Caesar or Nothing by Pio Baroja

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Produced by Eric Eldred, David Widger,
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CAESAR OR NOTHING

by PÍO BAROJA

_translated from the Spanish by_

LOUIS HOW

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

PART ONE

ROME

I THE PARIS-VENTIMIGLIA EXPRESS
II AN EXTRAORDINARY FAMILY
III CAESAR MONCADA
IV PEOPLE WHO PASS CLOSE BY
V THE ABBE PRECIOZI
VI THE LITTLE INTERESTS OF THE PEOPLE IN A ROMAN HOTEL
VII THE CONFIDENCES or THE ABBE PRECIOZI
VIII OLD PALACES, OLD SALONS, OLD LADIES
IX NEW ACQUAINTANCES
X A BALL
XI A SOUNDING-LINE IN THE DARK WORLD
XII A MEETING ON THE PINCIO
XIII ESTHETICS AND DEMAGOGY
XIV NEW ATTEMPTS, NEW RAMBLES
XV GIOVANNI BATTISTA, PAGAN
XVI THE PORTRAIT OF A POPE
XVII EVIL DAYS
XVIII CAESAR BORGIA'S MOTTO, "AUT CÆSAR, AUT NIHIL"
XIX CAESAR'S REFLECTIONS
XX DON CALIXTO AT SAINT PETER'S
XXI DON CALIXTO IN THE CATACOMBS
XXII SENTIMENTALITY AND ARCHEOLOGY
XXIII THE 'SCUTCHEON OF A CHURCH
XXIV TOURIST INTERLUDE

PART TWO

CATRO DURO

I ARRIVAL
II CASTRO DURO
III CAESAR'S LABOURS
IV THE BOOKSELLER AND THE ANARCHISTS
V THE BANQUET
VI UNCLE CHINAMAN
VII A TRYING SCENE
VIII THE ELECTION
IX CAESAR AS DEPUTY
X POLITICAL LABOURS
XI THE PITFALL OF SINIGAGLIA
XII LOCAL STRUGGLES
XIII AMPARITO IN ACTION
XIV INTRANSIGENCE LOST
XV "DRIVELLER" JUAN AND "THE CUB-SLUT"
XVI PITY, A MASK OF COWARDICE
XVII FIRST VICTORY
XVIII DECLARATION OF WAR
XIX THE FIGHT FOR THE ELECTION
XX CONFIDENCE
XXI OUR VENERABLE TRADITIONS I OUR HOLY PRINCIPLES!
XXII FINIS GLORIAE MUNDI

PROLOGUE

THE AUTHOR HOLDS FORTH IN REGARD TO THE CHARACTER OF HIS HERO

MORE OR LESS TRANSCENDENTAL DIGRESSIONS

The individual is the only real thing in nature and in life.

Neither the species, the genus, nor the race, actually exists; they are
abstractions, terminologies, scientific devices, useful as syntheses
but not entirely exact. By means of these devices we can discuss and
compare; they constitute a measure for our minds to use, but have no
external reality.

Only the individual exists through himself and for himself. I am, I
live, is the sole thing a man can affirm.

The categories and divisions arranged for classification are like the
series of squares an artist places over a drawing to copy it by. The
lines of the squares may cut the lines of the sketch; but they will cut
them, not in reality but only in the artist's eye.

In humanity, as in all of nature, the individual is the one thing. Only
individuality exists in the realm of life and in the realm of spirit.

Individuality is not to be grouped or classified. Individuality simply
cannot fit into a pigeon-hole, and it is all the further from fitting if
the pigeon-hole is shaped according to an ethical principle. Ethics is a
poor tailor to clothe the body of reality.

The ideas of the good, the logical, the just, the consistent, are too
generic to be completely represented in nature.

The individual is not logical, or good, or just; nor is he any other
distinct thing; and this through the force of his own fatal actions,
through the influence of the deviation in the earth's axis, or for
whatsoever other equally amusing cause. Everything individual is
always found mixed, full of absurdities of perspective and picturesque
contradictions,--contradictions and absurdities that shock us, because
we insist on submitting individuals to principles which are not
applicable to them.

If instead of wearing a cravat and a bowler hat, we wore feathers and a
ring in our nose, all our moral notions would change.

People of today, remote from nature and nasal rings, live in an
artificial moral harmony which does not exist except in the imagination
of those ridiculous priests of optimism who preach from the columns
of the newspapers. This imaginary harmony makes us abhor the
contradictions, the incongruities of individuality, at least it forces
us not to understand them.

