Sumérgete en el fascinante mundo de **Tipos y paisajes**, una obra literaria de **José María de Pereda** que te transportará a las hermosas tierras de Cantabria, España. 📚✨ En este relato, el autor captura las costumbres, los paisajes y las realidades de los habitantes de esta región del norte de España. Con un estilo único, Pereda explora las vidas de personajes entrañables que reflejan la idiosincrasia y el carácter de la sociedad rural. 🌳🌾
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Types and Landscapes, a landmark work by José María de Pereda, takes us into the depths of everyday life in Cantabria. Through a narrative rich in descriptions and profound characters, Pereda reflects the customs, landscapes, and human complexity of his homeland. Throughout its pages, we witness the contrasts between rural life and the reality of its inhabitants, with a profound look at human psychology. Join us on this literary adventure where the landscape becomes a reflection of the soul. Chapter 1. TWO SYSTEMS. He went to Havana in 1801, on the deck of a brig, among a hundred other boys, also mountaineers, also poor, and also aspiring capitalists. Some of yellow fever, as soon as they arrived; others of hunger, others of grief, and still others of fatigue and labor later, all of them dying little by little. He alone, whether more robust, more courageous, or more fortunate, managed to overcome every obstacle that stood in the way of his plans. He spent thirty years in the darkness of a squalid hovel, without air, without rest, without freedom, and poorly fed, his thoughts constantly fixed on the guiding principle of his desires. A single foreign idea , which worried him, had lodged itself in his brain, might have diverted him from his path. I believe it was Balmes who said that talent is a hindrance when it comes to making money. Nothing could be truer. Practice teaches us every day that, without being a monster of fortune, no one conquers it by fighting tooth and nail with it if the slightest concern of the opposite kind distracts him from his endeavor. Hence, the sufferings of a man who aspires to be rich for the sole purpose of being so do not inspire compassion. In the pleasure he derives from every extra coin he finds in his treasure chest, is not the labor that went into acquiring it well rewarded? Woe to the unfortunate man who seeks gold as a means of accomplishing his ingenious ventures! Fortunately for him, the young man in question didn’t have much interest in him. So it was that, giving himself a fig that a word of affection would never reach his ears nor a generous passion reach his heart, he one day threw a line under the column of his assets, and found himself the absolute owner of a sum of fifty thousand duros; he then added up his years, and the result was forty-five. “Stop!” he said to himself then, “let’s reflect now.” And he reflected. Here is the substance of his reflections: In the situation he found himself in, he could have given more scope to his speculations, considerably increasing his sum; but he also risked losing it: besides, they had recognized him there, and they would not give him the consideration he deemed himself worthy of. The opposite would happen to him in his hometown, where he would pass for a Nawab, earning the respect and attention of his fellow countrymen; but they were so poor! They were going to plunder him mercilessly. On the other hand, his parents now dead, whom he had so extensively assisted in life, what attraction could the squalor of his village have for him? Settling in Santander was a different matter: this city, which was his country after all, offered him opportunities to speculate, if he wished; to figure, first and foremost, among the most distinguished lords, and, above all, to marry a young and refined young lady, the only luxury of illusions his imagination had allowed himself during the thirty years of chained life, suffered behind the counter. Like a true mountaineer, he felt his holy love of his country very much alive in his heart, and, let it be known to his credit, he did not hesitate to adopt a definitive resolution. This was to move, for the time being, to Santander with everything that belonged to him. and to this end, he wrote requesting the necessary information about the state of the city. Believing in the reply, which came from a person of recognized standing, he invested his money in sugar and coffee; he chartered a brig, loaded it, and then embarked on it, determined to sink with his fortune in the ocean if it was written that the fruit of so many privations would not reach a safe harbor. But far from sinking, he made one of the fastest voyages that had been They were doing then: it took nothing more than fifty days from the Morro Castle to San Martín Castle. People who, when the ship anchored opposite the _Nun_, saw him standing on the poop deck, anxiously gazing at the panorama unfolding before his eyes, maintain that he was short in stature, broad- shouldered, and had flat, well-toed feet; the color of his face, pale brown and somewhat shiny; prominent cheekbones, small, sunken eyes, thick, poorly closed lips, and bushy eyebrows; his head, as a whole, round like a Flemish cheese, but larger in diameter than the largest of these; his hair was short, thick, and coarse; his beard was shaved with a razor, except for a lock, somewhere between a fly and a goatee, that hung from his lower lip, and a kind of chinstrap of long hair that protected his shirt collar from the sharp barrels of his beard. He wore a hippie hat over his hair, and wrapped around his neck was a brightly checked silk scarf. He wore a black Orleans frock coat and white drill trousers and waistcoat, a thick gold chain protruding from the latter. He wore loose patent leather shoes. And that is all I have to tell the reader about Don Apolinar de la Regatera, from the time he left his father’s shack as an infant until he returned from Havana, almost an old man, to the Bay of Santander. This market at that time was in full swing, as the saying goes, with sugar and coffee. News of the arrival of these goods by the brig chartered by Don Apolinar soon became known ; demands rained down on him, and without even letting him disembark, they seized the cargo at the price he was willing to give it. In this way, Regatera’s fortune, improving like wine with seasickness, left Havana for about a million, and upon landing at the Santander dock, it could barely be filled with seventy sacks. Don Apolinar’s leap ashore, then, made more noise in the town than any of the most famous leaps in the world, from Sappho’s in Lefkada to Alvarado’s in Mexico, and those of Leotard on the trapezes of his own invention. His entry into Santander, as well as a business, was a triumph. The plaza greeted him with every honor, beating the copper of the most packed coffers in his wake and opening its halls and offices wide open to him. The common people were also moved by so much noise, and for a long time they did not recognize the fortunate intruder by any other name than the “Indian Sugar Man.” Chapter 2. He was not stupid when it came to the vile ochavo. He readily accepted the consideration given him by that plutocracy of traditional severity, and he resolved to use his weapon to reach the goal he was headed for more quickly with their help. Thanks to such a favorable situation, he soon became perfectly familiar with the terrain he was treading on. Santander was a large village, with very old houses and very irregular streets, where comfort was neither known nor missed. The men from whom the famous square on the Cantabrian Sea derived its prestige and importance were no taller than he, nor did they come from any more distinguished origin: more or less ancient Indians; simple in their tastes, vulgar in their manners, industrious but noble in their profession, almost all rich, and almost none ignorant, as could be seen in the primitive simplicity of the population, whose support and principal objective were they themselves. It’s true that they were very proud; more than proud, they were harsh and unsociable; but it’s also true that this bitterness only made itself felt against people of a little more or lesser standing, and even turned into impertinent friendliness when it came to a well-founded fortune, as he himself could attest. Without risking his disgrace, and rather with a good chance of dominance, he could intervene as one of many in that game where, with a little serenity and prudence, one always won. Having formed his resolution, he paid a visit to his village, distributed a few thousand reales among his fellow citizens, and returned to the city where he played such an important role and where something remained that, apart from his aforementioned project, was gnawing at his brain and perhaps at his heart. This something was the sixth daughter of a wealthy colleague of his: a young woman as white as a lily, as fine as silk, and as dull as an asparagus. Don Apolinar saw her when his father brought him home to dine; he found in her the very type of his dreams… and he wanted to know no more. He asked for her hand, her parents granted it immediately, and all those who loved the favored woman rejoiced: all… except one. This was a young lawyer, of no small wit, who had long tracked the beauty in question, having received from her more than three smiles and three hundred glances, which was no small feat for such a character. But the poor lawyer’s signature was not valued in the stock exchange, and the father of his idol, who knew this… and the other as well, was not at all reassured. Imagine the pleasure with which he would hear the new suitor’s proposals. As for the intended woman, he didn’t show the slightest reluctance toward them; and it’s understandable, although it might not seem so: the candidate was a “rich Indian,” and suitors of this stripe have always been in fashion here; and a woman who is fashionable is very comfortable, even if she carries a sheep. Once Don Apolinar married, he rented three parts of a house near the dock: the main floor, the mezzanine, and the storeroom; the first for a bedroom, the second for a study, and the third for storage of merchandise. The mezzanine is the one that concerns us, and this is the one we are going to examine, just as it was a few months after the Indian Regatera joined the merchant’s guild. It was a narrow, long, low-ceilinged room. To the right of the entrance door was a double chestnut lectern; to the left, a taller one, made of chocolate-colored pine; Next to the first, two stools, one covered with green suede, with gilt studs around the seat, and the other uncovered; next to the second, another stool, also of clean wood, and a sort of lectern about the height of a man; between the two lecterns, that is to say, opposite the door, a chestnut table, surrounded by a slat half an inch high, and with a large hole in one corner, which hole served as the mouth for a canvas sleeve that hung down below the table top near the floor; At one end of the room, immediately behind the tack bench, a newly made door, with thick pointed nails, closed on two enormous bolts, with a colossal iron padlock, as well as the key that, judging by the size of the keyhole that was seen below it, must have weighed two full pounds. When this door, always by the hand of Don Apolinar, was opened creaking, by the light of a tallow candle end that the Indiano carried in preparation, one could make out in the center of a room six feet square a mass of iron that, applying to a leaf of a certain poorly engraved garland that served as an ornament, the point of a locking nail, and after having given six turns to a special key and loosened four padlocks, it allowed itself to be opened from the top, then revealing, through its entrails, piles of bags full of gold and cartridges of all kinds of coins, except copper, since these They lay in burlap sacks outside the box, though inside the dungeon as well. For decoration on the walls of the desk, there was a _Plan of Enrollments_, another of _Signs of the Watchtower_, a sheet of paper with the _Days of Mail a Week_, and a goatskin coat hanger. Add to these details half a dozen chairs with handles, pushed up against the thick walls of the box, and you’ll stop counting. The upholstered bench was occupied by Don Apolinar, and the next one by his amanuensis, who was also in charge of the _letter copier_ and the _bill collector, plus the presentation and collection of these, taking the mail, opening and closing the desk, _rubbing the sheets_, etc., etc. The table in the center was for counting money, which was dropped through the hole in the adjacent sleeve, which flowed into the sack, previously placed underneath. The other lectern, the stool and the corresponding lectern were for the old bookkeeper. A few words about this type, whose mold was lost many years ago. His position was the long-awaited conclusion of a thirty-year career as a “kitchen boy,” during which, as is easy to understand, everything came down to the candidate: humor, appetite, health… everything, except patience and pulse. This man didn’t laugh, or speak, or step heavily from the moment he entered the office. Then he would take off his hat, and replace it with a black velvet cap; he would put on his percaline muffs; he would open the books, dip his pen, record the entries, and bind and unbind the files silently handed to him by the principal, whose charge it was to collect them. He usually didn’t smoke; But if he had this vice, he smoked four half-cigarettes a day, two in the morning and two in the afternoon, one in the middle and another at the conclusion of the task, which had unalterable terms for him. He didn’t miss a second at the beginning; but if, at twelve o’clock on his silver watch in the morning, or six o’clock in the evening, he was missing a word, a single letter, to conclude the line or period he was writing, he would raise his pen, wipe it on his left sleeve, and so the matter remained until the next session. Not a moment more or less than necessary ; not even a stroke of the pen on matters within the jurisdiction of another committee. As for the books, they were his, exclusively his, and the chief officer himself had to ask him, as a courtesy, to open them to examine the status of some account. Touch them with any hand but his own? Never! The contemplation of those sharp letters, those immense columns of almost cast numbers, those blue and red lines, was his pride, his soul’s sole delight upon opening the extensive pages of his two marquilla folios. One blot upon them, and his nature, tested by the rigor of a method unchanged for thirty years, would have snapped like a weak reed. With such a man and the other material elements inventoried in his desk, Don Apolinar de la Regatera counted on him as auxiliaries to his mercantile instinct in the new campaign he had opened. The brokers bothered him little, for they knew that little use could be obtained from such a man. Indeed: Don Apolinar, who did not trust even his own shadow, liked to conduct business by his own hand; And so, not only did he discuss them at his leisure, but, not stopping at the faith of any single sample, he would go “to the pile,” and there he would tire of touching, smelling, and tasting the goods until he found them to his complete satisfaction. Then, if the business was “a nail driven,” he would undertake it alone; but if there was the slightest doubt, he would divide it into lots, and applying himself to himself, he would devote a week to winning friends who would carry the rest, a partnership he frequently entered into at the request of some of those recruited. In this way, if he lost, the loss could not be great; and if he won, that much more would be in the coffers. Win little and often, and cover somewhat less than he could; tread on familiar ground, always leaving “the retreat covered”; to take fruits of Castile to Havana , and colonial fruits to Castile, or to sell both in the plaza itself, if an advantageous opportunity presents itself; to collect in sound and legal tender; to sink it into the depths of the dungeon… and leave the world and things as they were; and “Antón Perulero, each to his own game, and they crucified Christ as their redeemer.” Such were his maxims; such was his science. Here now is his style: “My dear sir and my master: I hereby acknowledge receipt of the very attentive and favored of the current amount, attentive to the content of which I will say: “The enclosed bill was in my possession, in your own hand, eight days later, seen and in charge of these gentlemen Cascarilla Brothers and Company, for the value of “Rs. 12,576 and 31 mrs. of vellón. The aforementioned gentlemen have said that the aforementioned letter is current, so I am making a credit to your account. expressed amount, which in due time, and God willing, will be effective, without which requirement all the usual reservations will apply in my favor. «Subsequently, I realize that you tell me: ‘Such and such _and I copied here near a page of your correspondent’s letter_. To which I respond by referring to my own, in which you said : ‘This and that _and I reproduced a full paragraph of your cited letter_.’» The market for _broths_ remains calm, although _oils_ reached a bit of appreciation yesterday, due to the fact that, as it was mail day, it was learned that the olive harvest in the _literal_ of Seville threatened _of_ failure. _Sugars._ This _sweet_ in favor, especially the brown sugars and the white _Bombita_ and _Guanaja_. _Flours._ This _dust_ is somewhat disconcerted, given the appearance of the sowing in Castile, regarding the recent storms. I will give you new news by mail next week , if the case requires it. For today I only have to repeat myself to you, as always, and for whatever you may wish, your most affectionate and faithful servant QBSM. This, dictated by Don Apolinar, was written by his scribe with the most disastrous spelling, on a wide greenish paper without letterheads or gibberish. Chapter 3. Many years passed, during which Regatera saw his fortune increase incessantly; and he was twice Mayor, and Consul, and even Prior of the Commercial Court, and everything else a man like him could aspire to at that time, out of a desire for glory. God had granted him a son, to complete his satisfaction; And this son, after going to school and learning some Latin from the Piarist fathers, was, velis nolis, attached to the main lectern of the writing desk at the age of fifteen, so that he could further educate himself in the field, so that one day he might replace his father in the management of the house that the latter had placed at such a high elevation. When the boy reached twenty, something was happening in the mind of the rich Indian that made him dream more than was convenient. He heard, although very far away, certain strange rumors, and inhaled in the calm and tranquil air of the plaza the scent of a smell that was unknown to him. He read that men and merchandise were traveling abroad by steamer, and that some Spanish plaza had already allowed itself to be seduced by the innovative temptation. It is true that Santander, with the exception of the stagecoaches that had been established years before, was in the same patriarchal tranquility that he had left to go to America and found upon his return; That its trade continued as routinely as before; that its outward appearance did not reveal, even to the most miserly, that it served as shelter for a community of capitalists whose well-deserved reputation as such already traveled the world; and, finally, that the procession of flour-laden carts that daily appeared in Becedo, far from diminishing in length, was now reaching Reinosa; but that something was happening outside, and something very serious, was evident; that this something threatened the traditional tranquility of Cantabria, it was clear to see. And what would happen in the probable case of an invasion? He couldn’t guess, because he didn’t know the enemy. It was, therefore, essential to know him in order to resist him if possible, or to ally himself with him if it was worthwhile; and “Go for dear life and see what that is!” he said one day to his heir. And he went, highly recommended, to France, England, and Germany, to learn everything that was within the jurisdiction of a merchant “a la foreign.” Young Regatera remained there for six years; and upon his return, presenting himself with very long sideburns, a hyperbolic neck, and smoking a pipe, Don Apolinar received him with indescribable anxiety. The strange noise had been growing in that time, and the fumes had been permeating the entire atmosphere of the plaza; the enemy was advancing rapidly and was even making themselves visible there, and Don Apolinar and his men were clearly the target of the invader’s fury: the ground was sinking beneath their feet, and they were in the way everywhere. Like those old comedians who make Their roles as gallants were sometimes tolerated as a tribute to what they had been; but far from arousing enthusiasm, their efforts inspired compassion. Their clothes, their customs, their style—everything about them was beginning to look strange; and the town itself, so faithful until then to the demands of the old lords’ character, was hiding its ruins, washing its face, widening its streets, and joyfully and proudly surrendering itself to the intruder. It was decidedly not Don Apolinar’s generation, graying and ailing, that would have to fight against that whirlwind, nor even endure its dizzying surge without perishing in it. Hence the anxiety with which Regatera greeted her son upon his return from ” God’s world,” as the poor man said when speaking of the expeditionary’s whereabouts . She didn’t even let him shake off the dust of the road, so to speak. “This is my fortune, clean and tidy: five and a half million, in ships, merchandise, and ounces of gold. You are neither stupid nor foolish; but your prudence will be of no use if others push you around; I have no faith in your future, because that is stronger than all of you; and since it would be very sad if, after spending my life piling up bags , I had to, in my old age, eat alms, I take the bottom of the pile for myself and leave you the rest, which is not lazy. May it do you good, and you can manage it, because, after all, it will be yours.” Don Apolinar said, and, moved, he passed the scepter of his golden empire into his son’s hands . Chapter 4. The modest writing desk was radically transformed from the moment the new head of the house took possession of it. Mahogany, gutta-percha, and velvety paper replaced the chestnut, the sheepskin, and the crumbly lime of those lecterns, stools, and walls. Those in the dungeon fell with a crash, and instead of the heavy box they had been greedily protecting, a slender coffer fort was placed in the elegant improvised cabinet near the stately boureau . Six agile, cheerful, and as elegant as the main one, clerks took on their respective roles, including that of bookkeeper, which was vacated by the old man in question, who was ill- attuned to the “puppet intruders.” Barometers of every kind, steamship and railroad tariffs in gilt markings, and maps of all regions of the world filled the walls; Printing presses for everything the clerk’s hand could have done beforehand filled the corners, and the voluptuous upholstered sofa offered its comfort to those awaiting payment for a bill or a reply to a simple errand. All the other details of the desk were in perfect harmony with this tone. In the chief’s office, but away from its carpeted platform, an armchair had been placed for Don Apolinar, who, out of hobby, self-interest, and necessity (because, already quite old and knowing nothing more than being a merchant, he was bored everywhere). He occupied it almost all day, sleeping occasionally, listening occasionally, and often asking about what he saw and heard. The house was called the Son of Don Apolinar de la Regatera, not out of affectionate respect for his father’s memory, but in consideration of the value his nom de guerre held in the commerce of Spain and all of America. Calmness, reflection to the point of heaviness, had been the characteristic expression of the Indian’s mercantile spirit; vivacity, restlessness, haste to the point of lightness, were those of his son, as the former believed he observed even in the most trivial aspects of the latter’s tasks. “London?” a runner entering said laconically. “A lot?” the young merchant responded without looking up from his desk. “Seven hundred, eight, eleven: accepted. ” “To…” “Round. ” “Through Paris. ” “Short? ” “Forty. ” “Sight? ” “Date.” “Change ?” ” Twenty.” ” It’ll happen. _Primeras Riosecana_ and _Flor de Arriba_? ” “Stop? ” “Fifteen: nineteen and a half and nineteen and five-eighths.” Thirty thousand. –On a good one, nineteen and nineteen and a quarter; two months, two and a half: three percent. –I’ll see. Nothing more? –Not this way. And the agent would leave and the merchant wouldn’t even look at him; and the one who had turned gray being one, was left _in albis_. The correspondence shone with its own laconicism. Here is a model of the most explicit ones that appeared, in half-tone, in the volume I don’t know how many of the mechanical copyist’s, or the press: “Most Sir: In my power sgrata 1st act. 1; and omitting points of agreement, I proceed to tell you that I have displayed from it £m_0 8d_v c Butifarra y Ca, of Barcelona, for “Rvon. 10,560.86 which, however, I transfer to the credit of s_c. “These Messrs. Carpancho Herm. proposed taxes, which will be examined by me, and I will reply directly in detail. ‘For the market, I refer to the enclosed _Magazine_, which I hope will be of use to you. From Yours faithfully.’ And for a signature, this letter had a scribble that could have read either _Son of Don Apolinar de la Regatera_ or _Father of the Parish Sacristan_. The old Indian was quick to notice that this electrical system was not exclusively his son’s, but rather that of the entire class, and that it was not applied only to the mechanical details of the desk, but served as the basis for the brand-new mercantile spirit. There had been talk some time before of the need to provide Castile with a seaport, and it had been demonstrated that this port should be Santander, linking the communication between both regions with a railway line, instead of the traditional mule and cart lines of the country. The plan was vast and extremely costly; but since it was bound to be extremely productive, it was accepted with joy. The opportunity to undertake the enterprise arrived, and Don Apolinar watched with dismay as his son exchanged piles of plush toys for a few reams of wallpaper. Shortly afterward, the shareholder was offered a considerable premium for the transfer of his shares; but, hoping to make larger profits from them in the future, he rejected the offer. The mechanism of collections and payments was cumbersome, and the money, sitting idle in the coffers, was neither secure nor profitable. Furthermore, the future of commerce lay in credit societies. Consequently, one was formed, and Don Apolinar’s son was the principal shareholder. He used part of the ounces accumulated by his father to pay for the shares, and sent the remainder to the company treasury, which immediately opened a current account for him. A few days after the issue quota was filled, there was the indispensable offer of a premium to the holders, and the usual resistance from them, always waiting for a better opportunity. Those snubbed in the distribution of the two anonymous bargains, having already acquired a taste for paper, formed a separate chapter and poured new reams of another company that was being created for this and that . This bait was also swallowed like holy bread, the quota was quickly filled, the shares were requested at a premium, and he was left with the many shares that young Regatera had, waiting “for tomorrow.” This time, too, there were those envious of the luck of the original shareholders, and “there goes,” they said, “this shower of papers from a credit company we founded to exploit this, that, and that .” And the quota was also filled, and the customary premium was also offered , and our merchant, as involved as anyone else in this fourth anonymous association, also refused it. And since the ultimate goal was simply the _primada_, plans for new companies sprang up around every corner, with no one focusing on the purpose they claimed to be destined for, because they were never even going to be established. Don Apolinar’s son wanted to do something like this with the merchandise. Having exhausted the merchandise in his house and compromised that of the market, he began to sell flour that had not yet been ground and wheat that had not been sown. The business was good if on the day set for delivery the price of the merchandise was lower than stipulated; but if the On the contrary, calculate for yourselves what the risky transaction could cost him. Afterwards, he wasn’t content with this: since neither he nor the buyer cared very little about the material formality of the delivery of the item sold, they assumed a date and price agreed upon, and they undertook to pay each other respectively the difference, more or less, depending on whether they played high or low, starting from the predetermined rate. “But, man,” said old Regatera in these cases, “for that, it would be better for you to play it with a card or toss a coin; at least you would shorten the agony you necessarily suffer watching half your fortune hang on a coincidence for months on end.” And the son smiled with disdain, and the father was terrified. Because, not missing a trace of everything that was happening around him, he saw that of those positive fortunes there was not a trace left; that his son had exchanged them for sums that were losing a considerable part of their real value every day ; that his portfolios were filled with this and other papers, representing large sums with no other guarantee than the signatures of the respective debtors, so closely tied to the creditor to whom they, in turn, had no small pile of obligations; he presumed that the entire square was in the same situation, and it was evident to him that a single stone falling from the unsafe building would make it crumble to its foundations. “Doesn’t this situation frighten you?” he would say to his son. “On the contrary: it delights me,” the deluded man responded. “But what about your money? ” “Here it is a hundredfold. ” “In papers. ” “Which will be worth mountains of gold tomorrow; and as proof of the faith I have in this, I have just bought more shares in the Tal company… ” “Shares that, like all the ones you have, are worth today thirty percent less than what they cost you.” –But since they must necessarily rise in price one day, I buy more to earn more. –And if they don’t rise? –Bah! –And if, granting you the fulfillment of your hopes, one of the difficulties that your favorite game of differences and the like brings upon you at every step, should happen to you in the meantime, what would become of you? –And the resources of credit? –You have a hundred times more on the market than you can bear! –Judging by the old mercantile criterion, I believe it. –The old criterion!… the old… ungrateful ones! The old man piled up for you those sums that I hardly see anywhere; the old criterion bequeathed you with them a well-founded credit, which you are miserably destroying! –To build. –Where? –Everywhere: we have created a people, we have given life to the corpse of the entire country. –You have thrown the house out the window, and nothing more. –Even so, however generous our conduct might be, it was justifiable. –There’s no generosity in throwing away the loaf when you’re not sure you won’t have to go out and beg for a crumb later. –In any case, who opposes the current?… –Prudence, old judgment. –Couldn’t resist it and abandoned the field. –To a younger generation, so that with their vigor and our experience they might utilize the good of the current system; not its errors, not its delusions. That’s what we wanted, and that’s what the only ones who, in this confusion that overwhelms you, are marching firmly toward the goal they have set for themselves have done. –We’ll see which path is best, theirs or mine. –I’ve already seen it clearly. Yours is the path of perdition; the other is the opposite. And at this, I don’t know what winds blew through Castile, which, crossing the peaks of Reinosa, descended into the valley, and at its touch the stone that Don Apolinar, terrified, thought of, shook, and all the stones of the building moved: all, except a few still adhering to the rancid mortar that the old merchants knew how to beat. The fear of a catastrophe produced an indescribable panic. Until then, events of this kind were counted in Santander as phenomenal, and the fear that one could happen kept even the least apprehensive and most assured awake at night. At the same time, the coffers of those societies that were to Performing so many miracles, far from giving, they even begged for God, so as not to die of hunger, having already consumed everything deposited in them; an event that, as is logical, was felt in all the wallets in the square, which diminished the value of the paper they treasured by more than three-quarters . From the resulting void came the natural imbalance, and, consequently, the unleashing of the storm, which at the first blows struck the wavering stone to the ground, taking with it all those in its immediate contact. There was the gnashing of teeth and the trembling of voices and the cursing of that paste that offered no support to the shifted ashlars it tried to hold; there was the search for the clay that it represented and for which it had been exchanged in better days, and there was the refusal of those who held it to give it a bad shovelful of it for the whole useless, fascinating mess! And ever growing emptiness, ever more furious the storm, ever more helpless the building, the whole thing creaked and finally collapsed with a horrible crash, perishing in its ruins down to the last farthing, and more, of Don Apolinar de la Regatera’s son. He, who thought he could witness the disaster with serene courage, seeing among the rubble the part that had entrusted its safety to the old cement stand out unscathed, felt in his heart so keenly the eloquence of the contrast, that palpable confirmation of his system, that he burst immediately, with spite, sorrow, despair… and old age. Chapter 5. A child of selfishness, this system had reigned over the plaza for many years without expanding it one inch, without laying a paving stone in its narrow streets, or without leaving the path of its mule trains; but accumulating enormous positive funds that carried abundance from the owner’s home to the laborer’s attic. The other, a son of enthusiasm, took to the streets, destroyed the old, turned the earth, repaired, created , and combined; and there came a moment when the country seemed to be drowning in abundance; when comfort reached the sink, and the poorest believed they had landed on their feet in the middle of the famous Jauja; but it was not realized that the resources carelessly created by the delirium of ambition could not bear the weight of the needs that arose from them; that, like many substances in nature, credit, in prudent doses, is an element of life, and in exaggerated proportions, a violent poison; and marasmus gave way to effervescence, penury to abundance, mourning to joy, and remorse to so much dazzling illusion. However, the prodigal son of Don Apolinar still finds comfort in the midst of his misfortune in contemplating the work that contributed to his ruin, and he looks back, with a certain justifiable pride, at the share of his people’s current beauty and comforts that he owes to them. The miserly father, in the same situation, in his time, would find nothing to put before his imagination but the despairing memory of his lost treasure. The truth is that with the generous instincts of the one and the reflective parsimony of the other, a mixture of strange results could have been achieved; but it is also true that if man were to place himself even once in the just medium of reason, that time he would betray one of the most essential conditions of his nature: being mistaken in at least half of everything he contemplates and executes. TO BE A GOOD MULETEER… A PICTURE THAT STEPS INTO THE HISTORICAL Chapter 6. Blas del Tejo and Paula Turuleque were from the same village in the Mountains, and both orphaned by their father and mother, and even by all kinds of relatives. Blas owned, by inheritance, a corral with eight wagonloads of land and a pair of oxen. Paula was the owner, equally with Blas, of a small house with a garden, two heifers, and a cart. Paula and Blas agreed one day that if their respective inheritances were converted into a single property and to this were added some cattle in sharecropping and some land for rent, they would be able to live a life better than even that of the archpriest of Seville. And Blas and Paula married to carry out the calculation; and soon, since they were honest, they found someone who would rent them twenty wagons of meadow land and the same number of farmland, plus a couple of cows in sharecropping. Blas was plump, short, cheerful, and as harmless as a pumpkin. Paula was no taller than Blas, and there she was, with her flesh and her mischief. They harvested corn for eight months, shared a heifer with the master each year, and slaughtered a seven-arroba pig for Christmas. Paula always had hanging on the rod above her bed a black cubic doublet, a Carmen serge skirt with a cornflake lace, and a foam handkerchief for holidays. Blas, for his part, was never without breeches and a fine cloth jacket, and a mountain hat for grand occasions. Blas only touched wine to celebrate holidays, and in those cases he never drank more than half a quart, and Paula was scandalized when she heard that some of her neighbors pawned their clothes or sold corn to drink brandy. Paula and Blas had no children, not even the hint of having any, as the former claimed; but, on the other hand, they loved each other like two doves. They went to work in the fields together; to the market together when there was one in the neighboring town; to mass together, and they even danced together in the ring more than four times. For although they were married, they were young, owed nothing to anyone, were good-humored, and their children were not likely to hold this small weakness against them. Blas used to say: “I don’t know what the hell this Paula has; she’s not at all good-natured, nor is she too clever; but the truth is, I wouldn’t trade her for the best girl in town.” Paula, in turn, said: “Blas is bad-tempered, has a messed-up back, he’s more of a fool than anything else, and yet, even so, I’m drooling with satisfaction when I look at him.” Blas and Paula boasted constantly that there had never been “a yes or a no” between them, and it was commonplace in the place that in that house no argument had ever been heard, nor had a foul blow been heard, nor had a tear been shed. Paula didn’t understand that anyone in the world could have been much happier than she was; and she would certainly have judged her happiness superior to all those on earth if her means had allowed her to drink water with sugar and eat biscuits whenever she wanted. Paula, then, had a sweet tooth, but without any vice or anything like it. Blas had never hidden from his wife the fact that he envied all men who could, without going broke, drink a quart of white wine at every meal and take a three- or four-hour nap on half a dozen mattresses—mattresses, to be precise. Blas, then, loved laziness and good wine, but the lack of these gifts was not enough to take away his usual good humor. Blas and Paula, in a word, were a happy couple, as happy as one can be in this roguish world of ambition and misery, where peace of mind is so rare and strange. Chapter 7. Thus things were when, as Blas went out to the corral one day, he saw a gentleman entering, riding a hired horse, all dressed up , with a valise on his rump and a saddlebag at his side. “Does Blas del Tejo live here?” the gentleman asked Blas. “To serve God and you,” replied Blas, uncovering his head and opening his mouth a hand’s breadth and his eyes and nostrils almost as much. The questioner dismounted; took the suitcase from the nag; gave a few coins to the scavenger, who went off with the quadruped, making courtesies and very grateful. Then the gentleman himself asked Blas himself again: “Is your wife’s name Paula Turuleque? ” “And Rodero de la Peña, too,” shouted Paula, who was watching the scene from the kitchen window, leaping out into the yard. “Perfectly,” added the newcomer. “Well, I’m your uncle. ” “My uncle!” exclaimed Blas and Paula in amazement. “But, sir,” added Blas, “we don’t have a father or mother or a dog to bark at us! ” “You’ll imagine it!” Your wife must have heard about her deceased mother of a brother… “Yes, sir,” Paula interrupted hastily. “My mother, may she rest in peace, often told me about a brother of hers who, as a young boy, went to the other side; but she also said that he had died a few years later. ” “Well, he didn’t die. He was, in truth, somewhat ungrateful to his country and his family for a long time; but, in the end, he thought of both things, and wanted to see them again… and here he is, although with the sorrow of knowing, from information he has opportunely acquired, that only you remain of his family. So, frankly, will you let me live with you? I see that the house is not a palace, by any means; but since I was born in it, I wouldn’t exchange it for that of the King and Queen of Spain. Besides, we’ll have time to renovate it or make a better one, for everything is achieved when there is money, and, thank God, I have plenty of it.” Blas and Paula were almost mad with joy. Paula’s eyes blurred, her ears rang, and for a moment she dreamed that she was soaring above the local bell tower on a cloud of sugar cubes studded with biscuits. Blas, no less dazed than his wife, imagined himself lying face up on a pile of mattresses, with an endless stream of rancid Nava del Rey wine falling into his mouth. When the dizziness passed, he hurried to grab the suitcase that his uncle was holding in one hand; Paula brought out to the doorway a red and green striped banizas chair that was in the house for special occasions; The newcomer sat down on it, and the three of them, in sweet love and companionship, began to converse about matters of the country and the family, Blas occasionally interrupting the conversation to remove, with great respect and after saying “bear with it and forgive me,” some dust stain or strange film from his uncle’s coat. He looked sixty years old: he was thin and pale and rather stooped, and there was something in his face, clearly kind and noble, that betrayed long-standing physical suffering. He wore a simple but rich and well-cut suit, and wore a wide-brimmed hippie hat on his head. And in case you don’t know him well, check out the following portrait that Blas made of this person for his neighbors the day after his arrival: “The man is beginning to look old, he is haggard, his complexion is dull, very dull ; his eyes are painful and sunken, with many eyeholes, a lot, like an ashen ring.” He wears a devilishly hard, white, and wanker’s coat , a gold chain around his neck, a fringed cravat, a fine-tufted hat, and shining boots that show his face in them. He is refined in speech and noble in his genius, and he handles eighties like water. Chapter 8. Two months had passed since the Indian had arrived at his nephews’ house. Having moved the luggage he had left in Santander into the house, and made some essential alterations to the room he had chosen in the same shack, the poor man lived quite contentedly, devoted to the dishes his niece prepared for him, if not with great success, then with the noblest will and desire in the world. The two husband and wife ate at the table with him, and the same dishes; which, however , it must be admitted, Blas and Paula always got up from it, somewhat dissatisfied and annoyed. The Indian wasn’t greedy, nor did he like wine; on the contrary, he was a fiend for bitters, and therefore ate olives and drank beer as a treat. Paula, then, couldn’t afford a sugar cube, nor could Blas get enough of white wine. However, on the other hand, they had new and complete farm implements, two more cows, another new and fine suit of clothes each, and they ate meat and ” wheat bread” every day. I must point out that Blas, following that famous maxim of the poor, “rather burst than left over,” in order to make the most of the few cigars the Indian threw away lit, had become a vigorous smoker, at the cost of half a dozen horrible dizzy spells that cost him his apprenticeship. Well, sir, returning to the Indian, you must know that every day Everything that was happening left him weaker and yellower, because the ailment that caused him such ruin, a very old and fatal dysentery , far from being relieved by the air of his homeland, was progressing with them from bad to worse; so bad, that even Blas himself became worried and told Paula one day that if this collapse was not stopped, the good man would soon go and tell the other world about it. And note that the town doctor who was caring for the sick man was of the same opinion as Blas. And so well-founded was this opinion that a few days after Blas told his wife, the patient found himself without the strength to get out of bed. The doctor, seeing him like this, didn’t mince words, and right off the bat told him to get ready to get ready, because he was in for a real mess. The Indian, like the old Christian that he was, fulfilled his religious duties and stated that he wanted to make a will, so he ordered a notary to be brought to him. While the notary arrived, the wretched patient took advantage of his limited peace of mind to consider the distribution of his estate. “But, sir, who did I leave it to, let’s see?” he said to himself. “I have no relatives in the world except Paula and her husband, and, strictly speaking, it ‘s theirs to inherit me; but what are these two beasts going to do with so much money? Surely, they’ll give it to four crooks who will try to extort it out of them by craftiness, because the God-fearing souls of Blas and Paula have no common sense. And if I don’t leave it to them, who will I leave it to? To a stranger who might not say an Our Father for my soul? No, sir. To the poor? ” Paula and Blas are poor, and they’re my nephews, too, and they’ve taken great care of me, and they undoubtedly love me. Besides, who’s to stop me from making a special legacy for the poor, leaving the rest to my nephews? And who knows if these, despite their limited means, will know how to put the money to good use? And finally, thought the sick man, making a face like gall and vinegar, what do I care if Pateta takes that fortune which, after having worked so hard to acquire it, won’t serve to stave off for a single instant the death that threatens me? Blas is definitely going to be a capitalist and the leading figure in town. At this point, the notary arrived with three acolytes, and under his faith, the sick man made his will; and so timely that finishing signing the will and then kicking the bucket were all in one. Upon leaving the room, the clerk met Blas, who was pacing , very distressed, around the _estragal_; and amidst a thousand bows and hat in hand, he said to him: “Resignation, _Señor Don Blas_: the high judgments of God are incomprehensible. He, who has called your uncle to his bosom, knows why he has done so. Another day, when you are in a calmer frame of mind, I will allow myself to announce to you the deceased’s final dispositions; dispositions, my lord, for which I would gladly congratulate you if they were comparable to the grief that overwhelms you without scratching it. I therefore once again advise you, _My lord Don Blas_, resignation and conformity, and I have the honor of greeting you to the ground.” Blas, who was beginning to be astonished by the “señor don” the clerk had thrown at him, put off finding out the reason for the two little words for another occasion, because the second part of the officious notary’s apostrophe shattered his serenity, and he began to bellow like a calf, immediately sneaking into his uncle’s room to convince himself that he had really died. Paula had entered a few moments before her husband, and she too was uttering the scream that stunned the neighborhood. So that when the couple gathered around the bed where the still-warm corpse of the Indian lay, it seemed as if the house was about to collapse. Blas and Paula had definitely taken a liking to the good gentleman; but nobly and selflessly. “Let this be recorded in praise of these two sheep.” Chapter 9. Four days after this event, and when the Indian had been honored and buried with dignity, his will was solemnly read in the presence of the heirs. According to him, Blas and Paula remained absolute owners of the testator’s entire estate, setting aside certain amounts designated by him for the local poor, masses for his soul, etc., etc. The cut that Paula and Blas took was worth a whopping thirty thousand duros. Upon hearing this from the notary, who was reading the will, the improvised capitalists fell backward; and they didn’t die suddenly , because they couldn’t understand at the time what that sum represented. All their life’s ambitions combined hadn’t exceeded a thousand reales. Regarding this sum, they knew everything there was to know: its value in ounces, half-ounces, eighties, duros, pesetas, and even copper coins; what it could buy; which coins fit in a purse and which others required a small bag from a maquilero to store it, etc., etc. But thirty thousand duros! When had they ever thought of such a sum?… I mean, when had they even mentioned it? When the clerk left them alone and they had overcome the worst effects of their surprise, the two spouses began to mull over the enormous sum, and tried to weigh and measure it to the best of their ability. “I say, Paula,” exclaimed Blas, scratching his head and squeezing his eyes shut, “that must be thirty thousand duros… must be… Wow!… a hell of a lot of money!… It must be… I don’t think they’d fit in the big cauldron, even if they were in ounces of gold.” “I don’t know, Blas, whether they’ll fit in the cauldron or not,” replied Paula, truly fascinated by the idea of such a mass of wealth; “what I do know is that we must be very rich… horribly rich!… richer than the priest, richer than the doctor, richer than that boastful innkeeper who, because he has a horse, wants to trample everyone ; richer than the mayor, richer than all the riches for four leagues around. That’s all I know, and I don’t want to know any more. ” “Shut up!” cried Blas suddenly, giving himself a blow to the forehead with his fist, which if it had hit a calf in the same place would have knocked it out cold. “I think we’re going to find out exactly how much that money is. I’m counting the duros one by one up to a thousand… eh? then one by one again up to a thousand; then one by one up to a thousand as well, until I have thirty thousand piles of one thousand duros each… “No more than thirty, donkey!” replied Paula, hitting her husband with her fist. “Well, it doesn’t matter: it always turns out that we have a pile of duros that… Holy Mary! My eyes wander just thinking about her. It seems I can see her: big, big, big, like… I don’t know how big she is; but I’m sure that even if we eat duros in fodder all year round, we won’t finish her off… Virgin of the Incarnation of the Son of God and of Holy Mary and of all the saints of the heavenly court!” And Blas, beside himself, began to swing his fists at his wife’s hips , who lay face down laughing aloud, without realizing what she was doing; a fit that ended with both spouses suddenly getting up , howling and shedding tears like a cartload of apples. “It was a good thing you married me, you brat!” Paula cried between sobs and tugging at her hair. “You were right when you cheated on me, you heifer!” Blas replied, sniffing at his own tears and throwing his jacket and sandals into the air. “Come on, you pig! ” “Come on, you wild boar! ” When calm returned to the frantic spirits of Blas and Paula, the latter, after thinking for a long time, suggested to her husband that they call the schoolteacher, who, as a man of a pen, was the only one who could pull them out of that darkness into which they were increasingly straying. “Absolutely, you brat!” Blas responded enthusiastically. “See how we didn’t think of it sooner.” And I’m going to go for him myself … although, if you look closely, he shouldn’t be running around like any old rascal; but since we haven’t even agreed on the inheritance yet, he won’t be there. from what I’m going to do is too frowned upon. And Blas stormed out of the corral like a soul carried by the devil, while his wife lay down in the middle of the chaos, laughing and crying at the same time with pure pleasure. Chapter 10. The teacher was Don Canuto Prosodia, a wiry, small-bodied man, short on ambition, although he believed otherwise, and very keen on flattering anyone who could offer something. He usually dressed in a dark suit of humble cut with loftier aspirations; that is to say, he wore a suit of clothes that could just as easily be called a short overcoat as a long jacket, and wore around his neck a woolen cravat that bordered on silk. He was a great letter-writer on holidays, and he handled all the local correspondence with the Indians and Jándalos who were absent. He boasted of being very poised in his opinions, and this earned him influence in all the prominent families of the place; He was, in short, very handy with them… and he had a lot to give God for the mischief his clumsiness or malice caused in the neighborhood. He was sober when he was, but I know he took every risk that Troy was burning; only to get drunk he shut himself up in the house. I warn you that none of these details are absolutely necessary in the present story, and that I have only noted them because I do not like to introduce my readers to a character without telling them what he is, so that they know what kind of birds they have to rub shoulders with. Well, sir, returning to what concerns us most, Blas and Don Canuto Prosodia arrived at the former’s house when Paula had not yet risen from the ground, where she fell, bewildered by joy, as her husband went out in search of the pedagogue. “Is my lady Doña Paula unwell?” said Don Canuto, uncovering his hat and standing in front of Blas’s wife. “What a fit, what a scoundrel!” replied Paula, rising with a start. “I’m healthier than Pateta. What I want is to know in a jiffy how much money we have, and, above all, that you don’t start pestering me again with so many “lady” and so many syringes. ” “To all my honor, sir,” replied Don Canuto, bending to his side. “But leaving that point for the present, let’s move on to the one that brings me here at the request of Señor Don Blas, who has had the deign to inform me along the way of everything necessary for the best success of my mission.” As Don Canuto said this, he took a horn inkstand and a sheet of white paper folded eight ways from the inside pocket of his greatcoat . He unscrewed the first one, extracted a quill pen from its hollow conical lid, cleaned it on the sleeve of his left arm, then filled it very neatly with ink, pressing the carved part against the cotton inkwells that the inkwell contained, unfolded the paper, leaving it reduced to four folds, sat down on the bathing chair, asked Paula for the quill pen, placed it horizontally on his right thigh, and on the floor and within reach of his hand the inkwell, placed the paper on the quill pen and his right arm on the paper, quill pen in hand, cleared his throat twice, staring at the two spouses who, huddled on the floor, were silently gazing at the domine, panting with curiosity, and with the most mellifluous and measured tone he could, he spoke the following: “Senor Don Blas has told me that your inheritance amounts to the very respectable sum of thirty A thousand duros. Let’s write them down, then. To reduce them to reales, I multiply them by twenty, or, what is the same, by two, then adding a zero to the right of the product that this multiplication gives us. We have, then, that the thirty thousand duros are the same as six hundred thousand reales. “Throw in reales!” said Blas, rubbing his hands. “Holy Mary!” exclaimed Paula, biting her fists. “Don Blas also told me,” continued Don Canuto, “that this sum is invested in America, according to the will, in properties and businesses managed by an attorney for the testator, who will see to it from now on that the proceeds of said capital are sent to you, or the capital itself if you wish. Isn’t this what you told me, Señor Don Blas? ” “Well, precisely that, no; but that is what I wanted.” “That’s all the same. ” “But Señor Don Canuto,” exclaimed Paula impatiently, “what we want to know is how much of that lump sum of money corresponds to us each day. ” “That’s what we’re getting at, señora. Supposing the capital produces six per cent, a return which seems to me very much in accordance with God’s law, it will earn in a whole year… By what method do you want us to make this calculation? We have two: one which consists in establishing the following proportion: one hundred is to capital, as so much is to interest, and then solving for the unknown, which in the present case is the interest, according to the rules established by the authors; and another, which we call abbreviated, consisting of… “Leave me alone with these andromines, Señor Don Canuto,” interrupted Paula, already burned out , “and get me the total amount of money quickly, even if you do it by Satan or by whatever devil you carry with you and with that damned calm that walks through your throat. ” Don Canuto lowered his head, a little annoyed in his display of erudition by Paula’s broadside, and began to calculate with great care on the paper. Blas and Paula watched with avid curiosity the turns of Don Canuto’s pen, as if they knew the figures he was making. After a quarter of an hour, the teacher raised his head, placed the pen to his right ear, took the paper on which he had made the calculations in his hands, and said to the two heirs, who remained kneeling before him and looking at him without blinking: “The annual income from the estate, at six percent, as we agreed, amounts to thirty-six thousand reales, which, divided by the three hundred and sixty-five days in the year, gives you a daily income of ninety-eight reales and twenty maravedis, barring a pen or a sum error. ” “And what does this mean by daily, sir?” asked Paula. “Daily, my lady, is the same as if we were to say every day; more clearly: every twenty-four hours you have an income of ninety- eight reales and twenty maravedis. ” “Bother! I thought we were entitled to more,” said Blas with some displeasure, looking at Paula. “So do I,” she added, looking at Blas. “But, gentlemen, bear in mind that this daily income comes solely from the income of the capital, which always remains whole and yours. ” “Ahhh!” the two Bolognese heirs exclaimed, breathing with pleasure . “Capital is, so to speak, a fountain that yields, every twenty-four hours, for you who are its owners, ninety-eight and a half reales. Of course, if you are not satisfied with what spontaneously flows from the fountain, you can go to the reservoir, plunge your heads into it, and gorge yourself until you burst or until you are exhausted; a resolution I would not approve of, since this kind of fountain, once dried up, generally does not yield a single bad drop. ” “Wait a minute, and excuse me,” said Paula suddenly, grabbing the teacher by the lapels of his coat. “I imagine I have a cow; I milk her one day, and she puts ninety-eight and a half reales in my shoe ; I milk her another day, and she gives me the same amount, and every day it’s the same: this cow never runs dry, and besides, the cow is mine. Isn’t that the inheritance? “Little horse,” responded the master, very carefully untying Paula’s hands from his coat so they wouldn’t catch the threadbare lapels between their nails. “Paula!” cried Blas, between tears and laughter; “I’m beginning to realize how rich we are, and that I was like a donkey thinking you were the best of beasts. And you, Señor Don Canuto, count those five and count with a dress from top to bottom, and with a barrel of white stuff. ” “Such munificence! Such generosity! ” “Oh, Señor Don Blas, I don’t deserve such a treat!” replied the pedagogue, folding himself like a book and licking his lips with pleasure. “What kind of sermon or what grandiosity are these that you dress up!” added Paula, waving her hands in the air. “Take what they give you without ceremony and with all the senses of your soul, for you deserve it and We can give it… and much more, if we put it into our heads! ” Certainly so, and only with the resource of the income; because if you were to propose to spend in twenty years, for example, all your capital, which is still a respectable period, you could even have a carriage, and invitations and soirees, banquets and jousts or tournaments. I accept, then, the offer, although moved by the recognition. And with this I tire you no more. My mission among you completed, I leave you to your cheerful calculations, and I return to seek my sweet friend, study, which awaits me in the gloom of my very poor abode. I have said, and I am your most affectionate, sure and grateful servant who kisses your feet and hands respectively. And after this, Don Canuto left, his back turned, leaving the two heirs more and more stunned with the barrage of carriages and revelry he unleashed upon them. When Blas and Paula were alone, the former moved three or four yards away from the latter; he looked at her for a moment, and immediately began to dance and shout. Paula did the same as her husband. Suddenly , he stopped, fixed his gaze on Paula again, opened his arms, and shouted, possessed of the greatest enthusiasm: “Paula… you heard us: we’re delicious! What’s your body asking for? ” “Blas,” Paula replied with the same gestures and the same enthusiasm: “A lot of sugar! A lot of biscuits! And you, what’s yours asking for? ” “Paula, a lot of mattress! A lot of white wine!” “Well, let’s get to it, Blas!” –To it, Paula! Chapter 11. And here begins the most pitiful part of this true story. Three years have passed since the scene I have just described. Blas and Paula no longer live in the poor little house that the latter inherited from their mother: they have bought a large manor house with a porch and a sunroom, and have moved their penitents into it. This manor house has a large corral and wide stables; but neither do the calves jump in the former, nor can the cows’ lowing or the oxen’s bells be heard in the latter . Blas, who sometimes thought he was clever, had laughed on more than one occasion, ever since he heard the tale from the very opportune priest, from that farmer from Castile who used to say, the distance between his house and his estates seeming very long to him : “If there is one thing I wish to be rich for, it is to be able to go on horseback to plow my land.” When Blas and Paula changed their homes, they also resolved to change their ways and dedicate themselves resolutely to being _lords_, and nothing more than lords. The shack, with its livestock and land, was entrusted to a tenant farmer, who, with all of this, found the heavens open. The new capitalists brought only their bodies, their new clothes, and the Indian’s luggage to the mansion. Blas was even bothered by the smell of cattle, and Paula pitied the people who, to eat, had to salt corn under the rays of the June sun. “We’ve pulled the handle of the hoe and scratched the buttocks of the beasts,” Paula would often say; “and when the Lord has placed fortune in our hands, it’s because he doesn’t want us to work anymore.” Don’t be surprised, then, by the silence and solitude that reign in our acquaintances’ new home: beneath its worm-eaten roofs and within the gloom of its old, cracked walls, there are no living beings except Blas and Paula; a lazy, left-handed servant, a cowherd in the _bad_ days of his current masters; a lazy dog, who barks only lying down when he barks; and several hundred rats and lizards. The furnishings of the house consist of a dozen walnut chairs, a large walnut table, a bed of the same material with an enormous mattress, and another with six mattresses and a ladder propped up against them. The first is Paula’s, since there has been no human force that has reduced her to sleeping on wool. “Once I stop putting my feet through the holes of the mattress between the leaves,” she said, ” I don’t close my eyes or rest.” Blas was in this respect the opposite of his wife: he loved mattresses with delirium, as we have had occasion to do. to observe; and since they were rich and could do as they pleased, one provided herself with a mattress to her liking, and the other gorged himself on mattresses, to the point of needing a ladder to climb onto the last of them. Between the twelve chairs, which are barely visible in the very wide living room in which they are placed, there is a large cupboard. This cupboard is divided, internally, into three compartments: in the upper one there is bread and some other ammunition; in the center, four quart-sized glasses and two large packages, one of sugar cubes and the other of biscuits; finally, in the lower one, carefully wedged with wooden blocks, is a small jug with a metal spout, with two quarter-sized glasses, or “cortadillos,” standing guard over it . And now that we know these details of the house, let’s say something about those who live there. Paula is no longer the plump young woman who sold health and happiness when you met her: she’s as thin as a pinprick, and her brown face has a yellowish tinge that borders on lilac; her gaze is dull and sad, and her voice weak and labored; she walks with short steps, yet her legs falter under the slight weight of her gaunt torso. She only leaves the house to go to Mass and spends her days lying in the sun. Blas, although no more cheerful and cheerful than his wife, is physically the opposite. He has developed a small muzzle like a bull’s and a frightening belly. He walks with difficulty because of the excessive fatness of his thighs, and he seems to glow from his eyes, cheeks, and the tip of his nose. He also rarely goes outside, and spends just as many hours as his wife spends in the sun, lying face up on the mattresses of his bed. The servant and the dog are always idle, and are only happy when they are eating . What are the causes that have produced such a radical and rapid change in the character of our amiable friends Paula and Blas? You are about to find out. When the news reached the town that they had inherited the Indian, most of the neighbors felt bitten by the demon of envy, and since they could not undo with their malicious intentions what the latter’s kindness had done, they kept saying : “What a pity about the money!” Which means, for anyone who knows certain people a little: “The heirs have won the lottery with the war we’re going to start if they don’t part with half of what they inherited.” Another part of the neighborhood received the