The aristocracy is funny even when it robs us. Admittedly, they sisan us gracefully at how rancid they are. A peculiar family podcast has brought us the latest incident of the Aguirre and Ramírez Haro family in their process of skinning between siblings, something very common in the high line when it comes to dividing the money of the dead father. The narration of Esperanza Aguirre’s sister-in-law recorded for her offspring of how they mounted a farce to simulate a donation of Goya’s painting and defraud the Treasury is a precious costumbrista account of the plunder.
Aguirre’s family, who were already stiff with cash when they had to heat the roofs, and now have problems even keeping the patio in order, have had to do creative accounting in order to pay their debts. In the end, like good liberals, the only way they can think of to do it is to stop paying the taxes, low thanks to Aguirre’s grace, that rich people like them have to pay in Madrid. But the fact is that there are still some left, and when it comes to a capital of six million euros, the amount saved if you avoid the treasury is a considerable peak that at least leaves you to deratumize the palace.
Aguirre and his troupe family are a faithful representation of what Azcona represented, with salt and sharpness, in ‘La escopeta nacional’. They are the shrouded realization of the decadence of a husky world that is no longer, but which they aspire to freeze because they refuse to accept that it has been lost. They are reactionary nostalgia in its maximum splendor, the perpetual mourning to maintain a glorious time for those of its class in which the aristocracy was the sublime representation of the superior being, of those who could afford to look at the populace with disdain because society it had been built around their privileges. The uses and customs of Esperanza Aguirre and her family are the best expression of the world that was but already smells of mold.
They long for and cannot bear having lost the homage of the poor. There is no greater class resentment than that experienced by those who have had that position of prevalence and now have to watch the stucco fall apart without having a miserable worker to exploit to restore it for two crusts of bread. The world that was and is no longer is the one in which the patron harassed with complacency and impunity, without hiding, the one where the chief ordered and the aristocrat walked proudly distributing the remains of his banquets without looking at the beggar.
The narration of Aguirre’s sister-in-law giving solemnity and capitulating what is nothing more than a crude robbery of the public coffers because those of the marquisate were stiff is an epic of that widespread custom, now also on the left, of putting makeup and glitter on a world that smells of a stagnant and rotten pond. Luckily, it stinks so much that there is no possibility of selling the world to us, which was like an aspiration for the future. We know what lies behind the filth, and there is no one better than Esperanza Aguirre and her family so that we do not forget the bad smell.