from a drama or a serial novel; if I’m not careful, you attribute to me the possibility of coming to arrest you and handing you over to the Tribunal of the Inquisition. I don’t have a trace of Torquemada in me: I’m quite tolerant… it seems to me. “Well, since you consider yourself tolerant and humane,” I argued, “we’ll see how you take my proposal. You will be leaving Madrid in a few days, as I understand it. Besides, you are not in a position to care for the sick, but to look after yourself and, if possible, to recover somewhat from the ailments of your health. Carmiña is left here alone… worse than alone; struggling with a disgusting patient, exposed to the risk of her spirit failing, or that, with all her heroism, her strength may betray her. Well then; don’t object to my helping her care for her husband.” A laugh, not bitter and ironic, but very frank, surprising in a man who was still weak, burst from Father Moreno’s lips. “Forgive me for laughing,” he said, “but I can’t help it. Oranges with the engineering student!” I have to laugh, and it’s better that I laugh than that I get serious and cause a scene like Roncesvalles. So you think your mother is sending you here to act as a Sister of Charity? And another thing, my friend. Do you think your care would please the unfortunate patient like the tenderest assistance of a loving wife? “Come on, Father,” I exclaimed, losing my temper, as I always did when the cursed friar overwhelmed me, “don’t come to me with pulpit rhetoric, or tease me with insidious little words. You know I ‘m in on the secret: Carmiña is an honorable wife, the most honorable of all the wives in the world; but she can’t be a loving wife… and the reason seems quite simple to me! Because she’s not in love with her husband. ” “And she is with you, isn’t she?” Father Moreno replied in a tone of stinging mockery. I hesitated. I was caught. I would have protested, but… the truth is that the friar had hit the nail on the head and translated my thought exactly. To get out of this predicament, I resolved to cling to honor and delicacy. “So you suppose in this proposition of mine malice, some corrupt end, some sinister purpose? Do you judge me so poorly? Do you attribute to me even the shadow of an idea offensive to Carmen? I swear, Father, that today my uncle’s wife is sacred to me; that you will not stand by her with more purity than I. If her husband dies, I will marry her; in the meantime, I will be her brother, a brother more respectful than any woman has had since the world and fraternity began. ” The Father shifted in his seat, holding with two fingers the glasses he had been wearing since his illness had impaired his sight. Then he rolled up the sleeve of his sackcloth, as if he wanted to hit me, a familiar movement with him; and then he looked at me and burst out laughing again . “Sweetheart!” It cannot be denied that you are very funny. You were priceless as a comic actor, my sir, of my greatest respect. Come on, as I said; you are made of gold, and silver, and all precious metals. But don’t you understand, innocent, that I, who am neither the director of your conscience, nor do I presume that your conscience has the luxury of having one, have no need to know whether you have clean or dirty intentions and are going for a good or bad end? Don’t you know that this doesn’t concern me, except insofar as I consider you a neighbor? For your sake, I’ll be glad if it’s true… and the question of conscience ends there. If I could enter into this dance under any title, it would be as your friend, to disabuse you and remove the cobwebs from your eyes. Only you won’t consent to the removal of that moral cataract; and then, the surgeon will have no recourse but to leave you with your suffering, until experience comes and operates. “And what is my cataract, let’s see?” “I asked, somewhat worried about the friar’s composure. “Do you want to know? Will he be convinced? Won’t he go out on a limb? ” “I’m listening calmly… Tell me, Father. ” “Your cataract consists in the fact that you believe that Carmen might want help to assist her husband, and that’s not true, because Carmen aspires to take all the glory of assistance herself; it consists in the fact that you believe that Carmen hates her husband, and Carmen loves him. These are your errors, their moral cataracts. How long have you been waiting for them? “Father!” I exclaimed, “we’re wasting our time. We’re wasting it pitifully: I’m sorry to say this. Because you speak to me as if I were a three-year-old, disregarding the fact that I’ve been able to reason for quite a while longer; and therefore , you can’t convince me. Your lack of sincerity invalidates your words. ” “In sincerity?” the friar spelled out mischievously. “Aren’t you asserting that Carmiña _loves_… —just like that— _loves_ her husband? ” “And I stand by it. ” “Well, I insist, Father Moreno…; that path leads nowhere . My eyes, my judgment, my intelligence, which God has not given me for decoration, but to guide me and be useful to me, are crying out loud to the contrary. Father Moreno, I will not bother you any further.” Now it’s my turn: our conversation is over. “Hey! Caramelo!” exclaimed the Father with one of those flashes of vigor that revealed the old Aben Jusuf. “Little by little, because no one says goodbye to Silvestre Moreno like that! I am a friar, with great honor , and also a man of shame and truth. I told you that Carmiña _loves_ her husband… and you come out with the fact that she _didn’t_ love him. Look at the grammar: today she _loves_ him… and time will take care of proving it to you. When you prove it—oranges!—you owe me some satisfaction. The recognition that you have been quite stubborn. ” “Then… Carmen’s heart has been turned inside out, like a glove. ” “Exactly. Do you think it can’t be? Yes, it can, my lord! We’ve been talking like chatterboxes for half an hour, and we don’t understand each other, not a trace, because we don’t understand the world or life in the same way either. You believe that in this matter of conjugal relations there is nothing but whim, the whims of the imagination, the frenzy of the senses… or a very superfiery madness, of the kind you read about in poetry or sing in operas; and that if a robust and healthy husband inspires a certain amount of caution , the same husband, full of blemishes, struck by the hand of God with a repugnant and filthy evil , must inspire double repugnance . Well, there you will see the consequences of being a pagan, as you unfortunately are. The person whose soul is disciplined by Christianity, far from abhorring suffering, sees in it the universal law, the great norm of humanity, which is only born to suffer and deserve a better life than this one. Brother Zeferino González has told me —because I’m no know-it-all, I’m a poor theologian of mass and pot—that now the most fashionable philosophers, even among you rationalists, recognize this truth, and agree that the world is nothing more than an abyss of pain, and that there is a veil of illusion that deceives us, distorting reality. For the truth that now, after a thousand years, the brilliant philosophers are discovering, we Christians have forgotten because we know it so well. By convincing ourselves that pain is the law, and that no one evades it, we develop a virtue called charity. If we add grace to charity, our hearts are moved, and we love suffering, sickness, and death. You say that Carmen’s husband’s suffering is disgusting? I certainly believe it is! You don’t know very well… and if you were to come and help him, it seems to me that all the determination you boast of would go to the devil. Well, in the Middle Ages, that same evil existed and abounded, and was perhaps more repugnant than today, because there weren’t as many scientific means to combat it as there are now; so many disinfectants, for example. And the greatest saints of the Church were—allow me to say this—in love, what you could call in love, with lepers. They gave them the most affectionate and tender names; they considered them as children or brothers. That, you’ll jump, is against human nature, which seeks what is healthy and beautiful, and rejects what mortifies the senses. Well, you see, sweetheart! That’s why I told you we couldn’t understand each other. Because you only see nature and the earthly, and I see the supernatural, but very real, since in other centuries it was found at every step, and in this one it is still found. “And do you believe,” I asked, incredulous, “that my aunt has been wounded by that grace you refer to? ” “Go on, go on!” the friar exclaimed. “I don’t know what I’m wasting my breath on. You don’t understand me: I’m speaking Chinese… Experience will teach you. ” “Shall I go back, young master?” said the charioteer when I touched the glass of the clarens. “Yes; Claudio Coello… number so and so… Or do you want me to take you somewhere else, Father? ” “If it’s all the same to you, leave me at the door of San Carlos… And think, for you need it.” Chapter 17. Experience, yes… but how to acquire it? It was extremely difficult to watch Titi slowly, for he rarely left the sick room. I resolved to wait until Sunday, go spend the whole time at home, and study the situation. It’s worth knowing that Luis Portal, already in possession of his diploma, but not yet settled, hadn’t left Madrid, where when I arrived, I found him—oh, surprise!—at odds, completely at odds with the Englishwoman. “But how did that happen?” I asked, astonished. “You were a real Manchegan fool! She couldn’t resist you! ” “You’ll see!” replied the opportunist, hanging onto my arm and walking with me up and down the small room. “That will prove to you that I’m a man, and I’m not driven by fantasy, whim, or passion. If you took my example, you’d be better off. My heart, or whatever it is, doesn’t drive me to commit foolish things and jeopardize my future. ” “Well, leave the philosophies alone, and let’s get to the details.” Why did you go on about your _Mo_? —Son!… Over three hundred thousand things. Or rather, no… just one… but a trifle. Trifle! Miss Baldwin wanted… it wouldn’t even occur to the devil!… she wanted to marry me. And not until later , when I plough my furrow… Right now, immediately… So we can go together to Ciudad Real, where I’m destined. —Man!