How Amélia wept when she heard the news! Her honour, her peace of mind, so many combined joys, all lost and plunged into the mists of the sea, en route to Brazil!
Those were the worst weeks of her life. She went to Father Amaro, bathed in tears, asking him every day what she should do.
Amaro, disheartened and bewildered, went to the Canon, who said sadly:
‘We’ve done all we can. We just have to hold on. You should never have got involved.’
And Amaro would go back to Amélia with feeble consolations:
‘We’ll sort something out; we have to put our hopes in God.’
It was a fine moment to be counting on God, when He, outraged, was continually heaping miseries upon her! Such indecision in a man and in a priest, who should have had the ability and the strength to save her, made her feel desperate; her tender feelings for him vanished like water into sand, and what remained was a confused feeling in which hatred glimmered beneath her continuing desire.
As the weeks went by, their meetings at the sexton’s house became less and less frequent. Amaro did not mind; those lovely mornings in Esguelhas’ bedroom were always spoiled now by complaints; every kiss came with a trail of tears; and this so wore him down that he too felt like burying his face in the mattress and weeping out his sorrows.
Basically, he accused her of exaggerating her difficulties and of communicating her quite disproportionate fear to him. Another more sensible woman would not make such a fuss. But what could one expect from an hysterical religious fanatic who was all nerves, all fear, all emotion. There was no doubt about it, the whole business had been ‘utter folly’.
Amélia felt the same. Fancy never even having considered that this could happen to her! Honestly! As a woman, she had run foolishly towards love, convinced that she would escape, and only now that she felt the child inside her did the tears and fears and laments begin. Her life was utterly wretched; during the day she had to control herself in front of her mother, apply herself to her sewing, have conversations and pretend to be happy. At night, her overwrought imagination tormented her with an incessant phantasmagoria of punishments, in this world and the next: poverty, neglect, the scorn of honest people and the flames of Purgatory.
Then an unexpected event occurred that provided a diversion from the anxiety that was fast turning into a morbid habit. One night, the Canon’s maid appeared, all out of breath, to say that Dona Josefa was at death’s door.
The evening before, the excellent lady had felt a pain in her side, but had insisted on going to Our Lady of the Incarnation to say her rosary; she had returned home terrified, in more pain and with a touch of fever; and that afternoon, when Dr Gouveia had called, he had diagnosed acute pneumonia.
São Joaneira immediately rushed over and installed herself there as nurse. For weeks, the Canon’s quiet house was abuzz with tearful devotions: her friends, when not visiting churches to make promises and pleas to their favourite saints, were in near permanent residence, tiptoeing like ghosts in and out of the patient’s room, lighting lamps beneath images, tormenting Dr Gouveia with silly questions. At night, in the living room, with the oil lamp turned down, there was a constant mournful muttering in corners; and when tea was served, each bite of a biscuit would be followed by sighs and by tears furtively wiped away . . .
The Canon sat in one corner, exhausted and disheartened by the sudden appearance of the illness and by the melancholy scene surrounding him – the bottles of medicine filling the tables, the doctor’s solemn visits, the worried faces come to ask if there had been any improvement, the febrile breath that filled the whole house, the funereal tone of the clock on the wall in the absence of all other sound, the dirty towels that lay untouched where they fell, nightfall with its daily threat of eternal darkness . . . Apart from that, he was filled by genuine grief; he had lived with his sister for fifty years and was much spoiled by her; long habit had made her dear to him, and her stubbornness, her black bonnets and the way she fussed around the house had become a part of his own being. Besides, if death did come into his house, it might carry him off too in order to save itself a journey!
Dona Josefa’s illness brought Amélia great relief; at least no one was thinking about her or looking at her; given the danger in which her godmother lay, no one was surprised by her sad looks and tear-stained cheeks. Her duties as a nurse took up all her time: since she was the strongest and the youngest, and now that São Joaneira was too tired to watch through the night, she was the one to spend the long nights by Dona Josefa’s side, and she spared no effort in her attempts to appease through her charity towards the ill woman both Our Lady and Heaven, so that she might deserve equal pity when it was her turn to be prostrated on a bed . . . Influenced by the funereal atmosphere of the house, she had a repeated presentiment that she would die in childbirth; sometimes, alone, wrapped in her shawl, seated at the foot of the bed, listening to her patient’s monotonous moaning, she would feel touched by what seemed to be her own certain death, and her eyes would fill with tears out of a vague sense of nostalgia for herself, her youth and her loves . . . Then she would go and kneel down next to the sideboard on which a lamp flickered before a crucifix and cast a misshapen shadow on the pale wallpaper and ceiling; and there she would sit praying, pleading with Our Lady not to exclude her from Paradise . . . Dona Josefa would shift in bed and groan, and Amélia would rearrange the sheets and blankets and speak to her softly. Then she would go out into the living room to see if it was time for her medicine, and sometimes she would shudder at the sounds coming from the next room – the whistle of a piccolo or the hoarse sound of a trombone – the Canon snoring.
