La novela de un novelista 📖✍️

Descubre la apasionante obra *La novela de un novelista* de Armando Palacio Valdés, una historia que te sumergirá en la vida de un escritor y sus desafíos. 📚

👨‍💻 En esta novela, el autor nos lleva a explorar los altibajos de la creación literaria, la búsqueda de identidad y el amor por la escritura. A través de los ojos de un novelista, el relato nos permite entender el proceso creativo y las dificultades personales que acompañan la vida de aquellos que buscan dejar una huella en el mundo literario. 🖋️

🔎 ¡No te pierdas esta obra clásica que captura la esencia de los escritores de su tiempo y sus complejas emociones! Disfruta de este relato lleno de introspección, creatividad y pasión por la literatura. 📖✨

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A Novelist’s Novel by Armando Palacio Valdés is a work that explores the complexities of the creative process and the life of a writer. Through the eyes of a young author, we are presented with a story that reveals the internal struggles, passions, and anxieties that arise when trying to find one’s own literary voice. Let us accompany this narrator as he faces the trials that life presents and seeks to make sense of his vocation in a world full of uncertainty. Chapter 1. ADAM IN PARADISE. We had arrived in Entralgo the night before; a full day’s walk by stagecoach until we entered Sama de Langreo. There, our steward, Cayetano, was waiting for us with the necessary horses. My father mounted a white horse, my mother was hoisted onto a black one equipped with saddlecloth, the maids were accommodated on peaceful donkeys, and Cayetano placed me in front of him on his own horse, Gallardo, more spirited than Bucephalus and more judicious than Rocinante. José Mateo served as our scout. We followed the riverbank, and when we reached Entralgo, it was already night. I was half asleep. I only noticed that there were some very high mountains, many trees, a river, a large house with wooden balconies, and in front of it a few villagers who welcomed us joyfully. Two of them each carried lanterns in their hands, with which they lit the way for us as we got out. I remember that an old, fat woman , better dressed than the others, took me from Cayetano’s arms and kissed me effusively, saying out loud that I looked like a carnation. It was Manola, Cayetano’s noble wife. Afterward, she declared, even more loudly, that I looked like a rosebud. I remember that I liked these similes very much and gave me a good idea of this lady’s powers of discourse. My father said, “Put that child to bed immediately.” My mother replied, “We’ll put him to bed before dinner.” My father replied, “No need. He’s eaten too many sweets. And I don’t remember anything else.” When I opened my eyes the next morning, I was in Paradise. Through the glass of my balcony, I could see the sun already swimming across the blue sky. In front of me rose a tall, beautiful mountain whose crest resembled that of a fantastic castle. A few red clouds would settle on this mountain , gently pushed by the wind. The balcony opened onto a corridor lined with a magnificent vine whose vines fell like a splendid curtain, half-hiding the landscape from me. It was in that same room six years earlier, the year of grace in 1853, that I had first seen the light of day. My father later told me the circumstances of my birth. My mother was in the hands of the midwife, Manola, and three or four other skilled women. Meanwhile, agitated and fearful, he paced the living room in the company of the notary Don Salvador, the lawyer Juncos, and the Curé of Lorio. I was introduced to these individuals immediately after my birth with the formalities of signature. My father could not recall what Don Salvador, the notary, or the Curé of Lorio had said on this grave occasion, but he did perfectly recall that the lawyer Juncos, looking at me fixedly and extending his hand over my head, uttered with a stern tone these memorable words: “May God grant him the papal throne!” The reader will surely already know that the prophetic wishes of the lawyer Juncos have not been fulfilled. I know that during his lifetime he was never able to console himself for the bitter disappointment he experienced at the Sacred Roman Conclave. Shortly after my birth, my family moved to Avilés, the seaside town everyone knows. And my parents had the bad taste to spend six years without setting foot in Entralgo, a place of heavenly delights nestled in the mountains. I boldly dressed without calling the maid, and my audacity reached the point of slipping into the house without knowing her. I found a ladder, climbed down it, and went out into the fields. Oh, what a beautiful orchard stretched out before me! all full of plums, cherries, and other delicious fruits! I had barely taken a few steps when I bumped into José Mateo, that dark, burly, curly-haired servant who had served as our scrounger the previous afternoon. “José Mateo, pass me a plum.” José Mateo obeyed immediately. Then I saw a cherry tree covered with cherries and commanded with the same imperiousness: “José Mateo, pass me some cherries.” And with equal submission, José Mateo climbed the tree and handed me a branch covered with them. “Where are you going?” I asked him. José Mateo informed me that he was going at that moment to milk the cows and asked me if I would do him the honor of accompanying him. I generously granted it . We went to the stable and in front of it were several men and women digging potatoes, who welcomed me with jubilation and cheered me like an emperor. I barely responded to this warm ovation because I was in a hurry to be in front of the cows. There were five or six of them: Salia, Cherry, Garbosa, Morueca, etc. I looked at them with respect and sympathy, but my eyes and senses immediately turned to the calves tied far from their mothers to a much lower manger. Suddenly overcome with fervent love, I rushed toward them to embrace and kiss them. They greeted me with obvious ingratitude, jumping and twisting to avoid my caresses. “José Mateo, put me on a cow.” José Mateo put me on a cow and held me as long as I wanted. Then he took his sling and began to milk. Those who were digging the potatoes came to rest for a moment and continued paying me the same homage. But I was paying close attention to the operation José Mateo was performing. Without knowing how, an ambitious thought arose in my mind: to milk one of the calves myself. As soon as I made the proposal, it met with unexpected success. Not only José Mateo but everyone there, both men and women, strongly approved and expressed their satisfaction in the most conspicuous way. José Mateo found a smaller shoe and gave it to me. I immediately set to work… Why are those bastards laughing? Why are they laughing so much? They laughed until they were laughing their heads off, clutching their ribs as if they were about to burst. But the calf jumped, kicked, and writhed: and no matter how diligently I, excited by the shouts of enthusiasm the potato diggers were throwing into the air, did not give up on my task, I was never able to extract a drop of milk from it. To make up for this painful disappointment, José Mateo offered me a small shoe brimming with it. I drank until I was full, to the great satisfaction of the crowd, who burst into shouts of enthusiasm at the sight of my runny nose. As soon as we left the stable, the first thing we saw—oh, joy!—was a donkey. “José Mateo, put me on that donkey.” José Mateo obeyed, and everyone else helped him hoist me up, and they paraded me for a long time around my domain until I was called to have my hot chocolate. And as soon as I had drunk it, I ascended back to heaven; that is, I mounted the donkey and continued strolling, served by a crowd of men and women as grooms, through those enchanted places where all was pleasure, happiness , and love.
When it was time to eat, Manola and her worthy husband, Cayetano, who lived on the ground floor of our house, invited me to their table. Oh! This table was the most ingenious and admirable device ever seen. We sat on a large blackened wooden bench in front of the hearth; a few pegs were loosened and suddenly a large board would come down and place itself in front of us. Despite my gray hair, I still cannot remember this table without my heart leaping with joy. While we were eating, a wonderful cat came to sit on Cayetano’s shoulder and eat the leftovers from his plate. My dream at that moment was that she would also climb on my shoulder and eat with me. Well, this ambitious dream came true before reaching the end of the meal. Micona, that majestic cat, mother of three generations of warrior cats, did me the honor of climbing on my back and putting the snout in my bowl. I remained so confused and grateful that I quickly gave her everything in it, and if it hadn’t been for Manola, I would have been hungry. Then I went out into the countryside again, and my feet wandered along the delightful village paths, the hazel groves, the narrow streets between blackberry and honeysuckle hedges. A feeling of immortal happiness invaded my spirit, holding it in suspense and ecstasy. The perfumed air penetrated my lungs, intoxicating me; birds chirped blessings above my head; the leaves of the trees whispered promises of happiness in my ear. Suddenly, at one of the turns in the path, I stumbled upon a large sow leading eight or ten piglets in her wake. I have never seen a more heavenly apparition. Those boisterous, rosy-cheeked little animals immediately captivated my heart. And since I was convinced that I was in Paradise and that all of God’s creatures should obey and abide by me, as soon as I saw a fellow countryman nearby, I ordered him to give me one of those little pigs. He wasted no time, and I kissed him passionately on the muzzle. But that little animal must not have been accustomed to this kind of amorous advances, because it took it as an offense and began to squeal and struggle until it managed to free itself and escape with its siblings. A little farther on, I saw some sheep grazing, and the shepherd, who was a boy of fourteen or fifteen, invited me to sit beside him. He treated me like a king and lord, gave me a flute with which I amused myself and the sheep’s, taught me how to make wicker cages for crickets, trained me in hunting them, revealing to me some methods of his own invention, and finally, he let me know that those sheep belonged to me and were at my command. So all I had to do was ask my father to build me a wooden cart, and he would take charge of harnessing the two strongest ones and breaking them in until I could travel all over the district and even reach Sama if necessary. I thought I was going crazy with joy. I went home and, bursting into the office where my father was with some gentlemen, I told him point-blank about my request. All those gentlemen found it very reasonable and supported it with all their might, so that my father immediately gave the appropriate orders for the cart to be built. But what did I see? A little black dog with a round white mole on its forehead, which began to jump around me, asking for my valuable protection. I seized it, took it in my arms, and our friendship was sealed. This little dog was a female dog, named Peseta because of the shape and size of the mole, which resembled the coin of that name, and belonged to the doctor Don Nicolás, one of the gentlemen present. Naturally, I immediately asked her to give it to me, and naturally, she replied that from that moment on, it was mine. I went out with it in my arms and paraded it triumphantly through the village, proudly showing it off to the entire neighborhood. Respect for the truth compels me to confess that during the two or three hours I carried it on my chest, that pretty little dog gave me unequivocal proof of the finest love. She whispered tender things in my ear and licked my face, perhaps more often than decency would have advised. Why, then, taking advantage of my inattention, did she jump to the ground and begin a dizzying run without heeding my yearning calls? I have never been able to understand. The female heart is an abyss of contradictions and mysteries. As I was walking home, sullen and saddened, I bumped into Don Marcos, that famous chaplain who had lost his fortune in carousing and on the green carpet. “Don Marcos,” I said in a pained tone, “I let the Peseta slip away! ” “Oh, my son, how many must have slipped away from me!” he replied, smiling. I didn’t understand the mistake and believed in good faith that he had had many female dogs and they had gotten away. And I felt sincerely sorry for him. But when I got home, Muley, the fat hunting dog from Cayetano came to me and consoled me for the treachery of that perfidious woman. How honorable that Muley was! How gracious! What a good nature he had! Even if I mounted him, even if I pulled his ears and tail, I never saw him angry. All he ever did was nicely steal my snack bread. But he did it with such grace and skill that I forgave him with all my heart. That afternoon he made me happy and swallowed three good pieces of bread and a large piece of cheese. At night, after dinner, I lay down on the large sofa in the dining room, near my mother, who occupied the other end. More than a dozen village women came to chat with us. Since there weren’t enough chairs, many of them settled on the floor. My father, in a corner of the room, smoked a cigar and chatted with the priest, the notary Don Salvador, the lawyer Juncos, and Cayetano. The women were spinning, and my mother was spinning too, using a beautiful ivory-inlaid spindle that my grandfather had given her. Her fairy-like fingers twirled the thread so finely that the women couldn’t stop admiring it. From time to time, she would rest her large, beautiful black eyes on me and smile sweetly. Mine would close their eyes in spite of me, falling asleep. I felt as though I were losing sight of the paradise in which Providence had placed me for a few hours. However, I heard the conversation my father was having with those gentlemen. They talked about some dreadful things, about the robbery that had taken place a few days earlier at the house of the priest of Pelúgano, about the ferocity of the robbers, about the torments they had inflicted on the good priest and his housekeeper to make them reveal where the money was hidden. But all that was nothing more than a horrible nightmare. I was in Paradise, I was absolutely convinced of it, and I longed to awaken to once again enjoy its immortal joys. Chapter 2. AN ORIGINAL CHARACTER OF BULLFIGHTING. After such a long absence, my father had many matters to arrange in Laviana. We would remain there, then, not only the summer but the autumn, perhaps the winter as well; in short, an eternity. I prepared to spend eternity as angels spend theirs, supposing angels don’t have school. My father had announced to me that every day I would learn my lessons in grammar and sacred history and write my journal; but I knew my father perfectly well, even though I hadn’t fathered him, and I knew the efficacy of his precepts when they tended to annoy me. So, in the first few days, I quietly set about touring the earthly Paradise and recognizing its most delightful spots, beginning with our dwelling. It was a large mansion pieced together in pieces by successive generations. To get from one room to another, one almost always had to go up or down a step, and this circumstance struck me as very agreeable in its favor, I don’t know why. Perhaps, without realizing it, I foresaw that this constant going up and down would have a beneficial effect on the development of my legs. However, the first thing I developed was my head, for I took a few falls that raised just as many bumps on it. There was a large room at the back, which they called the “new room,” although it was terribly old, and on either side of the house were two wide corridors of bars hung with vines. The furniture was ugly and crude; especially a weight clock was so hideous that I couldn’t look at it without feeling uneasy, and when it was about to strike the hour, it began to make strange and hateful noises that frightened me. The bed I was born in—I learned this later because at the time I had no doubt it had arrived from Madrid in the usual little basket—was a Holy Week monument. There must have been a ladder to climb into it, but I didn’t see it. The armchairs in the living room belonged to the time of the Cyclops, or at least to the Pelasgian era, since no man in this century could sit in them under his own power. Everyone in the house would sleep on the sofa without disturbing each other. The oak tables were also cyclopean , and they couldn’t be moved without the farmhands coming up to assist the girls. But amidst all this barbarism, there was a delightful modernist artifact, a barrel organ no older than a century. It was taller than me, and its repertoire consisted of pieces from an opera called *La Caravan*, waltzes from the Queen of Scots, minuets, and gavottes. As soon as I took hold of its handle and played it, I realized what my true calling in this world was. I was born to play the barrel organ. Faithful to the voice of heaven, I played for forty-eight hours straight, never leaving my work except at mealtimes and bedtimes. I don’t know why I abandoned it, since no one tried to thwart my calling, but the fact is that eventually, of my own free will, I gradually made greater and greater strides in my task. During one of these intervals, it occurred to me to go up to the attic. It was enormous, dark, covered in dust and cobwebs. It was impossible to imagine anything more interesting. Rickety chairs, half-open drawers, scraps of crockery, books bound in parchment, small cages, and other odds and ends of unknown shapes. In one corner were a few flintlock rifles, which I barely had the strength to lift; there were also swords, and in an old chest I found five or six blue, red, and white coats, which I resolved to disguise myself with as soon as the opportunity arose. These coats had belonged to my grandfather, who had died three or four months before I came into the world. He was a soldier and retired to his homeland at a young age. As a cadet, only sixteen years old, he had fought against the French Republic when our nation declared war on it after the execution of Louis XVI. He was taken prisoner and recounted, as my father told me, that upon entering Bordeaux with other prisoners and before being taken to prison, he had seen nine heads cut off by guillotine. Once in the jail, which was a kind of old warehouse, he tried to bribe several sentries by showing them an ounce of gold he had saved. They all angrily rejected him, and one hit him with the butt of a rifle. Finally, one of the servants who came daily to bring each of them a ram’s head and clean them relented, gave him his hat, and, wearing his shirtsleeves and carrying a bucket in each hand, he managed to elude the guards and escape. After many dangerous adventures, he eventually entered Spain and was able to rejoin the army. It was a blessing that my grandfather, whom they portrayed to me as extremely fond of village life, an orderly and thrifty landowner, would die like a soldier, for he died as a result of a fall from a horse. In front of the house were two large granaries1 that served as storage for wheat, because in those days rents were paid in kind. Those granaries were delightful, like everything else. We took shelter under them when it rained, and there we danced, played games, and could amuse ourselves in every way without fear of the elements. Behind them stretched the orchard. A little further away, and above it could be seen the church and the rectory. Entralgo is located at the angle formed by the Nalón, the largest river in Asturias, with a small tributary called the Villoria River. It is therefore only watered by two rivers, and in this respect it must be acknowledged that it is inferior to the Paradise of our first parents, which was watered by four. On the other hand, here, according to my Greek teacher in Madrid, Don Lázaro Bardón, who had been there with a commission from the Ministry of Public Works, a very annoying wind ordinarily blew. None of that happened in Entralgo. A delightful temperature of between twenty and twenty-five degrees, surrounded by high mountains, which protect it from hurricanes, sitting on the grass, protected by forests of chestnut and hazel trees, surrounded by apple, walnut, cherry, and other fruit trees. It’s true, it’s very damp and muddy during the winter; but we weren’t forced to spend the winter there, while Adam and Eve couldn’t leave their garden. As for the variety of fruits, of course, comparison is impossible because in the Paradise of our first parents there were all kinds, but if you tell me that the apples and cherries that Adam had at his disposal were better than those I ate, I authorize myself to doubt it. The Nalón River would be about five hundred paces from our house and the Villoria River one hundred. On its banks is the famous _Bolera_ or recreation ground where the neighbors indulge in their favorite games of bowls and bar on Sundays and holidays. It was there that Jacinto de Fresnedo won fair and square one day at Carmen by throwing the bar to all the young men of the Langreo Valley. 2 Over this Villoria River there is a wooden pontoon and you pass the Fuente road on the right, and the Molinos and Cerezangos road on the left. Cerezangos was a vast sloping meadow with quite a few ups and downs that my father later converted into an orchard. At that time, it was used as a meadow, enclosed like almost all the properties in the region by a small wall covered with blackberries and trimmed throughout with hazel trees, which emerge from the ground in the shape of baskets. Contemplating the Laviana Valley from the top of any of its mountains, all the meadows look like clear emeralds surrounded by darker ones. One of those afternoons, I ventured to cross the pontoon, and following the Mills path, I reached Cerezangos. The gate with bars was padlocked, but to one side there was a rather convenient jumping-off area inviting me to enter. And indeed, I entered and gazed with delight over the entire meadow, tinged with white flowers. I felt happy and increasingly glad to have been born. Slowly, like someone greedily savoring their happiness, I advanced through the farm, my ears attentive to the birdsong, but even more so to the crickets, which at that moment seemed exceedingly interesting to me. There in the center, a ram was grazing peacefully and alone. That ram reminded me of the cart my father had promised me, and my happiness, although it may seem impossible, increased even more. Who would have thought! Little by little, I approached the place where the ram was grazing. It raised its head two or three times to look at me and then lowered it again. I advanced a little further, and then the ram stood motionless, gazing at me with a sweet gaze. Then it too began to advance slowly toward me as if to welcome me. Oh, sweet ram! I felt like kissing it. What is this, heavens? When it was five or six steps away from me, it took off, lowered its head, and fiercely charged me, knocking me to the ground. Oh, my God! What a fright! What screams! I tried to get up quickly, but as soon as I got to my feet, the ram charged at me again and knocked me down again. I got up again, and again it charged at me and knocked me down. I repeated the trick three or four more times, and as many times I was knocked down. In all conscience, I must declare that the animal didn’t hurt me much; I don’t know if it was because the blow was light or because I had already dropped to the ground before its head reached my stomach. In any case, I finally realized with terror that all my efforts to maintain myself in the normal position of a biped were useless. What I did then was cry like a fountain and scream like a madman, calling my father, my mother, Manola, and all the servants one by one. No one came to my aid. What a horrible disappointment! I had imagined that God had placed all the animals in creation at my service, and now, suddenly and for no apparent reason, one of them rebelled. What am I saying, rebelling! He was attacking me , he had me prisoner, and who knows what he would do with me later !
Death appeared to me in its most terrifying form. Lying on my back and looking up at the sky, I screamed until I was hoarse, repeating the names of all those people who seemed powerful enough to fight my enemy. I even called Muley, Cayetano’s dog, who of course didn’t show up either. The ram ignored me, or at least pretended not to. So much so that after a while I ventured to sit up; but then it raised its head, stared at me, and I, terrified, sank back onto the grass. Only the Virgin Mary could save me from that agonizing situation, and I asked her to, repeating the prayers my mother had taught me. And indeed, the Virgin Mary came to my aid, suggesting a saving idea. Since the ram ignored me while I was lying down and only became irritated when I saw me standing, perhaps by crawling I could avoid its fury. So I crept cautiously forward and advanced a meter or so. I looked back; the ram continued grazing, noticing nothing. I advanced another meter; no longer. I continued slithering like a snake across the grass, constantly looking at my enemy, and he allowed me to move away without even noticing. Could this be treason? Would he allow me to conceive hopes only to suddenly fall upon me? That’s what I thought with horror when, finding myself at least thirty paces from him, he raised his head and stared at me fixedly. I froze. My heart seemed to be leaping out of my chest. And yet, I repeat, that look was more gentle than angry. In the course of my life, other people have looked at me more aggressively without charging at me. I remained motionless and glued to the ground, playing dead, or rather, almost scared. The ram finally lowered his head and continued grazing, and from then on, he didn’t look at me again. I continued advancing toward the jumping-off point with the same caution, alternately expanding and contracting the muscular coils of my body like a consummate annelid. Finally, I found myself three paces from the jumping-off point. I looked back. The ram was far away, very far away, grazing peacefully and indifferently in the fine grass. Then I jump up briskly, and in less time than it takes to say it, I mount the jumper and throw myself onto the road and run like a deer until I reach home, panting and sweating. Anyone would think I arrived in the greatest desolation and bitterness. Not at all. My mood was extremely happy: I was brimming with pride and enthusiasm for myself, thinking about the mockery I had made of the ram. This is how the satisfactions of vanity almost always spread a cooling balm on our wounds. Chapter 3. IMPRESSIONS OF SUMMER. That summer, God sent to earth the greenest foliage, the most fragrant breezes, the clearest waters, and the most cherries in his infinite repertoire. In the sky, he also showed his goodwill by having a resplendent sun swim in it, followed by a cheerful escort of iridescent clouds. And in our own house in Entralgo, she managed to make my father forget to give me lessons most of the time, and to make Muley, Cayetano’s dog, increasingly kind and tolerant with me. Animals continued to be my joy, despite the bitter disappointment I have just described. The fauna interested me much more than the flora, and since this was known in the village, the boys frequently brought me breeding blackbirds, goldfinches, finches, larks, etc., etc. I raised them by hand, opening their beaks and feeding them whatever food I could find in the kitchen. Despite this—strange fact!—they all died very quickly: hardly any of them made it past the forty-eight hours. This drove my father into a rage, and he scolded me harshly, I don’t know why, for I cared for them with the care and diligence that a mother can bestow upon her children. If they died, it was undoubtedly from ill will, for it is hardly credible that at such a tender age they were already weary of life. The calves continued to deserve my approval, even though I did not deserve theirs, for as soon as I approached and laid my hand on them, they began to jump and struggle desperately, pulling at the chain that held them to the manger as if they were trying to hang themselves with the collar. The mother, far back in the stable, turned her head and let out a low moo of disapproval. José Mateo was always my slave. Whatever I needed or pleased in the plant or animal kingdom, I was sure to obtain immediately through the intercession of that man whose power knew no bounds. He climbed trees, entered caves, and bathed in the river without hesitation to provide me with the slightest pleasure. Whenever he went to perform any task, such as cutting fresh hay for the cattle or fern to pad the stable, he would carry me on his sturdy shoulders, then seat me on the grass, and while he worked, he would instruct me about the delicate operations required for cultivating the land and about the life and habits of the animals we kept at home. He told me that fresh hay is best cut at dawn because it is softer; at midday, the scythe encounters greater resistance. Fern, on the other hand, as it is cut with a sickle is best cut during the hottest hours when it is at its strongest. He showed me how to tie the load with the large bristle rope and allowed me to help him in this important operation by climbing onto the pile of hay or bracken to press it. José Mateo was the man of the prairies. For him, there was no wealth more desirable in the world, no spectacle more amusing, nothing more worthy of veneration than a good irrigated meadow. He couldn’t believe that a man could be called rich who didn’t own any. That’s why my father, who owned many, was an exceptional being in his eyes, and when I told him there were lords much richer than him, he shook his head, doubting my assertion. He had been to Avilés only once, and my father, wanting to surprise him, took him by hidden paths to the edge of the sea. Suddenly finding himself in front of it and seeing the immense plain of water, he opened his eyes wide and, slapping his forehead, exclaimed: “God, what a meadow!” I soon learned that horses ate the long, tough grass perfectly, but cows rejected it. Short grass, mixed with chamomile and other fragrant plants, was a delight for the cows, who then filled themselves with sweet, flavorful milk. In the stable, we had five or six cows that José Mateo, with a profoundly critical mind, classified into two groups: the “lechares” (milk cows), that is, those that gave a lot of milk, and the “mantequeras” (manter milk cows), that is, those that gave less milk but yielded a greater amount of butter. I learned how to extract butter by mashing the milk in a clay vessel with a small hole previously made and covered with a wooden dowel. The whey was allowed to run through this hole when the butter began to swish like a pasty ball inside the vessel. The clear, serene days slid by delightfully as I learned these and other things that seemed infinitely more interesting than the conjugation of intransitive verbs. At that time, I thought like a barbarian, imagining that writing the verb ” haber” without an “h” had no significance for life. One morning, I found José Mateo dressed in his new jacket and his Sunday hat. He was serious and a little pale, and contrary to his custom, he didn’t cheerfully challenge me. I asked him: “Why did you put on your new jacket?” “Because Salia’s milk was wasted,” he replied very seriously. I didn’t clearly see the causal relationship that existed between José Mateo’s new jacket and Salia’s milk being wasted without milk. I remained silent, however, and after a moment, he explained it to me himself . “The master sent me to sell it at the market.” The master was Cayetano; he called my father “the gentleman.” “Ah! Are you going to La Pola? I’m going with you.” In fact, they let me go to La Pola with him, and I spent the whole afternoon at the cattle market. After much, much conversation and endless testing and examinations, after haggling for a whole hour over about half a duro, Salia was finally sold. José Mateo, who had been talkative all day, became silent and taciturn again when he saw the buyer leave with the cow tied by the horns. He had been milking her for six years, feeding her, taking her to the river to drink, which yoked her to the cart. She quickly put the money for the purchase into her pocket, as if it were burning her fingers, took my hand, and we set off again, silent and sad, on the road to Entralgo. Ah, you who indifferently sell and exchange at the Stock Exchange those papers you call securities, how little you imagine the emotions involved in the sale and exchange of village securities! Sundays were even happier days for me. When I woke up, I heard the sweet ringing of the bells. If, at the end of the ringing, two chimes rang out slowly, I discovered it was the second. I jumped out of bed quickly and looked out over the aisle of the vine. In front of me, and far away, rose the great Peña Mea, its crest silhouetted against the blue sky. The chestnut groves that covered the hills, the orchard, all the foliage surrounding my house shone in the early morning sun. Ahead of us, the residents of Canzana were already beginning to pass toward the church, dressed in their festive attire: the coarse white shirt, the short cloth trousers with silver buttons, the jacket slung over their shoulders, the pointed corduroy cap raised high . This Canzana is a small village in our parish, nestled in the fold of a hill above Entralgo. When everything was ready and the third bell rang, we would set off for the church. My mother used to go on horseback because she was always in poor health, and the road, though short, was rough. I found it charming, stony, shaded by hazel trees that formed a long tunnel above it. Upon reaching the church, the men would separate from the women, the former going to the left and the latter to the right. The men would remain for a few moments in the portico until mass began; The women went straight in. My father and I went to the sacristy, where the village’s most distinguished figures were already gathered . The priest was a thin, gentle, and sweet old man who always welcomed us with extraordinary deference. He was kind and tolerant to everyone except Saint Nicholas. This saint had a sanctuary in Campiellos, a place not far from ours, to which the inhabitants of Laviana and even other municipalities came seeking a remedy for their illnesses and miseries. His miraculous cures had aroused such faith that the number of pilgrims increased steadily, and the only thing anyone talked about in those parts was this. This greatly annoyed our parish priest, who saw our Virgin of Carmen, patron saint of Entralgo, to whom he was deeply devoted, abandoned by Saint Nicholas. He was not wrong, in my opinion, because to suppose that Saint Nicholas could obtain more from God than the Virgin was foolish and even impious. For this reason, whenever the occasion arose, in the sermons or talks he gave before the offertory, he would allude with some acrimony to the reckless eagerness that had taken hold of his parishioners to visit and make offerings to the aforementioned shrine. One day he delivered the following sensational news point-blank: ” My beloved brothers and sisters: Saint Nicholas of Campiellos is not in Campiellos; there is nothing there but an image.” Despite this and other expressive warnings, the residents persisted in favoring Saint Nicholas; for , in the village as in the city, in temporal as in spiritual matters, fashion exercises a despotic sway. Our priest, as I have said, was extremely devoted to the Virgin of Carmen and never ceased to exhort us to be so as well. “Let us pray to the Virgin,” he told us one Sunday, “let us pray to her without ceasing, let us pray to her insistently, because even if it seems at times that she doesn’t hear us, she will certainly attend to us in the end. The Virgin is like a mother to whom her little child says: “Mother, give me bread, Mother, give me bread!” The mother pays no attention, and the child repeats: “Mother, give me bread.” The mother seems not to hear him, and the child keeps repeating: “Mother, give me bread, Mother, give me bread! ” And finally, the loving mother ends up giving him bread and butter. This seemed very good to me because I was passionate about bread and butter, especially if it was sprinkled with a little sugar. Perhaps upon arriving here the reader will smile, thinking of Bossuet. But what were we going to do with Bossuet? Who would understand him there? Let us leave the eagle of Meaux in its nest and not despise this poor sparrow too much, because all birds, great and small, belong to God and all fulfill their destiny on earth. Leaving Mass was always joyful. We walked down the stony path shaded by hazel trees, forming groups, chatting and laughing. My parents stayed at home, but I, with Cayetano and José Mateo, would continue to the Bowling Alley, where the bowling game was immediately organized. How
astonished I was to see those men throw an immense and heavy oak ball into the air more easily than I could throw a rubber ball ! The residents of Canzana who joined the game there would stay until dark without eating and without showing any signs of weakness. There is one, a well-off farmer, but so stingy that at the beginning of the game he takes off his new shoes so as not to ruin them and hides them behind a piece of wood. But there is another from Entralgo, cunning and joking, who watches him and surreptitiously goes to the wood, takes off his own shoes as well, and puts on the miser’s. All day long he plays with them on, and it’s remarkable how the bystanders, who are aware of the exchange, laugh when the one from Entralgo, arguing over some point with the one from Canzana, furiously stamps his foot on the ground to further ruin the other’s footwear. These are the village farces, coarse if you will, but just as entertaining as those in the city. On hot afternoons, my father, Cayetano, and I would go swimming at the well called Cuanya, a backwater in the river near a rock, shaded by an immense walnut tree. The greatest pleasure of these baths was watching Cayetano dive in, stay in the water for a few moments , and always emerge with a trout in his hand. Extremely skillful at searching for them under rocks, I have sometimes seen him emerge with two, one in each hand. But he made me experience mortal anxiety. When he took longer than usual to stick his head out, I thought he had drowned, and my heart pounded. The memory of these painful moments suggested to me the story entitled “Alone!” which appears in my collection of works. An even greater pleasure was eating at a neighbor’s house. I frequently visited the homes of the most prominent, and if I arrived around midday, they always offered me their meager meal with frankness and cordiality. Almost all of them farmed land on rent from my father and professed an affection for our family that has never faded. I accepted with joy. How little a man needs to be happy! I was one, eating a miserable pot of food in a clay dish with a wooden spoon and then drinking a bowl of milk. That humility pleased my heart instead of burning it, because my hour of pride had not yet arrived. And not only did I share their coarse food with joy, but I also wanted to take part in their work. They took me to the meadows, they took me to the fields, and I strove to help them, and they smiled and accepted my efforts and encouraged them. When they finally said to me, “Well, well! Today you have earned your food,” I was as joyful as the patriarch Jacob must have been when his uncle Laban gave him the beautiful Rachel after seven years of service. The most culminating task of the summer is the grass. To this, therefore, I devoted all my attention and concentrated my efforts to repay my neighbors for the food they gave me. Before dawn, the harvesting gang sets up in the meadow to be mowed. The early morning hours, being the coolest part of the day, are best used. But I never managed to get them to wake me up early. I went when they brought the harvesters the _parva_, that is, the light breakfast of cheese, bread, and brandy. Naturally, in this hard task of cutting the grass with a scythe, I couldn’t be of much use to them, because every time I tried to use that instrument, I was just as often as I was. I stuck the point into the ground without cutting a single weed. But when, during the hours of the sun, it was necessary to “turn it over,” that is, to spread it out to dry, then I would take up my duties, and with a stick or fork they gave me, I would set to work with the greatest ardor, patiently enduring the heat of the sun, which was not weak. If it didn’t rain, the next day the grass would be dry and it would be put into the hayloft, or “tinada,” as they say there. It was a test of my strength. I would test it by having them tie me to a load that I thought was heavy. I couldn’t handle it, and as soon as they placed it on my shoulders, I would fall to the ground, overwhelmed. They would try to slow me down, but I wouldn’t allow it and would again force them to put it on me, and once again I would fall to the ground. Thus I would repeat the trick until, ashamed and confused, I would give in to despair, weeping over my impotence with bitter tears. I shed even more bitter sorrows that summer, not for fulfilling my duty but for failing in it. In one of the vine-covered corridors, there was a swallow’s nest that interested me greatly. The parents were constantly coming and going, feeding their young, and the latter were already beginning to poke their beaks out of the nest. I spent long periods of time contemplating this tender family scene when one day it occurred to me to establish a closer relationship with them. And to achieve this, I found no more suitable means than to take a broom, climb onto a chair, and… You can now infer what happened. I could never understand what determining motive drove me to perform that sad feat. I can only explain it as a temptation of the little demon of curiosity that exists in every child. The nest turned into crumbs on the ground, and scattered here and there appeared a few plucked little birds, not a pleasant sight. A maid who was in the room heard the noise, looked out into the corridor, and screamed . Another maid standing nearby came running when she heard the scream and screamed again . My mother arrived immediately and screamed again. Then Manola, and so did Cayetano… in short, everyone. And finally, my father came running, and when he saw what was happening, he turned red as if he were about to have a stroke . They all yelled at me furiously at once, all in the same way, that is, asking me the same question: “Boy! Why did you do that?” I must have been as pale as a death, and I remained silent. “Boy! Why did you do that? ” The same silence. In reality, even if I wanted to, I couldn’t satisfy their question. Since then, I’ve thought that many bad things are done in the world without knowing why they are done. “Look, look at the mother, how she contemplates the destruction!” Manola exclaimed. The swallow, in fact, without any fear of people, was perched on the railing of the corridor, almost touching us, and seemed the image of despair. My father, who was busy cleaning up the nest, raised his face toward it, and I saw two tears tremble in his eyes. I don’t know what passed through me then. I thought my heart would break with pain, and I began to shout so loudly that everyone rushed to my aid, abandoning the helpless birds. Finally, that great ruin improved in appearance. My father had a small basket brought, filled it with raw cotton, and gently placed the tender swallows in it. Then Gaetano climbed a ladder, nailed a hook to the ceiling of the corridor, and hung the basket from it. We all left, and a few minutes later we were able to observe with satisfaction that the parents were once again feeding their young. Chapter 4. CHILDHOOD BEFORE DEATH. Sensitive people who love children greatly strive to keep the sight of death away from them. They assume that it exerts a pernicious effect on their impressionable imaginations and that this disturbance prolongs its disastrous effects and reverberates throughout their lives. It seems to me they are mistaken. Death makes little impression on children because they do not believe in it. In this respect, as in many others, the child It resembles an animal. In childhood, we see and think that others die, but it never occurs to us to imagine that the same could happen to us . We fully enjoy the immortality of the forces that animate nature, the sublime intoxication of life and the infinite infallibilities its illusion engenders. This is my personal experience, at least. I remember seeing twenty-four suffocated men in Avilés who had just been pulled from the water, lying on the dock, and this horrible spectacle left no evil mark on my existence. They were laborers working in the open quarries on the other side of the estuary for its canalization . When the time came to leave work, some boats transported them from the other side. The unfortunates were in such a hurry to get home that they crowded dangerously into the boats to avoid waiting for another voyage. In the end, what was to be feared happened. One fateful afternoon, a boat loaded with twenty-four men capsized near the dock because one of them had suddenly stood up. Many knew how to swim, but those who couldn’t clung to them with such eagerness that they all became paralyzed. They were pulled out entwined like cherries. Well, I declare that my feeling at the sight of them at that moment was not one of affliction or terror, but of curiosity. And I have reason to suppose that the other children who witnessed this horrible spectacle with me were no more impressed. The same thing happened to me in Laviana when I saw an old man die from Canzana, a place which, as I have already said, is located on a hill above Entralgo. In front of my house I saw the priest pass, bearing the Holy Viaticum, preceded by the sacristan and escorted by a group of neighbors carrying lit wax torches. Like other village children, I immediately joined the procession, and we began the climb up the rugged path that led to Canzana. It was a beautiful summer morning. The sun scattered its light across the leafy valley, dangling its threads from the chestnut leaves, bathing in the streams, gilding the mountain crests, and pushing a few curly white clouds toward the horizon, no doubt intent on remaining alone in the sky. We could enjoy few such splendid days in that region where rain is all too frequent. I marched with my faithful friends amidst the greatest joy. The sexton’s bell, instead of terrifying me, rang delightfully in my ears. I turned my head often, and the sight of the smiling valley crossed by the silver ribbon of the Nalón gently impressed my heart. Up above, the priest walked with the sacred bag on his chest. To protect him from the sun, the white silk parasol intended for this purpose had been taken from the sacristy closet , and which, for the reason already mentioned, was rarely shown. It was a long-stick parasol reminiscent of those used by the Orientals to protect the heads of their kings. A neighbor held it while the sexton, a few steps ahead, walked with the large lantern in one hand and the warning bell in the other. It rang so clearly and silvery in the silence of the mountains, the white parasol shone so beautifully high up on the path, and the trees and hay exuded such a sweet aroma with the freshness of the dew that the memory of that morning has become an epochal part of my life. I had never felt the pleasure of living more intensely, nor was I so pleasantly impressed by the beauty of the countryside. When we arrived at Canzana, a group of women were waiting for us at the entrance of the small village, carrying paths and small wax candles, who joined us. We soon found the sick man’s house, which might better be called a shack. Upon passing through the rickety and grimy little door, we entered its first and last room, which served all purposes: kitchen, dining room, bedroom, and workshop. In one corner, we saw a pile of ashes and some cooking pots leaning against it; in another, some farming implements and woodcutter’s tools; on another, the sordid cot where the owner of it all was dying. He was an old man whose name I don’t remember at the moment, although I know his name was Uncle Lucas. He had lived alone for a long time: he was a widower, and his only daughter had left three or four years earlier for Buenos Aires with her husband to try her luck. The neighbors surrounding that poor bed helped the dying man to his feet with difficulty when the priest entered the room. After the preliminary prayers , he administered the last Holy Communion. The sick man’s face was as yellow as the candles the women held in their hands: his glassy eyes looked around us all expressionlessly, as if he couldn’t see us. The women on their knees prayed in loud, plaintive voices. It was all truly interesting. So when the priest left, I decided to stay with my friends in order to fully and thoroughly understand what death was. Needless to say, this had nothing to do with me. Death was a thing for old people, and I didn’t understand the possibility of being one then. A completely disinterested spectator, godlike, I witnessed death as an aesthetic phenomenon, an artistic projection meant to entertain me. A few people remained around the bed. It was then that Uncle Pablo de Canzana, who was one of them, entered the fray. This Uncle Pablo, a wiry, slightly crooked man with a wrinkled face and bristling black hair, wore the classic shorts, but instead of the gartered woolen stockings worn by the others, his white underpants fell below to his shoes. His cap wasn’t raised, but rather curled, as if to indicate that he was a peaceful man, who didn’t live on trifles like the others, who rejected futile pleasures and was devoted body and soul to serious, otherworldly meditations. On Sundays, before Mass, he led the rosary for the women who prayed it, as the men remained in the portico chatting until the bell warned them that the Holy Sacrifice was about to begin. He also assisted in the rosary when the priest allowed him to, which wasn’t always, for reasons I’ll explain later. If there was someone seriously ill in Canzana, he was the one who would come running to tell the priest to hear his confession. After Mass, when the offerings of chickens, bread, or butter that the villagers usually made to the saints were publicly auctioned in the portico, Uncle Pablo served as the town crier and led the bidding with his high-pitched falsetto voice. In short, he was a man of priestly temperament who loved the Church like an owl and who, instead of the potatoes and cornbread that served as his daily food, would gladly have eaten oil from the lamps. He didn’t serve as a sacristan because, unfortunately, he lived in Canzana. This, at least, was his belief, although it wasn’t true. He had a serious defect. Whether due to a lack of hearing or understanding, not a single sound word came from his mouth, especially if it expressed something unrelated to everyday life. The atrocities that man uttered were proverbial in the village. The general public didn’t attribute them to hard of hearing, but to a deficiency of brain. Let’s be frank, Uncle Pablo, even among those rude villagers, was considered the biggest fool who ate breadcrumbs in the parish of Entralgo. Needless to say, the Latin with which he charmed the priest’s ears when he helped him at mass was of such a nature that, although the priest had learned very little of Cicero, it drove him mad; he raised his eyebrows, twisted his mouth, and even roared in fright. That is why it was only as a last resort, that is, only when the sacristan was not in the church and there was no one around to whom he could entrust the task, that he agreed to let Uncle Pablo serve as his altar boy. I say that Uncle Pablo, as soon as the priest and the sacristan left with the main body of the procession, prepared himself with intimate satisfaction—I won’t say with joy, although perhaps I could say so—to help his neighbor. He sprinkled his nose with water that must have been blessed, recited a Creed that he made everyone present repeat aloud, and placing a crucifix before his eyes, he solemnly said: “Luke, say with me: ‘Jesus!'” The dying man, whose eyes were closed, repeated: “Jesus. ” “May the evil spirits be with me.” Uncle Luke, without opening his eyes, said: “No! ” “Yes, Luke, yes; say with me: ‘Jesus!'” “Jesus,” repeated Uncle Luke. “May the evil spirits be with me. ” “No! No! ” “Why not, Luke, why not? Look, you are at death’s door!” exclaimed Uncle Paul with impatient solicitude. “Come on, don’t be an idiot, say with me: ‘Jesus!'” “Jesus,” repeated the dying man. “May the evil spirits be with me. ” “No! No!” Uncle Lucas muttered again, shaking his head in terror. He couldn’t be stopped from repeating those words, and I left at last, not knowing what to make of the scene. When I described it to my father, he looked at me in astonishment. “What are you saying, kid? Did he really say ‘evil spirits’? ” “Yes, Dad; he said ‘evil spirits’. ” “Hail Mary, how wonderful!” he exclaimed, crossing himself. And he didn’t have time to tell the priest about it when, as was his custom, he came to our house that afternoon . Upon hearing this, the priest flew into a furious rage, and the next day he summoned Uncle Pablo de Cananza to the rectory. He locked himself in his office with him, and for an hour and a quarter, according to the maid’s testimony, he called him “burrico,” “pollino,” “asno,” “burro,” “jumento”—in short, all the synonyms the Spanish language has to represent the same charming animal. That’s not many, but if there were sixty-three, as the Italian language possesses, according to the wise Mustoxidi, he would surely have accepted them all. Furthermore, he strictly forbade him from ever again helping anyone die, and should he violate this precept, he promised to help him leave this earthly life himself with a few suitable blows to the neck of the head. To confirm the impassivity with which we in childhood contemplate death, I will add that All Souls’ Day was one of the happiest of my life. The sexton was generous enough, for which I can never thank him enough, to allow me to ring the dead ring all day long in the small church bell tower. I was accompanied, as always, by my faithful friends. What delightful hours we spent gathered together on that small open-air platform, which resembled the masthead of a ship! Three or four slow strokes were rung on the largest, then one on the smallest; then a more or less prolonged silence. And then it started all over again, and so on all day until nightfall. My only inconvenience during that memorable day was being forced to go and eat; but I did so in such a hurry that my father was forced to tap me on the back because the morsels stuck in my throat. I remember that bell tower as one of the most pleasant places ever created by the hand of man. From it, one can see a large part of the Laviana Valley. Below us, the red-roofed houses of Entralgo grew white among the trees; Above, above the fold formed by the mountain, was Canzana; the small river of Villoria could be seen, the majestic Nalón could be seen crossing the cornfields; far away, at the bottom of the valley, was the Pola and further away, as if closing it off, the Barreros. The bells of Carrio and La Pola reached our ears; but the bells of these churches could not compete with ours, everyone knows this, and that is why we felt proud of making them ring, believing in good faith that the entire valley admired us. I continued to frequent this bell tower, always experiencing the greatest joy when at midday the sacristan, from time to time, allowed me to go alone to ring the bells to warn the peasants that the time had come to leave work. On the occasion of one of During these visits, when spring arrived, I made a prodigious discovery. In a crack in the wall, I happened to see a starling’s nest. To contemplate it at my leisure, I had to jump out of the bell tower and stand on the roof. That nest was so delicate and contained such delicious little eggs that I was overjoyed at the discovery, and I didn’t want to tell anyone about it, not even my closest friends, for fear of being stolen. Whenever possible, I only paid it a single visit, for which, as I said, I needed to walk on the roof. It’s possible that on these excursions I broke a tile, as will be seen later; but I was so carried away that I didn’t mind causing damage to the church. I saw the petulant starling and the prudish starling feeding their young once they had hatched, and this gave me indescribable pleasure, promising to snatch them away barbarously as soon as they had fledged. I was unable to commit this crime. Another carried it on his conscience. It so happened that during those days my mother took me with her to confession, although I still didn’t approach the Holy Table for Communion for a long time. She did this to accustom me to receiving this sacrament and at the same time to correct me for my many misdeeds. The priest confessed me standing up, not on my knees, and he was extremely affectionate and tolerant with me. One of the questions he asked me was if I was hiding anything from my parents, if I had some little secret I didn’t want to share with anyone. I thought I could declare that I had discovered a nest. The priest asked me where it was, and I told him. Two days later, when I had the opportunity to visit the nest, it had disappeared. The priest had ordered the sexton to tear it down. The sexton himself informed me amidst boisterous laughter. It’s impossible to imagine the sadness and pain I felt. Despite his priestly character, it seemed to me that the priest had abused my frankness and committed a black betrayal. Therefore, when a few months later my mother took me to confession again, I was strongly wary of him. She asked me, as before, if I was hiding anything, if my conscience was perfectly clear of all dissimulation, and under pain of mortal sin and sacrilege, I was forced to confess that I had a fiancée. “What precocity!” the reader will exclaim, thinking of my young age. Let him not be too surprised, however, because my brother, who counted a few years younger than I was when asked if he had a fiancée, very seriously affirmed that he had ten, and named all the girls in the neighborhood. I had not fallen into such degrading polygamy; I was content with one. She was a girl, daughter of some gentlemen from Pola whom I had not seen more than three or four times in my life, and who was certainly as alienated as the Tsar of Russia from the honor he had bestowed upon her. “Who is it?” the priest asked me. Naturally, I remained silent. “Who is that girlfriend?” he repeated. I was completely silent. “Come on, kid; don’t you want to tell me who she is?” Then, disheartened, I exclaimed: “Why? So I can take her away like the nest?” I could see the priest put his hand to his eyes and make desperate efforts to suppress his laughter, which surprised me because I thought I had told him the most logical thing in the world. Chapter 5. RAMONÍN. Here is autumn with its yellow robes and violet clouds. The red apples are beginning to fall from the orchards and fall to the grass, and this event, so in keeping with the immutable laws of nature, instead of elevating my spirit to the consideration of universal gravitation as it once did Newton, directly and perniciously attacked my stomach. I give up calculating how many I ate. Cider production must have suffered a considerable decline that year because of this circumstance; but I have kept the secret until now. From that summer I emerged not only an intelligent farmer and practical but also a skillful hunter. I learned how to set traps to catch sparrows by scattering a few grains of wheat on the ground and placing a sieve over them held upright by a long rope. When the sparrows came to eat the grains, the rope was released and they were trapped underneath. I knew how to dig holes in the ground and place a slate over them, held up by a small stick, so ingeniously placed that when the bird landed there to eat the grains, the slate fell on it and it was trapped in the hole. This device was particularly directed against quail. I also learned to spread glue on the top twigs of bushes so that the goldfinches would stick there when they landed. I don’t remember ever catching a single bird with all these delicate devices; but that doesn’t matter for my perfect understanding. Where my successes were clearly and evident was with crickets. I knew five or six subtle and graceful ways to persuade them to leave the cave. Almost none of them resisted my perfidious insinuations and rushed out to breathe the fresh air, allowing themselves to be caught as soon as they set foot outside their homes. But if any of them persisted in remaining in their rooms, either because they suspected my good faith or because they were busy at the time, then I was forced to resort to a terrible argument that I will not describe so as not to offend the sensibilities of the ladies who read these memoirs. Cayetano was also an ingenious hunter, but he used his skills on other, more important animals. Aside from trout, which was his specialty, he hunted quail, partridges, and arthropods with a shotgun, in the company of some gentlemen from La Pola. Two or three times they also went to Peña Mayor and the Raigoso mountains and killed some roe deer. But a far more ingenious hunter than he was was a fox that occasionally visited our chicken coop at night. This had us all startled and Cayetano furious. The mastiff was in the woods with the cattle, and Muley, due to his advanced age and long life experience, was already regarding all these things with marked coldness. Cayetano kept watch with his shotgun ready for several nights, but the cunning animal smelled the gunpowder and didn’t appear. Then he decided to go to Sama and buy an iron armadillo, known in that region as a marten. The trap was placed at the mouth of the chicken coop, and a few nights later the fox came and was caught in it by one leg, but to everyone’s astonishment, the unfortunate animal cut it off with its own teeth and left without it. A terrible case of love of freedom that deeply impressed me! The cider was made, and during the days the operation lasted, I didn’t leave the winepress, contributing with all my strength to the ultimate success of such an important task and ensuring every moment of the sweetness and goodness of the distilled juice. I was so sure of it so many times that I had to purge myself without meaning to. Then came the corn harvest, and I helped the neighbors bring in the ears of corn by sitting on them in the cart. Afterwards, I also assisted them in the task