… Didn’t you say that _Mo_ didn’t think about anything in a coat, and that she was a superior woman, new and different from all the feminine race? My friend looked at me with his burning, swollen eyes, surrounded by dark circles. —It seemed so… Anyone would have thought so… But, son… as soon as they saw me involved in something, they caught me. It was a most curious conspiracy, in which the whole Baldwin family took part. They assumed we were getting married: you know the system. The little ones called me _brother_, the shepherdess would sometimes say to me: “Luis, my son…” They abused me as if I were already under a yoke; they employed me without scruple and without grief in their propaganda and evangelization works, and I wish you could see me busy correcting proofs of a pamphlet entitled _The Great Crisis_, which prophesies that on Thursday, March 5, 1896, one hundred and forty- four thousand Christians will be raptured to heaven, without dying ! “Bah! You’re exaggerating. ” “Why should I exaggerate? I’m not less than one Christian out of one hundred and forty- four thousand. I have copies of the little pamphlet here; I’m inspired by the muse of my reverend former father-in-law, Mr. Baldwin, or rather, by the shepherdess. Look at that engraving: _the incarnate woman on the red beast_. How cute ! It represents Rome. Can’t you see the tiara?” –But then, that Mrs. Baldwin, so fine and so clever… is she crazy, or what? –I don’t know what to answer you. It makes me think. Perhaps _they_ are more deluded than us, the decadent Latins. I believe that the culture and common sense of those people only go on outside: a pleasant veneer that conceals a delirious fanaticism and a cruel intransigence. _Mo_, educated in a different way, would be a charming girl: she can’t refuse. Because there are treasures there… But they’ve inoculated her with the virus… –Go on! Take the phoenix… the woman of the future! –What do you want! –Louis uttered bitterly. –I have the defect of seeing clearly… –At the last minute? –Better late than never! –he added spitefully. –I have penetrated beyond the shell… and it turns out it was made of laminated paper and jumped when you put your finger on it. Nowadays, I don’t know if I should tell you that I prefer our ignorant, stubborn wife to a know-it-all like Mo. Half-baked things, attempts at consummation, always have something of an abortion, a certain ridiculous stamp. Mo’s instruction is stilted, it’s cloying; it only serves to confirm concerns, not to banish them, leaving the intellectual field free. Mo has been taught to paint, but without studying a live model, only flowers and birds; Mo plays the piano… like anyone else; she reads Shakespeare, of course… but in an expurgated edition; Mo knows the history of her country… according to a children’s compendium; in short, kid, I thought I found her spirit equal to that of a man… and it rings hollow to me, just like that of other women. “And when did you notice that?” I asked the opportunist. “Bah!” “immediately,” he affirmed, shrugging his shoulders. “But she didn’t want to convince me, because …” He laughed nervously. “This love thing is a sinful thing! ” “And that’s the only reason you quarreled?” ” We quarreled,” Portal replied, suddenly excited, his eyes flashing, his broad face becoming impassioned, “the day she brought the crisis to my attention and made the immediate marriage a matter of course. I was upset… and she wasn’t, on the contrary: she was calmer, more candid, and more beautiful than ever… She kept saying that she was playing a disgraceful role, and that at her age her mother had already been married for three years, and she and William, the eldest of the boys, had been born …! I was about to tell her that I would compensate her for the delay! From the moment we began the argument, she addressed me formally… And if you could see what a peculiar, dry sound the girl gave to the formal formality! I, pondering it a thousand times… and nothing, wasted time… as if I were talking to that iron bed… The opportunist paused for a moment, and his eyebrows contracted with a somber expression. After a few seconds, he added with effort: “I came to believe that this woman has never loved me. Yes, I acquired the conviction… ” “Because she wanted to get married soon? ” “Bah! That’s not exactly why… You have to pay attention to the voice, the gestures, the way of looking… What someone tells never gives any idea of what has happened. I would like you to see her. She seemed like a merchant discussing a business deal… That heart is like a rock-faced woman; it’s an iceberg, or rather… An Iceberg! I don’t know how I could have gotten so excited at the beginning, and personified in Mo the “new woman .” Bark, shell, lie! But I was firm. In my thirteenth year, I didn’t want to make any promises or give away anything. If you could see how calmly she sent me away! I was at the door, and she stood with her back to me, rigid, without calling me… But she’s disappointed, she’s not marrying Mathew either. The lad is happy to! “Mathew… Who’s that? A rival? ” “A cashier brought over from England by the Stirling Company. A more unpleasant little Englishman! And he thinks about weddings just as much as I do. Miss Mo will see how good it is… Mathew won’t marry… If he doesn’t marry a bottle of gin!” As he spoke like this, my friend’s face fell, revealing hidden suffering. “Well, if it turns out that Mo isn’t what you dreamed of,” I said, “you should be glad of the thunder. ” “And I am… Who doubts it? Do you think I’m crying? So I went off to Ciudad Real… I’ll dance with pleasure. A major advantage! But not everyone would be so steadfast. This requires my willpower.” I didn’t want to joke with my friend, because it seemed like blatant cruelty. I realized he was wounded to the core by love, as much or more than I was, that he was brimming with spite and bitterness, and that he was putting on a brave face. I was already well-versed in the mysteries of amorous desire, of that spirit that lodges in our guts, and I figured that the most faithful and accurate rendering of certain bilious melancholies, of certain unexplained joys, and even of certain disorders into which I saw my sensible friend fall, had no other explanation than that his soul had been held captive between the fingers of the beautiful evangelical maiden. Before meeting with my uncle, I spoke confidentially to Dr. Saúco, his family doctor since Sánchez del Abrojo had discontinued his visits, which were never very frequent, as if he were an already famous physician. At first, my countryman tried to dissemble with me and convince me that Don Felipe Unceta’s illness was nothing more than ” cutaneous degeneration”; but, convinced that I was involved, the man opened up flatly . “Then, son, since you know… But keep it a secret; that is, keep it to yourself; if word gets out that it runs in your blood… Of course, you have nothing to fear. If anything, your children; this disease almost always skips a generation. Sometimes they also die out, with time and blood mixing. What’s becoming rare is that it presents itself so forcefully and with such a rapid progression as your uncle’s. This… this is a real challenge. His limbs are already becoming anesthetized. His muscles are beginning to atrophy.” “But I thought there was no such disease in the world. ” “Oh, there is! Only we call that kind of illness in well-to-do people _dermatoses, cutaneous degenerations_… and on with the lanterns. However, cases of leprosy are not common in your uncle’s social sphere. ” “And is there a cure?” I asked anxiously. “Cure…! The priest, son… that gentleman is a good Catholic. Only palliatives are possible. And things are moving fast. I pity the poor lady. Your uncle will soon be a heap of misery, like Job in his dunghill. The Middle Ages strictly isolated people in these cases, and they say a little bell was placed around the neck of cynosure to discourage healthy people. Today we spread a veil of corrosive sublimate over certain repugnant illnesses… and that’s it. A lot of disinfection, but the same rot.” And here is a case in which I believe the dissolution of the marriage was in order. Anyone can imagine how I felt when on Sunday I finally managed to see the sick man and the nurse… A deadly cold pierced my bones as I climbed the stairs, as I knocked, as I entered the leper’s room. He was sprawled in an armchair, with a newspaper on his knees; he had undoubtedly just finished reading it. Beside him, Titi was doing her work. When I arrived, his head was bowed, so the first thing that caught my eye was the sick man’s face… There was something sinister about him, perhaps because of his very immobility, for I noticed that he lacked the expressive play of his features, no doubt due to the muscular atrophy the little doctor had mentioned. He was not, however, greatly disfigured, nor excessively emaciated. His eyebrows and eyelashes had almost disappeared, and on the lower part of his cheeks I noticed livid and sinister spots. My anguish grew as I realized the tremendous truth of my mother’s prognosis . It was the sacred and terrifying evil of the Bible, which after so many centuries had fallen once again upon the race of Israel! My uncle, upon seeing me, did what perhaps out of suspicion all those suffering from contagious diseases do: he extended his hand, already somewhat twisted by his blunder, and showed an intention to shake mine. I didn’t hesitate: I gave it to him, driven by an instinct of delicacy; but, upon touching his, nausea rose in my throat. The traditional horror of that formidable punishment from heaven arose from the depths of my soul, and my right hand shuddered in Don Felipe’s. Titi had risen to greet me. She also extended her little hand, the touch of which surprised me, because she wasn’t feverish. Then I looked at her straight on and admired the change in her entire person. She no longer showed any weariness, nor that fear written on her face when she had realized at Ullosa that her husband was of Jewish descent. Life shone in her serene eyes; her complexion, though not rosy, had the smoothness that comes from balanced humors; she had gained flesh, and in her arms and breast I observed a sweet fullness of form. Her very attitude was different from before. Now she displayed a tranquility. resolute, a presence of mind that could almost be mistaken for joy. If I knew less about the qualities of the marmoset’s soul, I might believe she rejoiced at her husband’s illness. The truth is that her transformation suited her very well: she was a different woman, and a woman capable