“Come, come, it’s getting late, and other people are waiting for me.” [Exit bumpkin.
“Number 27.”
“Viaje crítico alrededor de la Puerta del Sol.”
M. Ossorio y Bernard.
THE OLD CASTILIAN.
Since I have grown older I very seldom care to change the order of my way of living, which has now been settled a long time, and I base this repugnance upon the fact that I have never for a single day abandoned my Lares to break my system without being overtaken by a most sincere repentance as the presumption of my deluded hopes. Nevertheless a remnant of the old-fashioned courtesy adopted by our forefathers in their intercourse obliges me at times to accept certain invitations, which to refuse would be rudeness, or at least a ridiculous affectation of delicacy.
Some days ago I was walking through the streets in search of material for my articles. Buried in my thoughts, I surprised myself several times, laughing like a poor wretch at my own fancies, and mechanically moving my lips. A stumble or so reminded me now and again that to walk on the pavements of Madrid it is not the best of circumstances to be either poet or philosopher; more than one malicious smile, more than one look of wonder from the passers-by, made me reflect that soliloquies should not be made in public; and when turning corners not a few collisions with those who turned them as heedlessly as I made me recognise that the absent-minded are not among the number of elastic bodies, much less among glorious and impassable beings. Such being my frame of mind, imagine my sensations upon receiving a horrible smack which a huge hand attached (it seemed to me) to a brawny arm administered to one of my shoulders, which unfortunately bear not the slightest resemblance to those of Atlas!
Not wishing to make it understood that I would not recognise this energetic way of announcing on self, nor to rebuff the goodwill, which doubtless wished to show itself to be more than mediocre by leaving me crooked for the rest of the day, I was merely about to turn round to see who was so much my friend as to treat me so badly. But my Old Castilian is a man who, when he is joking, does not stop half-way. What? my reader will ask. He gave further proofs of his intimacy and affection? He clasped his hands tightly over my eyes from behind, crying out, “Who am I?” bubbling over with delight at the success of his pretty trick. “Who you are? A brute,” I was about to reply; but I suddenly remembered who it might be, and substituted the words, “I Braulio.” Upon hearing me he loosened his hands, held his sides for laughter, disturbing the whole street, and making us both very conspicuous.
“Good, good! How did you recognise me?”
“Who could it be but you?...”