“I AM A LITTLE CATILINE”
The coterie was the most select in the Casino. Its members used to meet
there in order to speak ill of everybody. There were young men who did
nothing but ride horseback, try the strength of young bulls by prodding
them with long pikes from horseback, and gamble their souls away; old
men whose sole occupation was talking politics; and a great variety of
persons who had made a business of amusing themselves--a fact which did
not prevent one from reading a gloomy weariness in their expressions.
This meeting of aristocrats and plebeians, of rich men and poor men, of
vagrants employed and unemployed, possessed a rare character, which was
produced by a preponderance of aristocratic prejudices, mixed with a
great simplicity.
In this coterie, so democratic in appearance, high and low had their
say; even the waiters in the Casino mixed in the conversation. It
possessed those characteristics, partly affable, partly coarse, that the
Spanish aristocracy had had until foreign ideas and customs began to
transform and polish it.
In that meeting one gleefully flayed one’s neighbour. Amid jests and
laughter, flagellated by jovial satire, every person of significance in
the town marched in review, either on account of their merits or their
vices, their stupidity or their wit. If one believed what was told
there, the city was a hot-bed of imbroglios, obscenities, wild
escapades.
Among the members of aristocratic families there was a multitude of
alcoholics and diseased individuals; the rotten produce of vicious
living and consanguineous marriages. In these families there were a
great many men who seemed to be obsessed with the idea of going through
their fortunes, of ruining themselves quickly; others travelled the road
to ruin without meaning to, through the robbery of their administrators
and usurers; the majority were simply idiots; the clever ones, the
clear-sighted ones, went to Madrid to play politics, leaving the old
ancestral homes completely dismantled.
The scandals of the masses were mixed with those of the aristocracy; and
the ingenuous jests of the charcoal-burners, and the dissolute wit of
the Celestinas, were repeated and applauded with relish.
They spoke, too, and constantly, of the bandits of the Sierra; they knew
who their protectors were in and out of Cordova, where their
hiding-places were: and this friendship with bandits was not looked upon
as a disgrace, but rather as something that constituted, if not a
glorious achievement, at least a spicy and piquant attraction for the
town.
“The gangs are organized in the very jail itself, while the bandits walk
about the city.”
“But, is that true?” asked some horrified stranger.
“Everything you hear is,” they told him with a laugh. “Even the
abductions of Malaga and Seville are planned here.”
“And why don’t you put an end to the evil?”
When the Cordovese heard this he smiled at the stranger, and added that
in Cordova they had never looked upon the horsemen as an evil.
While the aristocrats and plebeians gave food for gossip, the middle
class worked: lawyers, priests, and merchants enriched themselves,
conducted their business, while a cloud of citizens from Soria fell like
locusts upon the town, and took possession of the money and lands of the
old, wealthy families by means of their evil skill at money-lending and
usury.
One evening in the early part of autumn, several gentlemen were chatting
in one of the salons of the Casino. They were members of the early
coterie. Some were reading newspapers, and others were talking, seated
upon divans, or walking to and fro.
Springer, the Swiss watch-maker’s son, had come in to read a newspaper,
and as he read, he heard them talking about his friend Quentin, whom he
had not seen for some time. He listened attentively.
“But is it true he has come into some money?” asked a stout, red-faced
gentleman with a grey moustache.
“I don’t know,” answered a bald-headed man with a black beard. “He
undoubtedly has money. They say that he has bought a house for María
Lucena.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Quentin is a child of good luck,” added another.
“I should say he is,” responded he of the black beard. “Lucky at cards,
and lucky at love.”
“Couldn’t the Marquis have given him some money?” asked the stout
gentleman.
“The Marquis! He hasn’t a penny.”
“But where does the boy get his money?”
“I don’t know--unless he steals it.”
“But that would be found out.”
The members of the coterie were all silent for a moment while the stout
gentleman took a short nap; then he said:
“Do you know if that paper that has just been published is his?”
“What paper? _La Víbora?_” asked he of the bald head.
“Yes.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, they say it is.”
“It strikes me that that paper is owned by the Masons.”
“Oh, but don’t you know that Quentin is a Mason?” said a small, dark man
with a black moustache.
“Really?” asked every one at once.
“Yes, indeed. I know it for a fact; he joined the Lodge this summer.”
“Perhaps he makes his living from that,” said the fat gentleman.
