The next day, their departure for Paris was fixed; they would leave in September, and they would travel overland, spending two weeks in Madrid and possibly a few days in the Pyrenees. Genoveva laughed eagerly and excitedly to think of the pleasures of that journey. Vítor was no less enchanted with the idea; Genoveva’s kisses and embraces had dissolved what remained of his character and will. He felt like soft wax when he was with her, incapable of resisting her. A single word could reduce him to a state of despicable weakness, and certain kisses seemed to suck up his very soul, enfolding him in such ardent pleasure that he would, if she had asked him, have become a thief; Genoveva’s zealous, egotistical love had extinguished in him everything that did not satisfy or serve that love; it had extinguished his will, his dignity, his desire to work and all thought for the future; it had preserved in him only furious desire and one talent, a talent for writing verse. His sole occupations were to love her and to write lyric poetry. All that remained of him was rhyme, metre and his poetic temperament. The idea of the journey corresponded to his deepest desires, it was an idea he had always nurtured: the classic dream of the sentimental, to go on a journey with the woman one loved, and now he was about to see that dream fulfilled. How could he even think of resisting? Besides, it was childish to worry about money; if they loved each other, then what was hers was his; love should be prepared to sacrifice everything, and since love was of a divine nature, why would it not have the same validating effects as marriage, given that marriage was merely an administrative affair? And if his conscience could live with it, why should he care what others thought? Who were those others anyway? Dâmasos and Marinhos and Carvalhosas. He, after all, was a man of pure ideals, the bourgeois laws governing trivial morality were not made for him.
And as for Uncle Timóteo … That thought made him feel uncomfortable; he did not dare to tell him he was leaving with Genoveva; he respected and feared him and, being of a naturally loving disposition, he had grown fond of the good old man during the many years he had lived with him. What should he do? His effeminate nature immediately suggested this feminine idea: he would pack his bags in secret, run away and leave his uncle a letter.
With all diffculties smoothed away, he abandoned himself to the delightful prospect of that great romantic adventure; but there were still things to be bought, shirts, a velvet smoking jacket, patent leather shoes, a new tailcoat … because in their new life such things would be as essential as his uniform is to a soldier.
Meanwhile, he noticed that Genoveva seemed, at times, preoccupied; he would look up and find her staring at him, as if studying him, as if about to say something very serious. At other times, she seemed sad; he was occasionally surprised by things she said, which seemed to reveal a fear that their love was over. He became worried and asked her:
‘Aren’t you happy? Isn’t it enough that I’ve agreed to come with you?’
‘No, it’s not enough, not yet,’ she replied.
What did she want then? But when he asked her, Genoveva would smile and say secretively:
‘I’ll tell you in Paris.’
One day, it suddenly occurred to Vítor that she might be pregnant. He knelt at her feet and whispered the question in her ear. She laughed loudly.
‘No, no, don’t be silly!’ And then she sighed: ‘If only I were.’
She was thinking about marriage. She had been thinking about it from the moment she had fallen in love, but now that she knew Vítor’s weak, loving, submissive nature, the possibility of marriage only increased her desire for it. She had at last found the great passion for which she had longed all her life and which, like some marvellous bird, had always seemed far away, flying across some distant sky. And now that she had it, she wanted to use every means at her disposal to preserve that love and not let it escape.
Vítor fulfilled all her desires; he was beautiful as an angel, according to her, and she adored him; he was submissive and malleable enough always to obey her; he was intelligent and elegant enough to satisfy her pride; and, of course, he was the heir to Uncle Timóteo’s eighty contos. Where would she find another man like him, especially now that her youth was past and her skin was beginning to show the first signs of ageing?
If she did not bind him to her with something stronger than lust or love, he might, after a year or two, leave her. And if she did not gain his consent now, while she could dominate him by vanity, concupiscence, pleasure and beauty, it would be too late afterwards. With her fortune and his they could live happily in Paris, but she did not want to speak to him directly of marriage, she wanted the idea to surface first in his own mind; if he were to throw himself into her arms in joyful acceptance as soon as she mentioned it, it was vital that he should have secretly desired it all along.
She began, therefore, by doing everything she could to nurture that idea, to develop and embellish it. She skilfully disguised her ambitions beneath the solicitude of love.
One Saturday night, she said suddenly:
‘Would you come with me to mass tomorrow morning? Very early, at seven o’clock … so as not to compromise you. It would bring good fortune on our love …’
Vítor went with her and thought she looked wonderful, all dressed in black, bent over her prayer book, in an attitude of elegant devotion.
During the following week, she often spoke to him of the church, of religion and repentance, and was always quick to add that it was love which had brought her back to morality; he could not imagine how much she regretted her past errors; her martyrdom was to have belonged to another man, but her soul and her heart were still virginal, and they belonged to him alone. She had said to him:
‘You are the husband of my heart; in my heart you are my first and only lover.’
Such eloquent refinement thrilled Vítor. She took other pains with him as well. Who starched his clothes? she wanted to know. His shirts were never properly starched. It wasn’t his fault, poor love, he didn’t have a wife to look after his things. In Paris, he would see what care she took of everything. She started embroidering him handkerchiefs. She changed her manners, her clothes, her expressions. She affected charitable attitudes, a lofty morality. One day, she heard him humming her favourite song:
Chaque femme a sa toquade,
Sa marotte et son dada …
She asked him not to sing ‘that dreadful song’.
‘It reminds me of people from the past,’ she said sadly.
She dressed more soberly, choosing severe colours. He voiced his regret that she no longer wore the very outfits that made her so exciting and captivating.
‘They’re the kind of clothes a cocotte would wear, and I’m a married lady now. I’ve done with being chic.’
She even crossed herself before going to bed.
One day, seeing her dressed in those dark clothes, sewing at the window, her sweet profile silhouetted against the light, Vítor thought:
‘What an adorable woman! What a wife! What a shame we met so late!’
In the midst of all those concerns, he had somewhat neglected the portrait and, one morning, he received a letter from Camilo Cerrão, which said:
I demand the return of my model, who has not appeared now for two whole weeks. What does this mean? Has she changed her mind? That would be unforgivable! I was counting on this portrait to launch my career; surely you want me to have within my grasp glory, fortune and a remarkable piece of work? All this is vanishing like a soap bubble. Genoveva will be responsible to Art and to God (if such a hypothesis is acceptable) of failing to make use of an artist. Bring her here, my boy, for her to be immortalised in oils.
Yours etc. Camilo
Genoveva found the joke about God in bad taste, but Vítor convinced her that it would a terrible disappointment for poor Camilo: ‘Who knows, the portrait might make him his fortune?’
‘I don’t like his wife.’
‘Oh, honestly,’ said Vítor, shrugging, but feeling the colour rise in his cheeks. ‘Will you go there today at two o’clock? Say you will.’
‘Only because you want me to, my little husband,’ she said, looking at him tenderly and humbly.
And Vítor went ahead to forewarn Camilo. He found the door open; it was half past one; he went into the studio; instead of Camilo he saw Joana sitting at the window, sewing. She got up, her face flushed. She said that Camilo would be back at two. They both stood there, embarrassed, until Vítor, out of politeness, took her hands, glanced around him and kissed her coldly. She put her arms about his neck, lay her head on his shoulder and Vítor heard her sobbing softly.
‘Look, someone might come in,’ he said, trying to push her away.
‘What do I care?’ she said tearfully.
‘Well, I do!’ he said. He immediately regretted such brutality; her tears flattered his pride and, despite himself, Joana’s beauty sapped his strength and reawoke his desire. He slowly disentangled himself from her, and said gently:
‘There now, don’t be silly, calm down.’