One morning, Dr Gouveia at last declared Dona Josefa to be out of danger. There was great rejoicing among the ladies, each of whom was convinced that this was due to her particular pleas to her particular saint. Two weeks later, there were celebrations in the house when Dona Josefa, leaning on her friends, took her first few tremulous steps about the room. Poor Dona Josefa! The illness had certainly taken its toll! That angry little voice, which spat out words like poisoned darts, was now little more than an exhalation, when, by a great effort of will, she asked for the spittoon or for some cough syrup. Those alert, searching, malignant eyes were now sunk deep in their sockets, afraid of the light, of shadows and shapes. Her body had once been so sturdy, tough as a vine, but now, when she collapsed into an armchair, all bundled up in her clothes, she looked little more than a bundle of rags herself.
Dr Gouveia, though, despite announcing the need for a long and delicate period of convalescence, had joked to the Canon, in front of all her friends (after having seen Dona Josefa express her first desire: to be able to look out of the window) that with great care, a few bottles of tonic and the prayers of all those good ladies, his sister was still in the market for love.
‘Oh, Doctor,’ exclaimed Dona Maria, ‘she won’t go short of prayers from us.’
‘And I’ll make sure she doesn’t go short of tonic,’ said the doctor. ‘So all that remains for us to do now is to congratulate ourselves.’
The doctor’s good humour was a guarantee to everyone that good health was at hand.
And some days later, as the end of August approached, the Canon mentioned renting a house in Vieira, as he did on alternate years, to go and take his sea baths. He had not been last year. So this was the year of the beach . . .
‘And in the healthy seaside air my sister will gain strength and put on weight.’
Dr Gouveia, however, disapproved of the plan. The sea air would be far too bracing for someone in Dona Josefa’s weak state. It would be better to go to his house in Ricoça, in Poiais, a sheltered, temperate place.
This was a great disappointment to the poor Canon, who complained loudly. What! Go and bury himself in Ricoça for the whole summer, the best part of the year? And what about his sea bathing, for Heaven’s sake, what about his sea bathing?
‘Just look,’ he said to Amaro one night in his office, ‘just look how I have suffered. The house has been in uproar throughout the whole of my sister’s illness. Tea served at the wrong time, suppers burned. I’ve even lost weight through sheer worry. And now, just when I was thinking of recuperating by the sea, no, it’s off to Ricoça with you, forget about your sea bathing . . . That’s what I call suffering! And I wasn’t even the one who was ill. But I’m the one who has to put up with missing my sea baths two years in a row.’
Amaro suddenly thumped the table and exclaimed:
‘I’ve just had a good idea!’
The Canon eyed him doubtfully, as if he did not believe it possible for a mere human intelligence to find a solution to his ills.
‘When I say a good idea, Father, I should say a sublime idea!’
‘Well, out with it!’
‘Listen. You go to Vieira, and São Joaneira, of course, goes too. Naturally you will rent houses next to each other, as she tells me you did two years ago.’
‘Go on.’
‘Right. So São Joaneira is in Vieira. Your sister now departs for Ricoça.’
‘What, all alone?’
‘No!’ exclaimed Amaro triumphantly. ‘She’ll go with Amélia. Amélia will be her nurse. They will go together. And there in Ricoça, in that dead-and-alive hole where not a soul ever goes, in that vast house where you could live quite happily without anyone knowing you were there, that is where she will have her baby. What do you think?’
The Canon stood up, his eyes round with admiration.
‘Brilliant!’
‘Then everyone is happy. You get to take your sea baths. São Joaneira will be far enough away not to know what’s happening. Your sister can have the benefit of the country air. Amélia will have a hiding place, because no one will see her in Ricoça . . . Dona Maria will also go off to Vieira, as will the Gansoso sisters. The happy event should take place in early November. No one in our circle should be back from Vieira until the beginning of December, though I’ll leave that up to you . . . And when we all meet again, the girl will be good as new.’
‘Well, considering that’s the only idea you’ve had in the last two years, it really is an excellent one.’
‘Thank you, Master.’
There was one very awkward problem: having to go to Dona Josefa, to the rigorous Dona Josefa, so implacable when it came to any kind of emotional weakness, who believed that the ancient gothic penalties should be imposed on frail women – words branded on foreheads, public whippings, gloomy dungeons – having to go to Dona Josefa and ask her to be an accomplice to a birth!
