“Very well,” continued the old man.  “That lady is the Doctor’s daughter.  What a man he was!  How he made your father and me fume in the days of ’73!  Now that all that is so far in the past, I’ll say he was a fine fellow.  His brain had gone somewhat bad from reading too much, like don Quixote; and he was crazy over music.  Most charming manners he had, however.  He married a beautiful orchard-girl, who happened to be very poor.  He said the marriage was ... for the purpose of perpetuating the species—­those were his very words—­of having strong, sound, healthy children.  For that he didn’t need to bother about his wife’s social position.  What he was looking for was health.  So he picked out that Teresa of his, as strong as an ox, and as fresh as an apple.  But little good it did the poor woman.  She had one baby and died a few days afterward, despite the science and the desperate efforts of her husband.  They had lived together less than a year.”

Rafael’s companions were listening with as much attention as he; for morbid curiosity is the characteristic of the people of small places, where the keenest pleasure available is that of knowing the private affairs of others intimately.

“And now comes the good part,” don Andres continued.  “The mad Doctor had two saints:  Castelar and Beethoven.  The pictures of those fellows were scattered in every room of the house, even in the attic.  This Beethoven (in case you don’t know it), was an Italian or an Englishman, I’m not sure which—­one of those fellows who makes music up out of his head for people to play in theatres or for lunatics like Moreno to amuse themselves with.  Well, when his daughter was born the Doctor wondered what name to give her.  As a tribute to Emilio Castelar, his idol, he felt he ought to call her Emilia:  but he liked the sound of Leonora better (no, not Lenor, but Leonora!).  According to what he told us, that was the title of the only opera Beethoven ever wrote—­an opera he could read, for that matter, the way I read the paper.  Anyhow, the foreigner won out; and the Doctor packed the child off to church with his sister, who took a few neighbors of the poorer sort along to see Leonora baptized.

“You can imagine what the priest said after he had looked in vain through the catalogue of saints for that name.  At the time I was employed in the municipal offices, and I had to intervene.  This was all before the Revolution; Gonzalez Brabo was boss in those days—­and good old days they were!  Let an enemy of law and order or sound religion just raise his voice and he was off on his way to Fernando Pio in no time.  Well, what a racket the Doctor raised!  He sat himself down in that church—­first time he’d ever been in the place—­and insisted that his daughter be labeled as he directed.  Later he thought he would take her home without any baptism at all, saying he had no use for the ceremony anyhow, and that he put up with it only to please his sister.  During the argument, he called all the curates and acolytes assembled in the sacristy there, a pack of ‘brahmans.’”