‘Is that woman your lover?’ she asked, her arms hanging by her side, the tears rolling down her face.
‘You know she is.’
She dropped down onto the divan and her magnificent breasts shook with her sobs. Vítor was desperate. What if Camilo should arrive and find her bathed in tears. It would be dreadfully embarrassing. In a moment of cowardice, he picked up his hat.
But she grasped his arms, took his hat from him and said pleadingly:
‘Just one moment longer. I won’t cry any more.’
And she wiped away her tears, controlled her sobs and remained sitting on the divan, her eyes fixed on him in dumb despair. Vítor sat down next to her, saying:
‘You must be sensible.’
But a wave of desire filled her and, with a sob, she put her arms about Vítor and kissed his face, his lips, his eyes. He felt himself weakening, but a rustle of silk in the corridor alerted him, and he just had time to push Joana away and see Genoveva, looking very pale, standing in the doorway.
He got to his feet as Genoveva, her hands trembling, her lips drained of colour, came slowly into the studio, her cold, angry eyes fixed on Joana and on him.
‘You do know,’ she said to Joana, ‘that this man is my lover.’
Joana, looking deathly pale, said nothing. Genoveva shot her a cruel, piercing look.
‘Well, if you forget again, I will find some other way of reminding you.’
Then turning imperiously to Vítor:
‘Shall we go?’
Vítor silently followed. A carriage was waiting at the door and they rode all the way to Rua das Flores without saying a word, without even looking at each other. Vítor paid the driver and went up the stairs behind Genoveva. They went into the living room and Genoveva hurriedly removed her hat, threw it down on a chair and looked at herself in a mirror. Then, pale as wax, she turned brusquely round:
‘What more do you want from me?’
‘Listen, Genoveva …’
‘What? I’ve sacrificed everything for you, wealth, amusements, pleasures, luxuries, everything, and you deceive me with a servant, a cook, a nothing …’
In his distress, almost weeping, his voice trembling, Vítor tried to embrace her, crying:
‘Please, for God’s sake, listen to me!’
And he gave her a hurried account of how he had met the woman before he had ever been with her, that he had never flirted with her or tempted her, that it had been she who … That he had been alone with her once in the studio, that it had been a moment of madness, of stupidity … It had only happened that once.
‘You’re lying!’
‘I swear on my mother’s soul!’ he said suddenly.
There was a silence. She was shaking her head sadly.
‘No, Vítor. Listen, I love you as much as it is possible to love another person in this world. I adore you. I was prepared to give you my whole life, to be your slave, your mistress, whatever you wanted, my love.’
Those words provoked in Vítor a delirious exaltation. He murmured:
‘Oh, Genoveva, Genoveva!’
‘But my trust has been destroyed,’ she said sadly. ‘I can never trust you again.’ Rocking her clasped hands back and forth, she cried: ‘Oh, my God, my God!’
Two tears ran down her cheeks, and she fell onto the sofa, sobbing.
He threw himself at her feet and said wildly:
‘Ask me anything you like as a proof of my love. I want to give you my life, everything …’
‘No,’ she said, sobbing. ‘I’m going away, I’m going to leave, where I don’t know. Oh, my God, my God!’
‘If you leave, I’ll kill myself!’
He had got to his feet. At that moment, he spoke with the utter sincerity of passion. Seeing their love ebbing away, his life seemed to him in ruins.
She walked towards him; her eyes held him; he had never seen her look so beautiful; her tears lent a new purity to her face; he found her noble, dignified, perfect. He said again:
‘Tell me what you want me to do, because I adore you and I ask only your forgiveness.’
She slowly placed her hands on his shoulders and in a low, tense voice said:
Vítor turned pale and recoiled slightly. Genoveva kept her eyes fixed on him. She gave an infinitely sad smile and murmured:
‘Don’t you want to?’
And she placed her hands on her heart and closed her eyes, as if she were about to faint.
He quickly took her in his arms.
‘I do, I do,’ he cried. ‘I do want to marry you, Genoveva, I do.’
She put her arms about his neck.
‘You’ll marry me?’
‘I swear by all that’s sacred. In a week’s time, here or in Paris, wherever you want.’
The rest of that afternoon was spent deliciously making plans. They would marry quietly in Lisbon, in the morning; she would wear black and he a frock coat. That same night, they would set off on their honeymoon. They would leave all the furniture in the apartment, and she would write to Dâmaso telling him to do with them as he wished. That generous gesture delighted Vítor.
‘You’re a good woman.’
‘As you will see,’ she said, with a smile that promised infinite joys.
Vítor could not stop looking at her and kissing her. There was something so sweet, so dignified, so noble about her face; tenderness shone in her eyes and a serene happiness showed in her every move.
And what a life they would live in Paris, hidden away in their cosy nest. It would be best not to sell the furniture at first, it would save them the expense of staying at a hotel, and the apartment was rented until December. They would have no carriage, of course, but there was nothing wrong with a hired cab.
Genoveva was radiant; she seemed to have acquired a veneer of girlishness; she blushed when he looked at her, as if she had been overtaken by a sudden virginity; she knelt at his feet, shyly submissive as a weary dove; she never wearied of calling him ‘my little husband’, and even when they went to the bedroom and Vítor took her in his arms, she displayed all the startled resistance of a fearful virgin.
Some days later, at a performance at the Teatro de São Carlos of Robert le Diable, just when the nuns, wearing short, full skirts and with their hair loose, were dancing in the ‘cloister of Santa Rosália’, Dâmaso came in, looking very pleased with himself. He threw his hat down on an empty seat, polished his opera glasses and examined the people in the boxes. In a box just above the stalls, Joana Coutinho gave him a simpering smile and discreetly beckoned to him. Dâmaso rushed to see her.
She was with a fellow called Lacerda, who had greying hair and a rather sickly look about him; he sat at the rear of the box, muffled up in his overcoat, sucking a cough drop.
Dona Joana Coutinho immediately said:
‘Have you heard the news? Genoveva is getting married.’
‘To Vítor?’
‘To Vítor.’
Dâmaso blushed scarlet and affected a rather coarse laugh. Then turning his plump face to her and fixing her with his little eyes, he said:
‘You are joking, aren’t you?’
And Dona Joana Coutinho told him that she had spent the afternoon with Genoveva, that all the papers had been drawn up and they were to leave for France.
‘Disgusting,’ muttered Lacerda, between coughing bouts.
‘What a fool!’ exclaimed Dâmaso and smugly rubbed his hands. He had seen it coming. She was after Uncle Timóteo’s eighty contos. But the old man was astute and very proud and quite capable of disinheriting Vítor.
‘Does his uncle know?’ he asked.
Dona Joana Coutinho was not sure. Of course, she thought marriage an excellent thing, a moral institution of which all Christians could not but approve. Genoveva may have made mistakes, but who among us has not? Marriage would wash all that away … She wished her joy. Genoveva was happy as a lark.
‘Though, frankly, between you and me, she doesn’t deserve him. She’s got no manners, none at all.’
‘No shame either,’ said Dâmaso.
‘And no delicacy of spirit,’ added Dona Joana.
Lacerda cleared his throat loudly and asked:
‘Has she got any money of her own?’
Dâmaso was about to say: ‘Only what I gave her’, but he restrained himself. He wanted to continue to be thought of as the man Genoveva had loved, and since Genoveva might have talked to Dona Joana about their relationship, he judged it best not to respond and pretended, instead, to be interested in the ballet.
‘How was the funeral scene?’
