When I agreed to marry you it was in the belief that you were a good man who could make me happy; but now that everything has come out, and now that we know that you were the person who wrote that article in The District Voice and who slandered our friends and insulted me, and since your habits give me no guarantee of a happy married life, you must, from today, consider everything between us at an end, for no banns have been published and no expenses incurred. And I hope, as does my mother, that you will have the decency not to visit our house or to pursue us in the street. I tell you all this on my mother’s orders, and remain
Your servant,
Amélia Caminha
João Eduardo stood stock still, staring foolishly at the wall lit by the street lamp, with his roll of wallpaper under his arm. Mechanically, he went back into the house. His hands were shaking so much that he could barely light the oil lamp. Standing by the table, he re-read the letter. Then he stayed there, burning his eyes on the flame of the lamp, filled by a chilling sense of immobility and silence, as if suddenly, with no warning, the whole world had become still and mute. He wondered where they would have gone to spend the night. Memories of happy evenings at the house in Rua da Misericórdia paraded slowly through his mind: Amélia working, head bent, and affording, between dark hair and white collar, a glimpse of her pale neck softened by the light . . . Then the idea that he had lost her for ever pierced his heart like the cold thrust of a dagger. Stunned, he clasped his head in his hands. What should he do? What should he do? Sudden decisions flashed momentarily inside him, only to fade at once. He wanted to write to her! To kidnap her! To go to Brazil! To find out who had revealed that he was the author of the article! And since that was the only practicable thing to be done at that hour, he ran to the office of The District Voice.
Agostinho was stretched out on the sofa, with a candle burning on a chair nearby, enjoying the Lisbon newspapers. The look of distress on João Eduardo’s face alarmed him.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘You’ve ruined me, you scoundrel!’
And without pausing for breath, João Eduardo accused Agostinho of having betrayed him.
Agostinho got up slowly and felt placidly in his jacket pocket for his tobacco pouch.
‘Don’t make such a fuss,’ he said. ‘I give you my word of honour that I did not tell a soul who wrote that article. Not that anyone asked me . . .’
‘Well, who was it, then?’ yelled the clerk.
Agostinho shrugged.
‘All I know is that the priests have been frantically trying to find out who wrote it. Natário came in one morning about a piece concerning a widow in need of charity, but he didn’t say a word about the article. Dr Godinho knew, go and see him! But what have they done to you?’
‘They’ve killed me,’ said João Eduardo bleakly.
He stood for a moment staring at the floor, utterly defeated, then left, slamming the door. He walked around the main square and wandered the streets until, attracted by the darkness, he headed for the road out to Marrazes. He was breathing hard and was aware of an unbearable dull pounding in his head; the wind was whistling in across the fields, yet he felt as if wrapped in a universal silence; occasionally, the full force of his misfortune would tear at his heart, and then the whole landscape seemed to tremble and the road ahead to turn to soft mud. By the time he had walked back to the Cathedral, the clock was striking eleven, and he found himself in Rua da Misericórdia, his eyes fixed on the dining room window, where a light was still burning; then a light appeared in Amélia’s bedroom too; she was probably going to bed . . . He was gripped by a furious desire for her beauty, her body, her kisses. He ran home and fell, utterly exhausted, onto his bed; then he was seized by a deep, indefinite longing for what he had lost and he cried for a long time, touched by the sound of his own sobbing, until he fell asleep, face down, an inert mass.
Early next morning, Amélia was walking down Rua da Misericórdia to the main square, when João Eduardo ambushed her.
‘I need to talk to you, Miss Amélia.’
She recoiled in fear and said, trembling:
‘You have nothing to say to me.’
But he stood before her, very determined, his eyes red as glowing coals.
‘I just want to say . . . About the article, it’s true, I did write the wretched thing, but you were driving me mad with jealousy . . . But what you said about me being a man of bad habits is pure lies. I have always been a decent man.’
‘Father Amaro knows all about you! Now please let me pass.’
