CHAPTER VI
IN WHICH IT IS SEEN THAT DISAGREEMENT MAY ARISE WHEN LEAST EXPECTED
Suddenly Don Cayetano Polentinos, Dona Perfecta's brother-in-law,appeared at the door, and entering the room with outstretched arms,cried:
"Let me embrace you, my dear Don Jose."
They embraced each other cordially. Don Cayetano and Pepe were alreadyacquainted with each other, for the eminent scholar and bibliophile wasin the habit of making a trip to Madrid whenever an executor's sale ofthe stock of some dealer in old books was advertised. Don Cayetano wastall and thin, of middle age, although constant study or ill-healthhad given him a worn appearance; he expressed himself with a refinedcorrectness which became him admirably, and he was affectionate andamiable in his manners, at times to excess. With respect to his vastlearning, what can be said but that he was a real prodigy? In Madrid hisname was always mentioned with respect, and if Don Cayetano had livedin the capital, he could not have escaped becoming a member, in spite ofhis modesty, of every academy in it, past, present, and to come. But hewas fond of quiet and retirement, and the place which vanity occupiesin the souls of others, a pure passion for books, a love of solitary andsecluded study, without any other aim or incentive than the books andthe study themselves, occupied in his.
He had formed in Orbajosa one of the finest libraries that is to befound in all Spain, and among his books he passed long hours of the dayand of the night, compiling, classifying, taking notes, and selectingvarious sorts of precious information, or composing, perhaps, somehitherto unheard-of and undreamed-of work, worthy of so great a mind.His habits were patriarchal; he ate little, drank less, and his onlydissipations consisted of a luncheon in the Alamillos on very greatoccasions, and daily walks to a place called Mundogrande, where wereoften disinterred from the accumulated dust of twenty centuries, medals,bits of architecture, and occasionally an amphora or cubicularia ofinestimable value.
Don Cayetano and Dona Perfecta lived in such perfect harmony that thepeace of Paradise was not to be compared to it. They never disagreed. Itis true that Don Cayetano never interfered in the affairs of the housenor Dona Perfecta in those of the library, except to have it swept anddusted every Saturday, regarding with religious respect the books andpapers that were in use on the table or anywhere else in the room.
After the questions and answers proper to the occasion had beeninterchanged Don Cayetano said:
"I have already looked at the books. I am very sorry that you did notbring me the edition of 1527. I shall have to make a journey to Madridmyself. Are you going to remain with us long? The longer the better,my dear Pepe. How glad I am to have you here! Between us both we willarrange a part of my library and make an index of the writers on the Artof Horsemanship. It is not always one has at hand a man of your talents.You shall see my library. You can take your fill of reading there--asoften as you like. You will see marvels, real marvels, inestimabletreasures, rare works that no one but myself has a copy of. But I thinkit must be time for dinner, is it not, Jose? Is it not, Perfecta? Is itnot, Rosarito? Is it not, Senor Don Inocencio? To-day you are doubly aPenitentiary--I mean because you will accompany us in doing penance."
The canon bowed and smiled, manifesting his pleased acquiescence. Thedinner was substantial, and in all the dishes there was noticeable theexcessive abundance of country banquets, realized at the expense ofvariety. There was enough to surfeit twice as many persons as sat downto table. The conversation turned on various subjects.
"You must visit our cathedral as soon as possible," said the canon."There are few cathedrals like ours, Senor Don Jose! But of course you,who have seen so many wonders in foreign countries, will find nothingremarkable in our old church. We poor provincials of Orbajosa, however,think it divine. Master Lopez of Berganza, one of the prebendariesof the cathedral, called it in the sixteenth century _pulchraaugustissima_. But perhaps for a man of your learning it wouldpossess no merit, and some market constructed of iron would seem morebeautiful."
The ironical remarks of the wily canon annoyed Pepe Rey more and moreevery moment, but, determined to control himself and to conceal hisanger, he answered only with vague words. Dona Perfecta then took up thetheme and said playfully:
"Take care, Pepito; I warn you that if you speak ill of our holy churchwe shall cease to be friends. You know a great deal, you are a maneminent for your knowledge on every subject, but if you are going todiscover that that grand edifice is not the eighth wonder of the worldyou will do well to keep your knowledge to yourself and leave us in ourignorance."
"Far from thinking that the building is not handsome," responded Pepe,"the little I have seen of its exterior has seemed to me of imposingbeauty. So there is no need for you to be alarmed, aunt. And I am veryfar from being a savant."
