📿 Nazarín ✨ Una historia de fe, pobreza y redención
In this profoundly human narrative, Benito Pérez Galdós introduces us to Nazarín, a humble priest who, guided by his faith and a rigorous moral sense, decides to live among the poor and marginalized, distancing himself from the comforts of the traditional clergy. Throughout this story, we accompany this unique character on his journey through life, facing pain, injustice, and misunderstanding with an almost evangelical serenity. Nazarín is not only a religious or social tale, but a reflection on goodness in a world that seems neither to understand nor reward it. NAZARÍN. PART ONE. Chapter 1. To a journalist of a new kind, one of those we designate with the exotic name of _reporter_, one of those who run after information , like a greyhound after a hare, and chase after a fire, a fight, a suicide, a comic or tragic crime, the collapse of a building, and whatever events affect public order and justice in ordinary times, or hygiene in days of epidemic, I owe the discovery of _Aunt Chanfaina’s_ guesthouse on the baptismal certificate _Estefanía_, located on a street whose meanness and poverty contrast in the most ironic way with its high-sounding and coruscating name: _Calle de las Amazonas_. Those who are not used to the eternal _guasa_ of Madrid, the city or town of sarcasm and vile lies, will not pay attention to the tremendous fatuity of such a resounding sign on such a filthy street, nor will they stop to investigate who those amazons were who baptized it, nor where they came from, nor what the hell they were doing in the Madroñales del Oso. Here is a _void_ that my erudition hastens to fill, stating, with the pride of a sagacious chronicler, that in those places there once stood a corral of the town in the time of Mari Castaña, and that from it came out on horseback, dressed in the style of mythological heroines, a troupe of big women who attended the festivities with which Madrid celebrated the entry of Queen Isabel de Valois. And the naive contemporary forecaster, to whom I owe these profound insights, says : “Those females, sought ad hoc, performed prodigies of valor in the squares and streets of the town, due to the riskiness of their games, balances, and somersaults, the warriors pretending to grab them by the hair and tear them from the saddlebag to throw them to the ground.” This diversion must have been memorable , because the corral was from then on called the “Amazons’ corral,” and here you have the glorious lineage of the street, illustrious in our days by the hospitable and charitable establishment of Aunt Chanfaina. I believe that the Amazons mentioned by the chronicler of Philip II, my lord, were shameless chulapas of the 16th century; but I don’t know what word the common people used to designate them at that time. What I can assure you is that she is descended from them through a line of bastardy, that is, through a direct succession of tomboyish females with no known father, the terrible Estefanía de la del Peñón, Chanfaina, or whatever the hell her name is. Because I say with all truth that the gentle name of “woman” comes undone when I want to apply it to her, and that it will be enough for me to inform my readers of her appearance, gait, voice, language, and mannerisms for them to recognize in her the most formidable tarasca that the people of ancient Madrid saw and that those to come hope to see. Nevertheless, you can believe me that I thank God, and the reporter, my friend, for having confronted that beast, for I owe to her barbarity the germ of this story and the discovery of the most singular character who gives it its name. Let no one take the “guest house” that was mentioned at first literally , because between the various lodging establishments that Aunt Chanfaina ran in that corner, and those in the center of Madrid that we all knew during our student days, and even after, there is no similarity other than the name. The entrance to the building was like an inn, wide, with all the plaster peeling off in a thousand fantastic patterns, revealing here and there the bare bones of the wall, and with a strip of dirt on one side and the other, a sign of the constant rubbing of people rather than horses. A drinks stand—bottles and carafes, a dusty glass box filled with sugar cubes and besieged by flies, all on a wobbly, dirty table—reduced the entrance to regular proportions. The courtyard, poorly paved and worse swept, like the entrance, and dotted with deep holes, in places with stunted grass, puddles, mud puddles, or rubble from pots and jugs, was more than picturesquely irregular, it was fantastic. The southern wall must have belonged to the old buildings of the famous corral; the rest, from different eras, could have been passed off as an architectural joke: windows that wanted to be lowered, doors that stretched to be raised, railings turned into partitions, walls oozing with damp, rusty and crooked gutters, tiles on the windowsills, sheets of zinc nailed onto rotten wood to close a gap, crushed corners, walls with crosses and scribbles of fresh lime, trestles bristling with glass and bottle caps to deter thieves; on one side, worm- eaten uprights supporting a gallery that leans like a stranded ship; on the other, paneled doors with cat flaps so large that tigers could fit through them if they were there; cinnamon-colored bars; pieces of purple brick, like clots of blood: and finally the playfulness of light and shadow in all those sharp angles and sinister hollows. One Shrove Tuesday, I well remember, the good reporter had the good grace to stumble upon those places. In the hallway’s washroom , I saw a ragged one-eyed woman selling groceries, and the first thing we saw, upon entering the courtyard, was a noisy gang of gypsies, who had been staying there that day, the men sprawled out , arranging packsaddles, the women combing and combing their hair, the half-naked children, with black eyes and curly hair, playing with glass and rubble. Their expressive baked clay faces turned toward us , and we heard their scornful language and offers of fortune-telling. Two donkeys and an old gypsy with sideburns resembling the silky, matted fur of those patient animals completed the scene, which was not lacking in noise and music to better characterize it, the songs of a gypsy woman, and the snipping of the old man trimming the rump of a donkey. Then, from a cavity—I don’t know if it was a door, a room , or the mouth of a cave—appeared two lean honeymooners, their legs stuffed with brown cloth and black stockings, sandals with straps, a tight-fitting vest, and a kerchief on their heads, types of Castilian stock, like dried meat wrapped in tinder. They must have made some contemptuous joke with the gypsies, and they set off with their weights and pots to sell the delicious honey in Madrid . We then saw two blind men groping around the walls, one plump and round, with a brown fur cap, a fringed cap, and a guitar slung over his back, the other with a violin, which had only two strings, a scarf, and a Teresian cap without braid. They were joined by a barefoot girl clutching a tambourine, and they left, stopping at the doorway to drink the indispensable drink. There they engaged in a lively conversation with others who had also come to taste the liquor. They were two masks, one completely dressed in filthy mats—if wearing them slung over her shoulders can be called dressing, her face smeared with soot, no mask, carrying a fishing rod and a handkerchief tied at its four corners, filled with figs that looked more like dung. The other carried the mask in her hand, a horrible figure representing the president of the Council, and her body disappeared beneath a patched quilt of various colors and rags. They drank and got into a fit of vulgar banter, and running into the courtyard, they climbed a staircase half of worn brick, half of rotten wood. At the top there was a great uproar of laughter and the playing of castanets; then they went down to a dozen masks, among them two that, because of their bulky shapes and short stature, revealed themselves to be women dressed as men, others in very ugly costumes for theatrical troupes, and one without a mask, painted with slate. face. At the same time, two men carried out in their arms an old paralytic woman, who wore a sign on her chest stating her age—over a hundred, a good enough appeal for public charity—and took her to the street to place her on the corner of Arganzuela Street. It was the face of an elderly woman enlarged on a chestnut tree , and she would have been taken for a real mummy, if her small, pale eyes hadn’t revealed a trace of life in that mess of bones and skin, forgotten by death. We saw them then carry out the corpse of a child about two years old, in a coffin lined with pink calico and adorned with rag flowers. He came out without a show of tears or a maternal farewell, as if no one existed in the world who would be sad to see him leave. The man carrying him also threw his trinket at the door, and only the gypsy women had a word of pity for this being who passed so quickly through our world. Boys dressed in masks, with nothing more than a percale robe or a cardboard hat adorned with strips of paper, girls with waisted shawls and flowers on their heads, in a swaggering style, crossed the courtyard, stopping to listen to the gypsies’ taunts or to tangle with the donkeys, which they would have gladly ridden if their owners had allowed it. Before we entered, the reporter gave me valuable news, which instead of satisfying my curiosity, excited it even more. Mrs. Chanfaina had once housed people with better hair, veterinary students, hustlers as rude as they were good payers; but as the movement was leaving that neighborhood straight for the Plaza de la Cebada, the quality of her tenants visibly declined. Some she kept for the exclusive payment of the so-called room, eating on their own, others she housed and maintained. In the upstairs kitchen , everyone was busy with their own pots and pans, except for the gypsies, who were making their stews in the courtyard on stone or brick trivets. We finally went upstairs, eager to see all the hidden recesses of the strange mansion, the lair of such a fertile and pitiable part of humanity, and in a small room, whose floor of broken tiles mimicked the rise and fall of a stormy sea, we saw Estefanía, in her slippers, washing her big hands, which she then wiped on her burlap apron; the voluminous belly, the Herculean arms, the bosom emulating the stomach in proportions and bearing weight on it, so as not to be constrained by the tightness of a corset, the wide, fleshy neck with a muzzle like a bull’s, the flushed face, and with well -marked remains of a beauty painted by a broad brush, bulging, baroque, striking, like that of a nymph in a ceiling painting, drawn to be seen from afar, and which is seen up close. Chapter 2. Her hair was gray, neatly combed with countless curls, waves , and little rings. The rest of her person announced untidiness, and a complete lack of coquetry and elegance. She greeted us with a frank laugh, and to my friend’s questions she replied that she was very fed up with all this bustle, and that one day she would abandon it all to join the Little Sisters, or wherever charitable souls would take her in; that her business was pure slavery, for there is nothing worse than dealing with poor people, especially if one has a compassionate nature, like hers. Because, as she told us, she never had the nerve to demand what was owed to her, and so all those rabble were in her house as if in a conquered country; some paid her, others didn’t, and some would leave, taking her plate, spoon, or piece of clothing. What she did was shout, yes, shout a lot, which frightened people; but her actions didn’t match the shout or the gesture, for if she was ranting, let alone supposing, there was no voice as sonorous as hers, nor more tremendous words, she would immediately let the bread be taken from her mouth, and the most foolish of them would carry her away tied with a silk thread. Finally , he described his character with a sincerity that seemed legitimate, not feigned, and the last argument he put forward was that after twenty-something years in that rat’s nest, housing people of all kinds hair, I hadn’t been able to save two pesetas to have some respite in case of illness. I was saying this when four women came in, wearing masks— not the cardboard or cloth mask worn for Carnival, but the coat of paint those Indians had applied with bleach, patches of carmine on their cheeks, lips that seemed bloodied, and other disgusting cosmetics, false moles, blackened eyebrows, and the drooping eyes, also with a hint of cat’s coat, to poetize their gaze. From their hands and clothes, these women gave off a cheap perfume that was felt by the living in our noses, and from this and from their language, we immediately understood that we were in the midst of the most abject and shabby of the human species. At first, one might have thought they were masks, and the rouge an extravagant form of carnival disguise. Such was my first impression; But I soon learned that their painting was in all styles _ordinary_, or that they always lived in Carnival. I don’t know what the hell they were up to, because since the four of them and _Chanfa_ were talking at the same time with outrageous voices and ridiculous gestures, sometimes furious and sometimes laughing, we couldn’t find out. But it was just a matter of a pin and a man. What had happened to the pins? Who was the man? Bored with that hubbub, we went out to a corridor that led to the patio, where I saw an earthen box with street grass, rue, carnations , and other almost-withered plants, and on the railing, sheepskin and doormats left to dry. We were pacing around, fearful that the rickety frame that supported us would give way under our weight, when we saw a narrow window opening onto the corridor, and in the frame appeared a figure that at first seemed female. It was a man. His voice, more than his face, gave us away. Without noticing those of us watching him from a distance, he began calling for Mrs. Chanfaina, who paid no attention at first , giving my companion and me time to examine him at our leisure . He was middle-aged, or rather, prematurely aged, with a lean, gaunt face, an aquiline nose, black eyes, a dark complexion, and a close-cropped beard—the most perfect Semitic type I’ve seen outside of the Moorish quarters, a pure, beardless Arab. He wore a black suit that at first seemed to me to be a slouch; but later I saw it was a cassock. “Is this man a priest?” —I asked my friend, and the affirmative response prompted me to a more attentive observation. Certainly, the visit to what I will call the “Amazons’ house” was proving to be very useful for an ethnographic study, due to the diversity of human castes gathered there: the gypsies, the honeymooners, the big women, who undoubtedly came from some unknown, slender branch, and finally, that Arab in the black gaiter—they were the greatest confusion of types I had ever seen in my life. And to top off the confusion, the Arab… said mass. In a few words, my companion explained to me that the Semitic cleric lived in the part of the house that faced the street, much better than everything else, although not a good one, with a separate staircase through the entrance, and with no other connection with Lady Estefanía’s domains than that small window from which we saw him leaning out, and an impassable door, because it was nailed shut. Therefore, the priest did not belong to the host family of the formidable Amazon. She finally found out that her neighbor was calling her, went there, and we heard a conversation that my excellent memory allows me to transcribe without missing a syllable. “Señá Chanfa, do you know what’s happening to me? ” “Oh, may she catch us confessing! What more calamities do you have to tell me? ” “Well, I’ve been robbed. There’s no doubt that I’ve been robbed. I suspected it this morning, because I heard Siona rummaging through my trunks. She went out shopping, and at ten o’clock, seeing that she didn’t return, I grew more suspicious; I say that my suspicions were almost confirmed. Now that it’s eleven o’clock, or so I reckon, because she also took my watch, I’ve just realized that the robbery is a fact, because I’ve searched the trunks and I’m missing the underwear, all of it, absolutely everything, and the outer garments too, except for the clerical garments. Well, of the money that was in the dresser drawer, in this little leather bag, look at it, he hasn’t left me a single penny. And the worst of it—this is the worst, Miss Chanfa—the worst of it is that the little there was in the pantry flew away, and the coal and kindling flew out of the kitchen. In such a way and manner, my lady, that I have tried to do something with which to feed myself, and I can’t find a single provision, not a piece of dry bread, nor a plate, nor a bowl. He has left nothing but the tongs and the bellows, a colander, the ladle, and two or three broken pots. It’s been a real move, Miss Chanfa, and here I am still fasting, very weak, not knowing where to get it from, and… So you see: as long as I have some food to keep me going, that’s enough for me. The rest doesn’t matter to me, you know that well. —Damn the milk you drank, Father Nazarín, and cursed the damned minute when they said: ‘someone more evil-sounding, someone more simple and _savory_, I don’t believe would walk the world as a natural person… —But, daughter, what do you want…? I… —Me, me!… You’re to blame, and you’re the one who steals and harms yourself, you idiots, you fool, Mr. Garlic! We’re omitting the string of indecent phrases that followed out of respect for those who read this. The beast was gesticulating and shouting at the window, half its body buried inside the room, and the Arab cleric was walking around as calmly as if he heard compliments and pleasantries, a little sad, yes, but without seeming very affected by his misfortunes, nor by the shower of insults with which his neighbor consoled him. “If it weren’t for the fact that I’m shy about hitting a man, especially a priest, I would come in right now, lift your black skirts and give you a good spanking… you little creature, more innocent than those still suckling!… And now you want me to fill your belly!… And that’s three, and that’s four… If you’re a bird, go to the field and eat whatever you find, or perch on the branch of a tree, chirping, until the flies come to you… And if you’re crazy, let’s imagine, take you to the madhouse.” “Madame Chanfa,” said the clergyman with astonishing serenity, approaching the window, “this sad body needs very little to feed itself: a piece of bread, if there is nothing else, is enough for me. I ask you because I consider you a neighbor. But if you do not want to give it to me, I will go somewhere else where they give it to me, for there are not as few charitable souls as you think. ” “Go to the Inn of the Horn, or to the kitchen of the Archpostolic Nuncio, where they cook for the sacred lazybones, for example, sycophantic clergymen!… And another thing, Father Nazarín: are you sure that it was Siona who robbed you? Because you are the spirit of trust and foolishness, and Lepe and Lepijo enter your house; Daughters of wicked mothers also come in, some to tell you their sins, I suppose, others to have them pawned or used, and to beg you for alms, and drive you mad. You don’t notice who comes to see you; you put on a good face and tell them all the blessings. What’s going on? This one deceives you, the other laughs, and between them all they even take off your diapers. “It was Siona. You can’t blame anyone but Siona . Go with God, and whatever it is that will do you good, for I will not persecute you.” I was astonished at what I saw and heard, and my friend, although he had not witnessed such scenes for the first time, was also amazed at the scene. I asked him for background on the strange and incomprehensible Nazarín, whose Muslim type seemed more and more evident to me with each passing moment, and he said: “This is an Arab from La Mancha, a native of Miguelturra itself, and his name is Don Nazario Zaharín or Zajarín. I know nothing of him except his name and country; but, if it pleases you, we will question him to learn his history and character, which I think must be very singular, as singular as his type, and what we recently heard from his own lips. In this neighborhood many consider him a saint, and others for a simpleton. What could it be? I believe that by dealing with him, we will know with absolute certainty. Chapter 3. The blackest one was missing. The four Tarascan friends of Estefanía heard that Siona was being accused, one of whom was a close niece, and they rushed to the window like lionesses or panthers, with the good intention of defending the accused. But they did so in such a brutal and vile manner that we had to intervene to put a stop to their filthy mouths. There was not a single insolence that they did not vomit upon the Arab and La Mancha priest, nor a single foul word that they did not shoot at point-blank range… “Look at the scamp, the very filthy, scruffy, underfed, sloppy scumbag ! Accusing Siona, the most conscientious lady in all of Christendom!” Yes sir, with more conscience than the quacks who do nothing but deceive honest people with the lies they invent!… Who is he, and what do his black fly-wing habits mean, if he does nothing but live off the snuff, and doesn’t know how to earn it? Why doesn’t that simpleton arrange baptisms and funerals, like other clerics who walk around Madrid with very good hair?… Masses are given in bulk for everyone, and nothing for him: misery and chocolate for three reales, liver and a bit of chard, which the goats don’t want… And then they say they’re robbing him!… If they don’t steal the bones of his skeleton, and the crown, and the Adam’s apple, and the elbows, I don’t know what they ‘re going to steal from him… If he doesn’t have any clothes, or sheets, or any other _pledge_ but a sprig of rosemary at his head, to scare away the demons!… These must be the ones who robbed him, these are the ones who took the gospels and the chrism, and the holy oil of the mass, and the _ora pro nobis_… Rob him! What? Two images of the Blessed Virgin, and the crucified Lord with the pedestal full of cockroaches… Ha, ha… What a sight for Mr. Domino Vobisco, attacked by thieves!… As if he were the Most Holy Easter Nuncio, or the Minerva of the Chitolic Lamb, with the whole monument of God in his house, and the Holy Sepulchre of the eleven thousand virgins! Go and give him blood sausage!… Go and let Tato kill him!… Go and…! “Arza!” my friend told them, pushing them out with more shoves than with words, for it was already repugnant to see a person of respectability, at least apparent, insulted by such vile rabble. It was hard work to get them out: down the stairs they were spewing poison and perfume, and in the courtyard they had something to rant about with the gypsies, and even with the donkeys. Once the ground was cleared, we thought of nothing more than making Nazarín’s acquaintance, and asking his permission, we slipped into his home, climbing the narrow staircase that led from the entrance hall. Whatever can be said about the squalid and neglected state of that house is an understatement. In the living room, we saw nothing but a very old straw sofa, two trunks, a table containing the breviary and two other books, and a chest of drawers. Next to the living room, another room we’ll call a bedroom because in it was the bed, made of a platform, with a mattress, a flabby pillow, and no trace of sheets or bedspreads. Three religious prints and a crucifix on a small table completed the furnishings, along with two pairs of well-worn boots lined up, and a few other insignificant objects. Father Nazarín greeted us with a cold affability, showing neither detachment nor extreme refinement, as if he were indifferent to our visit, or if he believed he owed us no more compliments than the basics of good manners. My friend and I sat on the stool opposite us. We looked at him with lively curiosity, and he at us as if he had seen us a thousand times. Naturally, we talked about the robbery, the only subject we could address, and when we told him that the urgent thing was to report it without delay to the police commissioner, he answered us with the utmost calmness: “No, gentlemen; I don’t usually report…” “So… have you been robbed so many times that being robbed has become a habit for you? ” “Yes, sir; many, always… ” “And you say it so casually? ” “Can’t you see that I don’t keep anything. I don’t know what keys are. Besides, The little I possess, that is, what I possessed, is not worth the small effort it takes to turn a key. “Nevertheless, Father, property is property, and what, relatively speaking, according to Don Hermogenes’s calculations, would be little for another, could be much for you. You see, today they’ve even left you without your modest breakfast, and without a shirt. ” “And even without soap to wash my hands… Patience and calm. The shirt, breakfast, and soap will come from somewhere. Besides, gentlemen, I have my ideas; I profess them with a conviction as profound as faith in Christ our Father. Property! For me, it’s nothing more than an empty name, invented by selfishness. Nothing belongs to anyone. Everything belongs to the first person who needs it. ” “What a fine society we would have if those ideas prevailed! And how would we know who was the first in need? We would have to fight each other, knife in hand, for that right of primacy in need.” Smiling kindly and with a touch of disdain, the clergyman replied in these or similar terms: “If you look at things from the vantage point we’re in now, of course it seems absurd; but you have to stand on high, my lord, to see well from them. From below, surrounded by so many devices, we see nothing. Anyway, since I’m not trying to convince anyone, I won’t go on, and you’ll excuse me for…” At this point, we saw Senora Chanfa darken the room, filling the entire window with her bulk, through which she held out a plate containing half a dozen sardines and a large piece of bread, along with a pewter fork. The clergyman took it in his hands and, after offering it to us, began to eat heartily. Poor thing! He hadn’t put a single thing in his body all day. Whether out of respect for us, or because compassion had overcome her rude habits, Chanfaina did not accompany the gift with any vulgar language. Giving the priest time to satisfy his need, we returned to questioning him in the most discreet manner. Question after question, and after learning his age, between thirty and forty, his origins, which were humble, from a family of shepherds, his studies, etc., I began to probe him on the most delicate ground. “If I were sure, Father Nazarín, that you didn’t think me impertinent, I would allow myself to ask you two or three questions. ” “Anything you want. ” “You answer me or don’t answer me, as it suits you. And if I interfere in what doesn’t concern me, you send me packing, and that’s it. ” “Tell me. ” “Am I speaking to a Catholic priest? ” “Yes, sir. ” “Are you Orthodox, purely Orthodox?” Is there nothing in your ideas or in your customs that separates you from the immutable doctrine of the Church? “No, sir,” he answered me with a simplicity that revealed his sincerity, and without seeming surprised by the question. “I have never deviated from the teachings of the Church. I profess the faith of Christ in all its purity, and there is nothing in me for which I can be blamed. ” “Have you ever suffered correction from your superiors, from those who are charged with defining that doctrine and applying the sacred canons? ” “Never. Nor did I ever suspect that I might deserve correction or admonition… ” “Another question. Do you preach? ” “No, sir. I have very rarely ascended the pulpit. I speak in a low and familiar voice with those who will listen to me, and I tell them what I think. ” “And have your colleagues not found in you any hint of heresy? ” “No, sir.” I rarely speak to them, because they rarely speak to me, and those who do know me well enough to know that there is no trace of heresy in my mind. “And do you have your licenses? ” “Yes, sir, and never, as far as I know, has it been thought of taking them away from me. ” “Do you say Mass? ” “Whenever I am asked to. I am not in the habit of going in search of Masses in parishes where I know no one. I say it at San Cayetano when there is one for me, and sometimes at the Olivar oratory. But it is not every day, far from it. ” “Do you live exclusively from that?” —Yes, sir. —Your life, and don’t take offense, seems very precarious to me. —Quite so; but my acquiescence takes away all bitterness. I am not at all lacking in the ambition for well-being. The day I have to eat, I eat; and the day I don’t have to eat, I don’t eat. He said this with such simple ingenuity, without any trace of affectation, that my friend and I were moved—oh, how moved we were! But there was still much more to hear. Chapter 4. We never tired of asking him questions, and he answered everything without showing any annoyance at our annoyance. Nor did he display the natural presumption of one who finds himself the object of an interrogation, or interview, as they say nowadays. After the sardines, Stephanie brought him a steak that seemed to be from beef and not very good looking; but he refused it, despite the insistence of the rider, who once again became upset and started yelling at him a thousand insults. But neither for these nor for what we courteously told him to encourage him to eat more, did the man give in, and he also refused the wine the Tarascan woman offered him. With water and a quarter-dollar roll, he ended his meal, declaring that he thanked the Lord for the day’s sustenance. “And tomorrow?” we told him. “Well, tomorrow I won’t lack it either, and if I do, we’ll wait until the next day, for there are never two completely bad days in a row.” The reporter insisted on inviting him to coffee, but he, confessing that he liked it, refused. We had to urge him in the most affectionate terms to make up his mind; we ordered it at the nearby café, and the one-eyed woman who sold liquor in the doorway brought it to us, and sipping it as comfortably as the narrow table and the poor service allowed, we talked about a multitude of things and heard him say several things from which we gathered that he was a man of enlightenment. “Excuse me,” I said, “if I make an observation that occurs to me at this moment. It’s well known that you are a person of learning. I’m very surprised not to see books in your house. Either you don’t like them, or you’ve undoubtedly had to get rid of them in some serious predicament in your life. ” “I had them, yes sir, and I gave them away until I had only the three you see there. I declare with all truth that, apart from prayer books, no book, good or bad, interests me, because the soul and intelligence derive little substance from them. I have everything pertaining to faith firmly riveted in my spirit, and neither commentaries nor paraphrases of doctrine teach me anything. What else is it for? When one has been able to add to one’s innate knowledge a few ideas, learned through the knowledge of men and through the observation of society and nature, one should not ask of books either better teaching or new ideas that confuse and entangle those one already has. I want nothing with books or newspapers.” Everything I know is well known, and my convictions are unshakeable; as if they are feelings that have their roots in conscience, their flower in reason, and their fruit in conduct. Do I strike you as pedantic? Well, I won’t say more. I only add that books are, to me, the same as the cobblestones in the streets, or the dust on the roads. And when I walk past bookstores and see so much printed paper folded and sewn, and such a shower of newspapers in the streets day after day, I feel sorry for the poor souls who burn their eyebrows writing such useless things, and even more sorry for the deluded humanity that daily imposes on itself the obligation to read them. And so much is written, and so much is published, that humanity, stifled by the monster of the printing press, will find itself in the inevitable position of suppressing everything from the past. One of the things that must be abolished is profane glory, the laurel awarded to literary writings, because the day will come when so much is stored in libraries that there will be no physical means of storing and maintaining it. Whoever sees it will then see the value humanity makes of so many poems, so many lying novels, so much history that tells us facts, whose interest wears thin over time and will eventually be lost altogether. Human memory is already too small a haystack for so much nonsense. of history. Gentlemen, the age is approaching when the present will absorb all life, and when men will retain from the past only the eternal truths acquired through revelation. Everything else will be dross, a detritus that will take up too much space in minds and buildings. In that age,” he added in a tone I do not hesitate to call prophetic, “Caesar, or whoever exercises authority, will issue a decree that reads as follows: ‘All the contents of public and private libraries are declared vacant, useless, and of no value other than their material composition. Following the opinion of chemists that the papery substance seasoned by time is the best fertilizer for the land, we hereby order that ancient and modern books be piled up in large commons at the entrances to towns, so that the agricultural class may take from this precious material the portion that corresponds to them according to the land they are called to cultivate.’ Do not doubt that this will be the case, and that the papyrus material will form a colossal deposit, like the guano deposits on the Chinchas Islands. It will be exploited by mixing it with other substances that stimulate fermentation, and it will be transported by railroads and steamships from our Europe to the new countries, where there had never been literature, printing presses, or anything like that. We laughed heartily at this idea. My friend, judging by the suspicious glances he cast at me, must have formed a very unfavorable opinion of the cleric’s mental state. I considered him more of a humorist, one of those who cultivated originality. Our conversation seemed to be interminable, and we were now digging into this subject, then into that. One moment the good Nazarín casts me as a Buddhist, another as an imitator of Diogenes. “That’s all very well,” I said, “but you, Father, could live better than you are.” This isn’t a house, this isn’t furniture, and apparently , you don’t have any more clothes than you’re wearing. Why don’t you seek, within your religious status, a position that would allow you to live in modest comfort? This friend of mine is deeply involved in both legislative bodies and all the ministries, and with my help from my good connections, it wouldn’t be difficult for him to secure a canonry for you. The clergyman smiled somewhat sarcastically and told us that he had no need for canonries and that the silly life of a choir didn’t suit his independent nature. We also suggested getting him a position as an assistant in the parishes of Madrid, or a village curacy, to which he replied that if they gave him such a position, he would take it, out of obedience and unconditional obedience to his superiors. “But rest assured, they won’t give it to me,” he added with a certainty devoid of bitterness. And with or without a place, you would always see me as you see me now, because poverty is my most essential condition, and if you allow me, I will tell you that not possessing is my supreme aspiration. Just as others are happy in dreams, dreaming that they acquire riches, my happiness consists in dreaming of poverty, in recreating myself thinking about it, and in imagining, when I find myself in a bad state, a worse state. This is an ambition that is never satisfied, because the more one has, the more one wants to have, or properly speaking, the less, the less. I presume you do not understand me, or that you look at me with pity. If it is the former, I will not make an effort to convince you; if the latter, I am grateful for the compassion, and I am glad that my absolute lack of possessions has served to inspire that Christian sentiment. “And what do you think,” we asked pedantically, determined to expedite the interview, “of the pending problems, of the current state of society?” “I don’t know anything about that,” he replied, shrugging his shoulders. “I only know that as what you understand by culture advances, and so-called progress spreads, and machinery increases, and wealth accumulates , the number of poor people increases, and poverty becomes darker, sadder, more indifferent. That is what I would like to avoid, that the poor, that is, mine, find themselves so affected by the cursed Misanthropy. Believe me, among all that has been lost, no loss is as lamentable as that of patience. Some still exists scattered around, and the day it’s exhausted, goodbye world. Let a new vein of that great virtue be discovered, the first and most beautiful one that Jesus Christ taught us, and you’ll see how quickly everything will be right. —Apparently, you are an apostle of patience. —I am no apostle, my lord, nor do I have such pretensions. —You teach by example. —I do what my conscience inspires me to do, and if from this, from my actions, some example results, and someone wants to take it, so much the better. —Your credo, in social relations, is, as I see it, passivity. —You said so. —Because you allow yourself to be robbed, and you don’t protest. —Yes, sir, I allow myself to be robbed, and I don’t protest. —Because you don’t seek to improve your position, nor do you ask your superiors to give you the means to live within your religious state. —That’s right; I don’t expect, I don’t ask. —You eat when you have something to eat, and when you don’t, you don’t eat. —Exactly… I don’t eat. —And they throw you out of the house…? —I’m leaving. —And if you can’t find anyone to give you anything else…? —I sleep in the fields. It’s not the first time. —And if there’s no one to feed you…? —The fields, the fields… —And from what I’ve seen, these little women insult you, and you keep quiet and bear it. —Yes, sir, I keep quiet and bear it. I don’t know what it means to be angry. The enemy is unknown to me. —And if they insult you physically, if they slap you…? —I would suffer patiently. —And if they accused you of false crimes…? —I wouldn’t defend myself. Absolved in my conscience, the accusations would matter nothing to me. —But don’t you know that there are laws and courts that would defend you from evildoers? —I doubt that there are such things; I doubt they protect the weak against the strong; but even if all that you speak of existed, my court is God’s, and to win my disputes there, I don’t need stamped paper, or a lawyer, or to ask for referral cards. —In that passivity, taken to such an extreme, I see heroic courage. —I don’t know… For me, it’s not a merit. —Because you defy insults, hunger, misery, persecution, slander, and all the evils that surround us, whether they come from nature or from society. —I don’t defy them, I endure them. —And don’t you think about tomorrow? —Never. —Nor are you distressed when you consider that tomorrow you won’t have a bed to sleep in, nor a piece of bread to put in your mouth? —No, sir, I’m not distressed by that. —Do you count on charitable souls, like this lady Chanfaina, who seems like a devil but isn’t? —No, sir, she isn’t. —And don’t you think that the dignity of a priest is incompatible with the humiliation of receiving alms? —No, sir: alms do not debase the recipient, nor in any way violate their dignity. —So you don’t feel your self-esteem hurt when you are given some help? —No, sir. —And it is to be presumed that some of what you receive will pass into the hands of others who are more needy, or who seem so. —Sometimes. —And you receive help, exclusively for yourself, when you need it? —What doubt do you have? —And you don’t blush when you receive it? —Never. Why would I blush? —So if we, now… for example…, pitying your sad situation, were to place in your hands… part of what we have in our pockets…? —You would take it. He said it with such candor and naturalness that we could not suspect that he was moved to think and express himself in such a manner by either cynicism or the affected humility, a mask for excessive pride. It was time to end our interrogation, which was more like an inopportune prying, and we said goodbye to Don Nazario, celebrating with sincere words the happy coincidence to which we owed his acquaintance. He thanked us very much for the visit and our affectionate expressions, and accompanied us to the door. My friend and I had left on the some silver coins on the table, which we didn’t even look at, unable to calculate the needs of that ambitious man of poverty: we parted with that small sum in bulk, which in total would have been more than two duros , but not even three. Chapter 5. “This man is a scoundrel,” the reporter told me, “a cynic of great talent who has discovered the philosopher’s stone of laziness, a rogue with a great imagination who cultivates parasitism with art. ” “Let’s not rush, my friend, to make rash judgments that reality could contradict. If you don’t mind, we’ll come back and slowly observe his actions. For my part, I don’t yet dare to give a categorical opinion on the subject we just saw, and who still seems to me to be as Arab as at the first moment, although his baptismal certificate shows, as you said, that he was a Moor from La Mancha.” —Well, if he’s not a cynic, I maintain he’s not right-minded. Such passivity exceeds the limits of the Christian ideal, especially in these times when everyone is a child of their own works. —He too is a child of his own. —What do you want? I define that man’s character by saying that it’s the absence of all character and the denial of human personality. —Well, while I wait for even more data, and better light to know and judge him, I suspect or guess in the blessed Nazarín a vigorous personality. —Depending on how you understand the vigor of personalities. A slacker, a playboy, a freeloader can reach, in the exercise of certain faculties, the heights of genius; he can refine and cultivate one aptitude at the expense of others, resulting in… what do I know… marvels of inventiveness and sagacity that we cannot imagine. This man is a fanatic, a vicious parasite, and it can easily be said that he has no other vice, because all his faculties are concentrated on the breeding and development of that aptitude. What novelty does this case offer? I don’t doubt it; but it doesn’t lead me to believe that he is motivated by purely spiritual ends. What, in your opinion, is he a mystic, a father of the wilderness, a gourmet of herbs and clear water, a Buddhist, a drunkard of ecstasy, of annulment, of _nirvana_, or whatever it is called? Well, if he is, I’m not budging from my opinion. Society, acting as guardian and nurse, should, in good economic and political law, consider these types as corrupters of humanity and lock them up in a charitable asylum. And I ask: does this man, with his unbridled _altruism_, do any good to his fellow men? I answer: no. I understand the religious institutions that assist the Charity in its great work. Mercy, a private virtue, is the best assistant to Beneficence, a public virtue. Do these merciful individuals, individuals, and medieval individuals, perhaps contribute to cultivating the State’s vineyard? No. What they cultivate is their own vineyard, and from the alms, something so holy, given methodically and distributed judiciously, they make an indecent living. The social law, and if you will, a Christian one, is that everyone works, each in their own sphere. Prisoners, children, and the elderly in nursing homes work. Well, this Muslim cleric from La Mancha has solved the problem of living without any kind of work, not even the rest of saying Mass. Nothing, but, like a fool, he resurrects the Golden Age, properly speaking, the Golden Age. And I fear he will make disciples, because his doctrine is one of those that slip in without realizing it, and it will certainly have an indescribable appeal for all the lazy people in those parts. In short, what can be expected from a man who proposes that books, the holy book, and the newspaper, the most sacred newspaper, the entire product of the civilizing printing press, that lever, that miraculous source… all ancient and modern knowledge, the Greek poems, the Vedas, the thousand and one stories, should be dedicated to forming piles of fertilizer for the land? Homer, Shakespeare, Dante, Herodotus, Cicero, Cervantes, Voltaire, Victor Hugo turned into enlightened guano, to raise good cabbages and cucumbers! I don’t know why he hasn’t also prophesied that universities will become… cowsheds, and academies, athenaeums, and conservatories in drinking establishments, or in stables for dairy donkeys! Neither my friend with his frankly recreational assessments could convince me, nor I convinced him. At least, judgment on Nazarín had to be postponed. Seeking new sources of information, we entered the kitchen, where Chanfaina was camped out in front of a battery of pots and pans, frying here, stirring there, sweaty, her white curls touched with soot, her hands tireless, bustling with her right hand, and with her left wiping away the snot that ran down her nose. She immediately understood what we wanted to tell her, for she was a woman of uncommon wit, and she anticipated our questions by saying: “He’s a saint… believe me, gentlemen, he’s a saint.” But since I hate saints… oh, I can’t stand them!… I’d beat Father Nazarín to a pulp, if it weren’t for the fact that he’s a cleric, pardon me… What good is a saint? Nothing to God. Because in other times, it seems they performed miracles, and with the miracle they fed people, turning stones into fish, or resurrecting dead corpses , and driving human demons out of the body. But now, in these times of so much wisdom, with all this talk of the _teleforo_ or _teleforo_, and the _railroads_ and so much nonsense that comes and goes throughout the world, what good is a saint except to amuse the street children?… This wretch you have seen has the heart of a dove, a conscience as clear and white as snow, the mouth of an angel, for he has never once been heard to utter a foul expression, and he is as good as when he was born, it means they will bury him with palm branches…, you can be sure of that… No matter how much you dig, you will not find any sin, greater or lesser, except the sin of giving away everything he has… I treat him like a child, and I scold him as much as I please. Will he get angry? Never. If you hit him, let’s just suppose, he’ll appreciate it… He is like that… And if you call him a Jewish dog, he smiles as if you were throwing him flowers… And my news is that the clergy of San Cayetano have a grudge against him, for being so careless, and they don’t give him masses except when there are plenty of them… In such a way and manner that whatever he earns with the priesthood they will nail it to my forehead. Since I have this temper, I say to him: “Padrito Nazarín, get into another trade, even if it’s bringing and taking the dead to funerals…” and he laughs… I also tell him that he’s too close to being a schoolteacher, what with his patience and not eating… and he laughs… Because that’s true… a man with a better mouth wouldn’t be found even if you looked for him with a candle. He’d eat a piece of soft bread as well as half a quarter of lungs. If you give him cordwood, he’ll eat it; he won’t mind a stalk of cabbage. Oh, if only he were a man instead of a saint, the woman who had to support him could thank God! We had to cut short Aunt Chanfa’s tirade, which didn’t look like it would end in six hours. And we went down to have a word with the old gypsy, who, guessing what we wanted to ask him, hastened to enlighten us with his authoritative opinion. “Gentlemen,” he said, hat in hand, “God save you. And if you’re not curious, may I know if they gave any money to that unfortunate Don Najarillo?” “Because it would be better if they gave it to others, that way we would save ourselves the trouble of going up and asking for it, or they would avoid having to give it to the wrong hands… There are many, do you understand?, who wheedle his charity, and take away even the most holy air, before he gives it to the one who deserves it… That is, as good as he is, improving what he hears from me. And I consider him the prince of crowned seraphim, may the most holy crest of the rooster of Passion help me!