Читать книгу A Christian Woman - condesa de Emilia Pardo Bazán - Страница 5

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You will see by the following list the course of studies that the State obliged me to master in order to enter the School of Engineering: arithmetic and algebra as a matter of course; geometry equally so; besides, trigonometry and analytics, and, finally, descriptive geometry and the differential calculus. In addition to these mathematical studies, French, only held together with pins, if the truth must be told, and English very hurriedly basted; and as for that dreadful German, I would not put tooth to it even in jest—the Gothic letters inspired me with such great respect. Then there was the everlasting drawing—linear, topographic, and landscape even, the latter being intended, I presume, to enable an engineer, while managing his theodolite and sights, to divert himself innocently by scratching down some picturesque scene in his album—after the manner of English misses on their travels.

After entrance came the “little course,” so called, in order that we might not be afraid of it. It embraced only four studies—to wit, integral calculus, theoretical mechanics, physics, and chemistry. During the year of the “little course,” we had no more drawing to do; but in the following, which is the first year of the course properly speaking, we were obliged, besides going deep into materials of construction, applied mechanics, geology, and cubic mensuration, to take up new kinds of drawing—pen-drawing, shading and washing.

I was not one of the most hard-working students, nor yet one of the most stupid—I say it as shouldn’t. I could grind away when it was necessary, and could exercise both patience and perseverance in those branches where, the power of intellect not being sufficient, one must have recourse to a parrot-like memory. I failed to pass several times, but it is impossible to avoid such mishaps in taking a professional course in which they deliberately tighten the screws on the students, in order that only a limited number may graduate to fill the vacant posts. I was sure of success, sooner or later; and my mother, who paid for the cost of my tuition, with the assistance of her only brother, was as patient as her disposition would allow her to be with my failures. I assured her that they were not numerous and that, when I finally emerged a full-fledged civil engineer, I should have in my pocket the four hundred and fifty dollar salary, besides extras.

Nor were all my failures avoidable, even if I had been as assiduous as possible in my studies. I was all run down and sick for one year, finally having an attack of varioloid; and this reason, with others not necessary to enumerate, will explain why at the age of twenty-one I found myself still in the second year of the course, although I enjoyed the reputation of being a studious youth and quite well informed—that is to say, I yet lacked three years.

The year before, the first year of the course strictly speaking, I was obliged to let some studies go over to the September examinations. I attribute that disagreeable occurrence to the bad influence I was under, in a certain boarding-house, where the evil one tempted me to take up my abode. The time I passed there left undying recollections in my memory, which bring a smile to my lips and indiscreet joy to my soul whenever I evoke them. I will give some idea of the place, so that the reader may judge whether Archimedes himself would have been capable of studying hard in such a den.

There are several houses in Madrid at the present date—for example, the Corralillos, the Cuartelillos, the Tócame Roque—all very similar to the one I am about to describe. Within that abode dwelt the population of a small-sized village; it had three courts with balconies, on which opened the doors of the small rooms—or pigeon-holes one might call them—with their respective numbers on the lintels. There was no lack of immodest and quarrelsome inmates; there were street musicians singing couplets to the accompaniment of a tuneless guitar; cats in a state of high nervous excitement scampering from garret to garret, or jumping from balustrade to balustrade—now impelled by amorous feelings, now by a brick thrown at them full force. Clothes and dish-cloths were hung out to dry; ragged petticoats and patched underwear, all mixed up pell-mell. There were pots of sweet basil and pinks in the windows; and in fact, everything would be found there that abounds in such dens in Madrid—so often described by novelists and shown forth by painters in their sketches from real life.

The third suite on the right had been hired by Josefa Urrutia, a Biscayan, the ex-maid of the marchioness of Torres-Nobles. At first her business was pretty poor, and she sank deeper and deeper in debt. At last she got plenty of boarders, and when I took up my abode in the “dining-room bed-room,” the place was in its glory; she had not a single vacant apartment. All the boarders paid their dues honestly, if they had the money, with certain exceptions, and the reason of these I will reveal under the seal of profound secrecy.