news with indifference ; and another part, the smallest of course, was genuinely happy to learn that Paula and Blas had escaped poverty. When word got out that they had received the first remittance of funds, their house couldn’t be locked all day long. “I’m Uncle Juan Pendejo’s daughter,” said a poorly dressed girl, with her hair hanging over her forehead and two inches of grime on her skin, as she appeared at Blas’s door, “and I’ve come on behalf of my father to ask him to lend me twenty rials to buy a bushel of fisanes for the pot.” Blas lent the twenty reales to Juan Pendejo’s daughter. Following Juan Pendejo’s daughter was Antón Cervatos’s wife. “I come to you, Blas, to ask you to be so kind as to give me two duros to see about paying off the eight rials we owe the pedantic man for the damage the cow caused to the mayor’s estate, and for a little corn to take to the mill, which we will all pay, as God commands, on the return journey of my man who is on duty.” Blas forked over the two duros. Pedro Baldragas arrived behind Anton Cervatos’s wife. “When God gives, He doesn’t give for just one, friend Blas,” said Baldragas. “ As you know, my wife has been in bed for six months, wet from side to side. There are gossips who say that the wet was the result of a beating I gave her.” But these are bad intentions, because God knows that the damned greedy woman, in order to steal figs from her neighbor’s garden, fell from a fig tree, and from the fall she remained as she is. Regarding this, I owe it to the apothecary, who says that the damage “It’s a real pain, she won’t give me the money for the wages, two cantabrias the doctor gave her in part, two hens the neighbor gave me on credit, and I have to buy two bushels of corn to feed the children of God, who haven’t had a bite since yesterday. So and so I come here hoping you’ll lend me eighty, which I’ll pay you back within eight days, because I’m going to sell the five-wagon prairie.” Blas also gave away the eighty, and later two ducats, and later a doubloon, and right away half a duro, and right away… I don’t know how much, because in two days everyone came to ask and Blas never once refused to give. But the matter was becoming serious, so serious that the blessed heirs had barely enough left, apart from the first remittance of money, to satisfy their most pressing needs. Thanks to this circumstance, Blas could not refrain from calling in the loans he had made as the terms fell due. But the blessed villagers, who had already decided to live off the Indian’s inheritance as if it were the property of a lost soul, received Blas’s just denials and demands like a slap in the face. They accused him, first in hushed tones and then at the top of their lungs, of being “fanciful,” “stingy,” and above all, of being a coward and a hack, and his wife of being a “fool,” a “revived louse,” and a scamp. They threatened them with the full force of their revenge; And it can be assured that from that fateful day on, the happy star of Blas and Paula began to cloud over. They had never had an enemy in the town and were accustomed to sleeping soundly without worries or troubles. Paula would wear a new dress and go to high mass with it: a murmur of laughter and whispers would follow her from her house to God’s. If the dress was long, why wasn’t it short; if it was short, why wasn’t it long; if it was fine, why wasn’t it coarse; if it was coarse, why wasn’t it fine; how was it ugly on top, how was it beastly on the bottom, how was it lazy here, how was it greedy there. Blas appeared in public wearing a jacket a little longer and finer than the ones he had previously worn, and the public gossip never ceased for a moment: what a satchel, what a “badly dressed gentleman,” what a bag of pesetas, whether or not he should have dreamed of seeing himself so tall, what a donkey, what a colt, and what a pig. A service provided free among neighbors cost them a fortune, and the slightest slip committed outside the house by the cat or the dog caused a scandalous quarrel, not to mention an arbitrary and enormous compensation . The entire town knew what they ate, what they drank, the hours they spent in bed and those they devoted to simple recreation; the plans that concerned them and the sums they received, each of these matters being an incentive for the tireless gossip of the neighborhood. It took two months for Blas and Paula to learn of this cruel war that most of their neighbors had declared against them. They were harmless and only wished their neighbors well-being and happiness. How could they imagine that there was a single person in the town who would grieve over the fortune that had entered their country? When Blas learned the bitter truth, he spent a quarter of an hour crossing himself, and then, speaking to Paula, exclaimed: “But who told these people that I’m not the Blas I used to be, and that you’re not the Paula you were yesterday? Don’t we give what’s asked of us and more , while we have it? Isn’t it fair that we should be repaid when we need it? Do we go out on the road with a blunderbuss to steal the wealth we have? Wasn’t it God’s will that brought it to us? Have we painted it as refined gentlemen anywhere?” If we have abandoned the farming and dress and eat better than before, do we do it at no one’s expense? Then what the hell kind of greed do these people have against us? Paula threw it all out for the love of God, and didn’t know what to answer her husband. The priest and the few good neighbors who were happy about the The prosperity of these two simple creatures, they advised them to turn a deaf ear to the murmurings of the malevolent, to avoid all contact with them, and to do them all the good they could. Blas and Paula took this advice literally and double-locked the entrance to the mansion, which was only opened when true necessity called for it. But alas! This recourse was not enough against the evil that threatened them, because the greatest enemy of Blas and Paula’s happiness was not the gossip of some envious people. The demon that was to disturb the happiness of their dreamed-of paradise, they carried with them, embodied in their excessive simplicity and almost primitive inexperience. Blas and Paula believed, as many in the world do, that the greatest evil of all known evils is to be poor, and, consequently, that having a lot of money is the supreme good on earth. With this misguided maxim as their guide, they welcomed the Indian’s bags with frantic joy and, with ungrateful disdain, cast off their former honorable poverty, without even pausing to consider that it satisfied all their meager needs and that with it they had been completely happy for many years; that is to say, it was almost impossible that the entire rich treasure of the Indian’s inheritance would provide them with a more pleasant life than the one they had been afforded up until then by four clods of earth and a small house. But far from thinking this way—because the same thing happens to people who are more worthy than our characters—Blas and Paula set about satisfying the most ardent desires of their lives. We already know what these desires were. Paula made an abundant supply of sugar cubes and biscuits, and Blas of white wine and mattresses. They replaced the pot of cabbage and the cornbread of yesteryear with a well-stocked stew of meat and chickpeas, and wheat bread; They made each of them a fine suit, and that’s it. For those two blessed souls, there was nothing else in the world they could want. Paula used sugared water and biscuits even for meals, instead of plain water and bread. When she got out of bed, it was water with sugar; if the heat of the kitchen bothered her a little, water with sugar; if the sun was hot, water with sugar; when she went out, water with sugar; when she returned home , water with sugar, and water with sugar when she went to bed, and when she woke up, and when she went back to sleep. Paula’s body was like a jar that was never filled, and far from that, she demanded more water the more water she was given. From such abuse, what was essential was the result. Once that stomach was perverted by so much syrup, it was as easy to give her solid, succulent food as to send her tumbling down with the force of a catapult. After two weeks, Paula’s diet was reduced to two dozen sugar cubes, half a pound of biscuits, and a quarter of a cup of chocolate every twenty-four hours; she had an insatiable thirst, and she began to grow pale and lose her good humor. Blas, who spent the day eating every slice that was frightening, drinking white wine like crazy, and snoring on a pile of mattresses, noticed the physical change his wife had undergone and could not help saying to her: “What kind of depraved woman is this that has been eating you up for so long, and it seems they’re giving you your ration in cash? ” “I don’t know what this is, Blas,” Paula replied sadly; “but it must be a shame if some evil desire doesn’t pursue me. Because, if not, why wouldn’t I be breaking out in fat? ” “Well, what you’re eating doesn’t agree with you.” “I’m not feeling well, and I’m eating sweets all day long ! ” “That’s true.” And they both agreed that food couldn’t be the cause of Paula’s downfall. One day her husband said to her: “It seems untrue; but the days seem like years to me, and if it weren’t for what people would say, I would go off to the mountains to make a cart of firewood, or to raise a fence, or to harvest half a dozen lombs. And the devil is When we were poor, none of this happened to me: now with the cattle, then in the fields, and later on, preparing the farm implements, my time flew by in a jiffy. How on earth do those townspeople manage to stay happy and entertained all the time? For, by my faith, we have as much money as they do, we eat as well as we can, and we wear whatever we please . What do you think, Paula? And Paula, who was even more subdued than her husband, being unable to explain the cause of it, attributed it, like everything else that happened to her, to bad desires, and threw him out, for the love of God. Blas once tried to learn to write, or at least to read, for it was clear to him how necessary this was in his new position. He summoned Don Canuto; he told him about his plan and even received his first lessons from the schoolmaster. It took him a month to master the letters of the alphabet; and since he found it completely impossible to learn to form syllables, he threw the book out the window and abandoned his plan, arguing that it would cost him a lot of hardship , which he wasn’t prepared to endure, since his means allowed him to live without pain or worry. Meanwhile, his neck grew thicker and thicker, his eyes and nose grew redder, and his ration of white wine and hours of rest on the pile of mattresses increased each day. Paula, on the other hand, grew visibly thinner and lost her healthy color by the hour; but she also increased her rations of biscuits and sugared water. The left-handed servant spent his days pouring wine for Blas and cold water for Paula. Neither the observations of the priest nor those of Don Canuto, the only people who entered the mansion, could convince them that they were killing themselves with such a lifestyle; that there were other pleasures quite different from sweets and white wine within their reach if they wished to reform their education; and, finally, that thirty thousand duros, enjoyed as they enjoyed them, far from being a fortune, were a calamity. For a month now, Paula had spoken only what was absolutely necessary, and for this reason she never replied to these observations. As for Blas, he maintained, and unfortunately maintained the truth, that God had made him this way and that it was impossible for him to adapt to other, more refined customs . And the days passed, and Paula could not satisfy herself with biscuits and sugar water , and her color sank, her body grew weak, and her spirits became depressed. Blas’s muzzle grew thicker, and his nose, eyes, and cheeks grew redder ; his fondness for white wine and for taking naps on the mattresses grew more intense; his voice grew hoarse, and his step became slower and more uncertain. It came to the point that not a single word was exchanged between the two spouses for an entire day, and one barely left the sunroom and the other the bedroom, where they devoted themselves, in the fever of passion, to their respective devotions. The priest and Don Canuto stopped visiting them because, upon entering the mansion, they found no one to talk to. They continued in town, some criticizing and slandering them, others pitying them, while the rest agreed that the Indian’s inheritance had been for the heirs like a curse from God, which was the pure truth. And here the reader has an explanation of the cause of the physical and moral condition in which we have seen our characters at the beginning of this chapter. The district doctor sometimes proposed treating poor Paula, who was undoubtedly heading for a disastrous end; but he always had to desist from his noble plan, because to carry it out, he had to start by banishing biscuits and sugar cubes from the house , and Paula didn’t believe, even if the science of healing swore to her, that sweets would be harmful to any human body. Blas held the same opinion regarding white wine, and both of them countered the arguments of the doctor who wanted to treat them with the following argument, which was not entirely without logic, in the typical stubborn way: “Don’t you say that a little sweet and a little wine are good for something, not just a healthy person, but a sick person? According to this, a lot of wine and a lot of sweet must do much more. And these fools didn’t come from here, not even with a stick.” Blas often recalled those happy days spent amidst the agricultural labors of his poor days, and his soul thrilled with pleasure when he imagined he had a pair of forty doubloons, with wide collars of bells, and a light, well-studded cart with a pole, in Biscayan armor; that he would go with his goad on his shoulder along the high road beside his oxen, singing to the sound of the bells. who also had a herd of fat, shining cows, and a pen of two hundred earth wagons with a wall of mortar and stone, and who went to the corral on Sundays with a handful of everlasting flowers in his hat, next to Paula, who was neighing with joy. But the fool, instead of clinging to such simple and pleasant pleasure, which was just a fingertip away, was quick to forget it like a bad temptation, determined that, since he was rich, he ought to live “like a gentleman.” And to drive his folly home more and more, he set about it with greater determination, and grew fatter, that is, more and more bloated every day; so much so that, his strength weakened and his head extremely weak , and he didn’t dare to climb the ladder to his bed, he had been forced to take down mattresses to make the climb less difficult . He was only three when Paula, who was no longer thinking because she was a dry piece of wood, called him one day from the sunroom, where she was curled up like a ball, drinking sweet water. Blas approached her with great difficulty and great surprise, because his wife hadn’t spoken a word but “water” for two months. “What do you want?” he said when he was at her side. Paula, without looking up from the ground and waving her hands in the air, answered in a weak, hollow voice: “Take away these sugar cubes that are falling around me.” Blas acted all eyes, and so he saw sugar cubes like monkeys. “Ugh!” exclaimed Paula; “now one that weighs half an arroba has fallen on my head … And I also have a biscuit stuck in the breadcrumb…” Blas rubbed his eyes to see more clearly; but no way. Paula continued: “Look toward the corral: it’s all full of sugar cubes falling from the clouds as if it were hailing… Oops! Another one fell on my forehead : see if I bleed… And now the breadcrumb’s biscuit is getting bigger and bigger… Ouch!!… And Paula, as she said this, her eyes lit up, she stretched out one leg, and then the other, and went to digest the biscuit in the other world. EPILOGUE The last time I saw Blas, he was lying on the bed, which now had nothing but two mattresses. The red blotches on his face had turned purple, and his nose was the size of a rotten tomato. He barely opened his eyes and couldn’t move his legs, which were so swollen they were two posts. It was hard for him to recognize me, and to the words I addressed to him , complaining about his condition, he replied, in a hoarse, measured voice, these others: “I blame myself for everything that happens to me. I wanted to make myself lord, only because I had money, and I paid no attention to what I heard the priest say so many times about the mayor, who bragged a lot: “To be a good muleteer, you have to be the son of a horse.” “I have a lot of money; but because I don’t know how to spend it, I’ve been wasted on it… and it’s no good lying. Paula died stuffed with sugar, and I’m going to die stuffed with white wine… May God grant that no poor man should suddenly be entrusted with an inheritance as large as my uncle’s!” Blas had never been as sane in his life as he was when he uttered this prayer. I believe that if the heirs of the Indian had done what the farmer of Castile thought he would do if he won the lottery, that is, take advantage of the inheritance to go on horseback to work the land, land, they would have been very happy. He was wiser than the rancid Castilian seemed at first glance! I recommend his advice to those who, being happy in poverty, receive a visit from capricious fortune; knowing that it is more difficult than acquiring great riches, knowing how to spend them. GOOD CLOTH FOR SALE IN THE ARKET I have the pleasure of introducing to you Mrs. Calixta Vendaval y Chumacera, of Guerrilla and Somatén, a woman of fifty years old, lean of flesh, pale of complexion, subtle and even piercing of gaze, and short of stature. She tells anyone who asks, and many more, that her husband is a retired colonel in the army of the Island of Cuba, where he earned his rank by repelling the invasion of the filibuster López; But I have it on good authority that Señor Guerrilla y Somatén never rose above the rank of lieutenant with the rank of captain, a career, in my opinion, brilliant for a man who, like Doña Calixta’s husband, comes from the ranks of troops and is also very crude and very ugly. But Doña Calixta does not hold this opinion; far from it, she is capable of grappling with anyone who dares to question that her husband is a handsome and gallant soldier with three stripes like three stars. Let this circumstance serve as a guide to you , especially at this moment when you are about to be introduced by me to that lady’s family. Doña Calixta has three daughters and a son. The eldest of the former is well over thirty, although she, as is customary, vehemently denies it: she is blond, rather thin, and excessively withered; Her name is Pilar, and for twelve years she has been _in a relationship_ with an infantry lieutenant who, since he was an ensign, has been waiting for the rank of captain in order to marry her. The second, Trinidad, _Trini_ as she is called, abbreviated as _Trini_ among her friends and family, is dark-skinned, also gaunt, and almost twenty-seven. She changes her admirers more frequently than her sister: in five years she has gone through almost all the classes of state servants: lately she is desperately in love with a customs assistant who, because his meager salary is not enough to cover the demands of his passion, negotiates more loans than the Government and has more Englishmen than Gibraltar. The third is called Leonor: she is prettier and fresher than her sisters, by whom she has managed to be called _Leonora_. She raves about _Il Trovattore_… and about an unpaid clerk, simply because his name is Manrique. –The fourth son of Doña Calixta is a twelve-year-old rascal, rakish, dirty, and unruly. He has been going to school for six years and still cannot read; but he can drink two glasses of rum without breaking a sweat, if you pay him for them, and he smokes as many cigarette butts as he finds in the street. He is being trained as a soldier, and is much more brutal and uglier than his father; his name is Augusto, and a worse name has never been seen. Doña Calixta has some possessions in the Montaña, inherited from an uncle of hers, a parish priest of a small village in Trasmiera, and under whose protection the lady was when she married Guerrilla, who was then a sergeant with the rank of officer. With what these estates produce, which is very little, and Guerrilla’s retirement, the family of Doña Calixta lives in Santander, happy and content… if we are to judge by what we see. Neither the self-proclaimed colonel nor her children have ever left the capital of the Montaña, I don’t know if because of the former’s attachment to the _homeland_, or for reasons of economy. The truth is that Guerrilla, with whom the Government seems to have been pleased, making him travel all over the Peninsula and overseas provinces, has not taken with him on his long peregrinations any family other than the assistant and the Ordinance, nor has he enjoyed the pleasures of the domestic home, in forty years of career, more than for five months, time of as many temporary leaves of absence that he could obtain. Hence the daughters of this good gentleman are always known in Santander circles as _those of Doña Calixta_, and never as _those of Guerrilla_. And I am glad to have spoken of this matter, because there is no shortage of tongues that assert that the fact that her family is never referred to by the name of Guerrilla is because she cares very little for the poor retiree, and that she is even the reason why the lieutenant with the rank of captain spends eleven months of the year on his wife’s estates, cultivating cabbage and a few fruit trees, and collecting the rents produced by a few irrigated meadows and two small farmhouses. These same tongues, which belong to that heterogeneous and multiform group called the public, are the ones that most consume the patience of Doña Calixta, who is not deaf, with certain rumors that they spread, maliciously interpreting even the most trivial acts of the colonel’s family. It must be agreed that with certain “people” there is no possible tranquility. These “people” are the ones who, in every town, large or small, but especially in those that are _illustrious mediocrities_, between court and farm, keep a current account for each neighbor, in which the most insignificant expenses appear consigned alongside the most paltry income; and, as if they were paying for it, they reach for heaven with their hands if the former exceeds the latter by even a cent. Well then: these people are the ones who bite the most at all times at _those of Doña Calixta_, because despite their very limited resources, they live in a large house, hold occasional gatherings , always dress in the latest fashion, attend balls and shows, and spend the entire holy day of God visiting shops and walking the streets. These “people” are the devil! A duty of friendship obliges me to take part in this game, if not to completely vindicate the family of the good Guerrilla before the public, then at least to set things straight.—Let’s take it one step at a time. Doña Calixta receives ten thousand reales, more or less, in rent from her estates and Guerrilla’s pension . “The people” know this as well as she does, and, consequently, they are shocked that she doesn’t live in a house that is a bit out of the way so as to be cheap. And here it’s my duty to say that people are aiming well, but not hitting the mark. It’s true that the house where Doña Calixta’s family lives is on one of the principal streets, and boasts a large balcony and a wide, lustrous doorway; But what “the people” don’t know is that the room in question only consists of a small living room with two bedrooms, another dark one in the _carrejo_ , and a very small dining room next to a tiny kitchen with its even smaller outbuildings. In short, the room in which Doña Calixta’s family lives has nothing but a facade, which is why it only costs them five reales a day. It is also true that for the same price, one could find a much more spacious, comfortable, and healthy house in the town’s off-center streets ; but Doña Calixta’s family prefers the one they live in for reasons of elegance, which, after all, is a taste as respectable as any other. And “the people” continue: “The luxury and the care that this family spends on, ironing, washing dishes, and the servants that this demands, require expenses that cannot be covered with what remains of the ten thousand reales after the indispensable needs of a house have been satisfied…” Another exaggeration that we are about to demonstrate. Consider that in Doña Calixta’s house there isn’t even a single bad maid, since everyone there makes do with the water carrier for the most essential needs, thanks to a very small additional salary that is given to her. She does the daily shopping , lights the hearth, puts the very simple stewpan on the fire, washes the crock in the afternoon, and runs errands. The rest is the responsibility of Doña Calixta and her daughters; and the rest is simply reduced to the first one making a turn in the kitchen at the stroke of one to season the stewpan and make the soup, then setting the table and serving the entire meal in one trip, consisting of jack, queen, and king, as the students with tricorn hats and wooden spoons used to say; and to the household supplies, which are the responsibility of the girls. This operation is completed in a quarter of an hour. I have already said that in this house there are only three bedrooms; I must Now let’s add that these only have two beds: one for the three girls, and the other for Doña Calixta and Augusto. As for Guerrilla, the few nights a year that she spends with her family, she makes do as best she can on a folding cot set up in the darkroom. So her work is reduced to padding two beds, sweeping the floors , and dusting. There’s very little to do with the linen, as there’s only what’s in use and the same amount that the laundress took. As for the ironing of petticoats, it happens once a week and is done by the girls, who don’t want to deprive themselves of their walks or their other daily pleasures, late on Saturday night . “What waste of money would the most stingy prosecutor find in all this?” “Well, let’s move on to the department of dresses and ribbons.” Anyone less accustomed to examining the characteristics of luxury will notice, if he looks a little at the dresses generally worn by Doña Calixta’s women, that they are of faded fabric and of a sickly color; that they lack that fresh, sparkling smoothness that distinguishes those of truly elegant women, a quality that is the voice, let us say, that goes around the streets and alleys proclaiming: “These brand-new rags have just left the dressmaker’s workshop, and are cut and seasoned according to the strictest precepts of the latest fashion.” The daughters of Guerrilla, you know, give their dresses and fasteners thirty times: now they put them from the bottom up, now from the top down, now from the back to the front, now from the inside out; For these operations, they have a cheap seamstress, who also has the gift of giving them accurate news of the very little they ignore in terms of local news: for example, marriages in progress, idem in crisis; “young people” recently arrived in town, with what figure, employment and salary; if they leave a girlfriend where they came from, etc., etc.; if a dance is planned; whether or not the strangers who passed through their street more than three times the day before left; where the dresses that X or Z wore for the promenade last Sunday were made and how much they were worth ; if they were paid for or if they owe, etc., etc. Such is the mystery that surrounds the luxury of Doña Calixta’s women; a mystery that should be taken into account by the people who are scandalized to see them, at least once a day, rummaging through fabrics in fashion stores. It’s quite understandable, after what has been said, that while they are the despair of the cheapskates, given what they make them fold and unfold, on the other hand, they buy something every now and then; of which, without my proving it to them, “the people” must have been convinced if they took the trouble to observe how these girls say goodbye in the establishments they frequent: “So you say the final price for this cut is such-and-such, and for this other such-and-such, and that you’ll give us so much for the sleeves and so much for the handkerchiefs… Plain. Well, after consulting with Mother, we’ll decide and we’ll send you the message for the girl.” This is how Doña Calixta’s women generally say goodbye in fashion stores; and it’s well known throughout Christian lands what such a farewell means. That Doña Calixta gives parties: agreed; but let’s see how she gives them. He invites everyone he knows, who are limited to three or four families of the same nature as his, and a handful of employees on very low salaries, most of them beardless young men, who compose a sonnet or two for Easter or a tenth for Christmas. Since the room is very small, it would be pointless to invite more people. Those who gather there fill it to the brim. The “soaré” begins at eight o’clock at night, and the first to attend are Doña Calixta’s two future sons-in-law; and I say both because the lieutenant is very rarely in the city. Needless to say, there is a lot of dancing at the “soaré”; but since there is no piano in the house, not even a bad guitar, it has been agreed that those who dance should hum the air, in which exercise young Manrique has earned himself the honorable title of “Nightingale.” That’s why it’s so common to hear these or similar exclamations amid the din of these dances: “Don’t press too hard, don’t make me laugh, don’t distract me, or I’ll be out of tune.” The living room is lit by a lamp that consumes a quarter of a gallon of oil, and in the dining room a stearin candle burns; next to the candle is a tray, and on the tray a packet of sugar cubes and half a dozen glasses full of water. This amounts to the entire expense Doña Calixta incurs at each gathering she holds with her acquaintances. And since we’re talking about these gatherings, I feel it my duty to mention the feature that most distinguishes them. This consists of some outrageous thing on Augusto’s part. Augusto, after having spent the day running out of town, returns home exhausted and panting, and goes to bed at dusk. When this happens on a night out, it’s almost certain that when the first person turns over in bed, around nine-thirty or ten, that is, when the gathering is at its peak, he or she will start a great scandal, suddenly beginning to shout from the back of the bedroom, where perhaps some couples are entertaining themselves with sweet and heartfelt amorous thoughts. “Oh, Saint Bruno!” “Mama!” Doña Calixta turns pale and runs into the bedroom, hastily closing the door. “Shut up, damn it!” she says very quietly, but with great rage, to the madman. “What the hell is wrong with you? ” “They’re eating me alive!” Augusto responds, shouting much louder. “But who’s eating you, you soul of Lucifer?” “Fleas!… bedbugs!!… “Son of a devil!” cried Doña Calixta, covering Augusto’s mouth , as he shouted louder and louder. “Can’t you see the room is full of people?
” “Let those people go to hell; I have nothing to do with them… Starving people, who come here to fill their bellies with sugar cubes!” Doña Calixta, at the height of her anxiety, put a pillow over her son’s mouth and punched him a couple of times. But the idiot angrily breaks free from the soft gag and shouts even louder: “This is no bed!… This is a mess! And it’s all the fault of those naughty sisters of mine, who are capable of selling sheets for a pittance!” The colonel, no longer knowing how to stop that goose from breathing, throws all the clothes from the hanger and even the chairs on him and returns to the living room. But her son, knocking all the things that were suffocating him to the floor with a start, grabs a boot, knocks his mother down with it, and hits her on the back of her head, just as the distressed woman opens the bedroom door. Doña Calixta appears in the living room, pretending to laugh at her son’s jokes; but the gathering has eaten up the game, despite the efforts the girls of the house have made to disorient her during the fray, and she doesn’t wholeheartedly accept his mother’s smile. If Augusto isn’t in bed when there’s a meeting, his inconveniences are even more fearsome. Maybe he shows up barefoot, or in his shirt, in the middle of the room, asking, for instance, for the string of his horn, insisting that one of his sisters has grabbed him to tie her petticoats; he treats his companions like a stick; he tells them to get out into the street because he wants supper; he tells them that supper has no art or substance, and that his sisters think of nothing but dressing up, and that they have no shirt but the one they have on and another one, and that sometimes they argue because they are fighting over the only decent underskirt there is in the house, and that they are dying to get married, and that for some reason his father doesn’t want to stay at home… who knows! Because that barbarian, as soon as he gets angry, has no reason to hold back and tells everything he knows and even what he boasts. Doña Calixta’s regulars, with these scenes that infallibly take place at every gathering the colonel holds, sweat profusely from sheer embarrassment… but they continue to attend them regardless . Having demonstrated that these gatherings, while unusual, are not expensive, let’s move on to the subject of entertainment. When “people” say that the Guerrilla girls attend all the paying theaters, they slander them. I know they rarely attend, and this with good reason. For example: Doña Calixta knows that a family she knows is preparing to go to the theater; so she passes a message to the lady, conceived in these words, which the water carrier who carries her keeps repeating along the way: “On Doña Calixta’s behalf, take another lunette for Miss Pilar, that she will pay you the amount tomorrow, and when you go to the theater, stop by her house to escort her.” The lunette is purchased, and Doña Calixta’s daughter is going to occupy it. But with what nerve does the pagan family ask the colonel for a couple of pesetas the next day, despite her insistence? “You’re taking away my freedom with this _snub_, just to inconvenience them again,” she says, as if Doña Calixta were truly offended. And with this coin she usually pays for her daughters’ theater bills, which is why you’ll always see them at the paid shows, scattered and grouped with other families; never together and in a single group with their mother. Their forte is free, open-air shows. They’re the ones who inaugurate the summer evening strolls in the Alameda Primera, and the ones who close them in October. If there’s music in the Plaza Vieja, they’re there, with a silk scarf thrown over their heads, breaking the crowds to examine every face of the bystanders and every hidden nook in the plaza. By chance, a battalion embarking in this port for any other in the kingdom arrived: there they go, along with the general staff, to mass and the parade. Is there a procession? Marching bands. Is the drum playing?” Out into the street, there must be a reason for it. Does a warship enter the port? We’ll visit it three times a day. To prove to you how deeply these girls adore the air of freedom and anything resembling joking and spectacle, suffice it to know—and this I know from an indiscretion of Augusto’s—that they keep a book in which they have noted all the serenades (signatures) of the year; all the processions, with the demarcation of the streets they travel through and balconies they can count on to view them; probable times of garrison changes; country dances; acceptable boys, with an expression of their ages, character, position, and figure; solemn religious services , etc., etc. Thanks to this passion for publicity that intoxicates them, Doña Calixta’s girls are known by even the lowest scullery maid in Santander, and there is not a single person in this town about whom they cannot provide more details than a police officer. If they were to miss even once a stroll, a serenade, or some other spectacle, the public would notice it, without realizing it, as they notice the demolition of a house on a street, or a sturdy tree in the Alameda. “I don’t know what it is,” they would say, “but something is missing here.” And now that you know the life and miracles of Doña Calixta’s family, tell me, devoid of all passion, if “the people” who claim that Guerrilla’s daughters spend far more than their mother’s income and their father’s retirement allowance are worth, aren’t they liars ? Doña Calixta’s genius is quite fine to tolerate waste in her house! Let “the people” be clear: the worm gnawing at the colonel’s tranquility is not a passion for luxury for luxury’s sake: it is solely and exclusively the very lively, ardent, voracious desire to marry her daughters off soon. Doña Calixta is one of those mothers who believe, as an article of faith, that men, when they try to marry, do not notice women unless they are constantly attracted to them; who prefer a lively and vain girl, very well dressed and well-groomed in the street, even if at home she has no bread to eat or shirt to wear, to a modest young woman who knows how to sew and only goes out on the street when absolutely necessary. Madame Guerrilla firmly believes that the most exquisite cloth is never sold if the town crier does not bring it into the market more bedecked and decorated than a colineta; and there is no one who convince the unfortunate woman that, if anything harms even the most good kinds, it is the incessant proclamation of their own goodness. That is why she does not understand, even if they kill her, that if anything repels a man who wishes to marry, it is the woman who showers him with memorials of finery and ribbons as all his recommendation, so that he will choose her, and lavishes in the streets and alleys a beauty that would fascinate him, shining within the holy walls of the domestic home next to the sewing box, behind curtains as white as the puffs of snow. Doña Calixta, finally, and her daughters will never be persuaded that today, as never before, facts attest, in the history of _good_ marriages, to the infallibility of the ancient proverb that says: _good cloth is sold in the chest_. THE PILGRIMAGE OF CARMEN Chapter 12. I deplore that restless and ambitious spirit that has been taking hold of man for years ; I abhor that iron-lunged monster who, devouring distances and boring into the heart of the mountains, has cast from our peaceful homes the cheerful traditions and innocent well-being of the patriarchs.” I hasten to warn that I am not the one saying this. The one who says it, and much more so, at all hours of the day, is my respected friend Señor Don Anacleto Remanso. I need to tell you who this esteemed fellow is and where he comes from. Don Anacleto was, back in 15, a young man with a perfect reputation in the commerce of this town. He had excellent handwriting and handled books with rare intelligence. Thanks to these qualities, his employer increased the very modest salary he had been earning for twelve years, and when six more had passed, he interested him in the business of the house. With this lucky chance, and thanks to some plague that rained down on foreign wheat some time ago, Don Anacleto found himself overnight with a net capital of twenty thousand duros. Then he settled down, married an honest maiden, his contemporary; and, free from the sorrows and anxieties that torture the souls of those who rely on the growth of their fortune, he began to taste the delights of peaceful home, after a delightful honeymoon. It is not my purpose to follow this good gentleman step by step through all the steps of his life until the year 1948, the period in which I met him. Don Anacleto was then somewhat obese, bald on the back of his head, and suffered from time to time from rheumatic pains, sometimes in the “cords,” as he called them, of his right arm, or sometimes in his shoulder blade. His mistress, Doña Escolástica, even fatter than he, maintained that this ailment had not completely healed because the good lady could not get her husband to keep on wearing during the summer the baize armband he wore on his flesh during the winter. She owed it to this remedy, she said, the change she had recently noticed in her periodic hysterical attacks. But this does not matter much to us, and I return to the subject. Don Anacleto and Doña Escolástica had a daughter and a son. The former enjoyed a reputation in the neighborhood, well earned, as a “pretty girl”; and here, in confidence, I must say that she had no other quality worthy of note. The latter, younger and uglier than his sister, promised himself a good future in the business house where he had been employed for six years, through the friendship of his employer with Don Anacleto. This family lived on the second floor of Atarazanas Street, and in the living room had cherry-wood seating with black-pigtail seats on pile padding; Catalan rugs beside the sofa and console; on the latter, two flower vases, the bouquets of which were wafer-thin and made by “the girl”; A small mirror above them, a rod in a square, with a gilt frame; a case inlaid with mother-of-pearl, below the mirror; in front of the lanterns of the vases, two silver candlesticks on roundels of blue and red yarn, from the same source as the wafer bouquets; and finally, on the walls, half a dozen silk embroidered paintings, one of them representing a poodle, He was shaved halfway back, with a small basket full of flowers hanging from his mouth. All these paintings had the following inscription in the background, also embroidered in silk: “Made in Santander, under the tutelage of Doña Sempronia Dobladillo, Joaquina Remanso, and Resconorio. Year 1845.” He had a maid and water carrier at his service—I always speak of Don Anacleto’s family —he ate every day, and attended the theater three times a year: on April Fool’s Day, New Year’s Day , and Three Kings’ Day . Don Anacleto would get up shortly after dawn, dress up, drink hot chocolate, take his rattan cane, and go to hear the nine o’clock mass at San Francisco. He would stroll through the streets, read El Eco del Comercio in the Café Español, and return home for dinner at one o’clock. In the afternoon he would go out for a long walk with his friends; On his return, after putting on some slippers with belts on his feet and a blue velvet cap on his head, he would drink chocolate and orange water, and would not go out into the street until the following day. On festival days, if it was not raining, after hearing the first mass at San Francisco, he would go with a couple of friends to hunt birds, arranging the countryside in such a way that at the stroke of midnight they would arrive at the inn of Rocandial, where a well-stocked stew pot, half an azumbre of chacolí and a good slice of Pasiego cheese would be waiting for them to whet their appetite. After this refreshment, they would slowly set off for Santander, occasionally shooting at any sparrow or lark that happened to fly down the barrel of their shotguns, and would arrive home, in peace and with the grace of God, at dusk. If it rained on holidays, instead of going to Rocandial, they would spend two hours bustling around the Muelle Markets or the cloisters of the Cathedral. From time to time, Don Anacleto would leave the company of his friends to join his family for a small empanada or some cold slices of hake, on the brañas of La Magdalena or behind a fence in Pronillo. Such was ordinarily the personage we are discussing here, such were his hobbies and pleasures, without any other mystery, or any other retreat, or any other flap; Such was, I say, ordinarily the case, for this man, who could easily be taken as the personification of the middle class of Santander at the time in question, had a week each year in which he transformed himself physically and morally to the point where he was completely unaware of himself. Eight days before the Sunday following July 16, he would begin to leave the house at unusual hours; his hat, which he always wore plumb on his head, would gradually be removed from his forehead, and as if fleeing the boiling point beneath it, it would fall to the top of his head. His eyes, always squinting and sleepy, would open wide and glow like glowing embers in the darkness; the corners of his mouth would lean closer and closer to his ears, and the arch of his eyebrows would rise, as if they wished to lengthen the excess hair on a head that lacked it; As he walked, he would tap his cane with his foregrip on the flagstones of the street. He would stop in front of every shop selling ribbons, bells, colored feathers, or fancy ties; he would eagerly examine these articles, buy some, and regretfully leave the rest; he would look at the pretty girls with tender eyes; he would stop every friend he met and, placing his hands on their shoulders, say: “I suppose you won’t be missing; I’ll count on you there.” To which the person addressed, if he wasn’t in recent mourning or wasn’t expecting it at any moment, would reply in the most solemn tone he could: “That’s not a question to be asked of any person of taste: the chapel would be missing sooner than I would be.” He would also stop young people, even if he only knew them by sight, to charge them to be of good spirits and, if possible, to take their little orchestra piece. But those he did not let rest were the sailors. “Do you think we are safe? Will this breeze bring malice? Will it rain on Sunday?” To which questions, the sailors Sailors, who longed as much as the questioner for the arrival of the day whose memory brought back the bewildered man, replied by promising him African sunshine. Nothing rankled him more than when he asked if it would rain on Sunday and was told: “I’ll tell you on Monday.” “It seems unbelievable,” replied Don Anacleto, snorting with indignation, “that in such a serious matter you allow yourself such jokes.” Every cloud that formed on the horizon caused him great distress, and he followed it in all its shapes and colors without losing sight of it for a minute, until nightfall. From then until he went to bed, he went out onto the balcony two hundred times to see if the cloudy wind from the gale or the northeast was passing, and if the moon was nearby. Once in bed, he always listened to the voice of the night watchman. If the latter sang… “_and cloudy_,” he was saddened; But if he said… “_and it’s raining_,” he would throw his head furiously on the pillow and would almost cry; the same thing would happen to him if rheumatism threatened or his corns hurt. While Don Anacleto was riding out these storms, which, as I have said, drove him mad, his wife, Doña Escolástica, also never lived a moment ‘s rest. She ordered fat chickens from the milkmaid; she formalized contracts in the fish market and in the markets so that by Saturday noon she would not be short of six pounds of hake and four of veal; she ordered a small almond stick from the best confectioner’s, and she searched the grocery stores until she found a Liébana ham “that would satisfy her eye.” Meanwhile, young Joaquina rummaged through the wardrobe and the clothes rack, and arranged her father’s and brother’s linen suits, and she sorted, gathered, and ironed the Indian dresses and silk handkerchiefs that she and her mother were to wear on the longed-for day. And so that all the members of the family would have their corresponding work, the apprentice merchant would run from one place to another to find a country wagon that would be ready at dawn on Sunday at Don Anacleto’s orders. Amidst so much and such toil, Saturday night arrived… and then she really had to see Don Anacleto’s house! Doña Escolástica, the skirt of her dress gathered over the hem of her apron, her arms uncovered to the elbows, sporting fleece petticoats from under which peeped a pair of plump calves wrapped in homemade cotton denim stockings; With her left hand open, like a screen, in front of her face, and a wooden spoon in her right, she stood in front of the stove in the kitchen. Now she was flipping a pair of chickens in the roasting pan; now she was stirring a piece of shredded beef in a huge pot because she thought it smelled burnt; now she was taking a slice of battered hake out of the frying pan held by the maid’s handle and replacing it with another dripping with beaten egg; now she was uncovering the pot in which the stew was being seasoned; now she was stamping her feet because she suspected the roast was “sticking”; now she was shouting at the girl to add the stew that was hitting her nose, all the while laughing, humming, snorting, pacing, and sweating profusely. Near the kitchen, in the dining room closet and by the light of a tallow candle, Joaquinita would give the finishing touches to the country outfits and place the emerald-green ribbons she had ironed a short while before on two enormous straw hats . Don Anacleto and his son walked like robots from the living room to the dining room and from the dining room to the kitchen: they tried on hats, pinched the hake and lifted the covers, smelled the stews, and examined the pieces of their respective country outfits. At ten o’clock, a messy and disorderly dinner was eaten, a little of the abundant cooking in the kitchen. But not even the rats would retire to rest until the various stews, prepared with admirable neatness by Mrs. Escolástica, were neatly arranged in their respective brass pots and earthenware casseroles. Of course, when the family went to bed, there was the urge to eat. over who was to wake whom before dawn, since no one had enough self-confidence to undertake such a delicate task lucidly. But this eagerness was excused, because neither then nor in earlier times was there any need for alarm clocks on the night before the day of Carmen, because during that time the groups of pilgrims who roamed the streets from Saturday afternoon onward were in charge of waking the population from sleep. Well, sir, the long-awaited day was arriving after a night of revelry, punching, and all kinds of popular excitement. And here we will follow step by step the family of Don Anacleto on one of the expeditions they made to the famous pilgrimage; and for the sake of everyone, I will spare you some digressions, and you will be less bothered attending the popular festival I am describing. Chapter 13. The first rays of the sun had not yet risen above San Martín when a poor country cart, drawn by two lazy oxen, stopped at Don Anacleto’s door. This cart carried, fixed to its frame, the frame of an awning, and scattered grass on the planks of the pole . Before the driver could even approach the door, Don Anacleto’s maid came down to the entrance with a pair of rolled mattresses on her head and a quilt covered with large green, yellow, and red branches draped over her shoulder. She spread the former on the grass on the pole and the latter on the arches of the awning, securing it securely to the arches with strips of blue thread. She then returned to the room and took down two large baskets, which she placed with great care in the front of the cart. Of these baskets, one contained stews and fried foods, and the other bread, cutlery, wine, pots , and a small ribbon. Once all these preliminaries were arranged, the family disembarked. Don Anacleto went in front, wearing a tuina, raw linen trousers and vest, low-cut shoes of yellow beaver with crimson laces, a light-colored cravat, no armor, and a straw hat with a wide brim and an emerald-green ribbon. The boy wore a suit almost identical to his father’s, with the only difference being that he wore no vest and had wrapped a purple silk sash around his waist, between which and his shirt lay the end of a similor chain, which held not, as the lad wished to appear, a watch ring, but the ring of the rusty key to his trunk. Doña Escolástica and her daughter wore striped calico dresses, with lace kerchiefs around their throats and raw silk scarves with large polka dots tied around their heads and knotted under their chins. These ladies and the maid entered the cart, and Don Anacleto and his son sat abreast, and, to be more in keeping with the character, sat with their backs to the oxen, letting their legs dangle over the pole. “Whenever you want,” said Doña Escolástica’s husband to the wagon driver. And he, with a “Gee!” and two clicks of his tongue, set the two numb beasts in motion. Don Anacleto rubbed his hands and shifted in his seat with each lurch the wagon made, as if such lurches were the most enjoyable part of the journey about to begin. “This is magnificent!” exclaimed the good gentleman upon receiving a blow that would have brought tears of pain to a more impartial person. And after this, he would rub his hands again and cheerfully greet everyone who passed by the cart on the same course as him, and he said goodbye to the street sweepers and policemen, whom he pitied because they were perhaps the only sane people in the town who weren’t going to El Carmen that day. Once on the main road, he would keep peeking above the awning and looking around for something he didn’t like to find. “I know what you’re looking for, Señor Don Cleto,” said the carter on one of these occasions, approaching him with his goad under his arm, a piece of paper stuck at an angle to his lower lip, and between the fingers of his left hand, part of two quarter-dollar cigars with a knife he was holding in his right hand; “but this year too there are those who got up earlier than we did. ” “Friend,” responded Don Anacleto, “I don’t know how things are for me, for I never manage to be first in a year… Look, look over there on the slope of San Justo… One, two, five, seven. Hail Mary, most pure!” What Don Anacleto was counting were covered wagons that preceded his own. “But the strangest thing,” added this good gentleman, “is that there is no one who dares to say ‘I arrived first:’ even if he goes to the pilgrimage at dawn, he finds two dozen wagons already tired of resting there. But everything has its compensation: if I were to get ahead of the others, I would not be able to go enjoying, as I am now, contemplating the scene that the road presents. What a bustle! Phew!” There comes that gang of madmen galloping… Goodbye, gentlemen! Yes, give them a greyhound… Look at those four poor sailors, barefoot and with their oars on their shoulders: they’re going to fulfill the promise they made to the Virgin of Carmen during some storm. I like that faith. Those fools ahead of us, frolicking with the girls who accompany them, surely don’t have such faith… Pull over a little to the right, Antón, a carriage is coming, casting demons upon us… I’m so afraid of these diabolical machines! I think Don Geroncio’s family is inside… It’s the same one. I kiss your hand… I greet you, ladies… See you later! As if you were silent. I suspect they didn’t even see me… But the carriage passed like lightning!… It’s magnificent here today, by golly! It’s a shame it couldn’t be seen at a glance, with all the people traveling on the highway, the same number going by the shortcut to the _Dams_, and those on board across the bay… And that there are fools who dare to say that the pilgrimage to El Carmen has only a few years left! “Who says that, Don Cleto? ” “Pretend no one does, man: four puppets who are making a fuss about modern people. ” “But what do they believe that about the car?” “They say that after the railroad is built, the project for which is just now starting to be talked about, the pilgrimage to and from will be a breeze, and, consequently, it won’t be a joke and we’ll end up abandoning it. ” “And do you think, Señor Don Cleto, that this ferry will be built? ” “As it’s raining bacon now.” But even if, for a moment, I grant that the project is realized, and we see a string of carriages enter the waters of the bay, for they say the road must run through it, how is it possible that this infernal invention will ever supersede the oxcart among us for all that is convenient? “And so, Don Cleto, what kind of labyrinthine devil is this? They say it’s all iron here and all iron there, and that it rolls along the rails as if the devil were carrying it. ” “As I’m not competent in the matter, I can’t tell you what the railroad is in detail; but I do dare to assure you that this invention will soon become a providential punishment for human pride.” A wagon trip that took fifteen days to Madrid from Santander seemed tiresome to us, and it was soon replaced by accelerated galleys, which took a week and a half to travel the same distance. We rode in these carriages as if they were our own homes, for in them you slept, ate, changed your shirt, stayed in your slippers, got out, stretched your legs, and delighted in the contemplation of the landscapes you traveled through; and all this began to seem too little to us, and stagecoaches were invented that take three days to reach Madrid, putting the lives of the travelers in constant danger of death. It seemed incredible that one could go further in less time; that there was a vehicle faster than the stagecoaches, for just watching them devour distances on the road makes me dizzy, and the pride of man has wanted more and has invented the railroad, which travels with the speed of thought. “But does it go that far, Don Cleto? ” “Well, what I can tell you, from what my friend has told me.” Don Jorge Pedregales, who has seen a railway in Barcelona, says that if, while a train is moving, you drop an apple from the window of a carriage, before the apple hits the ground the train has traveled half a league. “Holy Mary! But is the window that high? ” “No, sir: the train goes so fast… Look! It’s as if if you stick your head out of the window, you get dizzy and can hardly breathe. ” “Good horses must be driving the carriages! ” “What horses, Bologna, all that racket is driven by steam!” “Ah, right! So the steam… ” “But the speed isn’t the most frightening thing: imagine, perhaps, the train comes up against a mountain. The natural thing would have been for it to skirt it little by little and very carefully so as not to fall off the cliff. No, sir; since this precaution takes time, it hits the mountain, and splat!” He passes it from one end to the other in a word, Jesus… –Most holy mercy of God! –I told you that was atrocious. Well then: I believe that in the railroad there is something of a threat to the omnipotence of God, who one day is going to make a resounding one, offended by so much temerity. –And that’s what they’re going to bring us to Santander? –That bringing will have its pros and cons; but bringing it is the intention. –And will that devil of a devil have any good in this land? Will it be of any use? –I’ll tell you: for the materiality of merchandise, the railroad may be useful in this country; but not for the population, who don’t get on a train three times a day… Bah! Well, of course! And this is in the case of urgent journeys; “Because as far as pleasure trips go, bathing, and the like, don’t deceive yourself, Antón, the oxcart will always say : ‘Here I am for in secula seculorum.’ ” “And how long do you think it will take to build the ferry in Santander, if it ever gets done? ” “Well, man, for now, to decide whether it’s going this way or that way, give yourself a couple of years; then another two to sort out the arguments and gossip, boundary demarcations, and other obvious difficulties… four years until the work begins. ” “And to finish it? ” “To finish it?… I don’t dare tell you; but if you find someone who will lend you half a million reales to be paid on that date, take him without hesitation… ” “And Cachorru!” “You’re fast asleep, damn it!” “Don’t rush them, we’ll arrive in time.” “The sun is getting warmer, and besides, I don’t like it when my cattle fall asleep . It’s true that the poor beasts are pulling at the dock all week long. ” “Well, that’s all the more reason not to rush them… Look, move to your right, another carriage is going to pass… and be careful not to run over anyone , because the main road is jammed with people.” And with this and other conversations, our acquaintances arrived at Peña Castillo, where they found a prelude to a pilgrimage in the famous Gómez tavern; and they continued walking, walking to the Inn of Cacicedo. There they stopped for a moment to comfort their stomachs with a sandwich and a drink from the provisions they had carried, and in one go they arrived at Revilla de Camargo, the site of the pilgrimage, three hours after leaving home, a time that could have been reduced by half if the rectification of the Burgos road through Muriedas, which was done years later, had been completed by then. Chapter 14. We will not speak of the appearance of the pilgrimage when Don Anacleto’s family entered it; nor of the mass that was said in the chapel of the Virgin; nor of the sermon that was preached from an open-air pulpit; nor of the _offered_ who arrived at the sanctuary, some barefoot, others on their knees, exhausted from fatigue and scorched by the sun; nor of the fact that at twelve o’clock in the morning our friends began to eat on the holy ground, in the scant shade projected by the cart; Let us, for the sake of brevity, dispense with all these details and examine the scene into which Don Anacleto and his deputies entered as first-rate figures at four in the afternoon. Imagine all the colors known in chemistry, all the portable musical instruments available to all kinds of amateurs and blind people by profession, all the sounds that can stun the human ear , all the smells of a tavern that can be inhaled without crying… and crying, all the jumps and contractions to which the human musculature is susceptible, all the characters that fit in a spark, all the sparks that fit in a group of fifteen thousand people of both sexes and of all ages and conditions, fifteen thousand people given over to carnival-like joy; imagine these trifles, plus a few hundred scrawny horses, pairs of oxen, country carts and carriages of various shapes; imagine, I repeat, all this; mix it all you want; beat it, shake it, and stir it at will; Immediately pour the resulting mixture “a la volley” onto a vast meadow interrupted in places by rocks and cliffs, and you will have a rough idea of the Carmen pilgrimage at the time I am referring to. Of the fifteen thousand souls who, as I have indicated, attended it, three-quarters came from Santander, which for this reason had its streets deserted and silent that day, and resembled more a funereal necropolis than what it normally was: a busy city, full of movement and life. The Carmen pilgrimage was then the focus of attention of all the inhabitants of this capital: those who traveled for pleasure or business… even sailors arranged their expeditions so that they could be undertaken after Carmen or finished before Carmen: the essential thing was to be in the capital on the famous day. I have never been able to understand this enthusiasm. La Montaña has almost as many pilgrimages as it has festivals; The worst place where the most insignificant of the first is held is much more picturesque and more comfortable than that of Carmen de Revilla de Camargo, and yet none has captured such popularity or so much sympathy throughout the province… A matter of taste, and let’s return to Don Anacleto, which is what matters most to us. This gentleman, after he had finished eating and drinking, and when he felt a little alert, either from the vapors of the old wine or from the impression caused by the effervescence of the pilgrimage, leaving the women in the care of his boy, who was already exhausted from running around the meadow, and promising them to return in half an hour, he went in search of his intimate friend and contemporary and almost his physical and moral image, Don Timoteo Morcajo, whom he had spotted from afar moments before. Well, sir, the two veteran comrades met, linked arms, loosened the loose knot of their ties, pushed their hats back, looked at each other with a very expressive little smile, and Don Anacleto said to Don Timoteo: “Friend, I’m terribly upset: this afternoon I’m going to raise hell. ” “Anacleto, don’t be rash, and consider that you have Escolástica two steps behind you. ” “Timoteo, on a day like today anyone is allowed a little slip… And don’t act like a saint, I’ve seen you in worse ones. ” “Granted; but… anyway, kid, count on me for whatever comes to mind. ” “Well, let’s go to that corner, because I believe the fine work is done there.” And with that, the two friends hurried over to a circle where they were dancing _lengthwise_ to the sound of two guitars and a flute. “Here it is, Timoteo… and with that gorgeous brunette dancing in front of us with a macarenito that really bothers me,” exclaimed Don Anacleto, stamping his feet with anxiety. “Look what you’re doing, Anacleto, there are some famous people at the dance… ” “Nothing, Timoteo, don’t tire yourself out… I’ll do it… and it’ll be right now; you’ll see how I’ll throw that brat out right away…” And as he said this, Don Anacleto took off his tuina, threw it over his back, tying the sleeves around his neck, and let his hat fall towards his right ear, in the crown of which stood an upright branch of Laurel took advantage of the opportunity when the dark-haired girl was turning, slipped under the arched arms of the young man who was accompanying her, and saying, “Pardon me, brother,” began to cheer like crazy, resignedly enduring two blows from the dislodged youth. Seeing this, Don Timoteo felt his mouth water; at the same time, his friend shouted, “Cheer up, boy!” and could contain himself no longer . He “threw out” the dancer next to Don Anacleto and, like him, launched himself into the midst of the fury of the commotion. And don’t laugh at the shenanigans of these two rancid comrades; two yards away from them were dancing others of their same age and with their same character, and further away, two young ladies from the most prestigious of Santander, and the same thing happened in every dance circle of the endless pilgrimage. This was customary then, and was respected as such. It doesn’t seem necessary to me to follow Don Anacleto and his friend through every twist and turn of the dance they launched into so furiously. Let’s let them indulge in this shenanigans freely, since they’ve managed to elude the vigilance of their respective families in committing it. When the two friends were satisfied with the dance, and more than satisfied, exhausted, they arranged their costumes as best they could, fanned themselves with their hats to cool their faces , which were glowing with so much heat, and separated. I don’t know what Don Timoteo did next; But I know for a fact that Don Anacleto went to join his family and accompanied them on their fiftieth tour of the meadow, and they bought scapulars and fruit, and ate them without enthusiasm, and yawned from stuffiness, headaches, and fatigue, which is, in essence, what one gets from pilgrimages, and they returned to witness the scenes of the whole day, which I ought not to detail here. Because four drunks here are shooting each other with their lanterns; two dozen young gentlemen, because they wear velvet caps with gold tassels on their heads and red wine stains on their shirts, strapless trousers, and frock coats over their shoulders, believe themselves irresistible rascals over there; a village priest, more or less fat, walks more or less straight; cherries are sold here, apples there, and codfish casseroles in this tavern; Let the seamstresses dance the mazourkas on one side and the young ladies eat tripe on the other; these are things that, in truth, simply mentioning them would be doing them the full favor they deserve. Much more worthy of consideration is the episode that made Don Anacleto and his family burst into laughter as they retreated to find the wagon to return home; an episode I am going to relate in all its details, not because I expect you to find it as funny as those gentlemen, but because to omit it would be tantamount to robbing the Carmen of that time of one of the finery with which the famous pilgrimage most honored itself. Among a group of villagers, perched on a table was a tall, thin, blond man, the tips of his long mustache drooping like a Chinese-style beard. This man was bald, in shirtsleeves, without a vest or tie, and was wearing light linen trousers loosely fastened at the waist. “Hey, boys,” he said, gesticulating like a madman, “the time has come when tremendous things are going to happen here. I, by the grace of him who breathes beneath seven states of earth and from whom come in a straight line all the polygamies of the preposition and the vicious circles of the spine and the fibula, Micifuz, Juan Callejo, and Sandal; I, I say, could leave you naked right now if I wanted to , just by saying a prayer that I know; but don’t tremble, I won’t do it lest it damage morale and all that pyrotechnic gibberish of brain-spoliation. I’ll content myself for today, you lazy bums and tomboys, with a few snide excesses that will leave you stupid and deformed from pure satisfaction and consistency.” To which the audience remained speechless like someone who sees visions, not so much because of the dizziness of the concepts, but because of the mouth. who spat at them; for that man was the astonishment of the mountain villagers, as well-known at the pilgrimages as their sanctuaries themselves. He attended them all, and no two of them appeared in the same way or like the rest of the people . He appeared on the most unusual road, now riding backward on a donkey, now on the back of a bull; now dressed as a naked man, now with three arms or two heads. He was equally well-known in Santander, where he was from and where he was constantly seen, either elegantly dressed and strolling with the most elegant men, or dancing in Cajo, in the usual way, with the village women of Peña Castillo. He was even childish in his tenacity in tricking the simple peasants who came to the capital; and so beneficial at the same time, that he often ended a joke by feeding the person he was tricked with, or clothing him, or helping him with money if needed. He retained his cheerful nature, impervious to adversity, until the last moment of his life, which ended very recently. This man, finally, whose memory I am pleased to evoke here, because I count on not offending him by doing so, for otherwise I would not evoke him, was Almiñaque. Astonished, I repeat, the villagers listened to the speech he gave them as an introduction to the wonders he intended to perform. “Here we have three dogs,” Almiñaque continued, taking them out of his trouser pocket , “and I am going to make the first person who comes along eat them by the scruff of their necks. ” At this point, a comb approached him, and he was thus part of the innocent public, like a Chinese. Almiñaque accepted him as if he were seeing him for the first time, made him climb up to his side, showed the audience one of the three dogs, placed it on the back of the newcomer’s neck, then pretended to squeeze it with his hand, and immediately withdrawing it, said to him: “Open your mouth.” And the man opened it, revealing a dog that he quickly ate. The crowd burst into a storm of admiration. “But how can this be a thousand devils?” said a poor village woman to a neighbor. “Well,” replied the villager, showing off, “there’s all that in the mengues that Almiñaque carries in an amphithythion. ” “And what are mengues? ” “Well, they’re like ujanos: some ujanos that are caught under the bushes on top of a mountain, at night, when there’s a good moon. ” And it seems that these ujanos have to be given two pounds of meat every day, or they’ll eat the one who has them, because it turns out that these ujanos are the evil enemies. ” “Jesus and the Lord help us! ” “With these ounces, you can do anything you want, except in front of the one who has a snake root; because it seems that they have no power over him. ” “So and so it is,” said the village woman, astonished, “that if that man wants a thousand ounces right now, it’s in his pocket right away. ” “I’ll tell you: what they say happens is that with the ounces, they blind others and make them see what isn’t there. And I’ll tell you in the meantime what happened in Vitoria to my son Roque, who, as you know, comes home from serving the king every week.” One day I was going to the comedy where a comedian was showing off these devilish tricks, and a companion said to him: “Roque, if you’re going to the comedy and want to see the whole thing in order, put this in your pocket.” And he goes and gives him a piece of paper. Roque goes and opens it, and finds a piece of snake grass tucked into the paper. Well, my friend, I love him, I don’t love him, put the piece of paper away and go to the comedy, which they say was full of princely lordship. And look, a rooster comes out walking, walking through the comedy, and people start saying that the rooster was carrying a beam in his mouth. “What do you mean, a beam!” my son says, very angry; “what the rooster is carrying in his beak is a straw.” Friend, when the actor hears this, send for my son, and say these words to him: “Melitar, you have a loan, and I will give you all the money you want to leave here.” And, my friend , after many twists and turns, they settled for two and a half reales and my boy returned to his barracks. So, does it seem to you that the What does that have to do with it? While these and other comments were being made among the simple spectators, Almiñaque continued to work wonders like those of the perojo. Of all of them I will only mention the last. He took a very large apple in his hands, held it up high and said: “Do you see this rabbit? ” “Well, it suddenly looks like an apple,” they murmured in the circle; “but, looking at it closely, it still gives off an air… ” “Do you see this rabbit, you idiots? ” “Yes!” they all answered in chorus, with the greatest faith, for the fascination that Almiñaque exercised over their souls was capable of forcing them to confess, if he persisted, that they walked on all fours. “Well then… but I see that some of you still have doubts. Hey, countryman!” added Almiñaque, addressing a fellow who was passing near the circle, as if by chance. “What is this that I have in my hand?” “A guinea pig,” replied the person addressed, continuing very seriously on his way. “You’ve heard. Well then: this rabbit is going to become a two-and-a-half-year-old calf, which I’m going to give to whoever helps me with the draw.” Several people immediately came forward. Almiñaque chose a young man as tall as a rake and said to him: “Lie down on the ground, face down. ” The lad obeyed. “Closer to the ground, closer: stick your nose deep in the grass: like this. Now bellow as loud as you can until the calf answers you… Come on, man!