Dark Vales

by Raimon Casellas

  Was it not also rather strange, with all the rough treatment she suffered and the age she was, that she was still a fine enough figure of a woman to drive shepherds and land workers crazy? But the fact was that she had a look in her eye, a way of laughing, a bearing, something about her that was diabolically enchanting, something that the country women just did not have! They were all so darkly weathered, and so ugly, so desiccated, that Footloose shone like the sun compared with them. Not even the youngest and the most presentable among them could wear tight-fitting dresses like she did, nor strut and wiggle their bodies in the way that she could. Nor did they wear on their heads, instead of a rough cowl, a neat little headscarf like the one that she wore, tied so tightly with a big knot that it showed from in front the full line of the parting in her hair, and from behind her strikingly coloured tresses.

  What was not at all strange, however, was that the strumpet’s creamy-white figure and red hair should have promenaded day and night in the stolid minds of the mountain dwellers. There was a faggot maker from the Ensulsida property who, when he was out among the pines and was sure that he could not be seen by any charcoal burner or woodsman, would sit down calmly under a tree and take his purse from his sash. There he would begin to count his money, in order to see whether he had enough to be able to go to the sanctuary tavern and proposition Footloose over a drink. Or it might be a shepherd who, coming with a start out of the lecherous dream that dogged him, would leave his flock in the charge of his lad and then, secretively taking with him a lamb or a kid intended as payment in kind for the whore, would set off in haste up the track to Puiggraciós.

  It seemed as though they had all lost their reason and their senses, and their instinctive nous about basic things, and perhaps even their general health. Daydreaming, mute, ruminant, they spent their time brooding endlessly over the carnal impulses which were exciting them. They could spend hour after hour without saying a word, staring fixedly without focusing on anything, seemingly lost in thought, making a deep groan from time to time, as though in the throes of a fever. It was a sickness caused by erotic mania, temptation, mortal sin… Some would cross themselves to dispel the disturbing thoughts filled with images of nudity that danced wildly in their minds… others recited psalms, prayers and paternosters… but still their derangement prevailed over everything… They were helpless to resist it, unable to break the carnal obsession which gripped them like an iron ring, unable to shake off the evil force whose talons were dug into their souls and their bodies.

  As soon as the early shades of night fell over the steep hillsides, first one then another, many were those who made their way furtively towards Puiggraciós. They were wrapped from head to foot in their cloaks, so as not to be recognised, like a procession of damned souls. Almost at their destination, they circled about, lurking either round by the church or outside the hostel buildings, as though afraid to go any closer. The Footloose woman, who often stood looking out of the window, simply made fun of the peasants’ embarrassment, and every time they passed by or turned and went past again, she put her hand over her mouth, scoffing at them and laughing wildly… Or she would start singing strange songs, songs from far, far away, which rang out sadly through the tree-clad slopes, amid the silence of the night:

  Somebody knows who I am,

  And goes off to denounce me.

  A chain is put round my neck,

  Not gold like ones I had worn,

  Presents from my fine lovers

  To shine both night and day,

  But now of weighty iron,

  Iron like the handcuffs too.

