The editor of The District Voice, Agostinho Pinheiro, was, in fact, a relative of João Eduardo’s. He was popularly known as Rickets, because of the large hump on his back and because of his scrawny, consumptive body. He always looked rather grimy, and his sallow, effeminate face and debauched eyes spoke of ancient, infamous vices. He had (so it was said in Leiria) been up to all kinds of roguery. And he had so often heard people exclaim ‘If it wasn’t for that hump on your back, I’d break your bones’ that, finding his hump sufficient protection, he had acquired an air of serene impudence. He was from Lisbon, which made him even more suspect in the eyes of Leiria’s grave bourgeois inhabitants; he attributed his hoarse, grating voice to his lack of tonsils, and, since he played the guitar, he deliberately kept his nicotine-stained fingernails long.
The District Voice had been created by a group of men known in Leiria as the Maia Group, who were particularly hostile to the district governor. Dr Godinho, who was the group’s leader and official candidate, had found in Agostinho, as he put it, ‘just the man they needed’, for what the group needed was an unscrupulous rogue who knew how to spell and who could redraft in sonorous terms the insults, calumnies and allusions that they brought to his office in the form of unedited jottings. Agostinho was a shaper of villainies. They paid him fifteen mil réis a month and allowed him to live above the office in a crumbling third-floor apartment in an alleyway off the main square.
Agostinho wrote the editorial, the local news, as well as the Correspondence from Lisbon, and Prudêncio, a graduate, wrote the literary pages under the heading Cultural Notes from Leiria. He was a very decent lad, who found Agostinho utterly repulsive; however, such was his appetite for publicity that he made himself sit down fraternally at the same desk every Saturday to check the proofs of his prose – a prose so overflowing with imagery that the people who read it would mutter: ‘Such opulence!’
João Eduardo was equally aware that Agostinho was a worthless individual, and he would never have dared to be seen in the street with him during the day, but he enjoyed going late at night to the newspaper office, where he would smoke cigarettes and listen to Agostinho talking about Lisbon, about the different jobs he had had – on the editorial staff of two newspapers, in a theatre in Rua dos Condes, in a pawnshop and in various other institutions. His visits to Agostinho were secret.
At that time of night, the typesetting room on the first floor was closed (the newspaper was printed on Saturdays), and João Eduardo would find Agostinho upstairs, hunched over his desk, wearing an old fur jacket whose silver fastenings had long since been pawned, poring over long sheets of paper by the ghastly light of an oil lamp; he was busy composing the newspaper, and the dark room looked like a cave. João Eduardo would lie down on the wickerwork couch or search out Agostinho’s old guitar and strum a lighthearted fado. The journalist, meanwhile, resting his head on one fist, would labour on, ‘the words just weren’t flowing’, and, when not even João Eduardo’s fado inspired him, he would get up, go over to a cupboard, pour himself a glass of gin which he would gulp down noisily, then give an almighty stretch, light a cigarette and sing hoarsely to the guitar accompaniment:
It was that tyrant Fate
Who led me to this life,
And the guitar: dir-lin, din, din, dir-lin, din, don.
To this life of black despair,
where all around is strife.
This always brought back memories of Lisbon, because he would end by declaring bitterly:
‘God, this is a dreary place!’
He could not stand the fact that he was living in Leiria, instead of drinking in Tio João’s tavern in the old Moorish quarter of Lisbon, with Ana Alfaiata or Bigodinho, listening to João das Biscas, who, with a cigar in the corner of his mouth, one weeping eye half-shut against the smoke, would draw plangent notes from the guitar and sing of the death of Sofia!
Then, in order to comfort himself with the certainty of his own talent, he would read his articles out to João Eduardo in a very loud voice. And João became interested because these recent ‘creations’ were always giving the clergy ‘a good dressing-down’ and thus coincided with his own preoccupations.
It was around this time that, over the famous matter of the poorhouse, Dr Godinho had grown increasingly hostile towards the Cathedral chapter and to the priesthood in general. He had always hated priests; he suffered from a chronic liver disease and, because the Church made him think of the cemetery, he hated cassocks, since they seemed to him a reminder of the shroud. Thus, urged on by Dr Godinho, Agostinho, who had a great well of bile to plumb, stepped up his criticisms; however, given his weakness for literature, his vituperations were encrusted in such thick layers of rhetoric that, as Canon Dias said: ‘he was more bark than bite’.
On one such night, João Eduardo found Agostinho all fired up about an article he had written that evening, and which was full of wit ‘worthy of Victor Hugo himself’.
‘Just wait – it’s really something!’
As usual, it was a diatribe against the clergy and a eulogy of Dr Godinho. Having celebrated the virtues of the doctor, ‘that highly respected family man’, and his eloquence in the courts, which ‘had saved so many unfortunates from the sword of the law’, the article addressed Christ in raucous tones: ‘Who would have thought (roared Agostinho), O Immortal One who died for us on the Cross, who would have thought, as you hung there exhausted and dying on Golgotha, who would have thought that one day, in Your name, in Your shadow, Dr Godinho would have been expelled from a charitable institution, Dr Godinho, a man so pure of soul, so talented . . .’ And Dr Godinho’s virtues paraded slowly by, solemn and sublime, leaving in their train a host of noble adjectives.
Then, momentarily ceasing in his contemplation of Dr Godinho, Agostinho addressed himself directly to Rome: ‘Do you come here at the height of the nineteenth century to throw in the face of liberal Leiria the rules of the Syllabus of Errors? Fine, then. If you want war, you shall have it!’
‘How about that, João?’ he said. ‘It’s powerful stuff, don’t you think, and philosophical too!’
Then he resumed his reading:
‘“If you want war, you shall have it! We will raise high our flag, which you may be quite sure is not the flag of demagogy, and with strong arms we will hoist that flag above the highest bastion of public liberty, and we will cry out to Leiria, we will cry out to Europe: let us fight, children of the nineteenth century, let us fight for progress!” That’ll show ’em!’
João Eduardo, who had remained silent for a moment, said, fitting his words to Agostinho’s sonorous prose:
‘The clergy want to drag us back to the dark days of obscurantism!’
Such a literary phrase took Agostinho by surprise; he looked at João Eduardo and said:
‘Why don’t you write an article yourself?’
João Eduardo replied, smiling:
‘Oh, I’d tear those priests off a strip, Agostinho . . . I’d show their rotten underbelly, because I know what they’re like . . .’
Agostinho urged him to put this reprimand in writing:
‘It would be just the job!’
Why, only yesterday, Dr Godinho had said to him: ‘Attack anything that smells of the priesthood! Any scandal you hear, print it! If there isn’t any scandal, then make it up!’
And Agostinho added kindly:
‘And don’t worry about the style, I can always smarten it up for you.’
‘We’ll see, we’ll see,’ muttered João Eduardo.
From then on, Agostinho kept asking him:
‘What’s happened to that article of yours? Bring me that article.’
He really did want it, because he knew that João Eduardo had intimate knowledge of ‘São Joaneira’s little canonical clique’ and imagined that he was privy to all kinds of infamies.
João Eduardo, however, was unsure. What if he was found out?
‘Nonsense!’ said Agostinho. ‘I’ll publish it under my name, as an editorial. Who will ever know?’
It happened that, on the following night, João Eduardo caught Father Amaro slipping a note to Amélia, and the next evening, with the pallor of one who has not slept, he turned up at the newspaper office bearing five long sheets of paper, written in the tiny, neat hand of a clerk. It was his article and was entitled: ‘The New Pharisees’. After a few flowery thoughts about Jesus and Golgotha, João Eduardo’s article was, beneath allusions which were about as diaphanous as cobwebs, a vengeful attack on Canon Dias, Father Brito, Father Amaro and Father Natário. Each of them got his just deserts, as Agostinho joyfully exclaimed.
‘When will it come out?’ asked João Eduardo.
Agostinho rubbed his hands and thought.
‘It’s strong stuff! It practically names names, but don’t worry, I’ll sort that out.’
He cautiously showed the article to Dr Godinho, who thought it ‘a vile calumny’. Dr Godinho and the Church had merely had a slight difference of opinion; he acknowledged that, in general, religion was necessary for the masses; besides, his wife, the lovely Dona Cândida, was extremely devout and had commented of late that she was finding the newspaper’s war on the clergy distinctly troubling; and Dr Godinho did not want to provoke unnecessary hatred amongst the priests, foreseeing that his love of domestic peace, order and his duty as a Christian would soon force him into some form of reconciliation, ‘which was against his best instincts, but nevertheless . . .’
