I
IT HAPPENED IN PETRóPOLIS, in 186*. My story, as you see, happened not so very long ago. It is drawn from contemporary records and present-day customs. A few readers may even know some of the characters who will appear in this brief portrait. It wouldn’t be so very odd if, tomorrow, on meeting, say, Azevedo, one of my readers might exclaim:
“I’ve just read a story about you. The author was quite kind and discreet, but the description was so like you and he took so little care to disguise your features, that, as I turned the pages, I kept saying to myself: ‘Yes, it’s Azevedo to the life.’ ”
He’s a happy man, Azevedo! At the moment when this story begins, he is a happy husband, entirely happy. Just married, possessed of a wife who was the most beautiful woman in Petrópolis society, and possessed, too, of the kindest heart to be found beneath the sun of the Americas, the owner of a couple of well-situated and eminently rentable properties, respected, loved, and untroubled, that is our Azevedo, who, to complete his great good fortune, is a handsome, healthy twenty-six-year-old.
Fortune has also given him a very easy job—doing nothing. He has a degree in law, but has never made any use of it; it’s still in the classic tin box in which he brought it from the University of São Paulo. He would occasionally revisit his degree certificate, but only very rarely, and then not again until another long period of time had elapsed. It’s not so much a certificate as a relic.
When Ernesto Azevedo left university and went back to the family estate in the province of Minas Gerais, he had a plan: to go to Europe. After a few months, his father agreed to let him go, and Azevedo began preparations for the voyage. He arrived in Rio with the firm intention of taking a berth on the first steamer available, but not everything depends on the will of man. Before embarking, Azevedo went to a dance, and awaiting him there was the net in which he would be caught. And what a net! Twenty years old, a slim, frail, delicate figure, one of those insubstantial creatures who seems to dissolve in the first light of day. Azevedo could not help himself; he fell passionately in love; a month later, he was married, and a week after that, the couple left for Petrópolis.
What house would be home to that handsome, loving, happy couple? The house they chose could not have been more appropriate; it was a light, slender, elegant affair, more of a holiday home than a permanent dwelling; a real little love nest for those two fugitive doves.
Our story begins exactly three months after their departure to Petrópolis. Azevedo and his wife were still as deeply in love as they had been on the first day. Then love took on a new and far greater importance, for—dare I say it, O couples who have only been married for three months—their first child had already appeared on the horizon. And both heaven and earth rejoice when the first ray of sun appears on the horizon. I am not using this image for purely stylistic reasons, it is simply a logical deduction. Anyway, Azevedo’s wife was called Adelaide.
And so it was in Petrópolis, one December afternoon in 186*, that Azevedo and Adelaide were sitting in the garden of the house in which they guarded their happiness from the outside world. Azevedo was reading aloud, and Adelaide was listening to him, but it was as if she were listening to a heartbeat, so closely did her husband’s voice and the words of the book correspond to her innermost feelings.
After a while, Azevedo stopped and asked:
“Shall we pause there?”
“If you like,” said Adelaide.
“Yes, we’d better,” said Azevedo, closing the book. “Good things shouldn’t be enjoyed all at one sitting. Let’s leave a little for tonight. Besides, it’s time I moved from the written idyll to the real idyll—and looked at you.”
Adelaide, in turn, looked at him and said:
“It’s as if we were beginning our honeymoon all over again.”
“And we are,” added Azevedo, “if marriage is not an eternal honeymoon, what is it? The joining of two existences in order to ponder discreetly the best way of eating cucumbers and cabbages? No, thank you! I believe marriage should be one long falling in love. Don’t you think so too?”
“I feel it rather than think it,” said Adelaide.
“You feel, and that’s enough.”
“But that women should feel is only natural, whereas men—”
“Men are men.”
“What in women is sentiment, in men is sentimentality. I’ve been told that ever since I was child.”
“Well, they’ve been lying to you all along,” said Azevedo, laughing.
“I hope so!”
“It’s true. And never trust people who talk a lot, be they men or women. You have an example close to home. Here’s Emília, who is always talking about how independent she is, but how many times has she been married? Twice so far, and she’s only twenty-five. She would do better to talk less and marry less.”
“She’s only joking,” said Adelaide.
“All right, but what there can be no joking about is that our three months of marriage feel like three minutes.”
“Three whole months!” exclaimed Adelaide.
“How time flies!” said Azevedo.
“Will you always say that?” asked Adelaide, an incredulous look on her face.
Azevedo kissed her and asked:
“Are you beginning to have doubts?”
“No, just a little fear. It’s so wonderful to be so happy!”
“You will always be happy and always equally happy. There’s no other possibility.”
At that moment, they heard a voice coming from the garden gate.
“What’s all this talk about possibilities?”
They both looked up to see who it was.
At the garden gate stood a tall, good-looking man, elegantly dressed, wearing yellow gloves and carrying a small whip.
Azevedo did not, at first, appear to recognize him. Adelaide looked from one to the other, bewildered. This, however, lasted no more than a minute, then Azevedo cried:
“It’s Tito! Come in, Tito!”
Tito sauntered nonchalantly up the garden path. He embraced Azevedo and bowed graciously to Adelaide.
“This is my wife,” said Azevedo, introducing Adelaide to the new arrival.
“I thought as much,” said Tito, “and let me take this opportunity to congratulate you.”
“Did you not receive a wedding invitation?”
“I did, but I was in Valparaíso.”
“Sit down and tell us about your trip.”
“That would take a long time,” said Tito, taking a seat. “What I can tell you is that I disembarked yesterday in Rio. I tried to find out where you were living and was told that you were in Petrópolis temporarily. I rested a little, then, today, I took the boat from Prainha and here I am. I suspected that a poetic soul like you would want to hide your happiness away in some secret corner of the world. And this really is a little piece of paradise. A garden, pergolas, a light, elegant house, a book. Love poetry too. Bravo! Perfect! Tityre, tu patulae recubans . . . I have stumbled upon an idyll. And you, shepherdess, where is your crook?”
Adelaide laughed out loud.
Tito went on:
“You even laugh like a happy shepherdess. And you, Theocritus, what are you up to? Letting the days flow by like the waters of the Paraíba? O fortunate creature!”
“Still the same old Tito!” said Azevedo.
“The same madman, you mean? Do you think he’s right, senhora?”
“If you don’t mind my saying so, yes, I do.”
“No, I don’t mind in the least. I even feel rather honored, for it’s true, I am an inoffensive madman. But you two really do seem unusually happy. How many months have you been married?”
“It will be three months on Sunday,” said Adelaide.
“I was just saying to Adelaide that it seems to me more like three minutes,” added Azevedo.
Tito looked at them, smiling, and said:
“Three months or three minutes! There you have the whole truth about life. If you were laid upon a gridiron, like Saint Lawrence, five minutes would seem like five months. And yet still we talk of time. What is time, after all? It’s a matter of how we experience it. Months for the unhappy and minutes for the happy!”
“And what happiness, eh?” cried Azevedo.
“Complete and utter bliss, I imagine. Husband to a seraph, in mind and heart, ah, I’m sorry, I forgot you were there, Adelaide . . . but don’t blush. You’ll hear me say the same thing twenty times a day. I always say what I think. You must be the envy of all our friends.”
“I have no idea.”
“Of course not. How could you, secluded as you are in this little hideaway of yours? And you’re quite right. Being happy in full view of everyone else would mean sharing your happiness, and out of respect for that principle, I really should leave . . .”
And, saying this, Tito stood up.
“Stop talking and stay with us.”
“True friends are also true happiness,” said Adelaide.
“Ah!”
“It might be good for you to spend a little time at our school and learn the science of marriage,” said Azevedo.
“Whatever for?” asked Tito, brandishing his whip.
“In order to get married.”
“Hm,” said Tito.
“Don’t you want to?” asked Adelaide.
“So you haven’t changed your mind, then?”
“No,” answered Tito.
Adelaide looked curious and asked:
“Do you have a horror of marriage?”
“I simply have no vocation for it,” said Tito. “And it is purely a matter of vocation. If you don’t have it, don’t do it, it’s a complete waste of time and fatal for one’s peace of mind. That has been my belief for a long time now.”
“Your time has perhaps not yet come.”
“And it never will,” said Tito.
“I seem to remember,” said Azevedo, offering his friend a cigar, “that there was a day when you tossed aside your usual theories and fell deeply in love.”
“I would hardly describe it as ‘deeply in love.’ Providence did one day provide me with confirmation of my solitary instincts. I began courting a young lady . . .”
“Oh, yes, it was a funny business.”
“What happened?” asked Adelaide.
“Tito went to a dance and saw a young woman. The next day, he went to her house and, just like that, asked for her hand in marriage. She said . . . what was it she said, now?”
“She wrote me a note saying that I was a fool and should leave her alone. She didn’t actually use the word ‘fool,’ but it came to the same thing. Needless to say, that wasn’t the response I was hoping for. Anyway, I turned tail and have never been in love since.”
“But were you in love on that occasion?” asked Adelaide.
“I don’t know if it was love,” answered Tito, “it was something . . . But that was a good five years ago. Since then I haven’t met anyone who made my heart beat faster.”
“So much the worse for you.”
“I know,” said Tito with a shrug. “But then, while I may not have enjoyed the private pleasures of love, I at least haven’t endured the miseries or the disappointments. And that is a great good fortune.”
“True love knows nothing of such things,” said Adelaide sententiously.
“Really? Look, let’s change the subject, shall we? I could deliver a speech on the matter, but I prefer—”
“You must stay here with us,” Azevedo broke in. “That’s decided.”
“No, I can’t . . .”
“You can and must stay.”
“But I’ve already told my manservant to get me a room at the Hotel de Bragança . . .”
“Well, tell him otherwise, and stay here.”
“I don’t want to disturb your peace.”
“But you won’t.”
“Stay!” said Adelaide.
