Misericordia (Dedalus European Classics)

by Benito Perez Galdos

  “Let him say it. And who would he say it to anyway?”

  “To Don Romualdo himself, whose great friend he is. Every day after mass they have a chat in the sacristy.”

  “Well, do as you wish. But just in case, tell Don Romualdo what sort of person Don Carlos is, and make him see that these are last-minute pieties, and they just won’t wash. Anyway I know you won’t let me down and you’ll tell me tomorrow what you get out of the visit.”

  The discussion continued; Benina tried to damp it down, to cool it off with oblique replies and calm words. But her mistress lay awake for some time that night and so did Benina who spent part of the night working out her strategy for the following day’s campaign, undoubtedly to be a hard one if she were not lucky enough to get a handful of duros from Don Carlos: but this was not impossible.

  At the hour fixed by Señor de Moreno Trujillo, neither a minute early nor a minute late, Benina rang at the door of his first-floor apartment in the Calle de Atocha, and a maid showed her into the study, which was quite elegant, all the furniture matching in colour and style. A ministerial desk occupied the centre, and on it were many books and bundles of papers. The books were not the sort one reads, but ledgers, all very clean and well kept. The wall behind the desk was adorned with a portrait of Doña Pura, draped in black crepe, and in a frame which looked like solid gold. Other portraits, photographs presumably of the daughters, sons-in-law and little grandchildren of Don Carlos, were to be seen in various parts of the room. Near the large picture and attached to it like offerings or ex votos to an altar, hung a quantity of wreaths made of cloth and decorated with roses, violets and daffodils, from which dangled long black ribbons with gold letters on them. These were the wreaths which had been sent for the lady’s funeral and which Don Carlos had kept at home, so that they should be preserved from the inclemency of the weather in the cemetery. Over the fireplace, in which a fire never burned, there was a bronze clock with figures, which had stopped, and near it a calendar, showing the previous day’s date.

  Half a minute later, in came Don Carlos shuffling his feet, wearing a velvet cap pulled down to his ears and his indoor cloak, which was much older than the one he used outside. His habit – which went on well into the summer – of wearing this garment was the result of his dislike of stoves and braziers which were in his opinion mortally dangerous. As his cloak was open Benina could see that his collars and cuffs were clean and that he wore a heavy watch-chain, finery assumed no doubt in honour of the anniversary. With a huge check handkerchief he wiped away the tears that ran from his eyes and nose; he then trumpeted two or three times into it, and seeing that Benina was standing, motioned her to a chair and solemnly took his place in the armchair behind the desk, which had a high back carved like a choir stall. Benina sat on the edge of hers, which, like all the others in the room, was of oak with a soft seat upholstered in green velvet.

  “Well, I asked you to come here to tell you,” he began, and broke off. Don Carlos’s head was afflicted by a chronic nervous movement, shaking from side to side as if saying no. This tic varied from the very obvious to hardly visible depending on the state of his nerves. “To tell you.” Another pause caused by more tears. Don Carlos wiped his red-ringed eyes and rubbed his stubbly beard, which he wore merely because he was too lazy to shave. Since the death of his wife, who shaved him and for whose sake he let himself be shaved, he had decided to add to his many demonstrations of grief a face of mourning by allowing a growth of white, black and yellow hairs to cover it, like a kind of symbolic veil of crepe. “To tell you,” he resumed, “that the reason Francisca is where she is, in such poor straits, is because she refused to keep accounts. Without good management, however large the fortune it always ends in poverty. With good management the poor become rich. Without good management, the rich…”

  “Become poor, yes, sir,” said Benina humbly, for though this was no news to her she tried to give the impression that she accepted these moral principles as the recent discoveries of Don Carlos.

  “Francisca has always been a giddy woman. As my wife and I used to tell her, ‘Francisca, you’ll ruin yourself, you’ll end up without a penny,’ and she never took the slightest notice. We could never get her to put down her debits and credits. Figures! She’d die rather than write down figures, and if you don’t write down figures, you’re done for. I can tell you that she never had any idea what she owed or when her IOUs were due!”

