💥 El Sabor de la Venganza 🔥 Una historia de pasiones y destinos

💣 ¡Descubre una obra cargada de emoción, intensidad y crítica social! “El Sabor de la Venganza” de Pío Baroja es un relato apasionante que nos adentra en los rincones más oscuros del alma humana, donde la sed de justicia se confunde con el deseo de revancha. 📚

En esta narración, Baroja despliega su característico estilo directo y filosófico para mostrarnos cómo la venganza puede transformar a los hombres, guiándolos por caminos impredecibles y a menudo autodestructivos. Ambientada en una España convulsa, la historia nos sumerge en conflictos personales, luchas sociales y dilemas éticos que siguen resonando en nuestra época.

🔍 ¿Qué encontrarán en esta historia?
– Personajes intensos y psicológicamente complejos
– Un retrato profundo de las pasiones humanas
– Crítica a las estructuras sociales y morales
– El inconfundible estilo narrativo de Baroja

🎧 Disfruta de esta lectura en voz alta, perfecta para acompañarte en cualquier momento del día. ¡Sumérgete en el universo literario de uno de los grandes autores de la Generación del 98!

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📚 ¡La venganza tiene un sabor único… y aquí lo descubrirás!
-💥 El Sabor de la Venganza 🔥 Una historia de pasiones y destinos[https://youtu.be/vMSthbR0czw]

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Welcome to Now for Stories. Today we present a fascinating work by Pío Baroja: The Taste of Revenge. In this story filled with human tensions, deep passions, and moral conflicts, Baroja immerses us in a story where the impulses of the soul and social circumstances intertwine to lead the reader along the paths of justice, resentment, and redemption. Prepare to enter a world marked by the emotional intensity and social criticism characteristic of one of the great authors of Spanish literature. Chapter 1. THE SQUID. Above my head, listen! Hear the prolonged and frantic cries of those whose body and soul are equally captive. LORD BYRON: _The Lamentation of Taso_. DENOUNCED by Francisco Civat and imprisoned by Inspector Luna— Aviraneta began—I entered the Corte Prison on July 24, 1834 . Martínez de la Rosa, who considered me a dangerous man, took precautions to prevent my escape. Upon my arrival in prison, the warden, a key-keeper, and other jailers considered liberal and belonging to the Urban Militia were dismissed and replaced by former royalist volunteers. The Granada poet was not stupid, and he understood that there was nothing better to guard a liberal conspirator than absolutist jailers. Shortly after entering prison, my trial began in the court of Lieutenant Mayor Don Pedro Balsera. Martínez de la Rosa chose a certain Regio, a fiercely absolutist, as judge for the case and warned him that he was hearing a case for high treason. He appointed Don Laureano de Jado as prosecutor, a former French supporter from the time of King Joseph, later a protégé of Calomarde, and finally a friend of Rosita the pastry chef. Don Laureano was a very dapper young man. He was outraged with me because among the papers the police seized from me were two circulars, one of which stated that the Royal Statute was made up of an amalgam of pro-French followers, ring-members, and deserters from Carlism, and the other of which recommended the imprisonment and mass exile of the great Consistory of renegade abbots formed by Hermosilla, Lista, Miñano, and their friends, who were in cahoots with Louis Philippe to prevent any attempt at liberalism in Spain. Don Laureano, who had served on the Military Commission of Madrid during the time of the terror of Calomarde and Chaperón, thought our severity toward the Junta of pro-French abbots was excessive, as they, boasting of their culture, always had to influence in favor of routine and absolutism. As clerk for the case, they chose Don Juan José García, a former royalist sergeant, who a few years later served as secretary of the factional Junta of Morella. Thus, a liberal like myself, imprisoned by a liberal government, was watched by furious absolutists. Upon entering prison, it was said that I had swallowed the list of those involved in the Isabelina, an absurdity, because a list of two thousand names is impossible to swallow, no matter how strong your stomach is. I fought with the judge and the prosecutor and confused them with contradictory statements. I acted like a squid, muddying the waters to escape. The Isabelina appeared as a secret society, in which Infanta Luisa Carlota, Infante Don Francisco, Palafox, and the Count of Parcent were members, as it was a project that had never gone beyond a cherished utopia in my imagination. Among other things, I told the judge that I had stored extremely important documents, and that if I died in prison, these documents would be published in Paris immediately after my death. The threat yielded significant results. The judge told me: “Prove your assertions, present those documents.” “I will not present any document if they do not release me. ” “What fear could you have?” “Fear that they will take away my documents so they can crush me with impunity. I also told the judge, in confidence, that the Infante Don Francisco and his wife intended to have María Cristina and her daughters expelled. They would then remain as Regent of Spain. That they were later planning to elevate Infante Don Francisco to the throne, and that coins had been minted with this legend: “Francisco I, King by the grace of God and the Constitution.” “The princes themselves, surely, had told you these plans ?” the judge asked me sarcastically. “Yes. ” “Have you spoken to them? ” “Yes, sir. ” “Bah! ” “You wouldn’t believe it! The former minister Don Javier de Burgos and Police Inspector Luna found me in the antechamber of the Palace the first time I went to see the princes, summoned by them. Ask Burgos and Luna: you’ll be able to verify it. The judge didn’t know which card to play. I gave him a mixture of lies and truth, and he couldn’t separate them. Indignant, the man called me evil and miserable in one of his writings and said publicly that I accused Infante Don Francisco and Palafox. These declarations of mine, which became known in the Palace, earned me the hatred of the Infanta Luisa Carlota and her husband, and later the friendship of María Cristina, because the two sisters came to hate each other to such an extent that the friends of one were, for this very reason, enemies of the other. General Palafox must have found himself in a difficult position; he claimed he had no relationship with Isabelina and that he didn’t know me, although on the other hand he believed me to be a person of honor and incapable of imposture. He said my revolutionary plan was a fantasy and asserted that Captain Civat was a Carlist agent who had deceived me, without mentioning that he had been the first to be deceived. That same day, Palafox sent his nephew to my sister’s house with the task of telling her that he would use his high-ranking influence to get me out of prison as soon as possible. Palafox was ordered to remain in a barracks, and then, with the benevolence always shown to the powerful, he was detained in his own home, in communication with his family and friends. Later, when it became known that I wasn’t accusing anyone, but rather affirming that I was the only conspirator in the Isabelina, and that, therefore, there was no conspiracy, those who had been afraid of being implicated calmed down. The Count of las Navas, in the Cortes, questioned the government about Palafox’s imprisonment; and Martínez de la Rosa replied, implying that he knew everything. At the same time as me, several other individuals who were part of the Isabelina were arrested: Nogueras, Beraza, Calvo de Rozas, Olavarría, Romero Alpuente, Espronceda, García Villalta. All of them were sent to the Corte Prison. Many arrests were also made in the provinces. After two or three weeks, there were only Beraza, Romero Alpuente, and me left there. I don’t know how Beraza managed to get out early. Espronceda and García Villalta, despite their Byronic display, sang the palinode in a humble manner, and they were released from prison and exiled to Badajoz. I stayed with the worst companion, Romero Alpuente, a decrepit and spiritless old man. Romero Alpuente complained of the loneliness, the sadness, the lack of cleanliness, and the parasites in the prison; later, when cholera invaded the prison, the poor man spent his life in bed writing memorials to the Queen. Chapter 2. ALONE. Misfortune to the lonely man. ECCLESIASTES. Little by little, all those involved in that then -famous case were freed. I remained alone in prison, closely guarded for months and months, until I was able to escape, thanks to a pronouncement. No one was seriously punished, and the informant of the Isabelina, Don Francisco Civat, was shortly afterward granted by the ministry, against the opinion of the minister, Moscoso de Altamira, the position of inspector of the Barcelona customs house. He enjoyed this position for a short time, because during the first revolutionary movement there, he had to go into hiding and flee to France, where he sided with Don Carlos. After many statements by me, the prosecutor, Don Laureano de Jado, He declared all those accused innocent and considered me the only guilty party. While the trial lasted, the worry over what I would have to say and answer kept my spirit tense; afterward, I spent a period bored and desperate. My case began to be forgotten. From time to time, people talked about me in the newspapers. Don Fermín Caballero, who wasn’t my type and who had a certain anger toward those of us who felt capable of risking our lives in a conspiracy like the one hatched in July, said that the Isabelina was a society made up of scoundrels and people of thunder, whose only mission was to stir up trouble. When he mentioned me in the _Eco del Comercio_, he called me the reckless Aviraneta. Reckless! Of course, because I had put my skin on the line and he never had. There are democrats—and as he said this, Don Eugenio smiled with a certain disdain—who believe that the world can make heroes and adventurers disappear over time. This idea strikes me as false and ridiculous. There will always be an imbalance between reality and utopia that allows for adventure for anyone with an adventurer at heart. Besides, is it desirable for all effort, improvisation, and energy to disappear? I don’t see why the ideal of life should be to achieve a mechanized and orderly existence like a commercial office. I don’t believe this can be achieved. When have admirable things been done without effort and heroism? Will they ever be done? I don’t think so. No matter how much they want to close down and fence off the social premises, there will always be gaps for escape; no matter how many governments decree that men should be good, quiet pigs whose ideal is to weigh many arrobas, there will always be wild boars among them. During this time of cholera, the Cristino party suffered its first setback when it became public that the Queen had been involved with Muñoz and had had a child. All of Madrid must have been commenting on the case with relish, and the news reached even the prison. There was talk of the trysts at the Granja de Quitapesares between María Cristina and the bodyguard; there was talk of Aunt Eusebia, of the tobacconist from Tarancón, of the girl Gertrudis Magna Victoria, who, according to gossip, could, in time, place the lilies of the Bourbons on her coat of arms next to the Muñoces’ tobacco packets. It was said that while María Cristina was hunting with the Court in Pardo, the Queen said to Muñoz, upon seeing a game fly: “For you, Muñoz”; and that he replied: “No; for you, Cristina.” It was also said that the Cabinet had met to discuss the question of the Queen’s love affairs, and there was joking discussion about the advice of each party. It was said that the most prominent members of the moderate party agreed in advising moderation to that ardent and fiery Italian. Martínez de la Rosa said that Zarco del Valle, as a gallant soldier, was the most suitable to carry out this moderate undertaking successfully and delicately; Toreno asserted that Garelly was the most insinuating and Jesuitical, and Garelly objected that the most suitable of all was the Duke of Rivas, since he could give the observation an air of poetry and lyricism. Chapter 3. THE PRISON. There are the happy and the sad; there are men dying; there are men born; there are men praying; beside a brick partition are men cursing, and around them all is the immense and empty night. CARLYLE: _Sartor Resartus_. THE Court Prison of Madrid consisted, in part, of that building in the Plaza de Santa Cruz, which later became the Ministry of Overseas Territories, and, in part, of another, attached to it, which was formerly the hostelry of the Fathers of El Salvador. The Corte Prison, with its two sections, formed a long , narrow parallelogram. The short sides were composed of: one, the facade of Santa Cruz Square, where there was a fountain at the time, the Orpheus Fountain, and the other, several shacks facing Concepción Street. Jerónima. Along the long sides ran, almost parallel, Calle del Salvador and Calle de Santo Tomás. One part was used as a women’s prison, and many of the women had their small children with them. It was very difficult to clearly grasp the topography of the prison, because the entire building was divided by partitions that formed corners and corridors, and in those recesses one quickly became disoriented. The prison was far more people than could comfortably fit ; there was a lack of light and ventilation, and, especially in the summer, it was difficult to breathe because of the foul smell. When the magistrates of the Court entered, they would often burn incense and aromatic plants. The poor suffered horribly; many had no clothes or blankets, and slept on the stone floor in the middle of winter. The wardens often leased the various services to small-scale industrialists, who exploited the prisoners miserably. On Holy Thursday, the prisoners would appear over the bars overlooking the Plaza de Santa Cruz and beg for alms from passersby, whining and rattling their chains. On Sundays and holidays, the thieves would show off in the prison courtyards and get into the swing of things. There was singing, guitar playing, and sometimes fights, in which knives and rapiers were brandished. The prison employees were: a warden, a chaplain, three doormen, six solicitors, a solicitor, a key-keeper, a clerk, a nurse, a cook, a steward, a doctor, and a surgeon. Rooms cost: first-class seven reales a day; second-class four; and third-class two. The political section was cleaner and more well-kept than the rest. I had a fairly average room, with a table, a bed, and an armchair. At the foot of the bed, I placed four small containers filled with water to keep bedbugs from climbing in, because there was no way to exterminate these intruders. At first, they didn’t want to let me have books, paper, or ink; but later, they did. In the first few days of prison, the warden watched me in a disturbing manner; he wouldn’t allow me to speak to anyone without him there. He treated me with great consideration and told me I was merely doing his duty. Don Paco, the warden, was one of the biggest scoundrels in Spain: he robbed the prisoners and exploited them in a wicked manner. Of course, he did it all with great finesse: you never heard him utter an insult or a profane word. Don Paco had been a lay brother in a convent and a drummer in a royalist band. This Don Paco was, at the time, a man of about forty, very tall, very bent, very thin, a real specter. He had an aquiline nose, very white teeth, very black eyes of a strange expression; dark skin, and hair, as the romantic writers said, the color of a crow’s wing. He was always very neat, very clean-shaven, and had the habit of rubbing his hands together, making a noise like rubbing bones. His smiling vigilance exasperated me. At first, enraged at being so closely watched, I began to stay in my cell when I found myself alone. With that sedentary life and the dampness of the room, my rheumatic pains worsened , and I had to stay in bed. The doctor visited me and said that it was essential for me to exercise, otherwise my illness would worsen. This medical prescription forced me to go out into the courtyard frequently, to walk around and around, and to meet the detainees. Most of the political prisoners in the Corte Prison were furious royalists; there were also some liberals suspected of having taken part in the massacre of the friars. The royalists were almost all from outside Madrid: priests, friars, lawyers, guerrillas from La Mancha brought to court to testify in conspiracy trials. The political section was overflowing, and its personnel were the strangest and most heterogeneous: there were everyone from Carbonari to rabid absolutists; from apostles to assassins. Because the imprisoned Carlists were people of greater stature than the liberals, and because they had the decisive protection of the warden and the leading figures, The guards, the absolutists, enjoyed preeminence and advantages in the Court Prison that the rest of us did not. The Carlist lawyer Selva and some of his friar friends held the upper hand there, directing and ruling not only in the courtyard of politicians, but also in that of those detained for common crimes. There was a division similar to that of the politicians, and there was a liberal group and a Carlist group, with their passions, hatreds, intolerance, and fanaticism. A few Valencian Carlists, led by a muleteer called Roch and a matador from Crevillente, nicknamed Tate, entered the second courtyard at the instigation of the friars and Selva, with the consent of the warden, Don Paco, and dedicated themselves to making proselytes. My two assistants in prison were Román, the son of the secondhand bookseller on Calle de la Paz, and Gasparito, a cobbler and a man of very good sense. Besides these two, I had as companions and coreligionists Mingo and Señor Bruno, who were bricklayers; Mulato, who was a veterinarian; and Sanguijelero, who worked in this profession along with that of a bleeder and herbalist. All of these had been arrested during the massacre of friars for stirring up the people. Among the imprisoned Carlists, the majority were peasants and, in general, looked good. There was a great difference between the Carlists, almost all from the countryside, and the Madrid revolutionaries. The former were better fellows, stronger, more noble, more courageous; they gave an impression of greater energy. “Today the best of the people are Carlist,” I thought, “but in fifty years it won’t be the same. There was also a great difference between the political prisoners and the thieves. Only at first glance, by their appearance, could one distinguish one from the other; the politicians had a more withdrawn, more self-absorbed air; the others boasted of the bravado and cynicism that characterize professional criminals. Since we liberals were in the minority, I thought it would be a good idea to frequent the common-law prisoners’ yard to recruit followers. One day in the jail, I met the notorious thief Candelas, whom I knew and had used as an agent for the Isabelina. We both recognized that we were in a dead end. Candelas harbored hopes of escape. He proposed an escape plan to me, but I wasn’t up to it. The warden, who saw Candelas and I chatting, didn’t suspect we might have met beforehand; Candelas told me to go to Francisco Villena Paco el Sastre, since he was a friend of his and a man of means. and, indeed, I met with him and got him to scheme in the common-crime prisoners’ yard to prevent the absolutists from taking control of the jail. Shortly after, Candelas was transferred to another prison. Chapter 4. FATHER ANSELMO. Happy is he who has never seen any river but that of his homeland, and sleeps, an old man, in the shade where the little one played. ALBERTO LISTA: _Among the peaks of the Alps_. Among the clerics and friars who were in jail was an old, deaf village priest in a worn cassock, who was called Don Anselmo Adelantado. At first, when I met him, I distrusted him; he would approach me, greet me, and pester me with questions. I thought: this guy is a spy, a swindler. And, naturally, with that idea in mind, I gave him false information. Then I began to suspect that Father Anselmo was a simpleton, a poor man in spirit; His fellow prisoners and fellow believers always ignored him. When I became more intimate with him, I became convinced that Father Anselmo was one of those angelic-spirited men who go through life unaware of humanity’s misery. Father Anselmo was a man without any malice, and yet, he believed himself to be very malicious. He took everything he was told literally. He was from a town near Molina de Aragón. His story could be told in a few words. He had been made a priest, He had been appointed parish priest of a village, and he had lived there for forty years, first with a sister and then with a niece. At the beginning of the war, the Carlists had told him that it was essential that he favor them and take their side; and since he was convinced that the liberals had a pact with the devil and that Queen Christina was a Freemason, he had offered his support. Then they had denounced him and brought him to Madrid, to the Court Prison. Father Adelantado was a man of over sixty, with a coarse, earthy face; a large mouth, eyebrows like white paintbrushes drooping over his eyes; and square, strong hands. He had a somewhat coarse way of speaking, somewhere between Castilian and Aragonese. In prison, he wore a worn, fly-wing-colored cassock and a cape. He had a new cassock and a cloak, which he kept in his suitcase, which seemed to him the height of luxury. Father Anselmo’s observations delighted me beyond words. Once there were two women of the angry sort in the parlor waiting for someone. “Poor girls!” said Father Anselmo. “They’ve come to see their parents, or perhaps their boyfriends. ” “Yes, surely. ” Whenever I heard him say one of these things, I would make a gesture to keep from laughing, and he laughed too, because he said that, although a priest, he was very malicious. Father Anselmo liked to smoke, and I gave him cigars; but he didn’t want them. “A little cigar, fine; but nothing more. That would be a vice.” One day, after much hesitation, he said to me: “Don Eugenio. ” “What? ” “They’ve told me something very serious. ” “What did they tell you? ” “That you’re a liberal. ” “Ah! But you didn’t know that? ” “No. So you’re a liberal! Hail Mary! And I thought you were a good person!” –And I am. –But, well, tell me the truth. Have you made a pact with the Devil? –No, no; you can believe me, Father Anselmo: I haven’t made a pact with him. –Ah, come on! So you’re still a Christian. –Yes, yes. –Because there are others, you know, who go to Masonic lodges, and there I believe they do terrible things. Hail Mary Most Pure! Father Anselmo entertained me with his candid and innocent conversation. He often spoke to me about the countryside, about what they would be doing in their village at that time. His chatter had a village flavor that I loved. There is certainly no place where memories of the countryside have more value, or more charm, than in prison; so I listened to the old priest, extremely entertained. Chapter 5. STRUGGLES. They have two mothers, both stepmothers: ignorance and misery. VICTOR HUGO: _Les Misérables_. The Court Jail had three courtyards, which served as a walkway for prisoners. The first was located within the current building and surrounded by offices and rooms for us politicians; the second was between the two sections of the building, the one that remains and the demolished one, and faced Concepción Jerónima Street. On either side of this were vaulted pavilions, horribly dirty and sinister. One of them was called the Grillera (the Grill). Thieves were often locked up there, and young boys and children were placed in a kind of cage every night, a cage called the Gallinería (the Chicken Coop). From this central courtyard, one passed through another, small and deep courtyard, which faced Concepción Jerónima Street and had been the former cemetery of the Padres del Salvador (the Fathers of El Salvador). Intersecting the building was a narrow alley, the Alley of the Executioner, through which the executioner of justice entered when he had to accompany a prisoner to the gallows. Towards the Concepción Jerónima there were irregular, dark cells, which were designated for major criminals and murderers, and further back, a small chapel for those condemned to death, where they were kept for three days. The prisoners in the second courtyard lived horribly: many did not have enough food; if they had any money they could resort to a cantina, where everything was very expensive; otherwise, they would go without food. A prisoner died of hunger in a cell. That cell was called the Oblivion Cell. It was the third famous cell in the prison; there were two others that had names: the Thirst Cell and the Dragon Cell. When I visited the second courtyard, in the Oblivion Cell there was a vagrant idiot who had to be transferred to the hospital. This idiot shouted and sang and made the prisoners laugh, and they considered him a happy man. Bold criminals got what they wanted there: they ate well, drank, had weapons, and were visited by the women from the other department. Paco the Tailor, whom, as I said, Candelas had recommended to me, introduced me to two petty thieves whom he demanded obey me as their boss. One of these was Gacetilla, a boy they called that because he knew everything that was happening inside and outside the prison, and the other, Mambrú, a gymnast who walked on his hands and performed somersaults . Thanks to these boys, I was able to communicate freely with my friends on the outside. One of their methods was singing. A prisoner would sing a verse, in which he secretly said what he wanted, and the next day a blind man with a guitar would stand at the Concepción Jerónima, and the song he sang would convey the answer. With Paco el Sastre, I began to organize a campaign against the warden and the Carlist jailers. The prisoners in the second courtyard were also divided into liberals and Carlists; but here the forces were evenly balanced. Among those bandits and swindlers, the influence of a lieutenant of Candelas, Paco el Sastre, was decisive. I helped those who joined the liberal camp as much as I could. Due to the division between Carlists and Liberals , constant brawls broke out. One day, there was a huge fight in the second courtyard between a bandit known as El Raspa, who had been prosecuted for the massacre of the friars, and a Carlist guerrilla, El Ausell. They challenged each other: El Raspa threw a knife at him and cut his face, while the other slashed him in the chest, leaving him half dead. I compiled a list of the Liberal, Carlist, and indefinite prisoners , and as a preface to the list, I made a brief study of the psychology of the types from the perspective of their greater or lesser value in a conspiracy. Aviraneta confessed to me that at one time, more or less jokingly, he thought of compiling a manual for the perfect conspirator. Chapter 6. THE SECOND COURTYARD. In the prison courtyard, written in charcoal: “Here, the good become bad, and the bad become worse.” JAILER. I am not exactly a sentimentalist, nor a poet of delicacy or tenderness, and yet the prospect of the second courtyard, the first time I entered it, had a terrible effect on me. It was a square with high walls and packed with people. That courtyard had something of a small square, a gambling house, a mental asylum, a forum, a bullring, and a hospital about it. All gatherings of solitary men are undoubtedly unhealthy, repugnant; they smell of the bilge, whether they be prisons, barracks, seminaries, or convents; but the prison is the ultimate sewer. There, human garbage, the detritus of society, gathers. What is not rotten soon rots, and the infection poisons the atmosphere with its miasma. The prison is like the negative image of moral life. There, baseness, ugliness, wickedness, hatred—everything