It was not until after I had entered the Seminary that I learned the reasons for my benefactors’ separation, which at the time appeared to be final. The Senyors had taken in a niece* who was an orphan and sent her to school in Montpellier. Her name was Xima and she must have been ten or twelve years older than I. Her beauty was flawless, and, as the Senyor said, she was quick and affectionate as a cat. She also exhibited the lack of scruples and morality that La Fontaine attributed to felines. It was the year 1859. Lesseps was planning to open the Suez canal and Gounod was preparing the première of Faust at the Paris Opera. Don Toni and the Senyora liked to travel; they had already been to France and Italy. Some of their friends in Paris encouraged them to attend the première. Following the politics of Louis Napoleon, Gounod wished to please the Prussian sympathizers with his new work. The Second Empire, out of hatred towards the old Hapsburgs, who were no longer a threat to France, turned to Berlin, apparently a stronghold of the liberal traditions of the House of Frederick William favoured by the Napoleonic dynasty. That dreadful error was to result in Sedan, but for the time being no one was particularly concerned. The boulevards were anti-Austrian and nationalistic. After the battle of Sadova, the people, in their ignorance, acclaimed the Prussians. Three years before Sedan, Offenbach still ridiculed the ‘Grand Duchess of Gerolstein’ on stage, representing feudalism in its last agony and thus favouring the notion of a Prussian royal hegemony. Goethe’s Faust was the symbol of an impatient, violent race that would not settle for the promise of Heaven, but wished to possess it in this world, even at the price of making a pact with the Devil. Gounod recounted the legend, and his version was well received by the Tuileries. There was ample praise in the newspapers. The Senyor commented on the event.
‘I’m already forty-eight years old, Maria Antònia, and you’re no child either. We should go and find out that German doctor’s secret. We’d be young again.’
It was no secret: all you had to do was sell your soul to the Devil, which for Dona Maria Antònia was a matter not to be mentioned even in jest.
‘Don’t be outrageous, Tonet. Do you want to burn in Hell?’
‘No. But to be young again…’
‘Hush.’
‘Just think…’
‘I don’t want to.’
Suddenly uncle and niece vanished; they had run off to Paris. The news spread like wildfire. Despite her tendency to avoid drama, Dona Maria Antònia could hardly ignore the facts on that occasion. However, there were no unpleasant scenes. When the Senyor returned, he simply found that she had moved to the townhouse in the village, and a few hours later the priest appeared, notifying him of their peaceful separation, and begging him to grant his conjugal authorization.
‘The Senyora,’ said the priest, ‘would like you to sign a document her lawyer has drawn up; she’s asked me to assure you that it is not out of mistrust, but for your mutual convenience.’
‘Dona Maria Antònia has plenty of reasons to mistrust me,’ replied the Senyor, and then signed the document without reading a word of it.
The scandal was accentuated by the fact that his niece had remained in Paris, where she had apparently become the lover of some young society lion, a Duke of the Empire. Don Toni, who had been strong enough to lead an eighteen-year-old astray, lacked the strength to make her return to the island. The Duke was rich, elegant and far younger than he. The Senyor told me the story a hundred times, as if it did not concern him at all. ‘You’ve opened an entire new world to me, Tonet; don’t expect me to leave it just now,’ she had said. ‘I want to enjoy myself while I can. Go back to Bearn and don’t worry about me. I know you’ll understand.’
The most prominent gentlemen in Paris sought her company. Rumour had it that the Emperor wished to meet her. The Senyor returned alone, hoping that Dona Maria Antònia would let bygones be bygones as she had on other occasions, and determined to love her more than ever, like those sailors who leave a woman in each port (here I quote the Senyor) and while at sea create a synthesis of them all, turning several different, changing, vague images into the sole image of their wedded wife. This time, however, he had gone too far.
‘Father,’ Don Toni said, ‘please let her know that I can hardly blame her. Some things can’t be explained in words, but it can happen that in time one understands them when one no longer even expects to. If some day my wife were able to forget this affair (which, I grant you, would not be easy) I am and always will be here, waiting for her.’
The priest lacked a sense of humour, but Don Toni thought he glimpsed a faint smile. He would indeed have to wait for the time when forgiveness arrived of its own accord, like a divine revelation.
They spent ten years apart, although not far from each other. Dona Maria Antònia lived in the village, at the old Bearn townhouse, which she had inherited from her mother’s side of the family; as I have already mentioned, she and Don Toni were first cousins. He never left the estate, and was always surrounded with books. At that time I was studying at the Seminary and spent all my vacations here. Bearn seemed to me like a great, mysterious palace. I had never known anything better; I thought it was the best on earth. The archives, decorated with old swords, recorded in their parchments the family’s glorious deeds. But what were those deeds? What I most longed to explore was that mysterious ‘dolls’ room’, which was always locked and which no one even dared to mention. More than once, since I knew how to open the door to the secret staircase, I had walked upstairs to that room, only to reach another locked door. Peering through the keyhole was useless; the curtains in the room were drawn and you could not see a thing. After asking many questions and getting my fair share of slaps across the face, I managed to deduce from Madò Francina’s words that one of the Senyors’ ancestors had gone mad and died in that room. I was also intrigued when I heard that my benefactor paid for the schooling of certain children without my having any notion why.
