CHAPTER IX IN WHICH SE?OR SABADíA ABUSES WORDS AND WINE

YEARS ago in the Calle de Librerías, in a little corner near the Cuesta de Luján, there stood a silversmith’s shop, with an awning stretched over the doorway, a very narrow show-case in which a number of rosaries, rings, medals, and crosses were displayed, and a miserable half-obliterated sign with these words: “Salvador’s Shop.” From one end of this sign, symbolically, hung a pair of pasteboard scales.

Salvador, the proprietor of this silversmith’s shop, was a wealthy bachelor who had lived with a sister for many years before her death.

At the time of my story, Don Andrés, as the silversmith was called, was a man of some sixty years, small, clean-shaven, with white hair, rosy cheeks, clear eyes, and smiling lips. He resembled a silver medal.

With all his sweet, beatific countenance, Don Andrés was at heart, an egoist. Possessing little intelligence and less courage, life made a coward of him. He had an idea that things advanced too rapidly, and was, therefore, an enemy to all innovations. Any change whatever, even if it were beneficial, disturbed him profoundly.

“We have lived like this so far,” he would say, “and I can see no necessity for any change.”

Don Andrés Salvador was equally conservative in his[106] business: all he had was an ability for work that required patience. Rosaries, crosses, rings, and medals left his house by the gross, but everything manufactured in his shop was always the same; unchanged, and unimproved—wrought with the same old-fashioned and decadent taste.

Besides being a conservative, Don Andrés was distrust personified; he did not want any one to see him at work. At that time, repoussé work was still something mysterious and secret, and the silversmith, to prevent any one from surprising his secrets, shut himself up in his own room when he was about to make something of importance, and there worked unseen.

One morning when Don Andrés was standing in the doorway of his shop, he saw a girl running toward him along the Calle de la Feria, pursued by an old woman.

His instinct as a law-abiding citizen made him go out and stop the girl.

“Let me go, Se?or,” she cried.

“No. Is that your mother following you?”

“No, she isn’t my mother,” and the child began to cry disconsolately. In a broken voice she told him how she had been ill for some time in a hut on the Calle de la Feria, and how, when she had become well, the mistress of the house had tried to force her to remain as her ward, and how she had escaped.

By this time the old woman had come up behind the girl, and as a group of children began to form around the shop door, the silversmith led the two women inside.

He asked the old woman if what the girl had said was true, and the Celestina in her confusion said that it was, but defended herself by declaring that she had kept the girl because she had not paid for what she had spent on[107] medicines during her illness, and for dresses, stockings, and underclothes with which to clothe her.

The silversmith realized that it was a matter of an infamous exploitation, and whether he was indignant at this, or whether he was touched by the girl’s appearance, the fact is, he said with more vehemence than he was accustomed to use:

“I see, Se?ora Consolación, that you are trying to exploit this child in an evil way. Leave her alone, for she will return your clothes, and go back to your house; for if you don’t, I shall warn the authorities, and you will rest your old bones in jail.”

The old woman, who knew the influence and prestige the silversmith enjoyed in the district, began once more to complain of the great prejudice they had against her, but Don Andrés cut her argument short by saying:

“Either you get out, or I will call the alguacil.”

The Celestina said not another word, but tied her handkerchief about her neck as if she wished to strangle herself with it, and moved off down the street, spouting curses as she went.

The girl and the silversmith were left alone in the shop. He followed the old woman with his eyes as she went screaming along the Calle de la Feria among the noisy people who came running to their doorways as she passed. When she was out of sight, he said to the girl:

“You can go now. She’s gone.”

When she heard this, the girl began to sob again.

“For God’s sake, don’t send me away, Se?or! For God’s sake!”

“I’m not going to send you away. You may stay a while if you wish.”

“No. Let me stay here always. You are good. I’ll[108] be your servant, and you won’t have to give me a thing for it.”

“No, no—I cannot,” replied the silversmith.

Then the child knelt on the floor, and with her arms thrown wide apart, said:

“Se?or! Se?or! Let me stay!”

“No, no. Get up! Don’t be silly.”

“Then if I kill myself,” she cried as she regained her feet, “it will be your fault.”

“Not mine.”

“Yes, yours,” and the girl, changing her tone, added, “But you don’t want me to go. You won’t throw me out; you’ll let me live here; I’ll serve you, and take care of you; I’ll be your servant, and you needn’t give me a thing for it; and I will thank you and pray for you.”

“But, what will people say?” murmured Don Andrés, who foresaw a complication in his life.

“I swear to you by the Carmen Virgin,” she exclaimed, “that I won’t give them a chance to talk, for nobody shall see me. You’ll let me live here, won’t you?”

“How can I help it! You stick a dagger into one’s heart. We’ll give it a try. But let me warn you about one thing: the first time I notice a failing—even if it is only a man hanging around the house—I’ll throw you out immediately.”

“No one will hang around.”

“Then I shall give you some old clothes this very minute, and you may send those to Se?ora Consolación’s house. Then go to work in the kitchen immediately.”

And so it was done; and Fuensanta, for the girl was Fuensanta, the daughter of El Mojoso, entered the house of the silversmith as a servant, and became, as she had[109] promised, circumspect, submissive, silent and industrious.

Little by little the silversmith grew fond of her; Don Andrés’ sister had been a basilisk, a violent and ill-tempered old maid for whose fits of bad temper he had always suffered. Fuensanta paid the old man delicate attentions to which he was unaccustomed, and he looked forward to an old age in an atmosphere of affection and respect.

“See here,” Don Andrés once said to her, “you must not be separated from your son. Bring the boy here.”

