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To Francesca Bartrina, in memoriam

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

While I consider my ten-week stay in the lovely birthplace of Caterina Albert a gift from the goddesses, there are a number of down-to-earth organizations and individuals to thank as well. West Virginia University allowed me to take a sabbatical year, and the Cultural Department of the Ajuntament (City Hall) of L’Escala awarded me a grant and a lovely modernist house overlooking the Mediterranean in the fifteenth-century village of Sant Martí d’Empúries. Pere Guanter, head of the Cultural Department, and his entire team at City Hall aided me in many ways during my stay. Several experts in translation and on the work of Albert were also extremely helpful, especially Francesca Bartrina, Ron Puppo, and Teresa Vall, who gave close readings to several difficult passages, making suggestions or simply explaining various meanings. Núria Nardi and Irene Muñoz lent a hand with bibliographic items, and all the above-named people went beyond professionalism to visit or take me out when a break was in order. The people of the village of Sant Martí were most friendly and gracious. Anna Sánchez Rue, María Gutiérrez, and Lluïsa Julià in Barcelona, Maria-Antònia Oliver in Mallorca, and Carles Cortés and Zequi Moltó in Alacant offered me their hospitality and a constant helping hand.

On this side of the Atlantic, my longtime friends Judith Stitzel and Anna Elfenbein gave me positive suggestions for the introduction, and Susana Villanueva Eguía Lis helped with all manner of technical matters. Special thanks to the Albert family in L’Escala.

INTRODUCTION

Caterina Albert i Paradís (1869–1966) wrote most of her work in Catalan, the language of many writers who are included in the Spanish literary canon or, more precisely, the literary canon of Iberia. Among the major figures writing in Catalan are Ramon Llull (1235–1315), a medieval thinker and mystic who influenced many subsequent philosophers, including Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz; Ausias March (1397–1459), a cultivator of Petrarchan poetry who had a lasting effect on Spanish verse; Joanot Martorell (1413–68), whose Tirant lo Blanch was saved from Miguel de Cervantes’s book-burning scene in Don Quixote; and, in the twentieth century, Mercè Rodoreda (1908–83), author of La Plaça del Diamant (in Spanish, Plaza del Diamante; in English, Time of the Doves), one of the most riveting re-creations of life during the Spanish Civil War. Albert has much in common with her contemporaries Anton Chekhov and Emilia Pardo Bazán: she shares many narrative techniques with them as well as an intense interest in the psychological development of characters. Yet she is widely read only in Catalonia. That she is little known outside Catalonia is the result not only of the vagaries of literary taste or the market but also of the history of the Catalan language and the history of Catalonia in the Spanish state.

A first step toward understanding the work of Albert is to situate it in the context of Catalan, Spanish, and European culture of the late nineteenth century and well into the twentieth. She first came to the attention of the Catalan literary world in 1898, when in the small northern town of Olot she entered two of the traditional literary contests known as the Jocs Florals (“Floral Games”). She won both. The Jocs Florals flourished in France and Spain in the fourteenth century but ceased until they were reinstituted in 1859. These contests, like publications in periodicals, provided an economical entrée into the world of letters and therefore gave women writers a more accessible venue for circulating their work than was possible in the established publishing houses.

The first contest she won was for dramatic monologues. This genre was encouraged that year, and Albert was working on a piece called “La infanticida: Monòleg dramàtic en vers” (“The Infanticide: A Dramatic Monologue in Verse”), in which the speaker is a young woman. The organizers of the contest requested the presence of the author, with the expectation that the play would be performed. But Albert, a rural landowner from the agricultural and fishing village of L’Escala, on the Costa Brava, disliked publicity and did not attend, and the play was not staged. When it became known that the author of this harsh tale of rural life was a woman, scandal ensued, making her even more reluctant to appear in public.

Despite her success in publishing this and other early plays, she did not live to see “The Infanticide” performed; it was first staged in 1967. Partly as a result of the fuss surrounding the play, she began to use a masculine pseudonym, Víctor Català, and used it for the rest of her life.1 The patriotic nom de plume taken by Albert was the name of the protagonist of a novel she never finished.

The other prize awarded to Albert in the 1898 contests at Olot was for the poem “El llibre nou” (“The New Book”), which expresses her love for books. Like many of her female contemporaries in Spain, she began her writing career by publishing poetry in periodicals, more accessible than books to both writers and readers. Ultimately she turned to narrative, which became the main body of her production. Turn-of-the-century Barcelona saw a flourishing of the literary marketplace for works in Catalan, but journals remained the more feasible venue for stories and even novels by women.

Albert has earned a place in the canon of Catalan literature, and many consider her the model narrator of the late nineteenth to mid-twentieth century. Since her earliest work took place in a rural setting, she was considered a rural writer, but this label does not do her justice: she was a versatile author whose cultural milieu comprised a number of literary movements, including modernism. According to Joan Ramon Resina, Catalan modernism has much to do with an “urbanization of literature” (“Modernism” 514). Although Albert’s early settings are rural, the author by no means celebrates the country life. In fact, she debunks the Romantic myth of the happy yeoman. It is customary for critics to compare her work with that of Raimon Casellas (1855–1910), whose modernist novel Els sots feréstecs (1901; “Wild Ravines,” translated by Alan Yates as Dark Vales) sets the individual in conflict with a hostile environment, with the hostility coming from other people and from nature itself. There also are many interesting similarities with the work of Pardo Bazán (1851–1921), a Galician writer who was branded a rural naturalist despite her great range: both Pardo Bazán and Albert were feminists avant la lettre, both narrated the harsh conditions of rural areas, and both were self-taught and achieved a level of education far surpassing that of most of their female contemporaries. Also, while in both there is a strong dose of social realism, there are traces of urban modernism as well.

Albert’s settings are not all on farms or in villages; one novel and a number of stories have an urban background. Caires vius (1907; “Rough Edges”) contains “Carnestoltes” (“Carnival,” included in “Silent Souls” and Other Stories), which has a Carnival setting, and “Capvespre” (“Eventide”), which makes references to the cinema. In Jubileu (1951; “Jubilee”) almost half the stories take place in Barcelona, and several make use of the technique, at once modern and ancient, of indirect dialogue. There are also tales within tales, framed stories. Several critics, among them Jordi Castellanos (Intel·lectuals and “Solitud”) and Núria Nardi, study Albert as a modernist writer while recognizing in her work characteristics of realism and naturalism. Like other writers of the early twentieth century, Albert often asserted her artistic freedom, at times reacting against criticism of her work, of its subject matter and its use of experimental techniques rather than styles in vogue at the time. In Caires vius, she uses a long prologue, which she calls “Pòrtic” (“Portico”), to explain her views on certain literary movements as well as on the nature of literature. That realism, with its naturalist tendencies, characterizes many of her stories but does not preclude a certain lyrical flare, attention to the beauty of the surroundings of her characters, and great appreciation of the female body.2 All in all, in her writing as in her life, Albert was sui generis: she lived and wrote at a distance from the mainstream; she sympathized with the plight of women but was not a declared feminist; and, as a well-to-do landowner, she feared the excesses of extremists on the left. Her comments of a political nature involved only issues of artistic and linguistic freedom.

Albert’s literary production was interrupted by two long silences. After seven books of various genres appeared between 1901 and 1907, Albert published nothing more until the 1920s, when four new works of narrative came out. Fourteen more years elapsed before the publication of Retablo (“Retable”), her only work in Castilian. Her memoirs and two more collections of stories followed in the 1940s and 1950s. Maria Aurèlia Capmany, a well-known Catalan writer and political figure, analyzed these silences in her epilogue to the 1972 edition of Albert’s complete works. Capmany suggests a combination of editorial and literary pressures to explain the lapses in production. One might also suspect social and family duties related to her quasi-aristocratic position in L’Escala. In any case, silence is a virtual protagonist in some of the stories; several rapes are dramatically silenced, and both “Carnival” and “Ànimes mudes” (“Silent Souls”) are haunted by unspoken words.

Formal schooling was limited for Albert. She had strong ideas about what she wanted to learn, and, since her family was well-to-do, she preferred to hire tutors for specific interests, especially art. She read avidly and tells of regular visits to her home by a bookseller, from whom she bought whatever she fancied. Along with her early efforts in theater and poetry, she produced drawings, paintings, and sculptures, but just as Rodoreda would do some years later, Albert abandoned the visual arts to concentrate on narrative.3 Being the oldest of four children and having a sickly mother and elderly grandmother to care for, she had to administer the family business on the death of her father, when she was twenty years old. She lived in the family residence all her life but traveled in Europe, especially to France and Italy, and maintained an apartment in Barcelona, where she went to the theater, seldom missing season premieres. She never married but had several lifelong friends and participated in the family life of her siblings. She also corresponded with many contemporaries, exchanging letters over a long period with the poet Joan Maragall, the dramatist Angel Guimerà, the novelist Narcís Oller, and her editors, among others. Albert’s nonfiction includes Mosaic, a book of impressions and memories, various speeches and articles, interviews, and prologues to the works of others as well as her own. A study of these prologues reveals that Albert was also a sophisticated literary critic and theorist. In Caires vius, she writes an eloquent statement in favor of artistic freedom and originality—breaking the mold, as it were, of the literary fashions of the day, such as noucentisme. In a 1926 interview with Tomàs Garcés, she describes her work as “unbridled eclecticism” (Català 1749).

Albert was honored as president of the Jocs Florals in 1917 and was the first woman to be elected to the Reial Academia de Bones Lletres (“Royal Academy of Literature”) of Barcelona, in 1923. Appreciation for her work, however, faded with the advent of new writers, new aesthetics, and new critics. That trend is being reversed now. Recent editions of her writing and three major collections of essays about her, edited by Enric Prat and Pep Vila, have resulted from symposia sponsored by the cultural department of the city of L’Escala. Several scholars have taken up Helena Alvarado’s 1984 plea for a reinterpretation of Albert (“Víctor Català”), and there are notably new collections by Núria Nardi and by Lluïsa Julià (see “Works and Editions of Caterina Albert” below); a publication of her letters by Irene Muñoz i Pairet in two volumes; and, most important, a monograph by Francesca Bartrina on the complete works of Albert, a study in Catalan that is most insightful. It is my hope that these works and new translations will encourage the continued reevaluation of Albert.

Notes

1. Gabriel Ferrater said in 1967 that it was ridiculous to continue calling her Víctor Català (255). Marta Pessarrodona echoed that opinion in 2004 (9). (Albert was not alone in using a male pseudonym. One of her contemporaries in Barcelona, Palmira Ventós i Cullell, wrote all her work as Felip Palma.)

2. Bartrina’s study in Catalan of Albert is among the best and most complete. See particularly her thoughts on “Amor entre dones” (“Love among Women”), where she suggests that Albert may have been a lesbian (164–70). This possibility has not been explored by critics or biographers. In her literary biography of Albert, Muñoz does not go into personal matters.

3. Rodoreda was the first woman to receive the Premi de les Lletres Catalanes (“Prize for Catalan Literature”) for her lifetime work as a writer. She did a number of paintings in her early years but then turned to literature. Like Albert, she loved films. The autodidactic character of their educations may account in part for their great originality of expression.

WORKS CITED AND CONSULTED

Alvarado i Esteve, Helena. “Solitud” de Víctor Català. Empúries, 1997.

           . “Víctor Català / Caterina Albert, o l’apassionament per l’escriptura.” La infanticida i altres textos, by Caterina Albert, LaSal, 1984, pp. 7–35.

Barnstone, Willis. The Poetics of Translation: History, Theory, Practice. Yale UP, 1993.

Bartrina, Francesca. Caterina Albert / Víctor Català: La voluptuositat de l’escriptura. Eumo, 2001.

Bergman, Emilie, and Paul Julian Smith, editors. ¿Entiendes? Queer Readings, Hispanic Writings. Duke UP, 1995.

Bieder, Maryellen. “Albert i Paradís, Caterina.” Double Minorities of Spain: A Bio-bibliographic Guide to Women Writers of the Catalan, Galician, and Basque Countries, edited by Kathleen McNerney and Cristina Enríquez de Salamanca, Modern Language Association, 1994, pp. 31–35.

Boccaccio, Giovanni. The Decameron. Selected, translated, and edited by Mark Musa and Peter E. Bondanella, W. W. Norton, 1977.

Capmany, Maria Aurèlia. “Epíleg: Els silencis de Víctor Català.” Català, Obres, pp. 1851–68.

Casacuberta, Margarida, and Lluís Rius. “Caterina Albert i Paradís en el Certamen Literari D’Olot.” Els jocs florals d’Olot, 1890–1921, Batet, 1988, pp. 36–40.

Castellanos, Jordi. Intel·lectuals, cultura i poder: Entre el modernisme i el noucentisme. Magrana, 1998.

           . “Solitud, novel·la modernista.” Els marges, vol. 25, May 1982, pp. 45–70.

Castro-Paniagua, Francisco. English-Spanish Translation, through a Cross-Cultural Interpretation Approach. UP of America, 2000.

Català, Víctor. “Conversa amb Víctor Català.” Interview by Tomàs Garcés, Revista de Catalunya, vol. 3, no. 26, 1926, pp. 126–34. Català, Obres, pp. 1747–55.

           . Obres completes. 2nd ed., Selecta, 1972.

Charlon, Anne. La condició de la dona en la narrativa femenina catalana, 1900–1983. Edicions 62, 1990.

Cortés i Orts, Carles. “L’empremta de la narrativa de Caterina Albert en els primers relats de Mercè Rodoreda.” Prat and Vila, II Jornades, pp. 203–32.

Dagenais, John. “Medieval Spanish Literature in the Twenty-First Century.” Gies, pp. 39–57.

Dingwaney, Anuradha, and Carol Maier, editors. Between Languages and Cultures: Translation and Cross-Cultural Texts. U of Pittsburgh P, 1995.

d’Ors, Eugeni. Glosari, 1906–1910. Selecta, 1950.

Epps, Brad, editor. “Introduction: Barcelona and Modernity.” Catalan Review, vol. 18, nos. 1–2, 2004, pp. 13–28. Special issue on Barcelona and modernity.

Felski, Rita. The Gender of Modernity. Harvard UP, 1995.

Ferrater, Gabriel. “Solitud.” U of Barcelona, 1966–67. Typescript.

Gies, David, editor. Cambridge History of Spanish Literature. Cambridge UP, 2004.

Gilabert, Joan. “Català, Víctor.” Dictionary of the Literature of the Iberian Peninsula, vol. 1, edited by Germán Bleiberg et al., Greenwood, 1993, pp. 355–57.

Good, Kate. “Domestic Disturbances: Breaking the Mold of Female Comportment in Caterina Albert i Paradís’ ‘Pas de comèdia.’ ” Catalan Review: International Journal of Catalan Culture, vol. 29, 2015, pp. 23–39.

Lefevre, André. Translating Literature: Practice and Theory in a Comparative Literature Context. Modern Language Association, 1992.

Lewis, R. W. B., and Nancy Lewis. American Characters. Yale UP, 1999.

Maragall, Joan. “Un libro fuerte e incompleto.” Obres completes, by Maragall, vol. 2, Selecta, 1960, pp. 197–98.

McNerney, Kathleen, editor. Voices and Visions: The Words and Works of Mercè Rodoreda. Susquehanna UP, 1999.

Miracle, Josep. Víctor Català. Alcides, 1963.

Möller-Soler, Maria-Lourdes. “Caterina Albert o la ‘solitud’ d’una escritora.” Letras femeninas, vol. 9, 1983, pp. 11–21.

Monserdà, Dolors. Estudi feminista, orientacions per la dona catalana. 1909.

           . El feminisme a Catalunya. Francesc Puig, 1907.

Muñoz i Pairet, Irene. “L’art plàstic de Caterina Albert.” Revista de Catalunya, vol. 287, 2014, pp. 185–212.

           . Caterina Albert / Víctor Català, 1869–1966. Vitella, 2016.

           , editor. Epistolari de Víctor Català. CCG, 2005–09. 2 vols.

           . “Glossa de Caterina Albert / Víctor Català.” Serra d’or, vol. 688, 2017, pp. 47, 287–50, 290.

           . “Joan Maragall i Víctor Català, des del seu epistolari, 1902–1911.” Haidé, vol. 4, 2015, pp. 41–51.

Nardi, Núria. Introduction. Contes: Víctor Català, by Caterina Albert, Bruño, 1994, pp. 9–53.

Pardo Bazán, Emilia. “Feminist.” “Torn Lace” and Other Stories, translated by María Cristina Urruela, Modern Language Association, 1996, pp. 118–25.

Pessarrodona, Marta, editor. Caterina Albert: Cent anys de la publicació de Solitud. CSIC–Generalitat de Catalunya, 2007.

           . Caterina Albert: Un retrat. Generalitat de Catalunya, 2004.

Porter, Josep. Els dibuixos de Víctor Català. 1955.

Prat, Enric, and Pep Vila, editors. Actes de les primeres jornades d’estudi sobre la vida i l’obra de Caterina Albert i Paradís “Víctor Català.” L’Abadia, 1993.

           . Actes de les terceres jornades d’estudi sobre la vida i obra de Caterina Albert (Víctor Català). L’Abadia, 2006.

           . II Jornades d’estudi: Vida i obra de Caterina Albert i Paradís (Víctor Català), 1869–1966. L’Abadia, 2002.

Pujol, Josep. “Plomes veïnes: Caterina Albert vs. Marguerite Yourcenar.” Lambda, vol. 80, 2014, pp. 1–3.

Rabassa, Gregory. If This Be Treason: Translation and Its Dyscontents. New Directions, 2005.

Resina, Joan Ramon. “The Catalan Renaixença.” Gies, pp. 470–78.

           . “Modernism in Catalonia.” Gies, pp. 513–19.

Ribera Llopis, Juan M. Projecció i recepció hispanes de Caterina Albert i Paradís, Víctor Català, i de la seva obra. CCG, 2007.

Riquer, Martín de, et al. Història de la literatura catalana. 11 vols. Ariel, 1988.

Rotella, Pilar. “Naturalism, Regionalism, Feminism: The Rural Stories of Emilia Pardo Bazán and Caterina Albert i Paradís.” Excavatio, vol. 15, nos. 3–4, 2001, pp. 134–47.

Sobré (Sobrer), Josep Miquel. “Albert i Paradís, Caterina.” Women Writers of Spain: An Annotated Bio-bibliographical Guide, edited by Carolyn Galerstein and Kathleen McNerney, Greenwood, 1986, pp. 13–15.

Vilarós, Teresa M. “Caterina Albert i Paradís (‘Víctor Català’).” Spanish Women Writers: A Bio-bibliographical Source Book, edited by Linda Gould Levine et al., Greenwood, 1993, pp. 12–22.

Villas i Chalamanch, Montserrat. La morfologia del lèxic de Solitud de Víctor Català. L’Abadia, 1999.

Yates, Alan. “Solitud i els Drames rurals.” Serra d’or, vol. 11, 1969, pp. 646–48.

THE WORKS AND EDITIONS OF CATERINA ALBERT

Albert’s Obres completes includes not only the texts listed below but also some of her correspondence, speeches, prologues, and articles as well as a long introductory study by Manuel de Montoliu, the 1926 interview with Tomàs Garcés, and the article-epilogue by Maria Aurèlia Capmany. A new, revised edition is to be hoped for. Some of the pieces in this volume have newer editions, which I consulted.

Caires vius. 1907.

El cant dels mesos. 1901.

“Cendres” i altres contes. Introduced and edited by Lluïsa Julià, Pirene, 1995.

A collection of stories from several books.

Contes. Introduced and edited by Núria Nardi, Bruño, 1994.

A collection of stories from several books.

Contes diversos. Introduced and edited by Núria Nardi, Laia, 1981.

A collection of stories from several books.

Contrallums. 1930.

De foc i de sang. Edited by Blanca Llum Vidal, selection and postscript by Lluïsa Julià, Club, 2017.

Drames rurals. 1902.

Drames rurals [and] Caires vius. Introduced and edited by Núria Nardi, Barcanova, 1992.

Un film (3.000 metres). 1920. Club, 2015.

“La infanticida” i altres textos. Introduced and edited by Helena Alvarado. LaSal, 1984.

Jubileu: Novíssims contes inèdits. Edited by Josep Miracle, Selecta, 1951.

Mosaic. 1946. Introduced and edited by Lluïsa Julià, Edicions 62, 2000.

Ombrívols. 1904. 2nd. ed, 1948.

Quatre monòlegs. 1901.

Retablo. Ediciones Mediterráneas, 1944.

Solitud. 1905. Edited by Núria Nardi, Edicions 62, 1990.

Teatre inèdit: La infanticida, Verbagàlia, Les cartes, L’alcavota. Edited by Josep Miracle, F. Camps Calmet, 1967.

Vida mòlta. Selecta, 1987.

In English

Solitude: A Novel of Catalonia. 5th ed., translated and introduced by David Rosenthal, foreword by the author. Readers International, 1992.

NOTE ON THE TRANSLATION

Albert first came to my attention when I went to Spain as a graduate student to study the poetry of Ausias March, but it would be years before I could devote the time to her that her complexity requires and before I would have the chance to travel to L’Escala to work on translating some of her narratives. I have tried to make these wide-ranging stories sound normal in American English without losing their rich linguistic variety, powerful expression, attention to detail, and lyricism. While this strategy might be called domestication, I have strived to render the local flavor of her prose as well. Despite the great divide between rural and industrial Catalonia of a century ago and our urban, postmodern, globalized time and space, Albert’s close look at human nature gives universality to these works, and that universality helps the translator. In her prologues and other essays, she shows herself to be a theorist, but one can almost hear a weariness in her voice as she says in the “Pòrtic” (“Portico”) to Caires vius, “[W]e prefer to work than to theorize, even though the work might turn out defective while the theory seems perfect, for too much theory creates traps and hindrances to the free impulse of action” (Català 597). Although she is referring to literature, I would apply her words to translation as well.

Work Cited

Català, Víctor. Obres completes. 2nd ed., Selecta, 1972.

NOTE ON THE TEXT

The Catalan text in this volume is taken from the second edition of Albert’s Obres completes. Sometimes other texts were consulted for verification.

TRANSLATIONS

“PORTICO,” THE PROLOGUE TO CAIRES VIUS (“ROUGH EDGES”)

To the Reader:

This new book that I offer you is not exactly a new book; rather it is an extraction from an old book with a few elements of other books to come.

When dealing with a selection of separate works, most prefer variety, but I wish for all books, whether selections or not, to offer a unique, distinctive note, marking a determined point in the mentality or taste of its author. Chromatic diversity and harmonic complexity will emerge afterward, if they are there, with a review of the work as a whole. But, for reasons of special consideration, I proceed in a different way in this volume, which includes a number of rural stories. During the five-year delay in their production, we have so abused the genre, especially with respect to a single, limited aspect of peasant life, that we have ended up tiring the public. Among the most refined elements of general taste, we have leaned toward the birth of opposite orientations, the beginning of an activity to restrain that abuse.

Confronting ruralism—still so young and incomplete—an enmity has arisen as a formal threat: an unborn urbanism, the city dweller . . . promoter of the powerful and multiform spirit of the metropolis.

Blessed be the advent of this new Messiah, which, if the conjunction of the stars is accurate and the prophets are not mistaken, is now being born. May we await with joy and greet with hosannas this new event, which is to glorify our letters by diversifying the nuances of their range, still poor and monochromatic. Let us all wish for and rush in this new happening, even though it implies the death of other idolatries—all come to an end at some point, and if one cannot die serenely at the right time, one has not known how to live, has never lived, for the best proof of life is precisely the ability to die well.

But I believe that when the Announced One arrives, it will not kill anything; for I am convinced that, in the first place, one cannot kill that which has not yet fully come to be, has not achieved the plenitude of its existence, and secondly, even if that were not so, two legitimate offspring, or more, can well live with their one mother. Even if they have a very different mien, they have each received the elements of life from their mother equally, and together with time they can work for her exaltation and glory.

For these reasons, I find the young campaign against ruralism premature and perhaps ill founded. I realize that its apostles are moved by a sentiment of exalted purpose, a most noble striving for a splendid future soon to come, and this alone lends their sermons the grave resonance of something sacred that makes them worthy of being heard and considered. But even though I recognize the sublimity of that sentiment, perhaps it would be useful to point out how those sermons could turn out to be harmful for future initiatives.

