A Portrait
Chapter I
THE MOST DIFFICULT THING in the world, apart from governing a country, must surely be that of guessing Dona Benedita’s exact age. Some said forty, some forty-five, others thirty-six. One stockbroker went as low as twenty-nine, but his judgment, clouded by hidden intentions, lacked the necessary stamp of sincerity that we all like to see in human opinions. Indeed, I only mention it to illustrate, from the very outset, that Dona Benedita was always the very model of good manners. The stockbroker’s flattery served only to arouse her indignation, albeit momentarily, yes, momentarily. As for those other estimates, oscillating between thirty-six and forty-five, none of them could be contradicted by Dona Benedita’s appearance, which was both maturely serious and youthfully graceful. The only surprising thing is that such speculation continued, when in order to know the truth one needed only to ask her.
Dona Benedita reached her forty-second birthday on Sunday the nineteenth of September, 1869. At six o’clock in the evening, friends and relations, some twenty or twenty-five in number, are gathered around the family table. Many of them were also present at her birthday dinners of 1868, 1867, and 1866, and they have always heard their hostess’s age frankly alluded to. Moreover, there at the table, for all to see, are a young lady and a young master, her children; it is true that he, both in size and manners, is still somewhat boyish; on the other hand, the young lady, Eulália, is eighteen, although such is the severity of her manners and features that she looks twenty-one.
The joviality of the guests, the excellence of the dinner, certain matrimonial negotiations entrusted to Canon Roxo (of which more shall be said anon), and the hostess’s generous nature, all these make for an intimate and happy affair. The canon stands up to carve the turkey. Dona Benedita has always abided by the custom in modest households of entrusting the turkey to one of the guests, instead of having it carved away from the table by servants, and the canon was the maestro of such solemn occasions. Nobody knew the bird’s anatomy better than he, nor how to wield the knife so nimbly. Perhaps—and this is a matter for the experts—perhaps his status as a canon gave to the carving knife, in the minds of the guests, a certain prestige, which would be lacking if, for example, he were a mere student of mathematics or an office clerk. On the other hand, would a student or scribe, without the lessons of long practice, have at their disposal the canon’s consummate art? That is another important question.
As for the other guests, they are sitting and chatting; the gurgle of half-sated stomachs reigns, the laughter of nature on its way to repleteness; it is a moment of relaxation.
Dona Benedita is talking, as are her visitors; however, she does not speak to all of them, but only to the one seated next to her. Her neighbor is a plump, kindly, cheerful lady, the mother of a twenty-one-year-old graduate, Leandrinho, who is sitting opposite them. Dona Benedita is not merely talking to the plump lady, she is clasping one of her hands, and not only is she clasping the plump lady’s hand, she is also looking at her with vivacious, lovestruck eyes. Note that hers is not a persistent or prolonged gaze, but rather a series of small, restless, momentary glances. In any event, there is much tenderness in that gesture, and even if there weren’t, nothing would be lost, because Dona Benedita repeats with her lips everything that her eyes have already said to Dona Maria dos Anjos: that she is absolutely delighted, that it is wonderful to meet her, that Dona Maria is so very kind, so very dignified, that her eyes are the very windows of her soul, and so on. One of her friends says jokingly to Dona Benedita that she is making her jealous.
“Oh, stuff and nonsense!” she replies, laughing.
And, turning back to the other woman:
“Don’t you agree? No one should come between us.”
And she carried on showering her with compliments, courtesies, and smiles, the offers of more of this, more of that, plans to go on a trip together or perhaps to the theater, and promises of many visits, all spoken in such warm, effusive tones that her new companion was visibly throbbing with pleasure and gratitude.
The turkey has been eaten. Dona Maria dos Anjos signals to her son, who stands up and asks them to accompany him in a toast:
“Ladies and gentlemen, there is a saying in French: les absents ont tort. Let us resolutely reject this, and drink to someone who is far, far away in terms of space, but close, very close indeed, to the heart of his dear wife. Let us drink to that most illustrious judge, Justice Proença.”
The toast did not receive an enthusiastic response from the assembled guests, and to understand why one need only look at the sad face of their hostess. Her closest friends and relatives whispered to one another that young Leandrinho had been very thoughtless indeed; they drank the toast, but refrained from cheering, so as not, it would seem, to exacerbate Dona Benedita’s suffering. In vain: Dona Benedita, unable to contain herself, burst into tears, got up from the table, and left the room. Dona Maria dos Anjos went with her. There then followed a deathly silence. Eulália begged them all to carry on as normal, saying that her mother would be back shortly.
“Mama is very sensitive,” she said, “and the idea of Papa being so far away . . .”
Dismayed, Leandrinho apologized to Eulália. The fellow sitting next to him explained that Dona Benedita could not hear her husband’s name mentioned without feeling a crushing blow to her heart, promptly followed by tears; Leandrinho replied that he was aware of her misfortune, but had never imagined his toast would have such a harmful effect.
“And yet it’s the most natural thing in the world,” explained the fellow, “for she misses her husband terribly.”
“The canon,” replied Leandrinho, “told me her husband went to Pará about two years ago.”