“No one makes a living from that,” replied the short man with a laugh.
“It occurred to me when I was a student in Madrid to become a Mason, and
do you know what happened? They carried me about from one place to
another with my eyes bandaged, and ended by taking five dollars away
from me.”
Every one laughed. At this point a young man entered and stretched out
in an arm chair with an air of deep gloom.
“What’s up, Manolillo?” asked the bald-headed man.
“Nothing. Quentin is upstairs plucking everybody. If he quits in time,
he’s going to come out ahead; if he stays in, he may lose everything.”
As Springer, who heard this, was a man of good intentions and a loyal
friend, he arose, threw his paper upon the table, left the salon, went
through a gallery paved with marble, up a flight of stairs, and entered
the gambling hall.
Quentin was dealing; he had a pile of bills and gold coins before him.
Springer went up to him, and put his hand upon his shoulder. Quentin
turned.
“What is it?”
“I come,” said Springer in a low voice, “to give you the advice of a
gambler who just left here completely plucked. He said that if you quit
in time, you’ll come out ahead; if you stay in, you may lose
everything.”
“Really?” exclaimed Quentin, rising, as if he had just received
important news. “Well, then, the only thing I can do is to leave.
Gentlemen,” he added, addressing the players, “I shall return in a
little while,” and placing the bills in his folder, he rapidly picked up
the gold coins.
A murmur of indignation arose among the players.
“Come!” said Quentin to Springer.
They left the hall rapidly, descended the stairs, and did not stop until
they had reached the street.
“But, what has happened to you?” the Swiss asked, utterly surprised.
“Nothing; it was a stratagem,” answered Quentin with a smile. “I could
not find the right moment to leave decorously. They were all after me
like dogs; and there I was boasting like a man to whom four or five
thousand dollars more or less are of little importance. They would have
gone up in smoke soon.”
By the light of a lamp, Quentin pulled out a handful of bills, sorted
them, and put them into a folder; and then, unbuttoning first his coat,
and then his vest, he put them in his inside pocket.
“Aren’t you afraid something may happen to you in the street?” asked the
Swiss.
“_Ca!_”
“Do you know that you are the talk of the town, Quentin?”
“Am I?”
“Really. Besides, you have a tremendous reputation.”
“As what?”
“As a Tenorio, a dare-devil, a gambler, and a Mason.”
Quentin burst out laughing.
“I heard in the Casino here,” Springer went on, “that you were not
living at home any more, but with an actress.”
“That’s true.”
“Have you quarrelled with your family?”
“Yes; I got angry and left my stepfather. Usurers disgust me.”
“It also seems that you have received a legacy from some relation or
other of yours. Is that true?”
“Boy, I don’t know,” said Quentin ingenuously. “I’ve invented so many
things, that now I don’t know which is the truth and which is a lie.”
Then, turning melancholy, he added, “The trouble with me is that I am
out of my element. I’m a Northerner.”
“You!” said Springer; and he began to laugh so heartily that Quentin
joined him.
“What are you laughing at?”
“At how well I know you. So you are a Northerner. What a faker you
are!... What shocks me is that you have become a Mason. That’s absurd.”
“Yes; it’s absurd to you and me, but it isn’t to many people.”
“Where is your Lodge?”
“In the Calle del Cister, near the Calle del Silencio. Would you like to
come?”
“What for?”
“Man, we’ll baptize you anew; we’ll call you Cato, Robespierre,
Spartacus....”
“I don’t believe it’s worth while....”
“As you wish.”
“Your Masonry disgusts me.”
“It _is_ ridiculous, but it serves for something: it is useful for
propaganda.”
“What propaganda are you putting forward?”
“Just now I am a Federal Republican.”
Springer burst out laughing again.
“You’re a Federal Republican! Like my countrymen, the Swiss.”
“You think it’s funny?”
“Very, my lad. You couldn’t live if you went to Switzerland.”
“Well, then, there I would be a Monarchist. I am nothing at heart. I am
a man of action who needs money and complications in order to live. Do
you know what name they have given me at the Lodge?”
“What?”
“Catiline. They have hit the nail on the head. I am a little Catiline.
What an admirable chap was that Tribune of the people! Eh? I am very
enthusiastic about him.”
“Then, Cicero would seem despicable to you.”
