After the three bows demanded by etiquette, the Senyor bent down to kiss the Sacred Sandal, but His Holiness forestalled the gesture and offered his hand. The same scene was repeated with me. Afterwards, as if he knew the Senyora, he asked why he did not have the pleasure of seeing the Lady of Bearn. The question caught us by surprise, and the Senyor saved the day, claiming she did not feel well. Thus, the first words he addressed to Leo XIII were a lie. More than once have I reminded him of that, fulfilling my duty as a man of the cloth.
‘But how could I explain such a complicated process in a moment, especially when he wouldn’t have been interested in hearing about it?’
‘I realize it would have been difficult, but I don’t think anything can justify the lie. We could have told him it was due to complex reasons.’
‘But in that case,’ the Senyor argued, ‘Leo XIII would have assumed that the Senyora didn’t wish to see him, or that she was not a good Catholic; that falsehood would have been even worse than my version.’
‘He may have assumed she was a little soft in the head.’
‘Well, I told him she was ill.’
The Senyor’s argument was irreproachable. However, I did find him lacking in regrets about having lied to the representative of Jesus Christ on Earth. Why not tell him all the truth, and confess that Dona Maria Antònia disapproved of her husband’s rationalism, that being the reason why she had not wanted to come with us?
‘Perhaps the Holy Father would have found a way out of the misunderstanding between your Honour and the Senyora…’
‘Or maybe he would have told us to go climb a tree, Joan. Don’t you see there are millions of souls out there? How can you expect him to tend to each one of them personally? If the Pope asked about the Senyora, it was out of courtesy, because on the note he received from the Embassy—and held in front of him during our entire conversation—there were three names and he saw only two of us come in. In case you ever leave Bearn, [those words, said with no specific intention, were deeply disturbing to me], you must get used to the fact that some questions are purely rhetorical.’
It was true that along with the important donation the Senyors had given to the Vatican, the Embassy had sent a protocol to Leo XIII, and the entire time I was present at the interview, the Pope consulted it, smiling.
‘Mallorca,’ he said, ‘bello paradiso. I was there once many years ago. What a splendid bay! Are the bianchi molini still turning? You live in Bearn. Those lands, if I am not mistaken, have been in your family since the Conquest?’
Don Toni was about to object, but Leo XIII continued: ‘Bearn is an illustrious name. His Honour the Marquis of…Collera…’ he kept on reading, but interrupted himself to ask what Collera meant, given that he was interested in etymologies.
The Senyor and I looked at each other.
‘It’s an old name,’ said the Senyor.
The Pope was satisfied with his reply.
‘I know,’ he said, ‘that you are a great publicist,’ (‘What the devil did that stupid Jacob write,’ the Senyor mumbled.) ‘And I also know that Don Joan is a lover of the Latin classics. Right over there,’ he said, pointing to a little door. ‘I have a small library with some valuable editions of Virgil.’
‘Oh, Your Holiness,’ Don Toni exclaimed, taking up the occasion, ‘Virgil is one of his weaknesses.’
‘He is also one of mine,’ Leo XIII replied. ‘The library is at your disposal.’
‘It is known,’ said Don Toni, ‘that Your Holiness has opened the secret archives of the Vatican to the learned men of the earth. If Your Holiness permits, Father Joan [it was the first time he gave me that title] would be delighted to have a look at those editions of Virgil.’
‘By all means,’ Leo XIII replied, perceiving the Senyor’s intentions. ‘Go, Son, and examine the books at your leisure. We’ll let you know when the Lord of Bearn must take his leave.’
I stayed in the library almost three quarters of an hour, until I was called back. It was an octagonal room with light green boiseries framed in gilded strips. It had a balcony overlooking a garden. The high, arched ceiling was decorated with a fresco. Set in the walls, on four of the eight sides of the room, there were bookcases with glass doors that were also painted and gilded. In the centre of the room stood a round table resting on four swans. It was the most harmonious ensemble imaginable. They had closed the door, and I suddenly realized that I did not know where I had entered. There was no visible lock or doorknob. It seemed like magic, because only a moment earlier I had walked in through one of those sections so beautifully covered in boiseries. Finally, when I had started to get restless after pacing up and down, I happened to lean on a moulding and a door swung open onto a storeroom full of folders and ink bottles. I closed it, comforted by having discovered the secret, and cautiously opened another section. I was blinded by a ray of sunlight. The Pope and the Senyor had vanished and instead of the wallpapered office with the desk, I was facing a small room, a veritable friar’s cell with an iron bed, a crucifix and a high window revealing the top of a cypress tree. Hanging from a hook were a white habit and a scourge. I stepped back in terror, as if I had violated a secret. Could it be true that Leo XIII, the enlightened Pope, as the Senyor called him, who looked so much like Houdon’s statue, took mysticism to the same extreme as a medieval monk? Silence is enjoined on us in all matters of such personal intimacy. Years before, in Bearn, I had listened to an entire conversation between the Senyor and Dona Xima. It had been an uncontrollable urge. This time I was again tempted by the Senyor’s conversation and my conscience offered a thousand reasonable excuses. Was it not my duty to watch over the well-being of a soul that I have never succeeded in understanding? Spying could perhaps shed some light on the matter and help me in my mission. But in no circumstances can straying from the course of morality be justified. I forced myself to concentrate on the editions of the classics and not go over to the sections I had not yet investigated. Believe me, it was not easy, but I will always have the satisfaction of having refrained from committing a criminal act in the chambers of the Vatican.
Amidst the solace I received from such considerations, God would have it that a book should give me a painful surprise, because, upon leafing through Eclogue II, my imagination, perhaps excited after a night of insomnia and the memory of the Neapolitans, suddenly discovered Corydon uttering concepts so indecent, so different from the metaphysical interpretation I had been taught at the seminary, that I thought I was dreaming. Even now I dare not attribute certain tendencies to the great poet of Mantua, and prefer to think of them as the product of a misinterpretation. Over centuries, ancient works have been subjected to many changes. Heraclitus tells us we cannot look at a river twice, because its flowing water is never the same. Everything is true and ephemeral. Who could ever be sure of owning the definitive edition of things?
I sat down at the table, determined to pray as I waited to be called back. I finally felt oriented. I was sure I had walked in through one of the sections on the right. Straight ahead I saw the perspective of a majestic garden full of fountains and statues, but I was unable to forget the view from the friar’s cell: a lonely cypress against a bright blue sky.
A clock struck twelve. A few moments later I heard a noise and a servant appeared on my left. Again my sense of direction had failed me. Leo XIII gave us a warm goodbye.
‘You are young,’ he said, ‘and I know you have talent. The Church has high expectations for young priests like you.’
Again we crossed the rooms and halls. A lady was speaking with two cardinals. Her face was covered with a veil and I could not make out her features. My heart missed a beat. As we walked by the group, one of the cardinals introduced her: ‘La marchesa d’Acqua Tinto.’
I let out a sigh of relief. And with no further incidents, we returned to the albergo.