Los pazos de Ulloa

Julian — naive, idealistic and recently ordained as a priest — goes to a remote corner of rural Galicia in the 1860s to act as secretary-chaplain for the young landowner Don Pedro, called by courtesy Marquess of Ulloa. The title and most of the money have long since passed to another branch of the family, the estate is in disrepair and Don Pedro spends most of his time shooting with his mayordomo Primitivo and is clearly having an affair with Primitivo’s daughter, who runs the kitchens. Julian tries to put things right by encouraging Don Pedro to come to Santiago and pick an eligible cousin to marry, but of course he gets the wrong one, and it doesn’t end well…

I’d heard that Pardo Bazán was the main Spanish exponent of show more French 19th century naturalism, but I was still surprised by how much this felt like a Zola novel — Julian could easily be one of Zola’s doomed young priests, and the innocence of the unnamed little girl and the pure evil of Primitivo would fit into the Rougon-Macquart clan seamlessly. The isolation of Ulloa also plays into this. But of course there are specifically Spanish aspects to all this as well, with the background of the political instability of the second half of the 19th century reflected in local conflicts. Pardo Bazán has a lot of fun with the rural priests and political bosses, and she isn’t afraid to take the narrative into “masculine” zones of action. Her feminism is evident too: the unfortunate cousin Nucha may be doomed by the logic of the plot and the nature of marriage at the time, but she is a strong and dignified character despite that. We aren’t allowed to take it for granted that she should submit to her dim and violent husband, and we have to respect the way she takes control whilst Julian panics at the first real hint of danger.

Very interesting — I’m glad I took the time to explore this. show less

The House of Ulloa by Emilia Pardo Bazan was first published in Spain in 1886. It is set in 1868, the time of the Liberal Revolution that brought the vote for men over 25. The Carlists, backed by the aristocracy and the Catholic Church, opposed the Liberals. Towards the end of the book there's an election, wildly violent and blatantly corrupt, described in slapstick detail. An abbot and a priest are right in the thick of it. A great contrast to these hunting, drinking, fighting clerics is the newly ordained Father Julian, whom we meet in the first chapter, on his way to the House of Ulloa to provide guidance to the Marquis, the head of the House of Ulloa.

The pious, well-meaning, unworldly Father Julian is shocked by the unsavoury show more situation at the manor. His attempts to provide spiritual guidance to the marquis and to stem the corruption and disorder that surround him create new disasters. On his very first evening, Primitivo, the corrupt majordomo and the father of the serving girl who is the marquis's mistress, pours alcohol down the throat of his three-year-old grandchild. It's Gothic, and as you read on you're thinking, "Something terrible is going to happen," as though that's not terrible enough.

This is an extraordinary book, particularly considering that it was written in 1886. It's a gleeful satire of the corruption of society and the decline of the aristocracy in rural Spain. It's lively and funny, with characters a great deal larger than life. Highly recommended. show less

I'm usually very anti-19t-Century-Literature. My Personal Hell is shelves and shelves of books populated only by novels by Charles Dickens and his contemporaries.

That's why I was completely shocked by this book, which I ended up adoring, and would read again, had I the time.

It's a masterwork of the Naturalist literary movement in terms of style and structure; historically, it paints a vivid picture of the decadence and decline of Spain (especially the decaying aristocracy and the corruption of the "caciques") in the late 1800s.

It has beautiful language, somewhat disturbing imagery, and a pretty gripping plot. It is animalistic in certain ways, and the author has a knack for capturing the nature of the character with a corresponding show more image that leaps out at the reader and lingers long enough for him/her to make the right connections between what is seen and what is beneath.

As this book is standard on most comprehensive exams for either an M.A. or a Ph.D. in Spanish Literature, if you're on that track, you won't be able to avoid it. Sit back and enjoy it! show less

A largely-forgotten classic of 19th century Spanish literature, dusted off for a new publication by Penguin a few years back. I found a tatty paperback of it in some back-alley bookshop in Colombia, and devoured it happily.
Wonderfully merging the gothic and the farcical, the novel rotates around a naive priest trying to claw order from a crumbling mansion in rural Spain, with feral children and evil gamekeepers. Midway-through a slapstick local election takes place, with all the appropriate caricatures of stupid and venal local politicians. Nicholas Lezard called it “a bit like The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, but with jokes”, which is spot on.

A very odd little book, but wildly enjoyable: priestsploitation, plus gothicising HORROR, but the very next paragraph is broad satire or slapstick, so the gothic becomes funny. And I assume that's intentional. It moves very quickly for the 19th century, which helps. Even the clunky "oh, this book is kind of winding down too soon... I know, politics subplot!" twist ended up quite being quite fun.

Anything which just ignores genre boundaries like this is always more fun than even the best books that stick to them, I think.

The story a callow, unobservant newly consecrated priest sent by the man in whose house his mother is housekeeper to assist his nephew run a dilapidated estate. The estate is controlled by a local peasant gamekeeper who accompanies the almost illiterate nephew in a continual hunt, having pimped his daughter to his master and intimidated the locals. The young priest, helpless to do more than straighten a bit of the paperwork proceeds to cause misery to those he cares for the most by the end of the main action. In this almost nothing interested me, as with most mid-19th novels I want to put everyone up against a wall and have special prejudice against the hidalgo. But the sly observations of the author preserve this from being a soap show more opera or morality tale but instead a portrait or erring humanity in a spare and unforgiving world. show less

I'm usually very anti-19t-Century-Literature. My Personal Hell is shelves and shelves of books populated only by novels by Charles Dickens and his contemporaries.

That's why I was completely shocked by this book, which I ended up adoring, and would read again, had I the time.

It's a masterwork of the Naturalist literary movement in terms of style and structure; historically, it paints a vivid picture of the decadence and decline of Spain (especially the decaying aristocracy and the corruption of the "caciques") in the late 1800s.

It has beautiful language, somewhat disturbing imagery, and a pretty gripping plot. It is animalistic in certain ways, and the author has a knack for capturing the nature of the character with a corresponding show more image that leaps out at the reader and lingers long enough for him/her to make the right connections between what is seen and what is beneath.

As this book is standard on most comprehensive exams for either an M.A. or a Ph.D. in Spanish Literature, if you're on that track, you won't be able to avoid it. Sit back and enjoy it! show less