… And I would confess to him before I would to His Majesty the Pope of God… Because we can clearly see how the angel’s saliva drips from his body, and how the _minimal_ pastoral star of the most blessed Virgin who is in heaven dances in his eyes… So, gentlemen, I will send a servant for you, and for the whole family…” We didn’t want any more reports, nor did we need them at the moment. At the entrance, we had to make our way through a platoon of filthy masks attacking the liquor stand. We left, stepping through mud, rags fallen from those miserable bodies, orange peels, and pieces of masks, and returned step by step to upper Madrid, to our Madrid, which seemed to us to be another, more dignified town, despite the gross foolishness of the modern Carnival and the annoying groups of beggars we encountered on every street. Needless to say, we spent the rest of the day discussing this very singular and still poorly understood figure, thereby indirectly demonstrating the importance he held in our minds. Time passed, and both the reporter and I, preoccupied with other matters, gradually forgot about the Arab cleric, although we occasionally brought him into our conversations. From the disdainful indifference with which my friend spoke of him, I gathered that I had left little or no trace in his thoughts. The opposite was true for me, and for days I thought of nothing but Nazarín, taking him apart and putting him back together in my mind, piece by piece, like a child taking apart a mechanical toy to amuse himself by putting it back together. Did I end up constructing a completely new Nazarín with materials extracted from my own ideas, or did I come to possess myself intellectually of the true and real person? I cannot answer categorically. Is what follows a true story, or one of those fabrications that, due to the dual virtue of the expeditious art of the writer and the credulity of the reader, come across as an illusion of reality? And I also hear other questions: “Who the hell wrote what follows? Was it you, or the reporter, or Aunt Chanfaina, or the old gypsy?” I cannot answer anything, because I myself would be very confused if I tried to determine who wrote what I write. I am not responsible for the procedure; I am responsible for the accuracy of the facts. The narrator hides himself. The narrative, nourished by the feeling of things and historical truth, reveals itself, clear, precise, sincere. PART TWO Chapter 6. One serene and cool March night, lit by a splendid moon, the good Nazarín found himself in his modest house, deeply absorbed in delightful meditations, and now he walked with his hands behind his back, now he rested his body on the uncomfortable bench, to contemplate, through the steamed glass, the sky and the moon and the whitest clouds, in whose fleeces the night star was playing hide-and-seek. It was already twelve o’clock; but he did not know it nor did he care, like a man capable of watching with absolute indifference the disappearance of all the clocks in the world . When the chimes of those in nearby buildings were rare, he usually heard them; when they were numerous, his mind lacked the calm or attention for such long reckonings. His night watch was sleep, the few times he truly felt it, and that night his body hadn’t yet warned him of his longing for the cot where he usually rested for a short time. Suddenly, when my man was most ecstatic, dissolving his thoughts in the precious moonlight, the window darkened, almost completely obscured by a figure approaching from the corridor. Goodbye light, goodbye moon, and goodbye to Father Nazarín’s sweetest meditation. As he approached the window, he heard a light tapping from outside, as if ordering or demanding that he open it. “Who could it be?… at this hour!” Again the tapping of knuckles, like the roll of a drum. ” Well, judging by the figure,” Nazarín said to himself, “it looks like a woman.” “Come, let’s open it and we’ll see who this lady is, for I’m sure she’s come looking for me.” The window being opened, the priest heard a muffled and feigned voice, like that of the masks, which in anguished tone said to him: “Let me in, padrico, let me hide… they’re following me, and I’ll never be as safe as here. ” “But woman…! And all this, who are you, who are you, what do you mean?” “Will you come in?” “Let me in,” I say. “I jump in, and don’t get angry. You, who are so good, will hide me… until… I’m coming in, yes sir, I’m coming in. ” And matching her action to her word, with the swift leap of a hunting cat, she jumped inside and closed the windows herself. “But, madam… you understand… ” “Father Nazarín, don’t get upset… You are good, I am bad, and for the same reason that I am so very bad, I said to myself… “there is no one but Blessed Nazarín who can give me shelter in this predicament.” Have you not recognized me yet, or are you playing the fool?… Bad luck!… Well, I am _Ándara_… Don’t you know who _Ándara_ is?” “Yes, yes… one of the four… ladies who were here the day I was robbed, and for consolation they called me like a parsley leaf.” —I was the one who insulted him the most, and the one who said the filthiest things to him, because… Siona is my aunt… But now I’m telling you that Siona is a bigger thief than Candelas, and you’re a saint… I really feel like saying it because it’s the absolute truth…, evil garlic! —So, Ándara…? But I want to know… —Nothing, my dear father, because here where you see me, by the life of the Word!, I’ve made a death. —Jesus! —One doesn’t know what one does when one’s _diznidá_ is touched… One bad moment _any_ has it… I killed…, or if I didn’t kill, I hit really hard…, and I’m wounded, yes, father…, have compassion… The other one threw a bite at my arm and raised the flesh… most holy: with the kitchen knife she managed to hit me on this shoulder, and blood is coming out. Saying this, she fell to the ground like a sack, showing signs of fainting. The padrito felt her, calling her by name. “Ándara, Lady Ándara, come to, and if you don’t and die from that terrible wound, make a mental resolution to repent, abhor your sins so that the Lord may deign to welcome you into his holy bosom.” All this happened in almost complete darkness, for the moon had set, as if to facilitate the unfortunate woman’s escape and hiding place. Nazarín tried to help her sit up, which wasn’t difficult, since Ándara was of limited flesh; but she fell from his hands again. “If we had light,” the cleric said, very embarrassed, “we would see… ” “But don’t you have a light?” the wounded tarascan finally murmured, recovering from her faint. “I have a candle; but how do I light it, Most Holy Virgin, if there are no mixed-race dogs in the house? ” “I have some… look for them in my pocket, I can’t move my right arm .” Nazarín played from bottom to top, on the unfortunate woman’s body, like someone playing a tambourine, until finally something like a jingle sounded amidst the clothes, impregnated with a stench that seemed to resemble perfume. Rummaging around with no small amount of difficulty, he found the filthy box, and the man was already scraping the match to get some light when the big woman sat up in fear, saying to him: “Close the doors first. A neighbor might see me walking by, check! And then we’d be in for a treat.” Once the doors were closed and the light was on, Nazarín was able to ascertain the unfortunate woman’s pitiful condition. Her right arm was a carnage of scratches and bites, and on her shoulder blade was a stab wound from which blood was oozing, staining her shirt and the body of her dress. The first thing the priest did was to unwrap her shawl, and then he opened, or tore, as best he could, the tartan dressing gown off her body. To make her more comfortable, he brought her the only pillow he had on his bed, and proceeded to perform the initial treatment with the most primitive means: washing the wound, staunching it with rags, for which he had to tear to shreds a shirt that some friends in the neighborhood had given him that very day. And the tarasca, meanwhile, kept talking nonstop, recounting the tragic incident that had brought her to such a state. “It was with Tiñosa.” “What are you saying, woman? ” “That the fight was with Tiñosa, and Tiñosa is the one I killed, if I did kill her, because now I’m doubting it. Check!” When I I grabbed her by the hair and threw her to the ground, oh! I stabbed her with all my soul, to break hers… Evil bastard! But now… I would be glad to know that I hadn’t killed her… —One for another. So _Tiñosa_? And who is that lady? —One of those who were here with me that morning, you know, the ugliest of the four, with the eyes of a half-dead ram, a split lip, her ear ripped open by a tug they gave to get the earring out, and her throat covered in scars… Evil bastard! If no one can take away the prize of hideousness from her, and I myself, compared to her, am like… the goddesses of _Olympia_. So… it was all because of a piece of black-headed pin paper that _Tripita_ gave her… and from there the _quistion_ arose… From which we got into a very strong _rant_ about whether _Tripita_ is a gentleman or not… And because I said he’s a sycophant and a thief, the fat lady came along, telling me that I was this and that, and… which is no good telling someone. Look, Father, I’m a real wolf, as much a wolf as the first one, but I don’t want anyone to tell me that, especially not her, an old wolf and so battered that not even the cats like her anymore… “Shut up, you vile mouth, shut up, if you don’t want me to abandon you to your unfortunate fate,” the clergyman told him sternly. Cast away your resentment, wretch, and consider that you have added homicide to your horrible sins, so that your soul has not a single point, not a single point, where it can be grasped and sucked away from the flames of hell. “It’s just that… you see, my father… If what I’m saying is that when they touch my dignity… I’m a bad boy!… Because even if I’m a mere rag, everyone has their own bit of shame, and they want it respected… ” “Shut up,” I repeat… and don’t comment. Tell me the whole story , so I know whether I should protect you or hand you over to justice. And how did you escape the commotion that must have formed in your house, in the street, or wherever…? How did you manage not to be arrested immediately? How were you able to get here without being seen and take shelter in my house, and why have you put me in the position of hiding you?” —I’ll tell you everything as you wish; but first you must give me water, if you have any, and if you don’t, go and get it, because I’m burning with a thirst that not even hell can handle… —Fortunately, I have water. Drink, and tell, if talking doesn’t weaken and upset you. —No, sir, I’ll be talking, if they let me, until the day of the final _Prejudice_, and when I die, I’ll talk until a little after I’ve breathed my last. Well, you see… I stabbed her with the knife in this part, and in that other, pardon me… and if they don’t _take_ me away, I’ll cut her… I brought half of her hair between my nails, and I stuck these two fingers through one of her eyes… In short, they took her from me; and they tried to _hold_ me down; But I, arm wrestling like a lioness, got free, threw away the knife, and went out into the street, and in a little run, before they could follow me, I ended up on Peñón Street. Then I came back step by step… I heard the sound of voices… I crouched down. Roma and Verginia were screaming, and Aunt Gerundia was saying: “It was Andara, it was Andara…” And the night watchman and other men… wondering where I had gone, this way, that way… and that they were looking for me to take me to the Galera and the gallows… When I heard this, control! I slipped away, slipping close to the wall, seeking shade, until I entered this Calle de las Amazonas, without anyone seeing me. All the people there, and not a rat here. I went around asking what saint I would commend myself to, and I looked for a hole to crawl into, even if it was the ones in the sewer. But it wouldn’t fit, no matter how much I stretched, it wouldn’t fit, Lord!… And my arm was hurting, and bleeding from the wound! Bad luck! I leaned against the door frame of this house, which casts a lot of shade…, I pushed inside, and saw it open… Oh, how nice! Lucky like that!… The gypsies usually leave it open, you know?… I entered slowly, like a breath of wind, and I slipped away, thinking that if the gypsies saw me, I was lost… But they didn’t see me the damned. They were sleeping like baskets, and the dog had gone out into the street… Blessed be the bitch who was the one who made me get out!… Well, sir, I went sneaking through the courtyard like a slug, and to my heart’s content I was saying… “But where do I hide now? Who do I ask to hide me?” Not a chance for Chanfa. Even less so for Jesusita and Pelada . Because if the Cumplidos saw me, worse… At this point, the thought crossed my mind that if Father Nazarín didn’t save me, no one would. And in four bounds I climbed up the corridor. I remembered then that on Carnival day I had told him four things, out of a natural temper. From my conscience, bad luck! I felt the blood running from me, as if from a wound. But I said: he is a very simple and good-natured saint, and he will not remember those little words, check! And I ran to the window, and knocked, and… Oh, how it hurts now…, oh, oh!… Padrito, do you happen to have any vinegar? – No, daughter, you know that here there is no luxury, nor in my pantry any nutritious or stimulating food. Vinegar! Do you think you have entered Jauja? Chapter 7. At dawn the poor thing became so ill that Don Nazario – for we must not always call him Nazarín – familiarly did not know what to do with her, or what measures to take to get out fortunately from that grave conflict in which his vaunted and popular goodness had put him at an unlucky moment. This Ándara, whom they called thus from a contraction of Ana de Ara, fell into alarming exhaustion with frequent collapses and delirium. To make matters worse, although the good priest understood that all her illness stemmed from exhaustion, caused by the loss of so much blood, he could offer no immediate remedy, as he had no provisions in his house other than a little bread, a piece of Villalón cheese, and about a dozen walnuts, substances unsuitable for a trauma patient. But since there was nothing else, he had to make do with bread and walnuts until daylight came and Nazarín could procure better food. He would have gladly given her a little wine, which was what she most desired; but in such a poor and modest house, that liquid was never admitted. Since he could not attend to the recovery of his strength, he tried to accommodate the wretched woman’s body in a bed that was lighter than the holy ground where she had lain since she entered. And seeing the impossibility, after fruitless attempts, of getting Andara to move from that spot, because her muscles had become like rags and her bones like lead, the good Nazarín had no choice but to summon the strength of his weakness and shoulder, with enormous difficulty, that execrable burden. Fortunately, Andara’s weight was light, because her flesh was in bad shape, the greatest misfortune in her condition, and for any man of average courage, lifting her would have been like carrying a half-full arroba skin. Even so, the poor priest sweated profusely and nearly fell in the middle of the road. But in the end he was able to undo his burden, and as his crushed bones and limp human beings fell onto the mattress, the girl said: “God bless you.” Now that day was drawing near, and she was in a lucid moment, after having uttered a thousand absurdities concerning Tripita, Tiñosa, and the other riffraff with whom she usually dealt, the Tarascan woman said to her benefactor: “Señor de Nazarín, if you don’t have food, I suppose you’re not short of money. ” “I only have enough for today’s mass, for I haven’t touched it yet, nor has anyone asked me for it. ” “Better… Well, as soon as it dawns, bring half a pound of meat to put in a stew. And bring also half a quart of wine… But look, come here. You have no malice, and you do things in a holy way, which you do harm without meaning to. Look, listen to what I say. Listen to me, for I have more… grammar. Don’t buy wine at the tavern of Jesusa’s brother, nor at José Cumplido’s, where they know you.” “Go on, go on,” they would say, “blessed Nazarín buying wine, he who doesn’t taste it.” And they would start to gossip, and it turns, it turns, and someone would get involved in the investigation, and, hey presto!, they would find me out… And what things they would say! “You! Go buy it at the tavern on Bear Street, or at the Abbots’, where they don’t know you, and besides, there’s more awareness than around here, so to speak, where they don’t baptize as much. ” “You don’t need to tell me what to do,” replied the clergyman. ” Since the opinion of the world means nothing to me, it’s not right for me to take your advice, nor for you to dare to give it to me. Nor can you be sure, unfortunate Andara, that this poor dwelling of mine is a hiding place for criminals, and that in my shadow you will find impunity. I will not denounce you; but neither can I, because I must not, do you understand?, outwit your persecutors if they persecute you with justice, nor free you from the expiation to which the Lord, before the courts, undoubtedly sentences you. I will not hand you over to justice: while you are here, I will do you all the good I can. ” If they don’t discover you, it’s up to you and God .
“Well, sir, well,” replied the tarasca between deep sighs. “That doesn’t stop you from buying the wine where I tell you to, because it’s less Christian there than here. And if you don’t have enough money, look in the pocket of my robe, where there must be a peseta and three or four pennies. Take it all, because I don’t need it at all now, and while you’re going for the wine, bring a pack for yourself. ” “For me!” exclaimed the priest in horror. “You know I don’t smoke! And even if I did smoke… Keep your money, because you might very well need it soon. ” “Well, the vice of tobacco, that one alone, I could very well have, bad luck! Come on, not having any vice, not one, not one at all, is also a vice. But don’t get angry… ” “I’m not angry. ” “What I’m telling you is that idle words and distraction of spirit are a new evil that you add to those you already have upon you. Concentrate your thoughts, unhappy woman, ask the favor of God and the Virgin, probe your conscience, reflect on how much evil you have done, and on the possibility of amendment and forgiveness, if with faith and love you seek both. I’m here to help you, if you’re thinking of more serious things than the hide-and-seek, the peseta, the wine, and the packet… unless you want this one for yourself, and in that case… ” “No, no, sir… I don’t…” the girl grumbled. “It was just… Anyway, if he wants to take the peseta, let him take it, since it’s not right that the entire expense should be on his own… ” “I don’t need your peseta. If I needed it, I’d ask you for it… Come on, think about your soul, about your repentance.” Consider that you are wounded, that I cannot heal you properly, that the Lord may send you, at any moment , gangrene, typhus, or any other pestilence. Ah! It would never be as bad as what you deserve, nor as serious as the rot that devours your soul. That is what you must think about, unhappy Ándara; for if in any case we are at the mercy of death, it is now lurking around you, and if it comes suddenly, as it may, and takes you unprepared, you already know where you will end up. Neither while Nazarín was speaking, nor long after, did Ándara say “this mouth is mine,” demonstrating with her silence the vague fear that the exhortation produced in her soul. After a long time, she sighed again and again, declaring in a plaintive voice that if it were necessary to die, she would have no choice but to submit. But it could very well happen that she would live, taking some food, a little wine, and applying it to the wounds as well. And if the case arose, she would not fail to procure all possible repentance, so that the final trance would find her in a good disposition and with a great deal of Christianity in her soul. Apart from this, if the padrito didn’t get angry, she would tell him that she didn’t believe in hell. Tripita, who was a very well-read person, and bought La Correspondencia every night, had told her that hell and purgatory are papal, and Balsamo had told her so too. “And who is Balsamo, my child? ” “Well, someone who was a sacristan, and studied to be a priest, and knows all the choir songs and even the response. Afterwards he went blind, and he began to sing in the streets with a guitar, and a very a joke that always ended with the refrain of _the balm of love_, the name _Balsam_ came to him and stuck forever. —Well, choose between the opinion of Mr. _Balsam_ and mine. —No, no, father… You know more… What things he has! How can you compare…! The one I’m talking about is a lost soul, meaner than mange . He lives with someone we call _Camella_, tall and long-legged, very tough. She gets this name because before, when she painted something, they called her _the lady of the Camellias_. —I don’t want to know anything about _camels_ or _camellias_, do you understand? Put the idea of all that filthy personnel out of your mind, and think about healing your soul, for it is no easy task. Now try to get to sleep; And here I am, on this bench, leaning against the wall, waiting for daylight, which will soon send its first rays of light our way. Whether they were asleep or not, they both fell silent, and remained silent as the first rays of morning light penetrated through the cracks in the window and the nailed-down door. It took them a little while longer to illuminate all that poverty and to outline the contours of the objects, giving each one its natural color. Ándara fell into a deep sleep at dawn, and when she awoke, well into the day, she found herself alone. Noticing noise in the house—people coming and going in the courtyard, the hubbub of the guests, Chanfaina’s stormy voice in the kitchen—she was afraid. Although those rumors could well have been the common, ordinary movement of the house, the unfortunate woman wasn’t entirely sure of herself, and in her anxiety she made a firm resolution to remain hunched up on the flimsy mattress, taking care not to make a sound, not to move, not to cough, not to breathe more than necessary to avoid suffocation, so that no carelessness on her part would betray her presence in the priest’s house. More than fear could keep her awake, exhaustion could lull her to sleep, and a second time she fell into a very heavy lethargy, from which Nazarín brought her, shaking her head, to offer her wine. Oh, how eagerly she took it, and how good it tasted! Afterwards, he applied to the wounds the same remedy he had used internally, and the big woman had such faith in this therapy, no doubt from having witnessed a thousand examples of its efficacy, that with that faith alone, in the absence of any other, the condemned woman got better. The awareness of her helplessness in the face of danger inspired her to take a thousand ingenious precautions, among them speaking to Don Nazario only through gestures, so that no voice of his might reach the ears of the refueling neighborhood. With grimaces and sneers, they exchanged all they had to say, and Ándara certainly had a hard time explaining, in such imperfect language, some things pertinent to the stew the good priest was planning to prepare. There was no choice but to use words, reducing them to a barely perceptible whisper; at last, they understood each other, Nazarín acquired precious notions of culinary art, and the sick woman drank some broth, which certainly wasn’t very substantial, but it was good for her; and with some soup she ate later, she gradually recovered and found her way back to her senses. Having fulfilled these duties of charitable hospitality, Nazarín left, leaving the house closed, and the wounded girl with no other company than her agitated thoughts and the occasional mouse that, sniffing at the breadcrumbs, was wandering under the bed. Chapter 8. The rest of the day the good room was alone, for the padrito was in no hurry to return home. The misgivings and distrust of a criminal assailed the unfortunate woman in the afternoon. “Will this good man denounce me!” she said to herself, unable to think of anything but the impunity she longed for. “I don’t know, I don’t know… because some consider him a saint, and others a very, very good rascal… One doesn’t know which option to choose… “Contro!” “Bad luck!” But no, I don’t think he ‘ll denounce me… The story is that if they discover me and ask him if I’m here, he’ll answer yes, because he won’t lie, even to save someone .” Go with holiness! If it is true that there are hells with a lot of fire and branding, that’s where those who tell truths that cost a poor person their life or land them in jail should go.” That afternoon she spent a moment in horrible fear hearing the voice of _Chanfa_ by the window. She was talking to another woman who, from her spluttering and rasping speech, seemed like _Camella_. And _Camella_ was so wicked, so fond of sticking her nose into everything and spreading tales! After they had pecked a good deal, Estefanía knocked on the glass; but since the father wasn’t there to answer her, the very nasty women left. Other people, and some neighborhood children , also knocked during the day, which was quite natural and shouldn’t have been a cause for alarm, because the poor people of those parts frequently visited the one who was the friend and consolation of the poor. By nightfall, the little woman could no longer bear her anguish and fear, and she longed for the priest’s return, to know whether or not she could count on secrecy in that dark confinement. The minutes seemed like hours; finally, when she saw him enter, already close to nightfall, she was on the point of scolding him for his delay, and if she didn’t, it was because the joy of seeing him quelled her anger. “I don’t have to tell you where I’m going or where I’m coming from, or how I spend my time,” Nazarín said, answering the first impertinent and officious questions from the one who could well be called his protégé. “So how are you? Are we doing all right? Is your wound less painful? Are you gaining strength? ” “Yes, man, yes… But the fear won’t let me live… Every moment it seems to me that they’re coming in to seize me and take me to jail. Will I be safe? Tell me truthfully, like a man, rather than a saint.” “You know,” replied the priest, removing his cloak and the tile, “I’m not reporting you… Just be careful not to do anything here that might expose you… and hush, there are people walking around the corridor.” Indeed, Stephanie knocked again, and with Nazarin opening the window, they talked for a while. “My dear saint is quite out and about at Court today,” said the amazon. ” What’s going on? Has he gone to flatter the bishop, as I advised him? If he doesn’t flatter you, they won’t give him anything. So what? Was there a mass today? Well. So, apply yourself, go to the parish churches with a shameless face, show off… You’ll see how many masses there are. Listen, Father, I smell… I think there’s a smell coming through this window… like that damned perfume that big women use… But don’t you smell it? It’s a stench that’s going to turn you off!… Of course, it’s nothing new.” Since people of all castes come to see you, and you don’t distinguish, nor do you know who you’re helping… “That must be it,” Nazarín replied without flinching. “Many and diverse people come in here. Some smell and others don’t. ” “And I also smell the smell of wine… Is Your Reverence spoiling our smell ? Because it can’t be the smell of the Mass. ” “As for the other smell,” the clergyman said with supreme sincerity, “I don’t deny it. Aroma or stench, it exists in my house. I sense it, and anyone with a sense of smell will sense it. But I don’t notice the smell of wine, frankly, I don’t notice anything, and this isn’t to say that it wasn’t present in the house today… There could have been; but it doesn’t smell, madam, it doesn’t. ” “Well, I say it’s pervasive… But there’s no need to argue, because your noses and mine won’t have the same _pervasiveness_.” Mrs. Chanfa then offered him food, and he refused, limiting himself to receiving, after repeated urging, a cinnamon roll and two Salamanca sausages. With that, the conversation ended, and the prisoner’s horrendous fright. “I already suspected,” she said inconsolably, sensing the Amazon leaving, “that this indecent perfume on my clothes was going to betray me. I would burn them all if I could leave here in my shirt. The last thing I thought, when I was spraying those scents on myself, was that they would bring me such harm. And it’s a good scent, isn’t it, Padrito? Don’t you like to smell it? ” “I don’t. I only like the smell of flowers. ” “I do too. But they’re expensive, and you can only see them by sight, in the gardens. Well, a long time ago, I had a friend who He carried many flowers, the best ones; only they were a bit dirty. “From what? ” “From the filth in the streets. This friend of mine was a street sweeper, one of those who collect the garbage every morning. And sometimes, during Carnival or dance time, he swept outside theaters and large houses, and with his broom he picked up many camellias. ” “Camellias, they say.” “Camellias, and even roses.” He put everything very carefully on a piece of paper and took it with him. “How nice! Will you finally stop thinking nonsense and focus on what’s important, on the purification of your soul? ” “Anything you want, although it seems to me I won’t die from this one. I have seven lives like cats. Twice I was in the hospital with the sheet over my face, everyone thinking I was leaving, and then I came back and was cured. ” “One mustn’t trust, my lady, in the fortunate circumstance of having escaped again and again.” In every situation, death is our inseparable companion and friend. We carry it within us from birth, and the ailments, the misery, the weakness, and the constant suffering are the caresses it gives us within our being. And I don’t know why the image of it should terrify us when we see it outside of ourselves, since that image is within us continually. Surely you are frightened when you see a skull, and even more so if you see a skeleton… —Oh, yes, how frightening! —Well, the skull that frightens you so much, there you carry: it is your head… —But it won’t be as ugly as those in the cemeteries. —The same; only it’s dressed in flesh. —So, Father, I am my skull? And my skeleton is all these bones, assembled like the ones I once saw in the theater, at the puppet show? And when I dance, does my skeleton dance? And when I sleep, does my skeleton sleep? Evil! And when I die, they take my salty little skeleton and throw it to the ground? “Exactly, like something no longer useful.” “And when one dies, does one know that one has died, and remember that one was alive? And in what part of the body does one have one’s soul? In the head or in the chest? When one fights with another, I say, the soul comes out into the mouth and hands.” Nazarín answered him about this soul thing in the most elementary and understandable way for such a rude intelligence, and they continued conversing in low voices, late at night, after having had some supper, without caring about the neighbors who, fortunately, didn’t care about them either. Ándara, no doubt because of the forced stillness that excited her imagination, wanted to know everything, demonstrating a curiosity that was to a certain extent scientific, which the good clergyman satisfied in some cases and in others. She longed to know what it is like to be born, and how chicks come out of an egg just like the cock and the hen…, why the number thirteen is so bad, and why picking up a horseshoe in the middle of the road brings good shade… It was an inexplicable thing to her that the sun rose every day, and that the hours were always the same, and the length of the days in one year, in every season, the same as the days in other years… Where did the guardian angels go when one is a child, and why is it that swallows fly away in winter and come back in summer, and find the same nest?… It is also very strange that the number two always brings good luck, and that having two candles lit in one’s room brings bad luck … Why do mice, when they are so small, have so much talent, and a bull, which is so big, can be fooled with a piece of cloth?… And fleas and other small creatures, do they have their souls at all? her way?… Why does the moon wax and wane, and what reason is there that when one is walking down the street and meets a person who looks like another, they soon meet the other person?… It is also a very strange thing that one’s heart tells one what is going to happen, and that when pregnant women crave something, for example, eggplant, the child comes out with an eggplant in its nose. She also did not understand why the souls in purgatory come out when priests are given a few cents for prayers, and why soap removes filth, and why Tuesday is such a bad day that nothing can be done on it. Nazarín easily answered many of her doubts, but he could not satisfy her with others, and flatly denied her proposals that belonged to the order of stupid superstition, urging her to banish such foolish ideas from her mind. With this they spent the evening, and a peaceful and uneventful night allowed the sick woman to recover her strength. In this way three days, four, passed; Ándara quickly recovering from her wounds and gaining strength, the good Don Nazario going out every morning to say his little mass and returning home late, without any incident disturbing this monotony, nor was the hiding place of the wicked woman discovered. Although she believed herself safe, she did not neglect her meticulous precautions to ensure that no rumor or indication of her presence reached the outside of the house. Three days later, she abandoned her idle mattress; but she didn’t dare leave the bedroom, and whenever she heard voices, she held her breath trembling. But fickle fate refused to favor her any longer, and on the fifth day all precautions were useless, and the infamous woman found herself in imminent danger of falling into the hands of justice. At dusk, Estefanía went to the window and, calling to the padrito, who had just entered, said: “Hey, you fool, this is all for nothing; we already know everything, and who is the wicked rat you’re hiding in your hole. Open the door for me over there; I want to go in and speak to him without the neighbors finding out. ” Chapter 9. Ándara, hearing this, turned as white as a stone, which in truth wasn’t extremely white, and she considered herself in the Galley, with shackles on her feet and manacles on her hands. He was clicking his teeth when he heard Chanfaina enter, who burst into the bedroom, saying: “Enough with the nonsense. Look, you brat, I knew from the first day you were here. I got you out because of the smell. But I didn’t want to say anything, not for your sake, but so as not to compromise the godfather, who gets involved in these messes with good intentions and all his angelic dullness. And now, both of you should know that if you don’t do what I’m going to tell you, you’re lost. ” “Did Tiñosa die?” asked Ándara, spurred on by curiosity, more powerful at that moment than fear. “She’s not dead. You have her as an interfere in the hospital, and according to what they say, she won’t eat the earth this time. Well, if she did die, you wouldn’t get away with putting on your bow tie. So… you’re leaving here now, expiring.” Go wherever you want, because the Most Excellent Court won’t be here tonight . ” “But who…? ” “Oh, how silly! Camella has a nose… ! The other night she came to this window, and she pressed her nose against the frame like ratting dogs on the trail of a mouse. “Goliath, goliath,” and her snorting could be heard from the doorway. “Well, she and the others have discovered you, and there’s no escape now. Get out of here quickly, and hide wherever you can. ” “Right now,” said Ándara, wrapping herself in her shawl. “No, no,” added Chanfa, taking it from her. “I’m going to give you one of mine, the oldest one , so you can disguise yourself better. And I’ll also give you an old dressing gown.” Here you leave all your bloodstained clothes, and I’ll hide them… And remember, I’m not doing this for you, ferocious girl, but for the priest, who is in danger of being considered a fool like you. Justice is a very tough girl, and it has to stick its nose into everything. Now, this serous man has to do what I tell him, otherwise they’ll put him on trial too, and may the little angels come and save him from going to jail. “What do I have to do? Let’s find out,” asked the priest, who, if at first he seemed calm, then he seemed somewhat thoughtful. “Well, you deny, deny, and deny forever. This bird is leaving here and hiding wherever she can. She’s taking off everything, absolutely all traces of herself: I’ll clean the living room, wash the tiles, and you, sir.” Nazarillo of my sins, when those of justice come, will say no to everything, and that she hasn’t been here, and that it’s a lie. And let them prove it, contro!, let them prove it. The priest remained silent; but the diabolical Ándara warmly supported Estefanía’s energetic arguments. “It’s a pipe dream,” she continued, “that the damned smell can’t be removed … But how do we remove it… ? Ah, bad blood, daughter of the great wolf, cursed skin! Why, instead of bringing this _patchouli_ here that transcends demons, didn’t you bring all the perfumes from the dunghills of Madrid, you great swine?” Once Ándara’s birth was agreed upon, the manly landlady, who was all business in times of need, promptly brought the clothes the criminal was to wear instead of her bloody ones, to facilitate her escape in search of a better hiding place with some disguise. “Will they come soon?” she asked the Chanfa, determined to hasten her departure. “We still have time to sort this out,” replied the other, “because they’re now filing a complaint, and the Caiaphases won’t be here until at least ten or ten-thirty . Blas Portela told me, he’s up to date on all these legal issues and knows when a flea bites the gentlemen of the Salesas. We have time to wash and remove every last trace of this scoundrel… And you, Mr. San Cándido, are now only a nuisance here. Go take a walk.” —No, I have to go out on some business,—said Don Nazario, putting on his tile. —Señor Rubin, from San Cayetano, has summoned me after the novena. —Well, air… We’ll bring a bucket of water… And you, look carefully everywhere , don’t leave a garter, or a button, a hair comb, or any other filth of your person here, ribbon, cigarette… It’s not a bad compromise this blessed one has for your sake… Come on, rich man, Don Nazarín, out on the street. We’ll fix this.— The priest left, and the two big women stayed behind bustling around. —Search well, turn over the whole mattress, see if you left anything,—said the _Chanfa_. And the other: “Look, Estefa, it’s my fault, I’m the one who caused it… and since my godfather protected me, I don’t want anyone to tell him tomorrow about this or that because of me and this cheap perfume… Well, I did it, I’ll work here until there’s not the slightest trace left of the smell I give off… And since we have time… you say at ten?… go about your chores and leave me alone. You’ll see how I’ll make everything look like money… ” “Well, I have to give dinner to the honeymooners and those four guys from Villaviciosa… I’ll bring you the water, and you… ” “Don’t bother, woman. Can’t I bring the water from the fountain on the corner myself? There’s a bucket here. I throw my shawl over my head, and who’s going to recognize me? ” “That’s true: you go, and I’ll go to my kitchen. I’ll come back in half an hour. The key to the house is in the door.” —I don’t want it at all. Stay where you are. I’ll go and get God’s water in no time… And another thing: now that I remember… give me a peseta. —What do you want it for, you scumbag? —Do you have it or not? Give it to me, lend it to me, you know I’m punctual. I want it for a drink and to buy myself a pack. Do I ever lie? —Not ever; always. Come on, take the huge peseta, and that’s it . You know what you have to do. Get it ready. I’m leaving. Wait for me here. The terrible Amazon left, and after her, two minutes later, the other Tarascan, after adding the peseta her friend had given her to her own peseta, and after taking a bottle and a not very large harvest of grapes from the kitchen. The street was as dark as a wolf’s mouth. She disappeared into the darkness, and crossing onto Santa Ana Street, she returned a short while later with the same pots hidden in the folds of her shawl. With the speed of a squirrel, she climbed the narrow stairs and entered the house. In a very short time, which surely couldn’t have been more than seven or eight minutes, Andara entered a small room near the kitchen, took out a A pile of corn straw from a broken mattress, he carried it all into the bedroom, wrapped it in the same fabric as the mattress, and spread it under the bed, pouring on top all the oil he had brought in the bottle and the spit. It still seemed too little to him, and tearing the other mattress, also made of corn, on whose softness he had slept some nights, from top to bottom with a knife , he piled straw upon straw; and for greater security, he placed the fabric from both mattresses on top, and every rag he could find at hand, and on the bed the bench, and even Vitoria’s sofa. Once the pyre was made, he took out his box of mixed spices, and bang! Like pure gunpowder, contro! Opening the window to let in a wave of air, he waited a moment contemplating his work, and did not reach safety until the thick smoke that rose from the pile of fuel prevented him from breathing. Behind the door, on the highest step of the ladder, she watched for a moment how the flame grew more furious, how the air between it snorted, how the house of good Nazarín filled with black smoke , and she ran down and slipped through the doorway faster than the eye could see, saying to her shawl: “Let them look for the smell now… bad garlic!” Through the Rastro hill, she went down to Carnero Street, then to Mira el Río Street, and stood there looking at the place where, it seemed, among the rooftops, the Chanfaina inn had fallen. She couldn’t rest until she saw the column of smoke that was supposed to announce the success of her fumigation attempt. If the smoke didn’t rise soon, it was a sign that the neighbors were putting out the fire… But no: anyone could have put out that little hell she’d started in less than a creed! She remained uneasy for about ten minutes, looking up at the sky, thinking that if the fire didn’t catch properly, her feat, far from being saving and decisive, would compromise her even more. She went through everything, even going to rot in the galley; but he would not allow the divine Nazarín to be accused of false things, for example, that he had or had not had to do with a wicked woman… Finally, blessed God! he saw a column of black smoke rise above the rooftops, blacker than the soul of Judas, and it was already rising to the heavens twisting in tremendous spirals, and one would have thought that the smoke was speaking, and that it was saying with it: “Let them uncover the smell now!… Let the Camel apply her fat bitch nose!… Come on, didn’t you want the stench, you Caiphases of carelessness?… Well now it smells nothing but burnt horn… check! and whoever wants to uncover the smell now… let him stick his nails in the embers… and he will see… that it will sting him.” He moved further away, and from the bottom of the Arganzuela he saw flames. The entire group of roofs appeared with a crest of reddish light, which the tarasca contemplated with savage pride. “She may be a piece of shit, but she has a conscience, and because of her conscience, she doesn’t want a good person to be told that he’s bad, and to be proven right with the smell of a comb, with the stench of the clothes she wears… No… conscience comes first. Let Troy burn!… Stay calm, Nazarín, because if you lose your house, you lose little, and you won’t be short of another mousetrap.” The fire was taking on formidable proportions. Ándara saw people running in that direction in haste, she heard bells. She could have believed, in the delirium of her imagination, that she herself was ringing them. Taan, taan, taan… “What an ass that _Chanfaina_ is! To think that washing gets rid of bad air!” No, check! That doesn’t work with water, like the other guy who said… Bad air is washed with fire, yes, bad garlic! With fire! Chapter 10. Within a quarter of an hour of the diabolical woman leaving Don Nazario’s house, it was already a furnace, and the flames were roaming around the narrow enclosure, devouring everything they found. The neighbors rushed to the door in terror; but before they could bring the first buckets of water, an elementary precaution against minor fires, a gust of fire and smoke was already coming out of the window, preventing any Christian from getting near. The tenants were running here and there, going up and down, not knowing what to do; the women were screaming, the men were cursing. There was a The moment the flames seemed to be extinguished or shrinking within the room, and some ventured to enter by the doorway ladder, and others poured jugs of water through the corridor window. With a good pump, well primed with water, the fire would have been put out at that instant; but while the help of pumps and firemen arrived, there was still time for the whole house to burn, and its inhabitants to be scorched inside, if they didn’t hurry to safety. After half an hour, they saw wisps of smoke rising from between the tiles— the main floor and the attic were all in one room—and there was no longer any doubt that the fire had secretly spread to the high beams. And the bombs? Oh my God! When the first one arrived, the rickety roof, the corridor, and the north wing of the courtyard were already burning like a parched bramble. One might have thought that the entire structure was tinder peppered with gunpowder; the fire raged on, ravenous and brutal, devouring it. The moth-eaten wood, the plaster itself, and even the brick burned, for everything was rotten and crumbling, covered with a crust of centuries-old filth. They burned with gusto, with fury: the combustion was a jubilation in the air, which performed a pyrotechnic function as a gift. There’s no need to describe the horrible panic of the destitute neighborhood. Given the formidable intensity and extent of the fire, one must have believed that soon the entire building would burn on all four sides without a single splinter surviving. Extinguishing such an inferno was impossible, not even if every sleeve in the Catholic world spewed water on it. At 10:30, no one was thinking about anything but saving their skin and the few odds and ends that furnished the squalid dwellings. Thus, men, women, and children were seen rushing out of the corridors into the courtyard, and from there into the street. They also escaped, along with the gypsy donkeys, the cats and dogs, and even the rats that had made their lairs among the beams and in holes above and below. And soon the street was filled with cots, chests, dressers, and a thousand odds and ends, like the air of a clamor of misery and despair, joined by the thunderous fanning of the flames, forming a sinister whole. The only thing left to do was to save things and people, among whom were some disabled, lame, and blind people. With the exception of one of these, whose beard was singed, the rescue took place without any loss of life. Quite a few birds disappeared, rather than by death, due to a change of owner in those difficulties, and some of the donkeys ended up, from the first run, on the Calle de los Estudios. At the last minute, the firefighters worked to prevent the blaze from spreading to the nearby houses, and once they achieved this, peace and then glory. Needless to say, Chanfaina, from the moment she felt the stench of the burning in her big nose, thought only of saving her belongings, which, although good for nothing more than firewood, were the best in the house. With the help of the honey sellers and other diligent guests, she began to unpack her belongings and set them up in the street. Her hands and feet never rested for a moment, nor did her aggressive tongue, which sprayed barbaric and filthy words on the entire crowd, the firefighters, and the fire itself. The reflection of the flames reddened her face, as much as the boiling of her damned blood. And behold, when he had all his things out on the street, except for a part of the kitchenware that he couldn’t save, and he was busy guarding them and defending them from thieves, Father Nazarín stood before him , so cool, Sir, so cool, as if nothing had happened, and with an angelic accent he said: “So it’s true that we’re left without a shelter, Mrs. Chanfa? ” “Yes, my dear, may evil lightning strike us all! And how easily you say it! Of course, since you had nothing to lose, and God has done you the favor of consuming your miseries, you don’t care about us wealthy people, who have to take our things out onto the street. Well, tonight you’ll sleep out in the open, like a gentleman. What do you say about This horrible scorching? Don’t you know it started in your house, as if a gunpowder magazine had exploded?