A few weeks after the house in the City was sold, I was at the estate on a leave granted to me by my superiors when the events I will now recount took place. But first I must explain my bad habit of listening behind closed doors. It was partly a practice I had picked up from the Senyor, but there are also other causes. I was already eighteen years old, and my ignorance of certain matters had heightened my curiosity. This natural impulse went hand in hand with others which were the product of very personal circumstances. You are aware of the things that have been said about my birth. For others, love and the fruits of marriage can make up for the misfortune of having no parents, whereas for us men of the cloth, there will never be another woman to replace our mother. At eighteen, I was not unaffected by earthly temptations, and my eyes eagerly searched for anything that could satisfy my curiosity. I now understand that the punishment that was inflicted upon us at the Seminary was wise, because my quest for knowledge was entirely opposed to resignation.
That day, to be more specific, and I certainly must, it was a night (in November 1868), the Senyor was sitting by the fireplace, surrounded with books and papers. He had already begun to don the Franciscan habit he wore the day he died, as well as a Louis XV wig, which he needed to keep his head warm after losing his hair. At least that was his explanation. I think there was another one: to him that wig must have symbolized eighteenth-century culture, with its frivolous appearance masking truly exuberant latent forces, a time when the Regent of France left his ladies in order to search for the soul in chemical distillations and spent endless nights on the hill of Montmartre, ‘where that man who did not believe in God searched for the Devil in a paradox that can only be conceived as a punishment of Providence.’ The clock had just struck eight and we had finished supper. I went outside. The night was cold. The moon shone on Margalideta’s tomb and I was about to pray a part of the Requiem in her memory when I saw the village priest coming up the road. Don Andreu was close to seventy, and yet still as strong as a young man. I remembered that in the morning he had announced his visit, although he had not mentioned a specific time. He did it to avoid their sending him a carriage. He felt it was unnecessary to bother the farmer and the mules when there was no real need, for ‘a half-hour stroll’ as he called it, even though it was closer to one hour. He was praying as he walked by; he was so absorbed in his devotions that he did not see me. A visit at that hour of the evening and coinciding with the rumours about the Senyor’s supposed sorcery had to be for an important reason. My curiosity overruled my sense of duty and I crept through the kitchen door and up to the dark room with the small window overlooking the fireplace where Don Toni was writing.
My heart was beating as if at that moment the fate of the Bearns was at stake—and thus my own fate as well. From the window I saw the priest enter the room. His figure stood against the background of a starlit sky. By the fireside, surrounded with books, sat the Seynor. The fire cast shades of red on his face, giving him a disquieting appearance. I have never believed the rumours one heard then, and still hears now—perhaps more than ever after this mysterious double death—concerning his sorcery, but he certainly contributed to the hearsay with his behaviour. Next to his bed he had set up a small laboratory where he performed analyses and distilled liquids. I have never known what he intended to achieve with it. The first bottle of soda water in Spain was the one that arrived at Bearn just around that time. He frightened Madò Francina by telling her about sewing machines and if he did not have a telephone installed it was because the French engineer who was to direct the operation asked for a fortune to come to Mallorca. He did not consider those extravagances inappropriate for a Senyor who had the responsibility of showing wisdom to the superstitious peasants. He even managed to build a little cart that moved on its own—an automobile—using steam, according to the principles of Fulton. The Church authorities kindly suggested that he refrain from such experiments, so he put the cart away, although he did not resolve to burn it. Not only did he not destroy it, but he sometimes took it out to examine it and modify some device, since he had not entirely got over the idea. That day he had been examining it near the fireplace. He was quite skilled in mechanical matters and using a simple kettle of boiling water on a kind of burner with a series of iron tubes that collected the steam and led it to the wheels, he had managed to make it run and drove it all the way round the courtyard. I am certain that it is true because I saw it with my own eyes. Unfortunately, others saw it too, and spread the word in the village. Those of us who have been to school know that steam is a force capable of moving machines, and that there are large boats, actually called steamers, that are propelled by this force. There are already railways that work with this system, too. They are natural inventions, not the least bit diabolical, that are transforming modern life. But try to explain this in a tiny village like Bearn, and, above all, to the Bearn of a quarter of a century ago. Luckily the Senyor hardly ever left the estate, because if he had gone to the village often I hate to think what it all may have come to. I do not mean to imply that he was not respected, but the villagers were afraid of him, and fear makes people unreasonable. The people who sent their daughters to work on the estate despite Don Toni’s romantic adventures—and I refuse to believe that, as the Republicans claimed, they sent the girls on purpose—no longer allowed them to go; it happened more than once that the olives were not harvested for that reason. The day the automobile drove around the courtyard, the old steward in charge of the estate decided to leave and has never been back since.
