From Pontevedra to San AndrÉs de Louza, and thence to the country seat of Tejo, was a pleasant excursion rather than a journey. I crossed at the mouth of the river in a launch, which I hired in Pontevedra. Landing on the opposite bank, I resolved to go on foot for about a quarter of a league, through the most beautiful country one can imagine. From the beach, showing the footprints so clearly marked in the fine, silvery sand, and lined by great clumps of flowering aloes, to the foot paths overrun with honeysuckle, and the cornfields rustling in the breeze, it all seemed like an oasis; and my soul was filled with that vague joy which, when one is young, is born of the excitement of the senses, and with a sort of inexplicable presentiment, a messenger of the future—a presentiment, which without necessarily being a forerunner of happy days, yet excites us as though they really would follow.

As the country-seat of my uncle’s prospective father-in-law was situated on high ground, I could see it from the very cove where I landed. To be more exact, all that I could see clearly was the square, turreted tower and the windows, stained red and gold by the setting sun. The rest of the building was hidden by a mass of verdure, probably a group of trees. Anyhow, I could see enough to guide me on my way. I left my valise in the village, saying that I would send after it on the following day, and went on.

I was ascending the sloping path, whipping with my cane the rustling corn and bushes, whence the startled butterflies flew; when, at a turn of the road, I was greatly surprised to see a man sitting on a rock. My surprise may seem strange at first, but the fact is the man was a friar. For the first time in my life I was looking at a friar in flesh and blood. I was astonished, as if I had thought that friars were no longer to be met with, except in the canvases of ZurbarÁn or Murillo.

All the knowledge I had of a friar’s dress was derived from pictures I had seen in the museum, or from having seen Rafael Calvo, once, in the Duke of Rivas’s drama, Don Alvaro, or The Force of Destiny. I perceived that the friar seated on the rock was a Franciscan. His coarse gown fell in statuesque folds over his limbs, his hood had fallen on his shoulders, and in his hand was one of those coarse felt hats, with the brim looped up like a French abbÉ’s, with which he was fanning his brow, wet with perspiration, breathing heavily all the time. Soon, putting his hat on the ground, turning his elbows out, and resting his open hands on his knees, he remained plunged in thought.

I observed him with eager curiosity, imagining that by the simple fact of his being a friar, his mind must be filled with strange or sublime thoughts.

He lifted his right hand, and thrusting it into his left sleeve, took out an enormous blue-and-white checked handkerchief from a kind of pocket formed in the folds of the sleeve, and blew his nose vigorously. Then he arose, took up his hat, and began to go on, just as I came up to him.

I did not know whether to come close to his side, or to fall back, or to pass on simply wishing him good afternoon. Without any known cause, that man attracted, interested and fascinated me. I had two antagonistic ideas about friars: on one side was the friar of the cheap chromos after Ortego—a gluttonous, drunken, dissolute creature, a man without any sense of decency looking out from under his cowl; on the other, was the friar of novels and poems,—gloomy, mystical, visionary, with his mind enfeebled by fasting, and his nerves shaken by abstinence; fleeing from womankind, avoiding men; dyspeptic, assaulted by temptations and scruples. And I was eager to know to which of the two classes my friar belonged.

As though he had read my thoughts, he stopped on hearing my footsteps, and faced me, while he said in a resolute and commanding tone:

“Good afternoon, sir. You’ll excuse me for asking you a question. Do you come from San AndrÉs de Louza, and are you going to the Aldao’s Tower?”

“Yes, sir, I am going there,” I answered, somewhat surprised.

“Well, if you have no objection, we’ll go along together. I know the way, because I have been there before. I take the liberty of making this proposition, as I imagine that whenever one finds himself traveling alone in the country, he is not offended—”

“Offense! Quite the contrary,” I replied, pleased with the friar’s martial air.

We went on side by side, because the path was widening and allowed us this privilege of sociability. I then noticed that he wore no shoes, but had on sandals which were fastened over the instep, thus leaving free his toes, which were fleshy and well-shaped like those of the statues of San Antonio of Padua. He at once began to question me.

“You must pardon me, for I am very frank, and like to have people know each other. Are you, perchance, a relative of CarmiÑa Aldao?”

“No, sir, but of her betrothed. I am his nephew.”

“Ah, I know now; the one who was studying in Madrid to become a civil engineer; Benigna’s son.”

“Just so. How is it you know so much about me?”

