📖 ¡Bienvenidos a la fascinante historia de ‘Miau’ de Benito Pérez Galdós! Esta obra maestra del realismo español nos sumerge en un relato cargado de reflexión social y política. Con su profundo análisis de la vida en la ciudad de Madrid y sus complejos personajes, Galdós crea un mundo lleno de emociones, contradicciones y conflictos que reflejan la sociedad de su época.
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Miau, one of Benito Pérez Galdós’s most outstanding works, immerses us in the daily life of a man caught between irony and tragedy. The story follows a character who faces the tensions of his social and family environment, masterfully reflecting the contradictions of Spanish society of his time. Through his experiences, Galdós offers a sharp critique of the internal conflicts and social expectations that determine the destiny of individuals. Chapter 1. At four in the afternoon, the children of the public school in the Plazuela del Limón rushed out of class, amidst a din of hell. No hymn to freedom, among the many that have been composed in different nations, is as beautiful as the one sung by the oppressed of elementary education when they throw off the shackles of school discipline and take to the streets, chirping and jumping. The insane fury with which they launch themselves into the most daring exercises in acrobatics, the damage they usually cause to some peaceful passerby, the delirium of individual autonomy that sometimes ends in blows, tears, and bruises, seem like a sketch of the revolutionary triumphs that men must celebrate in a less fortunate age… They left, as I say, in a crowd; the last one wanted to be first, and the little ones screamed louder than the big ones. Among them was one of small stature, who broke away from the flock to set off alone and quietly for his home. And as soon as his companions noticed this withdrawal, which seemed more like flight, they went after him and harassed him with mockery and jeers, not in the best of taste. One held him by the arm, another rubbed his face with her innocent hands, which were a complete example of all the filth in the world; but he managed to free himself and… feet, what do I need you for? Then two or three of the most shameless of them threw stones at him, shouting “Meow”; and the whole party repeated with infernal commotion: “Meow, Meow.” The poor boy thus outwitted was called Luisito Cadalso, and he was of rather small stature, short of breath, and colorless, about eight years old, perhaps ten, so timid that he shunned the friendship of his companions, fearful of the jokes of some, and lacking the spirit to return them. He was always the least daring in pranks, the dullest and most clumsy in games, and the most formal in class, although one of the least gifted, perhaps because his own shyness prevented him from expressing well what he knew or dissembling what he did not know. As he turned the corner of Comendadoras de Santiago to go home, which was on Quiñones Street, across from the Women’s Prison, one of his classmates joined him, heavily laden with books, the blackboard slung over his back, his trousers a mere kneepad, his shoes with skylights, a blue beret on his head, and a snout very much like a mouse’s. They called this man Silvestre Murillo, and he was the most diligent boy in school and Cadalso’s best friend. His father, the sexton of the Monserrat church, had destined him to pursue a career in law because he had it in his head that the brat would become a celebrity, perhaps a famous orator, and why not a minister? The future celebrity spoke thus to his companion: “Look at you, Caarso, if they’d played those tricks on me, I’d turn their faces green with the slap I’d hit them with. But you have no courage. ” I say that people shouldn’t be given nicknames. Do you know who’s to blame? Well, it’s Posturitas, the guy from the loan office. Yesterday he was telling me that his mother had said that your grandmother and your aunts are called the Meows, because they have the physiognomy of their faces, that is, like those of cats. He said that in the paradise of the Teatro Real they were given this bad name, and that they always sit in the same place, and that when they see them come in, everyone in the audience says: “There they are, the Meows.” Luisito Cadalso became very red-faced. The indignation, the shame, and the stupor he felt didn’t allow him to defend the outraged dignity of his family. “Posturitas is vulgar and a dissident,” added Silvestre, “and this calling of people is for uncles. His father is an uncle, his mother an aunt, and Her aunts are aunts. They live by sucking the poor man’s blood, and what do you think? If anyone doesn’t lend his cloak, they fleece him; that is, they sell it and leave him to die of cold. My mother calls them the harpids. Haven’t you seen them when they’re hanging their cloaks up on the balcony to get some air? They’re uglier than a grave, and my father says they could make table legs with their noses and still have plenty left over… Well, that’s true. Posturitas is a good monkey; always painting her and making faces like the clowns at the Circus. Of course, since he’s been given a nickname, he wants revenge by pinning it on you. He doesn’t like me, control! Because he knows I have a very bad temper, very bad… Since you’re such a little thing, that is to say, you don’t push back when someone says something to you, wonder why he doesn’t show you respect. Cadalsito, stopping at the door of his house, looked sadly at his friend. The other, giving him a strong elbow, said: “I don’t call you ‘Meow’, control! Don’t worry if I call you ‘Meow’;” and he left at once for Montserrat. In the doorway of the house where Cadalso lived, there was a memoirist. The screen or frame, covered with paper imitating jasper of various veins and colors, hid the hollow of the desk or bureau where matters of such importance were continually transacted. The multiplicity of them was declared in a handwritten placard that hung on the door of the house . It was shaped like an index finger, and read as follows: _Marriages_.–The steps of the Vicariate are being walked promptly and economically. _Maids_.–Provided. _Dining Room Boys_.–Provided. _Cooks_.–Procured. _Accordion Teacher_.–Recommended. _Note_.–There is a desk reserved for ladies. Lost in his thoughts, good Cadalso was passing by the screen, when through the gap it had leading into the doorway, these words came out: “Luisín, bobillo, I’m here.” The young man approached, and a very large woman threw her arms outside the screen to take him in them and caress him: “What a fool! You pass by without saying anything. I have your snack here for you.” Mendizábal went on the errands. I’m alone, looking after the _office_, in case anyone comes. Will you keep me company? Mrs. Mendizábal was so corpulent that when she was in the study, it seemed as if a cow had entered, fitting its hindquarters on the bench and occupying all the remaining space with the excessive volume of its forelegs. She had no children and was fond of all the neighborhood boys, especially Luisito, deserving of pity and affection for his humble sweetness, and even more so for the hunger he suffered at home, as she would say. Every day she set aside a treat for him to give him when he returned from school. That afternoon’s treat was a bun of the kind called “del Santo” (Saint’s bun), placed on the saucepan, and with many grains of sand stuck to the sugar crust. But Cadalsito didn’t notice this as he dug into it eagerly. “Get in now,” the memorialist porter told him , while he devoured the bun with a sprinkle of writing powder. “Get in, dear, lest your grandmother scold you. Leave your little books and come down to keep me company and play with Canelo.” The boy got in quickly. The door was opened by a woman whose face could have given rise to numismatic controversies, like the age of certain coins with erased inscriptions. Sometimes, viewed in profile and in a certain light, one would want to guess her age at sixty, and at other times the knowledgeable observer would limit himself to estimating her at forty-eight or fifty, well preserved. He had small, graceful features, of the type they call childish, his complexion still rosy, his hair ashen blond, a color that seemed alchemical, with a certain extravagant effusion of the locks near his forehead. Twenty-something years before what is reported here, a journalist who wrote the flour prices and the society magazines, announced in this way the appearance of that lady in the salons of the Governor of a third-class province: “Who is that figure taken from a painting by the Beato Angelico, and who comes wrapped in vaporous clouds and adorned with the golden halo of 14th-century iconography?” The vaporous clouds were the gauze gown that Señora de Villaamil ordered from Madrid in those days, and the golden halo, the devil take me if it wasn’t the effusion of hair, which then must have been blond, and therefore valued on a par, in literature, with the gold of Arabia. Four or five decades after these triumphs of elegance in that provincial city, whose name is irrelevant, Doña Pura, for that was the lady’s name, at that moment of opening the door to her grandson, was wearing a not very clean peignoir, felt slippers that were not very new, and a loose green tartan dressing gown. “Ah! It’s you, Luisín,” she said to him. “I thought it was Ponce with the Real notes. And he promised to come at two!” What formalities these young people of the day had! At this point, another lady appeared, very similar to the previous one in her short stature, her childlike features, and her enigmatic expression of age. She was wearing a shabby jacket, a descendant of a man’s overcoat, and a long burlap apron, a kitchen garment everywhere . She was Doña Pura’s sister and was named Milagros. In the dining room, where Luis went to leave his books, a young woman was sewing, pressed against the window to take advantage of the last light of the day, brief as a February day. This woman also somewhat resembled the other two, except for the difference in age. She was Abelarda, Doña Pura’s daughter and Luisito Cadalso’s aunt. The latter’s mother, Luisa Villaamil, had died when the little one was barely two years old. More will be said about the latter’s father , Víctor Cadalso, later. The three of them gathered, and they discussed the unprecedented situation where Ponce, Abelarda’s regular boyfriend, who had been presenting the family with tickets to the Teatro Real, hadn’t shown up at four-thirty in the afternoon, when he usually brought the tickets at two. “Like this, with these uncertainties, not knowing whether he’s going to the theater or not, you can’t determine anything or make any calculations for the evening. What a lazy man!” Doña Pura said this with marked contempt for her daughter’s boyfriend, and the latter replied: “Mama, it’s not late yet. There’s plenty of time. You’ll see how he’ll always be there with the tickets.” “Yes; but at performances like tonight’s, when tickets are so scarce that even influence is needed to get them, it’s a disgrace to have us in this mess.” Meanwhile, Luisito looked at his grandmother, his older aunt, and his younger aunt, and comparing the three of their physiognomy with that of the little cat sleeping at Abelarda’s feet in the dining room, he found a perfect resemblance between them. His lively imagination immediately suggested to him the idea that the three women were cats on two feet, dressed as people, like the ones in the work Animals Painted by Themselves; and this hallucination led him to wonder if he too was an upright cat and if he even spoke. From there he quickly went on to observe that the nickname given to his grandmother and aunts in the paradise of the Real was the most accurate and reasonable thing in the world. All this germinated in his mind in a blink of an eye, with the uncertain brilliance and fickleness of a brain that tests its observation and reasoning. He didn’t go any further with his presumptions, because his grandmother, putting her hand on his head, said: “But didn’t Paca give you a snack this afternoon?” “Yes, Mama… and I already ate it. She told me to go upstairs and put the books away and then come downstairs to play with Canelo. ” “Well, go on, son, run along, and stay downstairs for a while, if you want. But now I remember… I’ll come up quickly, your grandfather needs you to run an errand for him.” The lady was seeing the boy off at the door when, from a room near the entrance of the house, a deep, sepulchral voice came out, saying: “Puuura, Puuura.” She opened a door to the left of the entrance hall and entered the so-called study, a room a little more than three varas in size. picture, with a window overlooking a gloomy courtyard. Since the daylight was already so scarce, little could be seen inside the room except the luminous square of the window. Above it, a lanky shade rose, seemingly rising from an armchair as if unfolding, and stretched itself out, to the point where the fearful, slurred voice said: “But, woman, don’t you think of bringing me a light? You know I’m writing, that it gets dark earlier than one would like, and you have me here drying my eyes over that damned paper.” Doña Pura went to the dining room, where her sister was already lighting a kerosene lamp. Soon the lady appeared before her husband, light in hand. The small room and its inhabitant emerged from the darkness, like something created out of nowhere. “I’m frozen,” said Don Ramón Villaamil, Doña Pura’s husband; He was a tall, wiry man, with large, terrifying eyes; his yellow skin, crisscrossed by enormous folds in which the lines of shadow looked like blotches; his transparent ears, long and close to his skull; his beard, short, sparse, and bristly, with gray hairs distributed haphazardly, forming white bursts among the black; his skull was smooth and the color of unearthed bone, as if he had just picked it up from an ossuary to plug his brains with it. The robustness of his jaw, the size of his mouth, the combination of the three colors black, white, and yellow, arranged in stripes, the ferocity of his black eyes , led one to compare such a face to that of an old, consumptive tiger, who, after having excelled in traveling wild beast shows, now retains nothing of his former beauty but his painted skin. “Let’s see, who have you written to?” said the lady, dimming the flame that flicked her smoking tongue out of the tube. –Well, to the Chief of Staff, to Mr. Pez, to Sánchez Botín, and to anyone else who can get me out of this situation. To overcome the day’s distress, with a deep sigh, I’ve decided to go back and bother my friend Cucurbitas. He’s the only truly Christian person among all my friends, a gentleman, a good man, who takes care of our needs… What a difference from others! You can see what that idiot Rubin did to me yesterday. I paint a picture of our need; I shame my face, begging him for… nothing, a small advance, and… God knows the bitterness one swallows before making a decision… and how much one’s dignity suffers… Well, that ingrate, that forgetful man, whom I had as a clerk in my office when I was a fourth-rate department head, that shameless man who, through his audacity, has surpassed me, rising to no less than the position of governor, has the lack of decency to send me half a penny. Villaamil sat down, slamming his fist down on the table , sending the cards flying as if they were trying to flee in terror. Hearing his wife sigh, he straightened his yellow forehead and, in a pained voice, continued: “In this world there is nothing but selfishness and ingratitude, and the more infamy you see, the more there is yet to be seen… Like that monstrosity Montes, who owes me his career, since I proposed him for promotion in the Central Accounting Office. Would you believe he doesn’t even say hello to me anymore? He gives himself so much importance that not even the Minister… And he’s always moving forward. They’ve just given him fourteen thousand. Every year his little promotion, and ole morena… This is the reward for flattery and baseness. He doesn’t know any administrative nonsense; He only knows how to talk about hunting with the Director, and about the greyhound and the bird and whatnot… His spelling is worse than a dog, and he writes _hacha_ without an _h_ and _echar_ with it… But anyway, let’s leave these miseries aside . As I was saying, I’ve decided to go back to my friend Cucurbitas. It’s true that this has already been the fourth or fifth time with him; but I don’t know what saint to turn to. Cucurbitas understands the unfortunate man and pities him, because he too has been unfortunate. I’ve seen him with torn trousers and two inches of grease on his hat… He knows I’m grateful… Do you think he’ll ever run out of kindness?… God have mercy on us, because if this friend abandons us we’ll all go and throw ourselves off the Viaduct. Villaamil gave a deep sigh, fixing his eyes on the ceiling. The invalid tiger was transfigured. He had the sublime expression of an apostle being martyred for his faith, something like Ribera’s Saint Bartholomew when he was suspended from a tree and skinned by those scoundrels, the gentile, as if he were a kid. It remains to be said that this Villaamil was the one nicknamed Ramses II in certain café gatherings . To Fortunata and Jacinta. Volume III. “Well, give me the letter for Cucurbitas,” said Doña Pura, who, accustomed to such jeremiads, regarded them as something natural and ordinary. “The child will fly to deliver it. And have faith in Providence, my friend, as I do. There’s no need to be intimidated by cheerful optimism.” I’ve got a hunch… you know I’m rarely wrong… a hunch that you’ll get a job sometime this month. Chapter 2. “Get a job!” exclaimed Villaamil, putting his whole soul into a single word. His hands, after hovering above his head for a while, slumped onto the armrests of the chair. When this happened, Doña Pura was no longer there, having left with the letter, and called from the stairs to her grandson, who was in the doorway. It was already close to six o’clock when Luis left with the errand, but not without stopping briefly at the memorialists’ desk. “Goodbye, my rich man,” Paca said, kissing him. “Go quickly so you can be back by lunchtime . Reading the envelope. Well, I say… it’s no easy walk from here to the Calle del Amor de Dios. Do you know the way well? Won’t you get lost?” What could he possibly have missed, mind you! He had gone to the house of the gentleman of Cucurbitas and to those of other gentlemen more than twenty times with verbal or written messages ! He was the messenger of his grandfather’s terrible anxieties, sadness, and impatience; he was the one who distributed the unfortunate unemployed man’s requests from one district to another, imploring a recommendation or assistance. And in this occupation of pedestrian, he acquired such thorough topographical knowledge that he traveled through all the neighborhoods of the town without getting lost. And although he knew how to reach his destination by the shortest route, he commonly used the longest, out of habit and the vice of a stroller or from the instincts of an observer, greatly enjoying examining shop windows, listening, without missing a syllable, to the speeches of charlatans selling elixirs or performing sleight-of-hand tricks. Maybe he would run into a monkey riding a dog or operating the chocolate factory’s grinder just like a natural person; other times it was a skinny, unfortunate bear chained up, or Italians, Turks, or fake Moors begging for alms while performing any skill. He was also entertained by elaborate funerals, street irrigation, troops marching to music, watching the ashlar stone go up for a building under construction, the Viaticum with many candles, the quartering of streetcars, tree transplanting, and whatever other accidents the public highway offered. “Wrap up well,” Paca told him, kissing him again and wrapping her scarf around his neck. “They could buy you some woolen gloves. Your hands are freezing, and you have chilblains. Ah, how much better you’d be with your Aunt Quintina! Come on, a kiss for Mendizábal, and off you go! Canelo will go with you. ” From under the table came a dog with a pretty head, short legs, a curled tail, and a color like a wafer roll, and started walking happily in front of Luis. Paca followed them to the door, watched them go, and upon returning to the narrow office, began to knit, saying to her husband: “Poor son! They’ve been making a little postman out of him all day long. This afternoon’s hit is against the same guy as these other days. What’s happened to the good man! I tell you, these Villaamiles are worse than phylloxera. And I’m sure that tonight the three sycophants will also go off to the theater and will return late at night. ” “There’s no Christianity in families anymore,” said Mendizábal gravely and sententiously. “There’s nothing left but supposition. ” “And that they owe nothing to the grace of God, furiously waving their needles.” The butcher says he won’t give them credit anymore even if they hang him; the fruit seller has been planted, and the bread maker the same… Well, if those little dolls knew how to dress up and put on a pot of potatoes every day, if they could, … But, God forbid… Those potatoes! Poor things! The day they get something, even a handout, you’ve already got them living it up and throwing the house out the window. Of course, at putting things right, no one can beat them at putting things right. Doña Pura spends the whole morning twisting her hair on her forehead, and Doña Milagros has already made four turns of the fabric of that eternity of a dress, the color of mustard for mustard plasters. Well, I say, that unpleasant girl keeps putting half-soles on her hat, adding old ribbons, or a chicken feather, or a gold-headed nail, the kind used to hang pictures. –Assumption of assumptions… Disastrous consequences of materialism–said Mendizábal, who used to repeat phrases from the newspaper to which he subscribed. –There is no more modesty, no more simplicity of customs. What became of that honest poverty of our parents, of that… not remembering the rest of that, well… so to speak? –Well, poor Don Ramón, when he closes his eye, will go straight to heaven. He is a saint and a martyr. Believe me, if I could place him, I would place him! I feel so sorry for him! With those looks he gives, it seems as if he’s going to devour people, poor man! And he would devour one of them, not out of malice, but out of pure hunger, sticking the fourth pin in his hair. It’s frightening to see him. I don’t know how the Minister, when he sees him enter the offices, doesn’t die of fear and place him just to lose sight of him. “Villaamil,” Mendizábal said smugly, “is an honest man, and the current government is all crooks. There’s no more honesty, there’s no more Christianity, there’s no more justice. What do you have? Thievery, irreligion, shamelessness. That’s why they won’t appoint him, nor will they appoint him until the only one who can bring justice comes. I tell him every time he passes by here and stops in the doorway to have a word with me: “Don’t beat around the bush, Don Ramón, don’t beat around the bush. Freedom of religion is to blame for everything. Because in the meantime we have rationalism, my lord Don Ramón, until the serpent’s head is crushed , and… losing the thread of the sentence and no longer knowing where I was going and in the meantime… precisely… I mean, I say… cutting to the chase. There’s no more Christianity!” Meanwhile, Luisito and Canelo walked along part of Ancha Street and entered Pez Street, continuing their route. When the dog strayed too far, he would stop, looking back, his tongue hanging out. Luis would stop to look at shop windows and sometimes say something similar to this to his companion: “Canelo, look at these pretty trumpets.” The animal would stand on two legs, resting his front paws on the edge of the window; but the trumpets must not have been very interesting to him, because he soon continued walking. Finally, they reached Amor de Dios Street. After one occasion when Canelo had had a barking match with another dog, a tenant in the Cucurbitas house, he adopted the prudent attitude of not going up and waiting in the street for his friend. The latter went up to the second street, where his grandfather’s tireless protector lived; and the servant who opened the door for him that night gave him a very sour face. “The master isn’t here.” But Luisito, who had instructions from his grandfather in case the victim was absent, said he would wait. He already knew that at seven o’clock, Señor Don Francisco Cucurbitas was infallibly going to eat. The boy sat down on the bench in the reception room. His feet didn’t reach the ground, and he dangled them as if to do something to distract himself from the annoyance of that long standstill. The coat rack, made of pine imitating old oak, with gilded hooks for hats, its mirror , and holes for umbrellas, had once aroused his admiration; but now he was indifferent to it. Not so the cat, who used to come from inside the house to mess with him. That night the cat must have been busy, because he didn’t contribute to the reception; but on the other hand, Luis saw the Cucurbitas girls, who were nice and Funny. They used to approach him, looking at him with pity or disdain, but they had never said a flattering word. Mrs. Cucurbitas, who seemed to Luis, because of her size and roundness, a human imitation of Pizarro the elephant, so popular at that time among the children of Madrid, also used to roll around there, and Cadalsito already knew her slow, heavy steps well. The lady would reach the angle that the right-hand corridor formed with the reception area, and from that point she would look suspiciously at the messenger. Then she would go inside without saying a word. From the moment the boy heard her coming, he would stand up stiffly, like a spring doll, remembering the lessons in civility his grandfather had given him. “How are you? How are you doing?” But that hulk , a rival in size to Paca the memorialist, didn’t deign to answer him, and walked away, making the ground shake, like the steamroller Luis had seen in the streets of Madrid. That night, the respectable Cucurbitas came to lunch very late. Villaamil’s grandson noticed that the girls were impatient. The reason was that they had to go to the theater and wanted to eat soon. Finally, the bell rang, and the servant hurried to open the door, while the chicks, who knew their father’s steps and his way of calling, ran through the corridors shouting for dinner to be served. When the master entered and saw Luisín, he made his displeasure known with a slight grimace. The boy stood up, firing off his greeting like a shot from point-blank range, and Cucurbitas, without answering, went into the study. Cadalsito, waiting for the gentleman to send him in, as on other occasions, saw the daughters hurrying in after their father, and heard him say, ” I’ll be right back… get the soup out,” and he couldn’t help thinking how delicious that soup they were about to bring out was. He was thinking this when one of the young ladies came out of the office and said, “You come in.” He entered, cap in hand, repeating his greeting, to which Don Francisco finally deigned to reply with a paternal tone. He was a very good gentleman, in Luis’s opinion, and, not understanding the slightly grim expression on the provident official’s polished face, figured he would do the same thing that night as he did the others. Cadalsito remembered the procedure very well: the gentleman from Cucurbitas, after reading Villaamil’s letter, would write another one or, without writing anything, take a small green or red bill from his wallet , put it in an envelope, give it to him, and say: “Come on, son; you’re all set.” It was also common to take duros or pesetas from his pocket, make a bundle, and give it to him, accompanying his action with the same words as always, with this addition: “Be careful not to lose it or let some thief steal it. Put it in your trouser pocket… like that… handsome young man. Go with God.” That night, alas! Standing in front of the minister’s desk, Luis noticed Don Francisco writing a letter, furrowing his hairy eyebrows, and sealing it without putting a bill or coin inside. The boy also noticed that upon signing, my man gave a deep sigh, and then looked at him with profound compassion. “Have a good time,” said Cadalsito, taking the letter; and the good man placed his hand on his head. As he said goodbye, he gave him two large dogs, adding to his generous action these magnanimous words: “So you can buy cakes.” The boy left so grateful… But downstairs, a sad thought struck him: “The letter has nothing today.” It was, in fact, the first time he had left there with an empty letter. It was the first time Don Francisco had given him dogs, to use in his private pocket and to encourage his vice of eating cakes. He noticed all this with the insight given him by the precocious experience of those messages. “But who knows!” he said afterward, with thoughts suggested by his innocence, “maybe I’ll tell you that he’ll be placed tomorrow…” Canelo, who was already impatient, joined him at the door. They both set out, and in a bakery on Calle de las Huertas, Luis bought two ten-cent rolls. The dog ate one and Cadalsito the other. another. Then, licking their lips, they quickened their pace, seeking the shortest route through the same labyrinth of streets and squares, unequally lit and crowded. Here, a lot of gas, there, darkness; here, many people; then, solitude, wandering figures. They passed through streets where the people, hurrying, barely fit; through others where they saw more women than lights; through others where there were more dogs than people. Chapter 3. Upon entering the street of Puebla, Cadalsito was already so tired that, to regain his strength, he sat down on the step of one of the three barred doors that the convent of Don Juan de Alarcón has on that street. And it was the same thing to sit on the cold stone as to feel himself overcome by a deep sleep… It was more like a fainting spell, not unknown to the boy, and which did not occur without his being aware of the strange precursory symptoms. “Control!” he thought, deeply frightened, “I’m going to have a fit… I ‘m going to have a fit, I’m going to have a fit…” Indeed, from time to time, Cadalsito was seized by a most singular uneasiness, which began with a heaviness in his head, drowsiness, a chill down his spine, and ended with the loss of all sensation and consciousness. That night, in the brief time that elapsed between the time he felt faint and the time his senses grew dim, he remembered a poor man who used to beg on the very step where he was standing. He was a very old blind man, with a long, yellowish gray beard, wrapped in a brown cloak with long folds, patched and dirty, his white head uncovered, and his hat in his hand, begging only with his attitude and without moving his lips. Luis was in awe of the venerable figure of the beggar, and he would often throw a penny into his hat when he had some to spare, which was very seldom. As he was saying, the little boy fell into a slumber, bowing his head to his chest, and then he saw that he was not alone. An elderly man sat beside him . Was it the blind man? For a moment, Luis thought so, for he had a thick white beard and was covered with a cloak or mantle… Here Cadalso began to observe the differences and similarities between the poor man and the elderly man, for the latter could see and look, and his eyes were like stars, while his nose, mouth, and forehead were identical to the beggar’s, the beard the same size, although whiter, much whiter. For the cloak was both the same and different; it was similar in its wide folds, in the way the man was wrapped in it; it differed in color, which Cadalso could not define. Was it white, blue, or what the hell kind of color was that? It had very soft shadows, through which luminous reflections slipped, like those that filter through gaps in the clouds. Luis thought he had never seen such beautiful fabric. From among the folds, the man pulled out a white, precious hand. Luis, too, had never seen such a hand, strong and muscular like a man’s, white and delicate like a woman’s… The man, looking at him with paternal benevolence, said: “Don’t you know me? Don’t you know who I am? ” Luisito looked at him for a long time. His shortness of breath prevented him from answering. Then the mysterious man, smiling like a bishop when he blesses, said: “I am God. Hadn’t you known me?” Cadalsito then felt, in addition to his shortness of breath, fear, and could hardly breathe. He tried to gain courage by appearing incredulous, and with great effort of voice he managed to say: “You, God, you? I wish…” And the apparition, for such a name should be given to him, indulgent with the incredulity of the good Cadalso, accentuated the affectionate smile, insisting on what he had said: “Yes, I am God. It seems you are scared. Don’t be afraid of me. Yes, I love you, I love you very much…” Luis began to lose his fear. He felt moved and wanted to cry. “I know where you come from,” continued the apparition. “The Lord of Cucurbitas hasn’t given you anything tonight. Son, it’s not always possible. What he says, there are so many needs to be met!” Cadalso gave a deep sigh to calm his breathing, and contemplated to the handsome old man, who, sitting with his elbow on his knee and his shining beard in his hand, tilted his head to look at the little one, apparently attaching great importance to the conversation he was holding with him: “You and yours must be patient, my friend Cadalsito, very patient. ” Luis sighed more deeply, and feeling his soul free from fear and at the same time full of initiative, he began to say this: “And when will they place my grandfather? ” The exalted person who was speaking with Luisito stopped looking at him for a moment, and, fixing his eyes on the ground, seemed to be meditating. Then he turned back to face the little one, and sighing—he was sighing too! —uttered these grave words: “Take charge of things. For every vacancy there are two hundred suitors. The ministers are going crazy and don’t know who to please. They have so many commitments that I don’t know how the poor people live.” Patience, son, patience, you’ll get your credentials when a favorable opportunity arises… For my part, I’ll also do something for your grandfather… How sad he’ll be tonight when he receives that letter! Be careful not to lose it. You’re a good boy. But you need to study more. Today you didn’t understand your grammar lesson. You said so much nonsense that the whole class was laughing, and with good reason. What prompted you to say that the participle expresses the idea of the verb in the abstract? You confused it with the gerund, and then you mixed up the moods with the tenses. It’s because you don’t pay attention, and when you’re studying you’re daydreaming… Cadalsito turned very red, and putting both hands between his knees, he squeezed them. “It’s not enough to be formal in class; you have to study, pay attention to what you read and retain it well.” If not, we’re in trouble; I’ll be angry with you, and don’t come back and ask me why they don’t give your grandfather a job… And just as I’m telling you this, I’m also telling you that you’re right to complain about Posturitas. He’s vulgar, a bad servant, and I’ll rub a chili pepper on his tongue when he calls you Meow again. Of course, this business of nicknames must be borne patiently; and when they call you Meow, you shut up and put up with it. They could say worse things to you. Cadalsito was very grateful, and although he knew that God is everywhere , he was amazed that he was so well informed about what was happening at school. Then he launched into the following: “Contro, if I catch him!” ” Look, friend Cadalso,” said his interlocutor with paternal severity, “don’t act like a bully, you’re no good at fighting with your classmates. They’re very rude.” Do you know what you’re doing? When they call you _Meow_, you tell the maestro, and you’ll see how he’ll make _Posturitas_ stand on end for half an hour. “Oh, yes, he will… and even if it’s only for an hour.” “That name _Meow_ was given to your grandmother and aunts in the paradise of the Real, that is, because they really look like three kittens. They’re very spoiled. The nickname is amusing.” Luis felt his dignity hurt, but he didn’t say anything. “I know they’re going to the Real tonight too,” the apparition added. ” That Ponce guy brought them the tickets a little while ago. Why don’t you tell them to take you? You’d really like the opera. If you could see how beautiful it is! ” “They don’t want to take me… bah!… very disconsolate. You tell them.” Even though you address God as _tú_ in your prayers, Luis thought such familiar treatment was irreverent, _face to face_. “Me?” I don’t want to get involved in that. Besides, they’ll all be in a very bad mood tonight . Your poor grandfather! When I open the letter… Have you lost it? “No, sir, I have it here,” said Cadalso, taking it out. “Do you want to read it?” “No, sir. I already know what it says… Your grandfather will have a bad time; but let him accept it. These are very bad times, very bad… ” The sublime image repeated “very bad ” two or three times, shaking its head with a sad expression; and, vanishing in an instant, disappeared. Luis rubbed his eyes, recognized himself awake, and recognized the street. Ahead, he saw the basket shop, in whose display There were two bull heads, with wicker snouts and horns; a favorite toy of the boys of Madrid. He also recognized the wine shop, the window display of bottles; he saw natural persons in the passersby , and Canelo, who was still at his side, he took for a real dog. He looked to his side again, searching for some trace of the marvelous vision, but there was nothing. “It’s that I got that,” thought Cadalsito, not knowing how to define what had hit him; “but it hit me in another way.” When he got up, his legs were so weak that he could hardly stand on them. He felt his clothes, fearing he had lost the letter; but the letter was still there. “Contro!” He had fainted like that before, but he had never seen people so… so… he didn’t know how to put it. And that he saw him and spoke to him, he had no doubt. What a big shot that old gentleman!… He must be the Eternal Father in his natural life!… He must be the old blind man who wanted to play a trick on him!… Thinking this way, Luis headed home as quickly as his weak legs allowed. His head was going, and walking wouldn’t get rid of the cold in his spine. Canelo seemed very worried… He had seen something too!… It was a pity he couldn’t speak to bear witness to the truth of the marvelous vision! Because Luis remembered that, during the conversation, God caressed Canelo’s head two or three times, and that Canelo looked at him, sticking his tongue out a lot… Then Canelo could testify… He finally arrived home, and when they heard him come in, Abelarda opened the door before he could knock. His grandfather came out anxiously to greet him, and the boy, without saying a word, placed the letter in his hands. Don Ramón went to the study, feeling it before opening it, and at the same instant Doña Para called Luis to come and eat, as the family was already finishing up. They hadn’t waited for him because he was taking a long time, and the ladies had to hurry to the theater to get a good seat in heaven before the crowd gathered. They had kept the grandson’s soup and stew in two covered dishes, one on top of the other, but they were already cold when he came to taste them; but since he was so hungry, he didn’t notice the temperature. Doña Pura was tying her grandson’s three-week-old napkin around his neck when Villaamil came in to eat the dessert. His face took on an expression of bloodthirsty ferocity on occasions of affliction, and that blessed man, incapable of killing a fly, when a grief struck him, seemed to have raw human flesh between his teeth, seasoned with bitterness instead of salt. Just by looking at him, Doña Pura understood that the letter had arrived _in albis_. The unfortunate man began mechanically to remove the shells from two dried-out walnuts he had on his plate. His sister-in-law and daughter were also looking at him, reading in his face, like a seasoned and veteran tiger, the grief that was devouring him inside. To add a cheerful note to such a sad scene , Abelarda uttered this sentence: “Ponce said that tonight ‘s ovation will be for Pellegrini. ” “It seems unjust to me,” Doña Pura affirmed with all her senses, “that they should want to humiliate Scolpi Rolla, who sings her part of Amneris very conscientiously. It’s true that her successes are more due to her good figure and to the fact that she shows off her legs. But Pellegrini, with so much poise, is nothing special .” “Shut up, woman,” Milagros instructed in a doctorly tone. “Look, the other night he said, ‘fuggi fuggi, tu sei perdutto,’ the likes of which we haven’t heard since the days of Rossina Penco. All he has to say is that he’s doing too much arm wrestling, and, frankly, opera is for singing well, not for making gestures. ” “But let’s not let our guard down,” Pura said. “On nights like this, whoever lets his guard down ends up on the stairs. ” “No way! Don’t you think Guillén or the Medicine students will save our seats? ” “We can’t trust them… Let’s go, so what happened the other night doesn’t happen to us, my God! If it weren’t for those fine young men from Pharmacy, you know, we’d be left standing in the doorway like complete idiots.” Villaamil, who heard none of this, ate a rotten fig, I think swallowing it whole, and walked towards his office with a determined step, like someone He’s going to commit an atrocity. His wife followed him and affectionately said to him: “What’s up? Hasn’t that nobody sent you anything? ” “None,” Villaamil replied in a voice that seemed to come from the center of the earth. “What I was telling you, he’s grown tired of it. You can’t abuse him day after day… He’s done me so many favors, so many, that asking for more is foolhardy. I’m so sorry I wrote to him today! ” “Bandit!” exclaimed the irate lady, who was accustomed to calling her friends this and worse names when they sidestepped to avoid the blow. “Not a bandit,” declared Villaamil, who, not even in moments of greatest tribulation, would allow himself to insult the taxpayer. “It’s just that people aren’t always in a position to help their neighbors. Not a bandit. He doesn’t have any ideas, nor has he ever had any; But that doesn’t mean he’s one of the most honest men in the Administration. Well, it won’t be so much with impertinent anger, when his hair looks the way it does. Remember when he was your colleague at the Central Accounting Office. He was the most stupid in the office. It was already known; once something outrageous was discovered, everyone would say: “Cucurbitas.” Afterwards, not a single day off, and always on the up. What does this mean? He may be very stupid, but he understands the compass better than you do. And you think he doesn’t get paid cash for the processing of the files? “Shut up, woman. ” “Innocent! That’s why you are where you are, forgotten and in misery ; for not having the slightest back office and being so devoted to ” Blessed Saint Scruple.” Believe me, that’s no longer honesty, it’s dullness and foolishness. Look at yourself in Cucurbitas’s mirror; He’ll be as stupid as you want, but you’ll see how he becomes Director, perhaps Minister. You’ll never amount to anything, and if they place you, they’ll give you a piece of bread, and we’ll always be the same, getting heated. All because of your prudishness, because you don’t assert yourself, because, Brother Modest, you already know, he never became a guard. If I were you, I’d go to a newspaper and start spewing all the mischief I know about the Administration, the schemes that many who are in the spotlight have pulled. That’s it, sing out loud, and let whoever falls… unmasking so many scoundrels… That’s where it hurts. Ah! Then you’d see how they’d waste no time in placing you; you’d see how the Director himself would come in here, hat in hand, to beg you to accept the credential. “Mama, it’s late,” Abelarda said from the doorway, putting on her shawl. “I’m coming.” With all your scruples, with all your scruples, with all this calling them all “most worthy,” and being so delicate and so proper that you’re always on the air like the brilliant, all you achieve is being taken for a nobody. Well, yes, by raising your voice, you should already be a Director, as that’s the light, and you’re not one out of laziness, out of timidity, because you’re good for nothing, really, and you don’t know how to live. No; because with moans and sighs they’re not going to give you what you want. Credentials, my lord, are for those who earn them by showing their fangs. You’re harmless, you don’t bite, you don’t even bark, and everyone laughs at you. They say: “Ah, Villaamil, how honorable he is! Oh! The honorable employee…” When someone shows me an honorable employee, I look to see if his elbows are sticking out. In short, you’re damned honorable. To say “honest” is sometimes like saying “dumb.” And it isn’t that, it isn’t that. You can have all the integrity that God commands, and still be a man who looks out for himself and his family… “Leave me alone,” Villaamil muttered discouragedly, sitting down in a chair and knocking it over. “Mama,” the young lady repeated impatiently. “I’m coming, I’m coming. ” “I can’t be anything other than what God made me,” declared the unfortunate unemployed man. “But now it’s not a question of me being this way or that way; it’s a question of daily bread, of tomorrow’s bread. We are as we want to be, yes… We have a closed horizon on all sides. Tomorrow… ” “God won’t abandon us,” said Pura, trying to strengthen her spirits with efforts of hope, which seemed like the kicking of a shipwrecked person. “I’m so used to scarcity that abundance would surprise me and even frighten me… Tomorrow…” She didn’t finish the sentence, not even with the thought. His daughter and his sister They were in such a hurry that she got ready hurriedly. As she wrapped the blue shawl around her head, she gave this order to her husband: “Put the child to bed. If he doesn’t want to study, let him not study. The poor thing has enough to do, because tomorrow I suppose he’ll be out delivering two arrobas of letters to you.” Good Villaamil felt a great relief in his soul when he saw them leave. His own grief accompanied him better than his family, and he amused himself and consoled himself with it better than with his wife’s words, because his grief, if it oppressed his heart, didn’t scratch his face, and Doña Pura, when she questioned him, was all pick and claw. Chapter 4. Cadalsito was in the dining room, sitting at the table, his elbows on it, the books in front of him. There were so many of them that the scholar felt proud of lining them up, and he seemed to be inspecting them, like a general his tactical units. The unfortunates were so battered, as if they had been used as projectiles in a furious battle; the pages were twisted, the corners of the covers bent or broken, the binding covered with sticky grime. But not one of them was missing, on the first page, an inscription in shaky letters declaring the ownership of the property, for it would be truly distressing if it were not known that it belonged exclusively to Luis Cadalso y Villaamil. He would pick any one at random to see what would come out. Contro, the damned Grammar always came out! He would open it cautiously and watch the letters swarm on the paper illuminated by the light from the hanging lamp. They looked like mosquitoes buzzing in a ray of sunlight. Cadalso read a few lines. “What is an adverb?” The letters in the answer were the ones that had decided not to let themselves be read, running and jumping from one margin to the other. In short, the adverb must be a very good thing; But Cadalsito couldn’t grasp it clearly. Afterward, he read entire pages, their meaning still failing to penetrate his mind, which hadn’t yet shaken off the astonishment of the vision; nor had the discomfort in his body subsided , despite having eaten so heartily. And since he noticed that as he focused his attention on the book, it grew worse, he decided to turn the corners of the pages of the Grammar one by one, until the poor book was curled like an endive. He was in this state when he heard his grandfather coming out of the study. The light had gone out for lack of oil, and although he wasn’t writing, the darkness drove him from his den to the dining room. In this and in the hallway, the unfortunate man paced for a while, extremely excited, talking to himself and stumbling a few times, because the uneven, and in some places, perforated matting didn’t allow clear passage through those regions. On other nights, when grandfather and grandson were alone together, the former would take his lessons, repeating them and committing them to memory. That night, Villaamil wasn’t up for lessons, which the little one greatly appreciated, and for the sake of appearances, he began to unfold the pages of the tormented text, ironing them with the palm of his hand. Shortly after, the book itself became a soft cushion for his head, tired from studies and visions, and letting it fall, he fell asleep over the definition of the adverb. Villaamil would say: “This is too much. Almighty Lord. What have I done to deserve this treatment? Why don’t they give me a job? Why do even the friends I trusted most abandon me?” The spirit of the unlucky layabout would one day become depressed, another would become inflamed, believing himself to be pursued by hidden enemies who had sworn eternal resentment. “Who, indeed, could be the dancer who wages war against me? Some ingrate, perhaps, who owes me his career.” To make matters worse, he was then faced with his entire administrative life, a slow and honorable career in the Peninsula and Overseas, since he entered the service back in 1941 and when he was twenty-four years old, with Mr. Surrá as Minister of Finance. He had been unemployed for only a short time before the terrible crisis in which we find him: four months during the time of Bertrán de Lis, eleven during the two-year period, three and a half during the time of Salaverría. After The Revolution moved to Cuba and then to the Philippines, where dysentery struck him. In short, he had reached sixty years of age, and his service, added up, was thirty-four months and ten. He was two months away from retirement with four-fifths of the regular salary, which was that of his highest position, Third-Class Chief of Administration. “What a world this is! How unjust! And then they don’t want revolutions!… I’m only asking for two months, so I can retire with four-fifths, yes, sir… ” In the midst of his soliloquy, he stumbled and collided with the door, immediately hitting the edge of the table, which shook the whole thing. Waking with a start, Luis heard his grandfather clearly pronounce these words as he sat up, which seemed to him the most terrifying thing he had ever heard in his life: “…in accordance with the Budget Law of ’35, amended in ’65 and ’68!” “What, Papa?” he said, terrified. “Nothing, son; this has nothing to do with you. Go to sleep. Don’t you feel like studying? You’re right. What’s the point of studying? The more stupid a man is, the more cunning he is, the better career he has… Come on, bed, it’s late.” Villaamil looked for and found a candlestick, but it wasn’t so easy to find a candle to light. Finally, after a lot of searching, he discovered some stubs on Pura’s nightstand, and after lighting one of them, he prepared to put the child to bed. The child was sleeping in Milagros’s bedroom , which was in the same dining room. In that room there was a dressing table from the days of “Long live the chains,” a retired chest of drawers with four-fifths of its drawers, several trunks, and the two beds. Throughout the house, except for the living room, which was furnished with relative elegance, one could see the squalor, neglect, and slow decay that results from not repairing what time tarnishes and ruins. The grandfather began to undress his grandson, saying: “Yes, my son, blessed are the brutes, for theirs is the kingdom… of the Administration.” And he unbuttoned his jacket and pulled at the sleeves with such force that the boy almost fell to the floor. ” My son, learn, learn for when you become a man. No one remembers the one who ‘s down, and all they do is kick him and smash him so he can’t get up… Imagine, I should be a second-ranking Chief of Administration, because now I’d be due for promotion in accordance with the Cánovas law of ’76, and here I am dying… Recommendations rain down on the Minister, and nothing… They tell him: “Look at my background,” and nothing. Do you think he bothers to examine my background? Well, if he did… Everything becomes promises, postponements; that he’s waiting for a favorable opportunity; that he’s taken preferential notice… In short, the nonsense they use to get out of trouble… I, who have always served loyally, who have worked like a slave; I who have not caused the slightest displeasure to my superiors…; I, who, while in the Secretariat, back in ’52, fell into the good graces of Don Juan Bravo Murillo, who called me into his office one day and told me… which I’m keeping quiet out of modesty… Ah! If that great man were to raise his head and see me unemployed… I, who in ’55 drew up a budget plan that deserved the praise of Mr. Pascual Madoz and Mr. Juan Bruil, a plan that I have since redone in twenty years of meditation, explaining it in four memoirs that I have here! And it’s no joke. Abolition of all current contributions, replacing them with the income tax… Ah, the income tax! It’s the dream of my whole life, the object of so many studies and the result of long experience… They don’t want to understand it and that’s how the country is… every day more lost, poorer, and all the sources of wealth drying up that it is a pain… I maintain it: the single tax, based on good faith, on emulation and on the self-respect of the taxpayer, is the best remedy for public misery . Then, the Customs revenue, greatly reinforced, with very high duties to protect national industry… And finally, the unification of the Debts, reducing them to a single issue rate and a single interest rate… “Upon arriving here, Villaamil pulled Luis’s trousers with such force that the boy let out an “ouch!” and said, “Grandfather, you’re going to tear my legs off.” To which the irritated old man replied curtly, “There must be a hidden enemy, some creature intent on ruining me, dishonoring me…” Finally, Luis remained in bed. He had the habit of not turning off the light until well after he was asleep, because it gave him nightmares, and waking with a start would frighten him from the darkness. As soon as the first candle stub went out, the grandfather lit another, and sitting down by the chest of drawers, he began to read *La Correspondencia*, which had just been pushed under the door. In his feverish agitation, the unfortunate man anxiously searched for personal news, and by a fatal skill of his mind, he instantly found the bad news. ” Mr. Montes has been appointed first officer in the Tax Office… Royal decree granting Don Basilio Andrés de la Caña the honors of Senior Chief of Administration.” “This is scandalous, this is the delirium tremens of Polishism. Not even in the Kabyles of Africa does this happen. Poor country, poor Spain!… It makes your hair stand on end thinking about what’s going to happen here with this administrative mess… Basilio is a good person; but yesterday, so to speak, I had him as the fourth officer under my command!” After sadness came hope. “The personnel combination will soon be made according to the new template of the Tax Office. It is said that several intelligent officials who are currently unemployed will be placed.” Villaamil’s gaze danced for a moment over the paper, from letter to letter. His eyes moistened. Would he be in that combination? Precisely, the friends who recommended him to the Minister during that tiring campaign proposed him for the next batch. “My God, I ‘ll be in that blessed combination! And when will that be? Pantoja told me it would be a matter of three or four days.” And as hope revived his entire being, giving him a restless tingling, he launched himself into the dark labyrinth of the corridors. “The combination… the new staff… to admit intelligent officials, and besides being intelligent, I say, identified with… My God! Inspire them, put all your intelligence into those brains… so that they see clearly… so that they take notice of me; so that they find out about my background. If they find out, there’s no question; they’ll appoint me… Will they appoint me? I don’t know what secret voice tells me yes. I have hope. No, I don’t want to indulge or get excited. It’s better for us to be pessimistic, very pessimistic, so that later the opposite of what we fear will happen.” I observe that when one expects it with confidence, bang! comes the crash. That’s why we’re always wrong. The best thing is to expect nothing, to see everything black, black as pitch black, and then, suddenly, bang!… the light… Yes, Ramón, imagine that they don’t give you anything, that there’s no hope for you, let’s see if, believing it like that, the opposite comes… Because I’ve observed that the opposite always comes… And in the meantime, tomorrow I’ll hit all the keys, and I’ll write to some friends and see others, and the Minister… with so many recommendations… My God! What an idea! Wouldn’t it be good if I wrote to the Minister myself?… Having said this, he returned mechanically to where Cadalsito was sleeping, and, contemplating him, thought of the walks he would have to take the next day to deliver the mail. How this connected with the images that the dream determined in the child’s brain, no one knows; But the fact is that while his grandfather was looking at him, Luis, already fast asleep, was seeing the same white-bearded man; and the most unusual thing is that he saw him sitting in front of a desk on which there were so many, so many letters that, according to Cadalsito, they amounted to no less than a couple of quadrillion. The Lord wrote with a handwriting that seemed to Luis to be the most perfect cursive one could imagine. Not even Don Celedonio, his school teacher, could have done better. After finishing each letter, the Eternal Father would put it in an envelope whiter than snow, hold it to his mouth, take out a good piece of fine tongue and pink, to moisten the eraser with a quick stroke; he closed it, and, taking up his pen again, which was, strangest of all!, Mendizábal’s, and dipped, as it were, in the same inkwell, he prepared to write the address. Looking over his shoulder, Luisito thought he saw that immortal hand trace the following on the paper: BLM _To the Honorable Mr. Minister of Finance, whoever he may be, your faithful servant,_ _God_. Chapter 5. That night Villaamil did not sleep for a quarter of an hour at a time. He would doze off for a moment; but the idea of the impending combination, the pessimistic criterion he had imposed on himself, expecting the worst and waiting for the bad so that the good would come, sowed thorns in his bed, keeping him awake as soon as he closed his eyes. When his wife returned from the theater, Villaamil spoke to her some extraordinarily disconsolate words. This was related to the difficulty of obtaining provisions for the following day, since there was no currency in the house, nor any mortgageable material; credit was exhausted, and the generosity and patience of friends were also strained. Although she affected serenity and hope, Doña Pura was very uneasy, and she also spent the night awake, calculating for the following day, which promised to be so terrifying and grim. She no longer dared to order goods on credit from any establishment, because everything was frowned upon, rude, and inconsiderate, and not a day went by without a demanding and discourteous shopkeeper raising a rude fuss right at the door of the second room. Pawn! The lady’s mind quickly summarized all the useful items that were condemned to ostracism: jewelry, capes, blankets, coats. The maximum amount of issuance had been reached, so to speak, in this matter, and there was no human way to be more vulnerable than the entire family already was. A large- scale pledging had taken place the previous month, January 1978, on the very day of Don Alfonso’s wedding to Queen Mercedes. And yet, the three Miaus didn’t miss any of the public festivities held in Madrid for that occasion. Illuminations, retreats, the procession’s passage to Atocha; they saw everything perfectly, and enjoyed it all in the best places, elbowing their way through the crowds. The living room, mortgaging part of the living room! This idea always caused terror and shivers to Doña Pura, because the living room was the part of the household that most interested her , the true symbolic expression of the domestic hearth . It possessed beautiful, if somewhat antiquated, furniture, testimony to the past splendor of the Villaamil family; Two black insets with gold and lacquer trim, and marble covers; damask ashlar, a carpet, and silk curtains that had been purchased from the Regent of the Cáceres court when she had moved the house . Doña Pura held these curtains in as much esteem as the fabrics of her heart. And when the specter of need appeared to her and whispered in her ear in terrible tones the financial struggle of the following day, Doña Pura shuddered with fear, saying: “No, no; shirts before curtains.” Stripping the bodies seemed a tolerable sacrifice; but stripping the living room… never! The Villaamil family, despite their unemployment and their serious decline in social status, had plenty of visitors. What would they say if they saw that the silk curtains were missing, admired and envied by all who saw them! Doña Pura closed her eyes, wanting to dismiss the fateful thought and go to sleep; But the living room had crept into her vision, and she stared at it all night, so clean, so elegant… None of her friends had a living room like it. The carpet was so well kept that it seemed as if human feet never trod on it, and during the day they protected it with their footsteps , taking care to clean it often. The upright piano, out of tune, yes, very out of tune, had a gleaming rosewood soundboard . Not a speck of wood could be seen on the stalls. The insets gleamed, and what sat on them, that gilded clock without time, The candlesticks inside lanterns—everything was exquisitely cared for. The thousand trinkets that completed the decor—photographs in kraft paper frames, boxes that had once held candy, porcelain dogs, and an imitation Bohemian decanter—also shone without a trace of dust. Abelarda spent hours cleaning these odds and ends and others I haven’t mentioned yet. They were objects made of fragile openwork panels, the kind that serve as entertainment for aficionados of domestic marquetry. A neighbor of the house had a climbing frame and made a thousand exquisite things that he gave to friends. There were baskets, shelves, tiny furniture, Gothic chapels, and Chinese pagodas, all very cute, very fragile, look-at-me-but-don’t- touch-me, and very difficult to clean. Doña Pura turned over in bed, as if trying to change her gloomy thoughts with a change of position. But then she saw more clearly in her mind the sumptuous curtains, amaranth-colored, made of the richest silk, that silk _which is no longer seen anywhere_. All the ladies who came to visit had to pick up and touch the incomparable fabric, and rub it between their fingers to appreciate its quality. But you had to measure its weight to know what it was!