of husking the corn and braiding it into strings. The operation, called “esfoyaza” there, was carried out at night, and the neighbors helped one another. It’s impossible to imagine anything more pleasant and delightful than these “esfoyazas.” Ours lasted a few nights, and if it had lasted forever, I don’t think I would have lost anything. In short, summarizing my agricultural impressions, I will say that I thought then that I was born to be a farmer, just as I later thought I was born to be a sailor and then a philosopher. I have always been able to adapt to the environment in which I found myself, and this flexibility of my nature has given me two advantages in life: First and foremost, I never get bored; and second, I have been able to write novels about remote regions and very different social environments . It was already beginning to rain, as gently and steadily as it does there. The fields were gradually being deserted. People were withdrawing into the inside the houses; but here we also enjoyed certain pleasures. In mine, bread was kneaded twice a week. It was amusing to watch the maids knead the dough, and to help them knead it by hanging from the handle of the machine. The making of the buns, the filling of the oven with argoma, and the lighting of the fire to throw it in were extremely interesting. Then the buns were gradually put inside, the oven was covered, and then the women crossed themselves, the men uncovered their heads, and a solemn Our Father was recited. How far removed we are now from these simple and innocent scenes! We live cut off from nature; we are on the run from God. Have we gained joy by this? Let each one put their hand on their heart and answer me. The nights were already long. Before going up to our house to play tresillo with my father, the priest, and an Indian who was there on vacation, Cayetano would stay for a while in the large kitchen downstairs , chatting with us. Sitting on the bench, I by his side, Micona on his shoulder, he would take pleasure in telling us some funny story and giving those present the cold shoulder. For he was a malicious and provocative man beyond measure. Those who generally served as his scapegoat were a neighbor named José de Anica and a servant named Pacho. He particularly raged against the latter that the poor, harassed man would sometimes even disrespect him. During those days, the cattle arrived from the mountain. They had been there for a long time, with only one dairy cow left in the stable. And with the cattle came the large mastiff called Manchego, because he was originally from the province of Toledo. He wore around his neck a large leather collar trimmed with sharp iron points, or rather a bell. This hood, and the mastiff’s coat as well, were stained with blood. The cowboy informed us that he had fought with wolves the night before. No one can imagine the impression this made on me. Wolves were legendary animals to me, something that existed only in the imagination of storytellers. The dog, fighting with them, took on a supernatural appearance in my eyes. I couldn’t stop looking at him and putting my hand on his back, marveling at the same time that such a brave and powerful animal couldn’t bear to wag its tail in the presence of a being as insignificant as me. All the bread and cheese in the house seemed too little to entertain that hero. And once, when he licked my face in recognition, I felt as honored as if Napoleon had kissed me. That night, there was talk of wolves in the kitchen, and Cayetano told me the following incident, which everyone there except me already knew: “About four years ago, and around this time, I was sitting one afternoon there on the stone bench in front of the house, when Ramonín, Uncle Angel de Canzana’s man, came by, coming down from the mountain with the cattle. You already know Ramonín because you see him every Sunday when we go to mass. Now he’s a real young man who joined the fifth grade this year; but back then, he was just a lad, and not very well-built. Well, as I said, he was coming down from the mountain with his satchel on his back and carrying a small, covered basket in his hand. Being a bit curious, I held him by the arm and lifted the lid of the basket. Inside was a puppy. “Did the bitch give birth in the mountain, Ramonín? ” “It’s not a dog, Señor Cayetano, it’s a wolf,” he replied, laughing. “A wolf?” The devil take me if it isn’t true! I took the little animal out of the basket, placed it on the ground, and it began to howl like a newborn puppy. Ramonín told me that the day before, Luisón de la Granja, whose cabin was near his, had found three wolf cubs in a cave, killed two, and brought this one back. That afternoon, while he was removing manure from the stable, he was suddenly attacked by the she-wolf. Thanks to the fact that he had the toothed shovel in his hand, he didn’t die at that moment. He fought with the beast and managed to skewer it through the belly. By that time, he must have already been in La Pola to receive the prize from the Town Hall. that they give for the slaughter of any vermin. “And what the hell do you want this little animal for? ” “It was only to show it to my brother. Then we’ll kill it.” Then the idea came to me to raise it, and I asked him to. I raised it, in fact, giving it milk until it was able to eat. We began to call it Ramonín, like the boy who had brought it, and Ramonín stuck, and that’s the name it began to respond to, but not in the lively, alert way that dogs do, because wolves are clumsier, or so to speak, more locked -hoofed. This is nothing unusual, because among men themselves, some are more locked-hoofed than others, and if Pacho doesn’t say so… ” “It would be a miracle if I didn’t come out!” growled Pacho angrily. The little animal grew, and after six months, it was a naughty puppy that followed me everywhere. I took it to Pola, I took it to Sama, and I excited their curiosity wherever I went. I grew fond of him. Once, when I went to Oviedo, I brought him a beautiful bronze-plated collar on which I had his name and the date I acquired it engraved. In short, he behaved like a faithful dog. The only way he was known for his breed was when he killed three lambs in just a few days , for which I had to pay by keeping them. I was so pleased with the little animal that I forgave him for these and other similar misdeeds. He never bit people; the children played with him as if they were dogs. One Friday in November, when the wolf was already over a year old, I went to the Cabañaquinta market, taking him with me. I rode early, crossed the Collada, and in about three hours I arrived at the market. You already know that Cabañaquinta is behind Peña Mea and that you have to cross all those mountains you see in front of your house to get there . I spent the day sorting out my affairs, and in the afternoon I went to Andrea’s tavern, where I found Xuanón, the famous bear killer you may have heard of, and Don Salustiano, the clerk. I got so caught up in a game of brisca with them that by the time I agreed to meet up with him, it was eight o’clock and night had already fallen for more than an hour. I mounted my horse and spurred it home. The night was already really cold: quite a bit of snow had fallen on the heights. Before rounding the Collada, I happened to look back, but I didn’t see Ramonín. I whistled and called to him. Nothing. “That rascal escaped into the mountains,” I said to myself. “I was wrong to bring him this way.” I regretted the incident because, I repeat, I was happy and proud of the animal. I was also saddened by the loss of the collar, which had cost me nine pesetas. I finally rounded the Collada and rode on at a very steady pace, albeit at the briskest pace the horse could keep on those devilish roads, when suddenly the horse stopped dead in its tracks, pricked its ears, and shuddered. I dug in my spurs, and instead of charging forward again , it reared back. I understood at once that it had scented the wolf. And indeed, I instantly perceived the shape of one of them in the starry light, for there was no moon. I reached for my revolver and suddenly saw another one on the opposite side of the road. And in less time than it takes to count, three, four, five… I can’t say how many… were in front of me. Perhaps the dreadful fear that gripped me had multiplied them. But what else do I see? For among them I see Ramonín himself, with his gleaming collar, seemingly ready to throw himself at me like all the others. The situation was dire, as you can understand. Until then, I had never seen death so close to my eyes. I threw myself off my horse and began firing blindly, for fear prevented me from even stopping to aim. The wolves fled, but not many seconds passed before they returned again. I saw myself dead; I had already fired six shots and had no more cartridges. But God did not want me to be dead on that occasion. Behind me, I heard the shouts of people arriving. They were the street vendors returning to Pola. They had found my horse, which was fleeing in terror, and had stopped it. Believing from the shots that I They had been attacked by thieves and were running, shouting to give me courage. Upon hearing that noise, the wolves disappeared from my sight again . That caravan, which must have numbered no less than twenty men and women, was very surprised by what had happened to me. Above all, Ramonín’s betrayal excited their curiosity so much that they couldn’t stop commenting. They gave me a glass of wine, and after I had calmed down a bit, I mounted my horse again and rode with them here. Although it was already close to eleven, everyone was up waiting for me. “What a face I had, God help me!” exclaimed Pachón, laughing. “You had a worse face when the Rivota boys beat you with that blanket on Obellayo Day,” replied Cayetano, angrily. We went to bed, and the next morning, barely had I gotten out of bed, when José Mateo came to me and said: “Sir, Ramonín is there. ” “What?” _Ramonín!_ I didn’t want to believe it. I ran out into the street and saw my wolf, who as soon as he saw me began to dismount and drag himself along the ground, not daring to approach me, as if begging forgiveness for his villainy. —Ah, cursed traitor! Now I’ll pay for this. I went into the house, grabbed the shotgun, and went out again. _Ramonín_ was no longer there. —_Ramonín_ has gone into the stable,_ a boy who was passing by told me. I went to the stable and found him curled up under the manger. I put the shotgun to my face and left him there, dead with a shot. Chapter 6. STREET MUSICIANS. All her life, my mother was a fragile Bohemian crystal. A creature so weak, so delicate, and close to extinction that any gust of wind could extinguish it at the least expected hour, couldn’t truly be called a woman . She knew it; we all knew it; That’s why our great concern in the house was to block this treacherous gust by every means at our disposal. As soon as we saw a half-open door in her living room, we rushed forward, filled with terror, to close it. If she ventured to leave the living room to go to another room, some went first like heralds to warn her that the balconies and windows were closed , others as escort to prevent any imprudent person from opening the side doors. Needless to say, in this sanitary task, my father distinguished himself for his ardor and skill, feeling for his wife the adoration of a lover and the tenderness of a father. My poor mother vegetated in a corner of the sofa, wrapped in her woolen shawl, working with her ivory crochet hook. At night, she loved to spin with that artistic spinning wheel I’ve already mentioned. She was exquisite in all feminine tasks, and her fingers, although so delicate, were tireless. Oh my God, how thin and fragile those fingers were! One of my painful fears was seeing them break any day. This physical weakness did not preclude in her a great strength of character. She was, as they say, physically a reed that bends but does not break; morally an oak that breaks but does not bend. My father, as her opposite, possessed extreme physical vigor and a gentle and sentimental character. With the anxiety that usually assails those who see death close to them ready to drag them to the grave, my mother clung to life with all her might. This yearning for life translated into an irresistible desire to always be surrounded by cheerful and boisterous people, the more cheerful and boisterous the better. All her friends were much younger than she, and in seeing them having fun and dancing, and in listening to their chatter and their amorous confidences, she found the source of her joy or at least the oblivion of her ailments. In addition to the few young ladies in the village and some who occasionally came to spend time at our house, at night I received a good number of farm girls who were sitting on the floor spinning their yarn . In this way, a gathering of fifteen or twenty people formed. My father, with his friends and Cayetano, played cards in a corner of the room, lit by a green-screen lamp, while I sat Sometimes at their side, other times on the sofa beside my mother, I wandered from one place to another until sleep overcame me and I fell asleep on the sofa. Sometimes the laughter of the social gatherings would wake me for a moment, but soon I would fall asleep again. Finally, my father would often leave the gaming table for a moment, take me in his arms, carry me half asleep to the bedroom, undress me himself, and leave me in bed. My mother enjoyed watching them dance, and she herself, overcoming her illnesses through a marvelous effort of her energetic will, would occasionally take part in society balls. But in Entralgo, there were not enough gentlemen for this kind of dance, and only when friends or relatives visited us could a small party be organized. Usually, the dancing took place in the village style, which, in my opinion, was much more entertaining at the time than that of the city. Nor was there a lack of traveling musicians to accompany or keep time with the dance, whom my mother used to keep at home for days on end, supporting him and giving him a small allowance. I remember that twice during that season, a one-eyed violinist named Joachim stayed with us for quite some time, accompanied by a boy of fifteen or sixteen who played the harp. This Joachim couldn’t compete with Paganini on the violin, but he could certainly hold his own with Falstaff himself standing in front of a barrel. A river of cider wouldn’t have quenched that artist’s thirst. Yet his one eye was always dripping with blood, which I can assure you didn’t make him look good. Joachim was a most amusing man, talkative like few others and a liar like none. You should have seen him standing at the winepress with a glass in his hand. He never sat in that enclosure, as if he had too much respect for the majesty of the barrel and didn’t dare sit in its presence. However , when he had already poured a reasonable amount of cider into his stomach, he felt authorized to disrespect it and would lean familiarly against it. It is known that before reaching this deplorable period of neglect, not to say insolence, he had already celebrated its sweetness and glory through fervent songs. For as soon as the fiddler approached one of our barrels and had a full glass in his hand, he felt it his duty to exchange instrumental music for vocal, letting it escape from his grateful throat and repeating the same song a hundred times like a litany in honor of the life-giving juice that sparked in his glass. What was he worse at, singing or playing the fiddle? No one was ever able to resolve the question. But he also had another way of praising the magnificence of that sparkling wine, and that was through appropriate and enthusiastic inscriptions. The walls of the winepress were full of them, written by his hand in charcoal. “God bless the cider of this place,” said one. “Let us drink this cider while we have a breath of life left,” said another. “Woe to men who do not know the cider of Entralgo!” read a third… and so on. As can be seen, these inscriptions had a markedly apologetic character. In this they differed from the cuneiform of Assyria and the hieroglyphic of Egypt, almost all of which were historical or commemorative. My father hated Joachim’s epigraphy almost as much as his music. I was able to verify this when, shortly after leaving with his companion, the harpist, he had the winepress whitewashed, covering much profound thought with coarse lime. Perhaps its discovery is reserved for future generations. The layer of lime will come off, and beneath it those enthusiastic cries of Bacchic fury will resonate, still alive . When he was not under the influence of the wine-drenched god, son of Jupiter and Semele, Joachim was a very pleasant man and entertained us by telling us about events in his wandering and roguish life. I have only been able to remember one, probably because it was the one that What impressed me most was that we were sitting around the fire in Cayetano’s large kitchen . Cayetano and I sat on the bench; the others sat on small chairs. Manola had brought two chairs for Joaquín and his harpist. Joaquín spoke this way: “After spending a few days in Villaviciosa, we had gone to the Nazarene festival in Noreña. At that time, this young man wasn’t yet with me, but rather Rufo, the guitarist who drowned in Gijón last year, whom you may have met or heard of. Cider and money flow in Noreña like no other town in the province. That afternoon we made more than three duros playing in the street, and that evening we played at the Town Hall dance and got thirty reales. When we left the dance, it was after eleven; but I wanted to sleep in Pola de Siero because I have a friend there and a bed doesn’t cost me anything. I told Rufo this, and he was immediately satisfied because he hoped they wouldn’t charge him either.” So we set off for Pola, which, as you know, is very close by. It was a beautiful starry night, neither cold nor hot. As we passed through Berrón, Jerónimo’s tavern was still open and full of people. “Shall we go in for a moment?” Rufo said to me. “Come on.” This Rufo was a good man, and a good guitarist, it’s worth mentioning, because he made the instrument talk, but he had one very ugly defect, and that was that he liked cider too much… We all looked at each other in surprise, and Cayetano burst out laughing, and the others followed him. Joaquín was greatly astonished and asked in a muffled voice: “What are you laughing about?” “Well, we’re laughing because everyone likes a glass of cider ,” Cayetano replied, winking at us. And we all laughed again so heartily that Joaquín himself ended up laughing too. “Well, ordinary!” We agreed that he and I liked cider, and we went in to drink a few glasses from the barrel that had been opened that same afternoon. There were quite a few people there, including some gypsies or Hungarians who were bringing several monkeys, a bear, and a trained dog. We had seen them all day in Noreña working with their animals, surrounded by children. We approached the barrel with no small amount of difficulty and had a few glasses brought out . I don’t know how many there were… “A lot!” said Cayetano. “Maybe so. There were so many people and so much noise that eventually I felt dizzy, and I said to Rufo: “Let’s go, I’m tired, and you know we have to leave early for Infiesto tomorrow.” He ignored me, and we continued for a while longer and drank a few more glasses. I urged him again to leave, and… nothing; the man seemed to have put down roots there and was waiting to bloom in the spring. Already annoyed from repeating the same thing to him and waiting for him, I said: “Look, Rufo, I’m leaving: do what you want. ” “Hang on, buddy, hang on a moment. ” “I won’t wait any longer. Goodbye.” And I headed toward the door. “All right, man, all right, don’t worry, I’m leaving too.” And I felt him start walking behind me. When I got out onto the road, I noticed he was standing next to me, and together we headed in the direction of La Pola. I wasn’t speaking to him because I was irritated, and besides, my tongue felt a little heavy in my mouth. The night was more beautiful than before. The moon had risen and was shining so brightly that it seemed to me I saw two of them, side by side. Little by little, my anger passed, and to start talking, I said to Rufo: “What a beautiful night, buddy!” He only answered me with a rude grunt. “Come on!” “So you’re the one who’s getting angry after all this waiting?” I said, stopping and facing him. ” But what was my surprise when I saw that my friend Rufo had turned into a bear!” “That’s a lie, man!” Pacho exclaimed from his trunk. “Wait a moment, my friend,” Joaquín replied. “I’m telling you, that’s a big lie, man! ” “Shut up, you animal!” Cayetano exclaimed angrily. “Let Joaquín finish his story.” Pacho, ignoring this, red with indignation and as if he wanted to throw himself at the poor violinist, shouted even louder: “I’m telling you, man, with all my mouth, that you’re lying, man! Do you want it any clearer, man? ” “Will you shut up, you barbarian?” Cayetano repeated, taking the tongs as if to throw them at him. It was with great difficulty that he was silenced, and Joaquín was able to continue his story. “What jokes you’re playing on me, my friend,” I said. “What’s this nonsense about turning into a bear leading to?” Rufo didn’t answer me. “Well, you’re not unfunny, son!” I continued. “You think you’re going to scare me! Ha ha!” Despite that fur and that pointy snout, I know you, my dear, and I’m as calm as if you were playing a tango for me on the guitar… You know what I’m telling you, Rufus? That you’re not a bear, but a goose, and I’m itching to slap you in the face so you learn not to make fun of your friends. And as I said it, I did it, and with my free hand I hit him hard on the snout. My friend Rufus let out a loud growl, and leaving his four-legged position, he stood up and began to dance around me, growling terribly. I confess, friends, if I ever felt afraid in the world, it was on this occasion. I ran as fast as I could, and I couldn’t run much, since my feet were as heavy as if I were wearing lead shoes. Rufus ran after me, always on his feet, but he still ran slower than I was. Since I was a little ahead of him, I stopped from time to time and said to him in a pleading tone: “Rufus, my friend, forgive me.” I didn’t give you that slap to offend you. He paid no attention and continued chasing me. When he came near, I would run off again, and as soon as I was far away, I would plead with him again: “Come on, Rufus, don’t be like that. A joke is a joke, and between friends it’s of no importance. ” Finally, he relented and, dropping down, walked on all fours again. Then I approached him without fear, and we became partners as before. And we continued chatting with the greatest animation; that is, I remember that it was I who was chatting, because my friend Rufus did nothing but nod with slight grunts at what I was saying. So much so that, finally tired and a little impatient, I stopped, stood in front of him, and said: “But, man of God, how long will this joke continue?” But behold, Rufus gets up again and begins to dance and growl in a frightful manner. It took me no small amount of effort to appease him, and I only succeeded after a long time. Finally, we arrived at La Pola, and I headed to my friend Ramón el Puntillero’s house and knocked on the door. They opened it immediately, and then, turning to Rufo, who was following me, I said, “Compadre, since you don’t want to give up this little joke just yet, you’ll sleep in the cool air tonight.” And I slammed the door on his face. I fell into bed like a stone, and el Puntillero took pity on me and let me sleep until ten in the morning. But at that hour, he woke me up shouting, “Joaquín, Joaquín, get up right now. There’s a bailiff there on behalf of the mayor, asking you to report immediately to the Town Hall. ” “What’s going on?” I exclaimed, startled. “Nothing, apparently, some gypsies are accusing you of stealing a bear from them.” I was stupefied. I couldn’t remember a thing. However, little by little, light began to enter my mind, and I realized what had happened that night. I dressed quickly and headed to the Town Hall. When I got there, the bear had already appeared, and the Bohemians were wandering around town playing tambourines and making it dance. They had found it under a granary where it had eaten more than an arroba of straw piled there. When I told the mayor about the incident, he wanted to laugh his head off, and instead of fining me, he fined the gypsies for letting a dangerous animal run free. As I left the Town Hall, I ran into my friend Rufo, who had slept under a table at Jerónimo’s tavern. His guitar had been stolen , and he had come to complain to the mayor, suspecting the Bohemians. He didn’t get a ticket. Nothing. The bear had appeared, but the guitar was never seen again in its life. Chapter 7. THE DEPARTURE. Spring blew once more upon our happy village; the roses opened, the blackbirds sang in the orchard, the calves lowed in the stable, the zephyrs brought us on their perfumed wings the murmurs of the forest, the chirping of birds in love; the blackberry bush that carpeted the paths was covered with purple blossoms; from the balcony of my room already hung the vines that trembled joyfully at the break of dawn… All these signs of the glorious resurrection of nature delighted men and animals, but they worried me deeply. I had heard my mother say repeatedly that as soon as spring came we would leave for Avilés. At that time I did not know that this town held within itself pleasures far more exquisite than those that Entralgo could offer me. Thinking about school, grammar, the lessons, and Don Juan de la Cruz’s hazel rod made my flesh crawl. Why should I think about it, though? Here they were, waiting for me at the door, as always, my friends Ramón, Sixto, José, and Segundo, a faithful and determined guard that I had managed to form during my stay in the village. We ran the paths, climbed trees to reach nests, made fires and roast potatoes there, cut elderberry sticks to make “tira tacos,” spent hours spying on the eels’ lairs in the streams, but without ever managing to catch one. We fought the rams since my fatal adventure, and within a few months I had already made great strides in the art of bullfighting. We rode every horse we found loose on the roads. This last recreation offered more than one danger, especially for me, who was neither as tough nor as skillful as my companions. I had the opportunity to experience it very early on. On one of those spring afternoons, we had been at the river, moving stones and rocks to catch trout. It was nothing more than a simulation, because deep down we were convinced we would never catch one. When we grew tired of that fruitless exercise, we decided to return to the village. We had barely walked a few steps when we came across a large horse grazing on the grass that grew on the pebbly ground. Struck by a sense of grandeur, I said: “I’m going to ride that horse. ” My friends tried to dissuade me because they knew perfectly well what to expect regarding my progress in horsemanship. “It’s too tall. ” “It doesn’t matter. You will help me mount.” I must confess they did so reluctantly, but they did it. Between them all, I was hoisted onto the back of the animal, which was neither fiery nor vicious. All it did was trot rhythmically in the direction of the village. But I couldn’t adapt to his rhythm; I began to stumble, finally lost my balance, and soon fell nose-first into the ground. One of the least pleasant things in life is, without a doubt, falling nose-first against a rock from a horse’s back. I, who didn’t have noses made of reinforced concrete, felt them deteriorate with a sharp pain that made me burst into screams. My friends, upon hearing this and seeing me lying there, covered in blood, scattered like Jesus’s disciples when their divine Master was nailed to the cross. A few moments later, a servant named Linón, who had already been my grandfather’s servant and who happened to be passing by, came to my aid. He lifted me from the ground, carried me to the river, and washed my face. While doing so, he continued to instruct me with salutary warnings. –You see what happens for being bold.–Who told you to get on a horse if you don’t know how to ride?–If you had been proper, this wouldn’t have happened to you.–What an idea it was of you to ride such a tall horse bareback!, etc., etc. It may be a consolation to find out when one breaks one’s nose, that if one had done this or left that alone one would have avoided the break, but I didn’t experience any on that occasion. On the contrary, the more persuasive Linón was, the sadder and more miserable I felt. Finally, he carried me home in his arms, and my parents were not weak in their fright at seeing me in such a state. Arnica compresses were applied to me, and my good father spent the whole night constantly renewing them. I thought it appropriate at such a time to commend myself or make a promise to visit some shrine. Instead of one, I promised to visit two: that of the Virgin of Covadonga and that of the Holy Christ of Candás. I don’t know why I went so far in my devotion, considering the miraculous Saint Nicholas of Campiellos was so close at hand. Was it because of a desire to travel or because I had been informed of the contempt our parish priest felt for the shrine of Campiellos? In any case, my mother was extremely pleased and promised to take me to Covadonga and Candás as soon as we were back in Avilés. The next day the doctor came, the necessary bandages were applied , and in a few days I was cured. However, later on, the intervention of a doctor from Oviedo was necessary, and I resented that fall all my life. There was already much talk at home about our departure; the day was finally set . I was extremely sad, even though my freedom had been restricted after the fall. But even more sad, in my opinion, was the nephew of the priest of La Pola, and I will briefly explain why. My mother had brought from Avilés a maiden of splendid beauty named Alvarina. She passed for one of the most beautiful young women in Avilés: I need add no more, for the beauty of the women of this town is proverbial in Spain. I loved this Alvarina with all my heart, not so much for her beauty as for her goodness. In children, love is intellectual and more reasoned than in men. Only in the degenerate does sensuality dawn early. Of course, beauty exerts a favorable influence on all beings, but despite her great beauty, if this woman had been wicked, I would not have loved her. Far from this, I always found her sweet and affable, providing me with recreation, saving me treats, and covering up my mistakes when I committed them. She did even more and better, and she encouraged me to be good and courageous. With a pedagogical instinct that today seems worthy of all admiration, she easily found the most appropriate means to achieve this. Whenever there was any disagreement at home and my mother called us to court and the interrogation began, Alvarina would say aloud: “Let the child tell me how it happened. The child doesn’t lie.” It’s incredible the effect this appeal to my veracity had on me. It filled me with pride, and at that moment I would have declared the truth even if I were later dragged to the gallows. If it came to carrying the candle after I had gone to bed and leaving me in the dark, Alvarina would say resolutely: “You can carry the light: the child is not afraid.” And I, who felt it, and quite horribly indeed, bit my lip, buried my head in the sheets, but didn’t let out the slightest protest. This beautiful young woman contributed more to my moral education than any books I’ve read or sermons I’ve heard since. She made me a true man, and I remained quite so until I dedicated myself to being a novelist. God bless her. For the nephew of the priest of La Pola, a handsome young man in his final year of sacred theology, fell madly in love with this Alvarina . He had come to spend a season in Laviana and had temporarily suspended his studies, I don’t remember why; perhaps because his uncle was in poor health and he came to look after him. He visited us frequently , and it’s safe to assume that ever since the son of Venus shot him with one of his deadly arrows, he visited us even more frequently. The poor fellow invented a thousand artificial pretexts to justify these visits. One time he came to bring my father some pea seeds for the garden, another time he came to ask him for something on behalf of his uncle. little thing concerning a tenant, or he would bring me a pretty little cardboard house for the crickets or bring my mother a small basil or geranium plant. My mother smiled watching him get lost in a labyrinth of specious reasoning, and I smiled back watching my mother smile. The poor boy’s face would turn red up to his ears until he would end up coughing profusely, and my mother would tell him to take care of that cold because it’s dangerous in young people, and he would get even redder, which seemed truly impossible. My illness was his health. He came to see me every day, and there was rarely a day when he didn’t treat me to some trinket. He would spend long periods with me, and during these times Alvarina would come and go from my room so often, carrying and bringing things that it seemed as if we were moving house and she alone was in charge of carrying out the move. When I finally recovered, she didn’t want to deprive me of her kind company, understanding that during convalescence, one must exercise the closest and most active vigilance to avoid a relapse. Finally, the eve of the fateful day arrived when we were to leave that fortunate mansion. For me, Entralgo, despite the recent failure of my nose, continued to be an earthly paradise. It was arranged that we would leave at dawn so as to be able to arrive in Avilés in the afternoon. We would leave the horses in Sama, where a carriage would be waiting to take us to our villa, stopping in Oviedo for lunch. Since we had to get up extremely early, my mother thought it best not to go to bed and spend the night in cheerful company. Not only Entralgo’s friends, but also some from La Pola came to accompany us on that evening, which was as fun and noisy as any other. I don’t think it necessary to add that among the last few was the amorous seminarian, nephew of the priest of La Pola. There was dancing, playing, singing, improvising, and everything imaginable went wild. The seminarian and Alvarina, who until that day had been reserved and carefully avoided publicly expressing their inclinations, believed themselves free of all dissimulation . Sitting in a corner of the room, they sat in close proximity to each other and chatted animatedly with bright eyes and flushed cheeks. They both seemed cheerful, or at least wanted to show it. The seminarian, in particular, displayed such excessive joviality that I, even though I hadn’t yet taken psychology , guessed it was false. Naturally, the jokes of the group were often directed at them, and naturally, they blushed, but they didn’t abandon either their happy position or the thread of their interminable discourse. There, as in many social gatherings, particularly those in the village, was a clown who amused us with his antics. This clown never ceased to vex the besotted couple, improvising songs to their benefit. As usual, I finally felt my eyelids growing heavy, so I went to the sofa and fell asleep next to my mother. When I woke up, the social gathering continued as boisterously as before, but my mother wasn’t there; the seminarian and Alvarina had also disappeared. Then I got up and, looking for my mother, went to the adjoining office, whose door was half-open. There was no light inside, and only the light coming in through the door illuminated the room. I could see, however, my friend the seminarian sitting in a chair with his head in his hands, sobbing profusely. Standing beside him, my mother and Manola made efforts to console and encourage him. Poor young man! This scene has never been erased from my memory. Years later I learned that he was an exemplary priest. I’m not surprised because God does not abandon those who know how to take their own heart in their hands and squeeze it. Chapter 8. AVILES. When I arrived in Madrid to study for my degree and saw in the grocery store windows some signs that said: _Jamón de Avilés_ I couldn’t help but experience profound surprise. This surprise was immediately followed by a feeling of shame and irritation. How so? The poetic town par excellence, the town of beautiful women and romantic songs, that white Cantabrian dove was known in the rest of Spain only for its hams! I could never have imagined it, nor did any of its children. Living in Avilés until then, I had never heard anyone boast about this gross advantage. I didn’t even know that pigs existed in Avilés. While I was there, I only knew one, a certain postmaster who ate raw sardines and delivered open letters. But this postmaster hadn’t been born in Avilés. If I wasn’t born in this town, I wasn’t brought there when I was only a few months old. So I can and want to consider it my second homeland. The people of Avilés are noble, cheerful, honest, and gifted with a vivid imagination; they love music, are sentimental, and a bit romantic. A friendly, childlike joviality reigns in this town, warming the hearts of every traveler who visits it and instantly dispelling their bad moods. I’ve heard many say that as soon as they set foot in Avilés, they felt changed, forgot their troubles, and loved life again. For all of which, it would be only right for the national government to declare this town an official sanatorium for neurasthenics. I’ve heard a rumor that the people of Avilés currently take the pettiness of politics seriously. I refuse to believe it. Sixty years ago, politics didn’t exist in Avilés, and no one thought about anything other than serving God and dancing habaneras. If there were elections, which I highly doubt, they were held in secret in the Town Hall by a few gentlemen who returned home at lunchtime, furious at being bothered over such a trivial matter. However, when it came to a pilgrimage, we were all united. Young and old, men and women, the elderly and children, we marched as one . If the shrine was far away, we left in the morning, and the maids carried the food in large baskets; if it was close, we went after lunch. But there was one, the most important of all, that of Our Lady of Light, which was close by, and yet there was no shortage of sybarites who, at the crack of dawn, would climb the picturesque hill stocked with biscuits, buy pots of milk from the village women, and after indulging in this gift, play with the pots until they broke them, then return home to return to the pilgrimage in the afternoon. What did one do at these pilgrimages? Well, they danced, danced until they fell unconscious on the grass. In Avilés, not knowing how to dance constitutes a crime of high treason. Everyone has heard that the world’s first dancers came from here. When my parents first took me to a dance at the Liceo, I was sixteen years old. My mother said to me gravely: “Go ask Romana for this waltz; she’s the best dancer in Avilés.” Romana was a young lady of forty, and she danced incredibly, like a veteran sylph. She swept me away in her arms and, after rolling me around like a top for a quarter of an hour, handed me over to my parents, almost unconscious. Groups of young ladies and groups of artisans would form, and in both groups, they would dance frantically. There was no class struggle; the proof is that many young gentlemen abandoned the circle of their equals and entered that of the artisans without the workers being offended . In the years I lived there, I never witnessed a brawl. How different from them were the warlike children of the Laviana Valley where I saw the light of day! No pilgrimage was held here without the fierce clashes at sunset between the armies led respectively by Nolo de la Braña and Toribión de Lorio. 3 At sunset, the pilgrims returned to the town singing a duet of romantic songs that still move me when I remember them. It was the _Bayamesa_. _Don’t you remember, gentle Bayamesa_ _That you were my shining sun_… It was the _Sútil nube_ _Subtle cloud of undulating light._ It was the delightful parade that everyone knows. _Calle la del Rivero_ _Calle del Cristo._ And some young gentlemen, no doubt to sing with more finesse, carried hanging from their arms a beautiful menestrala, more graceful and more undulating than the _bayamesa_ and the _nube_ of their songs. These girls sang like the angels surrounding the throne of the Almighty, and when I heard them passing through the arcade beneath my house, I thought I was transported to heaven. My father claimed that they seasoned the singing with embellishments in bad taste; but my father must not be taken seriously on this point because he was born in Oviedo, and everyone knows that all the towns in the province, even the capital, were rabidly envious of us. Most of the streets in Avilés are lined with arches or porches that protect passersby from the rain and the sun. The two longest, Rivero, where I lived, and Galiana, each have a shrine at the end where a miraculous Christ is venerated, as if the beautiful town wished to place its joy and innocence under the care of Him who said: “Either children or like children.” I was convinced in my childhood that these porches had been built exclusively so that we children could have fun regardless of the weather. I also thought that Providence had placed a spacious plaza in front of the Church of San Francisco called the Campa, so that we could play pelota, tops, and Justicias y Ladrones, and in front of the ruined convent of La Merced, another large space called Campo Caín, where there were always great mounds of mud, undoubtedly destined for the game of llancón la estaca. But Providence showed itself truly perceptive when it suggested to the Minister of Public Works the idea of channeling the estuary and sending one of my father’s brothers as director of the works. I thanked God with all my heart because I immediately understood that all those works and the millions spent on them had no other purpose than to put a boat at my disposal, the Company’s boat, to entertain my friends and sail with them in all directions, both at low and high tide, along the famous estuary. I sailed it so much that in a short time I came to know the twists and turns of the channel by heart. At high tide , I could point out, without a mistake of half a meter, the place where it flowed. Avilés is made up of two neighborhoods: one, the town itself, and the other, Sabugo, where the sailors, fishermen, and lesser artisans live. In my time, they were separated by a branch of the estuary, over which there was a stone bridge. Today, this branch has been filled in, and a plaza and a park have been built over it. For us, the children of the town, Sabugo meant enemy country. There, the barbarians lay in wait for us night and day, ready to pounce on us at the slightest carelessness and plunder us. From there, those bandits emerged, and whenever we strayed even slightly from the town walls to launch our kites into the air, they would rush forward ferociously, as if the earth, or rather, hell, were vomiting them out. They would cut our strings, seize our snakes, and also smack us around the edges. Where was the Queen? Where was the Civil Guard? Where was the police to take these bandits to a safe place? Nowhere was the hand of coercive power visible, proving that we lived in an organized society. The lives of children, over the centuries, endlessly repeat the anarchic type of primitive times. In Avilés, there was a music academy, a theater, a dance society. The soul of all this was an uncle of mine, a retired artillery officer and infirm. Despite his cruel ailments, this perfect gentleman spread joy and kept the spirit of his hometown alive. cultivation of art. When the small theater on Cámara Street was built, his grateful fellow citizens allowed him to build a latticed box in a secluded corner from which the good old man could attend the performances unseen. The dance society called the Liceo was located in the old convent of San Francisco. Because the ruined convents of La Merced and San Francisco served for everything: schools, lecture halls, barracks, offices, customs… and even dance halls. The Liceo was magnificent, with a high roof and beautifully decorated. The balls were held there with all pomp and majesty and were the pride of the town and the envy of outsiders. The ladies and gentlemen who attended were either related by ties of kinship or had been close friends since childhood. In a town of eight thousand inhabitants, this is nothing surprising. Despite that, everything was conducted there with a gravity and propriety worthy of any diplomatic reception. The ladies wore low-cut dresses, displaying their alabaster arms and shoulders, the gentlemen wore tails and white ties. The president appointed the commission of young introducers. The orchestra played hidden from a platform; servants entered at a certain hour with large silver trays piled high with sweets. People spoke in low voices, and friends with their friends and even brothers with their sisters adopted a cold, courtly attitude. Everything there was ceremonious, imposing, dramatic. No one doubted that by dancing a rigodon or a mazurka, they were fulfilling the sacred duty of enlightening their country. You can imagine the effect that the casualness of a languid and nonchalant young man, the son of a banker from Oviedo, would have had when, at the most solemn ball in Avilés—the San Agustín Ball, no less—he entered the Liceo ballroom wearing colored boots, an alpaca jacket, and carrying a parasol. The president sent a message through the concierge to leave immediately. He did so, but the wound was already inflicted. The following morning, the news spread like wildfire throughout the town, raising a storm of protests. The entire town vibrated with indignation and anger. Young and old, gentlemen and craftsmen alike, groaned in unison at this stab in the back that had been dealt to our beloved town. In the cafés, in the shops, in the middle of the street, heated comments were exchanged. Menacing groups formed beneath the arches of the Town Hall. In the center of one of them, an old merchant ship captain shouted, advising everyone to go to the hotel where the Oviedo scamp was staying and throw themselves off the balcony. The scamp, heeding the voice of prudence, decided to get into Oviedo’s coach, thus avoiding a probable lynching. The people of Avilés are passionate about lyrical and dramatic art. Each of the poetry, zarzuela, or opera companies that came to perform among us during the summer season managed to shake the town to its very foundations and exalt all spirits. Not only were the actors and singers applauded in the theater; they were also celebrated outside, country trips and sea excursions were organized in their honor, and there were ambitious aspirations to treat them with intimacy. Our young people believed themselves happy the day they addressed the baritone informally or the young lady called them by their first name. The townspeople would improvise verses alluding to them and sing them in the streets. I remember that on one occasion, a tenor named Palermi and a soprano singer named Dalti arrived and managed to captivate the population like never before. When the latter fell ill, the boys and artisans could be heard singing in the streets of Avilés: “What’s wrong, Palermi ? Why are you so sad? I’m missing Dalti, I can’t sing. ” When the company had two sopranos or two tenors, one of them immediately took their place; the population was divided into two groups: In private gatherings as in cafes, passionate discussions took place, their merits assessed, and their defects scrutinized. In a certain company, two sopranos arrived, one tall and fat, whom the people immediately called the “tiplona,” and another short and petite, who became known by the nickname “tiplina.” Both immediately had their supporters as excited as each other. The two sides quarreled one afternoon on the Bombé promenade and came to blows, and a young gentleman who was in favor of the “tiplona” emerged from the brawl with blood running down his nose. But these merriments ended as soon as the Pleiades peeked the tip of their cart over the horizon and the north wind began to blow cold and damp. During the winter, there was no theater. A few lost conjurers , some exhibitors of wise cows or trained seals, fat girls, dwarfs, and other monsters. Nothing, in short, could satisfy the spiritual yearnings of that quintessentially artistic people. Nevertheless, these yearnings made their way through and proved powerful through the mists, the solitude, and the monotony of winter. Left to its own resources, the town of Avilés displayed its vitality and its love of the stage. A troupe of amateurs was formed that performed quite frequently in the theater. Among these amateurs were some who, in my opinion, could compete with the good actors I later saw in Madrid. There was also a prolific poet named Don Pedro Carreño who supplied the company with plays, tragedies, comedies, and interludes. This notable poet not only wrote the plays but, like Shakespeare, directed and performed them personally, although, like the great English poet, he reserved only the supporting roles for himself. Of his immense catalogue of works, only very few were printed during his lifetime, as was the case with those of the author of Hamlet, and to make the similarity more complete, I will add that he also adopted whimsical and fantastic titles for them. One of his most acclaimed plays was entitled, if I recall correctly, “Better than Saw a Board,” with a truly Shakespearean flavor. But the power of our race and its marvelous endowment for the cultivation of the arts became most evident when a few amateurs, struggling against incredible difficulties, resolved to stage and sing an opera. I don’t believe any other nation in Spain has even attempted it. The opera chosen was “Lucia di Lammermoor” by Maestro Donizeti. A cabinetmaker from Herrería Street named Mariño, who possessed a pleasant tenor voice, played the role of Edgardo, and a barber from the arcades in the square played the baritone. The most elite of Avilés society appeared in the choirs of both sexes. Is it arrogance on my part to say that a town capable of successfully completing such enterprises deserves to be known throughout the world in any way other than its hams? Chapter 9. FIRST IMPRESSIONS. My first impressions are not of Entralgo, although I was born there, as I have said. The first time I became aware of the existence of, or recognized myself as, a living being was in Avilés, under a table. I was hidden there, silent, and working. What was I working on? Making a hole in a large four-pound loaf of bread that I had managed to lower from the table into my hands. I don’t understand how I was able to successfully complete this grave operation, so beyond my strength, because I could not have been more than two years old at the time. To do it, I didn’t have ropes, winches, or pulleys, but only my own arms, which, besides being unathletic, were somewhat hampered by an overly starched green blouse. I have an idea that the bread was on the edge of the table and that I was slowly sliding it down until, under its own weight, it fell on me. Since I couldn’t hold it up, I let myself fall to the floor, hugging it. Neither my mother, who was embroidering in a corner of the dining room, nor a lady Neither her relative who was accompanying her, nor the seamstress, all three of them engaged in animated conversation, noticed the risky preparatory work I had just completed. Once I saw myself in possession of the loaf, I cautiously crawled under the table and there began my piercing task with the patience of a Chinese and the stubbornness of an Asturian. The most difficult part, what seemed almost impossible to accomplish, was breaking the crust. I undertook it, however, with good spirits. Moistening my finger with saliva, and after long and arduous work, I finally managed to break it. The rest was relatively easy. The tunnel opened little by little, and the debris quickly passed into my stomach. Finally, I saw my mother asking for me. They looked for me, and when they noticed I was under the table with a loaf of bread between my legs, they were greatly surprised. However, the seamstress didn’t find this situation decorous for the firstborn son of a respectable family, and she came to rescue me by taking the bread and placing it on the table. How could she imagine that the bread was no longer intact ! My tender hands couldn’t, in fact, attack it in such a violent manner, but they were unaware of what a wit pressed by necessity can do. A pang seized my mother, and it seemed that the bread might have been stained on the floor. At her command, the seamstress came to check. As she did so, she let out a cry of surprise and then a joyful laugh. “Madam, look for your life what the boy has done! What a funny thing!” The hole must have been very funny indeed, because my mother and my aunt were rolling on the floor, looking at it. And from what I heard them say, amid the peals of laughter that flowed from their mouths, it was admirably made; it was a true work of art. Such is my first conscious impression of this earthly life to which God was pleased to send me, and the most important intuitive insight I acquired about it at that time. Drilling a tunnel was my first serious job in this world. It seemed, therefore, that I was destined to be an engineer. However, this was not the case, as the reader will see if he deigns to read these memoirs further. Later, I perfectly remember that I regretted neither a little nor much having acquired consciousness or having been born into this world, which did not seem to me a vale of tears but a delightful orchard. Everything was exquisite and beautiful: the living room with its upholstered chairs, the study, my mother’s dressing table, her little basket, my father’s bookcases, his armchair… oh! his armchair covered with green gutta-percha, where I would take refuge between his legs when I saw him sitting and ask him questions upon questions, informing myself about all the secrets of creation that were completely unknown to me. “Rams, why do they have such long hair, Papa? Horses, why don’t they have any?” Does rain fall from the sky? So the sky will always be wet, right? Why is my cousin’s garden bigger than ours? Why do you have a beard and neither do I nor Mom? Ah! I have it inside me and it will grow; then Mom will too. Why won’t it grow on Mom but I will?… My father answered my questions with the utmost kindness, sweetness, and satisfaction. That is to say, not always satisfaction. Occasionally, I noticed a certain lack of logic in his answers and the occasional sophism slipping into his speech. But he didn’t let it show, he pretended, and I believed he was right because I adored my father and nothing in the world would ever want to see him humiliated. Everyone was good and kind to me. When I went out on the street, everyone we met caressed me, and I would fling myself from one person’s arms to another, finding protection and affection in everyone. In the houses of friends and relatives where they took me, they welcomed me with shouts of joy, they treated me well and gave me gifts, they never wanted to let me go. The one I liked the most was that of my godmother, a sister of my grandmother who had four young children, three boys and one girl, all of them between sixteen and seventeen. and twenty-five years old. It was a beautiful house, with a large central courtyard surrounded by a glass gallery and full of pleasant surprises for me: a magnificent music clock, a terrace with a swing, a birdhouse, quince jelly. Then one of my uncles played the flute admirably, another the piano, my Aunt Modestina sang. Oh my God, how those good uncles pampered me! I remember it all like a happy dream. The world presented itself to me in a magical guise; it was a marvelous beacon destined to guard kind and happy beings. For the first time, I tasted the charm of life; like an iridescent butterfly, I swam in a sea of perfumes, drinking in the light, saturating myself with love and joy… Everything passed, everything sank into the abyss of time. However, merciful God has left me the consolation of being able to evoke that magical world whenever I want . I only have to hum a waltz my Aunt Modestina sang at the time, the lyrics of which began: ” There was a time, my love, when your rose-like mouth drew a loving smile for me, ” for a sudden thrill of joy to run through my soul, and the morning of my life to dawn before my eyes in all its enchantment, and I may once again hear the voice and see the face of those loved ones who are no more. I do this seldom, however, because I know that impressions are spent like money, and I want to be stingy. The idea that my treasure could be dissipated horrifies me. Many, many times later in life , I have asked myself, which is the truly real world: the one I saw in my childhood, or this other one I now contemplate through the veil woven with perfidy, betrayal, baseness, and meanness that the years have placed before my eyes? I know that for the great majority of people, the case is not in doubt. However, for me it is, and for a certain talented individual who lived many years ago, who was called Plato, it would also be. There are times when truly extravagant and absurd ideas assail me. At one of these times, I have come to think that in the universal concert of the sidereal worlds, my Aunt Modestina’s waltz means more than a session of the Cortes. Keep from me, reader, the secret of this madness and of many others that you will read in these memoirs. You are for me a close friend, a discreet confidant in whose ear I deposit all that overflows from my heart. A little further on, a certain sad impression rises in my memory, which is chronologically the first of the many similar ones that life later offered me. The front door having been inadvertently left open, an elderly beggar slipped into the house; he went up the stairs and seized an object, which I believe was my father’s cap. They caught him in the act of leaving, and there was great confusion and alarm. I see, as if right before my eyes, that ragged old man with a white beard, standing in the middle of the stairs, his arms open, apologizing, begging for forgiveness. And a few steps higher, I see my mother, the seamstress, and the maids furiously rebuking him. I remember feeling a painful impression, an infinite compassion for that poor, miserable, humiliated old man. My little heart rebelled against the insults directed at him, and I was reminded of their injustice. I clearly perceived that we were living well and had even more than we needed, while that helpless old man lacked the bare necessities to support himself. The socialist pickaxe began to dig holes in my childish brain. A few days later, or a few months later—I can’t say for sure—I was happy with a toy my uncle had brought me from Madrid, a brightly painted rubber Moor. I was proud of it and showed it to everyone I knew and didn’t know. Among the latter, a boy of six or eight happened to pass in front of my door, and he immediately showed himself to be an unconditional admirer of my Arabic. Nothing could have flattered me more at that moment. So, to show him my With his pleasure and the great appreciation I felt for his honorable feelings, I agreed, as he wished, to hand it over so he could examine it with all due care. Placing it in his hands and setting off at breakneck speed was all in one. So much so that a few seconds later I lost sight of the Moor and his companion and never saw them again. The tears I shed and the burning rage that gripped me are impossible to imagine. At that moment, I ardently wished the full weight of the law would fall upon the thief, that the Civil Guard would seize him, throw him in a dungeon, and whip him. Conservative ideas completely dominated my soul. And so, at three years old, I was already what I would remain throughout my life: a conservative dressed as a socialist, or a socialist dressed as a conservative, whichever you prefer. There is another impression I also retain very vividly from this period. I find myself sitting at the table in a tall, narrow armchair. They serve a platter of trout, put one in front of me, and I insist on eating it with my fingers, just as I had seen Mateo, the grandson of Colasa, do, a woman who used to come to our house to scrub the floors. My mother resolutely objects and lightly hits my hands. This irritates me and inflames my desire even more. I grab another piece of trout with my fingers, and my mother hits me again, harder. I scream, I persist, I want my way. Then my enraged mother gets up, slaps me a few times, pulls me out of the chair, and takes me to a dark room, locking me in there. I cried and screamed, lying on the floor until I was exhausted. Finally, I noticed that the sound of dishes stopped, that the meal was over, and my mother retired to her study. A short time later, the door of my prison opens, my father enters, lifts me up , kisses me, and taking me in his arms, goes up with me to his study, leaves me there, and goes back downstairs immediately with the trout platter . He seats me in his armchair, places a plate in front of me, and says resolutely: “Now eat as you wish!” And he crosses his arms to watch me eat with my fingers. I know this is very uneducational and that my mother was perfectly right to punish me. Nevertheless, I cannot recall this scene without feeling moved. Chapter 10. I COMMIT MURDER. ” Every man has deserved to be hanged at some point in his life,” says Montaigne. “I deserved it at a very early age, for I was no more than four years old. Listen to how it happened: At that time there existed in Avilés a monster named Don Gregorio Zaldua. This monster did not eat raw children as other monsters usually do; But she prevented the children from eating anything, either raw or roasted, and the result was equally disastrous. “The boy has a dirty tongue,” my mother would say aloud. “We must warn Don Gregorio.” And the child, that was me, would begin to tremble like a lamb at the sight of a wolf. The wolf would arrive, look at my tongue, feel my belly, examine my eyelids, and after these and other odious maneuvers, he would pronounce with the utmost indifference the horrible sentence: “Give him an ounce of castor oil twice a day… And diet… especially a lot of diet! Oh God of Sinai! Castor oil!” Hearing this name makes the few white hairs I have left on my head stand on end. “He just refuses to take it,” my mother would say timidly. “Well, it’s very easy to make him swallow.” All you have to do is pinch his nose with your index finger and thumb, and when he opens his mouth, pour it in there.
