The arrangements for the trip lasted a few months. Obtaining a private audience from Leo XIII was not easy. The Holy Father adds numerous cultural activities to his solid piety. He is both a mystic and a humanist; in his spare time he writes Latin verse. All his encyclicals, renowned for their concepts and their style, are written in his own hand. In the mundane world, where his name had been Count Pecci, he had received a thorough education. A fine diplomat, he strives to separate the spiritual interests of the Church from political struggles. His occupations leave him little time to devote to private visits. Given our moral and material difficulties—we were hardly in a position to give a large donation to the Vatican—Dona Maria Antònia would have settled for a public audience, but the Senyor did not easily forsake his plans.
‘It won’t hurt us; one thousand duros more or less don’t matter. I won’t settle for a blessing, Maria Antònia. All popes give blessings, when they don’t…’ He looked at Dona Maria Antònia and stopped himself, because he had been on the verge of mentioning the excommunications and anathemas of the medieval papacy. ‘They all give blessings,’ he continued. ‘Pius IX already blessed us once, but Leo XIII is an intelligent man, in addition.’
‘Don’t start up with your heresies, Tonet. Benediction is above intelligence.’
‘As you please. But once we’re making the financial sacrifice of going to Rome’—it was quite a time to think of finances—‘we shouldn’t deny ourselves an interview with Leo XIII. Joan is young and will benefit from it. And you’re dying to see him, too.’
‘That’s true enough.’
In my opinion, the Senyor knew better than to be deceived by his own words. If it is true that a blessing confers a spiritual benefit and does so all at once, by divine grace, a half-hour of conversation operating by rational means could not change a grown man like myself, already thirty-two years of age.
Dona Maria Antònia had an idea: ‘Jacob will arrange it.’
‘Jacob? That parrot?’
She protested at her husband’s aggressive, bold reaction, worthy of some legendary ancestor.
‘My God, Tonet, what a way of judging your fellow men! You’ve a merciless tongue. Collera, a parrot?’
Don Jacob Obrador i Santandreu, third Marquis of Collera and representative in the Spanish Parliament, was the most prestigious man on the island. All the newspapers had printed his speech in reply to a representative of the Opposition who had referred to him as a ‘poet’ because he wanted a better naval squadron than the English. ‘Poetry, poetry, if only I could dive into the magical world of poetry and witness the Battle of Lepanto…’ They claimed it was an oratory piece worthy of Castelar. A Latin scholar, he had written commentaries on Seneca and Cicero. He was also an archaeologist. ‘His life is charmed,’ said his many female admirers (in the best sense of the word). ‘Charm, grace, elegance…’ However, the Senyor could not stand him.
‘I know him all too well. He’s emptier than a snailshell.’
He also mocked the ridiculous title Don Jacob had been granted by the Queen Regent.
‘She’s not really a queen, since she has no number in history, nor does this Collera Don Jacob business make any heraldic sense. Seventy years ago the Obradors were known as the stupidest people in Selva. Since they only opened their mouths to make asses of themselves, once, on the Senyor’s saint’s day, they were given a collera.* They didn’t take it as an insult—they were too stupid to do so—and when they thought of asking Dona Cristina for a title (she would grant one for five hundred duros, and for even less than that) they signed Obrador de Ca’n Collera†. Dona Cristina, who was a scatterbrain, left out the Obrador, so they’ve been the Colleras ever since.’
I believe the story he told was true, and even though he claimed that such matters belonged to the ancien régime, he was interested in the ancestry of the families on the island. He sometimes surprised us with statements that seemed whimsical and turned out to be accurate. For most people, at any rate, Don Jacob was an eminent personality. His office and his title provided him with good relations in Madrid, and in the end it was he who, through the Spanish Embassy in Rome, succeeded in getting His Holiness Leo XIII to grant us, in principle and barring unforeseen circumstances, a thirty-minute audience for the last day of the year, at eleven in the morning.