… Don’t tell me: this wasn’t natural. This was an artificial event, yes sir, a fire that… well… I don’t want to say it. The lucky thing is that the owner of the property will be pleased, because all this wasn’t worth two cents, and the insurance company will have to pay him something, otherwise, this _catastrophe_ would be widely reported in the papers, and someone would be sorry, someone I’ll keep quiet about so as not to compromise. The good Don Nazario shrugged his shoulders, showing no affliction or grief at the loss of his meager property, and, donning his cloak, he offered to help the neighbors sort the junk and move it from one place to another. He worked until late at night, and finally, exhausted and without strength, he accepted the hospitality offered to him on the next street in Maldonadas by a young priest, a friend of his, who happened to pass by the scene of the accident and see him engaged in tasks so unbecoming, and so told him, of a minister of the altar. He spent five days in his friend’s house and company, in the leisurely placidity of one who does not have to ponder the materialities of existence; content in his free poverty; accepting without violence what was given to him, and asking for nothing; feeling the needs and desires flee from his life; desiring nothing earthly nor missing what so many are worried about; properly clothed, with a breviary that his friend had given him. He was living in pure glories, with all that carelessness of life settled on the foundation of his diamond-like conscience, without remembering his ruined inn, or Ándara or Estefanía, or anything that had been associated with such people and houses, when one morning he was summoned to court to testify in a case being brought against a woman of ill repute named Ana de Ara, and so on and so forth. “Come on,” he said to himself, grabbing a cloak and a tile, ready to comply with the court order without delay, “that’s all over the place. What has become of that Ándara? Have they caught her? I’m going to tell the whole truth about what concerns me, without getting involved in things I don’t know, and things that have nothing to do with the hospitality I gave to that unfortunate woman.” Certainly, his friend, to whom he informed him of the case in brief words, did not put on a happy face when he heard him, nor did he fail to appear somewhat pessimistic in his assessment of the progress and consequences of that ugly business. This did not make Nazarín suspicious, and he went to see the representative of justice, who received him very graciously and took his statement with all the considerations that the ecclesiastical status of the declarant required. Unable to say, in a matter serious or minor, anything contrary to the truth, the rule of his conscience; determined to be truthful not only out of obligation, as a Christian and a priest, but also out of the ineffable joy he felt in it, he promptly told the judge what had happened, and to whatever questions were asked, he gave a categorical answer, signing his statement and remaining calm afterward . Regarding the murder at Ándara, an incident in which he had not intervened, he expressed himself with generous reserve, without accusing or defending anyone, adding that he knew nothing of the whereabouts of the wicked woman, who must have emerged from her hiding place the very night of the fire. He left the court very satisfied, without noticing, so absorbed in his conscience, that the judge had not treated him, after the declaration, as benevolently as before it, that he looked at him with pity, with disdain, with caution perhaps… This would have mattered little to him, even if he had warned him. At his friend’s house, he renewed his pessimistic comments about the protection given to the scoundrel, insisting that the common people and the curia would not see in Don Nazario a man burned in the fire of charity, but rather a protector of criminals, for which reason it was necessary to take precautions against scandal, or see to it to avoid it when it came. With these things, the fortunate little cleric would not let him live in peace. He was a meddlesome and officious man, with many good connections in Madrid, and of a lamentable activity when he took on a matter that didn’t concern him. He met with the judge, and that night he had the indescribable satisfaction of delivering the following speech to Don Nazario: “Look here, comrade, the more friends you have, the clearer. Your soul wanders around your body, and you don’t see the danger that _looms_ around you… it looms, yes, sir. Well, the judge, who is a true gentleman, the first thing he asked me was if you were crazy. I told him I didn’t know… I didn’t dare deny it, because, being sane, your behavior is even more inexplicable. What the hell were you thinking, receiving such a hussy in your home, a criminal, a…? For God’s sake, Don Nazario! Do you know what those who brought the story to the judge are accusing you of?” Well, that you maintained scandalous, vicious, and dishonest relationships with that and other _ejusdem furfuris_. How shameful, my dear friend! I know well it’s a lie. We’ve known each other!… You’re incapable… And if you were to allow yourself to be tempted by the demon of lust, it would undoubtedly be with _women_ of better quality… If we’re in agreement… if I give it away cheaply, it’s all slander!… But do you know what ‘s coming your way ? It’s easy for your slanderers to dishonor you; it will be difficult, extremely difficult, for you to destroy error; for slander finds warmth in all hearts, transmission in all mouths, while no one believes or spreads justification. The world is very evil, humanity is wicked, traitorous, and does nothing but eternally pray for the release of Barabbas and the crucifixion of Jesus… And I have another thing to tell you: they also want to implicate you in the fire. “In the fire!… Me!” exclaimed Don Nazario, more surprised than terrified. “Yes, sir, they say it was that infernal basilisk who set fire to your house, which fire, by the laws of physics, spread to the entire building. I know very well that you are innocent of this as of the other outrages; but prepare to be dragged from Herod to Pilate, taking your statements, implicating you in vile matters, the mere mention of which makes your hair stand on end.” Indeed, just by saying it, his hair seemed to stand on end with terror and shame, while the other, hearing such dire omens, remained serene. “And finally, my dear Nazario, you already know that we are friends, ex toto corde, that I consider you an impeccable man, a pure man, pulcherrimo viro.” But you live in complete limbo, and this not only harms you, but also the friends with whom you have such a close relationship as living under the same roof. This isn’t about kicking you out, my friend; but I don’t live alone. My mother, who cares deeply for you, hasn’t had any peace of mind since she learned of these legal woes our guest is involved in. And don’t think she and I alone know about it. Last night there was a lot of talk about this at the gathering of Manolita, the sister of the bishopric’s vicar. Some
accused you, others defended you. But what Mama says: “As long as the gossip goes around, even if it’s unjust, we can’t have that bastard in the house…” Chapter 11. “Say no more, my friend,” Don Nazario replied in the calm tone he always used. “Anyway, I was planning to leave today or tomorrow. ” I don’t like to burden friends, nor have I thought of abusing the noble hospitality that you and your lady mother, the most good Doña María de la Concordia, have given me. I’m leaving now… What else do you have to say to me? Are you asking me what my reply is to vile slander? Well, you should already guess, my friend and companion. I answer that Christ taught us to suffer, and that the best test of diligence for those who aspire to be his disciples is to accept calmly and even joyfully the suffering that comes to us through the various paths of human wickedness. I have nothing more to say. Since his luggage was so easy to pack, as he carried everything on his own body, five minutes after hearing the speech, he said goodbye to the little cleric and Doña María de la Concordia and set out on the street, heading toward Calatrava’s, where he had some friends who would surely offer him hospitality for a few days. They were a husband and wife, elderly men, who had established themselves there since the year 50, trading in espadrilles, rope, olive pomace, mule harness, cork stoppers, ash poles, and some other knick-knacks. They received him as he had hoped and housed him in a narrow room at the back of the courtyard, making him a regular bed among stacks of packsails, collars, and coils of rope… They were poor people, and they made up for luxury with goodwill. In the three long weeks that the angelic Nazarín lived there, such unfortunate events occurred , and calamities piled up on his head so rapidly, as if God wanted to put him to the ultimate test. For now, there were no masses for him in any parish. In all of them, he was received poorly, with disdainful pity, and although he never uttered an unwelcome word, he had to hear harsh and cruel ones in this and the other sacristy. No one gave him any explanations for such behavior, nor did he ask for them. All of this resulted in an impossible life for the poor priest, since having arranged with “Los Peludos” (the Hairy Ones), as his friends on Calatrava Street were called, to pay them a daily sum for lodging, he could in no way satisfy them. Finally, he gave up further excursions to churches and oratories, looking for masses, which no longer existed for him, and shut himself up in his dark dwelling, spending day and night in meditation and sadness. One day, an elderly clergyman, a friend of his and an employee at the vicarage, visited him, took pity on his miserable fate and brought him a change of clothes that afternoon. He told him that it was not in his best interest to shrink back, but rather to resolutely address the vicar and relate with sincere frankness his troubles and the cause of them, trying to regain the self-esteem he had lost due to his indolence and the malice of vile people who disliked him. He added that there were already reports of him withdrawing his licenses and summoning him to the episcopal office to impose a correction on him, if his statements proved justifiable . So many blows somewhat weakened the brave spirit of that man, so timid on the surface, yet so deeply fortified by Christian virtues. He never received another visit from the elderly clergyman, and his dark residence was surrounded by a melancholic solitude and a gloomy quietude. But the gloomy solitude was the environment in which his great spirit resurfaced with vigorous vigor, resolving to confront the situation in which human events had placed him, and determining in his will the desire for a better life, in accordance with the inveterate longings of his soul. He no longer left his dark burrow until dawn, and he headed through the Puerta de Toledo, eager to see and enjoy God’s fields, to contemplate the sky, to hear the morning song of the graceful birds, to breathe in the fresh air and feast his eyes on the smiling greenery of trees and meadows, which in April and May, even in Madrid, enchant and enthrall the eye. He moved farther and farther away, seeking more countryside, more horizon, and throwing himself into the arms of nature, from whose bosom he could see God at his leisure. How beautiful nature is, how ugly humanity!… His morning walks, walking here, sitting there, fully confirmed him in the idea that God, speaking to his spirit, commanded him to abandon all worldly interests, to adopt poverty, and to break openly with all the artifices that constitute what we call civilization. His longing for such a life was so irresistible that he could no longer overcome it. To live in nature, far from the opulent and corrupt cities, what enchantment! Only in this way did he believe he was obeying the divine command that continually manifested itself in his soul; only in this way would he attain to all the possible purification within humanity, either to realize eternal goods, or to practice charity in the way he so ardently desired. Returning home, late in the day, what sadness, what boredom, and how his idea was distorted by the contingencies of reality! Because he, willingly, renouncing all the material advantages of his ecclesiastical profession, would cease to be a burden to the unfortunate and honorable _Peludos_, and either through alms or through work, would seek his bread. But how could he attempt either work or begging in those priest’s clothes, which would denounce him as mad or evil? From this idea came the aversion to the suit, the horrible and uncomfortable black clothes, which he would gladly have exchanged for a habit of the coarsest fabric. And one day, finding his shoes full of tears and with no resources to send them to be mended, he figured the best and cheapest way to repair his boots was not to wear them at all. Determined to try the system, he spent the entire day barefoot, walking around the courtyard on pebbles and damp ground, because it rained heavily. He was satisfied; but considering that barefootedness, like everything else, requires getting used to, he resolved to give himself the same lesson day after day, until he finally arrived at the complete invention of permanent footwear, which was one of his ideals in life, in the positive sense. One morning, shortly after dawn, he set out on his excursion outside the Puerta de Toledo. Having sat down to rest about a kilometer beyond the bridge, on the way to Carabancheles, he saw a very ill-looking man approaching him: thin, sallow-faced , decorated with more than one scar, poorly dressed, and with all the hallmarks of a crook, a hustler, or something similar. And
respectfully, as it sounds, with a respect that Nazarín, neither as a man nor as a priest, was accustomed to seeing in those who addressed him , that unpleasant fellow said the following: “Sir, don’t you know me? ” “No, sir… I don’t have the pleasure…” “I am the one they call Paco Pardo, the son of the Canoness, you know.” “My dear sir…” “And we live in that house, which can be seen on this side of the cemetery… Well, that’s where the Ándara is.” We have seen your reverence sitting on this stone several mornings, and Ándara said, she says, that she is ashamed to come and speak to you… Well today she encouraged me to come… with respect, and see how I come and… with respect I tell you that Ándara says that she will wash all your clothes…, because if it were not for your reverence I would be in the convent of nuns on Quiñones Street, alias the _Galera_… And I tell you more… with respect. Since my sister brings garbage and rubbish from Madrid, and other _substantial_ things, with which we raise pigs and chickens, and from which we all live, the fact is that two days ago… I say wrong, three, she brought a tile from a church priest , which was given to her in a house… Which, that is to say, the tile, although it came from a deceased person, is newer than the sun, and Ándara said that if you wanted to use it, don’t have _scrofula_, and I will take it to wherever she sends me… with respect… “Innocents, what are you saying? Tile? What do I want tiles or roofs for? ” the clergyman replied energetically. “Keep the pledge for whoever wants it, or use it for some scarecrow, if you have there, as it seems, a vegetable patch, peas, or something you want to protect from the little birds… and that’s enough. Thank you very much.” Let’s see… Oh! And as for washing my clothes, it’s appreciated—he said this as he was leaving—but I don’t have any clothes to wash, thank God… because the change of clothes I took off when they gave me the one I’m wearing… you know what I mean? I washed it myself in a puddle in the courtyard, and believe me, it came out spotless. I even hung it up on some ropes myself, because there’s no shortage of anything there except ropes… So… goodbye… And on his way home, he spent the whole day practicing barefoot, which by the fifth or sixth lesson had given him ease and joy. At night, having supper of fried chard and a little bread and cheese, spoke with his good friends and protectors about the impossibility of paying his bill, unless they assigned him some occupation or job where he could earn something, even if it were of the lowest and most miserable kind. The Hairy One was scandalized to hear such nonsense. “A clergyman! God forbid! What would society say, what the holy clergy! Mrs. Hairy One did not take her guest’s plans as sentimental, and as a practical woman, she stated that work dishonors no one, since God himself worked to make the world, and that she knew that at the Flea Station they gave five reales to anyone who went to haul coal. If the meek priest wanted to give up his habits to honestly earn a holy peseta, she would find him a house where they paid generously for washing mutton guts. Both of them, now fully convinced of the misery that overwhelmed the unfortunate priest, and seeing in him a soul of God incapable of earning a living, told him not to worry about paying the small debt, because they, as very Christian people and with their bit of holiness in their bodies, made him a donation of the earned _food_. Where two ate, three ate, and there were cats and dogs in the neighborhood that consumed more than Father Nazarín… _Which_ meant that he should not be afraid of _ending up with them_ such a mess, because everything was forgiven, for the love of God, or for the reason that we never know _what we are up to_, and that he who gives today, tomorrow has to ask for it. Don Nazario expressed his gratitude, adding that this was the last night they would have the hindrance of his useless person in the house . Both of them replied by dissuading him from going out on adventures, he with genuine sincerity and warmth, she with half -heartedness, no doubt because she wished to see him go with a fresh breeze. “No, no. It’s a well-thought-out resolution, and you, with all your kindness, which I so esteem, will not be able to dissuade me from it,” the clergyman told them. ” And now, my friend Peludo, do you have an old, useless greatcoat, and will you give it to me? ” “A greatcoat…?” “That garment which is nothing more than a large piece of thick cloth, with a hole in the center, through which you put your head. ” “A blanket? Yes, I have it. ” “Well, if you don’t need it, I’d be grateful if you’d let me have it. Certainly, I don’t believe there is a more comfortable garment, nor one that provides more warmth and ease… And do you have a fur cap?” —You’ll see new monteras in the store. —No, I want an old one. —There are also used ones, man, — indicated the _Peluda_. —Remember: the one you wore when you came from your homeland to marry me. Well, that was only forty-five years ago. —I want that montera, the old one. —Well, it’ll be yours… But this other rabbit-fur one I wore when I was a defender in Trujillo will suit you better… —Come on. —Do you want a sash? —It’ll do me good too. —And this little Bayonne vest, which could be put in a shop window if it didn’t have holes in the elbows? —It’s mine. They handed him the clothes and he eagerly picked them up. They all went to bed, and the next morning, the blessed Nazarín, barefoot, with his sash tied over his Bayonne vest, his cloak on top, his montera on his head, and a stick in his hand, joyfully bade farewell to his honored benefactors, and with a heart full of jubilation, his foot swift, his mind on God, his eyes on heaven, he left the house in the direction of the Puerta de Toledo. As he passed through it, he believed he was leaving a gloomy prison to enter the happy and free kingdom of which his spirit longed to be a citizen. PART THREE Chapter 12. He quickened his pace, now outside the Gate, anxious to get as far away as possible from the populous town, and to reach a place where he could not see its crowded houses, nor hear the tumult of its restless neighborhood, which already at that early hour was beginning to swarm, like a swarm of bees leaving the hive. The morning was beautiful. Imagination Of the fugitive, he multiplied a hundredfold the charms of heaven and earth, and in them he saw, as in a mirror, the image of his happiness, for the freedom he finally enjoyed, with no other master than his God. It was not without difficulty that he had made that rebellion effective, for it was rebellion, and in no case would he have carried it out, so submissive and obedient, if he had not felt that in his conscience the voice of his Master and Lord with imperious accent was commanding him to do so. Of this he could have had no doubt. But his rebellion, admitting that it truly deserved such an ugly name, was purely formal; it consisted only in evading the reprimand of his superior, and in dodging the backbiting and vexations and vexations of a justice that is neither justice nor anything worth it… What had he to do with a judge who paid attention to the infamous denunciations of conscienceless people? God, who saw his interior, knew that he did not flee from the provider or the judge in fear, for his courageous soul had never known cowardice, nor did suffering and pain of any kind twist his upright will, like a man who had long savored the mysterious pleasure of being a victim of human injustice and wickedness. He did not flee from hardships, but rather sought them out; he did not flee from discomfort and poverty, but rather he followed misery and the hardest labors. He fled, indeed, from a world and a life that did not suit his spirit, intoxicated, so to speak, with the illusion of an ascetic and penitent life. And to confirm himself in the veniality and almost innocence of his rebellion, he thought that in the dogmatic order his ideas did not deviate even a hair’s breadth from the eternal doctrine, nor from the teachings of the Church, which he had well studied and known by heart. He was not, then, a heretic, nor could they accuse him of the slightest heterodoxy, although the accusations mattered little to him , and he carried the entire Holy Office in the world on his own conscience. Satisfied with this, he did not waver in his resolve, and entered with a determined step into the wilderness; such was the appearance of those solitary fields. As he crossed the bridge, some beggars who were there practicing their free trade looked at him in surprise and suspicion, as if to say: “What kind of bird is this coming through our domains without us having given it permission? We shall have to see…” Nazarín greeted them with a friendly nod, and without entering into conversation with them, continued on his way, eager to get away before the sun set. Walking and walking, he never ceased to analyze in his mind the new existence he was embarking on, and his dialectic would pick it up and release it from different angles, assessing it in every imaginable phase and perspective, now favorable, now adverse, to arrive, as in a contradictory judgment, at the well-purified truth. He concluded by absolving himself of all guilt of insubordination, leaving only one argument from his imaginary accusers, to which he offered no satisfactory answer. “Why don’t you apply to enter the Third Order?” And knowing the force of this observation, he said to himself: “God knows that if I were to find a house of the Third Order on this little road, I would ask to be admitted , and I would enter it with joy, even if they imposed on me the most arduous novitiate. Because the freedom I crave, I would just as easily have wandering alone on slopes and ravines as subject to the severe discipline of a holy institute.” We agreed that I choose this life because it is the most suitable for me, and the one the Lord points out to me in my conscience, with an imperative clarity that I cannot ignore. Feeling a little tired, halfway to Carabanchel Bajo he sat down to eat a crust of bread, the good and abundant one that _Peluda_ had put in his knapsack, and at this moment a thin, humble and melancholy dog approached him , who partook of the feast, and for just those crumbs became his friend and accompanied him the entire time he was there resting after his frugal lunch. Setting off again, followed by the dog, before reaching the town he felt thirsty, and at the first inn he asked for water. While he was drinking, three men from the house They left, talking jovially, and observed him with importunate curiosity. There was undoubtedly something about him that betrayed the supposed or improvised beggar, and this caused him some unease. As he said “God bless you ” to the woman who had given him the water, one of the three men approached him and said: “Mr. Nazarín, I recognized you by the timbre of your voice. You’re certainly well disguised… May I know… with respect, where you’re going, dressed like a pauper? ” “Friend, I’m going in search of what I lack. ” “May it be in good health… And you don’t know me? I am that one… ” “Yes, that one… But I can’t remember… ” “Who spoke to you not many days ago further down the road… and offered you… with respect, a tile hat. ” “Ah! Yes… a tile hat, which I refused. ” “Well, we’re here to serve you. Does Your Reverence wish to see Ándara?” —No, sir… Tell her from me to be good, or to do her best to be one. —Look at her… Do you see those three women over there, on the other side of the road _properly_, picking thistle and purslane? Well, the one in the red petticoat is Ándara. —For many years. Well, rest with God… Ah! Just a moment: would you be so kind as to show me a shortcut by which I could get from this road to the one beyond, the one that starts from the Segovia bridge and goes to Trujillo?… —Well, this way, following these walls, you go straight ahead… Go next to the Campamento, and onward, onward… the path doesn’t deceive you… until you reach _properly_ the houses of Brugadas. There it crosses the Extremadura road. —Thank you very much, and goodbye. He set off, followed by the dog, who apparently had been with him for the whole journey, and hadn’t gone a hundred meters when he heard a woman’s voice behind him calling urgently: “Señor Nazarín, Don Nazario…” He stopped and saw a red skirt running toward him, a frail body from which two arms emerged, waving like windmill sails . “Shall we bet that this one running is the blessed Ándara?” he said, stopping. Indeed, she was, and it would have been a struggle for the walker to recognize her if he didn’t know she was walking through those fields. At first, one might have thought that a scarecrow, one of those made of sticks and old clothes to protect a crop from sparrows, had miraculously come to life and was running and talking, for the girl’s resemblance to one of those country contraptions was complete. Time, which destroys the most solid things, had been scattering and peeling away the chalky layer of rouge from her face, leaving the erysipelatous skin exposed , wrinkled in some places, swollen in others. One of her eyes had grown larger than the other, and both were ugly, though not as much as her mouth, with hemorrhoidal lips, showing much of her red gums, and uneven teeth, misaligned, with many of the teeth eaten away. Her body had no roundness, no trace of anything lean, all angles, packed with bones… and what black hands, what feet poorly shod in dirty espadrilles! But what most astonished Nazarín was that the little woman, when she approached him, seemed shy, with a certain childlike shyness, which was the most extraordinary and novel aspect of her transformation. If the discovery of shame on that face surprised the wandering cleric, he was no less astonished to notice that Ándara showed no surprise at seeing him in the guise of a beggar. His transformation didn’t surprise her, as if she had already anticipated it or it came naturally to her. “Sir,” the criminal told him, “I didn’t want you to pass by without speaking to me… without me speaking to him. You know that I’ve been there since the day of the fire, and that no one has seen me, nor am I afraid of justice. ” “Well, God be with you. What do you want from me now? ” “Nothing more than to tell you that the Canon is my cousin, and that’s why I came to hide there, where they’ve treated me like a princess. I’ll help you with everything, and I don’t want to return to that stinking Madrid, which is the ruin of Honest people. So… —Good morning… Goodbye. —Wait a minute. What’s your hurry? And tell me: have the Caiaphas from the court messed with you? Brave thieves! I have a feeling they’ve done something to you, and that Camella, who’s such a scoundrel, must have told the Salesians a lot of stories. —I don’t care about Camella, or Caiaphas, or anything. Leave it… And have a good time. —Wait… —I can’t stop, I’m in a hurry. All I’m telling you, corrupt Andara, is that you shouldn’t forget the warnings I gave you in my house; that you should mend your ways… —I’m more mended than I am…! I swear that even if I were to become pretty again, or even passable, that wouldn’t happen to me, the devil wouldn’t get me again. Now, since he’s so terrified that I am, the Indian won’t come near me. _Which_, if he doesn’t get angry, I’ll tell him one thing. —What? —I want to go with you… wherever you’re going. —It can’t be, my daughter. You’d have a lot of trouble, you’d suffer hunger, thirst… —I don’t care. Let me accompany you. —You’re no good. Your amendment is deceitful; it’s merely a reflection of the spite caused by your lack of personal charm; but in your heart you’re still damaged, and in one way or another you carry evil within you. —I bet you don’t? —I know you… You set fire to the house where I gave you asylum. —It’s true, and I don’t regret it. Didn’t they want to expose me, and lose you because of the smell? Well, bad air is cleansed with fire. —That’s what I’m telling you, cleanse yourself with fire. —What fire? —The love of God. —Well, if I get involved with you… those flames will stick to me. —I don’t trust you… You’re evil, evil. Stay alone. Solitude is a great teacher for the soul. I’m going to search for it. Think of God, offer Him your heart, remember your sins, and review them to abhor them, and take them in horror. —Well, let me go… —No. If you’re good, one day you’ll find me. —Where? —I tell you, you’ll find me. Goodbye. And without waiting for further explanation, she walked away at a brisk pace. Ándara remained seated on a bank, picking up pebbles from the ground and throwing them a short distance, without taking her eyes off the path where the cleric was walking away. He looked back two or three times, and the last time, far away now, he saw her as only a red dot in the middle of the green field. Chapter 13. On that first day of his pilgrimage, the fugitive had encounters that are not truly worth recounting, and are only mentioned because they were the first, that is, the beginning of his Christian adventures. Shortly after leaving Andara, he heard cannon shots, which grew closer with each moment, with a formidable roar that rent the air and struck terror into the heart. Toward the direction from which all that noise was coming, he saw platoons of troops moving back and forth, as if engaged in battle. He realized he was near the training ground where our army trains in combat. The dog looked at him gravely, as if to say: “Don’t be alarmed, my master, this is all a lie, and this is how the troops spend the whole year, firing shots and running after each other. For the rest, if we get close to the time when they have their snack, believe that we will get something, for these are very liberal people and friends of the poor.” Nazarín spent a little while contemplating this beautiful game, and seeing how the smoke from the flashes dissipated in the air, and shortly after continuing on his way, he met a shepherd who was leading about fifty goats. He was old , apparently very cunning, and looked at the adventurer with distrust. However, the pilgrim did not fail to greet him courteously, and to ask him if he was far from the path he was looking for. “It seems that you are new to the trade,” the shepherd told him, “and that you have never been around here. Where does the man come from? From the land of Arganda? Well, I inform you that the civil guards have orders to gather all the beggars and take them to the refuges that There is in Madrid. It’s true that they’ll release her again soon, because there’s no maintenance there for so many lazy people… Rest with God, brother. I have nothing to give her. “I have bread,” said Nazarín, putting his hand in his satchel, “and if you want… ” “Let’s see, good man?” replied the other, examining the half loaf that was shown to him. “Well, this is from Madrid, the kind with the points, and the good kind. ” “Let’s split this piece, because I still have another one, which Peluda gave me when we left. ” “Excuse me, good friend. Here’s my share. So, continuing forward, always forward, you’ll reach the Móstoles road in twenty minutes. And tell me, do you have any good wine? ” “No, sir, neither bad nor good. ” “A miracle… Boring, countryman.” He then met two women and a boy who were coming loaded with chard, lettuce, and cabbage leaves, the kind that are picked at the foot of the plant to feed the pigs. There, Nazarín tried out his fledgling trade as a beggar, and the peasant women were so generous that, as soon as they heard his first words, they gave him two upturned lettuces and half a dozen new potatoes, which one of them took out of a sack. The pilgrim put the alms in his satchel, thinking that if at night he found some embers on which he could roast the potatoes, with the added lettuce, he would be assured of a delicious dinner. On the Trujillo road, he saw a stuck wagon and three men struggling to free the wheel from the pothole. Without being told to, he helped them, putting all his muscular energy into it, which wasn’t much. When the operation was successfully completed, they threw a small coin to his side. It was the first money his begging hand had collected. Everything was going well up to that point, and the humanity he encountered in those backwoods seemed to him to be of a very different nature from what he had left behind in Madrid. Thinking about this, he concluded by recognizing that the events of the first day were not a given, and that strange emergencies would inevitably occur, and the hardships, pains, tribulations, and horrible sufferings his ardent imagination sought would occur later on. He continued along the dusty road until nightfall, when he saw houses that he didn’t know were from Móstoles, nor did he care to know. It was enough for him to see human dwellings, and he headed toward them to request permission to sleep, even if it was in a woodshed, corral, or shed. The first house was large, like a farmhouse, with a very poor inn or wet barn against the dividing wall. In front of the gate, half a dozen pigs were wallowing in the mud. Further on, the traveler saw a mule-shoeing yard, a wagon with its lemon trees facing upward, chickens entering one after another, a woman washing dishes in a pond, a vine-raising vine, and a half-dry tree. He humbly approached a pot-bellied old man with a wine-colored face and regular clothes, who was coming out of the gate, and humbly asked him to allow him to spend the night in a corner of the courtyard. He was as quick to hear him say, “Most Holy Mary!” as the man began to throw javelins from that mouth. The gentlest impression he had was that he was tired of harboring thieves on his property. Don Nazario didn’t need to hear any more, and saluting him, cap in hand, he walked away. The woman washing in the pond pointed out a plot of land, partly enclosed by a dilapidated wall, partly by a hedge of brambles and nettles. One entered through a hole, and inside there was the beginning of a building, brick pillars about a meter high, forming an architectural design, and festooned with yellow grass. On the ground grew barley about a palm high, and between two walls, leaning against the high back wall, there was a poorly arranged roof made of sticks, twigs, straw, and mud, an extremely fragile structure, but not entirely useless, because under it sheltered three beggars, a couple or married couple, and another younger one with a wooden leg. Comfortably installed in such a primitive dwelling, they had made a fire and in it they had a pot, which the woman uncovered to stir the contents, while the man puffed furiously at the fire. The limping man chopped sticks with his knife to carefully stoke the fire. Nazarín asked them for permission to take shelter under that roof, and they replied that the niche was their free property, and that anyone who wished could enter or leave it without a ticket. They did not object, therefore, to the newcomer occupying a place; but he should not expect to share in the hot supper, since they were poorer than the man who invented poverty, and were out to collect and not to give. The penitent hastened to reassure them, telling them that he asked no more than permission to put a few potatoes on the fire, and then offered them bread, which they took without showing squeamishness. “And what about Madrid?” the old beggar asked him. “After we build all these towns, we plan to stop there around the time of San Isidro. How’s the year shaping up? Is there poverty, and are things still so bad in commerce?… I’ve been told that Sagasta is falling.” Who do we have for mayor now? Don Nazario politely replied that he knew nothing about commerce or business, nor did he care whether Sagasta was in charge or not, and that he knew the Lord Mayor almost as well as the Emperor of Trapisonda. With this , the gathering ended; the others dined in a pot, without inviting the new guest; he roasted his potatoes, and all they could think about was lying down, the four of them, looking for the warmest corner. The newcomer was given the worst spot, almost outside the shelter of the shed; but none of this made a dent in his strong spirit. He looked for a stone to serve as a pillow, and wrapping himself in his blanket as best he could, he lay down comfortably, counting on the peace of his conscience and the fatigue of his body to sleep well. The dog curled up at his feet. Late at night, he was awakened by the animal’s growling, which soon became a thunderous barking. Raising his head from the very hard pillow, Nazarín saw a figure, a man or a woman, although he couldn’t determine this at first, and heard a voice saying to him: “Don’t be alarmed, Father, it’s me; it’s Ándara, who, even though you don’t want it, came following you this afternoon. ” “What are you looking for here, crazy woman? Realize you’re disturbing these… gentlemen. ” “No, let me finish. The damned dog started barking… but I was so quiet. Well, I came following you and saw you come in here… Don’t get angry… I wanted to obey you and not come; but my legs brought me here on their own. It’s a matter of _without thinking_… I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” I must go with your reverence to the end of the earth, or else bury me… Come on, go back to sleep, for I lie down here in this grass to rest, not to sleep, for I can’t sleep, damn it! “Go away from here, or shut your mouth,” said the good clergyman, laying his aching head back on the stone. “What will these gentlemen say? Do you hear? They’re already complaining about the noise you’re making. ” Indeed, the one with the wooden leg, who was closest, was muttering, and the dog once again called the importunate girl to order. Finally, a silence reigned again that would have been profound if it weren’t disturbed by the formidable snoring of the older couple. At dawn, everyone awoke , even Don Nazario, who was surprised not to see Ándara, so he had to suspect that her appearance in the middle of the night had been a dream . The three beggars on staff and the candidate chatted a bit, and the old men painted such a pitiful picture of how badly things were going for them that Nazarín felt very sorry for them and gave them all his capital, that is, the small penny the muleteers had given him on loan. Shortly after this, Ándara entered the manor house, explaining why she had left shortly before he woke up. Since she could not sleep in such a hard bed, she woke up before daylight , and going out onto the road to explore the place where she was, she saw that it was none other than the large town of Móstoles, which she knew very well from having visited it several times from her village. She added that if Don Nazario would give her permission, she would find out if two sisters, friends of hers, called Beatriz and Isabella, still lived there. Fabiana, one of whom had dealings in Madrid with a butcher, and they later married, and he opened a tavern in that town. The priest wasn’t upset that he sought out and recognized his friends, even if it meant going to the ends of the earth and never returning, because he didn’t want to take such a woman with him. And an hour later, while the pilgrim was chatting with a goatherd who generously offered him milk soup, he saw his companion arrive, very distressed, and, velis nolis, he had to listen to stories that at first aroused no interest. The butcher and tavern owner had died as a result of being gored by a bull during the Móstoles festivities, leaving his wife destitute with a three-year-old daughter. The two sisters lived in a dilapidated tavern near a stable. The poor women were so poor that they would have gone to Madrid to make a living, a task that wouldn’t be difficult even for Beatriz, who was young and well-built, if the child weren’t so ill, with a harmful typhoid fever that would surely send her to heaven within twenty-four hours . “Angel of God!” exclaimed the ascetic, crossing his hands. “Unhappy mother!” “And I,” continued the woman from Corrientes, “as soon as I saw that pierced misery, now the mother crying, now Beatriz sniffling, now the little girl with death written on her face… well, I was overcome with pity… and then I had a big feeling, the one that feels like my insides were screaming four times, you know?… Ah! This one never fails me… Well, I was glad to feel it, and I said to myself: ‘I’m going to tell Father Nazarín, see if he wants to go, see the little girl and cure her. ’ “Woman! What are you saying? Am I a doctor?” “Not a doctor… but it’s something else that’s worth more than all the medicine. If you want, Don Nazario, the little girl will be cured.” Chapter 14. “I will go,” said the Arab from La Mancha, after hearing Andara’s plea for the third time , “I will go, but only to give those poor women some comfort with pious words… My faculties are limited to more. Compassion, my child, the love of Christ and of one’s neighbor are not medicine for the body. Come, yes, show me the way; but not to cure the child, for that science can do, and if the case is desperate, God Almighty. ” “You come to me with such matters?” replied the girl, with the anguish she used to wear in her prison on the Street of the Amazons. “Do not bow down, your reverence, the little one; for I know he is a saint. Well, well. Well, with that…! And what trouble will it cost you to perform a miracle, if you wish? ” “Don’t blaspheme, ignorant, bad Christian. I am a miracle worker!” —Well, if you don’t do them, who will? —I… foolish one, I miracles, the least of God’s servants! How do you get the idea that His Divine Majesty, who am nothing, who am worthless, could grant me the marvelous gift enjoyed on earth only by a few, a very few chosen ones, angels more than men? Wretch, get out of my presence, for your silliness, not the offspring of faith but of a superstitious credulity, annoys me more than I would like. And indeed, he seemed so angry that he even raised the stick as if to hit her, a very rare occurrence for him and one that only occurred in extraordinary cases. —Who do you take me for, a soul full of errors, a corrupted mind, an unhealthy nature in body and spirit? Am I perhaps an impostor? Am I trying to fool people? Come to your senses, and don’t talk to me about miracles anymore, because I’ll either believe that you’re making fun of me, or that your ignorance and lack of knowledge of God’s laws are as great today as your perversity was. Andara wasn’t convinced, attributing her protector’s words to modesty; but, without mentioning the miracle again, she insisted on taking him to see her friends and the dying girl. “Yes… visit those poor people, console them, and ask the Lord to comfort them in their tribulation, I will do it… I believe it. It’s my greatest pleasure. Let’s go there.” It didn’t take them five minutes to arrive; in such haste the tarasca took him through muddy alleys full of nettles and pebbles. In a miserable tavern, with a dirt floor, cracked walls that were more like They looked like lattices through which air and light filtered, the roof almost invisible with so much cobweb, and everywhere empty barrels, broken jars, and shapeless objects, Nazarín saw the sad family, two women wrapped in their shawls, their eyes reddened by crying and insomnia, chilled and trembling. Fabiana was tying a handkerchief tightly over her forehead, level with her eyebrows: she was dark-skinned, aged, with lean flesh, and dressed shabbily. Beatriz, considerably younger, although she had just turned twenty-seven, wore her handkerchief in a brash manner, arranged with grace, and her clothes, although poor, revealed habits of presumption. Her face, without being beautiful, was pleasing; she was well-proportioned, tall, slender, almost arrogant, with black hair, a white complexion, and gray eyes surrounded by an intense reddish darkness. In her ears she wore filigree earrings, and on her hands, more city than country, well-kept, were rings of little or no value. At the back of the room, they had stretched a rope, from which hung a curtain, like a theater curtain. Behind it was the bedroom, and in it the bed, or rather, the cradle, of the sick girl. The two women welcomed the wandering hermit with displays of great respect, no doubt because of what Ándara had told them about him. They made him sit on a stool and served him a cup of goat’s milk with bread, which he took so as not to offend them, sharing the ration with the big woman from Madrid, who had a moderate appetite. Two elderly neighbors snuck in, just to get a drink, and huddled on the floor, they watched the good Nazarín with more curiosity than amazement. They all talked about the little girl’s illness, which from the beginning had been very serious. The day she fell ill, her mother had a premonition from dawn, because when she opened the door, she saw two crows flying and three magpies perched on a pole in front of the house. That already made her stomach turn. Then she went out into the field and saw the nightjar hopping in front of her. All this was a very bad sign. When she returned home, the girl had a fever that was burning. When Don Nazario asked them if the doctor visited her, they replied that he did. Don Sandalio, the town’s chief doctor, had come three times, and the last time he said that only God, with a miracle, could save the child. They also brought a healer, who performed excellent cures. She applied a poultice of gecko tails, picked at midnight … With this, it seemed that the little creature was recovering ; but the hope they gained was short-lived. The healer, very disconsolate, had told them that the reason the gecko tails weren’t working was because it was the waning of the moon. It was a waxing moon, a sure thing, a sure thing. Sternly and almost angrily, Nazarín reprimanded them for their foolish trust in such nonsense, exhorting them to believe only in science, and in God above science and all things . They made ardent demonstrations of respect for the good priest, and weeping and kneeling, they begged him to see the girl and cure her. “But, my daughters, how do you expect me to cure her? Don’t be crazy. Maternal affection blinds you. I don’t know how to cure. If God wants to take the girl from you, He knows what He’s doing. Resign yourselves. And if He decides to keep her, He will do so if you only ask Him, although it wouldn’t hurt for me to ask Him as well.” They urged him so much to see her that Nazarín went behind the curtain. He sat down beside the baby’s bed and for a long time observed her in silence. Carmencita’s face was deathly, her lips almost black, her eyes sunken, her skin burning, and her whole body was faint, inert, already foreshadowing the immobility of the grave. The two women, mother and aunt, began to cry again like Magdalenes, and the neighbors who entered did the same, and in the midst of that chorus of feminine anguish, Fabiana said to the priest: “Well, if God wants to perform a miracle, what better occasion? We know that You, Father, are made of the stuff of divine angels, and you’ve put on that suit and go barefoot and beg for alms to look more like Our Lord Jesus Christ, who also went barefoot and ate nothing but what was given to him. Well, I say that these times are like the others, and what the Lord did then, why doesn’t He do now? In short, if you want to save the girl for us, you will save her, as this is the day. I believe it, and I place my fate in your hands, blessed sir. Taking his hands away so that they would not be kissed, Nazarín said to them in a calm and firm voice: “My ladies , I am a sad sinner like yourselves. I am not perfect, nor am I a hundred thousand leagues from perfection. And if you see me in this humble garment, it is for the pleasure of poverty, because I believe I serve God in this way. And all this without boasting, without believing that because I go barefoot I am worth more than those who wear stockings and boots, or imagining that because I am poor, very poor, I am better than those who amass riches. I do not know how to heal; I do not know how to perform miracles, nor has it ever crossed my mind that the Lord, the only one who knows how to alter, whenever He pleases, the laws He has given to nature, might perform them. ” “Yes, He can, yes, He can!” cried all the women, old and young, who were present. “I say I can’t… and you’ll make me angry, come on!” Never expect me to present myself before the world clothed with powers I do not have, nor to usurp a role superior to the obscure and humble one that corresponds to me. I am nobody, I am not a saint, nor even a good one… —Yes, indeed, indeed. —Come on, do not contradict me, for I will leave your house… You gravely offend our Lord Jesus Christ by supposing that this poor servant of His is capable of equaling, I do not say Him, for that would be delirium, but not even the chosen men to whom He gave the power to perform miracles for the edification of the Gentiles. No, no, my daughters. I appreciate your simplicity; but I do not wish to foster in your souls hopes that reality would dash. If God has arranged for the girl to die, it is because death suits Him, just as the subsequent pain suits you. Accept with a serene spirit the heavenly will, which does not prevent you from praying with faith and love, from praying, from fervently asking the Lord and His Most Holy Mother for the health of this child. And for my part, do you know the only thing I can do? —What, sir, what?