The Yellow Sofa

by José Maria De Eça de Queirós

‘Is this where Senhor Alves lives?’

  It was the pie, the ham, the country cheese—all the good things he had bought. A spasm of grief gripped his heart. He had to hold on to the banister to avoid falling. The youth looked at him in astonishment.

  ‘Is it from Mata’s?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied the youth, terrified by this gentleman who seemed so unwell.

  Godofredo murmured ‘Go up and knock.’ And he stood listening. He heard the youth ring, the door open, then Margarida’s voice from within, saying:

  ‘It’s a boy bringing a pie, madam.’

  He went down the stairs four at a time—but down below, remembering the deep decorum of the staircase, he tried to calm down, buttoned up his jacket, passed his hands over his face, got ready to pass his neighbours, and went out, with that air of solid prosperity which had made him so much respected in the neighbourhood.

  3 By good fortune, at the door of the nearby grocer’s shop stood a Galician who sometimes ran errands for him and knew his father-in-law’s house. He handed him the letter, telling him to deliver it in person and not to wait for a reply. And as he knew the good reputation of the grey-haired Galician in his service to the neighbourhood, he added:

  ‘Take care, in your own hand, there’s money in it. . . a bank note.’

  The old man put the letter inside his shirt, next to his heart.

  And then Alves set himself, at a distance, to track the letter. He watched the man go into his father-in-law’s apartment, a shabby four-storey tenement, with a second-hand shop beneath it. Neto lived at the top, with a balcony on which there stood a bowl of flowers. For an eternity, he went on watching the entrance from a distance. But the Galician did not come down and he began to fear that his father-in-law might not be at home. If he were to return later, after dining out, there would be no sign of him until late at night. In that event, what ought he to do? Roam the streets in the hope that his wife would have departed? This thought gave him an awful feeling of desolation and confusion, as though the proper order of things had come to an end forever. Suddenly, he saw the Galician; he had handed over the letter to Senhor Neto, and immediately come down, without waiting. Feeling relieved, Alves went on walking aimlessly; and bit by bit his steps took him by the daily route towards his office. He went down the Chiado; in Gold Street, he paused for a moment to look at a pistol in the Lebreton shop window, and the thought of death crossed his mind. But he did not want to think about that now, nor about his duel. Soon, when he went home at seven o’clock and found the place empty, he would certainly think about the duel, about settling accounts with the other man. So he went on walking, aimlessly. For a moment he considered going to the Public Promenade, but he was fearful of meeting Machado there. He went through Black Horse Square, along the Aterro, almost as far as Alcantara. He moved like a sleep-walker, noticing neither the people who jostled him nor the beauty of the summer evening, dying in the splendour of living gold. He was thinking of nothing in particular, in his mind there was a jumble of ideas, with all manner of things passing through it—memories of his courtship of Ludovina, days taking walks with her, but then. . . the way she had been lying with that man’s arm around her and the port wine before them! Insistently, bits of her letters came back to him—‘My angel, why shouldn’t I have had a child by you?’ That was precisely what she had said to himself, at night, in the warmth of their bed, with their lips together. Now he was glad not to have had a son from that shameless woman!

  It got darker; he considered going home. Extreme fatigue gripped him, brought on by the extreme excitement, the long walk in the sultry air of the July day. He went into a café, drank a large glass of water, and stayed seated with his head resting against the wall, surrendering to the pleasure of his brief rest in semi-shade.

