As his family enjoyed the favour of the court, the office of Prior of Castile was destined for Toledo. It became vacant, so the knight hurried off to Malta. For a time I lost a protector who could oppose Busqueros’s plans for my father’s great inkpot. I was a spectator of the whole intrigue without being able to put obstacles in its way. This is how it came about.

At the beginning of my story I told you that every morning my father would go out on to a balcony overlooking the Calle de Toledo to take the air. He then would go to another balcony which looked out over a narrow street, and when he saw his neighbours opposite he would greet them by saying ‘Agour’. He did not like to go back into his house without having given this greeting. His neighbours would hurry out to receive his compliment in order not to hold him up too long. Otherwise he had no contact with them.

These good neighbours moved away and were replaced by the Señoras Cimiento, who were distant relatives of Don Roque Busqueros. The aunt, Señora Cimiento, was a person of forty years of age with a fresh complexion and a calm, gentle manner. Her niece, Señorita Cimiento, was tall and well-built, with quite nice eyes and very beautiful arms.

The two ladies took possession of their apartment as soon as it was empty and, when the next day my father came to the balcony overlooking the narrow street, he was charmed to see them on the balcony opposite. They received his greeting and returned it most graciously. This surprise was a pleasant one for him. None the less, he withdrew again into his apartment and the ladies withdrew on their side.

This polite exchange remained on the same footing for a week. At the end of this period my father caught sight of an object in Señorita Cimiento’s room which excited his curiosity. It was a small, glazed cupboard containing jars and crystal bottles. Some looked as though they were filled with the brightest colours for use in dyeing, others with gold dust, silver dust or powdered lapis lazuli, others with a golden varnish. The cupboard was placed near the window. Señorita Cimiento, dressed in a plain bodice, would come to fetch first one bottle then another. But what did she do with them? My father was unable to guess, and he wasn’t in the habit of seeking information. He preferred not to know about things.

One day Señorita Cimiento was writing near the window. Her ink was thick; she poured water into it and made it so thin that it was impossible to use. Moved by feelings of courtesy, my father filled a bottle with ink and sent it to her. His maid came back with thanks and a cardboard box containing twelve sticks of sealing-wax, all of different colours. On them had been impressed ornaments and devices in a most accomplished way. So my father found out how Señorita Cimiento spent her time; and her work, analogous to his, was, as it were, its complement. The quality of the manufacture of the waxes was even higher than that of his ink. Full of approbation, he folded down an envelope, wrote an address on it with his fine ink and sealed it with his new wax, which took the impression perfectly. He put the envelope on the table and did not tire of contemplating it.

That evening he went to Moreno’s shop. A man he did not know brought a box similar to his, with the same number of sticks. They were tried out and aroused universal admiration. My father thought about them the whole evening and that night he dreamed about sealing-wax.

The next morning he uttered his customary greeting. He even opened his mouth to say more, but in the end he said nothing and went back into his apartment, where he took up a position from which he could observe what was going on in that of Señorita Cimiento. The young lady was examining with a magnifying glass all the furniture being cleaned by the servant and whenever she discovered a speck of dust she made her begin again. The cleanliness of his room mattered a great deal to my father. The trouble he saw his nice neighbour taking gave him a great deal of respect for her.

I have said that my father’s main pastime was to smoke cigars and to count either the passers-by or the tiles on the palacio de Alba. But already, instead of spending hours doing this, he spent hardly a few minutes. A powerful force of attraction constantly drew him to the balcony overlooking the narrow street.

Busqueros was the first to notice this change and in my presence said confidently several times that Don Felipe Avadoro would soon recover his real name and lose the nickname del Tintero Largo. Although little versed in legal matters, I supposed that a second marriage by my father would scarcely be to my advantage, so I rushed to see Aunt Dalanosa and begged her to do something to avert this calamity. Genuinely saddened by the news I brought her, my aunt went back to see Uncle Sántez. The Theatine replied, however, that marriage was a divine sacrament with which he could not interfere, although he promised to see that my interests would not be harmed by it.