‘It was quite good today,’ said Dona Joana. ‘But the Spanish dancer, the big one, nearly fell over.’
Dâmaso sat for a moment twirling his moustache, then he got up and said goodbye. Out in the corridor, he lit a cigar and then left the theatre.
Vítor had not dared mention the portrait; Genoveva brought the matter up the following day, when she showed him a letter she had written to Camilo Cerrão, telling him she was leaving for France and regretted having to interrupt his work; she hoped he would keep the sketch he had done ready for her return; she had slipped twenty libras in notes into the envelope.
‘That should console him,’ she said.
Knowing Camilo’s interest in the portrait was artistic rather than mercenary, Vítor thought that such an offer might merely increase Camilo’s irritation at having to stop work. He made no objections, however, as he did not wish to appear overly concerned.
The following day, he was getting dressed at home before supper (he was going to the theatre that night with Genoveva), when Camilo Cerrão came into his room; he looked very fed up and seemed even more rumpled and dishevelled than usual. He began by removing Genoveva’s letter from his overcoat pocket and placing it on top of the chest of drawers, saying:
‘Give this to your good lady. What I’ve done so far isn’t worth twenty libras; it’s very kind of her, but … Anyway, we can talk again when she comes back …’
Vítor, who had coloured at this remark, mentioned the cost of canvas and paints, but Camilo interrupted him with a resolute gesture, and throwing himself down in an armchair, he began describing the life of the artist; he had come to the conclusion that he should change careers; in Portugal there was only a market for little art by little artists and a very narrow market at that, one that wanted iconography or illustrations for novels or serials; he regarded such things as a prostitution of his talent; he wanted to keep his talent pure and so had decided to go to Brazil.
‘Why?’
He had a sister there, married to some very rich man, who, by some strange coincidence, was a great art lover; he was perhaps the only such person in the whole of South America. This lover of art was offering him bed and board, as well as an introduction to theatre directors and a few mad collectors. He could make his fortune either as a designer of sets or by obtaining from the Brazilian government a commission to go to Italy and make copies of famous paintings. As soon as he had made a small fortune, twenty or thirty contos, ‘which, apparently, is perfectly possible’, he would return to Portugal, open a studio, gather some disciples around him and live a dignified existence, surrounded by works of art and living only for his ideal. If he didn’t make a fortune then he would die there. At least he would have a chance to experience the exuberance of Brazil’s vast forests.
Vítor was carefully combing his hair; he coughed and asked casually:
‘Are you going alone?’
‘Oh, yes. Joana is becoming unbearable; she spends all day as silent as a statue and as gloomy as a mausoleum. The baby cries all the time because he’s teething, and it’s impossible to work. I’ll leave them some money and send them an allowance every month. The woman seems rather pleased about the arrangement. I’m thinking of sending her back to Ílhavo. And then I start a new life.’
Sitting in the vast armchair, his head slumped on his chest, he had spoken in rather melancholy terms. Vítor, meanwhile, was meticulously tying his white tie. The resigned, indifferent way in which Camilo spoke of ‘the woman’ diminished any feelings of remorse Vítor might have had. He even said rather bluntly:
‘Well, she wasn’t the right woman for you anyway.’
‘No, I see that now. An artist’s wife should be an artist herself, she should have an artist’s intelligence, understanding, taste … But perhaps the best thing is to live alone, as powerful and solitary as Alfred de Vigny’s Moses.’
He rolled a cigarette between his fingers and, seeing Vítor putting on his tailcoat, said:
‘Are you going out somewhere?’
‘Yes, to the theatre.’
And Camilo immediately began praising Genoveva. She was, he thought, a supreme example of modern beauty, the embodiment of years of civilisation and of the genius of all the truly great prostitutes of the past.
When Vítor heard that word used to describe the woman who was to be his wife, he went as red as if someone had slapped him.
‘Alas,’ Camilo went on, ‘these mean-spirited, constitutional times do not allow for the development of such a magnificent embodiment of dramatic sensuality. Before, especially in the sixteenth century, such a woman would have been the centre of intellectual, artistic and political life; all the great ideas and poetry of the day would have happened around her bed, on which she would have lain as if on an altar, a queen of grace and a goddess of beauty; poets would have written poems for her, the Titians of the day would have immortalised her in paintings; her words would have settled arguments between philosophers; in her bedroom, plots would have been hatched and wars declared; princes would have handed her slippers to her; while she was dressing, she would have given audience to cardinals, who would have asked her questions about dogma; the great sculptors and jewellers would have invented for her the most sublime works of art; popes would have kissed her white feet; such women would have inspired the sailors on galleys, would have inspired great victories, would have been the muses of a pagan cult. But,’ he added, ‘today all they do is exploit some temperamental grocer, fall in love with a shop assistant and end up marrying some nincumpoop who is only after the money other men gave them, or who is dazzled by their first glimpse of underwear trimmed with Mechlin lace. We live in ignorant times.’
Vítor was by now deathly pale. He had gone over to the window and was looking out, so as to hide his feelings; every word had fallen on his ears like a scornful insult. He almost wondered if Camilo knew about him and Joana and was having his revenge with those disdainful remarks about his marriage to Genoveva. But Camilo was speaking very calmly, as if delivering a critical lecture. What would he think if he knew? What he said was like a fragment of the thoughts of all honest men.
Vítor walked about the room, looked at himself in the mirror, put his hands in his pockets and stared down as if studying his patent leather shoes.
‘Passion justifies everything.’
‘At least,’ said Camilo, ‘it lends our actions a suggestion of fatefulness that makes them interesting.’
He stretched, yawned and drew his hand across his face; he was about to get up when the bedroom door opened and Uncle Timóteo appeared.
‘Oh, I thought you were alone,’ he said to Vítor. ‘I’ll wait for you downstairs.’ He closed the door, and they heard the sound of his wooden leg moving off down the corridor.
Camilo picked up his hat.
‘But you’re not leaving for Brazil immediately,’ said Vítor. ‘Who knows, you might change your mind.’
‘No, I’ve had enough of this rabble. And I’d like to see the sea, the jungle and the vast rivers. After all, landscape is the noblest part of art; modern man lives so removed from the natural world, that an art which surrounds man with nature, which makes nature portable, bringing it into the dining room and the bedroom, interpreted and selected, does the greatest service to man; it puts him in permanent communication with nature. And nature is everything: it calms, consoles, elevates, refines and vivifies. Goodbye.’
Vítor remained for a moment in his room, worried. What could Uncle Timóteo want? He only ever came to see him in his room when he was ill. His heart beat a little faster as he went down the stairs.
He found his uncle in his study, looking stern and worried, his eyes red. He was sitting by the window and, as soon as Vítor came in, he got up and went over to his desk; the dull thud of his wooden leg had a grim solemnity; and Vítor, feeling slightly awkward in his white tie and tails, in the presence of that sad old man, asked rather unsteadily if he wanted anything.
Timóteo shuffled a few papers on his desk and said:
‘I don’t normally pay much attention to anonymous letters, but I would just like to know if this is true. Read it.’
And he handed Vítor an envelope. Vítor realised at once that the letter it contained must be about Genoveva, their marriage and departure for Paris; his first startled reaction, a timid one, was to deny everything. He opened the letter with slightly trembling hands and read:
Dear Sir,
A person with the greatest respect for your character warns you of the plans of a shameless woman who threatens to destroy for ever your name and your family. Your nephew Vítor is about to marry a certain adventuress who calls herself Genoveva, who is, to put it bluntly, a prostitute with whom your nephew has been living. Try to put a stop to this scandal while there is still time.
