Towards the end of May 1871, there was a tremendous uproar in the Casa Havanesa in the Chiado in Lisbon. People arrived, breathless, and fought their way through the crowd blocking the doorway, then stood on tiptoe and craned their necks in order to see the noticeboard hung on the grille above the counter on which were pinned the telegrams from the Havas Agency; men walked away with looks of horror and despair on their faces, exclaiming to some more placid friend who had waited for them outside:
‘Lost. Gone up in flames.’
Inside, amongst the multitude of prattlers squeezed against the counter, heated discussions ensued; and on that already hot day in early summer, everywhere – the pavements outside, the Largo do Loreto opposite, the Chiado all the way up to Magalhães – was filled by a gabble of shocked voices in which the vehemently uttered words: Communists! Versailles! Terrorists! Thiers! Crime! The International! constantly came and went amidst the rumble of passing carriages and the cries of newspaper boys advertising the latest bulletins.
Indeed telegrams kept arriving which described the unfolding events in the battle being waged in the streets of Paris: terrified telegrams sent from Versailles listing the burning palaces and the streets reduced to rubble; the mass shootings in barrack squares and amongst mausoleums in cemeteries; the revenge that would seek satisfaction even in the dark depths of sewers; the fatal madness that was gripping both government troops and insurgents; and the resistance that combined the frenzy of a death agony with scientific method, shaking up the old society by means of petrol, dynamite and nitroglycerine. A convulsion, an end of the world, which twenty or thirty words suddenly lit up as if in the glow of a bonfire.
The whole Chiado spoke with angry regret of the ruination of Paris. They named out loud the buildings that had been burned, the Hôtel de Ville, ‘so lovely’, the Rue Royale, ‘exquisite’. Some were as enraged by the burning down of the Tuileries Palace as if it had belonged to them; those who had spent a few months in Paris expressed their outrage, taking a Parisian pride in the beauty of the city, scandalised by an insurrection that showed so little respect for buildings on which they themselves had gazed.
‘Honestly,’ exclaimed one obese gentleman, ‘they’ve destroyed the Palace of the Legion of Honour! Why, I was there with my wife only a month ago! It’s absolutely disgraceful! Pure vandalism!’
The rumour spread that the Ministry had received another even more depressing telegram saying that the whole boulevard from Bastille to the Madeleine was in flames, and even the Place de la Concorde and the Champs Elysées as far as the Arc de Triomphe. That insane rebellion had thus laid waste to a whole network of restaurants, cafés, dance halls, gambling dens and houses of prostitution. An angry shudder ran from Largo do Loreto to Magalhães. The flames had destroyed that cosy centre of revelry. It was outrageous! What was the world coming to? Where were all the best restaurants? Where could one find the most experienced women? Where would one ever see the like of that prodigious procession around the Bois on crisp, dry winter days, when ladies of easy virtue ensconced in splendid victorias vied with stockbrokers in their phaetons? It was an abomination. They forgot about the libraries and the museums, but felt sincere regret at the destruction of the cafés and the burning of the brothels. It was the end of Paris and the end of France!
In a group near the Casa Havanesa the talk had turned to politics; amongst the names mentioned was that of Proudhon, who, around that time in Lisbon, was beginning to be talked of as a bloodthirsty monster; insults were consequently heaped on Proudhon. Most thought him personally responsible for the fires. But the esteemed poet of Flowers and Sighs said that ‘if one disregarded the nonsense Proudhon spouted, he was, nevertheless, a rather fine stylist’. The gambler França burst out:
‘Style, my eye! If I bumped into him in the Chiado now, I’d break every bone in his body!’
And he would have too. After a couple of glasses of cognac, França was like a wild beast.
However, some young men, their romantic instincts stirred by the dramatic accounts of the catastrophe, applauded the heroism of the Commune – Vermorel, his arms outstretched like the crucified Christ, crying out as the bullets pierced him: ‘Vive l’humanité!’ Old Delécluse, with the fanaticism of a saint, calling on his deathbed for violent resistance.
