Josep Maria de Sagarra - Private Life

“Do you know the story of my tapestry?”

“Vaguely …”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I told you, it means a lot to me …”.

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

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

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

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

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

“The person you imagine …”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But it’s true then, Conxa?”

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

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

“Do you know him?”

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

“I don’t understand.”

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

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

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

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

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