II

"Order of the day. Resumption of debate on ecclesiastical

appropriations!"

The Chamber suddenly came to life with a wild movement of dispersion,

something comparable to the stampede of a herd or the panic of an army.

The deputies of quickest motory reactions were on their feet in an

instant, followed by dozens and dozens of others, all making for the

doors. Whole blocks of seats were emptied.

The Chamber had been packed from the opening of the Session. It was a

day of intense excitement: a debate between the leader of the Right and

a former comrade who was now in the Opposition. The jealousy between the

two old cronies was resulting in a small-sized scandal. Mutual secrets

of their ancient intimacy as colleagues were coming to light--many of

the intrigues that had settled historic parliamentary contests for the

premiership. The galleries were filled with spectators who had come to

enjoy the fun. The deputies and ministers occupied every seat on either

hand of the presidential chair. But now the incident was closed. Two

hours of veiled insult and pungent gossip had passed all too soon. And

the phrase "Ecclesiastical Appropriations" had served as a fire-alarm.

Run--do not walk--to the nearest exit!

However, the name of the orator who was now being given the floor

served to check the stampede somewhat, much as routs have been stopped

by some great historic warcry. A few deputies hurried back to their

benches. All eyes turned toward the extreme Left of the Chamber, where,

a white head, rising above the red seats over a pair of spectacles and a

gently ironical smile, was coming into view.

The old man was on his feet, at last. He was small, so frail of person,

that he hardly overtopped the men still seated. All his vital energies

had been concentrated in that huge, nobly proportioned head of his, pink

at the top, with shocks of white hair combed back over it. His pale

countenance had the warlike transparency of a sound, vigorous old age.

To it a shining, luminous silvery beard added a majesty like that with

which Sacred Art used to picture the Almighty.

The venerable orator folded his arms and waited for the noise in the

Chamber to cease. When the last determined fugitives had disappeared

through the exit doors, he began to speak. The journalists in the

press-gallery craned their necks toward "the tribune," hushing for

silence in order not to lose a word.

This man was the patriarch of the Chamber. He represented "the

Revolution"--not only the old-fashioned, the political, revolution, but

the modern, the social and economic revolution. He was the enemy of all

present systems of government and society. His theories irritated

everybody, like a new and incomprehensible music falling on slumbering

ears. But he was listened to with respect, with the veneration inspired

by his years and his unsullied career. His voice had the melodious

feebleness of a muffled, silver bell; and his words rolled through the

silence of the hall with a certain prophetic stateliness, as if the

vision of a better world were passing before his eyes as he spoke, the

revelation of a perfect society of the future, where there would be no

oppression and no misery, the dream he had so often dreamed in the

solitude of his study.

Rafael was sitting at the head of the committee bench, somewhat apart

from his companions. They were giving him ample room, as bull-fighters

do their _matador_. He had bundles of documents and volumes piled up at

his seat, in case he should need to quote authorities in his reply to

the venerable orator.

He was studying the old man admiringly and in silence. What a strong,

sturdy spirit, as hard and cold and clear as ice! That veteran had

doubtless had his passions like other men. At moments, through his calm

impassive exterior, a romantic vehemence would seem to burn, a poetic

ardor, that politics had smothered, but which smouldered on as volcanic

fires lie dormant rumbling from time to time under the mantle of snow on

a mountain peak. But he had known how to adjust his life to duty; and

without belief in God, with the support of philosophy only, his virtue

had been strong enough to disarm his most violent enemies.

And a weakling, a dawdler like himself, must reply to a hero like

that!... Rafael began to be afraid; and to recover his spirits he swept

the hall with his eyes. What the regular hangers-on of the sessions

would have called a medium-sized house! A few deputies scattered about

the benches! But the public galleries were filled with spectators,

workingmen mostly, absolutely quiet, and all ears, as if they were

drinking in every word of the old republican! In the reserved seats,

just previously packed with curiosity-seekers interested in the set-to

scheduled for the opening of the session, only a few foreign tourists

were left. They were taking in everything--even the fantastic uniforms

of the mace-bearers; and they were determined not to leave until they

were put out. A few women of the so-called "parliament set," who came

every afternoon when there was a squabble on the program, were munching

caramels and staring in wonderment at the old man. There he was, the

arch enemy of law and order! The man whose name it was bad form to

mention at their afternoon teas! Who would have supposed he had such a

kindly, harmless face? How easily, with what naturalness and grace, he

wore his frock coat! Incredible!... In the diplomatic gallery a solitary

lady! She was extravagantly attired in a huge picture hat with black

plumes. Almost hidden behind her was a fair haired youth, his hair

parted in the middle, his dress the height of correctness and foppery.

