BROUGHT TO BAY.
HOW heavily did the solitude of her room weigh upon Luiza in the
evening! She felt impatient to renew the sensations of the past few
hours. She tried to read, but after a few moments threw the book aside.
The candles on her dressing-table seemed to burn with a melancholy
light. She went to the window to look out at the night; the air was
calm and still. She called Juliana.
“Put on your shawl,” she said; “I want you to accompany me to Donna
Leopoldina’s.”
On arriving there, Justina told them that her mistress had gone to
Oporto, and would remain away a fortnight.
Luiza arose on the following morning feeling very happy. She felt,
indeed, a vague sense of shame at all the follies of the day before,
and almost resolved to meet Bazilio no more. But her desires, which
impelled her to go, furnished her with reasons for doing so. To remain
away would be to offend Bazilio; the same reasons that would prevent
her seeing him to-day ought to prevent her seeing him any more; and
to see Bazilio no more--she could not bear the thought! Besides, the
beauty of the morning inspired her with a longing to go out into the
open air; it had rained during the night, and there was a pleasant
freshness in the atmosphere. At half-past eleven she was going down
the Moinho de Vento, when she observed the dignified figure of the
Counsellor Accacio advancing slowly up the Rua da Rosa, his umbrella
closed, his head erect. When he saw her he hastened his steps, and
bowing profoundly, said,--
“A truly fortunate meeting!”
“How do you do, Counsellor? What a wonder it is to see you!”
“And you, dearest lady? You are looking well.” He gave her the right of
the street with a dignified gesture, saying at the same time,--
“Will you permit me to accompany you in your walk?”
“Certainly; with the greatest pleasure! But why have you not been to
see me? I must give you a good scolding.”
“I have been in Cintra, dear lady.” And he added, momentarily retarding
his pace, “Were you not aware of it? It was announced in the ‘Diario de
Noticias.’”
“But since your return from Cintra?”
“Ah,” he replied, “I have been very much occupied,--very much occupied,
indeed; completely absorbed in the collation of certain documents
indispensable to my book, of the title of which I believe you are not
ignorant.”
Luiza did not remember it exactly. The counsellor mentioned the title
and the headings of some of the chapters, and explained to her the
advantages of the work; it was called “A Description of the Principal
Cities of Portugal, and their most Celebrated Buildings.”
“It is a guide-book, but a scientific guide-book,” he added. “For
instance, you desire to go to Braganza. Without my book, it is
probable, I may say certain, that you would return without enjoying a
view of any of the local curiosities. With my book, you see all the
principal buildings, and store up a fund of knowledge at the same time
that you amuse yourself.”
Luiza, who was smiling vaguely under her white veil as he spoke,
scarcely heard him.
“What a pleasant day!” she exclaimed.
“Exceedingly pleasant!”
“How cool it is here!”
They had entered S. Pedro de Alcantara. A gentle breeze stirred the
leaves of the trees. The ground, hard and free from dust, still showed
traces of the rain of the night before, and, notwithstanding the
brightness of the sun, the blue sky seemed far off. The counsellor
spoke of the summer; it had been a horrible one. In his dining-room
the thermometer had stood as high as 102 degrees in the shade,--102
degrees! And he added ingenuously, by way of apology for this excessive
heat,--
“It has a southern exposure. Let us be just,--it has a southern
exposure. But to-day it is truly delightful.”
He invited Luiza to take a turn through the Garden. Luiza hesitated,
and the counsellor took out his watch--which he held at a distance from
him as he looked at it--and said it was not yet twelve o’clock. It
kept time with the clock of the Arsenal; it was an English watch.
“Very much preferable to the Swiss ones,” he added, with an air of
conviction.
Dominated, notwithstanding her annoyance, by the pompous tones of
the counsellor, Luiza descended the steps that led into the Garden.