A certain Don Julián occupied the parlor, which was the best room on the floor. He was a Valencian, jolly and gay; a great spendthrift, fond of jokes and fun, and an inveterate gambler. They said that he had come to Madrid in quest of an office, which he never succeeded in getting; nevertheless the candidate lived like a prince, and instead of helping with his board to keep up Pepa’s business, it was whispered about that he lived there gratis, and even took from time to time small sums from her, destined to go off in the dangerous coat-tails of the knave of hearts.

However, these little private weaknesses of Pepa Urrutia’s would never have come to light, if it had not been for the green-eyed monster. The Biscayan was furiously jealous of a handsome neighbor, who was fond of flirting with all the boarders opposite, as I have indubitable evidence. In a fit of desperation Pepa would sometimes shriek at the top of her lungs, and would call out “swindler; rogue!” adding, “If you had any decency, you would pay me at once what you have wheedled out of me, and what you owe me.”

On such occasions Don Julián would stick his hands in his pockets, firmly shut his jaws, and, silent as the grave, pace up and down the parlor. His silence would exasperate Pepa still more, and sometimes she would go off into hysterics; and after showering injurious epithets on the Valencian, she would rush out, slamming the door so as to shake the whole building.

Then a stout, florid, bald-headed man, about fifty years old, with a nice pleasant face, would appear in the passage-way, and with a strongly marked Portuguese accent, inquire of the irate landlady:

“Pepiña, what ails you?”

“Nothing at all,” she would reply, making a stampede into the kitchen, and muttering dreadful oaths in her Basque dialect. We would hear her knocking the kettles and frying pans about, and after a little while the cheerful sputtering of oil would announce to us that anyhow potatoes and eggs were frying, and that breakfast would soon be ready.

The stout, bald-headed gentleman, who had the back parlor, was a Portuguese physician who had come to Madrid to bring a lawsuit against the Administration for some claim or other he had against it. He was an ardent admirer of Spanish popular music, like most Portuguese, and he would pass the whole blessed day in a chair, near the balcony—dressed as lightly as possible in jacket and linen pantaloons (it was in the month of June, I must observe), a Scotch cap, with floating streamers concealing his bald pate—and strumming on a guitar, to the harsh and discordant accompaniment of which he would sing the following words:

Love me, girl of Seville, beauteous maid, spotless flower,

For with the sound of my guitar my heart beats for thee,

Here he would break off his song to look toward the window of a young washerwoman, ugly enough in appearance, but lively and sociable. She would stand at the window laughing and making eyes at him. The Portuguese would sigh, and exclaim in broken Spanish: “Moy bunita!” and then, attacking his guitar with renewed zest, would finish his song:

Oh, what grief, if she is false—no, fatal doubt flee far from me.

Ah, what joy is love when one finds a heavenly soul!

When he was done, he would draw a straw cigar-case from his breast pocket, with a package of cigarettes and some matches. Hardly would he have finished lighting the first one, when a young man, twenty-four years old—one of Pepa’s boarders also, whom I looked upon for a long time as the personification of an artist—would burst into the room. His surname was Botello, but I never thought to inquire his Christian name. He was fine looking, of good height, wore his hair rumpled, not too long, but thick and curly, and he looked something like a mulatto—like Alexandre Dumas, with his great thick lips, mustache like Van Dyke’s, bright black eyes, and a fine, dark complexion. We used to tease him, calling him Little Dumas every hour of the day.

Why had Pepa Urrutia’s boarders made up their minds that Botello was an artist? Even now, when I think of it, I cannot understand why. Botello had never drawn a line, nor murdered a sonata, nor scrawled an article, nor written a poor drama, not even a simple farce in one act; yet we all had the firm conviction that Botello was a finished artist.

