Feijoo’s lack of confidence could not escape Fombona’s feline perceptions. He thought about him often and was on the point of giving him a few words of praise (it was obvious that Feijoo needed them), but a strange reluctance he did not understand, or tried by every means to hide from himself, prevented his saying those words. On the contrary, if anything at all occurred to him it was a joke, some witticism about the verses that invariably provoked everyone’s laughter. He said it “cleared the air” and made his presence as a teacher less evident, but bitter remorse always overcame him immediately afterward. Moderation in praise was the virtue he cultivated with greatest care, undoubtedly because at Feijoo’s age he was ashamed to write poetry, and an invincible blush — the more he fought it, the more difficult it was to conquer — reddened his face if anyone praised his tentative compositions. Even now, when forty years of tenacious literary activity — translations, monographs, prologues, and lectures — had given him a security he had not known before, he avoided any kind of praise, and the flattery of his admirers was, for him, a constant threat, something he secretly pleaded for but always rejected with a shy or superior gesture.
In time, Feijoo’s poems began to show noticeable improvement. Of course, Fombona and his group did not tell him so, but when Feijoo was not there, they commented on the possibility of his becoming a great poet. Finally, his progress was so evident that Fombona himself grew enthusiastic, and one afternoon, very casually, he told him that in spite of everything his verses were really quite beautiful. Feijoo’s blush at the unexpected praise was more visible and painful than ever. He obviously was suffering because of the future demands these words implied: As long as Fombona had remained silent, he had nothing to lose; now he was obliged to surpass himself with each new effort in order to maintain his right to that generous statement of encouragement.
From then on it became increasingly difficult for him to show his work. On the other hand, from then on Fombona’s enthusiasm turned into a discreet indifference that Feijoo could not understand. A feeling of impotence overwhelmed him, not only when he was with the others, but even when he was alone. Fombona’s praise was a little taste of glory, but the risk of criticism was something Feijoo did not have the strength to face. He was one of those people who is harmed by praise.
The coffee is not very good at Daysie’s, and recently the air has been polluted by television. Let us not linger over an unpleasant description of that banal atmosphere, which is not to the point, not even for the sake of seeing the animated faces of the adolescents at the tables, much less for listening to the conversations of the somber bank clerks who, with the gentle melancholy of their profession, like to talk at twilight about numbers and the subtly perfumed women they dream about.
Iturbe, Ríos, and Montufar were discussing their respective specialties: Quintilian, Lope de Vega, and Rodó. In the heat of the coffee that the talk had allowed to cool, Fombona, like the conductor of an orchestra, indicated each one’s correct note and, from time to time, extracted from the bottomless pockets of his gray jacket (cruelly damaged by layers of stains of a not very mysterious origin) cards with new information by means of which posterity would know there was a comma that Rodó forgot to write, a verse that Lope practically found in the street, a turn of phrase that infuriated Quintilian. Every eye shone with the joy that these erudite contributions invariably awakened in people of a sensitive nature. Letters from fundamental specialists, notes from distant friends, even contributions from anonymous sources all added, week by week, to the exhaustive knowledge about those great men, so far apart in time as well as space. This variant, that simple erratum discovered in the texts, increased the group’s faith in the importance of their work, in culture, in the destiny of the human race.
Feijoo, as was his custom, arrived silently and immediately took his place at the edge of the conversation. Although he knew Lope (although “knowing” Lope de Vega was something deemed impossible by Fombona), it was unlikely he could determine with any clarity the precise difference between Quintilian and Rodó. It was easy to see he felt annoyed and somehow diminished.
Fombona considered the moment propitious. As was his habit in such cases, he produced a heavy silence that lasted for several minutes. Then, smiling a little, he said:
“Tell me, Feijoo, do you remember the quotation from Shakespeare that Unamuno uses in the third chapter of The Tragic Sense of Life?”
No, Feijoo did not remember it.
“Look it up; it’s interesting; it might be useful to you.”
The next day, just as he expected, Feijoo mentioned the quotation and his poor memory.
Unamuno stopped being a topic of conversation for several days. And Quintilian, Lope, and Rodó had time for considerable growth.
When Unamuno had been completely forgotten:
“Feijoo,” Fombona said again, smiling, “you who know Unamuno so well, do you remember which of his books was first translated into French?”
Feijoo could not really remember.
They did not see him on Saturday or Sunday, but on Monday Feijoo had the information, as well as the date and publisher.
On that memorable day, Feijoo was the new guest who contributed to the symposium. Now the conversation improved, and one gray afternoon, when the rain set a vague sadness on everyone’s face, Feijoo pronounced for the first time, in clear, distinct tones, the sacred name of Quintilian. Feijoo, the loose piece in that harmonious system, had finally found his precise place in the mechanism. From then on, they were united by something they had not shared before: the desire to know, to know with precision.
Once again Fombona enjoyed the pleasure of feeling himself a teacher, and day after day he made his mark on that impressionable material. Feijoo’s indecision was so compatible with Unamuno’s! The subject had not been chosen by chance. The field was inexhaustible: Unamuno the philosopher, Unamuno the novelist, Unamuno the poet, Kierkegaard and Unamuno, Unamuno and Heidegger and Sartre. A writer worthy of someone devoting his entire life to him — worthy of having Fombona guide that life and make it an extension of his own. He imagined Feijoo in a sea of papers and notes and galleys, free of his fear, his terror of creation. What security he would gain. From now on that dear, timid boy would be able to face anyone and talk about everything through Unamuno. And he saw himself forty years earlier, suffering in shame and solitude because of the verse that would not come, and when it did, produced only the fiery blush he could never explain. But the old doubts returned to torment him. He asked himself again if his translations, monographs, prologues, and lectures — which constituted, under certain circumstances, a precious record of everything of value that had ever been written — were enough to compensate for the spring he saw only through others, for the verse he never dared to recite. The responsibility for a new destiny weighed on his shoulders. And something like remorse, the old, familiar remorse, began to disturb his nights: Feijoo, Feijoo, dear boy, escape, escape me and Unamuno, I want to help you escape.