The "Big Yard," or Uncle Rilo's House--Local Enmities.
When Salomé finished her sewing and went off to Aguila Street to
sleep, Manuel definitively settled in the home of Uncle Rilo, of
Embajadores lane. Some called this La Corrala, others, El Corralón,
still others, La Piltra, and it boasted so many other names that it
seemed as if the neighbours spent hours and hours thinking up new
designations for it.
The Corralón (Big yard)--this was the best known name of Uncle Rilo's
lair,--fronted the Paseo de las Acacias, but it was not in the direct
line of this thoroughfare, as it set somewhat back. The façade of this
tenement, low, narrow, kalso-mined, indicated neither the depth nor
the size of the building; the front revealed a few ill-shaped windows
and holes unevenly arranged, while a doorless archway gave access to a
narrow passage paved with cobblestones; this, soon widening, formed a
patio surrounded by high, gloomy walls.
From the sides of the narrow entrance passage rose brick stairways
leading to open galleries that ran along the three stories of the
house and returned to the patio. At intervals, in the back of these
galleries, opened rows of doors painted blue with a black number on
the lintel of each.
Between the lime and the bricks of the walls stuck out, like exposed
bones, jamb-posts and crossbeams, surrounded by lean bass ropes. The
gallery columns, as well as the lintels and the beams that supported
them, must formerly have been painted green, but as the result of the
constant action of sun and rain only a stray patch of the original
colour remained.
The courtyard was always filthy; in one corner lay a heap of useless
scraps covered by a sheet of zinc; one could make out grimy cloths,
decayed planks, debris, bricks, tiles, baskets: an infernal jumble.
Every afternoon some of the women would do their washing in the patio,
and when they finished their work they would empty their tubs on to
the ground, and the big pools, on drying, would leave white stains and
indigo rills of bluing. The neighbours also had the habit of throwing
their rubbish anywhere at all, and when it rained--since the mouth of
the drain would always become clogged--an unbearable, pestilential
odour would rise from the black, stagnant stream that inundated the
patio, and on its surface floated cabbage leaves and greasy papers.
Each neighbour could leave his tools and things in the section of the
gallery that bounded his dwelling; from the looks of this area one
might deduce the grade of poverty or relative comfort of each
family,--its predilections and its tastes.
This space usually revealed an attempt at cleanliness and a curious
aspect; here the wall was whitewashed, there hung a cage,--a few
flowers in earthenware pots; elsewhere a certain utilitarian instinct
found vent in the strings of garlic put out to dry or clusters of
grape suspended; beyond, a carpenter's bench and a tool-chest gave
evidence of the industrious fellow who worked during his free hours.
In general, however, one could see only dirty wash hung out on the
balustrades, curtains made of mats, quilts mended with patches of
ill-assorted colors, begrimed rags stretched over broomsticks or
suspended from ropes tied from one post to the other, that they might
get a trifle more light and air.
Every section of the gallery was a manifestation of a life apart
within this communism of hunger; this edifice contained every grade
and shade of poverty: from the heroic, garbed in clean, decent
tatters, to the most nauseating and repulsive.
In the majority of the rooms and holes of La Corrala one was struck
immediately by the resigned, indolent indigence combined with organic
and moral impoverishment.
In the space belonging to the cobbler's family, at the tip of a very
long pole attached to one of the pillars, waved a pair of
patch-covered trousers comically balancing itself.
Off from the large courtyard of El Corralón branched a causeway heaped
with ordure, leading to a smaller courtyard that in winter was
converted into a fetid swamp.
A lantern, surrounded with a wire netting to prevent the children from
breaking it with stones, hung from one of the black walls.
In the inner courtyard the rooms were much cheaper than those of the
large patio; most of them brought twenty-three reales, but there were
some for two or three pesetas per month: dismal dens with no
ventilation at all, built in the spaces under stairways and under the
roof.
In some moister climate La Corrala would have been a nest of
contagion: the wind and sun of Madrid, however,--that sun which brings
blisters to the skin,--saw to the disinfection of that pesthole.