“Ah! absolutely despicable. Charlatan, pedant, coward ... in other
words--he was a lawyer.”
“Listen,” said the Swiss. “They told me another and more serious thing:
that you are the one who edits that newspaper, _La Víbora_. Is that
true?”
“Yes.”
“Are you the author of those very violent satires?”
“Not the author; the inspirer. Catiline turned libeller?... It would be
unworthy of him.”
“But don’t you realize that you are exposing yourself to a very serious
danger?”
“_Ca!_ Don’t you believe it. Men are more cowardly than they seem.
Moreover, I am defended by a lot of people; first by those who rejoice
over and enjoy the satires--as long as they are not directed against
themselves; second, by my friends, of whom the majority are very
powerful people; third and last, and this is what I place most
confidence in, I am defended by these fists, and because I don’t give a
fig for anybody.”
“Well, you certainly are acting without scruple or conscience.”
“Is it worth while to live otherwise? I believe not.”
“Man alive! That depends upon the way one looks at it.”
“That’s the way I look at it. The spectacle is dangerous, but amusing.
Well? Are you coming to the Lodge?”
“What for?”
“You will hear several orators declaim their speeches, and I shall
present you to Don Paco Sánchez Olmillo, Master Surgeon and Master
Mason. If you wish I’ll make a speech in your honour on human liberty.
It is a discourse which I have learned by heart, and which, with a few
trifling changes, I turn loose on all occasions, making it seem
different each time.”
“The plan does not tempt me.”
“Then if you don’t wish to go to the Lodge, I shall take you to the
tavern in the Calle del Bodegoncillo.”
“What are you going to do there?”
“I’m going to pay my retinue. Then I shall present you to Pacheco.”
“To which Pacheco? To the bandit?”
“The same. He is my lieutenant.”
“The devil! Shall I be safe with you?”
“Yes; safer than if you were with the Alcalde.”
“But you keep very bad company.”
“Whom do you mean by that? Pacheco? Pacheco is an unfortunate chap. Ask
any one, and they will tell you that he was forced to take to the
mountain merely on account of a rooster.”
“Was that all?”
“That was all. On account of a rooster called Tumbanavíos or Tumbalobos,
I don’t exactly remember which. Pacheco used to go to the cock-fighting
ring in the Calle de las Doblas, and one day he got mixed up in an
argument with a fellow as to the relative merits of two fighting-cocks
... and, well, they had words. Pacheco stuck a knife into the fellow,
with bad results, and left him cold.... A man’s affair!” added Quentin
resignedly.
“Then one of those sergeants of the _guardia civil_ who like to stick
their noses into everything, insisted upon hunting Pacheco. He gave
chase to him and caught up to him; but Pacheco, seeing that the game was
about up, and remembering the words of Quevedo: that it is better to be
ahead by a blow in the face than by all Castile, discharged his
fowling-piece at the guard. This also had bad results, for he blew his
skull open and sent him to join the other fellow.”
The Swiss applauded the story, laughing quietly.
“And is that chap from this city?” he asked.
“I think he is from Ecija or thereabouts.”
“What kind of a man is he?”
“A good fellow.”
“Does he hurt any one in the country?”
“No. He appears at a farmhouse and asks the operator for a loan of ten
or twelve dollars, and the operator gives it to him. He’s a good man.”
“Is he in Cordova now?”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t they arrest him?”
“They don’t dare. Don’t you see that I am protecting him?”
The Swiss looked at his friend, whom he admired deep down in his heart,
and murmured again and again:
“My, what a faker!”
“It has been my custom to invite him to dine with me in the Café Puzzini
and in the Rizzi Tavern,” added Quentin, “and no one has dared to
interfere with him.”
Conversing in this manner, they had come out upon Las Tendillas, and
were going up the Calle de Gondomar toward the Paseo del Gran Capitán.
They walked past San Nicolás de la Villa, and followed the Calle de la
Concepción toward the Puerta de Gallegos.
A strong breeze was blowing which made the blinds and windows rattle
noisily.
“Where is that tavern?” asked Springer.
“Right here,” answered Quentin. “This is the Calle del Niño Perdido, a
sort of _cul-de-sac_; it is not ours. This other is the Calle de los
Ucedas; nor is that the one we are looking for, either.”
They walked on a few paces.
“This is the Calle del Bodegoncillo,” said Quentin, “and here is the
tavern.”