Misericordia (Dedalus European Classics)

by Benito Perez Galdos

  In contrast to this marriage, that of the funereal couple, Luquitas and Obdulia, was deteriorating fast, because the husband neglected both his domestic obligations and his work. He spent too much time in cafés and, it was suspected, in other places of even worse repute, when he should have been out collecting payments for funeral services. Obdulia did not have a clue about household management and she was soon crippled with debts. Day in, day out, she would send messages to her mother via the porter’s wife, asking her for money, which Doña Paca could not give her. All this drove Benina on to even greater efforts, caused her even more worry, for she loved the daughter of the house dearly and could not bear to see her hungry and in need without immediately trying to come to her aid as best she could. She now had not only her mistress’ house to look after, but Obdulia’s as well, making sure that at least she did not lack the bare necessities. What a life she led, what fearful hardships she suffered, what struggles she waged with Fate, in the dark shadow cast by shameful poverty, doing her best to keep up appearances, to protect her reputation. The situation became so utterly hopeless that one day, weary of scanning heaven and earth for some chance of succour, with no credit in any of the shops, with all roads closed to her, the heroic old woman saw no other way of continuing the fight than pocketing her pride and going begging for alms. She did so one morning, believing that it would be the only time, and then went on doing it every day, forced by sheer need into the beggar’s unhappy profession. In doing so she deprived herself of the chance to seek some other means of providing for her charges. She reached that point little by little, and according to some socio-economic law, she had no option but to do so and to stay there until she died. However, not wishing her mistress to realise the true extent of the disaster, she came up with a tale about how she had managed to get a good situation as daily help in the house of an ecclesiastical gentleman from La Alcarria, who was as pious as he was prosperous. With lively invention, she baptised the imaginary personage Don Romualdo, a name calculated to convince her mistress. Doña Paca was completely taken in and even said a number of Our Fathers that God might increase both the piety and the income of the good priest, who enabled Benina to bring a little money into the home. She wanted to know all about him, and in the evenings, when the two chatted and told stories to while away the sad hours, she would ask about him and his nieces and sisters and about domestic expenses and what the house was like inside, to all of which Benina would respond with minutely detailed descriptions, a perfect simulacrum of the truth.

  10

  To return now to our narrative, I can report that the mistress of the house ate with appetite on that day, and as well as consuming the food bought with Almudena’s duro, she readily swallowed the innocent lies fed to her by her servant and companion. Doña Paca had by now such confidence in Benina’s talents that she scarcely worried about the difficulties of tomorrow, sure that her maid would overcome them by her diligence and worldly wisdom, especially under the protection of the worthy Don Romualdo. Mistress and servant ate together and during the dessert Doña Paca remarked: “You should not be grudging of your time with those people, and even though you only work there until midday, if they ever want you to stay on in the afternoon, you must do so and I will manage somehow.”

  “Certainly not,” replied Benina. “There’s a time for everything, and I’m needed here. They are good people and they realise that.”

  “Yes, one can tell what sort of people they are. I pray that God may reward them for treating you so well. My greatest joy would be to hear that Don Romualdo had been made a bishop.”

  “Well, there is a rumour that he’s going to be put up for a bishopric. I don’t know where, somewhere in the Philippines.”

  “So far away? No, no, they must keep him here where he can do much good.”

  “Doña Patros thinks so too, you know, the elder niece.”

  “Is that the one you said had greying hair and a slight squint?”

  “No, that’s the other one.”

  “Ah yes, Patros is the one who stammers and has trembling fits.”

  “That’s the one. Well, she says, how can she and her sister go over the sea so far away? No, no, she says, better for him to be a simple parish priest here than archbishop over there, where it’s midday when we have midnight, so they say.”

  “Ah yes, the antipodes.”

  “But her sister, Doña Josefa, says, let him be a bishop wherever God likes to send him. She’s not afraid of going to the ends of the earth, as long as the Reverend has the position he deserves.”

  “Maybe she’s right. And what could we do but abide by God’s will if He were to send your protector and therefore mine so far away? God acts in his wisdom and it might even happen that what we think is bad turns out to be good and that our Don Romualdo if he went away might recommend us to some bishop here or even to the Nuncio.”

  “I think so too. Anyway, we’ll see.”

  So ran their talk about the imaginary priest, whom Doña Paca felt she knew as well as if she had seen and spoken to him, having created a real personality in her mind’s eye out of the details and word-pictures supplied from time to time by Benina. We shall omit the rest of their chatter to pass on to matters of greater importance.

  “Now, tell me, what news of Obdulia?”

  “Nothing new, how could there be? That rascal Luquitas hasn’t shown up for two days. The girl says that he has money that he got for an embalming and is spending it on some prostitutes in Calle del Bonetillo.”

  “God help us! And what is his father doing about it?”

  “He scolds him and punishes him if he catches him. But the boy is beyond reform by now. His parents send our girl food, but so little that it wouldn’t feed a sparrow. She would die of hunger if I didn’t take her what I can. Poor darling! But do you know, I’ve found her in a good mood recently. You know how she is – when she has reason to be cheerful she starts to cry and when should be sad she’s as happy as a lark. In tune, out of tune, God only knows how to play such an instrument! Yes, she was in a good mood because she’d been having happy daydreams. She’s one of those people who believe their own daydreams, so they’re happy when they should be unhappy.”

