Her Mother's Mother's Mother and Her Daughters

by Maria José Silveira

  With such characteristics, when her daughter turned thirteen and asked to go live at her cousins’ house because she wanted to live in the capital, Açucena was not especially surprised. By nature, she was the sort of mother who never intended to rule over her children’s lives: in fact, she thought that anything was possible, and made no judgments, everything had a right to happen beneath the sun, a belief that certainly played into her own longevity. She merely looked deep into her daughter’s eyes and said: “If this is what you want, my daughter, very well, follow your path in peace.”

  Diana América arrived at the home of her uncle Teófilo Ambrósio, who had become the family patriarch and had promised his grandfather, Alencar, to always care for Jacira’s family whenever they should need it.

  Dom Teófilo not only understood, but admired his grandfather’s dedication to the memory of his younger sister and his determination to repair the injustice that had been done to her. Like his grandfather and later his father before him, he too seemed not to comprehend that Jacira and her family had, by themselves, returned order to their lives and in fact needed neither the Ambrósios’ condescension or protectionism. Convinced by his own power, pride, and will, Alencar had believed that the Ambrósios were responsible for their cousins and had instilled that same belief in his family. And only this belief, which owed much more to blind arrogance than reality, was capable of explaining the great effort they put into their task.

  Diana eventually filled them with considerable regret for their concern, but at the beginning she was warmly received by her uncle and his family. She immediately began her studies with her cousins’ French tutor, and she adapted to the festive and high-spirited rhythm that defined the lives of the wealthy during the Empire.

  Rio de Janeiro was, at that time, the great slave trading port of the Americas, with the highest concentration of slaves in the world since the Roman Empire. It was, in some sense, an African city, a black city. Barefoot slaves filled the streets to perform their daily tasks; during working hours, few whites had something to do in the streets, and even those who weren’t sufficiently wealthy to own several slaves had at least one or two they rented out to others to earn a living that way. Leisure was a refined virtue cultivated by the whites and a sign of status and prestige, since if work was done by slaves, then work, by definition, was beneath them, a necessary evil that—thank God!—was the domain of black people. The repulsion Brazil’s slave society had toward work was noted by every foreigner who arrived in the country.

  Despite all this, Rio was the remarkable city it always had been, with its mountains, sea, and dazzling light. It was a festive city, energetic, bustling, with soirées, parties, and balls—everything possible happened there in the capital of the Empire.

  From the beginning, Diana captivated the Ambrósios with her musical skill (she had inherited her family’s perfect pitch) and practically took the gorgeous grand piano, somewhat abandoned in the living room, for her own. For some time, she showed her tender, sensible side, and soon learned all the necessary manners of an elegant mademoiselle in Rio society, três charmante. She would go on outings with her girl cousins in the elegant coaches with a driver and a valet dressed in charcoal livery with red trim. They made their way down the raucous Rua do Ouvidor buying dresses imported from France, bien sûr, girdles and silver petticoats to make their skirts more voluminous, white shawls from China and mother-of-pearl fans that had arrived on the dernier bâteau. These were necessary so that the girls could prance about at court balls and other musical soirées throughout the city, where the piano-playing talents of the “Ambrósio niece” came under increasing demand.

  Diana was truly an exceptional pianist. At the age of five, she was already playing several songs on the small upright piano belonging to her uncle Mariano, her first teacher. In Rio, with the opportunity to approach her studies more methodically, she quickly grew into a respected musician at the salons and was considered one of the most original performers, with a whimsical, memorable style. She was even invited to play at a concert of non-professional musicians sponsored by Emperor Dom Pedro II and the young Princess Isabel, her same age, who gave her enthusiastic applause.

  Diana’s first few years in Rio were spent in complete awe. Given her restless temperament, however, she wanted more. She wanted to take advantage of the best of everything she knew, enjoying the luxury of her uncle’s lifestyle without renouncing the liberty afforded by her mother’s. It wasn’t long before disagreements with her uncle and his family began to crop up, but Dom Teófilo, in his role as family well-doer, sought to tame as best he could what he saw as the young girl’s rebellious streak and which, in his eyes, confirmed that the other side of the family required his steady hand.

