A PORTUGUESE “TEA.”
ON Sunday evenings a number of intimate friends--a sort of
_conversazione_--gathered in Jorge’s parlor around the antique
lamp of rose-colored porcelain. They drank tea and chatted together in
a somewhat _bourgeois_ fashion. Luiza crocheted; Jorge smoked his
pipe.
The first to arrive on the present occasion was Julião Zuzarte, a
distant relative of Jorge, who had been his school-fellow in the old
days of the Polytechnic. He was a thin and nervous-looking man, with
blue spectacles, and long hair falling over the collar of his coat.
He had studied medicine at the School. He was very intelligent, and
an indefatigable worker; but, as he himself said, he worked without
any definite purpose. At thirty years of age, poor, in debt, without
patients, he began to be discontented with his fourth floor in an
unfashionable neighborhood, his two-shilling dinners, and his overcoat
bound with braid. While he was restricted to this narrow way of living,
he saw others of far less ability succeed in all they undertook and
obtain the object of their ambition. He was in the habit of saying
that he was unlucky. He might have had the position of titular doctor
in one of the provinces, with his own house and garden; but his pride
rebelled against this, and as he had confidence in his ability and
his knowledge, he did not wish to bury them in an insignificant and
gloomy village, with its three streets overrun by pigs. Everything that
smacked of provincialism inspired him with horror. He beheld himself
in imagination leading this obscure existence, playing _manilha_
at evening parties, and dying of tedium; therefore he made no effort
to change his way of living. He still hoped, with the audacity of the
ambitious plebeian, for a large practice, a chair in the School of
Medicine, a carriage in which to visit his patients, and a handsome
wife with a good dowry. He believed firmly in his right to all these
good things, and as they delayed in coming to him, his temper became
soured. He hated this existence in which he had no pleasures. The
periods of long and bitter meditation, during which he gnawed his nails
in silence, grew every day more frequent; or if he opened his lips at
all it was only to give harsh answers and utter unjust complaints in
accents that had the steely sharpness of a sword.
Luiza could see nothing attractive in him; on the contrary, she thought
him extremely tiresome. She detested his magisterial tone, the glitter
of his blue spectacles, and the cut of his trousers, which he wore so
short as to allow the worn elastics of his boots to be seen below them.
But she concealed her antipathy, and always treated him with amiability
because Jorge admired him, and thought him, as he said, a man of
genius, a great man.
As Julião arrived early, he went to the dining-room to take his
after-dinner cup of coffee with Jorge and Luiza. He glanced askance and
with bitterness at the silver on the table and at the fresh toilet of
Luiza. All these evidences of prosperity irritated him. Jorge was, in
his opinion, a man of mediocre abilities, who did not deserve his good
fortune; and the thought of this relative of his who lived comfortably,
who was happily married, good-looking, well thought of in the
Department, and who, in addition to all this, possessed some hundreds
of dollars in bonds, imbittered his mind, like an injustice of fate,
and weighed upon him like a humiliation. But he professed affection
for him, and never failed to visit him on Sunday evenings. On these
occasions he endeavored to hide his envy, chatting gayly, and passing
his hand from time to time over his dry and disordered hair.
Towards nine o’clock Donna Felicidade de Noronha made her appearance.
She entered the room with open arms and a smiling countenance. She was
a lady of about fifty years of age, and was very stout. As she suffered
from a flatulent dyspepsia, she was unable to lace herself, and her
figure, as a consequence, was devoid of symmetry or shape. A few silver
threads glittered here and there in her wavy hair; but her face, round
and full, had all the soft and delicate fairness of a nun’s. The dark
and humid pupils of her prominent and restless eyes shone beneath their
wrinkled lids; her mobile nostrils were somewhat wide; the corners of
her mouth were shaded by a slight down that resembled a circumflex
accent lightly traced by a fine pen. She had been the intimate friend
of Luiza’s mother, and she had kept up the habit of going to see the
_little one_ every Sunday. She was, according to her own account,
of a noble family,--the Noronhas of Redondella. For the rest, she was
highly esteemed in Lisbon. She was somewhat of a devotee, and was a
constant attendant at the Chapel of the Encarnação. The moment she
entered she gave Luiza a noisy kiss, and asked her in a low and anxious
voice,--
“Is he coming?”
“The counsellor?” said Luiza. “Yes, he is coming.”
She spoke with knowledge, for _he_, the Counsellor Accacio, never
came to take a cup of tea with Donna Luiza, as he called her, without
going the evening before to the Department of Public Works to see
Jorge, and say to him with a solemn inclination of his tall figure,--
“My dear Jorge, I shall go to-morrow to ask a cup of tea from your
charming wife.” He almost always added, “Do our beautiful works
progress?--Yes? I am delighted to hear it. If you should see the
Minister, present my respects to him.” And he would then take his
leave, threading with measured step the dirty passage-ways.
Five years ago Donna Felicidade had become enamoured of him. They
bantered her occasionally, on account of this sentiment, at Jorge’s.