As if to make sure that terror and tragedy should haunt the edifice,
one saw, on entering,--either at the main door or in the corridor,--a
drunken, delirious hag who begged alms and spat insults at everybody.
They called her Death. She must have been very old, or at least
appeared so. Her gaze was wandering, her look diffident, her face
purulent with scabs; one of her lower eyelids, drawn in as the result
of some ailment, exposed the bloody, turbid inside of her eyeball.
Death would stalk about in her tatters, in house slippers, with a
tin-box and an old basket into which she gathered her findings.
Through certain superstitious considerations none dared to throw her
into the street.
On his very first night in La Corrala Manuel verified, not without a
certain astonishment, the truth of what Vidal had told him. That
youngster, and almost all the gamins of his age, had sweethearts among
the little girls of the tenement, and it was not a rare occurrence, as
he passed by some nook, to come upon a couple that jumped up and ran
away.
The little children amused themselves playing bull-fight, and among
the most-applauded feats was that of Don Tancredo. One tot would get
down on all fours, and another, not very heavy, would mount him and
fold his arms, thrust back his chest and place a three-cornered hat of
paper upon his erect, haughty head.
He who was playing the bull would approach, roar loudly, sniff Don
Tancredo and pass by without throwing him over; a couple of times he
would repeat this, and then dash off. Whereupon Don Tancredo would
dismount from his living pedestal to receive the plaudits of the
public. There were wily, waggish bulls who took it into their heads to
pull both statue and pedestal to the ground, and this would be
received amidst shouts and huzzahs of the spectators.
In the meantime the girls would be playing in a ring, the women would
shout from gallery to gallery and the men would chat in their
shirtsleeves; some fellow, squatting on the floor, would scrape away
monotonously at the strings of a guitar.
La Muerte, the old beggar, would also cheer the evening gatherings
with her long discourse.
La Corrala was a seething, feverish world in little, as busy as an
anthill. There people toiled, idled, guzzled, ate and died of hunger;
there furniture was made, antiques were counterfeited, old
embroideries were fashioned, buns cooked, broken porcelain mended,
robberies planned and women's favours traded.
La Corrala was a microcosm; it was said that if all the denizens were
placed in line they would reach from Embajadores lane to the Plaza del
Progreso; it harboured men who were everything and yet nothing: half
scholars, half smiths, half carpenters, half masons, half business
men, half thieves.
In general, everybody who lived here was disoriented, dwelling in that
unending abjection produced by everlasting, irremediable poverty; many
sloughed their occupations as a reptile its skin; others had none;
some carpenters' or masons' helpers, because of their lack of
initiative, understanding and skill, could never graduate from their
apprenticeship. There were also gypsies, mule and dog clippers, nor
was there a dearth of porters, itinerant barbers and mountebanks.
Almost all of them, if opportunity offered, stole what they could;
they all presented the same pauperized, emaciated look. And all
harboured a constant rage that vented itself in furious imprecations
and blasphemies.
They lived as if sunk in the shades of a deep slumber, unable to form
any clear notion of their lives, without aspirations, aims, projects
or anything.
There were some whom a couple of glasses of wine made drunk for half a
week; others seemed already besotted, without having had a sip, and
their countenances constantly mirrored the most absolute debasement,
whence they escaped only in a fleeting moment of anger or indignation.
Money was to them, more often than not, a misfortune. Possessing an
instinctive understanding of their weakness and their frail wills,
they would resort to the tavern in quest of courage; there they would
cast off all restraint, shout, argue, forget the sorrows of the
moment, feel generous, and when, after having bragged to the top of
their bent they believed themselves ready for anything, they
discovered that they hadn't a céntimo and that the illusory strength
imbibed with the alcohol was evaporating.
The women of the house, as a rule, worked harder than the men, and
were almost always disputing. For thirty years past they had all
shared the same character and represented almost the same type: foul,
unkempt, termagacious, they--shrieked and grew desperate upon the
slightest provocation.
