-Xvi- · II

Do not ask for the moon, Don Pedro... Nurse the child! That august function demands a very robust constitution and a predominance of the sanguine temperament... The lady cannot nurse.”

“It is she who insists upon it,” said the Marquis in disgust; “I well imagined it was nonsense... although I never thought my wife was so feeble... In short, now our concern is that the child shall not be born to starve. Will I have time to ride to Castrodorna? The daughter of Felipe the tenant farmer, that strapping wench, you know her?...”

“Of course I know her! A magnificent cow! You have a doctor’s eye... And she was delivered two months ago. What I do not know is whether the parents will let her come. I believe they are respectable folk in their station and do not want the girl’s slip made public.”

“A pack of nonsense! If she turns up her nose, I will drag her here by her braid... No tenant of mine raises his voice to me. Is there time to ride there or not?”

“Time, yes. Would that we were finished sooner; but there is no sign of it.”

When the young master had left, Máximo poured himself another glass of rum and said in confidence to the chaplain:

“If I were in Felipe’s shoes... I would have a word or two for Don Pedro. When will these young squires convince themselves that a tenant is not a slave? That is how things go in Spain: much talk of revolution, of liberty, of individual rights... And yet, everywhere tyranny, privilege, feudalism! For come, what is this but reviving the ominous days of serfdom and the iniquities of bondage? ‘I need your daughter, bang! Against your will I take her. I need milk, a human cow, bang! If you will not nurse my child willingly, you shall nurse it by force.’ But I am scandalizing you. You do not agree with me, surely, on social questions.”

“No, sir; I am not scandalized,” replied Julián gently. “On the contrary... I feel like laughing because it amuses me to see you so worked up. Consider what more Felipe’s daughter could wish than to serve as wet-nurse in this house. Well fed, well treated, with no hard work... Imagine.”

“And free will? Would you curtail free will, individual rights? Suppose the girl is better suited to her honest poverty than to all those benefits and advantages of which you speak... Is it not an act of abuse to drag her here by the braid simply because she is the daughter of a tenant? Naturally it does not seem so to you; of course not. When a man puts his clothes on over his head, he cannot think otherwise; you are bound to stand for feudalism and theocracy. Did I hit the mark? Do not say no.”

“I have no political opinions,” averred Julián quietly; and suddenly, as though recollecting himself, added: “And would it not be well to take a turn to see how the lady is faring?”

“Pshaw!... I am not much needed in there just now, but I shall go and look. Do not let them carry off the rum bottle, eh? I will be back in a moment.”

He returned shortly, and seating himself before his glass showed an inclination to resume the political discussion, for which he entertained an excessive passion, preferring in his heart to be contradicted, since he then grew heated and exalted, discovering unexpected arguments. Violent disputes in which people shouted and insulted one another dispersed his stagnant bile, and his digestive and respiratory functions became active, producing great well-being. He argued for hygiene: that gymnastics of larynx and brain unblocked his liver.

“So you have no political opinions? Tell that to the marines, Father Julián... All birds of black plumage fly backwards, let us have no pretence. And if not, come, let us put it to the test: what do you think of the revolution? Do you agree with freedom of worship? Now answer that, my friend! Do you agree with Suñer?”

“What notions you have, Señor Don Máximo! How could I agree with Suñer? Is he not the one who uttered frightful blasphemies in Congress? May God enlighten him!”

“Speak plainly: do you think like the Abbot of San Clemente de Boán? He says that Suñer and the revolutionaries are not to be convinced with arguments, but with blunderbusses and good cudgels. What is your opinion?”

“Those are words spoken in the heat of the moment... A priest is a man like any other and may lose his temper in an argument and speak rashly.”

“Certainly; and for the very reason that he is a man like any other he may have base interests; he may wish to live in idleness exploiting the foolishness of his neighbour; he may live in luxury off the capons and kids of his parishioners... You will not deny me that.”

“We are all sinners, Don Máximo.”

“And he may do even worse things, which... are understood... eh? Do not get excited.”

“Yes, sir. A priest can do all the evil things in the world. If we enjoyed a privilege never to sin, we should be fortunate indeed; we should have been saved at the very moment of ordination, which would be no small bargain. Precisely because of ordination, closer duties are imposed upon us than upon other Christians, and it is doubly difficult for one of us to be good. And to be good in the manner required by the path of perfection upon which we enter at our ordination, there is needed, besides our own efforts, the grace of God to aid us. That is no light matter.”