of inspiring a different kind of love; a desirable woman. And yet, I, who had burned for the sad, wasted child, today recognized myself as master of my senses: with the thought of illness, I didn’t believe my imagination could ever be ignited. “You’ll dine with us, Sallust,” my uncle warned, addressing his wife. “Let them set a plate for you. Come every Sunday: I can’t go out, you’ll keep me talking. It gets boring being so shut up, so deprived of the company of people… ” “And how are you feeling?” I said, just for the sake of saying something. “Man… what do I know! Elderberry always cheers me up and laughs at me… He says I’ll have a bad winter, maybe, but that in the spring I’ll be much better. You see, I’ve still got a good while of being angry… I’ve really got that damned rheumatism, and since I think it’s complicating the erysipelas, these damned phenomena are starting… The worst of all is that you’re really dirty: you can’t even go to Congress or anywhere else until you start taking this off your neck and face… Come on, you ‘re unpresentable; and here in Madrid, people are only liked polished and shiny… I’m sorry, because during the interregnum, Dochán is letting loose as he pleases and making nonsense of me…” I didn’t reply. It seemed so comically funereal to hear that man, sentenced to a horrible death, taking an interest in the pettiness of local politics ! “If I could walk,” he added, “I would do a thousand laps around certain centers and amuse the whole gang of Dochanes, Requenas, and Rivas Moure. Right now they’re making Don Vicente unhappy, and they ‘d be having a pretty bad time if I weren’t disabled.” The tití voice then rose, resonant with that mysterious sonority that indicates what is said comes from the soul. “Don’t think about childish things, Felipe,” he murmured amicably and effectively. ” Think about your recovery, God willing, if you’re cured soon. Let those in Pontevedra sort themselves out as they please. You come first. I don’t understand medicine, but it seems to me that the necessary condition for recovery must be a calming of the spirit, isn’t that right, Salustio? And when by chance an illness comes that has no cure… then… calmness of mind, resignation, and a disregard for trifles are needed more and more!” As she said this, she picked up the newspaper, which her husband had dropped from his almost lifeless hands; and, no doubt understanding the importance of distracting his imagination and taking his mind off thoughts of illness, she began asking me a thousand little things about Ullosa, about my mother, about the garden… “If you could see the little calf!” I said to her. “Do you remember how tiny he was? We could carry him in our arms like a baby… Well, now he’s grown into a very beautiful calf. He’s almost as big as his mother…” The evocation of this harmless and bucolic memory made her blush slightly. “Carmen,” the sick man indicated, “I feel very cold in here. Why don’t you light a fire?” The truth is that the air was warm and soft, and there was no damned need for a fire; but without a doubt the cold of the Hebrew was that which lies deep in the marrow. Carmen agreed to his wish: the firewood was already arranged in a pyramid shape, and the kindling in place: just touching a match was enough to quickly create a beautiful flame. My uncle approached her, stretching his feet out coldly. Carmen and I continued chatting about Ullosa. Other times, in the presence of her husband, our conversation wasn’t usually so intimate and affectionate. Now it was clear from her way of speaking to me that she felt no embarrassment at all, that she was speaking to me… the way those who have no secrets speak, nothing the world should ignore. When we were most engrossed in our conversation, in which the sick man took part, although not much, as if speaking was difficult for him, With a little effort, the marmoset suddenly jumped in her chair. “It smells like burning,” she said, looking around and shaking the hem of her skirt. “What’s burning, Sallust?” I went to the fireplace… and saw that what was burning, giving off smoke and an unbearable stench, was the sick man’s slipper, whose left foot was almost resting on one of the burning logs. “Uncle, you’re burning!” I shouted; and, adding my action to the warning, I moved the armchair and placed him out of reach of the fire. His wife, realizing what was happening, rushed forward, threw herself on her knees, and tore the slipper, half charred on one side, from his foot . Fragments of the sock clung to it, and I saw the flame spreading out in geometric undulations through the cotton fabric . On the exposed part of the foot there was a shuddering sore… Carmen let out a scream. “But you’ve burned your foot!” she exclaimed in alarm, touching the burn, which was deep and extensive. “You’ve burned it!… It even smells like toasted meat! ” “It can’t be… It doesn’t hurt!” the sick man replied. “I’m telling you, you’ve burned yourself!” she replied in a tone of pain and compassion. “Don’t move your foot, I’ll go get some balm, a rag, and a bandage. ” “I’ll go, Carmen; explain to me where all that is,” I said, offering myself solicitously. “Thank you; you’ll be a while… I’ll be back in a moment.” She left quickly, and, in fact, a minute later she returned with what she needed. She knelt before the sick man again, and with infinite precautions and great care, she treated the wound, applying the soaked balm to a clean rag folded in two. From time to time she raised her head in anxiety. “But don’t you feel any pain? None, not even a bit? ” “No, woman,” affirmed her husband. “The erysipelas has undoubtedly numbed my tissues. That foot doesn’t seem to belong to me. Don’t go to so much trouble: do whatever you want with it, because it doesn’t feel anything.” With the foot now bandaged, Carmen brought a sock and went to all the trouble in the world to slip it over the bandage. She succeeded; she went to get some other slippers, and finally placed the sunburned foot on a cushion, rolling the armchair to the point where it seemed to her that the patient would enjoy the warmth without fear of such a contingency. By doing all this, she blamed herself for what had happened. “It’s my fault… For not looking… Patients should never be lost sight of. It won’t happen to me again, Felipe. Now, God willing, Doctor Elder will come soon… No, I don’t think he’ll miss a turn around here tonight. He’ll tell us what to put on the burn.” I dare not attempt any further remedies without Saúco’s permission. The sick man insistently invited me to join them for dinner, and I had to accept, fearful that my refusal would be interpreted as disgust or fear. Carmiña and I helped him into the dining room—he said that staying in his room made him miserable. The transfer was not easy. The man, who, having burned his foot, had not felt the slightest discomfort in his charred tissues, suffered, upon sitting up, such sharp pains in his bones that he uttered stifled cries and curses. After the first moment, he wanted to go alone and ordered us to let him go; so we did, and he began to walk, staring fixedly at the floor and staggering… “Felipe…” his wife said in a pleading tone, “Felipe… for God’s sake… lean on me. I’m afraid you’ll fall. With your foot hurt like that… Hold on.” Supported by her, he walked the short distance, and upon sitting down, he sighed deeply. Before we began to eat, Carmen went more than half a dozen times to the kitchen, to make sure the sick man’s broth was well strained and desalted, to make sure the meat was not overseasoned, to filter the water, and other trifles. Meanwhile, I waited, and my eyes, involuntarily, fixed on the white earthenware of the empty soup bowl placed before me, and on the crystal of the glasses where the red wine had not yet cast bloody reflections. Should I be frank? Yes! What a naked truth, more beautiful to those who know how to consider it, than the finery of The lie! At that moment, it seemed to me the height of sacrifice to eat from such crockery and drink from such glasses. To share the delicacies of a leper! An internal horror closed my stomach like a plug. It’s true that I had already had breakfast with my uncle at Ullosa, suspecting I had leprosy; but back then I wasn’t sure what it was; I hadn’t seen it in all its ugliness; I hadn’t breathed its miasma… “What I am today, not a morsel enters my body… He placed his lips on that rim of the glass… and he must have put this spoon in his mouth a hundred times.” When the marmoset returned to the dining room and took her chair, I was going through one of those critical moments when one sweat comes and another comes, and the will falters; more defeated by a trivial obstacle than by some extremely difficult undertaking. I felt that I couldn’t touch the food; that it was going to make me dizzy. Who had told me to accept it? No, I couldn’t… I was always seeing the foot of the malate, the tissues lacerated by illness and by fire; I noticed the frightful inquisitorial smell of the charred flesh… Carmen took the soup tureen, uncovered it, and served me soup… She and her husband were already wielding the spoon and beginning to eat. I made an effort, brought a spoonful to my mouth… only to return it to the plate without tasting it, for there was an obstruction in my throat, something that was physically impeding the passage of food. Then she raised her eyes and fixed them on me with majestic serenity. That glance was what I feared. I wanted to avoid it; but those large black pupils followed me and with magnetic force forced me to turn around and respond to her gaze. It wasn’t an angry or disdainful gaze: it was imbued with pity… but with a somewhat compassionate pity… the worst, the most mortifying. It seemed to say: “Do you see, nephew? There you have the extent of rationalistic compassion and romantic courage , which is not supported by any belief, go. Phantom! All those plants you’ve planted… and you can’t even eat a spoonful of food here! Look at the courage required of this knight-errant! To swallow a bowl of tapioca soup… No more, no less. So, why don’t he swallow it? Poor thing, and how I feel sorry for you! Just so they could put you in charge of my duties and treat sores! And I didn’t even swallow a spoonful… Finally, my uncle smiled as a seraph must smile when mocking some imp downstairs … and said with desperate kindness: “Sallust, if you don’t feel like it, don’t eat… It seems to me that you had a