Fac-simile of my letter to Luis Portal:
MY DEAR BOY:
Here I am at your orders at Tejo, the country-seat of the father of
my uncle’s lady-love--confound him! called so, not my uncle, but
the country-seat, on account of a colossal yew-tree, which,
according to what they say, is three stories high, as high as the
finest house in Orense.
I have just arrived here, so I can’t tell you yet what I think
about the bride and the people here, to wit: her father, an old
woman who had some connection with the father in former times, and
two daughters or nieces of the old woman; one well grown, and
although she is called Cándida--well, the least said about that the
better. My future auntie is a young lady of graceful bearing, with
a pleasant face, if you examine it attentively. She has pretty
eyes, very pretty, indeed. I know not whether she is in love, but
she displays considerable affection for my uncle,--well, old chap,
I come back to my old subject. Can you believe that a decent and
high-minded woman--and they say that my auntie is such--can marry
such a man just for the sake of marrying? Does not her little
heart conceal some secret experience? Or can it be that, by reason
of her own innocence, she imagines that to marry a man is only like
taking his arm for a promenade?
The thing fills my mind, because in a very short time I have formed
a private opinion in regard to Carmiñia Aldao, due to the
information I have received from a friar. Don’t you know, my boy? I
have journeyed with a veritable friar, a Franciscan, barefooted and
all that. And he praised my auntie up to the sky, saying that she
is a model of a Christian woman. This is singular, indeed, coming
from a friar. If you could see what a curious type this Father
Moreno is! He is one of the most unaffected, simple, frank, and
fascinating beings the Lord ever created! He amazes me. Nothing
startles him nor is he bigoted; he does not avoid talking upon any
subject which may be alluded to in good society, nor does he treat
one disdainfully, or fall into any pious foolishness; nor does he
do anything that does not seem cordial, discreet, and fitting. You
must not think, by what I am saying, that the friar is taking me
in; that’s not so easily done. On the contrary, I am dreadfully
stirred up by his gift of fascinating everybody around him,
including myself. I will watch him; and I am of little use, if I
don’t unmask him yet. What does the rogue mean? To make himself
able to win more proselytes? There’s no doubt about it, with his
charming disposition and manners he secures and exerts great
influence. Is it possible that he is concealing other schemes not
in accordance with his garb? For he is either a saint or a
hypocrite, although quite different from any ordinary hypocrite. Do
you believe, my boy, that a man can live that way, surrounded by
breakers and quicksands, without running upon them? One must admit
that his vow of perpetual poverty is no pretense, for I have found
out that he does not even carry enough money to buy a pipe;
likewise his vow of obedience, though soldiers also obey their
superior officers; but as for his vow of chastity--well, if he
keeps that--don’t you think that’s rather fishy, my boy?
As you can fancy, my uncle is as deeply in love as is possible for
him. To tell the truth, his sweetheart seems to be a great catch
for him. Perhaps Señor Aldao has not much money, because they say
he likes display and that his country-seat eats up his cash; also,
that his married son bleeds him freely. But with all that, I think
that my uncle has more than he could have hoped for.
The wedding will take place soon, on the day of Our Lady of Carmen.
My uncle sleeps at the druggist’s in San Andrés; but I, not being
the lover, am entertained at Tejo, I will tell you what goes on
here.
Write to me, old chap, you lazy fellow. I presume you go on chewing
your old cud of opportunism and compromise with everybody, even the
devil himself.
You are a great rogue!--I forgot, tear this up at once,--but you
are so prudent you were sure to have done so without my asking it.
I had finished, and, luckily, had just sealed up my letter, when the
little clerical apprentice entered my room unceremoniously. If it were
not for circumstances which will appear in due time, I would not
describe so minutely the appearance of that priest in embryo; but it
will be a help to say that he had a sort of rat’s snout, a small mouth
without lips, which displayed his decayed and irregular teeth when he
smiled; that he had a small hooked nose, eyes drawn up toward his brain,
which could hardly have been larger than a sparrow’s; a white face
spotted with large freckles; and that he was beardless, while his hair,
eyelashes, and eyebrows were red. I was in doubt whether he was a
simpleton or a puppy. At the same time he was something like a forward
child, which prevented any one from taking his words or actions
seriously.
“Bathe?” he asked, addressing me impersonally as he was wont to do.
“Do I bathe?”
“Do you bathe in the ocean, sir,--in San Andrés? I ask because I go down
to the beach every day, and might accompany you.”
“Very well; we’ll take a dip.”
“I thought it would please you, that about the sea-baths. Your uncle
also takes a dip every morning. He does it like a cod-fish: but he does
not seem to get any cleaner for all that. He, he!”
“The worst of it is, I have no bathing-suit.”
“Nor I, neither. But if you are so squeamish--all you have to do is to
go to some corner behind a rock.”
“What?”
“Or put on an extra pair of drawers.”
“Well, that might do.”
Meanwhile, the little priest, or acolyte as he might better be called,
leaned back in his chair as though he were going to stay all night. I
saw that it was necessary to use no ceremony with him, so I undressed
rapidly and got into bed.
