PREPARING THE GROUND.
ON the following morning Luiza received a bouquet of magnificent red
roses from Sebastião, which she placed in the vases in the parlor.
At three o’clock Bazilio came. Luiza was seated at the piano.
“The gentleman who was here the other day is outside,” Juliana came to
announce in grave, almost reproachful accents.
“Ah, my cousin Bazilio,” said Luiza, blushing. “Show him in. And, by
the way, if Senhor Sebastião, or any other visitor, should call, admit
him.”
The gentleman, then, was a cousin. These visits had lost all their
interest for Juliana. Her malicious curiosity, swelled out to its
fullest proportions, suffered a momentary collapse, like a sail when
the wind has fallen. He was her cousin!
She went slowly upstairs to the kitchen.
“I have news to tell you, Senhora Joanna,” she said. “The
_petit-maître_ is a cousin,--Cousin Bazilio, it seems. Bazilio! It
turns out that we have a cousin at last; how nice!”
“Why, who should the man be but a relative?” said Joanna, with
indifference.
Juliana did not answer. She looked to see if the irons were hot, as she
had a quantity of clothes to iron, and while waiting for them she sat
down at the window. The sky was gray, and the atmosphere charged with
moisture and electricity; from time to time a slight breeze agitated
the foliage without. “He is her cousin!” she thought, “and he comes
only when the husband has gone away. How likely that is! When he goes
she remains preoccupied; she sighs; she looks disconsolate. All that is
the result of family affection!”
Her eyes glittered with malignant joy. And the irons, were they hot?
she asked Joanna.
The bell rang softly.
“There it goes again! This is a dog’s life! To-day is a reception-day,
it seems.”
She went down and opened the door. When she saw Julião standing before
her, a book under his arm, she gave a little cry of surprise.
“Come in, Senhor Julião,” she said; “the mistress is with her cousin,
but she has given orders to admit any one who may call.”
Delighted at being able to interrupt the conversation, she opened the
door of the parlor.
“Senhor Julião,” she announced in a shrill voice.
Luiza presented the two gentlemen to each other. Bazilio hardly rose
from the sofa, and with a glance expressive of something akin to terror
examined Julião, from his disordered hair to his badly-polished boots.
“What a savage!” he said to himself.
Luiza, divining his thoughts, colored with shame. What idea would
Bazilio form of the acquaintances, the friends of the house, by this
badly-dressed man whose collar was soiled and whose coat was old
and ill-fitting? She felt her _chic_ diminished by this visit,
and instinctively, influenced by a sentiment of futile vanity, her
countenance assumed a reserved, almost a serious air, as if Julião’s
visit were a surprise to her, and his attire an offence.
Julião vaguely comprehended that his presence was an annoyance, and
with something of embarrassment said, settling his spectacles on his
nose,--
“I was passing this way by chance, and I stopped in to ask if you have
had any news of Jorge.”
“Thanks, yes; he has written to me. He is well.”
Bazilio, leaning back among the cushions of the sofa with all the
familiarity of a near relative, was attentively observing his silk
stockings embroidered with red, and languidly caressing his mustache,
displaying, as he did so, two rings,--a ruby and a sapphire,--that
glittered on his little finger. The affectation of this attitude, and
the gleams of color shot forth by the jewels, confused Julião. Then,
desirous of showing his intimacy in the family, he said,--
“I should be glad to stay with you a while, but that I am exceedingly
busy.”
“A thousand thanks!” returned Luiza, blushing. And wishing to divest
this apparent familiarity of any importance that it mighty possess in
Bazilio’s eyes, she continued, arranging the folds of her morning-gown,
“During the last few days I have not been quite well, and I have
received no one, excepting, of course, my cousin.”
Julião understood, in a vague sort of way, that he was being reproved.
Surprised, confounded, ashamed, he crossed one leg over the other,
laying on his knees the book he carried; and, as his trousers were too
short, the elastics of his well-worn boots were disclosed to view.
There was a moment of painful silence.
“What lovely roses!” said Bazilio, at last, looking with an air of
indifference at Sebastião’s roses.
