Misericordia (Dedalus European Classics)

by Benito Perez Galdos

  “Exactly. The same happened with Marie, the Labourer’s Daughter.”

  At this point Benina announced that their food was ready and they lost no time in falling to, doing justice to an omelette with pickled fish and chops with fried potatoes. Ponte, who was completely in control when politeness and good manners were required, restrained his instincts quite admirably so as not to reveal the fierceness of his long-nursed hunger. Benina coaxed him with kindly familiarity:

  “Now eat up, Señor del Ponte, for though it’s not fine food, like what you get in other houses, it will suit you nicely, times being what they are. We must make do with what we have.”

  “Señora Nina,” replied that model of gentility, “I declare and give my word of honour, that you are an angel. It’s my belief that you are the incarnation of a beneficent and mysterious being, a pure personification of Providence, as understood by all nations, ancient and modern.”

  “Oh what a scholar and what clever nonsense he talks!”

  18

  The restorative quality of the luncheon seemed to give their bodies new life and their rejuvenated spirits soared up to even greater heights. Seated once more in the little parlour, Ponte Delgado described to Obdulia the delights of summer in Madrid in his day. All the best people gathered in the Prado. The wealthy took up their summer residence at La Granja. He had visited the royal domains there more than once and seen the fountains play.

  “And I’ve never seen anything, anything at all,” exclaimed Obdulia, her lovely eyes full of childish woe. “Believe me, Ponte, I’d have gone out of my mind if God had not given me the ability to visualise what I’ve never seen. You can’t imagine how much I love flowers: I’m mad about them. Mama used to let me keep them in pots on the balcony, but I was made to stop because one day I watered them so much that the police called and fined us. Whenever I pass by a garden I am captivated by it. How I should like to see the gardens of Valencia, La Granja and Andalusia! There are hardly any flowers here, and the few there are come by train, and are faded when they arrive. I want to see them growing. They say there are so many different kinds of roses: I want to see them, Ponte, I want to breathe their fragrance. There are big ones and small ones, red ones and white ones, of so many different sorts. I should like to see an enormous jasmine, so big that I could sit in its shade. How entranced I should be when all the little flowers fell on my shoulders and caught in my hair. I dream of having a magnificent garden and a conservatory. Ah, those conservatories with tropical plants and rare flowers, how I should love to see them. I can imagine them, I can see them now! I’m dying to have them for my very own!”

  “I saw Don Jose’s conservatory in the days of its splendour. It was bigger than this house and the one next door put together, just imagine. Think of it with palm trees, tall, tall ferns and pineapple plants with fruits on. I can see it now.”

  “I can see it too. Everything you describe I can see. Sometimes, in my daydreams when I see things that don’t exist, I mean that exist somewhere else, I wonder if I couldn’t one day have a magnificent house, full of elegant things, with drawing-rooms and a conservatory, the great men sitting at my table, with me talking to them and learning from them?”

  “And why not? You are very young, Obdulia, and have so much of your life before you. Your daydreams are possible, even probable. You will give dinners for twenty, once a week, on Wednesdays or on Mondays: I advise you, as a wise old bird when it comes to these matters, not to have more than twenty at a time, and to invite only the best people.”

  “Ah, yes: the best people, the cream.”

  “On other days, no more than six, your intimate friends only, people of noble lineage, you know what I mean? Who are close to you and love and respect you. As you are so beautiful, you will have admirers: that cannot be avoided. You are bound to be in some danger, Obdulia. I advise you to behave with amiability to all, with perfect courtesy, but the moment anyone oversteps the mark, react with dignity, become colder than marble and as haughty as a queen.”

  “That very thought has occurred to me again and again. I shall be so busy amusing myself that nothing wicked will ever occur to me. How marvellous to go to all the theatres, never to miss an opera or a concert, or a drama or a comedy or a first night or anything, anything at all. I shall see and enjoy everything. But believe me when I tell you, in all sincerity, that in the midst of all the bustle, one of the things I should most enjoy would be to dispense charity generously; I should go in search of the poorest of the poor, to help them and – well, I want there to be no poor people. Don’t you agree, Frasquito, that there should be no poor people?”

