“No, we were talking . . .”
“Talking?” said Meireles, adding to himself: “Quarreling more like.”
“We were just about to have supper,” said Luís Negreiros. “Will you join us?”
“That’s why I came,” said Meireles. “I’m having supper here today and tomorrow too. I wasn’t invited, but no matter.”
“Not invited?”
“Isn’t it your birthday tomorrow?”
“Yes, that’s right . . .”
There was no apparent reason why, having said these words in the gloomiest of voices, Luís Negreiros should then repeat them, this time in an unnaturally cheerful tone:
“Yes, that’s right!”
Meireles was just about to leave the room and hang his hat on a hatstand in the hallway, but, instead, he turned and stared in alarm at his son-in-law, on whose face he saw a look of frank, sudden, inexplicable joy.
“The fellow’s mad!” he muttered.
“Let’s have supper,” roared Luís Negreiros, going inside, while Meireles, continuing down the hallway, made his way to the dining room.
Luís Negreiros went to fetch his wife, who was still in the sewing room, and he found her tidying her hair in front of a mirror.
“Thank you,” he said.
She looked at him, surprised.
“Thank you,” Luís Negreiros said again. “Thank you and please forgive me.”
He then tried to embrace her, but she proudly rebuffed him and went off to the dining room.
“Quite right too,” he murmured.
Shortly afterward, all three were sitting around the dining table, and when the soup was served, it was, inevitably, stone-cold. Meireles was about to launch into a diatribe about negligent servants, when Luís Negreiros confessed that it was all his fault that supper had been on the table for so long. This declaration only slightly changed the topic of conversation, which then became a lament about the horror of the warmed-up supper, echoing Boileau’s words: un dîner réchauffé ne valut jamais rien.
Meireles was a cheerful, jovial fellow, although possibly rather too flippant for a man his age, but he was, nonetheless, an interesting character. Luís Negreiros was very fond of him, and his affection was requited in a fatherly, friendly way, an affection that was all the more sincere considering that Meireles had only given him his daughter in marriage after much delay and some reluctance. They were courting for nearly four years, with Clarinha’s father taking more than two years to consider and resolve the matter of marriage. Finally, he gave his consent, swayed, he said, more by his daughter’s tears than by his son-in-law’s fine qualities.
What lay behind that long hesitation were Luís Negreiros’s rather loose ways, not that he had indulged in these during their courtship, but he had before and might do so afterward. Meireles was the first to admit that he himself had been a far from exemplary husband, which is why he felt he should give his daughter a better husband than he had been. Luís Negreiros gave the lie to all his father-in-law’s fears; the impetuous lion of his youth became a meek little lamb. Friendship blossomed between father-in-law and son-in-law, and Clarinha became one of the most envied young women in the city.
And Luís Negreiros deserved even more credit for this, because he did not lack for temptations. Sometimes the devil would get into one of his friends, who would invite Luís out to relive the old days. Luís Negreiros would always say that now he had found a safe harbor, he had no wish to risk setting sail again on the high seas.
Clarinha loved her husband dearly and was the sweetest, gentlest creature to breathe the Rio air of her day. There was never the slightest disagreement between them; the clear conjugal sky was always the same and looked set to stay that way. What evil fate had blown in that first dark cloud?
During supper, Clarinha said not a word, or only very occasionally, and then only briefly and abruptly.
“They’ve obviously quarreled,” thought Meireles when he saw his daughter’s stubborn silence. “Or perhaps she’s just sulking, because he seems happy enough.”
Luís Negreiros was indeed all gratitude, politeness, and sweet words to his wife, who would not even look at him. He inwardly cursed his father-in-law, longing to be left alone with his wife so that she could give him a full and final account of events that would restore peace between them. Clarinha did not appear to share this wish; she ate little and once or twice uttered a heartfelt sigh.
It was clear that, however hard they tried, supper could not be as it was on other evenings. Meireles felt particularly uncomfortable, not because he feared there was some serious problem, for he was of the belief that without the odd quarrel one could not truly appreciate happiness, just as one needs a storm to fully appreciate fine weather. Nevertheless, it always upset him to see his daughter sad.
When coffee was served, Meireles suggested that they all go to the theater. Luís Negreiros greeted the idea with enthusiasm. Clarinha refused point-blank.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with you today, Clarinha,” said her father somewhat irritably. “Your husband seems perfectly cheerful, but you seem depressed and worried. Whatever’s wrong?”
Clarinha did not answer, and, not knowing what to say, Luís Negreiros started making little balls out of the innards of what remained of a bread roll. Meireles shrugged.
“Well, you’ll just have to sort it out between you,” he said. “And even though tomorrow is a special day, if you’re both still in this same strange mood, you won’t see hide nor hair of me.”
“Oh, but you must come—” Luís Negreiros began, only to be interrupted by his wife bursting into tears.
The supper ended on that sad, distressing note. Meireles asked his son-in-law to tell him what was going on, and Luís Negreiros promised that he would do so on a more opportune occasion.
