Private Life

by Josep Maria de Sagarra

  Hortènsia Portell had just read the words “selfish woman.” She was holding a few sheets of thick, broad, and dramatic, paper, written in a careless and affectedly virile hand. Disillusioned, she reread what she had conceived of a few months ago, and had left off in the moment she penned the phrase “selfish woman.” Ever since she had stored it in a drawer with other intimate items, Hortènsia hadn’t had the heart to go over it. Manuscript in hand, Hortènsia had realized that her attempt to write her memoir had been a childish act. Why do it? What could she gain from it? Hortènsia Portell’s survivors would see her memoir as a posthumous extravagance. They wouldn’t even leave her cadaver in peace. Hortènsia didn’t want to give them the satisfaction. Moreoever, nothing she might have to say about her life and times would be of interest to anyone. That’s what Hortènsia was thinking in those moments as she weighed her manuscript, with a grimace of disgust as she considered what she had written about herself in a moment of weakness and innocence.

  At the time, Hortènsia was facing a series of sumptuary and economic headaches. She had sold some of her paintings and intended to let go of many other things. Hortènsia proposed to retire to a more tranquil domicile that would not entail such great expense.

  The manuscript Hortènsia was holding in her hands ended up, page by page, in the flames of the chimney. This literary auto-da-fè was carried out in silence, secretly, not without the executioner’s feeling the detachment of four dog-eared roses from the tip of her heart as she carried out the sacrifice.

  When Hortènsia had completely destroyed her work, the doorbell rang, and the servant announced the widow Baronessa de Falset.

  Conxa would often visit Hortènsia’s house in the afternoon, not so much to keep her company as to consult with her on things related to the new house the baronessa was building. Hortènsia had a reputation for good taste, and Conxa had faith in her judgment. At that stage, Conxa was absolutely immersed in the project, and in fact didn’t give her architect a moment’s rest. She wanted the building to be modern and brilliant, and the toast of all Barcelona. Conxa wanted to squeeze life down to the dregs. For days an idea had been spinning in her head and she hadn’t dared broach it with Hortènsia. But that afternoon she finally found the mettle. It was an idea related to the décor of her new house, and related above all to another person who was the axis around which all of Conxa Pujol’s feelings and illusions revolved.

  “Listen, Hortènsia, what do you intend to do with your tapestry?”

  “Frankly, if someone wanted to buy it …”

  “The thing is, to tell the truth, I’ve been looking for a tapestry for quite some time now, but not just any old thing. I want something with a bit of style, you see? It’s for the entrance, and I think yours is the perfect size. It would fit there as if it had been made to order. Forgive me, Hortènsia, but it’s only because you say you want to sell all this, and that the house has got too big for you, that I dare to ask …”

  “Do you know the story of my tapestry?”

  “Vaguely …”

  “Sure, you were just a child then … Really and truly, this is precisely the one you want?”

  “But, what do you mean, Hortènsia? This is the one, yes. I think it’s magnificent, I really like it … I can understand how hard it may be for you to let go of it …”

  “No, it’s not hard for me, that’s not it. The idea of selling this treasure is very recent, because until a short time ago, I intended to leave the Lloberola tapestry to the museum. Almost as an act of conscience. But lately things have taken a turn for the worse, and I need everything I can get. I can’t be too generous. That’s why I said that if I found a buyer I would also let go of this tapestry …”

  “I’m sorry, Hortènsia. My question has put you out. I’ve made you think of sad things …”