… In short, Doña Pura considered that sending the curtains to the Monte or the pawn shop was as painful an ordeal as shipping a child to America. While the figure of Fra Angelico tossed and turned on his narrow mattress, he slept in the small alcove in the parlor, and her husband, since his return from the Philippines, occupied the alcove of the study alone, he tried to distract and deceive his grief by recalling the emotions of the opera and how well the baritone had said “rivedrai le foreste imbalsamate” … Villaamil, alone, sleepless, and feverish, tossed and turned on the large matrimonial bed, whose spring mattress had the same in a pitiful state, some broken and sunken, others stretched and erect. The woolen mattress on top was not far behind, for it was all dull here, empty there, so that the bed could have figured worthily in the dungeons of the Inquisition as a warning to heretics. The poor unemployed man had in his bed the outward expression or mold of the tortures of his soul, and so, when the itch of insomnia made him toss and turn, he fell into a deep abyss, from the center of which rose, like a demon’s hump, an enormous spur that dug into his loins; and when he emerged from the abyss, a mass of wool, hard and strong as a fist, crushed his ribs. At times he slept just like that amidst these accidents; but that night, the excitement of his brain magnified the unevenness of the terrain in the darkness: he already believed he was falling, his feet in the air, as if he were balancing on the vertex of an eminence, or that he was sailing toward the Philippines in a typhoon of a thousand demons. “Let’s be pessimistic,” was his theme; “let’s assume, with all the vigor of our thoughts, that they won’t include me in the combination, to see if the fortunate prospect of the appointment surprises me. I won’t wait for the happy event, no, I don’t wait for it to happen. The unexpected always happens. I’m assuming the worst . They won’t place you, they won’t place you, poor Ramón; you’ll see how they’re making fun of you now too. But although I’m convinced that I won’t get anything, absolutely convinced, yes, and there’s no one to disabuse me of this; although I know my enemies won’t spare me, I’ll use every influence and make sure even the morning star speaks to the Minister. Of course, my friend Ramón, it’s all useless. You’ll see how they pay no damn attention to you; you must see it. I’m as convinced of it as I am of the fact that it’s nighttime now. And you can easily discard even the last glimmer of credulity. No fussy hope; no ‘whether it will be or not ‘; no optimistic weaknesses. You don’t taste it, you don’t taste it, even if you burst. Chapter 6. Doña Pura finally slept soundly all night and part of the morning. Villaamil got up at eight without having slept a wink. When he left his bedroom, between eight and nine, after having After scrubbing their noses with a little cold water and combing their thinning hair, no one had yet gotten up. The straitened circumstances did not permit them to keep a maid, and the three women did the housework in a haphazard manner. Milagros was the one who cooked; she usually got up earlier than the other two; but the night before she had gone to bed very late, and when Villaamil left his room for the kitchen, the cook was still not there. He examined the unlit stove and the exhausted coal scuttle. And in the cupboard that served as a pantry, he saw crusts of bread, a grease-stained paper wrapper that must have contained some leftover ham, cold cuts, or something similar, a plate with a few chickpeas, a piece of sausage, an egg, and half a lemon… The tiger sighed and went into the dining room to search the sideboard drawer, in which, among the knives and napkins, there were also pieces of stale bread. At this point, he heard a rustle, then the sound of water, and lo and behold, Milagros appeared, with her thoroughly scrubbed face, a loose robe, her hair in little rings twisted with papers, and a white handkerchief on her head. “Is there any chocolate?” her brother-in-law asked without further greeting. “There’s only half an ounce,” replied the lady, running to open the drawer of the kitchen table where she was. “I’ll make it for you right away. ” “No, not for me. You’re making it for the child. I don’t need any chocolate. I don’t feel like it.” I’ll have a piece of dry bread and drink a little water with it. “Good. Look around. There’s no shortage of bread. There’s also a small piece of ham in the cupboard. That egg’s for me, sister, if you don’t mind. I’m going to light a fire. Do me a favor and break some kindling for me while I go see if I can find some matches.” Don Ramón, after biting into the bread, took the axe and began to split a piece of wood, which was the leg of an old chair, sighing with each blow. The cracking of the wood fiber as it tore seemed so inherent to Villaamil’s person, as if he were tearing throbbing strips from his dry flesh and splinters from his poor bones. Meanwhile , Milagros was building the temple of coals and sticks. “And today, is it cooked?” she asked her brother-in-law with some mystery. Villaamil meditated on that problem so starkly posed. “Perhaps… who knows!” he replied, casting his imagination into the unknown. “Let’s wait for Pura to get up. ” She was the one who resolved all the conflicts, a person of initiative, unexpected blows, and swift resolutions. Milagros was all passivity, modesty, and obedience. She never raised her voice, made no observations about what her sister ordered. She worked for others out of the impulse of her humble conscience and out of the habit of subordination. Fatally linked throughout her life to the miserable fate of that family, and a participant in its vicissitudes, she never complained nor was she heard to protest about her ill-fated lot. She considered herself a great artist ruined in her prime, for lack of environment; and seeing herself lost to art, the sadness of this situation drowned out all other sorrows. It must be said here that Milagros was born with excellent talent as an opera singer. At twenty-five, she had a beautiful voice, a well-trained voice, and a passionate love of music. But fate never allowed her to launch herself into the true life of an artist. Unfortunate love affairs and family issues postponed her desired public appearance day after day , and when the obstacles disappeared, Milagros was no longer up for parties; she had lost her voice. She herself did not realize the gentle gradient by which her hopes as an artist ended up in the precarious situation in which she appears to us; by which the dreamed-of stage and the triumphs of art became Villaamil’s kitchen, without provisions. When she thought about the harsh contrast between her hopes and her destiny, she could not measure the steps of that slow descent from the heights of poetry to the basements of vulgarity. Milagros had a fine, delicate type, perfect for the roles of _Margarita_, from _Dinorah_, from _Gilda_, from _Traviatta_, and a high soprano voice. All this became rubbish, never earning public admiration. Only once did she sing the part of _Adalgisa_ at the Royal Academy, through the condescension of the company, as a student at the Conservatory. She was very happy, and the newspapers predicted a brilliant future for her. At the Liceo Jover, before an invited but undemanding audience, she sang _Saffo_ and _The Capulets_ by Bellini with the third act of Vacai. Then there was talk of having her go to Italy; but a passion, the hope of a successful marriage match, got in the way, and the matter became very complicated between the fiancé and the family. Time passed, and the singer had to fail, for she neither went to Italy, nor was she hired at the Royal Academy, nor did she marry. Doña Pura and Milagros were the daughters of a military doctor named Escobios and nieces of the great musician of the King’s Immemorial. Their mother was Muñoz, and they had kinship claims with the Marquis of Casa Muñoz. Indeed, when they tried to get Milagros to become an opera singer, they considered Italianizing her surname, calling her “Escobini”; but since her artistic career was ruined in its infancy, the Italian nickname never appeared on the posters. Before Miss Escobios’s life was cut short, she had a period of fleeting success and brilliance in a third-class provincial capital , where she went with her sister, Villaamil’s wife. The latter was the economic leader, and her family naturally became close to the civil and military governors, who held meetings attended by the elite of the town. Milagros, singing at the brigade concerts, drove everyone wild and electrifying. She had dozens of suitors, and the envy of women worried her in the midst of her triumphs. A young man from the town, a poet and journalist, fell madly in love with her. He was the same man who, in his account of the soirees, called Doña Pura, with exalted style, a figure straight out of a painting by Fra Angelico. He praised Milagros in such hyperbolic terms that they were laughable, and the natives even remember some phrases describing the young woman at the moment of appearing in the hall, approaching the piano to sing, and in the very act of singing: “She is modest Ophelia weeping for her withered loves and singing with a celestial trill the dirge of death.” And what a strange thing! The same man who wrote these things on the second page of the newspaper had the mission, and for that he was paid, of doing the commercial review on the front page. This lament was also his: “Flour. The whole week has shown a marked lull in this flour. Only 1,200 sacks have left for the canal, priced at 22 and three quarts. There are no buyers, and yesterday 2,000 sacks were offered at 22 and a half, without anyone taking the plunge.” The next day, back again with the modest Ophelia, or the angel who brought us heavenly melodies to earth . It’s now clear that this couldn’t end well. Indeed, my man, becoming more inflamed and delirious every day with his unrequited love, became so ill, so ill, that one day he threw himself headfirst into the dam of a flour mill, and no matter how quickly they came to his aid, when they pulled him out he was dead. Shortly after this unpleasant event, which greatly impressed Milagros, she returned to Madrid. Then her debut at the Real took place, then the performances at the Liceo Jover, and everything else briefly described . Let us cast over those sad events a heap of sad years, of rapid aging and decline, and we find the modest Ofelia in Villaamil’s kitchen, with the fire lit and not knowing what to put on it. From a dark little room off the inner corridor, Abelarda came out rubbing her eyes, disheveled, trailing the dirty train of a gown larger than her, which her mother had worn in happier times , and she also went to the kitchen, just as Villaamil was coming out to wake and dress her grandson. Abelarda asked her aunt if the baker was coming, to which Milagros didn’t know what to reply, because she couldn’t form an opinion about such a serious problem without hearing her sister first. “Make your mother get up soon,” she said, dismayed, “let’s see what she decides.” Shortly after this, a loud cough was heard from the alcove off the living room where Pura was sleeping. Through the small door that led to the reception room, opposite the study, appeared the lady of the house, radiant with displeasure, her body wrapped in an old Villaamil jacket, her hair in little rings, her nose purple from the cold water she had just used to wash, a torn shawl across her chest, and bulky slippers on her feet. “What, can’t you manage without me? You’re both stunned. Well, it’s not that bad. Did you make the baby’s hot chocolate?” Milagros came out of the kitchen with the gourd, while Abelarda sat the little one down and hung the napkin around his neck. Villaamil went into his study and soon came out with the inkwell in his hand, saying, “There’s no ink, and today I have to write more than forty letters. Look, Luisín, as soon as you’re done, go downstairs and ask friend Mendizábal to do me the favor of giving me a little ink. ” “I’ll go,” said Abelarda, picking up the inkwell and going downstairs in the same state she had been. The two sisters, meanwhile, were whispering in the kitchen. About what? Presumably it was about the impossibility of feeding the family with an egg, stale bread, and some leftover meat, which wasn’t enough for the cat. Pura furrowed her eyebrows and made a very strange pout with her lips , bringing them together with her nose, which seemed to lengthen. The modest Ofelia repeated this sign of perplexity, and the two seemed so similar that they seemed one and the same. They were distracted from their meditations by Villaamil, who appeared in the kitchen, saying he had to go to the Ministry and needed a clean shirt. “For God’s sake!” Pura exclaimed in dismay. “The only washed shirt is in such bad condition that it needs a thorough inspection.” But Abelarda promised to have it ready by noon, and ironed, as long as there was a fire. Don Ramón also made heartfelt observations to his daughter about certain fringes and tears on the lapel of his coat, begging her to pass her skillful needles through it. The young woman reassured him, and the good man went into his study. The meeting the Miaus were having in the kitchen ended with a sudden start from Pura, who ran to her bedroom to dress and go out into the street. An immense idea had exploded in that gunpowder-laden brain, as if a spark from the detonator that had flowed from her eyes had penetrated it. “Light the fire and put water in the pots,” she said to her sister as she left, and she slipped out with the diligence and speed of a squirrel. Seeing this decision, Abelarda and Milagros, who knew the headmistress of the family well, calmed down regarding the problem of subsistence that day, and began to sing, one in the kitchen, the other from her room, Norma’s duet: _in mia mano al fin tu sei_. Chapter 7. Around eleven, Doña Pura entered, quite out of breath, followed by a boy from the Mostenses square, who was breathing heavily under the weight of a basket full of provisions. Milagros, who had come out at the door, made a multitude of crosses from shoulder to shoulder and from forehead to waist. She had seen her sister overcome very difficult situations with her energetic initiative; but the masterstroke of that morning seemed to her to be superior to anything one could have expected from such a willing woman. Quickly examining the basket, she saw different kinds of food, vegetables and animals, all very good, and more appropriate for the table of a Director General than for that of a miserable suitor. But Doña Pura made them that way. Jokes, either heavy or not at all. To her greater astonishment, Milagros saw the purse in her sister’s hands , almost bursting with it. “Daughter,” said the lady of the house, whispering to her in the reception, after dismissing the errand boy, I had no choice but to address Carolina Lantigua, from Pez. I was horribly embarrassed. I had to close my eyes and dive in, like someone diving into the water. Oh, what a drag! I painted our situation in such a way that it made her cry. She’s very good. She gave me ten duros, which I promised to return soon; and I will, yes, I will; because this time they’ll get him a job. It’s impossible for them to stop putting him in the scheme. I have absolute confidence now… Anyway, take this inside. I’ll go there right away. Is the water boiling? She went into the office to tell her husband that for that day the tremendous crisis was over, without adding how or why not. They must have also discussed the chances of getting a job, because Villaamil’s irate voice could be heard shouting from outside: “Don’t come to me with your deceitful optimism. I tell you and I tell you again that I won’t enter the combination. I have no hope, none at all, you can believe me. You, with those foolish illusions and that mania for seeing everything in rosy tones, are doing me horrendous harm, because then comes the shock of reality, and everything turns black.” So immersed was the saintly man in his pessimistic musings that when they called him into the dining room and laid out a sumptuous lunch before him, it didn’t occur to him to inquire, or even consider, where such abundant wealth, so discordant with his financial situation, had come from. After a quick lunch, he dressed to go out. Abelarda had darned the lapels of his coat with incredible perfection, imitating the warp of torn fabric; and after applying a dab of gasoline to his collar, the garment looked as if it had been rejuvenated by five years. Before leaving, he entrusted Luis with the distribution of the letters he had written, giving him a topographical plan so that he could carry out the distribution methodically and in the shortest possible time. They couldn’t give the boy more work than he liked, because it relieved him of school, and he would spend the whole holy afternoon strolling like a gentleman with his friend Canelo. Canelo was very clever at knowing where to find good company. He rarely went up to the second room, no doubt because he didn’t like the poverty that commonly reigned there; but with very fine instinct, he learned about the extraordinary events of the house, all the more splendid the more scarce they were on ordinary days. Whether the dog was on sentry duty at the gate or inside the house, or sleeping under the memoirist’s table, he never missed the fact that provisions were being brought in for Villaamil. How he found out, no one can say; but it’s certain that the most astute Consumption guard would have nothing to teach him. Of course, the practical application of his studies was to go up to the abundant house and spend a whole day, sometimes two, there; But as soon as the smell of burning reached his nose, he would say… “See you later,” and they would never see him again. That day he went upstairs shortly after seeing Doña Pura enter with the errand boy; and since the three Miaus were always very good to him and gave him treats, Cadalsito had a hard time taking him on his excursion through the streets. Canelo left reluctantly, to fulfill a social duty and so that no one would tell. The three Miaus were very lively that afternoon. They had the most fortunate gift of always living in the present moment and not thinking about tomorrow . It is a spiritual creation like any other, and a practical philosophy that, whatever they say, has not fallen into disrepute, although it has been widely criticized. Pura and Milagros were in the kitchen, preparing the meal, which had to be good, plentiful, and prepared with all the sacraments, as a way of relieving upset stomachs . Without stopping their work, one skimming pots or preparing a fried food, the other pounding in the mortar to the rhythm of an Andante con esprezione or an Allegro con brio, they chatted about the probable, or rather certain, employment of the head of the family. Pura spoke of paying all the debts and bringing home the various useful objects. who wandered through the world of God in the captivity of usury. Abelarda was in the dining room with her sewing box in front of her, arranging a raisin-colored dress on the mannequin. She attracted no attention for her beauty or her ugliness, and in a contest of insignificant faces she would have taken the top prize. Her complexion was poor, her eyes dark, the whole appearance quite similar to her mother and aunt, forming a certain harmony with them , from which derived the nickname they were given. I mean that if, considered in isolation, the resemblance of the young woman’s appearance to a cat’s snout wasn’t very marked, when combined with the other two, she seemed to acquire certain physiognomic features, which were like a seal of race or family. The resulting group consisted of three small, slick mouths, the connection between the nose and the mouth by an indefinable line, the round, lively eyes, and the characteristic effusion of hair, which was as if the three of them had been rolling on the floor in pursuit of a ball of paper or a ball of yarn. That afternoon, all was well, because visitors arrived, which pleased Pura very much. She quickly left her culinary duties to put on a robe and arrange her hair, and happily entered the living room. The visitors were Federico Ruiz and his wife Pepita Ballester. The distinguished thinker was also unemployed, enduring a dreadful period, of which there were more signs on his clothes than on his wife’s; but he bore his unemployment calmly, or rather, so optimistic was his temperament that he even bore it with a certain joy. He was always the same man, the tireless busybody, hatching plans for literary and scientific revelry, planning soirees or centennial celebrations for celebrities, devising some kind of occupation that no one born alive would have thought of. That blessed man made one think there was a National Militia in literature. He wrote articles on what should be done to ensure the prosperity of agriculture, on the advantages of cremating corpses, or even giving a detailed account of what happened in the Stone Age, which is, as it were, talking about yesterday morning. His financial situation was quite precarious, as he lived off his pen. From time to time, he managed to get the Ministry of Public Works to borrow a certain number of old editions and such shabby books as *Communism Before Reason*, or * Fire Service in All the Nations of Europe*, or *Picturesque Review of Castles*. But he had such a rich store of consolation in his soul that he didn’t need Christian resignation to accept his misfortune. Being content became a matter of self-respect for him, and to resist giving in, he grew fond, through sheer imagination, of the idea of poverty, going so far as to think that the greatest pleasure in the world was not having a penny and nowhere to get one. Making a living, going out in the morning wondering which sick magazine editor or dying newspaper to take the article he’d written the night before to, constituted a series of emotions that the rich cannot experience . He worked like a slave, that’s true, and Tostado was a suckling child next to him, in the course of his writing. Truly, earning his stew like this had a lot of pleasure, almost voluptuousness. And he had never lacked the stew. His wife was a jewel and helped him navigate that situation. But his effective Providence was his character, that optimistic disposition, that ideal procedure for converting evils into blessings and grim scarcity into cheerful abundance. Where there is conformity, there is no sorrow. Poverty is the beginning of wisdom, and happiness should not be sought among the privileged classes. The thinker remembered Eguílaz’s comedy, in which the protagonist, to emphasize how fun it is to be poor, says with great warmth: I had five duros the day I got married. And he also remembered that the pot fell over with the roar of applause and the enthusiastic stamping, proof of how popular he is in This breed, the lack of money. Ruiz had also written a comedy in his time, proving that to be honest and just, it’s essential to be on the loose, and that all rich people always end up badly. Of course, despite this idealism with which he knew how to gild the copper of his economic crisis, passing off small change as gold, Ruiz didn’t give up on his demands for a new job. He wouldn’t let the Minister of Public Works live, and the Directorates of Public Education and Agriculture would tremble as soon as he crossed the threshold. Lacking employment, he sought a small commission to study anything ; he was just as happy about literary property legislation in all countries as he was about stud farms in Spain. Chapter 8. During the visit, they first discussed the opera, which Ruiz frequently attended , as well as the Miaus, with halberd-like entrances. Then the conversation turned to the subject of destinations. “Don Ramón,” said Ruiz, “won’t be kept waiting much longer.” “He’s in the combination that will be made in the next few days,” Pura said, radiantly. “And he hasn’t gone yet because Ramón refused to accept a position outside Madrid. The Minister was very keen to send him to a province where men like my husband are needed. But Ramón isn’t up for traveling anymore. If I ‘m to tell the truth, I wish he’d be placed because he’s busy; nothing more than because he’s busy. You can’t imagine, Federico, how badly my husband takes idleness—well, he’s not living. You can see how he’s been used to working since he was young! And it’s also good for him to be placed to retire. Just imagine, Ramón only has two months left before he can retire on four-fifths. If it weren’t for this, he’d be better off at home. I say to him: “Don’t worry, son, thank God, we have everything we need to live modestly.” But he’s not content; he likes the warmth of the office, and even a cigar doesn’t taste good unless he smokes it between two errands. “I believe it… What a saintly man! And how is his health? ” “His stomach is delicate. Every day I have to invent something new to sustain his appetite. My sister and I now dedicate ourselves to cooking, for entertainment, and to be free of maids, who are a calamity. We make him a different dish every day… succulent caprices and trifles. Sometimes I have to go to the Plaza del Carmen in search of things that can’t be found at the Mostenses. ” “Well, you see,” said Mrs. Ruiz, “that’s a job I’m not familiar with, because this one has a stomach that doesn’t deserve it, and such a famous appetite that no fussiness is needed to sustain it.” “Thank God,” the publicist indicated cheerfully. “That’s where this good money of mine comes from, and the confidence I have in my luck. Believe me, Doña Pura, nothing is worth more than a good stomach. Here I am, always so content: if I get a job, fine; if not, two quarters of the same. Truthfully, I don’t like being an employee, and I would prefer what the Minister offered me yesterday: a commission to study the Pawn Shops of Germany. It’s a very important matter. ” “It is important indeed. Imagine!” exclaimed Mrs. Villaamil, raising her eyebrows. At this point, another visitor arrived. It was a friend of Villaamil’s, who lived on Acuerdo Street, a certain Guillén, a limp, employed by the Tax Office. After greeting each other, he said that a colleague of his, who was in Personnel, had assured him that very afternoon that Villaamil was on the next transfer. Doña Pura took it as a fact, and Ruiz and his wife echoed this flattering assessment. The congratulations became so entangled in the conversation that Doña Pura finally offered her good friends a drink and pastries. Among the provisions for that auspicious day was a three-peseta bottle of muscatel, a liquor that Pura used to treat her husband to after dessert. Ruiz and Guillén clinked glasses, expressing their affection for the friendly family with equal warmth. The sobriety of the _thinker_ contrasted with the somewhat gross incontinence of the lame employee, who begged Doña Pura not to take the bottle, and pouring it out, it was soon seen that the liquid was less than half full. The lights were now on, and the visitors had left, when Villaamil entered . Pura ran to meet him, seeing with satisfaction that the ferocious tigerish countenance had a certain tinge of complacency. “What’s up? What news do you have?” “Nothing, woman,” said Villaamil, who was entrenched in pessimism and there was no one to shake him out of it. “Nothing yet; the same old nonsense . ” “And the Minister… have you seen him?” “Yes, and he received me so well,” Villaamil allowed himself to say, carelessly betraying his affected misanthropy, “he received me so well that… I don’t know… it seems God has touched his heart, that He has said something about me. He was extremely kind… delighted to see me there… very sorry not to have me by his side… determined to take me…” “Come on; you can’t say now that you have no hope. ” “None, woman, absolutely none, recovering their role. You’ll see how everything comes to nothing. I only know… Rest assured! They won’t place me until the day of judgment in the afternoon! ” “Oh, what a man! That’s also giving God a straight face. He could get angry, and with good reason. ” “Stop the nonsense, and if you wait, you’ll be in for a big surprise. I don’t want to take him; that’s why I don’t expect anything, you know? And when the blow comes, I’ll be perfectly at peace.” Luisito arrived while his grandparents were heatedly discussing whether or not they should harbor hope, and reported the punctual delivery of all the letters. He was hungry, cold, and had a slight headache. Upon his return from the excursion, he had sat down on the porch of the Alarconas; but that didn’t bother him, nor did the vision seem to present itself in any way. Canelo never left Doña Pura’s side, following her from the study to the kitchen, and from there to the dining room. When the master of the house was called to eat, as he was a little late, the knowledgeable dog went to find him and, with a wagging tail, said to him: “If you don’t feel like it, say so; but don’t keep us waiting for you so long.” They ate with a regular appetite and in fairly good spirits, and after dinner, Villaamil smoked, very much enjoying it, a cigar that Mr. de Pez had given him that afternoon. It was very large, and as he took it, the unemployed man told his friend he would save it for later. That cigar reminded him of his prosperous times. Perhaps it was a sign that those times would return? It was as if the good Villaamil read his good fortune in the spirals of blue smoke, for he stood dazed watching them rise in graceful curves toward the dining room ceiling, vaguely clouding the lamp.
That evening, Ruiz, Guillén, Ponce, the Cuevas family, Pantoja, and his family—who will be discussed later—had company over, and the project begun the previous month to perform a short piece was formalized, as some friends of the house had unusual talents for the theater, especially in the comic genre. Federico Ruiz was in charge of choosing the piece, assigning the roles, and directing the rehearsals. It was agreed that Abelarda would play one of the main characters, and Ponce the other. But he, recognizing with laudable modesty that he wasn’t very funny and would make the audience weep in the most humorous roles, reserved for himself the part of the _father_, if there was one in the comedy. Tired of such nonsense, Don Ramón fled the room, seeking in the dark interior of the house the shadows that suited his pessimism. Mechanically, he entered Milagros’s room, where she was undressing Luis to put him to bed. The poor child had made attempts to study, which were completely useless. His head ached, and he felt like the omen and the fear of the vision, for this, while giving him great pleasure, caused him a certain anxiety. He went to bed with the idea that he would become uneasy and that he was going to see very strange things. When his grandfather came in, he was already in bed, and his aunt was making him pray the usual prayers: _With God I go to bed, with God I rise_, etc. which he recited without hesitation. With an abrupt interruption, he turned to Villaamil to say to him: “Grandfather, isn’t it true that the Minister received you very well?” “Yes, my son,” replied the old man, stupefied by this remark and the tone in which it was said. “And how do you know that? ” “Me?… I know.” Cadalsito looked at his grandfather with such a strange expression that the poor gentleman didn’t know what to think. It seemed to him like the expression of the Child Jesus, which is nothing other than the seriousness of man harmonized with the grace of childhood. “I know it… I know it,” repeated Luis without smiling, fixing his grandfather with a gaze that left him motionless. “And the Minister loves you very much… because someone wrote to him… ” “Who wrote to him?” said the dismissed man anxiously, taking a step towards the bed, his eyes full of clarity. “They wrote to him about you,” affirmed Cadalsito, feeling that fear was invading him and preventing him from continuing. At that very moment, Villaamil thought that it was all nonsense, and turning around, he put his hand to his head and said: “What a trick this little boy is!” Chapter 9. Strange thing! Nothing happened to Cadalsito that night, nor did he feel or see anything, for soon after going to bed he fell into a very deep sleep. The next day it was difficult to get him up. He felt shaky, and as if he had walked a long way in a strange and distant place that he couldn’t remember. He went to school and didn’t learn his lesson. He was so clumsy that day that the teacher ridiculed him and tarnished his dignity in front of the other boys. Rarely had a schoolboy seen such a bare-knuckle race as Cadalsito endured when he was confined to the back of the class as a sign of ignorance and indifference. At eleven o’clock, when they sat down to write, Cadalso had beside him the famous Posturitas, a mischievous and extremely graceful boy, as flexible as a worm, and so restless that where he was, there could be no peace. His name was Paquito Ramos y Guillén, and his parents owned the pawn shop on Acuerdo Street. That Guillén, lame and employed, whom we saw at Villaamil’s house celebrating his friend’s upcoming job with copious libations of muscatel , was Posturitas’s maternal uncle, who owed this nickname to the rat-like liveliness of his movements, to the grace with which he imitated the attitudes and gestures of the clowns and madmen of the circus. Everything became a gaffe for him: sticking out his tongue, turning his eyelids inside out; and, however he could, he would dip his finger in the inkwell to paint black lines on his face. That morning, when the teacher wasn’t looking, Posturitas would open the folder, and he and his friend Cadalso would plunge their hands into it to see the various things inside. The most notable was a collection of rings, glittering with gold and rubies. Don’t think they were metal, but paper, the kind that manufacturers use to decorate medium-sized cigars to make them look good. That treasure had come into Paquito Ramos’s hands through a barter. The collection belonged to another boy named Polidura, whose father, a waiter in a café or restaurant, used to collect the cigar rings that smokers dropped on the floor and give them to his son for lack of better toys. Polidura had accumulated more than fifty rings of various sizes. Some said Flor fina, others Selectos de Julián Álvarez. Tired at last of the collection, he exchanged it with Posturas for a well-used spinning top, by means of a solemn contract before witnesses. Cadalso gave the new owner the ring from the tagarnina given by Mr. Pez to Villaamil, which he majestically smoked after the meal. Posturitas’s mischief, faithfully reproduced by good old Cadalso, consisted of filling both their fingers with those surprising jewels, and when the teacher was out of sight, raising their hand and showing it to the other scoundrels with two or three rings on each finger. If the teacher came, they would quickly take them off and write as if nothing had happened. But in a With a sudden turn, the teacher surprised Cadalsito with his hand raised, distracting the entire class. Seeing him, he immediately became a lion . It was soon discovered that the main offender was the evil Posturitas, who had a cache of paper rings in his folder; and in a flash, the teacher, after plucking the precious stones from his fingers , grabbed the entire cache and smashed it, finishing with a handful of smacks applied to each head. Ramos burst into tears, saying: “It wasn’t me… Miau is to blame.” And Miau, no less hurt by this slander than by the nickname, exclaimed with severe dignity: “He’s the one who had them. I only brought one…” “Lie…” “He’s the liar.” “_Miau_ is a hypocrite,” said the teacher, and Cadalso could not contain his distress when he heard Don Celedonio use the insulting nickname. He burst into inconsolable tears, and the whole class echoed his moans, repeating _Miau_, until the teacher, pim, pam!, dealt out a general thrashing, running over backs and cheeks, like a fierce mate among ranks of galley slaves, beating everyone without mercy. “I’m going to tell my grandfather,” exclaimed Cadalso with a burst of dignity, “and I’m not coming back to this school. ” “Silence… silence everyone,” shouted the executioner, threatening them with a ruler whose corners were like knife edges. “Shamelessly, start writing; and whoever makes a joke, I’ll split his head open.” As they left, Cadalso was still raging against his friend _Posturitas_. The latter, who was brash, of boundless freshness and audacity, gave Luis a shove, saying: “It’s your fault, you idiot… you idiot… you cat-faced fool. If I catch you on my own…” Cadalso turned around angrily, seized by a nervous rage that turned him pale and his eyes flashed. “You know what I’m telling you? You don’t have to call me names, you rude… vulgar… whatever. ” “Meow!” the other said contemptuously, sticking out his tongue and clenching his fingers. “Ole… Meow… you snub-nosed brat… fu, fu, fu…” For the first time in his life, Luis realized that circumstances made him brave. Blinded by rage, he threw himself at his opponent, and he would do the same if he had been a man. A wild shriek of childish joy resounded throughout the band, and seeing Cadalso’s unusual charge, many shouted: “Come on, come on…” _Meow_ fighting with _Posturas_ was a new spectacle, of tragic and never-felt emotions, something like seeing the hare turning against the ferret, or the partridge pecking at the dog. And Posturitas’s insolent attitude was very beautiful when he received the first shock, sprawling to gain a better balance, dropping his books and slate to have his arms free… At the same time he grumbled with insane pride: “You see, you see… recontro!… I’m marrying the Bible…” One of those Homeric, primitive, hand-to-hand fights broke out, made more interesting by the absence of any weapons, and which consist of locking arms and pushing, pushing, butting heads , like a sheep, each one striving to knock down his opponent. If Posturas was in the ascendancy, Cadalso seemed no less so. Murillito, Polidura and the others looked on and applauded, dancing around with the fierce enthusiasm of a pagan people thirsty for blood. But the teacher’s daughter, a rather mannish young lady , happened to come out of the house at that moment and occasion and separated them with a couple of slaps, saying: “No shame, go home, or I’ll call the couple to take you to the station.” Both had faces like fire, they breathed like bellows, and from those mouths they spewed tavern insults, especially Paco Ramos, who was an accomplished speaker of the language of the carters. “Come on, men,” said Murillito, the son of the sacristan of Monserrat, in the most conciliatory attitude; “it’s not that bad… come on… Move away… I’ll… you’ll see.” They brought out their quibbles. The mediator seemed determined to give a good beating to whichever of the two tried to resume the fight. A policeman who was there He scattered them, and they ran off, shrieking and jumping, some of them even praising Cadalsito’s outburst. The latter silently made his way home. His anger was slowly calming, though he would never forgive Posturas for the nickname, and he felt in his soul the first stirrings of heroic vanity, the awareness of his capacity for life, that is, of his aptitude for offending his neighbor, already tested in that day’s test. There was no school that afternoon, because it was Thursday. Luisito went home , and during lunch, no one in the family noticed how out of sorts he was. He then went downstairs to spend a little time with his friends, the memorialists, who undoubtedly had something trivial in store for him. “It seems we’re having a lot of fun upstairs,” Paca told him. “Listen, have they given your grandfather a job yet? Because he must be at least a minister or even an ambassador.” “What a shopping basket they brought yesterday! And bottles of muscatel like they’re not saying anything. Go on, go on, what a ride! We’re as we want to be. This way, there’s no way to get Canelo to come down from your house…” Luis said that they still hadn’t found a job; but that it was between today and tomorrow. The day was beautiful, and Paca suggested to her little friend that they go sunbathe on the Conde Duque esplanade, a few steps from Quiñones Street. The enormous memorialist put on her shawl while Luisito went up to ask permission, and they started walking. It was three o’clock, and the vast embankment between the Paseo de Areneros and the Guard barracks was flooded with sunlight and very crowded with neighbors who went there to relax. Much of this land was then, and is still today, occupied by ashlars, flagstones, cobblestones, remnants or preparations for municipal works, and among the stonework, the neighbors often set up clotheslines for drying washed clothes. The unobstructed area is used by the troops for instructional exercises, and that afternoon Cadalsito saw the Cavalry recruits learning to march, led by an officer who, saber in hand and shouting, taught them how to pace. The little boy amused himself by watching the movements and heard the cadence with which the soldiers stepped in unison, saying: “One, two, three, four.” It was a bellow that mingled with the vibration of the ground being struck in time, like an immense drum beaten by a giant. Among the society that gathered there to enjoy the sun, vendors of peanuts and hazelnuts walked by, hawking their goods with a resounding cry. Paca bought some of these sweets from Cadalso and sat on a rock to gossip with several of her gossipy friends. The boy ran behind the troops, moving with them; he came and went for an hour in that military fun, also marking the “one, two, three, four,” until, feeling tired, he sat down on a pile of flagstones. Then his head wandered a little; he saw the heavy mass of the barracks moving from right to left, and that in the same direction lay the palace of Liria, buried among the branches of its garden, whose trees seemed to stretch to breathe better outside the immense grave in which they are planted. Cadalso began to feel the usual unease; his awareness of present things was fading, he became dizzy, faint, and was overcome by a mysterious fright, which was really the terror of the unknown; and, resting his forehead on an enormous stone nearby , he fell asleep like an angel. From the first instant, the vision of the Alarconas presented itself to him clearly, palpably, like a living being, seated before him, without his being able to say where. The fantastic tableau had no background or distance. It was constituted by the sublime figure alone. It was the same personage with a long, white beard, dressed in indefinable clothes, his left hand hidden in the folds of his cloak, his right outward, the hand of a person preparing to speak. But the most surprising thing was that before uttering the first word, the Lord extended his right hand toward him, and then Cadalsito looked at it and saw that his fingers were filled with those same rings that made up the rich collection of _Posturas_. Only on the sovereign fingers, which had made the world in seven days, the rings shone as if they were made of gold and precious stones. Cadalsito was absorbed, and the Father said to him: “Look, Luis, what the master took from you. See here the beautiful rings. I picked them up from the floor, and I repaired them instantly without any trouble. The master is a brute, and I will teach him not to hit you so hard on the head. And as for _Posturitas_, I will tell you that he is a rascal, although without malicious intent. He is ill-bred. Decent children do not give nicknames. You were right to be angry, and you behaved well. I see that you are a brave man and that you know how to defend your honor.” Luis was very pleased to hear himself called brave by a person of such authority. The respect he felt did not allow him to thank him; But he was about to say something when the Lord, moving that ring-studded hand with a hint of chastisement, said sternly to him: “But, my son, if I am pleased with you on that score, on another I am compelled to reprimand you. Today you have not learned your lesson. Not once did you get it right. It was quite clear that you had not opened a book all day long…” Luisín, deeply distressed, moves his lips as if to apologize. “Yes, I know what you are going to say to me. You were up very late delivering letters; you came home at night. But then you were able to read something; don’t give me any confusion. And this morning, why didn’t you take a look at the geography lesson? Be careful with the nonsense you have said today! Where do you get that France is bordered on the north by the Danube and that the Po flows through Pau? What nonsense!” “Do you think I made the world so that you and other brats like you are tearing it apart at every turn?” The august person fell silent, his eyes fixed on Cadalso, whose face was fading and coming, and he remained silent, overwhelmed, unable to look or stop looking at his interlocutor. “You must take charge of things,” the Father finally added, moving his hand covered in rings. “How do you expect me to give your grandfather a job if you don’t study? You see how dejected the poor gentleman is, waiting like blessed bread for his credential. He could choke on a hair. Well, it’s your fault, because if you studied…” Upon hearing this, Cadalso’s grief was so great that he thought someone was tying a rope around his throat and garroting him. He tried to breathe a sigh but couldn’t. “You’re no fool, and you’ll understand this,” God added. ” Put yourself in my place; put yourself in my place, and you’ll see that I’m right.” Luis meditated on this. His reason had to accept the argument, believing it to be irrefutably logical. It was as clear as day: as long as he didn’t study, how would they position his grandfather? This seemed to him the very truth, and tears started to his eyes. He tried to speak, perhaps to solemnly promise that he would study, that he would work like a beast, when he felt himself grabbed by the neck. “My son,” Paca said, shaking him, “don’t sleep here, you’ll catch cold. ” Luis looked at her, stunned, and for a moment the lines of his vision blurred in his retina with those of the real world. Soon the images became clear , though not the ideas; He saw the Count-Duke’s headquarters and heard the sound of one, two, three, four, as if coming from underground. The vision, however, remained indelibly imprinted on his soul . He couldn’t doubt it, remembering the ringed hand, the ineffable voice of the Father and Author of all things. Paca made him stand up and took him with her. Then, taking the peanuts she had given him earlier from his pocket, she said: “Don’t eat too much of this, it’ll sour your stomach. I’ll save them for you. Let’s go now, it’s starting to get chilly…” But he wanted to go back to sleep; his brain was dull, as if he had just gone through a fit of drunkenness; his legs were trembling, and he felt intensely cold on his back. As he walked toward his house, he began to have doubts about the authenticity and divine nature of the apparition. “Could it be God or not ?” he thought. “It seems that he is, because he knows everything… It seems that he isn’t, because he has no angels.” On his way back from his walk, he kept company with his good friends. Mendizábal, having completed his task, and after gathering the papers and cleaning his diligent pens, prepared to light the stairway. Paca cleaned the glass of the lantern, lighting the kerosene lamp inside. The Secretary of the Public then took it, and with a gesture as solemn as if he were lighting the Viaticum, went to hang it in its place, between the first and second floors. At this point, Villaamil came up and stopped, as usual, to exchange a few words with the memorialist. “Congratulations, Don Ramón,” he said. “Shut up, man,” replied Villaamil, affecting the humor that usually accompanies a terrible toothache. “If there’s nothing yet, there won’t be anything… ” “Ah! Well, I thought… It’s that they’re very mean, Don Ramón. What lousy Ministers they are! What I’m telling you: as long as the big broom doesn’t come… ” “Oh! My friend,” exclaimed Villaamil with a certain air of governmental temperance, “you know I don’t like exaggerations. Your ideas are different from mine… What is it you want? More religion? Well, come on, religion, but not obscurantism… Let’s be clear. What’s needed here is administration, morality… ” “That’s where it hurts, that’s where it hurts with an expression of triumph. Precisely what there won’t be as long as there’s no faith. Faith comes first, yes or no? ” “Fair enough; but… No, my friend Mendizábal; let’s not exaggerate.” –And societies that lose it triumphantly run straight, as they say, into the abyss… –That’s all very well; but… Let there be morality, morality; let those who commit it pay for it, and let the priests come to terms with their consciences. Don’t barter my powers, friend Mendizábal. –No, I don’t barter anything… Anyway, you’ll see him going down a step while Villaamil went up another. While free thought prevails, sit tight. As if there’s no justice and no one remembers merit. Good night. That very ugly man disappeared down the stairs, with a strange countenance, his eyes so closely spaced that they seemed to join and become one when they stared fixedly. His nose jutted out from his forehead, then descended flat and straight, scattering its two nostrils at the base of his upper lip, dilated, taut, and so long in all directions that it occupied almost half his face. His mouth was long, ending in two wrinkles that divided his beard into three flaccid compartments, with sparse gray hair; his forehead was narrow; his hands were enormous and hairy; his neck was sturdy; his body was short and leaning forward, like the remnant of a race that until recently had walked on all fours. As he descended the stairs, he seemed to be descending with his hands, holding onto the banister. With this gorilla-like affiliation, Mendizábal was a good man, with no blemish other than his furious hatred of free thought. He had been a flintlock dealer during the First Civil War, a factional spy, and Father Cirilo’s cook. “Ah!” he would say it a thousand times, “if only I could write my history!” Last biographical detail: he composed a wheel for the famous tartan of San Carlos de la Rápita. Chapter 10. Shortly after nightfall, as he was going up to his house, Cadalsito heard footsteps behind him; but he didn’t turn his face. But when he was only a few steps away from reaching the mowing floor, unknown hands grabbed his head and squeezed it, not letting him look back. He was afraid, believing himself to be in the power of some ugly, bearded thief, who was about to rob the house and was going to start by securing him. But before he had time to scream, the intruder lifted him up and kissed him. Luis could see his face then, and upon recognizing him, his uneasiness did not diminish. He had last seen that face some time before, without being able to say when, on a night of scandal and brawl, in which everyone They were screaming in their house, Abelarda was falling in a tantrum, and Grandma was yelling for help from the neighbors. The dramatic domestic scene had left an indelible impression on Luis, who didn’t know why his aunts and grandmother had become so furious. At that time, Grandpa was in Cuba, and the family didn’t live on Quiñones Street. He also remembered that the wrath of the Miaus had fallen on a person who then disappeared from the house, never to return until the occasion now being referred to. That man was his father. Luis didn’t dare use the affectionate name; in a bad mood, he said, “Let me go.” And the man knocked. When Doña Pura, upon opening the door, saw the one knocking, accompanied by her son, she stood for a moment as if she couldn’t believe her eyes. Surprise and terror were written on her face… then, annoyance. Finally, she murmured, “Victor… you?” He entered, greeting his mother-in-law with a certain emotion, in a courteous and expressive manner. Villaamil, who had very fine hearing, shuddered when he recognized that voice from his office. “Victor here… Victor back home again! This man is bringing us some calamity.” And as his son-in-law entered to greet him, Don Ramón’s tigerish face became hideous, and his carnivorous jaw trembled, indicating an urge to exercise it on the first animal that came his way. “But how are you here? Have you come on leave?” was all he said. Victor Cadalso sat down opposite his father-in-law. The lamp separated them, and its light, illuminating their two faces, brought out the vivid contrast between the two. Victor was a perfect example of manly beauty, a specimen of those who seem destined to preserve and transmit the elegance of forms in the human race, disfigured by crossbreeding, and which, through crossbreeding, an incessant reflux, comes from time to time to reproduce the gallant model, as if to look and delight in its own mirror, and convince itself of the permanence of the archetypes of beauty, despite the infinite derivations of ugliness. The chiaroscuro produced by the lamplight modeled the handsome young man’s features. He had a nose of pure contour, black eyes with wide pupils, whose expression varied from the most tender to the most serious hue , at will. The pale forehead had the cut and polish that in sculpture serves to express nobility. This nobility is the result of the balance of cranial parts and the perfect harmony of lines. The robust neck, the somewhat disordered jet-black hair, the dark , short beard, completed the beautiful image of that bust, more Italian than Spanish. The height was medium, the body as well -proportioned and graceful as the head; the age must have been between thirty-three and thirty-five. He was unable to answer definitively to his father-in-law’s question, and after hesitating for a moment, he composed himself and said: “Excuse me, no… that is to say… I had a disagreement with the chief. I left without telling anyone. You know my character. I don’t like anyone to trifle with me… I’ll tell you later. Now for something else. I arrived this morning on the eight o’clock train and checked into a boarding house on the Rue du Fußkar. I intended to stay there.” But I’m so ill that if Doña Pura were still present, don’t mind me; I ‘ll come here for a few days, just for a few days. Doña Pura began to tremble and ran to tell her sister and daughter the fatal news. “He’s coming in here! What a horrible man! We’ve got ourselves a task at hand.” ” We’re in very tight quarters here,” Villaamil objected, his expression growing fiercer and more gloomy. “Why don’t you go to your sister Quintina’s house? ” “You know,” he replied, “that my brother-in-law Ildefonso and I are a bit on edge. I get along better with you. I promise to be peaceful and reasonable, and to forget certain little things. ” “But, in short, are you still at your destination in Valencia or not? ” “I’ll tell you…” he mumbled at first, but finally came up with an answer that would hide his perplexity. That Chief He’s a trickster… He insisted on getting me out of there and tried to frame me. He won’t get anywhere; I have more guts than he does. Villaamil sighed, trying to decipher from his son-in-law’s features the mystery of his untimely arrival. But he knew from experience that Victor’s face was impenetrable and that, a consummate actor, he expressed with it whatever best suited his ends. “And what do you think of your son?” he asked when he saw Pura enter with Luisín. “He’s grown up, and we’re protecting his health, always Delicadillo, which is why we do n’t want to pressure him to study. ” “He has time,” said Cadalso, embracing and kissing the child. “Every day he looks more like his mother, my poor Luisa. Isn’t that true? ” The old man’s eyes filled with tears. That daughter, ruined in the prime of her life, was his only love. On the day of her untimely death, Villaamil aged ten years suddenly. Whenever someone mentioned her in the house, the poor man felt his immense affliction renewed, and if it was Victor who named her, his grief was mingled with the repugnance that a murderer inspires when he grieves for his victim after he has been sacrificed. Doña Pura’s spirits were also dejected upon seeing and hearing the man who had been the husband of her beloved daughter. Luis was saddened, rather out of routine, for he had noticed that whenever someone in the house mentioned his mother’s name, everyone sighed and became very serious. Victor, carrying his son, went to greet Milagros and Abelarda. She hated him with all her heart and responded to his greeting with disdainful coldness. His sister-in-law went into her room upon hearing him; then she came out, and her color, always bad, was like that of a dead woman. Her voice trembled; She wanted to affect her aunt’s disdain for Victor; he squeezed her hand. “Are you here again, lost?” she stammered, and, not knowing what to do, went back into the room. Meanwhile, Villaamil, apprehensive and startled, stretched in his seat as if he wanted to crucify himself, and said to his wife: “This man will bring misfortune to our house today, just as he always has. And if not, you will see it for yourself.” When I heard his voice, I thought hell was about to enter through the gates. Cursed be the hour, rising up and dropping the palms of her hands with noisy sorrow on the table where this man first entered my house; cursed be the hour when our dear daughter fell in love with him, and cursed be the day we married them… because it was beyond repair. Would that my daughter lived dishonored, would that! What a stupid desire to marry off daughters without knowing to whom! Ah! Pura, be very careful with that dancer; don’t trust him. He has the art of embellishing his perversity with words that, at first, bewitch and seduce. He won’t give it to me, no; he deceived me only once. But I soon saw through him, and now I’m on my guard, because he’s the wickedest man God has ever sent into the world. “But hasn’t he said why he’s here? Have they dismissed him? Surely he’s done something nasty and is coming for you to cover it up for him. ” “Me!” Frightened and rolling his eyes. “If the Moor Muza doesn’t cover it up for him! A good part of him is coming…” When lunchtime arrived, Victor, sitting down at the table with the greatest of composure, had to indulge in certain displays of jocular conversation. Everyone looked at him with hostility, avoiding the jovial topics he wanted to bring up. At times he became sullen and suspicious; but like an actor recovering a momentarily forgotten role, he assumed his studied, good-natured and festive attitude. Then the serious difficulty reappeared. Where would they put him? And Doña Pura, overwhelmed by the impossibility of accommodating the intruder, stood up and said: “No, it can’t be, Victor; you see there’s no way we can keep you in the house. ” “Don’t worry, Mother,” he replied, accentuating his address with affection. “I’ll stay here, on the dining room sofa. Give me a blanket, and I’ll sleep like a canon.” Doña Pura and the other Meows could not oppose this acquiescence. When the people who were going to the gathering began to arrive, Victor said to his mother-in-law: “Look, Mom, I’m not introducing myself. I don’t have I’m damned if I want to see people, at least for a few days. I think I heard Pantoja’s voice. Don’t tell him I’m here. ‘ ‘Well, I don’t know what all these unknowns are about,’ her annoyed mother-in-law replied. ‘Are you going to hang around in the dining room? You know, I’m going to put the glasses of water on this table, so that everyone who’s thirsty can come out and drink. And I warn you, Pantoja is a man who drinks half a tub of water from me every night. ‘ ‘Well, I’ll go into Luis’s room if you don’t put the trough somewhere else. ‘ ‘But where? ‘ ‘Nothing, nothing, Mama; for my part, don’t change your habits. Go to the living room, where you’ve already got all the crème gathered. Don’t forget to put my blanket here. I’ll bring my luggage early tomorrow.’ When Doña Pura told her husband about her fear of being seen in Cadalso, the good man grew even more uneasy and began to rail against the intruder again. Having placed the tray with glasses of water on the dining room table , the only refreshment the Villaamils could offer their friends, Cadalso remained alone for a while with his son, who was showing unusual diligence that evening. “Do you study hard?” his father asked, caressing him. And he nodded, self-conscious and embarrassed, as if studying were a crime. His father was like a stranger to him, and when he tried to speak to him, shyness tied his tongue. The feeling that this man inspired in the poor boy was a most singular mixture of respect and fear. He respected him as a father, which in his tender soul already had a natural courage; he feared him because he had heard him spoken of in very unfavorable terms a thousand times at home. Cadalso was the bad father, just as Villaamil was the good father. Hearing the footsteps of some thirsty socialite coming to the watering hole, Victor would sneak into Milagros’s room. He recognized Ponce by voice, who, besides being a critic, was Abelarda’s boyfriend; he also recognized Pantoja, an employee at Contributions, a friend of Villaamil and even of Cadalso himself, who considered him the most useless and squalid human machine that ever existed in an office. I can’t help but notice that one of the thirstiest people that night was Abelarda. She went out two or three times to drink, and she also wanted to take her place in the duties of putting the baby to bed for her aunt Milagros . While she was doing this, Victor went into the bedroom, fleeing from another stuffy socialite who was going to cool off. “Father is very worried about this appearance of yours,” Abelarda told him without looking at him. “You’ve entered the house like Mephistopheles, through a trapdoor, and we’re all upset at the sight of you. ” “Do I eat people?” Victor replied, sitting down on the same bed as Luis. “As for the rest, there’s no mystery in my coming; there is something, yes, that your father and mother won’t understand; but you will understand when I explain it to you, because you are good to me, Abelarda. You don’t hate me like the others; you know my misfortunes, you recognize my faults, and you have compassion for me. ” She hinted at this very sweetly, looking at her son, now half- naked. Abelarda avoided looking at him. Not so Luisito, who had fixed his eyes on his father, as if trying to decipher the meaning of his words. “Pity me!” the insignificant woman finally replied in a tremulous voice. “Where do you get that from? Do you think I believe anything you say ? You may deceive others, but not my mother’s daughter!” And when Victor began to reply with some vehemence, Abelarda silenced him with a significant gesture. She was afraid that someone might come or that Luis might find out, and that gesture marked a new stage in the conversation. “I don’t want to know anything,” she said, finally deciding to look him in the eye . “Then to whom should I confide if not in you… the only person who understands me? ” “Go to church, kneel before the confessional… ” “The torch of faith went out a long time ago. I’m in the dark,” declared Victor, looking at the boy, now with his hands clasped to begin his prayers. And when the child had finished, Abelarda turned to the father, saying with emotion: “You are very bad, very bad. Convert to God, “I don’t believe in God , ” Victor replied dryly; “God can be seen dreaming, and I woke up a long time ago.” Luisito hid his face among the pillows, feeling terribly cold, very unwell, and all the symptoms that preceded the state in which his mysterious friend appeared to him. Chapter 11. At twelve o’clock, when the company of guests had filed past, Cadalso settled himself on the dining room sofa, covering himself with the blanket Abelarda had given him. He was unaware that his sister-in-law would go to bed fully clothed that night for lack of a coat. Everyone left except Villaamil, who refused to go to bed without having an explanation with his son-in-law. The dining room lamp had been left lit, and the grandfather, upon entering, saw Victor sitting up in his hard bed, with the blanket wrapped around his middle. The son-in-law immediately understood that his father-in-law was looking for a small talk, and he prepared himself, which was easy for him, since he was a man of quick imagination, a fluent tongue, and quick and opportune remarks, a true Southerner , born on that Granada coast that has the Alpujarra behind it and Morocco opposite. “This guy,” he thought, “wants to attack me. He’s coming in handy… Let the fight begin. We’ll knock him around with grace.” ” Now that we’re alone,” Villaamil said with that seriousness that inspired fear, “decide to be frank with me. You’ve done something foolish, Victor. I know it by your face, although your face seldom reveals what you think. Tell me the truth, and don’t try to confuse me with your words or with those strange ideas you make so much of. ” “I don’t have strange ideas, dear Don Ramón; the strange ideas are those of my father-in-law.” We must judge people’s ideas by the hair they throw around. Have they placed you yet? I imagine not. And you remain so fresh, waiting for your remedy from justice, which is the same as waiting for it from the moon. I’ve told you a thousand times that the State itself teaches us the right to life. If the State never dies, the civil servant should never perish administratively either. And now I’m going to tell you something else: as long as you don’t change your roles, you won’t get placed; you’ll spend months and years living off illusions, trusting in the flattering words and the traitorous smiles of those who flatter themselves with fools, pretending to protect them. “But you, fool,” said Villaamil, furious, “have you ever imagined that I have hope? Where do you get the idea, you fool, that I could have even the thousandth part of a damned illusion? Place me!” Such a thing doesn’t occur to me; I expect nothing, nothing, and I’ll say more: I’m even offended by anyone who supposes I’m so preoccupied with formulas and fancy words. “As I’ve always known you, so confident, so optimistic… ” “Optimist me!” “Very upset. Come on, Victor, don’t make fun of these gray hairs. And above all, don’t divert the subject. This time it’s not about me, but about you. I return to my question: What have you done? Why are you here, and why are you hiding from people? ” “It’s just that the social gatherings in this house tire me out. You know I’m very extreme in my antipathies. I don’t hide; it’s just that I don’t want to see Ponce’s face with his weepy eyes, nor to hear Pantoja speak to me, who has a breath that gives off the air of “he who lives. ” “It’s not about Pantoja’s breath, but about the fact that you haven’t left your destiny with your head held high.” “So high that if my boss says anything against me, I have the means to send him to prison in a fit of rage. You should know that I have rendered such services that if the State were grateful, I would already be Head of Administration. But the State is essentially ungrateful, as you well know, and doesn’t know how to reward. If an intelligent civil servant doesn’t reward himself, he’s lost. Just so you know: when I went to Valencia to take charge of Property and Taxes, the Office was in tatters. My predecessor was a voiceless comedian who received his job as a retirement from the stage. The poor fellow didn’t know where he was. I arrived Me, and _arsa!_ to work. What a mess! Personal identification cards weren’t paid even at gunpoint. There were horrible discoveries at the Tax Office. I called the mayors, urged them on, and gave them a good run for their money. In short, I got a fortune for the Treasury, fortune that would have been lost without me… Then I reflected and said: “What is the natural consequence of the immense service I have rendered to the Nation? Well, the natural, logical, unavoidable consequence of defending the State against the taxpayer is the ingratitude of the State. Let us, then, open the umbrella to protect ourselves from ingratitude, which will bring us misery.” “It couldn’t be more clear that your hands aren’t very clean. ” “No, sir,” he said, getting up and acting with great energy; Because as a mediator between the taxpayer and the State, I must prevent the two from devouring each other, and nothing would remain but the tails if I didn’t make peace. I am part of the tax-paying entity, which is the Nation; I am part of the State, as a civil servant. With this dual nature, I, a mediator, have to secure my life to continue preventing the mortal clash between the taxpayer and the State… “I don’t understand you, nor will anyone else understand you with your expression of anger and contempt. The same as always. You want to hide your dirty tricks with those clever tricks of yours. Well, you know what I’m telling you? You can’t be in my house. ” “Don’t get carried away, my dear father-in-law. By the way, I didn’t intend for them to keep me here because of my pretty face. I’ll pay for my boarding… It will be for a few days, because as soon as they promote me… ” “Promote you! What are you saying?” It’s as if you’d been stung by a scorpion. “Oh! What did you think you were? How naive!” Always the same Don Ramón, the virginal maiden. Bring him some linden tea. Now… what did you think? That I’m not of God and shouldn’t be promoted? Do you know that I’ve been a first-class officer for two years and am entitled to promotion to third-class Chief of Staff, according to the Cánovas law? And you, who are so optimistic about your own affairs and so pessimistic about others’, do you think I’m going to spend my life writing letters, spying on the smile of a Director General, or picking specks out of Cucurbitas! No, sir, I’m not going for the red rag, but for the bulk. “Yes, yes, no one can beat you for shamelessness; and I say more… for the same reason that you have no shame, livid with anger and swallowing your own bitterness, you get everything you want… The world is yours… Let the promotions come, and ole morena.” –On the other hand, with cruel sarcasm, continue to rock yourself in those sweet ecstasies, continue to believe that the butterflies bring you your credentials, and wake up every day saying: “Today, today it will be,” and read La Correspondencia at night hoping to see your name on it.