Great! Other times the sentence was milder. “Put a linseed meal poultice on his stomach… and diet… above all, a lot of diet! Make sure the child eats absolutely nothing. I trust you, but we must keep an eye on Silverio because he’s a terrific father, incapable of resisting the child’s crying. ” True; very true. My father, to avoid seeing me suffer, would be willing to give me a frosted doughnut from Nepomuceno’s confectionery. Oh, the coated doughnuts of Nepomucene! And the tablets! And the crosses! Never has a more perfect work been seen nor will ever be seen in the art of confectionery , and I appeal to the testimony of those of my contemporaries who have had the good fortune to taste them. Whenever I occasionally meet one of these fortunate mortals on the paths of life who has suffered indigestion from having ingested too many tablets in their childhood, I cannot help but embrace them tenderly. But those were good times for coated doughnuts! My mother was vigilant and energetic, and I won’t mention a tablet, but she wouldn’t allow me to put even a piece of bread from the kitchen in my mouth. My father didn’t dare interfere; the maids supported her, and I was left at the mercy of that monster Don Gregorio, plunged into the most horrible misery. It was impossible to find myself in greater affliction and need. All the sadness and desolation in the world passed through my little heart, and there’s no doubt there’s plenty of it. And I wept the bitterest tears a man can shed in this valley; and if I didn’t curse life, it was because I hadn’t yet read Schopenhauer. I remember one night they placed the usual linseed meal poultice on my stomach . After applying it, they turned off the candle, lit a small lamp, and left, leaving me alone. I cried for bread, even a crust of bread, but no one heard my cries. Nature, men, God himself seemed to have gone deaf. After a while, Pepa the cook arrived and told me that if I didn’t keep quiet, the Goblin would surely come and grab me by the legs. I hadn’t had the misfortune until then of making acquaintance with the Goblin, and since I didn’t want to, I kept quiet. But hunger gnawed at me—what can I say? It gnawed at my insides. Then I had an inspiration, one of those happy thoughts that only come to the human mind once in a lifetime. I put my hands to the poultice, removed it from its linen wrapping, and ate it. I understand that in ancient times there was a young Roman prince who was starved to death, and who first ate some of his bedclothes. Needless to say, I took no notice of this precedent, that there was no spirit of imitation or plagiarism. With my hand on my heart, I declare that by eating the poultice, I believed I had produced a completely original work. But this happy thought caused consternation in my family. It is always the same. When an original thinker emerges, the world is stirred by intense anxiety. The result was that, like all innovators, I paid for my inspiration with martyrdom. I was given another dose of castor oil. My poor father was devastated watching the child of his womb go through, without any guilt, the painful ordeal of purges and poultices. The wretch caressed me, wiped away my agony, and whispered the most flattering things in my ear. He did even more; he went to the bazaar under the arches of the square and bought me a beautiful shotgun. I was utterly insane, mad with joy. At that moment all my sorrows vanished; I forgot about hunger, poultices, and even the taste of castor oil. The shotgun was loaded with caps that made quite a noise. My mother said crossly, “What an idea of yours to put such things in the child’s hands!” My father replied, smiling, “The child is very sensible, and I am sure he will not kill anyone.” I nodded vigorously. “Oh, great hypocrite! Oh, perfidious and sinister liar!” The moment I took the weapon, I conceived the crime; and I conceived it not vaguely, but in all its repugnant details. But I acted innocent, I smiled angelically and everyone trusted me. There was never a worse trust placed in the world. When night came and my parents, after kissing me, retired and I heard Felisa snoring, who was sleeping in another bed near mine, then I got up cautiously and by the light of the lamp I loaded my weapon with the greatest Careful. I put it within reach and fell asleep peacefully, like the most ferocious and hardened criminal. I was awakened by my mother’s voice in the adjoining office, talking to Don Gregorio. I woke with a start, and barely awake, I saw the hated face of the monster appear at the door. I had no time but to grab my shotgun, stand up in bed, put it in my face, and shoot the infamous man. General laughter. My father, my mother, Felisa, and Don Gregorio laughed with the most lively joy; the latter especially seemed to want to burst out laughing. Chapter 11. HOW I WAS EXCOMMUNICATED. I do not know whether the excommunication I incurred was greater or lesser, of those called ferendae, sententiae, or latae sententiae; but it is undeniable that I had incurred one of them. I was seven years old at the time, and it happened shortly after my first hegira to Entralgo. In the convent of San Bernardo in Avilés, a sister of my great-grandmother named Doña Florentina had been vegetating, limping, chanting the service, and stuffing her nose with snuff for seventy years . She had entered at twelve: therefore, she was eighty-two. In the family, she was not called Mother Florentina or Sister Florentina, even though she was a professed nun. My mother herself, when speaking of her, always said: “My aunt Doña Florentina.” That convent of San Bernardo held an inexplicable attraction for me , mixed with a little fear. When my mother took me to mass, instead of attending the divine service, I spent my time in ecstatic contemplation of the nuns’ choir, which, through the iron gate, was enveloped in a dim, fantastic light. It was an adorable, mysterious light. The white figures of the nuns, their wailing voices, and their incomprehensible prayers made my heart beat with vague yearnings for heavenly happiness. My childish head would fill with dreams until my mother slapped me on the head, inviting me to turn it toward the main altar. Besides, the convent offered me an infinitely greater attraction, and there was nothing fantastic about it. From there came doughnuts stuffed with cream and covered in sugar that seemed made by angels, and a certain sweet called orange blossom, even more divine. It was made of tiny white flakes and so sweet that you couldn’t even taste it. I have never eaten it again in my life, nor have I ever managed to see it, despite the long and serious investigations I carried out . I don’t know if it was because of the doughnuts or for some other spiritual reason, but it is certain that my mother greatly respected her aunt Doña Florentina. My father, not so much. She said she was innocent, that her intellectual development had stopped the moment she entered the convent, and that she was still a twelve-year-old girl. She recounted, laughing, that one day she had asked her: “But Aunt, how is it possible that you have repeated all those Latin prayers for seventy years without understanding them? ” “My son,” the poor old woman replied, sadly raising her eyes to heaven, “those are words too sublime and mysterious for us.” Of course, my father refrained from uttering such judgments in front of children, and I respected my aunt Doña Florentina almost as much as I respected the Archangel Saint Raphael. My mother sometimes sent me to the convent with Pepa to bring or deliver messages to her aunt. This Pepa, our servant, was a stupid and lying woman—stupid and lying even for a servant—who told me how she had seen the devil several times back in her village, who had taken a dislike to her without knowing why. When she left the kitchen clean and tidy at night , the next morning she would find it dirty and in disarray, the pots out of place, the sink full of filth, and ashes scattered on the floor. One night she had stalked him and seen him come in through the chimney. Then she made the sign of the cross and the devil let out a roar and left. He escaped again up the chimney, but she managed to grab the tip of his tail and would have held him back had the wretched thing not turned swiftly and given her a terrible bite on the hand. Such things made my hair stand on end. My aunt Doña Florentina almost always spoke to us from behind the lathe, and these conversations excited my imagination, although what we said had nothing mysterious about it. She asked me about my mother’s health, always hesitant, if the plum jam she had sent us had turned out well, if she knew her catechism yet, and if she always wore the medal she had given me. She also passed me some small packets of that fondly remembered orange blossom jam through the lathe . But every now and then, my aunt Doña Florentina opened the large door of the entrance hall and showed herself in full view. Through this door, one could see the cloister with its ancient stone archway and, in the center, some trees whose foliage barely allowed the light to enter. Nothing in my life has ever seemed more poetic, more fantastic, and more mysterious than that cloister of the convent of San Bernardo. It was lower than the portal, so that to enter it, one had to descend a step. My aunt, from the inside, seemed much smaller than Pepa, and her head was almost level with mine. In this way , she welcomed us and spoke to us. That is to say, she and Pepa spoke to each other, because I remained silent and awestruck, contemplating that dark and enchanted cloister, which attracted me, fascinated me like the underwater nymph Loreley fascinates those who contemplate the bottom of the sea from the shore. My aunt was garrulous; my maid, Pepa, was even more so. Chatting and chatting, they passed the time and almost forgot I was there. It so happened that one day I gave in to the fascination that cloister held over me, and although it was a horrible sin, without realizing what I was doing, I went down the steps and entered. My aunt and Pepa were so absorbed in their conversation that they didn’t notice my absence. I let my sacrilegious steps slide over the damp flagstones and seemed to want to drink in the mysterious charm of that place with my eyes. The sunlight, which filtered with difficulty through the leaves of the acacia and plane trees, formed arabesques on the pavement. A deteriorated, moss-covered stone fountain let out a trickle of water with a melancholy murmur. A bird sang among the leaves, and it seemed different from the birds I had heard until then. It was an ascetic, liturgical bird, also cloistered like the nuns. But lo and behold, my Aunt Florentina finally misses me, turns her gaze everywhere, and sees me far away. He lets out a cry, raises his hands to heaven, and exclaims in despair: “Oh, my dear son, you are excommunicated!” I should have answered him then: “My lady and aunt, you are mistaken. Excommunication must be preceded by the canonical admonitions required by the very words of Jesus Christ in the Gospel and by the doctrine of the Church. The Council of Lyons mandated that there be three or only one, as the case may be: _nisi factis necessitas aliter ea suaserit moderanda_. The Council of Trent determined that at least two admonitions must precede it. I said none of this because I didn’t know. All I did was do nothing. I remained paralyzed, stiff, and must have turned whiter than a sheet of paper. I also felt something, like a entrails, tearing itself out from inside me. Aunt Florentina ran toward me and pushed me to the door and, without saying a word, closed it with a loud bang. Pepa and I were terrified, speechless, and we hurried out of the convent. My terror and anguish were so great that I couldn’t even cry. Pepa didn’t say a word. Finally, I had the strength to say to her: “Pepa, you won’t say anything to Mama, will you?” “No; I won’t say anything,” she replied tersely. After a while, I timidly asked her: “Can’t excommunicated people hear Mass?” “No; excommunicated people cannot hear Mass nor can they pray.” After an even longer time, I asked him again: “Do you think Don Manolito, the nuns’ chaplain, can lift my excommunication? ” “No; Don Manolito doesn’t have the power to do that. You need to do a lot of penance and then go to Rome for the Pope to forgive you.” So I kept quiet and decided to do penance. That afternoon my mother gave me some prunes for a snack, and I secretly flushed them down the toilet. That night I also left the table without eating dessert. The next day I spent long periods on my knees with my arms crossed, and after eating, I went out with the dessert in my hand, pretending to eat it on the balcony, but it was only to flush it down the toilet anyway. I don’t remember exactly what penance I did during those days, but they were many and terrible. I know that I would get up in the middle of the night and lie down on the hard floorboards, and that I would occasionally prick my arms with a pin. It even occurred to me to put some nettles in the bed, but I couldn’t find any in the garden. I wandered silently around the house, rejected the company of my cousin José María, whom I liked so much, wept bitterly, hidden in corners, and didn’t even appear in the living room when there were people around. I don’t know who said that excommunications make you fat. Lie! In eight days, I became so thin and yellow that it was a shame to look at me. One day my mother said aloud: “This child is sick; we must call Don Gregorio.” Don Gregorio was the monster the reader already knows. I protested that nothing was wrong and nothing hurt. One of my greatest and most shameful sorrows was that Pepa fled from me as if she feared being contaminated by my heresy. Sometimes, when he ran into me in the corridors, he would fix his gaze on me with a stern, imperious tone and say, “Child, do penance!” Another thing I couldn’t bear was being called to pray the rosary. I made incredible efforts of skill, finding excuses not to pray it. When I couldn’t help myself, I would close my mouth tightly without responding to the prayer. This, of course, earned me a few pinches from my pious mother. Anyway, I did such things, and my behavior was so strange that she called me to task. She locked herself with me in the ironing room and subjected me to a pressing interrogation. I remember it was my father’s saint’s day. Ten or twelve people, almost all relatives, had been invited to dinner, and they were having a long conversation. From the room where we were sitting, the sound of their conversation could be heard. “Come on, child, I want you to tell me what’s wrong with you. Why are you so sad? Why aren’t you playing? Why aren’t you eating?” Why do you run away from everyone? I brazenly asserted that nothing was wrong with me worth mentioning. But my mother was determined to discover the secret, and by alternately using caresses and threats, she managed to wring it out of me. “Mama,” I finally said, “I want to go to Rome.” My mother opened her eyes as if she had just seen an ox fly down through the air and land on the spire of the tower of the Church of San Francesco. “Boy! What are you saying? How do you want to go to Rome? ” “I want to go on foot.” My mother opened her eyes again as if she had heard the ox cry from the tower: “Long live the Republic!” “Boy! Have you gone mad? What are you saying? Why are you saying that?” Then I fell into her arms and cried out, sobbing: “Mama, because I am excommunicated!” And between sighs and sobs, I told her everything that had happened to me. I thought my good mother was going to be terrified, but lo and behold! Instead , she starts laughing like crazy, exclaiming: “How funny! Excommunicated! Excommunicated!” And she hugs me and kisses me repeatedly. Immediately she calls my father and, without stopping laughing, she says: “Don’t you know that this child is excommunicated?” And my father bursts out laughing just as if it were a very funny case. He makes me tell the story again, wiping my tears and kissing me tenderly as my mother had done, he leads me to the dining room. Everyone there was joyful, and I remember that even the ladies had little red badges on their cheeks. My father opened the door and, pushing me in, said loudly: “There’s a boy who claims he’s excommunicated. ” General laughter. Everyone began to shout at once: “Excommunicated! Excommunicated! Excommunicated! Ha! Ha! Ha! Excommunicated! Ha! Ha! Ha!” A hellish uproar broke out. One offered me a cake, another a glass of cognac, another a cigar; they kissed me, shook me, squeezed me, all the while laughing and exclaiming: “Excommunicated! Excommunicated!” They laughed so much that in the end I laughed too. And that’s how, by dint of laughter, I managed to enter the bosom of the Catholic Church again . Chapter 12. I RESOLVE TO BECOME A HERMIT. Beautiful days of faith, come to me! Breathe into this heart, wounded by disappointments; breathe into this thought withered by so much fruitless labor. Refresh me for a few moments. May I once again be the child upon awakening who knelt on his tiny bed, turning toward an image of Jesus Crucified, praying with fervent words for the health of my parents and the salvation of my soul. Let me see again in the blue sky the image of Mary, treading with her divine foot the crescent moon, surrounded by winged children. Let her heavenly songs reach my ears as they did then. Let me feel once more the wings of my guardian Angel upon my brow as I fall asleep. I still see myself in the church of San Francisco, listening to mass with my father. The sounds of the organ transported me; the deep bass voice of Fray Antonio Arenas singing from the choir shook me with holy terror. The clouds of incense intoxicated me. And up above, above the main altar, I saw a beautiful sculpture of the Virgin wrapped in a fantastic light filtered through the colored glass. My eyes never left her, and my heart flew toward her, yearning for immortal bliss. Then sublime emotions passed through my soul that I would give a hundred lives to experience again, emotions I hope to feel after death. I still see myself walking with my mother under the arches of Galiana Street toward the sanctuary where Christ with the cross on his shoulders is venerated . Night has already fallen. At this hour, close to dusk, the pious ladies of Avilés have the custom of going to pray a creed before the miraculous image. The arches are barely illuminated. There, toward the middle, above one of them, there is a niche and inside a small sculpture of the Virgin, illuminated by an oil lamp. Some loving couples sit on the street’s parapets. We only perceive their bulk and hear the murmur of their conversation. We arrive at the sanctuary; we climb a few steps; we prostrate ourselves before Jesus, overwhelmed by the weight of the Cross, and his pale forehead crowned with thorns inspires me with infinite compassion. His pained eyes look at me and seem to say: “My son, today you are blessed, but if one day you are sad, remember me.” I still see myself in the month of May, singing the litany of the Virgin through the streets of Avilés. All the schoolchildren formed two lines. In the center was a large cross covered with flowers, alternately borne by the strongest among us. Behind it walked some priests accompanied by the teacher. Oh, what radiant light in the sky! What joy on earth! It was the month of flowers, and each of us, with a handful of flowers in our hands, marched singing to offer them to the Queen of Heaven. And when we turned our uncovered heads toward the doors and balconies of the houses, we did not encounter the mocking glances, the skeptical smiles that chill the heart of childhood. No; the grave and silent men made an imperceptible sign of approval; the tender women sent us affectionate blessings with their eyes. So that A people living together and forming one great family, for a true homeland to exist, it’s not enough for us to speak the same language; we must babble the same prayers. Our little hearts beat happily inside our chests because we felt loved and protected by the entire town, because those men and women who leaned out of their balconies or crowded the sidewalks to watch us pass respected our faith and our innocence. My friend Alfonso, a pale, good, and peaceful child, was more pious than any of them. His mother, who was a holy woman, took him to Mass every day before school; we saw him in processions with a small candle in his hand, and sometimes, on the afternoons of feast days, when I happened to look into the church in front of which we played, I saw him in the solitary nave of the temple praying before the altars. Although I was of a rather different mood, passionately enjoying games and displaying as much ardor as anyone in a fight, I nevertheless felt drawn to that boy and sought his friendship. He did not grant it to me easily. Like all spiritual beings, he was timid and retiring, and my turbulent nature must have made an unpleasant impression on him. But I finally managed to gain his confidence, and then he was generous and affectionate with me, and with the zeal of a little apostle, he sought to win me over to God and the Virgin. I was prepared for this because, deep down, I have always been an idealist, and although during the course of my life I have heaped much dust and rubble on this sacred fire , fortunately it has never been extinguished. He told me that it was not necessary to think so much about this ephemeral life, that even the longest one was worth little and that we could die before reaching old age. How right that pious child was, for he died before leaving adolescence! He told me that we should be as good as angels so that one day we could be among them, and that if we entrusted ourselves every day to the Virgin and Saint Joseph, they would rescue us from the dangers of this world. We began to spend long hours in mystical confidences. He took me to his house, and I saw with astonishment and pleasure that his mother had left him a small room for an oratory, and that he had arranged it so exquisitely that nothing was missing from what was found in churches. An altar with its reredos and shroud, an image of the Virgin of Carmen, another of Saint Joseph, a Child Jesus, an incense burner, candlesticks, a chasuble, and a bonnet. He celebrated Mass, and I helped him. On days of great feast days, his mother, his older brothers, and the servants came to witness it; the litany was sung, a procession was held through the garden, and so much incense was burned that such a thick cloud of smoke formed in the little room that at times I thought I might suffocate. Our fervor grew every day. We not only celebrated Mass but also confessed. Alfonso showed tremendous aptitude for the confessional and bound and unbound sins like the most expert penitentiary. Dressed in a rochet his mother had sewn for him and sitting inside a large box we placed vertically and drilled a few holes in one side. He confessed his little sisters, he confessed me, and sometimes the maids would come and kneel, their mouths pressed against those holes, recounting their sins and receiving absolution. They didn’t appear as contrite and repentant as we might have wished, because they often burst into laughter, forcing the confessor to be overly stern and threatening to tell their mother. Because my friend Alfonso took this very seriously, he gave us excellent advice, he painted the pains of hell in minute detail, he exhorted us to penance, and finally he gave us absolution, holding out his little hand so that we could kiss it with the same seriousness as a Jesuit priest. One day he told me that his youngest sister was very ill, and so that she wouldn’t die, he prayed every day for an hour on his knees on the stones and rubbed his chest with nettles. And, indeed, Opening his vest and shirt, he showed me his tender, reddened flesh. I felt moved and amazed. “I, too, want to do some penance so your sister doesn’t die,” I told him. No sooner said than done, I went down to the garden with him and resolutely placed my hands among the nettles, but alas! The pain was so great that I cried out and began to cry. Frightened, Alfonso went up to the house to get some oil and gently anointed my hands. Then he hugged me and consoled me, telling me that I wasn’t yet ready for penance, but that in the end I would achieve even greater ones than he had. We read the lives of the saints, and the ones we liked most were those who had retired to the desert and spent long years listening to the birds sing and eating fruit and shellfish they found among the rocks. This was no surprise, because I was deeply passionate about cherries and sea snails. I don’t know who came up with the idea, but one day we conceived the plan to withdraw from the world and its pomp to do penance. The two of us would live alone in some secluded place, eat whatever the peasants wanted to give us as alms, pray for our families, and when we grew up, come to Avilés and other towns to preach. Where could we find that secluded place? Alfonso told me that about a league from Avilés he had seen a cave near the sea that seemed made specifically for us to retreat there and live a cenobitic life. We pondered our plan at length and only decided to put it into practice after careful consideration. One of the serious issues we debated was whether we should renounce our families forever or visit them sometime. Alfonso believed we should come every year to see our parents; I believed we should come every six months. Finally, we decided that we would come every eight days to change our underwear. It never occurred to us for a moment that they might object to our decision. Alfonso said his mother was so pious that she would weep tears of pleasure upon learning it. I wasn’t so sure about mine, but even if she didn’t exactly weep with pleasure, I was sure she would feel honored to see her son bravely embark on the path of a saint. In any case, we decided to leave without a word to avoid pathetic scenes. Now, in this resolution of mine to abandon the world, wasn’t there also a certain vague desire to abandon school? Because I remember that the hazel rod used by the teacher Don Juan de la Cruz didn’t inspire me with sympathy, nor did the smacking and slapping of the clerk, nor did I enjoy spending an hour on my knees with my nose to the wall when my notebook had a few blots on it. And I still seem to experience the painful sensation that penetrated me when, at the entrance of my house, my father kissed me goodbye as I left for school after lunch. We would part ways; I continued through the arches toward my sad destiny and watched him cross the plaza toward the casino, smoking a cigar. When would I be old enough to do the same? It’s possible, then, that my ardent desire to sacrifice myself included, even in a small dose, the pleasure of distancing myself from other duties, because our resolutions in life are almost never determined by a single motive. It’s not wise, however, to delve too deeply into the soul of mystics. So, one day, around three in the afternoon after lunch, we set out in search of the sanctifying cave. As luggage, scattered in my pockets, I had a pair of slippers, a small box of candy my godmother had given me the day before, and the spinning top. It was not, in truth, suitable baggage for a penitent who shuns the pleasures of the flesh, but on this point I trusted my friend Alfonso completely and I was not mistaken. My most pious friend had, as all his equipment and carefully wrapped in paper, some precious disciplines made with her own delicate hands. They were made of rope and had a skipping rope for a handle, and at the end of each branch were some exquisite little knots that must have been less sweet than my godmother’s candies. Before leaving, and at Alfonso’s suggestion, we had prayed for a few moments in the church of San Francisco. Then, crossing Campo Caín and skirting the hostile neighborhood of Sabugo, without entering it, we came out onto the road to San Cristóbal. Within half an hour, we would arrive at the place called the _Garita_ on the sea. Not far from it was the cave that my friend Alfonso had seen or thought he had seen. We walked in silence. Alfonso was very joyful, radiant. I, not so radiant. We hadn’t walked a kilometer when, lying on the soft grass by the side of the road, we happened to see two rascals from Sabugo. One was Anton the shoemaker, a fierce young man, known throughout the town for his exploits and feared by all the children for his cruelty. The other was a rascal nicknamed “Eel,” ugly and grotesque, who amused the neighborhood on race days with his antics when, naked and covered in mud to keep from slipping, he tried to raise the greased pole. He was a consummate clown, of whom I will speak later. When I saw them, my heart leaped, and I think my friend Alfonso, despite his holiness, felt the same. “There they are,” I uttered dully. “I can see them now,” Alfonso replied laconically. “Let’s just walk past them as if we couldn’t see them.” And indeed, looking at the sky, looking at the earth, looking everywhere except at the specific spot where that pair of jewels was located, we tried to cross, quickening our pace. We were like the poor ostriches who bury their heads under their wings when they spot the hunter. “Hey! Boys… Where are you going?” Nothing; we don’t hear a thing. ” “Hey! Boys… Where are you going?” The same inveterate deafness. We tried to move on; but Eel quickly got up and in two leaps was standing before us. “Where are you going, you rascals?” Hearing ourselves called rascals, two beings as spiritual as we were, by that miserable ragamuffin was something to inspire laughter rather than anger. Neither question inspired us. What we both experienced at that moment was, to speak quite frankly, fear, a cerval fear. “We’re going to San Cristóbal,” I stammered with all the humility, with all the submission a human being can muster. “And why are you going to San Cristóbal?” “Let’s go give the priest a message,” I murmured with even more humility and submission. “Well, then, dock at the pier and drop anchor, the carabinieri are here to search us. ” And he started walking back toward the meadow where his worthy companion still lay, looking at us with an insistent, cold, and cruel stare. We followed him like two meek lambs. And what were we going to do? We were nine years old, and those criminals were at least twelve; but apart from that, their untamed, primitive ferocity, as beings who had not yet emerged from barbarism, gave them a recognized superiority, in the case of war, over two boys as civilized as we were. Indeed, the search began, carried out with the utmost scrupulousness by Anguila, starting with me. Anton the shoemaker didn’t even deign to move. My candies came out and were instantly confiscated; but Anton, with an imperious gesture, said: “Bring that here.” And _Anguilla_ humbly went to place them at his feet. It was evident that Anton was the emperor and _Anguilla_ his jester. My top came out and was deposited in the same manner with the sweets. And out came my slippers. These were discarded, and wrapped in their paper, returned to my jacket pocket. Alfonso’s pocket began immediately. He had a piece of bread, which _Anguilla_ immediately began to bite after having ascertained, with a quick glance at Anton, that it did not interest him. And out came the little slip of paper with the disciplines. _Anguilla_, upon unfolding it, was stupefied. “What is this?… The devil take me if these aren’t disciplines!” Anton jumped to his feet and took them in his hand. “Yes, they are disciplines!” And that hideous face contorted with a laugh that was frightening. “Oh, how funny!… Disciplines! Oh, how funny!” And indeed he was writhing with laughter, and so was Eel. “These are the disciplines your mother whips you with, aren’t they? And you stole them from her, haven’t you? Well, that’s not done. Here, so you don’t do it again!” And he lashed out at my poor friend, who was shrieking in his sweet little voice. “No! I didn’t steal them!… My mother doesn’t hit me. I thought I was safe, but as soon as she finished with Alfonso, she started at me “for having helped her,” as she said. “Good. Now get out of here.” And if you breathe a word of all this at home, you can count on me,” Anton exclaimed, lying down again on the grass with the careless laziness of an oriental despot. We were about to follow such healthy advice, but it was a godsend that we wouldn’t be escaping the clutches of those pirates so soon. “Hey, Anton, don’t you think we should teach these boys the drill?” Eel declared. “Do what you like,” replied the shoemaker, shrugging his shoulders with his usual carelessness. Eel cut two long poles from the trees that lined the path and placed them in our hands. “At attention!… Tercien… ar!… Present… ar!… Aim… ar!… In place… rest!… Half turn to the right… deré!” Our martyrdom lasted for more than an hour. Slaps, slaps, kicks, ear-pullings—there was everything, and plenty of it. The most barbaric sergeant could not have done better. If we cried too much, he would silence us with scoldings. Finally, when he had had his fill of them , he let us go. Now free, we did not continue toward the desert to regenerate ourselves through penance, but hurried back to the village. Our eyes were red from crying and our cheeks from the slaps; but my soul was even redder from anger and rage. A mad thirst for revenge rose in my throat and seemed to suffocate me, breaking out at intervals into terrible curses and inarticulate cries. As soon as I reached the village, I would tell Emilio the Blacksmith. We boys at school in Avilés had, following the Spartan custom, a young lad who served as our protector or who “leapt for us,” as we used to say in children’s slang. Emilio the Blacksmith had always leaped for me. I was sure that as soon as he learned of the infamy committed against me, he would raid the Sabugo neighborhood and leave no stone unturned. Poor Alfonso wept and sighed in silence. When I recall this incident from my childhood, I can’t help but marvel at my strange aberration. Because when I left home and sought solitude, what was my intention? To do penance and become a saint? What more appropriate and effective penance could there be than the one those boys inflicted on me? What better opportunity to show myself resigned and humble and follow in the footsteps of Jesus Christ? In a similar way, throughout my life, God has generously offered me the means to become a saint; but alas! I have always squandered the opportunity. Chapter 13. THE ROD OF PHALARIS. If my friend Leoncio were still among the living, I doubt very much that anyone would dare remind him of the incident I am about to relate. Nothing could be more likely than for him to leave his enterprise with his nose swollen, as Manolín the chocolatier, Pepín the butcher’s son, and his brother Ciriaco had left for other reasons. Because my friend Leoncio, despite his chubby, placid face, was, when he flew into a rage, a furious and pernicious being, and he possessed fists that inspired respect in the entire school of Don Juan de la Cruz. Who in Avilés does not remember this Don Juan de la Cruz, so modest, so mellifluous, so neat? Who does not remember that pale little man, straight hair, with black eyes adorned with long eyelashes that barely rose from the ground, with a shy and humble expression? He taught the first letters to three generations and died at the age of eighty, declining a relative pronoun. Calm, serious, silent, he crossed the schoolroom without us noticing his presence until we were upon us. The peaceful expression on his face was never disturbed: I don’t remember ever seeing him enraged. The outline of a smile appeared almost constantly on his lips. It was nothing more than the beginning of a smile that began at the left corner of his mouth and stopped there without ever passing to the right. He rarely looked us in the face; he spoke to us ceremoniously in the formal “form of address,” and when he reprimanded us, he always did so in a low voice, his eyes on the ground, as if he were confessing some fault. He would cut our quills, which were made of bird feathers in those days, pour ink into our inkwells, correct our writings with the utmost modesty and composure, and when the need arose, which came quite frequently, with the same modesty and composure, he would take up his staff and give us a good beating. He was such a modest man that when he spanked our skin, it seemed as if he were bowing to us. The staffs he used for this delicate operation were generally made of hazel and were provided by the schoolboys themselves, sons of farmers who lived in the outskirts of the town. They were very suitable for lifting our skin and making us see the stars. I remember that on one occasion, when I was gently amusing myself by rubbing a bronze button against the desk until it was very hot and then applying it to the hands of the classmates who were near me, I felt on my back and the nape of my neck the impression of a hundred fire buttons. I turned and saw don Juan politely shaking six more sticks at me and then saying in a voice as sweet as a breeze blowing through flowers: “My son, apply yourself to your studies and stop with your futile amusements.” But these sticks had, like all things in this world, an advantage and a disadvantage. For don Juan, they had the disadvantage that they quickly wore out and he needed to replace them, which wasn’t always easy because the village boys, with more or less well-founded pretexts, sometimes refused to provide them. For us, however, they had the advantage that their tips quickly broke, and then they no longer pressed against the flesh, and the blow was less painful. So, the more alert boys carefully tried not to use them for the first time, because then, and only then, did they possess their full evil virtue. When we saw them well trimmed, our behavior began to relax. My friend Leoncio, who was a highly talented boy and also accommodating and helpful like few others, wanted to avoid the inconvenience that the hazel rods presented to the teacher. Constantly thinking about it like Newton about universal gravitation, he finally found the solution. The fall of an apple suggested to the English thinker the idea of the force of attraction. The sight of a whalebone on his mother’s corset suddenly illuminated the brain of chubby Leoncio. Day after day, he explored the attic of his house, where a thousand odds and ends were piled up. Eventually, he stumbled upon a thin, round whalebone, approximately the size of the rods Don Juan de la Cruz used. Leoncio felt happy from that moment on. Nothing expands the soul like an unexpected discovery. He dusted off the famous whalebone, carefully wrapped it in tissue paper, and secured the papers with a little red string. The next day, no doubt to give greater solemnity to the ceremony, he tried to delay a little to get to the school. And when we were all settled in our benches and the teacher was sitting far back behind his desk, our Leoncio appeared with that strange object in his hand. He walked upright and calmly across the vast hall and, approaching the teacher’s table, gravely placed his treasure on it. Having done this, with the same He solemnly went to his place and sat down. A burning curiosity seized us all. What could it be? A gift? Someone imagined it was a monstrous candy similar to the ones we used to suck with delight as soon as we had some money to buy them. Don Juan also began to examine it curiously before unwrapping it. Finally, he decided to remove the papers, and soon after, the precious whale was revealed . Our stupefaction was enormous; but our indignation was even greater. Fifty pairs of eyes stared furiously at chubby Leoncio. If these eyes had been poisonous darts like those of bees, chubby Leoncio would have lost his life right there. A low, fearful murmur spread throughout the school. If this murmur were analyzed, it would immediately be seen that it was composed of two hundred “wretched!”, three hundred “filthy!”, and at least five hundred “indecent!” Leoncio remained calm and satisfied, unaware of the extraordinary success of his gift. Or if he did notice, he pretended not to care. Don Juan continued to attentively examine the famous candy. Finally, he uttered in his honeyed voice: “Leoncio, my son, be so kind as to come here for a moment.” Leoncio came readily. Don Juan calmly rose from his chair, and, holding him by the neck, applied a complimentary blow to his rear end with a cane. Leoncio let out a cry of pain. To this cry we responded with a roar of joy. Don Juan, “God bless you!” seconded the blow and, with his usual modesty, continued to sing to him for a good while. While the operation lasted, he seemed to be talking to himself, and we heard him murmur: “Indeed; it’s flexible… It’s solid… It fits admirably. Oh, yes, it did!” Let the buttocks of poor Leoncio speak for themselves, continuing to shriek like a damned man while we responded to his lamentations with barbaric laughter. When Don Juan de la Cruz felt the flexibility and solidity of the new instrument had been fully tested, he released the subject of the experiment and said to him in a gentle voice, looking, as always, humbly at the ground: “My son, in very ancient times there existed in the city of Agrigento, in southern Italy, a tyrant named Phalaris. This tyrant was so cruel that he delighted in tormenting in a thousand ways all those who had the misfortune of not pleasing him. It so happened that one of his courtiers, to win his favor, gave him a gift of a hollow bronze bull into which anyone who was to be tortured to death could be placed. ” Beneath this bronze bull a bonfire was lit, and the unfortunate man inside, as it began to roast, let out terrible screams that, as they passed through the neck and mouth of the bull, resembled the roars of this beast… Phalaris was captivated by this ingenious device, and after thanking the person who had given it to him, he thought of nothing better than to test it by placing the inventor himself inside . Don Juan paused for a moment, and, giving Leoncio an affectionate pat on his tearful cheeks, said, “So, thank you very much, my son, for this precious gift. Apply your tale to yourself and go to your place.” Chapter 14. THE TRIUMPH OF FRATERNITY. I remember that at that time there existed in Avilés a freethinking shoemaker named Mamerto. This Mamerto lived in open struggle with the Supreme Maker and with his responsible ministers on earth, the parish priest of the town and the one from Sabugo, particularly with the latter because he was the priest of the neighborhood where he lived. He did not confess, did not take communion, did not go to mass, did not even set foot in the church, and, what was much more serious, did not baptize his children. Seized by an atheistic fury, he missed no opportunity to attack the clergy’s budget and aspired to nothing less than demolishing the churches or converting them into factories and forcing the priests to earn their bread by the sweat of their brow. He read in his spare time and knew almost by heart some infamous books entitled *The Friar*, *The Nun*, *The Priest of Mass and Pot*, and of them He used metaphysical arguments to undermine the foundations of our religion. He argued, shouted in every tavern, told scandalous stories about the pious and the priests, and when he had a few glasses of cider in his hand, he sang subversive songs. One of these songs brought him the greatest disappointment of his life. While singing Garibaldi’s hymn, instead of limiting himself to praising the Pope’s enemy, he lashed out at him, shouting repeatedly: “Death to Pius IX, long live liberty!” He was reported to the priest of Sabugo, who in turn reported him to the court: a case was brought against him, and he was sentenced with three other friends to two years in prison. This was the way the moderate party in power was behaving at that time . He was granted a pardon, and shortly before the end of the year, Mamerto returned to his homeland with the halo of martyrdom on his forehead. The population was moved upon seeing him arrive: all eyes were fixed upon him with a mixture of curiosity and admiration. His eyes acquired that fateful gleam peculiar to heroes, an expression of disdainful ferocity that startled the peaceful inhabitants of our town. From then on, Mamerto considered himself an extremely dangerous man: perhaps he wouldn’t be lying when he said he was afraid of himself. From that chest, from that head, something disastrous for tradition could emerge. If institutions had any instinct for self-preservation, which they didn’t, Mamerto shouldn’t be running riot. This was his opinion, at least. Our shoemaker took advantage of this recklessness of justice to persecute Christianity and the Monarchy, counting the glasses of gin drunk by the chaplain of the nuns of San Bernardo and raising his voice to speak of the scandals in the royal palace. Needless to say, Mamerto was hated to death by the female sex in Avilés. My mother professed such a horror of him that if by chance he was mentioned in conversation, she saw his features change, and she would turn so pale that my worried father would ask for a cup of broth to comfort her. She shared this horror with me. Whenever my bad luck sometimes forced me to pass by him, I felt overwhelmed with terror, as if at the sight of the devil; I seemed to see him already engulfed in the flames of hell and spewing all kinds of filthy vermin from his mouth. On the other hand, the stronger sex showed him undue consideration. They pretended that he was an extraordinary shoemaker, that the footwear crafted by his hands was endless, that in all of Spain no other master craftsman could lay foot before him. It was said that his boots had caught the attention of certain foreigners who had passed through there, who had taken them to London, and that from then on, quite a few Englishmen had sent their measurements to Mamerto to have them fitted. Of course, I’m sure all this was pure mythology. Deep down, he was admired for his audacity; because within every man there is almost always a more or less cowardly rebel. Only women have the courage of their convictions and know what they want. Mamerto’s audacity went, as I said, to the point of not baptizing his children: and not only did he not baptize them, but he gave them extravagant names. He had a daughter and called her Liberty. He had a son and named him Danton. Certainly, this poor Danton did not live up to his namesake; he was bowlegged and puny. Where the great French tribune had anything to lose, it was his hair, which he wore long and tangled. Later, he had two daughters, one named Equality and the other Fraternity. The latter could have been two or three years old when what I am about to narrate happened. Never had a more beautiful creature been seen in Avilés: no one in the town could understand how such an angelic being could have come from such a devilish man. Her blond, curly head, her long- lashed blue eyes, her pearly complexion aroused the admiration of all who happened to see her. The women were not shy about saying that the barbarian was not worthy of possessing a jewel of such value. Mamerto didn’t think so, as you can understand. He was so proud and satisfied with his daughter that he showed her off everywhere, brimming with pleasure. He took her by the hand along the Bombé promenade, carried her in his arms to pilgrimages, and even took her to taverns so his friends could admire her and rage with envy. Fraternidad was always dressed in white or blue like the daughter of any landowner. For that, her father worked like a mule, and sometimes deprived himself of even the bare necessities. One day we were surprised by the news that the queen would be coming to visit our town. After spending one day in Oviedo and another in Gijón, Her Majesty would spend a few hours in Avilés. A flurry of pride and pleasure seized everyone’s mind, both children and adults. There weren’t enough hands in our town to raise triumphal arches with painted canvas frames, to plant pennants, to hang garlands. Painters, perched on scaffolding, painted the facades of houses; the municipal street sweepers blew away the dust; women washed the windows and doors; poets composed verses alluding to the grand event that was being prepared; one of these, my uncle, composed a song that was set to music by the director of the band at the Oviedo hospice: Turn your oars, beautiful little boat. That’s how it began, if I remember correctly, and it was sung by a choir of young women from Avilés at the moment Her Majesty set foot on the carabinieri’s longboat to travel to San Juan, the extreme point of our estuary and the mouth of the port. I have a vague but delightful memory of that memorable day. A long line of carriages, a white hand waving a handkerchief from one of them, rockets bursting in the air, bayonets gleaming in the sun, brass bands playing joyful pasodobles, my father in a tailcoat and white tie, the balconies adorned with brilliant draperies, my mother leaning over one of our carriages and throwing handfuls of flowers onto the sovereign’s carriage… Then I find myself in the middle of the great square of Avilés, led by the hand by one of my young uncles. An immense crowd filled the square, and all the eyes of the crowd were directed toward one of the balconies of the house of the Marquis of Ferrera, where, they said, the queen was. All I could see on the balcony was a group of ladies and gentlemen. Beside me, people were constantly shouting “Long live the queen!” An old bailiff from the town hall, whom we called Marcones, waved his tricorn hat, repeating in a hoarse voice, “Long live the queen!” The peasants threw their monteras (hats) in the air, caught them, and threw them again, repeating the same cry. Finally, the group that had been filling the balcony disappeared; it remained empty for a moment, and then a plump , white-faced woman appeared and presented to the people a boy dressed in the typical costume of our villagers: shorts, a sash, a waistcoat with silver buttons, and a montera (hat). “Long live the queen! Long live the queen! Long live the Prince of Asturias!” The enthusiasm was frenetic, imposing… Later, I see myself on the dock, still holding my uncle’s hand. The queen has gone to San Juan and is awaited. A wooden dock had been built, and it had been decorated and luxuriously upholstered. A carpet was laid out from the landing stage , and the queen must have passed through it to board the carriage that was already waiting for her. My uncle was a friend of an officer, and thanks to him, we were able to sit in the front row. In front of me, I saw, with deep disgust, the shoemaker Mamerto, who was also holding his little girl’s hand. What was that goose doing there? That’s what my uncle wondered, looking at him with angry eyes. Mamerto smiled sarcastically; that was undoubtedly what he had come for. Ever since the Queen’s visit to Avilés was announced, that sarcastic smile hadn’t left his lips . But he did something worse: he whispered in everyone’s ears that bad things were being said about our Queen, the filth that was then circulating as valid among the common people. To support his _assertions_ the revolutionary shoemaker secretly exhibited some photographs depicting Father Claret, Patriarch of the Indies, dancing the _can can_ with Sister Patrocinio, a nun who, according to reports, had the Queen’s brains sucked. “If you don’t take off your hat, I’ll have that rascal arrested,” I heard my young uncle, who was quite proud of his friendship with the authorities, mutter through gritted teeth. The rockets are already exploding, the carabinieri’s beautiful barge can be seen in the middle of the estuary, followed by a good number of boats all decorated, music is already playing, cheers are already heard. Queen Isabel II sets foot on the pier; a man in a grand uniform offers her his arm; she climbs the stairs and begins to march slowly through the dense ranks of the crowd, which the soldiers can barely contain at their posts. We all take off our hats. Mamerto too? Yes, Mamerto too. He had tried to keep it on, but a very significant glance from a sergeant of the guard made him reconsider. The queen advanced smiling, waving her hand and nod this way and that. Suddenly she stopped and let out a faint cry of admiration. “Oh, what a lovely girl!” she was heard exclaiming, gazing at Mamerto’s daughter . He paused for a moment before her and said: “How beautiful you are, my daughter! How beautiful you are! God bless you! Will you give me a kiss?” And lifting her from the ground with his royal hands, he applied a resounding kiss to her cheek. Then we saw Mamerto turn pale; he went as pale as death, and waving his hat frantically, he cried out in a stentorian voice: “Long live the queen!” Chapter 15. DON ANTONIO JOYANA. He was a chaplain my uncles Alvaro and Felisa had at their country estate in Illas near Avilés, and he was the most original man Asturias has produced since the Arab invasion. I was taken to confession with him when I was nine years old. He gave me serious admonitions on that occasion. I remember that he strongly advised me that when I broke into the pantry of my house, I should never eat the jam with my fingers, but rather carry a small spoon hidden in my pocket. Don Antonio Joyana was a man according to God and according to nature, but not according to men. That’s why men laughed at him. He had whims like children and desires like women. One day he went into a clothier’s shop with my father, and having liked one of them extremely, he didn’t content himself with buying a few yards but insisted on taking the whole piece. Then he gave it to an old, deaf sister with whom he lived, and she began cutting and sewing trousers for him. Three dozen of them turned out, according to what they said in Avilés. On another occasion, when my Aunt Felisa’s name day was being celebrated with a banquet , a very pretty and whimsical little bottle of liquor was placed on the table . Don Antonio saw it and was mesmerized by it all. He could no longer eat or drink; he had eyes only for that bewitching little bottle. Finally, unable to bear his state of anguish any longer, he approached my aunt and whispered in her ear with a trembling voice: “Madam, if after it’s emptied you would give me that little blue bottle of liquor, I would consider it a great favor.” My aunt promised him this, laughing, and calm returned to his spirit. Such was that singular man, and such would I wish you to be as well. For he was a wise man who served God and loved his neighbor. “Was he a wise man? ” “Yes, he was a wise man.” He spent his life either praying or reading. He owned a large collection of books piled high in sugar chests. These books did not lie on the floor but hung from the ceiling on strong cords and swayed at the slightest touch in his room. Perhaps Don Antonio thought that, swinging his books this way, they would be better positioned to communicate the knowledge they contained. Don Antonio Joyana treated men only as men. To him, A shoemaker was a man, and a marquis was another. Social differences added nothing, in their eyes, to the image of God. I remember that on a country outing I attended, when I was already a young man, and on which we had the honor of taking with us some pompous personages and some damsels more respected by their lineage than the daughters of a ruling family, Don Antonio began to treat these personages with such confidence and such gracious familiarity that he made us laugh a lot. But the noblemen, and especially the high and powerful young ladies, didn’t laugh! What sour faces! What contemptuous gestures! “Bravo, Don Antonio!” we all exclaimed in low voices with intimate joy. And Don Antonio, seeing nothing, unaware of the disdainful gestures and angry glances, went from one aristocrat to another, from one damsel to another, placing his hand on the shoulder of the former, directing salty jibes at the latter, which, truth be told, seemed a bit crude. It was one of the few times I saw truth and nature triumph over convention and lies. Men of this caliber are neither surprised by anything nor afraid of anyone. One afternoon, some masked thieves entered Illas’s estate unexpectedly . After surprising the servants on the ground floor of the house and having bound and gagged them, they went upstairs and entered Don Antonio’s room. The latter was reading as usual. “Stop, don’t move!” Don Antonio raised his head and looked at these outlaws with more curiosity than fear. Among them was one of such short stature and build that he looked like a boy of fourteen or fifteen. Don Antonio noticed him, and rising from his chair, half-smiling and half-enraged, shook him by the arm, saying: “Who got you into these adventures, you scamp? Go to school, you fool! ” Taking a key from his pocket, he threw it on the floor. “Over there, in that cupboard, you have all the money in the house. Be careful not to break the bottle of ink next to the bag!” Then he sat down again and continued reading. Well, this virtuous and magnanimous man, I regret to say, also paid his tribute to human weakness. An unfortunate passion, taking hold of his senses and clouding the clearest principles of his impeccable conduct, once succeeded in driving him to crime. It was not a beautiful woman who inspired that mad passion that so gravely jeopardized the salvation of his soul, but filthy animals . My uncle Alvaro raised some pigs on the Illas estate to supply his household. From his first year there, Don Antonio undertook to oversee their upbringing. He would never have taken on this task! Just as a young libertine, indulging his mistress’s whims, showering her with gifts and emptying his purse to adorn her with precious jewels, gradually sinks into love and loses his will, so our chaplain, procuring all kinds of nourishing gifts and pampering those coarse animals as if they were children of his own heart, found himself caught in the snares of an unhappy passion. The finest vegetables and legumes from the garden were not enough for him, nor were the elaborate ornaments on his table and that of the servants, nor was the corn and flour he pilfered from the feed of the cows and horses enough . He even went so far as to enter the barn where the wheat my uncles’ settlers used to pay their rent was stored and take large quantities from there to satisfy the voracity of his beloved pigs. When the day of the slaughter drew near, our chaplain lost his appetite and sleep. He seemed silent and taciturn. He would spend long periods of time contemplating with tender eyes those innocent creatures who were soon to succumb to a violent death. And on the very day that it arrived, Don Antonio would disappear from home and not return until nightfall. The following year it was the same. Don Antonio promised himself not to be passionate about Those small and tender little animals were handed to him; but seeing them eat, seeing them grow fat, he couldn’t resist the attraction of their charms , and he surrendered himself. His ardent charity went beyond that of Saint Francis. For if the latter said: “Brother donkey,” Don Antonio would say: “Brother filthy.” Perhaps he wanted to make up for the many times he had had to exclaim to himself: “Filthy brother!” But I am going to narrate with great disgust how the devil tempted and seduced that holy man and dragged him into committing a shameful act. When my uncle Alvaro came during the summer to spend a few days in Illas, the servants informed him of the abuses Don Antonio was committing against the barn in favor of the pigs. This displeased him, as you might imagine. He called the chaplain and made some friendly and sweet observations. Don Antonio lowered his head and promised to heed them. But down in hell, Satan rubbed his hands together and exclaimed, laughing, “We’ll see!” One night, between twelve and one, my uncle was fast asleep when a servant knocked softly at his bedroom door. He woke with a start and invited him to come in. “Sir, there are thieves in the house!” he whispered in his ear. This news was not likely to reassure him. “Where are they? ” “They’ve just entered the kitchen downstairs through the back door,” he replied in a falsetto voice as faint as a breath of May breeze. My uncle understood that it was now impossible to resist the assault on his house. He sat up in bed, ready to wait for them, and said, “Go and see what they’re doing.” A little while later, he reappeared. “Sir, they’re already in the dining room!” My uncle, although a brave man, felt his heart pounding. “Sir, they’ve reached the stairs and are beginning to climb them!” The servant disappeared and took a while to reappear. When he finally did, he was clutching his flanks with laughter. “Sir, it’s Don Antonio coming with a sack! ” “Don Antonio? A sack? ” “Yes, sir; he’s undoubtedly going to the barn to steal wheat for the pigs. ” My uncle breathed a sigh of relief, paused for a moment, and said to him: “Well, go to bed and don’t say a word about this to anyone. We’ll settle it tomorrow.” In fact, the next day he asked the chaplain for the barn key under a plausible pretext and never gave it back. I had no knowledge of this grave sin of Don Antonio’s at the time. If I had, I would almost certainly have forgiven him. Hadn’t he forgiven me for sneaking into the pantry and eating my mother’s jam? I declare that I was attracted to that man, and so was my cousin José María. We both liked him extremely, perhaps because we sensed in him a child like ourselves, older and wiser. José María de las Alas was my cousin and my uncle at the same time, for his mother was my first cousin and his father my grandmother’s brother. We were the same age and loved each other dearly, as if we were siblings. We spent our lives together, he at my house and I at his; and we also spent our school days together because we both attended Don Juan de la Cruz’s school . One day, during the August holidays, the idea of paying a visit to Don Antonio Joyana in Illas came to us . We agreed to meet at eight in the morning in the arcades of Galiana, and indeed from there we set off along the road on one of the most splendid days of that summer. What radiant sunshine! What a fresh breeze! What the chirping of birds! What the mooing of calves! How happily those two children walked along the narrow road lined with blackberries! The estate of Illas is some kilometers from Avilés, I don’t know how many; we covered it in a little over an hour. Pepa, Don Antonio’s elderly sister, met us at the door of the house and told us he was in his room. He invited us up. We knocked on the study door with our knuckles. “Who’s there? ” “It’s us. ” “Who are you? ” “José María and Armando. ” “I’m praying.” Since Don Antonio was praying, we were supposed to sit on the stairs and wait for him to finish. So we did, and we waited for a good while. Finally, he appeared wearing his black hat and blue glasses and hugged us with great joy. We went into his room, where everything was mixed up and confused, as if in chaos. He then took down two chairs from the wall, which were hanging from nails, and made us sit on them. Then, strolling ahead of us with his hands behind his back, he detailed the borage tart and almond cheese we had eaten at Aunt Bruna’s house on her birthday, the distemper that Uncle Victor’s dog, Milord, was suffering from, the plums Aunt Felisa had picked on the Carbayedos estate, and other equally interesting matters that touched our hearts. When we had finished unburdening our consciences, Don Antonio asked us very politely if we were hungry. Before we could answer, he called loudly down the stairwell to his sister and ordered her to bring us some breakfast as soon as possible. Then he went to the window, opened it wide, and looked out. A smile of incomprehensible happiness spread across his face. “Look, my children, look!” We peered out like him and saw, far away in the courtyard, three or four pigs so fat that it was impossible to understand how they had escaped apoplexy . “What do you think?” he asked us triumphantly. “Why don’t they kill them now?” I asked with the utmost innocence. Don Antonio gave me a pulverizing look through his spectacles. But he doubtless thought I was a petty pagan with a superficial education and didn’t deign to reply. “There you see them, every two weeks they gain half a pound in weight… But I believe Proudhon gains more. ” “Which is Proudhon?” my cousin asked. “The one on the right, the one with the split ears… Every night before going to bed, I open the window and say goodnight to them. They raise their heads as high as they can and grunt in response. We were amazed at such intelligence, which gave Don Antonio a favorable idea of ours. He immediately led us to the vegetable garden and forced us to admire the cabbages, peas, and onions he had there. Before we had finished admiring them, Pepa arrived to let us know that our snack was ready. It was an enormous ham omelet. My cousin and I threw ourselves voraciously at it and in no time we managed to cut it down to a very small size. But the ham was incredibly salty, and we frantically asked for water. “There isn’t any,” Don Antonio responded peremptorily. We were terrified. “No water? Well, we’re very thirsty! ” “Pepa!” shouted the chaplain, “get two bottles from the cellar and bring them here.” Two bottles of white wine arrived, and we were able to satisfy ourselves. But the most imaginable thing happened. A quarter of an hour later, we began to show signs of mental derangement. We threw some plates on the floor, unbuttoned our shirts, sang loudly, and called the chaplain’s sister an old and ugly woman. He became serious and realized, although belatedly, the great imprudence he had committed. Extremely worried, the poor man thought of nothing better than to invite us to go home. With great haste, he made us go out into the orchard and walked quickly to the barred exit door. We had not taken a hundred steps along the road when my cousin suddenly stopped and, casting fierce glances to the right and left, announced to me categorically that he, José María, was the bravest boy in Avilés. This declaration could not help but stupefy me. Because my cousin was an extremely intelligent child, but sickly and stunted to the point that At school, they made fun of him, and I had to come to his defense more than once. I don’t know why, but at that moment, he inspired me with such pity that instead of contradicting him, I hugged him and kissed him