In the autumn of 1866 the Senyor introduced me to Jaume, and said I was to treat him like a brother. I had just turned fifteen.
‘He’s always been at school,’ I was told. ‘He may be as educated as you, but he’s never played ball; he’s never handled a gun or caught thrushes in a net. Now that the season has begun, you ought to show him the woods. He needs to run around in the fresh air…’
Jaume was two or three years younger than I. He looked like a boy. I was already a man. Even though I always strictly followed the Senyor’s advice, I took on the child with a certain hostility. He was blond; he was intelligent and sensitive. He was afraid of the mules and even of the sheep. He did not know how to swim or throw stones. In the world of Bearn, which he found terrifying, I was his only refuge, and he did not leave my side for a single moment. I could not say exactly why I disliked him. There was something prissy about him; his manners seemed at odds with his masculinity. Youth is intolerant, as the Senyor would say, and exceedingly proud. ‘The years enlighten us, Joanet, but not without making us corrupt and cynical.’ Aside from my manly pride, intolerant of ambiguities, I undoubtedly harboured the jealousy a person of my condition always feels towards an intruder. Jaume threatened to take my place in the Senyor’s heart. My position in the house was precarious, and depended on my master’s whim. There may also have been another more complicated motive, an instinct of self-defence against unknown dangers which made me react harshly to his need for tenderness. And that poor child certainly needed to be loved. Following the instructions I had been given, I attempted to strengthen his sensitive nature and teach him to be brave. He learned not to fear gunfire and to swim in the reservoir. His admiration for me grew. A few weeks later, he looked like a different person, and the Senyor congratulated me.
‘I wonder, when will you be as strong as Joan?’ he asked the child. ‘Didn’t you say you wanted to be an artilleryman?’
Those words fired the boy with excitement and all he could think of was exercising and running and climbing trees. Because he was weak, he never wanted to be left behind. The sun and the wind had brought out the colour in his cheeks, ridding him of his city pallor. However, the transformation was only skin-deep. When he climbed a mountain, he would run out of breath and have to sit down. I still thought he was faking. To this day I could not say whether I made an effort to think otherwise; I have already said the reasons for my ill will were unclear. Yet although my contempt continued, with time I could not help but admire that child who had studied abroad, spoke French better than I, wrote alexandrines and knew the history of Rome. I was taken aback by his being so fair and so bright. He tried to compete with me in our games, and I, in turn, wished I had the intellectual qualities which, thanks to him, I was beginning to appreciate for the first time. They say emulation leads to progress. In this case it led to death. Even after all these years I am unable to distinguish the conscious from the involuntary aspect of the incident. The truth is that despite the good colour he had from the sun, Jaume was becoming more frail, and I knew it. He spent his last days in an electrified state, burning up the last bit of life left in him and willing to follow me on any absurd adventure. As his strength ran out his unwillingness to surrender only increased. It was particularly painful to him when I beat him right away in our fights, so I would prolong the games like a cat with a mouse; although it flattered him, it also drew him closer to his death. Our matches usually took place on the threshing floor, a vast, poetic arena surrounded by oaks. On the day I once told you about, the game went on longer than usual. I suddenly realized that Jaume’s body was yielding, and his face was sheet-white. He said he was sleepy, and dozed off on the hay. Half an hour later, when we called him to supper, we found him dead. The Senyor kept his composure despite my being distressed to a suspicious degree. That affair, which he was never to mention again, was far more obvious to him than it was to me. The doctor diagnosed a heart attack. (‘What would he know…’ I heard Don Toni murmur.) I was desperate. I could not turn to the comfort of confession because I did not know exactly what I had done wrong. Anyone who had listened to me would undoubtedly have absolved me: we were playing. He got tired. He had a heart attack. At fifteen, I was unable to examine my conscience the way I can now, but I was aware of my degree of responsibility. My relationship with that child was very strange indeed. There is a cruel, arrogant tendency in me which under normal circumstances is dormant. The games I used to think of as harmless have an evil side to them, and there are few who have not felt sadistic instincts awakening within them when they fight. That is why I have never since wanted to practise those essentially pagan exercises, too close to sensuality, which I believe to be at odds with the spirit of Christianity. Jaume’s pride was as strong as mine. One of the first days after we met, I had confronted him with a verb that was an offence to the dignity of a twelve-year-old: minauder. I always felt I had to win at our games, which was not much to my credit. He, on the other hand, taught me the moral lesson of how to die like a hero. I may not have killed him with my hands, but I did with a verb. His French was better than mine.