  Warm twilight enveloped the city. After the day’s extreme heat, all the open windows were inhaling the air, one after another lights were coming on, people were to be seen passing by, overcome by the heat, hat in hand. And he had a small feeling of pleasure in the shade and restfulness; it seemed that his pain was lessening, dissolving in his bodily inactivity, in the shadows of nightfall. And there came over him a wish to stay there for ever, with the lights unlit, never needing to move or take a single step. The thought of death took hold of him, tranquil and insinuating, like a caressing breath. He truly wanted to die. In the state of collapse into which his body had fallen, all the bitter experiences which he must yet endure—the cruelties that he had had to suffer, the return to the lonely house, the encounter with Machado, the steps to be taken in arranging for seconds—all seemed like giant forces, intolerable rocks which his feeble hands would never be able to lift. It would be delightful to lean his head against that wall, to stay there on that bench—dead, liberated, freed from pain, having departed from life like the peaceful silence of a light extinguished. For a moment, he thought about suicide. The idea of killing himself did not terrify him or make him tremble. But to search for a weapon, to move a step and throw himself into the river, such steps would be repugnant to him in the complete failure of his willpower. He would have liked to die where he was, without moving. If a word, an order given within himself, would suffice to put an end to him, he would calmly say that word. . . And perhaps she would weep, perhaps feel his loss. . . But what about the other man?

  At that thought, his resolve returned—a flicker of energy, still faint, yet sufficient to allow him to get up, go on with his walk. Yes, Machado would be content if he were to disappear for ever, that very night. His feeling would be one of complete relief! For a day or so, he might behave as though he felt sorry, might even really feel upset. But then his life would go on; the firm would become Machado & Co. Machado would go on having other mistresses, go to the theatre and wax his moustache. . . That was it! It was the other who had caused the destruction of a beautiful happiness, he was the one who ought to die. It was Machado who ought to disappear, Machado who ought to be killed. That indeed would be more just.

  And then matters would be different; the firm would go on being Alves & Co., later he would be reconciled with his wife and life would continue, peaceful and calm. . . That was how it ought to be. If God looked first at one, then the other, weighing up the merits and the faults of each, He ought to make Machado disappear, inspire in him the thought of suicide!

  And so, out of these absurd fancies, balancing each other in his troubled spirit—his own suicide, the suicide of the other man—an idea emerged, like a lightning flash between two dark clouds, clear in all its details, an idea that seemed just, attainable, the most appropriate, the only worthwhile course: to put it to Machado that one of them should commit suicide!

  At that moment, something familiar about the houses past which he was walking made him realise that he had unthinkingly come back to his own door. Entirely absorbed with the thought of Ludovina, he stopped and stared at the house. With the gas lamp in front, the clean respectability of its blue-painted façade made a break between two tall buildings. On his own floor, all was shut up, in darkness behind green venetian blinds. Would she still be there? Would her father have come and fetched her? And a dreadful worry made his heart beat quickly. For an instant, he wanted her to be there, he thought of forgiveness, so much did the sight of those blind windows terrify him. And yet he felt that, confronting her, he would be cold, constrained. . . No, it would be better if they never saw each other again!

  Curiosity then drew him to his father-in-law’s house, at the end of the street. There the tall building stood, neglected, dirty. On the third floor, his father-in-law’s, the open windows were drawing in the coolness of the evening, but no light was to be seen. Neither of the silent façades gave him any answer or took away his dreadful feeling of unease.

  He went back home, pushed open the door. The carpeted staircase was asleep under the warm light of the gas lamp, and the muffled sound of his own steps seemed to echo through a deserted, hollow place. From the upper floor came the sound of a piano, sounding solem
n, something from Faust. The people up above were happy, they were playing the piano!

  The cook came to open the door and at once something in her manner told him that Ludovina had gone. In the dining-room, on the oiled tablecloth, a candle was burning. He took it and went into the bedroom. At once he noticed the locked suitcase and the trunk. But around the room there were still things of hers: by the bed were her slippers and spread out over the chaise-longue the white negligee she had worn that morning. And other things had been left: glass bottles on the dressing-table, and a wooden image of the Virgin to which she was greatly attached.

  He put down the candle on the dressing-table and saw his own face reflected in the mirror—pale, haggard, staring at him with a look of devastation and abandon.

  Uncertainly, he took up the candle and went into the drawing-room. There was still the appearance of disaster; the foxskin rolled to one side; on the table, opposite the sofa, the bottle of port; and on the edge of a plate, the stub of Machado’s cigar. Faced with that cigar end, a deep anger seized him. He felt as though he was being battered by a strong iron fist. He shuddered as though from a deep insult and swore that he would be iron-hard, unforgiving, that he would himself send the luggage away, and would see the other man dead at his feet. . . or die himself!