Luiza thought it very amusing. They saw her fresh color, her rounded
cheeks, and they did not suspect that this concentrated passion that
burned in secrecy and silence in her bosom, fed anew from week to week,
was destroying her bodily health like an illness, and demoralizing her
nature like a vice. She had once been in love with an officer of the
Lancers, whose likeness she still kept. Later, she conceived a sudden
attachment for a young baker of the neighborhood, whom she had the pain
of seeing marry before her very eyes. She then devoted herself entirely
to a little dog, Bilró. A servant whom she had discharged revenged
herself by giving the little animal black pudding to eat. Bilró had an
attack of indigestion, of which he died; but he still reigned, stuffed
with straw, in his mistress’s dining-room. Donna Felicidade, at fifty
years, was still unmarried. One day the counsellor made his appearance,
and kindled anew her dormant affections. Senhor Accacio became her
craze; she admired his countenance, the gravity of his manner; she
opened her eyes wide with admiration at his eloquence; nor was she
blind to the fact that he would be a good _parti_. The counsellor
came to be the object of her hopes, her desires, her ambition. The
indifference of the counsellor irritated her,--not a glance, not a
sigh, not the least indication that her love was requited. He was for
her solemn, glacial, courteous; but at the least demonstration of her
affection for him he would rise and withdraw with severe and modest
demeanor. One day she fancied that the counsellor cast an admiring
glance from behind his dark spectacles at the superabundance of her
charms. Suddenly she felt herself endowed with a greater facility of
expression; she felt her voice capable of more tender accents, and she
said to him softly,--
“Accacio!”
But he extinguished her ardor by a gesture, and then said gravely,--
“Senhora, the snows that have accumulated upon the head end at last by
settling on the heart. It is useless, Senhora.”
The martyrdom of Donna Felicidade, then, was a secret one. That her
affection was unrequited was known, but not so the pangs she suffered.
They were speaking of Alemtejo, of Evora, and its sources of wealth,
of the chapel of relics, when the counsellor entered, carrying on his
arm his overcoat, which he placed on a chair in a corner of the room,
first carefully folding it. Then with measured and dignified step he
approached Luiza and pressed her hands in his.
“I see you are in the enjoyment of your usual perfect health, Senhora,”
he said, in sonorous accents. “Jorge told me yesterday. That is well,
very well!”
The counsellor was tall and thin; he was dressed in black, his neck
imprisoned in a high stiff collar. The lower part of his face was
narrow; his head, which was bald and polished, was slightly flattened
on the crown. He dyed the little hair he still possessed, which formed
a fringe above his neck, and this hand, black and shining, heightened
by contrast the lustrousness of the bald cranium above. But he left in
its natural color his gray mustache, which drooped over the corners
of his mouth. His beard was full, his complexion pale. He always wore
dark-colored spectacles. His enormous ears projected from either side
of his head like the fans of a windmill. He had been Director-in-Chief
of the Department of Home Government, and whenever he spoke of the
king he mechanically took off his hat and bent his head. His every
gesture, even to the taking of snuff, was measured. He made use of
none but the choicest words, and uttered the simplest phrases with a
certain air of dignity. In speaking of public persons he had a habit
of saying “Our Garrett,” or “Our Herculano,” as the case might be. He
had been something of an author, too, and was never without some apt
quotation at his command. He had no family, and lived on a third floor
in Ferregial Street, with a housekeeper who was at the same time a
companion; and he devoted his time to the study of political economy.
He had written a work on “The Reproductive Principles of the Science
of Wealth and its Distribution, according to the best Authorities,”
with the supplementary title, “Reading for Wakeful Hours.” It was only
a few months since he had published the “History of all the Ministers
of State, from the illustrious Marquis of Pombal to those of our own
Times, with the Dates of their Deaths and Births carefully verified.”
“Were you ever in Alemtejo, Counsellor?” Luiza asked him.
“Never, Senhora,” he answered, bowing, “never. And, believe me, to my
great regret; for I have been told that there are curiosities there of
the first order.”
He delicately took between his thumb and finger a small pinch of the
golden snuff he was in the habit of using, and added, with a majestic
air, “It possesses, besides, a great source of wealth in its hogs.”
“Jorge,” said Julião, from the corner where he sat, “find out how much
the titular doctor of Evora makes a year.”
The counsellor, always well informed, approached Julião, still holding
his pinch of snuff between his thumb and finger. “He must make six
hundred thousand _reis_,[1] Senhor Zuzarte,” he said; “I have it
so stated in my notes. But why this question?” he added, straightening
himself. “Do you desire to abandon Lisbon?”
Every one present joined in expressing disapproval of such an intention.
“Ah, Lisbon is always Lisbon,” sighed Donna Felicidade.
“A city of marble and of granite, as our immortal historian has said,”
added the counsellor with emphasis.
He inhaled his pinch of snuff, spreading out his fingers in the form of
a fan. His hand, thin and pale, but well cared for, was adorned with a
seal ring.
“The counsellor would no more abandon Lisbon than would the hand of God
the Father,” said Donna Felicidade, blushing as she spoke.
“I was born in Lisbon, Senhora, and I am a son of Lisbon to the bottom
of my soul,” answered the counsellor, turning slowly towards her, and
bowing, with eyes bent on the floor.