I think that this conviction sprang from his careless and slovenly attire more than from his way of living, or his striking and genial countenance. In all sorts of weather, he would wear a close-fitting blue cloth overcoat, which he declared belonged to the Order of the Golden Fleece, because the collar and cuffs displayed a broad band of grease, and the front a lamb, figured in stains. This precious article of apparel was such an inseparable companion that he wore it in the street, washed and shaved in it, and even threw it over his bed, as a covering, while he slept. His trousers were frayed around the bottom, his boots were worn down at the heels, and the cracked leather allowed his stockings to be seen, smeared with ink so that their incautious whiteness might not appear. With all that, Botello’s handsome head and graceful form did not lose all their attractiveness even in such a guise; on the contrary, his very rags, when seen upon his elegant figure, acquired a certain mysterious grace.

Another distinctive phase of Botello’s character, which made him resemble a Bohemian of the artistic type, was his happy-go-lucky disposition, as well as his contempt for labor, and utter ignorance of the realities of life. Botello was the son of a judge, and the nephew of a nobleman’s steward. When Botello’s father died, he was left under his uncle’s charge, who lodged and fed him, and gave him an allowance of two hundred and fifty dollars, only demanding that Botello should be in bed by twelve o’clock. He did not oblige him to study, nor take any pains to give him an education; but when he discovered that his nephew passed every evening at the Bohemian café or at some low resort, and came home at all hours of the night, letting himself in with a latch-key so as not to be heard, he made the welkin ring. Instead of trying to reform him, he ignominiously drove him out of his house.

Without any occupation, with only twenty-one dollars a month to keep him, Botello wandered from boarding-house to boarding-house, each one worse than the last, until in a gaming-saloon he made the acquaintance of Don Julián, the lord and master of Pepa’s heart. Thus he came to our dwelling, drawn by this new bond of friendship. From that hour, Botello found an exemplary guardian in the Valencian. Don Julián took it upon himself to draw the young man’s monthly allowance, and then off he would rush to the tavern or gaming-house to try his luck. If he got a windfall of one or two hundred dollars, he could give Botello his twenty-one, and even, occasionally, add a few more; but if fate were unpropitious, Botello might take leave of his money forever. As he sorely needed funds, the ward would then engage in a lively tussle with his guardian.

“Well, now, señor mio, how shall I get along this month?” he would ask. Just then a providential apparition would present itself in Pepa, who would come to the rescue of her dear extortioner, while she screamed loudly, threatening Botello:

“Be quiet, be quiet! I will wait.”

“What of that?” the unfortunate youth would reply; “he has not left me even a dime to buy tobacco.”

Pepa would then put her hand in her pocket, and, drawing out a grimy quarter, would exclaim:

“There now, buy yourself a package of cigarettes.”

But when Pepa’s quarters were scarce, or even when they were not, Botello would have recourse to the Portuguese. He would be in the latter’s room as soon as he heard him strike a match to light a cigarette, and half jokingly, half in earnest, would tease for some, until the best part of the package would find its way into the Bohemian’s pocket. As the Portuguese was accustomed to the ways and disposition of little Dumas—who was a genuine artist, as he solemnly assured everybody he met—he never took his jokes seriously, nor did he get offended on account of the marauding inroads into his pockets. On the contrary, one would say that the musical physician’s heart was wonderfully drawn to Botello by his very pranks, even though he often carried his practical jokes too far. I will mention one as an instance.

As the Portuguese was obliged to make calls and to present his letters of recommendation, in order to hasten the execution of his business, he ordered a hundred very glossy visiting-cards with his name, “Miguel de los Santos Pinto,” engraved in beautiful script. Botello happened to see them, and showed them to everybody in the house; expressing his amazement that a Portuguese should have so few surnames. He wanted to add at least, “Teixeira de Vasconcellos Palmeirim Junior de Santarem do Morgado das Ameixeiras,” so that it should be more in character. We got that out of his head, but his next idea was even worse. He surreptitiously laid hold of the pen and India ink, which I used for my drawings and my plans, and wrote carefully under “Miguel de los Santos Pinto” this appendage, “Corno de Boy” (Ox-horn). In order not to take the trouble of adding it to all the cards, he did so to twenty-five only, and hid the rest.

