After a moment’s reflection, Pimentel resumed:
“Let two go after him. If necessary, have them bring him by force, so long as he gets here in time to hear the toasts.”
Castro Mera and the officer of Marines rose with docility, and under a blazing sun wended their way to San Andrés, in order to bring back the refractory and obstinate “element.”
While they were serving the soup, the great leader’s godson said to my uncle in a low tone, yet so that his words should make due impression on the public:
“Cánovas has made himself out of the question. He has got the opinion of all sensible people against him. The Regency is not feasible with him. A conservative Administration would not be feasible.”
It appeared to me—I do not know why—that many of those present did not comprehend the meaning of the word feasible, but somehow took it for granted that it all meant something very bad, and highly prejudicial to Cánovas; but they fully understood when Pimentel observed that Pi’s party was Utopian, and they murmured their approbation.
I scarcely listened. I was in the yew, waltzing, feeling the floor sway, and seeing the green foliage tremble with a prolonged rustle. At the second course I was obliged to emerge from my reverie, because the clerical apprentice, seated at my left, took it upon himself to pinch me, nudge my elbow, and step on my foot at every word that Pimentel uttered.
I do not know what had come over Serafín; perhaps the two glasses of Burgundy which he had imbibed with his soup, had stimulated his impoverished blood and drew him out of his childish foolishness, causing him to utter satirical and biting jests. All I affirm is, that he accompanied his nudges and kicks with some terrible remarks worthy of a Juvenal in a cassock.
“Behold,” he said, in a low tone, “the greatest miracle of the miraculous boss. He has made a great man out of that creature. What do you think of it, Salustio? And what is your opinion of the indecency of us Galicians? We leave the temple of the Lord deserted, and worship the golden calf—feceruntque sibi deos aureos. They will not make a pilgrimage to the shrine of Our Lady of Nieves, and yet they repair to the saint of the orange grove, to feed on offices and pap. They all do it—not one is lacking. He who cannot get there alive will be carried there dead. And you’ll not escape the contagion, either. You’ll worship the miraculous saint; for if you don’t, invent all the magnetic bridges and electric carriage-roads you please, and your countrymen will pay no attention to you whatever. Why don’t you become a saint also, you goose?”
Fortunately, the length of the table, the number of guests, and the hum of conversation prevented them from hearing the string of nonsense the ecclesiastical monkey uttered; but I could not restrain my laughter on seeing the amazement depicted on Don Wenceslao’s face, who was seated at my right hand.