Don Andreu stopped in the doorway for a second. He was a simple, uneducated man, but gifted with natural intelligence. With one look he took in everything: the automobile, the books, the Franciscan habit and the white wig, reddened by the firelight. Don Toni looked up.
‘Come in, Father. Have a seat by the fire. I was expecting you. Did you come on foot?’
His words were warm and kind, as usual, but he did not rise from his chair. It appeared as if he were doing it out of humility, so as to counteract the solemnity of the conversation and create a more congenial atmosphere. Don Andreu came closer: ‘It’s only a half-hour walk.’
It was closer to an hour. The Senyor scolded him for not having announced a time for his visit so he could send the carriage. The priest smiled. He had walked over saying his rosary and gazing at the moon. He interrupted his explanations to glance at the books.
‘Your Honour is always studying. When will we get around to burning a few of these?’
The Senyor eluded his question.
‘You know, Don Andreu, that we requested permission from the Palace for all kinds of books. Lord knows when it’ll get here; they don’t seem to be in much of a hurry.’
‘Such matters can’t be decided in a moment,’ the priest replied. ‘The permission is being considered. It would appear that the Palace doesn’t object, but…’
The Senyor waved his hand in a vague gesture he often used to imply that one had to be patient.
‘Don’t put the cart before the horse, Don Andreu.’
‘Of course not.’
My benefactor was rubbing his hands. Nothing was more contrary to his stubborn nature than an argument. As for the priest, he had already lost his incisiveness. The Palace delays were convenient for both of them. Don Toni courteously inquired to what he owed the pleasure of his visit. There were two reasons, and the priest said he would begin with the one that was least important.
‘Your relatives would like to join a religious order, and, if your Honour has no objection, they would like to consult the archives. The proof of nobility they have now doesn’t appear to be sufficient.’
‘Well, they’ll have to settle for it anyway. The fact is that the family tree only dates back to the sixteenth century. We purchased this land in 1504. It was never granted to us by the King.’
‘But your Honour’s lineage,’ the priest objected with a look of concern, ‘dates back to the Conquest. That’s what I’ve always preached on the Day of Sant Miquel.’
‘There’s no proof, Father. If the Bearns had really been “lords of lands and great estates in Navarre” as some genealogies claim, they wouldn’t have stayed in Mallorca. The noblemen who came with King James returned to the mainland.’
‘However, according to tradition…’
‘That’s true,’ Don Toni said. ‘You’d agree with that Italian princess whose name I can’t remember…A noble family dating back to before Christ, perhaps descendants of Romulus and Remus,’ he added with a smile. ‘One day a journalist asked her whether that genealogy was authentic. She replied that at least it had been considered so for over two thousand years.’
Madò Francina came in with a message from the steward. One afternoon, in a state of despair because he could not pay the labourers, the man had used bad language, uttering something almost blasphemous, as if that would make the money appear out of nowhere, and the Senyor had punished him with a whipping. After the incident he had behaved particularly well for a week or two, as if the blood in his veins were running faster and had cleared his mind. Madò Francina asked whether he could sell some wheat and whether they could begin sowing the following Monday. It was obvious that this is what he should have done in the first place instead of cursing and swearing.
‘Let him come, sow and pay.’
