I
TWO YEARS AGO, I made an unusual decision: I took myself off to Petrópolis in the middle of the month of June—to live. This decision proved fertile ground for conjectures. Even you, in the letters you wrote to me here, squandered your energies on trying to guess or imagine a thousand reasons, each more absurd than the last.
I did not nor could I respond to those letters, in which your evident concern betrayed two simultaneous feelings: the affection of a friend and the curiosity of a woman. It wasn’t the right moment to open my heart to you or to unfold to you the various reasons that drove me from Rio, where the operas at the Teatro Lírico, your parties, and Cousin Barros’s family gatherings would have provided me with distractions after my husband’s recent death.
Indeed, many believed his demise to be the sole reason for my departure. That was the least equivocal version. I let it pass as I did all the others and stayed in Petrópolis. As soon as summer arrived, you came here with your husband, determined not to return to Rio until you had discovered the secret I was refusing to reveal. I remained as silent as the tomb, as inscrutable as the Sphinx. You lay down your weapons and left.
You have addressed me ever since as your Sphinx.
And it’s true, I was a Sphinx. And if, like Oedipus, you had answered my riddle with the word “man,” you would have uncovered my secret and undone my charm.
But, as they say in novels, let us not anticipate events.
It is time to tell you about this episode in my life.
I prefer to do so in letters rather than face-to-face. Were I with you, I might blush. The heart opens up more easily in letters and shame does not stop certain words from being spoken. Notice that I make no mention of tears, which is a sign that my peace of mind has returned.
My letters will arrive once a week, so that you can read the story as if it were a serial in a weekly magazine.
I give you my word that you will find it both enjoyable and educational.
And a week after my last letter, I will come and embrace you, kiss you, and thank you. I feel a great need to live. The last two years have been a complete blank in the ledger of my life: two years of tedium, inner despair, trampled pride, repressed love.
True, I did read a lot, but only time, absence, and the memory of my deceived heart and my offended dignity could bring me the necessary calm, the calm I feel today.
And that is not all I gained. I also came to know a man whose picture I carry in my mind and who seems now remarkably like so many other men. This is no small thing; and the lesson will prove useful to me and to you and to our less experienced friends. Show them these letters; they are pages from a manuscript which, had I read it before, might have spared me my lost illusions and two years of wasted life.
I must end here. This is merely the preface to my novel, study, or story, or whatever you wish to call it. I’m not really bothered about names, and so have no need to consult any masters of the art.
Whether study or novel, it is a book of truths, an episode simply told, an intimate conversation between two minds, and in the complete confidence of two hearts that esteem and respect each other.
Farewell.
II
This was at the time when my husband was still alive.
Rio was a busy, bustling city then, not the cruelly monotonous place I sense from your letters and from the newspapers to which I subscribe.
My house was a meeting place for a few rather witty young men and some elegant young women. I was, by general consent, the queen-elect, and presided over any family gatherings held in my house. Outside, there were lively theaters, parties with friends, and a thousand other distractions that gave my life certain outward joys, for lack of any inner ones, which are the only truly fruitful joys.
While I may not have been happy, I led an enjoyable enough life.
And here begins my novel.
One day, my husband asked me, as a special favor, if we could put off visiting the Teatro Lírico that night. He said he couldn’t go because it was the eve of the departure of the steamer.
A perfectly reasonable request.
Some evil spirit whispered in my ear, for I replied tartly that I absolutely had to go to the theater, and that he must go with me. He repeated his request and I repeated my refusal. It did not take much for me to think that somehow my honor was at stake. Now I see that it was either pure vanity on my part or else fate.
I held a certain sway over my husband. My imperious tone would brook no refusal, and my husband finally gave in, and we went to the theater.
There was a very sparse audience, and the singers all had bad colds. At the end of the first act, my husband smiled vengefully and said:
“Just as I thought.”
“Meaning what?” I asked with a frown.
“It’s dreadful. You made it sound as if coming to the theater tonight were a matter of honor. I can’t help thinking that the performance cannot possibly have lived up to your expectations.”
“On the contrary, I think it’s wonderful.”
“Oh, please.”
You will understand that I did not wish to admit defeat, but you would be quite right in thinking that I was deeply bored with the opera and with the evening.
With a defeated air, my husband, who tended not to answer back, said nothing more, and moved closer to the front of our box, where he peered through his opera glasses at the few occupied boxes opposite.
I shifted my chair farther back and, leaning against the wall, looked out into the corridor to watch the people passing by.
Directly opposite the door to our box, a man was standing, smoking a cigarette, with his eyes fixed on me. I didn’t notice this at first, until I was forced to by the sheer insistence of his gaze. I looked at him to see if he was some acquaintance of ours waiting to be discovered so that he could come and greet us. The fact that he knew us might explain his odd behavior, but I didn’t know him at all.
