We went down into the garden, and the cool evening air served to refresh
our heated brains. I thought that I was not even on the verge of what is
meant by intoxication, but nevertheless I attributed the strange weight
on my heart, the profound melancholy which took possession of me, to the
effects of wine, which sometimes produces that painful tedium. Those
happy, jesting, merry people, who considered the wedding a joyous event,
inspired me both with disgust and an inexplicable aversion. They roamed
over the grounds, enjoying themselves and laughing, but I tried to be
alone with my own dark thoughts and lugubrious fancies. My imagination
took on blacker hues every moment, as though some dire misfortune was
weighing me down. I wandered off instinctively to the most retired nook
in the orchard, and, opening the worm-eaten gate which lead into the
grove, rushed through impetuously, eager for quiet and solitude. A
clear, energetic voice exclaimed:
“Where are you going, Señor Salustio?”
In voice and words I recognized Father Moreno. He was seated on a stone
bench, leaning against the wall, and reading a book, which he closed as
he saw me.
“I came here,” he said, “looking for a fit place to read my prayers. I
was just finishing. And you, may I ask whether you also have come out
from the orchard to pray?”
“No,” I replied, with the impetuous frankness which is the usual result
of several glasses of strong wine inside one. “I came because all those
people bored me with their noise, their jollity, and silliness, and
because their stupidity made my head ache.”
“Bravo, dear sir, you are right, more than right! I also was satiated
with both the food and the company. It was a veritable hullabaloo, and
it is not singular that it should scare away a friar--but you----”
“Father Moreno, believe me, there are days when, taking no account of
one’s belief, he feels like becoming a friar, and renouncing the follies
of the world.”
The friar fastened his calm, powerful, and piercing eyes on mine,
saying:
“Do you really feel so? Well, then, you’ll not be surprised if a poor
friar should reply to you that in my opinion you are already at the
beginning of the road to knowledge, and even happiness, as far as it is
possible for man to obtain it in this world. To seek for peace and to
renounce our worldly affections is not virtue; it is simply calculation
and selfishness. Believe me, sir, I do not envy anybody in the world,
but on the other hand, I pity a great many people.”
My pride as a layman did not rebel at his words. I was surprised at this
afterward, when I reflected that the friar’s compassion, ironical though
it probably was, ought to have given me offense; because, taking into
consideration my ideas, my ways of thinking and feeling about religious
questions, and the ridiculous significance in my mind of monastic vows,
it was I that should have pitied the friar, and pitied him as one does
victims of an absurdity and of a useless immolation on the altars of a
mistaken idea. My strange acquiescence in Father Moreno’s words can
only be explained on the supposition that there exists in the inmost
depths of our soul a perpetual tendency to self-sacrifice, to
renunciation; a tendency, so to speak, derived from the Christian
subsoil upon which the crust of our rationalism rests. At that moment of
moral depression the thought occurred to me: “Which is better, Salustio,
to go on studying, to learn your profession, practice it, get married,
assume the care of children, endure the trials and tribulations of life,
bear everything which it must bring in its train, sorrow,
disappointments, struggles, and combats, or pass your days like that
good Father, who, at a wedding festival, takes his book and comes out
into the grove to pray so peacefully?”
“Yes, indeed, I pity a great many,” proceeded the friar, taking my arm
familiarly, and leading me through the grove to a little meadow beyond,
which ended in a fence over which _Parietariæ_ and wild flowers grew.
“To people who judge by appearances only, it may seem that I ought to be
envious in the midst of a wedding-feast, or at least consider my
condition so different from that of married people, eh? Well, see here,
I assure you (and you will not suppose me to be juggling with words, for
you know now that I am very frank) that it seems rather as if the
newly-married couple inspired me with a feeling of compassion--yes,
compassion--when I realize the hardships which await them on their way
through life, however happy they may be, even though God should shower
upon them all that is understood by the word happiness.”
The friar’s sentiments tallied so well with mine just then, that I would
gladly have embraced him. But yielding the second time to the desire to
unbosom myself, I sat down on the fence and said:
“Father Moreno, the marriage appears perfectly absurd to me. Either I am
much mistaken, or it will lead to most lamentable results. Carmiña is an
angel, a saint, an exceptional being; and my uncle--well, I have reason
to know him.”