Hearing the priest’s name, João Eduardo turned white with rage:
‘Oh, so it was Father Amaro, was it? The scoundrel! Well, let me tell you . . .’
‘Please let me pass!’ she said angrily and so loudly that a fat man in a cloak stopped to look at them.
João Eduardo drew back, doffing his hat, and she took shelter in Fernandes’ shop.
Then, in despair, he ran to Dr Godinho’s house. The previous night, in between crying fits, feeling utterly abandoned, he had thought about going to see Dr Godinho. He had worked for him as a clerk once, and since it was through him that he had got his present job with Nunes Ferral, and through his influence that he had secured the post in the district government office, he judged him to be a prodigal and inexhaustible fount of good fortune. More than that, ever since he had written the article, he had considered himself part of the editorial board of The District Voice and of the Maia Group; now that he was being attacked by the priesthood, it was clear that he should seek the strong protection of his boss, Dr Godinho, the enemy of all reactionary forces, the Cavour of Leiria, as the satirist Azevedo described him, rolling his eyes. And so, on his way to the yellow mansion, near the main square, where the doctor lived, João Eduardo felt abuzz with hope, glad to be able to take refuge, like a beaten dog, between the legs of that colossus.
Dr Godinho had already gone down to his office and, leaning back in his large yellow-studded armchair, staring up at the dark oak ceiling, he was taking one last blissful puff of his breakfast cigar. He received João Eduardo’s ‘Good morning’ majestically.
‘So what can I do for you, my friend?’
As always, João Eduardo felt intimidated by the tall shelves filled with grave folios, by the reams of legal documents, by the magnificent painting depicting the Marquês de Pombal looking out over the Tagus, driving away the English with the wave of an admonitory finger, and in a constrained voice he said that he had come in order to ask the good doctor for a solution to the misfortune that had befallen him.
‘Have you been in a fight? Has someone beaten you?’
‘No, sir, it’s about a family matter.’
He then launched into a prolix account of his story since the publication of the article; with great emotion, he read Amélia’s letter; he described his meeting with her that morning . . . And there he was, driven out of Rua da Misericórdia by the manoeuvrings of the parish priest! He might not be a graduate from Coimbra University, but it seemed to him that there should be laws against a priest who insinuated his way into a family, misled a pure young woman, used intrigue to make her break her engagement and assumed dominion over her in the home.
‘I don’t know, sir, but it seems to me there should be laws against it!’
Dr Godinho seemed most put out.
‘Laws?’ he boomed, smartly crossing his legs. ‘What laws do you think there should be? Do you want to sue the priest? Why? Did he hit you? Did he steal your watch? Did he insult you in the press? No. So what then?’
‘But, sir, he lied about me to the ladies! I have never been a man of bad habits, sir, never. He slandered me!’
‘Do you have witnesses?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Exactly.’
And resting his elbows on his desk, Dr Godinho declared that, as a lawyer, there was nothing he could do. The courts did not deal with such matters, with these moral dramas which, so to speak, took place in the bedroom . . . He could not
intervene as a man, as an individual, as plain Alípio de Vasconcelos Godinho, because he did not know Father Amaro or the ladies in Rua da Misericórdia . . . He regretted this because, after all, he too had been young once, he too had experienced the poetry of youth, and he too (alas!) had known the pain of heartbreak . . . But that was all he could do – feel regret. Why had João Eduardo given his affections to such an over-religious young woman in the first place?
João Eduardo broke in:
‘It isn’t her fault, sir. It’s the fault of that priest who is trying to lead her astray! It’s the fault of those rascally canons!’
Dr Godinho held up his hand severely at this and advised João Eduardo to take care when making such assertions. There was no proof that the priest had had any more influence in that household than any other skilful spiritual director. And with the authority bestowed on him by his age and by his position in the country, he recommended that João Eduardo should not, out of spite, spread accusations that would only serve to destroy the prestige of the priesthood, which was indispensable in any well-constituted society. Without it, everything would be anarchy and orgy!
And he leaned back, satisfied, thinking that he certainly had a way with words that morning.