  “True, sir, very true,” said Benina with a sigh, wondering what Don Carlos might give her once the sermon was over.

  “Work it out for yourself,” continued Don Carlos, “if I have in my old age adequate means for myself and my children; if I can afford to have masses said for the soul of my beloved wife, it is because I always conducted my affairs in a methodical and orderly manner. Even today, though retired from business, I keep up-to-date accounts of my personal expenditure and never go to bed without entering everything up in the day book. Then in my leisure moments, I transfer it all to the big ledger. Here, see for yourself and you’ll be convinced,” he added, his head shaking more and more. “I want Francisca to profit from this lesson. It’s not too late. Now look here.” And he picked up one book and then another one, showing them to Benina, who came closer to see these marvels of numeracy. “Do you see? In this one I put down the household expenses, not omitting anything, not even a penny for a box of matches, the ha’pennies for the postman, everything, everything. In this little one, I put down the alms I give and other charitable acts. Alms per day, so much; alms per month, so much. Then I copy it all into the big ledger, from which I can tell what I spend day by day and then balance it up. Now, think it over: if Francisca had balanced it up, she wouldn’t be where she is today.”

  “True, sir, very true. And I tell madam she should balance it up and note it all down, everything that comes in and everything that goes out. However, as she’s not a child, she can’t change bad habits into good so easily. But she’s an angel, sir, and when it comes to helping her you mustn’t mind whether she notes it down or not.”

  “It’s never too late to mend, as the saying goes. I assure you that if I had seen that Francisca had the slightest intention or desire to keep proper accounts, I would have made her a loan – well, not a loan, I would have facilitated means for her to achieve a balance. But she’s a scatterbrain. Agree with me that she’s a scatterbrain.”

  “Yes, sir, I agree.”

  “And it occurred to me, and that’s why I asked you to come here, it occurred to me that the best gift I can make to that unfortunate woman is this.” As he said it, Don Carlos picked up a long narrow book. “Now see here,” said the good gentleman turning over the pages, “here are all the days of the week. Now look carefully: on one side the debit column, on the other the credit. And see how the expenditure is divided into items: coal, oil, firewood and so on. Now isn’t it easy to put down what goes out, and on the other side, what comes in?”

  “But in madam’s case, nothing comes in!”

  “Nonsense!” exclaimed Trujillo, smacking the book with his hand. “There must be something! – because however little you consume there must be something coming in, one way or another, little or much. And what you get in alms, why not put that down? Come now, why not put that down?”

  Benina looked at him, half angrily, half pityingly. But her anger was stronger than her pity and there was a moment, just a second, in which she nearly picked up the book and banged it on Don Carlos’s head. Repressing her fury, and so that this monomaniac of accountancy should not perceive it, she assumed a false smile and said: “So you note down the pennies you give to us poor people at St Sebastián’s?”

  “Every day,” replied the old man proudly, his head shaking from side to side even more. “And I can tell you, if you wish to know, what I have given over three months, six months or a year.”

  “No, please don’t bother, sir,” said Benina, again feeling the urge to hit him. “I’ll take the book, if you wish. Madam is v
ery grateful and so am I. But we’ve not got a single pen or pencil in the house!”

  “Good gracious me! Can one imagine a house, however poor, where there are no writing materials at all? Papers have to be signed, one has to add up some figures, or jot down a name and address so as not to forget it. Here’s a pencil which already has a point; take it with you as well, and when the point has worn down, sharpen it with the kitchen knife.”

  Not a word had Don Carlos uttered about any real help that he might intend to give, his charity being so far limited to the gift of the book which was meant to be the basis for orderly living in the disorganised household of Doña Francisca Juarez. But seeing that his lips moved to frame further words and that his hand grasped the key in the left-hand drawer of the desk, Benina was filled with joy.