… Well, do it quickly. —That’s right; ask God to return this innocent child to her healthy and beautiful self, and offer her my health, my life in whatever form she chooses to take them; that in exchange for the favor we implore from Him, He grant me all the calamities, all the setbacks, all the ailments and pains that can afflict humanity on earth… that He bring misery in its most horrible form upon me, the saddest blindness, the disgusting leprosy… everything, everything be for me, in exchange for restoring life to this tender and innocent being, and granting you the reward for your labors. He said this with such ardent enthusiasm and such deep and firm conviction, faithfully translated by words, that the women burst into shouts, suddenly seized by an insane excitement. The priest’s enthusiasm was communicated to them like a spark falling into a pile of gunpowder, and there followed unbridled weeping and convulsive folding of hands, confusing the shrieks of supplication with the spasms of pain. The pilgrim, meanwhile, silent and grave, placed his hand on the girl’s forehead, as if to gauge the degree of heat that consumed her, and let himself remain in this position for a good while, paying no attention to the exclamations of the desolate women. He took leave of them shortly afterward, promising to return, and asking in what direction the town church was. Andara offered to show him, and they went, and there they remained the entire day. The tarasca did not enter the church. Chapter 15. At dusk, when he left the temple, the first people with whom he When Don Nazario stumbled, it was Ándara and Beatriz who were going to find him. “The girl isn’t any worse,” they told him. “She even seems a little alert…” She opened her eyes for a moment and looked at us… We’ll see how the night goes. They added that they had prepared a modest supper for her, which she accepted so as not to seem sullen and ungrateful. Once they had all gathered in the tavern, Fabiana seemed a little more cheerful, having noticed some alertness in the girl around noon; but by afternoon the surcharge had returned. Nazarín ordered her to continue giving her the medicine prescribed by the doctor. Lit by a funereal candle hanging from the ceiling, they dined, the guest taking extreme moderation to the point of eating nothing but half a boiled egg and a small plate of stew with a meager ration of bread. Wine was out of the question. Although they had prepared a soft bed for her with straw and some blankets, she refused to spend the night there, and defending herself as best she could against the kind insistence of those good people, she decided to sleep with her dog in the spacious yard where she had spent the previous night. Before retiring to rest, they spent a short time chatting, unable to talk about anything other than the sick child, and how vain, in any case of illness, any hopes of relief are. “Well, this one,” said Fabiana, pointing to Beatriz, “is also in bad shape. ” “Well, she doesn’t look like it,” observed Nazarín, looking at her more closely than he had until then. “It’s just the stuff,” said Ándara, “of those damned nerves. She’s been like this ever since she came from Madrid; but you can’t recognize her face, right? She’s prettier every day… It’s all because of a scare, because of all the scares that kid gave her… ” “Shut up, silly.” —Well, I’m not saying it… —What you have, —added Fabiana— is a stupor of the heart, that is to say, a curse, because believe me, Father Nazarín, that in the villages there are evil desires, and people who do harm just by looking out of the corner of their eye. —Don’t be superstitious, I’ve told you; and I’ll repeat it again. —Well, what I have, —as stated Beatriz, not without a certain curtness— is that three months ago I lost my desire to eat, but so completely that not even the weight of a grain of wheat could fit in my mouth. Whether I was bewitched or not , I don’t know. And after not eating, came not sleeping; and I spent the nights pacing around the house, with a lump here, in the pit of my stomach, as if a huge rock ashlar were stuck through it. “Afterwards,” Fabiana added, “she would have such violent attacks, so violent, Señor de Nazarín, that all of us couldn’t hold her down. She would bellow and foam, and then she would come out screaming and uttering things that embarrassed her. ” “Don’t be simple-minded,” Ándara said with sincere conviction; “that’s what it means to have demons inside you. I had them too when I was past puberty, and I cured myself with some powders they call… a tough joke… or I don’t know what.” “Whether they were demons or not,” Beatriz declared, “I suffered beyond belief, Señor Priest, and when it struck me, I was capable of killing my mother if I had one, and I would have picked up a raw child or a person’s leg to eat, or torn it to pieces with my teeth… And afterwards, what mortal anguish, what a desire to die!” Sometimes I thought about nothing but death, and the many ways there are to kill oneself. And the worst part was when the horrors of things overtook me. I couldn’t walk past the church without feeling my hair stand on end. Go into it? Rather than die… Seeing a priest in robes, seeing a blackbird in its cage, a hunchback, or a sow with babies, were the things that horrified me most. And hearing bells? That drove me crazy. “Well,” said Nazarín, “that’s not witchcraft or anything demonic; it’s a very common and well-studied illness called hysteria. ” “Hysteria, of course; that’s what the doctor said. I’d have the attack without knowing why, and it would go away without knowing how. Take? My God, the things I’ve taken! The elderberry sticks soaked on a Friday, the serum from the black cow, the crushed ants with onions… Well!” and the crosses, and medals, and dead man’s teeth that I’ve hung around my neck! “And are you cured now?” Nazarín asked, looking at her again. “Not cured. Three days ago I felt the ill will, this thing of hating someone; but it’s less severe than before. I’m getting better. ” “Well, I pity you. This ailment must be very serious. How do you cure it? The imagination plays a large part in it, and it is with imagination that one must attempt the remedy. ” “How, sir? ” “By trying to fully understand the idea that such disorders are imaginary. Didn’t you say that the Holy Church filled you with horror? Well, overcome that horror and enter it, and fervently pray to the Lord for relief. I assure you that there is no longer a demon within your body—that’s what we call those strange aberrations of sensitivity produced by our nervous system.” Convince yourself that these phenomena do not signify an injury or a breakdown in any of your internal organs, and you will never suffer from them again. Reject sadness, walk, distract yourself, eat as much as you can, keep your thoughts out of your mind, try to sleep, and you’ll be fine. Come on, ladies, it ‘s late, and I’m going to go to bed. Ándara and Beatriz accompanied him to his home in the manor house and left him there after arranging the best possible bed for him with grass and stones. “Don’t believe it, Father,” Beatriz said as they said goodbye. “You’ve consoled me greatly with what you’ve told me about this illness I suffer from. If they’re demons, because they are demons; if not, because they’re nerves… the fact is that I have more faith in you than in all the medical advice in the entire world… So… good night.” Nazarín prayed for a long time, and then slept like a saint until dawn. The graceful song of the birds, who had their quarters in those rough hedges, woke her, and soon Andara and her friend came in to give her good news. The child was better! She had spent the night more peacefully, and since dawn she had had a clarity and a sparkle in her eyes that were signs of improvement. “If this isn’t a miracle, may God come and see! ” “It isn’t a miracle,” he told them gravely. “God has mercy on that unhappy mother. Perhaps he would have done so without our prayers. ” They all went there and found Fabiana deliriously happy. She threw her arms around the priest and even tried to kiss him, which he resolutely refused. There was hope, but no reason yet to trust in the child’s recovery . A setback could come, and then, how much greater would be the poor mother’s grief! In short, whatever the outcome, they would see for themselves that, if they gave no other orders, he would leave at that very moment, after having a very meager breakfast. The pleas and affability of the three women to stop him were useless. He had no business being there; he was wasting his time with very little substance, and he had to leave to fulfill his strange and holy idea. His farewell was tender, and although he repeatedly exhorted the ferocious woman of Madrid not to accompany him, she said, in her coarse style, that she would joyfully follow him to the end of the world, for her heart so desired it that her will was powerless to resist that command. So they left together, followed by a multitude of children and some of the local women. So much so that, to escape an escort he disliked, Nazarín left the road and, entering the field to the left of the main road, went straight to a grove that could be seen in the distance. “Don’t you know?” said Ándara, when the last of the retinue had left . “Beatriz told me last night that if the little priest does the same as me. ” “What will she do, then?” “Why, she’ll follow you wherever you go. ” “Let her not think of such a thing. I don’t want anyone following me. I’m better off alone. ” “Well, she wants it. She says it’s for penance. ” “If penance calls her, let her take it with good fortune; but for that she doesn’t need to go with me. Let her abandon all her possessions, in which it seems to me she’s not making a great sacrifice, and go out and beg for alms… but alone. Each to their own conscience, each to their own solitude. —Well, I answered yes, that we would take her… —And who puts you in…? —I’m putting you in, yes sir, because I love Beatriz, and I know this life will test her. It seems that the penitential exercise is good for her to rid herself of what is killing her soul, who is an evil man called _Pinto_, or _Pintón_, I’m not quite sure. But I know him, a handsome man, a widower, with a mole of hair here. Well, that’s the one who’s depriving her of her senses, and the one who put the demons in her body. He has her deceived: today he scorns her, tomorrow he makes a thousand figures of her, and _look_ here why she’s become so _estericated_. It’s good for her, yes sir, it’s good for her to go on a pilgrimage to cleanse her head of evil, because if not, she carries demons in her womb and chest, and in the emptiness, in her cerebral head, she certainly has countless of them. And all from a bad birth; and by the count there were two… “Why do you bring me these idle stories, you chatterbox, busybody? ” Nazarín said angrily. “What have I to do with Beatriz, or with Pinto, or with…” ” Because you must protect her, because if she doesn’t become a penitent with us soon, looking after her soul a little, she’ll get involved in something else bad, concerning matters of the body, bad luck! It was a close call! When the child fell ill, she already had her clothes in her trunk to go to Madrid. She showed me Seve’s letter summoning her and… ” “Don’t tell me stories, come on.” —I’m finishing now… Seve told him to leave quickly, and there… well… —Shut up! Let Beatriz go wherever she wants… No, not that: don’t answer that deceiver’s call… don’t bite the hook the devil is holding out for her, baited with illusory vanities… Tell her not to go, that sin, corruption, vice, and an ignominious death await her there, when she no longer has time to repent. —But how can I tell her all these things, Father, if we don’t return to Móstoles? Chapter 16. —You can go, and I’ll wait for you here. —She won’t be convinced by what I tell her. If you go in person and talk to her properly, she’s sure not to be lost. She has faith in you, because with the little she heard you explain about your illness, she already considers herself cured, and the anger has stopped. So let’s go back, if it seems good to you. —Let me, let me think about it. —And with that, we’ll know if the girl has finally died, or is still alive. —My heart tells me she’s alive. —Well, let’s go back, sir… to see him. —No; you go, and tell your friend… Anyway, tomorrow I’ll decide. They found shelter in a corral, after procuring dinner with the few coins that the application of that day yielded them, and when at dawn the next day Nazarín set off on the same route he had brought from Móstoles, Ándara said to him: —But do you know where we’re going? —Where? —To my town, you wicked bastard! —I’ve told you not to utter another ugly word in front of me. If you do that again, I won’t allow you to accompany me. Well, where do you say we’re going? —To Polvoranca, which is my town, sir. And I, in truth, wouldn’t want to go to my homeland, where I have relatives, some of them well- off, and my sister is married to the toll-keeper. Don’t think Polvoranca is just any old thing, for we have very rich people there, and some even have six pairs… of mules, that is to say. ” “I understand why you blush at entering your homeland,” replied the pilgrim. “There you have it! If you were good, you could go anywhere without blushing. We won’t go, then, and let’s head this way, which is the same for our purpose.” They walked all that day, with no other occurrence worth mentioning other than the desertion of the dog that had been accompanying Nazarín from Carabanchel. Whether because the animal also had honorable relatives in Polvoranca, or because he did not like to leave his territory, which was the area of Madrid in a short radius, the fact is that at nightfall, he said goodbye like a discontented servant, taking his leave for the Villa and Court, in search of better accommodation. After spending the night in the open field at the foot of an ash tree, the travelers again sighted Móstoles, where Ándara was leading the way, without Don Nazario knowing the direction. “Shut up! Are we back in your friends’ village again? Well, look, daughter, I’m not going in. Go and find out how the girl is, and while you’re at it, tell that poor Beatriz from me what you already know: that she shouldn’t pay attention to vice’s requests, and that if she wants to go on a pilgrimage and live a humble life, she doesn’t need me at all… Go, daughter, go. I’ll wait for you at that old waterwheel, which you can see over there between two stunted trees, about a quarter of a league from the town. Don’t be long.” She walked slowly to the well, drank a little water, rested, and not two hours had passed since the wanderer had left when Nazarín saw her return, and not alone, but accompanied by another woman of that name, in whom, when they drew near, he recognized Beatriz. Some village children followed them. Before reaching where the beggar was waiting for them, the two girls and the boys burst into shouts of joy. “Don’t you know?… The girl, she’s good! Long live Saint Nazarín! Long live! The girl, she’s good… very good indeed. She talks, she eats, and she seems resurrected. ” “Children, don’t be crazy. To give me the good news, there’s no need to make so much fuss. ” “We did make such a fuss!” cried Ándara, jumping up and down. “We want the birds in the air, the fish in the river, and even the lizards that scurry among the stones to know,” said Beatriz, radiant with joy, her eyes blazing. “It’s a miracle, I beg you! ” “Silence! ” “It won’t be a miracle, Father Nazarín; but you are very good, and the Lord grants you everything you ask for. ” “Don’t talk to me about miracles, and don’t call me a saint, because I’ll go ashamed and hastily into a place where you’ll never see me again. ” The boys were no less noisy than the women, filling the air with their graceful shrieks. “If the gentleman enters the village, they’ll carry him away. They think the girl was dead and that by simply placing his hand on her forehead, he brought her back to life. ” “Jesus, what nonsense! How glad I am I didn’t go there. Anyway, let us praise the Lord’s infinite mercy… And Fabiana, how happy she must be!” —Crazy, sir, crazy with joy. She says that if you don’t come into her house, the girl will die. And I believe it too. And do you know what the old women of the village do? They come into our shack and ask us to please let them sit on the same bench where the blessed man sat. —What nonsense! How simple! How innocent! Don Nazario then noticed that Beatriz was barefoot, wearing a black skirt, a short scarf across her chest, a satchel on her back, and another scarf wrapped around her head. —Are you going on a trip, woman? —he asked her; and it’s no wonder he addressed her informally, for this was a long-standing habit with him when speaking to people in the village. —She’s coming with us, —As you see, sir. She has only two paths: the one you know, over there, with Seve, and this one. —Well, let her undertake her pious campaign alone. ” Go both of you together, and leave me alone. ” “Never,” replied the woman from Móstoles, “for it’s not right for you to go alone. There are many wicked people in this world. If you take us with you, don’t worry at all, for we’ll know how to defend you. ” “No, I have no worries, and I fear nothing. ” “But how are we hindering him? Good grief!” said the woman from Polvoranca with a certain pandering. “And if our bodies are filled with demons, who will cast them out? And who will teach us good things, about the soul, about divine glory, about mercy, and about poverty? She and I are alone! We were in a fix. Look at that! Well, to love him so much, without malice, all for the good, and to give him this payment! We are wicked; but if he leaves us behind, what will become of us?” Beatriz said nothing, and wiped her tears with her handkerchief. The good Nazarín remained thoughtful for a while, making lines on the ground with his stick, and finally said to them: “If you promise to be good, and to obey me in everything I command you, come.” Having dismissed the children from Mostolenses, for which it was necessary to give them the very few cents from the day’s collection, the three penitents began their journey, taking a path to the right of the main road, as we go to Navalcarnero. The afternoon was muggy; at nightfall a strong wind arose that blew in their faces as they were traveling west; frightful lightning flashed, followed by tremendous peals of thunder, and a violent downpour descended that made them stranded. Fortunately, luck provided them with some ruins of an old hut, and there they took shelter from the furious storm. Ándara gathered firewood and stubble. Beatriz, being a cautious woman, brought mixed gifts and lit a good fire, to which the three of them sat to dry their clothes. Determined to spend the night there, as it was unlikely they would find a more comfortable or safe place, Nazarín gave them the first lecture on the Doctrine, which the poor women were either ignorant of or had forgotten. For more than half an hour, he held them in thrall to his persuasive words, without idle rhetoric, speaking to them of the principles of the world, of original sin, with all its lamentable consequences, until the infinite mercy of God arranged to free man from the captivity of evil through redemption. The wandering hermit explained these elementary notions in simple language, sometimes making them clearer with examples. They listened enthralled, especially Beatriz, who didn’t miss a word, assimilating everything easily, imprinting it in her memory. Afterward, they prayed the rosary and litanies and repeated several prayers that the good teacher wanted them to learn fluently. The next day, after the three of them had prayed on their knees, they set out with good fortune: the two women, who went ahead to beg in the villages or hamlets they passed through, collected quite a few cents, vegetables, loaves of bread, and other items. Nazarín thought that these penances were going too well for such penances, since ever since he left Madrid , good fortune had showered him. No one had treated him badly: he hadn’t had a single setback; they gave him alms almost every time he asked for it, and hunger and thirst were unknown to him. And to top it all off, he enjoyed a precious freedom, joy overflowed from his heart, and his health grew stronger. Not a single toothache had troubled him since he took to the roads, and besides, what luck not to worry about his shoes or his clothes, or worry about whether his hat was brand new or old, or whether it was well or badly made! Since he didn’t shave, nor had he done so for long before leaving Madrid, his beard was already quite long: it was black and gray, gracefully pointed. And with the sun and the country air, his complexion was taking on a tanned, warm, and beautiful hue. His clerical features had completely vanished, and his Arabian appearance, now free of that mask, stood out in all its gallant purity. The Guadarrama River, which had been quite swollen due to the recent storm, blocked their path . But it wasn’t difficult for them to find a place higher up to ford it, and they continued through a countryside less solitary and sterile than that on the left bank, for from time to time they saw houses, small hamlets, well-cultivated land, with plenty of very pleasant trees and copses. In the middle of the afternoon they saw some large white houses surrounded by green forest, with a gallant red brick tower standing out among them, resembling the bell tower of a monastery. Approaching closer, they saw on the left a shabby, poor hamlet the color of the earth, with another small turret, like a village parish church. Beatriz, who was well versed in the geography of the region they were traveling through, told them: “That place is Sevilla la Nueva, with a small population, and those large white houses with trees and a tower are the estate or estates called La Coreja. Its owner, a certain Don Pedro, now lives there.” from Belmonte, rich, noble, not very old, a good hunter, a great horseman, and the man with the worst temper in all of New Castile. Some say he is a very bad person, given to all the demons, some say he gets drunk to forget his troubles, and when he is in a bad state, he hits everyone and does a thousand mischiefs… He is so strong that one day, going hunting, because a man who was passing on his donkey would not get out of the way, he grabbed both donkey and man, and lifting them up in the air threw them down a cliff… And he hit a boy who scared some hares so hard that four of them carried him out of La Coreja, half dead. In New Seville they are so afraid of him that, when they see him coming, they all rush to run, crossing themselves, because once, I’m not joking, over some quarrel over some trouble, my Don Pedro came into the town just as they were leaving mass, and with a clean slap, I want this one, I don’t want that one, he knocked more than half of them to the ground… Anyway, sir, it seems prudent to me that we shouldn’t go near, because that fellow is usually hunting in these parts, and it’s easy for him to see us and give us the lowdown . “Do you know that you’re making me curious,” Nazarín pointed out, “and that the picture you’ve made of that beast moves me more to continue onward than to retreat? ” Chapter 17. “Sir, let’s not look for three feet on a cat,” said Ándara, “for if that brute man gives us a beating, we’ll be stuck with it.” At this point, they reached a narrow path with two rows of poplars, which looked like the entrance to the estate. No sooner had the three pilgrims set foot on it than two large dogs like lions rushed at them, barking wildly, and before they could flee, they charged at them furiously. What mouths, what ferocious teeth! They bit off Nazarín’s leg, Beatriz’s one of her hands, and tore the skirt of the other to shreds. Although the three defended themselves bravely with their sticks, the terrible dogs would have finished them off if not for a guard who emerged from some bushes. Ándara put her hands on her hips, and what insults did she utter from her mouth were not the house or her devilish dogs. Nazarín and Beatriz did not complain. And the cursed guard, instead of showing compassion for the damage caused by the fierce animals, gave the pilgrims this rude warning: “Get out of here, you scoundrels, you lazy bums, you bunch of thieves. And thank God your master hasn’t seen you; if he does, Christ! They won’t have the desire to show their faces to La Coreja. ” The two women moved away fearfully, almost forcibly taking Nazarín with them, who, it seemed, wasn’t scared of anything. In a leafy elm grove, where a stream ran, they sat down to rest from the heat and to wash the blessed cleric’s wounds, bandaging them with rags that the far-sighted Beatriz carried. For the rest of the afternoon and early evening, until prayer time, nothing was said but the danger they had encountered, and the woman from Móstoles recounted new misdeeds committed by the Lord of Belmonte. Rumor had it that he was a widower and had killed his wife. The family, belonging to the nobility of Madrid, had no dealings with him and confined him to that country residence as if in a prison, with many good servants, some to care for him and assist him in his hunts, others to keep a close eye on him and warn his relatives if he escaped. This news only fueled Nazarín’s desire to confront such a beast. Agreeing to spend the night in the thicket of those elms, they prayed and dined there, and after dinner she said that for nothing in this world would she fail to pay a visit to La Coreja, where she felt she would encounter some great suffering, or at least punishment, scorn, and setbacks, the sole ambition of her soul. “And what, my daughters, not everything will be blissful! If occasions of suffering and great misfortunes, terrible famines, the wickedness of men and the ferocity of beasts did not come our way, this life would be delightful, and all the men and women of the world would be good fools if they did not adopt it. What did you imagine?” That we were about to enter a world of comfort and abundance? You are so eager to follow me, and as soon as a moment of suffering presents itself, you want to avoid it! Well, there was no need for you to come with me for that; and truly I tell you, if you have no courage for the steep slopes tangled with thorns, and only like the flat and flowery path, you must turn back and leave me alone. They tried to dissuade him with every reason they could think of, including some that were not without practical sense, for example, that when evil assailed them, they should face it and resist it; but that in no case was it prudent to seek it out rashly. This they argued in their crude style, without managing to convince him either that night or the following morning. “For the same reason that the Lord of La Coreja enjoys a reputation for being hard-hearted ,” he told them, “for the same reason that he is cruel to his inferiors, vicious toward the weak, I wish to knock on his door and speak with him. In this way I shall see for myself whether this opinion is just or not, which at times, my ladies, is greatly mistaken. And if in fact the Lord is evil… what do you say his name is? ” “Don Pedro de Belmonte. ” “Well, if that Don Pedro is a dragon, I wish to ask him for alms, for the love of God, to see if the dragon will relent and give it to me. And if not, so much the worse for him and his soul. ” He would not listen to any further arguments, and seeing that the two women were turning pale with fear and were grinding their teeth together, he ordered them to wait for him there; that he would go alone, undaunted, and determined to do whatever could happen to him, from death, which was the most, to the biting of dogs, which was the least. He set off, and they shouted after him: “Don’t go, don’t go, that brute is going to kill you… Oh, my dear Señor Nazarín, we won’t see you again!… Turn around, turn back, the dogs are coming out, and many men, and one who seems to be the owner, with a shotgun… My God, Holy Virgin, help us!” Don Nazario went straight to the entrance of the property and advanced resolutely along the street of trees without meeting anyone. As he approached the building, he saw two men coming toward him and heard dogs barking; but they were hunting dogs, not the furious mastiffs of the previous day. He advanced with a firm step, and as he approached the men, he noticed that both of them stood still as if waiting for him. He looked at them too and commended himself to God, maintaining his calm and composed pace. Upon reaching them, and before he could realize what they were like, an imperious and furious voice said to him: “Where are you going here, you devil of a man! This is no road, damn it! It’s no road but to my house.” Nazarín stood firmly before Don Pedro de Belmonte, for it was no one else who had spoken to him thus, and with a confident and humble voice, without any humility betraying cowardice in it, he said: “Sir, I have come to ask you for charity, for the love of God. I know very well that this is no road but to your house, and since I am certain that good souls live in every house in this Christian land, that is why I have entered without permission. If I have offended you, forgive me. ” Having said this, Nazarín was able to contemplate at his leisure the extremely arrogant figure of the elderly lord of La Coreja, Don Pedro de Belmonte. He was a man of such tall stature that he could well be called a giant, well -built, graceful, about sixty-two years old; But a more beautiful old age could hardly be found. His sun-tanned face, his slightly thick and sharply curved nose, his lively eyes beneath thick brows, his pointed, curly white beard, and his broad, clear forehead revealed a noble, haughty figure, more inclined to command than to obey. From the first words he heard from him, Nazarín was able to observe the fierceness of his temper and the despotic gallantry of his gestures. The most unusual thing was that after he had dismissed him in a fit of temper, and when the penitent, with a humble accent, cap in hand, was already taking his leave, Don Pedro began to stare at him, possessed of an intense curiosity. “Come here,” he said. ” I don’t usually give idlers and vagrants more than a good spanking when they approach my house. Come here, I’ll give you a good beating.” I say. Nazarín was stunned for a moment, for with all the courage in the world, it was impossible not to faint before the fierceness of those eyes and the terrifying voice of the proud knight. He was dressed in a light, elegant suit, with the graceful carelessness of people accustomed to refined social interaction, field boots, and on his head a light dark ring, tilted over his left ear. On his back, he carried his hunting rifle, and in a very handsome belt, his ammunition. “Now,” Nazarín thought, “this good gentleman will take the shotgun and gut me with a blow of the butt, or hit me with the barrel and split my head. God be with me.” But the Lord of Belmonte continued looking at him, looking at him, without saying anything, and the man who was with him, also armed with a shotgun, looked at the two of them. “Pascual,” the knight said to his servant, “what do you think of this fellow?” When Pascual didn’t respond, no doubt out of respect, Don Pedro burst into a resounding laugh and, turning to Nazarín, added: “You’re a Moor… Pascual, aren’t you a Moor? ” “Sir, I’m a Christian,” replied the pilgrim. “A Christian by religion… Who knows! But that doesn’t mean you’re not of pure Arabian stock. Ah! I know my people well. You’re an Arab, and from the East, from the poetic, the sublime East. If I have an eye…! The moment I saw you…! Come with me.” And he started walking toward the house, pulling the beggar by his side and the servant behind him. “Sir,” repeated Nazarín, “I’m a Christian. ” “We’ll see about that… And that’s all I need! Just so you know, I was a diplomat and consul, first in Beirut, then in Jerusalem. I spent fifteen years in the East, the best years of my life. That’s a country.” Nazarín thought it prudent not to contradict him, and let himself be led until he saw how it all turned out. They entered a long courtyard, where he heard the dogs barking from the day before… He recognized them by the metallic sound of their voices. Then they passed through a second gate to another corral, larger than the first, where some sheep and two Dutch cows were grazing on the abundant grass that grew there. Beyond that courtyard, another, smaller one, with a waterwheel in the center. This strange series of walled enclosures seemed to Nazarín like a fortress or citadel. He also saw the tower, visible from so far away, which was an immense dovecote, around which thousands of pairs of those beautiful birds fluttered. The gentleman took off his shotgun, handed it to the servant, ordering him to move away, and sat down on a stone bench. The first sentences of the conversation between the beggar and Belmonte were among the strangest imaginable. —Tell me: if I were to throw you into that well now, what would you do? —What would I do, sir? Well, drown, if there’s water; and if there isn’t , crash. —And what do you think? That I’m capable of throwing you in?… What opinion do you have of me? You’ve heard around town that I’m very bad. —As I always speak the truth, sir, indeed, I will tell you that the opinion I have of you is not very good. But I allow myself to believe that the harshness of your temper does not detract from the fact that you possess a noble heart, an upright and Christian spirit, loving and fearing God. The knight looked at him again with such intense attention and curiosity that Nazarín didn’t know what to think, and was stunned. Chapter 18. Suddenly, Belmonte began to argue with the servants, over whether or not they had let a goat escape that ate a rosebush. He called them idlers, renegades, Bedouins, Zulus, and threatened to skin them alive, cut off their ears, or cut them open. Nazarín was indignant, but he restrained himself. “If this is how he treats his servants, who are like family,” he thought, “what will he do to me, poor street urchin? What amazes me is that all my bones are whole at this time.” The knight returned to his side after the storm had passed, and he continued to snort for a while, like a volcano spewing slag and gases after an eruption. “These rabble really try their patience. They deliberately do things badly to annoy and bore me. It’s a pity we didn’t live in the “Sir,” said Nazarín, determined to give the noble knight a lesson in Christianity , without fear of the dire consequences of his anger, ” you may think of me what you like, and you will consider me impertinent ; but I will burst if I do not tell you that this way of treating your servants is anti-Christian, anti-social, barbaric, and vulgar. Take it as you will, for I, as poor and as naked as I entered your house, will leave it. Servants are people, not animals, and as children of God as you are, and they have their dignity and their honor, like any feudal lord, or one who claims to be one, of times past and future. And having said that, since it is a duty of conscience for me, give me permission to leave. ” The gentleman examined him again carefully: face, clothing, hands, bare feet, the admirably structured skull. What he saw, as well as the beggar’s urban language, so inconsistent with his apparent condition, must have astonished and confused him. “And you, authentic Moor, or counterfeit beggar,” he said, “how do you know these things, and when and where did you learn to express them so well?” And before hearing the reply, he stood up and imperiously ordered the pilgrim to follow him. “Come here… I want to examine you before I answer you.” He led him to a spacious room furnished with antique walnut armchairs , tables of the same material, chests, and shelves. He pointed out a seat for him and sat down himself. But he soon rose to his feet and paced back and forth, displaying a nervous restlessness that would have disconcerted men of lesser character than the great Nazarín. “I have an idea… Oh, what an idea!… If only…! But no, it can’t be.” Yes, it is… The devil take me if it can’t be. More extraordinary things have been seen… Damn! From the first moment I suspected it… I’m not a man to be fooled… Oh, the East! What grandeur!… Only there does spiritual life exist… And he said no more than this, walking up and down the street, without looking at the priest, or stopping to stare at him in astonishment and a certain confusion. Don Nazario didn’t know what to think, and he already believed he saw in the gentleman of La Coreja the greatest extravagant man God had ever brought into the world, already a tyrant of refined cruelty, who was preparing some atrocious torment for his guest , and playing with him, like a cat with a mouse before eating it. “If I shrink,” he thought, “I shall be sacrificed in a disgraceful and stupid way .” Let us take advantage of the situation, and if this furious giant is to commit an atrocity against me, let it not be without first hearing the gospel truths. “My lord, my brother,” he said, rising, and assuming the serene and courteous tone he usually used when rebuking evildoers, “forgive my smallness for daring to measure itself against your greatness. Christ commands me: I must speak, and I will speak. I see Goliath before me, and without heeding his power, I go straight to him with my sling. It is proper to my ministry to admonish those who err; I am not intimidated by the arrogance of those who listen to me; my humble appearance does not signify ignorance of the faith I profess, nor of the doctrine I can teach to anyone who needs it. I fear nothing, and if someone were to impose martyrdom on me in payment for Christian truths, I would go to martyrdom joyfully. But first, I must tell you that you are in mortal sin, that you gravely offend God with your pride, and that if you do not correct yourself, your lineage, your honors, and your riches will be of no use to you, vanity of vanities, a useless burden that will sink you further the higher you try to rise. Anger is a very serious harm, which serves as bait for other sins and deprives the soul of the serenity it needs to overcome evil in other spheres. The choleric person is sold to Satan, who already knows how little he has to fight with souls easily inflamed with rage. Moderate your outbursts, be courteous and humane with those beneath him. I do not know if you feel the love of God; but without the love of your neighbor, that great love is impossible, for the plant of love has its roots in our soil, roots that are affection. to our fellow men, and if these roots are dry, how can we expect flowers or fruit up there? The surprise with which you listen to me proves to me that you are not accustomed to hearing truths like these, and even less so from a ragged and barefoot wretch. That is why the voice of Christ in my heart told me again and again to enter, without fear of anything or anyone, and that is why I entered, and I have placed myself before the dragon. Open your jaws, extend your claws, devour me if you wish; but when I expire, I will tell you to amend your ways, that Christ sends me here to call you to the truth, and to announce your damnation if you do not respond quickly to the call. Nazarín was greatly surprised to see that the gentleman of La Coreja not only did not become enraged upon hearing him, but listened to him attentively and even with respect, certainly not humiliating himself before the priest, but overcome with astonishment that such concepts in the mouth of such a humble person caused him. “We’ll talk about that later,” he said calmly. “I have an idea… an idea that’s been tormenting me… because you should know that for some time now, the loss of my memory has been the greatest torment of my life, and the cause of all my tantrums…” Suddenly, he slapped his forehead and, saying, “I’ve got it. Eureka, eureka!” He almost leaped into the next room, leaving the good pilgrim alone and increasingly bewildered. Belmonte, having left the door open, could see him in the adjoining room, which served as a library or office, shuffling through the many papers on a large table. Now he glanced quickly over enormous newspapers, apparently foreign, now he leafed through magazines, and finally he took files from a shelf, which he examined with feverish speed. This lasted for nearly an hour. Nazarín saw servants enter the office, and the master giving them orders, certainly in a better manner than before. Finally, servants and master disappeared through another door that led to the interior of that vast building. Left alone, the good padrino examined the room he was in more calmly ; he saw on the walls some rather fine old religious paintings: Saint John rebuking Herod before Herodias; Salome dancing; Salome with the Head of the Baptist; on the other hand, saints of the Order of Preachers, and at the main wall, a fine portrait of Pius IX. Well, sir, he still didn’t understand the house, or its owner, or anything he saw. He was already beginning to fear that they were abandoning him in that solitary room when a servant came in to call him and told him to follow him. “Why do they want me?” he said to himself, following the servant through the rooms and corridors. God be with me, and if they take me this way to throw me into a dungeon, or throw me into a cistern, or cut my neck, may death catch me in the position I have desired all my life.” But the dungeon or cistern to which they led him was a spacious, cheerful, and very clean dining room, where he saw the table set with all the fine china and glassware customary in Madrid, and on it no more than two covers, one facing the other. The Lord of Belmonte, who was there, dressed in black, his hair and beard very neatly combed, his shirt with a polished front and collar, pointed out one of the seats to Nazarín. “Sir,” stammered the penitent, troubled and confused, “with this wretched appearance must I sit at such an elegant table? ” “Let him sit down, I say, and don’t force me to repeat it,” added the knight with more asperity in his words than in his tone. Understanding that prudishness did not fit with his sincere humility, Don Nazario sat down. An insistent refusal would have been more likely to affect pride than love of poverty. “I sit down, sir, and accept the excessive honor you do by seating at your table a poor man from the streets who yesterday was cruelly bitten by the dogs of this house. Part of what I said to you a little while ago by order of my Lord is rendered ineffective by this act of charity of yours. Whoever does such things is not, cannot be an enemy of Christ. ” “Enemy of Christ! What are you saying, man?” exclaimed the man. giant in the most affable way. “Why, he and I are very good friends! ” “Well… Well, if I accept your noble invitation, my lord, I beg you to give me permission not to alter my custom of eating only what is necessary to nourish myself. No, don’t give me wine: I never touch it, nor any kind of liquor. ” “You eat what you want. I don’t usually bother my guests by making them exceed their appetite. You will be served everything, and you eat or not eat, or fast, or gorge yourself, or go hungry, as you see fit… And in return for this concession, my lord, I in turn ask you to give me permission… ” “For what? You don’t need it to command me whatever occurs to you. ” “Permission to question you…” “About what? ” “About pending problems of the social and religious order.” “I don’t know if my very limited knowledge will allow me to answer you with the accuracy that you undoubtedly expect of me… ” “Oh!” If you begin by disguising your knowledge, as you do your condition, we’re done. “I don’t dissimulate anything; I am just as you see me; and as for my knowledge, if I certainly declare that it is greater than what corresponds to the life I lead and the rags I wear, I don’t consider it so superior that it deserves to be revealed to such an enlightened person. ” “We’ll see about that. I know little; but I learned something on my travels through the East and the West, something also in social intercourse, which is the most well-stocked library and the best chair in the world, and with what I’ve been able to observe, and a little reading, paying exceptional attention to religious matters, I have amassed a few ideas that are, for me, the most valuable asset. But above all… I’m dying to ask you… what do you think of the current state of human consciousness? ” Chapter 19. “That’s nothing,” said Nazarín to himself. ” The question is so complex that I don’t know where to start.” —I mean, the present state of religious belief in Europe and America. —I believe, my lord, that the progress of Catholicism is such that the next century will see the dissenting churches reduced almost to insignificance. And the wisdom, the angelic goodness, the exquisite tact of the incomparable pontiff who governs the Church play no small part in this… —His Holiness Leo XIII, —said the gentleman from Belmonte gallantly, —to whose health we shall drink this cup. —No. Excuse me. I do not drink, nor to the Pope’s health, because neither the Pope nor Christ our Savior would wish me to alter my way of life… I was saying that humanity is showing fatigue and disillusionment with scientific speculation, and a happy reversion to the spiritual. It could not be otherwise. Science does not resolve any question of transcendence in the problems of our origin and destiny, and its strange applications in the material order do not yield the results that were believed. After the advances in mechanics, humanity is more wretched; the number of poor and hungry is greater; the imbalances in well-being are more cruel. Everything cries out for a return to the abandoned paths that lead to the only source of truth, the religious idea, the Catholic ideal, whose permanence and durability are well proven. “Exactly,” affirmed the gigantic nobleman, who, in passing, ate with voracious appetite, while his guest barely touched the varied and rich delicacies. “I see with joy that your ideas agree with mine. ” “The situation of the world is such,” Nazarín continued, becoming animated, “that anyone who does not see the precursor signs of the golden age of religion will be blind. A fresh atmosphere comes from there, blowing in our face, announcing that the desert is coming to an end, and that the promised land is near, with its smiling valleys and fertile slopes. ” “It’s true, it’s true. I think the same.” But you won’t deny that society grows weary of wandering in the desert, and since it takes time to achieve what it yearns for, it will grow impatient and make a thousand blunders. Where is the Moses to calm it, whether with harshness or with kindness? —Ah, Moses…! I don’t know. —That Moses, should we look for him in philosophy? —No, surely: philosophy is, in short, a play of concepts and words, beyond which lies emptiness, and philosophers are the dry air that suffocates and discourages humanity on its harsh path. —Will we find that Moses in politics? —No, because politics is a thing of the past. He fulfilled his mission, and what were called political problems, concerning liberty, rights, etc., are now resolved, without humanity having discovered a new earthly paradise. Having won so many rights, people are as hungry as they were before. Much political progress, and little bread. Much material advancement, and less work every day, and countless unemployed hands. Let us no longer expect anything good from politics , for it has given all it had to give. It has made us all dizzy enough , Tyrians and Trojans, with its public and domestic quarrels. Let the politicians go to their homes, for they have nothing of benefit to humanity. Enough with the empty speeches, the ridiculous formulas, and the disastrous elevation of nonentities to mediocrity, and mediocrity to notables, and notables to great men. —Good, very good. You have expressed the idea with an accuracy that amazes me. Will we find this Moses in the tribe of strength? Will he be a dictator, a military man, a Caesar… —I won’t tell you no, nor yes. Our intelligence, at least mine, doesn’t reach that far. I can only affirm one thing: that we have a few leagues of desert left, and when I say leagues, I mean relatively great distances. —Well, for me, the Moses who is to guide us to the end can only come from the religious stock. Don’t you think that, when least expected, one of those extraordinary men will appear, one of those geniuses of the Christian faith, no less great than a Francis of Assisi, or perhaps greater, greater, who will lead humanity to the limits of its suffering, before despair drags it into cataclysm? “It seems the most logical thing to think so,” said Nazarín, “and, either I’m very much mistaken, or that extraordinary savior will be a Pope. ” “Do you think so? ” “Yes, sir… It’s a hunch, an idea from the philosophy of history, and God forbid I should want to give it the authority of a dogmatic thing. ” “Of course… Well, I think exactly the same thing. It must be a Pope. What Pope will that be? Who knows! ” “Our intelligence is guilty of pride in wanting to penetrate so deeply. The present already offers enough material for our musings. The world is in bad shape. ” “It couldn’t be worse. ” “Human society is suffering. It is seeking its remedy. ” “Which can be none other than faith.” —And those who today possess faith, that gift from heaven, are called upon to guide those who are deprived of it. On this path, as on all others, the blind must be led by the hand by those who have sight. Examples are needed, not hackneyed phraseology. It is not enough to preach the doctrine of Christ, but to give it existence in practice, and to imitate his life as much as it is possible for humans to imitate the divine. For the faith to fully spread, in the current state of society, it is necessary for its proponents to renounce the artifices that come from history, like torrents that come down from the mountain, and to sponsor and practice the elemental truth. Don’t you think the same? To demonstrate the benefits of humility, it is essential to be humble; to extol poverty as the best state, one must be poor, be so and appear so. This is my doctrine… no, I say it incorrectly, it is my particular interpretation of the eternal doctrine. What is the remedy for social unrest and the increasingly bitter struggle between the poor and the rich? Poverty, the renunciation of all material goods. What is the remedy for the injustices that debase the world, amidst all this vaunted political progress? Well, not to fight injustice, to surrender oneself to human evil, as Christ surrendered himself defenselessly to his enemies. From absolute resignation in the face of evil, there can only emerge the Well, as from meekness comes strength in the end, as from love of poverty must come the consolation of all and equality before the blessings of nature. These are my ideas, my way of seeing the world, and my absolute confidence in the effects of the Christian principle in both the spiritual and material order. I am not content with saving myself alone; I want everyone to be saved, and for hatred, tyranny, hunger, and injustice to disappear from the world; for there to be no masters or servants, for disputes, wars, and politics to end. That is what I think, and if this seems absurd to a person of such brilliance, I remain firm in my error, if it is true, in my truth, if, as I believe, I carry the light of God in my mind and in my conscience. Don Pedro listened to the end of this substantial speech with great contemplation, his eyelids half-closed, his hand caressing a glass of generous wine, of which he had drunk only half. Then he murmured in a low voice: “Truth, truth, all truth… To possess it, what joy…! To practice it, greater joy…!” Nazarín said the prayers at the end of the meal, and Don Pedro continued grumbling with his eyes closed: “Poverty… how beautiful!