"This Rivera is always making jokes.... Now, senor, ..." he went on to
say, flinging his sombrero on the table.... "I have just this moment
come from the tariff meeting at the Teatro del Circo...."
"Who spoke?... Who spoke?" was asked from various parts of the room.
"Well, Don Gabriel Rodriguez, Moret y Prendergast, Figuerola, and our
chief; but the one who made the best speech was Don Felix Bona."
"Man alive! and what did he say?"
"Well, he began by saying that he ... the most insignificant of all that
were there...."
"Senor Merelo! and is it possible that you did not protest against such
a statement?" asked Miguel from his table.
Merelo looked at him without seeing the force of his remark; but finally
feeling the hidden prick of sarcasm, he made up a disgusted face and
went on, affecting to scorn it:--
" ... That he had come there to speak in the name of Commerce at
least...."
"But, friend Merelo," interrupted the ex-curate, who greatly delighted
in poking fun at the reporter, ... "you surely ought to have protested
against his claim to humility."
Merelo could to a certain point put up with Rivera's raillery, since he
recognized his superiority, but the priest's went against his nerves.
And so, full of wrath, he put his hands together after the manner of
priests during mass, and intoned:--
"_Dominus vobiscum!_"
A general laugh went round among the editors. The cure flushed up to his
ears, and, greatly disgusted, tried to shoot the same jest again, only
winging it with a sharper point; but the reporter, who was not
remarkable for his ingenuity, kept replying:--
"_Dominus vobiscum!_" And his intonation was so comical and clerical
that the newspaper men had to hold their sides with laughter.
The priest finally became so irritated that instead of jests he
actually heaped insults on him. One of them was so outrageous and
shameful that the latter felt called upon to raise his hand and give the
priest a tremendous slap.
A scene of confusion and tumult arose in the office, lasting several
moments. A number of men laid hold of Don Cayetano, who, with the
exchange scissors in his hand, declared in an angry voice his intention
of ripping Merelo open.
The latter, who did not care a rap for such a threat, roared to his
companions to let him go: he would not put up with such blackguard
language from any one. But his friends knew well that this was sheer
rhetoric, and they clung to him all the more watchfully.
At last they succeeded in calming down the angry disputants, and the
storm was followed by a calm that lasted for a quarter of an hour,
during which all silently gave themselves up to their writing. At last
Miguel looked up and asked:--
"See here, Senor Merelo, when do you expect to go to Rome?"
"To Rome?... What for?"
"To obtain pardon for the sin of having laid hands on a sacred person.
You can't get absolution here."
A new shout of laughter ran through the office. The priest, in a fury,
flung down his pen, took his hat, and left the room.
The editors of _La Independencia_ lost much time in such skirmishes of
wit, and our friend Rivera was almost always at the bottom of them.
Beside the men already mentioned, there were three or four of less
distinction, and a throng of occasional contributors who came anxiously
every night to bring the editor-in-chief their offering of articles,
which, for the most part, were rejected.
Among all these, most attention was attracted by a young man, not as yet
regularly attached to the staff, hideous, rickety, but well dressed, who
was accustomed to write papers on literary criticism, always signed with
the pseudonym _Rosa de te_, or Tea Rose. He was very severe on authors,
and always felt it his duty to give them sound advice about the art
which they practised. Time and again he assured them that this thing was
not human, that was not like life, and the other was not in good form.
He had a great deal to say about life, which, in his opinion, no author
knew anything about, nor about women either. Only _Rosa de te_ had a
correct notion of the world and of woman's heart.
From the very beginning of his criticisms, he endeavored to put the
author in the prisoner's box, while he himself mounted the judge's
bench, wherefrom he would ask questions, administer blame, lay down the
law, and make sarcastic and humorous flings.
"Where did Don Fulano[12] ever know of a young girl exclaiming, 'ah!'
when she had the tooth-ache?... It is evident that Don Fulano has not
often set foot in the salons of the aristocracy!... Life, Don Fulano, is
not as you paint it; it is necessary to have lived within the charmed
circle of society if one aspire to give a correct picture of it.... What
we fail to find in Don Fulano's work is the plot.... And the plot, Don
Fulano, the plot?... What kind of a character is the hero of his work?