  “Well, if that’s the case, help me to do the same. But was she alone, quite alone with the maid?”

  “No, ma’am, there was that very refined gentleman who comes to see her some mornings, the one who belongs to the Delgado family, a countryman of yours.”

  “Ah yes, Frasquito Ponte. Of course I know him. He is from my town or at least from Algeciras, which is near enough the same thing. He was a dandy once and still tries to be one. A nice man, a gentleman of good principles who knows how to treat a lady, the old-fashioned type. Nowadays you see nothing but rudeness and bad manners. Ponte happens to be a brother-in-law of some cousins of my husband’s, because his sister married a – I’ve forgotten how he’s related exactly. I’m very glad he’s friendly with my daughter, because she ought to know people who are honourable and decent and have a good position.”

  “Well, Don Frasquito’s position doesn’t strike me as exactly brilliant.”

  “In my days he was a bachelor who lived a life of pleasure. He had a good job, dined in the best of houses and spent his nights at his club.”

  “Well, he must be poorer than a church mouse now, because he spends his nights …”

  “Where?”

  “At Señá Bernarda’s fairy castle in Calle de Mediodía – the doss house.”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “Ponte sleeps there when he has the three reales for a bed in the first-class dormitory.”

  “You must be crazy, Benina.”

  “But I’ve seen him, ma’am. La Bernarda is a friend of mine, she lent me those eight duros, remember? When you had to apply for an identity document and pay a surcharge and send it to Ronda.”

  “Ah, yes, the woman used to come every day to claim her debt and terrify us out of our wits.”

/>   “That’s the one. All the same, she’s a good woman. She wouldn’t have put the law on us, despite her threats. There are others who are worse. She’s rich, you know, from the six doss houses she owns she’s made at least forty thousand duros. And she’s put it all in the bank and lives on the interest.”

  “The things that happen! What a state the world’s in! But coming back to Gentleman Ponte as they used to call him in Andalusia, if he’s as poor as you say, he must be a sorry sight. But it’s better that way, because our girl’s reputation might suffer if, instead of his being an old crock and a beggar in a frock coat, he were an eligible bachelor, even if an old one.”

  “I think,” said Benina laughing, for her sense of humour returned as soon as life’s anxieties allowed her a breathing space, “that he goes there to get embalmed! And they’d better hurry up or he’ll go rotten.”

  Doña Paca laughed a little at her witticism, and then asked for news of the other family. “I haven’t seen the boy for the last couple of days,” answered Benina, “but Juliana told me that he’s running around like greased lightning, because with this flu epidemic there have been lots of medicine advertisements. He hopes to make plenty of money and launch a news sheet all about what’s in the shops, saying where they sell what, I suppose. The twins are as fat as butter, but good stews and good roasts cost the earth, and the wet-nurse knows when to begin eating but doesn’t know when to stop. Juliana told me that she would let us have a taste of the joint that her uncle is sending her on her saint’s day and two cuts of leather for making ladies’ boots too, which were discarded in the shoe shop where she does her back-stitching.”

  “She’s a good girl,” said Doña Paca seriously, “but so common that I cannot and never shall be able to treat her as an equal. Her presents offend me, but I’m grateful for her good will. Ah well, it’s bedtime and I think I’ve half-digested my dinner, so get my medicine ready in half an hour. Tonight my legs are worse than usual and my sight is very poor. Oh Lord, suppose I’m going blind! I don’t know what’s wrong, I eat well, thank God, but my sight is worse every day, though my eyes don’t hurt. I no longer have sleepless nights, thanks to you and all you’ve contrived, but when I wake I see everything blurred and my legs are like cotton wool. What connection can there be between rheumatism and the eyes? They say I should go for walks, but where can I go, looking like this, without decent clothes, and scared wherever I go of meeting people who knew me in the old days or those dirty, common people we owe money to?”

  Benina was reminded by this of the most important thing that she had to tell her mistress that evening. Not wishing to leave it any later for fear that it would keep her awake, she decided to speak before they left the kitchen. While they were washing up the few dirty dishes, a humble task which Doña Francisca did not disdain, she said as casually as she could: “Oh, I forgot to tell you, what a memory I’ve got! I met Don Carlos Moreno Trujillo today.”

  Doña Paca stood amazed and nearly dropped the plate she was washing. “Don Carlos? Did you say Don Carlos? And what happened? Did he speak to you? Did he ask after me?”

  “Of course, and he showed such an interest …”

  “Really? A bit late for that old miser to remember me, after watching me fall into poverty, me, his wife’s sister-in-law. For my Antonio and Purita were brother and sister, as you know, and not once did he hold out a helping hand.”

  “Last year, about this time of year when he was widowed, he sent Madam a small sum of money.”

  “Six duros! Disgraceful!” exclaimed Doña Paca, giving vent to the indignation, the spite and ill will that had grown over so many years of shame and poverty. “I blush at the very thought of it. Six duros and a few rags of Purita’s, dirty gloves, torn skirts and a very old-fashioned evening gown, from the time of the Queen’s wedding. What could I do with such rubbish? Anyway, tell me more. When and where did you meet him?”

