-Iii- · III

Winter meanwhile was slipping away, and the chaplain was becoming accustomed to country life. The brisk, pure air whetted his appetite: he no longer felt the devotional outpourings of the beginning, but rather a species of human charity that led him to take an interest in what he saw around him, especially the children and the dumb beasts, with whom he gave vent to his instinctive tenderness. His compassion toward Perucho, the lad made drunk by his own grandfather, was increasing; it grieved him to see him wallowing constantly in the mud of the courtyard, spending the day buried in the dung of the stables, playing with the calves, sucking warm milk from the cows’ teats, or sleeping in the manger amid the straw destined for the donkey’s feed; and he resolved to devote a few hours of the long winter nights to teaching the boy his alphabet, catechism, and numbers. To accomplish this he settled himself at the vast table not far from the hearth fire, fed by Sabel with thick logs; and taking the child upon his knees, by the light of the triple burner of the brass lamp, he patiently guided the boy’s finger over the spelling-book, repeating the monotonous chant wherewith knowledge begins: b-a ba, b-e be, b-i bi.... The boy would burst into enormous yawns, laughable grimaces, whimpering faces, and shrieks like a trapped starling; he cased himself in armor, defending himself against learning in every conceivable way—kicking, grunting, hiding his face, and slipping away at the teacher’s slightest lapse of attention to hide in any corner or return to the warm shelter of the stable.

In that cold weather the kitchen became an evening gathering place, almost exclusively composed of women. Barefoot and treading sideways as if suspicious, a few would come in, their heads protected by a sort of sackcloth hood; many groaned with pleasure as they approached the delightful flame; others, taking distaff and flax-bundle from their waists, spun after having warmed their hands, or drawing chestnuts from their pockets, put them to roast among the embers; and all, beginning by whispering low, ended by chattering like magpies. Sabel was the queen of that little court: flushed by the flame, with sleeves rolled up and moist eyes, she received the incense of flatteries, plunged the iron ladle into the pot, filled bowls with broth, and immediately a woman would disappear from the circle, taking refuge in a corner or on a bench, where she could be heard chewing greedily, blowing upon the boiling mess and licking the spoon. There were nights when the maid gave herself no moment of rest in filling cups, nor the women in coming in, eating, and departing to leave room for others: the entire parish undoubtedly filed through there, as in a cheap tavern. On leaving they would draw Sabel aside, and had the chaplain not been so distracted with his rebellious pupil, he might have seen a piece of salt pork, bread, or bacon swiftly concealed in a bodice, or some sausage promptly snipped from the strings hanging in the chimney, passing no less swiftly into apron pockets. The last gossiper to remain, she who whispered longest and most intimately with Sabel, was the old crone with the tow-like matted hair, glimpsed by Julián on the night of his arrival at the Pazos. Impressive was the witch’s ugliness: her eyebrows were gray, and in profile they projected, as did the bristles of a mole; the fire threw into relief the whiteness of her hair, the swarthy color of her face, and the enormous goiter that deformed her throat in the most repulsive manner. While she spoke with buxom Sabel, an artist’s imagination might have evoked those pictures of the Temptations of Saint Anthony wherein an abominable sorceress and a beautiful, sensual woman with a goat’s hoof appear together.

Without explaining to himself why, Julián began to take a dislike to the gathering and to Sabel’s familiarities, as she was continually pressing close to him under the pretext of searching in the table drawer for a knife, a cup, or any indispensable article. When the peasant girl fixed upon him her blue eyes, swimming in warm moisture, the chaplain experienced a violent unease, comparable only to that caused by Primitivo’s eyes, which he often caught stealthily fastened upon his face. Not knowing upon what to base his suspicions, Julián believed they were meditating some snare. Primitivo, save for an occasional momentary fit of rude and woodland mirth, was a taciturn man whose bronze countenance rarely revealed emotion; and despite all that, Julián deemed himself the target of covert hostility on the hunter’s part; strictly speaking, it could not even be called hostility; it was rather something of observation and ambuscade—the quiet waiting of a stalker who, without hating the quarry, desires to bag it as soon as possible. Such an attitude could neither be defined nor scarcely expressed. Julián took refuge in his room, whither he made the child come up, half dragged, for the customary lesson. At all events winter had passed, and the warmth of the hearth was no longer covetable.