  “Prosperity can never exist without good management,” stated Don Carlos, opening the drawer and looking inside. “I want Francisca to manage her affairs, and as soon as she does so…”

  “Manage what?” said Benina to herself. “How much is the old man going to give us? He is madder than the loonies in Leganés Asylum. I hope all the money you’ve saved goes rotten and turns into pus and blows up your body till it bursts, you miserly old sack!”

  “Take the book and the pencil, and carry them very carefully; don’t lose them on the way. Have you got it all quite clear? Will you guarantee that everything will be noted down?”

  “Yes, sir, every single thing.”

  “Good. Now, so that Francisca will remember my poor Pura and pray for her. Do you promise that you will both pray for her and for me?”

  “Yes, sir, we’ll pray out loud, until the little bell rings.”

  “Well, here I have twelve duros which I’ve earmarked for those in need who are too proud to beg. Poor things! They are in most need of pity.”

  When she heard “twelve duros”, Benina opened her eyes as wide as two front doors. Lord! What she could do with twelve duros! She immediately saw how she could have peace for days on end, get so many things they needed, stop a few complaining mouths, live, breathe, give up the humiliation of begging and the misery of seeking a livelihood by such laborious means. The heavens opened for the poor woman and out poured twelve duros, and this in her circumstances represented perfect bliss.

  “Twelve duros,” repeated Don Carlos, passing the coins from hand to hand, “but I shall not give you them all at once, because that would encourage extravagance. I shall apportion them …”

  Benina came down to earth with a thump.

  “If I were to give them to you, by this time tomorrow there wouldn’t be a ha’penny left. I apportion you two duros per month, and on the twenty-fourth of each month you can come and collect them, until the six months are up, and after September I shall see if I should increase the allowance. It will depend, please note, on whether I see that there has been good administration or not, if order has been established or chaos still reigns. Beware of chaos.”

  “Indeed, sir,” said Benina humbly, thinking that it was better to agree and take what he offered rather than argue with the stingy old eccentric. “I guarantee that everything will be noted down with ‘ministration’, and not a jot left out. So I’m to call on the twenty-fourth of each month? It’ll be a great help in the housekeeping. The Lord bless you and keep your departed lady in his holy rest, for ever Amen.”

  Don Carlos, after entering the sum with some relish in his book, dismissed Benina with a wave of his hand, and, changing his cloak and putting on his best hat, a garment which never left its box except on solemn occasions, he prepared to sally forth with clear determination and firm step on his day’s round of devotions, which would begin at Monserrat and end at the Sacramental de San Justo.

  12

  “That old devil,” said Benina to herself, setting off at a brisk pace down the Calle de las Urosas, “can do no more than his nature allows him to do. God knows, if some of the animals and plants He created are weird, some of the people are even weirder. Truth is stranger than fiction, one sees it over and over again. Well, there are worse people than Don Carlos. At least he gives something, though it has to be noted down in that account book of his; there are worse people, much worse than he, who note nothing down and give nothing at all. The fact is, that these two duros will settle today’s problem because I must keep my word to Almudena and return him his duro. Bad days will come and then I’ll need his help. That leaves twenty reales, some of which I shall have to give to the child, who is dying of hunger, and the rest is for our benefit today and … I shall have to tell madam that her relative only gave me the account book, which, together with the pencil, will provide an excellent stew: broth made of figures, stock made of print! What a joke! Anyway, God will help me as always with the lies I shall have to tell Doña Paca, and so we go on. I wonder if I’ll come across Almudena on the way, it’s about the time he comes up to the church. And if we don’t meet in the street, he’s bound to be in the Café de la Cruz in the Rastro.” She turned that way and they met in the Calle de la Encomienda.

  “My boy, I was looking for you,” said Benina catching his arm. “Here’s your duro. You see how I pay my debts.”

  “Friend, not hurry.”

  “Now I owe you nothing: till the next time, dear Almudena, for there will be days when I am in need and you can help me and vice versa I can help you. Have you just been in the café?”

