I
THE FIRST TIME Dr. Estêvão Soares spoke to Deputy Meneses was in the Teatro Lírico at the time of the memorable battle between the lagruístas and the chartonistas, supporters, respectively, of the singers Emilie La Grua and Anne Charton Demeur. A mutual friend introduced them, and they parted at the end of the evening, exchanging visiting cards and saying that if ever they could be of service to each other, etc., etc.
Just two months later, they met again.
Estêvão Soares had to go to the house of a government minister to sort out some paperwork for a provincial relative of his, and there he met Meneses, who was just coming out of a meeting.
They were both genuinely pleased to meet each other again, and Meneses managed to make Estêvão promise to come to his house a few days later.
The minister in question dealt with the young doctor’s request very quickly, but when Estêvão was ready to leave, he was faced by a heavy downpour, with the rain beginning to run in torrents down the street.
He looked to left and right for an empty cab, but in vain; all the carriages that passed were occupied.
There was only one empty carriage, apparently waiting for someone, presumably the deputy.
A few minutes later, that representative of the nation appeared and was surprised to find the doctor still at the door.
“It’s raining so heavily,” said Estêvão, “I can’t really leave and so I’ve been waiting here in case an empty cab came by.”
“You’ll be lucky, but, please, allow me to offer you a seat in my carriage.”
“I hate to put you to any trouble . . .”
“It’s no trouble at all. It’s a pleasure. I’ll drop you at your house. Where do you live?”
“Rua da Misericórdia.”
“Fine, get in.”
Estêvão still hesitated for a moment, but he could hardly refuse without seeming to be spurning the worthy gentleman’s generous offer.
They got into the carriage.
However, instead of telling the driver to take them to Rua da Misericórdia, the deputy shouted:
“Home, João!”
Estêvão looked at him in surprise.
“I know,” said Meneses, “you’re surprised to see me break my promise, but I’d just like you to see where I live, so that you’ll know where to come when you visit me—soon, I hope.”
The carriage set off in the torrential rain.
Meneses was the first to break the brief silence, saying to his young friend:
“I hope the novel of our friendship will not end at the first chapter.”
Although already conscious of the deputy’s solicitous manner, Estêvão was completely taken aback to hear him speak of the novel of their friendship. The reason for this was simple. The friend who had introduced them at the theater had said to him the following day:
“Meneses is a real misanthrope, a skeptic; he believes in nothing and respects no one. In politics as in society, he plays a purely negative role.”
Despite his real liking for the deputy, it was with these words in mind that Estêvão spoke to him for the second time, and he was astonished by everything about him, by Meneses’s manner and by his words and the affectionate nature these seemed to reveal.
He replied to the deputy with equal frankness.
“Why should we end at the first chapter?” he asked. “A friend is never something to be scorned, but welcomed like a gift from the gods.”
“From the gods!” said Meneses, laughing. “I see you are a pagan.”
“Somewhat, yes, but in the good sense of the word,” answered Estêvão, also laughing. “My life is a little like Odysseus’s life.”
“I hope you at least have an Ithaca, your homeland, and a Penelope, your wife.”
“Neither one nor the other.”
“Then we will get along famously.”
And with that, the deputy turned away to watch the rain streaming down the carriage window.
A few minutes passed, during which Estêvão was at liberty to study his traveling companion.
Meneses turned around then and began another topic of conversation.
When the carriage entered Rua do Lavradio, Meneses said to the doctor:
“This is where I live. My house is just here. Promise you’ll come and visit me occasionally.”
“I’ll come tomorrow.”
“Good. And how is your medical practice going?”
“Oh, I’m only just starting,” said Estêvão, “and I don’t have much work as yet, but I hope to make something of it eventually.”
“The colleague who introduced us told me that you’re a young man of great merit.”
“Well, I certainly hope to make a contribution to society.”
Ten minutes later, the carriage stopped outside a house in Rua do Lavradio.
They both got out and went inside.
Meneses showed Estêvão his study, which was furnished with two long bookshelves.
“This is my family,” said the deputy, showing him the books. “History, philosophy, poetry, and a few books on politics. This is where I work and study. Whenever you come here, this is where I’ll receive you.”
Promising to return the following day, Estêvão went downstairs to the carriage, which was waiting to take him to Rua da Misericórdia.
When he arrived home, Estêvão was saying to himself:
“In what way is this man a misanthrope? A misanthrope would be gruff and rude, unless, of course, he has proved more fortunate than Diogenes and found in me the honest man he’s been looking for.”
II
Estêvão was a serious fellow. He had talent, ambition, and a desire for knowledge, all powerful weapons in the hands of a man aware of his own potential. His life had been one of deep, constant, uninterrupted study since he was sixteen years old. When Estêvão enrolled in medical school, he did so rather reluctantly, not wishing to disobey his father. His true vocation was for mathematics. What does it matter? he thought when he learned of his father’s intentions for him: I will study medicine and mathematics. And he did indeed find time for both, and even found time to study literature, so that the principal works of antiquity and those of contemporary writers were as familiar to him as treatises on surgical operations and hygiene.
All this studying brought with it a certain diminution in his health. At twenty-four, Estêvão was thinner than he had been at sixteen; he was very pale and his head jutted forward slightly from his long habit of reading. However, these vestiges of intellectual dedication had not affected the regularity and harmony of his features, nor had his eyes lost any of their brightness and expressiveness despite long hours bent over books. He possessed, besides, a natural elegance; not that he was a dandy; his elegance lay in his manner, his attitude, his smile, his clothes, all of which were combined with a certain rigor, which was the cornerstone of his character. While he may often have broken the rules of fashion, no one could ever have accused him of breaking the code of the gentleman.
