“But I raised my daughter in the country and for the country,” the aunt interrupted.
“For the country? Who knows what children are brought up to be? My father had me destined for the priesthood, which is why I can manage a little Latin. You’re not going to live forever, ma’am. Your affairs are all a jumble. It could happen that Maria Benedita will be left destitute . . . I don’t mean destitute as long as one of us is alive, but isn’t it better to be prepared? It could even reach the point that if there were none of us left, she could earn a good living just by teaching French and piano. Just by knowing those things she’ll be in better circumstances. She’s pretty, as you were at her age, and she has outstanding moral qualities. She’s capable of getting a rich husband. Did you know that I’ve already got someone in mind, a proper person?”
“Oh, yes? Then is it French, piano, and love–making that she’s going to learn?”
“What do you mean, love–making? I’m talking about a secret thought of mine, a plan that I think is just right for her happiness and that of her mother … Because I’d ... Come now, Aunt Augusta!”
Palha seemed a bit mortified that the aunt’s tone had gone from harsh to dry. She was still resisting. But that night he gave her some good advice. The state of her affairs along with the possibility of a son–in–law with means overcame other arguments. The best sons–in–law in the country had linked up with other plantations, other prominent families with solid wealth. Two days later they reached a modus vivendi. Maria Benedita would stay with her cousin. They would go to the country from time to time, and the aunt would also come to the capital to visit them. Palha went so far as to say that as soon as the state of the market allowed, he would arrange a way to liquidate her holdings and bring her here. But the good lady shook her head at that.
It mustn’t be thought that all this was as easy as has been written. In practice, there were obstacles, vexations, longings, rebellions on the part of Maria Benedita. Eighteen days after her mother had gone back to the plantation, she wanted to visit her, and her cousin went with her. They spent a week there. The mother, two months later, came to spend a few days here. Sofia skillfully got her cousin accustomed to the amusements of the city: the theater, visits, walks, gatherings at home, new dresses, pretty hats, jewelry. Maria Benedita was a woman, even though a strange one. She liked things like that but she kept in mind, to herself, that as soon as she felt like it she’d break those ties and go to the country. The country would come to her sometimes in a dream or in wandering thoughts. After the first soirées, when she returned, it wasn’t the sensations of the evening that filled her soul, it was a longing for Iguafu. It became greater at certain times of day when house and street were completely quiet. Then she would fly off to the veranda of the old house where she drank coffee next to her mother. She would think about the slaves, the antique furniture, the pretty slippers sent her by her godfather, a wealthy plantation owner from Sao Joao d’El–Rei—and which had been left behind at home there. Sofia wouldn’t let her bring them.
The piano and French teachers were men who had a good knowledge of their fields. Sofia was especially fearful about telling them that her cousin was bothered by learning at so late an age, and she asked them never to talk about such a pupil. They promised not to. The piano teacher only mentioned the request to a few colleagues who found it amusing and recounted other anecdotes about their pupils. What was certain was that Maria Benedita was learning with singular ease. She studied hard, almost constantly, to such a point that her cousin herself thought it best to interrupt her:
“Take a rest, my dear!”
“Let me make up for lost time,” she answered, smiling. Then Sofia would invent outings at random in order to make her take a rest. Now to one neighborhood, now to another. On certain streets Maria Benedita wouldn’t waste her time. She would read signs in French and ask the meaning of new nouns, which her cousin sometimes couldn’t tell her as her vocabulary was limited to matters of clothing, salons, and flirtation.
But it wasn’t in those disciplines alone that Maria Benedita was making rapid progress. The person had become adjusted to the milieu much quicker than her natural taste and life in the country would have made one believe. She was already in competition with the other woman, even if there was an effrontery in it and a sort of strange expression that in a way gave color to all the lines and movements of her figure. In spite of that difference, it was certain that she was observed and noticed to such a degree that Sofia, who’d begun by praising her everywhere, didn’t disparage her now but would listen in silence when she was being praised. Maria Benedita spoke well—but when she was silent it would go on for a long time. She said they were her “moods.” She danced the quadrille lifelessly, which was the perfect way to dance it. She liked to watch the polka and the waltz very much. Sofia, imagining that it was out of fear that her cousin didn’t waltz or polka, tried to give her some lessons at home, all by themselves, with her husband at the piano, but her cousin always refused.
“That’s still a bit of your country shell,” Sofia told her once.
Maria Benedita smiled in such a strange way that the other woman didn’t insist. It wasn’t a smile of annoyance or of resentment or of disdain. Why disdain? In any case, what’s certain is that the smile seemed to come out of the blue. Not the least was the fact that Sofia polkaed and waltzed eagerly, and no one could cling better to her partner’s shoulder. Carlos Maria, who rarely danced, would only waltz with Sofia—two or three spins, he would say—Maria Benedita counted them one night: fifteen minutes.