–I repeat to you once and for all, wishing I had a bottle, inkstand, or candlestick at hand to throw at your head, that I don’t expect anything, nor do I think I’ll ever get a job. On the other hand, I am convinced that you, you, who have just defrauded the Treasury, will have the reward of your grace, because that’s the way the world is, and that’s the filthy Administration… My God! May I live to see these things! He stood up and put his hands to his head. –What you have to do, with a certain conceit, is learn from me. –Nice model! I don’t want to hear you, I don’t want to see you, not even in a painting… Goodbye, leaving and returning from the door. And you have to understand that I don’t expect even this; that I am content, that I bear my misfortune patiently , and that it doesn’t occur to me that they can place me now, or tomorrow, or in the next century… although we really need it. But… “But what?” He began to laugh malignantly. “Come on, why should I place you if I’m suffocating? ” “You… you! I owe you…!” And such was his indignation that he would not speak any more, afraid of doing something foolish, and slamming the door so hard that the house shook, he fled to his bedroom and threw himself onto the restless surface of his cot, like a desperate man into the sea. Victor curled up in the blanket, trying to sleep; but he was extremely excited, more than by the altercation with his father-in-law, by the memory of recent events, and he couldn’t get to sleep, the hardness of the bench on which he was resting not being unrelated to this phenomenon either. The light diminished so much after midnight that it barely illuminated the room with an uncertain glow; and in Victor’s sleepless and feverish mind , this gloom and the smell of cold meats that floated in the atmosphere merged into a single unpleasant impression. He examined the dining room point by point, the walls covered with paper, torn in pieces, dirty in pieces. In some places, particularly near the doors, the roughness left traces of people touching them; in others, Luisito’s hands were printed on them, and even the strokes of his artistic pencil. The ceiling, smoked in the projection of the lamp, had two or three cracks, forming an immense M and perhaps other less clear letters. On the wall, there were nail holes from which prints had once hung. Victor remembered having seen a clock there, which had never said “this bell is mine,” and always pointed to an improbable hour; there had also been chrome still lifes with disemboweled watermelons and melons. The pictures and the clock had disappeared, like cargo thrown into the sea to keep the ship from capsizing. The sideboard remained; but how old and dull it was, with its faded black trim, broken glass, and fallen top! Inside it were some upside-down glasses, vinegar cruets with uneven bottles, a very wrinkled lemon, a coffee grinder, grimy cans, and a few pieces of crockery. The door leading to the kitchen passage was covered by a heavy abaca portier, grimy around the edges where hands had rubbed it, and with a skylight in the middle that could well have served as a lathe. Tired of changing positions, Victor sat up in his bed, which felt like a colt, and his restlessness turned into mental delirium. He felt like explaining himself, dispelling the cloudiness in his soul with recriminations, and in a low but audible voice, he expressed himself thus : “This is mine, idiots. Office rats, go gnaw at files. I’m worth more than you; in one day I can get through a month’s worth of work for the Office.” Then he lay down, frightened by his own accent. And after a while, his eyes closed, his brow furrowed, he replayed in his mind, like certain sleepwalkers, the case whose memory he couldn’t shake off. “Consumptions… ah! consumptions. They are the most ingenious of inventions. Rogue nations!” To avoid paying, they’re capable of selling themselves to the devil… And how the current account that takes them away tastes like a burnt horn! And they didn’t bother me. Whoever messes with me, I’ll burn him alive. Ah! The crux of the matter lies in the issuance of the distresses. And since there’s always a hole for a patch, nothing’s easier than reaching an agreement with the auditor to draw up the list of distresses. Happy are the people who escape from the list, even if they’re two semesters overdrawn!… Mr. Mayor, let’s understand each other. Do you want to breathe? Well, I need oxygen too. We’re all children of God… And you, Treasury, why are you piling up? Didn’t I save you more than six million that my predecessor wrote off? Well, then, why this whining like a groveling woman? Doesn’t someone who renders such great services deserve a reward? Shouldn’t we protect ourselves from the State’s ingratitude by thanking ourselves for our loyal services? Reward is the principle of morality; it is the application of justice, of law, of Jus to the Administration. An ungrateful State, indifferent to merit, is a savage State… What I’m saying: wherever there is a credit for a service, there is a commission owed. Item by item, this is elementary. I give the State with one hand six million that were lying around, and I hold out the other for it to release my commission… Ah! Dog State, thief, indecent; what did you want? Suck up the millions and then leave me asperges? Ah! Infamous, that’s what you would have done if I hadn’t been careful. Well, I swear that as clever as you are, I am cleverer. We go from crook to crook. And you, taxpayer, Why are you sniffing at me? Don’t you see I’m defending you? But for you to breathe, I must breathe too. If I choke, someone else will come and rip out your guts. “And that stupid Chief, that animal, that bandit who ate up the subscription for the shipwrecked and in Cáceres stripped the widows of the dead miners naked; the one who would swallow the Necropolis with all its dead, wants to file a case against me! But it ‘s very difficult to prove, you scoundrel, and if you get in my face, I’ll denounce you, I ‘ll expose your secrets to the street, with details, with dates, with numbers. I have good friends, and white hands to defend me… That’s what you won’t forgive me for… Envy is eating you up. And that’s why you’re turning on me now, you crook, who, not being good enough to steal watches, became a clerk.” And after a quarter of an hour, when it seemed he had found sleep, he suddenly burst out laughing, saying: “They can’t prove anything to me. But even if they did…” Finally, he fell asleep and had a nightmare, similar to others that disturbed his rest in cases of moral agitation . He dreamed he was walking down a very long, endless gallery, with walls of mirrors that endlessly repeated her gallant persona. He was going down that immense alley in pursuit of a woman, an elegant lady, who was running, her crisp silk skirt stirring with the swift movements of her feet. Gallows could see the heels of her boots, which were… eggshells! He didn’t know who the lady could be; she was the same one he had dreamed about the other night, and as he followed her, he told himself it was all a dream, astonished that he was running after a ghost, but still running. Finally, he would put his hand in the pot, and the lady would stop and turn around, saying in a very hoarse voice: “Why do you insist on taking this chest of drawers I’m carrying here?” Indeed, the lady was carrying a chest of drawers—life-sized!—in her hand, and she carried it as easily as if it were a purse. Then Victor would wake up feeling such a weight upon him that he couldn’t move, and a superstitious terror that he couldn’t connect either to the chest of drawers, or to the lady, or to the mirrors. It was all stupid and pointless. When awake, Cadalso’s dreams had more substance, because all his life he spent thinking about riches he didn’t have, about honors and power he desired, about beautiful women whose seductions were not unknown to him, about elegant and high-born ladies whom he yearned to meet and possess with the most ardent curiosity, and this aspiration for the supreme joys of life always kept him restless, vigilant, and on the lookout. Consumed by the desire to insinuate himself into the upper classes of society, he believed he already had in his hands a rope and the first knot of the rope that others less daring had managed to climb. What was this knot? Here is a secret that Cadalso would never reveal to his vulgar and timid relatives from Villaamil for anything in the world. Chapter 12. Very early, the figure torn from a painting by Fra Angelico, also known as Doña Pura, appeared to him, attacking him with the sharp weapon of her indifference, aggravated by the bad night a toothache had put her through. “Come on, clear the dining room for me. Go wash up in my room, we have to sweep here. Get out quickly if you don’t want us to cover you with dust.” This admonition was supported, in a more persuasive manner, by the second Miau, who appeared with a broom in her hand. “Don’t be angry, Mama.” Doña Pura was very annoyed that her son-in-law called her “Mama.” “You’ve become such a powerful woman that you can’t stand it. What a way to treat this wretch! ” “That’s right, make fun of me… That’s all you needed to win us over. And you have the gift of opportunity! You always show up here just when we’re up to our necks in water. ” “And if I were to say that I came here because I thought it very opportune? Let’s see… How would you answer this? Because it’s not right to despise anyone, dear Mama, and there are cases where an annoying guest suddenly turns out to be Providence.” “Good Providence, God grant us, following him toward the room where Victor was planning to wash. What do you mean? Are you going to tighten the noose that strangle us? ” “As much as you’re yelling there ingratiatingly, I’m still the man to invite you to seats in the boxes. ” “We don’t need your boxes… Nor do you need to invite us, if I’ve always known you to be more arrogant than the Government! ” “Mama, Mama, for God’s sake, don’t lower my dignity so much. And above all, the fact that I’m poor is no reason to doubt my good heart. ” “Leave me alone. Stay there. Deal quickly. ” “I’d rather see the assassin’s dagger in front of me than see grimaces. ” Holding her by the arm. “Just a moment. Do you want me to pay for my lodging?” He took out his wallet at the same moment, and Doña Pura’s eyes were dazzled by the bulge it held, and that the bulge was made by a thick bundle of bank notes. “I don’t want to be burdensome by giving you a 100-peseta note. Here, dear Mama, and don’t judge my intentions by the inadequacy of my means. ” “Well, don’t think… clawing at the note as if it were a mouse, don’t think I’m going to take my delicacy to the extreme, indignantly rejecting your money, theatrically. We’re not in the mood for scruples or petty indignation now. I’ll take it, yes, I ‘ll take it, and I’m going to pay with it a sacred debt, and besides, it’s good for us… ” “What for? ” “Leave it to me. Who doesn’t have their little secrets? ” “And doesn’t a son, a loving son, deserve to be the repository of those secrets? Thank you for the trust I deserve. I thought you appreciated me more.” Dear Mother, even if you don’t consider me part of the family, I can’t part with it. Tell me not to love them, and I won’t obey… I can enter elsewhere with indifference, but not in this house; and when I notice symptoms of hardship there, even if you forbid me, I have to grieve… placing my hand affectionately on her shoulder. Sweet mother-in-law, I don’t like Father going around without a cape. “Poor thing!… and what can we do about it!… His situation has been very sad for some time now. The unemployment is dragging on longer than we thought. Only God and we know the bitterness that is endured in this house. ” “It’s a good thing if the remedy comes, even if it’s from the person who isn’t liked, giving him another note of the same amount, which Doña Pura is quick to collect. ” “Thank you… It’s not that we don’t like you; it’s that you… ” “I’ve been bad, I confess pathetically; To acknowledge it is a sign that I am no longer so. I have my defects like everyone else; but I am not inveterate; my heart is not closed to sensitivity, nor my understanding to experience. I may be as bad as you like; but, in the midst of my perversity, I have one mania, you see… I cannot tolerate this family, to whom I owe so much, going through hardships. I feel like … call it weakness or whatever you will, giving him a third bill with generous gallantry, without looking at the hand that gave it. As long as I earn a real, I will not allow my poor Luisa’s father to dress indecorously, nor my son to go around uncovered. “Thank you, Victor, thank you, half moved and half suspicious. ” “You have no reason to thank me. There is no merit in fulfilling a sacred duty. It occurs to me that you could take up to two thousand reales, because it will not be one or two things that have gone to Peñaranda.” “You’re rich… with a fear of counterfeit bills.” “No, not rich… Small savings. In Valencia, people spend little. One finds savings without realizing it. And I repeat, if you speak to me of gratitude, I’m uncomfortable. That’s how I am. I’ve changed so much! No one knows the pain I feel when I remember the bad times I’ve given you, and especially my poor Luisa, with emotion, false or true, but so well expressed that Doña Pura’s eyes moistened. My poor soul! May I never be able to repair the wrongs that saint received from me! May I never be able to resurrect her so that she can see my heart.” moved, even if we both died later! Heaving a deep sigh. When death intervenes between guilt and repentance, one doesn’t even have the bitter consolation of asking forgiveness from the one one has offended. “How can it be! Don’t think about sad things now. Do you want another towel? Wait. And if you need hot water, I’ll bring it to you quickly. ” “No; no need to bother yourself about me. I’ll be off quickly, and I’ll go and get my luggage. ” “Well, if something occurs to you, just knock… There’s no one to ring the bell. You lean out of the door and give me a shout.” That man, who knew how to deploy such varied resources of word and wit when he proposed to mortify someone, sometimes with ferocious sarcasm, sometimes wounding the most irritable fibers of the heart with delicate cruelty, marvelously understood the art of pleasing when it entered his sights. Doña Pura wasn’t surprised by her son-in-law’s insinuating displays; but this time, whether because they were accompanied by a cash donation or because Víctor was going to extremes with his flattery, the poor lady took him for morally reformed, or at least on the way there. After a few hours, Miau could no longer hide from her husband that she had money, for concealing one’s riches was entirely incompatible with Doña Pura’s character and habits. Villaamil questioned her about the source of what she modestly called resources, and she confessed that Víctor had given them to her, at which point Don Ramón became very startled and began to move his jaw savagely, uttering words from his ferocious mouth that would frighten anyone who didn’t know him. “How simple-minded you are! He’s only given me a pittance. What did you want, for me to keep his mouth shut? We’re too good to be doing that.” I’ve charged him the forty… clearly, clearly. If he insists on staying here, let him contribute to the household expenses. Bah! What are you saying! That he’s defrauded the Treasury. It remains to be proven… it must be your musings. Who knows! And in the final analysis, is that reason for him to live at our expense? Villaamil remained silent. He had long been resigned to his mistress wearing the trousers. It was an old complaint that when Pura raised her hand, he would lower his head, trusting to silence for marital harmony. When he married, they recommended this system to him, which suited admirably to his kind and peaceable nature. In the afternoon , Doña Pura returned to the charge, saying: “With this bit of mud, we’ll have to patch up some holes. Start thinking about making some clothes.” It’s impossible for someone who shows up at the Ministry looking like a beggar, with crooked heels, a hat from the year of hunger, and a greasy, fringed overcoat to achieve anything. Disabuse yourself: no one pays any attention to those who act like that, and the most they can hope for is a position in San Bernardino. And since they have to place you now, you also need clothes to present yourself at the office. “Woman, don’t confuse me… You don’t know the harm you’re doing me with this confidence that I’m not participating; on the contrary, I expect nothing. ” “Well, whatever it is; if they place you, because yes, and if not, because no, you need clothes. The suit is almost the person, and if you don’t present yourself properly, they’ll look at you with contempt, and you’re a lost man. I’ll call the tailor today to make you an overcoat. And the new overcoat requires a hat, and the hat, boots.” Villaamil was frightened by so much luxury; But when Pura adopted the governmental emphasis, there was no way to contradict her. Nor did she hide from him the well-founded nature of those reasons, nor the social and political value of the garments; and he knew very well that well-dressed suitors have already won half the game. So the tailor came, called urgently, and Villaamil allowed himself to be measured, taciturn and sullen, as if they were measurements of a shroud rather than an overcoat. With the tailor’s arrival, Paca and her husband had something to talk about for the rest of the day and part of the night. “Don’t you know, Mendizábal? A new hat has also come in. Since we’ve been in this house, and it’s been fifteen years, I haven’t seen more new top hats come in than today’s and the that Don Basilio Andrés de la Caña, who lived on the third floor, debuted a few days after Alfonso arrived. Could there be a revolution? “I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Mendizábal, “because that Cánovas has lost his temper. The newspaper says there’s a crisis. ” “There must be one, and it seems Don Ramón’s people are going to rise. You, who are Señor Villaamil’s people? ” “Señor Villaamil’s people are the blessed souls… bursting out laughing. So a new blanket and nice clothes? Well, look, woman, in view of this luxury… Asian, I’m going up right now with the overdue receipts, in case they pay all or part of what they owe. These people must be stalked, to catch them at the economic moment, you understand? In the interim, so to speak, of having money, which is neither seen nor heard.” The memoirist looked at his dog, who seemed to be saying with his expressive face: “Get up, my master, and don’t be careless, they’ve got some money now. I’ve just come from there and they’re feeling like shit. By the way, they’ve brought an Italian sausage, as big as my head, and it smells like heavenly glory.” Mendizábal then went up, preceded by the dog. Almost always, when the doorman appeared with those fateful papers in his hand, Villaamil trembled, feeling his dignity wounded to the core, and Doña Pura’s mouth turned bitter, her lips turned pale, and her heart overflowed with anguish and spite. Both of them, each in their own way of temperament, offered a thousand reasons to convince Mendizábal how good it would be to wait until the following month. Fortunately for him, the gorilla man, that monster whose enormous hands would touch the ground if he only bent his waist; That type of zoological transition, in whose skull Darwin’s audacious hypotheses seemed to be demonstrated, did not rudely exercise the powers conferred by the landlord. In short, Mendizábal, with his ugliness worthy of the display case of any anthropological museum, was a benevolent, indulgent, compassionate man who took charge of things. He felt sorry for the family and genuine affection for Villaamil. He only urged things in measured and friendly terms, and when reporting to the landlord, he would utter from that hideous mouth, while scratching his short, flat ear, phrases of merciful intercession on behalf of the tenant who was behind due to his unemployment benefits. And thanks to this, the owner, who was not the most despotic of owners, waited with sad and philosophical resignation. When Villaamil and Doña Pura weren’t in a position to pay, they would add to their excuses a few officious paragraphs with the memoirist, flattering him and siding with his interests. Villaamil would say to him: “But how much you’ve seen in this world, my friend Mendizábal, and what things you must have witnessed so tragic, so interesting, so…” And the gorilla, curling up the receipts, would reply: “The history of Spain hasn’t been written yet, my friend Don Ramón. If I were to write down my memoirs, you would see…” Doña Pura took the flattery to the next level: “The world is lost. Mendizábal is right: as long as there is freedom of worship and that thing they call rationalism…” In short, the doorman kept the receipts, and the lady’s little birds were happy. We now had another month of respite. But that day when, by the grace of Providence, they were allowed to pay two months of the three due, both spouses somewhat arrogantly rectified their agreement. Villaamil spoke with discreet authority about modern ideals, and Doña Para, seeing him pocket the bills, said: “Come on, Mendizábal, why do you have these ideas? And do you believe in good faith that Don Carlos is going to come here with the Inquisition and all those barbarities? Come on, you’d have to be pointing at the temple of the gourd to believe that…” Mendizábal answered them with truncated phrases, poorly learned from the newspaper he used to read, and walked away grumbling. Incredible contrast: he always left in a bad mood whenever he carried money. Chapter 13. Before continuing, let us evoke the sorrowful image of Luisa Villaamil, dead but not forgotten, in the days of this human chronicle. But Going back a few years, we’ll catch her alive. Let’s go, then, to 1968, which marked the greatest political upheaval in Spain in the present century, and also signaled serious events in the eventful annals of the Villaamil family. Luisa was four years older than her sister Abelarda, and somewhat less insignificant than her. Neither of them could be called pretty; but the elder had something of an angel in her gaze, a bit more grace, a fresher mouth, a fuller neck and shoulders, and finally, she slightly surpassed her in voice, accent, and manner of expression. The few attractive features of both were not enhanced by a select education. They had been educated in three or four different provinces, changing schools at every turn, and their knowledge, even in the elementary aspects, was extremely imperfect. Luisa learned a pidgin French that barely allowed her to play, while rubbing the dictionary, the first page of Telemachus, and Abelarda managed to mumble two or three polkas, tormenting the piano keys. Of the four girls and one boy born to Doña Pura, only those two were born; the rest died shortly after birth. At the beginning of 1868, Villaamil held the position of Chief Financial Officer in a third-class provincial capital, an archaeological city with a small and not very distinguished neighborhood, famous for its cathedral and for the abundant harvest of chipped pots and shapeless Roman stones that emerged from the soil at the first blow of the hoe. In that fishing village, the Villaamil family spent the triumphant season of their lives, because there Doña Pura and her sister set the tone for elegant customs and performed brilliantly, ranking high in the social hierarchy. Then, a handsome young clerk, from the class of aspirants with five thousand reales, a recent offspring of caciquismo, landed in Villaamil’s office . How Victor Cadalso ended up there is something we don’t care to know. He was Andalusian, had studied part of his degree in Granada, came to Madrid penniless, and here, after a thousand alternatives, found a godfather who launched him into bureaucratic life with a swipe, like a ball. Shortly after entering the offices of that province, he made a name for himself, and since he had a personal charm, a lively and gracious manner, a good dresser, and easy manners, he soon gained the favor and acclaim of the boss’s family, whose living room, there’s no way to call it “salons,” was quite crowded on Sundays and holidays, and from the first night he was a shining star. No one could equal him in the grace, generally equivocal, of his conversation, in his improvised ingenious pastimes, in his sessions of magnetism, sleight of hand, or in his home-made necromancy. He recited verses imitating the most famous actors, he danced well, he told all of Manolito Gázquez’s stories , and he knew, like no one else, how to entertain the ladies and dazzle the girls. He was the lion of the city, the number one among the elegant young men, a mirror of all in refinement, grace, and attire. High society met alternately at Villaamil’s house, at that of the Brigadier Military Governor, whose wife was a real dynamo , and at that of a certain personage, who was the local cacique, electoral agent, and despot; but the house where the most social refinements were found was Villaamil’s, and the ladies of Villaamil were the most exalted and vainglorious. The chief’s wife had marriageable daughters, the Brigadier had none of any age, the Governor was celibate; so the daughters of the Chief of the Economy, the cacicas, the military Governor and the Mayoress, an apothecary to boot, made up all the distinguished women of the town. They were the owners of the elegant scene, the ones who received incense from that spirited male youth, with jackets and bowler hats, the ones who astonished the town by appearing at the Bullfights twice a year wearing a white mantilla, the ones who begged for the poor in the cathedral on Holy Thursday, the ones who visited the Bishop, the ones who set the tone and constantly received the A tacit homage of imitation. At that time, Milagros still had some vestiges of her beautiful voice, great intonation, and perfect timing. Still, making herself very coaxed, almost forced, she would approach the piano and, unleashing the remnants of her art, deliver a couple of cavatinas that were a sensation. The clapping could be heard from the nearby Plaza de la Constitución, and the praise lasted all night, livening up the dancing and the games of fornication. From the moment he joined, Victor Cadalso, a social artist worthy of the finest theater, was an ornament of this society, not with his faded abilities like Milagros’s, but in the fullness of his power and vigor. Thus, what was bound to happen happened: Luisa fell suddenly and madly in love with the aspirant, from the first night they saw each other, with that explosive love in which hearts seem to be filled with gunpowder when pierced by a fiery arrow. This often occurs among the lower classes and in primitive societies, and it also occasionally occurs among the infatuated and guileless masses when , like a bolt from the blue, a person clothed in the appearance of superiority falls upon them. Luisa Villaamil’s sudden passion was so similar to Juliet’s that the day after speaking to her for the first time, she would not have hesitated to flee her family home with Victor, had he proposed it . Furious love affairs followed the crush. Luisa lost sleep and her appetite. There were letters sent two or three times a day and telegraphs sent at all hours. At night, they watched for the opportunity to be alone together, even for brief moments. The enamored girl shared her sorrows and joys with the moon, the stars, the cat, the goldfinch, God, and the Virgin. She was prepared, if the law of her love demanded it, for any kind of heroism, for martyrdom. Doña Pura was not slow to thwart that love, for she dreamed of the Brigadier’s aide as her son-in-law; and Villaamil, who began to sense something in Victor’s character that he disliked, had to negotiate with the cacique to have him transferred to another province. The lovers, guided by the defensive perspicacity that love, like all great feelings, carries within it, sensed danger, and in the face of the enemy, swore eternal fidelity, resolving to be two in one, and to die rather than be separated, with everything else that becomes customary in these tense situations. Delirium led them astray, and opposition precipitated them to tighten their ties to such an extent that no one would be able to untie them. In short, love had its way, as usual. The lords of Villaamil trilled; But, thinking about it, what was there to do but fix that mess as best she could? Luisa was all sensitivity, affection, and pampering; an unbalanced being, incapable of truly appreciating the things in life. Pain and joy vibrated within her with a morbid intensity. She considered Víctor the most complete of men; she was enraptured by his handsomeness and completely blind to the humps of his character. People and actions were like figments of her own imagination, hence her reputation for being unworldly and lacking in discernment. The chieftain was the godfather at the wedding, and his gift was to get Víctor a credential worth eight thousand, which Don Ramón and his wife greatly appreciated, because once Cadalso was incorporated into the family, there was no choice but to push him forward and make a man out of him. Shortly after , the Revolution broke out, and Villaamil, owing that position to a close friend of González Brabo, was laid off. Victor had a good reputation and got a promotion in Madrid. The whole family came here, and then the shortages began again, because Pura had always had the art of not sparing a cent, and a special gift for making sure that the first month’s pay found her purse cleaner than a whistle. Returning to Luisa, it should be known that, having eaten the wedding bread, she was still enthralled with her husband, and that he was no model. The unhappy girl lived on tenterhooks, brooding over the reasons for her grief; she watched him tirelessly, fearful that he would tear her affection in two or leave her. He carried everything out of the house in its entirety. Then the disagreements between in-laws and son-in-law began, aggravated by vexing matters of interest. Luisa spent her hours consumed by endless anxiety and fear , spying on her husband, following him and recounting his every move at night. And the scoundrel, with that gift of the gab that God gave him, knew how to disarm her with a sweet little word. A smile from him was enough for his wife to believe she was happy, and a sullen monosyllable was enough to make her feel inconsolable. In March of ’69, Luisito was born, leaving his mother so weakened and weak that from then on, those who constantly saw her could predict her imminent end. The child was born rickety, a vivid expression of his mother’s anxiety and despair. They gave him a nurse, with no hope of his survival, and he spent the entire first year wondering if he would leave or not. And it certainly brought good luck to the family, for six days after his birth, his grandfather was given a promotion in Madrid, and thus Doña Pura was able to navigate that gulf of deceit, improvidence, and waste. Victor mended his ways somewhat. When his wife was beyond help, he showed himself affectionate and solicitous toward her. The unfortunate woman suffered from bouts of anguished sadness or feverish joy , which always ended in a fit of hemoptysis. In the final period of her illness, her affection for her husband intensified to the point where she seemed to have lost her reason, and when he was not present, she would call out for him loudly. Due to one of those perversions of feeling that cannot be explained without a cerebral disorder, her son became indifferent to her; he treated his parents and sister with aloof dryness. All the attention of her soul was for the ingrate, all her affections for him, and her eyes had eliminated all the beauties existing in the moral and physical world, leaving only those that her exalted passion fantasized about in him. Villaamil, who knew of his son-in-law’s improper life outside the home, began to loathe him. Pura, more conciliatory, allowed herself to be seduced by Cadalso’s treacherous words, and on condition that he treated the poor sick woman with compassion and good manners, she was satisfied and forgave the rest. Finally, the unfortunate Luisa’s dementia, which deserves no other name, came to a fatal end on a St. John’s Eve. She died weeping with gratitude because her husband kissed her ardently and spoke loving words to her. That morning she had suffered an attack of mental disturbance stronger than the previous ones, and she threw herself out of bed, asking for a knife to kill Luis. He swore that he wasn’t his son, and that Victor had brought him home in a basket, under his cloak. That was a day of bitter sorrow for the entire family, especially for good Villaamil, who, without any outward mourning, mute and with his eyes almost dry, became unhinged and collapsed internally, remaining a pitiable wreck, without hope, without any illusions about life. From then on, his body withered until it became mummified, and his face took on that look of starving ferocity that made him resemble an old and useless tiger. The need for a salary that would allow for savings prompted him to seek employment overseas. He went to a regular post, one that yielded good earnings, and he returned two years later with some savings, which soon dissolved like grains of salt in the bottomless sea of Doña Pura’s administration. He embarked on a second voyage with a better job; But he had some kind of disagreement with the Intendant, and returned here during the fateful days of the cantonal elections. The government presided over by Serrano sent him to the Philippines after January 3, 1974, where he promised himself very happy times; but a cruel dysentery forced him to embark for Spain without any savings, and with the firm intention of serving as a minister before crossing the pond again. It wasn’t difficult for him to return to the Treasury, and he lived three years in peace, with a small salary, being respected by the Restoration, until at one fateful hour they slapped him with a dismissal as big as a house. And the tremendous anathema fell upon him when he was only two months away from retirement with four-fifths of the regular salary, which was that of a third-class Chief of Administration. He went to the Minister, knocked on various doors; all intercessions were unsuccessful. Little by little, the annoying scarcity gave way to stark and terrifying poverty; resources were dwindling, and extraordinary and arbitrary means of supporting the family were also exhausted. Finally, the excruciating stage arrived for a delicate man like Villaamil: having to knock on the door of friendship, imploring relief or an advance. He had provided services of such a nature in better times, to some who were grateful for them and to others who were not. Why shouldn’t he appeal to the same system? Above all, there was no question of whether these requests were decent or not. He who is burning himself out doesn’t bother to consider whether it’s advisable or not to shake his fingers. Decorum was already an empty name, like the inscription printed on the label of an empty bottle. Little by little, shame wears away, like the tooth of a file, and cheeks lose their habit of blushing. The unfortunate unemployed man acquired terrible mastery in the art of writing letters invoking friendship. He wrote them with pathetic amplifications, and in a style that seemed official, something similar to the preambles to laws announcing an increase in taxes to the country, for example: “It is very painful for the Government to have to ask new sacrifices from the taxpayer…” Such was the pattern, although the text was different. Chapter 14. To complete Víctor’s biographical information, it is important to add that he had a sister named Quintina, wife of a certain Ildefonso Cabrera, an employee on the Northern Railway, both of them good people, although somewhat extravagant. Since they had no children, Quintina wanted her brother to entrust her with Luis’s upbringing, and perhaps she would have succeeded without the serious disagreements that arose between Víctor and his brother-in-law over issues related to the Cadalso brothers’ paltry inheritance. It was a dilapidated, roofless house in the worst suburb of Vélez-Málaga, and loud arguments arose over whether the building belonged to Quintina or Víctor. The matter was clear, according to Cabrera, and to prove its clarity, no less than that of water, he placed the matter in the hands of the court, which, in a short time, created a medium-sized pile of stamped paper around it. All to demonstrate that Víctor was a crook, who had improperly seized the valuable property, selling it and pocketing the proceeds. The other man made a joke of it, saying that the proceeds of his fraud hadn’t been enough for a pair of boots. To which Ildefonso replied that it wasn’t the egg, but the privilege; that he wasn’t bothered by the material loss, but by his brother-in-law’s aloofness; and for this and other reasons, he grew to hate him so deeply that Quintina trembled for Victor whenever he came to the house. Cabrera’s temper was so hot that one day he almost discharged all six shots from his revolver at Victor. Cadalso’s sister wished the lawsuit would be settled and those vexing issues concluded; and when her brother went to see her a few days after arriving from Valencia, taking advantage of the opportunity when Ildefonso’s fierce temper was sweeping through the section of the line where he was the inspector, he proposed this to her: “Look, if you give me your Luis, I promise to disarm my husband, who wants the child home as much as I do.” Unacceptable treatment for Victor, who, although a man of hardened guts, did not dare to tear the boy away from the power and protection of his grandparents. Quintina, firm in her claim, argued: “But don’t you see that those people are going to raise him very badly? The least of it would be the bad habits he will acquire; but they are making the angel of God go hungry. They do not know how to take care of children, nor have they ever seen them fatter in their lives. All they know is to guess and paint the picture; they do not care about anything except whether this artist sang or did not sing as God intended, and their house looks like a blacksmith’s shop.” Although Miaus and Quintina were on good terms, they could not stand each other’s eyes. painting, because Cadalso, who was a good woman, which means she didn’t resemble her brother, had the defect of being excessively curious, nosy, nosy, and snoopy. When visiting the Villaamils, she didn’t enter the living room, but instead went straight to the dining room, and more than once she had to sneak into the kitchen and uncover the pots to see what was cooking. This drove Milagros crazy. Quintina asked everything, wanted to find out everything, and poke her avid nose into everything. She gave advice that wasn’t asked for, inspected Abelarda’s sewing, asked leading questions, and in the midst of her impertinent chatter, she would let herself in with a certain mocking reticence, as if she were saying nothing. She loved Cadalso passionately. She never left home without seeing him, and she always brought him some little gift, a toy, or an article of clothing. Sometimes she would show up at school and pester the teacher by asking him about the boy’s progress, to whom she would often say: “Don’t study, sweetheart, they’re just trying to drain your brains. Pay no attention; you have time to show off your talent. Now eat, eat a lot, grow fat and play, run and have all the fun you want.” On one occasion, seeing the Meows quite upset, she suggested that they give her the boy; but Doña Pura was so indignant at the proposal that Quintina only had to make it a joke. When she came down from visiting, she would always have a tirade with the memorialists in order to extract a thousand trifles from them about the second-grade students. whether or not they paid for the house, whether they owed too much at the store, although he usually imbibed this knowledge from cleaner sources, whether they returned late from the theater, whether the dull girl had finally married the fool from Ponce, whether the shoemaker had come in with new shoes… In short, she was an insufferable pest, a clingy prosecutor, and an ever-vigilant spy. Her habits were absolutely different from those of her victims. She didn’t frequent the theater, she lived with admirable order, and her house on Calle de los Reyes was what you’d call a silver cup. Physically, Quintina was worth less than her brother, who had taken all the family’s handsomeness; she was graceful, but not beautiful; she was cross-eyed, and her mouth was large and lackluster, although it was adorned with perfect teeth. The Cabreras lived peacefully and comfortably, for in addition to his inspector’s salary, Ildefonso enjoyed the profits from a somewhat clandestine trade, which consisted of bringing religious objects from France and selling them in Madrid to the priests of neighboring towns and even to the clergy of the Court. All of this was cheap, off-the-shelf merchandise, a product of modern industry that keeps pace with the times and knows how to exploit the Church’s hardship in these difficult times. Cabrera had his partners in Hendaye and worked with them, bringing them fabrics, cornucopias, sterling silver, the occasional painting, and other antiques stolen from the temple factories of Castile, once opulent but now very poor. The key to this trade, according to malicious reports, was that the goods crossed the duty-free border as they came and went; but this has not been verified. Normally, the ecclesiastical hardware that Cabrera brought in—golden brass objects, all counterfeit, fragile, poor, and in poor taste—was so cheap in the production centers and sold so well here that she easily tolerated the tariff surcharge. In the past, when this business was just starting out, Quintina would slip into the vestry of any parish with a bundle under her shawl, as if she were about to sneak in, and whisper in the ear of the bursar: “Do you want to see a chalice that tells the time? And the gentlemen will be astonished at the price. Half that of the Meneses goods…” But the lady soon gave up her role as a barker and received clergymen from Madrid and surrounding towns in her home. Lately, Cabrera imported huge batches of holy cards for prizes or first communions, large cards of the two Sacred Hearts, and finally, enlarging and expanding the business, he brought assortments of very vulgar images, the Saints Josephs, the baby Jesuses, and the Virgin Marys of Sorrows in abundance and in various sizes, all in the French devotional style, very polished and polished, the fabrics gilded in the Byzantine style, and the faces with rosy veneers , as if rouge were the custom in heaven. I don’t know if it was due to her familiar contact with holy things or a natural disposition that made Quintina radically skeptical. The truth is that she complied by going to Easter Mass and Palm Sunday and praying a little, out of old routine, before going to bed. And there was no sniffing at priests, except to force the article on them or to coax out of them some old brocade chasuble, in tatters. Cadalsito would occasionally go to Cabrera’s house and become enraptured by the contemplation of the holy images. One day he saw an Eternal Father, with a long, white beard, holding a blue world in his hand, an image that deeply impressed him. Did this stem from the extremely strange phenomenon of his visions? No one knows; perhaps no one will ever know. But perhaps his grandmother forbade him from returning to that house full of saints, telling him: “Quintina is a rascal who wants to steal you from us to sell you to the French.” Cadalsito became frightened and never appeared on Reyes Street again. Villaamil also disliked Ildefonso, who was excruciatingly sincere in his opinions, inconsiderate, and sometimes rude. They used to go to the same café gathering; but ever since Cabrera said that the idea of an income tax in Spain was nonsense, and that such a thing wouldn’t occur to anyone with any sense, Villaamil took a dislike to him. They met… a nod of greeting, and that’s it. Doña Pura reserved for Cabrera more serious reasons for hatred than that ruthless approach to the income tax. Never in all his life had that uncle given them half-price tickets for a summer outing. Victor talked trash about his brother-in-law, taking revenge for the bad times the other gave him with summonses, notifications, and appearances. Victor believed that Cabrera flouted the strictures of Customs in his imports of ecclesiastical material and exports of artistic rags. And he didn’t just steal from the State, but from the company itself, because in the early days of the business, he entrusted his packages to the drivers, and later, when they were converted into bulky boxes and he didn’t want to expose himself to a sniff from his bosses, he still invoiced, yes, but applying the tariff for return packaging or lumber to his luxury goods . There were some very tacky things in his Customs declarations. “How do you think he declared a box full of San Josés?” Victor would say. “Well, he declared them flintlocks.” Since he was doing favors for the inspectors, they passed on those incongruous manifests to him; and the bronze incense burners, what were they? … ordinary hardware; and the cheap cloth suits? … unrigged umbrellas and unfinished corsets. Chapter 15. In the following days, Pura settled some of the accounts that weighed on her most; She brought home several of the most indispensable articles of clothing, and at the table she reestablished the harmony of happy days. The modest Ophelia spent her idle hours in the kitchen, for she was imperceptibly developing an interest in the art of Vatel, so different, Holy Mary!, from that of Rossini, and she felt true spiritual joy in perfecting herself in it, launching herself into inventing or composing some dish. Whenever there were provisions, or, if you will, an artistic subject, inspiration would be kindled in her, and she would work diligently, intoning in a low voice out of old habit and with perfect intonation some very tender fragment, such as the moriamo insieme, ah! Yes, moriamo… Every night when the Miaus were not going to the opera, the hall would fill with people. _Aliquando_, the splendid Doña Pura showered the actors with sweets and pastries, which led the gathering to believe that Villaamil was already settled, or at least with one foot in the office. The arrangement, however, never came together, because the Minister, weary of recommendations and commitments, couldn’t bring himself to give her the final touch. Thus, uncertainty grew in the family, and Villaamil sank deeper and deeper into his studied pessimism, going so far as to say, ” We’ll see the sun rise in the West sooner than I’ll enter the office.” From the second day of his arrival, Víctor didn’t shy away from anyone. He came and went freely; he went to the living room during social hours, but without putting down roots there, because such society was atrociously antipathetic to him. Disarmed by her son-in-law’s generosity, Pura took pity on him sleeping on the hard sofa in the dining room, and finally the three Miaus agreed to put him in Abelarda’s room, after she moved him to her aunt Milagros’s, which was Luisito’s room. The modest Ofelia went to sleep in her sister’s bedroom, on a very narrow cot. Don Ramón wasn’t entirely happy about these arrangements, because what he wanted was to see his son-in-law leave office in a rude mood. At the Tax Office, his friend Pantoja had told him that Víctor was aiming for a promotion and that he had a case whose resolution could be disastrous if one of his sponsors didn’t step in. It was the work of the Tax Administration, or irregularities discovered in the current account Cadalso kept with the towns in the province. It seemed that some of the most affected towns were missing from the list of obligations, and it was believed that Cadalso was acting in collusion with the delinquent mayors. Villaamil was also told that the distribution of taxes, proposed in the last six months by Víctor, was done in such a way that the scam was obvious, and that the chief had refused to approve it. Villaamil didn’t speak a word about these matters with his son-in-law. At table, Cadalso was always taciturn, and Cadalso was very talkative, failing to interest any of the family in what he was saying. He would engage in long conversations with Abelarda if they happened to be alone together or were engaged in the interesting act of putting Luis to bed. The father enjoyed observing the child’s development and monitoring his fragile health, and one of the things he especially cared about was keeping him warm at night and dressing him decently. He ordered clothes to be made for him, bought him a very handsome cape, and a full blue suit with matching stockings . Cadalso, who was somewhat conceited, couldn’t help but thank his father for giving him such a handsome appearance. But when it came to new clothes, nothing compares to the luxury that Victor himself displayed on his person shortly after arriving in Madrid. Every day the tailor brought her a brand-new garment, and his tailor was certainly not like the one in Villaamil, an artist of little more or less standing, almost a doorway artist, but one of the most famous in Madrid. And how Victor’s gallant figure looked in no small measure in that correct and graceful dress, not lacking in severity, which is the very point and edge of true elegance, without cuts or flashy colors! Abelarda watched him surreptitiously, surreptitiously, admiring and recognizing in him the same exceptional man who a few years before had brainwashed her unfortunate sister, and she felt in her soul an immense reservoir of indulgence toward the young man so vehemently denigrated by the entire family. That reservoir seemed small while all that was visible was its poorly explored surface; but then, digging and digging, one saw that it was inexhaustible, perhaps infinite, like a great and rich quarry. And what purple veins were to be found in the mass! What brilliant bursts; something like veins swollen with blood or like the material of precious stones melted and consolidated for centuries in the bosom of the earth! Indulgence rose from his heart to his thought in this way: “No, he can’t be as bad as they say. It’s just that they don’t understand him, they don’t understand him.” Victor had expressed the idea of not being understood many times, not only during that time, but also earlier, two years before, when he spent a few months with the family. How could the poor cursitas understand a being from a sphere or caste higher than theirs in figure, manners, ideas, aspirations and even in the Flaws? Abelarda cast her imagination back to times past, and studying her feelings toward Victor, she recognized that she possessed them even during poor Luisa’s lifetime. When everyone in the house spoke ill of him, Abelarda consoled her sister with specious defenses of the perfidious man or by passively glossing over his faults. ” It’s not Victor’s fault that all the women love him,” she would say. After her sister’s death, Abelarda continued to silently admire the widower. It was true that he had caused endless grief and headaches to the deceased; but that was the fatality of his good looks. Without knowing how, sometimes, out of delicacy, he found himself caught in amorous snares or in traps set for him by rogue women. But he had a good heart; with age, he would settle down a little, and he only needed a woman with heart and character to restrain him, combining affection with severity. The unfortunate Luisa was no good for the case. How could a woman who burst into tears for some trivial reason practice this difficult regimen? A woman who once fainted because her husband, upon entering the house, had his tie tied very differently than she had done upon leaving? During the time of this account, it cost the insignificant woman great effort to conceal the embarrassment her brother-in-law produced in her when he spoke to her . Sometimes an intimate, boisterous joy, tinged with mischievous inflections, frolicked in her heart, like a parasitic insect nesting there and giving birth; sometimes it was a grievous sorrow that overwhelmed her. On every occasion, her responses were hesitant, off-key, and without any grace. “Are you really marrying that fried bird from Ponce?” he said to her one night, as he placed his bets on the little one. “Have a good wedding, my daughter. How jealous your friends must be of you!” Not everyone gets that chance. “Leave it to me… you fool, you wicked person.” Another night, showing a keen interest in the family, Victor told her: “Look, Abelarda, don’t expect your father to be placed. The arrangement has been made, but it hasn’t been published yet. He’s not on it. They told me so privately. You’ll understand how much I deplore it. The poor man, so full of illusions! Because, even if he says he expects nothing, the wretch does nothing else. When he becomes disillusioned, he’ll receive a tremendous blow. But don’t worry; my promotion is assured, I have better support than your father, and since I have to stay in Madrid, I won’t abandon you; rest assured that I won’t. I’ve caused you a lot of trouble, and my conscience needs to be unburdened. No matter how much I do for your benefit, I won’t be able to lift this burden. ” “No, it’s not bad,” thought Abelarda, concentrating on her thoughts. “And all that talk about not believing in God is just music, a joke, to amuse me and infuriate me. Because yes, he spouts some very strange things that no one else would think of. He’s not bad, no; he’s mischievous, and he’s very talented, very talented. It’s just that we don’t know how to understand him. ” Victor insisted on not being understood whenever the occasion arose. “Look here, Abelarda, what I’m telling you shouldn’t seem like nonsense to you, because you understand me somewhat; you’re not ordinary, or at least you’re not entirely so, or you’re gradually ceasing to be.” Alone, the poor young woman grew disheartened, shrinking with implacable modesty. “Yes, even though he says I’m not, I am ordinary, and, my God, how ordinary I am! In appearance… psh; I’m insignificant; in body, let’s not even mention it; and even if I were worth something, how could I look badly dressed, with overdressed, arranged, and turned-up clothes?” Then I am extremely ignorant; I know nothing, I talk nothing but nonsense and empty talk, I have no charm whatsoever. I am a pumpkin with a mouth, eyes, and hands. What a fool I am, my God, and what a bore! Why was I born like this? Chapter 16. Whenever Victor entered the house, Abelarda looked at him as if he had come from much higher social regions. In his gait as in his manners, in his clothes as in his hair, Victor carried something that detached itself from the poor dwelling of the Miaus, something that was at odds with that ramshackle, pedestrian home. And Cadalso’s comings and goings were very irregular. He often ate at diners with his friends; he went to the theater every other day; and he even had the opportunity to spend the entire night out. He wasn’t always in a good mood; he had periods of sadness, during which no one could get a word out of him all day. But other times he was very talkative, and since his in-laws paid him no attention, he would go to his sister-in-law. The moments of private conversation weren’t many; but he knew how to take advantage of them, recognizing the dynamism of his personality and his conversation about the troubled spirit of the insignificant woman. Luisito was feeling ill, his distress reaching the point of staying in bed. Doña Pura and Milagros went that night to the Real, Villaamil to the café, in search of news of the combination, and Abelarda stayed behind to look after the boy. When he least expected it, there was a knock at the door. It was Victor, who entered very joyfully, humming a tango from the zarzuela. He learned of his son’s illness, that he was already asleep, heard him breathing, recognized that his fever, if there was one, was very mild, and then began to write letters at the dining room table. His sister-in-law watched him surreptitiously ; two or three times she passed behind him, pretending to have to move something on the sideboard, and stealthily glancing at what he was writing. It was undoubtedly a love letter, due to its length, the convoluted handwriting , and the feverish ease with which Victor penned it. But he couldn’t catch a single sentence or a syllable. After finishing the letter, Cadalso struck up a conversation with the young woman, who went out to the dining room to sew. “Listen to something,” he said, leaning his elbow on the table and his face in the palm of his hand. “I saw your Ponce today. Do you know I’ve changed my mind? It’s good for you.” He’s a good fellow, and he’ll be rich when his uncle the notary dies , and they say he’s going to be the sole heir… Because we shouldn’t heed our friend Ruiz’s opinion that there’s no happiness like being there for the fourth question… If Federico were right, and I were to let my feelings get the better of me, I’d tell you that Ponce isn’t right for you, that someone else would be better for you; me, for example… Abelarda turned pale, so disconcerted that her efforts to laugh were in vain. “What nonsense you’re talking! Jesus, you’re always joking!” “You know very well that this isn’t serious. Two years ago, one night, when you were living in Chamberí, I said to you: ‘Abelardilla, I like you. I feel my soul crumble when I see you…’ Don’t you remember? You told me that… I don’t know what the reply was; but it came to mean that if I loved you, you… too.” “Oh, what a liar!… Get out of there! I didn’t say any such thing. ” “So I dreamed it?… Whatever it is, afterward you fell madly in love with that precious Ponce. ” “I… fell in love… You’re sick… Well, yes, let’s say I fell in love. And what does it matter to you? ” “It matters to me, because as soon as I found out I had a rival, I turned my heart elsewhere. So you can see what the fate of people is: two years ago we were almost on the point of understanding each other; today the deviation is a fact. I left, you left, we left. And when we meet again, what happens? I’m in a very strange situation with respect to you. My heart tells me: “make her fall in love with you,” and at the same moment, I don’t know where, another voice comes out that shouts at me: “look at her and don’t touch her.” “What do I care about any of that drowning, if I don’t love you one bit, nor can I love you? ” “I know, I know… You don’t need to swear to me. We’ve agreed that the devil has no way of getting rid of me. You hate me, as is logical and natural. Well, look how things are. When a person hates me, I feel like loving them, and I love you, because I feel like it, you know that, right… and ole morena, as your father says. ” “You’re such a fool! Oh, how silly!” pretending to be serious, and then bursting into laughter. “No, I’m not deceiving you, nor will I ever deceive you. Believe it or not, There goes the truth. I love you, and I shouldn’t love you, because you’re too angelic for me. You can’t be mine except through marriage, and marriage, that absurd machine that only works well for ordinary people , is of no use to us at this moment. Good or bad, as you wish to suppose me, I have, although it may seem immodest, a mission to fulfill: I aspire to something dangerous and difficult, for which I need freedom above all else; I run relentlessly toward a goal, which I would never reach if I weren’t alone. Accompanied, I’ll stay halfway. Onward, always onward with theatrical affectation. What impulse drags me? Fate, a force greater than my desires. It’s better to crash than to retreat. I can’t turn back or take you with me. I fear debasing you. And if you had the immense misfortune of being the wife of this wretch… closing my eyes and stretching out my hand as if to move away a shadow. No, let us energetically reject such an idea… I love you enough to never bring you to my side. If one day… with a declamatory sing-song, if one day I delude myself and commit the illustrious blunder of telling you that I love you, of asking for your love, scorn me; do not be carried away by your immense goodness; cast me away from you like a harmful animal, for it would be better for you to die than to be mine. “But tell me, have you intended to make me dizzy?” she said, trembling and concealing her embarrassment with a frustrated attempt to thread a needle. “What nonsense are you telling me? If I am not going to… listen to you… What ‘s the point of this, saying that I should kill myself, or die, or be taken by the demons? ” “I know you don’t love me. All I ask of you, and I ask it as a very great favor, is that you not hate me, that you have compassion for me. Leave me, for I am alone, greedily storing these thoughts to console myself with them.” In the midst of my misfortunes, which you don’t know, I have one relief, and that is knowing how to live ideally and fortify my soul with it. Your destiny is very different from mine, Abelarda. Follow your path, while I follow mine, driven by my fever and acquired rapidity . Let us not defy the fate that rules everything. Perhaps we will never meet again. Before we part, I will give you some advice: if Ponce is not disagreeable to you, marry him. It is enough that he is not disagreeable to you. If you don’t like him, if you can’t find another man with less moist eyes, renounce marriage… It is the advice of someone who loves you more than you think… Renounce the world, enter a convent, dedicate yourself to an ideal and to the contemplative life. I do not have the virtue of resignation, and if I don’t manage to get where I think, if my dream turns into smoke, I will shoot myself. He said it with such energy and such a tone of truth that Abelarda believed it , more impressed by that nonsense than by the others she had just heard. “You won’t do that. Kill yourself! That certainly wouldn’t amuse me… catching an idea on the fly. But oh no! All that talk about despair and trembling is because you have some unhappy love somewhere. Someone must be tormenting you. You well deserve it, and I’m glad. ” “Well, look, daughter, changing the tone, you said it in jest, and perhaps, perhaps you’re right… ” “Do you have a girlfriend?” feigning indifference. “Girlfriend, not exactly a girlfriend. ” “Come on, some love. ” “Call it fate, martyrdom… ” “Go on with that damned fate… Say you’re in love. ” “I don’t know how to answer you, affecting a beautiful and very appropriate confusion. If I say yes, I’m lying; and if I say no, I’m lying too.” And having assured you that I love you, on what grounds can I possibly be interested in another? All this will be explained by distinguishing between one love and another love. There is a holy, pure, and tranquil affection, which is born from the heart, which takes hold of the soul and becomes the soul itself. Let us not confuse this feeling with the sickly boilings of the imagination, the pagan cult of beauty, the yearning of the senses, in which vanity also plays a large part, founded on the hierarchy of the one who loves us. What does this uneasiness, accident, and life’s pastime, with that ineffable tenderness that inspires the soul to desire to merge with another soul, and the will to yearn for sacrifice…? He did not continue, because with subtle instinct he understood that excessive subtlety led him to ridicule. For poor Abelarda, these ardent concepts, pronounced with a certain elegant mimicry by that very handsome man who, as he said them, cast such a sweet and pathetic expression in his black eyes, were the most eloquent thing she had ever heard in her life, and her soul was rent as she listened to them. Understanding the effect, Victor searched his discursive mind for new ways to continue consuming the wretched young woman’s brain . There he let loose a few more phrases, paradoxical and heated, in contradiction to the previous ones; but Abelarda paid no attention to the contradiction. The deep impression of the latter concepts erased the former in her mind, and she allowed herself to be swept away by that whirlwind, amidst a ferment of conflicting feelings: curiosity, love, jealousy, joy, and rage. Victor gilded his lies with metaphors and antitheses of a pessimistic romanticism that has long since been put away. But for Miss Villaamil, the tarnished and worthless junk was pure gold, since her limited education didn’t allow her to appreciate the forgotten texts from which Victor derived that nonsense of doom. He returned to the charge, telling her in a somewhat gloomy tone: “I can’t continue talking about this. What shouldn’t be, isn’t. I understand that it would be better to surrender myself to you… perhaps you would save me. But no, I don’t want to be saved.” I must lose myself, and take with me this feeling I did not deserve, this celestial ray that I guard with fear as if I had stolen it. In me you have a reflection of the Prometheus of the fable. I have snatched the celestial fire, and as punishment for this, a vulture gnaws at my entrails. Abelarda, who knew nothing of Prometheus, was frightened by the vulture’s comment; and the other, satisfied with his triumph, continued thus: “I am condemned, a reprobate… I cannot ask you to save me, because fate would prevent it. Therefore, if you see that I come to you and tell you that I love you, do not believe me… it is a lie, it is a vile trap that I lay for you; despise me, throw me from your side; I don’t deserve your affection, not even your compassion… The insignificant woman, with immense pain and self-disapproval, thought: “I’m so simple-minded and so vulgar that I can’t think of anything to say to these high-flown and heartfelt things you’re saying to me.” She gave a deep sigh and looked at him, with a strong desire to throw her arms around his neck, exclaiming: “I love you more than you can imagine. But don’t pay attention to me; I don’t deserve anything, nor am I worth as much as you. I want to revel in the bitterness of loving you without hope.” Victor, holding his head in both hands, cast his distracted eyes over the oilcloth on the table, frowning and sighing, pretending to be romantic, incomprehensible, something of that Manfred type, adapted to the personality of apothecary’s boys and officers of the fifth class. Then he looked at her with extraordinary sweetness, and touching her arm, said: “Ah! How much I make you suffer with these horrible misanthropies that cannot interest you! Forgive me; I beg you to forgive me. I am not at peace if you don’t say yes. You are an angel, I am not worthy of you, I admit it. I don’t even aspire to deserve you; that would be foolish daring. For now, I only expect you to understand me… Will you understand me? Abelarda was now reaching the limits of her efforts to conceal her anxiety and disturbance. But her dignity was powerful. She did not want to surrender the secret of her soul without defending it to the death; and finally, with supreme heroism, she burst out laughing, which seemed more like the spasmodic hilarity that precedes a nervous breakdown, saying to Cadalso: “I do understand you… You play the rascal, you play the bad guy… without being one, to deceive me. But you don’t fool me… You complete idiot… I know more than you. I’ve seen through you.” What’s the point of being hated if you’re not going to achieve it?