“I’ll tell you. The Aldao family honor me with many confidences, and that’s the way I come to know so much about those details. And how do you get on with your studies? I know also that you are very assiduous, and have a brilliant future before you. And I am very glad to make your acquaintance. I say so sincerely, for I am not in the habit of paying compliments. But you don’t know my name yet. I didn’t tell you, because a poor friar does not need to introduce himself, as his habit is a sufficient introduction. My name is Silvestre Moreno, your humble servant.”

“And my name is Salustio——”

“Yes, I know, I know. Salustio MelÉndez Unceta.”

“I see that you know everything.”

“I wish I did,” replied the friar, with a good-natured laugh; and then stopping suddenly, he said to me imploringly:

“Couldn’t you do me the favor to give me a cigarette?”

“I don’t smoke,” I answered, with a certain hauteur, which afterward seemed absurd to me.

“You are quite right; one need the less. But I, oh, dear, I am so corrupted that—well, never mind, I must have patience till we get to Tejo.”

“How long is it since you have smoked?”

“Heigh, ho, since yesterday afternoon. I have been staying at the house of an old lady in Pontevedra, who is a very respectable widow and lives there all alone. And you can well understand that neither she nor her maid smoke. I cut myself, when I was shaving in the morning, as I had a saw instead of a razor, and that lady was so kind, that she bought me a little English razor, fine enough to cut a thought; here it is,” he added, pointing up his sleeve. “I haven’t used it yet. So you see, after that present, which must have cost her considerable, I couldn’t be mean enough to ask her for money for tobacco.”

“But,” cried I, infected by the friar’s frankness, “don’t you carry a copper of your own?”

“Why, to be sure I do not, most of the time, nor half of one.”

“How is that possible?”

“Why, good gracious, my vow of poverty—is that only a joke?”

“I am very sorry I don’t smoke,” I exclaimed, “if only for this once.”

“Don’t distress yourself, friend, for we friars don’t mind it when we cannot indulge a bad habit. Besides, when I get to Tejo I’ll have more good things than I want. You’ll see how SeÑor Aldao will rush forward to offer me a cigar.”

He said this with a cheerful and philosophical air, and proceeded on his way in good spirits, walking faster than I could. A question kept springing to my lips, and I finally ventured to put it, “Doesn’t it mortify you to go without shoes?”

“No, sir,” he replied, slowly, as though trying to recollect whether it really did annoy him. “I did miss my shoes at first, or rather, not them, but my stockings, because I never wore any but those which my mother used to knit for me, and they were very heavy. Oh, I am mistaken; I have worn stockings, and that of the finest silk, not so very long ago. I say this, that you may not fancy, because I am a friar, that I have never enjoyed such luxuries. However, that is foreign to our subject. But in regard to your question, which I wish to answer categorically, you must know that since I have been going around without shoes, I have never suffered with corns, chilblains, bunions, or anything of the kind.”

As he spoke, he thrust out his foot, which was really well-shaped, and had none of the deformities caused by wearing shoes.

“And just observe, sir, what habit will do. It seems to me now that I am cleaner this way. I have come to think that shoes and stockings serve only to hide nastiness. No one who goes without shoes has really dirty feet, no matter how much he may walk or how hot it may be; especially if he has the habit I have”—suiting the action to the word, he drew aside a few steps, and approaching the little brook which flowed by the side of the pathway, between reeds and briers, took off his sandals, tucked up his gown a little, and thrust first one foot and then the other into the flowing stream. After he had dried them on the grass, he put on his sandals, and looked at me with a triumphant air. I smiled under the impulse of an idea, or, rather, a very warm feeling, which might be expressed in these words:

“What a queer friar, and how nice he is!”

“Come now, I can guess what you are thinking about,” said he.

“Perhaps you can. Go on, and I’ll tell you if you are right.”

“Well, then, you are thinking under your coat, there, that we friars pay little attention to our manners, that we are very democratic, and don’t understand the ways of society; and, besides, that we are very crafty in our dealings with people.”

“No, indeed, sir, by no means! I was thinking——”

“Call me Father Moreno, or simply, Moreno, if it is the same to you. That ‘sir’ sounds too formal for a poor friar.”

“Well, Father Moreno, what I was puzzling over—but there, I am afraid if I tell you I shall offend you.”

“By no means, by no means. I like frankness.”

“Well, I was thinking that friars do not generally have the reputation of being so—so much devoted to bodily cleanliness as you are.”

