Authors: Josep Pla
“And peace within families …”
“And give days of glory to Scotland, our beloved country.”
“And for so many other reasons it would too long, although very lovely, to list now …”
“Yes, for many other important reasons …”
“Indeed, for many other reasons …”
The holy man blessed the fish, which, at the end of that ritual, made a lethal leap and belly-flopped on the water. It disappeared in a second. Then the blessed saint kneeled and started to pray, head up and eyes rolling. It was a charming scene and would require the artlessness of the primitives to paint such a miraculous atmosphere. The Clyde flowed slowly that morning and a breeze was refreshing the landscape. In the distance, a foggy Glasgow was lazily stirring. Time passed – the time required for the miracle, in short – and finally another bubble appeared on the water and then an eye came into view of a fish splashing in its liquid element. The man watched it approach, ecstatic. When it reached the river bank, with endearing stoicism, the fish rolled on to its back. Firmly, though not at all roughly, St Mungo sank the point of a lath into its white flesh to open it up. The sacrifice was made and the ring glinted in the fish’s entrails. The saint extracted it carefully, washed it and gave thanks to God for his goodness. When he’d finished, he grabbed the fish by the gills and took it to an old fish shop famed for its sophisticated fry-ups.
“Cook this fish slowly, mistress!” he said, from the bottom of his heart. “And give me a lift, because nothing could be more exhausting than these
tasks of mine. Don’t skimp and have the table ready for twelve, because there is a gentleman who can cure everything, and God is so almighty …”
At ten he entered the palace via the back door. The queen, who’d not yet managed any shut-eye, was hard-pressed not to swoon again when she heard him. They administered syrup but, the second she saw the holy man clutching her ring she came round with such a vengeance they had to close windows and doors to avoid a shocking din.
She repeatedly kissed the venerable saint’s robes and had no time, naturally, to engage in a proper act of thanksgiving. As soon as she could string a sentence together, she demanded an audience with the king.
“My lord and liege,” she began, or so the story goes, “my lord and liege, here is the ring you wanted to see yesterday. The wedding ceremony finished much earlier than expected and my marvelous first lady-in-waiting has just returned it. I thank you for your paternal concerns and you know you can always rely on your most adoring subject who …”
When he realized what it was all about, the half-dozing king chortled incredulously and grabbed the jewel in both hands. He held it for ages, quite speechless, and, as time passed, he grew visibly paler. By his bedside, the queen continued to survey the floor. Finally, the monarch sighed and looked anxiously at the queen. Then he lowered his gaze and burst into tears.
“For a moment I cast doubts on your fidelity, my queen!” he exclaimed, his head now beneath his pillow. “May God punish my grave error …!”
“So do you believe me now? Let’s put all that behind us …!” exclaimed the queen, laughing mischievously and tugging at his flowing beard. “Would you like me to accompany you for a few minutes?”
“This isn’t a good time,” said the king, in a daze. “I much prefer it after lunch …” In truth, the historical account concludes here, and epilogues are
probably quite unnecessary. However, to satisfy my readers’ curiosity, we’ll add that, thanks to this extraordinary event, the king was easily able to plow his idiosyncratic furrow and the queen could, with complete impunity, try out the nation’s greatest dolts in the democratic vein she truly made her own.
Many years later, when for reasons of State it was decided that the deeds we have just recounted would have no impact of any kind, they were allowed to circulate. We believe it hardly needs saying that they prompted lots of comment. People have always been very simple-minded, and in the course of these conversations, the humble, hallowed fellow received the greatest praise. Such a favorable aura sprang up around his miraculous activities that the doors were easily opened to his becoming a patron saint. The queen was also much praised, and the anecdote fleshed out the literary halo that already enjoyed the granite-hard base of her spelling mistakes but needed a genial incident of this kind to set it on fire. The historic reputation of the brigadier general also gained from the publication of these deeds, because nothing could be better for the prestige of a knight-in-arms than a spot of tricky amorous jousting. And, naturally, the king was much envied. “Cuckolded he may have been,” said the people, “but much better that it was the result of cosmic say-so than the whims of a local barber or taxi driver.”