  “Quite right, dear lady. You’re an angel, and with the magic wand of the good fairy you will make all poverty disappear.”

  “I can see it all, just as if everything you said were really true. I’m like that. Let me tell you what’s happening to me now: a while ago we talked of flowers and I can actually smell a delicious fragrance. I am inside my conservatory, looking at all those beautiful things and smelling their lovely scents. And just now, when we spoke of helping the poor, I nearly said, ‘Frasquito, bring me the list of the poor people you know, and we’ll start distributing alms’.”

  “The list is soon made, dear lady,” said Ponte, caught up in the fever of fantasy, thinking that the name at the top should be that of the most impecunious man in the world, Francisco Ponte Delgado.

  “But we shall have to wait,” said Obdulia, coming down to earth with a bump, and then bouncing up again like a rubber ball, back into the airy regions: “And don’t you think I shall find it terribly tiring, dashing round Madrid looking for poor people to help?”

  “But what are your coaches for? I mean, I assume you will have a large establishment.”

  “You will come with me.”

  “Of course.”

  “And will you ride down the Castellana on horseback?”

  “It’s not impossible. I was a fair horseman in my time. I ride quite well. And while we’re on the subject of carriages, I advise you not to keep your own coach house: make an arrangement with a livery stable. There are some excellent ones. You will avoid many headaches.”

  “And give me your advice,” said Obdulia, her imagination now in full spate, “when I travel, shall I go first to Germany or to Switzerland?”

  “First of all to Paris.”

  “But I’m imagining that I’ve seen Paris: that’s all old hat. I’ve been there! I mean, I feel I’ve already been and will return there en route for some other country.”

  “The Swiss lakes are very pretty. And you mustn’t forget to make the ascent of the Alps, to see the St Bernard dogs, the great glaciers and other wonders of nature.”

  “When I’m there I shall eat my fill of something I absolutely adore: fresh butter. But tell me, Ponte, which do you think suits me best, pink or blue?”

  “I assure you that you look good in all the colours of the rainbow; or rather, it is not so much that one colour shows off your beauty better than another, as that your beauty is potent enough to enhance whatever colour you are wearing.”

  “Thank you, and how nicely said!”

  “If you will allow me,” declared the faded gallant, giddy with the altitude, “I shall compare your figure and your face with… with – who do you think? The Empress Eugenie. She was the very model of elegance, beauty and distinction.”

  “For Heaven’s sake, Don Frasquito!”

  “I’m being perfectly sincere. That ideal woman is with me still, ever since I saw her in Paris, driving in the Bois with the Emperor. I’ve seen her again a thousand times, as I stroll all alone through the streets in a daydream, or when I lie awake at night in the small hours, shut away in my apartments. I can see her now, I see her all the time. She is an idea, a will-o’-the-wisp. I am a man in love with the Ideal, a man who cannot live by bread alone. I despise the world, I can detach myself from this fragile clay.”

  “I understand, yes, I understand. Go on.”

  “
The image of that woman lives within me, and I see her as a real living being – I can’t explain it – a real human being, not just a figment of the imagination but tangible and …”

  “Oh yes, I understand. The same thing happens to me.”

  “With her?”

  “No, with – I don’t know who.”

  For a moment Frasquito thought that Obdulia’s ideal being was the Emperor. Inspired to continue he went on: “Well, my dear lady, I who know, I repeat know Eugenia de Guzman, declare that you are exactly like her, that she and you are the same person.”

  “I can’t believe that such a likeness exists, Frasquito,” replied the girl, disconcerted, her eyes flashing.

  “The face, the features, both full face and in profile, the gestures, the gait, everything, everything is the same. Believe me, I never lie.”

  “It’s possible there’s some resemblance,” said Obdulia, blushing to the roots of her hair. “But we are not equals, certainly not.”