“Two and a half years. He was appointed district judge by the Zacarias government. He would have preferred the appeal court in São Paulo, or perhaps Bahia, but it was not to be, and so he accepted Pará instead.”
“And he hasn’t been back since?”
“I presume Dona Benedita is afraid of such a long sea voyage . . .”
“I don’t believe so. She’s already been to Europe. No, if I recall correctly, she stayed behind in Rio to sort out some family affairs, and then stayed on, and on, and now . . .”
“But would it not have been far better to go to Pará than to suffer like this? Do you know her husband?”
“I do; a very distinguished gentleman, and still hale and hearty; he couldn’t be more than forty-five. Tall, bearded, handsome. People used to say that he didn’t insist on his wife joining him because he had fallen for some widow up there.”
“Ah!”
“And someone even came and told Dona Benedita. Imagine how the poor lady must have felt! She cried all night, and the next day she wouldn’t eat any breakfast, and made arrangements to take the very next steamship to Pará.”
“But she didn’t go?”
“No. She canceled three days later.”
At that moment, Dona Benedita returned, on the arm of Dona Maria dos Anjos. She smiled in embarrassment, apologized for the interruption, and sat down once again with her new friend by her side, thanking her profusely for looking after her and again clasping her hand.
“I can see you only want what’s good for me,” she said.
“It’s only what you deserve,” said Dona Maria dos Anjos.
“Really?” Dona Benedita said, with a mix of vanity and modesty.
And she declared that, no, it was the other lady who was truly good, just like her name. Dona Maria dos Anjos was an angel, a real angel! And Dona Benedita underlined the word with the same loving gaze, not persistent or prolonged, but restless and intermittent. For his part, the canon, seeking to expunge all memory of the unfortunate incident, changed the topic of conversation to the weighty matter of which was the best dessert. Opinions diverged widely. Some thought the coconut dessert was best, some the one with cashew nuts, and others the orange one, etc. The author of the toast, Leandrinho, said—although not with his lips but slyly with his eyes—that the sweetest of desserts were Eulália’s cheeks—a dusky, rosy-cheeked dessert. His own mother inwardly approved of those unspoken words, while the young woman’s mother did not even see them, so caught up was she in her adoration of her new friend. An angel, a real angel!
Chapter II
The next day, Dona Benedita got up from her bed with the idea of writing a letter to her husband, a long letter in which she would tell him about the party, name all the guests and the different dishes, describe the reception afterward, and, more importantly, tell him about her new friendship with Dona Maria dos Anjos. The mail pouch closed at two in the afternoon, Dona Benedita had woken at nine, and, since she didn’t live far away (her house was on the Campo da Aclamação), a slave would be able to deliver the letter to the post office in plenty of time. What’s more, it was raining; Dona Benedita pulled back the net curtain and saw the drenched windowpanes; a persistent drizzle was falling, the sky was dark and overcast and dotted with thick black clouds. In the distance, she could see a cloth fluttering and flapping over a basket carried on the head of a black woman, from which she concluded that it was windy. A splendid day for staying at home, and, therefore, for writing a letter, two letters, or indeed all the letters a wife could possibly write to her absent husband. No one would come to tempt her away.
While she arranges the lace fringes and frills on her white linen dressing gown, which the eminent judge had given her in 1862, also on her birthday, September 19, I invite the reader to take a closer look at her. You will notice that I refrain from calling her a Venus, but nor do I call her a Medusa. Unlike Medusa, she wears her hair brushed smoothly back and fastened just above the nape of her neck. Her eyes are ordinary enough, but have a kindly expression. Her mouth is the sort that appears cheerful even when not smiling, and enjoys that other remarkable gift of showing neither remorse nor regret: one could even say it is devoid of desires, but I will say only what I want to say, and I wish to speak only of remorse and regret. This head, which neither excites nor repels, sits on a body that is tall rather than short, and neither thin nor fat, but in proportion with her build. But I won’t describe her hands just yet. Why should I? You will admire them soon enough, holding pen to paper with slender, idle fingers, two of them adorned with five or six rings.
One need only see the way in which she arranges the lacy frills of her gown in order to understand that she is a persnickety woman, fond of keeping everything around her and herself tidy. I note that she has just torn the lace trimming on her left cuff, but that is because she, being impatient by nature, blurted out, “Damn and blast the thing.” Those were her exact words, immediately followed by a “May God forgive me!” which took all the venom out of her. I don’t say that she stamped her foot, but she might have, since that is a gesture natural to certain ladies when annoyed. In any event, her anger lasted barely a minute. She then went to her sewing box to stitch up the torn lace, but decided to make do with a pin. The pin fell to the floor; she knelt down and picked it up. There were of course others in the box, many others, but she didn’t think it wise to leave pins lying on the floor. As she knelt, she caught sight of the tip of her slipper, on which there was a white mark; she sat down on the nearby chair, removed her slipper, and saw what it was: it had been chewed by a cockroach. Dona Benedita again fell into a rage, because the slipper was a very smart one, and had been given to her the year before by a dear friend. An angel, a real angel! Dona Benedita fixed her eyes on the white mark; happily their usual expression of simple charity was not so charitable as to allow itself to be entirely replaced by other, less passive expressions, and so it resumed its rightful place. Dona Benedita turned the slipper over and over, passing it from one hand to the other, lovingly at first, then mechanically, until her hands stopped moving completely, and the slipper fell into her lap, and Dona Benedita sat staring into space. At this point, the clock in the drawing room began to strike. After the first two chimes, Dona Benedita shuddered:
“Good Lord! It’s ten o’clock!”