After a few seconds, aware that he had still not taken his eyes off me, I averted my gaze and fixed it instead on the curtain and the audience.
When my husband had finished examining the other boxes, he handed me the opera glasses and joined me at the rear of the box.
We exchanged a few words.
After a quarter of an hour, the orchestra began playing the overture for the second act. I stood up, and my husband moved my chair forward for me, and in that brief interval, I cast a furtive glance out at the corridor.
The man was still there.
I asked my husband to close the door.
The second act began.
Then, in a spirit of curiosity, I waited to see if the watcher would take his place in the stalls. I wanted to get a better look at him among the crowd.
However, he either didn’t take his seat or I failed to spot him.
The second act was even more tedious than the first.
In the interval, I again moved my chair to the back of the box, and my husband opened the door, saying that it was too hot.
I glanced out into the corridor.
I saw no one, but a few minutes later, the same man arrived and stood in the same place and stared at me with the same impertinent eyes.
We women are always vain about our looks and want to be admired for our beauty. This is why we’re often indiscreet enough to enjoy a man’s rather dangerous flattery. There is, however, a form of flattery that irritates and frightens; it irritates because it’s impertinent and frightens because it’s dangerous. This was the case here.
My admirer’s insistence presented me with a dilemma: he was either the victim of a mad passion or possessed of an impudent audacity. Either way, I should clearly not encourage his feelings.
I thought all this during the interval. The third act was about to begin. I waited for my silent pursuer to withdraw and then said to my husband:
“Shall we go?”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, the opera’s wonderful, but I just feel really sleepy.”
My husband made so bold as to question this:
“If it’s so wonderful, why are you sleepy?”
I did not reply.
We left.
In the corridor, we met the Azevedo family, who were just returning from visiting an acquaintance of theirs in a neighboring box. I paused to embrace the ladies in the party. I told them we were leaving because I had a headache.
We reached the door that opened onto Rua dos Ciganos.
I waited there for some minutes for our carriage to arrive.
And who should appear, leaning in the doorway?
The mysterious stranger.
I was furious.
I covered my face as best I could with my hood and waited for the carriage, which arrived soon afterward.
The mysterious man stood there, as impassive and silent as the door he was leaning against.
During the journey home, I could not stop thinking about that incident. I was only roused from my abstraction when the carriage drew up at the door of our house, in Rua Matacavalos.
I felt ashamed of myself and decided to think no more about the matter.
But would you believe it, Carlota? It took me half an hour to get to sleep, because my imagination insisted on revisiting the corridor, the doorway, and my platonic admirer.
The following day, I thought about it less. A week later, it had been wiped from my memory, and I thanked God for saving me from an obsession that could have proved fatal.
I decided to embrace that divine help and resolved not to go to the theater for some time.
I concentrated on domestic life and, for distraction, relied on getting together with friends in the evening.
Meanwhile, the day of your little girl’s birthday was fast approaching. I remembered that, a month before, in order to contribute to the celebrations, I had begun knitting her a little present, which I needed to finish.
One Thursday morning, I asked the maid to bring me my sewing basket and was about to continue my work when, tucked inside a skein of wool, I found a blue envelope containing a letter.
I thought this very odd. There was no name on the envelope. It was sealed and appeared to be waiting to be opened by whoever it was intended for. Who could that be? My husband? I was accustomed to opening any letters addressed to him, and so I did not hesitate. I broke the seal on the envelope and found a pink sheet of paper inside.
The letter said:
Do not be surprised, Eugênia; this letter is the product of despair and that despair is the product of love. I love you—very much. For some time now, I have tried to drive away that feeling, to smother it, but I can do so no longer. Did you not see me at the Teatro Lírico? A secret, inner force led me there. But I have not seen you since. When will I see you again? Although, if I do not see you, then I must be patient. However, if your heart were to beat for me for just one minute of each day that would be enough for a love that seeks neither mere sensual pleasure nor public recognition. If I offend you, please forgive this sinner; if you could love me, you would make me a god.
I read this letter with tremulous hands and tear-filled eyes; and for some minutes afterward, I was completely lost to the world.
A thousand different, contradictory ideas went through my mind, like those great flocks of black birds that fly across the sky when a storm is approaching.
Could it be love that had made that stranger write to me? Or was it just a trap laid by a calculating seducer? I looked vaguely around me, afraid my husband might come in.
The sheet of paper was there before me, and those mysterious words seemed to me like the eyes of an evil serpent. Without thinking, I crumpled it nervously up in my hands.
If Eve had done the same with the head of the serpent tempting her, there would have been no sin. I, alas, could not be so sure of obtaining the same result, because the serpent I could see and whose head I had crushed, could, like the Hydra of Lerna, sprout many more heads.
Don’t be surprised at this mixture of biblical and pagan imagery. At the time, I wasn’t thinking, my mind was merely rambling; only long afterward could I think straight.