“All right, I’ll stay.”
“And tomorrow,” said Adelaide, “once you’ve rested, you must tell us the secret of this independence of mind you’re so proud of.”
“It’s no secret,” said Tito. “It’s this: given the choice between love and a game of ombre, I don’t think twice, I always choose ombre. By the way, Ernesto, I met an amazing player of ombre in Chile. He played the boldest gascarola I’ve ever seen . . . Do you know what a gascarola is, senhora?”
“No,” said Adelaide.
“Well, I’ll explain.”
Azevedo glanced to one side and said:
“Ah, here’s Emília.”
There at the garden gate was a lady arm in arm with an older man of about fifty.
Dona Emília was what one might call a beautiful woman; she was lofty in stature and lofty in nature too. She was the kind of woman who would impose from on high any feelings of love she might inspire. Her manners and her graces gave her a rather queenly air, which made one feel like leading her to a throne.
She dressed simply but elegantly, a natural elegance that was quite different from being overdressed; indeed, I once came up with this maxim: “There are the elegantly dressed and there are the overdressed.”
Her main points of beauty were her beautiful dark eyes, large and bright, her thick brown hair, her nose as straight as Sappho’s, her small red mouth, satin cheeks, and the neck and arms of a statue.
As for the older man on her arm, he was, as I said, about fifty years old. He was what we call in Portuguese chão—vulgar and coarse, an old rake. Painted and corseted, he was like an ancient ruin rebuilt by modern hands, which gave him that in-between appearance, lacking both the austerity of old age and the freshness of youth. He had clearly been a handsome fellow in his day, but any conquests he may have made in the past would now be but faded memories.
When Emília came into the garden, everyone was already on their feet. She shook Azevedo’s hand and went to kiss Adelaide on the cheek. She was just about to sit down in the chair Azevedo offered her, when she noticed Tito, who was standing slightly apart.
They greeted each other rather stiffly. Tito seemed calm and coolly polite, and, afterward, Emília kept her eyes fixed on him, as if summoning up some past memory.
Once the necessary introductions had been made, including Diogo Franco (the name of the old man on Emília’s arm), they all sat down.
The first to speak was Emília:
“I wouldn’t have come today if it hadn’t been for Senhor Diogo’s kindness.”
Adelaide looked at Diogo and said:
“You’re a marvel, Senhor Diogo.”
Diogo drew himself up and murmured rather modestly:
“No, really, it was nothing.”
“Just wait until you hear. He’s not only one marvel, he’s two. Did you know, he’s going to give me a present?”
“A present!” said Azevedo.
“Yes,” Emília went on, “a present he has ordered to be sent from the farthest-flung corners of Europe, a souvenir of his travels there as an adolescent . . .”
Diogo was positively radiant.
“No, really, it’s a mere trifle,” he said, gazing tenderly at Emília.
“Whatever is it?” asked Adelaide.
“It is . . . can you guess? A white bear!”
“A white bear?”
“Really?”
“It’s about to arrive, apparently, but he only told me about it yesterday. Isn’t that sweet?”
“A bear!” Azevedo said.
Tito leaned toward his friend and whispered in his ear:
“That will make two of them.”
Overjoyed at this response to the news of his present, but quite wrong about the nature of that response, Diogo said:
“No, really, it’s nothing. It’s just a bear, although I did ask for a truly beautiful one to be sent. You probably can’t imagine what a white bear looks like. It’s completely white, you know.”
“You don’t say!” said Tito.
“It’s a wonderful beast!” said Diogo.
“I’m sure it is,” said Tito. “Just imagine that, a white bear that’s completely white.” Then, sotto voce, he asked Azevedo: “Who is this man?”
“He’s courting Emília; he’s fifty years old.”
“And what does she do about that?”
“Oh, she just ignores him.”
“Is that what she says?”
While they were talking, Diogo was playing with the fob-chain on his watch, and the two ladies were chatting. After that last exchange between Azevedo and Tito, Emília turned to Azevedo and asked:
“Is it true, Senhor Azevedo, that you celebrate birthdays in this house and don’t invite me?”
“But it was pouring with rain,” said Adelaide.
“Ungrateful girl. You know perfectly well that rain doesn’t count as an excuse.”
“Besides,” said Azevedo, “it was a very modest affair.”
“Even so, I’m practically family!”
“The thing is, they’re still on their honeymoon despite being married for five whole months,” said Tito.
“And we’ll have none of your sarcasm, thank you,” said Azevedo.
“That’s very naughty of you, Senhor Tito!”
“Tito?” Emília asked Adelaide quietly.
“Yes.”
“Ah, Dona Emília doesn’t yet know about our friend Tito,” said Azevedo. “I’m almost afraid to tell her.”
“Is it so very bad?”
“It might be,” said Tito casually.
“Very bad!” exclaimed Adelaide.
“What is it, then?” asked Emília.
“He is a man incapable of love,” Adelaide went on. “Indeed, he couldn’t be more indifferent to love. In short, he prefers, what was it, now? Oh, yes, he prefers a game of ombre to love.”
“Is that what he told you?” asked Emília.
“And I would say it again,” said Tito. “But be assured, I say this not because of women, but because of myself. I believe that all women deserve my adoration, but I am so fashioned that all I can offer them is my disinterested esteem.”
Emília looked at him and said:
“If that isn’t vanity, then it’s a disease.”
“You’ll forgive me when I say that I believe it to be neither a disease nor vanity. It’s simply my nature: some people hate oranges, others hate love affairs; now, whether it’s the tough skin that’s the problem, I really don’t know, but that’s the way it is.”
“He’s very hard, isn’t he?” said Emília, looking at Adelaide.
“Me? Hard?” said Tito, getting up. “I’m as delicate as silk, a mere baby, a miracle of gentleness . . . It hurts me deeply to be so unlike other men and so impervious to amorous influences, but what can I do? It’s not my fault.”
“Just you wait,” said Azevedo. “Time will change you.”
“But when? I’m already twenty-nine.”
“Twenty-nine?” said Emília.
“Yes, I turned twenty-nine at Easter.”
“You don’t look it.”
“You’re most kind.”
The conversation continued in this vein until dinner was announced. Emília and Diogo had already dined and only stayed in order to keep the Azevedos and Tito company, Tito declaring himself to be absolutely starving.
The conversation over dinner touched only on banal topics.
When coffee was served, a servant arrived from the hotel where Diogo was staying; he brought with him a letter for Diogo, with a note on the envelope announcing that it was urgent. Diogo took the letter, read it, and seemed to turn pale, but he, nevertheless, continued to take part in the general conversation. This incident, though, prompted Adelaide to ask Emília:
“When will your eternal inamorato ever set you free, do you think?”
“I have no idea!” said Emília. “He’s not a bad man, but he’s got into the habit of telling me every week that he feels a burning passion for me.”
“Well, if it’s only a weekly declaration . . .”
“Yes, that’s all it is, and he does have the advantage of being an infallible companion whenever I go out and about and he’s a reliable hurdy-gurdy when at home, always churning out the same stories. He’s already described to me about fifty times the amorous battles he’s fought. His one wish is to travel around the world with me. If the subject comes up in the evening, as it usually does, I order some tea, which is an excellent way of cooling his ardor. He’s mad about tea, as mad as he is about me! But what do you make of that white bear? What if he really has sent for a bear?”
“You must accept it.”
“How I am going to feed a bear? As if I didn’t have enough to do!”
Adelaide smiled and said:
“It sounds to me as if you’ll end up falling in love . . .”
“Who with? The bear?”
“No, with Diogo.”
At this point, they were standing next to a window. Tito was sitting on the sofa, talking to Azevedo. Diogo was sunk in an armchair, deep in thought.
Emília kept looking at Tito. After a pause, she said to Adelaide:
“What do you make of your husband’s friend? He seems dreadfully vain. He says he’s never been in love. Is that credible?”
“It might be true.”
“I don’t believe it for a moment. How can you be so naïve? He’s obviously pretending.”
“It’s true that I don’t know much about him.”
“As for me, I seem to recognize that face . . . but I can’t remember where I know him from.”
“He appears genuine enough, but to say what he said really is a bit much.”
“Of course . . .”
“What are you smiling at?”
“He reminds me of another such man,” said Emília. “It was years ago now. He was always boasting about how he was immune to love. He used to say that, for him, women were like Chinese vases: he admired them, but nothing more. Poor man. He succumbed in less than a month. I saw him kiss the tips of my shoes, Adelaide . . . after which, I sent him packing.”
“What did you do?”
“Oh, I can’t remember now. Our Lady of Cunning performed the miracle. I avenged our sex and laid low a proud man.”
“Well done.”
“He was not dissimilar to this gentleman. But let’s talk about more important matters. I’ve just received the latest fashion plates from France . . .”
“And what’s new?”
“Oh, lots of things. I’ll send them to you tomorrow. There’s a really lovely new style of sleeve you must see. I’ve already ordered a few things to be made up for me in Rio. And there are loads of gorgeous traveling outfits.”
“There doesn’t seem much point in me ordering anything.”
“Why?”
“I hardly leave the house.”
“What, not even to dine with me on New Year’s Day?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t miss that!”
“Well, come, then, and what about this man, Senhor Tito?”
“If he’s still here and if you’d like him to come . . .”
“Yes, let him come, why not? I’ll keep him on a very short rein. I don’t think he can always be so . . . uncivil. I don’t know how you put up with him. He sets my nerves on edge!”
“Oh, I don’t much care what he says.”
“But doesn’t it make you indignant, the insulting way he talks about women?”
“Not really.”
“You’re lucky, then.”
“What do you expect me to do with a man who says such things? If I weren’t married, I might feel more indignant. If I were free, I might well do to him what you did to that other man. But as it is, I don’t honestly care . . .”
“Not even when he says he would always choose a game of cards over love? Putting us lower down the ranks than the queen of spades! And the way he said it too! Such coolness, such indifference!”
