-Xxvi- · I

The first impression having subsided, Julián did not dare to question Nucha about what he had seen. He even shrank from going to the young lady’s room. Nor was this reluctance without foundation. Naturally trusting though he was, the chaplain fancied he noticed that he was being spied upon. By whom? By everyone: Primitivo, Sabel, the old hag, the servants. Just as we feel at night, without seeing it, the damp mist that penetrates and envelops us, so Julián felt the distrust, the ill-will, the suspicion, the hatred that was thickening around him. It was an indefinable thing, yet unmistakable. In two or three church services he attended, it seemed to him that the priests addressed him in a hostile tone, that the archpriest examined him with knitted brows, and that only Don Eugenio showed him his usual cordiality. But perhaps these were vain broodings, and perhaps he was dreaming too when he fancied that, at table, Don Pedro continually watched the direction of his eyes and kept track of his movements. This fatigued him all the more because an irresistible craving compelled him to look at Nucha very often, noticing on the sly if she was thinner, if she ate with good appetite, if anything new was visible upon her wrists. The mark, dark on the first day, gradually turned greenish and faded away.

The necessity of seeing the child finally prevailed over Julián’s hesitations. Now that the chapel was repaired, it was only in her mother’s room that he could see her, and thither he went, finding no satisfaction in a stolen kiss in the corridor when the nurse crossed it with the baby in her arms. The creature was gradually emerging from that stage in which infants resemble a bundle of rags, and without losing the grace and charm of a weak and defenceless being, she possessed the allure of personality, of an ever-greater freedom in her movements and consciousness of her actions. Now she would strike the poses of a Murillo angel; now she would seize an object and manage to carry it to her warm mouth, in the impatience of delayed teething; now she would perform with indescribable charm that most captivating movement of little children, of stretching out not merely her arms, but her whole body, with absolute abandon, towards the person who pleased her—an attitude which nurses call taking to people. For some time past the little girl had redoubled her laughter, and her melodious chuckle, sudden and brief, was comparable only to the twitter of a bird. No articulate sound came from her mouth as yet, but she could express divinely, with those onomatopoeias which according to certain philologists formed the basis of primitive speech, all her affections and whims; upon her skull, which was beginning to solidify, though in the centre the soft fontanelle still throbbed, her hair was thickening, growing darker from day to day, yet soft as a mole’s pelt; her little feet were straightening out, and her toes, formerly curled up, the big toe pointing upward and the other little rosebuds downward, were accustoming themselves to the horizontal position required by human walking. Each of these great advances on the path of life was an ineffable surprise and pleasure to Julián, confirming his paternal devotion to the creature who deigned to pull his watch-chain, handle the buttons of his waistcoat, and cover him anew with drool and milk. What would he not do to be of service to that idolised infant! At times his affection inspired fierce notions, such as seizing a cudgel and breaking Primitivo’s ribs, or taking a whip and administering the same chastisement to Sabel. But, alas! No one may usurp the place of the master of the house, the head of the family; and the head... The chaplain’s very soul was burdened by the founding of that Christian home. Upright had been the intention, and bitter the fruit. Blood of his heart would he give to see Nucha in a convent!

What course could be taken now? Julián foresaw the immense disadvantages of his direct intervention. Sure of theory, firm upon the ground of right, capable of passive resistance even unto death, he lacked the vigorous lever of human action, initiative. In that house many things were unquestionably out of joint, others twisted and astray; the chaplain was witnessing the drama, fearing a tragic outcome, above all since that famous mark upon her wrists, which never left his heated imagination; he showed himself taciturn; his rosy colour was turning to a waxy sallowness; he prayed even more than usual; he fasted; he said mass with an elevated soul, as one might say it in times of martyrdom; he wished to offer his very life for the young lady’s well-being; yet, save in one of his purely nervous fits, he could not, did not know how to, could not bring himself to take a step or adopt a measure—even though it were as easy and feasible as writing four lines to Don Manuel Pardo de la Lage, informing him of what was happening to his daughter. He always found pretexts for postponing any action, as convenient as this one, for instance:

“Let the elections pass first.”

The elections gave him hope that, if the young master, elected deputy, left that burrow and the wicked people ensnaring him, God might touch his heart and change his conduct.

One thing troubled the good chaplain greatly: would the young master go alone to Madrid, or would he take his wife and child? Julián called God to witness that he desired the latter, though at the thought of what might happen a mortal hypochondria seized him. The idea of seeing baby no more for months or years, of having her no longer upon his knees riding cock-horse, of remaining there, face to face with Sabel, as in a dark pit inhabited by some noxious reptile, was intolerable to him. Hard it seemed that the young lady should go, but as for the child... as for the child...