… Chapter 17. Luisito worsened. It was a gastric catarrh, a common childhood ailment that would have no consequences if treated in time. Victor, worried, brought the doctor, and although his vigilance was unnecessary because the three Miaus were caring for the sick boy with great affection, even skipping the opera for several nights, he did not cease to recommend careful attention, watching his son at all hours, tucking him in to keep him warm, and taking his pulse. In order to entertain him and cheer his spirits, something very necessary when children are ill, he brought him some toys, and his Aunt Quintina also came with her hands full of stamps and pictures of saints, Luis’s favorite pastime. Under the pillows, she even gathered countless trinkets and knick-knacks, which she took out at certain times to inspect. During those nights of fever and poor sleep, Cadalsito had imagined himself in the portico of the Alarconas or in the ashlar of the Conde Duque esplanade; but he didn’t see God, or rather , he only saw Him halfway. His body appeared to him, the flowing robes of incomparable whiteness; at times he could vaguely make out His hands, but not His face. Why didn’t He show Himself? Cadalsito began to feel great distress, suspecting that the Lord was angry with him. And for what reason? In one of the holy cards his father had brought him, God was depicted in the act of creating the world. How easy it would be! He would raise a finger, and out came the sky, the sea, the mountains… He would raise his finger again, and out came the lions, the crocodiles, the coiled snakes, and the swift mouse… But the picture didn’t satisfy the boy. It’s true that the gentleman was very well painted; but he wasn’t, no, as handsome and respectful as his friend. One morning, when Luis was already cleansed of his fever, his grandfather came to visit him. It seemed to the boy that Villaamil was silently suffering great sorrow. Even before the old man arrived, Luis had heard a murmur among the Miaus, which seemed to him to be a bad omen. It was whispered that there was no room in the slip. How did they know? Cadalsito remembered that early in the morning, just as he had woken up, he had heard Doña Pura say to her sister: “Nothing for now… They’ve given us a brave monkey. And there’s no doubt about it now; Victor told me, he found out last night at the Ministry.” These words, imprinted on the boy’s mind, he later connected with his grandfather’s face as if he had been put to death when he came to see him. Luis, as a child, associated ideas imperfectly, but he did associate them, always placing between them strange affinities suggested by his innocence. If he hadn’t known his grandfather as he did, he would have been afraid of him on that occasion, because his face was truly like that of an ogres devouring children… “He won’t get a job,” thought Luisito, and in saying this he combined two other ideas in his mind, still troubled by the badly extinguished fever. Childish dialectics are voiced with terrifying precision, and this is proven by this reasoning of Cadalsito: “Well, if he doesn’t want to get a job, I don’t know why God is angry with me and won’t show me his face. I should rather be angry with him.” Villaamil began pacing around the room, his hands in his pockets. No one dared speak to him. Luis then felt a distressing sadness that weighed down his spirits: “He won’t get a job,” he thought, “because I don’t study, control!” because I don’t know the damned lessons. But immediately the childish dialectic resurfaced to defend self-esteem: “But how am I supposed to study if I’m sick? Let him get me well, and he’ll see if I study.” Victor came in from the street, and the first thing he did was hug Villaamil, blocking his steps like a caged beast. Doña Pura and Abelarda were present. “There’s no need to be discouraged by misfortune,” said Victor, as he made the display of affection, which Villaamil, for all his signs, received with a very bad temper. “Men of heart, men of fiber, have within themselves the necessary strength to face adversity…” The Minister has once again broken his word, and so have all those who promised to support you. May God forgive them, and may their dark consciences accuse them with horrible martyrdom for the evil they have done. “Leave me alone, leave me alone,” replied Villaamil, who was as if he were about to be garroted. “I know well that a strong man needs no consolation from a common man like me. What has happened here? What is natural, what is logical in these societies corrupted by favoritism. What has happened? That the father of the family, the honest man, the worthy official, aged in the Administration, the loyal servant of the State who could teach the Minister how to save the Treasury, is put aside, neglected , and swept from the offices as if he were dust. Anything else would surprise me; not this. But there is more. While such injustice is being committed, the bold, the inept, those without conscience or any title, occupy the plaza as a reward for their uselessness. Against this, there is no recourse but to retreat to the sanctuary of conscience and say: “Fine. My own approval is enough.” Victor, while expressing himself so philosophically, looked at Doña Pura and Abelarda, who were deeply moved and on the verge of tears. Villaamil didn’t say a word, and with a livid face and a trembling jaw, he had returned to his pacing. “Nothing surprises me,” added Victor, boiling over with sacred indignation. “This is so rotten that it’s going to be the most shocking thing in the world: while this man, who should at least be Director General, is neglected and sent packing, I, who am worthless, am nothing, and have served so little, I… believe it or not, when I’m most careless, I’ll find myself with the promotion I asked for. That’s the way the world is, that’s Spain, and that’s how we’re all being educated to contempt for the State, and the embers of revolutions are being fanned in our souls . To those who deserve it, disappointment; to those who don’t, sweets. That’s Spanish logic. Everything backwards; _the land of vice versa_… And I, who am calm, who am not in a hurry, who have no needs either, who despise credentials and whoever offers them to me, will be placed, while the father of the family, burdened with obligations, he who, because of his respectability, because of his services, so well-foundedly entertained the illusion that… “I had no illusions, nor is that the way,” Don Ramón said brusquely and with a burst of anger, raising his hands very close to the ceiling. “I never had any hopes… I didn’t believe I’d get a job, nor will I ever believe it again. Well, that’s the theme with these people! If I didn’t expect anything… How can I say it? It really seems that between you all you ‘re trying to fry my blood. ” “Son, anyone would say it’s a crime to have hopes,” Doña Pura observed. “Well, I do, and now more than ever. There’ll be another combination.” They’ve promised it to you , and they’ll have to keep it. ” “Of course!” said Victor, looking at Villaamil with filial interest. “And, above all, it’s not a good idea to rush things. Come what may, since everything is injustice and unreason, if I’m promoted, as I hope, my luck will compensate for the family’s misfortune. I owe the family great favors. No matter how much I do, I won’t be able to repay them. I’ve been bad; but now it gives me, I won’t say because I’m good, because I see that as difficult, but because my mistakes are being forgotten… The family will lack nothing as long as I have a piece of bread.” Overwhelmed by feelings of humiliation, which fell upon his soul like a collapsing ceiling, Villaamil snorted and left the room. His wife followed him, and Abelarda, overcome by impressions very different from those of her father, turned towards Luis’s bed, pretending to tuck him in, to hide her emotion, while she reasoned: “No, there is nothing wrong with it . I will not believe it, no matter who says so.” “Abelarda,” he insinuated sweetly, after they had been alone with the little one for a while . “I know very well that I do not need to repeat to you what I have told your parents. You know me somewhat, you understand me somewhat; You know that as long as I have a crust of bread, you will never lack sustenance; but I must tell your parents this, and even prove it to them, so that they will believe it. They have a very sad opinion of me. It’s true that a bad reputation isn’t lost in two days. And how could I not offer you help, unless I were a monster? If I didn’t do it for the adults, I would have to do it for my son, raised in this house, for this angel, who loves you more than me… and with very good reason. Abelarda caressed Luis, trying to hide the tears that welled up in her eyes, and the little one, seeing himself so kissed and hearing those things Papa was saying, which sounded to him like a sermon or a paragraph from a religious book, was so moved that he burst into tears like a Magdalene. Both of them tried hard to distract his mind by laughing, telling him joking jokes, or inventing stories. In the afternoon, the boy asked for his books, which amazed everyone, for they couldn’t understand why someone who studied so little while well should want to do so while bedridden. He became so impatient that they gave him the Grammar and Arithmetic, and he leafed through them, musing: “Not now, because my eyesight is going; but as soon as I can, check! I ‘ll learn it all… and we’ll see then… we’ll see!” Chapter 18. Poor Abelard’s condition grew so much worse that her mother and aunt thought she was ill and talked of calling a doctor. Nevertheless, she continued to live her ordinary life, working for many hours a day on alterations and alterations of dresses. She used a wicker mannequin, which wandered from the dressing room to the dining room, and which by nightfall resembled a person, the fourth _Meow_, or the ghost of one of the family who had come from the other world to visit their offspring. On that mold, the insignificant woman tried out her cuts and workmanship, which were quite graceful. At that time, she was working on a dress made of scraps of cashmere that had already been used twice and had been turned inside out and upside down. A piece of fleece worth 1 peseta was added to match. Such schemes were familiar to Pura, and if a piece of fabric couldn’t be washed or turned inside out, she would send it to the dry cleaners, and… as good as new. With this system, one dress cost twenty-four reales. But where Abelarda displayed surprising abilities was in the metamorphosis of hats. Doña Pura’s bonnet had passed through a series of different lives, which, like incarnations, made it always new and always old. For winter, it was lined with velvet, and for summer it was covered with the lace of a discarded visitor; the flowers or pins were gifts from the neighbors on the main floor. The battered frame of Abelarda’s hat had already taken, during her unemployment period, different shapes and styles, according to the pragmatics of fashion, and with this exquisite art of concealing poverty, the Villaamils would go out into the street looking like sea lions. On the nights when the Miaus didn’t go to pay homage to Euterpe, Abelarda had to endure Ponce’s headache for two or three hours, or else rehearse her role in the play. Doña Pura was very displeased to have to give a dramatic performance when her hopes of getting a job next time had failed; But since it had been announced with the sound of a trumpet, the roles distributed, and rehearsals so far advanced, there was no choice but to sacrifice herself for the sake of tyrannical society. Abelarda had deliberately chosen a colorless role, that of a maid, who, when the curtain rose, emerged, feather duster in hand, complaining that her masters were not paying her wages, and revealing to the public that the house in which she served was the most outrageous in Madrid. The play belonged to the genre favored by the wits of this Court, and was limited to presenting a vulgar family with less money than vanity; a mannish lady who treated her husband with her foot, a courtship, a tangle based on mistaken names, with a great confusion of entrances and exits, until, just when it seemed like a madhouse, the foolish father came out saying: “Now I understand.” everything_, and the interlude ended with a wedding and a tenth, asking the audience for applause. Ponce played the role of the foolish father; and the role of a rascally and arrogant chicken, who was the author of the mess and the salt and pepper of the piece, fell to a certain Cuevas, son of the main neighbor, D. Isidoro Cuevas, a widower with a large family, employed in the Warden’s Office of the neighboring Women’s Prison, and commonly known in the neighborhood as _the Lord of the Galley_. Cuevas Jr. was funny, well-mannered; he told drunken stories with such grace that it was laughable; he imitated the cocky language, he sang flamenco at the top of his lungs, in addition to many other skills, for which he was in high demand at the Villaamil-style gatherings. The role of the young lady of the house was played by Pantoja’s girl, Don Buenaventura Pantoja, an employee at the Ministry of Finance and a close friend of Villaamil’s; and the role of the impertinent, vulgar, talkative, sergeant mother, a role of the Valverde type, went to one of Cuevas’s girls. There were four of them, and they helped each other with the hat-making, very well, by the way. Other roles—a footman, an old moneylender, a crazy and snobbish marquis, who happened to be a major figure—were distributed among different boys in the group. The lame Guillén agreed to be the prompter. Federico Ruiz acted as stage manager and wished that such a performance had posters on street corners, so that they could write in bold letters: “Under the direction of the renowned publicist,” etc., etc. Abelarda possessed a very good memory and learned the part very quickly. She attended rehearsals like an automaton, docilely lending herself to the life of that world, secondary and artificial to her; as if her home, her family, her social gathering, Ponce, were the true comedy, with easy and routine roles… and her spirit remained free, steeped in her inner life, true and real, in the drama exclusively hers, throbbing with interest, which had only one actor, her, and only one spectator, God. A disorganized and endless monologue. One morning, while the young woman was combing her hair, the spectator might have heard the following: “How ugly I am, my God; how worthless I am! More than ugly, dull, insignificant; I don’t have a grain of salt. If only I had talent! But not even that… How can he love me, when there are so many beautiful women in the world and he is a man of superior merit, with a future, elegant, handsome, and with a great deal of understanding, whatever they may say?” Pause. Last night Bibiana Cuevas told me that in the paradise of El Real they’ve given us a nickname; they call us the _Meow_ or the _Meows_, because they say we look like three kittens, yes, porcelain kittens, the kind they use to decorate corner sofas these days. And Bibiana thought I was going to be upset by the nickname. How silly she is! I’m not upset about anything anymore. Do we look like cats? Yes? So much the better. Are we the people’s laughing stock? So much the better. What do I care? We’re poor, tacky little things. tacky little things are born, and no human force can erase their seal. I was born this way and I’ll die this way. I’ll be the wife of another tacky little thing and I’ll have tacky little children, whom the world will call _little kittens_… Pause. And when will they put Dad in his place? If I look closely, I don’t care; it’s all the same. With destiny or without destiny, we’re always the same. More or less, my house has been the same as it is now all my life. Mama has no government; neither does my aunt, nor do I. If they hire Papa, I’ll be happy for him, so he’ll have something to do and amuse himself; but as for our well-being, I figure we’ll never get out of trouble, farces, and messes… Poor Meows! The name is funny. Mama will be furious if she finds out; I’m not; I have no self-respect anymore. It’s all gone, like the family money… if the family ever had money. I’m going to tell Ponce about the Meows, see if he’ll laugh about it or take it terribly. I want him to get all worked up one day so I can get all worked up too. Honestly, I’d like to hit him or something … Pause. Boy, am I dull and graceless! My sister Luisa was worth more; although, to be honest, she wasn’t exactly a big deal. My eyes They express nothing; at most, they express that I’m sad, but without saying why. It seems incredible that behind these pupils there is… what there is. It seems incredible that this brow and this narrow forehead hide what they hide. How difficult it is for me to imagine what heaven is like; I can’t figure it out, I can’t see anything! And how easy it is to imagine hell! I picture it as if I’d been there… And they’re right; the resemblance to a cat’s face is obvious… The mouth is the worst; this corner mouth we three have… Yes; but Mama’s is the most characteristic. Mine, just like that; and when I laugh, it’s not a bad idea. An idea occurs to me: if I painted myself, would it be worth a little more? Ah! No; Victor would laugh at me. He may disdain me; but he doesn’t consider me a ridiculous and unpleasant woman. Jesus! Am I unpleasant? I certainly can’t bear this idea. Unpleasant, no, my God. If he convinced me that I was unpleasant, he’d kill me… Pause. Last night he came in and went into his room without saying a word. It’s better this way. When he speaks to me, he crushes my heart. If he loved me, I would be capable of committing a crime. What crime? Any crime… every crime. But he’ll never love me, and I’ll be left with my crime in the making and miserable forever. “Daughter,” Doña Pura indicated, unexpectedly bringing her out of her abstraction. “When Ponce comes, tell him we’ll kill him if he doesn’t bring us the bills for Pellegrini’s benefit. If he doesn’t have them, let him look for them. She has to give bills to the newspapers and to all the most worthy layabouts. Believe it; if Ponce goes to ask her for them, she’s very refined and won’t refuse him. We’ll be truly angry if he doesn’t bring them.” “He’ll bring them,” said Abelarda, who had just finished putting her hair up in her hair. “If he doesn’t bring them, I’ll never speak to him again. ” Ponce entered there like Pedro entering his own house, heading for the dining room, where he usually found his girlfriend. He arrived that afternoon around four and passed by, smoothing his hair after hanging his cape and bowler hat on the hook in the reception room. He was a puny, lymphatic young man, one of those who have a girlfriend like an umbrella, with the makings of a writer, a gratuitous critic, always busy, complaining that no one read him; we don’t read here, a lawyer, a good boy, big ears, glasses without cords, a slightly squinty eye, a lot of knee padding in his trousers, not much salt in his brain, and about six reales in his pocket, at most. He enjoyed a small position in the provincial government, worth six thousand, and was hiccuping over the eight they had promised him the previous year… today, tomorrow. When she had them, it would be a sure thing. These hopes wouldn’t have been enough to convince the Villaamils to accept her candidacy as son-in-law; but she had a rich uncle, a childless notary, sick with cancer, and since he was expected to die within a year, perhaps a month, and Ponce was his heir, the Miau family saw the candidate as a lucky chance. The unfortunate uncle, according to the calculations of Pantoja, who was her friend and executor, would leave two houses, a few thousand, and the notary office… Ponce had no sooner entered the dining room than Abelarda dropped this hint: “If you don’t bring the tickets for the Pellegrini benefit, you’ll never set foot here again. ” “Calm down, daughter, calm down; let me sit down, catch my breath… I came here in a hurry. Some very big things are happening to me, very big things.” “What’s the matter with you, man of God?” asked Doña Pura, who was accustomed to scolding him like a son. “He always comes in trouble, and in the end, nothing. ” “Listen to me, Doña Pura, and you, Abelarda, listen to me too. My uncle is very ill, very ill. ” “Hail Mary Most Pure!” exclaimed Doña Pura, feeling her heart leap. And skipping like a fawn, she went to the kitchen to tell her sister the news . “He’s dying… ” “Who? ” “The uncle, wife, the uncle… don’t you understand? But tell me,” Ponce returned to the dining room with cat-like rapidity, “are you really going? You must be very happy, very… sad, I mean. ” “You will realize that I cannot go to the theater, nor visit the Pellegrini… As you know… Very ill, very ill… The doctors say he won’t last two days… “Poor gentleman!… And what are you doing, not showing up at the deceased’s house… I mean, at the sick man’s? ” “I’ve just come from there … Tonight, at seven, we’ll bring him the Viaticum. ” Doña Pura ran into the office where Villaamil was. “The Viaticum… don’t you understand? ” “What?… who?” “Uncle, man, Ponce’s uncle, he’s gasping for air…” Slipping back into the dining room. “Friend Ponce, would you like a glass of wine with biscuits? You’ll be very upset… And there’s no need to think about theatrics… Of course. We won’t go either. You see, mourning… we’ll observe strict mourning… Do you really not want a glass of wine with biscuits?… Ah!” What a head!… The wine’s gone!… But we’ll bring it… Formally: don’t you want it? “Thank you; you know the wine goes to my head.” Abelarda and Ponce struck up a conversation, with no other witness than Luis, who was making a fuss in the dining room and sometimes stopped before the bride and groom, looking at them with childish stupor. They spoke in low voices… What could they say? The usual trivialities. Abelarda played her part with that indolent passivity she displayed in the common events of life. It had become routine for her to chat with that fool, to tell him she loved him, to offer some idea about the wedding. She had acquired the habit of responding affirmatively to Ponce’s questions, which were always measured and correct. Free will played no part in such confidences; The outward and visible woman performed a series of unconscious acts, like a sleepwalker, leaving the inner woman detached to act according to more human feelings. Before Victor’s sudden appearance in the house, Abelarda considered Ponce a likely resource and support in the vicissitudes of fate. She would marry him to gain a position, a status and a name, and escape the unbearable confines of her home. Since the arrival of “the other man,” she let herself be carried away by these same ideas, but like a skater who, once launched, continues spinning and sliding without landing on the ice. It never occurred to the young woman to back down or renounce her marriage to Ponce; because having that husband was equivalent to having a fan, a safety pin, or any other of the most common and at the same time indifferent objects . The sticky critic felt obliged to show himself more tender than the others that day, daring to set the day of blessings and to propose, belying his timidity, some details of their future married life. The insignificant woman listened to him like someone listening to rain, and by virtue of the speed she had acquired, she seemed in agreement with such plans and supported them with icy, colorless words, like someone repeating the Paternoster and Hail Marys from a rosary recited with a yawn without any devotion. The bell rang, and Abelarda was startled inside, without losing her cool demeanor. She knew him by the way he knocked, she knew the click of his heels as he ascended the stairs, and if he uttered a sentence from the door of the house to the dining room , speaking with Doña Pura or Villaamil, she could discern by the faint inflection of his accent whether he arrived in a good or bad mood. Doña Pura, upon opening the door for Victor, spilled the news of Ponce’s uncle’s imminent death. Unable to contain herself , the good lady spontaneously spoke up, even to the dance master, a common water carrier. Victor entered smiling, and, through inadvertence or malice, had to congratulate Ponce, who was stunned. Chapter 19. “Ah! No… excuse me. I was mistaken… It’s just that my mother-in-law’s eyes were dancing when she told me. The effects of the affection she has for you, illustrious Ponce. Affection blinds people… You are now home; we love you very much, and since we don’t have the pleasure of knowing, even by sight, your uncle…” She caressed Luis, rubbing his face and pressing his cheeks to kiss them, and then showed him the gift she had brought him. It was an album. for stamps, promised the day the boy took the purge, and in addition to the album, a number of stamps of different colors, some foreign, mostly Spanish, so he could amuse himself by gluing them onto the corresponding pages. Cadalsito’s gratitude for this gift cannot be overstated. He was at the age when the sense of classification begins to develop and when we associate toys with serious knowledge of life. Victor explained the layout of the album pages, teaching him to recognize the nationalities of the stamps. “Look, this fresh-faced woman is the French Republic. This lady with a crown and sash is the Queen of England, and this two-headed eagle is Germany. You’re putting them in their place, and now what you have to do is gather many more to fill all the gaps.” The little boy was delighted; he only regretted that the quantity of stamps wasn’t enough to flood the table. He soon learned of the procedure and secretly vowed to keep the album and take care of it for as long as he lived. Victor, meanwhile, chipped in with his spoonful of the snide conversation between Abelarda and Ponce. They were practically nose to nose, weaving a secret, a conspiracy of dullness, amorous to him and indifferent and tired to her. Victor wedged his spoon between their mouths, saying: “Friends, hats to whoever will tolerate them; I protest. And couldn’t you wait until the honeymoon to become lovebirds? Frankly, that is an insult to misfortune. Happiness should be concealed from the unfortunate, as wealth from the poor. Charity dictates it so. ” “But what does it matter to you whether we love each other or stop loving each other,” said Abelarda, “or whether we marry or stop marrying?” We’ll be happy or not, as we please. That’s up to us. You have nothing to do with it. “Don Victor,” Ponce said with his usual insipidity, “if you’re envious, eat your bread. ” “Envious? I won’t deny that I am. I’d be lying if I said otherwise. ” “Well, rage, really rage.” “Dad, Dad,” Luisito shrieked, determined to get Victor to turn his head in his direction, and putting his hand in his face to force him to look at him. “Where’s this man with the long mustache from? ” “But aren’t you, son? He’s from Italy… Well, I am envious. She tells me to be angry, and I have no problem getting angry and even biting.” Because when I see two people who love each other well, two who resolve the problem of love and smooth out all the difficulties, and on the path, the path to happiness, arrive at marriage, I die of envy. For me, believe it or not, you have solved the problem. I see in this couple what I will never be able to achieve. You have no ambition, you are content with a peaceful and modest life, esteeming and loving each other without fever or any of that madness… You may not have much money, but you will not lack the stew; you, without being saints, possess enough virtue to delight in each other… What more could one wish for? Ah! illustrious Ponce, you have known how to understand her; you have known how to choose… and she too, this rogue, who seems as if she would never break a plate, has put her hand in the basket and pulled out the best fruit. I congratulate myself, because I should not congratulate myself? But that doesn’t mean I don’t have my _fuzziness_, like any other citizen, because I see myself in such a different situation, oh! so different… I would give everything I have, everything I hope for, for one thing. Can’t you guess? With sudden intuition, Abelarda saw him coming and trembled. “Well, I would give everything to be the illustrious Ponce. Believe it or not , this is the truth. Do you want to change, my friend Ponce? ” “Frankly, if I get the lady in the exchange, there’s no problem at all. ” “Oh! Not that, because that’s precisely the crux of the matter. I would give blood from my veins to cast my line into the sea of life with the bait of a declaration of love and catch an Abelarda. It’s an ambition that would cure me of all the others.” “Dad,” Dad said, pulling at his nose to turn his face toward him. “What’s with this parrot? ” “Guatemala… Leave me alone, son… I don’t aspire to anything more. A little Abelardita to pamper me, and with such company I’ll face anything. With someone like her I’d marry without a doubt, that is to say, without a speck. I wouldn’t miss the chickpea. I prefer a piece of bread with her to all the riches in the world. Because where can you find such a sweet character, such a tender heart, such a hard-working woman, such… ” “Don Victor, you’re very excited about attempts at humor, completely frustrated. She’s my fiancée, and so many compliments are going to make me jealous… ” “She wasn’t jealous here… You’re largely here… This one, this one?… This one’s for sure, my friend; she loves you with her soul and her life.” All the kings and princes of the world could have come to argue with their beloved Ponce. Do you think that if I didn’t believe it, I wouldn’t have put the dots on it? Well-ordered charity begins with oneself. If I can conceive so many hopes like this, do you think I’m not rising with the saint and the alms? But, oh no! To another door… Look at her: whoever I speak to about exchanging her little Ponce for another, she throws the things at his head… Look at her with that face that seems like an enigma, with that little smile that seems false; anyone would dare to say anything to her. “Come on, Don Victor,” objected Ponce with a lot of saliva in his mouth, ” when you talk like that, it’s because you’ve had your pretensions… and you’ve gotten what the Negro from the sermon has.” “Don’t pay any attention, silly,” said Abelarda, very uneasy, smiling violently, and with more desire to cry than to joke. “Don’t you see she ‘s messing with you? ” “Let her stay. The thing is, Abelarda is formal, and once she’s given her word, there’s no taking her away. We understood each other as soon as we met; our personalities are perfectly suited, and if I’m cut out for her, she’s cut out for me. ” “Little by little, Sir Ponce, becoming very serious, as always when he raised his cruel jokes to a heroic level, you’ll be cut out for whoever you like; I’m not getting involved in that. But Abelarda, Abelarda …” Ponce looked at him seriously too, waiting for the end of the sentence, and the insignificant woman lowered her gaze to her sewing. “I say that what she is, she is not cut out for you. And I will maintain that against anyone who thinks otherwise. Truth be told.” She loves you, I admit it; but as for the politeness… You are very polite ; I’m talking about the moral politeness as well as the physical politeness, yes, sir, the physical politeness as well. Do you want me to say it clearly? Well, Abelarda is polite to me… to me; and there’s no need to take it as an offense. To me, even if it seems like nonsense to you. You can’t judge her as I do, since I knew her when she was still a doll!… And, besides, you haven’t met me well enough to know whether we get along or not… I know I’m talking about something impossible; I know it’s my fault that I arrived late; I know you got ahead of me, and we shouldn’t quarrel… But as for recognizing the merit of someone who has it; as for deploring the fact that so many gifts are not my own—what that means, to me, emphasizing the phrase with the greatest formality and in an oratorical tone— ah! what that means, I will not and cannot yield. “Don’t pay attention to him, just leave him,” Abelarda told her boyfriend, who was beginning to sulk. “My friend Don Victor, all that may be true, but it’s not really relevant. ” “You seem to be getting bitter, illustrious Ponce. Know that I am very loyal. I recognize that you have earned what I think should have been mine. Pathetically. It was well earned. It was in a fair fight. What I lost, I lost because of me. I’m not complaining. We’ll be friends, always friends. Here come those five. ” “Ah, this Don Victor, what nerve!” he said, letting her hand be shaken. With anyone other than Ponce, Cadalso would have been well saved from using such impertinent language; but he already knew who he was dealing with. The boyfriend was a little annoyed, and Abelarda didn’t know what to think. As a joke, she She seemed too cruel; in truth, too expressive. Ponce was greatly distressed to have to leave: he presumed that Victor would continue speaking to the girl in the same tone, and, frankly, Abelarda was his fiancée, his betrothed, and that little brother-in-law staying under his own roof was beginning to worry him. The rascal Cadalso, recognizing the critic’s discomposure, at the moment of saying goodbye shook his right hand vigorously, repeating: “Loyal, I am very loyal… There is nothing to fear from me.” And when he returned to the young woman’s side, who was looking at him in dismay: “Forgive me, daughter; that thought escaped me, which I wanted to hide from everyone… Spontaneous thoughts that one has when least expecting it, and that even the most skilled at dissembling cannot contain sometimes. I didn’t want to talk about this; but I don’t know what came over me.” I was so envious of seeing you two lovebirds! I was so frightened by the loneliness I found myself in, simply for being late, yes, for being late! Excuse me, I won’t say another word. I know this chapter bores and annoys you. I’ll be discreet. Abelarda couldn’t restrain herself. She stood up, feeling terrified, a desire to flee and hide, to hide something that was rushing out of her pale face. “Victor,” she exclaimed, distraught and trembling, “either you are the worst man in the world, or I don’t know what you are!” She ran to her room and burst into tears, collapsing face first onto the pillows in her bed. Victor stayed in the dining room, and Luis, who in his innocence understood that something strange was going on, didn’t dare for a while bother Papa with that scheming about the stamps. It was the father who then pretended to take an interest in the clever game and began to explain to his son the symbols of nationalities, which the latter did not understand: “This bearded king is Belgium, and this cross is the Helvetic Republic, that is, Switzerland.” Doña Pura came in from the street, and when she didn’t see her daughter in the dining room or the kitchen, she looked for her in the bedroom. Abelarda was already coming out, her eyes very red, without giving her mother a satisfactory explanation for those signs of pain. Victor, questioned by Doña Pura on the subject, said sarcastically: “You seem silly, Mama. You’re crying for Ponce’s uncle. ” Chapter 20. They put Luis to bed early, and he took the stamp album with him and fell asleep holding him close. That night he didn’t suffer the spasmodic attack that preceded the singular vision of the celestial old man. But he dreamed that he was suffering from it, and consequently, that he longed for and awaited the fantastic visit. The mysterious figure played truant, and Cadalsito expressed his grief as much, wanting to show him his album. He waited, he waited a long time, unable to determine where he was, for it could just as easily have been the school, the dining room of his house, or the memoirist’s desk. And in the wake of his dream, where everything was absurd and delirious, the boy unleashed an admirable stroke of logic: “How stupid am I!” he thought. “How can he come, if they took him tonight to Ponce’s uncle’s house?” The next day he was released; but it was decided that he would not go to school for the rest of the week, for which he was very grateful, deciding to study something at night, nothing more than a sliver, and reserving his great efforts of application for when he returned to his schoolwork. They allowed him to go down to the gatehouse, and he carried the album to show it to Paca and Canelo. He would have liked to take him to his Aunt Quintina’s house; but there was no permission for this. He remained at the gatehouse until nightfall, when they called him, fearing that he would be astonished by the air in the doorway. When he went up, he had an idea he had acquired during his conversations with Mendizábal and Paca; an idea that seemed somewhat strange at first, but which later he took for the most natural in the world. He was alone with Abelarda, as his grandmother and Milagros were messing around in the kitchen, when Cadalsito decided to tell his aunt the famous idea. She caressed him with extreme vehemence, gave him kisses, promised to give him a larger album, and suddenly Luis, Responding to so many affections with others no less tender, he said to her: “Auntie, why don’t you marry my father?” The girl remained dumb, fluctuating between laughter and anger. “Where did you get that from, Luis?” she said, frightening him with the ferocity of her face. “You didn’t make it up. Someone told you . ” “Paca told me,” Luis affirmed, not wanting to burden himself with other people’s responsibilities. “She says that Ponce is more stupid than he wants to be and that he’s no good for you; that my father is smart and handsome and that he’s going to have a very big career, a very big one. ” “Tell Paca not to meddle in what doesn’t concern her… And what else, what else did she say to you? ” “Well… digging into her memory. Ah!” that my father is a very decent gentleman … like he gives Paca pesetas whenever he delivers an errand… And that you ought to marry my father, so that everything would stay in the family. “Does he deliver errands for her? Letters? And to whom? Don’t you know?” “It must be to the Minister… They’re very good friends. ” “Well, everything Paca told you about poor Ponce is nonsense,” affirmed Abelarda, smiling. “Don’t you like Ponce? Tell me the truth, tell me what you think. ” Luis hesitated for a moment before answering. The fearful suspicion that his father inspired in him had been extinguished not only by the gifts he had received from him, but also by the observation that Victor got along very well with the whole family. As for Ponce, it’s good to say that Cadalsito had not formed any opinion whatsoever about this subject, which is why he accepted Paca’s opinion without discussion. “Ponce’s good for nothing, don’t you think so. He walks down the street like his pants are falling off. And what talent… Look, Cuevas has more talent. Don’t you think so? ” Abelarda laughed at such jokes. She would have even continued chatting with Luis about the matter; but his father called her to attach some buttons to his waistcoat, and she kept busy until lunchtime . Doña Pura said that Víctor didn’t eat at home, but at the house of a friend of his, a deputy and leader of a small parliamentary group. Villaamil made some sharp comments about this , which Abelarda listened to in silence, with great sorrow. They discussed whether or not they would go to the theater that night, but the decision was in the affirmative because Luis was already well. Abelarda asked to stay, and her mother attacked her alone, asking her several questions: “Why aren’t you eating? What’s wrong?” What face is that, like a half- dead sheep? Why don’t you want to come to the Real? Don’t test my patience. Get dressed, we’ll leave immediately. And three o’clock came, leaving Villaamil with his grandson and his funereal solitudes. After putting the child to bed, he began to read La Correspondencia, which spoke of a new combination. When the Miaus returned, Víctor was already there, writing letters at the dining room table. Don Ramón was still gnawing the newspaper, and father-in-law and son-in-law didn’t say a word to each other. They all withdrew, like monkeys. Abelarda had to soak clothes to be ironed the next day, and seeing her immersed in this chore, Víctor, without putting down his pen, said to her: “I’ve been thinking about you all day. I was afraid you’d be angry about yesterday. I had made a resolution never to reveal my feelings to you.” I haven’t told you the whole truth yet , nor will I, God willing. When one arrives late , one must resign oneself and remain silent. And you don’t answer me at all? Don’t you even speak to scold me? The insignificant woman’s eyes were fixed on the table, her lips moving as if the word were frolicking within them. Finally, she didn’t say a word. “I will speak to you as a brother, with that kindly gravity I knew so well how to feign, since I have no other way. I am very unhappy… you don’t quite know it. Here I am, dragged along by a vertigo of insane passions; here I am under the weight of relationships I sought out of bewilderment, which I maintained out of routine and laziness, and which I now wish to break off. For this purpose, I counted on the help of an angelic being to whom I first thought I would commend myself and finally surrender myself body and soul. But that can no longer be. What am I doing in this predicament?” To continue and continue bogged down, to lose myself deeper and deeper in the labyrinth with no way out. There is no salvation for me now. Fate drags me along… You don’t understand this, Abelarda; but who knows! Perhaps you will, for you have great insight. Oh! If only I had found you free…! A thousand times I have resolved not to say anything to you. Only the words keep spilling out of my mouth… Enough, enough; pay no attention to me. I have been telling you this from the beginning. Pay no attention to this wretch; despise me. I do not deserve you. I am atoning for the enormous follies I have committed since my poor Luisa, that angel, left me… an angel from heaven, but inferior to you, so inferior that there is no point of comparison between the two of us. I, frankly rising with excitement, when I see what a great treasure she will be for a Ponce; when I think that such a set of qualities falls into the hands of… Abelarda was so suffocated that if she doesn’t let off steam, if she doesn’t open at least a little valve, she’s sure to burst. –And what if I told you… let’s see, turning pale, if I told you that I don’t love Ponce?… –You?… and it’s true?… –If I told you that I never loved him, and never will?… let’s see. Victor hadn’t counted on this way out, and he became disoriented. –There you have something… come on… stammering something that feels like a blow to the head… But is it true? When you say it, it must be true. Abelarda, Abelarda, don’t play with me; don’t play with fire… These jokes, if they are jokes, usually bring catastrophes. Because when you hate a man, as you hate me … confused and not knowing to what saint to commend yourself, you say nothing to him that might mislead him regarding… I mean, regarding the feelings of the person who hates him, because it could happen that the hated one… No, I cannot explain to you what I feel. If you do not love Ponce, it is because you love someone else, and this is what you must not tell me… Why? So that I become more confused than I already am? Glimpsing a wicket and sharpening his wits to slip through it. And I do not want to question you on this particular matter, because it would drive me mad. Keep your secret and respect my situation. If I inspire in you nothing but hatred, if you do not reach repugnance, I beg you to leave me alone, to withdraw, and not add another word. I am not offering you my advice, because you would not accept it; But if you find yourself in a difficult situation, and my advice could be of any use to you, you know that I am to you whatever you want me to be; brother, if you treat me as a brother… “And if I need it, if I need your advice?” insinuated Abelarda, who was looking not for a way out, but for the way in, without being able to discover it. “Then you can use me again, bewildered. If you want a man and fear your parents’ opposition; if the breakup with Ponce seems difficult and you need help, I am here ready to lend it to you, no matter how painful the situation may be for me to get closer to her. Tell me, tell me, don’t be afraid. Do you want a man who is not your boyfriend? ” “It’s too much to ask for me to confess… like this… tenaciously resorting to coquetry to get out of the situation. And who’s going to give you a candle in this funeral?” “I’m family… I’m your friend. I could be something more if you wanted. But I arrived late; There’s no need to talk about me. I’m out of the game. If you don’t want to confide your secret to me, so much the better for me. That way I won’t suffer so much. Answer me a question: does the man you love love you back? I didn’t say I loved anyone… I don’t think I did… But let’s say I did. That’s none of your business. You’re very nosy… Of course I wasn’t going to love anyone who didn’t love me back. I was quite clear-headed! So there’s reciprocity with feigned anger. And you ‘re saying these things to my face! Me! I didn’t even say a word. But you’re implying it… I don’t want to be your confidant, come on… So the other guy loves you? I don’t know… letting himself be carried away by his now irresistible spontaneity. That’s what I haven’t been able to find out yet. “And you’ve come, no doubt, to ask me to find out for you sarcastically. Abelarda, I don’t write that kind of thing. No, don’t tell me who it is; I don’t need to know. Is it perhaps someone I know? Well, keep the name to yourself, keep it to yourself if you don’t want us to lose our friendships. This is being told to you by a man who feels affection for you… but an affection I don’t want to define now; a man who lives under the weight of his fatal destiny; Cadalso borrowed these and similar philosophies from certain novels he had read; a man who is forbidden to tell you about his sufferings; and since I must not love you, nor can I be yours, nor you mine, I must not torment myself, nor let you torment me. Keep your secret, and I will reserve the part of it I have guessed.” If fate had not intervened between us, I would still attempt your remedy, trying to tear that love from you and replace it with my own. But I am not master of my own will. This feeling, beating its breast, will never pass from the heart to the reality of life. Why do you incite me to discover it? Leave it within me, mute, buried, but always alive. Do not tempt me, do not irritate me. Do you love another? Well, don’t let me know. Why sting an incurable wound? And to prevent further conflicts, tomorrow I’m leaving this house, and I’m never coming back here. Abelarda felt such deep distress upon hearing this that she could not hide it. She had no weapons of reasoning in her poor mind to combat that monster of infinite resources or inexhaustible wit, accustomed to playing with serious and profound feelings. Dazed and bewildered, she was about to betray her secret, offering herself defenseless and covered in ridicule to Victor’s brutal sarcasm; but she managed to calm down a little, regain some balance, and with affected calm she said: “No, no, there’s no reason for you to leave. Have you made your peace with Quintina? ” “Me? What nonsense! Yesterday Cabrera almost shot me. He’s an animal. I’ll go live somewhere. ” “No, not that. You can stay here. ” “Then promise me not to say another word about this. ” “I haven’t said anything. You’re the one who tells him everything. That you love me, that you can’t love me. How can that be understood? ” “And the final proof that I love you and shouldn’t love you with any acuity, I’m going to give you now with this advice: turn your eyes to Ponce… ” “Thank you. ” “Turn your eyes to the illustrious Ponce. Marry him.” Be practical. Don’t you love him? It doesn’t matter. “You’re completely crazy. Did I say I didn’t love him? ” “You did say it. ” “Well, I’ll take it back. What nonsense! If I said it, it was a joke, to hear you and give you some fabric. ” “You’re mean, very mean. I thought otherwise about you. ” “Well, you know what I’m saying?” he said, getting up in a violent burst of anger and spite. “You’re extremely tiresome and unbearable with your… with your enigmas; and I can’t see you, I can’t see you. It’s my fault, I can hear your nonsense. Boring… I’m going to sleep… And I’ll sleep soundly. What do you think? ” “Hatred, very keen, like love, takes away sleep. ” “Not me… perverse… foolish…” “You go to sleep, and I’ll stay awake thinking of you… Goodbye, Abelarda… Until tomorrow.” And when the impious man left, a minute after the victim’s disappearance, having entered his room and barred the door like someone fleeing from a murderer, he had a diabolical giggle on his lips and this bitter and cruel monologue: “If I’m not careful, she’ll throw that declaration at me with complete shamelessness. And be careful, the girl is unpleasant and very uptight !… And she’s too cutesy to be precise, and dull… Everything could be forgiven if she were pretty… Ah! Ponce, what a bargain you’ve got!… She’s such a rip-off that there’s no way you can throw her away . ” Chapter 21. Although the Villaamils’ hopes, barely cut down in their prime, began to sprout again with renewed vigor, the distressed dismissed man always gave them up for dead, faithful to the system of waiting in despair. Only that his pessimism was ill-suited to the frenzy of writing letters and pressing whatever keys could communicate vibration to the Minister’s fainting will. “All this waiting for a vacancy is music,” he said. “I know that when they want to get things done, they do them by jumping over vacancies and even over the laws. It’s not like we were fools. I’ve seen a thousand times the case of a prominent man entering the Ministry, knife in hand, asking for a fat credential; the Minister—bam!—calls the Chief of Staff… “There’s no vacancy…” “Then make it.” Pataplún! There you go, whoever falls… But where is my prominent man? What famous character will enter the Minister’s office with a ferocious face saying: “I’m not moving from here until they give me… that?” Oh, my God, how unfortunate I am, and how I’m falling out of the game!… With this cursed Restoration, the epilogue of a doomed Revolution, so many new people have emerged that one turns around everywhere without seeing a familiar face. When a Don Claudio Moyano, a Don Antonio Benavides, or a Marquis of Novaliches tells you: “Friend Villaamil, we’re already ordered to pack up,” it’s like the world is ending. Mendizábal rightly says that politics has fallen into the hands of sycophants.” To distract his sorrow and sniff out other people’s appointments—since in his own case he pretended not to believe, or really didn’t believe—he would go in the afternoons to the Ministry of Finance, in whose offices he had many friends of various ranks. There he would spend long hours chatting, learning about the case, smoking a cigarette, and serving as an advisor to new or inexperienced employees who consulted him on any obscure point of the complex administration. Villaamil professed a deep affection for the colossal bulk of the Ministry; he loved it as a faithful servant loves the home and family whose bread he has eaten for many years; and in that fateful period of his dismissal, he would visit it with respect and sadness, like a dismissed servant who haunts the dwelling from which he was expelled, dreaming of returning. He would cross the portico, the immense corridor separating the two courtyards, and slowly climb the monumental staircase, enclosed within thick walls, which have something of the feudal and the prison-like at the same time. He almost always met some friendly employee along those flights going up or down. “Hello, Villaamil, how are you?” “We’re getting by.” When he reached the main office, he hesitated before deciding whether to go to Customs or the Treasury, since he knew plenty of people at both offices; but at the latter, he always preferred Property Taxes. The doormen greeted him; and since Villaamil was so affable, he always had a chat with them. If it was late, he’d find them with the shovelful of embers, leftover from the fireplaces, the last of which was used to feed the braziers in the porters’ lodges; if it was early, he’d find them carrying papers from one office to another or transporting trays with glasses of water and sugar cubes. “Hello, Bermejo, how are you?” “Exactly, Don Ramón, and I’m very sorry not to see you around here every day.” “Tell me, what about Ceferino?” “He’s gone to Taxes. Poor Cruz was the one who died.” “What are you telling me?” “Man, I saw him the other day so well and so healthy!… What a world this is! There are few of us left from that time. When I moved in here during the time of Don Juan Bravo Murillo, Cruz was already in the house… Look how much it’s been a long time… Poor Cruz, I’m sorry.” The best friend among the many good ones Villaamil had in that house was Don Buenaventura Pantoja, of whom we already know something, father of Virginia Pantoja, one of the actresses in the domestic coliseum of the Miaus. Don Ramón favored the office of his excellent and former colleague, Contribuciones, whose head he had been: he would sit in the chair closest to the table; he would shuffle his papers if he wasn’t there, and if he was, the two of them would engage in a tasty exchange of bureaucratic gossip. “–Do you know…–” said Pantoja.–Today two first officers and a head of Administration came out hot and dry. Yesterday that puppet was here with the name of any famous politician, and of course, blatantly. What I I tell you: when they want to get things done, they jump over everything. “For the love of God,” Villaamil responded, giving a sorrowful sigh that made the nearest sheets of paper tremble. That day the good man took a long time to settle down at Pantoja’s desk. At every step, acquaintances jumped out. One came out this way, clutching files tied with a spittoon; another hurried in that way, late and fearing a scolding from the boss. “How good?… How are you, Villaamil?” “Son, defending us.” Pantoja’s office was part of a very vast room, divided by partitions about two meters high. The ceiling was shared by the different departments, and in the vast chamber one could see the long, black stovepipes, broken at right angles to form the horizontal, piercing the walls. The loud clang of bells filled the room, the distant voices of the commanders, ceaselessly calling their subordinates. Since it was the hour when stragglers arrive, when early risers have lunch, when others drink coffee brought in from the street, the silence conducive to mental work did not reign; instead, everything became the sound of closing doors, laughter, the clatter of crockery and coffee pots, shouts, and impatient voices. Villaamil entered the section, greeting everyone. The third officer there was the lame Guillén, a close friend of the Villaamil family, a regular regular, and a prompter for the play that was about to be performed. He was, moreover, the uncle of the famous Posturitas, a friend and emulator of Luisito Cadalso, and lived with his sisters, owners of the loan establishment. Guillén had a reputation for being sharp and deceitful, capable of pulling the wool over the eyes of the morning star. At the office, he wrote crude and vulgar comic books, some lurid dramas that would never reach the limelight; he drew caricatures and rhymed satires against the many ridiculous people in the house. There was also a young wannabe there , the son of the Director of the Treasury, who was barely sixteen and earned his five thousand reales, sharp as a flash, capable of running errands from office to office. The second-in-command was a certain Espinosa, an elegant young man with an improvised career and a stripe in his polo shirt, with a great deal of carelessness in his dress and quite a few mistakes in his spelling; a good fellow who never formalized his duties because of Guillén’s tiresome jokes. But the most characteristic of all was a certain Argüelles y Mora, a second-in-command, a perfect parody of a gentleman from the time of Philip IV: small, a genuine Madrid cat, with a lean , waxy face, a black mustache and goatee, and long, well -groomed hair. To make the image more complete, he wore a certain short black cape, which looked like something left over from Quevedo’s wardrobe. His hat was a flat, chambered bowler hat with a finger’s worth of grease. It was a pity he didn’t wear a ruff; but even without it, he was a polished type of bailiff. In his time, he had pretensions of handsomeness, originality, and elegance; but his shoulders were already slouching, and his face, with his dyed hair, had a forced, watchful look that was pitiful. He played the horn in a theater. His colleagues called him the “father of the family” because in every bureaucratic conversation he brought up the multitude of mouths he had to keep busy with his meager and underpaid salary of twelve thousand reales. There were three or four other employees, some taciturn and attentive to their duties, spread out over several tables, a respectful distance from the boss’s, near the window overlooking the courtyard. Near the tables were the pegs where the officials hung capes and hats. Guillén had his crutches beside him. Between tables were shelves and wastebaskets, junk of a shape and appearance only seen in offices, some old, with I don’t know what smell and color of “Straw and Utensils,” from which they may have come; others new, but not resembling any furniture used outside bureaucratic regions. On all the desks there were piles of files tied with red ribbons, some yellowish and dusty, paper that has something of cinerary and It contains the hopes of several generations; the others, with brand-new pages and recent writing, with marginal notes and illegible signatures. They were the most modern pieces in the immense lawsuit between the town and the treasury. Pantoja wasn’t there: the Director had called him. “Have a seat , Don Ramón. Do you want a cigarette ? ” “And what are you up to?” he asked, approaching the lame man’s table and seizing a piece of paper. “Let’s see, let’s see…?” “Original play in verse.” Title? “Her stepsister’s stepdaughter.” Very well, you drones; that’s how you waste your time. “Don Ramón, Don Ramón,” said the elegant man, who had just finished savoring his coffee. “Don’t you know? Do you remember Cañizares, the one who was in Properties, the one we called Don Simplicio? They gave him twelve thousand. Have you seen a bigger “polacada”? “I had him in my office with five thousand fourteen years ago,” said the father of the family, brandishing his closed fist and revealing all the affliction in the world on his bailiff-like face. “He was such an ass, we had to keep him busy fetching firewood for the stove. He wasn’t even good for that. Damn, what a beastly man! I earned twelve thousand then, the same as now. See for yourselves if this is justice or what. Am I right or wrong when I say that it’s better to collect dung in the streets than to serve the great scoundrel of the State? Let’s agree that the shame is over. ” “Friend Argüelles,” Villaamil sighed with stoic sadness, “there’s no choice but to swallow it. Tell me about it, I’ve had under my command, in the provinces, with six thousand, the very Director of the branch… The creature was in Estancadas… and he wasn’t even good enough to stick seals on cigar boxes.” “Give me, my dove, some of your food… When I remember, you idiots! That my father wanted to place me as a shop assistant, and I went back on my word, believing that this wasn’t a fine thing to do!… Come on, when I remember this, I feel like tearing out by the handfuls these damned locks of hair one has left!… It was back in ’51. Well, not only did I not want to hear about counter work, but I became a clerk just to be a gentleman; and to top it off, I got married. What a rascal I was!… Then, _pian pianino_, nine from the family, a mother-in-law, and two orphaned nephews. And you defend the chickpeas from so many people… And thank goodness the trumpet helps, gentlemen. In ’64 I reached twelve thousand reales, and there I stood. Do you know who got the twelve thousand from me? Julián Romea. I won’t see myself in another. I’ve been in this position for fourteen years. I’m not even asking for a promotion anymore. What’s the point? Unless I ask for it with a shot… The lamentations of the trumpet player, the father of the family, were always heard with delight. At that point, Pantoja entered, and conticuere omnes. The section leader’s head was covered by a red cap, with some artichoke-shaped ones embroidered in gold, and a frayed tassel that fell gracefully. He was wearing a well-dressed brown overcoat, trousers with knee pads, and a short tail, revealing the shafts of his brand-new, still-polished boots. After greeting his friend, he took his seat. Villaamil leaned closer, and they chatted. Pantoja never forgot his duties in the midst of small talk, and he was constantly giving orders to his troops. “Listen, Argüelles, please send me an order to the Provincial Economic Administration requesting such and such… You, Espinosa, immediately get me the statement of debts for Industrial.” And with a skilled hand, he undid the sliver of ivory to gut a file and remove the filth. He also displayed singular skill in tying them up, and it seemed as if he were caressing them as he moved them from one place to another on the table or placed them on the shelf. The physiognomic type of this man consisted of a certain spiritual inertia that was reflected in his features. His forehead was wide, smooth, and as meaningless as the spine of one of those lined accounting books, where no label can be read. His nose was thick at the base, his eyes so far apart that they seemed to be at odds , each looking at its own risk, without paying attention to the other. His large mouth had no clear end. His ears would know it. His pursed lips They seemed to strain their tempers when speaking, as if they had been expressly created for discretion. Morally, Pantoja was the prototype of administrative fundamentalism. The term “honest civil servant” was as much ascribed to his personality as his first name. He was cited tenaciously and as a catchphrase, and to say “Pantoja” was like evoking the very image of morality. A man of few needs, he lived obscurely and without ambition, content with his promotion every six or seven years, neither eager for advantages nor fearful of dismissal, for he was one of those few whose troughs were never cleaned out, due to their practical, thorough, and meticulous knowledge of office matters . He had come to consider his bureaucratic immanence as a tribute paid to his honesty, and this idea transformed into an exalted sentiment or superstition. He was a naively honest soul , with such a narrow conscience that he would be frightened if he heard talk of millions other than those in the Treasury. Very high figures, not those in the State budget, would produce a convulsive shudder in him; and if any project related to large-scale industrial or banking ventures was being prepared in the Ministry, the word “swindle” would rise to his lips, beyond help. He never went to the Central Treasury without experiencing a sensation of terror, as if facing an abyss or a terrifying chasm where danger and death lurked ; and when he saw high-ranking banking figures enter the Treasury Office or the Secretariat, he would tremble for the wealth of the Treasury, of which he believed himself to be a watchdog. According to Pantoja, no one should be truly rich except the State. All other wealth was the product of fraud and bribery. He had always served in the Treasury, and throughout his long and laborious career, he cultivated in his soul the insane pleasure of pursuing the delinquent or malicious taxpayer, a pleasure that had something of the cruel enthusiasm of hunting: for him, it was an ineffable delight to see large and small property owners defend themselves, kicking and screaming, against the persecution of the Treasury, and always succumb to the superiority of the hunter. In all conflicts between the Treasury and the taxpayer, the Treasury was always right, according to Pantoja’s inflexible opinion, and this criterion was evident in his notes, which never recognized the right of any individual against the State. For him, Property, Industry, and consumption itself were organisms or instruments of fraud, something solvent and revolutionary, whose objective was to dispute their immortal rights with the sole entity that owned and possessed everything: the Nation. Pantoja never owned anything but his clothes and furniture; he was the son of a doorman in the Sala de Fifteen Hundred; He had grown up in an attic of the Councils, without ever leaving Madrid; he knew no world but offices, and for him life was an uninterrupted succession of petty services to the State, receiving from it, in return, the chickpeas and the holy bread of each day. Chapter 22. Ah! Heavens! What would the world be without stew? And what would wretched humanity be without pay? Pay was the only form of earthly goods in conformity with moral principles, for for all other kinds of well-being Pantoja lodged in the depths of his soul a haughty contempt. He hardly conceded that among the rich there was anyone who was truly honorable, and he regarded large enterprises and bold contractors with religious horror. To build a rich fortune in a few years , to rise from poverty to opulence… was impossible by legitimate means. For such a thing to happen, it is essential to _dirty_ oneself, taking away what is rightfully theirs from the eternal victim, the elemental owner, the State. The good Pantoja forgave the millionaire who had inherited his fortune and did nothing but spend it; but even so, he did not hold him in the odor of sanctity, saying that if he did not steal, his parents had, and responsibility, like money, was transmitted from generation to generation. When he saw the Minister enter the Ministry and go to the office of the Minister A representative of Rothschild or another opulent Spanish or foreign house, he thought how useful it would be to hang all those gentlemen who came there only to plot some scheme. Pantoja spread these and similar ideas in the café circles he frequented, becoming the object of scathing ridicule for his narrow-mindedness; but he didn’t take sides. Was the Treasury being discussed? Pantoja immediately waved his banner with this simple and convincing slogan: “A lot of administration and little or no politics.” War on big business, war on profiteering, and also war on foreigners, who come here only to exploit us and steal our profits, leaving us poorer than rats. Nor did Pantoja hide his sympathies for strict tariffs, since free trade is the protection of foreign industry. At the same time, he maintained that property owners complain of vice, that nowhere are taxes paid less than in Spain, that the country is essentially defrauding, and that politics is the art of condoning defrauding and taking turns, peaceful or violent, in the plundering of the Treasury. In short, Pantoja had three or four ideas, but they were deeply embedded in his intellect, as if they had been hammered in with a sledgehammer and chisel. His conversation among friends languished because he never spoke ill of his superiors or criticized the Minister’s plans; he didn’t delve into the details or reveal any behind-the-scenes secrets. Deep in his mind slumbered a certain communism of which he was unaware. Of this type of civil servant, which the dizzying politics of recent times has seen to extinguish, there are still some examples, albeit few. In his work, Pantoja was punctual, zealous, incorruptible, and an implacable enemy of what he called “the private sector.” He never issued an opinion contrary to the Treasury; the Treasury paid him, was his master, and he wasn’t there to serve the enemies of the House. As for obscure matters, of a cobwebbed antiquity and difficult resolution, his system was that they should never be resolved; and when the final step imposed by law inevitably arrived, he sought in the law itself the necessary trick to entangle them again. Writing the final word in one of these lawsuits was equivalent to the Administration’s weakness , to declaring itself defeated and almost dishonored. As for his probity, it suffices to say that he received with a vengeful temper the agents who came to offer him a reward for dispatching this or that business properly and promptly . They already knew him, and they didn’t dare to go against that porcupine, who bristled all his quills upon sensing the approach of the _private individual_, that is, the taxpayer . In his private life , Pantoja was the model of models. There was no house more methodical than his, nor an ant comparable to his wife. They were the reverse of the Villaamil medal, who spent their entire allowance in good times and then perished. Mrs. Pantoja didn’t have, like Doña Pura, that ruinous itch to assume, those airs of a person above her means and social position. Mrs. Pantoja had been raised, I believe, to serve Don Claudio Antón de Luzuriaga, to whom Pantoja owed her first credential, and the humbleness of her origins inclined her to obscurity and to a modest and reticent life. They never spent more than two-thirds of their allowance, and their children were indoctrinated in the love of God and in the superstitious fear of worldly pomp and circumstance. Despite the close friendship that reigned between Villaamil and Pantoja, the former never dared to resort to the latter’s frequent needs; he knew him as if he had given birth to him; he knew perfectly well that the “honest man” neither asked nor gave, that postulation and munificence were equally incompatible with his character, coffers whose doors were never opened either inward or outward . The two of them seated, one at a desk, the other on the nearest chair , Pantoja tilted his cap, which was slipping down on his head. polished with the slightest movement of his hand, and said to his friend: “I’m glad you came today. The file on your son-in-law arrived. I haven’t been able to take a look at it. It doesn’t seem to be very clean. He left out two or three towns in the distress note, and the distributions for the last six months are full of toads and snakes. ” “Ventura, my son-in-law is a crook; you know that only too well. He’s probably up to all sorts of crazy things. ” “And the Director told me yesterday that he’s out there living the high life, entertaining his friends and spending extravagantly, with a disgusting array of hats and ties, and the filthy bastard looking quite a figure . Tell me one thing: does he live with you?” “Yes,” Villaamil responded tersely, feeling a wave of shame rise in his cheeks as he considered that, due to Pura’s weakness, his clothes also came from Cadalso’s money. “But I can’t wait for him to get out of my house. Not a chance from his hand. ” “Because… you see, I’m glad to have this opportunity to tell you: this is detrimental to you, and it’s enough that he’s your son-in-law and lives under your roof for some to believe you’re in cahoots with him. ” “I… with him!” horrified. Ventura, don’t tell me such a thing… ” “No; I’m not the one saying it, nor does it cross my mind. But the people in this house… You see, there are so many scoundrels! And when it comes to thinking bad things, the most scoundrels are the ones who skin the innocent.” –Well, although Victor is my son-in-law, I’m so far removed from his tricks that if it were up to me to prevent him from going to prison, I wouldn’t prevent it… Imagine. –Ah! He won’t go, he won’t go; don’t worry. He won’t go for the very reason he deserves it. He has a lightning rod and a parachute. Times are getting so corrupt that these scoundrels like your son-in-law are the ones getting paid cheaply. You’ll see how they’ll snuff out the case, approve of his conduct, and give him that ridiculous promotion. By the way, he’s one of the most daring people I know. He was here yesterday; then he went down to see the Undersecretary, and since he has that gift of the gab and that good looks, the Undersecretary… whoever was present received him with applause told me, and the two of them chatted away for more than half an hour. –And the Minister has seen him? with utter dismay. –I can’t tell you; But I know that a representative from the province where your son-in-law’s little jewel served came to recommend him . He’s one of those who, the more they give him, the more they want. He never leaves here without securing two or three fat credentials, but fat ones, and he’s a dissident; but for that very reason, because of his dissident status, they pay more attention to him. “Do you think they’ll give Victor the promotion?” with deep anxiety. “I can’t assure you anything. ” “And what do you know about mine?” with even greater anxiety. “The Chief of Personnel doesn’t give away anything. When I speak to him about you, he gives me a “we’ll see” and an “I’ll do what I can,” which is tantamount to saying nothing. Ah! In parentheses: yesterday, after speaking with the Undersecretary, Victor slipped into Personnel. Espinosa’s brother came to tell me. The Chief showed him the provincial vacancies, and your son-in-law arrogantly allowed himself to be told that he wasn’t going to the provinces at all. “Friend Ventura,” Villaamil indicated with painful consternation, “remember what I told you. You’ll have to see it through, and if you have any doubts, let’s bet something… That they’ll promote Víctor and not hire me? Justice and reason would be another matter, and reason and justice are