“He really is very naughty!”
“He deserves to be punished.”
“He does. Why don’t you punish him?”
“No, it’s not worth it.”
“You punished that other man.”
“Yes, but it’s really not worth it.”
“Liar!”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I can already see that you’re half tempted to carry out another act of revenge . . .”
“Me? No!”
“Yes, why not? It’s not a crime . . .”
“True, but . . . we’ll see.”
“Could you?”
“Could I?” said Emília with a look of wounded pride.
“Will he kiss the tips of your shoes?”
Emília remained silent for a few moments, then, pointing with her fan at the neat little boots she was wearing, she added:
“Yes, he’ll kiss these very boots.”
Emília and Adelaide went over to join the men. Tito, who appeared to be deep in conversation with Azevedo, broke off their conversation to address them and Diogo, who was still plunged in thought.
“What’s this, Senhor Diogo?” Tito asked. “Are you meditating?”
“Ah, I’m sorry. I was distracted!”
“Poor man,” Tito murmured to Azevedo.
Then, turning to the ladies, he asked:
“Does my cigar bother you?”
“Not at all,” said Emília.
“So I may continue to smoke?”
“You may,” said Adelaide.
“It’s a bad habit, but it’s my only vice. When I smoke, it’s as if I were breathing in eternity. It lifts me up and I’m a changed man. Such a divine invention!”
“They say it’s an excellent remedy for those disappointed in love,” said Emília in an insinuating tone.
“I wouldn’t know. But there’s more to it than that. Since the invention of smoking, no one has ever needed to be alone again. A cigar makes for the best possible company. Besides, a cigar is a genuine Memento homo, slowly turning, as it does, into dust; it reminds a man of the true and inevitable end of all things. It’s a philosophical warning, a memento mori that accompanies us everywhere. That, in itself, is a great advance. But I’m boring you with such a tedious speech. You must forgive me . . . I didn’t mean to go on so. Indeed, it already seems to me that you’re looking at me with such a singular look in your eyes that . . .”
Emília, to whom these words were addressed, answered:
“I couldn’t say whether the look is singular or not, but the eyes are definitely mine.”
“They’re not, I think, your usual eyes. You’re perhaps thinking to yourself that I’m strange, eccentric . . .”
“Vain, I would say.”
“Remember the seventh commandment: Thou shalt not bear false witness.”
“The commandment does specify ‘false.’ ”
“In what way, then, am I vain?”
“Ah, I can’t answer that.”
“Why? Because you don’t want to?”
“No, Because I don’t know. It’s something one feels, but cannot put a name to. You exude vanity, in your gaze, your words, your looks, but it’s impossible to put one’s finger on the origin of such an illness.”
“That’s a shame. I would very much like to hear your diagnosis of my ‘illness.’ To make up for that, you can hear my diagnosis of yours . . . Your illness stems . . . shall I say it?”
“Do.”
“From a touch of resentment.”
“Really?”
“Go on,” said Azevedo, laughing.
Tito continued:
“Yes, resentment for what I said earlier.”
“Ah, there you could not be more mistaken,” said Emília, also laughing.
“I’m sure I’m right. But it’s entirely unnecessary. I’m not to blame for anything. This is how Nature made me.”
“Nature alone?”
“Nature and a little reading. Let me set out the reasons why I cannot love or hope to love anyone: first, I’m not handsome enough . . .”
“Oh, really!” said Emília.
“Thank you for that cry of protest, but I think I’m right. I’m not handsome enough, I’m not—”
“Oh, really!” And it was Adelaide’s turn to protest.
“Second, I’m not curious, and love, if we reduce it to its true proportions, is nothing but curiosity; third, I’m not patient, and in any amorous conquest, patience is the chief virtue; fourth and final point: nor am I an idiot, because, if, despite all those defects, I were ever to attempt to love someone, I would be displaying a complete and utter lack of reason. So that is what I am, by nature and by dint of hard work.”
“He appears to be sincere, Emília.”
“Do you think so?”
“As sincere as the truth,” said Tito.
“But when it comes down to it, whether he’s sincere or not, why should I care?”
“No reason at all,” said Tito.
II
The day after the scenes described above, the sky decided to drench the earth of lovely Petrópolis with its tears.
Tito, who had intended to spend the day visiting the town, was forced to remain in the house. He was the perfect guest, because whenever he felt he was in the way, he would discreetly withdraw, and when he wasn’t in the way, he became the most delightful of companions.
Tito combined great joviality with great delicacy; he could make people laugh without ever resorting to impropriety. What’s more, he had just returned from a long and picturesque journey with the pockets of his memory (if you’ll allow me that image) stuffed with lively anecdotes. He had made the journey in a poetic rather than a dandyish spirit. He was an excellent observer and storyteller, two qualities so indispensable to the traveler, but which are, alas, all too rare. Most people who travel don’t know how to look or how to describe what they see.
Tito had traveled all the way up the Pacific coast and had lived in Mexico, as well as several American states. He had then taken the steamer from New York to Europe. He had seen London and Paris. He had been to Spain, where he lived a kind of Figaro life, serenading modern-day Rosinas at their windows, and, as trophies, had brought back several ladies’ fans and mantillas. He then moved on to Italy and raised his spirit up to the heights of classical art. He saw the shadow of Dante in the streets of Florence; he saw the souls of the doges hovering nostalgically over the widowed waters of the Adriatic Sea; the land of Raphael, Virgil, and Michelangelo was for him a vibrant source of memories of the past and ideas for the future. He went to Greece, where he evoked the spirit of the lost generations who had imbued art and poetry with a fire that still glowed brightly down the dark centuries.
Our hero traveled farther still, and saw everything with the eyes of one who knows how to look and described everything with the soul of one who knows how to tell a tale. Azevedo and Adelaide spent many a rapt hour.
“All I know of love,” he would say, “is that it’s a four-letter word, euphonious enough, it’s true, but portending struggles and misfortunes. The love of fortunate lovers is full of happiness, because it has the virtue of not looking up at the stars in the sky, but contents itself with a few midnight feasts and the occasional excursion on horseback or by boat.”
This was how Tito always spoke. Was he telling the truth, or was this merely the language of convention? Everyone believed the first hypothesis, because this chimed with Tito’s jovial, playful nature.
On the first day of his stay in Petrópolis, the rain, as we explained earlier, prevented the various characters in this story from meeting up. They all stayed in their respective houses. The following day, however, proved kinder, and Tito took advantage of the good weather to visit that cheerful mountain resort. Azevedo and Adelaide decided to join him and ordered three of their own horses to be saddled up for that brief outing.
On the way back, they called in to see Emília. The visit lasted only a few minutes. The lovely widow received them as graciously and courteously as a princess. It was the first time Tito had been there, and, whether for this or for some other reason, the mistress of the house paid most attention to him.
Diogo, who was in the process of making his hundredth declaration of love to Emília, and for whom Emília had just poured a cup of tea, did not view kindly the attentions showered on the visitor by the lady of his thoughts. For that and possibly other reasons, the aging Adonis listened very glumly to the conversation.
As the visitors were leaving, Emília invited Tito to come again, saying that he would always be welcome. Tito accepted this offer in a gentlemanly fashion, and then they all left.
Five days after this visit, Emília went to see Adelaide. Tito was not there, and Azevedo, having gone out to deal with some business matter, returned a few minutes later. When, after an hour of conversation, Emília stood up in order to return home, Tito came in.
“I was just about to leave when you arrived,” said Emília. “We seem to be at odds in everything.”
“That is certainly not my intention,” answered Tito. “On the contrary, my one wish is not to be at odds with anyone, and certainly not with you.”
“That doesn’t appear to be the case.”
“Why do you say that?”
Emília smiled and said in a slightly censorious tone:
“You know how it would please me if you were to take up my invitation to visit me, but you have not as yet done so. Did you forget?”
“Yes, I did.”
“How charming.”
“I’m always very frank. I realize you would prefer a delicate lie, but I know of nothing more delicate than the truth.”
Emília smiled.
At this point, Diogo arrived.
“Were you about to leave, Dona Emília?” he asked.
“Yes, I was waiting for your arm to escort me.”
Emília said goodbye to Azevedo and Adelaide. And when Tito bowed to her respectfully, Emília said with icy calm:
“There is someone who is as delicate as the truth, and that is Senhor Diogo. I hope to be able to say the same—”
“Of me?” said Tito, interrupting her. “I’ll be there tomorrow.”
Emília left, arm in arm with Diogo.
The next day, Tito did indeed go to Emília’s house. She waited for him with some impatience, and since she did not know at what hour he would visit, she spent the whole day, from the morning on, waiting. Tito only deigned to appear at dusk.
Emília lived with an old aunt of hers. She was a kind lady, a good friend to her niece, and entirely submissive to her will, which meant that Emília could rest assured that her aunt would always fall in with her every wish.
There was no one else in the room that Tito was shown into. He therefore had more than enough time to examine it at his leisure. It was a small room, but furnished and decorated with great taste. Light, elegant, expensive furniture; four exquisite statuettes—copies of works by James Pradier—an Érard piano, and all arranged in a most interesting and lively way.
Tito spent the first quarter of an hour examining the room and the objects filling it. This examination must have had a great influence on any study he might have wished to make of the young woman’s mind. Tell me how you live, and I’ll tell you who you are.
That first quarter of an hour passed, and still not a soul appeared and not a sound was heard. Tito began to grow impatient. As we know, he could be somewhat blunt, despite his great delicacy, to which anyone who knew him would attest. It seems, though, that his bluntness, which he almost always exercised on Emília, was perhaps assumed rather than natural. What is certain is that, after half an hour had passed, Tito, irritated by the delay, muttered to himself:
“She’s having her revenge!”
