s my ch

I had just been

ve married and have children. My father's harp, unstrung and broken, has been thrown among the cast-off furniture. It has been many a Christ

of life. I am nothing short of a man, an inhabitant of Madrid, comfortably settled in life, proud of my independenc

pare myself with all my boldness, my ambitions, my contempts, with the little chap that played the drum fifteen years ago on Christmas Eve in a remote corner of Andalusia,-I smile, I even laugh aloud, with th