-Iii- · IV

At such an hour the rectory of Naya was a culinary inferno, if ever one existed. There were assembled an aunt and two cousins of Don Eugenio—whom, because they were young and fresh, the curate did not care to keep daily with him in the rectory—; the housekeeper, a tearful, obstructive, and useless old woman who went turning round like a dizzy pigeon; and another housekeeper of very different stamp, a bold and dashing woman—the housekeeper of the curate of Cebre, who in her youth had served a canon of Santiago and was celebrated throughout the district for her skill in churning butter and roasting capons. This strapping cook, somewhat mustachioed, deep-bosomed, and spirited in bearing, had turned the house upside down in a few hours, sweeping it since the day before with great and furious strokes of the broom, banishing old lumber to the garret, setting in motion the formidable army of dishes, putting bacon and chickpeas to soak, and reviewing with the swift glance of a general-in-chief the dropsical pantry, crammed with parishioners’ gifts: kids, chickens, eels, trout, squabs, jars of wine, lard and honey, partridges, hares and rabbits, sausages and black puddings. Having taken stock of the provisions, she ordered the maneuvers of the army: the old women applied themselves to plucking fowls, the girls to scouring and polishing pots, kettles, and pans till they shone like gold, and a couple of strapping village youths, one of them an idiot by trade, to skinning beasts and dressing game.

Had some master of the Flemish school of painting been there—one of those who have poured the poetry of art over the prose of domestic and material life—with what pleasure would he have viewed the spectacle of the great kitchen, the cheerful activity of the wood fire caressing the gleaming bellies of the cauldrons, the cook’s stout arms confounded with the no less plump and sanguine meat of the roast she was preparing, the red cheeks of the girls engaged in romping with the idiot like nymphs with a bound satyr, throwing handfuls of rice and cornets of red pepper between his shirt and his skin! And moments later, when the piper and the other musicians came to claim their parva or breakfast—the dish of he-goat intestines, liver, and lights called in that country mataburrillo—how worthy of his brush would he have found the scene of lusty appetite, of expanding stomachs, swollen cheeks, and draughts of wine tossed off in mid-air, which was enacted there amid jokes and bursts of laughter!

And what was all that in comparison with the Homeric banquet prepared in the dining hall of the rectory? Half a dozen boards laid upon as many hampers helped to widen the everyday table; above, two clean tablecloths of Flemish linen supported large pitchers overflowing with mature red wine; and facing them in a corner of the chamber, pot-bellied jars brimming with the same liquor waited their turn. The tableware was mixed, and between pewter and glazed earthenware stood out a piece or two of genuine Talavera ware, capable of driving frantic a collector among the many who now devote themselves to the arcane science of crockery. Before the table and its appendages, not without a thousand compliments and ceremonies, the reverend fathers took their seats, contending stoutly to yield the places of honor, which at length fell to the corpulent Archpriest of Loiro—the most respectable person in years and dignity of all the surrounding clergy, who had not attended the ceremony so as not to be suffocated by the press of the crowd at Mass—and to Julián, in whom Don Eugenio honored the illustrious House of Ulloa.

Julián sat down in confusion, and his embarrassment reached its height during the dinner. Being new to the country and having always refused to remain to dine at festivals, he was the target of all eyes. And the table was imposing. It was surrounded by some fifteen priests and about eight laymen, among them the doctor, notary, and judge of Cebre, the young gentleman of Limioso, the nephew of the curate of Boán, and the famous political boss known by the nickname of Barbacana, who, backed by the Moderate Party then in power, ruled the district and had almost nullified the influence of his rival, the boss Trampeta, patronized by the Unionists and ill regarded by the clergy. In short, the flower of the district was gathered there, lacking only the Marquis of Ulloa, who would certainly arrive for dessert. The monumental bread soup steeped in grease, with sausage, chickpeas, and hard-boiled eggs cut in slices, was already circulating in gigantic earthen platters, and was eaten in silence, with vigorous play of the jaws. From time to time a priest ventured to utter phrases in praise of the cook’s skill; and the host, observing discreetly which of the guests were slack in chewing, urged them to take heart, asserting that it was necessary to make the most of the soup and stew, since there was scarcely anything else. Julián, believing it to be so and deeming it discourteous to slight his host, laid on heavily with the soup and the stew. Great was his terror when an interminable series of dishes began to defile before him—the traditional twenty-six of the feast of Naya’s patron, not the most abundant served in the archpriestship, for Loiro far surpassed it.