At this time, a critical moment has arrived for the collective life of Catalonia, in all its aspects. It is the hour of summing up, of uniting, of gathering. The imposing masses, destined to enter into great areas of action, of fighting and superbly conquering, must include us all. We must heed generously the beck and call to join that conglomerate, that numerical bulk; all, whether small or large, graceful or clumsy, in a common effort to cleanse ourselves of prejudices that sap our energies. We must arm ourselves well with our own efforts and substance, so that our particular collaboration, no matter how modest, may contribute to the effort and substance of the whole. Tomorrow, after those contributions have been completed and imposed, after the ends have been achieved and have triumphed, another critical moment will arrive: the moment of what remains, the choosing, the sifting, that raw operation of selection that, due to its very nature, can never be done a priori, for one cannot judge what one does not know, nor can one know what has not been demonstrated.

There is neither good nor bad in the proposed; only in the accomplished, for what do we know of the surprises and marvels that time reserves for us? We may prune the rotten branch, bury the spent, reject the failed effort, suppress details harmful or useless to the health and beauty of the whole, that is, mistake what has been achieved, but we must not hinder the path of future manifestations or confuse the essential with the accessory, the cause with the effect, denying poetry because of a poor poet, negating matrimony because of a sterile woman.

Speaking in general terms and, naturally, from within our own tastes, we prefer to work rather than to theorize, even though the action might turn out to be defective while the theory seems perfect, for too much theory creates traps and arbitrary hindrances to the free impulse of action. Infallible dogmas are not suited to art; the institution of principles may follow a completed product but must never precede it. The dignity of art and of the sentiment that engenders it is born from the freedom of its manifestation, its strength, its worthiness. Art born of a lack of freedom is weak, barren, impotent. The spirit tied to apriorism and false convention—that is, not forthcoming from necessities of its very nature—if it does result in something worthwhile, will still never be as good as it could have been without those shackles. Dogma, school, code, preestablished rules within a sphere of creativity, means limitation, equivalent to waning, to decadence, to passing, to death. So that a throng composed of resigned followers of schools will deliver very few real formers of schools, and a group that is weak or poor in the active, fecund elements known as creative power will not have great value, and its radius of action will be practically null. Vital force emerges, then, from antischolastic, antilimiting impulses; from the centrifugal burst that breaks external boundaries, from the chick’s beak tapping against the shell that imprisons it.

Genius—creative power and revolutionary principle par excellence—never belongs to docile flocks; rather to the shepherds that lead them. It is always iconoclast and ultradogmatic; it breaks all the molds, turns theories on their heads, and imposes new laws, perhaps just as illogical and pernicious as those it attacks, but new after all, that is, unstagnating, contrary to immobility, which is a sign of death.

It would seem that such an affirmation should suppress all our hesitation, but it does not. It is true that an essentially insurrect spirit, when it reaches plenitude, might laugh at all restrictions and work driven by a superior force grounded only in itself. But the power of radiating, the projection of the self outward, is not the same in all individuals, nor does it follow an identical process of development. Among those who are whole, sure of themselves, and prescient, who find their true path from their first steps, as if guided by divine forces, there are also those who are weaker or have a slow vocation, and even if they have vital elegance, need a long incubation to come to term. It is for these latter artists, who form the immense majority of creative troops, that we must fear. During periods of conceptual indecision, while waiting or searching for themselves, they may listen to not very insightful guides about which paths to follow. They may absorb mistaken orientations, twisting their ingenuous inclination, making all their efforts useless in advance and leaving the egg that held the distinctive germ of their personalities in the nest. It is for them that we want complete neutrality; just a bit of shelter to protect them, freeing them from outside influences—almost always pernicious—represented by advisers and officious mentors who prefer the offer to the demand and take advantage of murky states of the unconscious. Like the dog in Aesop’s fable, they get into the house, enter the sanctum of ideas and sentiments, and make a lair there. Once ensconced, between them and their offspring—their teachings—they push out the true owner.

The only legitimate mentors—those who might be useful—are the ones who reveal themselves as our flesh and blood spiritually, like older siblings, tied to us through essential affinities that offer us a model, enlarged and cleansed, of our own selves. Of them, we would only ask for aid at the point of definitive clarification, a helping hand at the end, with the experience acquired during the preceding process and effort. But apart from these, no one; the idea that wants to join the fecund life of expression, rather than being taught to recite by rote the most select of sentences, would instead be well advised to say freely what it feels. So what if that voice is confused and vacillating at first, perhaps using an incorrect or colorless word? The mere fact of emitting it will show the way to strength and modulation better than any precept. The consciousness of saying something will lead to the responsibility for what is said, to the yearning to say what ought to be said, in the best possible way, whereas, no matter what lovely things others might say, they will not belong to the self and therefore will not be anything new, that is, nothing important or worth being heard. The artist must understand that everything that, by virtue of its intimacy, can exalt the human condition is essentially pure and beautiful; the pure and beautiful is naturally good; the naturally good is perfectly legitimate and therefore respectable. All that does not vilify through corruption or drink from poisoned sources, destroying the divine within itself, can only go to those pure sources, irrepressible and full of health and moral youth. In those fountains are infinite paths, more or less painful, and one is free to choose resolutely from among them the one that pleases most or adheres best to one’s own idiosyncrasy, mocking all harmful prejudice, and also posterior judgment which may show the effects of otherness.

And now that it becomes relevant, permit us to preach the holy war against another very dangerous enemy, even though it opens a new parenthesis within the parenthesis, a new digression within the discourse.

The piercing strength of others’ opinions is extraordinary, and to resist it, one needs serenity of vision, a sentiment of conviction, and an even more extraordinary defensive instinct. Artists, seekers-molders of beauty, precisely because of the exalted sense they give things, due to their eternal striving for perfection of the ideal, feel more than anyone the defects of their work, and measure with greater equilibrium the distance between the smallness achieved and the greatness sought. Even though the artist alone has the intuition of his work, as an illustrious Catalan poet has said,¹ he still lacks confidence in his own strengths and is prone to discouragement when, in addition to natural obstacles he has to fight against to achieve greatness, new false obstacles are put in his path, with good or ill intention. With the excuse of illuminating the path, these hindrances fulminate the lightning of anathema that blinds him, for during moments of doubt and internal storms, he cannot tell whether the flash comes from real Jupiters, with every right to illuminate him, or if those who stop him do so to keep him on a certain path, with the knowledge of the righteous. He sees only concordance among doubts from outside and his own lack of confidence falling upon his work, and the negative impact that comes from the accumulation of misgivings.

But the poor artist, the struggler, should consider various other things in order to stave off so many fears, especially since for the most part the negativity emanates not from his work but from those who would define him.

It is worthwhile to listen closely and pay due attention to opinions that are respectable, but for an opinion to be respectable, various things are necessary: first, it must be well founded. Principal elements of a strong foundation include good faith, impartiality, clear criteria, close inspection, and competence. If most of these elements are not present, we would find that foundation guilty of original sin, of rooted vice that keeps it from being accepted without reserve. But how often do we find these principles in common usage? We do not hesitate to say, very few times. As a matter of fact, the most exalted of speakers are passion, superficiality, and ignorance; since the first is impulsive and the others are blind, they know nothing of vacillation or remorse. They spurt out their streams without being subjected to doubt or scruples and tranquilly negate with their impurities everything they entrap.

And if this happens in general, it happens much more and with greater intensity where the atmosphere is rarefied and horizons are limited: in Catalonia, for example.

In times gone by, this land had the glorious importance of a great civilization, but because of vicissitudes of history Catalonia was reduced to a destiny inferior to her capacity and was forced to squeeze all her grandeur of a fully developed nation into the narrow confines of a region without its own designs; from a sovereign people she was reduced to a bit of a country clumsily made to adhere to other peoples with gross stitching. She remained in this precarious state, turned in upon herself, in forced immobility, for many dozens of years. With thought sequestered, action truncated, voice coagulated, unable to establish the highest functions of life and condemned to a purely vegetative existence, she lost her faculties, energy, initiative, her true physiognomy. Left out of the world community and without a say in global events, Catalonia passed from conquered to enshrouded. But fortunately, she was not dead; she still carried within her breast the seeds of all her powers. She only needed warmth of some happenstance event to ferment the yeast, and as soon as that occurred, she revived from Living Death. Then she realized she was nude: during the long period of lethargic captivity, her splendid, regal tunic had disintegrated, its shreds fallen to the ground. In order to present herself with decorum to the entire world once again, she had to make herself new clothing. But as it is known, the function creates the organ, and disuse atrophies it; the strongest vision is lost in the dark; the greatest ingenuity turns to idleness. Catalonia, for whom today was made of centuries of yesterdays, action and tradition were remote, and so, upon awakening, she found herself lacking in traditions, and since perfections are not improvised, instead of dressing herself definitively, she could only do so transitorily, leaving for later the carefully crafted clothing of good taste and elegance. She is still engaged in this reconstructive task: while strands of gold embroidery, silk coverings, and sumptuous trappings shine through, there remains much to do, and poorly stitched threads, bits, and pieces can still be seen. One of these provisional pieces within the still transitional garb of the splendid Catalan Renaissance is what we know as a public: the multitude of spectators and judges of beauty. That throng among us remains today a strange anachronism.

In contrast to what usually happens with blighted races, which need to nurture themselves a great deal before producing, here the innate strength manifested itself right away in the need to produce before learning to consume. So much so that we suddenly found ourselves better able to do our own work than to understand that of others; even more so because for the first, primordial elements carried within each person often suffice, but for the second, a slow and difficult preparation is required, which cannot be feigned if one does not possess it, nor can it be bought like merchandise. We have had neither the time nor the opportunity to acquire this kind of preparation, since we have been so occupied with the problems of immediate material interest confronting any social installation looking seriously toward the future.

Like early flowers that burst forth from the ground when spring is still far away, artists and poets sprouted here—ideal blossoms—while the collective mentality still lay beneath a layer of ice, left from the long winter of inaction it had suffered. But that could not last long; flowers need the warmth of the sun to live, producers need consumers, and artists an audience. Responding to this imperious necessity, a public sprouted at random, just as so many other things had done. It would be foolish to believe that a model public, a perfect instrument of opinion, could emerge all of a sudden from that spontaneous generation, but it was something that fulfilled the functions, and for the moment, that was enough.

In effect: the public was gathered from among the jumble of diverse ranks, all working on their own projects, with art far from their sphere of expertise, who offer no depth nor anything in common other than a poor atavistic level of culture; the lack of anguish for that low level that comes from the low level itself; shortsightedness resulting from limited horizons; a vision from the flatland of their gaze; a natural poverty of taste, atrophied by lack of exercise; an abundance of scruples of those who do not know what they should be scrupulous about; the exaltation of judgment attributed to the ignorant who do not know they are ignorant; the stubbornness of opinion from those who are not accustomed to having opinions; and finally, the silly petulance of the adolescent who thinks himself adult because they allow him to join the conversation. In other words: in Catalonia, which not in vain had been converted into the provinces, the first public to emerge was pretentious, restricted, inhibited, timid, without discrimination. It was an audience of outsiders, tout à fait, a genuine little provincial public. The administering of criticism fell to this modest, homemade audience, this avalanche of newcomers, leaving it to them to act modestly and domestically, with the good faith of the called rather than the criterion of the chosen, hoping to evolve into an aristocracy, the goal of all powerful and valorous entities. And thus we are arriving at the natural moment for the evolution to establish itself, but so slowly that it would be good for those with knowledge and ability to give the process a little push. For, we must confess, this public of ours leaves a bit to be desired for the times we have come to; it is not yet a serious collective, prepared to judge with an ample criterion, open to all healthy currents of good taste and correct civility that should correspond to the new Catalonia joining the history of great peoples. Matter is still more important than spirit, and there are still too many innocents to slay, for example, the good businessmen who, while answering Qui[u] vedis to the question Quo vadis?, allow themselves to pass judgment resolutely on a work of art; dentists who know the mechanics of their profession but not psychology, who blindly believe that one can only write that which has happened, and within that, only according to their own odontologist’s criterion, dismissing authors according to good or bad conduct; virtuous priests who would turn every artist into a lay preacher, every brain into a branch of their own, every artful tale into a childish maxim for wayward youths; self-proclaimed enthusiasts of the mystics who bitterly condemn honest openness of concept and the suffocation of expression that the mystics taught; apologists for popular songs, shocked at the plasticity of a style that suggests the same origin; devoted mothers who put their children to sleep with daily prayers and who give the Bible to their adolescent daughters while hiding certain things from their twenty-year-old sons—special certain things available only to themselves—; first-time critics who compare Zola—perhaps the only information in the neighborhood!—with the first ignoramus they come across; very proper ladies who have had six children and still ask if it is licit to look at an academy; oddly candid damsels who secretly write letters to their admirers but who would never see a comedy with love scenes without first asking permission from their spiritual advisors . . . in the end, a multitude of ordinary people full of contradictions, foolishness, affectation, and what is still worse, hypocrisy.

All these fine henhouse ladies and gentlemen judge, opine, and advise as if they had nothing else to do in their lives; they all want the artist to think so, speak thus, and do this or that. They have plans of great magnitude behind their eyebrows, and only those who are well behaved and appreciative of the importance of the gift would be allowed to put those plans into action. One might think, taking all into account, that if an artist or writer were slightly mischievous, he might say with great flourish: “Very well, ladies and gentlemen worthy of all my respect, I am willing to do all you say, in strict alphabetical order, as long as you get a small concession from God, a wee supplement to my life that would allow me to finish the task of speaking for all of you, to do all your works, respectively . . . and then you would please tell me who has spoken for me and done my work, for, do not take it the wrong way, but I might also have something to say on my own behalf.”

But sadly, artists usually are not very mischievous, nor are they prone to mocking. They listen too seriously to the public without even taking the precaution of a formal introduction. Let us take that precaution, then, for them.

Years ago on the island of Cuba a great number of banknotes of little value was issued, and everyone knew they were falsified, but for lack of legitimate ones, and since they facilitated transactions, they were accepted for business as long as the back bore the words “False, but circulatable.” Let us put that same clarification on those flocks of underdeveloped audience, both to stimulate them to hurry and legalize themselves and to keep them from being taken for what they are not, thereby conceding too much to them. For that well-known theory of the Castilian poet [Lope de Vega] that the common man is foolish, and since he pays, it is correct to speak to him foolishly to suit his taste seems so contemptible that we would not want any honorable person to put it into practice. For having been used so much, the theory has jumped the borders in which it was engendered, damaging the mentality of the entire nation, leading it into the decadence in which it finds itself at this time.

No: the true artist or poet, having been assigned a preeminent place amid the anonymous masses, must never abandon it; that place of danger as well as honor must not waver or yield to ignoble pressures—applause, money, or threats—lowering the sublime dignity or flattering foolishness or the poor instinct of those crowds who are notoriously inferior due to their lack of cultivation. Far from it, and above vain praise and criticism, he should serenely make his own way, accomplish his work, even though he may not have its full intuition, thus spreading the beneficial seed, so stimulating to the still barren earth. He can make the businessman understand clearly that it costs nothing to be quiet when you have nothing to say, that it is better to laugh than to be laughed at, that a book of art is not the same as a bank book; the dentist lacking psychology can learn that there are certain magic filters called intuition and study that show artists, as if by enchantment, things they have never actually seen or heard, and even dentists would be wrongheaded if they only knew how to cure toothaches of the sort they had suffered themselves; virtuous priests must leave the stone castles of their intransigence from time to time, for while proselytism can be praiseworthy, they ought to see the world and recognize that there are many needs to satisfy, that God—who knows a bit more than we do about everything—created diverse aptitudes in order to satisfy those needs, and that it is a sin of pride and heresy to try to improve upon the plain; soi-disant worshipers of mystics must see the danger of exaggerated zeal, that picking the smallest cherries from the basket makes the bigger ones fall, for cherries stick to each other; the distracted songster must repeat the repertory da capo, for some marvels cannot be by ear alone; the deliciously devout mama has to realize that even daily prayers, models of frank speech, can inspire indiscreet questions, but that should not keep her from teaching them to her children, and if the certain things mentioned in the Bible have not aroused the natural curiosity of her adolescents, she can rest assured that the farthest flung of novels that they might come across will not do so either; novice critics should remember that Spanish lands have for many years had honorable people offering the flower of the most just and aesthetic realism without favoring mercantile interests or swirls of vanity, and it is more decorous and natural to assume that our writers will strive for the legitimate rather than the false; lovers of the classics, before labeling youth as presumptuous and bold, must keep in mind that at the sancta sanctorum of libraries, which all cultured people should frequent, one stumbles across, without even trying, all manner of makeshift love stories from every class, a great abundance of Colloquia of widows, virgins, and married women, all kinds of Celestines; the very respectable ladies must remember that it is ridiculous to be more papist than the Pope, and Vatican museums and Catholic churches around the world are full of the same things; sacred as well as lay academies are academies after all in their representation of Christ, little angels, Saints Sebastian, Jerome, Genevieve, the figures of final judgment in the Sistine Chapel, Phidias’s torsos, the personification of the Nile, etc.; the scrupulous damsel ought to learn that there is no great difference between letters from suitors and love scenes in a comedy, that what matters is whether the literature is good or not, the quality of the aesthetics, and the sensual emotions they arouse. All of them must be aware that it is a shame to be uneducated and stay within a state of clear inferiority when one has the possibility of changing, for knowledge does not occupy space nor does good taste cost more, and on the other hand they lead to delights that gold cannot buy. Seeing all kinds of things is not to be feared, but not knowing how to see them; knowing temptations is not the problem, rather not knowing how to resist them; he who is usually weak will catch a cold at the slightest breeze, whereas the strong can resist the winds of the highlands; sincere and respectful openness does not mean licentiousness but good health of heart and mind; nudity is never immoral in itself, only in the way it is presented; he who sees danger and malice in everything is a true coward and knows he will not be able to defend himself from the slightest attack, and is, in fact, meanly and morbidly malicious. It is a truism that innocent eyes see innocence, whereas the vile and corrupt as well as the foolish interpret even the simplest thing as vileness and corruption.

To conclude the generalities and return to the quarrel between literary styles of ruralism versus urbanism, if I were given one of those authorized voices, made to be heard and heeded, I would say that it is unjust to attribute—cause, source, origin—all the excesses and faults, deviations or successes, defects or virtues coming from the faculties, taste, or point of view of its cultivators, to the rural mode. If, in fact, those who practice it have made mistakes, it is not their fault; if they have sinned, so have others.

It could be that much of what has been written recently in the rural style in Catalan literature is defective, primitive, incomplete, but that does not imply anything against it, rather the contrary. Action is not potential, the achieved is not the achievable, feelings about something are not limited to one, two, or twenty individuals and are not crystallized in a certain number of criteria or formulas. Every affirmation generates a hundred contradictions, and every contradiction a thousand affirmations; those who have spoken little may speak much more; that which has not been said to date may be forthcoming; truths not revealed to one may be revealed to another; a hazy dawn may turn into a splendid afternoon. The concrete, if not definitive at least superior, which has yet to materialize, of the elements or the soul of rural Catalonia in a series of works or prototypes, will appear one day, either from us or from our followers. This is what is possible and probable, and it will happen, God willing, for the contrary does not make sense. In all natural occurrences, logic rules: that which is strong will prevail sooner or later, and those who have voices will call out and say clearly what is appropriate.

Everything starts at its own beginning: as was natural, ruralism started with reproduction of the simplest things, that which offered the greatest contrast and was easiest to see and understand from afar: its outer crust. But it need not stop there; more delicate and difficult aspects will follow: penetrating looks at its core, its soul. For what has been said, indeed, what is known of our true peasant soul? That marvelously vast, beautiful, mysterious soul naturally precedes the urban soul, and is not inferior to it—perhaps not superior either—simply different, in essence, and interesting for that reason. What do we know of certain portentous aspects of that soul, of its intimate harmony, of the fraternal solidarity within the nature of man, plant, or beast, of that holy, imposing conjunction, so equalizing and completely unknown in the city? What of that individual consciousness from a formation that we—with laughable wisdom—consider embryonic, but seems to include all the elements of the cosmos, organized perfectly but with an organization that escapes our critical glance, with our vision limited to a small psychological sphere? What of the complete, upright sense of the absolute and the relative, of the mechanisms of life, which those illiterate consciousnesses possess? What of the resonance and sounding boards nature raises, what of the unexpressed sublimities, of the joys produced by survival, free of artifice, that spring up around those within the eternally unchanging elements? Do we know anything of those things? Absolutely nothing! If we’ve ever been confronted with an unexpected doubt and questioned our thought, we have not had enough worth or patience to follow through with direct auscultation or coexistence in the long common hibernation that would have led to a prudent answer. We have preferred to leave it be—let us modestly confess—and instead of really studying rural life, we have left it at enjoying ourselves and seeing the countryside, its beings and goings-on as a rather curious spectacle, and putting together the picturesque, the grimace, the conventional, whatever was easily at hand.

Under the circumstances, then, do we want to go astray without having listened? Judge without having understood? Suppress without having produced? Oh, no, for God’s sake! I repeat: we can laugh at the laughable, cut out the imperfect if necessary, reject that standard ruralism from without, that unassimilated spirit, so ruralophile and therefore incompetent and false from lack of knowledge circulating up to now in Catalan letters. But let us not touch the intangible, let us not strike out against the peasant soul, let us not deprive others of seeing what we have not been able to see or study or understand or reveal; let others have a chance. And may we at least taste the honey of the delights and teachings that we have been unable to pass on to others.

The future crystallization of modern Catalan civilization, if it is to strive for perfection, or at least superiority and influence, must include all vital elements, all aspects of life, which if one in essence, is multiple in its manifestations; if not, the current resurgence will have been a flash in the pan, just a passing phase in time and history. Our patriotic pride must not accept that, and surely it will not. Let us believe that, in any case, and in the meantime let us commit ourselves to making it happen.

Note

1. The reference is probably to Joan Maragall.

“THE WINDFALL,” FROM CAIRES VIUS (“ROUGH EDGES”)1

This long story, told in bits and pieces some time back, would have made a perfect serial novel, but I will give it to you all together, condensed and recovered like a drop of essence of a lost genre that would have remained forgotten in a flask from another era. Here you have it.

At the main square of the town, a great old house embraces the entire side facing the morning sun. The walls of rough-hewn stone have a golden burnished patina that makes them look like an immense macaroon; the eaves of the roof protrude several inches above the walls, all torn up in spots, as if by the fingernails of a giant grasping for sweets. The outside door is tall, wide, and massive like the postern of a castle, all covered with strange ironwork: studs like vines and wild pines, escutcheon locks like laminated eagles, hinges representing dragons with bristling manes, and at the top, so high you have to stretch up on tiptoe, there is a twisted and deformed devil, striking with his club at the bare head of a condemned man.

There is a window to the right of the door and three more to the left, all four lined up and framed by stems and leaves of wrought iron, in ancient and precious workmanship with tones enriched by the rust eating away at it, destroying it little by little. On the second floor four more openings correspond to those below; four balconies, old elongated windows, decorated by curious reliefs in which the heads of maidens and beaux in various postures kiss each other devotedly amidst flowering thistles: according to an erudite villager, the symbolism represents daring and spirited youth, anxious to enjoy themselves even though wounded already by this sad life.

On the third floor, there had once been a long arcade with square pilasters that supported the roof and the spaces between; some were closed off later, and only two were still open on the left side, which now looked belittled, spoiled by yet another reform; they seemed trapdoors forever shut off. Besides those two eyes, close together but not centered at the top of the frontispiece, all the remaining openings were usually kept covered, and the whole house had the cold, imposing air of something no longer alive, abandoned and vulnerable like a relic of age, full of mystery, ruin, and cobwebs. And, to lend it even more character, a great crevice on the right side started under the eaves and zigzagged down to the first floor.

All discerning visitors, all painters on their way through, attracted to the village by the thermal richness of the water and picturesque surroundings, stopped, intrigued by that house, and while the latter pulled pencils and notebooks out of their pockets to jot things down, the former would stop the first boy they saw playing ball in the square:

“Kid, what’s the story on that house?”

The youngster would look at them, surprised that they didn’t know.

“Is it the Feliu d’Anguera house?” the curious stranger would add; but the boy would remain with his mouth open and then shrug his shoulders: he didn’t know as much as all that. But every time such a scene occurred, one or another of the townswomen would manage to mosey by, hear the conversation, and offer a friendly intervention.

“The Feliu d’Anguera family? . . . Oh! Very important people at one time. . . . They are still King’s Knights and get nine chimes when they die, but they’ve come way down. . . . Misfortunes and other mysteries, you know? . . . Things of those bygone days. . . . Now the old ones are dead, and only the simple-minded boy and the lady are left.”

