I had to hold on to the windowframe. Dona Xima in Bearn! The Senyor already knew! I felt as though the earth had collapsed under my feet. Dona Xima in Bearn, right when my aging benefactor had finally settled down and everyone had begun to think that Dona Maria Antonia would finally return to the estate. You must understand, my friend, the horror I felt at the wild age of eighteen. Dona Xima, at the height of her beauty and her depravity, was, in my fantasy, the Devil incarnate. A thousand times, up in these mountains, I had thought of her as Saint Anthony must have thought of the Queen of Sheba in the desert. At the time, Dona Xima was a woman of about thirty, a desirable, open rose exciting sad, mortal passions. The most dissolute city in the world, the most licentious society, had moulded in its image that poor soul, born for evil.
There was a pause. I closed my eyes and prayed. The priest lowered his voice. ‘She’s travelling like a queen: a carriage, pageboys, everything…There aren’t enough servants at the inn to attend her needs. In the morning she bathes in warm milk. It’s the talk of the town. The worst part is that children and sick people will be left without nourishment. Not even I had an ensaïmada yesterday morning: the maid told me that Dona Xima’s coachmen walked into the bakery and ate everything in sight. They look like princes, all covered in braid. They only speak French, and no one can understand a word they say.’
‘But they do manage to find the ensaïmades,’ murmured Don Toni. The Senyor did not happen to be very fond of sweets nor particularly demanding at the table. Don Andreu continued to speak softly.
‘The entire village thinks Dona Xima has come to take your Honour away. I certainly hope it isn’t true.’
‘So that’s what they think?’
He had a tender look in his eye, as though he were daydreaming. He was no longer the devilish Faust who strives to steal land from the sea and seduce young maidens, but a poet reminiscing. Seldom did he let himself be seen with that expression. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘For a long time I’ve been meaning to make a confession, and you’ve come just in time, Father. Would you like anything to drink? A glass of wine, perhaps?’
Don Andreu accepted a glass of water. The Senyor now spoke frankly. It was true that Dona Xima, with whom he had not ceased to correspond, had come to the island to try to take out a new mortage on Bearn in the hopes of leaving for Paris with her uncle. The priest was speechless.
‘There’s no stopping that woman,’ he said when he regained his speech. ‘With what authority did she dare to conceive of such criminal notions?’
‘With mine,’ Don Toni replied.
Don Andreu was speechless and had to drink a sip of water. For a moment he must have considered that his mission had been fruitless and that Don Toni was completely determined to go back to Dona Xima. I knew him better than that, even though I did have my fears. The Senyor’s reply was only a protest against Don Andreu’s expressions. He disliked the word ‘criminal’, and applied to his own niece he found it offensive. The Bearns were used to taking responsibility for the follies of the ladies whose company they kept. Besides, in the heat of his indignation, Don Andreu had referred to her as a ‘woman’ as opposed to a ‘lady’. However, not being the resentful sort, the Senyor smiled when the priest finished drinking his glass of water.
‘You may think I’m too old for certain things,’ he said, ‘but everything’s relative. Ten years ago I already thought I was old when in March 1859, Xima got it into her head that I had to take her to see the première of Faust. You remember that.’
The priest certainly did. He recalled how they prayed in church in an attempt to prevent such recklessness; how they took Sant Miquel out in procession; how there were two astonishing conversions, that of the barber, who had recently declared himself a Protestant…
The Senyor interrupted. ‘There were two conversions, but I never converted. I lost my head instead. You have no idea what it means to take a lady the likes of Xima’—he said ‘lady’ staring at Don Andreu and smiling so imperceptibly that the priest did not even notice—‘to the opening night at the Paris Opera.’
And his colourful language led the village priest through the extravagance and the splendour of the Second Empire. Years later, when I finally went to France, during the time of the Third Republic, I was still able to witness that the Senyor’s words were no exaggeration. To give you a slight idea of how it was I will just tell you an anecdote that is rather inappropriate here, but that shocked me deeply. A lady of high society (even though morally it should be called the lowest) was walking through the Champs Elysées followed by a lamb on a leash. From what I could see, such extravagance was far from unusual in the cities that are thought of as civilized. A young friend walked over to her and, after kissing her hand quite lavishly, asked after her husband. ‘He’s right behind me,’ the lady answered, pointing to the lamb. Her husband, who had in fact fallen behind, walked up and greeted the young man quite effusively, calling him mon cher. The passers-by smiled. The three of them stepped into a carriage and headed off to dine together at a restaurant.