most horrendously human—is revealed in vivid detail. It is a swamp in constant fermentation that exhales fetid vapors enough to poison the entire atmosphere. Prison is the university of the perverse. Nature sometimes amuses itself by creating monsters out of the physical or the moral. Physical monsters roam the world; moral monsters tend to gather in prison. Here they are completed, complicated, and made more perfect in their monstrosity. In the Court Prison, at that time, there were all kinds of people: politicians, Murderers, snobs, elegant and well-dressed young men, bearded and sick old men, naked madmen uttering horrible wails, desperate brawlers who spent their lives amidst shouts and blasphemies. There, theft, murder, fraud, madness, cynicism, illness, misery, bullying, and sodomy joined hands and danced a terrible macabre dance. This fermentation of prison, which destroys the noble sentiments of man, not only does not end, but leaves selfishness, the instinct to live, more agile than ever. Nothing resembles a chicken coop, a menagerie, a virgin forest, a forest of ferocious beasts, more than a jail. The prisoner lives there like a red Indian, always on the lookout, ready to destroy his neighbor by force, malice , or deceit. The characteristic of prison is this: there is no mercy. The brave there die or win, the timid succumb; for the wretched, energyless one , all miseries, all horrors, all coarse mystifications are present. The strong command and boast; the coward flatters and debases himself. There, one must not entertain illusions. One must abandon all hope; there are only looks of hatred, rage, despair, or contempt. He who fears falling knows that if he falls, everyone will pass over him; that is why he must tread firmly and not slip. In a prison, one can be nothing but a saint, a wretch, or a misanthrope. To live in a prison is to become forever an enemy of man. At first, upon entering the second courtyard, one thought one could notice that everyone imprisoned there was in a great joy: they were singing, playing, shouting; soon one could see that the joy was fictitious and that beneath it throbbed a dull irritation. Another thing was noticeable: no one was independent; There, no one could stray from the common action. Already, the language was special for prison, a mixture of slang and caló. George Borrow, the English writer, explained to me several times how slang and caló are not the same, since slang is a figurative language, like French slang , while caló is a language. In addition to the commonality of language, there was a commonality of action in prison . When eating, people had to divide up into groups; when cleaning the courtyard, some did; others didn’t; when playing, some were allowed to play; others could be no more than spectators, and still others not even that; sleeping also had its categories. There was a discipline whose leadership was auctioned off at every step, and it was given to the boldest and bravest. When I entered the second courtyard for the first time, I was accompanied by Román and Father Anselmo. They addressed the latter with the most ignoble jokes: “Listen, Father, you have to give me the model for that little cassock.” “The cassock is old,” replied Father Anselmo, “but those of us who aren’t rich can’t wear better ones. ” “Well said,” I stated. “Listen, priest,” asked another of the prisoners, “how many children do you have in town? ” “I don’t have children, because I’m a priest,” he replied, “but I consider all my parishioners as if they were my own. ” The poor man answered several times promptly and with grace, and came to earn respect. Chapter 7. THE BULLIES. Calamorra was found there, on the verge of killing seven, a brave accountant, a brave man of relations. QUEVEDO: _Romances_. The bullies of the second courtyard were Paco the Tailor, Fortuna, Mandita, and Manchado, who shared power with two forgers called the Pinturas, and with a gentleman of industry, Mr. Pérez de Bustamante. Paco the Tailor, Candelas’s friend and accomplice, had escaped several times from various prisons, which gave him great prestige. Fortuna, a gambling house handsome man, boastful and daring, was imprisoned for a murder. Mandita was a thief, a fine fellow with a long nose, clear and intelligent eyes, very thin lips, a sharp face, a sparse mustache, and an iron fist. Mandita cracked walnuts with his fingers. The Spotted Man was a man with a hard, earthy face, prominent cheekbones, a large, strong jaw, crooked eyes, and a mouth as straight as a cut. The Spotted Man looked like a Kalmyk and was fiercely aggressive. During the massacre of the friars, he had exhibited himself, covered in blood, in Balseiro’s tavern and had tried to sell church ornaments. He had been wounded ever since and wore a dirty bandage on his forehead. Fortuna feared the Spotted Man. Fortuna had become a bully through intelligence, through understanding the cowardice of others; the Spotted Man did not; he didn’t reason; he felt like a brute naturally, without complications or reasoning. The Pinturas, father and son, had a lot of influence. The Pinturas were forgers. The father, a bald, gentle, and mocking old man, had the air of a cold, intelligent man: his eyes were sharp and perceptive, his forehead broad and bare, his mouth very closed and thin-lipped. The young Pinturas resembled a spider: tall, thin, smiling, with a face like a puppet and a voice like that. He was very mocking and humorously satirized everyone. He always had paper and pen at his disposal and served as a memoirist for the prisoners. He wrote letters to them in any handwriting they desired. Within a couple of minutes of studying a handwriting, he would adopt it as his own and continue writing in it. The young Pinturas liked to read a lot; he made toys with wire and cardboard, which he managed to sell on the streets, and when he had nothing to do, he performed sleight of hand. According to what was said, he had forged deeds, contracts, and wills and continued working in prison. As for Mr. Pérez de Bustamante, he was a gentleman of industry, a charlatan, a liar, who wanted to pass himself off as an aristocrat. This man had lived during the first months of the war by making subscriptions for widows of officers killed in the campaign, and when the liberal side exploded, he switched to farming the Carlist fields. Pérez de Bustamante was a bold and determined man. Another curious figure was Doña Paquita, the prison guard, an ambiguous young man who made womanly gestures. This young man had a pert nose with widely opened nostrils, a blue beard from his clean shave, and an effeminate manner of speaking. Some of the prisoners had achieved a certain independence and earned the respect of the group that charged the lowest price. One of them was a surveyor, known as Mangas, who was affiliated with the liberal group. Mangas had a greyhound face, a long nose, a puddled mouth, small, light eyes, and blond hair. He dressed well; he was Galician, although he claimed not to be. He had been found with some chalices after the July Massacre in a tavern owned by an old woman known as Aunt Matafrailes. Among the common-law prisoners who called themselves Carlists, there were barbaric and criminal people, just as among those who considered themselves liberals. One of the Carlists everyone laughed at was a farmer, Paleto, who had stolen a mule. Paleto had a stiff, stupid face, a large head, and a shrill voice. He was often the butt of everyone’s jokes. Another Carlist who distinguished himself by his hypocritical air was the Seminarian, who had been a student priest and specialized in mystical digressions, in which he mixed a lot of Latin. This scoundrel had been caught several times looting church collection boxes with a whalebone greased with liquor. Shortly after entering the second courtyard, the warden realized I was going there to spread propaganda among the prisoners against the Carlists and against him; he then barred me from entering. I had my means of communication secured. My duel with the warden ended in my victory; after a year, I managed to keep him imprisoned and set me free. A BOY’S DEATH OR A PLAYER’S REVENGE PART ONE BACKGROUND Chapter 8. A SNOWY NIGHT. In the fog and mist, in the deep snow, in the uncultivated forest, at night In winter I hear the hungry howl of the wolf and the somber cry of the owl. GOETHE: _Lied del bohemio_. The day after Don Eugenio told us about his life in the Corte Prison, a heavy snowfall began to fall. More people had come to Uncle Chaparro’s kitchen than the night before, and the shepherds and goatherds were fantasizing about the consequences of the snowfall and the appearance of wolves in the Covaleda Gorge and in the Urbión Mountains. They had seen their footprints in the snow; they had left firewood in the huts, and cheeses and cured meat on the high branches of the pines so that the wolves would not get them. Aviraneta and I were by the fire, sitting in two large armchairs; he was wearing a thick coat and had one of his wife’s shawls draped over his back . We listened to the shepherds’ conversation, heard the dogs barking, and sometimes the owl’s squawk. Suddenly, Aviraneta said to me in a low voice: “Relating this to that time at the Corte Prison I was telling you about last night, I remember a rather sinister story involving a certain Castelo and Policeman Chico. I’ve probably told you about it before, haven’t I? ” “No. ” “I haven’t told you about it? ” “No. ” “Well, that’s strange.” “Tell it to me, Don Eugenio,” said Uncle Chaparro, joining in the conversation. “I’ll send for some coffee with brandy, we’ll put more wood on the fire, and I’ll leave the boys here to listen to you, because tomorrow is Sunday and they might get up a little later than usual.” Aviraneta nodded. He put a large coffeepot on the embers and brought a bottle of liquor. Through the small kitchen window, the snow-covered field could be seen, along with the large snowflakes falling slowly and softly, like thick white down. Aviraneta, who was sitting back in his armchair and looking at the fire with his brilliant blue eyes, collected himself for a moment, took a large cup of very hot coffee that was served to him, looked at his audience with a smile, and began his story thus: Chapter 9. A NEW PRISONER. The awakening that follows a first night in prison is a horrible thing. SILVIO PELLICO: _My prisons_. Readers of serials and serial novels, in which there are often sustained hatreds and long-term revenge, as in _The Count of Monte Cristo_, often debate whether these feelings are logical and true or not. Some affirm that revenge is a natural instinct in man, which endures and is never erased; and others say that everything is forgotten, even the greatest offenses, with the passing of the years. I’ve always been inclined to think that most people eventually lose the memory of wrongs they’ve done and rarely take revenge . The case I’m about to tell you demonstrates a deep and sustained resentment, culminating in cruel revenge. As I said the other night, fifteen or twenty days into prison, I had to stay in bed for a while because my rheumatic pains worsened. Afterward, I was allowed to walk around the prison and enter the second courtyard, where prisoners convicted of common crimes were held. I had been in prison for two months when I met a new prisoner, a strange-looking man. He had just arrived. He was a young, somber, dark-skinned man with long, dark-eyed hair, the style of the time, and a concentrated, strong air. He passed through the first courtyard, guarded by two bailiffs. The three of them went up to an office where the detainees’ identification cards were taken. At the desk, a clerk was writing, a man with curly hair and a hand covered in rings. The bailiffs spoke to him in low voices and handed him some papers, which the clerk read with great indifference. “Now comes Don Paco,” said one of the bailiffs. Don Paco was the warden. Indeed, he arrived, took the papers the bailiff had brought, and read them carefully. The warden interrogated the prisoner with a kind voice and a sweet smile. which, for anyone who knew how the man handled things, was not at all reassuring. “I’m innocent,” said the young man with a dramatic air. “I have no more money than I’ve earned through my work. ” The warden smiled, for he considered it logical and natural that every prisoner of his, and even every person who had anything to do with him, was a complete scoundrel. “If you’ve hidden the money somewhere, I don’t expect you to tell me. We know how to be gentlemen here, too. ” “I affirm that I am innocent,” replied the young man. The warden explained to his new guest the prices of rooms rented in the prison and the differences between the different classes. “Come on, sir,” he said afterward; “allow me to accompany you. You can calm down. ” “I don’t need to calm down. I am calm. ” “I mean,” replied the warden, “that no one here wishes you ill. I am going to take you to your room. ” The young prisoner followed the warden to the end of a corridor; A jailer unlocked a massive door, next to which two porters stood with a sinister-looking staff. They walked down another corridor, came out into the second courtyard, and the warden ordered the door to be opened to a dark, low-ceilinged cubbyhole with a wooden bench. “Here is your room. You can ask home for some blankets to sleep on. If you want, they can bring you a bed, a table, and a chair. ” “Very well,” said the young man; and he sat down on the bench with an air somewhere between determined and desperate. The jailers locked the locks and bolts, and the young man remained there . Chapter 10. MIGUEL ROCAFORTE. Because it is typical of sick people not to last long in a certain state, taking changes as a remedy. SENECA: _Of the Tranquility of the Mind_. The next day, in the company of Father Anselmo, I went to the second courtyard to see what the new prisoner, who had caught my attention, was doing. His appearance and the expression on his face led me to believe in his innocence. We approached him to speak. The boy was disgusted at finding himself among that rabble; but he wasn’t afraid, because he had kicked one of the petty thieves who had tried to rob him, which made the others look at him with a certain respect. This boy was from Lerma, and his name was Miguel Rocaforte. His parents had a good estate; I remembered having known them and having been at their house with El Empecinado. Miguel studied at the Seminary for three years; then he lost his vocation; he wanted to be a soldier, and his father sent him to Madrid to stay with a cousin, the owner of a salt warehouse on Calle de la Misericordia. Miguel had been at court for four years. He was in jail because he was accused of having stolen five thousand duros from a man in a reading room on Carrera de San Jerónimo, which was false, completely false, according to his statement. I asked him to explain the case in detail so I could understand the reason for the error. “I usually go to Don Casimiro Monnier’s bookstore on Carrera de San Jerónimo many Sundays,” he told me. “I’m studying French and English with a language teacher named Brandon, and he suggested that I read newspapers to improve my translation skills . The other afternoon, accompanied by my teacher, I was in the reading room reading newspapers, and suddenly, one of the subscribers complained that his wallet had been stolen from his coat. I went home, and yesterday morning, as I went to the warehouse where I work, they arrested me and brought me here to jail. The case seemed quite strange to me. I asked the young man for clarification ; but he didn’t clarify the facts or protest, and seemed willing to accept his fate with stoic fatalism. Days later, in a long conversation with Miguel, I questioned him again. Didn’t he have any enemies? Any woman or man who wished him ill? The young man was wrapped in darkness; he was poisoned. with the ideas of the time, which were then beginning to be called romantic. Five or six days later, Miguel’s English language professor, a friend of his, appeared in the prison visiting room. He spoke to me: he told me that the boy was a fanatic with absurd ideas, but absolutely incapable of robbing anyone. However, he found something mysterious in the behavior observed by young Rocaforte. Professor Brandon had witnessed the scene in the bookstore. “What happened?” I asked him. “Because he hasn’t told me in detail. ” “Well, the following happened,” said Brandon: “a captain named Sánchez Castelo was in Monnier’s reading room that day, and upon going out into the street, he noticed that his wallet was missing from his coat. The owner of the room, to demonstrate that none of his subscribers were capable of stealing anything from anyone, invited them to allow themselves to be searched; they all accepted the proposal, more or less reluctantly; but Miguel violently refused this search; and placing his hand on his chest, as if to prevent anyone from attempting to identify the inside pocket of his jacket, he said that no one was touching him, and that he would only allow himself to be searched in front of a judge. “Oh! Is that what happened?” That’s why the police ‘s suspicions had taken shape . “Of course. ” “Despite this, do you believe Miguel is innocent?” I asked Brandon. “Yes, yes. Completely innocent. ” “And why do you think he refused to be searched so violently? Out of bravado? To make a stand? ” “What do I know! Maybe Miguel had something in his pocket that he didn’t want his principal to see, some political paper. His principal is an absolutist… ” “I don’t think so. ” “Why? ” “I’ve spoken to Miguel, and he has no political concerns. ” “However… ” “Do you know his principal? ” “No.” “Well, find out if he’s married and if he has a pretty wife. ” “Do you think that’s the key? ” “Yes. ” “It’s possible; I consider Miguel a serious man. “What does that matter?” I was shocked that Miguel’s principal, and a relative, never once visited the prisoner. This made me think that the best harmony must not have reigned between uncle and nephew. Chapter 11. A Tangled Affair. More than once, it is in vain that one follows a crime’s trail, for not asking the judge who she is. BRETÓN DE LOS HERREROS: ” Who is she?” Two or three days later, the Englishman Brandon appeared again at the Court Jail . He had spoken with a fellow countryman of Miguel’s, León Zapata, a hardware store clerk, and the latter had hinted to him that Miguel was having an affair with his principal’s wife. Brandon told me that the reason Miguel had refused to allow himself to be searched could be, as I believed, that he had been carrying, when he was in the reading room, letters that could have put his principal on the trail. “Who is this Zapata?” I asked Brandon. “He’s a conceited fool,” the Englishman replied. “A young man who thinks he’s the center of the world.” A week after this visit, Inspector Luna appeared before me. Luna had taken charge of Miguel’s case, and he wanted me to guide him. He asked me to forget the part he had played in my imprisonment. “I know you’ve done nothing but follow the orders you’ve been given,” I told him. “So you don’t hold a grudge against me? ” “Not at all. ” Luna and I spoke at length about the matter of Miguel Rocaforte, and he gave me more details of what had happened. “A couple of weeks ago,” he said, “Replacement Captain Mauricio Sánchez Castelo presented himself to the police inspector of the Central district, Carlos de San Sernín, and said: “Yesterday, my friend Lieutenant Macías de Aragón, before taking the stagecoach north, left me five thousand duros to keep safe until his return from his trip. I took the wallet with the bills, put it in the pocket of my coat and went to Monnier’s bookstore. There, without Realizing it, I took off my overcoat because it was hot, and placed it on the back of an armchair. When I left the reading room, I put my overcoat back on, and when I put my hand to my breast pocket, I noticed that my wallet was missing. Castelo told the chief of police that he had immediately returned to the reading room; that he had explained what had happened to the owner; that the owner invited his subscribers to allow themselves to be searched, and that a young man had resisted with violent words and gestures. “Who was in the bookstore?” I asked Inspector Luna. “There was a retired cavalry captain, Don Francisco García Chico, who had belonged to the police force. ” “I know him. He was from the Isabelina. You can’t suspect him. ” “There was also an unknown young Catalan, the English professor Brandon, a French commission agent, Miguel Rocaforte, and his principal. San Sernín took reports from everyone. The bookseller, Monnier, gave good reports on Chico and Brandon. I didn’t know the young Catalan; I didn’t know the French broker either; I considered Rocaforte and his boss to be honorable men. A few days later, it was revealed that the Catalan youth is a wealthy and well-behaved young man. So, for now, there are only two possible thieves: the French broker, whose whereabouts are unknown , and Miguel Rocaforte, who aroused suspicion because he absolutely refused to be searched. “But, according to your logic, the French broker should have been above suspicion because he allowed himself to be searched. ” “Yes, but he could have hidden the wallet. ” “And what about Rocaforte? What’s his background? ” “They say there have been bad reports about that youth, that he’s a republican and a Carbonari. ” “Bah! How stupid!” Luna smiled. “For you, a revolutionary, that’s a small thing; for me, a police chief, it’s not. ” “You laugh at that.” “Well, no.” The Englishman Brandon, a friend of yours, is said to be a Saint-Simonian. “Another nonsense. ” “What do you think about this matter, Aviraneta? I’m interested to know. Castelo is a friend of mine, and I owe him some favors. ” “It seems to me,” I told him, “that Rocaforte doesn’t look like a thief. In fact, I’d swear he’s not a thief. ” “And why hasn’t he allowed himself to be searched? ” “I don’t know; but I imagine there’s some woman’s business going on underneath . Miguel was with his principal; his principal has a beautiful wife; Miguel may have written to her; she may have answered him, and he might not have wanted his principal to see the papers he was carrying. ” “It’s a supposition… ” “Logical. ” “True. It’s very possible that’s what it is. I’ll find out. And so, you rather suppose that the French commission agent…? ” “Look, I know Castelo and Macías.” I’ve met them in Tampico and seen them in the company of Paula Mancha and other cheats and gambling den players who were numerous in the army that landed on the coast of Mexico with General Barradas. Both seem capable of all kinds of tricks, and I, as much as the possibility of a robbery, would accept the theory that there was a concoction between the two compadres invented for some purpose unknown to me. ” Luna fell silent. “You’re putting me in a sea of confusion,” he said afterward. ” It’s truly a little strange that a man who has been given five thousand duros for safekeeping, instead of going home and putting them in a drawer, takes them in his coat pocket to a reading room, devotes himself to reading newspapers, and leaves his coat with the money inside on an armchair. Five thousand duros! It’s worth being careful with them, and in these times. ” “All that is very strange, my friend Luna. ” “True; But this fact that young Rocaforte refused to allow himself to be searched in such a violent manner is also strange. “Well, let’s take it one step at a time. Do you know Miguel? ” “Yes. ” “Do you think he’s an intelligent man or a fool? ” “I’m inclined to believe he’s an intelligent man. ” “Do you suppose an intelligent man would do what Miguel is believed to have done in the bookstore?” “I don’t know what you’re referring to.” “Suppose an intelligent person robs another person under the circumstances under which Miguel is thought to have robbed Castelo. The logical thing is for the thief to hide the wallet in a place that isn’t easy to find at first glance, to put it in a folder or a book, or if he keeps it himself, to put it in his hat or belt…; but not in his breast pocket, where everyone carries their money; Miguel is opposed to having his pockets searched, and especially his breast pocket. To me, every time I think about it, it becomes clearer; Miguel is absolutely innocent of that robbery. ” “Instinctively, I also believe so; but it has to be verified. ” “What are you going to do?” “Macías’s brother told me he’s going to visit García Chico and ask him to take action on the matter. Chico was in the bookstore during the alleged robbery; he knows Castelo and must have some idea of what could have happened. ” “Yes,” I said, “that García Chico is a terrible bloodhound. He gave us some admirably accurate reports for the Isabelina. If there’s any mystery, he’ll clear it up, because I believe he knows Castelo and Macías.” A few days later, Luna showed up at the Corte Jail, called me to the visiting room, and said: “Do you know that the mystery has been cleared up? ” “What mystery? ” “That of young Rocaforte. ” “Was there a mystery? ” “Yes, you were right: there was no such robbery. It was a trap by Castelo; he gambled away Macías’s money and lost it, and to be honest, he fabricated the story of the reading cabinet robbery.” “And who discovered the plot? ” “Chico discovered it, and it seems they’re going to make him head of the security patrol. ” Inspector Luna, with Macías’s brother, went to Don Francisco Chico’s house and told him the whole story. “I’ll see if I can find out what’s at the bottom of this matter,” Chico told them. “Come back in three or four days.” As they were leaving Chico’s house, Macías and Luna happened to run into Mauricio Castelo. Castelo, visibly disgruntled, heard the news that they had discussed the matter with Chico, and suddenly told Inspector Luna that everyone in the police force was a scoundrel, in cahoots with thieves, and that they were involved in the robberies being committed in Madrid. Luna, being a prudent man, didn’t reply to Castelo. Apparently, he had reason not to quarrel with him; for the inspector owed the soldier some money and hadn’t been able to pay him. Three days later, Luna went to García Chico’s house. Chico, upon seeing him, smiled a tiger’s smile. “Have you found out anything?” Luna asked him. “I’ve found out everything.” “What happened?” –It turns out that the robbery was simply a simulation. –Hasn’t Macías given that money to Castelo? –Yes, he did; but Castelo lost that money gambling, and part of it he gave to his beloved Paca Dávalos. –But is this proven? –Perfectly proven. Chapter 12. WHAT HAPPENED. Strange thing, the man, and stranger still, the woman! What a turmoil in his head! What a deep and dangerous abyss in his heart! BYRON: _Don Juan_. CHICO told Luna that he had immediately suspected some kind of scam. He knew Castelo well and knew that he was a gambler and a man of few scruples. Chico investigated the main gambling houses and, soon after, found out what had happened. Castelo had gambled very hard in a circle on Carrera de San Jerónimo called the Círculo Universal. Castelo used to frequent this gambling den, always playing only a few coins, four or five duros at most, because he had his paycheck in pawnshop and had only a few scarce resources. Days before the alleged robbery, Castelo showed up at the gambling den with a wallet full of bills, laid the bet, and lost a large sum. He did the same thing three nights in a row, always with bad luck. Chico managed to find out who was playing at the gambling den on the nights Castelo set up the bank, and found out that, among others, there were Commander Las Heras, Lieutenant Zamora, and Captain Soto. He went to see these soldiers, and they gave him all kinds of information. On the first night, Castelo lost two thousand pesetas; on the second, three thousand, and on the third, ten thousand. There were many points on the gambling den this last night. Castelo, who drank while gambling, upon losing his last pesetas, began shouting that he had been cheated and that he had to get his money back. In his desperation, he accused Lieutenant Zamora and Captain Soto of having tricked him and took a pistol