He was a poor captive soul, a sentimentalist, an idealist—ah!—devoted to the instruction of youth,—that youth in whose bosom repose the seeds of the nation’s regeneration. He had suffered a great deal,—a great deal. He had been in the hospital. A man such as he, who knew French, English, German, who played the piano,—a man of his stamp, related to the entire aristocracy of the kingdom of León, a man who knew more theology and theodocy than all the priests rolled into one.
Ah! He did not say all this out of vainglory; but he had a right to life. Gómez Sánchez, the illustrious histologist, had once said to him:
“You ought not to work.”
“But I’m hungry.”
“Then beg.”
Wherefore sometimes he did beg.
Don Sergio, utterly astounded before this avalanche of words, made no attempt to interrupt Peñalar. The latter paused, smiled unctuously, noted that the force of habit had carried him on to his everlasting theme of the reason for his sponging on folks, and realizing that his eloquence was leading him astray, lowered his voice, continuing in a confidential tone:
“This our life is, despite all its drawbacks, so attractive,—is it not so, Don Sergio?—that one cannot leave it with indifference. And yet I believe that death is liberation. Yes, I believe in the immortality of the soul, in the absolute dominion of spirit over matter. Not so in previous years. No, I must confess,” and he smiled more benignly than ever, “I was formerly a pantheist, and I still preserve, from that period, perhaps, an enthusiasm for nature. Ah, the country! The country is my delight! Many a time I recall those verses of the Mantuan:
Te, dulcis conjux, te solo in litore secum
te veniente die, te decedente canebat.