Short Stories by the Generation of 1898Cuentos de la Generación de 1898 by Miguel De Unamuno

Author:Miguel De Unamuno
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dover Publications
Published: 2014-11-15T00:00:00+00:00

To the right extended the wide Madrid plain, already green with sprouting wheat; in the distance, in the mist, loomed the hermitage on the little Hill of Angels; closer, the two rows of houses of the Pacífico neighborhood, ending at the quarters of the Bridge of Vallecas.

When they passed through a gateway of the Retiro, next to the Hospital of the Christ Child, one of them suggested having a few drinks at a nearby snack bar, and the idea was accepted.

“It was here that we emptied a bottle of wine with poor Mirandela when we went to bury Ferreiro, remember?” the Maragato said.

They all shook their heads sadly at that pious recollection.

“Poor Mirandela used to say,” one of the Barreiras brothers added, “that on the way to purgatory there are forty thousand taverns, and that you’ve got to take a drink in each one of them. I’m sure he won’t be satisfied with just one.”

“We’ll need at least four liters, because he really loved the stuff, to do it right,” added the Swarthy One.

“And what can you do about it?” the Blacksmith retorted with his usual philosophy, answering himself. “A man goes home and his wife argues with him and his kids bawl, and what can you do about it?”

They left the snack bar, and in a little while they reached the Calle de Alcalá.

There, some took leave of the cortege, and the rest climbed onto two traps that some drivers were advertising with shouts of: “Hey! To the Eastern Cemetery! To the Eastern Cemetery, for twenty-five cents!”

The hearse began to move quickly, wobbling with the elegance of a drunken sailor; it was followed by the two traps, jolting and jolting down the highway.

On the way they came across other hearses, almost all for children. They arrived at Las Ventas, crossed the bridge, and drove through the rows of food stands; and the three vehicles, one behind the other, continued until they halted at the gate to the cemetery.

The burial was accomplished without much ceremony. It was drizzling and a very cold wind was blowing.

There poor Mirandela remained, while his colleagues boarded the traps.

“That’s life for you,” said the Blacksmith. “It just goes on and on. Fine. That’s to be expected. And later a priest comes, and then what? Nothing. Because this is all we’ve got.”

They reached Las Ventas. A major issue had to be resolved: lunch. What would they buy? A little meat. That was definite. They argued

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