“Fine, we’ll leave it at that.”
“I await your response.”
And with that they said goodbye.
Vasconcelos was left with this thought:
“The only credible part of what he said is that he now has nothing. But there’s no point in waiting: hard on hard never made a brick wall.”
As Gomes was going down the stairs, he was saying to himself:
“What I find odd is that he should tell me that he’s poor at precisely the moment when I’ve just discovered my own ruin. But he’ll wait in vain: in this case, two halves don’t make a whole.”
Vasconcelos went downstairs.
His intention was to tell Augusta the result of his conversation with Adelaide’s suitor. One thing, however, was still bothering him: Augusta’s refusal to agree to Adelaide’s marriage without giving any reason.
He was still thinking about this when, as he walked through the hall, he heard voices in the parlor.
It was Augusta talking to Carlota.
He was about to go in when these words reached his ears:
“But Adelaide’s still such a child.”
It was Augusta’s voice.
“A child!” said Carlota.
“Yes. She’s not old enough to marry.”
“If I were you, I wouldn’t stop this marriage, even if it does take place in a few months’ time, because Gomes really doesn’t seem such a bad fellow.”
“Oh, he isn’t, but I just don’t want Adelaide to marry.”
Vasconcelos pressed his ear to the keyhole, anxious not to miss a single word of this dialogue.
“What I don’t understand,” said Carlota, “is your insistence on her not marrying at all. Sooner or later, she’ll have to.”
“Yes, but as late as possible,” said Augusta.
A silence fell.
Vasconcelos was growing impatient.
“Oh,” Augusta went on, “if you knew how I dread Adelaide getting married.”
“But why?”
“Why? You seem to have forgotten something, Carlota. What I dread are the children she’ll have—my grandchildren! The idea of being a grandmother, Carlota, is just too awful!”
Vasconcelos breathed a sigh of relief and opened the door.
“Oh!” cried Augusta.
Vasconcelos bowed to Carlota, and, as soon as she left, he turned to his wife and said:
“I overheard your conversation with that woman.”
“Well, it wasn’t a secret conversation, but what exactly did you hear?”
Vasconcelos smiled and said:
“I heard the reason why you’re afraid. I never realized that love of one’s own beauty could lead to such egotism. The marriage to Gomes won’t now happen, but if Adelaide ever does love someone, I really don’t see how we can withhold our consent.”
“We’ll see,” answered Augusta.
The conversation stopped there, because these two consorts were drifting ever further apart; one was thinking about all the noisy pleasures of youth, while the other was thinking exclusively about herself.
The following day, Gomes received a letter from Vasconcelos:
Dear Gomes,
Something unexpected has happened. Adelaide does not wish to marry. I tried to reason with her, but could not convince her.
Yours, Vasconcelos
Gomes folded up the letter and used it to light a cigar, then began thinking this deep thought:
“Where am I going to find an heiress who’ll want me as a husband?”
If anyone knows of one, do tell him.
Vasconcelos and Gomes still sometimes meet in the street or at the Alcazar; they talk and smoke and take each other’s arm, exactly like the friends they never were or like the rogues they are.
CONFESSIONS OF A YOUNG WIDOW
I
TWO YEARS AGO, I made an unusual decision: I took myself off to Petrópolis in the middle of the month of June—to live. This decision proved fertile ground for conjectures. Even you, in the letters you wrote to me here, squandered your energies on trying to guess or imagine a thousand reasons, each more absurd than the last.
I did not nor could I respond to those letters, in which your evident concern betrayed two simultaneous feelings: the affection of a friend and the curiosity of a woman. It wasn’t the right moment to open my heart to you or to unfold to you the various reasons that drove me from Rio, where the operas at the Teatro Lírico, your parties, and Cousin Barros’s family gatherings would have provided me with distractions after my husband’s recent death.
Indeed, many believed his demise to be the sole reason for my departure. That was the least equivocal version. I let it pass as I did all the others and stayed in Petrópolis. As soon as summer arrived, you came here with your husband, determined not to return to Rio until you had discovered the secret I was refusing to reveal. I remained as silent as the tomb, as inscrutable as the Sphinx. You lay down your weapons and left.
You have addressed me ever since as your Sphinx.
And it’s true, I was a Sphinx. And if, like Oedipus, you had answered my riddle with the word “man,” you would have uncovered my secret and undone my charm.
But, as they say in novels, let us not anticipate events.
It is time to tell you about this episode in my life.
I prefer to do so in letters rather than face-to-face. Were I with you, I might blush. The heart opens up more easily in letters and shame does not stop certain words from being spoken. Notice that I make no mention of tears, which is a sign that my peace of mind has returned.
My letters will arrive once a week, so that you can read the story as if it were a serial in a weekly magazine.
I give you my word that you will find it both enjoyable and educational.
And a week after my last letter, I will come and embrace you, kiss you, and thank you. I feel a great need to live. The last two years have been a complete blank in the ledger of my life: two years of tedium, inner despair, trampled pride, repressed love.
True, I did read a lot, but only time, absence, and the memory of my deceived heart and my offended dignity could bring me the necessary calm, the calm I feel today.
And that is not all I gained. I also came to know a man whose picture I carry in my mind and who seems now remarkably like so many other men. This is no small thing; and the lesson will prove useful to me and to you and to our less experienced friends. Show them these letters; they are pages from a manuscript which, had I read it before, might have spared me my lost illusions and two years of wasted life.
I must end here. This is merely the preface to my novel, study, or story, or whatever you wish to call it. I’m not really bothered about names, and so have no need to consult any masters of the art.
Whether study or novel, it is a book of truths, an episode simply told, an intimate conversation between two minds, and in the complete confidence of two hearts that esteem and respect each other.
Farewell.
II
This was at the time when my husband was still alive.
Rio was a busy, bustling city then, not the cruelly monotonous place I sense from your letters and from the newspapers to which I subscribe.
My house was a meeting place for a few rather witty young men and some elegant young women. I was, by general consent, the queen-elect, and presided over any family gatherings held in my house. Outside, there were lively theaters, parties with friends, and a thousand other distractions that gave my life certain outward joys, for lack of any inner ones, which are the only truly fruitful joys.
While I may not have been happy, I led an enjoyable enough life.
And here begins my novel.
One day, my husband asked me, as a special favor, if we could put off visiting the Teatro Lírico that night. He said he couldn’t go because it was the eve of the departure of the steamer.
A perfectly reasonable request.
Some evil spirit whispered in my ear, for I replied tartly that I a
bsolutely had to go to the theater, and that he must go with me. He repeated his request and I repeated my refusal. It did not take much for me to think that somehow my honor was at stake. Now I see that it was either pure vanity on my part or else fate.
I held a certain sway over my husband. My imperious tone would brook no refusal, and my husband finally gave in, and we went to the theater.
There was a very sparse audience, and the singers all had bad colds. At the end of the first act, my husband smiled vengefully and said:
“Just as I thought.”
“Meaning what?” I asked with a frown.
“It’s dreadful. You made it sound as if coming to the theater tonight were a matter of honor. I can’t help thinking that the performance cannot possibly have lived up to your expectations.”
“On the contrary, I think it’s wonderful.”
“Oh, please.”
You will understand that I did not wish to admit defeat, but you would be quite right in thinking that I was deeply bored with the opera and with the evening.
With a defeated air, my husband, who tended not to answer back, said nothing more, and moved closer to the front of our box, where he peered through his opera glasses at the few occupied boxes opposite.
I shifted my chair farther back and, leaning against the wall, looked out into the corridor to watch the people passing by.
Directly opposite the door to our box, a man was standing, smoking a cigarette, with his eyes fixed on me. I didn’t notice this at first, until I was forced to by the sheer insistence of his gaze. I looked at him to see if he was some acquaintance of ours waiting to be discovered so that he could come and greet us. The fact that he knew us might explain his odd behavior, but I didn’t know him at all.
After a few seconds, aware that he had still not taken his eyes off me, I averted my gaze and fixed it instead on the curtain and the audience.
When my husband had finished examining the other boxes, he handed me the opera glasses and joined me at the rear of the box.
We exchanged a few words.
After a quarter of an hour, the orchestra began playing the overture for the second act. I stood up, and my husband moved my chair forward for me, and in that brief interval, I cast a furtive glance out at the corridor.
The man was still there.
I asked my husband to close the door.
The second act began.
Then, in a spirit of curiosity, I waited to see if the watcher would take his place in the stalls. I wanted to get a better look at him among the crowd.
However, he either didn’t take his seat or I failed to spot him.
The second act was even more tedious than the first.
In the interval, I again moved my chair to the back of the box, and my husband opened the door, saying that it was too hot.
I glanced out into the corridor.
I saw no one, but a few minutes later, the same man arrived and stood in the same place and stared at me with the same impertinent eyes.
We women are always vain about our looks and want to be admired for our beauty. This is why we’re often indiscreet enough to enjoy a man’s rather dangerous flattery. There is, however, a form of flattery that irritates and frightens; it irritates because it’s impertinent and frightens because it’s dangerous. This was the case here.
My admirer’s insistence presented me with a dilemma: he was either the victim of a mad passion or possessed of an impudent audacity. Either way, I should clearly not encourage his feelings.
I thought all this during the interval. The third act was about to begin. I waited for my silent pursuer to withdraw and then said to my husband:
“Shall we go?”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, the opera’s wonderful, but I just feel really sleepy.”
My husband made so bold as to question this:
“If it’s so wonderful, why are you sleepy?”
I did not reply.
We left.
In the corridor, we met the Azevedo family, who were just returning from visiting an acquaintance of theirs in a neighboring box. I paused to embrace the ladies in the party. I told them we were leaving because I had a headache.
We reached the door that opened onto Rua dos Ciganos.
I waited there for some minutes for our carriage to arrive.
And who should appear, leaning in the doorway?
The mysterious stranger.
I was furious.
I covered my face as best I could with my hood and waited for the carriage, which arrived soon afterward.
The mysterious man stood there, as impassive and silent as the door he was leaning against.
During the journey home, I could not stop thinking about that incident. I was only roused from my abstraction when the carriage drew up at the door of our house, in Rua Matacavalos.
I felt ashamed of myself and decided to think no more about the matter.
But would you believe it, Carlota? It took me half an hour to get to sleep, because my imagination insisted on revisiting the corridor, the doorway, and my platonic admirer.
The following day, I thought about it less. A week later, it had been wiped from my memory, and I thanked God for saving me from an obsession that could have proved fatal.
I decided to embrace that divine help and resolved not to go to the theater for some time.
I concentrated on domestic life and, for distraction, relied on getting together with friends in the evening.
Meanwhile, the day of your little girl’s birthday was fast approaching. I remembered that, a month before, in order to contribute to the celebrations, I had begun knitting her a little present, which I needed to finish.
One Thursday morning, I asked the maid to bring me my sewing basket and was about to continue my work when, tucked inside a skein of wool, I found a blue envelope containing a letter.
I thought this very odd. There was no name on the envelope. It was sealed and appeared to be waiting to be opened by whoever it was intended for. Who could that be? My husband? I was accustomed to opening any letters addressed to him, and so I did not hesitate. I broke the seal on the envelope and found a pink sheet of paper inside.
The letter said:
Do not be surprised, Eugênia; this letter is the product of despair and that despair is the product of love. I love you—very much. For some time now, I have tried to drive away that feeling, to smother it, but I can do so no longer. Did you not see me at the Teatro Lírico? A secret, inner force led me there. But I have not seen you since. When will I see you again? Although, if I do not see you, then I must be patient. However, if your heart were to beat for me for just one minute of each day that would be enough for a love that seeks neither mere sensual pleasure nor public recognition. If I offend you, please forgive this sinner; if you could love me, you would make me a god.
I read this letter with tremulous hands and tear-filled eyes; and for some minutes afterward, I was completely lost to the world.
A thousand different, contradictory ideas went through my mind, like those great flocks of black birds that fly across the sky when a storm is approaching.
Could it be love that had made that stranger write to me? Or was it just a trap laid by a calculating seducer? I looked vaguely around me, afraid my husband might come in.
The sheet of paper was there before me, and those mysterious words seemed to me like the eyes of an evil serpent. Without thinking, I crumpled it nervously up in my hands.
If Eve had done the same with the head of the serpent tempting her, there would have been no sin. I, alas, could not be so sure of obtaining the same result, because the serpent I could see and whose head I had crushed, could, like the Hydra of Lerna, sprout many more heads.
Don’t be surprised at this mixture of biblical and pagan imagery. At the time, I wasn’t thinking, my mind was merely rambling; only long afterward could I think straight.
Two feelings were at work within me: firstly, a kind of terror of th
e abyss, the deep abyss which I sensed lay behind that letter; secondly, a sense of bitter shame that I was low enough in that stranger’s esteem for him to stoop to such measures.
Only when I had calmed down did it occur to me to think what I should have thought right at the start. Who had put that letter there? My first impulse was to summon all the servants. What stopped me was the realization that while I would probably learn nothing from a simple question, everyone would then know about the letter. And what purpose would that serve?
I summoned no one.
I could not help thinking, though, that the letter had been a bold move, which could have failed at every turn; what could have motivated that man to take such a step? Love or the desire to seduce?
Returning to this dilemma, my mind, despite all the dangers involved, wanted to accept that first hypothesis, because it was the one that suited my situation as a married woman and my vanity as a beautiful one.
I tried to find out the truth by reading the letter again: I read it not once, twice, thrice, but five times.
An unhealthy curiosity drew me to it. Finally, I made an effort and resolved to destroy it, promising myself that if a second letter should appear, I would dismiss every servant and slave in the house.
Still clutching the piece of paper, I left the living room and went to my own room, where I lit a candle and burned the letter that was burning my hands and my head.
As the last scrap of paper blackened and crumpled, I heard footsteps behind me. It was my husband.
I spontaneously threw myself into his arms.
Somewhat surprised, he returned my embrace.
However, when my embrace continued, I felt him gently pushing me away, saying:
“That’s enough, now. You’re suffocating me.”
I drew back.
It saddened me to see that the man who could and should save me was incapable of understanding, even instinctively, that I was clinging to him as though to the idea of duty.
Then the feeling clutching at my heart gave way for a moment to a feeling of fear. The ashes from the burned letter were still there on the floor, and there was the candle lit in broad daylight. That should have been enough to prompt a few questions, but he was not even curious enough to ask.