from his pocket to threaten them; but Commander Las Heras snatched the pistol from his hand and forced him to go outside. His gambling campaign, where he left the rest of his money, was even more lamentable. Castelo had gone to the gambling den accompanied by Captain Escalante, so that the latter could supervise the gambling den. He had spoken with two of the gambling den’s men, who assured him that everything was done there with the utmost correctness. The gambling den was on Calle de la Fresa and was known around the area as the Sorda’s or Garduña’s tertulia. This tertulia was located on the first floor of a small house, with a narrow, dirty, foul-smelling hallway so full of garbage, especially liquid garbage, that it couldn’t be traversed even on stilts. From this hallway rose a blunderbuss staircase, and on the first landing, two men on guard, muffled in their cloaks, each hiding a club beneath it. A narrow vestibule led through, with a table where the caretaker usually sat. Then, a hallway with a rack full of cloaks, blankets, and scarves, leading into an irregular and grimy room covered in yellow paper, with two gaming tables, each with a green baize, separated by a screen, and oil lamps on the ceiling. A constant mist of tobacco smoke and liquor hung there . Castelo set the pot at five thousand pesetas. Soon there was a lot of money on the table. Despite the fact that most of the players were gamblers, and they were trying to raise the dead and cheat a thousand times, Castelo was winning with crazy luck and was making up for the losses at the San Jerónimo de Carrera circle. The banker had a pile of bills, gold coins, and silver coins in front of him when several men entered, led by a prison escapee known as Sixfingers and a thug nicknamed Tall. These men were muffled up to their eyes, and one of them had a blackened face. Sixfingers pulled a blunderbuss from under the cloak of his cloak, and the others drew their rapier sticks. Sixfingers, banging the blunderbuss on the table, shouted in a terrible voice, “Copo! Let no one touch this money or they will be killed.” Captain Escalante took a pistol from his pocket and shot Sixfingers. Someone hit the lamp with a club, and the room went dark. Chairs were thrown over, the men struggled to seize the money on the table, a terrible uproar of shouts, clubs, and gunfire broke out, and when the police commissioner entered shouting, “Open up in the name of the Queen,” and went into the room to restore order, Castelo saw that he had lost all his money. Chapter 13. THE MATTER IS BOUND DOWN. The more a man is despised, the less restraint his tongue has. SENECA: _Of the Constancy of the Wise_. “Do you mind testifying before witnesses about what you’ve told me?” Luna asked Chico. “None; and Las Heras, Zamora, and Soto will confirm my words. ” “Would you like to go the day after tomorrow at twelve to the police station, where I’m on duty? ” “Yes, sir. ” “Would those gentlemen come? ” “Surely. ” “Well, I’ll summon Castelo and we’ll settle the matter.” On the appointed day, Chico, Macías, Las Heras, Zamora, and Soto arrived. to the police inspector’s office; and Luna invited them into a nearby room. A little later, Castelo appeared. Luna greeted him politely and had him sit in an armchair at his desk. “Let’s see when you’ll pay me that money,” Castelo said sulkily. “I’ll pay you as soon as I can, like I’ve already told you. ” “Fine, but don’t let it be too late. And what about the robbery? ” “I’ve studied the case,” Luna said, “and I think it would be best to put the matter to rest. ” “Well, why? ” “I’m becoming more and more convinced that this young man we’ve taken to jail is completely innocent. ” “Do you know that this young man is innocent?” Castelo replied with a certain sarcasm. “And so are you. ” “So who’s to blame? ” “It’s quite possible that in this case there is no guilty party,” Luna replied. “What do you mean by that?” Castelo exclaimed. “Can there be robbery without there being a thief?” “No; but when there’s no theft, there’s no thief. ” “I knew the police were in cahoots with the thieves,” Castelo retorted furiously, “but I’ve never heard of anything as strange as this. ” “So you still maintain that we’re in cahoots with the thieves? ” “Yes; I maintain it, and I’ll always maintain it. ” “Since you take it that way,” Luna said, “I’m going to show you that you’re completely mistaken. I’ve studied the matter, and I’m convinced that the theft of the five thousand duros from Monnier’s bookstore is a hoax invented by you. That money wasn’t stolen from your overcoat, as you’ve claimed; you gambled that money away in a gambling den on Carrera de San Jerónimo and in a gambling den on Calle de la Fresa. You gave part of it to a woman. ” “That’s a fine story you’ve invented.” “It’s not a story; it’s reality. ” “That would have to be proven.” “I’ll prove it to you whenever you like.” “Bring the evidence.” “Let it be known, Castelo, that I have come in peace. ” “Enough with the words. Evidence, evidence. ” “All right.” Luna stood up, went to the next room, and said: “Please come in, gentlemen. ” Chico, Macías, Las Heras, Zamora, and Soto entered the office. Castelo, upon seeing them, was stunned, turned livid, and began to squirm in his chair and bite his lip. “I’m exposed,” he murmured. ” I see that the presence of these gentlemen is enough to confuse you,” Luna told him. “I have no recourse but to shoot myself,” Castelo exclaimed, with a dramatic tone. “Well, you, no more charades!” Chico told him harshly. “No one here wants you to shoot yourself. Acknowledge the debt, see that they set that young man they’ve imprisoned because of you free, pay Macías, little by little, and you won’t be asked for anything more.” Castelo lowered his tone and, in a somewhat servile manner, asked Luna to forget if he had said anything offensive. Then, on Chico’s advice, they all agreed that Castelo would write a document confessing that he had not been robbed, and that the amount loaned by Macías had been lost in gambling. “Now make out several promissory notes in the name of Macías’s brother, which you will pay when you can.” The matter concluded, Chico took the document signed by Castelo and put it in his pocket. “You have to keep some of it; I’ll keep it.” Castelo bit his lip. Chico, without saying anything else, bowed and left. Castelo then bitterly and sentimentally lamented that friends of his, like Las Heras and Macías, had done to him what they had done. They argued among themselves and all left Inspector Luna’s office. Before leaving, Castelo thanked him and said: “Don’t worry about my debt.” “Man, no; I will do my best to pay you. That same day, Luna wrote to the judge telling him that Captain Castelo had made a mistake and had not been robbed. Despite Miguel Rocaforte’s innocence being recognized, he was slow to emerge from his confinement. One day, the classic phrase used in prison to free prisoners was heard: “Miguel Rocaforte, with whatever you have!” Miguel went out into the street. A friend of Macías, the victim of the robbery, told him what had happened when he returned to Madrid. Castelo met with Macías and explained what had happened, describing it in his own way. Macías, also a gambler, had a streak of good luck at the time and, feeling generous, forgave Castelo’s debt and tore up the promissory notes signed by him in front of him. Chapter 14. CASTELO AND PACA DÁVALOS. What does it matter if she is rich, that she has many bookkeepers, that she wears expensive earrings, that she rides in a wide and expensive chair? Well, with all this, he is an imprudent animal, and if he is not accompanied by a great deal of science and erudition, he is a beast that does not know how to curb his desires. SENECA: _Of the Constancy of the Wise_. At that time, and knowing that there was great hatred between Castelo and Chico, I asked Luna several times what could have happened between the two. Luna explained the reason for the hatred, commenting on the facts, with his good-natured way of speaking and his calm and somewhat cynical philosophy. From what he told me, Chico and Castelo had been great friends throughout their childhood and youth. They went to school together in the town of La Mancha, where they lived, and almost considered each other brothers. Later, the vicissitudes of politics led them both to serve in the same cavalry regiment, one as captain and the other as lieutenant. The closest intimacy had reigned between them then. Both, during the time of the second constitutional era, embraced liberalism and dreamed of becoming popular heroes. Defiled, then accepted into the Army, they were on a conscription basis in 1833. Who would have told them in their youth that, in time, one would end up a miserable gambler, and the other, a police chief hated and despised by the common people! “It’s a sad thing,” said Don Eugenio, “when you think of the murderers and great scoundrels, despised and hated by everyone, to consider that their mothers believed that, in time, their children would be the best, the most good, and would set examples of honesty and virtue. Fortunately, one cannot predict what life will be like. Otherwise, how terrifying it would be for a mother, when she caresses her little boy, to later see him in her imagination stealing, or murdering, or climbing the gallows! The hatred between Chico and Castelo stemmed from a rivalry in love. At the same time, they both met Paca Dávalos, Colonel Luján’s wife, who at the time was one of the most celebrated social gatherings in Madrid. Paca was a charming woman, slender, graceful, with very expressive light eyes. Chico and Castelo courted Paquita, because it was said that the colonel’s wife was not an intractable virtue. Castelo quickly won Dávalos’s heart. He was boisterous, petulant, talkative, and a liar; he had a beautiful voice and sang ballads on the piano. He was seen as a man of great courage, who had had extraordinary adventures; but those who knew him well knew he was a coward. Chico, on the other hand, harsh, harsh, and of few words, was scorned and soon saw his rival’s success. The man was inwardly enraged and swore he would never forget what had happened. I knew Paca Dávalos quite well. Before I went to prison, I was scheming with María Cristina and Muñoz’s friends. I had seen him several times at Celia’s house and in the company of an Italian woman, Anita, who was Castelo’s lover. This Italian woman, who wanted to pass herself off as a descendant of royal blood and who had every imaginable vice, had turned Castelo, who was already a drunkard and gambler, into a perfect scoundrel. Paca Dávalos and Anita were friends of Teresa Valcárcel, the mediator in the Queen’s love affair with Muñoz, and would often meet at Domingo Ronchi’s house with Nicolasito Franco, Teresa’s lover; the cleric Marcos Aniano, a fellow countryman of Muñoz’s; the Marquis of Herrera; and the clerk of the Consulate, Miguel López de Acevedo. At that time, Paca was a very elegant blonde, with the body of an unmarried girl and great conversational grace. Paca Dávalos, who had gained entry to the Palace and gained the Queen’s confidence, intervened in the transfer from Segovia to Paris of Cristina and her lover’s first son, and went to France in the company of the priest Caborreluz. All those who took part in those amorous intrigues of the Palace rose rapidly. Ronchi rose to become a marquis and then a landowner; Teresa Valcárcel became wealthy; young Franco rose from captain to lieutenant colonel. Royal favor bathed Muñoz’s friends like lustral waters; but it didn’t reach Paca, who, restless and discontented, wanted to take the lion’s share, which made her unpopular and ended by closing the entrance to the Palace. Chapter 15. TOWARD THE ABYSS. The abyss calls to the abyss. _Psalms_, by DAVID. Luna later gave me information about Paca’s private life. Paca Dávalos was from the aristocracy. Her father, a spendthrift, stupid man, one of those who lose the worries and decorum of the class to which they belong, and acquire nothing in return, found his house half- ruined and finished ruining it. He boasted of being a descendant of the Marquis of Pescara, the victor of Pavia, Don Fernando de Ávalos; but the latter, descendant of a victor, was never more than a poor defeated man. Paca’s mother was a disturbed woman and always sick. At sixteen, Paca was an extraordinary beauty: she had clear, melancholic, captivating eyes and a provocative, exciting body. There was a contrast between her sweet, human eyes— eyes that would inspire madrigals like those of Gutierre de Cetina—and her feline body, agile as a panther’s. A very flirtatious woman, little cared for by her parents, she had had boyfriends since she was fourteen and liked to harness all the men to her chariot. Among the boyfriends, a captain, Luján, a bit of a brute, assaulted the girl; he later married her, and after five or six months of marriage, Paca had a daughter. Husband and wife moved from garrison to garrison until they settled in Madrid. Luján was a violent, avaricious, ill-tempered man, uneven in temper, bitter, and unpleasant. At every turn, he scandalized his wife; often, with good reason, because of her flirtatious behavior. Other times, for no other reason than her bad mood. Paca endured this life for her daughter, for whom she was blindly enthusiastic. The girl, Estrella, promised to be a great beauty. She was, in addition to being pretty, very kind, very docile; she had a great taste in music and an angelic voice. Paca adored her, and her love for the girl was the only restraint, the only defense of the honesty of her life. Thinking of her, she promised herself to be good so as not to leave a stigma that would be difficult to erase; but, despite her resolutions, she didn’t always keep them. In front of the men who courted her, she forgot everything, and the same thing happened with gauze, silk, theaters, and entertainment. Paca spent excessively and, to hide it from her husband, she cheated, swindled, lied, and, in the end, her affairs were usually discovered. Luján, always grumpy and capricious, at the moment when his wife seemed to be returning to a secluded and homely life, thought that Paca was going to set a deplorable example for Estrella, who was already twelve years old, and to remove her from this influence, without saying anything to her mother, he took the girl to a convent school in Toledo. Paca, desperate, found out where the girl was, and even planned a kidnapping; but one of the nuns at the school, a relative of Colonel Luján, prevented the girl from leaving the house. Dávalos could not bear this separation; she despaired, begged her husband to bring her daughter; he told her no. Paca felt from Then the impression of one sinking into the abyss. A few days later, she abandoned her husband and went to live with Castelo. Luján swore he would take revenge; but he did nothing. Paca and Castelo set up a house and had a period of enthusiasm and love, during which they believed they were regenerating and returning to an orderly and honest life; but they soon grew tired of it. Castelo began to gamble and drink, and she did the same. Naturally, the house went from bad to worse, and they ended up closing it and moving into a boarding house. When times were good, they lived well; but when times were bad, they both threw their respective misery in each other’s faces. “Why did I follow you?” she exclaimed. “I wonder,” he said. “Why did you follow me? To ruin me forever. ” Paca separated from Castelo, had other lovers, and was reconciled with him again. During their second separation, they even came to blows. La Paca then turned to her court friends; but when she saw that the Queen and her friends were blocking the Palace door against her, she became indignant and began to protest against the government. When she drank and became agitated, she would say that the royal family and the entire aristocracy should be hanged. In one of those moments of misery, La Paca met a jewelry dealer, Celestina, whom they called “La Sorda” and “La Garduña.” This woman owned a brothel on Barcelona Street and a gambling den on Strawberry Street. La Garduña lived with a loan shark, Silverio. La Garduña was a fat, well-built woman, dressed in garish colors, with a hard, bulging face, and purple bags under her eyes. This Garduña was very clever in her business dealings and was getting rich very quickly. Silverio, her lover, a shabby and sinister figure with a cloud over one eye and an air of suspicion, was a very religious man, with several jobs and none honorable: bartender, moneylender, ragman, and gambling den owner. La Garduña got along very well with him. La Garduña ended up prostituting La Dávalos; she exploited his unbridled passion for gambling and made him pay off his debts by taking her to brothels. Castelo also continued his march toward the abyss; he could still pass for young, although looking at him closely, the ravages of time were evident on his face; his blond hair was whitening with silver threads, and his drooping lip seemed to be getting flaccid. He had, among other things, the talent for intrigue, and he knew how to disguise his debauchery and give himself a sentimental air. This sensitive pimp was very skillful. Without having been in a battle, he boasted a good service record. He was a coward, and gave the impression of being brave, boastful, insulting, insolent, and extraordinarily audacious. His imagination gave him the airs of a hero, and he convinced people that the dreams of his imagination were real. Castelo possessed a hallucinatory vanity: the fatherless daughter of the world’s attics, as Gracián describes it, completely dominated his spirit; he bitterly criticized all politicians and, above all, the generals, whom he considered so completely inept that he claimed one couldn’t read, the other was incapable of maneuvering fifty men, and so on. He also manifested himself, as a result of his vanity and cowardice, as very spiteful. Castelo and Paca Dávalos, after many quarrels and separations, reached an agreement and partnered with Garduña to establish several gambling dens in Madrid. One of the partners was Doña Anita, the Italian woman who had been Castelo’s lover and who ended up marrying a Frenchman and opening an antique shop. The gambling business was so lucrative that, based on the one that existed on Calle de la Fresa, other gambling houses were established in different parts of Madrid. Paca and Castelo were used by the partners as decorative elements. Paca Dávalos, despite being a businesswoman, was an inveterate gambler. The emotions of gambling erased her memories. When she was sad and thought about her daughter, the thought caused her such pain that She would get drunk until she was as good as dead. Chapter 16. CHICO AND CASTELO. Men are generally thought to be more dangerous than they are. GOETHE: _Elective Affinities_ . YEARS and years passed, said Aviraneta. I had resigned myself to not getting anywhere, and I was content to be a spectator and commentator on political events. Almost every month, Maria Cristina called me to her palace and consulted me on her private affairs. The Queen was always very jealous of Muñoz, and more than political matters, she was concerned with her husband’s adventures. The Italian wanted to control the former bodyguard, whom she had elevated to the royal bedchamber, and many of her actions, which seemed like dark maneuvers, depended on nothing but jealousy. Her departure for France, when she left Spain in the hands of General Espartero, was not due to political spite, but rather to the jealousy she felt upon learning that her husband frequented the house of a dancer. The Queen resorted to the most absurd precautions, and, to prevent her husband from leaving, she prepared a rooftop terrace with green shutters for him in the Palace Plaza so he could stroll unseen. People called the rooftop terrace “Muñoz’s cage.” Muñoz was a handsome man, eight or ten years younger than Cristina, and she had that passion for him that is somewhat exclusive to fiery, macho women. As early as 1834, before I went to prison, a newspaper titled La Crónica reported this news: “Yesterday, Her Majesty the Queen Regent appeared in a char avant, her horses being driven by one of her servants. The captain of the guards, the Duke of Alagón, sat in the back seat .” The Queen was so indignant when she saw Muñoz being called a servant that she didn’t stop until Martínez de la Rosa and the chief of police, Latre, suppressed the newspaper and banished its editor, Jiménez, and its director, Iznardi. Queen Cristina’s jealousy lasted into old age, and later she became eager to acquire a fortune by any means and by any means. It was then that she allied herself with Salamanca; she began her financial combinations and business dealings, and finally discredited herself. I had become close to the Queen Mother in Paris, when she lived in her palace on the Rue de Courcelles, and I had tried to convince her that a strong and liberal government was the salvation of Spain. In Madrid, María Cristina called me to the palace on the Rue de las Rejas, asked my opinion on political matters, and wanted me to tell her what was being whispered in the street about her daughter’s love and the miracles of Sister Patrocinio. Maria Cristina had lost influence over her daughter Isabel, who, as is known, lived devoted to a series of favorites, a series that began with Serrano, the “Pretty General.” Maria Cristina had no sympathy for her son-in-law and despised him for his weakness and for allowing himself to be duped by the miracle-working nun. Maria Cristina knew I lived poorly and told me: “Aviraneta, they have been very ungrateful to you. If you need money, go see Pepe Salamanca for me. I will write to him. ” “Madam,” I would reply, “I have enough to live on.” Maria Cristina sent me paintings and statues as gifts, and jewelry for my wife. Despite this, I did not love her. That desire to make money at any cost, that desire to treat Spain as an estate, bothered me. She must have learned this from her friend Luis Felipe. I never went beyond that, my friendship with the Queen Mother; But since everything is known in Madrid, and it was known that I frequented his palace, it was believed that I was one of his political advisors, which was not true. If I had wanted, I could have taken advantage of this friendship, but I was already old and disillusioned. Furthermore, the Queen Mother and González Bravo, and later Sartorius, were trying to undermine, and even abolish, the Constitution, something that could not be agreeable to me , because it was the negation of my entire political life .
At sixty, one is no longer a sellout, or has already sold out, or has taken to honesty as a habit. All I had left, as I said, was the curiosity to find out and know what was going on. When General Lersundi was president and Egaña was Minister of the Interior, he came to my house to tell me that on behalf of the Queen, the general, and himself, he had come to see me and ask for a position. “I don’t want to be anything anymore,” I told him. During these intervening years between the Civil War and the Revolution of ’54, I heard a lot about Chico everywhere, especially when the imprisonments and deportations began; but I never met him once. Chico became famous as the chief of police in Madrid. He was a man much hated by the people. Everyone spoke horrible things about him, and he was considered a henchman capable of the greatest outrages and violence. I didn’t remember Chico well; They painted him as a tavern barker, vulgar and bestial, and I had the idea of him as an almost elegant, refined fellow, with very lively and intelligent eyes, a slightly flattened nose, thin lips, a pale complexion, and a slender body. Chico, at least at the time I knew him, read a lot, was very fond of painting, and spoke gracefully, with a slightly Andalusian accent. A strange thing. Chance and the ill will of a minister made me appear linked to Chico in a matter in which we had nothing in common. In 1847, they arrested me and they arrested Chico, and they deported us, me to Alicante and him to Almería. Anyone would have said there was a relationship between us; but there was none. I had received a letter from a friend and secretary of María Cristina, from Paris, asking me for news of Madrid, and I replied mocking the Puritans who were then in power, and the letter was intercepted by the Government. As for Chico, in April 1847, he had a twenty-five thousand franc bill from the Duke of Riansares, accepted by the Minister of the Interior, Benavides, for collection. At that time, there was a riot by a few young men who cheered Liberty and the Queen as Isabel II passed by in a carriage through Puerta del Sol, Calle Mayor, and Plaza de Oriente. The minister thought: “Let’s arrest Chico and Aviraneta; we’ll punish Aviraneta for his correspondence, and Chico won’t pay the bill until he has money, and, in the process, it gives people the impression that there’s been a plot.” What plot could there be to cheer the Queen? It was ridiculous; but people believe anything. Naturally, they lifted our exile immediately, but the idea that Chico and I had something in common lingered in the air. I also heard about Mauricio Castelo repeatedly, whose name appeared among the radical progressives with the aura of an austere politician. What can you do? This will always be one of the pitfalls of democracy: the inability of the people to fully understand the conditions of their servants. A community is always better deceived than a person. In 1851, my friend General Lersundi was appointed political leader of Madrid. I often visited his house, where I would socialize once a week. I went to congratulate him on his appointment. We spoke, and he asked me: “Do you personally know Chico, the chief of police?” “I’ve known him since he was a retired cavalry captain; but I haven’t seen him for more than twenty years. ” “What is your opinion of him?” “Personal opinion, none. He was a member of the Isabelina Society that I founded. He was, at that time, an energetic and daring man. ” “And since then, you haven’t seen him again?” –Never. I’m always hearing about him, and I’ve never met him. I lead a special life. I don’t go out at night, I don’t go to the theater. –Do you know we’re going to arrest Chico? –Well, why? –He has a terrible reputation. It’s said he’s in contact with thieves and that he takes part in what’s stolen in Madrid. It’s known that He has committed a thousand outrages. “As for the outrages,” I said, “there’s no doubt they must be true; but the leaders of the government, who have given him orders or allowed him, are just as much to blame as he is ; as for him being in cahoots with thieves, I don’t believe it. ” “Well, it seems to be true. It’s undeniable that Chico has palaces, servants, a magnificent picture gallery; that he supports women… ” “And is there evidence against him? ” “Yes, there is evidence. ” “It seems strange to me that a clever man should have left a verifiable trail of his misdeeds. ” “Well, there’s no doubt about it. Right now, a documented file is being compiled against Chico. ” “And who’s doing it? ” “A respectable person: Colonel Castelo. ” “Don Mauricio Castelo? ” “The same one. Do you know him? ” “Yes.” I said no more. From time to time, I used to meet Inspector Luna in the Plaza del Progreso, sunbathing, walking with his grandson. Luna was retired and lived in a house on Barrio Nuevo Street . One day, when I ran into him, I told him what General Lersundi had told me. “I know,” he replied. “No doubt Castelo is making this case out of hatred for Chico, who revealed the ruse of the alleged robbery committed against Macías. ” “No, it’s not just that,” Luna replied. ” Chico did something disgraceful to Castelo. ” “Well?” “I don’t know if I told you that Chico kept Castelo’s confession. ” “Yes, you did.” “Chico,” Luna continued, “kept that document with the idea of using it, at any opportunity, against Castelo. Two or three years after the alleged robbery, and at the time when Chico had just been appointed chief of police, he met Paca Dávalos at a masked ball at the Circus. She was still at the height of her beauty. Paca wanted to play a joke and have fun