The Manuscript Found in Saragossa (42 page)

There were pupils whose talents for observation were better than their character and who took pleasure in telling tales about their companions' doings. I founded a league against them and we arranged our tricks in such a way that suspicion always fell on the informers. In
the end, all those in black cassocks accused of being informers could bear us no longer.

I don't want to bore you with all the details of our childishness. Suffice it to say that during the four years I put my mind to devising them, our pranks took a more and more serious turn. In the end I was so carried away that I committed an act which, though perhaps innocent in itself, was despicable because of the means I employed. I very nearly paid for it by several years of imprisonment or even the permanent loss of my freedom. This is what happened.

Of the Theatines who treated us most harshly, none had shown us more pitiless severity than Father Sanudo, the teacher of the first class. Such hardness was not part of his nature, however. Quite the opposite. This monk had been born hypersensitive. His secret inclinations had always been contrary to his duties. Sanudo had reached the age of thirty without ceasing to struggle against and suppress his true nature.

He was without pity for himself and had become implacable towards others. The continual sacrifice which he made through his manner of behaving was all the more meritorious in that no one had ever seen a more striking case of natural instincts being opposed to the dictates of religion; for he was as handsome a man as you can imagine and few women were able to cross his path without giving him signs of their admiration for him. But Sanudo would lower his eyes, frown and pass by without seeming to notice. Such was, or rather such had long been, Father Sanudo. But so many victorious battles had exhausted his soul, which had lost some of its vigour. By being obliged to be wary of women he ended up by thinking about them all the time. The enemy he had fought against for so long never left his mind. In the end a grave illness followed by a difficult convalescence left behind a hypersensitivity which manifested itself as a perpetual state of impatience. Our smallest errors angered him. Our excuses could cause him to weep. He had become absent-minded, and in moments of distraction his eyes would stare at some object with a look of affection, and if someone interrupted him in one of these ecstasies his expression was one of pain rather than severity. We were too used to observing our mentor closely for such a change to escape our notice. But we did not fathom what caused it until we had occasion to notice
something that put us on the scent. However, to make myself understood I shall have to start from a point further back in the story.

The two most famous families of Burgos were those of the Counts of Lirias and the Marquesses of Fuen Castilla. The former even belonged to that class in Spain called
agraviados
, to express the wrong done to them by their not being called grandees. So the other grandees would address them in the familiar form of address which they used in addressing each other, which was a way of assimilating them to their number.

The head of the house of Lirias was a seventy-year-old gentleman with the noblest and most gracious of characters. He had had two sons, both of whom had died, and his fortune fell to the young Condesa de Lirias, the only daughter of his elder son. The old count, having no heirs of his own name, had betrothed his granddaughter to the heir of the family of Fuen Castilla, who on marrying was to take the title Fuen de Lirias y Castilla. This union, though well matched in other respects, was also well matched as far as the age, looks and character of the engaged couple went. They loved each other passionately, and the elderly Conde de Lirias delighted in the sight of their innocent love, which brought back memories of the happier times of his own life.

The future Condesa de Fuen de Lirias resided in the convent of the Annunciads, but every day she went to dine at her grandfather's house, where she stayed in the company of her future husband until the evening. On these occasions she was accompanied by a duenna mayor called Doña Clara Mendoza, a woman of about thirty years of age who was very respectable but not at all morose. But the old count did not like people of that disposition.

Every day the young Condesa de Lirias and her duenna passed by our college because it was on the way to the old count's house. As they did so during our recreation time we were often at the windows, or we ran there when we heard the sound of the carriage.

The first to reach the windows had often heard Doña Mendoza say to her young pupil, ‘There's the handsome Theatine.'

That's the name ladies gave Father Sanudo, and indeed the duenna had eyes only for him. As for her young charge, she looked at all of
us, perhaps because our age recalled to her that of her lover, or because she was trying to recognize two of her cousins.