  A rupture, however, became inevitable, and for a rather good reason. Everything has its limit, after all, and when Diana became pregnant after meeting a young English student on holiday in Rio, it was the last straw. Her uncle told her that if she did not marry she could not have her child there, having a child out of wedlock would bring shame upon the family, something that was completely unacceptable in polite society. But marriage was the last thing on the minds of Diana and the young Englishman, who, frightened at the passion of those exotic people, took the first ship back home.

  Diana also went back home, where she gave birth to her son, Dionísio Augusto, at Açucena’s side. But it didn’t take long for her to see she didn’t like her new role caring for a child. She spent days exhausted, refusing to leave her bed, in what may have been her first bout of neurasthenia. She missed the exciting life in Rio and wanted to hear again—oh, how she wanted to hear it!—the pure tone of that grand piano. The upright piano that had belonged to Uncle Mariano, and had been hers as a child, now seemed to emit a tinny sound, with no force, no luster. She dreamed of going to Europe, where she would meet great composers and learn what could not be self-taught.

  In Rio, Dom Teófilo, a fervent and sincere devotee of music, missed hearing her play. He also missed the prestige of having a talented niece to show off in the salons of the court. When Princess Isabel herself, greeting him at a soirée, asked after Diana and expressed her eagerness to hear her play once again, Teófilo Ambrósio resolved to forgive his niece. He sent her a conciliatory message, offering to welcome her back, as long as she did not bring the child. He imposed other restrictions as well, but promised to send her to study in Europe, as soon as her instructor thought her ready for such an undertaking.

  Diana accepted his offer, but during this second stay at the Ambrósio mansion, she was already quite changed. Her radiance and vivacity appeared somewhat diminished, perhaps the result of motherhood, perhaps because she lived so far from her son. This despite her decision, which she made rather lightly, to leave him with Açucena. She considered him not so much a bastard son, but a younger brother, beyond her responsibility.

  She buckled down on her piano lessons, and was no longer as enthusiastic about strolls through town or grand balls. Her piano instructor, meanwhile, an elderly German woman of an inflexible seriousness and an eagle-like appearance, possessed a tyrannical mastery of classical piano and was incapable of understanding or appreciating, much less accepting, her student’s heterodoxy. Diana played with great originality, in plain opposition to her instructor’s orthodox approach; inevitable, then, were the increasingly frequent disagreements between strict instructor and undisciplined student, whom she was supposedly there to help spread her wings. The result of this tension, beyond the stream of tears that fell from Diana’s eyes like waterfalls, was the permanent delay of her teacher’s approval for her trip to Europe.

  The photo she had taken in a photographer’s atelier on the Rua do Ouvidor dates back to this time. Her entire body is in frame, as was common in those years to accentuate women’s fine attire, her hand resting on the back of a chair. She appears young, elegant, très jolie, but those who look closely can inevitably see in her eyes an undisguisable dejection, something that appears to be co
nsuming her from within.

  There is another photo, taken a short time before, of the entire family, shot by a photographer whom Dom Teófilo called into their home. Pictured are her uncle and his wife, Dona Carolina, their two daughters, Isidra and Irismara, both a bit younger than Diana, along with four slave women posing in the corners. Dom Teófilo’s three sons do not appear in the photo, since they were already married, lived in their own houses, and were not present at the time. There are many other portraits of the entire family; it was a craze at the time to leave visual records for posterity using this new and revolutionary technology. Photography was admired by all, even the emperor, who had imported a similar contraption to take his own daguerreotypes. But in the photos restricted to the family, Diana is absent.