To reach the prescribed number, the cook had not had recourse to the artifices wherewith French cuisine disguises food, christening dishes with new names or adorning them with frills and trumpery. No, sir: in those virgin regions, God be praised, no sauce or dressing of French origin was known, and everything was plain, manly, and classical like the stew-pot. Twenty-six dishes? The list is quickly made: chickens roasted, fried, in fricassee, stewed, with peas, with onions, with potatoes, and with eggs; apply the same system to beef, pork, fish, and kid. Thus, without racking one’s brains, anyone can present twenty-six varied dishes.

And how the cook would have laughed had a French chef appeared there by magic, determined to draw up a menu, to confine himself to four or six courses, to alternate the heavy with the light, and to grant an honorable place to vegetables! Vegetables to me! the curate of Cebre’s housekeeper would have said, laughing with all her heart and with all her hips as well. Vegetables on the patron saint’s day! They are fit only for pigs.

Gorged and dizzy, Julián had strength only to wave away the platters that never ceased circulating, passed from one guest to another: fortunately they observed him less now, for the conversation was growing heated. The doctor of Cebre, atrabilious, lean, and disputatious; the notary, ruddy-faced and bearded, ventured to tell jokes and relate anecdotes; the nephew of the curate of Boán, a law student of very amorous disposition, spoke of women, praising the charm of the young ladies of Molende and the bloom of a baker’s wife of Cebre, widely renowned in the country; the priests at first took no part, and as Julián cast down his eyes, some of the diners, after glancing at him askance, feigned indifference. But the reserve was of short duration; as the pitchers were emptied and the dishes cleared, no one cared to remain silent, and jokes began to strike sparks.

Máximo Juncal, the physician, freshly emerged from the lecture halls of Santiago, let fly several thrusts at politics, as well as malicious gibes concerning the grave scandal which at that time greatly exercised provincial revolutionaries: Sister Patrocinio, her intrigues, and her influence at Court. Two or three curates took fire; and the political boss Barbacana, with the utmost gravity, turning toward Juncal his long and flourishing beard, told him disdainfully a gospel truth: that ‘many spoke of what they did not understand’; to which the doctor retorted, pouring bile from eyes and lips, ‘that the day of the great clean sweep would soon arrive, that then the uproar of the century would break loose, and the reactionaries might go and tell their tale at the house of their father Judas Iscariot.’

Fortunately he uttered these tremendous predictions at the moment when the majority of the parish priests were entangled in theological discussion—the indispensable complement of every patronal banquet. Absorbed in it, none of those who might have paid the doctor back in his own coin paid attention to what he said: neither the gruff Abbot of Ulloa, nor the warlike curate of Boán, nor the Archpriest, who, being as deaf as a post, settled political disputes by shouting at the top of his voice, raising the index finger of his right hand as if to invoke the wrath of heaven. At that moment and hour, while platters of rice pudding, cinnamon, and sugar circulated and glasses of tostado were emptied, the dispute reached its climax, and arguments, propositions, objections, and syllogisms were overheard.

“Nego majorem....”

“Probo minorem.”

“Come, Boán, you are very slyly overturning grace....”

“Gossip, beware.... If you advance a little further we shall find ourselves with free will lost.”

“Cebre, look you, you are on the wrong road: mind you do not go off with Pelagius!”

“To Saint Augustine I hold, and I will not let him go.”

“That proposition may be admitted simpliciter, but taken in another sense... it will not pass.”

“I will cite authorities, as many as may be asked of me: I’ll wager you cannot cite even half a dozen! Let us see.”

“It is the common sentiment of the Church from the earliest councils.”

“It is an open question, by heaven! Do not come scaring me with councils and synods.”

“Do you pretend to know more than Saint Thomas?”

“And do you pretend to set yourself against the Doctor of Grace?”

“No one is capable of refuting this! Gentlemen... grace....”

“We are going headlong over the precipice! That is formal heresy; it is pure Pelagianism!”

“What do you know about it, what do you know.... Whatever you censure, let them nail it to me....”

“Let the Señor Archpriest decide.... We will venture something that the Señor Archpriest does not leave me in the lurch.”

The Archpriest was respected rather for his age than for his theological learning; and the formidable hubbub subsided somewhat when he rose with difficulty, with both hands placed behind his ears, his face congested with blood, in order to settle the dispute if it could be done. But an incident distracted their minds: the young Lord of Ulloa entered followed by two bird-dogs, whose bells accompanied his appearance with a joyous chime. He had come, according to his promise, to take a glass at dessert; and he took it standing, because a covey of partridges was awaiting him yonder on the mountain.