Only when the individual discord ceases, when the attributes of an
exceptional being are lost, when the mould is spoiled and becomes
vulgarized and takes on a common character, does it obtain the
appreciation of the multitude.

This is logical; the dull must sympathize with the dull; the vulgar and
usual have to identify themselves with the vulgar and usual.

From a human point of view, perfection in society would be something
able to safeguard the general interests and at the same time to
understand individuality; it would give the individual the advantages of
work in common and also the most absolute liberty; it would multiply the
results of his labour and would also permit him some privacy. This would
be equitable and satisfactory.

Our society does not know how to do either of these things; it defends
certain persons against the masses, because it has injustice and
privilege as its working system; it does not understand individuality,
because individuality consists in being original, and the original is
always a disturbing and revolutionary element.

A perfect democracy would be one which, disregarding hazards of birth,
would standardize as far as possible the means of livelihood, of
education, and even the manner of living, and would leave free the
intelligence, the will, and the conscience, so that they might take
their proper places, some higher than others. Modern democracy, on the
contrary, tends to level all mentalities, and to impede the predominance
of capacity, shading everything with an atmosphere of vulgarity. At the
same time it aids some private interests to take their places higher
than other private interests.

A great part of the collective antipathy for individuality proceeds from
fear. Especially in our Southern countries strong individualities have
usually been unquiet and tumultuous. The superior mob, like the lower
ones, does not wish the seeds of Caesars or of Bonapartes to flourish in
our territories. These mobs pant for a spiritual levelling; for there is
no more distinction between one man and another than a coloured button
on the lapel or a title on the calling-card. Such is the aspiration of
our truly socialist types; other distinctions, like valour, energy,
virtue, are for the democratic steam-roller, veritable impertinences of
nature.

Spain, which never had a complete social system and has unfolded her
life and her art by spiritual convulsions, according as men of strength
and action have come bursting forth, today feels herself ruined in her
eruptive life, and longs to compete with other countries in their love
for the commonplace and well-regulated and in their abhorrence for
individuality.

In Spain, where the individual and only the individual was everything,
the collectivist aspirations of other peoples are now accepted as
indisputable dogmas. Today our country begins to offer a brilliant
future to the man who can cry up general ideas and sentiments, even
though these ideas and sentiments are at war with the genius of our
race.

It would certainly be a lamentable joke to protest against the
democratic-bourgeois tendency of the day: what is is, because it must be
and because its determined moment has come; and to rebel against facts
is, beyond dispute, childish.

I merely mention these characteristics of the actual epoch; and I point
them out to legitimatize this prologue I have written, which, for what I
know, may after all give more clearness, or may give more obscurity to
my book.... BROTHER AND SISTER

Many years ago I was stationed as doctor in a tiny Basque town, in
Cestona. Sometimes, in summer, while going on my rounds among the
villages I used to meet on the highway and on the cross-roads passersby
of a miserable aspect, persons with liver-complaint who were taking the
waters at the neighbouring cure.

These people, with their leather-coloured skin, did not arouse any
curiosity or interest in me. The middle-class merchant or clerk from the
big towns is repugnant to me, whether well or ill. I would exchange a
curt salute with those liverish parties and go my way on my old nag.

One afternoon I was sitting in a wild part of the mountain, among big
birch-trees, when a pair of strangers approached the spot where I
was. They were not of the jaundiced and disagreeable type of the
valetudinarians. He was a lanky young man, smooth-shaven, grave, and
melancholy; she, a blond woman, most beautiful.

She was dressed in white and wore a straw hat with large flowers; she
had a refined and gracious manner, eyes of blue, a very dark blue, and
flame-coloured hair.

I surmised that they were a young married couple; but he seemed too
indifferent to be the husband of so pretty a woman. In any event, they
were not recently wed.

He bowed to me, and then said to his companion:

"Shall we sit down here?"

"Very well."

They seated themselves on the half-rotten trunk of a tree.

"Are you on a trip?" he asked me, noticing my horse fastened to a
branch.

"Yes. I am coming back from a visit."

"Ah! Are you the town doctor?"

"Yes."

"And do you live here, in Cestona?"

"Yes, I live here."

"Alone?"

"Quite alone."

"In an hotel?"

"No; in that house there down the road. Behold my house; that is it."

"It must be hard to live among so many invalids!" he exclaimed.

"Why?" she asked. "This gentleman may not have the same ideas as you."

"I believe I have. To my mind, he is right. It is very hard to live
here."

"You can have nobody to talk to. That's evident."

"Absolutely nobody. Just imagine; there is not a Liberal in the town;
there are nothing but Carlists and Integrists."