at the expense of the terrible police chief, about whom she knew some of Castelo’s romantic secrets. Chico met her, took her to the bar, and invited her to dinner. She accepted the invitation and flirted with Chico; but when she left the dance, she told him not to take his flirtations seriously because she was in love with another man. Chico, enraged, retorted that if she didn’t accompany him home that night, the next day he would take Castelo to jail and discredit him, because he had a document that compromised him. “And what did she do? ” “She went to his house. ” “Demon! ” “Yes, and Castelo knew it, because such things always come to light.” At first, Castelo did nothing against Chico. He had often argued with Paca, who led a relaxed life, and jealousy was certainly not legitimate. Besides, Chico’s position as police chief was very strong, and it wasn’t easy to measure up to him. When Chico’s reputation began not only to decline but to become sinister, Castelo, as if he felt the insults inflicted by his former comrade reliving, placed himself at the head of the enemies of the leader of the Ronda. “It’s understandable that something like this is not something to be forgotten, and even less so considering that the author of the offense is a childhood friend,” I told him. “Castelo feels a profound hatred for Chico today. The memory of the former friendship he had with him makes his resentment more violent and more poisonous. ” “I can understand why a frenzied man like Castelo has stirred up so much anger thinking about Chico. ” “Castelo communicated his hatred to Dávalos, and the two of them have used every means to destroy Chico; They have seduced the agents of the Secret Round and a number of thieves they know through the “hooks” of the gambling houses of Garduña and Silverio, and all these criminals have testified against Chico, telling part truth and part lies. The Progressive Party is helping Castelo in his campaign. “And is it true that Chico had an understanding with the thieves? ” “Well, Don Eugenio!” Luna said with a cynical smile. “All the Police officers understand each other more or less well with thieves; but robberies aren’t what can bring in the most money for a man in Chico’s position. Imagine! There are problems at Court, there are big deals, there are stock market scams, there’s Salamanca; a politician can be saved from a smear campaign; the reputation of a compromised woman can be saved, favorites like Mirall or Pollo Real can be made to disappear. All that adds up. “And what are you going to do if they call you, friend Luna? ” “Me? Who’s going to call me? Nobody knows me. I’m a shadow, I live obscurely in my corner, with my daughter and my grandchildren, and I have no personality except for them. ” “And if they called you, despite that?” “I wouldn’t say anything for or against, Don Eugenio. ” “Nothing? ” “Nothing. Anyone would start defending Chico at this point.” I left Inspector Luna with his grandson, and a few days later I spoke to General Lersundi and told him what I knew about Castelo and his hostility toward Chico. “The trial will be heard soon,” the general told me. ” The matter will be clarified there.” Days later, Lersundi was appointed Minister of War, and Don Melchor Ordóñez replaced him in the Civil Government. Ordóñez ordered Chico’s imprisonment, where he spent nine months in the Saladero until the case was dismissed for lack of evidence. Castelo testified several times during the trial and told everyone who would listen that he would not stop until he saw Chico hanging from the gallows. Chico responded to Castelo’s accusations with detailed information about his enemy’s life. He painted him as a schemer, a traitorous soldier, and a gambler, who alternately exploited gambling dens and women. The struggle between the two was fierce and relentless. Both resorted to every imaginable expedient. Chico held the adverse opinion and flailed about in vain; the springs he could have drawn upon were worn out; on the other hand, Castelo found support throughout the political and journalistic world. “At that time,” Aviraneta continued, “I used to see Castelo from time to time in the street, who, through his intrigues and shady dealings, had risen to the rank of brigadier. Castelo was accompanied by a fine- looking man whom I was told was an old assistant of his. Castelo and I greeted each other when we saw each other, and I took him for a man on good terms with me. PART TWO CONSEQUENCES Chapter 17. THE REVOLUTION OF ’54. Which of your philosophical systems is anything but the theorem of a dream, a pure quotient, confidentially obtained where the divisor and the dividend are unknown? CARLYLE: Sartor Resartus. In such a state of affairs came the revolution of July 1854. I, to be honest, and I confess it was a mistake in my perspective, didn’t believe in it. It’s a common malady of old people to distrust the present. Who doesn’t experience this? It happened to me, as it does to everyone. When in June of that year my friend Leguía, here present, told me that a revolutionary movement was about to break out, I told him: “Bah! Nothing will happen.” The movement arrived, the generals revolted in Vicálvaro, and during the days when the revolution was loose in the streets, I devoted myself to snooping around. I witnessed the looting of María Cristina’s palace and the house in Salamanca to the cries of “Death to Sartorius! Death to the Poles! Death to La Piojosa!” I was more afraid at home than on the street. There were people who knew I was a friend of María Cristina and, therefore , a suspect in the eyes of the people, who at that time harbored a profound hatred for this queen, whom they had considered an idol twenty years before. I lived on San Pedro Mártir Street, in the Comadre neighborhood, at the very beginning of the Barrios Bajos. On July 22nd, I learned from the laundress at home that friends of the famous bullfighter Pucheta, dictator of those neighborhoods, had designated my house and me as a Cristino to the people’s wrath. I investigated and was able to confirm that I was, indeed, on the list of suspects. The Barrios Bajos (neighborhoods) then formed a small autonomous republic under the command of Mr. Muñoz, alias Pucheta. So we had one Muñoz on top, Cristina’s husband, and another Muñoz on the bottom, Pucheta. The revolution of ’54 was a conflict between two Muñoces. I had to take my measures and thought about seeking a safe haven. My wife took refuge in the home of a young doctor from the neighborhood who visited us. This doctor lived with his mother and was then taking exams for a professorship at San Carlos. My wife and I, at night, removed the papers, the paintings given by María Cristina, and some furniture from our room and took them to the doctor’s house; then we locked the door. I went to visit some friends and acquaintances to see if they would give me shelter for a few days, and I received a resounding refusal. In moments of danger, most people are inclined to think only of their own interests and not worry about their friends or loved ones. There was a terrible fear in those days, and those who knew me believed that I was not only a Christian, but that I must be involved in all the intrigues of the Poles. It was said that Maria Cristina was locked up in a convent. Finally, I had to go to the house of the laundress who had warned me that I was being hunted, and there I found a safe place to spend a few days. Señora Isidra, the laundress, lived in an attic on Espada Street, and her son, Manolo, the paper-maker, was a revolutionary leader in the Barrios Bajos. Señora Isidra had very little space and many grandchildren, and her house was filled with great discomfort. Manolo, the paper-maker, told me how he and his friends had fought with the hunters on Cuesta de Santo Domingo, and later on Jacometrezo Street. Manolo was very pleased to have taken part in these events. He used to bring me newspaper articles published on the street and issues of El Murciélago, La Mentira, and El Miliciano. I followed the progress of the revolution through newspapers and conversations. Although the movement seemed completely liberal, it wasn’t entirely so. Among the initiators of those revolutionary events were progressives, democrats, republicans, Liberal Union soldiers , moderates, and even Carlists. This mixed background gave the movement a murky character and its leadership was confusing and ill-defined. When I believed the revolutionary violence had passed, I left the laundress’s attic to visit some friends who, like me, were considered suspects, to see what they had done and get some guidance. I knew that people were searched and identified on the street. I made my way downtown through the crowd, fleeing the hubbub. I went through Concepción Jerónima, Atocha Street, and Plaza de Santa Ana to Prado Street to see the owner of a house on Lobo Street, where I had lived. At the intersection of this street and Prado Street, there was a barricade manned by bullfighters, almost all of them from Cúchares’s gang. I tried to enter through Visitación Street, but that was also blocked off. I returned to Plaza de Santa Ana and continued down Príncipe Street. I was walking down Sevilla Street to Alcalá Street when I found myself stopped at the corner by a high barricade made of carts, furniture, planks, and cobblestones. The barricade was guarded by a group of armed civilians, among whom were plenty of bullfighter types in short suits and Calañés, and waiters from nearby cafes. Turning around suddenly would have seemed suspicious; I joined the group of countrymen, handed out a few cigars, and a ragged man, with a helmet on his shaggy head, who was sitting on some stones with a large blunderbuss, asked him: “Hey, buddy, who’s in charge of this barricade? ” “A brigadier who lives in that house,” and he pointed to one on Sevilla Street , on the corner of Alcalá Street. “What’s that brigadier’s name? ” “I don’t know. Hey, you, Charpa! What’s the name of that brigadier who comes here dressed in uniform? ” “No, _ze_,” said the aforementioned, who had the air of a picador, “perhaps it’s Currito or Lebrijano who zepa him. ” “That brigadier’s name is Don Mauricio Castelo,” said Currito, who was a pimp with the air of a wise monkey. “Man! Castelo! I know him. He’s a very good friend of mine. I’m going to see him.” Chapter 18. BAD STEP. With what outrage to begin; with what outrage to end? EURIPIDES: _Electra_. I hesitated; but since I had said in front of those men that I knew Castelo, I went into the house they indicated to me. It occurred to me that perhaps Castelo could protect me and give me safe conduct to leave Madrid. I climbed the stairs of the house to the main floor. “Does Don Mauricio Castelo live here?” “Yes, sir. At least, it’s here. It was a recreation center, a gambling house. The door was open, and men were coming and going, talking loudly and smoking large cigars. I hesitated again, wondering if it might be imprudent to go on; but I decided. I advanced, crossing a room with two billiard tables and other marble tables, to a reading room with a cupboard containing several books. Castelo was surrounded by a group of men armed with shotguns and blunderbusses, most of them ragged, wearing sheepskin coats and calañes, interspersed with some elegant men in colored frock coats, bow ties, and belt loops. Several of these men, despite the stifling heat of a July day, were wearing capes. Most of them were thuggish types, the kind you see on the steps of the chirlatas, muffled in their cloths and with a club in their hands. I was standing at the door of the reading room when the bullfighter Pucheta entered with a small, pale, pockmarked journalist wearing glasses , and a tout from the Teatro Real known as El Mosca. The three approached Castelo and spoke with him for a long time. Pucheta used the great phrases of the time: democracy, national sovereignty; the journalist was bitter and full of hatred for everyone. When they finished their conference, everyone left with Pucheta. Castelo was left alone, and then I approached him and greeted him: “Sit down,” he said politely. “I’m going to eat. Do you want to eat with me? ” “Thank you very much. I’ve already eaten. ” Castelo opened a screen in the small room, called out loud, and his assistant came and said: “Bring me my food.” I looked at Castelo. He had aged a lot since I had known him. He had an air of restlessness and at the same time stupor. He was hunched over. He was wearing military trousers, a civilian jacket, and a garrison cap. He smoked reluctantly; he was rather chewing on a cigar. I was shocked to find him so depressed. I thought I could detect a feeling of discontent in him when he saw himself among Pucheta and his retinue, and I asked him: “Who were these people? What do they want? ” “These are the leaders of the revolution in detail,” he replied with disgust. “Some of them are naive. The rest are lazybones and murderers who should be in prison. ” “Yes, judging by their appearance, they don’t seem very trustworthy.” “All, or most, of these fake revolutionaries are gamblers, professional gamblers; the others are jewelry resellers, and some are bullfighters. ” “And the journalist? ” “He’s the biggest scoundrel of all. If only I had the power! ” “That bullfighter who puts on the airs of a mob leader is the famous Pucheta, isn’t he?” “Yes; he’s a petty tyrant from the Barrios Bajos. ” “And how did you get mixed up with these people, my friend Castelo?” I asked him this question as if I considered him more in my camp than in that of Pucheta’s friends. “What do you want?” he said to me, revealing his concern. “They’ve compromised me; they’ve named me the leader of this barricade, which they consider a position of honor and danger. Today they’ve come to invite me to preside over a large dinner they’re going to give at a grocery store on this street. celebrate the triumph of the Revolution. “And are you going to go? ” “Yes; otherwise it would seem suspicious. Things aren’t calm yet, they’re only postponed. ” “So what do you want? ” “Each one wants something different: some, Espartero; others, O’Donnell; there are those who are thinking of the Republic. ” “Bah! That’s still a long way off. ” “Everyone wants to arrest and try Maria Cristina. ” “And where is Maria Cristina? ” “She’s in the Palace.” Castelo left the room and came back a little later with a bottle of rum and a glass; he threw the cigar on the floor, stamped it out, and began to drink the liquor as if it were water. I looked at him. He must have been completely intoxicated; he seemed like one of those men who live in a state of constant irritation interrupted by moments of depression. The old attendant came in with the food and laid the tablecloth and plates on the table . “Where is the young lady? Why isn’t she coming?” Castelo asked him. “Do you want me to call her? ” “Yes.” Come right away, I’m waiting for you. I was searching for a way to leave when Paca Dávalos entered the small living room dressed in a rose-colored gown. From a distance, it was still effective; but up close, she was a decrepit old woman. She was tilted to one side, covered in makeup and powder. Her eyes were tender , her eyelids red, and her lashes were bare; on her face, through the layer of rice powder, red blotches like erysipelas could be seen. She kept blinking and had nervous tics that made her whole face shudder. When she spoke, her mouth twisted to one side. She was still feline; her dreamy eyes had lost their sparkle and charm, but she still had something of the old, limp tiger yawning in his cage. I stood up to greet her. She didn’t recognize me. She sat down; took the full glass of rum Castelo had in front of her and took a few sips. Her hand trembled like a pearly white. Suddenly, she looked at me fixedly and said, “I know you. ” “I know you too. ” “From where? ” “From Celia’s house. ” “Oh! That’s true. We talked about the people who used to go to that house; about Ronchi, about Nicolasito Franco, about Fidalgo and his sisters, about Father Mansilla. Dávalos was confused by her memories; she had lost her memory. She suddenly had sudden, abrupt gestures. That twitching of Dávalos’s face to one side shocked me. It gave the impression of something serious, and at times, I had the realization that this woman was a disturbed person, a madwoman. “Are you still Cristina’s friend?” she asked me, stuttering. “Yes.” “Well, you’re going to have a bad time. ” “What can we do? ” “And how can you be her friend? ” “I’m grateful. What do you want? I owe her my life.” Dávalos became agitated when talking about María Cristina and began to slander her, constantly calling her a whore, a louse, and Mrs. Muñoz. Paca used the oaths and blasphemies of the gamblers and thugs with whom she interacted and lived. “Did the Queen play any dirty tricks on you?” I asked her. “Yes, she did! I believe it. I was her friend; but today I would give my life to return the evil she has done me and drag her back into the mud where she belonged . I hate her, I hate her. ” “That much?” “I would like to see her in a dunghill, on a rotten mat eaten away by worms. ” Paca soon abandoned her concentrated and vengeful air and recited these verses, which had come from the Carlist camp: The liberals claimed that Cristina didn’t give birth, and she has given birth to more Muñoces than there were liberals.” “Muñoces!” Paca then exclaimed. “Everyone knows who owns that filthy whore’s children.” Castelo joined in the conversation and talked about what was being said on the street: that the Queen Mother had taken part in all the contracts and all the dirty business deals in Spain and overseas to make the Muñoz fortune. What morality had been awakened in a gambler like Castelo! “But that’s the least of it,” he added; and he recounted certain mysterious murders that Cristina had ordered and had carried out by Chico and his people, and several poisonings carried out by this new Lucrezia Borgia. Castelo cited names, dates, circumstances. He took all this for granted. I began to tremble. The more hatred there was for Maria Cristina, the more dangerous my situation. The truth is that I have since heard serious talk of poisonings perpetrated by people in the Palace, among them that of the second wife of the Infante Don Francisco. “But do you believe all that is true?” I asked Castelo. “Yes! It’s the Gospel.” “Demon! ” “Yes, yes, you are a Cristino,” said Castelo; “you’re going to have a bad time. Now it’s serious; you shouldn’t have gone out on the street, you might get into some trouble.” “That’s why I came to see you, you have influence,” I said. “What do you want me to do? ” “My house is near the Plaza del Progreso; and that’s a bustling place of people who’ve established themselves as masters, do whatever they want, and have compiled a list of suspects. ” “Where do you live? ” “On San Pedro Mártir Street. ” “Which way is that? ” “Toward Lavapiés. ” “Here, I thought you were rich! Your friendship with Cristina hasn’t helped you much. ” “I have my salary as a mayor, and I live off it. ” “Well, I’ll tell the patriots of Barrios Bajos, and especially Pucheta, not to mess with you. Now, go, go as soon as possible. Here you’re only compromising me.” Castelo, as he drank more alcohol, was coming out of his somber depression and becoming more and more excited. I stood up, took my hat, and, forcing myself to bear it, greeted Paca Dávalos and Castelo as politely as I could. I had taken a false step. As I was leaving the reading room for the billiard room, Castelo suddenly shouted : “Hey, hey, Mr. Cristino! I understand that at General Lersundi’s social gathering, someone spoke ill of me. Do you know who it was, because you went to that social gathering? ” “No, I haven’t; I haven’t heard of you. ” “Don’t you know Macías? ” “I met a Macías in Mexico; but I haven’t seen him since . ” “And Luna, Police Inspector Luna, do you know him? ” “I knew him because he was the one who arrested me twenty years ago and took me to the Corte Jail; but since then I haven’t heard from him, nor do I know if he’s still alive. ” “Well, he is, and I have to find him to settle some old scores .” And you don’t know Chico either? “No, I don’t know him. When he started getting involved in politics, I had retired. ” “This fine gentleman must be older than Methuselah!” said Dávalos.
“Well, I have to get my revenge,” exclaimed Castelo. “I have to find out who gave bad news about me to Lersundi and then to Ordóñez. It must have been some friend of Chico’s. Well, I have to hang Chico with these hands, yes, with these hands; and Luna, if I find him, I’ll beat him to a pulp. ” “Well, Mauricio, calm down,” said Paca. “I don’t want to calm down: Yes, Chico will be made to pay for his crimes, and it will be soon… very soon… perhaps within twenty-four hours.” To this Castelo added shouts and blasphemies, acting violently and banging his fists on the table. “Well. Goodbye!” I said. “Goodbye!” “I’ll be glad they don’t break a bone of yours,” exclaimed Paca Dávalos, with her painful, sick laugh. Castelo laughed like a madman, and must have had some aggressive intention toward me, because he tried to get up and follow me; but the attendant stopped him. I ran down the stairs and went out into the street. Chapter 19. A SLEEPLESS NIGHT. The enmity of a single tiny bedbug crawling on our bed is more to be feared than the anger of a hundred. elephants. HEINE: _Atta Troll_. I headed down Calle de Alcalá toward Puerta del Sol, to mingle with the groups of troublemakers and vagrants who were hanging around there. “Aviraneta,” I said to myself, “you were foolish to visit Castelo. You’ve drawn attention to yourself. You don’t have a corner in which to lay your bones safely, and you’re in danger of having one of them broken, as Paca Dávalos said a moment ago.” And I rubbed my hands together, as if very pleased with my lot. That afternoon, the center of Madrid was in perpetual turmoil. I didn’t decide to go to my neighborhood, because I was afraid they would recognize me, and I went to a café on Calle Ancha. I became quite friendly with the waiter, told him a false story, and he recommended a guesthouse on Calle de Silva. I went to her: the landlady looked ill, and from the few words I exchanged with her, I realized she was suspicious and ready to call the police. It was a stiflingly hot night. I went into the room they rented me and couldn’t sleep. There were bedbugs in the bedroom. A procession of these insects came out of a corner of the ceiling and moved forward, and when they reached my bed, they dropped down one by one with mathematical precision. “In the morning, at dawn, I got up and dressed. My instinct told me I wasn’t very safe in that house. I went out onto the balcony and sat down in a chair. Around four o’clock, I saw my landlady go out into the street, and shortly after, she returned with a man. “Suspicious maneuver,” I told myself. I opened the door to my room and walked down the still-dark hallway . The landlady and the man were talking about me. They had left the door open. I immediately put on my hat and quickly went down the stairs, boots in hand. In the doorway, I put them on; I went out onto the street, entered Dog Alley, and turned into an open, lighted doorway on Justa Street. It was a brothel. There was a ragged old woman, with an owl-like air, and two ugly girls, dressed in garish colors. One of them had a broad, brutal face, a turbot face, with bulging eyes and a flat nose. Both were heavily made up. The old woman knew, from my attitude, that I was fleeing, and it didn’t occur to her to exploit me. I sat down on a bench and we chatted. The old woman spoke to me about Destiny with such stoic fatalism that it amazed me. “To each his own,” she said with every step. I invited the women to have coffee with milk, and after spending three or four hours there, I went out along Flor Street to Saint Bernard Street. I went up to the Plaza de Santo Domingo, and in a café on the corner, near a barricade, I went in and ordered lunch. “It’ll take a while,” the waiter told me; “it’s still early, and with all this commotion, no one’s coming. ” “Well, I’m in no hurry. Bring some olives, and I’ll wait.” I bought *La Iberia* and some pages of the *Boletín Extraordinario* del Ejército Constitución, which were being sold in the streets, and I pretended to read, wondering where I could hide, or whether it would be better to leave Madrid immediately. Lunch arrived, and I ate well, thinking that perhaps dinner would take a while. “You have a good appetite,” I said to myself. “That shows that you’re still calm inside.” I had coffee and several glasses of cognac and gave the waiter a good tip, thinking I might need it. Chapter 20. THE END OF CHICO. When one has heard that such and such a person is a bad man, one believes one can read wickedness in his physiognomy, and then fiction is added to experience to create a sensation when interest and passion are mixed. Helvetius tells how a lady, contemplating the moon with a telescope, saw the shadow of two lovers; a priest who wanted to verify the fact replied, saying: No, madam, no; those shadows are the two towers of a cathedral. KANT: _Anthropology_. I was about to leave the café, for I had no excuse to remain there, when the waiters appeared at the door and returned, saying: “There’s a great commotion in the Rue Ancha. People are coming this way shouting. ” “What’s going on?” The owner of the café immediately ordered the door and windows to be closed. “Do you want to leave now?” he asked me. “I’ll wait until the commotion has died down. ” “You’re right. Nothing’s to be gained from these constant commotions .” With the door and windows closed, the café had become almost pitch dark. “Do you want to go up to the billiard table?” the waiter who had served me said ; “from there you can see very well what’s going on.” I climbed a spiral staircase to the billiard room and looked out onto a small balcony on the mezzanine. Coming from Ancha Street was a ragged, ragged mass of people, made up mainly of women and children, shouting and alternately shouting “hurrahs” and “killings.” A few men armed with rifles, pistols, and clubs were visible among the crowd. Then we saw a grim-looking man with a mustache and sideburns, dressed in rags, a red sash around his waist, and a red hat on his head. He was carrying, like a banner, a large portrait on a pole. “Who is it?” we all asked ourselves. “Whose image is that?” No one knew. Then, like a Holy Week procession, a thin, yellow, jaundiced man, like a mummy, already old, with gray sideburns , appeared in Santo Domingo Square, sitting on a mattress and supported by a stretcher . He was half-naked, wearing a white shirt and a scarf around his neck, a colored cap on his head, and holding a fan in his hand, with which he was calmly fanning himself. His expression was sullen, bitter, and almost mocking. If it weren’t for the insults directed at him by the mob, his calm and nonchalant demeanor might have made him a tribal chieftain carrying a litter among his vassals. “Who is this man?” several of us asked. The now distinct cries we heard shortly afterward of “Die Chico! Hang ! Hang!” led us to understand that the man being carried on the litter, like a Holy Week procession, was the famous chief of police of Madrid. Beside him was a woman, whom they said was Chico’s, and behind him was the doorman of his house, whom they were pushing. This was a former police officer named Dendal and nicknamed “Cano,” whom the people had approached to arrest Chico, and who had tried to save the chief. He was considered one of Chico’s bloodhounds and informants . “Chico dies! Hang him! Hang him!” the crowd shouted again. “Where are they taking him?” a waiter at the café asked a man on the street. “To the Plaza de la Cebada, to take his life. ” “He deserves it.” The café owner made a gesture of annoyance but said nothing. The people, with that simplistic sentiment of the crowds, undoubtedly believed that all it would take was to get rid of Chico and all the abuses would disappear. Days before, the mobs had killed another police officer nicknamed “Pocito.” I was worried; But pretending to be a calm and indifferent man, I sat in a chair on the balcony, lit a cigar, and began to smoke.