… but I can’t, I can’t… What delight!… Hunger, nakedness, alms…, most beautiful…, I can’t, I can’t.” When they rose from the table, the giant’s tone and manner were entirely different from those of the morning. His fierceness was silent, and the joviality of good breeding spoke. He was a different man; the smile never left his lips, and the brightness of his eyes seemed to rejuvenate him. “Come, Father, you’ll want to rest.” He’s probably in the habit of taking a siesta… “No, sir, I only sleep at night. I’m up all day. ” “Well, not me. I get up very early, and at this hour I need to catch some sleep. You too will rest for a while. Come, come with me.” Whether you like it or not, Nazarín was led to a luxuriously furnished room not far from the dining room. “Yes, sir… yes,” Belmonte said to him in a very cordial tone. “Rest , rest, you need it. That life of wandering poverty, that life of voluntary self-denial, of asceticism, of toil and hardship, well deserves some qualms. There’s no need to overexert your physical strength, my friend. Oh, I admire you, I respect and revere you, for the same reason that I lack the energy to imitate you! To abandon a great position, to hide an illustrious name, to renounce comfort, riches ,…!” —I haven’t had to give that up, because I never possessed it. —What? Come, sir, enough with your fictions, and I won’t say farces so as not to offend you. —What are you saying? —That you, with your Christian disguise, the true tunic of a disciple of Jesus, will be able to deceive others, not me, who know you, who have the honor of knowing with whom I speak. —And who am I, Señor de Belmonte? Tell me, if you know. —But dissimulation is useless, my sir! You… Señor de la Coreja took a breath, and in a tone of familiar courtesy, placing his hand on his guest’s shoulder, said: —Forgive me if I reveal you. I am speaking with the most reverend Armenian bishop who has been traveling through Europe for two years on a holy pilgrimage… —I…, an Armenian bishop! —Or rather… I know everything!… Or rather, Patriarch of the Armenian Church, which submitted to the Latin Church, recognizing the authority of our great pontiff Leo XIII. —Lord, Lord, by the Most Holy Virgin! —His Reverence travels through the European nations on pilgrimage, barefoot and in the most humble attire, living off public charity, in fulfillment of the vow he made to the Lord, if He would grant him the admission of his flock into the great fold of Christ… Yes, it is useless to deny it, nor to persist in dissembling, what respect! His Most Illustrious Reverence has received authorization to fulfill his vow in this way, temporarily renouncing all his dignities and preeminences. Why, I am not the first to discover him! He was already discovered in Hungary, where it was whispered that he had performed miracles! And he was discovered in Valencia as well. from France, capital of Dauphiné… But I have the newspapers here that speak of the illustrious patriarch, and they describe that physiognomy, that dress with astonishing accuracy!… As if, as soon as I saw him approaching my house, I became suspicious. Then I looked for the story in the newspapers. The same one, the same one! What a great honor for me! “My lord, my lord, I beg you to listen to me…” But the bewildered giant wouldn’t let him get a word in edgewise, stifling his voice and drowning Nazarin’s words in the deluge of his own. “We’ve known each other, I’ve lived in the East for a long time; and it’s useless for Your Reverence to carry on your pious comedy with me so far! I’ll take away your title, if you insist on it… You are an Arab by birth. ” “By the passion and death of Our Lord Jesus Christ!” ” A legitimate Arab. I know your story like the back of my hand.” You were born in a beautiful country, where they say the earthly Paradise was, between the Tigris and the Euphrates, in the territory of Aldjezira, also called Mesopotamia. —Jesus help me! —Yes, I know, I know everything! And your Arabic name is Esrrou Esdras. —Hail Mary Most Pure! —And the Franciscans of Mount Carmel baptized you and educated you , and taught you the beautiful Spanish language that you speak. Then you went to Armenia, where Mount Ararat is, which I have visited…, there where Noah’s ark landed… —Conceived without sin! —And there you joined the Armenian rite, distinguishing yourself for your science and virtue until you rose to the Patriarchate, where you attempted and accomplished the glorious enterprise of restoring your orphaned church to the bosom of the great Catholic family. So I won’t tire you any longer, most reverend sir. Let’s rest in that bed, for not everything should be hardship, abstinence, and mortification. From time to time, it’s good to sacrifice oneself to comfort; and above all, Your Eminence, you are in my house, and in the name of the holy law of hospitality, I command you to lie down and sleep. And without allowing him to explain or wait for a reply, he left the room laughing, and there the good Nazarín remained alone, his head like someone who has been listening to cannon fire for a long time, doubting whether he was sleeping or awake, whether what he had seen and heard was true or a dream. Chapter 20. “Jesus, Jesus!” exclaimed the blessed cleric. “What kind of man is this? I’ve never seen such a scumbag. But he wouldn’t let me answer or explain to him!” And will he believe what he says?… That I am the Armenian patriarch, and that my name is Ezra, and… Jesus, most loving Mother, let me leave this house soon, for this man’s head is like a great cage full of goldfinches, blackbirds, larks, parakeets, and parrots, all singing at once!… and I’m afraid he’ll infect me. Praise be to the Most Holy Mercy!… And what things the Lord creates, what a variety of types and beings! When one thinks one has seen everything, there are still more wonders or oddities to see… And he expects me to lie down in that lovely bed, with a damask bedspread…! In the name of the Father…! And I, who thought I would find vexations, contempt, perhaps martyrdom here… and I find myself faced by a mocking giant, who seats me at his table, calls me bishop, and puts me in this lovely alcove to take a nap! But is this man bad or good…? The pondering into which the poor Semitic priest fell showed no sign of ending; so tangled and difficult was the point his mind set out to elucidate. Before he could define Don Pedro de Belmonte’s moral character, he returned from his nap. As soon as he saw him, Nazarín resolutely approached him, and without letting him get into a conversation, grabbed him by the lapel and said with extraordinary vivacity: “Come here, my lord, because since you wouldn’t give me a break, I couldn’t tell you that I’m not an Arab, nor a bishop, nor a patriarch, nor am I called Esdras, nor am I from Mesopotamia, but from Miguelturra, and my name is Nazario Zaharín. Know that nothing you see in me is a farce, unless I call it that the vow of poverty I have chosen to take without renouncing…” —Monsignor, Monsignor… I understand why you so stubbornly dissemble… —Without renouncing, I say, honors or emoluments because I didn’t have them, nor do I want them, nor… —I’m not going to sell your secret, damn it! It seems good to me that you maintain your role, and that… —And that nothing… Well, everything you’ve said is nonsense, and a dream, and a delirium. I have launched myself into this life of penance out of an ardent longing in my heart, which has called me to it since I was a child. I am a priest, and although I have not asked anyone’s permission to abandon the habit and go out to the exercise of begging, I believe myself within the purest orthodoxy, and I respect and venerate everything the Church commands. If I have preferred freedom to cloister, it is because in free penance I see more labor, more humiliation, and a more evident renunciation of all the goods of the world. I despise public opinion, I defy hunger and nakedness; I crave insults and martyrdom. And with this, I take leave of the Lord of La Coreja, telling him that I am most grateful for his many kindnesses, and that I will always keep him in my prayers. “I am the one who is grateful, not only for the honor Your Reverence has bestowed upon me… ” “And so! ” “The most high honor of having you in my house, but for your offer to pray for me, and to commend me to God; for I have great need of it, believe me.” “I believe it… But please do not call me Your Reverence… ” “Well: I will address you plainly, as a tribute to your humility,” replied the gentleman, who would sooner let himself be flayed alive than go back on something he held and affirmed. “You do well to remain anonymous, to avoid indiscretions… ” “But, sir…! Anyway, give me permission to withdraw.” I ask God to correct you of your stubbornness, which is a form of pride, and just as the bitter fruit of the latter is anger, the fruit of the former is lying. You see how many evils pride brings. My last words, as I leave this noble house, are to beg you to amend yourself for that and other sins, to think of immortality, at whose door you should not knock with your soul burdened by so many pleasures and so many indulgences of material desires. Because the life you are giving yourself, my lord, may be good for reaching a robust old age, but not for eternal health. “I know, I know,” said the good Don Pedro with a melancholy smile, accompanying Nazarín through the first courtyard. “But what do you want, illustrious sir? Not all of us have that powerful energy of yours… Ah! When you reach a certain age, your bones are already hard enough to indulge in abstinence and character corrections.” Believe me: when a poor body has little more to live, it’s cruel to deny it what it’s so used to. I’m weak, I admit it, and sometimes I think I should put the body on the back foot. But then I feel sorry for it and say: “Poor little body, for the days you have left…!” There’s also some charity in this, eh? Come on, the rogue likes good food, good wines, and what am I supposed to do but give them to him…? Does he like to argue? Well, let him argue… All of this is innocent. Old age needs toys like childhood. Ah! When he was a few years younger, he was crazy about other things… nice girls, for example… I have absolutely deprived him of that… No, no, of course. A radical prohibition. Let him go to hell… I’ll leave him nothing but the trifles of sin, eating, drinking, tobacco, and quarreling with the servants… Anyway, sir, I don’t want to keep him. Pray to God for me. It’s a blessing for those of us who aren’t good that there are perfect beings like you, ready to intercede for all, and to achieve, with your stupendous virtues, our own salvation and that of others. ‘ ‘No, that’s not worth it.’ ‘It’s worth it as long as one also does what one can for oneself. I know what I’m talking about… May your penances, most blessed father, lead you to the perfection you desire, and may God give you the strength to continue in such a holy and meritorious work… Goodbye, goodbye… ‘ ‘Goodbye, my lord: do not go any further,’ Nazarín told him in the last courtyard—And now that I remember, I left my knapsack there, next to the waterwheel. —Yes, they’re bringing it to you,—replied Belmonte. —I’ve ordered that they put some provisions in it, which are never too much, believe me, and although you like to eat nothing but herbs and stale bread, it wouldn’t hurt to take something substantial in case of illness… He wanted to kiss her hand, but Don Nazario, with great effort, prevented him, and in the field bordering the house they said goodbye with mutual displays of affection. When Don Pedro saw that the mastiffs were running loose in the field, he ordered that they be tied up, indicating to Nazarín that he should stop for a moment. —I already heard,—he said,—and it displeased me greatly, that yesterday, through the carelessness of this rabble, the dogs bit you and two saintly women who accompany you. —Those women are not saints, but quite the contrary. —Pretend, pretend… As if the European press didn’t also talk about them! One is a leading lady, a canoness of Thuringia, the other a barefoot Sudanese… —Oh, how absurd…! —If the newspaper says so! Anyway, I respect your holy incognito… Goodbye. The animals are already restrained. —Goodbye… And may the Lord enlighten you, —said Nazarín, who no longer wanted to argue, and his only concern was to leave quickly. The knapsack, crammed with bundles of groceries, was quite heavy, which is why, and due to the speed of the march, he arrived very breathless at the elm grove where Ándara and Beatriz had been waiting for him. Impatient and startled by his delay, as soon as they spotted him, the two women rushed out to meet him joyfully, for they thought they would never see him again, or that he would leave La Coreja with a broken head. Great was their astonishment and joy at seeing him healthy and happy. From the first words the saint spoke to them, they understood he had much to tell them, and the volume and weight of the sack aroused their curiosity beyond measure. In the elm grove, Nazarín met an old stranger, Señá Polonia, a fellow countryman of Beatriz and a resident of Sevilla la Nueva. She had passed by on her way back from some land she owned to plant turnips, and seeing her friend, she stopped to gossip with her. “Oh, my goodness, what a strange man this Don Pedro is!” said the padrito, throwing himself on the ground after Ándara took his satchel to examine its contents. “I have never seen any other case. He has the qualities of a very wicked person, a slave to vices; the qualities of a very good person, courteous and chivalrous. He has plenty of learning, refinement, a bad temper too, and no one can beat him in stubbornness in upholding his errors.” “That big, handsome old fellow,” said Polonia, who was knitting, ” is as crazy as a goat. They say he spent a long time in the lands of Moors and Jews, and that when he returned here, he immersed himself in such religious and ethological studies that his brains went haywire. ” “I told you so. Señor Don Pedro doesn’t govern well. What a pity! May God grant him the sense he lacks! ” “He’s at odds with the entire Belmonte family, nephews and cousins, who can’t stand him, and that’s why he never leaves here. He’s a very pagan man and very genteel about all the vices of good food, and he doesn’t see a skirt that doesn’t fit his right eye. But he doesn’t have a bad heart. They say that when people talk to him about Catholic or pagan religions, or about idolatry, if it comes to hand, that’s when he loses his senses, because it was this legend and the shuffling of papers of Holy Scripture that drove him crazy.” “Unfortunate lord! Would you believe, my daughters, that he seated me at his table, a magnificent table, with cardinal’s china? And what dishes, what delicious food!… And then he insisted that I should sleep my siesta in a bed with a damask bedspread… Oh, me…” “And we were so convinced that he would break a bone!” “Well, I say… He came out with the clue that I am a bishop, or rather, a patriarch, and that I was born in Algeciras… or rather, Mesopotamia, and that my name is Esdras… He also let it be known that you are canonesses…” And nothing would do me any good to deny it and tell him the truth. As if it weren’t so. “Well, it’s known that the son of such and such lives well,” said Ándara joyfully, taking out packages of cold cuts. “Scarlet tongue… and another tongue… and ham… Jesus, how delicious! And what is this? A pastry the size of a cart wheel. How good it smells! Also empanadas: one, two, three; chorizo, sausages. ” “Put all that away,” Nazarín told her. “I’ll put it away, because at mealtime, we’ll taste it. ” “No, dear, you can’t taste that. ” “No? ” “No; it’s for the poor. ” “But who is poorer than us, sir? ” “We are not poor, we are rich, because we have the immense wealth and inexhaustible provisions of Christian conformity. ” “You said it very well,” Beatriz indicated, helping to replace the packages in the knapsack. “And if we have this now, if we lack nothing today, because our needs are met,” Don Nazario indicated, “we should give it to others more in need. ” “Well, in New Seville there is no shortage of poverty,” Señá Polonia stated, “and there you have where to distribute good fortunes. There is no more wretched and poor people around here. ” “Really? Well, we will take these scraps from the table of the avaricious rich to him , since they have come into our hands. Guide us, Señá Polonia, and designate for us the homes of the neediest. ” “But are they really entering Seville? These women told me they didn’t want to go near it. ” “Why? ” “Because there’s smallpox. ” “I’d like it!… I mean, I don’t. It’s just that I rejoice in finding human evil , in order to fight it and defeat it. ” “It’s not an epidemic. Four cases have occurred these days. The place where there is a horrific mortality is in Villamantilla, two leagues further on.” —A horrible epidemic… and smallpox? —Terrific, yes, sir. As if there’s no one to care for the sick, and the healthy are fleeing in terror. —Ándara, Beatriz… —said Nazarín, standing up. —Let’s go. Let’s not stop for a moment. —To Villamantilla? —The Lord is calling us. We’re needed there. What? Are you afraid? Whoever is afraid, or disgusted, can stay. —Let’s go there. Who said fear? They set off without wasting time, and along the way Nazarín recounted, with amusing details, the most unusual episode of his visit to Don Pedro de Belmonte, lord of La Coreja. PART FOUR Chapter 21. Guided by Mrs. Polonia, they left the new portion of Coreja’s provisions in several very poor houses in Seville, and without stopping any longer than necessary for this pious purpose, they continued walking, since Nazarín’s bread would not be baked until he entered the center of the plague. “I do not understand your repugnance, my daughters,” he told them, “for you should have calculated that we did not come here to live a life of luxury and idleness, without danger. It is quite the contrary: we go after pain to give it consolation, and when one walks among pain, something is bound to stick. We do not run in search of pleasures and joys, but in search of misery and pity. The Lord has given us an epidemic, into whose pestilent bosom we must dive, like intrepid swimmers who launch themselves into the waves to save unfortunate shipwrecked people. If we perish, God will give us our just deserts. If not, some unfortunate soul will be pulled ashore. Until this present hour, God has willed that our pilgrimage should yield us nothing but good fortune. We have not been hungry, we have eaten and slept like princes, and no one has punished us or scolded us. All for the good, all as if we were accompanied by a convoy of angels charged with providing us with all the good things there are on earth. You will soon understand that this cannot continue. Either the world ceases to be what it is, or we will soon encounter very serious evils, setbacks, calamities, abstinences, and the cruelties of men, followers of Satan. This exhortation was enough to convince the two women, especially Beatrice, who was more easily inflamed by the enthusiasm of the novice ascetic. Having set out on a rather hurried journey, at nightfall, fatigue forced them to sit on a hilltop, from where they could see two villages, one to the east, the other to the west, and between them, well-cultivated countryside and patches of green trees. The view was beautiful, and even more so at that hour, due to the melancholic charm that the evening twilight lends to the entire land. From the humble roofs rose the smoke of the hearths where supper was being prepared; the sound of cattle bells being gathered in the folds could be heard, and the bells of both villages rang out for prayer. The smoke, the bells, the pleasantness of the valley, the chimes, the sunset—all were voices in a mysterious language that spoke to the soul, without the soul being able to accurately understand what it was saying. The three pilgrims remained silent for a moment before that beauty spread out in such vast dimensions, and Beatriz, who lay wearily at Nazarín’s feet, sat up to say to him: “Sir, explain to me: is that sound of the bells, at this hour when one does not know whether it is day or night, that sound… explain to me… is it joyful or sad? ” “To tell you the truth, I don’t know. It happens to me the same as to you: I don’t know whether it is joyful or sad. And I believe that it produces two feelings, joy and sadness, in our souls, uniting them in such a way that there is no way to separate them. ” “I believe it is sad,” affirmed Beatriz. “And I who am joyful…” said Ándara, “because one is glad when one rests, and at this hour the day lies down in the bed of night.” “I maintain that it is sad and joyful,” Nazarín repeated, “because those sounds and that placidity only reflect the state of our soul: sad because it sees a day end, and one day less is one step closer to death; joyful because it returns home with the satisfied conscience of having fulfilled the duties of the day, and in the home, the soul finds other souls dear to it; sad because the night carries within it a sweet sadness, the disillusionment of the past day; joyful because every night is hope and assurance of another day, of tomorrow, which is already lurking in the east, ready to come. ” The two women sighed and fell silent. “In this,” the Arab from La Mancha continued, “you must see an image of what the twilight of death will be like. After it comes the eternal tomorrow. Death is also joyful and sad: joyful because it frees us from the chains of life’s slavery; sad because we love our flesh like a faithful companion, and it pains us to part from it.” They continued walking, and further on, they rested again, night having fallen, the sky serene, immensely clear, and filled with countless stars. “I think,” said Beatriz, after a long, rapturous pause, “that until now I have never seen the sky, or that now I am seeing it for the first time, considering how much I love to look at it, and how amazed I am to see so much light. ” “Yes,” replied Nazarín, “it is so beautiful that it always seems new, and as if it had just come from the hands of the Creator. ” “How grand it all is!” observed Ándara. “I, too, had never looked at it as I did now… And tell me, Father, will we be able to see all of that up close when we die and ascend to Heaven? ” “Are you sure you’re going to Heaven now? That’s saying something. There is no near or far… ” “Everything is infinite,” said Beatriz smugly. “Infinite means that which has no end.” “This thing about one being infinite,” added Ándara, “is what I cannot understand.” “Be good, and you will understand. There are two things in this low world through which infinity can be understood: love and death. Love God and your neighbor, cherish in your souls the feeling of the transition to the afterlife, and infinity will not seem so obscure to you. But these are very profound teachings for your poor understandings, and first you must learn more understandable things. Admire the work of God, and tell me if before the one who made this marvel it is not right for us to humble ourselves and offer Him all our actions, all our ideas. After looking up for a while, see how unworthy this thing is.” Poor land that we should wish to dwell in it. Consider that before you were born, everything you see above existed for thousands of centuries, and that it will exist for thousands of centuries after you die. We live only for a moment. Isn’t it logical to despise that moment and want to ascend to the centuries that never end? They sighed again, thinking about everything the cleric was telling them. The conversation then became more positive, because Ándara, recognizing that the contents of the satchel must be for other poor people, was not content to miss out on tasting it. “To be good, to reach what we commonly call perfection, which is actually a relative state,” Nazarín affirmed, “we must start with the easiest. Before attacking the major vices, let’s combat the minor ones. I say this because this gluttony of yours seems to me to be an inclination not very difficult to overcome, with a little effort you put into it.” “Yes, I have a sweet tooth: I know my weaknesses. And the truth is, I would like to know what this food tastes like, which transcends glory. ” “Well, try it, and you tell us what it tastes like, for this one and I will get along just fine without tasting it.” The woman from Móstoles was content with anything that was abstinence and edification, because her spirit was ignited in the mystical fire, with the sparks that the other threw from the embers of his sanctity. She would have liked to go to the absurd extent of eating absolutely nothing; but since this was impossible, she resigned herself to compromising with the vile matter. They asked for hospitality at an inn, and when they heard them say they were going to Villamantilla, they thought they were mad, because there were very few people in the town except for the sick; the aid they had requested from Madrid had not arrived, and all there was desolation, hunger, and death. In a corral, they set up their bedroom, among hens and sheep that woke up to hear them praying, and with some crumbs they received as alms, they dined pastorally. Ándara tried Belmonte’s dish without going overboard, and all night, even after she fell asleep, she licked her lips. Beatriz, on the other hand, didn’t sleep a wink: she felt threatened by her constitutive illness, but in a new and unfamiliar way. The novelty consisted in the fact that her anguish and the anxiety that preceded the fit were good, that is to say, they were anxiety that was in a certain way pleasurable, and an anxiety that was joyful. The fact is that she felt… a kind of satisfaction in feeling ill, and the feeling that something very pleasant was going to happen to her. The tightness in her chest bothered her a little; But this discomfort was offset by the effluvia that coursed through her entire epidermis, erratic vibrations that reached her brain, where they were transformed into beautiful images, dreamed rather than perceived. “It’s the same old thing,” she told herself, “but not the kicks of demons, but the flutterings of angels. Blessed is evil if it’s like good, and always comes this way!” At dawn she felt cold, and tightly wrapped in her blanket, she lay down, to rest rather than sleep, and with the awareness of being awake, she saw things! But if before she had seen bad things, now she saw good things, although she couldn’t explain what it was, nor be sure that she saw what she was seeing. An unheard-of rarity! And she had to restrain herself in order to overcome the blind impulse to rush toward whatever she was seeing. Was it God, were it the angels, the soul of some saint, or a pure spirit that wanted to take form without being able to? She was careful not to tell Don Nazario what had happened to her when he woke up, because the day before, in one of their conversations, she had heard him say that he distrusted visions, and that one should look closely before taking things for granted. He had said that they were phenomena that only exist in the imagination and in the nerves of people of dubious health. And recovered from that peaceful stupor , after washing her face and hands, the three of them had breakfast with bread and a few nuts, and set off happily for the infested place. It was not yet nine o’clock when they arrived, and a gloomy solitude, a sullen sadness met them as they set foot on the only street in the town, winding and full of ditches, filthy puddles, and sharp pebbles. Two or three people they met on the way to the square looked at them suspiciously, and in front of the church, in the doorway of a cracked mansion that looked like the town hall, they saw a very thin man, who went ahead of them with this welcoming speech: “Hey, good people, if you’ve come to loiter or to beg, go back the same way, because here there’s nothing but misery, death, and abandonment, even from divine mercy. I’m the mayor, and I say what I say. Here we’re alone, me and the priest, and a doctor they’ve sent us because ours died, and about twenty neighbors in all, not counting today’s sick and corpses, who haven’t been able to be buried yet. You know this, and take the olive branch quickly, because here there’s no room for idleness.” Nazarín replied that they were not going to ask for help, but to bring it, and that the mayor should designate the most helpless sick people for them, to be cared for with all the care and patience that Christ Our Lord commands. “More urgent than anything,” said the mayor, “is to bury seven dead men and women that we have. ” “That makes nine,” said the priest, who was coming out of a nearby house. “Aunt Casiana has already died, and one of the shearer’s girls is finishing. I ‘ll hurry off and grab a bite to eat and I’ll be back.” The mayor did not need to be asked to satisfy the Christian desires of Nazarín and his company, and soon the three of them were back on duty. But the two women, alas! In the presence of those scenes of horror, decay, and misery, more frightening than their childish ascetic enthusiasm had imagined, they faltered like children led into a fierce battle and seeing bloodshed for the first time. Charity, something new to them, gave them no energy for such a thing, and they had to turn to self-respect instead. The first few hours were filled with indecision, panic, and absolute rebellion of the stomach and nerves. Nazarín had to exhort them with the eloquent anger of a desperate warrior who sees the battle lost. Finally, by God! They entered, entering into flames. By the evening, things had changed. Faith was finally able to triumph over disgust, and charity over terror. Chapter 22. While Nazarín seemed attuned to the fetid atmosphere of the gloomy rooms, to the frightful appearance of the sick, and to the filth and misery that surrounded them, Ándara and Beatriz, unhappy women, could not accept, no, they could not, an occupation that instantly elevated them from vulgarity to heroism. They had seen, of the religious ideal, only the beautiful and flattering; they now saw the part imbued with painful truth. Beatriz expressed it in her coarse language: “That thing about going to heaven is said very quickly; but where and by what paths does one go?” Ándara acquired a stupid activity. She moved like a machine, and performed all those horrible tasks almost unconsciously. Her hands and feet moved _of their own accord_. If she had once been condemned to such a life, placed in the dilemma of adopting it or dying, she would have preferred a thousand times to have her neck wrung. She proceeded under the suggestion of Blessed Nazarín, like a puppet endowed with easy movement. Her senses were atrophied. She believed it impossible to eat again. Beatriz acted consciously, suppressing her natural repugnance through a mental work of argumentation, drawn from the ideas and phrases of the master. She was by nature more delicate than the other, with a finer skin, a more select physical and moral complexion, and relatively refined tastes. But in exchange for this disadvantage, she possessed spiritual energies with which to overcome her weakness and impose upon herself that very difficult duty. Evoking her nascent faith, she revived it as a weak fire is revived and enlarged by breathing upon it; she knew how to ascend to a psychological sphere forbidden to the other, and in herself, in her inner approval and in the joy of doing good, she found consolations that the other sought from her self-esteem without receiving them in proportion to such a great sacrifice. Because of this difference, when the At night, the woman from Polvoranca surrendered nonchalantly, though without giving in ; the woman from Móstoles surrendered joyfully, like a wounded soldier who only heals for his honor. The Arab from La Mancha certainly wouldn’t give up. Tireless to the point of the sublime, after having spent the whole day caring for the sick, cleaning them, giving them medicine, watching some die in his arms, listening to the delirious thoughts of others, when night fell, he desired no rest other than to bury the twelve dead who were awaiting burial. He proposed this to the mayor, telling him that two men would be enough to help him, and if there was only one, he would arrange it with him and the two women. The town representative authorized him to do as he pleased, amazed at such diligence and devotion, and placed the cemetery at his disposal, as one offers a guest the billiard room to play, or the music hall to play. Assisted by a taciturn and apparently idiotic old man, who, as was later learned, was a pig herder; also assisted by Beatriz, who wanted to hasten the sacrifice and train in such a horrendous but effective school, Nazarín began to remove the dead from the houses, carrying them on his back, since he had no litter, and leaving them on the ground until they were all gathered. The penitent and the shepherd dug, and the mayor came and went, lending a hand with any difficulty, and ensuring that everything was not done in a heap, as in municipal works , but everything was done thoroughly, the bodies at the back and the earth well placed on top. Ándara had gone to sleep for three hours, after which she would rise so that her companion could lie down for the same amount of time. The chief arranged this so as not to exhaust the strength of his valiant retinue. And after the burials were over, the heroic Nazarín, taking no more food than a little bread and water offered by the mayor, returned to the pestilent houses of the sick, to care for them, to speak words of comfort if they could hear them, and to clean them and give them something to drink. From midnight, Ándara attended to three young sisters who had lost their mother to the same illness; Don Nazario to a large woman who was horribly delirious; and to a young man who, it was said, was very handsome, but whose beauty was no longer recognizable beneath the horrible mask that hid his face. Dawn broke upon so much sadness, and the new day brought to the minds of the two women greater control of the situation and greater confidence in their own strength. Both believed they had spent a long time on that meritorious campaign; for the days grew in proportion to the quantity and extent of life that developed within them. The monstrous faces no longer caused them such horror, they no longer feared contagion, nor did they feel the protest against the decay so keenly in their nerves and stomachs. The doctor did justice to the pious zeal of the three penitents, telling the mayor that the man with a Moorish appearance and his two companions had been like angels descended from heaven to the Villamantilla neighborhood. Before noon, the church bells rang in a sign of public rejoicing; and it was learned that the aid sent from Madrid by the Directorate of Charity and Health would soon arrive. A good time! But in the end, it was always appreciated. Official mercy consisted of a doctor, two assistants, a commissioner of the branch, and endless drugs to disinfect people and things. At the same time that Nazarín learned of the happy arrival of the health commission, he also learned that the epidemic was raging in Villamanta with equal force, and that there was no news of the government sending any aid there. Instantly adopting a practical resolution, like a great strategist who knows how to direct his forces with lightning speed to the appropriate terrain, he sounded the call to his small army; the right and left wings responded, and the general gave them this order of the day: “Let’s march immediately. ” “Where are we going? ” “To Villamanta. We’re no longer needed here. The other town is Helpless. —Onward. Onward. And before two o’clock, they were heading cross-country along a path the pig herder had pointed out to them. They had nothing left of the provisions from La Coreja, and Ándara refused to take any from Villamantilla. The two women washed in a stream, and Don Nazario did the same a short distance away. Their bodies refreshed, their souls content, they continued walking, with no further setback than having stumbled upon some boys from the fugitive families of Villamantilla, housed in miserable huts at the top of a hill. The little angels used to kill the boredom of emigration by stoning everyone who passed by, and that afternoon Nazarín and his men fell victim to this innocent sport. The general was hit in the head and the right wing in the arm. The left wing tried to take the offensive, also firing at them. But the teacher restrained her, saying: “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot. We must not wound or kill, not even in self-defense. Let’s quicken our pace and get away from the shots fired by these innocent little devils.” This was done, but they were unable to reach Villamanta by day. Since they had no provisions or money to buy them, Ándara, who was ahead, about a hundred paces away, begged for alms from everyone she met. But such was the poverty and desolation of the country that nothing fell. They were hungry, truly in need of some food. The woman from Polvoranca sympathized, the woman from Móstoles concealed her starvation, and the man from Miguelturra encouraged them, assuring them that before nightfall they would find sustenance somewhere. Finally, in a field where men and women were working, turning the land over with the plow, they found their remedy, consisting of a few pieces of bread, handfuls of chickpeas, vetch, and carob, and also two two-cent coins, with which they believed themselves to be possessors of great wealth. They camped in the open air, because Beatriz said they needed to get some fresh air before entering another infested town. Gathering dry holm oaks, they made a fire, cooked the vegetables, adding thistles, chicory, and purslane that Ándara knew how to pick in the field; they dined with as much frugality as joy, prayed, the teacher gave them an explanation of the life and death of Saint Francis of Assisi and the founding of the Seraphic Order, and then went to sleep. At dawn, they entered Villamanta. What can be said of that immense six days of work, during which Beatriz came to feel a second nature within herself, nourished by an indifference to all danger, and by a serene and unboasting courage , an activity and diligence that put an end to her habits of laziness? The former fought against evil, certain of her superiority and without boasting about it, out of routine, a selfless faith and a conviction sustained by the high temperatures of her boiling soul; the latter, out of routine, a satisfied self-esteem and well-tested expertise, loving to praise herself and praise her selfishness, like a soldier who enters combat driven by ambitions for advancement. And what can be said of Nazarín, except that during those six days he was a Christian hero, and that his physical endurance miraculously equaled his incredible spiritual vigor? They left Villamanta for the same reason they had left Villamantilla, namely, the arrival of government aid. Satisfied with their conduct, their consciences flooded with a beautiful clarity, the certainty of doing good, they gave a verbal account of their double campaign, indulging in the innocent boast of recounting the sick each one had assisted, those they had saved, and the corpses they had buried, with a thousand pathetic episodes that would be a marvel of the world if someone were to write them down. But no one would certainly write them down, and only in the archives of heaven were those memorable exploits recorded. And as for the boastfulness with which they enumerated and repeated them, God would certainly forgive the innocent display of pride, for it is right that every hero should have his story, even if it is told familiarly by himself. They headed for a village, which we don’t know if it was Méntrida or Aldea del Fresno, since the Nazarinist references are somewhat obscure regarding the name of this locality. We only know that it was a pleasant and relatively wealthy place, surrounded by fertile countryside. Nearby, they saw the ruins of a castle on a hilltop; they recognized them and found them a suitable place to settle for a few days and live a life of contemplation and rest, for Nazarín was the first to emphasize the need for rest. No, God did not want them to work continuously, since it was urgent to conserve their physical strength for new and more terrible campaigns. The chief then arranged for the party to settle in the ruins of the feudal residence, and there they would attend to the necessary recovery of their exhausted natures. The place was truly beautiful, and from it one could see a great expanse of the fertile plain where the Perales River winds, well-cultivated orchards, and beautiful vineyards. To reach the top, one had to climb a very steep slope; but once at the top, what delightful solitude, what a pure atmosphere! They believed themselves to be more at one with nature, in absolute freedom, and like eagles they dominated everything, with no one dominating them. Having chosen the place among the ruins where they should settle, they went down to the village to beg, and the first day went very well for them: Beatriz gathered some centavos, Nazarín lettuce, cabbage, and potatoes, and Ándara procured two cooking pots and a pitcher to carry water. “I really like this,” she said. “Sir, why don’t we stay here forever?”
