The Spirit of the Count

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ISBN NFT: 9788411268875

SKU: 9788490071533 Category: Tags: , , ,

The Spirit of the Count. Emilia Pardo Bazán

Do you remember something I told you right here a long time ago, not long? But everything is going so fast today, that I presume you have forgotten.
He was the philanthropic count, of whom he had mercy on the mobs, of whom he exaltedly professed the cult of the humble, of whom, in his enthusiastic vocation, he took the plough in his aristocratic hands and, barefoot his feet, broke the bowels of the earth to produce the golden wheat that sustains man.
On that occasion I narrated to you some episode of the existence of the one who loved his nature and humans – not all equally – the reason for his preference being the greatest misery and ignominy of the favorites. And I told you how St. Francis and the count talked one autumn afternoon, sitting on a wall, while they let overflow the tidal wave of human suffering, which both had turned into religious, sweet and joyful matter in the friar, in the gloomy and pessimistic count.
And behold, the count, on a journey through snow-padded plains, while a rough and polar deer tore the frosty arabesques of the leafless branches: going, like a “mujik”, on the platform of the train, sheathed in his hopalanda of badly tanned ram’s skins, hardened by ice, felt in his chest, suddenly, like a twinge. Soon, the twinge was sharp pain. And when he entered the convent where he wanted to take refuge, the heat burned him, while his teeth collided due to the effect of that cold that is unlike any other: the cold of the invasive pneumonia.
And after a few days of suffering, the Liberator came. The count, in the moments when he did not feel his head seized by delirium, waited for her from one moment to another. And not with fear, nor with disgust, but with a kind of joy, with the serenity of one who has contemplated it many times without twisting his countenance. The Liberator brought in her hands, mummified in the sepulchral stillness, a very fresh branch of laurel, in which the dew of the morning had deposited a network of pearls, which reflected in changing the moonlight of the last night … And the count, without being able to remedy it, smiled at the idea that the branch was unfading. Eternally, until the hour when the planet, having completed its route through space, explodes or dissociates its matter in the bosom of cosmic forces, that laurel branch would remember the memory and refresh the gratitude of those who one day collected in their hearts the beneficial doctrine of the count, who gave himself to the people, body and soul…

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