Two feelings were at work within me: firstly, a kind of terror of the abyss, the deep abyss which I sensed lay behind that letter; secondly, a sense of bitter shame that I was low enough in that stranger’s esteem for him to stoop to such measures.
Only when I had calmed down did it occur to me to think what I should have thought right at the start. Who had put that letter there? My first impulse was to summon all the servants. What stopped me was the realization that while I would probably learn nothing from a simple question, everyone would then know about the letter. And what purpose would that serve?
I summoned no one.
I could not help thinking, though, that the letter had been a bold move, which could have failed at every turn; what could have motivated that man to take such a step? Love or the desire to seduce?
Returning to this dilemma, my mind, despite all the dangers involved, wanted to accept that first hypothesis, because it was the one that suited my situation as a married woman and my vanity as a beautiful one.
I tried to find out the truth by reading the letter again: I read it not once, twice, thrice, but five times.
An unhealthy curiosity drew me to it. Finally, I made an effort and resolved to destroy it, promising myself that if a second letter should appear, I would dismiss every servant and slave in the house.
Still clutching the piece of paper, I left the living room and went to my own room, where I lit a candle and burned the letter that was burning my hands and my head.
As the last scrap of paper blackened and crumpled, I heard footsteps behind me. It was my husband.
I spontaneously threw myself into his arms.
Somewhat surprised, he returned my embrace.
However, when my embrace continued, I felt him gently pushing me away, saying:
“That’s enough, now. You’re suffocating me.”
I drew back.
It saddened me to see that the man who could and should save me was incapable of understanding, even instinctively, that I was clinging to him as though to the idea of duty.
Then the feeling clutching at my heart gave way for a moment to a feeling of fear. The ashes from the burned letter were still there on the floor, and there was the candle lit in broad daylight. That should have been enough to prompt a few questions, but he was not even curious enough to ask.
He took a couple of steps about the room, then left.
I felt a single tear roll down my cheek. It wasn’t the first bitter tear I would shed, but it was perhaps the first indication of sin.
III
A month passed.
During that time, nothing at home changed. No second letter appeared, and my extreme vigilance proved futile.
I could not forget about the letter, though. Ah, if it were only a matter of not forgetting, but the first words kept resurfacing again and again in my memory, then the others, then all of them. I knew the letter by heart!
Do you remember? One of the things I often used to boast about was my excellent memory. Even that gift proved to be a punishment. Those words distracted me, made my head throb. Why? Ah, Carlota, it’s because I found in those words an indefinable charm, a painful charm, because it was accompanied by feelings of remorse—but a charm from which I could not free myself.
It wasn’t my heart that was to blame, it was my imagination. My imagination was leading me into perdition; the struggle between duty and the imagination is cruel and dangerous for weak souls. And I was weak. It was the mystery of it all that so captured my imagination.
In the end, time and other diversions deflected my mind from that obsessive thought.
After a month had elapsed, while I had not completely forgotten about the mysterious stranger and his letter, I was at least calm enough to laugh at myself and my fears.
One Thursday night, we had a few visitors, among them many of my female friends, although not your good self. My husband had not yet come home from work, but his absence was neither noticed nor felt, given that, however decent a fellow he was, he was never exactly the life and soul of the party.
We had sung and played and talked amid an atmosphere of frank and generous enjoyment; Amélia Azevedo’s uncle was amusing us with his eccentricities; Amélia garnered much applause with her heavenly voice; and we had just reached a pause, waiting for tea to be served.
At that point, my husband arrived.
He was not alone. At his side was a tall, slim, elegant man, whom I did not recognize. In the ensuing silence, my husband stepped forward and introduced him to me.
I heard my husband say that our guest was called Emílio ***.
Only then did I see him properly, and I had to suppress a gasp.
It was him!
My gasp was replaced by a look of surprise. No one noticed. He, even less. He fixed his eyes on me and, with a gracious bow, addressed a few flattering, courteous remarks to me.
I replied as best I could.
Further introductions were made, and for ten minutes, an awkward silence reigned.
All eyes were turned on the new arrival. My eyes were turned on him, too, and I could see that everything about him conspired to attract attention: a proud, handsome head, deep, magnetic eyes, elegant, delicate manners, an easy, distinguished air, in marked contrast with the affected, prosaically self-conscious air of the other young men.
My examination of him was necessarily brief. I could not, nor did I want to, meet Emílio’s eyes. I lowered my gaze and waited anxiously for the conversation to resume its normal course.
My husband took it upon himself to set the tone. Unfortunately, the new guest was still the subject of the general conversation that followed.
We learned that Emílio was from the provinces, the son of wealthy parents, and had been educated in Europe, whose every corner he had visited.