The next day the Portuguese went out to make some calls, and left ten or twelve of the cards at different places. The following Sunday he met an acquaintance in Arenal Street, who, half-choked with laughter, stopped him, saying, “Why, Don Miguel, is your name really Corno de Boy? Is there any such name in your country?”

“What do you mean?” said the embarrassed Portuguese. “Of course not; my name is simply Santos Pinto; nothing more.”

“Well, just look at this card.”

“Let me see, let me see!” murmured the poor man. “It really does say so!” he exclaimed in amazement, on reading the addition.

“The engraver must have made a mistake,” added his friend, jocosely.

But Don Miguel did not swallow that, and as soon as he reached the house showed the card to Botello, and demanded an explanation of the sorry jest. The big scamp so warmly protested that he was innocent, that he succeeded in diverting Don Miguel’s suspicions toward me.

“Don’t you see,” he said, “Salustio has the very pen and ink with which that was written, in his room now? Don’t trust those quiet people. Oh, these proper fellows!”

In consequence of this Macchiavellian scheme, the good-natured Portuguese singled me out for his jealous suspicion, although I had never meddled with him in my life. But I firmly believe that his blindness was voluntary, because he could not have had the slightest doubt in regard to some other malicious pranks that Botello perpetrated.

One day when he was playing dominoes with his victim, Botello managed to put a paper crown, with donkey’s ears, on the latter’s head, so that the nymph of the ironing-table might be convulsed with laughter, for she was watching the whole performance. Then, one day, he pinned long strips of paper upon his coat-tails, so that when he went out in the street all the street Arabs hooted at him. Nevertheless, the fondness of the Portuguese for Botello never failed. When Botello lacked money to pay for a ball ticket, he would go to Don Miguel and ask for half a dollar, and exhaust all his eloquence in trying to persuade him that he ought to go on a frolic also. When the Portuguese would refuse, making the excuse that he did not want to displease the washerwoman, Botello would retort, calling him a booby. As the Portuguese did not understand that word, and appeared somewhat offended, Botello would make a movement as if to return the half-dollar. “Take it, take it, if you are angry with me,” the sly youth would exclaim. “My personal dignity will not allow me to accept favors from any one who looks at me in that way. You are angry, aren’t you now?”

“I can never be angry with you,” the Portuguese would reply, putting the money into his hand by main force; then turning toward the rest of us who were witnessing this scene, he would say with the most kindly smile I have ever seen on any human countenance: “This rapacious rogue! But he is a great artist.”

Then he would go back to his place at the window, and strum on his guitar.

The reader must acknowledge that there was no opportunity for applying one’s mind to methodical, engrossing, and difficult study in a house where such scenes occurred every moment of the day. The bursts of laughter, alternating with frequent squabbles; the racing up and down the halls; the continual going in and out of lazy fellows who, not knowing how to kill time, endeavor to make the studious ones lose it; the irregularity of our meals; the confidential way we had of living in each other’s rooms; the being up all night, and getting out of bed at midday, did not greatly help a student to win distinction in the School of Engineering. On the other hand, the contagion of joking and mirth could not possibly be withstood at my age.

Other students boarded there; some attending the University, others the School of Mountain Engineering, and others the School of Architecture; but none of them was a prodigy of learning. Perhaps I was ahead of them all in diligent application to my studies; but as my subjects were very difficult, it turned out that I found myself put over to the September examinations that year. Consequently I was obliged to spend my vacation in Madrid, and was unable to enjoy the cool breezes of my home in the province.

That summer would have been wearisome indeed, and unbearable, if I had not been surrounded by such jolly and frolicsome people, and if the good-natured Portuguese had not afforded us such fun by submitting to the endless pranks of Botello.