"And what has that to do with living contented?" she asked mockingly.

The woman was enchanting; I looked at her, a bit amazed to find her so
merry and so coquettish; and she put several questions to me about my
life and my ideas, with a tinge of irony.

I wanted to show that I was not exactly a farmer, and turning the talk
to what might be done in a town like that, I threw myself into outlining
utopian projects, and defending them with more warmth than it is
reasonable to express in a conversation with unknown persons. The
woman's mocking smile stirred me up and impelled me to talk.

"It would be worth seeing, what a little town like this would be," I
said, indicating the village of Cestona, "with really human life in it,
and, above all, without Catholicism. Every tenant might be a master in
his own home, throughout his life. Here you have farm-land that produces
two crops, you have woods, mountains, and a medicinal spring. The
inhabitants of Cestona might have the entire produce of the land, the
mountain to supply building-stone and fire-wood, and besides all that,
the entrance-fees at the springs."

"And whose duty would it be to distribute the profits in this
patriarchal republic? The municipality's?" he asked.

"Of course," said I. "The municipality could go ahead distributing the
land, making the roads, cutting out useless middle-men; it could keep
clean, inexpensive hotels for the foreigners, and get a good return from
them."

"And then you would not admit of inheritance, doctor?"

"Inheritance? Yes, I would admit of it in regard to things produced by
one person. I believe one ought to have the right to bequeath a picture,
a book, a piece of craftsmanship; but not land, not a mountain."

"Yes; property-right in land is absurd," he murmured. "The one
inconvenience that your plan would have," he added, "would be that
people from poverty-stricken holes would pour into the perfect towns and
upset the equilibrium."

"Then we should have to restrict the right of citizenship."

"But I consider that an injustice. The land should be free to all."

"Yes, that's true."

"And religion? None whatever? Like animals," she said ironically.

"Like animals, and like some illustrious philosophers, dear sister," he
replied. "At the turn of a road, among the foliage, we would place a
marble statue adorned with flowers. Don't you agree, doctor?"

"It seems to me a very good idea."

"Above all, for me the great thing would be to forget death and sorrow
a little," he asserted. "Not so many church-bells should be heard. I
believe that we ought even to suppress the maxim about love for one's
neighbour. Make it the duty of the state or the municipality to take
care of the sick and the crippled, and leave men the illusion of living
healthy in a healthy world."

"Ah! What very ugly ideas you have!" she exclaimed.

"Yes, that one seems a bit hard to me," said I.

We were walking down toward the town by a steep and rocky path. It was
beginning to grow dusk, the river shone with silvery reflections,
and the toads broke the silence of the twilight with the sonorous,
flute-like note of their croaking.

On arriving at the highway we said good-bye; they took the stage, which
was passing at that moment in the direction of the springs, and I
mounted my hack.

IN MY GARDEN

I had learned that the brother and sister were named Caesar and Laura,
that she lived in Italy and was married.

Some days later, toward evening, they knocked at my house door. I let
them in, showed them to my garden, and conducted them to a deserted
summer-house, a few sticks put together, on the bank of the river.

Laura strolled through an orchard, gathered a few apples, and then, with
her brother's aid and mine, seated herself on the trunk of a tree that
leant over the river, and sat there gazing at it.

While she was taking it in, her brother Caesar started to talk. Without
any preliminary explanation, he talked to me about his family, about his
life, about his ideas and his political plans. He expressed himself with
ease and strength; but he had the uneasy expression of a man who is
afraid of something.

"I figure," he said, "that I know what there is to do in Spain. I shall
be an instrument. It is for that that I am training myself. I want to
create all my ideas, habits, prejudices, with a view to the rôle I am
going to play."

"You do not know what Spain is like," said Laura. "Life is very hard
here."

"I know that well. There is no social system here, there is nothing
established; therefore it is easier to create one for oneself."

"Yes, but some protection is requisite."

"Oh, I will find that."

"Where?"

"I think those Church people we knew in Rome will do for me."

"But you are not a Clerical."

"No." "And do you want to start your career by deceiving people?"

"I cannot choose my means. Politics are like this: doing something with
nothing, doing a great deal with a little, erecting a castle on a grain
of sand."

"And do you, who have so many moral prejudices, wish to begin in that
way?"

"Who told you that accepting every means is not moral?"

"I don't understand how it could be," replied Laura.