And, picking up the hat he had placed on a chair, he was just walking over to the door when he heard a rustle of silk. Looking up, he saw Emília entering the room.
“Were you escaping?”
“Yes, I was.”
“Please forgive the delay.”
“There’s nothing to forgive. I’m sure some serious reason must have prevented you from coming down earlier. As for me, I have no need to ask forgiveness, either. I waited, grew tired of waiting, and would have come back on another occasion. All of which is perfectly normal.”
Emília offered Tito a chair, then sat down on a sofa, and, apparently accepting his rebuff, she said:
“You really are a complete original, Senhor Tito.”
“I should hope so. You have no idea how I loathe copies. What possible merit is there in doing what everyone else does? I was not born for such imitative tasks.”
“But you have already done something that many other people do.”
“What’s that?”
“You promised me yesterday that you would visit and you have kept that promise.”
“Ah, please do not attribute that to any virtue on my part. I could easily not have come, but I did. It was pure chance not choice.”
“Well, I choose to thank you anyway.”
“That is a way of closing your door to me.”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t be bothered with such expressions of gratitude, nor do I think they could in any way increase my admiration for you. I often went to visit statues in various European museums, but if they had ever thought to thank me for my visit, I can assure you that I would not have gone back.”
These words were followed by a brief silence, which Emília was the first to break.
“Have you known Adelaide’s husband for long?”
“Ever since I was a child.”
“Oh, so you were once a child.”
“And still am.”
“That is precisely how long I have known Adelaide. And I’ve never regretted it.”
“Nor have I.”
“There was a period,” Emília went on, “when we were separated, but that didn’t change our friendship one jot. That was at the time of my first marriage.”
“Ah, you’ve been married twice?”
“In two years.”
“And why were you widowed the first time?”
“Because my husband died,” said Emilia, laughing.
“No, my question is this: Why did you become a widow even after the death of your first husband? Could you not have remained married?”
“How?” Emília asked with some amazement.
“By continuing to be the wife of your dead husband. If love ends in the grave, there hardly seems any point in seeking it out.”
“You really are a most unusual man.”
“Possibly.”
“You must be if you fail to see that life cares nothing for such demands of eternal fidelity. Besides, one can preserve the memory of those who die without renouncing life. Now it’s my turn to ask you why you’re looking at me with such a singular look in your eyes.”
“I couldn’t say whether that look is singular or not, but the eyes are definitely mine.”
“So you think I committed bigamy?”
“No, I don’t think anything. But let me give you my final reason for my inability to love.”
“I’m all ears.”
“I don’t believe in fidelity.”
“Not at all?”
“Not at all.”
“Thank you very much.”
“Oh, I know it’s hardly polite to say so, but, firstly, I have the courage of my convictions, and secondly, you were the one who provoked me. Alas, it is true: I do not believe in faithful and eternal love. I’ll let you into a secret. I did once try to love someone; I threw every fiber of my being into it; I prepared myself to heap all my pride and all my hopes onto the object of my love. What a lesson it taught me! Having encouraged my hopes, the object of my love married someone else, who was no more handsome and no more loving than me.”
“What does that prove?” asked Emília.
“It proves that what can and does happen on a daily basis to others happened to me.”
“Yes, but—”
“You must forgive me, but I think it’s in my blood now.”
“Don’t say that. Such things do happen, but that doesn’t mean it will happen again. Will you allow for no exceptions? You need to go deeper into other people’s hearts if you want to find the truth . . . and you will find it.”
“Oh, really!” said Tito, bowing his head and tapping the tip of his shoe with his walking stick.
“I can assure you that it’s true.”
“I doubt it.”
“I feel sorry for a creature like you,” she went on. “If you’ve never known love, you’ve never lived! Is there anything to compare with two souls who adore each other? When love enters your heart, everything is transformed, everything changes, night becomes day, pain becomes pleasure. If you know nothing of these things, you might as well die, because you are the most unfortunate of men.”
“I’ve read as much in books, but I’m still not convinced . . .”
“Have you taken a look around this room?”
“Yes, I looked at one or two things.”
“Did you notice that engraving?”
Tito looked at the engraving she was pointing to.
“I think I would be right in saying,” he said, “that it represents Love taming the wild beasts.”
“Look and learn.”
“What, from the engraver?” asked Tito. “That’s not possible. I’ve seen living engravings. I’ve been the target for many arrows. They can riddle me all over, but I am strong as any Saint Sebastian. I stand firm and do not flinch.”
“Such pride!”
“What could vanquish such pride? Beauty? Not even a Cleopatra. Chastity? Not even a Susanna. Even if you were to combine all the finest qualities in one creature, I would not change. That’s simply how I am.”
Emília stood up and went over to the piano.
“I assume you don’t hate music?” she asked, as she opened the lid.
“No, I love music,” answered Tito, staying where he was. “Although, when it comes to the exponents of music, I only like the good ones. Hearing someone play badly makes me want to see them hanged.”
Emília played the prelude to a symphony. Tito listened with close attention. She really did play divinely.
“So,” she said, getting up, “should I be hanged?”
“No, you should be crowned. You play superbly.”
“That’s another matter on which you are not in the least original. Everyone tells me the same thing.”
“Yes, but nor would I deny the light from the sun.”
At this point, Emília’s aunt came into the room. Emília introduced her to Tito. The conversation took on a more personal, more reserved tone; however, it did not last long, because Tito, suddenly snatching up his hat, announced that he had things to do.
“When will we see you again?”
“Oh, you’ll see me.”
And with that, he left.
Emília followed him with her eyes for some time from the window. Tito, as if indifferent, did not look back.
Just as Emília left the window, Tito met old Diogo, who was heading toward Emília’s house. He appeared to be deep in thought; indeed, so distracted was he that he almost bumped into Tito.
“Where are you off to in this distracted state?” asked Tito.
“Oh, it’s you, Senhor Tito. Have you just come from Dona Emilia’s house?”
“I have.”
“That’s where I’m going. Poor girl, she must be wondering where I’ve got to.”
“Don’t worry, she isn’t,” said Tito coolly.
Diogo shot him a resentful glance.
A silence ensued, during which Diogo played with his watch chain and Tito blew smoke rings with the smoke from his exquisite cigar. One of these rings ended up in Diogo’s face. He coughed and said to Tito:
“Please, Senhor Tito. That’s enough!”
“What’s wrong, my dear sir?” asked Tito.
“Surely you don’t have to blow smoke in my face as well!”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize. But I don’t understand what you mean by ‘as well.’ ”
“Let me explain,” said Diogo cheerfully. “Give me your arm.”
“Of course.”
And they continued walking along like two old friends.
“I’m ready for your explanation.”
“Here goes. And I want you to be perfectly frank with me. You know that I’m dying of love for Dona Emília. No, don’t argue, just agree. Up until now, everything was going well, then you arrived in Petrópolis.”
“Yes, but—”
“Hear me out. You arrived in Petrópolis and, for reasons known only to you and even though I hadn’t harmed you in any way, you decided to oust me. Ever since then, you’ve been paying court to—”
“My dear Senhor Diogo, this is all pure fantasy. I am not paying court to Dona Emília, nor do I intend to. Have you seen me at her house?”
“You’ve just come from there.”
“Well, it’s the first time I’ve visited her.”
“How can I be sure?”
“Didn’t you hear the way she said goodbye to me yesterday at Azevedo’s house? They were hardly the words of a woman who—”
“That proves nothing. Women, and especially that woman, do not always say what they mean . . .”
“So you think she feels something for me?”
“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be talking to you.”
“Well, it’s news to me.”
“It’s only a suspicion, of course, but she talks of nothing else. She asks me twenty times a day about you and your habits, about your past life and your opinions. As you can imagine, I can only say, ‘I don’t know,’ but I’m beginning to hate you, and you can hardly blame me.”
“Is it my fault that she likes me? But, really, Senhor Diogo, there’s no need to worry. She doesn’t like me, and I don’t like her. Carry on regardless and be happy.”
“Happy! If only I could be! But I don’t believe I can, I’m not made for happiness. Look, Senhor Tito, I love that woman as dearly as life itself. One look from her is worth more to me than a whole year of success and happiness. It’s because of her that I’ve let my business affairs go to pot. Did you not notice the other day that I received a most upsetting letter? Well, I’d lost a lawsuit. And all for what? For her!”
“Does she give you any encouragement?”
“Oh, I don’t understand the girl! One day, she’s so sweet to me that I’m in seventh heaven; the next, her indifference is enough to plunge me into hell. Today, a smile; tomorrow, a look of disdain. She tells me off for not visiting her, and then, when I do visit, she takes about as much notice of me as she does of Ganymede—Ganymede is the name of a little dog I gave her. Yes, she cares as much about me as she does for that dog. She does it on purpose. The girl is a complete enigma.”
“Well, I won’t be the one to solve it, Senhor Diogo. I wish you much happiness. Goodbye.”
And the two men parted. Diogo continued on to Emília’s house, and Tito to Azevedo’s.
Tito had just discovered that he was often in Emília’s thoughts, but this caused not the slightest commotion inside him. Why? We will find that out later on. What we must say, though, is that the same suspicions had arisen in Adelaide’s mind as in Diogo’s. Her close friendship with Emília allowed her to submit Emília to a frank interrogation and to receive an equally frank confession. On the day after the scene just described, Adelaide told Emília her thoughts.
Emília responded with a laugh.
“I don’t understand you,” said Adelaide.
“It’s perfectly simple,” said Emília. “If you think me capable of falling in love with a friend of your husband’s, you’re wrong. No, I don’t love him. As I said to you when I first set eyes on him, I am determined to have him at my feet. In fact, if I remember rightly, you were the one who laid down that challenge, a challenge I accepted. I have to avenge our sex. It may be vanity on my part, but I believe I can do what no other woman has done.”
“Ah, you cruel creature. So that’s it!”
“Absolutely.”