  Nevertheless, he forthwith decided to resist that disturbed, anxious feeling. He wanted orderliness to hold sway in his spirit, everything in the house to resume its air of regularity and calmness. She had gone; her luggage should go after her, that very night! Henceforth, he would be a widower, yet the routine of the household would continue, without disorder, serenely.

  Quickly he called out for Margarida: ‘Well, is no one to dine in this house today? Time is getting on but the table is not laid!’

  The creature looked at him as though astounded that he should want to have dinner at home, should have returned to dine. She was certainly about to say something in reply, but he glared at her and she sidled out, crestfallen, and within a few moments she laid the table, making haste, showing her zeal, as though she wanted to make amends for her slight complicity; and she put on the table everything that the basket had contained—the pasty, the ham, the country cheese. . .

  Meanwhile Alves went to his study. The idea that had suddenly possessed him as he was returning from his miserable ramble—the solution which seemed the only one possible—came back to him, establishing itself in his mind and becoming the centre of his whole activity. It was very simple: they would draw lots, he and the other one, to decide which of them should kill himself! Nor did this seem to him far-fetched or tragic or extravagant; on the contrary, it was the rational, honourable course and the only practical one. He felt sure he was thinking things out very coolly. A duel with swords, two shirt-sleeved business men aiming clumsy and futile thrusts at each other until one was wounded in the arm—that seemed to him ridiculous; nor was it fitting that they should exchange a couple of pistol shots, miss each other, and then each of them, flanked by his seconds, turn and climb ceremoniously into hired carriages. No! for an outrage such as this, death alone; just a single loaded pistol, drawn by lots between them, and fired at a handkerchief’s distance. Yet he doubted whether this was really possible. Where would they find sponsors who would agree, be willing to share in the responsibility for the tragedy? In vain would he explain the offence to them: to a husband, unfaithfulness is a serious matter, but other people would regard it as a mere misfortune, not calling for such bloody excesses. Besides, if he himself were the one to die, well and good, that would be the end of it, but if he were to see the other man fall down at his feet, what kind of existence would his be afterwards? He would have to flee, abandon his business, seek his fortune afresh in a foreign land, but where? And the great problem still remained: where would be the sponsors for such a course? Moreover, there would be scandal, gossip, the whole truth would come out. Whereas, by the other course everything would be easy, secret, respectable, without inconveniencing anyone; they would draw lots and the one who lost would have to kill himself within a year! If he were the one to lose, he would not hesitate a moment, he would kill himself at once—and he did not doubt that Machado would agree. How could he refuse? He had dishonoured him, he ought to pay with his life. . . All the same, he had an uneasy foreboding that he himself would be the loser. . .

  ‘If he were to meet his end, so much the better,’ he thought.

  What pleasure could life now bring him, in that lonely house, always on his own, without even the enjoyment of work remaining to him, for he had lost the zest for doing it.

  He hesitated no longer. He at once wrote a curt letter to Machado, asking him to be at the office next day, Sunday, at ten o’clock. . . He was sealing the letter when Margarida came to tell him that dinner was on the table. He hurriedly picked up his hat, went down into the street, left the letter in the postbox by the grocer’s and returned to the dining-room, while Margarida and the cook, with the soup tureen getting cold, were astonished at their master’s strange behaviour.

  The maid’s presence embarrassed him. He felt her to be an accomplice in the disgraceful business. For a moment, he thought of dismissing her. But that would only be to loosen her menial tongue in other houses, recounting his fate and discussing his misfortune. He preferred to hold on to her, to put up with her presence, so as to maintain her silence, through her fear of being dismissed.

  He had unfolded his napkin, taken up the soup tureen, when the doorbell rang violently.