‘Such great men!’ exclaimed one over-excited lad.
Serious-minded people around them roared their disapproval. Others moved away, pale-faced, imagining their Lisbon homes doused in petrol and the Casa Havanesa itself consumed by socialist flames. Then the angry watchwords in all the different groups were ‘authority’ and ‘repression’; it was important that society, under attack by the International, should take refuge in the strength of its conservative, religious principles and surround them with bayonets! The bourgois owner of a chain of novelty shops spoke of ‘the rabble’ with the imposing scorn of a La Trémoille or an Osuna. Men, wielding toothpicks, urged vengeance. Professional idlers seemed incensed by ‘these workers who want to live like princes!’ They spoke devoutly of property and wealth.
On the other hand, there were the loquacious youths, the excitable journalists, who railed against the old world order and against old ideas, uttering loud threats, proposing to demolish them with thunderous newspaper articles.
Thus a torpid bourgeoisie hoped to halt social change with a few policemen, and youths with a veneer of literature were convinced that a single pamphlet could bring down a society that had been in existence for eighteen hundred years. But no one was more excited than a hotel bookkeeper who, from the top of the steps to the Casa Havanesa, was advising France to bring back the Bourbons.
Just then a man in black, who was leaving the Casa Havanesa and threading his way past the various groups, stopped when he heard a startled voice beside him exclaim:
‘Father Amaro, you rascal!’
He turned; it was Canon Dias. They embraced warmly and, in order to talk more quietly, they walked across to the middle of the Largo do Loreto and stood there by the statue.
‘When did you arrive, Master?’
The Canon had arrived the evening before. He was in litigation with the Pimentos in Pojeira over a right of way through his land; he had lodged an appeal and had come to Lisbon to follow the case more closely.
‘And what about you, Amaro? In your last letter, you said you wanted to leave Santo Tirso.’
Indeed he did. The parish had its advantages, but the post at Vila Franca had fallen vacant and, wanting to be closer to Lisbon, he had come to talk to ‘his’ Count, the Conde de Ribamar, who was sorting out the transfer now. He owed him, and more especially the Countess, everything.
‘How are things in Leiria? Is São Joaneira any better?’
‘No, poor thing. She gave us all a terrible fright at first . . . we thought she was going to go the same way as Amélia, but it turned out to be dropsy . . . oedema . . .’
‘Poor dear lady. And how’s Natário?’
‘Oh, he’s aged a lot. And he’s had a few misfortunes too. But then he’s his own worst enemy.’
‘And what’s happened to Libaninho?’
‘I wrote to you about him, didn’t I?’ said the Canon, laughing.
Father Amaro laughed too, and, for a moment, the two priests said nothing, both holding their sides in mirth.
‘Oh, dear,’ said the Canon. ‘It caused a huge scandal. Because they caught him with a sergeant in circumstances that left no possible room for doubt. At ten o’clock at night in the park too! Most imprudent. But it all died down eventually, and when Matías died, we gave Libaninho the job of sacristan, which is a really good post, much better than his office job . . . And he’ll carry out his duties zealously I’m sure!’
‘Oh, he will,’ agreed Father Amaro gravely. ‘And what about Dona Maria da Assunção?’
‘Well, a few rumours have been flying around about her new servant, a carpenter who used to live opposite . . . He’s unusually well turned out apparently . . .’
‘Really?’
‘Oh, yes. Cigar, watch, gloves . . . Funny, don’t you think?’
‘Hilarious!’
‘The Gansoso sisters are just as they always were,’ the Canon went on. ‘Your maid Escolástica works for them now.’
‘And what about that fool João Eduardo?’
‘I thought I told you. He’s still in Poiais. The Morgado is suffering from some kind of liver disease. And they say João Eduardo’s consumptive. I don’t know for sure because I haven’t seen him. It was Ferrão who told me.’
‘And how’s Ferrão?’
‘Fine. And do you know who I saw a few days ago? Dionísia.’
‘And what’s she up to?’