But the concerned face of the clerk, who did not move from beside the desk, made him impatient, and so, picking up a volume of legal documents, he said sharply:
‘What more do you want, then, my friend? As you see, I cannot provide you with a remedy.’
João Eduardo retorted in a sudden rush of desperate courage:
‘I thought you might be able to do something for me . . . because I was, after all, a victim . . . All this comes from the discovery that I wrote that article. And we had agreed it would remain a secret. Agostinho didn’t tell anyone, and you were the only other person who knew . . .’
Dr Godinho started indignantly in his chair:
‘And what are you implying? Are you suggesting that I was the one who revealed the secret? Well, I didn’t . . . or, rather, I did; I told my wife, because in any well-constituted family, there should never be secrets between man and wife. She asked me, and I told her. But let’s just suppose that I did spread that rumour. One of two things is possible: either the article was a calumny, in which case I should accuse you of besmirching an honourable newspaper with a pack of defamatory lies, or it was true, in which case what kind of man are you to be ashamed of the truths you told, to be afraid to uphold in the broad light of day opinions that you wrote in the dark of night?’
João Eduardo’s eyes filled with tears. And confronted by that look of defeat, pleased to have crushed João Eduardo with the power and logic of his argument, Dr Godinho softened:
‘But let’s not quarrel. Let us talk no more of points of honour. One thing is certain, I sincerely regret the position you find yourself in.’
He offered him advice in a paternal, solicitous manner. He should not be too cast down; there were plenty more young women in Leiria, principled young women who were not under the sway of the priesthood. He should be strong and console himself thinking that even Dr Godinho – yes, even he – had suffered for love in his youth. He should shun the dominion of the passions, since that could prove prejudicial to him in any public career. And if he would not do so for his own sake, then do it for him, for Dr Godinho!
João Eduardo left the office, feeling angry and judging that he had been betrayed by the doctor.
‘This is happening to me,’ he muttered, ‘because I’m just a nobody, my vote doesn’t count in elections, I don’t go to Novais’ soirées, I’m not a member of the club. What a world! But if I had money . . .’
He was filled then by a furious desire to avenge himself on priests, on the rich, and on the religion that justifies them. With determined step, he returned to Dr Godinho’s office and half-opening the door, said:
‘Would you at least allow me to give vent to my feelings in the newspaper. I would like to write about this whole scandalous business and give those wretches the reply they deserve . . .’
Such boldness on the part of the clerk enraged Dr Godinho. He drew himself up in his chair and, ominously folding his arms, said:
‘Now you’re going too far, Senhor João Eduardo! Are you asking me to transform a newspaper of ideas into a mere scandal sheet? No, don’t hold back. Why don’t you ask me to insult the principles of religion, to belittle the Redeemer, to repeat Renan’s drivel, to attack the fundamental laws of the State, to defame the king, to scorn the institution of the family! Are you drunk, sir?’
‘Please, Dr Godinho!’
‘You must be drunk. Be careful, my friend, be very careful, you are on a very slippery slope. That way lies a complete loss of respect for authority, the law, for all things holy and for the home. That way lies a life of crime. And don’t you look at me like that. A life of crime, I say. I have twenty years’ experience in the courts. Get a grip on yourself, man! Restrain your passions. Good heavens! How old are you now?’
‘I’m twenty-six.’
‘Well, a man of twenty-six has no excuse having such subversive ideas. Goodbye, and please close the door behind you. And listen, don’t even think of sending another article to another newspaper. I won’t allow it, I who have always protected you. You just want to cause a scandal. Don’t deny it, I can see it in your eyes. Well, I won’t allow it! It’s for your own good, to save you from committing an evil act against society!’
He struck a grand pose in his chair, and repeated vigorously:
‘An evil act against society! Where do you gentlemen want to lead us with your materialism and your atheism? When you have destroyed the religion of our fathers, what do you have to put in its place? What? Show me!’
The embarrassed expression on João Eduardo’s face (who did not have to hand a religion with which to replace the religion of our fathers) provoked a cry of triumph from Dr Godinho.