effusively, telling him at the same time with the greatest vehemence that no one would lay a hand on him in my presence and that I was prepared to give all my blood for him. But he rejected my caresses with incredible ferocity, saying that he had no need for any of my blood, because it was enough and more than enough to piss off all the boys in Avilés, both in the town and in Sabugo. I insisted on offering it to him with equal vehemence, and he refused it with equal ferocity. We both became so stubborn that we were almost at odds— I mean, at odds with him, at the point where he almost hit me, because I was in such a state of tenderness that I would have let myself be killed rather than do him any harm. Tears ran abundantly down my cheeks, and every now and then I stopped to embrace and kiss him, which outraged him greatly. Occasionally, I even neglected to offer him my blood again, and then his fury knew no bounds. To demonstrate his exceptional strength and courage, he would beat his breast with his fists like an athlete and use them to threaten the villagers we met along the road, challenging them to single combat. I observed, with amazement, that instead of irritating them with these challenges, they all became extremely cheerful, laughed aloud, and followed us with their eyes for a long way after we had passed. In this mood, we arrived home. Both my mother and my Aunt Justina raised a howl when they saw us; they rushed to take us to bed, and while they were undressing us, their indignation exploded in very harsh words against “that crazy Don Antonio Joyana.” Chapter 16. MY FATHER. There are people so admirably gifted at domestication that no animal, however wild or obtuse, can resist them. I have seen wolves, rabbits, crows, and even fleas and pigs marvelously trained, and there is a story of a prisoner in the Bastille who managed to domesticate a spider. A lady friend of mine managed to get the sparrows perched on the eaves of her roof to come into her bedroom and sleep there. In the morning, when she awoke, they would come to her bed and happily eat the biscuit crumbs she distributed to them, after which they would say goodbye until nightfall. However, I have never seen anyone in my life with greater aptitude for reducing and training animals than my father. But the ones he chose for his remarkable experiments were always more or less rational bipedal animals . An investigating judge, a tax inspector, a colonel, a property registrar, or any other official who arrived in our town immediately aroused fear for his dour temper or bilious and irascible temperament. My father was drawn to this kind of person and wouldn’t rest until he was in a position to exercise upon them those natural dispositions with which heaven had endowed him. It wasn’t long before the town watched in amazement the wild official strolling side by side with my father, completely unlined, happy, and smiling. In Avilés lived a great-uncle of mine with the face and build of an inquisitor: tall, lean, aquiline, with a hard and penetrating gaze. He was an intelligent person with many letters, but possessed such pride and a disagreeable temper that he had lived practically isolated for many years. When my father came to settle with his wife in that town, the life of this stern old man changed completely. Whether he did good or bad, every day he came to our house looking for my father, went out for walks with him, was talkative, and for the first time in twenty years laughed out loud. Thinking about this rare privilege of the author of my days, I came to clearly conceive that it should not be attributed to the amenity of his conversation, which was great because he was endowed with a picturesque imagination, memory Very happy, observant spirit, and a fluent word. Many men possess all these qualities without ever managing to win their love. They are listened to with pleasure, but they are not sought out with determination, much less are they made into close companions and confidants. My father’s secret was another, and it consisted in his absence of vanity. It was a complete, absolute, improbable absence; it was an opposing and contrary force that, instead of pushing him to produce and enhance his personality, as happens to almost all men, dragged him to diminish and erase it. Truth compels me to confess that this extremely rare quality had no religious foundation; it was not what is called Christian humility. It stemmed rather from an original trait of character, which sometimes led him to indulge in caprice or extravagance. To this trait was combined an even more original pessimism. My father was a theoretical pessimist and a practical optimist, the contrast between which resulted in truly comical effects. He thought, like Schopenhauer, that pain is the only positive thing in life and that this world is inherently sad, but he was always happy and made everyone who came near him happy; he believed, along with Ecclesiastes, that all is vanity, and he managed to have none. You should have heard him lament existence, exhaling singular prophecies and predicting cataclysms! Five minutes later he would tell us a humorous anecdote, and after having squeezed our hearts and filled us with anguish, he would have us bursting into laughter. So he lived to be forty, and despite enjoying very robust health, he recognized himself as a decrepit old man: when people spoke of years, he would lower his head sadly, sigh, and say in a faint voice that he was already “with one foot in the grave.” If they admired his memory, he would immediately recount any incident in which he appeared to be a man without memory; If they remarked on his robust and healthy appearance, he would desperately clutch his loins and say that his system was “undermined”; if they praised the qualities of any of his estates, he would start talking about those of his neighbors, placing them far above his own. To see him enraged, you only had to suppose he had some influence in the region, even though he was the largest taxpayer. One day I found him particularly cheerful and content because a millionaire from Bilbao, to whom he was introduced at the café, had spoken to him in a protective and compassionate tone: “You can’t imagine,” he said to me, laughing heartily, “how much that good gentleman despised me.” And with us, his children, too, he would practice this immoderate desire for dejection for a long time. A strange case, because parents, even if they are modest on their own account, are almost never so modest on the account of their children! I was the least intelligent and gifted student in school, and I butted heads with not one or two, but a whole bunch of boys who, in his opinion, were brilliant lights at my side. Don’t even imagine that this was a sign of skill or a pedagogical device. He was perfectly convinced of it, and the proof is that when certain extraordinary exams came at school, judging me absolutely inept, I didn’t dare show up, and my father was quite satisfied with this shameful retreat. Well, I repeat, it was to this fierce modesty, not to his grace, that my father owed his success in the world. Men love modesty in others and much prefer it to talent, wealth, and beauty. They should also love him for his exquisite sensitivity, but they didn’t: sensitivity is not a value quoted on the social market. God forgive me, but I imagine that this sensitivity was the only weakness the world found in my father. I have seen his friends shake their heads and smile mockingly when they noticed signs of emotion in him. And my father, no matter how hard he tried, could not hide it. If he listened to an orchestra, if he sat facing the sea at twilight , if someone told him about an unfortunate incident, or if he began to hum a song from his childhood, tears would easily come to his eyes; and Whenever he saw a child or animal being mistreated in the street, he would turn red , and at the risk of being attacked, he would not hesitate to harshly reprimand the perpetrator of the cruelty. I remember a carpenter who was denounced by his neighbors for the ill-treatment he inflicted on his son, a boy of eight or nine years old. My father was then a justice of the peace, and upon hearing from a witness how that brute stripped his son, tied him up, and whipped him mercilessly, he jumped out of his chair and, shaking the ferocious carpenter by the lapels, shouted: “Barbarian, barbarian, barbarian! You are a wretch!” Apart from that, these were the only instances in which he could appear as a violent man. His calmness and gentleness were proverbial, and his condescension so excessive that it provoked, as almost always happens in this unfortunate world, abuse. The servants, the tenants, the children—we all abused his kindness. He was one of those men whom one can harm with impunity, because one is assured that it will not be done again. And yet, he did not lack the means to do so: he did not give away his kindness like orchards give away apples unwittingly and unwillingly, as Diderot said. His intelligence, his knowledge of the world, and his great perspicacity would have provided him with the resources to make himself feared if he so chose. It must be admitted, however, that no one ever seriously harmed him, and he only had to suffer the minor annoyances and abuses that petty selfishness engenders. He was generally loved and died without having had a single enemy or envious person in his entire life. This last point seems incredible to me; it was not so in his case because we have already seen how uniquely he disarmed envy. When the Carlist War broke out, our Laviana Valley was the headquarters of the Pretender’s supporters in Asturias. Small bands of people who were not models of discipline were constantly loitering around there . Our house was always respected despite my father’s liberal ideas. In fact, his loyalty inspired such confidence that a persecuted leader came to seek refuge there. We had him as our guest for a few days and would have kept him indefinitely if he himself, for fear of compromising us, had not left. The day after his departure, my father and I were walking with my little brother near Pola when we happened to see a company of soldiers marching toward us. As they approached, we sadly contemplated our guest tied up in the middle, who had the courtesy not to greet us or even look at us. But my little brother exclaimed aloud: “Father, this is the gentleman who ate with us and left yesterday!” My father turned pale, and I was overwhelmed. The captain, upon hearing these words, turned his head sharply, looked at the boy, looked at my father, and, smiling maliciously, saluted us with his sword. Chapter 17. Sorrowful Mysteries. One Monday afternoon I used to go to his house; on another Monday afternoon he came to mine. It was market day, and we had school only in the morning. We had a delightful time, as no one can doubt knowing that my friend Juanito’s house and my own had a spacious garden where we played tops, shuttlecocks, and jumps; where we climbed trees and reached for plums and pears in their earliest infancy; where we practiced our aptitudes for engineering and architecture by raising buildings of broken tiles, mud, and sand, laying canals, digging swamps; where we practiced the art of driving , he and I acting alternately as horse and coachman; where we lit fires and roasted potatoes; where finally, when the need arose, we punched each other and tore each other’s hair. His garden was larger than mine; therefore the fiery little horses could run and prance about to their heart’s content. But mine had a granary at the back and this was an invaluable advantage. Because under this granary we took shelter when the weather was bad and we had fun without having to go inside and suffer the presence of The family’s most annoying place. It also served as a hiding place for all those objects worth hiding, particularly the green fruit, of which we accumulated such a quantity that it sometimes rotted without being eaten. This green fruit was the most interesting and secretive business of our existence. My mother forbade us, under the strictest penalties, from touching the fruit, and she watched us closely from home and kept us on guard. Prodigies of ingenuity and skill were needed to evade this vigilance. We displayed them, and were seldom caught in the act. I was, however, on one occasion, but not by my mother. Would to heaven that she had been caught, even if it cost me a few knocks on the head. Adjacent to our orchard or garden was another much better cared for and provided. It belonged to some gentlemen who lived in the adjoining house, two brothers and two sisters, already old and single, grave, proper, peaceful, and silent people. We did not speak to each other; But they and my parents, on the street or from the balcony, greeted each other very ceremoniously. Their garden was overflowing with sweet, ripe fruit, which both my friend Juanito and I were drawn to and tempted by. There was one tree in particular so laden with enormous pears that it was a true blessing. We were gazing at them one day with avidity, when the devil suggested to us the idea of seizing some of them. The wall of our garden wasn’t very high and had a parapet that reached halfway up; so we easily dominated it. But our neighbor’s garden was much lower, so we had to climb down to reach it, which wasn’t easy. However, since our ingenuity had already been exercised for a long time by other ventures, we hit upon the fortunate expedient of using one of the flagpoles we had there belonging to the canalization works of the estuary, whose director was my uncle, as I have already mentioned. After making sure that no one was on the balconies of the adjoining house, nor was anyone spying on us from ours, we placed one end of the pole against our wall and the other against the neighboring garden. I mounted it and slid down with ease. I crossed the entire width of the garden, as the pear tree was at the opposite end. I picked two pears, hid them in my pockets, and quickly returned. But as I crossed the garden again, I glanced back at the house and noticed with horror that on our neighbor’s wide wooden balcony the four brothers were staring at me with serious eyes, more surprised than irritated. I approached the wall and, oh, rage! I realized I couldn’t climb it. As almost always happens in life’s affairs, I had seen the entrance but not the exit. This was practically impossible. Although I tried to climb the pole that had helped me slide down, I soon realized I would never succeed. Climbing the wall was a no-brainer. Then, at the height of my anguish, I called out to Juanito, who had hidden when he saw our neighbors on the balcony. He came to my aid, offered me a hand, and grabbing it, I was able, with great difficulty, to climb onto the wall. All these operations took quite a while, and without turning my head, I saw the eyes of those respectable gentlemen fixed on me. No one can imagine the confusion and embarrassment that had taken hold of me. If they had shouted, if they had rebuked me, I think it would have been a hundred times less; but that grave tranquility, that silence overwhelmed me, and for a long time afterward, when I recalled this scene, I felt my face flush. In addition to the granary, our garden had the advantage of a fountain with a copious stream of water that ran constantly. This water never became cloudy, and when the public fountains suffered such a disturbance, the neighbors on the street or their servants would come to ask permission to fill their vessels. It was a constant knocking on our door all day long, quite annoying, but I never saw my mother, despite her lively temper, ever complain or show impatience. However, I had infinitely more fun at my friend Juanito’s house, not only because of the novelty of leaving my own, but because I had a cheerful and playful sixteen-year-old sister who helped us during our recreation times and excited and protected our pranks. That Paquita was delightful, with her little turned-up nose, her sparkling eyes, and the extreme mobility of her body. Inexhaustible in her resources, extremely happy in her inventions, ready for all kinds of farces, tireless in following them, she manipulated us at will and intoxicated us with her gaiety. One day she dressed us in her own clothes, had us knock on the door, and led us into the living room, announcing to her mother the visit of two ladies; another day she disguised me as a maid, put a handkerchief on my head and a little white apron, and sent me to the nearby store to buy needles; Either she would arrange for a doll to be baptized, dress one of us as a priest, another as an altar boy, involve the maids in the solemn ceremony, and follow it through to the end with all seriousness and diligence; or she herself would disguise herself as a man, grow a mustache, take a cane, and enter, smoking a cigar, like a doctor into the room of a sick maid. She made us act out scenes from comedies, made us sing, forced us to beg for alms in plaintive voices from the doorway, played hide-and-seek with us, sprinkled rice powder on our faces, and taught us the language of hands, in which she was extremely adept. In short, if I had remained by her side all my life—she, still sixteen, and I, ten—I imagine I would never have cursed existence or felt the need to study metaphysics. The opposite of this charming young woman was her mother, Doña Leocadia, so sad, so stern, and tearful. She had been a beautiful woman, according to my mother, and the signs of it were still visible on her face, but she was quite worn, more from sadness than from age, for she couldn’t have been much older than forty. Doña Leocadia had grown so accustomed to crying and sniffling and sighing and speaking in a plaintive tone that if she had won the lottery, I’m sure she would have told us the news in a heartbreaking tone. I couldn’t look at her face, where the tears seemed to have left indelible furrows, without remembering Our Lady of Sorrows venerated in the Church of San Nicolás. And I was very surprised not to see on her chest the seven swords that pierce the heart of this image. It’s possible she carried them hidden beneath her clothes. Who was driving, not seven, but seven hundred swords into the chest of that sorrowful lady? Everyone, everyone tormented her in her home, but most especially—who would have thought!—her worthy husband, Don Julio. I wouldn’t have conceived it at that time, because Don Julio was the most charming, cheerful, and affectionate man in the world. It was precisely because he was so cheerful and affectionate that he caused Doña Leocadia endless grief, as I could vaguely understand when my parents talked about this marriage. If Don Julio’s name came up in conversation, my father would smile and my mother would become serious. Don Julio spent his days at the café and his nights who knew where; he lived off his income, but he was whittling it away little by little, selling one property today, another tomorrow. And of this squandered money, the one that pained Doña Leocadia the most wasn’t the money spent on spirits, gambling, trips to San Juan and the Magdalena Forest. There was another—another!—that touched her more deeply. But let’s not talk about these things, which I understand perfectly now, but I didn’t then. Don Julio’s joy was communicative. He had a distinctive way of laughing that immediately brought laughter to the lips of others. His laughter was so clear, so sonorous, and so spontaneous that it couldn’t be confused with anyone else’s. These bursts of laughter flowed out like a joyful waterfall, mixed with the clicking of billiard balls from the balconies of the Plaza café, making my heart dance with longing for pleasures whenever he happened to pass by. The café on the Plaza, which occupied the main floor of a house, was actually called the Café del León de Oro, judging by the sign above it , but no one in memory had ever called it that. When it wasn’t called the Café de la Plaza, it was called the Café de Tomasín, because that was the name of its owner, a short old man whom I only vaguely remember. This old man had a daughter who ran that café for many years with such brilliance and fortune that it became an institution in Avilés. For this café was the theater where our Don Julio exercised almost all the precious qualities with which God’s providence had endowed him. He played tresillo and golf like an angel, and billiards like the seraphim surrounding the Almighty: the caroms were endless when he wielded the cue; as for chapó, it is impossible for anyone to possess greater finesse and precision in placing the ball where he wanted. And with that, what laughter, what shouting, what joking, what a stream of wit! It seemed as if that café had been opened exclusively for Don Julio, and Don Julio, conceived for the sole purpose of playing chapó in that café. When my father sometimes took me there to have a strawberry sorbet and I saw Don Julio with his long, curly black beard and cue in his hand, laughing, gesticulating, I couldn’t understand how in my house people spoke ill of such an accomplished gentleman. It seemed absurd to me that any serious reproach could be leveled at a man capable of making twenty-five or thirty caroms in a row. Doña Leocadia still had another foil at home, and it was her son Adolfo, a young man of eighteen, well-built, lanky, and excruciatingly hairy. His hair reached the middle of his forehead, showing a mad desire to join the eyebrows, and, despite his young age, it was already invading his cheeks. His dull, half-open eyes, his nose roughly imitating his sister’s, his broad, arched shoulders, his awkward and clumsy manners. In short, my friend Juanito’s brother had all the appearance of a brute… and his actions as well. Gloomy, taciturn, and frowning like his mother, lazy and a scoundrel like his father, it hadn’t been possible to make a career out of him. After he left primary school, they tried to get him to learn Latin by sending him to a professorship at the convent of San Francisco. A failure. They then sent him to Don Román’s private school to study mathematics. An even bigger failure. Finally, they placed him in a friend’s shop so that he could learn the ropes and secrets of a commercial career; but more than half the days he wasn’t around. With several other young men as interesting as himself, he wandered around the town and its outskirts, slipping into the chapels of Bacchus or other even less respectable places to rest. For despite all this, his mother adored him; he was the darling of her heart. There is no doubt that he caused her great suffering with his behavior, and that instead of being grateful for the caresses he lavished on her, for her patience and concern, he missed no opportunity to vex her with gross deviations and the cynical display of his vices. But she forgave him willingly , even more willingly, monstrous as it may seem, than she forgave her master and husband, Don Julio. As for us—that is, Juanito and I—were both admired and feared him. He was unaware of our existence. On the short winter evenings, just as it began to get dark, we would go into the house and play with Paquita and the maids in the most pleasant and entertaining way anyone had played in the world since God had plucked it from nowhere. We played blind man’s buff, we played hide and seek, we played the onion with the bread… A friend of mine, fond of scholarly research, told me that originally it should have been said the slave who is given. It’s almost certain, because the kite doesn’t make any common sense. However, I prefer the kite: it’s more picturesque. And when we were tired of playing, Josefa, a fat, elderly seamstress Doña Leocadia had, she would gather us around her and tell us delightful tales of enchanted princesses and Moorish women in love with Christians. It seems I can see myself in that large, simple, and comfortable dining room. There were two large engravings in mahogany frames, one representing the _Malediction of the Father_, the Malediction Paternel, by an old French painter whose name I forget, and the other depicting the interview of Alexander the Great with the family of the defeated King Darius. Afterward, the rosary was recited , and I was taken home or called for, which was more common. Due to certain curious events that occurred during that time, one of these rosaries was imprinted in my memory. One night, we all knelt as usual in the dining room in front of an image of Our Lady of the Rosary painted in oils. Doña Leocadia stood in front, almost touching the wall beneath the painting, Paquita behind her, we even further back, and the maids brought up the rear. Doña Leocadia, holding her mother-of-pearl rosary and her eyes fixed on the sacred image, said in a plaintive voice: “Sorrowful Mysteries of the Most Holy Rosary. First Mystery: Of the Prayer in the Garden: Our Father who art in heaven…” We responded aloud, also a little plaintively, though not as much. “Second Sorrowful Mystery: Of the Scourging that the Son of God suffered tied to a column: Our Father who art in heaven…” Before the decade was over, Paquita got up and went to close the open gazebo. Doña Leocadia turned her head and followed her with her eyes without stopping her prayer. Paquita paused for a moment inside the gazebo, and then her mother stopped praying, abruptly got up , and walked quickly over. “I thought so!” she exclaimed angrily after casting an investigative glance at the street. There’s the scamp under the lamppost!… And for that you get up and leave your rosary, you rascal?… Here, here, you shameless thing! And she slapped him twice. Paquita moaned and began to protest loudly against this punishment, which she deemed absolutely unjust, since she hadn’t gone to the viewing window except to lock it and hadn’t thought to look out at the street, nor had she seen nor wanted to see any scamp. I must point out that this scamp was none other than a cavalry cadet who wore shining spurs and dragged a long saber around his waist. This alone will help you understand the absurdity of that good lady in describing him in such a degrading manner. He was also a very handsome young man, almost as tall as Don Julio, who smoked cigars and gave me candy whenever he saw me on the street. He was there spending the Christmas holidays with his family. Since the previous summer, when he had danced with her at the Pilgrimage of the Light, he had surrendered his spurs, his saber, and his grandeur at the feet of the charming Paquita. “Silence, insolent! I’ve already told you I don’t want you speaking to that scamp! Back to that scamp! If you were an obedient daughter, you would never look him in the face again… Do you think your mother doesn’t know better than you what’s best for you? What are you up to? ” “I’m not up to anything! It’s an injustice!” cried Paquita, sobbing. “Silence! Don’t you know that such relations can lead nowhere? Are you going to get married when he becomes a second lieutenant? How will he support you? Are you going to wait until he becomes a captain? You can sit and wait… Well, what a game is coming our way! ” “I’m not one either!” cried Paquita, still sobbing. “Silence, I tell you!” exclaimed Doña Leocadia, taking a threatening step toward the young woman. “For the same reason that you are not… because misfortune and my sins have willed that you are not,” she added in a muffled voice, “for the same reason that you are not, you need to think like a serious person and not waste your time with a scamp! And on with that scamp! He’ll never have enough for his vices… because soldiers are vicious…” “Not all of them!” Paquita exclaimed energetically. “Besides, you don’t have to be a soldier to be vicious.” Doña Leocadia felt the stab in her chest, paused for a moment , and then said, softening her tone: “Don’t you see Paulina, Don Ramón’s daughter, who’s barely two years older than you and is already a grand lady with a magnificent house, a carriage, and half a dozen servants, who takes trips to Paris and London whenever she wants?” “No thanks! Marrying an old man!” the girl exclaimed with a sarcastic giggle. “Don Pancho isn’t an old man, you loose tongue! He’s a very old man , and he’s worth more than that weakling who’s so upsetting you… Well, we’ve talked enough… Shut up and obey!” Doña Leocadia kneels again and continues: “Third sorrowful mystery: the crown of thorns.” Our Father, who art in heaven… A penetrating and unpleasant smell of stew reached our noses. Doña Leocadia stops, thinks she smells smoke, and exclaims, turning her head toward the cook: “Do you see it, Carmen?… The meat is burning. ” “Madam, I’ve left you out.” Doña Leocadia, without replying, quickly gets up and walks toward the kitchen, leaving us all kneeling in suspense. The cook follows her, murmuring, although now with some hesitation. “Madam, I’ve left you quite out.” We hear a loud commotion inside: Doña Leocadia’s voice is heard irritated; the cook’s voice is deaf and humiliated. Finally, the former enters again, exclaiming in a tone that has nothing to do with resignation, although she wanted to seem so: “Oh, what patience, my God! Oh, what patience! Oh, what patience is needed!” She kneels and continues the rosary: “Fourth Sorrowful Mystery: Carrying the Cross.” Our Father, who art in heaven… A short while later, the front door bell rang. Rita, the maid, went out to open it; she entered shortly after and knelt down. Behind her, we heard Adolfo’s footsteps. He entered the dining room, frowning and gloomy, gave us a grim look, and sank to his knees with such a loud thud that Juanito and I burst into laughter, which we had great difficulty suppressing. His mother turned her head, looked at him sternly, and with a slight gesture of resignation, continued praying. We immediately understood that he was drunk. His mother understood this too, because from time to time he turned his head and gave her a quick, timid glance. Juanito made faces at me, putting his thumb to his mouth as if to drink. I couldn’t stifle my laughter and pinched Juanito. Paquita shook her head in a comical way, feigning despair. The girls, between frightened and laughing, could hardly pray. Only Adolfo remained serious, completely oblivious to the effect he was causing. He responded to the rosary with deep, cavernous sounds that no one could perceive as prayer. He snorted like an ox and rocked like a ship. The rocking, which at first was insignificant, became so pronounced that it unsettled us. Juanito stopped grimacing, Paquita stopped shaking her head, and the maids became grave and in suspense. We all stared at that strange and alarming nod, fearing what finally happened. Adolfo fell face first onto the floor with such a crash that Doña Leocadia jumped and remained on his feet. Adolfo couldn’t get up again: he opened his mouth and released a torrent of wine that soon spread throughout the dining room, startling all of us, who fled from that red, nauseating river as if it were the burning lava of Vesuvius. Paquita, in particular, would lift her skirt with such comical terror, walk on tiptoe, and make such grimaces and somersaults that Juanito and I, despite our fright, burst into laughter. But this wasn’t possible when looking at Doña Leocadia, who seemed the picture of desolation. “My God, what’s wrong with me!” the good lady exclaimed, tearing at her hair. “This son will end up with me!… What a cross, my Mother of Carmen, what a cross!” Meanwhile, Rita, Carmen, and Josefa the seamstress lifted the swine from the floor and carried him to his room. Doña Leocadia followed them, sighing and wailing. Once alone, Paquita, Juanito, and I were able to indulge in the merriment, and we did so willingly. Paquita encouraged us with her antics. She jumped over the puddles of wine. “How disgusting, my children, how disgusting! My little brother doesn’t get drunk on sherry.” But Carmen, the cook, arrived immediately with a bucket of water and a knee and quickly cleaned up the filth. Doña Leocadia, Rita, and Josefa were soon to appear after they had put the hero of the party in his bed. And we were just about to continue the rosary when the bell rang again. It was a waiter from the Plaza café who brought a short letter for Doña Leocadia, who opened it briskly and, upon reading it, turned pale. “Carmen, please give the latchkey of the street door to that young man. The gentleman won’t be coming for dinner today.” She remained motionless for a moment, her eyes staring into space. Her face expressed such profound dejection that our hearts sank. Two large tears began to roll down her withered cheeks. Finally, taking out her handkerchief and wiping them away, she sank back to her knees before the image of the Virgin, saying in a faint voice: “Fifth sorrowful mystery: how the Son of God was crucified. Our Father who art in heaven…” Chapter 18. FIRST READINGS. It’s not impossible that the reader, upon reaching this point and perhaps before, has asked himself: “But this novelist who tells us about his childhood , how come he doesn’t say anything about his literary impressions, about the influence that the first books that fell into his hands had on his spirit ?” Ah, dear reader, that’s where it pains me! On this point, I can only tell you shameful things. I’d rather tell you, like some of my colleagues, that at seven or eight years old I read the Bible assiduously, was enthralled by Homer, and occasionally, to unwind, would throw in a Sophocles tragedy. I would like to present myself before your eyes as an eccentric, somber child, withdrawn from the games of my companions, reveling in solitude, strolling along the seashore or through the woods, crying and laughing for no apparent reason, looking more at the stars than at the earth. Or else as a marvel of wit and wit, driving family and friends at home wild with his happy antics, arousing admiration with his penetrating observations and naive questions. If I were to tell you this, dear reader, I would be miserably deceiving you, and my conscience would gnaw at me for the rest of my life. I prefer to confess that as a child, I enjoyed running and jumping with my schoolmates , chasing crickets, playing buttons, and occasionally exchanging a few punches. Neither happier nor sadder than the others. No more strolling alone along the seashore with my hair flying in the wind, defying the storm. No more crying for no reason. When I did, it was because Don Juan de la Cruz, my teacher, administered a few blows to me , or some rascal from Sabugo cut the string of my snake kite in Avilés, or for other reasons no less futile and prosaic. I certainly had whims, but nothing romantic; I don’t think I was ever an incomprehensible child; on the contrary, it seems to me that everyone understood me perfectly. My originality was so lacking that I despaired of my name because there was no other like it in town, and I inwardly reproached my parents for not having named me Manuel or Pepe or Antonio. I was equally desperate when my mother put me in a new or showy suit, and I tried to tear it up immediately so that it wouldn’t attract attention and resemble those of my comrades. Anyway, my father having told me that in his childhood he hated bread and butter sprinkled with sugar and that once, when he had been forced to accept it, he had surreptitiously thrown it over the balcony, I, who was dying for this delicacy I did the same thing—with what pain in my heart!—when my friend Alfonso N.’s mother gave him to me one afternoon for a snack. It seems to me that the spirit of imitation cannot be taken any further. Ingenious remarks? God grant them. No matter how much I search and search my memory for some premature wit, some of those opportune traits that announce a privileged nature, I find nothing worth mentioning. How happy I would be if I could display before your eyes as a mark of God some memorable phrase of those that abound in the childhood of certain writers! Reading such witticisms and ingenuity in their memoirs, I am enthusiastic; I admire them with all my heart, although I cannot help thinking that perhaps it would have been better for them never to leave childhood. Dismayed at not finding in the archives of my memory any document that accredited my intellectual nobility, before writing this book I went to an old servant of my house and wrote to one of my father’s brothers, the only uncle I still have. I could acquire nothing but silliness, ineptitude, and vulgarity unworthy of being communicated. Regarding my early aptitude for literature, I sadly declare that at eight years old, the exploits of Achilles son of Peleus and the contrived speeches of Ulysses had not yet reached me through the Homeric rhapsodes ; I also knew nothing of Oedipus the King or Oedipus at Colonus. My erudition was quite limited at that time, and if I know little now, you may take my word for it that I knew even less then. It remained, then, that I did not read Homer, Sophocles, or Pindar with relish. On the other hand, oh terrible humiliation! I was enthusiastic about the novels of a Mr. Pérez Escrich, may God forgive him, and of a Doña María del Pilar Sinués, whom God also forgive him. I cannot help but fondly remember one of the former’s, entitled The Village Priest, which gave me incredible pleasures. As I read it, I identified so closely with its characters that I felt as if I were living in their company and belonging to the family. I rejoiced in their joys, sat at their table, drank a little more than usual during their innocent revelry, laughed at their equally innocent jokes, acted distracted when that charming dressmaker began to converse in a low voice with that charming young man, and was entirely determined to lend them my effective assistance in unmasking and confounding the wretch who unjustly held their fortune. And when it came to mourning over their misfortunes, I believe I did so much better and more copiously than they did. In short, I was close to doing what a certain discreet lady friend of mine had done when she was thirteen or fourteen: enthralled by one of those divine seamstresses created by the imagination of Pérez Escrich, she took the little money she had in her piggy bank and went with her maid, asking for her at every house on the street where the author had listed his address, in order to deliver it to her. I know this will make my colleagues, the precocious readers of Homer and Pindar, smile, but what am I going to do? I write my memoirs; I owe the truth to my readers, and I prefer to be considered vulgar rather than blatantly violate it. After all, I’m not far from thinking, like some philosopher, that things are neither beautiful nor ugly; it’s our own soul that is beautified by contact with reality. Mine, fresh at that time, was embellished by the innocent music of certain zarzuelas and by reading some deplorable novels as it has never been since with the most sublime works of human ingenuity. And why deplorable? If no more music had been written than that of Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven, nor more dramas than those of Aeschylus, Sophocles, Shakespeare, Calderón, and Schiller, nor more poems than those of Homer, Virgil, Dante, Milton, and Goethe, almost all humans would go down to the grave without having enjoyed the ineffable pleasures that art provides. I myself, if I had succumbed before the age of fifteen, would go to the other world without having experienced some sweet emotions and Divine thrills that have made me happier than a king in my childhood. I am sure that no one has enjoyed the Iliad more than I have enjoyed The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas. And then what? I have come to think that the book is not made by the author but by the reader. I remember that at the age of fifteen I read Michelet’s work entitled The Bird. It is a work justly esteemed in the literary world, as are all those by this singular writer. It is not easy to imagine the delightful impression that its reading made on me. I still see myself lying on an ancient and enormous sofa in my house in Entralgo with the red- covered volume in my hands. It was a Spanish translation, and I presume it could not have been very careful. For despite that, it gave me so much pleasure that all my life I have remembered those happy hours and blessed the pen that had procured them for me. Not long ago, by chance, the same book fell into my hands in French. My knowledge of this language now allows me to appreciate the brilliance and polish of Michelet’s style. I took the volume, and like a greedy boy who keeps a cake on his nightstand to treat himself to it alone, I placed the precious book on mine. I hoped to resurrect my adolescence, to feel once again those sweet emotions that had made me so happy, and I opened it with a respectful, trembling hand. What disappointment! What bitter disillusionment! It wasn’t that the book seemed ugly to me; on the contrary, I could recognize its merits better than before. But I didn’t find in it what I had once seen. It seemed dry, pale, and I sadly asked myself, “Where is now that seductive bird, that winged poet who hopped twittering before my eyes? Where are those interesting depictions of his loves, his wise constructions, his travels, his picturesque customs?” Compared to the book I had read, I found it admirably written, but lacking in imagination and life. Does he lack this? No; it’s me who lacks it… Far be it from me to attempt to resolve or even pose the problem of the subjectivity or objectivity of beauty. I simply wish to point out to authors that they should expect imaginative rather than cultured readers for their books. A critic will admirably distinguish what is beautiful and what is ugly in a work of art, but will never enjoy it as intensely as an adolescent endowed with imagination and sensitivity. Does he enjoy a masterpiece as much as a mediocre one? This should not humiliate the author. If he is a man of heart and not excessively vain, he should take particular delight in the delight he provides to others. Note that I am referring to adolescence , when, if judgment is uncertain, impressions are more so than ever. As for childhood, it cannot be counted on when it comes to literary art. Children not only fail to distinguish, but they rarely feel. When I was one, I was extremely seduced by stories of bandits. One of the novels that impressed me most was *The Seven Children of Ecija* by Fernández y González. There was a moment in my life when I clearly had the vocation to be a highwayman. Fortunately, it didn’t last long. Later, I read the exploits of Bernardo del Carpio and the Twelve Peers of France, and I wanted to be a warrior. That didn’t last long either. Later, as I entered adolescence, I aspired to the status of a savage by reading *The Natchez* by Chateaubriand. This exotic novel made a deep and sentimental impression on me, not merely an imaginative one. I was so captivated by those redskins that I dreamed of going to America like René and introducing myself to some descendant of the old Chactas so that I could join his tribe after smoking the “calumet of peace.” I dreamed of that sweet and beautiful Celuta and making her my wife. And I promised myself to love her more and better than the hypochondriac René, making her as happy as she deserved. I dreamed of the friendly and playful Mila, whom I would also make my wife if polygamy were not a great sin. I dreamed of that great, that noble Outugamiz, brother of Celuta. His Unwavering loyalty penetrated my soul so deeply that when I went to Oviedo and wrote to a friend I was leaving behind in Avilés, I began my letter: “My dear Outugamiz.” I still remember with incomprehensible emotion a certain excursion along the Mississippi on a hot summer night. Most of the warriors left the canoe and jumped into the water to swim the distance : the women imitated them, and that entire crowd let themselves be carried by the gentle current of the river under a star-studded sky, where the moon swam, happy and serene like them. The warriors recounted their exploits aloud, and the lovers glided hand in hand, sweetly murmuring their secrets. This is what I remember of that poetic description. I don’t know if my memory will be faithful after so many years, because I haven’t read this novel again. If I did now, I don’t know why I imagine that those savages, who so captivated me, would make me vomit. When I reached twelve or thirteen years of age, I liked to search my father’s library, where I had found the works of Chateaubriand and other books of entertaining literature. He also had scientific works, and some of them interested me greatly. If I have never managed to become a scientist, I have had a scientific curiosity awake since childhood. In one of those searches, I came across a strange book illustrated with hideous pictures. It was a treatise on virility. “What is this?” I asked my father, who was writing. He raised his head, looked at the book, stared at me fixedly, and, remaining thoughtful for a moment, replied: “Read it.” That word was my salvation. There will be timid people who will be astonished and even scandalized by my father’s audacity. Nevertheless, I bless his memory for this as for the many good things he has done for me. Chapter 19. Friar Melito. If Heaven were to grant me a new existence on this planet of ours, and give me the choice of where my childhood would unfold, I would answer without hesitation: Avilés! What I remember of this town is so pleasant, so cheerful, and picturesque that I doubt that anywhere in Europe or America—let alone Africa for the Blacks and Asia for the Chinese—there will be another town that surpasses it. However, let no one imagine that it was all revelry and pilgrimages and habaneras and parades. There were more than a dozen decorative figures in our town who not only maintained its respectability and decorum but also communicated splendor to the eyes of the stranger. When I left my house very early, much earlier than I would have liked, for school, I would invariably find one of our neighbors strolling beneath the arches, dressed in a black frock coat, white tie, a large front coat with diamond buttons, a tall hat, a gold-tipped cane, and polished boots, just as if he were about to attend a reception at the English embassy. He had been there, so they said, for several years: that was why he had sideburns and was so proper, so grave, and silent. Whether the weather was good or bad , on the hottest days of July or the coldest of January, he would stroll there dressed in those ornaments that inspired in me an inexpressible respect. Since the ugly affair of the pears, I didn’t dare look at his white front coat, or even at his polished boots, as before. A little further on, under the very arches of the plaza, my uncle Victor strolled, also in a frock coat. A retired colonel, with a long white beard. He was a person of such heroic stature that when he bent down to give me a kiss, I thought the Eternal Father himself was descending upon me in a top hat. A little further away, at the beginning of the Galiana arches, I bumped into another respectable figure beneath them, Don Manolo P. He was also wearing a frock coat and a top hat. His walking stick was an exquisite Indian cane with an ivory handle and a ferrule of the same material, which he rarely placed on the ground so as not to ruin it, as was maliciously rumored in the town. He was already approaching fifty; his face was carefully shaven and so red and flushed that it bordered on violet: he looked like a figure from the court of Charles IV. This grave fellow walked with the utmost solemnity past his house, often stopping in front of a nearby tinsmith’s shop and exchanging more or less transcendental thoughts with the tinsmith. He stared at passersby as if he suspected their honesty; mine must have inspired greater doubts than anyone else’s, judging by the persistence with which his large, round eyes followed me. He held a law degree, but did not practice law; he lived off his income and was such a worthy and venerable gentleman that I considered it impossible for anyone to dare disrespect him. Nevertheless , this impossibility came to fruition. A drunk named Platina staggered up to him one day: “I bet you don’t know, Don Manolo, how you resemble Saint Roch?” “I can’t guess,” our knight replied, opening his large, round eyes even wider. “That Saint Roch is the advocate of the plague and you are the plague of lawyers. It’s horrifying to think that in this world no one can be immune from a vulgar insult, not even the highest nobles who, like this one, are the ornament of their native town and the pride of their fellow citizens. In the end, he himself took it upon himself to disrespect himself, for before he knew it, he fell in love with our seamstress. The first news we had of him was from a letter my mother received from him. In it, he begged her to allow him to come home for a while so he could speak with his fiancée, for he already considered her as such. The request was a bit extravagant, since my parents hadn’t had the pleasure of meeting him.” However, my mother immediately gave in willingly, and here was our gentleman sitting in the dining room in the evenings, between her and the genteel seamstress, chatting courteously about indifferent things, like a young man courting a young lady in front of her mother. Mine always spoke to him smilingly, and my father, whenever he passed by, did the same. In my mother’s smile, there was a hint of mockery, and in my father’s, two. Finally, that good gentleman married and remained grateful throughout his life, showering us with attention, irrefutable proof of the goodness and integrity of the young woman to whom he had joined his destiny. It must be said that, in addition to these, there were other noblemen in the town who enhanced our town with their majestic attire. But these noblemen did not remain, like those of other cities, entrenched in their grandeur, nor did they oppose or disdain the boisterous youth. On the contrary, they were always inclined to protect and encourage any recreational project initiated by the latter. Sometimes the initiative came from themselves. Similar to the elders of Athens, they dedicated their experience to the noble pursuits of life and ensured the decorum of festivities. My good uncle Jorge de las Alas, old and ailing, was the one who founded the Academy of Music in Avilés, who organized the Lyceum society, and who undertook the construction of a theater when one did not exist. This indefatigable old man, who contributed so much to the culture of our town, deserves a statue to be erected in his honor. We, the young people of Avilés, never found a disdainful smile or a severe remark in these noble elders . I still remember that when I attended a Lyceum ball for the first time, not yet seventeen years old, I was in a hurry because I couldn’t fasten my gloves. The president of the society himself, a respectable gentleman with a gray head, came to my aid and managed to fasten them for me. At that time, Avilés bore more than a passing resemblance to Athens. Joy, decorum, and a love of art reigned there, just like in the city of Minerva, and people also lived in a sweet idleness that allowed them to devote themselves entirely to the pleasures of the spirit. To achieve this, Aristotle believed a considerable number of slaves were necessary to feed the citizens. Among us, there was no such thing as As far as I know, there was more slavery than a very ugly black man brought from America by an Indian named Don Pancho. The teacher threatened us with this black man, who was apparently always eager to carry bad children in a sack, because from the age of three or four I had the honor of attending a girls’ school when we made too much noise. She had threatened us so many times, however, that we came to despise that horrifying prospect as implausible. But one fateful day , at the teacher’s behest, the frightful figure of Don Pancho’s black man appeared at the door of the classroom with the famous sack on his shoulder, his hungry tiger eyes rolling around his sockets. It is neither easy nor decorous to describe what happened there. All that bisexual youth felt attacked simultaneously in the heart and bladder. We were no longer “bad” for eight days. We lived, then, in our village without working, as I said. Who worked for us, I didn’t care to find out at that time. Each house housed a small nobleman or rentier who serenely enjoyed life, dancing in his youth, strolling in his old age. There was no shortage of artisans, it’s true; there were carpenters, chocolatiers, tinsmiths, painters, and bricklayers; but almost all were relegated to the Sabugo neighborhood. Those who lived in the town were almost as serious figures as those I’ve described: some, already elderly, wore top hats. They were treated with respectful consideration, counted on for festivities, and some had time to devote themselves to music and recitation and achieve notable triumphs, like the cabinetmaker Mariño and the barber Manolo. Unlike what happens in the great European and American cities, where people live in perpetual turmoil and have no time for anything, in Avilés there was time for everything: if there was ever a lack of time, it was certainly not for work but for recreation. There was no rush for money, nor that distressing desire for profit that debases souls and saddens life. Commerce itself, which by its nature is sordid, had a noble and tranquil temperament in our town. The merchants received their friends in their shops, chatted and laughed with them, and cared little about selling their wares. There was a shopkeeper named Braulio who owned a fairly well-stocked hardware store on Herrería Street . This Braulio, when a friend came to invite him to play billiards or eat lobster at the Tirita café, would put on his hat, close the shop, and quietly walk away with him. Let the customers wait! The nobles, the impetuous youth, the merchants, and the artisans did not constitute the entirety of our town. There was, as is only fair, a theological element composed of the parish priests of the town and Sabugo with their respective assistants, the vicar of the nuns of San Bernardo, and up to half a dozen exclaustrated friars who had survived the massacre of the year thirty-six. There was a Father Cerezo whose wisdom no one questioned; a taciturn, bilious Friar Antonio Arenas, who sang high mass from the choir of the church of San Francisco with a voice that Satan would envy when addressing the damned of hell; a Manzaneda—I don’t know why the name “fray” was omitted from his name—and above all, there was a Friar Melitón of enduring memory on earth who, in heaven, where I have no doubt he will be at this hour, will delight the blessed. This theological element wore thin like that of noble men in a frock coat and top hat. Only, as befitted their high theological dignity, the frock coats were much longer and the hats much taller. When I saw Father Cerezo or Manzaneda under one of them as a child, I would sweat with anguish. Brother Melitón was the parish organist. God forbid I should suppose that playing the organ is how I will delight the heavenly court. On the contrary, it seems to me that if Brother Melitón ever thought of playing the organ in heaven, he wouldn’t stay there for long. What will surely rejoice his brothers in the blessed world is his great, inconceivable innocence. Brother Melitón was a boy of sixty years old. Of medium build and height, vigorous, with a red face, weak eyes, and still black hair. He always spoke loudly, sometimes angry, sometimes laughing, never calm or indifferent. I don’t think he had permission to hear confessions, because this ministry demands knowledge of the human heart, and Brother Melitón didn’t even know his own; he celebrated Mass and played the organ at solemn Masses and festivals. A few of us boys were in love with him, and he was in love with us, although he didn’t hold back on slaps when we bothered him too much. If he found us in the _Campa_ playing tops, he would stop to look at us, shout encouragement, applaud, or rebuke us exactly as if he were one of us. “That’s good, carape! Good!” “Good!… Leoncio, you’re a donkey!” If he bumped into us in the fields, Cain would sit beside us and tell us miraculous stories. Miracles were his specialty. Other times, he would tell us about his convent and describe the enormous pantry he was in charge of, the sacks of chickpeas, the piles of walnuts and hazelnuts, the rows of hams hanging from the ceiling. He would paint a picture of the orchard where all kinds of fruit trees grew: cherry trees, pear trees that produced pound-sized pears, greengage and crimson plums, and espaliered apricot trees—so much so that we boys’ mouths watered. He would also fondly recall the magnificent pigs raised there and would secretly tell us how he fattened them up to an arroba a week by the month of October. He often took pleasure in asking us questions and learning about our studies and goals. “What do you want to be? ” “I’m a soldier. ” “Bravo! Off to battle, brave man! And you? ” “I’m a doctor. ” “Look at my tongue and I’d stick it out… And you? ” “I want to be a judge. ” “A judge? Wait a minute while I prick your ears. ” And he would grab the end of a twig, at which we would laugh uproariously, and he more than we did. If anyone told him they wanted to be a priest, he would grimace. “Do you know, donkey, if you have a vocation for the ecclesiastical state? Besides, to earn heaven you don’t need to be a priest or a friar. ” And he was right, because he would have earned it under any circumstances. Among all of us, he particularly distinguished three, and I was one of them. That’s why he yielded to our insistence, granting us the honor of working the organ bellows, a task previously performed by the sexton’s son. Behind the organ of the Church of San Francisco there existed, and possibly still exists, a small, dark, and dirty attic containing the bellows that supply it with air. These bellows, of which there were three, each had a spear-shaped beam, which, as it lowered until it touched the floor, inflated; then, as the air was used up, it gradually rose until it reached the ceiling. I was in charge of lowering one of these beams, and my friends took charge of the other two. To lower them, we had to hang from them, and once we had them at our height, we climbed on top until we were completely subdued. Once we had succeeded, we could rest for a few minutes while the bellows slowly deflated and the beams rose. How is it possible that, locked up there in the dark, breathing dust and forced to work like slaves without a moment’s attention, we were fortunate? We were, and quite a lot. We were possessed by our role, which we considered to be of the utmost importance. Without us, the organ wouldn’t play, and all the racket Brother Meliton was making would miserably die away, and the grand solemnity would come to an end. I don’t quite remember how it happened: I think I was telling my friends how a bird had gotten into the dining room of my house and how I had managed to catch it by throwing a towel over it. Whether for this or another reason, the truth is that on one occasion we got careless. forgetting the bellows. The timbers had risen to their maximum height, touching the ceiling. Suddenly, the little choir door burst open with a crash, and the flushed face of Brother Melitón appeared, his eyes shooting sparks behind his spectacles. He threw himself at us, raining down a malicious shower of blows on our heads. Ignoring them, we launched ourselves at the timbers, which required prodigious leaps to reach. “Donkeys! More than donkeys! Is that why I let you come here to inflate the bellows? And at the very moment of playing the tremolo!” It is well known that when the moment came during Mass to elevate the Holy Host, Brother Melitón would have the organ play a tremolo so mysterious, so solemn, so pathetic that no heart, however hard, was not overcome with awe. “Leaving me breathless on the tremolo, no less than the tremolo!” he exclaimed angrily, not giving his hand any rest. “Didn’t you know I was playing the tremolo, you donkeys? I didn’t know that word then. A long time later, whenever it reached my ears, I perceived in my head the vague sensation of a blow to the head. Two of those three bellows-inflators survived, and I am certain that my companion and I would both inflate them again with pleasure if we were twelve years old again. But I don’t only owe Brother Melitón these moments of intense and pure happiness: I owe him something more, and I am going to tell it without any concern, since he will not rise from his grave to call me a donkey again and hit me on the head. During the hot summer months, I used to bathe in the estuary with a few friends my age. As soon as we left school, we crossed the San Sebastián Bridge and walked along the long Huelgas seawall to a distant spot where we could undress without violating our standards of modesty. We didn’t have to worry about using sheets or towels to dry ourselves, because everyone bathed like me, secretly from their parents. We would curl up in the sun for a moment and then dress without any hesitation. This system, which for a long time seemed dangerous to me, I recently saw advocated by a German doctor. One afternoon, having to go home early, I was forced to walk alone to the bridge where my classmates had arranged to meet me. I couldn’t find them there, and thinking they had already gone ahead, I headed leisurely along the seawall to the usual spot. They weren’t there either. I waited for them for a long time, and seeing that they didn’t arrive, I decided to undress and jump into the water. It was almost high tide; The sun was still shining on the surface of the estuary, which was bright and powerful like a great arm of the sea. I was alone: only far away on the seawall did I notice a pile of clothes and, in the middle of the estuary, the head of a man swimming, whom I couldn’t recognize at the time. Without any hesitation, because I was well used to it, I dived in and began to swim in the direction of the head I saw above the water. It didn’t take me long to realize that the head belonged to Brother Meliton, and from then on, I swam even harder toward him. But he, who didn’t recognize me, and who undoubtedly resented being known, swam away, and I followed him in the hope of catching up with him. I swam so far that I finally realized I was straying too far from the shore. Thinking this, turning my head, seeing the distant shore, and feeling a terrible fear were all one and the same. The fear made me stiff. I felt the cold penetrating me and that it would soon paralyze my legs and arms. In short, I suspected that I was in grave danger of dying, and this suspicion did not, as anyone can imagine, help to calm me. I quickly turned around, but if before the shore had seemed far away, now it seemed like the coast of America itself. Then I decided to shout: “Brother Melitón! Brother Melitón! ” “What’s happening?” he responded, alarmed by the strangeness of that cry. “I’m drowning, Brother Melitón!” Brother Melitón swam vigorously toward the place where I was. “What are you saying, boy?” he exclaimed at the same time, recognizing me. “I’m drowning! I’m drowning! ” “Can’t you hold on until I get there?” “I think so. ” ” Indeed, as soon as I saw him swimming towards me , my strength suddenly returned, for only fear, not fatigue, had paralyzed it. “What’s the matter?” “I don’t know… I think I’m cold,” I replied, rather than confess my fear. “Hold on to the waistband of my underwear… Can you move your legs? ” “Yes.” And doing as he ordered, I put a hand on his waist, and with that support alone, swimming with my legs, we made it perfectly to the shore. Once there, what does the reader imagine that good man did? Well, he started punching me… like an ass! ” “If you can’t swim, you great ass, why are you going where there’s cover? You’re an ass! Who, if not a ass, goes out into the middle of the estuary without knowing how to swim?” Good old Friar Melitón called me a donkey so many times that I don’t know why my ears didn’t sprout at that very moment. Chapter 20. THE PUPPY. I don’t remember how much it cost me. I have an idea that I gave it all the money I had in the piggy bank, which must have amounted to at least four or five pesetas in loose change. I also handed over a small silver chain, some gilt buttons from my father’s old tailcoat, and a small knife that had been given to me. Despite everything, I remained convinced that Ovidio, the apothecary’s son on Fruta Street, had had a moment of distraction and that I had miserably abused this boy by exchanging those trinkets for his pistol. Because it was a pistol, a real pistol loaded with gunpowder, not one of those ridiculous toys our relatives gave us during the St. Augustine fairs and that are fired with a spring. How did this weapon come into Ovidio’s possession? Most likely, it belonged to an older brother who had arrived from Cuba a few months earlier. I suspected as much, considering the ease and even the haste with which he got rid of it. If it had come into his hands through an honest route, he would certainly have kept it with the same pleasure—what am I saying?