“Do you think it’s possible?”
“Why not?”
“Remember that a defeat would be twofold . . .”
“I know, but I won’t be defeated.”
This conversation was interrupted by Azevedo, and Emília gestured to Adelaide to say nothing. It was agreed between them that not even Azevedo should know what was afoot. And Adelaide said nothing to her husband.
III
A week passed.
As we have seen, Tito was exactly as he had been on the very first day. He went for walks, read, talked, and seemed blissfully unaware of the plots being woven about him. During that time, he made only two visits to Emília’s house, once with the Azevedos and once with Diogo. He was the same on both occasions—cold, indifferent, impassive. No look, however seductive or significant, could shake him; not even the idea that he was much in Emília’s thoughts could spark his interest.
“If he really is incapable of love, why does he not at least engage in one of those amours de salon that so flatter men’s vanity?”
This was a question that Emília put to herself, bewildered by the young man’s indifference. She could not understand how Tito could remain so icy cold when confronted by her charms. This, unfortunately, was how it was.
Weary of working in vain, she decided to take a decisive step. She steered the conversation onto the sweet pleasures of marriage and bemoaned her widowed state. The Azevedos were, for her, the image of perfect conjugal bliss. She presented them to Tito as an incentive for anyone wishing to be happy on this earth. Neither thesis nor hypothesis, however, could thaw Tito’s coldness.
Emília was playing a dangerous game. She had to decide between her desire to avenge her sex and what was proper for a woman in her position; she was, however, a proud creature; and while she was respectful of her own strict morality, she did not show the same degree of respect for the inconvenience that went hand in hand with preserving that moral code. Vanity had a prodigious influence over her. And so the lovely widow deployed all licit means to make Tito fall in love with her.
But once he had fallen in love, what would she do? An idle question, since, once she had him at her feet, she would try to keep him kneeling there along with old Diogo. That would be the best possible trophy any proud beauty could aspire to.
One morning, eight days after the scenes described in the previous chapter, Diogo appeared at the Azevedos’ house. They had just finished breakfast. Azevedo had gone up to his study to finish off some correspondence, and Adelaide was in the downstairs living room.
Diogo entered, looking terribly sad, sadder than she had ever seen him before. She ran over to him.
“Whatever’s wrong?” she asked.
“Ah, senhora, I am the most wretched of men!”
“But why? Come and sit down . . .”
Diogo sat, or, rather, slumped down into the chair Adelaide offered him. She took a seat next to him and encouraged him to tell her his woes.
“What’s happened?”
“Two misfortunes,” he said. “The first in the form of a verdict. I’ve lost yet another lawsuit, which is unfortunate, but it’s as nothing compared to—”
“You mean there’s something worse?”
“Yes, the second misfortune came in the form of a letter.”
“A letter?”
“Yes, read this.”
Diogo removed from his wallet a small pink letter, smelling of essence of magnolia.
Adelaide read the letter.
When she had finished, Diogo asked:
“What do you make of that?”
“I don’t understand,” said Adelaide.
“It’s from her.”
“Yes, and so?”
“It’s a letter to him.”
“Who?”
“Him! The devil! My rival! Tito!”
“Ah!”
“I cannot tell you what I felt when I picked up that letter. I have never trembled before anything in my life, but when I read that, my head began to spin. It’s still spinning now. With every step I take, I feel as if I were about to faint.”
“Don’t despair,” said Adelaide.
“That is precisely why I have come here, in search of consolation, reassurance. I knew you were at home and hoped to find you alone. It’s such a shame that your estimable husband is still alive, because the greatest possible consolation would be for you to accept my poor, misunderstood heart.”
“Fortunately, he’s still alive.”
Diogo uttered a sigh and said:
“Fortunately!”
Then, after a silence, he went on:
“I had two reactions: one was to treat them both with utter scorn, but that would only give them still greater freedom and leave me racked with pain and humiliation; the second was to challenge him to a duel; that would be best, I’ll kill him or else—”
“Don’t talk like that.”
“It’s vital that one of us is crossed off the list of the living.”
“What if you’re mistaken?”
“But I’m not mistaken. I’m absolutely sure.”
“Sure about what?”
Diogo unfolded the letter and said:
“Listen: If you have still not understood me then you must lack all insight. Remove your mask, and I will explain myself. I’ll be having tea alone this evening. The importunate Diogo will not be troubling me with his usual nonsense. Give me the pleasure of seeing you and admiring you. Emília.”
“Is that all?”
“Ah, if it were more than that, I would be dead! But I was able to steal the letter and thus prevent that meeting from taking place.”
“When was the letter written?”
“Yesterday.”
“Calm down. Can you keep a secret? I should not be telling you this, and I’m only doing so because you’re upset. I can guarantee that this letter is a trick. It’s a way of avenging the female sex, a way of making Tito fall in love. That’s all.”
Diogo trembled with joy.
“Really?” he asked.
“Yes, it’s true, but remember, it’s a secret. As I said, I’m only telling you as a way of reassuring you. Don’t spoil our joke.”
“And this is really true?”
“How many times must I tell you?”
“Oh, what a weight off my mind! I promise you that your secret is safe with me. How very funny. I’m so glad I came to talk to you. Can I tell Dona Emília that I know all about it?”
“No!”
“So I’d better pretend to know nothing.”
“Yes.”
“Fine.”
Diogo was rubbing his hands together and blinking contentedly. He was radiant with happiness. How glorious, what joy, to see his supposed rival fall into the widow’s trap!
At this point, the inner door opened, and Tito appeared. He had just gotten up.
“Good morning, Dona Adelaide,” he said, then, sitting down and turning to look at Diogo, he added. “Good morning, Diogo. You seem very happy today. Have you won first prize on the lottery?”
“First prize?” said Diogo. “Yes, I have.”
“Did you sleep well?” Adelaide asked Tito.
“I slept the sleep of the just, of course. I had very sweet dreams. I dreamed about Senhor Diogo.”
“Of me?” murmured Diogo, adding to himself: “Poor man. I feel sorry for him.”
“Where’s Azevedo?” asked Tito.
“He’s gone out.”
“Already?”
“Well, it is eleven o’clock.”
“Eleven! Yes, I did wake up rather late. I have two visits to make, one to Dona Emília—”
“Oh!” cried Diogo.
“Why so surprised, my friend?”
“Oh, no reason.”
“I’ll go and ask them to prepare your breakfast,” said Adelaide.
The two men were left alone. Tito lit a slender cigar, and Diogo pretended to be thinking his own thoughts, all the while shooting sideways glances at Tito, who, after taking only two puffs on his cigar, turned and asked:
“How’s the romance going?”
“What romance?”
“With Emília. Have you managed to convince her of your great consuming passion?”
“I could do with some lessons, actually. Could you teach me?”
“Me? Are you crazy?”
“Oh, I know how experienced you are, modest, but very experienced! Whereas I am a mere apprentice. Indeed, only a short while ago, I was even thinking of challenging you to a duel.”
“Yes, but it was ridiculous idea which I soon rejected.”
“Besides, people don’t fight duels in Brazil.”
“Defending one’s honor is normal practice everywhere.”
“Bravo, Don Quixote!”
“And I felt my honor had been insulted.”
“By me?”
“Yes, but I changed my mind when I realized I was the one insulting you, by proposing to do battle with a past master; me, a mere apprentice . . .”
“A past master at what?”
“At love! I know it’s true . . .”
“Stop it! I’m no such thing. You’re the master; after all, you’re worth one bear, even two. How could you possibly . . . Were you really jealous of me?”
“I was.”
“You clearly don’t know me. Have you not heard my views on the subject?”
“Sometimes that only makes things worse.”
“Worse? How?”
“Women won’t let an affront like that go unpunished. And your ideas are an affront to the female sex. I wonder what a suitable punishment would be? But I’ll go no further . . .”
“Where are you off to?”
“I’m leaving. Goodbye. And forget about that absurd idea of me challenging you to a duel . . .”
“Of course. But you had a very lucky escape.”
“From what?”
“From death. It would have been such a pleasure to stick my sword in that belly of yours, a pleasure comparable only to that of embracing you while you’re alive and kicking!”
Diogo gave a forced laugh:
“Thank you very much! And see you again soon!”
“Come back. Where are you off to? Aren’t you going to say goodbye to Dona Adelaide?”
“I’ll be back shortly,” said Diogo, putting on his hat and rushing out.
Tito watched him leave.
“That fellow,” he said to himself when alone, “has never had an original thought in his life. He didn’t think up that business about vengeful women all by himself. Rather . . . I smell a plot. That suits me fine. The sooner, the better.”
A German servant came to tell Tito that his breakfast was ready, and Tito was just about to go in, when Azevedo appeared at the door.
“So there you are! You obviously didn’t rise with the sun. You look as if you’d just got up.”
“I know, and I’m about to have my breakfast.”
They both went into the dining room, where the table was set, and Tito asked:
“Are you having a second breakfast?”
“No.”
“Well, you can watch how it’s done.”
Tito sat down at the table and Azevedo stretched out on a sofa.
“Where did you go?”
“For a walk. I’ve realized that I need to see and admire what is indifferent to me in order to appreciate fully what fills my heart with true happiness.”
“Really? So one can also tire of happiness! As you see, reason is still on my side.”
“Perhaps, but despite everything, it seems to me that you are intent on joining the married brigade.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.”
“Why?”
“Is it or is it not true?”
“What do you mean, ‘true’?”
“All I know is that one afternoon recently, when you fell asleep over a book—I can’t remember what book it was now—I heard you talking in your dreams and pronouncing the name ‘Emília’ with the utmost tenderness.”
“Really?” asked Tito, his mouth full.
“Yes. I came to the conclusion that if you were dreaming about her, then she must be on your mind, and that if she’s on your mind, then you must love her.”
“You concluded wrongly.”
“Wrongly?”