In his room the chaplain was able to notice better than in the kitchen the shocking dirtiness of the little angel. Half an inch of grime covered his skin; and as for his hair, geological strata slept within it—stratifications composed of dirt, small pebbles, and every sort of foreign body. Julián seized the child by main force, dragged him to the basin, which he now kept well supplied with jugs, towels, and soap. He began to scrub. Blessed Virgin, what a first wash came from that sinful little face! Pure lye, of the muddiest and thickest. For the hair it was necessary to use oil, pomade, water in torrents, and a comb with stout teeth to clear the virgin forest. As the task progressed, there came to light the most beautiful features, worthy of an ancient chisel, colored with the patina of sun and air; and the curls, freed from encumbrances, arranged themselves artistically as upon a head of Cupid, revealing their golden-chestnut tint which gave the finishing touch to the figure. It was astonishing how handsome God had made that doll!

Every day, whether the boy screamed or resigned himself, Julián washed him thus before the lesson. Out of the respect he professed for human flesh he did not venture to bathe his whole body—a measure sorely needed in truth. But with the washings and Julián’s kindly nature, the little rogue began to take too many liberties and spared nothing in the room. His lack of application, increasing at every moment, drove the poor priest to despair: the ink served Perucho to plunge his whole hand into it and plant it afterward upon the spelling-book; the pen, to strip its feathers and break its nib hunting flies on the window-panes; the paper, to tear into strips or make paper cornets; the pounce-sand, to upset upon the table and represent mountains and hills with it, where he took delight in producing cataclysms by plunging his finger down suddenly. Moreover, he rummaged through Julián’s chest of drawers, unmade the bed by bouncing upon it, and one day went so far as to set fire to his teacher’s boots by filling them with lighted matches.

Julián would willingly have borne these pranks in the hope of making something of such a heathen; but they became complicated with another matter far more disagreeable: Sabel’s frequent comings and goings in his room. The girl always found some pretext for coming up: she had forgotten to take away the chocolate tray; she had forgotten to change the towel. And she would assume airs and linger a long time before going down, busying herself in arranging things that were in no disorder, or leaning her elbows on the window-sill, very smiling and hearty, flaunting a familiarity which Julián, growing daily more reserved, in nowise authorized.

One morning Sabel entered at the usual hour with the water jugs for the priest’s ablutions; and on receiving them, he could not help noticing at a rapid glance that the girl had come in bodice and petticoat, with her chemise open, her hair unbraided, and with one bare foot and leg of dazzling whiteness; for Sabel, who always wore shoes and did nothing beyond kitchen work, and that with much help from farm girls and crones, had neither a tanned skin nor deformed limbs. Julián recoiled, and the pitcher trembled in his hand, spilling a stream of water upon the floor.

“Cover yourself, woman,” he murmured in a voice stifled with shame. “Never bring me water when you are like this... it is no way to present yourself before people.”

“I was combing my hair and thought you called me...” she replied unperturbed, without even folding her hands over her bosom.

“Even had I called you, it was not proper to come in such attire.... Another time when you are combing your hair let Cristobo bring up the water, or the cattle girl... or anyone....”

And as he uttered these words, he turned his back so as to see Sabel no more, who withdrew slowly.

From that moment and hour, Julián shunned the girl as a noxious and shameless animal; nevertheless, it still seemed to him uncharitable to attribute her indecorous slovenliness to evil designs, preferring to blame it on ignorance and boorishness. But she was resolved to prove the contrary. Little time had elapsed since the severe reprimand, when one afternoon, while Julián was quietly reading the Guide for Sinners, he heard Sabel enter, and noticed without raising his head that she was tidying something in the room. Suddenly he heard a blow, like the fall of a body against some piece of furniture, and saw the girl reclining on the bed, uttering piteous cries and deep sighs. She complained of an attack, a sudden spasm, and Julián, troubled but compassionate, ran to soak a towel to moisten her temples, and to that end approached the distressed sufferer. No sooner had he leaned over her than he was able—despite his slight experience and utter lack of malice—to convince himself that the supposed fit was nothing but gross roguery and sheer impudence. A wave of blood flushed Julián to the nape of his neck: he felt that sudden, blind anger that very rarely stirred his phlegmatic blood, and pointing to the door, exclaimed:

“Leave this room this instant, or I will thrust you out..., do you hear? You shall never cross that doorway again.... Everything, everything I need, Cristobo shall bring me.... Out at once!”