  “No, no, my dear. On the contrary. I don’t mean to make any profit on the tapestry. I just want to get back what it cost me, nothing more. I assure you it doesn’t make me sad at all. To be honest with you, I have never enjoyed seeing it on these walls, because it did make the previous owners very sad to have to sell it. The Marquès de Sitjar, God bless him, was a poor devil, a fool, if you wish, but he was a gentleman. Yes, yes, a gentleman of the kind you can probably no longer find in Barcelona. I remember the day I acquired the tapestry as if it were today. Twenty years ago, just imagine. My way of thinking was very different in those days. You can also imagine that twenty years ago the people of Barcelona were very different and things they considered to be important would make people laugh nowadays. Nowadays, I appear to be old-fashioned and moralistic, but back then, for the Lloberolas and people of their stripe, I was just short of a devil. Just think what it meant to him for his tapestry, the crown jewel of his family, to end up in my house! Imagine how sad they must have been! The marquès came to see me out of absolute necessity. The poor man was polite to a fault. And I had the cheek to haggle with him, down to the penny. Clearly he wasn’t used to this, and he gave it to me at the price I wanted, even if I had offered him half as much. And even so the time came when the poor man started to cry. Just think how humiliating that must have been for a person with his airs! To cry in front of me! And he wasn’t play-acting, not at all. I confess I was a little harsh with him. More than anything else, it was pride that made me want to buy the tapestry from them. Then I had a change of heart and began to have misgivings. I felt as if the tapestry had been stolen, and the eyes of those biblical figures nailed to my wall were protesting, as if thanks to me they were in prison. What can I say, Conxa, I’m romantic and sentimental, and a bit of a fool. When all is said and done, if they had sold it to an antiquarian he would have swindled them left and right, and God knows where the wretched tapestry would be now. This is why I’m telling you that my intention was to leave it to the museum, but lately I’ve seen so many changes all around, I’ve seen that nothing matters any more, and life is so hard, so full of bad faith and indifference, that it is all the same to me if the tapestry disappears, just as the character of one family after another has disappeared. You see, Conxa, I turned sixty this summer, around the Feast of the Assumption. I know, no one thinks I look my age, but that’s how old I am. And at my age, just imagine … you’re just a child. You’re still thrilled about your new house and you’re in the best of all worlds. So, if you want the tapestry, as I said, I don’t want to make any profit from it; nowadays it’s worth ten times what I paid for it …”

  “No, no, Hortènsia, I will buy it for what it’s worth … for what it’s worth today …”

  “Stop, dear. I’ve always been a little extravagant. I think I’m a little too old for a change of temperament now.”

  It must be noted that Hortènsia was having a very dark afternoon. It must also be noted that Hortènsia knew perfectly well what was going on between Conxa Pujol and Guillem de Lloberola, but for some reason Hortènsia was a sentimental creature with a penchant for drama. And this is why Hortènsia proceeded to speak in this way:

  “But be frank with me, now: you’re interested in the Lloberola tapestry for something more important than its size …”

  “I told you, it means a lot to me …”.

  “Forgive me if I’m sticking my nose where it’s not wanted, but I’m almost twice your age, Conxa. What I mean to say is that I’m on my way out, and I may have a bit of a right to give you some advice, as a good friend …”

  “You know you’re the only one I consider to be a good friend. But I don’t know what you have in mind …”

  “Oh no, Conxa, I have nothing in mind. It just occurred to me that perhaps the person who is really interested in this tapestry might not be you, exactly …”

  “You’re mistaken, Hortènsia. And if some slander has reached your ears, I will speak to you with my heart in my hand …”

  “Oh no, Conxa, please, by no means … Forgive me … Not at all …”

  “The person you imagine …”

  “No, no, no, you don’t have to explai
n anything to me. I believe you, of course I do …”

  “But I want to tell you. The person you have in mind doesn’t know a thing about any of this. It’s possible he doesn’t even remember that this tapestry that belonged to his grandparents exists … The family doesn’t concern him at all …”

  “Well, I don’t know him. I think he came to a party here once, many years ago. Yes, a short time before your husband’s death. The current generation, you might say I’ve lost sight of them entirely. His sister Josefina is the only one I occasionally run into at the golf club … As you can imagine, anything I might know is just hearsay …”

  “In our world, Hortènsia, hearsay is usually vilification. You know that better than I do.”

  “Indeed, indeed. I know it only too well, imagine …”

  “Well, for that very reason, Hortènsia. I have always admired you because you’ve been an independent woman, because you’ve laughed off other people’s criticism. And as for me, I have done my best, indeed, I am doing my best, to follow in your footsteps. I don’t give a hoot if people criticize me. They can say whatever they want. Your tapestry means something to me because if I have it in my house, I will never think of it as ‘stolen,’ you see? I’m thirty-six years old, Hortènsia, and I think I can still have a child who will bear the same name as that old gentleman, do you understand? That old man who cried …”

  “But it’s true then, Conxa?”