—with the same enthusiasm that I made it my own. I can see it now, with its blued barrel and polished keys. The stock was dark and polished. I bought a quarter of a barrel of gunpowder and a small box of pistons, and I fondly remember the first time I fired it. It was in the Magdalena Forest, near Avilés, about two or three kilometers away. Five or six boys from the school gathered for this momentous experiment . And among them, he walked toward the field of operations, pale and agitated, as if about to engage in a duel. After carefully loading it, according to the instructions Ovid had given me, after placing the piston in the chimney, I stood with it in my hand, gripped by bitter uncertainty. What would come of it? My companions and I looked at each other, our hearts beating as if our very existence were at stake in this rehearsal. Finally, plucking up my courage, I broke away from the group, advanced a few steps, and shouted: “One o’clock! Two o’clock! Three o’clock! Bang!” The report caused a shudder in us, but especially in me, as one might suppose. However, everyone immediately regained their courage, everyone wanted to fire their pistol. It cost me no small amount of effort to repress the impulses of those heroes. I was, nevertheless, magnanimous enough on such an occasion to expend a quarter of a gallon of gunpowder and a good part of the pistons. We returned to our homes covered in glory and with our hearts swollen with warlike sentiments. As soon as the news spread among the youth of the schools that I was in possession of this precious weapon, I found myself surrounded by flatterers. When a man succeeds in amassing a respectable amount of force, others flock to him by an irresistible impulse, like the scraping of steel towards a magnet. This happened to Caliph Omar, to Peter the Great of Russia, to Napoleon; this happened to me. From that time on, I was never free from a A swarm of courtiers, a sort of faithful guard, followed me everywhere, eager to share my empire and take part in the happy adventures that this deadly instrument was to provide. At school, people who had previously despised me now looked at me with respect and whispered mysteriously in my ear: “Do you have it there?” I acted interesting. “What? ” “The little dog. ” “I have it. ” “Loaded? ” “I believe it!” Then that disdainful individual would secretly squeeze my hand and walk away in silence to share the news of such sensation with the others . I must warn you, so that the reader won’t be too startled, that the little dog was loaded only with gunpowder. It didn’t occur to me, nor to my classmates, to put any projectile inside it. After school, we used to go to Magdalena, a delightful village like few others, in whose grove we had received our baptism of fire. Once there, far from the eyes, though not the ears, of men, we engaged in a vicious exchange of firefights that had the peaceful farmers of that place somewhat uneasy. However, glorious adventures were nowhere to be seen. The puppy had been in my possession for six or eight days, and I still hadn’t managed to use it for anything that could one day be recounted to my friends in Entralgo, because at that time I had no idea it might have a place in my memoirs. Fortune eventually came to my aid, similar to that of Don Quixote. We were walking one afternoon toward our usual retreat at La Magdalena when we happened to see a young boy, fifteen or sixteen years old, running toward us, following a girl about ten years old. He quickly caught up with her and began to beat her cruelly, pulling her hair and ears. Then, feeling my unstoppable strength, I boldly shouted at him: “Leave that girl alone, you beast!” He raised his head, and upon seeing the puny being who dared to speak to him in this manner, he was more stupefied than indignant. “Yes; I’ll let her,” he replied, smiling sarcastically, “but it’s with you to begin with, you little rascal.” And he advanced with terrible calm toward me. Instead of retreating, I also advanced a few steps and, taking out my pistol and pointing it at his chest, I exclaimed angrily: “If you take one more step, you’ll be dead! ” He stood motionless, frozen in surprise, and looking at my companions, he asked: “It’s not loaded, is it? ” “Yes!… loaded!… It’s loaded!” they all answered simultaneously . Then the lad turned pale, turned instantly, and began to run, shouting: “Don’t shoot, boy!… Don’t shoot!” I followed him running too. “You’re going to die! You’re going to die!” “For God’s sake, don’t shoot!” “For God’s sake, don’t shoot!” cried the poor devil, turning his head from time to time in terror. “You’re going to die!… You’re going to die!” I retorted gloomily, a mixture of anger and joy. Finally, I grew weary of following him and returned to my companions, who welcomed me with thunderous joy. How we laughed, how we celebrated that triumph! We couldn’t stop recalling it, painting the fear of that great drone with ever more comical features. And as soon as we arrived at the village, each of my companions was a powerful trumpet that spread the news throughout its surroundings. So much so that when I entered the school the next morning a little late, all eyes turned toward me with lively curiosity and admiration. I sat down on my bench, but even there the stares of my companions followed me. I savored my triumph with delight, but in a modest attitude. Ah, how far I was from suspecting that the Tarpeian Rock was near ! I remember the teacher standing at the blackboard explaining a fraction calculation to us. His loose coat floated majestically as his arm, fitted with black calico false sleeves to keep it clean, traced figures and then erased them with a sponge. But that day no one noticed the frock coat, the percaline sleeves, the sponge, or the figures. All the school’s attention was focused on me, or rather, on my pistol. One of my closest friends, who was nearby, leaned over and said in a low voice, “Mariano wants to see the pistol. Let me have it for a moment.” I resisted because I was afraid that don Juan might suddenly turn around. However, my friend insisted, and since Mariano was one of the most respectable boys in the school because of his strength, and I owed him some favors, I had the weakness to give in. The pistol didn’t stop in Mariano’s hands. All the boys nearby wanted to touch it, and it was passed from one to another while I was on fire, biting my lips and cursing at this dangerous curiosity. Finally, the pistol began to slowly retreat without don Juan turning his head, and I was able to retrieve it. But whether it was because some boy had been fumbling with the keys or because I had grabbed it in such haste at the very moment I was about to put it in my pocket, it went off. The report was horrendous. It seemed as if the school had collapsed . Don Juan fell face first onto the blackboard and remained motionless for a few moments. The report was followed by a deathly silence. Don Juan finally turned around, and his face was ashen; perhaps it was because he had rubbed it against the fractions he had just drawn that contributed to this. He swept his wild eyes around the school, and as he noticed that everyone’s eyes were fixed on me, he looked at me and saw the pistol. Then, walking slowly, he walked to the place where I was. It’s not easy to define what was going through me at that moment. It was more than terror, a kind of anesthesia of all the senses, a vague awareness that I was going to die, and a certain indifference to death. All my blood, without a drop, must have taken refuge in my heart, because, as I was told later, my face was like that of a corpse. Don Juan finally came to me and took the pistol from my hands; his were trembling as much as mine. Without saying a word, he went to the table and placed the weapon on it. He slowly took off his muffs. He opened a small cupboard where he always kept his top hat, took it out, and put it on. Then he called the clerk and spoke to him for a moment in a low voice. He took the pistol again, examined it carefully, and, no doubt ascertaining that there was no danger, put it in his pocket. Then he came back to me, took me by the hand, and amid great silence and expectation, we both left the school. The first idea that came to my mind when I saw myself standing in the street like that, held by don Juan’s hand, was that he was taking me to jail. Then all the dead spirits resurrected within my tiny being , and I resolved not to enter it unless I was torn to pieces. As soon as I loosened my grip even a little—bang!—he would jerk and run . But he didn’t loosen his grip. We reached the plaza, continued through the arches, and instead of taking Muelle Street, where the prison was, we continued down Rivero Street. Then I realized he was taking me home, and my heart swelled . I was quite sure of my father. When don Juan explained the whole matter to him with his usual composure and modesty, he became extremely angry, assured me that he would immediately begin his investigations to find out where that weapon came from, and promised that I would be severely punished. As I expected, after don Juan had left, he did nothing more than admonish me without too much bitterness, offering me some reflections that made a profound impression on me. My mother, on the other hand, became alarmed and furious beyond words. She deprived me of all food and did not let me go out with my friends for many days. However, I can assure you that my father’s words were more beneficial medicine. Chapter 21. THE BATTLE OF GALIANA. I have not read the description of this battle in any history. contemporary. I haven’t seen it mentioned in the anniversaries of the wall calendars either. I believe, therefore, that I will be thanked for filling a gap in the military history of Spain. If I am not thanked, so much the worse for the ungrateful. Galiana Street, where it was fought, today bears my name. So that future generations won’t be mistaken in assuming that I was the victorious general who led this battle, I must declare that I was nothing more than a humble soldier, not of the victorious army but of the defeated. Having thus cleared my conscience, I enter the realm of history. Between Rivero and Galiana, an irreconcilable antagonism had existed for many centuries . If you spoke to a boy from Rivero about the young men from Galiana, he would grind his teeth and let out wild snorts through his nose . If you mentioned the young men from Galiana in front of a person from Galiana, you would see him roll his eyes and spit. I don’t know what grievances they might have had against each other, but they hated each other as if in ancient times there had existed a Paris from Galiana who had kidnapped a Helena from Rivero, or vice versa. Therefore, clashes were frequent. However, although there was talk among us of formidable battles fought in ancient times, a detailed account of which is preserved in the archives of the Town Hall, none had taken place in mine. Everything was reduced to minor operations and individual tournaments. A boy from Galiana would challenge another from Rivero, and after school they would exchange blows on the dock or in Campo Caín. Sometimes it was two against two or three against three like the Horatii and Curiatii. These repeated skirmishes kept the age-old hatred alive. For this reason, I, an available recruit from Rivero, when I went to the house of my Aunt Justina, who lived in Galiana, took every kind of precaution until I reached her door. I tried to do so when the boys were in school; never on Sundays; If I could be accompanied by a maid, so much the better. In the latter case, I undauntedly defied the wrath of my enemies, who, reduced to impotence, cast furious glances at me and bared their fists. My cousin José María, for welcoming me into his garden and playing horsey games with me, with him acting as the coachman and me as the horseman, or vice versa, was regarded with suspicion by his own people and threatened with prosecution for high treason. Hatred thus incubated and growing quietly every day, was bound to provoke a catastrophe. Volcanoes that for many years only give evidence of their existence with a few faint roars and a bit of smoke, suddenly explode with a formidable eruption. We all felt the need for a battle that would forever decide the question of hegemony in Avilés. Diplomacy began to work. Our intelligence service informed us that our adversaries had agreed to an offensive and defensive alliance with the boys from Miranda, the rural parish closest to their neighborhood. These little villagers from Miranda were numerous and had a reputation for being daring and courageous. The situation was serious. For our part, secret negotiations were then initiated with the peasants of the parishes of Villalegre and Magdalena, who offered us some contingents. We also sought support from the French at the “Glass Factory.” I was commissioned to speak with my friend Rodolfo Dinten, a blond, handsome, and robust Frenchman, son of one of the factory’s main workers. He confidentially suggested to me that although his compatriots refused to intervene in the war, he, for his part, was determined to fight with us until his last breath. The diplomatic negotiations and technical preparations stretched from March to May. We were all extraordinarily nervous. We swallowed the snack we went home to get after school without any appetite and became entangled in endless conversations that lasted until nightfall. The General Staff was drawing up the battle plan with such confusion that it was hoarse from the argument, and it never came together. The delay, however, although forced, was nonetheless beneficial to us. The preparation was more solid and scrupulous; our alliances were being consolidated. On the other hand, we hoped the battle would be fought on one of the longest afternoons of the year, because we weren’t sure we’d be able to stop the sun like Joshua. Finally, it was decided that it would be the following Saturday after school. The battle was to be fought by tacit agreement between both armies on Galiana Street for special reasons that I will explain below . This street, as you ascend from the Plaza, has wide arcades on the right, quite elevated above the rest of the road, where pedestrians traveled. The lower part, designated almost exclusively for wheeled vehicles, had no buildings on its left at that time. Therefore, it was possible to fight freely there without serious risk to the neutrals. Barely finished the rosary, which our venerable teacher Don Juan de la Cruz always led on Saturdays , we left the school in a tumultuous manner and all formed up in the arcades of Rivero Street. There we had our ammunition ready, a large pile of stones with which we filled our pockets to the brim. Not one warrior, as far as I know, was able to swallow his snack that afternoon. A great disappointment awaited us. The promised contingents from Villalegre and La Magdalena had never arrived. France, on the other hand, was magnificently represented by a dozen boys from the factory, agile, vigorous, and daring, as the soldiers of this heroic nation almost always are. Tired of waiting in vain, we finally decided to dispense with the allied rural forces and, in a tightly packed phalanx, we silently headed toward Galiana. Also formed up, each with a stone in hand, our enemies awaited us there. A great uproar greeted us, and almost simultaneously, a thick cloud of stones fell upon us. From our hands immediately came another, no less fearful volley. The fire became general. For some time, both armies held their respective positions. Then the natural back-and-forth began in these situations; we advanced as quickly as we retreated. Were there many wounded? No, because both sides tried to maintain a safe distance, and the projectiles rarely reached our ranks. Unfortunately, I was one of the few hit. A stone hit me on the cheek and drew blood. To wipe it away, I reached for my handkerchief, not remembering that I had used it a moment before to clean the school bench where I had spilled the inkwell. Anyone can imagine what would happen. Between the mixed blood and ink, my face presented such a terrifying appearance, as my comrades later assured me, that it was almost enough to break their spirits. However, I felt no pain and continued fighting until the end. The battle continued for a long time. Finally, we observed with joy that the enemy was beginning to retreat without trying to regain their lost ground . This unexpected retreat emboldened us so much that we launched into close and vigorous pursuit. In this way, we led him to the top of the street. But just when we believed he was completely defeated and about to take refuge in his own home, a swarm of boys from Miranda suddenly emerged from the arcades where they were hiding and fell upon us, pelting us with stones. That retreat had been a treacherous ambush. The surprise caused quite a stir in our ranks, and we retreated in disorder. We soon recovered, however, and began to fight for the terrain inch by inch. Without a doubt, the retreat was absolutely necessary. The enemy army, swollen with this relief, was far superior to ours. We knew, however , how to carry it out with such serenity and skill that it will remain in our memory. History has long recognized it as one of the most famous feats of arms. It was not as long and difficult as that of the ten thousand Greeks commanded by Xenophon, but it was just as dangerous. Through skillful and furious counterattacks from our rearguard, we maintained the enemy’s respect. Rodolfo Dinten, Sidrín the Chocolatier, Luis Orovio, and Floro Vidal performed prodigies of valor and composure. It is deplorable that such feats remain buried in the archives of the City Hall and do not achieve the notoriety they deserve in our country . We were retreating in perfect order and causing damage to the enemy when, upon reaching the place where the Calleja de los Cuernos meets Galiana Street, we observed a large group of enemies rushing down it. This alley, whose rather aggressive name I suppose has already been changed to a more peaceful one, ends at the Calleja de la Cámara, which in turn leads to the Plaza. Thus, our enemies, marching through it, could have caught us between two fires. If the reader obtains a map of Avilés, he will be able to follow, through my instructions, the incidents and episodes of this memorable battle. We immediately realized the danger posed by this encircling maneuver. Our retreat then became more rapid, although without becoming disorderly. The reader will not be surprised by this because he will surely not be pleased to be caught in the rear either. Our enemies, judging us to be in a shameful flight, closed the distance to their lines and pursued us more closely. One of them, quite daring, managed to make contact with our rearguard. This reckless warrior was Belín, one of the bravest champions of Galiana. I confess that this hero inspired respect in all of us. He was not a young gentleman, but the son of a craftsman, strong by nature and several years older than us. Some believed he was already fourteen. I don’t believe he had reached such an advanced age. In any case, he was way ahead of us and far ahead due to the strength of his fists. Relying on this strength, the fool not only made contact with our rearguard but penetrated it, and, not yet satisfied, advanced almost to the center of our troops, delivering terrible blows on both sides. Then, by instinctive and simultaneous movement, without the command from any leader, the ranks pressed against him in such a way that they made any offensive impossible. He tried with strong jerks to break the thick net that held him, but his efforts were useless. Dragging him in this way in our retreat, he came with us to the Plaza. The enemy, who had watched with sorrow the disappearance of one of their most reputable leaders, tried to rescue him, still pursuing us in a place where they knew perfectly well that armed combat was prohibited. But at that moment, the coercive force of the State, represented by the octogenarian Constable Marcones, made its usual appearance; He raised his old hawthorn staff threateningly, and suddenly Galiana’s forces were paralyzed and it didn’t take long for them to retreat to their former positions. A roar of joy escaped from our chests. We had lost the battle, but we had Belín in our power, the deadly Belín, the pride and hope of his neighborhood. He still tried to break free by tensing his powerful muscles, but all his attempts crashed against the incalculable number of hands that held him. Then, understanding that there was no possibility of salvation, he ceased his efforts and adopted a haughty and stoic posture that impressed us deeply. Not a cry, not a word, not a movement: he allowed himself to be led calmly. Where to? That was the question we immediately asked ourselves. We deliberated anxiously because time was pressing. We did not know of any fortress in our lands where we could keep him, and we were about to release him when one of our companions spoke up to say that in his house there was a stable where he could not be found. He had been guarding some cavalry for a long time and could easily accommodate our prisoner. This was done step by step. We took him to the end of Rivero Street. Our companion entered his house and, making sure that no one could thwart our plan, gave a signal, and four men holding the prisoner secretly took him into the stable and there left him tied to the manger. What still amazes me today when I remember him is that he allowed himself to be tied without resistance, without even uttering a word. He was a leader of rare energy, and his ideas about military honor were worthy of applause. How did it come to the attention of the owner of the house, our companion’s father, that he had a two-legged animal tied up in his stable instead of a four-legged one? We were never able to find out. The truth is that not even half an hour had passed when, in a state of incredible rage , he went down to the stable, untied the noble standard-bearer of Galiana, and with the same ropes that had imprisoned him, he whipped the warden of the fortress so hard that he surely had no more desire to guard prisoners in his life . This famous Belín later managed, through laudable efforts, to continue and finish his medical studies. His name was Don Abel García Loredo and he was one of the most renowned physicians in Oviedo, where he died many years ago. Sometimes, sitting on the couches of the Casino, we would happily amuse ourselves by reminiscing about our childhood. Whenever I brought this episode to mind, he would laugh out loud, exclaiming: “Things of war!” Chapter 22. THE SUICIDE OF ANGUILLA. Readers will surely remember with horror that bandit nicknamed Anguila, who, along with another scoundrel known as Antón the Shoemaker, attacked my friend Alfonso and me on the road to San Cristóbal when we decided to live a solitary and hermit-like life. I will now recount how this fellow attempted to take his life. But first, it is good that I communicate to the entire universe, so that no one may be mistaken about his moral character, some information that will make him even more odious. If he is still alive—which he would feel, I have no doubt— he will experience profound confusion and shame, and this is precisely what I propose. It is known that after having mistreated me unworthily under the pretext of teaching me how to exercise arms, he forced me to salute him every time I met him in the street. And if I neglected to do so, he would painfully remind me of it with a kick or a slap. Upon approaching him, it was necessary to stand at attention and bow. Then, turning to his companions, he said with a wink: “I taught this boy the trick. That’s why he always respects me as his captain.” This filthy clown was popular in Avilés, and his farces were celebrated. A town can so easily deceive itself regarding the worth of its children! During the Saint Augustine fairs, many strangers came to our town. Some came from Madrid. Anguilla had news of this great city, not from geography, for I’m sure he had never picked up a book in his life, but from the fantastic news of these strangers. Among them was one who amused himself by throwing copper coins wrapped in paper from the dock at the tide, so that the urchins, diving in, could catch them with their teeth. Anguilla so excelled in this noble exercise that he had no rival. A more aquatic fish than Anguilla had never been seen in Avilés. Everything a cetacean can do in the water, he did. I think something more. During spring tides, he would throw himself headfirst into the estuary from the San Sebastián Bridge, which was quite high, disappear from our sight, and after a long time he would emerge far, far away, making horrible grimaces. And since his skin was tough, black, and tanned, and since his bristly hair reached close to his eyes, when he half-peeped out, His body out of the water truly resembled a seal caught off the coast of Newfoundland. But his amphibian nature truly shined at the nautical festivals held during the St. Augustine Fair. It could be said that Eel was the hero of these festivals. No one ever managed to so entertain the public or elicit so much applause. If it came to catching a pocketful of money placed on the top of a horizontal mast well smeared with tallow, Eel, by dint of trying and falling into the water countless times, finally managed with incredible skill to seize the money, and when he jumped into the water with the pocket in his hand, he would let out a resounding “hurrah!” to which the public responded with thunderous applause. When there were duck races, these unfortunate animals were hung head down from a bowsprit, and the boats would row beneath them at full speed, driving the naked youngsters standing on the stern. It was a sight to see Anguilla launch himself into the air like a bird of prey, digging his claws into the duck’s neck, and clinging to it until he tore it off. May the men of the town’s festival committee forgive me if I say that such a recreation was barbaric, cruel, and worthy only of a heretic like Anguilla. They say that during a fair, he managed to earn the respectable sum of eight duros and that once he was rich, he conceived the idea of traveling. He told Antón the shoemaker, his accomplice, and when he gave his approval, they decided to move to the capital of Spain. I have never witnessed anything of what I am about to narrate. I know it from public sources. But since it made a lot of noise in Avilés, and there will surely be some prehistoric figure there who remembers it, I’m not afraid to guarantee it as rigorously accurate. So, one morning, these fine creatures left our town without bidding a tender farewell to their families and arrived in Oviedo in a day’s walk, as was the fashion of the time. They spent the night in this city, sleeping in the open air, which couldn’t be more hygienic, and the next day they continued their journey to León, which they arrived four days later. Once in León, what impressions stirred in Antón the shoemaker’s mind upon seeing this city? Nothing less than an irresistible feeling of nostalgia. At least this was what he conveyed to his companion Anguila. What he didn’t say was that all those nights he had had frightening nightmares. He constantly saw his father with the slingshot in his hand, pondering his thoughts. And thinking, no doubt, that he was suffering from a stomach upset or perhaps neurasthenia, he decided to return and breathe the air of his home again. Anguilla tried to object, but to no avail. The matter was discussed at length , and in the end, it was decided that Anton would return and Anguilla would continue the journey alone. Immediately, a problem arose that is always difficult to resolve, at least on our planet: the problem of money. Anton wanted to take half of what was in the treasury, or sixty reales. Anguilla didn’t want to give him more than twenty. There was a very bitter dispute, and they were on the verge of coming to blows. In the end, Anton’s opinion prevailed , because if Anguilla closely resembled a gorilla, Anton was a true Hyrcanian tiger. When this tiger arrived at his den in Avilés, no one knows what happened there; but among us schoolchildren, a rumor spread that he had had to go to the doctor to have his skin treated. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t pleased. As for the gorilla, as soon as he saw it, his spirits grew, which is hardly surprising for a wild animal. The Northwest Spanish Railway then only went as far as León. Anguila went to the station, ate a roll and a piece of cheese in the cafeteria, drank a glass of wine, and began pacing gravely along the platform, like a rentier, waiting for the train. He asked which was the nearest station and what the name of Torneros was. When it was time to buy tickets, he asked at the ticket office for a third-class ticket to Torneros, which cost him only a few cents. The passengers were numerous because those who had arrived on the coaches from Asturias and Galicia were piling up . Anguila observed which car had the most people and squeezed in there. The third-class compartments usually house the least aromatic people, but also the most frank and affectionate. Outside the car, they may be ferocious wolves to each other, but once they settle in, everything is cordial, joyful, fraternal, and jocular. The gentlemen don’t wear fur coats but rather coarse sacks on their shoulders; the ladies carry enormous baskets laden with vegetables instead of the exquisite “cabás” with their jewels; but that doesn’t mean they curse existence. Anguila quickly tried to endear himself to this society, and he easily succeeded. He would take the wind out of one’s sails with his cap so he could light a cigar; he would relieve another of his jacket or basket, placing them under the seat; he would sit the children on his knees and teach them sleight of hand. He needed none of this to win the goodwill of the passengers, because I repeat, in third-class carriages all the Christian virtues are practiced at once. Within fifteen minutes, he was popular there. One gave him half a sausage, another gave him nuts, another made him take a drink from his wineskin, and there were those who affectionately slapped him, calling him a rascal. He allowed himself to be loved. Of course, he had taken care to say he was going to Madrid, which no one doubted because he always carried his ticket in his left hand. But lo and behold, as he was leaning out of the window as the train moved at full speed, he was heard to utter a pitiful cry. He immediately turned his head with such signs of consternation on his face that the frightened travelers all asked him at once: “What’s the matter, boy? ” “I dropped it! I dropped it!” moaned Eel desperately. “What did you drop? ” “The ticket… I dropped the ticket!” And his cheeks were bathed in tears because this rascal had the rare faculty of crying whenever he felt like it. He wept so bitterly and cried so grimly that everyone was moved. “But how did that happen, boy?” He, between sighs and tears, explained that he didn’t know how it had happened… He was careless… his hand had loosened… the wind was very strong. And there was crying and sighing and sniffling. “Don’t worry, boy,” said one. “We’ll see how to fix it. ” “It’ll definitely be fixed! Of course!” exclaimed another. A conclave immediately formed, and the matter was heatedly discussed. The men, in general, believed that when the conductor arrived, the incident should be explained frankly, thinking it would be enough to prevent him from making the boy get off. The women didn’t trust the conductor and found it safer to hide the boy, for which their skirts were sufficiently comfortable. As always, the women’s opinion prevailed. They took turns at the ticket window to spy on the arrival of the employee , and when they saw him, Anguila curled into a small ball of cotton and was hidden in the folds of a basquiña. The travelers found this game so entertaining that they laughed incessantly. They treated the criminal with affectionate attention and gave him gifts and pampered him as if he were their own son. Upon arriving in Madrid, he also passed through the station gates, hidden among three or four women who were pressing against each other more than was reasonable. As soon as he found himself outside and free, he said goodbye to those good people, saying he was going to find a brother he had there, and he set off into the streets of the court as joyful as a bird leaving its nest for the first time. It was necessary to stretch, as much as possible, the three poorly counted duros he had in his pocket. Therefore, instead of getting into a cab and being taken to the hotel in Paris, he bought a roll of bread at the first place he found, and for two centavos more he drank the coffee offered by a street vendor on the corner of Cuesta de San Vicente. That night he slept patriarchically on one of the benches in the Plaza de Oriente. He resolved to make the most of his time and not leave Madrid without seeing everything noteworthy there, since he calculated he wouldn’t be there for many days. He quickly visited everything, then: the main streets, the lower neighborhoods, the Casa de Fieras, the Royal Palace, the museums, the theaters, the Congress of Deputies, etc., etc. Needless to say, he saw everything from the outside because Anguilla had always lived outdoors and was not one to break with his habits. The bronze lions of Congress, recently cast from cannons taken from the Moors, interested him greatly. He didn’t enter the Conference Hall because he hated politics. On the other hand, since criminal law was his specialty, he witnessed the execution of a prisoner in the Campo de Guardias very closely and without missing a detail. Worth something costs something. His scientific curiosity earned him a few kicks from the law enforcement officers, but he considered them well spent since he had witnessed a spectacle that neither Antón the Shoemaker nor any of his comrades from Avilés would probably ever see in their lives. I don’t know how many days he spent illustrating his young intelligence in this way. It can’t have been many, because although his bed was cheap, groceries were already expensive at that time. In any case, such a pleasant time would have lasted a little longer, if not for the fact that one morning, upon waking up in his marble bed in the Plaza de Oriente, he found that during his sleep he had been stripped of his few remaining pesetas. He didn’t cry, because Anguila abhorred useless things. He contented himself with uttering in a loud voice, in succession and in a row, all the blasphemies and filthy words he had managed to learn in his hometown. It will be said that this is also useless. Not so much; a few blasphemies, uttered with the right intonation, can save a man from a bile duct or kidney colic. Although free for the moment from these accidents, Eel couldn’t help thinking that his situation was far from brilliant. Shortly after, he also realized that if there was anything indispensable for him at that moment, it was lunch. Consequently, he headed toward the tavern where he had usually eaten since his arrival, ate what he usually ate, and taking advantage of the innkeeper’s distraction, who, moreover, wasn’t watching him, considering him a regular customer, managed to leave unnoticed and quickly left those places. It was Sunday. It was the first days of September; the weather was splendid, the temperature pleasant, and there was great bustle in the streets. Although his business preoccupied him somewhat, Anguila enjoyed these natural and social advantages like any well-to-do citizen. He walked the streets, entered the churches, strolled along the Calatravas sidewalk, and when the time came, he went, as always, to listen to the music and watch the changing of the guard at the Royal Palace. At the Puerta del Sol, he saw some boys shining the shoes of passersby , and the idea of becoming a shoeshine boy suddenly struck him. But as soon as the idea was born, he dismissed it with contempt. Shoeshine boy! Ugh! The last thing he would be in this world. There is no stranger to Madrid who wouldn’t go for a Sunday afternoon stroll on the Castellana or the Retiro Park. Anguila opted for the latter , as more picturesque and fun. The royal palace, part of which was still off-limits to the public, was packed with people. The Madrid bourgeoisie spilled onto the sandy roads, their chatter and laughter creating a joyful murmur that Anguila breathed in delightfully. It seemed to him that he was still at the fairs of Avilés. Countless children ran around laughing, shouting, falling and crying, very elegant ladies, young men playing ball, groups of beautiful young women They were skipping rope, handsome soldiers who looked at them and flirted with them… But what most attracted their attention and interested them most was, as you might imagine, the large pond crossed by a few small boats manned by sailors dressed like those on chocolate boxes. One can imagine the contempt and laughter that these boats and these sailors inspired in Eel. That day, an immense crowd was gathered on the banks of the pond. Eel was looking at the pond, looking at the people, and was in a contemplative state, thinking absolutely nothing, when suddenly a marvelous idea was born in his head. It was one of those ideas that only come to men when God wants to show them that His providence never ceases to watch over them. He slowly circled the pond and, after ascertaining where there were more people and where the boats were furthest away, he quickly climbed over the iron railing, gave a piercing cry, and threw himself into the water. To this cry another hundred answered, emerging from the crowd. “A child has fallen into the water! ” “No; he jumped! I saw him!” “He fell! ” “I tell you, he jumped.” Anguilla had disappeared under the water and remained hidden for a few moments, but at last he reappeared with his face making horrible grimaces, waving his hands like someone struggling with death. He submerged again and reappeared gesticulating, splashing, shouting: “Mother!… My dear Mother! Help! ” “That child is drowning! Save that child!” they shouted from all sides. Anguilla disappeared again, remained under the water for a few moments, and reappeared with his face even more distraught, uttering pitiful moans. The crowd stirred and shouted, but no one dared to jump into the water. You have to understand that Madrid is the most inland town in Spain. The women, convulsed and frantic, shouted at the men. “Save that child, cowards!” The boats were at the opposite end. One of them was already rowing toward the spot, but before it reached it, the boy had time to drown ten times over. Finally, a man, the same one who claimed to have seen him jump, quickly removed his jacket, saying, “He jumped; I saw it with my own eyes… but it doesn’t matter.” And he threw himself into the water. He swam for a few moments, cautiously approached the boy, and, grabbing him by the hair as he reappeared, dragged him toward the shore. There, numerous hands rushed to pull him up. Anguilla seemed half suffocated. They tried to turn his head so he would release the water he had swallowed, but he vehemently opposed this operation. A huge group of people surrounded him. The man who had saved him, and who at all costs wanted to assert his opinion, asked him: “Did you fall or did you jump? ” “I jumped!” stammered Eel. “And why did you jump? ” “Because… because I wanted to kill myself! ” “And why did you want to kill yourself? ” “Because I’m starving!” uttered the scoundrel between sobs. The news spread like wildfire through the crowd. A child tried to commit suicide because he was so desperately destitute, they said to each other. A tender feeling of compassion took hold of everyone’s hearts. In a moment, a pile of small change and a few pesetas were collected there. They put all this money in a handkerchief and gave it to the shipwrecked man. But some guards had already arrived, who insisted on taking him to the First Aid Center. Before doing so, an elegantly dressed elderly gentleman made his way through the crowd and, reaching the suicide, spoke to him with the greatest affection and gave him a card to stop by his house. At the emergency room, they put good Anguila to bed while they dried his clothes. Once dry and restored and with a few pesetas, he went to the palace of the Count of F., whose card they had given him. This charitable gentleman was moved to learn of the lamentable story that Anguilla was pleased to skewer him, let him sleep at his house, and the next day sent him with a servant to the Estacion del Norte. There they gave him a ticket to León and another for the stagecoach to Oviedo. This is the true story of Anguilla’s suicide. I witnessed a rerun from the dock, because he sometimes made his friends laugh by parodying it. You should have seen that clown sink into the water and appear half- suffocated, begging for help, yearning for death! The man who saved his life was given the Cross of Charity at the request of the Press. Chapter 23. PEDRO MENÉNDEZ. The fairs of Avilés have, as everyone knows, the same historical significance as the Olympic Games of ancient Greece. If I had come across a Japanese or a Persian in my childhood who had never heard of these fairs, I would surely have been stupefied. I don’t know what they are now, but I can attest that in those days they were an antechamber to Paradise. And if they’d let me, I might be content to remain in that antechamber without ever entering the living room. We’d spend an entire year dreaming of those five days. If a generous relative put a peseta in our hand, we’d run to put it in the clay piggy bank for the fairs! If they bought us a pretty little straw hat, it was for the fairs! If the tailor cut us a fine cloth suit or the shoemaker made us some patent leather shoes, naturally, it was for the fairs! Outside the house, on the promenade, under the arches of the plaza, and after school, we would heatedly discuss the festivities. A drama troupe would arrive; a circus troupe would arrive. And we kids’ mouths watered because it was confidentially assured, but with a semblance of truth, that the latter featured a marvelous clown who swallowed a long saber up to the hilt, and another who performed a double somersault without a springboard. While the fairs lasted, we lived in a happy daze, completely removed from ourselves and our customs. They were days of exaltation, of vertigo, of nervous breakdowns. When we approached them, we felt their heat and lit up inside like comets approaching the sun. Those five and eight days before, we spent in a state of angelic unconsciousness. It wasn’t a mortal life we led, but an immortal and Olympian one. The gods came down to us and kissed us on the forehead and gave us their ambrosia to drink. I appeal to the testimony of the old people of Avilés who read me. Two weeks earlier, the City Council’s laborers had begun to erect the flagpoles with pennants along the dock and the main streets. Avilés had always been a town rich in pennants. I remember the vivid, ineffable emotion that overwhelmed me when I saw the workers erect the first flagpoles, symbols of unfading happiness. Sometimes I thought that if there are no pennants in Heaven, it’s an incomplete Heaven. But the most characteristic of the precursors to such a magnificent event, even more so than the erection of the flagpoles with pennants, were two large wooden frames that the municipal corporation had placed a few days before on either side of the Bombé gate, that tiny Bombé, the seed of the beautiful park we see today. They were two figures , one representing Pedro Menéndez and the other Ruy Pérez de Avilés, according to the legend beneath them. When I walked down Herrería Street on any day before the fair and saw Pedro Menéndez and Ruy Pérez in the distance , my joy was so intense that it forced me to stop. My heart wanted to jump out of my chest, I was choked with joy, and I would have gladly run to those heroes and kissed and hugged them. Later I lost a little respect for them because I became a philosopher and a pacifist. But at that time my temperament was extremely martial; I dreamed of battles and skirmishes, slashes and blows. I myself, with my own hands, made lances and sabers, taking advantage of the bars of some old pine box, plating them with tinfoil torn from chocolate packets. And since we were then at war with the Moors of Africa, I vaguely thought of running away from home and going to put myself under the command of General Prim and offer him the assistance of my wooden saber. Fortunately, this did not come to pass, and I was able to reach manhood and then old age without having cut off the head or made the slightest incision on a single Moor. Although I abhor war, I always retained, for the reasons I have just mentioned, a tender inclination toward Pedro Menéndez, Adelantado of the kingdom and conqueror of Florida. So when the news reached my ears that a statue of him had been erected in the park of Avilés, I was pleased and decided to pay him a visit. I saw him standing on a high pedestal and could hardly recognize him. He was a dark, greenish, sinister figure, with his sword drawn, as if ready to stand guard and stab the first person who came his way. What a difference he made from the calm, majestic Pedro Menéndez of my childhood, framed in a picturesque wooden frame! Instead of trying to hug him as I had once done, I boredly looked away and quickly left that place. I mean, I didn’t like him. That’s why, when in those days a notable regional poet who signs one of his delightful compositions with the pseudonym “Marcos del Torniello” proposed that a statue of me be erected in Avilés Park opposite that of Pedro Menéndez, I felt strangely agitated. I immediately pictured myself with a body of marble, but sensitive and thoughtful, on a stone column, suffering day and night the battering of the wind and the rigors of the sun, lashed by rain or soiled by dust. I saw myself for years and years standing before that black, sinister warrior with his drawn sword, unable to tear my gaze away from him. And my heart ached. I fretted all day; I approached the statue four or five times, and as many times I distanced myself, casting a sidelong, unloving glance at the ugly soldier who was to be my partner for ever and ever . Restless and thoughtful, I went to bed that night and had the following dream: I dreamed that I arrived in Avilés by train, packed in a large wooden crate, and that at the station some porters dragged me to an oxcart in the presence of the sculptor and three or four unknown gentlemen. They took me to the park, and at night they unpacked me and quietly placed me on a granite column that had been prepared there for this purpose. They then covered my face and body with a piece of burlap. The next day, the uncovering ceremony took place in the presence of a large crowd, with the authorities in attendance, and the ceremony was enlivened by the municipal orchestra. I was confused and ashamed of such an honor, and seeing some old friends moved to tears made my heart melt as if it were made of butter and not marble. I spent a few hours distracted that afternoon. Many people stopped to look at me and made comments. Some shook their heads sternly and loudly expressed their doubts about whether or not I deserved to be elevated to the rank of heroes. Others, on the other hand, applauded the municipal decision, stating that I had given them some fun and that I was not a bad boy. Gentle women from Avilés planted their tiny feet in the sand and looked at me with smiling eyes, pouting with satisfaction. I felt a mad desire to step down from my pedestal, prostrate myself at their feet, and thank them. But from time to time I remembered that I would soon be alone in the presence of the terrible conqueror of Florida, and I shuddered. Night fell. The last light of the sun flashed for an instant on the surface of the estuary; then it made the glass of the balconies of the Grand Hotel shine , and for a few seconds it remained collected in the treetops, and finally they left. And with them, the beautiful eyes of the Avilés women. Everything fell into darkness. Here I am, standing before Don Pedro Menéndez. The night was dark and quite hot. The hustle and bustle of that day had tired me, and the stifling temperature was inclining me to sleep. I was beginning to doze when a hoarse, terrifying voice roused me from my lethargy. It was the statue of the conquistador of Florida speaking. “Hey, friend! Why are you standing there in front of me?” “Because they put me there,” I replied, trembling. “And why did they put you there, tell me? Why did they do you such an honor by placing you before me in a stone figure?” I should have answered with certainty: “Because they felt like it.” But I felt filled with fear, an abject fear: and I stammered more than I said: “Perhaps they thought my services deserved this reward. ” “Ah, you are a famous warrior!” Forgive me for speaking to you without the respect due you. Now tell me, what kingdoms have you conquered, what enemies of God and the king have you defeated, in how many battles have you fought? With all due respect and consideration, I will tell you that I have not conquered any kingdom. Only in my youth did I try to win the heart of some beauty, but more than once I found myself forced to raise a siege. As for battles, the only serious one I took part in was that of Galiana. I never heard of that battle! For it was fierce and cruel, and in it I had the misfortune to be wounded. From a pike or from an arquebus shot? No, sir, from stones. Stone! Were you then still in the age of slingers and catapults? Did you not know the use of gunpowder, culverins, mortars, or arquebuses? You were barbarians. “Indeed, that’s what Señor Don Juan de la Cruz called us almost every day. ” “Who was that man? ” “Our schoolmaster. ” “For God’s sake, I don’t understand you! What part do schoolmasters have in these matters of arms? ” “It’s not about weapons. I’m not a warrior. ” “Then tell me, with a thousand cavalry, who are you and what wonders have you done to be honored with marble and bronze? ” “Well, I’ve done nothing in this world but a few books that are rolling around it with undeserved applause. ” Don Pedro was stunned for a moment and then let out a horrifying metallic laugh. “Come on, you’re a… idiot! ” “Not so much, Señor Adelantado. My lineage is rooted right here in Avilés and is as old as yours… But no one prides themselves on lineages these days… Each person makes their own with their own brain or their own hands. Work; To extract from Mother Earth those elements necessary for human life is noble; to forge metals, carve stones, mold clay, ship products from one region of the planet to another, distribute them, and trade with them—that is noble. But the greatest nobility in these times is to express just ideas with beauty and decorum, to raise the spirit of men to the lofty speculations of metaphysics, to recreate it with savory, unusual inventions. There is not a monarch or potentate on earth today who does not envy the laurels of a publicist. “By my life!… Are you, vile scoundrels, now crowned with laurels? I am greatly amazed. What then is left for the distinguished men who affectionately embrace the art of corporal warfare, for the warlike youths, for the valiant men of immortal memory who have shed their blood in fierce battles?” –During the day, Señor Adelantado, warlike young men usually end up in jail or the hospital. We men have come to believe that slashes and blows, lances and lashes, even if delivered with singular skill, should not be considered signs of nobility but of barbarism; that those who know how to give good bites should not be called heroes, because jackals give them better ones. We are spirits, and the theater of our activity should be the spiritual world. The most important business in the present age is to flee from the quadrupedal age that you represent. —Thunderbolts and lightning! And do you despise the prodigious feats of those warriors who have known how to conquer vast territories for their king and lord and chain thousands of slaves to their feet? —Yes, we despise them; I regret feeling obliged to tell you. For us, conquerors are not those who seize a piece of land that their brothers have watered with the sweat of their brow, but rather those who discover new horizons for science and with the light of their ingenuity enlighten the souls of their fellow men. Man was not born to fight with man but with the blind forces of nature that oppress us. Newton, Kepler, Bacon, Palissy, Gutenberg, Franklin, Pasteur, Edison have been the legitimate conquerors of our race. —I don’t know those men. Did they belong to the army or to the horsemen ? I never saw them listed in the account of the great and distinguished victories of the king, our lord. They belonged to the army of talent… But still, Sir Adelantado, there have been and there are other, greater, more generous fighters. These do not fight with the earth and the sea, nor with the air and fire, but with the Sphinx. “Guess or I’ll devour you,” says the Sphinx. And these good warriors of the spirit fight with her, break their bones against her stony body, and fall exhausted and bleeding, trying to wrest her secret from her. Pythagoras, Heraclitus, Socrates, Plato, Plotinus, Spinoza, Descartes, Pascal, Leibniz, Kant, Hegel, Schopenhauer are the most beloved heroes of humanity. You speak a language, by Jove, that has never sounded in my ears before! All of this is a sham and a trick, and truly, for such curses you would deserve to be taken to a dungeon of the Holy Office to be punished or amended, or for the King, our lord, to send you to the galleys after having inflicted two hundred lashes on you. “The Holy Office you invoke was nothing more than a hateful tribunal where innocent victims were preyed upon by native cruelty, ignorance, pride, and the envy of some clerics vomited out by hell… As for your King, Don Philip II, he is today reputed to be a spiteful and gloomy despot who destroyed the magnificent work of that holy woman called Isabella I of Castile, extinguishing the intelligence and debasing the character of the Spanish people. ” “What are you saying, reckless man!” the bronze warrior shouted in a thunderous voice . “Such blasphemies to the Holy Office? Such insults to my king?” By my life, I must punish such insolence!… Take this, you wretch! And with that, he swung his sword at my neck, and my marble head fell to the ground with a dull thud that woke me. Chapter 24. THE SAD STORY OF MY FRIEND GENARO. His parents had a warehouse of maritime equipment not far from the dock. It was so small and crowded that hardly three or four people could have stayed inside. Barrels of oyster shrimp for sardine fishing, heaps of coiled cables, bundles of canvas, boxes of tar, oars, grappling hooks, anchors, cans of oil, waterproof trousers, all piled up in a delightful manner. At least I found it so. The ceiling was low, a circumstance that made it even more pleasant to my eyes, and from it hung strings of fishhooks, sandals, and rain boots. It had a narrow, steep staircase that led to the first and only floor of the house. All this gave it a certain resemblance to a ship’s cabin; and this is precisely why this little shop held such a fascination for me. At that time, I loved the sea above all else: it was my element; I dreamed of being a sailor. I loved visiting that little shop so crammed with maritime treasures, and I would have loved it even more if my friend Genaro’s father hadn’t been such a serious, bearded man. His bristling black beard extended all the way to below his eyes, which were also black and large. and severe. When I would ask about his son, he would inform me by means of a grunt, pointing at the ceiling or the door, depending on whether he was at home or away. Genaro bore quite a resemblance to his father and would surely be a perfect portrait of him in the years to come. The same sallow complexion, the same large black eyes, and a certain seriousness that commanded respect at first glance. Once one became friends with him, he proved to be extremely likeable. He was an open, resolute, loyal boy, not very intelligent, and a bit dizzy. We all esteemed him, not only for his character, but also and especially for his agility and strength, for it is certain that children, like the Greeks, worship the body first and the soul second. No one was more skilled than he in all kinds of games and exercises, especially those related to the sea, that is, swimming, rowing, climbing ships’ rigging, etc. In the art of navigation, he was far ahead of us all, for by the age of thirteen or fourteen, he was already a perfect sailor, hoisting and reefing the sail at the right moment, knowing how to luff and haul, and tighten or lower the sheet, and letting the hawser fall with perfect accuracy where he wished. For this reason, whenever we planned any excursion to the extreme points of the estuary, we always sought his company. Fortunately for me, his house had an entrance not only through the shop. In the doorway, there was another staircase leading to the apartment, and when the door was unlocked, I would climb it to call him, thereby avoiding his father’s prickly beard. Instead of this beard, I was usually greeted at the top of the stairs by a flattering and beautiful face that I enjoyed seeing almost as much as the maritime treasures in the shop. This face belonged to a young woman named Delfina, half seamstress, half friend of the house. She often came to her to help Genaro’s mother, who, completely occupied with the shop, could not attend to the housework. This Delfina, who could have been seventeen or eighteen years old, was a jewel. She sewed exquisitely, ironed even better, directed the household chores with the skill of an old housekeeper , and knew how to tell stories better than Sultana Serezada. She was also beautiful, like her three sisters—for she had no less than three— and she was equally coquettish. Among the young artisans of Avilés, these four justly enjoyed a reputation for beauty and elegance; that is to say, their clothes were more carefully crafted and more refined than the others’, though without going beyond their sphere, because at that time none dared to do so. She was also as cheerful as a goldfinch and made us laugh with her jokes, then pinched us to keep us from laughing too loudly; for she, too, was afraid of the master of the house’s beard. So, when I went up to my friend’s house to invite him on an outing, if Delfina was there, more than once, and more than twice, I forgot my purpose and became enthralled by the seamstress’s laughter and stories . And if a button had fallen off or my suit had torn a seven, this charming fairy would rush to repair the damage, then give me a light slap that left me hungry for another tear in my pants. One day, however, when I went upstairs to call Genaro, I found her excessively serious, and from above she curtly dismissed me, telling me that my friend couldn’t go out with me because his father was busy. I was a little surprised, but didn’t dwell on it. That same afternoon, one of our friends told me confidentially: “I just learned that Genaro has stolen quite a bit of money from his father and that his father has beaten him so hard that he’s had to stay in bed.” I was dismayed. Then I understood the reason for Delfina’s seriousness . “But how did it happen?” “I don’t know… I think he reached into the drawer of the table where he keeps the money back in his room. It made me feel incredibly sad. That boy was a friend whom I truly loved, and I would never have believed him capable of such baseness.” Several days passed, and one afternoon I found him at the dock. He was a little paler, but as cheerful and impetuous as ever. We boarded our boat and strolled along the estuary as before . I felt my esteem for that young man diminishing; but I couldn’t escape the sympathy he had managed to inspire in me. However, from then on I refrained from going to look for him, and only when I happened to see him at the dock did we embark together. But his attendance at this place, which had previously been so continuous, suffered occasional eclipses. Sometimes eight days would pass without me seeing him jumping out of the boats or climbing the rigging. On the other hand, every time I saw him, I found him paler; sadness spread like a black cloud across his face. That friend, who through family connections had authentic news of what was happening at Genaro’s house, told me that he continued to steal from his father and that the punishments continued to become increasingly cruel and terrible. Apparently, the night before, his father had whipped him with some ropes so severely that his screams had brought the neighbors running and finding him in a pitiable state. Then, suddenly, an infinite compassion for that boy awoke in me; I can still say that my affection grew, because compassion always engendered love in my soul. I rebelled against this barbarity and said to myself indignantly: “What, after all? Doesn’t he work and save for himself? If he has taken beforehand what will later belong to him, there is no such great crime in it.” This is how compassion and affection made subversive ideas spring up in my mind, both morally and legally. A few days later, I met him again on the dock, and with a sudden impulse that I could not repress, I threw my arms around his neck. He was surprised, turned even paler, and burst into uncontrolled sobs. Since he had never been one to weep easily, his tears provoked mine, which have always been easy for me. We didn’t speak a word. We wiped our tears in silence and boarded the boat for our usual ride. Eventually, I learned that his father had decided to send him to Cuba and that the ship that was to take him had been designated. I don’t remember, or rather , I don’t want to remember, if it was the Eusebia, the Flora, or the Villa, the three main vessels then plying the route to America; but it was one of them. It was anchored in San Juan, waiting for the Northeast to set sail. I didn’t see Genaro at the dock those days. When the departure arrived, I heard about it from an old sailor whose son was a cabin boy on the ship. Then I was seized with the desire to go and see him off. I suggested it to two other friends, who accepted instantly, for we all loved that boy despite his faults. And one afternoon, after lunch, we settled into a boat and began rowing toward San Juan. At the dock, we had learned before leaving that Genaro had already been there since morning, and that neither his father nor his mother nor any member of his family had come to see him off. Only a sailor had accompanied him with the trunk. That seemed to us the height of cruelty. When we arrived in San Juan, the ship was already about to set sail . We approached its black hull and noticed that preliminary maneuvers were being carried out on board. Around it, three or four boats were lined with people saying goodbye to the passengers. The passengers, leaning over the railing, were talking loudly to their friends or relatives. We circled the ship and didn’t see Genaro anywhere. Then we began calling out to him at the top of our lungs. “Genaro! Genaro!” Eventually, he appeared on the stern. With one hand, he was holding onto a cable and with the other, he waved at us accompanied by a sad smile. I will never forget that smile of pain, shame, resignation, contempt… We wanted to talk, but we didn’t know what to say. A sailor approached him and abruptly pushed him aside and stood in his place to execute a maneuver. “Goodbye, Genaro!” we shouted. He waved again. And we never saw him again. Then we began sailing back to Avilés. We rowed silently, melancholy. The three of us felt deep in our hearts that a great infamy had just been committed in this world. A few days later, we had forgotten about it. However, two or three months later, a mysterious event occurred that reached us and made a deep impression on us. Genaro’s father, upon opening the drawer of his table one day, was astonished to discover that it had been robbed. Then the thought occurred to that barbarian that must have occurred to him long before. He looked for an ingenious way to find out who was stealing from him. He tied a rope to the bottom of the drawer on the outside, drilled holes in the table, drilled holes in the floor, and carried it to the tent, where he surreptitiously placed a bell. Indeed, a few days later this little bell rang: the merchant rushed down the stairs noiselessly and surprised the thief in flagrante. It was Delfina, the beautiful seamstress who had us all spellbound. She was handed over to justice, and Genaro’s father hurriedly wrote to Cuba to summon him. The letter arrived too late. Not long after arriving in Havana, he was attacked by black vomit and had ceased to exist. This is the sad story of my friend Genaro. Don’t pray to God for that martyred child. Pray for his executioners. Chapter 25. EARLY ROSES. The year was 1861. In Avilés, we lived unknown, but happy. Far away, battalions could rise up, and barricades could be erected in Madrid, and everywhere, fighting could flare up, followed by bloody repressions, massacres, and executions. We didn’t concern ourselves with such trifles. Our interesting events were the Carnivals, the Piñata dance, the days of San Juan and San Pedro with their sea and land excursions, the pilgrimages, the fairs. Who would dare claim we weren’t right? Is there anything more interesting to man than his happiness? A moralist would tell me that goodness must come first. I would respond that goodness and happiness are one and the same, and I would demonstrate this with very eloquent passages from Plotinus, Saint Thomas, and Fichte; but I’m not sure this would be appropriate in a memoir. For the moment, I’ll limit myself to exclaiming with the Gospel: Blessed are the peaceful! We were; that’s why God rewarded us by showering torrents of joy on our town . The night of San Juan was particularly joyous. As in many other regions of Spain, days before, we children worked ardently building gardens right in the streets, taking advantage of the corners and crossroads. These gardens were our pride, because we knew they had to be visited. To this end, we contributed from the pockets of our parents and relatives. We carefully sanded their paths; we adorned them not only with plants and flowers, but sometimes also with statues and fountains, and we bought Venetian lanterns, with which we illuminated them _a giorno_. The next day, we listened eagerly to people’s opinions and criticisms. If we heard that Rivero’s garden was better than Galiana’s, our hearts would beat with enthusiasm, and we would celebrate our triumph by shouting in the streets: “Long live Rivero!” But one of my companions had seriously assured me that, by dropping an egg into a glass of water at twelve o’clock on the night of San Juan, and letting it rest in the open air, one could see, the next day, in the water, the perfectly sculpted figure of a ship , with its masts, sails, and all its rigging. I wanted to see this marvel, which I had no doubt about for a moment. Marvelous food is the food that children digest best. Since I could not remain standing until the appointed time, because I would not have been allowed to, I lay down, but without falling asleep. When I heard the clock ringing, When it was eleven thirty in the dining room, I waited a while longer. I got up stealthily, went to the kitchen, filled a glass of water, took an egg, and, going out into the corridor, which overlooked our garden, I waited anxiously for twelve. When the great clock of the Town Hall struck the first stroke in the silence of the night, I broke the egg and poured its contents into the glass. The next day, the moment