Within two or three centuries, the oral tradition of these events remained very strong. The enlightenment had followed its course, and the moment came when the party that we will describe as non-conformist won a majority in the Glasgow Town Hall. From the very first day, this party implemented policies that some believed to be populist, which included, among others, the plan to give the city a shield. A municipal councilor proposed, with sly sleight-of-hand, to put a ring and a fish on the shield and his motion was approved. But this led to such an uproar, people were so up in arms, that for the first time ever an inquiry into the miracle was begun, with no holds
barred. Theological issues blossomed, spliced with all manner of saucy comment and anecdote. Casuistry had its moment of brilliance. Resonances reached the world outside, and the different dominations decided to debate the issue fully.
“All in all,” said the casuist, “the fish is the guilty party.”
“Fish don’t have souls,
ergo
, there can be no question of its guilt.”
“Fish do possess souls, but the fact they are so tiny means they aren’t worth worrying about.”
“You go too far. Fish have the souls they need: I mean they have the fragment of soul necessary to get by in life. Plotinus, who in his day studied this matter …”
“That man was a heretic!”
“That is an invalid argument; if we have to listen to such paltry argumentation, we might as well go home …”
Some people tried to highlight the role played by the saint, clearly wanting to find fault.
“There are shocking details,” said one indignant academic, “that are hardly edifying.”
“What do you mean?”
“What you heard …”
“Would you, by any chance, prefer a miracle by the book?”
“Please, clarify your ideas.”
“Aren’t they crystal clear?”
“A miracle should be constructive; is anyone lunatic enough to doubt this? Well, then: who will deny that St. Mungo’s miracle gave Scotland days of peace and put an end to violence and turmoil?”
“This is undeniable.”
“So why make a mountain out of a molehill?”
“Your reformist opinions reveal a regrettable flaw …”
“I speak with the best of intentions, and cannot have expressed myself well.”
At that moment, a well-known authority interjected in a booming voice: “The king didn’t perform at all brilliantly.”
“Ho, ho,” chortled a jolly gentleman.
“This kind of laughter is out of place here. This gathering is for well-mannered, refined people.”
“And does that give us the right to deny the truth?”
“It obliges us to speak politely, the rules are clear on that front. If we don’t act in such a way, we turn our backs on the very possibility of civil life. We are appalled and horrified by the permissive nature of antiquity, we must ensure that something similar doesn’t happen with our grandchildren in relation to our own sincerity.”
“In any case, this doesn’t obscure the fact that the king’s performance wasn’t exactly brilliant.”
“I don’t know why you say that; I discern in that generous, credulous man evident symptoms of a fine attitude – intimations of extreme sophistication.”
“Yours is an interesting opinion. The king was a long-suffering cuckold, a prototype of modern man. At bottom, a man worthy of our respect …”
“Ho, ho!” chortled the cheery wag, insidiously.
“You may well laugh!” said a man who looked cautious and sensible.
The casuist asked to speak and stated in a rudely superior tone: “And are we not forgetting the queen? After the fish, in my opinion, she is the most obviously significant element in this case. Her strong-headedness met no opposition at all. You should note and understand, moreover, that later on she didn’t learn her lesson …”
“It would be best to find something to preserve the supernatural cunning human felines always display.”
“Why do you say that? The queen was what she was …”
“Agreed, agreed. She was a wretched creature who, nevertheless, was the conduit through which a noble and prosperous peace came to the land of Scotland.”
“The theory of the instrument of grace is even more recondite, and now is surely not the place or time to debate that.”
“Recondite? The ways of grace are always gracefully transparent.”
“It’s obvious that this discussion has gone completely off the rails and it is futile to continue, if we cannot
a priori
separate out the temporal from the spiritual.”
“Your modernity is pernicious.”
“Oh, come, come!”
“It’s of no matter. The queen must be saved – whatever it takes. The services she rendered were positive and quite remarkable. Besides, she has a fine literary reputation, and we can’t afford the luxury of scorning anything from the six century, spelling errors included. Besides, she was the queen of a country that is intent on growing in importance …”
In the meantime, while propping up a column in Paradise’s room of wasted opportunities, the holy man was commenting on these bygone deeds to a circle of friends and colleagues.
