That chastisement left the impression in my mind that to be a Jew was a sore disgrace; and two or three years later, when one of my school-mates at Pontevedra threw it in my face, calling out,
Cardoso’s a Jew,
And a tricky one, too!
I seized my slate and broke it over his skull.
I cannot be sure when I reached the religious crisis, or that period in which boys scrutinize their beliefs, sift them and finally discard them, feeling a pain from the loss of their faith like that caused by the pulling of a double-tooth. I do not think I ever experienced such a change, or felt such agonizing doubts, or such remorse and longing when looking upon a Gothic church. I was naturally skeptical and took up, if not with atheism, at least with religious indifference, as if it were something perfectly congenial to me.
I had never been “perverted” by reading any particular book, nor by hearing a person of “dangerous ideas” discourse upon religion; nobody “opened my eyes,” for I believe that I came into the world with them wide open. As many young men cannot say exactly how and when they lost the innocence of childhood in matters relating to the sexes, so I cannot fix the precise time when my faith began to waver, for, indeed, I do not recall that it was ever very steadfast. I believe that I was born a rationalist.
But it is singular that in spite of that, the insult, “tricky Jew,” always clung to my mind like a poisoned dart. My fellow-students never dared repeat it before me, but notwithstanding, I never could forget it for a single day. When I was about to graduate, quite a tall, shapely fellow by that time, I became acquainted with Don Wenceslao Viñal, a queer individual, but a good deal of a scholar, mousing around in libraries, filled with all sorts of strange learned trifles, and very well informed in regard to Galician archæology and history. He used to lend me old books, and sometimes carry me off to walk in the vicinity of Pontevedra in search of beautiful views and ruined buildings. I used to torment him with questions, to keep up my reputation as a studious youngster.
One day I got it into my head that Viñal might clear up my doubts in regard to the Jewish question, so I boldly said:
“See here, Don Wenceslao, is it true that there are families living in Marín, who are of Jewish descent, and that the Cardoso family is one?”
“Yes, indeed,” answered the bibliomaniac quietly, without noticing the great eagerness of my question. “They are of Portuguese origin; that is so certain that there is much antipathy shown them in Marín. It is said that they have not abjured their faith, and that they still keep up their Jewish rites; that they change their linen on Saturdays instead of Sundays, and that they will not eat a bit of pork for love or money.”
“And do you believe all that?”