Josep Pla - Life Embitters

In the years I’m talking about — after the ’14 war — well-off people from our country liked to stay in Paris for a while.

They’d made money from the war and no doubt that’s why people of a certain social standing started to be very curious about things foreign. I don’t think so many people have ever crossed the frontier. Taste — especially the taste of the ladies — improved considerably: these were years when Europe was very influential, especially France.

Sr Albert Mascarell, a property owner, an affable young gentleman with a decent fortune, decked out in a way that was vaguely reminiscent of country folk, was one of those who “liked to stay in Paris for a while.” However, the motive behind Sr Mascarell’s trip wasn’t any specific hobbyhorse or the need to give rein to a particular mania. His pretext was disappointment in love.

Mascarell was thirty-four at the time. He had fallen in love with a young lady — with an angel — of nineteen. The initial phase of that business proceeded completely normally. However, she broke off the relationship all of a sudden. She said no in word and deed. Friends on both sides believed that the young lady’s no had been forced upon her. Her father — a gentleman who wore blue spectacles — was a character driven by clear-cut ideas. He was vigorously opposed to his sweet child marrying a recalcitrant bachelor. Every effort was made to persuade him that the difference in years was a secondary matter when the loving couple had reached the age they had; it was argued that in such a situation prophesying always fails and that earthy empiricism yields much better results in issues of love than any general law, however convincing the latter might seem. It was to no avail. He wouldn’t budge.

People were amazed how easily Mascarell threw in the towel. He had been put to the test, and one naturally imagined he would raise the stakes correspondingly. However, it didn’t happen, and, if I’m not mistaken, the reason was a tiny, almost grotesque incident that seems laughable when spelled out.

One day the young lady resident in Mascarell’s imagination received a delightful present from a girlfriend: a kitten. A lovely black kitten, a cute kitten. It knew how to play with the shadow of its tail and did so somersaulting in a way that made you split your sides.

“What will you call it?” asked the friend.

“I’ll call it Albert …” she answered immediately.

And, mentally, she told herself: That way I’ll think about him more: whenever I see the cat I’ll think of him; whenever I call it, etc .

It was an amusing, delightful idea. Except that Mascarell thought it showed a deplorable lack of respect.

As this episode coincided with her father’s first attempts to create difficulties for their relationship, the two circumstances amounted to a considerable obstacle. However, the detail of the cat never became public knowledge. Most people believed that the only cause of the break had been her father’s opposition. “Mascarell,” said his friends, “couldn’t marry because he’d been a bachelor for so long.” On hearing that opinion voiced, a senior gentleman said one day, “In this world, the further you go, the more you lose.”

It was after these little upsets that Mascarell decided to spend a while in Paris.

In Paris, he thought, I will surely find a few distractions …

On a friend’s recommendation, he lodged in a small hotel on the Boulevard de Montparnasse, on the Avenue de l’Observatoire side. He immediately felt at ease. Everyone reacts differently to experiences, especially to great cities. Mascarell’s reaction to Paris was very sui generis . What impressed him most, to the point of becoming an obsession, were the huge dimensions of the city. Sometimes the bigger a thing is, the more it arouses our curiosity: the more work you have, the more you carve out for yourself. In his The Century of Louis XIV , Voltaire recounts how Minister Colbert would enter his office to find a table strewn with heaps of paper and would rub his hands together, his eyes sparkling brightly; when there were few papers, he would look limp and downcast. The huge dimensions of Paris caused a completely different reaction in Mascarell. Perhaps the city was too much for him, perhaps he didn’t know where to start, perhaps the vastness of the spectacle reduced his curiosity in diametrically reverse proportions. On the other hand, I’ve already mentioned how Mascarell’s presence in Paris didn’t have any specific point to it. I don’t think a visit to the Louvre figured in his plans. A visit to Versailles did; the Louvre, on the other hand, remained regrettably absent from his itinerary.

The fact is that a week after his arrival in Paris Mascarell had become a man content to be in his quartier . He had trimmed his sails and decided that the district where he lived had everything he needed. A typical man of his kind, he instinctively curbed his excursions. These self-imposed limits came to be quite precise. Whenever he had to go to the great boulevards to carry out a routine bank transaction, he felt he was journeying to the back of beyond. Conversely, it was winter — the end of winter — and it was great fun to be in bed watching the rain or gazing at the faint pink haze that made Paris so lovely. He enjoyed some wonderful mornings. One day he lit a cigarette in bed, something he’d never done before. On another occasion he started reading a book, something he’d only ever done on the rare occasions when convalescing. In any case, he had nothing pressing to do. The two or three visits he’d intended making on acquaintances in Paris — visits he’d been planning to make the second he arrived — were postponed. It would have been difficult to pinpoint the reasons for these deferrals.

One could possibly sum up the situation like this: after a few days in Paris he felt the atmosphere acted like a ready-made effective tranquillizer, rather than raising his spirits and making him euphoric. This completely unanticipated outcome was a huge shock. When he’d been there two weeks and realized that he still hadn’t been to a night club or boîte de nuit — not even in his own quartier — he was astounded and scratched the back of his neck. He quickly put this down to the natural sense of bewilderment he’d experienced in those first few days. Soon after, when he realized he’d still not entered any such establishment, and didn’t feel the slightest curiosity or desire to cross their thresholds, he started to feel worried. A cursory investigation of this peculiar situation might lead one to conclude that it was caused by sentimental reminiscences afloat in Mascarell’s memory, ones related to the young lady with the kitten. This would be completely unfounded. If any wound opened by that young lady remained unhealed it was precisely the humiliation he had suffered — that he described in such terms — when she had been so frivolous as to christen the cat with his name. In other words, that situation was as absurd as ever and, consequently, deteriorated by the day.

Even so Mascarell didn’t feel out of touch with his new surroundings. He had a decent knowledge of French and expressed himself well enough. Of course, he spoke in a grating, awkward manner and his silent s’s lacked feathery warmth; he spoke French without a twang, without the bass twang of a cello. Naturally, it was also phonetically on the thin side. Nonetheless, everything else was splendid: the shape of his sentences, his vocabulary and their relevance. Like anyone who has studied a language through books, he excelled more in literary turns of phrase than common usage. When he was in a restaurant one day and a gentleman ordered an omelette baveuse he was quite shaken. He thought he knew everything about omelets in French that a foreigner could know. When he realized that an omelette baveuse was an underdone omelet, he was genuinely disgusted. But I think that his disgust was misplaced. One never finds everyday colloquial language in books — that comes with direct contact. At any rate, Mascarell didn’t live incommunicado, that’s for sure.