I opened my eyes to the light, the memory of the ship came to me. I jumped quickly out of bed, and, in my nightshirt, I went out into the corridor and stared with avid intensity at my egg. Oh, bitter disappointment! In the glass there was nothing but a yellowish, disgusting liquor, without the shape of a ship. How many times in the course of my life have I also calmed some sweet illusion! As now, I have always found, instead of the magic ship, the nauseating liquor of disillusionment. Then came Saint Peter’s Day. What a brilliant ride in the bombé! This was the name given in Avilés to an oval-shaped, sandy piece of land enclosed by a high wall, half a meter wide, and lined with tall white poplars with silver leaves. This tiny little enclosure, which stretched from end to end to no more than a hundred meters, was the town’s official promenade, the stately promenade. The pilgrimages arrived. The pilgrimages are the joy of summer. Avilés is surrounded by leafy villages, which resemble so many emeralds forming the rim of a pearl. La Magdalena, Villalegre, San Martín, San Pelayo, Miranda, Balliniello, and San Cristóbal are the main ones. All of them have their pilgrimages, which are staggered throughout the summer months. The most popular, the most splendid, the mitred abbess of these pilgrimages, is that of La Luz. I have already described it in my novel entitled *The Fourth Estate*, and I refer to this description. But that year, another happiness was added to my happiness, which everyone will immediately understand; that year I had a girlfriend. That is to say, I don’t know for sure if I had a girlfriend, but that was the public opinion. We boys used to spend the afternoons, as I believe I’ve already said, in what was called Campo Caín, that is, the piece of wooded land that stretched out in front of the old convent of La Merced. This half-ruined convent served for all the purposes of this world: as a school, as a dwelling, as a customs office, as a police barracks , as a telegraph when it existed, etc., etc. Campo Caín was only useful to us. I don’t know how this pleasant and peaceful field was given such a tragic name. It’s possible that in past centuries a fratricide was committed there. The girls of the town and their maids also took to it in the afternoons to enjoy themselves that spring. The girls’ entertainment wasn’t like ours, playing tag, jumping over each other , and punching each other. They formed small circles, sang sweetly, and danced the _giraldilla_. This is the name given in Asturias to a dance in which the dancers form a circle holding hands. A few remain inside. They sing while circling, and when a certain agreed-upon passage arrives, those inside choose a partner from those outside with a hand signal. The circle breaks, and they dance facing each other, then embrace for the final turns. Needless to say, this dance is much more pleasant and interesting when both sexes participate. Then the men remain inside the circle once, and the women again. The girls danced alone for a few days. We watched them from a distance, serious and a little embarrassed. We continued our games; but without realizing it, we felt drawn toward the girls’ _giraldilla_. Finally, one of us, a brave man! whose name I forget ventured to enter. The girls became agitated, there was whispering and a semblance of debate, harsh gestures and malicious smiles; but at last that brave man stayed inside and danced like a sultan with them all. Another imitated him, then another, and finally we all went in. From that time on, Campo Caín acquired a new and singular attraction for We. Every afternoon, without fail, we would gather there and spend more than an hour singing and dancing. The maids sitting on the benches looked at us benevolently, chatting among themselves and encouraging us with their mischievous smiles. After all, they were big girls too and were amused by our cheerfulness. It wasn’t long before the chemical law of elective affinities began to operate within those flagpoles. Each of us began to single out a girl, and immediately, both among ourselves and in the conclave of the maids, he was considered her boyfriend. I was soon attracted to a girl named Concesa—I’ve never heard that name again in my life—and I declared it to her in the only way I knew how at the time; that is, by asking her to dance more often than the others and making sure to stand by her side when we went around singing. Naturally, we were declared sweethearts, and both she and I tacitly accepted this declaration. But not everything there ran smoothly. In this world, along with light, there is shadow, and the law of competition is unfortunately as inflexible as that of love. Others liked the girl as much as I did. I had rivals, I was more persistent, and ultimately happier; after a while, I wasn’t bothered anymore. Campo Caín wasn’t the only place where we met and danced. Soon after, we also took advantage of the pilgrimages. Boys and girls formed a world of their own that summer, in which we lived happily without caring about what was happening around us. If one of the girls stopped coming to Campo Caín or missed the pilgrimage, the would-be boyfriend didn’t dare ask about her, but her compassionate friends let him know the reason, albeit indirectly. “Why didn’t So-and-so come to the pilgrimage?” one girl asked aloud to another. “Because she hit her knee, and her mother won’t let her move from an armchair.” We assumed we were aware of it, and the interested party acted sad that afternoon so his friends could tell the story to the injured girl. I don’t know if love existed there; I don’t think so. For my part, at least, it seems to me that what I felt toward that beautiful girl named Concesa was a lively sympathy, a gentle friendship that only remotely resembled a passionate love, which didn’t take hold in me until much later. I liked seeing her and dancing with her, and I was proud that she distinguished me; but this sympathy left my spirit perfectly free. On the other hand, not a single word passed between us that transcended flirtation. If I must confess the truth, I will say that I have hardly ever spoken to her. Only when we embraced at the flagpole for the last turns, which lasted only a few seconds, did we occasionally exchange a few indifferent words. I remember, however, that on one occasion, when I had asked another girl out dancing too often, Concesa got angry and didn’t take me out again that afternoon. The following day, the Balliniello pilgrimage was being held. As always, the girls formed their own small bandstand, and we joined them. The first time Concesa was in the circle, she chose me as her partner. I said to her in a trembling voice as we made the last few turns, “I thought you were angry with me, Concesa.” She replied, “I don’t get angry with anyone… least of all with you.” And she abruptly broke away from me, blushing. It was the liveliest, most passionate thing in the history of that love affair. I suppose that of my friends must have been identical. However, I don’t know why mine became more public. Perhaps because Providence wanted to test my patience from a tender age. My love affair became famous, not only in the children’s world, but throughout the entire town. It was known everywhere that I had a girlfriend, and everywhere I went, they took offense at her, reveling in my confusion and shame. Friends from home made innuendos, smiled, and winked at each other meaningfully, while, poor me!, I blushed even more. than a cherry. Such was my alarm that whenever I passed by any small group of people, I imagined they were always talking about my loves, as if there were no other conversation in Avilés. I remember one night, playing at the house of some friends at the _Aduana le Cheval Blanc_, which was then a novelty, some prodigal and wasteful fellows used to place two bets in order to have the right to throw the dice twice. Upon placing their two bets, they would say: “For me… and for the bride.” It was the usual joke. I, who also coveted throwing the dice twice, ventured that night to double my bet, although without repeating the joke, as one might suppose. But a mocking young man said aloud, looking at me with a malicious smile: “For you and for Concesita, right?” Oh my God! What embarrassment! What shame! A wave of blush rose to my face with such force that I think the whites of my eyes must be red too. Finally, I burst into tears, and the men laughed even more heartily. But the ladies, always respectful of even the smallest displays of love, took pity on me: “Well, leaving that child. What does it matter to you whether he has a girlfriend or not?” But I was humiliated in an even more terrible way. I don’t know who the heartless boy was who came up with the idea of composing lyrics to a certain song that was widely sung at the time, alluding to my love. Perhaps it was one of my disgruntled rivals. The truth is that these lyrics became so popular in the children’s world that for a long time the aforementioned song was not sung with any other. I only remember the refrain : Armando loves her more than everyone in general. Everyone loves her quite a lot, but Armando much more. I leave the reader to imagine the inconceivable torments this song made me experience. In Rivero, the boys would sing it to me as soon as I left the house. If I went to Galiana as soon as they saw me, the chorus would start: ” Armando loves her more than everyone in general.” Whether I was heading to the dock, Campo Caín, or the Arches of the Town Hall, I heard the same refrain everywhere. What a terrible anguish! Even walking one day through the neighboring village of Magdalena, I heard a farmer’s son sing the famous “Armando loves her more.” In short, if I were to travel to the antipodes, it was certain that Armando would love her more there too. Years later, when I was already studying law in Madrid and shaving my beard, having come to Avilés to spend a few days in the summer, as I was crossing a lonely alley, I happened to see this legend written in charcoal on the old wall of an orchard: “Concesa and Armando.” It made me smile. I was a wise man in those days, and from the heights of my knowledge, I contemplated those childish loves with sovereign disdain. Today, from the depths of my experience, I look upon them with a little more respect. Chapter 26. PARENTHESIS. Skip this chapter, my minuscule reader, for it is not dedicated to you, and allow me a moment to unburden my oppressed heart to those who, like me, see the fatal shore approaching and to whom the stern ferryman is already beckoning. With what pleasure I evoked the beings who brightened my childhood! My imagination pictures them with their features; I hear their voices, I see their smiles or their stern gestures, I contemplate their departure: some are sweet and affectionate, others grave; these are melancholic, those are joyful, others are grotesque; but all are amiable, because all had been sent by God to make me happy. Where are you, noble beings who shared my love and my joy? A cold hand snatched you from my side forever. Forever! Horrid word that oppresses my heart and fills me with stupor. If death is the final separation, if I shall never see you again, it would be better if we had not been together for a moment on this little globe that swims indifferently through the abysses of space. Will you live in other luminous, unfading regions and be as happy as you? Did you deserve it, or has the cruel hand that snatched you away cast you into eternal night? Ah, if only I could return to those beautiful days of my childhood! If only I could live among you again! Wherever you may dwell, in the bosom of Elysium or wandering through the flowerless meadows of an underworld, and even if I had to drink, like Ulysses, the blood of the black ram to recognize you, there I would rather be. For each of you was a part of my being, and when you left, you left me mutilated. And if you no longer exist anywhere, what were you then? Vain phantoms that dissipated like the morning mist. And if you were phantoms, then I am a phantom too, and my existence a soap bubble that trembles and shines for a moment in the sunlight before shattering without leaving a trace. It is already about to burst. This world of thoughts and memories that I carry in my head, the glittering spectacle that seduces me, will dissipate with me. Others will come who will enjoy the sunlight like me and will love and think and live for a moment rocked by sweet joy, and others after that… and others… and others. And in the end, this poor planet, which is also a soap bubble swimming in space, will explode likewise, breaking into pieces, or will slowly die of consumption… It was all a dream! The hundred generations that troubled this world with their loves and their hatreds, with their proud progress, with their piety or their anger, will become impalpable ether. Where are their tears and their laughter, where are their haughty thoughts? The repugnant monsters that populated the earth in the early ages, the poets and philosophers who captivate us in the present, the saints, the villains, the purest emotions, the highest thoughts—everything, everything has been the same, everything has become ether. In vain Spinosa tells me: “No being can fall into nothingness.” In vain they assure me that it is utterly impossible for an atom of matter to disappear and annihilate. What have I to do with these atoms? Will they perhaps bring back to me the beings I love? For if they do not do this, their eternal power is utterly contemptible to me. I picture with terror the moment when my poor cadaverous body will be forever locked in the tomb. Night falls. A profound calm reigns in the cemetery. No breeze blows, not a murmur is heard. The moon bathes the grounds with its fateful light, and the cypresses rise motionless over the graves. Suddenly, I hear in the distance a murmuring clamor approaching. I lift the slab of my tomb a little and find myself surrounded by a motley crowd that gazes at me in silence. They are the ancient and modern philosophers of palingenesis , the Pythagoreans, the Platonists, the Stoics, the Alexandrians, the Origenists, the Transcendentalists, the Fourierists, the Saint-Simonians. One of them takes the floor and says to me: “Fear nothing. Your soul is immortal, and upon abandoning your perishable body, it will clothe itself in another and then another in an infinite series of distinct existences. And in each of them you will be unhappy or happy, atoning for your faults or receiving the reward of your good deeds; you will pass from a more imperfect life to a more perfect one, or vice versa, according as you have ascended toward good or descended further into evil. Your body itself will be less and less material, more subtle and spiritual, and your senses more delicate if you do not stain them with impurities, and if, emancipated from gross errors, you fly ever higher in the heaven of truth and justice… Are you afraid of losing your self, of not recognizing yourself in the infinite series of subsequent existences? Childish fear, because every day you lose it with delight when you surrender to sleep. And after all, what is this self that worries you so much? If you examine it calmly, it is composed of nothing but sensations, more or less clear ideas, memories, habits, to all of which memory lends unity. And what value does this memory have? You must know from experience how fragile it is and how little it means. The vast majority of the moments of your life They are buried in nothingness. Compare what you remember of it with what you have forgotten. This forgetting is not a misfortune: on the contrary, it would be burdensome and painful for you and for every man to remember such smallness, such misery as makes up our existence here below. Why drag around with you for all eternity such a burden of insignificance?… Stop rocking yourself in impossible dreams that would be a misfortune for you if they were realized; abandon that narrow concept of immortality, typical of barbaric ages or ignorant men. A new life, absolutely new, is already prepared for you. You have no idea of it, just as someone born blind has no idea of light; but that does not mean that it ceases to exist and to be beautiful, and when you open your eyes, you will see it and enjoy it with the happy certainty that when you close them again, it will be she who disappears, not you, who will open them again to enjoy other, more beautiful ones in eternal succession. “My gentlemen,” I respond to such kind words, “I deeply respect your feelings because among you are, without a doubt, the greatest thinkers who have graced our planet until now; but I am not captivated by the immortality you offer me. I confess to you, although I may be ignorant and barbaric, that this poor self, which you so pretend to despise, is the only thing that interests me at this moment. If I do not recognize myself in other lives, nothingness is worth nothing. Your opinion is that before this life I have lived others. What value have such lives had for me? It is true that when I surrender to sleep I lose my self without regret; but that is because I am certain of finding it upon awakening. It is equally true that the vast majority of the actions and events of my life are buried in oblivion, but my self has remained identical, and there has been no solution of continuity throughout my existence … Continuity! This is the magic word, this is the key to the mystery. Without continuity, immortality does not exist. On the other hand, if I am to live an infinite number of times, I must also die an infinite number of times and experience the horrors that accompany death. I will forge infinite bonds of love with other beings like those who imprison my heart today, and an infinite number of times I will see them break in eternal separation. Who would not be terrified by such a horizon? The disciples of Buddha, who preached nothingness, roamed the cities of India crying: “Rejoice, rejoice! Death has been conquered.” ” I, too, am glad to die forever. Your immortality horrifies me. Leave me alone.” Indeed, that motley crowd vanishes into the shadows of the cemetery, but it is soon replaced by a more homogeneous one. In it, I recognize the great majority of contemporary thinkers. The oldest of them all, the Saxon philosopher Fechner, spoke to me in this way: “You ardently aspire to preserve yourself as an individual; But what is your individual? We human beings rise from the earth as waves rise from the surface of the ocean; we emerge from the ground as leaves emerge from a tree. Each lives its own story. The waves separately reflect the sun’s rays; the leaves stir while the branches remain motionless. Thus, in our consciousness, when one fact becomes predominant, it obscures everything that lies behind it. And yet, what lies behind, although already hidden from observation, acts upon it in the same way that the waves above act upon those below, as the trembling of the leaves acts upon the sap within the branch. The entire ocean, as well as the tree, feels the action of the wave and the leaf and is thereby modified; that is, it is something other than what it was before. In the same way, we are actors in the great theater of the universe. Our perceptions do not fade when we die, but remain imprinted on the universal soul of the earth and live the immortal life of ideas, and combined with those of other men become part of the great system of the world. Our consciousness does not die, but expands, and just as the sum of our perceptions constitutes our consciousness, so the sum of our consciousnesses constitutes the consciousness of a greater being, of a higher type. “So stop worrying. That little self you love so much only disappears in appearance. Nothing that truly constituted it, that is, none of your ideas, none of your actions, ceases to exist. All of them remain imprinted in the world and enjoy immortality. And those who, like you, have gone through life communicating with others not only their thoughts but also their most intimate emotions can enjoy this beautiful future even more surely. If you have succeeded in making your books leave even a small mark on the souls of your readers, this mark, however slight, will never be erased; it will become part of their very soul, and with this soul it will enter into the universal concert of spirits.” “Oh, great philosopher,” I hasten to respond, “the collective immortality you offer me is bread too hard for my teeth.” That great self you speak of is not mine, and I must confess that I cannot love it because I am only interested in this other, tiny, central point, which nevertheless reflects the universe. During my earthly life, I have been king in my little kingdom, and I cannot pass without pain to become an unconscious slave. I was a more or less important melody in the concert; it pains me to become a note on the staff. Do not speak to me of literary immortality, for it is a tale to entertain children . The greatest glory of the greatest artist on earth cannot last twenty thousand years. True, despite that, we all love it, and even more so those hypocrites who pretend to disdain it; but it is always something secondary in our lives. The value of mine is not measured in what I have written, but in what I have loved. Neither my thoughts nor my books bind me to existence ; I give them all to you without regret . The only thing that torments me at this moment is separating from the beings I love today, is losing the hope of ever seeing again those others who long ago departed from the earth. If there is no one in the universe or beyond who can bring them back to me, let this miserable life cease, cease forever, and let my poor being sink like an ant into nothingness! The philosophers of collective immortality also withdraw. Hardly have they disappeared than others, much bolder and more energetic, appear in a noisy crowd . “Do not deceive yourself,” one of them tells me. “Do not let yourself be deceived by the others either. The immortality of the soul is impossible, because the soul does not exist; it is a childish creation of our mind: no one has seen it or touched it. What exists without any doubt is our visible and palpable body, and this body has been the source of all your sorrows and joys. Take comfort, because this body is immortal. A living being remains eternally alive. There is no death for nature; Their youth is eternal, like their activity and fertility. Death transforms but does not destroy, and is nothing other than the mysterious continuation of life in diverse forms. That federation of living beings you called your self dissolves but is not annihilated. Each of the members regains its freedom and joyfully continues its vital career… “You ask me if each of these beings has consciousness? I can only answer that there are many men alive who barely have any either. We can neither affirm nor deny faculties that escape our observation. What I can assure you is that the subterranean life that will now begin for your body is much more lively than the one you have led on earth. Prepare to receive countless joyful companions full of health and strength. They are the workers of death! The beautiful flies called Lucilia, a brilliant metallic green, will come in droves, accompanied by their sisters, the Lucilia Caesar, a golden green with a white forehead. Immediately the _Sarcophagi_ will come and behind them the charming lepidopterans of the genus Aglossa, pretty little butterflies that sleep during the day on the leaves of trees and fly around the light at dusk. Then come other flies no less beautiful, the Profila, with shiny bodies and small heads, followed by an immense multitude of Acarios, charged with facilitating the mummification. And these acarii are endowed with such prolific virtue that a single pair can produce one and a half million individuals within three months. “So don’t let the idea of destruction frighten you. Inside the tomb, life continues just as outside, an even more noisy and lively life that is constantly renewed…” “Thank you very much!” I drop the heavy slab on myself once more and resignedly prepare to enter nothingness. But soon after, I hear a soft, distant murmur that stirs my frozen heart: the beating of wings, the clashing of kisses, songs of triumph… I timidly lift the stone of my tomb. Dawn was already floating over the cemetery, and in its uncertain light I see a glorious procession of winged angels wrapped in the trembling mists of morning. A ray of light fell upon their golden wings, and I saw them resplendently circle around my tomb. One of them, the most beautiful, came to rest at its foot. He remained silent before me for a few moments, and I was able to contemplate at my leisure his immortal beauty, the dazzling brilliance of his eyes, the haughtiness of his brow, his gigantic stature, the intrepidity and calm that emanated from his radiant figure. “I am the Archangel Michael,” he said to me in a voice whose strange melody does not belong to this earth, “and in the name of the Lord, I come to offer you true immortality, the only immortality worthy of his adorable providence. If you have believed and trusted in Him, once you have purified yourself, you will enter into the enjoyment of eternal life and supreme happiness. Your self is not lost, it does not fade like a melody in the air, because self-love is the foundation and condition of all other love. The perfect rest and enjoyment of God that I offer you will not destroy your conscience, which is the very support and root of your happiness. There is only one temporal life for humans, and in it is decided whether they will live eternally enjoying the supreme good or eternally groan away from it… Do you tremble at your fate? Cast aside your fear. God, omnipotent as He is, cannot condemn a soul that surrenders to Him at the hour of death. Do you desire to possess your body? You will possess it eternally, but glorious, purified. Do you desire repose? You will rest in eternal peace. Do you love honor, glory, and power? You will share in the majesty and sovereign dominion of God. Do you seek the company of the noble and the wise? You will enjoy the society of all the good men who have ever lived in the world. Do you want, finally—and this is undoubtedly your most ardent desire—to love your loved ones beyond the grave? You will find them again, and this time never to lose them again. Death does not break the ties that unite two hearts on earth. Your love in heaven, while remaining intimate and tender, will be cleansed of all harshness; for the human heart is an unfathomable abyss of mysteries, a battlefield where heat and cold alternately prevail. “Peace forever! One heart and one soul! This is what is eternally realized in our Paradise… “Are you in agreement, weak mortal, with the promises of Christ?” Then my whole being is bathed in joy. I make a supreme effort and, lifting the stone that encloses me, I joyfully exclaim: “I am yours!” Chapter 27. OVIEDO. In the autumn of that same year, I was sent to Oviedo to study for secondary school. The capital of Asturias offers almost nothing, in terms of material appearance, that could capture the attention and make it interesting. Situated on the ridge of a green hill, its surroundings are beautiful, as is the entire province, but without any relief; the streets are generally narrow and irregular, the houses are small, with few notable buildings to decorate them. Although it was a court in the early During the times of the Reconquista, it was so for such a brief time and in such a remote era that hardly any monumental traces of its royalty remain. Its churches are far from being artistic gems like those of León and Toledo. Its Gothic-style cathedral itself, neither in its size nor in the richness of its ornamentation, is unusual for this class of temple. But its tower… Ah! Its tower deserves a separate chapter. It is the most slender, the most harmonious, the most exquisite of all those that exist in Spain. Oviedo boasts, with good reason, of this tower, as an ugly woman boasts of possessing copious, flowing hair. But this ugly woman, in addition to her splendid hair, has charm and gains much from the company. What is its charm? Its smile: a cheerful and cordial smile, frank and mischievous. I have known some travelers who, captivated by this smile, have set up their tent in the capital of Asturias and have never wanted to leave it. If the charm of Avilés lies in its childlike joy, Oviedo’s is rooted in its malicious wit. In no other region of Spain, not even in Andalusia, the classic land of grace, will you find a more joyful and mocking population. Their wit is not light, showy, or sparkling like that of Seville and Málaga: the Asturians are men of the North and pay tribute to the coldness of their climate and the grayness of their sky. But there is more depth to their wit; their malice is more spiritual, more penetrating, and also, it must be confessed, more ruthless. Mockery is the deity to which Oviedo pays incessant worship; it is their recreation and almost their necessity. The people of Oviedo have the nose of a bloodhound to sniff out ridicule. As soon as they find it, they stop like good hunting dogs and wait for the others to begin the hunt. This hunt is a true public celebration or rejoicing, particularly when the victim is established as an authority. Once upon a time, a governor arrived in Oviedo who was a mediocre writer, but very proud of his works. As soon as his weakness was realized, there was no banquet or solemnity where toasts were made or speeches delivered in which phrases and even entire paragraphs from the works of the leading authority were not cited. He was quoted like Plutarch or Cervantes. That fool was happy during the months he governed the province, and the people of Oviedo were even happier than he. Nothing saddens them at being ruled by some fool; on the contrary, I suspect they are more pleased when their authorities are supremely foolish. There was a time, long ago, when the governor, the mayor, the rector of the University, and the president of the Court were four funny clowns without a shred of common sense. Well, never had the population felt so happy: it was the Golden Age of Oviedo. Let us admit, however, that his jokes are often cruel and even malicious. In my time, there was an honest tinsmith who was stricken with a mania for oratory. As soon as he was allowed to speak, he did so with such emphasis and fire in defense of his traditionalist ideas that no one could get to him. Needless to say, no one, in fact, thought of stopping him: on the contrary, he was teased, inflamed , and beaten wherever he appeared, especially in the café. However, the café and the street were not enough. A group of cheerful young people came up with the idea of founding a Recreation Club with the sole purpose of appointing the aforementioned tinsmith as its president and having him at their service every night. And, indeed, a space was rented, the bylaws were drawn up, and our tinsmith was unanimously elected president of the Society. This unexpected honor went so much to his head, he made so many impassioned speeches, and was so applauded and celebrated that he finally fell ill. A few nights after taking office , three or four members, in agreement with the others, presented a proposal to the Board of Directors asking for the purchase of a watering can for sweeping the Circle. The tinsmith, upon reading the proposal, He stood up and gave a speech that became famous. “Gentlemen: The president of this Society is a master tinsmith, glazier, and plumber, and he is willing to build, free of charge, not one watering can, but ten watering cans, twenty watering cans, all the watering cans that are necessary for the cleanliness of the Circle over which he has the honor of presiding…” Years later, the children of Oviedo still knew this speech by heart and would shout it to the unfortunate tinsmith as he passed through the streets. Politics, which is usually tragic in small towns and can inflame passions and produce serious disagreements, takes on a comical aspect in Oviedo . Between political enemies, there are no vulgar insults, no melodramatic glances, no stones thrown or gunshots fired at night. The most bitter adversaries meet in Cimadevilla, the central point of the town. They greet each other, smile, and form a circle of friends around them, and they begin to playfully joke around. It’s a contest, a shootout of jokes and witticisms in which the funniest, the one who makes his friends laugh the most, is the one who bells the cat and emerges victorious. There are caciques in Oviedo, as there are unfortunately in all the capitals of Spain, but here they are so on the condition that they appear modest and familiar with everyone and allow themselves to be teased in the street circles. If it occurred to any deputy or senator to neither offer nor admit jokes, to appear reserved and upright, they would immediately fall into public contempt, be covered with ridicule, and never rise again. When authorities or political figures are communicative and witty and come down to the café to form a social gathering, laughing and chatting like everyone else, then they are truly respected and loved. It is a rare, perhaps unique, occurrence that speaks volumes for the dignity and understanding of the inhabitants of the capital of Asturias. One might suspect that in a town where mockery is so prevalent, slander is equally rampant. This is not the case. Gossip certainly exists, but it is not as aggressive and treacherous as in other towns. The people of Oviedo enjoy exposing a ridiculous obsession more than a theft, and mocking someone to their faces more than behind their backs. Face to face, and in a joking tone, phrases are said that might set off guns in another region. There, they are greeted with a laugh. I witnessed many merry farces in Oviedo during my adolescence, but the one I remember best and that made the greatest impression on me was the one put on by a few mischievous young men for a certain clergyman of the mass and pot. This clergyman sought his kingdom with great diligence in this world, not in the next; he lacked education, he lacked intelligence, and he had not made many strides on the path of spiritual perfection. He had become very familiar with an influential politician, whom he served and flattered to the best of his ability. To reward these domestic and electoral services, the politician managed to have himself named a canon. Such reprehensible excesses are seen in the nefarious intrusion of civil power into the holy liberty of the Church! Pious people groaned at this scandal, but the boorish people of Oviedo laughed and never lost sight of the ambitious clergyman, promising themselves a good time at his expense. One day, indeed, a certain young man, well known in the town, received a letter from a brother-in-law, a deputy, and a man of influence in Madrid. He informed him that, as the diocese of the Government was vacant, in agreement with His Holiness’s Nuncio, he was planning to seek a bishop in the cathedral chapter of Oviedo, and that, as a ministerial deputy, he had been consulted regarding this matter. Knowing the affectionate friendship that bound him to Don…, the name of the canon, and the many attributes that adorned him, he had not hesitated to designate him for the vacant see and had had the pleasure of learning that three or four other deputies from the province followed his example. Therefore, he begged him to meet with the interested party and let him know. Before taking any further steps, it was necessary for the latter to indicate his willingness to accept. With great secrecy and reserve, the malicious young man shared his brother-in-law’s letter with the canon. The latter went extremely pale, lost the ability to speak for a few moments, began to swallow with difficulty, and finally, protesting his inadequacy, declared that he was willing to obey his superiors in this as in everything else. Nevertheless, he began to hold consultations with the most distinguished priests and laymen of the town. He feigned hesitation, declared himself unworthy, sought advice—all to raise his voice even more and hear praise. This bustle of consultations lasted for several days, as if it were a ministerial crisis. The sincerely religious people of the city were terrified: the bishop, the cathedral chapter, and the entire clergy were stupefied. Meanwhile, letters were exchanged, telegrams were sent. Soon the entire town caught up with the farce and took part in it. It was a real bareback run that the unfortunate man suffered without realizing it. He marched through the streets in an imposing and majestic attitude, directed protective smiles at his acquaintances, and was almost ready to bless us as if he had the miter on his head and the crosier in his hand. Tacitly convinced, everyone affected the utmost seriousness and respect. Students took off their hats when he passed, shopkeepers came out of their shops and congratulated him, calling him “Your Grace.” The canon received the congratulations with proud condescension and, leaning back a little, responded gravely: “Pray God to give me the enlightenment to govern the diocese. ” Chapter 28. THE ROLL OF HONOR. My paternal grandfather, whose house I ended up in, was an honest bourgeois who lived to the age of ninety-three, taking care of his physical health. He didn’t care about his moral health: God gave it to him as a bonus. When he entered this world, back in the last third of the 18th century, he didn’t think, like Schopenhauer, that he had fallen into a den of bandits, but into a nest of angels. He lived and died with this belief a century later . But if he always believed in good, he didn’t imagine that it was equally distributed throughout the world. By a special decree of Providence, whose justice he never questioned, his homeland, his province, his relatives, his friends, and acquaintances were given a much larger share than the rest of the universe. Let them come and tell him about the beauties of Switzerland. He smiled compassionately and told us how the Count of Toreno, the famous historian of the _War of Independence_, had told him in confidence one afternoon in San Francisco Park: “I have traveled through France, England, Germany, Switzerland, Italy: I have seen nothing comparable to Asturias. Let the wisdom or eloquence of an eminent man, Spanish or foreign, be praised in his presence. The same smile from my grandfather. He smiled because he was quite certain that no one in this world could match the clarity of judgment, the force of reasoning, the unfathomable theological depth of his intimate friend V, the Dean of the Cathedral. And in this regard, his friend Dr. A. was the most notable lawyer in the kingdom; Colonel P., the most skillful strategist; Pharmacist L., in whose pharmacy he rested from his hygienic walks, a chemist without rival; and C., the grocer with whom he sometimes smoked a cigar in the afternoons, possessed, in his opinion, a veritable treasure of foodstuffs. My aunts would be careful not to send any medicine to any pharmacy other than Mr. L’s! If this happened, my grandfather would think he had been poisoned. As for groceries, they felt entitled to more independence, and from time to time they allowed themselves the freedom to bring in something from another store. But since there is no fraud that will not be discovered in this world, any The cook’s imprudence revealed that of my aunts. What profound dismay appeared on my grandfather’s face when he discovered that the chickpeas they were eating were not from his friend C’s shop but from that of the counterfeiter on the corner! Then a farce was staged ; they pretended to return those unworthy chickpeas to their place of origin and carry others from the treasure kept by friend C. Through this trick, in which we all took part, the raging waves were calmed and calm was restored to my grandfather’s troubled spirit. After this, I need hardly declare that his digestion was always perfect and that the purest and most tranquil happiness was constantly reflected in his hygienic person. I confess, with shame, that all my life I have professed a base envy toward my grandfather. In life’s critical moments, when some grief oppresses me, when I find the people around me unpleasant, and enemies irritate me, friends annoy me, and newspapers bore me, then his radiant and placid figure appears to me, speaking enthusiastically of the landscapes of Asturias, the wisdom of the dean, and the chickpeas of his friend C. Oh, how I envy him in those moments! Oh, with what pleasure I would exchange my brain and my spine for his! And yet, I am sure I possess some of the rose-colored globules of my grandfather’s blood in my own. It is true that these globules are mixed with the grays of my father and with the greens, yellows , and blues of all my ancestors; for it is a well-known fact that man resembles a pantheon where all the dead speak and command, each in their own time. It’s true that these globules collide, swarm, quarrel, caress, shake, and form an infernal hubbub inside my body; but in the end, here they are, and they are, without a doubt, the ones that, time and again, drive me to believe too quickly in theology, in chemistry, or in the chickpeas of some friend. My father’s globules sing to me what is sad and repugnant in our lives, but my grandfather’s shortly afterward sweetly suggest to me that all evils have their compensation, that alongside every disadvantage there is always an advantage, and that there is a normal standard for human happiness just as there is for human animal warmth: the difference is only a few tenths. I remember that in my childhood, there lived in Avilés a friendly shipowner who had the misfortune of losing a ship off the coast of Galicia. When friends went to pay their condolences, they found him calm and cheerful, as if nothing had happened. “What if the Paco had been lost?” he exclaimed, laughing and rubbing his knees. The Paco was another larger ship he also had sailing. Something similar happens to me. When I experience some setback or suffer any disappointment, I usually exclaim inwardly: “What if the Paco had been lost!” I agree it’s a small consolation; but without these small consolations, life would be a much meaner thing. If I had been pampered until then by my parents in Avilés, I was even more pampered in Oviedo by my grandfather and my good aunts. Furthermore, a cousin of mine , of whom I was, of course, a great friend and admirer, often ate with us and spent a large part of the day there . He was nine or ten years older than me. He was, therefore, a young man of twenty-one or twenty-two , finishing his law degree, intelligent, of pleasing appearance, with romantic, curly hair, and a sensitivity so excessive that I have never known any other man since. Emotions, even the most fleeting, were so reflected in his expressive face that he didn’t need to speak to make his emotional states evident. With these elements and considering the period in which he flourished, it’s easy to deduce that my cousin was an unbridled romantic. We were excellent companions, and he was the first to teach me to respect the dark circles under his eyes and the long hair of Romanticism. His idols were Byron, Lamartine, Chateaubriand, and Espronceda. I always carried Lamartine’s Meditations in my pocket, in a beautiful volume that I still fondly keep in my library, and I would translate and comment on them languidly, often between sighs and tears. Whenever the beautiful verses from Le Lac come to mind, ” As if we always lay verses of new shores in the eternal night, carried without return, never pour us upon the shore of ages, jetter a single day?” the figure of my cousin always appears to me with his curly hair and his tender black eyes. Alas! Neither he nor I were able to drop anchor in those beautiful and serene days. He has already set sail for the shores of eternal night; I will soon follow him. He also read me Goethe’s Werther and Victor Hugo’s Notre Dame de Paris. As for Espronceda’s *Diablo Mundo*, I didn’t need to read it because he knew it by heart. He felt a deep admiration for this great poet, which he immediately managed to inspire in me. Music attracted my cousin almost as much as poetry. Although he hadn’t studied its principles, he possessed such a delicate ear and such sensitivity that I doubt any professional musician could surpass him. Listening to certain opera arias and some cello concertos, I have seen him turn pale and remain in a state of hypnotic stupor that inspired fear. But in music, as in poetry, he was exclusive. He loved certain musicians and loathed others. His favorite was the Italian maestro Bellini; or rather, he was his idol; for him, nothing existed in this world superior to *Norma*, *Sonnambula*, and *Puritan*. He respected Rossini; he conceded some talent in Donizetti, and he rather liked *Lucia di Lammermoor*. But he did not hesitate to affirm that this opera was a posthumous work by Bellini that Donizetti had found among his papers. He told
me , in this regard, that while the latter was in a mental asylum, he had been made to hear the inspired finale of Lucia, and, remaining for a moment ecstatic, had exclaimed: “What talent, that Bellini!” As for Verdi, he hated him profoundly. Such was his aversion to this maestro that whenever anyone spoke of him, he would turn pale and his voice would become hoarse, as if I had once inflicted an unpardonable insult on him or his father. Naturally, I immediately shared in the love of Bellini and the hatred of Verdi. But the odd thing about it was that I loved this maestro’s operas, particularly Traviata and Rigoleto. This caused me unspeakable discomfort and shame; I made desperate efforts to expel this inclination, as Saint Anthony fled from his terrible temptations. Of course, it must be assumed that if my cousin was so sensitive to poetry and music, he would be no less so to love. He was much more so. He was a man of a man in love through and through. With whom? With all the beautiful women his eyes could see; but not simultaneously, but rather in a row and in strict turn. His love affairs were not very long; two months each, more or less. Perhaps for this very reason, the object of his yearnings generally never found out. But what they lost in length, they gained in intensity. No one ever burned with such a vivid flame, no one sighed, no one kept vigil, no one committed mental suicide, no one composed as many verses as he did. There was everything: romances, décimas, octavillas, Adonic Sapphic verses. Moreover, unfailingly, for each of his loves, he composed a habanera in honor of the beautiful ingrate: music and words. Since, as I have said, he had no musical knowledge, he could not write it down; but he retained it perfectly in his memory and sang it to me when we were alone. I listened to these habaneras enraptured, admiring my cousin’s inspiration and prodigious musical talent. I never failed to notice, however, that they were very similar. For example, the one that said: “There is a beautiful brunette,” was almost the same as another that began: “A little blonde, beautiful without equal.” It hardly varied more than the color of the hair; but this did not diminish my Pleasure; on the contrary, since I had liked the first one, it was logical that I would like them all. I was, therefore, in Oviedo, doing wonderfully. The classes at the Institute were less long and arduous than at Don Juan de la Cruz’s school; they left me free for almost the entire afternoon. Furthermore, in the cloisters of the University, where we strolled, there was an atmosphere of freedom, of emancipation that enchanted me. We no longer called each other by our first names, as we had at school, but by our surnames, and this seemingly insignificant circumstance made us imagine we were now men, and it filled us with satisfaction. The doormen and janitors likewise called us by our surnames, preceding it with the word “sir”; we strolled alongside the law students, almost all of whom had a more or less flourishing mustache; all corporal punishment had completely disappeared ; we formed an infinitely respectable caste within the city . When the bell rang, the professors would solemnly cross the cloister and enter the lecture hall, dressed in cap and gown. When they had finished, a caretaker would open the door, lean in respectfully, and bow deeply, saying, “It’s time. ” Occasionally, before the end of class , he would suddenly open the doors wide, stamp his foot on the floor, and shout with the utmost emphasis: “The Rector!” Then we would all suddenly rise to our feet, as if moved by a spring; the Professor would also rise and go out to greet the Rector, who would cross the chair and go and sit in the Rector’s chair with an august majesty that sent shivers of respect through us. Our professor would sit beside him, humble and reverent, eclipsed like a contemptible asteroid by that great, radiant sun. Oh, how happy all this picturesque apparatus made me! I seemed to live in another world and to have risen several notches in the scale of living beings. I had the misfortune, however, to have as my Latin professor a gentleman with a sallow, pockmarked face, a cold, ironic, and bilious temperament, the only modernist professor then existing at the Institute. I say modernist because coldness and biliousness seem to be the elements that best characterize our Modern Age. All the other professors were old -fashioned, cordial, noisy, spontaneous, and a little grotesque. That year we had a professor of Religion who was, at the same time, the parish priest of one of the city’s parishes: a hairy colossus, a monstrous cetacean, whose snorting, like those of a lion, was terrifying; his voice sounded horrifying, as if he were speaking through a horn; And whenever he struck the table with his fist, it broke, without fail. Two or three times during the course it was repaired by the carpenter. When he spoke to us about the Apocalypse, we thought we were hearing, in fact, the great voice heard by Saint John, like a trumpet, and when he told us how Samson carried the gates of Gaza up a hill on his back, and with the jawbone of a donkey put to shameful flight and killed a thousand Philistines, not one of us failed to picture the biblical hero, in cassock and cloaks, brandishing the donkey’s bone. I began to attend my classes punctually and to study my lessons with equal punctuality. Four or five times during that first month the teachers called me to recite them, and I did it as best God gave me to understand. I didn’t think of doing anything meritorious: I was so convinced of my insignificance that I never suspected for a moment that it had any value. When the month was over, I was strolling through the cloisters on the first day of the other, with my books under my arm. I had arrived too early, and there were hardly any boys about. I was strolling, as I say, alone and bored, when, passing by the door of the Secretariat, I saw a large picture in a gilt frame hanging above it. It was, without a doubt, the _honor roll_, which I had already heard about; on it were printed the names of the students who had distinguished themselves most in the different years of high school. I carelessly approached it, ran a distracted glance over its calligraphic intricacies, and… what did I see? My name appeared first on the board. I was rooted to the spot, more out of stupor than joy; then I put my hands to my eyes, fearing that it was a hallucination. But no! My name was clearly there, along with my two surnames. It was a revelation: it was the voice that shouted to Lázaro: “Get up!” My father was wrong. I was not inept. Chapter 29. KISSES ON THE TURK’S HEAD. Two or three months after my arrival in Oviedo, my grandfather moved with his family to the second floor of a house recently built on top of the old city wall. From the front, it formed a corner or small square with others ; some alleys led into it; it was surrounded by neighbors who lived like a family, talking to each other from their balconies. From the back, it was higher and had views over the countryside; there was plenty of air, light, and silence. It was intimate, familiar, and garrulous, like an old gossip, from the front; it was serious and luminous, from the back, like a deity. My paternal family lived in this house for more than forty years, and almost all of them died there. The first to succumb was the youngest of my three aunts. She had been suffering from a fatal chest illness for some time. In her final days, she experienced cravings and temptations for sweets that her doctor had forbidden. Then the poor woman made me her confidant and secretly sent me to fetch them. I brought her sweets and oranges in my coat pockets and delivered them when no one was in the room. After her death, I was overcome with terrible remorse, imagining that I had contributed to it. Later, when I began to doubt our doctor’s science, and, in general, the efficacy of medicine, I was glad to have sweetened her final moments. There were two others left. Both were over forty; but although equally old spinsters, they could not have been more different in character. The first was a serious, firm, and focused woman; she possessed a clear understanding and a tender heart, but she shunned all outward displays, always maintaining a reserve that made her appear severe. She was only so when it came to sexual love and everything connected with it. She considered everything related to the life of women so ridiculous and even so unworthy that, when any love affair was mentioned in her presence , she immediately showed her discomfort and did everything possible to steer the conversation to another point. If they persisted in continuing the discussion, she would quickly, under any pretext, rise from her chair and leave the room. No one in the family had ever known her to have any amorous inclination, courtship, or anything similar. Therefore, to me, who was then studying Roman history, my aunt seemed like one of those sad Vestals who grew old and withered away, stirring the sacred fire. What she kept alive was the order, economy, and dignity of the domestic hearth, a task in which no one could surpass her. The latter formed a charming contrast to the latter. She was the most devout and respectful worshiper of Cupid ever seen. Anything that referred, near or far, to the tender feelings that that god inspires in mortals found an echo in her soul and aroused her interest. Her memory was a storehouse of sentimental stories, to which I would turn for solace when my studies bored me and my cousin was not at home to entertain me. Nothing else seemed to move her in this world but her ailments, which were many and varied, and the sweet youthful manifestations of love. For her, human beings did not age. When an elderly person, whether male or female, came to visit our house or we saw them from the balcony crossing the street, street, that person did not exist for her in the present, nor did she care about his current condition, but immediately took her back to her youth and told me in detail about his love affair with the old lady, his wife, who was accompanying him; he told me about the obstacles her family had placed in his way, how he had overcome them, how he reciprocated by leaving his love notes hidden under a confessional in the cathedral, and other pranks no less ingenious; finally, how one night he had scaled the balconies of his beloved’s house, and together they had run away from their parents’ home. I confess that I had enormous difficulty imagining those two old men descending a rope ladder into the street. But my aunt seemed to be seeing them and did not spare any detail that contributed to enlivening that interesting picture. My aunt was an ideal and poetic being, she was a sentimental enthusiast, she was a romantic waterfall, she was a grove where turtledoves cooed . She wore little rings in her hair glued to her temples; she played the guitar and sang delicate melodies with a plaintive rhythm: songs from the good old days of love and poetry that bear no resemblance to the shameless couplets we hear everywhere today. Back then, anonymous musicians used the great historical or feigned passions of love to compose very sad melodies. There was a song about Abelard and Heloise, and another about Chactas and Atala. I remember both and usually hum them when I feel disillusioned and melancholy. I also remember one that my aunt sang with fondness: Unhappy trunk, bare and without vegetation; faithful image of an unhappy love; if winter has withered your beauty, pain has withered me too. Another began: Your father, rich in gold, is insatiable; Oh, I would give a thousand lives to have him. I listened to all this, enraptured; I admired those heroes of love and deplored having been born in such a base and prosaic era. My aunt, with her guitar and her songs, with her interesting stories and the musky perfume she wore, introduced me to domestic romanticism, just as my cousin had introduced me to literature. A bald man, pale-faced, with a hard, penetrating gaze, tall shoulders and a hollow chest , entered our house like the closest friend . He was an intelligent man, but without a smile. He spoke little and was sharp; his judgments were final: if you contradicted him, he would turn even paler and grow hoarse with rage. The children of the town were incredibly afraid of him. For this gentleman had developed a strange habit, and apparently enjoyed it, of terrifying the children’s world. He had all the children strongly influenced. As soon as he met someone he knew on the street—and sometimes even if he wasn’t—he would stop, fix his gaze on the child with a fierce, insistent stare, and, after having the child mesmerized, would ask the servant or maid leading him in a terrible voice, “if he had been good.” If so, he would let him pass peacefully. But if he was told otherwise, a demon from hell could not have put on a more terrifying face than that good man. He would grab the child by the arm, shake him, and shout such horrendous threats in his ear that the child was left without a drop of blood in his veins, without even the strength to cry. The parents encouraged this habit, which served them well; the threat of summoning him was enough to transform any recalcitrant child into a meek lamb. The children had such an impression of the ferocious bravery and infinite cruelty of this man that one of my little brothers asked me one day, quite matter-of-factly, if I was stronger than a bull. I answered yes. He was silent for a moment and asked me again if I was stronger than a civil guard. I also answered affirmatively. Finally, after some hesitation, he asked me if I was stronger than God. Then I, not daring to deprive the Supreme Being of the attribute of his omnipotence, although I felt like doing so, replied that He had less, but only a little less, almost no less. For this harsh, sullen gentleman had been—a marvelous case! —the fiancé of my romantic aunt. From what I could gather, his lack of means had kept him from marriage. This, at least, was what my aunt thought and let on. It was absolutely incomprehensible to me how that bald gentleman could have been a young man in love. Because back then, I always imagined lovers with long hair. How could I imagine such a rigid individual bending his knee, placing his hand on his heart, and uttering passionate phrases? Nevertheless, my aunt went so far as to assure me that she had composed and dedicated more than one madrigal to him. I don’t know how much of that truth there is. What was beyond doubt was that she was still in love with him, that she looked for pretexts to open the balcony during the hours when he was going to and from the office, that she served him coffee when he came to our house to drink it with the utmost complacency, and listened to his pronouncements like oracles. It wasn’t the same with him; on the contrary, he spoke to her even more harshly than to the others, without looking her in the face, and contradicted everything she said without hesitation and in a contemptuous manner. But this was, for my aunt, from what she let on, an irrefutable testimony of the most sincere love. It’s possible she was right . I’m inclined to think so, because deep down, that gentleman was the complete opposite of what he represented. When I was able to penetrate his character, I became convinced that he not only possessed a lucid intelligence and a very estimable culture, but, what was even better, a big heart. He was tender and compassionate like few others, a fervent believer, ready to sacrifice himself for others, always vigilantly concealing any sign of weakness. He was, in a word, the perfect example of the “bourru bienfaisant” that French playwrights sometimes delight in depicting in their comedies. When I grew into a man, I attached myself to him with affectionate confidence. He owned a vast library, which he placed at my disposal, and I owe him much prudent advice that has served me well in life. His death was an irreparable loss for me. He, who never smiled, died with a smile on his lips, consoling with humorous words those who wept around his bed. That house holds all the memories of my adolescence. In his study, bathed in sunshine and pure country air, I dreamed divine poems; there the voice of nature made my heart beat; there a thousand harmonious nightingales sang in my soul; there the mists that shrouded my childhood dissipated ; there a strange and new life pressed upon my chest, inflaming it with a subtle and mysterious fire; there I studied the conjugations of regular and irregular Latin verbs and learned to extract the cube root of numbers. A professor from the University’s Law School also came to us to break it in, living on the main floor. He was a man of little education but of great talent, from what I heard, because I was in no position to judge him. He had two sons about the same age as me, with whom I immediately struck up a close friendship. He also had a daughter who was two or three years older than the first of her brothers. She was a pretty girl of fourteen or fifteen, and this girl had two friends of her own age, just as pretty as she, who came to her house almost every day to spend the afternoon and enjoy themselves. I don’t think there has ever been a more respectable trinity in Oviedo. A second-year law student, who boasted of his classical studies, called them “the three graces.” Two of them are still alive, and despite the devastating years, they retain vestiges of their pristine beauty. For these three girls immediately took pity on my childhood and began to lavish me with the most tender and maternal care. A ninety-year-old woman, speaking to a ten-year-old girl, would not adopt a more protective, more condescending tone than the one they used with me. They would brush my hair when it was messy, they would do the They made me recite fables, laughed like crazy at my innocent antics, and showered me with kisses every moment; but they kissed me as if I were their grandson. The crossroads or little square where our house stood teemed with amorous youngsters, none of whom could have been more than eighteen years old. All the first and second years of law school paraded by there daily, staring languidly at the balconies. Occasionally, a third- or fourth-year student would also slip in. They were immediately recognizable by their determination and boldness. They stood brazenly in front of the house, smiled, winked maliciously, and showed cards. These were the only ones who managed to make my three grandmothers serious . How much fun I had in that cheerful apartment, in an apartment so similar to ours! If I want to recall such happy times, I have no choice but to turn to music, as always. One of those beautiful girls often sang a certain habanera that began: ” In a virgin valley under a blue sky.” When I remember it, I find those pleasant hours of my childhood again and picture them in all their freshness. My good cousin fell in love with this girl who sang of the “virgin valley” and who died very young, and she had the honor of inspiring in him a prodigious number of ballads, Adonic Sapphic poems, royal octaves, and octavillas. He did not die as a result of this, nor of the habanera, music and lyrics that he immediately dedicated to it, but later of typhoid fever. But love, which animated my cousin’s poetic genius, paralyzed the rest of his organism. As soon as he found himself in the presence of the object of his desires, he was stupefied and speechless. He would turn pale, as if seeing a terrifying phantom, and could hardly extract a few words from his voice, which he pronounced with a trembling voice. The girl quickly realized the effect her charms were having and rejoiced with all her heart. There’s no need to hold it against her too harshly: any girl would feel the same way, wouldn’t it, dear reader? It was a sight to see that fourteen-year-old girl fix him with a smiling, malicious look that magnetized him, ask him a thousand embarrassing questions like she would an innocent schoolboy, laugh at his answers, wink at her friends, suddenly become serious, give him a very stern look, then turn her head and talk to her friends as if he weren’t there, a moment later remember that my cousin hadn’t disappeared from the planet and express the greatest satisfaction at this and look at him with flattering eyes, put her hand in her hair and shake her pretty little finger in an impertinent and provocative manner, then put her arm around the neck of the little friend at her side and, overcome with sudden tenderness, kiss her repeatedly and effusively… All this was aimed, there’s no doubt, at keeping my cousin in the same state of hypnotic stupor and organic paralysis. It was truly odious. No less odious were the methods the three friends used with the young students who lounged about in front of their balconies all day and part of the night. Sometimes they kept them wide open and complacently displayed their charming faces for the admiration of the former. Other times they kept them hermetically sealed for hours on end, and the unfortunates languished and withered away, their backs to the walls of the house opposite, which, judging by their contorted faces and the disgust they displayed, must have weighed as much as the globe of the earth to the Titan Atlas. One day they received their amorous letters with pleasure, read them in their presence, smiled, cast an affectionate glance at the sender, and placed them on their hearts; the next day they dropped