He had lost his parents when he was only twenty, but had enough common sense to continue alone on his journey into the world. Studying became his refuge and his support. He knew nothing of love. He had been so focused on filling his mind that he had forgotten he had a heart. Do not, however, infer from this that Estêvão was a positivist. On the contrary, his soul still had the two wings nature had given him in all their grace and strength. He would often break out of the prison of the flesh to fly up into the heavens, in search of some obscure, uncertain, ill-defined ideal. When he returned from these ecstasies, he would recover from them by burying himself in books, in search of some scientific truth. Newton was his antidote to Goethe.
Apart from this, Estêvão did have some rather unusual ideas. His friend, a priest of about thirty, was a keen disciple of François Fénelon and admirer of his Adventures of Telemachus. Now, this priest would often tell Estêvão that he lacked only one thing in order to be complete, and that was to marry. He would say:
“When you have a beloved and loving wife by your side, you will be a complete and happy man. You will then divide your time between the two loftiest things given to us by nature, our intelligence and our heart. On that day, I want to be the one to bind you together in matrimony . . .”
“In that case, Father Luís,” Estêvão would say, “bring me both wife and blessing.”
The priest would smile at this answer, and since that smile seemed to Estêvão to beg another question, he would go on:
“If I ever find a woman as complete as I would like, I promise that I will marry. However, as you yourself would say: all human works are imperfect, and I certainly wouldn’t argue with you there, Father Luís; allow me, therefore, to walk alone with my own imperfections.”
A heated debate would then ensue, which would grow livelier and livelier until the point when Estêvão would conclude thus:
“Father Luís, a girl who leaves aside her dolls in order to learn by heart a few ill-chosen books; who interrupts a lesson in order to hear a description of a love scene; who, as regards art, knows only Paris fashion figurines; who cannot wait to go to a ball, and who, before she falls in love with a man, first makes sure his tie is correct and his boots a perfect fit; Father Luís, this girl could easily become a splendid ornament to a salon or even a fecund mother, but she could never be a wife.”
This statement had the defect of all absolute rules, which is why Father Luís would always say:
“You’re quite right, but I’m not telling you to marry the rule; look for the exception to that rule and take her to the altar, where I will be waiting to perform the marriage ceremony.”
Such were Estêvão’s views on love and women, and these feelings came to him in part from nature, but also from books. He demanded the intellectual and moral perfection of an Héloïse, taking the exception to prove the rule. He was intolerant of any venial sins, not even recognizing them as such. There are no venial sins, he would say, when it comes to manners and love.
Estêvão’s own family had contributed to this rigidity of spirit. Until his twentieth year, he had seen the sanctity of love sustained by domestic virtue. His mother, who had died when she was thirty-eight, had loved her husband to the last, and survived him by only a few months. Estêvão knew that his parents’ love for each other had been ardent and keen when they were engaged and during the early years of their marriage too; but in the later years of their marriage, which he had witnessed, he had seen a calm, solicitous, trusting love, full of devotion and respect, practiced almost as a religion, free from recriminations or resentments, and as deep as it had been on the very first day. Estêvão’s parents died beloved and happy in the tranquil serenity of marital duty.
To Estêvão’s mind, the love that founds a family should be just that and nothing else. This was only right and proper, but Estêvão’s intolerant views began with his conviction that the last family had died with his own family, and with it the last tradition of love. What would it take to bring down that system, even momentarily? The tiniest of things: a smile and two eyes.
However, when those two eyes did not appear, Estêvão devoted most of his time to his scientific studies, filling any free moments with distractions that required little concentration.
He lived alone; he had a slave, who was the same age as him and had been brought up in his father’s house, and who was more brother than slave as regards devotion and affection. He had a few friends and, now and then, they would visit him and he, them. Among these was the young Father Luís, whom Estêvão called the Plato of the cassock.
Naturally kind and affectionate, generous and chivalrous, devoid of any rancorous or hateful feelings, an enthusiast for all things good and true, this was Dr. Estêvão Soares at the age of twenty-four.
We have already said something about his physical appearance; we need only add that he had a handsome head, thick brown hair, bright, observant brown eyes, and a naturally curly mustache that stood out in marked contrast to his pale face. He was also tall and had an admirable pair of hands.
III
Estêvão Soares visited Meneses the following day.
The deputy was expecting him and received him as if he were an old friend. Estêvão had unwittingly arranged to visit at a time that prevented Meneses from attending the Chamber, not that he minded; he simply didn’t go. However, he was delicate enough not to mention this to Estêvão.
Meneses was in his study when the houseboy announced the doctor’s arrival. He went to greet him at the door.
“As punctual as a king,” he said gaily.
“Of course. I wouldn’t want you to think I’d forgotten.”
“I’m grateful to you.”
They both sat down.
“I’m grateful because I was afraid you might have misunderstood me and that my feelings of friendship for you might not merit any consideration on your part . . .”
Estêvão was about to protest.
“Forgive me,” Meneses went on, “I see that I was wrong, and that’s why I’m so grateful. At forty-seven, I’m no longer a boy, and for someone of your age, friendship with a man like me is no longer of any value.”
“Old age, when it’s respectable, should be respected, and loved when it’s lovable. Besides, you’re not old. True, your hair is turning gray, but it’s more as if you were embarking on a second youth.”
“Is that how I seem to you?”
“You not only seem so, you are.”
“Whatever the truth of the matter,” said Meneses, “the fact is that we can be friends. How old are you?”
“Twenty-four.”
“Goodness, young enough to be my son. Are your parents still alive?”
“They both died four years ago.”
“And I seem to recall you telling me you were single . . .”
“Yes, I am.”
“So you’re free to concentrate solely on science?”