“Where do they live?” the curious fellow would ask.

“Here, right in this house.”

“But I see grass on the doorstep and debris in the lock!”

“Well, they live in the back part, the new part that opens to the garden. . . . It’s a very large house: between one thing and another, God knows where it ends. . . .” And the satisfied lady, before leaving the visitor, would advise him to go around the grand place in order to get a good sense of how important it was, like a national monument.

What she said was true. Back in the day, the lineage of d’Anguera had been powerful, a key force in the region, and even beyond.

Worthy men from that family had occupied primary places in the principal branches of their epoch: clergy, military, and royal favor. A thorough investigation of the still unpublished history of Catalonia would surely show signs of the prolific clan in important battles, among the prelature, and in courtly intrigues. But then, one day, a strange happening came about to undermine such achievements.

At some point, no one knows how or why, a Portuguese adventurer ended up in the house of d’Anguera: João de Carvalho was one-eyed, hunchbacked, ugly as a dragon, but as sharp in understanding as he was malicious in deeds; within the time of a rooster’s cry, he became a close friend and adviser to Senyor d’Anguera and on excellent terms with his young, pretty wife, and even with the central axis of the entire household, which from then on he made arbitrarily follow his will. Thanks to his influence, Senyor d’Anguera changed radically from an honest gentleman of moderation into a scandal, reprehensible to all who knew him. He made himself look bad to those close as well as distant; he started major trouble with friends and relatives; he scattered his fortune in parties and merrymaking; and while such things were going on, he disappeared from a hunting party. His companions looked for him everywhere with lighted torches until they finally found him inside an unknown trap, his body caught amid sharp parts of tools issuing forth from the depths and his head full of wounds. When they all asked who had made such a trap, no one knew, but the Portuguese fellow immediately accused the evil peasants, threatening them with awful punishments. Meantime, the hunters responded in unison, but under their breath:

“The Portuguese man! . . . It was that damn Portuguese man!”

Who was right or wrong? It was never clear. But a good number of peasants—those who had looked most askance at the Portuguese man—were hanged for it, while he became the official head of the d’Anguera household, strutting about at his pleasure with no fear of anything or anyone.

The dead man left a wife not yet twenty and a daughter of five: João Carvalho sullied the first with shameless and brutal behavior, and freely wasted the inheritance of the other. When the girl turned thirteen, her mother was found smothered in her bed, and before anyone knew about it and the entire region could revolt against the intruder, the old, ugly, repugnant man, further undone by continuous excesses of lust, gluttony, wrath, and drink, had taken the orphan for his bride, with the excuse of needing the legal right to defend her if necessary.

That decisive act that exchanged the basic title of the house to that of the Portuguese Carvalho—which as the years passed, peasants gossiped, and records were kept, became the Catalan Carvalló of recent times—seemed to put the harsh mark of a sinister seal on all the family, which thereafter was characterized by early deaths by violence or accidents, and the youngsters fell prey to all manner of greed and tutelages. From then on the prestige and strength of the house suffered a gradual decline, its greatness pure illusion and solely traditional, and amid such chaos ended up in real poverty, borne by the last three generations with dignity and stoicism.

From time to time a fortunate match would revive the household, raising up its head, uplifting its good name, and loosening the noose a little; but only briefly, as a new, unexpected blow would return the yoke and leave it defenseless and adrift once more. When the second to last heir came along, luck seemed to have folded its wings for good over the bit of recovered status.

By the time don Feliu Carvalló d’Anguera took possession of his patrimony—during the time of Ferdinand VII—he found the inheritance so weak and leaky that at first glance he couldn’t tell which was worse: debts or losses. The Carvallós, always fertile in offspring, had greatly enriched many monasteries and chaplaincies with them and their corresponding legacies; don Feliu saw that his expenses for loans, contracts, beneficiaries, maintenance of hospitals, obligations to charitable causes of every sort, arose to dreadful heights, converting him from the head of his household into agent and unfunded manager of a hundred unknown persons. He pored over invoices and receipts, asked for advice from professionals, meditated at length, and from myriad legal questions that had arisen from the granting and assurances of those legacies, a great number of lawsuits sprung up which, like hungry vultures circling above, threatened to gobble up the little he had left from his forebears. When don Feliu died, his heir saw the dark swarm thicken and swoop down even more on the household, with new blasts of litigation: disputations from pensioners who sheltered themselves with new laws to avoid paying their due; disputations with the town and adjacent property owners over rights that some claimed were expired or nonexistent and others said were recognized and valid; disputations among brothers over inheritances; disputations with rights holders over this, that, and the other.

The result: by the time in the year ’85 Senyor Carvalló and his wife died from cholera within a day of each other, the household had been getting by modestly, with bourgeois humility, relying on their limited income and meager savings and still defending themselves against frequent curial bloodsuckings that destiny imposed on them as the aftermath of former splendor.

What was left then was the discharge of the ferocious Portuguese blood from the past in the veins of three poor innocent beings: Uncle Rafel de Carvalló, the seventy-year-old younger brother of the second to last heir don Feliu, and a boy and girl, nephew and niece of Rafel and offspring of the recently deceased couple.

The lad, who bore his grandfather’s name, was twelve, and as he grew it became more and more apparent that his lack of intelligence would lead him to idiocy; the girl was four, with silken skin and big blue-green eyes, full of vague gazes.

When Uncle Rafel, tutor and guardian of the children, found himself with such responsibility in such bad circumstances, he mustered up all the strength his advanced age permitted; he counted and recounted, cutting back even further on expenses; he stretched the meager income as best he could, and, risking it all, he managed to send the girl to a nun’s school. He remained with the unfortunate boy, his nurse, who stayed on to care for him well past his infancy, and just one young servant.

Maria Romana Carvalló d’Anguera i de Cortils left the boarding school at nearly sixteen, tall and languid, lithe and thin as a flower stem, with such abundance of light-brown hair that it covered her little face, white and pure but marked by chlorosis, and overshadowed her clear eyes, a calm, sad blue like the surface of a lake.

During her stay at the school, she had been a student like the others, neither good nor bad, unwilling to make much of an effort at anything. Her favorite class was needlework, which she did with painstaking exactness, and for recreation she preferred aimless walks along the narrow, hidden paths of the garden where one did not hear footsteps or conversations. Silent and solitary among the commotion of her companions, a sickly flower from a spent branch, she seemed about to wilt even as a bud, as if she lacked expansive strength to blossom. The nuns treated her with affection and even loved her, but without warmth or enthusiasm, in spite of not finding anything to criticize her for except her strange mania for eating nonedible things, like chalk from the walls, bits of paper, bread dipped in lamp oil from the refectory, et cetera. . . .

When she left, nuns and classmates alike said goodbye weeping sincerely, but within eight days no one would have remembered her had it not been for one of the least trod little paths in the garden, now bearing the name Pasillo de María Romana, honoring the times she walked there alone while the other girls played, jumping, laughing, engaging in agitated games.

Once installed back in her house, the young woman continued more or less the same quiet, easy, tranquil life she had led at the school. The elderly maid, converted to lady of the house by circumstances, ran the place, and Maria Romana had nothing to do except get dressed and serve chocolate to Uncle Rafel, who got up late due to his eighty-two years. Then she would sit on the terrace, a wide, covered extension, partly glassed in, to work on one of her pleasant needlework tasks while listening distractedly to her simple-minded brother as he shuffled up and down alongside her with quick little steps, busy eternally counting on his fingertips:

“One thirty and one thirty, two thirties, and one thirty makes three thirties, and another, four thirties . . .” and so on until he got to fourteen thirties, the maximum achievable, and with great difficulty, by his knowledge of arithmetic. When he attained it, he stopped or slowed down, fixated on the spread-out fingers of both hands, and a beatific smile would brighten his face as if he had just discovered some great unknown after a long pursuit.

After dinner, the silly fellow would go down to the orchard with cane in hand to make the plants recite doctrine, and after each question, annoyed at the lack of response, he would strike at them until he got tired of it, while his sister returned quietly to her work on the terrace, and Uncle Rafel, sprawled in his old armchair, spelled out inscriptions in a devotional tone from a book full of yellowed pages, without even using his glasses.

From time to time, Maria Romana would raise her silky eyelids, let her pale, long hands of a Van Dyke damsel fall on her lap so she could watch her brother with a benevolent gaze and smile, but she had no wish to join him in the fresh air and enjoy the sun that fell over all—land, animals, and plants—like a golden blessing from the sky. Since she had been back, she was even less inclined to seek light and movement than she had been at school, and she left the house only to go to mass.

On the other hand, she felt a secret, intimate joy treading alone through the uninhabited areas of the house, along those great rooms in the front part, in the daytime full of fine dust and cobwebs always renewed, with a closed-in smell and vague shadows, and at night gloomy darkness, the nibbling of worms and fantastic moonbeams as she would open the shutter enough to see where she tread. For it was at night and without a lamp of any sort that she most enjoyed walking through those rooms. She, who screamed if a dog barked at her and paled in dismay if a train raced by, had never had any fear of the incomprehensible secrets hidden in the silence and darkness of that ancestral space: on the contrary, she felt the spirit of stillness that reigned there as a benevolent friend, especially in forgotten rooms and abodes, silent witnesses of past grandeur. Hers was an old Castilian soul in the wrong epoch, the little lady who missed neither the worldly ways nor the austerity of the cloister, but rather felt delight in the withdrawn and sweetly useless life of voluntary enclosure. She felt so comfortable with that life that she did nothing to live that of her own time, to grasp it; she let it pass her by distractedly, go distantly along, forgetting about her altogether.

In spite of the name she bore and her situation as heir, given her brother’s clear incapacity, in spite of the pleasant profile of her little head and the attractive and noble languidness of her body, Maria Romana de Carvalló, innocent of mean-spiritedness or even a feminine desire to please, was not sought after or desired by any man in her placid and fleeting youth in reclusion. Thus she reached twenty-six, at which time Uncle Rafel died at ninety-something.

He had been indisposed for five or six years, unable to take care of himself, so his niece had taken over running the estate, although he remained the technical head out of respect and good norms. At the death of the uncle, she had to face a problem she had managed to avoid so far: to officially legalize her brother’s incapacity, without which she could not sell, mortgage, or fulfill obligations of any kind as head of the household. She would have to seek an advocate, ask for opinions, get someone to help her take charge of the whole situation, and for that, she would have to leave the village and go to Girona or Barcelona where there were experts at such things. . . . Maria Romana calculated with distaste the details of that necessary trip one evening as she ambled through one of those unused rooms, her favorite, with only the light of the moon as usual. It was called Estrado de la portuguesa since it was where the widow of the last Senyor d’Anguera had been found dead, according to well-known tradition; she was reanointed with the scornful name portuguesa by the townspeople for her illicit dealings with the adventurer Carvalho. If at that moment some fearful passerby aware of the lugubrious legend had seen the thin and mourning vision pacing back and forth in her silent wanderings by the light of the moon cutting across the room like a trail of greenish gauze, perhaps he would have thought that this last great-granddaughter of the ancient lady was one and the same soul, unforgiven and suffering, shuffling through that place of sin and crime.

But Maria Romana did not even remember the great-great-grandmother, whose disgrace seemed to have cut down the powerful lineage in the entire region; she came and went silently, completely absorbed by her thoughts, whose weathervane from time to time would register, just for an instant, a flurry of little shrieks or the pitter-patter of invisible paws at her feet. At that point Maria Romana slowed down her pace and moved her noble head to and fro in the darkness, as if to scold a spoiled child who was disturbing her.

The rats! . . . Those same sneaky rats that had taken over the platform as their playroom! . . . That spree had been going on too long; when they outsmarted poisons and traps, the only solution was to cover over their nests, before they ruined everything. . . . But she hated to have the house in upheaval. . . . The workers hammer, get things dirty, disturb everything! Unless maybe she could have them come now, while she was away? She would find everything straightened out and quiet when she returned. . . . It seemed a good idea, and she considered it done.

The Carvalló heiress went off to Barcelona, leaving her brother, who didn’t require much work, with the young servant, while she took the older one with her. The day before she left, though, she had called Brianet Molera, the town’s handyman; she showed him the old rooms and gave him instructions to begin the next day. Brianet indeed appeared on that day with trowel and trough in hand, installing himself in those rooms.

Tranquilly, without rushing, as if he knew just how much work to do each day, he astonished neighbors and terrified spiders and other critters, hacking at all the openings, hauling water and lime, scattering his tools on the floor, and then, singing like a lark or whistling like a blackbird, he set about to carefully search out the lairs of the poor frantic rats. Roosted with his legs tucked under, he would go rattatatat with the handle of a tool, then pickety-pick with the iron trowel as he slowly went all the way around the dais of the Portuguese lady.

When he hit a loose tile, he fixed it; if he saw a suspicious scratch, he covered it with mortar; but he found nothing important enough to spend much time on it, and he hurried along to finish. Three-quarters of the room were all set when he hit at a certain point near the wall of the façade and it sounded hollow.

“There’s a big nest here, for sure!” thought Brianet, and grabbing the chisel he wedged inside a bare spot to raise the tile, but as soon as it moved, Brianet removed his hand and stood up in surprise: it seemed that air was blowing in from the outside.

“What the hell!” he was startled to see there was a vacuum.

He knew all about the legends surrounding that household, like everyone in town, and when he felt that blast of air on his hand, a shiver went through him, body and mind. He laughed at himself and put the chisel back to the tiles, but then he let out an audible cry and stepped back.

“Good heavens! . . . So it’s true!” He had no doubt: a breeze was coming through the tiles! It gave him goose bumps, and he didn’t know what to do. He examined more closely. Right where he’d chiseled, the material seeping out left a dark crevice. He put his hand over it: how cold it was! . . . That’s where the air was coming from. . . . Brianet calmed himself down. Praised be God! The burrow opened to the outside, nothing to be afraid of. Damn those rats! He rapped the chisel with his hammer, which knocked out the tile, exposing a deep, dark opening. “Aha!” he exclaimed aloud once he looked carefully into the hole. “This has been redone!” In fact, he could see the right angle of a niche made on purpose, the other angles of which must be behind the adjacent tiles. With heart pounding and hands shaking, Brianet knocked out those tiles, and the entire opening appeared. It was about five hand spans on each side, and the surfaces to Brianet’s right and left measured a thickness of about three spans from the bottom to the floor, arched on the lower part, and the other two of the same size were supported horizontally. Brianet remained suspended facing that cranny, and then, very slowly and a bit reluctantly, he braved a look inside. No air came through now, and it was so dark, he felt like his eyes were closed. He probed with his ruler: three palms down toward the front something was there, but on the sides and above just a void. Brianet understood. That hole opened to the spandrel of an old vault and it was a nest, all right, but not for rats, or in any case, the rats that had made it were the kind with ten fingers and ten toes.

Could it be a hiding place for . . . ? As that thought crossed his mind, he went cold from head to foot.

He lit a match and stuck his arm back in the mysterious hole. Right below the opening, he could make out a pile of debris; beyond, to right and left, just bare vault, then darkness. He kept on prodding, anxious and frantic, but couldn’t find anything else.

The clock had already struck twelve; Brianet did not want to arouse the maid’s suspicion by leaving late, so he put the removed tiles back where they were, donned his smock, and went to eat. As he passed through the hall and entered the inhabited part of the house, he saw an open door and heard someone beating mattresses; that was the heiress’s boudoir, which the maid was cleaning. Inside, right by the door, was a little vanity all done in white, and above it, a hand mirror hung on the wall. He glimpsed at it without paying much attention.

It was not yet one when Brianet returned to the house of Feliu d’Anguera.

“How enthusiastic, boy!” the maid exclaimed. “What’s up? You still have half an hour!”

The worker blushed.

“I wasn’t doing anything at home, and I’d like to go over that whole great big room again.”

“Up to you, Brianet, you know the way. I’m going to have lunch; I haven’t had a chance yet. I don’t know what I’m doing, I’m so busy today!” She was about to go in when she saw the brother go by the door and she shouted, “Hey! Maybe you could take Feliuet up there with you, it might amuse him. . . . Always passing through here, I’m surprised his head doesn’t spin. He’s all sad today. . . . I think he misses his sister. . . .” Without noticing the look on Brianet’s face, she called out to the poor fellow:

“Senyoret, senyoret! Go up there with Brian, he’ll let you use his things and you can play like you’re making little houses!”

The last in the Carvalló line stopped, with all his fingers extended before his eyes, and he concentrated his look on the maid as if he were afraid he’d lose the idea he had inside his head.

“Houses, little houses? No, no, I don’t want little houses, no houses . . . ,” and he turned back to his fingers, perplexed, trying to remember what he was doing when he was interrupted. As soon as it came to him, his eyes brightened and he burst into a joyful smile, walking again with quick little steps and saying under his breath:

“One thirty and one thirty, two thirties; one more makes three thirties, and another comes to four thirties. . . .”

Brianet’s heart jumped for joy. For a moment there, he could have strangled the maid for that inconvenient suggestion.

He crossed the inhabited part of the house and from the hallway, he glanced distractedly at the lady’s room. The door was ajar, and inside he again saw the white vanity and the little mirror hanging on the wall by its handle.

Brianet entered the Portuguese lady’s chamber and closed the door behind him, sticking a ruler through the handles to keep anyone from opening it from the other side without his consent. Then he shut the balcony and a window facing a little street, as if he were afraid he’d take cold.

He had brought a pole and a candle from the home; he fastened the candle to the tip of the pole, uncovered the opening, lit the candle, and was about to introduce it inside when he thought he heard a noise. He blew out the candle and quickly put it into his pocket, alarmed; with a knee and a hand on the floor, about to get up, he stopped to listen. He couldn’t hear anything except rustlings from the street, far away and unmistakable. Still, he couldn’t calm down. He got up and put his ear to the door. Nothing at all: the house was quiet. He returned to his place and started over again with the pole, inserting it into the hole very slowly and carefully. He stuck his arm in and then pulled it out, turned it around and peered in, pushing the device all the way down, bringing it back: nothing! He could see to about four or five spans on the right and the left, nothing further, just flickers, shadows, stinging in his eyes from the effort to twist them all around, forcing them into an impossible stare. Nothing. Since the square was too small to stick in his head and arm at the same time, or even his head by itself, Brianet couldn’t make anything out in spite of his efforts. Cramped, with an aching back, he stood up for a moment to rest, and he threatened that black hole with his fist and hallucinating eyes.

“Damn den! If it weren’t for I don’t know what, I’d smash you to bits like the church skylight. You’ll give me plenty of work. And for what? From what it looks like, a great big nothing!”

He started to think. That was a hiding place, no doubt about it, and perhaps back in the day it had hidden something worthwhile, but with the setbacks of the household, farewell, those birds had flown the coop for good. Otherwise, the house wouldn’t have fallen into such a state, they wouldn’t have sold property, the old roof tiles wouldn’t be lying around on the ground, nor would they have put up with such threats of confiscations as don Rafel had suffered months before his death, according to rumors. No, no, surely there hadn’t been anything there for years, yet—and that yet burned inside—sometimes amazing things did happen. Who hadn’t heard stories of someone redoing a stairway or tearing down a wall and finding unsuspected things? Especially in very old houses; they were full of mysteries, hidden nooks and crannies. And in those days, when people were like magpies, burying stuff that only came to light with the last rites . . . and in that family with so many sudden deaths, so many frightful deaths! What if? But hell, he would never get so lucky. Yet, since hope was there and God had let him discover the cache, might as well have a good look. After all, the lady was paying him and he had nothing to lose, it wouldn’t make a difference one way or the other.

So he returned to the opening.

“But what the hell was there to look at in that chimney hole? If only it were a bit wider, just a couple of fingers. Let’s see, maybe sideways, maybe. . . .”

So down he crouched, probing and scraping with increasing fervor, more stubbornly as the task rendered nothing and the searching got more difficult, until break time came and he hadn’t touched hammer or trowel. He left, crestfallen, after returning the tiles to their place, and as he distractedly passed by the lady’s chamber, he felt a jolt inside, as if someone lurking in the hallway had stopped him in his tracks. He looked in. The door was nearly closed, but Brianet caught a glimpse of the white vanity and the hand mirror. The idea sprouted in his brain. That’s what he needed! A little mirror! If only he had that! . . . He stared at the door. But it was shut; it had been open all day and now! He thought of the noise he had heard early that afternoon: it must have been the maid closing it, and now it could occur to her to come back. . . . “Bah, let’s do it!” Brianet said to himself as the thought crossed his mind; still, his feet stayed put, his eyes focused on the door. He could see how to grab it, it would just take a second! As he automatically reached out his hand to push, the clock struck a quarter after five. As if the vibration had broken the spell of temptation, he ran out of the house without seeing anyone.

A woman passed by and said, laughing:

“Hey, Brianet! The owners aren’t home, so you take your time to flirt . . . you wouldn’t spend that much time at home!”

He smiled too. What he was flirting with wasn’t half bad, for heaven’s sake!

When he returned to the manor, he had his plan in mind.

“If only I knew what she was going to do. If I could just get in there!”

She was at the door with mops, brooms, and rags in hand.

“Where are you going, all loaded down?” he asked suspiciously.

“To clean the kitchen ceiling, now that no one’s here to get in my way.”

“But ma’am, there’s lots of time, don’t work so hard. You know what you can do? Come up and chat with me a while.” In suspense, he awaited her reply.

The maid replied, startled but calm:

“You must be joking! No chatting for me, with the house turned upside down!”

Brianet winked at her.

“Maybe you’ll show up later on?”

“Not today, dear, you can have that party all by yourself. Instead of getting in your way, I’d rather have you help me a bit.”

“Okay, give me all that stuff, I’ll take it in for you.”

Brianet still wasn’t reassured, but without paying attention to the good-humored protests of the maid, he picked up her gear and asked where she wanted it. When he saw where the kitchen was, he breathed a sigh of relief: it was at the other end of the house, in the part that extended out to the garden. Even if he shot off guns in the area where he was working, there was no danger of their being heard from back there, and with all the noise, the maid wouldn’t be tempted to come and see him.

He found himself in front of that closed door with his heart beating like never before. All he had to do was stick his arm out and push a little, but at that point such a simple gesture seemed like the Labors of Hercules, beyond his strength.

“Going in or not?” His impulses were so contrary that he would have given anything to find that door open as it had been in the morning. But it wasn’t; he would have to do it.

“What’s the big deal?” he finally said, annoyed at himself. “It’s not like I’m up to no good!”And he pushed the door open with resolve.

The shutters were ajar, and in spite of the cleaning, the room had a complex odor, an agreeable feminine smell mixed with a special scent, like the flowers of a Corpus procession. Brianet sniffed with pleasure, then quickly on tiptoe, glancing vigilantly from side to side, he went straight to the vanity, took the mirror off the wall, and fled. In that quick shuttle from pushing the door open, then dashing from the vanity back to the door he caught a glance of the shadowy alcove with its great bed, white to match the vanity.

As in the chamber, the Portuguese lady’s room also had partly closed shutters, lending a mysterious air of something secret. Brianet didn’t open them: he imagined all the neighbors would realize what he was doing; he secured the door again, more carefully this time than before. As he did that and reconnected the candle to the pole, he ruminated with a thought that had just occurred to him.

If he were lucky enough to find something. . . . He wouldn’t be, of course, but if he did, what would he do? Tell her as soon as she got back, of course, but how? That was the question. Give it all to her and let her give him whatever she wanted—because something like that was always rewarded—or try to make a deal? “Look, I know a house secret and for such and such I’ll tell you what it is”? No, not like that. If she were stingy, she’d say no and she’d look over all the old papers to see if there was any record, or she’d have the whole house searched on her own and he’d end up with nothing. He’d have to think it over and find something that would work for both of them. It wouldn’t be fair if he found her a fortune and she repaid him with a swift kick. The Carvallós didn’t seem like that kind of people, but the household was in trouble, and now with the death of don Rafel, the official governance papers and all that, they could use a tidy sum, and when people find themselves in a pickle, sometimes even the good ones . . . as the old saying goes: “Think the worst and you won’t be wrong.” One way or another things had to be well thought out and dealt with so there wouldn’t be problems later.

But Brianet got mad at himself: “Why all this fuss if I haven’t even found anything, and what if I did and it was wrapped in a cabbage leaf and not worth a plug nickel? Discover something, bah! What with the need that those poor people had for cash! It’s okay to look, just to be sure, but no more brooding about it, damn it!”

