XVI

Rose of love‚ rose so purple and fair‚

Who‚ amongst the wallflowers‚ scattered your petals on the grave?

‘The words of the immortal Almeida Garrett!’ And he went on in a slow‚ doleful voice:

‘Another angel gone to heaven! Another flower‚ barely opened‚ torn from its tender stem by the whirlwind of death in all its inclement fury‚ and hurled into the darkness of the tomb…’

He glanced at Julião hoping to elicit his admiration‚ but seeing him bent over his cup‚ earnestly stirring his coffee‚ he went on in ever more funereal tones:

‘Pause and regard the cold earth! There lies the chaste wife wrenched untimely from the caresses of her talented spouse. There‚ like a vessel caught in the waves that crash upon the shore‚ the virtuous lady foundered‚ she‚ whose playful nature charmed all those who had the honour of visiting her home! Why do you weep?’

‘Coffee‚ António!’ bawled the gruff voice of a heavily built fellow in a double-breasted overcoat‚ who sat down nearby‚ putting his walking stick on the table with a clatter‚ and pushing his hat back on his head.

The Councillor shot him a malevolent sideways glance. Then‚ lowering his voice‚ he went on:

‘Weep not! For an angel belongs not here on Earth but in heaven!’

‘Has Guedes been in yet?’ asked the gruff voice.

From behind the bar‚ as he wiped the metal trays with a rag‚ the waiter said:

‘No‚ not yet‚ Senhor Dom José!’

‘There‚’ continued the Councillor‚ ‘her spirit‚ flying free on snow-white wings‚ sings songs of praise to the Eternal One! Nor does she cease in her pleas to the Almighty to rain down graces and favours upon the head of her beloved husband‚ who‚ one day‚ never doubt it‚ will meet with her again in those celestial regions‚ homeland of all souls of great worth …’ And to indicate that ascent into paradise‚ the Councillor’s voice grew more mellifluous.

‘Wasn’t he in last night either?’ insisted the man in the overcoat‚ leaning both elbows on the table and blowing out a large cloud of cigarette smoke.

‘He came in very late‚ about two o’clock.’

In dumb despair‚ the Councillor rustled the sheet of paper. Behind the smoked lenses of his glasses his eyes flashed with the homicidal fury of an author interrupted. However‚ he proceeded:

‘And you‚ O sensitive souls‚ shed your tears‚ but in shedding them‚ never forget that man must always bow to the decrees of Providence…’

Then interrupting himself‚ he said:

‘I put that in so as to give strength to our poor Jorge!’ He resumed his reading: ‘… of Providence. God has one more angel now‚ and her soul shines purely…’

‘Was Guedes with ‘is girl?’ asked the man‚ tipping the ash from his cigar on the edge of the marble table.

The Councillor stopped‚ pale with rage.

‘He must be a person of very low origins‚’ he snarled.

And from behind the bar‚ the waiter said in his shrill little voice:

‘Oh‚ no‚ he’s going with some Spanish piece from up the road now. A very thin woman‚ with curly hair‚ wears a red cape…’

‘Ah‚ Lola!’ said the other man with satisfaction. And he stretched voluptuously at the thought of Lola.

The Councillor was reading more quickly now.

‘And what is life‚ after all? A swift passage over the earthly globe‚ and a vain dream from which we awake in the bosom of the Lord of Hosts‚ of which we are all unworthy vassals.’

And with that monarchical expression‚ the Councillor concluded.

‘What do you think? Tell me frankly.’

Julião was sipping the last of his coffee; returning the cup carefully to its saucer‚ he licked his lips and said:

‘Is it to be published?’

‘Yes‚ in the The Popular Voice‚ with a black border.’

Julião nervously scratched his scurfy scalp‚ then‚ getting up‚ said:

‘It’s very good‚ Councillor‚ very good indeed!’

Acácio fumbled for change to give the waiter and asked:

‘I feel it does credit both to her and to me!’

And they left in silence.

It was a very dark night; a cold northeast wind had got up; a few drops of rain had fallen. In the Praça do Loreto‚ Julião suddenly stopped and cried:

‘Oh‚ I forgot! Have you heard the latest news‚ Councillor? Dona Felicidade has entered the convent of the Incarnation.’

‘Really?’

‘She told me so just now. I went to see her before visiting a patient of mine in Rua da Rosa. She had a bit of a fever. Nothing serious … It’s just the emotion and the shock! And that’s when she told me that she’s entering the convent tomorrow.’

The Councillor said:

‘I always knew that woman had retrograde ideas. The result of Jesuitical manoeuvrings‚ my friend!’ And he added in the melancholy tones of the dissatisfied liberal: ‘Reaction is raising its ugly head again!’