Shortly afterward, Meireles left, saying again that if they were in the same odd mood the following day, he would not be back, and that if there was one thing worse than a cold or warmed-up supper, it was one that gave you indigestion. This axiom was just as good as Boileau’s, but no one paid it any attention.
Clarinha went to her room, and her husband joined her as soon as he had shown his father-in-law to the door. He found her sitting on the bed, sobbing, a pillow pressed to her face. Luís Negreiros knelt before her and took one of her hands.
“Clarinha,” he said, “forgive me. I understand now. If your father hadn’t mentioned coming to supper tomorrow, it would never have occurred to me that the watch was your birthday present to me.”
I will not even attempt to describe the proud, indignant look on the young woman’s face when she sprang to her feet on hearing these words. Luís Negreiros stared at her, uncomprehending. She said nothing, but stormed out of the room, leaving her poor husband more confused than ever.
“What is this enigma?” Luís Negreiros was asking himself. “If it wasn’t a birthday present, then what other explanation can there be for that watch?”
The situation was the same now as it had been before supper. Luís Negreiros determined that he would find out the truth that night. He thought it best, however, to give the matter mature consideration before reaching any firm conclusion. With this in mind, he went to his study, and there went over everything that had happened since he came home. He coolly weighed up every word, every incident, and tried to recall the changing expressions on his wife’s face during the evening. The look of indignation and revulsion when, in the sewing room, he had tried to embrace her, that counted in her favor; but the way she had bitten her lip when he showed her the watch, her tears at the supper table, and, more than anything else, her silence as to where the wretched object had come from, all those things counted against her.
After much thought, Luís Negreiros tended toward the saddest and most deplorable of hypotheses. An evil idea began to drill its way into his mind, so deeply that, in a matter of moments, it had him entirely in its grasp. When the occasion called for it, Luís Negreiros could be very q
uick to anger. He uttered a few dark threats, then left his study and went to find his wife. Clarinha had gone back to her room. The door stood ajar. It was nine o’clock. The room was only dimly lit by a small lamp. She was again sitting on the bed, but not crying now; she kept her eyes fixed on the floor. She did not even look up when she heard her husband come in.
There was a moment’s silence.
Luís Negreiros was the first to speak.
“Clarinha,” he said, “this is very serious. Will you answer the question I’ve been asking you all evening?”
She did not reply.
“Think carefully, Clarinha,” he went on. “Your life could be at stake.”
She shrugged.
A dark cloud seemed to pass before Luís Negreiros’s eyes, and he grabbed his wife by the throat and roared:
“Answer, you devil, or you’ll die!”
“Wait!” she said.
Luís Negreiros drew back.
“Kill me,” she said, “but read this first. When this letter was delivered to your office, you had already left; at least that was what the messenger told me.”
Luís Negreiros took the letter, went over to the lamp, and was astonished to read these words:
My dear young master,
I know that tomorrow is your birthday, and so I’m sending you this small gift.
Nanny
And so ends the story of the gold watch.
POINT OF VIEW
I
TO DONA LUÍSA P., IN JUIZ DE FORA
Rio, October 5
COULD YOU JUST TELL ME who you asked to deliver those things I wanted? I can’t quite read the name in your letter, and there’s been no sign of him so far, whoever he is. Was it Luís?
I heard tell that you were coming to spend some time in Rio. I do hope so. You’d love it here, despite the heat, which has been tremendous. Today, though, the weather is perfect.
Or, if you’re not coming, I would love to visit you, but, as you know, Papa won’t leave his home comforts, and Mama hasn’t been well. I know she’d do anything to please me, but I’m not quite that selfish, even though it’s a big sacrifice, too, because, quite apart from getting together with my best friend, I’d be able to see if it’s true that there’s still no baby on the way. Someone told me there was, so why deny it?
I’ll send this letter tomorrow. Write soon and give my best wishes to your husband from me and from all of us.
Raquel
II
TO DONA LUÍSA
Rio, October 15
It took an age, but finally a long letter has arrived, well, long and short. Thank you for taking the trouble, and please do write again; I hate those little notes of yours, written in a rush, with your mind . . . where exactly? On that cruel husband who cares only about elections, or so I read the other day. I only write short letters when I don’t have much time, but when I have more than enough time, then I write long ones. Or am I stating the obvious? Forgive me if I am.
Those things I asked for arrived the day after my last letter. What would you like me to send you? I have some fashion magazines that came just yesterday, but there’s no one to deliver them. If you could arrange for someone to take them, I’ll also send you a novel I was given this week. It’s called Ruth. Do you know it?
Mariquinhas Rocha is going to be married. Such a shame! She’s so pretty and sweet, still such a child, and she’s getting married to some old man! Not only that, she’s marrying for love. I couldn’t believe it, and everyone says that her father and all her other relatives tried to dissuade her, but she was so insistent that, in the end, they gave in.
To be honest, he’s not what you’d call elderly; he is old, but he’s elegant, too, dapper, healthy, and good-humored; he’s always telling jokes and seems to have a kind heart. Not that I would ever fall for anyone like that. What kind of marriage can there be between a rose and an old wreck?