  There is yet a third photo of Diana, taken many years later, when she was already married. She is sitting on a stool in front of her Essenfelder grand piano—this instrument truly all hers, a wedding gift from her husband. The photo is not dated and so it’s impossible to know exactly when it was taken. It may very well be an effect of the technology at the time, when it was necessary for subjects to hold their pose for a minute and a half to obtain a perfectly in-focus photograph, but the fact of the matter is that Diana, her hands resting on her lap instead of on the keys of her magnificent piano, wears a gaze full of nearly unbearable sadness: it is an extraordinarily beautiful photo, but no one can look at it for long without averting his eyes from that disturbing, melancholic abyss.

  Dom Teófilo’s wife, Carolina, was the first to suspect that Diana’s unstable emotions, her crises of reclusion in her bedroom, her refusal to come out for days at a time, were perhaps not solely the fruit of her niece’s rebellious spirit. She had always thought her niece very thin, tending to eat little and poorly when she did. Dona Carolina dedicated herself to her house and her children, and Diana’s temperament and emaciated figure concerned her a great deal, especially because she worried they might be contagious. For that reason, she paid close attention to her niece’s moods and frequently sent her to the family doctor, who mostly prescribed rest and fortifying tonics.

  It was Dona Carolina who asked Diana one day if she didn’t want to visit her mother to deliver a tiny mother-of-pearl jewelry box that had belonged to the family of Dom Teófilo’s great-grandmother, Clara Joaquina. Her daughters thought the old jewelry box very ugly, but she couldn’t bring herself to throw it away. Diana agreed; she would take the jewelry box to Açucena. Subject to brief health crises, her piano playing had suffered as a result, and Diana had come to realize that her dream of studying in Europe was, even more so now than before, nothing more than a chimera.

  Back when she had returned to Rio for a second time, it was her uncle’s intention to marry her with one of his relations—his two daughters were already betrothed—but Diana had absolutely no interest in suitors. Unaccustomed to having his wishes and orders contested, he found his niece increasingly difficult and, may her father forgive him, there were many occasions in which he did not refrain from expressing his regret for having taken her in a second time. With the country at war with Paraguay, her uncle, engrossed in new business ventures, seemed to have less time for family life. Even if he had been able to devote more time to reigning in Diana, she had stopped listening to him some time ago. She wanted to stay in Rio and so she would stay, n’importe quoi.

  The city was electric. The cafés along the Rua do Ouvidor were awhirl with news, and Diana had begun to frequent them without her cousins, who were barred by their father from doing so. She began to form friendships with people beyond the Ambrósios’ circle. Thrilling reports began to arrive from the front, along with the debate over freeing the slaves to fight in place of their owners, and the murmurs surrounding a conscription law. There were also discussions around literature and the arts. There was music, and excitement in the air. Poets recited their poems, composers performed their music.

  It was in one of those cafés that Diana met the young Hans G., a poet with gleaming green eyes and wild hair as blond as wheat. He cut a sharp figure and looked possessed each time he climbed onto the table to recite his translations of poems by Goethe and Schiller, in addition to his own compositions.

  Diana could barely contain her ecstasy and delight when she saw him for the first time, that blond Adonis standing on the table, showered in applause, who seemed to recite his poems for her alone, his eyes fixed on her, his words a bridge that would forever tie him to her. It was then she first told herself what she would later tell him over and over, consumed with ardor: “You’re absolutely sublime, Hans! Absolutely sublime!”

  That night, he climbed down from the table and walked straight over to her:

  “May I ask your name, senhorita?”

  “Diana.”

  “Like the goddess.”

  “Like me.”

  A mysterious man, Hans spoke little of himself. He was certainly younger than she, though Diana never managed to learn his exact age; even putting together everything she managed to find out about him, she never found a precise answer. His parents had immigrated to the southern state of Rio Grande do Sul, and were part of a group known as the German Legion, invited by the Brazilian government to come to Brazil. This group included intellectuals, professors, and journalists who had participated in the Revolution of ’48 in Germany, even going straight to the front lines, where Hans’s father was wounded and nearly died. But Diana didn’t even known his full name—she only knew him as Hans G., since that’s how he signed his poems and introduced himself to everyone. At the age of thirteen he’d left his family in the south and had been trekking around the country ever since. He was merely passing through Rio, as he would always do in life. He had told her from their very first meeting that his destiny was to write and know the world, this portent of unimaginable wonders, with its battles and glories, its comedies and tragedies, its heaven and its hell.