The maid withdrew hanging her head, crestfallen, like one who has just met with a heavy disappointment. Julián, for his part, remained trembling, agitated, and dissatisfied with himself, as peaceful men are wont to be when they yield to a burst of anger: he even felt physical pain in the epigastrium. Beyond doubt he had exceeded bounds; he ought to have addressed a fervent exhortation to that woman instead of contemptuous words. His duty as a priest was to teach, correct, and forgive, not to trample people underfoot like the vermin in the archives. After all, Sabel had a soul, redeemed by the blood of Christ just like any other. But who can reflect, who can restrain himself before such brazenness? There is an impulse which the Scholastics call primo primis, fatal and inevitable. Thus the chaplain comforted himself. At all events it was a sad thing to have to live with that evil wench, who had no more modesty than the cows. How could there be such women? Julián remembered his mother, so modest, ever with downcast eyes and a voice mild and sweet, with her bodice buttoned up to her throat, over which, for greater decency, fell smooth and unwrinkled a little neckerchief of black silk. What women! What women are to be found in the world!

From that fatal encounter Julián had to sweep his own room and fetch his own water, for neither Cristobo nor the maidservants paid any heed to his orders, and he would not see so much as Sabel’s shadow at the door. What caused him the greatest surprise and dread was observing that Primitivo, after the incident, no longer took the trouble to conceal himself when fixing upon him a terrible gaze, measuring him with a look that was equivalent to a declaration of war. Julián could not doubt that he was in the way at the Pazos: why? At times he pondered upon it, interrupting his reading of Fray Luis de Granada and the six books of Saint John Chrysostom on the priesthood; but after a little while, disheartened by so many petty annoyances and despairing of ever being useful to the House of Ulloa, he plunged once more into his mystical pages.

VI.

Of all the parish priests of the neighborhood, with none had Julián struck up such a friendship as with Don Eugenio, the curate of Naya. The Abbot of Ulloa, whom he saw more frequently, was not congenial to him, on account of his excessive fondness for the flagon and the shotgun; and the Abbot of Ulloa, in return, was exasperated by Julián, whom he was wont to nickname the sissy; for to the Abbot of Ulloa the lowest degradation into which a man could fall was to drink water, wash with scented soap, and pare his fingernails: where a priest was concerned, the abbot placed these offenses on a par with simony. ‘Effeminacy, effeminacy,’ he would growl between his teeth, firmly convinced that virtue in a priest, to be genuine, must present a rough, wild, and unbroken exterior; besides which a cleric does not ipso facto lose the privileges of a man, and a man ought to smell of the wilderness from a league away. With the other curates of the neighboring parishes Julián also had little in common; hence, when invited to church festivals, he was accustomed to withdraw as soon as the ceremonies were concluded, without ever accepting the dinner which was their indispensable complement. But when Don Eugenio invited him with cheerful cordiality to spend the patron saint’s day at Naya, he accepted with good will, promising not to fail him.

According to agreement he walked up to Naya on the eve, refusing the mount offered him by Don Pedro. For barely a league and a half! And on such a lovely evening! Leaning upon a staff, allowing time for night to fall, pausing at every turn to delight in looking at the landscape, he was not long in reaching the hill that commands the hamlet of Naya, so opportunely that he dropped into the midst of the dance which, to the sound of the bagpipe, bass drum, and tabor, and by the light of straw torches ignited and waved joyously, served as a prelude to the patronal festivities. The dancers were not long in descending toward the rectory, singing and shouting wild Galician calls like madmen, and with them Julián descended.