“Science is my wife.”
“Yes, your intellectual wife, but that can’t be enough for a man like you. There’s plenty of time for that, though; you’re still young.”
As they spoke, Estêvão was studying and observing Meneses, whose face was lit by the light coming in through one of the windows. There was something austere about his head, with its mane of graying, elegantly disheveled hair. His eyes were dark and rather dull, but one could sense they had once been lively and passionate. His grizzled side-whiskers were like those worn by Lord Palmerston, at least according to the engravings. His face was unlined, apart from a single crease between his eyebrows, a sign of concentration rather than a trace left by time. He had a high forehead, and his chin and cheekbones were slightly prominent. You could tell that in his first youth he must have been handsome, and that in old age he would look imposing and august. He smiled occasionally, and that smile, even though his face was not that of an old man, made a very strange impression; it was like a shaft of moonlight falling on an ancient ruin. His smile was pleasant, but devoid of joy.
There was something impressive and attractive about him, and Estêvão felt more and more drawn to this man who sought his company and held out the hand of friendship to him.
The conversation continued in the same affectionate tone in which it had begun; the first encounter between friends is the very opposite of the first encounter between lovers; in the latter, silence speaks volumes; in the former, you inspire and gain each other’s confidence by a frank exposition of feelings and ideas.
They did not talk about politics. Estêvão made a brief allusion to Meneses’s duties as a deputy, but it was a passing comment to which the deputy paid no attention.
After an hour, Estêvão got up to leave; he had to go and see a patient.
“That is the most sacred of reasons, otherwise I would keep you here longer.”
“I’ll come again, though.”
“You certainly will, and I’ll return the visit occasionally too. If, that is, you’re not fed up with me after two weeks . . . Look, come in the evening; have supper with me; once I’ve finished at the Chamber, I’m completely free.”
Estêvão agreed to all these proposals.
And he did go back and twice had supper with the deputy, who also visited him at home; they went to the theater together and became on good terms with the various families of their acquaintance. After a month, they were old friends. They had both taken careful note of each other’s character and feelings. Meneses liked the doctor’s seriousness and good sense; he respected him and accepted his prejudices, applauding the generosity of his ambitions. For his part, the doctor saw in Meneses a man who combined the austerity of experience with a gentlemanly amiability, being modest in his manners, cultivated, and sensitive. He found not a trace of the misanthropy he had been warned about. It’s true that, on occasions, Meneses did seem more disposed to listen than to speak, and, at such times, his gaze grew still and somber, as if he were contemplating his own consciousness, rather than looking at any external object. Such moments did not last, however, and Meneses soon reverted to his usual self.
“He’s not a misanthrope,” thought Estêvão, “but there is some kind of drama going on inside him.”
This idea took on a certain verisimilitude when, one night at the Teatro Lírico, Estêvão drew Meneses’s attention to a woman dressed in black, who was sitting in a box on the first level.
“I don’t know that woman,” said Estêvão, “do you?”
Meneses looked up at the box, studied the woman for a few moments, then said:
“No, I don’t.”
The conversation went no further, but the doctor noticed that the woman looked at Meneses twice more, and that Meneses did the same, and that their eyes met.
At the end of the performance, the two friends walked over to the side corridor where the woman in black had been sitting. Estêvão was curious—the curiosity of an artist: he wanted to see her from close up The door to her box was shut. Had she already left? It was impossible to know. Meneses walked by without looking. When they reached the landing of the stairs leading down to the exit onto Rua dos Ciganos, they were both stopped by the great crush of people. Shortly afterward, they heard someone’s hurrying footsteps, and Meneses immediately took Estêvão’s arm and continued on down the stairs despite having to push his way through the throng.
Estêvão understood, although he had seen nothing.
For his part, Meneses gave nothing away.
As soon as they were free of the crowd, the deputy launched into a lively conversation with the doctor.
“What effect does it have on you, pushing past all those elegant ladies, through that confusion of silks and perfumes?”
Estêvão replied distractedly, and Meneses continued the conversation in the same vein. Five minutes later, the incident at the theater was entirely forgotten.
IV
One day, Estêvão Soares was invited to a ball at the house of an old friend of his father’s.
It was a large and glittering company, and, although Estêvão led a quiet existence, he knew quite a number of people there. He did not dance, but he looked, talked, laughed a little, and left.
When he had arrived at the ball, his heart had been utterly free; when he left, however, it was—to adopt the language of the poets of Arcadia—pierced by an arrow, love’s arrow.
Love? To be honest, that word cannot be used to describe the feeling experienced by Estêvão; it was not yet love, but it could quite easily become love. For the moment, it was a feeling of sweet, gentle fascination; one of the guests had made on him the same impression that fairies make on wandering princes or exiled princesses, at least according to what we read in fairy tales.
The woman in question was not a maiden; she was a widow of thirty-four, very beautiful, gracious and kind. This was the first time Estêvão had seen her; at least, he could not recall having seen her before. They had talked for half an hour, and he was so enchanted by Madalena’s manners, voice, and beauty that, when he reached home, he was unable to sleep.
Like the good doctor he was, he noted the symptoms of this hypertrophy of the heart called love and did his best to combat the nascent illness. He read a few pages of a mathematics book, or, rather, he ran his eyes over the pages, because as soon as he started to read, his mind left the book and went off to find the widow.
Tiredness succeeded where Euclid failed and, toward dawn, Estêvão Soares finally fell asleep.
He dreamed of the widow.
He dreamed he was holding her in his arms, that he was showering her with kisses, that she was his wife in the eyes of the Church and society.
When he woke, he remembered the dream and smiled.