“Very lovely,” responded Luiza. Beginning to feel sorry for Julião, she
looked at him with a smile, trying to think of something pleasant to
say to him.
“How warm it is!” she said at last, precipitately. “The heat is
killing! Have you many patients?”
“Some cases of cholera-morbus,” responded Julião. “The fruits are the
cause of these disorders of the stomach.”
Luiza lowered her eyes, and Bazilio began at once to talk of the little
Viscountess of Azeias; when he left Lisbon she was looking charming.
And what had become of her elder sister?
These inquiries concerning ladies of the nobility whom Julião did not
know excluded him completely from the conversation, and covered him
with humiliation. He felt his neck bathed in perspiration, and he
began to open and shut mechanically the thick yellow-covered volume he
carried.
“Is that book you have there a novel?” Luiza asked him.
“No,” he responded in an important tone; “it is a treatise of Dr. Lee
on the diseases of women.”
Luiza blushed, and Bazilio, repressing a smile, asked her what had
become of Raphaela Grijo, who used to come sometimes to the house in
the street of the Magdalena,--the lady who wore spectacles, and had a
brother-in-law who stammered.
“Her husband died, and she married her brother-in-law afterwards,”
Luiza answered.
“What! the one who stammered?”
“Yes; and they have a child who stammers also.”
“A family conversation in that house must be amusing! And Donna
Eugenia, the wife of Braga?”
Here Julião, unable to endure his position any longer, rose.
“I am in a hurry,” he said in a choking voice, “and I can stay no
longer. When you write to Jorge, remember me to him.”
He hardly bent his head to Bazilio. But when he looked for his hat he
could not find it; it had rolled under a chair. He got entangled in
the portière, he struck himself violently against the closed door, and
went out at last, furious, his heart filled with hatred towards Luiza,
Jorge, wealth, and life itself; and thinking too late of the ironical
words, the apt retorts, with which he ought to have crushed that fool
and that silly woman.
No sooner had the street door closed behind him than Bazilio rose, and
standing before Luiza with folded arms,--
“Who is that savage?” he exclaimed.
“He is a young doctor,” stammered Luiza, turning very red.
“But he is an impossible being! He has the air of a charity student.”
“Poor young man!” said Luiza, confused. “He is not rich, by any means.”
“It is not necessary that he should be rich,” replied Bazilio, “in
order that he should brush his coat, and keep his hair and his nails in
order.” She ought not to receive such a man, he said. He was a disgrace
to the house. If he was according to her husband’s taste, let him
receive him in his office.
He said all this taking long strides up and down the room, very much
excited, jingling his money and his keys in his pockets.
“Fine specimens the friends of the family are!” he continued. “What the
deuce! you were not brought up in this manner. People like that never
came to the street of the Magdalena.”
This was true. Luiza confessed it to herself. She began to think
that her marriage had brought her into contact with some plebeian
acquaintances. But a certain respect for the opinions and the likings
of Jorge made her say,--
“My husband thinks he has a great deal of ability.”
“It would be better for him if he had boots.”
“I find him very amusing, for my part,” said Luiza, without venturing
to contradict Bazilio.
“He is horrible, my dear child.”
These last words made her heart beat. Thus it was that he used to
call her in former days. Before she could answer, the door-bell rang
vigorously.
Luiza was disturbed. Good Heavens! if it should be Sebastião! Bazilio
would find him still more common, still more vulgar than Julião.
Juliana came to say that the counsellor was outside.
“Shall I ask him to come in?” she added.
“Certainly,” said Luiza, delighted to find her fears unfounded.
The stately figure of the counsellor, in his alpaca coat and
well-ironed white trousers that fell over his low shoes, advanced
towards Luiza.
When she had presented Bazilio, he said to the latter, in accents of
profound respect,--
“I was already aware of your arrival. I saw it announced among the
interesting items of news of our ‘high-life.’ And Jorge?” he added,
addressing Luiza.
“Jorge is in Beja, and, judging from his letters, he seems to be very
much bored there.”
“In effect,” said Bazilio, with affability, “I cannot form to myself
the least idea of how he can spend his time in Beja. It must be
horrible.”