currently wandering around in the clouds. ” Pantoja tilted his cap again. It was his particular way of scratching his head. Heaving a deep sigh, which came out very constricted , because it only opened with a certain solemnity, he tried to console his friend in the following way: “We don’t know if they’ll be able to fix Víctor’s case, despite the desire his protectors seem to have for it.” And as for you, if I were you, without ceasing to harangue the Director, the Undersecretary, and the Minister, I’d find myself a good coattail among the people in charge. –But if I grab on and pull, and… as if not. –Well, keep pulling, man, until you’re left with the coattail in your hand. Stick to the big birds, whether they’re ministerial or not; go to Sagasta, Cánovas, Don Venancio, Castelar, the Silvelas; don’t worry about whether they’re white, black, or yellow, because at the rate you’re going, given the way things are, you’ll get nothing. Neither Pez nor Cucurbitas will be of any use to you: they’re swamped with commitments, and they only hire their own gang, their henchmen, their valets, and even the barbers who shave them. Those people who served the Glorious Revolution first and then the Restoration are up to their necks in water because they have to take care of the current people, without neglecting the old ones, who are barking with hunger. Pez has brought in someone here who was in the faction and others who frolicked with the cantonal faction. How can Pez forget that those with the red cap supported him at the Tax Office, and that the Amadeists almost made him Minister, and that the moderates of Sister Patrocinio’s time awarded him the Grand Cross? Villaamil listened to this wise advice, his eyes lowered, his expression gloomy, and without ignoring how reasonable it was. While the two friends chatted in this way, totally abstracted from what was happening in the office, the damned lame Salvador Guillén drew on a sheet of paper, with humorous pen strokes, the caricature of Villaamil, and once finished, and seeing that it was good, he added below: “Mr. Miau, meditating on his plans for the Treasury.” He passed the paper to his companions so they could laugh, and the puppet went from desk to desk, consoling the boredom of the unfortunates condemned to the perpetual slavery of the offices. When Pantoja and Villaamil spoke of generalities pertaining to the industry, their two voices did not sound harmonious. They disagreed horribly on ideas, because the honest man’s criterion was narrow and exclusive, while Villaamil had broad concepts, a systematic plan, the result of his studies and experience. What drove Pantoja crazy was his friend’s advocacy of the income tax, wiping out the Territorial, Industrial, and Consumption taxes. The income tax, based on declarations, with self-respect and good faith as auxiliaries, was absurd in a situation where it’s almost necessary to put the taxpayer in front of a gallows to make him pay. Simplification, in general, was contrary to the spirit of the upright civil servant, who liked a lot of personnel, a lot of hassle, and a lot of paperwork. And finally, there was some personal misgiving in Pantoja, since this obsession with eliminating taxes was as if they wanted to eliminate him. They argued heatedly over this until they both ran out of saliva. And when Pantoja had to leave because the Director called him, and Villaamil was left alone with his subordinates, they would amuse themselves and enjoy themselves for a while at his expense, the lame Guillén standing out for his malicious intent. “Tell me, Don Ramón, why don’t you publish your plan so the country knows about it? ” “Leave it to me to publish plans while pacing restlessly around the office.” Yes; that swine of a country would listen to me! The Minister has read them, and the Director of Taxes has given them a once-over. As if nothing… And it’s not the difficulty of finding out quickly, because in the Memoirs I have written I have focused on: first, simplicity; second, clarity; third, brevity. “I thought they were very long, very long,” Espinosa said gravely. “Since they cover so many points… ” “Who told you such a thing?” he asked angrily. “Each one only covers one point, and there are four. And that’s more than enough. I wish I hadn’t bothered to write them down! Blessed are the brutes… ” “Because they are the payroll of heaven…” “Well said, Señor Don Ramón,” Argüelles observed, looking angrily at Guillén, whom he detested. “A plan also occurred to me; but I didn’t want to give it birth. I was more interested in composing the horn solo. ” “That’s it, play the horn, and stop arranging the Treasury, because at the rate you’re going, you’ll soon not even have your tails. Look at you, friend Argüelles, standing before the table of Philip IV’s gentleman, his cape spread out, his A very expressive right hand. I have dedicated my many years of experience to this. I may or may not be right; but that there is something here, that there is an idea, there can be no doubt. Everyone listened to him with great attention. My work consists of four memoirs or treatises, which bear their titles for easier understanding. First point: Morality. Very well. Morality, which is the first thing, takes center stage. It is the foundation of the administrative order. Morality above, morality below, to the left and to the right. Second point: Income tax. Which is the crux of the matter. Territorial Exemption, Subsidy, and Consumption. I replace it with the income tax, with its municipal surcharge, all very simple, very practical, very clear; and I expound my ideas on the method of collection, enforcement, investigation, fines, etc. Third point: Customs. Because, you see, Customs are not just a tax, they are a method of protecting national labor. I establish a very high tariff so that the factories prosper and we all dress in Spanish fabrics. –_Superior of Holland_… Don Ramón, Bravo Murillo was a suckling child… Go on… –Fourth point: _Unification of the Debt_. I collect all the paper lying around with different names: _Tres_ Consolidated, Deferred, Bonds, Bank and Treasury, Mortgage Notes, and I exchange it for 4%, issued at the convenient rate… No more headaches … –You know more, Don Ramón, than the swine who invented the Treasury. Chorus of congratulations. The only one who remained silent was Argüelles, who didn’t like to laugh too much at Guillén’s jokes. “It’s not that I know much with modesty; it’s that I view the affairs of this house as my own, and I would like to see this country fully enter the path of order. This isn’t science; it’s good will, application, work. Now then: did you listen to me? Well, neither did they. Let them deal with it. The day will come when Spaniards will have to walk barefoot and the richest will have to beg for a loaf of bread… I mean, they won’t beg for alms, because there won’t be anyone to give it. That’s what we’re getting at. I ask you: would it be so strange if I were reinstated in my position as Head of Administration? Nothing, right? Well, you can see all you want, but you won’t see that. Oh, with God.” He left hunched over, as if he couldn’t bear the weight of his head. Everyone felt sorry for him; but the ruthless Guillén always invented some sambenito to hang on his back after he left. –Here I have copied the four points as I said them: gentlemen, ground gold. Come here. What a laugh, God! Look, look at the four titles, written one below the other. _Morality_. _Income tax_. _Customs_. _Unification of the Debt_. Putting the four initials together, the word _MIAU_ results. An explosion of laughter resounded through the office, making it as joyful as if it were a theater. Chapter 23. Abelarda remained bewildered for many days after that long conversation with Victor; but the unfortunate woman put such skill into preventing her mother and aunt from understanding her state of mind that she finally succeeded. From the day after Victor’s incomprehensible declarations, she noticed that he was taciturn. He avoided being alone with his sister-in-law; he barely looked at her , and not even by chance did he speak a word to her. One might have thought that a delicate personal matter had him brooding. A little while later, Abelarda noticed that he was in a better mood and was casting loving, languid glances at her, to which she, unable to help herself, responded with other, inflamed, though very rapid, ones. Victor spoke to her in front of the family; but not a word to them alone. They were, then, like those who love each other and dare not tell each other so; but she waited for that unexpected and sudden burst of opportunity that never fails, as if the laws of time and space had marked the necessary instant in which the orbits of beings compelled to do so by their will would join. At that time, the insignificant one took to going to church. Quite often. The Villaamils’ religious observances consisted of Sunday Mass at the Comendadoras, and not with rigorous punctuality. Don Ramón rarely missed it; but Doña Pura and her sister, due to not being dressed, due to chores, or for some other reason, broke the precept on some Sundays. Abelarda was anxious to strengthen her spirit in religion and meditate in church; she consoled herself by gazing at the altars, the tabernacle where God Himself is kept, devoutly listening to Mass, contemplating the saints and virgins in their flowing garments. These innocent consolations soon suggested to her the idea of another, sweeter and more effective course: confession; for she felt the imperious and poignant need to confide to someone a secret that was too deep for her heart. She feared that if she didn’t confide in him, he might spill the beans, perhaps spontaneously and indiscreetly, in front of her parents, and this terrified her, because her parents would be furious when they found out. Who should she confide in? Luis? He was still a child. The thought of revealing her secret to the good-natured Ponce even crossed her mind. Finally, the same religious sentiment that surrounded her soul inspired her solution, and the morning after she thought about it, she went to the confessional and told the priest what was happening to her, adding details the priest didn’t care to know. After confession, the little girl felt greatly relieved and her spirits were ready for whatever might come. Since it was Lent, there were retreats every afternoon at the Comendadoras and on Fridays at Monserrat and the Salesas Nuevas. Abelarda’s regular church attendance somewhat shocked the family, and Doña Pura didn’t mind this impertinent remark: “Well, my dear, it’s a good time to be green!” The fact that Ponce was extremely pleased and, if anything, enthusiastic about his sweetheart’s devotions, being one of the most Catholic young men of the present generation, although more in his words than in his actions, as is often the case, calmed Doña Pura’s feelings . The distinguished young man accompanied his sweetheart to church some evenings , despite her repeated pleas to leave her alone. He usually waited for her when she left, and together they walked to the house, talking about the preacher, just as the night before, at the social gathering, they had discussed the singers at the Real. If Abelarda went to church early, Luis accompanied her, and soon after trying these excursions, he took a great liking to them. Good old Cadalsito would spend some time with devotion and composure; but then he would tire and wander around the church, looking at the banners of the Order of Santiago at the Comendadoras, approaching the large grille to peer at the nuns, inspecting the altars overloaded with wax vows. In Monserrat, a church belonging to the old convent that is now the Women’s Prison, Luis was not as comfortable as he had been at the Comendadoras, which is one of the most uncluttered and beautiful churches in Madrid. He found Monserrat cold and bare; the saints were poorly dressed; The service seemed poor to him, and, besides this, in the chapel on the right, as we entered, there was a large, dark-skinned Christ, covered in bloodstains , wearing petticoats and with natural hair as long as a woman’s. This effigy caused him so much fear that he never dared to look at it except from a distance, and no matter what they gave him, he would never enter its chapel. It happened more than once that Cadalsito, in his restless wanderings within the church, would sit on some solitary pew, feeling himself attacked by the illness that was the precursor to the strange vision. More than once he told himself that in such a place, as soon as he dozed off, he would see the “Lord with the White Beard ,” since that was one of his houses. But he would close his eyes, mentally evoking the extraordinary visit, and it did not appear. On one occasion, however, he thought he saw the august old man leaving through a door of the sacristy and disappearing into the altar, as if he were entering through an invisible hole. It also seemed to him that the Lord himself was emerging, dressed in the priestly tunic and embroidered chasuble, to say Mass—to say Mass for himself—a thing that seemed extremely strange to Cadalsito. But he wasn’t very sure that this was so, and it could well be that he was mistaken; at least, he had great doubts about the matter. One afternoon, while in Monserrat, listening to the priest reciting the rosary, to which some two dozen women were responding in the church, and the inmates in the choir, who must have numbered more than a hundred judging by the intense murmuring of their voices, Luisito felt the symptoms of drowsiness. There was very little light in the church, and everything in it was mysterious, shadows that the eerie cadence of the prayer made even more enclosed and gloomy. From where Cadalsito was standing, he could see one of the arms of Christ, and the little lamp hanging from the ceiling next to it. He was so terrified that he would have run out into the street if he could have; but he couldn’t get up. He made a resolution to overcome his drowsiness and pinched his arms, saying, “Oh! Control it! If I fall asleep and the long-haired Christ stands next to me, I’ll fall dead from fear.” And fear and his efforts to wake up finally overcame his insane drowsiness. Instead of these bad times, Montserrat provided him with good times when his friend and classmate Silvestre Murillo, the sacristan’s son, appeared . Silvestre initiated Luis into some ecclesiastical mysteries, explaining a thousand things that Luis didn’t understand. for example: what the Reservation of the Blessed Sacrament was, what the difference is between the Gospel and the Epistle, why Saint Roch has a dog and Saint Peter has keys, immersing himself in liturgical erudition that they had to hear. “The host, for example, carries God within it, and that is why priests, before handling it, wash their hands so as not to dirty it; and _dominus vobisco_ is the same as saying: _be careful, be good_.” Once they were both in the sacristy, Silvestre showed him the vestments, the unconsecrated hosts , which Cadalso looked at with superstitious respect, the pieces of the monument that would soon be erected, the canopy and the sleeve cross, revealing in the ease with which he showed it and in his explanations a certain skepticism that the other did not share. But Murillito couldn’t get him to enter the chapel of Christ of the Long Hair, not even by assuring him that he had held his hair in his hand when his mother combed his hair, and that this Lord was very good and performed a sea of miracles. Since the minds of children are impressed by everything, and their nascent will adapt to this impression with energy and promptness, those visits to the church awakened in Cadalsito the desire and purpose of becoming a priest, and he told his grandparents this time and again. Everyone laughed at this precocious vocation, and Victor himself found it very funny. Yes, Luisito swore that he would either be nothing or sing Mass, for he was enthusiastic about all priestly duties, even preaching, even going into the confessional to hear the sins of women. She said this with such a charming ingenuity that everyone burst out laughing, and Victor took the opportunity to speak alone with the insignificant woman for the first time since the aforementioned conference. No one older than 18 was present, and the only one within earshot was Luis, who was engrossed in his stamp album. “I won’t say, like my son, that I want to be ordained; but the fact is that for some time now I’ve felt such a strong need to believe! This feeling, judge it as you will, comes from you, Abelarda. Here comes a broad, sustained, most tender view, from you, and from the influence your soul has on mine. ” “So believe, who’s stopping you?” replied the young woman, who that afternoon felt easy to speak and hoped for greater clarity from him. “The routines of my thoughts prevent me, the false ideas acquired in social interactions, which form a scumbag that is difficult to eradicate.” I would need an angelic teacher, a being who loves me and cares about my salvation. But where is this angel? If he exists, he doesn’t It’s for me. I am very unhappy. I see good very close, and I cannot approach it. Blessed are you if you do not understand this. Miss Villaamil found herself strong enough to discuss the matter, because religion gave her the strength even to confess her secret to someone who should not hear it from her lips. “I wanted to believe, and I believed,” she said. “I sought relief in God, and I found it. Do you want me to tell you how?” Victor, who was sitting at the table, pressing his head in his hands, suddenly stood up, saying with the tone and gesture of a consummate actor: “Don’t talk: you would torment me without consoling me. I am a reprobate, a damned man…” He had these flashy phrases, gleaned haphazardly from various books, perfectly prepared to utter at the first opportunity. No sooner had they said this than he remembered that he had agreed to meet with several friends at the café, and he searched for a way to cut the sting his sister-in-law had begun to dangle between his lips. “Abelarda, I need to get away, because if I’m here one more minute… I know myself: I’ll tell you what I shouldn’t tell you… at least not for now… Give me your permission to leave. I’m going to wander the streets, aimlessly, wandering, feverish, thinking about what can’t be for me… at least not for now…” He sighed, and then… He left the insignificant woman confused and pouting, trying to unravel the meaning of that— at least not for now—phrase of cheerful prospects. That evening, before lunch, Victor came in very joyfully and hugged his father-in-law, who wasn’t amused by such confidences and was about to say to him: “In what naughty tavern did we eat together?” The other man was quick to explain the reasons for his congratulations. He had been at the Ministry that afternoon, and the Chief of Staff told him that Villaamil was in the first batch. “Same old story again!” exclaimed Don Ramón furiously. “Since when have you been allowed to make fun of me? ” “It’s not a joke, man,” declared Doña Pura, encouraged by sweet hopes. “When he tells you it, it’s because he knows. ” “Believe it or not, it’s true. ” “Well, I deny it, I deny it,” declared Villaamil, scratching the air with the index finger of his right hand. “And no one laughs at me, okay? When and how did you bother about me at the Ministry? You’re going there on your own business, to work for your promotion, which they’ll give you… Ah! I’m sure they’ll give it to you… It would be good if they didn’t.” “Well, I tell you with great energy that I could have gone other times for that purpose; but today I went, and certainly in the company of two very influential deputies, exclusively to intercede on your behalf, to speak rudely to the Chief of Personnel, after typing with the Minister. If I’m not telling you this because you’ll thank me; if this has no merit at all… And as true as this light that shines upon us with solemn accent is, it is true that I told the friends who support me: ‘Gentlemen, before my promotion, ask for a job for my father-in-law.’ I repeat, I’m not saying this so anyone can thank me. What a handful of anise… ” Doña Pura was radiant, and Villaamil, disconcerted in his pessimism, looked like a combatant whose defenses are suddenly destroyed , leaving him defenseless and naked before enemy bullets. She struggled to regain her pessimistic composure… “Stories… Well, even if it were true that Juan, Pedro, and Diego recommended me, does that mean they’ll give me a position? Leave me alone and ask for yourself, for they’ll give it to you without opening your mouth, while I, even if I drive the human race mad, will achieve nothing.” Abelarda, although she did not open her lips, felt her chest flooded with gratitude toward Víctor and was pleased to love him, declaring that there could be no doubt about the goodness of his feelings. It was impossible that that noble and beautiful accent could not be the accent of truth. While they ate, the same thing was discussed: Villaamil stubbornly holding that there would never be mercy for him in the ministerial spheres, and the family whole, staunchly maintaining the contrary. Then Luisito uttered that phrase that was famous in the family for a week and was commented on and repeated ad nauseam, celebrating it as an invaluable grace, or as one of those traits of wisdom that can descend from the divine mind to the mind of those whose state of grace communicates directly with it. Cadalsito said it with charming ingenuity and a certain petulant aplomb that increased the charm of his words. “But Grandpa, it seems you’re a fool. Why are you asking and asking those guys at the Ministry, who are just nobodies and don’t listen to you ? Ask God, go to church, pray a lot, and you’ll see how God gives you destiny.” Everyone burst out laughing; but the inspired boy’s outburst had a very different effect on Villaamil’s spirit . The good old man was almost moved to tears, and banging the table with the end of his fork, he said: “That damned boy knows more than all of us and the whole world.” Chapter 24. Victor left, scarcely having finished his dessert, which was, by all accounts, honey from Alcarria, and after dinner, Doña Pura reproached her husband for the incredulity and disgust with which he had heard what her son-in-law had said. “Why shouldn’t it be true that he’s interested in you? We shouldn’t always be on the wrong track. In fact, if Victor didn’t do it, he was obliged to do it. ” “Well, it’s clear,” observed Abelarda, ready to deliver a fervent eulogy to her brother-in-law, whom she didn’t understand in matters of love, but whose vaunted wickedness she considered slanderous. “But you,” said Villaamil, getting angry, “are you so naive that you believe what that lying scoundrel says? I’ll bet you anything that, instead of recommending me, what he’s done is tell the Chief of Staff some story to discourage him from serving me… ” “Jesus, Ramón! ” “Dad, for God’s sake! You have your things too…” “It’s unbelievable that in so many years you haven’t learned to know that hot-headed man, the meanest and most treacherous man under the sun.” To make him more fearsome, God, who made some harmful animals so beautiful, gave him a sweet look, a tender smile, and that way of speaking with which he deceives those who don’t know him, in order to stupefy them, fascinate them, and then devour them… He is the most… Villaamil stopped when he noticed that Luisito was present, and he shouldn’t have heard such an apology. After all, it was his father. And the poor boy certainly fixed his eyes on his grandfather with an expression of terror. Abelarda, as if her heart were being torn out with pliers, felt an impulse to burst into tears, followed by a brutal desire to contradict her father, to silence his mouth, to hurl some insult at his venerable head. He got up and went to his room, pretending to go in to get something, and from there she could still hear the murmur of conversation… Doña Pura timidly denied what her husband had said, and after Luisito had left, called by Milagros to wash his mouth and hands in the kitchen , he reiterated his barbaric, implacable, and bloody anathema against Víctor, adding that he wouldn’t even go with him to pick up five-dollar coins. So deep was the accent of the good Villaamil, so full of sincerity and conviction, that Abelarda thought she would go mad at that very moment, dreaming of the only relief from her unbridled grief: leaving the house, running to the Viaduct on Segovia Street, and throwing herself off. She imagined the brief moment of plummeting into the abyss, her petticoats over her head, her forehead protruding toward the cobblestones. What pleasure! Then the sensation of turning into an omelet, and nothing more. All fatigue was over. Shortly after this, the select society that frequented that elegant mansion on certain nights began to arrive. Milagros, having finished her work in the kitchen, prepared the kerosene lamp to illuminate the living room. She got ready, leaving the old woman in the kitchen to do the washing up, since the _modest Ofelia_, if she adapted herself with gusto to all branches of the She didn’t enter with that rough bustle of the dishwashing, and soon she entered its rooms so well dressed that it was a pleasure to see her. Abelarda took longer to introduce herself, and finally appeared with such a heavy coat of powder on her face that she looked like a miller’s maid. And even so much makeup wasn’t enough to disguise the cadaverous tone of her face or the broken rims of her eyes. Virginia Pantoja, her mother, and other ladies watched her and remained silent, saving their comments for a postscript to the gathering. Not one of her friends failed to say to herself: “She’s in a bad mood!” Salvador Guillén also came that night, and he introduced his office colleague, the elegant Espinosa. Villaamil, as soon as people began to arrive, would go out into the street, cursing the gathering, and spend a couple of hours in the café listening to talk of the crisis or proving, since two and three make five, that there must be one. Pantoja would often accompany him, returning later to pick up the family, and along the way they would continue glossing over the eternal theme, never exhausting it or finding the final variation. A shrewd connoisseur of bureaucratic life and the mysterious psychological energies that determine the rise and fall of officials, Pantoja drew up a new plan of campaign for his friend. First, without prejudice to seeking some kind of patronage among influential political figures , it was best not to let the Minister or the Chief of Personnel live; to become their shadow, spy on their comings and goings, attack them when they were most careless, place them in the terrible dilemma of “credentials” or “life,” and impose themselves by terror. In this way, they always got the cut, because in the end, Ministers, Undersecretaries, and Chiefs of Staff were men, and in order to breathe and live, they gave the scumbag whatever he asked for, to get him off their backs and out of sight. Recognizing the profound human and political significance of this advice, Villaamil sincerely deplored having reached the extreme of becoming what he had so often criticized in others: an importunate harasser and an unbearable beggar. Víctor didn’t usually attend the gatherings; but that night he arrived earlier than usual and entered the room, arousing the admiration of Virginia Pantoja and the Cuevas girls. He was so superior in every way to the guys seen there! Guillén had a grudge against him, and since Víctor repaid him in kind, they exchanged double-meanings, making the audience laugh. The next day, before lunch, Victor, his mother-in-law, Abelarda, and Luisito, who had just come home from school, were in the dining room. Cadalso said to Doña Pura: “But how do you receive that filthy lame man in your house? Don’t you understand that he comes here to amuse himself by observing and then report back to the office what he sees? ” “Do we have monkeys painted on our faces,” Pura said casually , “so that little lame man comes here just to laugh?” “He’s a poisonous toad who, as soon as he sees something that isn’t as dirty as himself, gets irritated and spits out all his saliva. When Papa goes to Pantoja’s office, what do you think Guillén is busy doing? Drawing his caricature. He already has a collection that’s being passed around among those lazybones. Yesterday, without going any further, I saw one with a sign at the bottom that read: “Mr. Miau, meditating on his Treasury plan.” She’d been running from office to office until Urbanito Cucurbitas took her to the Personnel Office, where that idiot Espinosa, brother of that snob who was here last night, stuck her to the wall with four wafers as a joke to anyone who came in. When I saw that, I flew into a rage, and all hell nearly broke loose . Doña Pura was so incensed that her anger took her breath away and her speechless face. “Well, I’ll tell that tortoise never to set foot in my house again… And what do you say they call my husband? Is there any shame in it?” “It’s that they now want to apply the nickname they gave the family at the Real,” said Victor, sweetening his cruelty with a smile; “a nickname that isn’t even funny.” “At us, at us!” the two sisters exclaimed simultaneously, flushed with rage . “Let’s laugh at it, for it deserves nothing else. It’s public knowledge that when you take possession of your place in Paradise, everyone says: ‘The _Meows_ are here… ‘ What nonsense!” “And the fool laughs at the joke!” exclaimed Doña Pura, grabbing the first thing she found at hand, which was a loaf of bread, and pointing it at her son-in-law’s head. “No, don’t attack me, madam, I didn’t come up with the nickname… For if I were to accompany you sometime and one of those snobs dared to snort in front of me, from the first bite all his teeth would come out to breathe. ” “You’re not a bad phantom devouring his anger. A beak, and nothing but a beak.” If only we had no more defense than you!… The anger of the two sisters was nothing compared to that which stirred in Luisito Cadalso’s spirit when he heard the lame Guillén insult his grandfather and ridicule him; and he said to himself: ” Posturitas is to blame for all this, and I’m going to give him a good beating, because his mother’s ordinary woman, who is Guillén’s sister, was the one who gave him the nickname, control! And then she told the lame man, who’s a poisonous toad, and the scoundrel told the people at the office.” He became so furious that on his way to school he would make fists and grit his teeth. Surely if he found Posturitas on the street he ‘d attack him, giving him a good smack across his face. He then happened to be at his side in class and hit him with his elbow, saying, “I don’t have anything to do with you, you scoundrel. You’re no gentleman, and neither are your family gentlemen.” The other didn’t answer, and, dropping his head onto his arm, closed his eyes as if overcome by a deep sleep. Cadalso then noticed that his friend’s face was very flushed, his eyelids swollen, his mouth open, breathing through it and at times blowing hard through his nose, as if he wanted to clear it. New and stronger elbow blows from Luisito didn’t bring him out of that heavy stupor. “What’s the matter, damn it? Are you sick?” Posturitas’s face was blazing. The teacher arrived and, seeing him in such a state and that there was no way to straighten him, examined him, examined him, and placed his hand on his face. “Boy, you’re sick; “Run home and get them to bed and wrap you up well so you can sweat.” Then the boy staggered to his feet, and with a look and expression of the deepest gloom, crossed the schoolroom. Some of his classmates looked at him with envy because he was going home before the others. Others, Cadalsito among them, believed that the illness was a hoax, a pure comedy so he could go off on a lark and spend the whole afternoon prancing around the Retiro Park with the worst scumbags in Madrid. Because he was very cunning, a real liar, and when it came to inventing and making up nonsense, no one could beat him. The next day, Murillito brought the news that Paco Ramos was sick with typhoid, and that it had come down so badly, so badly, that if his fever didn’t subside that night, he would die. There was a discussion on the way out about whether or not to go see him. “That’s contagious, man.” “That’s contagious… well, you!” “Morral.” “Morral himself.” Finally , Murillito, another man they called Pando, and Cadalso with them, went to see him. It was just a stone’s throw from the school, in the house with a lantern and a pawnbroker’s sign. The three of them went up very tenderly, still arguing about whether or not typhus was contagious, and Murillito, the most boastful of the group, encouraged them by spitting through his tusk. “Don’t be chickens. You think you’re going to die by coming in!” They knocked, and a woman opened the door, who, seeing the size and build of the visitors, paid no attention to them and left them standing there, without deigning to answer Murillito’s question. Another woman passed by the reception and said: “What are these monkeys looking for here? Ah! Have you come to find out about Paquito? He is more lively this afternoon… “Come in, come in,” another female voice shouted inside, “let’s see if my child recognizes you.” They saw, at They entered the loan office, where there was a man wearing a hat and glasses who Cadalso thought looked like a minister. They then crossed a large room where there were clothes, heaps of them, tons of them, tons of them. Finally, in a room filled with folded cloaks, each with its numbered cardboard box, lay the sick man, with two nurses at his side, one sitting on the floor, the other by the bed. Posturitas had been raving mad all night and part of the morning. At that moment, he was calmer, and the extortion hadn’t even begun. “Rico,” said the woman or lady at the bedside, who must have been his mother, “here are your little friends, they’ve come to ask for you. Do you want to see them?” The poor child let out a groan, as if he wanted to burst into tears, the language sick children use to express what displeases and bothers them, which is usually everything imaginable. “Look at them, look at them. They love you so much.” Paquito turned over in bed and, propping himself up on one elbow, gave his friends a stunned, glassy look. His eyes, though swollen, were lifeless, his lips so purple they seemed black, and there were wine-colored stains on his cheekbones. Cadalso felt pity and also an instinctive terror that kept him away from the bed. The fixed, lightless stare of his schoolmate made him tremble. Paco Ramos undoubtedly recognized no one of the three except Luisito, because he only said “Meow, Meow,” after which his head fell back onto the pillow. His mother signaled to the boys to clear their heads, and they obeyed like saints. In the next room, they bumped into two of Posturitas’s little brothers, younger than him, grimy and with bad asses, their shoes full of holes, and their aprons in tatters. One was dragging a rag doll tied by its neck, and the other a legless horse, shouting like a desperate “Gee!” Seeing little people, they followed, hoping to make friends with them; but Murillo, acting like a human being, scolded them for the racket they were making, even though the little brother was sick. They stared at each other in astonishment. They didn’t understand a word. The youngest took a well-licked piece of bread from his apron pocket, covered in drool, and sank in with faith. As they passed by the room, the man who looked like a minister was examining two Manila shawls that a woman was presenting to him. The three friends greeted him with exquisite courtesy, but he didn’t answer. Chapter 25. Cadalsito went home very thoughtfully that afternoon. His feeling of pity for his companion wasn’t as keen as it should have been, because Ramos’s mameluke had insulted him, throwing the infamous nickname in his face in front of everyone. Childhood is implacable in its resentments, and friendship has no roots in it. Nevertheless, although he didn’t forgive his ill-mannered companion, he thought to pray for him in this way: “Please fix Posturitas. It doesn’t cost you much. Just say, ‘Get up, Posturas,’ and that’s it.” Remembering later that his friend’s mother, the same lady who was so distressed by the bedside, was the inventor of the ridiculous joke, he renewed his hatred for her. “But she’s not a madam,” he thought. “She’s only a woman, and now God is punishing her for calling people names.” That night he was very restless; he slept badly, waking up every moment, and his brain struggled anxiously with a very singular phenomenon. He had gone to bed with the desire to see his benevolent friend with the white beard; the precursory symptoms had presented themselves, but the apparition had not. The painful thing for Cadalso was that he dreamed he saw her, which was not the same as actually seeing her. At least he wasn’t satisfied, and his mind struggled in a painful and absurd reasoning, saying: “It’s not this one, it’s not this one… because I don’t see him, but I dream that I see him, and he doesn’t speak to me, but I dream that he speaks to me.” From that feverish musing he moved on to this: “And he can’t say now that I don’t study, because today I really learned my lesson, check!” The teacher told me: “Good, good, Cadalso.” And the whole class was stunned. I blurted out the adverbial without a word, and all I ate was a word. And when I said that manna fell in the desert, I knew that too, and I only stumbled later on about the Commandments, because I said that he brought them on a board, instead of a tablet. Luis exaggerated the success of his lesson that day. He said it better than usual, but there was no good reason for such fanfare. It was a bad night for the two inhabitants of the narrow room, for Abelarda did nothing but toss and turn in her cot, rebellious to sleep, falling asleep for a few minutes, feeling herself attacked by sudden shudders, which made her utter a few words, the sound of which surprised her. Once she said: “I’ll run away with him.” And immediately a whispered tone answered her: “With the one who had the cigar rings.” Hearing this, she jumped up in terror. Who was answering her? All was silent in the bedroom; But after a little while the voice sounded again, saying: “You’re punishing him for being mean, for calling him names.” At last, Abelarda’s mind was clearing, and she was able to appreciate reality and recognize her nephew’s little voice. She turned over and fell asleep. Luis murmured, moaning, as if he wanted to cry but couldn’t. “I did learn my lesson… I did.” And after a while: “Don’t wet my seal with your black mouth… See? That’s what you get for being mean. Your mother isn’t a lady, but a woman…” To which Abelarda replied: “That elegant woman who writes you letters isn’t a lady, but a ferocious aunt… Fool, and you despise me for her, me, who would let myself be killed for…! Mother, Mother, I want to be a nun.” “No,” said Luis, “I know that you didn’t give Mr. Moses the Commandments on a board, but on a tablet… Well, on two tablets… _Posturas_ is going to die. His father will wrap him in that Manila shawl… You are not God, because he doesn’t have angels… Where are the angels?” And Abelarda: “I already found the key to the door. I want to escape. It’s so cold, waiting for me in the street!… What a rain!” Luis: “It’s a mouse that _Posturas_ is spitting out of his mouth, a black mouse with a very long tail. I’m hiding under the table. Dad!” Abelarda called out loud: “What… what is that, Luis? What’s wrong? Poor thing… he’s having these nightmares. Wake up, son, you’re talking nonsense. Why are you calling your dad?” Luis wakes up too, although not quite clearly: “Auntie, I’m not sleeping. It’s just… a mouse. But my daddy caught it. Can’t you see my daddy? ” “Your daddy isn’t here, silly; go to sleep. ” “Yes, he is… Look at him, look at him… I’m awake, Auntie. And you? ” “Wake up, son… Do you want me to turn on the light? ” “No… I’m sleepy. It’s just that everything is so big, all the big things, and my daddy was lying with you, and when I called him, he came to get me. ” “My dear, lie down on your side and you won’t have bad dreams. Which side are you lying on? ” “On your left side… Why is everything so big, the size of the biggest things? ” “Lie down on your right side, my dear. ” “I’m on my left side and my right foot… See? This is my right foot, so big! That’s why Postures’s mother isn’t a lady.” Auntie… “What? ” “Are you asleep? I’m going to sleep now. Postures, isn’t he going to die? ” “Why, he’s going to die, man! Don’t think about that. ” “Tell me something else. And is my father going to marry you?” In the cerebral excitement produced by darkness and insomnia, Abelarda couldn’t answer what she would have answered in daylight with a calm head; for which reason she let herself say: “I don’t know yet… I really don’t know anything… Maybe…” A little later, Luis murmured “good” in a tone of agreement, and fell asleep. Abelarda didn’t sleep a wink for the rest of the night, and the next day she got up very early, her head very heavy, her eyelids flushed, and her temper off-balance, wanting to do something extraordinary and new, argue with someone, even if it was the priest whose mass she planned to hear soon, or the altar boy who was to help her. He went to church, and there he had very bad thoughts, such as sneaking out of the house without She knew what for, marrying Ponce and then screwing him over, becoming a nun and causing a riot in the convent, making a mocking declaration of love to the lame Guillén, starting the play and leaving halfway through, leaving everyone hanging; poisoning Federico Ruiz; throwing herself from the Royal Palace into the stalls during the best part of the opera… and other such nonsense. But her time in the quiet, placid temple , the three masses she heard, gradually calmed her nerves, establishing a normal pattern of ideas in her mind. When she left, she was frightened and even laughed at those senseless extravaganzas. She might have jumped from the palace to the stalls in a moment of despair; but poisoning poor Federico Ruiz, what saint? When she got home, the first thing she did, as was her custom, was to find out whether Víctor had left or not. It turned out to be so, and Doña Pura announced with undisguised joy that her son-in-law was having lunch out. The lady’s resources had been drained with the rapidity of that salt in water called money. Strangest thing! It was as easy as changing a dollar as it melted away piece by piece. And now she could see the terrifying boundary that separates scarcity from absolute want looming. Beyond that boundary, the familiar specters loomed, staring at Doña Pura and making faces at her. They were her terrible lifelong companions: duty, begging, and pawning, determined to accompany her to the grave. The lady was already casting out her lines to see if Victor would give her a way out of those insufferable partners. But Victor, at the first hints, had played dumb, a sign that her purse no longer held the treasures of better days. Furthermore, Doña Pura could observe that two or three times they had come to collect from her son-in-law some shoemakers’ or tailors’ bills, and that Victor hadn’t paid, saying that they should return or that he would stop by. This burning smell put the lady on edge. That afternoon Doña Pura and her sister went to visit some friends. Milagros asked Abelarda to take a look at the kitchen; but the excited young woman, left alone (Villaamil had gone to the Ministry and Luis to school), threw away the pots and pans and went into Victor’s room, with the intention of rummaging through, scrutinizing, and making intimate contact with his clothes and the objects of his use. The insignificant woman felt , in this forbidden inspection, the stimuli of curiosity mixed with a spiritual pleasure of the deepest kind. The examination of clothing, the exploration of every pocket, even if she found nothing of real interest, was a pleasure she wouldn’t trade for others more positive and indisputable. For, as she handled the shirts, she sometimes imagined herself engaged in an intimacy to which her vivid imagination gave realistic appearances. She dreamed of the noblest acts, such as caring for her man’s clothes, whether he was her husband or not, wishing to mend something in them, a loose button or a torn lining; and meanwhile, she recognized the person by the scent, by all accounts clean and elegant, enjoying sniffing him at a closer distance than she would do with her family and in public. The few times Abelarda could indulge in these bouts of idealism and elaborate sensations, her searches of pockets shed no light on the mystery that, in her opinion, surrounded Cadalso’s existence. Sometimes, she would find in his trouser pockets, large or small, streetcar tickets, and theater seats; In the pockets of his jacket or coat, some note from the Ministry, some indifferent letter. When he finished, he took care to put everything back in its place so that the scrutiny would not be noticed, and he sat on the trunk to meditate. It had not been possible to put a chest of drawers or a wardrobe in Victor’s room , so he kept his equipment in the same suitcase, as if he were staying at an inn for a few days. What drove the insignificant girl to despair was finding the trunk always closed. There she would have wanted to put her hands and eyes. What secrets that mysterious cavity held! Several times she had tried to open it with different keys, but in vain. Well, sir, that day, as he sat down on the trunk, twang! A little metallic rustle. He looked, and… the keys were in! Victor had forgotten to remove them, breaking his cautious and foresighted habits. Seeing the keys, opening them, and lifting the lid were almost simultaneous actions. Great disorder at the top of the contents. There was a squashed hat, one of those they call “lightweight,” loose collars and cuffs, cigars, a box of paper and envelopes, linen and knitwear, folded newspapers, worn ties, and other brand-new items. Abelarda observed everything for a long time without touching, thoroughly understanding, as is the custom of curious people and thieves, the placement of objects in order to replace them just the same. Then she slid her hand along one side, exploring the second layer. She didn’t know where to begin. At the same time, the presumption that Victor was involved with some very distinguished lady with a very high profile prevailed and stood out over all other ideas. Everything would soon be discovered; the irrefutable evidence was definitely there . This prejudice so dominated Abelarda’s mind that before discovering the crime scene, she thought she could smell it, because smell was perhaps her most alert sense in these investigations. “Ah! Didn’t I mention it? What is this? A bunch of violets.” Indeed, upon carefully lifting a piece of clothing, she found the withered and fragrant bouquet. She continued exploring. Her instinct, her intuition, or hunch, which had the power of a precursory light or a mysterious indicator, guided her through those turbulent depths. She carefully removed several things, placed them on the floor, and continued; searching here, searching there, her convulsed hand came across a packet of letters. Ah! At last, the key to the secret had appeared. It couldn’t be any other way! He picked up the package, and when he felt it between his fingers, his own discovery filled him with terror. Without removing the rubber band, he read something, for the letters had no wrapping . The first thing he saw was a small crown stamped on the letterhead of the letter above; and since he wasn’t well versed in heraldry, he couldn’t tell if the crown belonged to a marchioness or a countess… The insignificant woman then reflected on her great wisdom and sagacity. No, she couldn’t be mistaken in supposing that the mysterious person with whom he was on a relationship was of high rank. Victor had been born for the higher spheres of life, like an eagle to soar to the heights. To think that a man of such character would descend to the spheres of sentimentality and poverty in which she lived… absurd! And reasoning like this, she also persuaded herself that the incomprehensible and gloomy nature of Victor’s conduct and language was not his fault, but hers, for with her short-sightedness and vulgar appreciation of life, she could not match the superiority of such a man. It was time to read. The young woman did not know where to begin. She would have liked to have in a jiffy read all of Cruz’s letters to date. Time was pressing; her mother and aunt would soon be arriving. She quickly read one, and each sentence was a stab in the arm for the reader. There was a question of a denial of breaking up, exculpatory remarks were made as if in response to a jealous accusation: there were lavished sugary terms that Abelarda had never read except in novels; There, everything was subtleties and protestations of eternal love, plans for fortune, announcements of upcoming interviews and sweet memories of past ones, precautionary refinements to avoid suspicion, and finally, more or less veiled outpourings of tenderness. But the name, the name of that scoundrel, no matter how eagerly the reader searched for it, was nowhere to be found. The signature did not break the anonymous mark; sometimes a conventional expression, “your maid, your little girl”; sometimes a simple scribble… But what a name it is, not a trace of it. Reading everything, everything carefully, one could have clearly determined, from references, who the “maid” was; but Abelarda couldn’t stop; it was already late, there was a knock at the door… Everything had to be put back in its place so that the rebellious hand could not be recognized. He did so quickly and went to open it. The false image of the hated lady could never be erased from his mind, that day or in the days that followed. Who could she be? He imagined the insignificant woman to be beautiful, very chic, a capricious and carefree woman, as in his opinion all those of the upper classes were. “How beautiful she must be!… What fine perfumes she uses!” he kept saying to himself, with fiery words that flew from his mind to his heart. “And how many dresses she must have, how many hats, how many carriages!” Chapter 26. Here goes his friend Don Ramón to Pantoja’s office again. He doesn’t want to talk about his lawsuit, his immense and heartbreaking sorrow, but he speaks without meaning to; and everything he says insensibly ends up on the eternal topic. It happens to him like very passionate lovers: everything they say or write becomes the substance of love. That day, he found a certain man in his friend’s office arguing heatedly. He was a provincial gentleman, one of those enemies of the Administration whom the honorable man referred to by the disdainful name of private individuals; a wholesale wine merchant with an open establishment, and the Treasury had caught him in the act, making him pay taxes on two items. He protested, alleging that he would refuse to detail, keeping only the warehouse. The matter was referred to Pantoja for information. The private individual complained about being made to pay for two items, and Pantoja went, and what did he do? Well, he reported that he should pay for three. So my man, furious, said such nasty things about the Administration that he was almost thrown out. Villaamil understood that he was right. He had never been the executioner of the private individual, like his friend Pantoja; but he didn’t dare intervene so as not to upset the honest man. His weakness led him to support the administrative Dracon’s providence, saying: “Of course, on three counts: as a retailer, as a warehouseman , and as a winemaker.” In short, the unfortunate private individual went off trilling like a nightingale in heat, and when Villaamil and Pantoja were left alone, the former wasted no time in saying: “Has Victor come back here? How’s your case going?” Pantoja was slow to reply; his mouth felt as if it had been sewn shut. He was busy opening sheets of paper, inside which, when opened, the sand stuck to the dried ink could be heard, and the honest man took care that the powder didn’t fall out. What a waste! and he neatly poured them into the saucepan. It was his old custom to make use of the powders already used in another office, and he did it with trivial zeal, as if he were looking out for the interests of his mistress, Mrs. Hacienda. “Believe me,” he finally replied, giving permission to his mouth and shielding his hand so that his officials wouldn’t hear. “They won’t do anything to your son-in-law. The plan is music. Believe me, I know the drill. ” “Fortunately, influence can do anything,” Villaamil observed with immense sorrow; “it can acquit criminals, and even reward them, while the loyal perish. ” “And the influences that turn the world upside down and make a mockery of justice aren’t political… I mean, these influences don’t stir things up as much as others. ” “Which ones?” Villaamil asked. “Skirts,” Pantoja replied so softly that Villaamil didn’t hear him, and had to have the thought repeated. “Ah!… Fresh news… But tell me. Do you think that Victor, on that side…” “He maliciously poked me in the nose, putting his finger to the tip of that feature. I’m not sure; it’s just that, with my experience in this house, I smell it, I smell it, Ramón… I don’t know… I could be wrong. Just wait. Last night at the café, Ildefonso Cabrera, your son-in-law’s brother-in-law, told of certain incidents about him… ” “God, what things one sees!” said Villaamil, putting his hands to his head . And in the midst of his Catonian indignation, thinking of that ignominy of corrupting henpecked people, he wondered why there weren’t also charitable henpecked people who, by favoring good people like himself, would serve the Administration and the country. “That guy doesn’t know where he’s at. Mark what I’m telling you: they’ll throw dirt on the case…” “And then the promotion comes… and ole morena. ” The bell rang, and Pantoja went to the Director’s office, who was calling him. As soon as he left, the subordinates attacked the dismissed man. “Friend Villaamil, neither you nor I will be happy until ours go up; and ours are the oil ones. ” “Even if they go up tomorrow,” said Don Ramón, moving his jaws and putting all the ferocity of his carnivorous expression into his eyes. “Don’t say this as a joke, things are very bad. There’s a crisis. ” “What joke? Yes, there’s time for jokes!” So the canton of Madrid and the Commune included, were to jump up tonight and strike up a fire… I tell you, friend Job was a spoiled brat and complained out of spite… Let the holy oil come, let it come. They won’t take more than what they’ve taken from us… They won’t do worse than these people. –Do you know what’s going on today? They’re going to cede the Balearic Islands to Germany… And they want to lease the Customs Office to some Belgian company, receiving the first installment in some old railroad bridges. –As if I could see it, man, as if I could see it… Anything that’s nonsense has its foundation here. Frankly, Don Antonio must have a lot of research, but he’s unknown… I mean, anyone in his position, it seems to me, would have done better. “Of course!” said the gentleman of Philip IV, stroking his polished mustache. “And if not, imagine that those of us here form a Ministry. Villaamil, the Presidency; Espinosa, for his fine image, would go to the State to put rods to the diplomatic ones. ” “And there are some of them. We fit Guillén in the War. ” “Mother of God! A lame man in War! He’s better off in the Navy. ” “Yes, so he can row with crutches. ” “Or because of his tortoise-like nature,” said Argüelles, who never missed an opportunity to throw a jab at the lame man. “And for me, the little portfolio of the Interior. ” “Nailed. So he can place his gang of children as seasonal workers, including those at the breast. ” “And so he can issue a Royal Order ordering the trumpet to be played at all funerals.” And the Treasury, gentlemen? “Treasury, Villaamil, with the Presidency. ” “And what do we give to the insine Pantoja?” “Treasury, Ventura, what doubt do you have?” Villaamil suggested, not taking that seriously, but letting the joke run to lend a little amusement to his anguished spirit. “Yes, there was going to be trouble!… And the income tax? ” “What is that…” Villaamil observed, smiling sadly and disheartenedly, “I couldn’t believe it.” “No; if it were Pantoja, he’d be capable of imposing a tax on the fleas that every quisque carries. Long live the income tax, dogma of the new Cabinet, and the unification of the Debt. ” “That… seriously, yawning, it’s easy for Ventura to admit it to me… Well, gentlemen, like someone coming to his senses, rising with a diligent gesture, you have to do what you have to do, and I do the same. It’s time to work .” And he went to Properties, the same floor to the right, where Mr. Francisco Cucurbitas was the second-in-command, and from there he descended to land like a bomb in Personnel, where he had several acquaintances, among them a certain Sevillano, who sometimes informed him of actual or potential vacancies. Then he went down to the Treasury, taking a stroll along the Giro Mutuo, after the usual small talk from the doormen upon entering each office. In some places, he was received with somewhat icy cordiality; in others, the constancy of his visits was beginning to become annoying. They no longer knew what to say to give him hope, and those who had advised him to hammer away relentlessly were now regretting it, seeing that their well-worn advice was being put into practice. It was in Personnel that Villaamil was most tenacious and irritable. The head of that department, a nephew A fish-like creature, a man of considerable scale, he knew him, though not well enough to appreciate and distinguish the man’s excellent qualities beneath the suitor’s importunities. Thus, when the visits increased, the Chief did not hide his displeasure or his lack of desire for conversation. Villaamil was delicate, and suffered unspeakably under such slights; but imperative necessity compelled him to summon strength from weakness and cover his face with cowhide. Nevertheless, at times he would withdraw in dismay, saying to his cloak: “I can’t, Lord, I can’t! The role of stubborn beggar is not for me.” And the consequence of this dejection was that he would not appear in the Staff for a few days. Then the tyrannical law of necessity would return to brutally impose itself; Self-respect revolted against forgetfulness, and like a hungry wolf, who, regardless of the danger of death, takes to the fields and approaches the farmhouse in search of a beast or a man, so Don Ramón once again, hungry for justice, rushed to the Personnel Office, enduring slights, scowls, and even worse responses. The person who received him most warmly and encouraged him most, offering his help cordially, was Don Basilio Andrés de la Caña Impuestos. The excursion over, Villaamil returned to his homestead, exhausted in body and spirit. His wife questioned him skillfully; but he, firm in his studied dignity, maintained that he had only gone to the Ministry to smoke a cigar with friends; that he expected nothing, made no pretensions, and that the family should not build castles in the air, but rather prepare for a pleasure trip to San Bernardino. Pura replied to this that if he didn’t try to position himself, she would take action herself, appealing to the intercession of Mrs. Pez, Carolina de Lantigua, since even cats know that where the effectiveness of political recommendations ends, that of skirts begins. “Ah! It’s not that skirt that makes and unmakes fortune,” Villaamil responded with profound skepticism, a product of his knowledge of the bureaucratic world. “Carolina Pez is an honorable lady, that is, in this case, Ambrosio’s chaperone. Besides… consider it: the Peces aren’t depriving themselves now; they defend themselves, and nothing more. There are already those who talk about leaving them high and dry. Imagine a people who have suckled at every udder and who have known how to link the Glorious with Alfonsito… Well, the nougat they eat is what corresponds to as many loyal ones as we are looking at the moon.” A murmur is already beginning to rise against them. And I’ll say more: the Administration needs faithful servants, identified—note carefully—identified with monarchical politics; it’s essential that destinies not be linked; there must be those on duty. Otherwise , where will we end up? And there you have the Chief of Personnel, Pez’s nephew, selling protection to those who, for not serving the sympathetic Republic, sacrificed their destinies. This is scandalous and has never been seen before. This way, you can’t avoid brawls, and Pateta taking Spain by storm. So you’re getting the picture? On Pez’s side, whether it’s Peces in skirts or trousers, don’t expect so much . Of course, returning to your topic, which you’d forgotten in the heat of the discourse, with Peces or without Peces, there will be nothing for me. La Caña is the only one interested in me now. He’d do something if he could. But I have hidden enemies, who in the shadows are working to bring me down. Someone has sworn war against me to the death. Who it could be, I don’t know; but the traitor exists, have no doubt about it. In those days, which were already the beginning of March, the unfortunate family again began to notice the beginnings of sindineritis. There was a week of horrible hardship, poorly concealed from those close to them, endured by Villaamil with stoic fortitude and by Doña Pura with that courageous equanimity that saved her from despair. But the remedy came unexpectedly and through the same channels as on another, no less afflictive occasion . Victor was once again buoyant. His mother-in-law was surprised when she least expected it by new offers of cash, which did not She hesitated to accept, without delving into the philosophy of inquiring about the source. Nor did she think it prudent to tell her husband that she had seen Victor’s wallet bursting with bills. His eyes seemed dazzled! She pocketed the coins she had received and the considerations the case suggested to her. If they hadn’t already placed him, where did he get so much money? And even if they had… There was bound to be a hidden hand… In short, why delve into the dreaded enigma? She didn’t like investigating other people’s lives. Victor was once again very boastful. He had ordered more clothes, had a seat night after night at different theaters, and at the Real itself; he gave frequent gifts to the whole family, and his splendor went so far as to invite three o’clock to the opera, in a stall no less. This produced true indignation in Villaamil, for it was a mockery of his poverty and an insult to public morals. Pura and her sister laughed at the offer, for although they were eager to go, they lacked the necessary perks for such an exhibition. Abelarda resolutely refused . A great dispute arose over this, and her mother suggested some ideas to overcome the great difficulties her son-in-law’s thinking encountered in practice. Consider what the arbitrator’s wit of the figure of Fra Angelico came up with. Her friends and neighbors, the Cuevas family, helped each other, as mentioned before, with hat-making. On one occasion, when the Miaus family caught three newspaper seats for the Spanish newspaper, Abelarda, Doña Pura, and Bibiana Cuevas donned the best models those friends had in their workshop, after each arranging them to her own liking. Why not do the same on the occasion under discussion? Bibiana wasn’t going to object. And indeed she had at that time three or four garments, one from the Marchioness A, another from the Countess B, each more beautiful and elegant than the last. She disguised them, for for that purpose there were plenty of pins, buckles, ribbons, and feathers in the workshop , and even if their owners were at the theater, they would not have recognized the masks. As for the dresses, they would arrange them with the help of their friends, also procuring some coats, brought from the shop to try on, and since Victor had offered to give them gloves as well, it was no small feat to go to the stalls. How many would go about disguising their _tronitis_ with less grace! Chapter 27. Abelarda resisted this trick, assuring them that they would not even be taken to the stalls in pieces in that manner, and so the matter rested. It all came down to going up front in Paraiso one night when La Africana was being performed, and as soon as the three of them were seated, the usual commentary surrounding such an unusual event spread through the audience at that height. “The Miaus are up front!” Such a scenario hadn’t been seen in ten years. The vast center and side tiers were packed to the rafters . The Miaus were known to the entire audience as fixtures in Paraiso, always in the far right side row next to the exit. The night they were gone, there was a noticeable emptiness, as if the ceiling frescoes had disappeared. They weren’t the only ones subscribed to Paraiso, as countless people and even families spend their lives eternally in those pews, succeeding one another from generation to generation. These worthy and tenacious dilettants constitute the mass of the knowledgeable public that grants and denies musical success, and are a critical archive of the operas sung over the past thirty years and of the artists who appear on the glorious stage. There are circles, groups, clubs and more or less intimate gatherings there; relationships are made and arranged there; countless weddings have come from there, and the love-making and telegraph meetings have, between romance and duet, a very propitious atmosphere and occasion. From their front, the Miaus greeted with smiles their friends on the right wing and in the center, and from both sides they harangued them with glances and little phrases of the following tenor: “Look how sylphlike Doña Pura is. She’s brought the whole box of powders.” “So, what about the sister with her velvet ribbon around her neck? If all three of them are wearing a black ribbon, they’ll certainly need a little bell to look in character.” “Look, look at the little _Miau_ with the cufflinks; it’s quite something. That coffee -brown dress is the one her mother wore last year. She put some red ribbons on it that look like they came from cigar boxes.” “Yes, yes, they’re from cigar bundles.” “Well, the other one, the broken-down singer, is wearing the dress she must have bought at the Jover High School when she played the part of Adalgisa.” “Yes, look, look; it’s a Roman tunic with fretwork and everything. How classic it is!” ” Tell me, Guillén,” they murmured in another circle, where the cursed lame man was spending his money. “Have they placed that poor _Miau_, the father of your friends? Because that Asiatic luxury up front means that _ours_ have gone up .” –If they don’t place him in Leganés… They’re living off the _sable_ now. The good gentleman delivers some sword thrusts… like a master. Abelarda, more than at the opera, which she had seen a hundred times, fixed her attention on the audience, scanning with anxious glance the boxes and seats, noticing all the ladies who entered from the center street in luxurious coats, trailing their trains, and then entering with all that lap of clothing through the already occupied rows. Little by little, the courtyard began to fill up. The boxes weren’t populated until the end of the first act, when Vasco, uncomfortable with those backward-looking Council phantoms, sang them a few songs. Queen Mercedes appeared in the royal box, behind Don Alfonso. The inevitable ladies, well-known to the audience, appeared in the second act, keeping their coats until the third, and applauded mechanically whenever there was reason to. The Miaus, well-versed in all elegant society, also subscribers, commented on her as they were commented on when they took their seats. Seeing her night after night, they had become so familiar with her that one would think they were on intimate terms with ladies and gentlemen. “There’s the Duchess. But Rosario hasn’t come yet… María Buschental can’t be long. Her friends are already beginning to arrive at the streetcar… Look, look, María Heredia is coming now… But Mercedes looks so pale; so pale!… There’s Don Antonio in the Ministers’ box, and that Cos Gayón… they’d shoot him.” After much searching, the insignificant woman discovered her brother-in-law in the second row of seats. He was in tails, as elegant as the first. What things there are in life! Who would have thought that the man resembling a duke, that handsome young man chatting casually with his seatmate, the Minister of Italy, was an obscure, unemployed employee, housed in a poorhouse, in a humble little room, keeping his clothes in a trunk! “Isn’t that Victor?” said Pura, tossing her the binoculars. “He’s getting a lot of attention !… If only they knew him!… He seems like a tycoon! There’s so much of that in Madrid! I don’t know how he manages. He has good clothes, seats in every theater, magnificent cigars. Look, look how easily he speaks. Poor man, what lies he must be stumbling upon! And those foreigners are so innocent, they’ll believe it all.” Abelarda never took her eyes off him, and whenever she saw him look in some box, she followed the direction of his glances, believing that they would betray the secret of their love. “Which one of these here could it be?” thought the insignificant woman. “Because it must be one of these. Could it be the one dressed in white? Ah! Maybe. She seems to be looking at him. But no; he looks elsewhere. Could it be a singer? Oh no! No, not a singer. She’s one of these, one of these elegant women in the boxes, and I must discover her.” He would notice one, without knowing why, merely by the prompting of his alert instinct; but then, discarding the hypothesis, he would notice another, and another, and yet another, concluding that it was none of those present. Victor showed no preference in his glances at the seats and boxes. It could be that they had agreed not to look at each other in a shameless and revealing manner. The young man also glanced towards the front of paradise, and made a little bow to the family. Doña Pura spent a quarter of an hour nodding off in response to the greeting that rose from the noble back of the theater to the poor Miaus. During the intervals, some friends, subscribers like them to pure paradise, approached to greet them, making their way through the dense crowd. Federico Ruiz was one of them, and he and everyone else wanted to hear Milagros’s critical opinion of the soprano who was debuting that night in the role of Selika. When she passed out under the apple tree, the Miaus, who never missed a note, withdrew and did not leave until after the last call to the stage. During the arduous descent down the wide, crowded stairs, they were approached by several close friends, among them the lame Guillén, and some of her friends, who had so bitterly ridiculed her appearance at the front. Upon returning home, they found Villaamil awake; Victor hadn’t entered yet, nor did he do so until very late, when everyone was asleep except Abelarda, who heard the sound of the latchkey, and, getting out of bed and looking through a crack in the door, saw him enter the dining room and go into his bedroom after drinking a glass of water. He was in a good mood, humming, his coat collar turned up, a silk scarf carelessly tied around his neck, and the felt of his hat very worn and creased. He was the very image of the perfect, well-mannered perdis. The next day she bothered the family quite a bit, requesting small needlework services, either button-fastening, delicate mending, or something related to shirts. But Abelarda attended to everything with great diligence. At lunchtime, Doña Pura arrived to say that the boy from the pawn shop had died, news that Luis confirmed with more a tone of novelty than sorrow, a characteristic of that blessed, heartless age. Villaamil intoned the funeral oration for the deceased , declaring that it is a blessing to die in infancy to escape the sufferings of this cruel life. Those worthy of compassion are the parents, who remain here, passing the terrible passage, while the child flies to heaven to join the glorious battalion of angels. Everyone supported these ideas, except Victor, who welcomed them with a mocking smile, and when his father-in-law left and Milagros went into the kitchen and Doña Pura began to come and go, he confronted Abelarda, who was still at the table, and said: “Happy are those who believe! I don’t know what I would give to be like you, who goes to church and stays there for hours and hours, deluded by the stagecraft that conceals the eternal lie. Religion, I understand, is the magnificent garb with which they dress nothingness so that it doesn’t horrify us… Don’t you believe the same? ” “How can I believe that?” exclaimed Abelarda, offended by the cunning tenacity with which the other wounded her religious feelings whenever he found a favorable opportunity. “If I believed it, I wouldn’t go to church, or I would be a hypocritical fraud. You don’t have to come across as me .” If you don’t believe, it’s good for you. “Well, I’m not happy about being an unbeliever, mind you; I deplore it, and you would do me a favor if you convinced me I’m wrong. ” “Me? I’m not a professor or a preacher. Belief comes from within. Does n’t it sometimes cross your mind that there might be a God? ” “It used to; that idea took off a long time ago. ” “Well then… what do you want me to say? Let’s take it seriously. And
