IN WHICH IT IS SEEN THAT DISAGREEMENT MAY ARISE WHEN LEAST EXPECTED
Suddenly Don Cayetano Polentinos, Doña Perfecta’s brother-in-law,
appeared at the door, and entering the room with outstretched arms,
cried:
“Let me embrace you, my dear Don José.”
They embraced each other cordially. Don Cayetano and Pepe were already
acquainted with each other, for the eminent scholar and bibliophile was
in the habit of making a trip to Madrid whenever an executor’s sale of
the stock of some dealer in old books was advertised. Don Cayetano was
tall and thin, of middle age, although constant study or ill-health
had given him a worn appearance; he expressed himself with a refined
correctness which became him admirably, and he was affectionate and
amiable in his manners, at times to excess. With respect to his vast
learning, what can be said but that he was a real prodigy? In Madrid his
name was always mentioned with respect, and if Don Cayetano had lived
in the capital, he could not have escaped becoming a member, in spite of
his modesty, of every academy in it, past, present, and to come. But he
was fond of quiet and retirement, and the place which vanity occupies
in the souls of others, a pure passion for books, a love of solitary and
secluded study, without any other aim or incentive than the books and
the study themselves, occupied in his.
He had formed in Orbajosa one of the finest libraries that is to be
found in all Spain, and among his books he passed long hours of the day
and of the night, compiling, classifying, taking notes, and selecting
various sorts of precious information, or composing, perhaps, some
hitherto unheard-of and undreamed-of work, worthy of so great a mind.
His habits were patriarchal; he ate little, drank less, and his only
dissipations consisted of a luncheon in the Alamillos on very great
occasions, and daily walks to a place called Mundogrande, where were
often disinterred from the accumulated dust of twenty centuries, medals,
bits of architecture, and occasionally an amphora or cubicularia of
inestimable value.
Don Cayetano and Doña Perfecta lived in such perfect harmony that the
peace of Paradise was not to be compared to it. They never disagreed. It
is true that Don Cayetano never interfered in the affairs of the house
nor Doña Perfecta in those of the library, except to have it swept and
dusted every Saturday, regarding with religious respect the books and
papers that were in use on the table or anywhere else in the room.
After the questions and answers proper to the occasion had been
interchanged Don Cayetano said:
“I have already looked at the books. I am very sorry that you did not
bring me the edition of 1527. I shall have to make a journey to Madrid
myself. Are you going to remain with us long? The longer the better,
my dear Pepe. How glad I am to have you here! Between us both we will
arrange a part of my library and make an index of the writers on the Art
of Horsemanship. It is not always one has at hand a man of your talents.
You shall see my library. You can take your fill of reading there--as
often as you like. You will see marvels, real marvels, inestimable
treasures, rare works that no one but myself has a copy of. But I think
it must be time for dinner, is it not, José? Is it not, Perfecta? Is it
not, Rosarito? Is it not, Señor Don Inocencio? To-day you are doubly a
Penitentiary--I mean because you will accompany us in doing penance.”
The canon bowed and smiled, manifesting his pleased acquiescence. The
dinner was substantial, and in all the dishes there was noticeable the
excessive abundance of country banquets, realized at the expense of
variety. There was enough to surfeit twice as many persons as sat down
to table. The conversation turned on various subjects.
“You must visit our cathedral as soon as possible,” said the canon.
“There are few cathedrals like ours, Señor Don José! But of course you,
who have seen so many wonders in foreign countries, will find nothing
remarkable in our old church. We poor provincials of Orbajosa, however,
think it divine. Master Lopez of Berganza, one of the prebendaries
of the cathedral, called it in the sixteenth century _pulchra
augustissima_. But perhaps for a man of your learning it would
possess no merit, and some market constructed of iron would seem more
beautiful.”
The ironical remarks of the wily canon annoyed Pepe Rey more and more
every moment, but, determined to control himself and to conceal his
anger, he answered only with vague words. Doña Perfecta then took up the
theme and said playfully:
“Take care, Pepito; I warn you that if you speak ill of our holy church
we shall cease to be friends. You know a great deal, you are a man
eminent for your knowledge on every subject, but if you are going to
discover that that grand edifice is not the eighth wonder of the world
you will do well to keep your knowledge to yourself and leave us in our
ignorance.”
“Far from thinking that the building is not handsome,” responded Pepe,
“the little I have seen of its exterior has seemed to me of imposing
beauty. So there is no need for you to be alarmed, aunt. And I am very
far from being a savant.”
“Softly; softly,” said the canon, extending his hand and giving his
mouth a truce from eating in order to talk. “Stop there--don’t come now
pretending modesty, Señor Don José; we are too well aware of your great
merit, of the high reputation you enjoy and the important part you play
wherever you are, for that. Men like you are not to be met with every
day. But now that I have extolled your merits in this way----”
He stopped to eat a mouthful, and when his tongue was once more at
liberty he continued thus:
“Now that I have extolled your merits in this way, permit me to express
a different opinion with the frankness which belongs to my character.
