answer. And still another, and yet another. Moreira wrote him, already
apprehensive; no answer. He remembered a friend who lived in the same
town and sent him a letter asking him to obtain a definite decision
from the capitalist. Regarding the price, he would lower it somewhat.
He would sell the fazenda for fifty-five, fifty, or even forty,
including live-stock and furniture.
His friend answered without delay. Upon opening the envelope the four
hearts of the Espigão fazenda beat violently: that paper held the
destiny of all four.
The letter read as follows: “Dear Moreira: Either I am very much
mistaken or you are laboring under an illusion. There is no wealthy
Trancoso Carvalhaes about here. There is little Trancoso, son of Nhá
Béva, commonly called Rag-Picker. He is a swindler and lives off
crooked deals and knows how to fool those who are not acquainted with
him. Latterly he has travelled over the State of Minas, from fazenda
to fazenda under divers pretexts. Sometimes he pretends to be a buyer
and spends a week in the planter’s house, boring him with rides through
the plantations and inspections of boundaries; eats and drinks of the
best that’s to be had; flirts with the servant-girls or the daughter
of the house or anyone he comes across, and at the best stage of the
game, beats it. He has done this a hundred times, always choosing
another neighbourhood. The rascal likes to change his diet! As the only
Trancoso here is this one I shall not present your proposal to the
rogue. Think of the Rag-Picker buying a farm!...”
Moreira dropped into a chair stupefied, with the letter on his knee.
Then the blood rose to his face and his eyes flashed.
The hope of the household fell with a crash, accompanied by the girl’s
tears, the old lady’s anger and the rage of the men. Zico proposed
leaving immediately on the track of the bandit, so as to smash his face
for him.
“Let it be, boy. The world rolls on. Some day I will run across him and
square accounts with this thief.”
Poor castles! There is nothing sadder than the sudden tumbling down
of illusions. The beautiful castles in Spain erected during a month
with the wonderful pile of money turned into dingy ruins. Dona Izaura
bewailed her cakes, her butter and chickens. As for Zilda, the disaster
had the effect of an icy blast across a tender flower in bloom. She
took to her bed in a fever. Her face became hollow. All the tragic
episodes in the novels she had read fled through her memory; she saw
in herself the victim of them all. And for days contemplated suicide.
Finally she became used to the idea and continued to live. Thus she
verified the fact that folks die of love only in fiction....
The story ends here--for the audience; for the gallery it still goes on
a bit. The audience is accustomed to simulate some fine habits of good
taste and tone, which are very laughable; it enters the theatre after
the play has begun, and leaves when the epilogue has hardly commenced.
Now the galleries want the whole thing so as to have their full money’s
worth to the last penny. In the novels and stories they ask insistently
for all the details of the plot and if the author, led by the teaching
of his school, presents them with the half-finished sentence which he
calls the impressionable note, at the most exciting point, they turn
up their noses. They want to know and they are perfectly right, if
So-and-so died, if the girl married happily, if the man finally sold
the fazenda. To whom and for how much.
Healthy, human and highly respectable curiosity!
“Did poor Moreira sell the fazenda?”
I am sorry to say that he did not! And he did not sell it due to the
most unconceivable of all the misunderstandings invented in the world
by the devil,--yes, because besides the devil, who would be capable of
tangling up the threads of the skein with such loops and knots just
when the piece of crochet is about to be finished?
Chance conferred upon Trancoso fifty contos in the lottery. Don’t
laugh. Why wouldn’t Trancoso be the chosen one if chance is blind and
he had the ticket in his pocket? He won the fifty contos which to a
poor beggar of that sort signified great wealth.
Once in possession of the pile of money, after weeks of dizziness he
decided to buy a fazenda. He wanted to stop up people’s mouths doing
something that had never entered his head: buy a plantation.
He passed in review all those that he had visited during the vagabond
years, leaning finally towards the Espigão fazenda. Contributing to
this were the memory of the girl, the old lady’s cakes and the idea of
giving over the administration of the fazenda to his father-in-law in
such a way as to leave him free to loaf, gently basking in Zilda’s love
and the culinary perfections of his mother-in-law.
Therefore he wrote to Moreira announcing his return in order to close
the deal.
Alas! when said letter reached the Espigão fazenda there were roars of
anger mingled with howls of vengeance.
“Now’s our chance!” said the old man. “The rascal liked the fun and
wants to repeat the dose; but this time I’ll fix you, see if I don’t!”
he ended rubbing his hands together in anticipation of revenge.
In pale Zilda’s sinking heart, however, there flashed a ray of hope.
The sombre night of her soul was lighted up by the moon-beam of a “who
knows?” However, she did not dare to face her father’s and brother’s
anger, for both had agreed upon a tremendous settling of accounts. She
pinned her faith on a miracle and lit another little candle to Saint
Anthony....
The great day arrived. Trancoso entered the fazenda dancing up on the
sorrel. Moreira went down to meet him below with his hands behind his
back. Even before reining up his horse, the amiable rogue had already
begun to exclaim:
“How do you do, my dear Moreira! At last the great day has arrived.
This time I’ve come to buy the fazenda.”
Moreira shook. He waited until the scoundrel had dismounted and hardly
had Trancoso thrown aside the reins and turned towards him with open
arms, all smiles, when the old man drew a whip from under his coat and
belaboured him with the fury of a wild boar.
“You want a plantation, you great scoundrel! Take that and that, you
thief!” and slash, slash, the whip fell in strong and angry strokes.
The poor fellow, dazed by the unexpected attack, fled to the horse and
mounted blindly, while Zico, the aggrieved all-but-brother-in-law, fell
upon him with another shower of whaling across his back.
Dona Izaura set the dogs on him:
“Catch him, Brinquinho! Hold tight, Joli!”
The unfortunate plantation-buyer, pursued like a fox on a run, spurred
his horse and flew, followed by a hail of insults and stones. As he
passed out of the gate he still managed to hear in the midst of the
yelling, the insults of the old woman:
“You cake eater! You butter swallower! Take that, and you’ll never try
it again, you robber of eggs and yams!”
And Zilda?
Back of the window-pane, her eyes swollen from crying, the sorrowful
girl saw disappear forever, wrapped in a cloud of dust, the gentle
knight of her golden dreams.
Unlucky Moreira thus lost on that day, the only chance Fortune had
given him in his life to make a profitable deal: getting rid at a
single stroke of his daughter and the Espigão fazenda....
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1: The translations are by a woman friend of Lobato’s,
resident in Brazil.
A more extended account of Senhor Lobato may be found in my
_Brazilian Literature_, pages 277 to 291. (New York, 1922).]
[Footnote 2: Supposed to be the windiest day of the year.]
[Footnote 3: A _mil réis_ is about 25 cents at par.]
[Footnote 4: An arroba equals 32 pounds.]
[Footnote 5: I. e. About 25 cents per 32 pounds.]
=TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES=
Simple typographical errors have been silently corrected; unbalanced
quotation marks were remedied when the change was obvious, and
otherwise left unbalanced.
Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were
made consistent when a predominant preference was found in the original
book; otherwise they were not changed.
In page 14, one real for nine yards means 20 réis for 180 yards or
about 166 metres--330 metres would be 40 réis and not 60 réis as
stated by the author.