There was time enough, she thought, and if necessary she could take a
carriage. They seated themselves on a bench. Through the trees they
could see, in gradual descent, the dark roofs of houses interspersed
with courtyards and walled gardens, and in the background the mass of
foliage of the public gardens, with here and there some bare spot;
farther on, the façades of the houses of Oriental Street, their windows
brilliantly illuminated by the sunlight; and behind these green slopes,
intersected by the dark walls of the Encarnação, of a sad-looking
yellow, and by those of other detached buildings, the hill of Graça,
covered with religious edifices, with their rows of conventual windows,
and spires showing white against the blue sky; the Penha da França,
more distant still, its solitary wall over-topped by a line of blackish
green foliage. To the right, sharply defined against the bare slope,
were the dark walls of the castle; the broken line of the roofs and
projecting cornices of the houses of Mouraria and Alfama descended
in abrupt angles to the massive and ancient towers of Sé. Farther on
could be caught a glimpse of the river, shining in the sunlight, and
two white sails gliding slowly by; on the opposite bank a row of houses
gleamed white in the sun. From the city arose a monotonous murmur in
which were blended the noise of carriages and wagons, the metallic
vibration of iron transported in heavy carts, and the occasional shrill
cry of a huckster.
“A fine panorama!” said the counsellor, with emphasis.
Then he proceeded to launch forth in praise of Lisbon. It was one
of the most beautiful cities of Europe, he declared; its harbor was
unrivalled, except, perhaps, by that of Constantinople. It was regarded
with envy by foreigners. It had once been a celebrated emporium, and
it was a pity that the municipality were so negligent, and that the
water-works made so little progress.
“That ought to be in the hands of Englishmen,” he exclaimed.
But he repented immediately of this unpatriotic remark. He said it was
only a form of expression that meant nothing. He desired the absolute
independence of his country,--neither English nor Spanish interference.
“Ourselves alone--and God!” he added, in reverential tones.
“How beautiful the river is!” said Luiza.
Accacio agreed with her, murmuring in solemn accents,--
“Oh, Tagus!”
He proposed a turn through the Garden; yellow-and-white butterflies
fluttered over the flower-beds; the water of the fountain fell with a
musical sound; an odor of heliotrope predominated over every other;
and from time to time birds alighted on the marble busts among the
shrubbery.
Luiza admired the Garden, but the high railings were not to her taste.
“They are on account of the number of suicides that have taken place
here,” the counsellor hastened to say. But in his opinion these were
diminishing in Lisbon, a fact which he attributed to the severe and
praiseworthy manner in which suicide was condemned by the press. “For
in Portugal, believe me, Senhora, the press is a power,” he added.
“Shall we walk?” said Luiza.
The counsellor bowed in assent; seeing Luiza was about to pick a
flower, he stopped her hastily.
“Ah, Senhora,” he exclaimed, “the rules are peremptory. Let us not
infringe them. A good example should be set by the higher classes.”
When they ascended the steps, Luiza thought to herself,--
“He is going home now; I will part from him at Loreto.”
In the street of S. Roque she glanced at the clock in a confectioner’s;
it was half-past twelve. Bazilio was already waiting for her. She
quickened her pace, and when they reached Loreto she paused. The
counsellor looked at her smiling, and waited.
“Ah, I thought you were going home, Counsellor,” she said.
“No, I shall accompany you, if you will allow me. Am I indiscreet?”
“By no means!”
At this moment one of the carriages of the Company passed by, followed
by a cabinet-courier on horseback.
The counsellor hastily took off his hat.
“The Senhor President of the Council!” he said. “Did you see him? He
saluted me.”
And he proceeded to pronounce a eulogium on the President. He was one
of our greatest orators, he affirmed; his abilities were extraordinary,
his language a model of style.
He was doubtless about to begin a dissertation on politics; but Luiza
crossed over to the Church of the Martyrs, raising her dress a little
on account of the mud, and paused, smiling, at the door.
“I am going to say a prayer, and I do not wish to make you wait.
Good-by, Counsellor,” she said, closing her parasol and extending her
hand.
“How, Senhora! I will wait if you do not stay too long; I am in no
hurry;” and he added, with an air of respect, “such piety is very
praiseworthy.”