"I do," answered her brother. "What is individual morality today? Almost
nothing. It almost doesn't exist. Individual morality can come to be
collective only by contagion, by enthusiasm. And such things do not
happen nowadays; every one has his own morality; but we have not arrived
at a scientific moral code. Years ago notable men accepted the moral
code of the categoric imperative, in lieu of the moral code based on
sin; but the categorical imperative is a stoical morality, a wise man's
morality which has not the sentimental value necessary to make it
popular."

"I do not understand these things," she replied, displeased.

"The doctor understands me, don't you?" he said.

"Yes, I believe I do."

"For me," Caesar went on, "individual morality consists in adapting
one's life to a thought, to a preconceived plan. The man who proposes to
be a scientist and puts all his powers into achieving that, is a moral
man, even though he steals and is a blackguard in other things."

"Then, for you," I argued, "morality is might, tenacity; immorality is
weakness, cowardice."

"Yes, it comes to that. The man capable of feeling himself the
instrument of an idea always seems to me moral. Bismarck, for instance,
was a moral man."

"It is a forceful point of view," said I.

"Which, as I see, you do not share," he exclaimed.

"As things are today, no. For me the idea of morality is attached to the
idea of pity rather than to the idea of force; but I comprehend that
pity is destructive."

"I believe that you and Caesar," Laura burst forth, "by force of wishing
to see things clear, see them more vaguely than other people. I can see
all this quite simply; it appears to me that we call every person moral
who behaves well, and on the contrary, one that does wicked deeds is
called immoral and is punished."

"But you prejudge the question," exclaimed Caesar; "you take it as
settled beforehand. You say, good and evil exist...."

"And don't they exist?"

"I don't know."

"So that if they gave you the task of judging mankind, you would see no
difference between Don Juan Tenorio and Saint Francis of Assisi?"

"Perhaps it was the saint who had the more pleasure, who was the more
vicious."

"How atrocious!"

"No, because the pleasure one has is the criterion, not the manner of
getting it. As for me, what is called a life of pleasure bores me."

"And judging from the little I know of it, it does me too," said I.

"I see life in general," he continued, "as something dark, gloomy, and
unattractive."

"Then you gentlemen do not place the devil in this life, since this life
seems unattractive to you. Where do you find him?"

"Nowhere, I think," replied Caesar; "the devil is a stupid invention."

AT TWILIGHT

The twilight was beginning.

"It is chilly here by the river," I said. "Let us go to the house."

We went up by a sloping path between pear-trees, and reached the
vestibule of the house. From afar we heard the sound of the stage-coach
bells; a headlight gleamed, and we saw it pass by and afterwards
disappear among the trees. "What a mistake to ask more of life than it
can give!" suddenly exclaimed Laura. "The sky, the sun, conversation,
love, the fields, works of art ... think of looking on all these as a
bore, from which one desires to escape through some violent occupation,
so as to have the satisfaction of not noticing that one is alive."

"Because noticing that one is alive is disagreeable," replied her
brother.

"And why?"

"The idea! Why? Because life is not an idyll, not by a good deal. We
live by killing, destroying everything there is around us; we get to
be something by ridding ourselves of our enemies. We are in a constant
struggle."

"I don't see this struggle. Formerly, when men were savages, perhaps....
But now!"

"Now, just the same. The one difference is that the material struggle,
with the muscles, has been changed to an intellectual one, a social one.
Nowadays, it is evident, a man does not have to hunt the bull or the
wild boar in the prairies; he finds their dead bodies at the butcher's.
Neither does the modern citizen have to knock his rival down to overcome
him; nowadays the enemy is conquered at the desk, in the factory, in
the editor's office, in the laboratory.... The struggle is just as
infuriated and violent as it was in the depths of the forests, only it
is colder and more courteous in form."

"I don't believe it. You won't convince me."

Laura plucked a branch of white blossoms from a wild-rose bush and put
it into her bosom.

"Well, Caesar, let us go to the hotel," she said; "it is very late."

"I will escort you a little way," I suggested.

We went out on the highway. The night was palpitating as it filled
itself with stars. Laura hummed Neapolitan songs. We walked along a
little while without speaking, gazing at Jupiter, who shone resplendent.

"And you have the conviction that you will succeed?" I suddenly asked
Caesar. "Yes. More than anything else I have the vocation for being an
instrument. If I win success, I shall be a great figure; if I go to
pieces, those who know me will say: 'He was an upstart; he was a thief.'
Or perhaps they may say that I was a poor sort, because men who have the
ambition to be social forces never get an unprejudiced epitaph."

"And what will you do in a practical way, if you succeed?"

"Something like what you dream of. And how shall I do it? By destroying
magnates, by putting an end to the power of the rich, subduing the
middle-class... I would hand over the land to the peasants, I would
send delegates to the provinces to make hygiene obligatory, and
my dictatorship should tear the nets of religion, of property, of
theocracy...."