Thus he merely said to Agostinho:
‘This cannot be published as an editorial, but merely as some sort of “personal statement”. Those are your orders.’
So Agostinho told João Eduardo that the article would be published as a ‘personal statement’ and signed: ‘A Liberal’. João Eduardo had wanted to end the article with the words: ‘Mothers, you have been warned!’ Agostinho suggested that this final warning might give rise to the jocular riposte: ‘Warned or warmed?!’ After long discussions, they decided to close with: ‘You have been warned, you men in black!’
The following Sunday, the article appeared, signed: ‘A Liberal.’
Father Amaro had spent all of that Sunday morning, on his return from the Cathedral, laboriously composing a letter to Amélia. Impatient, as he put it, ‘with a relationship that never seemed to get anywhere, that never went beyond exchanging glances and squeezing hands’, he had, one night at the lotto table, managed to pass her a note written in blue ink in his best handwriting: ‘I want to see you alone. I have so much to tell you. Where would be a safe place? May God protect our love.’ She had not replied, and Amaro, much put out and concerned too because he had not seen her that morning at nine o’clock mass, had resolved to ‘set everything out clearly in a love letter’; and he paced about the house, strewing the floor with cigarette ends, poring over his Dictionary of Synonyms, as he set down the kind of deeply felt phrases that would touch her heart.
My dearest Amélia (he wrote), I cannot understand what possible reasons can have kept you from replying to the note I gave you at your mother’s house; for I gave it to you out of the great need I feel to talk to you alone, and my intentions were entirely pure and born out of the innocence of this soul that loves you so much and has no thought of sin.
You must know that I feel for you a fervent affection, and for your part (if I am not deceived by those eyes which are the beacons of my life, like the star by which the sailor steers his ship) it seems to me that you too, my Amélia, are fond of me, your adoring friend; for even the other day, when Libano won at lotto with his first six numbers and everyone made such a fuss, you squeezed my hand under the table so tenderly that it seemed to me that Heaven opened and I could hear the angels singing their Hosannas. Why, then, did you not reply? If you are worried that our affection might bring down upon us the disapproval of our guardian angels, then all I can say is that you commit a far greater sin by keeping me in this torment of uncertainty, because my thoughts are with you even when I celebrate mass, so that I cannot even lift up my soul during the divine sacrifice. If I believed that this mutual affection was the work of the Tempter, I would say to you: dearly beloved child, let us make this sacrifice to Jesus to pay back part of the blood that he spilled for us! But I have looked into my soul and I see in it the whiteness of lilies. And your love too is as pure as your soul that will one day be joined with mine in happiness amidst celestial choirs. If you only knew how much I love you, Amélia; sometimes I feel as if I could eat you up a bite at a time! Please reply, and tell me what you think about meeting one afternoon at Morenal. I am longing to express to you the fire burning inside me, as well as to talk to you about important things, and to feel your hand in mine, that hand which I hope will lead me along the path of love, to the ecstasy of celestial joy. Farewell, my bewitching angel; receive herewith the heart of your lover and spiritual father,
Amaro.
After supper, he copied out the letter in blue ink, placed it neady folded in the pocket of his cassock and set off for Rua da Misericórdia. When he arrived, he could already hear from the stairs Natário’s shrill voice raised in argument.
‘Who else is here tonight?’ he asked Ruça, who came to light his way, her shawl pulled tight around her.
‘All the ladies are here, and Father Brito.’
‘Excellent!’
He bounded up the stairs and, at the door of the living room, with his cape still on, but raising high his hat, he said:
‘A very good evening to everyone, starting, of course, with the ladies.’
Natário immediately planted himself before him and exclaimed:
‘What do you think about it then?’
‘About what?’ asked Amaro. Then noticing that everyone was silent and had their eyes fixed on him, he said: ‘What’s wrong? Has something happened?’
‘Haven’t you read it, Father?’ they all exclaimed. ‘Haven’t you read The District Voice?’
He had never set eyes on it, he said. Then the indignant ladies burst out:
‘It’s absolutely appalling!’
‘It’s scandalous, Father Amaro!’
With his hands plunged in his pockets, Natário was studying Amaro with a sarcastic little smile, muttering:
‘He hasn’t read it! He hasn’t read it! So what have you been up to, then?’
Terrified, Amaro suddenly noticed that Amélia was looking deathly pale and that her eyes were red. Then the Canon got heavily to his feet:
‘Father Amaro, someone has given us a real roasting.’
‘What?’ cried Amaro.
‘Oh, yes, good and proper.’
They all agreed that the Canon, who had brought the newspaper with him, should read it out loud.
‘Read it, Dias,’ said Natário. ‘Read it so that we can all enjoy it!’
São Joaneira turned up the oil lamp. Canon Dias sat down at the table, unfolded the newspaper, carefully put on his spectacles and, with his snuff-stained handkerchief spread on his knees, began, in his usual slow way, to read the article.
The beginning was of no interest; it consisted of heartfelt phrases in which the ‘Liberal’ blamed the Pharisees for the crucifixion of Jesus: ‘Why did you kill him? (he exclaimed). Answer!’ And the Pharisees answered: ‘We killed him because he represented freedom, emancipation, the dawn of a new era’ etc. The ‘Liberal’ then described in broad terms the night on Calvary: ‘There he is hanging on the cross, pierced by spears; soldiers have cast lots for his tunic, the will of the people has prevailed’ etc. And the ‘Liberal’ again rounded on the unfortunate Pharisees with cutting irony: ‘Regard your work!’ The ‘Liberal’ then made a nimble transition from Jerusalem to Leiria. ‘But do the readers of this article believe that the Pharisees are dead? You are much deceived! They live! We all know them. Leiria is full of them, and we are about to introduce them to our readers . . .’
‘This is where it begins,’ said the Canon, peering at everyone over the top of his spectacles.
This was indeed where it began; it was a gallery of crude ecclesiastical photographs: the first was of Father Brito: ‘Regard him (exclaimed the ‘Liberal’) strong as an ox, astride his brown mare . . .’
‘They even give the colour of the mare!’ murmured Dona Maria da Assunção in pious indignation.
‘. . . As ignorant as a melon, and he does not even know Latin . . .’
Father Amaro kept uttering astonished cries of: Oh! Oh! And Father Brito, scarlet-faced, fidgeted in his chair, slowly rubbing his knees.
‘A bully,’ continued the Canon, who read these cruel words with sweet serenity, ‘rude in manner, but not averse to tenderness, who, according to well-informed sources, has chosen as his Dulcinea the administrator’s legal spouse . . .’
Father Brito could control himself no longer:
‘I’ll tear the man in two!’ he exclaimed, getting up, only to fall back heavily into his chair.
‘Wait a moment, man!’ said Natário.
‘What do you mean, “wait a moment”?’ I’ll tear the man in two.’
But how could he when he did not even know who the ‘Liberal’ was?
‘Forget the “Liberal”! The man I’m going to tear in two is Dr Godinho. Dr Godinho owns the paper, and he’s the man I’ll tear in two!’
His voice had grown hoarse and he kept slapping himself furiously on the thigh.
They reminded him of the Christian duty of forgiveness. São Joaneira unctuously mentioned the blows Jesus Christ had had to bear. He should imitate Christ.
‘Oh, forget Christ!’ yelled Brito, apoplectic.
Such impiety provoked real horror.
‘Please, Father Brito, please!’ exclaimed the Canon’s sister, pushing back her chair.
Libaninho, clasping his head in his hands, bowed before the impending disaster and murmured:
‘Holy Mother of God, we might all be struck by lightning!’ And seeing that Amélia too was indignant, Amaro said gravely:
‘Really, Brito, you go too far!’
‘Well, they drove me to it!’
‘No one drove you to it,’ said Amaro firmly. And in a pedagogical tone, he added: ‘I will only remind you, as is my duty, that in such cases of blasphemy, the Reverend Father Scomelli recommends general confession and two days’ retreat on bread and water.’
Father Brito was muttering to himself.
‘All right, all right,’ said Natário. ‘Brito may have committed a grave error, but he will ask God’s pardon and God’s mercy is infinite.’
