Emilia

It was something indefinable about his appearance, his expression, his gait – in fact, about his whole person – that betrayed the formidable mark of ordination that even the flames of hell are unable to efface. There was no doubt about it: he was a priest.

Night had closed in by the time they reached the coppice behind which lay the massive manor. There was no moon and the darkness made it impossible to distinguish any details of the house, so that one was only aware of its imposing enormity. Not a single light shone from within, and the main door appeared to be firmly locked and bolted. The marquis headed towards a very low side-door, from which a robust young woman emerged to light their way with an oil-lamp.

it is easier never to sin at all than to sin only once

Julián stretched out his hand, took one of the volumes at random and read, ‘La Henriade, a poem by Monsieur Voltaire, translated into Spanish verse …’ He returned the book to its place, with tight lips and downcast eyes, which was his usual expression when something hurt or shocked him. Not that he was excessively intolerant, but he would gladly have treated Monsieur Voltaire in the same way as he had treated the cockroaches. However, he limited himself to condemning that particular set of books to eternal dustiness, and did not even pass his old rag over their spines, so that moths, maggots and spiders, so ruthlessly pursued in every corner, might find a refuge behind merry Arouet* and his enemy, the sentimental Jean-Jacques, who had also been sleeping there peacefully since 1816.

what this, that and the other was

The hag’s ugliness was impressive:

From that moment on, Julián avoided Sabel as one might avoid a harmful, dirty animal

The maid went out with her head down and a sulky look, like someone who has just had a great disappointment. As for Julián he was left trembling, agitated, unhappy with himself, as peaceful people usually are when they give in to a fit of rage: he even felt a pain in his stomach. He was in no doubt that he had gone too far, that he should have delivered some uplifting sermon to the girl, instead of haranguing her contemptuously like that. His duty as a priest was to teach, correct, forgive, not to trample on people as he trampled on insects in the archives. After all, Sabel had a soul, redeemed by the saving blood of Christ, just like any other. But who stops to consider these things when faced by such shamefulness? The chaplain consoled himself with the thought that he had suffered what scholars call a primo primis fit, which is beyond one’s ability to control. Nevertheless, it was wretched to have to live with that wicked female, who had no more modesty than a cow. How could there exist women like her? Julián remembered his mother, who with her sweet gentle voice was so decorous – her eyes always downcast, her housecoat buttoned up to the top of her throat, and over this, for further modesty, a little black silk shawl, perfectly smooth and creaseless. But oh, what shameful women one finds in the world!

‘No sir. No sir! Just a moment,’ Julián answered excitedly. ‘Not only are we obliged to be good, but to appear good. I am afraid that in the case of a priest, bad example and scandal is worse than the sin itself. You know so yourself, Don Eugenio, better even than me because you have all the souls of your parishioners to care for.’

‘You’re upsetting yourself over nothing more than a joke, something quite silly, as if everyone was already pointing at you. You need to be very tolerant to live in the world. The way you’re taking things, I wouldn’t like to be in your place – you’ll have nothing but vexations.’

‘I’m as simple as a dove,’ he thought, ‘when in this crooked world you have to be as wily as a snake.’