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  • The Little Hunchback
  • Roberto Arlt (bio)
    Translated by Nick Caistor

It's the case that my behavior, with respect to Rigoletto, the little hunchback, at Señora X's home, would be unseemly for a prince or marquis to have displayed it. But my detractors—my implacable enemies, that is—claim I am a monster. They base this claim of theirs on how cheerfully I have commented on certain actions of mine, as if good humor were not in itself proof of what a genuine, upright, and tolerant sort that, at my best, I am.

If my actions are to be regarded through a filter, it should be the Filter of Suffering. I have suffered a good deal. I cannot deny that these sufferings have been due to my own sensitivity, which is so extreme that, whenever I'm with someone, I can detect the color of their thoughts, and the worst of it is: I'm never wrong. I have seen the soul of man pass from the scarlet of hatred to the green of affection, as if through the crest of a cloud when the moon's rays are obscured, more or less, by the varying thicknesses of this aqueous mass. And there have been people who have said to me:

"Do you recall, three years ago, when you told me I was thinking about … X, Y, or Z? Well, you weren't wrong."

I have made my way among human beings, perceiving the fury that rouses their instincts, the desires that harden their intentions, always catching, in the [End Page 136] sidelong glint of their eyes, the tremble in the corners of their lips, and in the all but invisible ruffling of the skin on their eyelids, whatever they were wishing for, whatever they were hiding or suffering. And never have I felt more alone than when they have been transparent to me.

And so it was, without wishing to, that gradually I discovered the sediment of human baseness concealed in the most insignificant acts. Men who to their fellows seemed good and perfect were to me what Christ termed "whited sepulchres." My natural goodness slowly curdled; I turned cynical and taciturn.

But I digress. …

My problems began when I brought the dreadful hunchback to the home of Señora X. I was the "betrothed" of one of her daughters. Strange to say, I was drawn unsuspectingly into the intimacy of that family by the wiles of Señora X, who behaved with determined, exquisite tact in refusing to bring a glass of water to one who is thirsty and, instead, to place within reach, as if inadvertently, a bottle of powerful spirits. By refusing me verbally, "inadvertently" she gave me what I craved. To this, there are witnesses. I say so, of course, to ease my conscience. Beyond which, in circumstances that made a break in our relationship seem inevitable, I asked for reassurances in a way that scandalized friends of the family. It's a curious thing. There are mothers who adopt this tactic in their daughters' relationships with their fiancés, and only if the unwary suitor has a moment's lucidity does he realize how far she has taken matters beyond what social obligation dictates.

But, returning to the little hunchback and to who was really at fault. The first time he came to visit me at home, he was drunk and affronted my elderly housekeeper, who had gone to answer the door. His shouting was so raucous that passersby, on the road, could hear: "Where are the musicians to herald my splendid presence? And the slaves to anoint me with oils? Instead of youths bearing libations, I am greeted by a toothless, reeking hag! Do you live in this house?" The doors had been freshly painted, to his derision: "Disgusting!—more like a hardware store than a home! You knew I was coming, and I am met with turpentine rather than incense?"

This, gentlemen, is the insolent creature who took over my life. The matter, as you see, was dire.

I remember clearly, looking back, when I first met him. It was in a café. I was seated at a table with...

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