We did not sit down to dinner until three o’clock in the afternoon. We
were somewhat crowded because the dining-room was almost entirely taken
up by a huge table in the shape of a horseshoe, adorned with vases of
flowers placed at regular intervals, and pyramids of confectionery.
There were more than thirty guests present; many of the gentry from San
Andrés, several priests, a number of physicians, the adjutant of
Marines, three or four landed proprietors, judges, district politicians,
young ladies, some of my uncle’s political adherents, and even the good
Don Wenceslao Viñal, who placed himself at my side so that he might have
some one with whom to talk about his archæologico-historical whimseys.
Lupercio Pimentel, Don Vicente’s godson, had the place of honor at the
bride’s right hand. He was good looking, well mannered, an easy talker,
cordial and full of fun, after the fashion of politicians of the
present time, who, instead of relying on the force which ideas and
principles carry with them, trust to their own personal magnetism. From
the commencement of the banquet, I observed that he left no stone
unturned in order to ingratiate himself with the company; “those
elements,” as he would say. He looked around, and I heard him say,
bending toward my uncle over the bride’s shoulder:
“How is it that the Mayor of San Andrés is not here?”
“Because he is so opposed to us,” replied my uncle.
“For that very reason he ought to be here. Our friend Calvete must
afterward put his name in the list of guests,” he added, pointing to the
editor of _El Teucrense_, who bowed, greatly flattered.
After a moment’s reflection, Pimentel resumed:
“Let two go after him. If necessary, have them bring him by force, so
long as he gets here in time to hear the toasts.”
Castro Mera and the officer of Marines rose with docility, and under a
blazing sun wended their way to San Andrés, in order to bring back the
refractory and obstinate “element.”
While they were serving the soup, the great leader’s godson said to my
uncle in a low tone, yet so that his words should make due impression on
the public:
“Cánovas has made himself out of the question. He has got the opinion of
all sensible people against him. The Regency is not feasible with him. A
conservative Administration would not be feasible.”
It appeared to me--I do not know why--that many of those present did not
comprehend the meaning of the word _feasible_, but somehow took it for
granted that it all meant something very bad, and highly prejudicial to
Cánovas; but they fully understood when Pimentel observed that Pi’s
party was Utopian, and they murmured their approbation.
I scarcely listened. I was in the yew, waltzing, feeling the floor sway,
and seeing the green foliage tremble with a prolonged rustle. At the
second course I was obliged to emerge from my reverie, because the
clerical apprentice, seated at my left, took it upon himself to pinch
me, nudge my elbow, and step on my foot at every word that Pimentel
uttered.
I do not know what had come over Serafín; perhaps the two glasses of
Burgundy which he had imbibed with his soup, had stimulated his
impoverished blood and drew him out of his childish foolishness, causing
him to utter satirical and biting jests. All I affirm is, that he
accompanied his nudges and kicks with some terrible remarks worthy of a
Juvenal in a cassock.
“Behold,” he said, in a low tone, “the greatest miracle of the
miraculous boss. He has made a great man out of that creature. What do
you think of it, Salustio? And what is your opinion of the indecency of
us Galicians? We leave the temple of the Lord deserted, and worship the
golden calf--_feceruntque sibi deos aureos_. They will not make a
pilgrimage to the shrine of Our Lady of Nieves, and yet they repair to
the saint of the orange grove, to feed on offices and pap. They all do
it--not one is lacking. He who cannot get there alive will be carried
there dead. And you’ll not escape the contagion, either. You’ll worship
the miraculous saint; for if you don’t, invent all the magnetic bridges
and electric carriage-roads you please, and your countrymen will pay no
attention to you whatever. Why don’t you become a saint also, you
goose?”
Fortunately, the length of the table, the number of guests, and the hum
of conversation prevented them from hearing the string of nonsense the
ecclesiastical monkey uttered; but I could not restrain my laughter on
seeing the amazement depicted on Don Wenceslao’s face, who was seated at
my right hand.
The saint had just performed one of his miracles, in the person of the
lucky archæologist, by getting up for him a nice little salary as
librarian to the Legislature; and his face expressed the most profound
terror. If Pimentel should hear that wild talk and attribute it to him!