Don Toni never covered up embarrassing things nor sought to extenuate his behaviour. Don Andreu listened in silence. When they reached the scene where the Emperor sent the Duke to the town house at the Etoile, the good priest was astounded.
‘I hadn’t heard that one before,’ he mumbled.
‘Campo Formio,’ Don Toni said, ‘was an opportunist, a rich, good-looking nobleman of the Empire. Louis Napoleon didn’t accomplish his objective, but his emissary ousted me right away. He was twenty years younger than I.’
The priest tried to take the opportunity to prove a moral point and boldly adopted a rather declamatory tone.
‘Ah, Don Toni, youth doesn’t last…Every day that goes by draws us closer to death, and when we’re old and remember our follies, we feel sadness and regrets. Isn’t that so? Ashes in our hearts and a bitter aftertaste. Then we meditate, and what does our conscience tell us?’
I feared a Voltairian reply. It seemed to me rather imprudent on the part of Don Andreu to venture into such dangerous realms, and I was right.
‘Our conscience,’ he answered, ‘doesn’t always tell us the same thing. I know people who regret not having sinned a little more when they were still in time to do so.’
The fire shone red on his face. He looked like a condemned man consciously defying the laws of God. I wished to believe that he did not mean those terrible words in earnest, but who could be sure of that? Don Andreu rose from his chair as if he had taken it personally.
‘Man is not so depraved,’ he exclaimed. ‘I hope your Honour can’t give me a single example.’
The Senyor’s features softened and he waved vaguely with his hand as he often did.
‘Certainly not,’ he replied. ‘The two of us, you and I, are alone in this house.’
With that sentence he ruled me out. How distressing, my friend. Not only did I live in the house (apart from the workers, who are also the children of God) but I had occasionally confided in the Senyor and he knew some of the complications that in times of doubt tempted me to abandon my ecclesiastical career. When I felt that moment of rejection, my pride got the best of me and I could have cried out to remind him of my presence. But if he had known that I was listening, he would not have been angry. And then, would his indifference not have wounded me even more?
Don Andreu had to accept things as they were, even though he was not really satisfied and felt ill at ease. Despite his simple appearance and his lack of education, he was no fool.
‘Your Honour had mentioned a confession,’ he said.
‘I believe this is a confession.’
‘With the pain of contrition and the intention of never repeating the offence?’
The Senyor eluded the former and only responded to the latter.
‘At my age? I’m beginning to feel quite worn out.’
His health was enviable. He spoke of his physical decline as he did of his financial ruin, as a rhetorical device and probably intending to inspire sympathy, because, knowing human nature, he realized that neither health nor fortune were qualities that one easily overlooked. Don Andreu, eager to know specific facts, was thrown off course and did not realize that the penitent had not answered the essential part of his question. As is often the case, material and contingent details draw attention away from matters of the soul.
‘But Dona Xima has come to take you with her, your Honour,’ he said, ‘is that not so?’
‘In January,’ the Senyor observed, ‘there will be a new production of Faust. I’d written her that I’d love to see that opera again. Capoul will be singing it. Last time, Faust rejuvenated me.’
‘At what a price!’ said the priest. His subject smiled imperceptibly.
‘In exchange I lost something,’ he said, ‘as is only natural. I was disconsolate when my wife left me; I’ve always loved her. Ever since then I’ve worn the habit of Saint Francis.’
He had made a vow? I truly doubt it. He never told me so, and now he has taken his secret to the grave. But if the habit were a sacrifice to implore his wife’s forgiveness, what meaning could he attribute to the eighteenth-century wig?
‘Your wife,’ said the priest, ‘is a saint.’
‘I know she is. Everything requires some sacrifice, Don Andreu. You know the legend: in exchange for youth, Faust sells his soul to the Devil. However, there are several versions of the story. According to some, Faust, redeemed by love, was saved. According to others, he was condemned.’