The procession waited a few minutes in Santo Domingo Square, not knowing which direction to take, until the order to continue along Costanilla de los Ángeles came . I noticed, with surprise, that those leading the mutineers were almost all those who had been with Castelo the day before. There were Pucheta, Mosca, and the journalist, small and pale, pockmarked and wearing glasses. From their group came the most rabid cries of “Die Chico!” But they weren’t alone. Castelo and Paca Dávalos were crouching on the corner of Tudescos Street, watching the passage. from the crowd. I could see them up close. They had disguised themselves; he was wearing shorts and a calañés; she, a dark shawl. What an expression of anxiety, hatred, and triumph there was in their eyes! What a moment of passion they were both experiencing! They saw the blood of the man who had offended them flow in their imaginations, flooding the ground and the air and turning into an aurora borealis. Perhaps they also believed that this revenge would be enough to make them happy. For a moment I thought Chico was watching his enemies from the top of the bier; but if he saw them, he looked away with indifference and continued fanning himself with his cold, disdainful air. Chico gave the impression of a man who had reached such contempt for life that death seemed to him like a minor accident. “Scoundrel! Scoundrel!” people would say. “Look at the way he looks,” a gossip added. “He has a sour face.” ” The face of a Judas.” –God save us from such a man. –Die, Chico! To the gallows! To the gallows! –You’re a brave man, I said in my imagination, addressing him. –You may be to blame, and the people may be right; but my sympathy goes more to the calm man who marches to his execution with a smile on his lips than to the howling, cowardly mob. The procession passed, and the crowd spilled down the Costanilla de los Ángeles and the Cuesta de Santo Domingo. Castelo and Paca Dávalos, arm in arm, walked away down Tudescos Street. They looked like two old men; he, threadbare and bent; she, crooked, with the gait of a paralytic. I watched them walk away, and they seemed to me like the survivors of a shipwreck; more than that: they seemed to me like the remains of a ship that the waves cast onto the beach. I almost thought it better to end life like Chico, carried on a litter by the popular hatred, than to be lost thus, bent and limping, in the shadow of a narrow street. Chapter 21. HOUNDED. One suffers more when one suffers alone and leaves the unfortunate ones behind . SHAKESPEARE: _King Lear_. WHEN the square was clear, I went down from the billiard room to the café and went out into the street. The surrounding area was deserted. Chico’s party swept the adjacent places, dragging everyone behind them. It occurred to me to go into the house of Istúriz, who lived nearby, on the Cuesta de Santo Domingo. They were a long time before they opened the door for me. The man was deranged, fearing that his house would be attacked. I had witnessed the fighting between the rebels and the troops in the same street the previous days , and that day, Chico’s passage through the crowd. I explained to him the situation I found myself in, unable to return home, and I gave this circumstance a comical character. “And what are you going to do?” Istúriz asked me. “I am prepared to suffer death patiently. I have lived enough. ” “But this is a mistake. These men have no memory. ” “What do you want! All people are ungrateful. ” “But what do they aspire to? What do they desire? ” “There is always something more to aspire to and desire. ” “It is the anarchy that is upon us. It is our fault, Aviraneta,” he exclaimed. “Oh, if only I could begin to live now! ” “I don’t regret anything,” I told him. “I believe I have done what I had to do. ” “There is no justice, Aviraneta, there is no justice,” he murmured. “Naturally. In politics there can be no justice. In politics, as in life, there is only strength and success,” I replied harshly . “You command and you do what you want; It’s not commanded, and good night! I greeted Istúriz coldly. And I went out into the street thinking that the man hadn’t offered me his house to rest there for a moment. Since I had already exhausted all my possible resources, I went to the church of San Ginés and sat on a bench, prepared at least to spend the whole day there. I was next to a young couple with a child, who were talking and They smiled and had no other concern than going to the house of a relative in the afternoon. I heard two or three masses and was left alone. How different my destiny would have been if, instead of deciding to tenaciously defend liberal ideas, I had joined the ranks of the youth among the moderates or the absolutists! “Now I would have been a general, a minister, or the archbishop of Toledo. Your Excellency Aviraneta, Monsignor Aviraneta, that wouldn’t have been bad. I thought of a thousand things to entertain myself and pass the time. Early in the afternoon, the sacristan approached me, looking at me suspiciously, and told me he was going to close the church. I had then the impression that a hunted and persecuted animal must experience. I was no longer the young man who can reason with precision and certainty and who quickly comes up with ideas and projects; I was already sixty years old, and my intelligence functioned more slowly than in my youthful days as a conspirator. I found nothing but meager resources within myself , and fear often troubled me and inspired desperate solutions, such as presenting myself to the revolutionary government so they could do whatever they wanted with me. I left the church for the small square behind San Ginés and hesitated between taking Coloreros Street or Bordadores Street. “To think that taking one or the other could influence my destiny!” I said to myself. I was thus hesitating when I remembered that on Coloreros Street there was a tavern and grocery store owned by an Asturian acquaintance of mine. “I’m going to go there.” As I left the alley, I met a medical student who was visiting the doctor next door to my house. This young man was an assistant to a famous doctor. We greeted each other. “Have you eaten yet?” I asked him. “No.” “Do you want to eat here at a tavern owned by an Asturian I know? ” “Come on.” The Asturian welcomed me well and led the student and me to a very clean and well-appointed room. While we ate, I told the student about my situation; I asked him where he lived, and he told me it was in a boarding house on Carrera de San Francisco that housed some seminarians who were on vacation at the time. “My landlady has no guests now but me. ” “Do you think she’d take me?” I asked him. “Yes, indeed. ” “I’d need to spend ten or twelve days in hiding until the revolutionary ferment subsides. ” “Well, I’ll take you to that house; but not right now, because I have to go to the General Hospital. ” “Well, then I’ll wait for you right here. ” The student returned around seven. He told me that Chico and Cano had been shot in the Plaza de la Cebada, in front of the Fuentecilla. Chico had died with extraordinary courage. Apparently, in Madrid, the talk was of nothing else. Many people protested that Pucheta had ordered executions, as Calomarde might have done. “What do you want to do now?” the student asked me. ” Do you prefer to go to my house where there are many people, or do you want to leave by way of Cuesta de la Vega and, going around the patrol, go up through Las Vistillas to Carrera de San Francisco? ” “I think it’s better to go through the town. Going in and out will be dangerous. ” “I think it’s better to march where there are many people. It’s in the deserted streets where it’s easiest for a patrol to stop you. ” “Good; then, let’s go through the Plaza Mayor.” We left the tavern and entered the square by way of Calle del Siete de Julio. Everywhere there were large groups of armed men coming and going through the middle. Back then, there were no small gardens or fountains, as there are now. I was afraid someone might know me, but I was able to cross the square without any obstacles. The student and I hesitated between taking Toledo Street or going down the stone steps to Cuchilleros Street. We should have taken Toledo Street, always following the principle that it was better. march among the people rather than through strange places; but it seemed to me that there was no one towards Cuchilleros Street, so we began to go down the stairs. We were walking along Cuchilleros Street when three countrymen stopped us : “Halt! ” “What’s going on?” I asked. “Who are you? ” “I’m a doctor,” I said, “and this young man is my assistant. ” “Well, come with us.” They made us go up the stone steps again and took us to the tavern at the corner of the square, which was called the Pulpit. I invited those men to a few drinks, and we became friends. They were about to release us when the reseller from the Teatro Real, Mosca, appeared. He had been seen the day before in the company of Castelo, and in the morning on Atocha Street. Mosca, besides being a reseller, owned a barber’s shop on Fuentes Street. I knew him somewhat and knew that he had been in the Carlist camp. “This is Aviraneta,” Mosca shouted upon seeing me, “a friend of María Cristina’s. We must take him to the Junta.” Some scoundrels and unemployed men, accomplices in all the popular uproar, joined Mosca and took us to the Town Hall. Chapter 22. IN THE SALADERO. It was a sight to see some sleeping wrapped up in their robes, without taking off anything they wore during the day; others, stripping off everything they had on in one fell swoop. QUEVEDO: “The Con Man.” WE entered the Bakery and were led, the student and me, before a group of people formed into a tribunal. It was a revolutionary junta. They interrogated us, and the student was immediately released. I gave my name and did not hide my friendships or my political history. That Junta was made up of sensible people, and the president said there was not the slightest reason for my arrest. “You may leave,” the president indicated to me. “Thank you very much!” Mosca came out behind me and shouted: “This man must be arrested. He’s a Cristino, a confidant of Sartorius, an advisor to La Piojosa. ” “Gentlemen!” I shouted at the top of my lungs, addressing the audience. ” The man who wants to arrest me is a Carlist, a wretch who has been in the faction. He hates me because I am a liberal, a liberal forever . I was an aide to El Empecinado; I made the Vergara Convention, which forever dominated Carlism. Are you going to hand me over to the whim of a reactionary henchman?” At the same time, Mosca was shouting that I was a traitor, a friend of Sartorius, Salamanca, and Chico. The audience was divided; I was gaining ground when an unknown person suggested that Mosca and I be taken to the Casa de Correos, where the Supreme Revolutionary Junta was meeting. Amidst a group of ragged people, we arrived at the Puerta del Sol and entered the Principal. I soon saw that Mosca was treated quite differently than I was, for he was immediately released. Brought before the Junta, the rage that consumed me made me deliver a violent speech, in which I said that the revolution was a farce, that it was led by moderates and even Carlists, and that it could happen that a man like me, who had fought for liberty with General Empecinado and had suffered persecution as a liberal, would be imprisoned on the accusation of a wretch who had fought in the ranks of Don Carlos. “It’s not only Mosca who denounces you as a friend and accomplice of María Cristina,” said one of the Junta members; “there are others who claim the same thing. ” “Who are those others?” I shouted. “Let them come, let them show their faces. ” “Do you deny your friendship with María Cristina?” “I deny complicity. ” “Step back,” said the president. Two of them, in rags, took me on their own, tied me up in the courtyard with a rope around them, and took us to the Saladero, surrounded by bayonets. “You’re from the Piojosa clique!” people would say when they saw us in the street. street . “They’re Sartorius’s friends. ” “Die! Die!” And they insulted us and threw stones at us. We arrived at the Saladero. They put me in a damp, dark cell, and I was locked up there for nearly a month. Life for me in those days was horrible. I slept on the floor, ate the jail food, and couldn’t speak to anyone except a few unfortunate people like me who, temporarily, kept me company. What misery! What poverty! What ragged people! And, in the midst of this misery, what a way to adapt and live there as if at home! There were industrialists who continued to run their industry from prison; counterfeiters who prepared their forgeries; a Carlist newspaper editor who corrected their proofs. Most of the prisoners were thieves; but there were also conspirators and revolutionaries. Among them, I met two who told me they had deliberately gotten themselves arrested to make a deal with a prisoner in the Saladero. These were republicans, and they had hatched a plot to kill General Espartero upon his entry into Madrid, shooting from a house on Carrera de San Jerónimo, which had an exit via Calle del Pozo, and proclaim the Republic. I knew the house because we had held a Carbonari sale there in 1822. I found the plan well-conceived in its first part; but its second part seemed absurd to me. I tried to convince the republicans that the Republic they might proclaim would only last a few hours. They were persuaded and abandoned the project. When they took me out of that dungeon, they contacted me, and my wife came to see me; she began to cry when she found me in such a pitiful state. I was thin, sick, unable to stand, my eyes swollen, full of parasites, and my underwear dirty and almost rotten. The judge began taking statements from those imprisoned during the revolutionary period, and most of us bore no guilt or connection to the acts we were accused of. Almost all of us had been sent to the Saladero on suspicion, at the whim of the rebels; some were undoubtedly victims of private revenge. I told my wife to go to Istúriz’s house and that of other friends and find out what the political situation had become. Don Evaristo San Miguel was then appointed Minister of War. After his appointment, there were three important and rival revolutionary groups that tried to annul each other. These were: the Junta of Salvation, Armament, and Defense, with San Miguel as president, the link between the Palace and the revolutionaries in Madrid; O’Donnell’s General Headquarters, which acted on its own; and Espartero’s Junta, which was based in Zaragoza. Within each of these groups, there were countless divisions, and the revolutionaries of Madrid themselves did not always obey the Junta of Salvation. Having learned who the most influential figures were, I wrote a letter to General Espartero and another to Don Joaquín Francisco Pacheco, but they did not reply. I also sent a document to Don Evaristo San Miguel explaining the events and a note reminding him of our former friendship and our fraternity as Masons. San Miguel, as soon as he received my note, ordered my release. Chapter 23. THE HOSPITAL. You, Lady, grant me now your grace for all the time that I may still be of use to you. ARCHPRIEST OF HITA: _Book of Good Love_. After prison, I went to San Sebastián with my wife; I rented a house in the San Martín neighborhood and spent four years living obscurely there, occupied in reading books and newspapers, writing my memories, and making a collection of insects, shells, and snails. The government had granted me a pension, and my salary was small. I had two or three houses in San Sebastián where I would go to social gatherings: Goñi’s, Alzate’s, and Errazu’s, who were my relatives, and I used to spend long periods of time at Baroja’s printing press. This was frequently the meeting place of General Don Nazario Eguía, the one-armed man; Intendant Arizaga, who influenced the Vergara Convention; General Van Halen; Antonio Flores, the author of Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow; and others. We often had long arguments, and General Eguía said to me several times: “Aviraneta, how gladly I would have shot you if I had caught you during the war! ” I used to accompany the old general to take the carriage from Tolosa to the inn at the Parador Real. A few years later, feeling nostalgic for the hectic life of the Court again, I returned to Madrid and settled with Josefina in an apartment on Calle del Barco. Josefina had some friends and belonged to a charity committee. One day, I heard a friend of my wife talking about Paca Dávalos. “I’ve met her,” I said. “What’s wrong?” “It’s quite a novel.” The lady told the story in detail. For some time, Dávalos had been ill in the San Juan de Dios Hospital, in a sad, dark ward overlooking Atocha Street, poorly lit by bars covered in wire mesh. The poor woman was horrifying to look at: she was covered in ulcers and scabs, hairless, and with swollen eyes. Her illness, drunkenness, and recent years of poverty had turned that splendid beauty into a monster. It was something horrible; but more horrible than her appearance, according to the lady who had seen her, was her moral state. She screamed and sang indecent songs. The most straitlaced woman, the most shameless rabanera, didn’t speak like she did: she had the urge to be scandalous and lewd. She was punished several times by spending entire days in the attic on bread and water, a brutal punishment, not very appropriate for unfortunate patients. But the punishment didn’t affect her, and when she returned to the ward, she insulted the doctor and the nuns and shouted obscenities at everyone. One day, a Sister of Charity, Sister María de la Consolación, appeared at the hospital. She was a pale woman, in the splendor of beauty. The sister approached Dávalos’s bed, knelt before her, and hugged and kissed the sick woman. She sat up in bed, looked at the nun, gave a terrible, heart-rending scream, and fainted. The nun was Paca’s daughter, whom she hadn’t seen for twenty years, and she was her spitting image: the same correct face, the same deep, human eyes, the same expression of purity and sweetness. When she regained consciousness, the sick woman thought her daughter’s visit had been a dream; but no, there was Estrella, now Sister María, caressing and kissing her as she had once done. The contrast was violent: the sick woman, a formless , bruised, horrible pile of flesh; her daughter, a pale, serene beauty, with an air of strength and sweetness. In the following days, Paca Dávalos began to cry, and when her daughter came to see her, she kissed her hand and said, “Forgive me, I’ve been a bad mother.” “No, no, you haven’t been a bad mother to me, and I’ve always loved you.” She hid her head in the sheets and cried with her daughter’s hand clasped in hers. The hospital chaplain told Paca that her daughter had wanted to sacrifice herself and leave the world to redeem her mother’s sins. This was a new source of grief for the sick woman. Weeping, she begged her daughter not to sacrifice herself for her, to return to the world, to be happy; she didn’t deserve the sacrifice of an angel; she had more than deserved abandonment, dishonor, illness, and death in a stinking hospital. Estrella reassured her and told her that life as a Sister of Charity was the one she most looked forward to. Her mother wept in anguish, and the more she cried, the sadder she became and the more resigned she was to dying. Dávalos apologized to everyone and wanted her daughter to sing her a song she used to sing as a child at least once . Sister María asked the hospital chaplain if he could grant her mother’s wish. –Yes, yes, why not? Estrella sang, and it seemed an extraordinary spectacle in that sad, smelly room, illuminated by the murky light from the greenish panes of the barred windows, to see the sick women, their insides eaten away and burned, sitting up in bed, yearning, and listening weeping to the song sung by the nun, which rose above the miseries of the world. A few hours later, Paca Dávalos died sweetly. Chapter 24. MADNESS. Back! The black devil pursues me. SHAKESPEARE: King Lear. I asked the lady who told me about Dávalos’s end: –And didn’t Brigadier Castelo ever go to see her? –No; they had separated some time ago. A year later, I was returning from Istúriz’s house one winter afternoon along Arenal Street at dusk when I ran into Mosca, the reseller. He approached me, without knowing me, to offer me a seat at the Real, and when he noticed me, he was completely taken aback. “Were you surprised to see me?” I said. “Yes.” “What, did you think the people you sent to the Saladero no longer left? ” “No; I already knew you had left there a long time ago. ” “Are you still acting like a revolutionary?” I asked him sarcastically . He remained silent. “Tell me, why were you so keen to arrest me in the Plaza Mayor? Was it, really, the hatred of the Carlist whom he had worked for, like me, at the Vergara Convention? ” “I’m not a Carlist. If I was in the faction, it was out of obligation. ” “Then why so much effort to arrest me?” “Brigadier Castelo had recommended your imprisonment. ” “And why? ” “Won’t you be upset if I tell you the truth? ” “No.” “He said you were an enemy of the people, a police informant. ” “Scoundrel! He wanted to get rid of those of us who knew he was a thief. He was the one who instigated the mob to kill Chico, not because Chico had committed any outrages, but because he was a witness to one of his robberies. And what has that scoundrel Castelo done?” “He just committed suicide in an attic in Barrios Bajos. ” “What are you saying? ” “What you hear. After Chico’s death, bad luck befell him. He was expelled from the Army, and the Progressive Party abandoned him; it was no longer useful as an instrument. Castelo began to hang around the taverns and become a laughingstock. He said he had made the Revolution and that he had finished off Chico.” Then I think one of the men on Chico’s patrol threatened him and frightened him. Shortly after, Castelo got it into his head that Chico was still alive, that he was chasing him and lurking around street corners. When he had this hallucination, he would run until he collapsed from exhaustion. One night, no doubt, the hallucination was so terrifying that he hanged himself with a piece of rope from a doorpost. His assistant and I were the only ones who accompanied his body to the common grave. “What an end!” I exclaimed, and I continued walking in the direction of my house. Chapter 25. VERMIN. He who does wrong, ends badly. PROVERB. All of us who listened in the kitchen had remained waiting for Aviraneta to say something more; but he remained thoughtful. “Whoever does wrong, ends badly,” exclaimed Uncle Chaparro, and then, addressing his sons and the goatherds who were around the fire, he added, “Well, boys, let’s go to sleep, and thank God that we’re living honestly in our poverty and not in the company of madmen and vermin.” Don Eugenio smiled as he looked into the fire. Through the window, the snow could be seen falling heavily, and the countryside shone sadly and spectrally in the moonlight. The dogs howled in the distance, with a sad and ominous bark, with a persistent and irritated rage, as if they anticipated some imminent danger. We got up from beside the fire, and Aviraneta and I went upstairs to the first floor, preceded by a maid, who He lit it with a lantern. I went into my room, lit the candlestick, which I left on the nightstand , got into bed, and continued reading the Bible. I was in Ecclesiastes, and I stopped to reflect on this verse: “He who makes the pit will fall into it, and he who breaks down the hedge will be bitten by a snake.” Paris, November, 1920. THE HOUSE ON MERCY STREET … and such a variety of rational vermin in this ark of the world. VÉLEZ DE GUEVARA: The Limping Devil . ANOTHER day when Uncle Chaparro was not there, and the previous story had made a deep and unpleasant impression on him, Aviraneta told the story of young Miguel Rocaforte, his prison mate. Once, the two scoundrels from the Gallinería, Gacetilla and Mambrú, whom Candelas had recommended to Don Eugenio, and whom he used as servants and instruments of espionage against the warden, entered Miguel’s room and stole a notebook in which the young man kept his diary. They gave it to Aviraneta. Don Eugenio read it quickly and, after learning what interested him, ordered the thieves to put the notebook back in the prisoner’s room. Miguel didn’t notice the theft. This story that Don Eugenio told me is based on the autobiographical information that Miguel wrote, and on clues, not entirely clear or completely reliable, which I have modified somewhat to give the story a certain unity. Chapter 26. THE CHAPLAINS’ HOUSE. OF THE BAREFOOT I will confess to you that the building I occupy in a distant neighborhood is one of the oldest in Madrid, and that its gloomy appearance, its wide -spreading balconies, the enormous wing of the roof , and its entire exterior announce to passersby its three-century-old date. ROMAN INNKEEPER: _Madrid Scenes_. THERE ARE houses whose appearance gives a sinister impression and leads one to think they are conducive to crimes, intrigues, and mysteries. They are gloomy, dark houses, located in narrow alleys, full of corridors and crossroads, irregular rooms, and abandoned garrets. They are houses that could serve as the basis for serials, melodramas, and cloak-and-dagger comedies. The house of the Chaplains of the Royal Discalced Nuns of Madrid, at 2 Misericordia Street, although inside it was a soap opera, melodramatic, and swashbuckling, on the outside it was a large, spacious, and handsome mansion . It was adjacent to the church and was on the corner of two streets: Misericordia Street, a very short street, since it only had one number on one side and none on the other, and Capellanes Street, which ran down from Preciados Street to Plaza Celenque. The Descalzas neighborhood was then, and still is, a quiet, deserted island, amidst the bustle of busy streets such as Arenal and Preciados. At that time, in the Plaza de las Descalzas, opposite the original Monte de Piedad, there was a fountain with a statue of Venus, the former Mariblanca, moved there from Puerta del Sol, where it had stood for many years. The convent of the Descalzas Reales had been the palace of Emperor Charles V in Campo de San Martín and covered a large area of land. The original Monte de Piedad was an accessory to the palace, later converted into a convent; the two buildings were formerly connected by an arch that crossed over the Calle de la Misericordia. The Monte de Piedad had a Plateresque doorway, similar to that of the Descalzas, severe and tasteful, and on one side, another doorway built in the middle of the 18th century, very exaggerated and baroque in the Churrigueresque style. The Plaza de las Descalzas was prettier then than it is now, as it did not have the red and white brick buildings of the Monte de Piedad that resemble bathing suits. It was also more lively. At the Mariblanca fountain, there were always water carriers drinking water or sitting on their buckets, and in the rest of the plaza, countless carts were parked, and the carters formed their small groups in the open air. Not many people were seen in this irregular and sad little square; only a few unfortunates, who were on their way to pawn something and who looked for the evening hours for their commission, and on Sundays and holidays , the neighbors of the neighborhood, who were going to mass. The Chaplains’ house, formerly the property of the nuns, was an old house; but it did not have a decrepit air; its old age was a strong and healthy old age. It was painted ochre, with large peeling marks, and had a ground floor with bars; the main floor, with five wide and spacious balconies , and the second, with small balconies. Above the overhanging roof, garrets stood out with their greenish-glass windows and old, half-ruined brick chimneys, as well as other modern iron ones, which sent faint columns of smoke into the always clear Madrid air. Sacks and balls of salt could be seen through the grilles on Calle de la Misericordia and Calle de Capellanes , except for one of a bookbinder’s shops, where piles of paper and a wooden press could be seen. On the first floor, faded red curtains appeared through the glass , and on the second, yellowish net curtains. Around 1823, this house was sold by the State, and in 1835, it was owned by Don Tomás Manso, who lived on the first floor and used the ground floor as salt warehouses. Since then, among the people, the name of the Chaplains’ House was replaced by the House of Salt. This building had several easements left over from when it was attached to the church, and its staircase was used by the chaplain and the sacristan of the Discalced Sisters to reach their respective rooms, as well as by two Franciscan friars, confessors of the Poor Clare nuns of the adjacent convent. This house had a large two-leaf door, studded with small nails, and a wicket gate on one of them. The hall, paved with flagstones, was spacious, and a lantern hung from the center of the ceiling; on one side, near the street, there was a cobbler’s stall, and at the back, a small wooden hut painted yellow. To the left of the hut began an old, moth-eaten staircase, and to the right was a glass screen with a door, through which one passed into an arched courtyard. This courtyard had a door in one corner leading to the storerooms, and in the other, a dark passageway leading to another small courtyard with a rickety little tree. The larger courtyard was paved and had a vine on one wall, watered with a can by the bookbinder, who lived in one of the small interior rooms on the ground floor. This vine gave the courtyard a certain village feel. The entire ground floor consisted of cellars, bays, and black , abandoned storerooms with saltpeter walls. One of these storerooms, which no one entered, had a small broken fountain representing the head of Medusa. The Gorgon, made of stone, was blurred by blows . In the inner rooms, reached by a dark staircase, lived strange people: a half-beggar, who hung around the churches; a lady and her daughter, come to less, who sewed outside, and a small, wrinkled, black old woman who looked after the chairs of the Discalced Sisters. Chapter 27. FAUNA AND FLORA OF THE HOUSE. I am a misanthrope and hate the human race. As for you , I’m sorry you’re not a dog; perhaps I could love you a little. SHAKESPEARE: _Timon of Athena_. HE who entered the old Chaplains’ mansion and went up from the doorway to the garrets, this is what he saw: The first encounter, naturally, was that of the porter and cobbler Francisco Cuervo, an old soldier in the Army of the Faith, from the year 23, where the cream of the brigands and criminals of all Spain had gathered. Francisco Cuervo, alias Paco, Don Paco, Paquito, Don Paquito, Cuervo, The Crow and the Chepa, because he had a hunchback, were about forty-five years old, with a cold and sinister air. The Crow displayed a certain bad temper and a certain wit. He was a misanthrope. He had sharp and witty retorts. Once, one of the carters who carried salt to the house was recounting his marital woes in great detail. The Crow, after listening mockingly, said: “Do you know what I’m telling