He had returned to Brazil only recently and, before going back to his provincial roots, had decided to spend a little time in Rio de Janeiro.
That is all we found out. There followed many questions about his travels, and he replied in a most friendly, helpful fashion.
I was the only one who showed no curiosity, because I was struck dumb. I wanted an explanation for that mysterious romance, which had begun in a theater corridor and continued with an anonymous letter and his arrival in my house with my own husband as intermediary.
From time to time, I would glance across at Emílio and find him looking cool and calm, responding politely to the questions put to him and himself recounting, with modest, natural grace, some of his adventures abroad.
An idea occurred to me. Was he really the mysterious man of the theater and the letter? He seemed so at first, but I could have been wrong; I couldn’t precisely recall that other man’s features, and while it seemed to me that the two creatures were one and the same, could the mistake be explained by some miraculous resemblance?
As I pondered this, time passed, and the conversation continued as if I were not there. Tea was served. Afterward, there was more singing and playing. Emílio listened with almost devout attention and revealed himself to be a man of taste as well as a discreet and attentive conversationalist.
By the end of the evening, he had captivated everyone. My husband was particularly thrilled. He clearly considered himself fortunate to have found a new friend for himself, and another guest for our family gatherings.
Emílio left, promising to return.
When I was alone with my husband, I asked him:
“Where did you meet that man?”
“He’s a real gem, isn’t he? He was introduced to me at the office a few days ago, and I immediately took a shine to him. He seems to be a good-hearted fellow, plus he’s bright, discreet, and sensible. Everyone likes him . . .”
And, seeing me so serious and silent, he broke off and asked:
“Was I wrong to bring him here?”
“Wrong? No, why?”
“No reason. After all, what could possibly be wrong about inviting him? He’s such a distinguished young man . . .”
I brought this new hymn of praise to an end by summoning a slave to whom I gave some orders.
Then I withdrew to my room.
My sleep that night was not, believe me, the sleep of the just. What irritated me most was the nervous state I got into after these events. I could no longer entirely brush aside these feelings; they happened against my will, overwhelming me and dragging me with them. It was a curiosity of the heart, which is the first sign of the storms to which our lives and our futures succumb.
I felt as if that man could read my very soul and knew how to choose his moment, a moment when he would be most likely to impress himself on my imagination as an imposing, poetic figure. You, who met him later on, would you not say that, given the circumstances, he did this in order to make an impression on the mind of a woman like me?
Like me, I say. My circumstances were rather special; I may never have spoken to you openly about this, but I’m sure you suspected as much.
Had I been a wife to my husband and had he been a husband to me, I would have been perfectly safe. This was not the case. We entered our marital home like two travelers, perfect strangers, entering an inn, where the wild weather and the lateness of the hour had obliged us to take shelter beneath the same roof.
My marriage, then, was the result of calculation and convenience. Not that I blame my parents. They wanted me to be happy and they died convinced that I was.
I could, despite everything, have found in the husband they gave me an object of happiness for the rest of my days. All I would have needed was for my husband to see in me a twin soul, a kindred spirit. This did not happen. My husband saw marriage as most people do: as a way of obeying the Lord’s command in Genesis.
Apart from that, he was always considerate and slept peacefully in the belief that he had done his duty.
Duty! That was my lifeline. I knew that passions did not reign supreme and that our will can triumph over them. In this respect, I was strong enough to repel malevolent thoughts. However, it was not the present that I found so suffocating, so terrifying, it was the future. Up until then, that romance had held a certain sway over my imagination because of the mystery surrounding it; reality, however, would open my eyes. I found consolation in the hope that I would triumph over a guilty love, but in that future, whose proximity I could not gauge, would I be entirely able to resist passion and maintain intact my reason and my conscience? That was the question.
In the midst of all these vacillations, I did not once see my husband reach out his hand to save me. On the contrary, when he found me in the act of burning that letter, and I flung myself into his arms, he, as you will remember, rather abruptly pushed me away.
This is what I thought and felt during the long night that followed Emílio’s introduction into our house.
The following day, I woke, feeling weary of heart, but, whether out of inertia or exhaustion, I felt all these painful, tormenting thoughts vanish in the morning light, like real birds of night and solitude.
A bright light illumined my thoughts. It was a repetition of the same idea that kept coming back to me in the midst of all those recent anxieties.
Why be afraid? I told myself. I’m such a sad, fearful creature; and I wear myself out creating mountains, only to collapse, exhausted, in the middle of a vast plain. No obstacle stands in my path as virtuous, rational wife. This man, if he is the same one, is merely a gullible reader of realist novels. It’s only the mystery that makes him interesting; seen from closer to, he’s sure to be either vulgar or vile.
IV
I won’t weary you with a detailed, daily account of events.
Emílio continued to visit our house, always behaving with the same delicacy and gravity, and charming everyone with his genuinely amiable manner, which managed to be distinguished without being affected.