‘Which happens to be what I believe,’ the priest concluded.
Don Toni smiled.
‘It may not be so, Father. You know that a moment of contrition is enough to save a soul.’
‘Yes,’ said Don Andreu. ‘God is merciful.’
‘And we must not censure that. We should pray for Him to absolve even those of us who don’t deserve it…’
‘We should never lose hope, Don Toni. But believe me, Faust…’
‘You aren’t very fond of him. Neither am I. He isn’t a clear enough hero. We don’t know what the Germans meant by that myth, whose origin, according to the scholars, is English, even though it seems utterly Germanic to me. Excessive, like everything those people do. You see, both versions we mentioned refer to the same trap: Faust, condemned, is a victim of Mephistopheles…’
‘I’m pleased to hear you say that.’
‘But Faust redeemed is a cheat: he cheats the Devil.’
‘We can cheat the Devil: he isn’t a fellow man…’
‘Isn’t he?’ asked the Senyor. ‘He’s always so close at hand…’
Suddenly Don Andreu feared that the conversation had wandered too far from the purpose of his visit to the estate.
‘Don Toni,’ he said, ‘after the scandal you made, your Honour can’t go back to Paris ten years later. Think of your wife. Didn’t you say you loved her? That would rule out any chance of a reconciliation. She’s willing to forget, but obviously only if your Honour is willing to be reasonable.’
Without giving a specific reply, my benefactor had to admit that if he returned to Paris everyone would assume it was because of his niece, not for the opera. However, he found that the truth outweighed the lie. If he went, it would be for the opera.
He used the conditional: he had not made up his mind to return to Paris. The priest was astonished. The clock struck nine and suddenly Don Toni said: ‘My niece told me she would be coming after supper. I haven’t seen her yet. I’m telling you in case you’d rather not meet her.’
The priest got up to leave. What a shock! What would they say in the village? I was thunderstruck. Dona Xima was a legend to me, as Don Juan is to so many maidens who are seduced before they even meet him. Her image had troubled my soul for years and almost made me renounce my ecclesiastical career. Prudence and holy reason advised me to leave my hideaway and lock myself up in my room, but I decided against it. I would not move from the window until I had witnessed her visit. Judging by the cold night, they would probably sit by the fire. I was moved by an uncontrollable urge, and all the reflections in the world would not have succeeded in changing my behaviour.
The Senyor tried to reassure the priest and begged him not to leave. Before his niece arrived, they would hear the carriage; if Don Andreu did not wish to meet her, he could leave through the garden. That solution was safer than leaving earlier and risking the possibility of an encounter at the entrance to the estate.
‘You’re right,’ said the priest. ‘That’s what I’ll do.’
Lowering his voice again, he continued to describe details about Don Toni’s shameless niece.
Since he was already old, his disapproval of the magnificence he described was mixed with an involuntary admiration, the product of the very magnificence he censured. Two days before Dona Xima’s arrival, a foreign man had come from the City to the village inn. He spoke French and brought a big cart full of furniture and curtains; he had gone up to the living room and the bedroom on the upper floor overlooking the square, facing the Bearn town house, and with the help of two men who came with him he covered the walls with damask, hung mirrors and filled the rooms with vases of flowers and silver candelabra as in a chapel. Word spread that the Field Marshal was on his way, and a woman was sent to the priest’s house to ask if they would lend her their linen sheets. Don Andreu, proceeding with caution, did not agree before he knew what it was for.
‘When I found out, naturally, I said no. And I hope your Honour will forgive me if I offend you in this matter.’
‘You are the one who ought to forgive me for the wrong I have done,’ Don Toni replied.
‘That is our mission.’
‘And for what I still may do,’ the Senyor murmured almost inaudibly.
‘That’s impossible.’
‘You’re right. It’s impossible.’
And to please him, knowing his weakness, because the priest detested progress but enjoyed discussing it, Don Toni brought up the subject of inventions and travel.
