SING, O MUSE, of the dismay of Mariana, wife of the distinguished Conrado Seabra, on that April morning in 1879. What could be the cause of such upset? A simple hat, light and not inelegant; in short, a bowler hat. Conrado, a lawyer with offices on Rua da Quitanda, wore it to the city every day, and it went with him to all his court hearings; he only refrained from wearing it at receptions, the opera, funerals, and formal social visits. Otherwise, it was a constant feature, and had been so for the entire five or six years of his marriage. Until, on that particular April morning, after finishing their breakfast, Conrado began to roll a cigarette, and Mariana announced with a smile that she had something to ask him.
“What is it, my angel?”
“Would you be capable of making a sacrifice for me?”
“I could make ten or twenty of them!”
“Then stop wearing that hat to the city.”
“Why? Is it ugly?”
“I wouldn’t say ugly, but it’s only meant to be worn locally, when going for a stroll around the neighborhood, in the evenings or at night. But in the city, for a lawyer, well, it hardly seems—”
“Don’t be so silly, sweetie!”
“It may be silly, but will you do it as a favor? Just for me?”
Conrado struck a match, lit his cigarette, and tried to change the subject with an affable wave of his hand, but his wife persisted, and her insistence, at first gently imploring, quickly became harsh and imperious. Conrado was shocked. He knew his wife; she was usually such a passive creature, sweet and gently amenable as the situation demanded, capable of wearing a bonnet, a wimple, or a royal tiara with the same divine indifference. The proof of this is that, having been part of a rather fast set during the two years before marrying, once she did marry, she quickly settled into homelier habits. She did go out from time to time, mainly at the behest of her husband, but she was only truly at ease in her own home. Furniture, curtains, and ornaments made up for the lack of children; she loved them like a mother, and such was the harmony between person and surroundings that she took particular pleasure in everything being in its proper place, the curtains hanging in the same neat folds, and so on. For example, one of the three windows that gave onto the street was always left half open, and it was always the same one. Even her husband’s study did not escape her fastidious demands, for she carefully maintained, and at times restored, his books, so that they were always in the same state of disorder. Her mental habits were equally uniform. Mariana possessed very few ideas and read only the same books again and again: Macedo’s Moreninha, seven times; Walter Scott’s Ivanhoe and The Pirate, ten times each; Le Mot de l’Énigme by Madame Craven, eleven times.
In the light of all this, how can one explain this business with the hat? The previous evening, while her husband was attending a meeting of the bar association, Mariana’s father came to their house. He was a kindly old man, wiry and somewhat ponderous, a retired civil servant who was consumed by nostalgia for the days when employees wore frock coats to the office. Even now, a frock coat was what he wore to funerals, not for the reasons a reader might suspect, such as the solemnity of death or the gravity of a final farewell, but for the less philosophical reason that this was how things used to be. He always gave the same reason, whether it was frock coats at funerals, or having dinner at two o’clock in the afternoon, or twenty other such foibles. He was so chained to his habits that, on his daughter’s wedding anniversary, he would go to their house at six o’clock, having already dined and digested, and watch them eat and, at the end, take a little dessert, a glass of port, and some coffee. Given that he was Conrado’s father-in-law, how could he possibly approve of his son-in-law’s bowler hat? He put up with it in silence, in consideration of the man’s other qualities, but nothing more. That day, however, he had caught sight of it in the street, conversing with other hats—top hats belonging to distinguished gentlemen—and never had it seemed so vile. That night, finding his daughter alone, he opened his heart to her, dubbing the bowler hat the “abomination of abominations,” and urging her to banish it.
Conrado was unaware that this was the origin of the request. Knowing his wife’s docile nature, he did not understand her resistance, and, because he was willful and authoritarian, her stubbornness irritated him deeply. Even so, he kept these feelings to himself, preferring simply to scoff; he spoke to her with such scathing irony and disdain that the poor lady felt utterly humiliated. Twice Mariana tried to leave the table and twice he forced her to stay, the first time by grabbing her lightly by the wrist, the second time by subduing her with a withering look. And he said with a smile:
“Now, then, sweetie, I have a philosophical reason for not doing as you ask. I have never told you this before, but I will now tell you everything.”