Luiza entered the church, desperate. She remained standing under the
choir, thinking,--
“I shall stay here; he will get tired of waiting and go away.”
The windows above gleamed softly; the church was filled with a diffused
and mellow light. The white walls, the freshly-painted woodwork of the
vestry, and the stone balustrades at each side formed a background
against which stood out the gilding of the chapel, the red fronts of
the pulpits, the interior of the confessionals, of a darker red, and
under a violet canopy the gilding of the chief altar. In front of the
baptistery a boy was washing the floor, with a zinc pail at his side.
Here and there before the altars devotees were kneeling, their bent
shoulders covered with shawls; an old man in a jacket knelt in the
middle of the church, muttering his prayers in a melancholy sing-sing
voice, his bald head and the enormous soles of his shoes standing
clearly forth out of the shadow as he fervently beat his breast at
short and regular intervals. Luiza went up to the chief altar. Of a
certainty Bazilio would be desperate. She timidly asked a sacristan who
was passing by what time it was. The man raised a face the color of a
lemon towards one of the windows, and said, glancing askance at her,--
“It is almost two.”
Two o’clock! Bazilio might grow tired of waiting for her. She was
filled with the fear of not seeing him, and glanced confusedly at
the images of the saints, at the virgins transfixed by swords, at
the Christs pierced by wounds, full of a voluptuous impatience.
Nevertheless she waited; she hoped to tire out the counsellor, to
compel him at last to go away. When she thought he had gone, she went
slowly towards the door of the church. There he stood in the doorway,
erect, his hands clasped behind his back, reading the list of jurors.
He began to commend her piety; he had not entered with her, he said, in
order not to disturb her devotions; but her conduct had his approval.
Want of religion was the cause of the prevailing immorality.
“Besides,” he added, “it is good form. You may notice that all the
nobility comply with their religious obligations.”
He relapsed into silence; he walked erect, pleased to be going down
the Chiado in the company of a woman who was so beautiful, and who
attracted so much attention. They passed a group of persons in the
street, and he bent towards her with an air of mystery to whisper in
her ear,--
“What a charming day!”
When they reached Baltreschi’s he invited her to have some tarts; she
declined.
“I am sorry,” he said, “but I too like to be careful in regard to my
hours of eating.”
His voice affected Luiza like the importunate humming of an insect;
although the day was cool, she felt suffocating; her blood ran like
fire through her veins. She felt a sudden impulse to run away; but
she continued to walk on slowly, like a somnambulist, longing to
cry. Without having any object in view she went into Valente’s, the
counsellor following her. It was only half-past one. She hesitated
a moment, and then asked a clerk with fair hair and a good-natured
countenance to show her some foulard neckties.
“White? colored? with dots?” he asked.
“I will decide afterwards; show me some of different kinds.”
She did not like any of them; she unfolded them, set them aside, and
then glanced around her with a pale countenance. The clerk asked her if
she was indisposed, and if she would like a glass of water.
It was nothing, she answered 5 the air would do her good, and she would
come back some other time. They left the shop. The counsellor, with
an air of solicitude, offered to accompany her to a pharmacy, where
she might take some orange-flower water. They walked down the Rua Nova
do Carmo, the counsellor declaring that the clerk had behaved very
courteously. He was not surprised at it, however, for there were many
sons of good families engaged in commercial pursuits; and he mentioned
some instances; but seeing that his companion remained silent,--
“You do not feel well yet,” he said.
“I am quite well now,” she replied.
“We have had a delightful walk.”
They reached Rocio, walked to the end of the square, and returned,
crossing it diagonally. At the arch of Bandeira they turned into Ouro
Street. Luiza looked around her disconsolately, in search of some means
of escape, and the counsellor walked beside her, discoursing gravely.
Passing by the Theatre of Donna Maria, his discourse mounted into the
regions of dramatic art; he thought Ernesto’s play was perhaps a little
too strong. And then, he liked only comedies; not because he could not
enjoy the beauties of a Frey Luiz de Sousa, but his health did not
always permit it. For instance--
An idea suddenly occurred to Luiza.