“You drew the conclusion of a man who has been married for five months. What does a dream prove?”
“It proves nothing. You’re acting like a superstitious old woman.”
“There must be something going on, though. Could you tell me what it is?”
“I could if it weren’t for the fact that you’re married.”
“What has that got to do with it?”
“Everything. You could, unwittingly, be indiscreet. At night, between a kiss and a yawn, husband and wife open their respective bags of confidences to each other. You could, without thinking, ruin everything.”
“No, I wouldn’t. But that means you do have something to tell me.”
“No, nothing.”
“You’re merely confirming my suspicions. You like Emília, don’t you?”
“I certainly don’t hate her.”
“So you do like her. And she deserves to be liked. She’s an excellent lady, uncommonly beautiful and possessed of all the finest qualities. Perhaps you would rather she were not a widow?”
“Yes, because she probably spends much of the day gloating over the two husbands she’s already dispatched to the next world, while she waits to dispatch a third . . .”
“She’s not like that at all.”
“Can you guarantee that?”
“Pretty much.”
“Ah, my friend,” said Tito, getting up from the table and lighting a cigar, “take the advice of a fool: never guarantee anything, especially when it comes to matters of the heart. If you have to choose between discreet prudence and blind trust, don’t hesitate, and let the former be your guide. What can you guarantee about Emília? You know her no better than I do. I’ve known her for two weeks, and I can read her like a book, and while I certainly wouldn’t attribute any malevolent feelings to her, I’m sure she does not possess the rarest of rare qualities that would make her ‘the exception.’ Do you know something I don’t?”
“No, nothing.”
“So, you know nothing, do you?” Tito said to himself.
“I’m basing myself purely on my personal observations, and it seems to me that a marriage between you two would be rather a good idea.”
“If you mention marriage one more time, I’m leaving.”
“Not even the word?”
“No, not the word, the idea, nothing.”
“And yet you admire and applaud my marriage . . .”
“I applaud many things in other people, things of which I myself am incapable. It all depends on vocation . . .”
Adelaide appeared at the door of the dining room, and the conversation between the two men came to an abrupt halt.
“I bring you news.”
“What news?” asked Tito and Azevedo in unison.
“I’ve just had a note from Emília . . . She’s inviting us to visit her tomorrow, because . . .”
“Because?” asked Azevedo.
“Because she might be going back to Rio in a week or so’s time.”
“Oh,” said Tito with bland indifference.
“You’d better pack your bags,” Azevedo said to Tito.
“Why?”
“Aren’t you going to follow in the footsteps of the goddess?”
“Don’t make fun of me, cruel friend, when there’s absolutely no—”
“Come on . . .”
Adelaide smiled at these words.
Half an hour later, Tito went up to the study where Azevedo kept his books. He intended to read Saint Augustine’s Confessions.
“Why the sudden trip to Rio?” Azevedo asked his wife.
“Do you really want to know?”
“I do.”
“All right, but it’s a secret. I don’t know for sure, but I think it’s a strategy.”
“A strategy? I don’t understand.”
“I’ll explain. It’s a way of ensnaring Tito.”
“Ensnaring?”
“You’re very slow today! Yes, ensnaring him in the bonds of love . . .”
“Ah!”
“Emília felt she had to do it. It’s just a joke. When he declares himself vanquished, she will be avenged for what he said about the female sex.”
“Not bad . . . And you’re part of this strategy, are you?”
“Only in an advisory capacity.”
“So you’re plotting against my friend, my alter ego.”
“Now, now, don’t say a word. You don’t want to ruin the plan.”
Azevedo laughed long and loud. He was amused by this premeditated punishment of poor Tito.
The visit Tito had said he was due to make to Emília that day did not happen.
However, knowing Emília’s intentions, Diogo had gone immediately to her house to await Tito’s arrival, and there he spent the whole day, in vain: in vain he dined, in vain he spent the entire afternoon boring Emília and her aunt, and still Tito did not appear.
That evening, however, when Diogo, bored with waiting at Emília’s house, was just about to leave, Tito’s presence was announced.
Emília trembled, but this went unnoticed by Diogo.
Tito entered the room where Emília, her aunt, and Diogo were all sitting.
“I wasn’t expecting you,” Emília said.
“That’s the way I am. I arrive when least expected. I’m like death or a win on the lottery.”
“Tonight, you’re a win on the lottery,” said Emília.
“And what number is your ticket?”
“Number twelve, for the twelve hours I’ve had the pleasure of Senhor Diogo’s company today.”
“Twelve hours!” exclaimed Tito, turning to Diogo.
“And our good friend has yet to tell us a single story . . .”
“Twelve hours!” Tito said again.
“And what’s so astonishing about that, sir?” asked Diogo.
“It does seem rather a long time.”
“One only counts the hours when one is bored . . . With your permission, I will withdraw . . .”
And, saying this, Diogo picked up his hat to leave, shooting a look of jealous scorn at Emília.
“Why?” she asked. “Where are you going?”
“I am lending wings to the hours,” Diogo whispered into Emília’s ear. “They will pass quickly now.”
“I forgive you and ask you to sit down again.”
Diogo did as asked.
Emília’s aunt begged to be excused for a few moments, leaving only the three of them.
“So,” said Tito, “he didn’t tell you a single story.”
“Not one.”
Emília glanced at Diogo as if to reassure him. Feeling calmer now, Diogo remembered what Adelaide had told him and immediately cheered up.
“After all,” he thought, “the joke’s on him. I am merely the means to entrap him. Let’s all play our part in pulling the rug from under his feet.”
“Not a single story,” Emília said again.
“Oh, I know plenty of stories,” said Diogo insinuatingly.
“Then tell us one of those many stories,” said Tito.
“Certainly not! Why don’t you tell us one?”
“If you insist . . .”
“Oh, I do, I do,” said Diogo, blinking. “Tell us one about jilted bridegrooms, or love’s deceits, or hardened voyagers. Go on!”
“No, I’m going to tell you a story about a man and a monkey.”
“Oh,” said Emília.
“It’s very interesting,” said Tito. “Listen.”
“Forgive me,” said Emília, “but let’s have tea first.”
“Of course.”
Tea was served shortly afterward, and when it was over, Tito began his story:
About twenty years ago, not far from the town of *** in the interior of Brazil, there lived a thirty-five-year-old man, whose mysterious life was the subject of much gossip in the surrounding towns and a source of terror to any travelers who happened along the road that passed only a few feet from his house.
The house itself was enough to strike fear into the least timid of hearts. Seen from a distance, it was built so close to the ground that it did not even resemble a house. However, anyone who dared to go closer would see that half of the building was above ground level and half below. While it was very solidly built, it had neither doors nor windows, only a square opening that served as both window and door, through which the mysterious inhabitant came and went.
Few people saw him leave, not just because he rarely did leave, but because he left at very strange times of day. This solitary individual only left his house to go roaming around when the moon was full. He always took with him a large monkey, who answered to the name Caligula.
Monkey and man, man and monkey, were inseparable friends, inside the house and out, when the moon was new.
People had many theories about this mysterious man.
The most widely held theory was that he was a wizard. According to another, he was crazy, and yet another held that he was merely a misanthrope.
This last theory was supported by two facts: first, there was no positive evidence to indicate that the man ever behaved like a wizard or a madman; second, there was his avowed friendship with the monkey and his horror of being seen by other men. Whenever we begin to loathe mankind, we always grow fonder of animals, who have the advantage of neither talking too much nor intriguing against us.
This mysterious man . . . Wait, we need to give him a name: let’s call him Daniel. Well, Daniel preferred the company of the monkey and spoke to no one else. Travelers passing by on the road would sometimes hear shrieks coming from both man and monkey; it was the man stroking the monkey.
What did those two creatures live on? One morning, someone saw the monkey leave the house only to return shortly afterward carrying a package in its mouth. The muleteer who witnessed this wanted to find out where the monkey went to fetch that package, which doubtless contained food for those two solitary beings. The following morning, he hid in the wood; the monkey arrived at the usual hour and went over to a tree trunk; higher up the trunk was a large branch, which the monkey threw to the ground. Then, putting his hands inside the trunk, he took out a package identical to the one seen on the previous day, and left.
The muleteer made the sign of the cross, and was so frightened by what he had seen that he told no one.
This went on for three years.
During this time, the man did not age at all. He looked exactly as he had on the first day, with his long reddish beard and mane of shoulder-length hair. Winter and summer, he wore a big, heavy jacket, boots, but no hat.
It was impossible for travelers or neighbors to penetrate that solitary house, but it need not be so for us, dear lady and dear friend.
The house is divided into three rooms, a dining room, a parlor—for visitors—and a bedroom. The bedroom is occupied by the two inhabitants, Daniel and Caligula.
The dining room and the parlor are the same size, the bedroom only half that size. The furniture in the parlor comprises two grubby benches positioned against the wall, and a low table in the middle. The floor is made of wood. On the walls hang two portraits: one of a young woman, the other of an old man. The young woman has a delightful, angelic face. The old man’s face inspires respect and admiration. On the other two walls hang, on one side, a knife with an ivory handle, and on the other, a dead hand, withered and yellow.
The dining room contains only a table and two benches.
The furniture in the bedroom consists of a pallet bed, where Daniel sleeps, while Caligula lies on the floor, alongside his master.
So much for the furniture.
Seen from outside, one might think that a man could not even stand upright in those rooms, but because, as I said earlier, the lower half was below ground level, it was in fact, quite large enough.
What kind of life would monkey and man have led during those three years? Who can say?
When Caligula brings the package in the morning, Daniel divides the food into two portions, one for lunch and the other for supper. Then man and monkey sit down facing each other in the dining room and eat those two meals in brotherly companionship.
As I mentioned, when it’s a full moon, they sally forth each night until the moon begins to wane. They leave at around ten o’clock and return at around two in the morning. When they enter the house, Daniel takes the dead man’s hand off the wall and slaps himself twice. Having done this, he retires to bed, and Caligula goes with him.