“It is, however, the capital of a province,” observed the counsellor,
passing over his mustache a white hand adorned with a seal-ring.
“But if in Lisbon, which is the capital of the kingdom,” said Bazilio,
pulling down his cuffs, “one does not know what to do with one’s self.
It is enough to make one die of _ennui_!”
“Don’t say that before the counsellor,” said Luiza, laughing, enchanted
with Bazilio’s affability. “He is a great admirer of Lisbon.”
“I was born in Lisbon,” said Accacio, bowing, “and I esteem Lisbon,
dear Senhora. I recognize the fact, nevertheless,” he continued
ingenuously, “that it is not to be compared to Paris, to London, or to
Madrid.”
“Oh, of course not!” said Luiza.
“But,” continued the counsellor, with an air of pride, “Lisbon has
beauties of its own that have no equal. The entrance to the harbor, as
I have heard, for I have never been there, is a magnificent panorama
that rivals the bay of Constantinople or that of Naples,--worthy to
be described by the pen of a Garrett or a Lamartine,” he continued
pompously.
But Luiza, dreading quotations and literary criticisms, asked him what
he had done with himself last Sunday; saying she had gone with Donna
Felicidade to the Passeio, and had been disappointed at not seeing him
there.
The counsellor declared that he never went to the Passeio on Sunday. He
could well understand that it might be very agreeable, but the crowd
made him sea-sick. He had noticed--and in saying this his voice assumed
the tone of a revelation--that many persons gathered together in one
place were apt to cause vertigo in men of literary habits. Besides,
his health was not very good, and he was overwhelmed with work. He was
writing a book, and drinking the waters of Vichy.
“You may smoke,” said Luiza, abruptly to Bazilio, with a smile. “Do you
want a light?”
She rose with joyful alacrity to get a match. She wore a fresh
morning-gown of light-colored and semi-transparent material. Her hair
looked brighter and her complexion clearer than usual.
Bazilio puffed out the smoke from his cigar, and said, settling himself
on the sofa,--
“The Passeio on Sunday is simply a piece of stupidity!”
“Do not be so severe, Senhor Brito,” said the counsellor, after a
moment’s reflection. “Formerly, indeed, it was a very agreeable resort.
For one thing, there is nothing, absolutely nothing, that can take the
place of military music; then, there is the price of admission to be
considered: I have studied the question closely. Low prices favor the
agglomeration of the inferior classes. Far be it from my thoughts to
look with contempt upon that part of the population. The liberality of
my ideas is well known. I appeal to this lady; but it must be admitted
that it is always preferable to meet select society. For my part, I
assure you I do not go to the Passeio even when there are fireworks. On
those nights I go, indeed, to enjoy the spectacle, but I remain outside
the railings. Not from economy, assuredly not,--without being rich I
can yet allow myself this expense,--but I fear that some accident might
happen. I could give you an instance of an individual whose name I
have forgotten, whose skull was pierced by a rocket. To go no further,
a spark might fall on one’s head, or on a new suit. And it is well to
be prudent,” he added in conclusion, passing over his lips his neatly
folded handkerchief of India silk.
Then they spoke of the season. There were a great many people in
Cintra. Lisbon was so hot in summer! The counsellor declared that
Lisbon would be a city of no real importance until the opening of the
Chambers and of the S. Carlos.
“What were you playing when I came in?” Bazilio asked Luiza.
“If you were having music,” said the counsellor at once, “I beg you
will continue. For eighteen years I have been a constant subscriber to
the S. Carlos.”
“Are you a musician?” said Bazilio.
“I was at one time, I will not deny it; when I was a young man I played
the flute,--youthful follies,” he said, with a benevolent gesture.
“Were you playing something new, Donna Luiza?”
“No, on the contrary, something very old,--the ‘Fisherman’s Daughter,’
of Meyerbeer.”
Luiza closed the windows and seated herself at the piano. “Sebastião
plays admirably, does he not, Counsellor?”
“Our Sebastião,” responded the counsellor, in a voice of authority,
“is the equal of Thalberg and of Liszt. Do you know him?” he added,
addressing Bazilio.
“No, I do not know him.”
“A pearl among men.”