“Our mission is not one of peace and comfort,” replied the chief, “but of wandering restlessness and privation. Now we rest; But then we’ll break our bodies again. ” “And God knows if they’d let us stay here,” Beatriz pointed out. ” The poor man has no fixed home anywhere, and like the snail, he always carries it with him. ” “Well, if they’d let me, I’d work a little piece of this hillside,” said Ándara, “and plant some potatoes, onions, and cabbages to pay for the household. ” “We,” Nazarín declared, “do not need land ownership, nor anything that takes root in it, nor domestic animals, because nothing should be ours; and from this absolute denial results the affirmation that everything can come into our hands through alms. ” On the third day, the woman from Polvoranca went to the river to wash some clothes, and when she returned to the castle, Beatriz went down to get some water, a very common occurrence that cannot go unmentioned in this true story, because other facts of undoubted importance and gravity derive from it. Chapter 23. At dusk, the young woman was climbing the steep slope with such agitation in her soul and such weakness in her legs that she had to take the pitcher off her head and sit down on the ground to catch her breath. What had happened to her at the village fountain, situated in the thicket of a poplar grove near the river? For an unexpected event had occurred, of utter insignificance in the whole of life, but for Beatriz of extreme gravity, one of those events that in individual life are equivalent to a cataclysm, a flood, an earthquake, or fire from heaven. What was it?… Nothing, she had seen Pinto! Pinto had been her love and her torment, the mocker of her honor, the stimulus of her hopes, the one who had awakened in her soul dreams of happiness and burning disappointments. And when she had succeeded, if not in forgetting him, in putting him in the background of her thoughts, when with that asceticism and the salutary wars of charity she had managed to cure the profound evil of her soul, the Indian appeared to take away all her Christianity and throw her back into the abyss. Cursed Pinto, and cursed the hour when it occurred to her to go down to the fountain! She thought of this during that rest she took halfway up the slope. She still thought she saw him, in his sudden appearance two steps from the fountain, when she was already returning with the full pitcher on her head. He called her by name, and she reached for the pitcher, which, wobbling, was within striking distance of her. almost falling over. The shock was such that she stood there as if dead, unable to move or utter a word. “I knew you were around here, you wicked brat,” he had said, his hands thrust into the pockets of his jacket or blouse, his air of a jacket, his voice harsh, a strange mixture of anger and contempt. “I saw you yesterday, I saw you going down to the village with a ragged fellow who looks like the Moor of the date palms, and a woman uglier than Titus… What life are you leading, crazy woman? What messes are you walking around in? I told you right away that you would end up lost, begging, like a shameful or shameless street person… and that’s how it turned out. I know, I know, you damned swine, that you ran away from Móstoles with that guy who claims to be an apostle, and who drives out the same demons with the sign of the cross in his missal, and vice versa, he brings them back.” “Pinto, Pinto, for God’s sake,” she had replied, finally recovering the use of speech, “leave me alone! I’ve finished with you and the world. Don’t speak to me, I’m going my own way. ” “Wait a bit… at least for the sake of politeness, woman. Are we or aren’t we proper people? Listen: I always love you. Barefoot and a ghost in purgatory, as you are, I love you, Beatriz. The law is the same. Do you know what I’m telling you? I won’t forgive you for consorting with that ghost… Do you want to come back with me to Móstoles? ” “No, not at all. ” “Think about it, Beatriz; I order you to calculate it, woman. Look, you’d give me cause for regret. I, for example, love you; but you know I have a very fierce temper. That’s my law.” I came to this town with Gregorio Portela and the two Ortizes to buy cattle for the slaughterhouse in Madrid, and on the other hand, we have to return there tomorrow night. At Uncle Lucas’s inn, you know, I’ll expect you all day tomorrow to be with you privately, and we can talk about our business… Go, Beatriz. —I won’t go; don’t wait for me. —I’m telling you to go. You know that when I say what I say, I say it… saying it means saying it, like someone who knows how to do what they say. —Don’t wait for me, Manuel. —Go… For the sake of your honor, Beatriz, don’t be stubborn, and fix your honor, for it’s lying around like an old sandal on the roads. You go, and we’ll talk. Aren’t you going? Well, at night I’ll go up with my friends to the castle, where I know you’re staying, and we’ll put to the sword the apostle and the apostle, and the entire infernal court of the celestial abysses… Go on, with God. Go your way. This was what they talked about and nothing more. Dead with fear, the unhappy girl headed for her wild abode, and her fear increased as she thought she could hear Pinto’s footsteps behind her. It wasn’t him, no: but in the darkness of the night she thought she saw him threatening, well-planted, yes, fierce and despotic, dominating her with terror as he had dominated her before with delight . She calmed down a little during the brief rest she took halfway up the slope; But she couldn’t get out of her mind the barbaric command of that man, nor his indelible image: his very straight body, his tight clothes, bullfighter-style, his handsome face, sallow and clean-shaven, his eyes radiating fire, and a mole of very curly hair next to his mouth that looked like a tassel. Upon arriving upstairs, Beatriz’s first idea was to tell Blessed Nazarín what had happened. But a secret, inexplicable impulse, whose origin she didn’t know, made her mute. Realizing that not recounting the incident was a mistake, she excused it by postponing it, and said to herself: “I’ll tell him when we have dinner.” But they dined, and at the moment of beginning to speak, she felt as if a lock had been placed on her tongue. It was a discretion, a caution that came from the depths of her instinct , and the unfortunate woman couldn’t find the strength in her sincerity to oppose it. And, what a coincidence! Even if I wanted to talk to Father Nazarín, I couldn’t. You can see why. One of the corners of the castle’s main tower remained standing, defying century after century the fury of storms and the ravages of time. From a distance, it looked like a bone, the jaw of an immense animal. It was composed of thick, rough ashlars , but firmly fastened together, and on one side they formed What from a distance looked like gum, like steps, made it easy to climb to the highest stones. These contained a hollow large enough for a person to stand on, and it was the best vantage point from which to survey heaven and earth. Nazarín climbed up there and lay down on the highest stones, leaning his head back, his feet dangling over the abyss, illuminated by the moon, which was already full. His slender figure, head, hands, and feet appeared like a polished ceramic, outlined against the sky. The Arabian type was never more evident than on that occasion and in that position. He would have been taken for a holy prophet, who, seeking isolation in high spaces, where the noise and vanities of the world could not reach, would not believe himself safe until he had usurped the storks’ nests, and the towers’ weathervanes from their jetty. The two young women looked up and saw him on that eminence, crowned with stars, perhaps praying, or letting his thoughts soar through the immensity of the sky to gather the truth with them. Beatriz, meanwhile, looked down at earth with the eyes of her soul more than those of her body, and while her master delighted in contemplating the firmament and in understanding his thoughts through it, occupying no less space than the starry multitudes, she was engaged in a horrendous spiritual struggle. Give her the opportunity to cure all the lepers of the earth, and the most filthy sick, and she would prefer it to the turmoil of that internal battle and its probable consequences. From the village, a temptation of powerful magnetic virtue called to her, and something within her commanded her to obey Pinto’s summons. Telling Don Nazario everything was the prudent, the upright, the Christian thing to do; But if she told him, she wouldn’t be able to go, and if she didn’t tell him , the appointment would come, goodbye to grace, goodbye to the merits earned by her soul in that life of penance! Well, another thing: if she didn’t go, Pinto would fulfill his terrible threat. So the pleasure of going was soured by the reprobation of her conscience, and the triumph of that, if she didn’t go, would be the cause of the death of them all. What was best? To go or not to go? A dreadful dilemma! Not even virtue was of any use to her, because if she stifled the wicked temptation that, like a devil’s tail, traced waves of poisonous fire throughout her being, if she remained good and honorable, the other would rise, and leave no stone unturned. And if she descended and was lost forever, with what nerve would she present herself again to good Nazarín and ask him to forgive her? No, no, how shameful! No, she would never see him again. And then, the unfortunate woman would remain forever subject to the whims and fickleness of that demon… No, no… This idea, this fear of a future as shameful as the past had been, decided her. Thank God! Without a doubt, Christ and the Virgin, whom she invoked, heard her and inspired her with the right solution: to tell her master everything and face the consequences of Pinto’s revenge. The Arab lowered his watchtower, Beatriz went straight to him with the intention of revealing her conflict, and once again she felt the padlock on her mouth. She said nothing. During dinner, making efforts to overcome her repugnance to food and appear calm, she considered herself the most wicked and depraved woman in the world. And while they were praying, she found it difficult to pronounce the sweetest words of the Lord’s Prayer. Her constitutive evil began to wink at her in different parts of her body, stirring the sediment left behind by the fugitive demons… She felt a hidden instinct to destroy something, and then unspeakable panic. It took all her willpower, or whatever part of it was available, to keep from jumping, from stampeding like a wild beast, or from plunging down those precipices until she fell, shattered, to the bottom of the valley. Fortunately, she didn’t reach those extremes, and managed to restrain her nerves and contain the rebelling evil, invoking the Virgin Mary and all the saints she worshipped for help . When she went to bed, she felt calmer and felt like crying. Since they had plenty of rooms in that spacious place, that is to say , a multitude of very sheltered and independent spaces, the two women went to bed in one alcove, and in another, separated from the first by thick walls, the blessed Nazarín, who was soon in for a peaceful sleep. The woman from Móstoles, on the other hand, couldn’t sleep, and tossed and turned so much in bed, and her moans, sighs, and exclamations of grief were so anguished, as if she were speaking to herself, that Ándara had to wake up as well, and question her. Word after word, curiosity probing her confidence, Beatriz finally told the story to her companion, not omitting her horrible doubts and temptations. “Nothing, you’re singing clearly, and let Don Nazarín know everything,” said Ándara. ” Well, just think if that brute Pinto comes up here and kills us! He’s capable of it.” And who will defend us, if we are such poor souls who are worthless in the world? Our saint will tell you… With this one, there’s no need to worry. You’ll see how he’ll summon some wisdom from his head so that, without you doing any harm, the three of us can save our skins. They chatted until dawn, when, exhausted from fatigue, they fell asleep. When they awoke, Nazarín had been perched on his watchtower to watch the sunrise for over an hour . Ándara said to her companion: “Call him, and when he comes down, tell him.” Then Beatriz, filled with inexpressible joy, recognized that the lock that had prevented her from revealing her misfortune to the master had fallen from her mouth; she felt her words, previously enslaved by an evil thought, free, and, unwilling to wait for Nazarín to come down, she called out to him in a loud voice: “Sir, sir, come down, I have to speak to him.” “I’m coming,” replied the cleric, skipping across the ashlars. “But don’t be in a hurry, woman, there’s still time. I know why you want me. ” “How do you know if I haven’t told you yet? ” “It doesn’t matter. Come on, I’m here now. So, you were saying that…? Daughter, thank God you’re talking. Something happened to you yesterday. ” “But, sir, how do you know?” asked Beatriz, astonished. “I understand. ” “Did you guess? Do you know what you haven’t seen, what they haven’t told you? ” “Sometimes, yes… Depending on who the person is to whom what I don’t see happens. ” “But really, do you guess…? ” “This isn’t guessing… it’s… knowing…” Chapter 24. “Did you hear last night, from your bedroom, what Andara and I talked about? ” “No, woman. From my chambers, you can’t hear anything. Besides, I slept soundly.” It’s just that… Last night, when we were praying, I noticed that you were making mistakes, that you were distracted, you who are never distracted or mistaken. Then I observed a certain fear in your eyes… I understood that in the village, when we went down to get water, you had had a bad encounter. Your face spoke almost as clearly as your mouth would have. And then… your face speaks volumes… there was a violent storm in your soul, lightning and thunder. These storms or struggles of passion cannot be concealed: their ravages are evident, like the devastation caused by a hurricane in nature . You fought… Satan touched your heart with his finger, smudged with the soot of hell, and then he passed it over your entire poor humanity. The angels wanted to defend you. You didn’t give them all the ground they needed for the battle. You hesitated, you hesitated for a long time before deciding to whom you would give the ground, and finally… Beatrice burst into bitter tears. —Cry, cry until you turn completely into water, for that is the sign that the angels have won the battle. For today you are triumphant. Prepare your soul well so that you will not again find yourself in such straits. Evil will lay new nets for you. Strengthen yourself so as not to fall into them. The grieving woman needed to say little more to tell Nazarín the story of her encounter with Pinto, and the moral conflict that resulted. Between tears and sighs, she recounted everything, adding that her conscience now assured her that she would never sin again, not even in her thoughts; that the horrible doubts would never again disturb her, nor would the devil lay a hand or finger on her. Ándara couldn’t help but have her say in that, as in everything, and officiously said: “Well, since she’s escaped such ugly temptations, let’s escape from the knife of that damned man. As sure as my name is Ana, it’s also true that Pinto is coming here tonight with his butchers, and he’ll cut the three of us’s throats. ” “Yes, yes,” added Beatriz. “Running away will save us. We can go down very quietly by this other part of the hill, which is covered with holm oaks, and no one will see us. Then we’ll slip away over that mountain, and when night falls we’ll be three or four leagues away, and let that scoundrel come looking for us. ” “And he will do just as he says. That’s a good idea, he and those who come with him! Let’s go, sir. ” “Sir, let’s go without delay. ” “Run… run away! Are you fools, or have you lost your mind?” ” Nazarín said calmly and smiling, after he had allowed them to vent their fear. ‘We flee, I flee! And from whom? Criminals flee, not the innocent. Thieves flee, not those without any property, and they give everything they own to whoever needs it. And why this flight? Because a proud and spiteful man has said he is coming to kill us! Let him come in good time. I know well that, given our extremely humble condition, human justice would not take much care to protect us. But divine, eternal Justice, which manifests itself above as well as below, in the culminating events as well as in the smallest, should it leave us defenseless? You have little faith in Justice, little faith in the tutelary protection of almighty God, when you tremble like this because a villain threatens us. Do you not know that the weak are the strong, just as the truly poor are the truly rich?” No, my daughters, flight is not right for us, nor should we surrender the fortresses of our consciences, which must always be invincible, and for this it is imperative that we fear neither persecution, nor insult, nor martyrdom, nor death itself. Let the petty tyrant who seeks to slaughter us come, then. Is there nothing more to do than to sacrifice defenseless people who do no harm to anyone? Truly I tell you, my daughters, that if, as this wretch comes at Satan’s instigation, Satan himself were to come in person, followed by the whole gang of the most evil and ferocious devils, I would not fear him nor move from this place. Do not tremble, and here we will wait tonight for those gentlemen assassins, who come from Herod’s side to reproduce in our century the slaughter of the innocent. “But it wouldn’t be a bad thing,” said Ándara, whose self-respect and warrior instincts were inflamed by the master’s words, “if we prepared ourselves and stocked up on weapons. Pilgrims, let’s defend ourselves! I, even if it’s just with a potato-peeling knife, must do something, so those scoundrels will see that one won’t let a man behead himself so easily. ” “I have nothing but my scissors, which neither cut nor prick,” said Beatriz. And Nazarín, smiling, added: “We need neither scissors nor daggers, nor accurate shotguns nor terrifying cannons , for we have better and more effective weapons for all the enemies who may unleash hell against us. So be calm, and don’t leave your usual tasks alone all day. If we have to go down to get water, let Ándara go, and you, Beatriz, stay here.” Act as if nothing were happening, and you feared nothing, and may your hearts be joyful as your consciences are at peace. Both were reassured by these words, and Beatriz’s neuroses that had plagued her since the previous afternoon dissipated. After breakfast, they occupied themselves with various tasks: one mended clothes, the other prepared the pots for dinner, or collected firewood from the nearby mountain. In the afternoon, Ándara went down, went to church, and went all over the town begging, and did quite well. In one house, they gave her plenty of hard bread, and in another, an egg, and in various places, quarters and vegetables. Afterward, she went to fill her jug at the spring and returned to her castle as night began to fall. No bad encounter. had, and only one of the people who spoke to her said anything that disturbed her. Who was this person? We will now find out. The two times she and Beatriz had been to church with Nazarín, they saw in him the ugliest, most deformed, and ridiculous dwarf imaginable . He was also a beggar, and they would encounter him on the street whenever they were begging. He went in and out of rich and poor houses, just like Pedro did in his, and in every one of them he was the object of mockery and ridicule. They threw crusts of bread at him to watch them bounce off his enormous head; they gave him the most grotesque rags to put on immediately; they made him eat a thousand filthy things in exchange for money or cigarettes, and the town’s children had a continual carnival over him. The poor man went to church to rest from the tiresome hustle and bustle of his popularity, and there he would be at Mass or rosary times, leaning on a pew or at the foot of the holy water font. The first impression one produced upon seeing him was that of a head walking on its own, two tiny feet moving beneath his beard. From the sides of a green cape he wore, similar to the covers that cover the cages of male partridges, two incredibly small arms protruded. His head, on the other hand, was larger than usual, extremely ugly, with a trunk for a nose, two sandals for ears, a pair of floppy hairs on his mustache and beard, and mouse-like eyes that looked at each other because they were horribly cross-eyed. His voice was like a child’s, his speech barbaric and malicious. They called him “Ujo,” a word whose name is unknown, whether it was a first or last name, or both. Those who entered the church, unaware of this pitiful mistake of nature, were terrified, seeing a giant’s head advancing three-quarters of the way up from the ground, and they believed it was some demon escaped from the altarpiece of the Blessed Souls. Beatriz believed so when she saw him for the first time, and her screams alarmed the half-dozen nuns in the church. Ándara burst out laughing, engaging in teasing with him. From then on, they became friends, and whenever they saw each other, they greeted each other: “How are you?” “Not as well as you…” “And his family, good?” It seemed not; but he was a good man, or rather, a good dwarf or a good monster, poor Ujo. One afternoon, he gave Beatriz two oranges, a rare fruit in that country, and the next, three strawberries, and a handful of peas from the large sum he earned by allowing everyone to tease him. And he told them that if they were there during grape season , he would give them as many bunches as they wanted. Needless to say, Ujo knew every single one of the town’s inhabitants, and all those who frequented it on market days, for he was as much an integral part of the town itself as the weather vane on the tower, or the coat of arms of the town hall, or the figurehead on the fountain spout. There is no function without a tarasca, nor a village without Ujo. That afternoon, after greeting Ándara in the church, he had the following conversation with her: “And your companion?” “She remained there.” —How pretty she is, caraifa!… And they say she’s flattering… Listen, caraifa, look what you’re doing, you people from the castle, and the best thing you could do would be to come from here, because there are some butchers in town, caraifa, who know you, and they say that you, the ugly one, as you say, were once public there, and _quillotra_, the pretty one, had what she had with Manolito, Vinagre’s nephew, who’s from here, and they call him _Pinto_. And they say that you and she, and _quillotro_, that one who looks like a public Moor, you two join together to steal… No, I know it’s a lie; but you say it, and the story is that nothing good will come of this you’re bringing about, caraifa… If I were you, I’d stay; and let them leave, _quillotros_… Do it, Ándara; I appreciate you… Here, where they can’t hear us, I’ll tell you that I appreciate you, Ándara… The other day, when I gave you the egg, do you remember? I was going to say to you: “Ándara, I appreciate you”; but I didn’t dare, caraifa. Do you want another egg? Do you want some chicharrones?… The girl didn’t let him finish, and she escaped into the street. What a thing to say to her! Those things in church! Damned _nano_! But if the news of Pinto’s ill will and the opinion of thieves that the town had filled her with anxiety and disquiet, the declaration that Ujo blurted out to her in a sacred place, before the Most Holy Lord and the blessed images, moved her to laughter. What an indecent tadpole, a man started, and a person unfinished! As if she were a _monster_ like him! He esteemed her! Ha, ha… What an ugly, stinking one! Uphill, towards the castle, she forgot about the grotesque declaration to think only of the danger; but in those cool, clear heights, the pleasant sight of her companions cleared her mind of fear, and remembering the face Ujo made when he confessed his love, she couldn’t stop herself from laughing. She told them that she had found a boyfriend in the holy church, and when she said it was the _nano_, Don Nazario and Beatriz laughed as well, and with these things they passed the time pleasantly until the time for prayer and supper, which was entertaining because no one wanted to eat the egg, and in view of the three refusals, they agreed to raffle it off. So it was done, and it fell to Beatriz, who also refused to accept preference by lot, and finally the master solved the problem, dividing it into three pieces, or equal portions. Night advanced, and the moon splendidly illuminated the high heavens. The Moor climbed to his watchtower, from where he looked more at the earth than at the firmament, and so did the two girls, leaning over a remnant of a loophole, fearful and vigilant. From the top of the bare wall that resembled a jaw, Nazarín tried to allay their fear with cheerful and even jocular words. A mystical bird, she roamed the spaces of the ideal, never forgetting reality or the care of her chicks. On the flanks of the mountain, a profound silence reigned, occasionally disturbed by the moaning of the wind caressing the worm-eaten walls, or by the stir of nocturnal vermin that lived in the undergrowth or among the foundation rocks. Although the leader of the penitent community remained serene, he decided that the three of them should stay awake all night so that the butchers wouldn’t have to wake them. Nothing happened until twelve o’clock, when they thought they heard the noise of people at the base of the mountain, the barking of dogs… Yes, someone was coming up. But whoever it was was still very far away. Then the noise ceased, as if they were retreating; after half an hour, it sounded louder, already distinct, like the conversation of three or four people who were beginning to cross the slope. Don Nazario descended from his tower to observe more closely. Soon, after the three of them were on the lookout, they noticed that the valley was not clearly visible. A mist rose, gradually thickening, and nothing below could be distinguished, because the moonlight, as it diffused into the fog, formed a milky opacity. The voices grew closer. In less than a quarter of an hour, the mist grew in intensity and extent, rising until it enveloped about a third of the hill in its vague canopy. The voices grew distant. Half an hour more, and the evaporation covered half the peak. The summit was clear, and those on it believed they were on an immense vessel floating on a sea of cotton. The voices faded away. Chapter 25. Ordering them to go to bed, Nazarín remained awake and prayed until dawn, whose beauty he could not enjoy because of the mist. At eight o’clock, the valley was still covered in a vaporous mantle, and when Ándara and Beatriz emerged from their hiding places, they praised God for that blessed help sent so just in time to save them, because undoubtedly the infamous murderers tried to climb up, and the white darkness blocked their way. Nazarín recommended that they not use any epithets of hatred against anyone, not even their greatest enemies ; the first thing he taught them was the forgiveness of offenses, the love of those who do us harm, and the extinction of all rancorous feelings in their hearts. El Pinto and his cronies would be bad or not. Who knew that? They would come to an understanding with the Supreme Judge there. They were not to judge them, nor should they utter an insulting word against them, not even if they saw them brandishing a knife to kill them. “And finally, my daughters, it seems to me that we have prolonged this idleness imposed upon us by fatigue too long. Tomorrow we must continue our pilgrimage, and today, the last day we will spend in this deep dwelling, we will set out to explore the entire left bank of the river as far as those villages that can be seen from here. ” Shortly after saying this, they heard a voice rising, intoning a joyful song. They looked and saw no one; but the two girls recognized that voice, although they did not remember whose it belonged to. Finally, among some bushes, they made out a carnival head, ascending the mount. “It’s Ujo, my boyfriend!” exclaimed Ándara, laughing. Here comes the little one in the world… Ow, darling, my _nano_, caraifa. Where did you leave your little body? All we can see is your head. When he got to the top, the poor monster couldn’t breathe. Bending his legs, he settled his almost invisible body on them, and on top of it he raised his enormous head. Since he had no neck, his beard almost touched his nipples. He wore a soldier’s cap and the green partridge-cage pillowcase. Sitting down, he was almost as bulky as standing. “Do you want something to eat, funny little Ujito?” the girl asked him. “What do you bring here?