And she quickly put her slipper back on, hurriedly pinned the cuff of her gown, and went to her writing desk to begin the letter. She had put the date and “My ungrateful husband,” and had barely written: “Did you think of me yesterday? I . . .” when Eulália knocked on her door, calling out:
“Mama! Mama! It’s time for breakfast.”
Dona Benedita opened the door, Eulália kissed her hand, then raised her own hands heavenward:
“Goodness gracious! What a sleepyhead!”
“Is breakfast ready?”
“Yes, it’s been ready for ages!”
“But I gave orders that breakfast today should be later than usual . . . I’ve been writing to your father.”
She looked at her daughter for a few moments, as if about to say something serious, or at least difficult, such was the grave, indecisive look in her eyes. But, in the end, she said nothing, and her daughter, announcing again that breakfast was served, took her by the arm and led her away.
Let us leave them to eat breakfast at leisure, and take the weight off our feet here in the drawing room, without, however, feeling the need to catalogue every item of its furniture, just as we have failed to do in any other room of the house. Not that the furniture is ugly or in bad taste; on the contrary, it is all rather good. But the overall impression is rather strange, as if the choice of furnishings were the result of some subsequently abandoned plan, or a succession of abandoned plans. Mother, daughter, and son breakfasted together. Let us leave aside the son, who is of no interest to us; a young whippersnapper of twelve years old, but so sickly that he looks more like eight. Eulália is the one who interests us, not only because of what we glimpsed in the preceding chapter, but also because, when her mother began to talk about Dona Maria dos Anjos and Leandrinho, she became very serious and, perhaps, a little sullen. Dona Benedita realized that her daughter did not like this topic of conversation and so she retreated, like someone turning a corner to avoid an undesirable encounter. She rose from the table, and her daughter followed her into the drawing room.
It was a quarter past eleven. Dona Benedita spoke with her daughter until shortly after midday, so as to have time to digest her breakfast and write the letter. As you are aware, the mail pouch closes at two o’clock. And so, a few minutes after midday, Dona Benedita told her daughter to go and practice the piano, so that she could finish the letter. Dona Benedita left the drawing room; Eulália went over to the window, glanced out at the square outside, and I can vouch for the fact that she did so with a glimmer of sadness in her eyes. It was not, however, a weak and indecisive sadness; it was the sadness of a resolute young woman who anticipates the pain her actions will cause to others, but, nevertheless, swears to go through with them, and does go through with them. I accept that not all these details could be surmised merely from Eulália’s eyes, but it is for this very reason that stories are told by someone who takes it upon themselves to fill in the gaps and reveal what is hidden. True, it was certainly a vigorous sadness and equally true that a glimmer of hope would soon appear in her eyes.
“This can’t go on,” she murmured, coming back into the room.
At that very moment, a carriage pulled up at the front door. A lady stepped out, the doorbell sounded, a houseboy went down to open the gate, and Dona Maria dos Anjos came up the steps. When the visitor was announced, Dona Benedita dropped her pen in agitation; she hurriedly got dressed, put on her shoes, and went into the drawing room.
“Fancy coming out in this weather!” she exclaimed. “That is true friendship!”
“I didn’t want to wait for you to visit me, simply to show that I’m not one to stand on ceremony, and that between you and me there must be no constraints.”
This was followed by the same compliments and sweet, caressing words as on the previous day. Dona Benedita kept insisting that coming to visit her that very day was the greatest of courtesies and a proof of genuine friendship, but, she added a moment later, she wished for further proof and asked Dona Maria dos Anjos to stay for dinner. Her friend excused herself, pleading that she had to be elsewhere; furthermore, this was the very proof of friendship that she herself desired, namely, that Dona Benedita should come and dine at her house first. Dona Benedita did not hesitate and promised that she would dine with her that very week.
“I was just this minute writing your name,” she continued.
“Were you?”
“Yes, I’m writing to my husband and telling him all about you. I won’t repeat to you what I’ve written, but you can imagine that I spoke very ill of you, telling him what an unkind, insufferable, tedious woman you are, a terrible bore . . . You can just imagine!”
“I can indeed. And you can add that, despite all that and more, I send him my deepest respects.”
“See how witty she is!” remarked Dona Benedita, looking at her daughter.
Eulália smiled unconvincingly. Perched on a chair facing her mother, beside the sofa on which Dona Maria dos Anjos was sitting, Eulália gave the two ladies’ conversation only the degree of attention that good manners required, and not a jot more.