There was a meaningful pause in which Dona Maria da Assunção was heard to murmur that she was ‘completely drained’; and the Canon, who, during this crisis, had placed his spectacles on the table, picked them up again and calmly resumed his reading:
‘You will be familiar with another such priest with a face like a ferret.’
All eyes fell on Father Natário.
‘Do not trust him; he will not hesitate to betray you; he will take pleasure in harming you; his intrigues keep the Cathedral chapter in a state of constant uproar because he is the most venomous snake in the whole diocese, and yet he is very fond of gardening, for he carefully cultivates two little roses.’
‘I say!’ exclaimed Amaro.
‘You see what I mean?’ said Natário, standing up, his face ashen. ‘What do you think? You all know how I often refer to my nieces as “my two little roses”. It’s just a joke. And yet he even attacks that!’ And with a grim, embittered smile, he said: ‘But tomorrow I’ll find out who he is, oh yes, I’ll find out all right.’
‘Just treat it with the disdain it deserves, Father Natário,’ said São Joaneira soothingly.
‘Thank you, Senhora,’ Natário responded, bowing with rancorous irony. ‘Thank you so much. I’ll do just that.’
But the Canon was reading on in his imperturbable voice. The next hate-filled thumbnail sketch was of him.
‘A pot-bellied, gluttonous canon, and a former supporter of the usurper Prince Miguel, he was driven out of the parish of Ourém and once taught Moral Theology in a seminary; now, however, he teaches Immoral Theology in Leiria . . .’
‘Disgraceful!’ said Amaro, outraged.
The Canon put the newspaper down and said languidly:
‘You don’t really think this bothers me, do you?’ he said. ‘Certainly not. I’ve got enough to eat and drink, thank God. People can say what they like.’
‘But, brother,’ broke in his sister, ‘we all have our pride.’
‘Sister,’ replied Canon Dias with all the bitterness of concentrated rage, ‘no one asked you for your opinion.’
‘I don’t need to be asked!’ she cried, drawing herself up. ‘I can give my opinion when and how I choose. You may not feel ashamed, but I do.’
‘Now, now . . .’ everyone said, trying to calm her down.
‘Hold your tongue, sister!’ said the Canon, folding up his glasses. ‘Your false teeth might fall out!’
‘You rude man!’
She was about to say more, but the words would not come, and she began instead to sigh pitifully.
They were all concerned that she might faint. São Joaneira and Dona Joaquina Gansoso helped her into the bedroom, saying softly:
‘Have you gone mad? Really, woman! Such a fuss! Pull yourself together!’
Amélia called for some orange flower water.
‘Leave her be,’ grumbled the Canon, ‘just leave her be. It will pass. It’s one of her hot flushes.’
Amélia exchanged a sad glance with Father Amaro and went into the bedroom with Dona Maria da Assunção and the deaf Gansoso sister, who were also going along ‘to calm poor Dona Josefa down’. The priests were left alone, and the Canon turned to Amaro.
‘Now it’s your turn,’ he said, taking up the newspaper again.
‘And he really tears into you,’ said Natário.
The Canon cleared his throat, brought the oil lamp closer and read:
‘. . . But the real danger comes from certain dandified young priests who acquired their parish posting through the influence of certain aristocrats in Lisbon, and who, befriended by good families with pure young daughters who have no experience of the world, use the influence of their sacred ministry to plant in those innocent souls the burning seed of sin!’
‘Outrageous!’ murmured Amaro, deathly pale.
‘Tell me, priest of Christ, what do you intend to do with that unsullied maid? Do you intend to drag her into the mire of vice? What are you doing in the bosom of that respectable family? Why are you stalking your prey the way a kite circles over the innocent dove? Fie on you, sacrilegist! You whisper seductive words in her ear in order to turn her from the path of honour; you condemn to disgrace and widowhood an honest girl who wishes only to offer you her hard-working hand, and you meanwhile are preparing for her a hideous future full of tears. And why are you doing all this? In order to sate the vile impulses of your sinful lust!’
‘Disgraceful!’ Father Amaro muttered between clenched teeth.
‘But beware, evil priest!’ And the Canon’s voice took on cavernous tones as he spoke these words. ‘The archangel is raising his sword of justice in readiness, and the enlightened inhabitants of Leiria can now view you and your accomplices with impartial eyes. Here we stand, we sons of toil, to mark your brow with the stigma of infamy. Therefore tremble, you supporters of the Syllabus of Errors. You have been warned, you men in black!’
‘Extraordinary!’ said the Canon, as he folded up the newspaper, beads of sweat standing out on his forehead.
Father Amaro’s eyes were brimming with angry tears and he was breathing heavily; he slowly wiped his brow with his handkerchief, then, lips trembling, he said:
‘I just don’t know what to say, gentlemen. As God is my witness, that is the calumny of calumnies.’
‘A shameless calumny,’ they all rumbled.
‘It seems to me,’ went on Amaro, ‘that we should go to the authorities about this.’
‘That’s exactly what I said,’ broke in Natário, ‘we need to talk to the secretary-general.’
‘Oh, rubbish!’ roared Father Brito. ‘Go to the authorities? What the man needs is a good beating. I’ll drink the fellow’s blood!’
The Canon, who was deep in thought, stroking his chin, said:
‘Natário, you’re the one who should go to see the secretary-general. You’ve got a way with words and logic.’
‘If that’s what you want,’ said Natário, bowing, ‘I’ll do it. I’ll tell the authorities all about it.’
Amaro was still sitting at the table, his head in his hands, utterly shaken. Libaninho murmured:
‘I know that none of this has anything to do with me, but just listening to that whole diatribe made my knees knock. A scandal like this . . .’
But at that moment, they heard the voice of Dona Joaquina Gansoso as she came up the stairs, and the Canon said quietly and prudently:
‘Gentlemen, it’s best to say nothing more about this in front of the ladies. We’ve said all we need to say.’
A moment later, as soon as Amélia came into the room, Amaro, declaring that he had a splitting headache, got to his feet and bade farewell to the ladies.
‘Aren’t you even stopping for tea?’ asked São Joaneira.
‘No, thank you, Senhora,’ he said, wrapping his cape around him. ‘I’m not feeling at all well. Goodnight. Meet me tomorrow, Natário, at one o’clock in the Cathedral.’
He squeezed Amélia’s hand, which lay limp and passive in his. Then he left, shoulders hunched.
São Joaneira remarked sadly:
‘Father Amaro looked dreadfully pale.’
The Canon got to his feet and said in an impatient, irritated voice:
‘He may be pale now, but he’ll be red enough in the face tomorrow. I just want to say one thing: this rant in the newspaper is the calumny of all calumnies. I don’t know who wrote it or why, but it’s just a lot of shameless nonsense. The person behind it is a fool and a rogue. We know what we have to do, and we’ve discussed the matter quite enough, so bring in the tea. What’s done is done and let’s hear no more about it.’
Everyone else still looked so cast down that the Canon added:
‘One other thing: no one has died, and there is no need for anyone to look as if they had. Amélia, sit down at the piano and play me that tune I like, “Chiquita”.’
The secretary-general, Gouveia Ledesma, a former journalist, and in his more expansive youth, the author of a sentimental volume entitled Reveries of a Dreamer, was running the district in the absence of the governor.
He was a young graduate and reputed to be a man of talent. When he was at Coimbra University, he had played the leading man in dramatic productions to great applause; and, at the time, he used to walk along the main street in the evening, wearing the same tragic air with which, on stage, he would pluck at his hair or, during love scenes, press his handkerchief to his eyes. Later, in Lisbon, he had frittered away a small inheritance on love affairs with various Lolas and Carmens, on lavish suppers at Mata’s, on a great many pairs of trousers from Xafredo’s the tailor and on pernicious literary friends; by the age of 30, he was poor, full of mercury and the author of twenty romantic serials published in the magazine Civilisation. He was so popular that he was known in brothels and cafés by the affectionate nickname of Bibi. However, judging that he had, by then, tasted life to the full, he let his sideboards grow, began to quote from Bastiat, hung around in political circles and set out on a career as an administrator; he now referred to the republic he had so praised in Coimbra as ‘an absurd chimera’, and Bibi was now a pillar of the establishment.
He detested Leiria, where people thought him terribly witty, and he would declare to the ladies at the soirées held by the local deputy Novais that he was ‘tired of life’. It was whispered that dear old Novais’ wife was mad about him, and it was true that Bibi had written to a friend in Lisbon: ‘As for conquests, not much to report; the only one I have in my sights is Novais’ little woman.’