He stopped arguing with himself and removed the tiles, lit the candle, and knocking here and there, he stuck the whole pole into the spandrel, fixed the end of it into the pile of debris, and with the same hand he thrust Maria Romana’s mirror into the cavern. He probed one side and the other, here and there, along edges and sides, but the glass showed nothing more than the bricks of the extrados, the groove of the spandrel toward the wall, and beyond were the usual shadows and darkness.

What bad luck! Just as he thought: nothing at all anywhere! He was about to toss that lying mirror into the hole for giving him hope in spite of all his protests and reasoning. But he got hold of himself. He had examined the side that went down, but not the part to his left. He returned to his mania, pushing and pulling the pole and uneasily shifting the mirror around, his pupils out of orbit from twisting his gaze around like a coil. Still, all he saw was pinkish bricks, as if they’d just come out of the oven in spite of the centuries, with their junctures full of little stalactites of plaster, the groove of the spandrel, the outside wall, the arch, again and again: bricks, grooves, hanging bits of plaster. Wait! Brianet took a start, blinked, shook his head, tried to steady his hand, which was suddenly trembling, and stared again, avidly, at the little mirror.

Holy God in heaven! Way below, by the light of the candle, something was there: a dark spot, not the vague, smoky, familiar darkness of the shadows, but a different sort of darkness—that of something corporeal.

Brianet went weak all over, into a paralyzed posture with his arm in the hole and his fist in the pile of debris. Something was there—what on earth could it be? Another pile of plaster? A chunk of wall? With a glance, he measured the distance it was from the dividing wall, and then he looked back at the spandrel. That thick bundle was about halfway between; it must be toward the balcony, so it wasn’t the middle wall. There were about two and a half ells from the hole to the balcony, and the pole was about ten spans. Brianet took the ruler and attached it to the pole inside the cavern, then put it to floor level and kept lowering it; he stretched his arm as much as he could . . . more, more, a little bit more until thump! He hit something, something solid, another bump, a definite sound! He was right! Something was there, neither wall nor debris! He put both hands on his chest and looked upward, mouth wide open and breathless. What on earth could it be, almighty God?

All upset, his face altered by emotion, wobbling on his numb legs, Brianet grabbed the mallet and ping-ping with the handle along the floor, close to the wall, toward the balcony. Nothing, no hollow sound, but if something was there, there must be another opening. He was sure of that, but where the hell could it be? Probably not in the floor. Maybe the walls? He started examining, and suddenly his eyes were drawn to the balcony’s threshold. Formed by a high polished stone step, the same thickness as the wall, more than five spans and divided into three parts, the middle had a greasy-looking patina and was very worn from centuries of footsteps; the other two seemed newer, with the surface still intact. When the balcony had been a window, two banks had rested on the side edges of the yellowed stone, which with the remodeling had been replaced by two sections added to the threshold to fill it out. That change to the original opening was not so old, from when the house was no longer at its zenith, and it discouraged a possible find. His experienced eye on one hand and his instinct for scrutinizing—which had sharpened greatly in the last few hours—reassured him. The transformation was not complete, for it kept some of the older elements, and the central stone had not been touched when the newer ones were put in, as could be seen in the different mortar that held them in, and even in the distinct workmanship. The new discovery encouraged the fellow.

No doubt about it: if there was a way to get into the hiding place, it had to be in that area, and he couldn’t see another way to cover it up than that odd stone that had caught his eye immediately.

All his reflections and conjectures led to the same conclusion: “If only I could get it out of there . . . if I could just get it out!” But it would take caving that whole thing in, tearing down half the house, and in spite of his fervor, Brianet didn’t dare go that far. On the other hand, leaving it there as if nothing had happened . . . ! He couldn’t accept that, poor fellow, after so much exasperated hope. He’d find some other way. “Let’s see, maybe; after all, perhaps that stone isn’t the only key.” Feverishly, impatiently, with an anxiety that kept him going but hindered his work at the same time, he went back to knocking on the floor and walls again and again, when he found himself once more at the foot of the balcony, bent over, examining the stone laboriously. He jumped for joy when he discovered that it was just set there, with no mortar or any attachment, on the crossbeam of the balcony! No hesitating: he’d take out that slab no matter what. He couldn’t possibly leave now without doing it.

He started right in, as carefully as he could. It was easy to loosen, but difficult to disconnect and move, at least for a man working alone, given the position it was in. But he didn’t mind: with all his forces, using his hands as pulleys, levers, and wedges since he didn’t have the proper tools and didn’t want to go get them, he struggled and strove once and again until finally, all swollen, red as a rooster, covered with scratches and cuts from his efforts, his nails destroyed, he managed to move the slab from its socket and saw a profound cave, almost without surprise now since he’d been imagining it for a quite a while.

Here it was, the big entrance to the hiding place! Here it was, the damn opening he so yearned for, but now that it was before him, as if the reality of the find had cured him of the madness of the search, he felt a keen loss of enthusiasm and hope, a great disappointment, a letdown of morale that left him withered. “I’m sure there’s nothing here! I’m crazy!” he convinced himself, wiping off the sweat streaming down his face; he almost put the stone back without sticking his head into the cavity. But when he stopped panting, he recovered his courage and penetrated the place. When he came out, he seemed a man who had just murdered someone, his face was so terribly transformed.

So all those legends and stories about buried treasures were true? Found fortunes, hollows filled with gold? Could they be true? Was it possible that he had become suddenly, mysteriously, fabulously wealthy, just like that, within the last five minutes?

Brianet’s throat was dry, his breath felt like flames, his gaze so scattered that he couldn’t believe what he was seeing, his senses dulled yet spasmodic. He wanted daylight to confirm that incredibly lucky dream, to bring it out of the shadows. He opened his hand and looked, and something between the smirk of a hanged man and hysterical laughter deformed his whitened lips. A sparkle, a phosphorescence brought him certainty. It was indeed gold, gold! A strange coin, squared off, from another century. And underneath, there was more, a whole jug, and another jug, and perhaps more . . . he hadn’t examined carefully. A treasure, a real treasure, and it was his!

Brianet’s teeth were chattering; he was shaking so hard that the coin slipped out of the palm of his hand and landed in the guttering of the spandrel. . . .

He went back down and filled up his pants pockets. He thought of filling up the vest pockets too, but he hesitated: he didn’t have anything to cover it up with, and a stumble or rush, even his trembling nerves, could make him drop one, and he’d be lost. He would have to explain, everything would be found out, maybe they would accuse him of stealing or even take the money away from him. . . . That possibility scared him. No, no, better wait ’til tomorrow, when he could come prepared. In any case, it was quitting time and he’d have to leave now.

Brianet emerged from the lair, slowly closing the slab over it with a heavy heart, as if he were placing it on his mother’s cadaver, and he closed the door behind him. He would have liked to take the key with him, but he didn’t dare, so he tied it to the handle as tightly as he could, stringing the cord around several times so it would be a struggle to undo it. He quickly slipped out, giving a loud good night to the maid so she’d know he wasn’t there and go looking for him, but as he got to the door he thought better of it and quickly turned back.

“Listen, I forgot to tell you I put poison for the rats before covering up their nests, and I barred the door so they wouldn’t scatter through the house . . . so don’t go scratching around up there, for now. . . .”

“Who, me?” The maid’s eyes opened wide. “I wouldn’t go up to those cathedrals for anything in the world, all alone in the house. They scare me to death!”

The fellow could have hugged her, grateful as he was for that providential fear.

What a night it was for poor Brianet! As soon as he found a safe hiding place for the gold he brought home, an inexplicable terror took hold of him over the gold he’d left behind at the Feliu d’Anguera house. How crazy, how foolish he had been to leave it all there, exposed to all sorts of dangers! How could he have done that, dear Lord? How is it possible that it hadn’t occurred to him that nighttime would be ideal for someone to remove it without being seen or arousing suspicions? He’d left it there for lack of preparation, but what other preparation did he need than to tie it up in his leggings with the same cord he’d used to fasten the door, fill them up with as much gold as he could up to the straps, even if he couldn’t take it all at once! . . . What were the other precautions worth, those ties that one snip of a knife would fall to the floor, and then the slab would be obvious, leading all onlookers to the mysterious opening. True enough that the maid was alone in the house—the simple-minded fellow didn’t really count—and she had said she was terrified of those rooms in the front, but the tongue can say whatever it wants and the only one who really knew her intentions was herself. As everyone knows, the most dangerous intentions are best hidden with lies and believable falsehoods. Hadn’t he, Brianet himself, refrained from chanting the whole story out? Had he mentioned what he was looking for, hadn’t he made up excuses to stay on longer, and then fastened the door as tight as he could? Well, the maid could have acted the way she did to give him confidence, especially since he must have aroused her suspicion with his questions, his off-schedule comings and goings, his mania for closing himself in . . . she could have been watching and discovered what he was up to, and then, alone—what better occasion—she could do whatever she wanted, laughing at his foolishness and sure that no one would ever know. But, not get found out? Hell, if she took just one piece and someone saw it, everyone would find out. He’d tell the owner, the police, and everybody. He wasn’t going to sit back and let someone take his treasure away. If he had to lose it, everyone else would, too! He’d rather see the damn government gobble it up, and send the cause of all this to jail! And if she somehow got away with it, she’d be sorry the day he caught up with her, he’d teach her a lesson about digging holes and spying on people while they worked . . . he was sure she’d peeked through the keyhole . . . he’d never been happy about that noise he’d heard early in the afternoon. . . . Damn! He should have been more decisive and opened the door suddenly, catching her behind it and strangling her like a chicken! At least he would be calmer now, whereas. . . . There he was like a fool with his hands folded, while she was there all by herself all night long doing whatever she wanted . . . damn it all that he hadn’t foreseen that! He’d left his entire fortune, as if it were no big deal, in the hands of that damned soul! It would have been so easy to take it all, or put the slab back in more carefully . . . who on earth would have been able to undo it!

He tossed and turned, jolted up and slapped himself on the thighs, gnashed his teeth, lashing out crushing curses; he seemed taken with some malignant fever that had ravaged his senses. He was one who slept like a baby every night, as soon as he hit the pillow, but that night he couldn’t keep his eyes closed; it was as if he were being poked by a thousand invisible prods. At about midnight, he remembered a certain detail; he could no longer stand the torture of the sheets and he got up pacing back and forth in the room like a wild, enraged animal in a cage.

Sweet mother of God, how could he forget the little mirror, leaving it inside the spandrel as proof, besides not putting the tiles back where they were, letting everything show! How could he have been so upset and unnerved, why hadn’t he foreseen what would happen? How was it possible! For sure, all was lost now, damn! Of course the maid would find out, even if she were as blind as Saint Joseph’s donkey at the church portal! She wouldn’t even have to spy through the keyhole; let’s say she went to shut the lady’s room up and saw that the mirror was missing, and even if she hadn’t suspected anything yet, she’d start putting two and two together, one thing leads to another; lead—shouldn’t that be led? From eight to midnight, she had plenty of time to do anything she wanted! If only he knew what was going on, if he just knew!

Brianet couldn’t stand it anymore: he threw on some clothes and headed for the street. It had been ages since he’d been seen outside at that hour.

Needless to say, he went straight to the plaza. He fretted back and forth without taking his eyes off the Portuguese lady’s room, like a wide-awake sentinel or a jealous lover looking for any sign of treachery.

He wished his gaze could pierce through walls and wood so he could see everything at once, he wanted to turn into a fine, vaporous spirit to infiltrate between stones and penetrate that damn house. . . . The little heads on the reliefs, discreetly kissing each other among the thistle leaves, seemed aware of the strange disturbance of that man of flesh and blood, and they felt sorry for him, while appreciating their own tranquillity, eternalized in stone, all the more.

After pacing for a while, Brianet saw the night watchman coming, looking surprised to see him there and bearing an inquisitive stare. Brianet was annoyed, but greeted him, and bringing his hands to his face, he complained of a terrible toothache that wouldn’t leave him in peace. The watchman accepted the explanation, offered some remedies, and went on his way. Brianet realized it was foolish for him to be out there; perhaps he’d be noticed by someone. He started to circle the house like a hungry cat stalking a lunch basket. Everything seemed quiet, he couldn’t hear a thing or see any light coming from the openings; still, he couldn’t calm down. The tranquillity of the house didn’t reassure him either: after all, once a storm has passed, a place is like a cemetery. . . . If only he knew, if he could only sniff out what might be going on inside!

When he got to the back of the garden, he made up his mind. Sure he would not be seen, given the distance from the neighbors, he climbed up the wall and peered over the edge. No sooner had he done it than he nearly fell back down. Understandable: that was neither fanciful apparition nor tricks of his eyes! Down there beyond the mesh of fruit tree foliage, he saw light: a gleam, a sparkle shining steadily in the darkness. . . .

Instinctively, he crept down from the wall and began to feel his way along like a drunkard. “It was true! She was up! Why would she be if not for that? There was no doubt: she had it all! . . .” Brianet tore at his hair. “To lose it all now, just when he had it in his pocket! Impossible! As soon as he could get into the house he would grab her by the neck and make her confess everything. . . . He’d suggest that they go halves. . . . No, not halves! . . . He’d done all the work, finding it, so he should get the better part, and he’d have it, whether she liked it or not. . . . Too bad for her if she resisted . . . he was prepared for anything, even if it cost him his life.

Indeed: as soon as the door to the Feliu house opened, Brianet entered, determined. It was not quite light yet. The maid was all tousled and not made up, and very surprised to see him.

“What are you doing here so early, Brianet?”

He stared at her, grinding his teeth.

“I’m going crazy with this toothache . . . I can’t stand staying at home. . . . But I see you’ve gotten up early too!”

“Gotten up!” she said in a natural tone. “I haven’t gone to bed yet. Feliuet had a bad night and I was up giving him something to calm him down. This is the last time, I’ll not stay alone with him again! What if something awful happened, what a mess it would be for me!”

The shackle that pressed Brianet’s heart got even tighter, full of gnawing prickles. He was right! She’d been up. . . . But she seemed calm, not anxious at all! . . . He managed to withstand her steady gaze and voice, and asked again:

“Since you were in here, didn’t you hear any rats?”

She responded in the same even tone:

“We don’t have rats in this part of the house. . . . Besides, I didn’t budge from the kitchen at all.”

Even so, Brianet held his breath until he was in front of the Portuguese lady’s room and saw that the cord was still in place; until he touched the gold again; until he stuffed the insides of his clothing; until all had been removed. . . . He had promised a mass to the Virgin of Succor if he got out of that mess without a hitch. With what fervor would he hear that mass when the time came!

When Maria Romana returned from Barcelona, the whole house was in good order and she was happy to get back to her routine, pleasant life. Her brother, so sick all those days from missing her, awoke from his lethargy when he saw her and recovered right away. Everything in the d’Anguera household went on a just as it had been before the trip, as if nothing had happened.

On the other hand, Brianet’s life had turned upside down. He frequently took trips for days at a time, and each time he returned with a more composed expression, a shinier gaze, more confident and satisfied with himself. He had developed a great appreciation for the beautiful things of his profession and a new interest that no one had ever known in him for the great church portal, full of images carved in stone, the huge decorated windows of the Feliu house, the town’s old watchtower. He explained to the Rector, who was surprised at this new knowledge, that in such and such a museum, a noble house, or an antique gallery, there was a figure just like this one, an arcade similar to that one, or a stained-glass window like another one in the town. With a well-done investigation, it wouldn’t take him long to create a list of art collectors, numismatists, merchants of precious objects and relics remaining from times gone by.

“How polished our Brianet has become! He doesn’t seem like the same Cebrià Molera he was a year ago!” the villagers remarked to each other.

“Who would have thought the boy was so knowledgeable when he was painting the rectory?” the Rector added in a worried tone. But one day, he believed he’d solved the enigma. After a few month’s absence, on the day of his return, Brianet had gone to see him, telling him that he’d set up a household in Barcelona, where he’d had work contracts for some time, and they were getting more and more important. It seemed all his chickens were laying; no matter what he took on, it panned out, and he was well on his way to making a fortune: his references were good in every branch of urban construction supplies. If he’d become a man, greatly surpassing the fellow who used to mend houses in the village, it was because he’d fallen in love, and he wanted to raise himself up to an appropriate level as a suitor to her, with no lack of merit or any deficiency. His beloved was none other than the heiress of the Feliu lineage, Maria Romana Carvalló d’Anguera i de Cortils, and consequently, in light of all he had explained, he wanted the Rector to intervene in his behalf, asking the reclusive lady if she would like to be his wife. . . . Taking advantage of the Rector’s open-mouthed amazement, Brianet added a simple aside, full of ingenuousness and confidence—let all this remain between us, of course!—that he happened to know from good sources that the d’Anguera household was on its last leg, and naturally he was willing, if she were to accept, to pay off the debts for now and later to put the house back in order little by little. He skillfully let slide his intentions to celebrate the mass at his expense in the chapel of the Virgin of Succor to thank her for the prosperity she had conceded him, and said goodbye completely satisfied with the visit, leaving the Rector charmed by his demeanor and his Christian sentiments.

After many months of meditating, making plans, and thinking of ways to calm down his conscience, which was poisoning the lucky possession of riches, Brianet thought he had found the way to a cure that would satisfy everyone and cleanse his scruples. To return the treasure to its legitimate owner was not possible for that selfish soul, which, as soon as he had touched the gold, felt it take hold of him by force, tying him up all over with indestructible cords, more powerful than reason, fear, threats, or punishment. To give away—thus losing forever—even a part of that gold to help reestablish the ancient house in such dire straits, putting it right with a new life, also seemed a cruel, unacceptable sacrifice. On the other hand, allowing the defenseless family to keep sinking further into the most shameful poverty day after day, the family responsible for where he was today, was so despicable that he was sure it would come back to haunt him, changing his luck for the worse. He couldn’t figure out how to solve all this, and after a thousand bothersome calculations he had decided to secretly buy off the debts of the house, becoming a benevolent owner to the poor inhabitants, when suddenly the saving solution came to him, the sublimely simple idea of marrying the heiress. His face lit up, his heart opened wide with the balm of absolute satisfaction. Here was the perfect answer: just, proper, honest, fair—the only appropriate solution. It was the way to fulfill his obligations and enter, in return for that favor, into the best lineage; intertwined with her, he could rekindle the charm of the old legends and stand out among all the best names in the region. He could reunite for himself and his progeny nobility, wealth, a resurgence of the ancient power of the house of Carvallós d’Anguera! . . . What a marvelously fantastic dream, even more so than the wealth itself!

From that moment on, Brianet could not rest until he set that great dream on the way to likely success.

After he had spoken to the Rector with such good results, he assumed it was done, and he softened, feeling a memory blossom within him that turned his ambitions into pure poetry. It was a recollection of Senyoreta d’Anguera’s chamber, so sweetly appointed in white, all shadowy and silent, filled with feminine perfumes and odors of Corpus procession flowers: the room he had seen only twice, both times in moments of great anguish—when he went to get the mirror and when he returned it. Now it seemed very attractive, even strongly tempting, but with the sacred pulling of something worthy of the highest respect. From the chamber, he moved on to its dweller, the gentle little lady, pale and indifferent, the virgin with luxuriant hair and Van Dyke hands, so majestic, even in the absence of haughtiness and mundane desires. He felt that he really hadn’t lied to the Rector when he said he loved her; the lady pleased him greatly, and when he compared her to others, all the women he had known in Barcelona and Paris, he liked her best and preferred her to all the others as his wife. One day, the day after he returned to the village, he was completely enamored of Maria Romana, not just out of vanity and calculations but something more alive and more sincere that sprang up unexpectedly, like another mysterious wealth from unknown depths of his soul; that profundity that opens up for all at some time in their lives, convincing them that they are like the rest of humanity.

Senyoreta d’Anguera’s reply to Brianet’s ambassador was brief, precise, and final: no. The Rector pleaded in favor of the proposal, he offered convincing arguments, he alluded to the state of the house and to the delicate intentions of the suitor, he fought in his favor with fervor and concern that surpassed what he would have done for himself, but no matter, it was all in vain. The little lady courteously let him speak, giving it his very best effort, but then, with her usual cool distraction, her soft inoffensive chill, she repeated her original declaration: Thank you, but I have no wish to marry for now. . . .

When Brianet found out, he was struck with imponderable amazement. He couldn’t figure out or understand that all his bold illusions could so easily go down the drain. When it sank in, he exploded with an extraordinary violence that in one minute shattered the fine veneer it had taken the rough Brianet twelve months of patient effort to anoint himself with. Wings clipped by disappointment, his passions of old sprouted like a nest of malignant serpents, spitting out a poison of curses and threats against that house and that woman who refused to accept his exaggerated ambitions with resignation. From that moment forth, he felt he owed them neither compassion nor any sort of consideration.

A few years later, everything that had formed the patrimony, including the ancestral house of Carvalló, awaited formalities of seizure instigated by don Cebrià Molera’s representative, while the heiress Maria Romana perished from an intestinal infection in a charity bed at the Hospital of the Sacred Heart. Her incapacitated brother, the last Senyor d’Anguera, crazed by her absence, threw himself into the garden well a few days before the court-ordered eviction, while Brianet the Handyman, as he was still known in his village, lived amid abundant wealth in a sumptuous mansion in one of the choice neighborhoods of the great city of Barcelona.

The plutocrat’s conscience remained completely tranquil, having ridded itself of the weak scruples of an earlier day.

For remorse is a cultivated flower, according to a famous anthropoligist.

Note

1. Carcanyol means “spandrel,” a rather obscure architectural term; the translation’s title, “The Windfall,” is after one of the story’s themes.

TEXTS

PÒRTIC

Llegidor:

Aquest nou llibre que t’entrego no és pas, en rigor, un llibre nou, sinó l’emulsió d’un llibre vell amb qualques elements d’altres llibres a fer.

Contra el gust general, que es decanta per la varietat, quan d’un aplec de treballs solts se tracta, jo prefereixo que cada llibre —aplec o no— donqui una nota única i distintiva, marqui un punt determinat en la mentalitat o el gust de son autor. La diversitat cromàtica, la complexitat harmònica, prou que es trobarà, si n’és cas, després, a fi de comptes, al revisar l’obra total. Mes jo, que així penso, per raons d’especial mirament procedeixo de manera diversa en aquest volum. I és perquè lo que fa més mota d’ell, els contes rurals, surten endarrerits de més d’un quinquenni, i en aquest quinquenni n’hem abusat tant entre uns i altres, i tan per demés estretament i limitadament d’un sol aspecte de la vida pagesa, que hem acabat per fadigar-hi el públic i fins per determinar, entre elements cultíssims del gust general, la naixença d’orientacions contràries, el principi d’una acció coercitiva d’aquest abús.

Davant per davant del ruralisme —tan infantet, tan incomplet encara!— s’adreça ja com una enemistança, com una amenaça formal, el nonat civilisme, el ciutadanisme... el portaveu de l’esperit poderós i multiforme de l’urbs.

Beneït sia l’adveniment d’aquest nou Messies que, si no enganya la conjunció dels astres, que, si no s’erren els profetes, s’està infantant! Esperem-lo amb goig, saludem-lo amb hosannes!, aquest adveniment que ha d’excelsificar les nostres lletres pluralitzant els matisos de sa gamma, avui encara pobra, monocroma; desitgem-lo, apressem-lo tots, aquest adveniment, encara que ell impliqui la mort d’altres idolatries; que per a totes ha d’arribar son hora un dia o altre, i lo que no sap morir serenament a son hora és que no ha sabut viure, que no ha viscut mai; car està, precisament, en el secret de poder morir la millor demostració de vida.

Mes jo crec que, quan arribi l’anunciat, no matarà pas res; i ho crec, en primer lloc, perquè no es pot matar lo que no existeix bé encara, lo que no ha assolit l’estat de plena i cabal existència, i, segonament, perquè, anc que així no fos, poden molt bé conviure amb una mare dos fills llegítims —i més que sien—, malgrat tinguin diversíssim tirat, perquè ambdós per igual, si per igual han rebut els elements de vida, proven la potència de llur mare i conjuntament amb el temps poden treballar per son exalçament i glorificació.

Per això tinc per una mica prematura i tal volta poc fonamentada la naixent campanya contra el ruralisme. Ja sé que mou sos apòstols un sentiment d’enlairada finalitat, un anhel nobilíssim de superiorització per un pròxim avenir esplendorós, i això sol dóna a llurs prèdiques un ressò greu de cosa sagrada que les fa dignes d’esser oïdes i meditades; mes, bo i reconeixent l’altesa d’aqueix sentiment, potser no fóra ociós senyalar lo que eixes prèdiques podrien resultar desviadores de futures iniciatives.