"Softly; softly," said the canon, extending his hand and giving hismouth a truce from eating in order to talk. "Stop there--don't come nowpretending modesty, Senor Don Jose; we are too well aware of your greatmerit, of the high reputation you enjoy and the important part you playwherever you are, for that. Men like you are not to be met with everyday. But now that I have extolled your merits in this way----"
He stopped to eat a mouthful, and when his tongue was once more atliberty he continued thus:
"Now that I have extolled your merits in this way, permit me to expressa different opinion with the frankness which belongs to my character.Yes, Senor Don Jose, yes, Senor Don Cayetano; yes, senora and senorita,science, as the moderns study and propagate it, is the death ofsentiment and of every sweet illusion. Under its influence the life ofthe spirit declines, every thing is reduced to fixed rules, and even thesublime charms of nature disappear. Science destroys the marvellous inthe arts, as well as faith in the soul. Science says that every thingis a lie, and would reduce every thing to figures and lines, not only_maria ac terras_, where we are, but _coelumque profundum_, where Godis. The wonderful visions of the soul, its mystic raptures, even theinspiration of the poets, are all a lie. The heart is a sponge; thebrain, a place for breeding maggots."
Every one laughed, while the canon took a draught of wine.
"Come, now, will Senor Don Jose deny," continued the ecclesiastic, "thatscience, as it is taught and propagated to-day, is fast making of theworld and of the human race a great machine?"
"That depends," said Don Cayetano. "Every thing has its _pro_ and its_contra_."
"Take some more salad, Senor Penitentiary," said Dona Perfecta; "it isjust as you like it--with a good deal of mustard."
Pepe Rey was not fond of engaging in useless discussions; he was not apedant, nor did he desire to make a display of his learning, and stillless did he wish to do so in the presence of women, and in a privatere-union; but the importunate and aggressive verbosity of the canonrequired, in his opinion, a corrective. To flatter his vanity byagreeing with his views would, he thought, be a bad way to give it tohim, and he determined therefore to express only such opinions as shouldbe most directly opposed to those of the sarcastic Penitentiary and mostoffensive to him.
"So you wish to amuse yourself at my expense," he said to himself."Wait, and you will see what a fine dance I will lead you."
Then he said aloud:
"All that the Senor Penitentiary has said ironically is the truth. Butit is not our fault if science overturns day after day the vain idolsof the past: its superstitions, its sophisms, its innumerablefables--beautiful, some of them, ridiculous others--for in the vineyardof the Lord grow both good fruit and bad. The world of illusions, whichis, as we might say, a second world, is tumbling about us in ruins.Mysticism in religion, routine in science, mannerism in art, arefalling, as the Pagan gods fell, amid jests. Farewell, foolish dreams!the human race is awakening and its eyes behold the light. Its vainsentimentalism, its mysticism, its fevers, its hallucination, itsdelirium are passing away, and he who was before sick is now welland takes an ineffable delight in the just appreciation of things.Imagination, the terrible madwoman, who was the mistress of the house,has become the
servant. Look around you, Senor Penitentiary, and youwill see the admirable aggregation of truths which has taken the placeof fable. The sky is not a vault; the stars are not little lamps; themoon is not a sportive huntress, but an opaque mass of stone; the sun isnot a gayly adorned and vagabond charioteer but a fixed fire; Scylla andCharybdis are not nymphs but sunken rocks; the sirens are seals; and inthe order of personages, Mercury is Manzanedo; Mars is a clean-shavenold man, the Count von Moltke; Nestor may be a gentleman in an overcoat,who is called M. Thiers; Orpheus is Verdi; Vulcan is Krupp; Apollo isany poet. Do you wish more? Well, then, Jupiter, a god who, if hewere living now, would deserve to be put in jail, does not launch thethunderbolt, but the thunderbolt falls when electricity wills it. Thereis no Parnassus; there is no Olympus; there is no Stygian lake; nor arethere any other Elysian Fields than those of Paris. There is no otherdescent to hell than the descents of Geology, and this traveller, everytime he returns from it, declares that there are no damned souls in thecentre of the earth. There are no other ascents to heaven than those ofAstronomy, and she, on her return, declares that she has not seen thesix or seven circles of which Dante and the mystical dreamers of theMiddle Ages speak. She finds only stars and distances, lines, vastspaces, and nothing more. There are now no false computations of the ageof the earth, for paleontology and prehistoric research have counted theteeth of this skull in which we live and discovered the true age. Fable,whether it be called paganism or Christian idealism, exists no longer,and imagination plays only a secondary part. All the miracles possibleare such as I work, whenever I desire to do so, in my laboratory, withmy Bunsen pile, a conducting wire, and a magnetized needle. There arenow no other multiplications of loaves and fishes than those whichIndustry makes, with her moulds and her machines, and those of theprinting press, which imitates Nature, taking from a single typemillions of copies. In short, my dear canon, orders have been given toput on the retired list all the absurdities, lies, illusions, dreams,sentimentalities, and prejudices which darken the understanding of man.Let us rejoice at the fact."
When Pepe finished speaking, a furtive smile played upon the canon'slips and his eyes were extraordinarily animated. Don Cayetano busiedhimself in giving various forms--now rhomboidal, now prismatic--to alittle ball of bread. But Dona Perfecta was pale and kept her eyes fixedon the canon with observant insistence. Rosarito looked with amazementat her cousin. The latter, bending toward her, whispered under hisbreath:
"Don't mind me, little cousin; I am talking all this nonsense only toenrage the canon."