She came close to looking bored; every smile that appeared on her lips was wan and languid, pure duty. One of her braids—it was still morning and she was wearing her hair in two long braids—served her as a pretext to look away from time to time, because she would occasionally tug at it to count the hairs, or so it seemed. At least that’s what Dona Maria dos Anjos thought, when she occasionally shot a glance in Eulália’s direction, curious and somewhat suspicious. For her part, Dona Benedita saw nothing; she had eyes only for her dear friend, her enchantress, as she called her two or three times: “my dear, dear enchantress.”
“Enough!”
Dona Maria dos Anjos explained that she had a few other visits to make, but her friend prevailed upon her to stay for a little longer. She was wearing a very elegant cape of black lace, and Dona Benedita said that she had one just the same and sent one of the slaves to fetch it. Delays, delays. But Leandrinho’s mother was so pleased! Dona Benedita filled her heart with happiness; she found in her all the qualities best suited to her own personality and her manners: tenderness, trust, enthusiasm, simplicity, a warm and willing familiarity. The cape was brought, refreshments were offered; Dona Maria dos Anjos would accept nothing more than a kiss and the promise that they would dine with her that very week.
“On Thursday,” said Dona Benedita.
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
“What would you have me do to you if you don’t come? It will need to be a very harsh punishment.”
“The harshest possible punishment would be for you never to speak to me again!”
Dona Maria dos Anjos kissed her friend tenderly; then she hugged and kissed Eulália, too, but with rather less enthusiasm on both sides. They were measuring each other up, studying each other, and beginning to understand each other. Dona Benedita accompanied her friend to the stairs, then went over to the window to watch her get into her carriage; after settling herself in, her friend put her head out of the window, looked up, and waved goodbye.
“Don’t forget!”
“Thursday.”
Eulália had already left the drawing room, and Dona Benedita rushed to finish the letter. It was getting late; she had said nothing yet about yesterday’s dinner, and it was too late to do so now. She gave a brief summary, extolling the virtues of her new friend; then, finally, she wrote the following words:
Canon Roxo spoke to me about marrying Eulália to Dona Maria dos Anjos’s son. He graduated in law this year; he’s a conservative and, if Itaboraí does not resign from the government, he expects to be appointed a public prosecutor. I think it is the best possible match. Leandrinho (for that is his name) is a very polite young man; he proposed a toast to you, full of such fine words that I cried. I don’t know if Eulália will want him or not; I have my suspicions about another young fellow who joined us the other day in Laranjeiras. But what do you think? Should I limit myself to advising her, or should I impose our wishes? I really think I ought to use my authority, but I don’t want to do anything without your say-so. The best thing would be if you came here yourself.
She finished the letter and sealed it. At that moment, Eulália came in, and Dona Benedita gave her the letter to be sent off, without delay, to the post office. The daughter left the room with the letter, not knowing that it concerned her and her future. Dona Benedita slumped down on the sofa, exhausted. Even though there was much she had not mentioned, the letter had still turned out to be a very long one and writing long letters was such a tiresome business!
Chapter III
Yes, writing long letters was such a tiresome business! The words with which we closed the previous chapter fully explain Dona Benedita’s exhaustion. Half an hour later, she sat up a little and glanced around the study, as if looking for something. That something was a book. She found the book, or, rather, books, since there were no fewer than three, two open, one marked at a certain page, all lying on different chairs. They were the three novels that Dona Benedita was reading at the same time. One of them, you will note, had required considerable effort on her part. She had heard it warmly spoken of it while she was out walking near the house; it had arrived from Europe only the day before. Dona Benedita was so excited that, despite the lateness of the hour and the distance, she turned back and went to buy the book herself, visiting no fewer than three bookshops. She returned home so eager to read it that she opened the book during dinner and read the first five chapters that same night. When sleep overcame her, she slept; the following day, she was unable to continue reading, and forgot all about the book. Now, however, a week later, and wanting to read something, there it was close to hand.
“Ah!”
And so she returns to the sofa, lovingly opens the book, and plunges eyes, heart and soul into the reading that had been so abruptly interrupted. It’s only natural that Dona Benedita should love novels, and it is even more natural that she should love nice ones. Do not be surprised, therefore, when she forgets everything around her to read this one; everything, even her daughter’s piano lesson, for which the piano teacher arrived and left without Dona Benedita once visiting the drawing room. Eulália said goodbye to her teacher, then went to the study, opened the door, tiptoed over to the sofa, and woke her mother with a kiss.
“Wake up, sleepyhead!”
“Is it still raining?”
“No, Mama, it’s stopped now.”
“Has the letter gone?”
“Yes, I told José to hurry. I bet you forgot to give my dearest love to Papa? I thought so. Well, I never forget.”
Dona Benedita yawned. She was no longer thinking about the letter; she was thinking about the corset she had ordered from Charavel’s, one with softer stays than the last one. She didn’t like hard stays, for she had a very delicate body. Eulália talked a little more about her father, but soon stopped, and, seeing the famous novel lying open on the floor, she picked it up, closed it, and set it on the table. At that moment, a letter was brought in for Dona Benedita; it was from Canon Roxo, who wrote to ask whether they were at home that day, because he would be going to a funeral nearby.