In one chapter he says that he has a tremendous appetite, and liked
nothing better than to eat a box of Nantes sardines, and a few chapters
further on he declares that he detests sardines! What kind of logic is
that? Characters in art must be clearly defined, logical, not a
patchwork. Don Fulano's _protagonista_ here alone in the course of the
work, according to our count, makes nineteen resolutions. Does Don
Fulano think that nineteen resolutions are sufficient for a hero? Our
opinion would be that it was not enough for even a subordinate
character.... And so there is no way of preventing the character from
being bungling, colorless, lacking in life and energy. Energy in the
characters of novels and dramas I cannot weary of recommending to our
authors.... Besides, you ought to endeavor, Don Fulano, to be more
original. That remark made by Richard to the countess in the sixth
chapter, where he says, ... 'Senora, I shall never again set foot in
this house,' we have read before in Walter Scott."
This young man had greatly pleased Miguel, who always called him the
priest (_sacerdote_), because he had many times in his articles made use
of the expression "the priesthood of criticism."
_Rosa de te_, so bold and scornful in his treatment of poets and
novelists, was a very Job in the patience with which he bore the
raillery of Miguel and the other editors.
One day, however, he had the misfortune to write a biting review of a
poet who was one of Rivera's friends. Rivera was angry, and called him
an ignoramus and a stupid lout to his face, and the poor _Rosa_ could
not get up to defend himself. When Mendoza came, Miguel, still vexed,
said to him:--
"Now, see here, Perico, why do you allow this stupid baby to write
literary reviews, and all the time make the paper ridiculous?"
Mendoza, as usual, made no answer. But Miguel insisted.
"I want you to explain to me why it is...."
"We don't have to pay anything for his articles," replied the other, in
a low voice.
"Then they are very dear!"
Although Miguel did not care much for politics, he worked diligently on
the paper. The revolutionary atmosphere had sufficiently condensed
itself, and no young man could escape its feverish and disturbing
influence.
The Conde de Rios was at last banished to the Balearic Islands. Mendoza
suddenly disappeared from Madrid, leaving a letter to his friend Miguel,
telling him that he had made his escape because he had been informed
that the police were going to arrest him, and asking him to take charge
of the paper.
Such a letter as that caused the brigadier's son no little amusement,
because he was convinced that the administration had no thought of
troubling the poor Brutandor.
Nevertheless, he actually took the chief editorship of _La
Independencia_, the nominal direction of it being, as always in such
calamitous times of persecution, under the name of a silent partner.
And, in order satisfactorily to fulfil his trust, he began to attend the
so-called _circulos politicos_, and above all the committee-room of the
Congress of Deputies, which was then, is now, and ever will be,
probably, the workshop where the happiness of the country is devised. So
when he went there for the first time, he could not overcome a feeling
of respect and veneration.
At the sight of the stir and agitation which reigned there, our hero
could not help comparing that chamber and the corridors around it to a
great factory.
A host of laborers, in high hats, were going and coming, entering and
bowing, and elbowing each other; their faces bore the imprint of the
deep cares that agitated them. Some were sitting in front of desks and
feverishly writing letters and more letters; from time to time they
would pass their hands over their foreheads and draw a sigh of
weariness, and, perhaps, of pain at finding themselves obliged, on the
altars of the country's interest, to deny a meeting with some
influential elector who did not deserve such treatment.
Others would come out of the chamber of sessions and sit down on a sofa
to think over the speech which they had just heard, or would join some
group of members warmly discussing some question which, owing to a
modesty that did them honor, they had not cared to take part in during
the session.
Others would cluster around the entrance and anxiously wait for some
minister to pass, so as to recommend to his attention some matter of
general interest to his family.
All this reminded Miguel of the bustle, the noise, and the tremendous
activity that he had witnessed in an iron foundry at Vizcaya. There as
well as here men were moving in opposite directions, each one attending
to his task; they were a little less respectably dressed, and their
necks and breasts were somewhat more tanned than was the case with the
representatives of their country; but this was because there was rather
more heat in the foundry than in the _salon de conferencias_. In place
of letters and other documents, the men there were lugging bars of
red-hot iron in their hands, and they passed them on from one to the
other just as the deputies passed on their papers.