  “It’s true. I’m going to marry him. Or to be precise, we will be married in four months; that’s what we’ve decided …”

  “Forgive me for saying so, Conxa, but I think you’re making a terrible mistake.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “No, no, I’ve already told you I don’t. But I don’t see any need for you to get married. You are running the risk of being very, very, miserable …”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Listen. Is this young man your lover, yes or no? Are you ashamed to admit it? If my question is a bit too crude, forgive me … but at my age I think you can forgive me for being direct.”

  “All right, Hortènsia, I have no reason to deny it … He is my lover.”

  “Well, then, Conxa, what more do you want? What need do you have to complicate things? Isn’t he yours? Isn’t he truly yours? Didn’t you tell me that you don’t care what people say?”

  “To a point, Hortènsia, only to a point.”

  “No, you’re not being honest with me. If you’re marrying him it’s because you feel obligated by something that is not precisely public opinion. I am naive, Conxa, but not that naive.”

  “You will never understand this, but I will try to explain why I am getting married. Guillem is in a world of his own, I see this. Sometimes he eludes me, I can’t control him, and I need to keep him close to me, by my side. And he needs me, too, for many reasons, do you see? If he is my husband, our situation will change, he will be more centered, he will feel more attached to me than he does now …”

  “Or just the opposite, Conxa, just the opposite. I’m starting to realize that you’re more romantic than I am …”

  “Maybe I am. But there’s something else. As long as we’re being frank, I’m not ashamed to tell you. I have noticed that some people, no matter how they try to hide it, can’t help but look askance and give us the cold shoulder when they see me talking with him somewhere. I’ve heard talk about the reputation he’s earned and the reputation I’m earning …”

  “But, Conxa, didn’t you say all that didn’t matter? For God’s sake, don’t go on …”

  “Well, now it’s a question of pride. I want him to be accepted as my husband in everyone’s eyes, with my head held high. I want the satisfaction of seeing everyone who goes around calling him an unscrupulous gigolo and me a degenerate having to invite him into their homes and fawn over him. Don’t you see? They’ll have to respect him, even if it’s only for my money, because, as you know, Guillem is penniless.”

  “You are getting married … Or to put it another way, you are using your money to buy a husband, to buy your reputation and that of a man whom you can’t do without. In this regard, then, well, my way of thinking was, indeed, more romantic … You are a modern woman, Conxa, oh yes, much more modern than I! You think that in a year, or two, or perhaps less, this fellow will be respected as your husband and no one will think of him as your gigolo …”

  “They can think what they want, but I will be serene and satisfied. And he’ll be tied to me, he’ll be mine …”

  “He’ll be tied to you by your money …?”

  “Can’t you believe that he really loves me, that we really love each other?”

  “I have doubts about everything, Conxa. I can see you’re in a huff. Since I have never in my life experienced such a passion …”

  “Naturally, Hortènsia, I already said you wouldn’t be able to understand what’s happened to me. Maybe I am making a big mistake. I’ve made quite a few mistakes in life. Believe me, one more won’t make a difference …”

  “All right, Conxa. My tapestry is at your disposal. You realize that after all you’ve told me I feel more obligated than ever to indulge you.”

  “Hortènsia, I’d be grateful if you …”

  “You mean I can’t say anything about all this? Conxa, it will be very hard for me. I’m a gossip, I can’t help myself. I spend my days airing dirty laundry over lunch, over tea, at the golf course, at the theater. Imagine how hard it will be for me not to be able to tell people, and you know who they are, at least a little smidgen of the conversation we’ve had. What do you expect us to talk about? What could possibly interest us more than dishing the dirt … As I see it, the topic of your wedding would be a bombshell, a trophy I would carry off this very evening at the Hostal del Sol, where I’m going to have dinner with Teodora Macaia, Bobby, and the Moragueses and I think even that flirt Titina and her in-laws will be there. Just think how hard it will be on me to be silent as a tomb, Conxa! But I promise I won’t say a word … I promise …”

  TWO MONTHS AFTER this conversation, the news of the wedding of Conxa Pujol, the widow Baronessa de Falset, to Guillem de Lloberola did indeed fall like a bombshell in the world of the posh.