I don’t know why my husband was so enthusiastic about this new friendship. Emílio had managed to awaken in him a new enthusiasm for me and for everyone. What caprice of Nature was this?
I often questioned my husband about this very sudden, very public friendship; I tried to plant suspicions in his mind, but he would not be moved.
“What do you want me to say?” he would answer. “I don’t know why I like the fellow so much. I just think he’s a really fine person, and I can’t conceal how much I enjoy his company.”
“But you don’t even know him,” I would object.
“Now, really! I’ve heard only excellent things about him, and besides, you can see at once that he’s a person of distinction.”
“Manners can be very deceiving.”
“So they say . . .”
I confess, my friend, that I could have forced my husband to exclude Emílio, but when this idea came into my head, for some reason I laughed at my fears and declared myself strong enough to resist whatever might happen.
Moreover, Emílio’s behavior encouraged me to lay down my arms. He treated me with utter respect, as he did all the other women, and never once revealed an ulterior motive, some secret thought.
And the inevitable happened. Given his behavior toward me, I could hardly maintain my rigorous indifference to his friendly approaches.
Things evolved in such a way that I even persuaded myself that everything that had happened before had nothing whatsoever to do with him, and the only connection between the two men was a truly remarkable resemblance, which, of course, I could not confirm, because, as I said before, I had been unable to look closely at the man in the theater.
It did not take long for us to become close friends, and I was for him what all the other women were: admiring and admired.
Emílio began to visit not only in the evenings, but during the day, too, at times when my husband was at home, and, later, even when he wasn’t.
My husband had usually been the one to bring him to our house, but, at other times, Emílio came in his own carriage, which he himself drove with tremendous grace and elegance. He spent hours and hours at our home, playing the piano and talking.
I must admit that the first time I received him alone, I trembled, but there was no need for such childish fear; Emílio never behaved in a way that confirmed my suspicions. If I still harbored any suspicions, they all melted away.
Two months passed.
One afternoon, I was alone at home; I was waiting for you so that we could go and visit your ailing father. A carriage stopped outside the door. I sent a servant to see who it was. It was Emílio.
I received him as I always did.
I told him we were going to visit your father, and he immediately said that he would leave. I urged him to wait until you arrived, and he did so as if some reason other than politeness kept him there.
Half an hour passed.
We talked about banal subjects. Then, during a brief silence, Emílio got up and went to the window. I stood up as well and walked over to the piano to fetch my fan. When I returned to the sofa, I saw in the mirror that Emílio was looking at me in a very strange way. It was a complete transformation. It was as if his whole soul lay in that gaze.
I shuddered.
I nevertheless made an effort to control myself and sat down again, looking very serious.
Emílio came over to me.
I looked up at him.
His gaze had not changed.
I looked down.
“Are you frightened?” he asked.
I said nothing, but began to tremble again, and my heart was pounding so wildly I thought it might leap from my breast.
Those words contained the same expression as his eyes, and they had the same effect on me as the words in his letter.
“Are you frightened?” he said again.
“Of what?” I asked, trying to smile in order to lighten the situation.
“You looked frightened.”
A silence.
“Dona Eugênia,” he said, sitting down. “I can no longer hide the secret that has been tormenting me. It would be a pointless sacrifice. Whether it makes me happy or not, I prefer to know where I stand. Dona Eugênia, I love you.”
I cannot begin to describe my feelings on hearing those words. I felt myself turn pale, and my hands were like ice. I tried to speak, but I couldn’t.
Emílio went on:
“Oh, I know the risk I’m taking. I can see this is a forbidden love. But what can I do? It’s fate. I’ve traveled many leagues, seen so many beauties, and yet my heart never once beat faster. Fate has reserved for me a rare good fortune or, perhaps, a terrible misfortune, that of being loved or spurned by you. I bow to destiny. I will accept whatever answer you give me. What do you say?”
While he was talking, I was able, as I listened, to consider my response. When he finished, I looked up and said:
“What answer do you expect from me?”
“Anything.”
“You can expect only one . . .”
“That you don’t love me?”
“I cannot and do not love you, nor would I love you if I could or if I wanted to. Please leave.”
And with that I stood up.
Emílio did the same.
“I will leave,” he said, “but I leave with all the fires of hell burning in my heart.”
I shrugged as if this were a matter of indifference to me.
“Oh, I know you don’t care. That is what most pains me. I would much prefer your hatred, for, believe me, indifference is the worst possible punishment. However, I will resign myself to it. Such a grave crime should bring with it an equally grave punishment.”
And, picking up his hat, he came over to me again.
I stepped back.
“Oh, don’t be afraid. Do I make you afraid?”
“Afraid?” I retorted proudly.
“Or is it disgust?” he asked.
“Perhaps,” I murmured.