Mariana bit her lip and said no more; she picked up a knife and began to tap it slowly on the table, just to have something to do, but her husband wouldn’t even allow her this; he delicately took the knife from her and went on:
“Choosing a hat is no random act, as you might suppose; it is governed by a metaphysical principle. Do not think that a man who buys a hat does so freely and voluntarily; the truth is that he is obeying an obscure form of determinism. The illusion of liberty is deeply embedded in the purchaser’s psyche, and shared by hatters, who, after watching a customer try on thirty or forty hats, then leave without buying a single one, imagine that he is merely searching for the most elegant combination. The metaphysical principle is this: the hat completes the man; it is an extension of his head, a combination decreed ab eterno and that no man may put asunder without committing an act of mutilation. This is a profound question that no one has yet considered. Wise men have studied everything from asteroids to worms, or, in bibliographical terms, from Laplace—you mean you’ve never read Laplace?—well, from Laplace and his Mécanique Céleste to Darwin and his curious book about worms, and yet they’ve never thought to pause in front of a hat and study it from every angle. No one has noticed that there is a whole metaphysics of hats. Perhaps I should write an essay on the subject myself. However, it’s now a quarter to ten and I really must go, but do think about it and you’ll see what I mean. Who knows? Perhaps it’s not even the hat that complements the man, but the man who complements the hat.”
Mariana finally wrested back her independence and got up from the table. She had not understood a word of his barbed terminology, nor his peculiar theory, but she sensed his sarcasm and, inside, she wept with humiliation. Her husband went upstairs to get dressed to go out, came back down a few minutes later, and stood in front of her with the infamous hat on his head. Mariana really did think it made him look seedy, vulgar, and not at all serious. Conrado ceremoniously bade her good day and left.
The lady’s irritation had subsided considerably, but her feelings of humiliation remained. Mariana did not wail and weep, as she thought she would, but, thinking it all over, she recalled the simplicity of her request and Conrado’s sarcastic response, and, while she recognized that she had been somewhat demanding, she found no justification whatsoever for such excesses. She paced back and forth, unable to stand still; she went into the drawing room, approached the half-open window, and watched her husband standing in the street waiting for the streetcar, with his back to the house and that eternal, despicable hat on his head. Mariana felt herself overcome with hatred for that ridiculous item; she couldn’t understand how she had put up with it for so many years. And she thought of all those years of docility and acquiescence to her husband’s whims and desires, and wondered if that might not be the very thing that had led to his reaction that morning. She called herself a fool and a ninny; if she had behaved like so many other wives, Clara or Sofia, for example, who treated their husbands as they deserved to be treated, none of this would have happened. One thought led to another, and to the idea of going out. She got dressed and went to visit Sofia, an old school friend, just to clear her head, and certainly not to divulge anything.
Sofia was thirty, two years older than Mariana. She was tall, sturdy, and very sure of herself. She greeted her friend with the usual show of affection and, when Mariana said nothing, she guessed at once that something was very much amiss. Adieu to Mariana’s best intentions! Within twenty minutes she had told her friend everything. Sofia laughed, shrugged her shoulders, and told her it wasn’t her husband’s fault at all.
“Oh, I know, it’s my fault entirely,” agreed Mariana.
“Don’t be silly, my dear! You’ve just been far too soft with him. You must be strong, for once; take no notice; don’t speak to him for a while, and when he comes to patch things up, tell him he must first change his hat.”
“Goodness, but it seems such a trivial thing . . .”
“At the end of the day, he’s just as right as all the others. Take that chump Beatriz: Hasn’t she gone and disappeared off to the country, just because her husband took a dislike to an Englishman who was in the habit of riding past their house every afternoon? Poor Englishman! Naturally, he didn’t even notice she’d gone. We women can live very happily with our husbands, in mutual respect, not frustrating each other’s desires and without resorting to stubborn outbursts or despotism. Look, I get on very well with my Ricardo, perfectly harmoniously. Whatever I ask him to do, he does immediately, even when he doesn’t want to; I only need to frown and he obeys. He wouldn’t give me any trouble over a hat! Certainly not! Where would that lead? No, he’d jolly well get a new hat, whether he wanted to or not.”