Some rich tourist-woman probably! She was directly opposite Rafael's

bench. He could see that her gloved hand rested on the railing, as she

moved her fan to and fro with an almost discourteous noise. The rest of

her body was lost in the darkness of the gallery. She bent back from

time to time to whisper and laugh with her escort.

Somewhat reassured by the empty appearance of the house, Rafael scarcely

paid any further attention to the orator. He had guessed all that the

man would say, and he was satisfied. The outline of the long answer he

had prepared would not in the least be affected.

The old man was inflexible and unchangeable. For thirty years he had

been saying the same thing over and over again. Rafael had read that

speech any number of times. The man had made a close study of national

evils and abuses, and had formulated a complete and pitiless criticism

of them in which the absurdities stood out by force of contrast. With

the conviction that truth is forever the same and that there is nothing

ever so novel as the truth, he had kept repeating his criticism year

after year in a pure, concise, sonorous style that seemed to scatter the

ripe perfume of the classics about the muggy Chamber.

He spoke in the name of the future Spain, of a Spain that would have no

kings, because it would be governed by itself; that would pay no

priests, because, respecting freedom of conscience, it would recognize

all cults and give privileges to none. And with a simple, unaffected

urbanity, as if he were constructing rhyming verses, he would pair

statistics off, underscoring the absurd manner in which the nation was

taking leave of a century of revolution during which all peoples had

done things while Spain was lying stagnant.

More money, he pointed out, was spent on the maintenance of the Royal

House than upon public education. Conclusion: the support of a single

family in idleness was worth more than the awakening of an entire people

to modern life! In Madrid, in the very capital, within sight of every

one of his hearers, the schools remained in filthy hovels, while

churches and convents rose overnight on the principal streets like

magic palaces. During twenty-odd years of Restoration, more than fifty

completely new, religious edifices, girding the capital with a belt of

glittering structures, had been built. On the other hand, only a single

modern school, at all comparable to the ordinary public schools of any

town in England or Switzerland! The young men of the nation were feeble,

unenthusiastic, selfish and--pious--in contrast with fathers, who had

adored the generous ideals of liberty and democracy and had stood for

action, revolt! The son was an old man at majority, his breast laden

with medals, with no other intellectual stimulus than the debates of his

religious fraternity, trusting his future and his thinking to the Jesuit

introduced into the family by the mother, while the father smiled

bitterly, realizing that he was a back-number, belonging to a different

world, to a dying generation--though to a generation which had

galvanized the nation for a moment with the spirit of revolutionary

protest!

Here was the Church collecting pay for its services from the faithful,

and then over again from the State! Here was the Ministry of the

Interior appealing for a reduction in taxes--a program of strict

economy--while new bishoprics were being created and ecclesiastical

appropriations swelled for the benefit of the upper clergy; and with no

advantage at all, meanwhile, to the proletariat of the soutane, to the

poor curates who, to make a bare living, had to practice the most

impious worldliness and unscrupulously exploit the house of God! And

while this was going on public works could wait, towns could go without

roads, Districts without railroads, though the wildest savages of Asia

and Africa had both! Fields could continue to perish of drought while

nearby rivers continued to pour their unutilized waters into the sea!

A thrill of conviction rippled through the Chamber. The silence was

absolute. Everybody was holding his breath so as not to lose a syllable

from that faint voice, which sounded like a cry from a distant tomb. It

was as though Truth in person were passing through those murky

precincts; and when the orator ended with an invocation to the future,

in which social absurdities and injustice should no longer exist, the

silence became deeper still, as if a glacial blast of death were blowing

upon those brains that had thought themselves deliberating in the best

of all possible worlds.

It was now time for the reply. Rafael arose, pale, pulling at his cuffs,

waiting a few minutes for the excitement in the Chamber to subside. The

audience had relaxed and was whispering and stirring about, after the

sustained attention compelled by the concise style and the barely

audible voice of the old man.

If Rafael was depending on the sympathy of an audience to encourage him,

things looked promising indeed! The hall began to empty. Why not? Who is

interested in a committee's reply to the Opposition? Besides, Brull had

a bundle of documents on hand. A long-winded affair! Let's escape!