“Get married!” he said. “That’s all I need. How could I, with my naturally shy, ambitious character, how could I possibly be happily married? I’ll think no more about it. I’ll never see that woman again, and that’s that.”
He began getting dressed.
Breakfast was brought to him, and he ate rapidly because it was late, then went out to see a few patients.
As he passed Rua do Conde, he remembered that Madalena had told him that this was the street where she lived, but where exactly? She had told him the number, but he had been so entranced by her voice that he had failed to retain this information.
Since no one could help him, he decided to continue on his way.
The following day, though, he made a point of walking twice up and down Rua do Conde to see if he could find the charming widow. He found nothing, but just as he was about to take a cab and return home, he bumped into the family friend at whose house he had met Madalena.
Estêvão had already considered approaching him, but had immediately rejected the thought, because asking him where the widow lived might betray his intentions.
That was the word Estêvão used—betray.
After greeting the doctor and exchanging a few words with him, the man said goodbye, announcing that he was going to visit Madalena.
Estêvão trembled with satisfaction.
He watched his friend from a distance and saw him go into a house.
“So that’s where she lives,” he thought.
And he walked briskly away.
When he got home, he found a letter perfumed with sandalwood; the address was written in a neat, elegant, but unfamiliar hand.
He broke the seal.
This is what the letter said:
We’re having tea at my house tomorrow. It would give us great pleasure if you would care to spend a few hours with us. Madalena C.
Estêvão read and reread the note; he even made as if to raise it to his lips, but, ashamed of what seemed to him mere weakness, he simply gave the letter a peremptory sniff and put it in his pocket.
Estêvão was something of a fatalist.
“If I hadn’t gone to that ball, I wouldn’t have met that woman and I wouldn’t be feeling as I do now, and I would have avoided either a misfortune or a joy, because both those things could come from this chance encounter. To be or not to be, as Hamlet said. Should I go to her house? It’s only polite, after all. Yes, I must, but I will go prepared for everything. I must break with these ideas and resume my former tranquil existence.”
He was still thinking all this when Meneses arrived at his house. He had come to take Estêvão out to supper, and they left together. On the way, Estêvão asked Meneses a few strange questions.
For example:
“Do you believe in fate, my friend? Do you think there is a good god and a bad god constantly engaged in a power struggle over our lives?”
“Fate is will,” answered Meneses. “Each man makes his own fate.”
“And yet we do have presentiments. Sometimes we have an inkling of events in which we did not even take part. Do you not think perhaps that some beneficent god is telling us these things?”
“You’re speaking like a pagan, and I don’t believe any of it. I do believe that my stomach is empty and that the best thing we can do is to have supper right here in the Hotel de Europa rather than going back to Rua do Lavradio.”
They went into the hotel.
Various deputies were there, talking politics, and they all gathered around Meneses. Estêvão listened and responded, but without once forgetting the widow, the letter, and the smell of sandalwood.
There were some interesting contrasts between the general conversation and Estêvão’s thoughts.
For example, a deputy would say:
“The government is overreaching itself, and the provinces can’t take much more of it. Principle has been tossed out of the window. In my province alone, some subdelegates have been dismissed simply because they’re relatives of mine; my son-in-law, who was director of finances, was thrown out and the post given to some dandy who’s related by marriage to the Valadar family. I tell you I’m really going to lay into the opposition tomorrow.”
Estêvão was looking at the deputy who was speaking, but in his head, he was saying this:
“Madalena really is beautiful, unbelievably beautiful. She has extraordinary eyes. Her hair is gorgeous too; everything about her is fascinating. I would be happy to have her as my wife, but who knows? And yet I feel that I will love her. It’s irresistible. I have to love her. But what about her? What does she mean by that invitation? Does she love me?”
Estêvão was so immersed in these ideal thoughts, so distracted, that, when a deputy asked him if he didn’t also find the whole situation grim and hopeless, he replied:
“Oh, yes, gorgeous!”
“Ah,” said the deputy, “I see you’re on the side of the ministers!”
Estêvão smiled, but Meneses frowned. He had understood everything.
V
When they left, the deputy said to the doctor:
“My friend, you’ve been disloyal to me . . .”
“Whatever do you mean?” asked Estêvão, half serious and half joking, not having understood the deputy’s remark.
“Because,” Meneses went on, “you have a secret you’re not telling me.”
“Me?”
“Yes, a secret love.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I noticed just now that, while everyone else was discussing politics, you were thinking about a woman, a gorgeous woman.”
Seeing that he had been found out, Estêvão did not deny it.
“It’s true. I was thinking about a woman.”
“And will I be the last to know?”
“Know what? There’s no love, nothing. I happened to meet a woman who made a real impression on me, and I’m still thinking about her now. But it may well go no further than that. That’s it. It’s an unfinished chapter; a novel of which there is only the first page. I really think it will be difficult for me to fall in love.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I find it hard to believe in love.”
Meneses looked hard at Estêvão and smiled, shaking his head:
“Look, leave disbelief to those who have already been disappointed in love; you’re young and as yet know nothing of such disappointments. No one can be a skeptic at your age. Besides, if the woman is pretty, I wager you’ll end up telling me a very different story.”
“Possibly,” said Estêvão.
And at the same time, he thought about Meneses’s words, words that reminded him of what had happened at the Teatro Lírico.
Meanwhile, Estêvão duly went to Madalena’s house. He was as meticulously dressed and perfumed as if he were going to visit his fiancée. What would come of that encounter? Would he emerge a free man or a slave? Estêvão could not help thinking that perhaps she loved him already, and the invitation seemed to him irrefutable proof of this. As he got into a cab, he began to build all kinds of castles in the air.
At last, he reached her house.
VI
Madalena was alone in the room with her small son.
No one else.