  “Like two drops of water. And just as you are like each other physically,” said Frasquito, leaning back in his armchair and assuming a frank, free and easy tone of voice, “you resemble her equally in character, in your air of being someone who was born to and occupies the highest rank, who is conscious of a superiority which is universally acknowledged. And I know what I’m talking about. The likeness strikes me most of all when you order Benina to do something: then I feel that I am watching Her Imperial Majesty giving orders to her chamberlains.”

  “What an idea! No, Ponte, it’s not possible.” She burst into nervous laughter, shrill, too long, as if it were a prelude to an epileptic fit. Frasquito also laughed and then – soaring again into the clouds – he attained new heights: what he actually said was:

  “Just now you mentioned that you could see me riding on horseback down the Castellana. Yes, indeed you could: I was a good rider in my time. In my youth I had a dapple-grey pony, which was a beauty. I rode it extremely well. Together we were the centre of attention, first in La Linea and then Ronda, where I sold it and bought a Jerez which later passed into the hands of – you’ll be surprised – the Duchess of Alba, the Empress’s sister, also a woman of great elegance – and whom you also resemble, although the two sisters were not alike.”

  “Yes, I know who you mean,” said Obdulia, showing off her knowledge of the lineages of great families. “They were daughters of La Montijo.”

  “Right, and they lived in the Plazuela del Angel, in the large house at the corner of the square, full of little birds. A fairy palace; I went there one night, introduced by Paco Ustáriz and Manolo Prieto, colleagues from the office. Yes, I was a good horseman, and believe me, I’ve not lost all my skill.”

  “You’ll make a very fine figure.”

  “Oh hardly!”

  “Why are you so modest? That’s how I see you, and I can see things very clearly. Everything I see is the truth.”

  “Yes, but…”

  “Don’t contradict me, Ponte, not in this nor in anything else.”

  “I accept your views humbly,” said Frasquito, bowing. “I have always done so, with all the ladies I have known, and they have been many.”

  “That’s quite obvious. I know no other person who is equal to you in courtesy and refinement. Truly, you are a model of polite behaviour, of …”

  “Please, please.”

  At this point they both fell headlong from the clouds back to earth with a bump because of the sudden entrance of Benina who, having finished washing up and tidying the kitchen and dining-room, had come in to say goodbye. Ponte suddenly realised that it was time to carry out his duties at the house where he worked and he asked the imperial lady’s permission to withdraw. She gave it regretfully, expressing her sorrow at having to be alone in her palace until the next day, surrounded by the ghosts of chamberlains and other handsome courtiers. Little did she care that, in the eyes of the world, these spirits took the form of mewing cats. Alone, she would amuse herself roaming round her conservatory, admiring the gay tropical flowers and breathing their intoxicating perfumes.

  So Ponte Delgado left, with affectionate farewells and a sad smile and after him Benina, who hurried in order to catch him up in the entrance hall or the street, as she had a few words to say to him.

  19

  “Now, Don Frasco,” she said, walking close beside him along the Calle de San Pedro Martir, “you’re not being frank with me and you should be. I’m poor, poorer than a church mouse, and God knows what I have to go through to keep my mistress, the child and myself as well – but there’s someone poorer than I am, the poorest of all the poor, and that’s you, and don’t deny it.”

  “Señá Benina, I say again that you are an angel.”

  “Yes indeed – up on a pedestal. I don’t want you to be so deprived. Why did God make you so proud? Pride is good, but only in moderation. Lord, we all know that Señor de Ponte is a gentleman; but he’s come down in the world, so far down that if the wind doesn’t blow him away it’s because there’s nothing to blow. Well now, I shall speak my mind: after spending what I have today, I have a peseta over. Take it.”

  “Good heavens, Señá Benina,” said Frasquito, turning pale, then flushing red.

  “No false modesty, please, because a peseta is just what you need to pay La Bernarda for last night’s lodging.”

  “What an angel, great God! What an angel!”

  “Stop talking about angels, and take the money. No? You’ll be sorry. You’ll see what your landlady has to say, for she gives credit for only one night or two at most, after a lot of persuasion. And don’t start telling me that I need the money. What if it is all I have? I’ll find a way of getting what I need tomorrow, from under a stone if need be. Come on, take it.”

