“I am indeed glad to hear it, but don’t be too sure. These heart fevers do not go on as they begin; but the Lord help us, if you get a relapse. And it’s our fault if we have a relapse, because we go near the fire. In that lottery, they give prizes to the nearest numbers. Don’t you get near. Keep at a respectful distance. Establish a sanitary cordon. If you do not do so, I shall not consider you a man of honor.”
Mutatis mutandis, so Father Moreno expressed his opinions. After her momentary annoyance, my mother, whose heart is as good as gold and who is very hospitable, showered attentions on the Father, and insisted on feeding him at all hours of the day, until finally the friar, with a comical air, rose in revolt:
“No more chicken, not even if you cut me in pieces! Not a morsel more! What a woman! Hard-hearted creature, do you want me to burst on the spot? You may wear as big a bustle as you choose, madam, but I must control the bulging of my own stomach.”
But her exaggerated gastronomical entertainment of the friar did not last long, for he went off to his monastery after the two days, leaving a great void behind him. His vacation was over, and the leave of absence granted by his Superior in order that he might take sea-baths and recruit his health; so the Moor in a friar’s garb meekly wended his way back to his gloomy retreat in Compostela, where the walls were covered with dampness, and a green moisture was visible on the window-sills and the cracks of the masonry. In spite of the hearty manner in which he assured me that he was willing to fulfill his obligations, I could see that that Spaniard, who was half Saracen, so fond of the warmth of Africa, must suffer keenly both in mind and body on being banished to such a damp and dreary region.
I saw him march away to his exile, recalling with amazement that I had envied him his garb, and even the vows which bound him.
I surely must have been sick with a sort of psycalgia, or moral neurosis, this summer, and now that I am convalescent I perceive it.
During the few days before my return to Madrid, as we had no guests or particular amusements, I buried myself in the reading of two or three interesting books, works on philosophy, among them Kant’s “Critique of Pure Reason.” Exempt as it is, in my judgment, from all flow of mere sentiment and misleading hallucinations, I read it with the purest delight; my mind, already disciplined by the study of mathematics, fairly absorbing the teaching of the philosopher. I felt the remotest cells of my brain penetrated, in gentle firmness, by those truths of criticism, which, far from leading us to skeptical negations, fill us with a serene conviction of the uselessness of our endeavors to become acquainted with the external world, and shut us up in the beneficent selfishness of the study of our own faculties.
When, after reading Kant, I would roam through the meadows, the groves, the modest belongings of our patrimonial estate, and the peace of twilight would sink into my spirit, I would find myself feeling happy; completely cured of my folly; shut up to the straight line. “Understand, and you will be free,” I repeated to myself, with youthful pride.
CHAPTER XX.
As I left the train at the northern station in Madrid, the first thing I saw was the red beard and strongly marked features of my Uncle Felipe, who shook hands with me and called a porter to take my trunk. Then he got into a carriage with me and gave the driver the number of his house.