late lunch today. ” “Very late, indeed,” I responded cowardly, defeated, demoralized, certain that I couldn’t control myself and swallow the damned soup. At three… imagine… and loud… with Portal and other friends… Now it would be impossible for me…; but so as not to snub you… “Well, for God’s sake, no need to be violent,” she indicated, emphasizing the words. I breathed and pushed my plate away. Suddenly, relieved of the panic of eating there, my tongue loosened, and I spoke animatedly, trying to make a great deal of noise to hide my hunger. I didn’t even want to drink coffee, despite my uncle’s urgings. Around nine, the tablecloth was lifted, and we remained in the dining room for a while in conversation: we talked about Aurora Barrientos, who was about to marry her notary, about how little the girls and their mother were getting now… My uncle indicated this , with a certain irritation in his voice. “Everyone escapes from the sick,” he muttered dully. Shortly after nine, Saúco arrived; He was informed of the incident of the fire, asked the questions that are obligatory in such cases, prescribed, added several warnings… and when he indicated that he was leaving, I, who could not resist myself, who thought I was suffocating in that atmosphere, escaped with him… without reaching out to anyone. Chapter 18. In the doorway I breathed. “Oh, Elder!” I said. “What a profession you have!” “It seems that Don Felipe’s visit made an impression on you…” murmured the doctor. “I’m not surprised. He who is not familiar with certain ailments… And what about today’s episode? It’s the anesthetic form, the death of the tissues: the nerves are completely destroyed, so that your uncle was able to burn his entire foot without noticing, until the fire reached the healthy part… I tell you, this disease is terrifying. But one’s skin has already hardened. Do you want to come to Apolo to hear a play? I agreed. I would go anywhere, just to distract myself, to stop thinking about the miseries of our unfortunate organism. We jumped off the tram and got off in front of the Apolo lobby, which the electric light illuminated with clear glows. The curtain had just risen , and they were performing one of those immortally silly little pieces in which an uncle from Cuba suddenly arrives to surprise a nephew, supposing him to be married and the father of a family, while the rascally boy has remained a bachelor. At the announcement of the rich relative’s arrival, some obliging friends agreed to improvise a complete household for the nephew, complete with wife, mother-in-law, sisters-in-law, and children, so that the one of the wits—those Antillean comedic uncles always have plenty of wits—would be moved by the tenderness and not withdraw his protection from the scamp. The quid pro quo resulting from the assumption of marital status is the whole point of the piece, which was laughed at by the candid audience. I was just beginning to understand the imbroglio when I nearly screamed at the presence of the actress who appeared dusting the furniture with a feather duster, playing the role of the maritornes… There was no doubt: despite the shambling and the rouge, I had met Cinta, who was finally realizing her aspirations as a “lyric artist,” albeit in the humblest sphere. I can assure you that while I did not see that creature, I did not even remember the existence of her sister, the good girl Belén, who had always honored me with constant and undeserved favors. Her memory, usually indifferent, or almost less so, to me, produced a strange effect on me, one I had never felt before: something that resembled the effusion, half romantic and half ardent, of a young heart impetuously aspiring to happiness… Mix and shake in a glass the nostalgic intoxication of memory and the youthful sap that bubbles like an active crater, and you will obtain the filter that bewitched me at that moment, forcing me to tell Elder that “I had forgotten about a very urgent matter… that I couldn’t wait to see how the mess with the foster family turned out…” And leaving the medicine man with more than a fair amount of fear, I ran, running, pushing past passers-by and dodging carriages, towards Hileras Street… What if Belén weren’t at home, or if, being there, she didn’t receive me for… for whatever reason? They hadn’t turned off the gas in the entrance hall yet. It was a little after ten. I was about to knock on the door when I noticed it was only ajar. There was no light in the hall, and moving forward with caution so as not to trip over any piece of furniture, I saw in the distance a dubious light coming from the living room. Risking the consequences of my imprudent daring, I let myself be guided by the ray and entered the room hissing: “Bethlehem! Psss… Bethlehem!” The living room was empty, without any furniture; it seemed immense, and footsteps echoed in it and voices became hollow. The mirrors, the insets, the draperies had disappeared… The light came from a kerosene lamp placed on the floor. I pushed the closet door, also ajar, and a feminine cry answered my entrance… “Child!” “God, what amazement! Oh, it appeared from my soul!” Two morbid arms encircled my neck; a burning breath warmed my lips, a sigh died there… and I found myself lying on the meridian, with the sinner’s head on my shoulders… “How beautiful you look!” I said to her with admiration after a minute. “Flatterer, inventionist!” she replied, clasping me furiously. It wasn’t flattery, no. Never had the graceful sculpture of her body displayed firmer lines, nor her face a more beautiful pallor, nor her lips They better mimicked the ripe pomegranate, flecked with drops of milk. Perhaps she seemed more beautiful to me because of my state of mind, and it was in my eyes, thirsty for vitality, that the great woman was so magnificent and temptingly reflected . Caught in the most inappropriate deshabillé, Belén wore satin slippers, a crimson plush skirt trimmed with black lace, and over her arrogant bust was a fishnet scarf tied in the back. I never tired of touching her firm arms, her tight flesh, murmuring idolatrously: “How healthy you are… how fresh and how pretty!… I would bite you as if you were an apricot.” “No…” she cooed in a cooing voice, “no, you trickster, you don’t love me… But you come from over there, you haven’t seen me for a long time, and you’re on a whim… I know you’re on a whim…” When I let her breathe a little, she revealed to me the secret of the furniture’s disappearance. “A little cake. Armiñón married a cousin of his, a widow, rich… and he won’t let go. No, he, as far as behavior goes, has behaved like a gentleman: he gave me a nice little sum… a thousand duros in fours. He says I should live with that and from now on be a good woman. It seems as if before she was just a nobody! He gave me horrible advice… That I should sell the furniture, the clothes, and the jewelry; to dismiss that _fine_ maid and move into a small apartment… I did so, because… until something worthwhile comes along… this one costs a lot. This morning the pawnbrokers came and ransacked the entire living room. But here, in my study and my bedroom, not a single thing has been touched yet. And I’m glad, since the Virgin of the Dove brought you tonight. How dark you look, you precious thing! I like you even more! About half an hour had passed when… oh insatiable nature, mill that never stops! you made your voice heard there in the depths of my empty stomach… You will well remember that I hadn’t eaten anything at Uncle Felipe’s house. My jaws unhinged with hysterical sobs; a light mist veiled my eyes; I felt as if I were being drilled, and a faintness came over me… The individual looked at me anxiously. “What’s the matter? Are you sick?” I smiled, raised myself on one elbow, and murmured with effort: “Little girl, if you could see… I haven’t eaten for many hours… Give me a sip of wine, if you have any. What a feast there was in a few minutes!” The sinner ran to the dining room and the pantry, bringing glasses, plates, cutlery, bread, sausage, cold veal, bottles… the corkscrew. “Oh, what luck!” she exclaimed at each object she left on the sink, or on the floor, or wherever God wanted. Well, if I sell the bottles today , I’ll shine… Paca wanted to buy them from me, and the sly little brat said to me: “Let go of that Champagne, woman, you’re not going to drink it, and I’ll pay you a peseta a bottle.” Look at those pesetas! And they cost fifteen when they were brought in on Saint Telesphorus’s Day… Come on, if I sell them… now my lunch will be ruined. The lunch was soon organized, with no shortage of drinks or delicacies, and to the extent of our desire. Elated by my presence, Belén lit the rose-colored candles on the dressing table, locked and locked the street door, and insisted that we open a bottle of Champagne from the start, so that there would be joy and celebration. “If those thieves of solitude are going to take them for a cheap peseta, let’s drink them, son… they’re better spent.” I don’t know if it was because of my weak stomach, or the natural virtue of the playful wine, but from the third glass it seemed to me that a most singular change had taken place in me, the effects of which I explained to Belén, who laughed, taking my explanations for the effects of the Turk. “Look, salty one, before I came to see you, I had a gray wrapping over my heart, sticky and cold like cobwebs. And since I saw you, the cobweb has been removed, or rather, it has been turning into a shining gauze, finer and more golden each time, which is now a golden foam… a foam that grows, and turbs, and forms little waves, and rises all around me, like a sea… but what a sea, oh! So beautiful! I swim in it… I float… I don’t submerge… Do you see? she added, making the gesture of someone scooping a paddle. “It’s the foam of Champagne itself,” explained the sinner, laughing with a libertine laugh and shaking her dull black hair, which was like a lion’s mane. “No… it’s not Champagne… Don’t think I’m confusing… Champagne is liquid, my child… and this foam I’m talking about seems fluid to me… a universal fluid… that penetrates everything…” I bent over her little ear, bright as scarlet, and murmured: “Fool, it’s life! Life itself… an immense thing, which has no end!” Life presents itself like this… in waves that come and go and rage or calm down… like a sea… Life is… a goddess; there were times when people worshipped her… Life is beautiful; everything becomes light, and