Josep Maria de Sagarra - Private Life

“Papà, there will be plenty left! Fifty thousand pessetes is a trifle! I’m telling you again, there is absolutely no danger …”

“No, no, no, and no again. The time has come to turn off the faucet, do you understand? It is pointless to go on: I will not sign the note. Go find one of those rich friends of yours, find anyone, but under no circumstances will I do it.”

“What can I say, Papà? Frankly, I think your attitude is a bit … unfair.”

“Unfair! Unfair, you say? Unfair! Are you not ashamed of yourself, at your age, with three children of your own, to have come to be such a good-for-nothing, a degenerate …”

“Papà, please, you can’t go on like …”

“Can’t go on? Am I wrong, by any chance? Is this what brings you to visit your ailing father? Is this what reminds you of your poor mother? This nonsense will be the death of me. Haven’t you done enough? You’ve been doing this all your life. You will never change, never, it’s no use, never!”

“That’s enough, Papà, enough! Enough sermons! I’ve come to ask for your help, not your sermons. I’ve heard enough sermons …”

“You don’t want sermons, eh? Well, you’ll just have to put up with them. Because I am your father, and I have every right. Do you hear me? They don’t want to hear sermons! What nerve. Spoiled, pompous little brats. Believe me, I would never, but never, have dared to address my father in the tone in which you address me. I know, times change. Today there is absolutely no respect for age. The elderly, let them die. Parents, poor things, don’t count at all. Shame on you! We sacrifice in every way for them, we satisfy all their desires, we give them everything they want and then they dare to raise their voices. Don’t dare say a word, for they’re made of sugar — they might melt! They take offense! Their father offends them! I tell you, I would rather die than see such things, that’s a fact. I would rather die. Yes, may our Lord Savior deliver me soon, I’m not meant to … I’m not meant …”

“Believe, me, Papà, you do not understand. You deserve every respect, but frankly you must take a bit more stock of things. You don’t understand, and when you get this way …”

“When I get what way! I declare! What way? You are so shameless as to come and ask for fifty thousand pessetes because, truth be told, this note is just a bit of nonsense; when the day comes they will be at my throat and to avoid a trial I’ll have no recourse but to pay, you understand, pay and pay again. For forty years I’ve done nothing but pay, and I am an old man who cannot earn a living, and I have no more money! Much less for your degenerate vices!”

“Papà, for the love of God, I beg you! You know, I have a slow fuse, but …”

“A slow fuse! What you have is debauchery! Between the allowance I give you, your earnings from the bank, and the remains of your wife’s dowry, you should be living like royalty! Fifty thousand pessetes! You useless idler! Do you think I don’t know that you spend your days and nights gambling at the Eqüestre, and other things I prefer not to know because my ears would burn with shame. My father taught me that I should die before yielding to such frailties. And I say frailties out of kindness, do you hear? A Christian, a Catholic, a gentleman, a decent man, a family man would not …”

“Enough, Papà! Enough!”

“Enough! That’s not the half of it! You are a bad son. Do you hear what I say? A bad son! Look, look here, this is your great-grandfather. Do you know who this man was? He was a man of conscience. You know the story of Uncle Manuel, don’t you? You don’t? Well, Uncle Manuel committed a heinous act, the kind pious persons refrain from mentioning, and my grandfather, the gentleman you see here in this portrait, who was his father, chose never to forgive him. He didn’t even forgive him on his deathbed. He condemned him! Do you hear me? He damned him to hell. Uncle Manuel spent his whole life with the sting of his father’s malediction in his heart. What do you think of that! And Grandfather was a saint, an upstanding man, of the kind that are no more in Barcelona. No more. Do you understand me? So now, listen closely: what do you want? What do you expect of me? Do you want to be the Uncle Manuel of our family, do you want to be the family disgrace? Do you want your father to condemn you?”

“Enough, Papà. I’ve had enough of this nonsense. I could care less if you condemn me, do whatever you like. You don’t want to give me a hand? That’s just fine! This endless stream of sermons is just mean-spiritedness, the fear of losing fifty thousand pessetes. Very well, sir, very well. You and your saints, and your airs, and your good conscience. When all is said and done, what have you ever done? You lost your fortune in the most ridiculous way! Have you ever so much as bent down to lift a blade of straw from the ground? Have you ever done anything worthwhile? What kind of education and what kind of example have you provided for us? Maybe I am a no-good idler. Whose fault is that? And let’s not get started on debauchery and piety! You have done everything everyone else does, you have not denied yourself a thing. Don’t start in on how virtuous you are as an excuse not to give me your signature. We both know perfectly well what Mamà has gone through with your affairs.”

“Ah, you wicked child! Wicked! My children! Can these be my children …? You are killing me. Just kill me now … I can’t go on!”

Don Tomàs de Lloberola was seized by a terrible congestion. He tried to cough, but he choked. In a word, he was suffocating. Convulsed, he gripped the wooden arms of the chair, and when he could finally catch his breath, he released a sob that could not have been more shattering and intense. Frightened at his father’s appearance, Frederic tried to approach him, but Don Tomàs brushed him away violently.

“Don’t touch me … you want to kill me … let me be … Leocàdia, Leocàdia, I’m dying … they’re trying to kill me …!”

Accustomed to these scenes, Leocàdia walked in at a resigned and practical pace, didn’t so much as say a word, and stood by her husband’s side. He took her hands and, sobbing as he spoke, almost suffocating, he said:

“Mamà … poor Mamà … Now you see it. These are our children … This is what you’ve brought into this world … poor Mamà …!”

Leocàdia cast Frederic a dry and timid glance of reproach, of pity, even of understanding, and still without opening her mouth, helped the enormous Don Tomàs get up. Hobbling and crying out, “Ai …! Ai …! Leocàdia, I’m dying …! Mamà, I’m dying …!”, he vanished into his bedroom. Frederic stood flabbergasted in the middle of the room. Chewing on his lips, he said under his breath: “What a farce …! What a farce …!” as he listened to his father moaning from the bed in which Leocàdia had helped him lie down.

A few minutes later — Frederic could not have said how many — Leocàdia appeared.

“My son! Can’t you see what a state he is in?”

“But, Mamà, there is nothing wrong with him!”

“There is something wrong. You don’t see him as I do! He’s asking for Dr. Claramunt, he wants to see Dr. Claramunt above all else. He wants to make his confession.”

“Mamà, this is absurd. It’s ridiculous! People will say we’ve gone mad.”

“This is how it goes, you know that. It’s the only thing that calms him down.”

“Right now?”

“Yes, my dear son, I’m asking you this favor. Do it for me, my son … for your poor mother.”

“For the love of God, Mamà, let’s not get all worked up.”

“Please do me this favor. Go and fetch Dr. Claramunt — you’ll find him at home. Tell him what’s going on. Dr. Claramunt knows him well.”