“Just one question,” he said. “Do you still have that letter?”
“Ah,” I said, “so it was you who wrote that letter.”
“It was. And I was the mysterious stranger at the theater too. And the letter?”
“I burned it.”
“Just as I thought.”
And, bowing coldly, he walked to the door. He had almost reached it, when I saw him hesitate and press one hand to his heart.
I felt a moment of pity, but regardless of whether he was suffering or not, he had to leave. Nevertheless, I took a step toward him and, from a safe distance, asked:
“Would you tell me something?”
He stopped and turned around.
“Of course.”
“How could you have pretended to be my husband’s friend?”
“It was an unworthy act, I know, but my love is such that it does not even recoil from such unworthy behavior. It’s the only love I know. But, forgive me, I will trouble you no further. Goodbye. Forever!”
And he left.
I went and sat down on the sofa. Shortly afterward, there was the sound of a carriage moving off down the street.
I don’t know how the time between his departure and your arrival passed, but you found me in that same place.
Up until then, I had only read about love. That man seemed to feel the love I’d dreamed of and read about. The idea that Emílio’s heart was, at that moment, bleeding, aroused in me an intense feeling of pity. Pity was the first step.
I thought: “Who knows what he might be suffering now? And, after all, it’s not his fault. He loves me, he told me so; his love is stronger than reason itself. He is clearly utterly devoted, so much so that he opened his heart to me. He loves me, that is his excuse.”
Then I went over all his words in my mind and tried to recall the tone in which he had spoken them. I remembered, too, what I’d said and the tone in which I’d responded to his confession of love.
Perhaps I had been too harsh. I could have maintained my dignity without opening a wound in his heart. If I’d spoken more gently, I might have gained his respect and veneration. Now he will still love me, but he will only remember what happened with a sense of bitterness.
I was still immersed in these thoughts when you came in.
Do you remember commenting on how sad I looked and asking me why? I didn’t answer. We went to your father’s house, but my sad mood remained.
That night, when my husband asked if Emílio had visited, I said the first thing that came into my head.
“No, he didn’t come today.”
“Really?” he said. “He must be ill.”
“I’ve no idea.”
“I’ll go and see him tomorrow.”
“Where?”
“At his house.”
“Why?”
“Because he might be ill.”
“I doubt it. Why not just wait and see?”
I spent a horribly anxious night. The thought of Emílio would not let me sleep. I imagined he would be weeping bitter tears, in despair over his rejected love.
Was this pity? Was it love?
Carlota, it was both those things. What else could it be? I had set off along a fatal path; a strange force was drawing me along. I was weak when I could have been strong. I blame no one but myself.
I’ll write more next Sunday.
V
The following afternoon, when my husband returned, I asked after Emílio.
“I took your advice and I didn’t go and see him,” he said. “But if he doesn’t come today, I will.”
A day passed with no news of him.
The following day, when he still did not appear, my husband went to his house.
I’ll be honest. I myself reminded my husband to go.
I waited anxiously for news.
My husband returned that evening. He looked rather sad. I asked what had happened.
“I don’t know. He was in bed. He told me it was just a slight cold, but I think it’s more than that.”
“But what?” I asked, looking hard at my husband.
“He spoke of leaving for the North. He seems sad, distracted, preoccupied. He talks about hoping to see his parents, but, at the same time, seems afraid he might never see them again. He’s afraid he might die on the journey. I don’t know what’s happened to him, but something has. Perhaps . . .”
“Perhaps what?”
“Perhaps it’s some money problem.”
This answer troubled me deeply, and played a large part in what happened later.
After a brief silence, I asked:
“What will you do?”
“I’ll speak frankly with him. I’ll ask him what the problem is and help him if I can. At any rate, I won’t let him leave. What do you think?”
All these things contributed greatly to keeping Emílio in my thoughts, and, painful though it is for me to admit it, I could not think of him now without my heart beating faster.
The following night, we had a few friends around, not that I added much to the gaiety of the party. I was sad and disconsolate. I was angry with myself. I imagined I was Emílio’s executioner, and found the idea that he was suffering for my sake deeply painful.
However, at around nine o’clock, my husband appeared, arm in arm with Emílio.
There was a general murmur of surprise.
Since Emílio had not been seen for some days, everyone had started asking after him, and then he turned up looking as pale as wax.
I won’t tell you what happened that evening. Emílio seemed to be in pain; he wasn’t his usual cheerful self; on the contrary, he was so silent and downcast that everyone felt uncomfortable, and I suffered horribly, imagining myself to be the cause of his pain.
I only managed to speak to him once, when we were some way away from the others.
“Forgive me,” I said, “if I spoke harshly to you. You must understand my position. You took me by surprise, and I did not have time to consider my answer. I know you have suffered, but, please, do not suffer any more, forget . . .”
“Thank you,” he murmured.