In spite of the customary somnambulistic condition of library mice,
Viñal sharpened his ears, perceiving the terrible risk his blessed three
hundred a year were exposed to.
“Salustio,” he said to me, in anguish, “make that silly fellow stop
talking. He is drawing attention to us. Stop him, for pity’s sake.”
The highly excited state of my nerves induced me to go contrary to the
wishes of the peace-loving scholar. I also felt inclined to sour and
pessimistic censure. What irritated me was my uncle’s aspect,
overflowing with satisfaction, while he paid more attention to Pimentel
than to his bride, and even gave a toast dedicating the banquet to the
protector of his disgraceful schemes.
“Cringing people,” I thought, “if you want to worship any one, bow down
all you like before Father Moreno, who represents the sacrifice of a
life on the altar of an idea; bow down before that bride who is the
personification of virtue and duty; but as for doing it before him whose
only merit consists in distributing pap!--I also am disposed to give
vent to my feelings. Serafín is not far out of the way.”
Not knowing how to relieve my impatience, and without paying the
slightest attention to Viñal, who was pulling at my sleeve, I improved
the first opportunity to contradict Pimentel. I think it was about Pi
and his Utopias--and the things that were feasible or not feasible. It
caused a great sensation when they heard me dare to raise my voice in
such an inconsiderate manner, and my uncle looked at me with an
expression which redoubled my ardor.
“You say the Republic is not feasible here? And why not, I want to know?
We cannot possibly prolong the abject state of anarchy in which we now
live. We are suffering from the drawbacks of a monarchy, and,
nevertheless, do not enjoy its advantages. There is no cohesion, no
unity, while political customs have deteriorated so greatly that
nowadays the public man who aspires to set an example of morality
appears ridiculous, and he who holds any opinions of his own likewise.”
Pimentel turned toward me, replying with calm courtesy:
“What you desire and what we all desire, in fact, might answer for other
races--oh, yes, for northern races; but here, with the Arab blood in our
veins, and our everlasting rebelliousness--oh, it would be impossible,
utterly impossible!”
Nobody was a more ardent defender of civil rights than he; his
sacrifices were well known to all (they bowed assent), “but let us not
confound, gentlemen, let us not confound anarchy and license with a
just, reasonable, and feasible liberty. The northern countries produce
statesmen because the masses are already educated for political freedom;
it comes to them through hereditary transmission, if one may so say--it
is hereditary. If you don’t believe it, just look at the theories of
Thiers--English public opinion----”
I, not knowing how to extricate myself, caught hold of Thiers like a
drowning man catching at a straw.
“It must be the French opinion you mean, sir; for you cannot be ignorant
that Thiers was a----”
I purposely made a pause, during which my adversary looked at me with
some anxiety.
“Thiers was a Frenchman.”
The priest from San Andrés timidly ventured to say, from his corner:
“Of course he was a Frenchman, for it was he who restored peace to
France after the Commune.”
As I looked around to observe the impression my words had made, I
noticed that Don Román’s face expressed disapprobation and surprise,
while my uncle’s was flushed with anger, and Father Moreno’s lighted up
by a roguish smile.
Pimentel replied, somewhat confused: “Of course he was a Frenchman; we
were not speaking of that, I believe. We were discussing English public
opinion,--for, there is no doubt about it, England is the land of
self-government, as the renowned Azcarate proved so conclusively,--while
we--our idiosyncrasy--it will not do to implant here what in other
nations more--it will not be feasible; because every ruler has to
consider the inherent tendencies of the race.”
“That is all talk,” I argued; “generalities, which prove nothing. Let us
come closer to the point, if you please. We have nothing to do with
races. We are talking about the Spanish Republic, to which all those who
are in authority to-day, big and little, had committed themselves, but
which they betrayed for thirty pieces of silver, like Judas. Would they
do the same by the Restoration, if it had not given them full swing with
the Government’s salary-list?”
