The Illusions of Doctor Faustino [1 ed.] 0813215382, 9780813215389

Table of contents :
Contents
Translator’s Preface
Introduction by Agnes Moncy
Author’s Dedication
Introduction. Which Deals with Villabermeja, Don Juan Fresco, and Illusions in General
1. The Illustrious House of López de Mendoza
2. What Is He Good For?
3. Doña Ana’s Plan
4. Doña Costanza de Bobadilla
5. First Impression
6. A Letter from the Doctor to His Mother
7. Preliminaries of Love
8. At the Window Grille
9. Mysterious Meeting
10. Niña Araceli
11. Diplomatic Activity
12. The Marquis of Guadalbarbo
13. Examination of Conscience
14. Penance for the Devil
15. The Tertulia of the Three Duos
16. The Earthly Paradise
17. Jealousy Is More Powerful Than Love
18. Love Pact
19. The Miracles of Contempt
20. The Miracles Continue
21. Because of Following a Woman
22. Rosita’s Revenge
23. Joselito’s Confidences
24. Sunt lacrimae rerum
25. Mourning
26. Lost Illusions
27. Loose Ends
28. The Crisis
29. Secret Vengeance for a Secret Insult
30. A Sad Marriage
Conclusion
Afterword to the 1879 Edition
Selected Bibliography

Citation preview

T h e I l l u s i o n s of D o c t o r F a u s ti n o

Stamp of Juan Valera, the work of the painter Enrique Romero de Torres, issued by the Spanish Post Office in 2005 to commemorate the 100th anniversary of the author’s death.

T h e I l l u s i o n s of D o c t o r F a u s ti n o A Novel by Juan Va le ra

Translated from the Spanish by

R obe rt M. F e dor c h ek

With an introduction by

Agnes Moncy

The Catholic University of America Press

Washington, D.C.

Copyright © 2008 The Catholic University of America Press All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standards for Information Science—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ansi z39.48-1984. ∞ Lib ra ry of C ong re ss Cata lo g ing -in-Pu bl ic at ion Data Valera, Juan, 1824–1905. [Ilusiones del doctor Faustino. English] The illusions of Doctor Faustino : a novel / by Juan Valera ; translated from the Spanish by Robert M. Fedorchek ; with an introduction by Agnes Moncy. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references. ISBN 978-0-8132-1538-9 (pbk. : alk. paper) I. Fedorchek, Robert M., 1938–  II. Title. PQ6573I513 2008 863'.5—dc22

2008016986

To Orin Grossman a true humanist

Contents

Translator’s Preface

ix

Introduction by Agnes Moncy

xi

Author’s Dedication

1

Introduction. Which Deals with Villabermeja, Don Juan Fresco, and Illusions in General

3

1. The Illustrious House of López de Mendoza

25



2. What Is He Good For?

33



3. Doña Ana’s Plan

48



4. Doña Costanza de Bobadilla

57



5. First Impression

65

6. A Letter from the Doctor to His Mother

75



7. Preliminaries of Love

81



8. At the Window Grille

91



9. Mysterious Meeting

98



10. Niña Araceli

107



11. Diplomatic Activity

116



12. The Marquis of Guadalbarbo

125

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13. Examination of Conscience

130



14. Penance for the Devil

145



15. The Tertulia of the Three Duos

154



16. The Earthly Paradise

162



17. Jealousy Is More Powerful Than Love

171



18. Love Pact

180



19. The Miracles of Contempt

183



20. The Miracles Continue

187



21. Because of Following a Woman

193



22. Rosita’s Revenge

204



23. Joselito’s Confidences

208



24. Sunt lacrimae rerum

212



25. Mourning

221



26. Lost Illusions

229



27. Loose Ends

236



28. The Crisis

247



29. Secret Vengeance for a Secret Insult

256



30. A Sad Marriage

278

Conclusion

290

Afterword to the 1879 Edition

303

Selected Bibliography

307

T r a n s l at o r’ s P r e fa c e

Juan Valera y Alcalá-Galiano (1824–1905) met with resounding success when his Pepita Jiménez, an epistolary novel about a seminarian’s false vocation, came out in 1874. Over the course of the next twenty-two years he went on to publish another four highly regarded novels: The Illusions of Doctor Faustino (1875); Commander Mendoza (1877), which deals with religious extremism and intolerance; Doña Luz (1879), for many the reverse of the obverse that is Pepita Jiménez; and Juanita la Larga (1896), which tells of a May– December romance. Although it has received considerably less critical attention than the other four, we invariably find The Illusions of Doctor Faustino included in any listing of Valera’s best half dozen novels. It is also the first one to carry a dedication, a vehicle used by Don Juan to make a statement of sorts, a statement openly declaring that his intention has been to depict, through the eponymous protagonist, the Romantic malaise that swept through Western Europe in the early part of the nineteenth century, and a statement that he will reinforce with the Afterword to the 1879 edition. As Faustino delves into his angst, readers find themselves immersed in moment after moment of philosophical disquisition and detailed, and sometimes tortured, self-analysis. While he strives to achieve artistic success, the doctor recognizes too that he needs a stage, a springboard, so to speak, for which money becomes an imperative, inasmuch as his noble lineage and coat of arms are of little import without it. His quest for money, however, simultaneously involves an inquiry into the nature of love and the pursuit of love, as well as his capacity for love. “Love,” Valera will say, “is the consummate artist, creator, and poet, and Don Faustino trembled to think that he did not love,” because the doctor will come to believe that the greatest agony is “the agony of not loving.” As we would expect from Don Juan Valera, there are loving tributes paid to his Andalusia—its people, its earth, its bounty, its customs, its traditions.

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translator ’ s preface

And he peoples Doctor Faustino’s world with unforgettable types like Father Piñón, Respetilla, Joselito el Seco, and especially clearly delineated women characters like Doña Ana, Rosita, and Costancita. The notes, by and large, are intended for readers who are not familiar with Spanish culture, Spanish literature, and Spanish history. Juan Valera was, however, so well read in mythology, the classics, world literature, and history—and seemingly retained virtually everything that he read in a half dozen languages—that it is not an understatement to say it was well-nigh impossible for me to keep up with him, and that I would have admitted defeat were it not for today’s Internet. Some of the notes have to do with translation. In a few of them I use the word “transfer” in order to suggest that often, especially in instances of word play and rhyme, it becomes impossible to retain the flavor that makes every language unique, and transfer comes closest to the approximation that on occasion is the only possibility. No translator functions in isolation, and for the unstinting help that they gave me as I worked on The Illusions of Doctor Faustino, I wish to thank Gonzalo Sobejano of Columbia University, Consuelo García Devesa (emerita) of Fairfield University, Carolina Fernández Rodríguez of the Universidad de Oviedo (Spain), and Francisco Javier Ariza Campos of the Ayuntamiento de Cabra (Spain). For their unfailing support of this book, I am indebted to Orin Grossman, academic vice president of Fairfield University, and David McGonagle, director of the Catholic University of America Press. Lastly, I wholeheartedly thank Agnes Moncy of Temple University for the lively and informed introduction that acquaints us with the world of The Illusions of Doctor Faustino.

Introduction Agnes Moncy

If we define an idyll as a series of pastoral scenes or interludes, The Illusions of Doctor Faustino (1875) almost becomes one a number of times. The reader feels the tension, hopes it can happen, but knows it cannot. After several such scenes or instances it becomes clear that this tale differs from Valera’s usually spirited Andalusian novels, which show how passion and determination triumph over various social forces. Pepita Jiménez (1874) is the most dramatic example, and Doña Luz (1879) and much later Juanita la Larga (1896) follow suit. In these more typical stories the narrator smiles along with his dynamic protagonists, and the happy endings fit the imaginary worlds he creates. The Illusions of Doctor Faustino is the tale of the doctor’s sad life, and it takes quite a long time to tell. It is Valera’s longest novel. Why does he devote so much energy to his hapless hero? Probing the causes for Faustino’s disappointments, failures, and ultimately tragic ending pulls Valera down to deeper than his usual analytic depths, where the water is murkier. Could it be that he was absorbed by the fictitious creature whom he, the debonaire, successful diplomat and famous writer, might have become? A reading of Juan Valera’s correspondence to family or close friends before and after the novel’s conception and publication suggests that he is reexamining his beloved Andalusia and recognizing the darker forces in his own hometown of Doña Mencía, which served as the model for Villabermeja, Villafría, and other nearby towns in his novels. In a letter dated October 15, 1875, to his wife Dolores, we see a reflection of Cabra, which also resembles the fictitious Villabermeja. Granted, he is “not well and not in a good mood [mal de salud y de humor]” as he writes, but it is not merely a passing state of mind. He reflects that “[t]he years, the annoyances, and how little fate has smiled on me in every respect have made me more melancholy than ever”

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(DeCoster, Correspondencia 54, trans. RMF). The letter narrates monetary woes not unlike those of his protagonist, Faustino López de Mendoza: I feel like returning to Madrid soon to see whether I can occupy myself with the [Royal Spanish] Academy [of the Language], literature, politics, and a less uncultured society, but several tasks and my steward’s messes are still keeping me in Cabra. On top of my concerns and troubles here, I have your letters of the 10th and the 12th telling me that [our daughter] Carmencita was sick, with a fever, a rash, and vomiting everything she ate. After this not very pleasant news, either you weren’t able or you didn’t want or you forgot to write to me the following day, so I still worry and anxiously await a letter from you this evening. There is so much abject poverty in these parts that despite the fact that María Alcalde told me she was going to sell the furniture for a good price at the auction, scarcely anything has been bought. The luxury items, especially, nobody wants. So you’ll know, let me tell you that among them are, for example, the sofa and the eight drawing-room chairs, valued at 320 reales. All this, then, will go back to Doña Mencía, and the linens and other things will go to Madrid. This is a poor, inferior, corrupt, wretched country where scoundrels and the most flagrant bad faith reign supreme. I have quite a lot of a poet in me, even though you may not think so, and when I’m far away from here I pretend that there’s another very poetic Andalusia. At the moment I’m rather amazed that you have endured five days here. Good-bye. Keep well. Let’s hope our girl will be better. Kiss her for me and the boys too. Warm regards to your mother. Affectionately yours, Juan (DeCoster, 54–55, trans. RMF)

Having just told the tale of some Andalusians who had fled their town for a better life in Madrid,1 Valera records in the letter quoted his own need to return to the capital. Like the characters in Doctor Faustino, he finds provincial society oppressive. The “another very poetic Andalusia” could be seen only from a distance, a distance that allowed him to create the memorable worlds of that spirited trio of works, Pepita Jiménez, Doña Luz, and Juanita la Larga. The narrator’s probing of a character who cannot overcome obstacles, 1. The Illusions of Doctor Faustino had appeared in book form shortly before Valera wrote the letter dated October 15, to his wife. The three principal characters—Faustino, Costanza, and Rosita—all flee their Andalusian town for life in the Spanish capital.



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who cannot, indeed, even enjoy the “happy ending” held out to him in the form of marriage to María under the best of circumstances, suggests the author’s fascination with failure. Spanish readers didn’t like what Valera saw. Doctor Faustino has never enjoyed the success of the other Andalusian works and yet it remains, tantalizingly, I think, as proof of Valera’s will to look at the world when it is bereft of optimism and personal strength. Weakness is, after all, equally worthy as an artistic subject. In Valera’s gallery of types, Faustino’s presence is somewhat jarring; it forces us to remember that not all is the elegance, wit, country customs, and games of deceit and triumphs that are represented in Valera’s Andalusian novels. Faustino’s story—his ill-fated loves; his mediocre professional life; his loss of family, home, and town; his final despair and untimely death—contains an enticing element: excess, the excess of dreams. We learn from the narrator’s terse summary what is meant by dreams early in the novel when he assesses the protagonist’s scholarly achievement: Doctor Faustino received his doctor’s degree in 1840. He returned home full of illusions and was eager to go to Madrid and make them a reality. Unfortunately his illusions were as vague as his knowledge. (p. 40)

He could dream of a successful life because he had been brought up to expect the world to appreciate him, a well-bred gentleman; he would not fritter away the rest of the family fortune as his father had done because his mother was there to watch over what was left; nor would he become a playboy because, again, his mother kept him from being too influenced by the values of his manservant and confidant, Respetilla. But his high social standing actually curtails his growth by limiting useful experience: Señor don Faustino López de Mendoza y Escalante, castellan in perpetuity of the fortress and castle of Villabermeja, knight of the Order of Santiago, member of the Ronda Riding Club, descendant of numerous heroes ..... would it be acceptable for him to go to Madrid to clerk for an attorney? (p. 40)

His first attempts to practice law in Villabermeja will crown him only with some humiliating nicknames like the “Illustrious Proletariat” and “Don Poor-as-a-Church Mouse,” then “Attorney Peperri” (p. 49) after a real lawyer who won his small cases but lost his big ones. So much for the layers of pride and shame in his titles and nicknames. His given name, Faustino, reminds us of course of Goethe’s Faust. As Cyrus DeCoster has pointed out, Goethe’s hero, seeking wisdom, fame, and power, sold his soul to Mephistopheles. Valera’s protagonist is more commonplace, and his ambition more modest. Instead of

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a supernatural devil, his assistant is his obedient servant, Respetilla, who tries merely to foment his love affairs with Costanza and Rosita. The diminutive form, Faustino, emphasizes the generic difference between the two protagonists. The bootless, ineffectual Faustino has nothing of the tragic grandeur of his predecessor. (Juan Valera, p. 107, Twayne 1974).

And this more modest and ordinary version of a romantic legend is what Valera, eclectic that he is, invents. A decade later Benito Pérez Galdós will invent a similar variation on another romantic type, the Don Juan figure; the first male protagonist in Fortunata and Jacinta (1886–1887) is named Juanito Santa Cruz, and the character is a lesser Don Juan. In the case of Doctor Faustino we have an interesting hybrid: part Goethe’s Faust and part Juan Valera. If Valera escaped becoming a Faustino, it was perhaps due to his greater literary talent. The novel’s protagonist is a would-be poet and orator, whereas its author is a grand man of letters: productive, successful, and highly acclaimed. Faustino yearns for the life that Valera managed to live. Does it mean that a God-like author looks down on his creature? Not at all. He simply has him play out in fiction some of the epoch’s influences without either questioning them or simply disregarding them in favor of others. One of these influences was theosophy. Long passages are devoted (in Chapter 9) to the strange deep love María stirs in Faustino’s soul; their mutual attraction serves as a textual example of the widely shared romantic belief in eternal souls and immortal passions. In his youth, Faustino is convinced that María is his soulmate and that they have loved each other in previous lives. Valera establishes and develops their passion as such, although years later he portrays them in Madrid as just another bourgeois couple plagued by infidelity. The sketchy narrative attention to the sea change in Faustino’s feelings toward María is a flaw in the composition; some detailing of the change would make it seem more plausible to the reader. If his ardor had cooled early in the story, his “eternal passion”could be seen for what it is, an illusion. However, since the author sustains the idea of eternal love for so long and then abruptly shows it as unfulfilling, especially after the ups and downs of Faustino’s dissatisfying life, one wonders if it too is only an illusion, although not recognized as such because of María’s forceful presence in the plot and the author’s interest in theosophy. In any case, it seems improbable that Faustino would jeopardize his union with the woman who attracted him most for another affair with Costanza, who did not attract him as intensely. The episode is crucial, yet it receives little narrative scrutiny. Could it be that the narrator has simply had enough of his character and needs to kill him off? Earlier, in Chapter 7, he had already acknowledged



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apologetically that “[t]here are a thousand reasons in my mind that prompt me not to proceed with the telling of this story....... I am more and more disenchanted with the protagonist....... So I beg my readers to forgive me if I fall into, and even crawl and flounder, in the most prosaic realism” (pp. 81–82). Recalling the narrator’s disenchantment with his character, we realize that we need not expect good developments. Faustino’s conduct may strike us as improbable, but then again he has been made to disappoint—his mother, his cousin, María, Rosita, his daughter, himself, the narrator, and ultimately the reader. In this respect, Valera is totally consistent. The downward spiral of events must end, badly and sadly. The Illusions of Doctor Faustino is as true to one vision as the other, more characteristic novels are to another. The veils of culture, youthful hope, and attractive surfaces disguise reality at first, but the author is careful to entrust to one of the minor characters, Costanza’s father Don Alonso, the role of assessing Faustino’s moral fiber. Don Alonso’s words seem crude at the time but they prove to be accurate; he calls Faustino a man “who perhaps isn’t good for anything except eating up whatever I can give you” (p. 73). The dramatized narrator relies on the perspectives of others to complement his own evaluations. As a narrative figure he follows realism when he begs our forgiveness for not “transcribing faithfully” (p. 123) all that was said, although, as we have already mentioned, he feels quite free to skip over events, sum up a situation, or indulge in omniscient reflections according to his own preferences. He is the narrator-friend, confiding truths to us and occasionally sharing metafictive space with us, as at the end of Chapter 11: “The reader and I will stay a few more days in Costanza’s hometown, where we are to witness events of great moment for our story” (p. 124). The cozy tone and the light narrative mood seem lifted out of Valera’s other, more typical, idyllic novels. So as to incorporate a variety of perspectives the narrator also uses letters, which serve changing purposes. The long letter from the Marquis of Guadalbarbo to his sister serves to summarize events, offer character sketches from another angle, and add irony to the main narration. We learn, through the marquis’s epistle, of his courtship of Costanza, his image of the young lady and her widower father, his patriarchal values (the marquis extols Costanza as an “angel de amor”), and of course his scornful opinion of Faustino. The telling paragraph about the disregarded suitor and the “poor girl” who has charmed him indicates that he has been deceived. So when we see the CostanzaFaustino relationship filtered through Guadalbarbo’s eyes we definitely get a richer view of the story. The omniscient narrator, standing back, comments

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only that three weeks after the letter, “her marriage to the lovesick marquis was solemnized” (p. 129). With this technique he has advanced the plot efficiently. In the next chapter (13) the narrator’s presence is less conventional, more subtle. As he probes the doctor’s meditations on eternal love, he admits a rush of philosophical questions on the body, life’s purpose, immortality, previous lives, the legend of Doña Guiomar (p. 136), kinds of love, and so on. He appears to give his character freedom to muse, but he is there controlling the text’s expansion; he sums up Faustino’s musings with another of his typically terse statements: “The melancholy of his soul in those days painted everything in the gloomiest colors” (p. 139). Without these deft summaries the text would have risked deterioration, even disintegration. Chapter 13 is interesting esthetically because it offers precisely the cultural richness found in other novels by Valera, but for a different purpose. In Pepita Jiménez the biblical stories and images together with neoclassical references will crystallize in the idyllic ending; in Juanita la Larga such lofty images capture the inherent nobility of the illegitimate heroine. But in Doctor Faustino the mental wanderings of the well-read doctor will lead to no such junctures; after vaguely associating historical figures and theorizing on their import, Faustino finds himself haunted by a terrible truth that is more powerful than all his books: “He trembled to think that he did not love” (p. 142). The stark realization seems to infect the narrator, who feels his character slipping out of his grasp into that vague and endless theorizing that leads nowhere. But he must paint Faustino as he is, he must be true to his protagonist’s inability to love. What a challenge Valera has created for himself, welcoming all that he usually avoids in his fiction! Apologetically he confides in his reader as follows: I beg the reader to believe that it now distresses me that I have chosen for my story a personage with such a complex character as Doctor Faustino. It obliges me, though I am disinclined, to write this long soliloquy, which you must find boring, but we cannot turn back at this point (p. 142).

And if he follows his “complex character” through his musings, he produces something very valuable to the reader: a description, little by little, of many kinds of love. In his self-doubt, Faustino gathers up the experience of the many human beings who are unsure of their love. The author collects in his characters’ stories many varieties of love, and the novel can be said to have this secondary value: it presents a range of ideas about what “love” is, not the least of which is the romantic version that emblazons María. She has thematic importance, as stated, but she also rescues the story from what the narrator fears the reader will find “boring”: the exploration of Faustino’s conscience.



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She has in spades what the novel’s protagonist lacks: an unquestioning acceptance of her desire and a clear focus. Thankfully, Valera turns the narrator’s attention away from the plagued, pained hero enough that the story does not get bogged down. The humor and vitality of Andalusian country life lighten the tone and vary the scene for several chapters through the Rosita relationship. Country games and evening tertulias bring some enchantment into the text as they widen the lens to include a social group, the circle of the Civils (Rosita and her sister Ramoncita). This section of the story is perhaps reminiscent of the other idyllic novels, but of course it doesn’t last. Doña Ana considers the group socially inferior and opposes a marriage to Rosita, who unlike the later heroine, Juanita la Larga, resorts to vengeance, not deceit. Again, the author is faithful to his vision: in this darker version of Andalusian social patterns and love relationships, no fairy tale games mark the plot; no winning over of others occurs. Instead, Valera accepts the greater strength of characters who act out of resentment or revenge. The Illusions of Doctor Faustino shows the underside of the fairy tale. If we were to compare the idyllic works to a (Joaquín) Sorolla, we could compare this work to a (José Gutiérrez) Solana. It is not only the doctor’s illusions that suffer in this novel; all the characters bear disenchantment, each coping in a different way. Fittingly, Chapter 26 is entitled “Lost Illusions.” The Balzacian echo is present, but the parallels between Lucien Chardon and Faustino López de Mendoza are not close enough to warrant evoking the differences. Suffice it to say that both originate in a province, go to the capital, and aspire to a literary life. Since Valera does not link his protagonist to a good friend who complements his hero’s character (Balzac does, devoting considerable time to David Sechard, the friend), I merely cite the echo. More to the point in our analysis of the losing of illusions as understood by Valera is the fact that the Spanish author relates the process more to losing love. When the protagonist fails, over and over, to love, the narrator sticks with him, but he does not care about Faustino’s string of personal disappointments. It is the impact of a disappointing character on others that sustains this work’s interest. The chapter’s beginning confirms the narrator’s boredom with Faustino when he summarizes it all: “For many years the doctor’s illusions stayed alive, although all of them, one by one, were being bruised and broken on the touchstone of success” (p. 229). Clearly, then, the omniscient narrator is more interested in the outcome of the love relationships, to which he devotes most of the text, than he is in dragging the seventeen years of failure into the story. He justifies his dismissal of those years, saying,

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All this part of the doctor’s life is related here in brief and in a hurry, because it does not have a great bearing on the action or the story line of this tale, if, that is, the reader should wish to grant me the fact that there is a sole story line—with patent, classic unity—in this true tale (p. 234).

What an esthetically revealing statement! The long sentence captures Valera’s poetics, his synthesis of classical, romantic, and realist art. The character upset his author’s sense of balance so badly that the only way to deal with him was to leave out a large chunk of his life, just the way a gardener frees a garden of weeds. Valera’s love of natural beauty, especially female beauty, could survive in this novel graced with three attractive female characters, even though none reaches the ending happily. His interest in the theme of love could survive because the ubiquitous disquisitions are at least that, examples and varieties of love. His wish to decorate his fiction with classical allusions could also survive, although for other purposes, as we have seen. His interest in Romantic motifs, including the Gothic-Romantic, found a place in Doctor Faustino with the mysterious encounters, nocturnal settings, ambiguous identities, and immortal love—all elements with dramatic value in the novel. But the destructive self-doubting of the doctor, together with the character’s aimless mental wandering, were probably too foreign to his own far more spirited nature. So we readers are spared the tedium of much of the doctor’s life. Faustino’s type was not rare, of course. The author reflects on that rampant type in the Spain of the times at the opening of Chapter 27, casting his sharp criticism of his countrymen as a narrative reflection: Either Don Faustino was foolish or he was not, they [people] will say. If he was foolish, the author of this story should have described him as such, but since he has described him as discreet, although extravagant, it is hard to understand that he did not gain standing in this disorderly, turbulent society in which it is so easy to rise....... [In Spain] scarcely anyone advances beyond what is called clever or shrewd. This cleverness or shrewdness, not enhanced by much learning because we are lazy, does not yield the fruit for good things that it ought to yield; and looking at it in another light, since there are so many who exhibit this cleverness to a greater or lesser degree, rare is the man in whom it reaches the point of constituting such excellence that it distinguishes him and raises him by general assent above the level of others, making him suitable for authority....... In this perpetual struggle to rise in the world several thousand men take part: the frock-coat proletariat. Since there are falls and ascents nearly every year, no doubt the most capable ones do become celebrities; then again, a certain percentage of the merely clever men also become personages, but inasmuch as the clever ones abound, most of them are left high and dry. What happens is that those who lose out are out of sight, out of mind, and it seems to us that they never existed. (pp. 236–37)



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A Darwinian indictment from a vexed narrator..... and a semisociological overview of the less fit for survival in Spanish society. Faustino, of course, is one among many cases, and were it not for the Andalusian women in the tale, his life’s story would perhaps not even have interested the author. Chapter 27 is problematic in that it first contextualizes the hero sociologically and then switches to catching up on the vicissitudes of various Villabermejans, culminating in a letter from Father Piñón reaffirming to Faustino María’s everlasting love. So strangely enough, a little Darwinian-Marxist sociology is complemented by a reintroduction of theosophy in the same chapter, which concludes with the letter in which the priest is kindly and openminded enough to relate María’s words to Faustino without censuring the spiritual content of her beliefs. He writes, “If she reunited with you and some regrettable act separated you, creating enmity between you, the union of your spirits—which she believes must transcend subsequent lives—would perhaps be broken forever more, bringing about an eternal separation” (p. 246). (One wonders if Valera had been affected by Guido Reni’s haunting image of lovers separating, depicted in that magnificent painting Daphnis and Chloe.) If there is a tragic flaw in Faustino, it is his tragic misperception of his worth; he is so convinced of his superiority that he throws away what is valuable: love. The narrator closes Chapter 27 in his usual terse way: “In sum, although he [Faustino] went on loving poetically the sweet memory of his immortal friend, he was very far from consenting to exchange it for the real possession of that beautiful and enamored woman, if the exchange meant giving up all his illusions, which he did not view as such” (p. 246). In an interesting twist of the cliché “love is blind,” this hero is blind to love. Valera also reverses a characteristic motif in his other works: the May– December romance. In so doing, the author is again faithful to his probing vision, his break from his usual optimism. Costancita, we are told, is “bored to tears” (p. 251) by her older husband despite his fine physical state. The older men, the marquis and General Pérez, suffer in this novel instead of being rewarded with lasting love or flirtatious reciprocation from a young woman. It will be Costancita who, questioning Faustino’s “scant progress,” leads him to declare for the first time some unpleasant truths about himself, showing that he has at least gained some self-awareness late in the game. “What do you expect?” said Don Faustino. “I epitomize the proverb that says ‘Don’t bite off more than you can chew.’ There is no ambition that I haven’t had. That’s why I haven’t seen a single one satisfied. My spirit has wandered, it has been led astray by every conceivable object, not with the steady, straight flight of the eagle, but with the hesitant, uncertain fluttering of a starling. My shrunken will has been unable to pursue anything with vigor. Do not be surprised that I have made little progress. I’m

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missing the two most powerful drives: love and faith in something outside of myself.” (p. 269)

And indeed, that lack is chronic. In Faustino’s last lengthy delirium (Chapter 30), he fancies that he is “sinking” without leaving a trace of “having passed through” the ocean of existence. The poetic metaphor issues from the character; the sociological narrative voice has already prepared the reader for this disappearance. So, in a strange way, it is even fitting that the tale of Doctor Faustino not be remembered, that his novel not be counted by many readers of Valera’s Andalusian works. Transience, not literary permanence, was his destiny. The author deliberately locates Faustino and María’s “sad marriage” in the last line of the narration (p. 289), locking into the main story the inevitable sad ending. But on the next page, Valera manages to mark even this sad text with his authorial energy. In the “Conclusion” (pp. 290–302), the author presents renewed romantic conflict (the fateful Costanza-Faustino-María triangle), the dramatized narrator’s friend, Juan Fresco as jovial host, together with a secondary love triangle, that of Respetilla-Jacintica-Manolilla, in which the husband is faithful, so the flirtation with the Madrid seamstress Manolilla remains playful. Games of deceit and the mixing of roles from long ago and the present are handled deftly, and the author even manages to minimize the role of theosophy, whisking it out of his text when he has the distraught doctor declare of his dead wife, “As she gave herself to me one day, so has she given herself now to death, all of herself. God received her in his bosom. She has disappeared in the absolute essence” (p. 300). Traditional Spanish values and virtues reenter this text as the immortal friend is pictured by the doctor as “falling into putrid dissolution” (p. 300). No, the sight of death does not stir his old romantic beliefs; it causes him to pull the trigger to end his own life. Don Juan Fresco witnesses the act with the orphaned Irene, whom he will later take to her new life in a convent. The narrator listens to “the sad story related to [him] by Don Juan Fresco” (p. 300) and it is Fresco who provides the moral of the story to the narrator and to us: “The moral that Don Juan Fresco drew from the entire tale was that this education nowadays trains ambitious, conceited, vain men, full of a thousand absurd plans, which is what he calls illusions, and without a firm belief in anything, and without the energy for good or for evil” (p. 300). Valera chooses Don Juan Fresco, “so inimical to illusions” (p. 302), to issue the final dictum, the indictment of Spain’s Faustinos. It is reassuring to find in the “Afterword to the 1879 Edition” that Juan Valera does identify with his hapless creature. He confesses to the reader: “I needed no more art than to look deep down into the souls of not a few friends



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of mine and into the depths of my own, and then analyze affections, passions, disappointments, and illusions” (p. 306). If The Illusions of Doctor Faustino was Valera’s favorite work, it should not surprise us. It is a tonic, an honest appraisal of self and country. Would that verbal elegance always served such a demanding master.2 And with no further ado, it gives me great pleasure to welcome the reader to this inspired translation. 2. For more on Valera’s literary art, see the excellent essays by Beth Wietelmann Bauer and Noël Valis that introduce Robert Fedorchek’s English versions of two of the three idyllic Andalusian novels: Doña Luz (Lewisburg: Bucknell, 2002) and Juanita la Larga (Washington, D.C.: The Catholic University of America Press, 2006).

T h e I l l u s i o n s of D o c t o r F a u s ti n o

To my dear friend Don Ramón Rodríguez Correa I de dicat e thi s nov el to you as the matador dedicates his performance before killing the bull. Neither he nor I knows whether what we dedicate will turn out well or ill. The public and you must decide and pass judgment, when the novel is printed in its entirety, as soon as it is written.1 At all events, even though the novel may prove to be terrible, since the intention with which I dedicate it to you is good, you will always have to be grateful, although you may not have to applaud. It is true that, as I am indebted to you for so much friendship for so many years, I am scarcely beginning to repay you with this token of affection, so that, all things considered, you do not have to thank me for the dedication. I will not say to the public, because it would detract from the appeal of my work, that everything I am going to relate in it will be invented. Villabermeja is a true utopia: its heroes never existed. Still, it will not hurt for you to make this known, inasmuch as I shape my imaginary creations, as I understand that all novelists do, with real materials, taking bits and pieces of my recollections from here and there, and it would distress me were some mindreader of a critic to assert that I paint portraits.2 Well do I know that the river of oblivion will soon carry off this novel in its current, along with a host of insipid compositions, written in a rush to fill the columns of newspapers. Consequently, there is no fear that within a few centuries scholars will be trying to ascertain who were all the characters of my story, as they imagine that they have ascertained today who was Sancho, who Don Quijote, who the gray-haired man, and which Don Quijote’s village, taking for granted that it was Argamasilla de Alba; 1. The Illusions of Doctor Faustino was published serially in the Revista de España, in thirteen installments, between October 1874 and June 1875. It then appeared in book form in 1875, shortly after the final installment. 2. Prophetic words, as Valera will defend himself against this very kind of thing in the Afterword to the 1879 edition of the novel.

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but what is not to occur within a few centuries could well occur immediately, and it is against this that I implore you to work, affirming, as it is the truth, that the poor offerings of my fantasy lack original models in the world. Welcome them in your affectionate arms and defend them from the abuse to which they are going to be exposed, if, as I suspect, they are born frail and ugly.

I ntroduction Which Deals with Villabermeja, Don Juan Fresco, and Illusions in General

M y e x c e l l e n t and old friend Don Miguel de los Santos Álvarez,1 an optimistic thinker, serene observer of things, and reasonable philosopher, wittily maintains that in old age you gain on the one hand what you lose on the other, that there is no reason or cause to be distressed, and that the person who becomes distressed is intractable. The common people, he says by way of example, imagine that when a man goes bald it is because he lacks the substance that nourishes the roots of his hair and that the latter then falls out, but as always happens to the one who goes bald, hairs and bristles sprout in his nostrils and in his ears, and his eyebrows grow and get so bushy that they usually shadow his face, and consequently baldness cannot be attributed to a lack of substances. In women this phenomenon is still more obvious, since almost without exception there appears in the one who loses the hair on her head a marvelous and abundant flowering of bristles on her chin and upper lip, which makes her a worthy rival of Countess Trifaldi2 or of Santa Librada,3 although these ladies 1. Miguel de los Santos Álvarez (1818–1892), diplomat and poet, was a great admirer of José de Espronceda and Byron. 2. Called the “Dolorous Duenna” by enchanters, this countess and her ladies pretended to have a beard and persuaded Don Quijote and Sancho to mount Clavileño, the giant Malambruno’s wooden horse (Don Quijote; 2:36–41), which would cause her and the other duennas to lose their “beards.” 3. Legend has it that this daughter of a pagan king of Portugal converted to Christianity and took a vow of chastity. She prayed to God to disfigure her body so as not to have to marry a pagan prince, and God, granting her wish, let her grow a beard. As punishment, her father then had her crucified.

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grew a beard miraculously—the former as harsh punishment meted out by an ill-intentioned magician, and the latter as a special favor granted by heaven so as to preserve the jewel of her chastity, which had been put in grave danger—while in general the beard growth discussed here is an ordinary function of capricious Nature, a function that does not seem to have any discernible purpose. One can see, therefore, that there is no dearth of substances in old age, only a change of direction in them. The same thing occurs or should occur with everything else. I raise this point because as a young man I was more severe in my censures than now when I’m aging, which is understandable, because I hadn’t committed so many sins, nor made so many mistakes, nor fallen into so many erring ways, as I did afterwards. I censured others, not yet becoming aware, with innocent presumption, of how much there would be to censure in me. These days, now that I am aware of it, I’m a thousand times more benevolent and indulgent with everybody, so that they will be the same toward me. Among the countless things that I used to censure was the fondness of certain poets and writers for extolling the golden mean, seclusion, country life, and the charm of the small towns in which they were born, as well as the propensity that they show to return to said towns and to live and die there peacefully, neither envied nor envious, far from the world and its vain pomp. I had the feeling that all those who spoke or wrote like that were hypocrites, that they were like the usurer Alfio4 or close to it. The verses of Martínez de la Rosa,5 that say, Father Darro, gentle river of the golden sands, deign to hear the vows of my breast and on your sacred banks let me die, riled me greatly. Why, I muttered, does this man have to bewilder me with his ayes and sighs, being, as it is, in his hands to leave the Embassy of Paris, or the Presidency of the Council of Ministers, or his brilliant position in Parliament, and retire to the shady gardens in the hills of the Generalife6 and Sac4. In Horace’s Epode 2 Alfio praises rural life, but then goes back to tending business. 5. Francisco Martínez de la Rosa (1787–1862), Spanish politician and writer, famous chiefly for his romantic play La conjuración de Venecia (The Venice Conspiracy) and his poetry. 6. Summer palace of Moorish kings in Granada.



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romonte,7 where the Darro flows gently, and the Avellano Fountain empties its limpid waters? Later on I became convinced that Martínez de la Rosa did not sigh without passion for his Granada. I’ve been guilty, very guilty, of the same fault, if fault it is. I admit that for years now I’ve always said that I’m going back to my hometown, that I wish to live there, ut prisca gens mortalium,8 tending to the poor piece of land that I inherited from my father, and maybe, maybe tilling it myself with my oxen, like Cincinnatus and other glorious personages of ancient times. This is what I used to say and say sincerely, finding preferable to everything that “tranquil life,” wishing to be one of the “few sages that there have been in the world,”9 and nevertheless not fulfilling my wish, when to all intents and purposes fulfilling it and satisfying it depend on me and me alone. Now I understand and perceive the difficulties that the most nonchalant and resolute person runs up against even to fulfill such a modest wish, and I forgive those who speak with love and saudades about rural life from the perspective of the hustle and bustle of metropolises, and I ask forgiveness for myself and consideration of the fact that there is no farce in this deep fondness with which I turn my eyes and my spirit back to the quiet, obscure corner where my father planted young vines and the grove of trees that, by dint of hard work and great effort, he saw grow and thrive until, brimming with vitality and lushness, they began to yield fruit aplenty. My hometown is in the same province as the town, and but a short distance from it, that is the birthplace of Don Luis de Vargas and Pepita Jiménez,10 with whom I assume my readers are familiar, but I’m not going to talk about my hometown; I’m going to talk about another one, also nearby, where I usually go for short stays because I have a number of possessions there that bring me, calculating over a five-year period, a half duro a day. This town is smaller and poorer than both mine and Pepita’s, and although the surrounding countryside is not as pretty and pleasant, its denizens do not doubt that it is the best place in the world. Inasmuch as the hamlet, whose name is held back for things of greater moment, stands at the foot of an arid, rocky bluff or bare hill, with mountains all around, an observer, even if he climbs to the highest part of the bell tower, only takes in a stark landscape. There are no gardens in the outskirts, 7. A mountain opposite the Generalife, well known for caves of Gypsies. 8. like the ancient race of mortals (Horace, Epode 2). 9. Friar Luis de León (1527–1591), from “De la vida retirada / On Life in Retirement.” 10. The two central figures of Valera’s novel Pepita Jiménez (1874), which also takes place in Andalusia.

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just vineyards, olive groves, and fields of grain. Nevertheless, in the ravines, where streams meander, you see beautiful poplar copses, and all that ground seems to its sons and daughters, who work it with loving care, so fertile and blessed that they are unable to explain to themselves naturally its bountiful fertility, and they maintain that the throne of the most Holy Trinity is positioned exactly over their heads, and that it allows its beneficent influence to be felt throughout all those environs. They believe, furthermore, that the town’s patron saint is very zealous and active, and that he is always interceding with God so that everything will prosper and improve. In this way, and not by any other means, do they attain—according to them, through a special providence and divine intervention—the wealth and beauty of the paradise in which they presume that they live. The image of the patron saint is made of silver and is only about a foot high, but value is not measured by inches. According to pious tradition, in another nearby town they once offered for this little saint fifteen cartloads of other saints of every lineage and dimension, and the exchange was not accepted. The saint repaid tenfold the love that his godchildren have for him. Those who offered the fifteen cartloads, seeing that they were not going to gain possession of the saint by honest means, stole him one night, according to local rumor, but the saint neatly escaped from the spot in which he had been locked up and appeared again in his niche the following day. Since then the niche has been protected by thick iron bars. And do not believe that these precautions are taken for the paltry value of the saint’s weight in silver, but because he is the defender of the town, and its refuge, remedy, and protection against all evils, adversities, and dangers. I confess that the critical spirit of our godless age has also penetrated this town, diminishing enthusiasm for the patron saint, but I still remember the frenzy, the profound feeling of gratitude with which people acclaimed him years ago when he was brought out in procession and the fervent crowd would shout, “Long live our patron saint, who is as small as a cucumber and performs more miracles than five thousand devils!,” a sincere expression of their conviction—if one may look for examples in things profane for things sacred, and in things material for things spiritual—that just as a steam engine has the mechanical power of so many thousands of horses, so did their saint have the thaumaturgic power of no fewer than five thousand devils, notwithstanding how small he was. What I’ve never seen, what I do not want to believe, what strikes me as fabrication and gossip on the part of nearby towns, in order to make fun of the people of this town, is the excessive familiarity with which on occasion they treated their saint, taking him, when it didn’t rain, to a fountain called



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Pilar de Abajo, and ducking him there so that it would rain, which, let’s add, never failed to happen immediately or a few hours afterward. About the business of the devout ducking I have my doubts. The villagers of Andalusia are envious and given to mockery, and may have made it up without grounds. Unfortunately, the ducking is not the only way that the inhabitants of the town about which I’m speaking are taunted. Since there are many strawberry blonds in it, and there was, until just a few years ago, a wealthy monastery of Dominican friars, in order to infuriate them the same envious villagers call them children of Father Bermejo, or Father “Strawberry Blond,” which has occasioned frequent stone fights between the youths of a number of towns, as well as fistfights, and sometimes stick brawls and even knifings among men, which disturb the peace that should be enjoyed at fairs and pilgrimages. The instance that I’m relating is not exceptional. There is scarcely a town in Andalusia about which some offensive joke has not been made up in the surrounding ones. About El Viso, for example, people say that it is the land of fireplaces, because there aren’t any, and ask if they know what piñons are, because hardly anything else except piñons are produced in the entire region. Regarding Valenzuela and Porcuna, a thousand epigrams are circulated because there is neither wood nor coal for many miles around, and their inhabitants warm themselves and cook with a not very fragrant combustible. About Palma del Río it is said that no one there lunches on anything except oranges, and that not even conceiving of the mere possibility that anyone lunches on something else, people ask this question: Where there are no oranges, what can be eaten for lunch? Wags tease the inhabitants of Tocina by asserting that the musical accompaniment at the high mass is the guitar because there is no organ in the church. It’s enough to call the residents of Fuentes de Andalucía residents of Fuentes de la Campana for them to fume. Regarding another town where there is an exquisite tower, it is said that the natives try to get every stranger who sees it and admires it to accept that said tower was made there. So as not to be too verbose I will not cite additional examples. Let the aforementioned ones suffice to make known that the misfortune of the town to which I’m alluding is not unique, and that poking fun and teasing along these lines is part and parcel of Andalusian customs. Be that as it may, I believe that Father Bermejo can and should be considered like a patriarchal personage, the root and trunk of the entire lineage of a town, and so, in order to distinguish it and designate it without uttering its real name, which I’ve already said ought to be withheld out of a certain respect, I shall call those townspeople Bermejinos and the town in which they live Villabermeja.

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On this point I am proceeding like the learned historians of heroic times, and I see in our own, when it comes to towns with a low population, the same thing that occurred at the dawn of history, in the golden and poetic ages in which the patriarchs lived. Perseus gave Persians their name, Hellen the Hellenes or Greeks, Heber the Hebrews, Chus the Cusites, Japhet the Japhetites, and so on over the course of time until we arrive at our Father Bermejo, from whom is derived the appellation Bermejinos. It should not be inferred from the aforementioned that Father Bermejo was a real personage. Perhaps it was the prosopopeia of an entire town. Many of today’s scholars interpret in this manner the names and lives of some of the patriarchs cited in the first chapters of Genesis. Tubalcain, for example, is for them not a man who lives for a few centuries, but a whole human race: the Turanians or, rather, a branch or several branches of the Turanians, called Akkadians, Protomedos, Chalybes, and Tibernians, who were the first ones who worked metals and passed from the Stone Age to the Bronze Age. Nor is there a shortage of examples that ascribe, with malevolence and by way of derision, a grotesque or abhorrent patriarch to a nation or a race. The Egyptians, for instance, assumed that the Hebrews were born in the desert of an abominable union of Typhon, the god of evil, when, riding on a donkey, he was fleeing from Horus, and maybe even his brother Osiris, who had been brought back to life. The fable or myth of Father Bermejo and the label of Bermejinos derives, without doubt, from this malevolent personage, but not having at hand another and better name, I repeat that I will permit myself to call the town that I am describing Villabermeja and its inhabitants Bermejinos, making every possible mental reservation and solemnly swearing that it is not my intention to offend my semicountrymen in the slightest. I hold them all in very high regard, and besides, there is one whose character, mind, and affable manner captivate me, and I am honored to consider him one of my best friends. This person is known by the sobriquet of Don Juan Fresco, and that is what we shall call him, certain that he won’t take it amiss. Don Juan Fresco is a true philosopher. As a youth he was called Juanillo. He quit the town and returned a very wealthy man, already advanced in years and with the important-sounding honorific of “Don.” Motivated by the novelty and freshness of this Don, the people took to calling him Don Juan Fresco, and he is not known or recognized by any other name.11 With good reason he passes for a magnate, but as he does not want to mix 11. Fresco can variously mean “fresh” or “cool” or “calm.”



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in politics, or in elections, or in anything, he is not the cacique, or local boss, that he should be. Villabermeja, contrary to custom and the general rule of towns in Andalusia, is bossless, or leaderless. When he returned to his hometown this great man gave, in my opinion, the greatest proof of love for his native land that can be imagined, or at the very least, gave an example of extraordinary nonchalance. Anywhere else he would pass for a gentleman; there he has as cousins or nephews the butcher, the bailiff, a half dozen penitentiary graduates, and others of the same stripe. But he does not care a tinker’s damn for the opinions of others. Would he deserve to be called Don Juan Fresco if he didn’t have so much “freshness”? On the contrary, my friend Don Juan draws certain flattering inferences from the disastrous situation of his family. He assures us that his is not the lineage of humble yokels or boors, but one of decisive, insouciant, illustrious people of lofty spirit in whom one sees the resoluteness and heroic way of life and greatness that predominated in the Bermejinos or Villabermejans of the Middle Ages, who were frontier warriors in the land of the Moors. The Frescos—let’s refer to all of them in this way—are no good at digging: they have to don a toga or take up arms, and for that reason, there not having been better means of satisfying such noble instincts, one is a butcher, another a bailiff, and not a few have taken to the road on a number of occasions, now as smugglers, now as redressers of wrongs at the hands of blind Fortune, correcting, to the extent that they can, the inequitable distribution of presents and favors that this lady has parceled out. On such reasons does Don Juan base the apologia for his family; I still don’t know if he does so seriously or jokingly, because he’s the sliest person I’ve met in my life. Don Juan must be all of seventy, and then some, but he’s more solid than an oak and as straight as a ramrod. He’s not missing a single one of his teeth, and he has all his hair, which, since it’s blond like a true Villabermejan, disguises or conceals the white ones. He rides horseback like a centaur and fires his shotgun with such a sure aim that it’s as if he possessed the magic bullets of Der Freischütz12 or were a modern version of Philoctetes.13 Don Juan lives with a magnificence that is by no means common in those parts. His house sits on the square, and, like those of all the well-to-do in the area, is divided into two parts: one, given over to farm work, where there is a 12. Opera (The Freeshooter, 1821) in three acts by Carl Maria von Weber (1786–1826). 13. In Greek mythology, the famous archer who, after recovering from a snake bite, killed Paris in Troy.

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winepress, wine cellar, oil press, coach house, still, and stables; and another, with comforts and amenities, a tiled patio, marble fountain and columns, flowers, elegant furniture and—the strangest thing!—a selective and splendid library. This library isn’t just for show. Don Juan reads a great deal and knows a great deal too. About his life and the source of his wealth, I’ll say in brief what he has told me, at my urging, because he’s a man who talks very little about himself. He was born right around the turn of the century and did not know his father. His mother was a widow—or something similar to a widow. Despite his philosophy, Don Juan never goes into these details. At the age of seven he was already finding a way to contribute his mite to the maintenance of the house. Sometimes he would gather thistles, artichokes or asparagus, which he then sold; other times he would see to selling the thrushes, eels or frog legs that others hunted or fished. When he was older, that is, between ten and fourteen or fifteen, he would weed or gather olives, or even tend a drove of hogs. It was in this latter occupation that his uncle, Father Fernández, one of the great glories of the town, came across him. The War of Independence14 had ended; our desired Fernando VII ruled now, and the abovementioned priest had laid down his arms and was resting on his laurels, after having been—for five or six years, in the mountainous area around Ronda and throughout practically the entire stretch of the provinces of Córdoba and Málaga—the spirited leader of a band of patriots, whom the French called brigantes. Father Fernández had been and was the most blustering, genial, and witty priest of which Andalusia can boast. He played the guitar beautifully, sang the caña15 and fandango16 like no one else, and had the heavy build and strength of a powerful man. No one had ever bested him at the javelin throw, or in hand-to-hand combat, or in arm wrestling, or at drinking from a 560gallon earthen jar filled to the brim with wine and lowering it by a half or whole finger without dire consequences for both the head and stomach. He spoke fluently the dialect of Spanish Gypsies, conversed very pleasantly, and told a thousand funny stories. Don’t go thinking, however, that he was an ignorant, immoral curate. If he was a Viriatus17 dressed in a cassock, under the appearance of a brigand there was a fervent Catholic, a good priest, and a very well-educated human14. The war (1808–1814) that Spain fought against Napoleon. 15. An Andalusian folk song. 16. A dance sung to the accompaniment of a guitar, castanets, and sometimes a violin. 17. A leader of the Lusitani, warlike tribes in what now is central Portugal and western Spain, who urged his countrymen to resist Roman rule.



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ist, theologian, and philosopher. He spoke Latin as easily as Castilian, although it was shot through with ceceo18 and a marked Andalusian accent. He was fearsome in debates, arguing in substance and method like no one in his day; and although a Thomist and scholastic, he was familiar with the philosophical movement of the last centuries, from Descartes to Condillac,19 and the most recent French sensualists and materialists, whom he refuted. When the war ended, Father or curate Fernández, who wasn’t a curate although he was called one, retired to Archidona,20 where he gave lessons in Latin and philosophy, assisting rather than vying with the Piarists. The bishop of Málaga went there on his pastoral visit, and even though he had attended the seminary with Fernández, paid him little attention. The curate did not take umbrage, realizing that the bishop’s preoccupations and concerns were the cause, but since he had a merry, jovial character, he wished to play a practical joke on his former schoolmate, a joke that would also provide an opportunity to have a long meeting with him. When the bishop left Archidona to continue his rounds, Father Fernández had already gone ahead and was waiting for him at Lovers’ Rock. The curate, dressed in very natty country garb, had put on sharply-pointed false sideburns and brought along as his acolyte an outlaw whose life he had turned around with his admonitions, and for whom he had obtained a pardon. The outlaw, in retirement now, devoted himself to being an angel of sorts, that is, to accompanying timid or unarmed travelers so as to save them from any bad encounters while en route. Both the curate and his companion intended on this occasion to instill fear in the most courageous hearts: each one rode horseback and each one carried a blunderbuss. When His Excellency’s coach passed by, they suddenly came out onto the road and swiftly disarmed the two guards with shotguns, and the angel politely told the bishop to step down. The saintly prelate obeyed and stepped down with his secretary, although he was rather distressed. Extraordinary was his consolation and great his contentment when Father Fernández removed the false sideburns and proceeded to anagnorisis or recognition, showing himself to be a cordial and respectful fellow student who only wished to pay tribute to a friendship and enjoy a chat. The curate took the bishop to a kind of tent that he had set up on one side of the road, and there he feted him with rosolio and grape-flavored brandy, with sponge cakes and macaroons, and with crullers from Loja,21 which are the most exquisite ones you can eat. 18. A linguistic feature in which the Spanish s is pronounced as the Spanish z [ϴ]. 19. Étienne Bonnot de Condillac (1715–1780), French philosopher. 20. Town in the southern province of Málaga. 21. Town in the southern province of Granada.

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Father Fernández was so discreet, shone so much in the conversation and said such good things, in philosophy as well as theology, that the bishop went away charmed and found that even the scare had been pleasant. Very soon, with the bishop’s protection, Father Fernández became a curate in Málaga, in the Perchel district, where he had parishioners well-suited to being catechized by him, and restless sheep who clearly required a shepherd of his pluck and boldness. While a curate in Málaga, Fernández went to Villabermeja to see members of his family and to breathe the airs of his native land. The swineherd nephew struck him as bright and quick to catch on, and he took the boy back to Málaga with him. The curate was not mistaken. His nephew rapidly learned everything that he knew and more, both in “music” and in “gymnastics,” that is, both in physical exercises and in sciences and letters. It delighted Father Fernández to transmit his knowledge so speedily and to see that he had a nephew of so much merit, for which reason he wanted him to be a cleric, certain that he would become a bishop at the very least, but Don Juan did not have a vocation and declared repeatedly that God was not calling him along that path. All his passion consisted in seeing the world and seeking adventure, traversing land and sea. And so, thanks to his uncle’s influence, he enrolled in the School of San Telmo and graduated four years later a well-prepared first mate. For a long time Don Juan’s voyages competed with those of Sindbad the Sailor, and if, as I suspect, he’s recorded them in writing, they’ll make for delightful reading the day the book is published. For now it’s only important to know that, having arrived in Lima at the height of his renown, Don Juan Fresco was named captain of a magnificent ship of the Philippines Company that would make several trips to Calcutta with valuable cargos. At that time there were pirates in the archipelagos of Oceania. The ship’s crew was rather heterogeneous and not at all trustworthy: the sailors were Malayans; the cooks and caulkers, Chinese; the boatswain, French; the first mate, English; and only four or five were Spaniards. With this floating and roving tower of Babel Don Juan made three successful voyages to the banks of the Ganges River, where, while the ship was being unloaded and then reloaded and outfitted for the return leg, he lived like a nabob, going about in a luxurious palanquin, served by pretty girls, loved by the bayaderes, hunting tigers from atop an enormous elephant, and being feted by the most powerful merchants of that opulent trading center, the emporium of the Far East. Since, in addition to his high salary, he had the right to haul goods without stint and free of freight charges, Don Juan profited greatly, and when he returned to Lima after his third voyage he was a millionaire.



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The independence of Peru forced him to flee from that country along with many other Spaniards, but instead of returning to Europe he settled in Rio de Janeiro where he set up a business. When at length he tired of living in foreign lands, Don Juan returned to Europe, and, after traveling through Germany, France, Italy, and England, love of his native land brought him to Villabermeja, where I met him and where I had dealings with him. He has purchased farms and olive groves and vineyards, and become skilled at working the land. No one would recognize in him the former, and bold, seaman. He scarcely talks about his voyages and adventures. He has remained a bachelor his entire life, and there’s no fear that at the end of it he’ll be mad enough to marry. Don Juan Fresco is the man of providence for all of his “fresh” and numerous family, even though he does not seem to indulge in much sentiment. Never once did I hear him, in months of conversation, recall love affairs or friendships, or America, or India, or any other place. The only person he mentioned at every turn, with the true warmth of gratitude and affection, was Father Fernández, who died in Málaga, loved by all, poor because he gave away as alms everything that he had, a priest worthy of being canonized if only he had known how to observe—and here we avail ourselves of a Gallicism—what nowadays are called “social conventions.” But since he told funny stories that were sometimes off-color, and had played jokes like the one on the bishop, and even worse ones, canonization was more than difficult. Notwithstanding how much Don Juan worshiped his uncle, I don’t dare to say that he imitated him when it came to being religious and a good Catholic. Don Juan was a positivist. He lent credence only to what he observed by means of the senses and mathematical truths. He didn’t know anything about all the rest, nor did he want to know anything; he even denied the possibility that anything could be known. He was, nonetheless, very fond of speculations and metaphysical systems, and they interested him as poetry did. He compared them to novels filled with inventiveness, in which matter, the spirit, the self, the non-self, God, the world, the finite and the infinite, are the persons that the prolific and bold fantasy of the philosopher shuffles, stirs, and sets in motion at his whim. Don Juan, however, was very far from being scandalous or impious. Even though for him there was no science of the spiritual and supernatural, this did not stand in opposition to belief. Through a leap of faith Don Juan understood that man could put himself in possession of what speech does not reach, and elevate himself to the sublime plane where, by miraculous intuition, the soul discovers mysteries that are eternally hidden from reasoning. When I was in Villabermeja I usually took long walks in the afternoon

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with Don Juan Fresco, and afterwards the two of us would rest at a spot called the Muleteers’ Cross, by the entrance to the town. This stone cross has a base, also of stone, formed by steps or blocks. There, at the foot of the cross, was where we both sat down. Sometimes we were accompanied by Serafinito, a twenty-eight- or thirtyyear-old bachelor whose parents were deceased, a young man who was fairly wealthy, as wealth goes in small towns, and possessed of a very gentle disposition, although melancholy and taciturn. Don Juan maintained that from the Muleteers’ Cross one enjoyed the most beautiful view in the world. I would smile and look at him attentively to see if he was poking fun whenever he said such a thing. There wasn’t the least sign on his face that he spoke ironically or in jest. One September afternoon Don Juan, Serafinito, and I were sitting at the foot of the Muleteers’ Cross. The sun had already dipped below the hills that restrict the view in the west, leaving the sky there tinged with carmine and gold. While the entire valley lay in shadows, above the hills behind the town and even above the bell tower there still shone oblique rays of the sun, and they reflected brilliantly on the smooth surface of the rocks that crown the peaks of said hills. A few white clouds encroached on the pure blue of the firmament and, thanks to a gentle wind, advanced, becoming reddened and luminous with the sun’s reflections. The moon was already showing its pale face high above the horizon, and a number of stars could be glimpsed in the darkest region of the ether, the one furthest away from the solar disk. On the side where the view from this low ground spread out the most, it stretched for nearly three miles, to where the hills close the horizon. A quiet peace reigned all around. Olive groves and vineyards cover most of the arable soil, while the arid crags that form the heights are not cultivated, nor can be. The various farms and ranches are separated from one another, and from roads and paths, by blackberry and agave hedges. Where there is more fertile and moist ground you might see honeysuckle, pomegranates, and dog roses in these hedges. Prickly pears also grow and bear fruit in the areas most protected from the winter cold. The grain fields, along with landed properties on the outskirts of the town, were already harvested, and against the blackness of the earth all the stubble, thistle, and dry grass had begun to yellow, almost turned into tinder by dust and the intense heat of dog days. In some sections these remains had been set on fire and flames leaped along, forming a winding line that blackened the soil and raised a dense cloud of smoke. Vineyards, which are what most abound in the region, still looked green,



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covered as they were with lush shoots and tendrils. The harvest had already begun, and along a number of paths and roads came carts and strings of mules laden with the latest haulage of that day’s grapes, which would be piled up at the winepresses, ready for crushing early the next morning. Also returning in order to rest from their labors were the vintagers, and every now and then you could hear a happy song being sung in chorus, or from a distance, a popular Andalusian ballad intoned by a muleteer to take his mind off his sorrows as he returned alone from a trek with his pack of animals, or by a farmhand who was coming back from tilling, his oxen or mules still yoked to the plough. In the ravines there are brooks whose banks are overrun with osiers, black and white poplars, oleanders, and reeds, as well as apple mints and other aromatic herbs. There are also eight or nine small orchards, the largest of which is not even an acre and a half, but this land has been put to very good use and on it rise gigantic walnut trees, majestic fig trees that yield the sweetest figs in the world, and a multitude of other fruit trees. The biggest brook in the surrounding area is just under a mile away from the town, and the girls who always went there to do a wash had finished their chore and were also coming back. They walked along, their bundles of laundered clothes balanced on top of their heads, with the joy of youth in their souls, and gracefulness and country spirit in all the jaunty and free movements of their bodies, the robust and elegant forms of which were clearly outlined under the folds of short and tight-fitting percale petticoats or a clinging and short underskirt of yellow baize from Antequera.22 Don Juan Fresco took in all of this panorama as though in ecstasy, and he became more and more persuaded that Villabermeja and its environs were the very best to be found in the world. His enthusiasm grew, and he recalled the best years of his life on seeing a certain cloud of dust that rose on the main road. Shortly afterward a thousand merry grunts could be heard in every pitch, from the highest soprano to the lowest bass, and then there appeared a lively herd of pigs of every age and both sexes, driven by a strapping boy of fourteen or fifteen. Each man in Villabermeja had a highly prized stake in that herd, as his future treat and that of his family would come from those mammals once they were converted into ham, bacon, blood sausage, pickled loin, lard, and other articles of food, which would be kept in the pantry and prepared for every event worthy of being celebrated, and for any day that a guest might arrive or a festive occasion, and it’s important to roll out the red carpet. The boy did not need help to be the captain of that troop, whose discipline 22. City in the province of Málaga.

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was admirable, inasmuch as not a single pig strayed even once. No sooner would they all reach the first houses than he would blow his whistle and the herd would disperse immediately, each member of it trotting and galloping, crossing streets and alleys, until entering its master’s house, where the pigs dashed through the hallway and ground-floor kitchen, unconcerned about knocking over whatever blocked the path to the yard, where there was always a pen or mud pool. Once Don Juan came out of his rapture, I couldn’t help saying to him: “I openly admit that I’m more and more amazed at the sincere enthusiasm that you show for Villabermeja. Since it’s your hometown, it’s understandable that you like it more than any other, that you live here very contentedly, and that you prefer this rusticity to all the splendor and all the elegance of Madrid or Paris. What’s not understandable is the blindness with which a man who’s not like many Villabermejans—who’ve never left the town—and who has seen the most beautiful parts of the globe, insists on maintaining that this scenery is superior in beauty to all that he’s seen.” “What can I tell you, my friend?” replied Don Juan Fresco. “I’m not saying that this is better than everything else, but that it strikes me as better. My travels and my studies, and having seen the bay of Rio de Janeiro and the fertile coasts that surround it, and the hundred islands of the enormous bay filled with perennial greenery, and Brazil’s interior lakes, and its immense sierras, and its centuries-old woods, its fragrant forests of orange and lemon trees; and having lived on the fruitful banks of the Ganges and Brahmaputra Rivers, with their pagodas, palaces, and gardens; and having visited the shores of the pleasant gulf of Naples, which is filled with classical reminders ..... none of this has destroyed in me the deep-rooted condition of the Villabermejan, who never believes nor confesses that there exists anything more lovely, nor more fertile, nor more precious than his town and the environs of his town. What do I care if the skyline here is miserable? So much the better: beyond that skyline I can put whatever my imagination fancies. If I actually want to see not just bigness but infinity, is it not enough for me to raise my eyes to the heavens? From what vantage point does our vision reach further into the depths of their celestial abysses than from right here, where the air is diaphanous and pure, and clouds rarely interpose themselves between my eyes and the most remote stars? Besides, although the stretch of land that I take in with my eyes may be small, is it not made bigger by the fact that I know it inch by inch and fill it with memories and things, which are a thousand times more interesting to me than those of Rama, Krishna, and Buddha in India, and those of Aeneas, Ulysses, and the Sirens in Naples? Is it not a delight to be able to exclaim, as I do exclaim, that all the olive trees that you



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make out all along that hillside were planted by me; that all of the vineyard is also my creation; that that red country house is my friend Serafinito’s, and that I know how many jugs of wine his land yields each year; that further on, your chaplaincy lands, which are somewhat chalky, are turning white; that that orchard over there was leased by my mother, and I spent some of the best years of my childhood there? Do you see that reedbed in the middle of it, on the banks of the stream?” and Don Juan pointed with his finger. “Yes, I do,” I answered. “Well, it was there that I had the first revelation of artistic beauty, the first inspiration, my greatest triumph and the purest, most complete, and most unblemished satisfaction of amour propre I’ve ever experienced in my life.” “How was that?” asked Serafinito. “Right now,” replied Don Juan, “the reedbed is just the way it was at the beginning of this century, when I was ten years old or younger. At the time I was as ignorant as one can be: I didn’t know how to read or write and had no clear idea of anything. I fancied the sky as being like a half orange made of glass, in which the stars were fastened as if with nails, and around which slid the moon, the sun, and some heavenly bodies, driven by angels or other mysterious intelligences. I imagined an infinite space in the bosom of the Earth— endless caves, a limitless abyss filled with devils and criminals, and beyond the firmament, another infinity of light and glory, peopled with saints, virgins, and angels, and where there was perpetual music in which the Eternal Father and all his court delighted. In keeping with the general belief of the people of my town, I was persuaded that directly above Villabermeja, which is where the firmament reaches its zenith, stood the throne of the Most Holy Trinity. The celestial music there was better than in any other part of heaven, and I would withdraw in the silence of the siestas and retreat to the reedbed where, closing my eyes and bringing to bear all my senses and powers of concentration, I tried to hear some of that music which I imagined was not very distant. My enthusiasm reached such an extreme that sometimes I thought I did hear it. I used to be very keen on music, and if my urge to see the world and my hectic life as a seaman and merchant had permitted, perhaps I would have been an excellent artist. The fact is that one day I cut a reed from the reedbed and made several tubes, and by trial and error, hollowing the tubes with my pocketknife now one way, now another, I managed to give the right value to each tone and succeeded in fashioning a tuned and sonorous flute. And with it I would play all the songs I had heard, and many sonatas that I imagined I had never heard in this world because I myself was improvising them, or they were like vague reminiscences of the music from heaven that I had managed to hear during my raptures. My invention of the flute and my ability to play

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it were much praised throughout the town, and earned me countless kisses from my poor mother. Consider now whether Villabermeja and its environs—having, as I do, these and other memories here—aren’t going to strike me as more beautiful than all the inhabitable zones of the globe.” Serafinito, who was more convinced than Don Juan himself of all Villabermeja’s excellent qualities, had nothing to say by way of a rejoinder. Only I did, but Don Juan Fresco sealed my lips with new arguments, in which there appeared a poetic character that I had never suspected in him. In view of which, I steered the conversation in another direction, saying to Don Juan: “I don’t want to argue anymore with you, and I accept the reasons you cite as valid and firm, in spite of being so fallacious. What you’ll allow me to talk about, though, is my surprise at seeing you possessed of such an exalted sentimentality and so many poetic illusions, unbecoming to a positivist.” “I grant the sentimentality,” replied Don Juan. “I’ve never believed I had a heart of stone, although I don’t boast of being tender-hearted either. What I don’t agree with you on is the matter of the illusions. Never in my life have I had illusions, nor have I wanted to have them, nor have I lamented this lack. Nothing disgusts me as much as illusions.” “What do you mean you don’t have illusions? You don’t think that your love for this town is not based in part on illusions?” “This love is not based on illusions, but on realities. To discuss this point, however, would be to return to the topic of the first argument, and I don’t want to do that. What I do want is to demonstrate to you that I have no illusions and that it’s important to me not to have them, for there is no greater evil than to have illusions.” “So,” Serafinito then asked, “what the poet says is an absurdity, that Lost illusions are the leaves that have come loose from the tree of the heart?” “The poet’s saying isn’t absurd,” answered Don Juan, “if it’s understood in a certain way, but let us agree that the entire human race is boring us these days with so many laments over the loss of its illusions, which may be leaves of the tree of the heart, but they are neither ripe fruit nor fragrant, salutary flowers.” “What do you understand by illusions?” I asked. “A concept suggested by the imagination, with no basis whatsoever in reality,” replied Don Juan. “Illusion is equivalent to error or falsehood. Losing illusions is the same as emerging from error and grasping the truth. And the



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acquisition of the truth, which is the greatest good that the intellect craves, should not be deplored.” “I think you’re contradicting yourself. Did you not tell us a moment ago that you were regretful at having lost your ignorance? That ignorance of the child that made you see heaven and earth in a certain poetic way? Of course, with your present knowledge you’ll see neither heaven nor earth in the same way.” “Of course I do not see them in the same way. But, from what do you infer that I now see them in a less poetic way than before? In what manner does knowledge stand in opposition to poetry, and not just my modicum of knowledge, but all the knowledge accumulated and summarized in all the academies and universities in the world? In order for me to know that an illusion is an illusion, and to lose it and cast it aside, it’s important for knowledge, or science, to demonstrate to me its futility and its falseness, and knowledge has not yet demonstrated to me either the futility or the falseness of any illusion whose loss deserves to be lamented. Another poet has said, ‘The tree of knowledge is not the tree of life,’ but I maintain the contrary—that the tree of life is the tree of true knowledge.” “I don’t follow your thinking.” “Let’s see if you follow it now. Tell me: the concept of what’s known through experience at the present time ..... is it not greater, more beautiful, and more sublime than the concept of what was known and learned through experience in any period of history prior to the one in which we live?” “If we’re going to proceed in good faith, that can’t be denied. You’re talking only about what’s known through experience. The drawback is that, on knowing or learning through experience, one loses the faculty for imagining and for believing, and this is what we lament.” “I see, then, that you agree—inasmuch as you can do no less—that what’s known now through experience is of greater worth than what was previously known. We should presume, therefore, that the more that’s known the more beautiful, the more sublime, the more noble will be the concept of all things as soon as they are known.” “But does not what is imagined in them disappear?” I responded. “Where and how is it to disappear? Even though I may see the heavens now like an immense space and the heavenly bodies separated from one another by enormous distances, beyond the reach of eyesight and a telescope, is there no room for me to imagine whatever I like and to believe whatever I wish?” “At the very least you’ll concede that you’ll have to set everything that you imagine or believe at a great distance, a very great distance.”

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“Well, you’re mistaken on this point too, because I’ll concede no such thing. What is it that I see and observe, what is it that I ascertain through experience except something extrinsic and shallow? I know something about accidents, but the mysterious essence of beings ..... who sees it and who knows it? Are undines and sylphs so clumsy and foolish that they allow themselves to be trapped by a chemist so that, when water and air separate, he does his analysis in retorts and stills? What microscope, no matter how perfect it may be, will be able to discover the spirit of life that fertilizes the stamens of flowers and deposits love pollen in them? The goblin, the genie, the demon that inspires me, that deals directly with me, that touches my soul without an intermediary and communicates with it ..... what law of physics or mathematics does it obey? Where is the demonstration that proves to me its non-existence? Who ever measured and indicated the boundaries of human perception to the point of affirming that no one sees or goes beyond them? Not only with the interior sense, but with the exterior ones as well, has someone demonstrated that there are not people who see and feel and communicate and deal with other occult intelligences? Going further, is it not inexplicable that you and I basically understand each other by talking, that we cloak our thoughts in a sensitive guise and transmit them to each other, not in actuality, but in material and conventional signs that represent them, and that are called words, and that are mere sounds that stir the air, and by means of their vibrations reach our ears? Who knows how and with whom other people communicate? “We speak continually about the supernatural and the natural, as though the distinction were perfectly known or the boundaries or dividing line separating the one from the other were marked off, as though we had explored Nature extensively and intensively. No, my friend. The border between the natural and the supernatural either does not exist or is blotted out. Where we put partition marks and demarcation lines and survey signs is only between the known and the unknown, which is very different. There is nothing more unfounded, therefore, than to label the old ages ages of faith and ours the age of reason, setting reason against faith, as if the empire of faith, which is infinite, were diminished in the least with the conquests and annexations that reason is making in its small empire. Certain illusions, which really are not illusions, are not lost, then, with knowledge. On the contrary, the great and effective illusion is believing that knowledge destroys what we see with imagination or with faith, calling it illusion. This is the illusion of scientific vanity. Perhaps it’s the most prejudicial of all illusions, although it’s not the most insidious.” “What do you mean?” asked Serafinito. “So having illusions is insidious?”



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“Almost always,” replied Don Juan. “You talk this way,” I said, “because you refer to illusions in a bad light and not a good one.” “I’ve already said that no one has yet proved to me that what you call good illusions, born of faith, of a lofty religious sentiment or of a well-ordered and discreet poetic imagination, really are illusions in essence. What’s left, then, are bad illusions, that is, true illusions. It’s these that I fight against and assert that I’ve never had, and that if I had had them at one time or another, I wouldn’t complain about losing them.” “Cite a few examples of those illusions,” said Serafinito. “Nothing could be easier,” responded Don Juan. “There’s a young miss in Madrid, elegant, somewhat coquettish, not very well-to-do, who’s turned twenty-five without getting married. The illusions of this señorita consist in landing a wealthy husband, with a title if possible, complaisant, not spendthrift so that she herself could spend everything, or almost everything. Since these illusions have not materialized, the señorita exclaims continually that there’s no longer any love in the world; that the days of Isabel and Marsilla23 and Romeo and Juliet are over; that we live in a prosaic century; and that she has lost her illusions. “There’s a lady who’s married to a civil servant, an affectionate, affable man, a good father, and a tender, loving husband, and it just so happens, unfortunately for him, that one of his colleagues, perhaps with a smaller salary and perhaps with more lay-offs, manages things in such a way that he has money for orchestra seats at the theater and for more fripperies and clothes, and maybe box seats at the opera or for a summer vacation in Biarritz, while the good father and loving husband works night and day and is still in financial need and economic difficulty. The lady, who in view of this example had built up her hopes, concludes at length that her husband’s a hopeless case and loses her illusions. From that point on she moans constantly that she has not realized her ideal; that husbands are monsters or dimwits; that the poetry of domestic life is not feasible in this corrupt age in which we live; and that Baucis and Philemon24 will no longer come back to life. “A cook goes into service in any house whatsoever. Her mistress takes note of daily expenses and tries, by acquainting herself with costs, to see that the cook will pilfer as little as possible. The cook then loses her illusions, say23. The legendary lovers of Teruel (thirteenth century), famously treated by Juan Eugenio Hartzenbusch (1806–1880) in his romantic drama Los amantes de [Lovers of] Teruel (1837). 24. In Greek mythology, wife and husband who gave shelter to Zeus and Hermes and became symbols of marital love.

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ing that the nobility, generosity, and magnanimity of the wellborn have gone by the wayside forever, and that we now live in a mercenary, contemptible, plebeian, and stingy century. A pleasant, witty young man with an impressive bearing goes to Madrid, has his clothes made by a bespoke tailor, and strolls along the Castellana.25 Neither duchesses nor marquises fall in love with him; rich heiresses spurn him; and the only one even somewhat welldisposed to him is the daughter of the landlady of his boardinghouse. This young man also loses his illusions, and decides that today’s women are only vain and haughty and bereft of a heart. Lastly, these others also lose their illusions: the insufferable versifier who thinks he’s a poet and can’t find anyone to read his lines; the ambitious journalist who does not become a minister; the dramatist who’s catcalled; the doctor who has no patients; the attorney who’s not engaged in lawsuits; the hypocrite whose lies are not believed; and even the person who plays the lottery and fails to win first prize. For all these people the corruption of our century is frightening, and the want of an ideal is obvious in the extreme; the lack of religion is horrible; and a blind destiny, one that pursues virtue, governs and orders human events.” “One infers from all that you allege that only rogues, unfortunates, and fools have illusions and lose them.” “They’re the ones who have the most illusions and lose them,” Don Juan continued, responding to my interruption. “I do not deny, however, that there’s a multitude of honest people who forge illusions and then lament having lost them. But if having certain kinds of illusions and lamenting their loss does not imply a lack of honesty, at the very least it implies a lack of judgment and not much strength of character.” “Clarify that with examples too,” said Serafinito. “I’m going to. There’s a woman—poor, honorable, and very virtuous—who knows how to resist all temptations, and together with her husband suffers countless hardships and privations. But the years go by and people do not greet her more respectfully on account of her honorableness—because one’s reputation is not to be shouted from the rooftops—and no one gives her jewelry or a box seat at the theater or a carriage so as to eclipse Lucretia,26 the upshot of which is that she continues to be as destitute and ill-regarded as before. It’s understandable, then, that the good woman should begin to vent rage, to lament the fact that she’s lost her illusions, and to say that society is a foul brothel where only wicked women manage to go about in a landau, and dress in silk and lace and deck themselves in diamonds and pearls. The il25. The Champs Élysées of nineteenth-century Madrid. 26. A virtuous Roman matron who committed suicide after being raped.



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lusions of this lady had consisted in believing that virtue could and should engender the satisfactions of amour propre, along with advantages and material gains. This way of indulging in wishful thinking is a terrible disease that sometimes takes hold of generous and noble, although false and misdirected, spirits. It consists in lessening the most noble qualities and excellences of our existence by seeking a banal purpose for them, and by wanting to convert what’s beautiful or sublime into something useful. Virtue, genius, knowledge, poetry ..... they can be useful on occasion to the individual who possesses them, but usefulness is not their chief end. It’s more: the person who proposes to come by this end from his virtue, from his knowledge or his poetry, instantly ceases to be learned, virtuous or a poet. For ordinary ends it’s important to employ ordinary means—lofty means lead only to ends that are also lofty.” “But, work, constancy, bravery, and thrift ..... are they not virtues, and very noble virtues? And are they not the ones that bring about material wellbeing?” “There’s no doubt that at times they bring it about for the individual, and always for society as a whole, but I’m speaking of other more sublime, more spiritual virtues, and consequently ones that are easier for us to imagine that people have, without actually having them. So in this order of illusions there are two degrees: first, ascribing to oneself such virtues, and second, insisting that they’re to have value in commerce and that they’re to be quoted on the stock exchange.” “Then, according to you,” interrupted Serafinito, “there’s no truth in the saying, ‘Honor and profit are poles apart.’” “What I maintain has nothing to do with the saying. The saying is untrue. In a thousand honorable occupations any honorable man can reap profits, and many of them. I took full advantage of fortune, and by no means do I consider myself without honor. What I maintain is that there are qualities of understanding and character, and human works of an exalted nature, that do not look at gain, and neither can nor should be remunerated, and I condemn the illusions of those who possess or believe they possess those qualities and work those works, and ask for payment and then despair because they don’t receive it. Coinciding with this, in the minds of those with these illusions, is a puerile concept of the order of the world and of Divine Providence, which is always supposed to be rewarding the good person and punishing the bad one, and arranging things in such a way that we fare very well. Those who reason in this manner are continually arguing with God and asking him to account for everything. For what purpose did you create me? Why am I to die? Why am I to grow old? This tooth ..... why does it hurt me? This mosquito ..... why

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does it bite and make such an annoying buzz? Why don’t partridges turn into all breast? Why does ham have to be leaner than bacon?” “Well, now,” I said, smiling, “what I deduce from all this is that something rather unpleasant happened to my friend Don Juan with someone who had illusions, or who lamented having lost them, and for that reason he declaims so much against having and losing illusions.” Don Juan Fresco’s face took on such a grave expression when he heard my words that he looked like another person. Appearing even melancholy, he exclaimed with a sigh: “It’s true. Something unpleasant, and more than unpleasant, happened to me. Illusions be damned! Poor Doctor Faustino!” As soon as he uttered this name Serafinito, who was crestfallen and downcast, burst into tears like a seven-year-old child. Since this piqued my curiosity, I asked Don Juan who Doctor Faustino was that he could arouse such painful recollections. Don Juan then promised to tell me the story of the aforementioned doctor, and he kept his promise—when Serafinito wasn’t present, so that he wouldn’t cry. Don Juan Fresco’s account, which I arranged afterwards in my own way, is the one I’m going to relate, but let it be understood that I am not seeking to prove, on relating it, any thesis unfavorable to illusions. Don Juan continues to be firm in his opinion and I in mine, which is beside the point here. So with this introduction having come to a close, I withdraw from the scene in which I have interjected myself as a minor character, and limit my role to being a mere narrator of events.