‘You have nothing! You have mud to sling, you have, at most, empty words! But as long as I am alive, Faith and the Principle of Order will continue to be respected, at least in Leiria! You may fill the rest of Europe with fire and blood, but in Leiria you will not dare to raise your heads. I will be on guard in Leiria, and I swear to you that I will prove merciless!’
João Eduardo received these threats with bowed shoulders, without even understanding them. How could his article and the intrigues in Rua da Misericórdia produce social catastrophes and religious revolutions? Such severity defeated him. He was sure now to lose Dr Godinho’s friendship as well as his job in the district government office . . . He tried to placate him:
‘But surely, sir, you can see . . .’
Dr Godinho interrupted him with a grand gesture:
‘Oh, I see perfectly. I see that passion and vengeance are carrying you off along a fateful path . . . I only hope that my advice will hold you back. Now goodbye. And close the door. Close the door, man!’
João Eduardo left, feeling humiliated. What should he do now? That colossus, Dr Godinho, had driven him away with terrifying words. And what could he, a poor clerk, do against Father Amaro who had on his side the clergy, the precentor, the chapter of canons, the bishops, the Pope, the compact, close-knit class that rose before him like an awesome citadel of bronze reaching up to the sky? They were the ones who had made Amélia change her mind and write that letter, they were behind her harsh words. It was a plot by parish priests, canons and religious fanatics. If he could only drag her away from that influence, then she would soon revert to being the Amélia who used to embroider slippers for him and wait blushing at the window to see him pass by. The suspicions he had once nursed had vanished in the happy evenings spent together after they had decided to marry, when she would sit sewing by the lamp, talking about the furniture they would buy and the decorating work to be done in the house. She loved him then, he was sure. But what did that matter? They had told her that he was the author of the article, that he was a heretic and a libertine; and Amaro, in his pedantic tones, h
ad threatened her with Hell; the enraged Canon, all-powerful in Rua da Misericórdia because he contributed to the household expenses, had spoken to her sternly, and the poor girl, frightened, overwhelmed, with that terrifying pack of priests and religious fanatics whispering in her ear, had, poor thing, given in. She perhaps truly believed that he was a bad person. And at that hour, while he was out wandering the streets, rejected and unhappy, Father Amaro would be lounging, legs crossed, in the armchair in the sitting room in Rua da Misericórdia, jabbering away, master of the house and of Amélia! The scoundrel! And there were no laws to avenge him. And he could not even cause a scandal now that The District Voice was also closed to him.
He was then filled by a passionate desire to knock Father Amaro down with all the brute force of a Father Brito. But what would bring him far greater satisfaction would be a series of thunderous articles in a newspaper revealing the intrigues in Rua da Misericórdia, articles that would mobilise public opinion, fall like catastrophes upon Father Amaro, and force him, Canon Dias and all the others to be driven from São Joaneira’s house! Yes, Amélia, once free of those intriguers, would then surely run into his arms, weeping tears of reconciliation.
Thus he struggled to convince himself that ‘it was not her fault’; he remembered the months of happiness before the arrival of Father Amaro; he came up with natural explanations for the way she used to flirt with Amaro, and which had aroused in him desperate pangs of jealousy: it was just a desire, poor thing, to be pleasant to a guest, to a friend of Canon Dias, to keep him there to the advantage of her mother and the household! Besides, she had seemed so happy once a decision about their marriage had been taken. Her indignation at the article was clearly not entirely hers – it had been provoked in her by the parish priest and by those over-pious women. And he found consolation in the thought that he had not been rebuffed as a lover or a husband, but was merely a victim of the intrigues of the vile Father Amaro, who wanted his fiancée and hated him because he was a liberal. All this filled his soul with a wild rancour against Father Amaro; as he walked along the street, he racked his brain for some means of vengeance, letting his imagination roam freely, but he always came back to the same idea, another article of denunciation in a newspaper! He rebelled against his own evident weakness and vulnerability. If only he had some important figure on his side.
The Crime of Father Amaro Page 24