‘It’s from that fool Dâmaso!’ said Vítor. ‘He wants revenge.’
Timóteo stared at him hard; the lines in his face seemed to have grown deeper; he looked rather pale and weary; his lips were white.
Vítor realised how distressing the news was to his uncle. He kept repeating awkwardly:
‘It’s from Dâmaso.’
‘I don’t care who it’s from, I just want to know if it’s true.’ And raising his hand, he said with an intensity that Vítor had never heard before: ‘Just tell me the truth. If I found out you had lied to me …’ He stopped and gestured with his clenched fist. ‘Be a good chap and just tell me the truth.’
Vítor was as pale as wax; he kept his eyes fixed on the floor. Realising that he could not lie and feeling the full force of Uncle Timóteo’s accusation, he said in a faint voice:
‘It’s true.’
‘Do you want to marry this creature?’
Vítor did not respond. Standing by the desk, he kept mechanically opening and closing a book.
‘Answer me, man!’
And Uncle Timóteo’s eyes flashed.
‘Well, the fact is, Uncle, I gave her my word.’
‘Idiot!’ exclaimed Uncle Timóteo.
His lips were trembling with anger. He paced up and down the room, thumping his cane on the floor, then he stopped:
‘So you want to marry a shameless hussy who has had more men handle her than a pack of cards, who will sleep with a man for a couple of libras, and who is only interested in my money.’
‘Uncle Timóteo,’ said Vítor indignantly, but he was frightened too.
‘What? Are you going to deny that she arrived from abroad with a man called Gomes, that she lived with Dâmaso all winter, that she hired herself out at so much a night? Are you trying to tell me she’s a decent person, an honest woman, a virgin?’
Vítor stammered:
‘She may have made a few mistakes …’
‘Mistakes!’ bawled Uncle Timóteo. ‘Does being a professional whore constitute making a few mistakes?’
Vítor slammed the book down on the table and in a voice shaking more with pain than anger, he said:
‘If the only reason you called me in was to insult her …’
His voice broke and he slowly turned his back.
‘Listen to me,’ roared Uncle Timóteo in a terrifying voice, banging his cane hard on the floor. ‘I have brought you up, clothed you, shod you, taken care of you; I have been a father to you; I think that gives me the right to speak to you when I see you about to commit a gross error.’
Vítor stopped and, head lowered, he approached the desk again; he was in such a state of inner turmoil that he could not utter a single word in reply. His brain weighed heavy and his blood ran cold in his veins.
‘Close that door,’ bellowed Uncle Timóteo, folding his arms. ‘Right, tell me what exactly you think your position will be once you have married this creature?’ And without waiting for a reply, he went on: ‘I’ll tell you, shall I? You’ll be no better than a pimp! Yes, a pimp! How else can I describe a man who walks down the street arm in arm with a woman whose legs and every other part of her anatomy are familiar to the whole world? Even the petticoats she’s wearing were bought for her by someone else! The supper you eat at her house is paid for with the money some other man left on her bedside table in the morning.’
Vítor went red to the roots of his hair. For a moment, he stared, eyes glittering, at Uncle Timóteo; then, in a strangulated voice, he said:
‘I won’t have you talk about her like that. If you weren’t my uncle and an old man … You have no right to insult me. You can throw me out of your house. No, you needn’t bother, I’ll leave.’
‘Leave, then!’ shouted Timóteo and, his arms shaking, he added: ‘Scoundrel!’
Vítor left, slamming the door. He went up to his room and, in the grip of anger, he decided to leave the house that instant. He dragged an old suitcase from beneath the bed and started piling clothes into it; he felt overwhelmed by violent anger; he hated Uncle Timóteo, thought him ungrateful, hard, tyrannical; certain things he had said still burned in his consciousness; he trembled at the truth he found in them and his mind was caught up in a storm of contradictions.
The door opened and Uncle Timóteo appeared. He was extremely pale; he stood leaning on his stick, looking at Vítor, who was surprised and slightly ashamed, holding a tailcoat in one hand and a pair of trousers over one arm.
‘So, my boy,’ said his uncle, ‘are you really so madly in love with this woman?’
Those words spoken in a quiet, almost friendly tone, touched Vítor; he felt his eyes fill with tears; the very sacrifice he was making for Genoveva exalted his love for her, and in a passionate, almost desperate voice, he said:
‘I am, I swear I am. We’ll go to Paris where no one knows me, where no one will talk about us. It’s the only way I can be happy.’
Timóteo came into the room and sat at the foot of the bed and, for a while, said nothing.
‘Are you sure she would sacrifice everything for you too?’
‘Yes, I am,’ said Vítor passionately.
Timóteo gave a disdainful shrug.
‘My friend, if I were to go to her tomorrow and offer her four or five contos to leave you and to leave Portugal, you can be sure that she would accept.’
‘For God’s sake!’ exclaimed Vítor.
Timóteo looked at him pityingly, the way one might listen to the ravings of a lunatic.
‘I don’t doubt the woman loves you; you’re young, you’re pleasant company, etc. That’s all very well, but apart from your face and your twenty-three years, which always make a favourable impression on women, I think she’s in love with the eighty contos that people say I have and that I’ll leave to you. Believe me. Of course, you give her a great deal of pleasure and she finds you absolute perfection, but it pleases her too that your handsome eyes are accompanied by those eighty contos. I can perfectly well believe that you were her reason for leaving Dâmaso, who, because he’s a fool, gave her a fair bit of money, but that you should marry her! That is precisely what such women want. They want to find a young man they like, from a good, reasonably wealthy family, someone willing to give them his name. And since this doesn’t happen every day, she does everything she can to bait the trap; what you take for passion is pure calculation. But even if she were truly in love with you and prepared to accept you poor, is that a proper fate for a decent man – to abandon everything, to destroy his relatives and his family, to ruin himself for ever by marrying a prostitute? And for what? In order to spend his whole life loving? Oh, Vítor,’ and Uncle Timóteo’s voice became affectionately solemn, ‘if you want to travel, to Spain or Italy, you know I’ll give you the money. Have fun; forget her. Before you leave, buy her a nice present. I’ll even give you the money to do so; behave like a gentleman and you’ll see how easily consoled she is. Just remember one thing; if you marry, you dishonour yourself and me. Since I cannot live with such dishonour, I won’t blow my brains out, no, but I will shut myself up in my study and never see another living soul until I die. Other than that, I only hope that God or Fate or the Devil, or whoever it is up there, does not leave me to moulder very long in this wretched world. But that’s enough sermonising. Think about it. You can have the money if you want it. Let’s not fall out over it. Let’s embrace and to hell with the woman. What do you say?’
Vítor was biting his lips in order not to cry.
‘Well?’ insisted Uncle Timóteo.
Vítor stammered out:
‘I don’t quite know, Uncle. I’ll see … but suddenly to …’
Timóteo got to his feet and said sadly:
‘The best decisions are the ones taken quickly, my friend. If you see her now, there’ll be tears and scenes and everything will become muddied again. I’ll tell you what. Let me talk to her.’
Vítor ran a hand over his hair and looked at his uncle.
‘I’ll just tell her the truth: that if you intend to marry her, I’ll take my money and go and live in England, and leave anything that remains to the poor. And you’ll see how that cools her ardour.’
‘And if she doesn’t care, if she proves she’s not interested in your money?’ cried Vítor. ‘If she doesn’t even want to marry me, if she only wants to live with me?’
Timóteo thought.
‘If she wants only to live with you as your lover, then that’s fine; I’ll give you the money to pay for her and ruin us both.’