[1] T he I llustrious H ouse of L ó pez de M endoza

v i l l a b e r m e ja , as has already been said, is a town that has bordered the land of the Moors for more than two centuries. Still standing there is the castle or fortress that belonged to the duke, the town’s most prominent citizen. The massive black walls of rough stones, the towering battlements, the cylindrical turrets—they’re all still in one piece. An arch, through whose span runs a passage, connects the castle with the church. The latter is, however, much more modern than the castle, and considerably later than the Villabermejans’ martial period. When they were battling the Moors of Granada nonstop, they most likely commended themselves to God in the castle itself or in the middle of open fields. It was only after the conquest of Granada, no doubt, that thought was given to the church, and the sons of the glorious father Saint Dominic then built it. From this point on the bellicose disposition of Villabermejans gradually knuckled under to the yoke of monkish theocracy, which gave rise, in my opinion, to the joke that made them descendants of Father Bermejo. During the centuries of absolute monarchy that town of fighting hidalgos settled down, turned plebeian, and became democratized. The duke went off to court and no one ever saw him there again, and as he was neither loved nor hated no one ever gave him another thought either. It was the duke’s steward who leased or let his lands. At the beginning of this century, save for the absent and in-

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visible duke, there were scarcely, even in spirit, three or four noble families in Villabermeja. All the rest were common people, the glory of their heroic ancestors a thing of the past. From the beginning of this century until some thirty years ago, the period in which our story begins, those same noble families, overwhelmed by poverty, had either been absorbed by the common people or had emigrated, God knows where, in search of better fortune. There remained only the López de Mendozas, perpetual castellans of the fortress since the times of Alamar the Nazarita and the saint king Don Fernando. The beautiful ancestral home of these Villabermejan López de Mendozas rests on the very walls of the castle. The simple and elegant façade, which dates from the sixteenth century, is of masonry, and both the door and the balcony in the middle of the second floor are adorned with graceful columns of white marble. Crowning this same balcony in splendor is the pure, complex coat of arms of the illustrious family, exquisitely sculpted also on white marble. Although not as much as the family itself, the house has gone into decline and shows clear and sad signs of the owners’ financial straits. In many balconies panes of glass are missing; the ancient doors, meticulously carved and covered with attractive bronze studs, exhibit the ravages of time and neglect; and the yellow hedge mustard publicizes the affront to that architectural edifice, sprouting as they do between the fissures that opened when several ashlars separated. These fissures are so wide and deep in some places that they offer ample room as concealed nests for lizards, repulsive geckos, and ugly, timid bats, and as sites where not a few wild fig trees and grasses and weeds can spring up, take root, and flourish. This parasitic vegetation grows abundantly in the spring and gives the façade the appearance of a vertical garden. The eaves of the roof are so wide that they leave a big space between the edges and the wall where swallows have a favorite spot to build their rustic nests. Above the second floor of the house there is another floor given over to granaries and poky little rooms, but since for some time now there has been scarcely any grain to take to those granaries, they’re inhabited only by a few melancholy barn and horned owls and a couple of ascetic mice. All the houses in the town, even the poorest, are whitewashed three or four times a year, and are whiter than driven snow. The Mendozas’ house presents, as a result, a great contrast in comparison with them, seeing that it has a somber appearance with stones that, if somewhat gilded by the sun, have also been thoroughly blackened by rain, the owners’ neglect, the passage of time, and the inclemency of alternating seasons. In addition, the Mendozas’ house is in the most isolated, out-of-theway spot, in back of the castle, on a cul-de-sac, while the white and cheer-



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ful houses of the more well-off commoners are on accessible streets or on the public square where there’s a fountain with four spouts, and where men, women, and children chat and you see the movement of carts, wagons, and beasts of burden. Not many years ago, when the new cemetery had yet to be constructed a short distance from the town, all the dead were buried by the side of the church, in a vacant lot across from the Mendozas’ house. The only persons buried inside the church were the monks and the Mendozas themselves, who had a subterranean vault there and a magnificent chapel with a lavish reredos of gilded wood in the churrigueresque style of profuse and extravagant carvings. In the alcove of this chapel there is a Jesus the Nazarene with the cross on his back, dressed in a velvet, gold-embroidered tunic, that the Mendozas maintain because their firstborn son is an elder of the confraternity devoted to it. After the statue of the town’s patron saint, the one made of silver, this image of Jesus is the most beloved of the people and the one considered the most miraculous. The workmanship does not denote any special skill on the part of its maker, but this Nazarene has always had considerable effect, and still does—at least on women. Our Lord Jesus, thanks to a length of rope pulled by the sacristan, separates his right arm to release his grasp of the cross, and, from the balcony of the town hall that gives onto the square, blesses the crowd of faithful once or twice a year when he is taken out in procession. But coming back to the Mendozas’ ancestral home, it’s easy to understand how funereal it must be by this proximity to the old cemetery and the church, with the latter being pretty much in ruin and an ossuary. The Mendoza family had been in a gradual decline and was no more cheerful than their abode. The fate and state of this family, and their relations with the rest of Villabermejans, were somewhat strange. It could be said that after the Dominicans arrived and the town came under their sway, the Mendoza family was the only one that fought them and tried to preserve their secular life, so to speak. Eventually it succumbed in such a monumental struggle in spite of the fact that it had, until the very end, counted on men of evident ability and courage. No one in the town had it in for the Mendozas because no one recalled that they had ever done harm to the common people. Nor was anyone envious of them, seeing that they were poor and in debt. Nonetheless, things were said that could offend the family. About a Mendoza man of long ago, during the time of the Moors, there circulated the tale of a scandalous love affair with a captive, and bewitching, Moorish woman. About another no less illustrious Mendoza man it was

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claimed that he had married a Jewess or an Inca lady or a princess—there was not general agreement on which—although, if examined closely, no contradiction is implied, since for our villagers Jewish or Moorish is the equivalent of all that is not Christian, and thus, of the child who has not been baptized, it is said that he’s still Jewish or Moorish. What was obvious to Villabermejans was that the captive Moorish woman first, and the Inca lady or Jewess later on, infused a certain trace of impiety into the Mendozas’ blood. On the other hand, the Jewess or Inca lady brought, as a dowry to her husband, a rather considerable amount of money that paid for the construction of the ancestral home of which we’ve spoken and the purchase of not a few country estates, which afterwards were lost or put in pledge. As a complement or addition, people maintained that the Jewess or the Inca lady brought from overseas, from barbarian palaces, a raft of pearls and diamonds, which were hidden or walled up in a corner of the house that no one ever discovered. On several occasions, nonetheless, when a few individuals in the town all of a sudden got rich and there was no apparent source for the wealth, it had been assumed that they had found part of the treasure by circumventing the vigilance of the Peruvian princess who watched over it, either by vanquishing her or dominating her through diabolic arts. There was also some gossip about the almost daily apparition, in the attic of the house, of a celebrated Commander Mendoza,1 who had been in France during the great revolution, and who, because of his impiety, several tragic and mysterious incidents, and the manner in which he lived the last years of his mortal life, was a soul in torment who went around in the white cloak of his commandery with the red cross of Saint James2 on his chest, albeit a cross without arms, because, not being in a state of grace, he couldn’t carry a perfect cross in the other life (besides which there were some who asserted that it was not a cross without arms on his cloak, but the figure of a bloody toad). The town’s liberals supposed that all this was gossip spread by the monks in order to discredit the Mendozas, who had been aligned with them all the way back to the time of the emperor Carlos V, during which one of them fought against the supporters of independence for Castile. Don Francisco López de Mendoza, who died in 1830, had in fact been extremely liberal, following, as people in the town maintained, the example of his ancestors. From 1823 until his death he was incessantly harassed and persecuted. On the other hand, some of the town’s most astute and servile residents, 1. Eponymous protagonist of El comendador [Commander] Mendoza (1877), a novel by Valera. 2. Santiago (de Compostela) in Spanish, patron saint of Spain.



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like, for example, the notary, claimed that the López de Mendozas were an unruly breed of people, contrary to the spirit of the times in which they lived, for more than three centuries, and that only on account of their exploits in wars and their standing had they been tolerated. Nearly all the men had gone off to serve the king, had roamed the world searching for adventures and putting on airs in heroic style when the occasion presented itself, and in the end had returned to Villabermeja, to the home of their forefathers, having increased their fortune and brought back a lawful, outsider wife. Although opposed deep down to the political thinking of Spaniards of that era, they had served brilliantly because of their love of a restless life, but they had never fared well in the peaceful management of their possessions, so that with Spain fallen from its position of power in the world, and with no Flanders or Indies or Italy where they could remake or improve on their birthrights, the Mendozas’ heritage had been frittered away in the most lamentable manner. The Don Francisco of whom we’ve already spoken contracted an infinite number of debts, put many estates in pledge, and sold some of the entailed ones, when they became unencumbered, between 1820 and 1823. His heir, the current successor under primogeniture, was well on his way, from all the signs, to consuming the assets of all that was exempt from entail and amortization. Although vaguely, critics understood and implied that the Mendozas’s liberal spirit was the anarchic spirit of the Middle Ages, which coincided somewhat with that of modern times; that their indifference or scant piety perhaps had not been as great in previous periods, and that, at the very least, had increased considerably since Commander Mendoza was in France during the great revolution; and that what most characterizes modern times—order in the management of business, the sensible and legitimate desire to increase one’s wealth in peace, what some call industrialism—was totally at variance with that family. The town’s nouveaux riches ridiculed all this mercilessly, but the common people loved the Mendozas. The democratic and somewhat socialist basis of the people’s monkish education did not redound to their detriment, because they only had debts, nor to that of the town’s most prominent citizen, whose stewards had always been generous with the town and with themselves at the expense of the magnanimous duke, who deported himself in Madrid like a typical Mendoza, that is, involved in more schemes than he had hairs on his head. The fury of the least wholesome segment of Villabermejans was directed against the nouveaux riches of recent vintage, against those who had gotten rich lending money at usurious rates of interest or trafficking in wine, olive oil, and grain. Many of these nouveaux riches had made their fortunes

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by adding to the general well-being, increasing the nation’s assets, and creating wealth, but the inveterate vices of the most malicious Villabermejans— mixed with envy, although not yet in concert with the preaching that later came from outside of Spain—did not allow them to see in the possessions acquired by others an increase in the collective good, but rather a dislocation or absorption of possessions that belonged to all, carried out with infernal shrewdness. The old saying, “The wealthy in heaven are donkeys; the poor in heaven are masters,” was heard frequently on the lips of Villabermejans, as though foretelling, by way of a threat, that the sinful cleverness of the wealthy would not prevail in heaven, where in the end it would be punished, if some courageous man did not speed up the punishment beforehand, embracing a criminal life with arms and a horse. Let it be clearly understood that I’m talking about the worst people of Villabermeja. The majority of them are very long-suffering and reasonable, and bear patiently and without envy the elevated status of the nouveaux riches, for as much as there was not all the integrity to be desired in the manner in which many of them acquired their wealth. There was, however, one reason for even the nouveaux riches to view the Mendozas with fondness. Thanks to the fruitful activity that modern civilization impresses upon everything, and despite our interminable civil discord, a certain culture of customs had spread throughout the town. Not a few families of muleteers and laborers, who had made money and gained much standing, were beginning to put on aristocratic airs, remembering with pride that they were descended from brave chieftains and going to see with satisfaction in parish registers that their ancestry went back in a straight line, from male to male and by lawful marriages, to one of the companions or comrades in arms who came with the first López de Mendoza to guard that fortress and harass the Moors, raiding their lands and laying siege to them. This gave rise to a spirit of equality and dignity in perfect accord with the respectful fondness shown to the house of Mendoza, which was the common glory of Villabermeja and monument to the leader of old. Doña Ana, Don Francisco’s widow, although an outsider and an elderly woman of seventy, lived in the town surrounded by much kindness and attention. In the midst of her financial difficulties this respectable lady maintained the stately grandeur of her home. The horse that her husband used to ride was given exquisite care in the stable until it died of old age; several oil portraits of the most celebrated López de Mendoza men—some in glittering suits of armor, others dressed in buckskin, all of them dashing, and a few with a baton as a sign of military command—were displayed prominently in the cuadra, or square salon, lending authority to it, as was proper; the long-



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time servants were not let go; and lastly, the pack of hunting dogs was kept, until beagles and hounds succumbed to the weight of years, many of them serving as examples of canine longevity. It was in the matter of the dogs, and especially as related to the hounds, that Villabermejans’ fondness for the López de Mendozas had clearly revealed itself. Hounds are gluttonous and always thievish, and even more so when they’re on half rations or less than half. The López de Mendozas’ hounds became famous throughout the town as a consequence of their robberies and sudden assaults. There was no blood or pork sausage that was safe, nor rashers of bacon, nor ham, nor any other meat. However, the hounds’ acts of mischievousness were celebrated with more laughter than harshness. Let the following episode serve as proof. It happened on one occasion that the grocer’s mother, a woman nearly seventy years old, lay prostrate in bed with a persistent stomachache, and on her belly they had placed, as a cure, what is used very frequently in Andalusia as a domestic remedy: a half dozen cinnamon biscuits that had been soaked in wine and become a plaster of sorts. The smell attracted the hounds at a moment when the woman was alone in the bedroom. In vain did she defend herself with her hands, Clamores horrendos simul ad sidera tollit,3 since despite her screams they pulled off her robe to get at the biscuits; and as her modesty did not bring about the least hesitation on their part, the dogs ate the sweet, aromatic domestic cure that had lain in such a concealed place. The household arrived too late to prevent the remedy from passing into the dogs’ systems, but not too late to behold the excellent matron in a state of unusual and embarrassing nakedness.4 There’s no denying, in spite of these and other indications of sympathy, that goodwill turned lukewarm with considerable frequency on account of an involuntary and nearly fatal flaw in Doña Ana, whose graciousness knew no limits, but whose pride, circumspection, and reserve kept at bay all familiarity and all intimacy. Señora doña Ana, ensconced in her big house, scarcely left it, although from time to time she did receive callers with all due formality and ceremony and then, in order to respond in kind, paid visits of her own with impeccable manners. There was no way to complain that she was discourteous or haughty, but she never became intimate with anyone, and was unsociable and not very communicative. 3. Loosely translated, “At the same time screaming to high heaven.” From Vergil’s Aeneid. 4. There is word play in the original that is impossible to transfer in translation. The word for “remedy” and “hesitation” is the same in Spanish (reparo), which means that the dogs, not put off by “hesitation / remedy,” ate the “remedy / hesitation.”

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The other women in the town got their revenge by declaring that Doña Ana was a witch, although not a run-of-the-mill witch who greased herself and flew off to the witches’ Sabbath, but an aristocratic practitioner of witchcraft who on her dais received prominent, high-class devils and souls in torment, among them several individuals from the family—like the captive Moorish woman, the Inca lady, and the commander—with whom she had her gatherings. About the first-born male Mendoza, Doña Ana’s son, who also lived in the ancestral home and was an even less sociable person and even more withdrawn from the fellowship of his countrymen, much stranger things were said, but both what was said about him and what he was in fact deserve a separate chapter because of their importance.

[2] W hat I s H e G ood F or ?

Le t t imorous rea ders not be alarmed at reading the foregoing chapter heading, nor begin to suspect that I aim to raise ungodly issues. Well do I appreciate that in all the resplendent and complex machinery in the world there is nothing that isn’t good for something: everything has a purpose, everything accords with perfect order and complete harmony. So as to believe and affirm this premise, it is just as important to say that we see because we have eyes or that we run because we have legs, as it is to say the contrary—that because we see we have eyes and because we run we have sprouted legs and all that is useful for running. It very nearly redounds to a greater appreciation of providential laws to contemplate and explain things in this latter manner. If not, consider by way of example: Who would be a better clockmaker? The man who meticulously made all the little wheels, each one with its purpose and function in the mechanism, and then arranged and regulated them, and then wound the clock so that it would mark and sound the hours? Or the one who placed inside some metal a movement and an idea and an intention to strike the hours, and shook all the minute parts of which the metal is composed, and forced them not to stop in their revolutions, vibrations, starts, and jolts, assembling first one way, then another, until together they acted in concert to record time with the hour and minute hands, and make the hours strike at the right moment, even with music or, at the very least, with a cuckoo? The certain, triumphant, and efficacious urge—set in atoms—of organizing in such a way that beings who run and see are formed ..... either it is a confusing, mysterious assertion like the

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most unintelligible dogma of the most metaphysical of religions, or it presupposes in the fundamental idea, the development of which produces the universe, a sovereign will and intelligence, no less great than those of the personal being who gave us eyes in order to see and legs in order to run. I repeat, then, that what more nearly affirms this uncreated intelligence and will is not thinking that we were given eyes so that we could see and legs so that we could run, and birds wings so that they could fly, but thinking that since the beginning of time there was in matter a desire to fly that in the end produced wings, and a desire to run that produced legs, and a desire to see that produced eyes. Because of the aforementioned, it often occurs to me that this doctrine of the nouveau materialists could be cleansed of any stains of impiety, and even be converted into the most pious of doctrines, one that is also very consoling and very rich in predictions of progress, improvements, and unspecified advances. Father Fuente de la Peña’s old doubt, about “whether they are the monsters or we are,”1 would be resolved in favor of the monsters, which perhaps would appear as symptoms of the urge or attempt to create a new species. And provided that this urge was legitimate and not a sinful whim, in which case being a monster would constitute a punishment, who might deprive us of the reasonable hope of sprouting wings and flying, if we insisted, or of having a tail or a trunk or a third eye, as Fourier propounded?2 Let there not be a counterargument maintaining that life—instinct, the force of atoms, of the impalpable and invisible little spheres that fill the seeming vacuum with the waves of the ether—is a blind instinct, coeternal with substance. How, from blind instinct, does there flow the intelligence that afterward explains its indefectible laws? These laws, moreover, are either in each atom, which knows them and imposes them, or are outside of or over the atoms, or are simultaneously inside and outside of them, which brings us, after racking our brains more than usual, to what Father Ripalda’s catechism3 taught us in school—that God is ubiquitous, infusing everything with life and order. Fortunately, the What is he good for? of our chapter heading does not require us to probe as deeply. This What is he good for? was the question that Doña Ana frequently asked herself regarding her only son and heir by pri1. Antonio Fuente de la Peña, a seventeenth-century Capuchin friar who espoused eccentric ideas in El ente dilucidado [The Entity Elucidated, 1676]. 2. François Marie Charles Fourier (1772–1837), French social philosopher and reformer who argued a kind of utopia, the economic basis of which was the phalanstery, a community where people would live and work according to their abilities and leanings. 3. Jerónimo Martínez de Ripalda (1535–1618), a Spanish Jesuit; author of a famous Catechism.



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mogeniture. And it was also the question that said Mendoza asked himself, saying What am I good for? and not knowing what to answer. Let no one imagine, however, that the Mendoza heir was lame, deaf, blind, crippled, or stupid. His senses and faculties were more than fully developed; he was strong and fit as a fiddle; and, as has already been said, and if it hasn’t been said is being said now, he had just turned twenty-seven. But none of these factors prevented Señora doña Ana and the heir himself from anxiously asking whether he was good for anything, even though they failed to come up with an answer. So that the reader can fully understand these circumstances, it’s essential that I provide some background. Doña Ana was a lady, a gentlewoman so to speak, the daughter of an hidalgo from Ronda,4 one of the most illustrious nobles of that city atop a rocky meseta. Suffice it to say that Doña Ana’s surname was Escalante. Among her ancestors we find one of the founders of the Maestranza,5 and the heraldic timber of the Maestranza, along with his great services in the War of Succession, in the Siege of Gibraltar, in the War of Roussillon,6 and in the War of Independence became, from that time on, the timber and services of Doña Ana’s family. Although born and raised in a place as alpine and remote as Ronda, Doña Ana was still brought up with a sense of refinement, and not only along traditional and exclusively Spanish lines, but in a manner that we might call cosmopolitan. A discreet French priest, one of the many who emigrated during the Revolution, settled in Ronda and became Doña Ana’s instructor, teaching her his language, and a fair amount of history, geography, and literature, making of her a prodigy of erudition when we take into account what women in Spain usually knew back then. Nevertheless, all of Doña Ana’s learning mattered not a whit and did not stand her in good stead. In the end, when she turned twenty-nine and feared she would end up an aunt or a spinster—and encouraged by her father and brothers, who longed to find her a husband, that is, to be rid of her—she re4. A city that sits on a forbidding cliff overlooking a deep gorge along which flows the Tagus River. Ronda is considered the birthplace of modern bullfighting, and its bullring, one of the oldest in Spain, features an elegant portal and beautiful arches. 5. An association of nobles, dating back to the sixteenth century, that practiced equestrianism and the use of arms on horseback. 6. The War of Succession (1701–1714) brought Felipe V and the Bourbon line to Spain; Spain attempted to recover Gibraltar from England between 1779–1783; Spain declared the War of Roussillon (a small province in France on the border of Spain in the Pyrenees and on the Mediterranean) when Louis XVI was guillotined in 1793 in order to attempt to recapture what it had lost in 1659.

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signed herself to marrying Señor don Francisco López de Mendoza, a noble no less illustrious than the Escalantes, also an heir by primogeniture, castellan in perpetuity of the fortress and castle of Villabermeja, knight commander of the Order of Santiago,7 and also a member of the equestrian society of Ronda, like her father and brothers. Some historians maintain that there already existed a kinship between the Mendozas and the Escalantes, and that this helped to facilitate the marriage, but inasmuch as such a detail is of no consequence to the heart of our story, I shall overlook it and not enter into detailed inquiry. Doña Ana assumed her new status courageously. Although she had seen Seville and had spent long periods of time in Málaga and Cádiz, she buried herself in Villabermeja while still alive, without complaining in the slightest, without letting anyone become aware, not even once, of the sacrifice that she was making. Although very much a gentleman, Don Francisco was uncultured, unlettered, and a person of violent temperament. Doña Ana succeeded in taming him, polishing him, and civilizing him a little, thanks to her patience and gentleness. Doña Ana’s love for Don Francisco, let it be said entre nous, never existed, if by love we’re going to understand something poetic, but Doña Ana had a very lofty notion of her obligations and looked to her honor with veritable patrician pride. She was, consequently, a model wife. The praise that she deserved on this account became diminished somewhat by two noteworthy considerations. The first was that Doña Ana’s pride, although cloaked in politeness, prevented her from holding the other Villabermejans in esteem, even as neighbors. The second was the fierceness and watchfulness of Don Francisco, who was ever on the alert with an eagle eye, but surreptitiously, and if he had caught Doña Ana telling a falsehood, neither Tetrarch8 nor Othello would have surpassed him in avenging the offense. Where we cannot in any way play down the praise she deserved nor stint on it was, if not in the matter of love, then in her conduct of other actions: in the affection that grows out of companionship, in the familiarity that springs from living together, and in the tender friendship and constant devotion that Doña Ana always showered on her husband, taking care of him when he was ill, comforting him when he was downcast, tempering his fury when he was enraged, and sharing his joys and making them greater with her cheerful 7. The second oldest (founded in 1170) of Spain’s military-religious orders. 8. The reference is to an honor play about jealousy by the Golden Age dramatist Pedro Calderón de la Barca. Herod, the protagonist and tetrarch (provincial ruler of the Roman Empire) of El mayor monsturo, los celos (The Greatest Monster Is Jealousy), cannot abide by the possibility that his wife might become the wife of another man after his death, and so he directs that she be killed at his decease.



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conversation when he was merry. Doña Ana would shed her gravity and hauteur in the bosom of the family, and was usually very pleasant. Boredom, a terrible and dangerous sickness in women, never took hold in Doña Ana’s soul since she knew how to use her time in the most varied ways. In spite of having read Racine, Corneille, and Boileau,9 she delighted in the Spanish poets who made the most use of conceits, especially Góngora and Calderón, and even Montoro and Gerardo Lobo.10 Mariana’s History of Spain, the works of the venerable Palafox, and the Universal Theater of Criticism and the five volumes of Letters on Curious and Erudite Subjects of Feijóo were her favorite books of prose.11 She was always busy with something. When she wasn’t reading, she was sewing or embroidering; otherwise she looked after the house, where order and cleanliness wrestled with the gloom and isolation of the location and with the considerable age of the furniture. After Don Francisco’s death Doña Ana had a more important concern: the well-rounded education of her only child. While Don Francisco was alive that education had been focused on three diverse pursuits, with the father teaching the boy to ride horseback, to shoot a shotgun, and to develop other skills related to physical exercise. When Don Francisco died his son was twelve years old, but already well advanced in such things. The family’s wheelwright was a longtime retainer who had been given the nickname Respeta12 owing to the dignified way in which he sought respectful consideration of all matters that concerned his masters. However, Respeta’s son, who, solely by virtue of being his son, was called Respetilla, was the least respectful and the least inclined person to instill respect for his masters’ affairs that anyone could imagine. This Respetilla, who was around six or eight years older than the Mendoza heir, served as the latter’s confidant, squire, lackey, tutor, and guardian all wrapped up in one. With him the heir learned to play a game of coin toss; to gamble at cards; to play the guitar; and to sing the soledad, the fandango, and other songs; and to tell countless off-color stories. In the end, though, Doña Ana taught the heir history, and more than any 9. Classic French dramatists and poets: Jean Baptiste Racine (1639–1699), Pierre Corneille (1606–1684), and Nicolas Boileau-Despréaux (1636–1711). 10. Luis de Gongóra y Argote (1561–1627) and Pedro Calderón de la Barca (1600–1681); José Pérez de Montoro (1627–1694) and Eugenio Gerardo Lobo (1679–1750). 11. Juan de Mariana (1535–1624), historian whose History appeared in 30 volumes; Juan Palafox y Mendoza (1600–1659), prelate and author of religious works; Benito Jerónimo Feijóo y Montenegro (1676–1764), Benedictine monk, essayist, and writer during the Enlightenment period. 12. The root of this name is respeto, or “respect,” the springboard for the wordplay that follows.

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other, he took a liking to that of ancient Greece and Rome, dreaming whenever he wasn’t playing cards or tossing coins, about being a Scipio, a Miltiades, a Caius Gracchus, or an Epaminondas, in the light in which these heroes were depicted in the Spanish translation of a book by Monsieur Rollin.13 When Don Francisco died, Doña Ana took control of the “educational ferule” and refused to share her son’s education with Respetilla. However, it was already too late to keep Respetilla at arm’s length and to uproot from the illustrious heir’s mind and heart all the vices and bad habits of a small-town Andalusian playboy. Doña Ana had to content herself with trying to “graft,” so to speak, on her indulged son the learning and sensitivities peculiar to an educated man and complete gentleman. Since Don Francisco had been “black,” that is, very liberal, in spite of priding himself on being so blue-blooded, and had looked askance at Big Nose,14 as he called Fernando VII, he had always become infuriated at the prospect of the boy going off to serve the king as a cadet at a military academy. On this matter Doña Ana honored her sweet husband’s feelings with ease because she idolized her son and did not want to be separated from him. She assumed, furthermore, that, having to be in possession of his primogeniture, he would not have to serve anyone; and besides, she thought that neither Miltiades, nor Epaminondas, nor Caius Gracchus, nor any of the Scipios were ever cadets, nor did they rise gradually, ridiculously, and prosaically until becoming generals, rather, they became orators, politicians, warriors, and magnates all at once, and donned a toga, took up the pen, put on a cuirass and a helmet, and girded a sword. Thus did Doña Ana wish her son to be, and although she had only the one, she believed that he counted for two and considered herself another Cornelia.15 In spite of everything, Doña Ana understood the usefulness of the boy having a profession, and after giving it careful thought she chose the law, not so that he could earn a living from litigation, but so that he could learn the laws and know how to reform them and present them to his country when the occasion arose. So the heir studied Latin with the village schoolmaster and almost man13. Publius Cornelius Scipio, either Africanus Major [the Elder] (237–183 b.c.) or Africanus Minor [the Younger] (185–129 b.c.), Roman generals; Miltiades (d. 489 b.c.), Athenian general who commanded at Marathon; Caius Sempronius Gracchus (d. 123 b.c.), Roman social reformer; Epaminondas (d. 362 b.c.), Greek general of Thebes; Charles Rollin (1661–1741), French historian, author of a sixteen-volume history of Rome. 14. Narizotas in Spanish, epithet by which the absolutist king was known. Goya’s painting of him with his prominent nose hangs in Madrid’s Prado Museum. 15. Second-century b.c. Roman matron who refused to remarry after her husband’s death. She devoted herself to raising her two sons, whom she called her “jewels.”



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aged to translate at sight some of the lives of Cornelius Nepos.16 He then attended the theological seminary of the provincial capital where he learned philosophy by studying the works of Father Guevara17 and always obtained high honors. And, lastly, he enrolled in the School of Law of the University of Granada, where, because the Carlists and the Cristinists were embroiled in a civil war,18 attendance was not a strict requirement. As a result, our Mendoza heir would spend most of the academic year in Villabermeja. He would then return to take examinations, and, thanks to the forbearance of the examiners, he always received a good mark. On the journeys to Granada the heir was accompanied by his faithful servant Respetilla. They comported themselves there with a certain pomp and elegance. A number of times even the chestnut mare that the playboy rode to travel from the village remained in Granada so that he could mount it and cut a figure. It is of course true that back then everything was still very inexpensive in Granada, which explained why this city came to be called la tierra del ochavico, “the place where things are dirt-cheap.” Twenty reales a day covered all the costs of housing, meals, and beds, as well as the services of a landlord and a servant and use of a small horse. Even so it was an unheard-of luxury. The most that a student in Granada normally spent on room and board at that time was the sum of seven reales a day. Six was the going rate at the very best houses where the cleanest and prettiest landladies provided breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and a bed, lamplight, water, and myriad other amenities. In short, the illustrious Mendoza scion completed his studies in Granada and graduated a licentiate and doctor in utroque.19 Doña Ana embroidered an exquisite cape for him and made a lovely tassel for his mortarboard. Granada’s most skillful miniaturist back then painted, for six duros, the Mendoza heir’s portrait on snow-white ivory, together with his cape, his hood, and his tasseled mortarboard; and when he returned to his mother’s arms, the Mendoza heir, now become a doctor, brought her, as a present, said portrait set in an ebony frame with little bronze adornments. From that time on, inasmuch as the Mendoza heir went by the name “Don Faustino” and had become a doctor, people started calling him “Doctor Faus16. Roman historian (c. 100–c. 25 b.c.), whose collection of biographies, De viris illustribus (On Illustrious Men), compared the lives of Roman and non-Roman leaders. 17. Friar Antonio de Guevara (1480–1545), chronicler of Carlos I and inquisitor of Valencia, author of a number of philosophical works. 18. At the death of Fernando VII, his brother Carlos contested the right of Isabel, the deceased king’s young daughter, to occupy the Spanish throne. During the girl’s minority her mother María Cristina served as regent; the wars fought between the two camps came to be called the Carlist Wars. 19. In both canon and civil law.

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tino,” the title with which he became famous in the future and with which we shall henceforth designate him. Doctor Faustino received his doctor’s degree in 1840. He returned home full of illusions and was eager to go to Madrid and make them a reality. Unfortunately, his knowledge was vague and his illusions were as vague as his knowledge. The doctor knew about everything and nothing. What he knew most about “everything” was about laws, which, supposedly, was what he had studied. The title that he had been awarded by the university was an empty title. “What good is the title?” the doctor and his mother asked themselves. Señor don Faustino López de Mendoza y Escalante, castellan in perpetuity of the fortress and castle of Villabermeja, knight of the Order of Santiago, member of the Ronda Riding Club, descendant of numerous heroes ..... would it be acceptable for him to go to Madrid to clerk for an attorney? Doña Ana and the doctor acknowledged that the profession of attorney was eminently honorable. They knew that Cicero and Cato had practiced it in Rome, and they had no reasonable objection to make of the legal profession, but an irresistible aesthetic, a response over and above any reasoning spoke powerfully to their souls, crying out: “Don Faustino cannot be a lawyer.” Don Faustino, moreover, although believing himself capable of inventing the best laws by basing them on philosophy, did not feel that he was endowed with the stamina to learn laws invented by others, at least in their details and particulars. Parodying the maxim of Tribonian20 or some other jurisconsult who preceded the Pandects,21 Don Faustino maintained that such a weight was more suited to beasts of burden like camels than to one man, even more so when considering that this man was a perpetual castellan and an equestrian. “Shall I go to Madrid to seek employment?” Don Faustino asked himself. In opposition to this step stood not only his illustrious birth, the Order of Santiago, and the Riding Club, but also the very title of doctor, by which Don Faustino and his mother laid great store. What shame, what degradation to seek or accept employment to the tune of eight or ten thousand reales, which was the most that he would be given, and go and mingle, and even end up beneath, innumerable and ordinary good-for-nothings who, without being doctors or equestrians or perpetual castellans of any fortress, enjoyed a much higher salary and higher standing in government offices. 20. Roman jurist (d. 545) under Justinian I who directed the compilation of the comprehensive code of Roman law. 21. Also known as the “Digest,” a collection of excerpts of jurisprudence extrapolated from famous Roman jurists; an integral part of the Corpus Juris Civilis, or codification of Roman law supervised by Tribonian.



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Would Don Faustino aspire to a career in the judiciary? But what position would he obtain, humbling himself and relying on the minister’s intercession? That of public prosecutor. At most, a judgeship. This was unacceptable. Don Faustino would resign himself to being a magistrate, but nothing less. If he was going to reside in a small town or village, he was fine in his own, where he lived in his ancestral home, near the castle of which he was the castellan in perpetuity, where his name commanded respect, where his coat of arms received deferential treatment, and where, if the destiny of the world had not changed so much, he would be able to adjudicate and dispense justice, and be—by empowerment of the duke, if not by virtue of his own entitlement—a feudal lord who could even impose capital punishment. Would Don Faustino devote himself to literature? He was much inclined toward it, but how would he earn money with literature in Spain? Besides, on this point Don Faustino found himself in agreement with the stand taken by Alfieri,22 a littérateur almost as noble as he. The poet who adorns ideal beauty in a sensitive manner and the savant who teaches severe truth to men should not think about any remuneration at all, should not have a Maecenas among the upper class nor the common people. If they do seek a Maecenas they run the risk of lapsing into obsequiousness; they profane the priesthood of the Muses; they debase a sublime teaching; and they convert the mission of hierophants into the base occupation of adulators of princes and crowds. Some thought would also have to be given to whether, caving in and flattering the taste of crowds or princes, Doctor Faustino would find an audience of women, or men, who wanted to read and pay for what he wrote. The doctor resolved this doubt by vowing to write for an eternal public without paying heed to the current of opinion, to the prevailing taste of a given moment, to style or to caprice. But seeing that the eternal public does not pay, the doctor said, along with Alfieri, that it was better to practice a trade to earn a living and to write in order to attain immortal laurels than to pin the slightest hope on writings to improve one’s financial situation. Doctor Faustino thought several times about going into journalism, a profession that he regarded as an apprenticeship and preparation for both a statesman and a litterateur, but how would he abide by the whims of an editor who was perhaps uncultured, uninformed, and unenlightened? How could a perpetual castellan, a knight of the Order of Santiago with so many venerable ancestors, with such a beautiful family tree, and with a thousand other titles and distinctions, let himself be put on the payroll of some featherbrain who had enough money to start up a newspaper and deigned to assign him a salary of twenty 22. Vittorio Alfieri Conte (1749–1803), Italian poet, tragic dramatist, and man of letters.

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or thirty duros a month so that he could write whatever suited the newspaper, or even obligated him to spend a period of time as a journeyman (the doctor shuddered with horror just thinking about it), translating serials, taking news items from here and there to arrange pieces for foreign mail, or, armed with despicable scissors, cutting out short articles and local news from other newspapers, and pasting the pieces on a sheet with gummed wafers that, to make the ignominy greater, had to be wetted with his own saliva? It was not possible for Doctor Faustino to be a journalist either. In short: mother and son spent many months pondering, weighing, and discussing what he could be, what he could devote himself to, what Doctor Faustino could be good for, and they failed to come up with the solution to such an onerous problem. Both of them understood, nonetheless, that the doctor would be capable of anything and everything if he had the wherewithal. This kind of viaticum for the first rise to prominence, this indispensable base to tower above the throngs and make his true merit stand out in splendor was the most difficult thing to hit upon, for the doctor as well as his mother. There was no way, or at least it would have been very risky, for Doctor Faustino to set out for Madrid, simply trusting to luck, without intending to seek some financial support at a newspaper, an office, or an attorney’s firm while he became a somebody. The Mendozas’ fortune had dwindled a great deal over the years. With his mismanagement Don Francisco had frittered it away even more and gone into debt. Although Don Francisco had always loved and respected Doña Ana, his passions as an hidalgo—and perhaps his vanity—had driven him to have affairs, first with a certain nymph who was called La Joya, and then with another nymph who was called La Guitarrica. Neither La Guitarrica nor La Joya sported diamond and pearl bracelets and necklaces, nor did they wear clothes designed by Worth or La Honorina or M. Augusto,23 but on the other hand both women had big families that included parents, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, and cousins, all of whom made off with olive oil or wine or wheat or cured loin or blood sausage from the illustrious benefactor’s stores. In addition, La Joya, as well as La Guitarrica, dressed better than was the norm in the town, and all this ate away at Don Francisco’s wealth. Lastly, Don Faustino’s very extravagance as a student in Granada had been costly and had contributed to the family’s state of arrears. It was in that city that he had had an orchestra seat at the theater, had gambled at monte and lost, and where he had had his clothes tailor-made at Caracuel’s, ordering 23. Charles Frederick Worth (1825–1895), founder of the Maison Worth in Paris and London, arbiter of women’s fashions; I have been unable to identify [La] Honorina and M. Augusto.



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not only tails and frock coats, but also flashy outfits and two uniforms, one as an equestrian and the other as a lancer officer in the National Militia. This latter uniform in particular had cost an arm and a leg owing to its elaborate and picturesque details, which included superfluous adornments and frills. During the Gómez expedition,24 the Militia had mobilized in Granada, and the captain general had made Don Faustino his aide-de-camp, so that his uniform now had a portfolio that hung from his shoulder by glossy leather straps. The patent leather of the portfolio was so exquisite that you could see your face in its polished surface. The profusion of braids and gold embroidery were no less expensive and elegant, and the Polish schapska with a snow-white plume, the ferocious-looking saber, and the lance with pennon had likewise cost a great deal of money. Although in possession of this uniform and that of the Ronda Riding Club, as well as the two flashy outfits with a fringe-bedecked waistcoat and coarse jacket patched with a thousand colors, and calfskin half boots sewn by the most skillful and meticulous convicts of Málaga, and chaps, and knitted breeches fastened with dual toggle buttons of the richest gold filigree produced in Córdoba, Don Faustino was not altogether certain that they were garments and trappings of great use and advantageous effect in the streets and social gatherings of Madrid. But what he was certain of was that the money had been spent on these things and others, and he had read in the works of a prominent economist—and if he hadn’t read it he would have divined it, because he was a man of remarkable acumen—that “Money is indispensable to man from the moment in which he enters society.” This need for money assumed even greater importance when it came to thoughts of going to live in Madrid, where everything costs a fortune compared with life in small towns, and where Don Faustino López de Mendoza would have to make his appearance in keeping with the luster of his name, and also in keeping with the standing of two or three marquises and countesses, friends and relatives of his mother who would receive him as a nephew and introduce him in all the aristocratic salons. There were times when mother and son considered that Don Faustino could go to Madrid incognito, adopting a pseudonym until there was more money, or else until people discovered who he was by virtue of his very brilliance and on account of his kind acts or the writings that he penned or composed, but this was abandoned as impracticable. Going to Madrid without going incognito, not aspiring to anything, was 24. The Carlist general Miguel Gómez led a force of over 2,500 men on a foray—for booty and plunder, and also to demoralize the Spanish [Cristinist] government—that took them from Santiago de Compostela in Galicia to Córdoba in Andalusia.

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sheer folly. Wine, the Mendoza family’s principal source of income, was selling at one peseta an arroba.25 How could Don Faustino, mingling in Madrid society comme il faut and living with extraordinary economy, spend less than eighty duros a month? Breaking it down: eighty duros a month is the equivalent of four hundred pesetas, that is, four large jars of wine that amount to forty-eight jars annually, or close to five thousand arrobas—a sea of wine, the entire yield of the best years, there being no oidium or fungus. And if the señorito spent it all in Madrid, how would they pay taxes? How would they continue the farm work? How would they pay the interest on money, borrowed through mortgages, at twenty percent? Hic opus, hic labor est, in the words of the poet.26 In spite of everything, Doctor Faustino did not resign himself to not going to Madrid, where, acting resolutely and standing firm and surmounting a thousand difficulties, he imagined himself winning—by what means he did not know—glory, position, and fortune. The fact that many men with fewer resources than he had risen to the top served as a perpetual stimulus. There was no ambition of any sort that had not ensnared the doctor. He was driven, like a bull bitten by horse flies. With respect to oratory, he hoped to be a Demosthenes, not plainly and simply like the Athenian statesman, but with all the flourishes that obtain in our age, which is more rhetorical. In fact, no one had been quicker to imitate the style of his celebrated forensics teacher, who was the most poetic orator in Granada. It seems impossible that an explanation of civil and criminal proceedings could be adorned with so much elegant and flowery language. Let the following serve as an example: “Gentlemen, your ordinary civil action is a limpid brook that springs up in the pleasant grotto of the rights of any individual, and this brook flows gently along a peaceful plain, embellishing the earth with flowers and creating a soft murmur as its waters break over pebbles until reaching its happy terminus, all the while fertilizing the tree of absolute justice with its irrigation. Executory action, on the other hand, is a rushing torrent that—pouring down from craggy heights, where inflexible obligation dwells—drags everything in its rapid current until it gets lost in the deep fosse that surrounds, protects, and makes impregnable the fortress of sacred property.” When this gentleman spoke in courts of law he was even more eloquent. The demands of a didactic style did not hamper his impulses then nor did they curtail his oratorical flights, and he soared to the clouds, skillfully combining metaphorical and poignant rhetoric. On one occasion, when his client was a barber who had once been wealthy, he hit on this imagery to express himself, “This poor devil, who in the shipwreck of his misfor25. A liquid measure that can vary from 2.6 to 3.6 gallons. 26. This is the task, this is the work. From Vergil’s Aeneid, 4.



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tune had to latch on to the hard shank of his razor,” with which he moved his listeners to applause and even tears. Doctor Faustino, although not innately given to so many tropes and witticisms, felt capable of eclipsing his mentor, if he put his mind to it. Doctor Faustino considered himself even more accomplished when it came to poetry. That was the age of romanticism, and the doctor had become one of the most fanatical romantics. Almost all his verses were despairing and subjective; in other words, the doctor always spoke of himself. He had yet to compose a single poem or drama, but he could put together a couple of thick tomes on Fantasies, Meditations, Prayers, Orientals, and Fragments. He claimed that he paid no attention to form, and that, like a true poet, he only concerned himself with ideas and passion, but the fact of the matter was that he came up with a thousand new and odd combinations of rhymes and meters, and that at times he would—in the same composition—insert verses of one syllable, and two, and three, and even twenty, and then gradually decrease the verses again to one syllable, which lent them a strange schematic elegance, because the composition took on the appearance of a sole.27 Nevertheless, Doctor Faustino had a skeptical, critical spirit that turned itself even against him. Granted, he considered himself capable of being a superhuman poet, a genius, which says it all, but the verses, composed and given form, were subjected to self-criticism with more ease than the tenebrous depths of his soul, and for the sake of truth and for the poor doctor we must declare here that he doubted very much that the verses were any good. Despite his romanticism, there was a maxim by a detested classicist of inferior stripe, Moratín fils,28 that was always buzzing in his ears and unnerving him. The maxim was: “Alas, Pipí, my friend! How much better it is to be a waiter in a café than a ridiculous poet!” Consequently, Doctor Faustino—even though it may seem implausible—no longer held his verses in high regard and hid them away until he judged them to be good beyond a shadow of doubt, or until he actually composed them. Only one line, which he often muttered under his breath, had truly unquestionable merit, inasmuch as it revealed his state of mind. The dreadful verse was: I feel chaos burning on my brow! 27. José de Espronceda’s “The Salamanca Student” (El estudiante de Salamanca, 1840), one of the most famous poems of Spanish romanticism, exhibits just such a wide variety of rhymes and meters, including one-syllable verse near the end of Part 4. 28. Leandro Fernández de Moratín (1760–1828), classical playwright known principally for his play The Maidens’ Consent (El sí de las niñas). The lines that follow are from Act 1, Scene 1 of the literary satire The New Drama or the Café (La comedia nueva o el café).

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There was in effect a chaos of ideas and reflections on that brow. Sometimes the doctor thought that he did not know a thing, that he had not studied, that he had wasted his time, that he was like an utterly useless piece of furniture ..... good for nothing. But with increasing frequency he wrongly took it into his head that there was nothing that he did not know or could not surmise, and this, instead of gladdening his heart, distressed him even more. “So there’s nothing new that I don’t know? So books can teach me nothing new? So everything that I read ..... it’s either some insignificant fact—and it’s all the same whether I know it or not—or it’s an echo or a formula or the mere enunciation of what was already in my consciousness? Each author will order his doctrines however he likes or arrange them according to the method that he prefers, but I was already familiar with them before reading them in their books. The things that I don’t know and long to know are what I don’t find in writers.” Whenever the doctor’s thoughts and reflections took such a turn, whenever he felt satiated, glutted, replete with human knowledge, and not caring a fig for it, he experienced passionate desires to communicate with other beings, superior beings, to see whether they knew more than humans and whether, with their favor and assistance, he managed to penetrate the mysteries of the visible as well as the invisible world. Doctor Faustino viewed himself as so illustrious and so noble that he could not understand the spirits’ disdain, and took offense that they neither communicated with him nor heeded nor yielded to his conjurations. Do not, though, believe that the doctor was mad as a result. He had his moments of exaltation, but not madness. When he came down from his pure meditations and reconnected with reality, he would forget about magic, because he did not believe that there was still a devil so stupid as to let himself be deceived the way Mephistopheles let himself be deceived by Faust, his half-namesake, who provided him, gratis, with money, fame, pleasures, and good amorous adventures and good fortune. This was what he wanted to attain, and in order to attain all this the doctor trusted neither the devil, nor magic, nor knowledge, nor poetry, but rather a common, ordinary art that he despised, that he looked upon as unworthy. Nonetheless, it infuriated him to doubt whether he possessed it or did not possess it. In order to dispel the doubt, in order to know from his own experience, the doctor wanted to go to Madrid. He felt as though Villabermeja was caving in on him. Then the doctor would talk to his mother and explain his intention.



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The prudent señora always asked the doctor: “What’s your plan?” “I don’t have one,” the doctor would reply. “Do you perhaps want to take up the legal profession?” “Never.” “Will you earn money and a position as a journalist or as an office worker?” “Neither one.” “Do poets earn some money?” “I don’t know if I’m a poet, but I do know that the best poets earn very little or nothing at all.” “Then again,” Doña Ana would add, “in order to write a work in prose or in verse, thereby immortalizing your name, it makes no difference whether you’re here or in the capital.” “There’s no doubt about that,” Doctor Faustino had to respond. “Well, then, stay in Villabermeja. Don’t forsake your aged, loving mother.” The doctor would be persuaded by dint of entreaties and endearments. He recognized that, were he to go, he risked consuming their entire pitiful fortune in five or six months, after which time he would have to beg. He would bow his head and smile wistfully. When he was alone he always said to himself: “So, what am I good for? Hang it all, I’m not good for anything!” The mother too when she was alone said to herself: “This son of mine (I’m not blinded by a mother’s love) is beautiful in body and soul, and elegant and dashing; he seems capable of everything; but he’s so strange! He’s such a dreamer! What’s he good for? I’m afraid he’s not going to be good for anything, unless it be to serve as his own torment.”

[3] D o ñ a A na’ s P lan

The doctor had graduated a year ago. He had been planning to go to Madrid for a year and had not gone for lack of money. And for a year—almost daily, with variations and amplifications, but with the same substance—he had been repeating the dialogues and monologues that we have just recorded in the previous chapter. The cape, the four-cornered cap, the tassel, and other insignia and doctoral vestments; the showy lancer’s uniform and the no less showy equestrian one—all hung in a closet, in danger of being moth-eaten. The same thing happened to the tails and frock coats from Caracuel’s. Doctor Faustino did not even don his natty clothes. He saw no one and let himself go, not in personal cleanliness, but in the exterior appearance of his person, and always went around in the least doctoral and least aristocratic getup that can be imagined: a reefer and a derby, and in the winter, wrapped in his cape. The doctor was so plain-spoken, so kind, and so charitable with the poor that the common people adored him, but the town’s nouveaux riches detested him and tried to ridicule him. He never visited them and he never went to the Casino, and among all the elegant señoritas of Villabermeja not a one could boast of having heard a single flirtatious remark from his lips. The notary’s daughters were the ones who hated him most because they were the ones who most presumed to be beautiful and refined. They were the ones who had the most airs, to use the term then current in the town. The notary, whose name was Don Juan Crisóstomo Gutiérrez, had become very wealthy in his profession, and also by lend-

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ing money at a premium. Rosita and Ramoncita, his two daughters, looked like two princesses. They ordered silk dresses from Málaga, and even from Madrid, and they always appeared in public with so much haughtiness and authority that later, when the Civil Guard was set up and the town found nothing more authoritative and venerable than one of those guards with his tricorne hat, the people gave Rosita and Ramoncita the collective nickname the “Civils,” by which they are known to this day. The Civils, then, outdid themselves in satires directed at the unfortunate doctor. They called him the “Illustrious Proletariat” and “Don Poor-as-aChurch Mouse,”1 and in view of how little or no good it did him to have studied both laws, civil and canonical, they also labeled him “Attorney Peperri.”2 The doctor never turned up at the town promenade, which was on the square. What he did do was take long walks through the most solitary tracts of terrain and out-of-the-way places, showing a special preference for climbing Watchtower Hill, where the tumbledown remains of a tower were still in evidence, and from which vantage point you looked down on the countryside and the expanse of the horizon. That hill was so barren and stony that it only produced a few sparse clusters of bitter genista, thyme, broom, and rosemary; wild irises that sprouted in the crevices of the crags; other flowers, purple and with a single petal, that in those parts are called birthwort; and most of all, an abundance of asparagus plants. For this reason the Civils assigned the doctor yet another moniker, calling him the “Count of the Atalaya Asparagus Patches.” There were people who informed the doctor of all this mockery, but he remained invulnerable, never trying to get on the Civils’ good side with a smile, never even stooping to retaliate and poke fun at them. The doctor lived his life absorbed in his sad meditations, which consisted of two main types: the merely speculative ones and those that had a practical end. In the merely speculative ones the prevailing thought was that the doctor knew everything, that human knowledge was illusion or presumption, and that, after reading thousands of books, he would be no more advanced than he was then. Consequently, the doctor dreamed of entering into a relationship with the spirits. If he managed to do so, it made no difference whether 1. The original is Don Pereciendo. Pereciendo is the gerund of perecer, to perish or to die, or to be so poor as to lack the necessities of life. 2. In a letter that Valera wrote to the French Hispanist Ernest Mérimee on 19 October 1897 he makes reference to “[the] attorney Peperri who won the minor lawsuits and lost the major ones” ([del] abogado Peperri que ganaba los pleitos chicos y perdía los grandes). Cyrus C. DeCoster, ed., Correspondencia de don Juan Valera (Valencia: Editorial Castalia, 1956), pp. 253–255.

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he lived in Villabermeja or Paris or London, and he would desist from his determination to go to Madrid. Until this became a reality, and it was far from becoming one, all the appetites, all the stimuli, all the desires of a young man in his twenties spoke powerfully to the doctor urging him to go to Madrid. Love, ambitions, a thirst for pleasure; a longing for glory and renown; beautiful duchesses smiling at him and loving him; splendid salons in which to put in appearances; enchanting and mysterious boudoirs to be entered for an assignation by way of a little door hidden behind a rich Flemish tapestry; applause from the crowd when he read his poetry (which by then would be first-rate), or when he delivered a speech (which would be better than those of his Proceedings professor); the admiration of gentlewomen and gallants when they saw how graceful he looked making a magnificent, spirited horse trot and prance on the Paseo del Prado ..... these and a thousand other triumphs vividly arose in his imagination and exasperated him. The damnable lack of money knocked down such castles in the air. The doctor considered himself more unfortunate than Prince Sigismund.3 Feeling retained and confined in Villabermeja by plebeian indigence was more humiliating, and therefore more cruel, than seeing oneself shut up like a wild beast by a father who was a king and a tyrant. The doctor, now in the solitude of his room, now among the asparagus patches at the top of the Watchtower, whose domain had been conceded to him by the notary’s daughters, recited, analyzed, and bitterly commented on the octosyllabic verse, I endeavor to learn, oh Heaven .....4 “What a shame,” thought Doña Ana, “that this son of mine can’t manage to overcome his dreams of ambition and can’t resign himself to living at my side! Where will he find someone who loves him more than I do? Where will he be more respected and esteemed than among these faithful, longtime servants in his home, and even among all the humble and honorable workers of Villabermeja? Whenever he is seen passing by, where will people say to him with a greater outpouring of fond respect Go with God, your lordship or God bless you, young master? A pleasant, affable God be with you, gentlemen spoken by my son garners him more goodwill than can perhaps be earned for him by all the speeches, all the poetry, and all the prose that he could possibly compose in Madrid.” 3. Segismundo in Spanish, the protagonist of the celebrated philosophical drama Life Is a Dream (La vida es sueño, 1635) by the Golden Age playwright Pedro Calderón de la Barca. The subsequent mention of the father/king/tyrant is a reference to the plot. 4. Act 1, Scene 2 of Life Is a Dream, spoken by Segismundo, who is imprisoned in a tower, in chains and animal hides. The original is Apurar, cielos, pretendo .....



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“Besides, what is my son lacking here?” Doña Ana continued to wonder. And, the truth be told, in a certain way she was more than right. The ancestral home, although it looked ruinous and gloomy on the outside, was spacious and comfortable on the inside. Doña Ana lived on the upper floor; the doctor, with complete independence, occupied the ground floor. There was a drawing room on it with beautiful old walnut armchairs covered with tooled or embossed leather, and adorned with bronze tacks; four enormous gilded cornucopias; several oil portraits of illustrious Mendozas; a family tree, also painted in oil; a brazier of gleaming brass in the middle; and a table with vases and amphoras from China. Further inside there was another room that, by way of furniture, contained only a wooden platform for fencing with a foil and a saber and a trapeze to do gymnastic exercises. Stacked in one corner were wooden sabers padded with selvage, épées, wire-mesh face masks, deerskin chest protectors, and gloves and mittens; and in another corner, stilts and two cannon balls, with holders, to lift them by hand. The doctor’s library and study occupied a third room. Books of diverse origin and kind filled several bookcases made of painted pine. The ones brought from France by the diabolical Commander Mendoza, who suffered in the attic as would a soul in torment, were almost all ungodly—works by Voltaire, the encyclopedists, and their ilk. The ones that served as the basis of Doña Ana’s education, or that she herself acquired from the French cleric, were like the antidote to Commander Mendoza’s books. The refutations of Bergier and others against the ungodly writers of his age were there, as well as the works of Fénelon, Massillon, and Bossuet.5 Also present on the shelf were The Happy Man,6 Eusebio,7 and the Gospel Triumphant.8 In another section the doctor kept some of the tomes of his law studies too, together with traditional Spanish classics aplenty, from the Familiar Epistles of the bishop of Mondoñedo to the poetic delights of the curate of Fruime. And, lastly, com5. Nicolas-Sylvestre Bergier (1715–1790), French priest and theologian known for apologetical and theological works in which he refuted Voltaire and other anticlerical liberals; François Fénelon (1651–1715), French theologian and writer, a leader of the Quietism heresy; Jean Baptiste Massillon (1663–1742), French bishop celebrated for his preaching; Jacques Bénigne Bossuet (1627–1704), French bishop considered one of the greatest orators in French history, author of the Discours sur l’histoire universelle, a great moralist who attacked Fénelon, the Quietists, Jesuits, and Protestants. 6. A moralizing novel by the Portuguese priest Teodoro de Almeida (1722–1804). 7. A pedagogical novel in four volumes by the Spanish Jesuit Pedro Montengón (1725–1803). 8. A philosophical-religious treatise by Pablo de Olavide y Jáuregui (1725–1803), Peruvian writer and littérateur.

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pleting the library were all the works of medicine, chemistry, and other natural sciences that the doctor had purchased from the widow of a very studious physician who had died of cholera in Villabermeja in 1834. In the bedroom where the doctor slept there was another bookcase that contained his favorite poets, from Homer to Zorrilla, Espronceda, and Arolas.9 But there was yet another room in which the doctor spent even more time, especially during the winter. This other room was called the master and mistress’s downstairs kitchen, not because anything was cooked in it, but because of its hearth or fireplace, in which there could burn, and there frequently did, half an olive tree, marc paste, and entire sheaves of dried vine shoots. The broad flagstone on which all these combustibles burned extended out from the wall more than three feet, leaving space on either side for two comfortable nooks with armchairs, in one of which the doctor spent hours on end writing, reading or meditating. Against the wall there was an armoire, the door of which opened and came down like a tabletop resting on two solid supports that also extended, or rather, jutted out from the wall, which meant that the doctor could sit in a corner by the fireplace just as if he were sitting in his lawyer’s office. He had only to take out inkwell, papers, and books from the armoire and set them on the door become tabletop. Doña Ana usually came to sit in the armchair across from her son in order to talk to him. And the old hounds, spaniels, and beagles would sometimes appear to close the circle and complete the tertulia, or their gathering, while sitting on their hindquarters. This “kitchen” did not lack a certain charm that combined the rustic and the aristocratic. The Mendozas’ coat of arms was sculpted in stone above the fireplace mantelpiece. On the shelves of one wall stood five cages with singing partridges, and on another you could see, very neatly arranged, shotguns and other arms like pistols and hunting knives. Lastly, here and there, heads hung—heads of deer, foxes, wolves, and martens, which, by virtue of having been poorly stuffed, looked like, and really were, game trophies and not silly decorations purchased in a shop. Possessing and enjoying all this, why did the doctor persist in wanting to go to Madrid? In what confounded boardinghouse would he live with more decorum and comfort? 9. José Zorrilla (1817–1893), great romantic poet, perhaps best known today for his verse drama Don Juan Tenorio (1844), the apotheosis of the Don Juan figure on the stage; José de Espronceda (1808–1842) wrote numerous famous poems in addition to “The Salamanca Student,” as well as Sancho Saldaña (1834), an historical novel; Juan Arolas (1805–1849), a Piarist priest and romantic poet, composed works inspired by conventional romantic themes like the Middle Ages, Orientalism, odalisques, sultanas, and pirates.



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As for gustatory delights, Doctor Faustino, despite their impoverished state, had little or nothing of which to be envious. Thanks to the yield of crops and animals, the house had just about everything without going to the market: good aged wine in the winecellar; exquisite hams, blood sausages, pork sausages, pickled loins and spleens, and a thousand other slaughtered foodstuffs, all of them seasoned by Doña Ana; a dovecote for domestic pigeons on the tower of the main house and another for rock doves on the country house; twelve beehives, on the same country house, that yielded sweet-smelling honey; fruit in abundance; and a farmyard of rabbits, chickens, turkeys, and ducks that fed on wheat chaff and other grains. All this, in spite of the debts and hard times of the house of Mendoza, could still be maintained thanks to the routine, order, vigilance, and severe economy on the part of Doña Ana, who kept a sharp eye on everything. There was no piece of old furniture that had been discarded, nor damask bedspread that had been torn, nor sheet nor tablecloth nor towel that was not darned and preserved with remarkable cleanliness. Doña Ana also took great care with the linens and had them in order, perfumed with lavender. Nonetheless, Doctor Faustino wanted to go off in search of adventure, which caused Doña Ana to spend one entire winter pondering a plan. As a result of it she wrote several letters and kept up a correspondence without saying anything to her son. Finally, one evening, when spring had already arrived and mother and son were alone in the drawing room that housed the vintage armchairs, portraits, and family tree, Doña Ana explained herself in this manner: “Pay close attention, my son, because I am going to talk to you about a matter of the utmost importance.” The doctor listened to her very respectfully, and with both of them seated in a corner of the salon, the mother continued: “I am fully aware, and deeply regret, that you are unhappy with the life you are leading. We have tranquillity here and a degree of well-being, but you find yourself without the means to satisfy your ambition, your thirst for glory, and even your love. I am not complaining about you because you wish to leave me and go off to Madrid. There’s nothing more natural. They say in this town that ‘Poverty is not dishonor, but it is an offshoot of crookedness,’ with which they’re implying that the school of hard knocks sometimes obliges even hidalgos and the wellborn to do the kinds of deeds that I hope you never commit. So I’ve sought a way for you to go to Madrid without your running the risk of living there like a rake or falling into total ruin.” “And what way is that?” asked Doctor Faustino, all excited.

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“I’m going to tell you,” replied his mother. “You know of course that my beloved cousin Doña Araceli de Bobadilla lives in the town of __________, upwards of forty miles from here. Although she’s more than seventy years old, people keep calling her Niña Bobadilla, ‘the Bobadilla girl,’ because she always refused to marry, never having met someone of her standing to be the object of her affection and receive her hand. Your Aunt Araceli lives quite comfortably in a beautiful house. There are going to be dances, bullfights, and other festivities in her town to celebrate their fair, which will take place inside of a week, and Araceli is inviting you to her house to see the fair and to stay as long as you like.” “And what do I get out of seeing the fair and being a guest at the home of Niña Bobadilla?” “I’m coming to that. Be patient, all in good time. Niña Bobadilla has a brother named Don Alonso, holder of a very prosperous entailed estate, and although he’s wealthy on account of it, he’s even more wealthy because of his good judgment and better luck as the proprietor of several farms and the breeder of cattle and sheep. Don Alonso lives in the same town as Araceli. He’s been a widower for fifteen years and has an eighteen-year-old daughter named Costanza, whose beauty and discretion are praised to the skies, and whose virtue, modesty, and good manners are applauded by the most hardto-please critics.” “Well and good. What’s it to me?” interrupted the doctor. “Why beat around the bush? I’ve discussed your marriage to this young lady. Her father adores her and he has millions.” “Mother, do you want to make me into a fortune hunter?” “And why not, my dear son? You’ll take money like someone who takes wings to fly, but then you will fly, and you will raise your wife so high that she won’t regret having given you wings. She has already seen your portrait in miniature, the one in which you look so handsome with your doctor’s cape and cap, and my cousin Araceli, who showed her the portrait, tells me in her letters that Costancita is very taken with you.” “I’m glad, Mamá, I’m glad, but I don’t even know whether I’ll like her or dislike her.” “That’s what visits are for, my son. Nobody’s putting a pistol to your head. Nothing’s been arranged yet. It’s possible that Don Alonso knows something about our little scheme, but he has to make it look as though he knows nothing. Neither Costancita nor you have made a commitment. You’ll see each other, get acquainted with each other, and if you don’t hit it off ..... that’s that. Nothing’s been lost.” “Time and fatigue and travel expenses,” said the doctor. “It’ll be better to put an end to this and for me not to go.”



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“I have already promised that you will go, and you can’t leave me in the lurch.” “Well ..... in that case. If you have already promised, Mamá, I’ll simply have to go.” “Yes, Faustinito. Look, my heart tells me that you’re going to fall madly in love with my Señora doña Costanza. About whom I’m not saying a word, because, according to Araceli, she’s been all excited since she was shown your portrait. But I do see a wedding in the offing.” “If I take a liking to her and she’s that rich, we’ll resign ourselves.” With Doctor Faustino having given his consent, for four days Doña Ana threw all her energy into preparations for the journey. She herself sewed, and had sewn, new collars and cuffs for a few of the doctor’s shirts that were somewhat frayed; she inspected Caracuel’s tails and frock coats and saw that, fortunately, they had not been moth-eaten; and she made several indispensable alterations on the better of the two showy outfits. The evening before the departure Doña Ana had a long and impassioned discussion with her son: she, determined that he take the equestrian and lancer officer uniforms; he, determined that he would not. Doña Ana prevailed in the end. In his equestrian uniform the doctor would cut quite a dashing figure at a formal dance that was being announced. And as for the other uniform, could there be any doubt that it would look good, very good indeed, when Don Faustino sported it while riding alongside Doña Costanza de Bobadilla’s barouche on the chestnut mare with his lustrous portfolio, his white plumes, and his Polish schapska? The only item that Doña Ana would not allow him to take on his journey was the lance, because, after all, there was not going to be a formation nor cavalry charges, and taking it along would seem too martial. Nevertheless, Doña Ana regretted that Costancita would not see her son execute the moulinet, as though dodging bullets and shrapnel in swift circles as he twirled his épée. Doña Ana said that then her son resembled Diego León.10 Since in the town that Doctor Faustino was traveling to there was neither a university nor an assembly hall nor an auditorium, another means of seduction had to be forgone, and the cape, cap, tassel, and other doctoral trappings did not get packed in the trunk. Finally, the day of the departure arrived. Mother and son embraced warmly. Doctor Faustino, in riding clothes, and chaps, sash, and cloth jacket, mounted his chestnut mare, which was saddled and awash in silk fringes, 10. Diego de León, Count of Barcelona (1807–1841), Spanish general who attempted to intervene on behalf of the regent María Cristina (mother of Queen Isabel II), was taken prisoner, and shot.

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and fitted to carry two sawed-off shotguns. Respetilla, as his squire, followed him on a dapple mule, and in similar attire, although of lesser quality. Another servant brought up the rear with a string of three mules no less, mules loaded with the señorito’s luggage and not a few gifts that Doña Ana had destined for Doña Araceli and Doña Costanza herself. She was sending them candied pine nuts, assorted puff pastries, gajorros,11 various kinds of syrup in earthenware pitchers, bowls of must, anchovy pies, quince jelly, and a thousand other confectioner’s treats, for which the denizens of Villabermeja are renowned everywhere.12 The party departed from the town very early in the morning, but not so early that the Civils, who were as fond of looking out of windows as they were of rising at daybreak, were not already spying behind the lattice. Doctor Faustino and his entire retinue had perforce to pass in front of the notary’s house. “Listen, Rosita,” said Ramona when she saw the doctor pass by, “where do you suppose the Count of the Asparagus Patches is going?” “To conquer lands that are more fertile and produce more funds.” The doctor heard the impudent Civils’ snide exchange and turned red as a beet. He thought they knew that he was going to play the role of fortune hunter and that they were sneering for this reason, but the Civils did not know where Doctor Faustino was headed. 11. Pancakes of flour, eggs, and honey with the consistency of a wafer. 12. Ever attuned to the epicurean delicacies and delights of Andalusian cookery and bakegoods, Valera also celebrated them in a later novel, Juanita la Larga (Washington: The Catholic University of America Press, 2006).

[4] D o ñ a C ostanza de B obadilla

The forty or s o m i l es that separated Doctor Faustino from the house of his aunt Doña Araceli began to pass with nothing of note occurring. The caravan, or hymeneal pageant, stopped that night at a country inn twenty-seven miles from Villabermeja. There they dined on chicken with rice and peppers, which seemed exquisite after such a tiring day’s journey, and on freshly caught sardines sold to them by a muleteer coming from Málaga who, by chance, lodged under the same roof. The sardines, which were grilled and very salty, served to excite and whet their thirst. The doctor, his squire Respetilla, the pack-animal servant, and even the muleteer sardines vendor, whom they invited to dine with them, ate sumptuously at the same table and tippled generously, bestowing a million kisses on the doctor’s wineskin. Then they all slept like a log, on sackcloths stuffed with straw, their animals’ packsaddles serving as pillows. The señorito and his two servants were up and about before daybreak. Despite the libations of the night before, Respetilla and the mule tender took a nip, a double anisette, and the doctor drank a cup of chocolate. As soon as they emptied the sackcloths in the hayloft, paid the bill, and saddled and harnessed the horses and mules, they set out again, when all the stars had faded and disappeared in the white and indistinct light of dawn, with only the morning star shining in the vault of heaven. It was a beautiful spring morning. Swallows, goldfinches, and nightingales sang. The clear atmosphere, the slight breeze red-

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olent of freshness, and the roseate light showing in the east gladdened the heart. The doctor felt less melancholy than usual. Like people who ride horseback and spur their mounts a great deal because they have a great distance to cover, the caravan from time to time left the beaten track or looked for a quicker way, either by crossing olive groves, or taking shortcuts and paths through farms and pasturelands, or following the bank of a stream, or climbing a hill. Respetilla, admirably adept at guiding the way, took the lead. Doctor Faustino followed him. The other servant, driving the string of three mules loaded with the luggage and presents, continued to bring up the rear. The doctor was so entranced and distracted that he didn’t even realize what he was thinking about. The sun came up and they rode another five or six miles. It was nine o’clock in the morning. Only then did the doctor remember—or rather, snap out of his distraction—and descend from the ethereal spaces to ask for breakfast. “Up ahead a little there’s a fountain with real good water, and shade too. We can breakfast there, if you wish,” said Respetilla. In effect, shortly afterward they arrived at the fountain. They dismounted, sat down on the grass under a massive holm oak, and breakfasted on an abundance of cold mutton, hard-boiled eggs, and boiled ham that they had brought in their saddlebags. The wineskin, although colossal, had been considerably depleted with the revelry of the night before, and was now emptied completely, so much so that the two hides became stuck together on the inside. By saying that the doctor and his retinue rode, slept, supped, and breakfasted, it’s certainly possible that the reader will find fault with my giving so many details, and perhaps state in addition that the best thing would be for me to declare the journey completed, betaking myself with my hero to Doña Araceli’s house, but in my defense I shall say to the reader that Doctor Faustino—after having breakfasted and proceeded with his journey as before, and approaching the town where perhaps he was going to enter into a commitment that would influence in great measure his destiny and his life—had such an essential and transcendental meditation or soliloquy that I have no alternative but to set it down here in brief. To do so I shall avail myself, as I do for everything, of the minutely detailed, and even prolix, information passed on to me by Don Juan Fresco, which was so much that, far from expanding the story with inventions of my own, what I will do is relate as much as possible in as few sentences as possible, because I don’t like being verbose. It is important, however, to say a word or two about a point we have yet to



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touch upon. The reader has glimpsed something of Doctor Faustino’s moral and intellectual qualities, but still knows nothing of his appearance and features. The doctor was tall and slender, although robust, and blond—a pale or light blond, with not a touch of red in his hair, as is usually the case in Villbermejans. Despite the fact that his was the age of the most frenzied Romanticism, he had not let his hair grow long, although it was not so short that you couldn’t see and admire the natural curls that were as soft as silk. Which means that the doctor exhibited, to the nth degree, one of the qualities that ethnographers used most in distinguishing the Aryan race: he was euplocamus1 par excellence. His sideburns, also the color of gold, were on the bushy side, and his mustache, which no doubt had never been shaved, was as fine as down. The doctor had a clear and serene brow, rosy cheeks, a somewhat aquiline nose, and a small mouth with a good set of teeth. His complexion was white and transparent like that of a lady, and his eyes were big, blue, and full of a melancholy gentleness. In short: our hero deserved anywhere the label of handsome young man, even though he was a bit ungainly. Riding horseback he was fine, but more than a señorito of those parts he resembled an Englishman who had put on a disguise, dressing in the Andalusian manner. This latter quality was to work in his favor, because looking like an Andalusian among Andalusians does not make anyone stand out, whereas the doctor’s entire getup had something strange and odd about it, which is what most attracts and captivates women. Meditating, then, as he rode, the doctor was thinking to himself as follows: To please my mother I’ve undertaken a venture that I never would have undertaken on my own counsel and initiative. What am I going to offer Doña Costanza de Bobadilla—if I like her, if she likes me—and I do indeed ask for her hand in marriage? My ancestral home in the town and a few country estates, whose produce is consumed in paying the interest on the capital that mortgaged them. All of this is ridiculous. It would be better not to have anything than to have this. The illustriousness of my name doesn’t matter to her, because she’s as illustrious as I am. Besides, in Spain there’s hardly anyone who isn’t illustrious. As soon as someone has money and attaches importance to these vanities, he proves that he’s descended from King Wamba2 if he has a mind to. If I possessed a title, even though it was that of Count of the Asparagus Patches, bestowed on me by the notary’s daughters, the situation would be different. There would be something to offer. It’s always an exciting pros1. Latin for characteristically wavy hair. 2. Visigothic king of Toledo who reigned in the second half of the seventh century.

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pect for a girl to think that she’s going to be called countess and that on her calling cards she’ll be able to write Countess of __________. It’s true that I hold the title of doctor and that of perpetual castellan, but it’s not customary for the husband to transmit these titles to his wife, as legitimate as she may be. If she were to become my wife, Doña Costanza de Bobadilla would not be able to write on her cards: Mrs. Doctor and Mrs. Perpetual Castellan3 of the fortress and castle of Villabermeja. So this much is clear—I have only hopes to offer. But if Costancita accepts them as good, and in exchange gives me her heart, her hand, and five or six thousand duros as income, which people say that her father can and wants to give her, why not accept all of it? Besides having for a husband a young man of my qualities, the money that her father gives her will be given like a usurious loan, or rather, like money invested in a partnership, into which I put knowledge, talent, and work. At this point the meditation soared, but with such velocity that it is not easy to follow it, and less so to rehearse it in a spoken or written language. Now the doctor saw himself crowned in the Lyceum of Madrid after having read a fantasia or an oriental-theme poem; now he came out on stage at the Príncipe Theater, where a portentous drama of his had just been performed; now he was tending to business and giving an interview in his ministerial chair; now numerous friends were coming to offer their congratulations because the queen saw fit to bestow the title of duke on him, free of taxes and half benefits to the Crown, as a reward for his outstanding services; now he was arriving at Paris as ambassador and King Louis Philippe and his entire court found themselves charmed by his considerable discretion and refinement; and now he was inventing a new system of philosophy so that he could inform all the other secondary sciences, thus creating the first branch of learning, one and all, to the general astonishment and contentment of humankind. These triumphs and a thousand others, which refulgently, suddenly, noisily, and rich in color and full of harmony and beauty, passed through his enthusiastic mind, were palpable; they were taking shape and were going to be realized once Doctor Faustino came into possession of Doña Costanza de Bobadilla’s income of five or six thousand duros. But no, the doctor went on thinking, I won’t marry Doña Costanza if I am not truly taken with her, or at least if she’s not talented and beautiful, which would give people a reason to presume that I was able to fall in love with her. But if she isn’t, I won’t get married even though I may lose all my illusions and see them go down the drain. The doctor thought this to himself because we men take pleasure in de3. One of the shortcomings of translation. English, being a gender-free language, cannot admit the transfer of the Spanish feminine: La doctora y alcaidesa perpetua.



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ceiving ourselves and putting ourselves in awkward situations that do not exist, and then getting out of them in a heroic manner. Who has not on occasion pretended that he’s being set upon by six or seven enemies and that he faces up to them and terrifies and vanquishes them? And yet, if the six or seven, or perhaps only one, attack him, it is likely that he will run away as fast as his legs will carry him. How many young dressmakers and how many kitchen maids are not certain in the depths of their souls that not even a Rothschild4 would seduce them, although he offered them the moon? And, nevertheless, God knows how little it then takes for self-interest to demolish their fortitude. The doctor was not ignorant of the fact that Doña Costanza was pretty, and consequently there was no reason for him to play the heroic and disinterested one, saying that he would not marry her if she was not pretty. But this, which nowadays is called “tooting your own horn,” is not just to dazzle others, but to dazzle ourselves and delight in our perfections. It is true that the doctor’s soliloquy was more candid, more profoundly sincere, and more noteworthy when he continued: And what if Costancita doesn’t love me? What if she finds me not very agreeable and timid and humorless? What if she doesn’t understand the worth of my soul? What if she doesn’t believe in my future as I do? And what if, in spite of her lack of faith in me and her disdain, I’m the one who falls in love with her? Then it’ll be necessary to kill her. But what blame attaches to Costancita if she doesn’t take a liking to me? Why not, though, just hate and not kill a woman who scorns us? In a desperate case like this last one I know what I must do. I’ll turn a deaf ear to my mother’s advice; I’ll go to Madrid without resources, without a plan; I’ll struggle; I won’t rest until I earn money, position, and fame, until I demonstrate to Doña Costanza that I am worthy and more worthy than she is; that I don’t need her money to rise in the world; that my dreams of ambition are not hollow. I’m almost of a mind to go straight to Madrid and enter by the Toledo Gate with all this display and clatter of mules, with the provisions, the candied pine nuts, and the rest of the presents that would surely be eaten by someone there. However, the doctor kept riding behind Respetilla, toward the town and house of his aunt Doña Araceli, without setting a course for Madrid except that one instant and then in imagination only. Of course, he added, if Doña Costanza doesn’t love me and I love her, I feel capable of something larger and more poetic than what Marsilla did for Isabel. He traveled the world to win his lover’s hand. I’ll travel the world to give evidence of who I am, to fill it with my glory and in the end to win the disdainful heart of Costan4. The original Spanish is Fúcar, a corruption of [Jakob] Fugger (1459–1525), wealthy German financier and banker whose family thrived through the seventeenth century, and by antonomasia any wealthy and landed man.