I did not perceive the insolence of my attack, until I heard Serafín
exclaim in his harsh voice, clapping his hands:
“That’s it! Go on, that’s where the shoe pinches.”
Pimentel wiped his mustache with his napkin, turned his head toward me,
and instead of answering me in an angry manner, smilingly agreed with
me, saying:
“That is very true, Señor Meléndez. The tact of the Restoration in
compromising with the revolutionary elements has rendered feasible that
which under other circumstances--”
His speech was interrupted just then by the arrival of the Mayor of San
Andrés, who was almost dragged in by the committee that had gone in
quest of him at their young chief’s command. They must all have run up
the hill, for they were dreadfully out of breath.
The Mayor was in a dripping sweat, and kept mopping his face with an
enormous handkerchief. He stammered out that he did not consider that he
was called upon to sit down at such a fine banquet; but Pimentel, as
sweet as honey, seized his hand, found a place for him at his own side,
and endeavored by every means in his power to gain the good will of his
political opponent.
I should not be able to give the _menu_ of that tiresome dinner. It
seemed as though all the dishes enumerated in cook-books kept coming on
the table, while the stupidity of the servants, and their inexperience
in serving, prolonged the dinner indefinitely. The most difficult task
of all would be to give a detailed account of the wines, the sweets, the
liqueurs, the endless pastry, the coarse Pontevedra preserves, and the
cakes sent by this or that neighbor, which, as the donors themselves
were present, could not possibly be slighted.
I drank five or six glasses of champagne, but the only effect they had
on me was to revive the belligerent spirit which had induced me to
attack Pimentel. I felt quarrelsome, aggressive, quixotic, and desirous
of pitching into everybody, right and left. And beneath that singular
effervescence I felt the throbbing of a dumb ache in the depths of my
heart, a sort of longing for something I seemed to have lost. I cannot
define it for it was one of those subtle, vivid feelings which sometimes
do not correspond to any deep mental need, but to certain fantastical
whims thwarted by stern reality.
The bride, at whom I glanced furtively from time to time, had a dejected
and weary appearance. This was very likely nothing more than the fatigue
caused by the long time they were at the table, but I fancied that it
was melancholy, the bitterness of the chalice she had put to her lips,
the foretaste of the bitter draught.
And why not? Had I not overheard the conversation in the yew tree? Was I
not positive that my uncle inspired her with an inexplicable feeling of
aversion, and that only in order to perform a moral duty, the
“categorical imperative” of her faith, had she drawn near to the altar,
a veritable sacrificial altar for her? I wanted, at all hazards, to
penetrate into the depths of her inmost soul, and read that gentle and
suffering spirit. What could she be thinking about? What can she hope
for? What can the fair bride be afraid of?
Meanwhile, the champagne, which had only quickened my imagination, began
to affect the others more strongly, as was shown by their flushed faces,
flashing eyes, somewhat obstreperous voices, unwarrantable and vehement
loquacity, loud laughter, and silly effusiveness. Pimentel, although
more decorous and self-possessed than the rest, became animated also,
discussing with my uncle a grand project which would assuredly be an
epoch-making event in the annals of the Sotopeña party; nothing less
than to convert the procession in honor of the Virgin into an imposing
political manifestation, Don Vicente himself to carry the standard,
while all the people of Pontevedra and its vicinity, for seven leagues
around, would turn out to furnish an escort of honor to their provincial
divinities, the Virgin and their wonder-working saint. Some of the
priests were listening to this project, and highly applauded it,
exclaiming: “Excellent--give Catholic sentiment the first place; that’s
the way!” Castro Mera was vehemently insisting on the excellency of law,
a young man from San Andrés was challenging another from Pontevedra to
see which could drink the greatest quantity of Curaçoa; the officer of
Marines was disputing with the Mayor about the fishing tackle prohibited
by law; Serafín was laughing convulsively because Viñal was maintaining
with great energy that he had documents which proved that Tenero had
founded Hellenes, and was even boasting that he knew the spot where
Tenero was probably buried.