flowers, and laughter, and… Don’t talk to me about illness or death… such unpleasant things! To die… without it being known that we’re dying… is to continue living. Aren’t you… healthy… like apples? Oh, how healthy! She laughed wildly at this orderly nonsense. “Life…” I said, bringing her closer to me, “life… is you. ” “Am I a goddess, according to that?” the sinner asked vainly. “A goddess… yes… I believe it! Of paganism, my daughter, of paganism…” the only religion that made the world an earthly paradise … because Christianity… frankly, sissy… is a religion… well… very gloomy… of… of people who neither eat… nor drink… nor… nor… Belén opened her magnetic eyes wide, without understanding what all this was about, or what relation the nonsense coming out of my mouth had to the present case. But I didn’t laugh at her face, half astonished and half curious, because I was beginning to lose sight of her as she really was. The beautiful girl seemed taller, more womanly, richer in color, and more splendid in forms; Her lips were the size and color of a gigantic rose, made of flame and blood… I saw the rest of her figure through a pale golden mist, a moving curtain flecked with dancing white dots that incessantly crisscrossed, rose, and descended, projected into a pearly dew, like a jet of water fired from a spray bottle… I rubbed my eyes, because that subtle grease blinded them… and then I saw Belén much less. I only felt the velvety touch of her plush skirt, on which I think I rested my forehead to lull myself to sleep. Chapter 19. It was about twelve o’clock in the morning when I began to wake up, with bitterness in my mouth, my temples bursting with a migraine, my liver as heavy as lead, and in my soul that inexplicable desolation, that dark, deep pessimism of the days that follow orgiastic nights. In the midst of my drowsiness, I heard a little noise similar to that made by the keys of a piano when they are struck suddenly, even though the instrument is completely unstrung; it was the sinner’s heels, as she paced around the room on tiptoe, occasionally entering only to re-emerge with some object in her hands or in her skirt. Doubtless, on every exit she made a point of glancing in my direction, for she immediately realized I was awake, and coming up and bending down to my ear, she murmured: “Pay no attention… Sleep longer if you like. The clothes racks are over there, and I’ll be taking the things out into the living room so they can be examined and adjusted. ” I didn’t reply. I jumped up quickly. I really wanted to stand where I could lose sight of her! Her tangled hair; her rich silk dressing gown, its lace torn to shreds; the clattering of her shoes— Her very beauty, her freshness intact after the Toledo night, cloyed me like the last pineapple sandwich from America or another very tasty and delicious sweet. You sick of matter, how you astonish the spirit! How you remind it of its origin, its purpose, its divine essence! What a pity that Sometimes you delay your journey, and arrive only in good season to dip us in the bitter waters of repentance of which the Psalmist spoke! I had to force myself not to mistreat the unfortunate woman. I understood the brutality that certain men display after dinner. I excused myself with headaches and stomach discomfort, and she insisted on calling a doctor, applying Cologne compresses, giving me broth… Finally, I managed to escape from the odious prison, and at home I washed from head to toe, changed my clothes, and swore to myself that I would go to Claudio Coello Street to erase the bad impression of the meal… “Sallust, now we shall see if you are a man or a wimp. Last night you behaved… You must have been ashamed… For all that bragging to Father Moreno, and just with the idea that the sick man was drinking from that same glass, you couldn’t swallow a bite, you started dreaming nonsense and ended up making an unfortunate woman nothing less than the incarnation of life!… You don’t have Carmen’s simple and modest heroism… And what she is has sunk right in… Last night you certainly inspired pity. Get well today! When my intention of getting well took me to my uncle’s house, it was five in the afternoon, and the maid, upon opening the door, told me that I would find her mistress in the dining room. I went there, and this time Carmen, upon seeing me, didn’t display that strange emotion she had on other occasions when I had unexpectedly introduced myself. She greeted me very cordially, and her face didn’t lose its sweet and serene radiance . She was standing in a loose robe, her hair carelessly tied back, arranging dishes in the china cabinet. “What a miracle!” I said. “How come I don’t find you by Uncle Felipe’s side? I’ve been told you never leave there. ” “Exaggeration,” she replied calmly, without interrupting her task. ” Illness doesn’t require that, unless it’s to keep him from getting bored of being alone. So few people come! But today, Castro Mera happened to arrive from Pontevedra , and he’ll entertain me for a while.” She continued arranging. The cups and glasses, under her intelligent hand, were lined up in order, and in her pocket, with every movement of her arm, the jingling of keys could be heard, louder and clearer than ever. “Carmen,” I asked, taking a chair, “and what do you think of the patient? Do you think he’s getting better? Do you hope he’ll get well? No one can know better than you, who are looking after him. ” She turned to me with a china plate in her hand, and before answering she thought about it for a moment. Then she said in a sincerely pained voice: “I can’t see any improvement. On the contrary. She’s in terrible pain. I think she’s losing more weight than the doctor suspects. ” “And you…” I murmured, approaching her and speaking very softly, “be frank… do you know… what’s wrong with her?” The plate bumped against the other pieces of china as I placed it on the shelf, and she answered as softly as I had myself: “Yes.” We were both silent for a moment. She was tidying things up, but already agitated and feverish, and the china and the glass frequently collided with each other. I was the first to recover the use of speech, and approaching her and taking her hands as I was accustomed to at other times, I exclaimed: “Carmiña, look, I have a favor to ask you… but a very big favor … I’ll let you go now, woman… If you’ve already guessed what it’s about… Listen; For now, you are enduring the assistance with great courage… you are just starting out, so to speak… What you have struggled with is nothing compared to what may come… You have no idea how that man is going to feel… He will breed worms in his lifetime,” I murmured, shuddering and trembling. “Oh! The day will come, Carmen, when you will not be able to resist, when you will reach the limits of your strength, because everything in the world has limits… Well, I… I can do without studies and everything… listen… and help you, help you… You will see how I come here and behave… I answer to you from my stomach and my will… I have no self-interest … it means that I am not what I used to be… do you understand? If I fail to keep to my program… throw me out on the street. Tití… go on… don’t deny it to me.” Having interrupted her work, she stood before me, reflecting, looking at me fixedly into the depths of her pupils. And at last, in a gentle voice, he said: “Sallust, I thank you very much. You have a very good heart, and I have no doubt that you offer yourself with the best wishes in the world. Besides, being such a close relative of Philip, I would not have prevented you from approaching his bedside when he is sick. But as soon as I become weary of assisting him… you are mistaken in that. It will not tire me, even if it lasts for ten years. I have a much greater supply of energy than you imagine. ” “Suppose,” I persisted, “that you were to fall ill, that this supply of strength were to be exhausted… What would you do? Would you not allow me to help you, even for a while? Oh, Carmen! You have no good will for me… ” “Yes, I do, yes, I do,” she replied. “Only you do not notice either. Do you think that sick people get used to all people indiscriminately? Quia, son! None.” They get used to a person… That’s what’s happening with Felipe. If I’m gone, he’s inconsolable. I can hardly leave his side. He calls me after two minutes. Come on, poor sick people are capricious… and get them out of their heads about the hobby or the habit! “Why don’t you mention affection?” I responded ironically. “Yes, affection!” she affirmed with all the effusion of her soul. “How can they not prefer the person who loves them the most? ” “The person who loves them the most!” I repeated like someone who doesn’t understand what they’re hearing. “Of course. Can anyone love him as much as I do?” his wife said naturally, yet forcefully. I felt a pain on my left side, as if the lining of my heart was being drilled with a very fine drill, a phenomenon I’ve always noticed when a disappointment hurts me or my self-esteem is deeply mortified. And with labored breathing, I begged: “Carmen, don’t deceive me. Lies, however generous and noble, stain the mouth. You cannot lie, because for me you have always been the personification of truth. As if God heard us… ” “He already hears us,” she declared with beautiful solemnity. “Well, because He hears us… answer: is it true that you love your husband? ” “More than I have loved anyone in this world.” I felt the stab, and instead of a scream, I uttered this infamous vulgarity: “Well, my child, I don’t understand. But enjoy it.” And I tipped her, with a stern and perhaps somewhat disdainful tone, and replied: “It’s natural that you don’t understand. I hope you come to understand someday ! I wish you no greater good.” She turned with the intention of leaving, and I stopped her by her robe, trembling with grief and anger. “Carmen, for God’s sake… Carmen… have mercy on me.” Everything you assure me will be like the Gospel… but explain it to me… I need to understand it… I’m going crazy. It’s natural, very natural; it’s very much in character for you to take good care of your husband, to look after him, to go out of your way for him, to perform all those miracles… As if you are… you know, come on… I won’t repeat it, don’t get so worked up! But that’s one thing, and wanting is another… Wanting is involuntary, it springs from the depths. Are you going to convince me that you love him? Impossible. She agreed, almost smiling, to stop; and seating herself in the chair nearest to mine, she spoke confidentially. “You’re putting me in a difficult position, Sallust… How can I explain it to you? It seems to me that certain things cannot be explained. They are self-evident, and if you make me dwell on them, then… then I really won’t understand them . The truth is, I was quite mean to my husband while he was healthy.” Don’t you remember? ‘ ‘Yes, I do!’ I confirmed ardently. ‘You professed horror of her… you won’t argue with that… horror… When she left you, you became happy and looked healthy… ‘ The titi, upon hearing me, was turning red, redder, first in the cheeks, but then the wave of blood spread to her forehead, to her chin , and I think even to the roots of her hair. ‘Well…’ she murmured, perhaps restraining herself from letting out untimely tears, ‘precisely because of all that you say, when What I do now is not enough to erase what I did before, and I am very grateful to God who has granted me the means to repair my behavior. It is true that I did it this way… I don’t know how, unintentionally and without being able to help it, because something internal, a prejudice or a mania prompted me; but I make no excuses, because strange manias are overcome; when a woman marries, she acquires very sacred commitments, and manias and whims are of no use… No one had forced me to marry Felipe, and instead of loving him, it seems I was looking for pretexts to keep me away from him… Then, God… who is so good… would arm himself with patience, and say to himself: “Hello! Are we having cold feelings? Well, I will make it necessary for you to get close to your husband… and that you cannot stray from him for even a minute. I will send him an illness that only you will have the courage to treat… Have you not wanted to admit into your heart the affection of a wife under natural conditions?” I will make you admit it by means of sacrifice and trial… “Do you not believe one thing, Sallust? When God sends us the cup of absinthe, if we drink it willingly, it tastes like syrup… and if we take it with disgust, then all the bitterness, or even more bitterness, is noticed … At first, I will not hide it from you; I did this with contempt, because it seemed to me that it was my _obligation_, my _duty_, and a _duty_ even of _charity_ to a _neighbor_… But as soon as I made up my mind and said to myself: “Carmen, Carmen, you must do this even if the world falls…” it seemed to me that the whole weight of the task was already lifted from me, and what is more! that something I had never felt before for Philip was beginning to enter me… like a… an attachment… a law… “Say it once and for all… Love?” “I’m starting to think so, that’s what he should be called!” the priestess of the hearth responded firmly. “At least he grows every day… he’s already mastered me… and he rewards me for the little hardship I suffer… In terms that now—look here… don’t laugh!—I would feel something like… envy… or jealousy… if another were to come to share my task and be for Philip what I am now. ” “And he…” I asked sarcastically, to hide my disappointment and fury, “and how is he? Is he also very loving and tender with you?” “Oh yes, he is!” she affirmed with indescribable effusion, now letting the tears show on the edges of her eyelashes without any blushing. “If you saw how the poor man has changed for me… you would be amazed. ” “Is he that melted?” I indicated ironically. “That’s not it!” the holy woman exclaimed with her whole soul on her lips . “Don’t pretend you don’t understand, Sallust! It’s just that now… how shall I put it? A barrier that stood between us has fallen… a great iceberg has melted… and I don’t know… he looks at me differently… he speaks to me with a different echo of his voice… he can’t be without me for a moment; he won’t be well if I don’t come to him; but he doesn’t just call because he needs me to look after him, but at all hours: my company demands it… morally; it’s his only consolation. Before, when he was robust and healthy, we spoke little… Now he chats with me, asks me a thousand things, begs me to be always near… Even… look! even the key to the money… which he never let go of… well, here it is, do you see?” he exclaimed, taking out the little bunch and ringing it triumphantly. It seems that her soul has been changed… or that they have changed mine… and perhaps it will be both of ours… The truth is… be careful, I am not deceiving you!… When we arrived here, her eyes shone, her countenance took on a celestial expression, and her lips murmured softly: “When I got married… you already know how it was… there is no doubt that I would have preferred… perhaps… not to get married… or… well… Well, today… if they ask me what state I choose… with my eyes closed I will answer that this one of all those in the world; and if they give me the choice of a husband… with my eyes closed too, I will say the one I have… and no one else!” She fixed her radiant pupils on me as she repeated: “None… no one else!” I remained silent. As always, I ticked the bit, admired, protested, and At the same time, a mocking voice inside me asked: “Is this virtue, extravagance, or madness? Does the ideal you have forged reach these limits? That this woman cares for and attends to her sick husband, fine; but that, because she sees him like this, stricken with such a disgusting illness, she considers herself in love with him and puts him before everyone else… is it within the realm of reason and possibility?” And the voice, answering itself, mysteriously whispered: “There are enigmas of sentiment that reason confuses more than it clarifies. The concept of strict duty is insufficient in certain situations. Great miracles are worked by love; the most sublime actions come from madness. The marmoset has never been a balanced and phlegmatic woman: a balanced woman cares for her husband, but she doesn’t get enthusiastic about him because he’s a heap of rubbish and misery. Where reasoning ends, enlightenment begins. This creature is enlightened. She has a halo.” “So, Carmen,” I said, “you and your husband are so in love that I don’t fit in between you? Will I not even be able to help you? Am I superfluous to you, in the full sense of the word?” She had one of her usual transitions from angel to woman, or rather , to naive and mischievous girl. And looking at me and narrowing her eyes somewhat maliciously, she answered: “Oh, Sallust! What a difficult situation I would put you in if I accepted your proposals! Who would see you spend four months… six… a whole year, fasting for the transfer, as you fasted the other Sunday! ” “Mock me!” I exclaimed; “you’re right, because that day I was even more foolish than you think. Test me today, and I’ll behave like a man… And since you’re taking away my opportunity to rehabilitate myself… at least be lenient in one thing. ” “Which?” “Confess… well, confess that before falling in love with your husband… you loved me a little… me, this sinner… and on one occasion you cared for me almost as much as you did him. ” “I don’t deny it… I mean, about the caring. ” “And the other thing? ” “I’m not answering. Just answering would be bad,” she said seriously. “Let’s go there, Castro Mera will have left and the sick man will be alone.” I had to follow her and go in with courage. It was easier for me than the first day to take and shake the leper’s hand. I approached him with studied naturalness, and I looked for different pretexts to touch his clothes and get close to him. At around seven I left that house, but it was decreed that I wouldn’t go fifteen more minutes without seeing Carmiña again. The fact is that as I crossed the threshold of the first floor, I saw the door of the Barrientos ladies’ house, the one on the right, gently open, and a heavily veiled woman emerge. She cautiously looked back at the dark entrance, then nervously closed it with a trembling hand, trying to make as little noise as possible. Then, pulling her veil even tighter around her face, she descended the stairs with a hurried, flustered step… without noticing that I was following her. In appearance, in figure, in gait, I had recognized one of the Barrientos ladies; but which one? At first glance, they were so similar that it was difficult to determine. In any case, I realized that something of no small importance was happening there. I followed the young lady and caught up with her in the doorway. Hearing someone’s footsteps approaching her, she turned and stifled a scream. The veil parted, and then I could clearly make out Camila Barrientos’s features. Why was she scared? Why, instead of greeting me, did she flee from me in such a reckless race that I in turn had to press my heels together to keep sight of her? Ten paces further from the house, a cab was stopped. A man poked his head out of the window, and my astonishment almost petrified me when I recognized the one inside, waiting for Camila—her sister Aurora’s boyfriend! A whiplash to the nag… The cab started, sparks flying, and there I was, not knowing what was happening to me… So I recovered, and I began to think about what I would do. Go up and tell Carmen? Have her report back. to the mother? These doubts nailed me to the ground outside, and I believe I would still be there if a desperate cry hadn’t resounded behind me, and two panting, extremely alarmed ladies, in whom I recognized Carmen and the widow Barrientos, hadn’t each grabbed one of my arms and exclaimed simultaneously: “Have you seen my little girl?” “Camila… did you happen to see her come out? ” “Hey! Yes, I saw her… I just saw her…” I stammered, not knowing which of the two to listen to. “Which way is she going?” ” Which way did she take?” ” Did she say something to you?” “Why didn’t you call her? ” “But, for God’s sake, ladies!… If you don’t let me breathe! I’ll come, I’ll explain…” She opened the door very cautiously; she got out in front of me, as if she were fleeing; no matter how hard I tried to reach her, I couldn’t. She covered herself with her veil; she walked as if she were distraught. There in the corner she’s gotten into a carriage… “Alone? Alone? ” “With… with a gentleman…” I replied, not daring to add the darkest one. The celestial vault, falling on the venerable gray head of Mrs. Barrientos, wouldn’t have crushed her so quickly. She tried to speak but couldn’t; she drew back; she turned crimson… then violet… and exclaimed hoarsely: “Eeeh… aaah! There… is… a… carriage… a… man…! No… no… can…! My uncle and I picked up the matron, who was completely unconscious, and, in the air, enduring the pains of purgatory, we carried her up the stairs. We entered the first floor like a bomb… I’ll give up describing the spectacle the house offered. Aurora and her two little sisters were hugging each other and crying in a corner… My aunt said to me, feeling sorry for me: “Look for them, Salustio!