“My husband mentioned your plans . . .”
“Yes, to go back to my hometown.”
“But you’re ill . . .”
“Oh, it will pass.”
And when he said this, he gave me such a strange, sinister look that I felt afraid.
“How? How will it pass?”
“There are ways.”
“Don’t say that.”
“What else is left for me here?”
And he closed his eyes and wiped away a tear.
“What’s this?” I said. “Are you crying?”
“My last tears.”
“Oh, if you knew how it hurts me. Don’t cry, I beg you. More than that, I’m begging you to live.”
“Oh!”
“I’m ordering you.”
“Ordering me? And if I don’t obey? If I can’t? Do you think one can live with a thorn in one’s heart?”
Written down like that, it sounds contrived, but the way in which he said these words was so impassioned, so painful and moving. I listened, completely oblivious to the world. A few people were coming over to join us, and, wanting to put an end to the conversation, I said:
“Do you love me? Only love can issue orders, and love is ordering you to live!”
Emílio’s face lit up with joy. I got up, intending to talk to the approaching guests.
“Thank you,” he whispered in my ear.
At the end of the evening, when Emílio said goodbye, his eyes aglow with gratitude and love, I was overwhelmed with a strange confusion of feelings: love, remorse, and tenderness.
“Emílio seemed much happier,” my husband said.
And I looked at him, unable to respond.
Then I went straight up to bed. I seemed to see in my husband the image of my own conscience.
The following day, I received this letter from Emílio:
Eugênia. Thank you. I have come back to life, and I owe that entirely to you. Thank you! You made a man of a corpse, now make a god of a man. Please! Please!
I read and reread this letter, and—can you believe it, Carlota?—I kissed it. I showered it with heartfelt kisses, passionately, deliriously. I was in love! In love!
The same struggle was going on inside me, but my feelings were quite different. Before, it had been my heart running away from my reason, now it was my reason running away from my heart.
I could see and feel that it was a crime; but, whether it was fate or simply my own fond nature, I found in the delights of that crime a justification for my error, a way of legitimizing my passion.
When my husband was near me, I felt better and braver . . .
But I’ll stop here. I feel a weight on my heart. It’s the memory of all those events.
I will write again on Sunday.
VI
A few days passed following the scenes I described in my last letter.
There began a correspondence between Emílio and myself, and after two weeks, I thought only of him.
None of our regular visitors, not even you, would have noticed. We were extremely discreet lovers.
True, people often asked why I was so distracted and melancholy, and this would bring me back to real life, and I would immediately change my behavior.
My husband seemed the person most affected by my sad moods.
I must admit that his solicitude made me feel uncomfortable, and I would often reply rather abruptly, not because I hated him, but because he was the one person I could not bear to be questioned by.
One afternoon, he came home and said:
“Eugênia, I have news for you.”
“What’s that?”
“You’ll be really pleased.”
“Tell me, then.”
“It’s a little trip out.”
“Where to?”
“It was my idea, and I’ve already told Emílio, and he thought it an excellent plan. We’ll go to Gávea on Sunday, bright and early. Not that anything’s been arranged, of course. That depends on you. What do you say?”
“I approve.”
“Good. Carlota can come too.”
“And so she should,” I added. “As well as a few of my other friends.”
Shortly afterward, you all received your invitations.
You’ll remember that day. What you don’t know is that, on that outing, thanks to the general hubbub and distraction, Emílio and I had a conversation that gave me my first bitter taste of love’s sorrow.
“Eugênia,” he said, taking my arm, “are you sure you love me?”
“Yes.”
“In that case, what I’m asking you—not that it’s me asking, but my heart and your heart—is for a noble action that would exalt us both in our own eyes. Is there not some corner of the world where we could live, far from everyone and close to heaven?”
“Do you mean run away together?”
“Yes!”
“No, never!”
“You don’t love me, then.”
“Yes, I do, and that is crime enough. I don’t want to go beyond that.”
“Are you rejecting a chance of happiness?”
“I’m rejecting dishonor.”
“You don’t love me, then.”
“What can I say? I do love you, but I want to remain the same woman in your eyes, loving, yes, but also, up to a point, pure.”
“A love that stops to think is not true love.”
I said nothing. Emílio had spoken these words so scornfully and so woundingly that I felt my heart begin to pound and the blood rush to my face.
The excursion ended badly.
After that scene, Emílio grew very cold toward me, which hurt me. I tried to go back to how things had been before, but failed.
One day, when we were alone, I said:
“Emílio, if I were to run away with you tomorrow, what would you do?”
“I would obey that divine command.”
“And afterward?”
“What do you mean, ‘afterward’?” asked Emílio, as if bemused by my question.
“Yes, afterward,” I went on. “After a while, would you not view me with scorn?”
“Scorn? I don’t see—”
“Yes, why not? What else would I deserve?”