Mariana listened enviously to this delightful description of conjugal bliss. The clarion call of Eve’s rebellion reverberated within her, and meeting her friend gave her an irresistible itch for independence and free will. To complete the picture, Sofia was not only very much her own mistress, but also the mistress of everyone else too; she had eyes for all the Englishmen, whether on horseback or afoot. She was an honest woman, but also a flirt; the word is rather crude, but there’s no time now to find a more delicate one. She flirted left, right, and center, out of a necessity of nature, a habit of her maiden days. It was the small change of love, and she distributed it to all the paupers who knocked on her door: a nickel to one, a dime to another, never as much as five mil-réis, still less anything more substantial. These charitable urges now induced her to propose to Mariana that they take a stroll together, see the shops, and admire some fine, dignified hats while they were at it. Mariana accepted; a little demon was firing up within her the furies of revenge. Moreover, her friend had Bonaparte’s powers of persuasion and gave her no time to reflect. Of course she would go; she was tired of living like a prisoner in her own home. She, too, wanted to live a little.
While Sofia went to dress, Mariana remained in the drawing room, restless and rather pleased with herself. She planned out what remained of her week, marking the day and time for each appointment like fixtures on an official journey. She stood up, sat down, went over to the window, while she waited for her friend.
“Has she died or something?” she said to herself from time to time.
Once, when she went to the window, she saw a young man pass by on horseback. He wasn’t English, but he made her think of Beatriz, whose husband had taken her off to the country due to his distrust of an Englishman, and she felt swelling within her a hatred of the entire masculine race—except, perhaps, for young men on horseback. To be honest, this one was far too affected for her taste; he stuck out his legs in the stirrups just to show off his boots, and rested one hand on his waist as if he were a mannequin. Mariana noted these two defects, but thought that his hat made up for them. Not that it was a top hat; it was a bowler, but entirely appropriate for equestrian purposes. It was not covering the head of a distinguished lawyer on his way to the office, but that of a man simply enjoying himself or passing the time.
The slow, leisurely click of Sofia’s heels came down the stairs. “Ready!” she said a moment later upon entering the drawing room. She really did look lovely. We already know she was tall. Her hat gave her an even more commanding air, and a devilish black silk dress, molding the curves of her bust, made her even more striking. Next to her, Mariana disappeared somewhat—one needed to look carefully to see that she did in fact have very pretty features, beautiful eyes, and a natural elegance. The worst of it was that Sofia instantly monopolized all attention, and if there were only a limited amount of time to observe them both, Sofia grabbed it all for herself. This remark would be incomplete if I did not add that Sofia was perfectly aware of her superiority, and for this very reason appreciated the charms of women like Mariana, because they were less obvious or effusive. If this is a flaw, it is not for me to correct it.
“Where are we going?” asked Mariana.
“Don’t be silly! We’re going for a little trip into town. Now, let’s see: I’m going to have my picture taken, then I’m going to the dentist. No, let’s go to the dentist first. Don’t you need to go to the dentist?”
“No.”
“Or have your picture taken?”
“I’ve got lots already. And why do you need a picture? To give to ‘you-know-who’?”
Sofia realized that her friend’s resentment had not abated and, as they walked, she took care to add some more fuel to the fire. She told Mariana that, while it wouldn’t be easy, there was still time to free herself. And that she would teach her a way of slipping the shackles of tyranny. It was best not to do it in a single bound, but slowly and surely, so that the first he’d know about it was when she was standing over him with her foot placed firmly on his neck. It would be a matter of a few weeks, three or four at the most. Sofia was ready and willing to help her. And she told Mariana again not to be so soft, that she was no one’s slave, and so on. As she walked, Mariana’s heart sang to itself the “Marseillaise” of matrimony.
They reached Rua do Ouvidor. It was just after noon. There were crowds of people walking, or just standing around, the usual hustle and bustle. Mariana felt a little overwhelmed, as she always did. Uniformity and tranquility, the foundations of her life and character, took their usual knocks from all that hurly-burly. She could scarcely thread her way through the groups of people, still less know where to fix her gaze, such was the jumble of people and the profusion of shops. She stuck close to her friend, and, not noticing that they had passed the dentist’s, was anxious to reach the place and get inside. It would be a refuge, certainly better than the hullabaloo of Rua do Ouvidor.
“Really, this street!” she kept saying.
“What?” responded Sofia airily, turning her head toward her friend, and her eyes toward a young man on the sidewalk opposite.
As an experienced navigator of these choppy waters, Sofia slipped through and around the groups of people with great skill and composure. Her figure commanded attention: those who knew her were pleased to see her again, while those who did not, stopped or turned to admire her élan. And the bounteous lady, full of charity, swept her eyes from left to right, to no great scandal, since Mariana’s presence gave everything a veneer of decency. She babbled away, barely seeming to hear Mariana’s replies, commenting on everything and everyone they passed: people, shops, hats . . . For under the midday sun on Rua do Ouvidor, there were many hats, for both ladies and gentlemen.
