-Xxii-

Farewell

A strange, unheard-of thing! Nela, who had never had bed, nor clothes, nor shoes, nor sustenance, nor consideration, nor family, nor anything of her own, not even a name, had a magnificent sepulchre that caused no little envy among the living of Socartes. This posthumous magnificence was the greatest irony ever witnessed in those calamine-bearing lands. Señorita Florentina, consistent with her generous sentiments, sought to soften the grief of not having been able to succor Nela in life with the satisfaction of honoring her poor remains after death. Some hardened positivist might criticize her for this; but we see in so unusual an act one more proof of the delicacy of her soul.

When they buried her, the curious folk who went to see her—this indeed is strange and unheard-of!—found her almost pretty; at least, so they said. It was the only time she ever received flatteries.

The funeral was celebrated with pomp, and the clergy of Villamojada opened wide eyes at seeing money given them for chanting responses over the daughter of La Canela. It was stupendous, phenomenal that a being whose social importance had been scarcely greater than that of insects should cause so many tapers to be lit, so many palls to be spread, and succentors and sacristans to grow hoarse. This, by dint of being singular, bordered on the comical. Nothing else was talked of for six months.

The surprise and—let it be said once and for all—the indignation of those good multitudes reached its height when they saw coming along the road two carts laden with enormous blocks of fine white stone. Ah! In Señana’s intellect a frightful confusion of ideas took place, a veritable intellectual cataclysm, a chaos, on considering that those fine white stones were Nela’s sepulchre. If an ox had flown before Señana or her husband had reasoned, it would have surprised her no more.

They searched the parish registers of Villamojada, for it was necessary that she who had gone without a fixed name in life should have one after death, as this very history proves, wherein she is called by different names. Having found that indispensable requirement for appearing in the archives of death, the magnificent sepulchral slab that displayed itself proudly among the rustic crosses of the Aldeacorba graveyard bore engraved these lines:

R. I. P. MARÍA MANUELA TÉLLEZ RECLAIMED BY HEAVEN ON OCTOBER 12, 186...

A garland of flowers exquisitely carved in marble crowned this inscription. Some months later, when Florentina and Pablo Penáguilas were already married, and when (let the truth be spoken, for truth comes before all else)... when no one in Aldeacorba de Suso remembered Nela any longer, certain foreigners of the sort called tourists were traveling through those regions; and no sooner had they seen the splendid marble tomb raised in the cemetery by the religious piety and sublime affection of an exemplary woman, than they were struck dumb with admiration, and without further inquiry wrote down in their notebooks these observations, which under the title of Sketches from Cantabria were later published by an English newspaper:

“What surprises the visitor most at Aldeacorba is the splendid sepulchre erected in the churchyard over the grave of an illustrious young lady, celebrated throughout that country for her beauty. Doña Mariquita Manuela Téllez belonged to one of the noblest and wealthiest families of Cantabria, the house of Téllez Girón and Trastámara. Of a spiritual, poetic, and somewhat capricious nature, she took a fancy (take a fancy) to wander along the roads playing the guitar and singing odes of Calderón, and dressed in rags to mingle with the throng of beggars, rogues, troubadours, bullfighters, friars, hidalgos, gypsies, and muleteers, who at kermesses form that motley Spanish populace which persists and will ever persist, independent and picturesque, despite the rails and newspapers that have begun to penetrate the western peninsula. The abbot of Villamojada wept as he spoke to us of the whims, virtues, and beauty of the aristocratic lady of wealth, who knew how to appear at Madrid soirées, festivities, and jousts with the most aristocratic carriage (deportment). Incalculable is the number of lovely romances, sonnets, and madrigals composed in honor of this graceful maiden by all the Spanish poets.”

It was enough for me to read this to understand that the worthy reporters had seen visions. I sought to ascertain the truth, and from the truth I ascertained, this book resulted.

Let us bid farewell forever to this tomb, of which The Times has spoken. Let us turn our eyes elsewhere; let us seek another being, let us search for him, for he is so small he is scarcely seen: an imperceptible insect, smaller upon the face of the earth than the phylloxera in the narrow confines of the vine. At last we see him; there he is—small, puny, microscopic. Yet he has courage and will achieve greatness. Hear his story, which is among the most interesting....

Well, then, gentlemen....

But no: this book does not belong to him. Welcome kindly that of Marianela, and in due time you shall be given that of Celipín.