The eyes of the old man filled with tears. He turned and hurriedly withdrew. Ibarra found himself standing alone in the middle of the room. His host had disappeared, and he turned to a group of gentlemen, who, as soon as they saw him coming, formed a semicircle to receive him.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “in Germany, when a stranger attends any social function and there is no one present to introduce him, it is allowable for him to introduce himself. Permit me to avail myself of this practice. Gentlemen, my name is Juan Crisostomo Ibarra y Magsalin.” The others gave their names in turn, of which the most were comparatively unknown.
“My name is A——a,” said one of the young men, bowing stiffly.
“Then, perhaps, I have the honor of addressing the poet whose works have kept up my enthusiasm for my country? I have been told that you have stopped writing, but no one has told me why.”
“Why? Because there is no use in invoking the muses for false and foolish ends. A case has been made out against one man for having put into verse a true story of Pero Grullo. I am not going to get myself into a similar scrape. They may call me a poet, but they shall not call me a fool.”
“And can you not tell us what that true story was?”
“Yes. The poet said that the son of a lion is also a lion, and for saying this he narrowly escaped being banished.”
“Dinner is ready,” announced a waiter who had been borrowed from the Cáfé Campaña. The guests began to file into the dining room, not, however, without many sighs, and even some prayers among the women, especially the natives, that the dreaded affair would soon be over.