“Look at that one,” Sofia would say.
And Mariana would promptly look, although not quite knowing where to look, because everywhere was a swirling kaleidoscope of hats. “Where’s the dentist’s?” she asked her friend. She had to repeat her question before Sofia told her that they had already passed the surgery; now they were going to the end of the street; they would come back later, and finally they did.
“Ouf!” sighed Mariana as they entered the hallway.
“My goodness! What’s the matter? Anyone would think you were just up from the country!”
There were already some patients in the dentist’s waiting room. Mariana couldn’t see a single face she recognized, and went to the window to avoid the gaze of strangers. From the window she could enjoy the street without all the pushing and shoving. She leaned back; Sofia came to join her. Some men’s hats down below turned to stare up at them; others, passing by, did the same. Mariana felt annoyed by their insistence, but, when she noticed that they were staring principally at her friend, her irritation dissolved into a kind of envy. Meanwhile, Sofia was telling her all about some of the hats—or, more precisely, their romantic adventures. One of them was highly thought-of by Miss so-and-so; another was madly in love with Madam you-know-who, who was also in love with him, so much so that they were sure to be seen on Rua do Ouvidor on Wednesdays and Saturdays between two and three in the afternoon. Mariana listened in bewilderment. The hat was indeed rather handsome, and wore a beautiful necktie, and had an air about it that was somewhere between elegant and raffish, but . . .
“I can’t swear to it, mind,” Sofia continued, “but that’s what people are saying.”
Mariana gazed pensively at the hat in question. It was now joined by three more, of equal poise and elegance; the four were probably talking about them, and in favorable terms too. Mariana blushed deeply, looked away, then back again, then retreated into the room. As she did so, she noticed two ladies who had just arrived, and with them a young man who promptly stood up and came to greet her effusively. He had been her very first suitor.
He would be about thirty-three now. He had been away from Rio, first to somewhere in the interior, then to Europe, then as governor of one of the southern provinces. He was of medium height, pale, with a rather skimpy beard and clothes that were straining at the seams. He was holding a new top hat: black, serious, gubernatorial, ministerial even; a hat befitting his person and his ambitions. Mariana, however, could hardly look at him. She became so flustered and disorientated by the presence of a man whom she had known in such special circumstances, and had not seen since 1877, that she was unable to take in anything at all. She proffered him the tips of her fingers, apparently murmured some kind of response, and was about to rejoin Sofia at the window, when her friend turned from the window and came toward her.
Sofia also knew the new arrival. They exchanged a few words. Mariana whispered impatiently in her friend’s ear that perhaps it would be better to leave their teeth for another day, but Sofia said no; it would only take half an hour, or three-quarters at most. Mariana felt very uncomfortable: the presence of that man tied her in knots, throwing her into a state of conflict and confusion. It was all her husband’s fault. If he hadn’t been so stubborn, and, even worse, made fun of her, none of this would have happened. Mariana swore she would have her revenge. She thought about her house, so pretty and peaceful, where she could be right now, as usual, without all this pushing and shoving in the street, without having to be so dependent on her friend . . .
“Mariana,” said Sofia, “Senhor Viçoso insists that he’s very thin. Don’t you think he’s put on weight since last year? Don’t you remember him from last year?”
Senhor Viçoso was the name of the erstwhile suitor, now chatting with Sofia and casting frequent glances in Mariana’s direction. She shook her head. He seized the opportunity to draw her into the conversation, remarking that, as a matter of fact, he hadn’t seen her for several years. He underlined these words with a rather sad, meaningful gaze. Then he opened up his tool kit of topics and pulled out the opera. What did they think of the cast? In his opinion they were excellent, except for the baritone; the baritone seemed to him rather dull. Sofia protested, but Senhor Viçoso insisted, adding that, in London, where he’d heard him for the first time, he’d thought the same thing. The ladies, of course, were quite another matter; both the soprano and the contralto were first-rate. And he discussed the various operas he had seen, referring to the most famous passages, praising the orchestra, particularly in Les Huguenots . . . He had spotted Mariana on the last night, sitting in the fourth or fifth box on the left, wasn’t that so?
“Yes, we were there,” she murmured, emphasizing the plural.
“Although I haven’t seen you at the Cassino even once,” he continued.
