-Xxix-

Nor will Julián ever forget the day when such extraordinary events occurred; a day dramatic beyond all others in his life, in which there befell him what he could never have imagined: to find himself accused by a husband of guilty relations with his wife, by a husband complaining of mortal insults, threatening him, and driving him ignominiously and for ever from his house; and to see the unhappy young lady, the truly injured wife, powerless to refute the ridiculous and hideous calumny. And what would it have been had they carried out their plan of flight on the morrow? Then indeed they must have bowed their heads, confessed themselves convicted!... And to think that five minutes before there had not even occurred to them the possibility that Don Pedro and the world might interpret it so!

No, Julián will not forget it. He will not forget those unexpected tribulations, the sudden courage, unsuspected even by himself, which he displayed in moments so critical to cast into the husband’s teeth all that seethed in his soul—the reprobation, the indignation held in check by his habitual timidity; the challenge provoked by the barbarous insult; the terrible epithets that rose for the first time to his lips, accustomed only to words of peace; the defiance man to man which he flung out on leaving the chapel... He will not forget, no, that terrible scene, however many years may weigh upon his shoulders and however much grey hair may chill his temples. Nor will he forget his precipitate departure, with no time to pack his luggage; how he saddled the mare with his own inexpert hands; how, displaying a skill born of urgency, he had mounted, spurred, and galloped off, performing all these actions mechanically, as in a dream, without waiting for the hot blood to cool, without wishing to see the child or give her a kiss, because he understood, he was certain that, had he done so, he would have been capable of prostrating himself at the young master’s feet, humbly beseeching him to let him remain there at the Pazos, were it only as a herdsman or day-labourer...

Nor will he forget the departure from the ancestral house, the ascent along the path which on the day of his arrival had seemed so sad and gloomy... The sky is overcast; dark crape veils, ever denser, dim the brightness of the sun; the pines, intertwining their tops, whisper in a penetrating, prolonged, and affectionate manner; the gusts of wind bring the healthy smell of resin and the honey fragrance of broom. The stone cross, a short distance away, lifts its stone arms stained with the old gold of lichen... Suddenly the mare shies, trembles, and rears... Julián instinctively grasps the mane, dropping the rein... On the ground lies a shape, a man, a corpse; the grass around it is bathed in blood that already begins to curdle and turn black. Julián remains there, transfixed, powerless, overwhelmed by a mixture of wonder and gratitude to Providence, which he cannot reason out, yet which subdues him... The corpse lies face to the ground; no matter: Julián has recognised Primitivo; it is he himself. The chaplain does not hesitate, nor ponder who may have slain him. Whatever the instrument, the hand of God directs it! He turns the mare aside, crosses himself, turns away, rides off definitively, glancing back from time to time to see that dark shape against the green grass and the greyish white of the stone wall...

Ah! No, Julián forgets nothing. He does not forget Santiago, where his arrival is commented upon, where his story at the Pazos assumes legendary proportions, where the outcome of the election, the chaplain’s departure, and the steward’s murder are discussed, embellished, and entertain the town for almost a whole month, and where people stop him in the street asking what is happening yonder, what is the matter with Nucha Pardo, whether it is true that her husband ill-treats her and that she is very ill, and that the election at Cebre was a great scandal. He does not forget when the Archbishop summons him to his presence to inquire what truth there is in all that occurred, and he, having knelt down, relates it without adding or omitting a single syllable, finding an inexplicable relief in sincere confession, and kissing, with heart unburdened, the amethyst sparkling upon the prelate’s ring finger. He does not forget when the latter resolves to send him to a most remote parish, a kind of exile, where he will live completely secluded from the world.

It is a mountain parish, wilder than the Pazos, beneath a rugged sierra in the heart of Galicia. In the whole of it, nor for four leagues around, is there a single manor house; of old, in feudal days, a rock-built castle rose there, now a ruin eaten by ivy, where bats and lizards dwell. Julián’s parishioners are poor herdsmen: on the eve of feasts they bring him goat’s milk, sheep’s cheese, and butter in earthen crocks. They speak a dense dialect, hard to understand; wear homespun, and long locks shorn across the brow like ancient serfs. In winter snow falls and wolves howl round the rectory; when Julián must fare forth at midnight with the last sacraments, he must don a straw thatch-cloak and wooden clogs; the sacristan leads with a lantern, and in the dark the holm-oaks look like ghosts...

Two seasons later he receives a funeral letter, a card edged with black; he reads it at first without understanding; then takes in its full meaning, yet weeps not, nor gives any sign of grief... On the contrary, that day and the following he experiences a feeling of comfort, of well-being, and of joy, for Señorita Nucha in heaven must be receiving compensation for what she suffered on this wretched earth, where only martyrdom awaits a soul like hers... The resigned doctrine of the Imitation has once more resumed its sway over his spirit. Even the effect of the tidings is soon effaced, and a kind of peaceful insensibility cauterises Julián’s spirit: he thinks more of his surroundings, interests himself in the dilapidated church, tries to teach the wild parish children to read, founds a sodality of Daughters of Mary that the maidens may not dance on Sundays... And so time passes, uniformly, without joys or sorrows, and the placidity of nature enters Julián’s soul, and he grows accustomed to living like the peasants, watching the harvest, desiring rain or fine weather as the greatest blessing God can bestow, warming himself at the hearth, saying mass early, and retiring before lighting a lamp, knowing by the stars if rain or sun is coming, gathering chestnuts and potatoes, entering into the rhythmic, narcotic, perennial pace of agricultural life, as inflexible as the return of swallows in spring and the eternal orbit of our globe describing its ellipse through space...

And yet, he forgets not. And in that remote corner promotion comes to surprise him, transfer to the parish of Ulloa, a kind of reparation from the Archbishop. The mitre alternated with the lords of Ulloa in the presentation to the living, and the Archbishop had chosen thus to show the humble priest, buried for ten years in the wildest mountain of the diocese, that calumny may dim the mirror of honour, but cannot stain it.