The appearance of the Father’s face suddenly changed. His eyes became
severe, he knit his brow, and his smiling lips contracted into a
serious, almost austere expression. His face revealed, what was seldom
visible there, the stamp of his vocation; the friar and confessor was
reappearing from under the semblance of the affable, courteous, human,
and communicative man.
“You speak thoughtlessly,” he said, without circumlocution, “and you
must pardon me for bringing you up with a round turn. Perhaps you think
that you have something to found your opinion upon, though I really
regret that you oblige me to recall _that_--because I desire to forget
that you were more indiscreet and inquisitive than is fitting in a
person who, by his training and the scientific nature of his profession,
ought to set everybody an example of seriousness. You know we have never
alluded to that subject, but now that you yourself afford me an
opportunity, I shall not let it pass by. I believe that you acted as you
did out of the natural thoughtlessness of youth; if otherwise, my
goodness!”
“To what do you refer?” I asked, feeling my personal dignity begin to
assert itself, and looking him squarely in the face.
“Bah! as if you did not know! But I am not one who measures his words. I
refer to the tree--to the yew. Do you want it still clearer? To the fall
you got for listening to what did not concern you in the least.”
“See here, Father, your garb does not give you a right to
everything,--I----”
“You were listening to us? Yes or no. No rhetoric, now.”
“Yes, if you want to know. Yes, but with the desire to----”
“To hear what we were talking about.”
“No, sir; wait; let me explain myself. You may be superior to me in
discretion, Father Moreno, and on that occasion I acknowledge it; but as
for pure intentions and high-minded purposes,--Father, in spite of all
your vows and your belief, you do not surpass me in that regard; I give
you my word of honor.”
“I admit that you are right, and it is a good deal to admit,” said the
friar, calmly; “and I do so because I have liked you from the first
moment I saw you; because I think I can read and understand your
disposition, and I do not at all perceive in you fiendish malice, or a
corrupt heart, or wicked purposes. Come, now, you must acknowledge that
I am doing you ample justice. But in the case we speak of, I fancy that
you are laboring under a foolish, romantic spirit, which leads you to go
about righting the wrongs of the oppressed, as Don Quixote did; and that
you suffer from a morbid curiosity which sometimes tempts us to meddle
in affairs that do not concern us, and that the Lord has given us no
commission to regulate.”
“But my uncle’s marriage----”
“May possibly affect you, inasmuch as it concerns your personal
interests; but as for whether Carmen will be happy or unhappy, whether
she is good or bad,--with that you have nothing whatever to do any more
than I have with the affairs of the emperor of China, not a bit more,
Señor Don Salustio; and still less to endeavor by means of an
indiscretion to penetrate into the sanctuary of a spirit and the
intricacies of a conscience.”
“Father,” I answered, proudly, for I was urged on by my anger at his
reprimand, and by my singular and unpleasant predicament, “you may say
what you please about my conduct, and I will pay due respect to your
words, not on account of the garb you wear--which does not mean much in
my estimation--but on account of the dignity with which you wear it. Let
it be conceded that I was indiscreet, a meddler, a veritable Paul Pry,
or whatever you like to call me; but that does not prevent me from being
right in predicting evil of a marriage made under certain conditions and
circumstances. Now that you are aware that I have cause to know all
about it, and now that I acknowledge myself guilty of playing the spy,
do not deny that what you did to-day in the chapel was to give your
sanction to a fatal and horrible mistake.”
The friar kept looking at me, his frown growing all the while darker and
more displeased. In other circumstances his manifest displeasure would
have restrained me; but at that time no one could have silenced me. I
caught him by the arm, and said, resolutely:
“Listen, Father,--marriages which have not been consummated are very
easy to annul, according to canon law. You must know that better than
I. Speak to me frankly; I appeal to your honor, Father. We may avert a
terrible misfortune. Do you think I had better go to Señorita Aldao, and
say to her, ‘Poor child, you do not understand what you have rushed
into, but you still have time; your marriage is not valid; protest, and
break it all off. Don’t let the wrong become complete. Free yourself
from that fearful thing. In your innocency, you cannot imagine, unhappy
girl, what it is to be my uncle’s wife. It is a horrible thing, I assure
you. I hope I may never live to see it. First, let me become blind!
Father Moreno is an honorable man, and his advice to you is the same as
mine. Come, now, be brave, break the chain--I will help you, and the
Father and all of us will help you. Courage!’”