‘My sister will be furious!’ said the Canon.
‘We’ll see, Father,’ said Amaro, leaning back in his chair and bouncing one crossed leg, confident in his influence amongst the devout. ‘We’ll see . . . I’ll talk to her. And when I’ve spun her a lot of nonsense . . . when I’ve put it to her that it is a matter of conscience for her to cover up for Amélia . . . when I have reminded her that it is precisely on the eve of death that one should perform some good action so as not to arrive empty-handed at the gates of Paradise . . . We’ll see.’
‘Possibly, possibly,’ said the Canon. ‘It’s a good moment, anyway, because my poor sister is still very weak in judgement and as easily led as a child.’
Amaro stood up, rubbing his hands.
‘Let’s get to work then!’
‘And we mustn’t waste any time, because the scandal could break at any moment. This morning, that fool Libaninho started joking with the girl, saying that she was getting a bit thick around the waist . . .’
‘The brute!’ roared Amaro.
‘Oh, he meant no harm. But there’s no disguising the fact that she’s filled out. What with this business of my sister’s illness, no one has had eyes for anything else. But now people might notice. It’s serious, my friend, very serious.’
That is why, the following morning, Amaro went, as the Canon put it, to launch a head-on attack on his sister.
First, however, in the Canon’s office, he quietly explained his plan: he would start by telling her that the Canon knew nothing about Amélia’s predicament, and that he, Amaro, knew about it not from the confessional (in which case he would not be able to reveal it) but from the secret confidences of the two parties involved – Amélia and the married man who had seduced her. It had to be a married man, because Amaro had to prove to the old lady that there was no possibility of a legitimate solution . . .
The Canon was scratching his head and looking unconvinced.
‘That won’t work,’ he said. ‘She knows that no married men went to Rua da Misericórdia.’
‘What about Artur Couceiro?’ cried Amaro, now completely without scruples.
The Canon burst out laughing. Accuse poor toothless Artur, with his horde of children and his sad sheep’s eyes, of ruining maidens. That was a good one!
‘No, it won’t work, my friend, it won’t work. Think of someone else.’
Then they both simultaneously came out with the same name – Fernandes the draper! A good-looking man, whom Amélia much admired. She was always going to his shop, and there had even been some indignation in Rua da Misericórdia two years ago at Fernandes’ boldness in accompanying Amélia along the Marrazes road to Morenal!
Amaro would not name names, but he would imply that it had been Fernandes.
And Amaro went quickly up to the old lady’s room, which was immediately above the office. He was there for half an hour, a long, difficult half hour for the Canon, who only occasionally caught the creak of Amaro’s boots or his sister’s cavernous cough. And on his habitual walk up and down the office, from the bookshelf to the window, his hands behind his back, he was thinking how much trouble and how much money ‘Father Amaro’s bit of fun’ would yet cost him. The girl would have to be at the house for some five or six months. Then there was the doctor and the midwife, whom, of course, he would have to pay. Then some clothes for the baby. And what would they do with the child? The convent in town no longer took in abandoned babies; in Ourém, because the poorhouse’s resources were so limited and because the number of foundlings had reached positively scandalous levels, a man had been posted next to the door bell in order to question the women and generally make matters difficult for them; there were investigations into paternity and children were sometimes handed back; and the wily authorities were combating the growing numbers of foundlings with the threat of humiliation.
The poor Canon could see the future bristling with problems that would disturb his idleness and ruin his digestion. But the excellent Canon was not really angry; he had always felt a schoolmasterly affection for Amaro; he had always had a soft spot for Amélia – half-paternal, half-lewd; and he already felt the stirrings of vague grandfatherly feelings for the ‘little one’.
The door opened and Amaro appeared, triumphant.
‘It all went perfectly, Father. Didn’t I tell you it would?’
‘Did she agree?’
‘To everything. It wasn’t without its difficulties, of course. She started to get angry. I mentioned the married man . . . that the girl was in a terrible state and wanted to kill herself . . . I said that if she wouldn’t agree to cover things up she would be responsible for a great misfortune. I reminded her that she herself may not be long for this world, that God could call her at any moment, and that if she had that weight on her conscience, no priest could absolve her. I warned her that she could end up dying like a dog!’
‘Ah, you spoke prudently, then’ said the Canon approvingly.
‘I told her the truth. Now you just have to talk to São Joaneira about Vieira and whisk her off there as soon as possible.’
‘One other thing,’ said the Canon. ‘Have you thought about what to do with the “fruit of the union”?’