  In the men’s circles, you could hear the following comments: “What brass!” “How cynical!” “What a loose woman!” “What a crook!” “What a tart!” and other comments that decency doesn’t allow us to write down.

  To be sure, Guillem de Lloberola accepted the baronessa’s proposition in order to secure his situation. Guillem would not have been capable of taking the initiative himself, nor did it ever cross his mind, when he initiated his assault, that that adventure could end in marriage. Gullem had many defects, but a Lloberola could never have plotted so far in advance. If Guillem had foreseen the value of his play from the outset, he could have been qualified as a good diplomat. But Guillem was more of a wastrel, a bohemian, who lived day-to-day. The first time Conxa brought up the idea of marriage, Guillem wrinkled his nose. He had stooped really low and he had lost all shame: in point of fact, he was a maquereau. He took money from Conxa, but that all happened in the murky, irregular world where Guillem drowsed. He found the thought of exchanging that place for a bright world in the full light of day, the thought of becoming a legal maquereau, by means of a grotesque ceremony, presided over by the Catholic Church and the current Civil Code, to be a little disgusting. Once in a blue moon, Guillem felt like a Lloberola, and Conxa’s marriage proposal seemed despicable to him. In addition to veiling the madness of a depraved woman and a man with no illusions in a shroud of propriety, for Guillem such a marriage meant becoming the master of the fortune of a man he had practically murdered. Guillem would be acquiring a certificate of grandeur and esteem by means of a series of base, criminal actions. But Conxa, despite her pirate, Creole blood, was intoxicated by the cowardly air of her social circle, and she wanted to have the pleasure of turning the bite marks of the bordello into the satisfaction of a twelve o’clock Mass t
o the sound of the municipal band. Conxa persisted, and Conxa demanded. Guillem blinked his eyes and began to get used to the idea of being Conxa’s husband, having a great fortune and the best automobiles at his disposal, and to procuring for himself the most wonderful escapades, out of sight of the sadistic and unnerving sexuality of Conxa Pujol.

  In Guillem’s time, protests were ephemeral and people had adopted a general devil-may-care attitude of conformity and acquiescence. The only person Guillem sought some counsel from was his friend, Agustí Casals.

  With the coming of the Republic, Agustí Casals had achieved great status. His friendship with Josep Safont and other public figures, his gift for oratory and, above all, his elegance in positioning himself, gave him a splendid standing. Agustí Casals was a good person, and for a while now he had been concerned about Guillem. He wanted to find something, some position, that Guillem could defend. He said Guillem was being ruined, and it was a shame for him to be facing a future with no prospects. When Guillem told him about the wedding project, Agustí reacted more as a lawyer than as a moralist. Agustí knew Guillem, even if he was ignorant of the darkest details of his life, but he knew perfectly well what kind of man he was. If it had been any other kind of person, a more redeemable kind, Agustí would have said to him that the first thing a man must preserve was his dignity. But Agustí could see that Guillem possessed a cancerous morality that had no chance of redemption. As a good lawyer, Agustí saw this as an excellent business plan that, with a minimal concern for appearances, assured his friend of a great position. Agustí advised him to waste no time on scruples he would get no credit for. And if anyone criticized him it would just be a case of the green-eyed monster …

  Guillem married, and within four months he was on the board of the Club Eqüestre. He fabricated the thick skin of an ideal husband for himself, and he never took it off, not even at bedtime.

  After lunch, he would sit and smoke a magnificent Havana cigar in full view of the historic Lloberola tapestry. He gazed at Conxa with gratitude for her delicacy in rescuing it. He saw himself in the figure of the warlike Jacob, bamboozling Isaac and everyone else with his youthful profile. While hairy and ruddy Esau brought to mind the image of his dimwit brother, Frederic, ensnared in wretchedness and confusion, playing cards amid the faded, acidic weeds, and nursing a case of tuberculosis in the bed of a wine merchant’s wife.