One night, in the month of June, at the time of the full moon, Daniel prepared to go out. With one leap, Caligula landed out in the road. Daniel closed the door and the two of them set off.
The moon, entirely full, shed its pale, melancholy light on the vast woods covering the nearby hills, lighting up the vast area of grassland surrounding the house.
All one could hear in the distance was the murmur of a waterfall, and, closer by, the hooting of some owls and the chirping of an endless number of crickets scattered over the plain.
Daniel was walking slowly along, a stick under one arm, accompanied by the monkey, which kept leaping up onto his shoulders, then back onto the ground.
Even without the gloomy nature of that solitary place inhabited only by the man and the monkey, anyone meeting the pair at that hour risked dying of fright. Daniel was extremely tall and thin and cut an equally gloomy figure. His abundant hair and beard made his head seem still larger than it was, and, bareheaded as he was, he looked positively satanic.
On other days, Caligula was just an ordinary monkey, but on those nocturnal walks, he took on the same mysterious, gloomy air as Daniel.
The two had been out for an hour already, and the house was some way off. What could be more natural than for the police to take the opportunity to enter the house and uncover its mystery? The police, however, despite having every means at their disposal, could not bring themselves to investigate what the local people believed to be some diabolical mystery. The police are human, too, and know all there is to know about the human race.
As I was saying, an hour had passed since man and monkey had left the house. Then they began to climb a small hill—
Tito was interrupted by a yawn from Diogo.
“Are you ready for bed?” asked Tito.
“That is precisely where I intend to go.”
“But what about the story?”
“Well, it is, of course, a most amusing story. Up until now, we’ve seen two characters, a man and a monkey, no, what am I saying, we’ve seen two other characters, a monkey and a man. Fascinating stuff. And just to vary things, I suppose the man will one day go out and leave the monkey on its own.”
Diogo uttered these words with almost comic rage, then picked up his hat and left.
Tito burst out laughing.
“Aren’t you going to finish the story?” asked Emília.
“Finish it, senhora? I was already struggling to know how to continue . . . It was simply a way of helping you out. The man’s obviously a frightful bore.”
“Really?”
“He amuses me, although, of course, I find your conversation infinitely more pleasing.”
“Now you’ve just told a falsehood.”
“What?”
“You said you found my conversation pleasing, and that’s an out-and-out lie.”
“Now you’re fishing for compliments.”
“No, I’m just being honest. I really don’t know how you put up with me: I’m rude, tedious, sarcastic, a complete skeptic, in short, a most undesirable conversationalist. You’re obviously a very kind person to say such benevolent, friendly things—”
“That’s enough of your sarcasm.”
“Sarcasm, senhora?”
“Yesterday, my aunt and I took tea alone. Alone!”
“Ah!”
“I was counting on you to come and spend a boring hour or so with us.”
“Boring? Let me explain what happened. It was all Ernesto’s fault.”
“Was it?”
“It’s true. He met me in the house of some mutual friends, there were four of us in all, the talk turned to ombre, and we ended up having a game or two. We were there all night. And, as always happens, I won!”
“Did you, now?”
“And they were no mere novices, either, but real masters of the game, especially one of them. Up until eleven o’clock it seemed that fortune was refusing to smile on me, but after that, things turned in my favor, and I began to dazzle. And, believe me, they were dazzled. I have a certificate to prove it, but, what’s this, are you crying?”
Emília did indeed have a handkerchief pressed to her eyes. Was she crying? It’s true that when she removed the handkerchief, her eyes were moist. She turned away from the light and said:
“Of course not . . . do go on.”
“There’s nothing more to tell,” said Tito.
“I hope you enjoyed yourself . . .”
“Somewhat . . .”
“But letters are meant to be answered. Why did you not respond to mine?” said Emília.
“Your what?”
“The letter I wrote asking you to come and take tea with us.”
“I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember?”
“Or if I did receive that letter, it was at a moment when I didn’t have time to read it, and then I must have forgotten and left it somewhere . . .”
“That’s quite possible, but it’s the last time . . .”
“Do you mean you’re never going to invite me to tea again?”
“Yes, that’s precisely what I mean. You risk missing out on something better.”
“Not at all. You’re a charming hostess and I always enjoy coming to your house. I mean it. So you took tea alone? What about Diogo?”
“I got rid of him. Do you imagine he would make for amusing company?”
“Apparently. He’s a polite enough fellow, somewhat temperamental, it’s true, but since that is a common fault, I hardly feel I can criticize him for that.”
“Diogo has been avenged.”
“For what, senhora?”
Emília looked hard at Tito and said:
“Oh, nothing.”
Then, standing up, she went over to the piano.
“I’m going to play something,” she said. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all.”
Emília began to play, but the music was so sad that it made Tito feel rather melancholy too. After a time, he interrupted her with these words:
“That’s dreadfully sad music!”
“I’m translating my own soul,” said the widow.
“Are you sad, then?”
“What do you care about my sadnesses?”
“No, you’re right, I don’t care about them in the least. But it’s nothing I’ve done, is it?”
Emília got up and went over to him.
“Do you think I can forgive you for snubbing me?”
“What do you mean, ‘snubbing’ you?”
“By not accepting my invitation.”
“But I’ve already explained—”
“Enough! I’m sorry, too, that Adelaide’s husband was involved in that game.”
“He left at ten o’clock, and someone else took his place, not a bad player, as it happens.”
“Poor Adelaide!”
“But, as I said, he left at ten o’clock.”
“He should never have gone in the first place. He should belong entirely to his wife. I know I’m speaking to an unbeliever, but you cannot imagine the sheer bliss of a dutiful domestic life. Two creatures living solely for each other as one person; thinking, breathing, dreaming the same things; finding their horizon in the other’s eyes, with no greater ambition, not wanting anything more. Do you know what that is?”
“I do . . . it’s marriage viewed from the outside.”
“I know someone who could prove that it exists.”
“Really? And who is this rare creature?”
“If I tell you, you’ll just make fun, so I won’t.”
“Me? Make fun? No, tell me. I’m curious.”
“Don’t you believe there could be someone who loves you?”
“It’s possible . . .”
“Don’t you believe that someone, despite your idiosyncratic nature, could genuinely love you, with a love utterly different from the ordinary love one finds in salons; a love capable of self-sacrifice, of everything? You don’t, do you?”
“Yes, I do, but—”
“Well, that person and that love both exist.”
“Then there are two of those rare creatures.”
“Don’t mock. They do exist, you just have to look for them.”
“Ah, that would be difficult. You see, I don’t have the time. And even if I were to find them, what would be the point? They wouldn’t do me any good anyway. That kind of thing is for other men, Diogo, for example . . .”
“Diogo?”
The lovely widow seemed gripped by anger for a moment. Then, after a silence, she said:
“Goodbye. I’m sorry, but I feel unwell.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow, then!”
And with that, Tito shook Emília’s hand and left as blithely and gaily as if he were leaving a birthday party.
Once she was alone, Emília fell into a chair and covered her face with her hands.
She had been sitting like this for about five minutes, when old Diogo reappeared at the door.
“Oh, you’re still here?”
“Yes, senhora,” said Diogo, approaching. “Unhappily, I am.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I didn’t leave, you see. Some hidden demon urged me to commit an infamous act, and I did, but at least I learned something to my advantage: I’m safe now, for I know that you don’t love me.”
“You heard, then?”
“Everything. And I understood.”
“What did you understand, my friend?”
“That you love Tito.”
“Ah!”
“I will withdraw, then, but I didn’t wish to do so without you knowing that I leave in the knowledge that I am not loved, and before you actually dismiss me.”
Emília remained utterly calm as she listened to these words, and while he was speaking, she had time to think about what she should say.
Diogo was about to make his final bow, when the widow addressed him:
“Listen, Senhor Diogo. You heard correctly, but you interpreted what you heard quite wrongly. Because what you think you know—”
“I know, you’re going to tell me that it’s all part of a trick you’re playing on that young man . . .”
“How do you know?”
“Dona Adelaide told me.”
“And it’s true.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Why not?”
“Because there were tears in your voice. Your words pierced my heart. If you knew how I suffered!”
The lovely widow could not help but smile at the comically tragic look on Diogo’s face. Then, when he seemed plunged in somber thoughts, she said:
“You’re quite wrong; in fact, I intend to return to Rio.”
“Is that true?”
“Do you really think a man like him could arouse any serious feelings? Never!”
These words were spoken in the tone she usually used to persuade her eternal inamorato. That and another smile were enough to reassure Diogo. A few minutes later, he was positively beaming.
“And to convince you once and for all, I’m going to write a note to Tito . . .”
“I’ll deliver it myself,” said Diogo, quite wild with contentment.
“Why not!”
“Until tomorrow, then. Sweet dreams, and forgive me if I’ve behaved badly. Goodbye.”
He gallantly kissed Emília’s hand and left.
IV
The following day, at noon, Diogo went to see Tito and, after talking about various other matters, he took from his pocket a letter, which he pretended to have forgotten about until then, and to which he appeared to give no great importance.
“What a bombshell!” he said to himself as Tito tore open the envelope.
Here is what the letter said:
I gave you my heart, but you did not want it and even scorned it. You so trampled it underfoot that it has stopped beating. It’s dead. I’m not blaming you, for one should not speak of light to the blind. It was entirely my fault. I thought I could bring you happiness and receive equal happiness in return. I was wrong.
You have the honor of withdrawing from the field wearing the laurels of victory. I remain here wounded and defeated. Never mind! Feel free to mock me, I won’t deny you that right.
Meanwhile, I must tell you that I recognized you; I never said anything, but I recognized you at once. That first day when I saw you at Adelaide’s house, I realized you were the same man who once came to me and threw himself at my feet . . . You were mocking me then, as you did today. I should have known that. I have paid dearly for my mistake. Goodbye, goodbye forever.