Ara com ara, per la vida collectiva de Catalunya, en tots sos aspectes, ha arribat una hora crítica: l’hora de la suma; l’hora de fer el bloc, la munió, la massa imposadora, destinada a entrar en un ample camp d’acció i en ell lluitar i vèncer superbament; a formar aqueixa massa, aqueix conglomerat, aqueixa balumba numèrica, hem d’acudir-hi tots lliberalment, petits i grossos, destres i manxolets, mes procurant netejar-nos abans tot lo possible de prejudicis minvadors d’energies i armar-nos ben armats de propi esforç i pròpia substància, a fi que el nostre concurs particular, per modest que sia, porti tot el cabal sencer a l’esforç i a la substància comunals; i sols per a demà que aquesta hagi actuat i s’hagi imposat, per a demà que hagi assolit la fi de sa acció, el triomf, vindrà una altra hora crítica, l’hora de la resta, de la tria, de la garbelladura; d’aqueixa cruenta operació seleccionadora que, per raons de sa mateixa naturalesa, no es pot fer mai a priori, car no es pot judicar lo que no es coneix i no es pot conèixer lo que no ha sigut demostrat.

No hi ha millor ni pitjor en lo contingent, sinó en lo acomplert; i ¿què sabem nosaltres de les sorpreses, de les meravelles que ens reserva el temps? Sia’ns lícit tallar la branca corcada, enterrar el gastament, menyspreuar l’esforç fallit, suprimir el detall evidentment inútil o noïble a la sanitat i bellesa del conjunt —és dir, fallar sobre lo realitzat—, mes guardant-nos d’interdir el pas a manifestacions futures o de confondre lo essencial amb lo accessori, la causa amb l’efecte, renegant de la poesia pel poetastre, del matrimoni per la dona xorca.

Parlant en termes generals —i sempre cenyint-nos, naturalment, al cèrcol de nostres aficions— tenim per millor obrar que teoritzar, anc que l’acció resulti defectuosa i la teoria sembli perfecta, perquè teoritzar en desmesia és entravar amb paranys i obstacles arbitraris la lliure empenta de l’acció. Els dogmes infal·libles no són per a l’art; pot seguir una institució de principis a una manifestació sencera, però mai precedir-la. La dignitat de l’art i del sentiment íntim que l’engendra naix de la llibertat de sa manifestació, i sa fortalesa, de sa dignitat. Art, sentiment esclaus, són art, sentiment febles, xorcs, impotents. L’esperit lligat per apriorismes i per convencions fictícies —és dir, no reclamades per necessitats de sa naturalesa—, si arriba a fer quelcom de bo, no farà mai tot lo bo que hauria pogut arribar a fer sens aquelles traves. Dogma, escola, codi, conjunt de regles preestablertes dins una esfera de creació, vol dir limitació, que equival a minva, la minva a decadència i la decadència a traspàs, mort. Així, una munió que dongui gran contingent de resignats acatadors d’escoles donarà molt pocs veritables formadors d’escola, i collectivitat mancada o pobra d’element actiu, fecundant, conegut per poder creador, no tindrà mai gran vàlua i son radi d’acció serà quasibé nul. La força vital estriba, doncs, en l’impuls antiescolàstic, antilimitador; en l’esclat centrífug que romp les lligadures externes, en la picada ardida del poll contra la closca que l’empresona.

El geni —poder creador per excellència i principi revolucionari per excellència també— mai pertany als dòcils caps de ramada, sinó als pastors que s’imposen a ella. És sempre iconoclasta i ultradogmàtic; trenca tots els motlles, capgira totes les teories i imposa noves lleis, potser tan il·lògiques i pernicioses com les que vulnera, però noves a la fi, és dir, desestancadores, contràries a la immobilitat, signe de mort.

Aquesta afirmació sembla que ens hauria de privar tota temença, mes no és així. Cert que l’esperit essencialment insurrecte, quan arriba a sa plenitud, se riu de tota lligadura i obra impulsat tan sols per una força superior que radica en ell mateix. Però la potència d’irradiació, la projecció espiritual del jo cap a fora, no és la mateixa en tots els individus ni segueix idèntic procés de desenrotllament. Enmig dels enters, dels segurs, dels prescients que, com guiats per força divinal, troben ja en els primers passos llur veritable via, hi ha els febles i els de vocació retardatària que, bo i duent la galladura vital, han de menester d’un llarg covament per a arribar a terme. I és per aquests —que formen la gran, la immensa majoria en les milícies artístiques— pels que s’ha de témer; que ells són els que, durant el període d’indecisió concepcional, mentre s’esperen o se cerquen a si mateixos, per escoltar papers de guiadors no sempre prou vidents dels camins que han de seguir... els altres, poden agafar orientacions equivocades, que, torcent llur inclinació ingènita, inutilitzin a bestreta tots llurs esforços i deixin convertit en nial l’ou que tancava el germen distintiu de la personalitat: per aquests és que voldríem neutralitat absoluta, un redós que els emparés, lliurant-los d’influències foranes —quasibé sempre pernicioses—, representades per consellers i mestres oficiosos que, preposant sovint l’oferiment a la demanda i aprofitant l’estat tèrbol de la inconsciència, mateix que la gossa de la faula d’Isop, se’ls fiquen a casa, en el sagrat de llurs idees i sentiments, allà fan niu, i un cop n’estan ben empadronits, entre ells i llur cria —les seves ensenyances— n’avien a fora l’amo veritable.

Els únics mestres llegítims —i, per tant, útils— serien aquells que, en l’atzar de les nostres relacions espirituals, se’ns revelessin com carn de la nostra carn i sang de la nostra sang, com a germans majors, lligats a nosaltres per afinitats essencials que ens els donessin com un model, engrandit i posat en net, del nostre propi jo, i als que sols haguéssim de demanar el socors de l’aclaració definitiva, el cop de mà final, l’experiència adquirida durant el temps que ens precediren en l’esforç. Mes fora d’aquests, prou; car al pensament que desitja llançar-se a la vida feconda de l’expressió, en lloc d’ensenyar-li a recitar de cor lo que nosaltres judiquéssim l’oració més selecta, millor faríem aconsellant-li que digués lliurement lo que sentís. ¿Què hi fa que sa veu fos al principi confosa i vacil·lant, sa paraula incorrecta i descolorida? El sol fet d’emetre-la li ensenyaria d’enfortir-la i modular-la més que tots els preceptes; la consciència de dir quelcom li faria sentir la responsabilitat de lo que digués, i aquesta responsabilitat, l’anhel de dir lo que degués dir, lo millor que pogués dir, mentres que, parlant per altres, per belles coses que dir puga, mai dirà res seu, i per lo tant, res nou, o sia res important i digne d’ésser oït. Li hauríem de fer comprendre que tot allò que per sa virtut íntima pot excelsificar la condició humana és essencialment bell i pur, que lo purament bell és naturalment bo, lo bo de natural perfectament llegítim, i lo llegítim forçosament respectable; que tot aquell que no vulga enllotar-se en baixes corrupcions i beure en fonts emmetzinades, destruint lo que de divinal porta en si, no té més remei que acudir en aqueixes deus pures, en aqueixes deus inestroncables de sanitat i joventut moral; que, en aqueixes deus, hi menen infinitat de camins més o menys penosos, i que si vol anar resoltament a trobar-les és ben lliure de triar-se, entre tots aquests camins, el que més li plagui o més s’adigui amb sa idiosincràsia, rient-se de tot prejudici noïble i també... de tot judici posterior, sempre que puga fer els efectes de l’altre.

I, ara que ve a tomb, sia’ns permès predicar-la també un poc, la guerra santa contra aqueix segon enemic perillosíssim, anc que sia obrir un nou parèntesi dins del parèntesi i enfarfegar el discurs en desmesia.

La fortalesa perforadora del parer aliè és extraordinària i es necessita d’una serenitat de visió, d’un sentiment de convicció i d’un instint de defensa més extraordinaris encara per a resistir-li. L’artista, el cercador-obrador de bellesa, precisament per l’altíssim sentit que dóna a les coses, per sa eterna tirada cap a les perfeccions de l’ideal, sent més que ningú els falliments de la seva obra, amida amb més equitat que els altres la immensa distància que va de la petitesa realitzada a la grandesa cobejada, i anc que ell sol la té, la intuïció de l’obra seva, com ha dit genialment un il·lustre poeta català, desconfia de les pròpies forces i està propens a desanimar-se quan, a més dels obstacles naturals amb què ha de lluitar per a salvar aquesta distància, li posen al pas, amb millor o pitjor intent, nous obstacles postissos que l’entrebanquin i, amb l’excusa d’aclarir-li el camí, li fulminen el llamp de l’anatema que l’encengui; car ell, en les hores de dubte i tempestat interna, no ho mira pas, si el llamp ve de veritables Júpiters, únics, en tot cas, que tindrien dret a fulminar-lo, o si els que l’aturen perquè no es desencamini ho fan amb el coneixement dels ben encaminats; ell no hi veu més que la concordança de desconfiances pròpies i alienes que cau sobre son obra, i la vàlua negativa d’aquesta que tals desconfiances acusen.

Mes, en bona fe que deuria mirar-hi força altres coses, el pobre artista, el pobre lluitador, per a no esporuguir-se en desmesia, ja que la major part de les voltes la vàlua negativa no radica en son obra, sinó en sos definidors.

Bo és escoltar atentament i fer cabal de les opinions quan aquestes són respectables, mes per a ésser respectable una opinió cal que tinga molts requisits, i el primer de tots, el d’estar ben fonamentada. Entre altres bons fonaments d’una opinió, assenyalaríem nosaltres com a principals la bona fe, la imparcialitat, el clar criteri, l’examen i la competència; i la que no tingués aquests elements o bona part d’ells, la titllaríem de seguida per tarada de pecat original, de vici d’arrel que impedeix acceptar-la sense reserves. Mes, ¿quantes vegades els trobem en les opinions a l’ús d’aquests elements? No hem de vacil·lar per a assegurar que poques. En efecte: qui parla en to més alt, per lo comú, és la passió, la lleugeresa i la ignorància; com a impulsiva una, com a cegues perdudes les altres, no coneixen vacil·lació ni remordiment, ragen a raig fet, sense passar pels coladors del dubte i de l’escrúpol, i aneguen tranquil·lament amb llurs impureses tot lo que atrapen sota.

I, si això passa sempre, passa molt més encara i amb major intensitat allà on l’ambient està enrarit, i els horitzons hi són limitats. A Catalunya, per exemple.

Aquesta terra, que en l’antigor tingué la importància gloriosa d’una gran civilització, per vicissituds de la història es veié reduïda a destins inferiors a sa capacitat, tingué d’enquibir tota sa grandesa de nació feta i dreta en les estretors de regió sense mires pròpies, de poble sobirà se trobà convertida en llenca de poble malament enganxada per un groller sargit a altres pobles, i en aquest estat precari, tombada sobre si mateixa, en forçada immobilitat, restà per dotzenes i dotzenes d’anyades. Segrestat son pensament, estroncada sa acció, ofegada en sang sa veu, privada de verificar les més altes funcions de vida i condemnada a una existència purament vegetativa, anà perdent de mica en mica ses facultats, sa energia, ses iniciatives, sa fesomia veritable, i deixant de figurar en el concert dels pobles i de pesar en els esdeveniments mundials, de vençuda que havia sigut parà en amortallada. Mes sortosament no estava pas morta, encara duia en son si el llevat de totes les potències: només calia que aquest llevat fermentés al calor de qualque casualitat, i, així que la casualitat sorgí, el llevat fermentà i la morta viva va ressuscitar. Aleshores s’adonà que estava nua: en el llarg temps de letàrgic captiveri s’havia consumit sa esplèndida túnica de regina, i els trossos havien caigut a terra. Per presentar-se altra volta decorosament davant del món enter no tenia més remei que fer-se nous vestits. Però sabut és que, si la funció crea l’òrgan, el desús l’atrofia; que en la fosca es perd la visió més potent, en l’ociositat la manya més provada; i Catalunya —per la qual l’avui s’havia fet un ahir de centúries, l’acció, tradició remota—, al despertar, no es trobà en condicions a l’altura de sa tradició, i, com les perfeccions no s’improvisen, en lloc d’abillar-se definitivament, no pogué fer-ho més que d’una manera transitòria, deixant per a més tard refer les vestidures amb major cura i guarnir-les segons bon gust i elegantesa. A aquesta tasca reconstituient està entregada encara, i ja ha fet bona feina, ja relluen ací i allà sobre l’estofa els brins d’or del brodat, els pans de seda, les trepadures sumptuàries, però manca molt a fer encara; que encara es veuen filagarses, trossos mal embastats... Un d’aquests trossos provisionals dins lo que encara resta de provisional en aquesta esplendorosa renaixença catalana és lo que en diem públic: la munió d’espectadora-judicadora de cosa de bellesa; munió que entre nosaltres resulta avui per avui un curiós anacronisme.

Al revés de lo que passa amb les races neulides, que necessiten nodrirse molt abans de produir, aquí la innata fortalesa es manifestà de seguida en la necessitat de produir abans que de consumir. Tant és així, que de cop i volta ens trobàrem més apres per a fer obra pròpia que per a capir l’aliena; tant més quan, per a lo primer, abasten sovint els elements primordials que cada u porta en si, mentres que per a lo segon cal una preparació lenta i treballosa que ni es pot fingir quan no es té ni es pot comprar a tall de mercaderia; i per adquirir aquesta preparació ens ha mancat, fins avui, ocasió i temps, ocupats com estàvem en els problemes d’interès material immediat que es plantegen en tota instal·lació social amb vistes serioses a l’avenir.

Com flors primerenques que brollen ardidament de la terra quan encara és lluny la primavera, brollaren aquí artistes i poetes —flors d’ideal— quan la mentalitat col·lectiva jeia encara sota una capa de gel, deixa del llarg hivern d’inacció que per ella havia passat. Mes això no podia durar gaire; que, per a viure, a les flors els cal l’escalfor del sol; al productor, consumidor; a l’artista, un públic. I, obeint a aquesta imperiosa necessitat, sorgí un públic a la bona de Déu, com havien sorgit tantes altres coses. Creure que, d’aquesta generació espontània, havia d’eixir-ne de cop i volta el públic model, l’instrument d’opinió perfet, hauria sigut bogeria; mes era quelcom que en feia les funcions, i amb això n’hi havia prou de moment.

En efecte: reclutat entre la barrijabarreja d’estaments diversos, però que tots estaven enfeinats en feines pròpies i tenien ben lluny de l’art llur camp de coneixements, no oferien de fons i lligam comú més que la pobresa de cultura atàvica, l’absència de pena per aquesta incultura, que la mateixa incultura dóna, la curtesa de mires, resultat de l’estretor d’horitzons que veien del pla terrer en què es trobaven, les fallides naturals del gust, endropit per la manca d’exercici, l’abundor immoderada d’escrúpols del qui no sap ben bé de què n’ha de tenir ni de què no, l’altesa de juí que s’atribueix l’ignorant que ignora encara que ho sia, l’entercament d’opinió del que no està avesat a sospesar-ne gaires, i, per últim, la petulància còmica de l’adolescent que es creu home fet perquè el deixen ficar en la conversa. En altres termes: a Catalunya, que no en va havia estat durant molt temps convertida en provincias, li sortí el públic de primera fornada pretensioset, restret, encongit i esparveradís, sense discerniment; un publiquet de gent de fora tout à fait, un veritable publiquet provincià. I a aquest públic modest i casolà, a aquesta bella allau de sobrevinguts, tingué d’encomanar-li el ministeri de la crítica, deixant que l’exercís modesta i casolanament, amb la bona fe dels cridats, ja que no podia fer-ho amb l’encert dels escollits, mentre esperava que d’ell mateix anés evolucionant cap a l’aristocratització, orient perpetu de tota entitat potent i valorosa. I així hem arribat als moments naturals, en què l’evolució va verificant-se, però amb tal lentitud, que no estaria per demés que els que saben i poden hi donessin una empenteta. Perquè, cal confessar-ho: aqueix públic nostre deixa un poquet a desitjar pel temps en què estem; no és encara la col·lectivitat seriosament adestrada per a judicar, la col·lectivitat de criteri ample i obert a tots els corrents sanitosos, el públic de bon gust i correcte civilisme que correspon a la nova Catalunya que apunta en la història dels grans pobles; encara hi munta més en ell la matèria que l’esperit, encara li resten massa innocents a degollar, com, per exemple, bons comerciants que, bo i dient Quiu vedis al Quo vadis?, es permeten dictaminar resoludament sobre una obra d’art; dentistes més pràctics en les mecàniques del seu ofici que en psicologies que creuen a ulls clucs que no es pot escriure sinó lo que s’ha passat, i que per lo que s’ha passat, segons llur bell criteri... odontològic, expedeixen als autors patent de bona o mala conducta; sacerdots virtuosos que voldrien convertir cada artista en predicador laic, cada cervell en sucursal del seu, i cada faula d’art en infantívola moraleja para jóvenes descarriados, soi disant entusiastes dels místics que condemnen amb agror les honestes franqueses de concepte i els afogaraments d’expressió que els místics ensenyaren; apologistes de cançons populars que s’escruixeixen del plasticisme d’un estil que acusa aquelles fonts d’origen; mares devotes que adormen els infants amb les oracions quotidianes, que posen en mans de les seves filles adolescents la Història Sagrada, i que en canvi amaguen de l’hereu de vint anys la novel·la que podria parlar de certes coses —unes certes coses especials que sols elles descobreixen—; critiquets de primera volada que emparenten amb Zola —potser l’única coneixença del veïnat!— al primer innocent que els cau a tret; dames recatadíssimes que hauran tingut sis fills i que encara pregunten si és lícit mirar una acadèmia; damisel·letes curiosament càndies que es cartegen d’amagat dels papàs amb altres tants promesos, però que no anirien a veure una comèdia en què hi hagués escenes d’amor sense demanar-ne abans permís al director espiritual... en fi, una munió de gent de sa casa i son ofici plena de contrasentits, d’innocents nicieses, de cursileries i, lo que és pitjor, d’hipocresia.

Tots aquests bons senyors i senyores del galliner judiquen, dictaminen i aconsellen com si en sa vida no haguessin tingut res més a fer; tots volen que l’artista pensi això, digui allò, faci lo de més enllà; tots tenen sos plans d’altíssima envergadura entre cella i cella, i al que fos ben creient i, sobretot, ben agraït a la importància de l’obsequi, li farien la mercè de deixar-li posar aquests plans en obra. I un hom pensa, al fer-se’n compte, que si l’artista, l’escriptor, tinguessin una mica de malícia, fóra del cas que els diguessin, fent-los la gran reverència: «Perfectament, dames i cavallers de tot mon respecte! Jo estic dispost a fer tot lo que vostès em manin, seguint un rigorós torn alfabètic, sempre que vostès obtinguin de Déu una petita concessió, un suplementet de vida que em permeti acabar la tasca de parlar per tots vostès, de fer totes ses obres respectives... i que al capdavall em diguin qui és el que ha parlat per mi, el que l’ha feta, la meva obra, car, si vostès no ho prenen a mal, jo també tindria quelcom a dir, quelcom a fer per mon compte... »

Mes la llàstima és que els artistes no la solen tenir, aquesta malícia, que no ho són tant com semblen, de mofetes, i s’escolten el públic massa seriosament, sense prendre la precaució tan sols de fer-se’l presentar abans en deguda forma. Prenguem-la, doncs, per ells, aquesta precaució.

Anys enrera es digué que a l’Illa de Cuba hi havia aparegut una gran emissió de bitllets de Banc de poca vàlua, que tothom sabia que eren falsificats, mes que, a manca dels llegítims i per lo que facilitaven les transaccions, foren acceptats pel comerç amb sols posar-hi al dors aquesta inscripció: Falso, pero circula. Posem-l’hi ja d’una vegada, nosaltres també, la mateixa llegenda aclaratòria, en aqueixos escamots de públics endarrerits, tant per estimular-los a legalitzar-se amb més rapidesa com per evitar que ningú els prengui per lo que no són i els faci més concessions de les degudes. Perquè aquella coneguda teoria del poeta castellà, pel qui el vulgo es necio y pues lo paga, es justo hablarle en necio para darle gusto, ens sembla d’un fons de roïnesa tan gran, que no voldríem que cap ànima honrada la posés en pràctica. Per haver-l’hi posada massa ha eixit ja tal volta del cèrcol en què fou engendrada, tarant la mentalitat de la nació entera i duent-la a la decadència en què es troba a l’hora present.

No: el veritable artista, el veritable poeta, aquell a qui ha sigut assenyalat un lloc preeminent entre les multituds innominades, no ha d’abandonar-lo mai, aquest lloc de perill i d’honor, no ha de claudicar mai, no ha de cedir a cap pressió innoble —aplaudiment, diner o amenaces— fins a rebaixar l’altesa de sa dignitat, afalagant la niciesa o el mal instint d’aqueixes multituds que per la manca de conreu li són notòriament inferiors. Lluny d’això, i per damunt de vanes alabances i de vanes censures, ell ha de fer serenament sa via, ell ha de realitzar serenament son obra, de la que ell sol no té la plena intuïció, escampant així la benèfica llavor d’un alt estímul sobre els terrers encara erms, fins a fer comprendre amb tota claredat al bon comerciant que res costa callar quan no es té res a dir, que val més riure que fer riure i que no és pas tot u un llibre d’art o un llibre de caixa; al dentistet sense psicologies, que hi ha uns certs filtres màgics dits intuïció i estudi que ensenyen com per art de bruixeria als artistes lo que mai han vist ni sentit per ells mateixos i que fins els dentistes estarien ben frescos si no sabien curar a la parròquia d’altres mals de queixal que els que ells haguessin sofert en la pròpia boca; als virtuosos sacerdots, que és cosa molt lloable l’anhel de proselitisme, mes que cal eixir qualque volta dels castells roquers de la intransigència per a veure món i reconèixer que hi ha moltes necessitats a satisfer, que Déu —que de tot ne sap un poc més que nosaltres— ha criat diversitat d’apteses perquè satisfessin aqueixes necessitats, i que és pecat de supèrbia i d’heretgia voler esmenar-li la plana; als soi disant adoradors dels místics, el perill dels zels intempestius, que volent traure obstinadament de la panera les cireres petites, s’exposen que aquestes facin caure les grosses, car és sabut que les cireres s’enganxen les unes amb les altres; al cançonaire distret, que hauria de repetir da capo el repertori, perquè hi ha admiracions que no poden ésser únicament d’oïdo; a la mamà deliciosament devota, que fins les oracions quotidianes —models, per cert, de franc parlar— poden inspirar als infants preguntes indiscretes, i que per això no ha pas de deixar d’ensenyarles-hi i que si les certes coses de què parla la Història Sagrada no han desvetllat les naturals curiositats de l’adolescència, pot estar ben tranquil·la, puix ja no les desvetllaran tampoc en sos fills les novel·les més novel·lesques que els caiguin en mans; als critiquets novells, que per anys hi hagué en terres d’Espanya molt honorables senyors que, sense parti-pris mercantils ni fullaraques de vanitat, oferiren al món la flor del més just i estètic realisme, i que és més propi i decorós suposar que els escriptors indígenes trauen a la regalia llegítima que no pas a paternitats bordes; als fruïdors dels clàssics, que, abans de titllar de presumptes atrevits la gent jove, cal fer memòria del sancta sanctorum de les biblioteques, que tot literat culte té el deure de freqüentar, on se topa a cada punt, bo i sense fer tria, amb amors circumstanciades de Perots i Japotes, amb gran abundor de Col·loquis de viudes, donzelles i casades, i amb Celestines de tots calibres; a les dames recatades, que és ridícul ésser més papistes que el Papa, que els museus vaticans, que els temples catòlics de tot el món n’estan plens, d’acadèmies sagrades i profanes, i que acadèmies són, en llur representació material, els Crists, els angelets, els sants Sebastians, sants Jeronis i santes Genoveves, les figures del Juí final de la Sixtina, el Tors de Fídies, la personificació del Nil, etc., etc.; a la damisel·leta escrupolosa, que entre les lletres dels promesos i les escenes d’amor de la comèdia no hi ha gaire més diferències que la millor o pitjor literatura i la més o menys estètica, més o menys sensual emoció que desperten... I a tots al plegat, que és una vergonya ésser ineducat tenint possibilitat per a deixar d’ésser-ho, mantenir-se en estat d’inferioritat manifesta podent fàcilment remuntar-se, puix el saber no ocupa lloc ni el bon gust paga contribució, i en canvi redituen delectacions que amb tot l’or no es podrien comprar; que no han de tenir por de veure tota mena de coses, sinó de no saber-les veure, de conèixer les temptacions, sinó de no saber sobreposar-s’hi; que el que és flac de consuetud, el vent de l’aspi l’encadarna, i el que és fort pot afrontar impunement els corrents de les altures; que la franquesa sencera i respectuosa no vol dir llicència, sinó sanitat de cor i d’enteniment; que la nuesa no és mai immoral per si, sinó pel gest que se li dóna, i que el que en tot veu perills i malícia és que és covard de mena —i sap que no podria defensar-se del més lleu atac— i a més roïnament, morbosament maliciós; car és cosa provada que pel ver innocent tot se resol en innocència, i sols pel vil, pel corromput... i tot lo més pel ximple, és vilesa i corrupció la cosa més senzilla.