The Knight of Toledo had been living for some time on Malta, so I was forced to be an impotent spectator of the progress of this affair, and had sometimes to hasten its progress when Busqueros entrusted me with letters to his relatives, whom he never visited himself.

Señora Cimiento neither made nor received visits. For his part, my father went out less frequently. He would not readily have changed the pattern of his days and given up attending the theatre, but the least cold gave him the excuse of staying at home. On those days he would rarely leave the side of his apartment looking out on to the narrow street and he would look at Señorita Cimiento lining up the bottles and even the sticks of sealing-wax. Her beautiful arms, which were continually on view, captivated his imagination. He could think of nothing else.

A new object appeared to excite his curiosity. It was a jar quite like that in which he put his ink, but it was much smaller and was placed on an iron trivet. Lamps burning underneath kept it at a moderate heat. Soon two other similar jars were set up alongside the first. The next day, when my father appeared on the balcony and said ‘Agour’, he opened his mouth in order to ask what the jars were for. But as he was not in the habit of speaking he said nothing and went back inside.

Tormented by curiosity, he decided to send Señorita Cimiento another bottle of ink. Three crystal bottles filled with red, green and blue ink were sent back to him.

The next day my father went to Moreno’s the bookseller’s. A man appeared, a clerk in the ministry of finance, who carried under his arm a statement of balances in tabular form; some columns were in red ink, the headings were in blue ink and the lines in green ink. The clerk of finances said that he alone knew the composition of his inks and he challenged anyone to show him similar ones.

Someone whom my father did not know turned to him and said, ‘Señor Avadoro, you who can make black ink so well, could you make inks of such colours?’

My father did not like to be challenged and was easily embarrassed. He opened his mouth to reply but said nothing. He preferred to go home to fetch the three bottles. Their contents were much admired and the clerk of finances asked permission to take samples of them. Overwhelmed with praises, my father privately accorded the glory to fair Señorita Cimiento, whose name he did not yet know. Once home, he fetched his recipe book and found three recipes for green ink, seven for red and two for blue. They all became confused in his head, but the beautiful arms of Señorita Cimiento were clearly etched in his imagination. His dormant senses were aroused and made him aware of their power.

The next day, as he greeted the ladies, my father finally felt a resolute wish to know their names and he opened his mouth to ask them; however, he said nothing and went back inside. Then he went to the balcony overlooking the Calle de Toledo and saw quite a well-dressed man holding a black bottle in his hand. He realized that he had come to ask him for ink and stirred the contents of the jar well to give him some of good quality. The tap on the jar was a third of the way up so that there was no risk of drawing off the lees. The stranger entered and my father filled his bottle, but instead of going away the man put the bottle on a table, sat down and asked for permission to smoke a cigar. My father wanted to reply but said nothing. The stranger took a cigar from his box and lit it from a lamp which was on the table.

The stranger was none other than the implacable Busqueros. ‘Señor Avadoro,’ he said to my father, ‘you make up a liquid here which has done much evil in the world. So many plots, so much treachery, so much trickery, so many wicked books – all have flowed from ink, not to speak of love-letters and all those little conspiracies against the happiness of husbands and against their honour. What do you say to that, Señor Avadoro? You say nothing, but it’s your habit to say nothing. Never mind, I’ll speak for both of us. That’s my habit more or less. Now, Señor Avadoro, sit down on that chair and let me explain my idea to you. I claim that from this bottle of ink there will come out…’

As he said this, Busqueros pushed the bottle and ink spilled all over my father’s knees; he went off to dry himself and change his clothes. On returning, he found Busqueros waiting to say goodbye, hat in hand. My father, delighted to see him go, went to open the door for him, and indeed Busqueros went out, but immediately returned.