“I remember,” said Jorge, “that you were born in the street of S. José.”
“No. 75, my friend, in the house next to that in which my poor Geraldo
lived up to the time of his marriage.”
This “poor Geraldo” was Jorge’s father, and Accacio had been his
most intimate friend. They were neighbors, and as Geraldo performed
on the flute and Accacio on the violin, they played duets together;
both were members of the Philharmonic Society of the street of S.
José. Afterwards, when Accacio became a member of the Cabinet, he
abandoned the violin, as well from conscientious scruples as through
considerations regarding his dignity, and with it all the joyful and
tender emotions of the evenings at the Philharmonic. He dedicated
himself to statistics, but he always remained faithful to Geraldo, and
continued to extend to Jorge the same vigilant friendship. He had been
Jorge’s witness on the occasion of his marriage; he went to see him
every Sunday; and he never failed to send him, on his saint’s day, his
card, and a confection of almond paste in the form of an eel.
“Here I was born,” he repeated, unfolding his India silk handkerchief,
“and here I intend to die;” and he blew his nose discreetly.
“It is not yet time to think of that,” said every one.
“The thought of death does not terrify me, my dear Jorge,” he responded
in a melancholy accent. “I have even caused my last resting-place,
modest but convenient, to be constructed in the Cemetery of the
Heights of São João. It is situated on the right of the entrance, in
a sheltered situation, beside the tomb, constructed in the form of a
mausoleum, of some good friends of mine.”
“Has the Senhor Counsellor already composed his epitaph?” asked
Zuzarte, in his incisive and ironical accents.
“No, Senhor Zuzarte, no; I desire no eulogies written on my tomb. If
my friends or my fellow-citizens consider that I have done anything
worthy of remembrance, they have other means of recording it; such as
the press, a necrological article, poetry itself. For my own part,
the utmost I desire on the marble that covers me is my name in black
letters, with my title of counsellor, the date of my birth and that
of my death. I do not object, however,” he added, after a moment of
reflection, “to having engraved underneath, in small letters, the
words, ‘Pray for him.’”
There was a moment’s silence, interrupted by the opening of the door.
“May I come in?” said a thin treble voice.
“Ah,” said Jorge, “it is Ernesto.”
Ernesto advanced with hasty steps towards Jorge, and threw his arms
around his neck. “I have heard that you are going away, Cousin,” he
said. “How do you do, Cousin Luiza?”
The new-comer was a cousin of Jorge, thin and fragile in appearance. He
looked more like a school-boy than a man. His scanty mustache, anointed
with pomade, curled up at the ends in points like needles, and in his
hollow countenance his eyes glittered with an unhealthy brightness.
He wore patent-leather shoes, with broad laces. A watch-chain, which
supported an enormous locket, with a complicated pattern of flowers
and fruits enamelled in relief upon it, hung from his waistcoat. He
wrote for the theatre. He had in his portfolio several plays he had
translated,--two original ones, in one act each, and a farce. He had
just written for the “Variety” a spectacular drama in five acts, called
“Love and Honor.” This was the only one of his pieces which had been
accepted. Since then he was always seen apparently overwhelmed with
business, his pockets filled with manuscripts, surrounded by actors,
and paying without a murmur for unlimited cups of coffee and glasses of
cognac, an expression of fatigue upon his pallid countenance, his hat
pushed back from his forehead, and repeating to every one he met, “This
life is killing me.” It is to be observed that he had been led into
literature solely by his love for it, as he was employed in the Custom
House at a good salary, and possessed, besides, a rent-roll of five
hundred thousand _reis_.[2] He confessed that this passion for art
had cost him a good deal of money; he had caused to be made at his own
expense the patent leather boots used by the lover, as well as those
used by the noble father, in his drama, “Love and Honor.”
He was at once surrounded; and Luiza, laying down her work, remarked
to him that he was pale, and looked depressed. He began thereupon to
complain of his troubles,--the rehearsals gave him nausea, he had
constant disputes with the director. Yesterday he had had to alter,
from beginning to end, the _finale_ of an act; yes, he repeated,
from beginning to end. “And all,” he added with irritation, “because
that stupid fellow wants the scene laid in a salon, when I have placed
it on the edge of a precipice.”
“Of a what!” exclaimed Donna Felicidade, in astonishment.
“Of a precipice, Donna Felicidade,” said the counsellor, with his
customary suave urbanity. “It might also be called with propriety an
abyss.” And he quoted,--
“And straight he plunges into the abyss.”
“But why on the edge of a precipice?” inquired the guests.
The counsellor asked for the argument of the piece.
Ernesto, delighted, sketched in broad strokes the plot of his work.
“The heroine,” he said, “is a married woman, who meets in Cintra
a man who is destined to prove fatal to her peace,--the Count of
Monte Redondo. Her husband has lost at play a hundred _contos de
reis_,[3] which he is unable to pay. His name is dishonored, and he
himself in danger of being thrown into prison. The heroine, rendered
desperate, hurries to the ruined castle inhabited by the count, and
there reveals to him the misfortune that has befallen her husband. The
count wraps himself in his cloak and departs; at the moment in which
the police are about to lay hands upon the husband, he arrives upon
the scene. Then follows an affecting scene by moonlight. The count
discovers himself, and throws a purse, full of gold, at the feet of the
officers, exclaiming, ‘Satiate yourselves, vultures!’”