do you think that when we die we’re not asked to account for our actions? ” “And who is going to ask us? The little worms? When the ” let’s go” thing comes, we are received in her arms by Mrs. Matter, a very decent person, but one who has no face, no thought, no intention, no conscience, nothing. In her we disappear, we dissolve completely. I don’t accept half measures.” If I believed what you believe, that is, that there exists up in the air, I don’t know where, a Magistrate with a white beard who pardons or condemns and issues passports to Glory or Hell, I’d lock myself in a convent and spend the rest of my life praying. “And it’s the best thing you could do, fool.” Taking the napkin from Luis, who was staring at his father with his astonished little eyes. “Why don’t you do it? ” “And how do you know if I’ll do it today or tomorrow? Be careful. God is going to punish you for not believing in him; he’s going to deal a heavy blow to you, and a very heavy blow; you’ll see. ” At this moment, Luisito, very annoyed by his father’s antics , couldn’t contain himself, and with childish determination, he grabbed a piece of bread and threw it in the face of the author of his days, shouting: “You idiot!” Everyone laughed at that outburst, and Doña Pura kissed her grandson provoking him like this: “Go on, son, go on, he’s a rascal.” He says he doesn’t believe just to make us angry. But do you see what a boy he is? He’s worth more than he weighs. He knows more than a hundred doctors. Isn’t it true that my boy is going to be a clergyman, to climb up the pulpit and deliver his little sermons and say his little masses? Then we’ll all be old fogies, and the day Luisín sings mass, we’ll kneel there for the new clergyman to bless us. And the one who will be most humble and drooling will be this drone, right? And you’ll say to him: ‘Dad, you see how you’ve finally come to believe.’ “How handsome this son is, and what talent he has!” said Victor, rising joyfully and kissing the little one, who hid his face to avoid the flattery. “I love him more!… I’m going to buy you a velocipede so you can ride around the little square across the street. You’ll see how jealous your classmates will be of you. ” The promise of the velocipede momentarily upset the little boy’s ideas, and he calculated with crude selfishness that his desire to be a priest, to serve God, and even to become a saint was not at odds with having a precious velocipede, to ride it, and to smack it around the snouts of his tooth-curdling companions. Chapter 28. The next morning, Villaamil held an interesting conference with his wife when she returned from shopping. He was in his office writing letters, and when he felt her enter his corner, he hissed mysteriously, and shutting himself in with her, he said: “Not a word about this to Victor, who is a real dog and could stop me. Although I expect nothing, I made some progress yesterday. I have a very energetic congressman backing me … We spoke at length last night. I’ll tell you, so you know everything, that my friend La Caña introduced me to him. I told him about my background, and he was surprised that I was dismissed.” Just like that, I explained my ideas about the Treasury to him, and look what a coincidence: they’re the same ones he has. He thinks exactly like me. That new methods of taxation should be tested, aiming for simplification, relying on the good faith of the taxpayer, and aiming for cheap collection. Well, he promised to support me wholeheartedly. He’s a man of great worth, and it seems they won’t deny him anything. “Is he in the opposition? ” “No; a very ministerial man, but a dissident, that’s the joke, and every day he gives the Government more grief. Okay, okay. And he’s one of those who care only for the good of the country.” When he stands up to speak, the blue bench trembles. As if he’s proving to them, _ce_ for _be_, that the country is headed for ruin if things continue as they are, and that agriculture is ruined, industry dead, and the entire nation in the most appalling misery. This is obvious. Well, the Government, which sees him as its accuser, is so afraid of him, my child, so terrified that anything he asks for is granted. He produces credentials by the bucketful… Well, we agreed that I would let him know if a vacancy arises today, as Sevillano and Pantoja told me. I’ll go to the Ministry as soon as I have lunch, find out whether there is a vacancy or not, and if there is, I’ll write to him at his home or to Congress, depending on the time. He has given me his word to speak to the Minister this afternoon , and the Minister is very grateful to him for having declined to explain an interpellation about a certain contract in which there are both toads and snakes. You see, the Minister would give him David’s harp today if he would give it to him. asked. Are you getting it? “Yes, man, radiant with satisfaction; and it seems to me that as it is now, no one can take this cake away from us. ” “Oh! As for trust, what is called trust, I don’t have it. You know I always assume the worst. But let’s make our plan: I’ll go to the Ministry. Luis won’t go to school this afternoon, and he ‘ll wait here, because I have to send him the letter with him. I won’t see him myself, because Victor has insisted that we visit the Chief of Personnel together this afternoon. I want to go with him to throw him off the scent. Do you understand? Be careful how you let that rascal understand which way the wind is blowing now. ” Getting up, extremely excited, he began to pace around the narrow room. His wife, overjoyed, left him alone, and despite his imposed reserve, his daughter and sister saw the good news from his face. He was one of those people who treasure within themselves an arsenal of spiritual weapons against life’s sorrows and possess the art of transforming events, reducing and assimilating them by virtue of the sweetening faculty they carry within them, like the bee, which turns everything it sucks into honey. That was a day of strike for Cadalsito, since in the morning, according to the teacher’s order, everyone was to go to the funeral of the ill-fated _Posturitas_. And one of those designated to carry the coffin ribbons was Luis, perhaps because he was the one who had the best clothes, thanks to his father, Víctor. His grandmother laid out his christening clothes for him, gloves and all, and he came out very polished and dressed up, delighted to see himself so handsome, his joy not diminished by the sad end of such arrangements. The memorialist’s wife patted him a thousand times, praising how handsome he looked, and the boy headed toward the pawn shop, followed by Canelillo, who also wanted to stick his nose into the funeral, although it wasn’t easy to get him involved. Upon entering the street of Acuerdo, Cadalso ran into his Aunt Quintina, who showered him with kisses, praised his elegance, straightened the body of his jacket and sleeves, and fixed his collar to make him look even more handsome. ” You owe this to me, because I told your father to buy you some clothes. He would never have thought of such a thing; he’s very distracted. By the way, my love, I’m working harder now than ever with your father to get him to take you to live with me. What’s that? What face are you making? You’ll be much better off with me than with those prim little Miaus… If you could see all the pretty things I have at home!” Oh, if you could only see them!… Baby Jesuses who look just like you, holding the world in their hands; such precious nativity scenes, so precious… you have to see them. And now we’re waiting for tiny chalices, adorable monstrances, chasubles like this… so good children can play at Mass; saints this size, just like that, look, like toy soldiers, and a sea of little candles and chandeliers that light up on the toy altars. You have to see it all, and if you go home, you can do whatever you want with it, because it’s for your amusement. Will you go, my darling? Cadalsito, opening every eye with those descriptions of sacred toys, nodded his head in agreement, although distressed by the difficulty of seeing and enjoying such things, since Grandma wouldn’t let him set foot there. At this point, they arrived at the door of the funeral home, where Quintina, after kissing him again and rubbing his face, left him in the company of the other boys, who were already there, making more of a racket than the sad circumstances allowed. Some out of envy, others because they were always very playful, began to tease Cadalso about the brand-new clothes he was wearing, his blue stockings, and even more so his gloves of the same color, which, incidentally , hampered his hands. He wouldn’t let them touch him, determined to defend the cleanliness of his sleeves against any attack from envious people and scoundrels . Then the question arose as to whether or not they should go up to see Paco Ramos dead, and among those who voted in favor, Luis, moved by curiosity, also slipped in. He never did that. For he was so deeply struck by the sight of the dead boy that he nearly fell to the ground. A pain fell in the pit of his stomach, as if something were being torn out of him. Poor Posturas seemed taller than he was. He was dressed in his best clothes; his hands were crossed, holding a bouquet; his face was very yellow, with purple spots, his mouth half-open and almost black in color, with his two middle teeth visible , white and large, larger than when he was alive… Luisín had to turn away from that terrifying spectacle. Poor Posturas!… So still he was, so lively, so silent he was, constantly stirring up trouble, laughing and talking at the same time! So grave he was, so mischievous, and always driving the whole class to distraction! In the midst of that immense turmoil in his soul, which Luis couldn’t define, not knowing whether it was sorrow or fear, the boy made an observation that cut through his feelings, like the voice of selfishness, more categorical in childhood than pity. “Now,” he thought, “he won’t call me _Meow_.” And upon deducing this, a weight seemed to lift from his shoulders, like someone who resolves a difficult problem or sees a danger averted. As he went down the stairs, he tried to console himself for the unease he felt, mentally affirming: “He won’t call me _Meow_ anymore… Let him call me _Meow_ now.” It didn’t take long for the blue box to be lowered to be placed on the cart. On every balcony of the house, not excepting those of the loan establishment, quite a few women appeared to watch the funeral procession. The lame Guillén appeared with his eyes burning from crying and his face so serious that he didn’t resemble himself. He was the one who arranged everything and distributed the ribbons, entrusting one to Cadalso. Then he got into the carriage, where the teacher also rode, with his rattan cane and floppy top hat; the neighboring shopkeeper, wearing a clean, short-collared shirt without a tie; and an old gentleman Cadalso didn’t know. As they set off, then, Luis thought his clothes looked shabby, and he wasn’t insensitive to the gratifications of his pride. He was very self-indulgent in his role as ribbon bearer, thinking that if he didn’t carry it, the funeral wouldn’t be nearly as grand. He looked around for Canelo; but Mendizábal’s wise dog , as soon as he understood that it was a burial, a rather unpleasant affair that suggests misanthropic ideas, turned around and headed in another direction, thinking that it was more in his interest to see if any elegant and sensible female dogs were around in those parts. In the cemetery, curiosity, more powerful than fear, prompted Cadalso to see everything… They lowered the corpse from the cart, two of them entered, and opened the coffin… Luis didn’t understand why, after covering his face with a handkerchief, those brutes had poured lime over him… But a friend explained it to him. Seeing such operations, Cadalso felt as if his throat was being squeezed. He stuck his head between the legs of the older people, to see, to see more. The strange thing was that Posturitas remained so quiet and still while they performed that heresy of covering his face with lime. Then they closed the lid… How horrible it was to be inside! They gave the key to the lame man, and then they put the coffin in a hole, there, at the bottom, there… A bricklayer began to cover the hole with plaster and bricks. Cadalso didn’t take his eyes off the task… When he saw it finished, he let out a huge sigh, an explosion of long-held breath. Poor _Posturitas_! “Well, sir, everyone who wants to can call me _Meow_; but he won’t tell me what he is again.” When they left, his friends teased him about his elaborate attire. One of them hinted at a malicious intention of making him fall into a ditch, from which he emerged as a pitiable creature. Several very filthy hands touched him with intentions that are easy to imagine, and now Cadalso didn’t know what to do with his own, imprisoned in his gloves, numb and incapable of movement. Finally, he freed himself from that predicament, taking off his gloves and putting them in his pocket. Before reaching Ancha Street, the boys dispersed, and Luisito continued with the teacher, who left him at the door of his house. Canelo was already there, returning from his depraved excursions, and they went up together to have lunch, for the dog was aware that he had restocked his supplies upstairs. “And the gloves?” Doña Pura asked her grandson when she saw him enter with his bare hands. “Here they are… I haven’t lost them.” Villaamil, around three o’clock, came in from the street, very busy, and going into his office, wrote a letter in front of his wife, who was pleased to see the healthy excitement in him, a sign that things were going seriously. “Good. Let Luis take this letter and wait for a reply. Sevillano told me that we have a vacancy, and I want to know if the representative wants it for me or not. Success depends on timing.” I have an appointment with Victor, and I don’t want to be absent-minded in order to confuse him… This is a delicate task I have at hand, and I must proceed with extreme caution. Give me my hat… my cane, for I’m back on the street. God grant us favor. Let Luis not come back without a reply. Let him give the letter to a doorman and wait in that room, to the right as you enter. I’m not waiting for anything; but it’s necessary, it’s necessary to pull out all the stops, all of them… Cadalsito left around four o’clock with the letter and without gloves, followed by Canelo and still wearing his burial clothes, for his grandmother thought there was no more propitious occasion to show them off. It wasn’t necessary to point out where the Congress was, since he had already been there before with a similar commission. In twenty minutes he was there. Florida Blanca Street was swarming with carriages that, after releasing their owners at the door, were lining up. The coachmen in braided top hats and capes chatted from box to box, and the line stretched all the way to Jovellanos’s Theater. Next to the doors of the building, on Calle del Sordo, there were lines of people forming a queue, which the Public Order officers were watching, making sure they didn’t get too long. Having examined all this, the observant Cadalsito entered through the door crowned by a glass roof. A doorman in a tailcoat gently moved him aside so that some noblemen in fur coats could enter, before whom he opened the red screen. Cadalsito then faced the man in the tailcoat, and, taking off his cap—for he, always courteous when he saw braids, didn’t distinguish between ranks—handed him the letter, saying timidly, “I’m waiting for a reply.” The doorman, reading the envelope, said, “I don’t know if he’s come. He’ll come.” And placing the letter in a locker, he told Luis to enter the room on the right. There were quite a few people there, most of them standing by the door, men of various appearances, some very poorly dressed, their scarves wrapped around their necks, looking like beggars; women with veils over their faces, and in their hands rolled up papers that spilled out at once. Some watched the incoming gentlemen with angry faces, ready to stop them. Others, with better hair, asked only for tickets for the galleries, and left without them because they had run out. Cadalsito also dedicated himself to watching the gentlemen who entered in groups of two or three, talking heatedly. “This house must be very large, ” thought Luis, “when it can hold so much lordship.” And finally, tired of standing, he went inside and sat on a bench that lined the waiting room. There he saw a table where some people were writing cards or flyers, which they then entrusted to the doormen, and they waited without concealing their impatience. One man had been there for three hours, and still had another three. The women sighed, motionless in their seats, dreaming of a reply that never came. From time to time, the screen that led to another room opened; a doorman called, “Mr. So-and-so,” and Mr. So-and-so sat up very content. An hour passed, and the boy yawned boredomlessly on that hard bench. To amuse himself, he got up from time to time and stood at the door watching the people enter, not without musing about the intricacies of that house and what so many gentlemen would be cooking there. He knew Congress was a place where people talked. How many times had he heard his grandfather and father say: “Today so-and-so or so-and-so spoke, and they said this, that, and the other thing. And what was the house like inside? Great curiosity. What was it like? Where were they talking? It must have been a house as large as a church, with a multitude of pews where they all sat and chatted at once. And what was all this talk about? Well, the ministers also went in there. And who were the ministers? Those who governed and assigned appointments.” He also remembered hearing his grandfather, during frequent moments of bad humor, say that the Cortes were a farce and that all they did there was waste time. But at other times, the good old man would get excited, praising a boisterous speech. In short, Luisín couldn’t form an exact judgment, and his mind was all confusion. He returned to the bench, and from it he saw someone enter who he thought was his father. “My father is here too!” And they let him through the screen like the others. He almost ran after him, shouting, “Dad, Dad,” but there was no time, and he stayed where he was. “Is my father one of those who talk? The one who should have come here to explain himself is Mendizabal, who knows so much, and says such good things…” At this point he felt his vision blur, and the intense cold enter his spine. The onset of the illness was so sudden and violent that he only had time to say to himself: “I’m in pain, I’m in pain.” And, dropping his head onto his shoulder and reclining his body in the next corner, he fell deeply asleep. Chapter 29. For an instant, Cadalsito saw nothing before him. All darkness, emptiness, silence. A little while later, the Lord appeared in front of him, sitting down. But where? Behind him was something like clouds, a white, luminous mass, which wavered with undulations like smoke. The Lord was serious. He looked at Louis, and Louis at him, waiting for him to say something. It had been a long time since he had last seen him, and his respect was greater than ever. “The gentleman for whom you brought the letter,” said the Father, “hasn’t answered you yet.” He read it and put it in his pocket. He’ll answer you later. I told him to give you a _yes_ as big as a house. But I don’t know if he’ll remember. Now he’s talking his head off. ” “Talking,” repeated Louis; “and what does he say?” “Many things, my dear, many that you don’t understand,” replied the Lord, smiling kindly. “Would you like to hear all that? ” “Yes, I would. ” “They’re very grumpy today. They’ll end up making a great racket.” “And you,” Cadalso asked timidly, never deciding to call God by his own name, “don’t you speak? ” “Where, here? Man… I… I’ll tell you… sometimes I might say something… But almost always what I do is listen. ” “And don’t you get tired? ” “A little; but what can I do?…” “Will the gentleman in the letter answer yes? Will they give my grandfather a job? ” “I can’t assure you. I’ve ordered him to do it. I’ve ordered him to do it a whopping three times. ” “Well, what you’re doing now is quite easy; I’m studying. ” “Don’t go too far back. You’re a bit more diligent. Here, among us, it’s no good exaggerating things. If you weren’t so distracted by the stamp album, you’d get more out of it. ” “Yesterday I learned my lesson. ” “For your usual standards, it wasn’t bad. But it’s not enough, son, it’s not enough. Above all, if you insist on being a priest, you have to push hard.” Because just imagine, to say a mass for me you have to learn Latin, and to preach you have to study an endless number of things. When I’m older I’ll learn it all… But my father doesn’t want to see me as a priest, and he says he wouldn’t believe anything you said, not even if they killed him. Tell me, is my father bad? He’s not very Catholic, so to speak. And Quintina, is she good? Aunt Quintina is. If you could see all the beautiful things she has in her house! You should go see them. Grandma doesn’t leave me disconsolate. It’s just that Aunt Quintina has taken it into her head that I should go live with her, and the people at home… that odd. –It’s natural. But you, what do you think about this? Would you like to stay where you are and be allowed to go to your aunt’s house to see the saints? –I would!… Tell me, is my father in here? –Yes, he’s somewhere around here. –And will he also talk? –Also. Of course!… –Excuse me. The other day my father said that women are very wicked. That’s why I never want to get married. –Very well thought out, holding back his laughter. No marriages. You’re going to be a priest. –And a bishop, if you don’t tell me otherwise… At this point, he saw the Lord turn back as if to remove something that was bothering Him… The boy craned his neck to see what it was, and the Father said: “Go away! Go away from here and leave me alone.” Then Luisito saw that several little rascal heads were peeking out from between the folds of his heavenly friend’s cloak . The Lord gathered his clothes, and three or four children were revealed, naked and with wings. It was the first time Cadalso had seen them, and he could no longer doubt that this was truly God, since he had angels. More began to appear among the clouds, and they hooted and laughed, performing a thousand capers. The Eternal Father ordered them to leave a second time, brushing them off with the corner of his cloak, as if they were flies. The youngest ones fluttered about, climbing up to the roof—for there was a roof there—and the older ones tugged at the good grandfather’s tunic to make him go with them. The old man finally got up, somewhat annoyed, saying: “Good; I’m coming, I’m coming… You are such pests! I can’t stand you.” But he said this in a good-natured and tolerant tone. Cadalso was entranced by such a beautiful scene, and then he saw that among the winged rascals, one stood out… “Contro!” It was Posturitas, the same Posturas, not stiff and livid as he had seen him in the box, but alive, cheerful, and so handsome. What filled Cadalso with admiration was that his schoolmate stood before him and with the greatest impudence in the world said: “Meow, fu, fu…” The respect he owed to God and his entourage did not prevent Luis from being annoyed by this outburst, and he even ventured to reply: “You scoundrel, you vulgar thing… that’s what your filthy mother and your aunts, who are called the harpids, taught you!” The Lord spoke thus, smiling: “Shut up, everyone, shut up… Let’s go…” And he walked slowly away, leading them in front of him and harassing them with his hand like a flock of chickens. But the condemned man from Posturitas, from a great distance away, just as the heavenly Father was fading into the clouds, turned back, and standing before his former comrade, paws open, snout laughing, he made a thousand snarls at him, and stuck out a large piece of his tongue, saying again: “Meow, Meow, fu, fu…” Cadalsito raised his hand… If he had held a book, a glass, or an inkwell in it, he would have broken his head. The other one went off jumping up and down, and from afar, making a trumpet with both hands, let out a Meow so loud and so prolonged that the entire Congress, echoing the immense cry, seemed to collapse… A doorman with a letter in his hand woke the boy, who was taking a long time to come to. “Boy, boy, are you the one who brought the letter for that gentleman? Here is the reply. Mr. D. Ramón Villaamil.” “Yes, I am… I mean, it’s my grandfather,” Luisito finally answered, and rubbing his eyes, he went out. The cool air of the street cleared his head a little. It was raining, and his first thought was to consider that he was going to put his lost clothes back on. Canelo, meanwhile, had been killing time on the Carrera de San Jerónimo, up and down the street, watching the pretty girls passing by, some in carriages, with their luxurious necklaces; and when Luis left the Congress, he was already back from his adventure, waiting for his friend. He joined him, hoping he would buy some buns; but the little one didn’t have any money, and even if he had, he wasn’t in the mood for revelry after what he had seen and the great distress that remained throughout his body. And the letter? What did it say? Villaamil opened it with a trembling hand while Doña Pura took the boy inside to change his clothes, and as he read it, his heart sank. It was one of those stamped letters, like the hundreds written every day in Congress and the Ministries. A lot of politeness, a lot of vague promises, neither affirming nor denying anything. When his wife came to find out, Villaamil presented a tragic appearance, showing the open letter, thrown on the table. “Now!” said Miau, after reading it; “the usual nonsense. But don’t worry, man. Go see him tomorrow, and… ” “When I tell you with atrocious discouragement that what they’re doing is bothering me…” He spent the night plunged in black sadness, and the next morning, a complete change of scenery. In the busy life of a suitor, these harsh contrasts occur, causing them to go from despair to hope. Villaamil received a note from the distinguished man summoning him to his house, from twelve to one. In the rush and anxiety that overcame my man, he couldn’t seem to put on his overcoat. “He’ll call me to tell me some nonsense,” he thought, always leaning towards the worst. “Come on, let’s go.” And he left, leaving his wife extremely excited with the hope of an imminent triumph. Along the way, he tried to fully understand his pessimistic fatalism . According to his theory, the opposite of what one thinks always happens. See why we never win the lottery; it’s quite clear: because one buys the ticket with the firm intention of winning the jackpot. The expected never happens, especially in Spain, since by historical law, Spaniards live day to day, surprised by events and without any control over them. According to this theory of the failure of all foresight, what must be done for something to happen? Foresee the opposite, become thoroughly convinced of the idea opposed to its realization. And for something not to happen? Imagine that it will happen, become convinced, by virtue of a sustained spiritual obstinacy, of the evidence of that supposition. Villaamil had always successfully experimented with this system and remembered a multitude of illustrative examples. On one of his trips to Cuba, during a furious storm, he became completely convinced of the idea of dying, erasing all hope from his spirit, and the ship had to be saved. Another time, finding himself threatened with dismissal, he became imbued with the conviction of his misfortune; he thought of nothing but the fateful termination; he saw it before him day and night, manifesting itself with brutal laconicism. And what happened? Well, it happened that he was promoted. In short, upon going to the home of the father of the nation, Villaamil was firmly imbued with the conviction of disaster, and thought thus: “As if I could see it; this gentleman is going to give me the coup de grâce now, saying: ‘Friend, I’m very sorry; the Minister and I don’t understand each other, and it’s impossible for me to do anything for you.'” But the words of this virtuous individual were very different, and Don Ramón could never have guessed that the other would appear in this register: “Well, yesterday afternoon, after writing to you, I spoke with your son-in-law, who told me that it would be more convenient for you to serve in the provinces. That’s a different story, because it’s much easier in the provinces. I’ll take up the matter today.” Amidst the pleasant surprise caused by such expressive reasons, my man felt the displeasure of Victor’s interference in that affair. He retired to his house, uneasy; for she had very little pleasure in seeing Cadalso’s person and recommendations mixed with her own. Doña Pura did not share these misgivings, and the sun of her joy shone unclouded . It was true that they were upset at having to pack up the bundle; but they were not in a position to choose the best, but rather to make do with what they could, giving thanks to God. From that day on, Villaamil frequented church in a shameful manner. When he left home, if the Comendadoras were open, he would sneak in there for a while, and hear mass if it was time for it, and if not, he would be For a moment on his knees, he was undoubtedly trying to harmonize his fatalism with the Christian ideal. Would he succeed? Who knows! Christianity tells us: Ask and it shall be given to you; it commands us to trust in God and wait for the remedy for our ills from his hand; but the experience of a long life of anxiety suggested these ideas to the good Villaamil: Don’t wait and you shall have; distrust success so that success may come. There he would sort things out in his conscience. Perhaps he was abdicating his diabolical theory, returning to consoling dogma; perhaps he was surrendering himself with all the effusion of his spirit to the merciful God, placing himself in His hands so that He would give him what best suited him: death or life, credentials or eternal cessation, modest well-being or horrible misery, the blissful peace of a servant of the State or the starving despair of a pretender. Perhaps he anticipated his heated gratitude in the first case or his resignation in the second, and he intended to await with a stoic spirit the divine judgment, renouncing the foresight of events, the sinful vestige of human pride. Chapter 30. One evening, near dusk, as he was returning home, he saw Montserrat open, and he went in. The church was very dark. Almost groping his way to a pew in the central nave and knelt beside it, facing the altar, lit by a single light. The footsteps of some devout person entering or leaving and the faint syllables of prayers were the only sounds that disturbed the silence, into whose deep bosom the dismissed man cast his melancholic prayer, an absurd mixture of piety and bureaucracy… “Because no matter how much I search my conscience, I cannot find any grave sin that makes me deserve this cruel punishment… I have always sought the good of the State, and I have attended to defending the Administration against its fraudsters in every case. I never committed nor consented to a single swindle, never, Lord, never. You know that well, Lord… There are my books from when I was the Intervention Holder… Not one badly made entry, not a single scratch… Why so much injustice in these syringed Governments? If it’s true that you give us all our daily bread , why do you deny it to me? And I say more: if the State must favor everyone equally, why does it abandon me?… Me, who have served it with such loyalty! Lord, let it not deceive me now… I promise you not to doubt your mercy as I have doubted other times; I promise you not to be pessimistic, and to hope, hope in you. Now, Our Father, touch the heart of that tired Minister, who is a good person: only they are making him dizzy with so many letters and recommendations. After a while he sat down, because being on his knees tired him, and his eyes, getting used to the darkness, began to vaguely make out the altars, the images, the confessionals, and the people, two or three old women who were grumbling, huddled in circles at the foot of the confessionals. He had not expected the pleasant encounter he had half an hour after he had been there. Sliding onto the bench or walking with his buttocks on the board, his grandson appeared to him. “Son, I didn’t see you. Who are you coming with?” “With Aunt Abelarda, who’s in that chapel… I was waiting for her here and fell asleep. I didn’t see you come in. ” “Well, I got here a little while ago,” Grandpa said, holding him close. “And you, are you coming here for a nap? I don’t like it; you might get cold and catch a flu. Your hands are freezing. Give them to me so I can warm them up. ” “Grandpa,” Luis asked, taking his face and tilting it to one side, “were you praying for a job?” The unemployed man’s mood was so troubled that upon hearing his grandson’s words, he went from laughing to crying in less than a second. But Luis didn’t notice that the old man’s eyes were moistening, and he sighed with all his heart upon hearing this reply: “Yes, my son. You know that we should ask God for everything we need.” “Well,” replied the boy, jumping from where he least expected , “I’ve been telling him every day, and nothing.” “You… but you also ask?… How rich you are! The Lord gives us everything we need. But I need you to be good, because if not, there’s no point. ” Luis let out another deep sigh that meant: “That’s the difficulty, check!, that one be good.” After a long pause, the boy, once again fondling his grandfather’s face to force him to look at him, murmured: “Grandfather, I learned my lesson today. ” “Yes? I like that. ” “And when will they teach me Latin? I want to learn it so I can sing Mass… But look, this church doesn’t make me happy. Do you know why? There’s a gentleman in that chapel with long hair who terrifies me. I won’t go in there even if they kill me. When I become a priest, I won’t say Mass there…” Don Ramón began to laugh. “You’ll soon get over your fear, and you’ll see how you’ll say your little masses to the long-haired Christ too.” “And I’m already learning how to cast them. Murillo knows all the Latin for the Mass, and when to ring the bell and when to lift the priest’s skirt. ” “Look,” his grandfather told him, without noticing, “go and tell your aunt I’m here. She won’t have seen me. It’s time we went home.” Luis went to deliver the message, and the click of his footsteps echoed on the church floor like a cheerful note in such a gloomy silence. Abelarda, sitting Turkish-style on the floor, looked back, then got up and came to stand beside her father. “Are you finished?” he asked her. “I still have a little bit to do.” And he continued syllabifying, his eyes fixed on the altar. Villaamil trusted greatly in his daughter’s prayers, which he believed were for him, and so he told her: “Don’t rush; pray calmly and as much as you want, there’s still time.” Doesn’t it seem like a great weight is lifted from the heart when we share our sorrows with the only one who can console them? This flowed spontaneously from the depths of the soul. The place and the occasion were propitious for the sweetest act of opening wide the doors of the spirit and letting out all the secrets. Abelarda was in a similar psychological state; but she felt the need for relief more strongly than her father. She wasn’t one to keep quiet at that moment, and if she were even a little careless, confidences would overflow from her mouth that she wouldn’t let cross her lips anywhere else for anything . “Oh, Papa!” she allowed herself to say. “I’m very unhappy… You don’t really know. ” Villaamil was surprised by such an outburst, because for him there was only one misfortune in the family: the unemployment and the agonizing delay of the credential. “That’s true,” she said sullenly; “but now… now we must trust… God will not abandon us. ” “As for me,” Abelarda confirmed, “He has abandoned me quite well… It’s just that terrible things happen to one. God sometimes does such foolish things… ” “What are you saying, daughter?” I was extremely alarmed. “God does such foolish things…” ” I mean that sometimes He instills in one feelings that make one unhappy; because, what’s the point of loving, if things aren’t going well ? ” Villaamil didn’t understand. He looked at her to see if the expression on her face clarified the enigma of the word. But the dim light didn’t allow the old man to decipher his daughter’s face. And Luisito, standing before the two of them, didn’t understand a jot of the conversation. “Well, if I’m to tell you the truth,” added Villaamil, searching for light in the confusion, “I don’t understand you. What’s upsetting you? Have you had a fight with Ponce? I don’t believe it.” The poor boy, last night at the café, spoke to me so naturally of his hurry to get married. He doesn’t want to wait until his uncle dies, who, by the way, is a finished man. “It’s not that, it’s not that,” said Miau, her heart in a frenzy. “Ponce hasn’t thrown a tantrum at me. ” “Well then…” They both fell silent, and soon Abelarda looked at her father. A malignant feeling was stirring in her soul, a desire to mortify the kind old man by saying something very unpleasant to him. How can this be explained? Only by the rejection of the outpouring of pity in that troubled spirit, which Searching in vain for good, she bounced back toward evil, and momentarily found pleasure in it. There was something in her of that cerebral state related to nervous disorders, familiar to the female organism, which suggests acts of infanticide; and in that case, the mysterious fluid of anger was unleashed upon the wretched father whom she loved so much. “Don’t you know something?” he said to her. “They’ve already placed Victor. Today at noon… shortly after you left, there was a knock at the door: it was the credential. He was at home. They’ve given him a promotion and appointed him… I don’t know what to the Economic Administration of Madrid. ” Villaamil was completely stunned, as if he’d been struck hard on the head with a sledgehammer. His ears buzzed… he thought he was delirious, he made himself repeat the news, and Abelarda repeated it with an accent that vibrated with the fury of a parricide. “A great destiny,” he added. “He’s very pleased, and he said that if they leave you out, he can, for now, so you won’t be unemployed, give you a subordinate post in his office.” For a moment, the unfortunate old man thought the church was falling on him. And in truth, an enormous weight fell on his heart, preventing him from breathing. At that same instant, Abelarda, coming back to herself from that cerebral disturbance that had clouded her reason and her filial feelings, regretted the stab she had just dealt her father, and wanted to apply balm without delay. “They’ll soon place you too. I’ve asked God for it. ” “Me! Place me!” with pessimistic fury. God only protects scoundrels… Do you think I expect anything from the Minister or from God? They’re all the same… Up and down, farce, favoritism, politicking!” You see what we get from so much humiliation and so much praying. Here I am, constantly snubbed and with no one paying attention to me, while that fool, liar, and trickster… He struck his head with the palm of his hand so hard that Luisito was frightened, looking at his grandfather in dismay. Then Abelarda felt the parricidal malignity again, combining it with a certain defensive instinct of the passion that filled her soul. The great errors of life, like deep feelings, even if they are misguided, tend to be preserved and do not in any way want to perish. Abelarda came to her own defense by defending the other. “No, Papa, he’s not bad with much passion, not bad. What a great mistake you and Mama are making! It’s all because you judge him to be frivolous, because you don’t understand him. ” “What do you know, silly girl? ” “Well, shouldn’t I know? The others don’t understand him, but I do.” “You, daughter!” And as he said this, a terrible suspicion crossed his mind, stupefying him even more than he had been. He soon recovered, saying to himself: “It can’t be; how absurd!” But as he noticed his daughter’s excitement, the wandering of her gaze, he was again seized by the cruel suspicion. “You… you say you understand him!” Refusing to penetrate the mystery, it, like a black abyss, deeper and more terrifying the more closely one looked at it, attracted him with an insane vertigo. He quickly compared certain of his daughter’s attitudes, previously inexplicable, with what he had heard at that moment; he connected the dots, recalled words, gestures, incidents, and concluded by declaring that he was in the presence of a very serious event. So serious was it, and so contrary to his feelings, that it terrified him to ascertain its truth. He rather wanted to forget it or pretend it was a vain rumination without any reasonable foundation. “Let’s go,” he murmured. “It’s late, and I have things to do before going home.” Abelarda knelt to say her last prayers, and the grandfather, taking Luisito by the hand, walked slowly toward the door, without genuflecting, without looking at the altar or remembering that he was in a sacred place. They passed by the chapel of the long-haired Christ, and when Cadalsito tugged on his grandfather’s arm to get him as far away as possible from the effigy that frightened him so much, Villaamil became uncomfortable and said with cruel asperity: “It’s eating you… Idiot… ” The three of them left, and at the corner of Quiñones Street they They found Pantoja, who stopped Don Ramón to tell him about Cadalso’s unprecedented promotion. Abelarda continued toward the house. As she climbed the dimly lit staircase, she heard footsteps descending. It was him… His gait could not have been mistaken for anyone else’s. She would have liked to hide so he wouldn’t see her, an impulse of shame and shock that obeyed a mysterious premonition. Her heart was telling her something unusual, a natural development and result of events, and that encounter made her tremble. Victor looked at her and stopped three or four steps up from the landing where the girl from Villaamil stopped, seeing him coming. “Are you coming back from church?” he said to her. “I’m not eating at home today. I’m at a party. ” “Well,” she replied, and nothing more ingenious or opportune occurred to her. In one bound, Victor descended the four steps, and without saying a word, he took the insignificant girl by the waist and pressed her against him, leaning against the wall. Abelarda allowed herself to be embraced without the slightest resistance, and when he kissed her with feigned excitement on the forehead and cheeks, she closed her eyes, resting her head on the chest of the handsome monster, in the attitude of someone enjoying a much-desired rest after a long period of fatigue. “It had to be,” said Victor with the emotion he knew so well how to simulate. “We haven’t spoken clearly, and at last we understand each other. My love, I’ll sacrifice everything for you. Are you willing to do the same for this unfortunate man?” Abelarda answered yes, in a voice that was no more than a mere parting of her lips. “Would you abandon home, parents, everything, to follow me?” he said in a burst of infernal inspiration. The dull woman answered affirmatively again, now in a clearer voice and with a more pronounced nod. “To follow me so we’ll never be separated?” “I follow you like a fool, without noticing… ” “And soon? ” “Whenever you want… Right now. ” Victor thought for a moment. “My dear, everything can be done without scandal. Let’s separate now… I think someone’s coming. It’s your father… Get in. We’ll talk.” Hearing her father’s footsteps, Abelarda awoke from that brief dream. She went upstairs flustered, trembling, without looking back. Victor continued down slowly, and when he met his father-in-law and the child, he didn’t say anything to them, nor did they speak to him. When Villaamil reached the second floor, the young woman had already knocked hurriedly, wanting to get in before her father could catch sight of the criminal’s discomposure that distorted his face. Chapter 31. All that night the insignificant woman remained in a state close to madness, her spirit torn between mad joy and a sepulchral sadness. At times she felt struck by a stinging suspicion. She had surrendered her will unconditionally, without demanding in return the surrender of the other’s free will and the end of those loves with an unknown woman, a love of commitment, no doubt, difficult to break. Was she breaking them and settling all her outstanding love accounts? So it had to be. And frankly, it wouldn’t hurt to have said so. But there hadn’t been time for anything, nor had they been able to give and demand the proper explanations!… That exchange and mutual abandonment of both wills was like a flash of lightning . It was therefore necessary, at the first juncture, to clear the situation, removing all fear of duplicity, and putting that lady with the letters aside forever. This done, Abelarda would surrender herself without further ado to the man who had absorbed her soul. She renounced all freedom; it was hers, his, in the form and conditions he wished, with or without scandal, with or without honor. While they ate, Villaamil watched his daughter, putting on his face the most energetic features of that tigerish ferocity that characterized him. She ate without appetite, and one thought she was devouring a throbbing, half-alive piece , moaning and trembling with horrible pains, stuck on her fork. Doña Pura and Milagros didn’t dare speak to her about Victor’s position. Both were sullen, gloomy, and with faces of reverence, and Abelarda herself ended up being part of that A silent chorus of sepulchral figures. That night there was no Real. The dismissed man went into his office, and the three _Miaus_ went to the living room, where the illustrious Ponce and the Cuevas women were gathered. Abelarda had moments of feverish loquacity, and others of taciturn meditation. At twelve the gathering ended, and she went to sleep… The house was silent, Abelarda awake, waiting for Victor to say what she wanted to say, and to empty herself completely, soul to soul, exchanging their contents. But it was one o’clock, one-thirty, and the gallant did not appear. Between two and three, the unfortunate girl was in a feverish state, which kindled in her mind the most bizarre absurdities. They had killed him… It could also be that the embrace, the kiss, and the declaration on the stairs were all a vile joke… She rejected this idea as too absurd and not fitting, according to her, within the mold of human wickedness. Then she thought, and it was already three-thirty, that the elegant woman with the crowned letters, upon learning that very night that her lover was leaving, or upon hearing from her own lips sad accents of rupture, was plotting horrible revenge against him, inviting him to dinner and poisoning him, slipping the Borgia poison into a glass of sherry. With these strange musings she mixed the thousand insipid twists she had seen in operas, the conspiracies that the mezzo-soprano hatches against the tenor, because he despised her for her treble; The baritone’s cruelty to rid himself of his hated rival, the tenor’s sublime constancy, and it was already four o’clock when, succumbing to the combined wiles of the bass and the contralto, he burst into the arms of the soprano, and they both concluded by telling each other that they would love each other in the next world. Five o’clock, and Victor had no appearance. Abelarda’s brain was a volcano, venting from her eyes in flashes of fever, from her lips in monosyllables of spite, of love, of anger. Only twice that season had the _superior man_ spent the entire night away from home; and the first time this happened, he came back around ten in the morning in a lamentable state of disarray, denouncing with his attitude, his words, and even his clothes the excesses of a night of revelry among people of an irregular life. If only the same thing would happen the second time! But no; something had happened. Between the tender footsteps on the stairs and that inexplicable absence, there was an enigma, something mysterious, perhaps a misfortune or a monstrosity that the poor girl, in the confusion of her intelligence, could not understand. Six o’clock, and nothing. She burst into tears, and one moment she reclined her head on the pillow, another she sat on a trunk or went from one part of the room to the other, like a bird in its cage hopping from stick to stick. Day came, and nothing. The first Abelarda heard getting up was her father, who passed by on his way to the kitchen and then to the study. Eight o’clock. Doña Pura would soon abandon her idle pens. Since, even if Victor came in, it was impossible to speak with him alone, the grieving woman went to bed, not to sleep or rest, but so that her mother wouldn’t realize what a Toledo night was like. It was well after nine o’clock when the night owl came in, feeling very ill. Doña Pura opened the door without saying a word. She went into her room, and Abelarda, who was coming out of hers, heard her squirming in the narrow space, which barely contained the bed, a chair, and the trunk. “If you’re going to church,” Pura told her, taking some coins from her purse, “bring a few balls… Let Luis accompany you. I’m not going out. I have a headache. Your father is terribly upset, and with good reason. Imagine putting this wastrel in charge and leaving him on the street—him, so honorable and who knows more about administration than the entire Ministry put together! What governments, my lord, what governments! And then they’re so shocked when there’s a revolution! You bring a few balls. I don’t know how we’ll get through the day! Oh! Bring the black lace for my dress and the hooks, too.” Abelarda went to church, and when she returned with her mother’s errands, she found her mother, her aunt and Victor in the dining room, engaged in a furious argument. dispute. Cadalso’s voice rose, saying: “But, ladies, what’s my fault that they placed me before Papa? Is this reason enough for everyone in this house to give me the cold shoulder? Well, I feel like, as God would have it, throwing my ID into the street. Above all, the peace of the family. I ‘m doing my best to make them love me, I’m trying to make them forget the trouble I’ve caused them, and now, God help me! Because the Minister wants to place me, it won’t be long before my mother-in-law and my mother-in-law’s sister claw my eyes out! Well, ladies; scratch and hit all you like; I won’t complain. The more vile things you call me, the more I’ll love you all.” “As if we didn’t know,” objected Doña Pura, like an asp, “that you have a high position in the Ministry, and that if you had wanted, Ramón would already have a position! ” “For God’s sake, Mama, for God’s sake!” replied Victor, revealing true consternation. “That’s innocent enough… I can’t believe you ‘d say that so formally. I… come on; I have a bit of a reputation in the family…! And if I swore that I’d done more for Papa than for myself? If I swore it? Of course, they wouldn’t believe me. But, believe it or not, I say it and I stand by it. ” Abelarda didn’t intervene in the brawl, but mentally she was taking her brother-in-law’s side . At this point, Villaamil entered, and Victor resolutely went to him: “You, who are a reasonable man, tell me if you believe, like these ladies, that I have managed or worked or schemed to have my position placed and not yours. Because here they are infuriating me with this story, and frankly, it distresses me to hear myself treated like a Judas without conscience. With a noble accent. I, Señor D. Ramón, have behaved loyally. If I have had the misfortune of going ahead of others, it is not my fault. Do you know what I would do now?… and may I die if I do not tell the truth. Well, I would give you my position.” “If no one speaks about the matter,” replied Villaamil with serenity, which he obtained by cruelly forcing himself. “Place me! Do you think anyone is thinking of such a thing? The natural and logical thing has happened.” You have there… I don’t know where… good godfathers or godmothers… I don’t have anyone… Enjoy it. He closed the door of his office, leaving Victor standing in the hall, somewhat confused and with a response between his lips that he didn’t dare to utter. He even tried to sweet-talk Doña Pura in the dining room, trying to win her heart with servilely affectionate expressions. “What a great misfortune , my God, not to be understood! I am consumed by this family, I sacrifice myself for it, I make their misfortunes my own and my meager means theirs, and it’s as if nothing happened. I am and always will be a bothersome guest and a cursed relative here. Patience, patience.” He said this with skillful affectation, just as he was taking out paper and preparing to write at the dining room table. As he left, he saw his sister-in-law standing before him , looking at him, holding her beard between the fingers of her right hand, in an attentive, thoughtful, and affectionate attitude similar, save for her beauty, to that of the famous statue of Polyhymnia in the ancient group of the Muses. It didn’t take a genius to read in the pupils and expression of the insignificant woman these or similar rebukes: “What are you doing there without paying attention to me? Don’t you know that I’m the only person who has understood you? Turn to me, and pay no attention to the others… I’ve been waiting for you since last night, ingrate! And you’re so distracted. What happened to your escape plans? I’m ready… I’ll leave with what I’m wearing.” Seeing her in this attitude and reading the rebuke in her eyes, Victor realized that he was in over his head with her. Damned if he had remembered the step up the stairs again since the previous night, and if he did, it was as a trivial fact, like a student joke with no consequences for life. His first impression, when his memory awakened, was one of disgust, as if he were recalling the impertinent requirement of paying a visit out of pure compliment. But he instantly composed his face, which for every situation had a beautiful mask. in the varied repertoire of her moral histrionics; and making sure that her mother-in-law was nowhere to be seen, she put on a very tender face, looked at the ceiling, then at her sister-in-law, and the two exchanged these brief words: “My love, I have to talk to you… where and when? ” “This afternoon… at the Comendadoras… at six. And nothing more.” Abelarda escaped to tidy the room, and Victor began to write, disdainfully throwing away his mask and thinking thus: ” This crazy woman wants to know when it’s time to get lost… Ah!… well, if you could guess… But you won’t.” Chapter 32. Punctual, like the hour itself, Abelarda entered the Comendadoras at the appointed time . The church, silent and dark, was in a state of disarray for the mysterious purpose of a meeting. Anyone who had seen the girl from Villaamil enter would have been astonished to see her in her best clothes, her true christening clothes. She put them on without her mother, who had left at five, noticing. She sat down on a pew, praying distractedly and feverishly, and fifteen minutes later Victor entered, who at first could not see a drop of water and was unsure which part of the church to go to. She went to guide him and touched his arm. They shook hands and sat near the door, in a rather secluded and darkest part of the church, at the entrance to the Chapel of the Dolores. Despite his skill and the ease with which he usually faced the most difficult situations, Victor, not knowing how to soften the subject, lingered for a while over the first few words. Finally, resolved to cut to a short note, mentally commending himself to the demon on his watch, he said: “I’ll begin by asking your forgiveness, my love; Forgiveness, yes, I need it, for my conduct… reckless… The love I have for you is so deep, so overwhelming, that last night, without knowing what I was doing, I wanted to throw you into the… ruggedness of my destiny. You must be furious with me, I understand, because to a woman of your quality, to propose as I did…! But I was blind, insane, and didn’t know what I said. What an idea you must have formed of me! I deserve your contempt. To propose that you abandon your parents, your home, to follow me, me, a wandering comet remembering phrases I had read in the past and stringing them together with the greatest freshness, me who runs through space, with no fixed direction, without knowing where I received the impulse or where my mad race is taking me…! I will crash; I will surely crash. But I would be a disgrace, Abelarda, taking his hand, I would be the last of monsters if I allowed you to crash into me… you, who are an angel: you, who are the delight of your family… Oh! I beg your pardon, and I would kneel to reach it. I committed a most serious attack on your dignity, I outraged your candor, proposing to you that atrocity born in this feverish brain… in short, forgive me, and accept my honorable excuses. I love you, I love you, and I will always love you, without hope, because I cannot aspire to possess such a… precious jewel. I would insult God if I had such an aspiration… Meow did not hinder her from fully understanding this chatter, with a meaning so opposite to what she expected to hear. She looked at him, and then at the nearest image, a Saint John with a lamb and banner, and asked the saint if that was true or a dream. “You are, you are forgiven,” she murmured, breathing deeply. “Do not be surprised, my love,” he continued, now master of the situation, “that in your presence I become timid and unable to express myself well. You fascinate me, you overwhelm me, making me see my smallness. Forgive me for my audacity last night. Now I want to be worthy of you, I want to imitate that sublime serenity. You show me the path I must follow, the path of the ideal life, of actions perfectly in accord with divine law. I will imitate you; I will do my best to imitate you. It is necessary that we separate, incomparable woman. If we come together, your life is in danger and mine too. We are surrounded by enemies who stalk us, who watch us… What should we do? Separate on earth, unite in ideal spheres . Think of me, for I will not separate you from me for a moment.” thought… Abelarda, extremely restless, moved on the bench as if it were bristling with spikes. “How can I forget that when the whole family despised me, you alone understood and consoled me? Ah! That’s not forgotten in a thousand years. I assure you, you are sublime. I am a wretch. Leave me abandoned to my sad fate. I know you must pray to God for me, and this consoles me. If I believed, if I could prostrate myself before that altar or another similar one, if I could pray, I would pray for you… Goodbye, my love.” She tried to take his hand, but Abelarda withdrew it, turning her face to the opposite side. “Your evasiveness kills me. I know well that I deserve it… Last night I was with you , disrespectful, rude, indelicate. But you have already said that you forgave me. Why this gesture?” Yes, I know… It’s that I’m in your way, it’s that I’m hateful to you… I deserve it; I know I deserve it. Goodbye. I’m expiating my sins, because now I want to separate from you, and you see, I can’t… Nailed to this pew!… impatient, and rushing to finish quickly. Will you remember me in your future life?… Listen to a piece of advice: marry Ponce, and if you don’t marry, enter a convent, and pray for him and for me, for this sinner… You were born for the spiritual life. You are very great, and you don’t fit into the narrowness of marriage or the… prosaic life of a family… I can’t go on, woman, because I’m losing my mind… delirium and… Courage… a supreme effort… Goodbye, goodbye. And like a soul carried by Satan, he left the church, grumbling. He was in a hurry, and congratulated himself on having settled a bothersome little score. “What the devil!” she said, looking at her watch and quickening her pace. “I thought I’d be done in ten minutes, but it took me twenty. And that one’s been waiting for me since six!… Come on, I can’t help it, I feel sorry for this ineffable coquettish girl. They’re going to have to put you in a shirt… or a corset.” And Abelarda, what was she doing and what was she thinking? Well, if she had seen the Devil himself ascend the church pulpit and deliver a sermon accusing the faithful of not sinning enough, and telling them that if they continued like this they would never earn hell—if Abelarda had seen this, she wouldn’t have been so astonished. The monster’s word and his fleeting exit left her stiff, incapable of movement, her brain congealed with the ideas and impressions of that interview, like substance poured into a cold mold that quickly hardens. It didn’t even occur to her to pray—why? Or to leave—where? Rather, she remained there, still and mute, rivaling the immobility of Saint John of the pennant and Our Lady of Sorrows. The latter stood at the foot of the cross, rigid in her thin black dress and widow’s veil, her chest riddled with silver swords, her hands clasped so tightly that the fingers tangled together in a tightly woven bundle. Christ, much larger than the image of his mother, stretched out along the wall above, touching the ceiling of the shrine with his crown of thistles, and stretching his arms an incredible distance. Below were candles, the attributes of the Passion, wax votive offerings, a brush with grimy edges and a very dirty locking iron ; the altar cloth dripping with wax; the mantelpiece painted in imitation of jasper. Miss Villaamil looked at everything, not seeing the whole picture, but the most minute details, her eyes piercing here and there like a needle that pecks without penetrating, while her soul pressed against the sponge swollen with bitterness, absorbing everything. Two very serious events came to coincide in time, each of which could single-handedly decide the future life of the insignificant and disturbed young woman. Within two and a half hours of each other, the event I have just described and another no less important one took place. Ponce, conferring with Doña Pura in her parlor, without witnesses, seemed angry because his fiancée’s parents had not yet set a wedding day. “Well, it’s fixed, son, it’s fixed. Ramón and I don’t want anything else. Do you think it’s at the beginning of May? The day of the Cross?” Shortly before, Doña Pura had explained her daughter’s absence from the a gathering due to the severe chill she had caught that afternoon at the Comendadoras. She came home chattering her teeth and feeling such a fever that her mother immediately ordered her to bed. This was true, but not the whole truth, and the lady suppressed her astonishment at seeing her come in at an unusual hour and wearing a dress she wasn’t accustomed to wearing when going to the nearest church in the afternoon. “That’s it, the best thing you have; ruin it where it can’t show off, and dedicate yourself to scrubbing the church pews with that rich fourteen-real cashmere, covered with grime, dust, and every other kind of filth.” She also omitted that her daughter didn’t respond appropriately to anything she said. This, the chattering of her teeth, and her reluctance to eat prompted Doña Pura to put her to bed. The lady wasn’t entirely sure of herself, and she was brooding over the meaning of certain oddities she noticed in the girl. “Whatever she wants,” she thought, “the sooner we get her married, the better.” She said something to her husband about this; but Villaamil hadn’t deigned to reply a word; he was so gloomy and dejected. Abelarda, who was pretending to be asleep so as not to be disturbed, saw Milagros putting Luisito to bed, who didn’t fall asleep early that night, but tossed and turned. When they were alone together, Abelarda told him to be quiet. She wasn’t in the mood for revelry; it was late, and he needed rest. “Aunt, I can’t sleep. Tell me stories. ” “Yes, I’m good for stories. Leave me alone, or you’ll see…” At other times, sensing her nephew was awake, the insignificant woman, who loved him dearly, tried to calm his anxiety with affectionate words. And if that weren’t enough, she would go to his bed and, rocking and coaxing him, would lull him to sleep. But that night, excited and beside herself, she felt a tremendous hatred for the poor boy; his voice bothered and hurt her, and for the first time in her life she thought of him as follows: “What does it matter to me whether you sleep or not, or whether you’re well or ill, or whether the devil is carrying you away?” Luisito, having seen that his aunt was very affectionate, would not remain silent. He wanted to chat at all costs, and in a mime-like voice, he said to his roommate : “Aunt, did you ever see God? ” “What are you talking about there, silly? If you don’t shut up, I’ll get up and… ” “Don’t be angry… well, what’s my fault? I see God, I see Him whenever I want.” Just so you know… But tonight I can only see her feet… her feet covered in blood, nailed down and with a white ribbon, like those of the Christ with the Long Hair that’s in Montserrat… and it scares me a lot. I don’t want to close my eyes, because… I’ll tell you… I’ve never seen her feet, only her face and hands… and this happens to me… do you know why it happens to me?… because I committed a serious sin… because I told my dad a lie, I told him I wanted to go with Aunt Quintina to her house. And it was a lie. I don’t want to go there for more than a little while to see the saints. Not to live with her. Because going with her and leaving you all alone is a sin, right? –Shut up, shut up, I’m not here to listen to your nonsense… Doesn’t he say he sees God, the little donkey?… Yes, God is there for you to see, you fool… Abelarda soon heard Cadalsito’s sobs, and instead of pity, she felt, what a strange thing!, such antipathy toward her nephew that it might better be called fierce hatred. The brat was a fool, a charlatan who deluded the family with his simpletons about seeing God and wanting to become a priest; a hypocrite, a liar, a quiet killer… and ugly, and weak, and spoiled to boot… This hostility toward the poor creature was similar to that which began the day before in Abelarda’s heart against her own father, a hostility contrary to nature, undoubtedly the fruit of one of those epileptiform auras that subvert the primary feelings in a woman’s soul . She was unable to realize how such a monstrosity could germinate in her spirit, and she saw it grow, grow with every moment, feeling a certain insane complacency in appreciating its magnitude. She hated Luis, she She hated it with all her heart. The boy’s voice rattled her nerves, making her frantic. Cadalsito, sobbing, insisted: “I see his legs black with blood stains, I see his knees with very black bruises , Auntie… I’m so afraid… Come, come!” Miau clenched her fists and bit the sheets. That plaintive voice stirred her entire being, raising a reddish wave within her, a wave of blood that rose until it clouded her eyes. The boy was a comedian, a feigned brat , come down to earth to torment her and her entire family… But there still remained in Abelarda something of the habit of tenderness that contained the expansion of her fury. She made a movement to jump out of bed and run to Luis’s with the intention of spanking him, and then she restrained herself. Ah! If she laid hands on him, he wouldn’t be content with the whipping… he would suffocate him, yes. Such fury burned her soul, and such a thirst for destruction lay in her burning hands! “Aunt, now I see your little skirt covered in blood, so much blood… Come, light the light, or I’ll die of fright; take it away from me, tell him to go away. The other God is the one I like, the handsome grandfather, the one who has no blood, but a very fine cloak and a very white beard…” She could no longer control herself and jumped out of bed… She remained at its edge , motionless, not out of pity, but by a memory that struck her mind with a vivid light. Her deceased sister had done the same thing she was doing at that moment on a sad night. Yes, Luisa also suffered from those horrible feelings of hating her offspring, and one night when she heard him complain, she jumped out of bed and attacked him with threatening hands, transformed from a mother into a beast. Thank goodness they held her, for if not, God knows what would have happened. And Abelarda repeated the same words as the dead woman, saying that the poor child was a monster, an abortion from hell, come to earth to punish and damn the family. This memory led her to compare the similarity of causes with the similarity of effects, and she thought, deeply anguished: “Am I crazy, like my sister?