It was half-past nine.
“Am I too early?” he asked.
“You could never be too early.”
Estêvão bowed, and Madalena went on:
“The reason I’m alone is because I felt a little unwell earlier and sent messages putting off the handful of people I’d invited.”
“But I didn’t receive a message . . .”
“That is because I didn’t send you one. It was the first time I’d invited you, and I certainly didn’t want to drive away such a distinguished gentleman.”
Madalena’s words were not even believable as the feeblest of excuses.
Estêvão realized at once that there must be some hidden motive.
Could it be love?
Estêvão thought that it was, and he was sorry, because, despite everything, he had imagined a more discreet, less precipitate passion. However pleasing this was, he did not want to be the object of her desires, and felt terribly embarrassed to be there with a woman with whom he was beginning to fall in love and who perhaps loved him. What could he say to her? It was the first time he had found himself in such a situation. There is every reason to think that, at the time, Estêvão would have preferred to be a hundred leagues from there, and yet, however far away he was, he would still be thinking about her.
Madalena was extraordinarily beautiful, and yet her face revealed her to be someone who has suffered greatly. She was tall and strong, and had a beautiful neck, magnificent arms, large brown eyes, and a mouth made for love.
At that moment, she was wearing a black dress. Black suited her.
Estêvão gazed on her with love and adoration; he heard her speak and felt enchanted and overwhelmed by a feeling he could not explain.
It was a mixture of love and fear.
Madalena was tactful and solicitous. She spoke of his many merits and his burgeoning reputation, and urged him to come and visit her occasionally.
At half-past ten, tea was served, and Estêvão stayed until eleven o’clock.
By the time he left, he was completely besotted. Madalena had yoked him to her cart, and the poor boy had no wish to cast off that yoke.
As he walked home, his head was full of plans: he could see himself married to her, beloved and loving, provoking envy everywhere, and, more importantly, happy in himself.
When he reached his house, he thought he should write a letter to send to Meneses the next day. He wrote five and tore all of them up.
Finally, he wrote this very simple note:
My friend, you were quite right; at my age, no one is a skeptic; we believe. I believe and I am in love. I never would have thought it possible, but it’s true. I am in love. Would you like to know who I’m in love with? I will take you to her house. You’ll find her very pretty—because she is!
The letter said many more things, but they were all basically a gloss on the same idea.
Estêvão went back to Madalena’s house, and became a regular, assiduous visitor.
The widow treated him so kindly that it was impossible to doubt the feelings that lay behind that kindness. That at least is what Estêvão thought. She was nearly always alone, and he delighted in listening to her talk. They were growing closer and closer.
On only his second visit, Estêvão spoke to her about Meneses and asked permission to introduce her to him. She said she would be delighted to receive any of his friends, but asked him to postpone any introductions for the moment. He accepted everything Madalena asked or thought and so said nothing more.
As was only natural, when his visits to the widow grew more frequent, his visits to his friend became less so.
Meneses did not complain; he understood and said to Estêvão:
“Don’t apologize, that’s the way things are. Friendship must give way to love. I just want you to be happy.”
One day, Estêvão asked his friend why he no longer believed in love, and if he had suffered some great misfortune.
“No, not at all,” said Meneses.
Then, realizing that the doctor deserved his confidence and might not believe him, he added:
“No, why deny it? I did suffer a great misfortune. I, too, loved, but did not find sweetness and dignity in love. Anyway, it’s a personal tragedy of which I prefer not to speak. I have to accept it.”
VII
“When would you like me to introduce you to my friend Meneses?” Estêvão asked Madalena one night.
“Oh, yes, that’s right. Well, one of these days. I see you are a great friend of his.”
“Yes, we’re very close.”
“True friends?”
“Yes, true friends.”
Madalena smiled, continuing to play with her son’s hair, and planting a kiss on his forehead.
The boy laughed gaily and hugged his mother.
The idea of becoming the child’s honorary father surfaced in Estêvão’s mind. He looked at him, called to him, stroked him, and kissed him on exactly the same spot where Madalena’s lips had rested.
Estêvão could play the piano and, at Madalena’s request, he would sometimes play something for her.
In these and other amusements the hours passed; love, however, did not progress one step.
They could have been two volcanoes ready to erupt, but, so far, there was no sign of this.
Estêvão found the situation very awkward, discouraging, and painful, but whenever he considered taking decisive action, this was precisely when he revealed himself at his most craven and cowardly.
It was the first time he had been in love, and he didn’t even know what words to choose.
One day, he resolved to write to her.
“That’s the best way,” he thought. “A letter is eloquent and has the great advantage of keeping a certain distance.”
He went into his study and began a letter.
He spent an hour on this, lingering long over every sentence. He wanted to avoid being classified as either foolish or sensual. He didn’t want the letter to suggest any frivolous or bad feelings; he wanted to show himself as pure as he was.
Ah, but how often events intervene. Estêvão was still rereading and correcting the letter when a good friend of his arrived. His name was Oliveira and he was said to be Rio de Janeiro’s foremost dandy.
He entered, carrying a roll of paper.
Estêvão immediately hid his letter.
“Hello, Estêvão,” said Oliveira. “What were you writing just now? Something libelous or a love letter?”
“Neither,” Estêvão replied tartly.
“I have some news for you.”
“What?”
“I’ve become a writer.”
“Really?”
“Yes, and I have come to read you my first comedy.”
“Oh, please, no!” cried Estêvão, getting up.
“You must hear at least a few scenes, my friend. Are you not going to encourage me in my new career? Come on, just a couple of scenes. That’s not much to ask.”
Estêvão sat down again.
The playwright went on:
“Or perhaps you’d prefer to hear a speech from my tragedy entitled Brutus’s Dagger . . .”
“No, no, I’d rather hear the comedy—much less bloodthirsty. Come on, then, on with it.”
Oliveira unfurled the roll of paper, sorted out the various pages, and began to read what follows in a slow, nasal voice:
Scene I
CÉSAR (entering stage right)
JOÃO (entering stage left)
CÉSAR
Why’s the door closed! Is the mistress up already?
JOÃO
Yes, she is, but she’s not feeling well.
CÉSAR
What’s wrong with her?
JOÃO
She’s . . . she’s not feeling well.
CÉSAR
Oh, I see. (To himself) The usual thing. (To João) So what’s today’s remedy, then?
JOÃO
Today’s remedy? (After a pause) I don’t know.
CÉSAR
Never mind. Off you go.
Scene II
César, Freitas (entering stage right)
CÉSAR
Good day, Mr. Advocate . . .
. . . An advocate in pursuit of lost causes. They’re the only kind that interest me, after all, trying to pursue a cause that isn’t lost would be absurd. How’s my client?
CÉSAR
João tells me she’s feeling unwell.
FREITAS
Too unwell even to see you?
CÉSAR
Yes, even me. But why are you looking at me like that? Are you jealous?
FREITAS
No, it’s not jealousy, it’s admiration. Normally, no one really suits the name they were given, but in your case, Senhor César, you cannot, God bless you, deny that yours is a significant name, and that you are trying to be in the world of love what that other Caesar was on the battlefield.
CÉSAR
Is this how advocates usually speak?
FREITAS
Occasionally. (Going to sit down) Are you surprised?
César (taking out his cigar case)
Yes, I’m surprised . . . Would you care for a cigar?
FREITAS
Thank you, no, I’ll take a pinch of snuff instead. (Takes out his snuff box)
Will you join me?
CÉSAR
No, thank you.
My client’s case is going swimmingly. The other party is calling for a ten-day adjournment, but I’m going to—
CÉSAR
That’s fine, Senhor Freitas, you can spare me the rest, unless you choose not to bore me with legal jargon. In short, she’s going to win?
FREITAS
Of course. If she can prove that—
CÉSAR
She’s winning, that’s what matters.
FREITAS
How could she not, given that I’m involved . . .
CÉSAR
So much the better.
FREITAS
I can’t recall ever having lost a case; that is, I did lose one, but only because, on the very eve of victory, my client said he wanted to lose. No sooner said than done. I proved the opposite of what I’d already proved, and lost . . . or, rather, won, because losing like that is the same as winning.
CÉSAR
You are the doyen of advocates.
Freitas (modestly)
You’re too kind . . .
CÉSAR
What about conscience, though?
FREITAS
Whose conscience?
Yours, of course!
FREITAS
Mine! Oh, that always wins too.
César (getting up)
Really?
Freitas (remaining seated)
Do you have a case you’d like to bring?
CÉSAR
No, no, not at all, but when I have, rest assured I will knock at your door . . .
FREITAS
I am at your disposal, sir.
VIII
Estêvão brought the reading to an abrupt halt, which greatly upset the novice poet. This poor candidate to the muses tried to plead with him, but Estêvão would not be moved, and the only concession he made was a promise to read the play later.
Oliveira had to content himself with this, but would not leave until he had recited from memory a speech by the protagonist of his tragedy, long, complicated verses topped off with a stanza of lyric poetry, in the style of Victor Hugo’s “Les Djinns.”
Then he left.
Meanwhile, time had passed.
Estêvão reread his letter and still wanted to send it, but his poet friend’s interruption had proved useful, for, on rereading the letter yet again, Estêvão found it cold and empty; the language was very passionate, but in no way did it describe the fire in his heart.
“It’s pointless,” he said, tearing the letter into pieces, “the human tongue will always be impotent when it comes to expressing certain feelings of the soul; what I wrote was so cold, and quite different from what I actually feel. I’m condemned to say nothing or to say it badly. When I’m with her, I feel too weak, too feeble . . .”
Estêvão went over to the window just as a former colleague of his was walking past in the street below, arm in arm with a woman, a very pretty woman, whom he had married the month before.
They both looked so happy and content.
Estêvão contemplated the scene sadly and adoringly. Marriage was no longer the impossibility he had spoken of when he had only ideas, not feelings. Now it was something that could become a reality.
The couple who had just passed gave him new energy.
“I need to put an end to this,” he said, “I must go to her and tell her that I love her, adore her, and want to be her husband. She will love me, if she doesn’t already, but, yes, she does love me . . .”
And he got dressed, ready to go out.
As he was pulling on his gloves and glancing at the clock, the houseboy brought him a letter.
It was from Madalena.
I do hope, my dear doctor, that you will come and see me today. Yesterday, I waited for you in vain. I need to talk to you.
Estêvão was in such a hurry to leave and wanted so urgently to be with Madalena that he only finished reading this note when he was halfway down the stairs.
What he didn’t want to lose was that glimmer of courage.
He left.
When he reached Madalena’s house, she was standing at the window, watching for him. She welcomed him warmly, as she always did. Estêvão apologized as best he could for failing to appear on the previous evening, adding that it had pained him deeply not to be there.
What better opportunity to throw in the bombshell of a frank and passionate declaration of love? He hesitated for a few seconds longer, then, screwing up all his courage, he was about to go on, when she said to him:
“I wanted to see you in order to tell you something important, something that I could only tell a man of honor like yourself.”
“Do you know where I saw you for the first time?”
“At the ball.”
“No, it was before that. At the Teatro Lírico.”
“Ah!”
“You were with your friend Meneses.”
“Yes, we did go there a few times.”