Tito glanced repeatedly at Diogo while he was reading this letter. Why had he agreed to deliver the note? Was it genuine or a forgery? As well as being unsigned, there had been a clear attempt to disguise the writing. Could it be another of the old man’s ploys to get rid of him? If so, he must have known what had happened on the previous evening.
Tito reread the letter many times, and when he parted from Diogo, he said that his response would soon follow.
Diogo left, rubbing his hands with glee.
The letter read by you, the readers, along with our hero was not the same letter Emília had read to Diogo. In that draft note, she had declared simply that she was leaving for Rio, adding that among the memories she would carry away with her from Petrópolis would be that of Tito, and the impression he had made on her. However, with supremely feminine dexterity, that draft note was not, as you will have seen, the one Emília sent to Tito.
Tito responded to Emília’s letter in the following terms:
Madam,
I have read and reread your letter, and I will not conceal from you the sadness it awoke in me. Is that really the true state of your heart? Are you really so in love with me?
You say I trampled on your heart. The thought saddens me, although I cannot confirm that it’s true. I cannot remember ever having inflicted such damage, but then you say that I did, and I must believe you.
Reading this letter, you will be thinking that I am the most impudent gentleman ever to have trodden Brazil’s fair soil. You would be mistaken. This is not impudence on my part, but frankness. I regret that it should have come to this, but I can only tell you the truth.
I must confess that I cannot even be sure that the letter I am responding to was from you. Your writing, of which I saw an example in Dona Adelaide’s scrapbook, is nothing like the writing in the letter, which is clearly in a disguised hand; it could be from anyone. Besides, there is no signature.
I mention this because an initial doubt was sown in me by the person chosen to deliver the letter. Could you really find no one better for the task than Diogo? I must say that was truly the funniest thing I’ve ever seen.
But I shouldn’t laugh. You opened your heart to me in a way that inspires compassion not laughter, and that compassion is in no way disrespectful to you, because it lacks all irony. It is pure and sincere. I am sorry I cannot give you the happiness you ask me for, but that is how it is.
I should stop now, and yet I find it hard to raise my pen from the paper. Few men will ever find themselves in the position of being the pursued, not the pursuer. But I must and will finish here, sending you my deepest regrets and praying to God that you find a heart less cold than mine.
My writing is disguised as was yours, and, as in your letter, I leave the signature blank.
This letter was delivered to the widow that same afternoon. Azevedo and Adelaide went to visit her that evening, but could not dissuade her from leaving for Rio. Emília was even rather cold toward Adelaide, who, unable to understand the reason for such coolness, left feeling somewhat sad.
The following day, Emília and her aunt packed their bags and left for Rio.
Diogo stayed on in Petrópolis, taking his time over packing his own cases, because, he said, he did not want to be seen departing at the same time as those two good ladies and for unseemly thoughts about him and Emília to circulate.
Adelaide was completely bemused by all of this, for, as I said, she felt sure that both Emília’s coldness and her insistence on leaving Petrópolis concealed some incomprehensible secret. Was she hoping by her departure to draw Tito after her? If so, she was quite mistaken, because Tito did exactly as he did every day, waking late and eating his breakfast in the best of spirits.
“I suppose you know,” Adelaide said to him, “that our friend Emília will have left for Rio by now?”
“So I heard.”
“Why is that, do you think?”
“Ah, that I do not know. They are the lofty secrets of a woman’s mind! Why does the breeze blow from this direction one day and not from over there? I really don’t care, frankly.”
When Tito had finished his breakfast, he did, as usual, retire to his room to read for a couple of hours.
Adelaide was just about to issue some instructions to the servants when she was astonished to see Emília enter the house, accompanied by her maid.
“So you didn’t go, after all?” said Adelaide, rushing over to embrace her.
“As you see.”
At a gesture from Emília, the servant left the room.
“What happened?” Adelaide asked, seeing her friend’s strangely agitated state.
“What happened?” Emília repeated. “The unforeseeable. You’re like a sister to me, Adelaide, so I can speak frankly. No one can hear us, can they?”
“No, Ernesto is out and Tito is up in his room. But whatever’s wrong?”
“Adelaide,” said Emília, her eyes brimming with tears, “I love him!”
“What?”
“As I said, I am utterly, deeply, madly in love with him. I have tried my best to suppress my feelings, but I can’t; and when, out of blind prejudice, I tried to hide my love from him, I couldn’t, the words just spilled forth . . .”
“But how did it happen?”
“It’s as if it were a punishment; I got well and truly burned on the fire I myself started. These feelings didn’t just begin today. Something began stirring within me when I saw how steadfastly scornful he remained; at first I felt rather vexed, then I was filled with a desire to triumph, then by an ambition to give way on everything, on condition that I won everything too. In short, I lost all self-control. I was the one madly in love with him and this became abundantly clear in my words, my gestures, everything. And the more indifferent he became, the more my love for him increased.”
“Are you serious?”
“You have only to look at me.”
“Who would have thought it?”
“It seems impossible to me, too, but it’s true.”
“And what about him?”
“Oh, he just muttered something noncommittal and left.”
“Will he hold out, do you think?”
“I don’t know.”
“If I’d had even a suspicion this would happen, I would never have suggested that ill-fated plan of ours.”
“No, you don’t understand. Do you think I regret feeling as I do? No! I feel happy, I feel proud. It’s one of those loves that bursts forth and fills one’s soul with satisfaction. I should bless you.”
“So it’s true love, then. Will he never be converted?”
“I don’t know, but regardless of whether he will or not, I’m not asking for his conversion, just for a little less indifference and a little more understanding.”
“So what are you going to do?” asked Adelaide, feeling her eyes filling with tears too.
There was a moment’s silence.
“What you don’t know,” Emília went on, “is that he is not a complete stranger to me. I met him before I married for the first time. He was the man who asked for my hand in marriage before Rafael . . .”
“Ah!”
“Did you know about that?”
“He did tell us that story, but never mentioned the lady in question. So that was you.”
“It was. We both recognized each other, but said nothing.”
“Why?”
The answer to this question was provided by Tito, who suddenly came in through the inner door. He had happened to be looking out of the window when Emília arrived and had crept downstairs in order to eavesdrop on her conversation with Adelaide. His surprise at her unexpected return must excuse such indiscretion.
“Why, you ask?” he said. “I will tell you.”
“But first of all,” said Adelaide, “are you aware that such complete indifference on your part could prove fatal to someone who is not so indifferent to you?”
“You are referring to your friend here, are you?” asked Tito. “Well, I can resolve everything with a simple question.”
And, turning to Emília, he held out his hand to her and said:
“Will you accept my hand in marriage?”
Emília gave a yelp of utter joy, but then some remnant of pride, perhaps, or some other feeling, converted that joy into a single word, which she uttered with her voice breaking:
“Yes!” she said.
Tito lovingly kissed her hand, then added:
“But I should temper my generosity; I should say, rather, that I accept your hand. Should I or should I not? I’m a touch eccentric and always enjoy turning everything on its head.”
“Of course; I’m happy either way. And yet I’m filled with a great sense of remorse. Am I giving you as complete a happiness as the happiness I receive from you?”
“Remorse? Yes, you should feel remorse, but for quite another reason. You feel horribly humiliated at the moment, and I did make you suffer, didn’t I? However, when you hear what I have to say, you will agree, I’m sure, that I, too, suffered, and far more bitterly.”
“This sounds like something out of a novel,” Adelaide said to Tito.
“No, it’s pure reality,” answered Tito, “prosaic reality. One day, some years ago now, I was fortunate enough to see a young woman, with whom I fell in love. That love was as irresistible as it was sudden. And it was more ardent then than it is now, because, at the time, I was innocent of the ways of the world. I resolved to declare my love and ask for her hand in marriage. I received this note in reply . . .”
“I know,” said Emília. “I was that young woman, and I feel utterly humbled. Forgive me!”
“My love forgives you. I never stopped loving you. I was certain that I would find you again one day and I have done my best to make you love me.”
“No, really, if you wrote this down, people would say it was a novel,” said Adelaide gaily.
“Life is a novel,” said Tito.
Half an hour later, Azevedo arrived. Amazed to find Emília there when he had assumed she would be on the train, and even more amazed by the cordial way in which Tito and Emília were chatting away to each other, he asked how all this had happened.
“It’s quite simple,” answered Adelaide. “Emília came back because she’s going to marry Tito.”
This reply failed to satisfy Azevedo, and he demanded a further explanation.
“I see,” he said at last. “Having failed to get anywhere by following the straight line, Tito decided to see what could be achieved by following the curved line, which sometimes proves to be the shortest route.”
“As it has here,” said Tito.
Emília dined at their house. That evening, Diogo came to say goodbye, because he had to leave for Rio the next day. Imagine his surprise when he saw Emília there!
“You’ve come back!”
“Well, I was about to leave, too, but now I won’t. Ah, yes, and I’ve just received a letter from Europe, brought to me by the captain of the Macedonia. The bear has arrived!”
“Good, it will be company for you,” said Tito.
Diogo pulled a face; then, when he asked what lay behind Emília’s sudden return, she explained that she was going to marry Tito.
Diogo did not believe her.
“This is another trick, isn’t it?” he said with a wink.
And he not only refused to believe it then, he would not believe it later, either, despite all the evidence. A few days after this, they all left for Rio. Diogo remained unconvinced, but when he arrived at Emília’s house one day and saw that the wedding was about to take place, the poor man could no longer deny the facts. This was a huge blow to him, but he nevertheless summoned up the courage to attend the ceremony, at which Azevedo and Adelaide were witnesses. Two months later, the happy bridegroom wrote to Azevedo:
I must confess that I was playing a dangerous game. I could have lost, but fortunately, I won.