Bazilio slowly approached the piano, with his hands in his pockets.
“Do you still sing?” Luiza asked him, smiling.
“When I am alone.”
The counsellor immediately asked him for a song. Bazilio laughed,
saying that he was afraid of shocking an old habitué of the S. Carlos.
The counsellor began to encourage him, and approaching him said, with a
paternal smile,--
“Courage, Senhor Brito! Come, come, courage!”
Luiza played a prelude, and Bazilio began to sing, in a voice full and
of good quality, his high notes resounding through the parlor. The
counsellor, standing upright beside his chair, listened attentively,
his head bent down, as by the weight of his responsibility as judge and
critic, his dark spectacles forming a contrast to his bald forehead,
which was rendered still more pallid by the heat.
Bazilio sang with simplicity, but his voice was full of a grave and
passionate melancholy as he pronounced the words:--
“As in the dark sea,
There are depths in my heart.”
An anonymous poet had translated the verses for the “Ladies’ Almanac,”
prefixing to them a mysterious dedication. Luiza had copied them with
her own hand from between the lines of the music. Bazilio sang the last
verses with an intonation of dignified melancholy:--
“On its surface are storms,
In its depths there are pearls.”
The expressive eyes of Luiza were fixed on the music before her, or
cast from time to time a rapid glance at Bazilio. At the final note,
which she prolonged on the piano, giving it an expression of passionate
appeal, Bazilio’s voice had all the force of an invocation:--
“Come, come
To rest, my well-belovèd,--
Beside my heart, thy heart!”
His eyes fixed themselves upon her with an expression of such ardent
passion that Luiza’s heart began to beat, her fingers trembled as they
ran over the keys, and her countenance displayed an agitation that she
hastened to conceal.
The counsellor applauded.
“An admirable voice!” he exclaimed; “admirable!”
Bazilio said that the quality of it was somewhat impaired.
“No, Senhor, no,” protested the counsellor; “you possess an excellent
organ. I will even go so far as to say that there is no better voice in
Lisbon society.”
Bazilio laughed, and said that since it pleased him he would sing
a little Brazilian song of Bahia. He seated himself at the piano,
and after a prelude of a few bars of melodious rhythm and tropical
movement, sang:--
“Black I am, but in my breast
Beats a truer heart than thine.”
“This song was making a _furore_ in the reunions at Bahia when I
came away,” he interrupted himself to say. It was the story of a young
negress born on a plantation, who gave utterance in commonplace verses
to her passion for a white planter. Bazilio imitated the sentimental
accents of the young ladies of Bahia, and his voice had a comic ring
when he sang the lachrymose _ritornela_:--
“And her gaze the dark-skinned maiden
Fixes on the distant sea,
While myriad birds the palm-tree’s shadow
Vocal make with melody.”
The counsellor thought this charming, and deplored, _apropos_ of
the song, the condition of the slaves. His Brazilian friends assured
him, he said, that the negroes were very well treated. But after all,
civilization is civilization. Slavery is a disgrace. He had a great
deal of confidence in the emperor.
“He is a monarch of rare intelligence,” he ended, with an expression of
profound respect.
He took his hat, declaring with a bow that it was long since he had
spent so pleasant a morning. In his opinion there was nothing to
compare to agreeable society and good music.
“Where are you staying, Senhor Brito?”
“At the Central Hotel; but I beg that you will not trouble yourself.”
The counsellor declared that nothing ever prevented him from fulfilling
his duty, and he would fulfil it now. He had but little influence, as
Luiza knew; but if Bazilio needed anything,--the address of any one,
a presentation in official quarters, permission to visit any public
establishment,--he placed himself at his orders.
“Rua do Ferregial de Cima, No. 3, third floor,” he said, pressing
Bazilio’s hand. “The humble abode of a hermit.” And turning to Luiza he
continued, “When you write to our traveller, present to him my sincere
good-wishes for the success of his enterprise. Your servant.”
And with grave and stately air he left the room.
“At least this one is cleaner,” murmured Bazilio, with his cigar in the
corner of his mouth. Then, seating himself at the piano, he let his
fingers run over the keys. Luiza drew near.