… Aha-ha!… Again… Louder!… Good. You all, look towards the East, which is over there, and raise your arms to the sky, because the calf is going to come from the West. Very well: we’ll stay like this for two minutes; I’ll give you the warning.” And when Almiñaque had the picture to his liking, and when the young man was howling loudly and sucking in dust, he slipped away on tiptoe and hid among the people of another nearby circle to laugh at the joke with his comrades. Chapter 15. And now it is absolutely essential for us to leave the pilgrimage, because Don Anacleto, still laughing at Almiñaque’s joke, has ordered the cart driver to yoke the oxen and has placed around the outside of the awning a few boughs of bambu, sure signs that he is preparing to march. Many other carts, equally decorated, have taken the lead and are moving, amidst a crowd of people on foot, towards Santander. An hour after our friend set out on the highway, night fell, which is why it is impossible for me to relate the details of the journey to you, nor to find a chronicler to do so, for the return of the pilgrimage to El Carmen, always lost in the darkness of night and beneath the even darker vaults of the awnings, not even the devil is capable of describing in all its details. I believe that only God knows with certainty what there is on the matter. From the noise that was heard when Don Anacleto returned, I suspect that there must have been great excitement among the pilgrims; and I know, because this was visible by the lights of the taverns, that the wagon stopped at Cacicedo, Peña Castillo, and Cajo, places where there were just as many pilgrimages. and I know, finally, that upon arriving in Santander our friend’s family dismounted, and that, giving one arm to his wife and the other to his daughter and ordering the boy to walk in front with a raised bouquet, they all entered the Alameda de Becedo humming a pasodoble, to which a hundred children and cigar-girls joined in the chorus, pushing past the people who had come to the promenade with the sole purpose of seeing the one returning from El Carmen. Chapter 16. For ten years Don Anacleto continued to attend this pilgrimage with the same enthusiasm as on the occasion on which I have presented it to the reader. But at the end of that time the section of railway from Santander to Los Corrales was inaugurated… and farewell to traditions! Against the opinion of my respectable friend, the people abandoned the oxcarts and accepted the pleasure trains; The Carmen meadow was filled with transhumant pilgrims, let’s say so, and they armed themselves in Boó, point where who leaves and takes the train to go to and from the pilgrimage, those tumultuous gatherings of people of all stripes, so fertile in drunkenness and brawls. The number of attendees at the famous festival, far from being less today than in the days when Don Anacleto honored it with his presence, is much greater; but typically it’s worth much less. The locomotive’s whistle has scared away the characteristic enthusiasm of the old pilgrims. There is dancing, eating, and drinking a lot, but in insipid disorder and almost by force. The old road through Cacicedo perished with the new one through Muriedas, and this, in turn, and the one to Las Presas and all the way to the bay, are practically deserted on the day of Carmen since people opted for the railroad. Let’s agree that there has been a bit of ingratitude toward the old ways on the part of the people of Santander, here where Don Anacleto can’t hear us. Who, since observing the great betrayal, as he calls this change of custom, swore two things that he is strictly fulfilling: never to return to the pilgrimage, and a mortal hatred of the railroad. Many of his friends and contemporaries, one of them Don Timoteo, have endured the setback with more resignation. It’s true that they hate the railroad as much as Don Anacleto; but, deluding themselves that it doesn’t exist, they still go by carriage to El Carmen to amuse themselves and to take baths at Las Caldas, even though the train passes by the establishment’s door. “I’m not in favor of such half measures,” Don Anacleto says furiously upon seeing them leave every year, “and God knows how much I miss the thermal baths for my rheumatism. But it’s all or nothing. I want the carriage intact, like my grandparents’; I want Las Caldas without a station and Las Carmen for Cacicedo.” Until this happens, don’t talk to me about leaving home, where I wait, staring face to face at that diabolical bustle of trains and telegraphs, for society to mend its ways again. And if I don’t see it, I will be consoled when I die by the hope that my grandchildren will see it, for almost as old as human pride is the infallible Spanish proverb that says, “At the end of a thousand years, the waters return to where they used to go.” THE WITCHES Chapter 17. To say that the landscape the theater represents in this painting is mountainous, is to say that it is beautiful, in the most poetic sense of the word. Of its details, we only care about knowing a group or “barriada” of eight or ten houses cut according to as many different patterns, but all of the peculiar character of the rural architecture of the country. Nor do we care about knowing the entire neighborhood. For the reader’s necessary orientation, it is sufficient to notice two of its houses: one with a portal, a wooden sunroom, and a wide porch, and another opposite, separated from the first by a small rustic square or field carpeted with fine grass, mallows, sedges, and pennyroyals. This house, which barely deserves the honor of a hut, only reveals the side or main facade corresponding to the small square; the other three are within a small garden protected by a high hedge of hawthorns, brambles, and elderberries. The treasures kept in this enclosure are a sickly, green vine on a single limb, two consumptive apple trees, and some “posarmos,” or tree cabbage, scattered throughout the garden, which barely measures half a wagonload of land. As we look at it, the vine has half a dozen black bunches; the apple trees are raw, and the “posarmos” are in full vigor; The door of the shack remains hermetically closed, and, grouped together near the clearest part of the hedge, there are up to five children looking into the garden, all barefoot and hairless, most with only one shoulder strap, and a few with unbroken breeches. The tallest has a notched back; the shortest is blond as the hair on a corncob; another is plump, with eyes as big as those of his father’s biggest ox; the fourth has an enormous white mole in the middle of his neck, and the fifth has thick eyebrows and a wandering eye. “Mother of God!” exclaims the redhead, “how big that one is!” that hangs white to the ground! “No, the other one on this side,” objects the one with the mole, “may weigh three quarters.” At all this, the fat guy, who is in the last row, stands on tiptoe and, licking his snout, says with relish: “And they must be very ripe… I’m glad, how the grapes turn black! They’ll taste like pure honey!” “Well, they taste like fish,” observes the redhead. “Yes, like fish… like they didn’t taste like fish!” replies the big guy. “Well,” says the one with the mole, “I wouldn’t eat them.” “As for that, well, I don’t either,” adds the redhead; “but maybe it is on the other hand, for Andrés de la Junquera was quite sure the other day when he jumped into the orchard and picked a cluster of clusters. ” “But on the contrary!” observes the one with the mark, “we are also very fair-skinned, why should those clusters taste like fish to us? ” “Because the mistress is a witch,” answers the fat man with a certain solemnity. “And since she is a witch,” adds the redhead, “she has the wanings, and having the wanings, everything that is hers tastes of sulfur, and tasting of sulfur, all the Christians who eat it burst from contact. ” “And it also seems that those who are looked down upon by witches are also very much in favor,” says the one with the mole. “That’s what Uncle Juan Bardales’s daughter died of the other day,” the redhead replies. “And the witch went and found her down there, next to the priest’s house, and she went and didn’t give the witch a good day, and the witch went and looked at her like this, like this, like this… no, even more enraged… like this, like this, like this; and she went and the other one got a tertian fever; so, sons of God, the day before yesterday they destroyed her. ” “And the widow’s guy also got angry because the witch touched him with the stick… ” “And he says that the other night she appeared high on top of the bell tower, after she had sucked the oil from the lamp on the main altar, and when the bell-ringer went to ring the dawn he saw her there holding onto the broom handle; and wanting to scare her, he made the sign of the cross, saying at the same time, “Jesus!” and the witch turned into a tawny owl and jumped into the air and fled to the mountain. They say that at that time Cerneula returned from dancing with the evil enemy. “So and in such a way that as soon as she makes the sign of the cross she goes away? ” “Or because she has garlic and wild gooseberries around her neck, like I do,” says the redhead, “and that’s why she hasn’t bothered me like she has my mother, who wakes up every morning with her body all bruised from the witch’s biting her in the night. ” “Well, your sister,” replies the fatso, turning to the redhead, ” the wild gooseberries haven’t helped her, because the witch has sucked her dry. ” “That was damning, when we didn’t know the truth; But since then, the ruin hasn’t gone any further. “And if the witches don’t see you,” asks the cross-eyed man, silent until now, although an attentive observer of everything his comrades do and say, “can’t they harm you?” ” I don’t think so,” replies the blond man. “Well, then, now that she’s not at home, we might as well jump over the garden. ” “That’s what I say too.” “Well, jump over it, since you have a little something in any case,” suggests the big guy. “Stop them!… I don’t dare do all that. ” “God has come!” exclaims the fat man at the same time, sticking his big eyes through the fence, “it seems as if the donkeys are telling you to pull them out.” “Come on, man, go in through a garden…” “Contrary them, don’t keep your cubicle…” says the blond man, his legs already twitching. “Watch out, that big jerk over there is amazing!” “Does that one taste like fish, you?” “About that,” observes the blond man, one foot already in the hedge, “we could catch him, and then you’d pick a grape, right? And then you’d pick it out, saying ‘Jesus’; and then you’d pick another grape, right? And you’d pick it out and say ‘Jesus’; and then you’d pick another grape and say ‘Jesus’, and you’d pick it out; and if they didn’t taste like fish, you’d pick them all, saying ‘Jesus’. Isn’t that right? As you can see, the blond man needed very little to decide to enter the garden; And since his comrades also knew him perfectly well, it was not difficult for them to extricate him from his last scruples. “But, oh well!” the mischievous boy observed, looking eagerly at the opposite door and scratching his head with both hands. “If my mother guides me, it will be worse than if the witch herself caught me. ” His friends also managed to dispel this apprehension by promising him scrupulous vigilance. They immediately helped him to rise over the hedge, and from that height, not without crossing himself and kissing the garlic and jet amulet he wore around his neck, he dropped into the orchard. “Don’t hurry me now, eh?” he said from within. “Don’t worry. ” “Is someone coming? ” “Someone isn’t coming. Don’t hurry because of that.” Barely five minutes of anxious excitement passed for those outside, and after this time, a bunch the size of a leveret appeared in the air and on the hedge and fell at the feet of the four boys. “Not to pip, eh?” said the one inside. “We don’t pip, no,” replied those outside, one gathering the bunch and the others the scattered grapes. They took them between their fingers, as if they were burning, and between spitting and incantations, they brought them to their lips, barely tasting their provocative liquor. “Well, it doesn’t taste like fish to me,” one ventured to say, very quietly. “Nor to me,” added another. “Don’t get too carried away with it, perhaps,” warned the fat boy, who didn’t dare suck on a bad grape. Another bunch fell from the orchard . “No pipilla, eh?” the one inside repeated. “We don’t pipilla, right?… Worth it, what a sneaky man!” And while the redhead was struggling on the vine with the third bunch and his comrades were tasting and spitting out the grapes from the other two, the door of the shack opened and a little old woman appeared in the opening, bent over a pole, holding a jug, her trunk covered with a worn brown serge skirt, and revealing through the upper opening a gaunt little face, composed of a nose and a chin that met over the mouth, allowing only the two ends to be seen, two holes through which a faint ray of light barely flickered , and a scant third of wrinkled parchment to cover it. The old woman relocked the shaky gate she had just opened to leave with a rusty key and hobbled toward the side of the square where the children were, to find the alleyway that bordered on that end. The children saw her, made the sign of the cross, laid the bunches on the ground, and disappeared like a flock of doves before the kite—it was all at once. At the same time, the red-footed snipe appeared over the hedge with the third bunch in its hands. I don’t know if the old woman saw him; but he saw the old woman so clearly, and such horror seized his mind that, wavering between the idea of returning to the orchard or jumping to the other side, his feet became entangled in the brambles, he lost his balance, and fell beside the two abandoned bunches and at the old woman’s feet, hurting his nose on a muzzle. The woman stopped, startled, seeing him in such a state and, trying to help him up, said, “My son,” she said affectionately, “you could have killed yourself… And all for what?” she added, noticing the bunches of grapes, “to pick some grapes in a hurry that I would have given you at the door if you had asked me. ” “Jesus! Jesus! Jesus!” cried the red-haired boy three times, noticing simultaneously the presence of the old woman and the blood that was running from his nose. “Oh, angel of God, this is worthless,” added the poor woman, trying to reassure him and after convincing herself that the blood came from a slight scratch. “Mother, my mother! Jesus of my loins!” cried the boy with the greatest grief. “But, innocent, what you have is nothing!” “If it isn’t for that… it’s because… it’s because I’m afraid!” And the poor wretch was teething. “It’s true… I had forgotten,” the old woman murmured sadly. And taking back her staff and jug, she continued on her way slowly, short and uncertain steps, such as human life takes under the weight of age and half a yard from the grave. She was about to turn the corner of the square to enter the alley when a disheveled woman, wearing an ill-fitting petticoat , came out of the doorway, responding to the cries of the battered boy. She saw the blood bathing his face, noticed the old woman, and without further investigation, roaring like a panther, grabbed a muzzle as big as her head and threw herself at the poor woman, who, although she caught him with a rebound and on her back, would have fallen breast-first onto the stones had not the priest, who providentially happened to cross her path as he continued on his daily and customary walk, caught her in his arms. The discreet priest took in the whole scene in a single glance, and almost with tears in his eyes, he said in a moved but solemn voice to the woman who had thrown the stone, while still holding the old woman: “Teresa, that’s not what God intended!” The presence of the priest greatly restrained Teresa, without which God knows what she would have done; but not so much that it prevented her from responding angrily : “What God doesn’t intend is for the devil to roam loose on earth, destroying honorable families. ” And lifting the boy from the ground , “Come here , my son,” he said in a loving voice. But he hadn’t reached the gateway with him when, changing his tone and giving him half a slap on each buttock, he began to shout: “You’re going to die like a goat, you sycophant! Why are you meddling in anyone’s business? Why did you try to tempt the patience of that evil enemy of woman? Didn’t you know what awaited you from her?” These last words were lost inside the doorway, which Teresa closed with a bang. Meanwhile, the poor old woman was losing consciousness in the arms of the priest, who lavished the greatest attention on her; but as soon as she regained consciousness, she persisted in continuing on her way, without even uttering a complaint against her neighbor’s behavior. The priest, after watching her walk for a while, hurried to the doorway and entered Teresa’s yard. Teresa was already in the wide porch of her house washing the redhead’s face, and next to them was a young woman of about twenty, pale as wax, wrapped in a yellow baize petticoat and curled up on the ground. Her eyes, stiff and dispirited, seemed oblivious to what was before them. “Cursed be she forever, amen, for she insisted on destroying my house and is already succeeding!” Teresa cried as she staunched her son’s bleeding. And at each of these exclamations the lad crossed himself, and the pale young woman lowered her eyes and scratched the ground with a trembling finger as pale as the earth it touched. Thus the scene continued for a short time, and Teresa’s fury seemed to have subsided when, seeing that her son, having scratched his wound, was bleeding again, she cried out more angrily than ever, just as the priest entered the yard: “But, Lord, is there no justice on earth anymore?” “Not on earth, Teresa,” replied the priest; “in heaven there is, and that is what you must fear, because it never goes wrong or is ever wrong. ” “That is: after horns, pardon me, penance… Oh, Lord Priest! To be stoned is not the same as to be happy.” “There is no real misfortune, Teresa, when everything is borne with resignation… Do you know what you just did?” “Yes, sir; and also what I didn’t do, because some angel put you in front of her. ” “You said it, Teresa: some angel protected that poor old woman; then you weren’t acting right when you… ” “What I know, Don Prefect, is that I’m dying, and that my whole lineage is perishing because of the evil schemes of that old woman. ” “Shut up, shut up, and don’t slander someone you don’t even know. ” “I don’t know Miruella, Father! ” “No, I assure you. ” “Don’t you see this unfortunate daughter I have here, with one foot in the grave? Don’t you see this creature of God half-stunned from a a blow that came to her without knowing from where or where not?… Don’t you know that my husband, the most good man in the whole world, and the most abject farmer, is today a drunkard who is drinking his children’s bread?… Don’t you know that a herd of cattle that I used to have?… “Listen to me, Teresa… But first, you, Juana, and you, Andrés, go inside the house for a moment, because we are going to discuss a very important matter.” Teresa’s two aforementioned children obeyed meekly; and with difficulty the young woman, and Andrés, whining, went into the house, immediately closing the door. Alone in the doorway, the priest and Teresa, the former sat down on the bench and thus began his conversation with the latter: “Since you are the only reasonable person in your house, although not the head by law, I must deal with you in the important matter that brings me here now, because your husband… Where is your husband, Teresa? ” “In the tavern, sir.” –As always… So, let’s get down to brass tacks, and get down to brass tacks. On what basis do you believe that this poor woman is capable of causing you all the misfortunes you complain of? –That she’s a witch… a witch! Believe it for… –Corriente. And what proof do you have that she’s a witch? –Another thing! The whole town knows it, sir, as do you yourself. –Little by little: I not only don’t know, but I deny that she is; and as for the town, they may be mistaken like you. What I want to know are your particular motives for treating that woman the way you treated her recently. –Most Holy Mary!… If I were to repay you with all the mischief that this hen brings against me… May the mystery remain unspeakable! “Well, look, Teresa: it’s almost a duty of conscience for me to extricate you from those fatal worries: so don’t hide a single one of your reasons from me. ” “Hoping for the worst, tell me, Señor Don Prefeuto, what is it about my Juana that’s wasting away at me like a sigh? ” “An illness like any other.” “And then, why is it that as soon as Miruella remembers her, she begins to tremble so violently, and whimper so loudly that she becomes extremely ill? ” “Pure coincidence; and quite natural if you insist on making her believe that this woman is the cause of all her ills.” “And if that were true, why did Miruella, speaking about my daughter with my niece Anestasia, say to her the other day: ‘They insist on curing Juana of the _palotilla_, and that’s not the medicine that suits her.'” That is to say, Señor Don Prefect, that Miruella knows about Juana’s illness, and knows the remedy, and is satisfied to see her die, because she neither wants to reveal the illness nor say, “This is the remedy.” “What that means, Teresa, is that Aunt Bernarda has more sense than you, and knows that it is barbaric to dislocate the bones of young girls because they are pale and emaciated, and she sees clearly that they cannot recover in this way. ” “Secondly, and pardon me, Juana was a plump girl seven months ago, as you will remember, right down to the very moment she went to the mill one afternoon, because that is what she wanted, for in truth there was not much need of it that day, because we still had flour for a week. Well, sir, going to the mill, we were at home for seven and a half days, waiting and waiting, and my Juana did not return.” After a while, I went to ask about her myself, and the miller told me that Juana had n’t been seen anywhere . I went home like a Magalene, and I found her right here whimpering and hiding her skirt. I asked her where she’d been, and she answered that she’d been at the mill, and that she was returning without grinding because the dam was dry. I told him, Don Prefect, that I myself saw the mill in disarray, because it had rained so much. In addition, she was missing her sack of corn, and she couldn’t tell me where she’d left it, nor was I ever able to find out. With these and other questions, I asked around, and I found out that the girl was seen leaving Miruella’s house that very morning. Add to all this, and forgive me, that since that day Juana has not cleaned the ruin, and tell me if it is not The thing is that I renounce that witch and believe, as the Gospels say, that the evil enemy is in her body, and that she led me astray and stunned her daughter by going to the mill, in order to finish her off later. Thoughtful, he left this story to the kind Don Perfecto for a few moments; but as it wasn’t because of Aunt Bernarda’s sorceries, in which he was beginning to believe, far from it, he discreetly concealed his curiosity and limited himself to answering Teresa: “All that only proves that the day your daughter fell ill she went into Miruella’s house, assuming that this news is true. ” “And the cow that died of tongue-tiedness from that woman poking it with the stick when she found it in the alley? ” “That woman poked your cow with the stick so that it wouldn’t run over it in the alley, precisely on the very day that your cow, for reasons we don’t know, fell ill and died.” “And why, when he speaks of my man’s drunkenness, does he say that I shall find myself without a blanket to put on the bed, because hell will take it from me if the devil doesn’t take it first, and everything is getting worse, because I’ve seen people leave my house, today for the innkeeper and tomorrow for the debt, even the boiler in the kitchen, after having consumed the pile of sheets that I had woven and sewn with these hands, besides having to sell all my landed property in two years? Hasn’t hell been twice this week to extort a pledge from me because a new debt wasn’t paid, because I didn’t have a single penny in my house, nor where to get it? And isn’t all this a curse from that witch, that’s falling on me? ” “Do you think I’m a witch?” “Jesus, Father!” “Well, look, I’ve predicted the same misfortunes as Aunt Bernarda; and anyone who wishes you well and has half a brain will make the same prediction, because your husband’s behavior can’t possibly have any other result. ” “Yes, yes; what’s important to you is also worth explaining… And the blow my Andrés just received because the witch saw him come out of her garden? ” “If, doing what God and good manners command, Andrés hadn’t entered someone else’s yard, he wouldn’t have broken his head when he came out with the stolen fruit. ” “And these bites”—Teresa discovered an arm covered in bruises— whose are they but that damned witch’s while I was sleeping?” “Those you call bites are bruises, Teresa, legitimate children of the beating your husband gave you the day before yesterday. ” –And even if all that were true, will you deny that on Sunday you forgot to close the missal at the end of Mass? –That’s indeed what happened to me; but so what? –That’s why the witch remained rooted to her knees in the church, and she wouldn’t have left if the bell-ringer hadn’t come to ring the next day , and saw the missal like that and closed it. –And what does the open missal have to do with all that nonsense? –That’s what! Don’t you know that witches, when they go to Mass, can’t leave the church if the missal is left open? The blessed priest couldn’t contain his laughter upon hearing such nonsense, and he wasn’t unaware that it was a version accepted on the Mountain as an article of faith. “In the present case,” said Don Perfecto, becoming more formal once more, ” Aunt Bernarda’s remaining in church when her neighbors leave means nothing more than that she stays to pray while you perhaps go and murmur and curse her; and if you frequented church as much as that _witch_, you would see her, as I have seen her, often remain there for hours on end without me forgetting to close my missal… And now I tell you that it is an offense to God to believe such superstitions, and even more so in connection with certain people. ” “They have also seen her hide under the kitchen hearth the lard pot that she gives to Cerneula… ” “What they have undoubtedly seen her hide are even the crumbs of breadcrumbs that she collects as alms, so that they will not be stolen by those who, under the title of witch, believe themselves entitled to trample on her every whim.” days the poor home… Here the conversation ended when the gate opened with a bang and a man fell face first into the yard. “May the Lord grant me patience!” Teresa exclaimed, clasping her hands upon recognizing her husband. Don Perfecto’s first impulse was to run and help the fallen man; but he didn’t need her help, because as soon as he touched the ground, he got back to his feet, although not without losing his balance more than twice . Already on his feet, with his hair falling over his eyes, his hat pulled down on the back of his head, his lips black, his trousers loosely fastened at the waist, his jacket half-dressed, his arms carelessly hanging loose, and his shirtfront torn and wine-stained, he began to look around him with that vagueness of vision typical of drunkards. The priest and Teresa watched him in silence. “Sssufffrrrsss… sschsis,” the drunkard muttered, focusing more obstinately on Don Perfecto. “A carranclan in my house? Man, man, what are you telling me?… So in my house… Sssbloody is going to runrrree here!” And he came closer to the doorway. “God enlighten you, Gorio,” the priest said to him gently. The drunkard then focused more intently on Don Perfecto; he immediately rubbed his eyes, and lazily knocking his swaying hat off his crown with a backward motion, “Forgive me, Mr. d…ddeacon,” he stammered; “I thought you were… God help me, what a Juriacán is blowing from this side!” “But, man, it’s been a magnificent afternoon!” “Is that what you say, Mr. a…colyte?” Mosolina no… I got her with… brrrrrumbssh!… with Rioja… A man like me doesn’t spend less… Hey, Teresona, Tarascan, give me… aachhhis! give me… the… “What is it you want, man of God?” Teresa responded, almost in tears. “I want the… What a beating you’re going to get this afternoon! When I tell you that you’re going to lick your lips with pleasure… My goodness, Don Priest, when I throw my hand out to save Teresona’s part, and give her a couple of morras to my liking, come on, I won’t change places with…” “Well, that’s very badly done, Gorio, and you have to answer to God for it. ” “God?… God… father… sssdeacon? You’ll see who God is right now.” “Who is God, child?” I answer: the most… most…” “Oh my God!… And now that I remember, what are you doing in my house with that silk nightgown and that futifraca?… Do I owe you anything?… Let’s see, do I owe you anything? ” “You owe me nothing, Gorio. ” “No andromina, man, no pity, do I owe you anything?… Because if I owe you something, I’m too clever to pay it right now… So ask for that little beak, handsome. ” Saying this, Gorio put his right hand in his waistcoat pocket and took out, among cigar ends, crumpled papers and pieces of corn husk, up to two and a half reales in copper coins. “Look to you,” he said to Teresa, “if I’m industrious and greedy… since I didn’t have anything to drink this week, I sold today to the rascal Regatón the heifer we have left, and he gave me 8… 8… 8… rials as a deposit.” “Jesus help me!” Teresa cried upon hearing this. “Do you hear me, Don Prefect? It’s the only thing we had left! ” “Not that, you come from my entrails,” the drunkard replied with a horrible grimace that he tried to pass for a smile. “And this little body, charmer? Isn’t there anything left for your sustenance and happiness? And if there’s any handsome fellow who denies it, let him come forward… naaa, come on, let him come forward… Do you deny it, Father… Priface?… Shut up! Will those two fools come and deny it?” As he said this, Gorio pointed to two men who had just entered the yard. “Teresa turned pale when she saw them.” The priest raised his eyes to heaven, barely murmuring: “Unfortunate family! ” “Take it!” said the drunkard, “if it isn’t the _sacamantas_.” This is the name given to the council bailiff in many rural mountain villages , and he deserved the nickname more than ever. He happened to be carrying a nightgown over his shoulder and a cauldron in each hand. The man accompanying him was the local mayor; he had a horn inkwell hanging from a buttonhole in his jacket and a slip of paper in his hand. “You know what I’m here for, Teresa,” he said upon reaching the doorway. “Good afternoon, Father… God kill you, drunkard,” he added, facing the aforementioned men respectively. “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” said the constable. “May he protect you,” replied Don Perfecto. “And what brings you here? ” “Nothing much, Don Perfecto,” replied the local mayor. “We’ve been to Teresa twice before to ask for a share, and since she hasn’t given us anything, and the third time’s the charm, I’m going back today with the doorman so he can take the pledge, as a burden to those he already has on him, if you don’t give me any money. ” “And what is this share?” asked the priest. “Well, the one with the bell.” “The one with the bell! ” “Exactly. The one with the bell that was made last year, and that still has n’t been paid. ” “But, man, wasn’t a tax collected six months ago to pay for that blessed bell? ” “Yes, sir; but it seems that the secretary did the accounts wrong then, and the money collected from the first distribution wasn’t enough, and that’s why a new one was made. ” “Well! So it wasn’t enough? Just see how far behind the secretary is with his accounts!” Don Perfecto observed with a certain sarcasm. “And look,” said the distressed Teresa; “because I haven’t wanted to… because I haven’t been able to pay that second distribution, they’ve come to take a pledge from me… ” “And I’ll take it from you!… like these ones you see here,” the pedanía emphasized with an air of importance. “Damned bell!” Teresa exclaimed, distressed. At this point, Gorio, who had been leaning against the bench, began to sing in a shrill, hoarse voice: ” The little bells ring in the morning; they ring the little bells, they ring at dawn. ” “And how much do you have to pay, Teresa?” asked Don Perfecto. “A fortune, sir. ” “Good heavens, you little brat!” growled the clerk, unfolding the slip of paper. “You see, priest… ‘Gregorio Pajares… four and a half reales…’ So tell me if that’s worth…” “Yes: for someone who doesn’t have bread to eat, it’s as if it were a thousand duros,” responded Teresa, drowning in tears. “With all the money that guy kills in the tavern,” added the bailiff, “there was enough to eat rice pudding all year.” “If there were no rogues in the world,” Teresa replied with some meaning , “decent men wouldn’t become drunkards like my husband… And anyway, I don’t have the money to pay you today; so, you can go wherever you want…” Meanwhile, the priest, his back to everyone in the doorway, was feeling his pockets with both hands with feverish impatience. “By the life of the eight of clubs!” he muttered. “It only costs twenty-six centavos…” Then, as if an idea had crossed his mind, he went up to Gorio, shook him on the shoulder, and said, “Hey, Gorio,” he said, “can you lend me twelve centavos? ” “So we can drink together?” the drunk asked in turn. “Excellent,” replied the priest, hoping to grant Gorio’s wish. “Well, that’s not what I’m lending for: what I do is play them at brisca, three games made up… mano a mano. ” “I can’t play now; but I promise to pay you back for them tomorrow… twenty-four. ” “The settlement suits me… and there goes that interest.” The drunk emptied his pocket and into Don Perfecto’s hands. At the same time, urged by the pedanía, the unfortunate Teresa said: “I have no other pledge to give but the bedclothes: everything else they ‘ve been taking between the jostice and the tavern. ” “Then here’s the bedclothes,” said the bailiff. “My God! Can you hear, Father, how Miruella’s curse comes true? ” “Who said Miruella?” interrupted Gorio. “It won’t come true this time,” exclaimed Don Perfecto joyfully. “There they go,” he added, putting the coins in the pedanía’s hands, “the four and a half reales of this unfortunate woman.” And God grant that this new exaction be as legitimate as the tears it costs. Teresa was drowning in hers; Gorio looked at the scene with an idiotic air, and the pedanía, while he unscrewed the inkwell and put a _P_ in front of Gregorio’s name on the list, replied to Don Perfecto’s indirect comment: “Well, by my life, Father, the bell was not for the tower of my house; others get more out of it than I do, poor thing. ” “Well, look, son,” Don Perfecto responded sarcastically, “if you ‘re talking about the crack because of me, please take it as a matter of fact that I didn’t order the bell to be made, nor would I have put it in the church if I had foreseen what is happening, because God doesn’t like bells in his house that ring as much as that one… So go in peace, since you’ve been paid.” “Who said Miruella here?” Gorio insisted. “Miruella, Miruella… Sir, what did I have to say about Miruella?” “As for Miruella, Father,” added the parish priest as he was preparing to leave, “the doorkeeper and I found her unconscious next to the grocery store, and out of charity we took her home when we came here. I believe she’s going to give what’s hers to the devil here. So, right next to God. ” And the parish priest and the constable left. “Aha! That’s it!” Gorio stammered, leaning back against the bench again. Teresa remained as if petrified upon hearing the news. Don Perfecto, forgetting everything around him and thinking only that his presence would be necessary at the side of the dying woman, if it was true that Miruella was in such a state, hurriedly left the doorway; But he hadn’t taken three steps when Teresa stopped him, and between anxiety and distress, she asked him: “And tell me, Father, what has Miruella gotten into this state of mind? ” “What? Perhaps from some kind of blow,” Don Perfecto responded with obvious intent, breaking away from Teresa and hastily leaving the yard. “God forbid!” exclaimed the distressed woman, covering her face with her hands, as if she wanted to escape some remorse. When she then raised her head and opened her eyes, she saw her husband beginning to snore, stretched out like a pig on the bench. At the same time, the gaunt figure of her daughter appeared at the door of the house, no doubt growing tired of waiting inside. “God has come!” cried the poor mother, raising her eyes to heaven, “send me a little strength, because I can’t bear this burden anymore!” Chapter 18. The stone thrown in the back by Aunt Bernarda, or if you prefer, Miruella, or the Witch, if you prefer, requires an explanation that, if not justification, may in part excuse Teresa’s attack. I owe this reparation to Gorio’s wife in all fairness, since the preceding account alone does not provide the necessary amount of reasons in favor of her conduct. That there are witches is believed by all the villagers, and by many who are not, both mountaineers and non-mountaineers. To what extent my countrymen believe in them and fear them, and what mountain witches are like, is what we shall first see. The first fact from which a witch’s reputation arises has never been known. I am inclined to believe that this reputation comes from her own type, because I have observed that all the women I have known and know who are called witches in this country are cut from the same cloth . They all resemble Miruella, and like her, they have lived or live alone, generally without a known family or clearly ascertained origin. The Witch of the Mountain is not the _sorceress_, nor the _enchantress_, nor the _diviner_: these three phenomena are also believed in, but they are not hated; on the contrary, they are respected and consulted, because although they are also _familiars_ of the devil, their arts are often beneficial : they restore health to the sick, discover hidden treasures and reveal the whereabouts of a stray cow or a stolen pocket. The witch causes nothing but trouble: she sucks the blood of young girls, bites those she hates at night, casts the evil eye on children, harms pregnant women, stirs up fires, and causes thunderstorms. It withers the crops and ignites civil war in families. That she rides a broom through the air to the Sabbaths on Saturdays at midnight is the accepted legend for all witches. The Witch of the Mountain has her meeting point in Cernégula, a town in the province of Burgos. There, all the congregated gather around a hawthorn bush, under the presidency of the devil in the form of a goat. The vehicle she uses for the journey is also a broom; the mysterious force that propels her is composed of two elements: an ointment, as black as pitch, which she keeps under the flagstones of the kitchen hearth and applies to her flesh, and some words she says after applying the ointment. The recipe for this is the witch’s infernal secret; the words she utters are the following: “Without God and without Saint Mary, up the chimney!” And she takes off like a rocket into the air. The Cernégula congress boils down to a lot of dancing around the hawthorn bush, some amorous excesses on the part of the president, which, by the way, do not prove him to be a person of taste, and, above all, to the exposition of needs, an account and explanation of events, and consultations of the conclave with the cuckolded master and lord. This witch recounts the misdeeds she has committed during the week; another asks how she will manage to finish off this fortune or that health in a few days; another declares that the family here or there is enjoying scandalous happiness and well-being, and that, in her opinion, some harm must come to them , etc., etc., etc. All of which the devil immediately provides for, in some cases giving advice, in others casting the curse that sparks fire; providing this witch with certain powders for Petra, Antonia, or Joaquina to take, with which death is assured within a few hours; indicating to another the need for neighbor X or Z to suck a pair of cattle, or cause his wife to give birth; and, finally, enlightening and assisting with all kinds of lights and material means the large congress, for the greater honor of the devil and the despair of the people. These soirées last from midnight until the first glimmer of dawn appears on the highest peaks. The common people accepting this version as an article of faith, as soon as fame labels a woman a witch, they are already on their guard against her. “No one passes by her house at night; nothing that belongs to her is touched; she is given the best place everywhere, and as soon as she turns her back, the sign of the cross is made on her. In the street she is greeted from half a league away, and pregnant women flee from her presence as from the plague.” Those who are already mothers keep their children out of sight so that she does not cast the evil eye on them. If a farmer’s cattle are let loose in the stable one night and are gored, it is because a witch has gotten in among the cattle, so the next day he fills the mangers with painted crosses. If a dog howls near the cemetery, it is the witch calling a certain person from the neighborhood to the grave; if an owl flies around the bell tower, it is the witch about to suck the oil from the lamp or to cast some curse on the town. In a word, everything sad, everything unfortunate, everything calamitous that happens in a witch’s jurisdiction is attributed by the common people to her evil arts. It so happens that the so-called witches are women of the devil’s very nature, that is to say, they are entanglers, gossips, drunkards, and something else, in which case they exploit the foolish credulity of their neighbors to the benefit of their evil instincts ; or they are like any other person, and end up being complete demons, harassed, mocked, and humiliated by popular fanaticism; or they are, finally, virtuous and honorable women to the fullest extent, and then the unfortunate ones live as martyrs of the most stupid persecution. Of the three groups, I have known witches in the Mountain. “La Miruella belonged to the latter. She had come to the town under the auspices of an old childless widow, who, when she died, left her the little house and the orchard. She was Miruella, so christened when she arrived in the village for her small stature and penchant for dressing in black, more discreet than the common people around her, and this was her downfall. Her astute sayings and thoughtful opinions left the villagers speechless; and since she was also fond of privacy, or at least an enemy of gossip, circles, and taverns, it was rumored that she had a pact with the devil. Miruella noticed, when her first wrinkles appeared and when she lost her last tooth, that the fame of her witchcraft was beginning to spread. In this way, she saw her entire long old age passed amidst the horror and repugnance of her neighbors. During all this time, she was not even given the pleasure of doing a good deed, because once her origins were known, everyone refused her. Once her house began to burn, and no charitable hand was available to help her put it out. She was the true pariah, denied hospitality, even salt and fire. She was never pitied, for all the misfortunes her neighbors suffered were attributed to her, and if she wasn’t beaten every day, it wasn’t out of repugnance to the act itself, but out of fear of the revenge of the beaten woman, who might not even die from the consequences. Teresa, who, besides being the most unfortunate neighbor in the neighborhood, was also the most prone to superstition, as well as living closest to the witch, was consequently the one who believed herself most persecuted and most punished by her. She never forgot her for a single instant, and throughout her life, the hatred she professed for her was comparable only to the horror she felt for her. Hence his conviction, when he threw the stone at her when he believed she had also caused the red-haired boy’s injury, that by killing the witch, he was freeing his family from perdition and a calamity for the town. There was only one heart in him that was not insensitive to the torments Miruella suffered; one hand that would not close to her; one tongue that would not curse her: the heart, hand, and tongue of the priest. This saintly man never tired of consoling and helping, as much as he could, Aunt Bernarda’s bitter misfortune. Don Perfecto was not one of those ideal priests often seen in the theater and in the pictures of the cuarto deliveries, with their eyes turned heavenward and their arms crossed, speaking in sonnets and followed by a swarm of children to whom they teach doctrine and give away chestnuts: he was a much more earthly type, both in figure and style, without being any less virtuous for that. He preached the Gospel of the day every holiday, and if his eloquence was not a silver tongue, in the effects of his talks he could bet them on the most inspired, because he knew, as well as his own, even the slightest weakness of his parishioners, and always struck them to the quick. Giving the poor what he had left over and living with the most indispensable seemed to him a social duty, let alone a duty of conscience for a priest; to sacrifice even his life for that of his neighbor, the most natural thing in the world, and to win a soul from the devil for God, the height of his ambitions. For the rest, he liked to talk from time to time with his parishioners about the hazards of their harvest; to hear them discuss similar matters; to correct more than four blunders, and even to get a little angry with the most unruly. In return, everyone liked him well; and yet they never found him in the tavern, nor wandering around the fairs or markets in the vicinity. Since his long experience and natural insight had not hidden the implacable war that was being waged against Miruella, with the town believing her to be a witch with the greatest good faith, at every step he was preaching against this and other similar preoccupations, so often leading to excesses that were impossible to remedy and had incalculable consequences. He did not like being called a busybody, and therefore preferred this system of indirect admonition to attacking head-on the object of his excitement, which was well known to him; he hoped that events would would provide a clear excuse for adopting the second method, which he deemed more effective than the first, and that is why we have seen him enter Teresa’s house so resolutely, after having witnessed her brutal attack on the unfortunate old woman. What he said to her during the conversation he had with her, recorded above, was merely the introduction to what he intended to say to her later; but having heard the news the parishioner had given him, he believed it his duty to attend to the most urgent matter; and in his opinion, nothing more rightfully claimed his presence than a parishioner in danger of death. When Miruella, having overcome the initial effects of the stone, insisted on continuing on her way, the unfortunate woman did not fully calculate the full consequences of the blow. Thus it was that, a few steps before reaching the grocery store where she was going to buy three ochavos of oil, she lost consciousness again and fell like a dry log onto the hillocks in the alley. The local policeman and the bailiff saw her in this state, as did Gorio, who, although drunk, was none the wiser about the incident. Although the first two were not neighbors, as members of the justice system, they felt it their duty to escort the old woman home. Upon entering, Don Perfecto found Aunt Bernarda lying on the mattress that served as her bed, looking every bit the size of a corpse. It goes without saying that there was no caring soul at her side to care for her . A long time passed without the sick woman showing any signs of life, during which Don Perfecto continued to sprinkle her face with cool water and to give her a little vinegar he found in a chipped cup to smell. At last, Miruella opened her eyes and stammered a few unintelligible words. When her gaze grew a little firmer and she could clearly recognize the priest who never left her side, “You are always my providence, Don Perfecto,” she said in a slow, subdued voice. “It is my duty, Aunt Bernarda, to console the afflicted and help the needy,” the priest replied affectionately. “Are you suffering a lot?” he added immediately, seeing the anguish with which the old woman breathed. “No, sir… on the contrary… now that I see that the Lord is calling me to himself, I feel very encouraged… because I… if I had not offended God in this, I would often have wished for death. ” “Aunt Bernarda!” “Yes, Sire… You know very well that my life… has been a passion… without respite or rest. ” “Jesus’s was more painful, and he was a righteous man.” –Yes, sir… and that’s why I praise you in my sorrows… and I bless the hand that whips me… for that… But, my father… I feel my life slipping away little by little… and I need to make the most of the time I have left… I would like that after I die, my reputation wouldn’t be as odious to my neighbors… as my life has been… and I would also like, in passing… to give back to someone… what they are losing for fear of a fault, which only I know… and I must, in conscience, reveal to you, so that you can return peace to a family… and honor to a dead man. –And what can I do for such holy purposes? “Listen to me, if you please… One night a young woman entered through that door in tears… seeking, in the fear that this shack inspires in others, the secret that her condition needed… Deceived by a man… with very formal promises… she was on the verge of throwing into the world… the fruit of her mistake, which until then… she had been able to hide… from the little malice of her mother… Pained by her misfortune, I gave her all the help I could… She was hidden in this house for seven days. ” “And at the end of them,” Don Perfecto interrupted, I don’t know if to save strength for the sick woman, or to better follow the trail of some suspicion he had just acquired, “perhaps her family began to be alarmed by her absence. “Precisely… because she… as she told me, for her family she was at the mill… a league and a half from here… ” “And that girl, as is natural, will live today full of worries… ” “And ending in moments the life that remains to her… if life she can.” “to be called… the heavy cross that the unfortunate woman carries… ” “And she will probably attribute her illness… ” “To my spells, sir. ” “See… what a work of remorse! ” “And of the abandonment in which the heartless man who lost her holds her. ” “Aunt Bernarda, God’s mercy is infinite and his justice infallible. ” “I trust in that… for her… and for me as well. ” “And you have suffered with resignation the hatred of that family, when with one word!” “Rather than saying it… she would have torn out my tongue… The honor of my neighbor is more sacred to me than my own… That is why I am revealing this secret to you, and you will know how to do with it what is right… without causing the honor… of that unfortunate woman to suffer; for, at such a cost, I do not want what I have told you to be worth it… ” “I will know how to respect such loyalty, Aunt Bernarda… But what became of the fruit of that sin?” –That was what I was going for, and that should be all the sign for you… He received the water of relief from my hands… and returned to heaven… the angel of God… As for the rest… I believe you know better than I… And now, my father, that I have settled this last account with the world… let us think about the one I am going to give to God shortly… and for that, hear my confession. Chapter 19. Celipe a _Fantesía_, was a presumptuous young man, with arrogance and some proof of being a seducer. Lately he had been making matrimonial plans with an orphan girl who owned twelve wagons of land and half a house, although in the hands of her tutor and uncle, a great litigious and entangled man, with whom she lived. At the moment Celipe appears on the scene, at the window of the room he occupied in the doorway, a sort of wolf-like creature characteristic of most mountain village houses, a room that had been given to him so he wouldn’t disturb the family in the wee hours of the night upon returning from his frequent flirtations and revelries, looking at his face through a half-inch of silver-plated glass, he takes advantage of the last glimmer of twilight to smooth his hair at the temples, wetting his fingers in his own saliva. He had previously put on his yellow shoes with green and red bows and dressed in his corduroy vest with a profusion of colored braid on the ear loops at the back. When he finished combing his hair, he threw his jacket over his left shoulder, placed a calañés on his head, very loosely to the right, and prepared to go out. That night he was going to sing to his girlfriend, and he hoped that she would receive him afterward in the kitchen. That was why he polished himself so carefully. At this point, he heard the great church bell ring with a peculiar clang. “It’s the service,” he said to himself. “Who could it be?” At the same time, he heard a knock at his door. “Hail Mary! ” “Conceived without sin!” he replied, opening it wide. And he found himself face to face with Don Perfecto. “Good night, Felipe. ” “Hail, have a good night, Father,” Felipe replied, very surprised. “Does my visit surprise you? ” “The truth is… I don’t know what could bring you here at this hour. ” “The most natural thing in the world, son,” replied Don Perfecto, entering the room and closing the door. “When our neighbor doesn’t come to us on important occasions, we must go and look for them wherever they may be. ” “And if they do come, how can I help you?” “In a big way, son, in a big way… But are we alone? ” “There’s no one at home but my father, and he’s at court tending the cattle. ” “Common; and if he saw me, there’d be no lack of apology to give him… Now, listen to me. Seven months ago you came one night to wake me and asked me, for the honor of a woman, to give a sacred burial to the body of a newborn child that you were carrying under your cloak… Since you assured me that the child had received water before dying, and I respected the mystery in which you wished to wrap the matter, and much more that honor of which you spoke to me so much, without involving myself in further inquiries, which, in any case, were incumbent on God in heaven and on the human justice on earth, I gave the body a sacred burial as it should be. “And God will reward you for your good deed,” said Felipe with evident emotion. “That is not the point now, but rather that the mother of that child is dying of shame and sorrow; that this frightful agony is attributed to other invented causes, which harm the good name of an innocent woman; and, finally, that the only one who can restore health and peace to that mother and honor to the guilty party is the father of the child you took to be buried that night. ” “And what have I to do with it?” Felipe stammered, paler than his shirt. “A lot,” responded Don Perfecto in a determined tone; “a lot, Felipe; because you are the father of that child and the seducer of his mother.” “Bah, bah!… Father,” replied the lad, disconcerted by this deep thrust. “And even if that were true, what could I do about it?” “Keep a word you gave me in exchange for an honor you took away. Pay what you owe to God, if you are a Christian, and to the world if you are honest. ” “Father,” timidly observed the checkmate, “I… And finally, we will talk about that. ” “No, my son, no; we have very little time to waste, and that is why I have come to your house now. ” “Besides, there are other commitments for me of great importance… of great importance that… ” “There are no greater commitments than those of conscience, Felipe… And I warn you that if you try to carry out plans that oppose what you did with that unfortunate woman, who is dying of shame, God will not forgive you, nor will there be peace for you in the world.” Felipe wasn’t evil at heart, but he was greatly attracted by the orphan’s twelve wagonloads of land and half his house; much more so than by commitments made in moments of amorous frenzy, although these nonetheless gnawed at his conscience a little with each little refrain he hurled at the window of his new beloved. Thus it was that during the long conversation with Don Perfecto, the latter could get nothing from him but more or less respectful evasions. It was then that the priest resolved to resort to the expedient he had thought of, which was why he had gone at that hour and under those circumstances to see Felipe. “Since you won’t grant me this favor, which in the end was bound to redound to your good,” Don Perfecto continued, “you will not deny me another that I have also come to ask of you. ” “Speak up, Father,” said the young man, more encouraged by his supposed victory, “for if it were something I could… ” “Would you like to accompany me to take the Holy Viaticum to a sick person? I have no one to help me, except a boy who, out of charity, has volunteered to ring the bell you’re hearing. ” “That’s an obligation of mine, Don Perfecto, and I do it whenever I can, especially now that you’re asking me… And who’s dying? ” “Miruella, son. ” “Miruella! And of what? I saw her this morning! ” “Of what? Of old age; and also… of a blow. ” “Of a blow!” “Yes, son, of a blow. A mother who hates her because she believes her daughter is dying bewitched, aided by the rage that blinded her, threw her with a stone and… ” “And that daughter… is it true that she’s dying? ” “Yes; “but she’s dying of shame, because under the guise of marriage… ” “Come on, come on, Don Perfecto, take the Lord to Aunt Bernarda!” exclaimed Felipe, stunned, as if he didn’t want to hear any more of those words that fell upon his conscience like drops of molten lead. A quarter of an hour later, the King of Kings left the church in the hands of the worthy priest. Felipe went in front, carrying a lantern and a crucifix, and a boy who was rhythmically ringing a bell; behind them, almost the entire neighborhood and some of those closest to the church, the men uncovered, and the women with petticoats on their heads, carrying a light in their hands, those who had been able to find a badly stub of a candle at home. When the imposing procession arrived at the small square we know, they were seen, in the dim glow of the lights, kneeling outside the portal, to Teresa, who was weeping; to Juana, who seemed to be the one in need of the last consolation of religion; to the red-haired one, who was shivering with fear; and to Gorio, who, his intoxication now sobered, buried his face in his chest, as if ashamed of exposing so much abjection and misery in the presence of so much majesty and purity. These personages then joined the procession and entered with her into Miruella’s house, not without great difficulty, due to its excessive narrowness . Teresa and Gorio did not content themselves with entering, but placed themselves near the altar that had been improvised on an old table near the sick woman’s bed. The priest had also taken care to cover the surrounding walls with two of his own percale bedspreads, to make that poor dwelling less unworthy of the Guest who was going to honor her.