Amaro scratched his head disconsolately.
‘Ah, Father, that is another difficulty. It’s been worrying me a lot. Obviously it will have to be given to some woman to bring up, somewhere far off, in Alcobaça or Pombal. The best thing, Father, would be for the child to be born dead!’
‘Hm, another little angel,’ grunted the Canon, taking a pinch of snuff.
That same night the Canon spoke to São Joaneira about going to Vieira. She was downstairs in the parlour sorting out saucers of quince jelly intended for Dona Josefa’s convalescence. He began by saying that he had rented Ferreiro’s house.
‘But it’s tiny!’ she exclaimed. ‘Where will Amélia go?’
‘That’s just it. Amélia won’t be coming to Vieira this year.’
‘Not coming?’
The Canon then explained that his sister could not possibly go alone to Ricoça and that he had thought of sending Amélia with her. He had had the idea that very morning.
‘I can’t go with her, I need my sea bathing, as you know . . . and the poor woman can’t be left alone in Ricoça with just a maid . . . Therefore . . .’
There was a sad silence.
‘You’re right. But to tell you the truth, I don’t like to leave Amélia. If I could do without the sea baths, I would go to Ricoça myself.’
‘What do you mean? You’re coming to Vieira. I can’t be left alone either. Don’t be so ungrateful!’ Then adopting a very grave tone, he said: ‘Look, Josefa may not be long for this world. She knows I have enough money for myself and she’s fond of the girl; after all, she is her godmother, and if she sees Amélia looking after her and prepared to spend a few months with her, she’ll be completely won round. My sister has got a couple of thousand cruzados. Amélia could get a nice big dowry. But I’ll say no more . . .’
And São Joaneira agreed at once, since that was what the Canon wanted.
Upstairs, Amaro was rapidly outlining to Amélia ‘the grand plan’ and his conversation with Dona Josefa, saying that the poor woman, brimming with charity, had immediately offered to help; she even wanted to contribute to the baby’s layette.
‘You can trust her, she’s a saint. So everything is all right, my love. It’s just a question of spending four or five months in Ricoça.’
That was what made Amélia weep: missing the summer in Vieira and the fun of sea bathing, and having instead to bury herself all summer in that great gloomy house in Ricoça! The only time she had visited the house it had been late afternoon, and she had been rigid with fear. Everything was so dark, the whole place echoed. She was sure that she would die there in exile.
‘Nonsense!’ said Amaro. ‘You should thank the Lord that I came up with this idea. Besides, you’ll have Dona Josefa and Gertrudes to talk to and the orchard to walk in. I’ll come and see you every day. You’ll enjoy it, just you wait.’
‘What else can I do? I’ll just have to put up with it.’ And with her eyes full of tears, she inwardly cursed the passion that had brought her nothing but sorrow and which now, when the whole of Leiria was leaving for Vieira, was forcing her to shut herself up in lonely Ricoça, listening to an old woman coughing and to the farm dogs howling. ‘And Mama, what will Mama say?’
‘What can she say? Dona Josefa can’t go to the farm alone, without a personal nurse. Anyway, don’t worry, the Canon is working on her. I’ll go down to her now; I’ve been alone with you too long as it is; we need to be careful during these last few days.’
He went downstairs. The Canon was just coming up and they met on the stairs.
‘Well?’ asked Amaro in the Canon’s ear.
‘It’s all arranged. What about you?’
And in the darkness of the stairway the two priests silently shook hands.
A few days later, after tearful scenes, Amélia left in a char-à-banc with Dona Josefa bound for the house at Ricoça.
They had piled up pillows in one corner for the convalescent. The Canon went with them, complaining bitterly about the discomfort. And Gertrudes sat up front, in the shadow cast by the mountain formed on top of the carriage by the leather trunks, baskets, tins, bundles of clothes, cotton bags, the cat mewing in its basket, and a package tied up with string containing Dona Josefa’s favourite paintings of saints.
At the end of the same week, São Joaneira set off for Vieira, at night because of the heat. Rua da Misericórdia was entirely blocked by the ox cart carrying the china, the straw mattresses and the kitchen equipment; and in the same char-à-banc that had gone to Ricoça, São Joaneira was now setting off with Ruça, who was also carrying a cat basket on her lap.
The Canon had left the previous night, and only Amaro was there to see São Joaneira off. After all the hustle and bustle, after racing up and down the stairs a hundred times for some basket they had forgotten or some package that had disappeared, just when Ruça was finally locking the front door, São Joaneira suddenly burst into tears as she was about to step up into the char-à-banc.
‘Now, now, Senhora, now, now!’ said Amaro.