Deputies filed by in line across the semi-circle in front of him; while

above, in the galleries, the desertion was general. The caramel-chewers,

noting that the display of celebrities was over for the day, rose from

their places. Their coaches were ready outside for a ride through the

Castellana. That strange woman in the diplomatic gallery had also risen

to go. But no: she was giving her hand to her companion, bidding him

good-bye. Now she had resumed her seat, continuing the busy movement of

her fan that annoyed Rafael so. Thanks for the compliment, my fair one I

Though as far as he was concerned, the whole audience might have gone,

leaving only the president and the mace-bearers. Then he could speak

without any fear at all! The public galleries, especially, unnerved him.

Nobody had moved there. Those workingmen were without doubt waiting for

the rebuttal of his answer from their venerable spokesman. Rafael felt

that the swarthy heads above all those dirty blouses and shirt-fronts

without collars or neckties were eyeing him with stony coldness. "Now

we'll see what this ninny has got to say!"

Rafael began with a eulogy on the immaculate character, the political

importance and the profound learning of that venerable septuagenarian

who still had strength to battle consistently and nobly for the lost

cause of his youth. An exordium of this nature was the regular

procedure. That was how "the Chief" did things. And as he spoke,

Rafael's eyes turned anxiously upon the clock. He wanted to be long,

very long. If he did not talk for an hour and a half or two hours he

would feel disgraced. Two hours was the least to be expected from a man

of his promise. He had seen party chiefs and faction leaders go it for a

whole afternoon, from four to eight, hoarse and puffing, sweating like

diggers in a sewer, with their collars wilted to rags, watching the

great hall-clock with the intentness of a man waiting to be hanged.

"Still an hour left before closing time!" a speaker's friends would say.

And the great orator, like a wearied horse, but a thoroughbred, would

find new energy somewhere and start on another lap, round and round,

repeating what he had already said a dozen times, summarizing the two

ideas he had managed to produce in four hours of sonorous chatter. With

duration as the test of quality, no one on the government had yet

succeeded in equaling a certain redheaded deputy of the Opposition who

was forever heckling the Premier, and could talk, if need be, three days

in succession for four hours a day.

Rafael had heard people praise the conciseness and the clarity of

new-fangled oratory in the parliaments of Europe. The speeches of party

leaders in Paris or in London took up never more than half a column in a

newspaper. Even the old man he was answering had adopted, to be original

in everything, that selfsame conciseness: every sentence of his

contained two or three ideas. But the member from Alcira would not be

led astray by such niggardly parsimony. He believed that ponderousness

and extension were qualities indispensable to eloquence. He must fill a

whole issue of the Congressional Record, to impress his friends back

home in the District. So he talked and talked on, trying deliberately to

avoid ideas. Those he had he would keep in reserve as long as possible,

certain that the longer he held them prisoner the longer and more solemn

would his oration be.

He had gained a quarter of an hour without making any reply to the

previous speech whatever, and literally burying his illustrious

antagonist in flowers. _Su señoria_ was noteworthy firstly, because,

secondly, because, fourteenthly, because ... Nay more, he had

accomplished this, performed that, endeavored the other

thing--"But"--and with this _but_, alas, Rafael must begin to loosen up

on a little of what he had prepared in advance. _Su señoria_ was an

"ideologue" of immense talent, but ever removed from reality; he would

govern peoples in accordance with theories dug out of books, without

paying any attention to practical considerations, to the individual and

indestructible character possessed by every nation!...

And it was worth sitting an afternoon even in that Chamber to hear the

slighting tone of scorn with which the member from Alcira emphasized

that word _ideologue_ and that phrase about "theories dug out of books"

and "living removed from reality!"

"Good, fine. That's the way to give it to him," his comrades encouraged,

nodding their sleek bald-pates in indignation against anybody who tried

to live apart from reality. Those _ideologues_ needed somebody to tell

them what was what!

And the minister, Rafael's friend, the only auditor left on the Blue

Bench, pressing his huge paunch against the desk, turned his head--an

owlish, hairy head with a sharp beak--to smile indulgently on the young

man.