… Is it madness, my God?” She crawled back into the sheets, listening attentively to Luis’s sobs , which seemed to be fading, as if sleep had finally overcome him. A long time passed, during which the little aunt also grew lethargic ; But suddenly she awoke, feeling the same hostile fury in its greatest intensity. The memory of her sister didn’t deter her then ; there was nothing in her mind to correct the idea, or rather , the delusion that Luis was a bad person, a detestable monster, a vile being who should be exterminated. He was to blame for all the ills that plagued her, and when he disappeared from the world, the sun would shine brighter and life would be happy. That little boy represented all human perfidy, betrayal, lies, dishonor, perjury. Profound darkness reigned in the bedroom. Abelarda, in her nightgown and barefoot, throwing a shawl over her shoulders, moved forward feeling around… Then she retreated, looking for the matches. At that moment, it had occurred to her to go to the kitchen in search of a knife that cut well. For that, she needed light. She lit it and looked at Luis, who was fast asleep. “What a good opportunity!” she said to herself. “Now he won’t scream or make any faces… Fraudster, painter, puppet, you’ll pay for this… Come out now with this nonsense about seeing God… As if there were such a God, or such sheep…” After gazing at her little nephew for a while, she left resolutely. “The sooner, the better.” The memory of the boy’s sobs, talking those nonsense about the feet he saw, fueled her anger. She reached the kitchen and found no knife, but she noticed the wood-splitting axe lying in a corner, and it seemed to her that this instrument was better for the job, more reliable, more effective, sharper. She took the axe, made a gesture of brandishing it, and satisfied with the test, she returned to the bedroom, the light in one hand, the weapon in the other, the shawl over her head… Such a strange and fearful figure had never been seen. never in that house. But at the moment of opening the glass door of the bedroom, she heard a noise that startled her. It was Victor’s key turning in the lock. Like a surprised thief, Abelarda blew out the light, entered, and crouched behind the door, hiding the axe. Although surrounded by darkness, she feared that Victor would see her as he passed through the dining room, and she curled up, because the fury that had determined her last action suddenly turned to terror with a touch of feminine shame. He passed, lighting his way with a match, entered his room, and instantly closed the door. Everything fell silent again . The faint light of the candle Victor had lit before going to bed reached Abelarda’s bedroom, passing through the dining room and through the two glass doors. The reflection lasted about ten minutes; then it went out, and everything fell into shadow. But the poor woman no longer dared to light her lamp; she groped her way to the bed, hid the axe under the chest of drawers next to it, and slipped into it, reflecting: “Now is not the time. I would scream, and the other… I would give the other the axe blow of the century; but one blow isn’t enough, nor two, nor a hundred… nor a thousand. I would spend all night beating him and still not kill him.” Chapter 33. Our unfortunate Villaamil had not lived since the fateful moment when he learned of his son-in-law’s position, and to make matters worse, the prominent minister paid no attention to him. Immediately after lunch, he would go out and spend the day going from office to office, telling his misfortune to everyone he met, recounting the atrocious injustice, which, incidentally, never caught him again; because, you could believe it, he never expected anything else. It is true that, pressed by the ugly necessity, and coming to feel it as a hindrance to that pessimism that had imposed itself, he would sometimes tear it off like someone tearing off a mask, and say, pleading with all his soul naked: “Friend Cucurbitas, I ‘ll settle for anything. My rank is that of a third-class Chief of Administration; but if they give me a position as a first officer, come on, a second-class officer, I’ll take it, yes sir, I’ll take it, even in the provinces.” He would sing the same refrain to the Chief of Personnel, to all his influential friends in the house, and in letters to the Minister and to Pez. To Pantoja, in great confidence, he said: “Even if it’s a humiliation for me, I’ll even accept third-class officer status to escape these anguish… Later, God will decide.” Then he would go on a rampage against Sevillano, of whom more will be said later, an employee in the Personnel Department, who would say to him with a pitying expression: “Yes, man, calm down; We have preferential notice… You must try to calm down.” And he turned his back on him. Little by little, the saintly man began to discredit his character, learning to pester everyone and losing his sense of propriety. After seeing him wander around the offices, pestering various friends, not excluding the doormen, Pantoja spoke to him in confidence: “Do you know what that idiot son-in-law of yours told that Deputy? Well, that you were crazy and couldn’t hold any position in the Administration. Just as you heard; and the Deputy repeated it in Personnel in front of Sevillano and Espinosa’s brother, who came to tell me. ” “Is that what he said?” stupefied. “Ah! I believe it. He’s capable of anything…” This finally unhinged him. The insistence of his tireless persistence and the anxious expression his eyes were taking on were frightening his friends. In some offices, they were careful not to answer him or to speak to him briefly so that he would tire and go off with his music elsewhere. But he was immune to slights, because his skin of self-respect had become calloused. In Pantoja’s absence, Espinosa and Guillén made fun of him terribly: “Don’t you know, friend Villaamil, what’s going on out there? The Minister is going to present a law to the Cortes establishing the income tax. La Caña is studying it. ” “It’s as if he’s stolen my ideas. My four Memoirs slept in his power for more than a year. See what one gains from burning one’s eyebrows to study something that serves as a remedy for this moribund Treasury… Country of thievery, Administration of nullities, when one can’t steal a peseta, one deceives another’s understanding. Well, with God. And he would rush off, hurtling down the steps, toward the Tax Office courtyard on the left, eager to warm the ears of his friend La Caña. Half an hour later, he would be seen again, panting, climbing the weary stairs to sneak into the Treasury or Customs for a while. Sometimes, before entering, he would give the doormen a headache, recounting his entire administrative history. “I entered the service during the Espartero Regency, when Mr. Surrá y Rull was Minister, an excellent person, a very thoughtful man. It seems to me like it was yesterday when I climbed those stairs.” I was wearing a pair of checked trousers , which were in fashion back then, and my top hat, which I had worn for the first time when I took possession. No one from that time remains in the house, for poor Cruz, whom I saw in this very place as I entered, went to hell two months ago. Oh, what a life this is! My first promotion came from Don Alejandro Mon… a good person… and a man of great character, believe it or not. Here, people would set up shop at eight in the morning and make the troops work; that’s why he did what he did. As an early riser, there has never been another Don Juan Bravo Murillo, and the number one night owl was Don José Salamanca, who kept us from the Secretariat here until two or three in the morning. Well, I say, is there anyone among you who remembers Don Juan Bruil, who, by the way, made me a third officer? Ah, what a man! He was a gunpowder man. Well, our friend Madoz also had a good time. What a grouch! In ’57, I had a director who wouldn’t do a single service under the morning star or dispatch anything unless a woman came to ask him for it. Believe me, the downfall of the country is the skirt. The doormen humored him as long as they could; but they also began to tire of him and found excuses to get out of it. The saintly man, after venturing out at the door, would go back inside, and there was always a presumptuous joker in Customs or in Property, like Urbanito, the son of Cucurbitas, who would invite him for a cup of coffee to tease him and amuse themselves by listening to his exalted complaints. “Look here; This seems decent to me , because if I had wanted to spill the beans on certain things I know about bigwigs, do you understand? I mean , if I had been like others who go to the newsrooms denouncing scam A, entanglement B…, it would be a different story… But what’s the point? Even if one doesn’t want to be decent and delicate, I can’t manage it. A rogue is born, an orator is made. In short, it’s not even worth it to me to have written four Reports that constitute a Budget plan , because a bad friend whom I show them to steals my idea and passes it off as his own. The last thing you think is that this damned income tax you want to establish, early and with the sun shining!, is my idea… ten years of racking my brains… what for? So that a rook can adorn itself with my feathers or the work of my pen. I say that if the Minister knows this, if the country knows it, what will happen? Maybe nothing will happen, because the country and the Minister will go there among the swine and the ungrateful… I wash my hands; I stay at home, and if revolutions come, let them come; if the country falls into the abyss, let it fall with a hundred thousand demons. Later they will say: “What a pity not having raised those four points of good Villaamil: _Morality_, _Income tax_, _Customs_, _Unification_!” But I will say: _late, piache_… “I should have seen it before.” They will say: “Then let Villaamil be Minister”; and I will answer: “When I wanted it, you didn’t want it, and now… at the right time, green sleeves…” So, gentlemen, I am leaving so that you can work. In my time there was no such leisure time. He used to smoke a cigarette, drink coffee, and then go to the loom… But now, there’s an employee who comes here to invent charades, to botch up comedies, bullfighting magazines, and newspaper articles. That’s how it is. The public administration, who is a public woman, speaking rudely and quickly. Frankly, this is disgusting, and I don’t know why all of you don’t resign and leave the Minister and the Chief of Staff alone to see how they behave. No, I’m not joking; I can see you laughing, and it’s no laughing matter. Total resignation, strike on a given day, at a given time… Finally, fed up with this incoherent chatter, they politely kicked him out , saying: “Don Ramón, you should go and get some fresh air. A stroll through the Retiro Park would do you good.” He would leave grumbling, and instead of following the healthy advice of getting some fresh air, he would go downstairs, his cape unevenly draped, and go into the Giro Mutuo, where Montes was, or into the Tax Office, where his friend Cucurbitas endured with incredible patience speeches like this: “I tell you in confidence, from you to me, that I’m happy with a position as a third officer: propose me to the Minister. Look, I have very strange thoughts going through my head, as if my saint were going to heaven. I feel like saying nonsense, and I even fear that sometimes they will come out of my mouth. Give me those two months, or I don’t know; I think I’ll soon start throwing stones. You already know my situation; you know that I’m not on leave, because, although I was born before ’45, my first posting was not by Royal order; I didn’t join the staff until ’46, thanks to Don Juan Martín Carramolino. You will remember well. You were beneath me; I taught you how to keep a proper record. In ’54, you joined the National Militia; I didn’t want to, because I’ve never liked noise. There you have the beginning of your good fortune and the beginning of my misfortune. Thanks to the helmet, you shot up to the position of Second-Rate Chief of Staff, while I stagnated as a first officer… It seems incredible, Francisco, that the hat has so much influence. For they say Pez owes his career nothing more than the sombrero with its wide, curved brim that gives him such a solemn air… I well remember you telling me: “Ramón, put on a nice-looking vest, it helps; wear high collars, very high, very stiff, that will force you to stick your head out with a certain air of importance.” I didn’t listen to you, and here I am. Ever since Basilio put on his English frock coat, they started tipping him for promotion, and it seems to me that friend Montes’s squeaky boots, giving his personality a certain something daring, insolent, and what-do-I-care, have had a hand in his advancement… Above all, the hat, the hat is a most essential thing, Francisco, and yours seems to me a perfect model… high at the crown and shaped like a trombone, the brim very similar to a priest’s gauntlet. Then those ties you allow yourself… If they hire me, I’ll wear one just like it… So you know: third officer: anything: the crux of the matter is to sign the payroll, to be something, so that when I get in here it won’t seem that even the walls are weeping in pity for me… Francisco, ant of this house, do it for God and for your children, three of whom you have already well placed as candidates with five thousand, not counting Urbanito who wears twelve. If my wife were a fish instead of a frog, alas! I wouldn’t be here. It seems you have it in your blood, and when your babies are born and utter their first cry, instead of putting the breast to their mouths, you slap on the _state Letter A, Section Eight_ of the Budget. Goodbye; take an interest in me, pull me out of this pit I’ve fallen into… I don’t want to bother you; you have things to do. I’m also very busy. Boring, boring. Don’t think my man was going out into the street. Drawn by an irresistible desire, he would once again throw himself, panting, into the tiring climb up the stairs, and arrive breathless at the Secretariat. There one day he encountered something new. The doormen, who usually allowed him entry, stopped him, disguising with pious insinuations the strict order they had not to let him pass. “Don Ramón, go home, rest, and sleep so that this mess can clear up. The Chief is locked up and won’t see anyone.” Villaamil became irritated with the unusual order and even tried to force it, claiming that it shouldn’t apply to him. The unfortunate dismissed man’s cloak swept the floor from here to there, and the orderlies even had to replace his hat, which had fallen from his venerable head. “Good, Pepito Pez, good,” said the unfortunate man, breathing with difficulty; “this is how you repay the one who was your boss, and covered up many of your faults. An ingrate jumps out where you least expect it. It’s enough that I’ve done you a thousand favors for you to treat me like a ghost. Purely human logic… We’re informed. Goodbye… Ah! Turning from the door, tell the Chief of Personnel, that Mr. Sooplado, that you and he can go weed onions.” Chapter 34. Chest to the steps, and back to the second floor, to Pantoja’s office . When he entered, Guillén, Espinosa, and other idiots were greatly amused by the hallelujahs the former had composed, a series of shabby little drawings, with their coarse, vulgar, and half-witty couplets at the bottom, comprising the complete history of Villaamil from birth to death. Argüelles, who did not take kindly to Guillén’s crude jokes, left the group to attend to his work. The hallelujah read that Señor de Miau was born in Coria, a colossal historical nonsense, since he was born in the land of Burgos; that he was a sucker from his mother’s womb, and that his navel was tied with a balduque. Among other peculiarities, the illustrated chronicle stated, with dubious grammar: _Instead of a sash and swaddling clothes,– they wrapped him in credentials_; and further on: _He eagerly asks for the breast,–and they give him a budget_. Then, when the worthy official comes of age , _Swollen with boundless love,–he marries Zapaquilda_; and shortly after beginning married life, the difficulties begin. Villaamil’s dilapidated home is characterized in this elegant couplet: _When patacones are lacking,–they go hunting mice_… But what the inspired coplero truly expresses his inspiration is in the painting of Villaamil’s sublime works: _A model of assiduousness,–he invents the_ INCOME TAZ… _He presents his plans for the income to the Minister_… _The Chief, seeing the_ INCOME,–_sends him to a mental asylum_. Finally, the poet throws him these flowers: _He sustains his miserable existence with his sword_; and from here it continued until supposing the glorious passing of the hero: _They give him his ration at last ,–and he dies of joy_… _The cats, when they die,–they all say: Miserere_…» Upon seeing Villaamil they hid the nefarious note, but with ill- suppressed hilarity they denounced the joke they were bringing and its object. On other occasions the unfortunate dismissed man could notice that his presence in the office when Pantoja was absent produced a worsening of the everlasting mockery of those idlers. Their reticences, the phrases illustrated with grimaces upon seeing him enter, the comical seriousness of their greetings revealed to him that day that his person and perhaps his misfortune motivated impertinent jokes, and this certainty reached his soul. The tangle of ideas that had begun in his mind, and the irritation produced in his spirit by so many tribulations, clouded his self-esteem; His temper soured; his innate gentleness turned into indifference, and his pacific disposition into quarrelsome susceptibility. “Let’s see, let’s see,” he growled, approaching the group with a very bad expression. “I think you were all worried about me… What papers are these that Guillén is keeping? Gentlemen, let’s be clear. If any of you have anything to say to me, tell me right in front of my face. Frankly, I sense that a conspiracy of slander is being hatched against me throughout the house; the aim is to make me look ridiculous, to alienate the leaders, to present me to the Minister as a grotesque man, as a… And I must know who the scoundrel is, who…! Damn his soul!” He threw his cape over his head and slammed his fist down hard on the nearest table. Everyone remained cold and speechless, because they had not expected such a display of dignity in Villaamil . _Philip IV’s knight_ was the first to explain this sudden change of temperament by a mental imbalance. In addition to hating Guillén profoundly, he felt sorry for his friend, and putting his arm around his shoulder, begged him to calm down, adding that where he was, no one would dare to insult such a respectable person. But Villaamil was not calmed by these reasons, because he saw the cursed Guillén suppressing his laughter with his face pressed against the desk, and in a fit of rage, he went up to him and said with a stifled and tremulous voice: “You know, you little cripple from hell, that no one laughs at me… I know, I know that you have written some stupid verses and some nonsense ridiculing me. I heard at Customs whether or not I proposed the income tax to the Minister… and whether or not he sent me to a mental asylum.” “Me?… Don Ramón… what a trick you are!” Guillén replied, stuttering and cowardly. “I didn’t write the hallelujahs; Pez Cortázar, the Property Minister, did, and Urbano Cucurbitas is the one who’s been showing them around. ” “Well, whoever does it, the author of that filth is a swine who ought to be in a den. They insult me because they see me down. Is that for gentlemen? Let’s see, answer me. Is that for ordinary people?” The saintly man spun around and sat down, exhausted from the effort he had just made. He continued murmuring, as if speaking to himself: “They’re trying to use every means possible to destroy me, to discredit me, so that the Minister will take me for a creature, a visionary, an idiot.” Exhaling deep sighs, he set his jaw on his chest and remained so for more than a quarter of an hour without uttering a word. The others remained silent, looking at each other out of the corner of their eyes, serious, perhaps pitying, and for a while nothing could be heard in the office but the scratching of Argüelles’s pen. Suddenly, the squeaking of Pantoja’s boots announced the approach of this personage. Everyone pretended to be busy, and the section chief entered with his hands loaded with papers. Villaamil didn’t raise his head to look at his friend, nor did he seem to notice his presence. “Ramón,” Pantoja said in an affectionate tone, calling him from his seat. “Ramón… but Ramón… what is that?” And finally the friend, giving another sigh like someone awakening from a dream, stood up and walked to the table with a limping step. “But don’t act like that,” Don Ventura told him, removing files from the nearby chair so the other could sit down. “You look like a child. In all the offices they talk about you like someone who’s just starting to go off on a tangent… You need to moderate yourself, and above all , get a little irritated. When we talk about the Treasury’s plans and the preparation of the new Budgets, you need not come out with that nonsense about the income tax… That’s very good for contemptuous newspaper articles, or to spout off at the cafe table in front of four wasteful idiots, the kind who spit and slime up a country’s budget and don’t pay the tailor or the landlady.” You are a serious man and you cannot maintain that our tax system, the fruit of experience… Villaamil stood up as if a very sharp awl had been inserted into his chair, and this abrupt movement cut short Pantoja’s sentence, which he was about to finish in an administrative style more appropriate for the _Gazette_ than for a human mouth. The good section chief was completely amazed to see that his friend’s face expressed frenzied anger, that his jaw was trembling, that his eyes were flashing with fire; and the astonishment increased to the point of hearing these angry expressions: “Well, I maintain… yes, I maintain above the head of Christ … that maintaining the current system is for routine donkeys… and I say more, for swindlers and cheats… Because you need to have a finger of cobwebs in your brains not to recognize and proclaim that the income tax, or whatever you want to call it, is the only rational and philosophical thing in the order of taxation… and I say more: I say that all those who hear me are a bunch of ignoramuses, starting with you, and that you are the calamity, the moth, the ruin of this house and the phylloxera of the country, because you are gnawing and devouring its root, a thousand fools.” times. And I’ll tell the Minister this if he pushes me, because I don’t want credentials, or a position, or pension rights, or anything; I only want the truth upfront, good administration, and to reconcile… to combine… to harmonize, by tapping my two index fingers together, the interests of the State with those of the taxpayer. And the bastard, the scoundrel, who says I want a position will meet me man to man, here or in the middle of the street, next to the Dos de Mayo, or on the Canal meadow, at midnight, without witnesses… shouting terrifically, which attracts the employees of the adjacent office. Of course, they take me for a scumbag because they don’t know me, because they haven’t seen me defending the law and justice against the infamous people who trample on it in this house. I don’t come here to beg for a filthy credential that I despise; I’ll give the whole house a hard time, you guys, the Director, the Chief of Staff, and the Minister; all I ask for is order, morality, economy…! He rolled his eyes from one side to the other, and seeing himself surrounded by so many faces, he raised his arms as if exhorting a seditious mob, and let out a wild cry, shouting: “Long live balanced budgets!” He left the office, trailing his cape and stumbling. Good old Pantoja, scratching himself with his cap, followed him with a compassionate look, showing sincere affliction. “Gentlemen,” he said to his own people and to the strangers gathered there out of curiosity, “let us pray to God for our poor friend, who has lost his mind.” Chapter 35. It wasn’t quite eleven o’clock in the morning of the following day, the last day of the month, as it turned out, when Villaamil laboriously climbed the steep staircase of the Ministry, stopping every three or four steps to catch his breath. Upon reaching the entrance to the Secretariat, the doormen, who had seen him leave the previous evening in that lamentable attitude mentioned above, were amazed to see him so peaceful, in his usual modesty and sweetness, a man incapable of saying a word louder than another. They were suspicious, however, of this meekness, and when the good man sat down on the hard, wide, church-like bench and rested his feet on the nearby brazier, the youngest doorman approached and said: “Don Ramón, why do you come here? Stay at home and take care of yourself; you ‘ve been wandering around these parts for a long time. ” “Perhaps you’re right, my friend Ceferino.” I’m stuck in my house, and these gentlemen can manage it however they want. What do I have to do with it? It’s true that the country pays for the broken windows, and one can’t stand by and watch so much nonsense with indifference. Do you know if they’ve already taken the new, finalized Budget to the Minister? You don’t know… True, what do you care! You ‘re not a taxpayer… Well, from now on I’m telling you that the new Budget is worse than the current one, and everything they’re doing here is a string of atrocities and nonsense. Give it to me. I’m sitting quietly at home , watching this country crumble, which could be swimming in gold if they wanted. Shortly after delivering this tirade, the poor unemployed man was left alone, meditating, his beard on his cheek. He saw some employees he knew walk by; but since they didn’t say anything to him, he didn’t say a word. Perhaps he was considering the loneliness that was forming around him, and how quickly those who had been his companions and until recently had called themselves his friends were leaving him. “All this,” he thought with admirable self-observation , “consists in the fact that my misfortunes have made me a little extravagant, and that sometimes the very force of pain causes phrases and gestures to escape from me that are not those of a sensible man, and that contradict my character and my… what’s the word?… ah! my idiosyncrasy… All for God!” He was distracted from his meditation by a friend who was entering, who went straight to him as soon as he saw him. It was Argüelles, the father of the family, wrapped in his black cloak, or rather, a cape, his little hat tilted to one side, his mustache twisted, his beard erect and bristling from the touch of his muffler. Before going up to Contributions I used to go in for a while at the Personal Hospital, to unburden his soul with a friend who told him everything, and thus fueled his hopes of an upcoming promotion. “What are you doing here, friend Villaamil?” he said in the tone one uses with the seriously ill. “Do you want to have coffee? But no ; perhaps coffee will not agree with you. You have to take care of yourself, and if my advice is worth it, you would do very well not to appear in this _posá del Peine_ for many days. ” “Where are we going?” He stood up. “To the Personal Hospital. We’ll have a chat with Sevillano, who will inform us of the day’s appointments. Come.” And they entered a long, unclear corridor, which first turned to the right, then to the left. Along the winding and mysterious passageway, the figures of Villaamil and Argüelles could have been transformed, through skillful caricature, into those of Dante and Virgil, searching through hidden bosoms for the entrance or exit to the infernal chambers they were visiting. It wasn’t difficult to make Don Ramón a burlesque Dante, given the spartan figure and the ample cloak that enveloped him; but as for the poet, he had to be replaced with Quevedo, a parodist of the Divine Comedy, although the good Argüelles bore more resemblance to the Alguacil alguacilado than to the great bard who invented him. Neither Dante nor Quevedo dreamed, in their fantastic travels, of anything like the office labyrinth, the discordant ringing of bells calling from all corners of the vast mansion, the opening and closing of screens and doors, and the clicking of heels and clearing of throats of clerks about to occupy their desks, hanging their capes and bowler hats; nothing comparable to the putting in and taking out of dusty papers, glasses of water, shovelfuls of coal, the tobacco-stained atmosphere, the orders given from desk to desk, and the hustle and bustle, in short, of these hives where the bitter honeycomb of Administration is being worked. Villaamil and his guide entered an office where there were two desks and a single person, who at that moment was changing his hat for a purple corduroy cap and his boots for slippers. He was a Sevillian, a clerk , handsome, though somewhat macho, well-liked in the house, with a reputation for being a snob. He greeted Villaamil suspiciously, looking closely at his face. “We’re getting by,” replied the eternally unemployed man, and took a chair at the table. “Nothing of mine…?” said Argüelles, using a formula that was both interrogative and affirmative. “Nothing,” replied the presumptuous Sevillian, who, upon standing in front of the table, seemed driven by a desire to have his embroidered slippers seen and his small foot admired, “what is called nothing. They haven’t proposed you, and that is not the way.” “He won’t catch me again,” the other growled, dropping his cape and hat, as if he wanted to counter the publicity for Sevillano slippers with a display of his curly hair. “That dog Pantoja has fooled me three times already, and he’ll fool me a fourth if I don’t give him the blood sausage. I’ll take anything, as long as that repulsive weevil Guillén doesn’t put his foot forward. Come on, if they promote him before me; if a father of a family loaded with children and carrying the entire burden of the office finds himself postponed to that useless abortion who kills time painting monkeys…” Turning to Villaamil to solicit his acquiescence, “Am I right or am I wrong? Do you think it’s still early to give me the promotion, and instead they give it to that bogeyman, buffoon, bad man, and worse friend, who besides doesn’t know how to set a budget?” “Precisely, precisely because of that, because he’s useless,” Villaamil stated with immense pessimism, “his career is assured. ” “I’m going to rebel,” declared the knight of Philip IV angrily, stamping his foot. “If they promote him before me, I’ll go to the Minister and say… come on, I’ll give him a piece of my mind. This is worse than insulting someone and spitting in their face. Yes, because so much Polish sentimentality boils the blood, and it makes you want to sling your morals behind your back and marry Judas.” That idiot Guillén, with his jokes and his little verses and his rubbish, has become popular here. He laughs at his stupid jokes… We all have some blame for giving him wings, I admit it… I assure you, my friend Don Ramón, that he will never show me his puppets again. I’ll tell you how many are five, I’ll tell you… Argüelles stopped, thinking he saw signs of excitement on Villaamil’s face ; but, contrary to what he feared, the old man listened calmly, not seeming hurt by the memory of the crude mockery. “Leave him alone, leave him alone,” he replied. “For my part, I know how to rise above such nonsense. Remember; yesterday, when I found out you were making fun of me, I didn’t say a word; was that right? These things are despised, and nothing more.” Later, I ran into that guy from Cucurbitas, Urbanito, who works in Customs, on the street, and he told me that Guillén had gone there with the aleluyas, which are pure nonsense. There’s not even a joke in them. That if, as a child, instead of wrapping me in swaddling clothes, they wrapped me in payrolls… that if I proposed the income tax to the Minister… And to him, I ask now, to him, the ass, what does it matter to him that I propose the income tax? What does he understand about matters so far beyond the understanding of a seven-month-old toad? Then he says I’m a rip-off artist… a vile slander, because if in the horrible swindles I go through, necessity drives me to ask for help from a friend, that doesn’t mean I’m a petard. But these insults must be borne with the utmost patience, and we must not give the infamous denigrater even the pleasure of our complaints, for he would become conceited with the evil he does. Contempt, indifference, and vomiting venom until his soul dries up . Ah! I will never grant those reptiles the favor of my glances. And I have given that fellow warmth in my bosom, you see, because he goes to my house, flatters my family, drinks my wine, and there he seems to love us all like brothers. Brave beast!… And
I’ll say more: I say that Pantoja is also partly to blame, because she allows him to waste his time on this filth… I know all his blunders as well as if I had seen them, for Urbanito omitted no detail. This boy passes for a fool; but I affirm that he has great talent, and when it comes to memory, no one can beat him. He also told me that with the initials of the titles of my four Memoirs, Guillén composed the nickname Miau, which he applies to me in the hallelujahs. I accept it. That M, that I, that A, and that U are, like INRI, the infamous sign they placed on Christ on the cross… Since they have crucified me among thieves, so that everything may be complete, place over my head those four letters that mock and scorn my great mission. Chapter 36. Sevillano and Argüelles, who at first had listened to him with some respect, as soon as they heard this remark, hesitated between pity and laughter, the former finally prevailing, which Sevillano expressed in this way: “You do well to despise such miseries. Nothing is more repugnant than to make fun of a worthy and unfortunate man. They also brought me those dolls here; but I didn’t want to see them… Now, if you like, we’ll have coffee.” The waiter entered with the service; Villaamil politely declined the gift, and the other two sat down to enjoy, from a very heaping glass, the aromatic brew that brings joy and comfort to the office. “Well, I have to tell you,” the dismissed man stated with the serenity of a man in control of his faculties, “that you should start getting used to injustice, that you should become familiar with slaps and get used to the idea of seeing that louse walking past you. Spanish logic cannot fail. The scoundrel before the honest man; the ignorant above the knowledgeable; the honest official below, always below. And be grateful that in reward for your services they don’t clean your trough… I don’t know, I don’t know if I should also draw that logical conclusion. ” “I’ll raise a ruckus, believe me, I’ll raise a ruckus, but a big one,” said the father of families_ between sips. “If they promote him before me, believe me, the entire College of the Deaf will have to listen to me. ” “They’ll listen and remain silent, and there’ll be no choice but to conform. See my reasoning as I move my chair closer to those of the coffee drinkers. Who supports you? No one; and I say no one, because no woman supports you. ” “That’s true. ” “Well. When I see an absurd appointment, I ask: ‘Who is she?’ Because it’s proven; whenever a nullity is imposed on a useful employee, listen up and you’ll hear rumors of skirts. Shall we bet I know who asked for the promotion of the lame man? Why, his cousin, the widow of that commandant who’s in the Philippines, that Enriqueta, fresh-faced, looser than a hen, about whom it is said whether or not she had something to do with our illustrious Director.” Now, knowing what hooks that Guillén’s knapsack is clinging to, help me feel it. Friend Argüelles, with all his offspring, will be left barking with hunger, and the other one will be promoted, and hey, brunette. Sevillano confirmed with a smile the acrid observations of the deranged Villaamil, who didn’t seem so when saying such blunt things; and the gentleman of Philip IV stroked his greasy hair and twisted his mustache, giving his beard such a tug that he almost ripped it out by the roots. “I’ve been saying it for a long time, you bastards! You need to have no shame to serve this bastard of a State. And since friend Villaamil is well off these days, we’ll tell him something he doesn’t know. Who recommended Víctor Cadalso so they could bury the case and then slap him with a promotion? ” “That must be a female thing.” some sensitive young woman out there, because Victor catches them nicely. “Two Deputies supported him,” said Sevillano: “they made an effort without achieving anything, until pressure came from above… “But Ildefonso Cabrera told me,” observed the old man, growing heated, “that this puppet is involved with marquises, duchesses, and every lady in high society… ” “Don’t pay attention to it, Don Ramón,” indicated Argüelles. “After all, your son-in-law is a sentimental… just as he sounds, a sentimental one. You don’t see a truly elegant young man anymore, like those of my time. Laugh at all these conquests of Victor, who has no other protection than that of my neighbor. A marquis lives on the main floor of my house… I don’t remember the title; he’s Valencian and something like Benengeli, something that sounds Moorish.” This marquis has an aunt, twice widowed… a child, so to speak… My wife, who’s already over fifty, claims that when she was in her fifties, you understand, he met that lady in Valencia, already married. Anyway, you can’t take away her sixty-something , and although she must have been a fine girl, there’s no painting that can save her or patch that can straighten her out. “And at the very least, my little son-in-law has seduced all that innocence. ” “Wait a minute. It’s public knowledge in Valencia that that shark fell in love with Cadalso, and he… loved her too, of course, for his own good reason. They came to Madrid together; a mess there, a mess here. No one has to tell me, because I see him on the street, waiting for Grandma, because the marquises don’t allow him into the house.” She goes out in her carriage, all dressed up, all flabby and hollow, with temples like that, all false, you understand, and her face with more paint than the _Pasmo de Sicilia_… She stops at the corner of Relatores, and there the terror of the maids enters and they go off to I don’t know where… And the footman, who is my neighbor in the attic on the left, told me that almost every day the tarasca receives a letter, and immediately throws three sheets to her baby… The footman posts the letters, and tells me what the envelope says and the address… Quiñones, 13, second. “If I were surprised by this,” declared Villaamil, between smiling and disdainful, “I would be a suckling child. And that phantom has come here, to the temple of Administration, indignant, to throw upon the State the ignominy of her recommendations in favor of a loser…!” “No, it hasn’t appeared here, nor does it need to,” Sevillano pointed out. “With the keyboard of their connections, they move the entire Ministry, without setting foot in it. ” “It’s enough for them to say a little word to any fat cat. Then they unload the note here… ” “One of those who don’t ask, but command. ” “Straight up… Let it be done… And it’s done, and ole morena…” A good lightning rod for those sparks wouldn’t be bad, a Minister of character. But where is that Messiah? Punching himself hard in the knee. The damned Administration is a piece of bad woman with whom you can’t have dealings without dishonoring yourself… But those who have children, friend Argüelles, what are they supposed to do but prostitute themselves? Let’s see, find yourself a doormat somewhere to protect you. You’re still good-looking.” If he dresses up a little , he’ll make conquests like that… and a lamprey with shells bites his hook… Cheer up, chicken… Well, if only I were twenty years younger… ! Sevillano laughed, and Argüelles strutted around, puffed up with conceit, twisting that lousy painted moustache… He didn’t seem to take the exhortation for granted, because age hadn’t cured him of his Tenorio-like vanity. “Frankly, gentlemen,” he declared with the accent of a very experienced man, “I’ve never liked love as a business… Love for love’s sake. I wouldn’t even have the money to carry a beast like that of Victor, a contemporary of walking, and who has everything false, absolutely everything, believe me.” “Let’s stop being so coy, and get to it!” said Villaamil, who had become nervously mirthful. “These are no times for fussing about anything… This father of families is terrible. He only likes tender maidens. ” “Well, you told the truth as a joke. From fifteen to twenty. The rest is for fools. ” “Come on, if only a young man like Victor could fall into your lap!… Because that woman must have some money, and with her, no pocket is empty… Now I understand why my son-in-law, when he ran out of money he pilfered from the Consumption Department, spent it on that old woman’s war fund… Come on, give yourself another slap on the knee, we live in a damned age when we can’t even be ashamed, because the dung, the damned crust of dung we carry on our faces prevents us from doing so!” He stood up to leave. Argüelles sighed and with a gesture said goodbye to Sevillano, who set to work before they left. “Let’s go to the office,” said the gentleman in the alguacil, wrapping himself in his vest, taking his friend by the arm and heading down the corridor; “that evil beast Pantoja will scream at me if I delay. What a life, Don Ramón, what a life!… And by the way. Didn’t you notice that while we were talking about the lady who protects Víctor, Sevillano didn’t say a word? He’s also dressed like a mummy… yes… didn’t you know? The widow of that Pez and Pizarro who was Director of Lotteries in Havana, cousin of our friend Don Manuel. Even the dogs know that… and she protects him, gives him his little promotion every two years. ” “What are you saying?” he stopped and looked him in the eye, in a truly Dantesque attitude. So Sevillano… Yes; I was already saying that boy was going too fast. I was the Head of the Department when he came in as a candidate with five thousand… He crossed himself and they continued to the Tax Office. Pantoja and the others greeted the long-suffering dismissed man with a start, fearful of a scene like the one the day before. But the old man reassured them with his gentle accent and the relative serenity of his face. Without deigning to look at Guillén, he went to sit next to the Chief, to whom he said, hand to mouth: “I feel very well today, Ventura. I rested last night, I’ve cleared my head, and I’m even happy, you can believe it, beaming with joy. ” “It’s better this way, man, it’s better this way,” replied the other, observing his eyes. “What do you bring here?” “Nothing… the affection… I’m happy today… you see how I laugh. It’s possible that I’ll come here for the last time, although… I assure you… it amuses me, this house amuses me.” You see things here that They make one… die of laughter. The work concluded that day earlier than usual, because it was payday, the fortunate date that happily puts an end to the anxieties of the end of the month, opening a new era of hope. On payday, there is more light in the halls of that phalanstery, purer air, and a certain something transparent and joyful that enters the hearts of the unfortunate laborers of the public treasury. “Today you get your pay,” Villaamil said to his friend, suspending that frank and good-natured laughter that affected him. It was already clear from the sound of footsteps, the ringing of bells, the movement and bustle of the offices that the operation had begun. Work ceased, files were bound, desks were closed, and pens lay on the tables amid the disorder of papers and the sand that stuck to sweaty hands. In some departments, the officials would go, as they were called, to the office of the authorized officers, who would have them sign the payroll and give them the wheat. In others, the authorized officers would send an orderly with the holy centavos in a small bag, in silver and small bills, and the payroll. The head of the section was in charge of distributing the cash rations and having each person sign what they received. Chapter 37. It is a well-known fact that when Villaamil saw the doorman enter with that small bag, he became very excited, emphasizing his incredible joy and expressing it in a down-to-earth manner. “Come on, come on, what a face you all have!… Here is the holy advent… the joy of the month… blessed Saint Garbanzo… Well, you’re hardly going to make a fuss with so many fortunes!” Pantoja began to distribute. Everyone collected their full pay, except for one of the applicants, to whom the Chief handed the promissory note granted to a moneylender, saying, “You’re canceled,” and Argüelles received only a third, as he had retained the remainder. He took it with a twisted expression, signing the note with features that declared his fury; and then, the great Pantoja slowly and ceremoniously pocketed his share , putting the bills in his wallet and the duros in his waistcoat pocket, carefully stowed away so they wouldn’t fall out. Villaamil kept an eye on him throughout the operation, and didn’t stop watching him until the last coin was gone. His jaw was trembling, his hands were dancing. “Are you coming out?” he said to his friend, getting up. “We’re going for a walk.” I’m in a very good mood today… don’t you see?… I’m very amused… “I’ll stay a little longer,” replied the _honest_ man, who wanted to get rid of this calamity. “I have to go to the Secretary’s Office for a while. ” “Well, rest with God… I’m going for a walk… I’m very happy… and while I’m at it, I’ll buy some pills. ” “Pills? They’ll do you good. ” “I believe it!… Boring; until later. Gentlemen, may it be for many years… And enjoy… Well, thank you…” The multitudes that poured out of all the offices at the same hour emptied onto the staircase with its wide steps, like tributaries that lubricate the main river . The Taxes and Properties offices unloaded their personnel on the second floor; the stream descended, later joining the numerous flock from the Secretary’s Office, the Treasury, and Customs. The human torrent, making a hell of a noise from step to step, barely fit on the stairs, and the footsteps mingled with the joyful, sparkling chatter of payday. In Villaamil’s ears, the jingling of the duros, freshly stuffed into so many pockets, was added to the immense murmur. He thought the metal of the pesos must still be cold; but it would soon warm upon contact with the body, and even melt when needed. Upon reaching the vast entrance that separates the stairway from the portico, the crowds from the Tax Office, the Treasury, and Mutual Money Transfer could be seen flowing into the courtyards to the right and left , and before reaching the street, the streams merged. Tarnished capes were more abundant than threadbare overcoats; but there were also brand-new ones and shiny top hats, standing out among the crowd of toadstools. Flattened and greenish-black. The clatter of heels deafened the house, and Villaamil always heard, above the sound of footsteps, the tinkling of five-peseta coins. “Today,” he said to himself, pouring his whole soul into a sigh, “they’ve paid almost all the pay in brand-new duros, and some in double pesetas bearing Alfonso’s stamp.” As the stream drained into the street, the noise gradually ceased, and the building remained empty, solitary, filled with a thick dust raised by footsteps. But straggling detachments of the office crowds were still coming from above. They totaled three thousand, three thousand payments of varying amounts, which the State threw into the traffic, parabolically returning to the taxpayer part of what it mercilessly extracts. The joy of collecting, a characteristic sentiment of humanity, gave the crowd a friendly and reassuring appearance. They were undoubtedly an honorable, dull plebs, cured of the terror of revolutions, sectarian in favor of order and stability, people in overcoats with no political idea other than securing and defending the rogue stew; a bureaucratic proletariat, ballast of the famous ship; a mass resulting from the hybridization of the people with the mesocracy, forming the cement that binds and solidifies the architecture of institutions. Villaamil was wrapping himself in his rag to protect himself from the cold street when someone touched him on the shoulder. He turned and saw Cadalso, who helped him secure the rag by tying it around his neck. “What’s the matter… what are you laughing about?” “It’s just… I’m very happy this afternoon… Surely it doesn’t matter to you. Can’t a person be cheerful when they feel like it? ” “Yes… but… Are you going home?” “Another matter that’s none of your business. Where are you going?” –Up to collect my title… I’m also in luck today. –Have they given you another promotion? I wouldn’t be surprised. You’re in the driver’s seat. Look, let them make you Minister once and for all; you’ve got to put the world on your head before the old fogeys run out. –Don’t be a joke. I’m saying I’m in luck, because I’ve reconciled with my sister Quintina and her savage husband. He’s keeping that cursed house in Vélez Málaga that wasn’t worth two figs, he’s paying the costs, and I… –Total three… Another thing that doesn’t matter to me as much as whether there are fleas on the moon. What do I care about your sister Quintina, or Ildefonso, or whether or not you make as many damned peace as you want? –It’s just… –Come on, get up, get up quickly and leave me. Because I’m asking you: in what filthy tavern did we eat together? You go your way, full of flowers; I’ll go mine. If I told you that with all your good fortune, I wouldn’t envy you even this… I’d rather have honor without ships than ships without honor. Goodbye… He didn’t give him time for further explanations, and, securing his veil once more, he advanced toward the street. Before passing through the door, someone tugged at his cloak, accompanying the tug with these friendly words: “Hey, nice Villaamil, even if you don’t want to!” Urbanito Cucurbitas, a blond pollon, thinning hair, tall, long-legged, and with a large Adam’s apple; resembling the precocious offspring of the gallinaceous race called Cochinchina; dressed in an elegant checked suit, with a very long, cone-shaped collar and a light-colored bowler hat; immeasurable hands and feet, very clean, and a smiling mouth, showing even his molars, which could well be called wisdom teeth if he had any. “Hello, Urbanito! Have you collected your pay?” “Yes, here I am, touching my pocket and jingling the money; almost all in pesetas. I’m going to take a stroll along Castellana. ” “Looking for some little conquest?… Happy man… The world is yours . How cheerful you are! Well, look; I’m also in a fun mood today… Tell me, and your little brothers? Have they collected their allowances too? Blessed are the children to whom the State puts the breast in their mouths, or the bottle. You ‘ll have a career, Urbanito; I maintain that you’re very clever, contrary to the general opinion that calls you a fool. Here I’m the fool. I deserve, you know what? Well, for the Minister to call me, to make me kneel.” in his office and keep me there for three hours wearing a donkey-eared crown … for being an idiot, for having spent my life believing in morality, in justice, and that budgets should be balanced. I deserve to be given a bareback run, to be given infamous nicknames, to be called “Mr. Meow,” to be sung in vulgar verses that make the very walls of the house laugh… No, I’m not saying this as a complaint; you see… I’m happy, and I laugh… my own imbecility cracks me up terribly. “Look here, dear Don Ramón, putting both hands on your shoulders. I had no part in the puppets. I confess I laughed a little when Guillén brought them to my office; I don’t deny that I was tempted to show them to my father, and I did… “But I’m not asking you for explanations, my dear son. ” “Let me finish…” And my father got furious and almost hit me. Anyway, when Guillén found out about the things my father said, he stormed out of our office and hasn’t seen him since. I say it could all be a quick joke. But you know I respect him, and it seems silly to me to put together the initials of his four meaningless memoirs to come up with a ridiculous and meaningless word. ” “Little by little, my little friend, looking into his eyes. I have no objection to the word _Meow_ being nonsense; but I’m not happy that the four initials don’t contain a profound meaning… ” “Oh!… really?” I fail. –Because you would have to be very ignorant or not have a shred of good faith not to recognize and confess that the M, the I, the A, and the U mean the following: _My… Ideas… Encompass… Universe_. –Ah!… yes… I was saying it right… Don Ramón, you ought to be careful. –Although there will be those who maintain… and I wouldn’t dare to contradict them outright… those who maintain, perhaps with some foundation, that the four mysterious letters say this: _Minister… I… Administrator… Universal_. –Well, look, that interpretation seems to me to be a very wise thing and with a lot of intricacies. –What I’m telling you: you have to examine all the versions impartially, because this one says one thing, that one maintains another, and it’s not easy to decide… I advise you to look at it slowly, to study it, because that’s what the government gives you a salary for, without going to the office more than a little while in the afternoon, and not every day… And let your little brothers study it too with the bottle of their paycheck on their lips. Goodbye; best regards to Dad. Tell him that once I have been crucified, as an imbecile, on the shameful wood of stupidity, it will be up to him to give me the lance, and to Montes the sponge with gall and vinegar, at the hour and point when I pronounce my Four Words, saying: _Death… Infamous… To… The Anointed…_ This anointed means… so you know… _full of filth_, or smeared all over with fetid and disgusting materials, which are the symbol of vulgarity, or so-called principles. _Don Ramón… are you going home? Do you want me to accompany you? I’ll take a carriage. _No, my dear son; go for your little walk. I’m going _pian pianino_. First I have to buy some pills… here at the pharmacy. _Well, I’ll accompany you… and if you want us to see a doctor first… _Doctor!_ laughing wildly. If I’ve never felt healthier, more tender… Leave the doctors to me. With these little pills… “Really, don’t you want me to accompany you?” “No, and I’ll say more: I beg you not to. We have our little secrets, and the seemingly insignificant act of buying this or that medicine can evoke modesty. Modesty, my boy, appears where you least expect it. How do you know if I’m a young man, I mean, a dissolute old man? So go your way, I’ll take the one to the pharmacy. Goodbye, salty boy, little one of the Ministry, have all the fun you can; don’t go to the office except to collect; make many conquests; always aim high; get close to the pretty girls, and when they bring you in to report on a case, make the biggest nonsense you can think of… Goodbye, Goodbye… You know that you are loved. Pollancón was going down Alcalá Street, and Villaamil, after ascertaining that no one was following him, headed in the direction of Puerta del Sol, and before reaching it, he entered what he called the pharmacy; that is to say, the firearms shop at number 3. Chapter 38. Those days, Doña Pura and her sister noticed something unusual in the manners, language, and conduct of good Villaamil, who if in acts of relative importance he showed himself excessively lazy and apathetic, in others of no value or significance he displayed brutal energy. They discussed Abelarda’s wedding, setting a date, and fixing certain points pertinent to such a great event, and the man did not say a word. Not even the handsome inheritance from her future son-in-law, who had already taken the notary uncle, could draw from her a single one of those hyperboles of enthusiasm that flowed from Doña Pura’s mouth. On the other hand, Villaamil treated any triviality as a momentous event, and in case his wife closed the door with a noise due to her frayed nerves, or if they had taken an issue of La Correspondencia to curl her hair, he raised a ruckus that must have lasted half the morning. It is also worth noting that Abelarda greeted the formalization of her marriage with the utmost indifference, which, in the eyes of the former Miau, was the modesty of a well-bred, well-behaved daughter, with no other will than that of her parents. The preparations, considering the family’s financial difficulties, had to be very meager, almost nonexistent, limited to a few items of underwear , the fabric of which was purchased with a donation from Víctor, which Villaamil was not informed of to avoid any susceptibilities. I must point out that since that scene at the Comendadoras, Víctor barely stayed in the house. He rarely came in to sleep on very few nights, and ate and dined out every day. The household gatherings were the same, except for Pantoja and his family, who rarely visited, without Doña Pura understanding the reason for this deviation, and Guillén, who finally faded into the background, much to the satisfaction of the three Miaus. Virginia Pantoja’s repeated absences caused great delays in the rehearsals of the play. The young lady of the house completely forgot her role, and for these reasons, and because of Pura’s disinclination to celebrate until the problem of her husband’s job was resolved, the project of a theatrical performance was abandoned. Federico Ruiz, always consistent, came for a few moments in the afternoons, begging the Miaus’s a thousand pardons for taking up their time, for he was aware that they must be completely occupied with the preparations… Happy preparations, and how many castles and towers the fertile imagination of Villaamil’s wife built on such a fragile foundation! One morning Ruiz came in, very out of breath, followed by his wife, both of them beaming with joy, drunk with jubilation, hoping that their friends might share in their happiness. “I’ve come,” he said, almost breathlessly, “to congratulate us. I know that you love us and that you’ll be happy to see me placed.” Both Federico and Pepita were successively embraced by the three _Miaus_. At this point, good Villaamil came out of his office, smelling joy, and before Ruiz had time to tell him the good news, he took him in his arms, saying: “Congratulations a thousand times over, my dearest one… You deserve it a thousand times over, and very well earned it. ” “Thank you, thank you very much,” said Ruiz, enclosed in Villaamil’s enormous arms, which he squeezed with a nervous contraction. “But, for the Blessed Virgin, don’t squeeze me so hard, you’ll suffocate me… Don Ramón… oh, oh! you’ll break me to pieces… ” “But, man,” said Pura to her husband, surprised and fearful, “what kind of embrace?” “It’s just that …” the dismissed employee stammered, “I want to give you a well-deserved congratulations… a congratulations from my father and my very own lord, so that you remember me and how very happy I am about your success. And what’s that? ” “A little commission right there in Madrid… that’s the real deal…” to study and propose improvements in the study of the natural sciences… so that it becomes practical. “Oh, good stuff!… I don’t know why it hadn’t occurred to them before. And this miserable country lives on ignoring how the natural sciences are taught! Fortunately, now, my friend Ruiz, we’re going to clear up any doubts… Our wise government has a hand in choosing the personnel… So the nation is bursting with joy. Well, I say, the little commission will have its thing. Such blows are enough to save the oppressed homeland… Anyway, I’m very happy… And I say more, Mr. Ruiz; if you’re in luck, the country is no less so, and it should be playing its castanets knowing it has someone to study it… right? With your permission, I’ll get back to work. A billion congratulations.” Without waiting for Federico’s reply to these warm-hearted remarks, the good man burst into his office. Something surprised the Ruíces family, as it did the Miaus, about this disorderly and boisterous manner of congratulating the victims; but they concealed their surprise. Those being congratulated went off to continue their visits to report, reaping congratulations in abundance. And the little commission wasn’t the only reason for Ruiz’s joy that morning, as the message brought him a new satisfaction he hadn’t expected. It was nothing less than the diploma of a Portuguese society whose purpose is to extol those who perform heroic acts in firefights, and also those who spread the best theories about this useful service in writing. Every individual belonging to this association had the right, according to the diploma, to use the title of Bombero, Salvador da humanae, and to wear a very colorful uniform with gleaming embroidery. A figurine of the dazzling jacket accompanied the appointment. How hollow the man must have been, with his commission on which the scientific future of Spain depended, with the honors of a bombeiro, and with the shining livery he planned to wear at the first public and solemn occasion that presented itself! Luisito went out for a walk that afternoon with Paca, and upon his return, he began to study at the dining room table. After Abelarda ‘s strange, incredible outburst on that famous night I spoke of earlier, the insignificant girl’s mind was apparently restored, to the point that a beneficial and restorative forgetfulness erased all vestiges of the event from her mind. The young woman barely remembered it with the insecurity of a blurred dream, like a stupid nightmare whose image fades with the light and the realities of the day. She busied herself sewing her trousseau, and Luis, tired of studying, amused himself by removing and hiding the cotton reels. “Little boy,” his aunt told him without any discomfort, “don’t mess things up.” “Watch me hit you.” Instead of hitting him, she gave him a kiss, and the nephew grew even more courageous, devising other pranks, like his own, not very malicious. Pura helped her daughter with the cuts, and Milagros worked in the kitchen, all covered in soot, her apron down to her feet. Villaamil was always locked in his den. Such was the situation of the family members when the bell rang and Víctor came out. Everyone was surprised, for he didn’t usually come out at such an hour. Without saying anything , he went into his little room and was heard there washing and taking clothes out of his trunk. He was undoubtedly invited to a formal dinner. This was what Abelarda thought, making a special effort not to look at him or even cast her eyes toward the door of the cramped room. But the most unusual thing was that shortly after the monster entered, he felt the same disturbance in his soul, suddenly, with terrifying force, the same disturbance as the night before. The cerebral disorder exploded like a bomb, and at the same instant all the blood was stirred, the bitterness of hatred made his lips contract, his nerves vibrated, and in the tendons of his arms and hands began the brutal itch to grab, to squeeze, to tear to pieces something, precisely the most tender, the most beloved and, to top it all, the most defenseless. Cadalsito had the bad idea, on such a critical occasion, to pull the thread of some basting, and the fabric fell apart. He wrinkled… “Boy, if you don’t stay still, you’ll see,” cried Abelarda, with an electric shock all over her body, her eyes like burning coals. Perhaps nothing worse would have happened; but the fool, wanting to act like a real rascal, pulled the thread again, and… here came Troy. Without realizing what she was doing, acting like an unconscious mechanism that receives an impulse from a hidden source, Abelarda stretched out an arm that seemed made of iron, and with the first blow she caught Luis squarely in the face. The crash must have been heard in the street. As she stepped back, the chair the boy was in shook, and stomp! He fell to the ground. Doña Pura shrieked… “Oh, my darling!… woman!” and Abelarda, blind and savage, leaped upon her victim, digging her furious fingers into his chest and throat. Just as caged and numb beasts regain all their ferocity at the first scratch they make on their tamer, and with the sight and smell of the first blood lose the lazy apathy of captivity, so Abelarda, as soon as she knocked Luisito down and dug her claws into him, was no longer a woman, but the monstrous being created in a trice by the insane perversion of feminine nature . “Dog, damned… I’ll suffocate you! Liar, fraud… I’ll kill you!” she growled, grinding her teeth; and then she groped blindly for the scissors to plunge them into him. Fortunately, she couldn’t find them at hand. The act produced such terror in Doña Pura’s soul that she remained paralyzed, unable to come to avert the disaster, and all she did was scream in anguish and despair. Milagros rushed to the rescue, and so did Victor, in his shirtsleeves. The first thing they did was to free poor Cadalsito from under his aunt’s claws, a not difficult operation, because once the initial shock had passed, Abelarda’s strength suddenly gave way. Her mother pulled her up, helping her to her feet, and still on her knees, convulsing, completely shaken, her voice trembling and broken, she stammered: “That infamous… that wreck… wants to finish me off… and the whole family… ” “But, daughter, what’s wrong?” cried his mother, unaware of the brutal act, while Víctor and Milagros examined Luisito to see if he had any broken bones. The boy burst into tears, his face flushed, his breathing labored. “My God, what an atrocity!” murmured Víctor grimly. And at that same instant, Abelarda entered a new phase of her crisis. She let out a tremendous roar, gritted her teeth, rolled her eyes, and fell like a dead body, twitching her arms and legs and gasping for air. Then Villaamil appeared, stunned by the spectacle: his daughter throwing a tantrum, Luisito crying, his face scratched, Doña Pura not knowing who to help first, the rest of them stunned and dazed. “It’s nothing ,” Milagros finally said, running to get a glass of cold water to splash on her niece’s face. “Isn’t there ether around?” Victor asked. “Daughter, my daughter,” exclaimed the father, “what’s wrong with you? Come back to yourself.” They had to hold her down so she wouldn’t hurt herself with the incessant kicking and violent flailing. Finally, the sedation began, as vigorous as the attack had been. The young woman began to utter sobs, to breathe with difficulty as if she were drowning, and copious weeping marked the final stage of her terrible fit. No matter how hard they tried to console her, the flood of tears continued. They carried her to her bed, where she continued weeping, clutching her heart. She didn’t seem to remember what she had done. Between Villaamil and Cadalso, they had managed to silence Luisito, convincing him that it had all been a rather cruel joke. Suddenly, the head of the family stood at attention before his son-in-law, and with a trembling jaw , a deep yellow complexion, and a furious look, shouted: “It’s all your fault, dancer. Leave my house quickly, and I wish you had never entered it.” “It’s my fault!… Well, you don’t say it’s me…!” the other responded shamelessly. “I thought you weren’t well off the gourd… ” “The truth is,” Pura observed, coming out of the next room, “that before that you would come, these things that no one understands didn’t happen in my house. “There you too… It seems as if they’re doing me a favor by having me here. And I thought I was helping them get through the ordeal of fasting! If I leave, where will they find a better guest?” Villaamil, faced with such insolence, couldn’t find words to express his indignation. He stroked the back of a chair, itching to brandish it high and smash it over his son-in-law’s head. He was able to control his urge for this, and, restraining his anger with a very strong rein, he said to him in the hollow voice of a precentor: “No more contemplations. From this moment on, you’re not necessary here. Gather your things and take the portante, without any kind of excuse or postponement. ” “Don’t worry… It seems as if I’m in Jauja. ” “Jauja or not Jauja, about to explode, right now outside.” Go live with the freaks who protect you. What good is this poor, wretched family to you? There are no credentials here, no positions, no recommendations, nothing, as the other one said. And in this honorable poverty we are happy. Don’t you see how happy I am? Chatting my teeth. On the other hand, you will have no peace at the pinnacle of your glories, reached by dishonor… Quick, out on the street… Mr. Miau wants to lose sight of you. Victor livid, Doña Pura scared, Luisito wanting to burst into tears again, Milagros pouting… “Good,” said Cadalso with that gallantry he knew how to put into his resolutions, whenever they were mortifying. “I’m leaving. I wanted to too, and I hadn’t done it out of charity, because I am a support here, not a burden. But the separation will be absolute. I’m taking my son.” The two Miaus looked at him in terror. Villaamil gritted his teeth fiercely .