“Are you sleepy?” asked Serafín, approaching the bed, and with the
greatest familiarity pinching my shoulder and patting my cheeks. I
screamed, and instinctively struck him a hard blow, which made him burst
out laughing convulsively. Then he tried to find out, by experiment,
whether I was ticklish; or if I was in love--for that purpose cruelly
squeezing my little finger.
That strange familiarity, more suitable to a child of six years than to
a man, and especially a man who aspired to the priesthood, inspired me
with a ludicrous contempt for him; though, at the same time, with a
certain tolerance for his faults; and I threatened to throw my boot at
him, if he did not keep quiet. That threat took effect; Serafín sobered
down, and, throwing himself like a lap-dog across the foot of my bed, he
said that he was not sleepy and that he wanted to talk to me.
I told him that he might go on, and never was a programme more
faithfully carried out to the very letter. A flood of ridiculous
nonsense rushed from that mouth; laughable simplicities mixed with bits
of theological learning, and fragments of coarse wit, so pointed at
times, that I was amazed, and quite unable to solve the problem whether
that individual were a born idiot or a tremendous rogue.
“So you come from Madrid. Ah, how delightful Madrid must be! I have
never been there. Have no cash for the railroad. Cash! I wish I might
see some! Well, Serafín, my boy, when it rains dollars you’ll get some.
And are the streets in Madrid like--those--of Pontevedra? I suppose the
pavements are of marble. Well, the people there go off to the other
world, either raging or singing, don’t they? Well, then I do not envy
the people in Madrid a bit. All are equal in the presence of death, sir.
And you, what are you studying for? To be one of those who make
viaducts, railroads, and tunnels? Ah, then we’ll have to call you Your
Excellency! You’ll be a Minister, and you’ll make me an electoral
canon,--I mean lectoral. Still, I would make a better penitentiary
canon, because I am awfully penitent. And you, even if you come to be
more of an engineer than the very one who invented engineering, you’ll
not get ahead like your uncle. Get on! Ah, your uncle knows how; he is a
crafty one. Nobody can get the cream out of Don Vicente Sotopeña as he
does. That business of the lots was a good slice, and now they are going
to hire his house for the post-office, and pay him a million dollars
rent. Afterward, when they have elections, they’ll come to soft-soap us
priests. But as a friend of mine, a priest, said to me: Gee-up, there,
_vade retro, exorciso te_, for liberalism is sin, and if anybody doubts
it I will thrust under his nose the fundamental doctrine of _de fide_,
expounded by the Holy Vatican Council. Our palates here are not spoiled
by mongrel sauces. Ha, ha, ha!”
“And what do you think about politics?” I inquired.
“About politics? Noble breasts can hold but one opinion.”
“Let’s hear what opinions noble breasts hold.”
“Well, I will tell you through the lips of one who knew what he was
talking about: _Nequit idem simul esse et non esse_. Do you want it any
clearer? I am not an advocate of _Iglesia liebre en el Estado galgo_ (a
church like a hare in a state like a grey-hound). _Quod semper, quod
ubique, quod ab omnibus._”
“Do speak Christian; or, at least, Galician. Are you a good-for-nothing
Carlist?”
“_Ego sum qui sum_; that is to say: Look out for mixtures,
discriminations, and jobs. I told your Uncle Felipe so very plainly, and
Don Román Aldao, also, who is a great braggart, and who is sighing for
the title of Marquis of Tejo, or at least for the grand cross. They say
that his son-in-law will bring it to him as a wedding present. _Vanitas
vanitatis!_ Ha! ha! Carmen’s brother also wants some pap; he wants a fat
post in the administration of the hospital--I believe that poultices
fatten one like everything.”
“Hush, you turn my stomach!”
“He’ll not get it, for his brother-in-law dislikes him. He’ll not be
able to make porridge with linseed flour, nor to put wooden chickens,
just for show, in the stews made for the poor sick people. Uncle Felipe
is a good one! He’ll do. He has no delicacy, not a bit! Although he is
going to get married, he still runs after Candidiña out in the garden.
Don’t you believe it? She is no fool, either! She already knows more
than many old women. _Ne attendas fallaciæ mulieris._”
“Don’t slander my uncle, you prurient little creature,” I exclaimed,
with my curiosity excited, because I fancied that the simpleton
sometimes hit the nail on the head. “Do you think he would run after
girls in the very sight of his lady-love?”
“Yes, yes, you may be sure of it. If you could see some other old men,
who can hardly get around any longer, run after the little monkey!
_Vinum et mulieris apostatare faciunt sapientes_, as has been said.
Cándida leads them on; and don’t imagine she does it just to pass the
time. She knows when to throw the hook. Carmiña will find a stepmother
starting out from behind a cabbage.”
I started up in surprise.
“But, that Candidiña, is she not,--is she not a daughter of--”
The little acolyte gave a shriek.
“Ha, ha, ha! he thought that--” (he made the gesture of joining the tips
of his forefingers). “No, man, no! Neither Cándida nor the other girl
are figs from Doña Andrea’s fig-tree. They are her nieces--I knew their
father, who was a general, I mean a corporal of the coast guard. The old
woman took charge of them because their parents died. And, by my faith,
remember that Serafín Espiña assures you of it, the witch does not run
after love affairs out of _concupiscentia carnis_. She wants to drag a
silk train after her. If we live, we are bound to see miracles.”