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cita. If she were not to love me now, obscure and unknown as I am, how could she not love me and even worship me when she saw me stand out in the crowd, with my brow wreathed in gold and laurel, and my name engraved with big, indelible letters on the pages of History? His thoughts having taken this turn, the doctor imagined so vividly that he already loved Costancita and that he was not loved by her, that he began to sigh frantically, as if he had fallen ill. Respetilla was riding considerably ahead of the doctor and did not hear him, because if he had, he would have been alarmed. At this juncture they all arrived at the vantage point of a little hill and from there they made out the town to which they were journeying. The houses were white, owing to the prevalence of whitewashing, and had large patios in which there rose the green crowns of orange trees, acacias, oleanders, jujubes, and cypresses. A brook that ran in front of the city irrigated not a few gardens on a fertile plain that stretched out at the travelers’ feet. When they descended the hillock, they left the pathway or bridle path and took the main road. Ten minutes later a white dust cloud could be made out on the same road. Afterward a moving shape. The eagle-eyed Respetilla noticed it and realized what it was, and, turning his horse around, galloped toward his master, shouting: “Señorito, Señorito, they’re coming to welcome you. That’s Señor don Alonso’s barouche.” Respetilla had not been mistaken. They could now hear the small silver bells that adorned the straps and collars of the pretty horses that pulled the barouche. The doctor assumed a graceful posture in the high-backed saddle, wiped the dust from his face with a handkerchief, tilted his Cordovan hat rakishly, and spurred his chestnut mare, which soon approached the carriage prancing all the while. The barouche stopped then and the doctor could see two ladies inside. One was old and wrinkled as a raisin, but with lively eyes and a cheerful, kindly expression. She was dressed in black and on her head wore a bonnet with purple buttons and bows. The other was petite and vivacious. Her hair was as black as sloe and her eyes blacker still. She had lips the color of carmine and smiled constantly, revealing even, snow-white teeth. Her whimsically snub nose lent her face a certain daring, mocking air, like that of childish mischief. Her fresh, clear complexion proclaimed good health and youth. Her figure was supple, not like a palm, but like a serpent. And lastly, you saw in her all that could be revealed,



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presumed or surmised of forms, artistically and solidly fashioned, with neither excess nor superabundance in any aspect; on the contrary, all of her looked picture perfect, in just measure and proportions, according to the norms of art and in harmony with her eighteen years, as well as her status as the foremost señorita who was, unlike some slovenly village girls, careful with her person. The attractive young lady wore a lavender silk dress, and her only headdress was her black hair, adorned with six or seven roses, the light purple of their petals alternating with the bright greenness of several stems. Both women recognized the doctor from his portrait and there was no fear of being mistaken. So Doña Araceli, for the little old one in the barouche was none other, exclaimed as soon as the doctor approached: “Good morning, nephew. I bid you welcome.” “Welcome, my cousin,” said Doña Costanza. The doctor greeted them both with the utmost cordiality. He dismounted and embraced his aunt affectionately, and shook hands with Costancita, noticing, in spite of the glove, that his cousin’s hand was small and her fingers long, slender, and aristocratic, not short and stubby and coarse. “Look, nephew,” said Doña Araceli, “I wanted to come out here to welcome you, and I borrowed this barouche from Costanza, who was kind enough to accompany me. Your Uncle Alonso couldn’t come because he’s all wrapped up in selecting the livestock that he wants to display at the fair, but you can’t complain when his daughter comes in his stead.” The doctor showered them with compliments and even formulated a few pretty phrases, in spite of the fact that he was embarrassed and was by nature somewhat timid. Costancita called her cousin a flatterer and turned red. “Listen, nephew,” said Doña Araceli, “would you believe that Costancita was afraid to see you and talk to you, thinking that you were always the doctor, as serious as in the portrait, and fearful of committing a grammatical error or making a blunder? Now that she sees you in your natty riding outfit, I don’t think she’s frightened any longer.” “I’m always frightened, Aunt ....... And the things you say! Good Lord! How was I going to believe that my cousin would arrive on horseback in doctoral attire, with his cape, cap, and tassel? Come now, don’t make me out to be so simple-minded! What I believed was that my cousin is very well educated and well informed, be he or be he not in doctoral attire, and that perhaps he would think less of me when he saw how ignorant I am. No ..... and as for this fear, it has yet to leave me.” The doctor again undid himself in complimentary remarks, exaggerating a great deal and racking his brains in order to demonstrate, in plain language,

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with neither ostentation nor scientific terminology, that a woman knows everything and grasps things through intuition, even though she may study nothing, and that in the face and eyes of his cousin one could glimpse and perceive more knowledge than in Aristotle, Plato, and Saint Thomas Aquinas. The doctor had already demonstrated said thesis by two different methods, and he was going to demonstrate it by the third when Doña Araceli interrupted him, saying that no doubt he was tired and that he should ride on so as to reach her house where he could rest up. The doctor mounted his horse again, and, trotting alongside the footboard of the barouche—sometimes on his cousin’s side, sometimes, out of courtesy, on the old woman’s side—he soon reached the town with them and the house of Doña Araceli. During the twenty minutes that that journey complement lasted, the doctor shot twenty thousand incendiary glances at his cousin, a thousand glances per minute. Costancita received the bombardment in a delightful way, a way difficult to explain. It seemed that she grasped all the intensity and significance of those glances, and she lowered her eyes with a modesty full of happy omens. In her innocence she considered those glances to be no more than signs of affection bereft of the passion of love. The result was that Costancita now laughed a sonorous and open laugh, as if her cousin’s sudden and volcanic display of ardor had provoked a hearty laugh, and, from time to time, she too shot glances so like those of the doctor that it seemed as though they were the same ones being sent back to him on the rebound, becoming a thousand times more beautiful as they reflected in her black eyes. When the doctor arrived at the door of Doña Araceli’s house he was somewhat bewildered. He found himself obsessed with wondering whether Doña Costanza was a little angel or a little devil, but angel or devil she had him bewitched. The doctor dismounted from his horse, whose reins were taken by a servant in order to lead the mare to the stable, and gave his hand to Doña Araceli to help her out of the barouche. No sooner did she step down than he hurried to give his hand to Costancita in order to assist her too. “No, cousin. I’m not coming in; I’m going home. Good-bye, cousin. Good-bye, Aunt.” And saying “Home” to the coachman, Doña Costanza departed, leaving the doctor enthralled as he followed her with his eyes until losing sight of her. She turned around two or three times before disappearing, and at the corner of the street cast him a last glance, the import of which the doctor could not determine because of the distance.

[5] F irst I mpression

Doña A rac el i installed the doctor in a very pretty, cheerful room with a balcony that gave onto an interior patio, the walls of which were blanketed with the perpetually green and luxuriant leaves of several orange and lemon trees. In the center of the patio rose a fountain with limpid water that spilled into a marble basin where goldfish swam. All around you could see flower beds, and their perfumes and the placid murmur of the fountain delighted the senses of smell and hearing at the same time. In the room there were chairs, a bed, a dressing table, a settee, and a desk. Everything clean and neat. The mistress of the house told the doctor that he could rest there a while, until three o’clock, the main meal hour. She then left him to his own devices. It would be three o’clock before long and the doctor did not feel like resting. So he began to pace back and forth and do an examination of conscience. There are men who have a clear one, and others who have a confused one. The doctor’s fell into the latter category. This does not mean that he saw less and worse than others into the depths of his soul. Perhaps the confusion of the conscience springs from seeing too much. Those who see only what suits, pleases, or flatters them, see or think they see everything clearly. Those who also see what thwarts them vacillate and get entangled in reflection. The pros and cons of their own actions and a tumultuous rush of conflicting thoughts and intentions contend inwardly without respite. The doctor saw himself and other objects that took shape in

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his inner consciousness with the very same obscurity and contradiction. Thus the first doubt that he put forward was the following one: What opinion shall I have of my cousin? He already knew that she was pretty, stylish, and discreet, but he did not know if she was good or bad. What he did not want to believe was that she might be half bad or half good. Either Costanza was to be a brief heaven or a summary and mixture of all the devils. With a propensity to exaggerate things, the doctor, passionate and romantic, said of her: She’ll be my salvation or my perdition, my hell or my glory, my Tabor1 or my Calvary! It is obvious that Costancita was not indifferent to him because he was almost in love with her already. Then he asked himself: And she ..... will she reciprocate my love? Will she even be capable of reciprocating it? Let us proceed methodically. This very same love, lofty, difficult to understand, whose magnificence perhaps does not fit into the narrow intelligence of most women ..... did the doctor already feel it for Doña Costanza or not? The doctor did not know how to respond to this, just as he did not know how to respond to almost anything as a result of knowing everything. He loved Costancita or he did not love her, depending on what was understood by love. And since he came up with a host of definitions of love, it turned out that sometimes he loved her and sometimes he did not. If he loved her with the fervor of youth—finding her pretty, fresh, clean, fashionable, somewhat coquettish—he considered that he could love, successively or simultaneously, other girls who appeared before him endowed with the same requisites. Love, he added, is exclusive. Consequently I don’t love my cousin with real love. Did he love his cousin because in her face, in her eyes, in her smile he thought he had made out and glimpsed a spirit compatible with his, one that was full of intelligence, passion, and life? The doctor suspected that in this manner he already loved her, and then he granted that he did not love her as one loves women in general, but rather with the exclusiveness peculiar to real love, or with a marked preference at least. Were his cousin to make the slightest move, the doctor would consider himself snared in her net. 1. Mount Tabor, a mountain in northern Israel, east of Nazareth, traditionally considered the site of the transfiguration of Jesus. See Matt. 17:1–9.



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But this sudden love, could it not be that self-interest played an important role? Could his love not be like what Elijah felt for the ravens?2 The doctor then mentally stripped his cousin of the income that her father was expected to give her, and also of the hope of a rich inheritance. With this “stripping” his love diminished and faded somewhat, but it did not evaporate nor did it vanish. Her figure still remained stamped in his memory, although with less precise contours. The doctor felt that, were he to dispense with expediency, it was important to set other more poetic conditions that would allow him to decide once and for all; it was essential that the drawing of his love be fixed and finished with cleaner lines, but in the end with other lines. Amour propre, vanity ..... in this case could it not be the stimulus and foundation of love? The doctor confessed that it was. But, what love—born in the human heart and inspired by an object, also human, finite, and transitory— makes its first appearance devoid of other feelings that are more ordinary? The gold of love rarely emerges from its concealed lodes without being mixed with metals of lesser value. Only the intense fire that it carries in itself purifies it later in the crucible of the soul, where, if the soul is possessed of the solidity and temper that it needs in order to resist said fire, ends up by radiating pure love, like gold free of all slag and of high carat content. With this metallurgical comparison the doctor calmed down considerably because he held himself in such high regard, and was beginning to hold his cousin in the same high regard, and because it troubled him that there could be anything in his relationship with her that was not poetic and morally beautiful. What do you suppose my cousin thought of me? was another of his questions. Then he experienced a noble desire to please and a delicate and modest fear of not pleasing. But ..... did this prove the existence of a love as sublime as the doctor fantasized it? Not at all. The doctor was like those people who wish to please the entire human race, although they may not love it, and be esteemed even by persons for whom they have little regard. He noted, nonetheless, that he now wished more anxiously to please his cousin than anyone else. The only desire that rose above this one was the desire to please many at the same time, the desire for glory. Which was preferable? Winning the love of the crowd or winning the love of his cousin? Would he come to love her in such a way that he would prefer her even to glory? This 2. When the Lord sent Elijah into hiding, ravens brought him bread and meat in the morning and in the evening. See 1 Kings, 17:1–6.

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point puzzled the doctor. The question lay in finding in the depths of his cousin’s soul the poetic treasures that he now continually attributed to her with generous imagination. If he found these treasures, he would prefer his cousin even to glory. It was vital that she be as bad or good as he dreamed, since even as bad he acknowledged that he could love her with an uncommon love. And what if his cousin was neither good nor bad, neither silly nor discreet, but simply a run-of-the-mill young woman? In this case the doctor felt that he would not be able to love her, except in one circumstance. His cousin might have in the timber of her voice, in the fulminating light of her expression, in the harmony of her features, in the movement of her body, in the air and magnetic atmosphere of her being, a mysterious attraction whose power, without her understanding it, could seduce and enslave a man like him. Thus perhaps there are demons or genies who go along submissively to an exorcism that is adjured by someone who knows the formula by heart, although he remains ignorant of its value and the secret and reason for its efficacy. Thus perhaps a musician, singing or playing, awakens in a superior spirit, as the doctor considered his to be, feelings and thoughts of which he is ignorant, that he does not fathom or conceive in his mind. All this and a thousand other things did the doctor reflect on rapidly and haphazardly, without seeking to order or reconcile his ill-defined imaginations. Turning his attention afterward to more trivial concerns, he understood that it mattered that his cousin like him, for which it was of the utmost importance that he not make a fool of himself in her eyes, because he already suspected that his cousin was somewhat given to poking fun. Fear of becoming the object of her ridicule grew with his fondness for her. The more that he imagined that he loved her, the more afraid he became of making her laugh at his expense. It is important to state here—in spite of everything, and even running the risk that our hero might lose considerable sympathy among our female readers, if we manage to attract them—that the doctor did not hold a very favorable opinion of the judgment of women in general. In his mind the one with the most sensible and sound reasoning did not rise above the aptitude of a ten-year-old child. He shuddered, however, at the thought of appearing worthy of laughter in the eyes of his cousin. Although he was naive and almost always had his head in the clouds, he took to thinking and assuming that the portrait with cape, cap, and tassel sent by Doña Ana to Doña Araceli had made Doña Costanza laugh. He then came to understand that the portrait was poorly painted, having been done for only six duros, and that furthermore he was too serious in the portrait. So of course, he thought to himself, my cousin imagined that I was a queer, small-town pedant. An oddity. So much the better. But now she must have been dis-



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abused. She’s seen me and has probably formed a better opinion of me. At all events, I was right when I sensed that the lancer’s and equestrian uniforms wouldn’t captivate this little devil of a girl. I didn’t want to upset my mother, which is why I’ve brought them, but they stay buried in the trunks and I’ll be careful not to say that I have them. Having resolutely determined not to avail himself of the uniforms to win Doña Costanza’s heart, another difficulty arose, one of even greater magnitude, if that’s possible. And the candied pine nuts, egg-and-honey fritters, and other foodstuffs that my mother sent as presents ..... will it be all right for me to give them? At this point the doctor recalled verses from Lope de Vega’s feline epic La Gatomaquia,3 when the poet speaks of the paltry present that Micifuf sent to Zapaquilda: What gift, what invention, what new dress? At last, she saw that he brought A piece of cheese Of reasonable weight, A goose’s foot and two large oysters. The doctor thought his present “feline” and lamented his parsimony. He regretted not having brought a pearl necklace or a valuable emerald-andruby-studded locket instead of bringing anchovy empanadas, but, well, in Villabermeja there were no other jewels as long as the ones hidden between walls by his great-great-grandmother, the Indian princess, were not discovered. Nemo dat quod in se non habet.4 Besides, the catch or rub lay in giving the syrup, the must, and the empanadas in a simple, humble manner. The myrrh, gold, and frankincense of the Magi were no more pleasing to the divinity become human than the poor and rustic offerings of the shepherds. The doctor did not calm down with this evangelical recollection. Blood rushed to his cheeks at the mere thought of the moment when he would hand over the empanadas and the syrup. Would he give the present to Doña Araceli as having come solely from his mother, thereby evading all responsibility? But in this tactic there could be a lack of filial respect and an excess of cowardice. Would he have Respetilla casually give it all to a maid for her to hand over to the señora? Such an expedient or recourse did not seem problematic at first, but as soon as the doctor gave it more thought he saw that it was full of drawbacks and fraught with dangers. 3. A jocular poem about two cats [gatos] named Marramaquiz and Micifuf by Lope Félix de Vega Carpio (1562–1635), one of the giants of early Spanish literature and Golden Age drama. 4. Freely translated from the Latin: No one can give what he does not have.

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Maybe the maids, who in Andalusia are usually fond of sweets, would stuff themselves with everything or take much of it home or treat their fellows to the most appetizing and delicious items, thus diminishing the magnificence and dignity of the present before Doña Araceli saw it and went to put it all away in the pantry. Delivery of the present clearly gave Don Faustino much to think about. How he regretted having brought it! I was exceedingly condescending toward my mother, he thought, without remembering that—in Villabermeja, breathing those airs, subject to those country influences, and still at a remove from his captivating, mocking cousin—he himself had not viewed the tasty present with disdain or indifference. Now, on the contrary, perhaps he was pondering his ridiculous situation more than he needed to, mumbling: Costancita is going to make fun of me. Surely she saw the string of three mules that we brought with us. No doubt she’ll be saying: “What do you suppose those mules are transporting? What can those panniers and hampers be hiding?” Perhaps she’ll repeat, in prose, the verse from La Gatomaquia: What gift, what invention, what new dress? She’ll let out the cruelest of guffaws when her Aunt Araceli sends her, from me, must and syrup and anchovy empanadas. All I need to do now is call to their attention what my mother told me to ..... that these empanadas aren’t to be eaten with chocolate. But I ask you, why are they not to be eaten with chocolate? That’s how I like them. Despite their onion and tomato fillings, I’ve raised and downed a couple of good-sized cups of chocolate with them on a number of occasions. Still, it would have been better not to bring the empanadas. Shall I not say that I’ve brought the foodstuffs and give them to Respetilla to devour? Not that either. No, a thousand times no! Respetilla looks out for himself and could set up a stand with them at the fair, and even assume that it was on my behalf, and that the castellan in perpetuity of the fortress and castle of Villabermeja had started to run a cheap restaurant. Thus was the doctor musing, at loggerheads with himself, when Respetilla came in weighed down with the trunks. “Which one contains the uniforms?” asked the doctor in a low voice, to foil any attempt by the devil to have him overheard. “This one,” said Respetilla, pointing to the biggest. “Shall I take out the lancer’s so that you can wear it to see your cousin?” “No. Damnation! Do not take out the lancer’s or the equestrian one either. Do not even say that you’ve brought such uniforms.” “What is it? The señorita doesn’t like cavalry soldiers?” “No, she doesn’t. Be very careful not to say that I’ve brought the uniforms.”



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“Lord above,” said Respetilla. “Well, if the señorita doesn’t like military clothing, why didn’t you bring all your doctoral dress?” “She doesn’t like that either.” “Then what kind of dress does she like?” “I don’t know, but no trappings.” “Well, all that doctoral getup is very eye-catching. The curate and the doctor sure praised it the day that you put it on so they could see you at home.” “Don’t talk nonsense. Watch what you say here. Do not let anyone know that I put on doctoral attire in Villabermeja so that the doctor and the curate could see me.” “Go on! And what harm is there in that? Vicenta the wet nurse wanted to see you too, and so one other day you again put on your black gown and red hood and cap. The look on her face said: ‘Oh, my dear boy, how handsome you are in your gown and all! I’m going to smother you with kisses! Who could’ve told me that I would breastfeed such a clever doctor?’” “Fine, fine, but the woman who nursed me isn’t here, and inasmuch as they have their own customs in each region, and inasmuch as this place is more like Granada than our town, it behooves us to act circumspectly. What in Villabermeja was a harmless, permissible, and even indispensable indulgence could come off as foolishness here. So do not talk to anyone about the doctoral attire either.” “Then what do I talk about?” “About nothing. About yourself. What need do you have to talk about me? Keep quiet.” Respetilla kept quiet, and his master washed and put on trousers, vest, and frock coat. When he was called to the dining room and told during the meal by Doña Araceli that Respetilla had given her his mother’s present, a weight was lifted from the doctor’s shoulders. Without the least irony, his aunt praised the syrup and the must and everything else, including the empanadas, and said that she had sent much of it to her niece, who liked those tidbits very much. The doctor then felt mortified for a different reason. He thought he had been unjustifiably ashamed of the town in which he had been born, ashamed of the present, and even ashamed of his mother, who had sent it. The fact of the matter is that the essence of what nowadays is called pretentious or vulgar5 is found in the exaggerated fear of seeming to be just that. While the doctor had been thinking and doing all the aforesaid, his cous5. The original is cursi, a virtually untranslatable word that can range in meaning from affected and flashy and cheap to superficial and tasteless and unrefined.

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in Doña Costanza was having the following conversation with her father, who had just arrived on horseback from the countryside: “God be with you, my dear!” said Don Alonso, entering his daughter’s room without having yet removed his spurs. “Did Faustinito finally arrive, as my cousin said he would?” “Yes, Papá. Faustinito arrived.” “You went to welcome him with your aunt? You saw him and talked to him?” “Yes, Papá.” Don Alonso looked closely at his daughter, as if he wished to discover in her expression the effect produced by her cousin. It is important to point out here that Don Alonso was the most loving father that can be imagined. His daughter held sway over him and did with him as she pleased. Don Alonso loved nothing in the world as much, if we except his money. His money and his daughter were his two loves, and the dual foundations of his overweening pride. Just as he was ruled by greed, so was he ruled by paternal love. There was no sacrifice that he would not make to earn money; there was no whim of his daughter that he would not satisfy, so long as it did not entail sacrificing the money that he had earned. Don Alonso was brusque, reproachful, and hostile to any and all compromise and frivolity, but, grumbling and fuming, he put up with anything if his daughter set her heart on it. “I’m sorry that the young man has come,” said Don Alonso a moment later. “I told you a thousand times not to have him come, but you always disregard my advice. It’s mad, you know.” “And what madness is there in having had him come? Oh, dear papá, don’t be so sharp with me!” “You think there’s no madness here? My nephew is my nephew, and he’s no plaything for your amusement.” “Look, Papá, what makes you think that I like having playthings to amuse myself, or that Faustinito is one, or that I wish to amuse myself with him, understood in the wrong way? Because, understood in the right way, he’s cute, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll end up amusing myself more than you think. Why couldn’t I fall in love with him and give him my white hand?” “Although the proverb says Let not your words turn the tables on you, I cannot believe that you’re speaking in earnest. What? Are you telling me that Faustinito in the flesh is capable of inspiring love in you whereas his portrait in academic regalia caused you to erupt into laughter? Here, where the walls have no ears, admit that you had him come out of curiosity and a desire to poke fun at him and laugh.”



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“All right. I admit it. So what? Where’s the sin? Assume that Faustinito has come for my amusement during the fair. What harm will come his way? What torment will he suffer? What rope will hang him? What word will be broken?” “But, my dear, is it not a sin to mock the poor boy like that? Your Aunt Araceli, from whom you will inherit and who has undertaken this business in good faith and in a serious manner: Won’t she take offense if she catches on to your mischief?” “No, Papá, because I confess these peccadilloes of mine to you and you only, seeing that I have no secrets from you. On the other hand, and I say this in all seriousness, I’ve barked up the wrong tree. I’m not saying that I’m going to fall in love with my cousin, but when I laid eyes on him he didn’t look ridiculous as he does in that portrait. Would you believe that Faustinito is a handsome fellow? And he doesn’t seem foolish or common. Anyway, we’ll watch him more closely this evening. Aunt Araceli is bringing him to be part of the tertulia. Oh! I forgot. The poor devil has sent us no end of food specialties and sweets from his town and I’ve had them all put in the pantry. And he rides well. And his chestnut mare is no nag.” “And is he well-spoken?” asked Don Alonso. “He’s very well-spoken,” replied Doña Costanza. “You are a true original, my dear, a true original.” “And why am I an original? What do you mean by that?” “I mean that you have me going from bad to worse. I didn’t want us to mock poor Faustinito, and fall out with the family, and affront our own blood and caste, but, the truth be told, neither did I want you to end up falling in love with a man who has no more than the clothes on his back, and who perhaps isn’t good for anything except eating up whatever I can give you. And don’t assume that it’s a lot. Rumors are deceptive and exaggerated. Money and quality: by halves. What do you think I’ll be able to give you? You know all too well how bad the wheat and olive yields have been these last few years. And the government is sapping us with taxes, taxes that are devoured in Madrid. The place is a drain of fortunes. Anyway, what do you think I’ll be able to give you?” “How should I know, Papá? You’ll give me all that I ask. Loving me as much as you do, what will you deny me?” “It’s not that I’ll deny you anything; it’s that I don’t have a great deal. Do not imagine that your papá is a Croesus. The most I’ll be able to give you is an income of three thousand duros. To live here that’s more than enough, but if you wish to go Madrid or Seville, it’s very little, and you mustn’t plan on more for a long time. I’m healthy and I intend to live another twenty years at least.”

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“I hope you live as long as I do. What did you expect? Don’t I love you with all my heart?” “Yes, you love me. Of course you love me, but you’re not obedient. You do all the crazy things that get into your head because you’re pampered. In any event, don’t go falling in love with that down-and-out Doctor Faustino.” “Then I’ll make fun of him, I’ll affront my family, my blood, and my caste, and Aunt Araceli, from whom I should inherit, will take offense.” “Well, don’t make fun of him either.” “Look, Papá, I’ve read in some big book or other that this is called a dilemma. There are two alternatives: mockery or marriage. Which do you prefer?” “Reject such a dilemma. Convert it into a trilemma or a quadrilemma. Add the alternatives of not perplexing or flirting with your cousin, and having him go back home peacefully and contentedly when the fair is over, or add the alternatives of disabusing him gently if he persists in wooing you, and do not mock him or marry him.” “I don’t want to hear any sophistries, Papá. What we have here is a dilemma, an archdilemma: either marriage or mockery. Would it be too little mockery to repay my cousin’s ‘delicacies’ by jilting him with cloying sweetness?” Having exhausted all the resources of his dialectics, Don Alonso fell silent, tacitly recognizing the existence of the dilemma, and kissed Doña Costanza on the forehead. She, for her part, redid the knot of her father’s necktie, patted his cheek five or six times, and, lastly, caressed his bald patch with a fugue of loud kisses as she held his head in her soft white hands. At that moment Don Alonso felt so happy, and so loved by his daughter, that he would have gone as far as giving her an income of four thousand duros instead of three. What did not sit well with him was that Costancita should think, even in jest, about marrying Doctor Faustino, but he found consolation in believing that such a scheme could be no more than a joke, and he only feared that it might be in bad taste.

[6] A L etter from the D octor to H is M other

Two days after the doctor’s arrival at Doña Araceli’s house, it seemed necessary for the servant who had come with the mules to return to Villabermeja with them, not only to spare expenses and inconveniences for the splendid hostess, but also because the mules did not belong to the doctor. They had been loaned to him. The illustrious house of the López de Mendozas could only maintain the doctor’s mare, Respetilla’s mule, and two donkeys that were almost always studying. In Villabermeja study means that horses as well as other beasts of burden have been left loose in the country to fend for themselves, feeding on what little grass they find, especially when it does not rain. Since the doctor intended to stay with his aunt for quite a spell, the youth who tended the mules took them back without a load. Don Faustino availed himself of this return journey to send a long letter to his mother, a letter that we will transcribe in its entirety because it constitutes an important and trustworthy document in our story. The letter read:

Dear Mother: I don’t know whether to be glad or sad at having come here and undertaken this venture. Aunt Araceli is kindness personified, loves you a great deal, and has welcomed and treated me with the utmost affection. Although Aunt is quick-witted, she’s so innocent that she sees no malice in anything. So the laudatory remarks that Costancita made about me when she

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saw the doctoral portrait were ironic, believe me, and Aunt took them for the genuine article. Costancita had me come here out of curiosity, and because she is very capricious, and because she is pampered by her father and does whatever she feels like doing, but not because she fell in love on seeing my image with the cap and cape. I have been able, though, to get Costancita to form a better idea of me as I am in the flesh. I’ve talked to Uncle Alonso, who, thank God, has a good disposition, because he would be insufferable without it. He is so vain and conceited on account of his riches that he fancies himself the most discreet, clever, and shrewd man of all the mortals that he knows. He attributes to his knowledge, and not to happy coincidence, his having made so much money, and believes moreover that, possessing said knowledge in the highest degree, he can and should judge all other matters without appeal. So he talks about politics, literature, the arts, in short, about everything, and with imperious authority; and since there is scarcely anyone in society here who does not owe him money or favors, everybody defers to his opinion as though his was the voice of an oracle, and there isn’t a soul who contradicts him. Uncle’s kindness is extraordinary, not only to me, but to all those who come to see him. He wants to pass for a very unassuming person, which does not prevent him from being pompous and haughty at the same time. He addresses everybody with a certain air of protectiveness and superiority, which is not offensive on account of the innate good faith that generates it. Uncle also thinks himself witty and very much enjoys having people laugh at his jokes. Attendees at his evening tertulia feel obliged to laugh at them, and usually do so effortlessly and easily, because money is endowed with such charm that it embellishes the words and thoughts of whoever has it. Uncle has not said anything from which one could infer that he knows our plans. He has only boasted to me—and I believe that the boast is unfounded— that if he wanted to, he could avail himself of every vote in the district and make someone a representative at his choosing. He has questioned me two or three times as if to examine my competence, take stock of my strengths, and calculate what can be expected of me. I don’t know whether the result of these examinations has been favorable or unfavorable. Beneath the outward appearance of village openness and rustic innocence, Uncle is, in my view, very cautious and very cunning. I won’t go into too much detail about the daily tertulia at Uncle’s house



a letter from the doctor

because it’s like every other one. The oldsters play omber and the youngsters engage in amorous duos or amuse themselves telling jokes. Costancita carries herself like an empress. Two or three girlfriends are at her side, as if they were her ladies-in-waiting or her servants, and then a wide circle of male admirers forms around her. You see instantly that they all adore her, without the adored deity extending the least favor, save that of showing gratitude for their devotion and adoration with an occasional sweet smile. When Costancita does smile, she displays her snow-white teeth, and in addition a charming dimple that materializes and deepens on her left cheek. No opportunity has arisen in two days for me to talk to her alone. I’m almost glad. Costancita has inspired a certain respect and regard in me, perhaps because she’s my cousin, and I wouldn’t want to profane love by talking to her about love before I’m certain that I do love her. When I myself still do not know whether I love her, how am I going to find out whether she loves me? She sends very warm glances my way, but I haven’t been able to calculate the value and significance of these glances. I do not believe that she directs any at her admirers that are as significant, but since amour propre might deceive me, I’m always spying on her to see if she looks at another man the same way she looks at me. She has no idea that I am spying. Although there is a good deal of childish innocence in her, a singular enchantment characterizes her conversation. What affectations she has! What naive remarks she makes! She seems like a seven-year-old child. And, nevertheless, if you saw with what discretion she speaks on occasion, what subtle observations she makes, how she mimics one fellow and then mocks another, and with what sparkle and lack of inhibition she does everything! Uncle Alonso sits spellbound seeing and listening to what he calls the “wicked ways” of his little devil. This doesn’t surprise me because the girl is so lively and so amusing that, although the person may not be her father, she can enthrall anyone. At first (you know how suspicious I am) I began to fear that Costanza was a spoiled little girl, deficient in character, and cold of heart, but now I don’t think so, now I think she is good. If you could hear with what a silvery voice and with what a tender tone she calls me “cousin!” At the tertulia, in the midst of her admirers, she favors me and shows me much consideration, and turns the conversation intentionally so that I can acquit myself well, and she encourages me and applauds me whenever I say something that she appreciates.

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She has paid me several very natural and heartfelt compliments that have flattered me. She has told me I ride horseback expertly and that I know how to relate very entertaining and pleasant things. In this same vein she has even assured me that the anchovy empanadas made in Villabermeja taste heavenly to her, and that every morning, with her breakfast chocolate, she treats herself to one of those that I brought. She has inquired about our town’s sights, and sometimes has responded to my replies with laughter, when laughter was appropriate; other times she just listened, and with considerable interest, when they were of a serious nature. For example, she wanted to know if the castle was very big; if the soul of Commander Mendoza still suffered torment in the attic of the house; if the people in Villabermeja snort when they talk, as they do in Jaén,1 or if they make a different sound; and, lastly, if our patron saint continues working miracles or is idle in Heaven. About this latter point: when I answered, I unintentionally gave a vague, freethinking sort of nuance to my words, saying that the patron saint is not working now, but I promptly held my tongue on noting the severity and displeasure with which they were received by Costancita, who, I’ve learned from Aunt Araceli, is a fervent believer. In effect, it is becoming clear that a spirit filled with the purest idealism lives in that serene brow, in those eyes that flash immortal light, and in that entire harmonious, ethereal, elegant, refined being. I have decided against discussing marriage plans with Aunt Araceli, but then she has not spoken to me about them either. It is imperative that I first fall in love with Costancita and that Costancita fall in love with me. Then everything will be natural and proper. A great passion justifies it all. But, as things stand, absent passion, how am I going to discuss marriage? What can I offer my cousin? An abundance of hopes and illusions. Whenever I feel tempted to talk of a wedding, even with Aunt, I am reminded of a certain anecdote and the temptation passes. It tells of that fiancé who said that if his bride-to-be brought food for the midday meal, he would bring it for the evening meal, but when they married and ate sumptuously at midday, at the hour of the evening meal the fiancé now husband announced that he was no vulture, and, provided that he ate his fill at midday, he never ate an evening meal. In like manner would I have to proceed with Costancita, unless for the evening meal I offered her my illusions, or unless I forced her to live in Villabermeja, in a perpetual idyll, 1. City in Andalusia, east of Córdoba and north of Granada.



a letter from the doctor

where, with the pigeons atop the country house, with the rabbits, turkeys, hens, and chickens in our farmyard, with the game, with the honey in our beehives, with the grapes in our vineyards, with our wine and olive oil and with all that you prepare and store in the pantry, there is enough, more than enough, for a daily rustic repast, worthy of García del Castañar,2 and his faithful, loving, pretty wife. But for this, all of Costancita’s riches are useless ....... What am I saying, useless? They’re prejudicial. A wealthy heiress, flattered as beautiful, fully aware of her innate refinement, of her power, of her gracefulness and elegance, Costancita most likely wants to go to big cities and shine in them, and she probably has her own hopes and illusions that she will never cast aside unless she falls for me and comes to adore me. And if she does fall for me and does come to adore me, what reason is there for us to stay in Villabermeja when Costancita has money to live in Madrid, where I’ll justify her love and the grand concept she’ll form of me by excelling in all manner of pursuits? Result: Whether Costancita loves me or does not love me, a Villabermejan idyll with her is an impossibility. For this idyll to become a reality Costancita needed to be as poor or poorer than I am. And so I ask myself: Am I called to live such an idyll? If Costancita were poor, more poor than I, and loved me, would my soul love her and forget for her every other longing? Would it plunge and drown the thousand dreams of ambition and glory in the ocean of beatific light of one of her glances? I have been asking myself this ever since I set eyes on Costancita, and have failed to come up with an answer. It then shames me to realize that my question is tantamount to the following one, in its terrible and brutal frankness and divested of every rhetorical device: Do I want to delude myself by pretending that I already love Costancita when in fact I only love her money? What absurd hypocrisy am I seeking to use even with myself? Why did I come here? Was I attracted by the fame of my cousin’s virtues and beauty or was I attracted by the smell of her dowry? If I am a smalltown fortune hunter, why presume to be the refined inamorato and romantic worshiper of the lady of my thoughts? So that it will answer these questions, so that it will confess its crime, I’ve been tormenting my soul in all kinds of ways since I first saw Costancita two days ago. I am a ferocious inquisitor of my soul, and my soul is not answering clearly. It’s odd! In Villabermeja, and during the journey 2. The commoner protagonist of No One below the King (Del rey abajo, ninguno), a Golden Age honor play by Francisco de Rojas Zorrilla (1607–1648).

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from Villabermeja to this town, I accepted and played the role of fortune hunter without repugnance, and now it fills me with loathing and I want to gloss over my conduct by pretending that I’m in love. Can it be that my pride has awakened on seeing how much my cousin is given to mockery? Or can the very shame of being an aspirant to her dowry stem from the fact that I already love her? In sum, I am altogether confused and fail to understand these things. Since I have almost always lived in Villabermeja, where the most distinguished women are the Civils, and since in my brief stays in Granada the grandest ladies I knew were boarders and dancers, and I always led a student life and played monte, perhaps I have let myself be dazzled by Costancita. Maybe, having come in search of money, I have found love, because the person who feels love is more likely to find it than the person who inspires it. However that may be, I sense in this matter something more serious than what we were contemplating.

[7] P reliminaries of L ove

The re are a thousand reasons in my mind that prompt me not to proceed with the telling of this story. Only the obligation that I contracted when I began its publication induces me to go on with it.1 I am more and more disenchanted with the protagonist. There is little or nothing of his intrinsic traits that makes him interesting, and, worst of all, his status as an impoverished señorito is exceedingly antipoetic. What truly novelistic incident can happen to an impoverished señorito? A good, impecunious hero in a novel is not conceivable except among savages, in remote countries, in bygone ages, in the midst of barbarian civilizations, or in open struggle with our civilization and banished from it, wherever, in accordance with the dictum of the ingenious gentleman, his edicts his courage, his statutes his will.2 But protected and simultaneously restrained by a judge, by a mayor, and even by a civil guard; with an identity card or with a passport; subject to a host 1. As was noted in Valera’s dedication, this novel was first published serially in the Revista de España from 28 October 1874 through 13 June 1875. 2. The italicized words in the original ([sus] fueros, [sus] bríos, [sus] pragmáticas [misquote for premáticas], [su] voluntad) are from Don Quixote 1:45. The “ingenious gentleman” believes he must do battle with members of the Holy Brotherhood who want to arrest him as a robber and thief, and he asks: “¿Quién fue [el ignorante] que ignoró que son esentos de todo judicial fuero los caballeros andantes, y que su ley es su espada, sus fueros sus bríos, sus premáticas su voluntad?” And in Edith Grossman’s excellent translation: “Who was the dolt who did not know that knights errant are exempt from all jurisdictional authority, or was unaware that their law is their sword, their edicts their courage, their statutes their will?” See Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quixote (New York: Ecco, 2003), 397.

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of regulations, with self-defense entrusted to people paid by the community; terrified of breaking not only an order of the law, not only an ordinance of the municipal police, but what are called conventions ..... what can one hope that an impoverished señorito, worthy of the most artless and pedestrian novel, will give of himself? Short of breaking with society by becoming a beggar or a brigand, it is important to rise above it, something that one does not accomplish without being an Abul-Casen3 or a Montecristo. Our doctor was none of this, and I shall not deviate one iota from the truth by giving to understand what he was not. So I beg my readers to forgive me if I fall into, and even crawl and flounder, in the most prosaic realism. By dint of hard work and entreaties, Doña Ana and the doctor persuaded a few Villabermejan merchants to purchase two large earthen jars of the superior wine that they had, the pick of the vintage, paying for them in cash (which is rare in those parts) at ten reales per arroba.4 The liquid yield of this sale— after deducting spillage, full wineskins given as gifts, and the agent’s wages and tips—came to upwards of 1,900 reales. The merchants handed over the sum religiously, in coins of every denomination, with more than one thousand reales in small change. According to custom there, each one hundred reales, that is, each eight hundred fifty cuartos, were put inside a small frail [basket] woven from broom and sewn with twine or esparto. Inasmuch as the frail is not going to be given for nothing, in each one there are only eight hundred forty-eight cuartos, two being subtracted for the cost of the frail. It’s true that the frail is always serviceable, because when it is not used to carry cuartos it is used to carry olives, which means that as an added benefit the cuartos are often infused with the flavor and seasoning of the olives, and the olives acquire a certain taste and smell from the grime of the cuartos. At all events, one thousand reales in cuartos inside frails should be equal to one thousand reales in gold. However, the doctor refused to embark on the conquest of his cousin Doña Costanza with that profusion of grimy coins. Their transport, in the original manner of payment, would almost have required another mule over and above the three, or rather, behind the three with the luggage and the presents. So the doctor took the precaution of approaching the old shopkeeper woman, who was fond of him despite the dirty trick played on her by his hounds when they ate up her restorative of biscuits soaked in wine and cinnamon; and she, willingly and generously, did him the notable favor of exchanging the 1,900 reales for doubloons of two and four duros. This gold paid for the expenses incurred at the inn during the journey. 3. Possibly Abul Kassim or Abulcasis (936–1013), renowned Hispano-Muslim physician and surgeon who lived and died in Córdoba. 4. A variable liquid measure equivalent to approximately four gallons.



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Four days after the doctor’s arrival at Doña Araceli’s house, a certain marquis of Guadalbarbo, who had also come to the fair, took him to the Casino, induced him to play monte, urged him to place three or four bets that he lost, and the 1,900 reales were reduced to a little over one thousand. Fearful of finding himself penniless, the doctor made a solemn promise not to return to the Casino so as not to fall into the temptation of gambling at monte again. It was essential that the remaining one thousand reales last him the time that he would be in his cousin’s town, and also to recompense the servants at his departure as well as cover the expenses of his journey home. The close-up view of this extreme poverty of his increased the doctor’s timidity, melancholy, and diffidence everywhere that he went. The title Don sounded amiss with his comportment, and castellan in perpetuity and other honorifics were so out of keeping with that absurd scarcity of precious metals that Don Faustino felt intimidated, humiliated, and utterly depressed, as if he had been given too much brandy. The fair began. For days there were bullfights, a lot of nougat, a lot of chick peas; in short, a lot of what there is at all fairs. Don Faustino went to the bullfights as his uncle’s guest; he rode his mare on land adjacent to the fairgrounds, attired in one of his smart outfits; and he pretended to enjoy himself, but he enjoyed himself less than he would have at a funeral. The indefinable glances between him and Costancita continued as they did from the beginning. In the evenings, when there was no festival in the streets or on the promenade, there was a tertulia at Don Alonso’s house. Thus did a week pass, and thus did the last day of the fair arrive, but Don Faustino and Doña Costanza’s love affair was less advanced than the first day that both cousins saw each other. If the doctor had met Doña Costanza by chance, without prior notice and agreement that he had come visiting to propose marriage, he would have openly declared his boldest thoughts to her. But say them to Doña Costanza? The doctor would have declared them to the morning star, to Diana herself, to Vesta herself. His timid demeanor did not spring from an innate timidity, but from pride. He, at least, imagined it that way. In his fertile fantasy he would have cut loads of all the flowers that sprout profusely and delightfully on the slopes of Mounts Helicon and Parnassus, watered by the Hippocrene and Castalia fountains, and with these flowers adorn and cover his declaration of love to Doña Costanza. But as soon as he put the flowers aside, there remained only the plain declaration, and the doctor saw only these uninspired words: “Bring me the three or four thousand duros income, which I badly need. I, on the other hand, have only love.” Every time that he was alone

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in his room in the dead of night, the doctor would repeat the aforesaid words, and tears of distress and rage would well up in his eyes. Every time, though, he imagined that he loved his cousin more. On occasion, he believed that he felt real love for her, but then there was that paltry sum of one thousand reales in which he had to look at himself so that they would not be spent—in short, his Villabermejan poverty. And if that poverty made his unselfish love seem implausible even to the doctor himself, how would it not seem so to Costancita too? How the doctor then bemoaned, touching upon and even surpassing the limits between sanity and insanity, not having been born in the Orient and being a corsair or a klepht or a giaour, like a Byronic hero,5 or not having been born of humble origin and becoming a bandit like José María,6 or not having been born in the eleventh or twelfth century in order to conquer with halberd and pike an empire, let alone money, and then give it to Costancita in return for her heart! Doña Araceli, who, out of love for her friend and cousin Doña Ana, had laid the groundwork for the courtship and then become quite fond of her nephew doctor, was distressed that things were going so slowly and indifferently. Nevertheless, she did want or did not dare to say anything to Don Faustino. She deemed it more advisable to allow the presumed couple complete freedom so that everything would depend on their initiative. The doctor had cut Respetilla off whenever—at his master’s bedtime, which was the only time he now saw Don Faustino alone—the servant had raised the matter of the courtship. So regarding his romance with Doña Costanza, the doctor found himself reduced to a perpetual soliloquy. Respetilla, however, could not resist any longer the urge to speak out, and one night said to him: “Señorito, today makes eight days that we’ve been here.” “That’s right, and we’ll be here another four or five, and then we’ll go back to Villabermeja,” said the doctor. “So?” “Well, if you take advantage of the next five days the way you have taken advantage of these eight, we will have made some journey ..... a fine mess of things!” “What business is it of yours? Hold your tongue and don’t be insolent.” “Señorito, I am devoted to you, and even though you may give me a beating, I have to speak my piece and stick my nose where it doesn’t belong.” “Respetilla, Respetilla: Only an ass interferes in the affairs of others.” 5. Byron published verse tales titled “The Giaour” (1813) and “The Corsair” (1814). 6. José María El Tempranillo (1805–1833), real name José Ignacio Hinojosa Cobacho; Andalusian bandit of legend known for the courtesy he showed his victims.



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“I don’t deny that I am an ass, Señorito, but I do deny that your affairs are just others. I am more concerned about them than I am about my own.” “A clever rogue are you, Respetilla! All right. Say whatever you have a mind to. I’m giving you complete freedom for tonight.” “Well, Señorito, the first thing I’ll say is that too much modesty will get you nowhere. You’re being very shy and fainthearted, and faintheartedness cuts the ground from under you. I know, on good authority, that my Señora doña Costanza is more anxious for you to say something to her about love than a Gypsy is to steal a donkey. I mean she’s really dying for you to make a move, but, naturally, since you are keeping mum, Doña Costanza is not about to do what the lady of the ballad did with her chamberlain Gerineldos.”7 “And how do you know these things? What is the ‘good authority’ that you cite?” “The ‘good authority’ is a brunette who is more attractive than the Pamplona clock,8 which points to the hour but does not sound it, and who’s been tiresome of late.” “I’m confused. Who is this attractive brunette?” “Who else? Manolilla.” “And who is Manolilla?” “Señorito, forgive me. Is it my fault that your head is in the clouds, and that you’re almost always in a daze or in the dark, and you don’t see or understand? And that with all your knowledge and all the books you’ve read, you live in a daydream, so to speak?” “Well, I guess that in order not to live in a daydream and to have a complete and exact idea of all created things and what is most important, it would be necessary for me to know who Manolilla is.” “Well, although you may get upset with me, I’ll maintain that it is necessary and more than necessary. Manolilla isn’t just any Manolilla—she is Doña Costanza’s favorite maid. I’m always on the lookout, so although I’m not the one who has come avisiting, I found the post ‘vacant,’ in a manner of speaking, and said to her: ‘Here I am, you pretty thing.’ And since the girl is no shrew, she talks to me some nights at one of the garden window grilles.” “And what has she said to you about her mistress? Does she know what her mistress thinks of me?” “She says that Doña Costanza says that you are a man of much ability and very intelligent, smart as smart can be, but that sometimes you come across 7. Legend has it that in this ballad the lady—Emma, daughter of Charlemagne—took the initiative. 8. In all likelihood the sundial in the Pamplona cathedral.

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as a wimp, and that you’re pulling a fast one on her by not making your intentions known.” “She says that?” “I’m not saying, and Manolilla isn’t either, that her mistress uses the same words, but it sounds clumsy because, well, because we don’t know any other way of explaining the sense of what she says.” “All right. When will you talk again to Manolilla?” “Tonight, at one. As soon as her mistress goes to bed, she’ll come out to the window to chat with me.” “Can you take a letter of mine for Doña Costanza?” “Of course! But you’d better write it at once.” Don Faustino sat down on the spot to write the letter, and when it was written he handed it to his servant, who went to see Manolilla. The doctor did not sleep a wink all night long thinking about the effect the letter would produce, anxiety-ridden that it might make Doña Costanza laugh. When Respetilla came into his room the following morning to brush his clothes, the first thing the doctor did was ask whether he had delivered the letter. “Last night Manolilla agreed to give it to her mistress as soon as her mistress awoke. By now the señorita has probably read it thirty times and most likely knows it by heart,” said Respetilla. “Do you think there will be a reply?” “No doubt about it! If only my getting into heaven was as certain. I expect Manolilla to bring me the reply tonight, and I’ll come right away to give it to you.” While these things were transpiring between the doctor and Respetilla, Doña Araceli, tired of seeing that her plans were coming to naught, decided to break her silence and ask her niece for an explanation. Under the pretext of attending mass, she left her house good and early and went to see Doña Costanza, who, although awake, was still in bed. Don Alonso had gone out to the country on horseback, which cheered Doña Araceli, who did not want to be suspected or accused of favoring that courtship excessively. Doña Araceli had loved very much, although without result, without a happy end, and, like most older women who had loved a great deal as young women, as she aged she delighted in seeing young people love one another, and she even accepted being and serving as the third party, with the same passion and tenderness with which she had been one of two principals in her youth. One of the greatest and worst cruelties of public opinion is, in my view, to give older women who bring two young people together an offensive, scornful, and ugly name. When this intercession is done generously, with a good



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aim in mind, it is the most sublime degree to which love can be elevated in human intercourse. It is the glorious manifestation of love, free of all selfishness; it is love of love, without attending to one’s own wishes. There is no act of compassion that cannot be reduced to and summed up in the exercise of this most amorous virtue, a virtue that is denigrated and jeered. The woman who exercises this virtue heals the sick, ransoms the captive, gives drink to the thirsty, teaches the uninformed, finds shelter for the pilgrim, and covers the nakedness of a soul with all the trappings and treasures of requited love. Only exceptional, sensitive women like Doña Araceli are capable of this virtue. In this virtue there is, furthermore, much that is similar to poetic afflatus, to inspiration, to the highly noble urge to produce something beautiful, to create a work of art. And what work of art is more beautiful than a love relationship, than the concert and harmony of two spirits, than the mutual penetration and fusion of two souls into one? Moved, therefore, by such lofty and hallowed sentiments, Doña Araceli entered her niece’s bedroom. A sweet fragrance enveloped all of it, but there were no scents distilled by Atkinson, Violet, or Lubin, only soap and fresh water. If I could still make reference to mythology without causing annoyance, it would be to say that Doña Costanza assumed such a refined scent from the nymph of her garden fountain and from Hygieia and Hebe, the goddesses of health and youth. There was a window in the bedroom that looked out on the garden. A few sunbeams streaked across the panes and seemed to filter through the dense foliage of the honeysuckle and jasmines that kept watch over the window. A canary, whose cage hung from the ceiling, sang from time to time. And on the side opposite the bed stood a small altar, and on the altar were two lit candles and a pretty statue of the Virgin Mary. Doña Costanza did not wear a nightcap or use a hairnet to gather her tresses during the night, so that her hair, loose and free of ties, could be seen in all its abundance and beauty. On account of the benign climate of those parts the only garment that Doña Costanza wore to bed was the fine linen nightgown that clung to her body, pleating a little at her neck thanks to a sky blue silk ribbon that formed a small bow over her bosom. The sheet and a light spread covered the young lady, although cleaving to her body so artfully that they revealed her graceful, elegant, and youthful shape. Doña Araceli, who in addition to auntly affection had what Dante termed understanding of love, could not help but become entranced on seeing her niece, and after having gazed at her for a bit, wrapped Costancita in her arms and kissed her, exclaiming: “How beautiful you are, girl! God bless you! Why, you look like a Magdalene without sin and without penance!”

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“Auntie, don’t make fun of me with flattery. Remember I’m not conceited.” “I’m not making fun, my dear! I’m not making fun! Where is there a prettier thing than you? God be praised. He wanted to outdo himself and you’re the result! It’s in moments like these that one must see women in order to judge their merits—see them disheveled, without makeup, without rouge, without cosmetics of any kind, just as the Lord created them.” “What brings you here so early, Aunt?” “I’m telling you, girl, what a ruddy color you have when you wake up. Why, you look just like a rose!” interrupted Doña Araceli. Costancita, in truth, had turned redder than usual when her aunt entered unexpectedly, and she had swiftly hidden under the pillow the doctor’s letter, which Manolilla had given her and which she had just read. “What can I say, Auntie? You yourself explained it all. Without sin and without penance, how am I not going to have a good color?” “You might as well also say without love and without cares. That’s what I don’t understand, my dear Costanza. Your eyes are deceptive. Where does the captivating fire that brightens them come from? From here, from this heart? But how ..... if this heart is frozen?” “Frozen? And what makes you say that? On the contrary, Aunt. I’ll have you know that my heart is filled with love.” “For whom, dear?” “Till now, for no one, Aunt. But will love cease to burn and dwell in my soul and occupy it completely, even though it may not have anyone to enjoy it?” “Don’t go spouting highfalutin ideas that nobody understands. What is love but desire, an intense urge, a craving to unite with the loved object? And if you’re lacking an object, how can you not be lacking love? What are you eager to enjoy? What do you want to unite with, loving it?” “Not so fast, Aunt, because your argument isn’t that unshakable. When there is love and no object in the world for the love, an object is imagined, dreamed, and this object is loved. Which is what I do. And if only you could see how precious an object I shape in my dreams!” “And it doesn’t resemble your cousin Faustino at all?” “To tell you the truth, Aunt, these images that are shaped in dreams are a long way from having the consistency of reality—they’re indistinct, blurred, fleeting. Their outlines vanish in an atmosphere of luminous mist. How am I going to know for sure whether my dreamed object resembles my cousin or not? That depends. I think it resembles him somewhat, or not at all.” “Then, you love an image but do not know what it’s like?” “I know and I don’t know. It’s a mystery that I can’t quite explain.”



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“Don’t be cute, Costancita. Forget mysteries. Tell me straight out, no monkey business, whether you love your poor cousin or not.” “First I would need to know whether he loves me or not.” “He loves you all right; he adores you. That’s clear.” “It’s clear to you, Aunt, because you’re more knowledgeable. I’m so inexperienced and so young that I’m not aware of anything. Why do we have tongues? If he loves me, why doesn’t he say so? Why doesn’t he tell me he loves me? Does he expect, do you expect, me to do the courting?” “Of course not, my dear Costanza. He hasn’t told you because he’s very timid.” “Timidity and foolishness usually get confused.” “Not in this case. Besides, Faustino hasn’t had an opportunity. You’re always so surrounded!” “The circle that surrounds me can be broken, and an opportunity can be sought and found.” “And who knows whether he’s been seeking one?” “He’s pretty gauche if he’s been seeking one for eight days without success. But listen, Auntie, I love you very much and I don’t want to tease you any more or hide anything from you.” “Well then, out with it, you mischievous thing. I thought there was something fishy here.” Doña Costanza reached under the pillow and brought out Faustino’s billetdoux with her pretty hand. “Here’s the ‘fish,’ Aunt,” she said. “Here’s the ‘fish.’ It has taken my cousin eight days to think about and write this epistle. Admit that he doesn’t rush into things and that he proceeds calmly, reflectively, and quietly.” “Don’t be sarcastic. I expect he didn’t dare to write to you sooner. Read the letter.” “Aunt, for the love of God! This is a secret. Don’t tell Papá or anyone else. These things are more pleasurable when they’re not known.” “Don’t worry. I’ll keep it to myself. Read.” Doña Costanza, in a low voice, read the letter, word for word:

Dear Cousin: I have been bold enough to conceive hope for happiness, and it has inspired me for eight days now. A thousand fears, born of my scant worth and your great worth, assail my hope, fight against it, and endeavor to snuff it out. I appeal to you and ask that you forgive it and preserve it. One word from your fresh lips will suffice for it to stay alive. Will you utter such a sweet word? At all events, do not condemn this hope without first

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hearing what I have to say in its defense. How and where will I be able to talk to you? If a certain sympathy that I believe I have seen in your eyes, if a certain warmth with which you look at me at times are not a falsehood invented by my conceit, I trust you will find a means of hearing me out far from the throng of worshippers that surround you. The most fervent of them all anxiously awaits your reply. Your cousin, Faustino

“Do you see why you ought not to complain?” asked Doña Araceli. “But I’m not complaining, Aunt.” “What a letter! So well-turned and well-thought-out. How the gallant fits everything that he wants into it! With what skill he shows himself to be bold and still be modest! With what delicacy he asks for love and a meeting without seeming to ask for anything! And you, what are you going to do?” “We’ll see, Aunt. The natural thing, the obvious thing, is to be thinking about a reply for eight days.” “Costancita, don’t be mean. Do you love him or do you not love him?” “What can I say, Aunt? Am I supposed to feel in love all of a sudden? Speaking frankly, I’m afraid I’m going to love him. I recognize that he attracts me, that he’s winning some of my affection, but I don’t love him yet. He must, first of all, convince me that I am loved, much loved. Afterward ..... I repeat: we’ll see.” “Meanwhile, what are you going to reply?” “Nothing, for the present. Eight days of silence.” “He’ll die of impatience.” “Don’t worry, he won’t die. Another thing. You’ve seen that my cousin— who’s slow to act, yet certain when he does—is rather bold. He’s asking to see me alone, no less, or I’ve misunderstood. To agree would be to compromise myself too much. Good Lord! How indiscreet! What would people say about me if they knew?” “But, girl, if he’s to be your husband, couldn’t you talk to him for a bit at a window grille?” “And who has told you that he’s to be my husband? That remains to be seen.” For as many words of flattery, affection, and argument that Doña Araceli spoke, she failed to extract any more promises from her niece or to have more light cast on the state of her soul in relation to Don Faustino. Nevertheless, Doña Araceli returned home somewhat more confident in the happy outcome of the love relationship that she was sponsoring with so much enthusiasm.

[8] A t the W indow G rille

That e nt i re day the doctor was agitated and filled with anxiety awaiting Doña Costanza’s reply. He saw his cousin on the public walk and at the tertulia. He spoke to her in front of the friends of both sexes who surrounded her, but did not notice any sign that she welcomed having received his letter. Quite the contrary: it seemed to him that Costancita was more serious with him than usual. Her glances were less kindly and frequent. The doctor began to suspect that he had fallen from grace, and he turned more melancholy than was his wont. Respetilla had been unable to see, the whole day, the favorite maid. Don Faustino inquired to no purpose about the fate and whereabouts of his letter. That night the doctor went to Don Alonso’s tertulia and returned to Aunt Araceli’s house at twelve o’clock. Instead of undressing, he asked his servant to go and talk with Manolilla as soon as possible, and then upon his return to come to talk to him, because he would be waiting, awake and dressed. That done, he sat down at the desk, reading a book of philosophy, but he did not understand a single line. Costancita’s image frolicked on the grave pages, laughing, tantalizing him with love, and thoroughly distracting him. Two deadly hours elapsed. After two o’clock Don Faustino heard someone walking on tiptoe in the corridors. Soon Respetilla raised the latch and entered the room. “What’s taken you so long? Have you brought a reply?” asked the doctor.



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“Hold on, Señorito. Do you think it’s that easy to get into this house? The boy who opens the concealed door for me had fallen asleep and was dead to the world. I very nearly had to sleep out in the open.” “Have you brought a letter?” Don Faustino asked again. “Don’t fret.” “I’m not fretting. What’s going on?” said the doctor, his distressed, pitiful tone belying the words that he spoke. “I’m not fretting. Tell me: what’s going on?” “Well, it’s that there’s no letter. Doña Costanza has reprimanded Manolilla because she gave her yours, which she says she does not wish to answer.” “You see? Something told me ..... I’m not meant to be happy. I don’t want to stay here acting the fool. Tomorrow we’re going back to Villabermeja.” “Señorito, I don’t think things are as bad as you imagine.” “And why do you think that?” “I think that because Doña Costanza, who does not wish to answer you, has all of a sudden become taken with a strange whim.” “What whim?” “She’s told Manolilla that the weather couldn’t be more enjoyable, that the garden is a delight, and that at night, with the starlight and the scent of the orange blossoms, it must be even better. Manolilla agreed with her and said that the garden is really lovely between one and two o’clock at night. And the señorita let it be known that she fancies going down to the garden tomorrow at that very hour.” “Oh, Respetilla, I can scarcely believe my good fortune! It’s a rendezvous! She wants to see me and talk to me at the garden window grille!” “Señorito, I’m not saying that. Don’t read things in my words that aren’t there. This is a very awkward and tricky business. Doña Costanza has said nothing to Manolilla about a rendez-vous, nor has Manolilla said anything to me. You weren’t talked about at all. The only thing known is that Doña Costanza fancies going down to the garden tomorrow, at one o’clock at night, in order to drink in the smell of the orange blossoms and gaze at the starry sky, but since there are two grilles in the garden that face the street, you can certainly pass by that spot, because the street belongs to the King, and nobody forbids you to be in the King’s street, and so you too can smell the orange blossoms at whatever hour you have a mind to.” “I’ll go, Respetilla; I’ll go without fail.” “Manolilla adds that you should have your cape wrapped all around you so as not to be recognized. They’re much given to gossip and backbiting in this town. And when the two of us are in the street, you can approach the grille as though to see the garden and smell the flowers, and then you might chance to see your cousin there, and you might also chance to talk to her up close.”



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“I hope such a happy chance occurrence materializes!” exclaimed the doctor with a sigh. “Don’t sigh, Señorito, and take heart: there are chance occurrences that seem providential.” The doctor was tickled pink. He was a generous person, and as a reward he gave his servant a four-duro piece, the equivalent of eight arrobas of the choice wine in his wine cellar, and a little less than the twelfth part of his worth in specie. The following day there was the walk, the tertulia, in fine, what there was every day. Costancita was, as usual, neither more nor less affectionate, but tending toward less. Don Faustino saw her first at her father’s side, then surrounded by girlfriends and male admirers. He spoke to her and ..... it was as if nothing had happened. Impatience was consuming the doctor. The day seemed interminable to him, the tertulia too, but there is no appointed hour that does not come, and one o’clock at night arrived. Don Faustino had long since accompanied Aunt Araceli home from the tertulia and eaten supper with her. He was ready. No sooner did the house fall silent, everybody having gone to bed, than the doctor, accompanied by Respetilla, slipped through the concealed door muffled up in his cape, a pistol and dagger inside his belt, and wearing a lowcrowned hat with upturned brim. Before the clock of the parish church struck one, the doctor and Respetilla were out in the street. The garden walls were very high, and there were two windows in them with grilles of crossing grates, but no lattices and no wood shutters. The interior of the garden came into full view as soon as the eye saw through the leafy density of orange trees, lemon trees, jasmines, climbing rosebushes, and other plants. There was profound silence in the street, and a more profound silence in the garden. You could hear only the murmur of the fountain in the middle of it. There was no moon, but the night was so clear and the stars shone so brightly that they illuminated the paths in the garden and shimmered on the water of the brook into which the fountain spilled so as not to overflow. On both banks of the brook there were, undoubtedly, many violets, because their fragrance overpowered that of the roses, orange blossoms, and the rest of the flowers. “They haven’t come down yet, Señorito,” said Respetilla. “Be quiet and let’s wait,” said the doctor. Three or four minutes went by in silence. “There they are, there they are,” said Respetilla. And then: “No, no. Not like that, right in front of the window like a scarecrow. We don’t want to

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frighten these doves and scare them off. Keep close to the wall here and leave the window clear to see if they come.” The doctor obeyed Respetilla submissively: he moved away from the window and hugged the wall. Then he heard faint footsteps and the provocative, pleasant rustle of silk and light skirts. Soon thereafter Doña Costanza and Manolilla appeared at the window near which stood the doctor. “What a beautiful night, Manuela!” exclaimed Doña Costanza. “I’m so glad I’ve come down to the garden! I couldn’t sleep ....... But I’m afraid. Do you suppose Papá heard us? God forbid that he should find out. Good Lord! How furious he would be!” The doctor did not know how to emerge from his hiding place and start a conversation. Finally, he uncovered his face and stepped in front of the grille where his cousin was. “Oh!” exclaimed the latter, frightened. “Don’t be frightened, Costancita. It’s me, your cousin Faustino.” “Well, hello, cousin!” said Costancita, laughing. “What a scare you’ve given me! Can you imagine? What an uncanny coincidence! We’ve both had the same whim.” “That’s right, cousin. I couldn’t fall asleep either, and I came out to get some fresh air and breathe in the fragrant atmosphere of your garden. It’s good fortune to have met up with you like this.” “Yes, Faustino, but what a compromising situation! God only knows what Papá would do if he knew that I was talking to you this late at night, at a grille.” At this point in the conversation Don Faustino noticed that Respetilla and Manolilla had discreetly moved away without saying “God be with you,” and were chatting very close together at the other grille like people who want to set a good example. The doctor imitated his servant and got as near as he could. Without a doubt Costancita did not notice because she did not move back; on the contrary, imperceptibly and naturally, not realizing it, she too leaned in a little. In a matter of moments they were so close together that the doctor inhaled Doña Costanza’s fresh, perfumed breath, and he felt as if the fire of her eyes was invading his soul and, in a manner of speaking, igniting it. “I love you! I adore you!” the doctor then exclaimed in a low but impassioned voice. “This is why I wanted to see you alone. This is what I wanted to say to you. Love me or kill me. You are my heaven, my glory, my hope. With your love and because of your love I feel capable of anything and everything. My fate and my life are in your hands. You can be my salvation or my ruin. You are more lovely than flowers, more refreshing than the dawn, more graceful



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than the nymphs imagined by the poets of old. You are worth more than all my dreams, even if they were to come true.” “Hush, cousin, hush, and don’t talk like a madman. The vehemence of your words terrifies me. Be sensible or I won’t come another night.” “You’ll come another night? You’ll come every night?” “I’ll come, I’ll come for a short while, but you must be very quiet and very sensible.” “But, don’t you love me?” “Well, if I didn’t love you, would I come?” “So then you love me with passion, I mean love love, not just affection?” “Look, Faustino, I shouldn’t deceive you. I love you, and I love you very much as a cousin, and as one loves a friend, and as one loves a brother. I know all this, I understand all this, and I’m sorry, but the love love you’re talking about ..... I don’t know what to tell you. I’m very young and have no idea what I should feel, nor even what I should think. Give me time so that I can question myself and study myself.” “Forgive my foolishness, Costanza, but that affection of which you speak, that affection of a cousin, a friend, a sister, what is it if not love?” “Don’t you try to deceive me now, Faustino. I am well aware that there is more to love. I don’t know what it is, I don’t know what it consists of, but there is more to it. And as proof, I’m going to tell you something in confidence.” “What is it, my dearest Costanza?” “That if I don’t love you with love love, I want to love you with love love, and this in itself is a lot. When I stop to think about it, do you know what occurs to me?” “What occurs to you?” “That my heart flits like a butterfly, fluttering, fluttering round a light that attracts it in a singular manner. This attraction is what my heart already feels for you, but it’s not love yet. It’s an inclination to love. If my heart falls in the light and is burned, then I’ll say that it is in love.” “I hope it falls soon!” “You cruel, unfeeling man! You think so ill of my heart? What has the poor thing done to you?” “Maim me, mortally wound me with love.” “How exaggerated and emphatic you poets are! I don’t know what to think when I listen to you. Are they expressions, I wonder, are they figures of speech, or does he—you—really feel what he says?” “Do you doubt my loyalty and good faith?” “Please understand me. I do not doubt you. I would offend you by doing so, and still more by saying that I doubt your sincerity. But perhaps you are

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deceiving yourself. This garden, this night that is so peaceful and so quiet, this smell of flowers, the novelty of our meeting, the poetic silence of the wee hours ..... can they not be part of your enthusiasm? If instead of me being here there was another young woman like me, and pretty like me, because you tell me that I’m pretty, wouldn’t you get just as excited and wouldn’t you call her too, with the same sincerity, glory and hell, salvation and damnation, and all the rest of what you said to me?” “No, I wouldn’t call her that. Only you are all that for me.” “All right. I’ll try to believe what you say. But allow me to doubt yet. I do not want to be credulous and too easy. I do not want vanity to delude me. It’s so flattering to be loved as you say you love me that I don’t dare to give credence to what you fervently declare. Excuse my modesty. Good-bye. Until another night.” “Why are you going so soon? You’ve hardly arrived and you’re leaving already!” “I’m on pins and needles. I’m afraid my father will catch me. And noise scares me. A breath of wind in the leaves makes me tremble. Go now.” “Will you come tomorrow at the same hour?” Costancita hesitated a second. Then she said: “I’ll come tomorrow.” “Will you spend more time talking to me?” “I will if you’re good, if I lose a little of my fear, if I start believing that you do love me.” “And you? Will you love me?” “I’ve already told you that I want to love you. You know full well that love is a terrible thing for a woman. I feel myself drawn to it and yet at the same time I back away in a state of alarm, as if I saw my feet in a dark, bottomless, mystery-laden abyss. While I want to love you, I am afraid to love you. Goodbye now. Leave me for today. Ask God to give me a peaceful and good night’s sleep, because if I don’t have one tomorrow I’ll be pale and have rings under my eyes, and Papá will start asking me questions, and who knows what he’ll suspect because he’s very watchful. So go now, Faustino.” Don Faustino made ready to leave. Directing the most tender of looks at Costancita, he said to her: “Give me your hand.” Doña Costanza could not with good grace refuse him the hand that she gave him every day in public. The doctor took it in both of his and smothered it with kisses. Shortly afterward he and Respetilla left the garden and, with gladdened hearts, headed for Doña Araceli’s house, taking the least busy streets so as not to call attention to themselves.



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Proud of his triumph, more captivated by Costancita than ever, and raising not only castles in the air, but enchanted palaces, paradises, Olympic abodes, and gardens like those of Armida,1 that night Don Faustino López de Mendoza fell asleep to the strains of a magnificent serenade with which all the genies of love and hope lulled him. 1. The sorceress in Torquato Tasso’s epic Jerusalem Delivered (1575). After the crusader Rinaldo fell in love with her, she retained him in her voluptuous pleasure garden.

[9] M y sterious M eeting

For t hre e or f our nights the same scene played out, if with some variants in the details, then identical in substance. Since Doña Costanza was always surrounded during the day by girlfriends and male admirers, no opportunity arose for her cousin to talk to her in secret. A fleeting glance would usually cross between both of them, but so confused on her part that were it noticed by someone it could not have been interpreted in a way that would have compromised them. At night, with the same circumspection and the same precautions, they would meet and renew their conversations at the garden grille, but love made no headway. The butterfly always fluttered round the light and did not get burned. The inclination to love was not changing into love. Don Faustino’s hopes were neither materializing nor fading. As long as he was at her side he felt himself under the power of a spell. He submitted to everything. He was credulous like a child and submissive like a slave. He found no reason to object to the long rejoinders with which she would hold him off, and he considered himself fortunate indeed and more than compensated to receive, in exchange for his devotion and an already declared love, those vague promises of possible love, that propensity for affection, that prelude to a relationship with which Doña Costanza had him enraptured and wanting in judgment. Soon, however, after the initial transport had passed, and

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when he was not in Doña Costanza’s presence, a thousand not very flattering thoughts began to assail the doctor. Why all this mystery in our relationship? he wondered. What would my cousin lose by showing in front of the people who pay the most attention to me, who show me the most consideration, that she’s beginning to love me a little? Isn’t there a certain hypocrisy, isn’t there a certain duplicity in her behavior? The excuse that Doctor Faustino found for this offset in part his cousin’s good intention, but, on the other hand, it was unfavorable to his vanity and to his aspirations. My cousin is undoubtedly waiting for this propensity that she has to love me to be converted into de facto love, for this germ of passion to be born and grow and develop. So long as this does not occur, I live with the threat that her love may die before it is born, or that it may not be love but a vague sympathy that she feels for me. This sympathy can vanish like smoke, and Costancita, foreseeing that it can vanish, does not want it to leave a trace or a sign. My cousin is pampered and has an innocent appearance, but behind her finicky and childish conduct, is there not a refinement of pretense, of sang-froid, and of relentless calculation? Is she not toying with my heart, with my feelings, and even with my dignity? Is not the uncertainty in which she’s leaving me cruel? Is it right that I should be her plaything so that she can ask herself: Do I love him or do I not love him? And that she doesn’t know the answer? Several counterarguments, not without some merit, occurred to the doctor in opposition to the above reflections. Do you suppose I’m too demanding? he thought. What right do I have to expect her to love me already? What right do I have to even expect that my love be believed? Until not too long ago, did I myself not doubt my own love? So why find it odd that she should doubt it? How, then, to blame my cousin because she does not hand her heart over to me without reservation, not being sure herself of the sincerity, of the tenderness, of the devotion of mine? What proof of love have I given to her till now? What sacrifice have I made for her? In truth, not a one. To go and see her, to talk to her, to kiss her pretty hand at the garden grille, far from being a sacrifice is a pleasure and a delight. And in exchange for such sweet favors, I cannot even show a little patience, much less have some trust in her good faith and sound intentions. Thus did the doctor take his cousin to task, and thus did he defend her in the court of his conscience, without ever managing to pass a definitive sentence. Meanwhile, he was always on edge, emotionally spent as he awaited the yearned-for one o’clock at night, when he would make his way to the garden grille accompanied by the faithful Respetilla. The latter’s romance was not progressing any further than that of his master. It was on hold, but Respetilla had an explanation: he assumed that each

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town or region had its own customs, and that those of Doña Araceli’s hometown required that love affairs, of masters as well as servants and maids, proceed slowly, and that, instead of sprouting wings, they should sprout lead feet. “Rome was not built in a day,” added Respetilla. And: “Whatever is worth much, costs much.” What was to be expected? That all one had to do was abruptly create an entry into the hearts of such pretty maidens, with not so much as a by-your-leave, and plunder them with fire and sword, without prior resistance, without a struggle, and without having opened a breach by dint of work and effort? This was where things stood when one morning Respetilla came to the room of his master, who had just awakened, and handed him a letter. A stranger had given it to him at the street door only moments before and then had disappeared. “I wonder who’s writing to me,” said the doctor. “Can it be Costancita?” Undoubtedly hoping that such would be the case, he opened the letter and read in amazement what follows:

M y e t e r na l l o v e : You have forgotten me. You no longer know me. I have not forgotten you and I always love you. My spirit is bound to yours by an indissoluble bond that neither adverse fate nor destructive time will ever break. Through a thousand transitory existences, in the rapid current of mutable beings and fleeting forms, my soul remains, and your love is its essence. In the mortal life that I have in the world today, heaven, whose aims I respect although they are unknown to me, has placed nearly insuperable obstacles between you and me. I have not wanted to struggle against the decrees and designs of heaven. For this reason I have not presented myself to you in the flesh. I do not even want you to know what my name is. Call me your immortal friend. I watch over you. I see you without your seeing me. When my body gives itself up to sleep, my spirit flies to you and stays at your side. Have you become so material-driven and absent-minded that you do not feel me in your innermost self when I caress you and unite with you in a mystical embrace? Is there no brio in your spirit with which to invoke mine? Do the immortal eyes of your spirit not call up the appearance of one whom you loved so much at other times? Is there not, either in sleep or wakefulness, a confused recollection in your mind of past loves? You are beginning to love, you already love another woman, and I’m jealous. How horrible the torment of being jealous is! Nevertheless, I shall do nothing to quell the love that is rising in your heart. In this mortal life you cannot, you should not be mine. It would be madness! It would be



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a crime ......! It is not right of me, out of selfishness, to be opposed to your belonging to another. I will shed tears, I do shed tears, but I will resign myself. However, if that woman whom you love is cold-hearted, unworthy of you; and if she deserts you and plays you for a fool, I will console you, my sweet. My love, my constant love does not cease on account of rivalry or disdain or your forgetfulness. God forbid that you should be unhappy, but if you are, invoke me, call out with all the hidden fervor of your heart: “Come, come, consolation mine!” And you will have me at your side. For days now I have been struggling with the desire to show myself physically, to appear before your eyes. Perhaps I may not be able to resist this desire; perhaps I will call you so as to see you and talk to you and keep something of yours. Will you come if I call you? Yes, I believe you will. You are noble and generous and will not deny me this good turn. I want a memento of yours, I want a vivid impression of yours, before losing you forever in this transitory existence, before you know happiness with that woman, who is frivolous at the very least. Good-bye. Remember, Your immortal friend

It astonished the doctor to read this letter, the import of which caused him to make one conjecture after another. Can my cousin be the one writing to me to make fun of my romanticism with something still more romantic? Can it be some crazy girl who has fallen in love with me and sincerely believes all these ravings? Can it be Uncle Alonso, or someone from his tertulia who’s trying to play a joke on me? Anyway, whatever the case, the best thing is to burn the letter and not tell a soul that I’ve received it. The tables will be turned on the one who expected to be amused by the effect the letter was going to have on me. The doctor burned the letter; he did not confide a word of its contents to Respetilla, nor did he write about it to his mother, to whom he confided everything. Don Faustino continued loving Doña Costanza by day, and seeing her and talking to her of love at the garden grilles in the small hours, but when he was alone in his room, when the prolonged vigil overexcited his nerves, he thought he heard strange sounds at his side, as if a shadow crept alongside him. He once awoke from a slumber almost trembling, and in a cold sweat, and thought he felt on his brow a feathery impression of ethereal lips that had left a love kiss on it. Don Faustino López de Mendoza, rationalist philosopher, was ashamed of his cowardice and momentary credulity, but the fact is that for two or three nights he believed the appearance of a spirit to be inevitable, and sought strength in his heart to receive it courageously, without being intimidated.

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If it is a spirit, why does it have to be terrible? he wondered. The spirit of a beautiful woman, with whom I was once in love God knows when, should not be cause for alarm, but delight. Having thought this, the doctor calmed down and laughed, but the calmness and laughter instantly turned into concern because he became convinced that he was hearing the soft, indistinct footfall of a departing specter, and the whisper of airy garments, and even a gentle, profound, and distressed sigh. How many times there resonated in the depths of his soul the last line of the letter that he had burned: Remember your immortal friend! Is it possible that I’ll go mad? he then considered. Is it possible that I am endowed with a nervous, weak, miserable nature in which fantasy prevails over reason and discourse? Is it possible that I am at the mercy of some rascal who has a mind to write me a senseless letter, rob me of my tranquillity, and play havoc with all my feelings and faculties? This secret agitation of the doctor’s did not prevent him from leading his accustomed life, nor did it keep his love for Doña Costanza from growing, nor did it bring about a change in her situation, which remained in the same germinal, uncertain, undecided state. Three nights after receiving the strange letter, the doctor was returning to Doña Araceli’s house with Respetilla. The amorous colloquy had not been long. It was no later than two o’clock. As they turned a corner, a poor old woman approached the doctor and said to him in a low voice: “Señor Mendoza, I need to talk to you without your servant hearing us. I come on behalf of the immortal friend.” Respetilla had lagged behind. The doctor waited for him to catch up and then said to him: “Go on home. Don’t follow me. Stay awake and wait for me until four o’clock.” The devil knows all too well what then occurred to Respetilla. May Doña Costanza forgive him his nasty thoughts. Respetilla bade his master goodnight in a tone full of mischief, looking at him with envy and dismay, as if to say What has he managed that I haven’t, for as hard as I have tried? Respetilla had no alternative but to obey his master, leave him, and go home. Alone now in the street, Don Faustino and the old woman struck up this exchange: “What does the immortal friend want from me? If this is someone’s idea of a sorry joke, I promise that it’ll cost her dear.”



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“It’s no joke, Señor Mendoza. It’s a very serious matter. Perhaps the letter that you received suffered a little from the poor lady’s condition. She had a high fever when she was writing it, but now she feels fine and has a very strong desire to see you.” “And who is this lady? Tell me her name.” “I don’t know it, and even if I did I wouldn’t say it. My obligation is to tell you to follow me and come to see her.” “And how am I to venture to go and see someone I do not know?” “Are you afraid, Señor Mendoza?” “No, I’m not afraid, old woman. Go ahead and lead the way. I’ll go to hell, if need be.” “I am charged with the responsibility of not bringing you without imposing a few conditions.” “All right, quickly, let’s hear them. I accept unless they’re foolish. The curiosity to see my immortal friend is a powerful inducement.” “The conditions are these: that you are never to try to learn her name; that you are not to pursue her; that you are not to attempt to familiarize yourself with the house that I’m going to take you to now; that you are not to inquire tomorrow, nor the day after, not ever, if by chance you remember it, who lives in said house; and, lastly, the instant that I say to you Let’s go, you are to obey me, quit the house, and come with me back to this same spot, where I’ll leave you so that you can return alone to yours. Do you accept the conditions?” “I accept them.” “Do you give me your word as a gentleman that you will abide by them?” “I do.” “By what you hold most sacred?” “Enough already. My word of honor has been pledged.” “Then follow me.” Although the town was small, it was not that small that there was not a labyrinth of narrow, winding streets that Don Faustino, preceded by the old woman, began to negotiate. As they walked, the doctor was formulating all manner of hypotheses to explain that adventure. It could be a joke on the part of Doña Costanza, or her father, or one of Doña Costanza’s suitors. That marquis of Guadalbarbo, with whom the doctor had gambled away money at the Casino, prided himself on being a prankster. Could he be the person ragging him? A few fast, freeand-easy young women, who nowadays are called traviatas,1 had come to the fair from Málaga, Granada, and Seville. Was it possible that one of them had 1. Almost certainly a reference to La Traviata (1853), Giuseppe Verdi’s opera about a courtesan.

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taken a shine to the doctor seeing him at the fair and, desirous of having a rendez-vous with him, had contrived the whole of that novelesque scheme to bring it about and make it more piquant and pleasant? But, what Andalusian girl, no offense meant to those in the trade, has a sufficiently cultured spirit to write the letter that Don Faustino received and invent such a ruse? Could his immortal friend be some old scatterbrain of a woman? Could it be some mentally deranged woman? As he speculated in this fashion, the old woman, steps ahead of the doctor, stopped at the door of a house. When Don Faustino reached her side she pushed the door, which was ajar, and went in, beckoning him to enter too, and then she half-closed the door again, thereby leaving the vestibule pitch black. Although he carried several arms, the doctor experienced a certain apprehension and put a hand on the pistol inside his belt. The old woman groped in the darkness to find the hiding place of the key to the inside door, through which one entered the house proper from the vestibule. After she unlocked it, she pocketed the key. The same darkness of the vestibule cloaked the interior of the house. The old woman took the doctor’s hand and very quietly climbed a staircase with him. They then passed through two rooms, which also lay in total darkness. At length, the doctor and his guide reached the door of another room through whose chinks light escaped. The old woman knocked lightly on the door. “Come in,” said a female voice. “Go on in, Señor Mendoza,” said his guide. Don Faustino entered the room and his guide remained outside. The room was poorly furnished, but very clean. There were only a half dozen chairs and a table, on which stood a Lucena2 oil lamp with two wicks burning. At the rear there was a door that led to a bedroom. Standing in the center of the room was a tall, slender woman dressed all in black. Her hair was also black, as black as ebony. Her face had an olive cast, and her eyes, stunningly beautiful, were the same color as her hair. Her carriage and everything about her bespoke elegance. Although wan and with rings under her eyes, in the smoothness of her brow and in the freshness of her complexion you could tell that she was a young woman of no more than twenty. “Señor,” said that young woman in a sweet and somewhat quavering voice, “forgive me for having bothered you, first by writing to you, then by almost obliging you to have this meeting with me. When I wrote to you I was overly 2. A municipality in the southern province of Córdoba.



