Iberia (104 page)

Next Father Riutford showed me a painting which has caused
much discussion. It shows Llull twice: first as a bearded old man
of eighty preaching on the shores of Africa as an angel brings him
a martyr’s crown; second as he dies a miserable death supported
by his defenders, who are unable to save him from his Muslim
executioners. ‘A very dubious work,’ Father Riutford admitted.
‘Had he died so, he would surely have become a saint. The fact
seems to be that he went to Africa, preached to the Muslims,
accomplished nothing and sailed back to Mallorca. When his ship
was in sight of Palma, he died.’ Through delicacy, perhaps, Father
Riutford did not bore me with the unbecoming struggle that
enveloped Llull in death. Franciscans insisted that he had died a
martyr and must be made a saint; Dominicans laughed at the
claim and charged instead that he was a heretic and should be
posthumously excommunicated. Through the centuries one pope
inclined toward one interpretation, his successor to the other; as
a result Ramón Llull has not even yet been proclaimed a saint.

This Papal ambivalence was duplicated among the citizens of
Palma, who could not decide whether Llull was saint or heretic.
‘This nave summarizes the story,’ Father Riutford says. ‘Originally
Llull was buried in this chapel over here, but antagonisms between
his supporters and his detractors became so vicious, with brawling
and the defacing of his grave, that the Franciscans judged it might
be wiser to hide his ashes down there, in the ground under the
altar. Long after this was done, it was decided that it was a
humiliation to a great man, and if he couldn’t stand forth in his
own church, where could he? So the hidden urn was dug up and
Llull was buried anew in this other chapel back in the apse. It’s a
beautiful tomb, but as you might have expected, it’s been left
unfinished for these last five hundred years. Those responsible
for the church have not yet been able to agree as to what kind of
man Llull was.’

It was a strange tomb that Llull’s followers erected in the 1450s.
Well above the level of the eye rests a stone sarcophagus decorated
with the jacent statue of a bearded old man holding a rosary in
hands clasped for prayer, but the statue does not occupy a normal
position on the lid of the sarcophagus; it is carved on the side
facing the viewer. Llull, therefore, does not lie parallel to the floor
but sleeps on his elbow and looks as if he might fall off the side
at any moment. There were supposed to be two statues flanking
his tomb, Philosophy and Theology. Below, so that their heads
would have stood at eye level, should have been seven additional
statues representing: Grammar, Logic, Rhetoric (the trivium) and
Arithmetic, Music, Geometry and Astronomy (the quadrivium).
The niches are waiting, set off by Gothic pilasters, and angles
stand by with crowns to grace the missing figures, but the statues
have not been completed even though sculptors have had five
hundred years to do the job.

‘Mallorca has never been able to make up its mind,’ Father
Riutford said, showing me a crypt which had been dug under the
altar in 1915, the sixth centenary of Llull’s death, with the idea
that his body should be identified with the Host and thus to serve
as the focus for a cult. The crypt was prepared, even though many
graves occupied by friars buried there over past centuries had to
be dug up, but when it was finished the old animosities against
Llull prevailed and the move was not permitted.

Spain as a whole has not been easy in its attitude toward Llull,
who seems to have been more a Frenchman than a Spaniard; his
orientation was to Paris and not to Toledo, certainly to Rome
rather than to Barcelona. One of the scholars at the Madrid tertulia
had told me, ‘Llull is a man you can’t trust. You think you have
him, and he slips out of your fingers.’ As the man spoke I recalled
the poem Llull had written at the age of sixty-five:

I am old, poor, unappreciated and without assistance from anyone.
I have undertaken superior tasks, insofar as my ability would
permit. I have journeyed through a great part of the world. Very
fine examples have I given of learning, but nevertheless I am little
loved and less known.

(Later, when I returned to the tertulia in Madrid, I asked Martínez
López of Texas and Cossío of the Academy their opinion of Llull,
and they agreed that he was one of the supreme Spaniards, whose
theories have yet to be exhausted.)

I revere Llull because in his day he saw the interlocking nature
of the world and was willing to sacrifice his life to help achieve
unity. To him the Mediterranean was infinitely larger than the
Atlantic and the Pacific are to me, yet he went forth to all the
shores, preaching one message, ‘He who loves not, lives not.’ If
the Tartars overran older civilizations, he was ready to talk with
the Tartars. If the Muslims held Africa in slavery, he was prepared
to walk on foot through Africa and debate with its rulers. If he
came upon an island, he said, ‘Let’s build a university.’ If a subject
was obscure, he wrote a book about it, explaining its intricacies
and relating them to all other known fields. Beaten and expelled
from Bugia (today Bougie in Algeria), the Muslim capital on the
northern coast of Africa, he blamed no one but himself, reasoning
that if his logic had been more persuasive the Muslims would
have listened; so after surviving shipwreck on his way to Pisa he
retired to perfect his argument, after which he returned to Bugia
alone to see the sultan face to face. And in spite of the defeats he
met, he remained a poet to the end.

His reputation in the Church has been much damaged by one
of those perplexing historical accidents that one can neither
explain nor correct. In the eighteenth century a fable circulated
to the effect that Ramón Llull, the world’s master alchemist, had
succeeded in compounding an alkahest that would speed the
transmutation of lead to gold. For prudent reasons he had
refrained from committing his formula to writing, but if one
studied his numerous books on alchemy one could deduce the
formula and with it make gold. Understandably, there was a run
on Llull’s alchemical works and he became famous throughout
Europe. What were the names of his books on the subject? He
wrote none. Close study of his major work proves that he held
alchemy in contempt; certainly he ridiculed the idea of
transmuting metals and frequently spoke poorly of those who
tried. He was, in effect, his age’s principal foe of alchemy; but
because he was known to have written on chemistry, and partly,
I suppose, because pictures of him showed the long beard of the
typical Faustian alchemist, he became the symbol of the movement
and it would have been fruitless to deny that he was its leader.