Madò Francina retired. The priest gently admonished Don Toni. How could an enlightened nobleman who spoke French and wrote Latin hexameters…? Don Toni smiled, thinking, ‘why should Latin hexameters or even French alexandrines be incompatible with a whip?’ However, he realized it was beginning to seem like an anachronism in the nineteenth century. ‘How many years do you think it’ll take,’ he inquired, ‘for the Enlightenment to reach these lands? Besides, I’ve developed a rather unusual view of the world. What I mean is that over the years I’ve come up with a philosophy of my own that may be rather eclectic: I believe the more refined we are, the more cruel we become, because everything is always balanced. The nineteenth century is the century of great inventions, of brotherhood and also of the most dreadful wars. Everything has its counterpart. If something has a front, it must have a back, too. God, for all his mercy, condemns countless souls.’
Don Andreu looked solemn.
‘The Devil is the one who condemns.’
‘The Devil? I’ve never been quite sure of that.’
‘Or, rather, we’re the ones who chose the path of evil. Free will…’
‘Well,’ said Don Toni, changing the subject, ‘be that as it may, Creation is always harmonious. Look at this starry night…’
‘On the way here I was looking at it. It’s a lovely evening…’
My benefactor seemed to be lost in thought.
‘The Universe,’ he said, ‘always turns right on time, like an enormous clock. Are you interested in machines, Father?’
I caught a glimpse of mystery, the mystery of strange coincidences. I remembered the poet’s words:
El hombre está entregado
al sueno, de su suerte no cuidando,
y con paso callado
el cielo vueltas dando
las horas del vivir le va hurtando.*
The priest said: ‘From what we have seen of them, I think they can do a lot of harm, Don Toni.’
‘They can do harm, but they can also help us. The world is a harmony of opposites. See how good we feel by the fire, you and I? Come closer and sit on this sheepskin. It’s because the night’s getting colder. In the morning the fields will be covered in frost. Then the sun will rise and melt the crystals, and the trees and flowers will be clean, as if they’d just been washed.’
The Senyor was drawing from old Oriental doctrines: Good and Evil, two aspects of one sole principle, of one Supreme Being. It smacked of Manicheism, a heresy in which powerful minds have gone astray—even Saint Augustine, before he became a saint. However, the Senyor knew how to express things without offending anyone, without malice or confrontations. Thus his mistakes were doubly dangerous.
‘Getting back to where we left off, Father,’ Don Toni continued, ‘my nephews and niece would love to pass as botifarres† as if that were something to be proud of. As you know, botifarres comes from botifleurs, from the fleur de lys. They’re the ones who joined the Bourbons about one hundred and fifty years ago simply because they’d won the War of Succession. And look at the Bourbons now. You see how Dona Isabel has ended up, after all that nonsense about crazy nuns and everything else we’ve heard. I’m not particularly fond of my relatives. They all vanished into thin air the moment they saw our money was running out. Besides, I don’t like to spread lies, and I wonder who gave them these strange ideas.’
‘His Lordship the Marquis of Collera, who I believe is related to you…or at least that’s what Dona Magdalena implied.’
‘Collera’s never been related to us. Magdalena’s inane enough to think that makes her more important. You mean to say now Collera’s breathing down their backs?’
‘Apparently he’s offered to attend to the matter. He knows so many people in Madrid, you see…’
‘Castelar and he are the two biggest parrots in Spain,’ the Senyor muttered in resignation. ‘He’d do best to stay put in Parliament telling stories.’
‘Dona Magdalena asked you to excuse them for not coming, but they haven’t got a carriage…’
‘Tell her not to worry; they’ll come whenever they can.’
The priest was slightly exasperated, realizing he was making no headway whatsoever.
‘But, you know, before they come, they’d like to know whether they’d be well received.’
‘And why shouldn’t they be, Don Andreu? They will always be welcome at this house. But they will not see the archives. These genealogical matters…’
The priest decided to drop the issue: ‘We are all the product of our actions,’ he said.
‘That’s what we’re taught by religion and the laws of nature,’ the Senyor replied with a sigh.
They continued to talk about general subjects, as if they were trying to avoid a specific issue that was on both their minds. I sensed it, and could not imagine what would happen next. Suddenly Don Andreu said: ‘Now I must come to the more difficult part of this visit. [I took my hands to my heart, trying to stop it from pounding]. I’m very sorry, Don Toni, but it’s my duty…someone has just arrived in Bearn…’
The Senyor interrupted.
‘My niece Xima.’