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excited. I think I had a temperature. May this suffice to explain to you any outré assertions or extravagance that there could have been in the letter.” “Señora, what am I to believe then of the letter that you wrote to me and that you now characterize as extravagant?” “Everything of the contents. I am only characterizing the style, which perhaps is fraught with overexcitement.” “Then you are my immortal friend.” “I am.” “You have known me for some time?” “I’ve known you ....... You are the one who has forgotten me.” “Tell me something so that I can remember you. Where, when have we seen each other?” “Listen, Faustino!3 Forgive my speaking to you this way, my calling you by your first name. We’ve been so close. We’ve loved each other so much!” The doctor looked more attentively at the beautiful features of that woman and came to believe that he remembered them, but in such a confusing way that he could not say to himself on what occasion he had seen them. The rich, pleasant timber of her feminine voice awakened even more confusing and troublesome recollections. “Listen, Faustino!” the woman repeated. “I’ve already written it, now I’ll say it. I should not be yours in this mortal life, but I wanted to see you and talk to you alone once before we separated forever. A cruel, horrible fate condemns me to flee from you ....... Love that young woman. Let us hope that she’s worthy of you. May God make you happy. Will you grant me a boon?” “Ask for whatever you like,” said the doctor, wondering whether he was in the presence of a madwoman, still suspecting that all of it might be a charade, and fearing at moments that he might be dreaming or raving. “Give me a remembrance of yours,” said the woman, “a lock of your blond hair.” No sooner did she make her request than she approached the doctor, who was bewildered and did not know what was happening to him, and cut a lock with scissors that she took from the table. All this occurred much more swiftly than the time it has taken to relate it. “You have seen me again,” the woman continued. “Do not forget me again ....... If some day you are unhappy, call me and I will come to you. Today you are happy and do not need me ....... Tell me in all sincerity. Do you love Doña Costanza? Answer loyally; answer as a gentleman should.” Thus implored, the doctor could not help replying: 3. From this point on both the woman and Faustino use the familiar, or tú, form of address.

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“I love Doña Costanza.” “Get out, get out, get out!” said the woman in a doleful and at the same time irate tone. Don Faustino was about to go and obey that imperious voice, but all of a sudden the woman wrapped her arms around his neck. The doctor felt her youthful breath on his face, and then the impression of a kiss on each of his eyelids. He experienced a moment of bewilderment and blindness. When he shook it, the woman had already backed away from him and slipped through the door at the rear of the room, locking it behind her. The old guide was now at his side. “Keep your word, Señor Mendoza,” she said. “Follow me. I’ll leave you at the same spot where we met up.” Don Faustino realized that any entreaty, any attempt at discovery was futile. The old woman reminded him that he had given his word of honor and he had no alternative but to keep it and follow her. She led the doctor along other streets, making detours on purpose, undoubtedly to disorient him. In the end, she left him almost at the door of Doña Araceli’s house.

[ 10] N i ñ a A raceli

It wa s not un ti l after the mysterious meeting with his immortal friend that the doctor realized how much he was truly in love with Doña Costanza. In his immortal friend, as he remembered her, he had seen nothing of an aerial ghost, nothing diabolical or unstable; on the contrary, he had seen a strong, resolute, beautiful, and interesting woman, and, nevertheless, that woman had not awakened any prompting of sensual love in his spirit, which was fully occupied with love for his cousin. What the nameless “friend” inspired in him, of course, was a profound sympathy and a passionate curiosity. The doctor was by nature very discreet; he had promised to divulge nothing, and thus did not relate a word of the strange adventure to either his mother or Respetilla. He walked, to no avail, all the streets of the town in search of the house in which he had met up with the unknown woman. Remembering places was not his strong suit. He suspected at least thirty houses, but could not decide that it was any of them. Whenever he saw a tall, slender woman he fancied that she might be his immortal friend. He would approach and look at her face, and then he would convince himself otherwise. At times he ran after old women to see if he would come across the one who led him to the house, but he did not see her again either. Who can my “immortal friend” be? the doctor wondered. In Valera’s Andalusia, the word niña or [girl] “child” is sometimes used as a title of sorts to refer to a grown woman who is elderly and single, as in the title of this chapter.

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While there stirred in his soul the recollection of the physical impression of those beautiful lips on his eyelids and the sweet warmth of that youthful breath on his face, neither in his dreams nor in the darkness and silent solitude of night did the doctor again hear indistinct sounds like a slithering ghost, nor did he believe that he felt any spirit at his side. His reflections to determine who she was took on a character that we can qualify as entirely realistic. The doctor faced up to the impression that the unknown friend had made on him, and he reviewed all the women who lived in his memory and with whom he had experienced anything like love. The only conclusion that the doctor reached by evoking such recollections was that he had never loved. His first love, therefore, was Doña Costanza. He had had, admittedly, a few more or less common affairs of the heart. None of the heroines of those adventures was his immortal friend; nor was any of the boarders, dancers, and seamstresses in Granada, nor was a Gypsy girl, nor several traviatas by trade (whom he also remembered), nor three or four good-looking little maids who had been in his mother’s service, and with whom the doctor, back in his youth, had been more forward and more familiar than was wise or in the best interests of the illustrious López de Mendoza heir. It turned out, as a consequence, that within the limits of what was naturally possible, as the doctor understood those limits, his immortal friend had never appeared before his eyes, not since he was a man named Don Faustino, and not until the night of the mysterious meeting that we have related. She could have seen him without being seen herself and fallen in love with him. Where and how? It was difficult to determine. Three or four days passed and the vivid impression, the imprint, so to speak, of the unnamed woman’s lips was erased from the doctor’s eyelids, but the image of that woman, who had entered into his being through his eyes, remained impressed on his soul. And not only on his soul; the doctor believed that he also retained that image on his very retina. The more time that passed, after having actually seen the woman, the more her image lingered, acquiring as it did a certain fantastic consistency. When he closed his eyes, when he was in the dark, he saw her surrounded by a brilliant nimbus. Although the image that the doctor contemplated was somewhat confused and indistinct, he ended up finding in it a certain resemblance with another image that he also preserved in his memory. His mother had, in her drawing room, a sixteenth-century portrait that looked like the work of Pantoja.1 It was a lady dressed in black velvet, with tucked and rolled sleeves, a mag1. Juan Pantoja de la Cruz (1551–1608), court painter (Philip II, Philip III) who distinguished himself as a portraitist.



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nificent string of pearls, ruff and cuffs of frill or flounce, and a profusion of diamonds on her head. Although it had no name on it, people knew that the portrait was of the Inca lady or Peruvian princess with whose money the ancestral home of the López de Mendozas had been built. Not immediately, but four days after having seen his immortal friend, the doctor made the connection: she resembled the Inca lady more than a little. It can be readily understood that the doctor’s poetic imagination was completely at odds with his refined intelligence and with his critical spirit. All of the doctor’s ratiocinations served to demonstrate that the unknown woman who had written to him and who had kissed his eyelids was a woman of flesh and blood, baptized in some parish, not centuries old, but twenty at the most, and who was most likely named Juana, Francisca, Teresa, or some other name along the lines of the many that are on the Catholic calendar. However, since he found the name immortal friend too long and emphatic, the doctor decided, on a whim, to come up with a name that was less vague in his eyes, and so he called her María. Perhaps it was chance; perhaps historical time contributed to his choice, because in that age of Romanticism, instead of calling their nymphs Nise, Phyllis, Galatea, Delia, and other somewhat pastoral, gentilic, and Hellenic names, the poets had made the sweet-sounding María fashionable, and when their verses were not dedicated To Her!, they were dedicated To María!, almost always. The remarkable thing about it was that, after having given the unknown woman the name María, and after having called her that a number of times in his thoughts, the doctor remembered—to his surprise, because the coincidence took him aback somewhat—that the Inca lady, during her mortal life, when Felipe II reigned as king of Spain, had also been called María, Doña María. Afterward the doctor recalled several stories that he had read or that he had heard told, which, if they invariably corroborated in his imagination the absurd notion that the Inca lady had something in common with the immortal friend, they also shed light on his comprehension in order to explain it all rationally. In the first place, since his recollection of the portrait was not perfectly clear and that of the unknown woman, whom he had seen for only a few minutes, was still more unclear, it could very well have been that the resemblance was more imaginary than actual. The story of the Inca lady whose spirit roamed the house keeping watch over the treasure of pearls had perhaps contributed to infusing that idea into his fantasies. When he was a child he had heard people say that the Inca lady was, moreover, the most active of the genies, familiar spirits, or Lares of the house. While Commander Mendoza

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confined himself to suffering as a soul in torment in the attic, the Inca lady had intervened in not a few family matters. At least that is what was said in Villabermeja. These and other recollections had no doubt excited the doctor’s imagination. The surest thing, then, was to believe that the immortal friend was a madwoman, or a romantic, or a woman who had wished to amuse herself at the doctor’s expense, God knows with what end in mind. Even her resembling the Inca lady, provided that she did in fact resemble her, could be justified and accepted as probable. After all, are there not people who look very much alike without being related? Besides, could not the unknown woman be related somehow to the doctor and, therefore, to the Inca lady? What the doctor did not doubt by any manner of means was that he had not dreamed either the letter or the meeting at the house where the old woman had taken him or the kisses on his eyelids. His immortal friend, by the very obvious testimony of his senses, was a living being who shook the air with her speech, who breathed, who moved, who had warmth and spirit and blood in her veins. The doctor vividly remembered all of this. Being a prudent man, he forbade Respetilla to tell anyone, not even Manolilla, that one night he had been out until four o’clock in the morning. Respetilla was so afraid of his master that he held his tongue, notwithstanding his fondness for spilling everything, and he continued to suspect that Doña Costanza was not as given to dodges as her maid, and that she could be compared better with any well-disposed clock than with the Pamplona clock cited in the fandango verse. Unfortunately for Don Faustino, Respetilla’s brazen suspicions were groundless. Doña Costanza did not yet love her cousin, although she did continue wanting to love him and seeing him for a while every night at the garden grille. On the other hand, the affection that the doctor had inspired in the tender heart of Niña Araceli was growing by the day. This affection was love and more than love, but since it was love felt with humility and magnanimous devotion, and by a spirit imprisoned in a sad framework of bones and covered with wrinkled skin, it had assumed the generous, sublime form of wanting to be realized and fulfilled by means of another, third, soul and by means of another beautiful young body that Niña Araceli also loved and idolized. Some people will think that what I am relating is unusual and rare, but if they give it careful consideration they will see that this occurs frequently. There are, happily, hearts of old men and old women who are not so monstrous as to love only for themselves, who do not retreat into selfishness, and who continue loving with more vitality and in a more complete way, if that



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is possible, than when they were youths. One of these hearts, and one of the most noble, was that of Doña Araceli. She loved Costancita more tenderly than Don Faustino loved her and could love her, and had ended up loving her nephew too, so much so that were her heart in Doña Costanza’s body, not only would she marry him, she would brave death and misery and all there was to be braved for him. Her cherished dream was, in consequence, to see them married to each other. Faustino and Costanza were like two pieces of her very own soul, on whose intimate union Doña Araceli staked all her happiness and all her joy. The unbroken and close friendship that ever since childhood had united Doña Araceli and Doña Ana, the doctor’s mother, had served as the basis of Doña Araceli’s affection for Don Faustino. The latter’s personal qualities, along with contact and living together, had then caused that affection to grow. As a result, Niña Araceli was burning with impatience as she saw how long it was taking the love affair of her niece and nephew to reach a happy conclusion. The talk that she had with Costancita, and which we have related, was repeated twice more to no avail. Fearing that her nephew’s timidity was the reason that the relationship was not making headway, Doña Araceli decided in the end to broach the subject with him, and in order to do so, one day she took him to her room where they could be alone. “Faustino,” she said to him, “until now I’ve resisted speaking plainly to you, but now I need to. It’s incomprehensible that being the kind of young man that you are—handsome, gallant, discreet, learned—you can, at the same time, be so socially backward. I arranged with your mother for you to come here to see whether you could win Costanza’s heart and fall in love with her. Because of my love for your mother, I wanted to lay the groundwork for such an advantageous marriage. Since I’ve gotten to know you better I’ve grown most fond of you and want to see this wedding become a reality out of my love for you too, but I was relying on you and you’re letting me down. Not for want of love, no, not that. I see that you love my niece. Admit it. Isn’t it true that she’s very charming? Isn’t it true that she’s talented? Isn’t it true that you adore her?” “Yes, Aunt, I adore her,” replied Don Faustino. “Then, why don’t you tell her, you idiot? I know that she is much inclined to love you, but, naturally ....... Listen, where did you get the idea that women are the ones who do the courting and the chasing? Faustino, my boy, you’re wasting the time and the opportunity. You’re going to have the same thing happen to you that happened to the hero of an old play titled The Punishment for a Thoughtless Mistake. Even though you shoot glances at your cousin like

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flaming arrows that burn into her heart, it’s not enough. You have to talk to her.” Anxious to keep the secret of his conversations at the garden grille, the doctor said to his aunt: “But, where and how am I supposed to talk to my cousin? She’s always surrounded by people or is at her father’s side.” Although she had promised not to reveal that Costanza had read the love letter to her, at this point Doña Araceli could no longer contain herself and blurted out: “Enough, don’t fib. No more pretenses. I know that you have written to Costancita telling her of your love and asking to meet with her. In an expansive moment she read me your letter. She says she doesn’t want to answer you. Write to her again and you’ll see how she does. I feel that she already loves you. It’s timidity or pride on your part not to write her a second letter, since the first, if not answered, was well received.” The conversation between nephew and aunt continued along these lines for a long time, and Doña Araceli preached so much and pushed the doctor so hard that, despite his discretion, at length he confessed to his aunt that he had been talking with Doña Costanza at the garden grille for a number of nights now. Doña Araceli received the news with more jubilation than if it were she herself who was talking at the grille. Her curiosity to learn the most pettifogging details bordered on lunacy. She delighted in them as if her soul were simultaneously the soul of the doctor and the soul of Doña Costanza in love. Don Faustino had to relate everything to her and repeat the most important points. “Lord above!” exclaimed Doña Araceli. “So. Talks at the grille seven nights in a row, in the solemn silence of the small hours, by the scant light of the stars, in the midst of an atmosphere perfumed by orange blossoms and violets. Both of you handsome and young. And she’s said nothing, she’s yet to decide or admit that she loves you? Does she have a heart of stone? Is she a rock and not a woman? I assure you that I don’t understand it. And tell me, my boy, without any false sense of shame, which is beside the point here, and speak to me as if I were your confessor, because I love you very much and I’m looking out for you, so I repeat, tell me: Have your faces ever been so close that they’ve touched? Have your lips never even brushed Costancita’s forehead?” “Never, Aunt. I’ve only taken her pretty hand and kissed it.” “Oh, nephew, nephew! If you weren’t so truthful I wouldn’t believe you. That girl is a nitwit! And so resistant and sly and shrewd to boot! How she kept it to herself! Then too she has a truly strong constitution, as those late



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hours and late talks aren’t leaving any traces on her face. She hasn’t lost color, nor does she have rings under her eyes. Girls nowadays are the very devil. She’s fresh and ruddy like a rose. But what am I saying, ‘like a rose’? What rose doesn’t wither and lose its petals if it’s exposed to the July sun and dawn doesn’t leave a drop of dew in its receptacle?” “Aunt,” sighed Don Faustino in reply, “I don’t think Costanza loves me. The sun of my love not only cannot wither her, but it doesn’t even exist for her.” “No, my boy, don’t say that. Costanza loves you. If she didn’t love you, there would be no forgiving her brazenness and flirtation in going to the grille to talk to you. What’s important now is that your love go forward and that you two come to an agreement soon, so that Holy Mother Church can sanctify it, yoking your necks with the sweet and indissoluble bond of matrimony.” Don Faustino did not know what to say in response to such good wishes and stammered his profuse gratitude. Feeling encouraged, Doña Araceli then said: “I’ll see to everything or I’m not the person I think I am.” “Aunt, consider what you are doing and don’t destroy me. For God’s sake, don’t tell Costanza that I couldn’t keep quiet and disclosed to you the secret of our meetings. She would never forgive me.” “Faustinito, don’t be frightened and don’t start trembling. If you go on like this, you’re going to be the most henpecked husband in the annals of history. Don’t worry. I will not say a word to Costancita about all that you’ve told me. I’ll look for other ways to win her over completely to your side.” “Thank you, Aunt, but ..... a lot of prudence, a lot of circumspection is called for. Let’s not ruin everything by trying to move too fast.” “The tambourine is in good hands. You’ll see what a good sound I get out of it for you to dance.” “May it please God, Auntie.” “Listen, Faustinito, I’m going to tell you something, although, being a philosopher, you’re going to make fun of me, but I want you to thank me for the grief I’m suffering on your behalf.” “What grief? Is Uncle Alonso angry by chance because you support my suit of his daughter?” “It’s not that. To tell the truth, although your Uncle Alonso is not angry, he’s not thrilled about this suit either. Your Uncle Alonso is as slippery as an eel, and you have to be the devil himself to fathom what he wants. The only sure thing is that he’ll subject his will to that of his daughter if she firmly decides in your favor. Anyway, and I shouldn’t keep this from you, your Uncle Alonso is not all that taken with you at the moment. He considers you a

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dreamer, an absent-minded young man who is not too practical or not practical at all. Lastly, and I am loathe to tell you this because I myself believe that, in this regard, he has a point ..... he accuses you of—” “—he accuses me of what?” “He accuses you .....” “Say it.” “He accuses you of not being very religious, but, as time goes by, I expect you’ll mend your ways. I have read in The Christian Year and in other devout books about the lives of several princesses and aristocratic ladies who married Jewish, Moorish, and heathen kings and in the end converted them. Why can’t Costancita do the same? Is she by chance less persuasive and possessed of less feminine charm than those women?” “Yes, Auntie. Have no doubts that Costanza will convert me and do with me what she pleases, provided that she love me. But, come on now, explain that grief.” “My dear boy, it’s a silly thing and you’ll make fun of it.” “I won’t make fun. Tell me.” “You’ll see how weak and fainthearted we women are. You’re aware of the fact that I lived with your mother for a few years before she married, and that afterward, when you were a tyke, I spent a long spell with her in Villabermeja, and that we have always corresponded, each one enjoying the other’s complete confidence. It will come as no surprise to you, therefore, that I know the history of your family and that of your house.” “And what can you know, Aunt, that causes your grief? That I’m penniless? I’m not hiding it.” “It’s not that, my dear, not that. I’ve already told you that it’s a silly thing, a delirium, but one that troubles me on occasion. You should know that Villabermejans speak of a family spirit that dwells in your house and that intervenes in everything. Your father, who was never scared by anything, told me once that when you were born the spirit in question appeared to him in dreams and spoke to him about you, predicting dark things that he didn’t want or didn’t know how to tell me. Afterward I heard countless fabrications there. And since your mother has in her drawing room the portrait of the person whose spirit, detached from the body for centuries, is the one that people believe carries out such deviltries, my imagination has gotten all worked up of late, and I have this vague feeling that I’ve seen said spirit in the form in which she’s depicted in the portrait.” “You’ve seen the Inca lady, Aunt?” asked Don Faustino with an astonishment that he could not disguise. “Yes, I’ve seen her two or three times in dreams, and she has looked at me



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very angrily, almost as if she wanted me to understand that she is opposed to my intervention in the matter of your marriage. In any event, although I recognize that it’s foolishness, I’ve been afraid. For several nights now—and this stays here, between us—I’ve had a maid sleep in my room under the pretext that I’m not well.” “But, you’ve seen the Inca lady only in dreams, right?” “Well, how else was I going to see her? God, my dear boy, cannot allow the souls of the dead to wander around here for centuries on end to frighten or amuse the living. Absolutely not!” “That’s true, Aunt.” “The bad part is that one’s imagination can get carried away. It produces a fiction, and then on this fiction there rises a pile of other fictions. I’m saying this because not many days ago I went to an early morning mass at the parish church. At first I scarcely noticed that there was a woman at my side, a tall, slender woman dressed in black, who seemed to be praying. I don’t know why her odd and out-of-the-ordinary appearance began to attract my attention little by little. Before I got to my feet she stood up to leave. The woman then turned toward me and I saw her face for the first time, and I had this awful thought that it resembled the face of the portrait in your mother’s possession.” “And you haven’t seen that woman again?” asked the doctor. “No, I haven’t seen her again. The hallucination that she produced in me then is the cause, no doubt, of other dreams that I had afterward. But the sign of the cross drives evil spirits away, and I’ll try not to be afraid of them. Although Satan may be opposed, I aim to work so that you can marry Costancita.” With these words Doña Araceli ended the conversation, leaving the doctor with high hopes of being completely happy in his amorous aspirations, although somewhat confused and pensive on account of all those coincidences involving the Inca lady, the portrait, and the immortal friend whom he called María.

[ 11 ] D iplomatic A ctivit y

A fte r t he conversation with her nephew, Doña Araceli realized that it was important to move forward without hesitation or to desist without further ado. She thought things over and concluded that such a state of affairs could not continue, so she resolved to issue an ultimatum to her niece and to her brother Don Alonso. She wanted them to send the doctor on his way or to accept and recognize him as the official fiancé and future husband of Doña Costanza. Doña Araceli’s reasons, as she reflected on them, should be summarized and set forth here. Don Faustino was beginning to look somewhat ridiculous. Everybody in the town, because in a small provincial town almost nothing is kept secret, knew that he had come to court Doña Costanza, and since the courtship had stalled and in the end could even result in failure, the more time that passed the greater and more sensational would be the snub. Seeing that the doctor was not worldly and was, moreover, in love, he did not understand this very well. Although Doña Araceli loved Doña Costanza with all her heart, love did not put blinders on her, and she saw a bad omen in the pretense and restraint of her niece, who talked to the doctor at the grille, without confiding in her. And Doña Araceli saw an even worse omen in the control that Costanza exercised over herself so that—after seven nights during which such a gallant youth had talked to her about his love with, one could assume, arresting eloquence—she could refrain from accepting his proposal and could continue to consult her heart without discovering what her

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heart responded. Doña Araceli recalled her own youth, and deep in the profound secrecy of her conscience she pictured scenes at the grille when she too had talked with a beloved. How to resist, if one loves a little, the sweet, passionate words, the sighs, the promises of love, the complaints, desire expressed in a gesture and in languid glances, when all of it is reinforced by the magic of silence, of nocturnal repose, of darkness, of the unsteady light of stars that seem to fall in love with one another in the blue firmament; reinforced too by the perfume of the flowers, the soft freshness of the pleasant surroundings, the distant cooing of some dove or the amorous trill of some nightingale, and a thousand other incentives to be found at such hours, and in the spring, climate, earth, and sky of Andalusia? All this, as Doña Araceli recalled it, was irresistible at the age of eighteen. Let my readers also understand that I have given indications that Doña Araceli had been somewhat easygoing and more loving than severe. The first thing that women who think themselves severe should not do is go to a grille at night to talk to their suitor or fiancé. Not for such a reason will the author of this story maintain here that there are not women who do go to the grille, who are in love with the one talking to them, and who skimp as much or more than Doña Costanza on favors and generous indulgences. But I repeat, the best thing is not to go to the grille, and so I recommend to the fathers, mothers, and brothers of Andalusian misses: Remove the occasion and you remove the temptation. Wine is not the only thing that intoxicates. Be that as it may, since Costancita had gone down to the grille seven successive nights, Doña Araceli could not comprehend why, despite the girl’s decency and Catholic upbringing, she had not even permitted her cousin to kiss her on the forehead. For Doña Araceli’s nature, impulses, and tender ways, this constituted proof positive that Costancita did not love the doctor and that she was stringing him along and amusing herself at his expense. To be sure, thought Doña Araceli, you have to be full of the devil in order to go down to the garden on the sly, from one to two or three in the morning, and also in order to go with so much mystery that a body would think it was a crime, and with the sole intention of extending her hand to be kissed and to say: “We’ll see if I love you.” Clearly, there’s no understanding today’s girls. Another thought occurred to Doña Araceli, one that cannot be gainsaid, and I do not doubt that my most serious women readers will be in agreement with it. Costancita’s behavior did not lend itself to a good interpretation. Why all that mystery? Why not say openly that she loved her cousin? Why not talk to him already as she would to her intended in front of all the people who came to the tertulia? The business of going to the grille was compromising and sin-

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ful and did not even have the excuse of love, since Costancita still did not love. Having engaged in all the abovementioned reflections, and numerous others which, in honor of brevity, are omitted, Doña Araceli wrapped her mantilla around her shoulders and went off to Don Alonso’s house, determined to set the matter to rights or raise a ruckus with no further delay or evasion. Don Alonso was at the Casino and Doña Costanza received her aunt alone. What they said is of the utmost importance, and it is transcribed here as faithfully as could a stenographer. “Costancita,” said Doña Araceli after greeting her and taking a seat, “I want us to understand each other once and for all. My best friend’s son has come here, trusting in my promises and good offices, and it’s not right that he should be made to look the fool. Do you love him or don’t you? You can no longer argue that he doesn’t love you, that he hasn’t expressed his feelings to you. Why make him suffer? Why keep him in an awful uncertainty if you actually do love him? And if you don’t love him, why beguile him with idle hopes, thereby making the wound that you plan to inflict on him, or already have, deeper, possibly mortal?” “Aunt, Aunt,” said Costanza, “you’re coming at me sword in hand. You’re the one who has come to wound me. You’re in a state. And what do you expect me to say to all that? I want to love my cousin. I feel inclined to love him, but I don’t love him yet. It’s not my fault. Do I dictate to my heart?” “But, my dear child, then what heart is this heart of yours? What are you saying? That after three or four weeks of seeing, talking, and spending time with your cousin, your heart tells you nothing, neither for nor against?” “It isn’t that my heart doesn’t tell me anything. My heart tells me too much, and my head responds, and between my heart and my head cruel arguments break out, arguments that bewilder me and drive me to distraction.” “Unburden yourself to me, Costancita,” said Doña Araceli very tenderly, approaching her niece and embracing her affectionately. “Look, Aunt, I love you so much, I believe you’re so good, that I’m going to open my soul to you and show you everything in it, good and bad. I’m going to lay bare my doubts and contradictions, frankly and honestly.” “Talk to me, talk to me, my beauty.” “For real, Aunt Araceli. I am very young, I am inexperienced, and I know very little about passions and love affairs, but I suspect that in love there are degrees, like in everything. To a certain degree, it seems to me that I already love my cousin, who’s discreet, handsome, well educated, and possessed of other attractive qualities. With half, with a quarter of the love that I already



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profess for Faustinito, any other woman would have more than enough to accept a man as fiancé and then as husband. But I reflect too much, and I need double or triple the love that I have for my cousin in order to marry him, overcoming the reflections. I believe that he loves me, but I also need in him double or triple the love that he has for me.” “What do you mean? Explain yourself.” “It’s very simple. With double or triple the love, with a sublime, immense love, our union would be a happy one. We would live here or in Villabermeja in a perpetual idyll. We would look after our property and build it up. Our children, if we were to have them, would be the glory, the fame, the masters of these parts. In peace, and closely and lovingly bound together, Faustino and I would walk the path of life, a flower-strewn path, without anything disturbing our tranquillity or poisoning our enchanted and inexhaustible glass of happiness in the world. But without that love, triple the love that we now have for each other, I am inclined to believe that, were we to marry, both of us would be unhappy. I wouldn’t resign myself to living here or in Villabermeja, and Faustino less so, because he is very ambitious. He has nothing, and I expect to have very little. My father’ll be able to give me, at most, an income of three or four thousand duros. And what’s that in order to live in Madrid? I want to assume that Faustino is a genius, a wonder. Do you believe that with his poetry, literature, and philosophy he’ll manage to bring in another one thousand duros over and above what I’ll receive? I don’t. If he gets involved in politics, he might land an important public post for six months or a year, and then a long period of unemployment will ensue. Since Faustino is not a man of a certain class, since he’s more of a songbird than a bird of prey, he’ll always be poor. Even assuming that he is a person of worth, that he is going to rise to the most prominent positions and that he is going to enjoy success, all the paltry salaries that he’ll have in life, accumulated and added up, if it were feasible to save them in toto, won’t constitute—and I don’t think that anybody can state that they’ll constitute—a capital of twenty thousand duros, in other words, an annual income of a thousand or so duros. This is not to say that Faustino won’t triumph as a savant, as an orator or as a poet, but with this triumph you don’t pay the dressmaker, nor do you purchase elegant furniture, carriages, horses, clothes, jewelry, and everything else that a lady needs for her to triumph too. It would be a very sad thing, Aunt, if I had to content myself with and take comfort in enjoying the reflection of my husband’s glory, and if, were he to have me at his side on occasion, I passed among the aristocratic ladies of the capital for a temporary, short-lived, or provisional wife, for an obscure, diffident quasi-dishwasher, about whom a few would ask: ‘Who is she?’ And others would reply with disdain: ‘That’s Minister So-

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and-So’s wife; that’s Doctor Faustino’s or the poet Faustino’s wife.’ It’s worse, no doubt, for the husband to be the obscure one or the one who is known only through his wife, and there are also many such husbands. So it must be distressing and humiliating for a man if he is labeled the husband of Doña So-and-So or the husband of Countess Such-and-Such or something along these lines, but it is also humiliating and distressing to have the shoe on the other foot, and I will not resign myself to tolerating such a scenario. “In short, with what my father can give me and with the illusions and vague hopes of Faustinito, it would be absurd for us to marry, unless, of course, we loved each other so passionately that both of us would sacrifice every dream of ambition and glory and resign ourselves to living in some remote corner. Don’t think that I don’t understand the poetry of this life. I understand it so well that I have gone, and continue to go, in search of it with all the willpower I can muster. I’ve done everything possible to create in my heart the kind of love for Faustino that would overcome pride and other passions in me. I’ve also done everything possible to create in his heart the kind of love for me that would snuff out his ambition and all his false illusions. I can’t flatter myself to think that I’ve accomplished the one or the other. “I’ll confess everything to you. Not out of perverse coquetry, but driven by my desire for love and by all these pastoral dreams and idylls that wrestle with other dreams, I agreed to meet with Faustino at the garden grille. I talked to him, I gave him my hand to kiss, and I very nearly told him that I did love him. He’s been eloquent, passionate, and tender, but all the while interweaving his dreams of glory in his love, and ineptly describing for me, in order to entice me, the fulfillment of his hopes, which awakened in me the ambition that men often forget also stirs the souls of women.” “Oh, Costanza, my child!” exclaimed Doña Araceli on the verge of tears. Very upset and distressed, she then said: “I’m astounded, I’m terrified, and I’m bewildered by what you girls know and reason now. It wasn’t like that in my day.” “Aunt, it has always been the same, in your day too. On the other hand, it’s not my fault that I know and reason so much. All that I’ve said, and more, was taught to me by my father. The suitor himself, who is so poetic, whom you sought for me, has also taught me to reason as I do.” “But, my dear, I believe that you reason wrongly and perversely. What? So as not to pass for a quasi-dishwasher or a temporary wife one has to have more than three or four thousand duros income a year? Those diamonds, those riches: they’re needed by homely and silly women in order to attract attention, but the discreet and beautiful ones, like you, carve a niche for themselves and get along splendidly, anywhere, with neither jewelry nor trinkets.



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What gemstone is more valuable than beauty? What trinket more rare than true ingeniousness? What pearl more lustrous than discretion? Besides, a woman like you, so well bred and so well related: who will dare not to consider you a legitimate lady, even though you may not go around in a carriage?” “Aunt, believe me when I tell you that money is what constitutes in this age, as perhaps it did in every age, the real aristocracy. Without money, I’ll be a plebeian, even though I may descend from the Cid,1 and with money I’ll pass for nobility personified, even though I may be the daughter of a smuggler, a footman, a slaver, a usurer, or an outlaw.” Doña Araceli still attempted to refute Costancita’s diabolical reasoning, but she quickly lost heart and gave up, not for lack of conviction, but owing to maladroitness of thought and words. “And what do you intend to do, my dear?” she finally asked. “If I had twenty thousand duros income,” replied Costancita, “I would marry my cousin without hesitation. This will prove to you that I love Faustino. If I didn’t have anything, if I was as mad about him as he is about me, I would take him for my husband, because he, on taking me for his wife, would demonstrate to me a real and profound love that would satisfy my pride and move me to be no less generous. But my middling fortune destroys these two poetic extremes, and places me and places him at such a prosaic midway point that there is no alternative except to say good-bye to my cousin, turning him down as gently as possible. And believe me, Aunt, I’m sorry. I really am sorry. If I’m in love with him, how can I not be sorry?” And having said this, that peculiar girl burst into tears and cried like a child whose most treasured toy just got broken. Doña Araceli was dismayed. She thought that misfortune pursued her without fail in all her loves, both those in which she had played the leading role and those in which she played the supporting role. Doña Araceli had not been to able marry, and still could not, albeit vicariously. A cruel fate drove the god Hymenaeus2 from her side. As a young woman she had not been marriageable, and when she was an old woman she did not succeed as a marriage broker. These melancholy thoughts flooded her mind and Doña Araceli, accompanying Costancita, also shed tears. Both wept—as a duet, with the utmost distress—the infaust love of Doctor Faustino. Theirs seemed like the grief that back in ancient times, in Crete and in other countries, mothers must have suffered when they took their children, 1. El Cid Campeador: Rodrigo Díaz de Vivar (1043–1099), Spanish soldier and national hero whose deeds have been romanticized and sung in the anonymous epic “The Song of the Cid.” 2. The ancient Greek god who led wedding processions.

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the loves of their lives, to be sacrificed and immolated on the altars of the Cabiri3 or other subterranean genies, creators and distributors of resplendent metals. At length, worn out from crying, both of them dried their tears, recognizing that the bitter pill had no remedy. The sun shone that day like every other day. Night descended, and not a single star was missing in the sky, nor did any flower lose its petals sooner than the time dictated by nature. On the public walk and at the tertulia at her house Costancita appeared as unchangeable as the sun, the stars, and the flowers. Doña Araceli also tried to mask her bad mood, but she could not mask it as much as her niece. She played omber that night. As usual, she always got angry and hopping mad when she lost, but that night she saw red. She lamented her continual bad luck, sighed, protested, and called the marquis of Guadalbarbo discourteous because he was so ungallant as to win three tricks from her. Doña Araceli also had the word cardsharp on the tip of her tongue— to such an extent did she get hot under the collar and lose due composure. At one o’clock that night the doctor left the house, accompanied by Respetilla. Doña Costanza was longer than other times in coming to the window grille. She finally arrived, but tearful, jumpy, and downcast. “Faustino,” she said, “my father knows everything. I don’t know who told him, but he knows everything and he has just reprimanded me in the most stern manner. He made me promise not to talk to you again. I’m only breaking my promise to say good-bye to you. My father is unalterably opposed to this courtship of ours and I must not go against his will. Inexorable fate separates us. Forget me. Pity me. But I want to have this relief at least as I cause your undoing—I can’t keep it from you any longer: I love you!” The final I love you was the sweetness in which the bitterness of the illconcealed rejection had been wrapped. The doctor understood (and perhaps he did not deceive himself, because the human heart is an inky abyss) that the I love you was the biggest truth that there was in all of Doña Costanza’s reasoning. He proposed abducting her and carrying her off to wherever she wished, and assured Costancita that, because of his love for her, he would brave any and every danger and defy the anger of all the natural and supernatural powers in the universe. With uncommon skill, and without injuring the doctor’s pride, Doña Costanza made him see that abduction plans, a wedding in defiance of pa3. A triad of Greek fertility gods, divinities of a mysterious character who could not be named with impunity.



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ternal wishes, and a Villabermejan retreat were delusions to be avoided. She likewise showed that her father was right to oppose their courtship, and that they, even loving each other very much, as they did, would be unhappy if they were husband and wife; that heaven frowned on that marriage; that the doctor had a bright future ahead of him, one full of good fortune and glory, and that she, far from lending him wings to reach it in one flight, would put shackles on his feet such that he would not even be able to wend his way step by step. In short: Costancita was eloquent, inspired, dazzling. I regret that I am not up to transcribing faithfully here everything that she said. It would serve as a model for a thousand similar speeches that señoritas frequently feel obliged to deliver. The poor doctor, although dismissed, abandoned, and trampled, had to be grateful. Nevertheless, it should not be understood that Doña Costanza was a heartless, hypocritical, deceitful, and cold coquette. With her aunt in the morning and with the doctor at night, she had been equally candid and sincere. She did not lie by declaring that she loved the doctor. She did indeed love him, and she loved him passionately, but she also loved her well-being, her womanly vanity, and her hopes of triumphing one day and dazzling the haut monde. Even Doña Costanza’s surmise that her soul was a kindred soul to the doctor’s, assailed by the same conflicting passions, gripped by like feelings at odds, made her more sympathetic, seductive, and adorable to her cousin. But it was for the very reason that she loved him that she was now withdrawing from him, distancing herself from him. “It breaks my heart,” said Doña Costanza, “but we must not see each other again, we must forget these days of madness, this fleeting dream of a dangerous, insane love.” Thus did Costancita crown her victim with flowers as she thrust a dagger into his insides. Her voice quavered, choked as it was with sobs, and fat tears welled up in her eyes and ran down her cheeks. What puzzled Doña Araceli so much because it had not happened before, happened then, without our being able to do anything about it. Inasmuch as she was crying, Costancita leaned her forehead against the grille, and the doctor, affected beyond words, brought his lips near and deposited a kiss on that serene and innocent brow. Then, as if she had emerged from a melancholy state of bliss, Costancita said: “Good-bye, cousin, good-bye!”

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And she made a move to go. “You leave me like this, you cruel thing?” said the doctor. “I must. Our fate ordains it. Good-bye! Don’t hate me.” “Hate you ......? Never! If only I could stop loving you!” “No, don’t love me. Love another, one who is less unworthy and less unfortunate than I, but remember me fondly. Good-bye, cousin!” And Costancita withdrew from the grille and disappeared, followed by her maid Manolilla, who had been chatting with the faithful page. The doctor kept his tears for solitude. That night, when he was alone in his room, he wept much and slept little. The following morning Don Faustino used his mother as a pretext saying he had just received a letter from her telling him that she was ill, and he hastily arranged his departure. After formally saying good-bye to his uncle Don Alonso and to his cousin Costanza; after handing out five hundred reales in tips to the servants; and after receiving, to alleviate his sorrows, a million kisses, hugs, and tears from Niña Araceli, the doctor set out on the road to Villabermeja, accompanied by Respetilla, whose mule was transporting the trunks with the uniforms and other trappings that had been of so little use and worth to him. Let’s allow him to go in peace, if that is possible, and let’s petition heaven to grant him sufficient courage and patience for the sorrows and troubles that he still has to undergo. The reader and I will stay a few more days in Costancita’s hometown, where we are to witness events of great moment for this true story.

[ 12 ] T he M arquis of G uadalbarbo

The pe rson whose name serves as the heading for this chapter was around fifty years of age and enjoyed upwards of twentyfive thousand duros annual income. He was a widower and childless. On the fertile and vast Guadalbarbo estate there was a feudal castle, from which, as the marquis told it, his heroic ancestors fought against the Moors for six or seven centuries. The detractors claimed that the marquis’s grandfather had been a summons server who, having prospered during the reign of Carlos III,1 had purchased that estate and other properties, and that his father, whose buffoonery made María Luisa2 laugh a great deal, had taken the title afterward. But, however that may be, either by spilling the blood of the infidels or causing the faithful to weep or bringing sweet laughter to the lips of a lively queen, the fact is that the marquis of Guadalbarbo had income and a title, wherever and whatever their source. He had inherited some of the gay character, along with the sparkle and pleasantry, that served his father so well, but at bottom he was a very grave, restrained, and at times austere man. His older sister, the countess of Majano, was almost in the odor of sanctity, and the marquis often consulted her and usually sought her out as a norm and gauge for his conduct. 1. Proclaimed king of Spain in 1759. 2. María Luisa de Parma (1751–1819), frivolous and dissolute queen of Spain; married to Carlos IV, son of Carlos III.

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Desirous of visiting his lands and forsaking the din and intrigues of the capital city of Madrid, at least for a short spell, he had come to Don Alonso’s neck of the woods where he owned some property. He had been there for a month. The countess of Majano was at a loss to explain what could detain him so long. The marquis scarcely wrote to her, and when he did he was very laconic. Finally, some ten days after Doctor Faustino’s departure, the marquis wrote his sister a long letter giving her all the particulars of his stay. We transcribe it here in its entirety.

My dear sister: When I relate the causes and reasons that detain me here, you won’t continue to be surprised. You yourself, by deploring the vices, scandals, and turmoil of the capital, made me see my annoyance with it and prompted me to come among these simple people. I’m as happy as a lark here. I have made an excellent friend in the town’s foremost gentleman, whose name is Don Alonso de Bobadilla. This Don Alonso combines qualities that are rarely found together: he is active, takes good care of his possessions, and knows a thing or two about agriculture. He knows, in short, which side his bread is buttered on, but at the same time he’s the most God-fearing, churchgoing, and devout man that I’ve met in my life. When he’s not out in the country looking after his properties, he’s at a special religious service or at a novena, hardly ever at the Casino. This man’s friendship has served me very well, both for improving my holdings with his advice and for my spiritual contentment with his pleasant companionship. Don Alonso is a widower like me, but blessed with a delightful daughter. I have never seen a more ingenuous creature. But don’t go thinking that she’s silly, ignorant, or slow. Quite the contrary: Costancita, which is her name, is exceptionally bright and sharp-minded. Her clear understanding of things shows refinement, and her education has been sound and very Christian, even bordering on austerity. What an interesting contrast you see between her youthful mischief, her laughter, her jokes, and the utter ignorance of all things evil, which from the depths of her pure heart seems to illuminate her innocent pranks! The seclusion in which Costancita was brought up by an aunt of hers, a lifelong spinster, was extraordinary and yielded, as you might expect, the best of results. Since Costancita is a grown woman and, as her father says, “has now taken wing,” she is not even chaperoned by her aunt. The aunt



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lives apart from them, and Costancita is almost always at her papa’s side. He watches over her like an Argus,3 keeping a tight rein. Costancita has never read a single one of these perverse novels that are being written now, only books of devotion, a little history, and a lot of The Christian Year. She sews and embroiders exquisitely. At her father’s request, she made me a pita tobacco pouch that is a marvel of patience, and she knows how to prepare and flavor a thousand delicious preserved fruit and pastry dishes, which she learned from the nuns in whose convent she entered with her aunt when that Carlist general Miguel Gómez rode through these parts. She then remained in the convent for more than two years, and it almost became necessary for her father to remove her from it bodily, because she had grown very fond of those holy sisters and was determined to take the veil. Having been brought up like this, Costancita is an angel on Earth. She gives alms, sends flowers and beeswax to the convent chapel, and is a fervent devotee of Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception. The aunt, known as Niña Araceli, is a very nice woman, except that she gets furious when she plays omber and loses. In spite of the fact that we play for peanuts. And I say “we” because I frequently play a hand with her. I have never seen people who look out less for their own interests, in certain things, than this Niña Araceli and this kindly Don Alonso. Would you believe that they have a relative in a little hick town not far from here, a young man as poor as a church mouse, and both consented to his coming here for the first time so that he could marry Costancita if the two cousins liked each other? Fortunately, this relative person, who spent a few days here, is nothing but an out-and-out pedant, perverted by the dreadful and abominable doctrines that are being taught at universities nowadays, and so ungodly that not once did anybody see him at mass. How was such a nonentity going to find favor in Doña Costanza’s eyes? So naturally she hardly looked at him. She had the good grace to treat him pleasantly, of course, but disregarding him as a suitor, maybe without realizing that he had come to ask for her hand, because the poor girl, in spite of how quick and sharp she is in all matters that do not lean toward or can be seen as sinful, is completely blind to certain particulars. I have reasons to be convinced of it, and this is what charms me the most. 3. A herdsman assigned by Hera to watch over Io. He had one hundred eyes, half of which were always open. When Zeus had Hermes kill Argus to free Io, whom he loved, Hera immortalized her faithful servant by putting his eyes in the tail of the peacock.

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At all events, the atheist cousin lit out for home, and good riddance, having learned that honey is not intended for the lips of an ass and, of this I am certain, without having received even one amorous glance from his cousin. But, is that any surprise, if his cousin doesn’t know how to use her beautiful eyes on such frivolities? I have observed her persistently and have never surprised her looking at anybody except as she should. She only looks with amorous intensity—but in what a different way!—when she looks at her father or in church contemplates the image of any of the saints. How different this Costancita is from the many, many señoritas in Madrid, who have suitors by the dozen, who flirt with everybody and his brother, who know it all, and who are so brazen! You cannot imagine how much I’ve thought of you, especially when you used to censure, and rightly so, one young miss after another in Madrid’s high society because you saw me disposed to start a courtship and you wanted to dissuade me from such a disastrous inclination by drawing my attention to the dangers that were threatening me. Costancita is the polar opposite, I would say to myself! For sure my sister would not censure her! Anyhow, what is the point in beating about the bush? You are the first person I am informing. I have fallen hopelessly in love with Costancita. Flirtatious ways and vague words are not possible with her. Nor can one whisper in her ear, or get her on the dance floor to waltz, or enter into a relationship with her that does not lead to marriage with the consent of her family. Costancita’s modesty and decency, her quiet life, the respect that her honorable father inspires, and the very simplicity and ignorance of this pretty girl do not allow anything else. Bowing to the obvious, and enchanted, captive, nearly sick with love, I have sought the only proper, possible cure. I asked Don Alonso de Bobadilla for the hand of his daughter Doña Costanza. Don Alonso told me that, for his part, he would be honored to be my father-in-law, but that in no wise does he wish to go against his daughter’s will. He said that he would consult her and that it would be whatever Costancita wanted. Costancita asked me for ten days to come to a decision. Today the ten days were up, and Costancita has made me the happiest man alive by accepting my hand.

Thus, save for the close and remembrances, did the marquis’s letter end. And although it might get ahead of a few events, thereby disturbing the rigorous chronological order of our story, I will add that three weeks after the writ-



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ing of the letter that we have transcribed, in the presence of the countess of Majano, who came by horse-drawn coach from Madrid, with neither display nor ostentation nor circumstance, because Costancita with her modesty had an aversion to it, her marriage to the lovesick marquis was solemnized. Don Alonso, instead of the three or four thousand duros that he had promised, limited himself to giving his daughter two thousand duros annually, a sum that the generous husband matched and supplemented with some several thousand more so that his wife could dress as was fitting, and so that she could, openhandedly after the wedding, make up for the lack of jewelry, finery, and personal adornments that had been noticed in her.

[ 13 ] E xamination of C onscience

Wit h no inc i den t of note to record, the doctor had made his return journey to Villabermeja. His mother, to whom he related what he had not told her in letters about his courtship of Doña Costanza, and about the disillusioned end of it, berated her niece severely and did not treat any more kindly our friend Don Alonso de Bobadilla. After this natural and excusable outburst, Señora doña Ana Escalante de López de Mendoza grieved profoundly at seeing her son defeated and humiliated, and the doctor himself had to console her, explaining that it was hardly a debacle since he had gone to win Costancita’s love, not that of her father, and maintaining that it was not a humiliation that the marriage did not take place because of the reasons—social and economic—adduced by Don Alonso and the matter of prudence cited by Costancita, which he himself had recognized and accepted as understandable. Thus did a few days pass, until the mail brought the official announcement of Costancita’s marriage to the marquis of Gualdalbarbo. Then Doña Ana’s fury flared up anew, and the doctor tried to pacify her with a thousand judicious considerations. After both calmed down, because there is no excitement that does not end, mother and son slipped into a peaceful melancholy, and they continued to live in Villabermeja, more removed than before from dealings with all those people. Doña Ana administered their reduced fortune, the yield of which was consumed almost entirely in paying interest on the

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debt, and ably ran the house, where, with order and strict economy, she managed to retain aristocratic luster. The doctor, meanwhile, studied, meditated, and took long walks, often climbing hills, especially Watchtower Hill, to get a better view of the horizon. Sometimes he also rode out on horseback to the manor, which was the best of their properties. The manor, atop another hill, was far out in the country and distant from the main roads. Almost the only person with whom the doctor talked, besides his mother, was the faithful Respetilla, who usually entertained him and coaxed a smile out of him with town gossip and news. For want of a more suitable partner, the doctor had taken his servant as an opponent for swordplay and fencing, often leaving welts all over his body with the wood saber, and almost never coming out unscathed himself, inasmuch as he showed no special prowess in swordsmanship, nor had he taken enough lessons to develop skill at it. As to the rest, although the doctor had a heavy hand and struck more than ten blows for each one that he received, those of Respetilla were so hard and fierce that his tenth part more than made up for the blows that landed all over him. This practice or exercise, nonetheless, was highly beneficial for the body as well as the soul of both, and out of habit master and servant felt something like a need, an itch, and even a certain delight in thrashing each other daily. Notwithstanding his chats and contests with Respetilla, and notwithstanding his long conversations with Doña Ana, there were always many hours of the day and night left to the doctor during which, in the most elusive and complete solitude, he took pleasure in giving himself over to thought and exploration of self, judging the events of his life, plumbing the deepest recesses of his conscience. He had not said anything to his mother about the appearance of the mysterious woman, but one of the first things that he had done upon returning to Villabermeja was to go and look at the portrait of the Inca lady, which was in the drawing room, said room being the large or square room on the main floor. The doctor examined the portrait closely, but could not decide whether its perfect likeness with his immortal friend was real or imagined. On the other hand, his immortal friend had seemingly forgotten him for some time now, and his recollection of her, although enduring, was becoming somewhat hazy. Pantoja’s painting was lovely, but in the end it was no more than an image and could awaken in the doctor, who enjoyed full possession of all his faculties, only artistic responses. The certainty that it was the portrait of an ancestor of his, dead for three centuries, curtailed, furthermore, the flights of his imagination.

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The doctor had read an oriental tale about a prince who came across a portrait of a woman in his father’s treasure. The prince fell in love with her and, believing that the subject of the portrait was his contemporary, searched the world for the object of his love but never found her. He only discovered, after a very long time and long travels, that the lady he loved in the portrait had been a queen on the island of Serendip,1 no less enamored of Solomon than the Queen of Sheba, and perhaps the most beautiful of his wives and his favorite. If the prince had learned in time that the portrait was of that ancient queen, he never would have fallen in love. Doctor Faustino could not be, nor did he want to be, madder than the prince. In spite of everything, he delighted so much in looking at the portrait and became so fond of it that he brought it to the salon of the ground floor, where he lived, putting in the empty space one of the other portraits that adorned and dignified his rooms. Meanwhile, the doctor did not stop remembering his flesh-and-blood immortal friend and coming up with new hypotheses to explain the letter that he had received from her and the strange meeting and adventure that he had had with her. The basis of these hypotheses was always the affirmation of the real, visible, tangible, bodily, and solid existence of a beautiful woman who had written to him, who had talked to him, and who had kissed him on the eyelids. But who was this woman? Well did the doctor know that neither her mouth, nor her eyes, nor her arms, nor her forehead, nor all of her body in its entirety were the main thing about that woman, and that there was something indivisible in her that he evoked and loved, and he called this something spirit. So he gave it the name of spirit and did not find that he had made any progress. His impious learning did not take him any further. Was the spirit something in and of itself, or was it the outcome of all that coherence and conformity of parts, a divine harmony that sprang from those organs? If the spirit was something in and of itself, it could well remain after death and exist before birth. In this case, why was the spirit of the Inca lady not to be in that body, in that woman whom he had seen and touched? The spirit that animated him, could it not also be the same one that had animated one of his grandfathers, the lover and husband of the Inca lady, for example? But he quickly dismissed this thought from his mind as an absurdity. “What reason is there,” he wondered, “to suspect such a thing, when I remember nothing about any life anterior to the one I’m living? I scarcely became aware of this very life until my spirit took form, emerging from early childhood like someone who comes out into light from a dark hole. It could 1. Arabic name of Sri Lanka, the island in the Indian Ocean south of India and the Bay of Bengal.



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be said that it was necessary for physical light to strike my eyes, for tangible objects to make an impression on my soul, for human speech to reveal the truth to me by driving the sound waves of the air through my ears, so that the spirit, which existed only in an embryonic stage, could give me an account of itself, so that it could begin to know itself, because absent this knowledge it did not in fact exist.” Although more inclined to doubt than to deny or affirm, the doctor inferred from everything that his immortal friend was not the Inca lady and that he was not anyone who was not Doctor Faustino. He neither affirmed nor denied for himself a life beyond the grave. He vacillated on this point. But when he promised himself an ultramundane life, he promised it to himself with total recall, with the same form and the same character, name, and features as then. When he promised himself, in his moments of enthusiasm, a prolongation of his existence beyond the sepulcher, as ideal and ethereal as can be imagined, in other worlds, in other spheres, in other heavens, he did not envision himself except as he was, as Doctor Faustino, even with the same body that he had then, even if the atoms that shaped him were of light and glory instead of terrestrial mud. “Nevertheless,” the doctor continued wondering, “where does my spirit go when I sleep? Isn’t its life cut off then, brought to a stop? Can’t death be like sleep? When I sleep a not very deep sleep, I believe that I feel, although in a confused way, that I am, that I exist. When I awaken, the patent, evident memory of all my anterior life assures me of the truth of my existence. So why, even conceiving of death as a long and deep sleep between two lives, does not the patent, evident memory of all past existences come to the soul when it is awake, that is, when I am reborn? When such a memory does not come, there is no reason to believe the dogma of the ancient Brahmans, disseminated in Europe by the sage of Samos2 and reintroduced many times. I am all that I am, and in the succession and in the changes of my life there is a permanent essence or core, like a gold thread that links many pearls on a necklace. The visible world, the sequence of my impressions, my delights, my sorrows, my hopes, my disappointments, my doubts, my learning, they are linked together on this thread that persists, that I sometimes believe will never end. But how am I to believe that it is eternal? How to believe that it has not begun either, when I see and observe its beginning? If in our sleep we want to imagine or suppose that this thread gets broken, the memory of everything prior to the dream reconnects it. But if there was a physical death in me before 2. The Greek philosopher Pythagoras (c. 582–c. 507 b.c.), one of whose teachings was the transmigration of souls, i.e., passage of the soul from one body to another, either human, animal, or inanimate. Samos is a Greek island in the east Aegean.

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now, where is the memory that conjoins present-day life prior to that death? Does the spirit by chance bathe in the river of oblivion when the body dies? Does that river perhaps get lost in the infinite ocean of the spirit? Is there a world of the spirit, as there is another of nature, and the compenetration of both is humanity? If such were the case, far from believing in my existence as an individual before my birth and after my death, I would be much inclined to doubt the very life that I now live. What would I be then but appearance, ephemeral illusion? The only things real and actual would be nature on the one hand and spirit on the other, like two modes of the same substance. Neither my being nor my learning would be more than illusory, as soon as I declared myself a limited, finite being, which is tantamount to declaring myself different from the rest of beings.” Thus did the doctor meditate, at night, alone in the big downstairs room, where the portraits were, including that of the Inca lady, and where there was also a mirror. In that solitude, with no fear of being seen and considered mad, he would touch his body with his hands, look at himself in the mirror and see himself, pace and hear his footfalls as he paced, and talk out loud and listen to his own words. Immediately after he would laugh at that puerile proof and confirmation that he gave to himself of his own existence. Then he would close his eyes, remain motionless in an armchair, and dispense with everything, even thought, and then the proof that he existed was more clear: it was not because he saw himself, nor because he touched himself, nor because he paced, nor because he heard himself, nor because he thought, but rather he was because he was. Next he would develop and expound on that unadorned and pure affirmation of his being, and it resulted in something like the thread or unifying bond by which memory served to connect all his thoughts, impressions, ideas, and wishes. But beyond a certain limit, there was neither the thread nor any object at all to string on the thread. So then everything ended there; then all of it had had a beginning; then before it had not been anything. The doctor was meditating one night with such ingenuous good faith that when he reached this point he went to his desk and withdrew his baptismal certificate from a drawer. He wanted to make sure, and did make sure, that he had been born in 1816, and he declared to himself that until then there had been neither a material nor a spiritual Doctor Faustino, and that all the happenings and changes that are spun and woven by the cloth of time, within immutable eternity, had existed and occurred without his having had anything whatsoever to do with a single one of them. Afterward he continued pondering: “In the current of life, in the sequence of events and beings, I appeared a



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short time ago. Will I vanish, will I disappear forever, will I return to the void from which I emerged or will I persist in the future? All this substance that forms my body, has it not been renewed several times while I have remained the same? My form itself, has it not changed in accidentals? And, nonetheless, in essence does not my form persist? And why is it not to continue persisting? It will persist, but what will be the manner of its persistence? As idea, not only will it persist, but it preexisted. In any case, even its persistence as idea will be more firm, more stable, after having existed in reality. Before I really came into being, I was only, in infinite intelligence, an immutable idea, eternal like that intelligence. Thrust now into the bosom of the sequent and mutable, my being having appeared in the current of time, it will at least live a long life too, but not an immortal life, as idea and as memory, in other finite intelligences. This life of mine has to produce some effect; it has to leave some trace; I was born for something; I am destined for something. However, I am not content with this immortality or with this vague beyond-thegrave duration. I want not just the duration of my name, my thoughts, and my books, but the duration of all of me, with the vivid memory of my name, my thoughts, and my books, even though this memory may turn out to be an endless torment of remorse and shame.” Here the doctor again recalled the date of his birth. Then he added: “No, no. I didn’t exist before 1816. In everything that occurred until then, there was neither sorrow nor glory for me. But as regards what I have thought, and done, and loved, and felt, and abhorred since then, I want glory, and sorrow, and everlasting remembrance, and responsibility that does not end. I feel free. There is a power in me that neither yields, nor gives ground, nor grovels before omnipotence herself. If it obeys her decrees it is because it wants to. If it does not obey them it is because it does not want to. It should answer, and does answer, for all its acts. Whether it be transitory or whether it be immortal, the existence of what I call my spirit in this fleeting instant, in this life that I live now, is not a step like many others that I am taking on the road to perfection, but a critical juncture that decides all of my destiny, all of eternity for me. In this I have to make myself fit for the eternal idea that there is of me, if outside of this life I am only an idea, or I actually deserve all those degrees of excellence and bliss to which I am called. A little learning, a little vain curiosity have destroyed beliefs in me. However, my mind goes back and by reason agrees with the most important ones that were taught to me out of faith. This life may be a passage, a pilgrimage to another and better life, but everything depends on this life. The main thing is this life. The action of the drama is in it. If afterwards an eternity awaits me, all of it is summed up and condensed in this instant. All of it is reflections, shadow, consequence, the

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result of whatever I determine now. Heaven and hell, with their everlasting reach, rise up now in the center of my soul, in the abyss of my conscience, which, high above the silent torrent of passing time, lives in the eternal. It is absurd to suppose that life is a trial, and that, if it turns out badly, we come afterward to do it better in another one. Human living is more serious, more worthy than all that. All the education, all the progress, all the purification, all the good to which we can aspire has to be gained now or never. I live certain of this, whether our spirit goes on suffering or rejoicing, but inactive after the drama, or whether it survives only as an eternal concept with recollection of the works that it accomplished.” In this manner Doctor Faustino managed to persuade himself, not that the spirit of the Inca lady roamed through the house and could come to an understanding with him, but that the immortal friend, far from being the Inca lady, was a spirit in a living body a thousand times more real than the shadow, the memory, the notion of the Inca lady, and invested with a material form by the creative imagination of miracles. Thus did the doctor return, after much meditation, to the question at the start. Who was his immortal friend? Could he have seen, met, and loved her and then forgotten her? In this regard he was reminded of the story of Doña Guiomar that the maids used to tell him when he was a child. A powerful witch had abducted Doña Guiomar, who was a lovely lass, and kept her locked up in a very tall tower without doors, because the witch rose to the top by flying. The tower stood in the middle of a solitary plain where humans almost never set foot. As luck would have it, however, a very handsome prince, son of a powerful king, got lost one day while hunting and, separated from his huntsmen, falconers, and the rest of his retinue, found himself on the shielded and mysterious plain where the tower was. The sun was shining directly overhead, at the zenith. Doña Guiomar, at the lookout high up in the tower, was combing the silky mass of her blond tresses with a silver comb. The reflection of the sun on those lustrous and golden hairs bedazzled one’s sight. Doña Guiomar’s face seemed to be surrounded by a brilliant aureole. Doña Guiomar was the most beautiful creature that the most discriminating and generous fantasy could conjure up; the prince was a dashing gallant, eloquent, and as handsome as she was beautiful. Born for each other, they became enraptured and fell in love at first sight. With sheets and bedspreads, with dresses and other apparel, Doña Guiomar fashioned a long ladder. Making her descent with it, she reached the waiting prince. Both made a promise of marriage, which they confirmed



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with a tight and prolonged embrace, and the prince and Doña Guiomar, who mounted the hindquarters of her betrothed’s horse, fled from her prison and the witch. Although they were riding at a brisk clip, Doña Guiomar noticed after a short while that the witch, who had returned to the tower and seen that she had escaped, was coming in hot pursuit of her. The witch was practically at their heels, and about to touch Doña Guiomar with her hand, when the maiden threw to the ground the silver comb with which she combed her hair, and all of a sudden there appeared a towering mountain range, its peaks covered with snow and ice. The witch ended up on the other side of them, but such was her power and so great her rage and her determination that she jumped over the snowcapped crests, descended to the plain, and once again was close to catching up with Doña Guiomar and her lover. Doña Guiomar then threw to the ground a handful of the perfumed bran with which she washed her white hands. Instantly there formed an impenetrable thicket of rockroses, hawthorns, and brambles, all of it cloaked in a dense fog. Nonetheless, the witch managed to pass through the thicket, although lacerating her skin, and, without losing her way and despite the fog, again set out to overtake Doña Guiomar and her kidnapper. As a last-ditch measure Doña Guiomar threw to the ground the little mirror in which she looked at herself, and then there stretched out between her and her pursuer an overflowing, swift, deep river. The witch swam across it. Although faint now and exhausted, she drew near to Doña Guiomar, but the maiden covered her face so as not to see her and her ears so as not to hear her. “Uncover your face, my dear, uncover your face so that I can see you for the last time before losing you forever!” said the witch. “My dear, have pity on me. I raised you. Look at me one last time now that you are forsaking me.” Doña Guiomar did not want to look, but the prince entreated her to be compassionate and to do so. She uncovered her face then and the witch said: “Heaven grant that you be forgotten by the one carrying you off.” This terrible curse came to pass. When the prince and Doña Guiomar neared the capital of the kingdom over which the prince’s father reigned, the prince left Doña Guiomar at a villa, intending to go back for her so that she could make her entrance in the court with great pomp and ceremony. But no sooner did he leave her than her image, her name, and her love were erased from his memory, and thus did he remain for years, until by virtue of another miraculous occurrence, which forms the second part of the story, he finally remembered her. This story, like all fairy tales, enchantments, and marvels can easily be translated into symbol and allegory. On this account the doctor fantasized

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that Doña Guiomar was the poetry, the imagination, the faith that worked miracles with the person who carried her off so that she could save herself from the cold reason that had her imprisoned. A moment of abandon sufficed later for the faith to be forgotten and repudiated. The immortal friend, then, was like Doña Guiomar: she was faith, poetry, the purest concept of the doctor’s soul, forgotten, unknown because of a curse hurled by the witch, who represented and embodied ambition, profane learning, greed, vanity, pride, and other detestable passions. Whoever she was in the real world, this woman dressed in black who had appeared before him one time, the doctor felt inclined to transform her into an allegorical figure. With this transformation everything could be explained easily. The only thing left of the poetry in the doctor’s soul was egoism. In his hopeless modesty he believed that devotion and faith had died in his soul. During another night of insomnia, when the doctor was overcome with the most distressful depression, he blamed himself and justified everything at the same time. “All things considered,” he mused, “I was on the receiving end of more love from Costancita than I gave her, and it was more than I deserved. Why did I go to win her heart and see whether I could marry her if not for reasons of expediency? So if I went with that in mind, she had every right to look out for herself too and marry the marquis, whose standing and fortune I would probably never be able to match. It’s true that my cousin’s beauty and youth awakened a certain love in my soul, but a doubtful, hesitant, lukewarm love. If I had loved her with all my heart, my love would have prevailed and aroused another love capable of sacrifice to take root in her heart. Why lament the lack of love, friendship, and tenderness that the rest of human souls hold for us? Do ours lavish equal treasures on them to be able to demand reciprocation? Oh! I love with immense love, though not to give myself up to and sacrifice myself on the altars of the loved one, but rather to make that loved one all mine. The fountain of true love is dry for me. True love begins by conceding to its object as many perfections and excellences that make it loveable, and after true love has assigned it these excellences and perfections it prostrates itself before that person and adores her or him and offers itself in sacrifice. Selfish love, like mine, longs for an object endowed with all those perfections, but it examines, criticizes, and never finds her. Then it says: If I found a woman like the one I dream about, what sacrifices would I not make for her, what virtues would I not show, with what intensity of feeling would I not love her? Unfortunately, I do not find her, and can do none of this. My love without object is also a love without accomplishments. If I believed in the progress of humanity, in the close bond that unites souls, in the communion of spirits,



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in the ascendant movement of all hearts toward light, good, and beauty, what would I not be capable of doing to contribute in some way to this progress, to that ascent, to that happiness and greatness of humankind? Unfortunately, I do not believe very much in that, and thus it is that I do nothing. I am sorry that there is this sterile love for humanity in my soul. If I considered that this homeland, this country or nation of which I form a part is deserving of all love, who knows what deeds and acts of heroism I would perform to raise it to the greatest heights? But I do nothing, because in the end I am not certain that what we call the homeland is much more than a piece of ground, like any other, where perhaps I was born, and that what we call my country or nation is but an assemblage of men who have come from a thousand diverse regions, from various castes and origins, and with no other tie than that of laws, institutions, and beliefs that are forcibly imposed by the strongest on the weakest. Love of the homeland also ends up being sterile and pointless, notwithstanding its intensity. Love of beauty and good is a love of abstractions—it is love of myself, if I do not find something outside of me that seems good and beautiful. My soul, nonetheless, is in love. Whom does the soul love? Perhaps it loves an inaccessible ideal, one that I work continually to forge within myself without ever considering the idol finished.” The doctor recognized that it behooved him to search for another more exalted, more inclusive object of love to pacify his heart, but he did not dare to deny the reality of the existence of that object, and, fearful of encountering an apparition, did not search for it. The doctor had read the poetry of despair that was in fashion at that time, but there had not yet appeared, or had not yet come to his attention, the bold speculations of the most recent philosophers of despair. Schopenhauer and Hartmann3 had not reached Villabermeja. Still, there had been more than a few materialist and impious books that the doctor had read. Furthermore, he saw the pros and cons of every question, and the nature of his intellect led him to doubt. The melancholy of his soul in those days painted everything in the gloomiest colors. Nevertheless, in opposition to the negatives that he had cited with regard to every object worthy of his love, he himself offered several arguments. “It is very convenient,” he thought to himself, “to disclaim the worthy object. Thus do we excuse laziness, coldness, or cowardice. Can I perhaps be a 3. The philosophy of pessimism of Arthur Schopenhauer (1788–1860), who saw himself as the successor of Immanuel Kant, is well known; the principles of Eduard von Hartmann (1842–1906), another German philosopher, that our existence is a struggle between blind impulse and reason, are found in his Philosophy of the Unconscious (1869).

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wretch who is incapable of any generous impulse, and in order to justify myself in my own eyes I want to be persuaded that I do not believe there is an object that deserves my sacrificing myself for it, that is the equal of love?” Then he wondered whether the pessimist philosophers and poets had become so by power of reason and calm reflection, or by virtue of being sickly or poor, for want of health or money. But suppressing the latter consideration, the doctor took the order of things to task. Why did there have to be physical afflictions or social miseries of such a nature that they could change the human condition? On the other hand, affirming such an influence was the height of skepticism: it was affirming what was vain and biased and false about every sentiment and every idea. If an ungodly philosophical system could stem from the fact that its creator had a stomach ailment, or that he did not have enough money, or that he did not eat well, a very religious and optimistic philosophical system could also stem from the fact that the creator enjoyed enviable health and had all his needs satisfied. When the doctor reached this point in his musings, he remembered, with a smile, a few very well-known lines by Lope de Vega. A footman, disguised as a physician, is consulted by a gentleman suffering from profound gloom, and the following dialogue is struck up: “Nothing seems right to me. I find that everybody annoys me.” “Do you have money?” “None.” “Well, try to come by some.” The remedy for the doctor’s gloomy philosophy: Was it the same as the one proposed by Lope’s footman? In large part, yes. The doctor was ingenuous enough to admit it to himself, although the admission vexed and humiliated him. Why was a heart as big as his moved and troubled by something so accidental and of so little value? Because the doctor wanted to go to Madrid, make a name for himself, impress people, become famous, and without some money he could not do any of these things. The doctor tried to console himself about not going to Madrid; he tried to desist from his ambitious dreams of glory. But then he made an argument or speech to himself similar to the one that some sage or other made to Pyrrhus, king of Epirus,4 who burned with desire to conquer the world. “First I’ll conquer all of Greece,” said Pyrrhus. “And then?” asked the sage. “Then Italy.” 4. When Pyrrhus (c. 318–272 b.c.) achieved a victory over the Romans with the aid of his elephants, it turned out to be a very costly one and he observed that another similar victory would be his ruin. Hence the term “Pyrrhic victory.”



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“And then?” “Asia Minor and Persia, and Bactria and India, and ultimately every country on Earth.” “And then?” the sage asked again. “Then I’ll rest triumphant and I’ll be happy.” “Well, think about the fact that you have already conquered everything: be happy and rest.” This exchange, if it was sufficiently forceful to convince Pyrrhus, who after all dreamed of conquering the world, must have been even more forceful for the doctor, who in his greatest fits of ambitious dreaming, did not dream, nor could he dream except about being, for a few months, One of a hundred ministers Who each year come and go, in a country that, far from conquering the others, does not know how to conquer itself. Somewhat calmer after this reasoning, the doctor thought about devoting himself to the contemplative life, scrapping practice for theory. Is not man’s supreme happiness and true end in theory? The universe may be in turmoil, if we look to the welfare of the beings who populate it. Life may be a sad present: physical pain and moral pain will continue to be inexplicable. For the time being the doctor set all this aside. But, how to deny the grandiose spectacle offered to us by this machinery of the world? How much still remains to be discovered, to be investigated, and even to be seen in said machinery, in the parts as well as the whole? And not only in what is now, but in what has been and in what is to be. What origin did it all have? What will be its end? Where is the purpose? Given that these questions could be answered satisfactorily, the voice of the revealing oracle could be heard in Villabermeja the same as in the heroic city of Madrid, capital of all Spain. Although he did not delve into scientific profundities or inquiries of any sort, the doctor had to be well pleased to see things as a poet, to admire them and applaud them, able to cleanse the soul of inimical passions so that it would be a burnished and unclouded mirror that reflected the world within itself, not only insofar as it extends and stretches out in space, but in its protraction of time, with all the successive series of creations and manifestations that there have been in it. Let us admit that the beautiful ancestral home in Villabermeja was a comfortable and pleasant place to witness this magnificent, perpetual representation. Moreover, upon reflecting all things on itself, the doctor’s soul would not do so awkwardly and bereft of gracefulness, rather it would beautify and perfect them according to certain laws of good taste and elegance, removing flaws and errors, producing harmonies, and creating, in short, a universe a thousand times more beautiful for itself. Even if the doctor did not do more than this in all his life, who is to deny that he would fulfill

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a great mission? Because, what good is the universe and all its beauty if there is no intelligence to take it in and understand it? Were the doctor to decide to devote himself to this, he would no longer have to ask himself, anxietyridden, “What am I good for?” It would be to justify creation. Unfortunately, when the doctor probed these reflections and soliloquies further, he encountered a terrifying obstacle. He had already seen that in practice he could do nothing without love; he now found that love was also necessary for theory. As God was creating things, he looked upon them with love, and he saw that they were good. In order for the doctor to find them good too, or at least beautiful, it was necessary to reflect them in the mirror of the soul with beauty greater than what they have. Love is the consummate artist, creator, and poet, and Don Faustino trembled to think that he did not love. He wanted to convince himself first, without any love, that an object was good, very good, and afterwards love it. He did not feel the generous rapture, the noble trust of the enamored soul that hurries to the object with love and then finds it good and beautiful. I beg the reader to believe that it now distresses me that I have chosen for my story a personage with such a complex character as Doctor Faustino. It obliges me, though I am disinclined, to write this long soliloquy, which you must find boring, but we cannot turn back at this point. I shall try to be brief, although there is still much to be said. Desperate at not loving sufficiently, both for a practical life and a speculative life, the doctor again fixed on the idea of leading, simultaneously, a practical and speculative life that would be simpler and more ordinary, and he again dreamed of going to Madrid in search of adventures and triumphs. The lack of money, the great obstacle, appeared at once before his eyes. A single candle burned in the salon he was in. It scarcely illuminated the portraits of the illustrious Mendozas. All of them were less than mediumsized, save that of the Inca lady. The doctor looked at them almost with anger, because they had left him a name and had not left him wealth. He had a mind to set fire to them. He also thought about taking them to Madrid with him and placing them in a secondhand shop to see whether they were purchased by some usurer or some tax collector who wished to ennoble himself and have ancestors, adopting them, or rather, “propagating” them. But not even this hope did his ancestors give him. What tax collector or what usurer nowadays is so foolish that he is going to search for ancestors and not see in his business transactions and assets—in short, his money—all the titles he’ll ever want or need? And not without reason, thought the doctor. Having disencumbered himself of a thousand concerns, he was not going to retain the least philosophical one—that of nobility. Since he had renounced everything



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else, he was determined to renounce even his pedigree. “All of you,” he said to his ancestors, “were perhaps worth no more than the businessman who today is founding his noble line.” In that solitude and silence of the night, with the light of a single candle that, faintly illuminating furniture and paintings, formed a thousand capricious shadows on the walls, the doctor’s long bout of insomnia had excited his nerves to such a degree that he imagined that all his offended ancestors were detaching themselves from the frames and coming toward him, gliding along like ghosts. The Inca lady was even laughing, her expression halfcompassion, half-mockery. The atmosphere became suffocating, as if all the subjects of the portraits, having come back to life, were breathing and their breath was of fire. The doctor was hot and cold at the same time, but the only thing he feared was going mad. It would have been unworthy of a philosopher to suppose that painted portraits were going to start walking to throw a scare into him or dupe him in some way. Nevertheless, the doctor went over to the window, which was closed, although it was early May, and opened it and the shutters fully in order to breathe in fresh air. The window that he opened looked out on a not very inviting scene. Closest to the house was the deserted, dead-end street. Opposite were the walls of the large yard that served as a cemetery. And to the right stood the big cylindrical tower of the castle against which rested the house. Beyond the walls around the yard rose the sides of the church, and you could see a little of the arch and passageway that connects it to the castle. The full moon illuminated the empty street, where the only sound came from a mild breeze that bent the tall grass growing on the street itself and on top of the walls. But the doctor did not notice any of this when he opened the window. Another and more important object caught his attention in that instant. Directly opposite the window, next to one of the yard walls, her features illuminated by the moonlight, motionless like a statue, a sorrowful expression on her face, perhaps with tears in her beautiful eyes, the doctor spotted a tall, slender woman dressed in black, and he thought he recognized his immortal friend. “María! María!” he called out, but the woman did not answer him. Instead, she started walking toward the arch. “María!” the doctor said again. Then he thought he noticed a tremor, a nervous shudder, run all along the woman’s body, but she neither replied nor turned around. The doctor would have gladly rushed out to the street to pursue his vision, but the solid iron grille covering the window made that impossible.

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“María!” the doctor called out for the third time, and then the woman dressed in black turned the corner and the doctor lost sight of her. Hastily grabbing his hat, the doctor went out to the patio, opened the door that gave onto the vestibule and lifted the bar that secured the street door. Fortunately, the key was in the keyhole, so he unlocked the street door and hurried outside in search of his immortal friend, who could not have gone far. It was three o’clock in the morning, and there was not a soul in the streets. The doctor walked them all and scrutinized them all two or three times. He circled the church and the castle; he jumped over a wall of the yard, even searching for his immortal friend there in that mansion of the dead. It was all in vain. It seemed that the earth had swallowed her. Then the doctor wondered if she had headed toward open country, and he went out to the countryside, and walked and walked, without knowing where he was going, until dawn broke. Bells rang for the early morning mass and the doctor decided to hear it. Maybe he would see the mysterious woman in church, as Niña Araceli had seen her. He did not see the mysterious woman in the church either. The doctor was so unhinged, so distraught, so beside himself that, despite his philosophical ungodliness, in a strange sort of way he formulated something akin to prayers and entreaties to Jesus the Nazarene—he was president of the confraternity devoted to this image—and to the little saint, patron of the town, to see whether they could help him locate his immortal friend. The supernatural powers were deaf, though, to the doctor’s plea and did not show him the object of his search.

[ 14 ] P enance for the D evil

The ne w appearance, further confirming Don Faustino López de Mendoza in the belief that his immortal friend was a real person, and persuading him that she was in Villabermeja, incited him to look for her in earnest. No doubt it was astonishing that she could hide so well in such a small town, but the doctor lost hope of finding her unless he conducted a house-to-house search. This business of the mysterious woman, he believed, was of such a nature that he did not wish to confide in Respetilla to assist him in his inquiries. For very different reasons, and perhaps more powerful ones, he likewise refrained from saying anything to his mother. When María (we will call her that, since the doctor did) hid so much, she must have had her own powerful reasons. If the doctor had confided in Respetilla, he would have exposed María to being discovered. By confiding in his mother, he would have filled her with apprehension. God only knows what his mother would have imagined about a woman who hid herself like that. There was only one other person to whom the doctor could turn, a person whose discretion was great and whose affection for him was greater still. He thought of confiding in this person so that she could help him to locate María. As luck would have it, there was no more suitable person in all of Villabermeja to resolve the unknown and clear up a mystery. There was scarcely a family that she did not know, nor an incident or occurrence about which she was in the dark, nor a love affair that she did not discover, nor a matrimonial quarrel that escaped her notice. This person knew even what was eaten in every house. So if she did

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not find the immortal friend, the immortal friend was a Utopian, unascertainable being, for as much as she was, at the same time, real, visible, and tangible. The person that the doctor thought of to help him in his inquiries was his very own old wet nurse, Vicenta, who, ever since she breast-fed him, continued living in the house as Doña Ana’s servant. So the doctor was already determined to confide everything to her when, two days after María’s appearance, he rode out to the country house on his mare. The caretaker’s wife stood alone in the doorway while the caretaker was hoeing ground. “Señorito,” she said, “this morning I was given this piece of paper for you.” “Who brought it?” asked the doctor. “Some man. A stranger I don’t know.” “Let’s have that piece of paper,” said the doctor. “Here it is,” said the caretaker’s wife, handing Don Faustino a sealed letter that he received with extraordinary excitement, thinking that he recognized in the writing of the addressee’s name the hand of the mysterious woman. He then rode out to the middle of the countryside and, glancing all around first to make sure that there was nobody in view who could see him or interrupt him, he opened the letter and read the following: It has not been my intention to appear before your eyes nor to insult your imagination with the magic of things supernatural. My dreamy soul, longing to explain this invincible force that impels me toward you, discovers, perhaps feigns, other existences in which you and I, with nary an obstacle, loved each other and were happy, but I do not seek to impose this belief on you. My soul also believes that during sleep it flies off and alights at your side, detaching itself by virtue of love from the body that it animates, but I do not aspire to have you believe this either. I love you, and I aspire only to have you love me. I am afraid, nevertheless, of attaining the very thing to which I aspire. Why aspire to have you love me, if it is not possible—in this life—that our love will bring us happiness? Thus the peculiar nature of my actions; thus my fleeing from you and searching for you. Prudence induces me to flee; love draws me to you in spite of myself. Furthermore, there is in my life a dreadful mystery that I do not want, that I ought not, to disclose to you. There is something that is in me and is not in me, and that makes me unworthy of your love. Do not presume or suspect on this account that the unworthiness dwells in what is my person. A diamond remains whole, pure, even though it may fall in the mud. Impervious to every corrosive substance, only light penetrates its core and gladdens it and fills it with brightness and beauty. You are the light; my heart is the diamond.



