According to the Senyor’s instructions, my gymnasium had been set up on a landing that connects with the anteroom of the archives through a narrow staircase built into the width of the wall. It was a large space with an arched ceiling, provided with bars, vaulting horses and other such devices, and a statue of a classical athlete standing in one corner.
‘You must strive to look like this athlete,’ Don Toni had told me. ‘Your religious calling is by no means opposed to gymnastics.’
I disagreed with that outlook, even though my nature drew me to exercise and sports. You know perfectly well, Miquel, that before Jaume’s death I wanted to leave the Seminary, so at odds with my senses and my temperament. If I have sought refuge in the Church it has not been out of virtue, but out of weakness, and even perhaps because my vanity rebelled against the role I was destined to perform in life. It could be that Don Toni died without truly understanding me, because we came from such different worlds. For him, existence was easy: When he was born he found everything already achieved, and he could allow himself to live off the fortune that had been amassed by his ancestors. Such circumstances made an epicurean out of him, a man destined to die in this world and perhaps also (God forbid) in the next. Physical fitness was torture for me. Mens sana in corpore sano is a good maxim for a free man, but not for one who has made the vow of chastity. There are numerous ascetic authors who recommend muscular exhaustion for warding off carnal thoughts. That does not apply to all characters. For years I have been an avid sportsman and mountain climber, but all to no avail; if anything, quite the contrary. Exercise may, indeed, be the main enemy of chastity, given that far from wearing down the vital functions, it excites them. The current tendency, influenced by North American Protestantism, which aspires to modernize the clergy, could have dreadful consequences.
It was not yet nine o’clock and I was doing my bar exercises when I heard a knock on the door. In surprise, I asked who it was, because I was not presentable. The Senyor’s voice replied.
‘It’s me, Joan.’
Unaware of what I was doing, covered in sweat and almost naked, I opened the door. Don Toni, smiling, put his arm around my neck and stood me next to the statue I mentioned above.
‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘The only difference is that the Greeks—the ones made of marble, obviously—didn’t sweat.’
I blushed and asked for permission to change.
‘Hush. Come with me,’ said the Senyor.
He draped a towel over my shoulders and led me to the window; the shutters were half closed. I ought to mention that the gymnasium faced an inner courtyard surrounded by the steward’s quarters.
‘From up here we’ll hear the vet.’
I remembered that the vet was due from Inca that morning to castrate some of the pigs.
‘Let’s listen to what that Republican has to say.’
The vet was indeed an enemy of landlords and Senyors. He had deigned to come, but only in a smart little dog-cart of his own, and he spoke in an authoritative tone. He walked into the courtyard with his sleeves rolled up, sporting a very fine shirt; as he washed his hands in a basin they had placed on the ledge, he engaged in conversation with the peasants.
‘This is pretty primitive,’ he said. ‘These Senyors really are behind the times. They don’t even have a bathroom!’
My benefactor squeezed my arm.
‘They do have a bathroom, with a proper zinc tub and a mirror,’ said Madò Francina.
‘A tub you couldn’t buy for less than eight duros now,’ the steward added.
‘I’m surprised,’ the vet said. ‘These people tend to think of bathing as a sin.’
‘Hold your horses,’ Madò Francina interrupted. ‘I didn’t say whether they did or didn’t bathe. Who are you to nose about other people’s business?’
‘They must use it for decoration.’
‘That’s none of your business.’
‘At Bearn,’ the steward interrupted, ‘we’ve got everything you can find in Inca, or even in the City.’
‘The house looks big,’ the Republican said, ‘but your quarters are old and gloomy.’
The Senyor looked at me and smiled. ‘There he goes, leading them on!’
‘Nobility is a thing of the past,’ the man from Inca continued. ‘Just look at the way they work the land. I saw some vines back there; they looked pitiful.’
‘The vines are dying because of a bug that’s eating away at their roots.’
‘The bugs are the noblemen, who only think about spending their money in the City.’
‘Or in Paris,’ the Senyor murmured.
The vet began a diatribe against people who do not work, and claimed, somewhat incoherently, that he was much better off than many landowners who were swamped with debts. I noticed that he tried to avoid using the word ‘Senyors’. He then proceeded to announce in a haughty tone that he was charging half a ral more than last year for each pig. He had finished washing. He put a new velvet jacket on over his magnificent shirt and went out to his trap. I must add that he had no servant in livery to help him into it.
‘People like him,’ my benefactor said, smiling, ‘will be the end of us. Get dressed and come down to breakfast; your hot chocolate’s waiting.’
We were leaving the table when the village priest appeared, and we immediately guessed the reason for his visit. Every year, in the last days before carnival, the same scene took place.
‘Tuesday is drawing near,’ he said, ‘and I thought it was time to call on you to discuss this problem.’
‘It’s very kind of you to have come, Father. If you please, we can sit by the fire. Don’t leave, Joan. You’ll soon be a priest yourself, and you should know about these “problems”…’
I believe Don Andreu was not the least bit pleased to have a third party present when discussing a matter to which he attributed great importance and which could only be approached with insinuations and allusions. The priest could not consent to there being a carnival ball in the village; year after year, by tacit agreement, the celebration took place at the estate. It was an old dispute between the Church and the Senyors—a concealed one, needless to say—that always ended in negotiation.
Don Andreu began a brief speech listing the dangers of carnival, originally a pagan festivity; without being pedantic, he made a historical summary of the matter.
‘The Church cannot approve of it,’ he said. ‘The very act of covering one’s face to indulge in the sort of rash or even disgraceful language that no one would dare use face to face…’
‘We shouldn’t forget,’ the Senyor retorted, ‘that there’s much jest and playful irony in such rudeness.’