LXIX
The fifteen minutes were counted on Rubião’s watch as he stood beside Maria Benedita, and she asked him what time it was at the beginning and the end of the waltz. The girl leaned over herself to take a good look at the minute hand.
“Are you sleepy?” Rubião asked.
Maria Benedita looked at him out of the corner of her eye. She observed his placid face where there was neither malice nor merriment.
“No,” she answered. “All I can say is that I’m afraid Cousin Sofia will want to go home early.”
“She won’t go home early. There’s no more excuse for her of climbing up to Santa Teresa since she lives nearby.”
In fact they both lived on Flamengo Beach now, and the ball was on the Rua dos Arcos.
It must be pointed out that eight months have passed since the beginning of the previous chapter, and a lot of changes have taken place. Rubião is a partner of Sofia’s husband in an import house on the Rua da Alfândega with the name of Palha and Company. It was the business that the latter had come to propose that night in which he found Dr. Camacho at the house in Botafogo. In spite of his being an easy mark, Rubião resisted for some time. It was asking a goodly amount of cantos from him. He didn’t understand business, he had no head for it. Besides, his personal expenses were already quite large. The investment had to be handled to bear interest and with some saving to see if it could recover its early vigor and health. The handling indicated for that aim wasn’t clear. Rubião couldn’t understand Palha’s figures, his estimates of profits, the price lists, customs duties, none of it. But the spoken language made up for the written. Palha spoke of extraordinary things. He advised his friend to take advantage of the occasion and put his money to work, multiply it. If he was afraid, it was different. He, Palha, would arrange matters with John Roberts, who was a partner in the firm of Wilkinson, founded in 1844, whose chief had returned to England and was now a member of Parliament.
Rubião didn’t give in right away. He asked for time, five days. He was freer with himself. But this time the freedom only served to confuse him. He calculated the funds expended, estimated the gap left in the capital left him by the philosopher. Quincas Borba, who was with him in the study, lying on the floor, chanced to lift his head and stare at him. Rubião shuddered. The supposition that the soul of the other Quincas Borba was in that one had never entirely left his mind. This time he noticed a tone of censure in
the eyes. He laughed. It was foolishness. A dog couldn’t be a man. Without thinking, however, he lowered his hand and scratched the animal’s ears in order to win him over.
Following reasons for rejection came others to the contrary. What if the deal showed profit? If it really did multiply what he had? He added to that the fact that the position was respectable and could be advantageous to him in the election when he would stand for parliament like the former head of the house of Wilkinson. Another even stronger reason was the fear of offending Palha, of seeming not to trust him with money when it was certain that a few days earlier he’d received back part of the old debt, and the remainder was to be repaid within two months.
None of these reasons was a pretext for the next. They were sufficient of themselves. Sofia only appeared at the end, not without having been there from the start, a latent, unconscious idea, one of the ultimate causes for the action and the only one that remained disguised. Rubião shook his head to get rid of it and stood up. Sofia (astute lady) withdrew into the man’s unconscious, respectful of his moral freedom, and left him to decide for himself that he would enter into a partnership with her husband, with certain safety clauses. That was how the corporation was formed. And that was how Rubião legitimized the frequency of his visits.
“Mr. Rubião,” Maria Benedita said after a few seconds of silence, “don’t you think my cousin is quite pretty?”
“Without taking anything away from you, yes.”
“Pretty and shapely.”
Rubião accepted the combination. They both followed the waltzing couple with their eyes as they moved across the salon. Sofia was magnificent. She was wearing a dark blue dress, very low-cut—for the reasons cited in Chapter XXXV. Her bare, full arms, with a tone of clear gold, were in harmony with her shoulders and breasts, just right in the gaslight of the salon. A diadem of artificial pearls, so well made that they matched the natural pearls that adorned her ears, which Rubião had given her one day.
Beside her Carlos Maria didn’t come off badly. He was a handsome young man, as we know, and he wore the same placid look he’d had at lunch with Rubião. He didn’t have the humble mannerisms or reverent bows of other young men. He bore himself with the grace of a benevolent king. If, however, at first sight he seemed only to be doing that lady a favor, it was no less certain that he went along proud at having by his side the most elegant woman of the evening. The two feelings are not contradictory. Both were based on the adoration the young man had for himself. So for him, Sofia’s contact was the reverence of a devotee. He wasn’t surprised at anything. If he woke up emperor one day he would only be surprised at how long it had taken for the position to have come his way.
“I’m going to take a little rest,” Sofia said.
“Are you tired or … bored?” her partner asked.
“Oh, only tired!”
Carlos Maria, regretful at having imagined the other possibility, was quick to eliminate it.
“Yes, I think you’re right. Why should you be bored? But I must say that you’re capable of making the sacrifice of dancing a little more with me. Five minutes?”
“Five minutes.”
“Not even a minute more? For my part, I could dance till eternity.”
Sofia lowered her head.
“With you, of course.”