“Of course we’ll be at home!” Dona Benedita cried. “Do tell him to come.”
Eulália wrote a little note in reply. Three-quarters of an hour later the canon entered Dona Benedita’s drawing room. He was a good man, the canon, an old friend of the family, in which, besides carving the turkey on solemn occasions, as we have seen, he exercised the role of family advisor, and did so both loyally and lovingly. Eulália was particularly dear to him; he had known her since she was a little girl, his attentive and mischievous little friend, and he felt a paternal affection toward her, so paternal that he had taken it upon himself to see her properly married, and, thought the canon, there could be no better bridegroom than Leandrinho. That day, his idea of going to dine with them was little more than a pretext; the canon wished to raise the subject directly with the young lady herself. Eulália, either because she guessed his intentions or because the canon’s presence brought Leandrinho to mind, became worried and annoyed.
But worried or annoyed does not mean sad or dispirited. She was resolute, she had a strong character, she could resist, and she did resist, declaring to the canon, when he spoke to her that night about Leandrinho, that she absolutely did not wish to marry.
“Cross your heart and hope to die?”
“Cross my heart and hope to live.”
“But why?”
“Because I don’t want to.”
“And if Mama wants you to?”
“But I don’t want to.”
“Well, that’s not very nice of you, Eulália.”
Eulália did not reply. The canon returned yet again to the subject, praising the candidate’s fine qualities, the hopes of his family, the many advantages of their marriage; she listened to all this, but said nothing. However, when the canon put the question to her directly, her response was invariably:
“I’ve already said all there is to say.”
“You really don’t want to marry?”
“No.”
The canon’s disappointment was deep and sincere. He wanted to see her properly married, and he could think of no better husband. He went so far as to probe her, discreetly, about whether her interest lay elsewhere. But Eulália, no less discreetly, responded that no, she had no other “interest”; she simply did not wish to marry. He believed this to be true, but also feared that it was not; he lacked sufficient experience in the ways of women to read beyond that negative. When he relayed all this to Dona Benedita, she was shocked by the abruptness of her daughter’s refusal; but she quickly recovered her composure and told the priest in no uncertain terms that her daughter had no say in the matter, and that she, Dona Benedita, would do as she wished, and she wanted the marriage.
“There’s no point even waiting for her father’s reply,” she concluded. “I’ll just tell him that she’s getting married. It’s as simple as that. On Thursday I will dine with Dona Maria dos Anjos, and we will arrange everything.”
“I must tell you,” ventured the canon, “that Dona Maria dos Anjos does not wish anything to be done by force.”
“What force? No force is required.”
The canon reflected for a moment.
“In any event, we must not overrule any other attachment she may have formed,” he said.
Dona Benedita made no reply, but inwardly swore that, come what may, her daughter would become the daughter-in-law of Dona Maria dos Anjos. And after the canon had left, she said to herself: “Well, I never! A mere slip of a girl thinking she can rule the roost!”
Thursday dawned. Eulália, the mere slip of a girl, got out of bed feeling bright and cheerful and chatty, with all the windows of her spirit open to the blue morning air. Her mother awoke to hear a snippet from some glorious Italian melody; it was her daughter singing, happily and blithely, with all the indifference of birds who sing for themselves or for their own offspring, and not for the poet who listens and translates them into the immortal language of mankind. Dona Benedita had secretly cherished the idea of seeing her daughter downhearted and surly, and had expended a certain amount of imagination in deciding how she herself would act, pretending to be strong and forceful. Instead of a rebellious daughter, though, she found her to be talkative and amenable. It was a bad start to the day, like setting out prepared to destroy a fortress and finding instead a peaceful, welcoming city, its gates flung wide, politely inviting her to enter and break the bread of joy and harmony. It was a very bad start to the day.
The second cause of Dona Benedita’s annoyance was a threatened migraine at three o’clock in the afternoon; a threat, or perhaps a suspicion of the possibility of a threat. She nearly canceled the visit, but her daughter thought it might do her good to go, and, in any event, it was too late to put it off. There was nothing else for it; Dona Benedita took her medicine, and, as she sat before the mirror brushing her hair, she was on the verge of saying that she would definitely stay at home, and she hinted as much to her daughter.
“But Mama, Dona Maria dos Anjos is expecting you,” Eulália told her.
“Indeed,” retorted her mother, “but I didn’t promise to go there if I was indisposed.”
Finally, she got dressed, put on her gloves, and issued her instructions to the servants; her head must have been hurting a lot because she was rather curt with people, like someone being compelled to do something against their will. Her daughter did her best to raise her spirits, reminding her to take her little bottle of smelling salts, urging her to go, saying how eager Dona Maria dos Anjos was to see her, repeatedly checking the little watch pinned to her waist, and so on. She would be really put out.
“Stop pestering me,” her mother said.
And off she went, feeling exasperated, fervently wishing she could throttle her daughter, telling herself that daughters were the worst thing in the world. Sons were all right: they grew up and made a career for themselves; but daughters!
