-Xii-

A few crumbs, not yet stale, still remained of the wedding bread when Don Pedro held a conference with Julián, both agreeing on the urgency of the chaplain going ahead to the Pazos to take several indispensable precautions and somewhat civilize that badger’s den before its masters came to live in it. Julián accepted the commission, and only then did the young master show qualms or scruples about having entrusted him with it.

“Look here,” he warned him, “you need plenty of nerve up there... Primitivo is a foul-tempered scoundrel, capable of twisting you around his finger a hundred times over...”

“God goes before me. Kill me he will not.”

“Do not say that twice,” insisted the master of Ulloa, prompted by whispers of his conscience which at that moment made themselves heard clearly and urgently. “I warned you once before of what Primitivo is like: capable of any outrage... What I do not believe is that he will commit atrocities merely for the pleasure of committing them, not even at first, when blind with the craving for revenge... Even so...”

This was not the only time Don Pedro had displayed shrewdness in understanding character and persons, a gift rendered sterile by his lack of any moral culture or delicacy—the kind that society now demands of anyone who, through birth, wealth, or power, holds a preeminent station within it.

The young master went on:

“Primitivo is no savage... But he is an out-and-out rascal and a sly fox who stops at nothing to attain his ends... Confound it! I know it all too well... The day we departed... if he could have stopped us by putting a bullet through us from ambush... I would not have given two farthings for your skin or for mine.”

Julián shuddered, and the rosy glow drained from his cheekbones. He was not cut from heroic cloth, and his face gave him away immediately. Don Pedro was infinitely amused by the chaplain’s fright. Deep in Don Pedro’s nature lay a vein of cruelty, fed by his coarse and unruly life.

“I wager,” he exclaimed, laughing, “that you will pass that stone cross on the road with your rosary in hand.”

“I do not say I will not,” answered Julián, having regained his composure; “but not on that account do I refuse to go. It is my duty; hence I do nothing extraordinary in fulfilling it. God above all... At times the lion is not so fierce as he is painted.”

“It does not suit Primitivo’s book to stir up trouble right now.”

Julián fell silent. At length he exclaimed:

“Sir, if only you would take a firm resolve! Dismiss that man, sir, cast him out!”

“Hold your tongue, man, hold your tongue... We shall keep him in check... But cast him out... What about the hounds? What about the shooting? And those peasants, and that whole crowd, whom nobody understands but him? Disabuse yourself: without Primitivo I cannot manage up there... Just make the trial, merely for amusement, of putting in order a few of the matters Primitivo manages in his sleep... Besides, believe what I tell you, for it is as true as the Gospel: if you throw Primitivo out by the door, he will come back through the window. Confound it! As if I did not know who Primitivo is!”

Julián stammered:

“And... about the rest...?”

“About the rest... Settle it however you please... You carry full powers.”

Indeed he carried them! If only he also carried some efficacious recipe for putting them to use! Invested with omnipotent authority, Julián felt at the bottom of his soul a kind of compassion for the shameless concubine and the spurious offspring. The child above all. What fault did the poor innocent bear for his mother’s wickedness? It always seemed harsh to cast him out of a house where, after all, the master was his father. Julián would never have undertaken so ungrateful a task had it not seemed to him that the eternal salvation of Don Pedro hung upon it, as well as the earthly peace of mind of her whom he still called Señorita Marcelina, contrary to the ruling of the wedding guests.

Not without apprehension did he cross once more that gloomy wolf country preceding the valley of the Pazos. The huntsman was waiting for him in Cebre, and they made the journey together; Primitivo, moreover, showed himself so submissive and respectful that Julián, who unlike Don Pedro possessed the knack of going astray in the practical judgment of men while reserving his discernment for abstract and speculative matters, gradually dismissed his mistrust, persuading himself that the fox no longer harbored any thought of biting. Primitivo’s impassive countenance revealed neither resentment nor wrath. With his customary laconism and gravity, he spoke of the dreary, waterlogged weather, which had scarcely allowed them to thrash, or reap the corn, or pick the grapes properly, or complete in peace any of the great agricultural labours. The road was indeed soaked with puddles and flooded, and as it had rained that morning too, the pines let drip from the green, shining needles of their boughs heavy drops of water that splashed flat upon the travelers’ hats. Julián was shedding his fears, and a very pure joy flooded his spirit when he greeted the roadside cross with genuine religious fervor.

“Blessed be Thou, O my God,” he thought to himself, “for Thou hast allowed me to accomplish a good work, pleasing in Thine eyes. A year ago, I found at the Pazos nothing but vice, scandal, coarseness, and all evil passions; and now I return bearing Christian marriage, the virtues of the home consecrated by Thee. I, even I, have been the instrument Thou hast deigned to use for so holy a work... O my God, I thank Thee.”