Julião took the Councillor’s arm familiarly and said‚ smiling:

‘What do you mean “reaction”!? It’s all because of you‚ you ungrateful wretch!’

The Councillor looked confused:

‘What are you insinuating‚ my noble friend?’

‘You know perfectly well! I’ve no idea how the devil she did it‚ but she found out something very grave…’

‘What? Believe me‚ I…’

‘The same thing that I found out‚ you rascal! That the Councillor has two pillows on his bed‚ but only one head. She told me so herself!’ And roaring with laughter‚ Julião strode off down Rua do Alecrim. The Councillor stood utterly still‚ his arms folded‚ as if he had been turned to stone.

‘The poor woman! A fatal passion!’ he muttered to himself at last. Then he smugly smoothed his moustaches.

Since he still had to write out a clean copy of the eulogy‚ he hurried home. He sat down with a blanket over his knees; soon‚ the responsibilities of the writer distracted him from the concerns of the man; and until eleven o’clock‚ in the silence of his sanctum sanctorum‚ his fine cursive‚ bureaucratic hand flowed nobly across a large sheet of fine paper. He had nearly finished when the door creaked open‚ and Adelaide‚ a thick shawl about her shoulders‚ came in to say in a hoarse‚ snuffly voice:

‘Isn’t it time we were off to bed?’

‘I won’t be long‚ Adelaide‚ my dear‚ I won’t be long!’

He quietly re-read to himself what he had written. It seemed to him that the ending was not moving enough; he wanted to finish with a grieving exclamation‚ like a prolonged cry of pain! He thought hard‚ his elbows on the desk‚ his head resting on his splayed fingers. Adelaide came slowly over to him and stroked his bald head; and that sweet‚ amorous touch clearly made an idea leap out like a spark‚ for he quickly took up his pen and added: ‘Weep! Weep! As for myself‚ grief o’erwhelms me!’

He rubbed his hands gleefully together. He repeated out loud in plangent tones:

‘Weep! Weep! As for myself‚ grief o’erwhelms me!’ And putting one concupiscent arm about Adelaide’s waist‚ exclaimed:

‘That’s it‚ Adelaide‚ spot on!’

He got to his feet. He had completed his day. It had been both full and honourable: in the morning‚ he had noted with joy the news in the Court Gazette that there was no news to report about the royal family; he had done his duty as a friend‚ accompanying Luiza to the cemetery in a hired carriage; the rise in share prices ensured peace in his country; he had composed a remarkable piece of prose; and his Adelaide loved him! He doubtless took great pleasure in these certain happinesses‚ in such stark contrast to the sepulchral images evoked by his pen‚ for Adelaide heard him murmur:

‘Life is an inestimable good!’ Then he added like a good citizen: ‘Especially in this era of great public prosperity!’

And he went into his bedroom with his head high‚ his chest out‚ his step firm‚ and holding aloft a candlestick.

His Adelaide followed him‚ yawning; her head cold had made her weary‚ as had the hour of love she had enjoyed in the afternoon with Arnaldo‚ the sweet‚ fair-haired shop assistant in the Loja da América.

At that moment‚ two men were getting out of a carriage at the door of the Hotel Central; one was wearing a check ulster‚ the other a long fur coat. Almost simultaneously‚ an omnibus stopped‚ piled high with luggage.

A German servant‚ talking quietly to the porter‚ recognised them at once‚ and taking off his bowler hat‚ cried:

‘Senhor Bazilio! Viscount!’

Viscount Reinaldo‚ who was stamping his feet on the flagstones‚ muttered from inside his fur coat:

‘Yes‚ here we are back in the pigsty!’

But what were they doing arriving at this late hour?

‘What time do you expect us to arrive? According to the timetable perhaps? We are a mere twelve hours late! Why‚ in Portugal that’s almost nothing!’

‘Was there some accident?’ asked the servant solicitously‚ following them up the stairs.

And Reinaldo‚ walking gingerly over the rough mats in the corridor‚ said:

‘This whole country is one great accident! Everything was derailed. It is only by a miracle that we are here at all! What a pathetic place!’ And he vented his spleen on the servant; he was in such a foul mood that he would have vented it on the cobbles in the street if necessary. ‘For a year now‚ my one prayer has been: “Please‚ God‚ send another earthquake!” Every day I read the news to see if the earthquake has arrived … but no! A minister has fallen or a baron has risen. But no earthquake! The Almighty turns a deaf ear to my prayers. He protects this country. Well‚ all I can say is that they deserve each other!’ And he smiled‚ vaguely grateful to a nation whose defects supplied him with so much material for his jibes.