Seeing him so close to her, the dying old woman tried to sit up, but her strength did not allow it. “Teresa… Gorio… Juana… Antonia… Felipe… ” she said immediately, and as she began to distinguish the people surrounding her, in a voice that, although weak, could be heard by all, due to the smallness of the room and the silence that reigned therein, “do you bear me any resentment? ” “No,” vigorously replied all those who, an hour before, would have gladly given a brand each to burn her alive. “Do you forgive me for any wrong, any offense I may have done you in life ? ” “Yes, we forgive.” –I, on the other hand, swear to you… in the presence of God whom I am about to receive… that my tongue never moved to insult you, nor my hands to offend you, nor my heart to hate you… that I did you all the good I could, and that I did not repay… with a desire for revenge the evil… that I received from you… Teresa, choked by sobs, unable to contain herself any longer, advanced to the bedside, and taking the old woman’s hands in her own , exclaimed, kissing them at the same time: –And I, who have so offended you, how can I expect forgiveness? –My daughter,–replied the dying woman,–if God died to save those who were crucifying him, how can I, a miserable creature… not forgive you for the fault… of having loved me ill… because you believed… that in doing so you were acting well?…
The pathetic nature of this scene moved everyone. Philip, that ostentatious man who heard Mass standing at the high altar, smoothing his hair and looking at the girls, would kneel on the ground, his eyes, troubled by tears, on the Crucifix. Gorio himself would bite his lip, as if in his stubborn stubbornness he wished to protest against the impulses of his heart; he would push back the rough locks of his wild hair from his forehead and struggle to cover up the wine stains that disgraced his shirt beneath his jacket. It was the first time he had felt disgust and repugnance for his own vices. The priest, holding the Host in his hand, tears glistening in his eyes like pearls of pure dew in the reflection of the light that Philip raised on his trembling arm, had something superhuman about his countenance, possessed as he was by the sublime grandeur of his august ministry; more sublime then than ever. then, giving spiritual life to a dying man and having just converted a torrent of evil passions into a gentle and beneficial dew of loving tears. After receiving Communion, the old woman spent a few minutes in the deepest recollection , the signs of death becoming more and more distinct on her face . The priest approached her again, addressing her with fervent exhortations. “I do not approach God,” said the dying woman, her voice growing weaker and weaker, but with an evident desire to be heard by those present; “I do not approach God… with the serenity of the just… but with the hope of one who… has not offended Him… with blasphemies… with defamation… with scandals… I am not… so firm… that I do not tremble… now close … to the divine presence… because I am a sinner… but… blessed may the Lord… for so much grace!… I feel free… from the frightful… torment… that must be endured… in this same predicament… by those who leave… in the world… as a sign… of their vices… children without bread… families without rest… lives without honor… My God!… forgiveness for… them… and for… me… too… And he expired. “Her soul is now in the presence of God,” said the priest, moved, raising his eyes to heaven. Then, taking the example as his theme, he preached great and very relevant truths. The ground could not have been better prepared to receive the seed. Before the religious procession returned to the church, everyone volunteered to watch over the corpse during the night. “That is my responsibility,” said the good priest: “I accompanied her in life, and I must not abandon her until the grave. ” Chapter 20. The edifying death of Miruella produced the most marvelous effects in the house with the portal . Juana returned to her robust and strong self, for Felipe married her immediately, with no new turmoil other than that of her conscience. Teresa no longer suffered bruises on her body or bitterness in her soul, because Gorio, freed from his passion for wine, never hit her again; and as he regained his former status as an active and intelligent farmer, he was able to recover part of the estate sold at a loss in those difficult days, and with it the well-being of the entire family . Since they no longer believed in witches, they threw the red-haired witch’s jets over the fences of the corral, which did not leave the family as calm as they would have wished. “But” would you believe that before a year had passed since Aunt Bernarda’s death, there was already in the same town, if not in the same neighborhood, another witch as hated, as feared, and as much a witch as Miruella? NOTES: 1 Amulet. 2 The wheels have stopped because the part of them where the dam falls has been flooded with water, which is used to move them. 3 Miruella is the name given in La Montaña to the female blackbird. 4 To give the Lord to someone who is sick. 5 This custom is observed in the very poor houses of La Montaña for this holy purpose. STREET BOYS Chapter 21. The beings who are commonly designated by this name in Santander are over six years old and no more than twelve; they move in flocks, like sparrows, and, like them, are harmful and the object of general antipathy. They wear patched trousers of an indefinable kind, a shirt that is always old, and sometimes a blouse: no shoes and very little cap. They are students of the _school for free_; And although they attend it two or, at most, three times a month, they always carry at their side, dangling from a blue thread, a wallet or ink-stained linen bag containing a Children’s Friend; a dry, open-pointed pen; a sheet of lined paper for second- or, at most, fourth-grade pages, half of it blank and the other half written, all of it corrected by the teacher with the grade “terrible” between a few little crosses that represent just as many smacks, already earned; and, finally, a homemade account book, covered in brown paper. The destiny of these creatures is to live in the open air, to notice everything they see, to trample on the most respectable things, to get in the way where they are most in the way… to do, in short, everything contrary to what is good for others . They begin their exploits at dawn, because it should be noted that the little angels rise as early as the sun. They rummage through garbage dumps, and their favorite objects are scraps of paper and colored cloth, pieces of rope, brass pots and any object that makes noise, and rats. Rats! A find of this kind is a bargain for them; catching them alive is their greatest satisfaction. The colored scraps serve them as paper money: they play white pinto with them, and whoever wins ten or twelve pieces knows that he has a sure quarter as soon as he takes them out to the market, that is, as soon as he offers to sell them to any comrade. The ropes are indispensable: a street urchin never lacks something to tie, and, as a last resort, he makes a whip out of them, which is always very useful in his hands. Brass saucepans are used to make noise by pushing them with the foot from street to street, or to hang them by the tail of the first dog you find sleeping in the sun. Dead rats tied to a rope are the best way to frighten passers-by, throwing them carelessly between their feet; putting them in the basket of a scullery maid returning from shopping is a first-rate trick for rascals; sticking them up the shirtfront of a decent, fashionably dressed child is like putting a pike in Flanders, and if the poor creature gets scared, so much the better. These exploits are more effective with live rats, because the surprises are greater. But this is not the only reason why children prefer dead rats to live ones. One of these, after having been carried through the streets and markets, is taken to the Quay and made to swim the length of the bay; and when it is swollen like a ball and too weak to swim, it is led to a small square, and there, hung by its tail, it is roasted alive. You can see the gestures it makes when the fire reaches its snouts, how its skin contracts , how the flame rises as the victim’s fat drips onto the embers , and you can minutely observe how its desperate groans of pain become weaker and later… A dead rat cannot provide this satisfaction to the petty tyrants. Within hours of entering school, they flee from the door like the devil from a cross and scatter through the streets so as not to attract the attention of the police. They hang around the stores and collect the sugar spilled on the flagstones, or extract it with a splinter through the cracks in the boxes. They assist at some masses in San Francisco and go crazy over the recesses in the sacristy; they compete for the bell to ring the Viaticum through the streets, and they boast, that is, they steal; more clearly, they steal the tears from the candlesticks. They attend all the baptisms and corner, chase, and insult, calling “bald” in the streets, the godfather who doesn’t throw them a few handfuls of coins. They enter the stables of the inns of Santa Clara and pull out the tails of the males to make fishing tackle. In the vegetable market, they steal eggs and chestnuts as they pass by; and, climbing on each other, they peel off the printed posters from the street corners. They pay attention to every person who falls in the street, or whose features or attitude reveal that they are the victim of some extraordinary event; they surround them, follow them, and embarrass them with their scandalous curiosity; and if they reprimand them, they hiss at them, and if they are very timid by nature, they drive them mad. They are in charge, howling with pleasure, of executing all the dogs that arrive at the Pier condemned to drown. They throw them into the water next to the Harbor Master’s Office and drive them by stoning them to the Merlon, if the unfortunate victim does not expire, as usually happens, halfway there. The little angels think the well-known method of throwing it into the water with a song around its neck is too simple for finishing off a dog . In the neighborhood doorways, they play ball between two walls and make these their memory book. In them they write all their great impressions of the day: that is to say, the new nicknames of their friends, the most serious thing that has happened to them recently, and some other trifles that it is not permissible for me to copy here. They also draw, in their own way, the most popular police officers of the city, adding to the effigy curious observations, and they even try to reproduce the scenes that have most amazed them in the theater or in the circus. In order not to waste time, when, having committed one misdeed, they move to undertake another in a different part of the city, while they walk and argue they go marking with plaster the boards of the stores, opening the closed doors and marching music playing on the shop windows. If there is mud in the streets, it is obligatory for them to wipe away any newly painted signs or displays they encounter along the way. It is their exclusive responsibility to acclimatize the new games and maintain the established order of succession for the old ones. Eight days before Holy Week, they parade through the streets formed in imposing platoons, beating, with ferocious enthusiasm, mallets and rattles, the noise of which deafens the neighborhood. On Palm Sunday, they transform the town into a mobile laurel forest: they mount on a branch the comrade they deem most appropriate for the occasion, and, carrying him on their shoulders, they all sing in chorus: “Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord; blessed is he who comes, here comes the Savior.” On Candlemas Day, they parade through the streets in the same way, but they carry rosemary instead of laurel, and instead of the ballad of Palm Sunday, they sing to the same tune: “When Candlemas cries, winter _bota afora_; when it laughs, it is about to come.” They are deliriously in love with precipices and great heights; and, unable, for lack of permission, to climb the cathedral tower, they swing from the chains of the Merlón warf and perch on the wooden piles of the Maliaño dock. They possess, like monkeys, the instinct of imitation and mimic in the streets what they have seen acrobats, bears, or Cúchares do in the bullring. An example in this regard is worth mentioning: When the railway from Santander to Bárcena was inaugurated, I remember having seen these boys playing trains, imitating them with astonishing precision. Ten or twelve of them would line up in a row, with the heads and hands of those in back resting on the backs of those in front. The one in front acted as the engine and had the skill of marvelously imitating the whistling and puffing of this machine. The second acted as the driver. Different portals, marked in advance on the street where the game was played, were different stations. Once the train was formed, the boy engineer would lift the engine boy’s cap, who, as if he really had an unstopped valve, would begin to blow his whistle like crazy, and would continue blowing it until the cap fell back on his head. It is noteworthy that there was such a connection between the driver’s will and his own that the whistles followed the movements of the cap with the same precision that the hand of a real engineer follows the whistle of the guiding engine. After this requisite, the train would slowly move forward, and after much puffing, it would stop at each station, after the final whistles, and with the same ceremony it would return to the station where it had formed. They have a fondness, bordering on madness, for public spectacles; especially for acrobats. They would like bullfighting much more. But since they are very expensive and the entrances to the bullring are under a huge surveillance, they don’t dare think of sneaking in . When the bullfights approach and the cattle have arrived, they go every afternoon to see them in the meadows of Albericia, accompany them to the watering trough beside the shepherds, find out the names of the shepherds, know which bulls are in each fight, and on the fourth or fifth visit, they walk around the meadow half a yard behind the animals. They inquire at what inn or lodging house the bullfighters stay at, they hang around their rooms, when they know them; and they spend hours looking at the windows in case the ones, for them the heroes among all heroes who have ever been or will be, appear . At the time of the bullfight, they go to the dragnet; And there, knee-deep in a pool of blood, they struggle and sweat a kilo to tear a banderilla from the muzzle or half a dozen bristles from the tail of the bulls and horses that are being dragged out of the ring; much less to touch the heads of these animals with their feet; to see a little bit of the inside of the ring at the moment they leave or enter. the bedecked mules, whose fortune they envy. They are infallibly found near the theater ticket office, and they ask everyone who approaches for a seat for the two centavos they are always short of the full price of a ticket. Those who acquire one by this means, always a little late, arrive at the cazuela (a kind of cazuela) asking everyone for a seat and stepping very loudly. Once seated, they move more than squirrels, because everything catches their attention. The slightest phrase from the mouth of the joker makes them roar with laughter, and they clamor for it to be repeated. When they hear others applaud, they whistle like a hundred hurricanes, not because they disapprove of applause, but because whistling is the great expression of their enthusiasm, both in the theater and in the plaza. They savor with delight all the situations of a melodrama, a genre they strive for ; And they are so absorbed in their enjoyment that they forget where they are and the audience surrounding them. Their only burning desire is to know whether this or that comrade, who is somewhat absent-minded, is, like them, fully aware of what is happening on the stage. Such a comrade is usually the whole diameter of a saucepan away from them. But why did God give them a long, penetrating voice? They take advantage of a situation in which a fly could be heard buzzing in the theater, and at the top of their lungs begin a shouted exchange like the following: “Oh my God!… Rajuca!” “What! ” ” Hooray, hooray!… that one dragging the lady!” “What kind of chasuble is he wearing, eh?” “Do you know who he is? ” “The husband of the Marchioness who came out earlier. ” “Oh no!… The one who played the general the other night and was then taken to the gallows. ” “That one was fatter!” –If only!… I should know!… I’ve seen him on the balcony more than once! He lives at Chiripa’s house, whose father owns a comedy inn. Comedy is a fine thing, isn’t it? –It’s my fancy! –Do you have any bread? –No: precebias. –Pull down a couple of them. –As soon as the curtain comes down. They are, as a rule, not very fond of the sea; they prefer to make their forays through the avenues or the countryside: in spring and summer, to stalk nests, fish for crickets, or steal from vegetable gardens; in winter, to hunt linnets and goldfinches with a leash. I have said that these devils are not fond of the sea, and I must add why. At sea and on the land that belongs to it, there is no better cheche than the raquero, with whom they cannot compete. This one, whom I won’t discuss now because I’ve already had the honor of dedicating a few pages to him in my Mountain Scenes, has less wit and less mischief than they do; but, on the other hand, he has more guts and a leash than even a Colmenar bull: he spends a couple of months in jail and sleeps an entire winter on the hard, damp flagstones of the Muelle without uttering a complaint or catching a cold; and above all, he undertakes the most difficult and risky ranching undertaking alone, and leaves his teeth in it sooner than his prey. The “street kids” know very well that the most tempered of them all, their leader, so to speak, the famous Rabbit, whom I know very well, has endured the greatest trials without crying, including sleeping two nights, not consecutively, under the Cañadío wood, and remaining ten hours in the dog room. And what feats has he performed alone? Little more than that: entering an orchard in Cajo, wringing the neck of a chicken, and stealing two dozen apples. The owner guided him to do this; he left the chicken and the apples to lessen his responsibility, and, crying with fright, he jumped over the walls again without taking a single piece of meat with him. It must therefore be recorded: 1. That these boys, so bold and harmful in a gang, one by one are harmless sheep. 2. That nothing intimidates them or stops them in their incessant campaigns more than the thieves of the Muelle, who are untamable and irresistible by nature and by education. Chapter 22. I have noted some of the characteristic features of the life _malefactor_ of my characters, omitting others, because, besides being of the nature of those mentioned, there are so many that they would not fit into a book. I must now change the picture and present it to the reader as that of martyrdom; and I harbor the hope that in this way he will end up pitying these poor creatures wholeheartedly, as I do . The policeman’s staff pursues them relentlessly everywhere. These men, insensitive to everything around them, only show signs of activity and ineffable joy when it comes to leaving their flexible reed marked on the buttocks of the unruly children. When the latter play ball or billiards, they have a pair of sentinels on watch who at every step interrupt their fun with the alarming cry of _water!_, an infallible sign that the police are approaching. At other times, in the midst of the most delightful scene, a barefoot, poorly dressed woman, usually pregnant, appears to them : she is the mother of one of them. She grabs her son by any reach she can reach, and thus drags him, occasionally insulting and kicking him, to the school. She opens the door, calls the teacher, and hands him the object with these words: “There it is: kill it yourself.” The pedagogue administers a couple of slaps to the boy, and later carries out almost all of his mother’s commands on him. They are the first to be thrown out into the street, without trial, when there is a commotion at some public spectacle; they are the ones who bear the brunt of the dogcatcher’s blows at the cathedral services, and the only ones refused entry. Most days they don’t eat, either because they’ve arrived home late or because they haven’t dared to approach it, fearing a barbaric punishment for the mess they made in their blouses or trousers while playing with their friends; that is, for the only sin worthy of forgiveness. At public fountains, the sculleries deny them the right to a drink of water from the spout when they approach it thirsty and tired. What “decent” children receive in the street with a light reprimand, costs them a couple of kicks or a blow with their backs, and everyone believes they have the right to throw them with a stool, break their arm, or split their head open… to kill them, if necessary. The local press constantly denounces them for the wrath of the authorities, calling them _rascals_, _scoundrels_, _scumbags_, and other such insults , and demands floggings, confinement, and even burning banderillas for them . Ninety-five percent of the children run over by carts and horses and those drowned in the summer at Las Higueras or San Martín belong to the group in this picture. These are the ones who, in the harsh winter, thrown out of homes where they are not pitied because they are not loved, shiver with cold, naked and barefoot, and suffer, huddled in a doorway, the rigors of a fever. All of them, returning home at night after a day of trouble and fatigue, perhaps wounded, and certainly poorly fed, know from cruel experience that, after many blows and curses, awaits them, a hard piece of bread to stave off their hunger, and a not-so-soft mattress to rest their bodies. In short, they are unfortunates! They have never known how much the sweet and wise guardianship of a father and the kisses, prayers, and care of a loving mother console and purify the soul. Chapter 23. These creatures, whose liveliness, daring, and precocious wit would lead anyone to expect something, very good or very bad, but something extraordinary for when they became men, nevertheless meet the most vulgar, prosaic, and sad end imaginable. At thirteen years of age, they are all learning a trade poorly; At sixteen they emancipate themselves from their father’s guardianship, that is, they smoke, vote and drink in front of their father and deny him the right to punish them and even to reprimand them; at twenty a few go, by lot, in military service; a few others, a very few, begin to become diligent and virtuous, but vulgar, industrialists, and almost all the rest marry. At twenty-five, these men have six children, poor health, much poverty, and quite a few vices; at thirty, they represent fifty-five, have four more children, a great aversion to work, no peace at home, and half their offspring wandering, as they once did, through the streets of the town. From this age until sixty, the reader may distribute them as he or she pleases between the clutches of hunger, the hospital, prison… and the cemetery. IMPORTANT NOTE: Many individuals of this sex who, when well educated, provide society with virtuous daughters, exemplary wives, and excellent mothers, frequently serve in the ranks of the ” street children” and even form the vanguard in the most solemn and daring acts . This fact may be as disconsolate as you wish; but it is the pure truth. English: NOTES: 6 This is the common name given in Santander to the uncomfortable room in the Principal’s office where those arrested by the agents of the authority are temporarily housed. COAT OF ARMS AND BAGS Chapter 24. Of the haughty grandeur and the sparkling luster of his ancestors, here is what remained, fourteen years ago, to Señor Don Robustiano Tres Solares _y_ de la Calzada: A green cloth coat with black velvet buttons; A yellow goatskin waistcoat; An armored cravat; Two watch chains with jingles, without the clocks; A pair of very worn black cloth trousers; A pair of half boots with the twelfth setting; A rather old plush hat; and A walking stick with a silver handle and tip. This was for holidays and great solemnities. For work days: Another colorless coat, the tow of the linings shedding from every seam and pore of its body; Another cravat, of black velvet, much shorn; Another waistcoat, of wafer-colored denim; Another pair of trousers, “flea-like,” with more seams than a gangway; Another top hat, lined with oilskin; A pair of sheepskin slippers, and A pair of buckled sandals for when it rained. As special ornaments and character garments: A blue cloak with an otter-skin collar and cotton crutches, and An enormous umbrella of crimson silk, with a handle, ferrule, and ring of yellow metal. As positive elements and support for what precedes and some of what will follow: A four-sloped house with a doorway and a corral, which we will discuss in more detail later; A sash or belt of old, twisted chestnut trees around the house; A plot of land adjoining the chestnut groves to the south, divided since time immemorial into three portions: meadow, orchard, and farmland, which is why Don Robustiano insisted he had three plots of land, and that they gave rise to his surname; a plot, I repeat, poorly cultivated and surrounded by a wall buttressed in places, and the whole of it covered in a thick network of brambles, thorns, and elderberries; a few carts of earth in the village’s crops, and a single-wheeled flour mill for corn, a crooked one, which ground by special grace from the rainwater, not from a bad stream, since all the others in the region had recently denied it their resources. Item, as objects of ostentation and luster: a heralded seat next to the main altar of the parish church. And a nag that rarely lived under a roof, having to seek its daily feed in the surrounding hills and mountains. Another item: Don Robustiano had a daughter, who was tall, blond, colorless, withered, without expression or grace in her face, nor the least attractiveness in her figure. She was not yet thirty years old, and she looked the same at twenty as at forty-five. But on the other hand, she was proud, and would sooner forgive her neighbors the insult of a slap than to be called simply Veronica, and not at all Veronica. Therefore, having found herself placed by me on the last line of the preceding catalogue, perhaps hanging me by the neck would have seemed a weak punishment for the enormity of my guilt; but I would have assured her in advance, with all due respect to her illustrious lineage, that if she appears at such a point, it is not as just another object belonging to her noble father, but as the second figure in this picture, who enters the scene at the proper time and when her appearance is more convenient to the greater clarity of the narrative. In the wardrobe of this severe lady, I have said wrongly, on its worm-eaten oak peg, there were usually: A gown of queen’s alepin, quite faded in color; A shawl of woolen muslin with a ribbon, and A lace mantilla with a taffeta cap, the color of a fly’s wing. With these garments, plus a pair of shoes with gauges on her feet, a marabou on her head, and a fan in her hand, Veronica occupied the heraldic seat next to her father in the church on feast days, during high mass. Ordinarily, she wore, and owned, nothing more than a sergeant dress of the Carmelite Order, a calico handkerchief, and a pair of slippers. And with this, everything that remained to our two characters, as far as was known, is noted. Delving now into their private lives to learn something about it, it is clear that they had a Christian Year and the official record, wrapped, moreover, in a triple lining of old papal bull paper. With the former, they fed their religious fervor, reading the life of the saint of the day every night. By recording the coats of arms and connections of the latter, they further fostered their ancestral vanity. Thus, they nourished their spirit. As for the body, a large pot of vegetables with meaty scruples and a light, transparent bacon like the soul of a usurer were responsible for providing them with the little juice the two had. Squeezing and stretching to the invisible the almost intangible income provided by their small estates, they could afford the luxury of a pound of wheat flour, kneaded by Doña Verónica, giving them a batch of bread that lasted three full weeks, prudently alternating it with the corn cakes that the two illustrious gentlemen ate in secret and with great caution. I have said that the Christian Year and the bill of sale constituted the spiritual nourishment and delight of this family, and I have not said enough, for Don Robustiano knew of another pleasure that, although closely related to leafing through the bill of sale, was even more pleasant than it and, in the opinion of the manor owner, more edifying and transcendental. His aim was to surround himself, whenever he had an opportunity—and he tried to find one almost every day—with those of his most influential and deeply rooted neighbors in the village, and to evoke before them the glorious preeminence of his ancestors, of which he had only glimpsed a faint, faint glimmer. At such solemn moments, he would begin by explaining the historical significance of the figures on his coat of arms; why, for example, the lion was passant and not rampant; why the small bird hovering over the central tree was a rook and not an owl; why the snakes and not the vultures coiled around its trunk; what the Erminii of the third quarter meant , which the villagers had mistaken for a rather badly made five of cups, etc., etc. And from that point he gradually descended down his family tree, whose roots reached clearly, evidently, and perceptibly, all the way back to the time of the Alfonsos. As for the space between this period and the previous ones, the legend of their arms, sculpted on all the shields of their house, faithful copies of the one recorded in the execution, filled it worthily and eloquently. It said: “Before nobles were born, Before Adam was a father, For noble was already distinguished The house of Tres Solares.” And then the good stuff began. According to Don Robustiano, his elders collected marzazgas, martiniegas, yantares, and fonsaderas; they did not pay never had rights to the King “_and they spoke to him without homage_.” One of them was, in later times, a _carver_ at the royal table; and more recently, when another accompanied His Highness on a hunt, he had the opportunity to lend him his pocket handkerchief and even, according to several chroniclers, some coins to give to an innkeeper. When Charles V passed through the Mountain , he spent the night at his house, leaving as a gift the next day a beautiful mastiff that the Emperor appreciated greatly, which gift gave rise to the placement of the two sculptures that adorned the wall of his corral, one on each side of the doorway, and which the villagers rudely took for two _detached_, or pigs, with all due respect. Even closer to home, two female members of his family were companions of a Princess of royal blood, and a male held a lawsuit for forty years with the Duke of Osuna over whether or not it was his right to place six feathers instead of four on the crest of his helmet on his shield. In more recent times, yesterday, so to speak, one of his grandfathers was a perpetual alderman of that entire region; another collected sales taxes and barges, and finally , his father, as was well known, enjoyed for many years the rights to tolls and fishing rights over three pontoons in as many streams in the country, as well as all the crabs, prawns, and even codfish caught in the waters of those same streams. Ringing the bells and bringing the canopy up to the church door to receive a relative there on certain days was a constant sight in the town ; he enjoyed sitting next to the main altar in a chair of honor ; to be buried near the presbytery, all of them, even his father, achieved it by legitimate, proper and singular right. And privileges of felling, of opening ports and routes, exemption from plantations and distribution of canberas, or benefits… and so many more things of the like?…–“But oh, friends!” and here Don Robustiano changed his resonant and calm tone for a mournful and sorrowful one “to other times, other customs. The Freemasons spread; the impious, infamous philosophy of the Frenchman invaded the towns and blinded men; the Holy Office fell; the Revolution reared its head; heretics appeared; four heraldic emblems carved on a stone ceased to inspire respect in the common people; It was sacrilegiously maintained that all men, as children of a common father, were equal in status, as well as in the color of their blood, and it was believed to be a lie that some of us privileged people had blue blood. To top it all off, they tore our estates to pieces and later made us swallow a Constitution; and as if this together were not enough to leave us with not even a glimmer of hope, Zumalacárregui died from the treacherous blow of a liberal bullet. From such horrible derangement, from such an unprecedented perversion of ideas, what would result? The sterile, but cruel, sacrifice of a hundred innocent victims like myself; the irruption into public powers of the shirtless; heresy, disorder, confusion… universal scandal. All this, and much more, Don Robustiano told his neighbors, arraying himself in all the eloquence and dignity he could muster, with the dual purpose of satisfying this need of his soul and of avenging , with the display of such brilliance, on the vulgar rabble-rousers certain rumors circulating throughout the town, mockingly about the privations and hardships suffered by the two descendants of such high standing. Of course, the villagers listened to the manor like one listens to rain; and upon seeing his shabby little coat, they wouldn’t have given a penny for the whole litany of praises that, if put on the market, wouldn’t have been worth half a bushel of beans at the time. But Don Robustiano believed otherwise and was perfectly content. He frequently told his daughter the same thing during the long winter nights. And how conceited Doña Verónica was when she learned of the great deeds of her parents! Oh, how he enjoyed it and how his shrunken spirit was enlarged with the illusion that he was many elbows away above the vulgar rabble that surrounded her in her place, the only world she knew! Boy, did she consider herself as high and illustrious as the most prestigious princess! All the hours of the day that these entertainments, plus the indispensable ones of eating and sleeping, left Don Robustiano free, he spent yawning, strolling his long, wrinkled, and upright figure along the main balcony, or “solana,” of his house if it was raining, or around the sunroom if the weather was good, throwing into the alleyway the stones that the boys had brought into the fence when they threw them at the neighboring chestnut trees to knock down their coveted fruit. Veronica, meanwhile, was mending some stockings, blowing out the fire, or going down to the garden to pick half a dozen cabbages when she was sure no one was looking. She undertook everything, touched everything, and everything bored her instantly; Because it must be noted that Veronica, for all her illustrious character, was, among other things, as lazy as she was timid, suspicious, and unsociable. She could read poorly and write even worse, thanks to the fact that her father had taught her at home; for he did not want his daughter, as a child, to attend the local school, where she would necessarily have to rub shoulders, with dangerous familiarity, with all the feminine riffraff of her uncouth neighbors. As an adult, he also did not allow her to attend the _corro_ where young people dance, enjoy themselves, and laugh; nor did he permit her to attend a home gathering, nor a _hila_, nor a _deshoja_. To give her an idea of the former, he accompanied her several times to see him over the walls of the manor house; As for the latter, she only knew them with disgust from the exaggerated tales Don Robustiano told her about their disorder and dissoluteness. Thus the poor girl passed through her childhood and reached the height of her youth without a friend, without a playmate or innocent confidence; without having laughed heartily once; without being able to delight in the memory of a prank; without a passionate desire, without complete joy, without a sorrow, and what was worse, without being able to understand her own character or that of others. The door of her house, with the lever perpetually pierced inside, was only opened on necessary occasions, or when called upon by a certain elderly neighbor, a gossip and storyteller, who ran their errands and, by some inexplicable phenomenon, had won the affection and, what is more astonishing, the familiarity of Don Robustiano, who did not honor her with her, so as not to discredit his greatness, nor even his own daughter. Since this woman was the only one Veronica met intimately, she conformed entirely to her judgment; and, taking her voice for an oracle, she became, out of necessity, a gossip like her. Listening to this woman and gossiping about everyone at her side without knowing him was the only task that did not tire the ancestral maiden. That she never loved, that is to say, she never had a lover, there is no need to record it; Her heart was always foreign to such a need, and her position was the least likely to create it. She didn’t even notice the young men of the town, as if they were creatures of another species, saturated as she was with her father’s aristocratic maxims. As for illustrious suitors worthy of her, there were none within her reach, nor did any ambassador from outside appear within her yard to propose them, nor, truth be told, did their absence torment her for a single instant . Veronica’s life, thanks to her father’s work and grace, passed inside the mansion as it did outside the chestnut trees: they vegetated in the sun and air; she with the meager daily bread, the gossip of her neighbor, and her father’s declamations. She knew she was noble, that rough work was forbidden to her, even if she needed it to keep from starving to death; She knew that all the people who surrounded her in the town were commoners , and as they never taught her to tire of searching for the reason for things or the foundation of certain ideas, attached to her own false ideas, like a tree to the earth, she let them pass. about herself, years and events, caring no more about them than about my grandmother. She knew no more and needed no more. Very few words passed between her and her father during the day, unless the good gentleman took to speaking of his ancestors or complaining about the present times, in which men of his importance had nothing to do. For the rest, while it is true that they did not love each other greatly, they did not hate each other either. Don Robustiano knew all the illustrious surnames of the Mountain by heart , and knew, down to the smallest detail, their respective mottos and coats of arms; but he never mentioned families except by the name of the town in which they resided. Thus, for example, he would say: “_the ones from_…”7, and it was well known that he was referring to the family of Mr. Don So-and -so, who lived in that area. He professed cordial sympathies for some of them, by tradition, and for others, also by inheritance, implacable hatred; But neither of them could boast of having crossed the threshold of his door in Don Robustiano’s days . This was no other reason than that when he, from Easter to St. John’s Day, went to visit this or that shrine, or to spend a little time at the fair here or there, or to the capital, he would go around half the province, if necessary, so as not to touch at the house of A or B, as he believed good courtesy dictated, if the said houses were on the straight road. In this way, he believed that he was excused from receiving visitors of such magnitude in his own home. For this reason, whenever, after hearing the sound of horseshoes in the adjoining alley, someone knocked at his door, Veronica would run out and say, feigning her voice: “He’s not at home!” And she would spout this lie through the keyhole, gripping the latch tightly with both hands and taking great care that her slippers could not be seen under the door frame. If the caller did not leave at once, she would add in a state of anxiety: “And he won’t come for the whole month!” And if the man outside still insisted, the woman inside would conclude in horror: “And the house is empty… and Don Robustiano took the key!” She would immediately withdraw, and her father, who was watching the event with one eye through the small window or quarter-pane of the door of the estragal, would say to her with feverish anxiety: “Now get up; and be quiet, even if they break the door down!” And the poor gentleman suffered mortal anguish every time he found himself in such situations, because it is worth noting that his character was affable and expansive, and his heart noble and hospitable; But pride, the rogue pride of race, the ardent zeal for the luster of his lineage, were stronger than he, and he could not resign himself to showing that shabby dust of his greatness, that anguished nakedness of his illustrious homes, to those, in his opinion, his most swollen rivals in crests and parchments. The truth is that the interior grandeur of Don Robustiano’s house was better suited to being propped up than to being seen… And by the way: this is the most opportune occasion to dedicate to it the paragraph we have promised you. “Well then.” The building was divided into three parts: ground floor, main floor, and upper floor. The first contained the stables, the very wide arcade, and the cellar. The second was, in turn, divided by a long alley into two equal portions, one to the south and one to the north. It consisted of three rooms, two of which were bedrooms and the remaining one a large hall called the Ceremonial Hall by the family, and it is well known why. According to Don Robustiano, there his elders received the homage of their subjects; there they dealt and negotiated, power to power, with the lords on this side and on the other in the urgent conflicts that arose at every moment over questions of etiquette or administration; there, finally, all the domestic acts that most sublime the historical memory of Don Robustiano’s illustrious ancestors were carried out . For this reason, he dedicated an almost religious respect to the Ceremonial Hall : he did not enter it in his shirtsleeves, nor did he spit on it. its floor, nor did he allow it to be opened more often than absolutely necessary. Otherwise, the only signs of his past high office remained were two smoky portraits, devoid of any facial features or clothing, perceptible to the naked eye, although the manor owner claimed they were the true likenesses of two of his grandparents; a heralded cowhide armchair ; three wobbly chairs of the same type; a moth-eaten walnut table with heavy reliefs; and the ceiling joists stained and corroded by leaks. Such is the story of the Ceremonial Hall, and such was the hall itself. Of the two rooms immediately adjacent to it, there is very little to say: they were as bare and shabby as the hall, and that is all that can be said: they contained nothing but the beds, with high and painted walls, of course; Veronica’s coat hanger, an oak chair for each bed, a crucifix and a poor image of Saint Barbara above Don Robustiano’s, and another hanger for his clothes and hats. The north side consisted of the same number of rooms as the south side; but one had already been untiled when Veronica came into the world; the other was left roofless a few years later, thanks to a cruel winter storm that entered through the roof, sweeping away the rafters, tin cans, tiles, and the corresponding piece of attic. The other, a dining and social room in good times, had lost half its exterior wall, leaving in its place a hole that Don Robustiano had to fill every autumn with shavings, stones, and alley mud, the only repairs affordable to its depths, through which hole all the wraths of winter insisted on shoveling their heads. Fortunately, the kitchen, which was located on neutral ground at one end of the alley, had remained serviceable and protected from the storms. So Don Robustiano had no choice but to retreat little by little to the south side, as the north side fell into ruin. After all, the poor gentleman, still having half a house, and half a huge house at that, could barely manage , even though his furnishings were reduced to the barest minimum. To understand this seemingly contradictory point, it must be noted that a battle could have been fought in each of the two rooms mentioned. I don’t want to mention the attic, as it was in such a state that even a glance at it moved him. However, one treasure it contained must be mentioned—a treasure, in Don Robustiano’s opinion: two rusty pieces of armor belonging to an ancestor who fought at Saint Quentin. I swear they were two large vessels or buckets from a waterwheel. But when the manor owner said otherwise, it would be known. Inside the yard, which, as it is called, was to the south and adjacent to the house, there was a habitable pavilion, although very small, which Don Robustiano called “the gazebo.” There, the manor owner kept all his family papers and very few books on his ancestry in a cupboard built into the wall next to a chestnut table, on which there was a chamois folder and a tin inkwell. In front of the pavilion was a vacant tile roof that served as a woodshed, and beside it, a well with the corresponding washbasin. Let the reader add to all that has been said a long balcony on each facade of the building, a coat of arms engraved in high relief above each door, and a crenellated half-tower covered in ivy at the gale angle, and he will have some idea of what the house of Don Robustiano Tres Solares _y_ de la Calzada, called in the town—a name I neither wish nor must remember—the _palace_, was like inside, out, below, and above . We have said that Don Robustiano would occasionally make a trip to the capital, or to some fair or sanctuary in the province, and it is worth mentioning here _how_ he did it; for this _how_ consumed his attention for a long time before and after the expedition, and constituted one of the most serious events of his long and financially strained existence. Having conceived the project four or five months before its execution, he would consult with Verónica and his pillow, dream about it, and ruminate over it with what he ate; and only after many weeks of struggle She dared to accept it as a fact, after many heavy sighs, like someone who decides to undertake a heroic and colossal undertaking. And then the hard work began! Veronica examined her father’s gala dress, seam by seam, button by button, hair by hair; she worked on the underpants; patched the back of the waistcoat; darned the shirtfront; reinforced a buttonhole; brush and spit for this stain; tug and punch for that wrinkle; retightened hems… and for all this, given the transparency and essential weakness of the garments, a pulse and a balance in her movements as if walking on cobwebs or giltheads. So much for Veronica. Don Robustiano, for his part, rubbed his boots with bits of bacon; He would leave them in the sun for two or three days, and when he found them supple and to his liking, he would brush and polish them until oceans of sweat ran down their dry hides and a shameful, blushing gleam of polish appeared on the boots . He would examine, piece by piece, all the parts of his nag’s saddle, and with waxed twine he would confirm the weaknesses of those ailing old remnants of better days; but what he devoted all his strength and all his senses to was polishing the coat of arms of his household, carved on the rusty plates of the browband and breastplate, and on the clamps of the bushelin stirrups . A young lad, the son of one of his tenants, who was to serve him as a page, or espolique, the following day, was charged with scraping with a pair of strops the frizzy coat of the nag, which, as has already been said, was always grazing freely, was a miserable mess from wallowing in the dust and mud of the alleys. At dawn, Don Robustiano would rise on the day designated for the journey; he would give, as an extraordinary event, a corn feed to the nag; he would saddle him, place his saddlebags and cape in their respective places, and leaving the reins ready beside the manger, while the gentle beast luxuriated in the scattered grains. He would dress slowly and scrupulously in his familiar finery, eat a soft-boiled egg , and after lunching in the kitchen with a piece of bacon, the espolique, dressed for a holiday and with his jacket over his shoulder, would both go down to the corral. There the horse was bridled; Don Robustiano, by way of experiment, gave a couple of tugs on the girth, and, fitting a spur to his right foot and then crossing himself three times, said to the page, who was now ready to mount: “Be careful not to forget the usual requirements, especially upon arriving at the inn. There, as you know, off with your hat and immediately to the stirrup and bit. I, though old, am quite agile, and if there is no correspondence and assistance in my movements, I can take the saddle with me when I dismount; and by faith, a man of my circumstances would make a sorry figure rolling on the ground at his horse’s feet ! For the rest, always maintain a respectful distance… and what I have repeated to you a thousand times. And this was so often repeated that, while they were walking through lonely alleys or mountains, the page could allow himself some familiar interpellation or warning to his master. but that he should be very careful not to do so and not to fail to observe the strictest composure when they crossed neighborhoods or high roads. Only in very pressing cases did he grant him the right to address him in public, and that on condition that he did not omit the prior request, Señor Don, a requirement in which his own illustrious countryman, the famous Don Pelayo, Infanzón de la Vega, would have found nothing to reproach. And it was a thing to admire the way Don Robustiano rode! Erect, with his right hand closed on his thigh, the reins in his left at the level of his stomach, his eyebrows arched and his lips pursed, impassive to everything that happened around him, attentive only to returning the greetings addressed to him by passers-by; buried up to the waist between the cape wrapped around the front bowel and the saddlebags; sometimes fixing his furrowed eyes on the stiff neck of his mount, and putting on airs of concern for her fiery excesses, as if he were capable of indulging in such a luxury of vigor. A yard from the left stirrup marched the espolique with his jacket and the master’s umbrella on his shoulder, at the same slow and monotonous trot as the nag. In this manner, stopping to breathe in the shade of this chestnut tree, the lad taking a drink of fresh air… at the fountain beyond, they reached the prearranged point, from which they were bound to return home before the sun set; for the manor, neither for reasons of lineage nor character, dared to walk at night, unarmed and alone, or nearly so. It was de rigueur among men of his importance to return with their saddlebags full. Don Robustiano would load them with lettuce, or any other similar vegetable that, while costing little, would add up greatly. His exchanges with Veronica for many days after the expedition, and regarding it, were of the following nature: “Why would a young man I found at such a place stare at me so much? Perhaps he knew me. The same thing happened to me with some people who were traveling in carriages: they even stuck their heads out to get a better look at me.” “I thought I recognized a lady who was traveling in jamugas.” “From a distance, the house of So-and-so seemed to me to be quite run down. ” “Of the seven of us who ate at the round table, three must have been titled people: one of them made me a plate; the rest seemed to me to be little more or less ordinary people… By the way, these days they spend so much time that men look like puppets with them: the marquis who was eating to my right had one.” “In the town of Cual, a palace is being built: I supposed that they would make it for X… but I was told that they were building it! Imagine!” a tax collector… If the trip had been to Santander, the subsequent comments, although of the same kind, were more detailed, and he never forgot to relate that, thanks to his skill, the horse galloped very erect as it left the Alameda, as a result of which all the noblemen who were strolling there stared at him, and many personages greeted him, among them one who carried a tasseled cane and who, in his opinion, must be the Intendant. I believe that the reader, with what I have noted up to this point, has everything he needs to know, more than superficially, the most noble Don Robustiano. In this understanding, I willingly omit many other details that could still be added to the sketch. Well then: this personage, on the occasion in which I exhibit him and just as you have seen him, was happy. And I wish this to be recorded, in case such happiness were not clearly evident from the details mentioned, which, incidentally, should not shock anyone who pays a little attention to the moral conditions of the manor. “The revolutions, the gross materialism of the age,” abolishing the rights and preeminences that had filled the purses and granaries of his ancestors, swept even the dust from his parchments, on which the century would no longer trust a single peseta, and left the support of his greatness limited to the miserable product of the meager estate, punished in the harvest by weeds and cuckoo’s bread, and in the home by rust and moth. But his vanity was still independent; he had not yet had to humiliate it before any villain in request of a crust to appease his hunger; even the venerated family tree appeared virgin, without the finest graft of coarse firewood; Even the revolutionary pickaxe had not desecrated the upright shields of his home… in a word, Don Robustiano had the pure blood of his lineage, bread to nourish him, and a heraldic house that gave him shelter in the winter and shade in the summer. That is to say, he had everything a poor man of his stock, his ideas, and his character could desire in these times, and on this he based his greatest vanity. Chapter 25. Toribio Mazorcas a _Zancajos_, was in figure, in character, in lineage, and in money, the opposite of his neighbor Don Robustiano: short, chubby, with his legs forming a clumsy and blurred parenthesis, like a child on a wall dipping a finger in his father’s inkwell, an imperfection from which he derived his nickname ; cheerful and talkative, a plebeian through and through, and rich. In his youth, he went to try his luck in Andalusia, and there, scrubbing the filth off the counter of a greedy and cruel master, he managed to save and learn enough to establish himself on his own in a tavern after a few years of slavery and unspeakable suffering. Little by little, the tavern became a wine cellar; and when the rascal turned fifty , he could boast of having many fewer years than a pair of bags of paper. So he came to the Mountains with the intention of never leaving them again, and a few months after settling into his home, he lost the companion whom, with little love and little inclination, he had taken in the same town during one of his first brief visits there. He generally made a visit to the _tierruca_ every four years. Finding himself a widower and wealthy, the idea crossed his mind of remarrying more to his liking; but calmly taking the advice of his own experience, he easily desisted from his rash undertaking and immediately devoted himself with complete determination to the care of his many estates and to that of one son who remained, a lad of eighteen years of age, fresh, plump, slender, handsome in every sense of the word, and neither stupid nor ill- tempered, although somewhat bitter from the near-abandonment in which he had lived when he most needed restraint and direction, while his father was in Seville, more attached to the interests of the winery than to the memory of his family. The wealthy Mazorcas hesitated between sending him to Andalusia to continue exploiting his already enormous wealth there, or suddenly marrying him off to a worthy girl, so that she could take over the management of the farms that the fortunate jándalo owned there; but fearing that the young man’s inexperience would ruin his boots piled up with sweat in a few days, and, on the other hand, tired of dealing with cows, salters, and brushcutters, and longing to one day find himself surrounded by a decent, refined, and principled family, he decided… to send Antón—as the boy was called—to Santander to a school “for the expensive ones,” so that there he could be polished, refined, and civilized, in order to begin there the plan of restoration that he proposed for his offspring. That boy, without paying attention to the grenadier’s stature he already measured up to, and guided only by his desire to go out and see the world and spend a few coins like a lord, accepted the engagement and settled in the capital as his father had wanted. But within a month, he became convinced that he was no longer cut out for the swashbuckling, nor his size for the ungainly and demanding frock coat. With it, he was a figure who excited laughter on walks, while in his short, loose suit, he drew the girls’ eyes. In view of this, he returned to the village and decided never to leave it again, nor to leave his position as a farmer, like his grandparents, although with all the advantages and comforts that his father’s position could have afforded him. Since his father, and perhaps for his own sake, didn’t make much of a name for himself with the round-rigged girls when it came to choosing one for his perpetual companion, He preferred those of high standing, not the very dressed-up and perky ones he had seen in the avenues of Santander, but rather the modest and demure ones who, while remaining ladies “from their beginnings” and without lacking an interesting personality, knew how to be “mistresses of their house.” And this is the path the devil led the son of the commoner Zancajos along, to make him end up with his thoughts, hardly realizing it, with none other than the daughter of the proud Don Robustiano Tres Solares y de la Calzada, who was far from assuming such a disgrace to her ancestral lineage. And the reader, who already knows the portrait of Verónica, should not be surprised at young Antón’s taste, both in terms of the physical and moral aspects of the object of his desires. Verónica, physically studied, would be a woman in the theater or in the salons of our cultured capitals unpleasant to the eyes of a man accustomed to savoring the adornments and voluptuousness of young women of “good society”; but placed in a village among young women with broad, heavy hips, tanned cheeks, and clumsy, manly movements, she could not help but inspire covetous interest with her pale complexion, her blond hair, and her small, white hands. Don Robustiano’s daughter, in this aspect, was, relative to her surroundings, a filigree, a fine thing, materially speaking; and being a “fine thing” in these villages, she already has all the titles she needs to conquer the desire and even the envy of the villagers. For them, “fine” is the prototype of beauty. On the other hand, Veronica was a lady by inheritance and not a ” resurrected louse,” as a hundred irrefutable testimonies attest; a quality that is more than enough to inspire more than fair consideration in ordinary people . As for her moral qualities, neither Antón knew them, nor even if he had known them would he have been able to appreciate them given his lack of worldliness. The truth is that the son of Toribio Mazorcas, beginning by paying close attention to Verónica’s personal qualities and by delighting in the examination of her aristocratic qualities, ended up taking a real interest in the daughter of Don Robustiano . So much so, that he spoke to his father about the matter; and as it was the happy coincidence that Zancajos regarded the preferential position in the Church and the coat of arms of the palace with a certain amount of envy, even though he had often laughed at the inflated presumptions of his noble neighbor, far from combating Antón’s inclinations, he promised to support them with the best of intentions. Thus, one Sunday, Veronica was returning from mass alone, because Don Robustiano had stayed in the sacristy to greet the priest . She walked, as usual, at a more than regular pace and with no other thought than that of getting home as quickly as possible, for by dint of living in dark seclusion, she had grown afraid even of the light and air of freedom. She was already turning the corner of a wall in the alley she was walking along, and could even make out the nails in its doorway, when she found herself face to face with Mazorcas’s son. The slender boy was dressed in his best clothes, sporting in each pocket of his very fine jacket a silk handkerchief, the corners of which hung outward, as if by chance, but strictly with great care; he wore tight white calfskin shoes with green braid, half covered by the wide and graceful bell-shaped trousers of caramel-colored satin . He fastened with two gold cufflinks the wide and starched collar of his cambric shirt with its embroidered front, concealing half of its finery between the lapels of a blue velvet waistcoat banded with crimson. He covered his head with a top hat, from under the brim of which appeared two large curls of lustrous black hair at his temples. When Antón found himself facing Verónica, he respectfully doffed his hat and, gallantly yielding her the little curves that in that place might be called a sidewalk, said in a rather uncertain voice: “Good morning, Señora Doña Verónica. ” Verónica, without raising her eyes from the ground, but quickening her pace , answered with the greatest indifference: “Good morning, Antón.” And Antón, turning his hat over in his hands, watched her walk a few yards away, struggling between his desires, his confusion, and the fear of never finding such a propitious occasion again. But very soon, making a supreme effort during which the color of her face changed twenty times , she decided on what interested her most, and advanced toward the manor woman, daring to call her quite loudly: “Doña Verónica!” Two fiery banderillas would not have had more effect on the daughter of Don Robustiano than this address from the son of Toribio Mazorcas. In an instant the strangest fears assailed her apprehensive mind ; and having formed no clear idea of Antón’s conduct, she even believed him capable of murdering her right there. Consequently, far from responding to the call, she quickened her pace more and more, until she was on the verge of running away. But Anton had resolved not to abandon the enterprise once he was engaged. So he advanced until he was beside the fugitive, and said to her, softening his voice as much as possible: “I have a favor to ask of you.” Then Veronica could not help stopping. She tried to combat her embarrassment, and twisting the corners of her mantilla in her convulsing hands, pale as death: “A favor… for me?” she said, between sour and frightened. “For you, yes, ma’am…” replied Anton, unable to get past the ñ, because emotion clogged his throat like a plug. He turned his hat over in his hands again, looked at Veronica, then at the narrow streets, then at the sky, then at each of the thirty-two winds of the rose, until finally, managing to swallow his block, he began to speak in this manner: “I, Doña Veronica, presuming the respect that God commands and that you show me, because you deserve it, wanted to tell you now what… well, what I would have said more than four times had I been accorded such a pleasant proximity as this… The truth is, Señora Doña Veronica, taking the attempt with the circumlocution of the case, that I am not the most convenient or adapted to the people of the town; and since my means allow it, I wanted to compromise to my liking and proportionate comments… You, by your principles of birth and subtlety of personnel… Let’s say… that if… I…” And here his throat became blocked again. Veronica’s face was dripping with sweat, which was becoming increasingly pale and haggard. Antón, after a few moments of silence, during which he recovered somewhat, continued: “I mean to say that, as I am well off and am neither a drinker nor a brawler nor a man fond of flirting with the neighbor’s daughters, I believe… without this being a slight or it being wrong for me to say so, I believe that… well, the local girls are no match for me, called to make pronouncements tomorrow… Because, Doña Verónica, God gave me a very soft heart by nature and a little sense here in my own way, and I think that with this and the four centavos that one has, if necessary, one can decline to a shred of refinement and courtesy that will console oneself in an inclement weather… On the other hand, I do not fail to realize that I have rather neglected the principles of grammar at school and so on, because my father remembered very late that I was richer than it was convenient to struggle with the clods of earth like a third-rate rascal; But if I reflect that I have, as I have said, the means to provide for a lady in all her needs, and the genius to regard her as the gold of Arabia, provided that she always contrasts with me within the boundaries of the fear of God and good faith, I believe that I can, without offending anyone, make a memorial in this respect… Isn’t that true, Doña Verónica? “I think so,” she stammered mechanically, no longer knowing where to place her body or her eyes, and, by pulling at the corners of her mantilla, had turned it into a Tunisian turban. Antón, after wiping his perspiration with one of his two silk handkerchiefs, continued: “Well then: in contingency for these reasons, and without further ado, be it known to you, Doña Verónica, that what I want with all the desires of courtesy is… to marry you.” Verónica felt three shocks in her heart; Three shocks that sounded like three cannon shots in his ears, and immediately his face was covered with a color brighter than that of his father’s umbrella. Never before had the pale countenance of the ancestral woman been seen in another. However , it must be remembered that not all that glitters is gold. The unexpectedness of the declaration, the place in which it was made, the novelty of the incident, and the pride of race, a certainty that is not offended, contributed not a little to producing the fire that eventually managed to ignite that icy organism. Antón, who upon unleashing the volley had lowered his eyes to the ground, as if frightened by his own audacity, dared to raise them until the height of Veronica’s face, precisely at the moment when it was reaching the height of its inflammation, let’s say so… And readers, it must be confessed that Don Robustiano’s daughter was perfectly suited to blushing: she really did look beautiful with her rosy cheeks! When Antón saw him like this, unable to contain the expansion of his enthusiasm, he exclaimed, at the same time giving two punches to the hat that he always kept respectfully in his hand. “Doña Veronica, tell me yes… or I’ll get angry!” I don’t know what Veronica meant by being angry in that case; but there is no doubt that the word, and also something of the action that accompanied it, finished disconcerting her… precisely at the moment when Don Robustiano turned the corner of the alley. The sight of the dazed girl, turning as pale as usual, escaping toward the gateway and closing it behind her, leaving the excited Anton with his mouth closed and his eyes blazing, was a matter of a single instant. But Don Robustiano saw her, and immediately deduced, both from her flight and from Anton’s attitude, that something extraordinary had happened there. Consequently, he shortened his already slow pace and began to whirl with his cane. When he reached Mazorcas’s son, he buried his chin in the depths of his bow tie, bending his body backward at the same time, and looked at the boy, frowning. Then Anton noticed the manor; he flushed like a ripe tomato, and stepping to one side, he respectfully bowed to Don Robustiano; but the latter, without taking his eyes off him or his whirl, continued walking, unchanged and silent, toward his house. Upon entering the house and before closing the gate, he exclaimed with melodramatic accents: “Sun of my lineage! Did that baldragas dare look you in the eye?” Don Robustiano’s character, as has been seen, was gentle, placid, and kind, to the point that not a single pauper would have been at his side if his means had allowed him to be prodigal. Neither the indispensable neighborhood squabbles nor the dealings of the town council, nothing that constitutes the interest and favorite gossip of the people of these villages, could stir him from his serene dignity; but to hear the use of a “don” before the name of a commoner; to see a rustic peasant dressed in a garment two fingers longer than a jacket; to feel apprehensive that his neighbor had not greeted him with due consideration as he passed by, or that another had laughed at his daughter’s marabou or the coat of arms on his gate… he no longer slept. If anyone dared to maintain that four miserable ounces of gold were worth more or more worthy of respect than all the dusty parchments of the most haughty nobleman; if they made him capable of crossing with his noble and pure blood the miserable dregs of a clod-digger; if, as a provocation to his august poverty, a villain dared to thrust the glitter of his improvised wealth into his eyes… he would already become tremulous and irate, and would be capable of throwing an armchair at the provocateur’s head. That was why he hated Toribio Mazorcas to death. Zancajos lived near the palace, in a large house painted green and yellow, with sturdy walls of polished ashlar and elegant iron balconies, the brand-new building breathing abundance and joy from every corner. The proximity of this house to Don Robustiano’s old, faded, and shaky house was, in his opinion, a shameless and continual challenge to his stale dignity. Moreover, the rich rascal was known in the village not so much as Zancajos as Don Toribio, who, to top it all, was a joker and had a laugh as loud as a clapper. How could the fanatic manor houseman have calmly endured such irritating provocations? Now, judge what must have been going through his mind when, according to the signs, he caught Verónica with Mazorcas’s son in sinful conversation. No sooner had he entered the house than he entered his bedroom to remove his hat and change his coat, he went to the ceremonial hall, sat down in the center armchair, and called out to Verónica in a terrible voice. Veronica, who, fearing something serious was wrong, had been pacing from corner to corner in fear since she arrived home. She came to her father’s call with her head drooping on her chest and her hands crossed over her apron. “Look at them face to face,” Don Robustiano told her, pointing to the two portraits on the wall. Veronica obeyed, and was certainly very pleased that nothing more was demanded of her. “That impassive attitude reassures me somewhat,” thought Don Robustiano. And he added aloud: “On my way back from mass, I surprised you in the alley with that coarse rascal, son of the even more rustic golden donkey, Toribio Mazorcas… When you saw me, you fled in terror, and he became a beast… This is all very serious, Veronica, and you are going to tell me what it means. ” And Veronica felt, for the second time that day and in her life, her face burning. She lowered her head even further, but didn’t reply a word. “What does all this mean, I repeat?” added Don Robustiano. “Nothing, Father,” her daughter finally replied, stammering. “Wrath of God! What do you mean, nothing? ” “Nothing, Father. ” “Snowstorms and hail! And this shame that binds you? If you’ve done nothing wrong , why did you run when you saw me? Why do you turn red now, when I ask you? ” “Because since his grace is so angry, and this is the first time it ‘s happened to him… ” “It’s the truth: I’ve never scolded you, and that will prove to you the magnitude of the reason for my anger… So, then, speak and don’t try to deceive me: what happened in the alley?” “Yes, Father, your grace… I was coming home from mass, alone, because your grace stayed talking with the priest… and coming home alone, when we reached the corner of Toribio’s lot, your son passed by and said good morning to me… I continued on, I continued on toward home without even noticing him… when he comes and calls me with the greatest courtesy… ” “Divine fire! ” “Sir, how your grace frightens me! ” “Courtesy! Courtesy!