We left the island on November second, when a French steamer called in at Palma before sailing to Marseilles. It was called Le Lion du Louvre et de Belfort, and was, as the advertisement in the shipping office said, a veritable floating palace. The Senyors had travelled in their youth and were no longer surprised at almost anything. To me, that steamer seemed like magic.
Don Jacob Collera, not content with obtaining the audience for us, had recommended us to the captain of the ship, who came out to greet us on deck and showed us into a drawing room with a red carpet that was a feast to the eye: lights, mirrors, plush chairs, china, electric bells…even a piano! Right then and there, he had a glass of wine and pastries served, and asked the Senyor if he would be so kind as to introduce him to Dona Maria Antònia. As we were told later, that is a French custom, and although we knew perfectly well that we were with the captain, which was obvious right away, he pretended, out of politeness, that no one knew him but that everyone knew the Senyora, and thus he had to be introduced to her, though in that fantastic world he was the maximum and sovereign authority. Two handsome young men appeared to serve the wine; their hair was slicked back with pomade. They wore black trousers and red jackets; I cannot remember whether they wore gloves. When they were not busy with something, they would stand at either end of an ebony sideboard against a wall covered in mirrors, so it seemed as though you saw four identical figures, serious and stiff as if they were walking in a procession. Unaware as I was of the world and its vanities, all I could think of was that, as we sat there talking, those young men could have reaped a quarter of an acre of wheat.
Before retiring, the captain sent for a steward to see us to our staterooms. The one they had ready for me made me blush: it too was full of mirrors, scented with violets, with a carpet and pink silk curtains. If I had dared to, I would have asked for another one. The steward showed me a button and I understood it was an electric bell; he told me that if I rang it once the valet would appear; if I rang it twice, the femme de chambre would come. I noticed there was no water jug by the sink and pointed it out to him. The steward smiled, walked over to the sink and opened what they now call a robinet: out poured the water.
We had a pleasant crossing; the sea was calm and nobody even felt sick. As we had lunch the glass doors separating the dining room from the drawing room opened up and from the table we heard the piano, played by a young lady who did so quite well and who apparently had won a prize at the Conservatory. Le Lion du Louvre et de Belfort had sailed from French Morocco carrying Moors, Jews and Negroes, but they were not allowed into the first-class section. I watched them from the deck, and the Senyor decided to go down to meet a Negro personally—a man-eater, according to him.
In Marseilles, where we were supposed to rest for three days, we stayed at the Grand Hotel, on the famous Cannebierre, a wide avenue full of cafés, theatres and stores selling everything you could possibly dream of. My room was covered with floral paper, more fit for a young lady than for a poor priest raised in the mountains. Once again, there were mirrors and curtains everywhere.
‘What do you think of all this elegance?’ asked the Senyor, peering in.
I felt stifled, as if the flowers on the wall were real. Even the bowl in the basin had a floral design. The mirrors made my head spin. The door that opened into the corridor had four square mirrors facing the inside of the room; since it was just opposite the balcony, with four panes of glass set in the same position, when I got up in the morning to let a little air into the room, I opened the wrong one and instead of ending up on the balcony I found myself half naked in the corridor, with a young English lady staring at me in astonishment.
Marseilles is a rich city, and its harbour is perhaps the largest in the Mediterranean. Unfortunately, the mixture of races and the freedom or licentiousness of their customs has slowly undermined the city’s moral foundations. I do not mean to say there are not good people there, but the shamelessness is sometimes so extreme during festivities that the decent families leave for the country so as to spare themselves. However, most people are very respectful, and the waiters at the hotel bowed at me and called me Monsieur l’abbé, which I found embarrassing, since I have never been and probably never will be an abbot.
I will not even mention the inventions that French civilization had gathered in Marseilles and that were nothing but a preview of what we would see shortly afterwards. I will only point out the great use made of electricity, a form of energy applied to light, medicine, the telegraph and even, impossible though it may seem, to music.
On the fifteenth we took the train that would take us to Ventimiglia and to Rome, passing through Florence, where we would stop for a week.