But when the servant‚ in great trepidation‚ told him that the only rooms available were a salon and one bedroom with two beds‚ on the third floor‚ Reinaldo’s anger knew no bounds.

‘Do you mean we have to sleep in the same room? Do you think perhaps that Senhor Dom Bazilio here is my lover‚ you libertine! Is the place entirely full? But who the devil would want to come to Portugal? Foreigners? That’s precisely what I find so horrifying!’ He gave a bitter shrug of his shoulders. ‘It’s the climate‚ it’s the climate that attracts them! That prodigious national lure – the climate! And a pestilential climate it is! There is nothing more vulgar than a good climate!’

And he continued to heap invective on his country‚ while the servant‚ with an unctuous smile on his lips‚ hurriedly placed on the table‚ plates‚ ham‚ some cold chicken and a bottle of Burgundy.

Reinaldo had come to sell off his last bit of land‚ and had accompanied Bazilio‚ who was here to complete ‘that tedious rubber deal’. And he did nothing but mumble darkly from inside his fur coat:

‘Here we are! Here are we again in the piggery!’

Bazilio did not reply. Ever since they had arrived at Santa Apolónia station‚ memories of ‘Paradise’‚ of Luiza’s house‚ of last summer’s romance‚ were beginning to come back to him and they had for him a piquant charm. He went over to the window where he leaned against the panes. A cold‚ pale moon was racing between large‚ leaden clouds; sometimes a great glittering mesh of light would fall upon the water‚ then everything would grow dark again; the vague shapes of masts stood out against the diffuse blackness‚ as did the occasional coldly glimmering light from a ship.

‘I wonder what she’ll be doing now‚’ Bazilio was thinking. She would probably be going to bed. She did not even know he was there in a room in the Hotel Central.

He and the Viscount had supper.

Afterwards‚ Bazilio took the bottle of cognac over to his bedside table‚ and‚ with his face covered in powder‚ the ruffles of his nightshirt open over his chest‚ he stretched out‚ exhaling the smoke from his cigar and savouring a pleasant sense of lassitude.

‘I know what you’ll be doing tomorrow‚’ said Reinaldo. ‘You’ll be going straight round to see that cousin of yours!’

Bazilio smiled and his eyes drifted up to the ceiling; the memory of her particular beauties and her amorous temperament awoke in him a vague voluptuousness; he yawned.

‘Well‚ damn it‚’ he said‚ ’she’s a very pretty girl! She’s worth a bit of trouble!’ He drank another glass of cognac‚ and shortly afterwards‚ he was deep asleep. It was midnight.

At that hour‚ Jorge was waking up and‚ seated motionless in a chair‚ his body still shaken by weary sobs‚ he too was thinking about Luiza. Sebastião‚ in his room‚ was weeping softly. Julião was still at his medical practice‚ lying on a sofa reading a copy of the Revue des deux mondes. Leopoldina was dancing at a soirée held at Cunha’s house. The others were all asleep. And the same cold wind sweeping along the clouds and stirring the gas in the streetlamps set the branches of the tree above Luiza’s grave sadly rustling.

Two days later‚ in the morning‚ Bazilio was in the Rossio looking around for a decent coupé. Pintéus‚ spotting him from afar‚ drove straight over to him. ‘Pintéus‚ at your service‚ sir!’ He seemed delighted to see Senhor Dom Bazilio again. And Bazilio had only to say:

‘To Rua da Patriarcal‚ Pintéus!’

‘To the lady’s house‚ you mean‚ sir? Right you are‚ sir.’ And sitting very erect on his seat‚ he set off at a lick.

When the carriage stopped at Jorge’s door‚ Senhor Paula came out into the street‚ Senhora Helena of the tobacconist’s shop emerged from behind the counter‚ the mathematics teacher’s maid peered out of the window‚ and all of them‚ poised and waiting‚ watched with wide eyes.

Bazilio‚ feeling slightly nervous‚ rang the bell; he waited‚ discarded his cigar and rang the bell again‚ harder this time.

‘The windows are all closed‚ sir‚’ said Pintéus.

Bazilio stepped out into the middle of the street; the green shutters were indeed closed; the house had a silent air about it.

Bazilio addressed Senhor Paula:

‘Are the people who live here away?’

‘They don’t live there any more‚’ said Senhor Paula glumly‚ wiping his moustache with his hand.

Bazilio stared at him‚ surprised by the funereal tone of his voice.

‘Where do they live then?’