I ara, cloent les generalitats i tornant, per acabar, al plet naixent del ruralisme i ciutadanisme literari, si a mi m’hagués sigut donada una d’aquestes veus autoritzades, fetes per ésser oïdes i escoltades, diria que potser no és prou just que s’atribueixin al primer, causa, font, principi, les sobres i falles, les desviacions o encerts, els defectes o virtuts propis de les facultats, del gust o del punt de vista especials de sos conreadors, i, per lo tant, que no se li fessin pagar plats que, si en realitat s’han romput, no ha sigut per sa culpa, i pecats que, si s’han comès, han comès altres.

Podrà ésser, si es vol, defectuós, primitiu, parcial, tot o quasi tot lo que s’ha fet modernament d’aire rural en la literatura catalana, que això res implica contra el ruralisme, sinó tot lo contrari. L’acte no és la potència; lo realitzat no és lo realitzable; el sentiment d’una cosa qualsevol no s’estanca pas en un, en dos, en vint individus; no cristal·litza pas en determinat nombre de criteris ni de fórmules. Tota afirmació engendra cent contradiccions, tota contradicció mil afirmacions; els que fins ara han dit lo poc poden encara dir lo molt; lo que no abastin a dir els presents, poden dir-ho els esdevenidors; les veritats que no s’hagin revelat a un esperit poden revelar-se a un altre; l’aubada borrosa i indecisa que apunta per tornar-se esplendent migdiada; la concreció, si no definitiva, almenys superior, que fins avui no s’ha efectuat, dels elements o de l’ànima rural catalana en un seguit d’obres o en una obra-tipus, pot efectuar-se al millor dia, del nostre vivent o del dels nostres seguidors. Això és lo possible, això és lo probable, i això és lo que serà, si Déu ho vol; car lo contrari fóra un contrasentit, i en totes les ocurrències naturals és la lògica lo que impera, aquesta lògica que ens diu que lo que té força acaba per demonstrar-la una hora o altra, que lo que té veu crida i un jorn diu clarament lo que fa a son cas.

Totes les coses s’han de començar per son començament, i el començament del ruralisme ha sigut, com era natural que sigués, la reproducció de lo més senzill, de lo que oferia més gros relleu i costava menys de veure i capir de lluny: la crosta externa. Mes no s’ha pas d’encallar ací, després pot venir lo delicat i lo més dificultós: penetrar fins a l’entranya, fins a l’ànima. Perquè digueu-me: ¿què se n’ha dit, fins ara, què se’n sap encara de la nostra vera ànima rural, d’aqueixa ànima meravellosament vasta, meravellosament bella, meravellosament misteriosa i naturalment preexistent a l’ànima ciutadana, mes no inferior a aquesta —anc que tal volta tampoc superior—, sinó senzillament, essencialment diferent i per igual interessant? ¿Què en sospitem, encara, de certs aspectes portentosos d’aqueixa ànima? ¿Què de l’harmonia íntima, de la solidaritat fraternal dintre la natura de l’home, la planta i la bèstia, aqueixa santa i imposadora conjunció quasibé igualitària i enterament desconeguda en la ciutat? ¿Què d’aqueixes consciències individuals, que, en una formació que nosaltres —cients de per riure!— qualifiquem d’embrionària, semblen encloure, perfectament organitzats però amb una organització que escapa al nostre cop d’ull crític, de visió limitada a una petita esfera psicològica, tots els elements integradors del cosmos? ¿Què del perfet i dreturer sentit de lo absolut i lo relatiu, del mecanisme ètic de la vida, que tenen aqueixes consciències d’illetrats? ¿Què dels ressons i tornaveus que hi aixeca la natura, què de les sublimitats inexpressades, dels goigs que els són produïts per la sobrevida, erma d’artifici, que glateix entorn d’elles, en les coses eternalment invariables? ¿Què en sabem, encara, d’aquestes coses? Res, res, positivament! Si mai, sorpresos per una confusió inesperada, hem dibuixat en nostre pensament una interrogant, no hem tingut el valor o la paciència suficient per a fer-la seguir de l’auscultació directa, de la convivència, de la llarga hivernació comuna que hauria pogut donar-li contesta prudent. Hem preferit posar-hi punts suspensius i —confesem-ho modestament— en lloc de cremar-nos les celles estudiant, divertir-nos, veure el camp, sos éssers i ses coses com un espectacle vanament curiós, i arreplegar-ne lo pintoresc, la ganyota, la convenció; lo que es posava bonament al nostre abast.

I en aquestes condicions, sense haver oït, volem fallar?, sense haver comprès, volem judicar?, sense haver produït, volem suprimir? Oh, no, per Déu! Ho repeteixo: riguem-nos, si volem, de tot lo risible; retallem, si cal, lo imperfet; posem en interdicte aqueix ruralisme de patró que, amb esperit forà, amb esperit no assimilat, no... ruralòfil —i, per tant, incompetent i més o menys falsejador, per desconeixença—, s’haja pogut posar en circulació fins ara en les lletres catalanes; mes no toquem a lo intangible, no fulminem el llamp sobre l’ànima camperola, no privem que lo que nosaltres no hem sabut veure, que lo que nosaltres no hem sabut estudiar, que lo que nosaltres no hem sabut entendre i revelar, ho vegin, ho estudiïn, ho entenguin i ho revelin altres; i que vinga, almenys, a nosaltres, per gustar-la, la mel de les delectacions i de les ensenyances que no hem sabut proporcionar als altres.

La cristal·lització futura de la moderna civilització catalana, si ha d’ésser perfecta, o tan sols superior i influïdora, ha de tancar la major suma —si no la totalitat— d’elements vitals possibles, d’aspectes resumidors de la vida, d’aqueixa vida, si bé una en essència, múltiple en ses manifestacions; i, si així no és, son actual ressorgiment no haurà sigut més que una foguerada, que un foc d’encenalls en el temps i en la història. I, amb això, no ha pas de conformar-s’hi el nostre orgull patri; no s’hi conformarà pas, segurament. Vulguem-ho creure, almenys; i, entretant, posar-hi el coll tots perquè així sia.

EL CARCANYOL

Aquella llarga història, relatada per peces menudes temps enrera, hauria constituït una perfecta novel·la de fulletó, mes jo us la donaré en compendi, concentrada i esbravada ensems, com gota d’essència d’un gènere mort, que hagués restat casualment oblidada en un flascó oblidat d’altres èpoques.

Heus-la aquí.

A la plaça major de la vila hi ha una gran casa antiga que abraça tot el costat que mira a sol ixent. Les parets, de pedra escalabornada, tenen una pàtina daurat-torrada que les fa semblar un immens crocant; el ràfec de la teulada ix com a cosa d’una cana enfora per sobre eixes parets, tot esqueixalat a indrets, com per les ungles d’un gegant llaminer, i la porta forana és alta, ampla i massissa com una poterna de castell i està tota coberta de ferramentes curioses: claus a manera d’englantines i de pinyes bordes, escudets de pany com àligues laminades, golfos representant dracs d’eneriçades crineres i, allà dalt de tot, tan enlaire que sols s’hi pot arribar de puntetes, un dimoni revirat i disform, que bat amb una maça la closca pelada d’un condemnat.

A la dreta de la porta hi ha una finestra i altres tres a l’esquerra, fent correcta filera i totes quatre igualment guardades per canons i fullaraques de ferro forjat, treball vell i de gran vàlua, que el rovell enriqueix de tons, tot esclovellant-lo i destruint-lo a poc a poquet. Al primer pis, i corresponents a les de baix, hi ha quatre obertures més, quatre balcons que no són sinó antics finestrals allargats, rematats encara per relleus curiosos, en els quals testes de donzells i donzelles, en variades positures, es besen devotament, enmig d’escardots florits: simbòlica representació, segons un erudit de la comarca, de la jovenesa ardida i coratjosa per a fruir, bo i ferida per les punxes d’aquesta trista vida.

Al segon pis hi havia hagut, per anys, una porxada seguida, de pilastres quadrades, que suportava la teulada i els intercolumnis de les quals foren cegats més tard, deixant-ne dos tan sols d’oberts en el primer terç de l’esquerra i que ara, empetitits i desgraciats per una nova reforma, semblaven boques de batiport sense portella. Fora d’aquells dos ulls, pròxims entre si i descentrats en lo alt del frontispici, totes les altres obertures restaven habitualment closes i la casa entera tenia un aire fredament imposador de cosa morta, de demora desemparada, de relíquia de la vellura, tocada de misteri i plena de runa i teranyines: i, fins per a donar-li’n més el caràcter, hi havia al cantó de la dreta una grossa esquerda que, partint de sota el ràfec, davallava, zigzaguejant, fins passat del primer pis.

Tots els forasters discrets, tots els pintors de pas que la riquesa termal i els encontorns pintorescs duien a la vila, s’aturaven sorpresos davant d’aquella casa, i mentre aquests treien el bloc i el llapis de la butxaca per prendre’n una nota, els altres preguntaven al primer xicotet que veien jugant a bales en la plaça:

—Nen, què és aquesta casa?

El vailet se’ls mirava estranyat que no ho sabessin.

—És a can Feliu d’Anguera? —afegia el foraster curiós; mes aquí el menut restava bocabadat, i després s’arronsava d’espatlles: ell no sabia tant. Però sempre que tenia lloc una escena així, s’encertava a passar una o altra comare que, ronsejant per escoltar la conversa, acabava per intervenir-hi amablement.

—Els Felius d’Anguera?... Oh! abans, una gent molt principal... Encara són cavallers del Rei i tenen nou tocs quan moren, però han vingut molt a menos... Desgràcies i altres misteris, sap?... Coses d’aquell temps... Ara els vells són morts, i només queden el ximplet i la senyoreta...

—I on viuen aquests? —inquirí el curiós.

—Aquí; en aquesta casa...

—Com?! Si veig gram al marxapeu de la porta i brossa a l’ull del pany!...

—Oh, és que habiten sempre a la banda dels darreres, a la part nova, que dóna a l’horta... És una casa molt gran, aquesta: entre una cosa i una altra arriba Déu sap on... —I la comare, satisfeta, abans de deixar el viatger li aconsellava que donés la volta per fer-se cabal de la importància d’aquell gran edifici, amb aparences d’immoble nacional.

Lo que havia contat la comare era cert. Antigament la nissaga d’Anguera havia estat clau dinal en aquelles comarques i fins tingut ressò fora d’elles.

D’aquella nissaga, n’havien eixit barons que ocupaven lloc vistent en els principals braços de la seva època: clerecia, milícia i privadesa reial; i, escorcollant ben bé la història encara inèdita de Catalunya, no hauria estat difícil de trobar-hi rastres d’eixa prolífica nissaga en importants fets d’armes, en el regiment de prelatures i cenobis i en les trifulgues cortesanes. Fins que un fet estrany havia vingut a capgirar-ne les gestes.

Un dia, sense que s’haja sabut com ni per què, anà a caure en la casa d’Anguera un aventurer portuguès, Joâo de Carvalho, borni, mig geperut, lleig com un drac, però tan despert de coneixements i tan maligne de fets, que en lo que canta un gall es féu amic estret i conseller del senyor d’Anguera, amistançat de la seva jove i bella muller i pern centrer de la casa tota, que d’aleshores en avall féu girar arbritràriament a son albir. Mercès a son influx, el senyor d’Anguera es tombà en poc temps com una mitja, devenint, de cavaller honest i morigerat, en escàndol i motiu de reprovació de tota la gent que el coneixia. Es féu malveure de propis i llunyans, es posà en guerra encesa amb comuns i parentela, espargí els cabals en festes i corribandes i, quan així va estar, un jorn, en una cacera, es féu de cop fonedís entre els seus homes. Aquests el cercaren pertot arreu, amb atxes enceses, fins que el van descobrir dintre un parany ignorat, tot el cos enastat en fulles d’eines que eixien del fons, i amb el cap ple d’esberles. Quan es va preguntar qui havia fet aquell parany, ningú no va saber donar-ne raó, mes el portuguès, de seguida, acusà els bosquerols malvolents, amenaçant-los amb puniments greus, mentre aquests responien a l’una, però entre dents:

—El portuguès!... Ha estat el portuguès maleït!

Qui errava?, qui encertava? Tampoc se’n pogué traure l’aigua clara. Lo cert fou que es va fer una bona enforcada de pagesos —els que més de reüll havien mirat el portuguès— i que aquest es posà públicament al cap de la casa d’Anguera, gallejant-hi a son gust sense mirament ni por a res ni a ningú.

El difunt senyor havia deixat l’esposa de vint anys no complerts i una nena de cinc: Joâo de Carvalho enllotà l’una amb una barragania brutal i descarada, i malversà els cabals de l’altra a mans plenes; i, quan la infantoneta complí els tretze, la dama d’Anguera aparegué un matí ofegada en son llit, i abans que la gent pogués adonar-se’n i l’encontrada en pes es revoltés contra l’intrús, aquest, vell, lleig, repugnant i descompost encara per excessos seguits de luxúria, glotonia, ira i beguda, havia pres per muller l’òrfena, amb l’excusa de guardar-la i defensarla amb drets vistents si en tingués fretura.

Aquella feta decisiva que baratà el nom fonamental de la casa pel Carvalho portuguès—que, anant anys i passant per boques de rústecs i plomes de cartularis havia de convertirse en el Carvalló català de les darreries—, semblà marcar durament d’un segell sinistre tota la descendència, en la qual, d’aleshores en avall, sovintejaren les morts prematures per violència o accident, i les minoritats lliurades als forfets i abusos de tota mena de cobejances i curateles. D’aquí en vingué una minva gradual en el prestigi i les forces de la casa, la qual de desgavell en desgavell, parà en una grandesa il·lusòria, purament ja tradicional, i en una pobresa efectiva, estoica i gallardament suportada per les tres darreres generacions.

De tant en tant, per virtut d’un entroncament sortós, la casa feia una revifalla, dreçava el cap, reprenia anomenada, afluixava una mica els dogals que l’oprimien; mes, a no trigar, un nou cop imprevist la junyia, altra volta indefensa, a la desventura; i, en arribar a l’avantdarrer hereu, la sort semblà plegar definitivament les ales sobre el retut poderiu.

Quan aquell don Feliu Carvalló d’Anguera prengué possessió de son patrimoni —allà, pel temps de Ferran VII—, es trobà que aquest patrimoni estava tan ple de xacres i goteres, que, a primera vista, no se sabia qui duia el sobrepuig, si els mals o el portat. Els Carvallós, a tot temps fèrtils en fillada, havien abundosament enriquit, amb ella i amb les deixes corresponents, monestirs i capellanies nombroses; i don Feliu veié que lo que havia de bestreure per a violaris, beneficis, sosteniments d’hospitals i obligacions a causes pies de tota mena, feia cada any una mota esparveradora, convertint-lo, de senyor de sa casa, en mandatari i procurador gratuït de cent altres senyors desconeguts. Aleshores repassà albarans i capbrevaris, demanà consell a gent entesa, medità llargament, i d’una munió de dubtes legals que se li aixecaren sobre la concessió i assegurança de moltes d’aquelles deixes, van sortir-ne gran nombre de plets que, com un vol de voltors afamats, havien d’acabar per menjar-se lo poc de net que restava dels vells. A la mort de don Feliu, son hereu veié espessir-se i replegar-se més encara sobre la casa la volegada negra, amb nova ratxada de disputacions per justícia: disputacions amb censalistes que s’emparaven en noves lleis per escapolir-se de pagar els censos; disputacions amb la vila i amb propietaris del terme sobre drets de domini, caducats o no existents segons uns, reconeguts i vigents segons altres; disputacions amb fadristerns per suplements abusius de llegítima; disputacions, encara, amb causahavents en dret per això, lo altre o lo de més enllà...

Resultat: que quan en l’any vuitanta-cinc moriren del còlera, amb un dia de diferència, el senyor de Carvalló i sa muller, la casa temps ha que feia la viu-viu modestament, amb una humilitat burgesa, confinant amb la menestralia i suportant, a força d’ordre i d’estalvis decorosos, les encara freqüents sagnies curialesques que el destí li imposava com a ròssec de les passades esplendors.

Restava aleshores l’escolament de la ferotge sang del portuguès d’antany en les venes de tres pobres criatures innocents: l’onclet Rafel de Carvalló, vell de setanta anys i germà petit que fou de l’avantdarrer hereu don Feliu, i un noi i una noia, néts d’aquest i fills del matrimoni que acabava de finar.

El noi, que duia el nom de son avi, tenia dotze anys i, a mesura que anava creixent, se li remarcava més i més una minva pronunciada d’intel·ligència que el duia de dret a la idiotesa; la nena tenia quatre anys, una pell de seda pròpiament i uns grans ulls blauverds, plens de mirades imprecises.

L’oncle Rafel, tutor i curador de sos nebots, en veure’s investit de tan gran responsabilitat i en tan males circumstàncies, reuní les forces de sa vellesa, comptà i recomptà, féu encara més estreta l’economia interior de la casa, estirà les entrades tot lo possible, i fent un vaitot dugué la nena a un bon pensionat de monges i ell restà al poble amb el pobre infeliç, la seva dida, que havia quedat a son costat per cuidar-lo, bo i després del didatge, i una criada jove per tot altre servei.

Quan Maria Romana Carvalló d’Anguera i de Cortils sortí del collegi, tenia a la frega de setze anys, era alta i esllanguida, esvelta i prima com una tija de flor, i amb una abundosa cabellera ros-castanya que se li menjava la cara petita, d’una blancor pura, trencada per la clorosi, i li ombrejava els ulls clars, d’una claredat reposada i trista d’estany blau.

Durant el temps de pensionat, havia estat una deixebla de tantes, no notable ni dolenta, mes poc amiga d’esforços de cap llei. Ses preferències eren: per les classes els treballets de mà, que feia amb lenta pulcritud, i en l’esbargiment, les passejades sense objecte precís pels caminets més estrets i amagats del jardí, on no es sentís gaire fregades de peus ni remor de converses. Era una solitària silenciosa enmig del traüt de la companyia, una malaltissa flor de raça gastada, que semblava pròxima a mustigar-se bo i poncella, com si manqués en son si força expansiva que la fes esclatar. Les monges la tractaven afectuosament i fins l’estimaven, però sense foc ni entusiasme, malgrat no trobar a censurar en ella altra cosa que sa estranya mania de menjar coses no mengívoles, com calçobre de les parets, bocins de paper, pa humitejat amb el petroli de les llànties del refetor, etc....

Quan va anar-se’n, monges i companyes l’acomiadaren plorant, amb sentiment, mes, al cap de vuit dies d’ésser fora del pensionat, ningú no s’hauria recordat d’ella si un dels caminets menys freqüentats del jardí no hagués quedat batejat amb el nom de Pasillo de María Romana, per les estones que hi passejava soleta mentre les altres nenes jugaven, saltironant i rient, a jocs avalotats.

Un cop a casa seva, la joveneta seguí duent, si fa no fa, la mateixa vida quietosa, suau i tranquil·la que al col·legi. La criada vella, convertida en mestressa per les circumstàncies, regia la casa, i Maria Romana, un cop arranjada ella, no tenia de fer més que entrar la xocolata a l’oncle Rafel, que es llevava tardet per mor de sos vuitant-dos anys, i després asseure’s a la terrada —una ampla eixida coberta i envidrada a trossos—, per començar a prosseguir una de ses grates feinetes d’agulla, tot escoltant distretament son germà, el beneitet, que a passos menuts i precipitats anava amunt i avall per son costat, tot preocupat traient sos eterns comptes amb el cap dels dits:

—Un trenta i un trenta, dos trentes, i un trenta, tres trentes, i un altre trenta, quatre trentes... —i així fins que arribava a catorze trentes, màxim que li permetien assolir amb grans feines sos coneixements aritmètics: i que, quan arribava a assolir-lo, s’aturava en sec o s’alentien sos passos, mirava amb fixesa els dits ben escampats de les dues mans, i un somriure beatífic resplendia en sa cara, com si hagués fet la troballa d’una incògnita llargament perseguida.

Quan havien dinat, el boget baixava a l’horta amb una canya a la mà, per fer dir la doctrina a les plantes, i, a cada pregunta, alterat perquè no era contestada, cop de canya va, cop de canya ve, fins que en tenia prou; en tant que sa germana, altra volta en la terrada, seguia quietosament la feina, i l’oncle Rafel, no gaire lluny i aclofat en sa vella cadira de braços, confegia, bo i sense ulleres, amb un sil·labeig discret de rés, la llegenda d’un llibre de fulles groguenques...

Maria Romana, aixecant de cent en quaranta les parpelles sedoses i deixant caure a la falda les mans esblaimades i llargues de damisel·la vandyckiana, seguia el boget amb la mirada benèvola i somrient, mes sense cap enveja d’acompanyar-lo a ple aire i de gaudir d’aquell sol que queia sobre tot, terra, animals i plantes, com daurada benedicció del cel. D’ençà que n’era fora, semblava encara més poc amiga de la claror i de moviment que al col·legi, i no eixia de casa més que per anar a missa.

En canvi sentia un goig íntim, recatat, passejant soleta pels llocs deshabitats de la casa, per aquelles salasses del davant, de dies plenes de polseguera fina i de teranyines sempre renaixents, de tuf a reclòs i de penombres vagues, i a les nits de fosca tenebrosa, de ric-rics de corc i de fantàstics raigs de lluna, quan la joveneta badava una mica el porticó per saber on posava els peus. Perquè era a la nit i sense llàntia de cap mena quan més li agradava anar en aquelles sales. Ella que xisclava quan la lladrava un gos, que empal·lidia d’esglai al pas ràpid d’un tren, no tenia por, no n’havia tinguda mai, de lo incomprensible que s’amagava en el silenci i en la fosquedat d’aquella demora pairal: ans al contrari, sentia com si li fos amic benvolent l’esperit de la quietesa que regnava a tot arreu, i principalment en aquelles cambres i estances oblidades, testimonis emmordassats del passat poderiu. I és que era una ànima d’antiga castellana, extraviada d’època, la d’aquella dameta que no enyorava el brogit del món ni l’austeritat del claustre, mes que es sentia a pler en la vida retirada i dolçament inútil de l’emmurallat voluntari. I tan a pler s’hi sentia, en aquella vida, que no féu res per viure la de son temps, per atrapar-la, i deixà que aquesta passés distretament entorn d’ella, que s’allunyés per arreu, que l’oblidés del tot.

Malgrat el nom que duia, malgrat el pubillatge cabal que li anava per la niciesa manifesta de l’hereu, malgrat el simpàtic perfil de sa testa menuda i la llanguidesa atractívola i senyoril de son cos, Maria Romana de Carvalló, innocent de baixesa, innocent fins de desig de plaure com a dona, per cap home fou pretesa ni cobejada en sa plàcida i esfumada jovenesa de reclosa. I així arribà fins a vint-i-sis anys, hora en què morí, a sos noranta i tants, l’oncle Rafel.