As he was leaving the room, he turned and said:
‘And don’t be silly, unpack that case.’
‘My uncle is coming tomorrow to talk to you.’ Those were the first words Vítor said when he arrived at Genoveva’s that night. And he told her about his argument with Uncle Timóteo, slightly censored so as not to offend her.
‘My lover?’ she said. ‘It’s like a scene out of La Dame aux Camélias? I’ll dress to play the innocent tomorrow. That will show him. Oh, you may laugh, but …’
She went over and placed her hands on his shoulders and, seeing him still gloomy and preoccupied, said:
‘But, of course, if you don’t want to fall out with your uncle because of me …’
She moved away and curtseyed.
His hands were shaking.
‘Why are you so cruel? You know perfectly well that …’
Genoveva shook her head sadly.
‘I know that’s what you feel. Don’t deny it. I can see it in your eyes. You’re free to do as you please; I don’t want you to turn against me when, later on, your uncle breaks off relations with you. Think about it. I don’t want you to belong to me because of a decision based on exalted ideas, on mere fantasies. I want you to come to me spontaneously, having considered all the consequences, so that whatever happens, you cannot accuse me of having forced you to do anything or to say that I was your downfall.’
He put his hand over her mouth.
‘Genoveva, you’re mad. Whatever you choose to do, I’m yours for ever, for ever.’
The door opened, and Mélanie announced that supper was on the table.
‘And you don’t care about your uncle or his threats or his curses?’
‘No!’ he said fervently.
‘And you’re my dear little husband, the husband of my soul?’
Her lovely dark eyes shone with real passion.
‘Yes, I am,’ murmured Vítor, kissing her neck.
‘Then, you just leave your uncle to me, and let’s go and sit down to supper.’
Genoveva always seemed particularly alluring to Vítor at that hour of the day. They dined at a small table lit by the subtle, elegant light of an oil lamp. The supper was always excellent; Genoveva dressed very carefully; the light gleamed softly on her face, her neck, her décolletage and lent a gentle glow to her skin; she looked her loveliest then: the lace trim on her three-quarter-length sleeves, the various glittering bracelets she wore, the pretty flower pinned to her bodice. Mélanie laughed as she served them, looking fresh in her beret and her white apron.
Genoveva talked a lot; they would laugh and make plans; sometimes, during a pause in the abundant meal, they would squeeze each other’s hands ardently; and that elegant, comfortable, warm, loving atmosphere filled Vítor with a sweet delight to which the Burgundy added a sense of languid well-being.
They would always round off the meal with liqueurs in the living room, where Mélanie would bring them their coffee; Vítor would light a cigarette and lie on the sofa listening to Genoveva playing the piano or singing a song by Gounod or Schubert in her warm, penetrating voice.
That night, they were to go to the circus. The carriage was waiting below. Genoveva went and sat on Vítor’s knee and, putting her arms about his neck, she said in a low voice:
‘It’s so lovely living with you, so sweet!’
A tender sigh made her breast rise and fall; with her lips on his face, she murmured:
‘If I lost you, I’d die!’
‘So would I,’ he said very quietly.
And his heart beat fast.
‘Come along, then,’ she said, getting to her feet and pulling him up by his arms. ‘Come along, my dear, up you get and put your overcoat on. Do I look pretty tonight?’
She stood before him in her magnificent red and black dress and showed herself to him, slightly spreading her arms, her head turned towards him in a provocative, lasciviously humble pose.
‘You look delicious,’ he said and tried to put his arms about her.
She pulled away, smiling, crying ‘No, no!’ and ran into the bedroom to put on her cape and her hat, to glance in the mirror and dab on a little more powder.
Vítor drank a glass of cognac, thinking that no Uncle Timóteo could ever make him leave that woman.
There was only a sparse audience at the circus. When they went into their box, the stalls were almost empty, apart from a few people here and there; a man with his hat pulled down over his eyes was smoking lugubriously; two Spanish women dressed in green were frantically fanning themselves; some English sailors, slightly drunk, were fighting in the upper circle; and to the sound of the brass band, a white horse was lolloping monotonously around the ring, bearing a thin woman with scrawny, melancholy muscles, who was performing juggling tricks.
After a while, Genoveva yawned and declared she was bored, but she immediately brightened up when, in another box, she spotted Madame Gordon, the baron’s mistress, with an elderly woman all dressed in black like a widow.
They waved enthusiastically and Genoveva gestured to her to join them in their box. The German woman did not delay; she too declared herself to be extremely bored; it was so tedious, there was no one there she knew and the circus was appalling. At that moment, a female acrobat mounted on a dark horse was striking graceful poses; she was very thin, and her hair was caught up in an ugly chignon, with ringlets threaded with silver-gilt ivy leaves and ears of corn hanging down her back; her low-cut costume revealed her collar bones; the classical poses she struck while poised on the broad saddle accentuated her gymnast’s muscles; now and then, the music would stop and she would sit down in an affected manner, swirl her skirts and look around at the audience, smiling and revealing her bad teeth. A young man started stamping wildly, while others applauded; she bowed, and the English sailors cheered. The clown came over to her and blew her a kiss, athletically contorting his body into a grotesque caricature of passion; the ringmaster cracked his whip and the clown fell flat on his face; the audience laughed. The music started up again and the acrobat climbed back onto the saddle and stood pirouetting on one leg. The place was lit with crude gas lights as if in a tavern; the musicians in the band sleepily clanged out an accompaniment; people glanced down the programme, yawning, and the horse’s hooves kicked clods of dry earth onto the seats in the stalls.
Genoveva said that it was ‘absolutely dreadful’; they would be better off at home. They could play dominos or lotto.
The German woman could not go with them; the baron had promised to pick her up at the circus.
‘Oh, these long Lisbon nights!’ sighed Genoveva.
A tall, strange-looking man dressed in skins and striking satanic poses so irritated her that she got up and said to Vítor:
‘Come along, my boy, this place is affecting my nerves. Such a bore!’
And they left the German woman, who had spent all night with her opera glasses trained on one of the Spanish ladies, a pretty young girl dressed in green, with sleepy, languid eyes.
As they left, they encountered Dâmaso, who was just arriving. Genoveva inclined her head slightly, and Dâmaso, turning scarlet, looked away, affecting disdain. They even heard him joking with the fat Englishwoman who was his companion.
It was a glorious night, the air was as warm and sweetly serene as summer, the full moon shone like silver and the streets were filled with the melancholy that comes from the contrast of shadows and moonlight.
Genoveva wanted to walk and so they strolled slowly along the pavement. There was still some faint light from the shops; people were walking up and down; a woman wearing a veil approached them, glumly asking for alms; the tall buildings bathed in moonlight had an abandoned look about them.
At Largo do Loreto, they turned down to go home; Genoveva stopped; at the bottom of Rua do Alecrim, the Tagus glimmered beneath the vast, tremulous moon.
‘Shall we walk along by the river?’
They went down to Cais do Sodré. Two boatman, smoking cigarettes and sitting on a large pile of stones, offered them a boat trip, very cheap.
‘It’s a real bargain, sir,’ one said, smiling.
‘My name’s Manoto,’ said the older man smugly. ‘Speak English?’
‘It’s too cold,’ said Vítor.
Manoto protested:
‘Cold? The air’s warm as a kiss tonight!’
Shortly afterwards, they were sitting in the boat and moving away across the still water.
‘What a beautiful night!’ Vítor said.