… Courtesy, a jerk like that!… Courtesy, that swine!… “Yes, sir, very politely… ” “Finish!” “First, he told me he had a favor to ask me… and that’s why I stopped… Then, then he told me about his feelings on high, and his wealth on low… and me… and my gifts… ” “Thunder and lightning!” Would that bastard, dung-scraper, be capable of flirting with you… to the granddaughter of a hundred noblemen? “Jesus Christ, Father, if your grace is so angry!” “Speak up! What happened in the end? ” “Well, nothing, Father, he… talked to me… I don’t know what about… because the truth is I didn’t understand half of what he said. ” “You’re right! ” “Your grace, Father, don’t believe it: not once did he stop calling me *Doña* Veronica. ” “Well, man, that idiot could have gone so far as to deny you the gift, the gift that is yours by divine right… But let’s go on… What else happened? I’ll bet an ear he made some advances toward you. ” Veronica, upon hearing this, buried her increasingly red face in her chest. Don Robustiano jumped onto the armchair and shouted, beside himself, “Thunderbolts and lightning!” Didn’t I say so? You did it today, Veronica! “Sir,” she replied, almost in tears, “I can swear to your grace that he didn’t even touch my clothes!” “What clothes, what hair, what two hundred thousand devils? He stopped you, dared to look you in the face, speak to you, insult you like a Bardaliegan tarasca; he, a stinking panicle, an indecent nag; you, my daughter, the descendant of a carving royal family and a hundred lords of the first illustriousness. What greater insult? What greater profanation? What greater infamy? But you see; we are in the times of equality… of the rabble, I say! and there are no longer any pillories or grills for insolent villains or for the sacrilegious… Veronica!” Your mother, who died when she brought you into the world, your noble, your illustrious mother, the only woman worthy in these seven regions, by her titles of nobility, of joining me; your mother, I say, did not give you that example. A valiant and majestic woman, she purged herself like a good woman, with a lunge and three bloodlettings, the French compliment of a Napoleonic soldier: “charmante femme” he said to her as he passed, and she, indignant, although without understanding the phrase, preferred to fall collapsed into my arms for the shame of accepting it… But you didn’t die hearing the filthy scum that that ill-bred and even worse- born lump threw in your ear… You are an unnatural daughter, you have prevaricated and I don’t want to see you again… Go away, go far from me… and tell me that I won’t put you on bread and water… because that would not be penance for you. Veronica, without waiting for her father to repeat the order, without raising her head and stepping short and small, left the great hall and didn’t stop until she reached the kitchen. It is said that Don Robustiano, being left alone, fell to his knees before the portraits of his two ancestors, and, tears rolling down his gaunt cheeks, offered his immaculate life to the eroded images in reparation for the crime of his daughter, who, according to him, was the first demagogue in that large and distinguished family. Chapter 26. It took Veronica four days to fully grasp the extraordinary events that had occurred to her in half an hour. At the end of that time, and when the memory of her father’s anathemas no longer made her shudder, analyzing in every detail the scene with Antón in the alley, she came to the conclusion that: His vanity as a nobleman was no longer affected by the breach of etiquette committed by the commoner Mazorcas, in having detained her and demanded her love in the face of the sun; That she had done very wrong in being so astonished as she had been upon hearing his remarks, and much worse in not having responded with a little kindness; That Anton was a fine young man, with eyes like this, a nose like that, and a mouth like that of another; That she had seen all this without knowing how, for she swore she had not even looked at the young man once during her conversation with him, nor had she ever before paused to consider him in such detail; That while her father’s angry expressions were being so easily erased from her memory, Anton’s respectful and gentle ones had been engraved upon her with a mallet and a chisel; That the more she examined these, the more she wanted to examine them, and the more she wanted to examine them, the more her heart beat and her ears rang; and, finally, That Anton had told her that his happiness consisted in marrying her, which meant that he truly loved her. She immediately dared to think that marrying Anton meant, because Anton was very rich, that she would be allowed to wear and eat whatever she desired; that she would escape from hardship and privation; that she would laugh like everyone else; that she would be the mistress of a house full of new, sturdy clothes; and above all, that she would give nourishment, expansion, and substance to that inexplicable feeling she was experiencing for the first time in her life; that very strange “I don’t know what” that made her find “something” in the sound of the leaves, in the flow of the water, in the touch of the air and in the light of the sun; something that until then had passed unnoticed in nature ; that a life like hers up to that point, consecrated to the sad, monotonous, and miserable memory of her rancid offspring, was a stupid self-denial and a fruitless sacrifice; while shared with that of an honorable, affectionate, and wealthy man, it had to be more useful, more pleasant, and more pleasing to God who had given it to her. In short, thinking about everything, she even thought: That it was a solemn folly to believe that a man was worth more the more stamps his record had. As can be seen, Don Robustiano’s daughter was beginning, although a little late, to pay her tribute to the laws of nature; that God did not form woman with the sole destiny of vegetating like a fern. Apart from the thoughts we have discovered in her, other external symptoms clearly showed the radical change wrought in her in such a short time. A lively and insinuating look shone in her eyes, previously stiff and dull; her mouth, usually marble-like and poorly closed, enlivened the cheerful profile of her smile, and the color of her lips and Her cheeks were no longer those of funereal rosins, but those of May roses . Nor did domestic chores bore her: on the contrary, she suddenly took a liking to work and became passionate about cleanliness and order; and always active and moving, the former rigidity of her figure was transformed into a pleasant and even elegant flexibility. She slept little and dreamed of Antón; and as soon as she heard someone singing in the alley, she was already peering through the cracks in the windows to see and hear if they were singing to her and if it was him who was singing… Of course, for this, and even for thinking, she hid from her father, who, ever since the aforementioned scene, had treated her with the most implacable severity. Meanwhile, Antón, whom we left behind greeting Don Robustiano after having expressed his daring idea to Verónica, seeing how she perhaps abandoned him when he was waiting from her lips for a word worthy of the elaborate speech we already know, felt his enthusiasm for the manor grow more and more, and he swore that he would carry out the undertaking, or “finalize” it. As a consequence of his firm resolutions… But please note, and pardon me, that where there are facts, commentary is superfluous. It was an August afternoon. Heavy, leaden clouds advanced, almost touching the peaks of the high mountains that limited the horizon of Don Robustiano’s house; the leaves of the chestnut trees that surrounded it did not move; the swifts hovered and fluttered over the village bell tower, as if playing at the four corners; the air was lukewarm, the heat, stifling. From time to time the storm clouds parted, and a fiery crack, the precursor to a dull, prolonged rumble of thunder, testified that a great commotion was brewing up above: the workers hurried to pile the cut and dry grass into the harvest; the loose cattle crowded the walls of the alleys, and the dogs, with their ears drooping and tails between their legs, returned at a gentle trot to their respective pens to gnaw a bone, whichever one had been fortunate enough to steal from them earlier, or to lick their paws or take a nap, the less fortunate among them, under the shelter of a pole or a pile of dry rushes, while the approaching storm passed. Don Robustiano and Verónica watched these symptoms with a sense of terror, and upon hearing the fourth clap of thunder, they closed all the doors and windows of the house. Following her established custom in incidents of this nature, Veronica ran to find the book of the Trisagion and the thunder candle—whose virtue consisted in being one of those used to light the Monument during Holy Week—and gave both to her father. He took a half-burnt straw from a bundle of straws and went with it to the kitchen, followed by Veronica, who dared not be alone anywhere in the house. He carefully placed the straw on the embers and then on the candle, and it was lit within three sneezes of the poor gentleman, whose nostrils reached a suffocating and nauseating smoke from the infernal mixture. And lest I be accused of being too thorough, upon arriving here, by some impatient reader, I must warn: 1. That Don Robustiano had sworn to keep matchsticks out of his house, which was so old-fashioned and attached to old-fashioned customs , as one of the modern inventions that most characterized the spirit of the times. 2. That if he lit the straw from the embers and the candle from the straw, and not the candle directly from the embers, it was because the flame of the latter was stronger than that of the straw, melting the wax that approached it while, by dint of his cheek, he lit the wick, and wax was expensive. It is, therefore, demonstrated that the aforementioned details are not made up of nothing and without their proper reason in the place where I have placed them. And now I continue. Once the candle was lit, Don Robustiano placed the palm of his hand in front of the flickering, weak flame , as a screen, and walked down the street at a processional pace, always followed by Veronica, until her bedroom, which, as you may recall, had an image of Saint Barbara. Father and daughter knelt before it, after placing the candle in a yellow metal candlestick; Don Robustiano opened the prayer book and, crossing himself, said: “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. ” “Amen,” a robust voice answered from the bedroom door. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” shouted father and daughter, thinking that something supernatural was happening there. And when Don Robustiano dared to look back, he found his neighbor Zancajos clutching his flanks and laughing his head off. “Barbarian!” roared the manor man angrily, rising to his feet. “What can this be?” thought Veronica, seeing Antón’s father in her house so unexpectedly. “You’re the only one capable of that, you beast!” added Don Robustiano, foaming at the mouth. “Ha, ha, ha!” the intruder laughed more and more. “Toribio! ” “Ha, ha, ha! ” “You damned stilts! Have you come to provoke me in my own house? And now that I think about it, how did you get in there, bandit? ” “Taking advantage of the exit of the worker or maid… or whatever that gossipy witch is who’s always lurking here… I was coming with the intention of paying you a visit; I saw the door open and I slipped in, because I said: if you don’t answer, no matter how much I knock, I won’t look out of the yard on God’s holy day. ” “No one enters my house without my permission. ” “I know it very well, Señor Don Robustiano.” –Then… –But there are cases… –Let’s finish: what’s your problem here? What do you have to say to me? –Little and good. –Good and yours? And what are you doing keeping quiet? –Waiting for you to let me speak… Since I’ve been given such a soft welcome… –The kind that a man who intrudes like you into another man’s home deserves. –Ha, ha, ha! –Again, Toribio? –Forgive me, Don Robustiano, I’m very tempted to laugh… –Are you finished or not? What is it you have to say to me? –If Doña Verónica will do us the favor of leaving us alone for a moment… –It would be better if we left her. Just like that, since the devil has put you within my reach, I don’t want you to leave without having your ears to the fire on a certain matter. Come with me. –Wherever you want, Don Robustiano. Toribio Mazorcas followed the manor, who led him to the ceremonial hall, closing the door once they were there. Veronica clung to the outside like a limpet, not so much from fear , as we have said, of being left alone during the storm, as from overhearing the conversation through the keyhole. Zancajos was wearing a rich dark suit, cut somewhere between that of a gentleman and that of a common man, with the thick links of a gold chain gleaming among the curls of his ruffled shirt. This chain then extended over his chest and descended in two large branches to disappear into one of his waistcoat pockets. His enormous feet were shod in shining patent leather boots, and he carried in his hand a sturdy cane of Indian cane with a gold handle and ferrule. None of these garments went unnoticed by Don Robustiano. On the contrary, he examined them out of the corner of his eye one by one and felt the rays of such brilliance strike his eyes with indignation, for he considered them, as was his custom, an insult to his faded poverty. And since it was in similar situations that his vanity was most irritated, he sat down with a majestic air in the chair with coats of arms and left the rich Mazorcas standing before him, who, like a man of good humor, laughed at those weaknesses. “Speak,” said the manor, raising his voice. But before Toribio could open his mouth, a horrendous thunderclap was heard that made the pavement tremble. “Blessed Saint Barbara!” exclaimed Don Robustiano, covering his face with his hands. “Who in heaven are written with paper and holy water on the altar of the Cross, deliver us. Amen, Jesus!” Veronica concluded from her hiding place, her teeth chattering. “This will pass, Don Robustiano,” said Mazorcas. “It would have passed if you had let us pray the Trisagion in peace and in the grace of God! ” “If that’s why, we’re already praying it, for I’ve known it by heart since I was a little boy… And if not, listen and forgive me: ‘The Trisagion that Isaiah wrote with great zeal, he heard angelic hierarchies sing in heaven …'” “Toribio!… Don’t mock holy things, since worldly things deserve so little respect from you. ” “I’m not mocking, Señor Don Robustiano; for, thank God, I am a man of great faith. ” “Anyway, you devil of a soul, what is it you want? ” “I’m trying to make it known… and in few words. ” “God willing.” “I, Don Robustiano, although a man of low birth, as you call it, with no more education than the sledgehammer and the irrigation, knew, through hard work and patience, how to honestly earn myself a more than average fortune in Andalusia . ” “And what does that matter to me? ” “It might matter to you. ” “Not as much as a chestnut, less than a pin, just so you know, you charlatan! ” “Things mustn’t be taken that way, Don Robustiano, for I come from peace; it ‘s in cases like this that one must speak with complete clarity, and what I’ve noted has no other meaning. I say I’m quite rich, and I add that I’m a widower, that I’m getting on in my old age, and because of that saying, ‘The young may die, but the old cannot live,’ and because ‘the mutton goes before the lamb,’ all my assets must soon pass into the hands of my only son. ” “By the way, that son is a scoundrel.” “I think you’re mistaken, Don Robustiano. Antón is a great guy, not at all stupid and very affectionate. ” “I repeat, he’s a bandit. ” “I maintain that you’re slandering him. ” “You’ve wronged me. ” “That’s something else; and if it were true, you could count on the fact that being my son wouldn’t save you from me slapping you in the face. So tell me how he’s wronged you. ” “By daring to raise his ambitions to my daughter. ” “That’s not wrong. ” “Impious! ” “That’s what I said. And I don’t consider him such, that speaking to you about this matter is the only thing that brings me here. ” “Hello!… So you’ve come to drive the point home? ” “Would you let me finish explaining myself? ” “Go on, sanculote; finish, Freemason. ” “Thank you, Señor Don Robustiano.” The fact is that both my son and I, since our means permit, have proposed to provide, in him, who is young, robust, and generous, the foundation, the foundation, and the link to a family in the style of today’s wealthy families. We want the coat and the clods of earth to perish in my generation and for more splendid ones to emerge from it onward ; in other words, if possible, from now on, the people of my house will be born wearing frock coats, like the other one who says so. “And do you think, you scoundrel, you coarse fellow, that a frock coat is made for a gentleman? Do you think it’s enough to scrape the dung from your hands and put a handful of ounces in your pocket and a gold chain around your neck to become a personage of quality? But, sir, this rabble of today, this gang of Jacobins, imagines that even the law of God is also subject to the whim of their infamous ambitions!” And as he said this, a thunderclap broke out, even louder and more prolonged than the previous one. Its vibrations shook even the old pictures on the wall. Don Robustiano curled up into a ball, and Zancajos himself didn’t feel very safe under those rotten roofs. “Do you hear it, Voltaire?… Even the wrath of God threatens you!” exclaimed Don Robustiano, opening his eyes after the thunder had ceased. “What I hear,” Toribio responded sarcastically, “is that it’s thundering, and what I see is that this is shaking, which could mean a threat to me as well as a warning to you. ” “A warning to me? Revolutionary, to me? And why?” “Because this is going away, Don Robustiano, and it’s a shame that for a “A misguided vanity, you will be left under the moon of Valencia tomorrow , or crushed beneath a pile of rubble, like vermin, which will be even worse. ” “What do you mean, bandit? ” “That we, not the impious as you believe and I forgive you, nor the bandits, nor the Jacobins, but the good, believing, and hard-working men, who by dint of labor have made a fortune; that we, I repeat, are the ones called to strengthen these coats of arms that are falling from decay, and these moth-eaten roofs; to make these barren lots produce and to fill with noise and joy the hollows of these smoky halls, which no longer have anything to do on their own since the death of Queen Maricastaña. ” “Jesus… Jesus a thousand times over!! And there is not a lightning bolt that… God forgives me ! A spark… Hail Mary most pure!… But go on, go on, Robespierre; Go on, skinner: I want to see how far your sacrilegious audacity goes. Don Robustiano said all this, twisting angrily in his armchair, chattering his teeth and clenching his fists. Zancajos continued after smiling: “I, as I’ve already said, have a lot of money. ” “The bags again, braggart? Are you provoking me again, you little oil-grubber? ” “I say I have a lot of money. ” “Come on! ” “I have a lot of money, but nothing more. ” “You’re known. ” “And I would like, at the cost of what I have left over, to acquire what I lack; I would like to find a position for my son that is nothing like these rustic young women of the village, nor even like the snobbish , damsels of the city… I would like, for that matter, a poor manor woman… ” “Blessed Saint Robustiano!” “A poor stately woman who would be willing to prop up the facades of her palace with the piles of eighty pounds earned in the tavern in Seville. ” “I see you, Iscariot. ” “She would always be a lady; she would rest in the shade and on well- padded armchairs, and she would obscure the sun with the finery that Antón would throw at her… ” “Go on, go on…” “She would go out and see a little of the world, if she so desired; she would raise her children in the fear of God and to rise to the needs of the day… ” “Go on, go on, you son of a bitch! ” “And as long as she loved her husband and thought herself very honorable to him… ” “Come on… frankly, man, ask with that mouth of yours! ” “In conclusion, Don Robustiano: my son and I have thought of Doña Verónica, whose hand I have come to ask of you for Antón.” Green, yellow, blue… the proud manor’s face turned twenty-five colors upon hearing Zancajos’s last words; and he was already preparing, I don’t know whether to throw a piece of furniture at him or to call upon all the furies of hell to his aid, for he had plans of both, when the hall, which had gradually become half-dark with the intensity of the cloud cover, was suddenly illuminated by a fateful, phosphorescent light: the nearby chestnut trees bent their heavy crowns roaring; the balcony doors opened with a crash; a thunderclap burst in the air – a splayed one, that is, according to the mountain dictionary, sharp, strident, as if the sky were an immense canvas and two enraged giants were tearing it apart with uneven jerks ; The clouds tore apart, and the hurricane, in its powerful wrath, rolling up seas of water and hail, flooded valleys, alleys, and rooftops… and the man in the ailing palace uttered a lugubrious, terrifying groan, as if, yielding to the weight of the years and the fury of the tempest, he were crying out to his sheltered ones: “Save yourself if you can, I’m sinking!” All this happened together in the briefest of moments. Verónica, who was anxiously awaiting her father’s reply to Toribio’s demand, uttered a shout; Don Robustiano two, and Zancajos a “zambomba!” that was worth ten; and immediately afterwards the three personages, trampling on one another, fled terrified to the yard. There, sheltered from the rain under the vain tile, they waited a long time for the last remains of greatness to collapse. Don Robustiano’s. What anguish this unfortunate man must have endured in that situation, during which he didn’t dare open his eyes, needless to say. If the roof collapsed, what would become of him? Where would his poor but haughty independence go? Half an hour passed, and the fury of the storm passed as well. Don Robustiano was beginning to believe that the creaking that made them flee the hall didn’t come from any serious damage suffered by his palace, and his spirits were calming down, and he had even dared to open his eyes when, after looking at the building again and again, he exclaimed, pointing to a spot on the roof: “How horrible! ” “I’ve been seeing it for half an hour,” said Mazorcas. “And if that were all!” “Well, what else is there, son of Lucifer?” “Look under the eaves, next to the balcony door. ” “Good Lord!” What Don Robustiano and Toribio saw was an enormous crack at the top of the roof and a tremendous fissure in the wall of the main facade. Poor Veronica was crying; her father was pouting. The rich Mazorcas, deeply moved, dared to say to them: “You must no longer think of sleeping in this house; and to remedy the evil in part, I offer you mine with all my heart. ” “Jail first!” the fanatic manor replied angrily. “You’re a very ill-advised man, Don Robustiano! My house is much more comfortable, where you’ll want for nothing while this one is being repaired… and I’m also putting my money at your disposal for that purpose. ” “I’m not asking for alms! ” “Nor am I offering it to you, Señor Don Robustiano. ” “For now, I still have that gazebo. ” “That’s true; but that little shack isn’t spacious enough, not even the necessary shelter.” “And what do you care?” “Nothing, if you wish; but, frankly, it makes me feel sorry to see you, in a situation like this, still splitting hairs and breathing through that damned wound of nobility. ” “Do you still have the mood to provoke me, coalman? ” “No, sir: what I want is for you to understand, in sæcula, that through that crack in the wall the little grandeur you had left in the house has already fled. ” “Get out of here, you privateer! Get out of my corral, you robber! ” “Yes, I’m leaving, and without getting angry, Don Robustiano; and as proof of it, I offer you once again, without delay or return, the money necessary to repair the ravages of the storm. ” “Once again, the anointing takes over before your money!” “Bah! Think about it calmly… and don’t forget my other proposition either , for you will thank me for it one day… and you too, Doña Verónica. ” “Father, tell him yes,” the poor girl dared to murmur in a pleading tone, alluding, it must be said, more to the marriage proposal than to the other. “A bolt of lightning!” cried Don Robustiano convulsively. “Leave me alone ! ” “I’ll oblige you. Cheers, Don Robustiano! Goodbye, Doña Verónica. ” “Go with Him, Don Toribio,” responded the noblewoman affectionately. “Don… saddlebags! Don Marrano!” “You wicked woman!” exclaimed Don Robustiano, beside himself, upon hearing his daughter treat a man as common as Zancajos in such a manner. Meanwhile, Zancajos left the yard, half-smiling and half-sad: half-smiling, because, for a man of character like his, Don Robustiano’s aristocratic tantrums always offered a most delicious delight; saddened, because, as a man of common sense and an excellent heart, he pitied the tenacity of the nobleman who pitifully sacrificed himself, with everything that belonged to him, for the sake of a misguided dignity, obstinately rejecting the fortune that knocked at the door of his house. Chapter 27. When Don Robustiano and Veronica were left alone, the former gave free rein to his lamentations, while the latter’s sobs grew louder . The vain Tres Solares had never counted on that harsh blow of adversity , and he thought he would reach the grave with the same haughty, though poor, independence that he had found when he came into the world. He had lost everything in a single instant! Everything, because the pavilion he had left could only be used as a temporary dwelling, and that with great difficulty: his capacity was limited, and as soon as autumn arrived, sleeping there would be as much trouble as sleeping out in the open on the most unsheltered flagstone. There was, therefore, no other remedy than to repair the damage to the palace, whose roof could collapse at any moment; and for this , money was needed, precisely what Don Robustiano lacked; and to acquire it, he had to sell the land and the mill, in which case he would have a house… but he would have nothing to eat; and to have it, he would have to forgo the repairs, which was equivalent to condemning himself to living in the open air, which was even worse than dying of hunger. All these considerations, in this same way and in a single moment, assailed the mind of the afflicted gentleman before he emerged from the empty roof. Immediately, as the matter was urgent, he resolved to equip the gazebo with the furniture and clothes that Veronica and he had immediately and amidst fright, running, and every kind of precaution, removed from their old home. When it was time to go to bed, Don Robustiano renounced this pleasure; he preferred to spend the night awake, pacing around the narrow room that Veronica’s modesty had divided with a quilt, two sticks, and four tacks, searching in his mind for a way to procure, with the decency, decorum, and dignity appropriate to his class, those meager pennies he so urgently needed. He immediately rejected the option of selling his meager possessions. A loan seemed more acceptable. But to whom was he proposing it? Toribio? Before he could face hunger, cold, and death itself. There was no need to think about the other neighbors: they were either miserable settlers from Zancajos, or rich people as _ordinary_ as himself. The priest, who, as if in confession, could make the advance payment without even the birds noticing, needed the very small stipend the State gave him to keep from starving to death. The City Council was something else: this was undoubtedly, of all the lenders, the _least unworthy_ of him, since after all, it was an entity, officially, of high significance, even if in individual details it was quite despicable. But could the City Council become a lender? And if it could, as a mere administrator of other people’s funds, wouldn’t it be more demanding than anyone else in terms of precautions and guarantees? And if it demanded one of these, should he _humble_ himself to grant it? And if he did humiliate himself, would he find it? The land and the mill were enough for that; But, once the loan was due, how would he pay if he had to eat until then? And if he didn’t pay and they sold him the mortgaged property, how would he eat from then on? And always turning in this narrow iron circle, Don Robustiano lost his mind and sweated profusely. “Oh, dog and madman, thieving and materialistic century, you see my troubles and are neither moved nor ashamed!” the wretch exclaimed, half-irate and half-afflicted, as if the century were to blame for what was happening to him. And as soon as he calmed down a little, he would return to his reasoning and once again stumble upon the two fatal extremes: not eating, or the humiliation of begging; more clearly: hunger or Zancajos’s money. “Look,” he said, recoiling from these two conclusions, as if they were sharp points piercing his face, “look how very useful it would be if all the men in my hierarchy were united in a close alliance. In this way we could face certain eventualities and laugh carelessly at the treacherous and destructive tendencies of the impious rabble who hold us in low esteem and corner us like despicable beasts… But in situations like the one that happened to me today, would we have enough self-denial to confess to others such an urgent need? Would pride of lineage be capable of such sacrifice? How could we doubt it? In the sad alternative of demanding a… yes, sir, a handout from a proud and presumptuous innkeeper, or of claiming the generous help of a man of quality, there is no room for hesitation. On the other hand, as the proverb goes, dirty linen should be washed at home… There’s no doubt I should take my troubles to the country’s hoary families. But will they want to protect me? Could they, even if they wanted to? The truth is that between us there have always been such systematic and tenacious prejudices and hatreds… Then so many suspicions that these gentlemen don’t have more polished looks than I do!… It’s also true that we’re not trying to get them to fill my pockets with coins just by arriving… I’d be very careful not to reveal my troubles to anyone all of a sudden! For now, I’d limit myself to testing the waters and preparing my intentions, and then… then, what the devil! I ‘d at least have the consolation of unburdening myself to someone about this anguish that’s killing me. And, turning over similar arguments in his mind, Don Robustiano finally agreed on the advisability of seeking, at the very least, the advice of one of his own. He then proceeded to compose them all in his memory and conduct the necessary review in order to choose the most suitable one. Of course, he didn’t know any of them by acquaintance, not even by sight, and only through news from his father; but he believed that, in this case, this circumstance mattered very little. Here is the result of his task: Ten families had been mortal enemies of his own, some for reasons of interest, others for points of etiquette, and still others for reasons of character; of the whereabouts of as many, he had not the slightest knowledge; he knew that another half dozen of them had completely died out, and that some had been reduced to an old spinster or a celibate fool. He found only one that did not entirely discourage him: a family whose intimate and cordial relations with his own had lasted until the time of his grandfather, inclusive. It is true that since then the representatives of both families had not communicated directly or indirectly; but this was no obstacle to our ancestral home’s plans, for, as a man of quality, before dwelling on such minor details, he ought to adhere to what history and tradition taught him in very different ways. He therefore took the plunge and resolved to entrust his bitterness to the advice, protection… or whatever might come of this family, the only one, certainly, he could count on among all those included in the long catalogue of the nobility of the Montaña. I must point out that I knew of it that its current representative was called Don Ramiro, and that he was close to his age; that he lived in a town quite close to his own; that he was married to a noblewoman of the most ancient and heraldic variety in the country, and that the motto of his arms was, of all the mottos on mountain coats of arms, the only one that could almost compete with that of the Tres Solares. It ran thus: “They granted a favor to a King And married an Infanta, And gave glory to the same sun Those who founded this house.” In consequence of his resolution, in the heat of the moment and before his will could waver, as soon as dawn broke he ordered the horse to be hunted, which in the last storm had ended up in the fifth hell; after it was caught he had it given the indispensable rubbing of garojo; Verónica hurriedly prepared a change of white, and with all the ceremonial that we know, Don Robustiano rode at ten in the morning. He crossed six alleys, two mountains and a hill; And as he went down, amidst a hundred sturdy oaks, he stopped before a gate as old and as emblazoned as his own. It was that of Don Ramiro’s house. He called his page, opened a shabby-looking giant, and ordered the man to announce his master to him. While the latter was leaving, he glanced from the yard at the exterior of the house and found it not much more splendid than that of his own palace. He took this fact into account and did not find things very successful for his aspirations regarding the direct assistance of his colleague. But, on the other hand, with this conviction, he felt more courageous in treating Don Ramiro with a certain ease, and this consoled him to a certain extent. Meanwhile, Don Ramiro, surprised by the news of Don Robustiano’s arrival and lacking time to put on his evening dress, threw over himself a sort of cubic slouch to cover his many newspaper slips and transparencies, and went down to the doorway, extending the greatest courtesies to the newcomer. “Do I have the honor of speaking to Señor Don Ramiro Seis Regatos y Dos Portillas de la Vega?” Don Robustiano asked him, dismounting. “I am the honored one, Señor Don Robustiano,” replied Don Ramiro, bending more and more. Then the first extended his right hand to the second, and , “Except for the glove,” he said, alluding to one that covered it, very old and embroidered with three rows of sequins on the back. “I accept it and I reciprocate,” said Seis Regatos, clasping it tightly. He immediately ushered his guest into the house, sending the page to the kitchen and ordering the horse to be locked in the stables. No mention was made of lunch for the former or feed for the latter. The rooms the two manors passed through until they reached the dais where they stopped do not merit special mention, because none of them could compare greatly to those in Don Robustiano’s palace. As for the dais, it was also comparable in size and preservation to the ceremonial hall we know. But it had no portraits like this one. In its absence, there was a very old grandfather clock and a trophy composed of two curved sabers, a bowl-sword, a hunting horn, and two hunting knives. The only furnishings were the indispensable calf armchair with the family coat of arms carved on it, and four straw chairs in very poor condition. Don Robustiano also appreciated the value of everything that, given its location, had to be the finest in the house, and he concluded that he was dealing with a personage as reputable as himself. For his part, Don Ramiro had had sufficient time to examine his guest’s attire and was soon convinced of the accuracy of the information he had regarding Don Robustiano’s means of fortune. The two noblemen sat down, and the man of the house said: “First of all, I must express my regret at not being able to introduce you to my wife and daughters, for they have been at church since this morning. ” “I see you!” thought Don Robustiano. “I’d bet an ear that they are hiding in some corner for lack of clothing with which to present themselves before me in a manner befitting their class.” And he replied aloud: “Your wife and your daughters, all very dear ladies of mine, are always devoted to this humble servant, Señor Don Ramiro.” “A thousand thanks on their behalf and on my own, Señor Don Robustiano. And to what do we owe the honor of such a pleasant visit? ” “The honor is mine, Señor Don Ramiro; and as for the purpose of my visit, it is purely and simply the desire to personally meet the noble grandson of my grandfather’s great friend. ” “How I rejoice in this idea, which gives me the pleasure of shaking your hand and offering you my cordial friendship! ” “Which I accept with all my heart, Señor Don Ramiro, regretting not having put into practice many years ago the thought I am carrying out today. But you know, from your own experience, how habits become second nature to men of our standing. One isolates oneself, withdraws, and, shut up in one’s shell day after day, month after month, year after year, one can no longer manage to emerge from the doorway the moment one chooses. So it is that I, although always eager to shake your hand, have never been able to secure an opportunity that seemed opportune enough for it.” –The same thing, more or less, has happened to me with respect to you. –I believe it! –And how did you manage to overcome such laziness today? –Well, I’ll tell you, Señor Don Ramiro: I’m getting very old; I’ve spent many years in retirement and silently devouring the pain, not to say spite, caused by the disdain and contempt with which the current century views men of our origin; and I’ve said to myself: “Will it be possible that I should die without the most gratifying pleasure of pouring my heart out beside the man in whom all my friendly affections are concentrated, without saying to him: behold, bound up in this heart is all the loyalty with which mine was devoted to your family for centuries?” And with such faith I said it to myself, Don Ramiro; so ardent did my desire become, that I immediately mounted my horse… and here I am. “That trait exalts you, Don Robustiano; and, in return, I can, thank God, offer the illustrious Tres Solares with all the adherence and sincere affection of a hundred generations of Seis Regatos. ” “God forbid I should doubt it! And would that all the good people of the Mountain had always and for all things followed this same conduct among ourselves! It would be a different story today! ” “Do you believe so? ” “Should I not believe it? Do you doubt it? ” “Not so; But… “No buts, Don Ramiro. It is evident beyond all doubt that a close and cordial understanding among all the nobles of each country would have given us considerable strength. The vulgar, the new, the enlightened, as they say now, discards us, intimidates us: let us band together, let us support one another; and in this way, if we cannot overcome the overflowing torrent, we will be able, separating ourselves from it, to live in a separate haven with our memories, our ideas, and our mutual aid. Who among us is exempt from adversity, from a stroke of misfortune? Today you live quietly and carelessly in the bosom of your family, in the warmth of your home; and since the century cannot snatch away from you rights and preeminences that were worth a hefty maravedis, because you already have them all safely back there, the firebrand of a villain, the lightning of a storm, can annihilate the venerable roof of your ancestors.” Incomes are meager—I’ll give you an example—with the benefits and privileges of better times suppressed; the family demands attentions that cannot be curtailed: how can you repair the unexpected disaster? Should you profane your nobility, insult the august traditions by speculating like a Jew, or work the land like a miserable wage earner? No, surely. Should you accept the humiliating alms of a rustic philanthropist? Much less. Should you sell your coat of arms for a handful of gold? How horrible! The State, meanwhile, pretends not to see you and pretends it has no need of you: what side do you take in the supposed misfortune? This is where the need for mutual aid among all of us is indicated. “That would be magnificent, Don Robustiano; but it would be tantamount to depriving us of one of the traits that has always distinguished us most: making us capable of that fraternal union.” Discord has been precisely the most common sin among families of quality. “A sublime sin, a magnificent sin, Señor Don Ramiro, in the times of our greatness; because, keeping us in perpetual rivalry, it bore fruit in great enterprises that redounded to the honor of the class and luster of the nation. But today is different: today we are few, we are without strength, and we are afflicted by a common misfortune. And since we cannot live like lords, we must try not to die like slaves. ” “I see, Don Robustiano, that you have not yet been convinced of a sad truth. ” “What? ” “That our time has passed; that we are superfluous in the world, and it is a chimera to dream of alliances, much less of restorations; that there is no choice but to surrender oneself to discretion… ” “What! Would you be capable of compromising with the tendencies of the century? ” “Well, not at all…” “Then would you compromise on anything?” “According to and according to.” “Let us clarify the matter further.” Let’s suppose that tomorrow some rascal, a rich innkeeper, so to speak, comes to your house and asks for your daughter in marriage: would you grant her to him? –Señor Don Robustiano, if the rich innkeeper were honest… But you give me an example that is difficult to solve, because as I have not been in the supposed case and I cannot foresee the circumstances in which I will be would then find and those that would adorn the innkeeper… –That is to say, you grant me the possibility of admitting such a graft into your family? –Forgive me, Don Robustiano, for up to now I have neither denied nor conceded anything on the matter. But since we are talking about examples, suppose, for your part, that I am dying of hunger; that I have many daughters; that a rich innkeeper asks me for one; that I deny him because my name is Seis Regatos y Dos Portillas de la Vega; that I really and effectively die tomorrow, and that my family, alone and miserable, is gradually dying out amidst the pangs of hunger and the shudders of cold. What is the purpose of these sacrifices? Who thanks me for them, who rewards them? The world? The world either does not see them, or laughs at them; because, believe me, Don Robustiano, laughter is what inspires many acts that cost us tears. History? We don’t deserve a sad mention. Our ancestors? They consider their lineage finished, since two dozen marginalized individuals, eroded and without prestige to show off or destiny to fulfill on earth, cannot concern for even a moment the venerable spirits of those illustrious progenitors. Our conscience? Mine tells me that when worldly vanities have no transcendental and immediate object, it is even a crime to indulge them. “You astonish me, Don Ramiro!… But even admitting that the world, history, and our illustrious traditions should have no bearing on our conduct today, aren’t those two dozen individuals, eroded as you say, worthy of some consideration? If one of us, in order not to succumb to the rigors of adversity, were to fail to live up to his antecedents, to disregard the luster of class, what would the others say? ” “Not a word.” “What!… You’re joking. ” “As I said, Don Robustiano. ” “The proud ones of A…, for example!” “For six years they’ve been fattening up off a position as town clerk that the eldest son obtained; the second raises cattle, and the third is the wife of a schoolteacher. ” “Don Ramiro! ” “That’s all there is to it, Don Robustiano. And it’s well known that you’ve spent your life shut up in your shell, dedicated only to worshipping your own voice. Much of that has happened to me too , believe me; but I have four daughters: they, like women, are curious and have managed to acquire important information about _our_ people without leaving these four walls. I believed them to be exaggerated, like you; I tried, in my own way, to verify them, and I soon became convinced that they were the pure truth. This way of thinking, which surprises you so much, dates from that time.” Since then, despite my enthusiasm for the luster and dignity of the class, I don’t know how to answer questions like the one you put to me about the infamous tavern keeper. Don Robustiano was shocked. “And the nobles of B.? ” “The eldest daughter has married off to a meat dealer. ” “Horror! And those of C.? ” “They’ve divided the estate among the brothers, and you have everything there: a cart driver, a fair-hopper, a lazy brawler… ” “It’s possible! And those of D.?” ” Those of D. have turned their crenellated towers into haylofts, and their coats of arms into scythes and rakes: they till the land and scrape dung from their cattle.” Those of E. have done the same, and so have all those who have been able to do so, and those who do not, due to lack of property, if they have daughters, wait for the well-known innkeeper to take care of one of them and maintain the others; and if they do not have any, they would go with the Moor Muza who would feed them. Don Robustiano found himself, listening to Don Ramiro, like someone who has just woken up and doubts whether he is dreaming at the moment or if he was dreaming before. Alone, shut up in his mansion, without having exchanged a word in his life with the other noble lords of the country, he believed in them and in their august dignity with all the faith that his reason was capable of, nourished during the course of For so many years, by dint of chimeras and chivalric abstractions, he believed in the incorruptibility and greatness of his fellow soldiers, like Don Quixote in Amadís de Gaula or Tirante el Blanco; he judged them all by his own sentiments. That is why Don Ramiro’s statements had such an impact on him because they were unexpected; and since they came from such an accomplished knight, he did not dare for a moment to doubt them. He immediately accepted the belief that he had lived mistakenly for many years and that at that time he found himself alone on the Mountain. Such disenchantment brought a tear to his eyes. But since every cloud has a silver lining, he immediately wiped it away with the well- founded idea that the defection of his noble brethren relieved him of the scruples that so hindered the resolution of the conflict in which he found himself. As a fanatical manor , Don Ramiro’s words pained him; but as a needy mortal , he received them with delight. He clung to this latter effect as more bearable; and to make it more justifiable in his own eyes and to extract the fullest possible benefit from it to his own situation, he sought in the new arguments of his dispassionate interlocutor the force that his own conviction lacked. “You leave me astonished with your news,” he said to Don Ramiro, following his purpose. “I was no less astonished when I acquired them, Don Robustiano. ” “According to them, Don Ramiro, the example I gave you of the manor whose house is destroyed by a blow of adversity takes on an entirely different color from the one I gave you. ” “I believe it.” “For a nobleman to accept a loan from a peasant when all other worthy resources have been exhausted in vain, and when the damage is irreparable if the loan is rejected, is no longer a humiliation for the former. ” “Quite the contrary. ” “Is that your opinion? ” “With the firmest conviction. ” “And if that peasant has a son and requests your daughter for him at the same time he offers the loan, acceding to his demands, especially since the son is an honorable one, seems trivial to me, given that I know that the proud people of B. have admitted a meat dealer into their family. ” “Undoubtedly. And here, where you can see me and no one can hear us, and speaking to you with more frankness than at the beginning, I will tell you without hesitation that if the honorable and wealthy innkeeper of our example were to request the hand of one of my daughters, I would grant him both, and even those of their sisters if the law permitted me.” –Word of honor, Don Ramiro? –Word of honor, Don Robustiano. But I see that you place great emphasis on these two suppositions. Would I be indiscreet if I asked you the reason for this? Perhaps you find yourself in a position of having to decide something in that regard? –What apprehension, Don Ramiro! Not at all. Verónica, my only daughter, is quite free up to this hour from having to choose between nobles or peasants; and as for my house… bah! It is firmer than a rock… except for a small damage it has suffered and, thank God, I will repair it without anyone’s help… But I could… tomorrow … and it is advisable to walk on clear ground… because, well, you understand what I mean. –Very much so! –So, Don Ramiro, that we of the blue blood have already concluded? –For _in sæcula sæculorum_. –And, consequently, farewell nobility, farewell formality, farewell good faith, and farewell nobility! –They say that we have been replaced by another of a new stamp: the nobility of deeds, the aristocracy of position, that of money. –Diabolical nobility, infernal aristocracy! –But one that we have no choice but to accept. –First the torture! –Remember, Don Robustiano, what we discussed. –You are right: we are nothing now, we can do nothing, we are worth nothing! –It is harsh, but it is true. –Oh, miserable scoundrel! –Despise her as I do… and get on with life… And to make it more bearable, let’s go to _eleven o’clock_. “Don’t bother yourself, Don Ramiro. ” “I do it with the greatest pleasure, Don Robustiano.” Don Ramiro left the platform and returned shortly after, carrying on a tarnished tray two shortbread cookies, a bottle of white wine, and up to half a dozen very hard and chipped sponge fingers. While the two manors luxuriated in the aromatic Nava, they broached new topics of conversation, which no longer inspired much interest in Don Robustiano after what he had learned about the one who had brought him there. So he tried to shorten the conversation as much as possible and return to his village as soon as possible. When he said goodbye, Don Ramiro promised to pay for his visit. “I wouldn’t forgive you if you didn’t honor me with it,” Don Robustiano replied. And yet, at the same time, he decided to give him a solo at the door, as usual; For no matter how discredited the class was, he still hadn’t resigned himself to showing his house to anyone, especially since the mishap the day before. Walking back to it, Don Robustiano racked his brains to convince himself of the need to accept Toribio’s offers, and of the lack of disgrace it would bring to his good name. These are his final thoughts: “If everyone has prevaricated, what would my inflexibility lead to? Who could now hold it against me to accept Toribio’s pennies to rebuild my house? Who could consider Verónica’s marriage to Antón an insult to the class’s splendor? No one… However, my own blood, my own character, reproach me for these acts as unworthy of me… But I shouldn’t give these gentlemen the same consideration today as I would in normal times. “I am on the verge of being homeless, and to restore it I cannot count on the support of my fellow men… In a word, with bread and a roof, in my position the day before yesterday, I would have died immaculate protesting against the prevarication of my people; but since they have deserted their natural and legitimate field, and in my circumstances today, I can and must, without blushing, compromise my scruples in deference to the pressing need that overwhelms me.” The unexpected resolution that Don Robustiano adopted as a result of his visit to Don Ramiro is therefore abundantly clear . I say this so that you will not be surprised to see how our manor owner behaves in the paragraphs that follow. No sooner had he arrived home than he had eaten hastily, burning his palate with the daily slop, which Verónica had prepared worse than ever on an improvised stove in the woodshed, than he sent a message to Toribio warning him to come and see him immediately. Zancajos didn’t wait and immediately appeared at Don Robustiano’s house. He ordered Verónica to leave them alone in the pavilion and said to Mazorcas as soon as his daughter had obeyed him: “Toribio, you must know that there is something in a man stronger than his own will… ” “Yes, sir, genius,” replied Zancajos. “Precisely, and that is why yesterday I was a little more severe with you than I would have wished.” Toribio received this satisfaction from the haughty manor with the greatest surprise . “Well, let’s leave it at that, Don Robustiano,” he replied affably . “I have a temper that only makes me shy away from certain vents… So let’s not talk about the matter any more, and tell me how I can be of service. ” “I’m going there. You already know the misfortune that occurred yesterday at my house: you witnessed it. ” “Yes, sir. ” “That misfortune needs immediate repair. ” “Yes, sir. Where will this end? ” “I have the resources to carry out this repair… you won’t deny it! ” “No, sir! ” “But those resources are real estate, properties that yield interest, but slowly and parsimoniously. Isn’t that so? ” “A lot, indeed. ” “Therefore, I cannot immediately command the necessary sum to undertake the work immediately… eh?” “Quite right.” “Then, if my income were not enough, I should propose an advance to Juan or Pedro on account of my estates , there’s no harm in it. ” “What’s there to it? And as proof of it, I once again today place at your disposal whatever money you may need for the occasion. ” “Thank you, Toribio… And so that you may see that I worthily respond to your offer, I accept it at once.” The shrewd rich man, searching while he listened to and answered Don Robustiano for the reason for the swift change that had taken place in the latter, suddenly remembered having seen him ride out that morning, and did not doubt for a moment, upon hearing his last words, that his trip had been for the purpose of soliciting from some other nobleman the favor that had been spurned to him, and that his intentions had been frustrated. Nevertheless, far from trying to take revenge by aggravating the affliction of the wretched Don Robustiano, he welcomed his trait of self-sacrifice with the most lively joy. It is true that he intended to use the event for his other well-known schemes. “Well, rascal! That’s how I like my men,” he said to the manor, “open and open. Ask now with that mouthful, for it will surely be measured. ” “As for guarantees…” added Don Robustiano with repugnance, fearing that Zancajos would demand a new humiliation from him in this regard. “As for guarantees,” responded Toribio with his usual openness , “one will suffice, Don Robustiano. ” “Which one?” said the latter, trembling. “Play these five.” And Mazorcas extended his hand to the manor. He saw it lying beside him as if he were seeing a snake; But sacrificing his proud instincts once again for the sake of necessity, he responded to the idiot’s wishes by barely touching the five sturdy fingers of his right hand with his own, cold, lean, long, and sharp, saying at the same time: “I touch and I appreciate. ” “Now for the serious part,” thought Mazorcas. And, not entirely sure that he wouldn’t anger Don Robustiano again, he said with great care: “As for the amount, you will determine it, as well as the time of delivery. But before dealing with these secondary points… I would like to remind you of another that we left pending yesterday. ” A new effect of repugnance on Don Robustiano and a new sacrifice of his ancestral vanity. “As for this matter,” he responded with visible displeasure, “I have decided that you should come to an understanding with the person to whom it exclusively matters in my house.” And he called Verónica. Zancajos was completely surprised. “The power of necessity!” he exclaimed to himself. By acting thus, Don Robustiano intended to salvage with form the humiliating effect that, deep down and in his judgment, the consummation of Toribio’s project represented for him. By not assenting to his word, he believed his dignity to be less offended, which, despite his recent convictions, remained as proud as ever. When Veronica entered and Toribio greeted her, she grew more crimson than when Antón had first declared his amorous desires. Don Robustiano, biting his lip and pinching the lapel of his jacket, began to pace around the narrow space in which they found themselves. “Doña Veronica,” Mazorcas said immediately, “I know that you know my son’s intentions regarding you, and I also know that Antón loves you much more than he did last Sunday, even though he loved you very much then!” With this background, I had the honor yesterday of asking Señor Don Robustiano for your hand in marriage for my aforementioned son Antón. An event that you will not have forgotten was the reason why my letter went unanswered at the time; but today things have changed, thank God, and your father has replied that he is leaving the matter under your care and discretion. Is that not so, Señor Don Robustiano? “Yes,” he replied, grumbling and turning his back on them. Verónica’s surprise at learning of the change in her father’s will was even greater than Toribio’s a little while earlier. “So you say that,” he added, coming closer to the stunned girl. But Verónica was giving no clue. She was picking her nails, She bit her lower lip, rocked on one foot… and nothing more. Finally , after a while and several times of encouragement from Toribio, “If my lord father is willing…” she said convulsively, glancing sideways at Don Robustiano. The manor man gave another grunt in reply and paced more quickly . “He says yes,” shouted Toribio, interpreting the confusing monosyllable to his liking. “Well then… me too,” added Veronica, sweating with embarrassment. Don Robustiano, upon hearing this, roared like a panther; but he tried to restrain his anger. “Well!” exclaimed Toribio then, full of joy; “this is a done deal. I’m going back to my house to tell the news to Antón, who will receive it as a blessing from God, and… But first, let’s get down to business. The work on this house is in such a hurry that I would start it tomorrow.” You can’t live here with the commotion that’s going to ensue; and since we’re some… “Not yet!” cried Don Robustiano, in the final throes, as it were, of his vanity. “I mean,” replied Mazorcas, “that we shall be, and with that understanding, I hope you won’t refuse my house again. ” “That would be decent!” grumbled Don Robustiano. “Don’t you think? After what you’ve arranged, to go and get that girl in there!” “There’s a good solution,” observed Zancajos: “let’s have the nativity scene early. Isn’t that true, Doña Verónica? Isn’t that true, Don Robustiano?” Needless to say, the former readily agreed to the proposal. As for the latter, he was determined not to speak of the matter and remained silent as a dead man; I say incorrectly, like a cornered wolf. But Zancajos was perfectly able to decipher grunts and grumblings, and adjusting Don Robustiano’s to his liking, he declared the Nativity scene in advance and agreed, on behalf of the others, that it would take place as soon as all the indispensable trifles were dealt with. “Another thing,” he added: “you, Señor Don Robustiano, are not as suitable as I am to deal with the labyrinth that will be stirred up here tomorrow when the work begins. If you allow me, I’ll take charge of it. ” “That’s more!” said Don Robustiano with deep bitterness, thinking that he could no longer even have control over the old mortars in his house. “I think you have not understood me well,” said Toribio, divining the intention of Don Robustiano’s words: “you will receive from me whatever amount you like; You will supervise the work and pay the workers and materials, and do everything as you wish. What I wanted for myself was, so to speak, the position of foreman, because, don’t kid yourself, I know the little people very well and I know how to keep them on their toes like no one else. All this, Don Robustiano, is for the purpose of moving the work forward and ensuring that we are not fooled. Furthermore, I believe that great benefit can be derived from this house by giving some direction to the organization… well, just as I would give it. Don Robustiano did not find Toribio’s request entirely unreasonable; and since it was, after all, the least of the three humiliations he had accepted that day, he agreed to it without great difficulty. Zancajos took his leave at once and ran, as he had said, to take the happy news to Antón. Verónica remained in ecstasy, savoring, without fully understanding, her unexpected happiness. Don Robustiano, meanwhile, thought he saw embedded in the ceiling the faces of his ancestors, staring at him angrily, fulminating in a storm of curses. “Cain of the ancestral land!” he thought they were shouting at him; “what have you done with the glory of your family?” And overcome by this nightmare, he ran feverishly around the room, sweating drops of gall. At last, he surrendered to the force of his own excitement, and as he collapsed, fainting, on the emblazoned throne, he addressed to heaven, from the depths of his anguished heart, this prayer: “God of justice: if I have acted with want, make it fall entirely on the century that abandons me, not on my illustrious honors! Not on me, who am succumbing to the rigors of misfortune!” Chapter 28. A fortnight after these events, the town where they occurred was theater of others of a very different nature. The doors and windows of Zancajos’s house were festooned with roses and thyme; the six best cooks in the vicinity, taking charge of the chicken coop, the pantry, and the kitchen, were plucking here, stirring there, and seasoning there, and they were stirring the fire that heated twenty yards around, and as it leaped up the chimney in a volcano of sparks, it carried with it aromas that made the whole neighborhood smack their lips. In one corner of the yard, other less skilled cooks were stewing six large pieces of veal; a platter of red wine was improvised in the center, and a greased pole was being set up on the other side. A multitude of rockets were exploding in the air ; four bagpipers were roaming the alleys, playing the merriest tunes they could on their hoarse instruments; the bells were ringing; The best young men in the place would neigh to the clouds; the girls would adorn their tambourines with ribbons and bells; the sacristan would hang clean, ironed cloths on the altar of the main altar, and the schoolmaster would bite his nails searching for the consonant he needed to complete an epithalamium. Toribio Mazorcas, resplendent in gold and patent leather, went from the kitchen to the corral, from the corral to the cellar, from the cellar to the fountain, from the fountain to the sunroom, and would give an order here, a flirtatious flick there, a pinch in another , and everywhere he would laugh and make a racket. Antón, dazed and trembling, would dress in his room, with the care of a coquette, in a suit as rich as it was brand new, and would look at himself in the mirror, and smooth his curls, and give such a sigh that the windowpanes would tremble . Verónica was doing almost the same thing in her narrow alcove in the stately pavilion, and tears of joy flowed from her eyes as she fitted a beautiful silk dress to her waist and placed a delicate garland of flowers like snowdrops on her head. She gazed with childlike delight at the iridescence of her skirt, the undulations of the gold chain that hung around her neck, and the polish of her blue satin slippers … and all the other finery that Zancajos’s fortune had prepared for her in Santander in little more than a week. Don Robustiano, I don’t know if out of respect for his daughter’s modesty or out of resentment for her luxurious attire, had abandoned the pavilion and was thoughtfully wandering through the ruins of his palace. And by the way: all that remained of it was the four walls, and not even the complete one, for the cracked one had been cut through, which is to say that half of it was missing. The roof, the attic, the main floor… everything had collapsed in a few days, for Zancajos had proposed to build a substantial one, and this room because it was false due to the tiling and that due to the wall, he demolished them all, contrary to Don Robustiano’s intentions, who would have liked to preserve them in their original state, if possible. The corral and the chestnut shed were filled with sawhorses and piles of mortar and half-polished ashlars, with all those bearing coats of arms standing out in the doorway in a separate group, for these were kept like gold in cloth to be placed, in due course, in their usual places in the building. On the day we are referring to, the crowd of workers working there had suspended their work in observance of the festival. Everything we have said about it happened when the sun had barely managed to gild the cross on the church bell tower. Two hours later, a cheerful and picturesque troupe left Toribio’s corral and headed for the neighboring gate. It was composed of a large group of dancers, under whose crossed arches were Mazorcas, his son, and the mayoress. We will later find out what kind of whistle this lady was playing there. Behind the dance were twelve female singers with tambourines adorned with double bells, and following the singers were countless young women and young men from the most prominent part of the town. The area surrounding both houses was occupied by a crowd of onlookers. The four bagpipers opened the march, playing a kind of a very popular tarantella in the Mountain, and the dancers stamped their feet to its beat, grave as statues. When the bagpipes stopped, the singers began in this way. Six of them, in a slow and languid tone, keeping time with their tambourines, sang: “Of the bridegrooms of these lands, here goes the cream of the crop. ” The other six, with the same air and accompaniment, responded: “May the Lord Saint Roch bless him, May Our Lady bless him. ” Then the twelve: “Of the bridegrooms of these lands, here goes the cream of the crop. May the Lord Saint Roch bless him, May Our Lady bless him.” Alternating in this way twice more, the singers and the pipers, the group arrived at the gate of Don Robustiano, before which they all stopped and fell silent for a moment. Immediately afterward, the young men of the procession let out a whinny; but so firm that it reached the neighboring mountains and even had a large part left to return to the starting point in very perceptible echoes. Immediately afterward, the tambourines, while Zancajos tapped three times on the iron gates, sang this new stanza: “Sun, come from these valleys, leave the dark retreat, for at your door is the morning star who is going to marry you.” Moments later, the portal opened and Don Robustiano and Verónica appeared: the former pale and with a look of bile and vinegar; the latter trembling and blushing; the former in his worn evening dress; the latter in her rich, brand-new bridal finery. Zancajos, Antón, and the mayoress came forward to receive them, and since the five of them did not fit comfortably under the arches, it was decided that only the two gentlemen would occupy this honorary position. This honorific distinction did not fail to flatter the vanity of the manor, who entered under the arches, clasping his daughter’s hand with a majestic air and a hint of disdain, as if he deserved that and much more. The young women smacked their lips at the sight of Veronica’s luxury; and more than four of them, considering that she had won the town’s great favor, looked at her with unwillingness. The manor thus positioned, and at their side, though outside the arches, Toribio, his son, and the mayoress, the procession set off amid the neighing and acclamations of the curious, the music of the bagpipes, the songs of the singers, the bursting of fireworks, and the ringing of the bells. It is worth noting that the sacristan had been perched at the top of the tower all morning, in order to solemnize with a clean sweep any movement he noticed among the wedding party. When she arrived at the church entrance, the priest, the mayor with a commission from the town council, the teacher, and the schoolchildren came out to greet her. The former, a prudent man, limited himself to greeting each of the four principal figures of the cheerful and picturesque group. The mayor, a wealthy farmer, shaved his head with a razor when it didn’t involve improving land and collecting taxable wealth, who in this respect was capable of driving the most witty crazy; but with presumptions of being good for everything , just as no one dared to be mayor, finding what the priest did as a tribute to the bride and groom, without that, he decided to teach him a lesson at such solemn moments and show the entire town what he knew how to do with finesse when the occasion required it. To this end, he stood firmly on his feet, swung his arms three times, spat four times, raised his head, half-closed his eyes, and, facing the bride and groom, said very loudly: “Oh, mysteries of the future! What am I looking at? What am I sympathizing with? Are they fantasies of my eyes? No, you who come; you, the most resounding of my… vassals, to be united… for infinity… in the holy… metropolitan parish… I, and the commission of the municipality that is here in body present, you… you… we incense… we require and praise you so that it may be congratulations and for the glory that I desire for you. I say this on this date.” And the mayor said no more; but he looked around him with an air of Conqueror. The councilors accompanying him added these laconic words in unison, bowing at the same time: “The commission is granted.” The teacher limited himself to folding himself in two without saying a single word; but then he quickly turned on his heels and, turning to his boys, shouted, raising his arms: “Unite!” And the rascals began to sing a hymn composed by the pedagogue, forming at the same time, with the precision of recruits, in two lines that ended at the door of the church. The procession passed through them and entered the temple. Don Robustiano went to occupy the seat, which at that time was covered with Toribio’s finest quilt. Toribio, as godfather; his son, Veronica; and the mayoress as godmother, knelt on the steps of the high altar. The pipers and the choirmaster ascended the choir stalls, the former to play Mass, the latter to deliver the epistle and lead the other singers. I will pass over the details of the religious ceremony, since, mutatis mutandis, they were familiar to every faithful Christian, as the reader undoubtedly is. I will only note that there were shotgun shots and rockets fired at the door at the moment of the Consecration; that the bride and groom, when the occasion arose for the Epistle of Saint Paul to be read to them, moved to the choir stalls to hear it from there, as if in this way a more solemn possession of the privileged seat would be granted to Mazorcas’s son; that Don Robustiano, although he viewed this intrusion with bitter displeasure, no longer knew what expression to put on, given how, on the other hand, he was flattered by the pomp displayed in honor of his daughter. and finally, Toribio was laughing and crying at the same time, and unable to contain himself, he embraced his father-in-law, Veronica, Anton, and the mayoress, and was on the verge of not embracing the priest as well. When the ceremony was over, and after the customary congratulations and good wishes, the procession re-formed at the church door and set off as it had come, with the only difference that now Anton also went under the arches, and as they passed, his father threw handfuls of tarines and even half-pesetas to the crowd, a tempting and stimulating bait that caused the procession to break up more than twice because the dancers, pipers, and singers would get out to pick up every single lost coin, despite Toribio having told them so, fearing such gross indiscretions that would follow for everyone later. An hour after the wedding arrived at the rich scamp’s house, the celebration took on a very different character. The priest, Don Robustiano, Zancajos, the bride and groom, the mayor, the mayoress, the councilors of the commission, the teacher, the sacristan, and more than a dozen of the most select people in the place occupied the long table that had been prepared in the main hall. The dancers, the pipers, the singers, and whoever else showed up took possession of the courtyard, where there was, for the less fortunate, a plentiful portion of stew, bread, and wine… and rice pudding. The priest, being a foresighted and prudent man, left the table very early, leaving the guests completely free after toasting the happiness of the bride and groom, to whom he offered much wise advice. The presidency left vacant by this good gentleman was occupied by Don Robustiano, who accepted it with his characteristic gravity. But all this was not enough to keep the good people around him in order. Toribio laughed, shouted, and shouted; the sacristan sang; the mayor gave three speeches; the mayoress clapped ; the councilors granted their approval three times, and the teacher, believing the occasion had come, after asking permission at the head of the table, read the composition that had cost him so much sweat and that went like this: “Versification of epithalamium in twelve unequal feet of verse, according to rules; devised by CANUTO PROSODIA, elementary primary school teacher of this town, and dedicated to the greater preponderance, majesty, and aggrandizement of the illustrious DOÑA VERÓNICA TRES SOLARES and her exalted consort, DON ANTONIO MAZORCAS, commonly known as ANTON, by abbreviation, today is the day of their nuptials or betrothal, September 1st of the current year of grace. Let the natural stars and the celestial bodies come to light, and let the rajuca and the miruellas sing in the walls ; for Doña Verónica, then, with Don Antonio, on this day, has already contracted her nuptials, or marriage, with a symphony. May heaven shower them with blessings , it is my wish, and may they have children in abundance. Amen.–Laus Deo. While