“A fine situation!” said the counsellor.
“Towards the end,” continued Ernesto, “the plot thickens. The Count of
Monte Redondo and the heroine fall in love with each other; the husband
discovers it, throws at the feet of the count the gold he had received
from him, and kills his wife.”
“How?” they all ask.
“He throws her over a precipice, at the end of the fifth act. The
count sees him, rushes to her assistance, and falls over with her. The
husband folds his arms, and gives way to a burst of demoniac laughter.
That is how I have arranged it.”
He paused, breathless, and glanced around him with eyes languid and
colorless as those of a fish.
“It is a well-planned work, in which the grand passions elbow each
other,” said the counsellor, stroking his bald cranium with his hand.
“I offer my congratulations to Senhor Ledesma.”
“But what the deuce does that director want?” said Julião, who had been
listening to the conversation, silent and attentive. “Does he perchance
wish to place a precipice on a first floor furnished by Garde?”
Ernesto turned towards him. “No, Senhor Zuzarte,” he said, in
mellifluous accents; “he wishes the catastrophe to take place in a
salon. So that,” he added with resignation, “I have been obliged to
rewrite the whole of the fifth act. In order to be obliging, I had to
spend the night in vigil, and to drink three cups of coffee.”
“Take care, Senhor Ledesma!” said the counsellor, stretching out his
hand with a warning gesture. “Take care! one should be prudent in the
use of stimulants.”
“They don’t hurt me, Senhor Counsellor,” responded Ernesto, smiling. “I
altered the _dénouement_,” he continued, “in three hours; and I
have just read it over to the director. I have it with me.”
“Read it to us, Senhor Ernesto,” said Donna Felicidade; “read it to us.”
“Yes, read it,” repeated every one.
“It is only the first sketch; I am afraid of boring you,” said Ernesto,
who could not conceal his delight. “But, since you desire it--”
And, in the midst of profound silence, he unfolded a roll of blue-ruled
paper. “I must claim your indulgence before beginning,” he said,
looking around him, “in view of the fact that this is only a sketch. I
have not crossed the _t’s_ nor dotted the _i’s_ yet.” And he
began to read in a theatrical manner:--
“Agatha--that is the name of the wife, and we are now in the scene in
which the husband has discovered everything,--”
“AGATHA (_falling on her knees at the feet of Julio_).
Kill me! kill me! for pity’s sake. Rather death than to feel my heart
slowly breaking under the weight of your contempt!”
“JULIO. Have you not torn my heart out of my bosom? Have you
had compassion upon me? My God! I who in happier days believed her
stainless!”
One of the portières of the parlor was here seen to move slightly;
the noise of cups gently striking against one another was heard, and
Juliana, in a white apron, entered, bringing in the tea.
“How annoying!” exclaimed Luiza. “After tea we will continue, eh?”
“It is not worth while, Cousin,” said Ernesto, folding up the paper
and casting a furious glance at Juliana.
“What do you mean? Why, it is charming!” said Donna Felicidade.
Juliana placed on the table the plate of biscuits, the oeiras cakes,
and the cocoanut bonbons.
“Senhor Counsellor,” said Luiza, “here is your tea,--a little weak, as
you like it. Julião, help yourself. Hand the biscuits to Julião,” she
said to Juliana.
And with her sleeve slightly turned up, her white arm exposed to view,
she inquired, taking the sugar-spoon in her hand, “Who wants more
sugar? Senhor Counsellor, a biscuit?”
“A thousand thanks, dear Senhora,” he responded, bowing. “I have
already helped myself.” And turning to Ernesto, he declared that he
found the style of his work admirable.
“But what more does the director want, now that he has his salon?” they
demanded on all sides.
Ernesto, standing up, a bonbon between his fingers, said with
animation,--
“He wants the husband to pardon his wife.”
There was a movement of astonishment.
“What an idea!” “What nonsense!” “But why?” “What a curious notion!”
resounded on all sides.
“What would you have?” said Ernesto, shrugging his shoulders with
a melancholy air. “He says the public do not like that kind of
_dénouement_; that it does not suit the people of Lisbon.”
“In truth, Senhor Ledesma,” said the counsellor, “our public is not
accustomed to these scenes of bloodshed.”
“That is true,” assented Donna Felicidade.
“But, Senhor Counsellor,” responded Ernesto, balancing himself on the
points of his toes, “in my play there is no blood shed, not a drop; a
push of the shoulder, merely.”
Luiza, here calling the attention of Donna Felicidade, said to her
aside, with a smile,--
“Try these egg bonbons; they are fresh.”
“Impossible, child, impossible,” she responded, in plaintive accents,
placing her hand at the same time upon her stomach.
Meantime the counsellor, his hands on Ernesto’s shoulders, was
recommending clemency to the latter, saying in persuasive accents,--
“That gives more gayety to the piece, Senhor Ledesma. The spectator
leaves the theatre in a more agreeable frame of mind.”
