DoÑa Aurora had her daily reception—and in the afternoon; nothing less, indeed, than a five o’clock tea, as a society reporter would say—only, without the tea or the wish for it, for if she had offered anything to her guests, the SeÑora de PardiÑas, who was very old-fashioned in her ideas, would undoubtedly have selected some good slices of ham or the like substantial nourishment. As her friends knew that she was accustomed to go out only in the morning wrapped in her mantle and her fur cape to make a few unceremonious calls or to do some shopping, and that she spent her afternoons at her dining-room window knitting, they attended these receptions punctually, attracted to them by the cheerful fire, by the easy-chairs, by friendship, and by habit.

The larger part of the circle of DoÑa Aurora’s friends was composed of the companions of her deceased husband, magistrates, or, as she called them in professional parlance, “SeÑores.” Some few of these, who had already retired from active official life, were the most constant in their attendance. Certain seats in the dining-room were regarded as belonging of right to certain persons—the broad-backed easy-chair was set apart for Don Nicanor CandÁs, the Crown Solicitor, who loved his ease; the leather-covered arm-chair with the soft seat was for Don Prudencio Rojas; the arm-chair covered with flowered cretonne by the chimney corner—let no one attempt to dispute its possession with the patriarch Don Gaspar Febrero. This venerable personage was the soul of the company, the most active, the most imposing in appearance, and the

gayest of the assemblage, notwithstanding his eighty odd years and his lame leg, broken by jumping from a horse-car. The first quarter of an hour’s conversation was generally devoted to a discussion of the weather and the health of the company; there was not one of these worthy people who was not afflicted with some ailment or other. Some of them, indeed, were full of ailments, so that neither their complaints nor the remedies they discussed were of merely abstract interest. There an account was kept of the fluctuations in the chronic catarrhs, the rheumatic pains, the flatulent attacks, and the heartburns of each one of the assemblage, and they discussed as solemnly as they had formerly discussed a judgment the virtues of salycilic acid or of pectoral lozenges.

The sanitary question being exhausted—for everything exhausts itself—they passed on, almost always following the lead of SeÑor Febrero, to treat of less agreeable matters. The amiable old man could not bear to hear all this talk of drugs, prescriptions, and potions. “Any one would suppose one had one foot in the grave,” he would say, smiling and showing his brilliant artificial teeth. The subject of the conversation was changed, but it scarcely ever turned on questions of the day. Like a gavotte played by a grandmother on an antiquated harpsichord, the ritornello of souvenirs and reminiscences of the past resounded here. The conversation usually began somewhat as follows:

“Do you remember when I received my appointment to the Canary Islands during the ministry of Narvaez?”

Or:

“What times those were! At least ten years before the celebrated Fontanellas case. My eldest son was not yet born.”

SeÑor de Febrero interposed to restrain them in these sorrowful reminiscences of bygone days also, exclaiming with youthful vivacity:

“Why, that took place only yesterday, as one might say. In the life of a nation what is a paltry twenty-five or thirty years?”

“Yes, but in a man’s life——”

“Or in a man’s life either, if it comes to that. Forty or fifty I call the prime of life.”

“Speak for yourself. You have discovered the elixir of youth. You are as fresh as a lettuce. But the rest of us look like parchment; we are only fit to be wheeled out in the sun.”

With his crutch between his knees Don Gaspar laughed, and as he shook his head the silvery curls of his wig shone in the light. I regret to be obliged to pay tribute to descriptive truth by stating that SeÑor de Febrero wore a wig and false teeth; but it must be added that their falseness was so true that they were superior to the genuine articles and would deceive the sharpest eye. With exquisite taste and consummate art, the old man had had his wig made of hair as white as snow, and the coronet of light white curls that encircled his ivory brow was like a majestic aureole, very different from the thick forest of hair with which would-be young old men persist in striving to repair the irreparable ravages of time. In the same way the teeth, skillfully imitating his own, somewhat uneven and worn, with a gap on the left side, would have deceived anybody. With his beautiful hair, his smooth-shaven face, his regular and still very expressive features, with his pulchritude and dignity of mien, Don Gaspar reminded one of the heads of the eighteenth century as they have come down to us in miniatures. It seemed a pity that he should not wear an embroidered satin coat; the cloth coat did not suit him. Even the ebony crutch, with its blue velvet cushion, served to enhance and complete the commanding dignity of his presence. With the gallantry of a bygone age, Don Gaspar, the moment a woman appeared in sight, was all ardor, and honied speeches flowed from his lips. Even to SeÑora PardiÑas, who was altogether out of the lists, he did not neglect to pay attentions that were lover-like and gallant, rather than merely polite.