The city rose up before them, the façades of the buildings washed with moonlight, the windows glittering like sheets of silver; the gaslamps seemed to grow dim beneath that abundance of silvery light. The houses were silent and white as if immersed in some tranquil, ecstatic meditation. The full moon shone silent and serene; a brilliant trail trembled on the water, like enamel or liquid filigree; the rest of the water was sometimes pale blue, sometimes, farther off, smooth and mirror-bright. A luminous mist covered the shore on the farther side, and the shapes of the ships and their lights looked slightly blurred and dim. Beneath the cold, dumb silence of the sky, the boat was accompanied by the sound of the oars striking the rowlocks and the gentle splash of warm water. They were sitting very close and Genoveva started singing Lamartine’s Lago:
One evening, do you remember? We
drifted along in silence …
Vítor had often walked by the blue river, he had often seen the moon and the clear, tranquil water, but the Tagus and the moonlit night had never seemed so beautiful to him, as if his love heightened nature itself. He put his arm about Genoveva’s waist; the contact of silk on silk filled him with elegantly amorous feelings. He recalled lines from Alfred de Musset. The moon lent her face a look of sweet, poetic beauty; her hands smoothing the folds of her dress glittered with rings, and her low, cool, musical voice filled Vítor with a kind of ecstatic somnolence. She rested her head lightly on Vítor’s shoulder, and he wished they could go on like that for ever, caught in the marvellous sweetness of that poetic languor. She said nothing and, still sitting very close, they lost themselves in vague thoughts.
‘What time is your uncle coming tomorrow?’ she asked suddenly.
‘Hm?’ said Vítor, as if waking from a delicious dream. Then he shrugged and said: ‘He can come when he likes and say what he likes. He’s just wasting his time, isn’t he?’
She sat for a moment in silence, then said rather loudly:
‘There is nothing in the world that could separate me from you. Nothing! As long as you love me, I am your lover, your wife, your slave, whatever you want … anywhere and for ever.’
‘What can he do, after all? He can cut me off, break off relations with me, but what does that matter? I’ll work, if necessary, as long as I have you to console me and embrace me and give me courage.’
And they clung passionately to each other.
‘You’ll always have me, my love,’ she said quietly.
The certainty of his love made her deeply happy, but she added, smiling:
‘The worst he can do is to put a curse on us like that fellow at the circus!’
‘God will bless us,’ said Vítor, almost seriously.
‘Amen,’ she replied, laughing.
But the night was growing colder and they rowed back to the shore. The clocks were striking eleven o’clock as they walked up Rua das Flores. Genoveva leaned heavily on Vítor’s arm; she was rather tired and she paused, breathing hard, to look up at the brightly lit windows on the third floor.
‘We live awfully high up. It’ll be quite an adventure for your Uncle Timóteo’s wooden leg.’
She was very concerned about his visit. What could Uncle Timóteo want? Doubtless to stop their marriage, but how? With threats, pleas, promises?
‘What do you think?’ she had asked Mélanie, from whom she had no secrets, adding: ‘Just in case, make sure the living room is tidy and put fresh flowers in the vases and wear your black silk dress and a clean apron.’
In the morning, while Vítor was bathing and dressing, she lay out the cards, but could gain no insight into the future beyond property, money and a letter from across the sea. Then she went to check that the living room looked suitably respectable and bourgeois and completed the décor with a few ‘humble touches’, as she put it. She placed the music for Rossini’s Stabat Mater on the piano, put a muff on a chair and, beside it, a prayer book, as if she had gone to church that morning; and on the table she left the receipt for a weekly contribution to schools for poor children.
‘Have you got a new duster somewhere that needs edging?’ she asked Mélanie. ‘Bring it to me, will you?’
And she put the duster on top of her sewing basket in place of her embroidery, to show she busied herself with useful jobs, rather than mere elegant pastimes. With the skill of an artist, she arranged the curtains in stiff folds and, looking contentedly around, said:
‘It looks like the temple of virtue!’
Shortly afterwards, she went in to Vítor, who was waiting for her in the dining room, reading the newspaper. She was wearing a black cashmere dress with sombre silk trimmings, a silver lace cravat and a rosebud in her bodice; her hair was very simply dressed and adorned with some English lace; there was about her manner and her bearing a natural reserve and an air of domestic propriety and maternal serenity.
‘Well, do I look like a decent little woman?’
‘You always do,’ said Vítor, enchanted.
They were both very nervous though. They jumped when the doorbell rang and exchanged agitated glances. It was just the woman selling fruit.
‘Perhaps he won’t even come today,’ said Vítor.
The tea cup trembled slightly in Genoveva’s hands. She tried to laugh, mocking her own nervousness.
‘He’s not the bogeyman, he’s not going to eat me.’
When they went into the living room, Vítor noted how intelligently she had arranged everything to create an air of tranquillity and order.
‘It’s a day of battle,’ said Vítor.
Genoveva suddenly thought of something and went over to the piano to look out her book of Schubert lieder; she played the opening chords of ‘Salve, salve, last morning of my life!’ And seeing Vítor’s surprise at the almost superstitious way in which she sang the melancholy words, she said:
‘It’s to bring us good luck.’
And she told him about a friend of hers, a young Frenchman, who had described to her how, during the terrible winter when the Prussians were besieging Paris, the soldiers in the fort of Monte Valesiano used to gather in one of the dungeons where they had installed a piano and how, before the sun came up and before the first shots of the day were fired, they would all sing that Schubert song as a kind of protection against death, because for one of them it could well have been his last morning. In fact, not a single man was wounded or killed. Ever since then she had clung to that superstition, and whenever she was faced by some decisive event, by one of life’s problems, she would sing that protective song. She sang on:
Salve, salve, last morning of my life!
Vítor went over and looked out of the window. It was a sunny day and already quite hot; the spring sky was a bright southern blue and the water cart was moving slowly along Rua do Alecrim to slake the dust in the street; the tall houses in Rua das Flores discreetly shaded the road and that part of the city seemed somehow quiet and private. Leaning out into the street, he could hear the melancholy notes of the song hovering in the hot air and he felt a vague oppression of the senses.
At midday, he picked up his hat and said to Genoveva:
‘I’m going to walk over to the Chiado and see if my uncle’s carriage passes by; I’ll wait until he leaves and then come up to see what happened.’
He was about to go, but some strange, almost melancholy impulse made him turn and clasp her to him; they kissed each other tenderly and he left, feeling deeply touched, swearing that, whatever happened, he would be hers for ever.
It was one o’clock when Uncle Timóteo’s ancient horses stopped at the door of the building. Standing in the corridor, her heart beating fast, Genoveva heard the sound of his wooden leg come thudding slowly up the stairs. She murmured: ‘Open the door, Mélanie,’ and then ran into her bedroom.
When Uncle Timóteo went into the living room, he glanced at the furniture, the paintings, the sewing basket and seemed rather taken aback to find Genoveva looking so respectful and dignified.
‘You’re Vítor’s uncle, I believe,’ she began, bowing and instinctively echoing the words spoken by Marguerite, La Dame aux Camélias, when she received Armand’s father.
She sat down gracefully on the sofa, murmuring:
‘To what do I owe …’
‘First of all,’ said Uncle Timóteo very respectfully, ‘I must apologise for a moment of ill humour on my part, a short while ago, when I first had the … er … honour …’
He fumbled for the right words; Genoveva’s attentive eye, benevolent smile and humble, filial air troubled him; he looked at her hard, with a vague sense that he knew that face and had already seen those eyes … She made a kindly gesture:
‘Oh, no, please, it was entirely my fault. I adore children and, believe me, I blush with shame and remorse to think that I caused the little angel to fall … But we all have our bad days, our “blue devils”. I was rather upset at the time and …’
She bit her lip and lowered her thick black eyelashes, as if ashamed of her own behaviour. But she immediately looked up again and her eyes again fixed on Uncle Timóteo almost insistently; she too felt that his face and voice were somehow known to her; when had she seen him before, where?