‘You’ll see,’ Dona Maria Antònia had told me, ‘how beautiful the Côte d’Azur is. Instead of planting wheat in the fields, they plant carnations.’
Unfortunately, night was falling and we did not see a thing. When I awoke at dawn the landscape was striking: tall, tall trees, water, beautiful pastures and cows. I had always heard that the Côte d’Azur looked like Mallorca, but what I saw was very different indeed. Even the sky and the infinite softness of the light seemed strange. I pointed it out to the Senyor when he awoke.
‘What I don’t understand,’ said Dona Maria Antònia, ‘is why we can’t see the sea.’
The Senyor was smiling. He looked at his watch, consulted a guide and then uttered the following words, which left us dumbfounded: ‘In six and a half hours we’ll be in Paris.’
‘Weren’t we going to see the Pope, Tonet?’
‘Certainly. But we’ll stop to rest in Paris.’
They say all roads lead to Rome, although that one hardly seemed to be the most appropriate.
‘It isn’t a shortcut,’ the Senyor granted, ‘but I suppose we’ll all enjoy a week in Paris.’
I looked at Dona Maria Antònia. The name Paris had suggested that of Dona Xima. Luckily the Senyora did not seem to lose her composure.
‘I think it’s a good idea, Tonet. Once we’ve crossed the sea, we might as well take advantage of the trip. Don’t you think so, Joan?’
‘In a sense,’ said the Senyor, addressing me, ‘it’s a way of saving money. In Marseilles we were already halfway there.’
‘Besides,’ Dona Maria Antònia corroborated, ‘we’re already old and this will be our last trip.’
They were both staring at me. Since I did not open my mouth, she gave me a chocolate and started talking about churches.
‘You’ll see Notre Dame, Joanet. And that other church that’s so old and is also on the Ile de la Cité…’
‘The Sainte Chapelle.’
‘That’s it. What a beauty! That’s what I call stained glass. And the Madeleine…There’s a very good restaurant right across from it, you’ll see. Only the best people go there—usually men, ambassadors or politicians; not many ladies. Isn’t that so, Tonet? A few old ones like me, perhaps. Where will we stay?’
‘At the Louvre, like the last time.’
Since I did not know Paris, the word Louvre made me think of the palace of the Kings of France; ever since we had left Mallorca, the Senyor kept me living in a world where the absurd seemed possible; but the Louvre he was referring to was a hotel, one of the best in the city, and in fact quite near the palace after which it was named, at one end of the Avenue of the Opera. Incidentally, right next to the Opera was the Grand Hotel, where at one time Don Toni had lived with Dona Xima. What crossed the Senyor’s mind every time he walked by? And how did Dona Maria Antònia, who knew everything, agree to go to the Café de la Paix one afternoon, on the ground floor of the very same building? You know how I have loved the Senyors; my pen refuses to condemn them, and yet I must admit that at times they proved surprisingly insensitive. Reading certain authors we are struck by Napoleon’s kindness. Alas, did that great captain, adored by his grognards, about whom such moving anecdotes are told, ever hesitate to declare war, or renounce a crown so as not to send them to their death? We may feel compelled to accept the sweet Napoleonic legend, but the millions of lives sacrificed for that captain are a no less tangible reality. I would be horrified to have to agree with the Senyor when he implies that Good and Evil stem from the same source. No: that dreadful error is definitively refuted, and glorious Saint Augustine, who had fallen into heresy, has since been the most illustrious advocate of catholic orthodoxy. In any case, earthly greatness implies cruelty. How could it be otherwise? Could the surgeon amputate a limb if he were moved when he heard his patient moan? The night the automobile burned, I fainted and Dona Maria Antònia had to help the two of us. I am ashamed to think of it; I was a strong young man, the strongest in the Seminary. I still am. And an elderly lady kept her composure and asked for a mule to be harnessed, sent for a doctor and cleaned the Senyor’s wounds. That is what happened, Miquel, and my honesty forces me to acknowledge it: when they behave as such, noblemen also have their place in this world.