Sofia went along with her eyes to the floor, not answering, not agreeing, not thanking him at least. It was probably nothing more than a gallantry, and gallantries customarily received thanks. She’d already heard similar words from him in the past that put her ahead of all women in this world. She’d ceased hearing them for six months—four that he spent in Petrópolis—two in which he didn’t appear. Lately he’d begun to frequent the house again, to pay her compliments like that, sometimes in private, sometimes in public. She went along. And they both went on in silence, silence, silence—until he broke it, telling her that the sea in front of her house had been pounding quite strongly the night before.
“Did you pass by?” Sofia asked
“I was there. I was on my way to Catete. It was already late, and I remember going along Flamengo Beach. The night was clear. I stayed there for about an hour, between the sea and your house. Could I wager that you were not dreaming about me? In any case, I could almost hear your breathing.”
Sofia tried to smile. He went on:
“The sea was pounding hard, it’s true, but my heart wasn’t pounding any less hard—with this difference: the sea is stupid, it beats without knowing why, while my heart knew it was beating for you.”
“Oh!” Sofia murmured.
With fright? With indignation? With fear? A lot of questions all at once. I’d wager that the lady herself couldn’t answer precisely, such was the commotion the young man’s declaration brought on in her. In any case, it wasn’t with disbelief. I can only say that the exclamation came out so faint, so muffled, that he barely heard it. For his part, Carlos Maria made a good job of dissembling in full view of the whole room. Neither before, nor during, nor after those words did his face show the slightest upset. It even had the trace of a caustic smile, the smile he used when mocking something. He looked as if he’d just produced an epigram. Nevertheless, more than one woman’s eye was peering into Sofia’s soul, studying the young lady’s somewhat bashful expression and her instantly fallen eyelids.
“I’ve upset you,” he said. “Hide it with your fan.” Sofia began fanning herself mechanically and raised her eyes. She saw that many people were staring at her, and she grew pale. The minutes moved along with the speed of years. The first five and then the second five took a long time. They were on the thirteenth. After that the hands kept pointing to another, and another. Sofia told her partner she wanted to sit down.
“I’ll leave you and withdraw.
“No,” she said quickly.
Then she added: “It’s a nice ball.”
“It is, but.”
“I want to take away the best memory of the evening. Any other word I hear now will be like the croak of a frog after the song of a beautiful bird, one of those birds you have at home. Where would you like me to leave you?”
“Beside my cousin.”
LXX
Rubião gave up his seat and accompanied Carlos Maria as he crossed the room and went into the anteroom where the coats were kept and some ten men were chatting. Before the young man went into the room, Rubião took him by the arm in a familiar way to ask him something—it didn’t matter what—but really to hold him back and try to sound him out. He was beginning to believe possible or real an idea that had been tormenting him for several days. Now that extended conversation, her behavior …
Carlos Maria hadn’t taken notice of the long passion of the man from Minas. It was guarded, suffering, unable to be confessed to anyone—hoping for the rewards of chance—content with little, with the simple sight of the person, sleeping poorly at night, supplying money for business operations… Because he wasn’t jealous of her husband. The intimacies of marriage had never aroused hatred against her legitimate spouse in him. And that was how months and months had passed, with no change in feeling or any end of hope. But the possibility of an outside rival had got him all upset. This is where jealousy took a bloody bite out of our friend.
“What is it?” Carlos Maria asked, turning around.
At the same time, he entered the anteroom where the ten men were talking politics, because this ball—I neglected to mention—was being given at Camacho’s house in honor of his wife’s birthday. When the two of them went in, the conversation was generalized, the subject the same, and everyone was talking at the same time—a swirl of comments, diverse statements … One of them, a doctrinaire person, succeeded in dominating the others as they fell silent for moments, smoking.
“They can do anything they like,” the doctrinaire man was saying, “but moral punishment is certain. The debts of the parties will be paid with interest down to the last penny and to the last generation. Principles never die. Parties that
forget that end up in filth and ignominy.”
Another balding man didn’t believe in moral punishment and was saying why. But a third mentioned the dismissal of some tax collectors and tempers, dizzy with doctrine, became aroused. The tax collectors had no other faults except their beliefs. And the action couldn’t even be defended by the worthiness of their replacements. One of those had an embezzlement on his shoulders, another was the brother–in–law of a certain marquis who’d taken a shot at the chief of police in São José dos Campos … And the new lieutenant–colonels? Real jailbirds.
“Are you leaving so soon?” Rubião asked the young man when he saw him take his coat out from among the others.
“Yes, I’m tired. Help me straighten out this sleeve. I’m tired.”
“But it’s still early. Stay. Our friend Camacho doesn’t want the young men to leave. Who’s going to dance with the young ladies?”
Carlos Maria replied, smiling, that he wasn’t all that fond of dancing. He’d waltzed with Dona Sofia because she’s an expert at it. If it weren’t for that, not even with her. He was tired. He preferred his bed to an orchestra. And he held out his hand languidly. Rubião shook it, half uncertain.
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