these and other things were happening above, half the town was entertaining itself in the courtyard, eating slices of meat and jugs of wine, which was a marvel. Two barrels, or pipes, from Rioja made the fountain, and at three in the afternoon it was necessary to stir it with another vat, because it was already going out. At that hour, seven calves of rice pudding had been devoured, and of the six calves, only one leg remained. When this had disappeared as well, and the fountain was drained and the calves were drained, the boards that had served as tables were raised , the awnings that protected them from the sun were removed, and the musicians began to play the storks’ bagpipes. This, along with half a dozen rockets launched into the air, was the signal for the great commotion; I mean, for the climbing of the greased pole and the general dance. Everyone who could stand threw themselves into it, and those who couldn’t, belly up or as their fill and seasickness allowed, began to neigh and cheer the bride and groom. These, with some of the guests from above, then went out onto the balcony. And I say some of the guests, because the councilors, the teacher, and three other guests, upon standing up, were struck by the mania that the floor was shaking, and since there was no reason to prove them otherwise, they remained where they were, finishing a few bottles of sherry with the good intention of strengthening their spirits to better face the catastrophe they feared. As for the sexton, as soon as he heard the noise from the yard, he insisted on going and ringing a musical note, which he knew for great occasions; but his wishes were not fulfilled, because when he went to grasp the clappers, he thought the bells were turning over by themselves. He became frightened, lost what little composure he had left, and counted, one by one , all the steps of the bell tower with his head and ribs. Meanwhile, as the brawl in Toribio’s yard continued, the crowd began shouting for Doña Verónica to “dance.” Zancajos supported the request, and the granddaughter of a hundred ” first-class” gentlemen had no choice but to shake herself a little among that crowd of good-humored young men. Mazorcas, Antón, and the mayoress applauded each turn of the blushing Verónica; but Don Robustiano, who had swallowed more bile than pork chops during the meal, finding himself forced to mingle there with such a scoundrel and feeling the limit of his patience reached the limit with his daughter’s new indecorous condescension, grabbed his hat and headed home, without any pleas or entreaties being able to stop him. “Anyway,” he said to Zancajos, “I wasn’t supposed to sleep here…” “What do you mean?” And I had prepared the best room in my house for you! ” As long as there is a single tile left in mine to protect me from the elements, my noble limbs will not rest in another’s home. I do you the justice of granting you that your intention is the best in the world in presenting me with your house and in dedicating to my daughter the pomp you dedicate to it today: even more, I thank you; but your ambitions should not reach the point of expecting me to authorize with my presence certain excesses and to compromise with other bad habits, incompatible with my character. Let time pass, and then we will see if in my own house it is possible for me to accept willingly what today, as a pupil in yours, would be intolerable. In the meantime, the old neighbor of mine will make up for the lack of Veronica in the gazebo to provide me with a frugal sustenance. And God remains with you. The inflexible manor man said no more; but I know for a fact that when he arrived at the old pavilion, it seemed to him like an immense wasteland, despite its physical smallness; he found its enclosure cold, and the color of the walls darker and sadder than usual. Trying to explain the cause of this phenomenon, he fixed his gaze on the brown serge of Veronica’s abandoned dress, and two large tears scalded his cheeks. He protested against such weakness; but the recourse was useless, because then his eyes poured out oceans of tears, and his oppressed chest burst into groans of anguish. For the first time, Don Robustiano realized that there was something more in his nature than a feeling of admiration for his lineage. Thirty years spent with Veronica had not been enough to make it known to him: a moment of solitude made it clear to him. The proud and fanatical Tres Solares realized in those supreme moments that his daughter’s absence distressed his soul more than the loss of his heralded palace. He would never have dared to believe it. But his old resentments had deep roots in his chest, and finding in them enough strength to resist the impulses of his heart for the time being , he rebelliously devoured his own bitterness in the sad solitude of that enclosure, rather than go to another to seek the consolation he so desperately needed. Nevertheless, his tears were not in vain: the most sensitive chord of that soul had already vibrated, and its mysterious echoes soon found a loving refuge in his heart. When human nature suffers such shocks, time alone suffices to guide the wavering spirit to the destination it yearns for, to the center it needs. Mazorcas said nothing to Verónica about her father’s withdrawal; On the contrary, in order not to disturb the joy of the newlywed at such a critical moment, when she noticed Don Robustiano’s absence, she made her believe that he had retired to rest in the room that had been prepared for him there. The wedding continued as lively as at the beginning; and night fell, and bonfires were lit in the courtyard, and the people continued dancing and laughing until nearly ten o’clock. Then Toribio tapped a barrel of exquisite brandy, and with this _rest_ dismissed the crowd, who were now much in need of repose in bed. There was singing and music again, but of unbearable discord; cheers and congratulations to the bride and groom, to Don Robustiano, and to Toribio; the councilors, the maestro, and the band of revelers were awakened , who were snoring at the table in the hall; This was cleared out, the yard was deserted, what could be gathered from the china and other trifles from the feast below, the cooks left, order and silence reigned again in the house of the rich rascal, he discreetly withdrew, and… Whoever wishes to know more, let him go to Salamanca; for I am making a point here and casting, as fine novelists say, a veil over the remaining events of that day of imperishable memory among the residents of the aforementioned town, whose name, I repeat again, I neither wish nor ought to remember. Chapter 29. Arriving here and about to conclude the present story, I need the reader to suppose that eight years have passed since the events I have just described. Having made this supposition, he should turn his eyes toward the people and things we have been discussing, and his insight will be great if he recognizes them at first glance. The palace is now worthy of such a pompous name, both inside and out, above and below. The site has been transformed into an orchard of rich and varied fruit and into a pleasant and delightful garden. It is no longer enclosed by a buttressed , weed-covered wall, but by a solid wall that, while protecting the enclosure, serves as the base for an elegant fence that allows passersby to feast their eyes on what is forbidden to them. The belt of chestnut trees is a beautiful park lined with whimsical paths and flowerbeds and covered with thick grass. The former crenellated half-tower is a very wide glass viewing window; the gazebo a summer room; the empty tiled roof opposite, half greenhouse, half aviary, and so on; for Toribio had set his mind, as we said, to making a grand affair, and he accomplished his goal by transforming the old manor house into a dwelling provided with all the comforts the most exquisite taste could demand in the countryside. Well, let me tell you about the inhabitants of this improvised Eden! Antón is a rather fat man who spends his days running from farm to farm, here supervising the harvest, there inspecting the cabin, over there pruning a hill, on the other side the construction of a new farmhouse, here scolding a lazy settler, there rewarding the industriousness of another, etc., etc. He is always late for lunch, no matter how much he intends to the contrary, but never in a bad mood; and the greatest relief he allows himself, as he collapses exhausted into an armchair while his soup cools a little, is a couple of snorts in the air and another of kisses on each cheek to two little ones, blond as gold, plump and fresh as butter and healthy as coral, who attack him as soon as he sits down, and climb onto his knees, and loosen his waistcoat, and squeeze his throat, and clamber onto his shoulders, and stun and intoxicate him with their attacks, hugs and stampings. Verónica is an agile, smiling matron who looks into Antón’s eyes. She bears the burden of managing the house, and after attending, as she does, with eager delight to such sacred duties, she has barely an hour left to devote to her greatest delight: watching her two imp wizards run through the garden or the chestnut grove. She hasn’t wanted to leave the village limits for even a moment , as Toribio wished, so that he might get to know the world a little. For her, the world is that corner where she was born, where her children, Antón, and all the people and things dear to her are. The only regret that troubles her is the thought that one day, and not far off, she will have to separate herself from her children to give them an education they cannot receive there, if their father and grandparents don’t resolve, as she wishes and they don’t, to make them become gentlemen farmers, like her father. Toribio, a little grayer and more vocal than before, is the same as ever: cheerful, joking, and affectionate. As soon as he learned that his son was as capable as he was of directing the Nativity scene of his estates, he entrusted them to him with the greatest of enthusiasm and devoted himself solely to savoring the joys of family life, for which he had a heart of pearls. Don Robustiano suffered greatly during the eight months that Toribio’s magical guidance was needed to complete the palace. His fatherly heart advised him every day to go and occupy the comfortable room that the lavish scamp prepared for him in his house; but his characteristic tenacity and aristocratic inclinations prevented him from doing so. Therefore, as soon as the final brushstroke of paint was applied to the manor house, he presented the brand-new home to his daughter’s entire family. And to toast in such terms was equivalent to Don Robustiano saying, “I need you to come live with me; I want to die in your company.” The truth was that loneliness was killing the poor old man, and he even regretted more than once, during those months of anguish, having been born so noble, and, since he was, having always boasted of it, because the repugnance to contradicting himself, to having to swallow the storms he had unleashed against the common rabble, and especially against Toribio, was the only thing that prevented him from accepting the latter’s hospitality. On the contrary, welcoming him under the ancestral roof transcended Don Robustiano’s mercy, and this in itself gave a very different color to the matter. In this way, all the characters in our story saw their most ardent desires satisfied when they took shelter together within the old palace: Don Robustiano, because, as we have seen, he languished in solitude; Veronica, because, knowing him, he suffered a lot away from his father, and Toribio and Anton, to see Veronica happy and to finish to become part of the illustrious family in every way. With such a favorable background, it was not unreasonable to predict the most complete harmony among the new inhabitants of the restored palace. We have already seen what a character, so in keeping with this prognosis, Verónica, Antón, and Toribio display eight years later. As for Don Robustiano, let the reader be amazed and cross himself! He has put on weight, laughs at Zancajos’s jokes, places him next to him in the church pew, walks with him, and frequently pats him on the shoulder; he chats with Antón, encourages him not to wear a jacket, even when walking around the house; he often goes with him to visit the fields… and loves him dearly. Could a greater transformation of character be possible? And how could anything else happen? Don Robustiano is the first in his house in everything. He presides at the table; he leads the rosary; it is from him that money is asked for household expenses; His slightest whim is respected like a command; the best seat is given him when he returns from a walk; the servants greet him from half a league away; the sunniest, largest, and best-furnished office is his; Toribio has subscribed to a newspaper of his own ideas… and all these and countless other attentions are showered upon him by the family spontaneously, without his needing to offer the vaguest hint. As if these reasons for satisfaction were not enough, Veronica’s two angels never let him rest for a moment and make him run with them, tell them stories, and play hide-and-seek… and they smother him with kisses, which, of all the delights with which he is surrounded, is the one that most consoles and rejuvenates the soul of the honorable old man. He holds long and heated discussions with the family about the future of the two beautiful creatures. He wants them to be lawyers; Antón, engineers; Toribio, generals, and emperors if necessary. Veronica… may they never be taken from their side. “In all professions, arts, and trades,” the manor always concludes, “there is what a father should most aspire to for his son: that he be a good man, and these children are already well advanced to be as much as any: not needing to occupy themselves with the means of acquiring their daily bread; a dangerous task in which many consciences, by nature upright and delicate, are twisted by the rigors of necessity, and not a few brave spirits are faint. They have another advantage of still immense utility, if they know how to take advantage of it for all it is worth; a great book to learn from, a living example to imitate: his grandfather Toribio… Yes, my friend: you, despite your modesty, without pompous arguments, without noisy chatter, but with very eloquent actions, have been able to make me understand, and now I delight in confessing it, that there exists a nobility more illustrious, greater, more venerable than that of blood, than that of parchment: the nobility of the heart. After hearing such clear, such ingenuous manifestations from the mouth of Don Robustiano, and after contemplating the picture of his family, which I have just briefly described, what remains for me to say? Nothing, benevolent reader. Calculate, then, and you will not be mistaken, that I have concluded; Forgive my mistakes, and if you are a mountain man and a mountain fidalgo, restrain your suspicion and grant me the justice to believe that when speaking of Don Robustiano and Don Ramiro and the host of manors that they evoke in their dialogue, I thus remembered your father or your grandfather, as well as the Emperor of China. NOTES: 7 Let the reader place in this space the name of the town in the Mountains that seems most appropriate to the subject, since I do not dare to do so on my own, knowing, as I do, the apprehensive susceptibility of more than one of my countrymen.–N. of the 1871 ed. 8 Let the reader pronounce it as it is written, that this is how Don Robustiano did it. 9 The custom of singing in this manner is still quite common in the Mountains; but more than to the bride and groom at their weddings, the gift is usually dedicated to the children of the town when, after many years of absence, they return rich to him, and to the patron saint, when they carry him in procession. The two verses that we put in the mouth of the second chorus are the ones that are always sung in such cases, as a refrain, with the appropriate alteration in the first, according to the saint of the locality and the object of the celebration. –N. of the 1871 ed. LOS BAÑOS DEL SARDINERO A VISTA DE CASTELLANO RANCIO –And what carriage are we going in? –In the first one we find in the Plaza Nueva… –There you have three… four… –And which will be the best? –They are all worse; but let’s take the one that is already being occupied , because it will be the first one out. We’ll go in the front, if that ‘s okay with you. –Perfectly: with that I’ll see the landscape better. I really like the countryside around here. Besides, you know I haven’t seen the sea yet, because I’m saving that surprise for today: I want to see it suddenly, as if to say… Listen! Do you know how delightful these two young ladies inside are? Wow, and how nicely their little hats look on them tilted to one side! Well, look at the lady in the corner to my right: she takes up half the carriage by herself… and she looks young and very pretty; I mean, if the devilish veil of the hat she’s wearing doesn’t deceive me. “Anyway, it could be. ” “Do you think so? ” “What it seems to me is that you’re in pretty good spirits for being so early. ” “What do you want, man! One of those devilish Campos people is coming along, where everything is seen in one color, and that bad one at that, and it seems that here the heart expands amidst all this greenery, and, above all, amidst all the grace that God bestowed upon these creatures… Zape!” “What a rough ride this carriage has… These are fine houses!… I mean, the whole neighborhood is new!… A church under construction… ” “It passes for built today. ” “It must have been started recently. ” “Very recently, about thirteen years. ” “Well! So, what’s that? Money would be tight. ” “No, sir: with what those walls cost, a cathedral could have been built in any other town. ” “Well, I don’t understand. ” “Nor I do either. ” “What a painful slope!… and it’s called ‘Calle de Montezuma’. And how ugly that damned street is!… Hello! We’re on the main road now… I think that’s the bullring, eh?” “Exactly. ” “Well, Canary Islander!” I confess that my Castilian vanity swells when I see towns undergoing these renovations. A bullring should never be missing in any of our towns that value themselves in the least. ” Either we’re Spanish or we’re not. Isn’t that right? –Of course… and long live Pepa! –It’s obvious. As long as there’s wheat in Castile for those who want to pay it well… –Fair enough! Even if the poor there and here eat rye and cornflour. –That’s the right way, that’s how God wanted it: that’s why the fingers of the hand are not equal. Let’s leave the foreigner, who has no wealth of his own, to manage with his industries, or his witchcraft, as the priest of my town says, for they will bring him payment… Canary, what a short way back! From what I can see, this road has been recently made. –Yes, sir: it’s straighter and less difficult than the old one, which is the one we left. –Beautiful meadows! Trees, orchards, little houses; the bay behind and the mountains beyond… good, good! I like this! But be quiet: that thing you see over there by the trees on the old road, is that a factory? Yes, sir: for stearin and soap. And what is that stearin? To make candles. And what are candles? Candles. You’ll die! Well, I like that one about the factory. And what does it grind with? What do you mean, what does it grind with? I mean, what does it work with; because I can’t see the river anywhere. With steam. Ah, come on! Look, why is the chimney smoking so much? And by the way, when can we see the sea? Now let’s go and see it, as soon as we get to those trees. It’s blowing, and what a fresh breeze that suddenly hit my face! Could it be from the sea, eh?… We’re up there now… Holy Mary, what a beautiful view is revealed now!… But I don’t see the sea anywhere . –What do you mean not? Look between those two points of land you see to the right and left. –I’ll look, but all I see is sky… But wait, something’s jumping over there against that rock… Come on, brunette! Well, that’s the sea!… Virgin of Tremedal, and how big it is! You can see how it has the same color as the sky, I could have looked over there for a whole week… Man, how much God does with his divine hands! And tell me, which way do you go to America? –Well, man, through those seas of God. –But which way do you put the boat? –For now, pretend it’s to the left. –Blessed be the Lord who gives so much! And what tower is that on that isolated rock? That’s a lighthouse that’s lit every night so that ships heading for the port… I understand now: so they don’t butt heads against the island. Well , over there, to the left, you can see another, larger tower. Another lighthouse, even better than Mouro’s. Which one is Mouro’s? The one on the rock from which it takes its name. All this is superb! And to tell God there are so many people in the world who go into eternity without seeing it! But it occurs to me it must be very deep. Which one? Take it! The sea. Figure it out. And how the hell does one swim there without drowning? People must swim right along the shore. And you say: are those sparrows fluttering around far away ? Good heavens, they’re fishing boats. “Well, look, they seemed that way all of a sudden… Baskets, and how the carriage is going down this slope! There are two other coaches packed with people… Oh, my, the cold looks on the passengers’ faces! They ‘re already soaked… Is one of these houses an inn? ” “No, sir: they’re country houses, except for that large one on the right, and the one beyond it, and the other one further on, which are inns. ” “So we’re already at Sardinero? ” “The carriage is going to stop right now. ” “Would you mind shaking hands with the ladies inside so they can get out? ” “You’re very polite; but you’re excused from that attention.” –Frankly, I’d rather be arrogant than conceited at this point… I tell you, I’m very fond of the little hat’s companions… And how shapely the Indians are… my dear, my dear!… The devil on the stirrup knows what he’s doing! –Did he catch something, eh? –A little, just in passing… But around here, there’s no bathing gear or anything like it… Holy Barbara, what a noise! Is it thundering? –No, sir: it’s the waves. You’ll see them now, coming down that ramp… –I say! What I wanted most, what the procurator’s daughters asked me to do ! –And what is it? –What could it be? Little shells, little snails. Well, the eye’s nothing! You know, in my town they’ve been crazy about this ever since the priest’s niece brought a shell pilgrim from here, with her staff and all: the demon doll only needed to talk. And tell me, and excuse me, can I find another one? Yes, sir; but first let’s take a room in the bathhouse. This descent is quite comfortable… Man, how beautiful the sand is! Look, look how the water leaps on it… Boom! How that wave crashed! Now I know what that noise I heard before is about… And tell me, what are these wheeled huts up against the bathhouse for? For the sick, or for you, if you want to undress and dress at the water’s edge. See if people will be willing to get a penny. We’re already at the bathhouse. –Well, I had it right next to me, and it would have been a shame if I had seen it… Well, it wasn’t because it wasn’t attractive, for it’s really well painted; nor because it was small, for I say it’s big!… Well, I won’t tell you anything about it. “This corridor: be careful, it’s long! Well, there are only a few rooms on either side… and each one with their own decent furnishings… And here’s the counter for the master… and behind these curtains, more rooms… ” “Hold on right there, that’s the ladies’ quarters. ” “And is it fenced off? ” “Yes, sir. ” “Well, I didn’t say anything… Let’s see this other thing… Come on, it’s the _recreation_, so to speak… Go on, what a sunny spot!… with its little pillars and its roof. I assure you, you could spend the morning here feasting your eyes. ” “I won’t deny it. But are you thinking of taking a bath? ” “Well, I’ll tell you: that’s the mood I left home with; but as I get closer to the sea, I’m starting to respect it a little… I’d like, if it’s okay with you, to leave the first bath until tomorrow. ” “Sweet.” “But you can take a bath if you want. ” “Thank you very much .” I prefer to devote myself entirely to you today, because it seems to me you still have many questions. That’s true; but don’t give up on it: tomorrow will be another day. I can’t vouch for being in as good a mood tomorrow as I am today. Then go ahead. And tell me, for now: what are those two long ropes that run from the shore out to sea for? So that the men can hold on, if they want, to the one on the right, and the women to the one on the left. Hush, it’s true, for over there I see a bunch of shapes that are women’s heads. Oh, and how they squeal! Cataplum! There goes that wave… it’s covered them! I tell you, the damned women are brave. Here comes one. Holy Mary, what a vision! And how the sack is whipping! Yes, give it a go, give it a go with your hands, you’ll get a long way! Here comes another one: that one’s really having a good year! They look like _l_ and _o_. And they’re coming this way very seriously. Do you know that, from what I see, there would be no harm in men and women bathing together? These costumes are capable of spoiling the illusion of even the most _religious_. –Not as much as you think. –Listen! These two just coming out of the room are our traveling companions. Thank God, how plump and graceful they are like that! Look how the little devils jump on the sand. Well, I’ll tell you about their feet: I swear they were little _mother-of-pearl_ rolls. Come on, I ‘d eat them. And who is that man they’re clinging to? –A bather. –Oh! I’d like to be a bather… Splat!… they dived into the water… I’d like to be water now… Are you laughing? Well, you’re wrong, because I’m capable of throwing myself into the waves just to see them bathe. “Look at the fool! But didn’t you say that I lost my hopes when I saw those suits and those appearances? ” “In the first place, those suits are not like the ones we saw before; and then, oh, my friend! It wasn’t the suits, but the women, that took away my hopes… But this other one coming out to bathe, isn’t she the one who also came with us and who seemed to fill half the carriage by herself ? Yes, there’s no doubt about it, it’s the same one. But, sir, where did you leave the meat? Look at what a deception, man! And how can this be allowed? Phew! There goes that flock of sheep… more than twelve… Go on!” Well, there go the wolves on the other side, that is to say, the men… Friend, it’s necessary to be fair: as a rule, we, in our underwear, are more graceful than the women… When I was a child, I remember having worn out on holidays a suit of the same cut as the one the men wear here to bathe; only mine was open at the back. Incidentally, because my shirttail often came out through the opening, my mother shook me every time she sang the creed… “Whew!” That poor wretch won’t be naked by a hair : a wave has lifted his jacket up close to the back of his neck. I notice that men don’t leave their jurisdiction. I like that honesty, because, after all, no one is safe from… Oh! Here come mine… Look at them, how whipped they come… they’re about to pass this way… they’re coming… Oh, how the water drips off the poor wretches!… Take that! and the other ghost greets them very nicely… He’d better shave the calves and arms of the very discourteous one… Well, look, in the middle of it all, I can’t help but like this wild frankness that reigns here between both sexes. Those young ladies will be very careful not to show half a calf in the street, and here they don’t give a damn about running in their shorts on the sand and greeting their friends in their shirts… It’s obvious that in men and women, everything, everything is a product of custom and circumstance… Go on, the other one running into the water! I suspect he’s a priest… How his crown is clearly visible! Bang! The reverend has thrown himself headfirst . Now he’s puffing and rubbing his belly. That man must really enjoy the bath… There come out three women: God forbid if they don’t look like three of the disciplinarians who go in the procession in my town on Good Friday… A steamer! A steamer! Look how handsome he is: he looks as if you could reach him with your hand… and he’s heading for the port. Could he be coming from America, eh? “No, sir, probably from Andalusia. ” “As he’s coming from the left! Well, now a sailing boat is appearing from behind the island: this one is going very gracefully! I tell you, this sunny spot is a stationary car… And what’s over there on that point of land? ” “Another sandy area even larger than this one. We’ll go and see it, if you like. ” “Well, we’ll walk… And do people bathe in that other sandy area? ” “Yes, sir: more than in this one, and more economically. ” “How much does it cost? ” “Nothing. ” “It’s cheap.” “Come behind me, very carefully, because we’re going to climb the rocks to shorten the journey. ” “Canary, how sharp they are!… Zape! ” “What’s the matter?” –Shh!… Look out of the corner of your eye, and very carefully, three yards in front of us, in the hollow of those two verdigris-stained rocks… Eh? What’s up? The girl is plump. Well, hush, two steps further to the right there’s an entire family huddled in another hollow, changing clothes… I can see the sandy area: how big and how clean it is!… –Jesus Christ, what a mess!… Men, women, children, all dressed in the very same clothes of innocence. But, sir, this is the Valley of Jehoshaphat!… How is it that there is so much rigor in the other sandy area and so much tolerance in this one? –Well, you’ll see. –That’s no reason. –I don’t believe the authority that allows it has any other more weighty reason. –And I notice that there are many people around these heights who don’t come to bathe. “You’re in the same situation as us: you’ve come to feast your eyes on that most pleasant and picturesque disorder. ” “And what a pity of a sandy beach! ” “I warn you that the queen used to bathe here when she was in Santander. ” “My goodness, what are you telling me? And did she also bathe in the open air and among this kind of people? ” “Are you crazy? She had a nice, comfortable cabin that slid down on rails, right into the waves. ” “Aha! I’d like something like that, so I could bathe in complete peace; but, you see, I’m a poor Castilian! Oh, how those damned boys frolic in the water! And those dressing on that mound of sand are soldiers, if I’m not mistaken… and women undressing two yards away from them. Holy Mary! I tell you, the picture is quite something. ” “Are you well acquainted with it? ” “Well, quite enough, in general.” “Well, you’ll see it in detail another day; now let’s go back the way we came, because the carriage must be waiting for us. ” “Won’t there be time for me to buy some little snails?” “They’re going to bring you a fortune for what you can collect for free in the sand another day: it would be best if you bought that peregrina you want so much in Santander . ” “Approved, and let’s go to the carriage… and quickly, because I can already see the two little companions getting in. ” “When I tell you that those two creatures have made you dizzy… ” “The truth is, I like them a lot… You can see, one is used to that crowd in Campos… that what is good, to say good, is already; but…” “Come on, it’s lacking, so to speak, the saltiness that this place has … So we’re going forward again? ” “If you don’t prefer to go inside to pay your respects to the usual… “No way, man, no way! Well, I’m in a good state now to act all classy with such dressed-up people!… It’s one thing for me to like them, and another for me to get upset… Come on, let’s go ahead… Well, now the one in the corner comes in… and she’s become fat again… Go on, tell your father to give you some books, and whoever doesn’t know you can buy you! What I see is that before the face of God no tricks are valid, and many will be revealed on the day of judgment, because there we will all be worse dressed than the bathers of the little Sardinero, not to say as naked as those of the big Sardinero… How these poor beasts pant!” Are they busy all day? —Exactly. —I don’t envy the businessman his profits. —And for now, what do you think of these baths, just as you saw them today? Let’s see; tell me your impressions. —My impressions, eh? Well, I’ll tell you. —I like the sea very much, and wave baths must be very beneficial, when they’re so highly recommended; but I have a bit of respect for them, and, to be honest, taking them in a carriage, I find them quite expensive. I’m enthusiastic about the openness that reigns on the beach, where they forget their scruples and labels, sexes, conditions, and standards; and it’s a shame that no part of this system is adopted in the city, since it’s proven that it fits well even with the ladies. Openness, yes, sir, openness. This is the way for us to get to know each other thoroughly . You see, until today I considered ladies to be something like this… well, even the air hurt them; and now that I’ve seen them run barefoot and, so to speak, in their nightgowns along the sand, have a chat with a friend in their underwear, and play with the waves like someone playing tag, I’m starting to believe they’re more savvy than we are. And what about the physical? It’s true that, as a general rule, all women lose in bathing suits; but it’s also true that the one we like like that guarantees a lifetime of disappointment; so, today, I would dare to advise all die-hard lovers that, unless they’re absolutely sure that their respective partners are fat rolls, they shouldn’t meet on the waves of the Sardinero… Beware, for such waves are enemies of artifice and lies! Say it, if not the usual companion in the corner… well, didn’t the indina woman become drier than an asparagus as soon as she approached the beach without the regalia she now wears? –That will prove to you that there are physical and moral lies, given that the human race cannot be perfect, that they are indispensable and even meritorious. That is why I would not lose hope if I found my girlfriend at the Sardinero a few pounds lighter than I had supposed on the walk… And let it be known that my opinion does not apply to those who choose women by pounds and trapio, as if they were fighting bulls. –Well, look, I confess in all frankness that I have always been a little carried away by that weakness. –Yes? Well, in that case, try not to frequent the Sardinero during the bathing season; And above all, bathe in it as little as possible, because if women, lashed by the waves, lose almost all of their many attractive physiques, men in the same situation… we also have to see. ” “You’ve convinced me: I’m not going back to the Sardinero. ” “You’d be very wrong. What you should do is what I do: not take women _by weight_; in this way, and always thinking of my own _weaknesses_, I bathe in the Sardinero without seeing those of others. ” “Canary! Well, I think you’re right. From tomorrow I’m going to bathe in the waves, and I must try to contain this rogue, reticent temper, even if the very image of death passes before me. ” “You’ll thank me if this resolution is firm.” –No way?… Let’s count those five, and get down, we’ll be there soon. –Take those ten… and see you later. NOTES: 10 Let the reader who knows the two Sardineros of today with all their accessories, so different from those that appear in this table, keep in mind that the last edition of it was made in 1871.–N. of the 1887 ed. GOING FOR WOOL… Chapter 30. Well-fed, healthy-colored, wide-hipped, blunt-nosed, tall- chested, cheerful-looking, and approaching twenty-two, Fonsa, daughter of an old couple loaded down with work, wrinkles, and privations, was the one who took the cake among all the young women in her town. They would hang around her at night and compete with her on Sundays in the ring, the most gallant young men; They placed flower arches at her window during the eve of San Juan, and made her, in short, the object of every demonstration that rustic mountain gallantry is capable of. But Fonsa wasn’t happy, despite everything. Her only brother had recently left for America, and two friends and neighbors who were serving in Santander had appeared in town wearing wool merino dresses and patent leather boots. The former kept her in constant hope of becoming a lady; the latter made her more concerned than appropriately with the fact that she still wore baize and calico, and that, almost always barefoot, she spent most of the year digging the earth and suffering the inclemency of the sun and the cold. That’s why she once said, in her own way, of course: “My brother has promised to make me a leading lady, but tomorrow or the next day; and from here on out, there’s already plenty of room to die of hunger. ” “I could, to pass the time better, go and serve in Santander, where my companions say they have a lot of fun and eat and dress well and work little.” And Fonsa began to lose sleep over the damned itch of ambition, which is doing and has done more damage in the Mountains than powdery mildew, the epizootic disease and cholera combined. The parents of the deluded girl, as poor in judgment as they were in fortune, dreamed like her of riches and lordships, and looked with disgust at the meager land they worked, as if it were incapable of lending them enough to cover their meager needs; So it was that, upon learning of Fonsa’s pretensions, instead of giving her a smack or two for daring to aspire to the wool and patent leather of her friends without first knowing how they had earned it, and abandoning the poor old people to the rigors of country labor, beyond their already weary strength, they accepted the plan as an inspiration from God, although with the precise condition, for the old people were honorable to the letter, that Fonsa would enter the service in a well-known and principled house, where she would be looked upon with interest. The aspiring servant immediately proposed to her parents the family of a certain Doña Remedios who spent her summers in that village, either to serve in her house or to find her another one she could trust. And Fonsa’s idea seemed so rational to his father that he immediately went to the tavern, bought a sheet of paper, and planted himself at the house of a young man who had a reputation in the neighborhood as a great penman. “I’ve come,” he said, “to ask you to write me a letter for Doña Remedios, the one from Santander.” The lad left the enormous mallet with which he had been balancing a stand, went into the house, came out again with a horn inkstand in his hand, and, kneeling before the doorway, wrote the following on the paper Fonsa’s father had given him, which he dictated to her while scratching his head: “Señora Doña Remedios: “To serve you and to my complete satisfaction: you will know first of all how my girl and we wish that the girl serve in your house, or in the house of someone of your authority, because the girl, as you know, is honorable, and we, let me say, and pardon my frankness, are very good men by sea and by land and throughout the world. If it is your will that the girl serve in your house, or in the house of your your comment, you will notify me as soon as this reaches your eyes; and if, as the case may be, it does not, you will also notify me so that we may send another along the same lines. “And with this I will not tire you any longer; rest with God, and command with frankness. The woman is good, thank God. “PORTDATO.–The girl is docile and gentle, she is in good flesh and is quick-witted by her own standards; good genius and better will. “And I will not tire you any longer for the present, to serve you and to do the lady’s family justice, I repeat. And with this you will have the honor of knowing that she is your vassal with respect , servitude, and courtesy, “CELIGONIO CALOSTROS.” The penman scratched the wall to remove powder, covered the letter with it, and sealed it with chewed bread; She put the superscription on it, and giving it to Uncle Celedonio, he took it to the local post office. Eight days later, Doña Remedios replied, saying that she had found a house she trusted, where Fonsa could serve. Then Uncle Celedonio called his daughter and spoke to her in these terms: “You are going to Santander, poor, yes, but with great honor. If I know that you leave the house where Doña Remedios has put you without her permission, and if, as I see it, you show disrespect to your masters or raise your eyes when they reprimand you, bad worms will drag me away if I do not go to the city and bring you home among the civilians. And if, keep bad company, you fail to fear God and give yourself to the brown beaks, may Our Lady of Anguish protect you, because I will quarter you.” After hearing this sermon with respect, Fonsa packed her small baggage, closed it in a pine chest, and with it on her head, left her village two days later, accompanied by her mother. She solemnly handed her daughter over to Doña Remedios, who, in turn , handed the girl over to the family she was to serve. Fonsa heard again from her mother the same sermon that her father had given her in the village, and the poor old woman, convinced that she had assured her daughter’s future, bought a “vassallón” ring and quietly returned to eat it with her husband, amidst the firebrands, and to continue struggling with the clods of earth and the cows. Chapter 31. Fonsa began her service by breaking many vessels and employing all her limited intelligence in learning her modest but transcendental obligation. She ran errands in a jiffy, because the noise and bustle of the streets frightened her, and she was nowhere more at ease than in the kitchen corner. She didn’t want to go out on holidays because she “didn’t get along” with the city’s entertainment; and remembering the dances and songs of her place, she would spend the afternoon sighing and even crying, curled up on the dining room balcony. She was terribly sad every time she went to the fountain, because she was amazed by the large semicircle of maids who, seated on their respective horses, waited for their turn to fuck. Those women spoke loudly, almost always quarreling amid grotesque gestures and contortions, and their rarest occupation was to scrutinize their masters’ opinions, bringing to light secrets that had caught the family by surprise, and making no small number of slanderous inventions. According to that congress of ungrateful and disloyal women, all their mistresses were stingy, all their masters impertinent, all their young masters sweet and affable, and all their young ladies prudish and annoying. They spoke the Pejino, that is, with the accented tone characteristic of the lower classes of Santander; and even the worst-dressed of them all wore a casabeca, although very dirty, and had her hair in a bun. Fonsa, with the accent of her place, had said, alluding to the jug she was holding, that she had been waiting for half an hour and that it was empty. These expressions earned the poor girl a terrible jeer, and some compassionate scullery maids made her know, from then on, that she should have said, “It’s still empty.” They also warned her that Fonsa’s name was _aldeano_, and that in the city it was called _Eldifonsa_. All this, plus the fact that the simple girl wore a vest and shirtsleeves and spent the Her hair in a bun, had caused her colleagues at the fountain to call her _arlotona_ and _ordinary_. Of course, the cultured fregatrices were, without exception, as country girls as Fonsa; but they had been in the city some time longer than she had, and it is well known that there is no worse wedge than one made of the same wood. When the daughter of poor Celigonio Calostros went home with the shoe on her head, while she blessed God because, according to the plans, He had provided her with the _only_ good family in Santander to serve, she sighed with sorrow when she considered all she had to learn to be on a par with her copy editors. Some time passed like this. Little by little, the plump country girl began to lose the skin that obscured the clear natural color of her face; the careful and nutritious diet she received at her masters’ house made her rounder and rounder every day; She adjusted her waist with all her might and carefully studied the dress of her fellow teachers, in preparation for when her means would allow her to acquire the coveted woolen suit and patent-leather boots. Her two countrywomen told her that she was already more striking than in the village, and that she was getting better. One day, as she was returning from the fountain, a young man approached her, sucking on a quarter-dollar cigar and dressed in the costume of these artisans, that is to say, heterogeneous in his pieces, but not very clean. “Do you need, my dear,” he said to Fonsa, looking at her tenderly, “some help with your shoes? ” “What does it matter to the devil?” replied the one addressed, with an accent and gesture harder than the rings of her shoes. “Don’t take offense, good girl, I ask this with the most tender heart and the finest will. ” “I’m telling you to leave me alone and not provoke me… Be careful, you have to see!” –I repeat, young man, that I don’t want to disrespect you, because you should know that this isn’t the first time my eyes have gone blind at the sight of that tyrannical little body. –Yes, yes; a lot of chatter, and nothing more. –This chatter proves itself if it’s appreciated. –Bah, bah! Go away today and don’t waste my patience, because I’m better off eating those devilish fools. No, if only someone were to pay attention to everything they bark in her ear!… –It seems to me that when someone comes with honesty… –If they don’t come! –And why not, brunette? –Brunette or not, my name is Fonsa Calostros, with all the honor of the most dazzling honor… and if the sun has caught my eye and I’m not as white as those in the city, it was corn growing in the harvest of my town… This one I do like!… Well, then let that idiot man imagine that I don’t like being brown! –If I’ve said anything that offends you, pardon the mistake, for the word was well-intentioned. But you know, Alifonsa, that now that I know your name, I feel that I look upon you with much greater esteem. –Another one you’re leaving! As if I were going to rub my finger in that kind of sympathy… Come on, don’t get so close! –You don’t deserve to be loved. –Nor do I need to be, just so you know. –You’re ungrateful. –And you ‘re a poorly taught slang word. –You’ll regret it one day for having received my kindnesses so badly. –I’m already starting to regret it! If only I could believe… Oh my goodness ! A full-blown colic would be better to me if I could get away in a jiffy. The men of the city are good, swindlers and liars. –There are all kinds of people in the city, Alifonsa; and although it’s wrong for me to say so, I’m an honest craftsman who knows how to give a fine gift to a young woman as interesting as yourself. –So, as one shouldn’t, so to speak, reciprocate the respect of the first thing they tell you… –That’s why I ask for your correspondence so that when my fine gifts prove to you that I didn’t mean to deceive you. –That’s another matter… Look here. I’m beginning to get a little familiar with you now, at least in the sense of formality. –As for the rest, here I am; and I think that by improving it present, I’m not at all bad in my character. –Regarding that, my dear son, there isn’t a woman less circumspect than _Lifonsa_; and even if I were uglier than you are… –I don’t think I’m that much, Alifonsa. –Let’s say that you’re a swarthy face, and you’ve got a hell of a snout that’s as bad as a snout; and then you’re badly fitted in the legs and can barely measure up… But, as I tell you, sing my praises: be an honest man, anything else isn’t worth two pins. –That is to say, without taking offense at the resemblance you’ve just made of my character, that you reciprocate my politeness? –Yeah! Not yet. –But at least you won’t deny me your conversation when I ask for it. –Regarding that… well, no… And look, don’t bother me any more, because step by step we’ve reached the door of my house, and maybe the lady has already caught up with us. –Then I won’t bother you any more. And may I ask which floor you serve on? –On the second. –Well, now I’m leaving satisfied… Of course, on the condition that…
–Condition and all, eh? Start talking nonsense like that, and you’ll see if I can throw all the water in the iron on you and make you say with lightning. –Come on, I didn’t say anything then. Stay with God until… until when? –Until I feel like it. –Correct, and no reason to be offended, Alifonsa. So, _let’s see_. And with that, Fonsa and her suitor separated. Fonsa, snorting like a wild cat, went up the stairs of her house; Her effusive lover continued down the street, went down many others, and didn’t stop until he found the blind man with the bandurria. In Santander, there’s always a blind man who plays this instrument admirably, and a woman who serves as his guide and also accompanies him on the guitar. “At nine o’clock sharp on San Francisco Street,” the young man who was looking for him said laconically to the blind man. “It can’t be at nine: I have a wedding at that time. ” “At eight-thirty, then.” “Currently. Serenade or stroll? ” “Serenade. ” “What’s her name? ” “Alifonsa. ” “Maid, maid, or cook? ” “Cook. ” “On what floor? ” “On the second. ” “All right. ” “There goes a real and a half. ” “I don’t give serenades for less than half a peseta. ” “Not four days ago you gave it for ten centavos. ” “The price of bread has gone up since then. Besides, her name was María.” “So what? ” “I’ve arranged almost all the verses for him, since he’s the most common; and those that aren’t, I fix right up by saying Mariquita, or Mariuca, or something like that. Believe me, it’s a very handy name. At Alifonsa’s rate… Come on, I assure you I’ll have to write the verses almost from scratch. ” “All that’s pantomime and flourish to gild the fancy; but since I ‘m not a man who’ll neglect a nicety for the sake of a trivial matter , here go the two reales. ” “God grant you health. And are you going with me? ” “Of course: I’ll wait for you in front of her door; she’ll see me there. ” “There’s no need for me to see you, because as soon as I turn the corner, I’ll start to sing the _pasacalle_, and you’ll hear me so you can tell me where the songs are to be. So go, don’t worry.” “Goodbye, then. ” “Goodbye.” That same night, while Fonsa was washing a pot, this song was heard in the street, to the sound of a well-strummed mandolin, sung in duet by the voices of a man and a woman: “On this second floor lives the tyrant queen of a heart that adores her, and these songs command her.” Fonsa continued washing. But this song was followed by another: “Alifonsa of my life, love of my heart, come to the window, for I am waiting beneath.” This singing made Fonsa understand that if the music wasn’t right for her, she was very close to it. Two other couplets, which also included Alifonsa’s name, persuaded her that the gift was intended for no one but her . Then she opened the kitchen balcony and leaned out. He looked at her and saw, by the light of a match struck in the street, the face of her suitor; and although this new circumstance left her with no doubt about the purpose of the serenade, the following song heard below as she leaned over the parapet confirmed it: “Empress of the Indies, I would like to name the beautiful cook who has appeared on the balcony.” It was either that the refinements of her adorer were beginning to make some impression on Fonsa’s uncouth heart , or that the music alone fascinated her, the fact is that the obliged young woman remained on the balcony for nearly half an hour listening to the serenade. When she left after hearing the last song, she found that her supper had gone sour, that the lady had smelled it, and that the latter had been shouting for her for ten minutes. Such a fault was the first that Fonsa committed in her masters’ house, and also the first in which she heard the harsh rebuke that her mistress gave her. That night she slept very badly, between the memories of the serenade and those of the subsequent reprimand: the former tasted like honey; but the latter made her tumble in bed with every thump that shook the house. Chapter 32. More time passed. During it, Fonsa spoke several times with her attentive suitor, or rather , beau; she lost the fear that the people and the bustle of the street and the pejinas of the fountain had previously caused her; she acquired, as a gift from her mistress, a casabeca, and as an advance on her pay, a dress of braided calico and some dove-colored canvas boots with green braids; she danced four evenings at the Reganche; She acquired some close friends among those same veteran maids who had inspired such respect in her at first, and she became convinced that, in spite of their squeamishness and their swagger, they were as beastly as she was. She learned at her school to laugh aloud without knowing why, and to stand for an hour with a full shoe on her head, talking nonsense to another woman in the middle of the sidewalk. She was late home three times, and for these three serious offenses she received three treble sermons from the mistress. She returned three less than reverent replies to her mistress, and for the last of these she was sentenced to being thrown out if she committed the same offense again. She spoke with her friends about this matter and became convinced that her mistress was grumpy, and stingy too, for she withheld her chickpeas, sugar, and chocolate. She dared to look for a house twice without her family’s consent. She allowed herself a few jibes from the villagers who came to serve in the city in the same condition in which she had arrived shortly before; she exchanged her old-fashioned, rigid, and upright air like a broom handle for an exaggerated sway; she loosened the traditional bun of her thick hair to replace it with the modern chignon, and she firmly fixed in her memory the words _abuja_, _endimpués_, _bujero_, _cudiado_, _sastinfecho_, _bolpe_, _juegar_ and others in the style of refined fregonil language, and some crutches of similar origin, such as _Come down now! They’ll sell red wine around the corner ! Of course, brunette!… I’m from Orozco and I don’t know you_, which she repeated at every turn, whether they were appropriate or not; And with all these improvements, she believed herself completely polished and smoothed, but not satisfied, because she still didn’t have what she most desired on earth: patent leather boots and a merino wool dress. The day of the patron saint of her town arrived, and she obtained permission from her mistress to go and spend the festivities with her family. She presented herself among her old acquaintances with the air of a heel and, like the famous rascal with the rake, boasted of having forgotten even the names of the most common farming implements, as if she had lost sight of them centuries ago. She squealed like a stoned dog every time she had to jump over a puddle, and, jumping with many dengues from mule to mule, pretended that she no longer knew how to walk in the alleys. She pitied the unfortunates who had to spend their lives gutting clods of earth and eating cornbread; she disdained to dance the periquín at the pilgrimage. Pretending that she no longer knew anything about the city but the locals, she reprimanded everyone who called her Fonsa, warning them that they should say Eldifonsa; she in turn called those called Lipas and Tanasias Celipas and Enestasias, and left her town again thirty -six hours after entering it, leaving half a penny with her father and assuring the friends she deigned to say goodbye to that she was disgusted by the vulgarity of the village. Once back in Santander, she continued to progress in the village school and every day acquiring a new friend in the fountains and squares, becoming more and more susceptible to her mistress’s reprimands and giving her a new cause for annoyance every hour. Meanwhile, she had been in service for only seven months, and her account balance was not enough to buy the merino wool dress and patent leather boots that were causing her distress, especially since she had been in the company of a girl who stood out among all others of her rank for the variety of her outfits and the frequency with which she changed owners. This girl had always shown a decided inclination toward Fonsa, and she did not rest until she became her inseparable companion in plazas, fountains, and promenades. She took the trouble to mend the pin and the four rags of the simple cook’s dress whenever they went out together; she corrected her style, both in her speech and in her gait; she procured the apologies she would have to give at home when she thought she would be scolded for being late; she promised her jobs in abundance for when she decided to send her mistress away. She, in short, was so affectionate, pleasant, and helpful to Fonsa that the latter ended up truly loving her and following her everywhere like a lamb. On one occasion they were together in the Plaza de la Verdura. Fonsa looked at and admired, as usual, her friend’s showy dress, and the latter allowed herself to be admired with delight, as if she were determined to arouse the former’s envy. “How in the world do you manage,” Fonsa suddenly said, “to throw all these amenities at you? I’m so desperate, and I’ve also begun, on your advice, to milk the groceries, and even then I don’t have enough earnings to buy a pair of stockings. ” “Well, I’ve told you before,” replied the one addressed, “that I’ve always found good owners. ” “Good owners!… and you’ve stayed a month in the house that’s worse!” –That doesn’t mean… And then later, I’ll tell you… I won the lottery. –The lottery!… Then I’ll put in the money. –It’s possible that you won’t win, and then you’ll lose whatever you put in. –And why did you put in the money? –Because… because I knew I was going to win. –And how did you know? –Because the fortune teller told me. –Mother of God!… the fortune teller!