Maximina Part 10

"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 p.r.i.c.k 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 ma.s.s, and intoned:--

"_Dominus vobisc.u.m!_"

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 vobisc.u.m!_" 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 a.s.sured 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 appet.i.te, 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 amus.e.m.e.nt, 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 pa.s.s 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 cl.u.s.ter around the entrance and anxiously wait for some minister to pa.s.s, 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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 doc.u.ments, the men there were lugging bars of red-hot iron in their hands, and they pa.s.sed them on from one to the other just as the deputies pa.s.sed 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.