"What nonsense!" murmured Laura.

"My sister doesn't believe in me," Caesar exclaimed, smiling.

"Oh, yes, _bambino_," she replied. "Yes, I believe in you. Only, why
must you have such silly ambitions?"

We were getting near the bath establishment, and when we came in front
of it we said good-bye.

Laura was starting the next day to Biarritz, and Caesar for Madrid.

We pressed one another's hands affectionately.

"Good-bye!"

"Good-bye, doctor!"

"Good luck!"

They went along toward the establishment, and I returned home by the
highway, envying the energy of that man, who was getting himself ready
to fight for an ideal. And I thought with melancholy of the monotonous
life of the little town.

I

THE PARIS-VENTIMIGLIA EXPRESS

_MARSEILLES!_

The fast Paris-Ventimiglia train, one of the Grand European Expresses,
had stopped a moment at Marseilles.

It was about seven in the morning of a winter day. The huge cars,
with their bevelled-glass windows, dripped water from all parts; the
locomotive puffed, resting from its run, and the bellows between car
and car, like great accordeons, had black drops slipping down their
corrugations.

The rails shone; they crossed over one another, and fled into the
distance until lost to sight. The train windows were shut; silence
reigned in the station; from time to time there resounded a violent
hammering on the axles; a curtain here or there was raised, and behind
the misted glass the dishevelled head of a woman appeared.

In the dining-car a waiter went about preparing the tables for
breakfast; two or three gentlemen, wrapped in their ulsters, their caps
pulled down, were seated at the tables by the windows and kept yawning.

At one of the little tables at the end Laura and Caesar had installed
themselves.

"Did you sleep, sister?" he asked.

"Yes. I did. Splendidly. And you?"

"I didn't. I can't sleep on the train."

"That's evident."

"I look so bad, eh?" and Caesar examined himself in one of the car
mirrors. "I certainly am absurdly pale."

"The weather is just as horrible as ever," she added.

They had left a Paris frozen and dark. During the whole night the cold
had been most intense. One hadn't been able to put a head outside the
car; snow and a furious wind had had their own violent way.

"When we reach the Mediterranean, it will change," Laura had said.

It had not; they were on the edge of the sea and the cold continued
intense and the weather dark.

HOW BEAUTIFUL!

The train began its journey again; the houses of Marseilles could be
seen through the morning haze; the Mediterranean appeared, greenish,
whitish, and fields covered with hoar-frost.

"What horrid weather!" exclaimed Laura, shuddering. "I dislike the cold
more and more all the time."

The dining-car waiter came and filled their cups with _café-au-lait_.
Laura drew off her gloves and took one of the hot cups between her white
hands.

"Oh, this is comforting!" she said.

Caesar began to sip the boiling liquid.

"I don't see how you can stand it. It's scalding."

"That's the way to get warm," replied Caesar, undisturbed.

Laura began to take her coffee by spoonfuls. Just then there come into
the dining-car a tall blond gentleman and a young, charming lady, each
smarter than the other. The man bowed to Laura with much formality.

"Who is he?" asked Caesar.

"He is the second son of Lord Marchmont, and he has married a Yankee
millionairess."

"You knew him in Rome?"

"No, I knew him at Florence last year, and he paid me attention rather
boldly."

"He is looking at you a lot now."

"He is capable of thinking that I am off on an adventure with you."

"Possibly. She is a magnificent woman."

"Right you are. She is a marvel. She is almost too pretty. She shows no
character; she has no air of breeding." "There doesn't seem to be any
great congeniality between them."

"No, they don't get on very well. But come along, pay, let's go. So
many people are coming in here."

Laura got up, and after her, Caesar. As she passed, one heard the swish
of her silk petticoats. The travellers looked at her with admiration.

"I believe these people envy me," said Caesar philosophically.

"It's quite possible, _bambino_," she responded, laughing.

They entered their compartment. The train was running at full speed
along the coast. The greenish sea and the cloudy sky stretched away and
blotted out the horizon. At Toulon the bad weather continued; a bit
beyond, the sun came out, pallid in the fog, circled with a yellowish
halo; then the fog dispersed rapidly and a brilliant sun made the
snow-covered country shine.

"Oh! How beautiful!" exclaimed Laura.

The dense pure snow had packed down. The grape-vines broke up this white
background symmetrically, like flocks of crows settled on the earth; the
pines held high their rounds of foliage, and the cypresses, stern and
slim, stood out very black against all the whiteness.

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