“Oh, she’s become quite the little peekaboo!” interrupted Sofia, laughing.
Viçoso had greatly enjoyed the last ball at the Cassino, and shared his recollections of it minutely; Sofia did likewise. The most elaborate toilettes were described by both of them in particular detail, followed by the various people they had seen, the different characters, and a few barbed comments, albeit anodyne enough not to harm anyone. Mariana listened without the slightest interest; two or three times she even got up and went over to the window, but the hats were so numerous and so inquisitive that she sat back down again. Silently, she called her friend some rather ugly names; I won’t give them here because it’s unnecessary and, moreover, in rather bad taste to reveal what one young lady might think of another in a moment of irritation.
“And the races at the Jockey Club?” asked the former governor.
Mariana again shook her head. She hadn’t been to the races that year. Well, she had missed a treat, especially the one before last; it had been a very lively affair and the horses really top-notch. Better even than the races at Epsom, which he’d attended when he was in England. Sofia said that, yes, indeed, the race before last really had been a credit to the Jockey Club, and confessed that she had enjoyed herself immensely; it had been positively thrilling. The conversation drifted on to two concerts taking place that very week, then it took the ferry and climbed the hills to Petrópolis, where two diplomats provided ample hospitality. When they spoke of a minister’s wife, Sofia remembered to flatter the former governor and declare that he, too, must marry, since he would soon be in government. Viçoso squirmed with pleasure and smiled, shaking his head; then, looking at Mariana, he said that he would probably never marry. Mariana turned bright red and stood up.
“You seem in a great hurry,” Sofia said to her. “What time is it?” she continued, turning toward Viçoso.
“Nearly three!” he exclaimed.
It was getting late; he had to go to the Chamber of Deputies. He went over to speak to the two ladies he had been accompanying, cousins of his, and made his excuses; he came back to say goodbye to Sofia and Mariana, but Sofia said that she was leaving too. She simply couldn’t wait a moment longer. In fact, the idea of going to the Chamber of Deputies had begun to scintillate inside her head.
“Shall we all go to the Chamber?” she proposed to Mariana.
“Oh, no,” replied Mariana. “I couldn’t. I’m so tired.”
“Come on, let’s go. Just for a little bit; I’m very tired, too, but . . .”
Mariana resisted a little longer, but resisting Sofia—like a dove arguing with a hawk—was completely pointless. There was nothing for it; she went. The street was busier now, people passing this way and that on both sides of the street, and getting in each other’s way at the street corners. The ever-solicitous former governor escorted both ladies, having offered to find them somewhere to sit in the gallery.
Mariana’s soul felt ever more torn apart by all this confusion of people and things. She had completely lost her original motivation, and the resentment that had propelled her into that audacious, short-lived flight began to slow its wings, or give up entirely. Once again she thought of her house, so quiet, so tidy, everything in its place, with no pushing or shoving, and, most of all, no unexpected changes. Her impatience grew, and with it her anger. She wasn’t listening to a word Viçoso was saying, even though he was talking rather loudly, and principally to her. She couldn’t hear and she didn’t want to hear. She merely prayed to God to make the time pass quickly. They arrived at the Chamber and went up to the gallery. The rustle of skirts attracted the attention of the twenty or so deputies who were still in the Chamber listening to a speech about the budget. As soon as Viçoso excused himself and left, Mariana quickly told her friend not to play a trick on her like that again.
“Like what?” asked Sofia.
“Like having me run around all over the place like some madwoman. What have I got to do with the Chamber of Deputies? Why should I care about speeches I don’t even understand?”
Sofia smiled, fluttered her fan, and received the full attention of one of the ministers. Many eyes gazed at her whenever she visited the Chamber, but this particular minister’s eyes had a particularly warm, pleading expression. It may be assumed, therefore, that she did not receive his gaze unexpectedly; it could even be said that she sought it out of curiosity. While she was acknowledging this legislative attention, she replied gently to her friend that she was very sorry and had meant well, and had simply wanted to restore Mariana’s independence.
“But if you find me irritating, then don’t come out with me again,” Sofia concluded.
And, leaning forward a little, she said:
“Look at the minister of justice.”