It must not be supposed that it was cool in the _salon de conferencias_.
In each one of its four angles there was a great fireplace where were
burning ancient and well-dried logs, which the thoughtful country
provides her representatives lest they should freeze. Besides, there are
furnaces in the cellar which send up columns of hot air through the open
registers; the carpets, the curtains, the ventilators, and the screens
also cause the temperature to be neither cold nor hot beyond endurance.
Unquestionably the system of heating is better understood in the _salon
de conferencias_ than in the foundry at Vizcaya.
Along its walls are large and comfortable sofas where the deputies and
the newspaper men, who help them in the laborious task of saving the
country, can rest for a few moments. And if they wish to refresh or
restore their failing strength, there is, also, a lunch-room where the
nation furnishes its managers, gratis, with water and _azucarillos_[13]
in great abundance, and where, for a moderate price, they can get ham,
turkey, pies, sherry, and Manzanilla, and other foods and drinks.
Intelligent and zealous waiters, as soon as they come in, relieve them
of their overcoats, which they guard with care, and return after they
have lunched, lest in any way they should catch cold.
Miguel was greatly impressed, when he first attended a meeting of the
Congress, by the humility and deep respect shown by a waiter taking a
fur overcoat from a gentleman with a long white goatee, who allowed him
to do so, with a solemn and peevish expression, moving his head from one
side to the other as though he could not hold it up with the weight of
thoughts that filled it.
Afterwards he chanced to see this same gentleman in the lunch-room,
taking a few slices of scalloped tongue; he had the same thoughtful,
reserved, imposing air.
He was glad to know that his name was Senor Tarabilla, who had been
governor of several of the provinces, superior honorary chief of the
civil administration, and the holder of various other distinguished
offices in Madrid and elsewhere. He had also been secretary of the
committee of acts in the Congress, where once he had draughted a
private bill which had never reached discussion.
Our hero enjoyed one of the purest satisfactions of his life in becoming
acquainted with a personage of so great importance in politics, and he
made up his mind to go on and gradually know them all in the same way.
He used to go round from group to group, listening attentively to the
discussions that were taking place among the most distinguished leaders
of men. It was his duty to acquaint himself with their opinions and
plans, so as to conduct his journal dexterously. He was surprised by
some of these private debates, but especially at one which he overheard
a few days after he entered the _salon de conferencias_.
In the centre of a large and crowded group there was a lively discussion
going on between a minister and one of the leaders of the opposition
concerning a certain article in the constitution of 1845, in which
punishment by property confiscation is prohibited.
The minister held that this prohibition was not absolute; that in the
article were shown the causes for which a citizen could be deprived of
his property. The leader of the opposition screamed like one possessed,
arguing that such was not the case; that there were no such causes, and
no such things. Both grew very red in the face, and almost reached the
point of getting actually angry with each other. Finally the minister
asked energetically:--
"Now we will see, Senor M----; have you ever read the constitution of
1845?"
"No, sir, I have not read it, nor have I any desire to!" said Senor
M----, in fury.... "Have you read it yourself?"
"No; but though I have not read it," replied the minister, putting on a
bold face, "I know that in the first section are indicated the causes
which permit confiscation.... And if I have not, here is Senor R----,
who was a minister at that time, and can tell us."
Senor R---- was an old gentleman, smoothly shaven; and when he heard his
name called, and perceived that all eyes were turned upon him, with a
smile that was half malicious and half abashed, he said:--
"The truth of the matter is that I myself cannot remember having read it
through!"
At first these discussions and his constantly growing acquaintance with
the great engine of politics entranced him; but afterwards, when he came
to know by sight, and even have the honor of a personal acquaintance
with almost all of the grandees of the kingdom, and had learned from
their lips not a few of the secrets of governing nations, he had the
sentiment to comprehend that he was beginning to weary of it all; most
evenings he preferred to take a book of Shakspere, Goethe, Hegel, or
Spinoza, and sit down by his wife's side, and read while she sewed or
did her embroidery, rather than wander up and down the corridors of
Congress, and listen to the dissertations of Senor Tarabilla and other
distinguished men.
