The House of Ulloa (Penguin Classics)

From close up, the Limioso manor looked as though it was uninhabited, and that increased the melancholy impression given by the dilapidated dovecote.

When seen together, an extraordinary likeness between Señor de la Lage and his nephew became noticeable: the same lofty stature; the same wide build; the same large bone-structure; the same coarse, thick beard. But what in the nephew was harmonious and titanic, strengthened by an active life in the open air, in the uncle, who was condemned to a sedentary life, was excessive: there just seemed to be too much of him. Without being what is called obese, he somehow overflowed in every part of his body: each foot looked like a barge, each hand like a carpenter’s mallet. He suffocated in a suit. He simply did not fit in small rooms. Squeezed into a theatre seat he would gasp, while in church he poked right and left with his elbows to make more room for himself. A magnificent specimen of a race bred to fight wars and live in the mountains, was wasting miserably away in a small town, where he who produces nothing, teaches nothing, and learns nothing, is no use to anyone and spends his days in despicable idleness. What a waste! Had that pure-blooded Pardo de la Lage been born in the fifteenth century, he would have given plenty for archaeologists and historians of the nineteenth century to think about!

She had found him hidden in the cow-manger, his favourite place, and the little devil’s curls had grass and wild flowers woven into them. He looked beautiful, and the bandage over the wound made him look even more like a Cupid

The lad cried out, sounding more like an animal than a person

I’d rather go to prison than lead this life!’

The logic of savagery confused Julián.

the old hag with the white matted hair shuffled in sideways, her enormous apron crammed with firewood. Her name was María, but she was always called La Sabia, ‘the wise one’.

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

‘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.’

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!