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A small seed fell to the ground. The sun, with its divine warmth, fertilized it. A lush plant sprouted there, and on the plant a flower, but its calyx will not open nor will it issue its bouquet if the sun, which is you, does not caress it. I have much to thank you for, although you do not know that. Being a flower and a diamond I owe to you, who are my sun and my light. The steadfastness to resist the mud into which I had fallen I owed to you, my light, and I was a diamond and not mud. The determination, the strength to ascend to the serene ether, emerging from the murky bosom of the Earth, I owed to you, my sun, who with your divine warmth made the sweet, delicate essences—which are yours, and are retained for you alone— rise through the stem up to the sealed calyx. Abandoned by everybody, uncultured and ignorant, neither the sacred mysteries of a religion that I did not understand nor the saints who are on the altars (and whose lives and virtues were unknown to me) would have prevented my perdition. God wished to save me through you. God, no doubt, infused into my soul an admiration for you, which has elevated my spirit and made it fit to conceive all that is good. The constant concern of not becoming unworthy of you, of not losing all hope that you might hold me in esteem, has been my shield and defense in the early years of my life. The consoling spirit came later and led me to your side. At your side my soul opened to all those noble ideas and all those generous sentiments of which it is capable because of its likeness to God. I, however, although distant from you already, could not forget you. On the contrary, I recalled more vividly that the first illumination of my soul was your doing. All that I learned afterward, all that I grasped through study and innate reasoning power, I saw as though encoded and included in that first illumination of which you were the cause. In this manner did my love grow and gravitate toward you. Like a seed that fell on untilled soil, thus did your love fall on my soul. Every subsequent cultivation, far from rooting out the seed, has contributed to its lush sprout and growth. Even absence, not seeing you for many years, poeticized my memory of you more and more. I have seen you again and you have not failed to live up to the concept that I had of you, founded on such a poetic memory. Thus it is that I am all yours. I will not stop loving you even if you do not love me; I will not stop loving you even if you detest me or scorn me. If I hide from you who I am, I have powerful reasons for doing so. Respect them and do not pursue me. Do not talk to anyone about me, I beg you.

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If you love me, my sixth sense will tell me and I will come in search of you. Could I flee from you, could I resist, if you love me? If you do not love me, why disturb your tranquillity with my presence? Even if I succumbed and were all yours, you would take and enjoy only a minimal part of my love, perhaps the most unrefined and coarse part that you were capable of feeling for me. Such is the nature of love. Whoever keeps for someone all its treasures will never be able to give them, for as much as she or he wants to, unless the person loved generates and gives in exchange like treasures of love. The other night you saw me by chance, and to my regret, by suddenly opening the window in your room. You will see me closer up, you will see me next to you, and of my volition, if you ever love me. Then again, perhaps you will see me, even though you may not love me, if I do not succeed in overcoming this penchant for being near you, yearning for a moment of happiness, however necessary it might be to buy it at the expense of your indifference and a century of torments. Farewell. Your María

The initial effect that the reading of this letter had on Don Faustino’s spirit was arousal of a vehement desire to search for and find the mysterious woman. Despite the entreaty contained in the letter saying Do not pursue me, the doctor did everything he could to find that woman, although to no avail. The admonition in the letter—Do not talk to anyone about me, I beg you— made a stronger impact on the doctor’s frame of mind. So as not to disregard it, he did not dare to talk about María even to Vicenta the wet nurse. Eight or ten days passed then, during which the doctor read the letter a hundred times, pondered it, and did not run across any trace of the person who had written it. Translated into plain language, the contents of the letter came down to the following: María was from Villabermeja. Born of the lowest and most abject level of society, she had seen and admired the doctor as a little girl and had fallen in love with him. This sublime passion, engendered in her soul before María reached adolescence, had saved her from being lost forever. The letter made this point very clear. The doctor could not doubt it, and for as much as he tried he failed to recall any poor eight- or ten-year-old girl in whom he might have inspired passion. Some charitable soul (and the doctor could guess who it was less than anyone, seeing as how he always had his head in the clouds) had taken her away and educated her. The education and the absence, far from subduing her love for the doctor, had sublimated and poeticized it. Driven by this irresistible love, María, to her regret and recognizing that



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said love could not have a happy ending, pursued the doctor and tried to win his love. Don Faustino López de Mendoza, although corrupted by the bad reading matter and sad learning of his century, possessed excellent qualities, a generous heart, and a noble sincerity. Furthermore, he was twenty-seven years old. He dreamed, therefore, of loving and being loved, but he wished neither to delude others nor to delude himself. What reason was there for him to love the mysterious woman already? He had scarcely seen her, had scarcely talked to her. Nonetheless, such was Don Faustino’s propensity for all things poetic and out of the ordinary that he strove to be in love with his María. It is said of some notable people who lost their faith—and who, with a fervent desire of regaining it, for months and years acted as if they had it—that they prayed without believing in the prayers, fulfilled all the obligations, and submitted scrupulously to the rite. And thus in the end did they come to believe. The person writing this story knows an individual, who today is considered a saint, and who during the period of his transformation attended a gathering of rationalists and unbelievers. “Where are you going, Don Soand-So?” he would be asked when leaving. “I’m going to do a religious charade,” he would reply, and by dint of doing this charade he ended up taking all of it seriously and being practically a holy servant of God, which he is at present, incensing and scenting the encampment of Don Carlos VII1 with the perfume of his saintliness. The doctor’s character was unyielding. Not for anything in the world could the doctor do an amorous charade. If true love had to come after the charade, then it would be better that it never come. Nevertheless, the immortal friend interested the doctor. His soul was anxious to love her. But to love what is not seen nor touched, why love a woman? Let learning be loved, ideal beauty, uncreated poetry before it is invested with a form, moral perfection unattainable in this life that we live; in short, let God be loved. Loving a woman with fervor similar to the fervor that should be brought to bear on the love of these more lofty notions is an act of idolatry, idolatry that is incomprehensible if the idol is not seen or not touched. Dante, a great master of love, had said it in admirable verses, except that Dante committed the injustice of accusing only women of this kind of materialism. Dante deplores how little or not at all .....

1. The pretender king (1848–1909), duke/count of Madrid, who in 1868 became the thirdgeneration Carlist who sought to regain the throne lost at the death of Fernando VII.

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..... in femmina foco d’amor dura se l’occhio e il tatto spesso nol l’accende.2 Why did Dante not deplore and admit to the same failing in men? Perhaps the great poet confused true love with the adoration of woman as a symbolic figure and allegory and personification of divine knowledge, of poetic inspiration, and even of the native country. Thus did Dante love Beatrice.3 Thus did Petrarch love Laura.4 Before receiving the last letter it would have been difficult. After receiving the last letter it was well-nigh impossible. For the woman who is to be the object of love of this kind it is important that circumstances raise her above the lover, put her as though on a pedestal, confine her as though in an impenetrable sanctuary. Perhaps, in the end, this is insufficient, and it is necessary for death to come and carry her off to mysterious spheres, and leave of her, on this base soil, only an ethereal phantom, a divine simulacrum, forged by the mind, and whose mere approximation to us, either dreaming or staying awake, elevates us to paradise and brings us something analogous to heightened joy and a foretaste of eternal bliss. Recognizing humbly that he did not deserve to be, the doctor had been, and was, for his María what Beatrice had been for Dante. By a twist of fate, the roles were reversed. But how was he to find in María his Beatrice or his Laura after the candid confession that María had made to him in her last letter? Therefore the doctor, much to his regret, had to admit that he desired María’s presence; that her love, whoever she was, flattered his amour-propre; and that he felt compassion for her, a profound sympathy, and even a certain tenderness, but not true love. He did not even feel the metaphysical and symbolic love of Dante and Petrarch for their two truly immortal paramours. Far from calming his spirit, this admission of the doctor’s tormented him with bitter sorrow: it tormented him with the agony of not loving, which is the greatest of agonies. So as to escape his melancholy musings, the doctor redoubled his physical activity. He walked and rode horseback to excess; swordplay with Respetilla became longer and longer and more fierce; he practiced the bar toss;5 2. From “Purgatory” (8:77–78) of The Divine Comedy: “[How short] a time the fire of love endures in a woman / if frequent sight and touch do not rekindle it.” From Purgatory, trans. Jean Hollander and Robert Hollander (New York and London: Doubleday, 2003), 156–57. 3. Dante’s inspiration and his guide through “Paradise” in The Divine Comedy. 4. Francesco Petrarca (1304–1374), poet and one of the great figures of the Italian Renaissance. He immortalized his ladylove Laura in Verses on the Life and Death of My Lady Laura. 5. A sport similar to the javelin throw, in which a bar, generally of iron, is pitched to test arm strength.



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he lifted heavy weights; and not a few times he picked up a mattock and dug hard until breaking into a sweat. But as he exhausted and spent his physical strength, he did not manage, even for an instant, to allay the inflamed vehemence of his spirit. Respetilla, who was no fool, loved his master a great deal and feared that the doctor would end up going mad in that solitary life he was leading. Thus it was that the servant did not let a day go by without advising his master to live like other men, and that since it was not feasible to go and live in the capital because of the lack of money, he should make a virtue of necessity, figure that in substance Villabermeja was the same as Madrid, and socialize with the people of Villabermeja, amusing and enjoying himself with his fellow countrymen, and in particular with the daughters of his fellow countrymen, amongst whom there were some very discreet, genial, and pretty ones. One morning, after their fencing match, Respetilla spoke in this way: “Praised be the power of God, and what a man who lives sees! Because there are things that we must see in order to believe. Take as gospel that I have never doubted—on the contrary, I have found quite natural—that there have been penitent hermits who flagellated themselves in fine fashion with frightful whips, eating only grass and drinking only water, not thinking about love affairs or friendships, and living in solitude. But at the close of this bitter life such hermits attained eternal glory, heard celestial music, and enjoyed who knows how many other delights. To win God’s favor well can sacrifices be made. What I didn’t understand, until I saw it in you, is that there are also hermits and penitents of the devil. If half of the penance, seclusion, abstinence, studies, and late nights in which you are consuming your youth and your life were directed to God, to please God, I would say only that you are a saint. The bad thing is that I suspect you are sacrificing yourself only to give pleasure to the devil, who after all has no glory to give to you—he doesn’t even give you, in this life, money and power, even though it may be in exchange for hell in the other one. I had never wanted to believe in sorceresses, even when I saw how gone astray were the women who passed for such, because I didn’t understand what satisfaction they could derive from serving the devil without being paid. Now I am beginning to believe in sorcery. Do not be offended, Señorito. You are a sorcer, and you are paying homage to the devil and sacrificing your youth and your existence to him.” “I do not pay homage to the devil,” responded the doctor, more than a little wounded by the discernment with which Respetilla was reproaching him. “I pay homage to insuperable necessity. If you call that the devil, so be it: I pay homage to the devil.” “And what necessity is there for you to live as you do?”

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“Can I, by chance, live some other way? Wherever I would go I would look ridiculous with my slender means. What profession am I going to take up if I am not good for anything? My only choice is to resign myself to living in Villabermeja. And here, what other life am I to lead except this one?” “And why not lead another life?” replied Respetilla with a question of his own. “For what reason do you wish to go to Madrid? No doubt to mix with the people in the capital. Well, mix with the people here and you’ll save yourself a trip. What? The people in Madrid are different from the people in Villabermeja? They’re all the same, Señorito.” “Well then, where are these people? With whom do you think I should become involved?” “With everybody. Besides, there’s a house I’d like to see you frequent, because you would have a good time there.” “And what house is that?” “My compadre the notary’s.” “Why, his daughters detest me.” “They detest you because you do not go to see them. They’re piqued.” “How do you know that?” “How do I know that? Because they’ve told me! I talk a lot to both, and especially to Jacintica, the watchman’s widow, who always accompanies them and goes with them to mass, on visits and on walks. Ramoncita, the notary’s younger daughter, is very easy-going and does what Rosita, her older sister, wants. She’ll soon marry the apothecary’s son, who is finishing his studies and in a few months will be a doctor. Rosita, on the other hand, does not have a fiancé, nor does she want one, although she’s over, considerably over, twentyfive. And for what reason, when she’s free, rich, mistress of her home, has a fortune at her disposal, and dictates to her sister and her father and to everybody around her?” “Will she also want to dictate to me?” “No, rather be dictated to, I’m guessing.” “Respetilla,” said Don Faustino, “you are a tempter, a real devil, and what you’re proposing to me is preposterous, so as not to characterize it differently. Why should I go and see Rosita? It would be a fine thing were she to believe that I was going to court her, in pursuit of her dowry, as I went in pursuit of Doña Costanza’s, and she imitated my cousin by rebuffing me!” “I know Rosita and can tell you that she won’t think any such thing. She’s not dreaming about marrying you, even less about rebuffing you.” “Well then, what does she dream about?” “Having fun and chitchat. She has no one to talk to here. The only possible suitor for her is the apothecary’s son, and he’s taken up with her sister. Rosita



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has read a lot of novels and histories and is a fancy dresser. To converse with you, no designs of any sort in mind, would be the height of contentment for her. Jacintica says that Rosita says that you are the only person in Villabermeja capable of understanding her, that for the yokels here she might as well be speaking Greek. Jacintica also says that at all the fairs Rosita has gone to she’s passed for someone from Seville or Granada,6 when not from Madrid, and that nobody suspected she was from Villabermeja, so smartly does she dress and so polished and enlightened is she in everything that she says.” “You’ll end up having me believe that she’s a treasure,” said Don Faustino. “I should say she is! And not of fool’s gold either, but of real gold. And then, what she knows! Good heavens what she knows! And what a temper! Yes, yes. She even has her father under her thumb ..... As you know, the notary has his quirks. Right? And the town clerk’s daughter, Elvirita, the captain’s widow ..... Well, she wears only what Rosita tells her to wear. And instead of Rosita being the one to flatter and wait on Elvirita, it’s the other way around. Elvirita is as meek as a servant with Rosita.” “My dear Respetilla, you are relating real miracles about Rosita,” said the doctor. “Well, in truth she’s not all that miraculous!” “And tell me,” continued Don Faustino. “Is the notary present at the evening tertulia with his daughters?” “Hardly ever. During the day he manages municipal business and in the evening he coos at his turtledove. His daughters’ tertulia is usually limited to the apothecary’s son, Ramoncita’s fiancé, and Jacintica, and no one else. Do you want to see what it’s like? Come with me tonight.” Don Faustino still raised a few objections, but he was beginning to feel so bored and Respetilla had made such an impression on him by labeling him, with such sure instinct, a hermit and devil’s penitent, that in the end he decided to set aside the devilish penance and go out in search of adventures, even if it meant degrading himself in Villabermeja. 6. Principal cities in Andalusia, and presumably sources of some sophistication.

[ 15 ] T he T ert u l i a of the T hree D uos

Re spe till a hastened to inform Rosita that his master would go to the tertulia at her home that evening. He could not have given her a more pleasant piece of news. A spinster who was more than twenty-eight years old, Rosita had never found a man in the town on whom to impose her will. Holding despotic sway over her home, a thousand times more free and mistress of her wishes and actions than an unconstitutional queen, she did not get bored because her activity and her energy did not lend themselves to boredom, but she had very little diversion, and was abiding life like the person who attends the performance of a play that strikes him or her as silly and whose characters are of little or no interest. Rosita had a perfectly proportioned body, neither tall nor short, neither slight nor stout. Her complexion, on the dark side, was soft-looking and exceptionally fine, and highlighted by a vivid carmine on her smooth cheeks. Her lips, a bit thick, seemed to be of the reddest coral, and when a smile parted them, which occurred often, they revealed, in a somewhat large mouth, healthy, pristine gums and two rows of even, gleaming white teeth. Rosita’s upper lip was shadowed ever so slightly by subtle and, like her hair, jet-black down. Two dark moles, one on her left cheek and the other on her chin, created the effect of two beautiful bamboo shoots in a meadow of flowers. Rosita’s brow was small and straight, like that of the Venus of Milo, and her nose, beautifully sculpted, was more full than ta-

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pered. Her eyebrows, prettily outlined, were neither very sparse nor very dense, and her eyelashes, unusually long, turned outward and up, forming graceful arcs. The whole of her face expressed a mixture of mischief, haughtiness, arrogance, gaiety, tenderness, and desire for love impossible to describe. Fiery, black eyes—sometimes languid, sometimes active and fulminating like two machine guns—illuminated that movable physiognomy. Ramoncita, the notary’s other daughter, had a fair complexion, a small mouth, and no moles. She was taller than Rosita, and was also considered more good-looking, but not in a half dozen years would Ramoncita betray, to either the soul or the senses, what Rosita did in an instant. Just by showing herself Rosita gave an idea of heaven and hell; Ramoncita, of limbo. Although Rosita was tempted to deck herself out a little more than usual to receive Don Faustino, in the end pride overcame temptation and she awaited the arrival of her new visitor in the same percale dress, with the same silk kerchief around her neck, and in the same hairdo as usual. She did not even bother to replace the roses that she had had in her hair since morning, roses that were withered. She did no more than what she did every night before appearing at the tertulia: she brushed her teeth (of which she took excellent care) and washed her hands, which required this kind of attention in such a neat woman, inasmuch as they came in contact with the keys to the pantry and the money that she counted upon receipt or paid out to the workers. It is important to note, however, that neither Rosita’s face nor her hands suffered from housework, country air, and bustle in the pantries and wine cellars. Rosita was not a delicate sort, but a bronze beauty. Accompanied by Respetilla, the doctor kept his word, and shortly after nine o’clock in the evening joined the tertulia at the house of the Civils. The entire gathering consisted of Rosita, Ramoncita, Jacintica, their confidante and chaperon, and the future doctor, the apothecary’s son. The conversation was general for ten or twelve minutes, but then languished more and more on account of the evident propensity of Don Jerónimo, the apothecary’s son, to have asides with Ramoncita, and Respetilla’s no less evident desire to intone a duo with the widow Jacintica. This propensity prevailed in the end, taking hold of the spirits of Rosita and the doctor too, and after they had all been together for a quarter of an hour in the drawing room that was illuminated by a magnificent Lucena oil lamp, three natural pairings had been formed unconsciously. In one corner were Ramoncita and Don Jerónimo, chatting quietly; in another corner, Respetilla and Jacintica; and, lastly, in another, sat Rosita and Don Faustino, speaking with so much familiarity and about such intimate matters, it was as if they had been in contact with each other all their lives.

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“Yes, indeed, Señor don Faustino,” Rosita was saying. “It’s advisable that each one be resigned to his fate. This town is a cattlepen, agreed, but where will you go to be worth more and spend less? By living here for three or four years, you’ll be able, if there are two or three good harvests, to get out of debt and back on your feet. Once out of debt, and with the credit of your illustrious name and your considerable learning, perhaps it won’t be difficult to elect you a member of parliament. If only the rest of the towns in the constituency were like Villabermeja. My father gives the orders here, which means therefore that I do. If the opportunity arose and there was someone to rely on in the other towns, here we would count in your favor all the uncast votes. This way you would go to Madrid as you should. Meanwhile, continue with your studies, write, meditate, expand your knowledge, but don’t be unsociable. You can’t always keep to yourself. It’s good for the soul to enjoy periods of relaxation and amusement. Come here and we’ll chat and be close friends. I’m no learned woman, and I’ll only be able to say ordinary things to you, but I have sound judgment and perhaps will chance to give you good advice. Furthermore, I have such a sunny disposition that if I manage not to annoy you— there is no middle ground—I also expect that I will dispel your melancholy moods and bring some joy into your life, the rustic, country joy customary in these parts.” “How was I to imagine, dear Rosita,” responded the doctor, “that I would have such a good friend in you? The only thing that reached my ears was the mockery, the fun that you used to make of me. I was afraid to call on you. You ought not to brand me as unsociable.” “That’s true,” said Rosita. “We were misinformed. We held each other in mutual regard without realizing it, and since we didn’t know each other we turned esteem into hatred and waged war on each other. Now that we know each other, that hatred will turn into friendship. Isn’t that right?” “For my part, I never hated you. Now that I know you I like you very much.” The doctor took Rosita’s hand in his and squeezed it warmly. The exchange between the doctor and Rosita continued in the same affectionate tone, with the doctor promising that he would come every night to that tertulia of the three duos. The doctor was delighted with the openness, kindness, and swiftness with which Rosita became so friendly with him. One misgiving, however, unsettled him somewhat. Would Rosita expect him to turn into her fiancé, and thereby change the new friendship into a great big bore when news spread through the town that he was visiting her, and Rosita became convinced that Don Faustino López de Mendoza did not aspire to marry her?



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Spurred by this misgiving, the doctor said to Rosita: “I’ve said that I’ll come here every night, but I said it without due consideration. For me there can be no greater pleasure, but what will the townspeople say? Won’t my visits compromise you?” The notary’s daughter laughed heartily, showing all the white teeth in her fresh mouth. “Do not fret,” she said, “because I am not afraid of being compromised. Whatever they may say in town, I do not fear the loss of my standing here in Villabermeja. I am all of twenty-eight years old and I haven’t married because I have not wanted to nor do I want to marry. I’m as free as the air and I know what’s good for me, and I do as I please. The only person to whom I have to give an account of my actions is my father, and my father doesn’t ask for one. It would be the last straw—with me being an adult, queen and mistress of my home—if I couldn’t socialize and talk to whomever I like the most!” The to whomever I like the most was accompanied by a very loving look from those fiery eyes. Rosita, who was as proud as she was passionate, then added, desirous that the doctor not fear that she aspired to marry him: “What then? You and I can’t be friends and chat and laugh and keep each other company in this lonely place for fear of gossip? With whom are we to talk if we don’t talk to each other? Women who, like me, reach the age of twenty-eight and go from the flower of youth to maturity, and who have not wanted to marry, nor have had a fiancé, nor have even flirted ..... it seems to me that they have a right to be shown consideration and respect. That’s all I would need—not to be able to talk to you often so as to avoid having some fool say that I longed to marry into the noble family of the López de Mendozas.” “And be the Countess of the Atalaya Asparagus Patches,” put in the doctor, laughing. “And that’s not a bad title,” said Rosita, blushing because the doctor alluded to her and her sister’s mockery, but recovering her composure instantly. “Not to mention that for titles you are not in need of more productive lands with prettier names. And, in any case, my father possesses La Nava, Camarena, and El Calatraveño, which lend themselves to being used as titles like some of the other first-rate properties. But let’s not think about such nonsense. Let’s not assume titles nor get married. Let’s be two loyal friends who hold each other dear. Let’s be Faustino and Rosito.1 Forget even that I am a woman. I forgot it some time ago. Look at me closely: dressed in percale, my hair almost disheveled, with these rumpled, withered roses (and she pulled 1. Rosito, ending in -o, removes the feminine label of the diminutive Rosita, and suggests the presumably traditional masculine dominance of one so headstrong.

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them out all at once), and by all appearances a servant, a wheelwright or a housekeeper. So really, what aspirations am I going to have with this getup?” and Rosita stood, laughing, and made a full turn so that the doctor could take in the negligence of her dress and the complete absence of adornment and coquetry. Then she continued: “Respetilla and I have spoken of you several times, and we have decided that you are a penitent of the devil. In this we are alike. I’m a penitent along the same lines. Except that I am not as serious. I laugh like a madwoman even at my penance.” Doing as he was bid, the doctor scrutinized Rosita and saw that she was right. There was not the least trace of coquetry or artful design in her, neither in her dress nor in her hairdo. There was only health and cleanliness. She looked, as has already been said, like a statue of burnished bronze. The outdoors had wrinkled neither her hands nor her face, both of which exhibited some of the patina that the sun of Andalusia imparts to columns and other artistic monuments. Her body, not encumbered with a corset or a crinoline, was outlined beneath the folds of percale, as graceful and lissome as Diana the Huntress. “Everything you’ve said,” responded the doctor, “strikes me as discretion itself. There is only one command—because your insinuations are commands for me—that I do not believe I’ll be able to carry out.” “And what command is it?” “That I forget that you are a woman. That is an impossible command. You are a woman, and a very pretty woman, and you yourself feel it and know it.” The withered roses that Rosita had pulled out of her hair and thrown to the floor were now in the doctor’s hands. “These roses,” he said, “rather from having been cut, have withered from envy of such a comely face. And I intend to keep them as a memento.” “What a silly thing!” exclaimed Rosita. “Why a memento? Aren’t we going to see each other every evening?” “Yes, but during the day? And when we won’t see each other?” “Here, give me those roses,” said Rosita, and she snatched them from the doctor’s hands and threw them out of reach. “As a memento, since you need a memento so as not to forget me, I’ll give you an infinitely better one.” As she spoke these words, Rosita undid a little the silk fichu that fell over her breast, and withdrew a scapular of Our Lady of Mount Carmel that hung there, concealed. “Take this scapular and keep it as a memento of me. It was embroidered by me and blessed by the bishop. Kiss it.” And she put the scapular to his lips for him to kiss. The doctor kissed it very devoutly, noting that it still retained the pleasant warmth of the person who had given it to him.



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The three duos continued their conversations and time passed until the clock struck eleven. Assisted by Respetilla, Jacintica then served supper to the two señoritas and the two señoritos, putting a cloth on the table in the center of the room, and bringing place settings, glasses, and a decanter of aged wine. Supper consisted of one dish of cured, seasoned pork loin and another dish of wild asparagus shoots in sauce topped with fried eggs. For dessert there were figs, raisins, apples, and grape syrup. Great joy reigned during the meal; conversation once again became general; the decanter, which was made of crystal and was triple the size of an ordinary bottle, emptied little by little; and when the señoritas and señoritos were having dessert, Jacintica and Respetilla sat down at the table in patriarchal fashion and finished off all the leftovers. Shortly afterward, the wealthy landowner Don Juan Crisóstomo Gutiérrez returned from cooing his turtledove. Tickled pink at seeing his daughters in such select company, he paid a thousand compliments to Doctor Faustino. The tertulia ended at midnight, and the doctor, accompanied by his page Respetilla, went home. For six more evenings the doctor continued going to the Civils’ house, having supper with the notary’s daughters, and forming with Rosita one of the three duos into which the tertulia was divided. On the seventh evening we will take the liberty of eavesdropping on the conversation between Rosita and Don Faustino. Shortly before eleven, suppertime, they were chatting as follows in a corner of the drawing room: “Since you insist, I’ll use the familiar form of address with you,”2 Rosita was saying. “But I am so absent-minded that I fear I’ll use it in public too. Then what will people say? Well, let them say whatever they want. I’ll use tú with you....... And the scapular. Do you wear it all the time?” “Here it is,” replied the doctor. “Right over my chest, under my clothes.” “Do you love me a lot?” “With all my soul.” “Look, Faustino. Let’s love each other like this, but let’s not ask each other how we love each other. There’s an enchantment in loving each other without our knowing how that would be broken if we obstinately persisted in defining this affection. Is it friendship? Is it love love? What is it?” “It’s everything. It’s something indefinable and poetic,” replied Don Faustino. “I don’t know how I love you, but I do know that I do love you.” 2. Original: te tutearé: “I will use tú [familiar you] with you.” Until this time the nineteenthcentury convention of usage called for the usted, or formal, level of address. The switch is highly significant in that it conveyed great familiarity, intimacy even.

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“Then let’s give ourselves over to that indefinable feeling without attempting to discover what it may be at present,” said Rosita, “without envisioning where it will take us in future. Have we not agreed that we are two hermits, albeit somewhat devilish ones? Two penitents of a queer nature? All right. I’ve heard told of two other penitents who once met in a luxuriant forest, a desert in flower, through which ran a river of clear waters. Tied up at the bank was a lightweight, fragile little boat. The hermits had the courage to get in the boat, untie it, and drift in the current without knowing where it was taking them. Do you know where they went?” “I do indeed!” replied the doctor. “They went to the earthly paradise. The cherub who guards it with a flaming sword was either asleep or very fond of them, and did not oppose their entrance, and there they reveled in each other like the fortunate souls that they were.” “I see you’re as familiar with the tale as I am.” “And tell me, Rosita, why can’t we have equal courage and trust like those other two hermits? Why can’t we get in the boat and let ourselves drift with the current?” “We’ll see,” replied Rosita. “That calls for some thought. For the time being we’re going along fine. We are in the luxuriant forest, in the flowering desert, at the bank of the river with clear waters. Is this not enough of a delight? You’re not content with this? Come on, you insatiable hermit, be calm. Listen to the small birds singing in the forest, gaze at the little flowers, dream and become entranced watching the current of the water with its soft murmur, pick one of the harebells or violets that shoot up on the riverbank, and don’t think yet about rushing off to navigate or asking for paradise as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Does paradise itself not come with a price to want to reach it all of a sudden? And what of the cherub? Will he perhaps be opposed to our entering?” “There is no other cherub but you. You are a hermit, a cherub, and paradise all at the same time.” Their conversation had reached this point when Jacintica interrupted it, calling them to supper, which was already laid out. The talk perforce became general. That evening was more animated than ever. Jacintica and Respetilla sat down at the table without ceremony, shortly after the señoritas and señoritos. They told lots of jokes and shot lots of little bread balls. Respetilla, who had all kinds of talents, showed off a few of them: he crowed like a rooster, barked like a dog, meowed like a cat, buzzed like a bee, brayed like a donkey, and imitated the jumps and movements of a frog and a monkey. Jacintica, who did excellent impersonations, mimicked several of the more wellknown people in the town. Even Don Jerónimo, although he was the very



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picture of dignity, went against his grain and tried to tell two or three funny stories, but all of them were very familiar, and, as people in those parts say, his listeners “squashed” them with catcalls and laughter. Finally, seeing everybody so merry and spirited, and considering that they were in the month of May, Rosita proposed an excursion to the magnificent country house that her father had in La Nava. The tertulianos approved and applauded wildly. “We’ll go tomorrow,” said Rosita. “If these things are put off they’re not done. We’ll leave from here at three. At three in the afternoon, everybody, on horseback or a mule or a donkey, at the door of the house.” “We’ll be here,” said the doctor. “We’ll be here,” repeated the others. Shortly afterward, when the notary arrived, Rosita informed him of their plan and the notary approved. “Of course, Papá,” added Rosita, “you’ll come and accompany us.” “Naturally! I wouldn’t have it any other way,” said Don Juan Crisóstomo. “All of us here will go,” continued Rosita, “and in addition, Papá will allow me to invite a girlfriend.” “Do as you please.” “Well then, I’ll invite Elvirita and there will be eight of us. A nice number, isn’t it?” “A real nice number!” exclaimed Respetilla. “Couldn’t ask for a better one or a better arrangement!” These profound and philosophical exclamations of Respetilla’s concluded everything of importance that was said that evening at the tertulia of the three duos and the participants separated until the following day.

[ 16 ] T he E arthl y P aradise

Some one might think that, the doctor’s poetic love with his immortal friend being in the middle, there was considerable desecration and human misery in becoming involved in a rather ordinary love affair with Rosita, the daughter of a usurious notary. The doctor thought so too, especially when he was not under Rosita’s influence. When he was talking to her, the doctor was hopelessly lost. From the clear, serene peak of sublime contemplations, he hurled himself and sank into a tenebrous abyss. What good did it do him to meditate theoretically on eternal things, on the permanent and absolute, on the origin, fate, and ultimate purpose of what has been created, if in practice he degenerated into being Respetilla’s and Don Jerónimo’s comrade, with whom he no longer formed a quadriad, but a triad, or almost a triad? The doctor came up with not a few reasons in order to excuse himself, some of which it would do no harm to set down here. María, the immortal friend, was doubtless a woman who had loved him in a noble way, but the doctor, in view of the fact that she had revealed and shown herself with no claim to lofty status, and so enveloped in a tainted reality, could not transform her into something like a goddess, into a symbol of everything holy and good: he could not make of her what Dante did of Beatrice and Petrarch of Laura. To demand, moreover, faithful, exclusive love—even if the deification of the loved being were possible—was an undertaking unequal to our earthly nature, with the loved being hiding itself as it did. Dante himself had had a thousand prosaic and er-

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rant adventures, despite Beatrice, and Petrarch, despite Laura, had not concerned himself with erring ways either. The doctor, on the other hand, although he loved the ideal, was not certain that it was such, because he was not certain of anything. “If what I love and want to love is abstracted, removed by me from the real, as if it were an essence or a distilled—or rather, evaporated—spirit in the still of comprehension, certain it is that it would be an absurdity to forsake reality and substance for appearance, mist, and shadow. The fact is that I fail to conceive of anything more beautiful than the shape of a beautiful woman. If I want, poetically and artistically, to picture a goddess, a nymph, a sylph, religion, or philosophy, I have to give it the shape of a woman. It is true that I remove imperfections from her and that I endow her with a pulchritude that the women I have seen do not have, but, in the main, what I picture is a woman. Therefore the shape, the makeup of a woman, is the most beautiful, desirable, poetic, and artistic image that a man can conceive and love.” As to perfections and imperfections: there was also much to elucidate. The doctor once opened the book of the Roman orator, De natura deorum,1 which treats this point masterfully, and found that even Rosita’s moles could pass for divine perfections. The poet Alcaeus2 was desperately in love with a mole. Why could he not fall in love with two moles? Having done these philosophical studies, the doctor, even though he believed that he saw a certain severe expression in the portrait of the Inca lady, cast aside the scruples that were plaguing him and decided to imitate in his own way the hermit of legend, getting into the boat and letting himself be carried off by the current. Doña Ana knew all about her son’s visits, and was displeased—on tenterhooks, as it were. It was hard to demand of a young man that he bury himself alive, that he not mix with anyone. With regard to mixing with someone in Villabermeja: it was evident indeed that the most comme il faut, the legitimate high life, the true fashionable3 world were to be found at the tertulia of the Civils. And, nonetheless, Doña Ana (so proud had God made her) was ashamed that her son supped with the Civils and treated them familiarly, and it alarmed her as she envisaged a thousand awkward and difficult situations. She detailed some of this to her son, but it was all in vain. At the agreed upon hour, the doctor, riding his mare, and Respetilla, riding his mule, were at the door of the Civils’ house ready to go on the country outing. 1. The work [On the Nature of the Gods] by Cicero (106 –43 b.c.) that attacked various philosophies, especially Epicureanism, which held that pleasure is the end of all morality and that real pleasure is attained through a life of prudence, honor, and justice. 2. Greek poet (d. c. 580 b.c.) of Lesbos. 3. High life and fashionable are in English in the original.

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Surrounded by a throng of children, the excursionists gathered together and set out for La Nava. The notary and Don Jerónimo were both on mules with smaller, English-style saddles; Rosita, on horseback, rode sidesaddle, wearing a habit made in Málaga; and lastly, Ramoncita, Elvirita, and Jacintica also rode sidesaddle, but on donkeys. The result was that Rosita and the doctor, who rode in front and abreast, looked like the queen and king of that procession, and the others the entourage or retinue. Their appearance was what is commonly termed “making a big stir.” The small town got all excited. Every one of the women went to their windows to watch the Civils and Doctor Faustino pass by, dislodging stones in the streets. One could say that it was Rosita’s triumph, and that the notary’s daughter was showing off her enamored captive. During the entire jaunt Rosita always rode ahead, and at her side was the doctor, who let her take the right so long as the width of the road permitted. It was neither hot nor cold. The weather was a pure delight. Through vineyards and olive groves, little by little they climbed the slope of one of the hills that limit rather considerably the Villabermejan horizon. After a mile and a half there were no plants or grasses to be seen on either side, only enormous rocks. The hill, almost as if it had been cleft, was a mass of arid crags, barren of a vegetable layer. A thousand bends and turns extended the road, which more than a road could have been described as a staircase. Only surefooted mounts, like those that carried our excursionists, could make their way without stumbling and throwing the riders. This difficult ascent lasted close to an hour. The horizon stretched out further and further as they climbed. At the highest point entire provinces came into view, displayed by a brilliant sun, and they looked clear and distinct thanks to the transparency of the air, which was free of fog and clouds. In the distance you could see Sierra Morena to the north, the snowcapped Veleta Peak to the east, and the mountainous country around Ronda to the south.4 Within these borders the group viewed pleasant white villages, hamlets, gardens, vineyards, rivers, brooks, stands of olive trees and holm oaks, renowned shrines atop several hills, and numerous sown fields that were then greening with all the grandeur of springtime. “God be praised!” exclaimed Rosita. “What a beautiful sight!” “I see only you,” responded the doctor. “Why look for distant beauty when 4. Valera gives us a panoramic view of his beloved Andalusia. From a hilltop somewhere in the present-day province of Córdoba he guides the reader on a geographical swing through the provinces of Seville (the Sierra Morena, which begins in Castile and extends southwesterly through the Guadalquivir valley), Granada (the Veleta Peak soars in the Sierra Nevada), and Málaga (the city of Ronda, with its famous, and dramatically deep, gorge).



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I have it at my side? All the best of heaven and earth is summed up in you. Why tire my eyes and my mind gathering widespread beauty? And why take in so much space, and such an extensive tableau in its entirety, if I have it in you, a compendium and summary?” “Quiet, you flatterer, you prevaricator. Quiet, or else I’ll turn silly and conceited with all this praise of yours. Do you see all those fields? Do you see all those lands that can be made out from here? Well, truth be told, none of them holds a candle to La Nava, which we are going to reach soon. The real earthly paradise is in La Nava.” “Wherever you are, that’s where paradise will be for me.” This brief exchange crossed between the doctor and Rosita in a moment in which the doctor managed to draw near to her. During the climb they almost always had to go single file because of the narrowness of the path, and to attempt to go two abreast would have been exposing themselves to a headlong fall. Respetilla was riding behind Jacintica and could not have asides with her, so he amused himself by singing verses of popular Andalusian love songs called playeras. Respetilla was jocose about everything except singing playeras. He sang them with a great deal of feeling. It was a prolonged moan that yearned to reach heaven; it was a melodious sigh that pierced hearts. Amongst other verses he sang the following: When I die I’ll leave instructions To have a lock Of your black hair Used to tie my hands. This ejaculatory recitation, this melancholy arrow no doubt wounded the soul of the paragon of loveliness at whom it was aimed, who was none other than Jacintica, but not for that reason did it fail to please the other listeners. There is nothing that—out in the middle of the country, in the solitude of a road, when one is plodding along—has greater charm than a nicely sung string of verses from a playera. At length, the party arrived at the highest point. A grand spectacle then unfolded before their eyes. Those arid, bare crags could be described as forming something like an enormous tumbler filled with the most fertile soil. La Nava is a plateau that at its widest stretches out for upwards of six miles. Along several inclines you go up to the plateau from lowlands; along others, magnificent mountains tower, from which descend several copious brooks that fertilize that delightful

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spot. On the slopes slanted toward La Nava there are vineyards, holm oaks, and almond and wild olive trees, and on La Nava itself meadows blanketed with grass and a thousand different wild flowers. The brooks have opened up channels, seemingly without the intervention of the hand of man, and on their banks and near their banks luxuriant groves have been formed, where alders, black and white poplars, ashes, and osiers grow in splendor. When a brook pools, reeds, bulrush, and sedge sprout, and along all the banks apple mints, lemon balm, and marjoram impart a balmy fragrance to the atmosphere. Everything in the meadows and fields was blooming at that time thanks to the onset of spring, and on the green background of the fresh, new grass there sparkled, like a rich enamel or exquisite embroidery, blue loves-inthe-mist, violet irises, purple sage, yellow dyer’s rocket, and white daisies. A thousand other flowers and plants sprouted spontaneously all along that plain and at the edge of the path that the doctor and Rosita were following. The buttercups and dog roses could be mowed; the climbing oleanders were beginning to open their buds and display the pink color of their earliest flowers; and rosemary and thyme perfumed the pure air. Seeking shade and coolness, myriad kinds of birds flocked there, like robin redbreasts, crested larks, golden orioles, greenfinches, sparrows, and linnets, and they seemed to be greeting the recently arrived travelers with their warbles. Rosita was enthusiastic about all that beauty and very pleased that she could show Don Faustino the delights of her father’s lands, on which they had now set foot. Although people from other towns had country estates in La Nava, the best and the biggest belonged to the notary Don Juan Crisóstomo Gutiérrez. Don Juan owned a goodly number of acres of young vines on the hillsides contiguous to that plain, hillsides that at the time were being hoed by upwards of fifty men who worked on a seasonal basis, and on the plateau itself many pastures where he had fighting bulls, cows, steers, rams, and sheep. The notary had likewise planted a hedge of pomegranate trees, mastics, and blackberry bushes to surround a fair stretch of land with an orchard of fruit trees and numerous vegetables. At the entrance of the orchard stood the spacious, clean, and attractive country house. There were wine cellars, a winepress, a number of comfortable rooms for Don Juan and his family, and, to a side, a shed for the oxen. The courtyard or patio in front of the house was paved with little round pebbles that formed tessellated patterns in different colors, as if it were a rustic mosaic, and all around there were fig trees, walnut trees, acacias in



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bloom, and a profusion of rosebushes of all kinds, awash at the time with white, red, and yellow roses. One of the house’s towers served as a dovecote, and the gentle doves would fly down to the courtyard and come close to alighting on people, as well as touch one another’s beaks and coo without the slightest fear. A host of swallows had built their nests between the protruding tiles and a wall of the house. Fond of society, the swallows burst into jubilant chirping when Rosita, the doctor, and the rest of the excursionists arrived. The caretaker’s wife, together with her husband and their children, came out to welcome them and tend to the mounts, which they led to the cribs. Having dismounted, they formed into four pairs and, arm in arm, went off to see the orchard, which was an Arcadian delight. Except for some strawberries, there was no fruit yet, but the lush and prodigious flowering of a thousand fruit trees, like cherry, apple, quince, and apricot, promised an abundant harvest. Still showing were some late violets, the flower that Rosita liked the most, and with the doctor in tow she went in search of them, seeking out shady corners where the paucity of sunlight kept the soil cooler and allowed the violets to thrive. The doctor said to his companion there: “All this is heavenly, enchanting, but if you do not love me I will find it horrible.” “Well, haven’t I said that I love you?” asked Rosita. “It’s not enough to say it,” replied the doctor. “Look how everybody loves one another in this happy season. Imitate them by loving yourself. The air that is breathed seems like a philter, and it works its magic effects on everybody except you.” “Leave me alone now,” said Rosita. “Can’t you enjoy present happiness, and not be ambitious, uneasy, eager for a greater good? Listen, Faustino. I’m not the calculating type. I don’t reflect a great deal when some powerful stimulus stirs my will, but a sad thought does trouble me on occasion. Imagine that we are on the bank of that mysterious river spoken of in the legend; that this irrigation trench, which waters the orchard, is that river; that this dead leaf near the edge is the boat that invites us to take a chance on the current, and that we have taken it. Is it not possible that heaven will punish us, and that instead of going to the earthly paradise we will drop off a precipice?” “How cruel,” said the doctor. “If you loved me you wouldn’t think so much about what the future holds—you would devote so much happiness to the present moment, which would suffice to fill every century. What torment, what disillusionment, what ill might come later that would be the equal of the good fortune of now?”

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Thus was the doctor explaining himself when Don Juan Crisóstomo and Elvirita came over to where he and Rosita were. Then the other two couples joined them and they all laughed and chatted. The twilight hour was enchanting in that spot. The flowers gave off more perfume; the air filled with a more agreeable freshness; and the birds, with sweeter and more loving chirps and warbles, bid farewell to the sun, which was sinking into gold and carmine clouds. The oxen and cows returned to the shed, and the bullocks and many ewes with their suckling lambs to the cattle pen, which served as a sheepfold. The fifty men who had been hoeing came to the house, with the foreman at their head. All of them had mattocks on their shoulders except the foreman, who carried a vara or long stick, a symbol of his authority and the sign of command with which he directed agricultural work. It is from vara, no doubt, that we say “to go on a varada,” the seasonal or temporary employment of workers who leave their towns and villages to go off to a country estate and remain there for days at a time to complete an agreed upon stint before returning to their homes. The varada was to be finished the following day. The fifty men would still sleep that night in the country house, which had one huge room that accommodated them all. So animation and rustic festivity reigned at the doorway and in the courtyard of the country house when night came. With the arrival of the householders and their guests there was no question but that a fiesta was called for. The night was made for one. The clear sky allowed the moon and the stars to spill their pale light on everything, edging the trees with silvery outlines and diffusing an unsteady, indistinct brightness. Nightingales sang in a nearby stand of trees; brooks murmured with a certain monotony; and the pleasant, mild evening invited residents and visitors alike to enjoy the open air. A splendid dance was struck up in the aforementioned courtyard. Among the workers there were two who had brought guitars and who played them well, not only by strumming but by plunking too. There was no shortage of singers, nor, to be sure, a lack of people who danced. The caretaker’s wife, who was young, and the Civils and Elvirita and Jacintica all liked the fandango. The most nimble workers danced with them, but neither Don Juan Crisóstomo, nor Don Jerónimo, nor the doctor himself, all his philosophical gravity notwithstanding, could avoid taking a few turns and executing several dozen steps and pirouettes. Respetilla was inspired, especially toward the end of the festive celebration, because in the middle of it they all supped on lamb stew cooked by the shepherds (lavish hospitality on the part of the notary), fava beans with hot



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peppers, and a spicy, highly seasoned gazpacho purée. With these thirstprovoking dishes nobody disdained the wine from the house’s cellars, which circulated in a profusion of jugs for the workers and servants, and in glasses for the señores. With the racket, merriment, confusion, and general commotion, Rosita and the doctor could say all that they wanted to each other. The notary got tight, and Respetilla, with ease and flair, told the story of the drunk talking to his sweetheart, and in addition recited the ballad of “The Goose at the Refreshment Stand.”5 So that nothing would be missing, there were games, which Respetilla knew how to direct and even make up admirably. By “games” one needs to understand something like dramatic performances, in their most primitive form. The actors and actresses are comics and poets at the same time, and each one invents what he or she says. Only one person makes up the story line and directs the play, and that night it was Respetilla. Don Faustino’s page organized and put on two “games” or plays: one historical and one imaginary. The historical dealt with the tricks that Queen María Luisa played on many people, because she was quite the trickster and fond of practical jokes. Only Quevedo6 is capable of and knows more trickery than the queen, and ends up playing a more amusing joke on her, thereby avenging the others. In this game Jacintica played the queen and Respetilla Quevedo. The other game was more common and ordinary, one of those that are played at country houses and rural retreats. The main character is a somewhat inebriated, brave, smitten, and witty day laborer—in short, a plebeian Don Juan Tenorio. Respetilla played this role. Our hero, who commits countless acts of insolence, gets on the good side of Saint Peter, Saint Michael, or some other saint, and when the devil comes around to take him off to hell, he gives the devil a tough time and mocks him mercilessly. In those games they always enlist the biggest simpleton to play the devil. Fortunately, that night there was one such in their company, and Respetilla made everybody laugh at his expense, forcing the poor fellow to come out bellowing, on all fours, 5. The Valera scholar Francisco Javier Ariza Campos, himself an Andalusian, does not know of any popular Andalusian tale by this title and speculates (in a private communication) that it springs from Juan Valera’s rich imagination. The same title appears in Chapter 4 of his novel Mariquita y Antonio, when the narrator speaks of Pepe, a renowned café waiter: “Pepe is the author of ‘The Goose at the Refreshment Stand,’ ‘The Goose in the Cathedral,’ and many other ballads, almost all of them about geese.” (Pepe es autor de “El ganso en la botillería,” de “El ganso en la catedral,” y de otros muchos [romances], casi todos de gansos.) 6. During the lifetime of the poet and satirist Francisco de Quevedo y Villegas (1580–1645) there was no Spanish queen named María Luisa. The nearest chronologically was María Luisa de Orleans (1662–1689), wife of Carlos II, the last Hapsburg.

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his face blackened with chimney soot, and with an upside-down trivet on his head to represent the crown of the monarch of hell, each leg of which featured a piece of oil-soaked rag that was burning like a torch. Everybody laughed heartily and applauded what a mortified, harassed, and subdued figure the devil cut in that contest. With this “devilish” performance the entertainment came to an end. There were more than enough rooms in the house for the señores and the other excursionists and they all went off to go to bed, each one to his room, in order to rise early and see daybreak in La Nava. Don Faustino was so enraptured with the country fiesta, with those rural, primitive scenes, and above all with Rosita, that he thought himself transported back to the Golden Age and forgot about his illustrious Mendoza ancestors, the Inca lady, and even María; he considered himself an Arcadian shepherd and Rosita his shepherdess. The next morning they all left on horseback to ride about La Nava, to see the bulls, and to take a look at the young vines on the hillsides where the workers were finishing the hoeing. The doctor rode at Rosita’s side, as though chained by love and gratitude. Rosita looked like a queen who was showing off her favorite to the rest of her vassals, her appearance like the queen of Cilicia, Epirote, receiving barbarians and Greeks with Cyrus the Younger,7 or Catherine II introducing Potëmkin to her entire court.8 The excursionists returned to town in the afternoon. The seasonal workers who had gone to La Nava to hoe the hillsides also returned, and there was no dwelling in Villabermeja in which Rosita’s triumph was not related and commented on. That night they dispensed with the tertulia of the three duos. Everybody said their farewells at the door of the notary’s house. “Good-bye, I’ll see you tomorrow!” said Rosita to the doctor. “Good-bye, my sweet!” “Will you love me always? Are you content with me? Are you happy?” asked Rosita softly. Don Faustino clasped her hand effusively and replied: “I adore you.” 7. An ancient country in southeast Asia Minor and a district in northwestern Greece and southern Albania, respectively; Cyrus the Younger (424?–401 b.c.), Persian prince who held satrapies in Asia Minor. 8. Catherine the Great (1729–1796), empress of Russia; Prince Grigori Aleksandrovich Potëmkin.

[ 17 ] J ealous y I s M ore P owerful T han L ove

Back hom e, the doctor went to see his mother and that night gave her the pleasure of chatting with her and having supper with her, something she was most anxious to do in light of his now constant presence at the Civils’ tertulia. After supper, when the housekeeper Vicenta, who served Doña Ana, withdrew, mother and son discussed their business dealings, which were not thriving. At length Doña Ana said: “We are in dire straits, my son, yet I assure you that today I regret that you have not gone off to Madrid, and I dream about finding a way for you to go, even if it means getting deeper into debt.” “And why, my dear mother, do you want to send me away from you now?” “I am going to say it to you straight out, no beating around the bush: I am alarmed by your involvement with Rosita.” “Am I to live as though in a desert, not having a relationship with anyone?” “You’re right. I should have thought of that and not held you back; I should have encouraged you to leave this town. It was inevitable that you would debase yourself here.” “That’s a very harsh word, Mother. In what regard and why have I debased myself?” “Faustino, don’t think I am blaming you. I almost excuse you. I recognize that you could not live, in the flower of your life, like an anchorite. Only religious fervor, which unfortunately you do

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not have, could have worked such a miracle. You men, by upbringing or by nature, lack saintly virtue; you lack the incentive of the person who rests honor on modesty, which is what saves women.” “Even so, my dear mother,” said the doctor, “not all the sisters of my grandfathers, when they had sisters, took the veil in the end so as not to become related to lower-class people and tarnish the brilliance of our family. Some married prosperous muleteers, happy peasants, and fortunate smugglers. On this side we have relatives of the meanest stripe here in Villabermeja.” “I know that, my son, but I also know that no López de Mendoza, no male of your lineage, has ever, for centuries now, married a woman not of his class. Will you be the first?” “And who, Mother, has told you that I am going to get married?” “Well, then, what’s behind all those visits? And the love affair? Will you deny that there is one? What end, what outcome is it going to have?” Don Faustino turned as red as a lobster and looked down at the floor, saying nothing. “I understand everything,” continued Doña Ana, “but you have fallen into a very dangerous error and have not seen the thousand drawbacks to your behavior. I want to leave aside the sin, the shame, the scandal of a courtship that does not conceive of marriage as the end result. I want to assume, besides, that that Rosita is so brazen and so devoid of decorum that she accepts you as a friend, and that she doesn’t even think—for love of freedom and to continue being her own woman, and mistress of the house as well as its goods—about converting her friend into her master and rightful husband. All this I want to assume. Have you reflected on the impression that you’re going to make, that you’re probably already making?” Don Faustino glimpsed all the weight of his mother’s accusation. He felt oppressed by it and said not a word in reply. “A gentleman’s vices,” Doña Ana went on, “do not cease to be vices even though they are a gentleman’s. But the affliction is greater still when one becomes vicious with neither nobility nor gentlemanliness.” “You intend to torment me. You’re affronting me, Mother. What do you mean by that?” “No, my precious son. Your mother, who loves you, cannot affront you, no matter what she says. If my tone is stern today, quiet your passions, listen in silence to the voice of your conscience, and it will be yet more so. What I mean (we are alone and I am going to speak to you severely) is that if your youth prompted you to indulge in a common, ordinary love affair, it would have been less unseemly, less unbecoming of a gentleman to seek one with a



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poor woman, one of the most miserable in the town, whom, without ever deceiving her with foolish hopes, you would have raised to your level in a certain way, a woman whose misery you would have alleviated. Before God you would have committed a very grave sin; for mankind it would have been a scandal, but on top of the scandal and the sin, humiliation would not have come, as it is coming now. The usurious notary’s daughter is wealthy. She entertains you royally, she takes you to see her properties, she shows you off to her servants as if you were the favorite servant, her Gerineldos,1 her ..... chulo.2 All we need now is for some people to say that she maintains you or to say that she should.” Perhaps an overweening aristocratic pride exaggerated things, but at bottom there was a lot of truth in what Doña Ana was saying. Don Faustino saw it in that light, and he was nettled by the fierceness of expression and feelings with which his mother was criticizing him, but in the deepest recesses of his conscience he pled guilty. “The day laborers who had been hoeing in La Nava,” continued the formidable matron from Ronda, “have come back telling everything in their own particular way. And everything has reached my ears, pretty much as they have related it. Señorita doña Rosa Gutiérrez lavishes attention on you, favors you, fusses over you, raises you to her level, chooses you as her favorite, displays you like a piece of jewelry, shows great generosity on your behalf, and feeds everybody lamb stew, serving aged wine with it. In short, in everybody’s eyes she looks like a queen or an empress who has freed one of her vassals from nothingness because she took a liking to him.” Anyone who has lived in a small town or village knows its customs and usages, and will understand, given her character, Doña Ana’s fury. The peasants’ maliciousness is merciless, and all those who had seen Don Faustino and Rosita in La Nava had come back explaining that love affair in the manner described by Doña Ana. Through Vicenta the housekeeper and other servants, Doña Ana knew of the town gossip and was beside herself, offended in the most sensitive fibers of her being: in her aristocratic pride and in her maternal love. The doctor, who was shattered, kept silent, his head lowered. “Believe me, my son, what is happening is a very cruel thing for your mother,” continued Doña Ana. “In Villabermeja everybody now looks upon you like the friend, the protégé, of the notary’s daughter. These vulgar people imagine that you are for Rosita something similar to what the hoi pol1. The hero of a number of popular Spanish ballads of old. 2. A traditional, working-class figure with swagger typical of the lower echelons of eighteenthand nineteenth-century Madrid.

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loi of Madrid must have imagined Godoy3 was for a great lady. The fact that they view you as such demonstrates how all our ambitious dreams, all our illusions have ended up. Look what sort of princess extends her hand to you and raises you to her level. Look what sort of empress bestows her favor on you, a genteel, courageous gentleman. It was for this that your mother conceived you and gave birth to you?” Never had the doctor seen that lady so stirred up and so furious. The doctor wanted to excuse himself and even vindicate himself, but could not manage to utter a word. In the midst of everything, Doña Ana did not so much as suspect that Rosita and the doctor’s relationship was as advanced as it was. Such a hasty love did not enter into the imagination of the severe noblewoman. Fearful of either having to lie or of having to reveal something that would disturb and distress Doña Ana further, Don Faustino continued to hold his tongue, his attitude humble. Her wrath more mitigated by the silence and the humility than by any contradiction or defense that the doctor would have been able to make, Doña Ana continued in a less biting tone: “Be brave, Faustino. Remember who you are. Stop going to those girls’ house every evening. Start distancing yourself little by little from their company and familiarity. I’m not telling you to break with them all of a sudden, because it’s not right to offend anyone. Besides, the notary is a bad person to have for an enemy. If he wanted to take revenge on you, in a trice he could incite our creditors against us, attack us, trample us, ruin us. But if you, without being discourteous, by pleading illness or commitments, gradually stop going to his house, neither he nor his daughters will have a reason to complain. His revenge will be limited to some foolish ridicule or mockery, like the fun they make of me. They’ll also say that you are a sorcerer, that you commune, as they claim I do, with Commander Mendoza, with the Inca Doña María, and with other souls in torment from our family.” “Mother,” the doctor finally responded, “I cannot promise you anything now, but do not doubt that I wish to please you. Meanwhile, I will say only that it is not my fault that the day laborers and peasant women of this town interpret my actions in an unfavorable light. It’s enough for us to know that I have given no cause for the harsh reproach that you have delivered. There might have been imprudence on my part, but I have done nothing unworthy of a gentleman. If the notary is rich and we are poor, that is not my fault either. How do you expect me to come by money in this town? On your counsel and 3. Manuel de Godoy y Álvarez de Faria (1767–1851), chief minister of King Carlos IV and the favorite, as well as lover, of his wife Queen María Luisa.



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with your encouragement, I wooed my cousin Costanza and came away with my tail between my legs. After such a painful lesson, do not fear that, acting on my own initiative, I am going to seek a remedy or relief for the poverty in which we live in the notary’s daughter, not even in a king’s daughter.” Doña Ana loved her son passionately and began to feel that she had been overly severe with him. The memory of the rebuff that the doctor had suffered on her account softened her heart more, and, satisfied by what the doctor had just said, Doña Ana rose from her seat, wrapped her arms around her son, and kissed him again and again, shedding bitter tears the whole while. “What misfortune, my son! What misfortune! We are a sorry pair. People look at us as they would at beggars.” The poor doctor consoled his mother the best he knew how and could, although he too found himself in dire need of consolation. Shortly thereafter Doña Ana withdrew to rest, and the doctor went down to his rooms on the ground floor. He was highly agitated and did not want to go to bed. Respetilla, as usual, came to undress him. Don Faustino dismissed him and remained in the salon with the portraits. Don Faustino could not study, nor could he read and write. He paced the room with long strides; he pondered and brooded in such a state of excitement that not a few times he articulated the words that came to his mind with the ideas, gesticulating and waving his hands like a madman. “My mother’s right,” he said. “She’s right ..... although she doesn’t know the half of it. I’ve compromised myself foolishly. It’s an intoxication of the senses, a coarse passion that has brought me to such an extreme. If I loved her, if I esteemed her, even though she was Satan’s daughter, and not the usurious notary’s daughter......! I would take her away from this town, I would marry her, I would work wonders to rise in the world and make a name for myself and succeed on my own so that it couldn’t be said that I owed everything to her. Do I maybe love her? Is this love? The force of emotions, the frenzy that I felt at her side ..... in what way does it resemble real love? I understand real love, I even feel it ..... but with no aim in mind. I am condemned to hold in my soul, in embryo, all the excellences and virtues, all the great passions, all the noble sentiments, though I set in motion only what is despicable, pedestrian, inconsequential, or buffoonish, as if I were Respetilla’s younger brother. My Laura, my Beatrice, my Juliet, my Isabel de Segura4 ..... into what have they been transformed? And nevertheless, she’s better than I am. I am a scoundrel, an impostor, an ingrate. Out of love, be what it may, 4. One of the legendary lovers of Teruel cited in note 23 of the novelist’s Introduction.

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out of love sui generis, but ardent, sincere, and generous love, she has pampered me, flattered me, indulged me, and surrendered her will to me without conditions, without promises, with blind abandon. And although I still desire her, and although the vivid recollection of her tenderness moves my inner core and excites it to new delights, I make bold to scorn her, by virtue of some ideal passion or passions that I will never realize. When I look at the center of my soul—the abyss that was perhaps opened there by pride—I pretend that I am great, like a god. When I examine my actions and the expedients of my will, which occasion such actions, I imagine that I am more lowly than a dog.” Don Faustino sat down heavily in an armchair that was next to a pedestal table in the middle of the room. A single candle provided illumination. There the doctor indulged in new, sad, and profound meditations. Once again he scrutinized the deepest recesses of his soul and found himself capable of every greatness. Why, then, did he do only what the most ordinary and base of men could do? What resource did he lack? The doctor then reasoned that he lacked good luck, that he was the victim of a misfortune. This misfortune could be overcome only with faith, but the doctor possessed faith only by halves. He believed in himself and did not believe in anything external that sought, moved, and stimulated him. The world did not offer him the triumphs, the sublime loves, the pure glory, the brilliant victories that he had dreamed about and still did dream about. Till then the world had done nothing but change some of his illusions into disappointments and make him pay for any ephemeral joy, any satisfaction of amour-propre, with a humiliation. On the other hand, upon descending from the pinnacle of his dreams, from his hopes, and perhaps from his illusions; upon attempting to bring consistency to all of that in the real world, the doctor had only managed to lower himself in his own eyes, to find that he was unworthy of himself, to disfigure and deface the beautiful idol, the kind of perfection of self that he had created in the bosom of his conscience and that he strove to approach and identify. Filled with the spirit of our century, he understood that the fate, the mission of man, was to realize in this life all the virtues, powers, and faculties of his soul, thus contributing to human progress, leaving his stamp on a moment of history, and completing with his generous, noble, active being, the dignity and magnificence of created things, amongst which and above which should stand out in splendor the spirit, intelligence, and divine fire of which his head and his heart were the focus, temple, and dwelling. If he could do none of this, why did he not flee from the world? Why did he not hide in a desert? Instead of going to Madrid, he should have gone where



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nobody would see him. That ennui, that hatred of human society, which in other ages populated wildernesses and depopulated cities ..... is it perhaps an absurd anachronism now? The doctor imagined that it was and that it was not; he imagined that ennui and hatred filled the souls of many a man, and that it filled his too, and continuously. But where was the faith, the belief in an object besides the soul and besides the world, a person before whom—by prostrating himself and humbling himself, and with whom he would then unite—the soul would cleanse itself of all sin, cast aside all lowliness, raise itself at long last to that degree of perfection which it had aspired to reach in vain on its own? No; neither the doctor’s soul nor other tormented souls like his could flee to Thebaid and relive the times and wonders of the Pauls, Anthonys, Pachomiuses, and Hilarions.5 What were they going to adore there, unless it was the specter of their very beings, sublimated and transported by prideful fantasy? For a torment like that of his soul, Don Faustino imagined that there was but one cure: death. And nevertheless, no sooner did he think about death than all the hopes, all the illusions, all the aims of his exuberant youth loomed up as if from an abyss and appeared before his eyes filled with light and beauty, and they brought a delightful harmony to his ears. It was like the song of resurrection that his seminamesake Doctor Faust thought he heard angels singing when he was about to drain the glass of poison. Furthermore, the horror of nothingness held more sway in the doctor’s spirit than the fear of eternal punishment, if he had had any. He wanted to live, but on a grand scale, so as to lead a fruitful, powerful, noble life, a life that would leave an indelible, luminous trace in its wake. Not seeing until then the means of realizing this desire was what tormented him, but confidence in his own abilities and sanguine expectations still lived in his heart. The doctor felt himself possessed of the determination to remove all obstacles, to overcome all difficulties. He lacked only one powerful stimulus— an agent that could set that determination in motion, an agent that could instill sufficient faith, love, and enthusiasm in his spirit. Costancita had been a heartless coquette; Rosita, although charming, discreet, and passionate, could not reconcile herself to the proud ideal of his aspirations; and the immortal friend remained almost invisible. 5. Saint Paul the Hermit (d. c. 347) went into the Theban desert to escape persecution and chose to live the rest of his life in a cave; Saint Anthony (251–356), looked on as the founder of monasticism, spent his life more or less in solitude in Lower Egypt; Saint Pachomius (290–346) was the first monk to organize communal life and a written rule; Saint Hilarion (291–371), converted by Saint Anthony, lived for fifty years in a desolate spot near the Port of Gaza, then removed to Egypt and Palestine.

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Why didn’t the immortal friend, fulfilling oft-repeated promises, come to his aid? Whoever she was by lineage or parentage, by her standing in society at the present moment, the doctor understood that in that woman there was a spirit equal to his, which was the highest compliment he could pay her in his vain mind. A thousand strange ideas then occurred to Don Faustino; a thousand wishes and designs materialized. If he had believed in the possibility of reaching an agreement with the devil, he would have given everything that one can give to the devil in exchange for a fervent love, for a radiant, fixed point that would be the polar star in the tempestuous sea of his life, and at the same time powerful center of attraction that would excite him and guide him. Such was the doctor’s pride that, in his view, one of the most irrefutable arguments against the supernatural was the nonintervention of anything supernatural in his life. If he did not deserve to have higher powers, good or bad, or the principle of light or the principle of darkness, respond to his invocations and conjurations and bestow upon him a singular providence, then what other human being would be deserving? Perhaps such powers did not exist when they did not bend to his will or answer his call. A melancholy prostration finally laid low Don Faustino’s spirit, so overheated was it until then. He considered that he was one of the most miserable and woebegone creatures on Earth. He even deluded himself into thinking that the Inca lady and the rest of the images of his illustrious ancestors were regarding him with pity. Tears of despair then welled up in the doctor’s eyes and ran down his cheeks. Although, generally speaking, tears might not flatter a man’s face, the grief that they brought out on Don Faustino’s was so sublime, albeit misdirected, that, stamping his countenance with a marvelous expression, it made him look strikingly beautiful at that moment. It was after two o’clock in the morning. The gloomy aspect of that grand salon, the profound silence that reigned all around, the proximity to the cemetery, the portraits themselves (scarcely illuminated then by the lone candle), the memory of the mysterious woman’s last appearance—it all moved him to love her, to wish for a new appearance. The doctor was about to get up from the armchair and open the window, almost certain that María was close by, that she was standing, like the other time, with her back to the cemetery wall, when the door to the salon opened softly and then closed immediately, whereupon there advanced a black form whose indistinct shape and profile the doctor could not distinguish. Nevertheless, in the same way that he had had a premonition that his immortal friend was near, before he saw her he knew that it was she, he knew before actually seeing her and making her out completely.



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The person who had just entered was carrying a small lamp that projected light in front as it left darkness or a flickering shadow behind, but the person promptly set the lamp on the cabinet that held vases and chinaware. When she turned around, Don Faustino, ecstatic and entranced, recognized his immortal friend, looking more lovely, more elegant than ever. If his best poetic inspiration, if his most transcendent notion had assumed human form, it would not have seemed more beautiful to him. The light from the candle on the pedestal table gave fully on the face of the immortal friend, accentuating her noble, harmonious features in the eyes and spirit of the doctor, who was spellbound and speechless with awe. “Jealousy is more powerful than love,” said María in a downcast, mellifluous voice. “Driven by it, I’ve forgotten everything, I’ve disregarded everything, and I’ve come to see you. Here I am.” Don Faustino gave no thought to the manner in which that woman had reached the salon. It mattered little to him whether, like a ghost, she had slipped through the thick walls of his ancestral home, and that the devil, so that he would not complain that the evil one was not helping him, had whisked her through the air, or whether she had entered by some simple, natural means. What mattered was having her there, and feeling, on having her there, a passion that he had never felt in all its fullness; not a vague, uncertain passion, the value of which did not withstand analysis or the scalpel of his critical spirit, but the irresistible, perfect, evident love that was the conqueror of the other passions and worthy of his soul. “Here I am, Faustino,” María said again. “A force greater than my will brings me to you. I am yours. Am I not worth more than ..... that other woman? Will I not get you to love me?” Don Faustino blushed a deep red. He thought that all the words of love, all the expressions of tenderness, all the terms of endearment, and even of adoration, that can be spoken to a woman, had been sullied on his lips the night before. He ran over to her and frantically enfolded her in his arms.

[ 18 ] L ove P act

The first rays of dawn began to streak through the numerous cracks in the wood shutters of the windows in that room. The cheerful singing with which small birds were celebrating daybreak reached the ears of Don Faustino and his lover. Driven by jealousy, trampling religious and moral considerations, with prudence thrown to the winds, with an irresistible onrush of love, a love that verged on fanaticism and that made her believe she was linked to the doctor by an eternal bond, María had fallen in his arms. “Don’t detain me any longer,” she said, freeing herself from them. “I should leave. Do not follow me. Honor the pact that we have made.” “I will, for as difficult as it may be. But, will you not tell me the reason, the basis for this mystery in which you wrap yourself?” “The reason for the mystery is the mystery itself, and I cannot reveal it. Instead, I want you to promise again not to follow me, and I don’t even want to think about explaining to you how I got here, and if you figure it out, you have to keep it to yourself. Lastly, I don’t want you to talk to anyone about me or our clandestine meetings. Do you promise?” “I’ve said yes, and I won’t break my word,” replied the doctor. “I love you with all my heart and I’ll be yours forever,” added María. “However, please understand: I must be free to flee from your side, when I should, without your attempting to stop me. When I think I should flee, you’ll not place an obstacle in my way, you’ll not ask the reason. Be content with knowing that I am

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bound to you by eternal ties. My flight will restore to you all your free will, but I, even though a world may separate me from you, I will always consider myself your faithful companion, your slave. You are, you have been, you will be my only love. See it as delirium, but I believe that I have loved you eternally, across a thousand existences; that you are the soul of my soul; that I am not only your immortal friend, but your immortal wife, the sweet, gentle essence of your very spirit.” “No, my love. You are its energy, its vitality, its glory, the star that is to guide it, the magnet that should attract it, the divine virtue that is and will be the origin, root, and constant source of all its lofty thoughts and of all its best acts. The torment of not loving was destroying my soul; the baneful suspicion that my heart was incapable of loving was embittering my existence. You have dispelled the baneful suspicion; you have put an end to the torment. Love of love was my martyrdom. Without someone that my soul judged worthy of being loved, my soul was wasting away. Today my soul lives in you: I love you. These three words, I love you, defiled a thousand times, spoken a thousand times without awareness and without feeling, now have an absolute, infinite value.” “Another of the conditions of our pact,” continued María, affecting a coldness that her tremulous voice belied, “a fundamental condition for my pride to be at peace, and in a certain way for my conscience to be serene—despite my sin, which God in his mercy may perhaps forgive me—is that I place you under no obligation, no constraint. Perhaps you should not, now and almost certainly not in future, make me your lawful wife in this transitory life. Nor can you have me at your side as your friend. Even if the reasons that cause me to lead such a mysterious life were to disappear, I myself would not consent to aggravating the sin with a scandal. You see, then, that the person who can be neither your friend nor your wife, must remain free to flee from you when an overriding obligation calls her to another place.” “Don’t torment me, María,” said the doctor. “I don’t know who you are, but it’s of no consequence to me to be in the dark about such-and-such ordinary circumstance of the least essential part of what constitutes you. María, I know your soul: my soul has fused with your soul. I want to be your lover, your husband before humanity, as I already am before God.” “Don’t blaspheme, Faustino. The delirium of love that joins us is not consecrated by a sacrament.” “Well, don’t you yourself say that you are my immortal wife?” “Yes, I say that and I believe that. Our souls are joined. But, are we to kill ourselves cruelly for this union to be valid? Are we to do without the bodily essence that we have? Who has consecrated the union of Faustino and María,

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just as they presently are on Earth? This union is not possible; I do not want it. It cannot be consecrated.” “And why not?” asked Don Faustino. “You’re free, you’re beautiful, you’re sublime. Immaculate, you came into my arms. You’ve made me the master of your beauty and of your heart without demanding anything in return. And now I give you everything—my hand, my name, my life. Will you marry me?” “Never.” “Will you live at my side?” “Never.” “And why do you refuse to marry me? Why do you say never?” María was suspenseful and silent for a moment, as though meditating. Then she said: “The sincerity and fervor with which you’re talking to me persuade me to propose an additional clause for inclusion in our love pact. You’ve asked whether I will marry you and I’ve replied ‘Never.’ I withdraw the Never. I am so certain I will always love you that I solemnly promise that if—your youth having been served and your ambitious dreams having been realized or shattered—you are free, still love me, look for me and find me alive, I will be your wife. Before that it is not possible....... You commit yourself to nothing; only I do.” “Well, I swear that I will marry you whenever you wish.” “Don’t swear. I do not accept your oath. Neither will God and he’ll consider it idle. Farewell.” Don Faustino enfolded his beloved in his arms. At length she managed to free herself from those loving chains, ran toward the door, and disappeared without the doctor daring to follow her. María had promised to return the next night.

[ 19 ] T he M iracles of C ontempt

Don Faus ti no no longer vacillated or doubted. His joy was great. He felt real love. He believed that the vital impetus hitherto absent in his soul had been set in motion, and he considered himself capable of undertaking any venture and making his way to face any danger and meet any difficulty. Only one scruple of conscience, almost remorse, nagged at him. It was true that he had not promised a thing to Rosita, that he had sworn no oath to her, that he had pledged nothing to her. But these very “negatives” illustrated, and served to magnify further, the generous trust of the notary’s daughter. Don Faustino was determined not to see her again, to sacrifice her to María, whom he loved passionately, whom he intended to love forever, even if he were to discover that she was the executioner’s daughter, but he could not help regretting the undeserved disdain, the ruthless abandonment of which Rosita was going to be the victim. His decision not to visit her again was, though, unbreakable. That day the hour of the tertulia of the three duos came, and Respetilla went alone. Rosita was very surprised and disappointed. Respetilla took it upon himself to put the situation in a good light, assuring her with enviable aplomb that Don Faustino was laid up in bed. Rosita’s displeasure then went from being somewhat testy to being tender and solicitous. For four days Respetilla skillfully wove a web of fiction for Rosita saying that Don Faustino was ill. Rosita passed on to the doctor, through Respetilla, the most affectionate messages; and

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Respetilla invented, on the part of his master, other no less affectionate messages. Rosita thought about writing to the doctor, but her handwriting was so bad and her spelling so rebellious that, so as not to bring discredit on herself, she did not dare to put pen to paper. Rosita asked the town doctor about Don Faustino’s illness. The doctor replied that he had not visited him and that he knew nothing about it, but Respetilla dispelled suspicion by saying that his master was treating himself. Since Don Faustino did not leave the house nor did anybody see him, the illness explanation was credible. The doctor, meanwhile, racked his brains trying to come up with the least disastrous way of breaking with Rosita. He thought about writing her a letter filled with friendly sentiments of gratitude and warmth, bidding farewell with sophistic, alembicated reasons, with quintessential excuses and silly scruples, easier to invent by the dozens than to explain satisfactorily in written form. But writing such a letter was an arduous undertaking, and time was passing without Don Faustino starting it. When Respetilla queried his master, as he did several times, about his reasons for not going to see Rosita, Don Faustino, not having anything to reply, snapped angrily at his servant. Even Doña Ana frowned upon that brusque, discourteous break, and although she did not suspect how close and intimate the ties were, she found it odd that her son did not return to the Civils’ house and urged him to go, and to distance himself from their company gently and politely. Despite these sensible admonitions, Don Faustino was head over heels in love, so immersed in perpetual ecstasy, so transported in the love of his immortal friend, that he experienced an insuperable repugnance at the thought of visiting Rosita again and talking to her. Accepting his servant’s fabrication as plausible, the doctor explained to his mother the precipitate abandonment in which he left the Civils, claiming too that he was somewhat indisposed, but that he would go to see them when he was better. For the entire household, unaware of the mystery of his love affair with María, the doctor’s illness seemed real. There were no longer any strolls or horseback rides; there was no swordplay; and when he did not talk to or keep Doña Ana company, the doctor shut himself up in his ground-floor rooms. Rosita, meanwhile, was anxiety-ridden. At times she doubted that Don Faustino’s illness was actual. Her pride and the conviction that she had of the worth of her ingenuity and beauty dismissed from her mind the horrible sus-



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picion that a sudden tedium, a scornful surfeit had supplanted in the doctor’s soul that amorous fervor that she had shared and to which she had succumbed that night in La Nava. Rosita’s coarse pride and her vanity as a wealthy peasant and village queen had not allowed her to set conditions for the doctor nor to exact a promise or oath from him. Rosita had not thought explicitly or openly about marriage to Don Faustino nor to anything similar, but by the same token neither had she thought, nor feared for an instant, that love, satisfied and reciprocated, would remove that man from her, but rather that it would create an even stronger bond and make him her slave forever ....... So powerful did she believe she was! Now she suspected, now she feared, now she was jealous, although in a vague, confused sort of way. Whenever this passion seized her, she plotted revenge; inwardly she cursed Don Faustino; she reverted to calling him Don Poor-as-a-Church-Mouse, Count of the Asparagus Patches, and Attorney Peperri;1 she felt humiliated for having loved him; she wanted to kill him; and she came within a whisker of roaring like a lioness. Respetilla—imperturbable, intrepid, and persistent in lying—continued to maintain his master’s “illness.” Doing so, he tempered Rosita’s fury, and he likewise prevailed upon her to go from irate responses to loving sympathy. Finally, though, Rosita could not stand it any longer; she ached to resolve the doubt that was gnawing her. One night, when Respetilla came to the tertulia, she enlisted Jacintica’s aid and hinted, demanded, and ordered the good page to take both her and the maid to Don Faustino’s house and introduce her furtively into the doctor’s room, while Don Faustino was eating supper or chatting with his mother upstairs. In this way, glossing over all respect, she wished to see her friend and ascertain the truth of her misfortune or her happiness. In vain did Respetilla use his wits to dissuade her: Jacintica pleaded and Rosita demanded imperiously. Both the former and the latter knew that Respetilla had the key to the house in his possession. He could not help but cave in. Besides, Respetilla said to himself: “What harm can there be in this? My master might even thank me for it afterward. He’s not coming here for some strange reason that I don’t understand. It must be on account of some philosophy question that escapes me. But as soon as my master sees Rosita looking so attractive—out of the blue, as though she fell out of the sky—right in his own room, at eleven o’clock at night, well, I don’t think he’ll mind at all. On the contrary, he’ll be glad.” Having reflected in this manner, Respetilla gave in, and gave in happily, for Jacintica would be at his side. 1. See notes 1 and 2 of Chapter 3.