Mariana had no choice but to look at the minister of justice. He was bravely enduring a speech by a government supporter, in which the speaker was extolling the merits of the criminal justice system and, along the way, painstakingly summarizing all the old colonial legislation on the subject. There were no interruptions; just a polite, resigned, cautious silence. Mariana’s eyes drifted from one side to the other, utterly bored; Sofia was constantly saying things to her, as an excuse for making all kinds of elegant gestures. After fifteen minutes, the Chamber stirred into life, thanks to a remark made by the speaker and an objection from the opposition. Heckles were exchanged, the temperature rose, and there ensued an uproar that lasted nearly a quarter of an hour.
Mariana did not find this diversion in the least diverting; indeed, her placid, equable nature was thrown into a spin by such unexpected commotion. She even got up to leave, then sat down again. She was ready now to stay until the end, repentant and resolved to keep her marital woes to herself. Doubts began to creep in. She had been right to ask her husband to change his hat, but was it worth all this heartache? Was it reasonable to make such a fuss? He had been cruel and sarcastic, but it was, after all, the first time she had put her foot down and, naturally, the novelty had irritated him. At any rate, it had been a mistake to spill the beans to her friend. Sofia might go and tell others . . . The thought sent a chill down Mariana’s spine; her friend’s indiscretion was assured; she herself had heard Sofia tell many tales about hats, male and female, engaged in much more than a simple marital tiff. Mariana felt the need to flatter her, and covered up her impatience and annoyance with a mask of hypocritical docility. She, too, began to smile and make random observations about this or that deputy, and in this uneasy truce they reached the end of the speech and the session.
It was gone four o’clock. “Time for home,” said Sofia. Mariana agreed, although she seemed in no hurry, and they made their way back along Rua do Ouvidor. Walking up the street and catching the streetcar completed Mariana’s mental exhaustion, and she only began to breathe more easily when she saw that she really was on her way home. Shortly before Sofia got off, Mariana asked her keep to herself what she had told her, and Sofia promised that she would.
Mariana gave a sigh of relief. The dove was free of the hawk. Her soul was aching from all the pushing and shoving, dizzy from all those disparate people and things. What she needed was equilibrium and peace. She was nearly home; as she watched the neighboring houses and gardens pass by, Mariana felt her spirits lift. At last she arrived; she entered the garden, and took a deep breath. This was her world, except for a flowerpot that the gardener had moved.
“João, put that flowerpot back where it was,” she said.
Everything else was in order, the entrance hall, the drawing room, the dining room, the bedrooms, everything. First of all, Mariana sat down, in various different places, looking carefully at all the objects, so still and orderly. After a whole day of swirling variety, the monotony restored her peace of mind, and had never before seemed so delightful. The truth was she’d made a mistake. She tried to relive the day’s events, but couldn’t; her soul was gently slipping back into its home comforts. At most, she thought about Viçoso, whom she now, rather unfairly, thought ridiculous. She undressed slowly and lovingly, precisely removing and putting away each item of clothing. Once she was undressed, she thought again about the quarrel with her husband. All things considered, she realized that it had been mainly her fault. Why such stubbornness over a hat that her husband had been wearing for years? And, besides, her father was a terrible fusspot.
“I’ll wait and see the look on his face when he comes home,” she thought.
It was half-past five; he wouldn’t be long. Mariana went to the front room, peered out the window, listened for the streetcar, but heard nothing. She sat down by the window with Ivanhoe in her hands, trying, and failing, to read. Her eyes skimmed to the end of the page, then back to the beginning; firstly, because she couldn’t grasp the meaning, and secondly, because time and again her eyes would wander from the page to admire the perfect folds of the curtains or some other feature of the room. Ah, blessèd monotony, cradling her in thy eternal bosom.
Eventually the streetcar stopped outside the house and her husband got off; the garden gate creaked open. Mariana went to the window and peered out. Conrado was walking slowly up the garden path, looking to left and right, his hat on his head—not the famous hat he always wore, but another one, the one his wife had asked him to wear that very morning. It came as a rude shock to Mariana, just like the flowerpot in the garden being moved, or as if she’d come across a page of Voltaire in her copy of Moreninha or Ivanhoe. It was a jarring note in the harmonious sonata of life. No, that hat would never do. Really, whatever had possessed her to make him get rid of the old one that suited him so well? Even if it wasn’t perhaps the most appropriate of hats, it had served him for many years, and framed his face so well . . . Conrado came in through a side door. Mariana flung her arms around him.
“So, is it over?” he asked, circling her waist.
“Listen, darling,” she replied, giving him the divinest of kisses, “throw that hat away; the other one’s much nicer.”