you? ” “What?” “That it’s better that this happened to you than to someone else. ” “Why? ” “Because someone else wouldn’t have had your patience.” And the Crow gave a stitch to the shoe he was mending. The Crow liked to mortify people. When he was a corporal in the Royalist volunteers, he distinguished himself more for his wickedness than for his courage. He dominated and tormented his wife, who looked weak and sickly. The Crow had a dog as vicious as he was. It was an old, mangy little dog that bit the children and growled at everyone. The shoemaker had named him Rodil to express his contempt for the general who had persecuted Don Carlos. The cobbler goaded Rodil, who chased the cats. The dog was less cruel than his owner: when he caught a rat, he would kill it; on the other hand, when El Cuervo caught a rat, he would douse it with petrol and set it on fire, laughing uproariously. The shoemaker never missed a bullfight or an execution. El Chepa had great admiration and respect for the master of the house, Don Tomás Manso, who had been his leader among the royalist volunteers. El Cuervo showed himself to be a man of great intelligence and cunning, especially when it came to intrigue and malice. He must have had some fear that worried him, because he was always looking from the doorway, to the right and left of the street, and he never went out alone. If he did go out alone, he waited until nightfall and walked wrapped in his cloak. On the mezzanine of the house lived a former clerk named Gómez. Narciso Gómez was an insignificant, plump, blond man, married to a very gossipy and flirtatious woman named Juana. Juanita was a pale, white woman with light eyes and a waspish air. Juanita played the guitar and sang. She often had big hits with the song _Triste Chactas_, which ended with the refrain “Without my Atala I can’t live.” Juanita often visited a guesthouse nearby and was involved with a man who lived there as a boarder, a man named Luis, a bank employee. This Luis was a handsome man in his thirties, very pleased with his beard, his hands, and his nails. Aside from his accounts, the care of his beard, his hands, and his nails, he was a poor fool. Juanita cheated on Gómez, her husband, with Don Luis; but if she had been married to him, she would have cheated on him with Gómez. The gossips at 2 Calle de la Misericordia said that Juanita had had something to do with Don Tomás, the master of the house. “It’s false,” said those who denied this rumor. “She’s capable of that and much more; but he, not.” Juanita combined her shamelessness with a distinctly evil intention and took advantage of the reputations of the women in the neighborhood as much as she could. The owner, Don Tomás, lived on the first floor of the house. This man was already nearly sixty years old and married to a young , beautiful woman. Don Tomás was a tall, thin, pale, carefully shaved man with gray hair, always dressed in black. His profile was like an antique medal; he had one of those faces that look like silver, a concentrated and serious face. Don Tomás was a hard worker, an early riser, very orderly and meticulous. He lent money at interest in a somewhat usurious manner; but he was capable of doing a favor and giving money without interest. He had repeatedly favored his family in the village; but he was convinced that he had done wrong, because all he had gotten was forgetful and ungrateful people. Don Tomás firmly believed in human evil. Hence, he was a A fierce absolutist. For him, a man should always be restrained and tied up like a guard dog so he wouldn’t bite. Don Tomás was often seen roaming the storeroom during the day, and at night, armed with a lantern, in the company of Cuervo, searching the house. The room where Don Tomás lived perfectly represented the character of its owner. It was a gloomy, dark house, with the rooms constantly locked; it had a red parlor with damask seating, all the chairs against the walls, and a crystal chandelier on the ceiling. The dining room was gloomy, receiving light from the kitchen, and the bedrooms, unlit and unventilated, were filled with closets, dressers, and trunks, with pictures of saints and some Baby Jesus in a lantern, wearing little skirts and holding a silver ball. One went from one room to another by going up and down several steps. Don Tomás’s office was a large room with a window overlooking the courtyard, made of small, leaded glass and covered with faded yellow paper. It had a cupboard made into the hollow of the thick wall, with green curtains over the glass, a mahogany bureau, mahogany chairs, and an iron cash box. On the table and on the wall were an ivory crucifix and a picture of the Infante Don Carlos. The floor of the office was made of red tiles and was usually covered with yellow matting in winter. In a corner, on a shelf, were several green-covered business books with copper corners. In this sad and cold office, Don Tomás worked winter and summer, always dressed in black and wearing a black cap. Don Tomás never had a fire in the house. Don Tomás kept his money in small baskets, where he put the duros, pesetas, and cuartos, and he had a large wallet for the banknotes. From the screen door of the corridor, he could be seen writing with a quill pen, in finely quilled Spanish script, dedicating himself to these formulas so beloved by the Spanish: “My dear friend and master: His Majesty the King, may God keep him, etc., etc.” Don Tomás almost never went out during the day. At dusk, he dressed with a certain elegance, putting on his shirt and clean collar, his cape, his top hat, and his cane, and went out into the street, always very serious and grave. Upon returning home, he lit a candle and returned to his study, where he usually wrote. Don Tomás tried to convince everyone that the world had degenerated to such an extent that nothing was worthy of interest. On the second floor, on the side facing the street, a wealthy woman, Doña Leonarda, married to a Frenchman, had a boarding house. It was a boarding house for well-to-do people, where the food was good. The oldest pupil was a certain Don Jacinto, an old crooked businessman, a business agent, who went to all the theaters and festivities and visited Don Tomás. Don Luis, Juanita’s lover, also lived in this house. A little higher than Doña Leonarda’s house, the staircase forked, and there was an archway that led to the friars’ room. Then, higher up, the staircase forked again, and through another archway, one passed into the room of the chaplain of the Descalzas. These two archways constituted the servants’ quarters of the house. A few stairs higher was a large, long room with three windows, which extended across one of the walls of the patio. This attic was originally built above the roof and was untiled and without a ceiling. There were stopped clocks, closed boxes, sacks, and, on a shelf, a selection of silversmith’s tools . Don Tomás’s father had had this trade, and Don Tomás himself had practiced it in his youth. At the back of the attic had a small door with a frame that led to a narrow staircase. This staircase led to an abandoned roof terrace, with some rotten poles and some pieces of esparto rope. Higher up, and on the other side of the attic, were the garrets, in where two of Don Tomás’s employees, Burguillos and Morenito, had their homes. Burguillos, a former royalist sergeant, had built a flat roof made of planks with a wooden railing on the roof, and then placed boxes of plants on his terrace, which he looked after and regarded as the hanging gardens of Nineveh. Manolo the cat watched over this terrace; he hunted swallows and swifts and was as clever as his master. From Burguillos’s roof, which was smuggled in, since the neighboring nuns , had they known there was an observatory there, would not have allowed it, one could overlook the Poor Clares’ garden, which had a pond, and one could see the nuns strolling and the gardener working. Burguillos was from La Mancha, a man with a hard, buff-faced face, a graying mustache , winnowing ears, a small, narrow forehead, and a sallow complexion. Burguillos, a masterpiece of Castilian pedantry, always spoke ex cathedra, with that perfection that some people love and that, in general, consists of nothing more than the use of commonplaces. The phrase, the proverb, the “as the other says,” were always on his lips. Burguillos believed himself to be a master of innate knowledge; he knew how to do everything, but everything badly, which is why his enemies called him a bungler. He spoke in sentences and was extraordinarily dogmatic. This man from La Mancha had a very pretty daughter, Pepa, a woman with the ideas of a manola, as well-mannered as her father, from whom, it seems, she had inherited her clipped and know-it-all way of speaking. Pepa was a seamstress and fond of all kinds of audacity. Pepa, a showy, dark-haired girl, had large, brilliant black eyes , those eyes that seem to reflect the outside world better than the life of the soul. Burguillos was hosting a guest, an employee of the Monte de Piedad, Don Plácido del Moral. Don Plácido, a man of about fifty, dry, spartan, lived very humbly. Don Plácido was single, economical, and miserly. He would say something pleasant to everyone ; he would lock his little attic, as he called it, and wouldn’t allow anyone to enter it. He was a fairly well-educated man, with a good memory, and knew Latin. He made copies of documents for the chief chaplain of the Descalzas. He bought his clothes and hats at the Rastro (Flea Market), and read Horace’s Odes in Latin from an old, greasy copy. Don Plácido had been a great adventurer: he had been to America and taken part in the War of Independence and in the struggles of the constitutional years. His strange lack of imagination made him recount what he had seen with such little charm that, when listening to him, his military life seemed like nothing more than a series of dates for leaving one town and entering another. For him, war was a bureaucratic and boring affair. The other employee in the house, Morenito, was a very quiet man; He had a yellow face, small, shiny eyes like roasted coffee beans, a black mustache, and a black suit. He gave the impression of a magpie. Of the Franciscan friars who lived in the house and were the nuns’ confessors, the most constant was Father Cecilio, a fat, bulky, unintelligent friar, and, perhaps for that reason, the nuns’ favorite preacher. He was usually accompanied by a lay brother, Brother Felix, a fat, greasy, somewhat haggard man with a waddling gait, effeminate gestures, and a high-pitched voice. Brother Felix had been clean-shaven for a long time; but after the massacre of the friars, he left his beard, black and full. This Brother Felix was a repulsive and disturbing figure. The head chaplain, Don Bernardo, had the face of a Castilian villager, hard and frowning; but he was a good man. He hardly interacted with anyone, did not look anyone in the eye, and devoted himself to historical studies. When someone visited him, they would see him writing at a small table, surrounded by manuscripts and old books, in a small office with shelves full of parchment volumes. At that time, he was writing the history of several religious communities. Don Bernardo was a great Latinist and a conscientious historian, which made him He didn’t win favors or friendships. “First and foremost, the truth,” he would say rudely, muttering his words. With this truthful spirit, he didn’t want to get involved in questions of morality and dogma, understanding that his faith could be shattered. Don Bernardo said Mass at the Descalzas, but for whatever reason, he stayed home and didn’t go to church. Always inclined to compromise on matters of morality, he contrasted with Father Cecilio, who was intransigent and fanatic. Don Bernardo found precedents for everything; so he and the neighboring Franciscan friar didn’t have the slightest sympathy for each other. There were those who claimed that Father Cecilio profoundly hated Don Bernardo, and that Don Bernardo despised the friars in general, especially those in the neighborhood. The Chaplains’ House, once like a polyp attached to the church and the convent, had its own life. They say that every house is a world in itself. That one was. There were worries, love affairs, and mysteries. Pepa de Burguillos, Juanita, and the girls from Don Tomás’s house and the guesthouse gave rise to gossip. People said Don Tomás kept secrets; it was said that beneath one of the salt warehouses, which had an alabaster fountain with a Medusa head on the wall, there was a cave with large underground passages, and that these passages connected via galleries with the Convent of the Descalzas and the Royal Palace. Burguillos, who sometimes worked as a bricklayer, claimed to have explored part of these underground passages. Like mollusks clinging to a rock, that part of humanity lived in the old mansion. Inside, this house in the Descalzas neighborhood , Misericordia 2, was a sinister house; a house good for crimes, for goblins, for all kinds of intrigues and mysteries. Chapter 28. THE EXECUTION OF MIYAR, THE BOOKSELLER. And soon, too, a sad, mournful voice will sound: “To do good for the soul of the one they are about to execute!” ESPRONCEDA: “The man facing death.” At the beginning of 1831, Don Tomás Manso took into his house, as an employee, a second- or third-degree nephew of his, who had come from Lerma and was named Miguel Rocaforte. When Miguel came to Madrid, he was a naive, violent young man, full of illusions. He went to work in the office on Calle de la Misericordia, under the orders of Narciso Gómez, the man married to Doña Juanita; and since his uncle did not want Miguel to go to a boarding house, nor did he want him to live with him, because he was jealous, he had his nephew’s bed placed in the large, long attic, where there were broken clocks and silversmith’s tools. Miguel worked with Don Narciso on the ground floor, in a narrow, damp corner, with a barred window overlooking the patio. This office had a door to a long, dark hallway that led to storerooms, where piles of salt and salt balls could be seen, some so large they looked like artillery shells . The atmosphere on that ground floor was very damp, partly because it lacked ventilation and partly because of the efflorescence of the salt. Miguel spent his first few months there bored and desperate, planning to move elsewhere. Then, when he met the bookbinder, who lived and had a small workshop on the ground floor and lent him books, he devoted himself to reading. Later , he settled into his life as an employee, took a liking to his attic, where he was alone and independent, went out into the street, made friends, and went to the theater. When Miguel moved into Don Tomás’s house, he was nineteen years old. He was a romantic and wild young man who, back in his village, had begun to play pranks, read poetry, and write it. He and a rival in adventures, León Zapata, had scandalized the town by acting as ghosts in the streets of Lerma and singing _Trágala_ in front of the absolutists’ house. According to Aviraneta, Miguel was not fit for a quiet life and orderly. Don Eugenio found in him the temperament of a guerrilla. With El Empecinado or Mina, he said, he would have quickly risen to the rank of captain or colonel. He was a better man to handle a saber than to work with a pen. Impulsive, brave, daring, improvident, and absurdly vain, he was one of those types, Aviraneta added, who have the mentality of a soldier, of operatic tenors, types for whom life is a succession of arias. Placing himself in an interesting situation, preferably a dramatic one, and then defending his role spiritedly , was Miguel’s greatest concern. Miguel, like most impulsive men who reason lightly, went into action with surprising strength and energy. “I,” Aviraneta said, “wanted to give that boy political concerns and make him my assistant in prison; but Miguel was incapable of submitting to anything.” Miguel, during his first months in Madrid, had no friend other than Gómez, the clerk, and Gómez drove him to despair. The latter was an insignificant, smiling little man, content with his lot, despite everyone saying his wife was cheating on him. At night, by the light of an oil lamp, Miguel read romantic poems and tear-jerking novels in his attic. One day, shortly after arriving in Madrid, he learned from the house’s caretaker, El Cuervo, and from Burguillos that they were going to execute a liberal bookseller in the Plaza de la Cebada. The two friends invited him to accompany them to witness the execution, and at noon, after working in the warehouse and leaving the cobbler to his wife in charge of the stall and the gatehouse, the three of them walked, crossing streets, out to Toledo Street, and arrived at the Plaza de la Cebada, which was then cleared and free of all buildings. The soldiers surrounded the gallows and formed a square. A crowd of ragged people crowded around to witness the execution, and the dragoons reared their horses and led them back into the ranks of the onlookers. The death knell was rung in all the nearby churches: in San Isidro, San Millán, Almudena, Sacramento, and the Bishop’s Chapel; and the Brothers of Peace and Charity, dressed in black robes, walked through the streets in pairs; some ringing the bell, and others holding up a tin box and saying in a sad, monotonous voice: “To do good for the soul of the one they are about to execute.” Miguel and his two companions stopped in the middle of the crowd. Miguel heard that the bookseller Miyar’s wife had gone to Aranjuez the day before to ask the King for mercy. The poor woman waited for Ferdinand VII; but Ferdinand didn’t come out because it was raining. Perhaps he didn’t come out for fear of being forced to forgive, which must have been unpleasant for a lowly and spiteful man like him. At roughly half past twelve, the procession began to appear in the Plaza de la Cebada. A Brother of Peace and Charity, carrying a large cross, led the procession. Behind them marched two rows of hooded figures, holding yellow candles, chanting a litany; then a group of mounted constables. Immediately after, riding on a donkey, came the bookseller Miyar, between two priests. He wore a long white robe; his face was as white as his robe, and his hands were bruised, almost black, from the pressure of the rope, which tortured him. Between his stiff hands, he carried a picture of Christ. Seeing the gallows, the prisoner turned his head in horror and looked toward the public, his eyes wide with fright; but the priests forced him to continue, placing a crucifix in front of him. The Crow then turned to the prisoner and exclaimed, “What, did you think they were going to give you candy?” Burguillos applauded this. Miguel, indignant, made a gesture of disgust and annoyance and abruptly separated himself from his companions. This gesture was noticed by a young man and an old man, who immediately approached him. “Are you a friend of that hunchback?” the old man asked. “No; he lives in the house where I work, but I have nothing to do with him, nor do I share his feelings.” The young man and the old man shook his hand effusively. Miguel didn’t want to witness the execution. The young man and the old man joined Miguel and walked up Toledo Street. The young man was tall, thin, with long hair, and wore a coat and top hat; the old man, shorter, wore a wide-brimmed hat and cape. As they passed a café on Imperial Street, the young man invited Miguel and the old man in; but the latter refused and led them to a nearby tavern. It was the tavern of Balseiro’s brother, a thief who later gained great fame and was involved in the Candelas trial. The young man and the old man, upon meeting inside the tavern, spoke violently and vented their fury. The King, according to the young man, was a wretch, an evil, a vile man, heartless, without conscience, dominated by a clique of lackeys and the friars. The old man spoke of the miserable farce of condemning a man to death and placing a holy image of Christ in his hands; as if it weren’t they, those who called themselves representatives of Christ, who were condemning him. Miguel listened with pleasure, because those men had their ideas; then he said goodbye to them to get to the storeroom on time. Upon entering the house, he heard Cuervo recount Miyar’s execution, with all its details, laughing, as if it were one of the funniest and most ridiculous things one could ever witness. When Miguel spoke of this matter, he saw that everyone in the house, beginning with Don Tomás and continuing with Father Cecilio, asserted that the bookseller Miyar had been well punished because he was a heretic and they needed to be taught a lesson. There was little mercy in that house at 2 Calle de la Misericordia. Miguel Rocaforte had to conceal his ideas, much to his despair. He knew Don Tomás was a Carlist, but he didn’t believe him to be such a fanatic; He later discovered that he had been an administrator for the Duke of Infantado and was, at that time, one of the most influential men in the apostolic party. A few years later, Miguel recounted in his Diary that, during the massacre of the friars, he saw the young man and the old man he had encountered in the Plaza de la Cebada during Miyar’s execution applauding the mob on Toledo Street, while they burned the furniture taken from San Isidro and carried the friars’ corpses in a cart. When he first arrived in Madrid, Miguel mingled in street brawls and spoke enthusiastically about politics; later, love overcame these concerns and absorbed him completely. Miguel made the mistake, which he later regretted, of taking his fellow countryman León Zapata as a confidant in his love affairs and introducing him to Don Plácido, the guest from Burguillos. Chapter 29. SOLITUDE. Do not forget the duenna, I have told you, and it is out of use. Wife, mill, and garden always want use. ARCHPRIEST OF HITA: _Book of Good Love_. After three months of living there, Miguel was an important member of the household. Don Tomás’s girls, Doña Juanita, and Pepa de Burguillos, would seek him out and speak to him. He became friends with Don Plácido and went with him to visit the priest Don Bernardo and hear his learned historical dissertations. Miguel frequently went to the house in Burguillos and chatted there with Pepa. Her arrogant displays of insolence failed to excite young Miguel. On the other hand, Don Plácido gave him bad reports about the La Mancha native’s daughter. Don Plácido had little sympathy for women in general, and even less for his employer’s daughter, whom he accused of being selfish, self-interested, and flirtatious. Gómez, the employee, also took Miguel to his house for a few days. Narciso Gómez had no sympathy for Rocaforte; he thought that the boss would favor the young man because he was his nephew. While Don Tomás did not make the slightest distinction for Miguel, Gómez did not either; but when he saw the boy enter the boss’s house, he hurried to take him to hers. Juanita, Gómez’s wife, flirted with Miguel and teased him about the conversations he had with Pepa Burguillos. In turn, Pepa told Miguel that she already knew he went to Gómez’s house and chatted with Juanita. “She never tells anyone no,” the attic bully ended by saying, “when one suit goes, she takes another. Poor husband.” Miguel, who found himself sought after by both women, took a stand and didn’t decide on either of them. Upon learning this, Don Tomás began to warm to Miguel and began inviting him to lunch on Sunday nights. Don Tomás wasn’t a very kind host. He spoke little. He read the Gazette or some moderate newspaper and commented on the political situation in Spain, always from a terribly absolutist and ultramontane point of view . Miguel had to hide his ideas and was obliged to pray the rosary before saying goodbye before going to sleep. Sometimes, in conversation, feigning innocence, he tried to offer a liberal opinion; but Don Tomás would silence him with disdain, as if the idea he expressed didn’t deserve serious examination. When Father Cecilio attended a social gathering, he defined his opinions from the height of his wisdom, and his opinions were dogma. Father Cecilio had said it; there was no going back on the matter. Miguel had to force himself and bite his lip to avoid protesting the friar’s views . More than the opinion itself, he was bothered by the tone of the Franciscan priest’s expression. Don Tomás’s wife, Soledad, was a young, pretty woman with the face of a resigned and sad virgin. Soledad’s face was very elongated, her eyes large, dark, her expression melancholic, and her complexion pale; she touched her face simply, without coquettishness, and she always dressed in black. Soledad’s mother, a sick woman, half paralyzed, lived locked in her room, cared for by her daughter. Soledad had married Don Tomás, even though she was twice his age, thinking of her ailing mother, because before their marriage, mother and daughter had lived in poverty bordering on misery. Don Tomás believed he had done enough to free Soledad and her mother from misery , and he didn’t bother much about his wife. He assumed Soledad should be his housekeeper, and that this position should be enough to keep her satisfied and content. At first, Miguel didn’t bother with Soledad, nor did Soledad with Miguel; but one day they began to observe each other, and he began to see that, despite her withdrawn and sad air, she was a pretty woman, and Soledad noticed that Miguel was a handsome young man who glanced at him furtively whenever he could. Trust between Soledad and Miguel grew very slowly, and suddenly love sprang up between them like a flame. Perhaps Miguel had false ideas about women, and often spoke foolish and insane things; but Soledad undoubtedly knew how to strip away all the literary debris from Miguel’s conversation and see in his words nothing but the enthusiasm that shone through them, as well as in his attitude and expression. On the other hand, Soledad had a horror of adultery and scandal ; she thought of hell all the time; but Miguel inspired her confidence. During the day, Miguel would sometimes see Soledad peering through the glass windows from behind the bars of his office, and there came a time when he knew the exact hours when she appeared. One Sunday morning, Miguel wrote a love letter and showed it to Soledad from the attic window. She nodded from inside . Miguel put the letter in a book, tied it with string, and lowered it until she could reach the book. The next day, Soledad replied, and a passionate correspondence flowed between them. Miguel invented a number of ingenious procedures to prevent the correspondence from being discovered, and for some time no one found out. Without a doubt, Miguel saw in the beginning of that love a A personal triumph, a triumph of pride against the self-satisfied stupidity of Don Tomás and the categorical and stubborn dogmatism of Father Cecilio. Miguel thought more about his own satisfied vanity than about the woman who had committed herself to him. Later, he began to lose the satisfaction of his pride and found himself preoccupied with the situation he found himself in and with the fact that he had left the woman he loved. At that moment, he forgot his literary, romantic attitude and began to acquire a sense of responsibility. Then the idea of studying French and English and going abroad with Soledad occurred to him. For another man, perhaps such reflection would have turned him off; but Miguel had the soul of a conqueror, a guerrilla, and rather loved the danger that eluded him. Soledad had lived in a completely hostile environment; she took care of her mother, did the housework, and was spied on by all the neighbors, starting with Pepa and Juanita. If she ever complained that her life was sad and boring, the few socialites who visited Don Tomás would pounce on her and tell her, amid irony and sarcasm, that the ideal life for a woman consisted of being married to a respectable and religious person. Everything else was worthless; it was merely the nonsense and romanticism of the time. Everything else included the only pleasant thing life could have. Soledad led a sad existence, taking care of her mother, doing the chores, and rarely leaving the house. She had never been to the theater or read anything other than religious books. She had no friends; on holidays, she went to the Descalzas church, and afterward, she went for a stroll to do some shopping. Miguel, in his romantic exaltation, soon convinced Soledad that life wasn’t this sad routine; that love shines in existence like the Milky Way on starry nights, and that when the heart has spoken, one can and should rise above social concerns. She was quickly persuaded; he continued writing her letters, which she read and answered, stealing hours from sleep. Miguel and Soledad had a date one Sunday, and then several. He used to wait for her in the cloister of the Descalzas, and on one of the windows he left a pencil marking the place where they were to meet. Despite all his precautions, their love affair spread. Pepa, Juanita, and Cuervo had formed a network of espionage around them. Don Tomás appeared impassive, without the slightest suspicion, of extraordinary equanimity. Soledad felt great terror, which increased by the moment when she found herself in front of her husband, and she communicated this terror to her lover. Her husband was a man of terrible coldness and concentrated passions , she told Miguel. She had seen him a few times, though not many, lose his calm air and become a wild beast. The possibility that her husband, now aware of everything that was happening, would remain so impassive redoubled her terror. Soledad feared that her husband knew everything and was plotting a terrible revenge. “Let revenge fall on me, for I am the most guilty,” she would say. Miguel wanted to believe that Don Tomás was a poor man who knew nothing, and was not violent. However, he was learning that his employer had engaged in dangerous smuggling deals, that he had proven himself a daring guerrilla, and that in his attempts at conspiracy with the absolutists, he had been as daring as he was energetic. Don Tomás kept secrets from his coreligionists; the cave in his house, it was said, was filled with boxes of papers and documents. He was the only one who knew what was inside. If anyone knew any of his secrets, it was the doorman, Cuervo, his right-hand man. Many considered this former soldier in the Army of the Faith to be his master’s accomplice. Accomplice in what? It was unknown, but the thought that the two had committed some mischief was evident upon seeing them. The Raven was devoted to his master, body and soul. Soledad, as she passed through the doorway, feared the gaze of that sinister shoemaker. Don Tomás often went to Monnier’s bookstore with Miguel to read French royalist newspapers, whose news interested him. When the matter of Castelo’s supposed robbery arose, and when Miguel refused to be searched and was taken to jail, Don Tomás, despite his impassiveness, was surprised. The energy of his clerk amazed him, and he understood that he was a man of substance. Miguel carried Soledad’s letters and her diary in his pocket. Rocaforte, upon entering the jail, thought that the danger Soledad was in was averted; and he promised himself not to