  The cowhand or woodcutter who plucked up courage, daring to be the first to cross the yard, rushed into the tavern, embarrassed and confused. Once inside, confronted by the strumpet’s laughter, they stood daunted and dumbstruck. They wanted to say something, but just became utterly tonguetied. There were moments when they would gladly have melted out of sight, virtually incapable of knowing whether they would prefer to get out of that place or to stay there. The more Footloose stroked them and flirted with them, the more tormented they felt and the greater was their anguish. It was as if their suffering was physical, as if they were being prodded with a sharp goad… A strange sort of deep disquiet soaked into them, a mixture of panic and shame, and they began either to shudder or to break out in sweat… They were no good at making merry, or at having boisterous fun, or at cracking jokes, not like that woman who had been born on the lowlands and had lived in town! They were no good at such things… damn and blast it… no good at anything like that… and they just felt very awkward… And it suddenly seemed that, because of their embarrassment, all the fantasies about erotic pleasures, forged for themselves deep down in the woods, were almost vanishing into thin air now that they were standing face to face with the whore herself. They had gone up to the tavern to enjoy themselves and have a good time, but they had forgotten that they were dead souls… and the dead cannot enjoy a good time. The evil spirit of carnality had revived them momentarily… but all of a sudden they had been plunged back again into the habitual state of torpor to which they were condemned. Well might the innkeepers bring out food and drink for people spending the night under their roof; madam Footloose could get as carried away as she liked in her flirtatious play; but neither the wine, nor the good food, nor all the sweet talk, nor the fun and games could do anything at all to arouse gladness in the shrivelled hearts of the woodlanders. For them debauchery was a silent and sullen experience, with no excitement and no laughter, without enjoyment or cries of delight, like a good time that a gathering of corpses might have had…

  When the first light of dawn appeared, the men who had spent all night at the inn headed homewards, feeling weary and faint, as though a great emptiness was in their hearts. But what was odd was that, as they went down towards their homes in the dark ravines, the image of the harlot appeared to them once more. The further they descended from Puiggraciós, the more they were revisited by the desire to see her again, the more the burning need was ignited to glimpse once again those visions of naked flesh, and the more they were all affected by that infectious pathetic sensuality which hovered like a feverous stench above the grim places where they lived…

  Book-plate by Alexandre de Riquer, 1903.

  (Biblioteca de Catalunya)

  XIII

  God and the Devil

  In all of this the wretched priest was drinking deep draughts of bitterness. A taste of gall and vinegar lingered within him whenever news reached him of the peasants’ debauchery. He would often weep, sobbing his heart out, as though it was he alone who had to be purged of the sins of each and every one of his parishioners… as though he alone, innocent as he was, must feel deep down all the pain of contrition that should have been felt by the numskulls of those hillsides, dragged down like dumb little brutes into the filthy ways of the flesh.

  But at times he managed to hold back the tears welling up in his eyes, because he felt that they were not perhaps pure enough. He now and then felt a kind of remorse about shedding tears on his own account, especially when he had the vague thought that he was weeping over the rout of his private dreams of being a redeemer, rather than on account of the shortcomings and the sins of others. His heartfelt sobbing was cut short by the suspicion that such a human weakness could be the cause of his affliction, as the thought came to him that what was needed now was neither faintness of heart nor unmanly sighs nor childish tears, but courage, strength, to struggle against that bedevilled generation and to fell them with threats of an afterlife of eternal torment. The only important thing was to conquer the evil spirit of lust which had taken over the bodies of the woodlanders… Wailing, snivelling and weeping were not the way to vanquish and humiliate the powers of Hell.

  ‘Strength of heart!’ he said to himself, ‘great strength of heart is what I need to overthrow the enemies of the soul! The raging threats of an irate prophet, words of execration, apocalyptic judgements are what I must hurl in the faces o
f my gnarled parishioners in order to wrench them from the clutches of the evil spirit!’

  He was beginning to recall ancient ritual methods for driving out demons, and dreadful incantations for exorcism; terrible terms of anathema came into his mind as did the idea of barring the culprits from his church… While his head was being filled with such thoughts, he was all of a sudden taken by a different view of things, pondering that this might be just the time for a final act of piety, to make one last effort to achieve their redemption… This idea of formal indulgence gave him some hope, and so he sent his man once again up to Puiggraciós with the offer of forgiveness for the innkeeper and his wife, as well as for the strumpet, if they would come and confess their sins, and if they made a sincere declaration of repentance. But the reply which came back from the sanctuary church was that, as they had done nothing wrong, nor committed any theft nor murdered anybody, they had no need to repent.