Happily, the meal at Dona Maria dos Anjos’s calmed her down; not that it filled her with great satisfaction, because that wasn’t the case at all. Dona Benedita was not her usual self; she was cold and brusque, or almost brusque; she, however, explained the difference in her own terms, mentioning the threatened migraine, which was not exactly good news, but nevertheless cheered Dona Maria dos Anjos, for this refined and profound reason: it was better that her friend’s coolness was the result of an illness than a diminution in her affections. Moreover, it was nothing grave. And yet grave it was! There were no clasped hands, no loving gazes, no delicate titbits being consumed between fond caresses; in short, it was nothing like the dinner on Sunday. The meal was merely polite, not joyful; that was the most the canon could achieve. Oh, the kind, amiable canon! Eulália’s mood that day filled him with hope; her playful laughter, her easy conversation, her readiness to do as asked, to play and sing, and the tender, agreeable look on her face when she listened and spoke to Leandrinho; all this greatly restored the canon’s hopes. And for Dona Benedita to be indisposed today of all days! It really was bad luck.
Dona Benedita’s spirits rose somewhat that evening after dinner. She talked a little more, discussed a plan to go for a stroll in the Jardim Botânico, even proposing that they go the very next day. However, Eulália warned her that it would be wise to wait a day or two for the effects of the migraine to wear off completely; and the look she got from her mother in return for her advice was as sharp as a dagger. The daughter had no fear of her mother’s eyes, though. As she brushed her hair that night, thinking over the day’s events, Eulália repeated to herself the words we heard her say, some days before, at the window.
And before sleeping, she smugly pulled open a certain drawer, took out a little box, opened it, and removed a card measuring only about two inches by two—a portrait. It was clearly not the portrait of a woman, not only on account of the mustache, but also the uniform; he was, at the very least, a naval officer. Whether handsome or ugly is a matter of opinion. Eulália thought him handsome, the proof being that she kissed the portrait, not once but three times. Then she gazed at it longingly, and put it back in its box.
What were you thinking, O strict and cautious mother, that you did not come and tear from the hands and lips of your daughter so subtle and mortal a venom? Standing at her window, Dona Benedita was gazing up at the night sky, amid the stars and gas lamps, with a roving, restless imagination, and filled with gnawing regrets and desires. Nothing had gone right for her since morning. Dona Benedita confessed, in the sweet intimacy of her own soul, that the dinner at Dona Maria dos Anjos’s had been dreadful, and that her friend probably wasn’t at her best, either. She felt certain regrets—although for what, she wasn’t entirely sure—and certain desires, but for quite what, she didn’t know. From time to time she gave a long, lazy yawn, like someone about to fall asleep; but if she felt anything at all it was boredom—boredom, impatience, and curiosity. Dona Benedita seriously wondered about going to join her husband; and no sooner had the thought of her husband entered her head than her heart was filled with longings and remorse, and her blood pulsed in her veins; so great was her desire to go and see the eminent judge that if her luggage had been packed and the northbound steamer had been waiting at the corner of the street, she would have embarked that very minute. No matter; there was sure to be another steamer in a week or ten days, and there was plenty of time to arrange her luggage. Since she would only be going for three months, she would not need to take very much.
It would be a relief to get away from Rio, from the sameness of the days, the lack of novelties, the same faces, even the unchanging fashions—something that always troubled her: “Why should any fashion last for more than two weeks?”
“I’ll go; there’s nothing more to be said. I’ll go to Pará,” she said softly.
Indeed, the following morning, the first thing she did was to communicate this decision to her daughter, who took the news calmly. Dona Benedita checked how many trunks she already had, wondered if she needed one more, calculated the size, and decided to buy another. In a sudden moment of inspiration, Eulália said:
“But Mama, we’re only going for three months, aren’t we?”
“Yes, three . . . or possibly two.”
“Well, then, it isn’t worth it. Two trunks will suffice.”
“No, they won’t.”
“Well, if they aren’t enough, we can always buy another one just before we leave. And you should go and choose it yourself—that would be much better than sending someone who knows nothing about trunks.”
Dona Benedita thought this wise advice, and held on to her money. Her daughter smiled secretly. Perhaps she was repeating to herself the same words she had spoken at the window: “This can’t go on.” Her mother went to make arrangements, choosing clothes, making lists of things she needed to buy, a present for her husband, and so on. Oh, he would be so happy! In the afternoon, they went out to place orders, pay visits, buy tickets—four tickets, since they would each take a slave-woman with them. Eulália tried again to dissuade her, proposing that they delay the journey, but Dona Benedita declared that this was out of the question. At the offices of the steamship company, she was informed that the northbound steamer would leave on Friday of the following week. She asked for four tickets, opened her purse, pulled out a banknote, then two, then thought for a moment.
“We could just buy our tickets the day before, couldn’t we?”
“You could, but there might not be any tickets left.”
“All right, what if you set aside four tickets for us, and I’ll send for them.”
“Your name?”
“My name? No, better not take my name. We’ll come back three days before the steamer leaves. There are sure to be tickets then.”
“Possibly.”
“No, there will be.”