Yes, Señor Don José, yes, Señor Don Cayetano; yes, señora and señorita,
science, as the moderns study and propagate it, is the death of
sentiment and of every sweet illusion. Under its influence the life of
the spirit declines, every thing is reduced to fixed rules, and even the
sublime charms of nature disappear. Science destroys the marvellous in
the arts, as well as faith in the soul. Science says that every thing
is a lie, and would reduce every thing to figures and lines, not only
_maria ac terras_, where we are, but _coelumque profundum_, where God
is. The wonderful visions of the soul, its mystic raptures, even the
inspiration of the poets, are all a lie. The heart is a sponge; the
brain, a place for breeding maggots.”
Every one laughed, while the canon took a draught of wine.
“Come, now, will Señor Don José deny,” continued the ecclesiastic, “that
science, as it is taught and propagated to-day, is fast making of the
world and of the human race a great machine?”
“That depends,” said Don Cayetano. “Every thing has its _pro_ and its
_contra_.”
“Take some more salad, Señor Penitentiary,” said Doña Perfecta; “it is
just as you like it--with a good deal of mustard.”
Pepe Rey was not fond of engaging in useless discussions; he was not a
pedant, nor did he desire to make a display of his learning, and still
less did he wish to do so in the presence of women, and in a private
re-union; but the importunate and aggressive verbosity of the canon
required, in his opinion, a corrective. To flatter his vanity by
agreeing with his views would, he thought, be a bad way to give it to
him, and he determined therefore to express only such opinions as should
be most directly opposed to those of the sarcastic Penitentiary and most
offensive to him.
“So you wish to amuse yourself at my expense,” he said to himself.
“Wait, and you will see what a fine dance I will lead you.”
Then he said aloud:
“All that the Señor Penitentiary has said ironically is the truth. But
it is not our fault if science overturns day after day the vain idols
of the past: its superstitions, its sophisms, its innumerable
fables--beautiful, some of them, ridiculous others--for in the vineyard
of the Lord grow both good fruit and bad. The world of illusions, which
is, as we might say, a second world, is tumbling about us in ruins.
Mysticism in religion, routine in science, mannerism in art, are
falling, as the Pagan gods fell, amid jests. Farewell, foolish dreams!
the human race is awakening and its eyes behold the light. Its vain
sentimentalism, its mysticism, its fevers, its hallucination, its
delirium are passing away, and he who was before sick is now well
and takes an ineffable delight in the just appreciation of things.
Imagination, the terrible madwoman, who was the mistress of the house,
has become the servant. Look around you, Señor Penitentiary, and you
will see the admirable aggregation of truths which has taken the place
of fable. The sky is not a vault; the stars are not little lamps; the
moon is not a sportive huntress, but an opaque mass of stone; the sun is
not a gayly adorned and vagabond charioteer but a fixed fire; Scylla and
Charybdis are not nymphs but sunken rocks; the sirens are seals; and in
the order of personages, Mercury is Manzanedo; Mars is a clean-shaven
old man, the Count von Moltke; Nestor may be a gentleman in an overcoat,
who is called M. Thiers; Orpheus is Verdi; Vulcan is Krupp; Apollo is
any poet. Do you wish more? Well, then, Jupiter, a god who, if he
were living now, would deserve to be put in jail, does not launch the
thunderbolt, but the thunderbolt falls when electricity wills it. There
is no Parnassus; there is no Olympus; there is no Stygian lake; nor are
there any other Elysian Fields than those of Paris. There is no other
descent to hell than the descents of Geology, and this traveller, every
time he returns from it, declares that there are no damned souls in the
centre of the earth. There are no other ascents to heaven than those of
Astronomy, and she, on her return, declares that she has not seen the
six or seven circles of which Dante and the mystical dreamers of the
Middle Ages speak. She finds only stars and distances, lines, vast
spaces, and nothing more. There are now no false computations of the age
of the earth, for paleontology and prehistoric research have counted the
teeth of this skull in which we live and discovered the true age. Fable,
whether it be called paganism or Christian idealism, exists no longer,
and imagination plays only a secondary part. All the miracles possible
are such as I work, whenever I desire to do so, in my laboratory, with
my Bunsen pile, a conducting wire, and a magnetized needle. There are
now no other multiplications of loaves and fishes than those which
Industry makes, with her moulds and her machines, and those of the
printing press, which imitates Nature, taking from a single type
millions of copies. In short, my dear canon, orders have been given to
put on the retired list all the absurdities, lies, illusions, dreams,
sentimentalities, and prejudices which darken the understanding of man.
Let us rejoice at the fact.”
When Pepe finished speaking, a furtive smile played upon the canon’s
lips and his eyes were extraordinarily animated. Don Cayetano busied
himself in giving various forms--now rhomboidal, now prismatic--to a
little ball of bread. But Doña Perfecta was pale and kept her eyes fixed
on the canon with observant insistence. Rosarito looked with amazement
at her cousin. The latter, bending toward her, whispered under his
breath:
“Don’t mind me, little cousin; I am talking all this nonsense only to
enrage the canon.”