-Xxi-

Some days later a certain improvement was observed in the general condition of the lady of Ulloa, whereupon the chaplain revived and his withered countenance grew animated once more. The Marquis was extremely preoccupied, organizing a hunting expedition to the distant hills of Castrodorna beyond the river; the weather was settling; the nights were frosty, clear, and freezing; the full moon was approaching, and everything promised happy success. On the eve of setting out for the shooting-ground, there came to sleep at the Pazos the notary of Cebre, the young master of Limioso, the priest of Boán, the priest of Naya, and a poacher, an infallible black gun known in the countryside by the nickname of Bico de rato (Rat’s Snout)—a moniker admirably suited to the sooty colour of his face, in which rotated two lively little eyes. The house was filled with noise, the jingling of bells, the rhythmic clicking of dogs’ claws upon the wooden floors, ringing voices, and orders to have all the hunting gear ready by daybreak. The supper was merry and boisterous: they jested, counted in advance the partridges that were to succumb, savoured beforehand the provisions to be carried to the mountains, and thoroughly moistened their gullets with jugs of an aged red wine that was a glory to taste. At the hour of dessert and coffee, Nucha having retired early owing to her anxiety for her child, Primitivo and the Rat came up from the kitchen, and the future companions in glory and toil began to fraternize, smoking and drinking in competition. It was the most delightful moment, the true instant of spiritual happiness for a born huntsman: it was the minute for sporting anecdotes, and, above all, for tall tales.

For these a peaceful rotation was established, as no one would forego letting fly his corresponding bouncer, and they grew in magnitude as the talk became more tangled. The hunters formed a circle, and at their feet the hounds slept curled up, with one eye closed and the other half-open with a twitching lid; at times, when the bursts of laughter and comical remarks subsided, the dogs could be heard playing the guitar, scratching themselves with a will, barking in dreams, shaking their ears, and sighing with resignation. Nobody paid them any heed.

Rat’s Snout has the floor:

“You may not believe me, but it is as true as that we must die and the earth must eat us! To make it all the truer, it was on a Saint Silvester’s Day...”

“The witches must have been abroad,” interrupted the priest of Boán.

“Whether it was meigas or the goblin trasno, I do not know; but as surely as we have to give account to our Lord God of our actions, what I am going to tell you happened to me. I was creeping after a partridge, crouching low, crouching low (and the Rat crouched in fact, following his inveterate habit of acting out everything he spoke, for he had neither dog nor devil to help him), and I was—begging pardon of the honourable beards listening to me—about to straddle a fence, when I heard: clatter-clatter, pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat! the tread of a hare; swifter she came... than lightning! Well, gentlemen... I turn my head just like this... begging your beards’ pardon!... holding my shotgun tighter than the Papal Bull... and suddenly, bang! something from the other world flies over my head, and down I tumble off the fence...”

An explosion of questions, laughter, and protests.

“Something from the other world?”

“A soul from Purgatory?”

“Was it a person, or a beast, or what the devil was it?”

“Open the door, for this lie will not fit in the room!”

“As God may save me and grant me glory, it is the truth!” cried Rat’s Snout, putting on the most crestfallen face in the world. “It was—begging your pardon—that brazen minx of a hare, who leaped clean over me and knocked me heels over head!”

The explanation provoked positive delirium. Don Eugenio, the Abbot of Naya, was literally splitting his sides with laughter, clutching his hips with both hands, groaning and shedding tears; the Marquis of Ulloa let out mighty guffaws; even Primitivo modulated a murky, muffled laugh. Good old Rat could no longer part his lips to speak without hilarity breaking loose. In every gathering of sportsmen (a folk fond of rough practical jokes) there is a buffoon, a jester, an indispensable clown, and this role belonged by right to the black gun, who readily lent himself to performing it with the best will in the world. Accustomed to spending days and nights in the open air waiting for hare, rabbit, or partridge; used to tightening his waist with a cord, after the fashion of savages, on the many occasions when he lacked a crust of bread to gnaw, the wretched little Rat was happy when it fell to his lot to hunt with gentlefolk who carried to the shooting-ground flagons brimming with old wine, boiled hams, and cigars; he took pride when his fabrications were applauded; he related them each time with greater gravity, conviction, and naive tone, and to all jests replied by invoking God and the saints of the celestial court in support of his preposterous assertions.

Standing, with his hands in the pockets of his trousers—a map of patches—and moving with laughable swiftness his nose and mouth, which were the colour of rancid lard, he waited for them to demand some fresh episode as credible as that of the hare; but now the turn belonged to Don Eugenio.

“Do you know,” he said, half weeping and still sputtering with laughter, “an incident that took place between Canon Castrelo and a very witty gentleman, Ramírez of Orense?”

“Canon Castrelo!” exclaimed the priest of Boán and the Marquis. “What a character! Tremendous! He spins yarns... as tall as the Cathedral tower!”

“Well, you shall see, you shall see how he met his match where he least expected it. It was one night at the Casino, and they were playing ombre. Castrelo began, as usual, to reel off hunting tales... all lies, every one! After he had had his fill, he wished to bring out an enormous one, and said very gravely: ‘You must know, gentlemen, that one morning I went out upon the mountain, and among some bushes I heard... a suspicious rustle. I draw near very softly... the noise went on, without stopping. I creep closer... and now there is no doubt in my mind that game is hiding there. I cock my gun, take aim, fire... bang, bang! And what do you suppose I killed, gentlemen?’ Everyone began naming different animals: a wolf, a fox, a wild boar, and someone even suggested a bear... Castrelo kept shaking his head... until at last he blurted out: ‘Neither fox, nor wolf, nor wild boar... What I killed was... a Bengal tiger!’”

