Ah, this palace should be completed, didn’t El Señor think so? it would be a shame to leave it half done, just a shell, looking as if the curses of Heaven had rained down upon it; it was El Señor’s lifework, wasn’t it, and it was for this he would be remembered in centuries to come; it was to erect this palace that he’d devastated the ancient Castilian orchard, turned it to dust, had removed peasants from their lands and shepherds from their hills, and put them to work as laborers in exchange for wages, very well, very well, and there’s nothing I can teach you on this subject, Señor, you’re aware that there’s no reason the products necessarily should belong to the man who produces them, what good do they do him without the legs of someone to carry his produce to market for him, and the hands of a lender who can provide in case of a bad harvest, a storm, an accident, or overspending? We’ve been damned, Señor, and nevertheless I insist our mission is one of charity. And we’ve not always been well paid. In my long life I have known grandees of these Spanish lands who out of pure madness for luxury and honor and appearances have after plowing their lands planted them with silver, as if the metal could sprout and yield new fruit; I have known them to cook with candles of precious wax in order to impress their own scullions, and impress themselves; I have known them at the end of a celebration to order thirty horses to be burned alive, for the pure pleasure of the wasteful spectacle that allows them to believe they are above the common mortal. And the worst is that they have at times murdered the moneylenders who come to their aid. You see, then, Señor, the demands and dangers of my miserable office.
In any case, let every whore ply her trade and every ruffian turn his deal, the products must belong to those who encourage their production, transform them, increase their value greatly, didn’t El Señor agree? times have changed, the codes of yesteryear no longer have their old following, their old value; it used to be that illness and hunger caused men to cherish hopes of the world beyond, but now a man can work, Señor, dedicate his life to hard labor, and harvest his fruits right here on earth, and in spite of low origins, know the favors of merit, if not those of blood: money makes a man whole and when he has bread his suffering is diminished: I live, Exalted Señor, from what I earn and from the money I change; that will not impede me from serving you and from sustaining with my tired old bones a power based on inherited rank. Do not judge me harsly; new times, new ways; the interdictions of our faith, which have dealt so harshly with my office, belong to a destroyed and sick and hungry world, Señor, to a stagnant world; the sinful stigma cast upon the practice of usury by Christians forced Jews to fulfill this necessary function; but if you persecute the Jews, who will fulfill it? and will an act of necessary charity be condemned when pure Christians like myself practice it, Señor? Then my occupation must be accepted as a sign of a strengthened and salutary faith which promises two Paradises: one here and one beyond, one now and one later: is this not an admirable promise? And finally, one must consider that my sins, if they are sins, are compensated and perhaps even pardoned by the fact that my sweet daughter, my only heir, to whom, naturally, I shall leave all my money, is preparing in this very palace for her permanent vows and her marriage with Christ.
So sooner or later, Señor, my copious wealth will have to pass through the hands of the good nuns of your palace, for Inés, my daughter, will by then have made her personal vow of poverty. As a result, what I am now more than disposed to lend you so that you can pay your debts — at a modicum of interest, twenty percent annually — will not only resolve your present but your future problems as welclass="underline" my money, thanks to Inesilla, will revert to El Señor’s fortune, as the girl — whom from the chapel I watched leave your bedchamber this night — will again demonstrate her devotion to El Señor, in the same way El Señor demonstrates his devotion to her father in a thousand little ways, for in dealing with El Señor a man will not have to come many times to the well, and anyone who comes to the aid of El Señor must surely receive something more than the ordinary moneylender’s interest, for El Señor can make a gentleman of a flea, and permit me in December to enjoy the pleasures of May, and add honor to riches. You will emerge the winner, Sire, believe me, you will emerge the winner.
Now, if this gentleman can prepare the paper, the pen, the ink, the blotting sand, and seals, we can proceed to an agreement; I am cold, I am sleepy, it has been a very long night and in my long waiting, seated behind the chancel of the nuns, I have dreamed terrible dreams. Forgive my excessive loquacity; let us get on with it; it is getting late, let us get on with it.
El Señor, numb in body and soul, took the pen. But first, narrowing his glassy eyes, he asked: “If I may, I would like to pose a question to this gentleman: If your powers as a merchant and moneylender are so extensive, why do you accept mine?”
The aged moneylender bowed his head. “Unity, Sire, unity. Without a visible head, bodies are wont to be dispersed. Without a supreme power to which to appeal, we would devour each other like wolves. Thank you, Sire.”
That morning Guzmán attended El Señor as he tended his sick falcons, with various ointments, brews, and infusions to ease the complaints of his prostrate master exhausted by ills too long held at bay which suddenly appeared, scourge in hand, and by sleeplessness, love-making, and the increasing horror of his conscience.
“Drink this, Señor”—Guzmán held the potion to his lips—“drink this grama tea that is an admirable remedy against difficulties of the urine and especially against those resulting from ulcers of the bladder, and let me rub your feet with this hot, damp bile of the wildcat, which soothes and assuages the pain of gout.”
“Who opened the skylight, Guzmán? The room is filled with mosquitoes; it is summer, and as the ponds on this plain are dead water, mosquitoes feed there.”
“Do not worry, Señor, I have placed a vessel containing bear’s blood beneath your bed, and all the mosquitoes will gather there and drown.”
“And I, I am drowning…”
“But, Señor, you should be happy; that aged Sevillian moneylender has given us new life, the palace can be completed; you must reward him; besides, he is the father of the novitiate, give him the title, at least, of Comendador; he is old, give him that pleasure before he dies.”
El Señor moaned. “Who is that old man, who is he, really? Is he the Devil, a homunculus come here to humiliate me, to offer me money in exchange for my life; but that is the most horrible sin of simony, does he want my soul in exchange for his money?”
“This is the way of progress, Señor, and the old Sevillian does not exercise a diabolic profession but a liberal one.”
“Liberal? Progress?”
“Progress like that of the sun in its daily course, or of the corpses of your grandfathers to this palace, except that it is now applied to the ascendant road of an entire society; and liberal, Señor, as befits free men who are opposed to servility.”
“But as the sun is born and dies on the horizon, so I conceive that this progress of yours will die of the same causes that engender it; and insofar as liberal is concerned, any serf that attempted to be liberal would run counter to the laws of nature; I do not know these words.”
“The only knowledge is action, Señor.”
“There is hereditary dignity, Guzmán, that cannot be bought or sold.”
“There is the dignity of risk, Señor, one can live with and like either angels or the Devil, one may choose; knowing his limitations, one is free to ascend or descend.”
“No, Guzmán, the only human hierarchy is based upon possession of an immortal soul and its patrimony in the life eternal.”
“No, Señor, there is fate, there is fortune, and there is the virtue which constantly checks that hierarchy and transforms it; man is the glory, the mockery, and the enigma of the world, and the world is an undecipherable enigma either for man’s glory or for his mockery.”