say anything, even if he had to remain there for a long time. Don Tomás examined his clerk’s behavior and came to see clearly the reason why he had not wanted to be searched. He lacked proof, and he assumed that, sooner or later, he would find it. During the time Miguel was imprisoned, Soledad suffered greatly; Her mother died, and she was growing increasingly pale and sadder. Don Tomás decided to send her to Sigüenza, to the home of some relatives. Chapter 30. ANONYMOUS NOTES. Wicked people are like flies, which crawl over a man’s body and stop only on his wounds. LA BRUYERE: _The characters_. During the time that Miguel was imprisoned in the Corte Jail, several anonymous notes were received at Don Tomás’s house. One of them was from Juanita, Gómez’s wife; the others were from León Zapata, Miguel’s countryman. Juanita greatly hated Soledad. Zapata wanted to mortify Don Tomás and, in the process, hinder Miguel’s success . Don Plácido served as his prompter and gave him information about the people in the house. Juanita’s anonymous note, addressed to Don Tomás, read as follows: “With great regret, I must inform you that your wife is cheating on you with Miguel Rocaforte, who is now in jail. Ask at 4 Peregrinos Street, where Soledad and Miguel met, and they will give you news. A FRIEND.” Zapata’s anonymous notes continued for a long time and had a different character. There were several. The first read as follows: “In that holy old house of Capellanes there is a woman who adorns her husband’s forehead. She is Juanita, Mrs. Gómez. Mr. Gómez can no longer handle his head. Every year one more antler. The house at 2 Misericordia Street is in good condition! THE GOBLIN.” The next day another anonymous note arrived: “Young Miguel Rocaforte boasts everywhere of having cuckolded his boss. It was written: You have been tame, you are tame, and you will be tame. “The house at 2 Calle de la Misericordia is a good one! THE GOBLIN.” A short time later, another note arrived: “In that holy house, now called La Sal, there is a Crow who must have been cawing, long ago, in the courtyard of a prison. That Crow, a bad shoemaker, is a bandit, a wretch, and a swindler, who deceives everyone , starting with his master. The house at 2 Calle de la Misericordia is a good one! THE GOBLIN.” A few days later, another anonymous note was received: “In that Christian house, there is a Pepita who has two parties at once: one for feast days, and another for work days. Now Father Cecilio’s swine is visiting her. What is Burguillos doing in the meantime? Burguillos remains silent and agrees. The house at 2 Calle de la Misericordia is a good one! THE GOBLIN.” Finally, this litany was received, which ran as follows: “Litany to be recited in the House of Salt. Of the meekness of Don Tomás Manso, Of the grace of the Raven, Of the visits of the Franciscan fathers, Of the gossip of the Poor Clare nuns, Deliver us, Lord; From the frown of Don Bernardo, From the belly of Father Cecilio, From the contrabelly of Brother Felix, From the chatter of Don Plácido, Deliver us, Lord; From the ardor of Pepita, From Juanita’s ill-tempers, From good Gómez’s cuckoldry, From Burguillos’ flatulence, Deliver us, Lord; Deliver us, Lord, from so many scoundrels, from so many cuckolds, from so many swine who inhabit that house, Mercy, 2. Mercy, Lord! THE GOBLIN. Don Tomás read these anonymous letters with terrible indignation. The first understood that they came from one of the women of the house, from Pepa, or from Juanita; the others, he thought, must be from some friend of Miguel; but he could not guess who. Chapter 31. PREPARATIONS. May my hope not be satisfied or fulfilled if you did not see revenge where you saw affront. GUILLÉN DE CASTRO: _The Youth of the Cid_. The Crow had always had a great antipathy for Miguel. Without a doubt, the youth and strength of the young man excited his envy. The Crow had assured the house that Miguel would not be released from prison; when he saw him return, he felt a great hatred for him. Don Tomás received Miguel with marked coldness and had the Crow search the young man’s room and clothes. The latter had left Soledad’s letters and her diary in Aviraneta’s hands, in a tied-up package. The Crow found nothing. Don Tomás seemed content; but the Crow hinted to his master and, at last, told him clearly that it was no less true that Soledad was having an understanding with Miguel. “Do you know?” “I know everything.” ” Have they told you?” “I’ve seen it.” ” What have you seen?” “I’ve seen them write letters to each other, then speak to each other, and make appointments. ” “Where did they meet? ” “Generally in the cloister of the Barefoot Nuns.” At first, Miguel would write the place of the meeting in pencil on one of the windows; then she would go and erase what had been written; Then it was a poor man at the door of this church who was in charge of her mail. “Did you see him? ” “Yes. ” “What else did you see?” “I also saw that one of those days, upon leaving the Church of the Descalzas, Doña Soledad passed by here as if she were going shopping, looked to the right and left, and entered Peregrinos Street, where Miguel was waiting for her. ” Don Tomás felt the desire for revenge suffocating him; he didn’t have much affection for his wife, but he considered that by loving Miguel he was offending the dignity of the man who had lifted him out of poverty. “All right,” said Don Tomás. For Don Tomás, the betrayal of Soledad and Miguel was further proof of human wickedness, of the debased and vile spirit of men. Before the Raven, the master believed that he should maintain an indifferent attitude , as if human misery could not reach him. The following days, despite his impassiveness, Don Tomás shuddered under the hunchback’s brilliant and ironic gaze. Miguel had returned to his work and seemed calm and happy; his uncle spoke little to him; Gómez looked at him smiling; Burguillos watched him attentively, and the Crow gave him a long, spiteful look. Once, Don Tomás and the Crow had a nocturnal conference. The next day, in the afternoon, it was Sunday, and no one was home. Master and servant entered the fountain’s storeroom with the Medusa head and remained there for a long time. The storeroom had a low roof, bars overlooking the patio, and large flagstones on the floor. Between them were two with slits, like loopholes, that could be lifted. The Crow lifted them with a crowbar, and a large, dark hole appeared. The Crow brought in a lighted lantern, hanging from a cord, and a hollow was seen in the sandy earth, partly lined with a brick vault, with half-collapsed arches. Don Tomás and the Crow descended into the basement by a long staircase, and they examined it. It was eight to ten meters deep. It was completely closed, and there was no communication with the outside; the only gallery entrance that seemed to have existed in the past was closed by a large millstone. In the center of this There was a hole in the stone. The Crow put an iron bar through it, suspecting it might have an exit, and took out pieces of coal and bones. After examining the underground space and seeing that it had no access, master and servant returned to the storehouse and performed several strange maneuvers together. Using the lever, the Crow moved the two large stones that closed the hole in the floor to a corner, and over the remaining hole, about a meter square, he placed a light mat that perfectly concealed it, held at the edges by some balls of salt. In front of the hole, he placed a table. The Crow had an imagination for evil. He constantly excited his master. Don Tomás hesitated; now he considered revenge logical and just, now he considered it excessively severe. The Crow, who was the evil spirit that hovered over Don Tomás’s soul , excited him, made him see Miguel’s petulance and boasting. Chapter 32. THE CRIME. Get up early and kill first. CALDERÓN: _The monster of fortune_. AFTER many conferences with the Raven, Don Tomás made up his mind. One day he said to Miguel: “I have to send someone with an important commission to Zaragoza, and on the way to Sigüenza. Do you want to go? ” “With pleasure. ” “I warn you that it is a commission for the Carlists. ” “I don’t mind. ” “Fine; then ask for a passport and a ticket for the stagecoach.” Miguel was enthusiastic about the idea of seeing Soledad soon, and not the slightest suspicion occurred to him. Two days later he notified his uncle and said: “I already have everything in order. ” “You have to make the trip with the utmost caution. It is advisable that you tell everyone that you are leaving today, and not leave until tomorrow. Come home tonight, at twelve; do not go up to the room, so that they do not hear your footsteps. I will give you the key, go in and go to the storeroom by the fountain, where I will wait for you.” “All right. ” “I also want you to go to confession so I can leave Madrid and make this trip, which could be fraught with danger. ” “Good.” Miguel didn’t take much notice of this advice. That night he was at the Café Nuevo, and shortly before midnight, he approached the house on Calle de la Misericordia. Miguel was wrapped tightly in his cloak; it was a pitch-black winter night. The young man pushed open the shutter of the door, which opened noiselessly, and closed it again, went through the hall, opened the door of the glass screen that led to the patio, and then the door to the storage room with the small fountain. “Come in!” said Don Tomás, his voice trembling. Miguel had never been in this storage room, where it was said Don Tomás kept his secrets. He saw a safe in a corner and a small candle on a table. “Has anyone seen you enter the house?” asked Don Tomás. “No one. The night is very pitch-black and very cold.” “Are you ready? ” “Yes. ” “Have you confessed yet? ” “Yes. ” “Good.” Don Tomás, taking a long walk, approached the table so that the light did not shine on his face. That way, the sinister and altered air of his features could not be seen. “Give this letter to Soledad when you arrive in Sigüenza,” he said, “and take this package to Zaragoza. The address is on the paper.” Miguel walked slowly toward the table. Don Tomás looked at him with a longing look. “Why is she looking at me like that?” Miguel wondered. “If she survives,” Don Tomás thought, in turn, “God must have willed it.” Miguel took several steps and approached the table. Suddenly, the mat was heard sinking, dragging the balls of salt that held it, and the young man disappeared. At the same moment, the Raven jumped between two rows of sacks and appeared in the middle of the warehouse. Don Tomás peered into the hole and heard a muffled moan of pain. The Crow, armed with the crowbar, vigorously dragged the two large slabs one after the other and closed the gap in the floor. “I can’t hear anything anymore,” Don Tomás said, trembling. “He must have died from the blow,” replied the Crow. Don Tomás sank down onto a chair with the air of an exhausted man. The Crow began to make a large pyramid of salt balls on the flagstones that concealed the hole through which the crime had been committed. The work finished, the accomplices looked at each other. The Crow’s expression was one of cruelty and satisfaction. Don Tomás’s, a mixture of horror and fright. The two left the warehouse for the patio, and then the entrance. The Crow entered his hovel, and Don Tomás climbed the stairs to his room. Two weeks later, Soledad returned to Madrid, still unaffected . She didn’t dare ask any questions. Her husband, indifferent and impassive, said nothing to her. Husband and wife lived like this for months and months. No one in the house had the slightest suspicion. The Crow continued working on his entrance. Two years later, one day when Soledad was praying in the church of the Descalzas, she fainted and fell to the ground. They took her home and called the doctor, and then Don Bernardo, the chaplain. Don Bernardo spent a long time with the sick woman, who kept saying in a low voice, “Miguel! Miguel!” A few hours later, Soledad was dead. Don Tomás retired to Lerma and sold the Salt House. It passed through various hands until the last owner decided to tear it down and re-align the street of Capellanes. Chapter 33. THE SCHOOL OF CHRIST. The sleep of reason produces monsters. GOYA: _Caprichos_. Don Tomás and the Raven retired to Lerma and lived together for some years. The Raven was incapable of remaining quiet and uninvolved in public and private affairs, and during the Civil War he denounced some liberal citizens to the party of Cura Merino, who were shot. Shortly after, some of their relatives caught Raven in the field and beat him so badly that he died from the beating. Don Tomás, finding himself without his servant, felt more relief than sorrow; Raven’s ironic, harsh gaze reminded him of the cave in the warehouse on Mercy Street. Finding himself alone was a respite for him, but a respite that lasted only a short time, because his terrors returned. Don Tomás was devoted to religion; he was constantly in church praying and confessing. At that time, there was a small, dilapidated house in the village that was almost always locked. Only at dusk was it usually opened to admit a few people. If one entered the narrow entrance hall and went up to the single floor, one first came across a black-painted room with a small, barred window overlooking the street. In the middle of the room was a coffin, covered with black cloth, with four unlit candles. This room was connected through a narrow door to a dark, unlit chapel. The chapel had an altar in the middle, with a Nazarene crowned with thorns and covered in blood, and around it were vestry cabinets, and above the cabinets, several skulls and various disciplines. On the wall was a frame with a piece of paper on which a list of names could be read. This small house with its funeral room and chapel constituted the School of Christ. It included several religious figures whose names were listed on the wall. At night, ten or twelve men would enter to do penance, and after praying before the coffin, covered with black cloth, they would pass one after another to the chapel, where they would cover themselves with a hood. When they were all gathered in a circle before the altar, the lights were turned off, and a large, glassless, tin lantern was placed on the floor. It had holes through which faint rays of light passed. Then one would stand out, strip, and stand in the middle of the circle of hooded figures; then he would take a skull in his left hand and the disciplines in his right, and begin to whip himself, while the sinister choir prayed aloud. Don Tomás belonged to the School of Christ, he disciplined himself, he used cilices, and in his house he would pray, stretched out on the ground at full length, shrieking loudly. That last moan of Miguel’s as he fell into the dungeon he heard in his mind with every step; the sigh of the wind, the ringing of a bell, the screech of an owl, the noise of a window moved by a gust of the north wind, every murmur of the earth or the air reminded him of the final complaint of the young man who had died for him. Many times he would have preferred to lose his mind forever than to live in such a miserable and sad way. Chapter 34. THE GHOST. I can already hear the voice of terror rising in my heart. AESCHYLUS: _The Libation Bearers_. SHORTLY after the civil war, there was talk in Lerma that ghosts were appearing in the Plaza at midnight. Some had seen them clearly. The night watchmen, no matter how vigilant they were, could not find them. No one knew if they were goblins, specters, or souls in torment; But it was claimed that one of these ghosts had one hand of lead and the other of tow, and that it enjoyed the power to warn the one about to die of his impending death. Apparently, some night watchmen didn’t feel much interest in encountering these mysterious beings, because when they were told they were walking in one direction, they went in the other. Others, more determined and brave, carried a pistol and a club, and claimed that the ghosts wouldn’t escape without a blow with a club or a shot. Don Tomás had heard of these apparitions, dismissing them as childish, without giving them any further importance. One night when the old man, after saying his prayers, was going to bed, he heard soft footsteps in the street. For some time, Don Tomás had had a bad ear. He heard the footsteps from a distance and opened a small window in his bedroom. He saw a white object approaching along the opposite sidewalk. It was the ghost. Don Tomás, amazed and confused, remained at the window, and, distraught, asked: “Who are you? What do you want?” Then the ghost, with a sepulchral voice, said: “Murderer! I am the soul of Miguel Rocaforte, condemned because of you.” Don Tomás withdrew from the window trembling and threw himself on the floor to pray. The next day they found him unconscious, dying; they took him to bed and he never got up again. A few days later, the night watchmen caught one of the ghosts, who turned out to be a sergeant of the national militia who was having an affair with the wife of a shopkeeper in the plaza. The other ghost, whom they did not manage to catch, was known to be León Zapata, Miguel Rocaforte’s companion. Madrid, December, 1920. ADAM IN HELL Chapter 35. ADAM. Nothing is gained by violating the sensibilities in their inclinations; it is necessary to deceive it and, as Swift says, divert the whale with a barrel to save the ship. KANT: _Anthropology_. At the time of the massacre of the friars, when a portion of people caught in the streets of Madrid were admitted to the Court Jail, they brought there a young, handsome boy, recently arrived from a town in Alcarria, Andrés Lafuente. This man from Alcarria came with Román, the son of the bookseller on Calle de la Paz, and with a young shoemaker named Gaspar, whom everyone knew as Gasparito and whom I told you about before. That boy from Alcarria was considered a naive and innocent youth , and he was pitied for having fallen into the hell of prison. The poet Espronceda, during the few days he was in jail, called him Adam, and probably with him in mind he conceived the character of his poem _The Devil World_, which he was to publish a few years later; Andrés , alias Adán, was a strong, handsome, very lucid, and very innocent young man. Gasparito the shoemaker became one of his defenders. Gasparito the cobbler was a liberal, short, blond, well-read, a friend of the secondhand bookseller’s son on Calle de la Paz, and he showed himself to be a man of good faith and good intentions. I took Gasparito under my protection and wanted to protect Adán as well. although he saw that a boy as inexperienced as that one, locked in the second courtyard among thieves, would quickly be infected by the corruption of the prison. Father Anselmo also believed that with his sermons he would turn the boy from the evil path; but Adán laughed at him. Chapter 36. FORTUNA’S GROUP. Is it possible,” said Andrenio, ” that we will never be free of monsters and beasts, that all of life must be a weapon? GRACIÁN: The Critic. The prisoners of the second courtyard divided themselves into groups for meals, named after the person who led them. Adán ended up in Fortuna’s group. Fortuna was a gambling house thug who had great influence. Fortuna was a strong, daring, dark-haired man with a mustache and a mole on his cheek, a shameless and cynical type. He earned the cheap money in prison; But he wasn’t truly brave. He was one of those who, there in the second courtyard, were said to get up early. He didn’t face difficult situations calmly, serenely, and quietly; rather, he weathered them. Of course, he undoubtedly had the habit of audacity. Fortuna had been imprisoned for treacherously killing a man. Affiliated in prison with the absolutist group, he was one of our most bitter enemies. Undoubtedly, finding our people less tender, less energetic, than the absolutists had given him great hostility toward them. He hated me greatly; once, in the second courtyard, he threw himself at me; but I punched him with all my might in the side, knocking the wind out of him. Fortuna was a petulant and cynical man, who left a trail of vice wherever he went. He flaunted his debauched instincts; He wore a jacket with colorful tassels, a large silver watch with a chain covered in charms, and a calañés on his head. Fortuna sought the friendship of young men, offering them his protection; according to some, he arranged for them to communicate with the women’s section; according to others, there was something worse to his maneuvers. Cadedis, a Gascon adventurer who was being prosecuted for theft, and a gentleman of industry, were part of the same gang. The Gascon constantly asserted that Spain was a country without civilization and culture. Despite his culture, the Frenchman was very superstitious. He believed in palmistry, in magic, and that witches would make balls of wool from the mattresses of a bed in such a way that if they weren’t stopped in their work, they would suffocate the person sleeping on it. He also claimed that in the Saint Esprit neighborhood of Bayonne, devils were sold inside a reed, called familiars, with which miracles were performed. He had had one of these. A gypsy, a horse thief, had cheated Cadedis and taken his money. The gypsy was a greeter and, according to what he said, had the wheel of Saint Catherine on the roof of his mouth and a cross under his tongue. The other personage was a gentleman of industry whom I’ve already told you about, Señor Pérez de Bustamante. This gentleman called himself Count of Otero, Marquis of la Vega, etc. He spent cards full of titles and decorations. He was, he said, close friends with officials in secretariats, with aristocrats and ministers; he facilitated everything, and offered jobs on the condition that he be advanced some sums to reward the services of his supporters. He said he had traveled all over Europe and America. He told me he had met me in Mexico and Madrid, at the White Horse Inn on Caballero de Gracia Street, where I had never been. Fortuna’s gang, consisting of himself, the Gascon , and the gentleman of industry, had been completed by Adán. Fortuna flattered Señor Pérez de Bustamante, and the latter protected Fortuna; the thug and the gentleman of industry understood each other perfectly. The young Pinturas and others often approached this gang, which handled money and offered coffee and liquor. None of those who formed this gang had joined the liberals. They undoubtedly did not want to commit themselves until they came to see clearly the advantages that this could bring them. Chapter 37. HATE. The anointing! Favor! They have wounded me! ESPRONCEDA: _The Devil world_. GASPARITO, the shoemaker, had wanted to preserve his friend Andrés, whom we, and everyone else in the prison, called Adán, from the corruption of the environment. He wanted to teach him to read and write; but Fortuna, together with Pérez de Bustamante, _Doña Paquita_, and Cadedis, were determined to hinder Gasparito’s plans. For some time, a struggle for influence began to win Adán’s sympathy. Gasparito lent him books and newspapers, gave him some money, and made Andrés come to see me; for his part, Fortuna gave him cigars, taught him how to play cards, how to play tricks, and how to throw a knife. The thug would say to the boy: “God grant you fortune, son, knowing a little is enough for you.” Pinturas would explain the methods of forgery, and Pérez de Bustamante would explain the intrigues and schemes he’d gotten himself into. Despite Gasparito’s illusions, I could clearly see that Fortuna and his group were winning. Adán assumed a hypocritical air in front of me; but, from what the people in the second courtyard told me, the boy was hanging around with Fortuna, with Doña Paquita, and some women from the other apartment; he was playing cards, smoking, had tattoos on his arms, and was beginning to bully. On Carnival Day in 1835, Fortuna and his gang had a splendid meal, with chickens, a roast suckling pig, and Valdepeñas wine . They had smuggled in a lot of brandy and invited all their friends. The crowd got drunk, and they asked the warden for permission to dress up. Gasparito, Román, Father Anselmo, and I entered the second courtyard to witness the party. Young Pinturas joined us, and we strolled around the Gallinería and reached the farthest courtyard. At this point, disguised as women, we saw Doña Paquita, walking between Adán and Fortuna, arm in arm with both of them. They had drunk too much and were shouting like mad. Fortuna hugged Adán and began making obscene gestures. Gasparito turned his head in disgust, and we moved away from the group formed by the three drunks; but Fortuna wanted to show off his conquest even more and appeared before us again with Adán and Doña Paquita. “Are you coming, handsome?” she said to Gasparito with a cynical laugh and a disgusting sway. “Which of the three do you like the most?” Gasparito, annoyed, seeing the handsome man rushing at him, gave him a shove and knocked him to the ground. I saw that a storm was coming upon us, and grabbing Gaspar’s arm, I pushed him toward the courtyard exit. But there were a lot of people , and Gaspar didn’t want to leave quickly, perhaps so they wouldn’t think he was afraid. Fortuna had disappeared. We were already at the courtyard exit when the thug appeared with a knife hidden in his sleeve and rushed at Gasparito like a bull. Gasparito had time to escape the attack by jumping quickly backward. Román, the bookseller’s son, grabbed the thug by the hem of his jacket, and Gasparito, with great courage, wrenched the knife from his hands. Fortuna, mad and enraged, bit him on the left arm. Then, Gasparito, in a moment of terrible fury, gripped the knife with all his strength and slashed the bully so hard in the stomach that Fortuna gave a scream like a slaughtered calf and fell to the ground. I saw the blade of the knife flash like lightning and disappear into the bully’s stomach. His entrails were pouring out of the wound and he was bleeding rapidly. “Help! Help!” he cried. “He’s killed me.” At the shouts, the warden and the baton officers came, seized Gasparito, and carried the bully to the infirmary, who died shortly after, assisted by Father Anselmo. “Who would think of killing Fortuna?” said Pinturas, indifference. Gaspar spent a few days in jail and was tried. I testified in his favor; Pérez de Bustamente against him, and the court sentenced the shoemaker to a paltry sentence. Years later I saw him in his shop and asked: “Do you remember the Corte Prison? ” “No, Don Eugenio; and you?” He told me that he had rarely thought about that brute he had killed, and, apparently, he remembered the event without remorse. Adán, upon leaving prison, became a complete criminal and had to end his life in prison. Itzea, December, 1920. MY REVENGE All this is health, and just as much wit. QUEVEDO: _El Buscón_. FOR a long time, we were unable to fight the Carlist prisoners. In the room of lawyer Selva, the best of all in the Corte Prison, four or five friars, two or three priests, and as many guerrillas met, and in this apostolic council, agreements were made that Don Paco, the warden, followed to the letter. Selva’s council established itself as the sovereign of the prison: it decided what was to be done; who should be punished; who should not; who should be treated leniently, and who with severity. At that time, I had assured communication with those outside, and my friends at the Isabelina sent me letters and papers and informed me of the political direction that matters were taking. Despite the fact that I constantly complained about the situation we liberals found ourselves in in prison, my friends did nothing for us. Then, desperate, it occurred to me to send a letter to the government, stating categorically that a Carlist conspiracy was brewing in the Corte Prison. The government did not distrust my denunciation and sent a colonel, Don Andrés Robledo, as a prisoner , with the mission of observing what was happening and determining whether my accusation was true. I myself didn’t believe much in a conspiracy going on there; but when Robledo began his investigations, I saw that my hypothesis was a reality, and that one of the many Carlist intrigues that then centered around Madrid was being hatched in the Corte Prison . Colonel Robledo told me his discoveries; I gave him information about the Carlist prisoners, and together we drafted reports to the government. The minister and the chief of police found the content of these reports so serious that they sent two police commissioners, one of them Luna, to prison , assisted by sixty Aragonese millionaires and several warders. Luna conferred with me and Robledo, and we arranged to arrest Don Paco, the warden, and his employees, the lawyer Selva, and the clerk in charge of my case, García, and send them to the Villa jail. A voluminous case was initiated regarding this matter, and it was entrusted to my friend Judge Don Modesto Cortázar, whom I had known since Aranda in 1920. The positions of warden, keyholder, and jailer were filled with people of liberal background, and from then on, we constitutionalists were able to do as they pleased. The prosecutor appointed for this case was Don Laureano de Jado, an enemy of mine, who months later told anyone who would listen: “I am amazed at the fertile genius and mischief of Aviraneta.” He has managed to complicate his case to such an extent that the courts have had to release all of his accomplices as innocent, and, to complement his Machiavellianism, he has concocted this case of the conspiracy of the Court Prison, which is the most revolutionary concept that a man’s mind could have imagined to take revenge on those he considered enemies, and even on Judge Regio and the clerk of the case. This case is clothed with such statements and evidence that I am forced to ask for at least prison time against the alleged defendants. Well then: if as a prosecutor I am obliged to act in this manner, as a private individual I am increasingly convinced and almost certain that the entire case is not It’s more than a solemn plot concocted by Aviraneta’s fertile imagination. Rightly or wrongly, we managed to free ourselves from the Carlist dictatorship . I tried to influence Cortázar to release Father Anselmo; but the priest was preoccupied with the case and couldn’t be freed. As life in prison became more bearable for us, I began receiving visits from former members of the Isabelina, who could speak to me freely. Public opinion reacted in my favor, and everyone said it was absurd that I remained imprisoned for a conspiracy that had never existed. I played the victim and waited for revenge. A few days later, I learned that in a revolutionary movement that broke out in Barcelona at that time and cost General Bassa his life, my informant Civat had been removed from the post he’d been given months earlier. Shortly after, Martínez de la Rosa left the government. I considered myself avenged, but I still had to secure my freedom. Chapter 38. PLAN OF THE PRONOUNCEMENT. I think, then, that it is better to be impetuous than circumspect, because fortune is a woman, and to subjugate her it is better to beat her and trample her, because she is more likely to be defeated by the bold than by those who act coldly.