And I say that it was sentiment that taught him this; because an inner
voice whispered to him that this was not the way to attain fortune and
celebrity, nay, he should try to imitate step by step the career of
Senor Tarabilla; but though that was the better course, he nevertheless
determined to follow the worse, because human nature is weak, and often
hurled to destruction by its passions. Even on those afternoons when he
deigned to go up to the Congress, instead of joining the groups, taking
up with the deputies, flattering the ministers, and offering his
opinions in regard to whatever question might arise, letting himself be
carried away by melancholy (perhaps by the longing for his wife's
company, his armchair, or his Shakspere), he would go and sit down alone
on some sofa, and there give himself up to his thoughts or his dreams,
and try to delude himself into the idea that he was fulfilling his duty.
He would look with distracted eyes at the throng of deputies,
journalists and politicians tagging at their heels, and their feverish
activity, their agitation, and their eagerness had not the slightest
power to inspire the lazy fellow with the noble desire of laboring for
his country, and contributing in some way to its happiness.
At times, not having anything to think about, he would amuse himself in
seeking for resemblances between the men whom he saw and those whom he
had known before. His attention was particularly attracted by a deputy,
a custom-house director, who bore the closest resemblance to a certain
fisherman of Rodillero, named Talin. He had known Talin under
particularly sad circumstances. One of his sons had died of measles, and
he had not a shilling in the house with which to bury him; the poor man
had to carry him in his arms to the cemetery, and dig the grave himself.
A few months afterward Talin was lost in a famous gale which has figured
in more than one novel. And how closely this deputy resembled Talin!
They were as like as two eggs.
There was another whose face was decorated with big scars and
cicatrices, and whose eyebrows and eyelashes had been lost by reason of
some secret malady which obliged him to go every year to Archena; this
man struck him as particularly like a poor miner whom he had known at
Langreo. The latter worked in the galleries of the mines, spending the
livelong day in a narrow hole which he himself had laboriously to
excavate. One day the gas took fire and burned his face and hands
horribly. After that he was obliged to beg.
When he was weary of these exercises of imagination, he would call
Merelo y Garcia, and make him sit by his side, and delight in hearing
him relate with characteristic vehemence all the gossip from behind the
scenes, if it is not irreverent to compare the lobbies of Congress with
the flies of a theatre.
Merelo was at that time the phoenix of Madrid _noticieros_ and the envy
of the other newspaper proprietors, who had more than once made him
overtures of increased salary to get him away from the Conde de Rios;
but Merelo, with fidelity that could not be too highly praised (and
therefore he did not cease to praise it), had remained firm in his
resistance to all temptations.
There was no one his equal in covering in a moment a dozen groups, in
finding out what they were talking about, what they had been talking
about, and what they were going to talk about, in gliding between the
deputies' feet and discovering the most inviolate and carefully guarded
secrets of politics, in worrying foreign envoys with questions;
audaciously approaching the ministers, in tormenting the subordinates,
and in "cutting out of every one whatever he had in his body," sometimes
by suavity, at others by force.
Really Merelo y Garcia was in Spain the pioneer of that pleiad of young
reporters who, at the present day, make our press so illustrious; he it
was who draughted the first lineaments of bills in the forms of
questions and answers, though they afterward appeared so much changed.
Still, in Merelo's time, they were as yet, as it were, in swaddling
clothes, and Chinese and Moorish ambassadors did not answer in such a
precise and categorical manner as they do now, when the reporters ask
them, for example "How long were you on your journey? Were you able to
get any sleep?" etc., etc.
Merelo was thus better known than the postman in all official centres
and more feared than the cholera. When he made up his mind to find out
about anything, neither sour faces nor rude replies could daunt him; he
was proof against all rebuffs. It was told of him that one time when the
Minister of State had just come out from a very important diplomatic
meeting, Merelo met him with the question:--
"How now, Senor F----? is the matter of the treaty settled or not?"