“So what…? After what happened today,” added Victor, “do you still expect me to leave this piece of my life here?” The logic of this argument baffled all the _Meows_ of both sexes. “What a fool!” insinuated Doña Pura, eager to capitulate, “do you think this will happen again? And where are you going with your son, where? The poor thing won’t leave us.” She was close to tears. Milagros said: “No, the child won’t leave here. ” “Oh, he will!” maintained Cadalso with brutal determination. “Let’s see: take out all my son’s clothes to put them with mine. ” “But where are you taking him? You fool, you simpleton… What crazy ideas you come up with ! ” She kept quiet because she knew it. Your Aunt Quintina will raise and educate him better than you. Doña Pura sat down, overcome with great anguish, cold sweat, and a painful heartbeat. After her daughter, the mother was going to throw a tantrum. Villaamil spun around, as if spun by the vortex of an internal cyclone, and then stopped dead in her tracks; he spread his legs, raised his enormous arms, simulating the figure of Saint Andrew stuck between the blades, and roared at the top of his lungs: “Take him… take him with a thousand demons! Crazy women, cowardly women, don’t you know that _We Die… Immolated… To… Outrage_?” And stumbling against the walls, he ran toward the study. His wife followed him, believing he was about to throw himself off the balcony into the street. Chapter 39. “I won’t give in, I won’t give in,” said Victor to Milagros, when he was left alone with her. “I’m taking my son. But don’t you understand that I won’t be able to live peacefully leaving him here after what happened today? ” “For God’s sake, son!” replied the modest Ofelia sweetly, wanting to subdue him. “It’s all nonsense… It won’t happen again. Don’t you see that this brat is our only consolation?… and if you take him away from us… ” Emotion cut short her words. The artist remained silent, trying to hide her grief, for she knew very well that if the family showed a lively interest in possessing Luisito, this alone would be reason enough for the monster to persist in taking him. She thought it appropriate to leave the A delicate case was in the diplomatic hands of Dona Pura, who knew how to treat her son-in-law with a combination of energy and gentleness. When the eldest Meow went into the study to follow her husband, she found him thrown into an armchair, his head in his hands. “What do you think we should do?” she asked him, confused, for she had not yet had time to make a decision. Great, immense was Dona Pura’s surprise when her husband, raising his head, replied with these improbable words: “Let him take him whenever he wants. It will be a painful ordeal to see him leave here; but what can I do? For the rest, there is no need to go back, and I say more… I say that, in fact, the boy will be better off with Quintina than with… you women. ” Hearing this, the figure of Fra Angelico silently examined the troubled face of the dismissed man, astonished. The suspicion that he was beginning to lose his mind was confirmed then, hearing him utter that utter nonsense. “He ‘ll be better off with Quintina than with us! You’re not in your right mind, Ramón.” “And leaving aside whatever might be convenient for the child by attenuating his cruelty, Victor is his father, and has more authority over him than we do. If he wants to take him away… ” “He won’t… Well, there’s no other way! You’ll see how I’ll deal with that scoundrel… ” “I wouldn’t say a word to him, nor would I lower myself to dealing with him by falling into a deep state of composure, a forceful sedation of his past fury. I would let him do what he pleases. He has the authority, yes or no? Well, if he has it, it’s up to us to keep quiet and suffer. ” “Well, doesn’t he tell us to keep quiet and suffer, terrified and spirited, when that vile person wants to take away our only joy? You’re not well.” I assure you that Victor will take the child, but it will have to be by force, running over us, and not without me tearing off that dog’s ears. “Well, my opinion is not to argue with that type… I figure if I see him in front of me again, I’ll bite him… I feel something like a physical urge to sink my teeth into someone. Believe me, woman, the Administration is dishonored; it will no longer be able to call itself “the upright and long-suffering personnel of the Treasury,” as they used to say. And as for balancing the budget, let them clean up their act. With this rabble invading the house, it’s impossible. ” “But what are you getting at now with the exalted Administration, and what does the donkey have to do with the temples? Oh, Ramón, you’re no good! Leave me the upright ones… May lightning strike them.” Look at yourself in your mirror, and open those eyes, open them… “I have them wide open! Intentionally. And what horizons before me!” Seeing that she could not reach an agreement with her husband, she turned again to Víctor, who had not yet left. Contrary to Pura’s belief, the other remained inflexible, maintaining his agreement with a tenacity worthy of a better cause. Both of them could have been choked with a hair, and Abelarda, confessing herself the author of the conflict, wept in her bed like a Magdalene. Between tending to her daughter and arguing with Víctor, Doña Pura had to double up, running here and there, but unable to control the distress of the one or the implacable obstinacy of the other. She had never seen the handsome young man so entrenched in a decision, nor could she find the point of such cruelty and firmness. To do so, it would have been necessary to be aware of what had happened the day before at the Cabreras’ house. The latter won the famous lawsuit over the Vélez-Málaga shack on appeal, and Victor was ordered to reimburse the value of the property and pay the costs. The irreconcilable Ildefonso had already put the noose around his neck and was preparing to tighten the grip, withholding his pay, chasing and harassing him without mercy or consideration. But the sly Quintina took advantage of the court ruling to satisfy her maternal aspirations, and, cajoling Cabrera with carefully crafted flattery and flattery, obtained his approval of the terms of the following agreement: “The matter would be hushed up; Ildefonso would pay the costs, keeping the house, of course. And Victor would hand over his son to them.” Cadalso saw the heavens open, and although he hated to tear the boy away from the power and protection of his grandparents, he had to accept it blindly. It all came down to having a bad time at the Miaus’ house, receiving a few scratches from Pura, another from Milagros, and perhaps a bite from Villaamil. This is perfectly clear the motive behind the famous Cadalsito’s determination to change house and family. In the midst of the hectic rush between Milagros and Pura, running from the inconsolable Abelarda to the inflexible Víctor, stopping off at Luisito, who had also started whining again, Ponce entered. He couldn’t have come at a worse time, and his supposed mother-in-law, annoyed by the visit, herded him into the living room to say: “That little brat Víctor has caught us. We’ve had a real tragedy here today.” Imagine that he has decided to take the little one, tearing him away from this home where he was raised. We are utterly dismayed. Abelarda, seeing that executioner dragging the child away by force, collapsed in a terrible, terrible faint. We have her in bed, a sea of tears. Oh, son, what a time we have had! Finally, since Abelarda was dressed in bed, Ponce was allowed to go in and see her. The insignificant girl was no longer crying; her eyes were burning, her limbs limp. The illustrious young man sat at her head, squeezing her hand and indulging in the ineffable excess of kissing it when her mother was not present, who repeated in front of her daughter the version given to her fiancé about the day’s events. “How wicked that man is!” said the critic to his beloved. “He is an apocalyptic beast.” “You don’t know that well,” the girl responded, staring at her boyfriend as he stroked his always-damp tear ducts with his handkerchief. “God never brought a darker soul into the world… Look at how wicked it is! Wanting to take Luisito, our delight, our happiness, away from us! He’s been with us ever since he was born. He owes us his life, because we’ve cared for him like the apple of our eye; we saved him from measles and whooping cough with a thousand sacrifices. What ingratitude, what infamy! You see how peaceful I am. More than peaceful, I’m cowardly, harmless, for even when I kill a flea, I feel sorry for the poor little animal. Well then; if I had my hand on that man, I think I’d run him through and through with a knife… Just so you know. ” “Calm down, kitty,” Ponce said in a honeyed voice. “You’re excited. Don’t pay attention to me. Do you love me very much?” “Oh, I do love you!” replied Abelarda, fully determined to throw herself off the Viaduct, that is, to marry Ponce. “Your mother must have told you that we have set May 3rd, the Day of the Cross. How long time seems to me, and how slowly the nights and days pass. ” “But everything comes… One day follows another,” said Abelarda, looking at the ceiling. “All the days are entirely the same. ” The conferences between the two of them, Miaus, and Victor lasted until the latter came out dressed in evening dress, and all the diplomacy of the one and the plaintive entreaties of the other did not soften Cadalso’s hard heart. The most they achieved was to postpone Luis’s transfer until the following day. When Villaamil learned of this, he went out and said to his son-in-law curtly: “I promise you, I give you my word, that I will take him myself to Quintina’s house.” There’s nothing more to talk about… You don’t need to come back here. To this the monster replied that he would change his clothes again that night , adding benevolently that taking his son away didn’t mean he was prohibiting his grandparents from seeing him, since they could go to Quintina’s house whenever they wanted, and that he would warn his sister of this. “Thank you, Mr. Elephant,” said Doña Pura disdainfully. And Milagros: “What’s more… over there?… You’re cool!” There was still one important detail missing to assess the seriousness of the matter; it was necessary to know the attitude of the interested party, whether he would willingly agree to change families, or if, on the contrary, he would resist with the irreducible firmness characteristic of an innocent age. His grandmother, as soon as The monster left and began to prepare the boy’s spirit for resistance, assuring him that Aunt Quintina was very evil, that she would lock him in a dark room, that the house was full of very large snakes and poisonous creatures. Cadalsito listened to these things with disbelief, because they were really too big a mess for a grown boy just beginning to discover the world to swallow. That night no one had an appetite, and Milagros took the dishes to the kitchen, just as they had gone to the dining room. Villaamil only spoke to refute his wife’s terrifying depictions of Cabrera’s home. “Don’t pay attention, my son; Aunt Quintina is very good, and she will take care of you and pamper you very much. There are no toads or snakes there , but the most beautiful things you can imagine; Saints who seem to be talking, beautiful images and superb altars, and… a whole lot of things. You’re going to be very comfortable.” Hearing this, Pura and Milagros looked at each other in astonishment, unable to explain why their grandfather had so shamelessly and cowardly gone over to the enemy. What was it about him that supported Victor’s wicked idea, going so far as to defend Quintina and paint her house as a child’s paradise? It was a shame the family wasn’t well off, because otherwise, the first thing they’d do would be to call a good specialist in head diseases to study Villaamil’s case and tell him what was going on inside. Chapter 40. Cadalsito also had no desire to eat, much less study. As they put him to bed, his aunt, completely recovered from that wild madness and with only vague memories of it, kissed him and caressed him intensely, not without a certain suspicion of the little boy and even of Doña Pura. Milagros stayed there to sleep that night, just in case. Luis fell asleep quickly; but in the middle of the night he awoke with the symptoms that had preceded the vision. His aunt Milagros took care to tuck him in and pamper him, finally going to bed with him so that he would calm down and not be afraid. The first thing the boy saw when he dozed off was an empty expanse, an indeterminate place whose horizons merged with the sky, without any features, almost without boundaries, for everything was the same, both near and far. He wondered if it was the ground or the clouds, and then he suspected it might be the sea, which he had never seen except in a painting. It couldn’t have been the sea , because the sea has waves that rise and fall, and its surface was like that of glass. Far away, very far away, he saw his friend with the white beard approaching slowly, gathering his cloak in his left hand and leaning with the other on a large cane or staff like the one used by bishops. Although he had come from a long way off and walked slowly, he soon arrived in front of Cadalsito, smiling at the sight. He immediately sat down. Where, if there was no stone or chair there? It was all marvelous beyond measure, for above the Father’s shoulders Luis saw the back of one of the armchairs in the living room of his house. But the most marvelous thing of all was that the good grandfather, leaning toward him, caressed his face with his precious hand. Feeling the touch of the fingers that had made the world and everything in it, Cadalso felt a most delightful tremor run through his body. “Let’s see,” his friend told him, “I came all the way from the other side of the world just to have a word with you. I know very strange things happen to you. Your aunt… It’s unbelievable that she loved you so much!… Do you understand this? Well, neither do I. I assure you that when I saw him, I was like I’m seeing visions. Then your father, determined to take you to Aunt Quintina’s… Do you know the reason for these things? ” “Well, I,” Luis opined timidly, surprised at having his own ideas in the face of eternal wisdom, “think the Minister is to blame for everything that’s happening . ” “The Minister!” he said, astonished and smiling. “Yes, sir, because if that guy had given my grandfather a job, everyone would be happy and nothing would have happened. ” “Do you know that you’re making me sound like a complete sage?” “My grandfather is furious because he doesn’t get a job, and my grandmother is the same, and my aunt Abelarda too. And my aunt Abelarda can’t see my father because my father told the Minister not to appoint my grandfather. And since she doesn’t dare to go after my father, because he’s more powerful than her, she attacked me. Then she started to cry… Tell me, is my aunt good or bad? “I’m sure she’s good. Imagine that hug today was because she loves you so much. ” “What love! It still hurts here, where she dug her nails into me… She ‘s had a real grudge against me since the day I told her to marry my father. Don’t you know? My father loves her; but she can’t stand him. ” “That’s strange. ” “You heard right. My father told her one night that he was madly in love with her, so fatally… you know? And that he was a damned bastard, and what do I know ?
” “But who makes you listen to what grown-ups say?” “I… was there… shrugging my shoulders.” “Well, well! What things happen in your house! I think you’re right: that rogue Minister is to blame for everything. If he’d done what I told him, none of this would have happened. What would it cost him, in that big house full of offices, to make room for that poor gentleman? But no, they don’t listen to me, and that’s how it goes. Isn’t it true that they have to attend to this one and that one, and everything I say goes in one ear and out the other. ” “Well, let them put him in a job now… well! If you go over there and order him to hit the Minister’s desk hard with that stick… ” “No way! They don’t listen. Well, if it consisted of blows with the stick, that’s why he wouldn’t stay. I give them tremendous blows, and it’s as if I didn’t. ” “Then, control! Emboldened by so much benevolence, when are they going to put him in a job?” “Never,” declared the Father calmly, as if that “never” instead of being disconsolate were actually consoling. “Never!” not understanding why this should be said so calmly. Well, we’re in trouble! “Never, yes, and I’ll add that I’ve decided it myself. Because you see: what good are the goods of this world for? Absolutely nothing. This, which you’ve heard many times in sermons, I’m telling you now with my own mouth, which knows everything there is to know. Your grandfather won’t find happiness on earth. ” “Well, where? ” “You seem to be a fool. Here, by my side. Do you think I don’t want to bring him here? ” “Ah!… opening my mouth as wide as it could go. Then… that means my grandfather is dying. ” “And really, boy, what’s your grandfather doing in this ugly, evil world? The poor thing is no longer good for anything.” Does it seem right to you that he should live to be laughed at, and to have a little Minister snubbing him every day? But I don’t want my grandfather to die… It’s only fair that you don’t want him… but you see… he’s old, and, believe me, he’ll be better off with me than with you. Don’t you understand? Yes, saying yes out of courtesy, but without being very convinced …
So… is grandfather going to die soon? It’s the best thing he can do. Warn him; tell him you’ve spoken to me, not to worry about his credentials, to tell the Minister to go to hell, and that he won’t have peace of mind until he’s with me. But what’s that? Why are you wrinkling your eyebrows? Don’t you understand that, silly me? Well, don’t you say you’re going to be a priest and dedicate yourself to me? If you think that’s the way you are, get used to these ideas. Don’t you remember what the Catechism says? Learn it well. The world is a vale of tears, and the sooner you leave it, the better. All these things, and others that you will learn, you must preach from my pulpit when you grow up, to convert the wicked. You’ll see how you make the women cry, and they’ll all say that Padrito Miau has a golden tongue. Tell me, aren’t you keen to become a clergyman and start learning a few crumbs of the Mass, a little Latin, and everything else? Yes, sir… Murillo has already taught me many things: what _alleluia_ and _gloria patri_ mean, and I know how to sing what is sung when they raise their hands, and how to place their hands when reading the most holy Gospels. “Well, you already know a lot. But you must apply yourself. At your Aunt Quintina’s house, you’ll see all the things used in my worship. ” “They want to take me to Aunt Quintina’s. What do you think? Should I go?” Upon arriving here, Cadalsito, encouraged by the kindness of his friend, who was caressing his cheeks with his fingers, took the liberty of reciprocating with the same demonstration, and at first timidly, then with ease, he tugged at the Father’s beard, who did nothing to prevent it, nor did he bother saying like Villaamil: “What filthy tavern have we eaten at together?” “As for living with the Cabreras or not, I have no idea. You want it for the novelty of ecclesiastical toys, and at the same time you’re afraid of being separated from your grandparents. Do you know what I advise you? When the time comes, do what comes from within.” “What if my father takes me by force without letting me think about it?” “I don’t know… I don’t think he’ll take you by force. In the worst case, you do what your grandfather tells you. If he says, ‘To Quintina’s,’ you shut up and walk. ” “What if he says no? ” “You’re not going. Go without the little altars, and in the meantime, do you know what you’re doing? Ask your friend Murillo to give you another taste of Latin, the kind he knows, to explain the Mass and the priest’s dress well, how to put on the cincture, the stole, how to prepare the chalice and the host for the consecration… in short, Murillo is very well informed, and he can also teach you how to carry the Viaticum to the sick, and what to pray along the way. ” “Well… Murillo knows a lot; but his father wants him to be a lawyer. How stupid!” He says he’ll become a Minister and that he’ll marry a very pretty girl. How disgusting! —Yes, it is disgusting. —Posturas also had bad ideas. One afternoon he told us he was going to have a girlfriend and gamble. What do you think? He smoked cigarette butts and was very foul-mouthed. —All those tricks are cured here. —Where is he, I don’t see him with you? —Everyone’s punished. Do you know what they did to me this morning? Well, between Posturitas and other scoundrels who are always messing things up, they took my world, you know, that blue world I use to carry in my hand, and they rolled it around, and before I knew it, it had fallen into the sea. It was a pain in the ass to get it out. Luckily, it’s a fictional world, you know, that it has no people, and there were no misfortunes to mourn. I gave them a slap as if they could have been their own. Today they won’t let me out of confinement… “I’m glad. Let them pay. And tell me, where are you locking them up?” The celestial person, allowing his beard to be tugged, looked smilingly at his friend, as if he didn’t know what to say. “Where are you locking them up? Let’s see… tell me…” A child’s curiosity is implacable, and woe to him who provokes it and doesn’t satisfy it immediately! The tugging on his beard must have been too strong, because the kind old man, Luis’s friend, had to put a stop to so much familiarity. “Where am I locking them up? You want to know everything. Well, I’ll lock them up… wherever I please. What’s it to you?” Having uttered the last word, the vision suddenly disappeared, and good Cadalso remained until morning, during his sleep, tormented by the curiosity to know where he was locking them up… But where the deuce could he lock them up? Chapter 41. Victor did not appear all night; But early in the morning he went to reiterate the dreaded sentence regarding Luis, not yielding to the admonitions of Doña Pura, nor to the tears of Abelarda and Milagros. The boy, affected by this mournful display, was rebellious about the separation; he would not let himself be dressed or shod; he burst into tears, and God knows what a mess would have been had it not been for Villaamil ‘s discreet intervention , who came out of his bedroom saying: “Well, it’s necessary to separate from him, not to pester him, not to afflict the poor creature.” Victor was astonished to see his father-in-law so reasonable, and he was very grateful for this consoling criterion, which would allow him to carry out his purpose without resorting to violence, thus avoiding unpleasant scenes. Milagros and Abelarda, Seeing the fight was lost, they retreated to the study to cry. Pura went into the kitchen, cursing the Cabreras, the Cadalsos, and other families who were enemies of her peace, while Victor put his son’s boots on, trying to get him out quickly, before new complications arose. “You’ll see, you’ll see,” he said, “what lovely things Aunt Quintina has there for you: magnificent saints, as big as those in churches, and other little ones for you to mess around with; virgins with gold-embroidered mantles, a silver moon at their feet, stars around their heads, so pretty… you’ll see… And other very amusing things… candlesticks, Christs, missals, monstrances, incense burners… ” “And can I set fire to them and shake them so they give off a scent? ” “Yes, my love.” It’s all for you to entertain yourself and learn, and you can take off the saints’ clothes to see what they look like inside, and then put them back on. Villaamil paced around the dining room listening to all this. When he noticed that Luis, after that enthusiasm for using the censer, had once again succumbed to his homesickness, whining, “I want Grandma to take me and be there with me,” he had to throw his whole quarter into the catechism, and caressing him, he said, “You also have small altars there with little candles and chandeliers this big, monstrances like this, embroidered chasubles, a tabernacle that’s really cute, a long cross you can carry whenever you want, and other precious things… like, for example…” He didn’t know where to go on, and Victor made up for his lack of inventiveness by adding, “And a silver hyssop that squirts holy water everywhere, and, finally, a paschal lamb… ” “Made of meat?” –No, man… I mean, yes, alive… To shorten the painful situation and hasten the critical moment of the exit, Villaamil helped him put on his jacket; but they hadn’t even buttoned it when, Mother of God! Dona Pura came out like a panther and attacked Victor, shovel in hand, saying: –Murderer, get out of my house! You won’t steal this jewel from me!… Go away, or I ‘ll split your head open! And as soon as the other _Miaus_ heard that angry voice, they also came out shrieking on the rope itself. In short, things were getting ugly. –Since you don’t want it to be for good, it will be for bad,– said Victor, putting himself out from under the claws of the three Furies. –I will ask for help from justice. He will not stay here. So you see… Villaamil intervened, saying in a conciliatory voice, laboriously extracted from the depths of his oppressed chest: “Calm down, calm down. We already had everything arranged when these women ruined it for us. Go back inside. ” “You’re a swindler,” his wife told him, blinded by rage. “It’s your fault, because if you’d taken our side, we’d all have won the game. ” “Shut up, you crazy woman, I know perfectly well what I have to do. Everyone out of here!” But Luisito, seeing his aunts and grandmother so interested in him, once again showed resistance. Pura wouldn’t be content with anything less than gouging out her son-in-law’s eyes, and it was going to end badly. Luckily, that day Villaamil was so reasonable and in such control of himself and the situation that he seemed like a different man. Somehow, his respectability won out. “As long as you’re here,” he said to Victor, skillfully lifting him from the bull’s cradle, that is, from between Doña Pura’s stiff hands, “we won’t get anywhere. Go, and I give you my word that I’ll take my grandson to Quintina’s house. Leave me alone, leave me alone… Don’t you trust my word? ” “His word, yes, but not his ability to subdue these thugs. ” “I’ll subdue them with reason. Don’t worry. Go and wait for me there.” Having managed to reassure his son-in-law, he entered into a great conversation with the family, exhausting his wits in making them see the impossibility of preventing the boy’s separation. “Don’t you see that if we resist, the judge himself will come and take him away from us?” The argument lasted half an hour, and finally the Miaus seemed resigned; never convinced. “The first thing you have to do,” she told them, hoping to get them away at the critical moment of their exit, “is go into the living room singing softly. I’ll come to an understanding with Luis. He’s not going to stop loving us because he goes off with Quintina!… and besides, his father has promised me that he’ll bring him to see us every day, and on Sundays to spend the day at our house… ” Abelarda left first, weeping, like someone who leaves a dying person so as not to see them die. Then Milagros left, and finally Pura, who would not have resigned herself to not being tamed by her husband with this last argument: “If we persist, the judge will come this afternoon. Imagine the scene! Let’s finish the chalice, and God will punish the scoundrel who offers it to us.” Alone with Luis, the grandfather was on the verge of losing his studied, extremely difficult composure and bursting into tears. He swallowed all his bile, mentally invoking heaven with this phrase: “The separation is terrible, Lord, but there’s no doubt that it will be much better there, much better… Come on, Ramón, take heart, and don’t be discouraged.” But he hadn’t counted on his grandson, who, hearing the aunts’ whimpering, went back to his old ways, and when the fierce moment of departure approached, he became distressed, saying: “I don’t want to leave. ” “Don’t be silly, Luis,” the old man admonished him. “Do you think that if it weren’t for your own good, we would kick you out of the house? Pretty, docile children do what they’re told. And you can’t imagine, no matter how much I praise them, the precious things Quintina has there for your private use.” “And can I take it all for myself and do with it whatever I want ?” the boy asked with the greedy anxiety that in early childhood reveals unbridled selfishness. “Well, who doubts it? You can even break it if it suits you. ” “No, not break it. Church things aren’t broken,” the child declared with a certain unction. “Well… let’s go… We’ll leave quietly so they don’t feel us… and so they don’t make a fuss… Well, you see; among other things, there’s a little baptismal font, which is a real treat; I’ve seen it. ” “A font… with lots of holy water?” “It holds as much water as the kitchen jug… Let’s carry it on our backs. It’s better if I carry you… ” “And is that font for baptizing people?” “Of course!… You can play with it all you want, and in the process, you’ll learn how to baptize a bald man when you become a priest.” Villaamil walked cautiously down the corridor and welcomed him, carrying his grandson in his arms. As the boy continued his stream of questions throughout the perilous journey, without lowering his voice, the grandfather covered his mouth with a hand, whispering in his ear: “Yes, you can baptize children, as many children as you want. And there are also mitres to fit your head and golden capes, and a crosier so you can dress as a bishop and bless us…” With that, they passed through the door, which Villaamil didn’t close to keep out the noise. He went down the stairs in strides, like a thief fleeing carrying a stolen object, and once in the doorway, he took a deep breath and laid his load on the floor: he couldn’t take any more. He wasn’t exactly strong, nor could he bear any weight, even ones as light as his grandson’s. Fearful that Paca and Mendizábal might commit some indiscretion, he dodged their greetings. The big woman wanted to say something to Luis, sympathizing with his departure; but Villaamil was smarter; he said, “We’ll be back,” and went out into the street faster than the sight. The fear that Luis might be sober again spurred him to reinforce his lying catechist tricks in the street: “You have such a large quantity of rag flowers for altars that it takes a year just to see them all… and candles of all colors… and a sea of tapers… Well, there’s a Saint Ferdinand dressed as a warrior, in armor, that will leave you stunned, and a Saint Isidore with his team of oxen, which look natural. The small altar for you to say your masses on is prettier than the one in Montserrat…” “Tell me, Grandpa, don’t I have a confessional?” “I certainly do!… and a very nice one… with bars so that women can tell you their sins, which are many… I tell you, you’re going to be very well, and when you grow up a little, you’ll find yourself a priest without realizing it, knowing as much as Father Bohigas of Montserrat, or the chaplain of the New Salesians himself, who’s now becoming a canon. ” “And I, will I be a canon, Grandpa? ” “Well, what doubt do you have?… and a bishop, and maybe even become Pope. ” “Is the Pope the one who commands all the priests?” “Exactly… Ah! You’ll also see a Holy Week monument there, which has at least a thousand pieces, I don’t know how many statues, all white and like candy. It looks like it’s just come from the confectioner’s.” “And do you eat, Grandfather? Do you eat?” asked Cadalsito, so keenly interested in all this that his home, his grandmother, and his aunts were erased from his mind. “Who doubts it? When you tire of playing, you can bite him, ” replied Villaamil, already dazed, for his imagination was running out, and he didn’t know what to do with. Grandfather walked quickly along the sidewalk of Ancha Street, and with each step he took, Cadalsito took three, holding his father’s hand, or rather, hanging on. Don Ramón stopped abruptly and turned around, heading for the upper part of the street, where the Hospital de la Princesa is. Luis noticed the incongruity of this direction and remarked, growing impatient: “But, Grandfather, aren’t we going to Aunt Quintina’s house on Reyes Street ? ” “Yes, my son; but first we’ll take a walk around here so you can sunbathe . ” A sudden retreat took shape in the mind of the afflicted old man, similar to the rejection of the strong idea that informed all his actions regarding the transfer and relocation of his grandson. The latter droned on , asking questions incessantly, tugging at his grandfather’s arm when the answers didn’t immediately mesh with the questions. The grandfather answered in monosyllables, evasively, his entire mind concentrated on the inner life of his thoughts. Head bowed, his eyes fixed on the ground as if counting the lines between the tiles, he struggled up the slope, pulling Luisito along. Luisito, who didn’t notice his grandfather’s distress or the trembling of his lips, quietly articulating his thoughts. “Isn’t what I’m about to commit a real crime, or rather, two crimes?… Handing over my grandson, and then…” Last night, after much consideration, both seemed to me to be very sensible, and a consequence of one another. Because if I’m going to… cease to live very soon, Luis would be better off with the Cabreras than with my family… And I thought that my family would raise him badly, with neglect, indulging him with a thousand bad habits… not to mention the danger of him staying with Abelarda, who’ll be back to her old tricks any day. The Cabreras are unpleasant to me; but I consider them orderly and proper people. What a difference from Pura and Milagros! Those two, with their music and their nonsense, are good for nothing. That’s what I thought last night, and it seemed the sanest thing a human mind could think of… Why do I regret it now and feel like going home with the boy? Is he better off with the Miaus than with Quintina? No, not that… Is the saving resolve that was to give me freedom and peace failing me? Is it that now you have the urge to go on living, coward? “Do the whims of life flatter you?” Tormented by a cruel doubt, Villaamil heaved a deep sigh, and sitting down on the plinth of the hospital gate that overlooks the Paseo de Areneros, he took the child’s hands and looked at him fixedly, as if he wished to read the solution to the terrible conflict in his innocent eyes. The boy was burning with impatience; but he did not dare hurry his grandfather, in whose face he saw pain and fatigue. “Tell me, Luis,” Villaamil proposed, embracing him affectionately. “Do you really want to go with Aunt Quintina? Do you think you will be well with her, and that the Cabreras will educate and instruct you better than at home? Talk to me with Frankness. Having put the question on the pedagogical level, and discarding the lure of the ecclesiastical toy store, Luis didn’t know what to answer. He searched for a way out, and finally found it: “I want to be a priest.” “Fair enough; you want to be a priest, and I approve… But supposing I’m gone, that Pura and Milagros go live with Abelarda, Señora de Ponce, who do you think would be better off with? ” “With Grandma and Aunt Quintina together. ” “That can’t be.” Cadalsito shrugged his shoulders. “And wouldn’t you be afraid, if you were still where you were, that my daughter would get angry again and try to kill you? ” “She won’t get angry,” said Cadalsito with admirable wisdom. “Now she’s getting married, and she won’t hit me again. ” “So you… aren’t afraid? And between Aunt Quintina and us, what do you prefer?” “I prefer… that you live with Aunt Milagros.” Villaamil already had his mouth open to say to him: “Look, son, all that stuff I’ve told you about the altaritos is music. We’ve tricked you so you wouldn’t resist leaving the house.” But he held back, hoping that Luis himself would clarify the tremendous problem with some primitive idea, suggested by his innocence. Cadalsito placed one leg on his grandfather’s knee, and putting a hand on his shoulder to steady himself , let him say: “What I want is for Grandma and Aunt Milagros to come live with Quintina. ” “And me?” asked the old man, astonished at the preterition. “You ? I’ll tell you. They don’t place you anymore… do you understand? They don’t place you anymore, not now, not ever. ” “How do you know that?” his heart pierced in his throat. “I know. Not now, not ever… But you damn well need it.” “How do you know? Who told you?” “Well… I… I’ll tell you; but don’t tell anyone… I see God… It’s like a dream coming over me, and then he stands before me and speaks to me.” Villaamil was so astonished that he couldn’t make a single comment. The boy continued: “He has a white beard, he’s as tall as you, and he’s wearing a very pretty cloak… He tells me everything that happens… and he knows everything, even what we boys do at school… ” “And when have you seen him? ” “Many times: the first time at the Alarconas, then nearby, and at the Congress and at home… First I feel like fainting, I get cold, and then he comes and we start talking… What, you don’t believe it? ” “Yes, son, I do believe it with a very strong emotion; so I shouldn’t believe it?” “And last night he told me that they won’t give you a place, and that this world is very bad, and that you have no business in it, and that the sooner you go to heaven, the better. ” “Look at how things are: he told me the same thing. ” “But do you see him too?” “No, not so much as see him… I’m not pure enough to deserve that grace… but he speaks to me from time to time. ” “Well, that’s what he told me… That dying soon is what’s best for you, so that you can rest and be happy. ” Villaamil was immensely astonished. His grandson’s words were like a divine revelation, of irrefutable authenticity. “And what is the Lord telling you? ” “That I have to be a priest… you see?” the same, the very same thing I wished… and that he study Latin a lot and learn everything quickly… The old man’s mind was flooded, so to speak, with an affirmative, categorical sense that excluded even the shadow of doubt, establishing the order of firm ideas to which his will had to respond immediately with unshakeable decision. “Come on, son, let’s go to Aunt Quintina’s house,” he said to his grandson, standing up and taking him by the hand. He led him quickly, without taking the trouble to catechize him with hyperbolic descriptions of toys and sacred recreational gadgets. When he knocked on Cabrera’s door, Quintina herself came to open it. Sitting on the bottom step, Villaamil covered his grandson with kisses, handed him over to his paternal aunt, and ran downstairs without even saying good morning to her. As he went downstairs he thought he heard the voice of the child whimpering, he quickened his pace and went into the street with all the speed he could. His weak legs allowed him. Chapter 42. It was now nearly noon, and Villaamil, who hadn’t had breakfast, felt hungry. He headed toward the Plaza de San Marcial, and upon reaching the dumping grounds of the old orchard of Príncipe Pío, he stopped to contemplate the hollow of Campo del Moro and the distant borders of the Casa de Campo. The day was splendid, the sky clear and burnished with blue, with a bright, cheerful sun; one of those early summer days when the heat is more bothersome because the trees were still stripped of their leaves. The horse chestnut trees and the poplars were just beginning to put forth their leaves; the plane trees were barely turning green; and the sophora, gleditchas, and other legumes were completely bare. Some of the love-trees displayed their pink blossoms, and the privet hedges were already showing off their lush shoots, competing with the evergreen euonymus. Villaamil observed the difference in time at which tree species awaken from their winter slumber, and he breathed with pleasure in the warm air rising from the Manzanares valley. He let himself go, forgetting his good appetite, on the way to the Mountain, crossing the recently planted garden in the landfill, and walked around the barracks until he could see the mountain range, a clear blue with patches of snow, like a watercolor stain spread on paper by the natural diffusion of the drop, a work of chance rather than the artist’s brushes. “How beautiful it is here!” he said to himself, untying the wrapper of his cloak, which was making him feel very warm. “It seems to me I’m seeing this for the first time in my life, or that at this moment this mountain range, these trees, and this sky have just been created . Is it true that in my miserable existence full of work and worries, I haven’t had time to look up or ahead… Always with my eyes turned down, toward this filthy land that isn’t worth two farthings, toward this very filthy Administration, who could be struck by lightning, and looking at the filthy faces of the Ministers, Directors, and Chiefs of Staff, who are so damned funny.” What I say: how much more interesting is a piece of heaven, however small, than the face of Pantoja, that of Cucurbitas, and that of the Minister himself!… Thank God I savor this pleasure of contemplating Nature, because my sorrows and my anguish are over, and I no longer ponder whether or not they will give me destiny; I am a different man now, I know what independence is, I know what life is, and now I pass them all by, and I envy no one, and I am… I am the happiest of men. Let’s eat, then, and ole, my brunette. He snapped the fingers of both hands a couple of times, and, wrapping his cape around his neck again, he headed toward Cuesta de San Vicente, which he covered almost the entire length of, looking at the displays in the shops. Finally, outside a good-looking tavern, he stopped, murmuring: “They must cook very well here. Come in, Ramón, and live the high life.” No sooner said than done. A little later , good Villaamil was sitting at a round, four- legged table, with a plate of fragrant brisket stew in front of him, a crock of cutlery, a jug of wine, and bread. “It’s nice,” he thought, launching resolutely into the stew, “to find oneself like this, so free, without commitments, without worrying about family… because, goodness I say, I no longer have a family; I am alone in the world, alone and master of my actions… What a pleasure, what a great pleasure! The slave has thrown off his chains, and today he puts the world on his back, and sees those who once oppressed him pass by him, as if he were watching Perico el de los Palotes pass by… But how delicious this brisket stew is!” In her life, the simple Milagros never composed anything as good, she only knows how to curl her hair, and sing and moo at the top of her lungs that _morrríamo, morrríamo_… She looks like a little dog when they pinch its tail… The brisket is really delicious … What a gift they have for seasoning in this tavern! And what a nice person the innkeeper is, and how well the green muffs , the carpet shoes and the fur cap suit him! How much more handsome he is than Cucurbitas and Pantoja himself!… Well, sir, the wine is Fresh and spicy… I like it very much. The effects of the freedom I enjoy, of not caring a fig for anyone, and of seeing my head free of thoughts and worries. Because I’ve left everything nice and tidy: my daughter is marrying Ponce, who is a good boy and has something to live on; my grandson is in the care of Quintina, who will educate him better than his grandmother… and as for those two nasty girls, let Abelarda and her husband take care of them… In short, I no longer have to bother anyone; I am now free, happy, independent, and I open myself up to the Carthaginian without hesitation. What a blessing! I no longer have to decide which Christian to send a little letter to tomorrow asking for an advance. What a relief to have put an end to so much ignominy! My soul expands… I breathe better, the appetite of my youth has returned to me, and every person I see makes me want to shake their hand and tell them how happy I am. ” Here I was coming from my soliloquy, when three young men entered the tavern, undoubtedly fresh off the train, each with a knapsack on his shoulder, a rod in his belt, dressed in peasant fashion, their shoes alike, which were espadrilles, and their hats different, for one wore a round-brimmed one, another a beret and the third a silk handkerchief tied around his head. “What gallant lads!” said Villaamil, gazing at them raptly, while they, boisterous and mischievous, asked the innkeeper for something with which to kill the ferocious gopher they carried. “Could they be young peasants who have left the obscure poverty of their villages to come to this Babel to seek a destiny that will give them a veneer of nobility and the air of decent people? Unhappy ones! And what a great favor I would do them if I disabused them! ” Without further deliberation, he went straight to them and said: “Young men, think before you know it. You still have time. Return to your cabins and pastures and flee from this deceitful abyss of Madrid, which will swallow you up and make you unhappy for life. Follow the advice of one who loves you well, and return to the countryside.” “What’s this guy saying?” replied the most alert of them, shouldering his jacket, which he had dropped. “God forbid it with Grandpa! We’re conscripts in this replacement, and if we don’t show up, they’ll shoot us… ” “Ah! Well, well… If you’re soldiers, the thing changes its appearance… Off to defend the homeland. I defended it too, going out in a company of volunteers when that rascal Gómez ran off to Madrid… But I also tell you not to pay attention to what your superiors preach to you, and to rebel at the first opportunity, children. Despise the great scoundrel of the State… Don’t you know who the State is?” The three boys laughed, showing their healthy, fresh teeth: they were undoubtedly very amused by the savagery in front of them. None of them knew who the State was, and Villaamil had to explain it to them in this way: “Well, the State is the greatest enemy of the human race, and it divides anyone it takes by force… Be very careful… always be free, independent, and don’t take anyone into account.” One of the waiters took his staff from his belt and slammed it down on the table so hard that it almost split it in two, shouting: “Madam, we’re very hungry. By the life of the damned Suleiman… Come on, those lean ones. ” Villaamil was amused by this quick wit and admired the youth, the boiling blood of the three boys. The innkeeper begged them to wait a few minutes and placed bread and wine in front of them to kill their hunger. Villaamil then paid, and the innkeeper, now quite surprised by his unusual manners and considering him a fool, ran to offer him a small glass of Cariñena. The dismissed man accepted, grateful for such kindness, and taking the glass and raising it high, he toasted the prosperity of the establishment. The young men bellowed: “Madrid, five minutes of rest and inn!… Long live Nastasia, Bruna, Ruperta, and all the girls of Daganzo de Arriba!” And when Villaamil, upon taking his leave of the innkeeper with great finesse, praised the good service and the well-seasoned stew, the owner replied: “There’s no other like this. Look at the sign: _The Lord’s Vineyard_. ” “No, I’m not going to return. Tomorrow I’ll be very far away, my friend.” Gentlemen, turning to the boys and greeting them, hat in hand, keep yourselves safe. Thank you; enjoy… And don’t forget what I’ve told you… to be free, to be independent… like the air. Look at me. I’ll take the State as my cape… Until now…” He left dragging his cape, and one of the young men appeared at the door shouting: “Hey… Grandpa, hold on, you’re falling!… Grandpa, your nose ‘s gone . Come back here. ” But Villaamil didn’t hear anything, and he continued upward, looking for a path or trail by which to climb the Mountain a second time. He finally found her, crossing an empty lot and another already fenced for construction. Finally, after a thousand twists and turns, negotiating hollows, and climbing the shifting earth of the dumps, he reached the esplanade of the barracks and circled around it, not stopping until he reached the arid slopes that descend from the Argüelles neighborhood to San Antonio de la Florida. He sat down on the ground and threw down his cloak, for the wine inside and the sun outside were making him more stifled than necessary. “How peacefully I had my lunch today! Not since my days as a boy, when we went out in pursuit of Gómez, have I been as happy as I am now. Then I wasn’t free in body; but in spirit I was, as I am now ; and I didn’t worry about whether there was or wasn’t anything to send to the plaza tomorrow.” This thing about having to go shopping every day is what makes life unbearable… Look, do those cute little birds walking around pecking around worry about what they’ll eat tomorrow? No; that’s why they’re happy; and now I find myself like them, so happy that I ‘d start chirping if I knew how, and I’d fly from here to the Casa de Campo, if I could. Why wouldn’t God, let’s see, make someone a bird instead of a person?… At least if they gave us the choice. Surely no one would choose to be a man, only to have to struggle with jobs and be forced to wear out a top hat, a tie, and all that other junk, which, besides being annoying, costs an arm and a leg… Being a bird is certainly comfortable and cheap. Look at them, look at them so carefree, grabbing whatever they can find and gobbling it up so richly… None of these will be married to a bird named Pura, who doesn’t know how to run a house, nor has ever known how to thrift… When he saw the sparrows ahead of him, about four yards away, approaching in leaps, cautious and bold, to rummage in the ground, the good man took the leftover bread from the luncheon he had stored at the tavern from his pocket and, breaking it up, threw it to the tiny birds. Although the movement of his hands frightened the little animals, they soon returned, and once the bread was discovered, it was clear they fell upon it like wild beasts. Villaamil smiled and puffed up his face watching their voracity, their graceful movements, and those cute little jumps. At the slightest noise, the slightest shadow, or sign of danger, they took flight; But their mad appetite soon brought them back to the same place. “Eat, eat in peace,” the old man said to them mentally, enthralled, motionless, so as not to frighten them… “If Pura had followed your system, we’d be in a different boat. But she doesn’t understand how to adapt to reality. Is there anything more natural than confining oneself within the limits of the possible? There’s nothing but potatoes… well, potatoes… Things are improving, and you can rise to the level of partridge… well, partridge. But no, sir, she’s not content without partridge every day. In this way, we’ve been struggling for thirty years, always trembling; when there was money, eating it in fits and starts as if we were desperately trying to finish it; when not, living off tricks and advances. That’s why, when the job came, we already owed a whole year’s salary. So we were perpetually the same, _we sigh_, and looking up at the stars… Thirty years like this, my God!” And this is what they call living. “Ramón, what are you doing without talking to this or that friend?… Ramón, what are you thinking about? Do you think we are “Chameleons?… Ramón, decide to pawn your watch, the girl needs boots… Ramón, I’m barefoot, and although I can endure this for a few days, I can’t do without gloves, since we have to go to Furranguini’s charity… Ramón, tell the clerk to give you five hundred reales in advance; they’re your days, and we must invite you to so-and-so’s… Ramón…” And that I wasn’t the man to grab my wife and put a gag on that mouth, which a friar must have made for her, so beggarly she is! Careful, I’ll have to put up with this for thirty years!… But now, thank God, I’ve had the courage to throw off my chains and recover my identity. Now I am myself, and no one coughs at me, and at last I’ve learned what I didn’t know: to deny Pura and all her lineage, and to send them all to where Father Padilla went. Unable to repress his enthusiasm and joy, he swatted so hard that the birds flew away. Chapter 43. “Don’t be foolish… no one messes with you. Who do you take me for? Some heartless Minister, who takes bread from the heads of families to give it to some lazy bum? Because you too are heads of families and have children to support. Don’t be scared, and take more crumbs… Believe me, if my wife had been someone else, Ventura’s, for example, I wouldn’t have ended up in this situation… Ventura’s wife , whom mine mocks so much because she calls herself Escuecia cod, is worth a hundred times more than her… With Pura, there’s no money left; not even a Director’s salary. The damned pretense, the rag, the visits, the theater, the frills, and the always-tight nose to feign the dignity of high-ranking people, they ruined us… Don’t be afraid, fools; You can come closer, I still have more crumbs… As for Milagros, you will agree with me that, although she is good and simple, she is still as useless as her sister. How well did he do who jumped into the water! Well, if he hadn’t jumped in and carried her, by now he would have drowned a hundred thousand times over and stayed alive, which is the worst thing that can happen to a Christian… Between those two little sisters, they’ve had me with a noose around my neck for the best part of my life, squeeze and you ‘ll get tight… They won’t say that I’ve behaved badly with them, ever since I got married… Now it happens to me that, when I went to ask Señor Escobios for his daughter’s hand, the esteemed doctor from the Cuarto Montedo must have slapped me so hard that my face turned upside down… Oh, how grateful I would have been to him later on!… Eat, eat in peace, we’re not here to take people’s bread away… Well, I was saying that from the moment I got married until now, I have been the victim of the insubstantiality and misgovernance of those two Tarascas, and they can’t complain that I haven’t been submissive and patient, nor that I abandon them and leave them in the misery, for I have not resolved to regain my freedom except to know that they remain under the protection of Ponce, who is a saint and will keep them safe, since that is why her notary uncle left him all his crumbs. Oh, illustrious Ponce, and what a little owl you get! You’ll see what fine cinnamon is. If you’re not careful, they’ll soon liquidate you… they evaporate you, volatilize you, suck you up. Let them have it. I have fulfilled… I have carried my cross for thirty years; now, let someone else carry it… Young shoulders are needed… and the weight is enormous, friend Ponce. You’ll see… If I’m to be frank, I’ll tell you that my daughter, without being a talent, is worth more than her mother and her aunt; she has some ideas of order and foresight; she’s not so fond of putting down plants… But be careful with her, my friend Ponce, because either I don’t understand anything about the affections and affections of women, or my Abelarda likes you about as much as a toothache. No one can get it out of my head that Victor’s comb had sucked out his brains… But let him marry in good time, and if the ladies Miaus are happy, and learn now what they ignored in my time, I will be very happy and I will even applaud them from there: oh yes, I will applaud them. With these meditations, much longer and more diffuse than they appear in the story, Villaamil’s afternoon passed. Two or three He sometimes changed places, ruthlessly destroying one of the saplings the Town Hall had planted in that wasteland. “The Municipality,” he would say, “is the child of the Provincial Council and the grandson of the filthy State, and one can easily, without a qualm of conscience, harm the whole damned family. Such fathers, such sons. If it were up to me, I wouldn’t leave a single tree or a single lamppost… Let the one who does wrong pay… and then I’d go after the buildings, starting with the Ministry of that filthy branch, until it was razed to the ground, razed to the ground… like the palm of my hand. Then I wouldn’t have a single railroad, a single bridge, a single warship left alive, and I’d even smash the cannons of the fortresses to bits.” He wandered through those backwoods, hat in hand, catching the rays of the sun on his skull, which at dusk heated the ground and everything in it remarkably hot. His cloak was loose, and he felt like throwing it away, but he didn’t because he thought it might be good for the night, even if only for a short while. He stopped at the edge of a large slope that faces the Cuesta de Areneros, above the new pottery works of Moncloa, and looking down the steep slope, he said to himself with the greatest serenity: “This spot seems good to me, because I’ll go down here, somersaulting like a sheep; and then, let them look for me… If some goatherd doesn’t find me… A nice place, and above all, convenient, say what you will.” But then the place must not have seemed so suitable for his reckless attempt, because he went on, went down, and went back up, inspecting the ground, as if he were going to build a house on it. There was not a living soul around. The sparrows were already retreating toward the tile works below or toward the San Bernardino and Florida trees. Suddenly, the saintly man felt like taking a revolver out of his pocket , cocking it, and pointing it at the innocent birds, saying to them: “You scoundrels, you rascals who, after having eaten my bread, pass by without even saying good afternoon, what would you say if I were to put a bullet in your body now?… Because I’m sure I wouldn’t miss one. I have such good aim!… Be thankful I don’t want to run out of bullets; because if I had more cartridges, you’d pay me for them all at once… I really feel like putting an end to everything that lives, as punishment for how badly Humanity, Nature, and God, in his furious exaltation, have behaved towards me… yes, yes: they have behaved filthily, truly… They have all abandoned me, and that is why I have adopted the motto I invented last night, which literally says: _Death… Infamous… To… The… Universe…_.” With this cantata he continued for a good distance, moving away until, already nightfall , he found himself on the heights of San Bernardino that look out over Vallehermoso, and from there he saw the shapeless mass of the Madrid houses with their crest of towers and domes, and the swarm of lights among the blackness of the buildings… The murderous and destructive excitement then calmed, the poor man returned to his topographical studies: “This place is truly first-class… But no; the Tax guards in those boxes would see me , and perhaps… they are so stupid… they would prevent me from doing what I want and must do… Let’s continue towards the Patriarchal cemetery , because there won’t be any importunate person there who will interfere in what doesn’t concern him or her. Because I want the world to see one thing, and that is that I don’t give a damn whether the budgets are balanced or not, and that I laugh at the income tax and the whole indecent Administration. People will understand this when they collect my… remains, and I don’t care if they end up in a dunghill or in the pantheon of the Kings themselves. What matters is the soul, which flies up to what they call… the empyrean, which is up there behind those stars that shine and seem to wink at you, calling you… But it’s not time yet. I want to go to that filthy Madrid and tell the ferryman’s tales to those Indian women _Miaus_ who have made me so unhappy. The hatred for his family, which had already begun in his soul in recent days, and which In that, he took at times flights of insane frenzy or ferocious rage, which erupted formidable, making him clench his fingers, clench his jaw tightly, quicken his pace with his hat thrown back, his cape fallen, in the most bizarre and sinister attitude. It was already dark night. He resolutely headed towards the Count-Duke, passed in front of the barracks, and as he approached the Plaza de las Comendadoras, he walked with cautious step, avoiding being seen, seeking shade and changing direction every moment. After entering the solitary Calle de San Hermenegildo, he returned to the Plaza del Limón, circled around the block of Las Comendadoras, finally venturing to cross Calle de Quiñones and observe the balconies of his house, not without first making sure that Mendizábal and his wife were not in the doorway. Crouching in the corner of the dark, solitary, and silent little square, he looked repeatedly toward his house, wanting to spy if anyone entered or left… Were the Miaus going to the theater that night? Would Ponce and his other friends be coming to the social gathering? In the midst of his confusion, he was able to ground himself in reality, finally considering it as certain and inevitable that, alarmed by her husband’s absence, Pura would set all the family members in motion to search for him. Under cover of the corner, like a thief or murderer lurking for the careless footsteps of a walker, Villaamil craned his neck to keep watch without being seen. Strictly speaking, his body was in the Plaza de las Comendadoras and his head on Quiñones Street; his flaccid neck, endowed with prodigious elasticity, bent at the very corner. “There comes the illustrious Ponce in the picture.” They’ve probably gone to Pantoja’s house, to the café, to all the places I usually frequent… That one arriving, gasping for air, I think is Federico Ruiz. He’s definitely coming from the police station or from the on-call court… He’s probably out to find out… Poor things, what trouble they take! And how much joy I get seeing them so busy, and considering the _Miaus_ so bewildered… You’re going to be bored; and you, Lady Pura de los infiernos, swallow the hemlock now; for I’ve been swallowing it for thirty years without complaining… Ah! Someone’s coming out and coming this way… I think it’s Ponce again. Let’s crouch in this doorway… Yes, he is… watching the critic cross the little plaza of the Comendadoras. Where is he going? Perhaps to Cabrera’s house. I’ll give you work… Is there another fool like that? No, you won’t find me; You won’t catch me, you won’t deprive me of this holy liberty I now enjoy, blessed be! Not even if you turned the whole world upside down will you hunt me down, you fools. What’s the point? Shaking your fist at an invisible being, to make me return to the power of Pura and Milagros, so they can make my life miserable with that constant begging for money, with their misrule , their stupidity, and their presumption? No; I’ve had enough; the cup’s over … If I go on with them, one day I’ll go mad, and with this revolver… with this revolver, taking the handle of the weapon in my pocket and gripping it tightly, I’ll dispatch them all… It’s better if I dispatch myself, emancipating myself and going with God… Ah! Pura, Purita, the torture is over. Sink your claws into another victim. There’s Ponce with fresh money; fatten yourself up on him… then give it all to me… How I’m going to laugh!… Because this Doña Pura is atrocious, dear Ponce, and if she finds herself with clay at hand, the party will be set, and table and clothes and everything has to be of the finest, without considering that tomorrow the damned notebook will be missing… Oh, my God! The least of the artisans, the sad beggar of the streets have made me envious this season; just as now, at ease and free, I won’t change places with the king; no, I won’t; I say it with all my soul. Chapter 44. Out of the portal, and back to the glimpses. “Now the boy from Cuevas comes out, eager and hasty. Where can he go?… Search, son, search, and Doña Pura will repay you with a glass of muscatel… Well, that silly Milagros will be on a limb, because the unhappy woman loves me… It’s only natural; has lived with me so many years and has eaten my bread… And if we’re going to put each thing in its place, Pura also loves me… in her own way, yes. I also loved them very much; but now , I hate both of them. What can I say to both of them? All three of them, because my daughter also annoys me… These are three notes that have settled here in the pit of my stomach, and when I think of them, my blood seems to turn to molten metal, and my brains feel like popping out… Oh, those three _Meows_!… Blessed be whoever gave you that name! No more living with crazy women. What a turn it took on my blessed little daughter! For falling in love with Victor!… Because either I don’t understand it, or that was pure love… What women, good Lord! To fall in love with a rascal because he has a pretty face, without noticing… And that he despises her, there’s no doubt about it… I’m glad… It serves you right. Suck it up, idiot, and come back for more, and marry Ponce… Frankly, if one wouldn’t suppress oneself to avoid poverty, one should do so to avoid seeing these things.” Seeing a light in the study, he became even more enraged: “Tonight, Purita de mis interlinques, there’s no little theater, right? Thank God you’ve got a broken leg. What a pain!… I can already see you deciding where to get the money for the mourning. It’s all the same to me. Get it yourself… from wherever you want. Sell my skin for a drum or my bones for buttons… Magnificent, admirable, delicious!…” As he said this, he saw Mendizábal at the door, and he, unfortunately, saw him too. The old man’s alarm and dismay were great when he noticed the memoirist watching him suspiciously. “That animal recognizes me and is coming after me,” Villaamil thought, slipping close to the wall of the Comendadoras. Before turning the corner, he looked, and, indeed, Mendizábal was following him step by step, like a hunter who walks quietly behind the animal, trying not to frighten it. As soon as he turned the corner, Villaamil, gathering his cloak, began to run as fast as he could in terror, thinking he heard the other man’s footsteps and that a huge arm was reaching out and grabbing him by the scruff of the neck. The unfortunate man had a bad time. Fortunately, there was no one around those parts, because if people were passing by and Mendizábal happened to shout “Go for him!”, the precious freedom of the good dismissed man would have ended at that very moment. He fled with incredible agility, crossing the Plazuela del Limón, past the barracks, fearful that the guard would arrest him, and following Conde Duque Street, he looked back and saw that Mendizábal, although following him, was quite far behind. Without taking a breath, he headed toward the deserted esplanade, and before his pursuer could see him, he hid behind a pile of flagstones. Cautiously poking his head out, hatless, through a gap in his hiding place, he saw the disoriented ape-man, looking right and left, and primarily toward the part of the Paseo de Areneros, where he believed the game had slipped away. “Ah! Sectarian of obscurantism, were you trying to catch me? You won’t look at yourself in that mirror. I know more than you, monster, ugly, uglier than hunger, and more neo-Judas. You know I’ve always been a liberal, and that I’d rather die than endure despotism. Go to hell, you great reactionary, for you won’t chain me… I’ll perish in your absolutism and your Inquisition. Jerk off, you animal, you rotten, and a libertarian, for I am free and liberal and democrat and anarchist and oil man, and I do my most holy will…” Even if he lost sight of the ugly gorilla, he wasn’t entirely sure of himself. Knowing the Herculean strength of his goalkeeper, he knew that if he got his paw on him, he wouldn’t let go with two tugs; and to avoid him , he crouched down, seeking the shade and protection of the ashlars or piles of cobblestones that were scattered here and there. Protected by the dense darkness, he saw the memorialist again, who seemed to be retreating, hopeless of finding him. “Boring, owl, henchman of fanaticism and oppressor of the people… Look at that face, those arms and that body! You don’t walk on all fours by a miracle of God. Go away and look for me, and get in touch with Doña Pura, telling her you saw me… Drone, neo, savage, the devils attack you.” When he believed himself safe, he went back into the streets, always suspicious that Mendizábal was chasing him, and he didn’t take a step without looking from side to side. He thought he saw him coming out of every doorway or crouching in every dark corner, waiting to pounce on him with the leap of a monkey and the courage of a lion. As he turned the corner of the Callejón del Cristo onto the Calle de Amaniel, kick the bucket! Look, Mendizábal talking to some women. Fortunately, the memoirist had his back turned and he couldn’t see him. But Villaamil, seeing himself caught, had a sudden inspiration, and went through the first door he found at hand. He found himself inside a tavern. To justify his abrupt entrance, after the initial moment of shock had passed, he went to the counter and ordered Cariñena. While they were serving him, he observed the crowd: two sergeants, three peasants in short jackets, and four girls in very bad hair. “What beautiful, elegant girls!” he said , looking at them over the top of his glass as he drank. “See how I feel like throwing them a compliment now… I, who since I took Pura to the altar, haven’t said to a single woman, ‘Fuck you!’… But with freedom, it seems I’m refreshed, and my youth is revived… wow… and joys dance through my body… How can a man spend six decades without remembering any woman but his own!… What things!… Come on, I’m also in the mood for another drink… Thirty years of virtue excuse me for throwing half a dozen gray hairs into the air now… To the innkeeper. Give me another drink… Well, I ‘m really liking the girls; and if it weren’t for those lazybones courting them, I’d say something to them that would help them understand what it’s like to mingle with gentlemen and hang around with geese and petty soldiers… I ought to start a conversation, at least to give Mendizábal time to parade… My God, save me from that ultra-montane, factional beast!… Nothing, I like the girls; especially the one with the high bun and the red shawl… She looks at me too, and… Careful, Ramón, these adventures are dangerous. Moderate yourself, and to buy more time, have one more drink. Countryman, another… The group left, and Villaamil, calculating with a quick inspiration, said to himself: “I’ll get in among them, and if the monstrosity is still there, I ‘ll slip away mixed in with these gallants and ladies.” He did so, and went out, confused with the young women, who seemed to him to be proper, and with the soldiers. Mendizábal was no longer on the street; but Don Ramón wasn’t entirely sure of himself, and he followed behind the mob, sticking as close to them as possible, reflecting: “In the worst case, if that orangutan attacks me, it’s likely that these brave soldiers will come out to defend me… You’re doing well, Ramón, don’t fear… No one can take your sacred liberty, daughter of Heaven, from you now.” When he reached the Capuchinas, he saw the merry band disappear down Juan de Dios Street. He heard the laughter of the freewheeling girls, and the oaths and insults of the men. Looking at the group with sadness and envy, he said: “Oh, blessed age of carelessness and what do I care! May God prolong it.” “Do all the nonsense you can think of, young people, and sin all you can, and laugh at the world and its concerns, before the black comes to you and you fall into the horrible slavery of daily bread and social position.” As he said this, all his accessory and incidental ideas vanished, leaving the constitutive idea of his lamentable psychological state to reign supreme and dominate. “It must be late, Ramón. Hurry up and put an end to it. God wills it.” From here he went on to remember Luis, to whom he was so close, for the old man had entered the street of the Reyes. He stopped in front of Cabrera’s house, and looking towards the latter, he uttered these words into the fold of his cloak: “Luisín, my boy, you, the purest and the noblest of the family, worthy son of your mother, whom I will see soon, how are you feeling with those Gentlemen? Do you miss home? Calm down, you’ll get used to them; they’re good people, they’re very tidy, they spend little, they’ll raise you well, they’ll make a man out of you. Don’t be sorry you came. Take my advice, I love you so much, and I even feel like praying to you, because you are a saint in the making and they’re going to canonize you… as if I could see it. Through your innocent mouth, what had already been revealed to me was confirmed… and I, who still doubted, doubted no more from the moment I heard you. Goodbye, heavenly child; your grandfather blesses you… it would be better to tell you that he asks for your blessing, because you are a little saint, and the day you sing mass, you’ll see, you’ll see what joy there is in Heaven… and on earth… Goodbye, I’m in a hurry… Go to sleep, and if you are unfortunate and someone takes your freedom away, do you know what you’re doing? “Well, you get out of here… there are a thousand ways… and you already know where I’m for you… Always yours…” He said this last while walking toward the Plaza de San Marcial with a calm demeanor, like a man returning home without hurry, having completed his duties for the day. He found himself once again in the dumps of the Mountain, in places where there is no public lighting, and the ups and downs of the terrain put him in danger of ending up on the ground before the time was right. Finally, he stopped in the cut of a recent embankment, on whose shifting slope no one could venture without sinking up to their knees, not to mention the danger of rolling to the invisible bottom. As he stopped, a disconsolate thought struck him, the fruit of that habit of expecting the worst and making pessimistic calculations. “Now that I see the end of my slavery and my entry into Eternal Glory approaching, cursed fate is going to play me another dirty trick. It will turn out that by drawing the weapon this cursed instrument will fail… and I will stay alive or half dead, which is the worst that can happen to me, because they will pick me up and take me back to those cursed _Meows_… How unfortunate I am! And what I fear will happen… as if I could see it… All I have to do is desire one thing, for the opposite to happen… Do I want to destroy myself? Well, damn luck will arrange it so that I continue living. But the logical procedure that had given him such good results in his life, that system of imagining the reverse of a desire so that the desire would be realized, inspired him with these thoughts: “I will imagine that I am going to miss the syringed shot, and if I imagine it correctly, with sustained stubbornness of the mind, the shot will come out… Always the opposite! So at that… I imagine that I am not going to stay dead, and that they will take me home … Jesus! Once again, Pura and Milagros, and my daughter, with her foot-dragging from bank to bank, and that misery, that constant begging… and back to pretending, to pestering her friends… As if I could see it: this filthy revolver is good for nothing. Did that indecent gunsmith on Alcalá Street deceive me?… Let’s try it, let’s see… but in fact I’m staying alive… only… for whatever might happen, I commend myself to God and to Saint Luisito Cadalso, my beloved saint… and… Nothing, nothing, this gossip is worthless… Shall we bet that the shot misses? Oh! Unfriendly _Meows_, how you’re going to laugh at me!… Now, now… I bet it doesn’t work? The shot resounded in the solitude of that abandoned and gloomy place; Villaamil, taking a terrible leap, sank his head into the shifting earth and rolled dry into the abyss, his consciousness lasting no longer than long enough for him to say: “Well… yes…” Upon concluding Miau, the reader is left with the feeling of having witnessed a story full of human nuances, where the characters not only face their own demons, but also a world that seems not to understand them. Galdós’s work stands as a profound reflection on human emotions, inner struggles , and the inevitability of destiny. An ending that invites reflection on the human condition and its complexities.
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