‘The first time we went to Paris, instead of travelling by carriage, we travelled by railway from Bayonne. There are many trains in France. Do you know what a railway is? It’s a row of cars attached to a locomotive. The passengers share the cars. You buy a ticket and you can ride in any one of them. I remember there was a man from Bordeaux who sat down next to us; he looked like a Marquis, but he claimed he was a shop-owner.’
Don Andreu looked up.
‘And your Honour didn’t leave the car?’
‘It was already moving, and when a railway car starts moving it doesn’t stop for anyone.’
‘So if you see a lovely landscape and want to go out for a stroll or have lunch by a spring…’
‘You can’t. You see, you’d be imposing upon the other passengers.’
‘You have to suit the others’ needs instead of your own, then?’
‘Exactly. That’s socialism for you. As you see, it isn’t only a political theory, but also a technological necessity. Progress leads to socialism, whether we like it or not. Have you sent any letters by mail yet?’
‘Last Sunday I sent one to the Palace. I spoke to the Post Master personally—we now have a postmaster in Bearn—and he helped me attach the stamp.’
‘Some time ago,’ Don Toni replied, ‘you’d have sent the letter with an emissary, by hand. Now you have to send it through others whose families and opinions you don’t know. Along with the letter you sent to the Palace, there may have been other very different ones, written by Protestants, for example.’
The priest pointed out that there were no Protestants in the village, but that it was a known fact that the secretary’s wife was corresponding with a young man. They sent each other poems.
‘It’s the worst scandal in the past fifty years,’ he said.
‘Not counting mine,’ the Senyor murmured.
The priest responded with a discreet silence. Then he said: ‘By the way, Don Toni, a minute ago I noticed that little cart…’
He had not taken his eyes off it since he had walked in the door. As much or more than Barbara Titana’s madness, the automobile reinforced Don Toni’s reputation as a sorcerer in the village. Don Andreu stared suspiciously at the device.
‘I’11 burn it soon,’ my benefactor said, vaguely.
‘There’s no rush,’ the priest replied in a conciliatory tone. ‘However, it would be advisable…and besides, Don Toni, allow me to remind you about the dolls’ room.’
‘It’s locked up. No one can get in,’ the Senyor interrupted firmly.
Don Andreu dared not harp on the subject and continued to talk about the advances of the century, which he considered somewhat diabolical.
‘At any rate, they’re dangerous inventions.’
‘They will impose themselves sooner or later,’ the other man argued. ‘Have you ever heard of the telephone? They’ve used it in some important experiments. The same as the balloon. Ever since the Marquise du Chatelet went up in a balloon, in the company of Newton*…’ And he showed the priest a commemorative engraving with some verses written below it which had always fascinated me:
A côté de Newton, l’immortelle Emilie
s’élève dans les airs,
et parcourant des cieux la carrière infinite
mesure l’Univers.
‘I don’t know French,’ the priest mumbled, ‘but I think it says she wants to measure the Universe.’
The Senyor nodded.
‘Burn this print, Don Toni.’
‘As you please,’ he said, and threw it in the fire.
That very moment they heard the carriage. The priest left in haste and when I expected to see Dona Xima appear through the courtyard doorway—I had unwittingly closed my eyes to open them the moment her striking figure appeared against the starlit sky—I witnessed a very different image, yet no less marvellous: a graceful, proud young man dressed in red and gold who seemed to radiate light. Angel or demon, I had never imagined anything quite like him. Years later, visiting the Musée du Louvre, I discovered in Poussin heroes and gods with that same French liveliness and that classical profile.
The young man stopped, clicked his heels and announced in an insolent tone:
‘Madame de Vidal demande si Monsieur de Bearn venut bien la recevoirr…’
He drew out the word ‘recevoir’, already emphatic by nature, singing it in a baritone and adding a few consecutive r’s. The Senyor lifted the spectacles he only wore for reading and examined the man from head to toe. The splendid valet let himself be admired without moving a muscle, as if he were a painting on a wall. A moment later, neutralizing his French insolence with some sound Mallorcan common sense, the Senyor replied softly in his own tongue: ‘Tell the lady to please come in.’
Before the valet retired, the house was invaded by a waft of perfumes and colour. Dona Xima advanced, smiling with open arms.
‘Uncle Tonet…’