Don Román Aldao at last determined to make a move, telling the rest of
the guests not to disturb themselves, for he was only going to show
Pimentel the grounds and to take a little fresh air. The bride went off
leaning on Pimentel’s arm, while her father and the bridegroom followed
them arm in arm. As soon as they left, the rest became more animated,
and the hullabaloo grew so loud that nobody could make himself
understood. Some were disputing, others laughing loudly, others were
arguing and pounding the table, already stained with wine and dotted
with bits of cake and sweetmeats. Nobody was eating any more; they only
kept on drinking, consuming an extraordinary amount of wines and
liqueurs. The young gentleman from San Andrés, the one who had made the
wager, had been obliged to go to the window to cool his heated brow,
while the other one, from Pontevedra, was still unmoved in spite of the
prodigious quantity of wine he had guzzled down, and was entertaining
himself by teasing Serafín. He had already made him drink a quart of
spirits, and now was amusing himself by pouring out sherry and Pajarete
for him through a cylindrical bit of pastry, used as a funnel.
The acolyte would sometimes protest, sometimes swallow it down, while
his pale and distorted face revealed the effects of the alcohol. Finally
he asserted himself, and shouted in a bellowing tone:
“No more; I don’t want any more! Get out, I am not a sponge!”
He pushed away the other’s hand, and the sherry was spilt over his shirt
front, soaking it completely. Suddenly his paleness turned into an
apoplectic flush, and mounting his chair he began to harangue the
company:
“Gentlemen, I know I am not doing right to stay here. It would only
serve me right if you were to drown me in Pa-Pa-jarete--or some other
Liberal poison. You are all Liberals--the first is proved _per se_--_per
se_.”
“Per _so_!” shrieked Castro Mera, and the officer of Marines.
“To be a Liberal constitutes a greater sin than to be a homicide, an
adulterer, or a blasphemer. This second proposition I can prove by Sardá
and the fathers of the church at my tongue’s end. Therefore I, who drink
Pajarete with you, am liable to the major excommunication--_Catæ
sententiæ!_ Don’t you know what a big-bug of the ecclesiastical
hierarchy once said? Don’t you know, you blockheads? He! he! he! Well,
he said: ‘_Cum ejus modi nec cibum sumere_’--Hey? It seems that he made
it clear enough. _Cum ejus modi nec Pajaritum su--sum--_”
I looked at him with curiosity. There was no doubt that sometimes that
toad was sincere in his ravings, and that his true feelings bubbled
forth from his lips. The acolyte considered himself nothing less than an
apostle, and talked away, threatening us with his fists. His cries
became hoarser, his throat contracted, and his eyes, which looked like
two big white balls, seemed to start from their sockets. Suddenly he
passed from words to deeds, and seizing the bottle near him threatened
to throw it at our heads. What most excited his fury was Pimentel’s
project for the civico-political procession. That drove him wild.
Strange effect of drunkenness! When in his normal state, and free from
vinous influences, the clerical apprentice was very meek and humble; but
as soon as he was under the influence of alcohol he became belligerent
and aggressive. He abused us all soundly, and freed his mind especially
regarding Sotopeña. I clearly perceived that trouble would ensue, for
Castro Mera, somewhat elevated also, rushed to the fray, defending right
and left the political principles which the little priest was berating;
and as the latter was replying with fearful invectives,--or, rather,
insulting epithets,--I suddenly saw him froth at the mouth, heard his
maudlin laugh, saw him double his fists, and noticed that his wandering
hands were seeking among the plates and glasses for a weapon--a knife. I
restrained Castro Mera, saying, in a low tone, “He has a terrific
epileptic fit.”
In fact Serafín was already struggling in the arms of several, who
rushed forward to hold him, with herculean strength, or rather a
formidable nervous force, a momentary effect of the seizure; he fought
like a wild animal, biting, scratching, and kicking so that at times we
thought that he would overpower us all.
Finally we succeeded in tying his hands with a handkerchief. We deluged
him with cologne, cold water and vinegar; we picked him up by his feet
and shoulders, and with great difficulty succeeded in taking him up to
the tower, and throwing him upon his bed, where he lay in a heavy
stupor, broken at intervals by short, sudden spasms.