The curate was waiting at the gateway itself: with his jacket sleeves rolled up, he held aloft a pitcher of wine, and the maid held a tray with glasses. The group halted; the bagpiper, clad in blue velveteen, in an attitude of fatigue, letting the bagpipe deflate so that the chanter fell over the red fringes of the drone, wiped his sweaty forehead with a silk handkerchief; and the reflections of the burning straw and the lights illuminating the curate’s house allowed his handsome face to be distinguished, with its regular features set off by arrogant brown whiskers. When they served him the wine, the rustic artist said politely: ‘To the health of the Señor Abade and the company!’ and after tossing it down his gullet, murmured with much courtesy, passing the back of his hand across his mouth: ‘May we see this day twenty years hence, Señor Abade!’ The subsequent libations were accompanied by no further formulas of politeness.

The curate of Naya enjoyed a spacious rectory, all astir at the time with preparations for the feast, and looked on undaunted at the preliminaries to the pillage and ruin of his larder, cellar, wood-shed, and garden. Don Eugenio was young and merry as a cricket, and his disposition was rather that of a mischievous, crafty urchin than of a father of souls; but beneath the boyish crust was concealed a singular gift for dealing with people and a knowledge of practical life. Sociable and tolerant, he had managed not to have a single enemy among his colleagues. They regarded him as an inoffensive lad.

After the little cup of fragrant chocolate, he gave Julián the best bed and room he possessed, and awoke him when the bagpipe was flourishing the dawn-song, the dawn scarcely breaking in the heavens. The two clerics went together to inspect the decoration of the altars, already prepared for the High Mass. Julián held the review with special devotion, since the patron of Naya was his own, the blessed Saint Julián, who stood there on the high altar with his innocent face, his ecstatic little smile, his doublet and breeches, his white dove in his right hand, and his left delicately resting on the frill of his shirt. The modest image, the dismantled church without other ornament than a fluted taper and humble country flowers placed in coarse earthenware pots—everything aroused in Julián tender piety, that effusion which did him so much good, softening and reviving his spirit. The priests from the neighborhood were already arriving, and in the churchyard carpeted with grass the piper could be heard tuning his instrument at length, while in the church the fennel, scattered over the flagstones and crushed by those entering, gave off a rustic, fresh scent. The procession was being organized; Saint Julián had descended from the high altar; the cross and banners swayed above the swirl of people crowded into the narrow nave, and the youths dressed in their best, with their silk handkerchiefs round their heads in the shape of a roll, offered to carry the sacred emblems. After twice circling the churchyard and pausing a few moments before the wayside cross, the saint re-entered the church, and was set upon a little table beside the high altar, richly decorated and covered with an ancient counterpane of crimson damask. The Mass began, joyous and rustic, in harmony with the other festivities. More than a dozen priests sang it at the top of their lungs, and the rickety censer swung to and fro with a tinkle of old chains, giving forth a thick and fragrant smoke amidst whose cottony envelope the false notes of the introit and the roughness of harsh ecclesiastical throats seemed softened. The piper, lavishing all his artistic resources, accompanied with the chanter detached from the bagpipe, performing the office of a clarinet. When the whole orchestra had to sound, he fitted the chanter into the bag again; thus he was able to accompany the Elevation of the Host with a solemn royal march, and the Postcommunion with one of the most recent and lively muñeiras, which, the Mass being ended, he repeated in the porch, where sets of lads and lasses made up for the decorum observed for the space of an hour in church by dancing to their heart’s content. And the dance in the sunlit churchyard, the temple strewn with leaves of fennel and sedge bruised by heavy footsteps, lighted rather by the sun pouring in torrents through door and windows than by the candles, the priests panting but satisfied and talkative, the saint so dapper and pretty, smiling on his litter with one leg almost in the air to begin a minuet and the candid dove ready to spread its wings—everything was joyous, earthly, nothing inspiring that august melancholy that is wont to reign in religious ceremonies. Julián felt as boyish and happy as the blessed saint himself, and was just going out into the open air accompanied by Don Eugenio, when in the ring of dancers he descried Sabel, luxuriously clad in her Sunday best, twirling with the other girls to the measure of the bagpipe. This sight somewhat damped his spirits.