He generally got up late, and on that particular morning, he was sitting in his dressing gown at the table, cracking open his boiled eggs, nostalgically reading a passionate account of a performance that had been booed off the stage at the Teatro São Carlos in Lisbon, when a servant – a Galician he had brought with him from the capital – came in to say that a priest wished to see him:
‘A priest? Show him in!’ And purely for his own benefit he murmured: ‘The State should never keep the Church waiting!’
He got up and held out both his hands to Father Natário as he gravely entered the room in his long lustrine cassock.
‘Bring another chair, will you, Trindade! Would you like a cup of tea, Father? Lovely morning, eh? I was just thinking about you, or, rather, about the clergy in general. I’ve been reading about the pilgrimages people are making to Our Lady of Lourdes . . . A splendid example to set! Thousands of people from the very best society . . . It’s so reassuring to see this renewal of faith . . . As I was saying only yesterday at Novais’ house: “Faith, after all, is the real motive force in society.” Do have a cup of tea! Ah, yes, it’s such a comfort!’
‘No, thank you, I’ve already had breakfast.’
‘Ah, no, when I said it was a comfort, I was referring to faith not to the tea! Amusing, eh?’
And he laughed smugly. He wanted to please Natário, on the principle, as he often repeated with a knowing smile, that ‘anyone in politics needs to have the priesthood on his side’.
‘And of course,’ he went on, ‘as I was saying only yesterday at Novais’ house, it’s such a boon to the town itself! Lourdes, for example, was just a little village, but with the faithful arriving there in droves, it’s become a city . . . Big hotels, boulevards, fine shops . . . Economic development going hand in hand with religious renewal.’
And he gave a grave, satisfied tug at his shirt collar.
‘I’ve come to talk to you about an article that appeared in The District Voice.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said the secretary-general, ‘absolutely, I’ve seen it already! A real tirade . . . But absolute rubbish in literary terms, as regards style and imagery . . .’
‘And what do you intend to do about it, secretary-general?’
Senhor Gouveia Ledesma leaned back in his chair and asked in astonishment:
‘Me? Do?’
Weighing his words, Natário said:
‘The authorities have a duty to protect the state religion, and, by implication, its priests . . . Although, let us be clear about this, I have not come to see you on behalf of the clergy . . .’
And, placing one hand on his chest, he added:
‘I am merely a poor priest with no influence . . . I have come, as a private individual, to ask the secretary-general if he can possibly allow respectable members of the diocesan Church to be libelled in this way.’
‘It is certainly regrettable that a newspaper . . .’
Puffing out his chest indignantly, Natário broke in:
‘A newspaper that should have been banned long ago, secretary-general!’
‘Banned? Good heavens, Father! You surely don’t want a return to the days when local magistrates acted for the king! Ban the newspaper? But the freedom of the press is a sacred principle! Besides, the publishing laws would not permit it . . . You can’t present a legal action to the public prosecution service just because a newspaper publishes a few off-colour remarks about the Cathedral chapter – impossible! We would have to sue every newspaper in Portugal, apart from good Catholic papers like The Nation and The Public Good. It would put an end to freedom of thought, to thirty years of progress, to the very idea of government! We’re not absolutists, my dear sir! We want light and plenty of it! Yes, that’s what we want, light!’
Natário coughed very deliberately and said:
‘Of course, but then, when the elections come around, and the authorities ask for our help, we, given that we receive no protection from them, will simply say: Non possumus!’
‘Do you really think, Father, that for the sake of a few priestly votes we would be prepared to betray civilisation?’
And striking a noble pose, Bibi added:
‘We are the children of liberty and we will not renounce our mother!’
‘But Dr Godinho, who is behind the newspaper, is a member of the opposition,’ remarked Natário. ‘If you protect the newspaper, you are implicitly protecting his manoeuvrings . . .’
The secretary-general smiled.
‘My dear Father, I’m afraid you don’t quite understand how politics works. There is no real enmity between Dr Godinho and the district government, there is merely a slight difference of opinion . . . Dr Godinho is a very intelligent man. He is coming to the realisation that his Maia Group is achieving nothing. Dr Godinho appreciates the district government’s policy and the district government appreciates Dr Godinho.’
Then, wrapping himself in the full mystery of the State, he added:
‘I’m talking high politics here, Father.’
‘So . . .’
‘Impossibilis est’ said the secretary-general. ‘Believe me, Father, as an individual, I find the article wholly repugnant, but as a representative of the authorities, I must respect the author’s right to express his ideas . . . I can assure you – and please tell this to all the diocesan clergy – that the Catholic Church has no more fervent son than Gouveia Ledesma. However, I want a liberal religion, in keeping with progress and science . . . That is how I have always felt, and I have said as much in public, in the press, to the university and to the guilds. Indeed, I think there is no greater poetry than the poetry of Christianity! And I admire Pius IX: a great man. My only regret is that he does not wave the banner of civilisation!’ And Bibi, pleased with the phrase, repeated it: ‘Yes, my only regret is that he does not wave the banner of civilisation. The Syllabus is an impossibility in this century of electricity, Father. And we cannot sue a newspaper because it publishes a few humorous comments about the priesthood, nor, for political reasons, does it suit us to upset Dr Godinho. Those are my final thoughts on the matter.’
‘Secretary-general . . .’ said Natário, bowing.
‘Your servant. I’m so sorry you won’t have a cup of tea . . . And how is the precentor?’
‘I believe that recently he has suffered a recurrence of the dizzy spells.’
‘I’m so sorry. Another intelligent man, and a great Latinist too. Mind the step as you go out.’
Natário raced back to the Cathedral, in a state of high excitement, muttering angrily out loud to himself. Amaro was pacing slowly up and down outside the Cathedral, his hands behind his back; he looked very drawn and had dark shadows under his eyes.
‘What happened?’ he said, hurrying towards Natário.
‘Nothing.’
Amaro bit his lip, and while Natário was excitedly recounting his conversation with the secretary-general and how he had argued with him and how ‘the man had talked on and on’, a shadow of sadness settled over Amaro’s face, as, with the point of his umbrella, he kept angrily rooting out the bits of grass growing in the cracks of the paving stones.
‘He’s a pedantic fool,’ Natário said, making a sweeping gesture. ‘We won’t get anywhere with the authorities. It’s pointless. Now the matter is between me and the “Liberal”. And I’m going to find out who he is, Father Amaro. And I will be the one to crush him, Father Amaro, me!’
João Eduardo, meanwhile, had been radiantly happy since Sunday. The article had caused an uproar; they had sold eighty copies of the newspaper, and Agostinho assured him that in the pharmacy in the main square, the view was that ‘the “Liberal” knew the priesthood inside out and that he was absolutely right!’
‘You’re a genius, lad!’ said Agostinho. ‘Write me another one!’
João Eduardo was thrilled by ‘the gossip going round the town’.
He re-read his article with paternal delight; had he not been afraid of upsetting São Joaneira, he would have liked to go round the shops declaring: ‘I wrote that!’ And he was already pondering another, even more terrifying article to be entitled: ‘The priesthood of Leiria face-to-face with the nineteenth century!’
Dr Godinho had deigned to stop him in the main square to say:
‘Your article has made quite a splash. You’re a sly one. I especially liked that comment about Father Brito. I had no idea. And they say the administrator’s wife is very pretty too . . .’
‘Didn’t you know?’
‘No, I didn’t, but goodness I enjoyed it. Yes, you’re certainly a sly one. I told Agostinho to publish it as a personal statement. You understand, I’m sure . . . I don’t really want to have too many quarrels with the clergy . . . And there’s my wife, of course, she’s very devout. Well, she’s a woman, and it’s good for women to believe in something . . . But I had a good laugh to myself about it. Especially about Brito. That wretch caused me so many problems in the last election . . . Oh, and another thing, I’ve sorted out that little business you asked about. You’ll have your post in the district government office within the month.’
‘Dr Godinho . . . sir . . .’
‘No, don’t thank me. You deserve it.’
João Eduardo returned to the office, tremulous with joy. Senhor Nunes had gone out; João Eduardo slowly sharpened his quill and began drawing up a copy of a letter of attorney, then, suddenly, he grabbed his hat and ran to Rua da Misericórdia.
São Joaneira was sitting at the window alone, sewing; Amélia had gone to Morenal. João Eduardo announced from the door:
‘Dona Augusta, I’ve just seen Dr Godinho and he said that I’ll have that post I wanted within the month!’