Their eyes met and for a moment they stared at each other, both desperately asking themselves the same question. Then, either in order to break the silence or because he could not find the memory he was seeking, Uncle Timóteo said:
‘Everyone who knows me, knows I am a man who says exactly what he thinks … I like to be frank.’
She nodded slightly.
‘For me, frankness is the prime quality in a man, along with courage, of course.’
Timóteo liked that; Genoveva’s beauty, her soft voice, her chaste, attentive attitude, were beginning to dissolve his anger. Still distrustful, though, and determined not to let her ‘butter him up’, he said rather brusquely:
‘And in the interests of frankness, I will come straight to the point. I’m sure you know what that is.’
Her face bore a sweet look of smiling doubt and hesitation.
‘Well, I presume you want to talk to me about Vítor.’
‘Exactly.’
There was a brief silence which Genoveva broke, speaking with grave dignity, weighing every word:
‘Vítor has spoken of his Uncle Timóteo, as he calls you, so often and with such affection and enthusiasm, that I am, of course, ready to give you my full attention.’ Then she added after an emphatic pause: ‘I know he owes you everything and that he loves you deeply.’
‘Quite,’ said Uncle Timóteo, ‘it’s only right that the boy should feel some friendship for me.’
‘He adores you!’ she said forcefully, moving slightly closer to Uncle Timóteo.
‘Aha, a siren!’ he thought, and after pensively rubbing his knee, he said:
‘You will not be surprised, then, that I should come here to defend his interests.’
Genoveva seemed very surprised to hear him speak of ‘interests’.
‘Because, after all,’ he shifted resolutely in his chair, ‘what does he stand to gain from this relationship?’
Genoveva, twisting her lace handkerchief about her fingers and lowering her eyes, replied:
‘What does one ever stand to gain from a relationship with the person one loves?’ And she smiled adorably: ‘Happiness, I presume.’
Timóteo looked straight at her and said in a slightly louder voice:
‘My dear lady, I’m not one of those old uncles you find in bourgeois comedies, who are shocked and horrified that a boy should have a lover. Between the ages of twenty and thirty, all men have lovers; it’s as necessary as taking a bath. I’d go further, it is a positive joy when the lover in question is pretty, intelligent, talented, elegant, and has a lovely apartment,’ he glanced around him, ‘good conversation and,’ here he bowed, ‘fine clothes. Absolutely. I would be the first to congratulate Vítor if this relationship were not a cause of grave diffculties.’
Genoveva said:
‘But you’re wrong; I demand nothing of him; I don’t distract him from his duties. I am not that selfish. All I want is for him to come and see me …’
‘And to marry you,’ broke in Uncle Timóteo.
Genoveva blushed; a wave of anger swept through her, but she controlled herself and replied:
‘We feel it is the pure and Christian thing to do to legitimise our relationship.’
Timóteo looked at her, astonished; he did not know whether to laugh at the sheer affectation or to be shocked by the hypocrisy; he suppressed the curse that came to his lips and, thinking that he would wound her or upset her, he said calmly, placidly, with one eyebrow raised:
‘You know, of course, that if you marry, I will not leave the boy a single penny.’
She bowed.
‘That would be sad for Vítor because it would be proof that you had withdrawn your love, but it has no bearing on his decision; he’s young, intelligent, he can work, and I have some money of my own …’
‘Given to you by other men!’ Uncle Timóteo exclaimed angrily, with a scornful shrug of his shoulders.
Genoveva turned pale, and her lips trembled. She dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief and said with her head still bent:
‘Your horror at my past life cannot be any greater than my own. The reason I seek this pure, noble affection is in order to forget my past and to wash it clean. Besides, it seems to me ungenerous on your part to try and humiliate me.’
Timóteo thought: ‘She really is extraordinary!’
He bowed and muttered an apology, then added:
‘I see I am talking to someone of great intelligence … but let me get to the point. Do you call it “love” forcing a young man into such an ill-sorted marriage? What kind of future will the poor boy have? He will be eternally ashamed of his wife, who can never merit the respect he wants for her; he will meet other men who know as much about your past as he does. Let me speak frankly. I am an old man; you and I both know what the world is like. It would be ridiculous not to be open about these things. He will never be able to appear with you in society; all careers and all ambitions will be closed to him. If you had children, your children would bear a terrible name. They would be constantly at risk of some cruel person telling them to their faces what their mother used to be.’
An anxious, despairing look crossed her face.
‘But we would lead such a retiring, secret life …’
Timóteo laughed.
‘That’s pure romance! You can live like that for a year perhaps, but you can’t live your whole life in a cottage, exchanging cosy kisses and gazing up at the moon. Do you honestly think you could live such a reclusive life, such a convent existence? You cannot change the habits of a lifetime as easily as you can a pair of gloves. Now, of course, you are under the sway of passion, but what will happen later on? Can you really resign yourself to such a modest existence, with no carriage, no parties, no suppers, no affairs?’
‘I’m sorry,’ she burst in, ‘but you have entirely the wrong idea about my life. I have lived a life bereft of parties and affairs.’ She lowered her voice: ‘Believe me, my errors were born purely out of necessity. I come from a bourgeois family with bourgeois habits.’
Seeing the surprise on Timóteo’s face and thinking he might be softening towards her, she decided to play her final card; she bent towards him, sitting almost on the edge of the sofa, and raised her hands to him:
‘Listen, I’m going to tell you my whole life story; I trust you, I can see you’re a decent man, a man with heart and intelligence, capable of understanding. I have never told anyone these things. Vítor knows nothing about it. He, like everyone else, thinks I was born in Madeira, that I ran away with an Englishman and that later, in Paris, I became what people term a cocotte.’
She gave a bitter laugh. A sudden breeze entered the room and Timóteo made as if to move out of the draught. Genoveva ran over to shut the window and, as she was bolting it, she quickly gave the bare bones of the story she was about to tell him. When she turned round, Timóteo was standing up; something about the way she moved had touched him and a vague memory was forming inside him; he could not take his eyes off her.
‘Where are you from then?’ he asked haltingly.
‘I got married in Portugal.’ She paused, blushing with shame: ‘I ran away from my husband.’
‘But where are you from?’ asked Timóteo; he was breathing hard now, and his walking stick shook furiously in his cold hand.
‘I’m from Guarda.’
Timóteo stood utterly still, his eyes wide; he muttered:
‘Good God! Good God!’
‘What is it?’ she asked, deathly pale now.
‘Your husband, who was he?’
She responded anxiously, her hands pressed to her breast, leaning towards him.
‘Why? My husband’s name was Pedro da Ega.’
‘Oh, you poor wretch, you poor wretch!’ roared Timóteo. He raised his trembling arms in the air; his eyes were wild. In a terrible, strangled voice he said:
‘That young man is Vítor da Ega. He’s your son! I am Timóteo da Ega.’
She raised her hands to her head in a gesture of horror; her eyes started from her head, her mouth opened in a silent scream; she leaned on the edge of the table, her arms grown rigid; she grabbed convulsively at her necklace and the clasp broke; she staggered about the room, trembling and uttering hoarse sounds, her arms beating the air, then she fell spreadeagled on the floor.
Timóteo shouted:
‘Help, someone, help!’