From time to time, like a gentle sunbeam amidst the gloom, the souls
of these stultified, bestial men,--of these women embittered by harsh
lives that held neither solace nor illusion,--would be penetrated by a
romantic, disinterested feeling of tenderness that made them live like
human beings for a while; but when the gust of sentimentalism had
blown over, they would return to their moral inertia, as resigned and
passive as ever. The permanent neighbours of La Corrala were situated
in the floors surrounding the large courtyard. In the other courtyard
the majority were transients, and spent, at most, a couple of weeks in
the house. Then, as the saying was among them, they spread wing.
One day a mender would appear with his huge bag, his brace and his
pliers, shouting through the streets in a husky voice: "Jars and tubs
to mend ... pans, dishes and plates!" After a short stay he would be
off; the following week arrived a dealer in cloth bargains, crying at
the top of his lungs his silk handkerchiefs at ten and fifteen
céntimos; another day came an itinerant hawker, his cases laden with
pins, combs and brooches, or some purchaser of gold and silver braid.
Certain seasons of the year brought a contingent of special types;
spring announced itself through the appearance of mule dealers,
tinkers, gypsies and bohemians; in autumn swarmed bands of rustics
with cheese from La Mancha and pots of honey, while winter brought the
walnut and chestnut vendors.
Of the permanent tenants in the first courtyard, those who were
intimate with Señor Ignacio included: a proof-corrector, nick-named El
Corretor; a certain Rebolledo, both barber and inventor, and four
blind men, who were known by the sobriquets El Calabazas, El Sapistas,
El Erigido and El Cuco and dwelt in harmony with their respective
wives playing the latest tangos, _tientos_ and _zarzuela_
ditties on the streets.
The proof-reader had a numerous family: his wife, his mother-in-law, a
daughter of twenty and a litter of tots; the pay he earned correcting
proof at a newspaper office was not enough for his needs and he used
to suffer dire straits. He was in the habit of wearing a threadbare
macfarland,--frayed at the edges,--a large, dirty handkerchief tied
around his throat, and a soft, yellow, grimy slouch hat.
His daughter, Milagros by name, a slender lass as sleek as a bird, had
relations with Leandro, Manual's cousin.
The sweethearts had plenty of love quarrels, now because of her
flirtations, now because of the evil life he led.
They could not get along, for Milagros was a bit haughty and a
climber, considering herself a social superior fallen upon evil days,
while Leandro, on the other hand, was abrupt and irascible.
The cobbler's other neighbour, Señor Zurro, a quaint, picturesque
type, had nothing to do with Señor Ignacio and felt for the
proof-reader a most cordial hatred. El Zurro went about forever
concealed behind a pair of blue spectacles, wearing a fur cap and
ample cassock.
"His name is Zurro (fox)," the proof-reader would say, "but he's a fox
in his actions as well; one of those country foxes that are masters of
malice and trickery."
According to popular rumour, El Zurro knew what he was about; he had a
place at the lower end of the Rastro, a dark, pestilent hovel
cluttered with odds and ends, second-hand coats, remnants of old
cloth, tapestries, parts of chasubles, and in addition, empty bottles,
flasks full of brandy and cognac, seltzer water siphons, shattered
clocks, rusty muskets, keys, pistols, buttons, medals and other
frippery.
Despite the fact that surely no more than a couple of persons entered
Señor Zurro's shop throughout the livelong day and spent no more than
a couple of reales, the second-hand dealer thrived.
He lived with his daughter Encarna, a coarse specimen of some
twenty-five years, exceedingly vulgar and the personification of
insolence, who went walking with her father on Sundays, bedecked with
jewelry. Encarna's bosom was consumed with the fires of passion for
Leandro; but that ingrate, enamoured of Milagros, was unscathed by the
soul-flames of the second-hand dealer's daughter.
Wherefore Encarna mortally hated Milagros and the members of her
family; every hour of the day she branded them as vulgarians,
starvelings, and insulted them with such scoffing sobriquets as
Mendrugo, "Beggar's Crumb," which was applied by her to the
proof-reader, and "The Madwoman of the Vatican," which meant his
daughter.
It was not at all rare for such hatreds, between persons forced almost
into living in common, to grow to violent rancour and malevolence;
thus, the members of one and the other family never looked at each
other without exchanging curses and wishes for the most disastrous
misfortunes.