Fuensanta went to Obejo, and returned the following day with the boy. He was three years old, and a regular savage. Fuensanta, who realized that such a wild creature would not please such an orderly and meticulous person as the silversmith, always kept him segregated on the roof, where the little lad passed the long hours in play.

After she had been in Don Andrés Salvador’s house for three years, Fuensanta got married.

Among the agents and pedlars who were supplied in the shop, there was a young man, Rafael by name, whom they nicknamed El Pende.

This Rafael was at that time a gracious, pleasant chap of some twenty-odd years; he had the reputation of being lazy—firstly because he came from the Santa Marina district, and secondly because he was the son of Matapalos, one of the biggest loafers in Cordova.

Matapalos, a distinguished member of the Pende dynasty, was a carpenter, and such a poor one, so they said, that the only things he could make were wedges, and even these never came out straight.

El Pende junior, in spite of his reputation as a loafer,[110] used to work. He took up the business of peddling from town to town; selling necklaces and rosaries throughout the entire highlands, and buying old gold and lace wherever he went.

He was a gaudy and elegant lad, who spent nearly everything he earned on jewels and good clothes.

“I’d rather wear jewels than eat,” he said.

Rafael, or El Pende, as you will, began promptly to pay court to the girl. She duly checked his advances, but he grew stronger under punishment, and she, seeing that the man persisted, told him the story of her misfortune.

El Pende made light of it all. He was very much enamoured, or perhaps he saw something in the woman that others had missed for, though she had no money, nor any possibility of inheriting any, he did not give up trying until he succeeded in persuading her to marry him.

“Now I’ve got to persuade the master,” said Fuensanta, after coming to an understanding with her sweetheart. “Because, if he opposes us—I won’t marry you.”

Slowly, insinuatingly, Fuensanta prepared the ground day by day. Allowing herself to stumble, she suggested the idea of marriage to the silversmith, until Don Andrés himself advised his servant to marry, and pointed out to her the advantages she would have should she join herself to Rafael.

They were married, and lived in an attic next the roof. The silversmith gladly granted them the attic, for they scared away thieves, and he liked to have a young man around to look after the house.

Fuensanta continued to serve him as before. El[111] Pende made his trips; he had made advantageous terms with the silversmith in his commissions, and he and the old man understood each other admirably.

Fuensanta began to behold a useful collaborator in her husband. He was intelligent and sagacious; he had a latent ambition which was awakened with real violence at his marriage.

The child was an obstacle to the peace of the household. Quentin was stupid, brutal, proud, and meddlesome.

After two years of matrimony, Fuensanta gave birth to a son whom they called Rafael, after his father. Quentin had no use for the boy, a fact that caused El Pende to hate his stepson.

Quentin did not go to school, so he knew nothing. He played about the streets in rags with rowdies and toughs. One day, when El Pende saw him with some gipsies, he seized him, carried him home, and said to his mother:

“We’ve got to do something about this child.”

“Yes, we must do something,” she agreed.

“Why don’t you ask the master if he knows of a cheap school?”

Fuensanta spoke to the silversmith, who listened to her attentively.

“Do you know what we’ll do?” said Don Andrés.

“What?”

“We’ll find out who his father’s family are. How long ago was he killed?”

“Seven years.”

“Good. Then I’ll find out.”

On that same street, on the corner of the Calle de la Espartería, in a house upon whose chamfer was an iron cross, there lived a retired captain of militia, Don Matías[112] Echavarría. The silversmith called on him, related what had happened in the Cross-roads Store, and asked the captain if he remembered the affair, and if he knew the name of the protagonist.

“Yes,” said Don Matías, “the boy who ran away and was killed on the Pozo Blanco road, was the son of the Marquis of Tavera. When the thing happened, they hushed it up, saying that he had met his death by a fall from his horse, and no one ever knew anything about it.”

When the silversmith returned to his house, he said nothing to Fuensanta, but, shut up in his room, he wrote a letter to the old Marquis, giving him a detailed account of the facts, and telling him that a grandson of his was living in his modest home.

He had to wait for the answer. At the end of two weeks, Don Andrés received a message from the Marquis telling him to send Fuensanta to his house to talk with him, and to bring the boy with her.

Fuensanta made Quentin as presentable as possible, and went with him to the Marquis’ palace. The old man received her very pleasantly, bade her tell him her story, caressed the child, and murmured from time to time:

“He’s just like him, just like him....” Then he added, turning to the mother, “Are you in needy circumstances?”

“Sí, Se?or Marqués.”

“Very well; take one hundred dollars for the present. We shall see what we can do for the boy.”

Fuensanta told her husband what had happened in the Marquis’ house, and El Pende immediately took possession of the hundred dollars.

The economical chap already had a like amount, and[113] he believed that the moment had arrived to realize his plans of establishing himself. Consequently, a little later, he rented a store in the Calle de la Zapatería.

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

“What’s the matter with you, Don Gil?” asked Quentin, as he saw the narrator looking about for something.

“Why, you’re not pouring wine for me.”

“There’s none left.”

“Then call Se?ora Patrocinio.”

“What will you have, Don Gil? Falernus? Or shall we devote ourselves this time to the vines of Calais?”

“No, no; Montilla.”

“Can’t we make a change?”

“Mix one wine with another? Never! It’s very dangerous. But are you, or are you not going to call that old woman? If you do not, I will not go on with my story.”

“Do go on with it, Don Gil,” said Se?ora Patrocinio, opening the door and placing two bottles upon the table. “I was almost asleep out here, and was amusing myself by listening to what you were saying.”

“Eh!” exclaimed Don Gil, “I must be a great historian if even Sister Patrocinio listens to my tale. Allow me to wet my throat. Now for it, ladies and gentlemen, now for it!”