“A tart, Senhor Counsellor?” interrupted Luiza.
“I have finished, dear lady. Come, Jorge, are you not of my opinion?”
“I, Senhor Counsellor?” responded Jorge, putting his hands in his
pockets. “By no means. I am for her death,--most decidedly!”
“Ah, then--”
“I am for her death,” repeated Jorge, with animation; “and I demand
that you kill her,” he added, turning to Ernesto.
“Let him talk, Senhor Ledesma,” interposed Donna Felicidade, quickly;
“he is jesting,--he, who has the disposition of an angel!” she added,
appealing with a smile to the others.
“You deceive yourself, Donna Felicidade,” said Jorge, standing before
her. “I speak in all seriousness. I am a very tiger!”
Every one laughed.
“If she has deceived her husband,” he continued in severe accents, “I
am of the opinion that she should be put to death. Could I consent, in
a case like this, that a member of my family, a cousin of mine, one of
my own blood, should allow himself to be carried away by pity, like a
fool? No!” And turning to Ernesto, “Kill her! It is a tradition of the
family. Kill her at once!”
“Here is a pencil,” said Julião, offering one to Ernesto.
“No,” said the counsellor, gravely, “I cannot believe that our
Jorge speaks seriously. He is too intelligent to hold opinions
so--so--” He could not find the adjective he wished. Julião handed
him a toothpick-holder--a monkey sheltering himself under an
umbrella--bristling with toothpicks. He took one, and continued,
“So--so--barbarous.”
“But you deceive yourself, Senhor Counsellor,” protested Jorge. “Those
are my real sentiments; in the full understanding that if the question,
instead of being of a play, were one of real life, and Ernesto were to
come to me and say, ‘I have found my wife--’”
“Oh, Jorge!” interrupted those nearest him, in accents of reproach.
“Well, if he were to come and say this to me, I should answer in the
same way. I give you my word of honor,” he added, with an energetic
gesture, “that I should say to him, ‘Kill her!’”
Every one protested against this. They called him a tiger, an Othello,
a Bluebeard. Jorge said nothing; he only smiled tranquilly.
Luiza worked on at her embroidery in silence. The light of the lamp,
softened by the shade, gave her hair a pale-yellow tint, and glanced
off her skin, white as polished marble.
“And you,” Donna Felicidade asked her,--“what do you think of all this?”
Luiza raised her beautiful countenance, smiled, and shrugged her
shoulders.
“The Senhora Donna Luiza,” said the counsellor, “will say proudly what
all true matrons would say: ‘The impurities of the world do not touch
even the hem of my garment.’”
“Good-evening to every one,” said a deep bass voice in the doorway.
“Sebastião!” they all cried, looking towards the door; “Senhor
Sebastião! the great Sebastião!”
Sebastião had been the bosom friend, the comrade, the inseparable
companion of Jorge, ever since the time when they studied Latin
together in the class of Brother Liborio the Paulist. He was a man of
colossal proportions, and was dressed entirely in black. He carried in
his hand a soft broad-brimmed hat. His temples began to show signs of
baldness; his chestnut hair was fine and silky, and he wore a short
blond beard. He sat down by Luiza, and in answer to the question where
he came from, responded that he had just come from Price’s Circus; that
he had laughed a great deal at the clown; and that they had given the
pantomime of the “Cask.”
His countenance, seen in the full light, was round, plump, and
rosy; his eyes, somewhat small, and of a light blue, had a very
sweet expression, especially when he laughed; his lips were red and
fresh-colored; his teeth, white and brilliant, gave indication of a
tranquil life cheered by chaste affections. Speaking of Price’s Circus
brought to his mind, he said, the old-time pantomimes of Salitre, and
the traditional bladders that burst with a loud noise when the clown
let himself fall upon them. His manner of speaking was slow, and
somewhat timid, either as if he feared to put forward an opinion of his
own, or did not wish to fatigue himself. Tea was handed to him, and
with eyes still smiling he stirred the sugar gently in the cup with his
spoon.
“Yes, the pantomime of the ‘Cask’ is really very pretty and amusing,”
he said. “So you are going away to-morrow, Jorge?” he added, after a
moment’s silence.
“Without fail.”
“Have you no desire to accompany him?” he asked Luiza.
Certainly she would like to do so, she said, but the roads were so bad.
Besides, she could not leave the house alone, in the care of servants.
“True, true,” answered Sebastião, looking down, and stroking his beard.
“Sebastião,” said Jorge, “do me the favor to come here a moment.”
He entered the study, followed by Sebastião, with his heavy step, his
broad shoulders somewhat stooped, and the skirts of his coat flapping
against his legs,--a coat that seemed to have been cut out of the
cloak of a priest.
“So you are going away at seven in the morning,” said Sebastião, when
they were alone.
“There is no help for it.”
The study where they now were was a small apartment, furnished with a
tall bookcase with glass doors, on the top of which was a Bacchante
covered with dust. The table, on which was an antique inkstand,
a legacy from Jorge’s grandfather, was placed near the window; a
collection of the “Diario do Governo” was piled on the floor in a
corner; above the morocco-covered easy-chair hung a drawing in crayon,
a likeness of Jorge, and on the wall, over the picture, were two
swords placed crosswise. At the further end of the apartment, a door,
concealed by a portière of crimson reps, gave exit to the stairs.
