  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 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 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, 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 “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 “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 |
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