  Whereupon Father Llàtzer, deeply pained, understood that he was left with no alternative other than threats, imprecation, angry sermonising, promises of temporal punishment for the time being and eternal damnation in the future. He would have to do again what he had already done before… to wait for Sunday to come, to wait for the hour to say Mass. And then, when his peasant congregation were all gathered together and kneeling as he stood facing the altar… then would be the time to assert himself angrily and to impose obedience… Robed in the alb and his cassock, attended by all the sacred ornaments that had the power to make his parishioners bow their heads, he would be standing there, as God’s justice-dispensing minister… He would wait until after the introit… after the epistle and the gospel… after the credo… and then, as soon as the time for the offertory arrived, he would suddenly turn to face his surly flock and begin to preach at them in a voice to make them shudder. He would first of all put them to shame by asking them one by one if they had been to see the harlot… They tried so hard not to be seen or recognised when they made their visits (as though God did not see and recognise everything!)… and he was going to make them blush with shame by forcing them to confess their sins in front of the whole congregation… ‘You there,’ he would shout, ‘big lad from Ensulsida! How many times have you gone into the inn at Puiggraciós? And what about you, Cal Janet’s next in line? And even you, Cosme, master at Rovira? And Bepus from Uià?’ That is how he was going to single them out and disgrace them one by one, heaping embarrassment on them all in front of their own parents, their own wives and children.

  Then he would set about challenging the guilty ones and reminding them that all their names were written down in the book of everlasting punishment. To have them erased, they must spend a whole lifetime in reform and contrition. Otherwise they would all be damned, and he could foretell for them from then, on every kind of calamity and wretchedness… the fury of the lightning bolt, enfeebling disease, the croak of starvation, the stench of fever… and then death, the death of the body… followed by another kind of death, much more terrible: eternal death, death in the flames of Hell…

  The following Sunday, when the hour of High Mass struck, the priest had a face like thunder, terrifying to behold. His brow, usually so serene, seemed blotched by a frown which was dark like storm clouds; his lips, usually so kindly, looked pregnant with expressions of malediction and exorcism. Leaving the sacristy to go up to the altar he came face to face with his parishioners, and then his eyes blazed horrifyingly. The sympathetic and loving personality he always displayed now seemed to have been shockingly transformed, as though distorted by rage.

  Old Josep, in his usual role of serving at Mass, rang the small bell, ding-ding, ding… and the office began. Straight away the peasants all knelt. Heads bowed and trembling, they dared not even look at the priest, fearing that he would turn round suddenly and with a single gaze would leave them petrified. So, when the introit was over and he turned to say ‘The Lord be with you’, all of them looked quickly at the ground so as not to meet the priest’s scorching glare. What terror he inspired as he read the epistle, looking askance at them from close by the altar! Now he did not have at all the appearance of being a minister of divine grace, humble, loving, benign, anointed with the blood of Christ… Rather did he look like a preacher from ages past, about to prophesy both the destruction of a race steeped in sin and the fire from Heaven that would consume the land of the impure. The congregation recognised that the storm of holy rage was about to burst, and they shuddered every now and then with dread as if they knew that Heaven had been sorely offended and was going to hurl upon them every kind of malediction from on high. The moment was drawing closer, ever closer… The epistle was nearly finished… Then there would be the gospel reading… and then the creed… until it was time for the offertory as preliminary to consecration… and then… it did not bear thinking about… then the priest would turn to face them… Looking first to the right and then to the left, he would begin to pronounce sentence on them all, mixing taunts with rebukes, like the terrible Judge of Judgement Day itself… What anguish they felt! What anguish! Some of the men were quivering with fear. Others were using the back of a hand to wipe away the cold sweat of trepidation that glistened on their brows… The moment was drawing closer, ever closer…

  But just when the woodlanders were feeling the sharpest pangs of their distress, as they saw that old Josep was about to turn the missal towards the participants… all of a sudden, in the enveloping silence of the Mass, an unexpected noise was heard: the brisk, gay swish of a skirt being whirled, like the sound that might have been made by a woman coming into church deliberately swaying her body from side to side. Everyone quickly turned to look; old and young felt their hearts miss a beat.

