Manduca was buried without me. The same thing has happened to many others, without my feeling anything, but this case upset me particularly for the reason already mentioned. I also felt a kind of melancholy as I recalled the first polemic of my life, the joy with which he received my papers and got to work to refute them, not counting the desire to go in the carriage … But time quickly erased all those regrets and rebirths of old memories. Nor was it only time; two people came to assist it, Capitu, whose image came to sleep with me that same night, and another which I will tell you of in the next chapter. The rest of this chapter is only to ask that, if someone reads my book with more attention than is demanded by the price of a copy, he should be certain to conclude that the devil is not as black as he’s painted. What I mean is…
What I mean is that my Matacavalos neighbor, easing his illness with his anti-Russian opinions, gave to his rotting flesh a spiritual glow that consoled him in his sufferings. No doubt there are greater consolations, and one of the most excellent of all is not to suffer from this or any other illness, but nature is so divine that it amuses itself with such contrasts, and it beckons the most loathsome and unhappy with a flower. Perhaps, even, the flower turns out more beautiful that way; my gardener tells me that violets, to have a lovely scent, need pig’s manure. I’ve never gone into it, but it must be true.