Episode 2

He searched in the inner pocket of his frock coat and drew out a neatly ironed and folded handkerchief, a little Semanario, and at last a pocketbook of black morocco leather fastened with an elastic band, from which he extracted a letter that he handed to the Marquis. The hunting dogs, footsore and panting with fatigue, had sat down at the foot of the wayside cross; the abbot was shredding a coarse cigar with his thumbnail to roll a cigarette, holding one end of the rolling paper stuck to the edge of his lips; Primitivo, resting the butt of his shotgun upon the ground and his chin upon the barrel, fixed his little black eyes upon the newcomer with searching persistency. The sun was setting slowly amidst the autumnal peace of the landscape. Suddenly the Marquis burst into a loud laugh. His laughter was, like the man himself, vigorous and commanding, and rather despotic than communicative.

“My uncle,” he exclaimed, folding the letter—is always so whimsical and amusing.... He says he is sending me a saint to preach virtue to me and manage my house, and that I must treat you like a brother and see that you lack for nothing.

“Of course, of course,” muttered the abbot in a gruff voice.... Here we all keep our baptismal innocence.

And as he said this, he looked at the newcomer through his bristling, wild eyebrows, like a veteran inspecting an inexperienced recruit, feeling deep down within himself a profound disdain for the pretty-faced, beardless little priest with a girl’s countenance, where the only sacerdotal traits were the severity of his fair brow and the ascetic composure of his features.

“And your name is Julián Álvarez?” inquired the Marquis.

“At your service for many years.”

“And you could not hit upon the Pazos?”

“I had hard work to find them. The peasants here do not relieve one’s doubts, nor do they state distances categorically.”

“Well, now you will not lose your way. Do you care to mount again?”

“Sir! Heaven forbid.”

“Primitivo,” commanded the Marquis, “take the halter of that beast.”

And he set off walking, conversing with the chaplain who followed him. Primitivo, obedient, remained behind, as did the abbot, who remarked to the steward in an undertone:

“And what do you think of the lad, eh? He doesn’t inspire much respect, does he?”

“Bah.... Nowadays they make priests of any whippersnapper.... And then all those little collars, little gloves, frills and furbelows.... But when it comes to a day’s work... wait and see.”

-II-

It was pitch dark, without a moon, when they emerged into the grove behind which rises the broad mass of the House of Ulloa. The darkness permitted nothing to be distinguished beyond its imposing proportions, lines and details being swallowed up in the blackness of the night. Not a single light shone in the vast edifice, and the great central doorway seemed barred and bolted as if for all eternity. The Marquis directed his steps toward a low side wicket, where immediately a stout woman appeared, lighting the way with an oil lamp. After traversing gloomy corridors, they all entered a sort of cellar with an earthen floor and stone vaulting, which, judging by the rows of vats ranged against its walls, must needs be a wine cellar; and thence they quickly reached the spacious kitchen, lighted by the bright glow of the fire burning on the hearth, consuming what is archaically called a middling mountain of firewood—which is nothing other than several thick oak logs rekindled from time to time with small brushwood. Strings of pork sausages and black puddings adorned the high chimney hood, with a ham or two thrown into the bargain, and on either side benches offered comfortable seating to warm oneself while listening to the simmering of the black iron pot, which, hanging from the chimney hook, offered its insensible belly to the kisses of the flame.

At the moment the company entered the kitchen, an old woman was crouching beside the pot, whom Julián Álvarez could only see by the light of the embers. The younger woman, on hearing footsteps, came forward with an earthenware bowl in her hands. The Marquis looked at her sternly.

“Have I not told you I want no idlers here?”

And she replied peaceably, hanging the lamp upon the chimney pilaster:

“She was doing no harm... she was helping me shell chestnuts.”

Perhaps the Marquis would have brought the house down had not Primitivo, with greater authority and anger than his master himself, intervened in the matter, rebuking the girl.

“What are you babbling there...? You would do better to have the meal ready. Let us see you serve it quickly. Stir yourself, look alive.”

In the corner of the kitchen, an oak table blackened with use showed a coarse tablecloth spread upon it, stained with wine and grease. Primitivo, after dropping his shotgun in a corner, emptied his game-bag, from which came two partridges and a dead hare with glazed eyes and fur stained with blood. The girl pushed the game aside and set down pewter plates, cutlery of ancient solid silver, an enormous loaf of bread in the center of the table, and a pitcher of wine proportionate to the bread; then she hastened to stir and uncover stew-pans, and took from the dresser a great soup tureen. Once more the Marquis challenged her angrily.

“And the dogs, let us see? What about the dogs?”

