He lived with his daughter Encarna, a coarse specimen
of some twenty-five years, exceedingly vulgar and
the personification of insolence, who went walking
with her father on Sundays, bedecked with jewelry.
Encarna’s bosom was consumed with the fires of
passion for Leandro; but that ingrate, enamoured of
Milagros, was unscathed by the soul-flames of the
second-hand dealer’s daughter.
Wherefore Encarna mortally hated Milagros and the
members of her family; every hour of the day she branded
them as vulgarians, starvelings, and insulted them
with such scoffing sobriquets as Mendrugo, “Beggar’s
Crumb,” which was applied by her to the proof-reader,
and “The Madwoman of the Vatican,” which
meant his daughter.
It was not at all rare for such hatreds, between persons
forced almost into living in common, to grow to violent
rancour and malevolence; thus, the members of one
and the other family never looked at each other without
exchanging curses and wishes for the most disastrous
misfortunes.
Roberto Hastings at the Shoemaker’s—Procession
of Beggars—Court
of Miracles.
One morning toward the end of September Roberto appeared
in the doorway of The Regeneration of Footwear,
and thrusting his head into the shop exclaimed:
“Hello, Manuel!”
“Hello, Don Roberto!”
“Working, eh?”
Manuel shrugged his shoulders, indicating that the
job was not exactly to his taste.
Roberto hesitated for a moment, but at last made up
his mind and entered the shop.
“Have a seat,” invited Senor Ignacio,
offering him a chair.
“Are you Manuel’s uncle?”
“At your service.”
Roberto sat down, offered a cigar to Senor Ignacio
and another to Leandro, and the three began to smoke.
“I know your nephew,” said Roberto to
the proprietor, “for I live in the house where
Petra works.”
“You do?”
“And I wish you’d let him off today for
a couple of hours.”
“All right, senor. All afternoon, if you
wish.”
“Fine. Then I’ll call for him after
lunch.”
“Very well.”
Roberto watched them work for a while, then suddenly
jumped up and left.
Manuel could not understand what Roberto wanted, and
in the afternoon waited for him with genuine impatience.
Roberto carne, and the pair turned out of Aguila Street
down toward the Ronda de Segovia.
“Do you know where La Doctrina is?” Roberto
asked Manuel.
“What Doctrina?”
“A place where herds of beggars meet every Friday.”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you know where the San Isidro highway is?”
“Yes.”
“Good. For that’s where we’re
going. That’s where La Doctrina is.”
Manuel and Roberto walked down the Paseo de los Pontones
and continued in the direction of Toledo Bridge.
The student was silent and Manuel did not care to
ask any questions.