“Sing something for me,” she said.
Bazilio looked at her fixedly.
Luiza colored and smiled confusedly; through the light and transparent
material of her dress could be seen the creamy contours of her neck and
arms; in her eyes, on her lips, in the snowy whiteness of her teeth,
glowed the ardor of a luxuriant vitality.
Bazilio said to her in a voice low and full of emotion,--
“You are more beautiful than ever, Luiza.”
His eager gaze confused her.
“Sing me something,” she repeated, resting her fingers on the keys of
the piano, her heart beating violently.
“Sing _you_,” murmured Bazilio.
He continued to gaze at her fixedly; then he gave a quick sigh, and
caught her hands in his. They remained a moment thus, their hands,
moist and trembling, clasped together.
At that instant the door-bell rang softly. Luiza drew her hand away
quickly.
“Some one is coming,” she said.
The confused murmur of voices conversing together in low tones at
the door reached their ears. Bazilio shrugged his shoulders with an
expression of annoyance, and took up his hat to go.
“What! are you going away?” said Luiza in regretful accents.
“One cannot be alone with you for a moment,” he answered.
They heard the street door close noisily.
“It is no one; whoever it was has gone away,” said Luiza.
They were both standing.
“Bazilio, don’t go!” she murmured. Her beautiful eyes had in them an
expression of gentle entreaty.
Bazilio put down his hat on the piano, nervously biting his mustache.
“But why do you want to be alone with me?” asked Luiza, in some
agitation. “What does it matter to you if visitors come?” The moment
she had uttered the words she was sorry for saying them.
With a sudden movement Bazilio passed his arm around the waist of his
cousin, and drawing her head towards him, pressed passionate kisses on
her eyes and hair.
She freed herself quickly from his embrace, her eyes sparkling, her
countenance crimson.
“Forgive me,” he said, with a passionate gesture. “Forgive me; I acted
without reflection. But the truth is that I adore you, Luiza.”
He spoke with the sincerity of passion, taking her hands in his with an
air of authority, almost as if he had the right to do so.
“No,” he said; “you must listen to me. From the first moment in which
I saw you again, I loved you as madly as ever. I never ceased to adore
you; but I was poor, as you know, and I desired to make you rich and
happy! I could not take you with me to Brazil. That would have been to
kill you, my beloved. You cannot picture to yourself what that country
is! Therefore I wrote you that letter; but what have I not suffered!
What tears have I not shed!”
Luiza, her head bent down, her eyes fixed on the floor, listened
motionless to these accents, full of power and passion, that breathed
in her ear the breath of love, overmastering and subjugating her; the
contact of Bazilio’s hands transmitted to hers a feverish heat; a
subtle languor stole over her, stupefying her senses.
“Speak to me, answer me,” he said with anxiety, crushing her hands in
his, and eagerly seeking to meet her glance.
“What do you wish me to say to you?” responded Luiza in a languid
voice. “Let us speak of something else,” she said, turning her head
aside and sighing.
“But why, why?” asked Bazilio.
“No, Bazilio, no; leave me.”
Her voice had the fervor of a prayer and the sweetness of a caress.
Without further hesitation he caught her in his arms. Luiza was
powerless to resist; her lips were pale, her eyes closed, and Bazilio,
drawing her head to his breast, bent down, and softly pressed long
kisses on her eyelids, her face, her mouth; her knees bent under
her, her lips were slightly parted. But all at once she straightened
herself, and drawing back from him, exclaimed in accents of
desperation,--
“Leave me! leave me!”
With a violent effort she released herself from his arms, pushed him
away from her, and passed her hands over her forehead and her hair,
with a look of terror.
“Oh, my God!” she cried; “this is horrible! Leave me!”
Bazilio approached her, his lips firmly closed; but Luiza retreated.
“Go away! What do you want? Go away! Why do you remain here? Leave me!”
she cried.
Bazilio, in tender accents, said he did not understand why she should
be angry. A kiss! What was a kiss? What had she fancied? It was true
that he adored her, but with a pure love.
“I swear it to you,” he said, laying his hand upon his heart.