‘That’s undoubtedly so in some cases,’ the priest granted. ‘Neither dancing nor merrymaking can be considered sinful in its own right, and the Bible teaches us that David danced before the Ark of the Covenant. But unfortunately, we aren’t angels of purity, so it often happens that things begin in innocence and jest, as your Honour says, only to end in sin, particularly when one’s hidden behind a mask, if not from the eyes of the Lord, certainly from those of man.’
As in every other year what Don Andreu disapproved of, and rightly so, was the impunity bestowed by disguise. However, the Senyor preferred not to delve into such matters, because for him the anonymity of the disguise was the whole point of the celebration.
‘Father, please consider,’ he said (and this truly reflects his nature) ‘that if we did away with carnival, we would also be doing away with Holy Lent.’
‘Lent stands for penitence, not only because of carnival, but because of any other sins as well.’
‘The nature of the sin doesn’t matter,’ the Senyor argued subtly, ‘but it’s essential that there be sin for there to be Lent.’
‘On the other hand,’ Don Andreu continued without picking up the argument, ‘feigning what one does not feel can lead to no good. People tend to lie, and if nothing else, carnival is in that respect a school of falsehood.’
The Senyor was lost in thought.
‘When Thespis invented the Greek farce,’ he finally said, ‘Solon judged it immoral precisely, as you mentioned, because it taught falsehood: “It will get men used to breaking their agreements, lying…” But Solon didn’t understand that Thespis wasn’t a sorcerer creating something new; he was only defining something that already existed. Men ceased to be naïve, the European spirit became more complex and an indication of that complexity was precisely the pleasure of considering falsehood entertaining. But falsehood itself, needless to say, was nothing new. Lies are as old as the world itself; they give us the same pleasure as seeing our reflection in a mirror.’
‘The world is slowly giving in to madness,’ Don Andreu said.
It was now the Senyor who chose not to pick up on those words, and continued: ‘Long before Thespis, Jacob had deceived his father pretending to be Esau. Esau was hairy, so Jacob covered his hands with a sheepskin. He swindled for money, whereas when Thespis played a character he didn’t expect to be seen as such; he expected to be seen as an actor. All he wanted to do was entertain, as he openly confessed. Contrary to what Solon believed, Thespis was the most sincere of men. Have you ever thought, Father,’ he continued, ‘that the people in this village never have a chance to enjoy themselves? Work must have its compensations. What do you think, Joan?’
I believed such statements shared some of the notions the Republican from Inca had expressed an hour earlier. Not having recovered from the effects of his spiteful arrogance, I could not ignore the dangers of socialistic arguments. The priest remained silent. Don Toni continued, as if he were talking to himself. ‘I know people, particularly some ladies, who have never been to a ball, whereas they never miss a funeral. In the long run, that must have an effect on one’s character. We engage in fewer and fewer activities as time goes by; we’ll end up not knowing how to do anything but die.’
‘May God grant us all a peaceful death, Don Toni,’ said the priest.
‘Amen. But only after having had our share of life. Now that I’m no longer young, I must admit that I feel sorry for some people. The other day I heard two boys whispering under the cypress trees in the garden. One of them would have given his right arm to have a watch. He said this monstrosity stupidly, like someone who has never known the value of having a healthy, normal body.’ (As he uttered these words, my benefactor stared at me.) ‘I may add,’ he continued, turning to the priest, ‘that they weren’t little children; they were both old enough to…’
‘God bless them,’ the priest mumbled.
Don Toni seemed impatient.
‘Let us not condemn mankind to eternal limbo. These people are poor, coarse and ignorant. They lead uneventful lives. Let us not deny them a little amusement once a year.’
‘Even if they indulge in objectionable behaviour?’
‘Perhaps even at that price.’
I ventured to mention that the year before a silver spoon had disappeared. The Senyor gave me a sharp glance.
‘Didn’t I tell you that Biel would give his right arm for a watch? If they don’t know the value of an arm, how can you expect them to attribute the slightest importance to pocketing a spoon?’
‘Precisely because they can’t judge, Don Toni, letting them wear masks can make for all sorts of mischief. Your Honour knows I dread these celebrations.’
‘I realize one can’t leave them on their own, and in the village you lack the power to control them when they start going too far.’
‘You know how it is. One of the guards is old; the other one is bedridden…’
‘I know. It would be safer here. At any rate, we have Madò Francina, who’s more than able to confront the entire village if need be. Father, it isn’t that I have any particular interest in bringing them here to dance knowing that you disapprove…’
‘If at least they didn’t hide their faces…’
‘We can’t do these things half-heartedly. Let them come as they please. They’ll have time to pray and reflect during Lent. As I said, I have no interest in their coming to make a rumpus and steal my spoons, but if the ball can’t take place in the village for the reasons you mentioned, you know I’ll be pleased to oblige, and Madò Francina won’t allow…’
I don’t know whether Don Andreu realized how skilfully the Senyor managed to support a celebration which the priest had not authorized while making his triumph seem like an act of submission. Don Andreu was hardly stupid, even though sometimes his modesty allowed him to seem so.
‘I’m most grateful,’ he murmured.
Don Toni, triumphant, flaunted his concessions.
‘And do bear in mind,’ he said, ‘that I’m not authorizing this either; it has no significance other than its being a custom. Let them do as they please. I won’t invite a soul. However, if they appear on Tuesday and take over the house, I can hardly turn them out. That was only a joke. These “takeovers” are more and more frequent these days.’
The matter ended, as it did every year, in agreement.