As for the alchemy books attributed to Llull, which do exist
and in extraordinary number, they were all forgeries, done mostly
in Germany and very late. For a book on alchemy to sell, it almost
had to be signed by Raymundo Lulio, and so they proliferated.
Even today the few persons who have heard of Ramón Llull are
apt to remember him only as Europe’s chief alchemist. For a man
who founded his intellectual life on rationalism, it is a bitter trick.

I was surprised in Mallorca to find no monument to Llull, as
I had been surprised in Córdoba to find none to Averroës, but at
lunch I discovered why. A friend in Barcelona had asked a young
scholar in Palma to supervise my lunch, and when we were seated
I asked him why Llull had been ignored, and he said, ‘But he
wasn’t. In 1915 plans were laid to erect a statue on the waterfront.
The site was selected and the base was built. But…’

‘There were objections?’

 

‘Yes. I’m a great admirer of Llull’s. He was probably the best
man these islands ever produced, but there are many who consider
him a heretic. So the monument was not permitted.’

 

It so happened that at a nearby table a medical doctor was
having his lunch, and when he heard that I was from the United
States he introduced himself, Dr. Antonio Bauza Roca from the
Mallorcan city of Petra. ‘We make many shoes there for shipment
to your country, but we are famous for something quite different.’
He was a peppery little man with a rim of dark hair about his bald
head and a set of very dark eyebrows; he had many interests and
spoke with fluency on economics, politics, shipping and literature,
but when he handed me his card it was as El Presidente de la
Asociación de los Amigos de Fray Junípero Serra. ‘He was born
in Petra,’ Dr. Bauza said proudly, ‘but it was in California that he
found his immortality. He’s buried in Carmel and we’ve been
told he’s practically the patron saint of California.’

 

Then, with his eyes dancing beneath their large brows, he
explained why he had wanted to speak with me. ‘In 1969 we
celebrate the two-hundredth anniversary of Fray Junípero’s arrival
at San Diego. Festivities here and bigger ones in California. At
that time our great project will come to fulfilment…the one we’ve
been working on so hard.’

 

I asked what it was, and he said, ‘The rich people of California
consider it shameful that in Mallorca there is no fine statue to
Fray Junípero, who is the greatest man ever to come from these
islands. So they’re collecting money and we’re going to build a
tall statue…right over there. Fray Junípero Serra, the patron of
Mallorca, rising like a giant and looking across the sea toward
California, the land he went to convert.’

 

I noticed that my luncheon partner did not respond to this
news but sat with his hands clenched. When Dr. Bauza, having
invited my wife and me to attend the celebrations enshrining Fray
Junípero, departed, he cursed and said, ‘Can you guess the spot
they’ve chosen for their monument? The very one where the statue
to Ramón Llull was to have been built. I wouldn’t be surprised if
they used the same base. And what did Junípero Serra ever do?
He stumbled his way into California. Oh my God!’

 

Sadness possessed my friend as he reflected on the world’s
unjustness: ‘A man like Ramón Llull can have the foremost mind
of his age. Write more than two hundred books that kept
intelligence alive. Identify the true nature of the Virgin. He can
work to unite the known world, and it all comes to nothing. Even
his own Church rejects him…his tomb is left unfinished. And all
because he worked in the field of the intellect. But let an ignorant
friar happen to wander across land where oil is to be
discovered…and where American millionaires are to flourish.
And all the money you would need is made available for erecting
a statue to that friar.’

 

He turned to me in mock bitterness and said, ‘You
norteamericanos are ruining Spain.’ Then like a conspirator he
drew close and whispered, ‘But if you do put up that statue to
Junípero Serra…on the site reserved for Ramón Llull. Well, don’t
be surprised if some dark night the damned thing’s dynamited.’

 

I thought it wisest not to tip my hand at this early stage, but if
his plot goes forward, I plan to be in on it.
XI
THE BULLS

From that first Sunday in Valencia when I watched Lalanda,
Ortega and El Estudiante fight six bulls I have been a devotee of
the bullring. Over a period of thirty-five seasons I have seen all
the great matadors in Spain and Mexico save Pepe Luis Vazquez
the Spaniard, although strangely enough I was a good friend of
the Mexican matador of that name. I have traveled with
bullfighters in both countries, have read almost everything in
print in both Spanish and English, plus many fine books in
French, and instead of losing interest as the years passed, I have
found my appetite for this art increasing.

I suppose I have seen over 250 fights with full matadors, which
is a far cry from the 750 which a professional bull-follower like
Kenneth Vanderford has seen, or the amazing 114 which the
American girl Virginia Smith saw in one year by dint of driving
her Renault like mad back and forth across Spain during the
bullfight season. I have long since stopped making apologies for
my interest in the bulls, but I do believe that the following
observations by a Spaniard who had lived in America will prove
relevant.

American
: How can a civilized man like you tolerate bullfighting?
Spaniard
: A fair question and one deserving a serious answer. I
suggest that you think of bullfighting in Spain as you would
boxing in America.
American
: Exactly the point I wanted to make. All decent
Americans are opposed to boxing. Each time after a boxer is
killed in the ring, there is an outcry from our responsible press,
questions are asked in Congress and movements are launched
to end this bloody business.
Spaniard
: Rightly so, because boxing is much more brutal than
bullfighting. And of course far more men are killed in the
boxing ring than in the bullring. Statistically boxing is more
dangerous. Morally it’s more debilitating.