yelled. “Is it all right? I hold you responsible. You are responsible towards the State.”
The captain feared he was going to be blamed for something, and was taking the initiative in shifting the blame onto Timoteo. Anyone who knows these people like I do could see that.
“Of course it’s all right,” Timoteo answered solidly. “You come a little late, Captain.”
“Late? By God, we knew nothing till a telegram two hours ago! How long have you had it?”
“Since the day before yesterday,” said Timoteo. “They sent it straight from the hospital.”
The captain delivered a really eloquent speech on surgeons and hospitals and the Ministry of Internal Affairs. He finished with a classic peroration on the virtues of General Covadillas –
which gave me plenty of time to work out what had happened.
The hospital, told to send Covadillas’ heart to Manzanares, had simply and sensibly sent it there. Meanwhile the Ministers had been so intent on preparations for the cathedral ceremony and
on keeping their successors out of the treasury till the accounts had been cooked, that they forgot all about the heart; and when some wretched little clerk, probably, with a salary of forty bob a
week, remembered the blessed thing and went round to the hospital to inquire, he found it had been sent off by the daily train to Manzanares like any other parcel. No guards of honor. No fuss and
bother. I repeat, it seemed to me remarkably sensible. But governments never like to do anything the obvious way.
I said so to the captain when Timoteo introduced me – as representative of all the chief papers of Europe – and the captain seemed to think my point of view fresh and delightful.
“Governments never like to do anything the obvious way,” he kept on declaring and slapping his breeches. He changed over to the most complete geniality. That’s one reason why I
love this country so much. They dramatize whatever they think they ought to feel; and then if you puncture the grand attitude – of course with the politest lace ruffles and the most delicate
touch of the point – their Spanish horse sense gets the better of them and they roar with laughter. I don’t want my anatomy distributed. They can plant the lot right here where it has
enjoyed itself, and good luck to it!
There we were, surrounded by nothingness and with a secret of our own. It was an excuse for a party. The captain, once he had cooled down, was a delightful chap, and turned out to be a
great-nephew of Covadillas. He was full of yarns about the old boy, and they rang true. The general’s character was simply incrusted with stories – generally of his unusual punishments.
That accounted for his power. Not his cruelty, I mean, but his perverted sense of humor. Be an original, and you can do anything with the Spanish-American!
The captain was patting Timoteo’s shoulder and telling him what a fine public official he was, and Timoteo liked it, and kept filling up their glasses. After thirty years in the country he
still hadn’t got rid of his Central European conviction that a stationmaster is a long way below a cavalry officer. Then they decided all of a sudden that the world would be improved by
imported lager, and went out to the refrigerator to collect bottles. The sergeant, the troopers and I stuck to wine.
When the two came rolling back with their lager, their conversation was fragmentary. The captain asked if that was the way they had sent it up; and Timoteo replied that it was, and he had
thought it best, the weather being warm, to keep it in the refrigerator. The captain said he didn’t think the surgeons had been complimentary to his great-uncle in using a plain wooden box,
and Timoteo said a wooden box was all we got anyway, and no absorbent packing in it at that.
This aroused my curiosity, and when I went out to attend to the needs of nature I had a look at Timoteo’s refrigerator. The happy pair had left the door open. As I say, we
The captain feared he was going to be blamed for something, and was taking the initiative in shifting the blame onto Timoteo. Anyone who knows these people like I do could see that.
“Of course it’s all right,” Timoteo answered solidly. “You come a little late, Captain.”
“Late? By God, we knew nothing till a telegram two hours ago! How long have you had it?”
“Since the day before yesterday,” said Timoteo. “They sent it straight from the hospital.”
The captain delivered a really eloquent speech on surgeons and hospitals and the Ministry of Internal Affairs. He finished with a classic peroration on the virtues of General Covadillas –
which gave me plenty of time to work out what had happened.
The hospital, told to send Covadillas’ heart to Manzanares, had simply and sensibly sent it there. Meanwhile the Ministers had been so intent on preparations for the cathedral ceremony and
on keeping their successors out of the treasury till the accounts had been cooked, that they forgot all about the heart; and when some wretched little clerk, probably, with a salary of forty bob a
week, remembered the blessed thing and went round to the hospital to inquire, he found it had been sent off by the daily train to Manzanares like any other parcel. No guards of honor. No fuss and
bother. I repeat, it seemed to me remarkably sensible. But governments never like to do anything the obvious way.
I said so to the captain when Timoteo introduced me – as representative of all the chief papers of Europe – and the captain seemed to think my point of view fresh and delightful.
“Governments never like to do anything the obvious way,” he kept on declaring and slapping his breeches. He changed over to the most complete geniality. That’s one reason why I
love this country so much. They dramatize whatever they think they ought to feel; and then if you puncture the grand attitude – of course with the politest lace ruffles and the most delicate
touch of the point – their Spanish horse sense gets the better of them and they roar with laughter. I don’t want my anatomy distributed. They can plant the lot right here where it has
enjoyed itself, and good luck to it!
There we were, surrounded by nothingness and with a secret of our own. It was an excuse for a party. The captain, once he had cooled down, was a delightful chap, and turned out to be a
great-nephew of Covadillas. He was full of yarns about the old boy, and they rang true. The general’s character was simply incrusted with stories – generally of his unusual punishments.
That accounted for his power. Not his cruelty, I mean, but his perverted sense of humor. Be an original, and you can do anything with the Spanish-American!
The captain was patting Timoteo’s shoulder and telling him what a fine public official he was, and Timoteo liked it, and kept filling up their glasses. After thirty years in the country he
still hadn’t got rid of his Central European conviction that a stationmaster is a long way below a cavalry officer. Then they decided all of a sudden that the world would be improved by
imported lager, and went out to the refrigerator to collect bottles. The sergeant, the troopers and I stuck to wine.
When the two came rolling back with their lager, their conversation was fragmentary. The captain asked if that was the way they had sent it up; and Timoteo replied that it was, and he had
thought it best, the weather being warm, to keep it in the refrigerator. The captain said he didn’t think the surgeons had been complimentary to his great-uncle in using a plain wooden box,
and Timoteo said a wooden box was all we got anyway, and no absorbent packing in it at that.
This aroused my curiosity, and when I went out to attend to the needs of nature I had a look at Timoteo’s refrigerator. The happy pair had left the door open. As I say, we
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