… Let’s see if you can find them… ” “Don’t worry, Carmiña,” I replied. “They’ll probably be found. At this time of day, they’re definitely not interested in being found. So what? Instead of Aurora getting married, Camila will get married… When sisters are so close, it does n’t matter. ” “But was he her sister’s boyfriend?” asked the aunt gravely. “What! Didn’t you know? ” “No, but… I’ll almost tell you, I’m not surprised. I had my suspicions… Poor family! The presents bought, the equipment ready… ” “Bah! Love doesn’t stop at trifles,” I muttered under my breath. He fell silent at once, and finally, looking at me calmly and unfastening one by one the clasps that hid the opulent beauty of the bust of Señora Barrientos, he answered: “That is not called _love_, but _infamy_. Aurorita,” he added, raising his voice, “bring me the anti-hysteric.” THE END Having acquired my diploma from the School of Civil Engineering some time before, I found myself one night in Aranjuez, where my first professional duties had taken me, staying at that inn that still preserves the red damask screens from the time when it proudly served as the residence of the Prince of Peace. I was informed that a gentleman had arrived from Madrid, eager to see and greet me; I ordered him to come in immediately, and without delay Luis Portal, my classmate and friend, embraced me . After the ensuing exclamations, Portal began to explain to me the purpose of his coming so untimely. “It’s quite odd… You’ll be surprised, but don’t make a fuss, there ‘s really no need to… Tomorrow, in Madrid… Krrr!” He imitated with his tongue the sound made when a switchblade opens. “I’d like you to be my godfather… ” “Lance? ” “No, I mean, yes… Wedding. ” “Are you getting married?” I said, stupefied. “Just like that, all of a sudden? In your last letter—I received it ten days ago—you didn’t even mention such intentions. ” “You’ll see! I wouldn’t have imagined it a week ago either. I was in Ciudad Real, and feeling very careless… But one day _Mo_ shows up there… If you could see the twists and turns! The devil ruins everything… Marriage and shroud… Life, kid!” “Oh, you good-natured fellow! Didn’t you say that the jacket wasn’t cut for you?” Portal didn’t answer: he smiled, looked sideways at the tips of his boots covered in dust, and a malicious, infatuated expression passed over his very broad face, already tanned by the sun of engineering practice. “Damn!… I couldn’t fail: you had to tell me that… There’s no doubt about it; life can’t be theorized; thank goodness we go along practicing it in fits and starts… and theory is the reverse of practice. These things come this way… not because one prepares for them; just as one can’t prepare for them… cork! one can’t avoid them either. ” “So you hadn’t become disillusioned? Didn’t you realize that Mo… well, she wasn’t your ideal, not even because of her similarities? Didn’t you confess to me that any simple, ignorant girl seemed preferable to you? ” “Well… I expressed myself that day with a certain exaggeration. I was out of my mind. One shouldn’t take what a besotted lover says literally . Mo is not the agreed-upon new woman; But isn’t it time yet for that exceptional female to appear in our society and change it… Meanwhile, Mo is a real woman, who holds me in her best esteem, who would leave the most brilliant proportion for me… and that means something, my friend. Mathew… you see? He would marry, he would go to the altar of Hymen, if she felt like it. It’s not an invention, no; the cards tell the tale… And this Mathew has a lot of pounds… –Flesh? –Sterling, Snails! –And you say tomorrow? Shotgun! –Holy cow… I’ve fixed everything on the fly… If it’s madness… so much the better! One has to do some madness in life, kid… and madnesses, in the heat of the moment, that’s when they have the best substance. I’m convinced that madmen get it right more than sane ones. Our century is sick of good sense; Our generation, hypochondriacs of formality and of calculating the consequences of acts of passion… I think it’s time to sound the alarm. What do you think? –You didn’t think like that before. Everything became prudence, reflection, opportunism, and cuteness. –Well… Velay. Life is a series of Velays! Don’t comment on me. Those of us who have never broken a plate, suddenly… bang! we let ourselves fall and break a whole set of dishes. –Well, since you don’t have a train back to Madrid today, and it’s the last night we spend together, –I said to him, –I feel like reading you some sketches I wrote… a kind of novel or autobiography… where I study that… do you remember well? that strange… I don’t know if I should call it love… that I had with my late uncle Felipe’s wife. In your notebook, you’re brought up at every turn, and it will serve as a source of remorse, because I wrote down your sound advice and your doctrines regarding love affairs and marriages. Won’t it bother you to hear it? “On the contrary, I’ll be very pleased,” my friend affirmed. “Have them bring a coffee machine and the ingredients to make it; order me two packs of cigarettes, because I forgot to buy some before coming; also tell them to bring up a couple of small bottles of German coffee; and… I’m all ears, let’s see this monstrosity. ” I took my notes out of the drawer, in which I had found delicious entertainment, a bath of freshness, which dissuaded me from the last period of my very arid studies. Portal listened to me with attention, which later turned to interest: sometimes protesting with a nod when the story seemed less accurate; at other times approving, and laughing at the evocation of the now almost erased memory. and only suddenly interrupted me towards the end, as I was launching into my account of the last months of my uncle’s illness. “Stop right there!” he said, throwing away the cigar he was smoking. “What’s on your mind?” I asked him. “I’d like to make an observation,” he replied, “in case you ever do use those blots for publicity: a temptation you’ll fall into , as if I could see it! Because no young man of our time is content to file away his studies—”inspirations,” they used to be called. If you fit that in somewhere… in a newspaper or magazine… you should, in my opinion, delete all the chapters where you describe the progress and characteristics of your uncle’s illness. Believe me: the public doesn’t like them. those brutally naturalistic descriptions, and the more vividly you draw them, the more unpleasant they will be. Don’t force the reader to smell a small bottle of salts, nor make nervous ladies close your book without finishing it. “I know this isn’t the most entertaining subject… I’m not going to give this to the press. But suppose I were to get the mania of throwing it to the famous _four winds of publicity_: wouldn’t it be counterintuitive to completely exclude those chapters in which the marmoset figure appears, not on a gold background, but on a glorious break, like that of Murillo’s Concepcions? It’s true that varied and surprising events don’t occur in that part of my narrative; but does such attention, carried out with such self-sacrifice, seem little to you? You say it’s repugnant. And what about the Bible, when it describes Job scratching his back with a tile helmet? “Bah!” From the Bible here… we haven’t become indelicate! Believe me, keep those clinical details to yourself, that pharmaceutical poetry, and pass over your uncle’s illness as if on hot coals. Be content with saying that he became ill, and that he kept getting worse… until he kicked the bucket. “I repeat, then I’ll completely mutilate Carmiña’s character and image !” I objected, pained. “If we don’t follow her step by step on the road to Calvary; if we don’t see her abandoned by everyone; refusing to call a nun from those who assist, because Don Felipe only wanted care from his wife; having the servants dismissed for fear of “catching the disease”; spending sleepless nights, exhausted, feverish, without eating anything for twenty-four hours, forced to wash the bandages and rags herself… ” “Oh, son! Bandages… rags… All that stinks of hospital, of carbolic, of pus!” Don’t even mention it! Take my advice. I insist you mustn’t. Art doesn’t descend there. Art must be a selection… The artist goes through nature doing what an intelligent and delicate stroller would do: picking the little flowers to tie them together and make a bouquet and place it in a pretty vase. Science… is different now: the botanist can pick the ugly, poisonous weeds, and store them lovingly, and study and classify them… “But I have no pretensions to being an artist, nor did Christ who founded it, ” I answered with the least amount of sincerity possible. ” We’re talking in case you do. Supposing that book of your autobiography were to be printed, I’d cut it; I would stand firm on that incident… you see… Camila Barrientos’s escape with her sister’s boyfriend… Because I believe that was the last time that Carmiña and you exchanged words concerning the drama of passion that undoubtedly existed between you, very veiled, but very authentic. Afterwards, so that no one would know how things had ended, I would add an epilogue… the death of your uncle… and nothing more. Nothing more for now, I mean, because your confessions are long in coming, kid; two or three years after being married to the auntie… things worthy of the pen of Balzac must happen to you. I stand by my idea. This kind of women, so saintly, so excellent and admirable, cannot make us happy… and our existence at their side would be hell. Anyway, today is not the day for me to preach to anyone… I am discredited. My prestige has been ruined. “Come on,” I said, “the thing is that, in your current state of mind, you don’t find these painful pages enjoyable. Well, I’ll skip them… and if you like, I’ll tell you verbally how my uncle died, for it was a moment when I experienced a rather strange emotion. Don’t be afraid: I’ll keep it short, because I know you’re dying of sleep… and today it’s playing a trick on you not to let you sleep.” The man