The Canon whispered something in Father Amaro’s ear.
‘Really?’
‘In Rua das Sousas, a few doors down from your old house. Dom Luís da Barrosa gave her the money to set up the establishment. Anyway, that’s the latest news. But you’re looking very well, man! The move did you good.’
Guffawing, he planted himself in front of Amaro and said:
‘And to think you wrote to me saying that you wanted to retreat to the mountains or to a monastery and live the life of a penitent.’
Father Amaro shrugged.
‘Well, what do you expect, Master? Those first few hours were really hard for me . . . But everything passes.’
‘Oh, yes, everything passes,’ said the Canon, adding after a pause: ‘Ah, but Leiria isn’t what it was.’
They walked for a moment in silence, immersed in memories of the past, of the fun they used to have playing lotto at São Joaneira’s, the chats over tea, the walks to Morenal, Artur Couceiro singing, accompanied on the piano by poor Amélia, who was sleeping now in the cemetery in Poiais, beneath the wild flowers . . .
‘And what do you think about these goings-on in France, Amaro?’ exclaimed the Canon suddenly.
‘Oh, dreadful. The archbishop and any number of priests were shot. It’s no laughing matter!’
‘No, indeed!’ growled the Canon.
And Father Amaro said:
‘And it looks like the same ideas are beginning to take hold here as well.’
The Canon had heard as much. Then they both spoke angrily about the rabble made up of freemasons, republicans and socialists, people who wanted to destroy everything that was decent – the clergy, religious education, the family, the army and even wealth . . . Society was under threat from these unchained monsters! They should bring back the old repressive methods, the dungeon and the gallows. And above all, people should be taught to have faith and to respect the priesthood . . .
‘That’s the problem,’ said Amaro, ‘they don’t respect us! They do nothing but insult us. They are destroying the common people’s veneration for the priesthood.’
‘Yes, they say the most terrible things about us . . .’ said the Canon in cavernous tones.
At that moment, two women passed by, one, whitehaired, had a very noble bearing; the other was a skinny, pale, listless creature with dark circles under her eyes; she kept her bony elbows close in to her sterile waist and was wearing an enormous bustle, a large chignon of false hair and very high heels.
‘I say!’ said the Canon quietly, nudging his colleague. ‘What to do you think of that, Father Amaro? That’s the kind of woman you want to confess.’
‘Not any more, Master,’ said Amaro, laughing. ‘Now I only confess married ladies.’
For a moment, the Canon shook with laughter, but resumed the plump, ponderous air of a priest as soon he saw Amaro respectfully doffing his hat to a gentleman with a greying moustache and gold-rimmed spectacles who was crossing the square from the Loreto side, a cigar clamped between his teeth and a parasol under his arm.
It was the Conde de Ribamar. He walked amiably over to the two priests, and Amaro, standing to attention, his hat still off, introduced ‘my friend, Canon Dias, from Leiria Cathedral’. They talked for a while about the unseasonably warm weather. Then Father Amaro mentioned the latest news.
‘What do you think of events in France, Excellency?’
The Count held up his hands in a gesture of desolation, a feeling reflected in his face.
‘Don’t even talk to me about it, Father, don’t even talk to me about it. To see half a dozen thugs destroying Paris. My Paris! Do you know, gentlemen, it has made me quite ill.’
The two priests both looked suitably concerned and added their feelings of sorrow to the Count’s.
Then the Canon said:
‘And how do you think it will all end?’
The Conde de Ribamar spoke very deliberately and his words emerged slowly as if burdened by the sheer weight of ideas:
‘The result? Oh, it’s not hard to predict. When one has had some experience of history and politics, one can see how it will all turn out as clearly as I can see you two gentlemen now.’
The priests hung on the statesman’s prophetic words.
