There are everywhere dramas behind the scenes, and secret histories, I reflected, with my brain intoxicated by the delightful fragrance of the jasmine. At Josefa Urrutia’s house there in Madrid the drama has a grotesque form, but is none the less real. A famous farce might be made of Botello’s life and fortunes. If there is anything going on here, Father Moreno must know all about it. Why does this young lady, remarkable as she seems, marry my disagreeable uncle? Is it true that they treat her badly? No, for my mother herself, when I pressed her, confessed that that was a rumor without the slightest foundation. And these little girls I see here, what rôles do they take? And Señor Aldao’s mistress, where is she? And that engaged couple, sitting in a spot so fitted to stir the senses and the imagination, are they in love with each other? And if they are not, why do they get married?
I was suddenly aroused from these reveries by the young priest, who approaching me said in a boyish voice and an unpleasant Galician accent:
“Pardon my curiosity, but are you Doña Benigna’s son?”
“Yes, I am.”
“The one who is studying to be an electric, magnetic scientist?”
At first I did not understand his poor attempt at wit, so he added:
“Who is studying to be an ingenious,—I mean, an engineer.”
“Well, I am glad to meet you. Do you want anything? Do you feel tired? Do you smoke?”
“And are you the parish priest at San Andrés de Louza?” I inquired, just to say something.