“Who do you suppose was here this morning?” said Jorge, refilling his
pipe. “That shameless creature, Leopoldina! What do you think of that,
eh?”
“But--was she admitted?” asked Sebastião, in a low voice, drawing the
portière.
“She was admitted, she sat down, and she stayed,” said Jorge; “she did
whatever it pleased her to do. Leopoldina!” he added, in a tone of
exasperation,--“the _Quebraes_!”
He lighted his pipe, throwing away the match with an angry gesture.
“When I think,” he continued, “that that impudent creature comes to my
house,--a creature who has more lovers than she has dresses, who goes
alone with them on excursions to Dá-Funde, and who danced last winter
in a domino at a public masquerade with an opera-singer! The wife of a
nobody who has passed through the insolvent court. And she comes here,”
he continued, extending his arms, “she seats herself in my chair, she
embraces my wife, she breathes the air which belongs to me. On my word
of honor,”--raising his clenched fist, as if to put his threat into
execution,--“if I catch her here, I will leave the mark of a whip upon
her!”
“The worst of the matter is--the neighbors,” said Sebastião, slowly.
“There is no disguising the matter,” continued Jorge, with irritation.
“The people of the street, the shopkeepers, all know who she is,--the
Quebraes! Every one knows the Quebraes!”
“The neighborhood is a bad one,” Sebastião ventured to remark.
“It makes me tremble to think of it; but what is to be done?” said
Jorge. “I am accustomed to the house, and it is my own; I have arranged
it according to my taste; it is an economy to live here. If it were not
for all this, I should not remain here a day longer.”
“The neighborhood is in truth a detestable one,” repeated Sebastião.
“Luiza, poor girl,” continued Jorge, “is an angel; but she is like
a child, she knows nothing of the world, and owing to her amiable
disposition she allows herself to be imposed upon. This is what happens
in Leopoldina’s case. They were school-fellows, and continued to be
friends, and now Luiza has not the courage to break with her. It is
all the result of her timidity of character, of her amiability; I can
understand it very well. But society has its exactions. Therefore,
Sebastião,” he added, after a pause, “if you should have cause to
suspect, during my absence, that Leopoldina comes here, give some
good advice to my wife. She does not think; she allows herself to be
influenced without stopping to consider. It would be well, therefore,
that some one should speak a word of warning to her occasionally, so
that she may not transgress the bounds of propriety without knowing
it. This is what I wanted to ask of you, Sebastião,--come to accompany
her occasionally, to play the piano with her; and if you should chance
to see Leopoldina sailing in these waters, say to Luiza, ‘Be careful,
Senhora; it is better to avoid an annoyance.’ If she feels she has
some one else to support her she will be firm; otherwise, through her
weakness of character she will tolerate Leopoldina’s visits. I am sure
these things make her suffer; but she has not the courage to say to
that creature, ‘I do not wish to see you; go!’ Can you understand this?
She has courage for nothing; her hands tremble on the least occasion,
and a lump rises in her throat; she is a woman, a true woman. Do not
forget my recommendation, Sebastião.”
“You may go away with a tranquil mind. Don’t forget anything.”
They could hear the sound of the piano from the parlor, and the pure
fresh voice of Luiza singing a _mandolinata_:--
“Amici la notte è bella,
La luna va spautari.”
“Come to accompany her once in a while,” repeated Jorge; “she will be
so lonely, poor child!”
He took a few turns up and down the room, smoking, and then, with bent
head, said, laying his hand on Sebastião’s shoulder,--
“In every well-ordered household, Sebastião, there ought to be a child
or two.”
Sebastião stroked his beard in silence, while Luiza’s voice, gradually
rising, sang,--
“Di ça, di la, per la cità
An diamo a trasnottari.”
This was Jorge’s secret trouble,--he had no children. He desired them
ardently. As a bachelor, long before his marriage, he had already
dreamed of this happiness,--to have a child. He saw this child, in
fancy, balancing himself on his little rosy, dimpled legs, his hair,
soft as silk, clustering in curls around his face; or as a robust boy,
returning gayly with his books from school, his eyes sparkling as he
showed him his good marks; or, better still, as a grown-up girl, with
rosy cheeks, dressed in white, her hair hanging in braids over her
shoulders, caressing his locks, now grown gray. He thought of the love
which he would lavish on this son or daughter, and dreamed of stories
he would tell them. And all in vain! He had now been married three
years, and he often feared that he would die without tasting of this
supreme happiness.
They could hear from the parlor bursts of laughter mingled with the
shrill accents of Ernesto, and the notes of the _mandolinata_
which Luiza was repeating, with gay _brio_, at the piano.
The door of the study opened, and the dark spectacles of Julião
appeared in the doorway.
“Good-by,” he said. “It is late, and I must go.” He passed his arm
around Jorge’s shoulder, and patting him on the back, added, “Good-by,
till we see you again, old fellow. I should like to go with you to
breathe the fresh air,--to see the country; but alas!”