  Margarida went to the door, while Alves remained in suspense, his heart pounding. . . The girl came running back and in a voice with which she might have announced the appearance of avenging and retributive Providence, acclaimed:

  ‘It is Senhor Neto, sir.’

  4 Neto came in seeing the table laid—the large pasty and the ham, and Alves with his napkin tucked into his collar and the bottle beside him—Neto paused at the door, his hat in one hand, his cane in the other, his eyebrows raised in surprise. At last, with a touch of sarcasm, he muttered:

  ‘Well, I see you’ve not lost your appetite!’

  Alves at once stood up, took a candle from the sideboard and moved towards the drawing-room. But Neto protested:

  ‘No, sir, we have time to talk, finish your dinner. . .’

  Alves, however, after lifting a spoonful of soup to his mouth, pushed back his plate and rang the bell. Meanwhile, Neto slowly put down his hat and stick on a chair, charging the pregnant silence with the slowness of his movements. Neto was tall and had in his time been handsome. He still had a good presence, to which his extreme pallor gave a certain air of refinement and distinction. On his bald head were two strands of hair, laboriously and quaintly arranged; his greying moustache seemed to be cleanly clipped with a single scissor cut, and his slightest movements bore such an affectation of dignity and earnestness that, even while he was slowly taking off his gloves, he seemed to be performing an important formality.

  Meanwhile, the maid had brought in the joint, and as she hovered near the table, dallying in the hope of overhearing a few words, Neto, with the air of a society man, made a show of indifference, behaved as usual, saying merely that it had been hot enough to kill.

  ‘Very hot,’ echoed Alves, who since Neto’s arrival had not raised his eyes from the table edge, leaning back in his chair and fingering his moustache with one hand, the other in his pocket. At last, the maid went out, with orders to wait for a ring on the bell ‘to bring in the other things’. Alves got up and went to close the door. Then, seeing that he could speak freely, Neto sat on the edge of his chair, stayed quiet for a moment as he continued to rub his knees. Then he began to speak slowly, his words well chosen and with eloquent intent, seeking to make an impression:

  ‘I quite understood my duty as a father. . .’

  He paused for a moment, gazing at his son-in-law, waiting for some interruption, just a word. Alves helped himself to rice. Neto went on:

  ‘I understood my duty as a father and I still do
so at this moment, which is a solemn one. . . As soon as I got the letter, as soon as I saw that there was trouble here in the household, I came to fetch my daughter, to create an interval in which to see whether there might be some explanation, the tangle might be unravelled. . . When two people are at loggerheads, it is best for each of them to withdraw to his own side. From a distance, in cold blood, things are more manageable; face to face, word against word, everything gets out of hand. . .’

  His portentous words were running out; with one banal phrase after another, he spoke excitedly, confusedly:

  ‘And so, what I want to know is, what does all this upset mean?’

  Alves had listened to him silently, absentmindedly spearing grains of rice. He was determined not to change his attitude, to remain respectful and aloof. He despised his father-in-law on account of doubtful tales which he knew about him, especially of his disreputable philandering with his cook. That solemn air did not impress him, and with a few laconic words he would easily put him in his place.

  ‘The upset is nothing more nor less than what I wrote and told you. I found your daughter with a man and I ordered her out of the house.’

  Neto trembled. That curt tone seemed to him an insult. He stood up, his eyes blazing, his bald head revealing his irritation.

  ‘Well, now! The very idea! And what if I do not want her in my house? That’s not bad—you marry a girl of good family, keep her for four years, and then you say “My girl, you are going back to your father!” That’s not bad! And what, my dear sir, if I don’t want her in my house—if I don’t want her in my house?’

  He waved his arms, forgetting all his restraint, in a voice that could be heard in the kitchen.

  ‘In that case,’ Alves replied very coolly, ‘she stays in the street.’

  That only infuriated Neto.

  ‘In the street? In the street?’

  ‘Precisely. She dishonoured me, dishonoured my house. I will not tolerate her here. . . Let her pack her bags and go! If her father or anyone else will not take her, it is obvious that she stays in the street. . .’