  “At about half past twelve. He was coming out of San Sebastián’s.”

  “Yes, I know he spends the whole morning going from church to church, currying favour with the saints. You said half past twelve? But that’s just when you were serving lunch to Don Romualdo.”

  Benina was not one to recoil at such a blow. Her fertile brain and her accurate memory, which allowed her to keep her old lies in good order and use them in support of her new ones, saved the situation. “But didn’t I tell you that when the table was laid, there was a salad bowl short and I had to run quickly and buy one in the Plaza del Angel, on the corner of Calle Espoz y Mina?” she said.

  “If you did tell me I’ve forgotten. But how could you leave the kitchen a few minutes before serving the meal?”

  “I had to, because the country wench we have doesn’t know the streets, and she has no idea how to shop. She would have been gone hours, and I’m sure she’d have brought home a washbasin instead of a salad bowl. I flew there and Doña Patros looked after the kitchen, she’s very good at it, as good as I am or better. And that’s how I met old Don Carlos.”

  “But to get to Calle Espoz y Mina from Calle de la Greda, you didn’t have to go via San Sebastián, did you?”

  “I only said he had come from San Sebastián. I saw him coming from that direction, looking up at the Canseco clock. The shopkeeper came out to say good day to him. Don Carlos saw me and we talked.”

  “And what did he say? Tell me what he said.”

  “Ah, he said, he asked after madam and the children.”

  “What does he care, the old skinflint, about either mother or children? I’ve been told that man owns thirty-four houses in Madrid, one more than the age of Christ. He’s made a fortune smuggling drapery, greasing the palms of customs men and cheating more or less everyone, and now he comes along with soft words. It’s too late to make amends. Tell him that I despise him, that I am proud in my poverty, and that my poverty is a barrier between him and me. For that man only deals with the poor for his own good. He believes that by distributing ha’pennies to them, and gaining their prayers on his behalf, he will be able to fool the Almighty and cheat his way into heaven, smuggle himself in, making a false declaration about himself, just as he used to get Scottish linen through the customs, saying that it was French cotton at a real and a half a yard, with false customs marks, false invoices and false certificates of origin. Did you tell him that? Say, did you tell him that?”

  11

  “No, I didn’t tell him that, madam, for there was no reason to do so,” replied Benina, seeing that Doña Francisca was becoming overexcited, and that the blood was rushing to her face.

  “You may not remember what he and his wife did to me – and she was just as mean as he was. Well, when my troubles began, they turned them into profit for themselves. Instead of helping me, they tightened the noose so as to throttle me all the sooner. They saw how I was being devoured by the moneylenders, yet they never offered me a loan on reasonable terms. They could have saved me and they let me perish. And when I found that I had to sell my furniture, they bought my gilt drawing-room chairs and the long silk curtains for a song. They were on the watch for bargains and when they saw I was in desperate straits, with the bailiffs on the doorstep, of course they pretended to be my saviours. How much did they give me for the St Nicholas of Tolentino, by a painter of the Seville school, the pride of my husband’s house? A picture he prized above his own life. How much did they give me? Twenty-four duros, my dear Benina, twenty-four duros! They caught me at a bad moment, I was out of my mind with anxiety and fright and I didn’t realise what was happening. But a gentleman from the Museum told me afterwards that the picture was worth at least five hundred. That’s the sort they are: they don’t know what true charity is and what’s worse is that they have no idea how to behave. We used to send Pura a generous share of everything we got from Ronda – pears, candied pine nuts and marzipan cookies. Well, they responded with a little box of sweets on St Anthony’s Day and a cheap, vulgar knick-knack on my birthday. Don Carlos was such a sponger that he used
to drop in almost every day just when we were having coffee: and how he smacked his lips over it! As you know, the coffee in his house was like washing-up water. If we went to the theatre together and we invited them to our box, they always saw to it that it was Antonio who bought the tickets. Not to mention their presumption in borrowing our carriage any time they wanted it. You remember how, the very day we agreed the terms for the sale of the chairs, they went off in it for a drive the whole afternoon, showing off in the Castellana and the Retiro.”

  Benina did not interrupt or contradict her in full flow, because she knew that when Doña Paca was launched on that subject it was better that she should be allowed to let off steam. Not until she came to a halt, panting and breathless, did Benina venture to say: “Well, Don Carlos told me to call at his house tomorrow.”

  “What for?”

  “To talk to me.”

  “How typical! He’ll be wanting to send me something out of charity. Ah, of course: today is the anniversary of Pura’s death. He’ll produce some worthless trifle.”

  “Who knows, madam, he may do something.”

  “What, that man? I can see him putting in your hand a couple of pesetas or a couple of duros, believing that that will make the angels descend, playing their violins and guitars and extolling his charity. If I were you, I would refuse his alms. While we’ve got our Don Romualdo, we can afford to permit ourselves a little dignity, Nina.”

  “That wouldn’t be wise. He might get annoyed and say – for example – that you are proud or something like that.”