‘Well, Señor Avadoro,’ he said, ‘we are forgetting that my bottle is empty. But don’t put yourself out, I’ll fill it myself.’

Busqueros took a funnel, put it in the neck of the bottle and opened the tap. When the bottle was full my father went again to open the door, and Busqueros was quick to leave, but suddenly my father noticed that the tap was open and that ink was running into the room. My father rushed to turn off the tap. Then Busqueros came back in and, apparently without noticing the mess he had caused, put the bottle of ink on the table, sat down on the chair where he had sat before, took a cigar from his box and lit it.

‘Now, Señor Avadoro,’ he said to my father, ‘I have heard it said that you had a son who drowned in this jar. Bless me, if he had known how to swim he would have survived. But where did you get this jar from? I think it’s from Toboso. There is excellent soil there which is used in the manufacture of saltpetre. It’s as hard as rock. Allow me to put it to the test with this pestle.’

My father tried to prevent the test but Busqueros hit the jar, which broke. The ink flooded out and covered my father and everything else in the room, Busqueros not excepted, who was bespattered from head to foot.

My father, who rarely made a sound, on this occasion made a very great sound indeed. His two lady neighbours appeared on their balcony.

‘Oh, ladies!’ cried Busqueros. ‘A terrible accident has occurred. The great jar has broken. The room is awash with ink and Señor Tintero is at his wits’ end. It will be an act of Christian charity if you would let us come over to your room.’

The ladies seemed very willing to consent to this and, in spite of his distress, my father felt some pleasure when he realized that he was going to be united with the pretty lady who from afar seemed to hold her beautiful arms outstretched to him and smile at him so graciously.

Busqueros threw a cloak over the shoulders of my father and led him across to the house of the Señoras Cimiento. He had hardly got there when he received a very unpleasant message. A cloth merchant whose shop was under his apartment came to tell him that the ink had gone through to his shop and that he had summoned a lawyer to certify the damage. The landlord had him informed at the same time that he would no longer put up with him in his house.

Banished from his house and bathed in ink, my father looked as woebegone as it is possible to look.

‘Don’t be upset, Señor Avadoro,’ said Busqueros. ‘These ladies have a complete apartment facing the courtyard which they do not use. I’ll have your effects brought over. You will be very comfortable here and you’ll find red, green and blue inks which are equal to your black. But I advise you not to go out in the near future, for if you go to Moreno’s bookshop everyone will make you tell the story of the broken jar and you don’t care much for talking. And see there, all the idlers of the district are now in your apartment to see the flood of ink. Tomorrow nothing else will be talked about all over Madrid.’

My father was dismayed but a gracious glance from Señorita Cimiento gave him new heart, and he went off to take possession of his apartment. He did not stay there long. Señora Cimiento went to see him and say that, having consulted with her niece, she would let him have the apartment that overlooked the street. My father, who took pleasure in counting the tiles on the roof of the palacio de Alba, was happy to agree to this change. He was asked whether he would allow the coloured inks to be left where they were. He expressed his consent by a nod. The jars were in the middle of the room. Señora Cimiento would come and go without making a sound, fetching the colours. The deepest silence would reign in the house. Never had my father been so happy.

Eight days went by in this way. On the ninth Don Busqueros called on him and said, ‘Señor, I can tell you of a piece of good fortune which you hoped for without daring to declare yourself. You have touched the heart of Señorita Cimiento. She agrees to give you her hand. I have brought you a document to sign if you want the banns to be published on Sunday.’

Astonished, my father tried to reply but Busqueros did not leave him time.

‘Señor Avadoro,’ he said, ‘your coming marriage is no longer a secret. All Madrid is informed of it, so if you intend to put it off the relatives of Señorita Cimiento will assemble in my house and you will come there and divulge to them the reasons for the delay. That is a courtesy you cannot dispense with.’

My father was thrown into consternation by the idea of addressing a whole family assembly. He was about to say something but Busqueros forestalled him.