The orator continued, his confidence increasing as he went on, fortified

by these signs of approval. He spoke of the patient, deliberate study

the committee had made of this matter of the ecclesiastical bud-gets. He

was the most modest, the least among them, but there were his

comrades--they were there, in truth, solemn gentlemen in English

frock-coats, with their hair parted in the middle, from their foreheads

to the napes of their necks--studious young men--who had flattered him

with the honor of speaking for them--and if they had not been more

economical, it was because greater economy had been impossible.

And the heads of the committee-men nodded as they murmured gratefully:

"Say, this fellow Brull can make quite a speech!"

The government was ready to exercise any economy that should prove

prudent and feasible, without prejudice to the dignity of the nation;

but Spain was an eminently religious country, favored by God in all her

crises; and no government loyal to the national genius could ever touch

a _céntimo_ of the ecclesiastical appropriation. Never! Never!...

On the word _never_ his voice resounded with the melancholy echo that

rings in empty houses. Rafael looked in anguish at the clock. Half an

hour. Half an hour gained, and still he had not really damaged his

outline. His talk was going so well that he was sorry the Chamber was

far from crowded!... Before him, in the shadows of the diplomatic

gallery, that fan kept fluttering. Pesky woman! Why couldn't she keep

quiet and not spoil his speech!

The president, so restless and vigilant, so ever-ready with watch and

bell in hand when any of the Opposition had the floor, was now sitting

back in his chair with his eyes shut, dozing away with the confidence of

a stage director who is sure the show will go off without a hitch. The

panes of the glass dome were glowing under the rays of the sun, but they

allowed only a diffuse, green light, a discreet, soft, crypt-like

clarity to seep through into the Chamber that lay below in monastic

calm. Through the windows over the president's chair, Rafael glimpsed

patches of the blue sky, drenched in the gentle light of an afternoon of

Springtime. A white dove was hovering in the perspective of those blue

squares.

Rafael felt a slackening of his powers of endurance, as if an

irresistible languor were stealing over him. The sweet smile of Nature

peering at him through the transoms of that gloomy, parliamentary tomb

had taken him back to his orange-orchards, and to his Valencian meadows

covered with flowers. He felt a curious impulse to finish his speech in

a few hasty words, grab his hat and flee, losing himself out among the

groves of the Royal Gardens. With that sun and those flowers outside,

what was he doing in that hole, talking of things that did not concern

him in the least?... But he successfully passed this fleeting crisis. He

ceased rummaging among the bundles of documents piled up on the bench,

stopped thumbing papers so as to hide his perturbation, and waving the

first sheet that came to his hand, he went on.

The intention of the gentleman in opposing this appropriation was not

hidden from him. On this matter he had his own, his private and personal

ideas. "I understand that _su señoria_, in here proposing retrenchment,

is really seeking to combat religious institutions, of which he is a

declared enemy."

And as he reached this point, Rafael dashed wildly into the fray. He was

treading firm and familiar ground. All this part of the speech he had

prepared, paragraph by paragraph: a defense of Catholicism, an apology

_pro fide_, so intimately bound up with the history of Spain. He could

now use impassioned outbursts and tremors of lyric enthusiasm, as if he

were preaching a new crusade.

On the Opposition benches he caught the ironic glitter of a pair of

spectacles, the convulsions of a white chin quivering over two folded

arms, as if a kindly, indulgent smile had greeted his parade of so many

musty and faded commonplaces. But Rafael was not to be intimidated. He

had gotten away with an hour almost! Forward, to "Section Two" of the

outline, the part about the great national and Christian epic! And he

began to reel off visions of the cave of Covadonga; the fantastic tree

of the Reconquest "where the warrior hung up his sword, the poet his

harp," and so on and so on, for everybody hung up something there; seven

centuries of wars for the cross, a rather long time, believe me,

gentlemen, during which Saracen impiety was expelled from Spanish soil!

Then came the great triumphs of Catholic unity. Spain mistress of almost

the whole world, the sun never allowed to set on Spanish domains; the

caravels of Columbus bearing the cross to virgin lands; the light of

Christianity blazing forth from the folds of the national banner to shed

its illuminating rays throughout the earth.

And as if this hymn to enlightening Christianity, chanted by an orator

who could now hardly see across the gloomy hall, had been a signal, the

electric lights went on; and the statues, the escutcheons, and the

harsh, blatant figures painted on the cupola, sprang forth from

obscurity.

Rafael could hardly contain his joy at the facility with which his

speech was developing. That wave of light which was shed over the hall,

in the middle of the afternoon, while the sun was still shining, seemed

to him like the sudden entrance of Glory, approaching to give him the

accolade of renown.