  “Señá Benina, I have sunk into such poverty and such humiliation, that I would accept the peseta, yes, Benina, I’d accept it, forgetting who I am and my self-respect and all that – but how can you expect me to accept the loan, knowing as I do that you go begging to keep your own mistress? It’s not possible, my conscience rebels.”

  “Rebellions! Let’s hear no more about rebellions, we’re not in the army. Either you take this poor little peseta, or I’ll be angry with you, as sure as God is in his heaven. No play-acting, Don Frasquito, because you’re as much a beggar as the man who invented hunger. Or do you need more, because you owe more to La Bernarda? In that case, I can’t give it to you, because I haven’t got it. But don’t fool yourself, Don Frasquito, don’t be silly, for that bitch Bernarda will eat you alive if you have nothing to offer her. A respectable gentleman like you, out of the nobility, perhaps won’t be turned out if he owes three, maybe four nights’ lodging. But if you’ve got an advance, you’ll see how La Bernarda will change her tune. If you can give her a peseta on account, you can sleep easy.”

  Ponte either remained unconvinced, or, though appreciating how good it would be to have the peseta, couldn’t bring himself to hold out his hand to receive charity. Benina reinforced her argument by saying: “Since the little boy is so shy, and so afraid of his landlady, and won’t even give her the money on account, I’ll have a word with La Bernarda and tell her not to scold him or be nasty to him! Come on now, take what I offer and don’t torment me any more, Señor Don Frasquito.” And without giving him time to think up new protestations and refusals, she took his hand, put the coin into it, closed it forcibly and ran off. He stood still, silent, his eyes fixed on Benina as if she were a vision disappearing in a flash of light, holding the peseta in his left hand; with his right he took out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes, which were streaming with tears. He wept from an affliction of old age, but also with joy, admiration and gratitude.

  It still took Benina more than an hour to reach the Calle Imperial, because she went to the Calle de la Ruda to do her shopping first. This she had to do on credit, as she had no more money. She finally reached home after two o’clock, not an unreasonable hour certainly: on other occasions she had returned later than t
hat without her mistress being angry. Whether she was ill or well received depended on how Doña Paca’s humour took her at the moment of arrival. That afternoon unfortunately the poor lady was in the throes of one of her most violent fits of nervous irritability. Her character displayed these sudden eruptions, at times occasioned by some petty annoyance, at others originating for inexplicable reasons in the mysterious depths of her personality. On this occasion, before Benina had crossed the threshold, Doña Francisca launched the following tirade:

  “What sort of time is this to come home? I shall have to talk to Don Romualdo, and ask him when it is you leave his house. I’ll bet you’ll now come out with a lie about having gone to see the child and having to give her lunch. Do you think I’m idiot enough to believe your falsehoods? Now keep quiet, I ask for no explanations, nor do I need any or believe any. Well you know that I believe nothing you tell me, you impostor, you cheat!”

  Benina knew, from long experience, that the wrong reaction to her mistress’s tantrums was to contradict, explain, vindicate herself, put up a defence. Doña Paca accepted no excuses, however reasonable. The more just and logical they were the angrier she got. Although innocent, Benina had often confessed herself guilty of her mistress’s accusation, as a way of calming her down more quickly.

  “I’m right, aren’t I?” the latter went on – for when she was in such a state she was utterly impossible – “You haven’t a word to say for yourself, and that means that you admit everything. So what I say is true: I always know. It’s as I thought: you didn’t go to Obdulia’s, you went somewhere else. Heaven knows where it is you’ve been gadding about – but don’t worry, I’ll find out. Leaving me here alone and starving. What a morning I’ve had, and all your fault! I completely lost count of the number of people who came from the shops, to collect small sums that have not been paid because of your mismanagement. Really I don’t know what you do with the money. Answer me, woman, say something in your own defence, because if you just keep mum I shall know that you deserve more of my tongue.”