A very courteous reception was given him, and those who could not make much of him caressed Chula and Turco, who went resting their heads on every knee, licking a plate here and tucking away a biscuit there. The young master of Limioso rose, resolved to accompany the Lord of Ulloa on the shooting excursion, for which he had prepared what was necessary, since he rarely left the House of Limioso without slinging his gun across his shoulder and his game-bag round his waist.

When the two squires departed, the effervescence of the discussion upon grace had subsided, and the doctor in an undertone was reciting to the notary certain satirical political sonnets that were then passing from hand to hand under the name of belenes. The notary applauded them, particularly when the doctor emphasized the verses adorned with spicy, broad allusions. The table in disorder, stained with sauces and blood-red with wine, and the floor strewn with bones flung by the less tidy guests, indicated the end of the feast; Julián would have given something handsome to be able to withdraw; he felt fatigued, mortified by the disgust which exclusively material matters inspired in him; but he did not venture to interrupt the postprandial gathering, and least of all now that they were indulging in the pleasure of lighting a cigarette and gossiping about the most prominent persons in the district. They were talking of the young master of Ulloa, of his skill in bringing down partridges, and without Julián guessing the cause, the conversation passed immediately to Sabel, whom all had seen that morning in the dance ring; her figure was praised, and at the same time nods and winks were directed at Julián, as though the talk concerned him. The chaplain cast down his eyes according to custom and feigned to fold his napkin; but suddenly, feeling one of those sparks of sudden and momentary anger which he was unable to curb, he coughed, looked round him, and let fly a few harsh and severe remarks that struck the company dumb. Don Eugenio, seeing the conversation spoiled, resolved to rise, proposing to Julián that they should go out to take the air in the garden: some clerics rose also, announcing that they were going to say compline; others slipped off in company with the doctor, the notary, the judge, and Barbacana, to shuffle cards until nightfall.

The curate of Naya and Julián took refuge in the orchard, passing through the kitchen, where the uproar of servants, the curate’s cousins, cooks, and musicians was formidable, the flagons were being drained, and the feast threatened to last until sundown. The orchard, by contrast, remained in its tranquil and poetic springtime peace, with a cool breeze that swayed the last blossoms of the pear and cherry trees and caressed the dense foliage of the fig trees, under whose shade, upon a bank of soft grass, both priests stretched themselves—not without Don Eugenio drawing forth a checkered cotton handkerchief wherewith he covered his head to protect it from the importunities of an untimely fly. Julián’s flush of indignation still lingered, but already he repented of his short patience and resolved to be more long-suffering in future. Although, properly considered....

“Do you care to take a nap?” asked the curate of Naya, seeing him so downcast and gloomy.

“No; what I wished, Eugenio, was to ask you to pardon the anger I showed at the table.... I know I am at times like that... a little hasty... and then there are conversations that drive me beside myself without my being able to help it. Put yourself in my place.”

“I do, I do.... But they tease me continually with my cousins too... and one must put up with it; they do not do it with evil intent; it is just for the sake of a laugh.”

“There are jokes and jokes, and those that touch upon modesty and purity seem to me delicate matters for a priest. If one puts up with such talk out of human respect, they will perhaps think that one has half lost one’s sense of shame in deeds. And how do I know whether some—I do not say among the priests, I would not do them such an injustice—but among the laymen, will believe that in fact...?”

The curate of Naya nodded as one who recognizes the force of an observation; but at the same time the smile that displayed his uneven teeth was a mild and ironic protest against so much rigidity.

“One must take the world as it comes...” he murmured philosophically. “To be good is what matters; for who can stop the mouths of others? Everyone says what he pleases, and cracks what jokes he likes.... So long as the conscience is clear....”

“No, sir; no, sir; softly,” retorted Julián heatedly. “We are obliged not only to be good, but to appear so; and in a priest, if you press me, evil example and scandal are even worse than the sin itself. You know it well, Eugenio; you know it better than I, for you have the cure of souls.”

“You distress yourself over a jest, over a trifle, just as though everyone were already pointing at you with the finger.... One needs an inch of hide to live among men. At this rate I do not envy your bargain, for you will never have done with vexations.”

Pensive and frowning, Julián had picked up a little stick lying on the ground and was amusing himself by thrusting it into the grass. He raised his head suddenly.

“Eugenio, are you my friend?”

“Always, man, always,” replied the curate of Naya affably and sincerely.

“Then be frank with me. Speak to me as though we were in the confessional. Is that said about me?”

“What?”

“That I... have something to do... with that girl, eh? For you may believe me, and I would swear it to you were it lawful to swear: God knows that the woman is even abhorrent to me, and that I have not looked her in the face half a dozen times since I have been at the Pazos.”