them unread into the street and closed the balcony with a bang; one moment they threw them kisses with their fingertips, the other they turned their backs on them with the utmost contempt. I don’t know how they came into their hands, but it is certain that they possessed the Photographs of twenty or thirty university students. I suspect they were procured by a busybody shop assistant who frequented the house. All those photographs were the size of playing cards, because they were rarely made in other sizes back then, and they were played with like cards. They offered them to each other, back to back, like magicians; they drew one at random, and if it happened to be the portrait of a boy they liked, they would do a thousand funny things with the card , hold it to their heart, kiss it enthusiastically, and utter all the crazy flattering things they could think of. On the other hand, if an unpleasant person with saber-like legs appeared, they would curse their fate, throw the card to the ground with contempt, and sometimes trample it underfoot. These mime performances amused me, and the joy and kindness of the three friends made me all the more content since they showed me more and more affectionate and maternal affection every day. This affection often translated into effusive kisses, which neither warmed nor colded me. Neither physically nor intellectually was I a precocious child. I accepted them as evidence of good friendship; occasionally , they angered me, and that was when they gave me them while we were standing on the balcony. Then I noticed that they kissed me more and more, glancing sideways at the students standing in the street and smiling maliciously as if they wanted to make them envious. This embarrassed me, and more than once I have abruptly withdrawn from their sticky caresses. But one day, after one of these lively kissing sessions, which I ended somewhat glumly, I had to go out into the street for some reason. The audience that had witnessed it consisted of three lads of seventeen or eighteen years old, who were leaning against the house across the street, saying a thousand endearing things to my friends with their eyes, if not with their tongues. Seeing me leave, one of them signaled me to come closer as if he had something to say. Accustomed as I was to receiving messages and being treated with no little deference, I incautiously approached them. Suddenly, they grabbed my arms tightly and began kissing me with such haste and eagerness that I think they gave me more than a thousand kisses in a single minute, laughing, at the same time, out loud and looking at the balcony where the three graces were. Oh rage! Oh shame! I struggled valiantly to free myself, I kicked, I bit, I did everything in my power to reject those unworthy caresses, but I couldn’t succeed until they politely agreed to let me go. And to top off my humiliation, I noticed my little friends on the balcony were also laughing like crazy, trying to find a funny way to do it. I burst into the house in a flood of tears and, stifled by rage, told my aunts about the attack I had just been the victim of. The romantic one laughed, apparently finding the joke too delicate; but the other one, and with her the austere gentleman, the former boyfriend of the first one, who was there at the time, seemed upset, and I heard them utter the word “indecorous” several times. So when half an hour later, undoubtedly regretting their laughter, the three girls came up to look for me, I made it clear to them peremptorily that I would never set foot on the ground floor again. The austere gentleman supported my energetic resolution with all his might. But the next day they went up again: my romantic aunt interceded on their behalf; her sullen ex-boyfriend was not there; In the end I relented and agreed to go down, on the condition that for no reason or under any pretext was I given a single kiss. Chapter 30. CHILDREN’S CAVALRY. How and why I was attacked by that bellicose mood that drove my aunts to despair during the second year of high school, I myself do not know. If it were to happen now, it would inevitably be attributed to a neurasthenic state; but in that remote era, Asturias was a country deprived of means of communication and neurasthenia was unknown. Let us accept the fact and instead of investigating its causes, which is always Difficult, let’s analyze its consequences. They couldn’t have been more dire. Scratches on my cheeks, bruises on my nose, bruises on my legs, tears in my pants. Since the Red Cross wasn’t operating in Oviedo at the time, my aunts were forced to intervene daily with salt, vinegar, and camphorated spirits. They bandaged me, stitched me up with delicate care, and suggested appropriate means to avoid suffering from this kind of illness. I didn’t want to use them. On the contrary, increasingly enraged, I emerged almost daily from the University cloisters in defiance. The Field of Mars, or the site of our student duels at that time, was a gloomy gateway of a manor house next to the University. It was paved with large, gleaming blue stones . Each of those stones will surely hold a memory of the fleeting relationships my nose had with them. But almost as much as the war attracted me during that year, love. At that time, a distinguished family lived in Oviedo, a household name that was prominent in the Bombé promenades and in the intimate gatherings at the Casino. It was a large family, though only on the female side. These gentlemen had several daughters, quite a few daughters, I don’t know how many daughters; but, well, many daughters. They all passed for pretty, and they came in all shapes and sizes. While the former were friends of my mother and visited us occasionally in Avilés, the latter was perhaps eleven or twelve years old and my contemporary. Nevertheless, I regarded her with a certain disdain. Although I had played with her on the beach at Luanco when she was about six or seven years old and , like me, had a scissor-cut haircut, when I arrived in Oviedo and bumped into her on the street, I simply bid her a dignified farewell. I must confess that it was an untimely dignity. All the more so since I had liked that girl in her early youth and still did. She was small, with admirably correct features and black eyes that could pierce through a barricade of flour sacks. I, who was no sack of sand, felt pierced through and through every time I crossed paths with her on the walk. But dignity compelled me to remain completely unscathed. Her name was Antonia; that was her legal name. Another one was given to her that was completely illegal, and it was that of a small, pretty American coin, from what I heard, because I’d never seen it. The name was, therefore, well-suited; but I’ll call her by hers now because she’s already dead, and when she became a woman, she didn’t like being called anything else. The reader will surely be pleased to know that all my dignity vanished like a dream one afternoon in February. It’s an event that won’t interest everyone like the municipal budget; but I’m sure there’s a thirteen-year-old boy who will find it more amusing. Here’s how it happened: The Candlemas Fair was being held in Oviedo, also called the Orange Pilgrimage there. Asturias isn’t a country of orange groves, but along the seashore, in the eastern part, some grow that produce quite acceptable fruit, especially if eaten with sugar. On Candlemas Day, many carts laden with oranges arrive in Oviedo via the Gijón road , and a lovely walk is established on this road. It has only one drawback: the steep slope on that side is impossible for asthmatics. Antoñita wasn’t, thank God, and she walked up and down among baskets of oranges with her friends all afternoon. I, sitting on the parapet with my family, felt increasingly captivated by her black eyes. When she passed in front of us, I wanted to say something kind to her. Instead, what could I think of? Well, I shot an orange peel at her with my slingshot. I did it with such force and good aim that I hit her right in the middle of her cheek, making a frightening crack. The girl let out a scream and put her hand to the sensitive area, bursting into tears. Her little friends rushed to comfort her, and then confronted me, calling me such a “brute” and “animal” that I couldn’t be held against them. They were right: I was right in my heart. I felt so sorry for myself and so ashamed of my vileness that I was almost ready to burst into tears too. Instead, I began to laugh rudely, accompanied by the laughter of my friends. How could I have carried out such a savagery at the very moment when I was most impressed by that little girl’s pretty face? I can’t explain. Perhaps those who say that any emotion can drive us to diametrically opposed acts are right . A reddish mark was imprinted on the beautiful girl’s face, and with this red mark, testimony to my brutality, she continued walking around all afternoon. It’s impossible to imagine the painful effect that mark had on me every time it passed before my eyes. Although I concealed it by feigning happiness, my heart felt sad and kept crying out to myself: “You wretch!” When my little friends passed by us, they would turn to me again and call me a brute. Oh, how I wished she would do the same! But no: she simply gave me a timid glance, which she quickly averted. It was a look so sweet and so sad that I was overcome with impulses to throw myself off the roadside and break my neck, or at least cause myself some serious injury. When I got home that night, I was determined to perform something transcendental. I locked myself in my room, took up my pen, and wrote the most absurd letter ever written in the second half of the 19th century. It was a mixture of Chachas and Abelardo with certain memories of my aunt’s Unhappy Trunk and Lamartine’s The Lake, sprinkled all with a few drops of Espronceda’s The Student of Salamanca. I pathetically begged Antoñita’s forgiveness, declared my love for her in an even more pathetic way, and let her know, should she not grant me both, of my irrevocable intention to no longer attend classes and let myself slowly die of starvation. But the most serious thing about letters, in cases like mine, is not writing them, but delivering them; everyone knows that. Some people resort to in-house mail. It’s the surest way to ensure they don’t reach the person concerned. Others deliver them in person. This is much more efficient, completely efficient; but such a procedure is reserved for fourth- and fifth-year students who play billiards and see the world. I was a poor second-year Latin student and couldn’t afford to embark on such adventures. I opted for a middle ground. I spied on her maid leaving on an errand, followed her surreptitiously, and as she was about to enter a haberdashery, I approached her and, with the same humble attitude of a beggar asking for alms, said: “Would you do me the favor of delivering this letter to Antoñita?” The voice came from my lips like a soft breath, barely making a perceptible sound. “What are you saying, child?” she asked abruptly. Then I, who must have been pale, turned red. The same embarrassment I felt made me repeat my request forcefully. The maid looked me in the face with smiling curiosity, and for a few moments she hesitated, perhaps between slapping me or pulling my ears ; finally, she said, snatching the letter from my hands: “Well, I’ll give it to her!” She was a good girl. She kept her word. The next day I was walking down Antoñita Street and she leaned out over the balcony, but I didn’t dare look at her except from a distance. When I passed by, instead of raising my eyes, I cast them down, staring persistently at the sidewalk. But lo and behold, one of the times I saw a small piece of paper fall in front of me, on this sidewalk. I got out, picked it up, and without looking at the balcony either, I put it in my pocket and disappeared. After I turned the corner, I opened it with a trembling hand. Inside I found, To add weight, a small piece of pencil—the pencil, no doubt—with which two lines were written, which read: “You are forgiven. If you love me, I love you too.” These lines were horribly crooked, and the letters were horribly large, and also humped and trembling, as if they had been drawn by the wrinkled fingers of an old woman rather than a pretty child’s hand. But I would have prostrated myself before them like a Muslim before Mohammed’s autograph. I had a sweetheart now! This was my first vain thought. I repeat , love plays little part in children’s relationships. Nevertheless, I felt particularly attracted to that little girl who so sweetly forgave my brutality. In the following days, I continued to walk her down the street, and, my shyness now dissipated, I would look at her for a long time, and she also looked at me with extraordinary attention. We were like two cats, though without uttering the slightest meow; that is to say, not a single word passed between us. I used to wait for her when she left school. A close friend offered me the service of accompanying me on these occasions, and we followed her together. She walked hanging on the arm of her nanny, occasionally turning her head to give me a quick glance. The nanny turned her head more frequently and smiled, and occasionally she also beckoned me to come closer. Oh, what courage that would take! I had, however, a fortunate idea. Since I often strolled down the street without her being on the balcony, the thought occurred to me to buy a whistle and whistle. It took Antonita a while to realize that I was the one behind those prolonged whistles, but when she found out, as soon as she heard the whistling, she would go out onto the balcony. But damned luck! Some foreign students who were staying nearby observed my maneuvers and, after buying a whistle just like mine, lured Antonita out repeatedly to no avail. One of these students is still alive. And when I go through Asturias, he reminds me of the joke, and we laugh a lot. And after laughing , we usually both remain silent and melancholic. This incident caused me some unease, but it couldn’t compare to what I experienced shortly after. I believe I mentioned that a close friend sometimes accompanied me on my walks along Antoñita’s Street and also when I went to wait for her at school. Well, this friend suddenly began to cool off toward me; he would stay away from me in the university cloisters; he refused to accompany me when I suggested it, and I even noticed that he pretended not to see me so as not to get close. A few days later, I found him standing in front of Antoñita’s balconies, staring persistently in their direction. As soon as he saw me, he continued on his way. But another day, I found him again in the same position, and then he didn’t move or even greet me. In the following days, he began to shamelessly stroll down my girlfriend’s street and even went to wait for her at school accompanied by another friend. This first betrayal I suffered in my life surprised me greatly; Which proves the theory that we’ve lived other lives before this one is false. Because if I had lived before, even a little while, I would have found it quite natural. To add insult to injury, I noticed my girlfriend flirting with him, a little spark. A current of high-pressure hatred was produced between him and me. All it took was one occasion to establish the circuit. The contact came while I was walking through the university cloister before class time. I would give him furious glances every time we passed; he avoided looking at me because he undoubtedly still had a shred of modesty left. However, the friends who were walking with him must have warned him that I was looking at him provocatively, and he felt humiliated by this warning, because on one of the turns, he turned his face toward me and fixed me with an insistent and challenging stare. The clash was terrible, extremely ferocious. I was so eager to strike, and I struck with such fury that I didn’t feel his. We hugged each other, we tried hard to knock each other down and, not being able to do it, we We separated and returned to blows, and once again hatred brought us together, body to body. A circle of boys had formed around us , watching the combat like a cockfight. But suddenly, I felt a kick and a punch from behind. This couldn’t have come from my enemy. Indeed, fingers larger than his had grabbed me by the neck, and I heard a terrible voice shouting: “Caretaker! Open the coal scuttle.” It was the secretary of the Institute, who was also a professor of History and Geography, who had watched us from his vantage point in the Secretariat. The caretaker opened the coal scuttle and shoved us inside. The secretary of the Institute was an excellent teacher; everyone acknowledged that. He was also a man of good intentions and courage, as he demonstrated some time later by resigning his professorship and joining the ranks of the Carlist army. But the secretary of the Institute possessed neither insight nor foresight. Because if I had them, I wouldn’t lock up two boys who were fighting furiously. The deadly, furious fight continued. We rolled on the ground, and sometimes he fell on top and sometimes I did. We fought desperately, and in silence. After a while, our strength began to fail. At least I clearly felt mine weakening. One of the times I fell underneath, I couldn’t get up, and he managed to put his knee to my chest. I was defeated. “Swear you won’t walk down Antoñita Street again. ” “I swear,” I replied. “Swear it by your mother. ” “I swear it by my mother.” Then he let me go; we stood up and brushed off our jackets and trousers. Five minutes later, they came to open the door for us to go into the classroom. And then nothing had happened. I could have broken my oath without serious risk, because our strength was fairly evenly matched; but I respected it religiously. I didn’t go down Antoñita Street again. After fifteen or twenty days, as I was strolling as usual in the cloister, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned around and found my former friend, who said to me in a matter-of-fact tone: “Listen, if you want, you can stroll as much as you like down Antoñita’s Street . ” “No way,” I replied. “I swore by my mother. ” “What does it matter!” he retorted. “The oath no longer binds you, since I’m setting you free.” And immediately afterward, he joined me and declared in expressive terms that Antoñita was a presumptuous fool, unworthy of a serious man like himself wearing out the soles of his boots parading her around the street; that he was deeply in love with a confectioner’s daughter, and that she shared his flame, since she threw him sweets and doughnuts of advice from her balcony. I realized clearly that all this was dictated by spite, and that, in reality, she was releasing me from my oath because Antoñita had not been favorable to her. In fact, when I decided to wait for her again outside school and walk under her balconies, I found her so expressive, so kind, and smiling, that it surprised me. I was surprised because I didn’t know then, like Taso, “of woman, the precise condition,” nor, like Shakespeare, that she was “perfidious as a wave.” I was so naive that I didn’t understand that my withdrawal, which she judged voluntary, had resulted in the defeat of my rival. Chapter 31. SECOND READINGS. During my years in secondary school, many books fell into my hands. It was chance that brought them, not a discreet hand; so my readings reigned with a dissonant heterogeneity and very diverse qualities. My father had always allowed me to live with an intellectual independence that would shock a teacher. Because my father, with his humorous and paradoxical pessimism, laughed at pedagogy. He thought and repeated endlessly that education was of little use; that nature did everything. He who was born a fool would remain a fool all his life, even if the most illustrious teachers were unable to make him wise. I do not dispute this subversive opinion; but I affirm that its system, or rather, its lack of system, did not produce in me such disastrous results as might have been expected. Furthermore, one might venture that if the reading of certain books had been imposed upon me by authority, I would probably have developed a hatred for them all. On this occasion, as on many other occasions, perhaps it is better to entrust oneself to Providence. “The person you should love will come into your arms; the book you should read will come into your hands,” says a modern philosopher. However, I very much doubt that Providence sent me directly at that time the horrifying novels of a French writer named Ponson du Terraill. But, on the other hand, who can decide whether the substances we ingest have a beneficial or harmful effect on our organism? Nature carries out a silent work in its innermost core, often transforming poisons into medicines, and other times, alas!, medicines into poisons. Who knows if those novels, filtered through the sieves and distilled in the alembics of my spirit, may have ultimately released a nourishing juice? What I can affirm, without hesitation, is that at that time they tasted like syrup to me. Pleasure doesn’t last long in this world. Those novels of fantastic adventure and dark intrigue eventually tired me out. When disenchantment came, I fortunately stumbled upon others that captivated me in a more spiritual way. I read several by Bulver Lytton, and through them I was initiated into psychological observation, the expression of character, and the sentimental grace that characterizes English novelists. They caused me such delight that in my mature age I wanted to read them again. The same thing happened to me as with other books. The spell was broken, and I was unable to mend it. Bulver Lytton is a notable writer, but his novels of manners are infected with what might be called a mania for adventure, and cannot be compared with those of the great masters Goldsmith, Fielding, Dickens, and Thackeray. His best fables are, in my opinion, the historical ones *Nicolas Rienzi* and *The Last Days of Pompeii*. Later, I rose even higher. My cousin had introduced me to Espronceda, as I have already said. No poet made a deeper and more lasting impression on me. Of all the works I read in my childhood, his poem *The Devil’s World* is one of the few that has not ceased to delight me; it has delighted me in my mature age and still delights me in my old age. There is an iconoclastic age in man , in which he takes pleasure in smashing with hammer blows the idols he worshipped in his adolescence. Espronceda always remains on the altar I have erected to him. His _Canto a Teresa_ is the most harmonious and vibrant page that Spanish lyric poetry has produced, and can be compared, without discredit, to Lamartine’s _Lake_, Musset’s _Noche de Octubre_, and the most pathetic songs of Byron’s _Childe Harold_. But this Spain of ours, cold and almost always aloof with the children who most illustriously exemplify it, has not yet paid him the tribute of admiration he owes. Reproduced in bronze and marble, the figures of some great men and others of very average quality appear throughout the streets of Madrid; but I do not yet see the radiant brow of Don José Espronceda, the most inspired Spaniard born in the 19th century, rising among them. I still took a few more steps along the path of Aesthetics. Through Espronceda, I acquired a taste for poetry and read some of the most beautiful that the nine sisters have inspired in mortals. I read Homer’s _Iliad_ in the university library, translated into free verse by Hermosilla. Although this translation is known for being indigestible, it gave me extreme pleasure. The edition was excellent, luxurious, and this contributes more than is generally believed to making books more agreeable to us. For several days I lived in constant enchantment between those divine heroes and those human gods. Above all, the goddesses played havoc with my childish imagination and quickly converted me to paganism. I was an inveterate I was a pagan for more than two months, without my family or my teachers suspecting it. How our enormous and resounding professor of Religion and Morals would scream if he knew the people who frequented my brain! I also wanted to read Milton’s Paradise Lost , translated by Canon Escoiquiz, in the same library, but it was impossible. It bored me to no end. I was then, as I have just stated, a pagan who burned incense on the altars of idols. Those floating legions of angels and archangels suspended in space, with no ground to rest on, seemed to me like sad acrobats. Later, blaming the translator, I tried to reread this poem in a French translation; much later still, I tried to read it in the original. I was always overcome by the same disgust. Finally, in my glorious days as a critic, I said to myself: “Milton is a great poet, but his poem is unbearable.” Christianity, a spiritualist religion and enemy of plastic forms, cannot and should not be joined by mythology, precisely because it has come to destroy them all. That is why the more or less plausible attempts to add one have always failed. Once this irrevocable verdict was issued and endorsed, my worries and remorse regarding the famous poem were dispelled. My paganism did not last long. A few months later, I was converted to Islam. The person in charge of this nefarious work was Clorinda, the famous heroine of *Jerusalem Delivered*. That intrepid and beautiful woman, a fortunate creation of the great Italian poet Torquato Taso, bewitched me to the point of daydreaming. And since my imagination was accustomed to representing the most illustrious creations of poets with the features of some real-life beings I knew, I felt like lending Clorinda the face and figure of a young woman I saw almost every day. She was of humble means, the daughter of a cabinetmaker who had his workshop not far from my house. When I arrived in Oviedo, she was no more than fifteen years old, but she was as tall as a woman; so she not only outshone me in age but even more so in size. Well, one day I had the bad idea of making her a target for my slingshot; I believe I said that I was quite proud of my skill in this kind of fencing. I did, in fact, hit her with an orange peel right in the face, exactly as I had done a few days before with Antoñita. But alas! She didn’t receive it with exactly the same patience; on the contrary, she came at me, shooting rays from her beautiful eyes, for she had very beautiful ones. I must confess, she snatched the slingshot from my grasp and gave me a superb slap that reddened my face. I tried to defend myself, but she held my hands so easily and sang so beautifully and to her liking that I had no more desire to offend her. Needless to say, from then on I harbored a mortal hatred for her. When I went to class with my books under my arm and found her standing at the door of her father’s workshop, I would cast a few pulsing glances at her, which she would usually respond to with a mocking and disdainful smile. In two years, that child had transformed into a handsome young woman, majestic and somewhat mannish in her manner. When I happened to read Thasus’s poem, my imagination began to see Clorinda, the valiant Amazon of the infidels, with the face and figure of the cabinetmaker’s daughter. This was no great mistake, for I repeat, she had beautiful and fierce eyes; and as for strength, I had already been able to assess it at my expense. I have no doubt that if she were mounted on horseback and wielding a lance, she could hold her own with any modern Tancred. For as soon as I transformed her by my own imagination into an Amazon for the infidel defenders of Jerusalem, she dissipated—a curious fact! I cast away all my hatred and began to love her unbridledly. Instead of giving her piercing and malignant glances, I began to give her direct and gentle ones. When I saw her from a distance at the door of the workshop, I slowed my pace to savor the pleasure of contemplating her gentle figure for a longer time. If she didn’t She was there, crossing swiftly and far. But I almost always arranged for her to be there, for she would spy on the hours when I came to bring her father’s food and would advance or delay my comings and goings from the house in conjunction with them. The haughty warrior did not view this change with pleasure, nor did she accept my visual homages. At first, they surprised her, and she looked at me with some curiosity; then she would look away from me with disdain and even turn her back on me; finally, taking offense at my performance, she would fix me from afar with an angry and challenging look that made my face blush. Ungrateful woman! I loved her, however, more and more every day. This same cruelty still likened her to the fierce Clorinda. How often I was tempted to stand before her and say to her like Tancred: “Since you do not want peace with me, the conditions of our fight will be that you tear out my heart!” This heart, which is no longer mine, asks for death if its life displeases you. It has been yours for a long time; take it; I have no right to defend it! Fortunately, I never dared to throw such a speech at him. Had I done so, I think he would have torn me to pieces. Fortunately, I soon shook off the yoke of the crescent moon and ceased to be a Muslim. Other Christian heroines, and therefore more pious than the cabinetmaker’s daughter, captured my soul. I read Ariosto’s Orlando Furioso , and although I did not then penetrate the subtle irony hidden beneath its epic songs, a precursor to that of our great Don Quixote, I was still extremely amused by its many interesting adventures. Finally, I read yet another poem, Os Luisiadas by Camòens. It may well be said, then, that the years of secondary school were for me the age of poems. This is the only one, except for Espronceda’s, that I read in its native language; because ancient Portuguese is so similar to Castilian that any Spaniard can understand it. I must not retain a pleasant impression of this poem. I took the book, which was a beautiful diamante edition, to Entralgo during a Christmas vacation and read it by the fireside. But it so happened that, going out unexpectedly one day into the cold air, I was struck by ophthalmia, which I have suffered from all my life. Parallel to this literary interest, another began to run through my life to which I perhaps owe even greater and more solid pleasures: the interest in books on history, philosophy, criticism, and social science. Although it may seem strange, these two tendencies have shared my spirit to this day, and if I am to speak honestly, I think the second always had deeper roots than the first. For having expressed this to a foreign journalist and having printed it in his diary, another London newspaper mocked me by exclaiming: “A lover of philosophy, a man who writes a novel every year!” Well, God knows it’s the truth. God knows it, and so did my good friend Angel Jiménez, also known as Dr. Angelico, whose papers I published years ago. At the same time that I was writing my novels, I thought with delight of the scientific books I had bought and longed to finish them so that I could devote a few months to their reading. In my adolescence or in the early years of my youth, I never dreamed of the laurels of a poet: I thought I was born to be a scientist. And I must honestly confess that when certain circumstances, which I do not wish to explain, impelled me to write novels, I considered myself dislocated, and all my life I experienced the vague feeling of having suffered a capitis deminutio. During my secondary school years I read many good books: Prescott’s _History of the Catholic Monarchs and Philip II_ ; Solís’s _Conquest of Mexico_; Guizot’s _History of the English Revolution_; a large part of César Cantú’s _Universal History_; Young Anacharsis’s _Journey through Greece_; Hugo Blair’s _Lessons in Literature_; Jules Simon’s _Duty_; Cormenin’s _Book of Orators_; works by Michelet and Laboulaye, etc., etc. I also read some of the books that were then in fashion, *The Words of a Believer* by Lamennais, and *The World Marches On* by a gentleman named Pelletan. The metaphorical and emphatic style of these writers, in which Edgar Quinet excelled like no other, seduced me then as much as it infuriates me now. In oratory he produces marvelous effects, and our Emile Castelar owes his triumphs to him; but in books he is cloying, and Castelar’s own works are a good example of this . But of all the works I read then, the one that struck me the hardest and captivated me the most was *History of European Civilization* by Guizot. These lectures, given at the Sorbonne, were a revelation to me and initiated me into what we call the philosophy of history. They so impressed me that after reading them several times, I resolved to learn them by heart. And so I put it into practice: I would read a lecture repeatedly, then close the book and write it down, transcribing it almost verbatim. Alas! Because of these grand summaries, I later suffered from indigestion in my youth. Europe was inundated with historical generalizations in the last third of the last century. Not only did our university professors overwhelm us with them, but in the speeches of orators at the Athenaeum, in those of the Congress of Deputies, and even in church sermons, generalizations were made in a frightening way: they always began with Adam and ended with the House of Austria. Everyone began to generalize at that time. Authors, orators, and journalists generalized; generalized, imitating him, the doctors would come to take our pulse, the lawyers would do in their reports even on a very modest murder, the merchants when they passed off a Catalan item as English, and the landladies of boarding houses when they asked us for money in advance. Mine one day traced for me, in broad synthetic strokes, and in the space of just an hour, the history of its greatness and decline in a discourse filled with images, exclamations, and all kinds of rhetorical devices. Sometimes, scanning my library, I stumble upon Guizot’s famous book and take it in my hand. Its appearance is venerable, like that of the great manor houses from which time has failed to erase the seal of their grandeur. Its luxurious binding is already quite faded, quite ruined; its corners worn; its spine deteriorated; but it has an air of dignity that commands respect. Nevertheless, I turn it over in my hands and smile. My smile must be tinged with mockery and disdain, because the book seems to be looking at me sadly and saying through a small, torn mouth on its spine: “Don’t laugh, don’t laugh, ungrateful and presumptuous man! If you have found greater riches in other books than in mine, it was I who first spoke to your youthful intelligence. At that time, you listened to me with rapture and learned from me to unravel the hidden meaning of events and to meditate on their causes and effects. Remember the spirited excitement with which you assimilated my thoughts and the illusions that filled your mind at the time and the hopes you conceived of becoming a wise man. If you haven’t been one, it wasn’t my fault, because others have achieved it, starting with books that aren’t as valuable as mine. Remember those happy hours we used to spend together on summer nights under the big kerosene lamp when all was quiet in the village and your poor mother, sitting opposite you, working with her crochet hook, hardly dared to cough so as not to disturb your studies. I am an old and faithful friend from your boyhood. Don’t make fun of me! Then I, in turn, become serious and sad. I remain motionless and thoughtful for a long time; and at last, wiping away a tear, I respectfully replace the book where it was. Chapter 32. GIVING DRINK TO THE THIRSTY. There are men who would do well never to die: one of them, my Professor of Rhetoric and Poetry and further Latin in the third year of high school. They would do well not to die, because they are the joy of the human race, which so needs them to endure its miseries. Our professor instilled joy in the soul as soon as he opened his mouth, and the same when he closed it. He was a man of advanced years, short in stature, and sported, in the fashion of his youth, black sideburns that started from the base of his nose and reached his ears. There was a rumor in Oviedo that he dyed these sideburns with boot polish. The reader is free to accept this or not , because I have not been able to verify it. What I can affirm is that sometimes he appeared before us with them, so lustrous and shiny, they seemed to have come from a shoe-shine parlor. My professor had a classical mind and a romantic heart. Because of his profession and his study of pagan antiquity, he admired Greek and Roman heroes and esteemed their poets, especially Tibullus and Virgil. The gods of Olympus inspired great respect in him, although he nevertheless accuses them of a certain lack of sensitivity. As for the goddesses, he loved them without restraint. He would enthusiastically read us Virgil’s description of Venus in the Aeneid and Horace’s Carmen Sæculare; but I have only ever seen him weep over Zorrilla’s Poem to Mary: “I am going to tell you the divine story of a woman to whom my soul belongs,” etc. Then the tears would trickle down his cheeks, enter his sideburns, and drag along some sediment. He had been a professor of Greek, but he was no longer one. A careless minister had recently expelled him from secondary school. It was the bitterest disappointment of his life. It was a treacherous stab in the back. Not precisely because of the admiration he professed for Homer, Sophocles, and Pindar, but because of the vehement passion that Greek roots had managed to inspire in him. He was deeply in love with Greek roots. And when that ill-advised minister forbade him from explaining them in class, life seemed much more insipid to him. He was a born orator, and he frequently used this faculty to deliver lively and lengthy reproaches to us when we confused a preterite with a supine tense. They were so long that sometimes they alone filled the entire hour of class. But in his most pathetic orations he did not imitate Cicero or Demosthenes; He rather adopted the poetic and plaintive accents of the heroes of Chateaubriand and his school: “My son,” he would say to the scandalous man who had confused the preterite with the supine, “the poison of vice has already poisoned your childish soul and coils around you like a black serpent. You walk, I realize with a heart pierced by pain, you walk along the dark path at whose end lies the fatal cavern of sorrow and remorse. Because it is not in vain that the advice of our parents and the teachings of our teachers are violated. Through a frightful web of mistakes, rejected by your family, reviled by your friends, pointed at by society in general, you will finally find yourself abandoned by all and perhaps dragging the chain of a prisoner in a dark dungeon. And who knows, perhaps one day you will emerge from there, pale, trembling, disheveled, and you will see with horror, before your sunken eyes, the black silhouette of the gallows rising. It must be confessed that all this was in bad taste; but Chateaubriand and Victor Hugo also sometimes suffer from the same malady. It is one of the school’s flaws. Nevertheless, our professor abused, like no other Romantic, the black silhouette of the gallows. But if he had the defects of the Romantic school, he equally possessed its virtues. He was as chaste as a Knight of the Round Table. Despite having associated all his life with the deities of paganism, who, as everyone knows, walk completely naked, he had not been infected by their immodesty. The more or less libertine language of some Roman poets offended him. I remember that one day, while translating Ovid’s Third Elegy , that is to say, the famous _triste_, which begins: _Quum subiit Illius tristissima noctis imago_, he gave me an unforgettable lesson in honesty. We had reached the passage where the poet describes the moments of his departure for exile. Three times he had stepped onto the threshold of his house and three times he had retraced his steps to embrace and kiss his wife. _Sape, vale dicto, vursus sum multa locutus,_ _Et quasi discedens oscula summa dedi._ I translated: “Several times, after the last farewell, I resumed our conversation, and, as if I were leaving, I gave her many kisses.” –Oh, no, my son! It is not translated like this: “I turned… and, as if I were leaving, I gave her the kiss of peace.” There is no doubt that my translation was more literal; But his was more chaste. Although according to all divine and human laws, it seems to me that we are authorized to give our wives all the kisses we want when we are about to undertake a long journey. I cannot help but recall his dignified and somewhat sarcastic behavior on a certain memorable occasion when the students of the second, third, fourth , and fifth years resolved to disregard the governmental authority. I believe I mentioned that in the first year we were studying a subject called “Religion and Morality,” of which the athletic, table-breaking priest was the professor. After that year, we no longer had any connection with religion and morality. But when I was in the third year, a minister rose to power and decided to issue an order by which all the students of the baccalaureate were to gather, I don’t remember whether once or twice a week, to hear the explanation of the catechism. The catechism! That seemed to us the ultimate degradation. If they had tried to brand us with a disgraceful brand on our foreheads with a red iron, I don’t think we would have been more furious. A formidable and unprecedented conspiracy was immediately organized at the Institute. The conspirators were all to appear on the day of the conference, armed with whistles, and… God above all; we were not responsible for what happened, but the vile henchmen of Power were pushing us to such audacious extremes. Indeed, the day of the first conference arrived. The sun rose splendorous from the confines of the horizon, and remained so all day. People walked through the streets peacefully, unaware of the impending conflict. During the morning, a dull commotion, a precursor to a storm, could be felt in the University cloisters. We were all nervous and serious; we spoke to each other little and in low voices. At three in the afternoon, the cloisters were completely filled with students awaiting the conference. At 3:30, the colossal and mighty figure of the priest appeared in the doorway of the teachers’ lounge . The sight of it and the eruption of a deafening whistle were all in one. The professor remained in suspense for a moment; but finally, understanding, he raised his head and cast a furious lion’s gaze over the flock of microscopic beings at his feet making those discordant sounds. Behind him appeared the tiny figure of the professor of Rhetoric and Poetics, still dressed in his cap and gown. The priest advanced a few steps and, overcome with an insane rage, began to rebuke us in such a loud voice that our whistles were almost too loud: “You fools! Do you think you can frighten me with those vulgar noises? You are very much mistaken.” You know that I, whether I wear a priest’s habit or wield a warrior’s sword… Know, you fools, that I am like a noble horse: the more you load it, the more upright it stands! An elephant would have been better. In any case, the simile was absolutely false, because a horse, no matter how noble its breed, if you put too great a load on it, will eventually lie down. These reasons, uttered in a stentorian voice, were accompanied by such a Such a frightful flailing of arms and legs that I was afraid he might throw himself around one of the columns of the portico and bring the building crashing down on us and himself like Samson. The tiny professor of Rhetoric and Poetics at his side, dressed in a toga, looked like the king of Lilliput accompanying Gulliver. Motionless and smiling, he looked at us with pitying eyes and exclaimed softly from time to time : “Not even in the tangled jungles of Africa!” It was the most rhetorical and poetic way of calling us Kaffirs or Hottentots. But the priest’s voices were so loud, so barbaric, that they must have been heard not only in Oviedo but in its surroundings as well. “Inside! Inside, you fools! Inside right now, or I’ll trample you all like miserable ants! ” What happened back there then? Well, nothing; one by one we all entered like meek lambs into a classroom. From then on, I lost confidence in myself, and I no longer believe in the value of crowds. On another, happier occasion, the Greco-Roman figure of my professor of Rhetoric comes to mind and comes to mind. This gentleman owned a villa or recreational area at the foot of the hill that protects Oviedo from the northern winds, where he would rest from his labors on the Greek roots, working the cabbage roots. It was a small villa, very small, so small that, as they said in Oviedo, when the only cricket that lived there came out of its hole to sing, the professor was forced to leave the property. Nevertheless, our professor took it very seriously: and when he was there, he tried to imitate, as much as possible, sometimes Horace and sometimes Cincinnatus. He worked the land with his own hands, then rested like Tityrus under the leaves of a tree, and didn’t play the flute because he didn’t know how. On the other hand, he would sometimes willingly sip, not the Falernian, not the Syracuse, but our Nava wine, which cannot compete with them in aroma or energy. And when he returned from his garden after spending a few hours there working, resting, and sipping, and entered the classroom, our teacher didn’t seem from this century, but rather Marcus Fabius Quintilian himself, who had taken the trouble to emerge from his grave to explain to us the use of intransitive verbs. It so happened that one holiday, five or six of us boys set out early in the morning to hunt birds with a rubber band, each of us equipped with our own cage. We walked for a long time along the slope of the hill and caught hardly anything. Finally, very tired and sweaty, we decided to return home, as it was approaching midday. As we walked quickly back, we caught sight of, not far away, our teacher’s tiny estate, surrounded by a pitiful little wall. I don’t know which of us thought of paying him a visit. It was said that he was extremely affable when he was engaged in agricultural work and that he was pleased to receive visits from his students then. We entered through a rickety little door, and indeed the first thing we saw was our professor in his shirtsleeves with a hoe in his hands, poised to dig potatoes. Despite his lackluster position, we greeted him with the greatest respect, and he welcomed us with the affable gravity of an old Roman from the noble Priscian family. “My children,” he said to us, as soon as the greetings were over, “Marius Curius was the greatest Roman of his time. After having defeated many warlike peoples and driven Pyrrhus from Italy and enjoyed the honors of triumph three times, he retired to a humble hut like the one you see here and cultivated a small garden himself. When the ambassadors of the Sammites came to offer him gold, which he refused, he was sitting at the foot of his hearth, busy boiling turnips… The Emperor Diocletian, after twenty-five years of glorious reign, voluntarily abdicated the scepter and went to shut himself up in his little retreat at Salonika. There he lived quietly and happily for some years doing what he had always dreamed of. I am doing at this moment. When they again offered him the purple, he replied with a compassionate smile: “If you could see all the cabbages I have planted this year with my own hands in Salonika, you would certainly not advise me to exchange such happiness for a crown.” “Look, look, my children, I too can say, what beautiful potatoes I harvest this year!” We greatly admired those potatoes, which had nothing admirable about them. The prospect of the exams, which were approaching, made them interesting to us at that moment. Then he invited us to sit on a rustic bench, and facing us, without letting go of the hoe in his hand, he continued: “Beatus ille, my children, blessed is he who, removed from business and free from all care, cultivates the fields of his fathers!” Thus exclaims Horace in the Second Epodus. And our sweet Fra Luis de León, happily imitating him, said: “What a restful life is that of one who flees from worldly noise!” Nature, dear children, works on the heart, and country life inspires sweet sentiments, disposing us to happiness. The love of the countryside, the repose and the taste for beautiful nature seduce me as much as Horace and Fray Luis de León, and here on this poor and isolated estate, far from the tumultuous city, pointing with my hand toward Oviedo, I revive the times of the golden age and willingly renounce all the pleasures of the world, the splendors of the city, the glitter of grandeur, and the spectacle of dissipation, preferring the hard work of the farmer and his innocent pleasures. We were terribly thirsty, so we couldn’t pay due attention to that praise of country life. One of us ventured to interrupt him, begging him to give us a little water, if he had any. He didn’t take kindly to the interruption and said to us, turning serious: “You’ll find the amphora inside there.” You may drink from it, but be careful to leave me a little water, because the spring is far away and I have no time to send for it now. We entered Marius Curius’s hut. The amphora was a thick, pot-bellied jug, which, if he had any shame, which he had none, would blush to hear himself called that. When he reached me, it already contained little water, for my companions had drunk first. So I drank all that was left without remembering the professor’s warning. Finally, we said goodbye to him, once again praising his vile potatoes with enthusiastic words. Certainly, only the prospect of the exam could make us such groveling flatterers of those tubers. The next day in class, he complained bitterly about our inconsiderate behavior. He gave a declamatory and tearful speech, as always, which lasted for a good half hour. He rebuked us in the most pathetic way imaginable, making dire predictions about our future. Of this memorable speech, like all his, replete with apostrophes, hypotyposes, epiphonemes, and other rhetorical figures, I only remember this phrase, uttered with a pained accent, that went straight to the heart. “To leave your old teacher in a barren wasteland without a drop of water to moisten his lips! ” That was not my purpose; I declare it with my hand on my heart. Pressed by necessity, I satisfied it without remembering my old teacher at that moment. If one delves deeply into the matter, one will find a similar reason for almost all the evils committed in the world. Chapter 33. THE ATHENAEUM. During those days, that is, in my third year of high school, I became acquainted with a few students who were more advanced than I was in their careers. They were, therefore, finishing their secondary education. It was a studious group of boys of notable wit and discretion. Some of them died young; others have distinguished themselves in various public careers. Only two devoted themselves to literature: Leopoldo Alas and Tomás Tuero. The former became, under the pseudonym of _Clarín_, an eminent critic; the latter, due to his precarious The situation, and even more so his invincible apathy, did not produce what we all expected. Alas had a livelier, more prolific wit, and, of course, much more dedicated to his studies; Tuero, on the other hand, possessed a more refined taste and a greater poetic instinct. I bonded especially with these two. At first, they welcomed me with ill-disguised disdain. At that time, I was only known at the Institute for my turbulent and quarrelsome nature. Alas later told me that before meeting me, he had once seen me leave the University cloisters challenged by another boy. Accompanied by another dear friend of ours, who is still alive, they followed us, saying to each other: “Let’s see how these idiots fight.” It was raining heavily, and, sheltered under their umbrellas, they followed us to San Francisco Park and there, laughing, witnessed our furious battle. For those friends already possessed a maturity of judgment that I was far from achieving. It is no wonder, then, that they accepted my friendship with reservations and indirectly gave me to understand that I was not up to their standards. They regarded me as a Boeotian who had rashly trespassed in the gardens of Academus. As soon as I joined them, I saw clearly the absurdity of my conduct and renounced my ridiculous quarrels. They too soon understood that I was not entirely what I seemed, and I was able to enjoy the surprise I saw in their eyes when I began to take an active part in their literary conversations. I have said that Alas had managed to become an eminent critic, and that is not entirely accurate. He became so after his death. While he lived, his great talent was not recognized; he was denied fire and water. All because he had indulged in the innocent habit of saddle-packing donkeys that passed through the street without one. These peaceful animals generally turned furiously against him, kicking him to pieces and riddling him with bites. And not only did they do this, but they also managed to get all the individuals of his kind scattered throughout Spain to bare their teeth and be ready to play the same game with him. It was truly reckless in those days to speak well of Alas. I was one of those reckless individuals, and for this, and also for having incurred suspicion by thinking of dedicating myself, like him, to a land surveyor, I was put under suspicion. They didn’t kick me, but they punished me with disapproving silence. When my novels appeared in booksellers’ windows, they walked past them, pretending not to see them and pricking up their ears meaningfully. Tuero has not achieved celebrity, neither in life nor in death, although he deserved it. He was a pain in writing, like all men of exquisite taste, and, lacking the means of fortune, it was impossible for him to work quietly on a work that would immortalize him. He became a journalist and died as an editor of El Liberal. He was of little use for the case because the periodical press requires expeditious, not refined, men. However, if one were to collect some of his articles, one would clearly see what a great writer lurked beneath that modest daily newspaper editor. There was something so original in Tuero’s spirit, such childish petulance alongside such sharp humor, that it surprised and disconcerted those with whom he interacted. His conversation was extremely entertaining, sometimes mordant, sometimes sentimental, sometimes extravagant and fantastic, always surprising. His instinct for beauty was so sure that I laughingly called him “doctor infallibilis.” While Alas erred more than once, both in applauding and in censuring, and allowed himself to be dominated by the reputations he found, Tuero always remained serene and independent, aiming with mathematical precision at beauty wherever it lay hidden. I remember that in our youth we attended together the premiere of a play , which was a success as flattering as had rarely been seen in Madrid: noisy applause, endless acclamations, a An incredible outpouring of enthusiasm. As we were leaving the performance, five or six of us were walking together, making complimentary comments about the play’s author. Tuero remained silent. Suddenly, he stopped and said point-blank: “Tonight I have convinced myself that I am the most talented man in Spain. Yes; I can no longer doubt it,” he continued, “because the play we just saw is, to me, utterly execrable. ” We were stupefied. One of us confronted him indignantly. “What? What are you saying? We have never witnessed such a grand, unanimous, one might say, delirious success. ” “Yes, delirious; the word is well applied because only when delirious can one applaud such a work,” replied Tuero. How right he was! A few years later, it was no longer performed in the theaters, and no one remembered such an acclaimed dramatic production. I was, then, converted by the work and grace of those good friends from a stubborn gladiator into a man of letters. But our literature then consisted mainly of discussing authors and arguing about grammatical rules. We spent our lives arguing. If one person used a word improperly applied to a discourse; if another used the wrong spelling; if another writer hadn’t put the commas in their proper place. Everything was fodder for heated arguments that lasted indefinitely, for no one wanted to be convicted of ignorance, and we defended our spelling and our spelling as a lioness might defend her cubs. We stalked each other constantly, spied with intense attention on each other’s words, and fell upon some impure word like hungry vultures on rotten meat. In these linguistic minutiae, Alas almost always emerged victorious, because he attached even greater importance to them than the others and poured his whole soul into them. He was also the owner, as we later learned, of a dictionary of Gallicisms, and with this weapon, which he kept secret, he often inflicted mortal wounds on us. In our philological discussions, we followed the method of the Peripatetic school; that is, we argued while walking. After classes were over, as was known, we would set out on the damp streets of Oviedo and the stormy grammar session would begin. That life, all things considered, wasn’t very entertaining; but we found it just that. Those who found it neither a little nor very pleasant were the peaceful passersby, whom we annoyed with our uncontrolled shouts and often with our shoving. For we walked so recklessly that we bumped into people coming in the opposite direction and mercilessly crushed the calluses on their feet. Such behavior was not intended to endear us to the local people. Everyone looked at us askance, and on occasion, our clamorous wisdom was rewarded with a smack or a kick. However, all this, when I recall it, moves me. And when I sometimes go to Oviedo and cross the street of Magdalena or Cimadevilla, I stop, moved, and say to myself: “It was here that Leopoldo Alas showed me that _coaligarse_ was a barbaric word translated from French, and that it should be coligarse; it was here that Tuero made me see that I pronounced, in a lame manner, a certain verse by Espronceda. Although I grew accustomed to this way of life and grew more and more in tune with the tastes of my new friends, I must confess that there was something with which I disagreed deep down in my soul. This something was the enthusiasm they felt for certain satirical newspapers that were then published in Madrid, particularly one entitled _Gil Blas_. They couldn’t get enough of reading and commenting on the witty remarks and clever quips that appeared in this newspaper. For them, a man named Luis Ribera, another Roberto Robert, another Sánchez Pérez were famous literary heroes worthy of immortality. The person who showed them the most intense appreciation was Alas, whose vocation as a satirist became evident from an early age. He not only imitated them, writing weekly for his personal use. a newspaper, which he titled Juan Ruiz, but he often sent Gil Blas short articles and verses. A prodigious case: this weekly, so demanding and disdainful of all the literary figures who then existed in Spain, included the writings of a fifteen-year-old boy! I have no doubt that his famous Juan Ruiz contained very valuable passages, worthy of the pen of the editors of that newspaper. I have not read them, nor has anyone else, because Alas’s handwriting was always incredibly perverse, and during his literary career he caused cruel torments to the typographers. But those aggressive witticisms, that literature of sharp arrows, did not inspire warmth in my soul. The moans of the victims, the wounds oozing blood, the throbbing limbs scattered on the ground, caused me disgust instead of joy. I was never fond of the satirical genre, which strays far from humor. Behind the humorist is a pious spirit that smiles melancholically when contemplating the deficiencies and contradictions of human nature. Behind the satirist is only a man who laughs malignantly and enjoys the intellectual misery of his neighbor. Cervantes was a humorist, Larra a satirist. Besides, at that time I had my head full of the beauties of *The Devil’s World*, *Jerusalem Liberated*, and *Orlando Furioso*, and it seemed to me that literature was either this or nothing. To humor my friends, I pretended to admire the back and forth of *Gil Blas*, but my heart was with Espronceda and Taso. And since I felt powerless for this high literature and the small ones were not to my liking, I inwardly resolved , as I have already indicated in the previous chapter, to be a man of science. My only desire then, and for many years after, was to become a distinguished professor. How far I was from imagining that Heaven had destined me to be an epic poet, since the novel, according to aestheticians, is nothing other than the modern form of the epic poem! During that year, we also made friends and began to meet at the home of two boys our age, sons of a wealthy cigar manufacturer from the island of Cuba, whom their father had sent to Oviedo to educate. They were under the care of a very tolerant and kind priest who allowed us to amuse ourselves as we pleased. And the best diversion we chose was the theater. The dramatic art seduces us in the earliest years of life as it has seduced men in the earliest times of history. We constructed a very beautiful stage in the largest living room in the house, for which we were provided with all the elements we deemed necessary. We performed, as might be expected, some Gothic and medieval dramas , and enjoyed the most sublime bliss, declaiming resounding hendecasyllables and brandishing our tinfoil- covered wooden swords . There was among us a most remarkable actor. At least he believed himself to be such, and we were not far from it. He recited with such emphasis and in such a deep, trembling voice, his eyebrows arched fearfully , and his body shook with such lively shudders that no actor of the league had surpassed him before or since. We envied him: he despised us. To avenge his scorn, three or four of us decided to play a dirty trick on him on the day of the performance. He was luxuriously dressed, playing, if my memory serves, the role of a king in a play entitled *The Tent of King Don Sancho*, waiting, with natural excitement, for the moment to appear on stage. We, at his side, in the wings, watched him. Taking advantage of his excitement, we surreptitiously and treacherously slipped a rope around his waist, then tied a noose around his waist. When his moment arrived, he burst onto the stage, unaware that he was carrying the rope, and began to recite with such warmth and enthusiasm that he certainly captivated the audience, composed of our families and friends. But just as he was at the most pathetic part of his speech, we began to pull hard on the rope. We dragged him backstage. He gnashed his teeth and continued declaiming; but we also continued pulling at him, and although the wretch tried to escape his fatal fate by making furious efforts to remain on the stage without ceasing to recite his part, we finally managed to drag him out and bring him back on. What barbaric lamentations! What terrible threats, uttered not in hendecasyllables but in the vilest prose anyone can imagine! He seized the dagger at his waist—thank God it was made of wood! The audience roared with laughter, clapping heartily. He brought him out onto the stage, and with him us, the authors of the little joke, showering us all with applause and throwing sweets in our direction. But Don Sancho did not deign to bend his royal spine to collect them: instead, he continued to frown horribly and cast us flashing glances worthy of an offended Castilian lion. Tired of the theater, we finally decided to found an Athenaeum. It seemed more in keeping with our intellectual superiority, for we did not doubt it one bit, and we were surprised that the townspeople did not pay us the honors due to our rank. We clearly saw the ridiculousness of many mature men, formed a summary judgment of them, and condemned them to contempt. Our professors were also sometimes not spared this compassionate disdain. I remember that the professor of Rhetoric asked Alas, according to what his classmates told me: “Mr. Alas, what are ‘father’ and ‘poor’? ” “Nothing,” he replied. “They are assonant, my son. ” “They are not assonant,” he retorted. There was a brief dispute: the professor flew into a rage and forced him to remain silent. Everyone, however, remained convinced that Alas was right, and it can be assumed that this incident contributed in no small way to our conceit. We thus founded an Athenaeum, the sessions of which were held at the home of the “two Americans,” as we used to call our friends. On Sunday mornings, a dozen or so members of the Athenaeum would gather. A historical or scientific dissertation would be read, and anyone who wished to would object to the speaker would do so. Articles, stories, and verses would then be read. Finally, one of the owners of the house would play us some sonatas or opera pieces on the piano, for he was already a marvelous pianist. At one of those Sunday sessions, I read a conscientious speech about Philip II. I had conducted in-depth research on his reign that lasted no less than two weeks. The result was a warm panegyric of that illustrious king, whom I considered the greatest statesman ever to emerge in the history of Spain. One of the learned members of the Athenaeum did not agree with this assessment, and in a speech that seemed specious to me, he sought to show the shortcomings of that memorable reign. He challenged Philip II to being a fanatic who had fostered ignorance in our country and had handed it over to the Inquisition; to having sent an executioner like the Duke of Alba to Flanders; to having exhausted the public treasury and plundered the nation by maintaining a power there that was of no use to us… In short, a series of disrespectful and baseless charges. I tried to prove it to him, barely suppressing my indignation and feigning a calmness I did not feel. My moderation was of no use; on the contrary, emboldened by it, my adversary repeated his diatribes with increasing fury, heaping the most odious insults on the great king’s head: ignorant, fanatic, squanderer… I lost my mind. I retorted furiously, like a madman. My