from Orense smiled, and I continued: “During the last months of his illness, my uncle didn’t let anyone see him, except his wife and the doctor. I was forbidden entry. I would have insisted; but I was prevented by an interminable Mother’s letter, in which she announced her intention to come to Madrid to obtain that her brother make a will in my favor, as was right. This letter led me to adopt two resolutions: first, to deceive Mother, preventing her from coming at all costs, stating that my uncle was determined to leave me his entire fortune; second, to not set foot in the house while the illness lasted. This seemed to me to be elementary delicacy; I don’t know if my resolution had any influence on the little pleasure I took from the contagious and horrible illness. One afternoon, Father Moreno came to my inn, asking to speak to me privately. I was unaware that the Moorish friar had returned to Madrid; I believed him to be convalescing in the convent at Chipiona. He told me he had come to get things moving and sort out some matters for his Order, “which don’t matter a whit to you,” he added with his usual brusque familiarity, and that he was glad because he had thus managed to subdue Carmen’s husband, who, through so much suffering, and now aware of his true situation, was “given over to Barrabas, unwilling to accept God’s will or go to confession.” “We’ve got him like a glove now,” Aben Jusuf continued, “and now he wants to see you in these last hours… ” “Is he that bad? ” “The doctor says he won’t make it through tonight or into the early morning. The anemia, caused by the internal lesions and their consequences, is what’s killing him. What’s worse, the actual illness itself… he’d live ten years, if you could call a leper’s life. ” “And he wants to see me? Do you know I don’t feel like going?” “Well, don’t be tempted to come,” replied the friar, throwing on his manteo or ecclesiastical cloak and marching forward resolutely. He was no longer using a crutch; he was a brave man again. I followed him; what else could I do! I went up the stairs, crossed the hall, entered the room, and by the faint light of a small lamp, at the back of the bed that had once been a bridal chamber, I saw an indistinct object : the sick man’s head wrapped in many bandages. A hoarse, strange voice, like that of a deaf-mute, called me; the illness had undoubtedly attacked the vocal cords… My uncle, who had come in with me, stood at the foot of the bed, and Father Moreno stood on the other side. “Get… you… uncle…” the sick man pronounced with such difficulty that a mysterious, compassionate sadness took hold of me. “It’s… I’m… very… ” “Don’t talk, uncle…” I begged, coming closer, facing the smell of ether mixed with the smell of cadaverous decomposition that the body was already giving off. “If you have something to tell me… Carmen will do it for you. ” “Carm… daughter… come…” the unfortunate man articulated. Carmen came closer too, but sobbing, her face hidden in her handkerchief. “I’ll talk, Mr. Unceta… don’t tire yourself,” the Father intervened. What your uncle wants to tell you is that… come on… that once upon a time … when your grandfather died and the divisions were made… perhaps there wasn’t all the possible equity in the distribution of the quotas… and that today, at these solemn moments… Upon reaching this point, the living corpse tried to sit up, leaned to one side a little, and from between his bandages and from the depths of his destroyed larynx an accent came out… what an accent, sir!… He said: “Sallust… pardon… forgive me… and tell… your mother that… she pardoned me… What a terrible harm that did to me!” My throat tightened, my breath caught in my throat, and I gasped, choking as I exclaimed: “Don’t ask my forgiveness… I beg you not to ask it… I am the one who should… ” “Your uncle,” the Father interrupted curtly, “is animated by such equitable feelings that he made his dispositions yesterday, leaving you the best part of his estate… Not the whole, because in his will he also favors his wife, who has assisted him… as you know and are aware of… and who has shown you immense affection. ” “Uncle!” I exclaimed, beside myself, “why did you do such a foolish thing? ”
Everything, everything to Carmiña… She deserves it; I neither deserve it, nor want it, nor will I accept it. You cause me the greatest displeasure… Don’t leave me anything. I renounce… For God’s sake! I’ve finished my studies, and my mother has more than enough to live on. I don’t need any possessions. For Christ’s sake, erase my name from your will. “Felipe,” the titi begged in turn, her voice choked with tears, ” leave everything to your sister, everything, everything; and if they don’t want me in my parents’ house, I’ll go live with her, should you die… which won’t happen, because God will preserve your life. ” “Enough with your bickering,” the friar intervened. “Don’t be foolish because of your excessive disinterest. Don Felipe was absolutely right in the division of his estate. If he gets any relief from his illness, he’ll have time to modify the last will he dictated yesterday.” Now—in case things get worse—let him think of God, of his justice and mercy. Carmen, lie down for a while. Salustio and I will keep watch… Saúco will soon be here to spend the night as well… As the Father made this proposal, the sick man’s torso shook, his clothed hands came out from between the sheets, and with superhuman effort he cried out clearly: “Don’t go… Carmiña!” She rushed onto the bed with her face almost transfigured, with the angelic expression of Murillo’s Saint Isabel, she collapsed on top of the leper, murmuring: “Felipe, my soul, my heart, if I don’t go!” And on those lips, gnawed by the disgusting disease, with a vehemence that on another occasion would have shaken me with rage to my very marrow, she placed her mouth firmly and for a long time, and the holy kiss sounded … My uncle, galvanized, managed to sit up; but the effort probably drained the blood from his brain… and when his head fell back onto the pillow, agony was already glazing his eyes. What more can I tell you?… Father Moreno gave the soul’s recommendation, to which Carmen and I replied… Nothing, what you can imagine… “What was that strange phenomenon you noticed then?” asked the curious Portal. “That my heart increased in size… Don’t laugh, it enlarged horribly… and I was a Christian for at least an hour. ” The man from Orense seemed to be reflecting. “And when are you going to marry the widow?” he said finally. “What an idea! She is in her rigorous mourning… and suffering, because once the assistance was over, the results of so much fatigue were seen in the deterioration of her health. She has returned to Pontevedra. I heard about her from my mother. I don’t know what I feel… I need to analyze my spirit… At that moment, dawn was breaking, and the melodious nightingales of Aranjuez, from the leafy canopy of the ancient trees, greeted the new day with their lilting tongues. “Do you know,” Portal pointed out, “that this place is beautiful? Look at the dawn the birds give us…” And then the large, cool room, the tiled floor… I’m going to come here to spend the first night. Thank you for joining us in reading The Test by Emilia Pardo Bazán. We hope this story has touched some emotional nerve and left you reflecting on the intricate human emotions the author so skillfully describes. Don’t forget to subscribe to our Now for Stories channel to enjoy more stories like this one. See you next time, where we’ll bring you another fascinating classic tale. See you soon.
📖 ¡Bienvenidos a Ahora de Cuentos! Hoy les traemos una obra maestra de la escritora gallega Emilia Pardo Bazán: *La prueba*. Un relato fascinante que explora los límites de la emoción, el desengaño y las complejidades del alma humana. Acompáñanos en este viaje literario que nos lleva a través de las experiencias de sus personajes, desafiando las normas de la sociedad y las emociones personales.
🌟 **¿De qué trata ‘La prueba’?** 🌟
Este cuento se adentra en la vida de un hombre que, tras una grave enfermedad, reflexiona sobre sus deseos y la realidad de su amor, mientras enfrenta la incomodidad de las expectativas sociales y los sueños frustrados. La historia se entrelaza con elementos de introspección y cuestionamiento moral, que hacen de *La prueba* una de las obras más profundas de Pardo Bazán.
📝 **Lo que descubrirás en este cuento**:
– Un protagonista que desafía las convenciones sociales.
– La lucha interna entre la pasión y la razón.
– Un viaje emocional lleno de tensión y revelaciones.
– Personajes complejos que reflejan los dilemas del alma humana.
– Un estilo narrativo envolvente y detallado, típico de la escritora gallega.
🔔 **No olvides suscribirte para más cuentos como este** 🔔
Si te ha gustado este relato, no olvides darle like 👍 y **suscribirte** a nuestro canal [Ahora de Cuentos](https://bit.ly/AhoradeCuentos) para no perderte más historias que inspiran, emocionan y hacen pensar.
👇 **¡Déjanos tus comentarios y comparte tus reflexiones!** 👇
Nos encanta conocer tu opinión sobre cada relato. ¡Participa en la conversación y comparte este cuento con tus amigos!
📚 **¿Por qué leer ‘La prueba’?**
– Porque es una obra que desafía las emociones y las creencias personales.
– Porque te invita a reflexionar sobre el amor, el sufrimiento y el crecimiento interior.
– Porque es un ejemplo del brillante estilo narrativo de Emilia Pardo Bazán, que sigue siendo relevante hoy en día.
#LaPrueba #EmiliaPardoBazan #CuentosClásicos #LiteraturaEspañola #CuentosDeAmor #PasiónYDesengaño #RelatosEmocionantes #LiteraturaGallega #NarrativaClásica #PardoBazan #RelatosDeFicción #AmorYDesilusión #CuentosDeReflexión #HistoriasDeAmor #CuentosDeDesengaño #LiteraturaDeEmiliaPardoBazan #ObrasDeEmiliaPardoBazan #NarrativaDeCuentos #CuentosEnEspañol #LiteraturaFemenina #ClásicosLiterarios #RelatosDeVida #LiteraturaDePasión #ReflexionesLiterarias #LecturasClásicas #RelatosDeVidaReal #Suscríbete
**Navigate by Chapters or Titles:**
00:00:37 Capítulo 1.
00:22:04 Capítulo 2.
00:45:28 Capítulo 3.
01:17:42 Capítulo 4.
01:43:35 Capítulo 5.
01:59:04 Capítulo 6.
02:12:49 Capítulo 7.
02:35:06 Capítulo 8.
02:52:05 Capítulo 9.
03:17:50 Capítulo 10.
03:33:40 Capítulo 11.
04:08:49 Capítulo 12.
04:25:54 Capítulo 13.
04:41:20 Capítulo 14.
05:02:08 Capítulo 15.
05:18:16 Capítulo 16.
05:41:17 Capítulo 17.
06:08:43 Capítulo 18.
06:21:43 Capítulo 19.
1件のコメント
¡Dale like 👍, comparte 📤 y suscríbete 🔔!