"That seems to me exactly the idea," I said, absorbed in the contemplation of the beautiful, variegated floral carpet that was spread before us.
"Yes, I think that's it!" exclaimed Martí, with emphasis. "But these ideas, friend Ribot," he went on, gayly flinging out his arms as if to embrace all mankind, "these ideas only come after some years of experience, and not even then unless one has practical sense and a vocation for business."
"Yes, aptitudes can be developed, but they cannot be acquired."
"There is my brother-in-law, Sabas. I make superhuman efforts to discover in him some ability, something he can do, and I only succeed in putting myself out. Whatever matter I confide to his care, even if I give him precise and definite instructions, he manages to knock all to pieces. It has got so tiresome that I leave him in peace and employ him in nothing whatever."
I could not help thinking that this punishment was not found very cruel by the brother-in-law, and yet it came into my imagination that he might have purposely provoked it as certain naughty children provoke it from their teachers, but I kept these and my other observations to myself.
"It is very different with my friend Castell. Of wide and penetrating talent, with a remarkable mind, immense learning, a profound knowledge of the sciences and arts, and even of mechanics—but from the first moment of application he is discouraged by the least scrap of an obstacle in his way. He is all obstacles and doubts and scruples. He loses heart before he begins anything and he has given up business. To carry out an industrial enterprise a knowledge of the matter is not enough; it must be studied; it is necessary that the one who undertakes it should possess an essentially positive mind—above all, that he should have, like me, an iron will."
Little by little we drew nearer to Cabañal. I have already described these shores of the sea whose great plain lies blue beneath the sun. We walked on enveloped in its light and breathing the fragrant air. The joyfulness of such a scene, serene and luminous as a picture by Titian, the idyllic bits that we came upon here and there, entered into the soul and overflowed it with a gentle felicity. In all this joy, this soft tranquillity, Martí with his beautiful, waving locks, his great, innocent eyes, did not seem to me so forcible a man as he wished to appear, not altogether of iron.
Before coming to the first houses of the village we turned off to the left. There at a distance was a white villa that Martí told me was his property. On the way I saw a curious plot of ground whose walls were made of perfectly symmetrical and equal-sized stones. These walls seemed to be in ruins, and through great openings I could discern certain structures, great iron pipes, rusted and fallen in pieces to the ground, wheels and other portions of machinery.
"What is this?" I asked, surprised.
Martí coughed before replying, pulled a bit at his shirt cuffs, and declared, with a gesture between peevishness and shamefacedness: