THE LETTER.
LUIZA passed a feverish and uneasy night. In the morning Jorge was
alarmed by the frequency of her pulse and the heat of her skin. He,
too, owing to a feeling of nervousness, had spent a wakeful night.
The room in which they slept had been shut up for a long time past,
and was pervaded, in consequence, by a chill dampness; there were
stains of mould on the wall near the ceiling; the antique bed, without
curtains, with its pillars of bent-wood, and the old chest of drawers
with its mirror of the last century, had an indefinable air of sadness,
as though recalling lives long dead and gone. To find himself thus
with his wife under a strange roof produced in his mind, without
his knowing why, a vaguely superstitious feeling. It seemed to him
as if a turning-point had come in his life, and that, like a river
which changes its course, it would begin from this night forth to
flow amid different surroundings. The northeast wind beat against the
window-panes, and howled through the narrow street, seeking an outlet.
In the morning Luiza was unable to rise.
Julião, who was called in haste, allayed their fears, however.
“It is a slight nervous fever that will pass away with a little rest,”
he said. “Last night’s fright, no doubt.”
“I dreamed all night of her,” responded Luiza. “I thought she had come
back to life again. How horrible it was!”
“You need have no uneasiness on that score,” returned Julião. “Have
they prepared her for burial yet?” turning to Jorge.
“Sebastião is there,” answered Jorge, “and I am going now to take a
look at things.”
The death of old parchment was already known in the neighborhood.
The woman who had laid her out--a matron deeply pitted with the
small-pox, with eyes reddened by the abuse of spirituous liquors--was
an acquaintance of the Senhora Helena. She had stood a moment in the
sunshine chatting with her at the door of the tobacco-shop.
“Is there much business, Senhora Margarida?”
“A good deal, a good deal,” replied the other in a husky voice. “In
winter there is always more to do. But they are all old people, who
drop off with the cold. There is not a pretty corpse among them.”
The Senhora Margarida, it will be seen, had artistic tastes.
The tobacconist related many particulars to her regarding Juliana,--the
favors shown her by her master and mistress, her airs, and the luxury
she enjoyed of having a matted room. The Senhora Margarida responded
that she was amazed by what she heard. And who would have it all now?
she asked. “But I must dress that doll,” she ended, going into the
house with an air of compunction. The priest was there conversing in a
husky voice with Sebastião about agriculture, drainage, and grafting,
and passing his folded handkerchief from time to time under his nose
with his hairy hand. All the windows were open to the pleasant warmth
of the sun, and the canaries were twittering in their cages.
“Had the deceased been long in the family?” asked the priest of Jorge,
who was walking up and down the parlor, smoking.
“Three years.”
The priest slowly unfolded his handkerchief and shook it out
preparatory to blowing his nose.
“Her mistress must regret her greatly,” he said. “But it is a debt we
must all pay at last.” And he blew his nose loudly.
Joanna made her appearance at this moment, wrapped in a shawl, with a
handkerchief tied around her head. She had heard from the neighbors
that Juliana was dead, and that the master and mistress were at Dom
Sebastião’s. She came from there now. Luiza had sent for her to her
room, and when Joanna saw her “dear mistress” lying ill in bed, she
shed tears; but Luiza told her that now things would soon be better,
and that she might come back.
“And listen, Joanna,” she ended; “if the master should ask you, say
that you went to Bellas to see your aunt.”
The girl went for her bundle, and installed herself anew in the house,
somewhat frightened by a death having taken place there.
Shortly afterwards Senhor Paula knocked discreetly at the door. He came
to offer his services for whatever might be wanted on the occasion.
Taking off his cap, and scraping his foot, he said in his hoarse voice,
“I am very sorry for the misfortune,--very sorry. But we are all
mortal!”
“True, true, Senhor Paula,” answered Jorge; “but I need nothing. Many
thanks.”
And he shut the door abruptly. He was impatient to get rid of the whole
matter; irritated by the hammering of the men upstairs who were nailing
the coffin, he called to Joanna,--
“Tell those people to make haste; we don’t want this to go on forever.”
Joanna went upstairs to deliver the message. She had made friends
with the Senhora Margarida, who went to the kitchen with her to take
a little refreshment; as there was no fire she contented herself with
some bread and wine, which she declared good enough for any one.
She was disgusted with the deceased, she declared; she had never seen
an uglier creature. She looked like a dried herring. And she glanced at
Joanna’s rounded form as she spoke.
“You seem to have a fine figure,” she added, as if she were calculating
mentally how she would arrange the shroud on those robust contours.
“I suppose you would like--” began Joanna, indignantly.
“People of very high position have passed through my hands,”
interrupted the other in a piping voice, smiling. (She had lost two of
her front teeth.) “Do me the favor to give me a little more wine. It is
Cartaxo, isn’t it? Excellent wine!”
At last, at about four o’clock, to Jorge’s great relief they brought
the coffin downstairs. The neighbors looked on curiously from their
doors as it was carried out. Senhor Paula, through bravado, waved a
good-by with his hand as it passed him, adding,--
“A good journey!”
“Are you not afraid of remaining here alone?” Jorge asked Joanna
upstairs.
“No, sir; the dead can’t come to life again,” she answered. Not that
she was not in reality afraid, but she expected Pedro to keep her
company in her solitude.
Jorge returned with Sebastião to the house of the latter. “It is all
over,” he said, entering the room where Luiza was in bed. “She is on
her way to the heights of S. João,” he continued, rubbing his hands
together with satisfaction, “with everything duly arranged for the
journey. _Per omnia saccula sacculorum_!”
Aunt Joanna, who was sitting with Luiza, burst out hastily,--
“Let her go, let her go! She was a bad woman!”
“She was a good-for-nothing creature,” said Jorge. “Let us hope she is
now boiling in the caldron of Pedro Botello, eh, Aunt Joanna?”
“Jorge!” exclaimed Luiza, reprovingly. She thought it a Christian duty
to recite two Pater Nosters for the dead woman’s soul.
This was the sole effect produced on earth by the death of her who was
now being carried by two worn-out hacks to the common burial-ground,
and who in life was known as Juliana Conceiro Tavira.
On the following day Luiza was better, and they spoke of returning
home, to the great disgust of Aunt Joanna. Sebastião said nothing, but
he secretly desired that Luiza’s convalescence might detain them in his
house for an indefinite period. She gave him such grateful glances that
he alone could understand! He was so happy to have her and Jorge under
his roof! He held consultations with Aunt Vicenta about the dinner; he
walked through the house with a feeling of reverence, almost on tiptoe,
as if it were sanctified by her presence in it; he filled the vases
with camellias and violets; he smiled beatifically when Jorge smacked
his lips over the old cognac after dinner. He felt an indefinable
sense of well-being that infused new life into him, and he thought
sorrowfully that when she went away an air of greater coldness than
before would hang over everything, like the sadness that hangs over a
ruin.
Two days afterwards, however, they returned home. Luiza was very much
pleased with the new servant whom Sebastião had engaged. She was a girl
with expressive eyes, and a pleasing manner, and was very neat in her
person. Her name was Marianna, and she soon told Joanna that she would
do anything for the mistress, who had an angelic disposition, and who
was very handsome.
Jorge sent Juliana’s trunks to Aunt Victoria.
When Jorge left the house in the afternoon, Luiza shut herself up in
her room with Juliana’s pocket-book, drew down the blinds, lighted a
candle, and burned the letters. Her hands trembled, and she beheld,
with eyes swimming in tears, those words, the evidence of her shame,
disappear in a column of white smoke,--at last, thanks to Sebastião,
to that dear Sebastião! She went to take a look at the parlor, at the
kitchen; everything seemed new to her, and life full of sweetness; she
opened the windows, ran her fingers over the keys of the piano, tore
to pieces with a superstitious feeling the music of Medjé that Bazilio
had given her, talked a long time to Marianna, and sipping her cup of
chicken-broth, thought with a radiant countenance,--
“How happy I shall be now!”
When she heard Jorge’s step in the hall she ran out to meet him, threw
her arms around his neck, and with her head on his shoulder said,--
“I am very happy to-day. If you only knew what a good girl Marianna is!”
That very night the fever returned. Julião found her much worse on the
following morning.
“This begins to grow a little more serious,” he said in a dissatisfied
tone.
He was writing a prescription, when Donna Felicidade came in, very much
excited. She was surprised to find Luiza sick; leaning over her, she
whispered in her ear,--
“I have something to tell you.”
When Jorge and Julião had left the room, she seated herself beside the
bed and proceeded to unbosom herself to Luiza, speaking now in low and
confidential tones, now in a voice rendered shrill by indignation. She
had been robbed, basely robbed, she cried. The man she had sent to
Tuy, like the unscrupulous thief he was, had written to her servant
Gertrudes that he was not coming back to Lisbon, that the sorceress had
changed her place of abode, and that he desired to hear nothing more
about the matter,--all in the clerkly handwriting of a paid copyist,
and in horrible Portuguese. But not a word did he say of money.
“What do you think of the swindler? Eight dollars! If it were not for
the shame of it, I should go to the police. I want to have nothing
more to do with Gallicians. That was the reason the counsellor made no
further advances; the sorceress had not wrought the spell.”
If she did not believe in the honesty of the Gallicians, however, it
was very evident that she still believed in the arts of magic. It was
not for the money, but for the annoyance. Where could the woman be now?
It was enough to make one crazy. What did Luiza think of the matter?
Luiza shrugged her shoulders. Enveloped in the bedclothes, she lay
there silent, with flushed face and heavy eyes. Donna Felicidade
advised her, with a sigh, to take something to make her perspire; and
finding she could obtain no consolation from Luiza, she went to the
Encarnação to unbosom herself to the Senhora Silveira.
Towards morning Luiza grew worse. The fever increased. Jorge, very
uneasy, dressed himself hurriedly at nine o’clock to go for Julião. He
was going downstairs hastily, buttoning his overcoat, when he met the
postman, who seemed to have a bad cough, going up.
“Are there any letters?” asked Jorge.
“One for the senhora,” answered the postman.
Jorge looked at the envelope; it was directed to Luiza, and bore the
French postmark.
“Who the deuce can it be from?” he thought, putting it in his pocket
and going out. He returned in a carriage half an hour later with
Julião; Luiza was sleeping heavily.
“She needs care; we shall see,” said Julião, shaking his head, while
Jorge watched him anxiously from the other side of the bed. He wrote a
prescription, and remained to breakfast. The day was cold and cloudy.
Marianna, wrapped in a shawl, waited at table, her fingers swollen with
chilblains. Jorge felt depressed, as if the mists of the atmosphere
were gathering around his soul. What could be the cause of this fever?
he asked Julião disconsolately. It was very strange. For six weeks she
had been ill and well by turns.
“These fevers have a thousand different causes,” said Julião,
tranquilly breaking off a piece of toast; “sometimes a draught is
the cause, sometimes anxiety. I have at present in my practice a
curious example,--an individual, one Alves, who was at death’s door
as the result of a couple of months of constant anxiety. Two weeks
ago, through a caprice of Fortune,--for that lady is, as we know,
capricious,--he was able to settle his affairs, and free himself from
his embarrassments. Well, ever since he has had a fever of this kind,
insidious, perplexing, with contradictory symptoms. What is the cause
of it? That the nervous excitement debilitates, and the sudden joy
inflames the blood. A general wasting away of the system follows,
until at last the implacable creditor presents himself, and--_per
omnia saccula_.”
He rose and lighted a cigar.
“In any case let her have absolute repose,” he continued, “as if her
senses were wrapped up in cotton-wool. No noise, no conversation; and
if she is thirsty, lemonade. Good-by.” And he went away drawing on the
black gloves which he had worn ever since he had become a member of the
medical fraternity.
Jorge returned to the bedroom. Luiza was still dozing. Marianna,
seated in a low chair beside the bed, an expression of sorrow on her
countenance, did not remove her eyes, in which there was a vague
terror, from her mistress.
“She has been very quiet,” she whispered.
Jorge touched the burning hand of Luiza, and drew the bedclothes around
her; then he pressed his lips to her hair, and went softly and closed
the window-blinds. Walking up and down in his study a short time
afterwards, Julião’s words recurred to him. “These fevers are sometimes
caused by an annoyance.” He thought of the case of the merchant, and
recalled Luiza’s inexplicable state of depression and weakness which
had lately caused him so much anxiety. Bah, nonsense! Anxiety? what
source of anxiety could she have? She had been so happy while they were
at Sebastião’s that Juliana’s death could not be the cause. Besides, he
had but little faith in fevers caused by anxiety. Julião’s knowledge
of medicine was mostly theoretical, and it occurred to him that
perhaps it would be well to call in old Dr. Caminha. As he put his
hand into his pocket it came in contact with a letter,--the one given
him by the postman for Luiza. He examined it again with curiosity;
the envelope was an ordinary one, such as is to be found in cafés and
restaurants; the handwriting, which was that of a man, was not familiar
to him. It bore a French postmark. He felt an impulse to open it, but
he restrained himself, and throwing it on the table, began to roll a
cigarette. He returned to the bedroom. Luiza continued to doze: the
sleeve of her nightgown had fallen back, and disclosed to view her
beautifully modelled arm; her face was brilliantly flushed; her long
lashes rested motionless on her cheek; an escaping curl fell over her
forehead; and with her feverishly bright color she seemed to Jorge more
beautiful than ever. The thought came to his mind, he knew not why,
that others might find her equally beautiful, and that they might even
tell her so if she gave them the opportunity. Why should she receive a
letter from France? He returned to his study; the letter lying there
before him on the table irritated him; he tried to read, but after a
few moments threw away the book impatiently. He began to walk up and
down the room, nervously twisting the lining of his pockets between his
fingers. He took up the letter and tried to read its contents through
the semi-transparent envelope, and unconsciously his fingers began to
tear one of its corners. This was dishonorable, he felt. But curiosity,
which was strong within him, suggested, with persuasive voice, many
and various reasons for opening it. She was sick, and it might be
something urgent, perhaps a legacy. Besides, she had no secrets from
him, and least of all in France. His scruples were puerile. He could
tell her he had opened it by mistake. And if the letter should contain
the secret of the anxiety of Julião’s theory, then it was his duty
to open it in order that she might be the sooner restored to health.
Without his own volition he found the letter open in his hand. He
devoured it at a glance, but he failed to master its contents at once.
The letters danced before his eyes. Approaching the window he read
slowly:--
MY DEAR LUIZA,--It would take too long to explain to you how
and why I found myself the day before yesterday in Nice, on my way to
Paris, which I reached this morning, and where I received your letter.
Judging by the number of stamps upon it, it must have travelled all
over Europe in search of me. As it is now nearly two months and a half
since you wrote it, I suppose that you will have already settled with
that woman, and do not need the money; but if this should not be the
case, send me a telegram and you shall receive it two days afterwards.
I see by your letter that you do not believe that my departure was
caused by business, and in this you do me an injustice. My departure
ought not to have deprived you of your illusions regarding love, as
you say it did, for in truth I did not know how much I loved you until
I had left Lisbon; and not a day passes that I do not think of our
meetings. What happy mornings! Do you ever pass the house now? Do you
remember our lunch? I have time to say no more. Perhaps I shall soon
return to Lisbon, when I hope once more to see you, for without you
Lisbon would be a desert to me. Receive an ardent kiss from your
BAZILIO.
Jorge slowly folded the letter, threw it upon the table, and said
aloud,--
“Excellent!”
He mechanically filled his pipe with tobacco, took a few turns up and
down the floor with wandering gaze and quivering lip, threw his pipe
suddenly across the room, breaking a pane of glass in the window,
shook his clenched fist violently in the air, buried his face in his
arms upon the table, moving his head from side to side and biting his
sleeves with rage, and burst into a passion of sobs, stamping his
feet like a madman upon the floor. Then he rose abruptly, took up the
letter, and was about to go with it into Luiza’s room; but he was
restrained by the recollection of Julião’s words: “Keep her quiet; no
conversation, nothing to excite her.” He locked the letter in a drawer
and put the key in his pocket. Standing thus, his nerves quivering,
his eyes bloodshot, thoughts flashed through his brain like flashes of
lightning through the tempest--of killing her, of abandoning her, of
blowing his brains out!
Marianna knocked lightly at the study door, and told him the senhora
was calling for him. The blood rushed to his head, he looked stupidly
at Marianna, his eyelids nervously twitching, as he answered hoarsely,--
“I will go directly.”
On passing by the oval looking-glass in the parlor he was surprised to
see that he seemed to have grown suddenly aged. Entering the bedroom,
he passed a wet towel over his face, smoothed his hair, and went to
the alcove. When his glance fell on Luiza, her large eyes dilated by
fever, he was obliged to catch hold of the rail of the bed to overcome
the sensation he felt that the walls were oscillating around him like
a vessel with the motion of the sea. He looked at her with a smile,
however. “How do you feel?” he asked.
“Badly,” she murmured faintly, beckoning him to her side with a gesture
full of weariness.
He sat down beside her without looking at her.
“What is the matter with you?” she said, approaching her face to his.
“Don’t grieve,” she added, taking his hand and laying hers upon it on
the bed.
Jorge pushed her hand away coldly and rose abruptly to his feet, with
set teeth. He felt an impulse of brutal anger, and was about to leave
the room, afraid of himself, afraid of committing a crime, when he
heard her voice speaking to him in sorrowful accents,--
“What is this, Jorge? What is the matter with you?”
He turned round and saw her half sitting up in bed, her dilated eyes
fixed upon him and anguish depicted on her face, down which two tears
rolled silently. He fell on his knees beside the bed, caught her hands
in his, and broke into sobs.
“What is this?” asked the voice of Julião at the door of the bedroom.
Jorge rose to his feet, very pale.
Julião led him into the parlor, and standing before him with folded
arms and a terrible look upon his face,--
“Are you mad?” he said. “You are aware of her condition, and yet you
yield to your feelings in this way before her?”
“I could not control myself.”
“You must. Am I trying to break up the fever only in order that you may
augment it? Are you mad?”
Julião was really indignant. He took an interest in Luiza as his
patient, and he wanted to cure her. He felt pleasure, too, in
exercising the authority of a person whose presence was necessary in
the house which heretofore he had always entered with a certain feeling
of dependence. Nor did he forget, on leaving, to offer a cigarette,
with apparent carelessness, to Jorge. During the remainder of the day
Jorge gave proofs of heroism. He could not remain long at a time by
Luiza’s bedside, for his soul was torn by conflicting emotions; but he
went there continually; he smiled at her, he drew the bedclothes around
her with trembling hand. When she dozed, however, he remained looking
at her with a curiosity at once painful and ignoble, as if he wished
to surprise in her countenance traces of another’s kisses, or hoped
that the fever would draw some name or fact from her unguarded lips. He
loved her more since he had known that she was unfaithful to him, but
with a perverted love. Then he would shut himself up in his study and
pace restlessly up and down like a wild beast in its cage. He re-read
the letter an infinite number of times, and the same vile and corroding
desire for details continued to torture him. He re-read the letters he
had received from her in Alemtejo, trying to discover in their words
the symptoms of her coldness, the time of her faithlessness. Then he
felt a ferocious hatred towards her. Thoughts of murder passed through
his mind,--of strangling her, of giving her chloroform or laudanum.
Then he would sit leaning back in his chair motionless, and with turbid
gaze, recalling the past, the day of their marriage, certain walks they
had taken together, the words he had said to her. At times the thought
occurred to him that the letter might be a forgery. Some enemy might
have written it and sent it to France. Perhaps Bazilio had known some
other “Luiza” in Lisbon, and in directing the letter had written the
name of his cousin by mistake. The momentary joy these fancies gave him
only made the reality more cruel. But how did it happen? If he only
knew the truth he would be more tranquil. He would tear this love from
his heart as if it were some foul parasite; as soon as she was well he
would take her to a convent, and he himself would go far away to end
his days--to Africa or elsewhere. But--who knew the truth? Juliana! She
knew it, without a doubt. All those favors to Juliana, the new room,
the furniture, the clothes, all were now explained. She had been paying
her for her complicity in her crime! She had been her confidante, had
carried the letters, had known everything! And the accursed wretch was
lying in her grave dead, unable to speak!
Sebastião came in the evening, as was his custom. The lamps were not
yet lighted, and Jorge, lighting a candle, called him into his study,
and taking the letter from the drawer, said, “Read that!”
Sebastião was struck with astonishment when he saw Jorge’s face by the
light. He looked at the letter Jorge handed him, and trembled; and
when he saw the signature the cold sweat of agony covered his brow. It
seemed to him that the ground swayed beneath him, and that he swayed
with it. But he controlled himself, read the letter, and placed it upon
the table in silence.
“Sebastião,” said Jorge, “this is my death-blow. Do you know anything
of this, Sebastião? You came here, you must know. Tell me the truth!”
Sebastião extended his arms. “What would you have me tell you?” he
said. “I know nothing.”
Jorge caught his hands in his, shook them with violence, and looking at
him entreatingly,--
“Sebastião,” he said, “for the sake of our friendship, by the soul of
your mother, by all the years we have passed together--tell me the
truth, Sebastião!”
“I know nothing,” he repeated. “What should I know?”
“You lie!”
“They may hear you!” murmured Sebastião.
There was a pause. Jorge pressed his temples between his hands, strode
up and down the study, making the floor tremble with his steps, then
suddenly stopping before Sebastião in an attitude of supplication,--
“Tell me, at least, what she did. Did she go out? Did any one come to
see her?”
Sebastião responded, with his gaze fixed upon the light,--
“Sometimes, in the beginning, her cousin came to see her, and when
Donna Felicidade was sick she went to see her. Her cousin went away
afterwards. I know nothing more.”
Jorge looked at Sebastião fixedly for a moment.
“But what did I ever do to her, Sebastião,--I who adored her? What did
I ever do to her that she should treat me thus,--I who adored her?”
He broke into bitter weeping. Sebastião remained standing by the table,
overwhelmed.
“It was a passing folly!” he murmured.
“And those allusions,” cried Jorge, turning around with sudden rage and
shaking the paper violently,--“those meetings, those happy mornings
spent together. She is a vile wretch!”
“She is sick, Jorge,” Sebastião said timidly.
Jorge did not answer. He walked up and down the room in silence for
some time, while Sebastião gazed intently at the flame of the candle.
Jorge put the letter back into the drawer, and taking the candlestick
in his hand, said in accents of resigned and melancholy lassitude,--
“Let us go and take tea, Sebastião.”
They did not again allude to the letter.
That night Jorge slept profoundly, and on the following morning he rose
with a countenance impassible, and of a ghastly serenity.
After an uncertain course of three days the disease defined itself; it
was intermittent fever. She lost flesh rapidly, but Julião continued
tranquil. Jorge passed the days at her bedside. Donna Felicidade
came to see her almost every morning, seated herself at the foot of
the bed, and remained there silent, an aged look upon her face. The
hopes she had placed on the woman of Tuy, so suddenly dashed to the
ground, had thrown her existence off its balance, like an edifice from
beneath which part of the foundation has been suddenly removed; she was
falling into decay, and gave signs of animation only when, at about
three o’clock in the afternoon, she saw the counsellor entering to
inquire after “our beautiful invalid.” Keeping his hat in his hand, and
refraining, through modesty, from entering the alcove, he would utter
some profound observation, such as: “Health is a blessing which we
fully appreciate only when we have lost it;” or, “Sickness is the test
of friendship.” And he would end thus: “Soon, dear Jorge, the carmine
of health will again color the cheeks of your virtuous spouse.”
At night Jorge slept on a mattress on the floor, but he closed his
eyes for only an hour or two at the most. During the rest of the night
he tried to read, but he never got beyond the first few lines; the
book lay beside him, and with his head between his hands, his thoughts
reverted continually to the same question: How had it happened? He put
together in logical sequence certain facts. He saw Bazilio arrive in
Lisbon, visit Luiza, fall in love with her, send her flowers, follow
her, take every opportunity of seeing her, write to her--and then? He
comprehended that the money was for Juliana. Did she demand it? Had she
surprised them? Had she letters of theirs in her possession? In this
painful reconstruction of details there were gaps, like dark gulfs, in
which his tortured soul was submerged. He recalled the days since his
return from Alemtejo, her tenderness, her caresses. Why did she seek to
deceive him?
One night he searched her drawers, taking the precautions of a thief to
avoid detection while he did so; he looked in her pockets, in the boxes
in which she kept her collars and her laces; he went to the very bottom
of her sandal-wood trunk,--nothing, not even a withered flower! At
other times he moved the articles of furniture in the bedroom and the
parlor from their places, as if they could reveal the details of her
perfidy to him. Where had they sat? Did he kneel at her feet here on
the carpet? Above all, the view of the sofa irritated him. At last he
came to hate it. He began also to hate the house, as if the roof that
had sheltered them and the floor that had supported their weight had
been conscious accomplices in their crime. But what most tortured him
was the words, “our meetings,” “those happy mornings.”
Meantime Luiza slept tranquilly. By the end of the week the fever had
disappeared, but she was very weak; on the day she rose for the first
time she fainted twice; she required help for several days to dress
herself, and then to reach the lounge, and she insisted, with the
capriciousness of a child, on Jorge remaining at her side. It seemed as
if she absorbed life at his eyes and health from his touch. She made
him read the paper in the morning, and do his writing, seated beside
her. He submitted to all her exactions, and these acts of tyranny were
like caresses to a wound, for he loved her tenderly. Unconsciously he
would feel sudden thrills of happiness. He surprised himself saying
tender words to her, laughing with her, oblivious of what had taken
place. Reclining on the lounge, Luiza, tranquil and happy, looked
over old volumes of the “Illustração franceza,” which the counsellor
had sent her, and in which, as he said, she might acquire useful
information concerning historical events, at the same time that she
enjoyed the engravings. Or she tasted silently, her head resting on
the cushions, the happiness of returning health, of seeing herself
free from the tyranny of that woman and the bitterness of the past.
One of her pleasures was to see Marianna enter with her breakfast on a
tray; her appetite was returning, and she sipped with delight the glass
of Port wine prescribed for her by Julião. If Jorge were not there
she would enter, with a sense of contentment, into long chats with
Marianna while she ate her jelly. At other times she would silently
form plans, her eyes fixed on the ceiling; she would go for a few weeks
to the country to re-establish her health and on her return she would
set to work to embroider strips of cashmere to cover anew the parlor
furniture; for she wanted to occupy herself with household matters,
and to live quietly. Jorge would not go back to Alemtejo, he would not
leave Lisbon again. Thus life would for the future be easy and sweet.
At times she thought Jorge preoccupied. What was the matter with
him? He gave her as an excuse for his evident dejection fatigue and
sleepless nights. She told him if he were to fall sick it must be
when she was strong and able to nurse him; but he was not going to
fall sick, was he? She made him sit down beside her; she passed her
hand through his hair, gazing at him tenderly, for with returning
strength her pleasure in the sweetness of life returned. Jorge was
conscious that he still loved her, and this consciousness augmented his
unhappiness.
When alone she formed yet other resolutions. She would see Leopoldina
no more; she would attend church regularly; her sickness had given
rise within her to a vague feeling of sentimental devotion. When she
had the fever she fancied herself at times in some dreadful place, in
which, from amidst red flames forms rose, twisting their arms,--black
forms that whirled round and round, while groans of agony ascended up
to heaven; already the tongues of fire had begun to lick her breast,
when suddenly she felt the cool touch of something ineffably sweet; it
was the pinions of a luminous angel who caught her in his arms, and
she felt herself mounting up, her head resting on the celestial bosom,
inundated with a supernatural felicity, and she saw the stars close
beside her, and she heard the noise of wings. This left upon her mind a
melancholy impression of heaven. She aspired to heaven, and she hoped
to gain it by devout attendance at Mass, and by prayers to the Virgin.
One morning she entered the parlor, and for the first time opened the
piano. Jorge was standing at the window looking out into the street;
she called to him with a smile.
“I have taken a dislike to that sofa,” she said. “We might have it
taken away from there, don’t you think so?”
Jorge felt as if a dagger had been thrust into his heart, but he
controlled himself, and said,--
“I think so.”
“I should like to have it taken away,” she repeated, as she left the
parlor, sweeping the floor with the long train of her morning-gown.
Jorge began to experience a feeling of sombre resignation. When he
heard her gayly making plans for the future, and speaking with so
contented an air of the happiness in store for her, he almost resolved
to destroy the letter and forget everything. There was no doubt but
that she had repented of her sin, and she loved him. Why, in cold
blood, prepare a life of perpetual unhappiness for them both? But at
other times a wave of brutal rage swept over his soul, and he left the
room that he might not be tempted to strangle her.
In order to account for his silence and moroseness he began to complain
of his health, to say he did not feel well, and her solicitude and
the mute questioning of her eyes made him still more unhappy, for he
felt that he was loved while he knew he had been betrayed. At last
one Sunday Julião gave Luiza permission to sit up a little later than
usual, and to do the honors of the house for the evening. It was a
happiness to every one to see her once more in the parlor,--a little
thin and pale still, but, in the words of the counsellor, “restored
to her domestic duties and to the enjoyments of society.” When Julião
arrived, at about nine o’clock, he found her “as good as new,” he said.
Then, standing in the middle of the parlor, he exclaimed, opening wide
his arms,--
“What do you say to the news? Ernesto’s play has achieved a triumphant
success.”
He had seen the news in the papers. The “Diario de Noticias” said:
“The author was called before the curtain in the midst of the greatest
enthusiasm, and received a beautiful laurel-crown.”
Luiza expressed a desire to see the piece.
“Later on, Donna Luiza, later on,” said the counsellor. “It is prudent
to avoid every strong emotion for the present. You would not fail to
shed tears. I know the goodness of your heart, and that might cause a
relapse. Am I not right, friend Julião?”
“Certainly, Counsellor, certainly. I, too, would like to see it, and
convince myself with my own eyes--”
The noise of a carriage stopping suddenly at the door cut him short. A
moment afterwards the bell rang vigorously.
“I’ll wager it is the author,” said Julião.
Almost at the same moment Ernesto, in evening dress, precipitated
himself into the room, his face radiant with happiness; they all arose
and embraced him effusively. “A thousand congratulations,--a thousand
congratulations!” they cried. And the counsellor, his voice dominating
the voices of the others, exclaimed, “Welcome to the illustrious
author; welcome!”
Ernesto was suffocating with happiness; he smiled in silence; his
nostrils dilated as if to breathe in incense, his bosom swelling with
pride; he nodded his head unceasingly, as if mechanically acknowledging
the acclamations of the multitude.
“Here I am! here I am!” he said at last.
He sat down out of breath, and with an air of friendly fellowship said
that the final rehearsals had left him no time to come and see Cousin
Luiza. To-night he had been able to steal away for a moment, but he
was obliged to be back at the theatre by ten o’clock; he had not yet
supped. He recounted his triumph, to its minutest details. At first he
had had severe pains in the stomach,--every one had them, even those
most accustomed to write for the stage, the most illustrious authors.
But no sooner had Campos recited the monologue in the first act (and
one must hear him to know how he recited--it was sublime) than the ice
was broken. The audience was pleased throughout, but at the end it was
something stupendous; calls for the author, thunders of applause; he
came before the curtain reluctantly, but--Jesuina on the one hand and
Maria Adelaide on the other--it was a frenzy. Savedra, of the “Seculo,”
had said to him, “You are our Shakspeare;” Bastos, of the “Verdade,”
had added, “You are our Scribe.” There was a supper afterwards, and
they had presented him with a wreath.
“And does it fit you?” asked Julião.
“Yes--a little too large.”
The counsellor said with authority,--
“Great authors--the illustrious Tasso, our own Camoens--are represented
in their portraits wearing wreaths.”
“Take my advice, Senhor Ledesma,” said Julião, rising, and clapping him
on the shoulder, “and have your likeness taken with your wreath on.”
They all laughed, and Ernesto, somewhat annoyed, said, unfolding his
perfumed handkerchief,--
“Senhor Zuzarte will have his jest.”
“That is the penalty of fame, my friend. The victorious generals of
ancient Borne kept by their side a slave whose business it was to
remind them that they were but mortal.”
“I think,” said Luiza, smiling, “that this is an honor for the family.”
Jorge was of the same opinion. He was walking up and down the room,
smoking, and he paused to say that he had as much pleasure in the
wreath as if it were he himself who was to wear it.
Ernesto turned towards him,--
“Do you know that I pardoned her at last, Cousin Jorge?” he said. “I
pardoned the unfaithful wife.”
“Like Christ,” responded Jorge.
“Like Christ,” assented Ernesto, with satisfaction. Donna Felicidade
approved of this.
“You did very well; it is more moral,” she said.
“It was Jorge who wanted me to kill her,” said Ernesto, with a fatuous
laugh. “Do you remember that night?”
“Yes, yes,” returned Jorge, laughing nervously.
“Our dear Jorge,” said the counsellor gravely, “could not persist in
such extreme opinions; and doubtless reflection, and a wider experience
of life--”
“Let us change the subject, Counsellor,” interrupted Jorge. And he went
into his study abruptly.
Sebastião followed, filled with anxiety. The room was in darkness.
“Will those idiots never be silent? Will they never go away?” Jorge
said hoarsely, catching Sebastião by the arm.
“Compose yourself.”
“Oh, Sebastião! Sebastião!” he cried, in a voice that had the sound of
tears in it.
Luiza called to them from the parlor,--
“What are you plotting together there in the dark?”
Sebastião returned to the parlor, saying,--
“Nothing; we remained inside a moment.” And he added, in a lower voice,
“Jorge is tired, and not very well.”
They noticed, when Jorge re-entered the room, that he looked very tired.
“In fact, I do not feel well,” he said. “I am a little out of sorts.”
“And the delicate Donna Luiza needs the repose of her couch,” said the
counsellor, rising.
Ernesto, who could remain no longer, placed his carriage--a modest
coach--at the disposal of Julião and the counsellor, if they were going
towards the city.
While Donna Felicidade was putting on her wraps, the three men went
downstairs together. Half-way down Julião stood still, and folding his
arms, said,--
“Here I am, between the representatives of the two great movements
of our time in Portugal,--Literature,” bowing to Ernesto, “and
Constitutionalism,” paying the same tribute of respect to the
counsellor.
They both smiled with pleasure at the compliment, saying together,--
“And our friend Zuzarte?”
“I?” he said. And lowering his voice he added. “A few days ago I was a
terrible revolutionist; now--”
“Well?”
“I am a friend of order,” he exclaimed gayly.
And they went down the stairs, satisfied with themselves and with their
country, to take seats in the carriage of the successful author.