São Joaneira took off her spectacles, let her hands fall into her lap and said:
‘Really?’
‘Yes, it’s true, it’s true . . .’
And João Eduardo rubbed his hands together, giggling nervously with joy.
‘What luck, eh?’ he exclaimed. ‘So, if Amélia’s agreeable . . .’
‘Oh, João Eduardo,’ said São Joaneira with a heavy sigh, ‘that would take such a weight off my mind. I’ve been so . . . well, I’ve hardly slept.’
João Eduardo sensed that she was about to mention the article. He put his hat down on a chair in the corner and, returning to the window, his hands in his pocket, asked:
‘But why? Why?’
‘It’s that shameless article in The District Voice. What do you think? Such calumnies! It’s aged me overnight.’
João Eduardo had written the article in a fit of jealousy, in order to ‘do for’ Father Amaro; he had not foreseen the distress it might cause the two ladies, and seeing São Joaneira’s eyes filling with tears, he felt almost sorry. He said ambiguously:
‘Yes, I read it, it is pretty bad . . .’
Then deciding to take advantage of São Joaneira’s emotional state in order to advance his own romantic interests, he brought another chair over, sat down beside her and said:
‘I never liked to say anything before, Dona Augusta, but . . . Well, Amélia has always been rather over-familiar with Father Amaro . . . And people might have got to know about it through the Gansoso sisters or Libaninho, quite unintentionally, of course, and rumours may have started . . . I know she saw no wrong in it, but . . . you know what Leiria is like, how people talk.’
São Joaneira declared a desire to speak to him frankly as to a son: the reason she had found the article so upsetting was because of him. After all, he might believe the gossip and want to withdraw his proposal of marriage! She could tell him, as a decent woman and as a mother, that there was absolutely nothing between Amélia and Father Amaro, nothing, absolutely nothing. Amélia was a natural chatterbox, and Father Amaro was always so kind, why, he was delicacy itself . . . She had always said that Father Amaro had a way with him that could touch people’s hearts . . .
‘Hm,’ said João Eduardo, chewing one end of his moustache, his head bowed.
São Joaneira placed her hand lightly on João Eduardo’s knee and looked into his eyes:
‘It may not be my place to say so, but the girl really does love you, João Eduardo.’
His heart leaped with emotion.
‘And I love her!’ he said. ‘You know how passionately I care about her. It doesn’t matter what that article said.’
Then São Joaneira dried her tears on her white apron. She was so happy. She had always said that there was no more decent young man in the whole of Leiria!
‘I love you like a son, you know.’
João Eduardo was touched.
‘Well, let’s sort things out, then, and silence those tongues once and for all . . .’
He stood up and with comic solemnity said:
‘Dona Augusta, I have the honour of asking for your hand . . .’
She laughed, and in his happiness, João Eduardo planted a filial kiss on her head.
‘Talk to Amélia tonight,’ he said as he left. ‘I’ll come and see her tomorrow, and you’ll see how happy we’ll be . . .’
‘The Lord be praised,’ said São Joaneira, taking up her sewing again, with a great sigh of relief.
As soon as Amélia returned from Morenal, São Joaneira, who was laying the table, said to her:
‘João Eduardo was here.’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘He came round to have a chat, poor thing . . .’
Amélia said nothing as she folded up her woollen shawl.
‘He was upset . . .’ her mother went on.
‘What about?’ Amélia asked, her face red.
‘What do you think? Everyone talking about that article in The District Voice and asking who it meant by “young daughters who have no experience of the world” and the answer was, of course, “Who else? São Joaneira’s daughter Amélia, in Rua da Misericórdia!” Poor João says he’s been so worried, and he was too considerate to actually come and talk to you directly. And, well . . .’
‘But what should I do, Mama?’ exclaimed Amélia, her eyes suddenly full of tears at those words which fell on her torments like drops of vinegar on open wounds.
‘I’m just telling you this for your own good. You do what you like, my dear. I know it’s all lies. But you know how people talk. All I can tell you is that the boy didn’t believe what the article said. That was what I was worried about. I couldn’t sleep for thinking about it. But, no, he says he doesn’t care about the article, that he loves you just the same, and that he can’t wait to get married. If it was me, I would get married at once and put a stop to all the talk. I know you’re not madly in love with him, but that will come with time. João’s a good lad, and now he’s got that new job . . .’
‘Has he?’
‘Yes, that’s the other thing he came to talk to me about. He’s spoken to Dr Godinho and apparently he starts the new job within the month. So you do what you think best. But I’m not getting any younger, my dear, I could go at any moment . . .’
Amélia did not reply, staring out at the sparrows fluttering about on the rooftop opposite – far less troubled than were her own thoughts at that moment.
Since Sunday, Amélia had been living in a kind of daze. She knew that the ‘pure young daughter’ mentioned in the article was her, and the shame of having her love published in the newspaper like that was a torment to her. And, of course (she thought to herself, biting her lip in mute rage, her eyes full of tears), it would spoil everything. In the main square, in the arcade, people would smile mischievously and say: ‘So São Joaneira’s little Amélia has got herself involved with the parish priest, has she?’ The precentor, who was very strict about anything to do with women, would reprimand Father Amaro. Her reputation would have been ruined as would their love, and all because they had exchanged a few glances and squeezed each other’s hand.
On Monday, when she went to Morenal, she imagined that people were laughing at her behind her back, making fun of her; she sensed a rebuke in the curt wave that the respectable pharmacist Carlos gave her from his shop doorway; Marques from the ironmonger’s had failed to take his hat off to her as she walked home, and as she entered the house, she felt that she had lost all credibility, forgetting that Marques was so short-sighted that, when he worked in the shop, he had to wear two pairs of spectacles, one on top of the other.
‘What should I do? What should I do?’ she muttered to herself from time to time, clutching her head. Her devout mind came up with only devout solutions – to go on a retreat, to make a promise to Our Lady of Sorrows ‘to extricate herself from that situation’, to go and make her confession to Father Silvério . . . And she would end up by taking her sewing and going and sitting resignedly by her mother’s side, feeling very sorry for herself and thinking how unfortunate she had been all her life, ever since she was a child.
Her mother mentioned the article in only the vaguest, most ambiguous of terms:
‘The person who wrote it has no shame . . . We should treat it with the disdain it deserves . . . As long as your conscience is clear, the rest is just gossip . . .’
But Amélia could see how upset she was – in her worn face, in her sad silences, in the sudden sighs she gave as she sat knitting by the window, her spectacles perched on the end of her nose; then Amélia was even more convinced that ‘everyone’ was talking about it, that her mother, poor thing, had been told about it by the Gansoso sisters and by Dona Josefa Dias, whose mouth produced tittle-tattle as naturally as it did saliva. The shame of it!
In that gathering of skirts and cassocks in Rua da Misericórdia, she had, up until then, thought that her love for Amaro was perfectly natural, but just as the colours of a portrait painted by the light of an oil lamp – and which, in that light, seemed true – look false and ugly when seen in the sunlight, so that same love seemed monstrous to her now, frowned upon as it was by people whom she had respected ever since she was a child – the Guedes, the Marqueses and the Vazes. And she almost wished that Father Amaro had not come back to Rua da Misericórdia.
And yet, with what longing she waited each night for his ring at the doorbell. But he did not come, and that absence, which her reason judged prudent, filled her heart with the despair of betrayal. On Wednesday night, she could contain herself no longer and, blushing over her sewing, she remarked:
‘I wonder what’s happened to Father Amaro?’
The Canon, who seemed to be dozing, shifted in his armchair, coughed loudly, and grunted:
‘Too much to do . . . Besides it’s much too early yet . . .’
And Amélia, who had turned white as chalk, was immediately gripped by the certainty that Father Amaro had decided to get rid of her, feeling terrified of the scandal created by the newspaper article and following the advice of his fearful fellow priests concerned for ‘the good name of the clergy’. However, in front of her mother’s friends, she wisely concealed her despair; she even went and sat down at the piano and pounded out such a thunderous mazurka that the Canon, once more stirring in his armchair, snorted:
‘Less noise and more feeling, my girl!’
