Read The Good Conscience for Free Online Page A

directed to everyone don’t matter much: what is important is what he says to himself alone as he listens to the sermon. But the Credo he does say aloud: he knows it by heart. His hands fly about making the sign of the cross as he performs the Offertory of imaginary wine and bread. He washes his hands in his basin, kneels again; then the Canon and the Consecration; he lifts the cup of water high and whispers an Our Father. On his knees with his head bent he offers himself the ficticious communion. He remains there for several minutes with his eyes closed, and then gets up and empties the cup into the basin, and standing behind the chair, imparts benediction to his bed and dresser and washstand, while he pronounces the last words: “Ite, missa est.” He cries them loudly, trying to imitate Father Lanzagorta’s deep voice.
    Thus God becomes his playmate, and the Church’s sacred ritual a game. Usually he plays Mass in the afternoon. Sometimes, when he closes his curtains to make his room shadowy as San Roque, he sees children running down the alley. He knows them, they are his school-mates, they wave their arms to him, invite him to come out and play. The plaza fills with their shouts and laughter. And then Jaime feels sad. He cannot go out, it is forbidden. He shakes his head and tries to smile and stands at the window with his arms crossed on his chest. He feels lonely and isolated. And where is God? God has gone away. He bites his lips and asks himself why. Maybe he has failed to do something he ought to have done. Maybe, although he can’t remember it, he has sinned terribly. This makes him sadder. If he has sinned, he must atone for his error. He grips a fold of the skin over his ribs and pinches and twists until the pain is sharp. That makes him feel a little better. He decides that he will go without his supper, as a deeper penitence. But Mamá Asunción will not allow that and forces him to eat until his plate is clean. And when he goes to bed, as always she comes in and leaves him a glass of milk and a square of quince candy.
    As he lies there, he thinks of the Virgin, the Saints, the Holy Trinity, and God comes close to him again. But who is God? God is companionship and happiness. And Christ? He does not know Christ. He understands the Baby Jesus, yes, but the crucified Jesus, the figure who hangs upon a blood-smeared cross, is strange and terrible to him.
    By the time he is eleven, he has decided that when he grows up, he will be a priest. He confides his ambition to Asunción, expecting her to be pleased, but she at once looks troubled. A Ceballos a priest? There is something profoundly self-contradictory about that. Religion is an essential element in the life of a Ceballos, yes, just as is wealth. But Ceballos men are gentlemen and men of business, not Fathers. “You are just a little boy still,” she tells Jaime. “You don’t need to be thinking about what you will do when you grow up.” Later she speaks with Balcárcel—the head of the family, the authority to whom problems must be brought for solution—and confesses that she is afraid the boy has taken his faith more seriously than is quite proper. Balcárcel grimly agrees, and one evening after dinner, summons him into the library.
    Jaime sits in the armchair. He is sure that he has done something wrong and he trembles as he tries to think what it could be. Balcárcel paces back and forth tugging at his lapels. For a long time he says nothing, but his face is grave with displeasure. At last he speaks:
    â€œYou have a decidedly mistaken idea about religion. Religious training is certainly of the highest importance in life. Indeed it is indispensable: there is no other road to righteousness. But there can be too much of a good thing. Religious feeling carried to the extreme of mysticism is an absurdity.” He stops and turns the full power of his cold stare upon the boy. “I observe such a