Josep Pla - Life Embitters

“I must also confess to something else. I’m thoroughly resolved. I want to abandon this country. It is an unbearable backwater, a total wilderness. I’ve put up with it far too long, and it’s time I left. Would you be so good as to tell me what makes up a Belgian? Your Lluís Vives was intelligent. He turned himself into a Belgian and was totally mediocre, whatever people say. I want to go to live in England. I am in fact in discussion with the Clark ladies about establishing myself somewhere or other in those islands, probably in Plymouth. Plymouth is an arsenal — and I happen to be fond of arsenals. I want to abandon this country, just as I want to abandon this sad, dead weight known as culture. Can you think of anything more inane or totally frustrating? I have wasted my life, dear friend, and I’m calling you dear friend, because Professor Busch is over and done with …”

While he spoke — becoming ever more excited — I looked him over carefully and everything confirmed the change he had undergone. He was making an effort to seem fresh and revivified, but suffered from all the ailments of old age. He was visibly struggling to keep his head erect, and sometimes injected so much energy into what he was saying that the ends of his jacket flapped wildly in the way thirty-year-old men can engineer. Nonetheless, his face was drawn and tired, the crimson on his cheeks had turned the color of ripe tomatoes, his eyes were bloodshot, and his splendid forehead looked deeply troubled. All of this came as a surprise because I imagined the professor would have organized his old age in a spirit of placid conformity, with no rancor whatsoever. And here he was as scatterbrained as a complete lunatic.

“I’ve spent my whole life not taking interest in anything,” he said, very heatedly, “I’ve lived on the margins of what we might call everyday life. Well, that’s over and done with as well. I’m now interested in anything that happens, particularly politics. I’m a militant pacifist and am considered to be a dangerous subversive. They are right to think that. The society in which we live needs to be improved, to be rationalized. If we don’t see to that, the horrors we have just witnessed will be repeated hundredfold. We must fight against this society on all fronts, with all the weapons at our disposal. I do so, and do so consciously …”

I must have looked so astonished and then all of a sudden he addressed the ladies present — who were listening to him most attentively — and begged them to forgive his oversight in speaking French to me. As it was late — past seven o’clock already — I took the opportunity to say goodbye. Professor Busch gave me his address. I said I’d introduce him to the young student the following day. We decided to have lunch together.

“Yes, that’s possible,” he said, “because the ladies will leave for Ostend tomorrow.”

These ladies bowed stiffly, as if from a haunted castle.

As I returned to my hotel, I remembered my time in Louvaine, and some of the details of my contact with Dr Busch shifted into focus. He lived alone, with a housekeeper who looked after him. His large, dark flat, full of books and papers, was poorly lit and rather funereal. His study overlooked an old, salamander-green garden, full of moss and fern, together with a few withered trees. I think he rarely had visitors, but the fact that I practically came from the country of Vives furnished me the honor of the occasional invitation to his house. It was late autumn, and the garden was a rusty color, as if covered by a film of vinegar. He welcomed me in his slippers, in front the fire. By night, in that gloomy room, the hot coals were reflected on the corners of the polished furniture, the shadows from the fire made flickering, twisted shapes on the walls, and the long shadows of his slippers lay still on the ceiling. If there was a moon, the branches swayed the other side of the windows, a patch of light settled on the frozen grass in the garden, and the brightness, now soft and gentle, sometimes reached as far as the small sitting room. That garden had a melancholy charm and really matched the mindset and tastes of its owner. I would imagine how that sleepy corner must change when the good weather returned. The brighter light must enliven the drowsiness in the air; some tiny campanulas leapt up and dotted the drops of water on the fern, and the water from the fountain trickled through the flowing beards of some aquatic herbs and over the damp moss … But what had happened to all that? The professor had turned his back on tranquility and had become a wild man on no small scale.

The next morning I told Marta about my first encounter with my teacher and how surprised I was to find him in the company of two rather dubious English ladies.

“You don’t remember whether one was a Miss Clark?” asked Marta in a most matter-of-fact tone.

“That’s right. How come you know?” I asked, visibly shocked.

“There are no secrets … and I,” she added with a laugh, “am well informed. This lady is known as Miss Clark here, in England she goes by another name. She is German, the widow of an Englishman and naturalized. She lives in Plymouth, doesn’t she?”

“Exactly, in Plymouth … And what’s most odd is that, from what he said, Professor Busch wants to move there as well.”

“This is so amusing … In any case, these things are never really as funny as they seem and I told you that the old professor is a big deal …”

“Bah …! This professor is just a crackpot, like so many others in his line. A kind of would-be wild man, with no appreciable impact …”

“They are the worst, because they are the most ingen—”

“But, mademoiselle, you seem keen on this sort of thing?”

What I would like,” replied Marta with a mock-serious expression, “is to own a cottage in this country with small white curtains. I told you days ago. But, as that is impossible, I have to fill my time: I find renseignements are interesting. You must see that I wouldn’t have mentioned it if my role were at all important. It’s quite nondescript work … You know! Like something they put on menus in elegant restaurants when describing the salad: quelques feuilles . This saves me the bother of having to keep looking for new patrons …”

“You seem to be in extremely good spirits today …”

“Yes, I am happy. You’ve been the bearer of such good news! I don’t think one could ask for more in so short a time.”

I then told her how surprised I’d been by the change in the professor’s life, the way he’d transformed from a peaceful, discreet, self-effacing gentleman into a crazy lunatic. Marta listened with an intense interest I’d never garnered previously. She made no comment, but seemed really intrigued and that gave her quite another demeanor.

We’d agreed to go and see the Memlings — the best in the world — in the Hôpital de Saint Jean, and Marta, though she was all spruced up, felt she needed to add some final touches and went up to her bedroom. She returned half an hour later, looking sophisticated, fascinating and, above all, intriguing. She’d put on a black dress with a silky quality that molded wonderfully to her long, undulating curves. So many young ladies wear dresses that seem to have been made for others that it’s always pleasant to see a proper fit in this respect. A small red hat, imbued with real French impishness, seemed to remove any scrap of northern naïveté her features might have had. She had put on light, imperceptible make-up, the minimum for her face to show intent. She’d achieved a charming mix of the risqué and the candid — added vivaciousness into the bargain. She seemed quite another person, a radiant young woman.

It was a lovely day. The sun was rather misty and remote, but it was bright. The air was deliciously gentle and cool. Life in Bruges pursued its usual calm, positive activity.