  “Yes, and go back with you if you like. I invite you.”

  Benina accepted and a little later they were installed in the inexpensive café, each with a ten céntimo glass of coffee. It was originally a tavern, which had been smartened up with absurd decor, part pretentious, part naive; there were gaudy gilt decorations and the walls were adorned with pictures of the sea and landscapes; the atmosphere was foul and the clientele a mixture of beggars and traders from the Rastro market, noisy, relaxed, some reading newspapers out loud, others listening, all enjoying themselves in the idle hubbub, among the spitting, the smoke of cheap tobacco and the stink of spirits. Benina and the Moroccan sat alone at a table and chatted about their news: he told her of the mishaps of his housemate, and she described her interview with Don Carlos and the absurd gift of an account book and two duros per month. They discussed at length the wealth which Trujillo was rumoured to have acquired (thirty-four houses, a “big, big sum in government bonds, thousands and thousands in the Bank”), and then passed on to wonder how many poor people, “for example”, could be made happy with “all that dough”, which was so much more than Don Carlos needed. Even after deducting part for his children, who “of course” ought to have some, the rest would provide for so many, oh so many who now walked the streets, God’s streets, howling with hunger. But as they, Benina and Almudena, couldn’t have things their way, it was better not to think about it, and to go on seeking their daily crust of bread the best way they could, until death came, and after that it was for God to give each one what he deserved. It was then that Almudena, in all seriousness and with great conviction, told his friend that the entire fortune of Don Carlos could be hers if she wished.

  “Mine? Did you say that Don Carlos’s fortune could be mine? You’re crazy, Almudena my boy.”

  “All yours, by God in his Glory. If you don’t believe, try and see.”

  “Tell me again: all Don Carlos’s money could be mine, when?”

  “When you wish.”

  “I’ll believe you, if you explain how this miracle could take place.”

  “I know how, I tell you secret.”

  “And if you know how to make the complete fortune of that old madman, shall we say pass into other hands, why are you content to live in poverty yourself, why don’t you have it?”

  To this Almudena replied that whoever worked the miracle of which he possessed the secret must have sight; and he added that the miracle would surely happen, by God in his Glory, and if Benina doubted it she could try for herself, carrying out exactly what he prescribed.

  Benina had always been rather s
uperstitious and tended to believe any stories of the supernatural that she heard; her poverty increased her willingness to accept the improbable and the marvellous as well, and although she had witnessed no miracles, she hoped to do so one day. A little superstition, a great yearning for marvels and the unknown, with a little common curiosity thrown in, prompted her to urge the Moor to give details of his science or art of magic – for that it surely must be. He told her that everything depended on knowing how to present one’s petition to a being called Samdai.

  “And who is that gentleman?”

  “The King of the Underworld.”

  “What? A king who is under the world? He must be the Devil.”

  “Devil no; good king.”

  “Is he part of your religion? What is your religion?”

  “He Hebrew.”

  “Goodness gracious,” said Benina who had never heard the word before. “And so you call up this king and he comes?”

  “Yes, and he gives everything you ask.”

  “Everything I ask for?”

  “Certain sure.” The profound conviction shown by Almudena impressed the poor woman who, after a pause in which she gazed questioningly at her friend’s dead eyes and shiny yellow forehead ringed with black hair, came out with: “And what do I have to do to call him up?”

  “I’ll tell you.”

  “And nothing will happen to me if I call him?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I shan’t be damned, or get ill or be carried off by devils?”

  “No.”

  “Let’s have it then; and no fooling, no fooling I tell you.”

  “I not fool you.”

  “Can we do it now?”

  “No, we do it at midnight.”

  “Does it have to be midnight?”

  “Sure, sure.”

  “And how can I leave the house at midnight? Let’s have no more of this nonsense. Well, of course I could say, for example, that Don Romualdo was ill and I had to nurse him. So what do we have to do?”