She spent the night in an agony of doubt, but she did not cry. Her passion for the priest flared up more fiercely, and yet she hated him for his cowardice. One remark in a newspaper and he shivered with fear in his cassock, not even daring to visit her, never thinking that her reputation too had been damaged, and that her love remained unsatisfied. And he was the one who had tempted her with his sweet words and his coquetry. The scoundrel! She wanted both to clutch him violently to her heart and to slap him hard. She had the ridiculous idea of going round to Rua das Sousas the very next day and throwing herself into his arms, installing herself in his room, and causing a scandal that would force him to flee the diocese. Why not? They were young and strong, they could live somewhere far away, in another town, and her imagination began to take hysterical pleasure in the delicious prospect of such an existence, in which she imagined herself constantly kissing him! In her overwrought state, that plan seemed to her perfectly practicable and easy: they would run away to the Algarve, where he would let his hair grow (and be even more handsome!), and no one would know that he was a priest; he could teach Latin and she would take in sewing; and they would live together in a little house whose greatest attraction for her was the bed with its two pillows side by side. And the one difficulty in this whole brilliant plan was how to get the trunk containing her clothes out of the house without her mother noticing. But when she woke, these foolish resolutions dissolved like shadows in the clear light of day; it all seemed utterly impracticable, and he seemed as far away from her as if the highest, most inaccessible mountains in the land now separated Rua da Misericórdia from Rua das Sousas. He really had abandoned her! He did not want to lose the money he earned from his parish or the esteem of his superiors. Poor her! She felt then that she would never be happy again and never again take an interest in life. Yet she still nurtured an intense desire to have her revenge on Father Amaro.
It occurred to her then, for the first time, that João Eduardo had not been to see her in Rua da Misericórdia since the publication of the article. So he too has turned his back on me, she thought bitterly. But what did it matter! In the midst of the distress caused by Father Amaro’s abandonment of her, the loss of João Eduardo’s dull, sentimental love, which was neither useful to her nor a source of pleasure, was a barely perceptible annoyance; this one misfortune had abruptly snatched all affections from her – both the one that filled her soul and the one that merely flattered her vanity; it annoyed her not to feel the clerk’s love clinging to her skirts with all the docility of a dog, but all her tears were for the priest who now wanted nothing more to do with her! She only regretted João Eduardo’s desertion because she thereby lost a ready means of enraging Father Amaro . . .
That is why on that afternoon as she stood by the window, silently watching the sparrows fluttering about on the rooftop opposite – having just learned that João Eduardo, assured now of his new job, had finally come to speak to her mother – she was thinking with satisfaction of the priest’s despair when he saw her marriage banns published in the Cathedral. Moreover, São Joaneira’s very practical words were quietly working away in her soul: the job with the district government brought in 25$000 réis per month; by marrying, she would immediately regain her respectability as a lady and, if her mother died, she could live quite decently on her husband’s salary and the income from the farm at Morenal; they could even afford to go sea-bathing in the summer . . . And she could see herself in Vieira, much admired by all the gentlemen; she might even meet the wife of the district governor.
‘What do you think I should do, Mama?’ she asked suddenly. She had decided to seize on those perceived advantages, but her weak nature needed to be cajoled and persuaded.
‘I would choose the safe option,’ was São Joaneira’s reply.
‘Yes, it’s usually best,’ murmured Amélia, going into her room. And she sat down very sadly at the foot of her bed, because the melancholy of evening made her longing for ‘the good times with Father Amaro’ seem all the more painful.
It rained heavily that night, and the two ladies were alone. São Joaneira, free now from her anxieties, grew sleepy and kept nodding off, her knitting in her lap. Amélia put her sewing down then, and leaning one elbow on the table, twirled the shade on the oil lamp and thought about her marriage: João Eduardo was a decent enough fellow, poor thing; he was exactly the kind of husband the petit bourgeois admired – he wasn’t bad-looking and he had a job; asking for her hand in marriage, despite the libels in the newspaper, did not seem to her, as her mother had said, ‘a generous gesture’, but she was flattered by his devotion, especially after Amaro’s cowardly abandonment of her; and poor João had been in love with her for two years . . . She then began laboriously recalling all the things about him that she liked – his seriousness, his white teeth, his clean clothes.
Outside, the wind was blowing hard, and the rain, coldly flailing the window panes, awoke in her an appetite for comfort, a good fire, a husband by her side, a little baby boy sleeping in the cradle – because the child was sure to be a boy and he would be called Carlos and would have Father Amaro’s dark eyes. Ah, Father Amaro! Once she was married, she would doubtless meet Father Amaro again. And then an idea pierced her whole being, made her sit up suddenly and forced her instinctively to seek out the dark of the window to hide her flaming cheeks. No, not that! That would be terrible! But the idea took implacable hold of her like a very strong arm simultaneously suffocating her and inflicting on her the most delicious pain. And then her old love, which spite and necessity had driven down into the depths of her soul, burst forth and flooded through her. Wringing her hands, she passionately repeated Amaro’s name again and again; she hungered for his kisses – oh, how she adored him! And it was all over, all over! And she, poor thing, would have to marry. Standing at the window, her face pressed against the darkness of the night, she wept softly.
Over tea, São Joaneira suddenly said:
‘If you’re going to do it, my dear, you should do it now. Start getting your trousseau together and, if possible, get married before the month is out.’
Amélia said nothing, but her imagination grew agitated at these words. Married before the month was out! Despite her indifference towards João Eduardo, the idea of living and sleeping with a passionate young man stirred her whole being.
And as her mother was going down to her bedroom, Amélia said:
‘What do you think, Mama? I feel a bit awkward about discussing it all with João Eduardo and accepting his proposal. It might be best to write him a letter . . .’
‘I agree, my dear, write to him. Ruça will take it round in the morning. Write him a nice letter, one that will please him.’
Amélia stayed up until late in the dining room writing a draft letter. It said:
Senhor João Eduardo,
Mama has informed me of the conversation she had with you. And if your feelings are genuine, and you have given me every proof that they are, I willingly accept your proposal, for you already know my feelings. As regards the trousseau and the papers to be drawn up, we can talk about that tomorrow. We will expect you for tea. Mama is very pleased and I hope that everything works out well for our happiness, as I am sure, with God’s help, it will. Mama sends her best wishes, as does your loving
Amélia Caminha
As soon as she had signed the letter, the sight of the sheets of white paper scattered before her made her feel like writing to Father Amaro. But what? To confess her love to him with the same quill still wet with the same ink with which she had just accepted another man as her husband? To accuse him of cowardice and to show her displeasure would be humiliating. And yet, although she had no reason to write to him, her hand nonetheless languorously wrote the first words: ‘My darling Amaro . . .’ She stopped, realising that there was no one who could deliver the letter for her. Ah, so they would have to separate like this, in silence, for ever. But why should they separate? she thought. Once she was married, she could still see Father Amaro. And the same idea returned, surreptitiously this time, and in such an honest guise that it did not alarm her: Father Amaro could be her confessor; he was the one person in all Christendom who could best guide her soul, her will, her conscience; there would be between them a constant, delicious exchange of confidences, of sweet admonishments; every Saturday, she would go to confession to receive in the light of his eyes and in the sound of his words a portion of happiness; and that would be chaste, exciting and to the glory of God.
She felt rather pleased with the impression, which she could not quite define, of an existence in which the flesh would receive its legitimate satisfactions, and her soul would enjoy the charms of an amorous devotion. Everything would turn out well after all . . . And soon afterwards, she was sleeping peacefully, dreaming that she was in her house, with her husband, and that she was sitting on Father Amaro’s knees, playing cards with her old friends, to the great contentment of the entire Cathedral.
The following day, Ruça took the letter to João Eduardo, and the two women spent the whole morning sewing by the window and talking about the wedding. Amélia did not want to leave her mother, and, since the house was large enough, the newlyweds would live on the first floor and São Joaneira would sleep in the room upstairs; the Canon would doubtless help with the trousseau; and they could spend their honeymoon on Dona Maria’s farm. And at this happy prospect, Amélia blushed beneath the eyes of her mother, who gazed at her adoringly over her spectacles.
When the Angelus rang, São Joaneira shut herself up in her bedroom downstairs to say her rosary, leaving Amélia alone ‘to sort things out with her young man’. Shortly afterwards, João Eduardo rang the doorbell. He was very nervous and had donned black gloves and drenched himself in eau-de-cologne. When he reached the door of the dining room, there was no light on, and Amélia’s pretty figure was silhouetted against the bright window. He placed his cloak down in one corner, as he usually did, and rubbing his hands, he went over to her, for she had still not moved. He said:
‘I got your note, Miss Amélia . . .’