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It was decided that another maid would step in and act as duenna, her presence constituting approval of conversation between Ramoncita and Don Jerónimo. The latter, who was a simple soul, was persuaded that Rosita had a fierce headache and that she needed to go to bed. Jacintica left with Rosita as if to attend her. Respetilla said good-bye shortly afterward, and the two women, who were waiting for him in a dark corner of the vestibule, shawls about their heads, slipped away with him, unseen by anybody.

[ 20 ] T he M iracles C ontinue

It wa s eleven o’clock at night when the doctor came down from his mother’s room and went into the salon with the portraits. Since he had told Respetilla that he did not need to be there to undress him, the doctor believed he was still at the Civils’ tertulia, which ended at twelve. The immortal friend was supposed to arrive at eleven-thirty, and then the doctor would lock up. Furthermore, he had forbidden Respetilla to enter his room without being called. In short, all the precautions had been taken, or at least the doctor thought so. The poor man did not know what lay in store for him. Rosita was already hidden behind a curtain covering the door that went from the salon with the portraits to the bedroom. When she saw the doctor come in fit, healthy, cheerful, and reciting verses by Zorrilla that said: If you are memory, you will sweeten my life; If you are remorse, I will choke you to death, it infuriated her not to see him sick and dispirited, and she had, inexplicably, a desperate thought—that the memory was of her love and that the remorse he longed to choke was she. Rosita, therefore, continued to spy on him, awaiting, or rather, fearing the appearance of her rival. At first she thought that this rival would be one of the housemaids, then she imagined that the doctor might have a touch of the sorcerer about him, and it scared her somewhat to find herself face to face with specters and to conjure up scenes of the other world amongst sorceresses,

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necromancers, or souls in torment, but so great was her ire and so manly her aroused spirit that she was determined to take revenge on the devil himself if he came in skirts and in the guise of a woman to engage in amorous talk with Don Faustino. Rosita even considered that she had come without the benefit of a couple of pistols or at least a dagger, just in case something happened. Nevertheless, she banked a great deal on her tongue and on her hands. As was his wont, the doctor set the candle on the pedestal table, sank into the armchair, and continued reciting verses by Zorrilla in a voice that, although suppliant, was clear: I do not know the mystery of your essence, I do not know your name and your uncertain destiny, Nor what is your obscure hemisphere, Nor where I, a lost soul, will follow you.   Oh! If you enjoy breath and life, If you have a real, a palpable body, At least permit me, oh beloved apparition, To enjoy for an instant your immortal sight. The verses had the effect of an invocation. The door opened without a sound and a black form appeared in the room. A silvery voice replied to the verses recited by the doctor with the following ones: Through the shadows I walk behind you, Without you I rest neither by day nor by night: To be your slave, to adore you is my fate; Here I am, prostrate now before you.1 María fell to her knees at the doctor’s feet. Don Faustino raised her in his arms, kissing her again and again on the forehead and on her beautiful, rosy cheeks. Rosita could not contain herself any longer. Still, she almost believed that the being whom Don Faustino was embracing and kissing had something supernatural and diabolic about it, but the form was that of a woman, and the tempest of jealousy caused Rosita to overcome any superstitious fear. 1. Cyrus DeCoster notes (p. 294) that Valera has changed these last two lines, substituting ser tu esclava, adorarte es mi sino; / ya postrada me tienes aquí for es seguirte, tal vez, mi destino / y acaso es el tuyo guardarte de mí (“To follow you is, perhaps, my destiny / And yours, maybe, is to flee from me”). From Zorrilla’s poem titled “Mystery” (Misterio).



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She emerged from her hiding place, rushed at them like a tiger, separated them, and, confronting an astounded, stupefied Don Faustino, raged as he stared at her: “You scoundrel! This is how you repay my love? Why have you vilely deceived me? All the sweet lies, all the poisoned words of endearment with which you flattered and blinded me ..... why didn’t you keep them for this devil? “And you, you accursed woman, what witches’ sabbath do you come from? Where did you leave your broom? What brothel did you escape from?” Before Don Faustino recovered from the surprise, before anyone responded to her, Rosita grabbed the light and swung her arm toward María’s face, staring at her with eyes that emitted fire and flashes of fury. All of a sudden Rosita guffawed sarcastically. Her memory, jogged by hatred, had come to her rescue. She had just recognized María, whom she had not seen since early childhood. “Oh, I know you, you good-for-nothing. I know you, worthy offspring of that cut-throat heretic, that Jew dog, that murderer. You’re María la Seca.2 Where have you been since your abominable mother went to hell? And your thief of a father ..... hasn’t he been garroted yet?” Saying this and not giving anyone time to answer her, Rosita put the candle back on the pedestal table and flew at María, as though to tear her to pieces with her fingernails. María was standing still, silent and serene, although saddened, like an allegorical statue of resigned grief, replete with a certain haughty, quiet majesty. Beyond question Rosita would have scratched her face and pulled out her hair if the doctor had not intervened in the nick of time, seizing her by an arm and unceremoniously separating her from her rival. “Who brought you here?” asked the doctor. “How did you get in? I’m putting you out into the street right now. Don’t scream, don’t yell, or I’ll gag you.” Rosita let out a shrill cry. “Be quiet,” said the doctor. “Be quiet or I’ll strangle you.” “I don’t want to be quiet, you traitor. I don’t want to be quiet. Seeing as how you’re a no-account nobleman, an uppity idler, a crook with more debts than shame, you’ve chosen the most suitable lover you could. Go ahead, run off with her; hook up as an outlaw with her father’s renegade band. The Count of the Asparagus Patches is just the right son-in-law for Joselito el Seco.” 2. María is given the feminine epithet la Seca (surly or gruff) because she is the daughter of the bandit Joselito el Seco.

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Don Faustino steeled himself with the patience of Job in order not to trample that viper then and there. Without saying a word to her, but without letting go of her arm, which he held in a firm grasp, he half dragged her toward Respetilla’s room. The doctor wanted to call his servant without causing a commotion in the house and without releasing Rosita and leaving her with María, as the former would have been capable of murdering the immortal friend. Well did he reason that it was Respetilla who had brought him that present, and that, consequently, Respetilla was there in the house too. Sure enough, no sooner did he reach the door of his servant’s room and call him two or three times than Respetilla appeared, followed by Jacintica, who was carrying on with him the tertulia that had begun at the notary’s house. Both had taken for granted that they had brought about great happiness for their master and mistress, and as a result assumed that both were experiencing the second part of earthly paradise. But when they saw the opposite effect on them, servant and maid were seized with terror. The doctor’s eyes blazed like live coals and his face was wan, his features contorted. With his free hand he grabbed Respetilla by an ear, and, pulling him, said: “I don’t know why I don’t kill you. Why did you bring this fury from Avernus3 to my house? Let’s go, on the double, unlock the street door and take her back out and don’t make a sound.” Respetilla obeyed; Jacintica went after Respetilla, and the doctor followed them, clutching Rosita by the arm. When they stepped into the vestibule and before Respetilla opened the door, Rosita said to the doctor: “Let go of my arm, you cruel man. You’re squeezing too hard, you’re breaking it! What did I do to you to be treated like this? Haven’t I loved you? Haven’t I surrendered myself to your will without conditions? Who’s more humble, more meek, more in love than I am? Send her away, throw her out, and I’ll be your slave, I’ll kiss the ground you walk on. I’ll forgive you for everything. You forgive me! Love me!” “Impossible,” said the doctor. “I don’t love you and never will love you. Leave. Get out of my sight.” Rosita’s last outburst of tenderness now changed into coarser virulence with the doctor’s new scorn. She turned on him like a trampled scorpion. 3. A small crater lake between Cuma and Puteoli in southern Italy, considered in ancient times as an entrance to Hell because of the malodorous and fetid sulphuric vapors that arose from it and supposedly killed birds flying overhead.



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“You swine,” she snarled. “Mark my words: I’ll take revenge, and savagely. I will reduce you to misery. I’ll see that your witch of a mother is burned to a crisp in a bonfire.” Don Faustino, unable to keep calm, lost his patience and raised his hand in order to slap Rosita on the face. Fortunately, he restrained himself in time. “You coward! You dare to strike a woman!” “No, you’re not a woman,” responded the doctor. “You’re a harpy.” He had not even finished saying these words when Rosita threw herself at him and sank the fingernails of her free hand in his face, raking it and smearing it with blood. What earlier had taken the form of a threat now became an actual occurrence. Although they were more tremulous than violent, Rosita felt the doctor’s five fingers cuff her cheek. “Kill him, Respetilla. Avenge me, kill him. You’re the stronger one. You can best him. It’s twelve o’clock at night. I’ll give you two thousand duros if you kill him. I’ll give you three thousand duros and a horse to flee to Gibraltar, and from there to America. Don’t be a weakling! Kill him and I’ll give you your fill of gold.” Without saying a word, Respetilla opened the door and chucked Jacintica out of the house. He then returned for Rosita and, taking her from the doctor’s hands, swiftly ushered her outside too. The doctor closed the street door and went back inside in search of his immortal friend. He did not find her in the salon. He checked all the other rooms and did not find her in any of them either. Finally, the doctor noticed a piece of paper on his writing table. On it María had written: Very powerful reasons oblige me to go away from you. Farewell, perhaps forever.

“Oh, you’re not leaving me!” he exclaimed. “I’m breaking the pact that I made. I won’t let you go. I’ll be able to stop you.” The doctor believed that he had discovered where María entered. Without hesitating, and with light in hand, he ran to an interior patio where firewood was stacked. One side of the patio was also a wall of the castle, and in this wall there was a door that opened into the castle proper. The doctor pushed the door but it did not give. It was locked. The key that was in the house had either been lost or was no doubt the key that María used. There was no alternative except to break the door down. Don Faustino grabbed a woodcutter’s axe and delivered three or four furi-

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ous blows. The door, made of old, moth-eaten wood, collapsed immediately. With the candle in one hand and the axe in the other, the doctor then started along dark passageways, beneath the ruinous vaults and through the ancient arms rooms that were filled with debris. Ignorant, or rather forgetful, of that labyrinth (although in the past he had explored it not a few times out of curiosity), he tripped over a massive stone in his path, and, in order to maintain his footing and not fall, he automatically dropped the candlestick in his hand. The light went out, and Don Faustino was plunged into total darkness, not knowing which direction to take so as to find an exit or return to his house to strike up a light once again.

[ 21 ] B ecause of F ollowing a W oman

A lt hough the doctor groped around and managed to pick up the candlestick, with the light extinguished it was of no use to him, just a hindrance. In vain did he go along in search of an exit by feeling the walls. In that dark place there was neither a window nor a gap through which the moonlight could enter, a brightness that, although waning in his room, illuminated the sky on that spring night. A fresh breeze whispered, swaying the crowns of the trees and rippling blades of grass, but the whisper, heard from the spot where the doctor stood, had something more sinister about it than peaceful and welcome. As the air penetrated the passages and openings by which the doctor wanted to leave, it moaned, imprisoned in the gloominess of those ruins, and produced a thousand faint echoes and a thousand sad, fantastic sounds. No less disagreeable a noise was made by the rats that abounded there and ran pell-mell on account of the strange and unexpected guest who had come to visit their domain. Notwithstanding all his philosophies, the doctor thought that it had not been clearly shown that there were no devils or goblins or other monsters and supernatural beings, and he felt some fear of them. However, anger at seeing himself outwitted and shut up in that dungeon of sorts, unable to leave, weighed more on his spirit than the hypothetical and vague apprehension that there were devils and that they were nearby. The doctor, putting his thoughts into resounding words, let loose—may



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God have forgiven him—two or three frightful blasphemies. As if his voice attracted it, he then heard close to him the steps of a living thing of much greater bulk than the rats. Nothing in fact could be seen, but from the doctor’s eyes there emanated luminous circles that expanded in space and filled the darkness, widening more and more, like the circles of a phantasmagoria. Inside those circles, which were sometimes red, sometimes midway between green and yellow, you could variously see Joselito el Seco in an iron “bow tie” with his tongue lolling out of his mouth; the specter of a woman who alternately looked like María, the Inca lady, then both at once; and other figures like those that are painted in pictures of the temptations of Saint Anthony. But not on that account did the doctor flinch; on the contrary, as if to issue a challenge, he again blasphemed aloud. No sooner did he articulate the repeated blasphemy than the living thing that he had sensed nearby jumped on top of him. It seemed to the doctor that he was being clasped by strong, deformed arms, albeit cadaverous like those of a giant’s mummy, and on his face he felt the contact of another face, a shaggy one. The effect that it produced on him was horrible. Almost automatically, for he had neither the strength nor the serenity to reflect, he pushed the monster away, but the monster, momentarily rebuffed, came back at the doctor and planted a cold, sloppy kiss on him, rubbing its moist, hirsute snout on his cheek. Let us acknowledge that the encounter was enough to frighten anybody. The wind was moaning and whistling and rustling, imitating a thousand voices, songs, sighs, sobs, and even words of a magic and unknown language, and a marvelous, repugnant thing or being was embracing and kissing Don Faustino. Don Faustino started to think that he was up against the devil himself. He wavered between wielding the axe in order to vanquish the monster and making the sign of the cross in order to put it to flight, when the thing emitted a pitiful howl that had nothing human about it. The doctor then burst out laughing and said, a little confused and ashamed: “Hello, Faón!1 Well, I’ll be! What are you doing here?” Faón was the biggest and most beautiful of his hounds, and, full of good intentions, circumspection, and prudence, had followed him, silently, so as not to scare off the game, and without fearing that he would frighten his master. 1. Phaon (in English) was an old, poor, homely ferryman who ferried a disguised Aphrodite without asking for payment. As a reward, the goddess gave him a phial of oil with which he rubbed himself every day, becoming very handsome as a result. He was loved by all the women of the island of Lesbos, especially by Sappho.



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The doctor ran his hand along Faón’s back and satisfied himself that it was indeed none other who had responded to his blasphemies. Trusting in the evident canine intelligence of Sappho’s lover,2 he hoped that it would lead him out of the darkness, and in order to use the dog as a guide the doctor tied his handkerchief around its neck, holding on to one of the corners. With admirable instinct the hound understood that it needed to guide, but it did not know where. However, it started to walk and the doctor followed suit. They quickly reached a spot where the doctor perceived that Faón was going up. Then, after tripping on the first step of a stairway, he climbed it behind his dog. Shortly thereafter the doctor saw moonlight, felt a fresh breeze on his face, and found himself on the parapet walk, not far from the bartizan or protrudent tower that connected with the church by means of the archway passage. Unfortunately, it was impossible to reach the tower from the parapet walk. There was no door, and no human body, however skinny, would fit through the narrow skylights. The doctor stamped the flagstone to vent his impatience and anger. Faón set off yet again. He went down the same stairway that he had climbed, his master at his heels, and, guiding Don Faustino out of that darkness, led him to an interior courtyard in the castle that was overgrown with tall grass. Although the doctor was not a very expert observer of things natural, he could not help noticing on the flattened, trampled grass there the recent imprints of light, petite feet. He had not been mistaken. María had passed through that very courtyard. Faón knew from his master’s attitude that he was pleased and that it was María he was searching for, and, barking happily, he quickened his step, with the doctor following close behind. They entered a corridor, reached another stairway, climbed it, and found themselves on the second level of the bartizan. One of the sides of the interior square-shaped enclosure was the wall with the opening of the archway passage that joined the castle with the church. Don Faustino and Faón passed through the archway, descended a small flight of steps, and finally gained entrée into the choir of Villabermeja’s beautiful church, which at that hour was silent and somber, even though three lamps were burning in its inner recesses: one in front of the main altar and the other two in front of the side altars wherein stood statues of the patron saint and Jesus the Nazarene. 2. Sappho (early 6th century b.c.) is considered the greatest of the early Greek lyric poets. Most accounts, though, hold that Phaon, far from being Sappho’s lover, scorned her.

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Taking a familiar and well-trod stairway, the doctor went down from the choir to the church unimpeded. Once inside the church proper, he headed for the door to the sacristy. The doctor was certain that María had exited through it. Even if he had not been certain of it, the signs being given by Faón that he had not lost her scent would have confirmed his belief. Great was the doctor’s annoyance when he found the sacristy door locked. That door was not as easy to knock down as the other one. It was made of thick walnut boards and could resist, without breaking, a deluge of axe blows. A violent approach was futile, but even if it had not been, the doctor might not have dared to use one. The door to the sacristy was beside the magnificent churrigueresque reredos of the López de Mendozas, on the side altar of which dwelled Our Lord Jesus. Beneath the floor of big flagstones, where the doctor walked, was the sepulchral vault with the remains of his ancestors. Each step that he took sounded hollow or echoed through the naves of the deserted temple whose walls reverberated any noise. The scant illumination that slanted through the cupula skylights either diffused the lamps, their glow reaching and being reflected on the pillars, and flooding the entire area with roving shadows— shadows that now disappeared, now expanded, now vanished again in accordance with the flickering of the lamplight—or the melancholy glimmer of the moon dimmed a little, thanks to the passing and obstruction of the occasional cloud, before penetrating the skylights. All this instilled a certain semireligious respect in the doctor’s unbelieving spirit. Nonetheless, he knocked on the door with the blunt edge of the axe blade. Nobody answered. He knocked harder. Still no answer. He ended up losing patience and knocking with all his might. Each blow—doubled, tripled, quintupled by the echoes—seemed like a prolonged thunderclap. It could be said that God was calling to account all the Dominican friars and Mendozas who were entombed there in their respective crypts, and yet no one answered. Putting his lips to the lock, the doctor shouted several times: “Father Piñón! Father Piñón! Father Piñón! Are you deaf?” Father Piñón was, in fact, deaf. The doctor’s shouts were futile. No one answered him. A sudden idea crossed Don Faustino’s mind. It occurred to him that it had been an absurd and rash decision to go there. He feared that while he was getting weary of banging and shouting in vain, María was escaping through the door of Father Piñón’s house, which gave onto the street. No sooner did this thought strike him than the doctor ran like a madman toward the choir and retraced, followed by the hound, the route by which



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he had come, until he reached the castle courtyard. There he again took the hound as his guide, and the hound led him to the entrance of his house. Respetilla, who had returned from accompanying Jacintica and Rosita home, suspected that his master had become unhinged when he saw him all out of joint and carrying an axe. Don Faustino grabbed his hat on the run and left, forbidding Respetilla to follow him and stopping Faón from doing the same. As fast as his legs could carry him, he was at Father Piñón’s house, and he began to knock in a fenzy. Perhaps one could hear better there or perhaps Father Piñón had regained his sense of hearing. At all events, three or four minutes later the priest himself leaned out of a window and asked: “Who’s calling at this late hour?” “It’s me,” said the doctor. “Don’t you recognize me?” “Oh! Yes, now I do. Is there somebody in danger?” “There’s nobody in danger, but have your servant open up. I must talk to you.” “All right,” he heard Father Piñón say. “Get a move on, Antonio, and go down to open up for Señorito don Faustino.” Before continuing with our story, it behooves us to inform readers who Father Piñón was. He was the only friar still left from the old monastery. Wizened and diminutive, he was given the name Father “Piñón,” and scarcely anyone remembered his real name.3 Although the building in which the friars lived had been sold and was then being used as an olive oil mill, one room had been set aside for lodging, a big, beautiful, comfortable room adjacent to the sacristy. The people of Villabermeja, who loved him very much, turned it over to Father Piñón to serve as his abode. There, having Antonio the sacristan at his beck and call night and day, and during the day two acolytes besides, Father Piñón tended the splendid temple, glory of the town, and looked after the rich chasubles, the gold-embroidered dalmatics and capes, the exquisite linens, like albs, stoles, amices, surplices, and rochets, all with a profusion of lovely lace and needlework, as well as the monstrance inlaid with emeralds and pearls, and other ornaments, jewels, and beautiful objets d’art that belonged to the church. All these articles and valuables were locked up in closets, cabinets, and large chests in the sacristy. Father Piñón charmed the townspeople not only on account of his vir3. The Spanish word piñón means “pine nut.”

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tues, but also because of his cheerfulness, good humor, and clever remarks. He epitomized the sallies of a man possessed of wit and the power of a jolly or lighthearted approach to life, and the celebrated Father Boneta4 doubtless would have sung his praises if he had known him. A few excessively rigid individuals accused him of being much too lenient in the confessional, but without reason, as we have learned. The fact is that he still was, and, above all, had been in the time of his peak years, the most sought-after confessor, even though it cost you dear to make your confession to him. The old saying, “Whoever sins and prays evens the slate,” cut no ice with him. Well did he know that God’s goodness is infinite and that he forgives the person who weeps, prays, repents, and has the intention to reform, but the evil done by the sin remains done, and it is not remedied nor made good through repentance or penance unless the latter is properly directed. To this end, Father Piñón devised and put into practice a system of penance by means of which, seeing that the sins were inevitable, he managed to derive profit from those of the well-to-do in favor of the needy. Bearing in mind, notwithstanding the magnitude of the sin, the wealth of the sinner, he usually fined him or her a dozen eggs, or a hen, or a ham, or a turkey, or some other foodstuff or article of clothing that he then distributed to the poor. Of course Father Piñón was prudent, and whenever it had to do with a married woman who was to be assigned, for example, a turkey for penance, he did so with the greatest artfulness, so that her husband would not learn of it and start wondering, full of suspicion, about the equivalence of a turkey in the penitential tariffs. When such considerations were not possible, payment of the fine became public, by virtue of which, the priest used to say, not only was the sinner shamed, he also had greater incentive to mend his ways. There will be no lack of severe critics who find this method ridiculous and condemn Father Piñón; but, either I do not understand it, or the method is so discreet and sensible that I would like to see it become universal. Father Piñón did not incite sin, but once one was committed, he used it to the advantage of the destitute by punishing the sinner. How different from what is customary these days in big cities, where, for example, they give a masked ball for the benefit of the children in a foundling hospital! Such a recourse, even looking at it in economic terms, is absurd, since the receipts that are to go to the hospital may be nullified and even exceeded by outlay, causing the hospital to take on, in a few short months, a multitude of new expenses and burdens. The accusations of leniency that had been hurled at Father Piñón came 4. José Boneta y Laplana (1638–1714), Spanish priest and prolific author.



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from the supporters5 of an absolute monarchy, and had another basis. It was asserted that in the days of absolutism, when it was indispensable to possess a warrant saying that one had fulfilled the precepts of the Church, Father Piñón issued warrants to the liberal freethinkers in exchange for alms, but this rather calls for praise inasmuch as it avoided hypocritical confessions and sacrilegious communions. People also said that Don Faustino’s father, when he received the warrant, would give Father Piñón a half-ounce gold piece, saying to him: “Here you are. To say a few masses for Riego’s soul.”6 In short, Father Piñón, in spite of the disclaimers of some, personified kindness, had the sunniest of dispositions, and was as indulgent and charitable as an angel. He had scarcely read more than the breviary, but he knew the breviary by heart, fully comprehending all the beautiful thoughts, all the sublime dictums, and all the poetic treasures contained therein. May Don Faustino forgive us for having seemingly left him at the door in order to provide some background on Father Piñón, in whose anteroom he now found himself, after being shown in by Antonio when he knocked. “What does Señorito don Faustino wish of his chaplain?” asked Father Piñón. “Father,” replied the doctor, “I’ll come straight to the point: Pretense is futile. You know who María is. María’s hiding here. I’ve come in search of her. I want to see her. She’s my wife. I have cause, and the right, to demand that she not flee from me.” “What madness is this, my son?” “Answer me,” said the doctor. “Where is María?” “Since you’re demanding a categorical reply, I’ll give it to you: Dominus custodivit eam ab inimicis et a seductoribus tutavit illam.”7 “Let’s drop the jokes. I’m neither her enemy nor her seducer. There’s no reason to shield her from me.” The doctor attempted to brush past the priest and search his living quarters, but Father Piñón gently restrained him. Don Faustino then began to call out: “María, María! Don’t hide from me. Don’t desert me.” 5. serviles (literally, “servile”), or absolutists. Serviles was the name given by the Liberals to the Conservatives (supporters of an absolute monarchy) at the beginning of the nineteenth century. 6. Rafael del Riego y Núñez (1785–1823), Spanish general who protested the monarchical absolutism of King Fernando VII. Betrayed by another general, he was taken to Madrid in 1823 and hanged for treason. He became a symbol, with a hymn named for him, of Spanish revolutionary liberalism. 7. God has protected her from her enemies and has preserved her from her seducers.

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Father Piñón said: “Dominus, inter caetera potentiae suae miracula, in sexu fragili victoriam contulit.”8 “What the devil are you trying to say? What victory are you talking about?” “Dominus deduxit illam per vias rectas.”9 This last Latin response caused Don Faustino to start. “Oh! You’re not deceiving me, Father? So she has escaped? Where? When? In which direction?” “My son, even if you get angry with me, my duty is to brave your fury. María has gone, but I will not tell you where nor in which direction. I don’t want you to follow her. She confessed all her sins to me yesterday. As a condition of absolution, I required her to leave. Besides, there were other reasons that obligated her to go.” “What reasons? There’s no acceptable reason,” said the doctor heatedly. “Yes, there is, my son. There is a person whom Nature granted authority over her, but from whom God took away the right to exercise that authority, as punishment for his evil ways. I know that this person is searching for her; I know that he has already learned that she was in this house. He’s bold, terrible ..... He would have come ..... He was coming to look for her and drag her away from here. For this reason too María has fled. I can’t nor should tell you more.” “I would have defended her, Father. Nobody would have dared to come to steal her from me.” “And in what capacity was I going to place María in your safekeeping and care?” “As my lawful wife.” “Look, Señorito, we friars have always been what nowadays are called democrats, but understanding democracy in a better way. Certainly I would not have let any human consideration stand in the way to discourage María from marrying you. But it would have been a way to make amends for both your grievous sins, and I would have accepted that. María was the one who adamantly refused to marry. She believed that it was her duty to leave and she left.” “Where has she gone? Tell me where.” “I cannot.” “You’re playing me false. She’s still here.” “Don’t talk nonsense, Don Faustino,” said Father Piñón, his dander up somewhat. “Do I look like a liar? I’m telling you María’s gone.” 8. God, among the other miracles of his power, has conferred victory on the fair sex. 9. God has guided her along straight paths.



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“I’ll leave in search of her right now. I’ll find her, I’ll stop her, and I’ll bring her back with me.” “Do as you please, but it will all be to no purpose. Bear in mind too that Joselito el Seco is holed up nearby, and you run the risk of falling into his hands.” “Even if I fall into the hands of Lucifer.” “Good Heavens! You’re mad, hopeless. You can say of yourself with the Psalmist: Miser factus sum quoniam lumbi mei impleti sunt illusionibus.”10 Don Faustino neither heard nor responded further, and left Father Piñón’s house like a blue streak. The priest imagined that the doctor’s intention to go in search of María was like a threat that would not be carried out, and so he very calmly went to bed. A quarter of an hour later, Don Faustino, alone and riding his mare, which he had had Respetilla saddle in a great hurry, and armed with a blunderbuss and two pistols, was outside of the town on the road to the town of __________, nearly ten miles distant. From this town coaches departed at dawn for Sevilla, Córdoba, and Málaga. If the doctor overtook María on the road or in said town—before María headed in this or that direction—he would achieve his objective. The church clock had struck two in the morning a long time ago, which meant that María had more than a two-hour lead. The doctor rode at a gallop. He covered more than half the distance, and the mare, panting and drenched in sweat, was showing signs of exhaustion, when the doctor, so intense till then that he had gone about everything without thinking, took a moment to consider that since the covered wagon had a two-hour head start it would be impossible to catch up with it en route, even if the mare died of exhaustion. To reach the town before dawn there was time to spare, even going slowly. So the doctor, although devoured by impatience, resigned himself to continuing his journey at a slower pace. In the town of __________ he would search everywhere for María, and he expected that she would not get away without his seeing her. Don Faustino had been riding slowly for a quarter of an hour. On either side of the road there were luxuriant olive groves, and the moon, shining in the cloudless sky, illuminated everything with its silvery glow. He had just descended a very steep hill and found himself in a hollow, through which coursed a brook. On its borders grew numerous poplars and other trees, and together with scrub they made a somber, green canopy. Ever absorbed in thought, the doctor neither saw nor heard that five men 10. I have been made miserable because my loins are full of illusions.

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on horseback suddenly emerged from the coppice and with unheard-of speed pulled in front of him, cutting him off. He didn’t become aware of it, or didn’t have time to become aware of it, so swift was the riders’ maneuver, until one of them shouted: “Hold it!” The doctor then saw that four of the five were aiming at him with their shotguns. He tried to turn back in order to escape, by skirting around them, but noticed that another three men on foot, also armed with shotguns, were advancing toward him. He was completely surrounded, and in such a tight circle that he had neither the time nor the space to wheel about. “Give up or you die!” shouted another of the men on horseback. His enemies were so close, and the situation was so pressing, that to do anything except give up was folly, but our hero, in despair that he should be detained in the middle of his journey, made a frightful decision. He grabbed one of the pistols slung over the pommel of the saddle, cocked it, and, aiming at the closest man on horseback, said to him: “Move aside, you rascal, or I’ll blow your brains out!” At the same time he dug his spurs in the mare’s flanks so as to escape by breaking through the band of highwaymen. The latter, whose weapons were also cocked and aimed at the doctor, would no doubt have fired, killing him, if the leader’s voice had not been heard in time, shouting: “Don’t kill him, don’t kill him! It’s my compatriot Don Faustino López de Mendoza.” The doctor likewise hesitated to shoot when he saw the generosity with which he was being treated. All this took place in the blink of an eye. The mare, excited by the digging spurs, was already bounding ahead. When the outlaws on horseback cut it off, the muzzles of their shotguns brushed against the doctor’s body. His pistol could have killed the closest outlaw at point-blank range. There was no longer time for explanations nor negotiations, and no doubt someone would have died despite the leader’s shout of warning if, all of a sudden, the doctor had not felt his arms powerfully seized by two of the outlaws on foot, strong enough both of them to pull him off his saddle, down to the ground behind his horse. In the struggle to free himself he squeezed the trigger and fired the pistol, but the shot went wild, not hitting anyone. On the ground now, and held fast by the two who had dragged him down, the doctor heard the leader’s voice saying to him: “Señor don Faustino, you are my prisoner. Surrender and give me your word of honor that you won’t attempt to escape, that you’ll follow me to our



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destination, and that you won’t try to use force against us. Then you’ll mount up again, and these good fellows will respect you and show you the consideration that is your due.” Don Faustino had no alternative but to promise what the leader demanded. No sooner did he do so than one of the outlaws took the mare by the reins and led it to Don Faustino for him to mount, and, free now, he mounted up. Then, obeying a signal from the leader, he rode alongside the outlaws and entered a lane that ran through the middle of the olive groves, keeping away from the main road in such bellicose company.

[ 22 ] R osita’ s R evenge

A fte r the ev en ts related in the previous chapter, a week had already passed and nothing was known in Villabermeja of Don Faustino’s whereabouts. His mother, torment-ridden, attempted to no avail to find out where her beloved son was. Rosita, meanwhile, furious with jealousy and the affronts that she had suffered, spread word everywhere that Don Faustino, head over heels in love with María, had fled with her, signing on as a brigand in Joselito el Seco’s band. Since someone claimed that Joselito’s people had been near the town the night that Don Faustino fled, and since not only Rosita, but Jacintica too, regarded María’s love affair with the doctor as certain, nobody in Villabermeja—save Father Piñón—doubted that Don Faustino was with the brigands by choice. The very ruin of the house of Mendoza lent credence in the eyes of the townspeople to the fact that Don Faustino had adopted such a heroic measure to get out of financial straits. Father Piñón was the only person who knew that María had not gone off with the doctor, the only person who knew where María was, but he did not want to confide that information to anyone. He reasoned, moreover, that Don Faustino, not of his volition, but much against his will, had fallen in the hands of the thieves, but since affirming this conclusion would have caused Doña Ana more grief than consolation, Father Piñón kept his own counsel. Rosita did not believe that she was lying when she proclaimed to the world that the doctor was with María and the outlaws. She took it all for granted. The result was that her jealous rage con-

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stantly egged her on, and she did not cease even for a moment to incite her father to avenge her. Don Juan Crisóstomo Gutiérrez, although miserly, usurious, and not very scrupulous when it came to morals, had two character traits that would have moved him to act kindly in that situation if Rosita had not pushed him, and pushed him hard. Don Juan Crisóstomo was sympathetic and cowardly. On the one hand, Doña Ana’s distress inspired compassion in him, but he did not want it to grow. On the other, persuaded, like Rosita, that Don Faustino had become a brigand, he feared that the doctor in his turn would come to take revenge, either by seizing him to kill him or, at the very least, to give him a beating, or else by going to his country houses to set fire to one of them, or to break the earthenware jars and the casks, spilling the olive oil, wine, and vinegar and making a tragic mishmash of all of it. The figure of the doctor, accompanied by Joselito el Seco and a troop of bandits, was the poor notary’s nightmare. While asleep, he dreamed that they had already kidnapped him and were torturing him; while awake, he feared that he would come face to face with the doctor or one of his emissaries among the men approaching him. But if the notary trembled at the prospect of arousing the doctor’s wrath, he trembled still more before Rosita. Rosita put him between a rock and a hard place. What alternative did he have? How was he to resist the commands of that imperious daughter, that tyrant of his will, frenetic at the time with rage? There was no other recourse. The notary called together the creditors, who obeyed him more than any two-bit little banker can obey a Rothschild, and gathered outstanding debts against the house of Mendoza to the tune of nearly eight thousand duros. They were all in the form of deeds and payable promissory notes, and had not been renewed, thus leaving the debtor at the mercy of the creditors, who continued to collect interest as long as it suited them, or as long as they did not vent their anger, and who, not content with the interest, likewise demanded a large dosage of humility and gratitude, under pain of displeasure that would prompt the creditor to ask at once for the debt capital, threatening the debtor with attachment. Such was the state of the house of Mendoza through the mismanagement of the deceased Don Francisco, and the scant ability, negligence, and bad luck of Don Faustino and his mother. Their holdings—poorly developed because of a lack of capital, with all their goods always sold cheap or at a loss— scarcely produced an amount sufficient to pay the enormous interest on that debt. Several times an attempt had been made to sell pieces of property to pay what was owed, but in small towns there is an extraordinary fondness

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for “kicking a person when he’s down.”1 All those who have some money always keep an eye out for someone who’s in straits and wants or needs to sell something, in order to buy it for a third or a quarter of its fair value. Even so, they think they’re doing the seller a favor because they’re giving him money, which yields high interest, in exchange for lands, which produce very little unless one stays on top of them and makes an investment of cash and intelligence in their administration and care. Don Juan Crisóstomo still made laudable efforts to calm Rosita. Rosita went so far as to say to him that she preferred to be Joselito el Seco’s daughter rather than his daughter, because if Joselito’s daughter were wronged, her father would avenge her. Don Juan Crisóstomo did not want to be nor could be less than Joselito el Seco, and through his foreman sent a message to Respeta telling him that the Mendozas’ creditors refused to wait any longer, that it was necessary to pay them within a period of ten days, and that otherwise the Mendozas would be attached. Not content with this, Rosita herself dictated an insolent letter to Doña Ana, threatening her if she did not pay up in the stipulated period. The notary, although resisting and with a shaky hand, had to sign the letter. When Respetilla learned of everything from his father, he went to the notary’s house, spoke to Rosita, threw in her face her malevolent conduct, and tried to mollify and soften her. Seeing, though, that a temperate appeal was futile, he became impudent with Rosita and began to utter threats, but she turned the tables on him with a vengeance and sent him packing. Respetilla entertained cuffing the notary’s daughter and even tanning the hide of the notary himself, but the fear of provoking a bloody encounter with one of the servants of that house, an encounter that could end up with his being sent to Ceuta,2 kept in check the impulses of his loyalty and devotion to Don Faustino. The faithful page did quite a lot by not returning to the notary’s house and depriving himself of the sweet company of Jacintica, with whom he severed relations. In the meantime, all the sorrows and troubles together had been visited upon Doña Ana. Her son still had not turned up and her anxiety only increased. As a consolation, she was being threatened with the shame of an attachment, with the utter ruin of her family and her property. The only thing that remained in the house in the month of May was a little 1. The original is tirar de los pies a los ahorcados, literally, “to pull at the feet of hanged people.” 2. Ceuta is a Spanish enclave in North Africa, on the Mediterranean coast near the Strait of Gibraltar.



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wine, the sale value of which would not exceed ten thousand reales. Doña Ana instructed Respetilla to contact agents to sell it for her for whatever amount someone wanted to pay. But, what was ten thousand reales when she needed one hundred and sixty thousand? Doña Ana scrutinized every closet and every chest of drawers, gathering together the few trinkets and what little wrought silver she still possessed, and although they would not bring in more than another ten, or maybe twelve, thousand reales, assuming they went for a good price, Doña Ana decided to sell them. Finally, overcoming her extreme repugnance and swallowing her pride, she turned to her dearest friend—she wrote a letter to Niña Araceli describing in detail the terrible trouble in which she found herself and asking for help. Respetilla, entrusted with taking the letter and the jewelry, mounted a horse and left for the town where Niña Araceli lived. A broken Doña Ana, unable to withstand such cruel emotions any longer, fell sick and took to her bed with an alarming fever. In the midst of these doings the town had divided into two sides. Some applauded Rosita’s revenge, others condemned it. The former viewed the doctor’s conduct as abominable and assumed that he had already turned into an outlaw; the latter thought that Rosita was the devil incarnate, and that the doctor was the seduced one, and that she had no right to bemoan her abandonment nor to take such heartless and barbarous revenge. Thus it was that all of Villabermeja raged with gossip, assumptions, and controversies. Father Piñón was the most resolute supporter of the Mendozas. He and the town doctor went to visit the ill Doña Ana frequently, and Vicenta the housekeeper looked after the señora with the greatest care. “Where can Don Faustino have ended up?” wondered Father Piñón, who talked to himself because he did not dare to confide his secret thoughts to anyone. “Can Joselito have abducted him? I’m afraid so ....... I’ll warn María, who I already know is in a safe place, thank God. Now we shall see how Señorito don Faustino regains his freedom.”

[ 23 ] J oselito ’ s C onfidences

It is imp e rati v e now to come back to the doctor, who, as the reader probably suspects, continued in the hands of Joselito el Seco. Shortly after being waylaid, the doctor realized that Joselito was going in search of his daughter, with the intention of abducting her from Father Piñón’s house, where, from spies and friends that he had in Villabermeja, he had learned that she was hiding. Father Piñón and María had prepared for this surprise in time, allowing her to flee without anyone knowing where. The doctor suffered through a long, tedious questioning by Joselito, who, apprised of the fact that his daughter was in love with the doctor, found himself at a loss to explain that nocturnal journey of Don Faustino’s. Joselito did not suspect that his daughter, who had been informed that he was coming in search of her, had escaped and that the doctor was pursuing her, but even if that had been the case it was now too late to catch up with her. Don Faustino, nevertheless, concealed María’s flight and fished for reasons to explain his nocturnal journey, until he saw that Joselito, by a meandering route, was taking him back to Villabermeja with the obvious intention of a forced entry into Father Piñón’s house. So as to avoid this eventuality, the doctor, when they neared the town, revealed that María had in fact fled and that he had gone off in pursuit of her. Joselito demanded that the doctor give his word of honor that he was telling the truth. Then, convinced that the doctor wasn’t deceiving him, the outlaw leader took stock of the situation and

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decided, in a fit of anger, that it was impossible now to overtake or stop his daughter before she reached a certain point, where she was safe. As a result, Joselito desisted from entering Villabermeja, and he and his band and his prisoner wandered about for many days, away from the main roads, spending nights at country houses and farms where Joselito had partisans and accomplices. The doctor, completely disoriented now, did not know in what location, nor even in what province of Andalusia, he was. Trusting in the word of honor that the doctor had given and in the obligation that he had assumed, Joselito allowed him to ride his mare and keep his arms, and, to all appearances, altogether freely, although two of the outlaws watched him constantly. The doctor was not permitted to write to his mother no matter how much he asked. Apart from this, he was treated with all the luxury, consideration, and attention possible in that vagabond life. A number of times several members of the band separated from Joselito, and Don Faustino surmised that it was for some robbery or holdup of little importance because then they would return, and he noticed them talking to the leader and dividing and apportioning money. Meanwhile, the doctor was getting increasingly more desperate, beside himself as he brooded over the reason he was taken captive and failed to hit upon one. Joselito was a man of so few words that there was no way for the doctor to clear it up, no matter how much he asked him. Finally, one night when they lodged at a country house that must have belonged to some wealthy man, because there were quite comfortable and nicely furnished bedrooms, Joselito told the doctor that he wished to speak to him alone. Together they went up to the doctor’s room, which was the most elegant and luxurious one, and there had the following conversation: “Señor don Faustino,” said Joselito el Seco, “it was not my intention to kidnap you. I was going in search of my daughter; I came across you by chance; I recognized you, and give thanks to heaven for my good memory and for how much you resemble your father, because if I hadn’t recognized you, you would already be carrion for crows. As I was saying, I recognized you and kept you with me and my band. Today I want to and should tell you my intentions and a lot of things that are important to me and important to you.” “Talk away, Joselito,” interrupted the doctor. “I’ve been consumed by curiosity for days.” Both speakers then sat down on chairs, face to face, next to a table on which stood two glass candlesticks with a candle burning in each one. Joselito’s appearance was the least sinister that anyone could imagine. Tall

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and slender of body; a fair complexion, albeit tanned by the sun; and black hair, some of which had turned gray. He looked to be a man of forty, but in robust health and wearing his years well. His eyes were blue-green, almondshaped and soft. Joselito sported sideburns and a trimmed mustache, and his small mouth revealed even, well-formed, white teeth. In short, Joselito was a very handsome majo,1 and you could tell that in his not too distant youth he had been what is called a fine specimen of a man. “You’re looking,” he said to Don Faustino, “at someone who was destined to live a very different life from the one I am living, but man proposes and God or the devil disposes. When I was eighteen I was a novice in the monastery of Villabermeja. Father Piñón, I’m sure, will remember those times, seeing that he loved me dearly because of the fervor and excellent voice with which I used to sing the church things, and because he thought me so humble and simple that he always went around saying that I was going to be a saint. And maybe I would have been if I hadn’t laid eyes on Juanita. I should have gone blind. Juanita went to church a lot in the company of her mother, the widow Doña Petra. This good señora was very conceited and haughty. She boasted of being a noblewoman, and not without reason. Her mother, Juanita’s grandmother, was one of your grandfather’s sisters, Señor don Faustino. So this poor novice had the audacity to look at a relative of the Mendozas.” “Whose widow was Doña Petra?” asked the doctor. “A prosperous muleteer’s,” replied Joselito. “That’s of little importance. The point is that I fell hopelessly in love with Juanita. My passionate glances managed to excite in her spirit a love that was the equal of mine. Right there in the church we talked to each other with such caution and pretense that Doña Petra did not suspect a thing. Juanita and I came up with a plan. I would sneak out of the monastery at night and go to her house to see her, jumping over the courtyard walls. And we were carrying on our mysterious and happy love like that when Juanita’s beauty awakened, at a fair, great attraction in the heart of a certain firstborn heir from the city of __________, not far from Villabermeja. So Doña Petra arranged Juanita’s marriage, and Juanita didn’t dare to oppose it, but she informed me of it all at once. We both decided to run off. The night that everything was set for our flight, which was going to be on a mule from the monastery, with Juanita riding behind me, I went to meet her at her house. Unfortunately, the fiancé heir, who was hanging around there with a servant of his, spotted me when I was about to jump over the courtyard wall, and before I could land on the other side, he grabbed me by a leg and, pull1. A term originally used to refer to individuals from the working-class districts (barrios bajos) of Madrid in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. They were noted for their loud, extravagant dress, arrogant ways, uninhibited behavior, and colorful speech.



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ing wildly, managed to drag me to the ground. I got to my feet at once, a bit bruised, but before I was able to recover, the heir kicked me furiously three or four times, calling me a thief. He almost knocked me to the ground again, because he was a really strong man. Despite my alarm and my missteps, I had time to see and recognize my hated rival in the person who was abusing me. Then jealousy and anger and shame at seeing myself thrashed in such a brutal way made me forget all my humility as a novice, which Father Piñón used to praise. My old meekness changed suddenly into ferocity and rancor. The flames of hell burned my heart with wishes for a quick and terrible revenge. The devil, whom I no doubt called upon for help, heard me and immediately provided me with the means. Next to the spot where the last kick had driven me there was a pile of big stones. I picked one up, and with lightning speed I turned to my enemy, and before he could try to ward off the blow, I threw it and nailed his head with such good aim and so hard—because he had lost his hat when he was hitting me—that I smashed his skull and a bunch of bones in a ghastly way, causing him to fall dead at my feet. All this happened so fast that the servant hadn’t had time to come to the aid of his master. When he saw him collapse, he was frightened of me and started shouting: ‘Stop the killer, stop the killer!’ Panic-stricken, thoroughly confused, and stunned, because, after all, it was the first death that I caused, I didn’t have the presence of mind to run away. Men came out of several houses; they caught me; they handed me over to the authorities; and, in the end, I was sent to prison. “With the years and setbacks, in prison I cast aside the scruples that had been instilled in me in the monastery. I came to know deep down what life is, and I realized that my star was an unlucky one and that only with a brave face could I overcome its disastrous influence. One day, while we were working on a road, I set things up so cleverly with four other prisoners that I managed to regain my freedom with them, although one of the overseers who tried to stop us lost his life. Since then I’ve practiced the ‘trade’ that you see me in now, and it’s not possible for me to practice any other. Juanita died, miserable and disgraced, while I was on the chain gang. She left a daughter, who’s María. I adore my daughter, Señor don Faustino. I love her for herself and because she’s a living reminder of Juanita, but María is ashamed of me, she flees from me, and doesn’t want to see me. The people who raised her may have instilled a few good ideas in her, but they forgot to instill love and even respect for her father in her. Whatever I may be, will I stop being her father? Is it not one of God’s commandments that she love me and respect me?” There was much that needed saying by way of reply, but the doctor did not deem it prudent or advisable to get into an argument with Joselito, and held his tongue.

[ 24 ] S u n t l a c r i m a e rer u m

Se e ing that the doctor was keeping silent, Joselito continued as follows: “You’re not answering me, Señor don Faustino, because you believe that my daughter does the right thing by fleeing from me, by loathing me, by despising me perhaps, but I look at myself, judge myself, and find myself neither despicable nor loathsome. I will concede that there was a moment in my life in which I was completely free and from which stemmed all my subsequent behavior. What was that moment? Was it when I became the object of the heir’s kicks and affronts? Should I have put up with them and suffered them with resignation? Is that how I would not have been despicable? Did my offense perhaps lay in neither weighing nor calculating where I threw the stone, nor the force with which I threw it? Was it incumbent on me then to be calm and collected in order not to kill the heir and avenge myself, my honor thus upheld, or, if novices should not talk about their honor, my dignity as a man? In order to avoid that encounter, should I perhaps have renounced Juanita’s love, advised her to lead the heir up the garden path, in the process pleasing her mother and leaving me as a novice, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened? This would have been very convenient for everybody, but it would also have been utterly contemptible. The best thing, you’ll probably say, would have been not to fall in love with Juanita, not to seduce her. But I did not seduce Juanita and she did not seduce me. We The chapter title is from the Aeneid, 1:462: “There are tears for misfortune.”

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gravitated to each other, drawn by an irresistible impulse, as a river flows to the sea and smoke drifts upwards to clouds. No, no ..... it was meant to be. It was my fate. Have no doubts: I would have been a saint if I hadn’t set eyes on Juanita. The devil availed himself of her in order to destroy me and availed himself of me in order to destroy her, and there was nothing that she or I could do to avoid it.” The doctor had an itch to respond to all those sophisms with which the outlaw tried to vindicate himself, but reckoned that it was futile. Furthermore, the doctor found himself without sufficient authority. His morals were clear and strict in theory, but in practice left much to be desired. Viewing himself as a man of mettle like Joselito, the doctor put himself in the outlaw’s shoes and took the heir’s death for granted. It goes without saying that the love affair with Juanita, the jumping over the courtyard walls, and the abduction scheme did not strike the doctor as out of step with his own character; he would have acted accordingly in similar circumstances, but without considering himself free of blame as a result. Where the doctor found fault with which he never would have stigmatized himself was the escape from prison and the subsequent adoption of the life of a highwayman. The doctor would not absolve himself of this. Were there, however, reasons to absolve Joselito? There were not. The principles of morality, the law of one’s conscience, the vivid perception of what is just and good do not result from long and prolix studies—they are impressed on the soul of a man of learning just as they are on the soul of the most uncultured peasant. The person who erases, twists, or distorts those principles, those laws, those notions, is always responsible, is always to blame. The error of his or her understanding implies a failure or shortcoming of the will, which persists in perverting things in order to silence the voice of the conscience. It cannot be denied that in certain cultures, among rustic or barbarian peoples, that debasement, that clouding of morals, is the work of the entire society. The individual, therefore, cannot be held responsible for everything, but in the bosom of European society it is not feasible to assume unsurmountable ignorance or perversion. For as deeply as one might delve, for as far down as one might go on the social ladder, no dark abyss will be discovered wherein dwells a human being without light penetrating his or her soul and etching thereon the rules of what is good and just. Thus did the doctor think, and in our judgment very sensibly, for which reason he was a long way from condoning Joselito el Seco’s way of life and seeing in him a victim of adverse fortune, of fate, as the outlaw maintained. With the doctor continuing to keep silent, Joselito attempted to justify and even glorify his trade. Everything that has been said in books and newspapers about how poorly

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organized society is, especially about the method that many individuals have of acquiring wealth in their exploitation of fellow humans, about the ill use to which this wealth is then put, tyrannizing and humiliating the poor—Joselito knew and explained all this. Every thief who had been in Andalusia has, for some years now, known and explained all this, in a less methodical and orderly fashion, but more vividly and colorfully in terms of style. El Tempranillo, el Cojo de Encinas Reales, el Chato de Benamejí, los Niños de Écija, and many other outlaws knew only a little less of this censure of social economy than Proudhon, Fourier, or Cabet1 can have known. Joselito el Seco did not trail far behind. Such harangues against society seemed in those times, and even years later, so without malice that the novels of Eugène Sue,2 Wandering Jew, Martin the Foundling, and The Mysteries of Paris, overflowing with the spirit of socialism, were published serially in moderate newspapers like The Herald. Leaving aside the question of whether or not the censure is just, and to what extent it is, there is no denying that, even supposing some part of possession as rooted in theft, either through violence or shrewdness, the way not to put things to rights is more thievery also through shrewdness or violence, either with the massive and collective force of a revolutionary state or with the less potent force of a band of outlaws. Nevertheless, Joselito el Seco understood or wanted to give people to understand that it was, basing his belief on an old proverb, whose importance is immense. The proverb says, “He who robs a thief shall enjoy one hundred years of relief,”3 and he stood on this proverb to assert, not that he committed any crime, but that he performed works of mercy, summarized and condensed into one. Hence, Joselito’s practice: he robbed only the rich, and then he stripped them only of what he thought superfluous, never depriving them of necessities. He frequently gave alms, helping many poor who were in dire need, and sent money to several places for masses and church functions, because he was a very good Christian. Joselito maintained that almost everything that he had robbed he had robbed from thieves, and members of his band never descended upon their prey without shouting, “Give up, you thief, and toss your purse.” The excessive abundance of money induces men, furthermore, to give themselves over to idleness, the mother of all vices, and to pamper themselves with sybaritic luxury; in short, it induces them to offend God in untold ways. As a conse1. Pierre Joseph Proudhon (1809–1865), French social theorist; Charles Fourier (1772–1837), French social philosopher; Etienne Cabet (1788–1856), French utopian socialist who developed a theory of communism. 2. Eugène Sue (1804–1857), French novelist who told tales of the Parisian underworld. 3. The original is Quien roba al ladrón tiene cien años de perdón, literally, “Whoever robs a thief has one hundred years of forgiveness.”



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quence of which Joselito asserted that, by stripping many well-to-do of what was superfluous, he had contributed powerfully to the betterment of their customs and had opened up and leveled for them the path of virtue. After this apologia, Joselito steered his conversation to a new channel, and he spoke of the house of Mendoza and its properties, the condition of which was known to him. He described everything as irretrievably lost, and, finally, passed on to the doctor the latest information, which he had received from Villabermeja through his network of spies and friends, about Rosita’s revenge and the threat of attachment. Don Faustino’s rage and sorrow were tremendous when he heard such sad news. Thinking of his mother’s distress and hardship, he was unable to suppress the tears that gushed from his eyes. “Damnation!” exclaimed Joselito. “You react with tears? A real man never cries. You want revenge? I’ll help you. You have nothing to fear now from my people. Make a clean break. Declare war on her with a stout heart. You think you would be the first nobleman who lost his inheritance and became one of us? One determined word from you and you’re the boss here. We could be in La Nava in three or four days and we’ll unleash hell if you want. The usurious notary will dream about us for the rest of his days. We’ll smash his earthenware storage jars, spilling the wine and olive oil; we’ll kill his cattle; and if that’s not enough, we’ll burn down his country house.” Don Faustino could not help breaking the silence that he had imposed on himself until then: “Joselito,” he began, “every man has his own constitution and his own way of doing things. I don’t want to prove that your approach is the wrong one, but I am obliged to tell you that I can do nothing of what you do. The notary, a usurer in point of fact or labeled one by others, asks for what lawfully belongs to him. No insult or offense is inflicted on me. I have nothing to avenge. Even though my mother were to die of grief, I wouldn’t conclude that the usurious notary was the cause of her death. The fault would be mine, because of my lack of foresight, because I didn’t prevent so much shame.” “It pains me to listen to you, Señor don Faustino,” replied Joselito. “I wouldn’t like to offend my prisoner, but I can’t resist the temptation to say that you are a softy. It’s a very common stratagem to deny an insult in order to avoid the danger of revenge. You’re right: the insult that is not fully revenged is to be fully overlooked.” The doctor flew off the handle. He turned redder than a beet; he forgot that Joselito was always armed; and he forgot that one word from Joselito could bring his men to come and kill him on the spot. “Good God!” he exclaimed. “I’m not overlooking any insult at all, and

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yours even less, as you’re the one who’s insulting me. Does the thief think that everyone has his same makeup? For as lost as I may be, what makes you think that I would entertain taking up the infamous life that you lead? I repeat that the notary is in the right; he’s not insulting me and my word on the matter should be enough. The notary is proceeding like the person he is—he’s despicable and he’s acting despicably, but he’s not insulting me.” At the first instant Joselito was on the verge of thrashing the doctor, who was thus getting things off his chest. In all the days of his life Joselito had never been so forbearing. He held his anger in check, but inwardly he almost rejoiced that the man with whom his daughter was in love had so much spunk. “All right!” he exclaimed. “The person whose turn it is today not to overlook, but to forgive, insults, is yours truly, Señor don Faustino. Let’s not squabble any more. Everyone has his hobbyhorse.” “Excuse me, Joselito, if I got a little carried away.” “There’s good reason to get so heated. I understand that you must be in a real stew. I’ll regret upsetting you further, but it’s important to me to remind you of the pact we’ve made. Your emotions are running high and you might forget it. You are such a consummate, dignified gentleman that it would be a shame if you were blinded and went back on your word.” “I’ll never go back on it.” “All the same, it won’t hurt to repeat that you are my prisoner, and that you have promised not to flee nor to use arms against us, but to follow me and obey me.” “So long as my honor and my principles are not compromised.” “Agreed. Therefore, Señor don Faustino, I want you to know that, for as much as you do not wish to be in our company, you are to stay with me like a decoy or lure.” “What does that mean?” “It’s very simple. What’s a decoy and a lure for? For little lovebirds to be drawn to where they are. Well, this is how you are serving my ends. I want my ungrateful daughter to come to me, and since she won’t come out of love for her father, she’ll come out of love for you. This is why you’re still in my hands. As soon as María comes, I’ll negotiate with her the price of your ransom. I have a place where she can live safely and very comfortably. Why shouldn’t María live where she’s under her father’s authority, where her father can see her? Why should she always be fleeing from me?” The outlaw’s plan was clever. The doctor did not doubt that María would come in search of her father in order to save him from captivity. He was going to be to blame for that woman falling into the hands of the brigands’ leader, for the downfall of that daughter who until then had been able to escape from such a dreadful father and from living as his accomplice at the expense of his



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robberies. Entreaties and insults would have been useless to make Joselito change his mind. Consequently the doctor kept quiet. Two days after the conversation that we have just related, the outlaws and the doctor continued to stay at the beautiful country house mentioned earlier. No doubt they were awaiting somebody’s arrival; almost certainly, thought the doctor, they were awaiting María’s arrival. It was ten o’clock at night. Outside of the house you could hear the hoofbeats of two horses that in a short time pulled up at the door. Joselito, his band, and the doctor were getting some fresh air in the courtyard when the one outlaw standing guard came in followed by two men. One of them, who had the look of a servant, was bareheaded; the other had his cape muffled up to his eyes and the brim of his hat down over his forehead, shadowing the eyes themselves. Without removing his cape, without removing his hat, the incognito said: “God’s peace be with you, gentlemen.” “God’s peace,” they responded. Then, facing Joselito, he added: “God keep you. Take me to a room, any room. I have to talk to you alone.” These words, spoken imperiously, were listened to with profound respect by Joselito, who recognized the person speaking them by his voice. So he led the man muffled in his cape to a room and had lights brought in. The servant remained in the courtyard, waiting in silence. The horses that master and servant had ridden were at the front of the house, their bridles tied to hitching rings set into the wall. The meeting lasted more than an hour. When it ended, the man in the cape departed with his companion, whom Joselito himself told to leave with his master. The pounding of their horses’ hooves as they galloped away could be heard in the courtyard. “Señor don Faustino,” Joselito then said, “please be so kind as to come with me.” The doctor followed Joselito to the same room where he had been talking with the man in the cape. With the two of them alone there, Joselito said to the doctor in a voice charged with emotion: “All my plans have gone awry. It’s my fate. There is a force superior to my will that dominates me and subdues me. María has not died, but you and I should consider her as good as dead. We will not see her again. I don’t need you for anything now. Besides, I promised the man who just left this room that I would set you free immediately. I am going to keep that promise. Do you wish to leave right now?” “I’m impatient to see my mother, to save her, to console her at least. I’ll leave right now,” the doctor answered.

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He attempted to no purpose to learn the identity of the mysterious personage who had secured his freedom, and, above all, the whereabouts and fate of María for him to consider her as good as dead. Joselito did not wish to or could not reveal anything to him. He gave orders that the doctor’s mare be saddled and that two of the most trustworthy men of his band prepare to accompany him. When everything was arranged, the doctor said good-bye to Joselito by extending his hand to him, and the outlaw leader clasped it in friendly fashion with both of his. Along byways and shortcuts, along secluded lanes, and mostly by night, on the third day Don Faustino and his two escorts arrived at a crossroads that was a mile and a half distant from Villabermeja and was well known to the doctor, as in one direction it led to his country house. At this point the outlaws asked his permission to return. The doctor gave it to them willingly, and with profuse thanks for the favor they had done him. He also tried to give them the money that he had on his person, but the chivalrousness and code of generosity of those brave fellows did not allow it. It was beginning to grow light when the doctor was left alone, and it looked to be a sparkling morning. Impatient to see his mother again, the doctor spurred his mare and soon arrived at the town and at the door of his home, which he found open, even though it was so early. His heart skipped a beat. He had a premonition of misfortune. A cloud of gloom veiled his eyes. Faón was the first one to come out to greet him, but instead of showing happiness the dog howled plaintively. The doctor dismounted and, leaving the mare at the outer entryway, went in through the patio without encountering a soul. The hound preceded him, howling at times as if it wanted to impart painful news to him. When he headed toward the staircase to go up to his mother’s room, Niña Araceli appeared at the landing and rushed into the doctor’s arms. “My son, my son!” she exclaimed. “Where have you been? Thank God we’re seeing you again safe and sound!” “Aunt, how is it that you’re here? What’s happened?” “Your mother is ill, my son.” “Don’t hide the truth from me, Aunt. It’s futile. My mother—” “Don’t go up now ..... she’s asleep.” “She’s sleeping an eternal sleep,” said the doctor. “My mother has died.” Niña Araceli neither affirmed nor denied his words, but she did burst into bitter tears. The doctor climbed the stairs in a headlong dash. He was about to en-



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ter his mother’s bedroom when Vicenta the housekeeper stopped him at the door, saying to him: “She isn’t here.” Instinctively, he then went toward the drawing room. There too someone stood at the door: Father Piñón. “Let me go in and see her,” said Don Faustino. Considering all pretense futile at this point, he said to the doctor: “Don’t come in; don’t disturb her repose. Ask God to let her rest in peace.” Don Faustino, weeping, fell into the priest’s arms. “She’s dead!” he exclaimed. “She died like a saint,” said Father Piñón. “I’m a wretch. I killed her with my folly. Dear God! Dear God! Why don’t you kill me?” “Quia Dominus eripuit animam tuam de morte,”4 said the priest, who always had the breviary in his memory, and who at that moment, moreover, had it in his hand, opened to the Office of the Dead. “My son,” he added, “pray for your mother, pray for yourself. Remember that in these great tribulations prayer is the greatest consolation: Tribulationem et dolorem inveni, et nomen Domini invocavi.”5 “That’s true,” said Don Faustino. “I’ve found the distress and the sorrow, but I haven’t found the faith.” “What an atrocity! If you’re going to talk like that, leave; don’t profane this place.” The doctor then unconsciously took the breviary from Father Piñón’s hand. He fixed his eyes on the open page and read a few desperate maxims from the Book of Job, facing the priest as he did so, as if he were responding to him. “My soul,” he said, “suffers from the tedium of my life. I will speak of my soul with bitterness. I will say to God: Decline to condemn me. Explain to me why you judge me as you do. Does it by chance seem right, to you, that you slander me and oppress me?” Appalled that the doctor should thus turn balm into venom, the priest snatched the breviary from his hands. Don Faustino dashed into the room. In the middle of it, on a bier flanked by burning candles set in floor stands, his mother’s body was laid out, and had been for more than twentyfour hours. 4. “Because the Lord has freed your soul from death.” Valera’s “your” is a change from the breviary, which reads “my.” See Psalms, 116:8. 5. “I fell into distress and sorrow, and I invoked the name of the Lord.”

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Don Faustino approached the bier with silent respect, fell on his knees like someone asking forgiveness, and then, getting to his feet, inclined his head over the deceased woman’s face, gazed at it with profound sorrow, and exclaimed as though he longed to awaken her: “Mother, my dear mother!” Respetilla, who was standing vigil over the body, Father Piñón, Doña Araceli, who had come up, and Vicenta, were keeping quiet and crying. Finally, putting his lips to Doña Ana’s wan, disfigured face, the doctor kissed her on the forehead and on the cheeks. Those who witnessed this scene took hold of Don Faustino, and almost by force removed him from her presence and led him to his room.

[ 25 ] M ourning

Don Fausti no’ s sorrow was acute in those days. It sprang not only from the love that he had for his mother, but also from remorse at having been, in part, the cause of her death. Deep in the bosom of his conscience, the doctor recalled Doña Ana’s life and understood that it had been a prolonged martyrdom, in which his father and he had played the role of executioners. Doña Ana—resigned to living in Villabermeja, with a lofty, cultured spirit—had had no one to whom to relate. Her husband, a crude, rustic, unsociable man, was incapable of appreciating her. Not even out of gratitude, from seeing himself so looked after and respected, had he shown love and consideration for Doña Ana; nor had he demonstrated friendship, since love was out of the question, to that noble woman with whom he had never managed to carry on a conversation that lasted five minutes. Through his dissolute affairs with La Joya and La Guitarrita, and with other coarse doxies of a similar stripe, he had cruelly humiliated his wife. On the other hand, now at gaming tables, now on binges, at fairs and on excursions to other towns in Andalusia; now on gifts to the mistresses he had had, now with his irregular life, poor management, and foolish plans, Don Francisco López de Mendoza had become impoverished and gotten into debt. Don Faustino, far from reversing the difficult times, had aggravated them, if not with huge expenditures, then with his unfitness for the practical things in life. His recent conduct, lastly, had provoked Rosita’s wrath, and had brought down on his mother’s head the hard blow that, together with his flight and captiv-

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ity among the outlaws, had ended up killing her. Don Faustino did not want to forgive himself for any of this. He was inconsolable. Niña Araceli and Father Piñón, who were so kind, spoke to him of resignation. They told him time and again that one had to accept the will of God, and they assured him too that Doña Ana, who had been so virtuous, could not help but be in heaven. Along with these reasons, founded on faith, Father Piñón cited—with delightful candor, and with common sense free of sentimentality—other ideas and considerations that, although they did not convince the doctor, made him smile and alleviated his sorrow somewhat. “Faustinito,” said the priest, “don’t grieve so much. What is gained by grieving? Is there anything more natural than dying? If people didn’t die, would we all fit in the world? Besides, do you think we could stand one another at the end of a certain period of time, if we were immortal? What an intolerable monotony the course of life would be if there were no end to it! I believe that on this lowly planet Earth an immortal life would be worse than the torment of the person who does not sleep and grows weary. At the end of a certain period of time, when you’re sitting up at night and working, you feel tired and want to sleep. Well, it’s the same thing after living and working hard all your life. Death is welcomed. Death is release. It’s sleep for those who sat up all night and tired themselves overmuch. Sometimes I think that in dying there must be a delight analogous to, although a thousand times more intense, that of the man who, after having earned his daily wages and made good use of the day on compassionate, useful works, lies down on a nice bed, stretches his legs, and falls asleep.” “Yes, Father,” responded the doctor, “but that man falls asleep with the certain expectation of waking up the next morning and of seeing daylight and of feeling stronger and invigorated.” “Well, with a more beautiful and more sublime expectation your mother gave herself over to the sleep of the grave,” said Father Piñón, leaving aside his instinctive philosophies and resuming his role of believer and priest. “Your mother gave herself over to the sleep of the grave with the certain expectation of waking up in the morning, but to a morning that neither ends nor wearies; of waking to enjoy another, more beautiful, light, to enjoy an eternal day, to receive a magnificent payment, a splendid day’s wages for her hardships and virtues. At the moment of her death, no doubt the word of God rang out in the center of her soul, saying: Ego sum resurrectio et vita: qui credit in me, etiam si mortuus fuerit, vivet; et omnis qui vivet et credit in me non morietur in aeternum.”1 1. In the Saint Joseph Edition of the New American Bible: “I am the resurrection and the life: whoever believes in me, even if he dies, will live; and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die.” See John 11:25–26.



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Unfortunately, neither the philosophical and mundane arguments of Father Piñón, nor his beliefs, nor the antiphonies that he quoted from the breviary, occasioned the slightest consolation in Don Faustino’s disposition. He had come upon only two people in the world with whom his heart truly and profoundly sympathized, with whom his spirit was in real accord: his mother and María. One had died; an unsurmountable obstacle separated him, perhaps forever, from the other. He found no consolation for this in anything. Furthermore, now that he had lost his mother, the doctor reproached himself for his indifference or, at the very least, his lukewarm behavior toward her. He accused himself of not having loved her and respected her enough, and would not forgive himself for it. The doctor pretended to be a believer, to be religious, for a moment, and knew that not only Father Piñón, but every priest in the world would absolve him of those sins. God, whose justice is greater than his goodness, although both are infinite, would forgive him too, but he did not forgive himself. He enumerated his faults like someone doing addition, and just as he could not, for as much as he might try, make three and two not total five, neither could he obtain forgiveness for those faults inside his cold, righteous conscience as if they were addition facts or a compilation of axioms. Then he exclaimed: “What happiness it is to believe in infinite mercy, in a limitless love, that forgives what one does not forgive oneself! I have in me an ideal of perfection that only causes me torment because I never reach it, and when I examine and study myself, I see that I distance myself from it and demean myself more with every passing day! Happy are they who imagine that they perceive a supreme reality, whose inexhaustible goodness purifies them, raising them up to it!” Niña Araceli also endeavored to console Don Faustino, but had less success even than Father Piñón. Meanwhile, Niña Araceli had done the house of Mendoza an immense service. All the money that she had in savings, upwards of two thousand duros, she had brought and handed over to Respeta for him to pay the creditors. The sale of Doña Ana’s jewelry and the yield from their lands, still in the house, had produced close to another one thousand duros. And, finally, by putting her possessions in hock, Niña Araceli had raised an additional six thousand duros, with all of which there was a little over nine thousand, more than enough to get out of the financial fix and to avoid the attachment. Doña Ana died with the consolation of seeing this great proof of the friendship of Niña Araceli, who came to attend to her, received her final sigh, and closed her eyes. Although he was grateful to Niña Araceli, for the doctor it was a humiliation that she had done what he, who considered himself so capable of every-

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thing, had not been able to do. Furthermore, the doctor felt himself possessed of a certain open-ended envy that it had been Niña Araceli, and not he, who heard his dying mother’s last words, and who saw the last light extinguished on her sweet expression, and who felt on her face, bent as she was over the deathbed, the final breath from that noble chest. Since Doña Ana’s death had stemmed in part from the notary’s rudeness and insolence, the thought of seeking revenge occurred to the doctor. But he quickly discarded it as shameful and even ridiculous. The notary, and especially Rosita, who dictated to the notary, had received nothing but offenses from the house of Mendoza, and if they had satisfied them by claiming what was rightfully theirs, there was nothing to avenge and nothing to complain about. Don Faustino only felt a profound scorn for the notary and for Rosita, a scorn that we are hard put to justify. Don Juan Crisóstomo Gutiérrez was distressed and terrified by Doña Ana’s death and by the doctor’s return. Sometimes he dreamed that the dead woman entered his bedroom at night and came to pull at his feet; other times he suspected that the living Don Faustino was going to give him a beating when he least expected it. In the town, where the notary was generally detested—as the rich usually are by the poor, especially when the rich are not generous—almost all of the Mendozas’ enemies, who in principle had applauded the revenge, were now moved to compassion by Doña Ana’s decease and let rip with a torrent of invectives toward that heartless, odious usurer, which was the least unkind thing that they said about him. Rosita, for her part, was somber and silent, although she tried to seem impassive. If in the depths of her soul she struggled to bring remorse to the surface, she soon stifled it by evoking the recollection of all the offenses she had received. The night in La Nava came alive in her imagination, that night with its abandon, with its delights, with all its beautiful raptures that vanished almost instantly. For Rosita’s heart these images were like a goblet in which she had tasted nectar and in which now there were only the turbid dregs of gall and poison. Remembering that night and remembering the other one when she surprised the doctor with María, Rosita, far from repenting, lamented the fact that she was a weak and helpless woman, and she was ashamed at not being sufficiently brave to seek out the doctor and take a dagger to him. Overwhelmed with grief, Don Faustino did not wish to leave the house nor deal with monetary concerns. He asked Father Piñón to go to the notary’s house, accompanied by Respeta, to pay what he owed and liquidate the mortgages that encumbered his possessions.



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Rosita took charge of the business of receiving and counting the money. During this prosaic operation in the house’s private study, while her father was at the notary’s office, Rosita was left alone with Father Piñón, who said to her: “There’s all your money, paid in full. You must be content.” “Oh, Father, Father! The debt that Faustino contracted with me can’t be paid with all the gold in the world. Neither with his blood and life would he pay it.” “You are an obdurate sinner,” responded Father Piñon. “People accuse me of being too lenient, and it’s true that I am. For a lot of love, a lot of forgiveness, I say. Maybe I understand too literally the notion that whoever has loved much will be forgiven much, but when the love changes into hatred, I assure you that my wish to forgive falls by the wayside. Tell me, you coldhearted woman, doesn’t Doña Ana’s death prick your conscience?” “Listen, Father. Why should my conscience prick me? What blame attaches to me for that lady’s death? Likely as not she was killed by the devils and reprobates who went to her tertulia at night. We’ve washed our hands of the matter. That takes the cake ......! We’d be in a fine kettle of fish if we couldn’t demand what is owed us for fear that the delicate, sensitive crooks might die on us. Really ..... if the crooks took it in their heads to die over such a small thing, Spain would turn into a desert.” “It’s a desert I’m preaching to by preaching to you,” Father Piñón finally said. And he sealed his lips. Three weeks after her cousin’s death, Niña Araceli returned to her village, accompanied by Respeta and other servants. Of course Niña Araceli made a gift to her nephew of her two thousand duros in savings. Don Faustino tried in vain to acknowledge that debt and to pay interest. With respect to the other six thousand duros that Doña Araceli had borrowed by mortgaging her property, the doctor committed himself, as was only right, to paying notes due so as not to be more burdensome to his aunt. Aunt and nephew bade farewell to each other with tears and tender embraces close to ten miles from the town, which was how far the doctor had ridden to accompany her. During Doña Araceli’s stay in Villabermeja with her nephew, she was loquacious and expansive. Despite the fact that the doctor never once asked about his cousin Costanza, Doña Araceli informed him that the marquise of Guadalbarbo was extremely happy. Her husband adored her. Fortune smiled on them. Everything worked in their favor. They were wallowing in opulence. They had gone off to London, where the marquis had bank business, and every day he amassed more money, but did not for that reason fail to maintain all his properties in Spain and even purchase others.

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It was about María that the doctor would have wanted to learn something, but the only person who perhaps could have given him information was Father Piñón, and he kept everything to himself, declaring that he didn’t know where María had gone. “I only know,” he added, “that she loved you with all her heart, that, nevertheless, she should have forsaken you, and that perhaps you won’t see her again in this life.” Without his mother and without his friend, without the two people whom he loved and respected, the doctor found himself in the most frightful solitude. Respetilla would try to entertain him and distract him, but his news and jokes did not even elicit a smile. Father Piñón had gotten close to Don Faustino and frequently visited him, but Father Piñón did not penetrate the doctor’s soul and mind either. It’s true that he lectured him, that he quoted to him verses and prayers and maxims from the breviary, and that at times he appealed to common sense and reasoned with a certain folksy philosophy, but whenever the doctor deigned to reply, the priest was at a loss, in the dark about what the doctor said, fancying that he was not speaking Spanish but Greek. All the conversation between the two would end in this manner— the doctor and the cleric very little satisfied with each other, although still good friends. Thus did the doctor imagine that his spirit, the most intimate and essential part of it, was completely isolated, and that only in its superficial, ordinary, and almost indifferent properties did it touch other spirits. That isolation and that solitude became unbearable to him. Then he thought again, as he had thought many other times, about the possibility of relating to and communicating with spirits that were not of the kind that had a human body, and about whether this would be feasible by another medium more subtle than the material word that stirs the air and that the air transmits. So great was the effort of his fantasy and his continuous preoccupation in order to immerse himself in this possibility that on not a few nights, in the silence of his retreat, he thought he saw the Inca lady standing out against the frame and speaking mysterious words to him, words that penetrated his soul without passing through his ears; then he saw María’s ghost approaching him and instilling in his mind and in his heart ineffable feelings and concepts that are untranslatable in any human language. Even so, the doctor was not satisfied. “If the world of spirits exists,” he mused, “it must have more reality, more essence, more light, and more life than the world of matter, but in these apparitions and visions, and even in the ideas that they communicate to me, there is so much vagueness, inconsistency, uncertainty, twilight, that I suspect it is a world of fantastic shadows and chimeras, and not a true spiritu-



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al world that I am penetrating. Who knows? Perhaps the supernatural, the spirit, is not on the outside, is not separated from nature herself and in opposition to it. Perhaps it penetrates all of nature and animates it. Perhaps I’m wrong to distance myself from nature in order to find the secret that is in nature herself. Can the universe be a torrent of divine life, a successive revelation of the permanent, eternal forces, a hieroglyphic pregnant with meaning, in which each thing is a sign, a cipher, a representation of something occult, and the whole, for whoever succeeds in interpreting it, the answer to the enigma? Viewed in this light, nature would be the wellspring of knowledge of the spirit. The divine mystery would be in its depths. But how to submerge oneself in those depths? All experimental learning never penetrates the surface, the cortex; it describes the cipher in minute detail, but does not provide the key to interpret what is encoded. Where did one find that key? Were cabala, magic, or theurgy possible solutions?” The doctor, by dint of not believing in practically anything, began to believe a little in the occult sciences. Often he would find himself eyeing Faón, whose company was the only one that did not tire him, and he would feel a desire to have the hound turned into the devil, but right away he would resolutely deny that the devil existed, denying, therefore, the existence of black magic. White magic, diabolical magic, was the one that continued to seem real to him. The devil served no purpose if a fire, a divine breath, circulated throughout the entire universe, infusing life into it, because what is lowest and highest, what is big and small, this sublunar world and all the immensity of space populated by suns, must have been closely linked together by that invisible force. And why was man not to take hold of, to seize, that force? If it penetrates and animates the world of bodies, all of nature, where is it to be more vital than in human nature? If what is divine filters through the universe and is the nucleus and constitutes the essence of things, how is it not to be likewise the center, the core, of our being, in the abyss of our soul? In this way did the doctor go from magic art to mystic art. But neither in the exterior world, penetrating the bosom of nature with love and enthusiasm, nor in the interior world, seeking with the same enthusiasm and the same love the object of his longing, divorcing himself from the exterior, mortifying the senses, did the doctor succeed in discovering the mystery, in expounding the cipher, in solving the problem, and finding for himself an interlocutor who suited him and interested him more than Father Piñón and Respetilla. Perhaps he was lacking books, perhaps he had not read enough about either magic or mysticism and was groping his way, wanting to practice extremely difficult arts in which he was scarcely initiated.

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Even if it were only for these reasons, the doctor needed to go to Madrid. On the other hand, far removed from that center of intellectual activity (little or much) found in Spain, not only would the doctor’s labors be futile, both in magic and in mysticism, in philosophy and poetry, but also in the baser and more ordinary sciences, arts, and disciplines, like politics, for example. Therefore, six months after his mother’s death; driven by the aforementioned considerations; desirous of finally learning everything to be learned; and full of wide-ranging ambition and a vague hope of being all that one can be—statesman, poet, orator, philosopher, savant, and even a magician and a mystic—the doctor settled his affairs in Villabermeja. He retired Respeta, as was the old man’s wish; he named Respetilla his overseer; he put together up to twelve thousand reales; and, after bidding a fond farewell to Father Piñón, Respeta, Respetilla, Vicenta the housekeeper, and his favorite hound, Don Faustino, with the above sum of money in his pocket, took himself off to the capital. There he went to live in a boardinghouse where, for a duro a day, he was given a room, a bed, candlelight, breakfast, lunch, and supper.

[ 26 ] L ost I llusions

A ll , ne arly a l l the poetry, comic and tragic, that there was in the doctor’s person and in the atmosphere surrounding him, vanished when he departed from Villabermeja. The equestrian and lancer’s uniforms stayed behind, together with his university cap and his university cape, his flashy outfits, his horse, his hound Faón, and his faithful page, Respetilla. Naturally, his noble ancestral home had to become a thing of the past, as did the castle of which he was the castellan in perpetuity and the sepulchral vault wherein lay his ancestors. Although on the brink of ruin, and half a hermit, half a magician, beloved of women, object of sublime adoration and bitter hatred, and a novelistic figure who could be compared with Sir Walter Scott’s Edgar1 or Byron’s Manfred,2 he became transformed into yet another adventurer, yet another lost soul of those who come to Madrid in search of fortune. The marvelous acts of madness, the attempts to be a theosophist, a magician, and a mystic, passed at once, inasmuch as his mind was now taken up with other more mundane concerns. The fantastic visions and apparitions of the spirits of the Inca lady and María did not condescend to enter the prosaic boardinghouse. Nevertheless, for many years the doctor’s illusions stayed alive, although all of them, one by one, were being bruised and broken on the touchstone of success. As a lyric poet, he managed to publish a few compositions in 1. The hero of The Bride of Lammermoor (1819). 2. Protagonist of the Faustian dramatic poem of the same name (1817).