He made her sit down on the sofa, and then sat down beside her, and
began to reason with her. He would be resigned; circumstances demanded
it from him. They would be friends, as if they were brother and sister,
nothing more.
Luiza listened, unable to resist his persuasive accents.
It was true, he said, that his love for her was a torture to him; but
he was strong, and he would control himself. All he desired was to see
her, to speak to her. Theirs should be an ideal love.
As he spoke thus, he devoured her with his eyes. He took her hand in
his, bent over it, and pressed a kiss upon the palm.
Luiza rose, trembling, and said, “No; leave me!”
“Very well; good-by!”
He rose with a resigned and melancholy gesture.
“Good-by,” he repeated sorrowfully, smoothing his silk hat with his
hand.
“Good-by,” responded Luiza.
“Are you angry with me?” asked Bazilio, with tenderness.
“No.”
His glance brightened.
“Listen to me,” he murmured, approaching her.
Luiza stamped her foot upon the floor.
“Oh, what a man!” she cried. “Leave me. To-morrow! Good-by! go
away--till to-morrow.”
“Till to-morrow,” said Bazilio tenderly, and left her.
Luiza returned to her room, her nerves quivering. As she looked at
herself in the glass, she hardly recognized herself. Never before had
she been so beautiful. She took a few steps in silence. Juliana was
arranging the drawers of the bureau.
“Who rang the bell a little while ago?” asked Luiza.
“Senhor Sebastião. He would not come in. He said he would return.”
He had, in fact, said that he would return; but he began to be
ashamed of coming every day, and always finding her with visitors.
He was surprised at first when Juliana said to him, “She is with a
gentleman,--a young man who was here yesterday.”
“Who could it be?” he asked himself. He was acquainted with all the
friends of the family. It was probably some clerk in the Department, he
told himself, or some proprietor of mines; the son of Alonso, perhaps,
in relation to some business of Jorge’s,--yes, that must be it. And
on Sunday evening, when he saw the windows of the parlor unlighted,
he had felt a vague sense of oppression. He had brought with him the
score of Gounod’s “Romeo and Juliet,” which Luiza wished to study; and
when Juliana told him from the balcony that her mistress had left the
house in a carriage with Donna Felicidade, he stood softly stroking his
beard in momentary embarrassment, his heavy book under his arm. Then
he remembered the enthusiastic admiration of Donna Felicidade for the
theatre of Donna Maria. But, could they have gone alone to the theatre,
and with this July heat? After all, it was possible; and so he went to
the Donna Maria.
The theatre, which was almost empty, presented a lugubrious aspect.
Here and there, in the boxes, were to be seen a few family groups who
were enjoying the Sunday evening with a melancholy air, the children
leaning, asleep, against the embossed morocco-covered railing. In the
pit and in the almost deserted stalls were to be seen a few persons
listening to the play with a sleepy air, wiping the perspiration from
their foreheads from time to time with their silk handkerchiefs. The
chandelier diffused a drowsy light. Every one was yawning. On the
stage, which represented a ball-room furnished in yellow, an old man
was speaking, with the monotony of water dropping from a fountain,
to a very slender woman with her hair in curls. In the orchestra the
musicians were fast asleep.
Sebastião went out. Where could they be? On the following day he
learned. As he was going down the street of the Moinho de Vento, his
neighbor Netto, who was coming towards him, his cigar in the corner of
his mouth, which was shaded by a gray mustache, stopped him abruptly
with the words,--
“Oh, friend Sebastião, I want to speak to you. Yesterday I saw Donna
Luiza in the Passeio, with a young man with whose face I am familiar.
But where have I seen him? Who the devil is he?”
Sebastião shrugged his shoulders.
“A young man, tall, fine-looking, with a foreign air,” Netto continued.
“I know I have met him before. The other day I saw him go into a house
down the street. Don’t you know who he is?”
Sebastião said he did not know.
“I have seen that face before. Let me try to think--” and he passed
his hand over his forehead. “I have seen him somewhere. He belongs to
Lisbon!” After a moment’s silence he resumed, “And what is there new,
Sebastião?”
Sebastião had heard nothing new.
“Nor I either; it is all nothing but lies! Good-by.”