And he smiled bitterly.
Jorge accompanied him as far as the head of the stairs; there he
embraced him once more, and asked him if he could do anything for him.
“Give me another cigar,” answered Julião, putting on his hat; “or
stay--give me two, rather.”
“Take the box; when I travel alone, I smoke a pipe. Take it.”
He wrapped the box in a “Diario de Noticias,” and gave it to Julião,
who put it under his arm.
“Take care not to catch the fever, and be sure you discover a gold mine
before you come back,” he said in a low voice as he went downstairs.
“Good-night!”
Jorge and Sebastião re-entered the parlor together. Ernesto was leaning
against the piano, twisting the ends of his mustache, and Luiza was
playing the prelude to a waltz of Strauss,--“The Blue Danube.”
“Do you want to waltz, Donna Felicidade?” said Jorge to that lady,
laughing, as he approached her with extended arms.
She smilingly shook her head. Yet why should she not waltz? She was
not an old woman, and she had the reputation of having been a good
dancer. She still remembered the waltz she had danced with the
king, Dom Fernando, in the time of the Regency, in the palace of the
Necessidades; it was a lovely waltz of that epoch called the “Pearl
of Ophir.” Seated on the sofa, the counsellor at her side, she was
conversing with him in a voice low and full of emotion on a subject
that apparently interested her deeply.
“Yes, believe me,” she said, “I think you are looking very well indeed.”
“My health is always better in summer,” responded the counsellor, who
was slowly folding and unfolding his handkerchief of India silk. “And
you, Donna Felicidade, how are you?”
“Ah, I too am very much better, Counsellor. My digestion is excellent;
no more flatulency. I am a different person.”
“God grant it may continue, Senhora; God grant it may continue,” said
the counsellor, rubbing his hands together.
Then he coughed, and made an effort to rise; but Donna Felicidade
detained him, saying,--
“I hope the interest you manifest in me is a genuine one.”
Her face turned crimson, and the beatings of her heart might be counted
in the rising and falling of her ample silk bodice.
“You know well that I am your sincere friend, Donna Felicidade,”
replied the counsellor, seating himself again on the sofa, and resting
his hands upon his knees.
“As I am yours, Counsellor,” said Donna Felicidade, raising her eyes
to his and fixing a glance upon him that betrayed the depths of her
secret passion. Then, breathing a profound sigh, she hid her face
behind her fan.
The counsellor rose abruptly, and with crimson countenance, erect head,
and hands clasped behind his back, went over to the piano where Luiza
was seated; bending towards her, he said,--
“Is that a Tyrolese air you are playing?”
“No,” murmured Ernesto, “it is a waltz of Strauss.”
“Ah, Strauss,” he said; “a famous musician, a great composer!”
Then, looking at his watch, he said it was time for him to go and put
his notes in order; and approaching Jorge,--
“Good-by, my dear Jorge, good-by,” he said. “Take care of your health
in Alemtejo; the climate is an insalubrious one.” And he embraced him
with emotion.
Donna Felicidade put on her black serge shawl.
“Are you going already, Donna Felicidade?” said Luiza to her.
“Yes, my dear,” she whispered in her ear; “I do not feel well. I have
an attack of indigestion; I have eaten too much. And that man,--he is
an iceberg!”
“Ernesto,” she said aloud, “you are going my way, are you not?”
“Straight as an arrow, Senhora.”
Ernesto had put on his gray alpaca overcoat. With cheeks drawn in he
was inhaling the smoke from an enormous pipe on which was carved a
Venus reclining on the back of a tame lion.
“Good-by, Cousin Jorge,” he said; “I wish you good health and plenty
of money. I will send Cousin Luiza a box for the first night of ‘Love
and Honor.’ Good-by.”
Just as they were leaving, the counsellor, already at the threshold of
the door, turned back, and resting his hand majestically on the silver
knob of his cane, which represented a Moor’s head, said gravely,--
“I had forgotten to say something to you, Jorge. You must not neglect
to pay a visit to the civil authorities, either in Evora or in Beja;
it is an attention you owe them, as the highest functionaries of the
province, and they may be of great service to you in your scientific
excursions. _Al rivedere_, as the Italians say,” he ended, bowing
to the ground.
Sebastião remained behind. Luiza opened the windows to dispel the odor
of the tobacco-smoke. The night was cool and serene. The moon cast a
pallid light on the fronts of the houses opposite. Sebastião seated
himself at the piano, and with bent head allowed his fingers to run
over the keys. He played admirably, and with a great deal of musical
skill. He had composed a Revery, two waltzes, and a ballad; but they
were all the products of much research, full of reminiscences, and
without the least originality of style. Thus it was that he himself
often said, with much good-humor, that he had never written anything
original. But with his hands on the piano it was a different matter.
He began to play a nocturne of Chopin. Jorge sat down on the sofa
beside Luiza.
“Will you not take a lunch-basket with you for the journey?” she asked.
“No; a few biscuits will be enough. What I will take, however, is a
little bottle of Cognac.”
“Will you send me a telegram as soon as you arrive?”