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literary periodicals, but by then people were tired of sighs, laments, and complaints with rhyme or gloom, and paid no attention to the doctor’s verses. The doctor also made several attempts to be a dramatic poet, but he always got stuck after the first two or three scenes of every one of his plays. For him, criticism of the most relentless kind went hand in glove with inspiration or with what others called inspiration, and, persuading him in time that he was writing foolishness or nonsense, it forced him to set them aside and not finish them. Hunger never pressured him in such a way that it drove him to forge ahead in order to see whether the public, more indulgent or less judicious than he, applauded what he reproved and considered discreet what he rejected as silly. Believing himself capable of being a great epic poet and of digesting, condensing, and summarizing in a colossal epic all of present civilization, with tempera illustrations, prophecies, and something akin to the dawns of the future one, he started said poem three or four times, but never progressed beyond a hundred lines. Perverse criticism appeared in his room at the boardinghouse and, whip in hand, drove the muses away. The doctor attempted to speak at the Atheneum, but he always got tonguetied and did not manage to say a thing. He obtained a position as editor at a newspaper, but not feeling nor knowing how to pretend that he felt another’s political passion, and being, moreover, lazy in the extreme, he had to resign from the editorial staff so that they would not dismiss him as useless. Enthralled by a thousand ideas of ill-defined progress, peace, prosperity, light, and glory for humankind in general, and for his country in particular, he soared to such heights that everything dividing us down here on Earth mattered to him not a whit. Some things were all the same to the doctor: monarchy or republic, the constitution of this year or that year, this electoral law or that one, this municipal statute or that one. Even freedom, which was what he loved most, considering it a means and not an end, was not for him an idol to whom one could not, on occasion, refrain from paying tribute and offering sacrifices. So the doctor found it odd that there should be so much frenzy, so much passion, so much brio injected by many in a contest, and he took to wondering whether the opinions and theories were perhaps the pretext and whether positions were perhaps the real motive. Notwithstanding all his learning, on this point our good doctor was a dyed-in-the-wool Villabermejan, or rather, a Spanish villager from anywhere, save four or five provinces, where people know how to go about things and know what they want, and for that reason abuse others, who are weak-willed. The fact of the matter was that, as the doctor noted, each political party that contended for power



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in the press and on a rostrum consisted of a handful of men visiting the same house or in attendance at the same tertulia, but such gentlemen did not have masses of townspeople behind them, except several “footmen” who hoped to “ride” their way to a good post, nor did they represent a respectable group or community, nor were they something like agents or leaders of lofty interests, ideas, beliefs, and aims of entire classes. Each leader fantasized about the credo that suited him best and then at his whim formed a political party, of which he made himself the head. The doctor persisted in assuming that almost no one was interested in said credo except those who wanted to take command; that Spaniards did not distinguish shades, only the most pronounced, vivid colors; that, as the great Donoso3 had declared, they quickly wearied of discussions, subtleties, and distinctions, and only liked Barabbas or Jesus; and that, to ask anyone for these two polar opposites, they did not avail themselves of the right of petition, nor to achieve a triumph did they turn to the ballot box, but either did nothing or laid hands on a blunderbuss.4 These and other considerations distanced the doctor from politics and made him capable of reacting like that traveler in one of Voltaire’s short stories when he arrived in Persia, where a civil war was raging. Asked what he preferred, a white sheep or a black sheep, he said that provided the animal’s meat was well roasted, the color of the wool was of little importance; that if, by asking now for a white sheep, now for a black sheep, all the other sheep would be consumed in the conflict; and that if, now asking for Jesus, now for Barabbas, outrages5 would always be committed, then it would be better to commit them soon and by common agreement, without fighting and without destroying all of them. If the doctor had limited himself to feeling and thinking in this way, even though we expect that he would have felt and thought foolishly, it would not have been to his detriment, but the worst thing was the accursed frankness of his temperament, which did not allow any feeling or any thought—for as recondite as it might have been regarded—to languish in his soul. For this reason, and for being so skeptical in politics, he never even became a parliamentary deputy. Another of his illusions, one of the most persistent and ingrained, was that of believing himself a great philosopher. But for the very reason that he 3. Juan Donoso Cortés (1809–1853), Spanish politician and diplomat. 4. Perhaps a not too subtle allusion to nineteenth-century Spain’s penchant for pronunciamientos, or military insurrections, to resolve government crises. 5. The virtually untranslatable wordplay of the original is barrabasadas (by extension, from Barrabás, the Spanish spelling of the English “Barabbas”), i.e., something base or evil or outrageous, as would have been perpetrated by Barabbas.

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thought so, it was difficult for him to publish philosophical writings. How was he going to conform to any of the systems formulated in foreign lands, systems that then became fashionable in our country? He did not have to be a traditionalist nor a flaming Thomist, and neither Cousin first, nor Kant, nor Hegel, nor, lastly, Krause,6 managed to enlist him under their banners. The doctor dreamed about introducing, when the world least expected it, a new system all his own. Thus did the years pass and he produced nothing. However, he consoled himself with a dictum that may or may not have been framed by Aristotle: that until a man turns fifty he does not reach the full maturity and height of his intellectual powers. So the doctor awaited said age in order to eclipse Krause, Kant, and Hegel. Also, after a period of time had passed while preserving María’s lovely image in his spirit, though only like a sweet memory that illuminated it inwardly, the doctor tried to make his mark in high society and be loved by Madrilenian ladies, but this illusion proved more vain than the others. The crux of the matter, all the difficulty, according to what the doctor had heard said, lay in getting a socially prominent one to love him. The others would then instantly consider him a man worthy of love and would flock to him like bees to honey. Unfortunately, the doctor did not chance upon, so to speak, the one who could set things in motion. It was not possible either to reprise the stratagem of that bullring impresario who, in times of less enthusiasm than nowadays, noticed that in no season did anyone go to the first bullfight, but rather to the second, and he therefore decided to start off with the second so that there would be aficionados, naturally. The fact was that, without a position, without the splendor of glory or of wealth, or the de rigueur triumphs in other love affairs, obscure, somewhat diffident, poor as a church mouse, a fop in a boardinghouse ..... in short, it is very difficult to dazzle the fair sex. You don’t find a princess from Cathay at every turn, an Angelica who chooses a nameless señorito for her Medoro,7 one who, moreover, is not especially pleasant and is given to bouts of melancholy. As a consequence, the doctor in Madrid was like the Leonardo that Camões describes in The Lusiads,8 a sol6. Victor Cousin (1792–1867), French philosopher and founder of an eclectic school that drew on the ideas of Hegel and Friedrich Schelling; Immanuel Kant (1724–1804), German metaphysician and one of the greatest of European philosophers; Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel (1770–1831), German philosopher; Karl Kristian Friedrich Krause (1781–1832), German philosopher whose central idea, a reconciliation of theism and pantheism, gained great currency in nineteenth-century Spain. 7. The heroine of Ariosto’s epic Orlando Furioso (1516), Angelica rejects Orlando and other princes. She befriends Medoro, a wounded Moorish youth, dresses his wounds, falls in love with him, and marries him. 8. Luís de Camões (1524–1580), considered by many the greatest figure in Portuguese litera-



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dier so unfortunate in love that on the very island of Venus, where everything was arranged to fete and regale the heroic Portuguese discoverers, he was on the point of not encountering a single nymph who treated him kindly and did not flee from him as she would from the plague. Since the doctor spruced and dressed with some elegance and care, he frequented theaters, dances, and socials, and from time to time would indulge in something foolhardy like losing five hundred or a thousand reales gambling, or taking his midday meal or supper at a restaurant, momentarily thinking himself on such occasions a Ninevitical Sardanapulus,9 a Babylonian Balthazar, a Roman from the time of the decline, or a megaduke from the Lower Empire, this business of the Lower Empire being what finds most favor among the moralist and political writers when they take into account the extravagance and laxity of our age and put on the airs of a severe Juvenal10 and Tertullian.11 But since, on the other hand, the lyrical poems, the plays, and the epic that were not being finished and the philosophical system that was not being given final form did not produce—nor was it possible that they would produce—a red cent, the poor doctor was always penniless. The Villabermeja property (even though, as I have been assured, Respetilla was a faithful manager, for as improbable as that may seem) scarcely produced an amount sufficient to pay the notes due on Niña Araceli’s six thousand duros and send a thousand reales a month to the doctor, which nearly always disappeared three or four days after he cashed the draft. The doctor, in these tight spots, began to contract debts, but he was so inept at dealing with the practical science of credit, the most essential aspect of money matters, that the only thing he managed to do was owe the tailor, the shoemaker, the glover, and the boardinghouse keeper, who constantly asked him to pay them. Then, forgetting the lofty occult sciences to which he had intended to devote his life, the doctor thought only about alchemy. He, who had dreamed about discovering the inner force, the divine principle that moves and animates the universe, and seizing upon it to govern everything, then confined himself to seeing how he might scrape together a little money, and the worst thing was that he failed to do so. With this disillusionment he ended up where others end up and where ture. His grand epic, The Lusiads (Os Lusíadas, or the sons of Lusus [the Portuguese]), consists of ten cantos and has as its main theme the discovery of the maritime route to India, Vasco da Gama’s first voyage. 9. Assyrian monarch of legend who lived in the lap of luxury. 10. Roman satirical poet who denounced the lax and dissolute society of Rome in his diatribes. 11. Roman theologian who became an ardent apologist and defender of Christianity after his conversion.

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many begin: by imagining that the budget is the hospice of beggars in frock coats, the soup that monasteries distribute to learned paupers, the refuge and infirmary of the well-read indigent. The doctor solicited employment, and at length he succeeded in obtaining a position that paid eight thousand reales a year, in the Ministry of the Interior. Sometimes falling, sometimes raising himself up, now reinstated, now discharged, our hero reached a salary of fourteen thousand reales, fourteen years of service, and seventeen of life in Madrid. The doctor was always a terrible employee, but he did not want for friends who kept him employed. It’s obvious that others, with less ability than the doctor, became department heads, advisers, and even ministers; that’s the way things are. But it is less obvious that they owe their positions to happy coincidences (not, naturally, for the country), and these coincidences are not going to smile on everyone, just as not everyone wins the lottery. Because of his character traits and intellect, because of his idiosyncrasy, a word much in vogue these days, the doctor was not one of those people who, of their own account and without the intervention of the above-mentioned coincidences, could advance beyond the point that he had reached. So he did not make further headway, and that was that. All this part of the doctor’s life is related here in brief and in a hurry, because it does not have a great bearing on the action or the story line of this tale, if, that is, the reader should wish to grant me the fact that there is a sole story line—with patent, classic unity—in this true tale. Whatever the case, the doctor, ashamed of being no more than an assistant in a ministry, and always waiting for the day when he would rise up to be a man of note, refused to set foot again in Villabermeja, where he had passed for a learned person, for a prodigy of talent, and for one of the most eminent and distinguished gentlemen, bigwigs, and perpetual castellans that have ever existed. Thus did the doctor turn a good forty years of age, rather mistreated by fate, but never disillusioned. Every night he would put off until the next morning the effort of sitting down and beginning to write his great Philosophical Treatise, or finishing his colossal epic, or breaking his silence with some extraordinary and singular invention that would take people’s breath away. Nothing, though, ever materialized. One day followed another. The doctor went to his office to abstract records or rock them to sleep, then he would eat his not-so-appetizing chickpeas—whenever he was not invited to some house of standing in society—and then at night he would always go from tertulia to tertulia. Nobody wished him



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well and nobody wished him ill, because he bothered nobody, unless it was somebody who wanted to be an assistant like him, but the doctor had not a single acquaintance who set his sights so low: rather the opposite, as peasants wanted to be ministers or general supervisors in the Ministry of the Treasury in Cuba, and priests, archbishops, and soldiers, captains general, and dictators. It would have been necessary for the doctor to agree to attend tertulias at oil-and-vinegar shops to come across any other envious individuals. With such an elastic stimulus did the springboard of politics provide a boost, and so rapid was the turnover of daring leaps becoming that there was a surfeit of hope for any acrobat. In the midst of everything the doctor always held onto his own hope, which was positive and sanguine, and he had a feeling that, without yet knowing why nor how nor when, people would end up envying him. With this hope he found distraction and consolation.

[ 27 ] L oose E nds

The re will b e some who find it implausible that Don Faustino López de Mendoza had virtually no career to speak of in Madrid. Either Don Faustino was foolish or he was not, they will say. If he was foolish, the author of this story should have described him as such, but since he has described him as discreet, although extravagant, it is hard to understand that he did not gain standing in this disorderly, turbulent society in which it is so easy to rise. Numerous arguments to the contrary are made in the previous chapter. Nevertheless, preferring to be considered tedious rather than keen on the implausible, we are going to add other reasons. In Spain comprehension is very diffuse: there almost does not exist the great mass of highly useful, meek, governable, industrious, hardworking, and easily enthused fools that exist in other more fortunate nations, where comprehension is concentrated and as though grounded in but a few men. As a result, in Spain there are many more of comprehension than in other lands, but on the other hand we enjoy considerably less of the comprehension. Scarcely anyone advances beyond what is called clever or shrewd. This cleverness or shrewdness, not enhanced by much learning because we are lazy, does not yield the fruit for good things that it ought to yield; and, looking at it in another light, since there are so many who exhibit this cleverness to a greater or lesser degree, rare is the man in whom it reaches the point of constituting such excellence that it distinguishes him and raises him by general assent above the level of the others, making him suitable for authority. Hence, the insta-

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bility of every rule and the scant reverence with which the one who exercises it is regarded; hence, in addition, the fact that there are so very many who aspire to exercise it, believing themselves possessed of qualifications that are the same or better than those of the men who hold prominent positions. In this perpetual struggle to rise in the world several thousand men take part: the frock-coat proletariat. Since there are falls and ascents nearly every year, no doubt the most capable ones do become celebrities; then again, a certain percentage of the merely clever men also become personages, but inasmuch as the clever ones abound, most of them are left high and dry. What happens is that those who lose out are out of sight, out of mind, and it seems to us that they never existed. Only from time to time do we recognize and remember this one or that one—an old companion from secondary school, the university, or adolescence—in somebody who, dressed in rags, comes to ask us for a handout or a job that pays five or six thousand reales, when at another time he expected to become a duke or a prince, and at that would have seen himself as falling short. That a person’s character has considerable influence on the diversity of outcomes is something that cannot be doubted, but chance, the ill-named fate—that is, the combination and link of events that no human mind can foresee—has still more influence. As to the rest, what is unexplainable, mysterious, and unlikely in the extreme, is the prominence of inept people of every stripe in any other country, where, like in Spain, there are no aristocratic privileges nor regal whims that matter. The fact that Don Faustino stayed at a salary of fourteen thousand reales and went no higher, was natural, likely, and just in every country, without our having, as a consequence, to call the protagonist of our story an idiot or anything of the sort. The moment of the great events that are going to bring it to a conclusion is fast drawing near, but first we think it essential to tie together a few loose ends, to say something about what happened to several of the more important characters during the seventeen years that Don Faustino wasted so unhappily in Madrid. The notary Don Juan Crisóstomo Gutiérrez died peacefully and like a good Christian. Father Piñón, who attended him in those last moments, insisted that he marry Elvirita. And the notary did, recognizing and legitimizing the son that he had with Elvirita, named Serafinito, whom we have met and who figures in the introduction to this story. The notary’s capital assets were so substantial that, divided into equal parts among his three children, they sufficed to leave all of them very wealthy. At the point that we have reached in our story, Serafinito continued to be a bachelor, and Ramoncita had been married for years to Don Jerónimo, who

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practiced medicine in Villabermeja with great success and skill. Although they had no children to make their conjugal bonds tighter and to complete their happiness, the “doctor’s lady” and the doctor lived very contentedly. Rosita, despite her rows with Don Faustino, rows sufficiently scandalous that they could not be forgotten, was so charming, so discreet, so selfpossessed, and so wealthy for those small towns, that she continued to be courted by many men. It depended on her alone to make or not what is called a good marriage. Love of her independent way of life, and perhaps the memory of Don Faustino and of his abandonment of her, induced Rosita to remain unmarried a few years more. As we have said, Rosita was a bronze beauty. She turned thirty, she turned thirty-two, she turned, finally, thirty-eight and still looked, thanks to continual exercise and country air, like the same Rosita of that day and night in La Nava. Nonetheless, as she neared forty, although her face and her trim, well-shaped body were as always—no corpulence having come to disfigure them, no unhealthy thinness having left wrinkles on her delicate, smooth, olive-hued skin—Rosita must have had gloomy forebodings that old age was beginning to loom up in the depths and recesses of her inner being, for as much as it did not show on the outside. That youth, that elegance, that gracefulness that she still preserved, were like a miracle of her vigorous will, and the miracle could draw to a close, could end. A few hints of gray that appeared on her black and beautiful head of hair were the only exterior signs announcing the onset of old age. They sufficed, however, for Rosita to think with alarm about old age, especially a lonely old age. An ambitious desire to rise higher, to cut a figure and climb socially outside of Villabermeja, to know triumphs and splendors and conquests on a wider stage, and to still dazzle with the light of her beauty before it was completely eclipsed, then took hold of Rosita’s soul. Among her suitors was one Don Claudio Martínez, an important politician and an almost permanent parliamentary deputy from the district of which Villabermeja formed a part. Don Claudio had spoken four or five times about Treasury in sessions of Parliament, and he had risen to become the general director in the ministry of that branch of government. There he had managed things so well that he had built up a tidy capital of several millions. It meant that he was a man of considerable authority, a man to be dealt with circumspectly, a man on his way to becoming a minister, a noble, a banker, or all three things. A confirmed bachelor in his forties, he wore his years well, and he was cheerful, obliging, and pleasant. He treated all his constituents with such bonhomie, he found so many jobs for them, he handled so many requests and



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tasks for them, that he was adored throughout the entire district. His portrait, either in an oil painting or in an illuminated photograph, adorned the town halls of the five or six towns that made up the district. In all of them he was received with a general pealing of bells and lighted decorations whenever he came back from Madrid. In all of them feasts, dances, and picnics were given in his honor. And from all of them people would send him, when he was in Madrid, casks of the best wine, candied pine nuts, puff pastries, nougats, syrup, and a multitude of other gifts. Rosita was not a woman who let herself be swept off her feet by such grandiosity. When not her clearheadedness, her instinct would have been more than enough to tell her that Don Claudio was a common sort of person, one that people in those parts call an ordinary so-and-so. Sometimes she compared him to the cruel castellan in perpetuity, who still struck her as solid gold, while Don Claudio seemed to be made of a very base and very inferior metal, but Don Faustino was an ill-fated or useless jewel, something lovely, a gem that was good for nothing, while Don Claudio was and could in future be an advantageous instrument to obtain a host of things and to realize a thousand pleasant daydreams. Rosita conceived of the idea of marriage to Don Claudio as a limited partnership, in which, their financial assets and abilities having been joined, the two partners could rise up to the pinnacle of riches and honors. This seduced her; and although Don Claudio came nowhere near to inspiring love in her, neither did he arouse repugnance in her, and so Rosita married Don Claudio. Husband and wife had been living for years in Madrid, where Rosita was admired for her talent and her wit, and where she still had a thousand worshipers, even though she was then a buxom, middle-aged woman. Don Claudio’s home was the center of attraction for the famous parvenus of little standing in Madrid’s haut monde. Rosita was the lionne, the queen, the empress of pretentious, affected women. At least fourteen or fifteen poets, simultaneously or successively, had made of her their muse, their Laura or their Beatrice, and in her honor had composed ballads, elegies, songs, and short, dramatic poems.1 Rosita endeavored to have people believe that her love affairs with all these bards had been platonic, and there is no reason for us not to believe her. A few gossipmongers, though, put about the rumor that General Pérez was more fortunate, or unlike the poets, was not, so to speak, such a strict follower of the great Greek philosopher in his love affair with Rosita. The fact is that General Pérez had great influence with all the ministers, and 1. The original is dolora, a short poem with some philosophical thought, a composition invented by the Spanish poet Ramón de Campoamor (1817–1901).

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in particular with that of Treasury and with the director of Finance, and he made known to both men that he lent all his support to Don Claudio, who always had pending an endless number of intrigues, schemes, and discreet and ingenious combinations in order to dislocate money, rising with it from, Among the dense, lazy rabble of the rest of mortals. Don Claudio was drawing closer and closer to being his ideal, to being a capitalist, whose mission in the world he usually compared to that of the great artificial dams, where waters are channeled and held and then opened to irrigate, and thereby fertilize, immense tracts of land that before lay dry and fallow. Considering himself one of these dams, he tried to fill it and himself quickly and adroitly; his wife Rosita assisted him however she could. Don Faustino had never set foot in Rosita’s house, but he would greet her and be greeted by her whenever he chanced to see her out for a stroll, at theaters or at a tertulia. Never did he approach her, never did he speak to her. Another very, very, important figure in our story, the famous Joselito el Seco, had met with a tragic end, as was to be expected, thus fulfilling the maxim or proverb that says, “Live a bad life, die a bad death.”2 Since Joselito was providence personified for humble folk; since his liberality and generosity were limitless; and since two-thirds of what he earned at his trade he parceled out as charity to the needy, spending the rest with the munificence of a great lord, there was not a muleteer who did not idolize him, nor an innkeeper nor a homeowner who did not aid and hide him, nor a rustic balladeer who did not celebrate him in his ballads, nor a small-town señorito who did not try to become his friend because it behooved him to do so, and even out of the sincere admiration that his exploits, chivalrous deeds, and stupendous acts of magnificence inspired. Hence, among the common people of Andalusia, Joselito enjoyed as much popularity as did Don Claudio among his constituents. There was, as a result, no way to catch him, dead or alive; he continued to do as he pleased, wherever and whenever he pleased. In short, he had the world doing his bidding. He would have gone on in this manner like as not, even if he had outlived Methuselah, if what we are now going to recount had not occurred. For the details we avail ourselves of a letter that Respetilla wrote to his master, transcribing it here faithfully and accurately. The letter reads: 2. The original Spanish is Quien mal anda, mal acaba, literally, “He who lives [goes] badly, dies [ends] badly.”



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All of Villabermeja is up in arms over what has happened to Joselito el Seco. I’m going to tell you the whole story, because it should interest you, but first I’ll provide background so that you can understand everything. Joselito was so good and so scrupulous that he didn’t seize anything from the poor. Moreover, pursued as he has been by the Civil Guard these last few years, he wasn’t coming up with enough resources and found himself stretched thin. Being in a jam, he turned to a rich friend, the mayor of __________, in the province of Málaga, and very courteously asked him to send him three thousand reales at his country house, where he would pick them up. Without any problem the mayor sent him the three thousand reales. A month later Joselito again found himself in a jam and asked him for another three thousand reales and received them too. Not long afterward he asked for four thousand. The mayor said a few things and dragged his heels, but in the end he handed over the four thousand reales that Joselito was asking of him. They went on like that, Joselito asking and the mayor giving, until the seventh request was made. The mayor had had it and must have blown his stack. No doubt the devil himself inspired him with a terrible idea. He wrote to Joselito telling him that, as usual, the money would be at his disposal at the house on such-and-such day and at such-and-such hour, that he should go there for it, but instead of sending the money, the mayor sent—very secretly, very discreetly—twenty sharpshooters, the most famous ones he could find. The house, like many in these parts, made a perfect square. The front wall or façade was the room for the use of the señores when they would go there for a spell; on the right side were the stables and shed for the oxen; on the left side, the bodega and storerooms; and at the back, the winepress and the olive oil mill. In the center there was a wide interior patio, and many of the windows of the four wings or sides of the structure gave onto it. The aforementioned sharpshooters positioned themselves at them with their loaded shotguns at the ready. The caretaker, an unscrupulous man beholden to his master, had agreed to lead Joselito and his band into the patio, then get back inside the house proper and leave them shut up there, where they would be mowed down by the hired guns. The plan was so clever that the mayor took for granted the death of all the outlaws, and he thought he was already seeing the laurels that would be lavished on him for having delivered people from that continual scare. God, however, had something else in store. When Joselito was about to step inside the house to enter the patio with his band, he became wary and stared at the caretaker with unblinking eyes. The man lost his calm

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and turned yellower than beeswax. That did it. Joselito suspected the plot. He realized, as if he were seeing it, that there were people hidden inside ready to kill him and to kill his comrades. Joselito was generous. He assumed that the caretaker was following his master’s orders and let him go, but he did not allow any of the band to enter the house. They all left without setting foot inside it. Joselito swore to take revenge on the mayor. Well did the latter realize that, after the failure of his plan, he ran the risk of being gunned down by Joselito. So the man was intimidated to such an extent that he didn’t venture outside of the town. He scarcely left his house, and then at the times there are the most people in the streets, and taking all kinds of precautions. None of it did any good. One night, between nine and ten, Joselito entered the town on foot with eight of his men. Bold as can be, he headed straight for the mayor’s house. He slipped inside when nobody suspected that he could come. His companions bound the hands of all the servants, tied handkerchiefs around their mouths, and scared the daylights out of them so that they wouldn’t fight back or scream. Joselito found the mayor alone and unexpectedly in his study. “Commend your soul to God, on the double,” he said to him, “I don’t want you to lose it. And say the Apostles’ Creed. As for your body and your life, you’re going to pay with them for your betrayal of me.” The mayor, who knew Joselito very well, was persuaded that there was no hope. Entreaties would have done him no good. Resistance was also futile. Joselito was aiming at him with his blunderbuss, the muzzle nearly brushing his temple. At the slightest movement Joselito would have fired. So the mayor decided to maintain a dignified silence. After a minute went by, and figuring that the mayor had commended his soul to God, asking forgiveness for his sins, Joselito said again: “Say the Creed.” In a firm, clear voice the mayor started to pray, but when he spoke the words “and in Jesus Christ, his only son,” Joselito fired the blunderbuss, emptying into his head all the lead and even the wads with which it was loaded. With the mayor dead in the very desk chair of his study, Joselito left the house and the town with his eight companions. Others of the band were waiting for them with the horses, and, mounting up, they all galloped off safely. The only family the mayor had was an eighteen-year-old son, a goodlooking, unmarried youth. Since that was a Saturday night, the boy, who already had bristly facial growth, was getting a shave at the barbershop.



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People went there to tell him about the dreadful deed that had just taken place. He rushed home with his face half shaved and saw his father, whom he loved with all his heart, killed in such a ghastly way, his head disintegrated. Then, raising his hands to heaven, above the still warm corpse, the youth swore by all that is sacred that he would not shave his beard, not eat at a table set with a cloth, not remove the clothes he was wearing, and not sleep in a bed until he killed every last one of the outlaws, including their leader, Joselito. Five years have passed since this occurred, and the youth has done all in his power to discharge the oath. By ruining himself and squandering the rich inheritance that his father left him, he has supported a band of shotgunners on foot and on horseback, and he has pursued and hounded the outlaws so relentlessly that, now two of them, now one, now four, he managed to pack them all off to the next world. Only Joselito remained alive. But there was no way that the vengeful youth could catch him and kill him. So the young man still didn’t change his clothes, still didn’t eat at a table, still didn’t sleep in a bed, and still didn’t shave his beard. They say that the mere sight of him excited fear. It would have gone on like that for a long time because Joselito was very shrewd and very clever and would not be caught easily. Besides, Joselito had a legion of protectors and people to hide him. But Joselito (May God in his infinite mercy have forgiven him), although a big sinner, had his airs and laid claims to being noble and wellborn. Sick and tired of that pursuit, he sent a message to the mayor’s son through an old Gypsy woman whom he trusted implicitly. The message was did the mayor’s son want to end things once and for all and be able to shave his beard, and if he did, to come, without his people, to a place fixed by Joselito, where, secure the two of them, they would confront each other and end their feud with a knife fight, one or the other or both dying like proper gentlemen. The proposal pleased the mayor’s son and, having sworn the most terrible oaths to guard against betrayal by one or the other party, the young man and Joselito met in an oak grove and fought valiantly with knives, the only witness being the old Gypsy woman, who, seated on a rock, observed the fight without batting an eye. Joselito was a hero, Señorito, and although the mayor’s son was pretty gutsy and handled the blade well, he was no match for Joselito, who, it’s said, killed him cleanly with a masterly thrust below the left nipple. So the mayor’s son died without having been able to shave his beard since his father’s death.

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When news of this feat spread, Joselito’s reputation grew throughout all of Andalusia, and soon up to seven really tough badmen joined up with him. And once again Joselito became the leader of a very respectable band of brigands. That’s where things stood when the governor of this province came up with an abominable piece of treachery, seeing that Joselito was invincible in a fair fight. He arranged for Joselito’s death with an evil criminal that he had in jail, and whom he freed, spreading the word that he had escaped. This traitor joined Joselito’s band, won over that gentlemanly outlaw, and then one night murdered him while he was asleep. Imagine, Señorito, how great and how just on this account is Villabermeja’s indignation.

Respetilla was accustomed to looking at outlaws like heros and knew by heart not a few ballads about their exploits. He then went on at length as he lamented Joselito’s death, condemned the treachery that had been used against him, and celebrated his virtues. In honor of brevity, it seems only right to suppress all this, limiting ourselves to stating that Respetilla had not read a single determinist, fatalist, or socialist book, books that echoed the most antiquated and traditional common ideas, when he exculpated Joselito from his crimes by attributing everything to fate and to our rascally world, that is, to the fatal organization of the individual and to the faults, vices, and harshness of the society in which he lives. We do not like to preach in novels, and we know that conclusions ought not to be drawn from one unique fact, but the deplorable enthusiasm usually inspired in peasants and villagers by outlaws and highwaymen is so general and so evident that it loudly proclaims that exotic, new ideas do not generate this response, but old habits—bad old habits—that are better combated by knowledge and the dissemination of the good philosophical doctrines rather than the holy ignorance that many people assume does exist and that should be treasured. Doña Araceli had also died, seven years ago. The good woman had exhaled her last breath—painlessly, peacefully, with that same gentle love that was the essence of her character—and become lifeless like a little bird. In her will she did not forget her beloved nephew from Villabermeja and bequeathed to him the six thousand duros with notes due, but the prodigal Don Faustino had contracted yet another and much greater debt to be able to continue living in Madrid with his meager resources. About María Don Faustino learned nothing, neither before nor after her father’s death. The only person in Villabermeja who must have known her whereabouts was Father Piñón, and he resisted revealing anything, for as much as the doctor had written to him on several occasions. There had been one Villabermejan individual, about whom we spoke in



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the introduction, who at one point turned into an object of suspicion, because the doctor took to wondering whether he had been the one looking out for, hiding, and defending María. This individual was Father Fernández, but Father Fernández had passed away a long time ago. Once he ascertained the exact date of the priest’s death, the doctor believed that he might have been the person muffled in a cape, the person whose talk with Joselito resulted in his freedom. But Father Fernández died shortly thereafter. So where was María? The reader cannot have forgotten the main character of the introduction, the real narrator of this story that I merely repeat in my own way: the famous Don Juan Fresco, nephew of the renowned priest. Can the reader possibly suspect that María had gone off to America and sought refuge near Don Juan Fresco? Perhaps the discerning reader suspects it, but Don Faustino could not. The only close relative that Don Juan Fresco had was Father Fernández; he had not written to anyone; he did not maintain relationships in Villabermeja; and nobody remembered him. The doctor, who made countless inquiries in order to learn everything concerning María, had discovered only that Joselito was an orphan when taken in at the monastery at the age of four, and that his mother—going back a ways, fifteen years before Joselito was born—had had another child, that he had gone away to very distant lands, and that nothing was known about him for close to half a century. The doctor did not even imagine that this older son had become a Croesus. We have already noted that Don Faustino was convinced that only Father Piñón knew María’s whereabouts, for which reason he had written to him a number of times asking for news. Father Piñón had always refused to give any. Finally, though, in a letter that Don Faustino had received recently, the priest was more explicit and explained himself in this way: I’ve told you over a thousand times: I know where María is, but I cannot disclose it to you. Content yourself with knowing that she’s alive, that she still loves you, and that she still deserves to be called your immortal friend. Being whose daughter she was, and considering that you—driven by ambition and the inconstancy typical of one’s early years—might disdain her and even loathe her, María was prompted to withdraw from you. She persists in this resolve to this day, although loving you as always. Perhaps she fosters no other hope but to be united with you in the next life. Poor María has one odd, and not very Catholic, idea. May God forgive

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her. She is so good that she deserves God’s forgiveness. May God forgive me too, because I excuse her on account of the great affection that I have for her. María continues to believe that you and she have always loved each other in other existences, that your spirits are and always will be joined, for centuries, and that this life that you both live now is a test. María believes that there is something in you that is not you, something that is not your essence, that is not your soul, but rather your organism, your material being, the medium in which you live, the atmosphere that you breathe, the society that surrounds you, which is not favorable, in the life that both of you lead, to your immortal love. Nevertheless, drawn to you by an irresistible impulse, María was yours. Now, for this very reason, she fears seeing you again. If she reunited with you and some regrettable act separated you, creating enmity between you, the union of your spirits—which she believes must transcend subsequent lives—would perhaps be broken forever more, bringing about an eternal separation. “I prefer not seeing him any more, not enjoying his company, not being his again in this earthly life, to an eternal separation,” she says. But in spite of everything, at times María is more sanguine, and even glimpses a certain ray of hope that she’ll yet be able to see you in this life, with no fear of the eternal separation, when the illusions that blind you and agitate you vanish completely.

This is what Father Piñón wrote in his last letter, this was the only news of María that Don Faustino had received. So the doctor continued his life in Madrid: little more than a clerk, and an inept clerk, during the day; a fop who went from tertulia to tertulia at night; and a philosopher, poet, and ambitious dreamer when alone. In sum, although he went on loving poetically the sweet memory of his immortal friend, he was very far from consenting to exchange it for the real possession of that beautiful and enamored woman, if the exchange meant giving up all his illusions, which he did not view as such.

[ 28 ] T he C risis

At this ti m e there occurred in Madrid a development that made history in the annals of the haut monde and one that no newspaper failed to record. Tired of living in Paris and London, the affluent marquis of Gualdalbarbo once again took up residence in the town of the bear and the madrone tree.1 His former home, which could well be characterized as a palace, had been restored and refurbished with the greatest elegance and luxury. The most exquisite pieces of furniture, the most beautiful pictures, bronze and marble statuary, rich and splendid tapestries, Japanese and Sèvres vases, charming porcelain figurines from Saxony, rare enamelwork from the best periods, costly books, either for the care taken with the editions and bindings or the reduced number of extant copies. All this—together with a thousand other things, of which no mention is made so as not to be prolix—was piling up in that house, in apparent although clever and systematic disorder, now in reception rooms with walls hung in silk, now in gilded salons, now in others on whose ceilings stood out buon fresco paintings by the most famous artists. That house did not have the appearance of a curiosity shop, as do others, where, if there was vanity and money with which to buy, there lacked that love of art that is reflected in objects and enlivens them. At the Guadalbarbos it seemed that every1. Colorful Spanish name (villa del oso y del madroño) for Spain’s capital city. There is a depiction of a bear climbing a madrone tree on a plaque in the Puerta del Sol, the old square considered the geographical center, kilometer zero, of the country.

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thing was cared for, brightened, and even favored by a fairy. The presence, the trace, the touch, the hand of the genie of the home were seen in each piece of finery, in each adornment, even in the milieu itself. It could be said that her loving glance had bathed everything with soft light and poetic perfume. Plants and flowers were prettier there and a more vivid green, and colors a thousand times more pure than in orchards and gardens. Features almost imperceptible to those not accustomed to observation revealed at every turn the stamp, the good taste, and the solicitude of a discreet, attractive, and aristocratic woman. This woman was our old acquaintance Costancita, afterwards the marquise of Guadalbarbo. In addition to her intrinsic worth when she left her Andalusian town, she had added, like a precious stone when it comes out of the mine or like a flawless pearl with a chatoyant orient when it comes out of the depths of the sea, all that is refined and exquisite about modern culture. Seventeen unperturbed years for her—in the bosom of the sweetest wellbeing, adored by her husband, praised by everybody, inspiring respectful love in men and envy in women—had not diminished her beauty in any respect. Nobody would say that Costancita was thirty-five years old. Her mouth was as fresh, her smile as bright (midway between childish and mischievous), her teeth as white, her cheeks as rosy, and her brow as smooth and serene as when she went out in the barouche to welcome her cousin Faustino, who was coming from Villabermeja to see her for the first time. Although the marquise had two sons, the older of whom was sixteen, we could continue saying now what we said when we introduced her to our readers for the first time: that her figure was supple, not like a palm, but like a serpent, and that all that could be revealed, presumed, and surmised was artistically and solidly fashioned, with neither excess nor superabundance in any aspect, but picture perfect, in just measure and proportions, according to the norms of art. We are tempted to add that, having lived in the bosom of opulence and luxury, Costancita had passed the time without time leaving its destructive trace on her, just like those enchanted princesses that are kept in the very same state as when the enchantment transformed them. Her complexion, which was olive-hued, had acquired a transparent, unblemished whiteness, the very incarnation of a goddess or a nymph, and not that of a mortal being; and her hands too, better cared for now, seemed lovelier in form and in appearance, and in the color of the flesh and varnish of the nails. In all this, even if there had been some industry or artifice, it was such skillful industry and such subtle artifice that the most severe critic, the most expert observer in such matters, would not have discovered it with the eyes of a lynx.



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The marquise of Guadalbarbo had dazzled and continued to dazzle Madrid with the richness of her dresses, with her jewelry, and with her luxurious way of life. The fame of her virtue was greater and still more enviable. The marquise loved her husband like a munificent, beneficent providence who covered her with diamonds, who showered gold in her lap, who without hesitation satisfied her most costly and audacious whims. The marquis’s good fortune in business shone in the marquise’s grateful mind like expertise or like genius. She saw her husband as an enchanter or magician, who with his wand touched any hope, any illusion, any caprice, any daydream, and made it come true at once, bringing it as though by incantation from the world of idle fancy and shadows to the world of sound, solid beings. Costancita herself held a high opinion of Costancita that made her invulnerable to not a few attempts at seduction. A poor woman, although she may be disinterest personified, usually lets herself be blinded by the wealth, splendor, and magnificence of a rich gallant. She will not take anything from him, but may well feel herself captivated and amazed by the coaches, the horses, the palace, the pomp, and, in short, the atmosphere surrounding the gallant. None of this had any effect on Costancita. She was, or believed herself to be, as wealthy as anyone, and there was no luxury, nor finery, nor marvel of industry or of art that excited her admiration or her curiosity. A woman who is a commoner usually finds an irresistible attraction in a gallant with an illustrious name. A woman who is not at the highest level of society is charmed by the gallant who cuts a figure in aristocratic salons; perhaps the desire to become a rival, to outdo and mortify some great lady, proves stronger in her than all intentions to be virtuous. For Costancita, who, on her own behalf and that of her husband, believed that she descended from the most distinguished of family trees, and who had lived and shone in the loftiest circles of Paris and London, none of the above could perturb a highand-mighty heart. She viewed everything as beneath her. There was nothing that she did not disdain. The fame of the marquise of Guadalbarbo spread throughout all of Europe. The marquise had shone in Baden-Baden, in Brighton, in Spa, and in Trouville; in the salons of Fauborg Saint-Germain; in the castles of the most illustrious lords of England and Scotland. In Berlin, in St. Petersburg, in Nice, in Florence, and in Rome she had lady friends who corresponded with her, male admirers who still sighed for her. Costancita, though, was sick and tired of shining socially, and it was a near certainty that she had come to Madrid with the intention of drawing back. In ages and centers with a more complex and refined civilization, in Al-

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exandria, for example, in the time of the successors of the son of Philip of Macedon,2 and in Versailles, in the time of Louis XIV and Louis XV, is when, by contrast, there awakened the taste and even the mania for bucolic poetry, for idylls, for country life, for the simple love between shepherds and shepherdesses. A like phenomenon could be observed in the heart of the lovely marquise. She lived willingly in Madrid, but now and then a certain itch for a primitive, patriarchal life tugged at her heart. The marquise of Guadalbarbo occasionally composed indescribable idylls, deep down in her soul, in which compositions figured prominently recollections of her small native town, her garden, the orange blossoms and violets that imparted a balmy fragrance to it, the clear sky of Andalusia, and that entire less artful and closer-to-Mother Nature existence. Tired of being admired, of seeing at her feet English lords, Russian princes, and Parisian lions, all of everything on a grand scale, Costancita dreamed of another novel: she missed a certain poetry in her life, and she was searching for it elsewhere, not in what she was satisfied to the point of satiety. While the desire to shine and be adored had not been deadened in her heart, the novel, the poetry, the marquise of Guadalbarbo’s ideal had been realized in those adorations and devotions of which she had been the object. Her severe virtue and her faithful love for the respectable marquis had been the first condition of that realized ideal. To be unfaithful in the slightest way to the marquis of Guadalbarbo, to taint his name, even just with the chance of suspicion, would have been for Costancita like throwing herself down to the ground from the altar of gold on which she found herself raised. It was necessary to make believe, it was necessary for Costancita herself to believe, and we have the impression that she did, that the marquis’s constant good fortune in business inspired admiration in her, and that the gratitude that she felt in her heart for that magnificence with which he gave her everything she wanted, was a real love, was a sincere devotion, which made of her and of the marquis a single, same being, or, at least, an inseparable unity, by which all that magnificence and splendor did not come as though from outside and from a strange power, but flowed from Costancita’s very nature and condition and were attributes and qualities of her person. Thus had Costancita lived for seventeen years, loving the marquis, being a model materfamilias, passing—among the libertines—for a marble goddess, and cited as a paragon of conjugal fidelity and affection by all the severe and grave types who knew her. The countess of Majano herself, the marquis’s sister, about whom we have already spoken to our readers, although she was the most hard-to-please and 2. The father (382–336 b.c.) of Alexander the Great.



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austere woman in Madrid, was delighted with Costancita, and had nothing to reproach in her, except a little bit of a lukewarm attitude toward prayers and devotions. But the impulse to put this reproach into words was blunted in the heart of the countess of Majano, who, like almost all devout women, was very stingy, by the presents and alms that Costancita gave for churches, nuns’ convents, and poorhouses, the distributor of all such presents being the countess, who thus made herself look good and passed for generous without spending a thing. The marquis of Guadalbarbo had already turned sixty-six, but was in such fine shape that he was a marvel. His active life, his frequent horseback riding and hunting, his easy manner, and satisfactions of all kinds kept him feeling young. With each passing day the marquis gave himself another pat on the back for the good judgment he had shown in choosing a wife. Costancita, who pampered the flowers, the canaries, and even insensible jewelry and fabric ..... how was she not going to pamper, care for, fuss over, and keep happy such a good, such a provident, such an obliging, and such a generous husband? Costancita outdid herself for the marquis; she anticipated his wishes, she tried to entertain him, she made him laugh with her jokes and funny stories, she consoled him when he met with some irritation (which was always very slight), and attended him like a child when he was beset by some illness (which also was always slight). But, despite all this, we must confess straightforwardly what we have already let the reader suspect, what we indicated not long ago. Costancita found herself in a perilous moment of crisis. The ideal of her life until then was already exhausted: it had given of itself all that it could give. The incense of flattery, the triumphs in society, the thousand passions inspired by her beauty and only requited with gratitude ..... with all this—forgive us the use of a trite expression—Costancita was bored to tears. To more exalted delights, to a more noble ideal, to a more ardent poetry did her soul aspire. When the sun sinks behind the mountains on a beautiful afternoon, when it still tinges scudding clouds in the western sky with yellows and purples, the heart fills with a vague melancholy and usually forges a thousand strange chimeras in raptures impossible to explain. In like fashion, Costancita’s soul, in the bright and scarcely begun sunset of her lasting and spirited youth, was wistfully seeking a strange sort of good, a lovely poetry, a soft warmth, a divine contentment that would gladden and illuminate the serene twilight of her life. A fortuitous circumstance intervened to give greater flight in this direction to Costancita’s spirit, and to plunge her even deeper into the sea of her daydreams, a sea swimming with shoals, reefs, and shallows.

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The marquis and marquise of Guadalbarbo entertained once a week, and brought together in their salons the pick of Madrid society, the best by virtue of birth, beauty, fortune, letters, and arms. In addition, the Guadalbarbos had invitees who came daily to eat the midday meal. General Pérez was of those who frequented their house the most. General Pérez, the nature of whose relationship with Rosita we have left in discreet penumbra, was not only an oracle in politics, a power on whom sometimes depended the birth and death of the Ministries, but the most dogged, confident, bold, and conceited of philanderers. In this kind of combat, as well as on real fields of battle, General Pérez judged himself to be a Caesar, and the Veni, vidi, vici never left his mind, when not his lips. This tremendous general, this undaunted hero who was flattered by a thousand sensational successes, devoted himself heart and soul to the marquise of Guadalbarbo. He pursued her with volcanic glances, he complimented her with a certain military forwardness, and he never wanted to believe that the marquise’s occasional flashes of disdain, mockery, and ire were legitimate flashes of ire, mockery, and disdain, but artifice, pretense, and amorous tactics in order to make the victory more desirable and in order to increase the value of the fortress that in the end had to fall. General Pérez’s vain persistence had Costancita beside herself. She considered that, within the guidelines of good manners and social conventions, she had done everything that can be done, and had even gone beyond those guidelines, in order to restrain the fierce and intrepid soldier or to disillusion him and thereby rid herself of a nuisance. But General Pérez’s perseverance beggared description; it bordered on the implausible. Accustomed to seeing his wife worshiped and with implicit trust in her virtue, the marquis of Guadalbarbo did not notice or paid no attention to the relentless and single-minded siege that the general had laid on her. Costancita, moreover, was prudent, and it was not a question of going to her husband to ask him to free her from the impertinences of that conceited gallant, to shoo away that pest, and perhaps involve him in an incident that might not only be dangerous but ridiculous too. So Costancita continued to suffer, although with impatience and irritation, the general’s pretensions, hoping to tire him and make him back away from her by dint of seriousness and indifference. Until then Costancita had not understood a part of mythology: the Greek god Pan’s pursuit of nymphs, Apollo’s of Daphne, and the Cyclops Polyphemus’s of Galatea.3 Now, mutatis 3. Pitys fled from Pan one day and was changed into a pine tree; Daphne was saved from Apollo by being changed into a laurel tree; and Polyphemus crushed Galatea’s lover with a boulder.



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mutandis, in view of the current way of life, much more orderly and political, she almost saw herself like a Galatea, and saw General Pérez as a furious Polyphemus. What annoyed her the most, what offended her pride the most, was the general’s regal demeanor, his ill-concealed belief that he was practically honoring her by wooing her and suffering her disdain. She, who considered herself the superior of all generals; she, who knew that her husband’s wealth and position did not depend on the favor of any statesman or powerful ruler; she, who understood that her husband did not need the Minister of the Treasury, but that at all events the Minister of the Treasury would need her husband ..... she would lose her calm and bite her lips out of rage whenever General Pérez drew close to her with a protective air, and as though saying to her: “Be pleased with yourself. What must you be worth, how great must my love be, when I suffer so much, being who I am and carrying as much weight as I do?” Around that time another individual came on a regular basis to the nightly tertulia at Costancita’s house, and likewise came to eat once a week: our protagonist, her disdained cousin, Don Faustino López de Mendoza. Fate had always frowned at him so sternly that Don Faustino, despite his illusions, had ended up creating a persona for himself which was the complete opposite of that of General Pérez. His humility lent him a certain charm in the eyes of Costancita and it earned him the sympathy of the marquis of Guadalbarbo, who eventually came to sing his praises and always cited him as an example of the vagaries and injustices of destiny, which kept him in such a low state while it had elevated so many nincompoops. At first Costancita contradicted her husband, maintaining that Don Faustino’s not having gotten on in the world stemmed from a character fault, and she identified and pointed out countless defects in him, but the marquis tended to demonstrate that there were no such defects, rather there were but excellences and perfections. Little by little the marquise became convinced of what her husband claimed. As a result, she began to think of Don Faustino as a savant withered in flower, a lion whose claws have been cut, a genius whose powerful wings have been clipped, wings with which he was going to soar to the empyrean. And who had been the malefic magician, the bewitching traitor that had performed such an ungodly and barbarous amputation of wings and claws? Costancita took to brooding over it and to suffering pangs of conscience that she had not suffered until then, and to considering herself to blame in large measure. She recalled with tenderness, with a certain bittersweet sadness, with a languid and lingering enjoyment, the late night meetings and con-

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versations at the garden grille, the tears that she spilled the evening that she ended their relationship, the gentle, humble kiss that her cousin gave her on the forehead in return for the hurt that she was inflicting on his soul; and she believed that she heard the murmur of the fountain in her garden, and she felt herself transported back to that pleasant nocturnal solitude, and she saw that clear Andalusian sky spangled with thousands of bright stars, and she drank in the perfume of those orange blossoms and those violets. All of this—poeticized, beautified, sublimated by distance—jogged her memory like a fairy tale, with brilliant flashes, with the enchantment of early youth as she evoked one recollection after another. A boundless compassion engulfed the marquise’s heart. Perhaps she had affected Faustino’s fate. Loved by her, encouraged by her, stimulated by her, Faustino would have realized all his dreams of glory. His illusions would have been realities. Perhaps she had severed that flower when it was opening to the soft breath of noble hopes; perhaps she had destroyed the wings of that genius; perhaps she had broken the magic strings of that melodious harp, consigning it afterward to a corner, like the harp of Bécquer’s verses.4 The marquise then forged for herself a fantastic existence, a thousand times more beautiful than the one she had lived. She imagined herself as the muse, the impulse, the inspiration, the fertile, vigorous means to miracles and creations, of a man who perhaps would have crowned his country with glory. This seemed to her more beautiful, more poetic, more noble than all the occurrences, episodes, and events of her real life. For the first time, in the depths of her conscience, without daring to acknowledge it straight out, scarcely glimpsing it, Costancita thought that only selfishness, miserable self-interest, the longing for material possessions, the desire for luxury and vanity had guided her and driven her to prefer the marquis of Guadalbarbo to Faustino. Costancita, however, had not yet flirted with Faustino in Madrid. Costancita continued to love and revere the marquis. And Don Faustino, so chastened by ill fortune, did not dream that his cousin, who did not love him in their native land, could love him now, when the ignoble mystery of his future was already clear, when there had already been an unequivocal demonstration of the shallowness, idleness, and fatuousness of his hopes and plans for glories and triumphs. Nonetheless, provoked by General Pérez’s persistent attentions, Costancita conceived of the very devil of an idea. The marquis was not about to dis4. In a “Rhyme” (Rima) or poem by Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer (1836–1870), celebrated romantic poet of nineteenth-century Spain. Valera refers to Poem 7, the first line of which is Del salón en el ángulo oscuro, “[The harp could be seen .....] in the dark corner of the salon.”



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miss the general from his side. Any coquetry with another man of the first rank would only serve to goad him and excite him more. The way to get rid of the general and take revenge on him, humiliating his arrogance, was to seek out a modest, obscure rival, a rival whom she, being omnipotent as a great lady, would raise up by means of a glance, through the conjuration of a favor. Thus would Costancita put God himself right, flinging the powerful one from the lofty seat of honor and exalting the humble one. Costancita, therefore, resolved to encourage her poor cousin, to draw him out of that prostration and depression in which he found himself, to make him feel what he was worth, to set him up as a rival and adversary to the conceited general, and see whether the latter exploded with fury on seeing himself supplanted by an insignificant employee who earned fourteen thousand reales a year, and who was little more than a clerk; and it seemed to her, furthermore, that that clerk, that fourteen-thousand-reales-a-year employee was worth a thousand times more in every way than General Pérez with all his conquests, and that she didn’t need the glory and fame of General Pérez or anyone else to be reflected on her person in order to make it luminous. Costancita believed that she was possessed of more than enough splendor to glitter by herself, and to illuminate, beautify, and enhance everything and everyone that drew near to her.

[ 29 ] S ecret V engeance for a S ecret I nsult

Wit h e ach passing day the marquis of Guadalbarbo unwittingly assisted Costancita in furthering her diabolical scheme. The haughtiness and arrogance that most distinguished personages of Madrid exhibited, or that he fancied they exhibited, seemed so unwarranted to him that he could scarcely tolerate them. An admirer of the good order, greatness, and prosperity of Great Britain and other European states, the marquis lamented like no one the backwardness, disorder, and misgovernment of his native country. So he thought that, far from being proud, our leaders and statesmen should be ashamed of their ineptitude and filled with the most profound humility. The marquis, like almost all men whose business affairs flourish, especially if they do not have to accuse themselves of base dealings nor dirty tricks, was endowed with a healthy amount of amour-propre, and, naturally, was annoyed by that of others, which in his mind came nowhere near to being justified. The marquis had never read the quaint book by Father Peñalosa, The Spaniard’s Five Excellent Traits that Are Depopulating Spain,1 but even if he had read this work, it was not in the nature of his comprehension to believe that ingenious monk’s singular theory, which took for granted that, because Spaniards are The chapter title is from the title of a drama by Pedro Calderón de la Barca: A secreto agravio, secreta venganza. 1. Benito Peñalosa y Mondragón, Benedictine monk whose work appeared in 1629.

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so noble, so Catholic, so realistic, so generous, and so martial, they’re always lost. Thus it is that perdition, according to the marquis, stemmed from bad and not good qualities, for which reason he did not cease grumbling and reproaching his fellow countrymen, although he discharged the thunderbolts of his reproaches on eminent figures and behaved benevolently and indulgently toward humble and lowly folk. Since cousin Faustino numbered among the latter group, the marquis felt for him, as we have already said, a special predilection that was ever on the increase. The wariness with which he had looked upon Costancita’s cousin, when he met him in Andalusia, had vanished completely. The presumptuousness of his early youth, the display of impiety and unbelief, and other shortcomings of Don Faustino’s had changed with the years and the disillusionments.2 And then too the marquis was far from seeing in Don Faustino, as he had seen in another time, a rival who was coming to steal his wife’s love; on the contrary, now he saw a hapless young man, over whom he had triumphed, and whose worth and noble qualities lent more value, merit, and importance to his victory the more he esteemed them. The higher the plane on which the marquis placed Don Faustino in his imagination, the more he celebrated Costancita’s love and free decision when she rejected Don Faustino and chose him. In such a state of affairs, the doctor’s visits to his cousin became more and more frequent, and if for some reason our hero did not turn up at the marquis’s home for two or three days, the marquis would look for him or write to him, asking him to come. Meanwhile, the tireless General Pérez, veritable practitioner of poliorcetics of our time when it came to amorous pursuits, had been repelled in all his assaults, attacks, and onslaughts, but his siege of the fortress continued unabated and uninterrupted. Since he was a man of so much consequence, respect, and arrogance, hardly anybody dared to go near Costancita and talk to her, considering it a waste of time, thanks to that frightful scarecrow. General Pérez, with his glances and with his constant attentions to Costancita, signaled a perpetual declaration of blockade. Of course the gallants of Madrid did not back away for fear of being eaten alive by General Pérez, far from it, but when they saw a “conquistador” like him, so determined in his undertaking, neither losing heart nor retreating, perhaps they assumed that he was not altogether objectionable, and there was nary a one who dared to stand as a rival only to taste defeat. 2. There is alliteration in the original—con los años y los desengaños—impossible to transfer in translation.

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Costancita, more and more vexed, began to lose her composure when she saw that the siege was becoming tighter and that the isolation in which the general wanted to have her was little by little turning into a reality. Don Faustino himself, with the modesty and timidity that his ill fortune had instilled in him, suspected, not that his cousin loved the general and was having an affair with him, but that she delighted and took pride in the assiduous courtship of such a distinguished personage. So no sooner would he see the general at the marquise’s side than he deemed it prudent and sensible to direct his steps elsewhere so as not to disturb. With all this Costancita was hopping mad inwardly and in despair. The result was that she went to affectionate extremes for her cousin, that she looked at him with tenderness in her eyes, that she clasped his hand effusively, and that she even praised him at every turn, but the doctor got it in his head that it was all pity, kindness, a desire to raise him up a little from the prostration in which he found himself, perhaps even a twinge of remorse on Costancita’s part for her cruel turndown of all those many years ago. The marquise of Guadalbarbo began to get piqued as much by the doctor’s impassiveness as she was by the general’s incessant pursuit. Unable to restrain herself, she then granted more ostensible favors to her cousin, but, for as ostensible as they were, the doctor either explained them to himself as before, out of pity, or took to pondering something that he quickly dismissed as an unkind thought, even though it came back to his mind persistently. “Do you suppose my cousin,” he wondered, “wants me to be a blind for her so that the general’s chase won’t be so noticeable?” The fact is that this behavior of Don Faustino’s, instinctively followed by virtue of how crestfallen and disheartened he was, would have been, were it followed with all due reflection and calculation by a confirmed seducer, the most clever and the most apt to make a conquest of Costancita. So Costancita continued favoring her cousin with all those poetic, vague, and indefinable means that silly, ordinary women sometimes put to use if love or the desire to be loved inspires them, and that the marquise of Guadalbarbo, so expert, so elegant, so artistic in everything, used in a delightful way. The doctor did not believe himself loved yet, but he began to remember their former love affair and to re-create in his heart of hearts the conversations at the garden grille, and to believe that he still loved Costancita, in spite of María. This new state of mind and spirit of the doctor’s soon became apparent to the eyes of the marquise, who noticed in her cousin a pronounced sweetness of expression when he looked at her, a profound gratitude when she in any way praised him, and a concern and a solicitude brimming with a simple and



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natural gallantry to perform a thousand small services for her. In a person as inattentive as the doctor, who was so unaccustomed to exercising such arts as a norm, this very nearly amounted to a semideclaration of love. Inasmuch as he spent four or five hours at the office every day summarizing documents and then another four or five in the solitude of his poky little boardinghouse room trying in vain to give form to his epic or to compose his new philosophical system, the doctor thought he was transported from purgatory to heaven whenever he entered those elegant and rich salons, where the servants treated him with a consideration that he had not enjoyed since he departed Villabermeja, where everything gave off a sweet smell, where there were so many pretty things, and where, above all, he found such a beautiful and aristocratic woman who took an interest in him, who asked after his health with real fondness, who wished to read his poetry and know his philosophical system, and who did all this in such a relaxed and discreet manner that the doctor, although he was very suspicious, never detected affectation, nor sentimentality, nor pomposity, nor the slightest sign of anything ridiculous. The doctor experienced so much comfort and such gentle consolation at Costancita’s house—at this point in his relationship with her—that he was like the patient who finds a comfortable, pleasing position and, afraid to lose it, does not dare to move, or like someone who has had a beatific dream and then, upon awakening, tries to get back to sleep in order to recapture it. In short, the doctor contented himself with the status quo and did not aspire to more for fear of losing all that he now enjoyed. On one of the evenings when the marquise received visitors, in the month of May, General Pérez was more tiresome and bold than ever. He complained that the marquise received only on receiving days and obstinately sought a meeting with her. “I have to talk to you with a certain quiet,” he said to the marquise. “This is terrible. You have to do the honors of the house here, and under this pretext you pay me no attention. You never listen to me; any fool who joins us interrupts me in the best part of whatever I am saying. Hear me before condemning me. Nobody is condemned without being heard.” “But, General,” said Costancita, “I don’t condemn you, and I do listen to you. What are you complaining about?” “You’re very cruel. You mock me.” “I do not mock you.” “Why don’t you receive me when I come during the day?” “Because I receive during the day only on Tuesdays. Come any Tuesday and I will receive you.”

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“That’s it: You’ll receive me as you will any other person.” “And what right do you have that I should receive you any differently?” “You ingrate! And my affection and my friendship and my admiration do not give me the right?” “Perhaps for that very reason I should resist receiving you. You are very dangerous,” said Costancita, laughing. “Do you see? You laugh at me, Marquise.” “I’m not laughing at you, but I should not receive you. Precisely because you court me so assiduously I should not receive you so as not to give cause for scandal.” “Nobody will say anything. Receive me just once. Your reputation is so well established that nobody will gossip.” “Look,” said Costancita, a bit nettled that the general took that excuse seriously, “I know full well that my reputation cannot nor should not depend on such a small thing. You want to see me tomorrow, when I do not receive other mortals. All right. Come tomorrow. Between three and four. I’ll instruct the servants to let you come in.” “And only me?” “Only you.” Having said this, the marquise moved off toward other guests, leaving General Pérez satisfied, even though she had just agreed to a meeting so that he would not believe that she feared to have an interview alone with him, or so that he would not presume that her reputation hung on such a thin thread that she was going to lose it by receiving him. General Pérez, who converted everything into substance, puffed his own ego. Deep down in his soul, he imagined and pictured in vivid colors a stormy struggle that love and virtue were carrying on in Costancita’s heart because of him. Her granting the meeting seemed to him like a great victory of love. He did not consider that Costancita had granted it so as to demonstrate to him that for her he was a man of no consequence. The general had pushed her so much that refusing to receive him would have been like saying with Leonor in The Troubador:

Have pity on me: If because of you I tremble, because of you And because of my virtue, is this not sufficient triumph?3

So as not to appear in the general’s mind as though speaking these lines, Costancita underwent the mortification of seeing him and hearing him alone. 3. From Act 3, scene 5 of the celebrated romantic play El trovador (1837) by Antonio García Gutiérrez.



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The general showed up promptly. Although he had always been, with another class of women, an imitator and emulator of Sextus Tarquinius,4 he knew, despite his fatuousness, whom he was up against, and so he was respectful, saccharine, cloying, and humble. Costancita, more exquisitely and discreetly than other women, said on that occasion what on similar occasions all women always say—that she esteemed the general, that she valued his friendship, that she was very grateful for the high regard in which he held her, but that she did not love anybody with love love, and that in this respect the general should abandon all hope. The disillusion that he suffered at the hands of Costancita could not have been more explicit nor more clear. The general’s vanity, however, would not permit him to accept it. General Pérez continued to see, in spirit, the fierce struggle between honor and virtue, love and chastity, that were tearing at Costancita’s soul; he almost took pity on that tumult of passions that he had unleashed, and out of an impulse of generosity he decided to be calm, to take things gently, and not enter the fortress through a trail of blood and fire. The general set out to be magnanimous, to make use of compassion, and to come daily to wear Costancita down, in a manner finer than a piece of coral and sweeter than a piece of taffy. The marquise of Guadalbarbo did not know how to escape from those intrusive visits that galled her so much. As a matter of pride she did not want to say to the general that he not come to see her so often in order not to compromise her, nor was there any way either to make him understand that his visits were boring her to tears. In this situation, the way to shoo away the pest or nuisance of a general was with the assistance of Doctor Faustino, which now seemed more desirable than ever to Costancita. And her cousin was, by contrast with the general, little by little winning her heart. One day, after dinner, while the marquis was discussing politics with other guests, Costancita and the doctor had the following conversation: “Is it possible, Faustino, that you have such a low opinion of me and that you think me so vain and so bereft of pride at the same time, that you suppose I take pleasure in General Pérez’s courtship of me? What do I gain by it? Do I need the general for anything? I’ve told you a thousand times that he bores me no end, that he annoys me, that I can’t stand the man, and you always listen to me with clear signs of disbelief.” “Frankly, cousin,” said the doctor, “I’ll say it even though it may anger you: I don’t understand that the general would be wont to tolerate such displays of 4. Sextus Tarquinius raped the Roman matron Lucrece, who afterwards stabbed herself to death, precipitating the revolt against the Tarquins. It is the basis of Shakespeare’s narrative poem “The Rape of Lucrece.”

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scorn. When he comes to see you almost daily, when he’s always where you are, when he devotes himself to worshiping you continually, he must not be that badly treated.” “Yes, he’s here all the time, but he always turns coldness into kindness, disappointment into hope, and poison into antidote. Unless I kick him out, sometimes I think there’s no way to get rid of him.” “You’d get rid of him if you really wanted to,” said the doctor. “Well, I do want to,” responded Costancita. “Are you offering to help me in the venture?” “With pleasure. There is no greater happiness for me than being useful in some way to my pretty cousin, who is so good and so considerate of me.” “All right then. You know, of course, how grateful I am for your affection, how grateful I am for your generous friendship. How noble you are, Faustino! You should hold a grudge against me, and you don’t.” “And why should I hold a grudge against you? I do not recollect the farewell at the garden grille, that farewell of so many years ago, except to confess that you were right to send me away. The experience of my life, my obscurity, my misery, the poor outcome of my grandiose aims, have justified your father’s prudence and foresight. It would have been madness if you had joined your lot with mine. So I don’t complain; on the contrary, I’m grateful to you and I keep in my heart, like the most precious memory of my life, the pure essence of those tears that you spilled for me, the delicate scent that my lips imbibed when for the first and last time they touched your serene brow. But let’s not talk about this. Let’s talk about what matters more. What do you ask? What do you command?” “I command nothing. I implore you to come to see me tomorrow.” “At what time?” “Come at two-thirty. Don’t forget.” Costancita made a date with the doctor for a half hour before the time that General Pérez usually came to see her almost every day. The author or narrator of this story is well aware that here, as was the case in other passages, readers are going to find fault with the main character, of whom they demand, in a novel, prodigious fidelity and constancy, and whom they are going to condemn, because now he loved María, now Costancita, now both at once, and because for a few days he loved Rosita herself, but let the first stone be cast by whoever in real life has undergone fewer changes and fewer justified changes in his loves. The hapless Doctor Faustino had lost María perhaps forever, for reasons that had been brought to pass by his ill-starred fate. Well had he loved María, and faithfully had he kept and continued to keep her image in the center of his soul, erecting for her there an



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altar like a shrine, but he had also loved his cousin Costanza before meeting María, and it is not strange that the first passion should be rekindled now in his heart. Besides, from the very outset of this story the reader would have known that we are not trying to hold Doctor Faustino up as a paragon of virtue and a model of perfections, but rather as an example of how a clear intellect and a sound will can become corrupted and warped with what are commonly called illusions, that is, with a concept too favorable to itself, with the conviction that merits themselves ought to smooth the way for the achievement of every grandiose expectation, and with the belief that the great man is inside us in embryo, and that, this being the case, with neither perseverance nor work nor incessant effort and just carried along by nature herself, we are made ready to scale all the heights and to surround ourselves with the eternal radiance of all glory. This condition of Doctor Faustino’s character is very common nowadays, because ambitions are awakened and stirred, and in the doctor they persisted despite bitter disappointments. A poetic spirit besides, without a firm, certain faith in anything except in his own worth, which is also rather common unfortunately, the doctor was like that figure in an old tale who wanders, lost, in a forest, in the darkness of night, and runs—now after one point of light, now after another—chasing all the lights he sees shining in the distance, believing them alternately to be beacons that are going to save him. The light that presently dazzled the doctor and toward which he was running full of hope was once again the eyes of his cousin Costanza. The doctor arrived for the meeting several minutes before the agreed-upon hour. His cousin received him in a charming little room contiguous to her antechamber, where she usually spent time alone, reading, writing, or daydreaming, and where she received intimate friends. It was what people called a boudoir, to use a foreign term. Costancita was attired in morning clothes, in a light, elegant dress, typical of springwear. The slatted shutters admitted a very pleasant half light that gave onto all the objects. Plants and flowers adorned the room. The marquise looked fresher and more lush and more delightful than all the flowers. The doctor paid his cousin a thousand compliments. She, for her part, lavished on him a thousand sweet smiles and warm glances. There was no talk of love, neither past nor present. There was talk of friendship, of vague affection between both, but by virtue of this friendship, of this nameless affection, although pure and very spiritual, the doctor took the marquise’s hand in his two, and the marquise left it there. The doctor was smothering it with kisses when the street door bell rang. Costancita laughed. “That,” she said, “is my tremendous general, right on time.”

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The doctor, who had his chair positioned very close to Costancita’s, automatically moved it. “No, no,” said Costancita, laughing even more heartily, “don’t move your chair away. Bring it closer and let him boil over. Don’t get up until he comes in so that he can see you sitting very close to me.” Don Faustino obeyed the marquise, drawing as near to her as he could. A servant announced General Pérez, who entered the room at once with a glorious, triumphant air. Although she was the instigator of that mock charade, Costancita unintentionally made it more effective—through her lack of practice and assurance—by blushing noticeably when the general came in. As for Don Faustino, seeing that it had been a very long time since he had had amorous adventures and never in such aristocratic salons and with the intervention of such a distinguished and eminent rival, he was excited and wrought-up, and he too blushed. The general took all of it in with ill-concealed annoyance, despite being a man of the world who was adept at dealing with all kinds of difficult moments. The conversation that ensued could not help but be awkward and chilly. The general’s face revealed more and more of his barely suppressed rage, while Costancita, laughter bubbling inside her, hardly managed to hold herself in check. Every now and then she would glance tenderly at her cousin, not doing so discreetly on the general’s account, but trying to get the general to take notice. The latter, understanding how supremely ridiculous it would look for him to vent his anger, struggled to appear calm and even jovial, but he could not. He made an attempt to talk about indifferent things— about theaters, about literature, and even fashions, and he uttered no end of asinine remarks, like a person ranting in his sleep or whose mind is on other subjects. All this delighted Costancita, made her happy. The general was so vain that he had never been jealous of anybody, and even less of the doctor, whom he had regarded as a poor relative, to whom some help was given in that house, and whom the Guadalbarbos invited to their table to do a work of mercy by feeding the hungry. Now the general was paying the piper. “Well, well,” he said, among other inanities, “I didn’t expect to find myself in such good company.” “You are very kind, General,” responded Don Faustino with the utmost modesty. “Who would have thought!” continued the general. “What, today is not a workday at the office?” “Yes, General,” responded the doctor, “but I’ve played hooky in order to accompany and entertain, to the extent I can, my cousin, who is a bit out of sorts.”



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Even recognizing the innocence with which Don Faustino spoke, the general felt that those words unintentionally alluded to him. He imagined that he could have been a bull, and that between the two of them the doctor and the marquise were fighting him like a matador and his torero.5 He very nearly came out with a stinging broadside, but managed to control himself. “Well, I’m glad, my friend, I’m glad. I didn’t know you were so amenable and so amusing.” “Oh, he is, very much so,” exclaimed Costancita before the doctor could say anything. “You don’t know my cousin, General, or you’ve socialized very little with him. Fate has always treated him adversely, and for that reason he holds such a low-paying, inconsequential position, but do not doubt that he is a man of much knowledge and much intellect and discretion.” “My cousin thinks too highly of me, General,” said the doctor. “The affection that she has for me no doubt blinds her and prompts her to speak of me with the most undeserved praise.” “Believe me, General, I’m only doing him justice. Faustino is one of the most distinguished men that we have here in Spain: an elegant, inspired poet, philosopher, intellectual .......” “No, Costanza, do not embarrass me by crediting me with talents and qualities that nobody except you recognizes, and you do because of how much you love me, and because of how good and indulgent you are with me.” Thus did the marquise and the doctor go on for a long while, mutually singing each other’s praises, thanking each other for the kind words, and attributing all of them to the affection that they professed for each other. In this mild contest they always turned to the general as a judge, a “judge” who nearly exploded with anger, who felt that he was losing his temper, and who realized that on the tip of his tongue he had an itch to give both cousins a severe dressing down and cause a humdinger of a scandal then and there. Nonetheless, since he had no right to complain, since he knew that any rashness on his part would make him pass for an ill-mannered, beastly man, for a comical figure, and a middle-aged cadet, the general restrained himself yet again and said with marked irony: “I regret having arrived at such an inopportune moment. No doubt, I, who am ignorant of philosophy and the art of poetry, have come and interrupted a lesson that your cousin here was giving you, Marquise.” “General,” said the doctor, “I’m too humble to give lessons to anyone, and 5. The analogy of a bullfight necessarily comes into play in the translation with a slight change. When Faustino says that he “has played hooky,” it is an idiomatic equivalent of he hecho novillos, literally, “I’ve played [done] bulls,” which, of course, makes no sense whatsoever and renders the wordplay impossible in transfer. A novillo is a young bull, and the general sees himself as a most important one, one who is indeed being “fought” (estaban lidiándole).

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much less to my cousin. How is one to teach her poetry when she is poetry itself?” “Although I am very far from being poetry, my cousin was not giving me a lesson, but if he had been giving me one ..... (and here the marquise softened her tone greatly and injected a certain meek, innocent quality in her voice so as to temper the dart that she was throwing) but if he had been giving me one ......, you, General, did not disturb us. You would not have lost anything by receiving ......, by hearing the same lesson.” The general lost his sang-froid; he recognized that he was going to come out with some crassly stupid remark if he stayed there much longer and he got to his feet, furious. Unable to hide his bad mood any further, he said as he was taking his leave: “I detest poetry, Marquise; I’m all prose. And since I do not wish to receive poetic lessons nor interrupt the ones that your cousin here gives you, I think it best to make myself invisible. At your service.” Don Faustino rose from his seat in order to bid the general a gracious farewell, bowing deferentially. “My respects,” the general said to him. “And my respects to you, General,” responded Don Faustino. “May God be with you, General,” said Costancita in a conciliatory, mellifluous tone, as if to appease somewhat the storm that she had raised. “I see that you are a bit on edge today and not a little displeased by poetry. I hope that the bad mood and displeasure won’t last, and I wish that, if you persist in detesting poetry, you would consider me and think of me as prose, so that you would continue to esteem me and love me.” When she said this Costancita languidly and gracefully put out her pretty white hand to the general, who could not help but take it. The general departed at once, recognizing deep down that the most sensible thing was to leave, sighing for the prehistoric ages or, if not them, for the barbarian centuries, and decrying what are called social conventions, which had not permitted him to let off steam, nor to give Costancita a piece of his mind in his brusque way of speaking. Neither did those conventions allow him to break over the doctor’s head half of the objects and trinkets in that boudoir, which then truly deserved its name, in accordance with etymology. Naturally, and Costancita understood this better than anyone, the general, for as much as he might wish to avenge himself, was not about to give in and provoke a quarrel with the poor little fourteen-thousand-reales-a-year employee, nor much less was he about to divulge what had occurred for it to become the talk of Madrid, making known that Costancita had scorned him and put him in his place for such a nobody of a person, which was how the general secretly characterized Don Faustino.



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No sooner did she hear that the general had exited her house than Costancita reverted to her early youth and the openness and naturalness of Andalusia; she completely forgot her role as a great señora; she became once again the carefree, mischievous girl; and she gave free rein to her laughter, which till that point she had held back with the brake of circumspection, and which she then let loose in peals. The doctor continued playing a supporting role in that jocose duo, and he too burst into hearty laughter. Afterwards, they both turned, the movement involuntary, and fixed their eyes on each other, staring with great seriousness. The look became a series of mutual queries, instinctive and silent while at the same time eloquent, since they could not and should not have been expressed in words. The interrogation, nevertheless, was clear, obvious in the eyes of both Costancita and Faustino, as if they had committed it to writing. It listed, among others, the following questions: To what extent should we believe what the general has undoubtedly believed about us? What was said in jest and what in truth in what we have done to shoo him away? In short, do we love each other? And if we do, how do we love each other? The answer that both gave to the wordless questioning was to drop their eyes and blush even more than when the general had entered the room. There were three or four minutes, long like hours, of very dangerous silence. The doctor’s chair was still positioned very close to the settee on which Costancita sat. Almost automatically, the doctor again took her hand in his. She again left it there. The doctor again smothered it with kisses, but these kisses, after the questioning, had another significance, another import. Costancita suddenly withdrew her hand and said, with neither pronounced distress nor vehemence of any kind, but with dignified firmness and all the grave coolness that it was possible for her to affect: “Leave, Faustino. Leave and let’s be good friends.” The Let’s be good friends rang in the doctor’s ears like a vague, uncertain sound midway between an entreaty and a command, but the meaning of the phrase had been made crystal-clear in her manner of articulating it. It was a prohibition, it was a limitation, and not a provocation; it amounted to saying: Let’s only be good friends. The doctor was sufficiently serious and sensitive to grasp all the gravity of those words of his cousin’s.

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He stood, took his hat, and said: “Good-bye, cousin.” He had already turned around, he was already near the door, and he was about to leave when he looked back. Costancita was silent. The doctor approached her and, in a tone that was resigned, humble, and grateful at the same time, repeated: “Let’s be good friends.” When he spoke these words he extended his hand to his cousin as a sign and a pledge of that pure friendship. Costancita held out her hand, so white, so soft, so well shaped. The doctor could not help but kiss it once more with a chaste, holy respect, but Costancita must have perceived an impassioned and cruelly suppressed ardor beneath those loving lips. Then, as if he counteracted and overcame an invincible force that had detained him against his will, the doctor somewhat hastily left the room. From that day on the general did not turn up again at the marquise of Guadalbarbo’s house except on the days when she received visitors and on the nights when there was a tertulia. He lifted the siege of the fortress; he told no one the reason; he had the good sense not to be very cross; and he once again went and consoled himself with Rosita, in whom he found easy and prompt forgiveness for his erring ways. The doctor, for his part, did not persist in playing hooky from the office nor in coming to see the marquise in the morning, but he did continue to frequent the tertulia and eat once a week at her table. That love affair, half resumed by both after a hiatus of seventeen years, needed to be confined and limited to a pure, platonic, sublime sentiment out of respect for the generous marquis, who loved them so much, him as his cousin and friend, her as his wife. Costancita saw it this way. The doctor saw it this way too. Without confiding these thoughts to each other, without reaching an agreement about anything, it could be said that they had understood each other. Both recognized the danger of seeing each other alone. Both avoided it. But seeing each other in the marquis’s presence, perhaps speaking a few words to each other in an aside when the company of guests permitted, looking at each other, esteeming each other more and more ..... even on account of this heroic sacrifice and on account of this noble behavior, Costancita’s affection ended up turning into adoration of her cousin, and the doctor’s adoration of Costanza became more fervent and blind. More than a month passed in this way, and it was no small miracle that the doctor and Costancita did not once find themselves alone. Finally, though, what was bound to happen, happened. There is no reason to blame fate or the devil or anyone or anything. What was more natural than that a cousin, who entered that house with such familiarity, should one night find the marquise



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alone? The marquise was somewhat indisposed with an attack of nerves and had declined to receive. The servants understood that the order did not apply to such a beloved cousin, and showed the doctor into the boudoir already known to our readers. The marquis had gone out. It was eleven o’clock at night. It is well known that in Madrid people stay up late and receive visitors until a very late hour. Despite the warmth of the season, the balcony was closed, so the solitude was complete and secure. From the adjacent antechamber, whose connecting door stood ajar, a sweet, fresh little breeze wafted in, because there the balcony overlooking the garden was wide open. Costancita lounged in the same place as the day that both had made the general stew in his own juice. Owing to her indisposition, she had not changed to eat and wore a morning dress, as simple as it was elegant. Her beautiful unbrushed hair made her look prettier and more interesting, and showed that she had been lying down and had just gotten up to be seated in order to receive the doctor. These casual circumstances helped to make the conversation more friendly and more intimate. They talked about everything, but without meaning to, both of them trying to avoid it, they ended up talking about themselves. Costancita occasioned the change by unintentionally lamenting the doctor’s scant progress and advancement in career and fortune. “What do you expect?” said Don Faustino. “I epitomize the proverb that says ‘Don’t bite off more than you can chew.’ There is no ambition that I haven’t had. That’s why I haven’t seen a single one satisfied. My spirit has wandered, it has been led astray by every conceivable object, not with the steady, straight flight of an eagle, but with the hesitant, uncertain fluttering of a starling. My shrunken will has been unable to pursue anything with vigor. Do not be surprised that I have made little progress. I’m missing the two most powerful drives: love and faith in something outside of myself.” “Don’t you love, don’t you believe in anything? Good God, how terrible!” “I speak of things in this life.” “Thank goodness, but that’s still dreadful. So you don’t love anybody?” “I’ve wanted to love, I have loved, but disdain has killed love. Several days ago I felt in my soul something like a glorious resurrection of love. Will disdain kill it again?” “If you really do love, as I believe,” responded Costancita, speaking very deliberately and as if she found it hard and embarrassing to talk, and as if she were measuring and weighing her words so as not to say too much, and nevertheless saying it, unable to avoid saying it, “if you really do love, who can disdain you? The poet has said it:

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Amor, ch’a nullo amato amar perdona.6 Besides, when the person who loves is worth what you are worth, that love must be powerful, incontrovertible like death.” “The poet spoke a falsehood,” said Don Faustino, “or if his dictum is a true rule, I am the exception to the rule. Costanza, remember, I loved you once upon a time and you did not love me. Now I love you more. Do you love me?” The marquise regretted her words and was filled with consternation when she heard the ones spoken by her cousin and noted the fervor with which he uttered them. She felt that a magnetic force, a power of attraction superior to everything, was propelling her toward her cousin, but the criminal, the contemptible, the despicably ungrateful deception of the marquis of Guadalbarbo did not elude her; on the contrary, it was already rearing its head in her afflicted conscience like a pang of remorse. “Faustino,” she said in a sad, submissive tone, “I did a bad thing, I did a wicked thing, I acted like a wretch not loving you then. Don’t demand of me that I be more wretched and more wicked by loving you now.” “I demand nothing, Costanza. Love cannot be imposed. If not loving me depends on you, don’t love me. I love you. I’m dying of love for you.” The doctor dropped to his knees at the marquise’s feet. “Get up, calm yourself! Good Lord! My God! What madness! Somebody could come!” “Love me!” “Have mercy. Leave me. Leave this house. What is to become of us, good heavens!” “Love me, Costanza.” “Oh, yes ..... I love you!” The doctor wrapped his arms around the marquise’s body in a feverish embrace, and Costanza, compliant and faint, yielded to him. Their lips joined. Suddenly she let out a muffled scream, and, placing both her hands on the doctor’s chest, forcefully pushed Faustino away. “I’m lost!” she exclaimed in a voice so muted and so intense that the doctor could only guess her words rather than hear them. The impetuous, sincere passion had isolated both from the outside world; it had made them incautious, improvident, imprudent in the extreme, utterly mad. They had not heard the marquis of Guadalbarbo arrive. The marquis had just entered the boudoir. 6. Love, which absolves no loved one from loving. See Charles Eliot Norton’s translation of Canto 5:103 of Dante’s Inferno.