“Ah, I forgot; I must go in here to Vitry’s to get a tooth filled.”
The counsellor, thus interrupted, glanced at his companion. Luiza gave
him her hand, saying hastily,--
“Good-by. Till we meet again.”
And she hurried into the house.
Gathering her skirts in her hand, she ran quickly up the first flight
of stairs; here she paused, out of breath, and waited a little; then
she went downstairs again slowly, and glanced at the doorway; there
before her was the grave and dignified figure of the counsellor. She
beckoned to a coupé, and rushing past the counsellor, entered it,
giving the driver the direction of the house where Bazilio was waiting
for her, and telling him to drive with all possible speed. On arriving
there she found that he had gone away half an hour before.
Giving the driver her own address, she threw herself back among the
cushions of the coupé, and burst into a fit of hysterical weeping. Then
she drew up the curtains, pulled off her veil, and tore her glove, on
the impulse of her anger. She was seized with a frantic desire to see
Bazilio, and striking the carriage-window violently she called to the
driver,--
“To the Central Hotel!”
She was passing through one of those crises of passion that are apt to
come to weak minds, in which they are possessed by a fierce delight
at the thought of tearing into pieces conventionalities and duties,
and in which the soul deliberately seeks evil with thrills of sensual
delight. The horses stopped at last, slipping on the stones in front of
the hotel. The Senhor Bazilio de Brito was not there, but the Senhor
Viscount Reynaldo was, the driver told her, after making inquiry.
“Very well; home then,” she answered.
The driver whipped his horses. Luiza, with feverish irritation, began
to heap epithets of abuse upon the counsellor.
“Conceited fool! imbecile!” she cried.
She cursed the day on which she had first met him, or any other friend
of her husband. She felt a longing to burst asunder the bonds that
bound her, and to act entirely according to her own impulses.
On reaching home she found she had no change to pay the driver.
“Wait here, and I will send it to you,” she said, going up the steps,
furious.
“What a crazy woman!” thought the driver.
Joanna, who opened the door for her, drew back in amazement on seeing
her mistress so excited. Luiza went directly to her own room. The
cuckoo-clock was striking three. Everything was in confusion,--the
flower-pots on the floor, the toilet-table covered with an old cloth,
clothing lying on the chairs. Juliana, a handkerchief tied around her
head, was sweeping, and humming a tune.
“Is it possible that you have not yet arranged my room!” cried Luiza.
Juliana was taken aback by this unexpected burst of anger. “I am doing
it, Senhora,” she replied.
“That you are doing it I can see,” returned Luiza; “but it is three
o’clock, and the room still in this condition!”
She had thrown down her hat and parasol.
“As the senhora is in the habit of returning home later--”
“What does it matter to you at what hour I return?” she cried. “What
have you to do with that? Your business is to put my room in order as
soon as I am up, and if you do not like that you can take your wages
and go.”
Juliana turned crimson, and fixed on Luiza her bloodshot eyes.
“Very well, Senhora, for I will bear this no longer,” she said,
scattering the sweepings angrily about the floor.
“Go this instant!” cried Luiza. “Not a moment longer in my house!”
Juliana placed herself before her mistress, and striking her breast,
said hoarsely,--
“I shall go if I wish. Yes, if I wish!” she repeated.
“Joanna!” cried Luiza, going to the door.
She wanted to call the cook, a policeman, any one, to her assistance;
but Juliana, shaking her fist insolently at her, followed her.
“The senhora had better not provoke me,” she said; “she had better not
make me angry.” And she added through her clenched teeth, “Waste-papers
are not always thrown into the drain.”
“What do you mean?” cried Luiza, drawing back in terror.
“I mean that I have the letters the senhora wrote to her lover safe
here in my pocket,” she cried, striking her pocket with violence.
Luiza looked wildly at her for a moment, then sank down on the floor,
beside the sofa, insensible.