Caught up now in the real torrent of his premeditated verbosity, he

continued to relieve himself of all that he had learned by cramming

during the past few days. "In vain does _su señoria_ fatigue his wits.

Spain is and will remain a profoundly religious country. Her history is

the history of Catholicism: she has survived in all her times of storm

and stress by tightly embracing the Cross." And he could now come to the

national wars; from the battles in which popular piety saw Saint James,

on his white steed, lopping off the heads of the Moors with his golden

cutlass, to the uprising of the people against Napoleon, behind the

banner of the parish and with their scapularies on their bosoms. He did

not have a word to say about the present. He left the pitiless criticism

of the old revolutionist intact. Why not? The dream of an ideologue! He

was absorbed in his song of the past, affirming for the hundredth time

that Spain had been great because she had been Catholic and that when

for a moment she had ceased to be Catholic, all the evils of the world

had descended upon her. He spoke of the excesses of the Revolution, of

the turbulent Republic of '73, (a cruel nightmare to all right-thinking

persons) and of the "canton" of Cartagena (the supreme recourse of

ministerial oratory),--a veritable cannibal feast, a horror that had

never been known even in this land of _pronunciamientos_ and civil wars.

He tried his best to make his hearers feel the terror of those

revolutions, whose chief defect had been that they had revolutionized

nothing.... And then came a panegyric on the Christian family, on the

Catholic home, a nest of virtues and blessings, whereas in nations where

Catholicism did not reign all homes were repulsive brothels or horrible

bandit caves.

"Fine, Brull, very good," grunted the minister, his elbows stretched

forward over his desk, delighted to hear his own ideas echoing from the

young man's mouth.

The orator rested for a moment, with his glance sweeping the galleries

now bright with the electric lighting. The woman in the diplomatic

section had stopped fanning herself. She was following him closely. Her

eyes met his.

Of a sudden Rafael nearly fell to his seat. Those eyes!... Perhaps an

astonishing resemblance! But no; it was she--she was smiling to him with

that same jesting, mocking smile of their earlier acquaintance!

He felt like the bird writhing on the tree unable to free itself from

the hypnotic stare of the serpent coiled near the trunk. Those

sarcastic, mischievous eyes had upset all his train of thought. He tried

to finish in some way or other, to end his speech as soon as possible.

Every minute was an added torment to him; he imagined he could hear the

mute gibes that mouth must be uttering at his expense.

Again he looked at the clock; in fifteen minutes more he would be

through. And he spurted on at a mad pace, with a hurried voice,

forgetting the devices he had thought of to prolong the peroration,

dumping them out all in a heap--anything to get through! "The

Concordate... sacred obligations toward the clergy ... their services

of old ... promises of close friendship with the Pope ... the generous

father of Spain ... in short, we cannot reduce the budget by a _céntimo_

and the committee stands, by its proposals without accepting a single

amendment."

As he sat down, perspiring, excited, wiping his congested face

energetically, his bench companions gathered around him congratulating

him, shaking his hands. He was every inch an orator! He should have gone

deeper into the matter and taken even more time! He shouldn't have been

so modest!

And from the bench below came the grunt of the minister:

"Very good, very good. You said exactly what I would have said."

The old revolutionist arose to make a short rebuttal, repeating the

contentions of his original speech, of which no denial had been

attempted.

"I'm quite tired," sighed Rafael, in reply to the felicitations.

"You can go out if you wish," said the minister. "I think I'll answer

the rebuttal myself. It's a courtesy due to so old a deputy."

Rafael raised his eyes toward the diplomatic gallery. It was empty. But

he imagined he could still make out the plumes of a woman's hat in the

dark background.

He left his bench hastily and hurried to the corridor, where a number of

deputies were waiting with their congratulations.

Not one of them had heard him, but they were all profuse in their

flattering remarks. They shook his hand and detained him maddeningly.

Once more he thought he could descry at the end of the corridor, at the

foot of the gallery staircase, standing out against the glass exit-door,

those black, waving plumes.

He elbowed his way through the crowds, deaf to all congratulations,

brushing aside the hands that were proferred to him.

Near the door he stumbled into two of his associates, who were looking

out with eyes radiant with admiration.

"What a woman? Eh?"

"She looks like a foreigner. Some diplomat's wife, I guess!"