‘I know what it is, and I can understand you. You want to learn of your happiness from the very lips of Señorita Cimiento. I can see her coming. I’ll leave you alone together.’

Señorita Cimiento came in, looking somewhat bashful and not daring to raise her eyes to my father. She took some colours and mixed them in silence. Her timidity gave heart to my father. He stared at her and could not look away. He saw her with different eyes.

Busqueros had left the document about the publication of banns on the table. Tremblingly, Señorita Cimiento went up to it, picked it up and read it, then she put her hand over her eyes and shed some tears. Since the death of my mother, my father had not wept and still less caused anyone else to weep. The tears which were addressed to him moved him all the more because he only dimly understood their cause.

Was Señorita Cimiento crying about the document itself or the lack of signature on it? Did she, or did she not, want to marry him? Meanwhile she went on crying. Leaving her to cry was altogether too cruel. Asking her to say what she thought would lead to a conversation. My father picked up a pen and signed the paper. Señorita Cimiento kissed his hand, took the paper and went away.

She came back to the drawing-room at the usual time, kissed my father’s hand in silence and began to make sealing-wax. My father smoked cigars and counted the tiles on the palacio de Alba. My great-uncle, Fray Gerónimo Sántez, arrived towards midday and brought a marriage contract in which my interests were not neglected. My father signed it, Señorita Cimiento signed it, kissed my father’s hand and went back again to making sealing-wax.

Since the destruction of his great ink-bottle, my father had not dared to show himself at the theatre, still less to appear at Moreno’s bookshop. This reclusion wearied him. Three days had passed since the signature of the contract. Don Busqueros came to propose to my father a ride in a calèche. My father accepted. They went beyond the Manzanares and when they reached the little church of the Franciscans, Busqueros had my father step down. They went into the church and found Señorita Cimiento there, waiting for them in the porch. My father opened his mouth to say that he thought he was just going for a ride but he said nothing, took Señorita Cimiento’s hand and led her to the altar.

Having left the church, the newly-married couple stepped into a fine carriage, returned to Madrid and went into a pretty house where a ball was being held. Señora Avadoro opened the ball, partnered by a very handsome young man. They danced a fandango and were much applauded. In vain my father searched in his wife for the sweet and calm person who kissed his hand with such a submissive air. What he saw on the contrary was a lively, noisy, flibbertigibbet. Otherwise he said nothing to anybody and nobody spoke to him. This way of things did not displease him too much.

Cold meats and refreshments were served: then my father, who was exhausted, asked if it wasn’t time to go home. He was told that he was there already, and that the house he was in belonged to him. My father supposed that the house was part of his wife’s dowry; so he had himself shown to his bedroom and went to bed.

The next morning Señor and Señora Avadoro were woken by Busqueros.

‘Señor, dear cousin,’ he said to my father, ‘I call you this because your good wife is the closest relative I have in the world, her mother being a Busqueros from the León branch of my family. Up to now I have not wanted to talk to you about your affairs but I expect from now on to attend to them more than I attend to my own, which will be all the easier for me since I haven’t actually any particular business of my own. As far as you are concerned, Señor Avadoro, I have taken the trouble of informing myself in detail of your revenues and the use you have made of them over the last sixteen years. Here are all the relevant papers. At the time of your first marriage you had an income of four thousand pistoles and, by the way, you didn’t manage to spend it all. You only kept for yourself six hundred pistoles and two hundred for the education of your son. So you had three thousand, two hundred pistoles over, which you placed in the Gremios bank. You gave the interest to Gerónimo the Theatine to be used for charitable purposes. I don’t blame you on this account, but, bless me! (and I feel for the poor over this), they cannot count on this revenue any longer. First, we will manage to spend your annual income of four thousand pistoles and, as for the fifty-one thousand, two hundred deposited with the Gremios bank, this is how we will dispose of them. Eighteen thousand for this house. It’s a lot, I admit, but the seller is one of my relatives and my relatives are yours, Señor Avadoro. The necklace and the earrings that you see on Señora Avadoro are worth eight thousand pistoles. As we are brothers we will put down ten thousand. I’ll tell you why some day. That leaves us twenty-three thousand, two hundred pistoles. Your devil of a Theatine has reserved fifteen thousand for your urchin of a son, if he’s ever found again. Five thousand to set up your house, for between ourselves your wife’s trousseau consists of six shifts and as many stockings. You’ll tell me you still have five thousand pistoles left, which you don’t know what to do with. Well now, to get you out of your difficulty I’ll agree to borrow them from you at a rate of interest to be agreed between us. And here’s a power of attorney, which you will be so kind as to sign, Señor Avadoro.’

