To the attention of don Florencio

Trasdoval, n/n, San Fiz

Sant-Iago, 12th of February, 1918

Dearest Father Florencio,

It will certainly surprise you that instead of sending you my greetings by way of the lines I write to my parents once in a while, this time I would have the boldness to direct myself to you once more without any mediation other than the post office. The explanation for this behavior, esteemed Father, solely obeys the necessity that someone know, first-hand, the reality that these, my days at the university are, as you may already suspect, in truth much different from how I tend to present them in my missives to certain progenitors who I would not, under any circumstance, want to displease or cause any type of concern; my fear of disappointing them is much stronger than my aversion to falsehood or lies. With this I do not mean to say, understand me, that I would be indifferent to disappointing you—absolutely not—just that few people, even if only because of the many times you took my confession, know as well as your honor my many frailties and weaknesses. Nor do I believe that what I could say to you here would surprise you very much. In counting the number of years I have spent away from home, you might already imagine that my studies, to call them something, are not going nearly as well as I would like them to. I trust—and trust well—that you will not uncover me: the two “draconian and partisan subjects which escape me” are in reality eight, dispersed among many and varied courses, as such you should be able to understand my many evasions each time that you questioned me about the matter, the previous Christmas being the latest. Eight, Father Florencio, and worst of all is that even in my most optimistic calculations I only feel myself prepared to pass two of them, and that with a good bit of luck. Civil Law! Judge for yourself (and be assured I am transcribing): “None shall construct, near a wall of median stature, or belonging to another wells, sewers, aqueducts, ovens, forges, chimneys, stables, corrosive material depositories, steam-powered mechanisms, or factories which by themselves or by what they produce might be dangerous or noxious, without maintaining the distances so prescribed by the regulations and uses of said place, and without executing the necessary safety precautions, with restraint in the manner, to the conditions which the same regulations prescribe. If there be a lack of regulation, the precautions which are judged to be necessary shall be taken, with a prior expert’s ruling, with the goal of avoiding any damage to estates or neighboring buildings.” All common sense, don’t you think? The problem is that in examining it one can do nothing more than bind oneself to the legal text, and it is here where everything becomes awfully tangled up. The periods, the commas, the Castilian; all of the words seem to free themselves from the page and set themselves to dancing in front of one’s eyes, causing genuine vertigo. Well, there are almost two thousand, Father Florencio! And all of them just as pompous and verbose, do you not think? Well, here comes another (and I continue to transcribe): “The proprietor of a beehive shall maintain the right to pursue it over the neighboring estate, indemnifying the possessor of such, the damage caused. Were it fenced in, it shall require the consent of the owner to enter within; when the proprietor has not pursued, or ceases to pursue the hive two consecutive days, the possessor of said land shall be permitted to obtain and retain it. The proprietor of domesticated animals shall as well be able to reclaim them within twenty days, counting from their occupation by another. This period passed, they will pertain to him who has recovered and maintained them.”

Perhaps it is a vice of this pedagogical system, as I have heard you criticize so often, but if the issue truly consists in saying without pause every single thing which occurs to the Civil Section of the General Codifying Commission, with consent from señor José Canalejas y Méndez, minister of Grace and Justice (I have before me the old Gaceta de Madrid where he perpetrated the crime), I am inclined to say, Father Florencio, that never in my life will I put an end to all this chatter. Much as it pains me, I am not a parrot. Memory has its limits and in this, as in so many other things, there are people with natural capacities much more solvent than mine: my comrade Carliños Pons, for example, although he may not be a good model because of his non-interest in academic life. And if it is such when obtaining a degree, dear tutor, what will it be when the important things truly begin. Do you believe that I will perhaps have the smallest perspective of success in mounting the path of a notary? Might there be anyone who trains to be a judge, a clerk, or a state attorney with a memory as fragile as mine? The response, being so overwhelming, hurts, Father Florencio, inflicts harm. You, who about vocations know or must have known a mountain, will not be at all impeded upon seeing not even a trace of it in him who directs these lines to you. The problem, anyway, is not so much a problem of today, as it is a problem which grows its twisted roots into the future. Do you understand my reason for hiding the reality from my parents now? In other circumstances nothing awful would happen for another Rivas to be living off investments, but now that the cottage is heading inexorably towards ruin… By the way, would you happen to be able to tell me if all that about working commercially with wine is serious? My father takes great caution in speaking about that topic in front of me, but I cannot find another explanation for all those extravagances, inconceivable in a situation as grave as that of our family: the new wine presses, the casks, the services of that mysterious and disagreeable surveyor who does not take a step without wrinkling his nose… If this is so, I can do nothing more than wish for God to take pity on our bloodline. For between such a wild idea and the future that is disclosed to this his servant, one need in no way be a prophet to paint a positively horrifying portrait.

Apart from that, I believe I should be fair and destroy—metaphorically speaking, of course—that ever-so-nice idea that I tended to project over my days during the last few years. If my academic scores are not as desired, perhaps we could award its part in the play, by the hand of my natural incapacity for study, to the many entertainments that this city can offer to anyone who seeks an opportunity to put down their books and take to the streets. Yes, Father Florencio, yes: disregarding all of the advice that has been given to me, I surrendered myself to decadence and diversion without any resistance. And right from the first day. Yes, read this well: right from the first. As much as my ears reverberate with the words which you used to say to me when we went over Latin at the turn of the afternoon—“That which counts is not how things begin, but how they end”—it was enough to set foot onto the damp, old, greenish Compostelan stone pavement to know that from then on nothing good would become of me. For do you know who came looking for me at Carliños’ instructions? Well it was the one and only tuna, Father Florencio, can you believe it? I hadn’t even set my luggage down and now there I was, dizzy as a top among a swarm of caps, cloaks, ribbons, mandolins, tambourines, and guitars. I cannot say that they did not take me to the inn (even carrying the bags which the youngsters fought over), nor that they were very quick about it. Beforehand—and captained by Carliños, a complete stranger—they swirled around me with itchings for a dozen bars, taverns, and locales of the bad sort, and if I say a dozen, Father Florencio, it is because those were my calculations when I heard the cock crow at my back.

It could not be said that the days that followed were better. For Compostela, revered Father, is not—contrary to what my father thought when he declined to send me to Madrid—that sad conglomerate of convents and religious orders that we all have in our minds, for, although at first it seems something else, next to the dark buildings where pious tasks are carried out by the Dominican nuns, the bieitas, the clarisas, the fillas de María, and (with a devotion as strange as it is tireless) the Carmelite sisters, and the barefoot mercedarias, can be counted—along with the cafés and innumerable eateries—more than fifty taverns and two or three dozen busy and energetic pubs. Do you want to believe that I had sworn not to set foot in the university until I had a comprehensive knowledge of these numbers? The blame lay as always with Carliños, the most debauched individual in this city. Who could have said it, over in Trasdoval, right? What is certain is that, despite the passage of time, and in spite of every single one of my good intentions, nothing has changed nor has withies of changing. (Will there come a day when someone saves me?)

In short! I do not want to transfer you one more crumb of this bitterness; as such I prepare myself to finish these lines, but not before concerning myself over your health. How are you doing, Father Florencio? Have the doctor’s orders produced any results? Pending your information by return mail (I do not believe I will be able to go home until the summer), accept in the meantime an affectionate greetings from your friend,

Xosé Miguel