He said this in a tone so simple and sincere that the doctor paused for a few moments.

“If all were like you, Don Julián...”

“I am the least, the worst of all. Do not trust in appearances.”

“Nonsense! The others are fine specimens, fine indeed... and not even with the revolution have we managed to undermine their ground... You would hardly believe what they concocted these days to please that bandit Barbacana...”

Not knowing the circumstances, Julián preserved silence.

“Just imagine,” related the doctor, “that Barbacana has at his orders another scoundrel, a country fellow from Castrodorna known as the One-Eyed, who comes and goes to Portugal on the run, because one night he stabbed his wife and her lover to death... A short time ago it seems the law laid hands on him, but Barbacana was determined to free him, and he and the priests worked so hard that the man was let out on bail, and now walks about as bold as brass... So, in spite of everything, here you see us as always, ruled by the infamous Barbacana.”

“But,” objected Julián. “I have heard that here, when Barbacana does not rule, another and worse boss rules, whom they call Trampeta, on account of the tricks and mischief he plays on the poor peasants, sucking their very marrow... So it is six of one and half a dozen of the other.”

“There is... there is some truth in that... but look you, at least Trampeta does not propose to raise guerrilla bands... Barbacana must be finished off, for he is in correspondence with the Carlist committees of the province to set the country on fire and bloodshed... Are you a supporter of the young Pretender?”

“I have already told you I have no opinions.”

“The fact is you do not care to argue.”

“Frankly, Don Máximo, you hit the mark. My mind is entirely upon that poor lady... thinking of what may befall her. And I do not understand politics... do not laugh... I do not understand. I only understand saying Mass; and the truth is I have not said it yet today, and until I say it I cannot breakfast, and my stomach is failing me... I will offer the Mass for her present necessity. I cannot,” he added with a touch of melancholy, “offer the lady any other aid.”

He departed, leaving the doctor astonished at meeting a priest who shrank from entering into political disputes, which in those days replaced theological ones at every patronal table; and he celebrated his Mass with great attentiveness and scrupulous care in the ceremonies. The chime of the server’s bell rang out clear and silvery in the empty ancient chapel. Outside could be heard the chirping of birds in the orchard trees, the distant creaking of carts setting out for work, pleasant, soothing, beneficent country sounds. It was the Mass of Saint Raymond Nonnatus, chosen for the occasion; and when the celebrant pronounced “ejus nobis intercessione concede, ut a peccatorum vinculis absoluti...”, it seemed to him that the bonds of pain that fettered the poor little maiden—for as such the chaplain still pictured her—were snapped at a stroke, leaving her free, joyful, and radiant, in the happiest motherhood.

Nevertheless, when he returned to the house there were no signs of the aforesaid breaking of bonds. Instead of the hurried comings and goings of servants that always indicate some momentous event, he noticed an ominous stillness. The young master had not returned; it is true that Castrodorna was a good distance from the Pazos. It was necessary to sit down to table without him. The doctor attempted no further arguments, for he in turn was beginning to feel uneasy at the phlegm of the heir of the Moscosos. It must be said, in fairness to the contentious hygienist, that he took his profession seriously, and respected it as much as Julián respected his own. This was proved by his very mania for hygiene and his worship of health, a cult instilled by modern tomes that replace the God of Sinai with the goddess Hygeia. For Máximo Juncal, immorality was synonymous with scrofula, and duty bore a close resemblance to a perfect oxidation of assimilable elements. He excused certain lapses in himself on the grounds of having his hepatic ducts somewhat obstructed.

At that moment, the danger to the lady of Moscoso aroused his instinct for combat against the positive evils of the earth: pain, disease, death. He ate abstractedly, and drank only two glasses of rum. Julián scarcely swallowed a mouthful; from time to time he asked:

“What can be happening in there, Don Máximo?”

He ceased asking when the doctor gave him, in an undertone, a few particulars, employing technical terms. Night was falling. Máximo scarcely left the patient’s room. Julián felt so lonely and sad that he was already preparing to go upstairs and light his altar, to enjoy at least the company of the tapers and little pictures. But Don Pedro burst in impetuously, like a gust of hurricane wind. He led by the hand an earthy-complexioned strapping wench, a fortress of flesh: the classic type of the human cow.