Sanudo, for his part, ran like the others to the window, but as soon as the women took notice of him he would look sombre and retreat disdainfully. We were struck by this contradiction.

If he really has a horror of women, we said to ourselves, why does he come to the window? And if he is curious to see them, he is wrong to turn his eyes away.

A young pupil called Veyras told me in this connection, that Sanudo was not the misogynist he had been in the past and that he would try to find a way of proving it. Veyras was the best friend I had in the college, that is to say, he aided and abetted me in all my tricks, of which he was in many cases the author.

At that time, a new novel, entitled
Leonce in Love
, appeared. The author's graphic description of love made the novel dangerous reading. Our teachers had strictly forbidden it. Veyras found a way of procuring a copy of
Leonce
, and put it in his pocket so as to let part of it be seen. Sanudo noticed it and confiscated it. He threatened Veyras with the most severe punishment if he ever were to commit the same fault again, and then disappeared on the pretext of some illness or other and did not appear again for evening lessons. We for our part pretended to be very concerned about the health of our teacher. We went into his room unannounced and found him there, in the middle of reading the dangerous novel with his eyes wet with tears, which proved how much the book had captivated him. Sanudo looked embarrassed; we pretended not to notice. Soon we had another indication of the great change that had taken place in the heart of the hapless monk.

In Spain, women are often very assiduous in fulfilling their religious duties, and ask for the same confessor on each occasion. The expression for this is ‘buscar a su padre'.
¹
This provides an opportunity for shameless cynics who exploit the ambiguity of the phrase to ask, when they see a child in church, whether he has come to ‘buscar a su padre'.

The ladies of Burgos would have very much liked to confess to Father Sanudo, but the touchy cleric had said that he would not undertake to direct the consciences of persons of the fair sex. Yet on the day after the fateful reading of
Leonce
, when one of the prettiest women of the town asked for Father Sanudo, he went straight away to his confessional. Several suggestive compliments were paid to him as a result. In reply to them he gravely stated that he had nothing more to fear from an enemy against whom he had fought so valiantly. The other fathers may have believed him, but we schoolboys knew exactly what to make of this.

As each day passed Sanudo seemed to take greater interest in the secrets which the fair sex brought to the tribunal of penitence. His practice in the confessional was quite consistent. He would dispatch old ladies quickly, but detain younger women for longer, and he still ran to the window to see the fair Condesa de Lirias and her attractive companion, Doña Mendoza, go by. Then, when the carriage had disappeared from view, he would turn his eyes away disdainfully.

One day, when we had paid very little attention to our lessons and had incurred Sanudo's wrath, Veyras, looking secretive, took me aside and said, ‘The time has come to take revenge on this accursed pedant who is spoiling the best days of our lives with his impositions of penance and seems to take pleasure in inflicting punishment on us. I have thought up an excellent trick to play on him, but we will have to find a young girl whose figure is similar to that of the Condesa de Lirias. Juanita, the gardener's daughter, is very helpful to us in our tricks but she isn't clever enough for this one.'

‘My dear Veyras,' I replied, ‘even if we find a person with a figure similar to that of Lirias, I can't see how we can give her a pretty face.'

‘I don't see that as a problem,' said Veyras. ‘The ladies here have just put on the lenten veils they call
catafalcos
. They are like lace flounces which lie one on top of the other and hide their faces so well that they do not even wear masks when they go to balls. Juanita will still be useful, if not to pass herself off as Lirias then at least for dressing up the supposed Lirias and her duenna.'

Veyras said no more about it that day, but one Sunday, when he was installed in his confessional, Father Sanudo saw two women
come in, covered in mantillas and crêpe. One sat down on a mat on the floor, as women do in Spanish churches, the other knelt in penitence beside Sanudo. The latter, who seemed very young, could not stop crying; her sobs were choking her. Sanudo did what he could to calm her but all she would say was, ‘Father, I am in mortal sin.'

At last Sanudo said that she was in no state to unburden her soul to him and told her to come back the next day. The sinful young woman moved away, prostrated herself before the altar, prayed fervently for a long time and then left the church with her companion.