As if the dogs also understood their right to be served before anyone else, they came running from the darkest corner, and forgetting their fatigue, gave vent to famished yawns, wagging their tails and lifting their split muzzles. Julián at first thought the number of dogs had increased—three before and four now; but as the canine group entered the circle of bright light cast by the fire, he perceived that what he had taken for another dog was nothing but a toddler of three or four years, whose attire, composed of a chestnut-colored jacket and breeches of white tow, might from afar be mistaken for the two-colored coats of the bird-dogs, with whom the child seemed to live on the best of terms and in the closest brotherhood. Primitivo and the maid were setting out the animals’ feast in wooden tubs, chosen from the best and thickest of the pot; and the Marquis—who supervised the operation—not being satisfied, explored the depths of the broth with an iron spoon until he brought to light three thick slices of pork, which he distributed among the tubs. The dogs uttered broken yelps of questioning and desire, without yet daring to take possession of the food; at a word from Primitivo, they plunged their muzzles into it all at once, the clatter of their hurried jaws and the lapping of their greedy tongues being plainly heard. The child crawled among the legs of the bird-dogs, who, turned into beasts of prey by the first impulse of hunger as yet unappeased, looked at him askance, baring their teeth and uttering menacing growls: suddenly the little creature, tempted by the piece of salt meat floating in the tub of the bitch Chula, reached out his hand to seize it, and the bitch, turning her head, made a savage snap, which fortunately only caught the boy’s sleeve, forcing him to take refuge in all haste, frightened and whimpering, among the skirts of the maid, who was already busy serving broth to the humans. Julián, who was beginning to pull off his gloves, took pity on the little fellow, and stooping down, took him in his arms, being able to see that despite grime, dirt, fear, and tears, he was the loveliest cherub in the world.

“Poor little one!” he murmured tenderly. “Did the dog bite you? Did she draw blood? Where does it hurt, can you tell me? Hush now, we will scold the dog, we will. Naughty, wicked thing!”

The chaplain noticed that these words of his produced a singular effect upon the Marquis. His countenance contracted, his brows knit, and snatching the child from Julián with a brusque movement, he seated him on his knees, feeling his hands to see if they were bitten or hurt. Being assured that only the little jacket had suffered, he burst out laughing.

“Impostor!” he shouted. “Chula never even touched you. And you, what business have you meddling with her? One of these days she will eat half your buttocks, and then we shall have tears. Silence and laughter this instant! How are brave men known?”

Saying this, he filled his glass to the brim with wine and offered it to the child, who, taking it without hesitation, drained it at a draught. The Marquis applauded:

“Splendid! Long live sturdy lads!”

“No, as for the boy... the boy is coming along famously,” muttered the Abbot of Ulloa.

“And will not so much wine harm him?” objected Julián, who would have been incapable of drinking it himself.

“Harm! Yes, God grant us such harm!” replied the Marquis, with a certain inflection of pride in his tone. “Give him another three and you will see.... Would you like us to try the experiment?”

“He laps it up, he laps it up,” asserted the abbot.

“No, sir; no, sir.... The little one might die of it.... I have heard that wine is poison to young children.... What he must need is food.”

“Sabel, let the boy eat,” commanded the Marquis imperiously, turning to the servant girl.

She, silent and motionless during the preceding scene, brought out a brimful bowl of broth, and the child went to sit on the hearthstone to swallow it peacefully.

At the table the diners chewed with good appetite. After the broth, thick and floury, came a solid stew in which pork abounded: on hunting days the indispensable pot was taken at night, since there was no means of carrying it to the mountain. A dish of sausages and fried eggs unleashed a thirst already provoked by the salt pork. The Marquis nudged Primitivo with his elbow.

“Bring us a couple of bottles.... Of the fifty-nine vintage.”

And turning to Julián, he said very courteously:

“You are going to drink some of the finest tostado produced in these parts.... It comes from the house of Molende: they are rumored to possess a secret whereby, without losing the flavor of the raisin, it cloys less and resembles the best sherry.... The older it grows, the more it improves: it is not like the wines of other cellars, which turn to syrup.”

“It is a matter of taste,” averred the abbot, wiping up with a breadcrumb what remained of egg yolk on his plate.

“I,” declared Julián timidly—understand little of wines.... I drink almost nothing but water.

And seeing gleam beneath the abbot’s shaggy brows a look of pity that was purely disdainful, he amended:

“That is to say... with coffee, on certain special feast days, I do not dislike a drop of anisette.”

“Wine gladdens the heart.... He who does not drink is no man,” pronounced the abbot sententiously.

Primitivo was already returning from his errand, grasping in each hand a bottle covered with dust and cobwebs. For want of a corkscrew they were uncorked with a knife, and at the same time the small glasses brought ad hoc were filled. Primitivo raised his elbow with the utmost freedom, joking with the abbot and the young master. Sabel, for her part, as the banquet prolonged itself and the liquor warmed their heads, served with greater familiarity, leaning upon the table to laugh at some jest of the kind that made Julián cast down his eyes, novice as he was in the matter of hunters’ after-dinner talk. The truth was that Julián lowered his eyes, not so much because of what he heard, as to avoid looking at Sabel, whose appearance from the first moment had displeased him in a strange way, despite or perhaps because of the fact that Sabel was a fine piece of blooming flesh. Her blue eyes, moist and submissive, her lively color, her chestnut hair that curled in parallel shells and fell in two plaits down past her waist, greatly embellished the girl and concealed her defects: the high cheekbones of her face, the stubborn low forehead, the sensuality of her turned-up, open nostrils. To avoid looking at Sabel, Julián kept his eyes on the child, who, emboldened by that friendly look, had gradually slipped forward until he crept between the chaplain’s knees. Installed there, he raised his saucy, smiling face, and tugging at Julián’s waistcoat, murmured in an entreating tone: