“That is all,” concluded Isabel. “As for becoming your wife, that can never be. I want to give my life to someone whose love is equal to mine. Your love began yesterday, mine nine years ago; the difference in age is too great; ours could never be a good marriage. Forget about me. Farewell.”
To say that this letter only increased Camilo’s love would be to set down in writing what the reader has already guessed. Camilo’s heart needed only a written confession from her to push him over the edge into madness. Her letter made him take leave of his senses.
Chapter VII
EVENTS TAKE ON THEIR OWN MOMENTUM
The comendador had not yet lost hope of getting his son involved in politics. There happened to be an election that year, and the comendador wrote to all the influential bigwigs in the province to ensure his son a place in the relevant constituency.
Camilo greeted his father’s plan with a shrug, determined to accept no proposals apart from that of marrying Isabel. The comendador, Father Maciel and the colonel all tried in vain to tempt him with a glittering future and the prospect of lofty government posts. However, the only post that interested him was marriage to Isabel.
This, of course, was not easy. Isabel’s resolve appeared to be unshakable.
“But she does love me,” he thought, “and that’s half the battle.”
And since his love was more recent than hers, Camilo realized that the only way to solve the problem of that age difference was to show her that his love was more passionate and capable of still greater sacrifices.
He stopped at nothing to prove this. He braved wind and rain to visit her every day; he was a slave to her every desire, however small. If Isabel had expressed the childish wish to hold the morning star in her hand, he would very likely have found a way to bring it to her.
At the same time, he had stopped pestering her with letters and declarations of love. In his last letter, he said only:
“I will live in hope!”
This hope had to sustain him for many weeks, and still he saw no real improvement in his situation.
Some less demanding reader may find Isabel’s resolve odd, especially now that she knew her love was requited. I agree, but I do not wish to alter the character of my heroine, because she was exactly as I describe her in these pages. She felt that the fact that she was loved was pure chance, simply because the young man had happened to return from Paris, whereas she had spent long years thinking of him and living solely on that memory; she clearly found this thought humiliating, and because she was extremely proud, she had resolved not to marry him or anyone else. Absurd, maybe, but that is how it was.
Weary with vainly laying siege to the young woman’s heart, and convinced, on the other hand, that if he were ever to break her resolve, he had to demonstrate that his was an invincible passion, Camilo drew up a master plan.
One morning, he vanished from the farm. At first no one was concerned about his absence, because he often went for long walks when he woke earlier than usual. As time passed, though, they began to grow worried. Emissaries were sent out, but they returned with nothing to report.
His father was distraught, and news of his disappearance spread everywhere for ten leagues around. After five days of fruitless searching, they learned that a young man fitting Camilo’s description had been spotted half a league away, on horseback. He was alone and seemed very sad. A muleteer stated that he had seen a young man standing beside a river, as if assessing the likelihood of death were he to jump.
The comendador began offering large sums of money as a reward for anyone who brought him news of his son. His friends dispatched their servants to scour forests and fields, and a whole week passed with nothing to justify these useless labors.
Need I describe the lovely Isabel’s anguish when she was told of Camilo’s disappearance? At first sight, she seemed unmoved; her face revealed nothing of the storm that immediately broke in her heart. Ten minutes later, the storm had risen to her eyes and burst forth in a veritable sea of tears.
It was then that her father learned of that long-incubated passion. Seeing that explosion of grief, he feared that her love could prove fatal to her. His first thought was that the young man had disappeared in order to flee a forced marriage. Isabel reassured him, saying that, on the contrary, she had been the one to reject Camilo’s love.
“I killed him!” she cried.
Her kindly father found it hard to understand why a young woman in love with a young man, and a young man in love with a young woman, should do their best to remain apart, instead of heading straight for the altar, as he had done when he first fell in love.
After a week, our old acquaintance, the inhabitant of the cabin, came to find Dr. Matos, and arrived at his house breathless and happy.
“He’s safe!” he said.
“Safe!” exclaimed both father and daughter.
“It’s true,” said Miguel (for that was the man’s name). “I found him yesterday evening lying in a stream, almost drowned.”
“Why did you not come and tell us?” asked Dr. Matos.
“Because I needed to take care of him first. When he came to, all he wanted was to make another attempt to end his life, but my wife and I stopped him. He’s still a little weak, which is why he didn’t come with me now.”
Isabel’s face was radiant. A few silent tears still filled her eyes, but they were tears of joy, not sorrow.
Miguel left with the promise that Dr. Matos would come and fetch Camilo.
“Now, Isabel,” said her father, as soon as he was alone with her, “what do you intend to do?”
“I’ll do whatever you say, Father!”
“I will only tell you to do what your heart tells you to do. What does your heart say?”
“It says . . .”
“What?”
“It says yes.”
“Which is what it should have said a long time ago, because . . .”
He stopped and thought:
“What if there’s another reason behind this attempted suicide? I must find that out.”
When the comendador was informed of what had happened, he went straight to Dr. Matos’s house, where Camilo soon joined them. Written on the poor lad’s face was the shock of having escaped the tragic death he himself had sought; that, at least, is what he repeatedly told Isabel’s father on their way back to his house.
“But why were you so determined to kill yourself?” asked Dr. Matos.
“Well . . .” said Camilo, who had been expecting this question. “I hardly dare say.”
“Is it something to be ashamed of?” asked Dr. Matos, smiling benevolently.
“No, not at all.”
“So what was the reason?”
“Will you forgive me if I tell you?”
“Of course.”
“No, I daren’t say,” said Camilo resolutely.
“Look, there’s no point in lying. I know already.”
“Oh!”
“And I forgive your reasons for doing it, but not the act itself; that was pure childishness.”
“But she despises me!”
“No, she doesn’t. She loves you!”
Camilo gave a perfect imitation of someone taken completely by surprise, and accompanied the doctor back to his house, where he also found his father, who was uncertain whether to be stern with his son or as pleased as punch.
Camilo saw at once the effect his near-suicide had had on Isabel’s heart.
“Right,” said her father, “now that we’ve resurrected you, we need to attach you firmly to life with a good strong chain.”
And without any of the usual formalities and ignoring all the usual niceties, he announced to the comendador that their respective children must marry at once.
The comendador had not yet recovered from the news that his son had been found, and when he heard this, he could not have been more astonished had the whole Xavante tribe hurled themselves upon him armed with bows and arrows. He kept looking around at every
one present as if wanting to know the reason for something that required no explanation at all. Finally, he was told about the love between Camilo and Isabel, the sole cause of his son’s attempted suicide. The comendador approved of his son’s choice, and took gallantry so far as to say that, in the circumstances, he would have done just the same had the young lady spurned his love.
“Am I at last worthy of your love?” Camilo asked Isabel when he found himself alone with her.
“Of course!” she said. “If you had died, I would have died too!”
Camilo quickly added that Providence had been watching over him, although it was never quite clear what he meant by Providence.
It was not long before news of the outcome of this tragic episode had spread throughout the town and its environs.
The announcement of Camilo and Isabel’s forthcoming marriage drove Leandro Soares almost to the brink of madness. A thousand acts of vengeance rushed into his mind, each bloodier than the last; in his opinion, they were both vile traitors, and he must exact a solemn revenge on them.
No despot could ever have imagined more hideous torments than those dreamed up by Leandro Soares’s overheated imagination. The poor lover spent a whole two days and nights in pointless conjectures. On the third day, he decided to seek out his fortunate rival, throw his villainy in his face, and then kill him.
He armed himself with a knife and set off.
The happy bridegroom-to-be was leaving his house, unaware of the fate awaiting him, and imagining a life brimming with happiness and celestial delights. The thought of Isabel painted everything around him in a poetic rosy glow. He was completely immersed in these daydreams when he saw before him his former rival. Absorbed as he was in his own happiness, he had forgotten all about him, but he immediately grasped the danger he was in and prepared to face it.
Faithful to his self-imposed plan, Leandro Soares unleashed a litany of insults that Camilo listened to in silence. When Soares had finished and was about to put into practice the bloody conclusion, Camilo said:
“I’ve listened to everything you’ve said, and I ask you now to listen to me. Yes, it’s true that I’m going to marry Isabel, but it’s also true that she doesn’t love you. What, then, is our crime? Now, while you have been thinking only hateful thoughts about me, I have been thinking of your happiness.”
“Oh, have you?” said Soares with heavy irony.
“It’s true. I said to myself that a man of your talents should not be eternally condemned to act as a stepping-stone for the ambitions of other men; and then, when my father wanted to force me to become provincial deputy, I told him that I would accept the post only in order to give it to you. My father agreed, but there was still a certain amount of political resistance to overcome and, even now, I still have some way to go. A man who would do that for you does, I think, deserve a little gratitude, or at least a little less hatred.”
There are not, I believe, strong enough words in the human language to describe the look of indignation on Leandro Soares’s face. He flushed bright scarlet, and his eyes seemed to spit fire. His lips trembled as if they were quietly rehearsing a sufficiently eloquent insult to hurl at his fortunate rival. Finally, he managed to say:
“What you have done was quite villainous enough without stooping to mockery—”
“Mockery!” cried Camilo, interrupting him.
“What else would you call what you have just said? Gratitude indeed, when, after robbing me of my greatest, my only happiness, you offer me politics as some kind of compensation!”
Camilo managed to explain that it wasn’t a matter of compensation; he had come up with the plan because he knew of Soares’s political interests and thought that this would please him.
“At the same time,” he said gravely, “I also wanted to do a good service to the province, because, even if it cost me my life, I would never do anything that might prove detrimental to my province and my country. I was hoping to serve both province and country by putting you forward as a candidate, and I know that everyone would agree with me on that.”
“But you mentioned some resistance,” said Soares, fixing his adversary with an inquisitorial eye.
“Yes, but for purely political reasons, not because they’re opposed to you personally,” explained Camilo. “And what does that matter? Reason will prevail, as will the true principles of the party that has the honor of counting you among its members.”
Leandro Soares did not for a moment take his eyes off Camilo; an ironic, threatening smile played upon his lips. He studied him for a few seconds without saying a word, then again broke his silence.
“What would you do in my place?” he asked, and his ironic smile took on a truly menacing air.
“I would refuse,” said Camilo fearlessly.
“Ah!”
“Yes, I would refuse, because I have no political vocation. That’s not the case with you, though, for you do have such a vocation, as well as the support of the party throughout the province.”
“Yes, so I believe,” said Soares proudly.
“And you’re not alone in believing that, everyone says the same.”
Soares began pacing up and down. Was his mind filled with a tumult of terrible thoughts or was a glimmer of humanity demanding moderation in the kind of death he dealt his rival? Five whole minutes passed. Then Soares stopped pacing, stood face-to-face with Camilo, and asked bluntly:
“Will you swear one thing?”
“What’s that?”
“That you will make her happy.”
“I’ve already sworn as much to myself, and it will be my sweet duty to do so.”
“It would have been my duty, too, had fate not turned against me. No matter, I’m ready to do whatever is necessary.”
“And I know what a generous heart you have,” said Camilo, holding out his hand to him.
“Possibly, but what you do not know, what you cannot know, is the storm raging in my soul, the terrible pain that will go with me to the grave. A love such as mine will never die.”
He paused and shook his head, as if to drive away some baleful idea.
“What are you thinking?” asked Camilo.
“Don’t worry,” Leandro replied, “I’m not hatching any plots. I will resign myself to fate, and if I do accept the political candidacy you’re offering, it is only so as to drown in it the grief filling my heart.”
I’m not sure that this electoral remedy would cure every lover’s complaint, but in Soares’s heart it provoked a healthy crisis, which resolved itself in the patient’s favor.
Readers will already have guessed that Camilo had not, in fact, spoken up for Soares, but he immediately set about doing just that, as did his father, and he finally managed to have Leandro Soares included on the list of candidates to be presented to the electorate at the next campaign. Soares’s opponents, knowing the circumstances in which he had been offered the candidacy, took delight in repeating that he had sold his birthright for a mess of pottage.
Camilo had been married for a year when a French traveler came to his door. He brought with him letters of recommendation from one of his former teachers in Paris. Camilo received him gladly and asked for news of France, a country he still loved, he said, as his intellectual homeland. The traveler told him many things and finally produced from his bag a bundle of newspapers.
It was the Figaro.
“Ah, the Figaro!” cried Camilo, seizing the newspapers.
They were all out of date, but from Paris nonetheless. They reminded him of the life he had led for eight long years, and although he had no desire to change his present life for that other life, he felt a natural curiosity to revisit old memories.
In the fourth or fifth newspaper he came upon a piece of news that he read with horror:
The notorious Leontina Caveau, who claimed to be the widow of a certain Prince Alexis, a subject of the Czar, was arrested yesterday. The lovely lady (for she was lovely!), not content with deceiving a few unwary young men,
made off with all the jewelry belonging to a neighbor, Mlle. B. Fortunately, the victim complained to the police before the so-called princess could escape.
Camilo had just read this article for the fourth time when Isabel came into the room.
“Are you missing Paris?” she asked when she saw him reading the French newspaper.
“No,” said her husband, putting his arm around her waist, “I was missing you.”
LUÍS DUARTE’S WEDDING
ON APRIL 25, a Saturday morning, José Lemos’s house was in total uproar. The dinner service that was only used on special occasions was being brought out, stairs and hallways were being scrubbed, and suckling pigs and turkeys were being stuffed ready to be roasted in the baker’s oven across the road; there was no rest for anyone; something of great importance was about to happen.
José Lemos was in charge of sorting out the parlor. Perched on a bench, the worthy master of the house was attempting to hang the two engravings he had bought the day before from Bernasconi’s; one depicted The Death of Sardanapalus, the other The Execution of Mary Stuart. He and his wife were having a bit of a battle about where to hang the first engraving. Dona Beatriz thought it indecent, all those men embracing a lot of naked women. Besides, such gloomy subjects were hardly suitable for a celebration. José Lemos had been a member of a literary society in his youth, and replied loftily that these were historical paintings, and that history had a place in every family. He might have added that not every family had a place in history, but that little joke was in even poorer taste than the engravings.
Keys in hand, but not quite as disheveled as the lady in Tolentino’s famous satirical sonnet, Dona Beatriz was bustling back and forth between parlor and kitchen, issuing orders, chivying the slaves, gathering up clean tablecloths and napkins, and dictating shopping lists; in short, dealing with the thousand and one things that every mistress of the house has to deal with, especially on such an important day.