MACHIAVELLI: _The Prince_. What I have to tell you now is nothing new to you,_ Aviraneta told me,_ because it belongs in part to the history of time. One August morning, Captain Ríos, tutor to the children of the Count of Parcent, appeared at the Corte Prison with another officer of the Urban Militia, in civilian clothes. The warden gave me great freedom and allowed me to speak with them at length. The two officers came to ask me for no less than a Plan of revolt, based on the Urban Militia. “Gentlemen,” I said, “I don’t believe, of course, that you have come here to trap me, far from it; but you may very well be mistaken about the spirit of the people and the Militia, and I, before devising a plan and taking responsibility for it, would like to ascertain what you are saying. ” Ríos replied that they would bring a letter from three commanders of the Urban Militia corroborating what they were saying, and that a stockbroker friend of mine named Robles would come the next day. Ríos came with the letter and with Robles, and we talked. Robles told me that there was, indeed, great discontent among the Liberal people; that the news of the war was bad; that the Government was accused of being inactive; that the Court in La Granja was busy having fun, and that everyone was saying that a change in policy had to come. It was a time when there was enthusiasm and faith in new ideas, enthusiasm and faith that have since waned. Ríos added that everything was ready for a statement by the Militia; that the people would support the movement, and that Andrés Borrego had visited General Quesada, who had given his word that the Royal Guard would not attack the rebels. “How can Quesada guarantee this?” I asked. “He’s a replacement. ” “Yes; but he has the entire Royal Guard’s officers on his side. ” “Have Borrego and Quesada reached an agreement? ” “No. ” “Are you sure? ” “Yes.” Later it was learned that Borrego had conferred with Quesada and with two leaders of the Royal Guard, General Soria and the Count of Cleonart. At this conference, which I was unaware of, it had been agreed that the Urban Militia would hold a demonstration. Borrego and Olózaga would write a petition to the Queen, signed by the four leaders of the Urban Militia, and once the petition was presented, the Militia would lay down their arms. If I had known Quesada was involved, I wouldn’t have joined the conspiracy. Quesada was a military man who followed orders, barbaric and uncomprehending. He was very brave and had rough habits, impetuous, oblivious to all consideration; he said he knew nothing more than to command and obey, a statement that is enough. To judge anyone. Very harsh in command, very intemperate in his language, despite believing himself to be firmly fixed in his ideas, he was completely fickle. He often said, referring to the liberals: “I must be worse than Attila with that rabble.” A man like Quesada, whose rule was not to reason, could not be a man of ideas; thus, he was seen to appear at one time with the absolutists, then become a Freemason, consider himself a bit of a liberal and, at the same time, an enemy of the Constitution. For him, all these fickleness and inconsistencies were veiled by discipline. Only Borrego, Espronceda, and González Brabo, people who wanted to rise without effort, could have thought of relying on a man like Quesada. Quesada at this time, 1835, was quartered in Madrid. He had been dismissed from the Captaincy General in January, which he considered an insult to his person. If, as I say, I had known of Quesada’s involvement in the affair, I would have handled it very differently. Robles and Ríos spoke and agreed that the purpose of the uprising would be: 1. To seize Madrid. 2. To appoint a Revolutionary Junta. 3. To establish contact with the rebels in Zaragoza. Having agreed on this, I told them that the following day I would give them my plan. It was as follows: PLAN OF THE PRONOUNCEMENT _General Order for the Militia._ The day after tomorrow, August 15, there will be a bullfight, and the Militia will be stationed at the Plaza de Armas. This picket, instead of disbanding upon reaching the Puerta del Sol, will sound their drums for a general call, spreading out throughout the town. The members of the Militia, having been warned, will gather in the Plaza Mayor; houses will be occupied, and barricades will be made in the avenues with arches. The telegraph will also be seized to prevent the Government from being notified. A company will take possession of the Iron Gate and block access to Sitio La Granja. This done, Aviraneta will be immediately released, and he will state the rest that must be carried out. NOTICE TO THE ISABELINOS The centuries of the Isabelina will be notified to attend the bullfight on August 15, the day of the Assumption. Upon exit, they will surround the picket of the Urban Guard and cause as much scandal as possible. The neighborhood will be alarmed. NOTICE TO THE DEPUTIES The Liberal deputies will be immediately notified to go to the Plaza Mayor and form a Government Junta. IMMEDIATE PROVISIONS If the Government troops do not oppose, the Militia will seize Oñate’s house on Calle Mayor, the Royal Printing House, and the Principal Street as quickly as possible. The soldiers left, and I remained in jail. Those days I was reading _Diablo Cojuelo_ by Vélez de Guevara, which a prisoner lent me, and thinking about the author’s original idea. I spent the afternoon and evening of August 15 in great anguish. At dusk I thought I heard screams and the sound of drums from my room; then all noise ceased and silence returned. When at ten o’clock at night I saw that no one was coming for me, I believed the uprising had failed. I thought—and in these things one is always mistaken —that the movement might fail; what didn’t occur to me was that, after it had been successfully carried out, my friends wouldn’t come immediately to get me out of jail. However, that’s what happened. A platoon of militiamen belonging to the Isabelina Brigade tried to come; but the sentries wouldn’t let them pass. Others told me they hadn’t gone to the jail so as not to bother me. So as not to bother a prisoner, delay his release! And to delay it, believing it necessary! How absurd! The next day, Sunday, at nine in the morning, they came to fetch me from the Court Prison. Chapter 39. WHAT HAPPENED. Once, when they were at odds over a dispute at the Academy, M. de Mairan said: “Gentlemen, if only there were only four of us speaking at once!” CHAMFORT: _Characters and Anecdotes_. The proclamation had been made and was now defeated. At the end of the bullfight on the day of the Assumption, two companies of militiamen were returning in formation along Alcalá Street, with the band in front, playing patriotic hymns. The Riego Hymn produced storms of applause among the crowd. People cheered and died, growing louder with each moment. Upon reaching the Puerta del Sol, the uproar suddenly increased ; shouts of “Long live freedom!”, “Death to the Carlists!”, and “Long live national sovereignty!” began to be heard. Upon approaching the Plaza Mayor, the militia had broken ranks and mingled with the civilians. Suddenly, a few shots rang out, strident bugle calls were heard, and panic broke out in the city. The doors and windows of the houses were closed , and drums began to beat the general alarm in the deserted streets of Madrid, in various parts of the capital. The militiamen had been warned to be ready for the general alarm, and they were seen hurrying through the streets and running to join their respective battalions at the points designated for them in case of an alarm. The battalions then marched to the Plaza Mayor and formed up along its four fronts. The Casa de la Panadería and the Casa de Oñate, on Calle Mayor, were occupied, and trenches were dug in the arches. Timber and carts were brought from the City Hall warehouses, and the various streets surrounding the square were closed off . The second battalion of militiamen did not enter the Plaza Mayor, but remained in the Plaza del Rey, with its commander, Don Rodrigo Aranda, probably more inclined to obey the government than to make common cause with the rebels. At night, he was notified and sent to Puerta de Moros to observe what was happening to the troops at the San Francisco barracks. At nine o’clock at night, Don Fermín Caballero, Chacón, the Count of las Navas, Don Joaquín María López, Gaminde, Calvo de Rozas, and many others appeared in the Plaza Mayor to propose the immediate formation of a Government Junta. However, Borrego, Espronceda, González Brabo, Ventura de la Vega, Olózaga, and other young men said they had to wait for General Quesada’s arrival; that he was the leader of the movement and that he had to give the orders. The liberals, instead of acting immediately, allowed themselves to be persuaded. At the same time, Quesada had been summoned by the Secretary of the Ministry of the Interior, Don Mariano Zea, to the Principal. The Corregidor, the Marquis of Pontejos, and the Captain General, the Count of Ezpeleta, were there . It was rumored, without a doubt, that Quesada had participated in the militia movement. Zea and Ezpeleta, who were unprepared and lacking any forces at the time, told Quesada that he should go to the Plaza Mayor to meet with the rebels and ask them what they wanted and the reason for their movement. Quesada, Pontejos, and Councilman Roca went to the Plaza Mayor, where Olózaga and Borrego were waiting for them. Quesada complained that carts and timbers had been placed in the Arch of Platerías. Borrego told him they would move. They went up to an upper room in the Town Hall and a meeting was held . Quesada and Pontejos awaited the outcome in a nearby room. The meeting was attended by the militia leaders: the Duke of Abrantes, Gálvez, Castaño, and José María Sanz; other officers, such as Captain Ríos, Captain Nocedal; and many countrymen: Chacón, Espronceda, Gaminde , and the Liberal deputies. Borrego then said that General Quesada knew the origin of the movement; that it was not intended to be anything more than a demonstration of the Urban Militia; that after addressing a petition to the Queen it would be dissolved. The liberals were surprised. So, why have they called us? they asked themselves. Chacón and the Count of Las Navas insisted on the formation of a Junta. Espronceda and Borrego replied that it would distort the movement and that the general had been given his word not to Go further. There was discussion among some and others, and an appeal was made to the leaders of the Militia, and the majority of them stated that the militiamen wanted nothing more than to make the petition to the Queen and disband. Since there was no unanimity, it was decided that it would be advisable to call all the leaders and officers of the Urban Militia and consult them. In general, all were in favor of the exposition, followed by immediate dissolution. Faced with this, the supporters of the Junta gave in, and Olózaga and Borrego entered a room and pretended to draft a document, which they had already prepared. Afterwards, they went to see General Quesada and gave him the exposition to take to the minister. Time passed, and the militiamen in the square were losing enthusiasm when they saw that no quick decisions were being made. Some of the Isabelinos began to reinforce the barricades of the arches; But Commander Sanz and Borrego, with a group of officers, ordered the obstacles to be removed, as Quesada had been promised to leave the doors open. With the militiamen’s statement in his pocket, Quesada entered the room, where the discussion took place. Borrego explained what had happened; he said how a statement had been written for the Queen; that a copy had been given to Quesada to show to the Government, and that the Militia leaders wanted to go to La Granja to deliver it to the Regent. Quesada spoke. He uttered the usual vulgarities. He said he disapproved of the armed forces’ riots against the established Government; that the Urban Militia should not stray beyond the scope of the law; that this event favored the supporters of Don Carlos, and that he would take the statement to the Ministry. With that, he left. Chacón replied that he had been deceived into attending the meeting, for he had been warned that a Government Junta was being formed. That, since it was a matter of something else, he withdrew, not without warning that the exposition would be as effective as a cold-blooded rag and a soda water. On the other hand, he couldn’t believe that General Quesada was always so attentive to established governments, since everyone remembered that the general, now so respectful of the established order, had been a factionist and a rebel in the years 1922 and 1923, when he had commanded the Army of the Faith, which was a gang of murderers. Borrego and Espronceda didn’t know what to say, and Chacón and his men left. Their departure was a disappointment to the fanatics. At midnight, arguments and fights began in the plaza. The lanterns were lit and some bonfires had been lit. There were major fights between the fanatics and the peaceful ones; the fanatics were from Madrid, while the peaceful ones were called from Guadalajara. The agitated ones said it was a disgrace to have served as extras for Espronceda and Borrego, with whom Quesada was playing; the peaceful ones responded that they had committed themselves to nothing more than that. The agitated ones insulted the peaceful ones and added that they would dishonor the Militia if they laid down their weapons. Amid conversations and speeches, much was drunk, and excitement returned to the spirits. While the militiamen argued and quarreled furiously in the Plaza Mayor, the Government, represented by the Captain General of Madrid, the Superintendent of Police, Secretary Zea, the Mayor, Pontejos, and Councilman Roca, discussed the Militia’s exposition brought to the Principal by General Quesada y Olózaga. Zea said that the Government could not resolve most of the petitions without the Cortes. These points should be removed from the exposition , as the Ministry had no authority to resolve them. Quesada returned to the square at four o’clock, and Borrego drafted a new exposition, omitting all the important points of the previous one, and Quesada was in charge of taking it to the Ministry. As he left, he said that the barricades should be removed, because it was useless and dangerous to leave them. Quesada left the square for the Ministry, and behind him, a commission of six militia officers, with the Duke of Abrantes at their head, who were going to ask the Government to give them a passport to go to the Queen and hand her over to that much-diminished exhibition. While the leaders were at the Ministry, a proclamation arrived, printed at the Royal Printing Office, with this title: “The Urban Militia of Madrid, to the people and meritorious garrison.” Quesada reprimanded the urban leaders for the proclamation, and they protested that they had not been the inspiration for this document. They thought it was the friends of Don Fermín Caballero and Chacón who had printed it. Zea, then, acting forceful, said that under no circumstances could he give passports to those he viewed as rebels, and the captain general agreed with him. Zea knew at that moment that he had the Madrid garrison secure, and for this reason he felt brave. The officers, now frightened, told Quesada to return to the square, and that together they would convince the urban militia to withdraw without further demands. They returned to Plaza Quesada, accompanied by the colonel of the Royal Guard’s general staff, Don Cayetano Urbina, and the cavalry lieutenant Pezuela. The leaders, urban soldiers, and friends of Espronceda and Borrego entered the room where the previous conferences had been held . Quesada reproached them for the proclamation addressed to the people, and Espronceda and Borrego said they hadn’t written it. “It’s the expression of the feelings of the majority of the Urban Militia,” one of the audience chimed in. “It’s not true. ” “Yes, yes; it is. Bravo!” Quesada, who was becoming uncomfortable, said that it was necessary for the rebels to remove the barricades, because if not, he would take charge of the Royal Guard and leave them buried under the ruins of the plaza. Quesada put on his unfriendly face as he said this. Borrego and Espronceda, clutching at the last straw, declared that the obstacles would be removed if the troops retreated to their barracks and the demands of the briefing were met. The general ended the conference and began to descend the stairs, grumbling, saying he was going to do something he wanted. Quesada appeared in the arcades of the plaza, surrounded by the two uniformed officers of the Royal Guard, followed by Espronceda, Borrego, Ventura de la Vega, Luis González Brabo, and others. Seeing that there were obstacles in Hell’s Alley, he shouted to one of the commanders: “Didn’t we agree that the barricades would disappear and the militiamen would retreat to their homes? ” “My general,” replied Commander Sanz, “some of the militiamen are opposed to retreating. ” “They are being disarmed,” said Quesada. At this point, some of the Isabelinos approached the group of the general and his friends and began to heckle them. “Down with the traitors!” one shouted. “Long live the Constitution of 1812! ” “Long live La Niña! ” Quesada raised his baton in the air, intending to bring it down on the heads of the shouting militiamen. Their rage turned against him: “Death to Quesada! ” “Death to him! ” “Down with the absolutists! ” “Down! ” The militiamen went to grab their weapons; and the entire group of Quesada and his friends would have had a bad time if the Guadalajara militiamen hadn’t formed up in the arches to defend them. Quesada and his men ran toward the Platerías Arch and, jumping over a barricade, went out onto Calle Mayor. With him came the two officers, Espronceda, Borrego, and the civilians. Quesada was foaming at the mouth with rage and immediately went to the government to offer to attack the rebels immediately. At six in the morning, the government troops, led by Latre, Ezpeleta, and Quesada, left the barracks and occupied the Plaza de Oriente and the Plaza de los Consejos, and shortly after, the streets of Santiago and Sacramento, as far as the Plaza del Conde de Barajas. At this hour, the rebels would have been thinking of me. Chapter 40. LOST GAME. Only to recklessness Fortune rules them; for with unequal judgment she causes them to be called: a feat, if they turn out well, and madness, if they turn out badly. BANCES CANDAMO: _By their king and by their queen_. The game was lost when the rebels thought of me. At about nine o’clock, a group of armed militiamen appeared in the Plaza de Santa Cruz in front of the Corte Prison; they entered here, called the warden, and demanded that he set me free. The warden, naturally, objected; but, faced with the threat of releasing all the prisoners, he gave in. I was prepared, and so was Father Anselmo. “Take advantage,” I told him, “and come out with me. ” “But how? ” “Nothing, nothing, grab your things and follow me.” The warden wanted to object; but I had the militiamen surround us both , and we went out to the Plaza de Santa Cruz, and then to the Plaza Mayor. The poor priest, seeing so many armed people, was astonished. With his suitcase in his hand, he didn’t know what to do. As I entered the Plaza Mayor, I saw Bartolillo, the boy from the bookstore on Calle de la Paz, who was wandering around. I called to him: “Bartolo! ” “What? ” “Do you want to accompany this priest? ” “Yes. ” “Then go with him to Calle de Segovia; go down to the right, and in a large house, between Plaza de la Cruz Verde and Calle de la Ventanilla, which has a bakery on the ground floor. Go in, go up to the fourth floor, and ask for Doña Nacimiento. Tell this woman that the priest comes from Don Eugenio and that he will wait for me there. ” “Very well.” The priest wanted to take the suitcase. “Leave it here; I’ll send it to you in a moment.” Father Anselmo and Bartolillo left; I stored my suitcase in a tavern near the Stone Staircase and calmly examined the situation. The game was lost. I spoke with the leaders of the Urban Militia, and each had a different opinion. I sent a message to Palafox in case he dared to take the lead in the movement; but it wasn’t convenient for Palafox to appear , and he faded away. Then I spoke with Captain Miláns del Bosch, an energetic man, to see if he was capable of setting himself up as leader of the movement and assuming its responsibility. I told him that part of the Royal Guard would come with us; that I promised to see him in Urbina, and that he would convince him or he would shoot me. Later I learned that the officer accompanying him to Quesada was not the Urbina I knew, but another; I also told him that Colonel Don Antonio Martín, brother of El Empecinado, would raise his cavalry regiment in revolt . “How are we going to hold out in this square?” Miláns asked me. “Where are the supplies? ” “Let ‘s get out of here,” I told him. “Five thousand men and a cavalry regiment is a lot. ” “Yes, if there were discipline; but there isn’t. These men are demoralized. ” “Then the game is lost. Let’s consider it over. ” I climbed onto a bench in the square and explained that there was only one alternative: either leave immediately and attack the troops at the Puerta del Sol and continue forward, or abandon the enterprise. “Come on! Come on!” shouted the excited ones. But it was already impossible, and no one stepped forward. The troop cannons began to approach the arches. I returned to the bench and shouted: “Gentlemen! This is over. It’s not my fault. They called me late. Now everyone can go home.” At dusk, the militiamen, en masse, laid down their rifles and left. The former royalist volunteers from the Barrios Bajos, seeing the defeat of the militiamen, attacked the fugitives with shots and clubs, and I don’t know if they killed any of them. Above all, the old women were more terrible, and they waited for the liberals with knives in their hands. One of these furies, who stabbed a militiaman who tried to enter her house, was arrested, tried, and taken away a few days later. then to the gallows. Thus, Quesada’s spite, Espronceda’s and Borrego’s ambition, and my own plans all led to the execution of a poor, fanatical old woman who surely believed that killing a liberal was a meritorious deed. Chapter 41. ESCAPE. This is the Chestnut Grove that I value more, sir, than any wealth and honor the kings can give me. ROJAS: García del Castañar. At dusk on the 16th, when I saw the Plaza Mayor deserted, I went into the tavern near the Escalerilla; I took Father Anselmo’s suitcase and put on my cloak and new roof tiles. I put my hat in the suitcase and went down the stairs to Cuchilleros Street. I reached Puerta Cerrada and found a patrol of royalist volunteers there. “Is it possible to go to the Plaza Mayor?” I asked them. “No; Don’t go that way, Father. Then I’ll have to go back home. I continued on to Segovia Street. On the steps of Doña Nacimiento’s house, I took off my cloak and met up with Don Anselmo. The priest and I spent six days in that house, without even leaving , waiting for the turn of events. We learned that upon the return of the Government of La Granja, the president, the Count of Toreno, offered two hundred ounces of gold and a job to whoever discovered my whereabouts, and the police made every effort to catch me. Father Anselmo and I prepared an escape plan. Father Anselmo had a nephew and godson who lived in Alcalá. A few days later, on August 24, was the fair in that town. We would leave Madrid by carriage for the Ventas del Espíritu Santo; Here we would wait for a galley and enter Alcalá, mingling with carters and muleteers going to the fair, and we would end up at the house of the priest’s godson. Doña Nacimiento knew a cab driver and called him. The cab driver was liberal and agreed to what we proposed. The cab driver’s boy would dress as a girl; Father Anselmo, in a villager’s costume, and I would be the cab driver. We would go to the Ventas del Espíritu Santo, wait there, where we would leave the cab, and then travel in a cart to Alcalá, as if we were going to the great fair held in the city of Henares on the 24th. So we did, and everything turned out well. Don Anselmo’s godson, to whom we had announced our arrival, waited for us and took us to a property he owned a league from the town. It wasn’t very large, but very well maintained. Juan, Father Anselmo’s nephew and godson, was a young, strong man, a farmer, a hunter, and very active. His wife, Ambrosia, was a rosy-cheeked woman who had given birth to nine children and planned to continue having more. Juan, with his shotgun and his dogs, going hunting at dawn, going to bed at nightfall, content with his lot, reminded me of García del Castañar. The couple received the priest and me very kindly. I lived in that house for a week, and after that, I said goodbye to Father Anselmo and his nephews and went to Zaragoza. There I published a small pamphlet on the Royal Statute in Ramón León’s printing house, and I waited until Mendizábal called me and gave me an assignment for Barcelona; but this,” Aviraneta concluded, “is another chapter in my life. ” EPILOGUE Everything is made from dust, and everything will return to the same dust. THE ECCLESIASTES. During the time of the Cuban War, says Leguía, I used to go to Madrid to a hotel on Arenal Street, and I would visit the nearby second-hand bookstores. I would frequently stop to chat with a second-hand bookseller who had his shop in a corner on Capellanes Street , as it approaches Preciados Street. I had asked this bookseller, like others, to save me whatever historical papers and Spanish prints from the 19th century he could find. The bookseller was an old man, a very old man, and he gave me whatever I asked for. When I went up from Arenal Street to Capellanes Street, I would often throw A glance through a barred window overlooking a bakery, and I remembered the story of Don Tomás Manso and his nephew. A few years after the Cuban War, the bookseller on the corner told me that they were demolishing the Capellanes’ large house and that he was going to transfer his little shop. Four or five months later, I saw the house on Calle de la Misericordia demolished and the alignment of Calle de Capellanes completed. The bookseller told me that when they demolished the house, in a basement, beneath a storeroom that had a small fountain with a Medusa head on the wall, they found the skeleton of a man and some small fetal bones. The anticlerical neighborhood members assumed that these belonged to some nun from the neighboring convent; as for the man’s skeleton, it was not possible to determine whose it was. The day the bookseller was telling me this, a rag-picker came in, a ragged one-eyed man with a cheerful face, a tangled beard, and a red nose, with a large bundle of papers. “I don’t want them,” said the bookseller; “You can take them, One-Eyed, I’ll be leaving. ” “Let’s see what you have there,” I told him. “I’ll give it to you very cheap,” said the rag-picker, placing the bundle on a chair and removing a bundle made of old twine and balduques. There was a volume of the Palace of Crimes by Ayguals de Izco; the History of the Revolution of ’54 by Ribot and Fontseré; two pamphlets by Aviraneta, several yellowed Echoes of Commerce, and the proclamation of the Nationalists in August 1835. Neither the bookseller nor the rag-picker had ever heard of Chico, or Aviraneta, much less of the Urbanos’ pronouncement. I, who had seen for so long painted posters depicting the deaths of Chico, Father Merino, and the Marina brothers, displayed by a man with a pointer in the squares, was shocked that all this had disappeared so completely from people’s memories. And yet, it was so. “All this stuff you’re carrying here,” said the bookseller, “is worthless. Things of the past, unimportant. ” “We’re old too,” replied the ragman, “and our time has passed . ” “Everything passes, my friend ragman,” I told him. “The leaf from the tree falls, the rose leaf withers, the sheet of paper wrinkles and is eaten by silverfish. The silverfish devours the paper; the woodworm and the moth devour the wood; sorrow devours us until it gives its prey to the worms. ” “It’s all nothing but misery,” said the bookseller. “Do you know how I fix that?” asked the ragman. “How do you fix it?” “Well, by having a quinceañera whenever I can. ” “The other way to fix it is philosophy. ” “My philosophy is wine. Do you do any of those things, sir? Give me whatever you want for them.” I gave him three pesetas for the two pamphlets and the proclamation. “Well, gentlemen!” said the man, tying the books back together. “I ‘m going to dedicate myself… to philosophy. ” “You’re a cheerful and jovial fellow,” I told him. “Naturally. Now I’m going to Vaqueiro’s tavern in Preciados Alley, and I’ll have a slice of cod and a quinceañera, and I’ll laugh at the goldfish. ” “Man, that’s wrong!” I told him. “Why?” asked the man, surprised. “I imagine cod is a fish, and eating it and then laughing at it doesn’t seem right to me. ” “Come on! You’re a joker.” Well, yes, I’ll have a quince or two, and I’ll flip the whole world the finger. “Until the wine flips you the finger, One-Eyed, and takes you East,” said the bookseller. “Bah!” “Be careful with that nose, it’s starting to look like Vesuvius on fire. ” “I see you… Vesuvius. ” “Do you have children, ragpicker?” I asked him. “They have them…; I don’t… I brought them into the world…; they hang on as best they can… Cheers, gentlemen! ” The ragpicker threw his bundle over his shoulder, and I returned to the hotel, passing in front of the Chaplains’ lot, thinking that everything is made of dust and that everything will turn into the same dust. Thank you for joining us in reading The Taste of Revenge by Pío Baroja. This story, imbued with reflections on human nature, lost honor, and the yearning for justice, reminds us how the wounds of the past can mark entire destinies. 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