My father could not get over the surprise that Busqueros’s words caused him. He opened his mouth to reply but, not knowing where to begin, he turned over in bed and pulled his nightcap over his eyes.

‘Splendid!’ said Busqueros. ‘You’re not the first person who thought that he could get rid of me by putting on his nightcap and pretending to want to sleep. I’m used to these ways and always keep a nightcap in my pocket. I shall just settle down on that sofa and when we’ve all had a little nap we’ll come back to the power of attorney. Or, if you prefer, we’ll bring together your relatives and mine and we’ll see what there is to be done.’

With his head buried in his pillow, my father thought seriously about the situation and the policy he should adopt to ensure his tranquillity. He saw that if he left his wife completely free, he might be allowed to live after his own manner: to go to the theatre, then to Moreno’s bookshop and he might even make some ink. Somewhat consoled, he opened his eyes and indicated that he would sign the power of attorney.

So he actually signed it and made as if to get up.

‘Wait a moment, Señor Avadoro,’ said Busqueros. ‘Before you get up, it will be appropriate for me to inform you of the programme of your day. I believe that it won’t displease you, as today, like those which will follow, will be nothing but a series of lively and varied pleasures. First, I have brought you a fine pair of embroidered gaiters and a complete riding outfit. A decent palfrey awaits you at your door. We will go together and parade a bit around the Prado. Señora Avadoro will come in a chaise roulante. You will discover that she has illustrious friends in society who will be yours too, Señor Avadoro. To tell you the truth, they had grown rather cool towards her but seeing her married to a man of your quality they’ll change their mind about their attitude. I’m telling you the highest gentlemen of the court will seek you out, will wait on you and will embrace you. More than that, they’ll throttle you with embraces.’

At this my father fainted, or at least fell into a state of stupor very similar to a faint.

Busqueros did not notice but continued to speak. ‘Some of these gentlemen will do you the honour of inviting themselves to your table to eat your soup. Yes, Señor Avadoro, they will do you this honour and that’s where I’ll expect you to be. You’ll see how well your wife will do the honours of the house. Ah, bless me! You won’t recognize the person who made sealing-wax. You’re not saying a word, Señor Avadoro! You’re right to leave me to speak. Now, for example, you like the Spanish theatre but you’ve never been to the Italian opera, which is all the rage at court. Well, you’ll go this evening and guess in whose box you’ll be? In that of the Duke of Ihar, Master of the Horse, no less. From there we’ll go on to the tertulia¹ of His Highness, where you’ll see all the court. Everyone will speak to you. Make sure that you have an answer ready!’

My father had recovered the use of his senses, but a cold sweat emanated from all his pores. His arms stiffened, the back of his neck grew tense, his head fell back, his eyelids opened abnormally wide, his constricted chest gave out stifled groans and he began to have convulsions. Eventually Busqueros noticed the state he was in and called for help, then rushed off to the Prado, where he was joined by my stepmother.