She’d be much better off marrying his son, who really does deserve a nice girl like her. They say he’s an utter ne’er-do-well, but you know I don’t believe in such things. Love can conquer even the most fickle of hearts.
It seems the wedding will take place in about two months, and I’ll definitely attend the funeral, I mean, wedding. Poor Mariquinhas! Do you remember our afternoons at school? She was the quietest of us all and always so melancholy. Perhaps she knew what Fate had in store for her.
Papa, however, warmly approved of her choice. He’s always saying what a sensible person she is and even says I should follow her example. What do you think? If I had to follow anyone’s example, it would be yours, Luísa, because you did choose well. Don’t show this letter to your husband, though, it might go to his head.
Are you really not coming to Rio? That’s a shame, because apparently an opera company is about to arrive, and Mama is feeling much better. All of which means that I can finally have some fun. Mariquinhas’s future stepson, the one she should have chosen over his father, says it’s a wonderful company, and regardless of whether it is or not, it will certainly be amusing. And there you are stuck in the countryside!
It’s suppertime. Write when you can, but no more of those microscopically small letters. Either a lot or nothing at all.
Raquel
III
TO DONA LUÍSA
Rio, October 17
I wrote you a letter the day before yesterday, and today, I’m adding a brief note (just this once) to tell you that apparently another young woman fell in love with Mariquinhas’s aging fiancé and became quite ill with despair. A complicated story. Can you understand that? If it were the son, yes, but the father!
Raquel
IV
TO DONA LUÍSA
Rio, October 30
You’re really very naughty. Just because I mentioned the fellow a couple of times, must you immediately go thinking I’m in love with him? As Papa would say: it shows a complete lack of logic. And, I would add, a lack of friendship too.
And I can prove it.
If I did develop a fondness, an affection, or whatever for someone, who would be the first to know? Why, you! Were we not each other’s confidante for all those years? Your thinking I would keep such a thing from you is evidence that you’re not my friend at all, because such unfair remarks could only have their basis in a lack of affection.
No, Luísa, I feel nothing for the young man, whom I hardly know. I only mentioned him as a point of comparison with his father; and if I were disposed to get married, I would definitely prefer the young man to the old, but that’s as far as it goes.
And don’t go thinking that Dr. Alberto (for that is his name) is anything special; he’s very handsome and elegant, but he has a rather pretentious air about him and seems somewhat mean-spirited. And you know how particular I am about such things. If I don’t find the kind of husband I want, then I will remain single for the rest of my days. I would prefer that to being chained to some dreadful boor, however stylish.
Nor would it be enough for him to have all the qualities I imagine a man should have for him to win my heart. There’s a fellow who’s been visiting us for a while now, and any other girl would be instantly captivated by his manners, but he makes not the slightest impression on me.
And do you know why?
The reason is simple; all the charm and all the supposed affection he lavishes on me, all the solemn compliments he pays me, do you know what they’re about, Luísa? It’s because I’m rich. So don’t worry, when the man heaven has destined for me finally appears, you will be the first to know. For the moment, I am as free as the swallows flying around outside the house.
And as revenge for your slanderous suggestion, I will write no more. Farewell.
Raquel
V
TO DONA LUÍSA
Rio, November 15
I’ve been ill for the last two days with a horrible cold I caught when leaving the theater, where I went to see a new play, highly praised and very dull.
Do you know who I saw the
re? Mariquinhas and her fiancé in their box, as well as her stepson, too, or, rather, her future stepson, if all goes to plan. She looked so happy chatting away to her fiancé! And you know, from a distance, in the gaslight, the old man looks almost as young as his son. Who knows, maybe she will be happy!
Many congratulations on the news that a little one is on the way. Mama sends her congratulations too. Luís will deliver a few fashion magazines along with this letter.
Raquel
VI
TO DONA LUÍSA
Rio, November 27
Your letter arrived while we were having breakfast, and I’m very glad I read it afterward, because had I read it before, I would never have finished breakfast. Who put such an idea in your head? Me, in love with Alberto? That is a joke in very bad taste, Luísa! The person who told you that story was clearly out to embarrass me. If you had met him, then I wouldn’t need to protest. I’ve told you about his good qualities, but, as far as I’m concerned, his defects far outweigh any such qualities. You know what I’m like; the slightest stain ruins even the purest white. He’s like a statue, yes, that’s the right word, because there is something rather stiff and sculptural about Alberto.
Ah, Luísa, the man heaven has destined for me has not yet arrived. I know this because I still haven’t felt inside me the tremor of sympathy that signals perfect harmony between two souls. When he does arrive, rest assured that you will be the first to know.
You will ask why, if I’m such a fatalist, I won’t admit the possibility of a husband who does not possess all the required qualities.
Well, you’re wrong.
God made me like this, and gave me this innate ability to recognize and love superior beings, and God will send a creature worthy of me.
And now that I’ve explained myself, allow me to scold you a little. Why listen to such calumnies? You’ve known me long enough now to set aside such senseless gossip. So why did you not do so?