“What I can swear to,” said the friar, “is that you are crazy, or are in
the straight road to become so. Or else--see here!” He clapped his hand
to his forehead, and added, “How many glasses of sherry have gone down
you to-day?”
“Do you think that I am drunk?” I shouted, drawing myself up fiercely.
“I give you my word,” he said, readily, “that I do not believe you are
in that shameful condition. I only wish to say that the wine has
somewhat excited your brain, producing a disturbance which is more moral
than physical, and which shows itself in talking fair-sounding nonsense,
in meddling in other people’s affairs and in regulating the world to
suit ourselves--goodness, when the one who should regulate it is God!”
“Very well; but if I should say to Carmiña that she must annul her
marriage, what would be your reply?”
“I should advise you to take care of yourself, and probably should say
to you, ‘Soak your head, my son, for it is red hot!’”
“So you think there is no remedy!” I cried, with painful vehemence.
“That we should allow the iniquity to be consummated and the catastrophe
to be brought on with our arms folded! But is it possible that you do
not know my uncle? Don’t you see the meanness and vileness of his
nature--above all, when compared with the goodness of that incomparable
woman, whom you ought to venerate as much as the Virgin Mary, because
she is as good----”
I could not go on. Exasperated and flushed with anger, with all the
energy of his nature and the spirit of his calling, the friar stopped my
mouth by laying his broad hand on it.
“By my faith! by all the saints! I feel like sending you I know very
well where, and I would send you there if I did not see that you are in
an abnormal state of mind. Serafín drank the Pajarete, but you have the
fumes of it in your head. I did not believe it before, but now,--I did
not imagine that too much drink was what ailed you; but if you go off in
such wild sayings, the greatest favor I can do you is to suppose that
you are tipsy.”
I stepped back, protesting and offended.
“Take care, Father, be careful what you say! Nobody has a right to
hurt----”
The friar, quickly passing from anger to cordiality, clapped me on the
shoulder, saying:
“Don’t get offended. Good gracious! Listen to me quietly if you can.
Your potations have inclined you to take a high and sublime stand, which
proves that you have a fund of good feeling stored away in your heart,
that springs to the surface when you are least in control of yourself;
precisely when you speak with perfect freedom, _ex abundantia cordis_.
This is what I have observed, and I tell you so sincerely, with the
sincerity becoming a member of a religious order, who neither disguises
his thoughts nor concerns himself over trifles. I will even grant you
more. Possibly, in the midst of your--ahem--excitement, you may clearly
perceive the future, and be a prophet in maintaining that this marriage
has been, humanly speaking, a blunder. But you make no account of the
aid of grace and of Providence, which never fails the good, the
simple-hearted, or those who do their duty, and trust in the word of
Christ. Peace in the soul is a real treasure, among the many false ones
the world offers. Don’t pity your aunt, or me, or any one who walks in
the straight path and knows how to defy man’s physical nature.”
The friar’s arguments pierced my brain like a sword. Rather it was not
his arguments, but the tone of conviction and veracity with which he
uttered them, aided by my state of mind, and the silly admiration of the
“high and sublime,” as the Father put it, induced by my tipsiness. At
any rate, my pessimistic opinions sprang up afresh, and so did my desire
to make an end of my wretched existence, or at least of its hurtful
illusions. Repressing a longing to throw myself into the friar’s arms, I
exclaimed:
“Alas, Father, how correct you are in that! Oh, if one might only enjoy
your belief and wear your garb! Tell me whether a rationalist may enter
a convent. I believe he can. Oh, I feel so sad, so sad. It seems as
though my life were at an end.”
The friar looked at me with singular penetration. His eyes seemed like
two lancets probing my heart, and dissecting its fibers. His tone became
more severe as he said:
“Take care that you do not lose your self-respect, or forget your
purpose to behave yourself like a man of honor. However, looking
closely at the matter, provided you do not make an end of the lives of
the others--do what you please with your own.”
I did not turn my head, or droop my eyes, or blush. If the friar’s eyes
accused, mine made an open confession; they almost challenged him, as
though I said: “Agreed, you can read my thoughts, I make no attempt to
conceal them. Judged by my views of morality, what I feel is no crime.
The only crime is to have performed that marriage ceremony.”
I turned my back on him, and, jumping over the fence, passed on into the
fields.