While saying this, I was looking at him out of the corner of my eye, examining his hands, his ears, his neck; all which outwardly betray a person’s habits of cleanliness.

“I even thought you considered it sinful to care for the person. They say that the chief merit of some ascetic saints consisted in their carrying a thousand inhabitants on their persons; and having their hair and beards—colonized!”

Instead of getting angry at my impertinence, the friar burst into the heartiest laugh I ever heard in a man’s mouth.

“So that’s what you thought,” he said, when his mirth would allow him to speak. “And you, who appear to be so well informed a young fellow, don’t you know what the glorious St. Teresa used to say? Why, she would bathe herself thoroughly, and then exclaim, ‘Lord, make my soul like my body!’ So you thought that all we friars were stupid pigs! No wonder you felt startled when you met me! Have you ever met any friars except your humble servant?”

“To tell the truth, you are the first I ever met in my life. Furthermore, I thought you no longer existed. Of course, it was nonsense; for I know that they are re-peopling the convents of various orders in Spain. But, honestly, I had the fancy that friars were only to be found in paintings, in the figures in churches, and, consequently—but it was all a mistake, of course.”

“Well, here you see a live one. It is the same with friars as with the rest of the world, and you will readily understand that there are many different tastes and dispositions, though all are governed by the same rule. Some are careless, while others pay more attention to dress. But, as you are aware, our sacred garb does not allow us to carry about many perfumery bottles, or an array of essences and pomades. How nice a friar would look using Fay’s wash, or Kananga—or what the deuce do they call that perfume which is so much the rage just now?”

“I see that you know all about it, Father,” I exclaimed, laughing in my turn.

“It is because I am often with some very stylish and elegant ladies. Don’t feel surprised that I desire to clear myself, and all poor little friars, of the bad reputation you give us. Just fancy, our Holy Founder was so fond of water that he even composed some fine verses proclaiming it pure and clean! I speak to you with entire frankness; I do like neat people, but I don’t like excessive care of the person. That seems to me sickening and disgusting. Goodness! This wasting a half hour by a young fellow in trimming and polishing his nails—that may pass in a woman,—but for a man who wears a beard—bah!”

As he said this, the friar folded his arms, and turned toward me, as if tired and wanting to rest.

In the reddish light of the setting sun which so clearly defines the form, I could see that his was in perfect harmony with that profession of manly faith. He was robust, without being stout, and of good height, without being very tall. His dark, olive complexion indicated a bilious temperament, and his skin was bronzed by journeying exposed to the blazing sun. His very black eyes were quick, lively, and well-shaped; with a piercing look which seemed to search the very depths of your soul. His neck, left uncovered by his tonsure, indicated strength; and so did his hands, large, strong, and flexible—hands which might serve alike gently to elevate the Host, or to use the spade, the cudgel, or the musket, in case of need. His features did not belie his hands, and were drawn as though by a skilled sculptor; uniting that calmness and firmness to be seen in certain statues. On his upper lip and in the middle of his chin he had two dimples, which almost always indicate a kindly heart, destined to modify a naturally severe disposition. I even noticed his ears, which were wide and almost flexible, like a confessor’s—ears with a great deal of character, such as ecclesiastics usually have.

“What a friar he is! What a vigorous nature he seems to have!” I kept thinking in surprise.

We held on our way. We must now have been quite near to the Aldao place, but we could not reach it until nightfall, which was rapidly approaching. The fragrance of the honeysuckle was more penetrating; the dogs thrust their noses through the fences, and barked at us with the greatest fury; far away you could hear the owls hooting; and the new moon, like a fine line traced in the sky, showed itself over the river. The friar uttered a slight exclamation, thus proving that he appreciated the beauty of the scene.

“What a lovely afternoon! Ah! but this is a beautiful country! The more you see it, the more you admire it. And how cool it is! Too much so for me. For my part, I prefer the climate of Africa.”

“Have you been much in Africa?”

“I should say so! Why, I am half Moor.”

“And have you journeyed over the desert?”

“Certainly; and without any tents, or store of provisions, or escort, or any other traps, such as explorers usually carry. I traveled around mounted on a mule, with a couple of hens tied to the pommel of my saddle; drinking water from the pools; and sleeping under the wide canopy of the stars. Thus I have wandered far over those sandy wastes, and had many an adventure.”