My father had fallen into a state of lethargy. When he emerged from it, he recognized no one except for his wife and Busqueros. When he saw them, fury was written all over his features. Otherwise, he was calm, remained silent and refused to leave his bed. When he was absolutely obliged to do so, he seemed pierced through with cold and shivered for half an hour. Soon the symptoms grew more troublesome. The patient could only take food in very small quantities. A convulsive spasm constricted his throat, his tongue was stiff and swollen, his eyes were dull and haggard, his skin was dark yellow, covered with white tubercles.

I had slipped into the house in the guise of a servant and I sadly charted the course of his illness. My Aunt Dalanosa was in my confidence and spent many nights by his bedside. The patient did not seem to recognize her. As for my stepmother, it was clear that her presence was very bad for the patient. Father Gerónimo encouraged her to leave for the provinces and Busqueros followed her there.

I thought of a last resort which might just lift the unhappy man out of his hypochondria. And indeed it had a short-lived success. One day, through a half-open door, my father caught sight of a jar very similar to the one which had once been used to manufacture his ink. Next to it was a table on which there were various ingredients and scales to weigh them. A sort of hilarity crossed my father’s features. He got out of bed, went up to the table and asked for a chair. As he was very weak, others performed the operations in front of him and he followed the various procedures. The next day he was able to take part in the work and the day after there were even more hopeful signs.

But a few days later a fever manifested itself which had absolutely nothing to do with his illness. The symptoms were not distressing, but the patient’s weakness was such that he could not resist the slightest affliction. He passed away without having been able to recognize me, however hard people had tried to make him remember his son. And that was the end of a man who wasn’t born with even the degree of physical and mental strength sufficient to give him an average amount of energy. A sort of instinct had led him to choose a way of life which was proportionate to his powers. He was killed by people wishing to propel him into active life.

It is time to return to my affairs. My two years of penance were nearly over. In deference to Fray Gerónimo, the Inquisition allowed me to take my name back on the condition that I would do a spell as a caravanist on the galleys of Malta, which I accepted joyfully, hoping that I would encounter the Knight of Toledo, not as a servant but more or less as his equal. And to tell you the truth I was tired of wearing rags. I kitted myself out with luxury, trying on all my clothes at my Aunt Dalanosa’s house, who died of joy at the sight of them. I left very early one morning to keep my transformation from the eyes of the curious. I embarked at Barcelona and reached Malta after a short voyage. My meeting with the knight gave me even more pleasure than I expected.

The knight assured me that he had never been fooled by my disguise and that he had always counted on making me his friend once I had reverted to my original rank. He was captain of a galley. He took me on board and we sailed the seas for four months without inflicting much harm on the Barbary pirates, whose light vessels could easily outrun us.

That is the end of the story of my childhood. I have related it to you in all its details for they have remained engraved on my memory. It still seems to me that I can see the cell of the Theatine teacher at Burgos, and the stern profile of Father Sanudo. I can still feel what it was like to eat chestnuts in front of the portal of St Roch and to hold out my hand to the noble Knight of Toledo. I won’t tell you the story of my early manhood in the same detail. Whenever my imagination transports me back to the most brilliant part of my life, all I can perceive is a hotchpotch of all kinds of passions, their tumult and their turmoil. The feelings which then filled my soul and raised it up towards a secret happiness have sunk into the deepest oblivion. It is true that I can still see, shining through the mist, the rays of requited love, but those to whom this love was directed have merged into a single blurred image, in which I see only tender, beautiful women and merry girls with their snow-white arms around my neck. I can even see gloomy duennas unable to resist this moving sight, bringing together lovers they should have kept for ever apart. I can see the light I so fervently watched for signalling to me from a window, and the secret staircases leading me to hidden doors. How supremely blissful those moments were! Four o’clock strikes, the day dawns and lovers must part. Alas! Even partings had their sweetness. The story of youthful love is, I believe, the same all over the world. My amorous adventures could not really interest you, but I think you will be willing to listen to the story of my first real passion. The circumstances are astonishing. They might even be thought to be miraculous. But the day is growing late and I have still to think about the business of my band. Please allow me to begin again tomorrow.