Madalena then launched into a long explanation, to which he listened unblinking, but, at the same time, turning paler still and feeling deeply troubled. Her final words were:
“As you see, sir, such things can only be confided to a great soul. Small souls could not understand them. If I deserve anything, and if this confidence can be repaid with a kind act, then I ask you to do as I request.”
The doctor covered his eyes with his hand and said only:
“But—”
At that moment, Madalena’s little boy came into the room; she got up and led him by the hand to where Estêvão Soares was sitting.
“If not for me, then for the sake of this innocent child!”
The child, all uncomprehending, threw himself into Estêvão’s arms. Estêvão kissed him on the forehead and said to the widow:
“If I hesitated, it was not because I doubted the truth of what you have just told me, but because it is a very difficult mission you entrust me with. I promise, though, that I will carry it out to the best of my ability.”
IX
Estêvão left Madalena’s house with unsteady step and clouded gaze and filled with all kinds of contradictory feelings. His conversation with Madalena had been a long ordeal, and that final promise a decisive, mortal blow. Estêvão left there like a man who has just murdered his own burgeoning hopes; he walked aimlessly, he needed both to breathe fresh air and to be in a darkened room, to be alone and, at the same time, in the midst of a vast crowd.
On the way, he met Oliveira, the novice poet.
He recalled that Oliveira’s reading of his play had prevented him from sending the letter and thereby spared him the saddest of disappointments.
He found himself embracing the poet with all his heart.
Oliveira returned his embrace, and, when he could finally detach himself from the doctor’s arms, said:
“Thank you, my friend. Such a show of enthusiasm is most affecting. I have always thought of you as a great judge of literature, and the proof that you have just given me is both a consolation and an encouragement; it consoles me for what I have already suffered, and encourages me to embark on new ventures. If Torquato Tasso—”
Feeling a speech threatening, and especially given his friend’s misinterpretation of his embrace, Estêvão resolved to continue on his way and to abandon the poet.
“I’m sorry, I’m in a hurry. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye and thank you!”
Estêvão reached his own house and flung himself down on the bed. No one ever knew this—and only the walls of his room were witnesses—but the truth is that Estêvão wept bitter tears.
So what was it that Madalena had told him and asked of him?
The widow was not a widow; she was Meneses’s wife. She had traveled down from the North a few months before her husband, who only came to Rio to carry out his duties as a deputy. Meneses, who loved her madly and whose love was requited with equal fervor, had accused her of being unfaithful, citing a letter and a portrait as evidence. She had denied this, but explained herself very badly. Her husband left and sent her off to the capital.
Madalena accepted the situation with resignation and courage; she neither complained nor begged; she did as her husband ordered.
And yet Madalena was not guilty of the crime, which was only a crime in appearance; she was condemned because she had behaved honorably. The letter and the portrait did not belong to her; they had, imprudently and fatally, been left in her safekeeping. Madalena could have told her husband everything, but that would have meant breaking a promise, and she did not want that. She preferred the domestic storm to fall only on her.
Now, however, the need to keep the secret had passed. Madalena had received word from the North, in which her friend, on her deathbed, asked her to destroy both the letter and the portrait or to return them to the man who had given them to her. This was enough to justify Madalena’s confession.
Madalena could have sent the letter to her husband, or asked to meet him, but she was afraid. She knew it would be useless, because Meneses could be very rigid.
She had seen Estêvão one night at the theater in company with her husband; she had made inquiries and learned that they were friends; she was asking him, then, to mediate between them, to save her and restore a family’s happiness.
It was not, therefore, only Estêvão’s love that was wounded, it was his amour propre too. He realized at once that he had been invited to that house for one reason alone. It’s true that the letter had only arrived the day before, but this had merely hastened the resolution of the situation. Madalena would doubtless have asked him to perform some similar service even if she hadn’t received the letter.
Had it been any other man, Estêvão would have refused to help the “widow,” but it was his friend, a man to whom he owed both esteem and the duties of friendship.
And so he accepted that cruel mission.
“So be it,” he said, “I have to drive the woman I love into the arms of another, and, even worse, far from taking pleasure in being able to restore domestic harmony, I find myself in the dreadful position of being in love with my friend’s wife, and for that there is only one solution—to go far away . . .”
Estêvão stayed at home for the rest of that day.
He considered writing to the deputy and telling him everything, then thought it would be better to talk to him face-to-face. This would be more difficult, but more effective if he was to keep his promise.
However, he put this off until the following day, or, rather, the same day, since the night did not interrupt the flow of time, given that he did not sleep a wink.
X
The poor lover left his bed as the sun was rising.
He wanted to read the newspapers and asked for them to be brought to him.
He was just setting them aside, having read all he wanted, when he suddenly saw his own name in the Jornal do Commercio.
It was a commissioned article, a puff, entitled A Masterpiece.
This is what the article said:
It is with pleasure that we announce to the nation the imminent appearance of an excellent new comedy written by a young writer from Rio de Janeiro called Antônio Carlos de Oliveira.
This robust talent, long unrecognized, is finally about to enter the sea of public life, and to this end he wanted to try his hand at writing a substantial work.
We understand that only days ago, the author, at the request of his many friends, read the play in the house of Dr. Estêvão Soares, before an illustrious audience, who applauded loudly and proclaimed Senhor Oliveira as a future Shakespeare.
Dr. Estêvão Soares was kind enough to ask to read the play again, and yesterday, when he met Senhor Oliveira in the street, he embraced him warmly, to the general amazement of numerous passersby.
Coming from such a fine judge of literature, this embrace speaks volumes about Senhor Oliveira’s talent.
We are ourselves keen to read Senhor Oliveira’s play and are sure that it will make the fortune of any theater that puts it on.