It gratified the vanity of this old man, who wore his old age so serenely and so gracefully, to hear his companions, all infirm, all asthmatic, all with their chronic colds and coughs, all visibly bald, say of him enviously:

“This Don Gaspar is wonderful. He will live to bury us all.”

It was also a gratification to his vanity to prove to them the strength and clearness of his memory, and it was one which he often enjoyed, for at the reception of the SeÑora de PardiÑas the thread of memory was constantly spun, and intermingled with it was a strand of gold, but of tarnished gold like that of an antique chasuble. Don Gaspar’s memory was a sort of wardrobe in which were stored away among perfumes, duly labeled and classified, events, names, dates, and even words. “This SeÑor de Febrero is an old record-book,” DoÑa Aurora would say. When there was a difference of opinion regarding the date of some past event, Don Gaspar was appealed to as umpire.

“Isn’t it true, SeÑor de Febrero, that the Zaldivar case, at Seville, was decided in the winter of ’56.”

“No, SeÑor, the winter of ’57. I remember it was on the 15th of December—I mean the 16th, the birthday of our friend Don Nicanor CandÁs.”

“But, good Heavens!” exclaimed Don Nicanor, when this was related to him. “It is not right that any one should be endowed with a memory like that. If that infernal Galician does not remember even the date of my birth, a thing that I can never remember myself! As nobody is going to steal any of my years away from me, I don’t see the use of keeping so exact an account of them.”

Don Nicanor CandÁs, a retired Asturian, from Oviedo, suspicious and conceited like all his townspeople, as biting as pepper and as sharp as a thorn, afforded much amusement to the assemblage through his disputes with SeÑor de Febrero, whom he opposed systematically, without consideration for his patriarchal privileges or respect for his honorable seniority. The better to confound his adversary CandÁs adopted a singular method, which was not without humor. He pretended to be as deaf as a post, and he always carried in the pocket of his coat a little silver trumpet, which he put to his ear whenever he was able to answer and refute his opponent’s arguments, but which he would say he had forgotten to bring with him when, not being able to do this, he wished to change the subject of conversation. Such a stratagem could not fail to succeed, and by the help of it he was always enabled to avoid being worsted in a dispute. In his language SeÑor de CandÁs was as rude and ill-bred as Don Gaspar was choice, polite and mellifluous, and for this reason he was out of harmony with the other habituÉs of the house. Nor was he so for this reason alone, but also because he was the only one of them who preferred the news of the day to reminiscences of the past, the only one who brought to this musty senate a breath of out-door air, of real life.

The portentous memory of the octogenarian grew confused and uncertain when recent events were concerned, and CandÁs, profiting by this defect in the admirable faculties of the patriarch, was always trying to trip him up. “Let us see,” he would say, “how our Don Gaspar would set about proving an alibi. He is impregnable in all that relates to the Calomarde ministry or the regency of Espartero, yet he does not remember what he was doing this morning.” And imitating Don Gaspar’s voice, he would add, “What did I do yesterday? Let me see. Did I go to see Rojas? I think so. What am I saying? No, no. I was walking in Recoletos. Yet I would not swear to that, either.”

This humorous criticism of the patriarch, might, to a certain extent, be applied with equal justice to all the other “SeÑores.” It would seem as if the present did not exist for them, as if the past only had life and color. They discussed the news of the reporter, Don Nicanor, for a few minutes with the pessimism that is characteristic of old age; then they resumed their progress up the stream of time, plunging with supreme satisfaction into the fogs of vanished years. Perhaps, along with old age, they were influenced in this to some extent by the character acquired in the practice of the law, a profession based on scientific notions already stratified, a science purely historical, in which the spirit of innovation is a heresy, and in which the judicial problems of to-day are solved according to the standard of the Roman law or the jurisdiction of the Visigoths. Thus it was that the reunions in the house of the SeÑora de PardiÑas might be likened to a rock standing motionless amid the ceaseless surge of the sea of life. The worthy “SeÑores” did not see that among dusty and worm-eaten parchments, too, living germs palpitate and the spirit of progress lives. Clinging to vain formulas, they fancied they were the custodians of a sacred liquor, when only the empty vase remained in their hands, and, treating of innovations, they placed in the same category of heterodoxy the use of the beard, inferior courts, trial by jury, and the revision of the Codes.