“If you’d made that sacrifice for my sake, then it would be cowardly of me to throw it back at you.”
“Deep down, though, you would despise me.”
“I swear that I would not.”
“Well, I would despise myself. I would never forgive myself.”
Emílio covered his face with his hands and appeared to be crying. I had been speaking quite confidently until then, and I went over to him and removed his hands from his face.
“What’s this?” I said. “Can’t you see you’re making me cry too?”
He looked at me, his eyes brimming with tears. My eyes, too, were moist.
“Goodbye,” he said suddenly. “I’m leaving.”
And he took a step toward the door.
“If you promise me that you will live,” I said, “then leave; if you have some other, more sinister plan, then stay.”
I don’t know what he saw in my eyes, but, clasping the hand I held out to him, he kissed it several times (those were our first kisses) and said urgently:
“I’ll stay, Eugênia!”
We heard a noise outside. I went to see what it was. It was my husband, who had returned home feeling ill. He had suffered some kind of attack or fainting fit at the office. When he came around, he had still felt very unwell. Some friends had brought him back in a cab.
I ran to the door. My husband looked disheveled and deathly pale. He could only barely walk with the help of his friends.
I was so shocked that I forgot everything else. The doctor who had accompanied my husband immediately prescribed some medication. I was anxious and kept asking everyone if my husband would be all right.
They all assured me that he would.
Emílio seemed cast down by these events. He went over to my husband and squeezed his hand.
When Emílio was about to leave, my husband said:
“Listen, I know you can’t be here all the time, but do come and see me every day, if you can.”
“Of course,” said Emílio, and left.
My husband was in a bad way for the rest of that day and night. I did not sleep, but spent the night in his room.
The following day, I was exhausted. All those conflicting feelings combined with a lack of sleep had left me utterly drained. Unable to go on, I summoned my cousin Elvira and went to bed.
I will close at this point. I am almost at the end of my sad tale.
Until Sunday.
VII
My husband’s illness did not last long. He got worse with each day that passed. After a week, the doctors told him frankly that he did not have long to live.
When I received this fateful news, I almost lost my mind. He was still my husband, Carlota, and, despite all, I could not forget that he had been my companion in life and the one safe haven during all my emotional storms.
Finding me in this state of despair, Emílio tried to console me. I made no attempt to conceal from him what a great blow my husband’s death would be.
One night, we were all together, me, my cousin Elvira, one of my husband’s relatives, and Emílio. We were keeping the patient company. After a long silence, my husband turned to me and said:
“Give me your hand.”
And, squeezing my hand hard, he turned his face to the wall, and died.
FOUR MONTHS PASSED. Emílio shared my grief and was a faithful presence at all the funeral ceremonies held for my late husband.
His visits, however, became less frequent, but I thought this was simply natural delicacy on his part.
After those four months, I learned from one of my husband’s friends that Emílio was about to leave Rio. I couldn’t believe it. I wrote him a letter.
I loved him then, as I had before, only even more so now that I was free.
In my letter I said:
Emílio: I understand that you are about to leave Rio. Is that possible? I myself could not believe my ears! You know how much I love you. Now is not the time to celebrate our vows, but it will not be long before the world will grant us the union our love demands. Come and see me and explain in person. Your Eugênia.
Emílio did come and see me. He assured me that, although he was going away, it was on a matter of business and he would be back shortly. He would be leaving in a week’s time.
I asked him to swear this was true, and he swore.
I let him leave.
Four days later, I received the following letter:
I lied, Eugênia. I’m leaving now. I told you a further lie. I will not be coming back. I won’t come back because I can’t. Marriage to you would be my ideal of happiness were I not a man whose habits make him entirely unsuited for marriage. Goodbye. Forgive me, and wish me a safe journey. Goodbye. Emílio.
You can easily imagine my feelings on reading that letter. It was like a whole castle crumbling into rubble. This was the reward I received for my love, my first love: ingratitude and scorn. It was only right: such a guilty love should not end well; I was being punished by the consequences of my crime.
I wondered, though, how that man, who seemed so deeply in love with me, could reject a woman whose honesty he could guarantee, given that she had resisted the wishes of her own heart. This seemed to me a complete mystery. Now I see that there was nothing mysterious about it: Emílio was a vulgar seducer, and all that distinguished him from the others was that he was slightly more adept.
That is my story. You can imagine how I have suffered over these last two years. Time, though, is a great healer, and I am now cured.
My rejected love and my feelings of remorse for having, in a way, betrayed my husband’s trust, hurt me deeply. However, I think I have paid dearly for my crime and believe I have been rehabilitated in the eyes of my conscience.
But will I be rehabilitated in the eyes of God?
And in your eyes? You will tell me that tomorrow, for I will be with you just twenty-four hours after sending this letter.
Goodbye!