This is my first effort here. I usually have not the time, so updates may be scarce. And, of course, all comments will be very welcome.
[Café de Levante, calle del Arenal, Saturday, July, 7, 1869]
Outside the sun was raging and the dust from the construction in the nearby Puerta del Sol was hanging everywhere, but somehow the Café de Levante was half full even at midday. Madrileños can ignore or even hate coffee, but all of them love conversation and gossip with a passion, and cafés were the place to find it. The week was closing and young and old were entrenched behind their wide open newspapers, waiting for any comment about "oh, what a day" to flood them with a barrage of opinions about anything, from the weather of yesteryear to the situation in the Mississippi. All that news were to be received with a muted face of mild concern, like you were struggling to not openly disagree; even if you didn’t. Enthusiast agreement was not allowed, even frowned upon. We were in a polite venue.
At this time, even the most adept conversators are starting to fold their newspapers and ask for a vaso de agua fría to start the way home. Not the Old Man. He was where he always were (nobody dared to take his strategically situated table in the corner farther to the window) reading from his pile of newspapers. He never spoke except if asked to, and that was more rare every day. Was he disgraced? Who knew exactly. The whims of politics were strange and nobody was brave enough to ask the men at the Palace. Nobody was brave enough to ask the Old Man, either.
That’s why when a young man with a slightly grubby moustache respectfully got close to the table of the Old Man, he looked up with a strangely puzzled face.
- ¿Qué quiere usted?
- Sir, can I have a moment with you?
The accent of the young man piqued his curiosity. He made a gesture with his head to tell the foreigner to sit in front of him.
- Thank you, sir. My name is Benito Pérez. I’m a writer.
Ah, him. He has read him in a few newspapers, and with gusto, but he was not to let him to know that, was he?
- Ah, yes. You write in La Nación, don’t you?
- And in El Universal, and El Globo, and in some newspapers in the provinces.
- You have an strange accent. Are you an American?
- Canarian, sir. From the Big Island.
- I see… Yes, I almost don’t read literature in newspapers anymore. Just droning on and on about ancient cathedrals, and the greening fields of the Asturias, and about how textile shops smell…
The young Pérez stiffened up and the Old Man felt maybe that was too much for the youngster. But the intruder was still there, so he mellowed a bit and said, with a little smile:
- Oh, not that I am a romantic, either. I’m just more… direct. How can I help you?
- Sir – said Pérez, still weary – I am writing a novel; a serial novel, about the history of Spain, from the battle of Trafalgar until the present days. There will be a series of episodes: the National Episodes. And, as you lived through…
The Old Man stopped him and considered it for a while.
- That’s a noble task, mr. Pérez. How old are you?
- I’m not young anymore, sir. I’m twenty-six.
- Well, indeed. I was twenty-one when… Oh, not here. Let’s do something. Please come to my house on Tuesday, at four. After the siesta. I will help you, mr. Pérez. But do not expect any ruffles and flourishes. I will tell everything I can remember to you… as it happened.
[As published in La Correspondencia de España, March, 12, 1877]
“We liked Bretón’s play very much, and we wanted to say him so after the bolero, but seconds after Castillo y Camprubí started to dance, the buzz within the boxes grew to become a nervous parley. Then we looked to the stage and we saw the alcayde, apoplexically red, with a paper in his hands. “Ladies and gentleman, honorable public. I have the happiest news. Her Majesty the Queen, God save her, gave forth this evening a healthy prince[1]!”.
The parley in the boxes stopped. It seemed to me that I could hear from there every click in every head, even don Benigno’s, asking themselves what that meant and what was going to be the future of Spain. Then, suddenly, a full bodied, heavily-Madrileño-accent voice bolted from the cheapest seats: “LONG LIVE THE KING! LONG LIVE THE PRINCE! LONG LIVE SPAIN!”. And, as one, the Teatro del Príncipe cheered the news. But that mistrust lingered on”.
(Benito Pérez Galdós, Episodios Nacionales: Un Príncipe en la undécima hora)
[1] Here is the POD. The second daughter of María Cristina de Borbón and Fernando VII is a boy, so the later conundrums about succession are pretty much ironed out. But things will evolve differently...