En feia cinc o sis que era ferit i no es podia valdre, i que, per tant, sa neboda duia la direcció efectiva de la casa, enc que ell la servés a la vista de la gent per a major respecte i benveure. Amb la mort de l’oncle es plantejà resoltament un problema que fins aleshores havien esquivat de solucionar: el de donar estat legal a la incapacitat notòria del germà, requisit sense el qual Maria Romana no podia vendre, empenyorar ni complir obligació de cap mena com a mestressa. Convenia advocar-se, demanar parer, encarregar an algú de tot aquell tripijoc, i per a això calia eixir del poble, anar a Girona o a Barcelona, allà on hi hagués gent entesa en aquestes coses... I Maria Romana calculava amb disgust els com i què d’aquell viatge inexcusable, una vetlla, tot passejant-se, segons son costum, sense més claror que la de la lluna, per una d’aquelles sales del davant, sa preferida. Aquesta sala era la dita Estrado de la portuguesa per haver-hi aparegut morta, segons la coneguda tradició, aquella vídua del darrer senyor d’Anguera que, per son tracte il·lícit amb l’aventurer Carvalho, fou rebatejada pel poble amb el sobrenom menyspreant de la portuguesa. I si, en aquella hora, algun espantadís coneixedor de la fúnebre llegenda hagués vist passar i traspassar, erratívolament silenciosa, al través del malincònic raig de lluna que, com una banda de glassa verdosa, esgaiava la sala de part a part, an aquella visió prima i endolada, hauria cregut tal volta que l’última renéta de la dama antiga era la mateixa ànima d’aquesta que vagava, imperdonada i sofridora, pels llocs del pecat i del crim.

Però Maria Romana ni se’n recordava, d’aquella rebesàvia, l’afront de la qual semblava haver atuït per arreu la nissaga prepotent; anava i venia, anava i venia silenciosament, del tot lliurada a sos pensaments, el penell dels quals feia girar a voltes, i per un instant, un xeriguell de petits xiscles vius o alguna corredissa de potetes invisibles que sonava a sos mateixos peus. Aleshores Maria Romana alentia una mica el pas i brandava en la foscor la testa senyoril, com renyant una criatura entremaliada que volgués destorbar-la.

Les rates!... Encara aquelles rates trapelles que havien pres l’estrada per son camp de joguines!... Ja feia massa dies que durava aquella gresca, i, tota vegada que es reien de metzines i rateres, no hi hauria altre camí que tapar-los els caus, si es volia privar que ho fessin tot malbé... Mes, an ella, li donava tanta angúnia sentir remenament per la casa... Piquen tant, embruten tant, destorben tant, els mestres!... ¿Fora que aprofités de fer-los venir ara, quan ella seria fora?... I en tornar ja ho trobaria tot de nou endreçadet i quiet... Li semblà bona idea, i així ho deixà resolt.

L’hereva de Carvalló marxà a Barcelona deixant el ximplet, que duia poca feina, amb la criada jove i enduent-se’n ella la dida. Mes el dia abans de l’anada havia estat cridat en Brianet Molera, el mestre de cases, a qui la mestressa ensenyà les sales velles i li donà les ordres corresponents per a l’endemà. I l’endemà comparegué en Brianet, amb la gaveta a coll i la paleta a la mà, instal·lant-se en aquelles sales.

Tranquil·lament, sense aqueferar-s’hi, com qui porta bé a la memòria les hores de tasca que li cal fer cada dia, esbatanà amb sorpresa dels veïns i gran espant d’aranyes i trugetes, totes les obertures, traginà aigua i calç, escampà a l’enrenou totes les eines per terra, i després, ja cantant com una calàndria, ja xiulant com una merla, es posà a cercar amb compte i porfídia els cataus de les pobres ratetes esparverades. Ajocat sobre les cames encongides i aquí pic-pic amb el mànec de l’eina, allà rac-rac amb la paleta de ferro, anà donant la volta a poc a poquet a l’estrada de la portuguesa.

En topar amb un rajol somogut el reclavava, en veure un gratallet sospitós hi tirava una grapada de morter; mes no trobava cosa d’importància que valgués la pena d’entretenir-s’hi, i feia via d’enllestir. Ja portava els tres quarts de sala enrondats quan, en picar en un punt, vora la paret del frontís, sentí que bombava.

—Aquí sí que hi ha bona niera!... —pensà en Brianet; i agafant l’escarpra l’apuntalà en una cretlla descarnada i féu alçaprem per aixecar el rajol; mes tantost el rajol se movia d’una punta, que en Brianet aixecà la mà de pressa i guaità tot sorprès: li havia semblat que la hi bufaven de terra estant.

—I ara! —féu amb una esma de basarda, veient que no hi havia res en terra.

Era coneixedor, com tot el poble, de les rondalles que es contaven del casal, i en sentir aquella mena de bufet a la mà li havia passat com un calfred pel cos i pel pensament. Ell mateix se’n va riure de seguida i tornà a posar l’escarpra al junt dels rajols, mes a l’instant llançà un crit a mitja veu i es féu enrera.

—Fonoi!... Ara sí que és ben cert!... —Ja no tenia dubte: sortia una bufera dels rajols! Posà pell de gallina, i per un punt no va saber què fer. Després va fixar-se. Allà on havia apuntalat l’escarpra, el material, saltat, havia deixat com una clivella negra. Hi arrimà la mà estesa: quina fredor!... Era d’allí que venia l’aire... En Brianet es tranquil·litzà de repent. Lloat sia Déu! El catau donava a fora... Ja no valia per l’esglai!... Si aquelles maleïdes rates...! I, donant cop de martell a l’escarpra, féu saltar el rajol en sopols i deixà en descobert un trau negre, pregon—. Ai, ai —exclamà en veu alta en Brianet quan se l’hagué ben mirat, aquell trau—: Si això està rebatut!... —En efecte: es veia l’angle recte d’un forat fet exprés, els altres angles del qual devien quedar sota els rajols veïns. Pres d’un trencacor i amb les mans totes trèmules, en Brianet féu saltar aquells rajols i aparegué el trau complet. Feia uns cinc quarts en quadro, i les cares de mà dreta i esquerra d’en Brianet en tenien, de sòl en avall, tres de gruixa, arquejades en la part inferior, i les altres dues, també de la mateixa mida, estaven rematades per horitzontals. En Brianet tornà a restar suspès davant d’aquell forat, i després, lentament, una mica recelosament, s’hi abocà per mirar a dins. Ja no hi passava llei d’aire i era tot fosc; mirant-hi semblava que s’acluqués d’ulls. Sondejà amb el regle: a tres pams en avall i pel davant quelcom feia fort, mes a banda i banda i cap a sota seu el regle no trobava aturador. En Brianet comprengué. Aquell trau donava al carcanyol d’una volta antiga i era ben bé un catau, però no catau de rates: o, en tot cas, les rates que l’havien fet eren rates de vint ungles.

Seria, tal volta, un amagatall de...? El minyó, en creuar-li per cervell aquella suposança, sentí fred de cap a peus.

Encengué una cerilla i entrà novament el braç en el forat misteriós. A plom de la boca hi veié un munt de runa; després, ençà i enllà cap a dreta i esquerra, volta pelada; després, fosca, fosca i prou... Per més que escorcollà, neguitós, frenètic, no pogué descobrir altra cosa.

Ja el rellotge havia picat les dotze i en Brianet, per no cridar l’atenció de la criada trigant a sortir, col·locà novament els rajols arrabassats a lloc, es posà la brusa i anà a dinar. Passant pel corredor i en entrar en el tros de casa habitada, veié una porta oberta i sentí a dins picament de matalassos; aquella era la cambra de la pubilla, en la qual feia endreça la criada. Al fons, i davant per davant de la porta, hi havia el tocadoret, tot guarnit de blanc, i damunt d’ell, a la paret, un espill de mà. El xicot ho veié de pas, sense fixar-s’hi.

Encara no havia picat la una que en Brianet ja tornava a ésser a can Feliu d’Anguera.

—Que trempat, noi! —exclamà la serventa, en veure’l—. Com és això? Encara manca mitja hora!...

El paleta es tornà roig.

—No hi feia res per casa, i com que avui voldria resseguir tota aquella salassa i és tan gran!...

—Doncs tu mateix, Brianet; ja saps el camí. Jo me’n vaig a dinar, que encara no he pogut fer-ho. Ni sé com girar-me, avui!... —I ja anava a entrar-se’n quan, veient passar davant la porta el boget, saltà—: Calla! Potser que te n’enduguessis allà en Feliuet, que es distrauria... Sempre passejant per aquí, no sé com no li roda el cap. I avui està tot trist... jo que crec que enyora sa germana... —I sense reparar en l’actitud esfereïda d’en Brianet, cridà el nici:

—Senyoret, senyoret!... Vagi amb en Brià, corri, que li deixarà coses i jugaran a fer casetes!

El darrer senyor de Carvalló s’aturà, amb tots els dits d’ambdues mans estesos davant dels ulls, i mirà la minyona concentradament, com si no volgués perdre la idea que duia entre cella i cella.

—Casetes, casetes?... No, no, no vull casetes, no vull casetes... —i tornà a sos dits, perplex, com demanant-los memòria de lo que feia quan l’interromperen; i així que li acudí, els ulls se li animaren, i somrigué amb esclat de joia, tornant a caminar a menuts passets precipitats i dient entre dents:

—Un trenta i un trenta, dos trentes, i un trenta, tres trentes i un altre trenta, quatre trentes...

El cor d’en Brianet féu un salt d’alegria. Per un moment hauria escanyat la criada per sa inoportuna proposta.

I travessà la part habitada, i en ésser al corredor tornà a veure distretament la porta de la cambra de la senyoreta, i pel badall, allà al fons, el tocadoret guarnit de blanc i el petit espill amb mànec, penjant a la paret...

En Brianet entrà a l’estrada de la portuguesa i ajustà la porta darrera seu, lligant-hi un regle entravessat per privar que algú pogués obrir-la de l’altra banda i entrar sense la seva vènia. Després tancà el balcó de la sala i la finestra que donava a un carreró, talment com si tingués por d’encadarnar-se.

S’havia dut de casa una canya llarga i una candela; ficà la candela al cap de la canya i, després de descobrir el cau i encendre aquella, ja anava a introduir-la quan li semblà sentir remor. Apagà la candela d’un bufet i se la ficà de pressa a la butxaca, pres d’un gran torbament; un genoll i una mà en terra, a punt de redreçar-se, parà l’orella... No sentí res més que les petites fresses del carrer, llunyanes i inconfundibles. No restà ben tranquil, per això. Va aixecar-se i anà a la porta, encastant-hi una galta. Res, res: tot estava quietó a l’altre cap de casa. Aleshores en Brianet tornà a lloc, repetí l’operació d’arranjar la canya i a la fi va ficar-la, a poc a poc, amb gran compte, al forat. Estira i arronsa el braç, gira d’ací, lluca d’allà, aboca’t al sòl, enretira la cara i... res! Veia fins a quatre o cinc pams a dreta i esquerra, i després, prou: pampallugues, ombres, coïssor als ulls d’escorçar-los revirant-los violentament per passar l’esguard de manera impossible, i... prou. Com que la boca quadrada era massa petita per a entrar-hi braç i cap al plegat, i fins el cap sol, en Brianet no en treia res, de tots els esforços; i quan, romput dels ronyons, congestionat s’aixecava un moment per reposar, amenaçava aquella gola negra amb el puny clos i una mirada de quimera.

—Damnat catau! Sinó pel sinó, t’esbotzava com la O de l’església... No em faràs maldar poc... I per res, ben segur... Lo que diu els aires!... res!...

I es posava a raonar. Allò era un amagatall, no calia dubte, i amb el temps fins potser hi havia hagut quelcom de bo a dintre, mes després vingueren els revessos de la casa, i cucut!, els merlots haurien fugit del niu per no tornar-hi. Si fos altrament, prou la casa no hauria decaigut d’aquella manera, ni s’haurien venut finques, ni deixarien anar a terra els teulats vells, ni aguantarien amenaces d’embargs com les que es deien que havien fet a don Rafel mesos abans de morir... No, no: de segur que allà no hi havia res, feia molts anys, però... —i aquell però grillava—; però se’n veuen unes de tan crespes, de vegades! Què no havia sentit contar a tothom de gent que fent una escala o tirant a terra una paret ensopegà troballes de coses ignorades? Oh, i en cases tan revelles, que tot són misteris i aldiques!... Oh, i els d’aquell temps, que eren com garses, que tot ho enterraven i no descobrien el secret fins a la darrera confessió... i en aquella nissaga, que hi havia hagut tantes morts sobtes, tantes morts de mala mort! Quina en fóra que...! Ca!... de segur que no tindria tanta sort. Però, ja que el catau hi era i Déu l’hi havia fet descobrir, què costava de mirar-ho bé?... Al cap i a la fi, el jornal anava a càrrec de la mestressa i ell no hi perdria res; tant era fer una cosa com l’altra...

I tornava a fixar-se en el forat.

—Però ¿què fonoi havia de mirarse per aquella fogonera?... Si tingués tan sols una mà més d’amplada... tan sols dos dits... Veiam; potser de caire... potser de...

I vinga ajupir-se de nou i prova que prova, i grata que grataràs, amb una fal·lera creixent, més porfidiosa com més infructuoses i més difícils eren les recerques: fins que picà l’hora de berenar sense que ell hagués tocat martell ni paleta. Se n’anà, tot moix, després de col·locar novament els rajols sobre la bauma, i en passar distretament davant la cambra de la senyoreta, de cop sentí una batzegada a dintre, com si quelcom entravessat en el corredor li hagués aturat violentament el pas. Mirà. La porta era tancada, però a través d’ella en Brianet veié el tocadoret blanc i l’espill de mà. La idea havia nascut en son cervell. Vet aquí lo que calia! Un tros de mirall... Si el tingués!... —I es quedà amb els ulls fits en la porta. Mes aquesta estava tancada; tot el dia l’havien tinguda oberta, i ara justament...! I recordà la remor del principi de la tarda: l’hauria feta la criada anant a tancar, i ara podia tornar si li passés pel cap... —. Bah, bah, anem!... —es digué en Brianet en acudir-se-li semblant suposició, mes sense moure els peus ni desclavar els ulls d’aquella porta. Ara que veia com havia d’anar, que era qüestió d’un moment!... I allargà el braç, sense adonar-se’n, com per empènyer, quan caigué del campanar la batallada d’un quart de cinc. Com si aquell ressò vibrant trenqués l’encís de la temptació, en Brianet es posà a córrer i, sense veure ningú, sortí de la casa.

Una dona que passava li digué, rient:

—Alça, Brianet! Ja es coneix que no hi ha els amos, que t’entretinguis tant a festejar... No hi faries tan belles estaries, a casa, no!

En Brianet hi somrigué també. No duia mal festeig, fonoi marí!

Quan retornà al casal tenia com dos claus al cervell.

—Si sabés què ha de fer aquella!... Si hi pogués entrar!

Casualment aquella era a l’eixida amb un esteranyinador, escombres i drapassos a coll.

—On vas tan carregada? —preguntà en Brianet, recelós.

—Mira, a rentar la cara al sostre de la cuina, avui que ningú no em farà nosa...

—Dona! Prou hores queden; no t’escarrassis... Saps què pots fer? Venir-te’n a donar-me una estona de conversa... —I el cor se li nuà per lo que ella pogués contestar.

Mes la criada exclamà, amb un esfereïment pacífic:

—Com hi ha món! Per converses estic, amb tota la casa en orri!

En Brianet guinyà un ull.

—¿I no t’hi deixaràs caure gens... gens... cap al tard?...

—Avui, no, fill meu; ja t’hi pots divertir, en aquell sarau; en lloc de destorbar-te jo voldria que em poguessis ajudar a mi...

—Ja està dit... Dóna’m tot això, que t’ho traginaré!

I en Brianet, que no estava del tot tranquil encara, sense escoltar les protestes enriallades d’ella, li agafà els arreus, fent-li dir on els havia de portar. Quan hagué vist la cuina, sí que respirà: era a l’altre cap de casa, en el cos eixit que feia sobre l’horta. Mal que ell tirés canonades en l’estrada no hi havia perill que el sentissin d’allà estant, i, amb l’enrenou que hi havia pertot, no tindria pas ganes, la criada, d’anar-lo a veure.

Botant-li el cor com mai a la vida, es trobà parat davant la porta closa; no calia més que tornar a estirar el braç i empènyer una mica; però aquella acció tan senzilla li semblà en aquell punt un treball d’Hèrcul, superior a les seves forces.

«Entres?... No entres?», li feia a dins un doble impuls contradictori, i hauria donat Déu sap lo què perquè aquella porta hagués estat oberta com al matí; mes no ho estava i no hi havia altre remei que obrir-la.

—Què tantes camàndules! —es digué a l’últim, amoïnat amb ell mateix—. No ho faig pas amb mal fi! —i empenyé resoltament la porta.

Els porticons de la finestra estaven ajustats i malgrat la neteja s’hi sentia, allà dins, un tuf complex, tufet agradós de dona, barrejat amb una flaire especial, flaire de flors trefullades, de processó de Corpus. En Brianet ensumà amb goig i després, de puntetes, ràpid, mirant lluerterament d’una banda i altra, anà de dret al tocador guarnit, despenjà l’espill de la paret i fugí de seguida. En aquell doble pas de llançadora de la porta al fons i del fons a la porta havia entrellucat distretament en la penombra de l’alcova un llit gran i parat de blanc també, mateix que el tocador.

Com en la cambra aquella, en l’estrada de la portuguesa els finestrons estaven ajustats, amb un aire misteriós de cosa a recatar. En Brianet no els obrí pas: li hauria semblat que tots els veïns s’havien d’adonar de lo que feia: mes, en canvi, tornà a tancar i embarrar la porta amb més compte que suara; i tot fent-ho, i després tot clavant la nova candela que havia dut de casa al cap de la canya, donà voltes a un pensament que tot just li havia acudit per primera volta.

Si per encert trobés quelcom... No seria, és clar! Mes, posem que fos. Si per encert trobés quelcom, què faria?... Dir-ho a la mestressa de seguida que arribés, això deixem-ho córrer; mes, en quina forma? Aquí estava la qüestió. ¿L’hi lliuraria tot, i ella que li donés lo que volgués —perquè de donar, sempre es dóna en aquests casos—, o bé farien tractes: «Miri’s, jo conec un secret de la casa i, per tant, o per quant, la’n faré sabedora...»? No, així no, que si ella fos gasiva li diria que no i miraria els papers vells a veure si duien alguna cosa assentada, o faria regirar la casa pel seu compte, i ell es quedaria sense res... Calia rumiar-ho i trobar un mitjà que anés bé per a tots dos... Perquè no fóra pas just que si ell li duia la fortuna, diguem, ella l’hi pagués amb una puntada de peu... Cert que els Carvallós no semblaven pas gent d’aquella mena, però la casa estava en un mal pas i, ara com ara, amb la mort de don Rafel, els papers de govern i una cosa i altra, no haurien pas de menester poca picossada... i quan la gent es veu amb aigua al coll, a vegades, per bona que sia... Per alguna cosa diu l’adagi: «Pensa mal i no erraràs...», i, pel sí com pel no, les coses, pensades i tractades, que després no hi hagi raons...

Però en Brianet se sulfurà amb ell mateix: «¿A què treien cap aquelles cabòries, si encara no havia trobat res, i segur que tot lo que pogués trobar, embolicat amb una fulla de col, no valdria cinc cèntims?... Quelcom a descobrir!... Oh!, i amb aquella fam de diners que havien passat aquells pobres senyors pobres! Podia mirar per allò de la seguretat, però encaparrar-s’hi... Pse!»

I deixant-se de raons tragué els rajols, encengué la candela i, masegant masegant, ficà tota la canya al carcanyol, la fixà de l’extrem que ell tenia en el piló de runa i amb la mateixa mà entrà en la balma el mirallet de Maria Romana. Prova d’un costat, prova de l’altre, ara ençà, ara enllà, tantost dret, tantost més aplanat, no veia dins la lluna més que els rajols de la sobrevolta, el séc del carcanyol cap a la paret, i després lo de sempre: ombres, ombres, foscor...

Malaventura la seva! Ja ho havia dit: res, res, ben arreu! I estigué per rebotre cau enllà aquell mirallet mentider que, malgrat protestes i sofismes, li havia fet concebre tantes esperances. Amb tot, es contingué. Havia inspeccionat la banda de per avall: mancava l’altra, la que tenia a mà esquerra. I tornà a la taleia, traient i ficant la canya, bellugant neguitosament l’espill, extraviant-se les ninetes a força de retòrcer l’esguard com una serpentina. I altra volta sols veia rajols rosats, com eixidets tot just del forn, malgrat els segles, i amb els junts plens de blanques estalactites de guix... el séc del carcanyol... la paret forana... l’arc de la volta, i... tornem-hi: rajols... séc... penjarelles... Calla! I en Brianet tingué un surt, parpellejà, espolsà la testa, procurà fixar la mà, que de cop s’havia posat a tremolar-li, i tornà a clavar la vista, àvidament, en la petita lluna.

Déu de Déu!... Allà baix, lluny, vora la faró de la candela, hi havia quelcom: un tou fosc, mes no amb la foscor vaga, fumosa, destriable, de les tenebres, sinó amb una altra mena de foscor... foscor de cosa corpòria...

En Brianet sentí un segament terrible, i quedà un punt sense esma, amb el braç dins del forat i el puny enfonsat en el pilot de runa. Allà dins hi havia quelcom: què seria?... Un altre munt de calçobre? ¿Un repeu de paret... Amidà d’un cop d’ull el tros que hi havia del lloc on era a la paret mitgera de la peça, i després tornà a mirar el carcanyol. Aquell grop espès es trobava com a meitat del camí... devia caure cap al balcó: no era, doncs, la paret mitgera. Del forat al balcó hi havia dues canes i mitja, la canya feia deu pams... En Brianet prengué el regle i l’entollà a la canya, dins mateix de la balma; després s’aplanà sobre el sòl i anà aviant, aviant endins la canya, seguida del regle... després estirà el braç, més, més... més... fins que, crac! Un truc, quelcom que feia fort, un altre truc i... un soroll ben discret! Era cert! No s’havia errat! Hi havia quelcom, quelcom que no era paret ni runa! En Brianet es posà les dues mans al pit i mirà enlaire, amb la boca entreoberta, tot anhelant... Què seria, què seria allò, Déu de Déu?!

Trasbalsat, amb les fesomies alterades per l’emoció i vacil·lant sobre les cames entumides, en Brianet agafà la maceta i pic-pic, pic-pic, amb el mànec anà trucant el sòl, tot vora la paret, fins al balcó... Res: enlloc bombava i, amb tot, si hi havia quelcom, hi havia d’haver una altra obertura... El cor l’hi deia clarament; mes on dimoni seria? A terra no era fàcil. Tal volta a les parets? Es posà a passar revista, i tot seguit els ulls se li clavaren en el marxapeu del balcó. Feia com un alt graó de pedra brunyida, de la mateixa amplada que el gruix de la paret, que passava de cinc pams i dividit en tres peces, la del mig d’un to saginós i gastada profundament pel fregadís de peus durant centúries, i les altres dues, amb aires de més noves, encara amb el caire viu enter. Quan el balcó era finestra, sobre els extrems laterals de la pedra groguenca, hi havien descansat dos pedrissets, que amb la transformació desaparegueren i es posà en son emplaçament les dues altres peces del marxapeu que havien de completar-lo. Aquella transformació de la primitiva obertura, relativament poc antiga, de quan ja la casa no estava al capdamunt, era per a inspirar inquietuds respecte a la troballa possible. Mes el cop d’ull de l’ofici per una banda i l’instint d’escorcollador, que en poques hores s’havia desenrotllat prodigiosament en ell, per l’altra, tranquil·litzaren en Brianet respecte a aquell punt. La transformació havia estat poc absoluta, servant curosament en son lloc els elements que podien restar-hi de lo vell, ja que la pedra central no havia estat tocada per posar-hi les altres, segons testimoniava la diferència d’argamasa amb què estaven clavades i fins el treball, de dues mans diferents. Aquell nou descobriment enardí el minyó.

No hi havia més: si existia un grifoleig qualsevol de l’amagatall, per allà devia ésser, i, si hi era, ell no veia on pogués dissimular-se fora d’aquella pedra estranya que de seguida li havia cridat la mirada.