… If I dared… –And why wouldn’t you dare? –Because they say it’s a sin. –Who says so? –The priest of my town… and also the Catechism, which makes it very clear: “he who uses botched jobs or pertinent things.” –Another thing! But that must be the Catechism of your town; it doesn’t apply here. –Well, what applies here? –The Bishop; and the devil take me if I’ve heard him say one word against fortune-tellers. “Then I can go and have my cards read? ” “Of course. Do you believe in fortune-tellers? ” “As in the Gospels. And I’ve lost all desire to go see her since I’ve been in Santander! ” “Well, my child, you’re quite prepared now. ” “Right away? ” “There’s no problem. ” “Well, she’ll walk.” Chapter 33. Fonsa, trembling with emotion, placed herself at her friend’s orders and left the plaza with her; they took the Calle de la Lealtad, and, turning into other alleys, entered a dark, narrow, and gloomy doorway, from which a wormy and winding staircase led. They climbed a dozen steps and stopped in front of a door as miserable as the staircase. Fonsa’s friend knocked and went out to to open a being that I dare not call a woman, lest it offend the “fairer sex.” It was a mass of filthy, disgusting flesh, poorly covered with rags as filthy as flesh; it dragged little soles on its swollen feet, and had, on what we shall call its face, two eyes that looked like bloodshot eyes; one, like a nose, was stuffed with snuff, and around an opening that could have been a mouth, filthy and deep, like a latrine pit, grew a few stiff, scattered gray bristles. “Enter, good girls!” it said in a thunderous voice to the new arrivals. And they followed the strange being through a sort of cavern where the atmosphere was felt that must have been very similar to that of the dens of wild beasts. Fonsa’s legs were trembling and her heart was pounding. What she was seeing was nothing like what she had imagined about the sorcerers in the verses and the old women from the stories she knew. Therefore, if until then she had believed in the power of fortune-tellers, from that moment on she assumed they were capable of competing with the devil himself. The old woman stopped in a place where the room was a little wider and less dark. There was no furniture except a wobbly pine stool and a table of the same type, on which , stuck to her own tears , a tallow candle stub was propped up. In a corner of the same room, there was a dirty and torn mattress. The floor and walls were covered with filth, stains, and cobwebs. Fonsa couldn’t find her way around that filthy den, or even notice the objects around her. That’s why she didn’t notice that her friend spoke a few words very quietly to the old woman. When she had heard her discreet interlocutor and looked at Fonsa with a gesture that made her shudder, she raised her dexterous hand to her enormous bosom and extracted from it a dirty and crumpled piece of paper, a crust of bread as dirty as the paper, and a pack of cards much more disgusting than the bread and its wrapping. She took from this between her forefinger and thumb a good portion of snuff, which their noses greedily slurped, put the crust to her mouth, and placed the deck on the table. “Who shall I deal the cards to?” she asked. “This one,” she replied, pointing to Fonsa, her friend. “Cut,” said the fortune-teller, presenting the deck. Fonsa, trembling like a man with quicksilver, made two piles of the cards. “I think I’m going to tell you something good, pretty girl,” murmured the big woman, gathering the deck. “And be careful, what I say will be fulfilled like the Gospel; and here’s your friend, who won’t let me down. Eh? ” “No, madam, no; I’ve already told her that everything came true, exactly as promised. ” “The thing is, I’m not like those cheap tricksters who go around the plaza deceiving innocent people with a cheap deck of cards that has no merit. I can say with vanity and pride that I inherited these cards from a fortune teller who bought them at the cost of her soul, one thunderous night, from a spirit who had crept up her chimney. ” Upon hearing this, Fonsa thought the earth would swallow her; she closed her eyes and admired that monster who used such weapons. “And now that you know,” added the fortune teller, “what I can, be very careful not to put my advice into practice, for God would not forgive you if you rejected it.” After this, and when she realized that Fonsa was completely fascinated and stunned, and ready to doubt God’s mercy rather than her own power , she began to spread the cards on the table and, as they came out of the deck, to make comments of this kind about them: “Coins on top, clubs on the bottom: neither good nor bad. Coins, more coins; cups face down: you have desires. King of cups: for what is beyond your reach. Coins again, the ace: you need money. Another king in a tunic: you crave a dress. Spades now: for war. No, clubs are coming up, for the village: work in it; they are not good for you. More coins still: you will have the dress. More coins, the jack… and many finery and niceties.” The horse behind: a knight will fall in love with you will fill you with riches. Jack of Cups: a woman with suspicion, dark-skinned . Crossed Wands: no strength or power. More coins: fortune pursues you. Five and four nines, and seven sixteens, and thirteen sides twenty-nines… and now the Jack of Clubs: he will be young and with a wand. More coins: rich again. And so it continued until the deck was empty. He immediately gathered it together and scattered it again, accompanying himself with his own jargon, and so it continued three times. Fonsa was flattened with surprise, terror, and joy, all at once. But she calmed down even further when the fortune-teller summarized her cabalistic investigations in these terms: “A handsome and very important gentleman will fall in love with you, and he will let you know this at the least expected hour through a dark-skinned woman with a mole on her left cheek, a wart under her nose , and dressed in dark clothes and a handkerchief on her head. The gentleman will determine your fate if you do not refuse anything he orders you or anything the woman who is to speak to you on his behalf decides. You will have the merino dress and the patent-leather boots you desire right away , and you will serve for a very short time, because you were born for greater positions. You will not say anything about all this to your family, or to your masters, or to anyone else, until it begins to come to pass. Give me eight centavos and go, blessed be God, for one day you will thank me.” With a trembling hand, Fonsa took the coins the fortune teller asked for from her purse; I’m not saying eight centavos, she would have given them eight thousand if she had had them at her disposal. For four vile copper coins, a fortune! Having paid the eight centavos, the two friends left the pigsty , accompanied to the door by the beastly beast that lived there. When Fonsa stepped out onto the street, she didn’t see the sunlight, or the people she met, or the road she was following: all her scant reason was occupied in unraveling the cheerful promises the fortune teller had just made her. So they returned to the Plaza de la Verdura, where Fonsa’s friend made a very expressive sign to a certain woman who was wandering, as if aimlessly, among the baskets of fruit and cabbage. The woman immediately approached the two girls, and Fonsa jumped when she saw her. She had found in her all the signs the fortune teller had given her about the person who was to announce her happiness. “Where does all that good go?” the newcomer said to her two friends. “Well, here I am with Eldifonsa,” the latter’s mentor responded, emphasizing the name. “Did you say Eldifonsa? ” “Yes, ma’am: Eldifonsa, a girl who came from the village a few months ago… ” “And who serves in the house of…?” “Doña Liboria, who lives on San Francisco Street… ” “The same, daughter! See if fate has it right. Well, I have to discuss something of great importance with you, Eldifonsa… And you certainly have all the signs they’ve given me!” “Then I’ll leave you two alone so you can talk more to your satisfaction,” said the mischievous scullery maid, preparing to leave. “Look, Eldifonsa,” she added, “the lady has my complete confidence, and whatever she tells you must be for your benefit. So, with God, rest assured, and you have a good time, Doña Rosaura.” And the mischievous woman left. Fonsa stayed with the woman called Doña Rosaura, without knowing what was happening to her. So many coincidences together were enough to ruin any reason less dormant than hers. “I have to speak to you on behalf of a gentleman who esteems you,” said Doña Rosaura suddenly. Hearing this and Fonsa dropping the basket she was carrying on her arm was all in one. “So, on behalf of a gentleman… who esteems me?” the innocent lamb stammered at last, picking her nails. “Goodness,” insisted Doña Rosaura, carefully studying the effects of her victim’s stupor. “Well, so what?” she added, wanting to know more. “Well, daughter of God, it’s quite clear: when things get tough… and the occasion strikes, they say she’s bald. The gentleman wants to see you; principal, now.” “He is quite distinguished, and as far as he is friendly, there is nothing to ask of him; and, from the looks of it, he is very much in love with you… Granted, my child, that in this matter I am nothing more than a friend of a good man who is willing to serve a friend to whom favors are owed. ‘I like Fulana and I cannot speak to her in the street for her good appearance’; that I see Fulana and I tell her on behalf of that person that this, that, and the other thing beyond, as you have already heard… And watch what happens… So you say. ” “And what do you think?” asked Fonsa in an uncertain voice, after thinking for a while, during which she ran her fingers many times over the three loose sides of her apron. “What do I think?” responded the supposed ambassador, piercing with her gaze to the very last corner of the servant’s weak brain. “Well, it seems to me, to put it bluntly, that you ought to take advantage of the opportunity presented to you to escape from your misery. Well! Of course not! A girl as arrogant as you, still dressed in mere flimsy clothes, when the happiest of your class wear wool and patent leather and look like noble ladies! Wool! Patent leather!” To utter these words next to Fonsa’s ears was to blow a fire under her breath, to send her body tumbling into the abyss. “But do you know if that gentleman, so to speak, wishes to try my fate solely for the sake of profit?” objected the girl, struggling with her last scruples. “That’s not a question,” replied Doña Rosaura, affecting resentment… “But from what land do you come, woman, that you still stop at such inconveniences? Ave Maria, how little you know the world! ” “Oh, Doña Rosaura, they say it’s lost!” “Four prudes who want to ruin each other, and yet no one remembers them. ” “However, if only I had my father here to ask his advice!” “God save you!” exclaimed the counselor with a vivacity as if she had stepped on fire. “Parents are always blinded by the affection they have for their children, and in their eagerness to keep them from evil, they very often deprive them of good.” Disabuse yourself, Eldifonsa: if you wish to take advantage of the bargain being offered to you, not only must you not say a word about it to your family or your masters, and you must keep the secret even in your dreams, but you must also blindly obey everything the person seeking you commands. This last condition, because it was the same one imposed by the fortune-teller, completely stunned Fonsa. She believed she was under a supernatural influence, and, putting aside her last reservation, she surrendered herself at her discretion to the will of Doña Rosaura. The latter, not wanting to waste time, hastened to ask her: “When are you scheduled to go out? ” “I go out every holiday in the afternoon, until nightfall. ” “Better until a little after dark; but, anyway… Today is Saturday; wait for me tomorrow afternoon at four in this very place, dressed in the best clothes you have.” “Where are we going? ” “Where I’ll take you. And I warn you again to let me and the gentleman manipulate you, if you don’t want everything to be taken away by a snare; and don’t even dream of letting anything we’ve discussed escape you; and be very careful not to give me credit for knowing you when you go with anyone, especially the lady. ” “Wise. ” “Then see you tomorrow… and if you miss, it’ll be against you. ” “I won’t miss, Doña Rosaura. ” “You’ll thank me someday. ” “God willing!” And the two women separated. Fonsa, having completed the shopping she had been asked to do, returned home two hours later than she was supposed to, and overheard storms from her mistress over this absence and was on the verge of being dismissed for some of the shameless replies she returned. She spent the whole day and most of the night worried and struggling with the memory of her father’s advice, the fortune-teller’s predictions, and Doña Rosaura’s proposals. Sometimes she feared something she couldn’t see clearly, and she half decided not to go to the the appointment; but the strange coincidences of the previous day, those promises of fortune made by the monstrous old woman and placed by the other woman within two inches of reality, were not to be dismissed without first lifting at least a corner of the mysterious veil. He fell asleep, then, pondering these thoughts; the next day dawned, one in the afternoon arrived, his masters ate at two-thirty, he washed the dishes, dressed as best he could at three, and at four o’clock sharp he was in the Plaza de la Verdura greeting Doña Rosaura, with whom he immediately walked down Atarazanas Street and reached Cuesta del Hospital… and disappeared into the distance in one of its tributary alleys. Chapter 34. Here is a parenthesis of a few hours. Fonsa does not reappear on the scene, in the scene we are permitted to contemplate, until very late at night. Then, by the dim light of the lanterns, she was seen darting down the street, passing through the Queen’s Arch, entering Puerta de la Sierra on San Francisco Street, and arriving at the entrance to her house. Snarling like a wild boar, she received a warning from her mistress that she would be dismissed the following day, since her faults, far from being corrected, were becoming more and more serious. She hurried to her bedroom; she broke a pane of glass in the door as she slammed it in fury; she changed from her dress dress to her daily dress; she went to the kitchen and insisted on rekindling the fire by pouring water on the embers, seasoning the beans with sugar, and adding half a pound of paprika to the compote. Upon discovering such blunder, she tore her hair out, wept with rage, and inwardly cursed the fortune-teller, Doña Rosaura, and the scoundrel who had revealed them to her. For it must be noted that Fonsa, despite her dull intelligence, had begun to suspect that she was the victim of a nefarious plot hatched against her; the worst part of the situation was that she could no longer retreat, because in certain situations, as if on the edge of an abyss, the first step determines the fall, and Fonsa had just taken it, blindly following the confirmation of the joyful prophecies. Later, in vain, she sought a bit of peace amid the sweetness of sleep; this young gentleman only bestows his favors on the very happy or the very lost, and Fonsa, although not belonging to the latter group, was far from being among the former that night. So she spent the night in a clear-headed mood, constantly battling with her memories , and above all with those of the two poor old men who, in the meantime, had maintained her meticulous integrity. And it gnawed at her and impressed her so much that she became feverish. Then Uncle Celedonio’s face appeared to her , more sour and more drawn than ever; she saw the old peasant’s hand rise, armed with a holly stick, and she even felt the impression of a furious blow against her ribs. In her delirium, the fortune-teller’s house also appeared to her, along with her friend, and a thousand scattered cards of cards, and a man who was throwing ounces and more ounces onto her apron, and the apron was filling up with them, and then they fell to the floor and never stopped falling, and she saw snakes that turned into cows and went up the slope of the Hospital behind Doña Rosaura, who was dressed in tatters and had a fox’s head and a lizard’s tail; then a man appeared from a side street, hissed , and the cows spooked and gored her, as she came out of a very long, very long doorway, wearing a merino wool dress and patent leather boots. Then she tried to get up, and her father came with a knotted club and beat her ribs; then the fortune-teller came by, sucking on tobacco and gnawing on a crust of bread, and ate her father in one bite, and gave her a kiss, and from that kiss came out cards, cards, cards, and a great many patent-leather boots that she gathered in the skirt of her dress; then she began to try them on on top of the bell tower of her place, under which her exhausted fiancé was singing a song to her to the sound of the mandolin and weeping his eyes out at the same time. At this point , the wind increased, shook the bell tower, and blew her into the air. Fly, fly, fly, and fall, fall, fall. It seemed to her that she had been descending for more than three days, at the end of which she reached the ground… and she came to. She rubbed her eyes, saw the light of the morning twilight, regained her bearings , sighed with the deepest sorrow, and stood up. No sooner had she performed the first tasks of her duties and had breakfast than the lady placed the bill in her hand and placed it on the stairs. Fonsa wept many tears then, and wept with all her heart; but she refrained from imploring mercy, because she recognized all her faults and realized that her mistress would not believe her repentance. Once out on the street, and since, by then, her sorrows were beyond remedy, she devoted herself to visiting shops and bought the longed-for dress, the longed-for boots, and even a few other items, and she still had money left over. The previous morning, she wouldn’t have been able to buy even the dress with the balance on her account. Let’s agree that the fortune-teller’s predictions weren’t entirely unreasonable. With her new finery in the little chest she carried with her, she headed for the Plaza de la Verdura, the obligatory center for this kind of people. There , upon arriving, she found Doña Rosaura. His blood boiled a little at the sight of her, and he even wanted to say a few words to her; but the charitable mediator made such a fuss that Fonsa ended up showing herself very grateful… and accepting her house to live in until she found a job. Meanwhile, Doña Remedios learned that her intended had been dismissed, and she immediately notified Uncle Celedonio so that he could serve as her government, adding that Fonsa hadn’t yet appeared to tell her about the event, which didn’t give her a very good feeling. While the letter arrived at the village, and Uncle Celedonio learned of it, and took it from the post office, and found someone to read it to him, and his wife washed his fine shirt, and dried it, eight days passed, at the end of which the poor villager entered Santander, determined to take his daughter to beat clods of earth if the excuses she gave him did not completely satisfy him . Two days before, Fonsa had been placed in a house provided by her friend, that fine room that took her to see the fortune-teller. There her father found her; And although Doña Remedios repeated that she had not seen her since she was dismissed and that she did not like the news of her behavior that the family she had just served had given her, since the new masters did not say anything bad about their daughter, and since she, amid protests, tears, and apologies, handed over the entire balance of her account, Uncle Celedonio was quite satisfied and returned to the village, believing with all his heart that Fonsa was on the rise and that he had nothing to fear for her. So the reckless young woman remained in Santander again , free from the guardianship of Doña Remedios, and , for the time being, unconcerned with the suspicions and misgivings of her family. During the six days that she lived with Doña Rosaura, she managed to get her to agree with many scruples. Fonsa finally understood what kind of prosperity had been planned for her between the fortune teller and her agents, and she did not become delirious, as she had been on the night in question, upon learning such a sad truth; In a word, Fonsa didn’t accept her situation without some reluctance, but she resigned herself to it. Doña Rosaura wanted even more and acted accordingly. The inexperienced girl hadn’t been in service for two weeks in her new masters’ house when her little friend said to her: “It’s necessary, Eldifonsa, that you change classes: you already have clothes like the most well-dressed and you’re stunningly polished; you have to stop being a cook and try being a maid. ” “You’ll remember when you’ve done it!” Fonsa responded with admirable sincerity. “It’s never too late for that, girl. ” “What a maidenly art I have, I don’t even know how to iron, or how to receive ladies properly, or how to handle all the trifles of the trade. ” “All that can be learned in three days. And for now, you’re going to stop going to the Reganche on Sundays and you’re going to come with me to the Relajo, to that you start mixing with worldly people. –To the _Relajo_! But I’ve never danced properly in my life! –They’ll teach you right there. _El Relajo_, _El Crimen_, _La Chaqueta al hombro_, _El Infierno_, etc., are many other dance halls that have enjoyed, and some of them still enjoy, great popularity in Santander among the most disastrous sculleries and aficionados of this _disastrous_ genre. How they dance in these halls and how the crowd conducts themselves is clearly depicted in the titles of the societies themselves. Fonsa entered the _Relajo_ one Sunday with her friend; and she was immediately stunned by the sight of that crowd of people turning, howling like beasts, in each other’s arms, to the sound of a strident murga and in an atmosphere of tobacco and oil. Little by little she began to find her way around; And since she was fresh and plump, things quite rare in that nauseating August, she soon found herself in demand by countless gentlemen who aspired to the honor of dancing with her. She tried to excuse herself by saying that she didn’t know how to dance; but she put it worse this way: they all offered to teach her. A girl who doesn’t know how to dance is a bargain in such salons: first, because she reveals a certain very enviable innocence of manners; and second, because teaching her to dance is the same as being authorized to squeeze, smack, and wring her out. Fonsa fell into the hands, or rather, into the arms of a maestro who had been a medical student in Madrid for fourteen consecutive years without having passed three courses. Afterwards, she danced with a bugler from the garrison, and finally, with a chorus boy from the theater, who was missing his uvula and half his nose. “How are you?” her friend asked her as she left the ball. “Manífico, chica!” Fonsa responded. “At first I felt a little embarrassed, but I soon lost it all… They gave me a lot of pushing and pinching, that’s true; but I can also assure you that I had a hell of a time… And at the same time I learned the waltz and the habaneras, wow! And I really like them! What a deference this is to Reganche! We’ll come here every Sunday, eh? ” Her friend, as expected, applauded such good intentions. To cut a long story short, Fonsa persevered in them so much that within three weeks she was dismissed from the house where she was serving, and she tried in vain to get into others as a maid. Her hectic life prevented her from fulfilling her domestic duties, and she found the subjection unbearable and the salary it provided meager. So she declared herself free and settled into Doña Rosaura’s house. She aspired to nothing else. Thus she lived for two months, completely devoted to the excitements of dancing and others of even lesser quality; she became popular in the salons of Relaxation, Crime, and Hell, and continued to progress along this path until the devil had no way to cast her out. Uncle Celedonio learned something of what was happening: he came to Santander, forced her to go with him to the town, gave her a couple of beatings there from my father and my lord, and made her work at the hardest farm tasks. But Fonsa was no longer able to endure them; and one day, very early in the morning, she made a mess of her best clothes and disappeared from the village. Her parents searched for her with the zeal you can imagine, but it was all in vain. Fonsa never reappeared among the poor old people, who died some time later praying to God for her. Where had she gone? What was her whereabouts? Not feeling safe in Santander, where she returned when she ran away from home, she went to Madrid with the dual purpose of continuing her career on a grander scale and living more protected from the persecution of her family. At court, she indulged herself in all kinds of indulgences; she soon lost the few graces she owed to nature; and hungry, almost naked, and sick, she fell one January night onto a pile of rubbish in a corner of a small square, and there her stiff corpse was recovered at dawn. TO THE LOVE OF THE BRANDS Because she makes music, and literature, and politics, and sips tes dansants and chocolates boisteriosas, and plays ecarté… and banking in the salons, the people of the “great world” think, that they alone know how to take advantage of the long winter nights. The columns of the periodical press are filled with saccharine magazines and even candied poems that make me believe so. But the aforementioned people and their honeyed, tireless psalmists are completely wrong, as I will demonstrate with facts, which are arguments without any return or reversal; and with facts that do not come from the life and miracles of the worthy middle class, which, out of an innate horror of its own mediocrity, lives in perpetual aristocratic imitation; nor from the annals of the chilblain-ridden guilds of the tawdry, spice, and consorts, a flock that already wears tails, drinks sherbet, and dances with gloves on Sundays, and struggles and sweats to eclipse the social brilliance of the middle class. For the success of my task to be more complete, I must seek the promised facts in a much more distant sphere, in a descending order, than that in which resides the exalted hierarchy, which, not knowing what to do, frequently dresses itself as a season, a cloud, a star… and I don’t know how many other things; I must seek them, I repeat, among the simplest villagers in the most remote corner of the Mountain, counting, of course, on the indulgence of those gentlemen of good manners for the crime of high etiquette I commit by opposing them, even for an instant, with such a coarse, uncultured, and narrow-minded comparison. And with this important caveat, I leave the choice of town to the discretion of the most scrupulous reader… That one? Corriente. It has thirty houses; it is divided into two neighborhoods, and in each of them there is a finished model of what I need: a _hila_. Let’s look at either of the two, by chance: that of Uncle Selmo Lombío. Selmo, or Anselmo Lombío, is a poor farmer who barely manages to harvest enough corn for the entire year; consequently, he is not even what you’d call a well-to-do man. But he has never known a bad temper, he has no vices or anything like them, nor, which he deeply regrets, no children who ask for bread, despite having been legitimately married for more than thirty years to Aunt Ramona Maizales, whose character seems cut from the same cloth as his own. Both profess and preach, with more faith each day, the maxim that ” human beings are born for communication and partiality”; and therefore they will not tolerate the poor man, exhausted by his daily work, limiting himself, as his only consolation, to lying down and snoring on a poor bed at the hour when the hens are out. And as proof that they do not speak only by opening their mouths, as soon as the corn is harvested, and the autumn grass is cut, and the crops are ruined, and the bald men begin to weep drop by drop in the morning for the night dew, you already have them toasting with their cooking to any neighbor who wishes to favor them with their presence. And the people of the neighborhood, who are very careful not to snub the toast, come eagerly to it, and even make it fashionable among rustic society. You will be tired of reading in the serious periodical press of Spain paragraphs like the following: “Magnificent, like all the previous ones, was the reception that took place last night in the _splendid_ halls of the _enchanting_ Marchioness of Rábano or de la Coliflor, seeing those peopled with all that is most beautiful, elegant and distinguished that the good society of… contains.” And the journalist says this because he presumes, or knows, or wants to make believe that they attended the splendid salons of the charming Marchioness of Rábano or de la Coliflor, the _seductive_ Baroness of _Ortiga_, the _adorable_ Countess of _Pámpano_, the _enchanting_ young ladies of _Azaffrán_, the _interesting_ widow of _Mogol_, the _opulent_ banker _Potosí_, the _illustrious_ diplomat Viscount of _Tornasol_, the pampered poet _Aljófar_, the flattering serial writer who tells it, _Jarabe_, and the _sublime artist most in vogue at the _regio coliseum_, if we are talking about Madrid. Well then: ask about Uncle Selmo’s threads in the town. where he lives, and his neighbors will tell him, one by one, or in chorus if you prefer: “Manificantes!” The best! Which is equivalent, where there are no press or magazine racks in drawing rooms, to the loose reproduction of the newspapers of the “great world.” Because the following personages infallibly attend Uncle Selmo’s kitchen every night and every winter, in addition to other occasional ones : Tanasio Mirojos. Mature in age, tall in stature, and not very clean in bearing, a medium-sized farmer, but a great carter. He loves to “be up to date” with what’s happening in the world, and is a storehouse of stories and romances. Polito Redondo. Square-shouldered, narrow-faced, thick- haired and bearded, sallow in complexion, and dull of understanding. He is adept at summarizing everything he hears from others in order to understand something of it; but in the end he always ends up fasting, because he has worse _fixers_ than _understandings_. _Lencio_, _Cencío_, _Delencio_, _Endilencio_, or whatever you like, for he answers for everything except Indalecio, as his godfather named him at the font. He is barely forty-five years old, and he doesn’t smoke, nor vote, nor ever gets angry; his strong suit is _eloquence_; and since he is also _erudite_, he resolves immediately any scientific, historical, orthographical, and etymological doubts that are put to him. He uses his pen like a schoolmaster, and there is no account that can resist him, from those of _half-partition_ and _whole-partition_, to those of _quartos reales_ and _companies_ inclusive. _Gorio Tejares._–A former soldier in the army, he has traveled a lot, and he doesn’t let any clever one fool him. During his service, he was on intimate terms with all the generals he was asked about. O’Donnell invited him to coffee and drinks three times a week, and one day, while he was passing through Palace Square with his regiment, the Queen, who was on the balcony, awarded him the sergeant’s stripes. He could have risen to the rank of captain; but he was too attracted to the people and refused to re-enlist. _El Polido_ – Short in stature, skinny, crooked-legged, and sagging in the face, poorly dressed and worse fed. His mania is to make others believe , always and at all times, that he has just eaten and is bursting at the seams. _Uncle Ginojo_ – Older than smallpox, deaf in one ear, clumsy in the other, and without a shred of memory: he falls asleep as soon as he sits down. _Silguero_. _–A boastful and irresistibly seductive young man, an accomplished dancer and, above all, a great intoner of _Kyries_, _Glorias_ and _Credos_ at high mass; a skill that constitutes his greatest pride and has earned him the honorable, badly pronounced nickname of _Jilguero_, by which he is known. _Aunt Cimiana._–Tanasio’s wife: “she has glory in her hands” when cutting skirts and doublets, and for that reason she is the only _seamstress_ in the town. _Sabel._–A robust and powerful girl, wide around the _entrances_ and hips, cheerful of eye and loose of tongue. _Chiscona._–A worthy partner for Pólito, and there is nothing more to say about her. _Clavellina._–The antithesis of Sabel, petite, rosy-cheeked, very composed and somewhat _standing_. _Mari Juana._–A woman of six feet in height, thin and tanned, she is a notable for salting bacon and curing pale girls of _palotilla_ . And _Rijiosa_.–An estimable half of the Polido, with a genius of two hundred thousand demons, but with a special gift for sowing _a chorco_ and _empozar_ flax. That is to say, the most select of the neighborhood’s good society. The women go to the spinning equipped with a spinning wheel and _mocío_ of tow or skein of hill. With one exception, which is easy to understand, Aunt Cimiana usually carries needlework and scissors, depending on how busy she is. The men carry nothing, or, at most, a wooden block for a _key_, or a bundle of twisted wicker for _peales_. To accommodate all the guests, there are three large oak benches in Uncle Selmo’s kitchen , very smoked, which, with the long wall support, form a spacious rectangle, within which is the fire, in the _low hearth_, that is, on the holy floor. There is, as you can imagine, no footman to announce the arrivals. Everyone sneaks in there like Peter at home. In any case, such a ceremony would be pointless, because long before the regular announcer announces himself in the kitchen with the obligatory greeting of “God be here,” “May the Lord be with us,” or something of the same praiseworthy kind, he has made himself perfectly known. Uncle Ginojo, for example, because he can be heard hitting his clogs once in the alley and a hundred in the puddles; Polido, because the ones he shoes, having no nails and being very old and uneven , sound like broken wood; Pólito, who wears them with tarugos, because when he steps with them, his blows sound like a hammer; Silguero, because of the tiranas he sings; Mari Juana, because of the coughing fits “that play on her”; Gorio, from the _reveilles_ he whistles, etc., etc. That the women go to spin at Uncle Selmo’s house must have been presumed from the moment I said they were carrying a spinning wheel and flax. With this information, the perceptive reader can guess why the mountain gatherings of the kind and quality I am about to describe are called spinning and not soirées or receptions. And I must say that in doing so, I am convinced that in doing so, I am paying a tribute that, in all fairness, is due to the ancient customs of my land. For centuries, perhaps, hundreds of kitchens have been open here for the greatest recreation of the locals. In them, thousands of vigorous beauties, of unusual wit, of types and scenes that, for their glory, the brushes of Goya and Theniers would have envied have been exhibited ; And yet, they have not found a pen that extols and perfumes them, or even “dresses” them in the face of the public, today when in the “great world” not a bad slice of sausage is eaten , nor a somersault performed, nor a clever word uttered, without the hundred horns of fame recounting, extolling, and sublime the event from the serials of the most popular newspapers, and carrying it on their wings to the ends of the earth. It is regrettable, on the other hand, that the lack of those privileged pens has to be compensated by my own, unworthy, because it is crude and poorly crafted, of such a difficult undertaking; but if good intentions are anything to go by, I rely on them as an excuse, and I trust in them that the esteemed regulars of Uncle Selmo Lombío will grant me their most ample and cordial indulgence upon finding their portraits in the humble pages of this book. Nothing is more pleasing to Aunt Ramona, nothing that delights her more, than seeing the arrival of the last of her guests and immediately seeing them all filling the three kitchen benches. To properly commemorate such pleasurable moments, she takes the best clump of sap from the firewood corner and throws it onto the pile of thick firebrands that are beginning to burn in the hearth. The faint, flickering flame ignites the dry, tightly packed thorns of the clump, and soon a column of fire rises, sputtering, above the vine in the attic, illuminating the faces of the family against the lustrous black background of the smoky walls with a light that would thrill Rembrandt, if he were able to resurrect it to contemplate it. With this salvo, the gathering begins each night. The women take advantage of the fire to prepare their spinning wheels; the men their veils, knives, and wooden blocks. Uncle Ginojo, who always occupies one corner of the bench so as to have the _jornía_, or ashtray, close to his feet, upon feeling the first flick of the flame takes his hands out of their pockets, puts a coal in his pipe, takes three puffs that sound like three pistol shots… and returns to his chronic stupor. It is not unusual for the session to begin with a rosary, at the end of which a prayer is made for each of the town’s dead to remember the memory of Cencio, who prays in front of them. In any case, it is certain that half an hour after the line is established, it takes, with a few slight variations, the following course: “One of the good ones, Uncle Tanasio!” –Let him make us laugh! –About thieves and charms, which are more entertaining. –About whatever he wants, damn it, beggars! –If you digest what I know, you’ll digest more truth. Tanasio is a man who likes to be urged in these cases, because he believes that otherwise he discredits his wit. –Well, he doesn’t say that!… You know more stories! –But I’ve already told you all of them. –Except for the ones that remain in your mind. –Mark it that some… But, anyway, we’ll see if by squeezing, squeezing, something comes out. Deep silence. Tanasio meditates. Polido rubs his fingers, scratches his head with both hands, opens his mouth half a hand’s breadth, and fixes his large green eyes on the narrator. Cencio prepares to resolve any numerous doubts that might arise from the story. Silguero sways, crosses his legs, and smooths his hair, looking tenderly at Clavellina. The ex-soldier faces Sabel. Polido belches as if his supper were reaching his throat. The women are spinning. Uncle Ginojo leans back against the bench, yawns, and puts a foot in the pile of ashes. After a while, Tanasio says: So, in that case, I’ll tell you the story of Arranca Pinos and Arranca Peñas. It was already told last night. Then I’ll tell you the romance of Don Argüeso. It was also told. –The one about the _Soldier_. –Which one is that? –A young lady was sitting on her balcony; a very well-bred soldier passed by … –It was told last night. –When I was telling you that you’d told them all… Do you know the story of _Rosaura del Guante_? –It’s been told too. –Well, watch out, here’s one you’ve never heard. General attention. –Friends of God… A word, with Tanasio’s permission. I’m reproducing his entire story, because the style of the popular tales of the Mountain have a very special local flavor that I must make known. Now listen to Tanasio. –Friends of God: this was a shepherd from a land of gentiles; and being a shepherd… –What are gentiles?–Pólito asks. “Well, Gentiles,” Tanasio replies, somewhat embarrassed, looking at Cencio, “Gentiles, in my opinion, they must be, so to speak… isn’t that true, Cencio?… Surely Cencio knows it too?” And Cencio, with an air of the most swollen importance, accepts the following explanation without hesitation: “It is well known that Gentiles are living beings who live on aquatic islands, and they are giants of very large bodily form… and they have no churches nor even priests, and they devour each other if necessary. ” “Do you hear that, Polito? Well, even the boys at school know that. ” “But since I haven’t had one, that’s why I ask. Now I know it forever. ” “And you know it well? ” “Not even if I were so stupid!… Well, it seems to me that there is little to study about the matter .” The Gentiles are corporeal beings who live in churches and eat aquatic giants. –Hail Mary Most Pure! –What, isn’t that it? –Yes, man, yes! –It seemed from the laughter that it wasn’t… And what is this aquatic thing? Although it’s a bad question. I say it must be something made of caramel or sugar. –Aquatic, –responds the grave Endelencio, –it comes from the larger seas… because these islands of the Gentiles are within the waters of the seas… –Well then, the islands will be like boats. –Islands,–adds the scholar, a little frightened by the geographical extension that the doubts are taking,–are cultured places with a lot of scrub; and there are some that are aquatic, as well as on dry land; only then they are called Celepinas islands, because they are in Morería. Polito is also aware of what islands are, as is left of what were Gentiles; But as it is not a matter of spending the night in such explanations, the doubt is considered cleared and Tanasio continues: –Being a shepherd from a land of Gentiles, this shepherd says that he knew every herb from the field and with them he cured anything that had to do with it. If your wound hurt, he would save the part; he would anoint it with the appropriate herb, and you would be cured; the other had a sore throat: well, sir, there goes the herb, and out with him in a minute; the one over there was dying of tertian fever: he would give him the appropriate herb, and the tertian fever would last. In this way and manner, everyone used the shepherd for the melicinas, so that the Cerujuanos and the apothecaries for twenty leagues around could not see him. “Well, sir, you should know that this shepherd only came down to the town on Sundays; and since he was a good-looking man and a brilliant dancer, after the rosary he would go to the circle; and going to the circle, he did not like to play brisca or skittles.” and not liking it, he spent the afternoon dancing and dancing with the same girl, to which the two became very serious and agreed that, as soon as he entered the military, they would marry if he did not become a soldier. Well then. Friends of God, one afternoon my shepherd was up in the mountains playing the conch shell, lying under a small box. A very well- behaved wayfarer approached him, wearing a fine hat, a gold-handled cane, a frock coat, and a watch chain. The wayfarer suddenly stopped and said to the shepherd in this manner: “Listen, good friend, would you by any chance tell me where there is a shepherd who is said to be wandering around these parts and who cures every ailment that comes his way?” “You are talking to him, good wayfarer,” said the shepherd. And when the other heard this, he jumped up and said to him: “Will you come with me and earn whatever you ask for?” “If it isn’t too far, we’re already walking.” “To the king’s palaces.” “Who is sick there?” “A daughter of mine whom I love like the fabric of my heart: two years she has been in bed, all the best doctors have helped her, more than three thousand reales have been spent on them, and the girl is getting worse and worse and worse. A fortune teller told me that you alone could cure her, and I have come all over the land to find you.” “And who are you?” the shepherd then jumped up. “The King of the Gentiles,” the wayfarer replied very _that_. Friends, the shepherd who heard this saw his fate sealed and resolved to follow the king in order to gain at least six thousand reales to be freed from the service, in case he was to take a fifth. In these and other situations, the king helped him gather the cattle so that he could finish first, and they walked on and on, and at the end of three days they arrived at the palaces. Arriving at the palaces, they went to see the sick woman, who, they say, looked like a sun, so sickly was she, in that silver bed with a golden coverlet. The shepherd did no more than glance at her, and without touching her or doing anything at all, he said: “The girl has this and that; she will be given such and such grass in this way and that way, and in two weeks she will be as healthy as ever.” After all this, the good shepherd was lodged in a very ornate room, dressed from top to bottom, like a noble lord’s, and given a choice of dishes, with his stew of chickpeas and fresh meat, his Nava wine, the best of the best, and the sugar cube and biscuit thrown, as the other guy says, on the floor. With these gifts, the shepherd, who was already a handsome man, made a fine young man of himself; and since he entered the king’s daughter’s room so often, she became madly infatuated with him. So much so that after eight days she was hemming his pocket handkerchiefs and combing his flesh. Well, friends of God, the king’s daughter, with these and with the others, getting better, getting better, getting better… as if after twelve days she was already going out to sunbathe on a glass balcony that overlooked the palace garden. And one day, going out onto the balcony, the girl said to the king: “Father, I am in love with the one who cured me, and if you are willing, I would marry him.” And the king, who was good and partial in his own right, told her that he would have no objection; but on the condition that the marriage would not take place until the girl was as healthy as a coral; and if, as the case may be, she were to die as a result of her illness, from a relapse, the shepherd would perish on the gallows. Well, friends of God, since the shepherd was quite sure of the gifts he was giving, he signed the engagement before a notary, without a single thought for the poor girl who had been waiting for him like a breath of fresh air in May. This girl was unaware of the situation; but a witch who was her neighbor called her and told her everything; at which the poor girl became as distraught as Magalene. Aware of this, the damned witch told her that vengeance was in her hands if she desired it; and she went and gave her a pin and a small piece of wax like a small shrine, and said to her: “Where you prick the figure with this pin, it will hurt the king’s daughter; but be very careful, because if you prick her heart, the other one would die.” Well, friend of God, the young woman, eager to postpone her marriage, began to prick the fig tree here and there, and behold, at the same time the king’s daughter began to think, “Oh! It hurts here, oh! It hurts on the other side,” until she fell back into bed. The shepherd went mad looking for herbs in the meadows and couldn’t find the one who had relapsed. And not finding the one, more than two months went by like this; and after more than two months had passed, the village girl saw that the shepherd hadn’t arrived, her pulse quickened with pain, and as she went to prick the fig tree just a little, her hand went too far and struck the heart with the pin… In the act the king’s daughter died. And when the king’s daughter died, on the very day that she was given the earth, the shepherd was hanged in front of the town hall. Word of the case spread, and the young woman, hearing of it, went to the king’s palace to demand justice for the witch. When she demanded it, civilians came out from all quarters, seized the rogue, and burned her and the wax figure. After burning them both, they became a band of wicked enemies who tormented each other, beating them with sulfur and ravaging the fields wherever they went, with the wind and the flame they carried with them. In addition, since the king had no other daughter but the deceased, he took great pride in the afflicted girl who begged him for justice. Having taken her, he brought her to the palace, and later married her. When the girl was queen of the Gentiles, she called together all her relatives and made them lords, and to the youngest of her townspeople she gave forty wagonloads of land and a pair of horses, and paid him contributions for two years. And she being a Christian and naturally clever and quick-witted, she converted all the Gentiles in time… and that’s it. “So it is,” says Polito, “that too refers to a king who hangs his daughter because a shepherd falls in love with a witch who cured him with grass from the field. ” “Exactly,” he answers, to finish first. “The story,” objects Gorio Tejares, “is in itself magnificent; but you will believe that the fact that a king’s daughter falls in love with a lay youth— I mean, a countryman—is worth ten pounds; well, it is a very common thing, and if the youth is a soldier, so much the better. I, in the lands I have traveled through, have had occasion to see it; and if I had been, like others, tempted by cubicia or vanity, I could have gotten from the uniform, I won’t say a princess, but an infanta… well, a lot!” Once the round of stories is over, because Tanasio tells several, the _little riddles_ begin. These are always suggested by the erudite Cencio. Listen to him. “A little thing that God guesses: _He goes, he goes and never reaches Miranda_. ” Uncle Ginojo is dying of riddles. He wakes up a little upon hearing the first one, rubs his eyes, and asks: “What did you say, Cencio? ” “He goes, he goes and never reaches Miranda.” “Man, this is very confusing… If you were to say stop, stop… it could be, I’m painting the picture… but that thing about stop, stop… ” “Go on, go on,” repeats Pólito, hitting himself in the head. “What the hell could it be?… A dude! ” “You’re not all that crazy, dude,” says Cencio. –Come on, come on–Gorio croons…–the battalion of hunters from Chiclana. –Come on! –Come on, come on…–Polidos sighs,–it must be… Come on, with this boredom I can’t even see the point of this thing. Four balls, two torrendos and “I’ve got half a yard of sausage for dinner…” “Come on, come on,” Tanasio murmurs. “Man, even if it’s a bad question, is that something to eat? ” “No. ” “Is it an animal or a human person? ” “It’s a livestock in itself and a property taxable in land contributions,” Cencio answers with his usual air of importance. “Walk, walk… and then get to the town,” grumbles the forgetful Uncle Ginojo. “No, sir: it’s ‘walk, walk and never get to Miranda.’ ” “And how does anyone know where Miranda is? ” “You’re right,” says Sabel. “If it were the town we would know better, and it could be… ” “The market,” adds Mari Juana. “Or negligence,” says Chiscona. “I said it’s a livestock in itself and a taxable property in a land contribution,” Cencio repeats. ” Well, I’ll give it up,” exclaims Uncle Ginojo. “And me.” “And me.” “And me,” several others add. “Well, not me,” says Pólito, giving himself a tremendous punch on the knee. “How does it feel? ” “For _mo_,” answers Cencio. “Mo, mo, mo…” repeats Uncle Ginojo. “If it were ma, ma, ma, it would be, I paint the case… but mo, mo, it’s very complicated. ” “Mo, mo, mo,” is chanted in every corner. “The pig!” shouts Pólito as if he had solved the difficulty. “I said it begins with _mo_. ” “Well, the same thing. ” “And marrano declines _mo_ in the first instance, animal?” –Well, if not, I don’t know what it is… –Well, I’ll put it more clearly: mill, mill, mill… Two voices: –Miller. –You’re close. The whole line in chorus: –Mill!… The mill! –Man! How funny! –Well, it doesn’t satisfy me,–protestes Pólito,–because you reach the mill in four strides, and you said you never reach Miranda. –My God, what a fiery temper this man has! I said: “He goes, he goes and never reaches Miranda.” Isn’t the mill, a wheel that turns all day long in God’s name without moving from one place? –Yes, it is. –Well, that’s why it can’t reach Miranda or anywhere else. –What a clever little riddle that little riddle has!–grunts Uncle Ginojo. –And that’s why they wake someone up! –Didn’t you say it was so reckless? –Just as you put it, yes. –Well, if I were to stipulate it clearly from the outset, it would be a good skill to find the item. –Daday!… Botched jobs that aren’t worth a pin! says Uncle Ginojo, sinks his second leg into the _journey_ and goes back to doze. Two or three more little riddles once again test the ingenuity of the commentators; but not one is solved without Cencio telling half the name of the thing in question. There’s also his paragraph of nonsense, which Gorio and Sabel usually provoke, especially while the former has the spindle so the latter can wind up what she’s spun, or Silguero and Clavellina on the same or similar occasion. For example: –You spin it very thickly, Sabel. –My mother is enough for who my father is. –You’re really grouching. –It’s not because you’re encouraging me. –I wouldn’t be mean! –So you could sand it… –I know a good bizma that would heal me in a short time… –That bizma doesn’t have that much virtú. –More than you think. –Of course!… –Oh, I wish I were captain of that regiment! –This regiment governs itself so beautifully. –But loneliness is very sad. –Better alone than in bad company. –Refinement is appreciated. –Don’t press the spindle, or the thread will break. –It tickles the palm of my hand. –Your skin is very fine. –More than your heart, which, with sheer slight from someone I know, becomes tougher than the leather of a knapsack. –Jesus, what enthusiasm! –Shut up, you ingrate! –Taday, you scoundrel! –Olé, rrracataplán! General laughter. They also pay their tribute to fashions. A ribbon in Sabel’s hair, a new gather in the sleeves of Clavellina’s doublet, which immediately They attract Aunt Cimiana’s attention; they are more than enough to excite the artistic enthusiasm of the rustic dressmaker. “Well, what the hell are the girls these days? Every day you add a new adornment. So much so that one loses one’s mind trying to cut a dress properly, and in the end they come out to you saying it’s missing this and that, and that it’s not in style, and that it goes back and forth. Maria, my child! Before it was a pleasure: you knew that the best finery for a girl was a baeta skirt and a ruffled jacket trimmed with corduroy.” In two tugs you would arrange the skirt’s fabrics, baste the pleats, lay it on the mattress, or better still under a mattress if the bed had one, sleep on it three or four times, and take it out so glorious to see it on, the way those pleats fell. But I want a story for you today! May the Lord help me! Now everyone wants the dress, and as narrow at the sleeve as it is wide, as thin with a flourish at the wrists, as with braids at the bottom. I don’t waste a single pilgrimage or a market just to see what’s in fashion and be up to date on the style to serve these botched jobs!… And they still rant… because, damn them, if one wants something different, one gets a different craving… Bad little devils, never take you … because if it weren’t because, although it’s wrong for me to say so, I know how to fulfill my obligation, I would often have thought that I had forgotten to take the scissors in my hand. After all, if you had earned something in the exchange, it would be all for God; but the Lord will not save you if you don’t look like fools with the current messmakers. “Josús, daughters, who saw you with those rufajos of endenantes so fitted to the body and so folded, and who sees you with those elelajes of ladies, you are badly matched, that if a wall catches you in that alley, it will leave you shorn in a jiffy… Yes, I tell you that it has to do with it! There is also such a tour of the field of politics, and then Tanasio takes the lead. Tanasio, as a wagon driver, is frequently in Santander, where he has as close friends two _cuirassiers_, or wagon unloaders, who inform him, in their own way, of the most notable events of which they have knowledge. Furthermore, while he is at a desk waiting for a guide or payment for another, he does not miss a single thing of everything that is discussed there, if it is about politics. In this way, with information acquired in such fragmentary ways and from such heterogeneous sources, the curious wagon driver forms the arguments for his political narratives, which are the delight of Uncle Selmo, Polido , and Gorio. “And what is known about those worlds, Tanasio?” asks the first, taking advantage of one of the few moments of silence remaining in the thread.
“Well, by now,” says the person being questioned, “it seems there’s a lot of turmoil regarding wars. ” “Where to?” asks Polido. “That must be foreign, according to the rumor. ” “And whose hand does that fall into, if I may ask? It’s obligatory for Cencio to enter here. ” “Foreign is the land of France, and also of Russians and Purcians. ” “And what is required?” “Well, all of that,” Tanasio continues, “seems to be the result of bickering between the kings. ” “Over what?” “Over their mores and lessers, whether what’s here is mine or not, or whether I want this or that. It seems the Frenchman has offered combat and the others didn’t want to enter. ” “And who are the others? ” “Well, those from England on one side, and on the other, the exalted ones who want to close all the churches. ” “May the Lord save us from that, amen!” the women exclaim, crossing themselves. “Look, as if you’re saying that the Holy Pope of Rome had to go out onto the balcony one day to throw a hail of heretics who were already stoning the palace windows. ” “Most Holy Mary! ” “It seems there are many heretics, many, many in that world! ” “And what has the Frenchman asked for combat over?” –Well, to the point of what I told you. –But who is it against? –Against the Ensalzaos. –I thought,–says Polido,–that the Frenchman was a heretic. –He was one in his early days,–observes Cencio;–but he converted. –The Lord help him,–says Mari Juana. –Amen,–add the other women. –Well,–continues Tanasio;–now it turns out that since the Ensalzaos don’t want to enter, it seems that we Spaniards are doomed to force them to enter, because it turns out that the Frenchman is powerful, and the point is to throw the Ensalzaos out to him so that he can account for everyone. On the other hand, they say that these Ensalzaos even have kings of heretics who stick up for them, and in my opinion the Frenchman is going to look bad with so many of them, and perhaps we will have to give him help. That’s why I was telling you that regarding wars there’s a lot of turmoil at the moment. –And what will all that labyrinth cost the poor farmer? –Well, he counts on a few centavos more than he pays today. –But won’t they raise soldiers every month? –You think not, because since all the troops in Spain are Christians, we have more than enough to confront all the foreigners in the Tyrrhenian world. Here, then, that’s why no one interferes with us in the world… except those from Morería, who cost them dearly not long ago. –Did it cost them? Holy Mary! –Gorio jumps in, who guards the Cross of Saint Ferdinand that he won in the camps of Tetouan like a relic. –Imagine… –Look, Gorio,–Uncle Selmo interrupts him,–you’ve told us this more than thirty times and we’ve cried more than six times hearing it; but now we know it by heart. “You mean _soniche_, isn’t it true? Come on, let him shut his mouth. ” “For tonight, yes. ” “Well, he got the story out. ” “The result is that they won’t be raising any more soldiers for now, right, Tanasio?” one of the women asks. “I tell you, there’s no need to worry. ” “Well, as long as they don’t take the children from their mothers, and the evils are remedied with money, let evils come in droves, and God grant us health, because, in the end, we won’t get out of poverty.” Sometimes the most dedicated gamblers gamble two cuartos a card, three games of _brisca_ or _flor de cuarenta_. Then, out of every real earned, a cuarto is left in the fund to pay for the whale that consumes the lamp with which the thread is lit. On festive nights, because spinning is impossible and “where the rope goes, so goes the kettle,” a small amount is shared among the members of the group, and a half of the red wine is consumed in the spinning, equivalent to two tons of sangria, just as it should be ready for Sabel and Clavellina to taste, in whose service the wine is always baptized and sweetened . And with these and other similar events and the _preface_ that Silguero sings at the request of the group, the group breaks up every night before eleven, each member going home in peace and with God’s grace, blessing the first person who came up with a way to spend so many, such cheap, and such pleasant hours _in the love of the embers_… one of whom Uncle Ginojo always takes with him, because he says that, handling him as he knows how, there’s no wolf that stops within two leagues around. So, most impartial readers, it seems to me that after what you have seen and heard at Uncle Selmo Lombío’s house, you will have to concede to me that if writing literature, music, politics, flirting, gossip, sipping, and playing is how the long winter nights are best spent, then in this regard the women of the Montaña have nothing to learn from the soirées of the “great world,” nor anything to envy them… if not the amber and batiste pen with which the Pedro Fernández of the aristocratic press sing about them. NOTES: 11 Exalted, revolutionaries, heretics… whatever you want on this scale above. ONE MORE GUY It was the month of November: it had been dawn for little more than an hour , and it was raining cats and dogs. I think it is unnecessary to say that I was still snuggled up in bed, enjoying that sweet slumber which is two fingers away from sleep and as many from wakefulness, but which, nevertheless, is thousands of leagues away from the pains, bitterness, and setbacks of life; a happy state of innocent abandonment in which the imagination travels more slowly than a cart uphill, and provides no more light than is strictly necessary for lazy reason to understand the enviable bliss enjoyed in this rugged land by fools _in the head_. Period. The door of my room was suddenly opened, and I was informed of the arrival of a person who wished to speak to me very urgently. You, gentlemen readers, who will be tired of devouring a multitude of articles beginning with paragraphs similar to the one above; articles whose main authors must, in the episodes they describe, address each other informally as Sandoval, Montellano, Monteverde , or even simply Arturo, Eduardo, or Alfredo ; articles published in well-illustrated weeklies or in the Variety section of some Madrid rag, by the syrupy pen of some aristocratic magazine vendor; you, my most patient neighbors, who are certainly well-versed in this genre of bizarre literature, will expect me to tell you, in view of the beginning of this sketch, that the voice that gave me the message was that of my valet , whom I ordered, after calling him a donkey and giving him a kick, to draw back the curtains on my balcony to let in daylight; that I immediately wrapped my body in a comfortable dressing gown lined with marten fur, and my feet in a pair of Moorish slippers that made no sound when they stepped on the thick carpet on the floor; that I settled into a soft armchair in front of the logs that were already crackling in the fireplace; that I lit a fragrant Havana cigar, precisely from the _Vuelta de Abajo_, and that, finally, after placing on my head a Greek… or German cap of the finest plush, I said to the aforementioned servant: “Send that person in,” that is to say, that unknown lady, that elegant viscount, that fashionable thug, that generous bandit, or that wronged husband… No, gentlemen; There was none of that, apparently so common in the episodic literary life of our daily newsboys… because, although the news might not matter a whit to you, you should know that I have no valet, nor do I wear a lined or unlined dressing gown, nor Moorish slippers, nor a Persian hat; nor are there heavy curtains in my bedroom, nor thick carpet, nor bulky tobacco growers; nor have mysterious ladies, nor elegant viscounts, nor bandits of any kind, nor thugs, nor wronged husbands ever entered there… because of me. Here, plainly, simply, and prosaically, is what happened: Upon hearing the message, which was relayed by a very modest scullery maid, I opened the bare window of the balcony from my bed; I dressed in the first thing I found at hand, as I do every day; I lit a cigarette of Astrea’s and went out to meet the announced personage, whom I recognized as soon as I laid eyes on him. He was a man of medium height, dark, or rather, smoky, with a small head, deep-set, very bright eyes under very thick gray eyebrows separated by a sharp, dry nose, and a slanted, prominent mouth. The wide, starched collar of his shirt reached down to just above his ears; he wore chestnut-colored trousers with bulging kneepads, a dark-blue jacket over a gaily checked corduroy waistcoat, and a brown cloak over the jacket; he wore homemade denim stockings and strong calfskin shoes; on his left foot he wore a mangy spur. He held with the hand on the same side the curved horn handle of a huge green calico umbrella with a yellow metal ferrule, and in his right hand he held the tall hat he had just taken off his head. The umbrella was dripping wet; the brownish-black hat was standing on end as if shivering with cold; the lower end of his cloak, part of his stockings, and his shoes were splashed with mud and soaked with water, and his head, covered with a very unruly lock of hair that ran wildly over his temples and down his forehead, like the hedges and ferns run along an old and neglected wall . This man’s age was lost in the labyrinths of his face; but I know he was fifty , because I knew him well. He lived in a nearby town; his father had been a tenant farmer for my grandfather, and he had long since done me the unenviable honor of coming to consult with me about all the business he had in Santander, and he did so every week. In the town, the well-educated women called him Uncle Sildo; the well-educated and literate men called him Don Beregildo; but he, paying no more attention to the former than to the latter, always signed himself Hermenegildo Trapisonda, and signed the pure truth. We greeted each other in the most courteous manner and returned to my room. Don Hermenegildo began by leaving his umbrella by the door so that the stream of rain would fall down the corridor ahead, and his hat on a chair. Then he gathered the folds of his cape over his thighs and sat down, revealing his lean calves down to the garters beneath the trouser legs, which were not entirely elaborate. After running both hands through his hair to tame it somewhat, he stared at me, making a horrible gesture, a sort of smile with which he displayed in all its details the enormous protrusions of his rotten teeth. I had sat down in another chair opposite him and was gazing at him curiously, waiting for him to explain the reason for his urgent visit. But seeing that he didn’t begin to speak and that he kept looking at me and smiling, “You tell me, Señor Don Hermenegildo,” I exclaimed at last, to force him to get to the point. “I’m going,” he replied in his hoarse, unpleasant voice. ” Have you seen what hellish weather we’ve had? Ha, ha, ha. From four in the morning, the time I left home, until I arrived at yours, it hasn’t stopped raining for a minute. It stings like a madcap, and the rain pours down like a rag. ” “Why didn’t you wait for it to stop?” “Wait! Even if bronze capuchins had fallen… millstones , I wouldn’t abandon the trip… Of course! Ho, ho, ho! That’s how I am. So, let’s get to the point. I had to come to Santander as a result of three cases that are around here, about to be resolved, and, to be honest, I was leaving, I was leaving because of that saying that “getting up early doesn’t make the sun rise any sooner,” when, my friend, it occurred to me yesterday, damn it!” That displeasure, out of nowhere, was like a javelin thrust straight into my neck. “This can’t go on like this,” I said to myself immediately, “and Troy must burn here, or I’ll even lose my name. But which way do I go?” I asked myself again. “Shall I go to the magistrate and throw that scoundrel in jail? While this does atone for the law, it doesn’t satisfy my anger, and I need to satisfy the anger that’s choking me… and much more. Besides, I always have recourse to litigation…” And come what may, I resolve to bring that man to public shame, without prejudice to prosecuting him tomorrow. And how do I get him out? Well, sir, you go on and on again, and look, you’re getting into my head, and I say to myself: That boy is naturally given to printing, and has a great inclination to print : he is going to be the one who helps me in this work of charity… Because, yes, sir! It is a work of charity, and one of the greatest, to publicly shame certain men and embarrass them… So… ho… ho… ho!… here I am. And having said this, Don Hermenegildo put his hands on his hips, raised his little head, opened his little twig eyes as wide as they could, which gave off an irresistible glow, and once again revealed the craggy edges of his yellowish teeth. As you can imagine, I was not entirely informed, with the account given by the son of my grandfather’s settler, of the true the reason for his visit, although from the rejón and my fondness for printing and block letters, and, above all, from the background I had of the character, I immediately assumed that this was one of the endless tangles that were Uncle Sildo’s gossip, in whose tangles this little comb was trying to entangle me. I begged him to explain his intention more clearly and precisely, and he continued in this manner: “You know very well that my father was a poor tenant of your late grandfather, may he rest in peace. As I enjoyed no other possessions than the four clods of corn that I pounded jointly with the master, and as, in truth, I was not very fond of farming , as soon as I learned school as best I could, I went to Andalusia.” Well, sir, I was there for eight years rotting my life behind a counter, and at the end of them I returned to this earth with eight ounces saved up and some worldly experience, for there’s no gold with which to pay for it. When I arrived in town , the teacher had died, and they proposed that I teach the school for a while while they looked for a person to run it. It also happened that at that time the town clerk fell ill, never to recover, and you have me attending in his place at all the events where a good pen and regular dictation were needed; gossip which, although it’s wrong for me to say so, I compiled better than the most experienced. Since a diligent and prudent man always finds ways to improve his poverty, without ceasing to be a teacher or temporary secretary, I became an excise tax collector, in addition to two stewardships I acquired: one from the Count of La Lechuga, for the possessions he has in the province, and another from the Blessed Souls, who at that time owned a couple of impressive properties in the town. With this chance of luck, I was also able to dabble in other speculations, with which I managed, so to speak, to put down roots in the town, and find myself mayor overnight … Oh, friend of God! I would never have been one! What a mess, what a labyrinth! When I took up the reins, the Town Hall was in a pitiful state. The custodian had eaten every nail in the coffer; contributions were made every month and surcharges every week; There was an advance every two weeks, and even with that, two quarters’ worth of wages were owed to the doctor; the schoolhouse was without windows or lecterns, and three ports of call were owed, which the neighbors had paid, as usual, in advance. I tried, as was my custom, to put a little order there, and I began by accusing the custodian of forty. This and other acts of justice earned me three beatings and the hatred and ill will of a dozen scoundrels, who had concealed so many misdeeds. For five years I lived making all the war I could against them and struggling with all kinds of troubles; and even with that, for me to lay down the rod at the end of that time, half the town had to tear it away from me practically with bites and kicks… Because, believe me, a man takes more credit for something the more he argues about it. “But, Don Hermenegildo,” I interrupted him, “if the administration that preceded yours was as bad as you’ve said, I don’t understand why the people, who must have been at each other’s throats, dismissed you, you who tried to put it in order, with bites and kicks. ” “Because… because… that’s because the villagers are like that,” Don Hermenegildo responded, somewhat annoyed at having perhaps said more than he should have. “The better you treat them,” he continued, “the less they appreciate it. Besides, those neighbors who gave me the most trouble were bought off by my enemies, and that’s why they started saying that my administration had been worse than all the previous ones. You see how outrageous it is!” “Indeed,” I replied in the same tone as if I believed it. “But I notice that up to now you have not told me anything that indicates what I have to do in the matter that brings you here. ” “I’m going there immediately. Since that time the depositary, three The councilors, the local mayor, four bosses who lived with them in the city’s blood, and the rabble of neighbors who followed them like whalers, haven’t left me a moment of peace. Fortunately, I’ve never lacked good support here and there, otherwise , God knows what would have happened; because you must know that the dislike they had for me when I took up the baton has only grown to this day. “That’s obvious among such rabble, Don Hermenegildo. But let’s get to the point. ” “The fact is that, over the course of so much time, heresies have been committed against me… Today I was beaten when I entered an alley; tomorrow, upon returning home, I found that they had knocked down the oven in the yard; another day, two cows with their tails cut short were found in the stable; another time, a quarter of a gallon of wine was tapped in the cellar, without knowing how or by whom; If word got around town that a cow had gone to hell in the woods, there was no need to ask whose it was, because it was definitely mine; and who knows how many iniquities of this kind have been committed against me! Well, well: I’ve suffered them all, as they say, with serenity, and I’ve always been content with whatever justice has been able to do, which hasn’t been much, in reparation for my grievances… But the last one, the last game played against me, the last one, wow! the last one got the better of me and tore me apart beyond repair. Imagine, and pardon me, that yesterday, when I went to the council, I found the whole town crowded around the door reading a paper that had been stuck to it in the morning, and laughing so loudly it was frightening. Little by little I went over to read it too, found out what it said, and wow! I was almost knocked down right there with rage and the rush that came over me. Then, elbowing people and breathing fire even from my teeth, I threw myself at the paper… and here it is, all in one, for you to see. As Don Hermenegildo said this, convulsed and distraught, he reached for the inside pocket of his jacket; he took out an enormous yellow suede wallet tied with a blue thread, and after rummaging through many papers that were inside, he took out a very crumpled one and handed it to me. “Read it!” he said to me, his voice trembling and his little eyes twinkling. I opened the paper, which was half the size of a sheet and had the four corners where it had been glued torn, and I read the following, written in very poor handwriting and with the spelling I copy: NEW AND DUE TENTH When the Abangelians threw Pelindongona, Trapisonda came out of her body gushing sulfur . He brought the harrastrao and ate for breakfast the Braña del Sel below, which was the town’s treasure. He also burned houses afterward for a trickster, and even stripped the blessed souls naked. Let us go out in contention , neighbors of this place, with the cross and the banner, and let us conjure that scoundrel, saying Quirielison Cristelison , “Long live the Constitution!” “You see, that’s an outrage,” cried Don Hermenegildo when I had finished reading the pamphlet, which, by the way, was not lacking in salt and pepper. “Yes, sir,” I replied; “but it’s a literary outrage. If anyone has the right to sue the author for libel, it’s national literature. ” “What do you mean?” replied Don Hermenegildo, furious. “Don’t you see how I’m treated in that paper? ” “Yes, I do; and for that very reason, I’m of the opinion that you shouldn’t get angry about it. ” “I shouldn’t get angry, and they call me a scoundrel, and a house-burner… and, you know, a thief!… Damn it! Man, for the love of God, this is already too much! ” “Yes; but they call you a certain way… ” “Yes; but they call me that. ” “So what?” Someone who, like you, has been beaten and subjected to all kinds of abuse by those same people without losing his usual calm, should not to get angry over a lampoon more or less. “It may be whatever you want; but the truth is that this blow has knocked me down more than any other, and I need to do what I’ve never done before. ” “Common. In that case, what is it you want? ” “Answer ten to one.” “Do you know who the author of the… _decima_ is? ” “Yes, sir: the depositary; I know his handwriting. Besides, there’s no one in town but him who knows how to write in such a way that it _falls into a couplet_. ” “Good. And what are you going to say in your reply? ” “What am I going to say? Verb in grace: “The very heartless man who has offended my integrity… et cetera, would do very well to keep quiet if he knows shame. Let the whole world know that the leech of the poor man’s sweat is he… et cetera.” And if not, let him say where the eight thousand reales went that he took charge of for the felling of wood granted on the local mountain to the Count of La Lechuga, and which eight thousand reales I myself delivered to the City Council. Item: that the charitable work of the hospital, of which he is patron, earns eight hundred ducats, and there is never enough in that house to give a cup of broth to a sick person. Item: that between him and the mayor who preceded me and two who followed me after me, they have eaten three advances, four surcharges, two ports and the chapel of San Roque with all its ornaments. Item: that for that one of which they were rejendías, they melted down the church bells between him and the aforementioned predecessor mayor, charged the neighbors the value of new ones, and today is the day when mass is rung with a bell because there are no bells; ” Well, the infamous man who wanted to insult me is the one responsible for this fraud… etc…” All this, and much more that I will be adding to it, as you continue writing, I want to be strictly enforced and published immediately in print in the newspapers of this city. I will immediately buy a bunch of printed materials and give one to each neighbor and place another on every corner of the town. ” “Good heavens, Don Hermenegildo! Consider that this is a delicate undertaking, because the charges you want to make are very serious. ” “I will sign it thirty times if necessary. ” “That signature could cost you dearly. ” “I have the resources to litigate for ten years in a row; and even if I lose my shirt, I won’t mind it at all as long as I get that scoundrel to pay a quarter. ” “And I believe it. But, for now, let’s take it easy, it will be very convenient for you.” You say you can accuse the trustee of all the iniquities you have just enumerated. Yes, sir, and many others. Granted. But consider that this is not the best way to nullify the extremely serious charges made against you in this document: the crimes of others do not justify our own. So, then, before we rush into answering the trustee, let us see what grounds your accusations may have; understanding that the more innocent you are, the more forceful the charges you make against your enemy will be. Can you doubt that this whole document is a bundle of lies, and that I am as good a man as anyone? I doubt nothing, Don Hermenegildo; but I like to see things clearly. Well, so do I, since you are pressing me; and for that reason, I have no problem giving you whatever explanations you ask of me on the matter. “That’s what I like, and let’s get to the examination… But let’s proceed in order. The first charge against you in the pamphlet is having eaten the Sel de Abajo braña for lunch… What about this? ” “Well, it’s the simplest thing in the world. When I was mayor, I noticed that in a very thick gorge at the foot of the mountain, some sheep that were approaching to graze on the grass among the undergrowth got tangled up. Two of them, which remained there without the shepherd seeing them, died in the night eaten by the wolf. The people of the village, as you know, are inherently lazy and abandoned; so , no matter how much I said, ‘Be careful with the sheep, they’re ready…'” the wolf,” the poor animals became entangled every day and were on the verge of extinction. Seeing this, and with the intention of benefiting the town, I go, and what do I do? I close the wall within a fence, and all this with no other compensation than the ownership of what was fenced. “But it would have been simpler to have cut the wall, Don Hermenegildo. ” “That’s true; but that solution had the disadvantage that tomorrow or the next day the wall would grow back. ” “Indeed: you are a man of foresight. ” “Anyway, it would have been more convenient for me to graze it, since believe me, I lost out by buying it because of the fence I put up. ” “Depending on the wall, Don Hermenegildo. ” “Well, consider it about twice this quarter. ” “Then it wasn’t much.” “Yes; But tell me that I fenced off the entire plain where I was, and that this plain, which is what’s called the Lower Sel, is over eighty wagons’ worth of land. “Yes!