“Of course.”
“You will be back in a couple of weeks, will you not?”
“Perhaps.”
“Ah,” she said, with a gesture of annoyance, “if you stay away longer,
I shall go in search of you. How lonely I shall be!” she continued,
glancing around. Suddenly she exclaimed,--
“Sebastião, will you play a _malaguenha_?”
Sebastião began the prelude to a _malaguenha_. The sweet and
languid melody of this Arabian music enchanted her, giving birth in
her soul to romantic dreams of an ideal life under an Andalusian
sky. Where? In Malaga or Granada, which, she did not know. All she
knew was that those dreams were of a warm and perfumed night in
which she sat under the orange-trees, a night illumined by brilliant
stars, a lamp shining from among the branches of a tree near by,
while a _cantador_, seated on a Moorish bench, softly hummed a
_malaguenha_ to the accompaniment of a guitar, and around her
women dressed in red velveteen bodices kept time to the music, clapping
their hands together. In that illusion of the senses she fancied she
beheld an Andalusian girl, such as one reads of in novels and romances,
tender and voluptuous; cavaliers, whose long cloaks, falling in
picturesque folds around them, brushed against the walls of dark and
narrow streets, faintly illuminated by the tremulous light that burned
in the niche of some saint; watchmen, invoking, as they sang out the
hours, the name of the Holy Virgin.
“Bravo, Sebastião,” she exclaimed, when he had finished; “bravo! That
is ravishing!” And she clapped her hands, demanding a repetition of the
piece.
Sebastião rose, smiling, carefully closed the piano, and taking his
broad-brimmed hat, stood turning it around between his hands.
“Well, good-night,” he said. “To-morrow, at seven in the morning, I
will be here.”
It had been agreed upon that he was to come and waken Jorge, and
accompany him in the steamer as far as Barreiro. The good Sebastião!
Jorge and Luiza went out into the balcony to see him off. The silence
of the night diffused around a gentle melancholy. The gas-lights
below had a moribund aspect; the shadow that fell across the street
in a straight and abrupt line had in it a tone of softness. The moon
covered the white fronts of the houses with a silvery veil, and the
paving-stones of the street with a brilliant enamel. The glass panes of
a skylight shone in the distance like a sheet of silver; everything was
motionless, and instinctively the gaze turned heavenward, toward the
silver moon, the dark spots on which stood out in bold relief.
“What a beautiful night!” they both exclaimed at once.
“It makes one long to take a walk, does it not?” said Sebastião from
the shadow in the street below.
“The night is enchanting,” responded Jorge and Luiza.
They remained on the balcony, after Sebastião had gone, conversing
together in low tones, and gazing absently before them, entranced by
the brightness and tranquillity around.
Where would Jorge be to-morrow at this hour? Already in Evora, pacing,
sad and lonely, up and down the brick floor of a room in some inn.
“But you will come back as soon as possible?” asked Luiza.
“Assuredly.”
Jorge had hopes of doing a profitable stroke of business with Paco
the Spaniard, who worked the mines of Portel, and of bringing back
with him to Lisbon some thousands of _reis_. He could then take
a vacation in September. He might take a trip to the North, to Porto,
pass by Bussaco, ascend the mountains, drink the water of the fountains
springing fresh from the rock under the cool shade of the trees;
visit the beach of Espinho, and sit upon the sands, breathing in the
pure atmosphere impregnated with ozone, contemplating the sea, of
that metallic and brilliant blue peculiar to the ocean in summer, and
seeing in the distance, in diminished size, some great steamer sailing
southward. And thus they both continued to form plans, enveloped in an
atmosphere of supreme content.
“If there were a little one in the house,” said Jorge at last to Luiza,
“you would not be so lonely.”
Luiza responded by a sigh. She, too, ardently desired to have a child.
She would have named him Carlos Eduardo; she pictured him to herself,
now asleep in his cradle, now lying on her lap, his little hand
playing with his bare toes, now nursing with his rosy mouth at her
breast. A thrill of pleasure passed through her frame at the thought,
and she stole her arm around Jorge’s waist. Why should not Heaven grant
her this happiness? But she never pictured this child to herself as
already grown up, and Jorge as an old man; she saw them both always
of the same age: the one always enamoured, young, and vigorous; the
other always hanging at her breast, or creeping about, prattling, with
fair hair and rosy cheeks. And this existence, full of unalterable
sweetness, guarded by an undying tenderness, tranquil and serene as the
night around them, she pictured to herself as eternal.
“At what hour does the senhora wish me to call her?” said the harsh
voice of Juliana, behind them.
“At seven,” responded Luiza, turning around; “I have told you so
already.”
She went in and closed the window. A white butterfly was circling
around the room in the light of the tapers. It was a happy omen.
“So you are going to remain without your husband,” said Jorge sadly,
holding out his arms.
Luiza threw herself on his breast with all the sorrowful abandon of the
hour; she fixed her gaze tenderly on him through her half-closed lids,
her arms encircled his neck with languid grace, and pressing her lips
to his,--
“Jorge, dearest Jorge!” she murmured, while her bosom heaved with a
gentle sigh.