I totes ses reflexions i conjectures paraven en la mateixa conclusió: «Si jo la pogués traure d’aquí! Si jo la pogués traure!...» Mes era cosa d’esllavissar-ho tot, de tirar a terra mitja casa, i, per molta que fos la fal·lera d’en Brianet, no s’atrevia a tant. I, per altra banda, haver-ho de deixar així, com si no hagués passat res!... Tampoc no podia conformar-s’hi, aquell desventurat frenètic d’una il·lusió exasperada. Cercaria un altre rastre. «Vejam, potser encara... A la fi, ningú no li responia que la pedra aquella fos la clau de tot!...» I febrós, impacient, amb una ànsia que el retenia i l’expulsava de tot lo que feia, tornà a picar el sòl de tots costats, les parets per una i altra volta... quan, de cop, sense ni menys adonarse’n, es trobà de nou al peu del balcó, acotat, visurant la pedra afanyosament. Quina alegria va tenir quan descobrí que era gairebé sobreposada, sense cap lligament d’obra per sota la travessa de fusta del balcó! Aleshores ja no vacil·là: trauria la llosa i passés lo que passés. Li hauria estat impossible allunyar-se d’allí sense fer-ho.

Posà de seguida mans a l’obra, amb tot el compte que podia. No li costà gaire de desclavar-la, la pedra; lo més dificultós era el desencaixar-la i fer-la córrer, donada sa col·locació poc favorable per a raure-hi un home sol. Mes en Brianet no s’esporuguí: fent força sobre força i servint-li de politges, parpals i falques les mans, per no tenir allà prou eines ni voler anar-ne a cercar, maldà estona i estona, fins que, congestionat, vermell com un paó, el pit obert pels esforços, ple de nafres i amb les ungles desfetes, aconseguí traure la llosa de l’encaix i veié aparèixer, gairebé sense sorpresa, tant s’havia ja fet an aquella idea, una bauma pregona.

Ja la tenia, la boca grossa de l’amagatall! Ja la tenia, la maleïda boca que tant l’havia fet gruar, i, ara que la tenia, com si tot de cop la realitat de la troballa el curés de la follia de les recerques, sentí com un immens desglaç d’entusiasmes i esperances, un gran desalè, un cruiximent moral que el deixà tot pansit. —Aquí pla que hi ha res... Beneit de mi!... —es digué convençut, tot eixugant-se la suor que, a regalims fets, li anava cara avall; i a mitges aigües estigué de tornar a posar la llosa sense ni ficar el cap a dintre. Mes, quan se li aturà el panteix, anà cobrant coratge, i a l’últim penetrà en l’amagatall. En tornar a traure el cap aquell home, semblava que, allà sota, hi hagués comès una mort: tan espantosament descompost estava son visatge.

Doncs... eren certes les rondalles de fortunes trobades... de fotges plenes d’or?... ¿Doncs, era cert, cert, cert!, que ell era ric, misteriosament ric, fabulosament ric, així, de cop i volta, en el traspàs de cinc minuts?...

En Brianet, amb la gola ben seca, el respir com bravades d’incendi, l’esguard esbarriat, no podia donar fe a sos sentits, embotats per l’espaume. Volia que la claror del jorn confirmés aquell somni espantablement venturós de les tenebres. Obrí la mà, va mirar, i un rictus de penjat, que volia ésser una rialla histèrica, li desformà els llavis blancs. Una guspira, una fosforescència, portava la certesa. Allò era or, or!... Una moneda estranya, cairejada, una moneda d’altres centúries... I allí sota, n’hi havia més, tota una gerra, i encara una altra gerra... i potser més encara... no ho havia vist bé... Un tresor... tot un tresor!... Tot un tresor seu!...

En Brianet petava de dents, debategava; debategava tan fortament, que la moneda va saltar-li del palmell de la mà i quedà encastada en el regueró del carcanyol...

El minyó tornà a sota i s’omplí les butxaques de les calces. Després volia omplir-se les de l’armilla, però va témer: no tenia res per a posar-ho sobre l’or a manera de tap, i si un pas en fals, una envestida, aquell mateix tremolor de sos nirvis li feia saltar una altra moneda, estava perdut. Hauria de donar explicacions, es descobriria tot, potser el tractarien de lladre, potser fins li prendrien els diners... En Brianet s’esfereí, topant amb aquella possibilitat. No, no: valia més esperar demà, que vindria preparat. Així com així, era hora de plegar i tenia d’anar-se’n de totes maneres.

En Brianet sortí del cau, deixà anar la llosa lentament, amb el cor oprès, com si la posés sobre el cadàver de sa mare, i tancà darrera d’ell la porta de l’estrada. Per a sa tranquil·litat hauria volgut endur-se’n la clau, mes, no atrevint-s’hi, la lligà fortament al tirador amb sengles voltes de cordills perquè ningú pogués obrir-la sense bregar molt. I fugí apressat, d’esquitllentes, donant un bona nit ben fort a la criada perquè no tingués dubte que ell era fora ni li acudís anar-lo a cercar a la sala vella; mes en ésser a la porta del carrer es repensà, i tornà enrera amatent.

—Escolta, tu: em descuidava d’avisar-te que he posat metzines a les rates abans d’aparedar-los els nius, i he embarrat la porta perquè no fugin ni s’escampin per la casa... Guaita de no anar-hi a gratar res allà, per ara...

—Jo? —va fer la criada amb uns grans ulls—. Encara que em donessis tot lo del món no m’hi acostaria, an aquelles catedrals, estant sola a casa. Oh, i amb la basarda que em fan!

El xicot l’hauria abraçada, ple d’agraïment per aquella basarda providencial.

Quina nit passà el pobre Brianet! Que, així que hagué trobat una sitja a casa seva per a amagar-hi novament l’or que duia, se li aixecà un terror inexplicable per mor d’aquell altre or que havia deixat a casa en Feliu d’Anguera. «Que beneitàs, que llucaró havia estat de deixar aquell or allà, exposat a tots els perills! ¿Com havia pogut fer-ho, Senyor? ¿Com no havia calculat, com no havia vist clar que a la nit era la millor hora per a traginar-lo sense ésser observat ni inspirar sospites? Haver quedat per no estar preparat, quan no calia altra preparació que lligar-se els calçotets ben estretament a baix de les cames amb aquell mateix cordill que havia subjectat la porta, i després omplir-se’ls d’or fins a la trinxa, enduent-se’n tot el que pogués, si no podia tot d’una vegada!... ¿Què en treia, de les altres precaucions que havia pres, què d’aquelles inútils lligadures, quan d’un cop de ganivet serien a terra i aleshores la llosa, vistentment arrabassada, serviria d’esquer a les mirades, assenyalant clarament el camí del cau misteriós? Ben cert que la criada era sola a casa —puix que el nici no comptava per res—, i ella havia dit que li feien basarda les sales del davant, més a la llengua se li fa dir lo que es vol i no hi ha millor alcavota dels intents que ella. I, aquests, cada u se’ls sap, i com més perillosos més ben dissimulats amb mentides i amb embulls creïbles. Ell mateix, que ho cantaria a to de chor, lo de la troballa?, que ho havia donat a entendre, quan cercava?, que no havia inventat excuses per estar-se més temps a la sala, per amarrar la porta? Doncs la criada podia haver fet lo mateix per deixar-lo refiat, tant més quan an ella li havien d’haver inspirat recel els aires d’ell, i ses preguntes, i ses estades fora d’ordre, i sa mania de tancar-se... i podia haver-lo sotjat i descobert lo que feia, i després, a soles —què millor ocasió!—, fer la seva també, partint-se de riure de la ximplesa d’ell i segura que mai més ningú n’havia de saber res... Mes, no saber-se? Fonoi! Ella que provés de tocar una sola peça, una de sola! i ho veurien, si se sabria. A la mestressa, a la justícia, a tothom arreu, ho aniria a denunciar. I doncs? Bona fóra que es deixés robar tranquil·lament son tresor. Si ell hagués de perdre’l, que el perdés tothom! Abans que veure’l en altres mans, que se’l mengés el govern del dimoni, i que se n’anés de dret a presidi la causa! I, si per mal encert se n’escapava, pobra d’ella també, que, el dia que l’atrapés a soles, ja sabria el bo que hi feia d’escorcollar forats i de vigilar els que treballaven... Perquè de segur que hauria llucat pel pany... Aquella fressa que havia sentit al començ de la tarda mai li havia fet goig... Fonoi marí! No haver estat més resolt, no haver obert la porta d’una revolada, atrapant-la al darrera i retorcent-li el coll com a una gallina! Almenys hauria quedat tranquil per arreu, mentre que ara... Ell aquí com un enze, amb les mans plegades, mentre que ella, allà, soleta i amb la nit pel davant, per a poder fer a pler tot lo que li donés la reial gana... Fonoi, fonoi, fonoi, no haver-hi caigut! Haver deixat tota sa fortuna, com si fos res, a mercè d’aquella ànima damnada! Tan fàcil que era endur-se-n’ho tot... o tornar a clavar la llosa... Vejam qui hauria estat el temprat que l’anés a desclavar!»

I en Brianet donava tombs pel llit, botava, es pegava cops a les cuixes, estrenyia les dents, llançava malediccions triturades... semblava talment un enfebrat d’alguna febre maligna que li hagués trasbalsat les potències. Ell, que totes les nits dormia com un soc així que s’acotxava, en aquella no podia aclucar ull, agullonat per mil agullons invisibles. I quan, cap allà a les dotze li vingué un cert detall a la memòria, no podent resistir més la tortura dels llençols, s’aixecà posant-se a revoltar pel dormitori com una fera enferestida dins de la gàbia.

Déu de Déu, Déu de Déu, lo que havia fet! Oblidar el mirall dins del carcanyol, deixar-se allà la prova, i de més a més, amb els rajols fora de lloc, ensenyant-ho tot! Però, com havia tingut aquella gran torbació, com havia fet aquell desgavell, com no ho havia previst, lo que tenia de passar?... Semblava impossible! Perquè ara sí que estava tot ben perdut, fonoi! Ves si no se n’adonaria, la criada, mal que fos més cega que la burra de sant Josep que hi havia a la portalada de l’església! I que no caldria pas que anés a sotjar pel forat del pany... Amb sols anar a tancar la cambra de la senyoreta i trobar que mancava el mirall, enc que no hagués sospitat fins aleshores —posem-ho així!—, prou li vindrien les sospites, prou lligaria caps, i després d’una cosa en ve l’altra... És a dir, ve!... Ja havia vingut, si fos cas... Que de les vuit fins a mitjanit, ves si en tenia, de coll per a qualsevol cosa! Oh, si ell pogués saber tan sols lo que passava, si ho pogués saber!...

En Brianet no aguantà més: es vestí d’una esgarrapada i es llançà al carrer. Feia anys que no s’hi havia vist, en aquelles hores.

No cal dir on el dugueren els passos: de dret a la plaça. I allà passejant amunt i avall frisosament, no treia els ulls de l’estrada de la portuguesa, com si fos un sentinella alerta o un aimant gelós que espera descobrir l’indici d’una traïdoria.

Hauria volgut que son esguard travessés parets i fustes per a escorcollar-ho tot d’un cop, hauria volgut tornar-se tot ell subtil i vaporós com un esperit per a filtrar-se entre pedra i pedra, i penetrar dins d’aquella casa maleida... Els capets dels relleus, besant-se recatadament entre les fulles d’escardot, semblaven adonar-se de les inquietuds estranyes d’aquell home de carn i ossos i compadir-les delectant-se més en llur ventura tranquil·la, eternitzada per la pedra.

Al cap d’una estona que passejava, en Brianet veié venir el sereno, que, en adonar-se d’ell, se’l guaità sorprès, amb aire inquiridor. En Brianet, disgustat, li donà la bona nit i, portant-se les mans a la cara, es planyé d’un gran mal de queixal que no el deixava habitar enlloc. El sereno, tranquil·litzat per aquella explicació, li recomanà uns quants remeis i seguí la ronda. En Brianet comprengué que feia una ximplesa d’estar-se allà i que podia cridar l’atenció d’algú. Es posà a rodar entorn de la casa, com un gat afamat entorn d’una fiambrera. Tot semblava reposar en pau, no es sentia el més petit remor, no es veia rastre de claror en cap obertura i, amb tot, el cor d’en Brianet no tenia assossec. Aquella gran tranquil·litat li semblava també de mal flaire: un cop n’ha passat alguna de crespa, tot queda com un cementiri... Mes, pogués saber tan sols que... ventejar les ocurrències possibles!...

Quan arribà als darreres de l’horta, es decidí. Segur de no ésser espiat per ningú, donada la llunyania del veïnat, s’enfilà paret amunt i tragué el cap per sobre la crestallera. Mes no bé ho hagué fet, de res estigué que no cau daltabaix i s’eslloma. Ja s’ho valia! Ara sí que no eren figuracions del magí ni pampallugues de la vista! Allà baix, a l’altra banda de la teranyina que feia el brancatge dels fruiters, hi veia llum: una espurna, un estel que relluïa fixament en la negror...

D’esma baixà de la paret i es posà a caminar tentinejant com un ubriac. «Era cert! Ella llevada!... ¿Per què ho estaria si no fos per allò? No hi havia dubte: ho tenia tot, tot!...» En Brianet s’estirà els cabells. «Perdre-ho, ara que com qui diu ja ho tenia a la butxaca! Si era impossible! Oh! De seguida que pogués entrar a la casa, l’agafaria pel coll i li ho faria confessar... Li proposaria anar a mitges... No, a mitges, no!... Si ell havia fet lo principal, descobrint-ho, li tocava la millor part, i se la faria, mal que no volgués... I si es resistia, pitjor per a ella: ell ja estava dispost a tot, així s’hi hagués de jugar la vida».

I de fet: tantost s’obrí la porta de can Feliu, en Brianet hi entrà resoltament. Encara fosquejava. La criada, tota escabellada i mal composta, es sobtà en veure’l.

—I ara, Brianet? Tant de matí?

Ell se la mirà, carrisquejant les dents.

—Estic com un foll dels queixals... no em deixen habitar a casa... Però veig que tu també t’has llevat d’hora!

—Què dius, llevar? —féu la criada naturalment—. Encara em tinc de ficar al llit... Ahir me li donà un tropell an en Feliuet i tot anit que li estic fent aigües... Ah, mai més, mai més, sola amb ell a casa! Compta si m’arriba a tenir quelcom fort, quin càrrec per a mi!...

El grilló que oprimia el cor d’en Brianet se serrà més i s’omplí de punxes roents. No s’havia errat! Ella estava llevada!... Mes semblava tranquil·la, sense torbació!... En Brianet procurà contenir l’urc de la mirada i de la veu, i preguntà novament:

—Ja que anaves per aquí, ¿no has pas sentit córrer les rates?

Ella contestà encara més naturalment:

—Rates? No en tenim pas en aquest tros de casa... I tampoc no m’he mogut de la cuina, com qui diu...

Amb tot, en Brianet no respirà fins que es veié davant la portada de l’estrada, amb les lligades de cordill intactes; mes, fins que palpà de nou l’or, fins que se n’hagué ben farcit el dintre de les robes, fins que el tingué tot mudat de polleguera... Havia promès una missa a la Verge de l’Ajuda si podia eixir d’aquell gran pas sense contratemps. Amb quin fervor l’oiria, arribada que fos l’hora!

Quan Maria Romana tornà de Barcelona, tota la casa estava en ordre i ella es sentí feliç de reintegrar-se a sa placèvola vida habitual. El boget, malalt d’enyorança tots aquells dies, es desensopí en veure sa germana i es revifà de seguida. Tot seguí com abans del viatge, a la casa d’Anguera, talment com si res no hagués passat.

Mes, en canvi, per a en Brianet la vida donà un tomb de sota a sobre. Cada dos per tres se n’anava del poble i tardava dies a tornar-hi, i a cada tornada venia més compost de figura, més resplendent d’esguard, més segur i satisfet de si mateix. Se li havia girat una gran afició a les coses boniques del seu ofici i es mirava, amb un interès que mai ningú li havia conegut fins aleshores, la portalada, tota plena d’imatges de pedra, de la iglésia, els finestrals obrats de can Feliu, la torre vella del rellotge de vila; i explicava al senyor Rector, meravellat d’aquella sobtada sapiència, que al Museu tal d’ací, que a la casa del Marquès tal d’allà, que a la galeria de l’antiquari tal de l’altra banda, hi havia una figura igual an aquella, una arcada semblant an aqueixa, una vidriera de colors com la de més ençà... I amb una enquesta habilidosa no s’hauria trigat a fer-li donar una llarga llista de col·leccionistes d’art, de numismàtics, de mercaders d’objectes preciosos, relíquies perdurables d’edats mortes...

—Que forbit s’ha tornat en Brianet! No sembla el mateix Cebrià Molera d’un any enllà! —deien la gent del poble.

—I qui ho hauria dit, quan emblanquinava la rectoria, que aquest xicot sabés tanta de cosa! —afegia preocupat el senyor Rector. Mes un dia cregué descobrir l’intríngulis de tot allò. Després d’uns quants mesos d’absència, en Brianet, la mateixa nit d’arribar al poble, li havia anat a fer una visita i li digué que s’havia instal·lat a Barcelona, on feia temps tenia contractes d’obres, cada cop més importants; que semblava que totes les gallines li ponien, puix que empresa que agafés, reeixia, posant-lo en camí de fer gran fortuna: que les referències d’ell podien preguntar-se a les cases més importants en tots els rams de forniments per a construccions urbanes, i que si ell s’havia fet un home, i sobrepassat de bon tros a l’antic mestre de cases de poble, havia estat perquè estava enamorat i volia posar-se al nivell degut per pretenir sense ultratge ni desmèrit per a ella, a l’estimada del seu cor: que aquesta estimada era la pubilla de can Feliu, Maria Romana Carvalló d’Anguera i de Cortils; i que, en conseqüència, i com a resum de tot lo dit, pregava al senyor Rector que en nom d’ell, d’en Brianet, demanés a la reclosa dameta si volia ésser la seva esposa... I, aprofitant l’estupefacció que havia deixat bocabadat el senyor Rector, afegí, en un apart planer, ple d’ingenuïtat i confiança, que —perquè quedés entre tots dos, naturalment!— ell sabia de bona tinta que la casa d’Anguera estava a l’última pregunta i, com era de llei, se sentia dispost, si ella acceptava, a salvar, de moment, els principals compromisos i després a tornar-ho tot en ordre de mica en mica. I fent lliscar destrament el propòsit de celebrar una missa a tot cost en la capella de l’Ajuda, en acció de gràcies a la Verge per la prosperitat que li concedia, en Brianet s’acomiadà enterament satisfet de sa entrevista amb el senyor Rector i deixant an aquest ben encisat de sa persona i de sos sentiments cristians.

Després de molts mesos de meditar, fer plans i enginyar recursos per a acallar l’escrúpol que, malgrat ell, emmetzinava la possessió venturosa de sa riquesa, en Brianet creia haver trobat lo que podia curar-ho tot a satisfacció de tothom i en descàrrec de sa consciència. Retornar el tresor a sa legítima mestressa, no hauria pogut pas fer-ho aquella ànima interessada que, així que palpà l’or, sentí que s’hi enganxava alienadament, que s’hi lligava per arreu amb lligams indestructibles, més poderosos que el poder de tot raonament, de tota por, de tota amenaça, de tot càstig. Lliurar —perdent per sempre més!— part tan sols d’aquell or per a ajudar a restablir-se l’antiga casa aculada, posant-la en peu de nova vida, també li semblava sacrifici cruent, irresistible. I, per altra banda, consentir que agonitzessin en la misèria vergonyant, cada dia més cenyida, que els envoltava, aquells desvalguts, mercès als quals ell era avui lo que era, li semblava una roïnesa que un jorn s’havia de tornar contra seu, estroncant-li la sort que el perseguia. Mes no sabia en Brianet com lligar bé tots els extrems, i, com a vaitot de mil càlculs enutjosos, havia ja resolt comprar de sotamà els principals crèdits de la casa d’Anguera, fer-se’n amo i ésser després creditor benigne pels despullats, quan de cop i volta li acudí la idea salvadora, la idea sublimment senzilla de casar-se amb l’hereva. Son rostre s’il·luminà, el cor va obrir-se-li de bat a bat a l’oreig de les satisfaccions absolutes. Vet aquí la solució justa, pròpia, honrada, equitativa; vet aquí l’única solució convenient! Complir lleialment sos deures i entrar, com en premi d’aquest compliment, en la gènera predilecta, enllaçar-se amb ella, fer resplendir sobre si l’encís de les llegendes passades, destacar per damunt de totes les anomenades de la comarca, reunir, vincular en ell, i en els que d’ell sortissin, la noblesa, el diner, la representació de l’antic poderiu ressuscitat dels Carvallós d’Anguera!... Quin somni tan meravellosament fantàstic, més meravellosament fantàstic encara que el de sa riquesa!

D’aquella hora en avall, en Brianet no tingué punt de repòs fins a posar aquell gran somni en els carrils d’una probable realització.

I quan va haver parlat amb el senyor Rector i veié la bona acollida que aquest dispensava a ses ambicions, donant-les ja per complertes, s’humanitzà, sentint brollar en ell un record que les poetitzava amb tocs de sentiment. Aquell record era el de la cambra de la senyoreta d’Anguera, aquella cambra dolçament recollida, fosca i silenciosa, parada de blanc i plena de perfums de dona i de flors de processó de Corpus: aquella cambra que havia entrevist sols dues vegades en la vida —quan anà a cercar el mirallet, quan tornà a deixarl’hi— i en moments d’angoixa terrorífica, i que ara li semblava quelcom atractiu, com quelcom fortament temptador, mes amb temptació de cosa santa, de cosa digna del major respecte. I de la cambra passà a la seva ocupadora, a la gentil dameta pàl·lida i indiferent, a la verge de tofuda cabellera i mans vandyckianes, tan senyorívola en l’absència d’altivesa i de desigs mundans. I sentí que gairebé no havia mentit al senyor Rector en dir-li que l’estimava; sentí que aquella dona li plaïa fortament, que, en comparar-la amb les altres dones, totes les altres dones que havia fins aleshores vist a Barcelona i a París, li plaïa més que totes, que entre totes l’hauria preferida com a dona... I en un jorn, en el primer sol jorn que seguí a son retorn al poble, es trobà completament enamorat de Maria Romana, amb un enamorament que no era sols vanitat i càlcul, sinó quelcom més viu i més sencer, quelcom que sorgia impensadament, com una altra riquesa misteriosa, d’un fons desconegut de la seva ànima, d’aquell fons que s’entreobre en l’ànima de tots els homes qualque volta en la vida, per fer-los creure que són com tots els altres.

La contesta de la senyoreta d’Anguera a l’ambaixada d’en Brianet fou breu, precisa, terminant: que no. Bé pledejà el senyor Rector en pro de la proposta, bé acumulà arguments convencedors, bé al·ludí a l’estat de la casa i a les delicades intencions del pretendent, bé lluità a favor d’aquest amb un foc i un interès que ni per cosa pròpia; mes fou en va tot. La dameta l’havia deixat dir amb tota cortesia, l’havia deixat escarrassar-se, i després havia repetit amb sa distreta fredor habitual, amb sa suau fredor inofensiva, la declaració de bon començ: que mercès; que no tenia ganes de casar-se per ara...

Quan en Brianet ho va saber, restà colpit d’una sorpresa imponderable. No podia passar, no podia comprendre que així, tan senzillament, poguessin anar-se’n daltabaix totes ses coratjoses il·lusions. Després, quan se’n féu ben bé càrrec, esclatà amb una violència extraordinària, que en un minut féu peces la prima esclofolla amb què dotze mesos d’esforços pacients havien cobert el bàrbar Brianet primitiu. Eixalades per la decepció, ses passionetes de poll reviscolat es redreçaren com una niuada de serpinyols malignes, escopint son verí de grolleries i amenaces contra aquell casal i aquella dona que no es volien junyir resignadament a ses ambicions desapoderades. I, d’aquella hora en avall, cregué que ja no els devia cap llei de compassió ni mirament.

Al cap de pocs anys estava pendent de diligències d’embarg, instades pel representant de don Cebrià Molera, tot lo que havia format l’antic patrimoni de Carvalló, inclòs la casa pairal i, mentre l’hereva, Maria Romana, moribunda d’un cranc a les entranyes, ocupava un llit de caritat a l’Hospital del Sagrat Cor, i son germà, el boget, darrer senyor d’Anguera, neuròtic d’enyorança, es tirava a la cisterna de l’horta pocs jorns abans d’ésser llançat de casa seva pel tribunal, en Brianet Mestre-de-cases —com encara li deien en sa terra—, pletòric de riqueses, es bastia un palau sumptuós per a vivenda pròpia, en un dels punts més triats de la gran urbs barcelonina.

En la tranquil·la consciència del plutòcrata s’hi havien embotat completament els febles escrúpols d’altre temps.

El remordiment és una flor de conreu, segons parer d’un cèlebre antropòleg.