When there was no other way of killing an afternoon, little Dumas would snap his fingers and say, throwing back his perspiring head so as to brush away the thick black mane, which was suffocating him:

“Let us play a trick on Corno de Boy. Who will help me catch some bugs?”

“Catch bugs?”

“Yes, just make a cornucopia and fill it with bugs to the top. The small ones will not do; they must be big ones.”

Then every one would go to his room to engage in the strange hunt. Unfortunately, it was not difficult. As soon as we searched under our beds, or our pillows, we would quickly collect a dozen or more fearful fellows. We would carry our tributes to the inventor of the practical joke, and he would put them all together. As soon as we knew that the Portuguese was in bed, we would take off our shoes, and, repressing our desire to laugh, would station ourselves at his door. As soon as Don Miguel began to snore, Botello would softly raise the latch, and, as the headboard was next the door, all that the imp of an artist had to do was to open the cornucopia and scatter the contents over the head and face of the sleeping man. After this was accomplished, Botello would close the door very quietly, while we, convulsed with laughter, and pinching one another in sheer excitement, would wait for the pitched battle to begin. Hardly two minutes would elapse before we would hear the Portuguese turn over in bed. Then we would hear broken and unintelligible phrases; then strong ejaculations; then the scratching of a match, and his astonished exclamation, “By Jove!”

We would come forward with great hypocrisy, inquiring whether he was sick or whether anything had happened. “By Jove!” the good man would exclaim; “pests here, and pests everywhere. By Jove! Ugh!”

The next day we would advise him to change his room; and he would do so, hoping to find some relief; but we would repeat the same performance.

So we managed to kill time during the dog-days, with these stupid practical jokes. What most surprised me was that the Portuguese, who was always the butt of them, never thought of changing his boarding-house nor even gave his persecutor a drubbing.

When I passed in my deficient subjects in September, I was obliged to exert all my energy and resolution in order to do what I thought the Portuguese should have done—that is, to change my boarding-house. The attraction of a gay and idle life, my pleasant intercourse with Botello, for whom it was impossible not to feel a compassionate regard, similar to tenderness; the very defects and inconveniences of that abode, made me much fonder of it than was expedient. But reason finally triumphed. “Life is a treasure too precious to be squandered in boyish pranks and stupid practical jokes,” I reflected, as I was packing up my effects preparatory to taking myself off somewhere else. “If that unfortunate Botello is an idle dreamer, and has made up his mind to fetch up in a public hospital, I, for my part, am determined to acquire a profession, take life seriously, and be my own lord and master. The people in this house are poor deluded mortals, destined to end in nameless wretchedness. I must go where one can work.”

Notwithstanding all this, my heart felt heavy when I took leave of them all. Pepa’s tears flowed freely at losing a good boarder who, she declared, always paid punctually and never gave her the slightest trouble. My eyes were not filled with tears, but I felt as much regret as though I were parting with some of my dearest friends, while I embraced Botello, and cordially pressed the hand of the good Portuguese. As I walked behind the porter who carried my trunk, I explained my emotion to myself in the following words: “This picturesque irregularity, this predominance of feeling and jolly good humor and contempt for serious life, which I observe in Pepa Urrutia’s house and among her boarders, have a certain charm, inasmuch as they make up a kind of romanticism innate in our countrymen—a romanticism which I also suffer from. That dwelling seems like a community founded not on a basis of socialism but on a total lack of common sense and brains. I have met several persons there who are so very good that they are totally devoid of discretion or common sense. I suppose that I shall miss them greatly at first, for that very reason, and shall feel homesick; and as years roll on my imagination will invest everything connected with them with a poetic glamor, even to the episode of the bugs. Nevertheless, I am worth more than what I am leaving behind me, because I am capable of tearing myself away from that place.” My pride consoled me, by whispering to me, that I was better bred and more energetic than Pepa’s boarders.