” “Just to tell you that I love you, caraifa. ” “And I love you even more, coquito, snail of the house. Are you tired? Do you want bread? ” “No; I’ve got some. And this one for you, which is made of flower and egg… Here. Hello, _senora_ Beatriz; Uncle Zarín, God save them… Well, I’ve come to tell you to go… Last night they left to bring Pinto and the _quillotros_ up here; but because of the _fog_ they turned back. They weren’t selling, caraifa. Today they made off with the cattle… a lot of cattle, caraifa. At the sound of the first mass, they left… But don’t think you’re safe, caraifa. There’s a rumor that there’s been robbery… Lie! I respect you, Ándara… But stay away from the Civil Guard, because they say that if they catch you, they ‘ll take you as public delinquents and criminals, caraifa. Nazarín replied that they weren’t delinquents, and that if the Guard took them for such, they would soon be disabused, which is why they would neither escape nor stop staying where they didn’t get in anyone’s way. The _nano_, without paying much attention to this refusal, pulled Ándara by the skirt to take her aside, and said to her: “The Moor can go with the Moorish woman, and you stay, ugly girl, because they won’t call you ugly, and I like you… Don’t you know that I like you, Ándara? What are you saying? That I’m uglier? Caraifa, that’s why. You ugly, you public, I like you… It’s the first time I like…, and that’s been since I saw you, caraifa.” The girl’s laughter attracted the others, and poor Ujo, embarrassed, could only say: “Get out of here, get out of here, and if not, you’ll see… Robbery, Civil Guard… ” “The _nanito_ likes me. Let him say it… He’s my boyfriend, right? Of course I’ll stay with you, with my beloved turtle, with my little coconut.” Say again that you appreciate me. One likes it… “Yes, I appreciate you,” repeated Ujo, grinding his teeth, noticing that Beatriz was looking at him mockingly. “Manque rabien, I appreciate you, caraifa.” And he started to run. Ándara shouted goodbye to him, and he, sulking and banging his skull, went down, or rather, he seemed to be rolling, without looking at the three inhabitants of the castle. An hour later, they were descending on the side opposite the town and heading downstream along the left bank of the Perales. They passed where it joins the Alberche, and a short distance from the confluence, they saw some farmers who were digging vineyards. Nazarín offered to help them for a pittance, and if they didn’t give them anything, they would work just as hard, as long as they agreed. The farmers, who seemed to be well-off and good people , gave Nazarín a hoe, Beatriz another, and Polvoranca a mallet for breaking up the soil. One of them picked it up from the ground With his shotgun, after a few shots at a nearby bush, he took three rabbits, one of which he offered to the penitents. “Sir,” Nazarín told him, “this vineyard will give you a good August.” One of the women started talking to Beatriz during a break and asked if Nazarín was her husband, and when he replied that he was not, and that neither of them was married, she made many crosses on her face and breasts. Then she wanted to find out if they were gypsies, or some of those who go around the villages mending pots… Were they the ones who had been there the year before with a bear chained by its rump, and a monkey that fired a pistol? No, either; well, then, what kind of demons were they? Did they belong to Christianity, or to some idolatrous _mushroom_? Beatriz replied that they considered themselves to be Christians through and through , and that she could say no more. Another of the women, very grimly, feared that the unknown vagrants might cast the evil eye on a puny, sleepy little girl she was carrying in her arms. There was some whispering among them all, and finally, the one with the shotgun called out to Nazarín to say: “Good man, take this dog and the kid, and get out of here, for Ufrasia suspects that you’re bewitching the girl.” Without offering any comment to this cruel farewell, they withdrew quietly and humbly. “Let us endure this humiliation in silence, my daughters, and console ourselves by looking to our consciences. ” Further on, they found other men cleaning a pond or pool, which served as a drinking trough and which the last storm had filled with mud, roots, and matter washed down from nearby sewers. Nazarín offered to work, and his offer was accepted. They ordered her to wade knee-deep into the black pool, and Ándara did the same, gathering her petticoats to mid-calf. With buckets, which one gave to another, and then to a third, they emptied the fetid bitumen mixed with putrefying substances , and the others helped with shovels. Beatriz jumped, shrieking , when she felt a long-tailed snake wrap itself around her foot. Fortunately, it wasn’t poisonous. There was laughter, revelry, they caught the snake, and finally the watering hole was drained in an hour and a half, and the penitents received a large and a small penny for their arduous work. They went to the river to wash their legs of that filth, and when they were returning, now clean, to the road, they were surprised by two very ill-looking men, with starved and yellow faces, their clothes in tatters, who emerged from a thick bush and with broken voices stopped them. Without further explanation, one of them, brandishing a huge knife, told them to leave everything they were carrying, be it coins, jewelry, or food. The other, who must have been a terrible comedian, told them they were a pair of Civil Guards in disguise, and that they had been ordered by the government to arrest any thieves they found and take away their stolen goods. The valiant Ándara tried to protest; but Nazarín ordered them to hand over everything— bread, coins, and guinea pigs—and the bastards also conducted a thorough search, resulting in Beatriz being left without scissors and Beatriz without a comb. And the joke didn’t end there. After retreating, at the bandits’ imperious command, they indulged in the stupid amusement of stoning them, inflicting a slight wound on Nazarín’s skull, from which he bled considerably. They had to return to the river, where the two young women washed his head, then bandaged it with two handkerchiefs, one white, and over it the large checked one that Beatriz used to wear . With that turban, the fervent ascetic lacked nothing to complete his Arabian figure. Beatriz put on his cap, and off she went to the castle! “It seems to me,” said Ándara, “that the bad guy has arrived. Up until now, everything had been going well. They fed us, they loved us, they gave us gifts, we did our share of miracles in Móstoles, and in Villamanta we behaved like God’s saints. The people were happy, and we danced to our hearts’ content. But now the bad numbers are starting to come up; this thing that happens to you one day and the next is like the public lottery.” “Shut up, you chatterbox, you loose woman,” Nazarín told her. Tired from the long journey and the stinging sun, he sat down in the shade of some oak trees. “Do not confuse divine dispositions with the lottery, which is blind chance. If the Lord sends us calamities, He will know why. Let not the slightest complaint pass from our lips, nor let us doubt for a single instant the mercy of Our Father who is in heaven.” Beatriz sat down beside him, and the woman from Polvoranca began to search the ground for acorns. The three remained silent, somber and sad. The only sound was the buzzing of the field flies among the oak trees. Ándara walked away and came back. The woman from Móstoles broke the silence, saying to her master: “Lord, an idea comes to me, an idea… ” “A feeling? ” “That’s right… I think we’re going to have a very bad time, that we’ll suffer. ” “I think so too. ” —If God wills it, so be it. —We will suffer, yes, I more than you. —Not us? Well, that wouldn’t be right. No, we will suffer the same, and if necessary, even more. —No, let me suffer the most. —And do you really think so? Do you guess it? —Not guess it. The Lord tells me so in my heart. I know his voice. It is as certain, Beatriz, that we will suffer greatly as it is now day. Another silence. Ándara walked away, bending down, and gathered acorns in her skirt. Chapter 26. Watching the good Nazarín, taciturn and brooding, who always encouraged them with the example of his serene attitude and even with jovial words, Beatriz felt a sudden bonfire of affection ignite in her soul for the saint who directed and guided them. She had felt the same fire at other times, but never as intensely as on that occasion. Then, examining herself deeply, she believed she should not compare that state of soul to a voracious fire that burns and destroys, but to a torrent of water that miraculously springs from a rock and floods everything. It was a river that ran through her soul, and, pouring out of her mouth, it spilled out in these words: “Lord, when this great suffering comes, know that I want to love you with all the love that fits in the soul, and with all the purity with which one loves the angels. And if, by taking the suffering upon myself, I could take it away from you, I would take it, even if it were the most horrible thing imaginable . ” “My daughter, you love me like a teacher who knows a little more than you, and who teaches you what you do not know. I love you, I love you both , like a shepherd loves his sheep, and if you get lost, I will seek you out.” “Promise me, sir,” Beatriz added at the height of her excitement, ” that you will always love one another the same, and swear to me that, no matter what happens, we will never be separated. ” “I do not swear, and even if I did, how could I do so, assuring you of what you seek? By my will, we will be together; but what if men separate us? ” “And what have men to do with us? ” “Ah! They command, they govern this entire kingdom that lies beneath souls. Recently, two sinners came and robbed us. Others may come and, by violence, separate us. ” “That will not happen; Ándara and I would not allow it. ” “They do not count on your weakness, on your fear. ” “Fear us! Sire, do not say such things. ” “Furthermore, your duty is obedience, respect for everyone, and conformity with God’s designs.” Ándara approached to show the acorns, and then withdrew again. After a short time, Beatriz suddenly became intensely lax. It was like the sedation of that spasm of pious love. Her eyelids were closing. “My lord,” she said to Nazarín, “since we didn’t sleep last night, I’m sleepy. ” “Well, go to sleep now, for it’s very possible that you won’t sleep tonight either.” With a simplicity and innocence truly idyllic, Beatriz let her head rest on Nazarín’s shoulder and fell asleep, like a child at its mother’s breast. The wandering hermit was still head down. Finally thinking that it was time to return to the castle, he looked around for the other girl and saw her sitting about thirty paces away from him. With her back to him, her head hanging on her chest: “Ándara, what’s the matter?” The girl didn’t reply. “What’s the matter, daughter? Come here. What are you doing? Crying?” Ándara stood up and slowly went to him, bringing the hem of her skirt in which she kept the acorns she had picked up from the ground to her eyes. “Come here… What’s the matter?” “Nothing, sir. ” “No; something’s the matter with you. Has some evil thought occurred to you? Or is your heart predicting misfortunes? Tell me about it. ” “It’s not that,” the girl finally responded, unable to find the right words to express her thoughts. “It’s just that… One has one’s pride … well… one’s vanity… and one doesn’t like it… Come on, I’ll say it plainly and simply: you love Beatriz more than me. ” “Jesus!… And that’s what…?” —Well, it’s not fair, because we both love her the same. —And I love you equally. But where do you get the idea that I…? —That you always say the nicest things to Beatriz, and nothing to me… It’s just that I’m very stupid, and she knows… she has grammar… That’s why it’s all the pampering for her, and to me: “Ándara, what do you know? Don’t blaspheme…” Yes, I know that no one cares more for me than Ujo… —Well, now you haven’t said blasphemy, but a great nonsense. To love one more than the other! If there’s a difference in the way I treat them, a difference based on the nature of each, there’s no difference in the affection I have for them. Silly girl, come here, and if you’re sleepy, because you didn’t sleep last night, come over to me on this other side, and have a nap too. —No, it’s late, —said Ándara, her indifference now dissipated. If we’re careless, we won’t make it by daylight. “It’s already impossible by daylight. Thank goodness we’ll make it by nine… And tonight, a good supper: raw acorns. ” “Those scoundrels really cleaned us out. Ah, if I catch them…” “Don’t injure us, don’t threaten us… Come on, she’ll be waking up. Let’s go. Let’s go . ” Before nine, they climbed wearily toward the castle, and up there they lay down in the cool air. Cooking supper would cause them no trouble that night, because they had no provisions other than the acorns, which were served immediately and devoured with the sauce of necessity rather than appetite. And when they were beginning to thank God for the frugal meal he had provided them, they heard the sound of voices towards the base of the mountain, near the village. What could it be? And it wasn’t just two or three people talking, but many, many people. Andara peered through the loophole and, Holy Virgin! Not only did she hear the most tumultuous noise, but she saw a glow like a bonfire rising, rising with the voices as well. “People are coming,” she said to her companions, seized with panic. “And they’re bringing torches, or lit torches… Listen to the murmuring… ” “They’re coming to arrest us,” Beatriz stammered, her companion’s terror evident . “To arrest us? Why? Well, we’ll soon find out,” said Don Nazario. “Let’s keep praying, for whatever it is will sound.” He prayed because his energetic will overcame all emotion ; but they, bewildered, restless, trembling, did nothing but run here and there, and one moment they thought of fleeing, another they thought of shouting for help… But to whom, to whom? The sky showed no sign that night of wanting to defend them, hiding them behind a veil of mist. And the tumult rose, with the sinister glow of torches. Now the voices could be heard more clearly, along with laughter and mockery; now a few words could be understood. Men, women, and children were coming, and these were the ones who lit the fire with bundles of dry sap, turning the light on and off, with the uproar of Saint John’s Eve. “But what?” Nazarín murmured without rising from the ground. “Is the authority sending an army against these three poor creatures?” When the agitated crowd reached the top, the two women saw the pair of Civil Guards. There was no longer any doubt. “They’re coming for us. ” “Well, here we are. ” “Gentlemen of the Guard,” said Ándara, “are they coming for us? ” “You, and the Moor Muza,” replied one who must have been the mayor, laughing. as if the freedom or imprisonment of such humble people were a joke. “Where is that Moor, I want to see him?” shouted a very coarse and very fat fellow, standing out from the first group. “If it’s me you’re looking for,” said Nazarín, still on the ground, “here I am. ” “Hey, good friend,” said another, very thin man, “your Moorish reverence is ill-housed in this castle. Come back to jail. ” And with that, he gave him a strong kick. “You coward!” shouted Ándara, suddenly inflamed with rage and leaping toward him like a tiger, “you scoundrel, can’t you see you’re humble and you let yourself be caught?” And with the potato-peeling knife, he dealt him such a tremendous blow that if the weapon had had an edge and a point, that scoundrel would have had a bad time. Even so , he tore the sleeve of his blouse and pulled a strip of skin from his arm . The roaring crowd rushed at the brave young woman, who was defended by the Civil Guard. But she struggled with such nervous fury that they had to tie her up. At this point, she felt someone tugging at her skirt and saw Ujo’s wandering head, which was slipping between the civilians’ legs. “This is what happens to you, for not doing what you say, caraifa. But I appreciate you, you’ll see that I appreciate you. ” “Get out of there, you stinking bastard,” Ándara replied, and spat in her face. Nazarín had risen and, with the utmost serenity, said to them: “What’s all the fuss about arresting three defenseless people? Take us wherever you like. Oh, woman, what wrong you’ve done! So that God may forgive you, ask forgiveness from this man whom you have wounded. ” “Pardon, caraifa!” Blinded with rage, burning with a bloodthirsty frenzy, she didn’t know what she was doing. Everyone, let’s go. Andara, tied up, was in front, roaring and raising her hands to her mouth to bite the rope; behind them, the teacher and Beatriz were loose, surrounded by curious, impertinent, and cruel people. The civilians were pushing the crowd back. The fat man, who was next to Nazarín, allowed himself the opportunity to say to him: “So, a Moorish prince… an exiled Moorish prince…? And he’s bringing his whole seraglio with him, damn it! ” The mayor, who was on the other side, next to Beatriz, burst out laughing rudely, correcting his friend’s phrase: “This one is as Moorish as my grandfather. And I know this sultana from Móstoles. ” Beatriz and Don Nazario didn’t reply… or even look. The joking and the scandal continued down the slope. It seemed more like a Carnival brawl than the arrest of criminals. As the torches went out , women and children stumbled, fell, and got up, and Ujo’s head rolled in one of the turns. Laughter, singing, and joking were all signs of celebration in a town where opportunities for entertainment were very rare. Some considered the case a joke and wished that stray Moors would arrive every day to arrest or hunt. The entrance into the town was the best part of the event, because the entire neighborhood came out to the doorsteps to see the mysterious criminals wanted by the judge of Madrid. The children returned to light the dried gorse , and the smoke was suffocating. Ándara, exhausted from fatigue, finally ceased her futile protest. The other two prisoners accepted their misfortune with silent resignation. They called the jail a barred stable, on the lower part of the Town Hall. The entrance was through a courtyard. The Civil Guard cleared the door, and the prisoners were taken to a room, where they untied Ándara. The mayor, whose excessive and importunate fondness for jokes did not deprive him of humanitarian feelings, told them that dinner would be prepared for them, and taking Nazarín to a nearby room, no less dilapidated and miserable than the room designated for the custody of prisoners, he held the following conversation with him, which is transcribed verbatim below . Chapter 27. “Sit down. I have some questions to ask you. ” “I’ll sit down,” you say. “Well, in front of all that crowd, I didn’t want to embarrass you. They think you’re a Moor. Uneducated common people’s business! And yet you look like one, with that truly African face, that pointed beard, and that turban. But I know that you are not a Moor, but a Christian, at least in name. And there is more: I would not have thought so if the official ordering me to arrest you had not said so: you are a priest. “Yes, sir, and my name is Nazario Zaharín, to serve God and you. ” “Consequently, you declare yourself to be Don Nazario Zaharín, whom the judge of the Foundling Hospital is demanding. And that ugly woman is the one they call Ándara? ” “The one who came tied up. The other is called Beatriz, and she is a native of Móstoles. ” “Who are you telling? I know her. Pinto is my cousin. ” “What else? ” “Does that seem little to you? But come here, and let us talk now as friends,” said the mayor, taking off his wide woolen cloak and placing it on the table, where a lantern illuminated equally the joyful and shining face of one, and the withered and ascetic one of the other. “Do you think it’s right for a clergyman to be wandering around like this… barefoot on the roads, accompanied by two big women… come on, I won’t mention Beatriz… but the other one? For God’s sake, my dear priest! There, I suppose your lawyer will defend you for being crazy, because for being sane, there is no Christian who will defend you, nor any law that won’t condemn you. ” “I think I’m in my right mind,” Nazarín answered serenely. “That’ll be seen. I don’t think so. Of course; how can you know you’re crazy! But, for God’s sake, Father Zaharín, to throw yourself into a vagrant life with those two idiots! And I don’t say this for religious reasons alone; for all of us, to a greater or lesser extent, if we say we believe, it’s for the sake of good appearances and respect for what is established… I say this for your own convenience, and for the consideration of society, in these times of enlightenment.” A priest walking around like that!… Well, they don’t accuse him of anything, by the grace of God! He hid that swindler in his house when she stabbed another public figure like her, and then the two of them set fire to a building, or a private urban property… And finally, at the end of the day, they take to the roads, you as an apostle and she as an apostle, and they dedicate themselves to deceiving people, curing the sick with salutations of drinking water, resurrecting fake dead people, and delivering sermons against those of us who are even possible… Oh, oh, Mr. Priest, and you maintain that you’re not crazy! Tell me: how many miracles have you performed in this jurisdiction? I heard that you tamed the lion of lions, Mr. de la Coreja… Trust me, I will not do you any harm, nor will I sell your secrets. Tell me, and don’t notice that I am the mayor and you are merely a defendant. From that door onward, there are only two well-known figures: a very down-to-earth and frank mayor, and a common little priest who is going to recount his apostolic and Mohammedan adventures right now … but frankly… Wait: I’ll send for some drinks. ” “No, don’t bother,” said Nazarín, stopping the mayor’s movement. “Listen to my answer, which will be brief. First of all, sir, I don’t drink wine. ” “Good heavens! Not even a soda? See why they think you’re a Moor. ” “Secondly, I am innocent of the crimes they accuse me of. I will tell the judge so, and if he doesn’t believe me, God knows my innocence, and that’s enough for me. Third: I am not an apostle, nor do I preach to anyone; I only teach Christian doctrine, the most basic and simple, to anyone who wants to learn it. I teach it by word and example. Everything I say, I do, and I see no merit in it.” If for this reason they have confused me with criminals, I do not care. My conscience does not accuse me of any crime. I have not raised the dead, nor healed the sick; nor am I a doctor, nor do I perform miracles, because the Lord, whom I adore and serve, has not given me the power to do so. With this I conclude, my lord, and having nothing more to say, do with me what you will, and whatever tribulations and shame fall upon me, I accept them resignedly and calmly, without fear and also without boasting, for no one will see in me either the arrogance of the sinner or the vainglory of one who believes himself perfect. The good mayor remained confused and cut off with these reasons, no doubt because he expected to see the cleric come out through the registry office. of a cynical frankness, or, in other words, that he would dance to the tune he played. But he didn’t dance, no. And one of two things: either Don Nazario was the most ingenious and devious scoundrel that God had ever cast into the world, as proof of His creative fecundity, or he was… but who the hell knew what he was, or how one could discern the truth or falsehood of those grave words, spoken with such simplicity and dignity? “Well, sir, well,” said the joking mayor, understanding that with such a man, farce was of no use. “Well, with so much conscience and so much rigor, you’re going to have a bad time. Come to your senses, and listen to me, for I am a very practical man, and although it’s hard for me to say so, with his crumbs of education; a man somewhat short on Latin, but very broad on understanding. Here where you see me, I began to study to be a priest; But I wasn’t keen on the Church, because I’m more inclined to what can be seen with the eyes and touched with the hands. I mean, the positive, that is, enlightenment, is my strong suit. And how am I to believe that a man of sense in our practical, essentially practical, or, if you will, so enlightened times, can take seriously this business of teaching by example everything that doctrine says? It can’t be, man, it can’t be, and whoever tries it is either crazy or will end up as a victim… yes, sir, a victim of…! He didn’t know how to finish the sentence. Nazarín didn’t want any arguments, and answered with dry civility: “I believe the opposite. So it may be, it is. ” “But come here,” continued the mayor, who understood or guessed the dialectical power of his opponent, and wanted to fight fairly by appealing to the arguments he remembered from his vain and superficial readings. How are you going to convince me that this is possible? … Me, who lives in this 19th century, the century of steam, the electric telephone, and the printing press, that lever…! of public and private liberties, in this century of progress, that current…! in this century in which the Enlightenment has emancipated us from all the fanaticism of antiquity. Well, what else is what you say and do but fanaticism? I don’t criticize religion in itself, nor do I oppose our accepting the Holy Trinity, although not even the first mathematicians understood it; I respect the beliefs of our elders, the mass, the processions, baptisms and burials with honors, etc. I’ll go further, I grant you that there _is_… I mean, that there are souls in Purgatory, and that we have episcopal and cardinal clergy, and a parish council as well… And if you push me, I’ll give in to the bulls… well… I’ll give in too because there has to be an _hereafter_, and because everything that involves speaking of that has to be said in Latin… But don’t take me away from that, from the consideration we owe to what was. I respect religion, I respect the Virgin Mary above all, and I even pray to her when my children are sick … But leave me to my back and forth, and don’t ask me to believe things that are fine for women, but that we men shouldn’t believe… No, not that. Don’t push that button. I don’t believe that everything that the great social reformer said and preached, that genius…! I don’t belittle him, no, that extraordinary being…! And to maintain that it can’t be, I reason like this : “The end of man is to live. One doesn’t live without eating. One doesn’t eat without working. And in this enlightened century, what does man have to look to? Industry, agriculture, administration, commerce. That’s the problem. Giving an outlet to our wealth, balancing public and private budgets…, having tons of factories…, roads…, casinos for workers…, working-class neighborhoods…, enlightenment, schools, public and private welfare… And where does that leave me with hygiene, urbanization, and other great achievements? Well, you won’t get any of that with mysticism, which is what you practice; you’ll get nothing but hunger, public and private misery… The same as convents of friars and nuns!” The 19th century said: “I do not want convents or seminaries, but treaties.” of commerce. I don’t want hermits, but great economists. I don’t want sermons, but narrow-gauge railways. I don’t want holy fathers, but chemical fertilizers. Ah, my lord, the day we have a university in every enlightened town, an agricultural bank on every street, and an electric cooking machine in the kitchen of every house, ah, on that day mysticism will no longer exist! And I allow myself to believe… it’s my idea… that if Our Lord Jesus Christ were alive, he would think the same as I do, and he would be the first to bless advances, and he would say: “This is my century, not that one…” “This is my century, not that one,” he said, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief. It had cost him no small effort, with labor pains, to expel that long and erudite oration, with which he intended to reduce the unfortunate ascetic to a state of stupor. The latter looked at him with pity; but since courtesy and his habits of humility prevented him from answering with the contempt he judged deserved, he limited himself to saying: “My lord, you speak a language I do not understand. The one I speak is not comprehensible to you either, at least not now. Let us keep quiet. ” The mayor was not of this prudent opinion, and he was very sorry that his well-thought-out and measured arguments had no effect on that stubborn, sly, or whatever man he was, and he believed that by attacking him with other weapons he would drive him mad. He was a tortoise, whose shell had to be set on fire to force him to show his head. Well, fire in He, that is to say, the insolent joke, the mockery, and the scorn. —Don’t be upset, Father, if you’re taking me seriously, I haven’t said anything. I’m an ignoramus, who has only read the things of my century, and I’m not well-versed in theology. Are you a saint? Well, I’m the first to take off my hat, and I’ll carry you in procession, if necessary, leaning one shoulder against the litter. You’ll see how the people adore you; and you, for good measure, perform a couple of miracles for us, big ones, eh? Increase our water jars, and bring us the new bridge that’s being planned, and the western railway, which is our desideratum… And besides this, you have here countless hunchbacks to straighten, blind people to give sight to, and lame people who are just dying for you to tell them to run, not to mention the dead from the cemetery, who will come out as soon as you call them. Let’s all go for a walk around the town and see the progress I’m owed… What a mess with the new Jesus Christ… a cheap piece of kit! The century will be in flames when it finds out we’re preaching the second salvation of the world! “Public and private redemptions. Affordable prices.” It’s true that now we’ll put him in jail. Comrade, you have to suffer. But they won’t crucify him: he’s free from that. Don’t get upset, Father, that kind of gallows, typical of the obscurantism, isn’t in fashion these days; nor will he enter Madrid riding a donkey, but with a pair of Civil Guards; nor will they receive him with applause, unless it’s with their noses. And what kind of pathetic religion is this he ‘s bringing us? I reckon it’s the Mohammedan one… that’s why he’s brought a couple of Moors… of course, to preach by example… Since Nazarín paid no attention to him, or got irritated, or gave any indication that such jokes affected him little or much, the man became disconcerted again. The mayor’s good friend, and adopting a new attitude and a tone of mocking familiarity , patted him on the shoulder, saying: “Come on, man, don’t be intimidated. You have to bear these things with patience. My friend, this whole preaching thing, especially when there’s no wheat available, has its downsides. But don’t get so worked up; by putting you in a madhouse , you’ll be doing justice, and you won’t even get whipped, because that’s not the way it is anymore. ‘Hygienic sacrifices, that is, without whipping… Passion and death, with Astorga chocolate…’ ha, ha… Anyway, while you’re in this cultured town, we’ll treat you well, because law is one thing and enlightenment is another. And if what I told you upsets you, just let it be a joke, because I like to joke… I am, as you’ve seen, a very good shadow… Which doesn’t mean I don’t pity your misfortune. I’ll leave that aside. the rod, and here we are not the mayor and the prisoner, but two very joking friends, a pair of many-pronged combs, eh?… And in parentheses, the man could have chosen Moorish women with better hair. Beatriz, come in. But the other one…! Where did she get that hake?… Anyway, you want us to give her some dinner. Only to this last sentence did Nazarín reply: “I’m not in the mood, Mr. Mayor. But I think those poor women will have some food.” Chapter 28. Meanwhile, in the prison itself, the two women, the two civil guards, and some other people who had sneaked in, among them the great Ujo, were talking familiarly. From the moment they entered, Beatriz approached one of the guards, a tall, handsome man with a pleasant military appearance, and touching him on the arm said: “Hey, are you First Class Mondéjar? ” “At your service, Beatriz. ” “Have you met me?” “Well, no! ” I hesitated, saying to myself, “I swear this is the preferred Cirilo Mondéjar, who was in Móstoles.” “I knew you; but I didn’t want to say anything. It made me feel sorry to see you among those people. And just so you know, nothing’s going on with you, and you’re in jail because you want to. The arrest warrant is for him and the other one. We brought you here because you’re there. Anyway, the mayor will tell you whether you’re going or staying. ” “Let the mayor say what he wants, I’m still with my colleagues. ” “For transits? ” “For whatever reason, and if they go to jail, I’ll go too. And if they go to the Court, I’ll go with them. And if there’s a gallows, let the three of us be hanged. ” “Beatriz, you’re crazy. We’ll leave you in Móstoles with your sister. ” “I said I’ll go wherever Don Nazario goes, and that for nothing in the world would I abandon him in his misfortune. ” If I could, do you know what I would do? Well, I would take upon myself all the hardships that await him, the insults they will heap upon him, and the ill-treatment and punishments he will receive… But how distracted I am, Cyril! I hadn’t asked you about Demetria, your wife. “She’s good. ” “I love Demetria very much! And tell me, how many children do you have now? ” “One… and another soon to come…” “God preserve them… You’ll be happy, won’t you? ” “No complaints. ” “Well, look, don’t offend God, for he might punish you. ” “Me? Why?” “For persecuting the good, and I’m not saying this about the good for myself. ” “You’re saying it for the prisoner. We, the guards, have nothing to do with it. That’s the judge. ” “The judge, the mayor, and the guards, you’re all one and the same. They have no conscience, nor do they know what virtue is… And I’m not saying this for you, Cyril, for you are a good Christian.” You will not persecute God’s chosen one, nor will you allow the infamous to torture him. “Beatriz, are you crazy, or what’s wrong with you?” “Cirilo, you’re the crazy one if you allow your soul to be lost by siding with the evil against the good. Think of your wife, your little children, and realize that for the Lord to preserve them, it is necessary that you defend the Lord’s cause. ” “How so?” Beatriz lowered her voice, because although the others present surrounded Ándara, chatting and laughing at the other end of the prison, she feared they would hear her. “Well, it’s very simple. When you take us prisoner, you’ll play dumb and we ‘ll escape. ” “Yes, if you’re a dumb person, I’ll shoot you dry. Beatriz, don’t talk nonsense. Do you know what the Ordinance is? Do you know the Regulations of the Benemérita? And you’re mostly coming up with those jokes!” I wouldn’t fail in my duty for anything in this world, and rather than dishonor my uniform, I would consent to lose everything, my wife and children. One stakes one’s honor on this, and it’s not oneself, Beatriz, it’s the Corps… What more would one like than to have pity! Well, don’t look in the entire Force for a single number who have it—I mean pity—for things of service, because you won’t find it. The Corps doesn’t know what compassion is, and when the soul, which is the Law, orders it to arrest, it arrests, and if it orders it to shoot, it shoots. The good first-class officer said this with such gallant conviction and sincerity, and his eyes, his gesture, his accent, and the cultured so fervent of the order of chivalry he professed, that the girl bowed her head, sighing, and said to him: “You’re right, I don’t know what I’m saying. Cirilo, don’t pay attention to me. Each to his own religion. ” The curious people abandoned the corner where Ándara was, and ran to the side of Beatriz and the preferred. Next to the other one, only Ujo remained, who stood, barely taller than his seated friend’s waist. “To what I was saying,” he said when he found himself alone with her, “You’re behaving badly with me, caraifa… I thought you were more refined, caraifa… But even though you’re not a hair’s breadth of refined, and you’ve spit right in my face, I say I esteem you… Even though you spit on me again, that’s telling you. ” “That I spit on you?” Ándara replied jovially, now recovered from her spasm of fury. It would be without thinking, little one of the town, my little coquito, my funny _nanito_. It’s that I am like that: when I want to say that I like someone, I spit. —Do you want more? Well, when you stabbed Lucas, the one from the inn…, you became pretty. I looked at you, and I didn’t recognize you, caraifa. Because you are ugly, Ándara, and because you are ugly and hideous I like you, caraifa, and I fight with the divine Word to defend you, recaraifa. —Long live my tadpole, my little-headed snail! Did you say that the guy I threw the knife at is the innkeeper? —Uncle Lucas. —You told me the other day that you lived at the inn. —But I moved yesterday, because a mule kicked me. Now I live with Uncle Juan the blacksmith. —Oh, and how nice my little snail will be at the blacksmith’s! Well, look, caraifa: you say you esteem me? —With all your heart. —Well, for me to believe you, you’re going to bring me from your house, from the blacksmith’s house… whatever I tell you. —What? —A lot of iron. I want iron… You manage as best you can. There ‘ll be everything there. You’ll bring me nails… No, not nails… Yes, yes; a couple of large nails, and also a good knife; but one that cuts, you know? And a file… but one that eats… You bring it all well hidden, here under your sackcloth, and… They fell silent, because Nazarín entered accompanied by the mayor, and he, putting on airs of a benevolent and humanitarian man, qualities that did not exclude the dominance of goodwill, said to them: —Now, these ladies are going to have something for dinner. Let it be known that dinner is out of my pocket, because the budget doesn’t include it. And you, Reverend Mr. Nazarín, since you’re not eating, give your bones a little rest… Guards, the prisoner gives us his word not to try to escape. Isn’t that right, Mr. Prophet? And you, my lady disciples, be very careful. We have a prison here that we don’t deserve, with bars that the Fan of Madrid would love to have. In short, unless there’s a spark of a miracle, you’ll never get out of here. So… those who have come to look around are unnecessary. Clear the prison for me. Ujo, get out of here. They cleared the prison, and only the mayor and the municipal judge remained there, besides the unfortunate penitents, discussing the conduct of the prisoners, which had to be postponed for a day to wait for other vagrants and criminals gathered in Villa del Prado and Cadalso. The bailiff then brought dinner, which Ándara and Beatriz barely touched. The mayor bid them goodnight. The guards and the bailiff closed the door with a noisy turning of keys and sliding of bolts. The three unfortunate prisoners spent the first half of the night praying and the other half sleeping on the flagstones. The following day brought them consolation in that many people in the town took an interest in their sad situation, offering them food and clothing, which they refused. Ujo managed to climb the patio gate like a spider and chatted with the two young women. At night, the other prisoners who were also to go to Madrid arrived, namely: an old beggar, accompanied by a little girl, whose origins were the subject of the justice system’s investigations, and two men of very bad appearance, in whom Nazarín immediately recognized the vagrants who had robbed them the afternoon preceding the night of their capture. Both had escaped from the Madrid jail. In whose Court they were being prosecuted, one for parricide, the other for sacrilegious robbery. All four were herded into the same cramped room, where they could barely move about, so everyone wanted to be brought out into the open and the proceedings begun. However painful it might be, it would never be as painful as the crush of unclean bodies in a dark, cramped, and unhealthy room. Early the next morning, after the papers had been dispatched, the march was ready. The mayor appeared to bid farewell to Nazarín, saying with his usual sarcasm: “Courtesy does not take away courage, Mr. Prophet; Don’t see in me anything more than a friend, a good-humored citizen, who is very amused by you and your gang, and by the _shade_ with which you have turned laziness into a very comfortable and very unencumbered religion… ha ha… This is no offense, because we have to recognize his talent, his backroom… Anyway, the guy is very long-winded, very long-winded, and I’m sorry he didn’t want to open up to me… I repeat, no offense. You’ve been very nice to me!… I don’t want you to leave without becoming friends. Here I’ve brought you some provisions for you to take in your knapsack. —Thank you a thousand times, Mr. Mayor. —And tell me: don’t you want some clothes, some of my pants, shoes, espadrilles…? —Thank you very much. I don’t need any clothes or shoes. —What pride! Well, believe it’s from the heart. Your loss. —Very grateful for your kindness. —Well, goodbye. He knows we’re staying here. I’ll be glad if it turns out well, and that he continues his campaign. Believe me, he’ll make disciples, especially if the government keeps raising taxes… Goodbye… Safe trip… Girls, have fun. They left, and since it was so early in the morning, few people came out to see them off. At the head of the onlookers, Ujo’s bobbing head could be seen, as he gave company to his beloved as far as the weakness of his short legs would allow. When he had to stay behind, he was seen leaning against a tree, his hand covering his eyes. The guards sent Nazarín and the old beggar forward. Following them were Nazarín’s daughter holding Beatriz’s hand, then Ándara, and behind them the two criminals, tied elbow to elbow; bringing up the rear were the civilians, rifles slung over their shoulders. The sad caravan set off along the dusty road. They walked along in silence, each thinking about his own things, which were, alas, so different… Each one had his own world between his eyebrows, and the wayfarers or peasants who saw them along the way formed a single opinion of all their existences: “Idleness, shamelessness, rascality.” PART FIVE Chapter 29. Half an hour into the walk, the old beggar, tired of his taciturnity, struck up a conversation with Don Nazario. “Friend, you’re probably used to these little trips, aren’t you? ” “No, sir: it’s the first time… ” “Well, I… I think I’ve made fourteen with this one. If the leagues I have on my body were five-dollar coins!… And I’ll tell you in confidence: guess who’s to blame for what’s happening to me? Well, Cánovas… I’m not exaggerating. ” “Well! ” “Just as you hear.” Because if Don Antonio Cánovas hadn’t left power the day he did, by now you’d have me reinstated in the position they took from me in ’42, through the intrigues of the moderates. Yes, sir, my little clerk’s position with six thousand. My branch was Direct Actions, the Concealments department. Well, Don Antonio annoyed me by not staying another day: the order had already been issued for His Majesty to sign… But there’s so much intrigue…! It’s as if they overthrew the government to prevent my reinstatement. “How wicked!” “Here where you see me, I have two daughters, one married in Seville to someone who’s richer than she wants; The other married my son-in-law, naturally a bad person, and the cause of all _my property_ being in dispute… Because the inheritance from my brother Juan, who died in America, and which amounts to about thirty-six million, I’m not exaggerating, I can’t collect it until next year, and thank you… As if among the curia, The consulate there and my son-in-law got him mixed up just to spite me… Oh, what a pain! In the first cafe I opened for him, he spent six thousand duros, more than less. And he was the one who turned it into a gambling house, which is why I spent six months in jail until my innocence was proven, and… Imagine how unfortunate it is: the very day I was about to get out of jail, I had a falling out with a friend who tried to swindle thirty-two thousand reales out of me, and they kept me there for another six months, I’m not exaggerating. Seeing that Nazarín wasn’t interested in his story, he took it up another way. “I heard you’re a priest… Is that true? ” “Yes, sir. ” “Well… I’ve seen a wide variety of people on my travels. I’ve never seen a clerical gentleman behave like that. ” “Well, now you see. You’ve got new and strange things to add to your story. ” “And why was that, Father? May I ask? Some little slip of the tongue.” I see you in the company of women, and this gives me a bad feeling. You know, anyone who spends too much time among women is a lost man. Tell me about it, I had relations with a leading lady, of the highest aristocracy. Oh, what trouble she got me into! Between her and a marchioness friend of hers, they robbed me of over seventy thousand duros, I’m not exaggerating. And the worst part was that they prosecuted me. Women! Don’t mention them to me or you’ll make me lose my temper. “Thanks to a cousin of my son-in-law, who’s an horchata drinker and is having an affair with a lieutenant general, I now find myself in this difficult situation, because they gave me that girl to take to some uncles she has in Navalcarnero, and the uncles wouldn’t take her unless I assured them that they would be forgiven for six years’ tax levy, I’m not exaggerating… Everything comes from women, _alias_ the fair sex, which is why, my friend, I advise you to stay away from them and ask the bishop’s forgiveness, and stop getting involved with Protestant and heretical sects… What are you saying? ” “I haven’t said anything, good man. Talk all you want, and leave it to me; I can’t tell you anything, because you certainly wouldn’t understand me.” Meanwhile, Beatriz asked the girl her name and the names of her parents. But the poor girl was like an idiot and didn’t know how to answer anything. Ándara went forward, with the guards’ permission, to distract Nazarín with her conversation, and the old beggar approached Beatriz. During the first break, the tied-up criminals flirted with the two girls with shameless and obscene remarks. They all ate lunch on the ground, and Nazarín shared among his companions what the mayor had put in his satchel. The guards, surprised by the unfortunate priest’s constant sweetness and submission, invited him to have a drink; but he refused, begging them not to take him with contempt. It must be said that if, at first, the two soldiers’ opinions of the mysterious prisoner they were leading were unfavorable, and they thought him a complete hypocrite, over the course of the journey this belief turned into doubts about the true moral character. The humility of his responses, the quiet patience with which he endured every inconvenience, his kindness, his sweetness enchanted them, and they ended up thinking that if Don Nazario wasn’t a saint, he seemed like one. The first day was hard, because, in order to avoid spending the night in Villamanta, which was still infested, they were taken in one go to Navalcarnero. The two criminals were given over to demons, and it came to pass that, lying in the middle of the road, they refused to go on, the civilians being forced to use their threats as an incentive. The old man dragged himself along with difficulty, cursing from his toothless mouth. Nazarín and her two companions concealed their fatigue and did not utter a single complaint, even though the two women alternated carrying the girl. They finally arrived half dead, well into the night. The excellent structure of the Navalcarnero prison allowed the guards to rest while on watch, and the prisoners, after receiving their food, were locked up, the men in one part, the women in another, since there was a good arrangement there for this convenient separation in the generality of cases. It was the first time that the pilgrim and his two companions, whom the party already mockingly called “the disciples” and also “the Nazarines,” had separated, and if it was painful for them not to see him at their side, and to hear him talk about their mutual adversities, his grief was no less, seeing himself obliged to pray alone. But what remedy was there but to conform! The night was detestable for Nazarín, in the darkness of that confinement among heartless criminals: for, besides his two traveling companions, there were three who took to singing and talking shamelessly, as if possessed by a frenzy of rudeness. Those present learned of Don Nazario’s priestly character from the other two, whom we shall call, for lack of filiation, the “parricide” and the “sacrilegious thief ,” and they were soon to construct a story about him, in their own way, as a religious impostor or adventurer. They made vulgar comments in loud voices about the diabolical ideas that, in their judgment, constituted his doctrine, and as for the women he had with him, one maintained that they were nuns who had escaped from the convents, the other that they were drunkards who in the churches line the pockets of the pious. The horrors they told good Don Nazarín to his face are not worth repeating. The latter called him the Pope of the gypsies; the former asked him if it was true that he carried poisonous powder in a small bottle , to throw into the village fountains and cause smallpox. Between joking and seriousness, another accused him of stealing children to crucify them in the rites of the idolatrous cult he professed, and everyone, in short, heaped him with indecent and bestial insults. But the delirium of this stupid and repugnant buffoonery was that they asked him to perform before them a simulation of a mass in the style of hell, threatening to beat him if he did not immediately say the satanic office, with caresses and Latin contrary to and similar to those of the mass of the true God. And while one fell to his knees with mocking pretenses of prayer, another struck himself in the same place as good Christians strike their breasts in token of contrition, and everyone cried out “mea culpa, mea culpa” with ferocious howls. Faced with such bestial irreverence, which no longer affected his person but the sacred faith, Father Nazarín lost his blessed serenity, and burning with holy anger, he stood up and with arrogant dignity rebuked the vile rabble in this way: “Wretched, lost, blind people, insult me all you want; but keep respect for the majesty of the God who created you, who gives you this life, not so that you may use it to curse and mock Him, but so that you may perform acts of piety with it, acts of love for your fellow men! The putrefaction of your souls, mired in all the vices and wickedness that defile the human race, comes out of your mouths in all the filth you speak, and corrupts even the atmosphere that surrounds you. But you still have time to amend yourselves, for not even for hardened wicked people like yourselves are the paths of repentance closed , nor are the springs of forgiveness dry. Do not be careless , for the damage to your souls is great and deep. Return to truth, to goodness, to innocence. Love God your Father, and the man who is your brother; do not kill, do not blaspheme, do not bear false witness, and do not be impure in word or deed. The insults you would not dare to say to a strong neighbor, do not say to a weak neighbor. Be humane, compassionate, abhor iniquity, and by avoiding evil words, you will avoid vile actions, and as you free yourselves from vile actions, you will be able to free yourselves from crime. Know that he who expired on the cross, endured insults and pains, gave his blood and his life to redeem you from evil… And you, blind ones, dragged him to the Praetorium and to Calvary; you crowned his divine forehead with thorns; you scourged him; you spat on him; you nailed him to the shameful tree! Well now, if you do not recognize that you killed him and that You are continually killing him, whipping him, and spitting upon him; if you do not plead guilty and weep bitterly for your immense sins; if you do not quickly, quickly, turn to infinite mercy, know that there is no remission for you; know, cursed ones, that the flames of hell await you for all eternity. The blessed Nazarin was magnificent and terrible in his short prayer, said with all the fire and severe solemnity of sacred eloquence. In the prison, there was no light except that of the moon, which entered through the high bars, illuminating his head and bust, which, amidst those pale splendors, acquired greater beauty. The first impression that the tremendous anathema and the tone and mystical figure of the orator produced on the criminals was one of terrifying stupor. They remained speechless, astonished. But the intensity of the impression did not prevent it from being of the most fleeting kind, and since the evil had such deep roots in their damaged souls, they soon recovered and regained their perversity. The vulgar insults were heard again, and one of the scoundrels, the one we have agreed to call the _Parricide_, who was the most bravado or insolent of all, rose from the ground, and as if proudly wishing to surpass the barbarity of the other bandits with his barbarity, he approached Nazarín, who was still standing, and said: “I am myself the bishop of pateta, and I will confirm you. Take it.” Saying “take it,” he slapped him so hard that Nazarín’s weak body rolled on the ground. A moan was heard, the guttural articulations of the fallen and outraged wretch, which perhaps were hoarse yearnings for revenge. He was a man, and man had to resurface within himself at some point, for charity and patience, though deeply rooted in him, had not absorbed all the vital juice of human passion . The struggle sustained in his will between man and angel must have been as terrible as it was brief . The moan was heard again, a sigh torn from the depths of his guts. The rabble laughed. What did they expect from Nazarín? That he would angrily turn against them and return, if not blows, because he couldn’t handle so many, insults and abuse equal to his own? For a moment he could have believed this, when he saw the penitent rise, first rising on his knees, lowering his chin to the ground, his chest on the ground, like a cat on the prowl. Finally, he raised his head, and the sigh emerged again , torn, as if with a tug, from the depths of his thorax. The response to the insult was, and could not be otherwise, somewhere between divine and human. “Brutes, when you hear me say that I forgive you, you will think me as much of a coward as you are… and I have to tell you! A bitter cup I must drain! For the first time in my life, I find it hard to tell my enemies that I forgive them: but I tell you, I tell you without effusion of soul, because it is my duty as a Christian to tell you… Know that I forgive you, you weaklings, know also that I despise you, and I believe myself guilty for not knowing how to separate in my soul contempt from forgiveness. ” Chapter 30. “Well, for forgiveness, take it,” the _Parricide_ said again, hitting him, though less hard. “And for contempt, take it.” And all of them, except one, fell upon him, and struck him, amid mocking laughter, on the face, on the skull, on the chest and shoulders. More than cruelty and viciousness, the whole attack revealed a heavy and brutal mockery, carried out by uncouth people, because the blows were not strong, although they were enough to cover the body of the unfortunate priest with bruises. He, fighting internally with more bravery than the first time, fervently invoking God, calling upon himself all the vigor of his ideas, and fanning the fire of piety that burned in his soul, allowed himself to be beaten, and uttered neither protest nor lament. The others grew tired of their infamous game, and left him lying lifeless on the flagstones. Nazarín did not utter a word: only his labored breathing could be heard. The criminals also remained silent, as if a reaction of seriousness was being determined in their souls against the barbaric and uncontrolled mockery. The sinister mixture of laughter and anger that characterizes the brutal, sometimes bloody, jokes of hardened criminals is often accompanied by a hint of black melancholy. In the pause that followed, nothing could be heard but Nazarín’s ardent breathing and the formidable snoring of the old beggar, who slept with an angelic and profound sleep, oblivious to all those quarrels. He was perhaps dreaming that his brother in America’s thirty-six million pesos were being placed in his hands. The first to break the silent pause with words was Nazarín, who sat up, his bones aching, and said to them: “Now, yes. Now… with your new insults, the Lord has willed that I recover my being, and here I am in all the plenitude of my Christian meekness, without anger, without instincts of hatred and revenge. You have been cowardly with me; But on other occasions you may have been brave, and even heroes, for there are also heroes in crime. Being a lion is not easy; but being a lamb is more difficult, and I am one. Know that I forgive you with all my heart, because this is what Our Father in heaven commands me to do; know also that I no longer despise you, because Our Father commands me not to despise you, but to love you. I consider you dear brothers, and the pain I feel for your wickedness, for the danger I see you in of being lost forever, is such a keen pain, and such pain and love ignite my soul, that if I could, at the cost of my life, obtain your repentance now, I would joyfully suffer the most horrible martyrdoms, disgrace, and death. A new silence, more gloomy than the previous one, because the old man’s snoring could no longer be heard. After a short while of that solemn expectation , which was like the ferment of troubled consciences, churning and revolving within themselves, a voice came out. It was that of the criminal we call the _Sacrilegious_, the only one who, amidst the insults and attacks on the poor errant cleric, had remained mute and still. He spoke thus, without moving from the corner where he lay prostrate: “Well, I say that this business of insulting and beating the crap out of a defenseless man is not gentlemanly, indeed! And I say more, I say it is not decent, and if they prick me, I declare it is proper for scoundrels and rascals. Come on, if anyone is itching, let them scratch themselves, for no one can beat me at putting the worm in its place. What is just is just, and what is seen with natural reason must be said. So… now you know, and you also know that I stand by what I say, here or wherever.” “Shut up, you little fellow,” said one of the rebellious group, “we already know you. What a defense you come up with for Papamoscas! ” “He comes out because he feels like it, and with great honor,” declared the other with somber calm, rising. ” Because although I’m bad, I always defended the poor, and I never hit the fallen, and when I’ve seen one hungry, I’ve taken the bread out of my mouth. Need drives a man to be what we are; but taking something from others doesn’t hinder compassion. ” “Shut up, scoundrel, you have no soul except to offend your friends,” said the _Parricide_, “and you always act sanctimonious. There’s a reason you only commit church thievery, where your skin isn’t exposed, because the images don’t say anything when they see their money being taken , and the Most Holy Ciborium and the Monstrance allow themselves to be caught without saying ‘Jesus.'” Bad luck, ungrateful one, what would become of you without us? And you come here to paint her as handsome and fearless!… Shut up quickly, if you don’t want…! —Come on, start bragging, now that we have no weapons. That’s how you always are. But I want to see you outside, in open territory, and with free hands and bodies , to tell you that to offend and punish a defenseless poor man, who is good and peaceful by nature and doesn’t bother anyone, is only done by cowards like you, bad son, bad brother, animal, who were not born of man and woman! They went at each other with equal fury, and the others ran to separate them. —Leave him alone,— cried the _Parricide_,—and I’ll tear his heart out in one bite. And the other: —You scream because you know they won’t let you… Whenever you want, I’ll take out all your insides, which not even the crows want. And standing in the middle of the dungeon with an arrogant and provocative air, he continued thus: —Come on, gentlemen, be quiet, and listen to what I say. Know and understand that I defend this good man here just as if he were my father; know that among so many scoundrels, heartless people , and thieves, there is one decent thief who, having the soul of a Christian man, sides with this one who remains silent when you insult him, who endures when you mistreat him, and who instead of offending you, forgives you. And so that you may understand and rage, I also tell you that this man is good, and I declare him a saint, and here I am to answer anyone who questions it. Let me see, you scoundrel, is there anyone who will deny what I say? Let whoever denies it come out, and if they all come out at once, here I am. The Sacrilegious Man spoke with such emphatic composure that the others didn’t utter a peep, and stared in horror at his face, which was indistinctly distinguishable in the moonlight. Some, the less fierce, began to evade the issue with jokes. The Parricide, biting his lips, muttered foul and threatening words. Lying on the ground like an indolent dog, he simply said: “Make a racket, child, make a racket, so the guards come in and blame me , as always, and the just will pay for the sinners. ” “You’re the one making the racket, bad blood,” said the Sacrilegious Man, pacing along, now master of the terrain. You’re scandalized because you know the guards always blame me for all the brawls… What’s said, said: this good man is a saint of God, and I uphold him before all the rabble in the world; a saint of God, open your ears and listen, a saint of God, and whoever touches the hair on his clothes will meet me here and everywhere. The civilians finally heard the scandal, and from the next room they opened the door to impose silence. “It’s a joke, guards,” said the Parricide. ” The cursed cleric is to blame for this , he comes in to preach to us and won’t let us sleep. ” “It’s not true,” the Sacrilegious man resolutely stated. “The cleric is not guilty, nor did he do what he says. I was the one preaching.” With four suits of suits, and the threat of preaching with rifle butts , all the rascality was silenced, and a disciplinary silence reigned in the prison. Long after this, when the Parricide and his consorts were already sleeping stupidly, the heavy sedation of their barbarity, Nazarín lay down where the Sacrilegious Man had been before. The latter sat beside him, without speaking to him, as if a superstitious respect tied his tongue. The priest divined this confusion and said to him: “God knows how much I appreciate your defense. But I don’t want you to commit yourself on my behalf. ” “Sir, I did it because it came from within,” replied the church robber. “Don’t thank me, it’s worthless.” “You have felt compassion for me, you have been indignant at the cruelty with which they treated me. This means that your soul is not completely corrupted, and if you wish, you can still save yourself. ” “Sir,” affirmed the other with sincere affliction, “I am very bad, and I don’t even deserve for you to speak to me. ” “Are you that bad, that bad? ” “Very, very much so.” —Let’s see, let’s see: how many robberies have you committed? Could it have been… four hundred thousand?