‘Once the insurrection has been crushed,’ continued the Count, looking straight ahead of him, one finger raised, as if following and pointing out historic futures discernible only to his eyes, with the aid of his gold-rimmed spectacles. ‘Within three months of the insurrection being crushed, we will have the empire back. If, as I have, you had been to a reception at the Tuileries or at the Hôtel de Ville in the days of empire, you, like me, would say that France is a profoundly and purely imperialist nation . . . That means we will be left with Napoleon III, unless he abdicates and the Empress takes on the regency until the imperial prince is old enough. I would advise this as the most prudent solution and I have already said as much. One immediate consequence will be that the Pope in Rome will once more be the lord of temporal power. To tell the truth, and, again, I have already said as much, I do not approve of a papal restoration. But I am not going to tell you what I approve or disapprove of. Fortunately, I am not lord of all Europe. That would be a burden too great for a man of my age and my infirmities. I am merely saying what my experience of politics and history tells me to be true . . . Now what was I talking about? Ah, yes, with the Empress on the throne of France, Pius IX on the throne of Rome, democracy will be crushed between those two sublime forces, and you can believe me, as a man who knows his Europe and the elements that make up modern society, when I say that after the example of the Commune, we will hear no more talk of a republic, the social question or the people for a good one hundred years.’
‘May God hear your words, Excellency,’ said the Canon unctuously.
Amaro, enchanted to find himself in a Lisbon square in intimate conversation with an illustrious statesman, then asked with all the anxiety of a startled conservative:
‘Do you think these ideas about a republic and about materialism will spread here?’
The Count laughed and, strolling along between the two priests, almost as far as the railings surrounding the statue of the great poet Luís de Camões, he said:
‘Don’t you worry your heads about that, gentlemen. There may be one or two radicals who complain and spout all kinds of nonsense about the decadence of Portugal, who say that we’re stagnating and becoming brutish and stupid, and that they give the current regime ten more years at most, etc. etc. Utter rubbish!’
He was almost leaning against the railings now and, adopting a confiding tone, he said:
‘The truth, gentlemen, is that foreigners envy us . . . And I’m not saying what I’m about to say merely to flatter, but, as long as we have priests like you worthy of respect, Portugal will maintain, with dignity, its place in Europe. Because faith, gentlemen, is the very basis of order.’
‘Absolutely, Count, absolutely,’ agreed the two priests warmly.
‘Well, just look around you! What peace, what vigour, what prosperity!’
And he made a sweeping gesture that took in the whole of the Largo do Loreto, which, at that hour, at the close of a serene afternoon, contained the essence of city life. Empty carriages rode slowly by; women in twos tottered past, wearing false hair and high heels and displaying the anaemic pallor of a degenerate race; trotting by on a scrawny nag came a young man, the bearer of a famous name, still green about the gills from the previous night’s drinking spree; on the benches in the square people lay sprawled in a state of idle torpor; an ox cart lurching along on its high wheels was like the symbol of an antiquated agricultural system dating back centuries; pimps swayed past, a cigarette clenched between their teeth; the odd bored bourgeois gentleman stood perusing advertisements for outmoded operettas; the haggard faces of workers seemed the very personification of moribund industries . . . And beneath the warm, splendid sky, this whole decrepit world moved sluggishly along past urchins selling tickets for the lottery or for a raffle and boys with plangent voices offering the latest issue of some almanac; they meandered indolently back and forth between two gloomy church façades and the long ranks of houses round the square where three pawnshop signs glinted in the sun and the entrances to four taverns beckoned blackly, and flowing out into the square were alleyways, squalid and dirty as open sewers, issuing from a neighbourhood steeped in prostitution and crime.
‘Just look around you,’ said the Count. ‘Just look at all this peace, prosperity and contentment. It’s hardly surprising that we’re the envy of Europe!’
And the man of state and the two men of religion stood in a row by the monument railings, heads held high, savouring the glorious certainty of their country’s greatness, there, beside that statue, beneath the cold, bronze gaze of the old poet, erect and noble, with the broad shoulders of a mighty paladin, his epic poem in his heart, his sword grasped firmly in his hand, and surrounded by the chroniclers and heroic poets of the old country – a country for ever past, a memory almost forgotten!
October 1878–October 1879