“Come, Don Eugenio... Don’t pull our legs!” cried the hunters unanimously. “Would Castrelo dare?... Why did they not smash his face with a cuff right then and there?”

Don Eugenio, unable to make himself heard, waved his hand to signify that the best of the story was still to come.

“Patience!” he exclaimed at length. “Have patience, for it is not finished. Well, gentlemen, you may easily understand that a great row broke out in the Casino. They began to insult Castrelo and call him a liar to his face. Only Señor Ramírez remained very grave, and pacified the rioters. ‘There is no need to be astonished, gentlemen; I will tell you of something that happened to me when hunting, which is stranger still than Señor Castrelo’s adventure.’ The Canon begins to grow suspicious and the company to pay attention. ‘You must know that one morning I went out upon the mountain, and among some bushes I heard... a suspicious rustle. I draw near very softly... The noise went on, without stopping. I creep closer... There is no longer any doubt in my mind that game is hiding there. I cock... aim... fire... Bang, bang!... And what do you suppose I killed, Sir Canon?’ ‘How the devil should I know? It must have been... a lion.’ ‘Not at all!’ ‘Then it must have been... an elephant.’ ‘No, indeed!’ ‘It was... whatever you please, confound it!’ ‘The Knave of Clubs, Señor Castrelo! It was the Knave of Clubs!’”

For several minutes there was bedlam. The Rat laughed with a kind of shrill hiccough; the young gentleman of Limioso, hoarsely and gravely; the priest of Boán, not knowing how to vent his glee, stamped on the floor and pounded the table with his fists.

“Hey!” shouted Don Eugenio. “Bico-de-rato, did you never come across any tigers? Toss off a glass and tell us if you met with one anywhere about, man!”

The Rat tossed off his half-pint; his little eyes sparkled, he wiped his lips with the cuff of his grimy jacket, and declared in a sincere and ingenuous tone:

“As for tigers... there cannot be any in these mountains, for if there were, I would have killed them by now; but I will tell you what happened to me one Assumption Day...”

“At ten minutes past three in the afternoon?” asked Don Eugenio.

“No... it must have been eleven in the morning, and maybe not even that. But believe me, as sure as that lamp is lighting us! I was returning from shooting turtledoves in a cornfield, and I met Uncle Pepe of Naya’s little girl, who was leading the cow held fast like this (and he made a gesture of winding a rope around his wrist). ‘Good day.’ ‘Good and holy day.’ ‘Will you give me the doves?’ ‘And what will you give me for them, my girl?’ ‘I have not a brass farthing.’ ‘Then let me suck a drop from the cow, for I am dying of thirst.’ ‘Suck away, then, but don’t drink it all.’ I kneel down like this (and the Rat half knelt before the Abbot of Naya), and milking into the palm of my hand, begging your pardon, I swallow the milk. How cool it was! ‘There, my girl... May Saint Anthony keep your cow!’ I walk, walk, walk, walk, and a quarter of a league from there a drowsiness comes over my whole body... as if I were turning silly. Time for a nap! I climb up the hill, and reaching a spot where there is gorse taller than a Christian, I stretch out like this (with your leave) and take off my hat, and lay it down this way (observe carefully) upon the grass. A sleep it was, for it was not until an hour and a half later that I came to my senses. I go to pick up my hat to be off... As sure as we must all die and rise again in glory on the Day of Judgment, I see beneath it a snake thicker than my right arm... begging your pardon!”

“But thicker than your left?” interrupted Don Eugenio roguishly.

“Far thicker!” continued the Rat imperturbably, “and all coiled, coiled, coiled, fitting right under there... and sleeping like a saint of God!”

“And snoring? Did it not snore?”

“The cursed thing was drawn by the smell of the milk... and it was lucky the notion took it to hide in the hat... for its intentions I knew right well... they were to crawl down my throat, begging pardon of your honourable beards!”

Although great uproar ensued, it was somewhat moderated by the priest of Boán recalling several occasions on which similar cases were reported: snakes found in cow-sheds sucking from the cows’ teats, others creeping into children’s cradles to drink the milk in their stomachs...

Julián attended the gathering, entertained and cheerful, for the merry humour of the hunters dissipated the anxious thoughts of some days before—the dread of the Sabia, of Primitivo, of the Pazos, and the gloomy presentiments heightened by sharing Nucha’s nervous terrors. Don Eugenio, seeing him in good spirits, urged him to pay them a visit at the shooting-ground; Julián declined, pleading the necessity of saying Mass and reciting the canonical hours; in reality, he did not wish to leave the lady entirely alone. At length Don Eugenio insisted so much that he had to promise, putting it off until the last day.

“Nothing of the kind!” exclaimed the bustling parish priest. “Tomorrow morning bright and early we take you with us... You can return early the day after tomorrow.”

All resistance would have been useless, and all the more so at such a moment, when the noise was increasing and the wine was diminishing in the jugs. Julián knew that those roguish, playful folk were capable of carrying him off by force if he refused to go with a good grace.