  The two of them lived in rapt ecstasy for a period that, at least to Diana, seemed to pass much too quickly. When Hans told her the time had come for him to leave, she implored him to stay a bit longer or else let her depart with him. But Hans was resolute as only the very young can be. With his steady green eyes and his hair fluttering in the wind, he desired to move on, tossing his black cloak between his body and Diana’s, and he was clear:

  “I don’t want to stay and I can’t take you with me. I’ve always said this was my life, that it was my destiny to be solitary, a wanderer and adventurer. Just me and my poetry. There’s no room for anyone else at my side. Not even for you, sweet Diana. Farewell.”

  These words were daggers that Hans’s green eyes shot mercilessly into Diana’s impassioned heart. When she discovered soon thereafter that she was once again pregnant, she didn’t have the energy to even think about what to do. She gave up life in the cafés. She gave up the piano. She gave up her dream of studying in Europe once and for all.

  This was the ideal moment for Teófilo Ambrósio to take control of his niece’s life. A friend, Caetano Acioli da Fonseca, a partner with the English on various enterprises in Brazil, had always been in love with the young pianist and had already requested her hand in marriage several times. A widower several years her senior, he presently agreed, as though it were a mission, to marry her and assume paternity for the unborn child. He was a solitary man, without children, and was gratified at the possibility of having the young woman he loved and her child at his side.

  Diana let herself be swept up by events.

  Soon after the birth of her daughter, whom she named Diva Felicia, she had another attack, much worse than earlier ones, and suffered from intense fatigue. She couldn’t sleep at night, had little appetite, and spent her days practically locked in her bedroom with the curtains drawn, because she couldn’t stand the sunlight and the noise coming from the street and the rest of the house. Her slow movements and speech, her extremely pale complexion, all attested to her deep exhaustion. She was diagnosed with neurasthenia and recommended total
bed rest as treatment.

  From that point on, for several years, Diana spent a good part of her time at a clinic in the mountainside town of Teresópolis. Those were times when she didn’t even have the energy to visit her mother’s house. Only when she finally began to recover did she go and complete her convalescence in Açucena’s mountainside home. It was there that she managed to recover and summon the strength to return to Rio and try to pick up the pieces of her previous life.

  The pieces of her previous life.

  They weren’t many. But among them was the Women’s Abolitionist Club.

  In the time when she had frequented the cafés on the Rua do Ouvidor, Diana had begun to take part in club meetings, and this was one of the activities she picked up whenever she returned to Rio; there, she felt useful, and was invigorated by the small risk she sometimes thought she ran. The women distributed manifestos against slavery, organized small parades with speeches in public squares, and, to raise funds to purchase the freedom of slaves, they organized artistic shows that featured Diana’s piano playing as their grand attraction.

  But in fact, it was her participation in a more secretive venture that brought the color back to her face: a clandestine network that supported and aided the escape of slaves, arranging for documents, transport, and information that could neutralize any plans for their pursuit and recapture.

  Her husband, Caetano Acioli, was an ally of the British and had long defended the necessity of a free labor force so that Brazil could transform itself into a new country, more prosperous and more closely aligned with European ideals. Being the last country in the world clinging to slavery was a shameful designation he sought to erase from our history. He knew of his wife’s abolitionist activities, but did not investigate the matter much; notwithstanding his own convictions, he surely would have judged much of what she did—even setting aside the clandestine network of which, evidently, he hadn’t the slightest clue—as hardly appropriate to a woman of her standing. He knew all too well, however, that attempts to curb Diana’s wishes would be fruitless; besides which, what he most desired was to see a bit of vitality in his wife’s features, and for this the abolitionist club and the piano were the best medicine.