During the night Cæsar Moncada and Alzugaray chatted in the train.
Alzugaray was praising this first Quixotic sally of his friend’s.
“We are going to cross the Rubicon, Cæsar,” he said, as he got into the
train.
“We shall see.”
Many times Alzugaray had heard Cæsar explain his plans, but he had no
great confidence in their realization. Nor did this particular moment
seem to him opportune for beginning the campaign. Everybody believed
that the Liberal Ministry was stronger than ever; people were still away
for the summer; nothing was doing.
Nevertheless, Cæsar insisted that the crisis was imminent, and that it
was the precise moment for him to enter politics. With this object he
was taking a letter from Alarcos, the leader of the Conservatives, to
Don Calixto García Guerrero.
“Your Don Calixto will be at San Sebastian or at some water-cure,” said
Alzugaray, taking his seat in the train.
“It’s all the same to me. I intend to follow him until I find him,”
answered Cæsar.
“And you are decided to run as a Conservative?”
“Of course.”
“I hope you won’t be sorry later.”
“Pshaw! Later one jumps into the position that suits one. On these first
rungs of political life, either you have to have great luck, or you have
to go like a grasshopper, first here, then there. That is the take-off,
and when you are there all the ambitious mediocrities unite against you
if you have any talent. Naturally, I do not intend to do anything to
exhibit mine. Spanish politics are like a pond; a strong, healthy stick
of wood goes to the bottom; a piece of bark or cork or a sheaf of straw
stays on the surface. One has to disguise oneself as a cork.”
“And later you will go on and make yourself known.”
“Naturally. Since I find myself in the vein for making comparisons, I
will say that in Spanish politics we have a case like those in the old
comedies of intrigue, where the lackeys pretend to be gentlemen. When I
am once among the gentlemen, I shall know how to prove that I am more a
master than the people surrounding me.”
“How conceited you are.”
“The confidence one feels in oneself,” said Cæsar ironically.
“But have you really got it, or do you only pretend to have?”
“What matter whether I have it or haven’t it, if I behave as if I had
it?”
“It matters a lot. It matters whether you are calm or not in the moment
of danger.”
“Calmness is the muse that inspires me. I haven’t it in my thoughts, but
in active life you shall see me!”
The two friends stretched themselves out in their first-class
compartment, and lay half asleep until dawn, when they got up again.
The train was running rapidly across the flat country; the yellow
sunlight shone into the car; through the newly sowed fields rode men on
horseback.
“These are not my dominions yet,” said Cæsar.
“We have two more stations till Castro Duro,” responded Alzugaray,
consulting the time-table. They took off their caps, put them into the
bag, Cæsar put on a fresh collar, and they sat down by the window.
“It is ugly enough, eh?” said Alzugaray.
“Naturally,” replied Cæsar. “What do you want; that there should be
some of those green landscapes like in your country, which for my part
irritate me?”