‘Yes, I sent Ruça round with it first thing so as to catch you at home,’ she said, her cheeks burning.
‘I was on my way to the office, I was coming down the stairs . . . It must have been nine o’clock . . .’
‘Yes, it must have been . . .’ she said.
They fell silent, embarrassed. Then he delicately took her hands and said softly:
‘You still want to, then?’
‘I do,’ murmured Amélia.
‘And as soon as possible?’
‘Yes.’
He sighed, utterly happy.
‘I’m sure we’ll get on well, I’m sure we’ll get on very well!’ he said. And his hands, tenderly squeezing her arms, grasped them from the wrists to the elbows.
‘Mama says that we can all live here together,’ she said, trying to speak calmly.
‘Of course, and I’ll have some sheets made,’ he added, very agitated.
He suddenly drew her to him and kissed her on the lips; she gave a little sob, and then, weak and languid, abandoned herself to his arms.
‘Oh, my love!’ murmured João Eduardo.
They heard her mother’s shoes come squeaking up the stairs, and Amélia walked briskly over to the sideboard to light the oil lamp.
São Joaneira stood in the doorway and uttered her first words of motherly approval, saying kindly:
‘Are you sitting up here in the dark, my dears?’
It was Canon Dias who told Father Amaro about Amélia’s wedding, one morning in the Cathedral. He spoke of the appropriateness of the marriage and added:
‘I’m pleased, because it’s what the girl wants and it’s a relief to her poor mother . . .’
‘Of course, of course,’ muttered Amaro, who had gone very white.
The Canon cleared his throat loudly and said:
‘So you can go round there again, now that everything’s in order . . . That unpleasant business in the newspaper is all water under the bridge . . .What’s done is done.’
‘Of course, of course . . .’ grunted Amaro. He flung his cape about him and left the church.
He was so furious that he had to stop himself cursing out loud as he walked along. On the corner of Rua das Sousas, he almost collided with Natário, who grabbed him by the sleeve in order to whisper in his ear:
‘I haven’t found out anything yet.’
‘About what?’
‘About the “Liberal”, about the article. But I’m working on it, oh yes!’
Amaro, anxious to talk to someone, said:
‘Have you heard the news? About Amélia’s marriage . . . What do you think?’
‘Yes, that fool Libaninho told me. He says the lad’s got the job. Through Dr Godinho, of course. He’s another one. What a bunch of scoundrels: Dr Godinho at loggerheads in his newspaper with the district government and the district government throwing jobs to Dr Godinho’s favourites . . . There’s no understanding them! We’re a country of rogues!’
‘Apparently everyone’s thrilled at São Joaneira’s house,’ said Amaro blackly.
‘Well, good luck to them! I haven’t got time to go round there . . . I haven’t got time for anything. I know what my goal is, to find out who this “Liberal” is and to crush him! I can’t stand these people who take a beating, say nothing and turn the other cheek. I’m not like that, oh no. I never forget.’ A rancorous shudder ran through him, curling his fingers into claws, narrowing his bony chest, and he said through clenched teeth: ‘When I hate, I really hate!’
He was silent for a moment, enjoying the taste of his own bile.
‘If you go to Rua da Misericórdia, give them my congratulations . . .’ And he added, fixing Amaro with his beady eyes: ‘That fool of a clerk is making off with the prettiest girl in town, the lucky so-and-so!’
Amaro bade him a brusque farewell and shot off down the road.
After that first terrible Sunday when the article had appeared, Father Amaro, had at first, very selfishly, thought only about the consequences – ‘the fatal consequences, dear God’ – that the scandal could have for him. What if it got around that he was the ‘dandified priest’ the ‘Liberal’ was addressing? He spent two days in terror, fearfully expecting to see Father Saldanha appear at any moment, with his child-like face and mellifluous voice, telling him: ‘The precentor requires your presence!’ He spent that time preparing explanations, clever answers, flattering remarks. But when he saw that, despite the outspoken nature of the article, the precentor seemed ready ‘to turn a blind eye’, only then, feeling calmer, did he stop to consider his violently interrupted love affair. Fear made him astute, and he decided not to go back to Rua da Misericórdia for a while.
‘We’ll just let the storm pass,’ he thought.
In a fortnight or three weeks, when the article had been forgotten, he would go back to São Joaneira’s house; he would make it clear to the girl that he still adored her, but he would avoid their old familiarity, the whispered conversations, the chairs pushed cosily together at the card table; then, through Dona Maria da Assunção or through Dona Josefa Dias, he would arrange for Amélia to leave Father Silvério and take him as her confessor instead; they could reach some arrangement in the secrecy of the confessional; they would find some discreet modus vivendi, cautious meetings here and there, letters sent via the maid; and, if prudently conducted, there would be no danger of that love affair ever being one day revealed in the newspaper. And he was already congratulating himself on the cleverness of this plan when he received that terrible blow – the girl was getting married!
After his initial despair, which he vented by stamping on the floor and uttering blasphemies for which he immediately asked pardon from Our Lord Jesus Christ, he tried to calm himself and to think the matter through rationally. Where was that passion leading him? Into scandal. And once she was married, they each would follow their legitimate, sensible destinies, she with her family and he with his parish. When they met afterwards, they would exchange friendly greetings, and he could walk the streets of the town with his head high, without fear of gossip in the arcade, insinuations in the press, the precentor’s harsh words or any prickings of conscience. And his life would be happy. No, dear God, his life could not be happy without her. Without the excitement of visiting Rua da Misericórdia, of squeezing her hand, of hoping for even greater delights, what was there left to him? He would vegetate, like the mushrooms that grew in the damp corners of the Cathedral courtyard. And she, who had driven him mad with her flirtatious looks and manners, had simply turned her back on him as soon as another man appeared, someone who would make a good husband with a salary of 25$000 réis per month. All that sighing and blushing – pure mockery! She had toyed with him.
How he hated her, although not as much as he hated the clerk, who had triumphed because he was a man and had his freedom and his hair and his moustache, and an arm to offer her in the street. He lingered rancorously over visions of the clerk’s happiness: he saw him bringing her triumphantly home from the church; he saw him kissing her throat, her breasts . . . And these ideas made him stamp his feet furiously on the floor, startling Vicência downstairs in the kitchen.
Then he tried to get a grip on himself and all his faculties and to apply them to finding the best way to have his revenge. And then the old despair returned that he was not living in the times of the Inquisition and could not therefore pack them off to prison on some accusation of irreligion or black magic. Ah, a priest could have enjoyed himself then. But now, with the liberals in power, he was forced to watch as that wretched clerk earning six vinténs a day made off with the girl, whilst he, an educated priest, who might become a bishop or even Pope, had to bow his shoulders and ponder his grief alone. If God’s curses had any value, then let them be cursed. He hoped to see them overrun with children, with no bread in the cupboard, their last blanket pawned, gaunt with hunger, cursing each other – then he would laugh, oh, how he would laugh!
By Monday, he could contain himself no longer and he went to Rua da Misericórdia. São Joaneira was downstairs in the sitting room with Canon Dias. As soon as she saw him, she said:
‘Father Amaro, how good to see you! I was just talking about you. We wondered where you had got to, what with our good news.’
‘Yes, I heard,’ murmured Amaro, looking very pale.
‘It had to happen some time,’ said the Canon jovially. ‘May God make them happy and not give them too many children because meat is very expensive.’
Amaro smiled, hearing the piano upstairs.
It was Amélia playing, as she used to, ‘The Waltz of Two Worlds’; and João Eduardo, sitting very close to her, was turning the pages of the music.
‘Who was that, Ruça?’ she called, hearing Ruça coming up the stairs.
‘Father Amaro.’
The blood rushed to her face, and her heart beat so fast that for a moment her fingers hung motionless over the keys.
‘Oh, that’s all we needed,’ muttered João Eduardo.
Amélia bit her lip. She hated the clerk; she suddenly found everything about him repugnant, his voice, his manner, his body close to hers; she thought with delight of how, after she was married (since she had to get married), she would confess everything to Father Amaro and would never stop loving him! She felt no scruples at that moment, and almost wanted the clerk to notice the passion lighting up her face.
‘Honestly!’ she said. ‘Move over a bit, you don’t leave me enough room to play.’
She abruptly stopped playing the waltz and instead began singing ‘The Farewell’.