—Not that many… In sacred terms, only three, and one of them was a small thing, nothing at all… a rod of Saint Joseph. —And deaths? Could it have been eighty thousand deaths? —Two only, one out of revenge, because they offended me; another because I was hungry. There were three of us who… —Bad company has never brought anything good. And what, when you look back and imagine your crimes, do you feel satisfaction for having committed them? —No, sir. —Do you look at them with indifference? —Nor. —Do you feel sorry? —Yes, sir… Sometimes, just a little bit of sorrow… The others come, and when they all think of bad things, the sorrow is erased… But other times Sometimes the pain is great… and tonight, very great. —Good. Do you have a mother? —As if I didn’t. My mother is very wicked. For theft and murder of a child, she’s been in the Alcalá prison for ten years. —Go with God! What family do you have? —None. —And would you like to change your life… not be a criminal, not have anything on your conscience? —I would like to… but one can’t… They drag you along… Then, necessity… —Don’t think about necessity or pay attention to it. If you want to be good, all you have to do is say: I want to be. If you abhor your sins, no matter how terrible they may be, God will forgive you. —Are you sure of that, sir?… —Absolutely sure. —Is it true? And what do I have to do? —Nothing. —And is one saved by nothing? —Nothing but repentance and not sinning again. —It can’t be that easy, it can’t be. And penance… I’ll have to do a lot of it. ” “Nothing but endure the misfortune, and if human justice condemns you, resign yourself and suffer your punishment. ” “But they’ll send me to prison, and in prison one learns worse things than what one knows. Let me go free, and I’ll be good. ” “In freedom, just as in condemnation, you can be anything you want. You see: in freedom you have been terrible. Why are you afraid of being that way in prison? A man is regenerated by suffering. Learn to suffer, and everything will be easy for you. ” “Will you teach me? ” “I don’t know what they’ll make of me. If you were with me, I would teach you. ” “I want to be with you, sir. ” “It’s very easy. Think about what I’m telling you, and you’ll be with me. ” “Just by thinking about it? ” “Nothing more. You see how easy it is.” “Well, I’ll think.” As they said this, the light of dawn penetrated through the high bars. Chapter 31. And while the tumultuous scene described was unfolding in the men’s quarters , all was peace and silence in the women’s quarters. Ándara and Beatriz were alone with the girl, and they spent the first few hours talking about the negative turn things were taking in that mendicant campaign. But both were content with adversity and would under no circumstances separate themselves from the blessed man who had taken them as companions in his worthy life. They made a thousand conjectures about what would happen. What distressed Beatriz most was having to go through Móstoles and the shame of being seen there among civil guards, like a criminal. Her contempt for all vanity was great; but the trial to which the Lord subjected her was enormous, and she needed all her Christian courage and all her faith to emerge unscathed. Having said this, she burst into tears, shedding a river of tears, and the other tried to console her, but could not. “You are free.” And you can tell the guards you’re not going to Móstoles, and stay , so we can meet up later.” “No , that’s cowardice, and going against what he ‘s told us so many times. Never flee from tribulations! It’s a great bitterness to enter my town; but it would be worse for me if Don Nazario were to say to me: ‘Beatriz, you soon tire of carrying the cross’; and it’s certain he would say it. And I’d rather have all the bad things that can happen to me in Móstoles than hear him say that. I accept the shame that awaits me, and may God take it into account and absolve me of my sins. ” “Your sins!” said Ándara. “Come on, don’t be sore. Mine are more, many more. If I were to weep for them like you, my tears would be so many that I could swim in them. One has time to weep. I’ve been bad, how bad! Lies and schemes, don’t say it!” bearing false witness, insulting, slapping, and biting… ;
then, taking from another woman her handkerchief, her peseta, or something of more value…; and, finally, the sins of loving so many men, and of the cursed vice. “No, Ándara,” Beatriz replied, not trying to contain her tears, “no matter how much you want to console me like this, you can’t. My sins are worse than yours. I have been bad. ” “Not as bad as I have. Come on, I won’t allow you to try to make yourself worse than me.” I, Beatriz. Look, there have been few, I’m almost certain , more wicked and more wicked than I. ‘ ‘No, no, I’ve sinned more. ‘ ‘Quia! Clean yourself up…! Tell me: have you set fire to a house? ‘ ‘No; but that’s nothing. ‘ ‘Then what have you done? Bah. Loving Pinto… Brave thing! ‘ ‘And more, more… If one could be born again…!’ ‘I’d do the same thing she’s done. ‘ ‘Ah! Not me; I wouldn’t do it. ‘ ‘I’d be more careful, caraifa; but I won’t answer… The truth is, now I’m sorry for all the wickedness and roguery I’ve done; but since we have to suffer so much, because he tells us so, since we have no choice but to endure and suffer whatever comes, I’m not crying, for there will be time to cry. ‘ ‘Well, I am, I am,’ said Beatriz inconsolably; I weep for my sins, oh! the multitude of offenses against God and my neighbor. And I think that no matter how much I weep, it’s not enough, it’s not enough for so much of my guilt to be forgiven. —So what can God do but forgive you, if from being evil you have become as good as the angels?… I must join Rome and Santiago for God to forgive me. Look, Beatrice, evil is deeply embedded in me: when we were in the castle, I was envious of you, because, as I see it, he loved you more than me. It’s a great sin to be envious, isn’t it? But after they captured us, and when I saw that you, free, were coming with us, and wanted to be as much a prisoner and as much a criminal as we were, that evil idea left me; believe, Beatrice, it’s gone now, for I love you with all my heart, and that I would take your sorrows upon myself. —As I would yours. —But I don’t want you to cry so much; for the ugly sins we committed, I more than you, are purging them with these labors and these affronts. I don’t cry… because my nature is different from yours. You are soft, I am hard; you do nothing but want, want, want, and I say that it will be good to grieve and swallow bitterness, when he says so; but I think that one should also defend oneself against so many scoundrels. —Don’t say that… The defender is God. Let God defend. —Yes, let him defend. But God has given hands, has given a mouth. And what is the mouth for if not to tell a few cold feet to anyone who does not confess that our Nazarín is a saint? What do we have hands for if with them we cannot bring those who mistreat him to heel? Ah! Beatriz, I am very warlike; it is my nature – from birth. Believe it because I tell you: truth enters with blood, and for everyone to believe in his goodness and confess him as a blessed saint, some blows are necessary. Let there be hardship and misery; fine. But injustice, and hearing people say what is false, drives me crazy. And it’s not that one doesn’t know how to be a martyr, like the most accomplished, when the time comes; but isn’t it painful to see them take prisoner, among murderers, someone who has committed no other delinquency than comforting the poor, healing the sick, and being in every way an angel of God and a seraph of the Virgin? Well, I swear to you, if he left me, I’d do some very serious damage, and with a little help from me, I’d set him free, and I’d shove guards, judges, and jailers under one shoe, and I’d carry him out, saying: “Here he is, the one who knows the truth about this life and the next, the one who never sinned and whose body and soul are as pure as a whistle, our saint and that of all the Christian and yet-to-be-Christianized world.” “Oh! To worship him, yes; but what you say about getting us into war, Ándara, that can’t be. What are we worth? And even if we were, you know what the commandment says: ‘You shall not kill.’ And you must not kill your enemies, nor harm any of God’s creatures, not even the most criminal. ” “For me, for my own sake, I won’t raise a rooster. They could stone me to death and cut my throat alive, I won’t make a sound.” But by him, he’s so good! Believe it, because I’m telling you so. People don’t understand the truth unless there’s someone to shake those with dull minds. —Kill, no. —Well, don’t let them kill… —Ándara, don’t be crazy. —Beatriz, you are very saintly; leave it to me, there must be many ways to be saved. You tell me: are there demons, or are there no demons?… You mean, evil people, who persecute the good, and do all the unjust and ugly things seen in this broken world? Well, they close in on the demons… There are those who attack them with blessings… I’m not opposed to those who can cast them out; but to put an end to evil and cleanse the world of it, blessings on one hand, and the sword and fire on the other. Believe me: if there weren’t warlike people, very warlike, the demons would take everyone. Tell me: is n’t Saint Michael an angel? Well, there he is with a sword. And isn’t Saint Paul a saint? Well, they depict him with a sword on sculptures. And what about Saint Ferdinand and others who wander around the altarpieces? They’re into the military… Well, leave it to me; I understand. —Ándara, you frighten me. —Beatriz, you have your faults, I do too. Each one washes them away as best she knows how and can, according to her nature… You, with tears; I… what do I know! As they were saying this, the light of dawn peeped through the high bars. Chapter 32. As soon as the women and men had gathered, it was already clear daylight, to continue their sad journey, Beatriz and her companion ran to see Nazarín, and to find out how he had spent the night. Needless to say, the profound bitterness it caused them to see the marks of blows on his venerable face, horrible bruises on his arms and legs, and a sad decay all over him . The woman from Móstoles turned pale, and in her confusion she couldn’t find the opportunity to ask him who had been the author of such monstrous barbarity. The woman from Polvoranca twisted her arms as if they were bound and she wanted to break them; she clenched her fists and ground her teeth. The caravan set off in the same order as the day before, only Nazarín led the girl by the hand, with Beatriz at his side, and Ándara led the way with the old man. He informed her of what had happened the night before in the men’s quarters. “I couldn’t understand the beginning of the matter because I was sleeping. When I awoke to the screams of those brutes, I saw them falling upon the poor priest and beating him like mad… I’m not exaggerating. They all hit him except one, who later came to Nazarín’s defense and prevailed over the rabble. Of the two criminals who brought up the rear, tied elbow to elbow, the one on the right, the one being prosecuted for parricide, was the one who mistreated your teacher and showered him with insults; The one on the left, prosecuted for stealing candlesticks and cruets from the parishes, sided with the weak against the strong. He later became friends with the priest, who told him many religious things to convince him of his repentance. With this news, Ándara examined them and differentiated them perfectly, focusing on each: both of them were bad-looking; the bad one, with a pale face, bristling beard, strong muscles, sickly fatness, and a lazy gait; the good one, lean of flesh, melancholy countenance, raised eyebrows, and sparse beard, his gaze on the ground, his gait determined. Walking on, Nazarín told Beatriz the story, without giving it any importance. He felt nothing but that, upon receiving the first blow, he was almost ready to turn angrily and aggressively against the rabble; but he struggled so much that the beast of rage was soon suppressed, and the Christian spirit triumphant . But among the occurrences of that night, none was as flattering and pleasing as the bravery with which one of the criminals had come to her defense. “It wasn’t the handsome man who, out of valiant pride, provokes his companions; it was rather the sinner, whom God touches in the heart. And afterward we spoke, and I saw with joy that her soul was clearing, and that the glow of repentance shone within it. Blessed were the blows I received, blessed insults, if through them I can win that man for ours!” They then spoke of the shame she felt at entering Móstoles, and of her willingness to accept it as atonement for her sins. Nazarín exhorted her to disdain opinions, without which they would make no progress in that life, and added that there was no reason to imagine future events, pretending they would be favorable or adverse in our minds, because we never know, even applying the rules of logic, what will happen in the coming hours. We walk through life feeling our way in the darkness, like blind people, and only God knows what will happen to us tomorrow. As a result, often, when we think we’re headed toward evil, we are surprised by the discovery of good, and vice versa. Forward, and may the will of the all- governing be done tomorrow, as today. With these words, Beatriz felt greatly strengthened, and she no longer feared entering her hometown so much. Ándara joined them, only to separate from them after chatting a bit about the hardships of the journey, and she approached the front and rear guards as quickly as she did. He noticed that the two criminals tied up together weren’t speaking, as they had the day before, nor were they distracting themselves from the boredom of the journey with jokes or songs. Walking for a while beside the one on his left, he spoke to him, for the guards tolerated conversation between the untied and the bound, an act of charity that in many cases doesn’t hinder good service. “You,” he said, “are you tired? If the guards had tied me up instead , I would gladly go, so that you could be free. You deserve everything, brave man, for having taken the wind out of that wreck with you. God will reward you. Repent wholeheartedly, and the Lord will look upon your repentance as if you had repaid him with gold for all the silver you stole.” The thief didn’t hire him anything, burdened as if he were carrying an invisible weight. Then the mischievous woman went to the other side, next to the criminal parricide, and very secretly she spoke these words to him: “I wish I were a snake, a very large and poisonous snake, to coil around you and suffocate you, and send you to hell, you great traitor, you coward. ” “Guards,” the bandit shouted without ferocity, rather with a plaintive intonation, “this lady is _farting_ me. ” “I’m not a lady. ” “Well, this is public… I don’t _fart_ anyone…, and she tells me she’s a snake and wants to hug me… We’re not here for parties or hugs, my friend. Move aside, and leave a man who can’t stand women at his side, not even in writing.” The guards ordered her to go forward, and the group soon rested at an inn. Once they had set off again, before nightfall they saw the towers and spires of the large town of Móstoles, and as they approached, some townspeople and a large crowd of children came out to greet them, for word had spread that the Moorish man from La Mancha, the man who had performed miracles, was imprisoned with Beatriz. They were about two hundred meters away from reaching the first houses when three men appeared and spoke to the guards, begging them to stop for a moment to speak a few words. From the moment she saw them coming, she recognized Beatriz: one of them was Pinto; the other, her brother Blas; and the third, one of her uncles. It took all the strength of the poor woman’s spirit to keep from collapsing in shame. These men had no other object than to find out if she was being held prisoner, and when they learned that she was in such company _of her own free will_, they were astonished, and at all costs wanted to remove her from her conduct and take her with them, to avoid the shame of entering the town in a band of murderers, thieves, and _apostles_. And their astonishment increased when they heard Beatriz say with a spirited tone that for nothing in the world would she separate herself from her companions in misfortune, and that she would go with them to the end of the journey, without fear of suffering, or prison, or the gallows. The rage of the three men from Mostolenses cannot be described, and it is believed that they would have vented it by hitting and slapping the girl, if the presence of the guards had not restrained them. “You infamous, vile rascal!” said Pinto, livid with rage. I already suspected that you would end up in public, a highway robber. But I didn’t think you’d come to such dishonor… Get out of there, you rottenness of the world! I don’t even know how I look at you. I see it and I don’t believe it!… You, an indecent hunk, running after that swindler, that disgusting charlatan, a money-grubber, who goes around deceiving people from town to town with lies, witchcraft, and a thousand other _majometanos_ nonsense. “I paint,” Beatriz answered gravely, putting on a brave face, her headscarf pulled far forward to shade her face, her hand wrapped around one of the corners and in front of her mouth. “I paint, step aside and let me continue, I don’t interfere with you, nor do I want anything to do with you… If I’m embarrassed, let me be: it’s none of your business. Why do you come out to find me, if for me you are like something that no longer exists, like something dead and buried? Go away, and don’t speak to me.” —You scoundrel!… The guards cut the matter short, giving the order to continue. But Pinto, furious, persisted with his barbaric insults: —You scoundrel, be thankful that your villainous body is escorted by these gentlemen, otherwise I would have left you right now, and that scoundrel would have cut off your ears! —There the three furious men remained, touching the heavens with their hands, and the procession of prisoners paraded down the main street of Móstoles, harassed by the curious crowd who wanted to see them, especially Beatriz. She, with supreme tenacity, without arrogance, without weakness, like someone draining a very bitter cup, but in whose bitterness she firmly believes she will find health, faced the painful passage, and believed she had entered glory when she entered the prison. Chapter 33. The unfortunate prisoners in Móstoles, or wherever it was, had extremely poor accommodations. This town, too, is not clearly defined in the Nazarist chronicles. The so-called prison deserved such a name only for the horror inherent in any place dedicated to the confinement of criminals. It was an ancient house of malice, attached to the Town Hall, and facing the street at the front, and a corral filled with rubble, old wood, and vicious nettles at the back. If hygiene and decorum of the law did not exist there, the safety of the prisoners was a myth, as stated in the statement by the Penitentiary Board when it asked the Government for funds to build a new prison. The old one, which we do not know if it still exists, had acquired fame for the scandalous frequency with which criminals escaped from it , without the need to make difficult and dangerous climbs or open underground conduits. They usually escaped through the roof, which was marvelously fragile and inconsistent, for anyone could break the rotten beams and remove and replace tiles wherever they pleased. From the moment they put him in that infamous hovel, Nazarín felt an intensely cold feeling, as if the place were an icebox or an icy Purgatory, and with the cold came a horrific shattering of his bones, as if they were being split with an axe to make splinters to light a fire. He lay down on the ground, wrapping himself in his cloak, which was already burning with unbearable heat. In that Purgatory, flames sprang from the ice. “This is a fever,” he told himself, “a tremendous fever. But it will pass.” No one came to ask him if he was sick; they brought him a tin plate of broth, which he refused to taste. Beatriz was let out for the simple reason that she wasn’t a prisoner, and naturally, she had no right to occupy a space in the premises for those persecuted by justice. No matter how much the unfortunate woman begged and moaned to be allowed to stay there, painting herself as a voluntary criminal, prosecuted by her own initiative, she could achieve nothing. To the pain of abandoning her companions was added the fear of going out into the streets of Mostolense, where she would surely meet familiar faces. She only wanted to see one person: her sister, and this one, according to a neighbor she spoke to at the entrance of the prison, had left for Madrid two days earlier with the girl, now completely recovered. “What strange things happen to me!” she said. Criminals hate prison and only desire freedom. I detest freedom; I don’t want to go out on the street, and all I enjoy is being imprisoned.” Finally, the town clerk, who lived there, took pity on her and offered her hospitality in his house, whereupon the exalted penitent’s wishes were half fulfilled. Don Nazario was greatly distressed not to see Beatriz at his side; but he consoled himself with the knowledge that she was spending the night in the nearby building and that they would continue together until the end of their Stations of the Cross. As night fell, the good wandering hermit felt very ill, and the impression of loneliness and abandonment weighed so heavily on his soul that he was almost tempted to burst into tears like a child. One thought that his energy had suddenly run out, and that a womanly fainting spell was the unfortunate end of his Christian adventures. He prayed to the Lord for help in enduring the bitterness that still lay ahead, and marvelous energy resurfaced in his soul, but accompanied by a terrible rise in fever. Ándara approached him to give him water, which he had asked for two or three times, and they spoke briefly with strange confusion and disagreement in what each other was saying. Either he didn’t know how to explain himself, or she couldn’t, in their replies, adjust her thoughts to those of the unfortunate ascetic. “My daughter, go to sleep and rest. ” “Lord, don’t call me again. Don’t sleep. Pray aloud so that there will be noise. ” “Ándara, what time is it? ” “Lord, if you’re cold, walk around the jail. I want our sorrows to end soon. I’m glad Beatriz isn’t here; she’s no warrior, and she wants to fix everything with tears and sighs. ” “Hey, is everyone asleep? Where are we? Have we arrived in Madrid?” “We’re here. ” I’m very warlike. Don’t sleep, sir… And she suddenly walked away, like a shadow that fades, or a light that goes out. From the moment the incoherent clauses of this dialogue were uttered, the cleric felt troubled by a tremendous doubt: “Was what he saw and heard reality, or an external projection of the delirium of his burning fever? Where was the truth? Inside or outside his thoughts? Did the senses perceive things, or create them?” Her mental effort to resolve this doubt was painful, and now she was asking for means of knowledge from vulgar logic, now she was seeking them through observation. But even observation was not possible in that vague darkness, which blurred the outlines of things and people, and made everything seem fantastic! She saw the prison as a wide cave, with such a low ceiling that a man of average height could not stand inside it without stooping . In the vault, two or three skylights, sometimes twenty or thirty, admitted the faint light, which one couldn’t tell if it came from the veiled sun or the moon. In line with the first stable, she saw another, smaller one, occasionally illuminated with the reddish light of a lantern or candle. On the floor lay the prisoners wrapped in mats or blankets, like bundles of fabric or baskets of coal. Toward the end of the second stable, she saw Ándara, who at times emitted a strange glow from her head, as if her loose, bristling hair were composed of livid rays of electric light. She conversed with the _Sacrilegious_, gesticulating with such violence and confusion that with his arms she expressed her will, and with hers he. The church robber stretched out until he hid half his body in the ceiling; he reappeared like a tightrope walker with his head down. In his assessment of time, Nazarín’s mind and senses grew increasingly confused and delirious; after believing that long hours had passed without seeing anything, he believed that in a few moments Ándara would approach him, lift him up, and place him back on the ground, telling him countless concepts that, if written down, would fill the pages of a medium-sized book. “This can’t be real,” he said to himself, “it can’t be! But I’m seeing it, I’m touching it, hearing it , and perceiving it clearly!” Finally, the pilgrim grabbed him by the wrist and, pulling him tightly, led him to the second stable. Of this he could not doubt, because his hand ached from the nervous tugs the valiant daughter of Polvoranca was giving it. And the Sacrilegious One picked him up in his arms to throw him through a hole in the roof and throw him out like a bundle carried by bold hacks. No, the voice of Andara that told him: “Father, we’re escaping through the top, because it’s impossible to escape through the bottom couldn’t be real .” Nor could the voice of the Sacrilegious One that said: “The gentleman first… Jump from the roof to the corral.” But if the good leader of the Nazarists had any doubts about anything, he didn’t have any doubts about this clearly expressed resolution of his: “I’m not running away; a man like me doesn’t run away. Run away yourselves, if you feel cowardly, and leave me alone.” Nor could he doubt that he fought against superior forces to defend himself from that mad attempt to throw him onto the roof like a ball. The church robber laid him on the ground, and there he remained, a lifeless body, all his faculties gone except his sense of sight, in a haze of terror, anger, and horror of freedom. He didn’t want freedom, didn’t want it for himself or his family. From the first block came, walking like a drunk, one of the coal baskets, which soon took on a human form and all the personal appearances of the _Parricide_. With catlike swiftness, easily transforming from a heavy burden into a swift animal, it had to leap in one bound into the gap in the roof and disappeared. Then, with great effort, Nazarín managed to utter a few words, and, pushing the big woman, who weighed on him like a stone block, off his shoulder , he murmured: “Whoever wants to get out, let them get out… Whoever flees will never be with me .” Ándara, who had her face pressed against the ground, rubbing her mouth and nose on the dirty tiles, sat up and said between moans: “Well, I’m staying.” The Sacrilegious One, who had climbed onto the roof as if in pursuit of his companion, returned very sullenly, clenching his fists: “Freedom, no…” Ándara told him in a stifled voice, like that of someone drowning . “He doesn’t want… no, freedom. ” Nazarín clearly heard the Sacrilegious One’s voice repeating: “Not freedom. I’m staying.” They must have picked him up between the two of them, because the good pilgrim felt himself carried through the air like a feather, and in the confusion that overwhelmed him, robbing him of his senses and speech, the awareness of his illness was the only thing that remained, manifested in this statement: “I have a horrible typhus.” Chapter 34. He awoke with his thoughts even more tangled and dark, doubting whether what he saw was real or a fiction of his mind. They were taking him out of the prison, pulling him by a rope tied around his neck. The road was rough, all weeds and sharp pebbles. The pilgrim ‘s feet were bleeding, and every moment he stumbled and fell, getting up with great effort and the merciless tugs of those who carried the rope. Ahead of him, he saw Beatrice transfigured. Her common beauty had already become a celestial loveliness, unmatched in any beauty on earth , and a circle of pure light surrounded her face. Her hands were as white as milk, her feet white, walking on the stones as if on clouds, and her garments shone with the soft hues of dawn. He did not see the other people who accompanied him. He heard their voices, sometimes compassionate, sometimes roaring with hatred and cruelty; but the bodies were lost in a dark, thick, and suffocating atmosphere, made up of sighs of anguish and sweats of agony… Suddenly, a burning sun dissipated it, and Nazarín could see that a group of evil people was coming towards him, men on foot, men on horseback, brandishing swords and firing firearms. After the first group, others appeared, and others, until they formed a large and terrible army. The dust raised by the footsteps of men and beasts obscured the sun. Those who were leading the prisoner went over to the enemy side, because the entire troop was an enemy, and they were coming against him, against the saint, against the penitent, against the dark beggar, with bloodthirsty fury, eager to destroy and annihilate him. They attacked him with savage fury, and the strangest thing was that, having unleashed thousands of blows, slashes, and stabs upon his wretched body , they could not kill him. And although he did not defend himself even with a childish scratch, the fury of so many brave people could not prevail against him. Thousands of horses and chariot wheels passed over his body , and that great tumult, which would have been enough to destroy and turn to dust an entire population of penitents and hermits, wandering or sedentary, did not part a hair of the blessed Nazarín’s hair, nor did he lose a drop of blood. Furiously , they slashed at him, increasing their number with each instant, for from the stormy horizon came hordes and more hordes of that barbaric and devastating humanity. And the fierce war did not end, for the greater his resistance and miraculous immunity to the fierce blows, the greater the clamor the universal rabble closed in on him. Could they finally destroy the saint, the humble, the innocent? No, a thousand times not. When Nazarín began to fear that the multitude of his enemies would succeed, if not in killing him, in imprisoning him, he saw Andara coming from the East, transformed into the most beautiful and brave warrior imaginable. Dressed in resplendent armor, with a helmet like Saint Michael’s on her head, adorned with sunbeams for feathers, riding a white steed whose kicks sounded like thunder, whose mane in the wind seemed like a devastating downpour, and which in its race carried half the world before it like an unleashed hurricane, the terrible Amazon fell into the midst of the horde, and with her fiery sword she cleaved and shattered the masses of men. The manly female was extremely beautiful in that combat, fighting with no help other than that of the _Sacrilegious_, who, also transfigured into a divine military youth, followed her, crushing with his mace, and destroying with each blow thousands of enemies. In a short time they had dealt with the _anti-Nazarist_ hosts, and the celestial warrior, radiant with courage, with warlike inspiration, shouted: “Back, vile multitude, army of evil, of envy and selfishness. You will be undone and annihilated if in my lord you do not recognize the saint, the only way, the only truth, the only life. Back, I say, for I can do more, and I will turn you into dust and muddy blood, and into spoils that will serve to fertilize the new lands… In them, he who must reign, will reign, Caraifa.” Saying this, his sword and the other champion’s mace cleansed the earth of that foul plague, and Nazarín began to walk through the pools of blood and the ground of flesh and bone that covered the ground to a large extent. The angelic Beatriz looked down from a celestial tower upon the field of death and punishment, and with divine accent implored the forgiveness of the wicked. Chapter 35. The vision ended, and everything returned to the terms of a nebulous and sad reality. The rough road was once again what it had been before, and those accompanying the martyr Nazarín regained their form and attire; the guards were guards, and Ándara and Beatriz were very ordinary women, one a fighter, the other a peacemaker, with their kerchiefs on their heads. There came a moment when the venerable pilgrim, even with all his strength, could not take a step. His forehead broke out in anguished sweat; his skull ached as if an axe had been driven into it, and he felt an irresistible weight on his right shoulder. His legs buckled, and his bruised feet left patches of skin on the stones of the road. Ándara and Beatriz lifted him into their arms. What relief, what a relief to feel himself in the air, like a feather swayed by the wind! But after a short distance, the two women grew tired of carrying him, and the sacrilegious thief, who was strong and resilient, picked him up in his arms like a child, saying that he would take him not only to Madrid, but to the end of the world if necessary. The guards took pity on him and, thinking they were comforting him, said: “Don’t worry, Father, there they’ll acquit you for being crazy.” Thirds of the defendants who pass through our hands escape punishment because they are insane, if punishment is deserved. And assuming you are a saint, they should not release you because you are a saint, but because you are insane; for now reason prevails over unreason, in other words, madness is what makes the very wise and the very ignorant, those who excel both above and below. Nazarín then saw them enter a steep street, and the curious people stopped to watch him pass by in the arms of the _Sacrilegious_, carrying at his side his two penitential companions, and behind them the other unfortunates picked up along the roads by the Civil Guard. He doubted then, as before, whether the things and people he saw on the painful journey were reality or the fiction of his deranged mind. At the end of the street, he saw a very large cross rising, and if for a moment the joy of being nailed to it had filled his soul, he soon came to himself, saying: “I do not deserve, Lord, I do not deserve the supreme honor of being sacrificed on your cross. I do not want that kind of torture, where the scaffold is an altar, and agony merges with apotheosis. I am the last of God’s servants, and I want to die forgotten and obscure, without being surrounded by crowds, without fame crowning my martyrdom. I want no one to see me perish, without being spoken of, without being looked at, without pitying me. Away with me all vanity. Away with me the vainglory of the martyr. If I am to be sacrificed, let it be done in the greatest darkness and silence. May my executioners not be persecuted or execrated, may God alone assist me, and may He receive me, without the world trumpeting my death, nor may it be proclaimed in papers, nor may poets sing of it, nor may it be made a noisy event for the scandal of some and the rejoicing of others. May they throw me on a dunghill and let me die, or kill me quietly, and bury me like a poor beast. Having said this, he saw the cross disappear, and the street and the crowd, and after a time that he could not appreciate, he felt entirely alone. Where was he? It was as if he had regained consciousness after a deep sleep. However much he looked around him, he could not grasp what part of the universe he was in. Was it a region of transitory life, or of everlasting life? He thought he was dead; he also thought he still lived. A burning desire to say Mass and to communicate with the Supreme Truth filled his whole soul, and he felt it as much as he saw himself clothed before the altar, a most pure altar, which seemed untouched by human hands. He celebrated with immense piety, and as he took the Host in his hands, the divine Jesus said to him: “My son, you still live. You are in my holy hospital, suffering for me. Your companions, the two lost women and the thief who follow your teaching, are in prison. You cannot celebrate, I cannot be with you body and blood, and this Mass is an insane figment of your mind. Rest, for you well deserve it. You have done something for me. Do not be discontented. I know you have much more to do. ” Nazarín’s journey concludes without glory or earthly reward, but with the integrity of one who remained faithful to his principles, even when these clashed with the logic of the world around him. Benito Pérez Galdós leaves us with a powerful image of silent sacrifice and moral resilience in the face of adversity. This work invites us to question what it truly means to do good and whether society is ready to accept those who dare to live with complete ethical coherence. Thank you for joining us for this reading in Ahora de Cuentos.
Sumérgete en la intensa y conmovedora novela *Nazarín* de Benito Pérez Galdós, una de las obras más profundas del realismo español. 📖✨
En esta historia seguimos a Nazario Zaharín, un cura humilde que, enfrentado a las injusticias sociales y religiosas, decide vivir entre los más desfavorecidos con una entrega total al ideal cristiano. Con una narrativa poderosa y profundamente humana, Galdós nos lleva a reflexionar sobre la compasión, el sacrificio y la lucha interna entre los valores espirituales y las estructuras sociales.
🔍 ¿Qué encontrarás en esta historia?
– Un personaje inspirado en el modelo de Cristo, pero en plena España del siglo XIX
– Retratos humanos intensos y realistas de la pobreza, la enfermedad y el rechazo social
– Un análisis crítico del dogma religioso, la moral establecida y la hipocresía de la caridad institucional
– Momentos poéticos, trágicos y profundamente filosóficos
📌 Perfecto para amantes de la literatura española, estudiantes de Galdós y quienes buscan historias con una profunda carga emocional y espiritual.
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📚 Suscríbete aquí: https://bit.ly/AhoradeCuentos
-📿 Nazarín ✨ Una historia de fe, pobreza y redención [https://youtu.be/JzLyUKc-Rkk]
-✈️ Al primer vuelo 🦅 – Un relato de superación y aventura[https://youtu.be/5jBxxdswt7E]
-🔴 La Aventura del Círculo Rojo 🕵️♂️ | Sherlock Holmes Resuelve el Misterio [https://youtu.be/Rr3c7CKXgk0]
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06:18:05 Capítulo 30.
06:30:47 Capítulo 31.
06:39:37 Capítulo 32.
06:49:23 Capítulo 33.
06:59:52 Capítulo 34.
07:05:00 Capítulo 35.
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