Once out in the street, Eulália remarked that it would be better to buy the tickets straightaway; and, since we know that she did not wish to travel either North or South, save on the frigate carrying the man we saw in that portrait the previous evening, one must assume that the young lady’s comment was profoundly Machiavellian. It wouldn’t surprise me. Dona Benedita, meanwhile, informed her friends and acquaintances of their forthcoming journey and none of them was surprised. One did ask if, this time, she really was going. Dona Maria dos Anjos had heard about the proposed trip from the canon, but the only thing that alarmed her when her friend came to say goodbye was Dona Benedita’s icy demeanor, her silence and indifference, and the way she kept her gaze fixed on the floor. A visit of barely ten minutes, during which Dona Benedita said only six words at the beginning: “We are going to the North.” And one at the end: “Farewell.” Followed by three sad, corpse-like kisses.
Chapter IV
The journey did not take place, for superstitious reasons. On the Sunday night, Dona Benedita realized that the steamer would be leaving on a Friday, which seemed to her a bad day to travel. They would go instead on the next steamer. However, they did not go on the next one, but this time her reasons lay entirely beyond the reach of human understanding; in such cases, the best advice is not to attempt to comprehend the incomprehensible. The fact of the matter is that Dona Benedita did not go, saying that she would go on the third steamer, unless, of course, something happened to change her plans.
Her daughter had come up with a party and a new friendship. The new friendship was with a family in Andaraí; no one knows what the party was for, but it must have been a splendid affair, because Dona Benedita was still talking about it three days later. Three days! It really was too much. As for the family, they could not have been kinder; the whole thing had made the most tremendous impression on Dona Benedita. I use this superlative because she herself used it: a document made by human hands.
“Those people made the most tremendous impression on me.”
And she began going for strolls in Andaraí, enchanted by the company of Dona Petronilha, Counselor Beltrão’s wife, and her sister Dona Maricota, who was going to marry a naval officer, the brother of that other naval officer whose mustache, eyes, hair, and bearing match those of the portrait the reader glimpsed earlier in that drawer. The married sister was thirty-two, and her earnestness and charming manners entirely bewitched Dona Benedita. The unmarried sister was a flower, a wax flower, another expression of Dona Benedita’s, which I have left unaltered for fear of watering down the truth.
One of the most obscure aspects of this whole curious story is the speed with which friendships blossomed and events unfurled. For example, another regular visitor to Andaraí, along with Dona Benedita, was the very naval officer pictured on that little card. He was First Lieutenant Mascarenhas, whom Counselor Beltrão predicted would become an admiral. Note, however, the officer’s perfidy: he came in uniform; and Dona Benedita, who adored any new spectacle, found him so distinguished, so handsome compared with the other men in civilian clothes, that she preferred him to all of them, and told him so. The officer thanked her earnestly. She told him he must come and see them; he begged permission to pay a visit.
“A visit? Why, you must come and dine with us.”
Mascarenhas assented with a bow.
“Look here,” said Dona Benedita, “why don’t you come tomorrow?”
Mascarenhas came, and came early. Dona Benedita talked to him about life at sea; he asked for her daughter’s hand in marriage. Dona Benedita was speechless, indeed shocked. She remembered, it is true, that, one day in Laranjeiras some time ago, she’d had her suspicions about him, but now her suspicions were long gone. Since then, she hadn’t seen the couple speak or look at one another even once. But marriage! Was that possible? It could not be anything else; the young man’s serious, respectful, and imploring behavior said clearly that he had indeed meant marriage. A dream come true! To invite to one’s home a friend, and open the door to a son-in-law: it was the very height of the unexpected. And the dream was a handsome one; the naval officer was a courteous young man; strong, elegant, friendly, openhearted, and, more importantly, he seemed to adore her, Dona Benedita. What a magnificent dream! Once she had recovered from her astonishment, Dona Benedita said, yes, Eulália was his. Mascarenhas took her hand and kissed it with filial devotion.
“But what of your husband?” he asked.
“My husband will agree with me.”
Everything proceeded at great speed. Certificates were obtained, banns were read, and a date for the wedding set; it would take place twenty-four hours after the judge’s response was received. Dona Benedita, the good, kind mother, was beside herself with joy, busily caught up in preparing the trousseau, in planning and ordering the festivities, in choosing the guests! She rushed hither and thither, sometimes on foot, sometimes by carriage, come rain or shine. She did not linger over any one thing for very long; one day it was the trousseau, the next it was preparations for the wedding reception, the next there were visits to be made; she switched from one thing to another, then back again, and it was all somewhat frenetic. But the daughter was always there to make up for any shortcomings, to correct any mistakes, and trim back any excesses, with her own natural talent for such things. Unlike other bridegrooms, the naval officer did not get in their way; he did not take up Dona Benedita’s invitation to dine with them every evening; he dined with them only on Sundays, and paid them a visit once a week. He kept in touch through long, secret letters, as he had during their courtship. Dona Benedita could not explain such diffidence when she herself had fallen head over heels in love with him; and she would avenge his strange behavior by falling even deeper in love, and telling everyone the most wonderful things about him.
“A pearl! An absolute pearl!”
“He’s certainly a fine young man,” they all agreed.
“Isn’t he just? First-rate!”