A Lover of Literature
Despite all the other emotions churning inside him, this article enraged Estêvão. There could be no doubt that the author of the article must also be the author of the play. His embrace had been misinterpreted, and the so-called poet had used it to his advantage. If he had at least omitted Estêvão’s name, that might have excused the writer’s foolish vanity, but his name was there as an accomplice to the play.
Setting aside the newspaper, Estêvão decided to write a letter of protest and was just about to do so, when he received a note from Oliveira.
This is what the note said:
Dear Estêvão,
A friend of mine decided to write something about my play. I told him I had read the play to you, and explained that, despite your keen desire to hear the whole thing, you had to rush off to tend to a patient. Despite this, the aforementioned friend decided to reveal all in today’s Jornal do Commercio, very slightly tampering with the truth. Forgive him: he meant well.
Yesterday, I arrived home, feeling so proud of your embrace that I wrote an ode, my lyric vein rising to the surface after the comic and the tragic. Here it is—in draft form. If it’s no good, simply tear it up.
The letter bore yesterday’s date.
The ode was very long, and Estêvão didn’t even bother to read it, but hurled it down.
The ode began thus:
Leave your mountain peak, O muse!
Come, inspire the poet’s lyre;
Fill with light my bold brow,
And let us send into eternity,
On the wings of a resounding ode,
The encouraging embrace of friendship!
I sing not of Achilles’ lofty deeds
Nor do I hail the clamorous beat
Of martial drums on battlefields!
No, another matter inspires my pen.
I sing not of the death-dealing sword,
I sing of the embrace that gives life and glory!
XI
As promised, Estêvão set off immediately in search of Meneses. Instead of coming straight to the point, he wanted, initially, to sound him out as regards his past. It was the first time he had touched on the matter. Meneses, all unsuspecting, was merely taken a little by surprise; however, such was his confidence in his friend that he could refuse him nothing.
“I’ve always thought,” Estêvão said, “that there must have been some kind of drama in your life. This may be a mistake on my part, but I can’t get the idea out of my head.”
“Yes, there was a drama of sorts, one that was booed off the stage. No, don’t smile. That’s the truth. What do you imagine it might have been?”
“I’ve no idea, I imagine . . .”
“You expect drama from a politician?”
“Why not?”
“I’ll tell you. I both am and am not a politician. I didn’t enter public life out of any kind of vocation; I entered it as one enters a tomb: in order to sleep better. Why did I do this? Because of the drama you speak of.”
“A woman, perhaps . . .”
“Yes, a woman.”
“Perhaps,” said Estêvão, attempting a smile, “even a wife?”
Meneses trembled and looked at his friend, alarmed and suspicious now.
“Who told you that?”
“I was merely asking a question.”
“Yes, it was my wife, but I’ll say no more. You’re the first person to have wheedled so much out of me. The past is past, it’s dead: parce sepultis.”
“Possibly,” said Estêvão, “and what if I belonged to a philosophical sect intent on reviving the dead, even a dead past . . . ?”
“Your words either mean a great deal or nothing at all. What are you getting at?”
“I don’t intend to revive the past, but to repair it, to restore it to its former glory, as is only right. My object is to tell you, my dear friend, that the condemned woman is, in fact, innocent.”
When he heard these words, Meneses gave a faint gasp.
Then, springing to his feet, he asked Estêvão to tell him what he knew and how.
Estêvão told him everything.
When he finished, the deputy shook his head in disbelief, the last symptom of incredulity, which is the lingering echo of great domestic catastrophes.
Estêvão, though, was prepared for his friend’s objections. He energetically defended the wife, and urged Meneses to do his duty.
Meneses’s final response was this:
“My dear Estêvão, Caesar’s wife should always be above suspicion. I believe what you say, but what’s done is done.”
“That’s a very harsh principle, my friend.”
“But inevitable.”
Estêvão left.
When he was alone, Meneses sat, sunk in thought; he believed what Estêvão had said, and he loved his wife, but he could not believe there could be a return to those happier days.
By refusing to believe, he thought, he could stay in the tomb where he had slept so peacefully.
Estêvão, however, did not give up.
When he got home, he wrote a long letter to the deputy, urging him to go back to his family, which had been so briefly and unnecessarily torn asunder. Estêvão was very eloquent, and it took little to convince Meneses’s heart.
The doctor proved himself extremely able in this diplomatic mission. After a few days, the clouds of the past had dissipated and the couple were reunited.
How?
Madalena learned of her husband’s intentions, and received a warning that he was about to visit.
Just as the deputy was preparing to leave for her house, he was told that a lady was asking for him.
The lady was Madalena.
Meneses did not even attempt to embrace her, but knelt at her feet.
All was forgotten.
Wanting to celebrate this reconciliation, they invited Estêvão to spend the day with them, for to him they owed their happiness.
Estêvão did not go.
The following day, though, Meneses received this note:
Forgive me, my friend, for not coming to say goodbye to you in person. I have to leave for Minas immediately. I will return in a few months.
I hope you will both be happy and will not forget me.
Meneses rushed to Estêvão’s house, where he found him packing for his journey.
Meneses found this urgency very odd and the note still odder, but the doctor said nothing of the real motive for his departure.
When Meneses returned, he told his wife what had happened and asked her if she could understand it.
“No,” she answered.
But she had, at last, understood.
“A noble soul,” she said to herself.
But she said nothing to her husband, and in this she revealed herself to be a wife concerned for their conjugal peace, and, above all, a woman.
Meneses did not go to the house for many days after this, and left as soon as he could for the North.
His absence upset a number of votes and his departure thwarted many schemes.
However, a man has the right to seek his own happiness, and Meneses’s happiness was independent of politics.