We all tried to reassure the gypsy chief on this point as best we could, and so he began his story again as follows:

‘Father, until recently my heart was at one with my duty and seemed to be destined never to leave the path of virtue. I was betrothed to a nice young man and believed that I loved him.'

At this point the sobbing began again, but Sanudo was able to calm the young girl with words full of unction and piety. She began again, ‘An imprudent duenna made me too aware of the merits of a man to whom I cannot belong and whom I must never contemplate: this sacrilegious passion, however, I cannot overcome.'

The word ‘sacrilegious' seemed to alert Sanudo to the fact that a priest was in question, even perhaps himself.

‘Señora,' said Sanudo in a trembling voice, ‘you owe all your affections to the husband whom your parents have chosen.'

‘Oh, Father,' replied the young girl, ‘if only he looked like the man
I love! If only he had his tender yet severe gaze, his handsome and noble features…'

‘Señora,' said Sanudo, ‘this is no way to engage in confession.'

‘It isn't a confession,' said the young girl, ‘it's a declaration.'

And as if overcome with shame, she stood up and rejoined her companion. As the two of them left the church, Sanudo's eyes followed them. For the rest of the day he seemed preoccupied. He spent almost all the next day in the confessional but no one appeared, nor did they on the day after.

It was on the third day that the young woman came back with her duenna, knelt in the confessional and said to Sanudo, ‘Father, last night I went through a crisis, I think. I felt myself overcome with shame and despair and, inspired by my bad angel, I put one of my garters round my neck. I was no longer able to breathe. Then I felt that my hand was stayed, my eyes were blinded by a bright light and I saw my patron saint, St Theresa, standing at the foot of my bed. “Daughter,” she said, “go to confession tomorrow and ask Father Sanudo to give you a lock of his hair. You must carry it next to your heart and grace will enter it again.”'

‘Go away, Señora,' said Sanudo. ‘Cast yourself before the altar and weep for your sinful folly. I shall for my part beg heaven to be merciful to you.'

Sanudo rose, left the confessional and withdrew to a chapel, where he stayed until evening in fervent prayer.

The next day the duenna came alone. She entered the confessional and said, ‘Father, I have come to ask for your indulgence on behalf of a young sinner who is in danger of losing her soul. Yesterday you treated her with such severity that she is desperate. She tells me that you refused to give her a holy relic which is in your possession. She is losing her sanity and she is trying to find a way of doing away with herself. Come to our house, Father. Bring the relic which she asked of you. Do not refuse me this grace.'

Sanudo hid his face in a handkerchief, left the church and returned a little later. He held a small reliquary in his hand, which he presented to the duenna, saying, ‘Señora, what I am giving you is a piece of the skull of our founder. A great number of indulgences are attached to this relic by a papal bull. We have no more precious relic here than
this. Let your charge carry these holy remains next to her heart, and may heaven come to her aid.'

When the relic was in our hands we undid its case, hoping to find a lock of hair, but found nothing inside. Sanudo was only soft-hearted and gullible: he may have been a little vain too, but he was virtuous and faithful to his principles.

Veyras asked him after our evening class, ‘Father, why are priests not allowed to marry?'

‘For their unhappiness in this world and perhaps their damnation in the next,' Sanudo replied. Then, looking more austere, he added, ‘Never ask me such questions again, Veyras.'

Next day there was no sign of Sanudo at the confessional. The duenna asked for him but another member of the order came in his place. We were close to despairing of the success of our detestable tricks when chance came to our aid in a way which exceeded our hopes.

The young Condesa de Lirias fell dangerously ill as she was on the point of being married to the Conde de Fuen Castilla. She suffered from a high temperature together with brain fever, or rather a sort of delirium. All Burgos took an interest in these two great houses: at the illness of Señora de Lirias there was great consternation throughout the town. The Theatine fathers were not the last to be informed of it. Sanudo received that evening the following letter: