Mare Nostrum | Page 7

home; to his
childish eyes, this godparent, the lawyer, Don Carmelo Labarta, was
the personification of the ideal life, of glory, of poesy. The notary was
wont to speak of him with enthusiasm, yet pitying him at the same
time.
"That poor Don Carmelo!... The leading authority of the age in civilian
matters! By applying himself he might earn some money, but verses
attracted him more than lawsuits."
Ulysses used to enter his office with keen emotion. Above rows of
multicolored and gilded books that covered the walls, he saw some
great plaster heads with towering foreheads and vacant eyes that
seemed always to be contemplating an immense nothingness.
The child could repeat their names like a fragment from a choir book,
from Homer to Victor Hugo. Then his glance would seek another head
equally glorious although less white, with blonde and grizzled beard,
rubicund nose and bilious cheeks that in certain moments scattered bits
of scale. The sweet eyes of his godfather--yellowish eyes spotted with

black dots--used to receive Ulysses with the doting affection of an
aging, old bachelor who needs to invent a family. He it was who had
given him at the baptismal font the name which had awakened so much
admiration and ridicule among his school companions; with the
patience of an old grand-sire narrating saintly stories to his descendants,
he would tell Ulysses over and over the adventures of the navigating
King of Ithaca for whom he had been named.
With no less devotion did the lad regard all the souvenirs of glory that
adorned his house--wreaths of golden leaves, silver cups, nude marble
statuettes, placques of different metals upon plush backgrounds on
which glistened imperishably the name of the poet Labarta. All this
booty the tireless Knight of Letters had conquered by means of his
verse.
When the Floral Games were announced, the competitors used to
tremble lest it might occur to the great Don Carmelo to hanker after
some of the premiums. With astonishing facility he used to carry off
the natural flower awarded for the heroic ode, the cup of gold for the
amorous romance, the pair of statues dedicated to the most complete
historical study, the marble bust for the best legend in prose, and even
the "art bronze" reward of philological study. The other aspirants might
try for the left-overs.
Fortunately he had confined himself to local literature, and his
inspiration would not admit any other drapery than that of Valencian
verse. Next to Valencia and its past glories, Greece claimed his
admiration. Once a year Ulysses beheld him arrayed in his frock coat,
his chest starred with decorations and in his lapel the golden cicada,
badge of the poets of Provence.
He it was who was going to be celebrated in the fiesta of Provençal
literature, in which he always played the principal role; he was the prize
bard, lecturer, or simple idol to whom other poets were dedicating their
eulogies--clerics given to rhyming, personifiers of religious images,
silk-weavers who felt the vulgarity of their existence perturbed by the
itchings of inspiration--all the brotherhood of popular bards of the
ingenuous and domestic brand who recalled the Meistersingers of the

old German cities.
His godson always imagined him with a crown of laurel on his brows
just like those mysterious blind poets whose portraits and busts
ornamented the library. In real life he saw perfectly well that his head
had no such adornment, but reality lost its value before the firmness of
his conceptions. His godfather certainly must wear a wreath when he
was not present. Undoubtedly he was accustomed to wear it as a house
cap when by himself.
Another thing which he greatly admired about the grand man was his
extensive travels. He had lived in distant Madrid--the scene of almost
all the novels read by Ulysses--and once upon a time he had crossed the
frontier, going courageously into a remote country called the south of
France, in order to visit another poet whom he was accustomed to call
"My friend, Mistral." And the lad's imagination, hasty and illogical in
its decisions, used to envelop his godfather in a halo of historic interest,
similar to that of the conquerors.
At the stroke of the twelve o'clock chimes Labarta, who never
permitted any informality in table matters, would become very
impatient, cutting short the account of his journeys and triumphs.
"Doña Pepa!... We have a guest here."
Doña Pepa was the housekeeper, the great man's companion who for
the past fifteen years had been chained to the chariot of his glory. The
portières would part and through them would advance a huge bosom
protruding above an abdomen cruelly corseted. Afterwards, long
afterwards, would appear a white and radiant countenance, a face like a
full moon, and while her smile like a