A DINNER AT THE COUNSELLOR’S.
AT about this time a paragraph appeared one Saturday in the “Diario do
Governo,” announcing that the order of Santiago had been conferred upon
the Counsellor Accacio in recognition of his great literary abilities,
and the works of acknowledged merit which he had produced.
When he entered Jorge’s parlor on the following evening, he was made
the subject of a general ovation. After embracing the company one by
one, he sank on the sofa, overcome by his emotion, saying,--
“I did not expect so much as this from the royal favor,--I did not
expect so much as this.” And laying his hand upon his heart he added,
“I may say, in the words of the philosopher, ‘The day on which I
received this honor was the happiest day of my life.’” He then
proceeded to invite Jorge, Sebastião, and Julião to partake with him,
on Thursday next, of a modest bachelor’s dinner in his humble abode, in
honor of the royal favor.
On Thursday the three invited guests met accordingly at the
counsellor’s, and were shown into the parlor by a slatternly-looking
little girl. Another guest was already there,--Senhor Alves Coutinho.
Shortly afterwards the well-known figure of Savedra, the editor of the
“Seculo,” entered the room.
“We are all here now!” exclaimed the counsellor, who received his
guests in the habit of Santiago, which he wore over his black coat.
“Welcome, my friends!” he continued, bowing. “Perhaps we should be more
at ease in my study; this way,--there is a step; take care. This is my
_sancta sanctorum_.”
The counsellor’s study was a small apartment, very neatly arranged,
with heavy curtains draping the windows.
Julião began at once to examine the bookcase.
“I take pride in possessing the most illustrious authors, friend
Zuzarte,” said the counsellor, with a self-complacent air.
He pointed out to Julião the “History of the Consulate and Empire,”
the works of Delille, the “Dictionary of Conversation,” the pocket
edition of the “Encyclopædia Roret,” and the “Lusitanian Parnassus.”
He alluded to his own works, and said he would like to read, before
persons so well-informed as his guests, the proofs which he had been
just correcting of his new book, “A Description of the Principal Cities
of the Kingdom, and their Institutions,” in order to hear their severe
and impartial judgment of it.
“With pleasure.”
“Certainly, Counsellor, with pleasure.”
He chose, as best calculated to give an idea of the importance of the
work, the passage relating to Coimbra. He rose, and standing in the
middle of the apartment, holding the proof-sheets in his hand, he
read, with sonorous voice and measured gesture:--
“Reclining peacefully on her verdurous hills, like an odalisque
on her couch, is the learned Coimbra, the Portuguese Athens. The
softly-flowing Mondego kisses her as he whispers to her tender
secrets. In her groves the nightingale and other amorous birds warble
their melancholy strains. As you approach the city by the road from
Lisbon, with which it was formerly connected by a well-organized
coach-mail, replaced to-day by the smoky locomotive, you can see it
gleaming whitely, crowned by the imposing bulk of the University, that
stronghold of wisdom.”
“Dinner is on the table,” said a robust girl in a white apron, from the
door.
“Bravo! Counsellor, bravo!” exclaimed Savedra, of the “Seculo,” rising.
“Admirable!”
“What is your opinion, my friend?” said the counsellor, in a low voice
to Julião, laying his hand upon his shoulder. “Your impartial opinion,
friend Zuzarte?”
“Senhor Counsellor,” said Julião, gravely, “I envy you--”
While he spoke his gaze was fixed intently, and with evident curiosity,
on a corner of the room which was occupied by what seemed to be a large
pile of books, judging from so much of it as was visible beneath the
edges of the gray cloth that covered it. What could it be?
“Do not expect a Lucullian banquet,” the counsellor said gayly, as he
conducted his guests to the dining-room. “It will be nothing more than
the modest repast of a humble philosopher.”
Alves Coutinho, however, went into ecstasies over the abundance of the
sweetmeats; there was cream, lightly browned; a plate of egg-paste,
and a rice pudding ornamented with the initials of the counsellor in
powdered cinnamon.
“I don’t know if the soup pleases you,” the counsellor said, as they
took their seats. “For my part, I adore macaroni.”
“You like macaroni?” said Alves.
“Very much, dear Alves; it reminds me of Italy,--a country I have
always desired to see,” he added. “I have been told its ruins are
remarkable, and that its constitution is a very liberal one.”
“Liberal!” repeated Julião. In his opinion, if Italy were liberal, she
would have long ago kicked out the Pope, the Sacred College, and the
Jesuits.
The counsellor, with a benevolent air, asked his friend Zuzarte’s
indulgence for the “Head of the Church.”
“Not that I uphold the Syllabus,” he said, “not that I desire to see
the Jesuits enthroned in the bosom of the family. But the venerable
prisoner of the Vatican,” he added gravely, “the Vicar of Jesus
Christ--Help yourself to rice, my dear Sebastião!”
The Senhora Philomena here placed before the host a dish containing
a leg of roast veal. Animated by a sense of his duty, he grasped the
carving knife and fork with solemnity, and proceeded, with contracted
brow, as if he were engaged in the most important operation in the
universe, to carve thin slices from the joint. Meantime Julião, resting
his elbows on the table, asked,--
“Is the ministry going to fall, or not?”
Sebastião had heard that afternoon, he said, on the boat from Almada,
that the present situation of things was assured.
“Whether they fall or not,” continued Julião, “whether these go out or
others come in--thanks, Counsellor,” he interrupted himself to say,
as the counsellor handed him his plate of roast veal--“is a matter of
complete indifference to me. They are all a pack of knaves!”
He was disgusted with the country; from the highest to the lowest they
were a worthless lot, and he anticipated shortly, by the logic of
events, a revolution that would clear away all this rubbish.