Ah, farewell, farewell!
Gone now are the days
When I lived happy by your side . . .
Her voice rose up ardently, sending the song down through the floorboards, straight to the heart of Amaro in the room below.
And Amaro, sitting on the sofa, his walking stick resting between his knees, devoured each note, while São Joaneira chattered on, describing the lengths of cotton she had bought for the sheets and the alterations she was going to make to the newly-weds’ bedroom, and the advantages of them all living together . . .
‘Won’t we be happy,’ broke in the Canon sourly, heaving himself to his feet. ‘We’d better go upstairs, we shouldn’t really leave the engaged couple alone like that.’
‘Oh, I’ve no worries on that account,’ said São Joaneira, smiling, ‘I trust him, he’s a very proper young man.’
Amaro was trembling as he went up the stairs and, as soon as he entered the room and saw Amélia’s face lit by the candles on the piano, he felt dazzled, as if the imminence of the wedding had made her even more beautiful, as if separation had made her even more enticing. He went over and, eyes downcast, gravely shook her hand and that of the clerk, mumbling:
‘Congratulations . . . Congratulations . . .’
He turned then and joined the Canon who had flopped down in his armchair complaining that he was tired and wanted his tea.
Amélia seemed abstracted, running her fingers dreamily over the keys. Father Amaro’s manner confirmed her suspicions: he wanted to be rid of her at all costs, the ungrateful wretch. He behaved as if nothing had happened, the scoundrel. In his priestly cowardice, terrified of the precentor, the newspaper, the gossip in the arcade, of everything, he had removed her from his imagination, from his heart and from his life, as one would remove a poisonous insect. Then, in order to enrage him, she began talking in a low tender voice to João Eduardo; she leaned languidly against his shoulder, giggling and whispering; they tried, with loud hilarity, to play a piece for four hands; then she pinched him, and he gave a piercing shriek. And São Joaneira gazed on them dotingly, while the Canon dozed, and Father Amaro, relegated, as once João Eduardo had been, to a corner of the room, sat leafing through the old scrapbook.
A sudden ring on the doorbell startled them all; coming up the stairs was the sound of rapid footsteps which paused in the living room below, then Ruça came in to say that it was Father Natário, who preferred not to come up, but would like a word with the Canon.
‘This is an odd time to deliver private messages,’ grumbled the Canon, levering himself reluctantly out of the comfortable depths of his armchair.
Amélia closed the piano, and São Joaneira put down her knitting and went to the top of the stairs to listen; outside, the wind was blowing hard and they could hear the retreat being sounded on the other side of the square.
Then the Canon called up:
‘Father Amaro!’
‘Yes, Master.’
‘Come down here, will you, and tell São Joaneira that she can come too.’
São Joaneira went slowly down the stairs, much alarmed; Amaro assumed that Father Natário must have found out who the ‘Liberal’ was.
The little room seemed very cold and was lit only by the feeble light of the candle on the table; and on the wall, from an old, very dark painting – which the Canon had recently given to São Joaneira – loomed the pale face of a monk and a large skull.
Canon Dias had sat down on one end of the sofa and was reflectively taking a pinch of snuff; Natário, who was striding about the room, exclaimed:
‘Good evening, Senhora! Hello there, Amaro! I have come with news! I didn’t want to come upstairs because I assumed the clerk would be there, and these things are strictly between ourselves. As I was saying to Canon Dias . . . Father Saldanha has been to see me, and things are looking bad.’
Father Saldanha was the precentor’s confidant. And Father Amaro asked with some concern:
‘Bad for us, you mean?’
Natário solemnly raised one arm and said:
‘Primo: Father Brito has been moved to the parish of Amor near Alcobaça, to the mountains, to the back of beyond . . .’
‘No!’ exclaimed São Joaneira.
‘It’s all the doing of that so-called “Liberal”. Our worthy precentor took his time to ponder that article in The District Voice, and now he’s acted. Poor old Brito has been exiled.’
‘Well, you know what people said about the administrator’s wife . . .’ murmured São Joaneira.
‘Now then!’ the Canon broke in severely. ‘Now then, Senhora! This is not a gossip shop . . . Continue, Father Natário.’
‘Secundo,’ went on Natário, ‘as I was about to say to Canon Dias, the precentor, in view of the article and other attacks in the press, has decided, as Father Saldanha put it, “to review the behaviour of the diocesan clergy”. He very much disapproves of priests socialising with women . . . He wants an explanation regarding these dandified priests tempting pretty young girls . . . In short, in His Excellency’s words, he is determined “to cleanse the Augean stables”, which, put plainly, Senhora, means that there’s going to be an almighty fuss.’
There was a shocked silence. And Natário, standing in the middle of the room, his hands in his pockets, asked loudly:
‘So what do you think of that, eh?’
The Canon got slowly to his feet:
‘Look, Father Natário, things may not be as bad as they seem . . . And don’t you stand there looking like a Mater Dolorosa either, São Joaneira. Off you go and order the tea, that’s what matters.’
‘As I said to Father Saldanha . . .’ began Natário, about to launch into another peroration.
But the Canon stopped him abruptly in his tracks:
‘Father Saldanha is a pedant and a fool! Let’s go upstairs and have some toast, and remember, not a word of this to the young people.’
Tea was a silent affair. The Canon, frowning deeply, uttered an outraged sigh with every mouthful of toast; São Joaneira, having mentioned that Dona Maria da Assunção had a bad cold, grew sad and leaned her head on her hands; Natário paced about, creating quite a breeze in the room with the skirts of his long coat.
‘So when’s this wedding to be?’ he said suddenly, stopping in front of Amélia and João Eduardo, who were having their tea by the piano.
‘Soon,’ she said, smiling.
Then Amaro got up slowly and, consulting his silver fob watch, said dully:
‘It’s time I was getting back to Rua das Sousas.’
But São Joaneira wouldn’t hear of it. Honestly, anyone would think someone had died. Why didn’t they have a game of lotto to distract them? The Canon, however, emerged from his torpor to say severely:
‘You’re quite wrong, Senhora, no one here is in the least bit sad. We only have reasons to be glad. Isn’t that so, João Eduardo?’
João Eduardo fidgeted and smiled:
‘Well, I certainly only have reasons to be glad.’
‘Of course,’ said the Canon. ‘Now I’ll bid you all good night. I’m off to play lotto in the land of Nod. And so is Amaro.’
Amaro went over and silently shook Amélia’s hand, then the three priests went down the stairs in silence.
In the sitting room below, the candle was burning down. The Canon went in to get his umbrella, and then, beckoning to the others, slowly closed the door. He said quietly:
‘I didn’t want to frighten São Joaneira, but this business with the precentor and all the gossip that’s flying around could prove disastrous.’
‘We must take great care,’ counselled Natário in a low voice.
‘Yes, it certainly looks bad,’ murmured Amaro sombrely.
They were standing up in the middle of the room. Outside, the wind was howling; the skull in the painting was thrown first into darkness then into light by the flickering candle flame; and upstairs Amélia was gaily singing ‘Chiquita’.
Amaro recalled other happy nights when he, carefree and triumphant, would make the ladies laugh, and Amélia would turn her languid gaze on him as she sang: ‘Ay, chiquita que sí . . .’
‘As you know,’ said the Canon, ‘I have enough to eat and drink, so I’m all right, but what matters is upholding the honour of the priesthood.’
‘There’s no doubt,’ added Natário, ‘that if there’s another article and more gossip, the thunderbolt will fall . . .’
‘Poor old Brito,’ muttered Amaro, ‘exiled to the back of beyond.’
Someone must have made a joke upstairs because they could hear the clerk laughing.
Amaro snorted bitterly:
‘Well, they’re certainly enjoying themselves.’
They went downstairs. As Natário opened the front door, a gust of fine rain struck him full in the face.
‘What a night!’ he exclaimed angrily.
The Canon was the only one with an umbrella, and opening it slowly, he said:
‘Well, it looks like we’re in for a soaking . . .’
From the brightly lit upstairs window came the sounds of the piano, the accompaniment to ‘Chiquita’. The Canon huffed and puffed, clinging on to his umbrella in the wind; beside him, Natário ground his teeth furiously and drew his coat about him; Amaro walked along, head bowed, exhausted and defeated; and as the three priests, huddling together under the Canon’s umbrella, squelched through the puddles along the dark street, the loud, drenching rain beat ironically against their backs.