“What has most harmed me has been my lack of discretion, particularly in conversation. Though this has been interpreted as duplicity on my part, I am convinced, sadly, that it is simply the fruit of my ingenuousness and my belief that others are as well-meaning as I. My friend X has said so many times; naturally, I protested. Later, with the passage of time, I have concluded that my friend X was absolutely right. I have been and continue to be nauseatingly innocent.”
“At sixty years of age, I find myself desperately alone. My fortune has dwindled greatly, and I must make an effort to save. Many people have left my side, but I still have a weakness for wanting to know what is going on, in particular for the latest thing, and for what can bring about a change in my country. Many of my friends criticize me for supporting the Republican government. They say I’m an old woman and I should be ashamed of being so juvenile, and I’d be better off shutting myself up at home. The truth is, I’ve been shut up in my home for years, and I am never so happy as when I am sitting by the fireside, surrounded by my memories and in the company of my thoughts. When someone comes to take me out for a little trip, or some escapade, it embarrasses me to confess that I’m no young woman any more, and I get tired, or that I’m in no mood to be disturbed, and out of vanity, pure and simple vanity, I still go out as if I were twenty-five. But I’m less and less in the mood.”
“I would have liked to know how to write. I would have liked to be of use to my world by writing my memories of everything I’ve seen in this life, because in my position, I have met many people, and seen much grandeur and much misery. Writing a memoir is a constant temptation for me. Some people have urged me to do it, in good faith, I think. Today I’ve written down these things about myself to see if I am inspired to continue writing what I know of others. I have tried to start a story with a series of disorderly confessions. I am only at the start and I’m already fading. I wonder if, in the little bit I have written so far, I have been honest with myself. Maybe I have portrayed myself as too much of a victim, maybe I have neglected to say that both at heart and on the surface I am nothing but a selfish woman …”
Hortènsia Portell had just read the words “selfish woman.” She was holding a few sheets of thick, broad, and dramatic, paper, written in a careless and affectedly virile hand. Disillusioned, she reread what she had conceived of a few months ago, and had left off in the moment she penned the phrase “selfish woman.” Ever since she had stored it in a drawer with other intimate items, Hortènsia hadn’t had the heart to go over it. Manuscript in hand, Hortènsia had realized that her attempt to write her memoir had been a childish act. Why do it? What could she gain from it? Hortènsia Portell’s survivors would see her memoir as a posthumous extravagance. They wouldn’t even leave her cadaver in peace. Hortènsia didn’t want to give them the satisfaction. Moreoever, nothing she might have to say about her life and times would be of interest to anyone. That’s what Hortènsia was thinking in those moments as she weighed her manuscript, with a grimace of disgust as she considered what she had written about herself in a moment of weakness and innocence.
At the time, Hortènsia was facing a series of sumptuary and economic headaches. She had sold some of her paintings and intended to let go of many other things. Hortènsia proposed to retire to a more tranquil domicile that would not entail such great expense.
The manuscript Hortènsia was holding in her hands ended up, page by page, in the flames of the chimney. This literary auto-da-fè was carried out in silence, secretly, not without the executioner’s feeling the detachment of four dog-eared roses from the tip of her heart as she carried out the sacrifice.
When Hortènsia had completely destroyed her work, the doorbell rang, and the servant announced the widow Baronessa de Falset.
Conxa would often visit Hortènsia’s house in the afternoon, not so much to keep her company as to consult with her on things related to the new house the baronessa was building. Hortènsia had a reputation for good taste, and Conxa had faith in her judgment. At that stage, Conxa was absolutely immersed in the project, and in fact didn’t give her architect a moment’s rest. She wanted the building to be modern and brilliant, and the toast of all Barcelona. Conxa wanted to squeeze life down to the dregs. For days an idea had been spinning in her head and she hadn’t dared broach it with Hortènsia. But that afternoon she finally found the mettle. It was an idea related to the décor of her new house, and related above all to another person who was the axis around which all of Conxa Pujol’s feelings and illusions revolved.
“Listen, Hortènsia, what do you intend to do with your tapestry?”
“Frankly, if someone wanted to buy it …”
“The thing is, to tell the truth, I’ve been looking for a tapestry for quite some time now, but not just any old thing. I want something with a bit of style, you see? It’s for the entrance, and I think yours is the perfect size. It would fit there as if it had been made to order. Forgive me, Hortènsia, but it’s only because you say you want to sell all this, and that the house has got too big for you, that I dare to ask …”
“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 …”