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The doctor and the marquise recovered and adopted the appropriate attitude. But what moral turmoil in the mind of the one and the other! What consternation and what shame flushed their faces! On the other hand, the marquis displayed on his the same serenity, the same satisfaction as always. Had the devil perhaps worked a miracle? Had he perhaps draped a cloud over the eyes of the marquis so that he would see nothing? Hope is the final consolation of the most lacerated heart, and Costanza, upon seeing how calm her husband was, did not lose hope. “My dear, my darling child,” said the marquis, speaking to his wife with the same language as always, which expressed his love for her as well as the difference in age. “Are you feeling better? You had me concerned and I wanted to stop by the house before going to the Ministry of the Treasury. I want to know how you are before I leave again ....... Hello, Faustino. So you’re here?” And the marquis shook the doctor’s hand, a hand that the doctor gave him shamefaced and almost convulsively. The marquise said, stammering, getting tongue-tied as if she had a lump in her throat: “I’m a lot better.” Don Faustino, terrified, said nothing. Either the marquis had seen nothing or he had wanted to see nothing or he took pity on the torment, on the fear, on the humiliating depression of those poor devils. He said that the minister of the Treasury was awaiting him and went back out. Don Faustino and Costancita were left alone again. Both, although passionate, came nowhere near to being perverted. Their terror, as a consequence, was not because of the risk that they had just run; it was because of the cognizance of their sin. That embrace and that kiss had been an infamous theft. The honor, the love, the generous trust of the father of her children had all been trampled by the marquise. The doctor had betrayed the loyal friend, the one who loved and esteemed him the most; he had attempted to rob him of his most valuable treasure. Upon being surprised, the cowardice of both delinquents had been painted on their faces, had been revealed in their gestures. Both had glanced at each other and were ashamed of having glanced at each other. This feeling of their joint unworthiness and humiliation in the presence of the marquis had more of an effect then than every apprehension, than the yearning to take precautions for the future, or to remedy, if it was possible, the harm already caused. They scarcely had words with which to talk to and understand each other. They remained silent for a long while. “Go now. Go. I’m lost!” she said at length.

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“Who knows?” the doctor dared to respond. “Maybe he didn’t see anything. For sure ..... he didn’t see anything. Heaven has protected us.” “What horrible blasphemy! Hell ..... perhaps.” “Let it be hell, and just at the right time, so long as you don’t suffer.” “Faustino, go, leave me. You’re inflicting pain on my very soul,” said the marquise, filled with grief and anguish. The doctor took his hat, and silently, slowly, crestfallen, and pensive, left the boudoir and exited the house. Sad thoughts and bizarre measures swirled in his head as he mechanically walked the streets of his customary route to the boardinghouse. “Do you suppose the marquis knows?” he wondered. “It’s impossible that he didn’t see everything. What could he do except pretend or kill us on the spot? That’s why he pretended ..... but to what end? Will he take revenge on her? I should prevent that. I should defend her.” Then, even more downcast, the doctor changed the course of his monologue and said to himself: “I’m a blackguard of the worst kind and stripe. I want for love, for sufficient drive to be virtuous, to do nothing that cannot be supported and defended openly and with a clear conscience, even in the presence of God himself, and I lack determination, but I possess an abundance of foolishness, clumsiness, and weakness of spirit in order to commit a crime cleverly, in order to be skillful and unruffled and courageous in sin. This enervation of my character makes me unhappy and causes me to make all the people I’ve loved unhappy.” Thus was the doctor musing when, as he turned a corner, a man approached him. He recognized instantly the marquis of Guadalbarbo. “I’ve been waiting for you. Follow me,” the marquis said to him. The doctor followed him without responding. At a short distance from there they came upon the marquis’s coach. “Get in,” Guadalbarbo said to the doctor, and the doctor got in the coach. The marquis himself then got in and sat next to him, saying to the footman: “To the villa!” The horses trotted off and the coach began to roll swiftly. There was profound silence between the two travelers. The doctor had realized that the marquis knew everything and considered it his duty to give him the satisfaction that he wanted. For an instant the doctor wondered whether the marquis would want to kill him, but he thought that, although he was within his rights, such could not be his intention. The doctor blushed all over at the mere thought of asking the marquis: “What do



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you want? What do you intend to do with me?” So he held his tongue and let himself be taken to the villa without saying a word. They arrived at the villa, which was a mile and a half distant from Madrid. They went inside and the marquis had lights brought into a room on the ground floor that he used as a study. When the only servant there withdrew, he and Don Faustino entered it alone. The marquis opened a cabinet, removed a box from it, and from the box a pair of pistols that he set on the desk. Then he broke the silence, speaking to Don Faustino, and said with the same calm that he would say “Good evening”: “You are a thief whom I can kill like a dog. You have robbed me of what I loved the most; you have abused my trust; you have betrayed my friendship. Nevertheless, I want to kill you face to face and with identical weapons. What I do not want is for anybody to find out that I am the one who killed you. That would be publicizing my dishonor, that of my wife, and that of my children. It is essential that we dispense with the witnesses and requirements of a duel. My servants will take care not to say anything, if they even become aware of anything. The footman and the villa caretaker are two Englishmen, both very discreet and very faithful, who have been in my service for years. Take one of pistols; I’ll take the other.” The doctor instinctively took one of the pistols when he saw that the marquis was about to take one too. Their becoming armed, then, was nearly simultaneous. The doctor did not know what to say and so said nothing. “Now,” continued the marquis, “you’ll come with me,” and he opened a door that gave onto the gardens. Everything was deserted, and bathed in moonlight. Before they went out, the marquis added: “I’m going to take you some distance from here, because the gardens cover a lot of ground. This way the servants might not hear the shots. When we reach a convenient site, we’ll step off thirty paces, which I will measure. Then we’ll cock our pistols. When I say Now, we’ll begin walking toward each other. Each one will be able to fire whenever he pleases. If you have a good aim, you can go ahead and shoot. If you don’t trust your marksmanship, wait until you can put the mouth of the pistol to my chest or to a temple.” Having finished this short speech, the marquis set off, followed by Don Faustino. They passed through a beautiful woodland and, at length, came to a level, treeless site next to the very adobe walls that surrounded the property. Don Faustino wanted to talk then, but as he did not consider it seemly to excuse himself, nor fitting to brag and boast about the offense he had perpetrated, he limited himself to saying:

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“Costanza is innocent.” “I know,” responded the marquis. “That’s why I’m not taking revenge on her, but on you.” The marquis counted off the paces. Don Faustino went and stood at one end, the marquis at the other. “Now!” exclaimed the marquis as soon as he cocked his pistol and noted that the doctor had also cocked his. Each one began to step toward the other. The marquis had a reputation as a good marksman, and he had confidence in his aim. For that reason, although he was the injured party, he felt remorse at taking unfair advantage if he fired immediately. They had covered half the distance that separated them. They were perhaps fourteen or fifteen paces away from each other. Don Faustino continued walking without firing. The instinct of self-preservation and fear that his revenge could be frustrated stirred in the marquis’s breast. He realized that his heart was pounding violently and that his erratic pulse was causing his right hand to shake lightly. He could not hold back any longer. He fired. He saw at once a sudden hesitation in Don Faustino, but it passed right away, and Don Faustino continued advancing steadily, with his pistol cocked and aimed at his adversary. The marquis could not understand his inaccurate aim, but he was almost certain that he had not hit the doctor. Desperation and depression sprang up in the depths of his being. His duty, nonetheless, was to keep pacing toward the person in whose hands his life now rested in the balance. The doctor soon stood before the marquis. On his face, illuminated by the moon, there was a profound and beautiful expression of melancholy, but at that moment that face was terrible, dreadful for the marquis. Don Faustino held the muzzle of his pistol almost against the marquis’s chest and stared at him. It was a question of an instant, although to the marquis that instant seemed like a century. The philosopher had to pass all his philosophies in review in a trice. He had submitted, he had resigned himself to a duel to the death because there had been no natural, decent, decorous means of not acquiescing to it. But having fulfilled what he considered a strange and distressful obligation imposed by society, and occasioned by a kiss and a tight embrace, a kiss and an embrace given with so few precautions, what would Don Faustino gain by killing that poor man whom he had made so awfully miserable? Perhaps, the doctor further imagined, the marquis had not taken him there out of bitterness or rage, but to fulfill a duty on which he presumed his honor depended. With all of it fulfilled now, with all of it accomplished now, to shorten the life



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of that man, to kill him there, would have been a futile act of barbarity. On the other hand, although by the use of reason the doctor knew how little life is worth, he respected it on account of an overpowering feeling: making an attempt on anybody’s seemed to him the most egregious of offenses, it seemed to him one of those sins of which he could never absolve himself. The doctor tossed the pistol to the side, and it fired harmlessly upon hitting the ground. Then the doctor exclaimed: “Oh, dear God!” And he fell down on his back, as if in a faint. The marquis rushed to raise him up, and when he put his hands on his body he realized that Don Faustino was covered with blood. “My bullet did hit him! He’s hurt! The wound may be mortal! It’s his chest! Damn!” While uttering these exclamations in a voice choked with emotion, the marquis did not know whom to curse, did not know whom to blame for everything. He, who a half minute before was in despair at not having wounded or killed Don Faustino, was now in despair at having wounded him. He, who previously had taken pleasure in the mystery of that incident, forgot the mystery and began to shout, calling out to his servants for help. Since they did not hear him, he ran toward the house, shouting like a madman: “Pedro! Tomás! Quick ..... come here!” Finally, the servants came. Don Faustino had taken a bullet in the chest; it had gone in at an angle, exiting through his back. With the help of his servants, the marquis applied bandages to stem the bleeding and then took the doctor in his coach, as fast as the horses could gallop, from the villa to the boardinghouse where he lived. The marquis summoned a doctor in whom he had complete trust. The man examined the wound and said that most likely it was not dangerous, that most likely it was not mortal; that the bullet had entered on the right; that it had passed through sideways; and that in all likelihood it had not penetrated the lung nor severed any important vessel. The loss of blood had been very great, but this very loss, although it weakened the patient, could, on the other hand, serve to stave off greater inflammation and a higher fever. The marquis of Guadalbarbo, earnestly entrusting the patient’s welfare to the doctor and the landlady of the boardinghouse, then withdrew to his home, with the expectation that Don Faustino would soon recover. As the reader will recall, the marquis told the doctor that he believed Costancita to be innocent, but he said that out of pride. He was not blind, and

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he had seen perfectly well what had happened. When he dueled with the doctor, he believed his wife to be as guilty as the doctor himself. Unfortunately or fortunately, there are inexplicable instances in the bosom of a home. In the deepest and most sacred part of any given one, there are occurrences, there are psychological phenomena that no wise man can explain, that no poet can describe with all their curious and indescribable details. At all events, from the soul-searching and long talk that the marquis had with Costancita that night, Costancita emerged—for him, in his conception—as pure, as innocent, as faultless as before. Little by little the marquis’s recollections were changed and modified, and the impressions of his bewildered senses suffered due rectification and reasonable correction. It seemed to him that the embrace had been less fervent, very much less loving, and disproportionately much more respectful. Costancita’s attitude became transformed in the marquis’s memory, and he saw her as resistant instead of seeing her as compliant in Don Faustino’s arms, and as a victim instead of seeing her as an accomplice. The doctor’s lips, in the same tableau or picture of the marquis’s memory, rose inch by inch from Costancita’s mouth, where they were before, until barely brushing her brow, where they very nearly did not feel the warmth and velvety smoothness of her fair skin, but the cool and lifeless sensation of a few curly hairs that practically covered or veiled it. The very fact of having surprised the two of them proved that it had all been done impulsively, with an absence of malice. Surely husbands never surprise their ..... and the marquis rattled off a string of proper names of pretty ladies, and he felt a degree of satisfaction upon considering the difference that fate had decreed between him and those other husbands. To some extent he also forgave the doctor, to whose generosity he was infinitely indebted. “What the deuce!” he said to himself. “She’s so good-looking ..... so seductive without meaning to be! And the poor man, who was to have married her, is so down-and-out!” With the incident having been reduced to near insignificance, the marquis sought motives that were plausible to a certain point. The close kinship, the poetic recollections of early youth, a slight compensation for the cruel rejection, received seventeen years ago ....... Then he thought about consequences for the future, assuming that the doctor’s life would be saved as he wished, and everything turned into a mystical adoration, into a sublime idolatry, into an archspiritual Petrarchism. Then the marquis felt admiration for his wife’s integrity, and for her virtue and constancy. He reviewed all the worshipers that he had known her to have and he found a dozen who were very handsome, elegant, refined, highly desirable ..... and he almost shed tears of joy and gratitude upon reflecting that she had disdained them all for his love, making him one of the men most worthy of envy



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on this vast globe that we inhabit. Seventeen years of fidelity, of bombproof virtue, were a guarantee of the most solid kind. Finally, the marquis thought about his children, whom he loved dearly, and it gladdened him to be able to grant absolution and blessing to the beautiful creature who had given them to him, having first carried them in her womb. He exaggerated, he pondered Costancita’s vehemence and delicacy, and he regretted having been so brutal. He shook like a leaf upon considering that she could fall sick on account of the vexations he had just caused her. He recalled the care, the solicitude, the gratifying sweetness with which Costancita always charmed and delighted him. How was he going to break with her? How was he going to deprive himself of so much good? The marquis would die of sorrow. As for Costancita, who was so honorable, so prideful, so noble, she would die of shame. And why not of sorrow, like him? Because Costancita loved him! Yes, he was getting on in years and looking old, but the soul doesn’t age, and women in general, and Costancita very much in particular, are a thousand times more spiritual than men in this business of love. By means of the foregoing and other similar rationalizations, the marquis’s anger bit by bit turned into blandness and indulgence. The forgiveness that was given was succeeded by other rationalizations still more loving and tender, and the forgiveness that was given was then transformed into forgiveness that was asked. Costancita was magnanimous. In the end she forgave the marquis for the fact that he had doubted her, and, after giving her forgiveness, that goddess of chastity, beauty, and elegance once more climbed up, majestically, onto her golden pedestal. The marquis was again as content, happy, and satisfied as before. Don Faustino was the only one who paid his share for that performance, the only host sacrificed on the altar of Hymen in order to make this god of marriage more well disposed and to keep him from upsetting the complete happiness of that wealthy, illustrious, and aristocratic family.

[ 30 ] A S ad M arriage

Since the d oc tor was not a political figure, nor a famous, popular poet, inasmuch as his grand epic was yet to be written, nor a renowned philosopher, because his system was always being formulated, few people in Madrid knew him; in fine, he was not a man about town. The incident, moreover, had taken place with considerable circumspection. Thus it was that no newspaper, not even La Correspondencia, wrote of it. The involved parties had an interest in keeping it quiet, and they did so. The few casual or less than casual friends at the office and in society who esteemed or cared somewhat for Don Faustino came to ask about his health, and since they were informed that the doctor was seriously ill and could not be seen, they were contented with that and went on their way. The landlady, who was fond of the doctor because he treated her kindly, although she was old and ugly, attended him with the greatest solicitude. The physician also went to great trouble because the splendid marquis of Guadalbarbo, his patron, wanted the patient to receive the very best care. Shortly after Don Faustino arrived at the boardinghouse and took to his bed, a fever set in, but not such an elevated one that he became delirious. Throughout all the first day following the duel, the doctor was in full possession of his mental faculties. The marquis of Guadalbarbo came twice to visit him and was much consoled by the physician’s news and prognosis, which were favorable.

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Finally, on the evening of that same day, Don Faustino had a very strange visit. Although the physician had strictly forbidden anyone to go in and see the patient, the landlady could not resist the entreaties, and perhaps the generous monetary gift, of a lovely woman who insisted on seeing Don Faustino, to whom, she assured the landlady, she had things of great moment to pass on. “Señor don Faustino,” said the landlady, entering his room. “There is a señora who wishes to see you. Will conversation do you harm? Shall I tell her to come in?” “Who is it?” asked the doctor, worked up, thinking that Costancita was coming to see him. “She looks French,” answered the landlady, which confirmed for Don Faustino that it was Costancita. “Did she give her name?” the doctor asked again. “Yes, Señor. Her name is Doña Etelvina ..... something or other. You know, a foreign last name.” Such a novelesque first name and such an unpronounceable last name made the doctor doubt that the visitor would be Costancita, but, who knows? He thought to himself: “Would Costancita give her real name to this woman?” This natural response brought renewed hope that it might be Costancita. “Tell that señora to come on in,” the doctor finally said. Doña Etelvina wasted no time in doing so. She brought with her an exquisite fragrance, the scent of opopanax, which back then was the most chic perfume, the one of the greatest nouveauté that The Crown Perfumery Company,1 of London, distilled in its factory. Her dress, her little hat, her movements, her manners ..... all of it was, or aspired to be, distinguished. It could be said that the latest fashion plate in Elegant Fashions Illustrated had taken on human dimensions, had acquired life by magic, and had come there on a visit. Doña Etelvina’s face seemed to be pretty and pleasing despite or on account of the carmine and cascarilla makeup artistically applied all over it. At the edge of her eyelids she had painted black lines that highlighted her soft, beautiful eyes, making their almond shape more pronounced. The doctor looked hard at Doña Etelvina and did not recognize her. Noting his puzzlement, she said with a friendly self-confidence when the landlady left and they were alone: “How you’ve forgotten your friends, Señor don Faustino! Don’t you remember me?” “Forgive me, Señora, but ..... honestly ..... I do not remember.” 1. In English in the original.

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“I’m the marquise of Guadalbarbo’s old maid. Now do you remember Manolilla?” “Oh, yes ......!” “I’ve taken the name Etelvina because Manolilla was so common and ordinary. I served the marquise for many years, and then I married Monsieur Mercier, her chef and a prominent chemist. Then I became a widow, and with my savings and those of my late husband (May he rest in peace), I left the marquise’s service and opened a clothes shop. It’s clear that Señor don Faustino is a philosopher who does not concern himself with these matters of the latest fashions. Otherwise, how could you not know who the famous Etelvina Mercier, or simply Etelvina, is? In aristocratic circles no one is more well known than I am. I’m all the rage. I am very recherchée.” “I’m glad, truly glad. And what brings you here?” “I come on behalf of my señora. She can’t come. She would be compromising herself too much,” said Etelvina or Manolilla in a low voice. The doctor said nothing and sighed. Doña Etelvina went on: “I have a letter here for you. Can you read it without getting tired?” “Yes,” answered the doctor. Manolilla handed over the letter, brought a candle close, and the doctor read what follows: Faustino! I know all about your generosity. How much I have to thank you for! The life of my children’s father, my position in the world, my honor ..... I owe all of it to you. Without your generosity I would be a widow and dishonored, because the incident and the causes of the incident, both of which it is to be hoped will now remain a mystery, would then have been divulged, maligning me and maligning the name that my children bear. If I loved you before, I love you more today. Although my husband has told me not to be worried, I am, and I’m sending Manolilla—the only person that I trust—so that she can bring me definite news about you. It’s impossible for me to go myself. It’s important to dispel any suspicions. I am managing to do that, but such a risky step might undo my work. It’s not out of selfishness that I am trying to quell the marquis’s fears; it’s out of gratitude. I owe him so much, he is so good, so happy with my love, I would make him so miserable if I caused him to doubt it, that the very kindness of my heart urges me to conceal my true motives. May God forgive me. To do so, it’s essential, since we do love each other, that this love be more cautious, more mysterious, more restrained than till now, and that it be of such a nature that neither you nor I have to be ashamed of this love, not even before the hidden and strict tribunal of our conscience. Let us love each other with the pure love of angels. Prompted by it, I am writing to you



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because I know your noble sentiments, and I expect that you are uneasy on my behalf, and I want to reassure you. God grant that my letter be a balm for your wound. And may God, who sees the purity of my intentions, restore you soon to full health, as I have so fervently asked. Your loving cousin, Costanza

To be sure, the letter did reassure the doctor, who, in addition to the physical pain that his wound caused him, felt the distress of having given grounds for a divorce. He was at a loss to understand; it seemed to him a wonder that Costancita had dispelled what she called suspicions. “Suspicions, my foot!” thought the doctor. “Why, he saw us, and as a result of having seen us he put a bullet in me.” Here we must confess that the doctor had a second thought as well, a bitter, selfish one. Although he was a kind sort, in the end he was made of flesh and blood like all mortals. The thought was: “Truly, I am the most unlucky man on the face of the Earth. Costancita persuades her husband to swallow anything and then gets him to believe the unbelievable and to deny the testimony of his own senses, but this gullibility and denial arrive too late for me. They arrive when I am wounded!” When thinking these thoughts, the doctor sighed with a great deal of sadness. However, the resultant bitterness was soon allayed. The doctor was weak, but he was a kind soul. Although he had little faith, he had charity aplenty. The news that Costancita had worked everything out with her husband was a consolation to him. As for the pure love of angels that she was offering him, this too was a source of pleasure. For a gravely wounded man who has lost a lot of blood, is feverish, and has terrible pain, it’s always an excellent lenitive to love and be loved with the pure love of angels. Doña Etelvina was a reliable daughter of Eve, experienced and prudent. But like all common women who, going from a backward country like ours, spend a few years in Paris or in London, or in both, Doña Etelvina had become insufferable as a relentless denigrator of her native land, which she considered a land of barbarians, and out of sheer fanaticism and admiration for English and French excellence and refinement. Almost everything about our customs struck her as shocking2 and crude. Our language fell short to causer and to express esprit. Even about love one spoke better and more elegantly in French or in English than in Spanish. I love you,3 Je vous aime were 2. In English in the original. 3. In English in the original.

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delightful, charming expressions, while ¡Te amo! or ¡La amo a usted!4 betrayed an emphasis, a pomposity, an intolerable ostentation. Doña Etelvina had acquired a disproportionate regard for material well-being and the means by which to obtain it, so she made Monsieur Mercier pilfer four times more after marriage than he did before. Lastly, seeing herself so steeped and so competent in matters pertaining to “fashion” and “dandyism,” she had an idea that caused her the utmost torment. She imagined that she could have and should have married some count, or, at the very least, some young gentleman of standing, and that she had made a true mésalliance by marrying a chef. She cursed all the people she remembered as having advised her to marry, maintaining that they had caused her to déchoir, that they had brought about the misfortune of her life. When she married she was so naive, as she said more than once, that she didn’t know what marriage really was, and for that reason she married a man who was twice her age. She hated lies, a vice typical of corrupt peoples like the Spanish, and because she hated lies she would say with brutal frankness to the hapless Monsieur Mercier that she detested him, that she was embarrassed by him, and that she dreamed about a young gentleman, which was what suited her. Monsieur Mercier, so as not to give his sweet wife a beating, resorted to the expedient of dying and passed to a better life. Free of that monster, Doña Etelvina became a modiste while she awaited the opportunity to marry a count and become a countess. Notwithstanding her perverse qualities, Doña Etelvina adored Costancita. The frankness method, so useful with Monsieur Mercier, would not work with the marquis of Guadalbarbo, with respect to whom a certain cunning was imperative. So Doña Etelvina calculated, rapidly and coolly, that that letter could compromise her mistress, that the doctor could die, and that people could find that letter among his papers. Without mortifying the doctor, and availing herself of remarkable tact and discretion, she removed the marquise’s letter from the doctor’s hands, and then and there tore it into little pieces. Shortly afterward she very politely and warmly said good-bye to the doctor and made herself scarce. So that Costancita would not suffer needless grief, she went to see her without delay, gave her an account of the fulfillment of her mission, and assured her that her cousin would be hale and hearty before long. The atmosphere was still redolent of the opopanax perfume when the physician came and again entered the patient’s room. “Señora doña Candelaria,” he said to the landlady, “what stink is this? 4. Both mean “I love you,” but the former is the familiar you (te) and the latter is the formal (la).



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What on earth does this room reek of? Who’s been here? Are you people going to kill this poor devil?” Doña Candelaria, pressed by the physician, made a full confession and told of Doña Etelvina’s visit, for as much as the doctor was gesturing to her to keep quiet. The physician, who knew all the secrets of the haute-monde, instantly understood the significance and reason for that visit. “All right,” he said. “From now on it is essential that nobody come in here, with or without perfume. The patient, for his speedy recovery, should not talk to anyone and should not receive visits.” Doctor Calvo, which was the physician’s name, was the exact opposite of Doctor Faustino in two or three fundamental respects. Doctor Calvo had no illusions of any kind: he was a practical, prosaic spirit. On the other hand, he resembled the other doctor in that he had no beliefs and was a kindly soul despite the lack of faith. Doctor Faustino inspired him with intense sympathy. Doctor Calvo easily guessed the cause of the incident and the wound, and kept it to himself for his own guidance. He figured that the marquis of Guadalbarbo, already reconciled with his wife, his jealousy dispelled, would consider it a misfortune, or at least an inconvenience, something that disturbed his peace of mind and his good life, should Don Faustino by chance die. Since there was no point in weighing him down with this fear and this premature concern, he hid from the marquis the gravity of Don Faustino’s wound. Doctor Calvo also reckoned that neither the Guadalbarbos nor Doña Etelvina would care for the patient, for as much as they might take an interest in him, that the landlady herself, Doña Candelaria, would grow tired and would have to leave him to attend to the other boarders, and that Don Faustino was in danger of dying more forsaken than a dog in the street. This consideration led him to ask Doña Candelaria whether she knew what friends and relatives Don Faustino had. “Friends here, in Madrid ......,” said Doña Candelaria, “he has very few. None, really, that could be called such. What do you expect? He’s poor to be living among the people with whom he lives. If he had become more friendly with the clerks, his companions, maybe he would have friends. So he has none ....... As for relatives ......, he’s a very aristocratic gentleman, although practically penniless. There are three or four señores and señoras of the nobility here who are his relatives, but I’m going to go out on a limb and say that the relationship hasn’t done him any good. Don Faustino is alone in the world; he has no father, no mother, no brothers, no sisters. And since he’s so poor, we can surely apply to him lines of verse that I expect you know.” “What lines, Señora?” “These:

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He who has no money With the air is compared: So all flee from his presence Lest by a cold they be scared.” Convinced that the lines could be applied to Don Faustino, Doctor Calvo asked Doña Candelaria whether she knew if that gentleman had some closely related person back in Andalusia who might come to his aid. Doña Candelaria said then that she had heard him talk a lot about the administrator of some property that he owned in Villabermeja, a man by the name of Respetilla, and about a priest in the same town, named Father Piñón. Doctor Calvo realized that Respetilla was a nickname and did not think it wise to address a telegram to Señor Respetilla, in Villabermeja. The other name struck him as less odd and suspect, and that very night he sent a telegram to Reverend Father Piñón, in Villabermeja, province of __________, alerting him to the fact that Don Faustino López de Mendoza was dangerously ill. Doctor Calvo had not been mistaken. Starting that night Don Faustino’s fever rose. When, the next day, it abated somewhat, a marked weakness and bewilderment blunted his senses and his mind. The idea of duration, the perception of time on the move and of exterior objects, and consciousness of his own self and its successive states, began to be confused and hazy in the patient’s spirit. Each night the rise in temperature was greater. “What’s your prognosis for the patient?” Doña Candelaria would ask Doctor Calvo with interest. “Why keep it from you, Señora?” he would answer. “He is gravely ill.” “Will he live?” “How should I know!” “How long can we be in the dark like this?” “Perhaps more than twenty days. The inflammation has already produced the traumatic fever, and in addition it has attacked a certain membrane that surrounds the lungs, which, fortunately, I believe is not punctured. I repeat that this sickness, with his life in danger, can last for twenty days, even four weeks. The best thing is complete rest, complete quiet, a stringent diet, malva and violet water, drinks that have come from the drugstore, caustics—in short, everything that I’ve ordered. Doña Candelaria: you are a fine woman. Take good care of him. Let’s see if between the two of us we save this poor devil.” From that point on, whenever the doctor’s fever was not very intense, faintness and weakness kept him in a stupor. The spirit, with its independent activity, functioned in the inner recesses of his being, but with profound confusion and extraordinary turmoil.



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Gloomy thoughts, melancholy images passed through Don Faustino’s brain and inhabited his imagination. At times he saw death approaching, as if he were slipping at the edge of a chasm, as if he were plunging into a dark abyss. On the one hand, he experienced bitter delight upon having a presentiment of the peace, the calm, the annihilation that awaited him. He thought he was dissolving in a boundless sea; that he was being joined to all beings with the bond of love; that war, conflict, selfishness were coming to an end. On the other hand, he felt a sharp pain upon seeing that his individuality and even his name were being erased from the book of life. He fancied that he was sinking, that he was plunging to the bottom on the ocean of existence, without leaving a trace, nor a mark, nor recollection of having passed through. All that poetic harmony of his soul, all those divine concepts that had germinated there, were going to disappear, without awakening a single echo, without opening up and manifesting themselves in the light of day. Upon falling into the dark abyss, Don Faustino saw Costancita, who was smiling benevolently at him and calling him to her, and beckoning to him with the pure love of angels spoken of in her letter. Don Faustino wanted to clutch her hand, but Costancita withdrew in terror, fearing that her lover would drag her with him in his fall. Etelvina, meanwhile, was dancing with marvelous ease, singing gay French lyrics, and poking fun at everything. The marquis of Guadalbarbo came from another direction, exclaiming: “How happy I am! Costancita loves me so much!” Don Faustino envied his happiness. Recollections of Villabermeja, of La Nava, of Rosita, of Doña Ana, of Vicenta the housekeeper came in a mad rush at other times to perturb the doctor’s mind, combining in a thousand different ways, each one as fantastic as the other. The measure that time has in the real world eluded the wounded Don Faustino’s comprehension, but now he was becoming vaguely aware that a goodly amount of it had transpired, and he thought he perceived, as reality and not as groundless fantasy, that his hand was being taken, that he was being looked at with somber expressions, and even that a few words of consolation were being spoken by Father Piñón and Respetilla. Afterwards the lethargy returned; afterwards the feverish delirium came upon him with a vengeance. The figure of the Inca lady and the image of María merged and united into one body, into one specter that came and sat at the head of the doctor’s bed, that attended him, that kissed him, and gently placed a soft, loving hand on his feverish brow. Later the doctor had a vision of greater sweetness and consolation. It was as if he saw his very soul, the pure essence of his being, which, cleansed of all blemish by grief, assumed a celestial shape of breathless beauty. It was a vir-

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gin in the early flowering of her exuberant youth. Her blue eyes looked like the Oriental sapphire of a tranquil dawn; her blond hair, like gold; her smile, like the sacred hopes of another, better life; her waist, slender and willowy, like a comely woman from paradise; and her cheeks, like roses that sprouted in another, milder climate and in a more agreeable and pleasant springtime. The doctor recognized himself in that vision, in that vivid image. All his poetic dreams, which had never acquired a suitable form with the rhythm and cadence of verse and language; all the soundness of his philosophy, free now of doubts and horrible negations; all the virtue of his will, without hesitation, without selfishness and without uncertainty ..... all of it had been condensed, had taken shape, had been determined in that superhuman specter. The virgin—now an illusion, now a reality—gazed at him with ineffable tenderness, and Don Faustino, as if she were his very soul, loved her more than himself, and all his thoughts centered on her. Don Faustino imagined that no sooner did that virgin enter his room than she scented all of it with a chaste perfume of saintliness and tranquil blessedness that brought well-being and repose, and that it was notably different from Doña Etelvina’s opopanax. Other times Don Faustino saw his good genie, his guardian angel, in that vision. A white stole covered her graceful shoulders and her virginal bosom, and from the shoulders sprouted transparent wings tinged with bright light and iridescent sparks of blue, carmine, and mother-of-pearl, like an opal. She did not walk; she glided through the atmosphere, rising from the surface. The doctor’s spirit flew until catching up with her, and it seemed that she soared to the empyrean with the doctor’s spirit, and that together they penetrated the dwelling of the blessed: an ideal wilderness, blanketed with perennial flowers, where a dulcet and always new and delightful melody played, where there wandered holy women, pious penitents, wise men of profound faith, philosophers who never grumbled, heroes, martyrs, seers, and inspired poets, who showed men the paths of virtue and real glory. Little by little, with the passage of time, Don Faustino’s mind cleared. The fog, through which the eyes of his spirit and the eyes of his body saw things, in a manner of speaking, gradually dissipated and vanished. Don Faustino’s conscience came back to him anew, and with it the intensity of the physical pain, his weakness, his miserable state. A horrible anguish took possession of his soul. He feared that he had lost those delightful fantasies only to be reduced to seeing and understanding but one frightful reality. Although his eyes were dry, they generated two tears that slowly trickled down his sunken cheeks, which were at a slight incline because he lay on his back, head raised up on two or three pillows. With indescribable joy, the



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ill Don Faustino all but discerned through those tears—next to him, with real features, in a cloudless, fogless atmosphere—the young woman about whom he had dreamed. She had his very face, but she was more than his mirror image; she was invested with ideal beauty, was radiant with youth, illuminated with saintliness, filled with innocence, and pure, immaculate splendor. Making an effort, Don Faustino then said in a weak, hoarse voice: “Who are you?” “Irene, I’m Irene,” the young woman answered in a soft voice, a voice that sounded in the patient’s soul like music from heaven. No sooner did she speak that sweet name than another woman came into the room. The doctor saw her distinctly. His head had cleared. He had regained the use of all his mental faculties. That woman was still beautiful, but her austere life devoted to mortification, her moral sufferings, and the ravages of great passions had caused her black hair to go gray and had creased her forehead with a few premature wrinkles. It was María. The doctor understood everything. “My precious child!” he exclaimed. “María! Wife!” he then added. One after the other both women bent over the bed and kissed the patient’s sunken cheeks, advising Don Faustino, for the love of God and theirs too, to stay calm. The landlady, Doña Candelaria, had been pleased as Punch for more than a week. All her old boarders, who used to pay begrudgingly or not in full and late, had left, thrown out by her, their rooms taken over by Father Piñón and Respetilla, and even more important, by the rich capitalist Don Juan Fernández de Villabermeja, together with his niece Doña María and her lovely daughter señorita Doña Irene, and a number of servants for whom there was barely room at the boardinghouse. Don Juan Fernández de Villabermeja, who afterwards was called Don Juan Fresco by everybody in the town, had adopted his niece María as his daughter. The two women had lived with him in America until a short time ago, when they had all returned to Europe and traveled through Italy, Germany, England, and France. They were in Paris when they received, from Madrid, a telegram from Father Piñón, similar to the one that Father Piñón had received from Doctor Calvo. All three of them took the train at once and came to the capital, where they lodged at the inadequate and uncomfortable boardinghouse so as to watch over and care for Don Faustino López de Mendoza. María and Irene, bubbling with excitement, went to see Uncle Juan after the doctor had recognized them and gave him the news that Don Faustino’s mind had cleared, a sure sign of his improvement. Don Juan Fresco pretended to believe in the improvement so as not to distress his niece and grand-

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niece, but in his heart he saw the recovery of mental faculties as a bad omen. When Doctor Calvo arrived, and after he had examined the patient, Don Juan Fresco spoke to him alone. Doctor Calvo said to him: “Señor don Juan, I am sorry to have to agree with you. The disappearance of the delirium is a bad sign. I have just examined Don Faustino. I fear that he has now entered the third stage of the illness, which few patients survive. His visage is more disordered and very pale; his eyes are wide open and betray fright; his pupils are dilated; his pulse is weaker and rapid; his perspiration is clammy; and his cough is cracked and dry. I’m very afraid that the recovery of his reason has been a prelude to mortal agony. On Señor don Faustino’s face we are beginning to see all the features that characterize what doctors call mors peripneumonicorum.”5 Distressed in the extreme, Don Juan Fresco had to prepare María and almost disclose to her all of the sad truth. She listened to it with profound regret, but with the devout resignation of a Christian soul that had been tempered and tested by a thousand sorrows and trials. The outlaw’s daughter, although she had become—or perhaps for the very reason that she had become—a wealthy heiress, and although she had a daughter, whom she wished to legitimize and to whom she wished to give an illustrious name, had never dared to think till then about marriage, nor had she wanted to search for her lover. She feared that the doctor, driven by ambition, carried away by pride, stirred by other passions, would tire of her as soon as he gave her his hand as a legitimate husband. Because of a fanaticism of love, she believed that her spirit and that of Don Faustino were bound by the closest of ties, like two halves of one complete existence, and if they broke the bond that they formed in the present life, she feared that they would also be condemned to an eternal divorce in the next life. Till then all this had dissuaded María from even dreaming about being the wife of Don Faustino López de Mendoza. Now she did not hesitate for an instant to give her hand to the dying doctor. She called Father Piñón and confided all her plans to him. His mind excited with the celestial appearance of his beautiful daughter, with the return and the recognition of his immortal friend, and with certain glimpses of eternity, at whose doors he himself realized that he stood, already making out the light of its ineffable mysteries, Don Faustino had faith again, felt the comforting sweetness of religious hopes again. Don Faustino became a Christian again, as when he was a child. 5. Death from pneumonia.



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Upon finding Don Faustino so well disposed, Father Piñón gave thanks to the Almighty, and heard the confession of his friend and fellow Villabermejan, absolving him of his sins. A few hours later, Don Faustino received communion with great fervor, and immediately afterward, with Don Juan Fernández de Villabermeja, Doctor Calvo, Respetilla, Doña Candelaria, and Irene acting as witnesses, Father Piñón—having obtained the indispensable permission—joined in matrimony Don Faustino and María, that sad marriage being celebrated and solemnized with the tears of all those present.

C onclusion

Fat e de creed, or rather heaven, with its inscrutable designs, decreed, in opposition to all the prognoses of science, that the life of Don Faustino should be saved. Once the mortal crisis of the inflammation of the pleura was overcome, a grave danger that had also affected the lungs, the wound healed rapidly, the damaged tissues knitting together by the body’s design. The recovery was speedy and complete. Sixteen months after the sad marriage, in the month of October of the following year, scarcely anyone remembered Don Faustino’s long and dangerous illness, his wound, and the mysterious incident in which he had received it. Then, however, Don Faustino was no longer an obscure, unknown individual, but a very prominent, illustrious personage. His wealth, or rather, that of his uncle and his wife, lent brilliance, splendor, and renown to his good qualities. A shade over forty-five years of age, Don Faustino still looked young and was a handsome, elegant man. In his head of blond hair not a single gray one was to be seen. He dressed exquisitely and neatly, and without affectation of any kind. When he rode on the Fuente de la Castellana with his lovely daughter at his side, both of them astride spirited English horses that he and she handled superbly, they excited the admiration and the applause of the people who frequented that site. The magnificent house in which he lived was open to a circle of distinguished friends and acquaintances, amongst whom Don Faustino was already beginning to gain fame as a great poet and even as a scholar. Rosita, in whom compassion upon seeing Don Faustino so humiliated had mitigated the old resentment before, felt it again

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upon now seeing Don Faustino so eminent and so fortunate; and the happiness and triumph of María la Seca, the outlaw’s daughter, her hated rival, tormented her with all-consuming envy. In the mass of people, nevertheless, sympathy and liking for the family of the capitalist Don Juan Fernández de Villabermeja outweighed envy of their well-being and affluence. Thus it was that the news, spread by Rosita, that María was the daughter of an outlaw, far from causing María harm, lent her a certain novelesque charm, as everybody marveled at her discretion, at her knowledge, at her nobility of character, and at how, from such humble beginnings, from the mire in which she had been born, she had managed to raise herself, pure and cleansed of all blemish, save that of having given herself in her youth to Don Faustino, moved by an invincible love, which no generous soul would not excuse, and much more upon seeing Irene, whose beauty, innocence, and clear intellect were a never-ending source of the greatest praise. If Irene was adored by men, she was even more esteemed by women. The absence of all coquetry ensured that she was not looked upon as a rival. Her profound religiosity, her dissatisfaction with the world, in which there was neither bitterness nor acrimony, and her love of things of the spirit, removed her from all mundane vanity and from the gallantries of ordinary love, and elevated her thoughts to heaven, from where it could be said that, upon returning to her soul, they suffused her divine face with reflections of a kind of uncreated light. Her mother María, as we have already said, still preserved her beauty, but the austerity of her customs, the memories of her sin, the thoughts that awakened in her mind the criminal life of her father and his tragic death ..... all this came together to divest her of that light affability, of that gracious cheerfulness, of that easy, pleasant manner, which are the chief delight of love, by which a wife—someone else’s or one’s own—seduces, captivates, and conquers her husband or her lover. Her love for Don Faustino was more ardent, more sublime, and stronger than ever, but it was not a love followed or surrounded by games, laughter, and humor, but a severe, metaphysical, almost ultramundane love, offspring of Venus Urania, consecrated by duty and braced by a religious bond. María’s health, moreover, had declined greatly. Although in society she tried, and managed, to be very kind and not reveal anything in her spirit or in her character that would cause surprise, in the intimacy of her family she experienced prodigious raptures and ecstasies, as if her spirit flew away from her to distant, mysterious spheres. Not even to her husband did she dare to confide her thoughts, but she implied or hinted that she imagined talking

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with spirits, that she recollected occurrences in other past existences, and that she had, when awake, something similar to the lucid intuitions of somnambulism—what’s called second sight. Gloomy premonitions troubled her heart; ill-suppressed sighs escaped involuntarily at times from her lips; and tears would oftentimes cloud her eyes all of a sudden, for no apparent reason. Despite everything, Doctor Faustino dearly loved María. And his love as a father for Irene was still more fervent, but Doctor Faustino was not happy either. In his innermost thoughts he frequently lamented not having died the day that he recognized his daughter and she told him her name. The coaches, the horses, the luxurious home, all the comfort and money that he enjoyed, were owing to the generosity of Don Juan Fresco; he had not been able to earn them with his talent, with his ability, with his knowledge, and with his work. This shamed him and confused him. The terrible question, What am I good for? plagued him continually, and yet more the terrible answer, I’m not good for anything. His ambition, still passionate and less satisfied than ever, was an incessant torment for him. There was still time to satisfy it. Now, without having to be concerned about pecuniary difficulties, with enough money, he could compose poetry, philosophize, write, become involved in political affairs, and get himself elected a member of parliament. Nevertheless, the doctor was afraid to undertake any of those pursuits. If it went badly for him, he couldn’t blame his failure on a lack of resources, and the disillusionment would be more cruel and more harsh. Religious faith—which at the lowest ebb of his illness, at the critical period, when he almost had one foot in the grave, had served to console him—had again parted from his soul. The doctor doubted anew, doubted very much and denied even more; he imagined that that return to the old beliefs had been the effect of his weakness and his prostration; perhaps it resulted from the long diet, from the violent fever. In the meantime, while his intellect, his reasoning, and his dialectic doubted or denied, his affective soul and his fantasy as a poet continued to present him with a thousand systems, doctrines, or theories that made him uneasy with the desire or the fear that they might become real. Already in the center of his being he believed that he was glimpsing the infinite, the divine, the absolute for which he thirsted, and it seemed to him that the divine was diffused throughout the very core of the entire universe, to which it lent its life and its harmony. In short, the doctor was now a mystic, now a theosophist, although in embryo and without making up his mind. His ratiocinations induced him to lament or to mock his wife’s hallucina-



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tions with respect to spirits and past existences; and nonetheless, even those very beliefs that he scorned destroyed his peace of mind. In dreams, dozing at times, fully awake at times, when his nerves were overexcited, in the dead of night, after a long period of wakefulness, he would see his wife and the Inca lady joined into one. Then it seemed to him that he remembered when he was a warrior and was in Peru, where he won her love. And afterwards he expected that, in the moral order, she had made much headway along the road to perfection, and that he had lagged behind, for as much as María held out her hand to him, encouraged him, guided him, wanted to take him with her to the highest spheres and enjoy a nobler state. When he was serene, when his nerves had calmed down, in the bright light of day, inwardly the doctor scoffed at those deliriums, thinking that his wife was half mad and that she was continuously passing on her madness to him. Don Juan Fresco’s joviality; his jokes, which everybody laughed at, especially after having eaten at home, because he had a good cook and better wines; the calm thinking with which that model Villabermejan understood and organized all things; the firmness of his character and his principles, and the knack and the sure touch with which he attended to his properties and holdings ..... all this was disagreeable to Don Faustino, and without envying it he sneered at it and deprecated it considerably. Don Juan’s fondness for Villabermejans prompted him to invite Respetilla to come and spend a month in Madrid so that he could take in the best of the capital. When he had been there the first time, Respetilla had neither enjoyed nor seen anything on account of his master’s illness. Now that he was in Madrid again, Don Juan Fresco delighted in being his cicerone. He had Madrid’s best tailor dress him in a frock coat, and he bought him a top hat at Aimable’s Boutique that Respetilla called gabina, chistera, colmena, or castrosa.1 Respetilla’s admiration for all the things he saw and the way in which he pondered them charmed Don Juan. Respetilla liked the Museum of Natural History very much; he thought the Royal Palace was enormous; the Museum of Paintings did nothing for him; and he enjoyed himself most at the bullfights and at the ballets of the Rivas Theater, where he saw Bluebeard’s Descendant and Brahma. Those niñas, or ballerinas, so light on their feet and so lightly dressed, the Bengal fire, Bluebeard’s descent from the castle with his entire retinue, the parasols, and the Chinese dragon amazed him. The niñas, however, pleased him the most, but for many years now Respetilla had been married to Jacintica, Rosita’s one-time maid, with whom he had a mere 1. Other terms, especially in Andalusia, for “top hat” (the sombrero de copa [alta]).

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nine children, all of them robust and healthy as oxen; besides, he loved his wife very much and feared her just as much, and it would never have occurred to him to be unfaithful in the least way. As a consequence, in the event he got carried away and overly enthusiastic about those niñas, in his mind’s eye he would see an irate Jacintica heaping abuse and insults on the lightly clad dancers, as if she were a Christian Cato or, better yet, a Saint Pachomius. Respetilla also saw and admired—in Don Juan’s house, where she came as the modiste that she was—his former love interest Manolilla, dumbfounded that she was now called Doña Etelvina, and with a certain pride at having once had a relationship with such a proper, important person. Doña Etelvina’s dresses, their lovely colors, genuine Venus rose, which was used by Lais and Tais and other hetaerae of Corinth, Athens, and Miletus, and the perfume that she gave off, no longer of opopanax, but of another richer essence called stephanotis, were circumstances that left Respetilla gaping in astonishment, entranced, as if he were dreaming of a thousand wonders. However, on no account—not because he respected Doña Etelvina, but because he respected the absent Jacintica, mother of their nine offspring—did Respetilla dare to overstep himself; he did no more, in accordance with the respect implied by his nickname, than crack a few jokes with the elegant modiste, who, in the end, because of the peculiar and unusual situation, because Respetilla looked so funny in his frock coat and his chistera, and because of the pleasant memories of their youth and of their Andalusia, behaved, according to observers, in more of a gentle than a churlish manner and was, in culinary terms, more well done than underdone with him. Don Faustino, on the other hand, although admittedly not very pardonable, was not as firm with Costancita, was not as honorable as his one-time page. The “pure love of angels” that Costancita had proposed and recommended in her letter was relegated by Don Faustino to his wife and to his saintly daughter, while the marquise of Guadalbarbo disturbed his entire being, awakened a tempest of passions in his heart. Costancita herself, irritated by the obstacles placed between her and her cousin, jealous and envious of María’s happiness, more in love than ever, no longer dreaming about the idyll, but about the passionate drama, cast off all restraints, and with a different kind of astuteness, with a different kind of calculation, with the greatest caution and furtiveness, saw and spoke to Don Faustino in a place that she imagined nobody would discover. The marquis of Guadalbarbo, although believing absolutely in his wife’s innocence, had been living very much on the lookout since the night of the surprise, but Costancita had learned her lesson and her precautions were extraordinary. The marquis picked up on nothing.



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Not even the backbiters, who are always watching so as to discover and relate the scandalous tale, had the faintest inkling of what was going on. Since those mysterious meetings began, the doctor was tormented, anxious at María’s side. He felt unworthy, ashamed of his duplicity, of his lies, and of his ingratitude; his poverty and his inadequacy, and the wealth and the generosity of Don Juan Fresco, weighed heavily on his heart. The second sight, María’s spiritual discernment, was of no use to discover that infamous secret. Her enamored spirit penetrated, or she believed that it penetrated, the most hidden recesses of her husband’s soul, but it penetrated so filled with trust, worship, and affection that it saw everything beautified by a pure light, and did not detect what was ugly and deformed. Attributing the doctor’s melancholy to thwarted noble ambition and to the kind of humiliation that comes from being poor, while she and her uncle were rich, María employed the most delicate and discreet means to elevate that downcast spirit, to give him hope that he would be happy as soon as he took the first step, to make him believe that climbing to the pinnacle of power and glory depended on him, and to persuade him above all that he was possessed, and most especially for her, of so much intrinsic worth and of such invaluable merit and of such a great persona, that he did not need victories, nor triumphs, nor rounds of mundane applause to corroborate, and much less to promote in himself, such demonstrable excellence. This noble conduct of María’s mortified Don Faustino more and more, exacerbating his pangs of conscience, but the attraction and the diabolical fascination that Costancita exerted over him was more powerful than anything. Don Faustino loved, revered, and adored María like something holy, heavenly, soft, serene, and pure, and nonetheless he sought out Costancita, carried away by a delirium of the senses, by the demon of vanity and pride, and even by the sharp barb of jealousy, always fearful that if he left her she might love someone else, even if it were for no other reason than spite. Things would have gone on like this for a long time, without anything being discovered, if the doctor had not had such an implacable, watchful enemy who was ever more bitter toward him and his wife. This enemy was Rosita. The ties that linked her to General Pérez had become tighter and tighter. Rosita dominated the fierce ladykiller; she had him subdued, enslaved, changed from a lion into a lamb. If on occasion she consulted him about dresses, adornments, and frippery that she needed to wear, he consulted her about politics. So whether a Ministry stayed in power or fell depended on her, and whether there was or was not another pronunciamiento, or military uprising, that would change the constitution or the form of government, depended on her. In Spain the army held all the power; with the army General Pérez

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held all the power; and with General Pérez, Rosita. In this manner, by virtue of such irrefutable sorites, Rosita figured that everything depended on her. She was the Aspasia of that magnificent Pericles.2 In the midst of so much glory, the affront done to her by the doctor, together with María’s rivalry, lived on in her heart, in spite of the years that had gone by, and ate away at her like a cancer. Seeing that the general had no secrets from her, in the end he even told Rosita about the bad time and the nasty trick played on him by Costancita and the doctor, claiming that if he had courted Costancita it had been with the intention of ridiculing her and taking her down a peg. Informed of that love affair and assuming that it was more advanced than it actually was at the time, Rosita stayed on their trail with fierce determination, shrewdness, and discretion. She learned that Doña Etelvina had been Costancita’s maid, and speculated that the modiste would most assuredly be the person whom she trusted implicitly for certain “matters,” provided that there were said matters. She correctly judged that it would be difficult, if not well-nigh impossible, to get Doña Etelvina, for as heartless as she might be, to deliberately betray her mistress. Therefore, she did not try to win over Doña Etelvina, but her chief assistant and confidante, Señorita Adela, who, for the very reason that Doña Etelvina was always so busy, was the one who went to Rosita’s house with the latest fashions and dresses. Having completely won over Señorita Adela by dint of presents and largess, Rosita came to know everything that happened at Doña Etelvina’s house. More than a year went by without Rosita learning what she wanted to learn, but, finally, the devil rewarded her efforts. Señorita Adela found out, in spite of the caution with which it was done, and passed on to Rosita her great discovery: the marquise of Guadalbarbo went to Etelvina’s house either very early in the morning or at nightfall, in the twilight, and that there she would see the doctor, who would be waiting for her. Rosita, lavishing money, then bribed Señorita Adela and got her to agree to admit a person into Etelvina’s house and to hide her in a suitable place so that, without being seen by anybody, she could observe the lovers at one of their trysts. Afterwards, the daughter of the usurious notary wrote an anonymous letter to María, informing her of her husband’s betrayal and “generously” offering her the means to witness it. 2. Aspasia (c. 470–419 b.c.), an Athenian courtesan, was the mistress of Pericles (c. 495–429 b.c.), an Athenian statesman.



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The day, the hour, the moment of the assignation arrived, just as Señorita Adela had reported. Costancita picked that day to complain of the doctor’s little affection, of his lack of enthusiasm. She was jealous of María: she said that María was more loved than she. Intoxicated by the fascinating looks, by the infernal coquetry, by the elegance, by the aristocratic beauty, and by his cousin’s undying youth, he assured her that he respected his wife, but that he did not love her, that he almost hated María for her sake. The doctor confirmed such an abominable assertion with an embrace. At that moment he thought he heard very close-by, penetrating his chest like a sharp dagger, a muffled, heartrending sob. Filled with dread, he broke away from Costancita’s arms and looked around rapidly, but he saw nobody in the room that they were in. He opened the door by which they had entered and saw nothing there either. Finally, he opened a second door, a small one, that led to an interior room that also gave onto the corridor, and found the room empty and the exit door locked. He questioned Doña Etelvina about the people who were in the house, and Doña Etelvina said that there was nobody, except Señorita Adela, because the seamstresses had all left already. Besides, Señorita Adela was very trustworthy and never sobbed over such a small thing. Questioned in turn by Doña Etelvina, Señorita Adela maintained that nobody had entered the house, that she was looking after everything, and that the servants were in the kitchen to prevent them from learning of such matters. Costancita then decided that the so-called sob, which she had not heard, was a bit of madness, a figment of the doctor’s imagination. The doctor ended up being persuaded of the same thing. From that day on María’s gloom became more and more profound and persistent. Although she did not utter the slightest complaint against Don Faustino, Don Faustino saw plainly that she knew everything. Despite his skepticism and not finding any natural way to explain it, the doctor imagined that María’s second sight was not fanciful; that her spirit, detaching itself from the organism to which it was joined only by a filament of electric fluid, flew where it wished and passed through walls and penetrated the most hidden places. The sob that he heard and that Costancita had not seemed to him an Ah! from the soul, a spiritual moan that was wrenched from the depths of María’s being by the terrible phrase that he “almost hated her.” What satisfaction, what excuse, what word of consolation could Don Faustino give to his wife, if in effect she knew everything, however she may have found out?

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So the doctor confined himself to being more kind, more gentle, more submissive than ever with her, but he attempted no explanation, no apology. María pretended to be unaware of the affront. Finally, María took to her bed with a very grave illness. On her heart side she felt more warmth than usual and had great difficulty in breathing, along with fatigue. She experienced tightness of the chest and dizzy spells. Then it seemed that her insides were being squeezed, while at the same time incessant pains racked her body. Her weak pulse was uneven and rapid, her breathing labored and worn out with pitiful sighs. Her serene and majestic bearing became more radiant, despite the many gray hairs that flecked her black mop, because her eyes had more light, more brightness than in their normal state, and because a glowing carmine lent more color to her cheeks. She was frequently beset by sudden and strong palpitations that shook her chest with painful jolts, so much so that it was almost as if the irregular and violent beating of her inflamed heart could be heard by those near her. All of a sudden her heart seemed to come to a stop now and again and María would fall into a faint. But in spite of everything, María’s faculty of reasoning remained clear; rather than becoming confused or clouded, her mind showed a marvelous lucidity, as if it were a light, a flame to which combustible substances are drawn. Doctor Calvo prescribed a diet, rest, cooling drinks, and mustard plasters on her feet; he resorted to homeopathy and ordered ignatia,3 pasqueflower, and phosphoric acid. He did not dare to order bloodletting nor leeches for fear of the patient’s debilitated condition. Finally, he admitted to Don Juan that her malady had no human remedy. With Doctor Calvo’s discouraging prognosis having materialized, María fulfilled all her duties as a Christian. She was at death’s door, attended by her uncle and her daughter, who tried not to weep but failed. Don Faustino, somber, silent, his eyes bereft of tears and with a black pain in his chest, was on his knees next to the headboard of the bed. He did not dare to hold one of his dying wife’s hands; he scarcely dared to look at her. Filled with horror and shame, he lowered his eyes to the floor. María made a supreme effort. She looked at her husband with such a benevolent expression, with such a saintly smile, with eyes so gentle and so full of forgiveness and heavenly love, that Don Faustino, overcome with gratitude 3. After “Saint Ignatius’s bean,” like nux vomica or strychnine, used in medicine chiefly in the form of the sulfate or phosphate as a tonic and stimulant for the central nervous system (Webster’s Third New International Dictionary).



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and repentance, could not look at her in turn without the torment of blush. Then, with an even greater effort, María held out her hand to her husband, who took it in both of his and smothered it with respectful kisses. Don Faustino’s tears, which had been like ice lacerating him on the inside, dissolved then and streamed from his eyes, bathing María’s hand. In a faint voice, in a very low voice, that nobody except him could hear, in a voice that penetrated clearly and distinctly through the senses in his soul, she spoke as follows: “I know about all of it; I saw it; I heard it. I heard you say that you hated me, but I could never believe that. You said that in a moment of madness. I forgive you, Faustino; I love you. I bless you! Love me. Don’t torment yourself by believing that you’re to blame. Live for our daughter. She’s so pure, so noble, so saintly, so angelic. She is the bond of our souls. By living for her, you will live for me. Through her we are more joined than ever. There is no eternal divorce between us, but an eternal conjugal tie. I’ll be waiting for you up there .....” Without any more perceptible sighs, without a convulsion or a grimace, with ineffable sweetness, more like a happy passing than a painful separation, like a captive regaining her freedom, María’s spirit abandoned her beautiful body in that instant. That weary heart had surrendered to exhaustion; little by little it had been reducing its beats; it expanded when forgiving, but did not have the strength to contract anew and pulse blood through the arteries. Circulation had ceased forever. While he was enraptured under the spell of that kind, beloved voice, a voice that forgave him and blessed him, Don Faustino opened his soul to every hope; he thought about heaven; he believed in God’s forgiveness and in his infinite mercy; he imagined that he could actually forgive himself in the end; and he caught a glimpse of the road to perfection, from which he had strayed, and considered it possible to return to it by overcoming obstacles with steadfast perseverance. But with María dead, her voice stilled, the torch that guided him extinguished, the old and deep-seated speculations rose up suddenly in Don Faustino’s soul. “If I’ve committed an infamous act, if I’m a wretch,” he said to himself, “and if there is an eternal life, I will eternally be throwing it in my face. I’ll not cleanse myself of the stain. It will be a hell without redemption. If my person, as an individual, endures, egoism will endure, which is the essence of individuality. Ah, no! The evil, the egoistic, the impure, should die. The immortal, the eternal, the divine, is me, is María, is everybody, in what we have of what is good. She was not egoistic; she was all devotion and sacrifice. As she gave herself to me one day, so has she given herself now to death, all

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of herself, and completely. What is to remain of her in another life? She gave all of herself. God received her in his bosom. She has disappeared in the absolute essence.” The doctor then stared at María’s body, steadily and dry-eyed. He saw those still beautiful shapes and pictured them destroyed, hideously ravaged, falling into putrid dissolution. A sudden nervous attack followed such cruel thoughts, thoughts no longer softened by the balsam of belief. The doctor burst into a terrifying guffaw. His daughter and Don Juan approached him, but it was too late. The doctor ran toward his bedroom, which was contiguous to the one they were in. On top of a bureau there was a revolver. Don Faustino picked it up before his family reached him. He put the barrel in his mouth, against the palate, and pulled the trigger. Death was instantaneous. Don Faustino fell to the floor and did not move. Irene, on her knees, with her eyes raised to heaven, was asking for forgiveness for everyone, begging for divine mercy. Don Juan Fresco was dazed, frightfully affected, horrified, despite the coolness or calmness implied by his surname. Radiant with innocence, in the midst of so many horrors, and disillusioned with the world, Irene decided to seek refuge at the foot of the altar. Her soul, completely given over to God, was incapable of sharing the ephemeral and hollow joys of this world with any spirit dwelling in a human form. Serafinito loved her. Serafinito, who was in Madrid studying law, professed a true adoration for Irene. But Irene loved him only as a brother. The distress of the worthy and artless Serafinito and the observations and entreaties of Don Juan were not enough to persuade her to change her mind. Don Juan Fresco and Serafinito took Irene to Ávila two months after the death of her parents, and there she entered the Saint Joseph Convent that had been founded by Saint Teresa. As soon as she completed her novitiate, Irene took the veil and became a discalced Carmelite nun, happily exchanging the comfort and luxury in which she had been raised for the penitential asperity of that austere life. Such was the sad story related to me by Don Juan Fresco when Serafinito was not present, so as to spare him the anguish. The moral that Don Juan Fresco drew from the entire tale was that this education nowadays trains ambitious, conceited, vain men, full of a thousand absurd plans, which is what he calls illusions, and without a firm belief in anything, and without the energy for good or for evil.



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“These days,” he said, “Doctor Faustinos abound: Terra malos homines nunc educat atque pusillos,4 in the words of the satirical poet.” Nevertheless, Don Juan, either because he had acquired a real liking for Don Faustino or because it was certain, maintained that the doctor had been a man with a very noble and generous disposition, although corrupted by a perverse education and by the milieu in which he had lived. One day when I was in Villabermeja, I went to visit the church with Don Juan Fresco. Father Piñón, still healthy and fit, did the honors, pointing out all the things of interest. We stopped in front of the altar of the patron saint, whose image is made of silver. As they say there, it’s the size of a cucumber and works more miracles than five thousand devils. Among the miracles hanging next to the altar, Father Piñón showed me a Doctor Faustino, a wax statuette, some eight inches high. It was a votive offering of Vicenta the housekeeper, who firmly believed that the patron saint had saved the doctor from the illness that resulted from his duel with the marquis of Guadalbarbo. “A bad miracle the saint did, if he did do it,” Don Juan said to me. “How much better it would have been had Don Faustino died then!” “Señor don Juan,” responded Father Piñón, “don’t talk nonsense. If the saint did not work it, God did, and what God does is well done, even though we do not grasp the reason and the intention.” Another day we went to see the López de Mendozas’ ancestral home. Still there is the portrait of the Inca lady, who, according to Don Juan, does indeed bear a striking resemblance to María. Respetilla, Jacintica, and their nine children live happily on the ground floor of that house. The main floor is reserved for family keepsakes. All the rooms are shut up, so only spirits can enter them, provided that the spirits take pleasure in moving about places where they lived a mortal life, where they loved and suffered. Still there too in one corner of the house, where she also lives on the ground floor, is Vicenta, the poor housekeeper, who cherishes the memory of her little Faustinito and thinks only about him. The affectionate old woman keeps in a chest, like venerable relics, all the doctoral garb, with the embroidered cape, the mortarboard and tassel, the national militia lancer’s uniform, and the Ronda Riding Club uniform. 4. Juvenal, Satire 15:70: “And today the earth breeds a race of degenerate weaklings.” The Sixteen Satires, trans. Peter Green (Baltimore: Penguin Books, 1967), 283.

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Attentively, because I was interested, I examined these objects that, acceding to our requests, Vicenta the housekeeper showed us with pride. Don Juan Fresco, so inimical to illusions, heaved a sigh and, with no trace of acrimony, said to me in an aside: “These items symbolize the causes of my nephew-in-law’s undoing. The doctoral attire is scientific vanity, philosophical pedantry, doubt, and uncertainty about how important it is to be energetic in life, with wholesome energy; the national militia uniform is a symbol of the confusion that we usually make of true freedom with turmoil, commotion, and disorder; and the riding club uniform is a symbol of the nobiliary mania, from which spring laziness, wastefulness, and inadequacy for the tasks and undertakings that bring wealth and prosperity to nations.”

A fterword to the 1 8 7 9 E dition

I have be en undecided between writing something or saying nothing about the present edition. It is obvious that I do so because the first one has sold out, in spite of the efforts of profound critics to demonstrate that the book is bad, that it is not a novel, and that I am not nor can I be a novelist. I am not about to try to demonstrate the contrary. More to the point: It does not matter to me that such be demonstrated, so long as people read the book and it sells. My purpose in writing this Afterword is different. Although everything in The Illusions of Doctor Faustino is clear, today’s tenuous spirit muddies the greatest clarity, and explanations and rectifications are de rigueur if a poor author does not want intentions attributed to him that he never had. My aim when composing stories, narratives or whatever they may be, since they are not novels, is to prove nothing. To prove a thesis, I would write dissertations. My intent is to draw a picture of the customs and passions of our age, an artistic, faithful depiction of human life. From such a picture or depiction, were it well done, each reader would derive not one but several teachings, which I do not doubt could be useful to him or her, but the author’s chief aim must be the picture, the work of art, and not the teaching. For the picture or depiction, how am I to deny that models are sought and studied? But the work of art is not achieved by copying them slavishly. All of the story line, in its entirety, well or ill conceived, is my invention. There is nothing real or historical in it. The characters that take part in the tale are also invented.

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Villabermeja is a utopia, although, to give it color and life as a real town, I may have taken features and characteristics and details from the places that I know and where I have lived. Otherwise—at least this is how I understand it and feel it, no doubt on account of the poverty and barrenness of my mind— the poet’s creations are shallow and lack truth and appeal. On top of the copied features and characteristics, my fantasy added what was fitting for the tale. The nicknames, or labels, are not intended to be funny and are false, when they are not popular. It is necessary for me to invent them, or at least for people to adopt them. For that reason, I confess that Respeta, Respetilla, Don Juan Fresco, and Father Piñón are not nicknames of my own invention. I never would have had the ability to invent them, but the people in my narrative who carry these nicknames have nothing to do—neither in customs, nor in circumstances of life, nor in twists of fortune—with real persons, known perhaps in some towns with said nicknames. With first names and surnames, I proceed in identical fashion in my novels, because of this desire that I have to mirror the truth in little things. Thus, for example, Pepe Güeto and Don Acisclo1 are names that extend beyond my province by hundreds of miles. And in the same vein, by making Don Faustino’s mother a foremost señora of Ronda, I gave her the surname, and made her a member, of one of the leading families of that city, the Escalantes. In the same way, Don Carlos in Commander Mendoza2 carries, because he is a native of Ronda, the illustrious name of Atienza, so well known and respected in that city. Since neither Don Carlos nor Doña Ana do anything unbecoming, there can be no objection to my giving them such surnames. For titles of nobility I have proceeded in similar fashion, that is, instead of calling this one the count of Pradoameno3 and that one the marquis of Montealto,4 I have opted for names that are typical of places known in Andalusia, like Fajalauza,5 Genazahar,6 and Guadalbarbo. As for anecdotes and incidents that have really occurred, how am I to deny that they abound in my novels? With these truths, introduced into invention or poetic fiction, said fiction becomes credible. The following, then, are true: the joke, somewhat heavy-handed, that Father Fernández played 1. Characters who appear in Valera’s Doña Luz (1879). 2. This novel (El comendador Mendoza, in the original) was published in 1877, two years before this Afterword appeared. 3. Literally, [the count of] “Pleasant Meadow.” 4. Literally, [the marquis of] “Tall Mountain.” 5. A countess in Doña Luz. 6. A count in Pepita Jiménez (1874).



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on the bishop at Lovers’ Rock, which was related to me as factual by another priest I have known; the circumstances surrounding the death of Joselito el Seco (Why deny it if everybody in Andalusia knows about it?), which occurred at the death of the famous outlaw named Caparrota; and the revenge that Joselito el Seco took on the mayor; and the revenge that the mayor’s son took afterwards on Joselito, which, with appropriate changes for my purposes, is a story that I have heard told many a time by members of my family, who saw the real mayor’s son enter Carratraca7 with the last of the dead outlaws, and with his beard unshaven, which he had sworn to keep until he avenged his father completely. I am likewise interested in saying something about the women in my novels. A few critics suppose that most are such know-it-alls that they could not exist in small towns, and others that they do exist in small towns, and that I have copied them without respect, and that I have brought them to fictional life without their consent. They are wrong on both counts. In the towns of Andalusia there are, and there can be, women who are discretion and elegance personified. One does not have to be born in Madrid for that. As a matter of fact, from the small town whose name I do not disclose and where I have Costancita brought up and where Costancita has her flirtations at the grille with Doctor Faustino, there have come to Madrid no fewer than three women from our foremost aristocracy, who have shone, and continue to shine, for their beauty, for their wit, for everything. Costancita, nevertheless, save this basis for verisimilitude, save the actual fact that in her town women grow up to become great and exceptionally elegant señoras, in no way resembles—not in her character, not in the events of her life—her likeable, lovely, and respectable townswomen. If I have alluded to them, it has been to demonstrate that I do not take a señora from Madrid and put her in a nonexistent small town, like the ancient bucolic poets, Greek or French, who disguised as shepherdesses the refined ladies of Alexandria, Paris, or Versailles. I come, at last, to the principal personage, the protagonist of my novel: Doctor Faustino. There is no character, in my opinion, more endowed with aesthetic truth. Neither is there one more bereft of all historical reality. Although I am not very fond of symbols and allegories, I admit that Doctor Faustino is a character who has something symbolical or allegorical in him. He represents, as a man, all of my contemporary generation: he is a Doctor Faust on a small scale, without magic now, without the devil, and without supernatural powers to assist him. He is a composite of the vices, ambitions, daydreams, skepticism, unbelief, greed, etc., that afflict or afflicted the youth of 7. A town in Andalusia’s southernmost province of Málaga.

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my time. In him I bring together the three types or main forms under which the man of said generation is presented, if those who wear a frock coat and not a jacket can form a class. Rooted in his soul are superficial philosophy, political ambition, and the aristocracy craze. I know that there are better men, but I did not want to write the life of a saint. I also know that there are more ridiculous ones, but I did not want to come up with an entirely comical novel that featured a pretentious nobody. I know too that there are men a thousand times more evil and odious, but if Don Faustino were one of them he would cease to be somewhat comical, as I wanted, and he would have ceased to have something interesting and pathetic about him, which was essential for my scheme of the novel, or what I understand by novel, notwithstanding the critics. Don Faustino, given my plan, could not be except as he is. Faust is greater, but he also more egoistic, more perverted, and more sinful. In sum, and let the moral worth of my hero be whatever people want it to be (or, rather, whatever it may be for those who perhaps cannot see themselves, and judge themselves to be virtue in the flesh), in order to portray the very soul of my hero, dispensing with what happens to him in the world, I needed no more art than to look deep down into the souls of not a few friends of mine and into the depths of my own, and then analyze affections, passions, disappointments, and illusions. I believe that this analysis, and forgive my immodesty, has been done with placid serenity, with a coolness and insight worthy of Don Juan Fresco. In this lies, not only the literary merit, if it has any, but also the healthy moral that I am convinced is not lacking in my novel. Physical illnesses and deformities are not treated simply by looking at them and understanding them, but in illnesses of the soul, seeing and understanding are already a great cure; and if through the grace of poetic fantasy that intuition and that understanding are represented artistically, then the treatment is already nearly effected. Perhaps it is the proud ones, who do not want to see in themselves nary a one of the defects of Doctor Faustino, who find his story worse and more detestable, morally and literarily, a story that, despite everything, I dare to commend again to the indulgence of the dispassionate, enlightened public.

selected bibliography

First Editions of Valera’s Novels Pepita Jiménez. Madrid: Noguera, 1874. Las ilusiones del doctor Faustino. Madrid: Noguera, 1875. (One of the two editions used for the translation.) El Comendador Mendoza. Madrid: Ilustración Española y Americana, 1877. Pasarse de listo. Madrid: Perojo, 1878. Doña Luz. Madrid: Perojo, 1879. Juanita la Larga. Madrid: Fe, 1896. Genio y figura. Madrid: Fe, 1897. Morsamor. Madrid: Fe, 1899.

Modern Editions of The Illusions of Doctor Faustino Las ilusiones del doctor Faustino. Madrid: Biblioteca Nueva, 1926. Obras completas. Volume 1 [novels]. 5th ed. Madrid: Aguilar, 1968. Las ilusiones del doctor Faustino. Edition and introductory study by Cyrus C. DeCoster. Madrid: Editorial Castalia, 1970. Las ilusiones del doctor Faustino. Edition and introductory study by José Carlos Mainer. Madrid: Alianza Editorial, 1991. Obras completas, 2. Introductory note by Margarita Almela. Madrid: Biblioteca Castro, 2001. (One of the two editions used for the translation. It is based on the 1875 edition and Revista de España text. It became necessary to read two texts and compare because neither is free from typos and misattribution of dialogue.)

English Translations of Valera’s Novels Pepita Ximenez. Translated by Mary J. Serrano. New York: Appleton, 1886. Pepita Jiménez. Translated by Harriet de Onís. Woodbury [N.Y.]: Barron’s Educational Series, 1964. Doña Luz. Translated by Mary J. Serrano. New York: Appleton, 1891. Doña Luz. Translated by Robert M. Fedorchek. Lewisburg: Bucknell University Press, 2002. Don Braulio [Pasarse de listo]. Translated by Clara Bell. New York: Appleton, 1892. Commander Mendoza. Translated by Mary J. Serrano. New York: Appleton, 1893.

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Juanita la Larga. Translated by Robert M. Fedorchek. Washington: The Catholic University of America Press, 2006.

Secondary Sources Azorín. De Valera a Miró. Madrid: Afrodisio Aguado, 1959. Araujo Costa, Luis. Introductory study to Volume 1, 5th edition, of Juan Valera’s Obras completas. Madrid: Aguilar, 1968. Bermejo Marcos, Manuel. Don Juan Valera, crítico literario. Madrid: Editorial Gredos, 1968. Bravo Villasante, Carmen. Biografía de Don Juan Valera. Barcelona: Editorial Aedos, 1959. DeCoster, Cyrus C., ed. Correspondencia de Don Juan Valera, 1859–1905. Madrid: Editorial Castalia, 1956. DeCoster, Cyrus C. Bibliografía crítica de Juan Valera. Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, 1970. ———. Introductory study to the 1970 Castalia [Madrid] edition of Las ilusiones del doctor Faustino. ———. Juan Valera. New York: Twayne Publishers, 1974. (The only book-length study in English of Valera’s works, including not only the novels, but also his short stories, critical writings, and voluminous correspondence.) Entrambasaguas, Joaquín de. “Juan Valera (1824–1905),” in Las mejores novelas contemporáneas, 1 (1895–1899). Barcelona: Planeta, 1957. Pages 514–24. Franz, Thomas R. Valera in Dialogue / In Dialogue with Valera. New York: Peter Lang, 2000. Jiménez, Alberto. Juan Valera y la generación de 1868. Oxford: Dolphin Book Co., 1956. López-Morillas, Juan. El krausismo español: perfil de una aventura intelectual. México, D.F.: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1956. Mainer, José Carlos. Introductory study to the 1991 Alianza [Madrid] edition of Las ilusiones del doctor Faustino. Marcus, Roxanne B. “Contemporary Life and Manners in the Novels of Juan Valera.” Hispania 58 (1975): 454–66. Montes Huidobro, Matías. “Sobre Valera. El estilo.” Revista de Occidente, 2a época 35, No. 104 (1971): 168–91. Montesinos, José F. Valera o la ficción libre. Madrid: Editorial Gredos, 1957. (2nd edition, revised, 1969.) Pardo Bazán, Emilia. Retratos y apuntes literarios. Madrid: Administración, n.d. “Don Juan Valera,” pages 217–80. Pérez de Ayala, Ramón. Divagaciones literarias. Madrid: Biblioteca Nueva, 1958. “Don Juan Valera o el arte de la distracción,” pages 67–85; “Más sobre Valera,” pages 87–111. Romero Mendoza, Pedro. Don Juan Valera. Estudio biográfico crítico. Madrid: Ediciones Españolas, 1940. Romero Tobar, Leonardo. “Recursos de la ficción en los relatos de Valera.” Congreso Internacional sobre Don Juan Valera (1°, 1995. Cabra), Cabra: Ayuntamiento Córdoba, Diputación Provincial, 1997, pages 75–88.



selected bibliograph y

Rubio Cremades, Enrique. Biografía de Juan Valera. Madrid: Castalia, 1992. Taylor, Teresia Elizabeth Langford. The Representation of Women in the Novels of Juan Valera: A Feminist Critique. New York: Peter Lang, 1997. Trimble, Robert G. Chaos Burning on My Brow: Don Juan Valera in His Novels. San Bernardino: The Borgo Press, 1995. Zaragüeta, Juan. “Don Juan Valera, filósofo.” Revista de Filosofía 15 (1956): 489–518.

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The Illusions of Doctor Faustino: A Novel by Juan Valera was designed and typeset in Filosofia by Kachergis Book Design of Pittsboro, North Carolina. It was printed on 60-pound Natures Book Natural and bound by Thomson-Shore of Dexter, Michigan.