Luna Benamor | Page 8

of the old man behind him. "The Spanish consul who stops at the hotel
opposite our house."
The patriarch seemed to be impressed and raised his hand to his hat
with humble courtesy.
"Ah! The consul! The worthy consul!" he exclaimed, emphasizing the
title as a token of his great respect for all the powers of the earth.

"Highly honored by your visit, worthy consul."
And believing that he owed his visitor renewed expressions of flattery,
he added with tearful sighs, imparting to his words a telegraphic
conciseness, "Ah, Spain! Beautiful land, excellent country, nation of
gentlemen!... My forefathers came from there, from a place called
Espinosa de los Monteros."
His voice quivered, pained by recollections, and afterwards, as if he
had in memory advanced to recent times, he added, "Ah! Castelar!...
Castelar, a friend of the Jews, and he defended them. Of the judeos, as
they say there!"
His flood of tears, ill restrained up to that moment, could no longer be
held back, and at this grateful recollection it gushed from his eyes,
inundating his beard.
"Spain! Beautiful country!" sighed the old man, deeply moved.
And he recalled everything that in the past of his race and his family
had united his people with that country. An Aboab had been chief
treasurer of the King of Castile; another had been a wonderful
physician, enjoying the intimacy of bishops and cardinals. The Jews of
Portugal and of Spain had been great personages,--the aristocracy of the
race. Scattered now over Morocco and Turkey, they shunned all
intercourse with the coarse, wretched Israelite population of Russia and
Germany. They still recited certain prayers, in the synagogue, in old
Castilian, and the Jews of London repeated them by heart without
knowing either their origin or their meaning, as if they were prayers in
a language of sacred mystery. He himself, when he prayed at the
synagogue for the King of England, imploring for him an abundance of
health and prosperity even as Jews the world over did for the ruler of
whatever country they happened to inhabit, added mentally an entreaty
to the Lord for the good fortune of beautiful Spain.
Zabulon, despite his respect for his father, interrupted him brusquely,
as if he were an imprudent child. In his eyes there glowed the harsh
expression of the impassioned zealot.

"Father, remember what they did to us. How they cast us out... how
they robbed us. Remember our brothers who were burned alive."
"That's true, that's true," groaned the patriarch, shedding new tears into
a broad handkerchief with which he wiped his eyes. "It's true.... But in
that beautiful country there still remains something that is ours. The
bones of our ancestors."
When Aguirre left, the old man showered him with tokens of extreme
courtesy. He and his son were at the consul's service. And the consul
returned almost every morning to chat with the patriarch, while
Zabulon attended to the customers and counted money.
Samuel Aboab spoke of Spain with tearful delight, as of a marvelous
country whose entrance was guarded by terrible monsters with fiery
swords. Did they still recall the judeos there? And despite Aguirre's
assurances, he refused to believe that they were no longer called thus in
Spain. It grieved the old man to die before beholding Espinosa de los
Monteros; a beautiful city, without a doubt. Perhaps they still preserved
there the memory of the illustrious Aboabs.
The Spaniard smilingly urged him to undertake the journey. Why did
he not go there?...
"Go! Go to Spain!..." The old man huddled together like a timorous
snail before the idea of this journey.
"There are still laws against the poor judeos. The decree of the Catholic
Kings. Let them first repeal it!... Let them first call us back!"
Aguirre laughed at his listener's fears. Bah! The Catholic Kings! Much
they counted for now!... Who remembered those good gentlemen?
But the old man persisted in his fears. He had suffered much. The terror
of the expulsion was still in his bones and in his blood, after four
centuries. In summer, when the heat forced them to abandon the torrid
rock, and the Aboab family hired a little cottage on the seashore, in
Spanish territory just beyond La Línea, the patriarch dwelt in constant

restlessness, as if he divined mysterious perils in the very soil upon
which he trod. Who could tell what might happen during the night?
Who could assure him that he would not awake in chains, ready to be
led like a beast to a port? This is what had happened to his Spanish
ancestors, who had been forced to take refuge in Morocco, whence a
branch of the family had moved to Gibraltar when the English took
possession of the place.
Aguirre poked mild fun at the childish fears of