” “So you see, the fence surrounding all that land must be worth much more than the fence. ” “Naturally, Señor Don Hermenegildo. And tell me: was that land for common use? ” “Yes, sir. ” “And you fenced it off without first complying with the legal requirements? ” “Nothing, nothing: a simple agreement from the City Council, and out in the sun. And don’t kid yourself: anyone who wants to do good to a town has to do so; the proceedings drag on forever and are never properly handled. ” “We’re in agreement. And they left you to enjoy the possession of that fence in peace? ” “Peacefully! Good and fat!” As soon as I left the yard, they reported him to the Property Administration, and an investigator went to town and… who knows how much trouble they gave me! At that time , although well-connected, I didn’t have the support I have today; so the case followed its natural course, without more than twenty requests I made in support of my rights being of any use to me. “So they finally deprived you of the lock? ” “No way! No, sir… in Spain, the processing of a case is never finished . Reports here; opinion there; consultation there … Thanks to this, an eternity passed without any definitive ruling; even my enemies forgot about the matter, and eventually slept in these little offices. I thought he was more like dead than asleep , when, my friend, three months ago the pottage was stirred again, and look, they’re demanding that I be stripped of the property. Fortunately for me, this time they didn’t find me as unprepared as the last; and just in case the time I’d been in possession of the property and having it cultivated like a garden didn’t help me in support of my rights, I’m going and writing Your Excellency a fiery letter, demanding protection against the intended encroachment on my property… Here’s the reply I got a few days later: I’m carrying it in my wallet to rub it in the face, if he doesn’t walk straight, of some employee of the Administration where I’m going to go as soon as I get out of here, with the added bonus of leaving the matter settled for good. Look, you see… Where the hell have I put it? I have so much paperwork in my wallet!… Here it is… No, this isn’t it… Here! Ha, ha, ha!… It’s a copy of the court order from the trial judge . Well, this business also has something to do with it! It’s a lawsuit I’ve been pursuing for over two years with a neighbor. Doesn’t the condemned man insist that I’ve been gradually inserting into his field the heirs of one of my fields that border him, and that I’m taking half the property from him? It’s a fortune that doesn’t look like the deed of ownership, and there are plenty of witnesses to testify in my favor, otherwise the Indian would have half the field between his nails… But, sir, where has that letter been hidden?… Haha! Look here, and with its gilded edge, take it. “But is it from His Excellency…” ” From the same one. So, are you the only ones who should correspond with the big woman? Ho-ho-ho!” And filled with astonishment, I, who had barely greeted a gentleman from afar, that such an extravagant fellow was on the same wavelength as an Excellency, read the following paragraphs in the letter I already had in my hand: “The matter you recommended to me was difficult, very difficult. According to the information I requested, you are completely exposed, having ignored all legal requirements. However, I have given the necessary orders so that the Administration does not attempt to bother you again; and as for the investigator, he will be very careful not to report the siege again. Enjoy him, my friend, in peace and in the grace of God, without scruples or suspicions. And how is it going? Are your people ready? Do not forget that the day of battle is approaching and that the enemy is seasoned and fearsome.” The signature was His Excellency’s, and the envelope was addressed to Don Hermenegildo Trapisonda himself. I was astonished. What could there possibly be in common between two such heterogeneous characters? What battle and what enemies were those mentioned in the letter? I explained my doubts to Don Hermenegildo, and he replied with an air of comical , even grotesque importance: “Well, it all depends on the elections. ” “Ah, right! So because you’re an elector.” I hadn’t realized that. But, even so, it seems to me that by one vote more or less… ” “One vote!… You’re not getting a bad vote: thirty votes, sir, are all I have available. You see, this number, in a district like mine, which has so few voters… ” “I understand, I understand… But it occurs to me that when this situation collapses and the others come, you’ll lose everything you’ve got now. ” “Now you’re cool! When the others come, I’ll go over to them with my twenty votes, and you’ll have me as happy as now. ” –So no one in the district can cough at you. –Yes, sir: anyone from my party who threatens His Excellency with standing against me with twenty-one votes. –And if your twenty votes desert you at the critical hour? –It’s impossible: we’re all linked by a chain of commitments of the utmost importance: there’s an elector of mine who goes to jail as soon as I say a word. –And would you be capable of saying it? –As soon as he’s capable of failing me. –Without a pang of conscience? –What conscience or what!… Well, if in elections like the last ones, as my candidate told me, one were to feel guilty about one more or less atrocity, the Congress of Deputies could be closed forever . Disabuse yourself: crimes, however serious, are venial sins when they are committed electorally. How much could I tell you on this subject! I know some very well-educated, well-behaved, and very good people, and perhaps you do too, who have done things on election days that, had they done them in _ordinary_ times, would have earned them a leg iron, acting in good justice. “And why hasn’t that been done to them?” “Because it was election time. ” “That’s true; and you’ve already told me that crimes then are nothing more than venial sins. ” “Sir. ” “How I like that jurisprudence! And while the people sleep peacefully and happily under its protection, let us continue examining the question of the fence. So go on. ” “Well, I have nothing more to add. You must have convinced yourself that the fence is mine, and very much mine, for the reasons stated. ” “Yes, sir, and, above all, for the reasons of His Excellency; so let’s move on.” “Second charge in the pamphlet: ‘House-burner.’ Why do they call you a ‘house-burner?'” “That’s a real imposture!” responded Don Hermenegildo , twisting in his seat and showing the most picturesque indignation. “Listen, and pardon me. The last elections in my district were the most closely contested ever seen. For one thing, due to rigging by the opposition, four of our electors had been excluded from the lists , and, in addition, two of their own had been snuck in with false receipts. Thanks to my schemes and those of the candidate, ours, who in these elections gets in through the loophole of a key, we knocked out the two intruders and put three of the four excluded back on the list. Well, sir, with this vote being less than in other years, things were, in truth, very tight, and all I could think about was how to make them useless for even one vote, to put an end to their rigging. Look here, pull there, all the obstacles I threw for that purpose were ruined, and then the big day arrived. With my last plan in mind, I went out into the street, caught a voter who owed me some favors, and seeing that he turned a deaf ear to my threats and to everything I proposed, I resolved to take him to my house for the one where we could talk more comfortably; The man agreed to please me, although protesting that I would not change his mind, or risk having to pay him a mere three thousand reales immediately, a mere three thousand reales he had to pay at the end of the month for some properties he had bought on credit, and for which expense I was not authorized by the candidate, so I told him to vote with me and that we would talk later, to which he replied that no child would care to him, because when it came to elections he knew as much as the government… I say that the man agreed to go with me to my house, and counting on his good bankroll, I go and place between us a barrel of Nava wine that I had in the cellar… “Now,” I said to myself, “either you burst or you get drunk, because the wine is of the best quality, and you have never shown a white man a discourtesy.” Well, sir, pull and pull and talk and talk, we were already half drunk in the barrel when the man, calmer than I am now, said that the time to vote was approaching and that he would leave me… and the damned man left me. I was left alone cursing my lack of skill, and about an hour passed without further incident. At the end of that hour, I was entering the Council House, right next to my man, when a neighbor of his came shouting and telling him that his house was on fire. “The neighbor or the voter? ” “The voter. ” “And was it really on fire, or was it just a little joke on your part? ” “A little joke, eh? It was as serious as the two of us standing here. At that moment, Don Hermenegildo’s little head, sticking out above the stiff collar of his shirt, seemed to me to be that of a hyena peeping out of the crack of its burrow.” Those phosphorescent little eyes, that arched, fanged mouth, after the stories I had just heard, didn’t lend themselves to a more consoling comparison. I continued, however, concealing my displeasure, and Don Hermenegildo continued: “Since the man was suspicious about the guest, he suddenly turned to me, told me that I was the one who set fire to his house so that he wouldn’t go and vote, and wow! He gave me such a slap that I ran around three times. Friend, the people who dislike me and who heard him tend to say the same thing as him… And fortunately, the truth always triumphs, and the fact couldn’t be proven to me, otherwise my neighbor’s slander would have cost me dearly. ” “So, in the end, you would achieve your objective: the poor man would immediately set off to put out his house… ” “Wow! He voted first. ” “Demon!” “Just as you heard: he voted, and then he left immediately; but it was too late, because the fire had taken shape, and the house burned to the ground. ” “Of course you would have gone to help him immediately. ” “I’ll tell you: I would have gone with a thousand hearts; but I couldn’t leave the table very far, because the election was very close; and most of the neighbors were in the same situation, some because they were voters and others because they were inclined to… take that! And even four guards, who as soon as they heard about the fire wanted to go and put it out, had to stay at the foot of the table, so to speak, sent by the mayor to maintain order. Don’t you see that in these electoral matters, as soon as order is lost and they get into a ruckus, the whole thing is taken over? So the only thing I did was look for witnesses of the insult I had received and immediately file a complaint against the insulter. And it cost him dearly, by the way; because besides being in the shadows for a long time, he ended up ruining himself with the legal costs. “But what about that jurisprudence that crimes are considered venial sins when they are committed electorally?… Because you received the insult from the mouth and hand of a voter, and in the act of going to vote. ” “All that’s true; but since we won the election… and then the candidate took it so personally… Wow! He said that the offense that had been done to me was as if it had been done to him… And then… No, and the truth is that this gentleman appreciates me very much. ” “So if the election is lost, you get the short end of the stick, and perhaps the poor voter would have found a way to compensate himself for the damages caused by the fire? ” “I won’t tell you no.” For the rest, and returning to what interests us, the fire, although I don’t think I need to tell you, was pure chance, with no more of a part in it than I had in Troy. “Of course, Don Hermenegildo; how could I believe otherwise? ” “Well, the same thing happens with the matter of the Blessed Souls, about whether or not I left them naked. ” “Indeed,” I said, looking over the pamphlet, “that is another charge brought against you here. ” “As slanderous as all the others; and I refer to the proof. As I told you a while ago, I was steward of the Souls, and I was for six years. The two estates they had in the town, which were a meadow and a two-wheeled mill, would yield, if well managed, one thousand two hundred reales, a sum that had to be invested in masses and suffrages. ” It so happened that as soon as I took over the stewardship, a whirlwind came and swept away part of the mill dam and broke the axle of one of the wheels. I proceeded, as was natural, to repair the damage, and the account of expenses rose to four thousand reales. Consequently, for nearly four years not a single prayer service was sung nor a mass said for the souls in the town church. Those who dislike me took this as their starting point and began to say that if suffrages were not held it was because I was pocketing the money. I then showed the accounts, which showed the sum I have mentioned, and when my enemies saw them, they began to shout that it had all been a rigging with the contractor of the work, because the work could not have cost more than five hundred reales, assuming that the dam had not lost three cartloads of stone, and the axle had remained serviceable and could be replaced. Around here, murmuring arose; I took several to court. They were condemned to pay the costs, and the law protected me from all liability; but, damn it! It hasn’t been possible to silence all those who bark at me behind my back, like the scoundrel in the bailiff’s corner. And there you have the whole affair explained , so that it’s clear as day that everything said in that note is pure slander. I suppose that the reader, following Don Hermenegildo’s conversation, will have formed an idea of his character; but if this were not the case and he were to wait for my vote to decide… let him bless his uncertainty, because I am resolved not to remove him from it. And in my intention to limit myself to recording facts, I add to those known that, upon hearing my visitor’s last words, I was tempted to leave him on the stairs without further explanation; but, after a moment’s reflection, I decided to do it in a less violent way, if possible. “Well,” I said, for the sake of it, in a tone that was anything but gentle. “Well, nothing,” Don Hermenegildo replied, narrowing his eyes and showing more jaw and teeth than ever; “what’s missing is, now that you must be fully convinced of my innocence, to get down to business and immediately prepare my answer; but a firm and bloody one… and without fear, of course! I’ll sign it. ” “So right now? ” “Then why did I get up so early? Besides, for you, it’s like drinking a glass of water. ” “I repeat to you that it doesn’t matter to you to interfere in this matter.” such an undertaking. “What! After having heard my explanations, you tell me that? ” “Precisely because I have heard them. ” “So you think the depository is justified in treating me like this? ” “I don’t think so, because there is never enough justification for acting in public as he has acted toward you. ” “Well then… ” “Seriously, Don Hermenegildo: I do not please you, among other reasons that should have saved you from the early morning and the soaking today, because you and the depository have, in my judgment, very little to reproach each other for, and it is very better for both of you to keep your mouths shut if you wish to die in your own homes in peace and in the grace of God.” Hearing me speak thus, Don Hermenegildo’s little face suddenly took on a greenish-yellow color, his little eyes sparkled in their dark sockets, his enormous lips trembled, and his teeth ground together. Then he courageously raised both hands to his head, tousled his hair twice , and stood up, exclaiming at the same time, in a voice very similar to the hissing of a snake: “So, according to that, you believe that Juana is as good as her mistress? ” “Little horse,” I responded, rising myself. “Well, in that case… let it be known that the voice of a good man who asks for protection from a scoundrel is ignored; because I am a very good man!” “Granted. ” “And let it be known that I am as good as the first! ” “Congratulations. ” “And let it be known that I have failed you! ” “Common; but let it also be known, in conclusion, that you have been unnecessary to me for a long time.” And I pointed to the door. “I see,” replied Don Hermenegildo, unsuccessfully attempting a tone of emotion. “Give me that piece of paper,” he added, extending his hand. ” There’s the paper,” I said, handing him the pamphlet I still held in mine. “And God bless you, there must be a man who refuses to publicly give the author of these pranks everything he deserves! ” “On that point, go with peace of mind: there will be no lack of people who will do him and you justice in this way. ” “For now, I’ll look for someone who will serve me in the ways you haven’t wanted to serve me. ” “And in any case, you can count on His Excellency. ” “You can see that he does; fortunately for me and the nation, he still has a lot to offer. ” “That’s how it goes.” “Have a good time.” “Go with God.” And Don Hermenegildo, giving me a crooked and spiteful look, put on his hat with a trembling hand, picked up his umbrella, arranged, or rather, unarranged his cloak over his shoulders, and shot out down the corridor , dragging his spur and with one leg of his trousers bunched up over his calf. As soon as he reached the stairs, I closed the door and prayed to God with all my heart that He would forever preserve in the son of my grandfather’s tenant farmer the courage that animated him when he said goodbye to me, so that this visit would be his last. COME DOWN THE STREET Give me your arm, reader, or take mine if you prefer, and let’s go kill two hours I have left, wandering through the streets of the Most Noble, Loyal, and Determined city; that the illustrious capital of the Montaña boasts all these titles in its record, from Don Fernando _the Saint_ to Echevarría _the Factious_, or, if you prefer it more digestible, from the capture of Seville to the “_Battle of Vargas_.” The night, like that of autumn, is serene and peaceful; and although the gas from the lanterns that have just been lit would barely be enough to make the darkness visible, as, if I remember correctly, the very discreet and entertaining _Curious Speaker_ said in a similar case, to keep us from banging our heads against street corners, we will have at our disposal the silvery rays of the moon that, like an enormous red sieve, is reaching at this moment, between clouds of purple and orange, over the old walls of the solitary inn of Pedreña. We set off from the street of the Company, which is where chance has brought us together, and yielding to an impulse natural to anyone who has a clock in front of them, you raise your eyes and fix them on the transparent dial. illuminated from the Town Hall. Of course you know that the Town Hall is that very humble building, because I tell you so, because neither the four arches on which its two not very finished floors rest, nor the _solana_ of the first, nor the four small balconies of the second, nor even the three gilded coats of arms that the façade displays, nor the fact that it is made of carved ashlar, can deduce such a high rank, given the luster that we must assume in a Municipality of a capital of the commercial importance of Santander. But the fact is that _that_ is the Consistory, or the _Principal_, as they say here, and that there is no other in the town to accommodate the _Excma._ Corporation… and its worthy _gigantillas_. –I forgot to warn you that for the great official solemnities and for the day of Corpus, there are some silk hangings with the national colors to cover the balustrades of the balconies, and some little stars and a sun of gas lights, between whose rays are displayed, as if they were frying, the heads of the patron Martyrs, the ship of my illustrious countryman Bonifaz, the Guadalquivir, the chain broken by that one and the Torre del Oro, which are the symbolic figures of the coat of arms of this city. I do not warn you, for you will already suppose, that this splendid ornament appears only at night, nor that, when placed in the aforementioned veranda of the first floor, it is called illumination. A few rays of it would be useful for us now to examine the features of the people we can glimpse beneath the arches; but I will make up for that lack with my experience in the field, telling you, from the outset, that those sitting on the porch benches are gentlemen who have fallen on hard times, gossips who cannot accept the sentence handed down against them in so many trials held above that afternoon, and citizens of no known profession or income, who, smoking, coughing, sighing, cursing, or meditating, await the hour to go to bed… those of them who have beds. – Those who are standing and communing near the corner that looks out onto the plaza , that is to say, the only projecting corner of the building, for this one has only two facades, are youngsters in tuina (a dress of skirts and short sleeves), evident signs that they are at that age when they change their voices and grow an inch a day, which is why no clothing then fits well for more than half a week. They also smoke, and, judging by the smell, it sounds more like aniseed than tobacco. They’re humanists, students at the Institute, and I’d bet my ears that their pockets are stuffed with twigs and pellets. Didn’t I say so? They’ve already brought a twig to the poor villager who’s going toward Peso Street. We’re in the Plaza de la Constitución, commonly known as the Plaza Vieja, and you’ll notice that it’s nothing more than a stretch of street a little wider than its other contemporaries in Santander. However, when I was a child, this space seemed immeasurable. Four new houses, a fashionable bazaar, a showy café, a luxury pharmacy, and a few other establishments restored in a modern style have taken away the old character that made it venerable in the eyes of every good Santander resident. “Just a few years ago, in this corner shop, where prints of the Prodigal Son and fishing line for birds were sold, I could have shown you the only pigtail left in Spain , carefully braided around the neck of its elderly owner, not counting those of bullfighters. A little further down, Doña Marcelina, better known as the Seven Teeth, although I would have sworn she didn’t have a single one, made, papered, and sold the best lemon candies I’ve ever tasted. On that other corner, Doña Juana Barco sold fine goods , whose chatty parrot was as popular in Santander as her shop. Here is the classic bookstore of Don Severo Otero, with its everlasting gathering of elderly gentlemen.” Opposite the _Expendición de bulas_ and the famous tobacco shop… and many other establishments and types here and there that saw years and generations pass without giving a brushstroke of paint to the frames of their doors, or making the slightest alteration. in their habits.–To commemorate the action of Vargas during the time of the Militia that ended in ’43, a small temple made of cabretón planks was erected on this same site on the night of November 3, upon which a statue was placed, representing I don’t know if Victory or Fame, whom the people called the _old woman of Vargas_, believing with their eyes closed that it was an image of the good woman who, according to public opinion, _appeared_ to the nationalists who were going to Vargas to fight the faction, indicating to them the point where it was located, where it could be attacked, etc., etc… news to which, according to the same sources, the success of the expedition was due. That night, after a day of reviews, parades, and gigantic acts, there was music and rockets, wheels, sighs, mail, wheelbarrows, and everything the pyrotechnic art could offer around the bandstand, and anyone who found a spot on a nearby balcony to enjoy the festivities believed themselves to be the height of happiness . “To go to the plaza,” or “to go to the plaza,” was what it was called in the schools when two or more boys challenged each other to write a page better and to agree to accept the verdict given by two of the three gentlemen consulted at noon among those who were strolling around. If the challenge was between boys from two rival schools, the event made a stir in the town and put the judges in a very serious position, as they would often talk each other down and even consult with their friends before making their decision. They certainly took the challenge very seriously ! I’ll tell you, for your own satisfaction, that in these contests, in which I entered as a competitor more than twice, I never won the two centavos that the bet was worth. –From this second floor to the one in the house across the street , before the nine o’clock mass on winter holidays, a rope was attached, from the center of which hung a canvas a yard in length, announcing the afternoon and evening performances at the theater; not with large signs or puffed-up praise, but with a pair of tempera paintings, in which the two most notable scenes from the two indispensable plays were represented in rabid colors. From time to time, this poster is also hoisted today, but rarely with plates and never with success: the passersby of Cueto barely witness the operation of raising it , nor do the children of the school read it for nothing; And I’m not exaggerating when I tell you that in the past , even the most fashionable men, the elegant ones who wore the first white overcoats in Santander and wore the first patent-leather boots with red morocco shafts, awaited their display with visible delight, with intimate satisfaction… But I notice, most patient reader, that I’m straying from the scope of our subject by evoking these memories, which mean nothing to you. Forgive me for this generous oversight. When my eyes still think I can distinguish in the distance the men and things that are leaving, after having spent the best years of my life among them, my heart cannot deny them a fond farewell. Do you see these individuals who, with an even and measured step, walk across the plaza, up and down , always in the same line, like the pendulums of a clock? Well, they are deeply sympathetic to me, precisely because they are the only thing left of the old Plaza Vieja. It is true that some of them are not the same men as then; but they are others with the same tastes and identical inclinations, and it makes no difference. Here you will find them every night until half past nine, strolling on the same cobblestones or the same flagstones, without a single instance of a stream-goer intruding on the sidewalk, or of one accustomed to the right crossing over to the left. Carefully consider their clothes and you will find them clearly at odds with current fashions; and even if you go closer , you might see on the trouser legs of more than one stroller, who is not old, the mark of the shaft of the half-boot they wear, in their profound love for the customs of the 1945s and beyond. And assuming that this typical curiosity is the only one I can show you here, let us turn the corner and enter the street of San Francisco, which is, except for the differences you will imagine, as if in Madrid I were taking you to the Carrera de San Jerónimo, or in Paris to the Boulevard des Italianes. These six who come, apparently women, their waists wrapped in skimpy shawls and their heads in flowing scarves of raw silk, like hoods, are the women of two modest families who live on the same staircase, and who after dinner have gathered for the ordinary nighttime stroll in the streets which they are now beginning. Every night when it is not raining, they do the same. The principal object of their stroll is to examine, from outside, the shop windows: if they find a very cheap imitation item, not to buy it, but to know what is available, just in case, they mark the night with a white stone; and they mark it with two stones if, as they pass from shop to shop, they discover some snafu, noticeable to the actors, amid the darkness of some indiscreet doorway; and, finally, they mark it with three stones if they come across a serenade. “These other covered ones that cross with them belong to the same communion, and those who are stopped at our side belong to the same communion. From all of them and others like them are made up the majority of the very patient public that on country dance nights comes to smell it from the new gardens on Vargas Street. ” “Half a point higher on the social staff are those who come from the left; and I say this because, instead of a foulard, they wear a cloud wrapped around their heads, and on their shoulders something that seeks to imitate, in form and color, the coats of great ladies… My presumptions were not deceived: they are those of Doña Calixta, of whom I spoke to you at length on another occasion, and two of her close friends. From the air they carry, it’s clear they’re not out on a shopping spree: if they had set out for that purpose, they’d already be stirring up the shops and gatherings they leave behind; and not out on a shopping spree, nor having music in the plaza, nor a stroll in the Alameda, nor a country dance, they’re necessarily _at a gathering_… vulgar, of course. These four women, crossing quickly, wrapped in rich hoods, treading fast, talking a lot, and smelling of jasmine and heliotrope, are already aiming higher. Although they pretend not to care about the crowd, I warn you that they never lose sight of them and that they know them in detail; they are also fascinated by discoveries of dark genres and, above all, by the shops; only they don’t limit themselves to looking at or rummaging through goods, but they buy them, or at least, they commit them to buy them another day in the light of day. Nor do they disdain a serenade if they meet one along the way. If there were a reception tonight at some prestigious house, you wouldn’t see them on the street: if they were invited, because they were; and if not, so as not to give away their presence among the outcasts. Although it’s hardly practical in the village, you won’t fail to gather from their appearance the matter that occupies this couple approaching us from the right. She is young, moving freely, dressed in calico, with no other adornment or cover on her head than a thick head of black hair, gracefully combed; he with his face hidden between the drooping brim of his hat and the raised collar of his coat; she is speaking loudly, and he is almost making signs… They are already close to us, and we can even hear them… Son, you are walking so fast… Holy Mary! Let’s move aside for the love of God! And since they’re stopping, let’s listen to them: “You insist on taking me by the most crowded route!” “No, no! Well, we could have gone by way of the Pyrenees! Do you think so? ” “But without going by way of the Pyrenees, there are other streets… ” “What you want are secrets, and it just so happens that I like to keep my face very uncovered throughout the town at these times when one leaves the sewing shop and has earned quite an honorable living from it. ” “If it isn’t that, Cipriana! ” “Well, in the Tersichore, he was quite infatuated and he didn’t mind joining me. It must be because no lady of the religious order would see him then… Is she, perhaps, one of those marmots?” that they’re going around there, the one that makes him look cultured? –You mustn’t be a pain, Cipriana… and let’s keep walking. –I see you, Englishman… Of course! Oh, Christian! Now that I’m thinking, look at the devine canapés Miguel has here. –What Miguel? –Yes, another one! What Miguel can it be? Trabanco. –Ah, yes! –And they must be the latest, because last night I saw others just like them in the play by Mrs. Barreduras, by her bad nickname, who brings everything from France… Everything in the window is precious! Why, the glass? It’s bigger than a sheet. And how the gas pumps up all the jewels! They’re suffering from pure brilliance… and they must be! –So, shall we go on, or not? –Hey, Christian, don’t be in a hurry, they’re not asking you for any of this! Let one of them at least satisfy her eyes… Look, there goes Gervaise with Pelagatos’s son, who is very rich… And they’re going very slowly! Do you want me to call them? Oh, what a boy that is! How much more partial and manageable he is than you! “He was there for her!” “There goes Sidora too… Do you know who is accompanying her? Well, he’s a troop soldier, destined to be a captain. And how the lucky fellow esteems her! ” “Do you want us to follow them? ” “I already know what you want… but since I can’t even hear you, we’re already talking… Daughter, what a man! I’ll wait for you for the first time!” “Why?” “I’ll tell you about mass at the Tersichore.” And off they go, reader… and we will go too, not after the couple you will have already met to your liking, but to continue our explorations down the street, supposing that in this place we would see nothing but repeated examples of the models you have seen passing by. This young woman in shirtsleeves, with her arms crossed over her stomach and a pair of shoes held above her head by a prodigious effort of balance, is a cook who has just arrived from the fountain: she will soon be singing… There she is, and at the top of her voice: “If you want me to go to the güeña and blush, give me more satisfaction and less anger.” According to the pure custom of her people, the singer must have arrived in the city only a few days ago . I base my opinion on the fact that the songs of the pejinas, or those who wish to appear to be, have a different character, both in tone and lyrics… And I refer to the example of this other servant with the water jug, with fashionable tangled hair and a red jacket, who also comes singing. Let’s listen to her when she repeats. Now: “My sighs go to the deep seas , little sighs of the soul, poor sighs; for a sailor with his eyes full of tears, very sly, said to me one day: precious little serene girl, you enchant me.” You will notice that her voice, although strong, is less unpleasant than that of her colleague, her music more melodious, and as for the verse, a little more ingenious. And since we’re talking about music, let’s not waste what can be heard in the nearby alley. They are the troubadours—the blind man with the bandurria and his wife, who accompanies him on a guitar. Beside him, there’s a young man puffing on a cigar, and on the opposite sidewalk, half a dozen curious onlookers like us. We have to agree that the blind man performs brilliantly with his instrument. Now he’s singing a duet with his wife: “Look out that window, look out that balcony, Menegilda of my life, face of moon and sun.” That head leaning out of that opening window belongs to a body that’s dying for the young man with the cigar; and if not, look at him waving his hand and swaying and smiling, so full of vanity as if that music and those songs he’s rented for a real and a half were legitimate products of his skill and wit. Are we having a quarrel too? Bah! No blood will be shed. It’s in the tavern next door, between two liquor aficionados. Watch them in the candlelight , gesticulating and waving their hands, while swearing and shouting. Listen to them for a moment: –Will you not tell me again? –Well, now I’m telling you, not only in you, but in your father and your mother and in all your purebred bitch. –You? –Me, me! –Neither you nor four thousand like you, you idiot! –I’m telling you, and I have more than enough for it. –If no one has yet been born self-made for that! –I’m telling you, I alone have more than enough for it. –And will you be able to sustain it? –Whenever you want. –Will you not tell me in the street? –By the life of all my entrails!… Let’s go to the street and you’ll see if I ‘m not more of a man than the whole world there and in every way. We’ve already got the comedy right here: you’ll see what the outcome will be. –You’re already telling me here. –Well, here I repeat to you, that in you and in all your dragging haste, you stupid fool! –Out with everyone!… Let’s see, repeat… repeat… man! –I’m telling you, in you and in your father and in your mother and in all your five senses. –You? –Me.
–You? –Me, yes, me! Do you want it clearer? –Well, now we’ll see: you’re already doing it… Come on! –Man!… –And woman… That’s how the brave are tested… Let’s see how you do it? –Come on… don’t maintain patience, because if you maintain patience, it seems to me that face will condemn… –What? Let’s see… what would you do to this face that owes nothing to the king’s own? –If it were nothing more than to turn it inside out! –Take care of your hand, be very careful with it; because if you kill not even the hair on the clothes… –What would you kill then, eh?… let’s see, would you kill? –What would I kill? Everyone out! What would I kill? Well, touch it and you’ll see! –Well, provoke me. –I’m telling you to kill you. –I’m telling you to provoke me. –Let’s see if you kill! –Let’s see if you provoke me! –Let’s see, man! –Let’s see! In view of what we’ve seen, we can withdraw in the blind confidence that the matter will not escalate into acts of crime; and serve your government that if in this town everything promised in the chapter of threats were fulfilled , barely the giant poplars of the Alameda and the house of the _Pasiego_ would remain standing today . Let this be recorded for the honor and praise of my peaceful countrymen, tireless disputers though they may be. Of a thousand quarrels between them, ninety involve slaps, and ten bring out the knife . Of these, five are sheathed without use; four draw blood, and one results in a serious wound; and when the court comes to collect what’s left on the field, it almost always turns out the aggressor is a stranger. You can’t deny that these statistics are comforting, when compared with those of other provinces where, no doubt because there’s less shouting, men tear each other’s guts out over a few straws. And walking on, we’ve come to find ourselves in front of the Cuesta de Garmendia, or del Cordelero. Let’s take it to heart. “Certainly our grandparents must have had very robust bodies, or they were very backward in the matter of grades, when they converted a precipice like this into a street, with no more preparation than building two rows of houses on it and covering the ground with a layer of uneven stones. “Cover your ears now, because these women who come down the slope, arm wrestling and swirling their skirts with the exaggerated swaying of their hips, are going to sing, or they will break with custom, and you must not hear it: there you have it. I am glad you were deaf for this moment, because if the music of the song had brought sparks to your ears, the moral of the couplet would have scorched your shame… And consider how well evil bears fruit when it is sown in time, in this child who is barely seven years old; Why wouldn’t he let me publish the penal code without correction? And he would do well to publish the song he has intoned at the top of his voice with impunity? And yet I would only offend a few readers, while the nightly street songs scandalize an entire town. We have reached the peak: Let’s rest for a moment, and in the meantime, look at the beautiful effect the lights of Calle del Correo have down below, and in front of us, in the distance, the black line of trees on Paseo del Alta. This dark, humped, and rotten building we found as we turned the corner is the jail; I have nothing to tell you about it, because you are an honest man; however, I’d bet an ear that it inspires more horror in you than in the prisoners who inhabit it or the scoundrels who deserve it. It is true that without this seemingly contradictory meaning, there would be no crimes on earth; and being good men there, like you and I, would have no merit whatsoever. Neither the hospital nor the cemetery, to which this road on the right would lead us, will at this time have the slightest attraction for our curiosity, which surely is not looking for cries of agony or funeral torches. Let’s turn left and walk down Calle Alta, a venerable remnant of primitive Santander; a ramshackle, shaky, and stinking shelter for the sailors of the _Cabildo de Arriba_, eternal rival of the _Cabildo de Abajo_, that is , of the sailors of Calle de la Mar. The civilizing fervor of the center has launched some lava up here that has barely managed to ingest and take root, in the form of new houses, among this labyrinth of ruined balconies, twisted eaves, rigging, tackle, and pestilent remnants of _parrocha_. To give you an idea of what life is like in these wormy dovecotes, you can look out the door of one of them. That group you see in the background, a sort of cavern lit by a dim candle, is a family preparing to rest from the day’s hard labors, perhaps on the hard floor of the miserable enclosure, or, more or less, on a half-bare bed for the couple, and on a pile of nets for the others. This rickety staircase leads up to the first floor, where at least two families will live. The staircase continues to the second, and there God knows how many individuals will take shelter. It branches out upwards, to the right, and to the left, and on all floors up to the fifth, and in every corner and attic, and even on the balconies, oppressed fishermen will live, without light, without air… and without pain, fortunately, because if they had it, produced by the thought of their condition, they would not have endured it alive for many hours. And as proof that the mood isn’t suffering much in this neighborhood, take a close look at the street scene, the hubbub that reigns there. In that doorway, two sardine sellers are singing; a fisherman is singing on the balcony over there ; a young boy is also singing on the one next door; a family is chatting happily from that garret with the one across the street; and although two young women are quarreling here and three others are scratching each other in the middle of the stream, and two fishermen are quarreling in the tavern, and a boy is moaning in this cellar, neither the quarrel, nor the scratches, nor the swearing, nor the groans, can be recognized as the cause of the slightest grief: to quarrel, scratch each other, and cry in these places, all it takes is a little thwarted stubbornness, and an excess of joy is enough. In an hour, all this will be silent; At three in the morning the announcer will go through the streets shouting: “Apuya!” and the fishermen will rise and put out to sea in their boats, to steal, often at risk to their lives, the tasty fish that you can eat at noon, and that you will surely eat, without paying any attention to the arduous labors it took to bring it to the plaza where your cook will bargain for it at a quarter. And so it goes all year round, except for three days, from the eve of St. Peter’s, the patron saint of the Cabildo, until the following day inclusive. Then the city drummer is hired, the whole neighborhood takes to the streets, wine flows through it, pennants and flags are lit, bonfires are lit at night, the ground shakes with dancing, songs and rockets fill the air, people eat in the taverns, they sleep where sleep overwhelms, and if not, they throw the whole city out the window. house, it’s because no one remembers to go into theirs while the festivities last. Blessed be Divine Providence!… Zambomba! Something has rained down on your hat… Let’s see?… The guts of a sardine; but don’t be surprised by this incident, because since many of them will be disbanding on the balcony above and intruders like us are rare in this street, these good people throw their filth into it without scruple or hesitation… To escape this and other, no less tidy, inconveniences, it’s best for us to get out of here as soon as possible. We’re back in the middle of civilization again, and I bet you can’t tell from the singing that that young man in a blouse has just sung… Are you starting to feel shocked by all this popular music? I was hoping you’d tell me. Well, you should know that they sing here all night long… and all day long. The scullery maid sings when she goes to the fountain and at the sink, and the _peon_ sings when he works and when he stops working, and the shoemaker’s apprentice when he goes on a delivery, and the lazy man who tires of being one, and the _motil_ or cabin boy who returns on board, and the journeyman tailor and all the day laborers of all kinds and categories as soon as they go out on the street… and I am not including in this music, which is purely amateurish, the _artists by profession, like the blind indigenous people who play the vihuela, and those who play the gaita and lazarillo with tambourines, exotic, from the province, who on certain days of the week, like Saturday, deafen the population. And if you come out of it now, you will hear the carter singing on the high road, and the lad who prowls around his maiden’s house, and the sexton who goes to ring for prayers, and the gravedigger who digs a grave… and every living creature; for here, as nowhere else, is the accepted opinion that mountaineers the world over are boisterous and dancing by nature. Why are you so startled? Do you think the noise you hear comes from some squadron of demons who have escaped from hell with all their frying and roasting contraptions? Well, it is, quite simply, a _cencerrada_ being given in the adjacent street by some widower who got married there today. Let’s come closer and you’ll see… Kettles, horns, cowbells, handbells, watering cans… all the most acrid, strident, and noisy sounds are in this infernal orchestra… Now the instrumentation stops and the solo voices begin. _One._–Who’s getting married? _Chorus._–Melitón the bald one. _One._–With whom? _Another._–With Mariquita _the joke_. _Chorus._–Then let the cowbell ringing continue. And keep going!… And that little rascal who peeks around the corner with a mortar joins the group; and that neighbor who’s coming back from the fountain with a full kettle on her head, seeing what’s going on, spills the water on the ground, puts some mortars in the pitcher, and whack, it’s too late! A rascal whistles, a cobbler croaks, a cart driver whinnies, stray dogs howl in sympathy, a joke is hurled at the bride and groom from one side, a vulgarity from another, and an indecency from another; and doubtless because the wedding is a proper one, the coarse jacket and the elegant overcoat, the patched shirt and the kid gloves , the long robes of the weaker sex and the taut livery of the one who combs beards and draws up constitutions and edicts of order and good government, are all mixed up in this horrifying mess. that on certain occasions and for certain acts, humanity does not waste any scruples or cares about degrees of nobility or social position: it only exhibits its innate tendencies, its essential characteristics, and neither the quality nor the cut of the dress imposes any duty on it: then it is the granddaughter of Cain and nothing more. – You already know, from the chanted apostrophe you heard, that the groom’s name is Meliton and that he is bald, and that the bride’s name is Mary and she is cancaneada, or pockmarked. Well, in the same way they will tell you little by little how old they are, and how much money they have, and why they married, and a multitude of other things, some true and others invented, but all capable of making the ashlars of a barracks blush with shame. I have never been able to understand the law on which this brutal a custom so deeply rooted here and so popular throughout Spain _in illo tempore_. And a well-known gentleman in Santander must have thought the same about the cowbells when he tried to break up one that was being fired at him from the balcony with shots fired; but he didn’t break it up, because , astonishment! The very just outburst of my elderly friend (may he rest in peace) was called an outrage , and yet from below they were throwing him, he being the paragon of honesty, like a dirty rag; which proves that above natural law, and above common sense, and above the sanctity of the family, and above all that is most holy and respectable, there is the tyranny of custom, however stupid, however unworthy it may be of the fame it has in the century in which it still reigns and in which we have reached. Ah, well, the cowbells, despite what you’re seeing, here are just cake and butter! I can name towns in this province where , a few years ago, it was still an accepted custom to surprise bridegrooms in bed, place them tied up and naked on a cart whose wheels were deliberately dislodged, and, enduring the anguish of this barbaric torture, gallop them down the steepest and most uneven slopes in the vicinity, amidst the hubbub of the jesting neighbors; and finally, as the end of the joke, give them a bath, even in the depths of winter, in the nearest river, or in the sea, if it were not more than a league from the town… I assure you that in terms of cencerradas, great things have been done in this country; and without leaving Santander, I could name three very famous ones… Anyway, man, I have seen a cencerrada here _of cavalry_! Yes, sir: on horseback, formed in a squadron and wearing historical costumes, were the conductors and principal performers of the symphony. Do you want more? But I see that you have had enough with what you are seeing and that you wish to get away from here; and since the same thing happens to me, we are going with our meditations elsewhere. The Atarazanas market. Beneath this Gothic or Moorish Socarreña market where fruits, flour, and other excesses are sold in detail during the day, the night watchmen will soon gather, with their lanterns lit, which they will place in a row next to their respective spears, who at the first stroke of ten will disperse throughout the city to fulfill their melodious and nocturnal obligation. We pass under the bridge, which, if I recall correctly, is also called the Vargas Bridge, in commemoration of the aforementioned battle, and I am pleased to be able to offer you a spectacle that will erase the unpleasant impression you retain of the ringing of the bells that can still be heard from here. And note that I am not referring to the brand-new pedestal that rises in the center of this also new plaza, built on the old dock, patiently awaiting the statue, which is never fully cast, of our heroic countryman Don Pedro Velarde, and which is to serve as a base. I am referring to the spectacle that nature is offering us at this moment, and which, as I observe, you have already noticed; a very frequent spectacle in Santander on autumn nights. But, for you to appreciate it in all its magnificence, we must stand on that black promontory opposite, which is the famous wall of the Muelle de las Naos. We are now at the true vantage point. Spread yours around and tell me if you have admired many paintings more beautiful than this. The moon in all its fullness, without a single cloud to obscure its clarity, reflecting on the greenish crystal of the bay, produces upon it a wide band of restless, phosphorescent light that, rising in the narrow mouth of San Martín, comes to lose itself among the floating forest of ships, which near us seem to sleep, as if they were recovering their strength to launch themselves tomorrow to fight again with the storms of the raging ocean. Like barriers of this immense liquid mirror, there the black mass of Cabarga, the graceful peak of Solares, the undulating hills of Puntal, Pedreña, Guarnizo and Muriedas, and further away the lofty crests of Asón and Escudo limiting the horizon; here the long row of monumental buildings illuminated by the pale light of the star and looking out into the calm waters that lap the polished ashlars of the dock, and the hills of Molnedo up to the short promontory on which the dismantled castle of San Martín rises its hump, like an invalid, useless sentinel of the port. The melancholy song of the rower can be heard, and the distant sound of the sea, and the rhythmic hammering of the windlass, and the murmur of the waters; and as a complement to this sublime and lively panorama, one sees a diadem of clouds of gold and scarlet against the purest blue of the sky, striving in vain to encircle the luminous disk of the moon more closely … I have not seen the nights of the Bosphorus, nor those of Naples, nor a hundred other nights that the long-haired poets and tourists of today have made famous in theaters, books, and salons; But I have observed that in each and every one of these fantastic and enchanting paintings , the elements we are now admiring enter as component parts: the silver moon, the small boat or gondola gliding across the tranquil surface of the water, the reflections, the iridescent hues and even torrents of playful light, the mountains, the breeze, the palaces… From which I deduce that in Venice, Naples, or Constantinople there may be poetic nights as far as you want, but no more than in Santander. Not a soul in Ribera, and that’s only natural: being the center, during the day, of the boiling mercantile heat, at night it’s the place that needs the most rest… No doubt that’s why those singers who appear around the corner of the Customs House come to disturb him… No more than eight… “Those from Santander aren’t going to Madrid, because the railroad has broken down . ‘River, river, river ha, ha, ha, ha; those from Calle Alta will have to pay me for it.” I warn you for your satisfaction that for more than a year now, nothing has been popular here among the townspeople but this song just as you have heard it, and another that is not far behind, both in lyrics and music, which these same troubadours will soon be singing… There you have it: A VOICE. “Yesterday morning I went on board and said to the captain: CHORUS. Take the Vizcainita, take the Vizcainá.” This song has the unfortunate advantage over the previous one that its end cannot be heard, since with the first voice asking and the chorus always responding with the same refrain, the singers’ task goes much further than the resignation of those who find themselves in the anguished need to hear them. You were previously struck by how much singing goes on here at night, and now you realize that the verses you hear, when they don’t border on the indecent, are barbaric and coarse, and you ask me what this consists of. I don’t know, my friend; but it is certain that authors of much and well-deserved fame assure us that the people are GREAT POETS. And they often say in support of their bold assertion: “Where else do these tender ballads come from, these heartfelt songs that are on the lips of the people, and although in simple and untidy forms, contain beautiful and poetic thoughts?” I have sometimes been tempted to reply to these gentlemen with what I am going to tell you in confidence, here where no one can hear us. “Where do these beautiful songs come from,” you ask, I would have said, “that we hear so rarely from the mouths of the simple troubadours of the streets and the woods? From you, my lords, from you, or from other poets like you, who created them as beautiful in form as in thought; the people have later found them, translated them into their crude and vicious language, applied to them the style that, in their opinion, best suited them, and sung them to themselves at once. So that, in my humble opinion, the only thing these slight fragments of beautiful poetry owe to the people who handle them is the favor of finding themselves mutilated and distorted from the best of life, when they were born perfect. And nothing else is possible.” Give this “great poet,” who must therefore appreciate the beauty of art in all its manifestations; give him, I repeat, a beautiful marble by the same Phidias, and supposing he wishes to accept it as colorless and ordinary, you will see how he will soon hang a bell around the statue’s neck, place a cap on its head and a bunch of immortelle in its hand, if not a petticoat around its hips, or paint its cheeks slate and its calves green; and not out of mockery, no, gentlemen, but simply because he believes it looks nicer that way. Millions of facts like these prove beyond all doubt that the people, that is to say, the uneducated masses, are not only incapable of creating anything beautiful, but are not even capable of preserving it… or even of distinguishing it. And tell me that these observations of mine, which I would extend much further if the occasion required, are the fruit of a careful study of this people, who are not only the ones who sing the most in Spain and the ones who, proportionally, emigrate the most to America and Andalusia and to a multitude of ports around the world, and, therefore, the ones who see and hear the most and can compare, but also the ones who, as educated, figure first in the statistics12; that is to say, in the matter of songs and polished songs, there must be no other people in Spain who can lend a leg. Well, you’ve heard how they sing. Imagine how the others must sing! And enough of the music for now. You won’t deny that the perspective that the pier presents at this moment, seen from here in the direction of Molnedo, is of great effect : even the solitude that reigns there contributes to making the picture more fantastic. “Look at this human ball of fabric lying on the holy ground in the hollow of that closed door. They are children of the same ilk as Cafetera, of that raquero I told you about in the Scenes. They are sleeping, coiled up like eels in a basket, serving each other as mattress, pillow, and covering, while the boats to which they belong arrive from the sea and which they will then have to guard until dawn in this dock. The most surprising thing is that, just as now, they are found sleeping in this place and in the same way on the raw nights of January; and it is almost admirable to see how, upon awakening, they begin to sing or exchange blows, as happy, at ease, and playful as if they had just emerged from a bed of feathers and damasks. But now it occurs to me that perhaps it would not have been given to these unfortunates to find sleep amidst so much comfort and so much shelter.” Providence often arranges these and other even stranger contradictions for the benefit of the unfortunate. We approach the _Suizo_, and even if we closed our eyes, the _slaps_ that the _aromas_ of the low tide hit us in the nose would make it known to us. Let us, then, go behind the Pier, and for now, yield the sidewalk to this revelry of zithers and guitars. Those who make up the troupe are sailors, probably Valencians, who thus, stopping in this or that tavern, kill their savings and the time they have left in the port. These two very old buildings, which rise with difficulty at the ends of this lot, are the only thing that remains of the very old Calle de la Mar, rival, as I already told you, of its contemporary and even _co-professor_, Calle Alta. Therefore, the sailors of the Cabildo de Abajo have had to disperse to the vicinity of their ruined dwellings. In this dirty, dark street we’re now entering, many are sheltered; and if you can’t smell them from here, look, as irrefutable testimony, at the nets and the squints drying on the balconies, and the boisterous gatherings on the sidewalks.— Speaking of the noise, let’s see what’s causing it in the next street.—Drum, castanets, tambourines, singing, and dancing around a bonfire. Today being neither the eve of the Holy Martyrs, patrons of the Chapter, nor an ordinary holiday of obligation, this must necessarily be a wedding. Let’s ask. Indeed: that sailor with the coppery face and curly hair, and the girl dancing with him, are the bride and groom, according to what I’m told. Do you see how agile they are? Are they all shaking? Well, shudder: this morning the protagonists were married at the parish church at dawn; the cortege went to the bride’s house and had breakfast; he went out into the street, and jumping and singing to the sound of the tambourine, he toured the whole city; he ate and drank at length, also at the bride’s house, and then danced in the hall; he went out into the street again; he walked around almost all over again; he went all out at a tavern; he danced there for an hour; he came out jumping and shouting… and there he is still, at half past nine at night, finishing it off with jumps and capers, as if he hadn’t tried them during the day. This is the custom here in such affairs among the townspeople, and it’s quite certain that these bridegrooms will not have failed to observe it. Notice how, to the sound of the festivities, this woman from the street and that man from the window flirt with each other. Christ, how they act! And judging by the signs, it’s a married couple. Come up and get yourself together, you rascal! I don’t feel like it, drunkard! I have to stay here; what you want is to finish me off. Come up here, you rascal, or I’ll be downstairs! With the jostle, I’ll make you crawl down! Well, I won’t leave you to the heathen… Take the bed. Cataplum! A mattress in the street… And now the cot. Tell me, good woman, what’s going on over there? Oh, sir! What’s going on? That lucky fellow, who is by nature a very fortunate man and as good as bread; but he is given to the moron, and as soon as he is forbidden, his brains go bad and he cannot be dealt with. He beat the poor woman so hard that she doubled over; and now, because she won’t go up, he’s thrown her out the window. Well, the other day, because the unfortunate woman wouldn’t go up to dinner and beat herself up, he said he was going to spoil her dinner; and as soon as he said it, he rushed to throw all the kitchen utensils out the window. And look here, sir, who would have thought it when one saw them, as it were, yesterday, as I saw them the day the wretches were married, playing and dancing, just like these you are seeing now by our side! You hear it, reader; And by the way, this news saves me an observation I was going to make to you, regarding the heroes of the festival lit by this bonfire. We are on Arcillero Street, which leads all of Santander in terms of revelry, quarrels, and all kinds of unpleasant noises, especially on nights of open-air dance, carnival, or the eve of some popular festival: in these cases, Señor Morfeo already knows he has no reason to visit these neighborhoods. At this moment, there is a certain amount of tranquility, which consists in the fact that the swarm of gossips, sardine sellers, street vendors, and other similar characters who recently swarmed around balconies, taverns, sidewalks, and doorways have gathered in the shacks you see on the right. “A few more steps, and we will find ourselves at the point from which we set out on our exploration, which we can conclude on Compañía Street.” No one in it… no one in the square… no one in the surrounding streets: at most a few passersby hurrying home. Don’t be surprised by such quiet: the clock on the Principal has already struck ten, and this hour is a kind of broom that sweeps away, as if by magic, every living thing from the streets of Santander, except the dogs and the reveling singers, who never fall completely silent at night until dawn breaks; The police officers leave their post at the Principal and I take this opportunity to introduce them to you, since you have not been able to recognize them either at the cencerrada, or on the slope of the Cordelero, or in various other places we have visited and where we should have found them, and the night watchmen appear… to also _sing_ the hour, which is the role reserved and rewarded for them in this aviary where everything is music and chirping, no more and no less than if sleep and rest, or crying and sorrow were unusual in it. And it remains to God for you, reader… But before we part and in case we do not see each other again, listen to the last observation, the last word, as if to say: With what you have seen and heard during our walk, you can form an idea of the general appearance of this town by moonlight . I don’t want you to tell me now whether you find it similar to that of other towns in Spain that are well known to you, or whether you judge it worthy of study for its originality; but I am certain that with these nocturnal data, plus those you already possess, taken by me from nature, both from this model and from the entire province, by sunlight and even by that of humble firebrands, you have everything you need to be able to greet the people of La Montaña in their various zones and hierarchies as if they were familiar to you. For this I congratulate myself, for judging you to be loyal, I trust that you will do justice to my countrymen, granting without hesitation that if in their customs there is much to rebuke among something to applaud, there is, on the other hand, very little to punish. Blessed are the people of whom, in these times, the same can be said! 1870. Thus concludes our journey through the landscapes and characters that José María de Pereda portrays in his work. Through his characters and their deep connection to the land, we have witnessed a vibrant Cantabria, full of contrasts and emotions. The work has not only offered us a faithful portrait of rural life, but also invites us to reflect on life itself. We hope you have enjoyed this literary journey. Don’t forget to subscribe and activate notifications so you don’t miss more fascinating stories.
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