“A revolution!” exclaimed Alves Coutinho, looking around him with an
uneasy glance.
The counsellor resumed his seat, and said,--
“I have no desire to enter into a political discussion; political
discussions serve only to create dissension among friends; but I will
recall to the mind of Senhor Zuzarte the excesses of the Commune.”
Julião threw himself back in his chair, and answered tranquilly,--
“The mistake is, Senhor Counsellor, not to kill a few bankers, rich
land-owners, and anæmic marquises. That would be the right sort of a
clearance to make!” And he made a movement with his knife as if to
sharpen it.
The counsellor smiled urbanely, looking on this sanguinary outbreak as
a jest.
“The truth is this,” he said; “the country is sincerely attached to the
royal family. Am I not right, my dear Sebastião?” he said, directing
himself to him as a proprietor and land-owner.
Sebastião declared that he did not understand politics, but he saw
things that distressed him. The cigar-makers, for instance, earned
barely nine or ten _reals_ a day; and this state of things, with a
family to provide for, was pitiable.
“It is infamous!” interrupted Julião, shrugging his shoulders.
“There are not enough schools,” resumed Sebastião, timidly.
“A piece of stupidity on the part of the government,” said Julião.
Savedra, occupied in eating, was silent; he had unbuttoned his
shirt-collar; his countenance wore the red hue of satiety, and he
smiled vaguely.
“And the lunatics of S. Bento!” exclaimed Julião.
But the counsellor interposed,--
“Let us speak of something else, my friends. It would be more becoming
to us as Portuguese gentlemen and loyal subjects.” And turning to Jorge
he asked him how the interesting Donna Luiza was.
She had been rather indisposed for some days past, Jorge said; but it
was nothing of consequence,--the change of seasons, a little debility--
Savedra put down his glass, and said,--
“I had the pleasure of seeing her pass my house almost every day last
summer, on the road to the Arroios, sometimes on foot and sometimes
driving.”
Jorge manifested some surprise as he heard these words. The counsellor,
however, began to express his regret at not seeing her here a guest at
their modest banquet; but as he was a bachelor and had no wife to do
the honors--
The Senhora Philomena, entering the room with an air of solemnity, here
placed a bottle of champagne on the table before him.
Savedra asked the counsellor to hand it to him to open, as he knew how
to do it with chic. As soon as the cork had been drawn and the glasses
filled, in the midst of the silence that followed the operation,
Savedra, who remained standing, thus began,--
“Counsellor--”
Accacio, pale with emotion, bowed.
“Counsellor! it is with the sincerest pleasure that we all drink to the
health of a man who,”--here he gave an eloquent pull to the cuff of his
shirt,--“on account of his personal qualities, his exalted position,
and his vast information, is one of the notabilities of our country.
Your health, Counsellor!”
Cries of “The Counsellor!” “The Counsellor!” “Our friend the
counsellor,” followed these words.
The toast was drunk enthusiastically. Accacio wiped his lips, passed
his trembling hand over his bald head, rose, and began:--
“My good friends, I did not anticipate this honor; if I had expected
it, I would have prepared some remarks beforehand. I am not gifted with
the eloquence of a Rodrigo or a Garrett, and my emotions overpower
me.” He went on to speak of himself with modesty; he acknowledged, he
said, that with orators or illustrious statisticians so accomplished as
there were in the city, he was a zero on the wrong side. And raising
his right hand he described with his thumb and forefinger a O in the
air. He proclaimed aloud his love for his country, declaring that if
its institutions or the royal family should one day need his support,
he would willingly place his person, his pen, and his modest fortune
at their disposal. He would gladly shed his blood for the throne. He
quoted extensively from the “Eurico,” the Belgian Institutes, Bocage,
and his own introductions. He was proud to belong to the society of the
1st of December--
“On that memorable day,” he said, “I myself illuminate my windows,
if not with the magnificence that characterizes the edifices of the
Chiado, at least with sincere good-will.” And he ended by saying,
“Let us not omit, my dear friends, to drink to the health of the
enlightened monarch, to whom, in my mature years, I owe the privilege
of displaying, before I descend to the tomb, the honorable decoration
of Santiago. My friends, to the health of the Royal Family!”--here he
raised his glass--“the model family, that, seated in the most exalted
position of the State, directs, surrounded by the lights of the
political firmament, directs--”
He paused in vain for the word he wanted; there was an anxious silence.
“Directs--”
Through his eye-glasses his eyes could be seen fixed on the jamb of the
door, seeking inspiration.
“Directs--”
He scratched his bald crown in consternation; but at last a smile
irradiated his countenance. He had found the word he sought, and
extending his arm,--
“Directs the ship of State in such a manner as to excite the envy of
surrounding nations! To the health of the Royal Family!”
“To the health of the Royal Family!” responded the others with respect.
Coffee was served in the parlor; a pair of candles illuminated the cold
apartment with a dismal light. The counsellor wound up the music-box,
and, to the sound of the nuptial chorus of “Lucia,” handed cigars
around.
“The Senhora Adelaide may bring the liquors,” he said to Philomena.
A handsome woman, about thirty years of age, with a fair complexion and
black eyes, her splendid proportions showing to advantage, in a blue
merino gown, now entered, carrying a silver tray, on which were placed
glasses, a bottle of cognac, and another of Curaçao.
“A handsome woman!” murmured Alves, with a flushed countenance.
Julião placed his finger on his lips, and said in an undertone,
glancing at the counsellor,--
“Darest thou, madman, raise thine eyes
To Cæsar’s wife!”
While they were sipping the Curaçao, Julião went softly into the study,
and raised the cloth that concealed the object of his curiosity. Under
it were rows of bound books tied together with twine,--the works of the
counsellor intact!