Senhor Paula noisily cleared his throat‚ then fixed Bazilio with a desolate eye and said:

‘Are you the relative?’

Bazilio said‚ smiling:

‘Yes‚ I’m the relative.’

‘So you haven’t heard‚ then?’

‘Heard what‚ man?’

Senhor Paula rubbed his chin and‚ shaking his head‚ announced:

‘Well‚ I’m sorry to tell you this‚ but the lady is dead.’

‘What lady?’ asked Bazilio. And he turned very pale.

‘The lady! Senhora Dona Luiza‚ the wife of Senhor Carvalho‚ the engineer. Senhor Jorge is staying at Senhor Sebastião’s house‚ at the end of the street. If you want to call…’

‘No!’ said Bazilio with a rapid movement of his hand. His lips were trembling slightly. ‘But what happened?’

‘A fever. It carried her off in two days!’

Bazilio walked slowly to the carriage‚ his head bowed. He looked again at the house‚ then got into the carriage and slammed the door. Pintéus galloped back to the Baixa.

Senhor Paula went over to the tobacconist’s shop.

‘He didn’t seem very upset! These noblemen‚ huh! Scum!’ he muttered.

The tobacconist’s wife said mournfully:

‘I’m not even a relative‚ but I still say two Our Fathers for her soul every night…’

‘So do I!’ sighed the coal merchant’s wife.

‘And a fat lot of good that will do her!’ snorted Senhor Paula‚ moving off.

He had been in a rather sour mood lately. Business was bad‚ and these deaths in the street had made him mistrustful of life. Every day he detested the priesthood more heartily and every night he read the copy of The Nation that Azevedo lent him‚ feasting vindictively on the devotional essays‚ which exasperated him and drove him further into atheism; his dissatisfaction with public life was inclining him more and more towards the Commune. According to him‚ everything was‚ as he put it‚ ‘a load of old rubbish’.

It was doubtless under the influence of this feeling that‚ returning to the door of the tobacconist’s‚ he said to his neighbours with a sombre air:

‘Do you know what this is? Do you know what all this is?’ He made a gesture that took in the whole universe‚ then looked at them irately and snarled out these words: ‘It’s all just a big pile of manure!’

As he was going down Rua do Alecrim‚ Bazilio saw Viscount Reinaldo standing at the door of a hotel. He ordered Pintéus to stop‚ and jumping out of the carriage‚ cried:

‘Do you know what?’

‘What?’

‘My cousin has died.’

The Viscount murmured politely:

‘Oh‚ poor thing!’

And they walked down the street‚ arm in arm‚ as far as the Aterro. It was a glorious day; a chill‚ subtle wind was blowing; in the light‚ luminous‚ sunfilled air‚ the houses‚ the branches of trees‚ the masts of sailing barges and ships stood out in stark outline; every sound could be heard clearly and brightly; the river glittered like blue metal; the steamboat to Cacilhas sent up coils of smoke that took on the colour of milk; and in the background‚ the hills created a bluish shadow in the dusty light‚ against which the houses gleamed whitely.

And the two men walked slowly along‚ talking about Luiza.

Viscount Reinaldo‚ out of politeness‚ expressed his regret that the poor lady had allowed herself to die at a time of such splendid weather!

‘But then‚ I always found the affair absurd.’

Because‚ to be perfectly frank‚ what did she have to offer? He did not wish to speak ill ‘of the poor lady now lying in that ghastly Prazeres cemetery’‚ but the truth was that she was hardly a very chic mistress; she travelled in hired carriages; she wore woollen stockings; she had married a vulgar ministry hireling; she lived in a miserable little house; she had no decent friends to speak of; she probably played lotto and wore felt slippers around the house; she lacked both wit and elegance. Frankly‚ she was an encumbrance!

‘But for the couple of months a year that I’m in Lisbon …‚’ muttered Bazilio‚ his head down.

‘Yes‚ perhaps for that purpose‚ for reasons of hygiene!’ sneered Reinaldo.

And they continued slowly on in silence. They laughed uproariously at a man struggling to control two black horses: Call that a phaeton! And the way the horses were harnessed … What a complete lack of style! It was the kind of thing that could only happen in Lisbon!

They turned round at the end of the Aterro‚ and Viscount Reinaldo‚ stroking his sideburns‚ said:

‘So‚ you’re without a woman‚ then.’

Bazilio gave a resigned smile. Then‚ after a silence‚ he scraped his walking stick noisily along the ground and said:

‘Damned nuisance really! I could have brought Alphonsine with me!’

And they went into the Taverna Inglesa to have a glass of sherry.

September 1876–September 1877