«If left with me—he thought—I would care for her perfectly».

The decisive battle was approaching. The Pazos was in a jubilee of motion, a coming and going of supporters and go-betweens, an entering and leaving of messages, of orders and counter-orders, which gave it the likeness of a general headquarters. There were always strange horses or mules in the stables, munching abundant feed, and through the wide halls was heard the incessant creaking of high boots, the tread of sturdy shoes, when not the clatter of wooden clogs. Julián ran into flustered priests, breathing martial ardour, who spoke to him of the work, astounded to see that he took no part in anything... In so solemn and critical an hour, the chaplain of the Pazos had no right either to sleep or to eat!

He continued to notice that some abbots appeared angry or resentful towards him, especially the archpriest, who was the most attached to the house of Ulloa; for while the priest of Boán and even that of Naya looked chiefly to the political victory, the archpriest had his eye primarily upon the splendour of the ancestral house, the good name of the Moscosos.

Everything indicated that the lord of the Pazos would carry the day, despite the enormous display of force deployed by the government. The votes were counted, a census was taken, and the numerical superiority was known to be such that not even Trampeta’s worst knaveries could overturn it. In the district the government commanded only what, in pompous language, may be termed the official element. While it is true that this carries great weight in Galicia, thanks to the submissive nature of the peasants, there in Cebre it could not counterbalance the influence of priests and gentlemen united around the formidable boss Barbacana. The archpriest snorted with joy. Strange to say! Barbacana himself was the only one who did not count his chickens before they were hatched. Anxious and in a worse humour at every moment, he pulled a wry face whenever some priest entered his office rubbing his hands with glee to report pledges and the capture of votes.

What an election that was, eternal God! What a hard-fought contest, what disputing of the ground inch by inch, employing every kind of trick and tripping! Trampeta seemed to have turned into half a dozen men to perform his knavish tricks at once in half a dozen places. The switching of ballots, delays and advances of the hour, forgeries, threats, and beatings were not expedients peculiar to this election, having been tried in many others; but to the usual stratagems were joined certain strokes of subtle ingenuity, hitherto unheard of. In one polling station, the cloaks of the Marquis’s electors were sprinkled with turpentine and secretly set alight with a match, whereupon the poor wretches rushed out shrieking, and showed their faces no more. In another the polling table was placed on a stair landing; the voters could mount only one by one, and a dozen of Trampeta’s henchmen, standing in line, kept the way blocked all morning, belabouring with fists and kicks at their pleasure anyone who attempted the ascent. A discreet and cunning trick was that played in Cebre itself.

Thither came the priests, accompanying and cheering the flock of voters so that they might not be overcome by panic at the moment of depositing their ballot. To prevent their being outwitted, Don Eugenio, exercising the right of scrutiny, seated at the table one of his most devoted peasants, with strict orders not to take his eyes off the ballot-box for a single minute. “Do you understand, Roque? Do not take your eyes off it, though the world should crumble.” The peasant took his place, resting his elbows on the table and his cheeks upon his hands, gazing intently at the mysterious earthenware pot, as fixedly as if attempting some hypnotic experiment. He scarcely breathed, nor moved any more than if he were made of stone. Trampeta in person, who was prowling around the place, grew impatient at the sight of that motionless witness, for another pot stuffed with ballots, marked to the liking of the mayor and the secretary of the board, lay hidden beneath the table, awaiting a favourable opportunity to replace the genuine urn. He accordingly detached a henchman charged with seducing the watcher, inviting him to eat, to take a drink, having recourse to every flattering overture. Time wasted: the sentinel did not even glance sideways to look at his tempter; his round, hairy head, his prominent jaws, his unblinking eyes, seemed the very image of obstinacy. Yet it was imperative to dislodge him, for the sacramental hour of four drew near, when the jugglery of the urn must be performed. Trampeta bustled about, questioned his underlings concerning the sentinel’s history, and learned that he had an interpleader lawsuit pending before the Audiencia, through which his oxen and crops had been seized. He approached the table stealthily, laid a hand upon his shoulder, and cried: “So-and-so... you have won your lawsuit!” The peasant bounded up, electrified. “What do you say, man?” “The Audiencia passed judgment yesterday.” “You are raving.” “It is as you hear.” During this interval the secretary of the board effected the exchange of pots: neither seen nor heard. The mayor arose with solemnity. “Gentlemen... we shall proceed to the scrutiny!” The crowd rushed in pell-mell; the reading of the ballots began; the priests looked at each other in bewilderment on seeing that their candidate’s name did not appear. “Did you move from there?” the Abbot of Naya asked the sentinel. “No, sir,” answered the latter in a tone of such sincerity that it admitted no doubt. “Someone here is betraying us,” uttered the Abbot of Ulloa in a harsh voice, looking suspiciously at Don Eugenio. Trampeta, with his hands in his pockets, chuckled up his sleeve.