  ‘God almighty! It’s Footloose!’ muttered the stupefied parishioners.

  Yes: it was the harlot who was coming into the church having grinned at daft Bepus from Uià, at Cosme from Rovira and at the young master from Cal Janet who were nearest to the door, half kneeling, half seated. Then she passed between the rows of pews, her many-coloured skirt flouncing as she moved along and with a tiny scarf on her head, so tiny and daintily tied, that it revealed from the front the neat parting in her hair and, from behind, her blazing red tresses. Up the aisle she went, more than half way towards the altar, where she squatted quite provocatively, half gaping and half smiling. The parishioners, as if unable to get over the shock they felt, looked more dead than alive; and rising to their feet as the Mass book was turned in their direction, they exchanged looks among themselves, in a mood hovering between curiosity and fright, as if to say: ‘What will happen now? What can come next? What will become of us all?’

  Meanwhile, the priest, completely unaware of what was occurring, was beginning to read from the gospel, standing at one side of the altar, with that same severe look on his face, slightly bending over the missal. Then he stood up straight and he returned to the centre of the altar, to start to recite the creed. He began in a very quiet voice, almost whispering; but as he went through his recitation of the holy words, his voice rose gradually until he reached the sentence which says: ‘He sitteth on the right hand of God the father Almighty; from thence he shall come to judge the quick and the dead.’ By this point he was almost shouting in rage, as though he himself was the tremendous Majesty who holds the keys of Heaven and of Hell…

  But, lo and behold, something very strange had come over the woodlanders… they were no longer trembling at all. Up to that point their hearts had been squeezed tight, shrunken by fear… now, without knowing why or how, they felt them beginning to swell again. The priest could turn round suddenly to face them, and he could, as and when he wanted to, start sermonising them on divine wrath, because they now had nothing to fear nor any reason to feel cowed. Quite the opposite! Quite the opposite! They felt rather as though a huge weight had been lifted from them, and there were even those who gave a sigh of relief as they looked at the prostitute with warmth and gratitude, as though in her presence they found protection against the threa
ts directed at them from the altar. The parishioners realised that the taunts and the damning threats would now be aimed not towards them but towards the loose woman, as soon as the priest saw that she was there. The impending clash would no longer be between them, glum and defenceless clodpoles, and the priest, dressed up in his holy vestments, armed with divine might. From then on he would have to confront the whore from Puiggraciós, that self-confident woman, so free and easy, who he himself said was the embodiment of the evil spirit. ‘But is she really the evil spirit?’ the peasants wondered grimly, without reaching an answer. They could not be at all sure about this, because their image of the Devil had come to them, among the shadows of night, only as the horned ram or the black cat, never had they contemplated it in the figure of a woman. But thinking about it now, this was what she must be because she so alarmed the priest. And now, right now the whole mystery was going to be cleared up… If that woman was indeed the spirit of Evil, who better than her to free them from the tyranny of the priest? For too long they had been enslaved by him, by that priest who used the Mass, the chalice, the paten and the holy ornaments to make them tremble and to impose his will as though he were the Almighty himself. All that was now finished, because the harlot, the spirit of Evil, would be their defence, and their salvation…

  The parishioners were sunk in all these corrosive thoughts, when the priest, severe and haughty as though he were the statue of that God who had been insulted, turned to face the people in order to begin his sermon.

  ‘Oh, you miserable people!’ he began shouting, ‘You hapless ones, who cannot bring yourselves to fall on your knees before the Lord of Heaven and yet can worship the beast! When it is time to do the right and proper thing, you look dumbstruck and lifeless; but you stir quickly enough and come back to life in order to go and pay obeisance to the Devil, to go and slobber kisses on female flesh, to say prayers to God’s enemies…’