“My friends, you can now see,” he said, “the depths we have sunk to. You all know me and are aware of the efforts I have always made to keep to the high ground of good faith. I believed that my participation in the business of the ring and the fish was positive because it avoided an outbreak of passion, violence, bloodletting, and chaos. Now you see how they deal with me and those events. But that’s how men and women on impious earth speak, who will probably always speak in a like manner. I confess, nevertheless, that any bodily suffering could never compare to my present sorrows. I find this gang of casuists and toffee-nosed sages disgusting, and I’d never
heard so much tripe in so short a time. Those amongst us who have a gift for soothing troubled waters know that, in effect, it is a thankless task. Our actions are always caught between two lines of fire: they please some and upset others. All human works are ever thus. Why then don’t we make the effort to transpose the study of this matter to a purely platonic realm? From the point of view of the king’s self-interest, the miracle of the ring and the fish was quite unfortunate. From the point of view of the queen, it was, on the other hand, and though I am hardly the one to say this, it was sublime and angelical. But the fact remains that if we don’t make the effort to rise above these miserable trifles we will never achieve anything serious. It is impossible to legislate for these acts. To enable miracles to come within the reach of everyone would be insane. The only solution would be to have miracles performed for ideal ends, for general reasons, properly measured by our own individual grace. I believe that the establishment of a period of peace and prosperity for bonny Scotland will always justify my participation. Yet, the truth is that once the deed is done, it will always be best to bury and forget it and get on with life. That is why I said you should measure the miracle with your own individual grace. I don’t think anything could be clearer. And so, friends and colleagues: a few yards from this room a gang of lunatics is holding forth on the only thing they shouldn’t speak about. Isn’t that appalling? Now you see the way the wind is blowing, I suppose you will immediately grasp why this gathering puts years on me and turns my hair gray. I’d heard a lot about human ingratitude, but aren’t these fools overstepping the mark! Do you see how they’ve rewarded me …!”
If they hadn’t repeatedly agreed that he was most certainly in the right, Mungo would have started moaning and whining.
I first traveled to Portugal via the inland route. Past the Estación del Mediodía there was a station in Madrid that people called the Station of Fleas – its official name being the Station of Delights – and that’s where I boarded the night express armed with the correct ticket. And nobody else much joined the train before it reached Portugal.
The train turned out to be a slow one, and when the first light dawned in the east, we were still in the province of Cáceres. From my compartment window you could see a large expanse of undulating land that shifted from dark red to purple and was unremittingly bleak and icy. A yolk-yellow sash of cloud extended along the eastern horizon, as if heralding the arrival of the new day. The sky was a cold, lustrous green. It was autumn and the temperature was quite unappealing. The poor land by the rail-track was punctured by huge crumbling granite rocks. The cork-oak woods scarred by
the recent peeling seemed to writhe in pain. As day slowly broke, the train chugged along the edge of a deep ravine that looked like the sickly lip of a deep incision; its floor was dotted by pools of freezing water. That stunning desolate scene was occasionally broken, in the distance, above dry, sallow, parched undulations, by rather pompous, if elegant and handsome, holm oaks. The sight of Plasencia’s vegetable gardens and quarried stone, wine-dreg black houses, was like an oasis lost among pure geological formations.
When the first rays of sun spread over the earth, a herd of white pigs emerged by the side of the holm-oak woods. They stood still for a moment, snouts up, tails curling, and watched the train. The sun brought the murky gleam of old silver to their pink backs.
Extremadura’s skeletal frame is quite different to Castile’s. Castile is a long spacious country –
la espaciosa y triste España
– with sharp contours and gently sloping, fiercely eroded terrain dotted with gray-brown adobe villages that look like piles of sun-dried birdshit. The huge vault of the sky soars above pale earth smudged by the wandering shadows of massive, castellated spongy white clouds that meander by, dramatic and luminous, white as foam, or cream in the yellow conflagration of the silent, dying afternoon.