Such knavish tricks notably diminished the vote of the Marquis of Ulloa, narrowing the struggle at the last moment to a dispute over a small number of votes, on which victory depended. And when the critical instant arrived, when the Ulloists already deemed themselves masters of the field, the scale was turned in favour of the government by utterly unexpected defections, not to say abominable treasons, of persons upon whom they had absolutely relied, the house of the Pazos itself having answered for them through the mouth of its steward. So sudden and foul a blow could neither be foreseen nor prevented. Primitivo, belying his habitual impassivity, gave rein to furious anger, breaking out in absurd threats against the deserters.

The one who showed himself stoical was Barbacana. On the afternoon when the definitive loss of the election became known, the lawyer was in his office, surrounded by three or four persons. Panting like a whale stranded upon a beach whom the tide has left high and dry, the archpriest entered, purple with vexation and fury. He collapsed into a leather armchair; clutched his throat with both hands, tore off his neckband, the buttons of his shirt and under-waistcoat; and trembling, with his spectacles crooked and his snuff-tube squeezed in his clenched left fist, wiped away his sweat with a patterned handkerchief. The boss’s composure threw him completely off his balance.

“I am astounded, by heaven! Astounded to see you so calm! Or do you not know what has happened?”

“I do not fret over things that are foreseen. In matters of elections I am not taken by surprise.”

“Did you expect what has happened?”

“As clearly as if I saw it. Here is the Abbot of Naya, who can vouch that I foretold it to him. I call no dead men to witness.”

“It is true,” corroborated Don Eugenio, looking thoroughly crestfallen.

“And then, good God, why lead us on such a dance?”

“We were not going to yield them the district as their own without even disputing it. Would you have liked that? Legally, the triumph is ours.”

“Legally... Nonsense! Legally yes, but tell me of legalities! And those damned Judases who failed us precisely when the whole affair hung upon them! The blacksmith of Gondás, the two Ponlles, the farrier...!”

“Those are no Judases, do not be so simple, Señor Archpriest; they are people under orders, obeying a watchword. The Judas is another.”

“Eh? I understand, I understand... Heavens, if such wickedness is true—for I cannot bring myself to believe it, it sticks in my throat—even the punishment of Judas would be too lenient for the traitor! But you, man of God, why did you not check him? Why did you give no warning? Why did you not tear off that rogue’s mask? If the Marquis of Ulloa had known he harboured the traitor in his own house, tying him to the bedpost and lashing him with a whip... His own steward! I cannot conceive how you could sit there with such phlegm.”

“It is easily said; but consider: when an election hinges upon a single person, and it is impossible to be sure whether he acts in good faith or bad, it is of little use to voice suspicions... One must await the blow bound hand and foot... these are things seen only in the proof, and if they turn out ill, one must hold one’s peace and bide one’s time...”

As he pronounced the word bide, the boss struck himself a blow upon the chest, whose hollow cavity re-echoed dully, just as that of Saint Jerome must have sounded when the holy man beat upon it with his famous flint.

And Barbacana bore some resemblance to the Saint Jeromes of the Spanish school, withered and bony, distinguished by a long, tangled beard and the sombre fire of dark pupils.

“They will not escape from here,” he added in a grim tone, “and they waste no time here, for as yet no man ever played Barbacana a trick without paying for it one day. And as for Judas, how could you expect us to unmask him when now, just as in the days of Our Lord Jesus Christ’s Passion, he held the purse in his hand? Come, Señor Archpriest, who provided us with the ammunition for this battle?”

“Who provided them? In all truth and honesty, the house of Ulloa.”

“Did it have them available? Yes or no? There lies the crux of the matter. Since such houses are nothing but vanity upon vanity, rather than confess he lacked the money and request it from someone of known integrity—say, for instance, your humble servant—he goes and accepts it from a scoundrel, a leech who is sucking away everything he possesses.”