Mélanie ran in, and rushed, screaming, to Genoveva’s side. She went to open the windows and hurriedly loosened Genoveva’s clothes. Half-crazed, Timóteo groped his way along the walls and down the stairs and hurled himself into his carriage; when the driver turned round, he was shocked to see tears rolling down Timóteo’s cheeks.
Vítor had seen Uncle Timóteo go into Genoveva’s house and had then walked down Rua do Alecrim and strolled around the Aterro. He was very nervous and agitated. He met Carvalhosa, who asked after Genoveva.
‘She’s fine, thank you.’ And since almost an hour had passed, he thought he should return and so he accompanied Carvalhosa back up Rua do Alecrim. Carvalhosa talked about politics and literature. What did he think about that idiot Roma’s latest book of poetry? He thought it pretentious and banal, with no ideals and no images. Vítor replied in monosyllables and with vague smiles. He gave alms to all the poor people they came across in order to bring good fortune. When he reached Largo do Quintela, there was no carriage to be seen. ‘My uncle must have gone.’
‘Literature is stagnant,’ said Carvalhosa.
‘It certainly is,’ replied Vítor, his eyes fixed on Genoveva’s window. He bade Carvalhosa a rather brusque farewell, then repented and asked him to come and dine with him and Genoveva.
‘When?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘At six?’
‘At seven.’
And he ran into the house, taking the stairs four at a time. He found the door open and went in. It occurred to him that perhaps Timóteo was still there and that he had asked the carriage to come back for him. He tiptoed into the living room and carefully raised the curtain. He saw Genoveva sitting on a chair, her arms hanging by her side, her head lolling on her chest.
‘Genoveva,’ he said quietly.
He noticed that her hair was all dishevelled, her bodice unbuttoned, her face pale and suddenly old. He rushed in. She looked up, saw him and leaped back, her arms and fingers stretched out towards him.
‘What’s wrong, Genoveva?’ he cried, running towards her.
She recoiled, her eyes wide, her body rigid, a terrible grimace on her face, her arms signalling desperately ‘No, no!’ She was breathing hoarsely, the stertorous breath of the dying. And her terrible, terrified eyes, like the eyes of the dead, were fixed on him with fearful persistence.
Vítor was petrified. He stammered:
‘Genoveva, my love, what is it?’
But she, possessed by fear, shrank back and looked wildly about her with fierce, crazed eyes, for a door, a corner, some way out.
‘Oh, my God, you’ve gone mad!’ he exclaimed in a tearful, frightened voice. ‘It’s me, Genoveva, it’s me!’
And he went towards her. She opened her mouth in a gesture of terrible distress and managed to cry out:
‘Poor wretch, poor wretch!’
Then she turned and ran to the window and, with an awful scream, hurled herself over the balcony. Vítor heard the sound her body made as it hit the ground, a soft, dull sound like a bundle of clothes.
When they carried Genoveva’s body into the room, amidst Mélanie’s clamorous cries, they found Vítor lying on the floor; he had hit his head on the corner of a console table and a thread of blood was running from his pale brow onto the carpet, where it was slowly drying.
The newspapers were filled for days afterwards with ‘the Rua das Flores suicide’. The police made a few desultory enquiries and, convinced that it was just a suicide, gradually forgot all about it. Dâmaso was, at first, as he said to his friends ‘devastated’. He remained at home for a few days, but he was soon out and about again, plump and smiling, and declaring pompously:
‘I always said something like this would happen. The woman was mad and bound to come to a bad end.’
During that time, Vítor was lying in bed with brain fever. Neither Timóteo nor Clorinda slept for twenty-five nights, and on the day when Vítor could take his first few steps around his room, leaning on the nurse, and managed to eat a little chicken, Uncle Timóteo flung his arms about him and wept.
‘But why did she do it, why?’ sobbed Vítor.
Uncle Timóteo said simply:
‘I don’t know. She was telling me about her past life and she suddenly fainted. Only God knows why she did it.’
He had aged; he spent his days near the armchair in which Vítor sat recovering his strength, and he smoked pipe after pipe, saying nothing, staring at the floor, where his faithful dog, Dick, lay at his feet.
One day, after a long silence, Vítor suddenly said:
‘I was going to marry that woman. Do you think I should wear mourning when I go out?’
Timóteo suddenly got to his feet, paced about the room a little, stopped, tapped his fingers on the window sill and then turned, looking very pale.
‘Yes, probably, but just a black band around your hat.’
But Vítor wore the full mourning of a widower. He wanted to travel and he did so. He stayed in Madrid and in Paris, where he found Genoveva’s house, which he passed by every day and every night, staring up at the balcony; he felt that some part of his own past life lay in that place where she had lived. He even considered renting it and buying the furniture; the current tenant led a very jolly existence; sometimes, at three in the morning, the street rang to the sound of piano music; a waiter in a nearby café told him that a woman called D’Arcy lived there and, realising that Vítor was a foreigner, he told him she was very pretty and only charged four libras.
One day, coming round the corner into Place de la Bourse, he bumped into Mélanie. They embraced warmly. With the money Uncle Timóteo had given her, she had bought a small cakeshop in La Villette. She was doing well, and Vítor often went to see her; it was winter and they would sit in a dark little room on the carpet by the hearth, drinking coffee in the dim light of the wood fire; outside it would be raining or silently snowing and they would talk for hours about Genoveva, until Vítor, his eyes fixed on the flames, would fall silent, lost in infinite longing, his eyes full of tears. At eleven o’clock, though, he would have to leave because Mélanie’s lover, who was employed as part of a claque at a theatre, came back at midnight.
Vítor returned to Portugal and found Uncle Timóteo older, sadder and more silent. Two weeks after his return, his uncle caught pleurisy. He died a calm, peaceful death. When he heard Clorinda talking about the sacraments, he said in a feeble voice:
‘No, I don’t want any priests. Don’t spoil this last moment. It’s the best moment in life.’
He left Vítor seventy contos in his will.
Two months later, Vítor was coming back from the cemetery where he had been to visit the graves of Genoveva and Uncle Timóteo, when he heard a little girl running after him, calling:
‘Sir, sir!’
‘What is it?’
‘The lady on the second floor wants to speak to you.’
Puzzled, he followed the girl and found Joana in a wretched second-floor apartment; she hurled herself into his arms and told him her story. After Camilo left for Brazil, she had received a little money from him, but had had nothing more from him for six months and had now pawned everything she had. She no longer wore the yellow cotton gown, and a slight melancholy had given her a more delicate beauty.
Vítor set her up in a house and took her as his mistress, bringing up Camilo’s son as his own. They say he’s going to marry her. Somewhat consoled in his grief, he devotes himself to literary works and, some time ago, he published this poem in the Ladies’ Journal, an imitation of a poem by Richepin:
To Genoveva
You were so deeply loved
That my life will always be
Perfumed with your dear memory.
Others perhaps still love you.
I, faithless and weak,
Keep the receipts from roadside inns –
Souvenirs of a single night.
Yet even in the loveliest eyes
It is you that I still see;
Though others arouse desire in me
I live, as ever, only for you.
Thus on the plains of Jericho,
The magus king surveyed the stars,
But followed only one.
So, even when, in ecstasy,
I possess the most desired of bodies,
I have only to turn away
To see you waiting there.
Dona Joana Coutinho, who read the poem and loved it, asked him some days ago, in the house of Senhor Seixas, where Vítor occasionally reads his work:
‘Is your wife not jealous?’
Vítor smiled and said nothing. How could she be jealous? Joana, his wife, could not read.