“And what do you say,” asked the latter.
“I? What the deuce! Let them get married
if they have any one to marry ’em. They
came here and bore us stiff with their prayers and
sermons. What we need isn’t sermons, but
hard cash and plenty of it.”
“That’s what, man ... the dough,—that’s
what we want.”
“And all the rest is nothing but ... chatter
and chin music.... Anybody can give advice.
When it comes to bread, though, not a sign of it.”
“So say I!”
The ladies came out, prayer-books in hand; the old
beggar-women set off in pursuit and harassed them
with entreaties.
Manuel looked everywhere for the student; at last
he caught sight of him with Don Telmo’s niece.
The blonde turned around to look at him, and then
stepped into a coach. Roberto saluted her and
the coach rolled off.
Manuel and Roberto returned by the San Isidro highway.
The sky was still overcast; the air dry; the procession
of beggars was advancing in the direction of Madrid.
Before they reached the Toledo Bridge, at the intersection
of the San Isidro highway and the Extremadura cartroad,
Roberto and Manuel entered a very large tavern.
Roberto ordered a bottle of beer.
“Do you live in the same house where the shoe
shop is?” asked Roberto.
“No. I live over in the Paseo de las Acacias,
in a house called El Corralon.”
“Good. I’ll come to visit you there,
and you already understand that whenever you happen
to go to any place where poor folk or criminals gather,
you’re to let me know.”
“I’ll let you know. I was watching
that blonde eye you. She’s pretty.”
“Yes.”
“And she has a swell coach.”
“I should say so.”
“Well? Are you going to marry her?”
“What do I know? We’ll see.
Come, we can’t stay here,” said Roberto,
stepping up to the counter to pay.
In the tavern a large number of beggars, seated at
the tables, were gulping down slices of cod and scraps
of meat; a piquant odour of fried bird-tripe and oil
came from the kitchen.
They left. The wind still blew in eddies of sand;
dry leaves and stray bits of newspaper danced madly
through the air; the high houses near the Segovia
Bridge, their narrow windows and galleries hung with
tatters, seemed greyer and more sordid than ever when
glimpsed through an atmosphere murky with dust.
Suddenly Roberto halted, and placing his hand upon
Manuel’s shoulder said:
“Listen to what I say, for it is the truth.
If you ever want to accomplish anything in life, place
no belief in the word ‘impossible.’
There’s nothing impossible to an energetic will.
If you try to shoot an arrow, aim very high,—as
high as you can; the higher you aim, the farther you’ll
go.”
Manuel stared at Roberto with a puzzled look, and
shrugged his shoulders.