She repeated the same thing in the letters she wrote her husband, both before and after receiving his reply to her first letter. In that reply the eminent judge gave his consent, adding that it pained him greatly that, due to a slight indisposition, he would be unable to attend the nuptials; however, he gave them his paternal blessing, and asked for a portrait of his new son-in-law.
His wishes were followed to the letter. The wedding took place twenty-four hours after his letter arrived from Pará. It was, as Dona Benedita told certain friends later on, an admirable, splendid affair. Canon Roxo officiated, and it goes without saying that Dona Maria dos Anjos was not present, still less her son. Up until the very last minute, she had expected to receive a wedding announcement, an invitation, or perhaps a visit, even if she would, naturally enough, refrain from actually attending the ceremony; but nothing came. She was frankly astonished, and scoured her memory again and again for some inadvertent slight on her part that could explain this new coolness. Finding nothing, she imagined some intrigue. But she imagined wrongly, for it was a simple oversight. On the day of the wedding, it suddenly occurred to Dona Benedita that she had forgotten to send Dona Maria dos Anjos a wedding announcement.
“Eulália, it seems we didn’t send the announcement to Dona Maria dos Anjos,” she said to her daughter over breakfast.
“I don’t know, Mama. It was you who organized the invitations.”
“Well, it seems that I didn’t,” said Dona Benedita. “More sugar, João.”
The footman handed her the sugar, and, stirring her tea, she remembered the carriage that would be going to fetch the canon, and repeated one of the orders she had given the day before.
But fortune is a capricious thing. Two weeks after the wedding, they received news of the judge’s death. I will not describe Dona Benedita’s grief; it was deep and sincere. The young newlyweds, lost in their own world up in Tijuca, came down to see her; Dona Benedita wept the tears of a heartbroken and devotedly faithful wife. After the seventh-day mass, she consulted her daughter and son-in-law on the idea of her going to Pará and having a tomb built for her husband, where she could kiss the earth in which he now lay. Mascarenhas exchanged a look with his wife, and then said to his mother-in-law that it would be better for them to go together, since he was due to go to the North in three months’ time on a government commission. Dona Benedita resisted somewhat, but accepted the three-month delay, meanwhile setting about giving all the necessary instructions for the building of the tomb. And so the tomb was built, but Mascarenhas’s commission did not materialize, and Dona Benedita was unable to go.
Five months later, there occurred a small family incident. Dona Benedita had arranged to build a house on the road to Tijuca, and her son-in-law, using an interruption in the building work as a pretext, proposed that he should finish it. Dona Benedita agreed, and her agreement was all the more to her credit given that she was finding her son-in-law increasingly unbearable with his love of discipline, his obstinacy and impertinence. In fact, he didn’t need to be obstinate; rather, he had only to rely on his mother-in-law’s good nature and merely wait a few days for her to give in. But perhaps it was precisely this that vexed her. Happily, the government decided to dispatch him to the South, and the pregnant Eulália stayed with her mother.
It was around this time that a widowed merchant took it upon himself to ask Dona Benedita for her hand in marriage. The first year of widowhood had passed. Dona Benedita received his proposal kindly, albeit with little enthusiasm. She looked to her own interests; her son’s age and studies would soon take him away to São Paulo, leaving her all alone in the world. The marriage would be a source of consolation and company. In her own mind, at home or out and about, she developed the idea, adorning it with her quick and lively imagination; it would be a new life for her, for it could be said that she had been a widow for a long time, even before her husband’s death. The merchant had a sound reputation: it would be an excellent choice.
She did not marry. Her son-in-law returned from the South, her daughter gave birth to a strong, beautiful baby boy, who became his grandmother’s passion for the next few months. Then her son-in-law, daughter, and grandson all left for the North. Dona Benedita found herself alone and sad; her son was not enough to fill her affections. Once again the idea of traveling glimmered briefly in her mind, but only like a match that quickly burned out. Traveling alone would be tiring and dull; she decided it was better to stay.
A poetry recital she happened to attend helped her shake off her torpor, and restored her to society. Society once again suggested the idea of marriage, and quickly put forward a candidate, this time a lawyer, also a widower.
“Shall I marry or shall I not?”
One night, as Dona Benedita was turning this problem over in her mind while standing at the window of the house on the shore at Botafogo, where she had moved to some months earlier, she saw a most unusual spectacle. It began as an opaque glow, like a light filtered through frosted glass, filling the inlet of the bay beyond. Against this backdrop appeared a floating, transparent figure, wreathed in mist and veiled in shimmering reflections, its shape disappearing into thin air. The figure came right up to Dona Benedita’s windowsill, and, drowsily, in a childish voice, spoke these meaningless words:
“Marry . . . don’t marry . . . if you do marry . . . you will marry . . . you won’t marry . . . you will marry . . . get married . . .”
Dona Benedita froze in terror, but still had strength enough to ask the figure who she was. The ghostly figure began to laugh, but that laughter quickly faded, and she replied that she was the fairy who had presided over Dona Benedita’s birth. “My name is Indecision,” said the fairy, and, like a sigh, dissolved into the night and the silence.