I should have liked to question him about his African travels, but just then I was pricked on by a greater curiosity, as we drew near to Tejo and could see its white walls and a great black blotch of trees, as it seemed to me. I wanted to test the exactness of my mother’s information by finding the opinion of a person whom I already believed to be extremely impartial and straightforward.

“Tell me, Father Moreno, are you acquainted with the family into which my uncle is to marry? What sort of a person is his betrothed? What kind of a man is her father?”

“Of course, I know them,” replied the friar, putting, as it were, a mask of discreet reserve over his frank face. “They are a very nice family, and your uncle’s betrothed is—a very good young lady, indeed.”

“And—is she pretty?”

The friar was not shocked by my question, but answered freely:

“I am but a poor judge of that. Perhaps I may be mistaken, but I will confess that she does not appear to me to be ravishingly beautiful. I would not call her ugly, but neither—Although I say I’m a poor judge, yet it is not because I have not had an opportunity of seeing women; for, over there in Tangiers, TetuÁn, and Melilla, there are Jewish and Moorish women who are considered very beautiful. You’ll be surprised, but I have some Moorish friends who thought so much of me that one of them showed me his harem. Among those people it was a great mark of esteem, I tell you.”

“Ah,” I murmured, unable to keep back a mischievous remark. “So the door of the harem was opened to you?”

“Yes,” replied the friar, with great simplicity; “and do you want to hear a description of my friend’s favorite, the chosen one, I say, of this Moorish friend of mine, who was a very wealthy man in that place?”

“How did she look? Very enticing?”

“I have already told you that I am but a poor judge, and can only describe her outward appearance; and you may decide for yourself. She wore a rich silk dress, cut low in the neck, which was covered with diamond necklaces and strings of big pearls. She had on at least two or three. She wore large gold bands on her arms, like those described by Cervantes in his novel El Cautivo. Haven’t you read it? Well, that was the kind. Then there were cushions and cushions and more cushions; some under her arms, others under her hips, and others behind her head. Their purpose was to prevent her chafing herself, for she was almost bursting with fat, which is the secret of beauty among Moorish women. This one could not stir. Do you know how they used to fatten her? Why, with little bread balls, and in such numbers that it could no longer be called fattening a woman, but cramming her. She was smoking through a tube as long as this, and in front of her she had a little table inlaid with mother-of-pearl, which was covered with sweetmeats and various drinks.”

“Ah, you old rogue of a friar!” I thought. “You pretend to be very simple and innocent, though you are really the greatest and most crafty rogue in the world. You are boring me with all this gossip about the Moors so as not to drop anything about my prospective aunt. But I’ll catch you yet! Just wait!” So I said aloud:

“Father Moreno, as you can describe a Moorish woman so well, you can surely draw the likeness of a Christian woman. At least, you might inform me whether my uncle’s betrothed is stuffed with bread balls, or if she has a slender and graceful figure, like the palm-tree of the desert. Come, Father!”

We were ascending the stony path which runs along the inclosure of Tejo, and there we could not walk side by side. So the friar turned around and faced me, in order to reply. The last rays of the sun had disappeared, but in the twilight I could see his eyes gleam, while he answered me with a strange mixture of sportive grace and earnestness:

“Sir, pardon, I pray you, a poor friar for expressing himself in a manner conformable to the habit he wears, and to the rule he obeys. I may describe the person of a Moorish woman, a heathen, because, if God has made it beautiful, it is the only thing we can praise about her; since her soul is wrapped in the darkness of error. But you, yourself, have called your uncle’s betrothed a Christian woman; and I, for my part, am fully persuaded that she is worthy of that name; so—pardon me, if I express myself with too much warmth—I was going to say, that name so sublime. A Christian woman’s soul is the first, and perhaps the only thing about her worthy of praise, and any other eulogies would not sound well, coming from my lips. A body which incloses a soul, redeemed by the blood of Christ! Ah! I am not going to praise her to you with pretty words, or flowers of rhetoric. If I assure you that your future aunt is indeed a Christian woman, I have said all that I have to say.”

“Is she so very good, Father Moreno?”

“Excellent, excellent, excellent!”

The tone in which the friar repeated this adjective, left no room for further urging. Besides, we had reached the gate. Nevertheless, when the father seized the knocker, I could not refrain from asking, in an insinuating tone:

“And do you come to the wedding out of pure friendship, Father Moreno?”

“Oranges!” he exclaimed, in the harsh tone which usually emphasizes the most innocent expletives; “Why, I have come to perform the ceremony!”