‘It’s having to leave Amélia, Father Amaro. You have no idea how difficult it is. I feel as if I’ll never see her again. Will you do me the kindness of going to visit her at Ricoça to see that she’s all right?’
‘Don’t you worry, Senhora.’
‘Goodbye, Father, and thank you for everything. I owe you so much . . .’
‘Nonsense! Have a good journey and be sure to write to us. Give my best wishes to the Canon. Goodbye, Senhora. Goodbye, Ruça!’
The char-à-banc left. And Amaro walked slowly along behind it as far as the Figueira road. It was nine o’clock; the moon had already risen on that hot, calm August night. A faint, luminous mist blurred the contours of the silent countryside. Here and there the moonlit façade of a house stood out brightly amongst the shadows of the trees. By the bridge, he stopped to look down sadly into the river that flowed with a monotonous murmur over the sand; beneath the overhanging trees, the water was pitch-black; elsewhere the light on the water trembled like a piece of glittering filigree work. There he stood in that soothing silence, smoking and tossing his cigarette ends into the river, absorbed in a vague sadness. Then, hearing eleven o’clock strike, he walked back into town, feeling a pang of memory as he passed Rua da Misericórdia; the house, with its windows closed and without any curtains, looked as if it had been abandoned for ever; the pots of rosemary had been forgotten on the window ledge. How often he and Amélia had leaned out over that balcony! There used to be a carnation growing there and, as they talked, she used to break off a leaf and bite it. That was all over now. And in the silence, the shrieking of the owls in the poorhouse wall filled him with a sense of ruin, solitude and irrevocability.
He walked slowly home, his eyes full of tears.
The maid came to the stairs at once to say that Esguelhas had come for him twice, around nine o’clock it must have been; he had been in a terrible state. Totó was dying and she would only receive the sacrament from his hand.
Despite Amaro’s superstitious repugnance at having to go back there that night, for such a sad end, in the midst of the happy memories of his love, he did so to please Esguelhas; but he felt shocked by Totó’s death, coinciding as it did with Amélia’s departure and somehow completing the sudden dispersal of everything he cared about or that had been part of his life.
The door to the sexton’s house stood ajar, and in the darkness of the hallway, he bumped into two women who were just leaving, sighing heavily. He went straight to Totó’s bedroom: two large candles, brought from the church, were burning on a table; a white sheet covered Totó’s body, and Father Silvério, who had doubtless been called because he was on duty that week, was reading the breviary, his handkerchief spread over his knees, his large glasses perched on the end of his nose. He got up as soon as he saw Amaro.
‘Ah, Father,’ he said very softly, ‘they’ve been looking for you everywhere. The poor girl wanted you. When they came for me, I was just off to the Saturday get-together at Novais’ house. What scenes! She died impenitent. When she saw me and realised that you weren’t coming, she made such a fuss. I was afraid she might spit on the crucifix.’
Without a word, Amaro lifted one corner of the sheet, but immediately let it fall again on the dead girl’s face. Then he went up to the room where the sexton was lying on the bed, sobbing desperately, his face turned to the wall; a woman was with him, but she remained standing in one corner, silent and motionless, her eyes downcast, as if slightly annoyed at the heavy duty that had befallen her as neighbour. Amaro touched the sexton on the shoulder and spoke to him:
‘You must resign yourself, Esguelhas. This is what the Lord has decreed. For her it is almost a happy release.’
Esguelhas turned round and, recognising Amaro through the tears veiling his eyes, he took his hand and tried to kiss it. Amaro drew back.
‘Come now, Esguelhas! God will be merciful and will remember your sorrow . . .’
Esguelhas was not listening, still shaken by convulsive sobs, while the woman in the corner calmly dabbed at the corners of her eyes.
Amaro went downstairs and relieved good Silvério, taking his place beside the candles, the breviary in his hand.
He stayed there until late into the night. When the neighbour was leaving, she came in to say that Esguelhas had fallen asleep, and she promised to return at dawn with someone else in order to lay the body out.
The whole house was immersed in a silence which the proximity of the vast Cathedral building made still gloomier; occasionally an owl somewhere on the buttressed walls would hoot feebly, or the great bell would echo round the rooms. And Amaro, seized by an ill-defined terror, but held there by the superior force of an uneasy conscience, kept praying rapidly . . . Sometimes the book would fall onto his knees, and then, feeling behind him the presence of that corpse covered by the sheet, he would remember, in bitter contrast, other times when the courtyard lay bathed in sunlight and the swallows were flying, and he and Amélia would run laughing up to the room where now, on that same bed, Esguelhas was sleeping, his tears barely dry.