Loud and vehement barking cut short his soliloquy: it was the Marquis’s pack of hounds running out to welcome the chief huntsman, making wild demonstrations of glee, wagging their docked tails, and opening their fresh pink muzzles wide. Primitivo caressed them with his lean hand, for he was exceedingly affectionate with dogs; and to his grandson, who came trotting behind the pack, he dealt a sort of playful cuff on the ear. Julián tried to kiss the boy, but the urchin took to his heels before he could do so; and the chaplain felt once more those compassionate pangs of remorse aroused by the sight of the already repudiated creature. He found Sabel in her usual corner, among her pots and stewpans, but without her former retinue of village women old and young, or the Sabia and her endless progeny. Perfect order reigned in the kitchen: everything clean, quiet, and solitary; the severest critic fond of faultfinding could have found nothing to censure. The chaplain began to feel abashed seeing so much good order in his absence, and to fear that his arrival might upset it—an idea prompted by his native timidity. At suppertime his surprise increased. Primitivo, softer than a glove, gave him an account in an even, measured voice of all that had occurred during the half-year: cows calved, repairs undertaken, rents collected; and while the father thus acknowledged his superior authority, the daughter served him diligently and humbly, with the clinging sweetness of a domestic animal begging for a caress. Julián hardly knew what face to put on before so cordial a reception.

He imagined they would alter their demeanour the next day, when, making use of the absolute powers and full authority with which he came invested, he ordered the Hagar and Ishmael of that patriarchate to wander forth into the desert. An astonishing miracle! Not even then was Primitivo’s mildness ruffled.

“The master and mistress will bring a cook from Santiago...” Julián explained, in order to give some pretext for the eviction.

“Of course...” replied Primitivo with the most natural air in the world. “Up there in the vila they cook in a different style... The gentry are used to fine fare... It falls out very well, for I too was going to ask your reverence to write to the Marquis about bringing someone to cook.”

“You?” exclaimed Julián, dumbfounded.

“Yes, sir... My girl wants to get married...”

“Sabel?”

“Sabel, yes, sir; she is busy with that... With the piper of Naya, the Gallo... Naturally she insists on going off to his home as soon as the priest gives them the blessing...”

Julián felt a sudden suffusion of sheer delight. He could not help thinking that in this whole affair of Sabel the hand of Providence was visibly at work. Sabel married and gone; the danger averted; things put in order, salvation assured! Once more he gave thanks to the benevolent God who removes obstacles from our path when petty human foresight does not even believe it possible to stir them... The satisfaction brimming in his countenance was such that he was ashamed to display it before Primitivo, and began to chatter rapidly, by way of dissimulation, congratulating the huntsman and wishing Sabel a future of happiness in her new estate. That very night he wrote to the Marquis with the good news.

Days went by, consistently serene. Sabel remained mild, Primitivo accommodating, Perucho invisible, the kitchen deserted. Julián only noticed a certain passive resistance regarding the government of the Marquis’s estates and revenues. In that sphere it was utterly impossible for him to advance an inch. Primitivo maintained his position as real steward, agent, and, behind the scenes, autocrat: Julián realized that his full powers were worth as much as a wooden gun, and he was even able to ascertain, from evident signs, that the influence exercised by the huntsman over the Pazos was spreading across the entire district; people from Cebre, from Castrodorna, from Boán, and from even more distant spots frequently came to consult the majordomo in respectful and servile attitudes. Within four leagues around, not a straw moved without Primitivo’s intervention and consent. Julián possessed no strength to fight him, nor did he attempt to, deeming secondary whatever harm Primitivo’s bad management might inflict on the house of Ulloa compared to the immense ruin Sabel had been on the verge of causing. To get rid of the daughter seemed to him paramount; as for the father...

It is true that the daughter did not leave either; but she would leave, of course she would! Who could doubt that she would leave? Julián was reassured by a sign which he considered infallible: one evening near the hayloft, he had surprised Sabel and the handsome piper engaged in a colloquy more sweet than edifying. The encounter made him blush, but he turned a blind eye, reflecting that this was, so to speak, the threshold of the altar. Confident of victory with regard to that sinful wench, he compromised regarding the majordomo. All the more so since the latter never rejected Julián’s suggestions or contradicted him in anything. If the chaplain devised schemes, censured abuses, or insisted on the urgent necessity of a reform, Primitivo approved, smoothed the way, and suggested means—in words, of course; but when it came to execution, that was quite another matter: difficulties began, delays arose: today this, tomorrow that... There is no force comparable to inertia. To comfort him, Primitivo would say to Julián:

“It is one thing to talk, and another to do...”

Either kill Primitivo, or surrender to him unconditionally: the chaplain understood that no other recourse remained. One day he went to pour out his troubles to Don Eugenio, the Abbot of Naya, whose discreet opinions gave him great encouragement. He found him in a state of high excitement over the tremendous political news which the few newspapers reaching those remote wilds had just confirmed. The navy had mutinied, driving the Queen from the throne, and she was already in France, and a provisional government was being formed, and people spoke of a fiercely contested battle at the bridge of Alcolea, and the army was adhering to the cause, and the devil and his mother... Don Eugenio was half mad with excitement, planning to leave for Santiago without delay to obtain reliable news. What would the Archpriest and the Abbot of Boán say! And Barbacana? Now Barbacana was in a pretty pickle: his everlasting adversary Trampeta, a friend of the Unionists, would ride roughshod over him world without end, amen. In the hubbub of these momentous events, the Abbot of Naya scarcely paid any heed to Julián’s tribulations.