opponent was undeterred and, with even louder cries, continued to vociferate against the monarch. Now, at that moment, I was representing, albeit unworthily, King Philip II. I couldn’t allow him to continue being insulted in such an atrocious manner any longer . Besides, I didn’t have the Holy Brotherhood, not even a bad brace, to prevent it. What was I supposed to do in such a difficult situation? Give that foul-mouthed fellow a good smack! the reader will surely ask. Well, that was precisely what I did. A superb slap with a backhand that resounded fatefully in the august halls of the Athenaeum. But alas! my adversary responded with another no less arrogant one, and a cruel struggle ensued between the two. The wise men of the Athenaeum became agitated. Instead of remaining neutral, as befitted their high dignity, they immediately divided into two camps. Some sided with me, that is, with the Catholic king; others openly aided his enemies: the English, the Flemish, and the Lutherans. The battle became general. For a long time, the shouts and blows of the combatants resounded until the good priest who presided over the house came with the servants to restore peace by dissolving our assembly forever. Thus fell and dissolved that memorable Athenaeum that has exerted so much influence on the destinies of Europe. Chapter 34. THE CLUB. It happened that one night we Spaniards went to bed slaves and woke up free. Some philanthropic generals landed in Cadiz were charged with breaking our chains. They marched on Madrid, defeated the government troops along the way, and entered the capital to the strains of the _Hymn of Riego_. Naturally, the sound waves of this _Hymn_ spread in circles like all the others and soon reached the coast of the Peninsula. I perceived them in my dreams, accompanied by the boom of rockets. I got up quickly, went out onto the balcony, and saw platoons of people parading with flags, shouting: Long live liberty! If there is liberty—I immediately told myself—today we will not have a lecture. And I rejoiced at the triumph of liberty. I went out into the street and observed great commotion and rejoicing everywhere. In the Plaza de la Constitución, the crowd was gathered listening to the fiery speech shouted from the balcony of the Town Hall by an honorable, progressive citizen. At the end of this speech, the portrait of the Queen, which was in the assembly hall, was thrown into the square , and the crowd rushed to tear it to pieces, roaring with joy. “Down with crowned heads!” For the first time then, I heard this euphonious cry, which tickled me with pleasure. If it had been: “Down with crowned heads!” it would have had no effect on me. But the word “heads” gave it such prominence, made it so melodious and flattering to the ear, that, if I were king, I think that if I had heard myself called “crowned head,” I would have easily stripped myself of my crown. But the crowd gathered there felt the need to satisfy their fury with something more vivid than paint. To the University! To the University! I followed the crowd to the University and saw them overthrow the bronze bust of Queen Elizabeth, erected in the middle of the courtyard. I confess that when I heard the sinister noise it made falling on the flagstones, a shudder ran through me. Later, I saw some urchins throw a rope around his neck, drag him out of the University , and parade him in this manner through the streets amidst a great uproar. I did not follow them. That spectacle filled me with extreme repugnance. If anyone were to attribute it to a narrow-minded and reactionary spirit, they would be mistaken. I have already said that the cry of “Down with crowned heads !” rang sweetly in my ears, and I add that liberty, equality, and fraternity had me completely enthralled, for at that time I did not know how many filthy little things could be hidden beneath such beautiful words. I was repulsed by such a spectacle simply because I found it ungallant to drag a lady tied by the neck. The day after these grave events, I noticed, with surprise, that my chains were in perfect condition. I mean, I was forced to study my geometry lesson just as if the Bourbon dynasty hadn’t fallen. It’s shameful to say it; but I can’t hide the fact that this somewhat cooled my democratic ardor. And studying the legs and hypotenuses to the strains of the Riego Hymn wasn’t enough to keep it alive. On the contrary, this Hymn, resonating day and night in the streets, came to produce indescribable discomfort in me. After so many years have passed, if by chance I hear it sung or played, a terrifying legion of triangles, quadrilaterals, polygons , rhombuses, and rhomboids suddenly appears before my eyes, and I feel dizzy and overcome with nausea. The Riego Hymn wasn’t the only consolation in the early days of the revolutionary era. There were several other interesting spectacles. Among them, one of the best was watching the National Guard Battalion parade, day and night. This battalion was generally composed of unemployed residents. There were also employed ones, but the former predominated. There was Epifanio, a famous cider drinker, and Roque, an equally renowned cider drinker, and Manolo, who also drank a lot of cider, but always left room for gin. There were the butcher from the Plaza de los Trascorrales, the boy from the haberdashery shop on San Antonio Street, and the tinsmith from Peso Street. All these men marched with rifles slung over their shoulders, but in their own uniforms, that is, without uniforms or insignia. It must be admitted that what they gained in animation and color, they lost in martial spirit. But they all made up for this deficiency with the warlike gravity they imprinted on their faces, whether they were charging through the streets or marching majestically through San Francisco Park. It is impossible that the hordes of Huns led by Attila could have marched more grimly and with more of an expression of warlike ferocity. The families themselves could barely recognize them on such occasions. “Don’t you see Pachín?” a mother would say to her little boy, whom she was holding by the hand. “Which one? Which one?” the boy would ask, his eyes wide open. “That one, the one over there with his hat tilted to one side. ” “Pachín! Pachín!” the boy would shout to his older brother after recognizing him. But Pachín, as he crossed in front of him, gave him a grim look that chilled him with terror. When these nationalists were on guard and standing sentry, their intransigence increased even more. I remember that, standing in the square, I saw a company of Civil Guards who had gathered at that time in Oviedo arrive to the sound of bugles . Before they passed through the arch of the Town Hall, Bonifacio, the newspaper boy, who was on sentry duty there, stood in front of them with his rifle at the ready and shouted in a thunderous voice: “Halt!… Who’s alive?” The company halted, and the lieutenant in command addressed Bonifacio deferentially, who again shouted in a harsh voice: “Corporal of the guard!” And the corporal of the guard came and spoke to the lieutenant. Meanwhile, Bonifacio stood a little apart, rifle at the ready and with an expression of implacable ferocity on his face. If anyone imagines that this cruel attitude impressed the guards, I regret to inform you that they are mistaken. The guards, throughout the conference, stared at Bonifacio with such an expression of curiosity and contempt that I cannot understand why he did not immediately unload his rifle on them. The history of this battalion is glorious. We must admit, however, that not all of its members managed to conduct themselves with the courage and dignity that Bonifacio, the delivery boy, did on this occasion. For example, Bernardón the Blackbird… This is a story that the reader should not tell in Oviedo in front of any of those veterans, because it would expose him to unpleasantness. Bernardón the Blackbird was not actually a Blackbird, but he was called that because he was the husband of the Blackbird, and he was the one who was responsible for the guard of this glorious battalion being once routed. It happened as follows: The Blackbird had a fish stand in the Plaza de los Trascorrales. This position was highly regarded, because Mirla never sold fish that was too rotten. Therefore, life at Mirla’s house was comfortable. Bernardón, her husband in particular, a shoemaker by trade, took great care not to drown himself in work, especially at cider hour, that is, after three in the afternoon. His worthy wife, however, did not look kindly on these desertions, and from time to time she would interrupt them resoundingly and return things to normal. Because Mirla was a colossal woman who, by a twist of nature, had not been born a sergeant of cuirassiers, and Bernardón, although a corporal in the National Guard, felt intimidated in her presence. Everything that Mirla had in impetuous and irascible, Bernardón had in a peaceful and cheerful companion. No one could be in a bad mood around him; no one more so than his dear consort. And even she, on certain occasions, would loosen up a bit with his wit and usually reward him with a few flying peseta. As a rule, however, Bernardón didn’t receive a cent for his jokes. To satisfy his more invincible inclinations, he found himself forced to resort to certain means… But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. One day, as he was on duty at the Town Hall, he felt his pockets and noticed, filled with dismay, that they were absolutely empty. How could he invite his subordinates to a few drinks? Tormented by this problem, he took a stroll through Trascorrales to see if his wife showed any signs of softening. La Mirla was absent. Someone had come to notify her that a married daughter of hers had a sick child, and she had gone to find out. Bernardón, seeing that his wife’s place was occupied by a friend, whom she had entrusted to represent her, conceived a most fortunate idea. He headed over and, with a grave expression and peremptory tone, invited the woman in charge on behalf of his wife to hand over the money in the drawer, as he had to pay for some medicine. Unaware of the swindle, he handed over what was in it, which turned out to be one duro in silver, one peseta in silver, and another two or so in small change. Good Bernardón loaded everything up, and once he was in the guardhouse, he knew how to put it to proper use. A few hours later, the Blackbird arrived at her cage. When she opened the drawer and found it empty of birdseed and learned which bird had eaten it, a wave of blood rushed to her plump face, and it wasn’t long before she fell to the ground, the victim of a stroke. She was fortunate, however, to be able to vent her frustration with a string of exclamations, interjections, and prophetic curses that brought her momentary relief, giving her time to get to the guardhouse at the Town Hall. The son of a fruit seller, a friend of hers, was on guard. “Is my man there?” he asked with difficulty, for he could hardly breathe. The sentry gave him a long, stern look and replied coldly: “You can’t get through . ” “I’m not asking you if you can get through, donkey. Is my man there, yes or no?” The fruit seller’s son wasn’t flattered by the epithet and replied even more coldly. “You can’t get through. ” “You can’t get through?” roared the Blackbird. “Now we’ll see!” And she gave him such a huge shove with her powerful hands that the poor boy fell backward. The Blackbird entered the narrow enclosure where the checkpoint was located, and the first thing her eyes saw was a table with bottles and glasses, crab shells, and olive pits. The second was her happy husband with signs of the purest happiness painted on his face. And she saw no more. The table with the bottles, glasses, and the remains of the seafood and olives all fell on the unfortunate Bernardón. And then fell another 120 kilos represented by his consort. Squeezes, punches, violent shakes, attempts at strangulation, all of a sudden. little. If Bernardón didn’t vomit the thirty-two reales into liquid at that moment, it wasn’t because his worthy wife failed to put into practice the necessary means to carry out this operation. As for the rest of the guard, I won’t say they fled, because that’s not true. Nor will I say they dispersed. The only thing that can be stated with certainty is that they retreated in disorder. I also declare, loyally, that what I have just narrated refers exclusively to the internal or private history of the Nationalist battalion. As for its public history, it couldn’t be more honorable. A few days after it was organized, finding myself in the street watching the parade, I happened to see, with profound surprise, my friend Tuero among the Nationalists, rifle slung over his shoulder. Always original, he didn’t march in the front line like the others, but rather marched in the rear alone, eight or ten paces away from the rest of the force. His childlike stature—he couldn’t have been more than sixteen years old—and his long, flowing blond hair attracted the attention of the public. He looked like a French poet maneuvering on the Champ de Mars with the Civic Guard in the month of Brumaire. As he passed by, I shouted almost in his ear: “Forward, son of the fatherland!” He turned his face and turned a little red, winking at me expressively. Tuero was a romantic; he was steeped in Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables , which he knew almost by heart; but he was a romantic twisted on humor, and this curious mixture always made him interesting. The happy days of the triumphant revolution began. The Nationalists, the assemblies, the public demonstrations, the speeches, the riots then displayed their spring-like freshness. Alas! It didn’t take long for this green foliage to wither. When I remember the many times I went in procession among those honest workers shouting cheers and death chants! Without knowing exactly what he wanted to live or die, I feel moved and overcome with nostalgia for the disorder. At every crossroads, on every balcony, an orator stalked us. His speeches swept us with enthusiasm, although I never managed to hear more than the conclusion: “Long live national sovereignty!” They tried to imitate the French Revolution as much as possible, except, of course, the guillotine. And, naturally, one of the first things they thought of was the organization of a club reminiscent of the Jacobins or the Franciscans of Paris. This club was set up in the large hall of a bathing establishment, whose owner was a fervent republican. Up to a hundred people from all classes and conditions met there every night, although workers predominated. We, that is, the four or five inseparable friends I had, were admitted despite our excessive youth. What times those were! Everyone’s minds were full of the French Revolution. Hardly a speech was delivered that didn’t recall some phrase from Mirabeau, Danton, or Desmoulins. The one he uttered when Brézé, in the name of the king, ordered the Assembly to disperse: “The deputies of France have resolved to deliberate. Go and tell your master that we are here by the will of the people and that only the force of bayonets will tear us from this place.” I think I had the pleasure of hearing it three or four dozen times. They also insistently reiterated the phrase “privileges will end, but the people are eternal,” and the other phrase “a nation in revolution is like bronze that melts and regenerates in the crucible: the Statue of Liberty is not yet cast: the metal is boiling!” In short, it seemed like a homemade performance of the 1893. Even those who, incapable of making speeches, cultivated the easiest kind of interruptions, copied those of the conventioneers. There was one who, when the discussion became too heated, used to shout like Marat: “I remind you of your modesty… if you have any!” There was another who never tired of shouting: “The people have risen, they are in “Stand and wait!” But the most extraordinary phrase I heard was that of a man who, in moments of confusion, stood on a bench, shouting like the painter David at the Convention: “I ask that you kill me!” He was a journeyman tailor. He was not killed, although he well deserved it for his shamelessness, but he was kicked twice and thrown into the street. In general, the sessions were not stormy. Long speeches were delivered, completely unrelated to the revolutionary drama. I remember that a gentleman entertained us all evening by explaining the movements of the earth and the planets around the sun, the cause of eclipses and the seasons. A recorder read us Lamenais’s “Words of a Believer ,” and his voice occasionally broke and his eyes blurred with tears. A schoolteacher gave a fiery speech against the Academy’s grammar, full of vehement apostrophes and ironic touches. “There is a tense in verbs,” he exclaimed sarcastically, “which in grammar is called the pluperfect tense. Can you conceive, citizens, anything that is more than perfect? If this tense of the verb existed, it would be greater than God!” The speech, although forceful, produced a certain unease in the assembly. This rude and inconsiderate attack on the Academy troubled consciences. It was murmured that the orator was going too far; he was exceeding the limits of audacity. In short, in these memorable sessions, everything was discussed: God, the soul, liberty, astronomy, forms of government, language, etc. Because those workers were primitive men, still backward in evolution, and therefore unaware that the only ideal worthy of discussion in such assemblies is to save a few minutes of work and increase wages by a few cents. All the speakers, without exception, constantly recommended order. “Without order, there is no freedom.” This phrase was incessantly repeated. There was a one-eyed public works assistant who never tired of praising order, threatening the most dreadful calamities if, under any pretext, it was altered, even a little or much. This idea so incubated and took root in the minds of our workers that during a popular riot, one of them shouted from the balcony of a banker with whom he held a grudge: “Death to Pinedo!” and then added with a tone of conviction: “But with order!” How far we still were from those perverse days when women and children were murdered in the name of universal brotherhood! Those honest and simple workers had welcomed us , still children, with signs of affection, showed us great predilection, and, although it may seem extravagant, they respected us. However, we did not reciprocate these displays of consideration as we should have. We were unruly, turbulent, and laughed more or less openly at the speeches delivered there. And this not because we were reactionaries and enemies of the people, for we believed as much as they did in the efficacy of democratic ideas, but because we had an excessively fine sense of humor. It is a gift of Providence that rarely manages to make us sympathetic. That is why some of those citizens began to look at us with suspicion. Particularly the recorder who read aloud the _Words of a Believer_, an austere and virtuous man, nursed an implacable hatred for us in the depths of his heart. Whenever in his readings he came across some epithet that might suit us, such as “frivolous spirits” or “serpent hidden among the flowers” or “lying sophists,” he never failed to raise his voice and give us a meaningful look. But this did little or much to inspire us with greater sanity and seriousness, as one might suppose. Nevertheless, the mass of the citizens were with us, and we only completely lost their support when we renounced federalism and declared ourselves Unitarians. Did we do it out of conviction? Did we do it on a whim? I don’t know. All I can affirm is that the adjective The constant application of federalism to the Republic was unnerving us. Federalism was then an intangible mystery, like the incarnation of the Son of God. An old leader of democracy, the Marquis of Albaida, had drilled it into the minds of republicans. We dared to entertain some sacrilegious doubts about it . Why should the Republic be federal? Why one day, arbitrarily, break the national unity that had cost so much time, so much effort, and so much blood? These doubts destroyed us. Although we had only expressed them privately, the whole club soon learned of them. And we began to be regarded as reprobates worthy of eternal damnation. The storm roared dully while we, innocent sailors, sailed confidently, heedless of its threat. Finally, the fateful night arrived when an orator stood up to declare that “in that sanctuary of clarity and justice, there were devious beings who were working treacherously against the integrity of the Republic.” We, the underworld, then rose up and openly declared that we renounced the federation forever and would remain Unitarians until death. The tumult was indescribable. The citizens rose up in anger, shouting at us and threatening us. No other shouts were heard than: “Out with the traitors!” “Death to the Unitarians!” When the commotion had calmed somewhat, the president, standing pale, said in a trembling voice: “After what we have just heard, with great sorrow I must inform the gentlemen who have declared themselves against the federation that they cannot remain in this place any longer. ” “That’s it! That’s it!… Out with the enemies of the Republic!… Down with the Unitarians!” were shouts from all sides. Then we hurried out of the pews, accompanied by three or four other citizens who had sympathized with us, forming a group of eight or ten, and amidst the hisses and shouts of the assembly, we resolutely headed for the door. Before we could enter, one of our number turned angrily and, shaking his fists, shouted like Danton at the guillotine: “You cut off our heads, but you won’t cut off our tails!” This tragic quotation produced an enormous sensation. A profound silence fell , and in the midst of it, we left the club erect, never to enter again. Chapter 35. MUSICAL IMPRESSIONS. There is a period in the life of man that we might call theatrical, if the word did not lend itself to misunderstanding. Let the reader understand what I mean: There is a period in which civilized man feels, with more or less intensity, the attraction of theatrical spectacles. This attraction lasts for a longer or shorter time, according to temperament. I have an elderly friend who spends 100 pesetas a month on theater tickets, and in his life he’s never bought a book worth 3.50. He’s a hateful man. At fifteen, I gave almost all the money my parents gave me to actors, except for what I spent on heliotrope ointment to rub into my hair. In that old theater in Oviedo, where it was better than a tent, I enjoyed a great many dramas and comedies from the repertory, heard endless passionate screams, many Calderón-style décimas, and more than a few hysterical bursts of laughter. However, I confess that I wasn’t as happy during that period of my life as I should have been. At this age, when you go to the theater, you generally find everything beautiful, everything lovely, everything entertaining. Unfortunately, the same wasn’t true for me. My soul did not open wide to aesthetic pleasures, because there was a premature critic within it who insisted on closing the door. I do not know if the virus of criticism sprouted spontaneously in my organism or was inoculated into me by my friend Leopoldo Alas, an obligatory companion on my theatrical excursions, but I have always suffered from it and it has embittered my existence. _Clarín_, implacable Mephistopheles, cruelly showed me The dregs of all dramatic works. One evening we were both attending a performance of a play, which, if I remember correctly, was entitled _Redemption_. It was one of the many unfortunate imitations of the famous _Lady of the Camellias_ by Alexandre Dumas. The heroine was dying of a lung affliction, like that one, and she pathetically lamented her misfortune, for at that moment her fiancé was kissing her hands and saying a thousand endearing things to her. Around us, the gentlemen seemed gravely moved, but the ladies were weeping profusely. Clarin and I, harder than marble, felt an atrocious desire to laugh. This desire finally burst into resounding laughter when the consumptive woman, after a fit of coughing, seeing her lover agitated, said to him with angelic sweetness: “Don’t get excited!” The indignation of the spectators was terrible: “Silence, silence!” “Out into the street, those brats!” We were almost thrown out of the theater. Let us agree, then, that the critical spirit is useless, and anyone who has it sharpened is a poor man worthy of pity. I am sure that if I had liked bad plays, bad novels, and bad verse, my life would have slid much more happily on earth. As far as music is concerned, I have been more favored by Providence. I have always liked bad music. I have been enthusiastic about , and still am, Lucia di Lammermoor, Somnambule, Il Trovatore, Traviata, etc.; those operas that currently make music critics grind their teeth and put them off their dinner. One of them, whom I know, professes such irreconcilable hatred for the maestro Donizetti, who has been dead for nearly a century, that once, passing through Bergamo, where he was born and has a statue, he went stealthily at night to stone it. This is serious. For if the critics dare to wreak such posthumous vengeance on authors, I truly fear that someone angered by my books will one night dig me up in the cemetery and pull my ears. Having now publicly confessed my sins, I declare that I like not only the operas of the infamous Donizetti, but also the zarzuelas of my compatriots Arrieta, Barbieri, and Gaztambide. Listening from those dirty and tattered stalls of the Oviedo theater to _Marina_, _The Oath_, _The Lightning_, and _The Diamonds of the Crown_, I have felt as happy as an angel; The impurities of reality were erased from my mind , and I lived for a few moments lulled on the cloud of the ideal. The world ceased to be Will, according to the phrase of the most popular of German metaphysicians, and became pure Representation. What’s more, I can’t recall some of its melodies without being moved, and if I find myself in the countryside on a splendid spring day, I begin to hum with emotion the baritone ballad from _The Oath_: “As the sun shines on the green meadow! As the flower gives off its perfume!” It’s ridiculous, I confess again; but if the ridiculous makes us happy , why shouldn’t we embrace the ridiculous? On this point, as on some others, I agree with the pragmatist philosophers. The inhabitants of Oviedo are very sensitive to the art of music. They always are, but particularly, it’s needless to add, when they have consumed a few glasses of cider, the favorite liquor of the Cantabrian region. Since ancient times, alcohol has been considered a stimulant for the conceptual arts, preferably the visual arts. No one has ever seen a drunken man become enraptured by a painting or a statue; but how many times have we heard them reciting, with clumsy tongues, verses by Zorrilla or Espronceda! I knew one who, in the final stages of intoxication, would repeat with growing distress: “What is man? A mystery. What is life? A mystery too!… Geniuses, come, come!… Let us share your troubles with man.” Until he fell like a burden at the foot of the barrel and could not be awakened except by having him inhale a flask of ammonia. However, music is the beautiful art that has the closest affinity with spirits. In Greece, the festivals of Bacchus, called Orgies, were always seasoned with song. In Oviedo, the same is true. The local newspapers announce that on such a day at such a time the barrel called Prim or Moriones will be broken in such a place, and they are usually named after a general. A hundred devotees punctually attend the solemnity, surround the grandiose barrel, witness its opening with emotion, and, once they have tasted its contents, begin the unbridled singing. But there is an essential difference between the orgiastic songs of Greece and those of the capital of Asturias. The former were songs of victory, enthusiastic and ardent, while the latter are always tender and sentimental. In Greece, Bacchus was worshipped with delirious cries and roars of rage; in Oviedo, with tears. It’s incredible how much liquid spills from the eyes at these bacchanals. There are drunks who, while singing the farewell to The Cabin Boy: “If in the silent night you feel the wind,” etc., melt into tears, which, as one might imagine, saves a lot of work for the kidneys. The Miserere from The Troubadour so fascinated a certain clerk of a notary in Oviedo that he couldn’t listen to it without being enraptured and falling into ecstasy. This clerk’s name was Figaredo, or something similar; he was a mature man, with gray hair, of medium height, and more fat than thin. He unfailingly got drunk every Sunday; but as a legal figure, he did it legally. That is to say, he never caused the slightest scandal in the town. Once he left the wine press and entered the central streets, he might walk more or less crookedly, he might occasionally stumble against the lampposts, but his mouth never opened for any reason, big or small. Not a cry, not a word, not a cough. He was a tomb filled with cider. But there were some of us who knew his secret. We knew that by pressing a certain button, that mouth would open with a spring. This spring was none other than the Miserere from Il Trovatore. One night between eleven and twelve, I was leaving the theater with two friends when we happened to see Figaredo walking ahead of us on the way back to his house, tracing capricious curves with his feet on the sidewalk. It immediately occurred to us to press the fatal spring. We quickened our pace and, as we crossed paths with him, we softly sang the first solemn bars of the famous Miserere. Figaredo heard them, stopped dead in his tracks, opened his legs slightly, and let out the cry of anguish of the unfortunate Manrique from his prison into the air at the top of his lungs. It was a matter of an instant. The night watchman, who was not far away, came running. “Please be quiet and don’t cause a scene!” Figaredo looked at him, stupefied, through his glasses. Scandal? Calling the most sublime music ever heard in the world scandalous! That man must have been mad. But mad or sane, he represented the established authority at that moment, and Figaredo, as a man bound by his profession to the law of judgment, understood that he had to remain silent, and he did. So, bowing his head, he resignedly continued on his way in silence. But we had retraced our steps, and as we passed him, we sang the beginning of the Miserere again. Figaredo stopped again, spread his legs and shouted: “Don’t remember me , Leonora, addio!” The watchman rushed to him in a rage and shaking him by the arm shouted: “Shut up, you scandalous man, or by my life I’ll take you to the Fortress right now ! ” That was what the Oviedo prison was called at that time. Figaredo looked at him again, without understanding what kind of mentality this man had; but he lowered his head and continued walking. We let him go a good way and then, catching up with him, we sang to him again. Having heard the miserere, Figaredo halted his steps for the third time and thundered through the street with his cries of anguish. The watchman, who was already far away, rushed over, so furious that he was almost thrown off his feet. As he was some time in arriving, Figaredo was already deep in song, and it was impossible to silence him. Neither shaking him violently by the arm nor hurling the most vulgar insults at him were able to get him to shut his mouth. Figaredo could no longer see or hear anything, and he lamented, his notes trembling to make his song more pathetic. Tears streamed down his cheeks. The exasperated watchman pushed him toward the fortress, which was close at hand. Figaredo did not remain silent. He opened the prison door; the watchman said I don’t know what words to the sentry; the latter laughed with all his heart; the watchman uttered a blasphemy. And Figaredo was brutally pushed inside. But he did not remain silent. Still there inside we could hear her distant voice crying out with infinite bitterness: “Don’t remember me !” “Leonora, addio!” “Leonora, addio!” Insults, prison, ridicule, and shame did not exist for that man. The real world with its impurities, perfidy, and vulgarity had vanished. Like the prisoners in Plato’s famous cave, he contemplated the sun of beauty face to face. Chapter 36. THE DREAM OF THE “STAR STAR.” The doctors said, although it was not true, that my mother needed sea baths . To take them, we used to spend the month of August in the town of Luanco, neighboring Avilés, which has a beautiful sandy beach where the waves crash loudly. At that time, there lived in Luanco a man called the Corsair. He was not Barbarossa, because he had a sparse black beard. Nor was he Byron’s corsair, because Conrad, a man of loneliness and mystery, spoke very few words, and our corsair was an insufferable chatterbox. Furthermore, he had no known romantic tendencies, but rather a determined inclination to wander into taverns and remain there for an indefinite period of time. He was a small man with small, sunken eyes, thin, and stooped, who brought to mind no scenes of brawls and boarding. Why was he called the Corsair? I don’t know. Perhaps the good old men of Luanco know something more. You can go ask him. This Corsair served as bailiff for the town hall. Those the mayor ordered arrested were locked up in the stables of his house. At that time, it was the only model prison that existed there. As a supplementary profession, the Corsair worked as a horse hirer. In reality, I shouldn’t use the plural, because he rented only one horse. But he also had a donkey, and this circumstance gave him a professional character. I can say almost nothing about the donkey because I have had no dealings with him. As for the horse, I do not hesitate to affirm that he was a miserable impostor. I am very sorry to have to speak of him in this way, but respect for the truth obliges me to do so. He was a fairly well-proportioned nag, the color of a dry leaf, with a few quarters of flesh on his thighs and a white spot on his forehead the size of a two-peseta coin. It was undoubtedly to this last circumstance that he owed his name, “Lucero.” Whoever had baptized him was a man of imagination, because those whitish hairs could not remotely conceive of any star in the sky. His means of subsistence were shrouded in mystery and aroused embarrassing comments in Luanco. If his master was only a pirate in name, he was one in fact. He could be seen on the roads by night and day, like a vagabond prepared for all evil. He would leap over the meadow barriers and eat the fresh grass meant for the neighbors’ cows; he would also, with incredible audacity, leap over the vegetable garden walls and devour lettuce and peas. On one occasion, it was said, he even ate some petticoats belonging to the priest’s housekeeper, which she had hung out to dry in the parish garden. It’s conceivable that such feats often earned him some monumental beatings. In the town, he was considered a dangerous socialist and was universally hated. But the truth is that up until the time I met him, he had managed not to die of hunger. Undoubtedly, he was a worldly animal and capable of making his way in society; but these qualities did not make him attractive for riding. The honorable residents of Luanco rented him out from time to time for the modest sum of two pesetas to travel to Candás or Avilés or any nearby parish. But no one on earth but me would think of renting him out for a leisurely ride and showing off as a rider. Well, that’s exactly what I did one August afternoon when the sky was crystal clear and a gentle breeze ruffled the blue plain of the sea. When I told Corsario about my project, he looked me over carefully from head to toe and asked me several technical questions to ascertain my horsemanship. I answered them quite fluently and also let him know that I was no ordinary rider, as I had broken the bone in my nose falling from a horse. This last test reassured him completely. I gave him the two pesetas in advance, and this reassured him even more. He went to find the lazy Lucero, who was busy at the time, like a road laborer, clearing the grass from the sides of the road, and while I was harnessing him, he gave me a lot of fatherly advice. I asked him if he had spurs. He looked at me again attentively and finally replied gravely: “Yes; I have spurs; but nobody uses them here. ” “Well, I don’t ride without spurs,” I replied with such extraordinary firmness that without going into further explanations, he went to look for them. They were two horrible, rusty soft iron contraptions. I hesitated over whether to put them on or not, but finally decided to do so after scrubbing them for a while with oil and sand. Here I was riding Lucero, who, as soon as he left the stable with me, began to jump on his legs, giving very elegant little hops , now marching from one side to the other, no doubt with the intention of showing off my grace to the public. I was delighted with myself. Never in my life had I felt so gallant. I cast searching glances at the balconies of the houses and was surprised that not all the pretty girls of Luanco came out to gaze at that handsome young man with a budding mustache who held himself so gallantly in the saddle. It was a moment of splendor that I will remember for as long as I live. Everyone, young and old, has had at least one of these moments of triumph, more or less lasting, in their lives. My apotheosis lasted no more than five minutes, and about 150 meters. Having reached this limit, that hypocritical animal beneath my trousers calmly began to walk slowly, and I was unable to use any argument to persuade him to change his resolve. I wanted to give him some rest. Parliamentary orators are granted some rest when they’ve stretched their legs too much in Congress, and I allowed him to walk as he pleased. But when I reached the plaza, as I noticed there were many bathers of both sexes there, I didn’t want to miss the opportunity to show them my exceptional talent for equestrian exercises, and I warned Lucero by means of the spur that the moment had come to support me. “If you want!” He lowered his head, acknowledging the spur, and continued in the same manner, step after step, delicately, as if he were treading on eggs. Second call. Same response. I was indignant. I was fifteen years old, and at that age, I was indignant about many more things than necessary. I repeated the warning. Nothing. I repeated it several more times with the same result. That great hypocrite always bowed his head and appeared to comply; but he seemed neither a little nor much inclined to follow my will. It is obeyed, but it is not fulfilled. At that time, Luanco was not a center of pleasure. In the morning, the bathers extended their bathing time as long as they could. In the afternoon, they went for a walk to a place called the Mineral Spring and livened up the excursion by eating the blackberries from the brambles that lined the walls of the path. At night, they discussed the temperature with their families and went to bed. This is the reason, and no other, why so many people passing through the square at that moment with umbrellas and straw hats, as well as those peacefully chatting outside the shops, were ecstatic, gazing at me with the greatest possible attention. Feeling public attention on oneself is something that disconcerts more than a few men. I am one of these men. I felt I should satisfy that curiosity by doing something completely unusual . And the most appropriate thing to do was to gallop my horse. I was innocent at that time and completely ignorant not only of the hearts of bipeds, but also of those of quadrupeds. This infamous animal, unaware of the critical situation I found myself in, the ridiculous role he was about to force me to play, and the disregard he was about to cast upon me in the public eye, persisted in not letting up. By every means a man can employ to convince an irrational being, I tried to persuade him to perform a few suggestive little jumps that would leave me graceful in that summer society. It was no use. Pats on the neck to flatter his pride. Whoop! Whoop! Shouts of triumph to arouse his enthusiasm. Signal warnings with the spur. Nothing… At that moment, a group of five or six elegant young ladies entered the plaza from the beach . They remained motionless, gazing at me with a certain mocking curiosity. Finally, they burst into laughter with fresh, unanimous laughter. It was my downfall and that of Lucero. Those bursts of laughter entered my veins like a poisonous liquor. I didn’t know what I had done. Blinded by rage, I began to furiously lash the spurs of the author of my dishonor. Lucero allowed himself to be martyred with the obstinacy of a heretic. I couldn’t see his blood, but I felt it running. He would have drunk it all! However, in the midst of my painful agony, I had one satisfaction. Those cheerful young ladies stopped laughing and became serious. Since it was necessary to escape such an ambiguous situation, since Lucero refused to take another step and I could see that the audience was on his side, I pulled hard on the reins and made him turn. Then Lucero began to walk with somewhat greater speed; not much. I, frantic, crying with shame, continued to lash him with furious spurs. “Hail Mary! Look, Pepe, how that horse is doing!” All the passersby looked at the horse’s belly, then back at me, and shook their heads in disapproval. But my anger remained unabated. I believed myself covered with ridicule for all eternity. _Lucero_ must have been aware of the infamy he had committed against me, because his pace increased somewhat. Perhaps it wasn’t the cry of conscience but the prospect of the stable. But lo and behold, not many steps before reaching it, he let himself fall face down to the ground, and I with him. Miraculously, I didn’t break the cartilage of my nose a second time. I got up as fast as I could and tried to lift him up as well. My efforts were useless. _Lucero_, on his knees as if praying for his enemies, among whom I must be counted, made no movement. Then a terrifying thought crossed my mind: “I was dead!” I dismissed it immediately; but just as quickly, it crept back in. Again I rejected it, and again it intruded. And so, with this methodical vibratory back-and-forth, I soon came to the conviction that the _Lucero_ no longer belonged to the number of living beings. This certainty left me almost as dead as it had him. How would I present myself to the _Corsair_? I presented myself trembling, convulsing, stammering absurdities. “Don’t you know? … The _Lucero_… has fallen there in the street… and won’t take another step… It seems to me he’s sleeping…” An incredibly sarcastic smile appeared on the _Corsair’s lips. “If he’s sleeping, if he’s sleeping!… He’s a fox!… What a fox!” And seizing the whip that he had hanging from a nail, he went out with me into the street. The _Lucero_ remained motionless on his knees, with his head buried between them. “Are you sleeping, _Lucero_?” asked the _Corsair_, with an accent even more sarcastic than his smile. And with marvelous skill and speed, he applied two blows between the ears with the handle of the whip. The _Lucero_ remained motionless, praying like a dervish. The _Corsair_, highly surprised, brought his face close to him, examined him attentively, and finally, opening his eyes wide, exclaimed: “God save me, he’s dead!” And suddenly, he rushed at me furiously and threw his hand to my chest, wrinkling my starched shirt. “You killed him!… You must pay!” Terrified by the unthinkable boarding of that pirate, I let out a weak voice from my throat: “I’ll pay, I’ll pay!” But I didn’t pay. The most qualified men of the town certified that he had not died of violent death but of starvation. He was a despicable nag, a hypocrite, a scoundrel… However, at this moment, I would be glad I hadn’t given those spur blows. Chapter 37. POET AND HUNTER. I will never forget that summer I spent in my hometown between the fourth and fifth year of high school. It was then that my soul came into contact with nature and enjoyed the sweet, joyful intoxication that its powerful influence overwhelms us. I can’t recall a time in my life when I was happier. I wasn’t like a frivolous, dancing creature, but like a poet, like a primitive Greek who, subjugated by the magic of Donysia, bursts into hymns celebrating the alliance of man with the earth and the gospel of the harmony of the worlds. I lived in a tranquility filled with wisdom, I lived in a surprising serenity, allowing the charm of that fresh, transparent, aromatic nature to gently filter through my soul. It was the joy of a lover before the object of his desires, one who can be satiated by the sight of it at any hour. I went out at dawn to collect the dew that fell from the chestnut groves, to breathe in the scent of fresh hay; I slept at siesta time under the hazel trees; I bathed in the backwaters of the river as the sun set. I was so happy that sometimes I imagined that time did not exist, that I had already set foot in eternity and would never emerge from that sweet alienation. It is the Laviana Valley, where I was born, grand without ferocity, grave and peaceful at the same time. The evergreen meadows, surrounded by hazel trees, crisscrossed by gentle streams, create an idyllic impression of peace and contentment. But the gentle hills that border it, covered with thick chestnut groves, already emerge with a feeling of strength, like a majestic harmony that does not disturb the peace of our spirit even if they incline it to meditation. Behind, other higher and more austere hills raise their bare heads. Finally, farther on, rise great protective masses of wild mountains, like a powerful bulwark against the incursions of enemies or curious onlookers. One breathes a profound tenderness here, one feels the presence of the spirit of infinite peace that gives us fullness of life, health of soul, and vigor of body. My heart still beats at the memory of those hours when I floated on a sea of eternal delights. Lying on the grass, sinking my eyes into the blue abysses of the firmament over which some clouds flew by like ghosts, feeling a microscopic world swarming around me in the grass, composed of countless insects that moved about equally happily, I felt abundant, powerful life running through my veins , harmonious like a symphony of nature. Immortal. It seemed to me that the earth sustained me with love, offering me its gifts, that I shared in its happiness and lived in mystical unity with it. The birds soaring through the air awakened in me a desire to launch myself into more luminous regions, causing me a shudder of vertigo, the happy yet terrible feeling of the supernatural, while the insects murmuring around me whispered their tiny loves into my ear, making vague and piercing desires resonate in my heart. Who could have imagined that an adolescent stirred by such noble sentiments in those days would be capable of cold-heartedly murdering the little birds of the sky, scattering their feathers and blood on the lawn? Nothing could be more certain, however. Armed with an old piston-powered rifle that Cayetano had lent me, I became a relentless pursuer of the blackbirds, goldfinches, and falcons that fluttered joyfully around our orchard. This is a contradiction that I must confess and psychologists must explain. Yes! I confess with shame that this slaughter gave me incredible pleasure, and that when I glimpsed among the branches of the apple trees a goldfinch preparing to sing its passionate song in honor of its beloved, or a prim goldfinch coquettishly flapping its wings to torment its goldfinch, I licked my lips like a tiger at the sight of its prey and stealthily placed myself beneath them and deprived them of their existence. However, there was something else that pleased me even more than the murder itself, and that was its preparation. You, who own a fine English or Belgian shotgun and neatly insert those shiny bullets into the chamber that look like watch charms, are unaware of the ineffable pleasure of loading a piston-operated rifle. That taking the flask of gunpowder off your shoulder and pouring a small amount into the palm of your hand and inserting it into the barrel; immediately taking an old newspaper from your pocket and inserting a piece of it in the direction of the gunpowder, then attacking it with the ramrod until your face showed signs of congestion; that, after completing this operation, reaching for the shot horn, taking a handful of them, inserting them again, and attacking again, this time with more delicacy; that carefully and painstakingly priming the chimney and taking the small box of pistons from your waistcoat pocket , taking one and adjusting it… It must be confessed that life is not as sad as many pretend. One afternoon I was immersed body and soul in one of these fortunate operations in front of my house when Don Eloy, the town clerk, happened to pass by with his shotgun on his shoulder and his dog skipping in front of him. He stopped to look at me, greeted me affably, and said with charming abruptness: “Do you want to come with me to see if we can kill some partridges?” My face flushed with excitement. For the secretary was a prodigious hunter, the most skilled in that entire region and one of the most renowned in the province. The great lords of Oviedo and Gijón wrote to him when they were about to undertake a hunting excursion through the countryside of Castile, and Don Eloy accompanied them and was the soul and principal ornament of these hunts. No one will be surprised, then, that under the weight of so much honor, he remained mute and in suspense. Don Eloy didn’t understand what was happening to me and hastened to add: “I won’t make you walk far. I’ve heard that there is a flock nearby, above Cerezangos. Do you dare? Yes, I dared! I would have gone to the Antarctic to look for the flock of partridges in such noble company!” In fact, we hadn’t even walked half an hour before the dog was on the point among the ferns. “Cock it!” the secretary whispered to me. “We’re upon them now. ” “Get in!” he then shouted to the dog. A few partridges took flight, and we both fired; I almost closed my eyes. One partridge fell to the ground. “By my life!” Don Eloy exclaimed irritably. “I missed!” It was fortunate that you fine-tuned it, because otherwise they would all have escaped us. I was like someone seeing a vision. A wave of heavenly pleasure invaded my body and almost made me fall to the ground. At that moment, I believed myself a hero. Don Eloy took the partridge from the mouth of the dog that was bringing it to him and handed it to me with a sad expression. I declare that at that instant, a flash of doubt crossed my mind; but my vanity horrified me. The flock of partridges “doubled,” that is, flew away to the opposite hill. Hunting in rugged country like mine is much more difficult than on the flatlands. To reach it, we had to descend to the bottom of the valley and then climb a reasonable distance. We descended quickly and then ascended as fast as we could, taking almost an hour to reach the place where the flock had landed. The dog stopped again, the secretary called again, we both fired again, and another time a partridge came down. “Cursed be my luck!” Don Eloy exclaimed, putting his hands to his hair and trying to pull it out. “Another shot I missed! What bad luck do I have today? This one didn’t land.” I was confused and embarrassed, and I stammered to him, “You were the one who killed her. My shot was too high. ” “What are you saying, kid?” he responded irritably. “Mine was the one that missed: I shot to the left, and the bird that fell came out to the right. Now, I was quite sure I had shot to the left… But I didn’t insist; I had the weakness not to insist. I picked up the partridge that Don Eloy handed me and triumphantly hung it on my belt. We returned home, and along the way, Don Eloy did nothing but bitterly complain about his clumsiness, claiming that hunters often had these fateful days. I listened to him somewhat sullenly, making desperate efforts to believe him, but to no avail. But when we arrived at Entralgo and I found myself surrounded by the servants and some neighbors, and I heard them sing my praises in chorus, and I saw my mother’s eyes shine with joy at having given birth to such an extreme hunter, all my doubts were dispelled, and I truly believed that no one but I had killed those two innocent birds. Nevertheless, my father smiled in a peculiar way when he was told of my feat. And although Don Eloy did not cease to lament his bad luck, that enigmatic smile never left his lips. For many years the good secretary has been lying beneath the earth; but as long as I breathe upon it, I will not forget the shots he so generously missed. Chapter 38. ADAM EXPELLED. Often, almost always, what we eagerly await does not bring us happiness, nor does what we fear bring us misfortune. Never was a fifth-year student more eager than I to become a bachelor. This magnificent event was, in my opinion, the key to Paradise. Indeed, it was the key, not to open it, but to close it. This first and great disappointment that life offered me had such an effect on me that it made me forever suspicious of it. Since then, I have seen in every hope an ambush; in every desire, a trap. And I have spent my life like the coachmen, slamming the brakes on every slope. Such a vehement desire to become a bachelor was not only for the preeminence that such a glorious title carries with it. My parents had promised to send me to Madrid to pursue a career in jurisprudence , and I already saw myself as the absolute master of my actions in the midst of the Spanish court. What a promising future! I thought about it so much that instead of preparing for the exam that year by reviewing previous years’ subjects, I couldn’t think of anything more appealing than to buy some books from the Faculty of Law and start studying from them. Political Economy seduced me in an incredible way. I imagine now that it wasn’t so much because of the science itself as because its study attracted me. I was magnifying myself in my own eyes. Political Economy is so distinguished, so elegant ! Studying it, I thought I was a hundred leagues ahead of those ridiculous old teachers at the Institute; I seemed to live in an atmosphere of good taste, and I was already adopting the courteous, but somewhat disdainful, manners of men of the world with my classmates. Such extravagance could have cost me dearly. As the time for the exercises, that is, the general baccalaureate examination, approached , I found myself quite ill-prepared. Latin, especially, seemed to me to have completely forgotten it. What with the gerunds and the first clauses of the active form for a man meditating on the relations of capital and labor! I was overcome by a panicky terror. If I failed, goodbye Madrid! Goodbye happy, independent life! Goodbye relations of capital and labor! There were only a few days left until the exam: it was impossible for me to prepare well in such a short time. Stunned by the cruel prospect of being rejected, I began to imagine one silly idea after another to get out of the predicament. And naturally, I put the greatest of them all into practice. Nothing less occurred to me than to visit my old Latin teacher, that romantic Cincinnatus, who had his estate at the foot of the hills, and confess to him—that is, to declare my ignorance and my fears. I did so. I didn’t go to see him at his pleasant country retreat, but at his house in the urbs, which was old, dark, and had a rather pronounced, classic smell of mice. But lo and behold, as soon as I climbed a mere half-dozen steps, I suddenly and magically acquired enough knowledge of Latin to pass any exam, however rigorous. I climbed a few more and found myself a scholar: the Roman language held no secrets for me.
Naturally, I understood that the visit was now useless. I went down the stairs again and triumphantly went out into the street. However, I hadn’t taken many steps along it when I felt my philological knowledge ebb in a surprising way and finally dissipate like the morning mist. I remained perplexed for a moment and decided to re-enter the professor’s house. Once again, I felt my brain flooded by a wave of wisdom, which bathed it completely, and I was tempted to turn back. But suspecting that it might be a fallacious mirage, I made an effort to throw off that illusion and pulled the bell cord. It was a black cord, sinister, fateful, like a hanged man’s rope. The bell rang in the depths of that cave with a gloomy tolling that gripped my heart, even though it was already quite reduced. And suddenly I felt a vague desire that the house would collapse and bury me in its ruins. An old woman came out to open the door for me; behind her, a dog that looked at me with contempt without barking. Both he and the old woman understood instantly that I was a poor student begging for mercy. They were accustomed to these visits. They led me into a room with a black floor sticky from the layers of wax that had been applied over half a century, and there they left me without a word. On the walls, covered with wallpaper that depicted countless times a parrot biting the arrow of a bell tower, hung some walnut-framed photographs depicting the professor in cap and gown surrounded by his students. The date, written beneath with supreme calligraphic art, was very old. Other frames contained diplomas that attested to the professor’s diligence as a child. How far back could these diplomas have gone? After a few minutes, the professor himself appeared, and I was petrified, as if I had seen a ghost. “What did you want, my son?” he asked me after waiting in vain for me to show any sign of life. It took me some time to emerge from my marble transmutation and, finally , stammering and blushing, I asked him about his health and that of his family as if it were the only thing that interested me at that moment. the earth. The professor affably informed me of these details, and silence reigned again. Then I began to turn my hat between my fingers with the speed of a celestial body. The professor barely deigned to pay attention to this incredible rotational movement and continued to stare at me. “The fact is… in a few days I’m going to present myself for the literary exam for the bachelor’s degree. ” “Perfectly,” declared the professor, bending his back with ceremonious solemnity. “And since it’s been so long since I studied Latin…” I couldn’t go any further; I had a lump in my throat. The professor came to my aid. “I suppose you haven’t abandoned your studies and that you’ll present yourself well prepared? ” “Ah!” I exclaimed, turning red to the whites of my eyes. “No, sir, no… I’m not well prepared, especially in Latin, which I’ve somewhat neglected in recent years.” The professor’s eyes expressed profound consternation. He placed his hand on his forehead, and I observed signs of impending faintness. Then he began to pace the hall with his hands behind his back, as was his custom, sometimes uttering snorts of fury and sometimes sighs of anguish. “To abandon the beautiful language of Latium!” he exclaimed, raising his eyes to heaven. I pressed myself against the wall, cursing the hour of my birth. “The language of Marcus Tullius and Quintilian!” I pressed myself even closer against the wall, still managing to impress my hat with a dizzying speed. “The honeyed language of Tibullus and Propertius!” Even closer; almost embedded. “The language of Scipio Africanus!” I despaired of having offended those illustrious men, but there was no remedy. I didn’t even manage to filter through the wall, as I fervently desired. Anyway, my hat had made more than five thousand revolutions on its own when the professor stopped sighing and complaining. He continued walking silently, lost in a painful meditation. Then something lamentable happened in that room, which I can’t recall without blushing. Smiling like an idiot, I broke the silence by exclaiming: “What potatoes you pick on your farm in Naranco!” I had barely uttered these absurd words when I realized I had fallen into a well. Despair made me remain rooted to the wall with the same stupid smile on my lips, and I waited impassively for the professor to kick me out of the room. He stopped in front of me and gave me a long, stern look. “A prodigious event!” That look gradually lost its severity and finally became benevolent. “Marvelous!” he exclaimed emphatically. Neither the sweetest ones from Campania nor the most floury ones from the neighboring kingdom of Castile can beat them. I was saved! Our interesting conference, which lasted a few more minutes, revolved entirely around such delightful vegetables. Quintilian and Scipio Africanus must have shuddered with indignation in their graves. When I finally took my leave, the professor put his arm paternally around my shoulders and whispered a few words of encouragement in my ear. Now, this scene has enriched my soul with a lesson and a sentiment. The lesson, quite deplorable, is that in this world the most vulgar, stupid, and ill-timed flattery produces a good effect. The sentiment could not be sweeter: it is expressed in the gratitude I have always kept in my heart toward the potatoes that were my saviors on that occasion. I have never failed to pay homage to them when they have been presented to me well cooked. I finally graduated without any setbacks and came to spend the summer in Avilés with my parents. I can’t remember a happier time in my life if not the one that preceded… Why delve into other periods of my life now? The present was happy, because the awareness of my freedom, so pleasing to all beings, was joined by the The prospect of the court, no less pleasing to the young provincials. My beard was growing; my voice had changed; at home I was already considered a man. Outside of home, I was so jealous of this prerogative, so fussy that any word or sign that didn’t address the decisive recognition of my virility wounded me deeply. My poor mother, seeing me young, began to love me with true frenzy. She, who had always been sparing with her children, now lavished me with frequent and passionate caresses, as if she felt herself dying. When I entered the house, she would throw her arms around my neck, press me to her breast, hold me like that for long periods, and whisper tender words in my ear . Indeed, she felt herself dying. Her delicate body seemed like a shadow; her large black eyes filled her face. Everyone watched except us, who, accustomed all our lives to seeing her suffer, doubtless imagined that such fragile health would never completely break. She was sustained by her indomitable spirit, which had been used to battle with her body since childhood. I remember that one of those last days of my stay in Avilés, I found her on her knees wiping the leg of a table with a cloth where she had seen dust. When I entered the room, she tried to hug me, but couldn’t. Then I ran and picked her up in my arms as easily as if she were a child. Smiling, she hugged me and kissed me profusely . Without realizing what this meant, I felt tears welling up in my eyes. “Away, away, painful memories!” I have carried that moment in my soul all my life , that sad smile, as if, before descending into the grave, the being who gave me life wanted to engrave its image on my heart. “Let’s go! Happiness awaits me.” In recent days, I’d felt a mad impatience to fly away from the nest. A month earlier, I had already begun to arrange my trunk, which I cast loving glances at from my bed as if it were a symbol of my happiness. I bought a map of Madrid and began to study it so conscientiously that when I arrived in the capital, I was able to walk around it, to the great astonishment of my friends, without needing a guide. Finally, the time of departure arrived. It was, if I recall correctly, the first of October, four days before my seventeenth birthday. My father accompanied me to Oviedo. The post chair left at night from the Cathedral square, where the post office was located. In the dimly lit square, the porters bustled about, loading the luggage onto the coach’s roof while a few people around it bid farewell to their loved ones or friends. A discreet silence reigned, an atmosphere of sadness. The horses occasionally jingled their bells, but without arousing joy. The tower clock, whose deep voice had so often called me to my studies and my recreation, finally rang ten times. I received my father’s last caresses without emotion, with the selfish indifference of all fools. The postilion cracked his whip, and I departed. Finding myself alone in the darkness at the back of the carriage, a happy shudder, not without melancholy, ran through my body. Because our soul warns us with a distant sigh in the midst of the most vivid joys that we should not trust them. A wave of vague longings, of illusions and hopes swelled within my chest, rose to my brain, and intoxicated me. I had never felt life more pleasant than in that first hour of solitude and strength. The carriage rolled along the gloomy road. The trees and hills were outlined in the half-darkness of a starry, moonless night. The sound of the bells, the crack of the postilion’s whip, and the dull rumble of the wheels lulled me into a delightful lethargy. When I closed my eyes, a legion of angels whispered words of good fortune in my ear and unfolded magical and dreamy prospects. Did I say angels? Were they not rather devils in disguise? But now we were beginning to climb the magnificent Pajares Mountains; now we were We are approaching the summit; we have already touched it. Goodbye, sweet childhood! Goodbye, dreamy adolescence! Down below, the sordid guesthouse, the disdainful indifference, the irrational hostility, the joyless pleasure, the sin, the remorse await me… Now the stagecoach crosses the mountaintop; now it runs across the vast plains of Castile. Goodbye! Goodbye! Adam left Paradise. As A Novelist’s Novel concludes, we are drawn into a reflection on life and writing. This story speaks not only to the challenges of creating a literary work but also to the personal struggle to find purpose. The young novelist’s story remains relevant, inviting us to think about our own passions and how we pursue them amidst difficulties . Thank you for joining us on this literary journey.