The Yellow Sofa

by José Maria De Eça de Queirós

  In the darkness of the bedroom, not daring to summon the manservant, Alves hunted, groping along the table and the dressing-table, in search of a box of matches. He did not find them, but his fingers came into contact with a curtain; he drew it back and saw a chink of light through a door, from behind which came the sound of voices. On the other side was the lounge, where they were holding their meeting. He went nearer, but knocked over a jug, which rolled along, with the sound of water spilling. For a moment, he kept quite still and finally, paddling through the wet, went to put his ear to the keyhole.

  In the lounge, there was silence, which he could not understand. At intervals, one of Machado’s friends gave a cough. What the deuce were they up to? He tried to peep, but could only see, indistinctly, a bit of the mirror, in which the candlelight was reflected. The light suddenly disappeared, there was something dark in front of it, surely someone’s back. Then a voice was raised, it was Medeiros’s voice, and he was saying ‘That seemed to him conclusive. . .’ And at once there was the sound of other voices, mingled together, getting louder in a tumult which he could not make out. Finally, and quite distinctly, another voice was saying ‘In such affairs, dignity is essential, above all else.’

  Of course dignity was necessary, and it was not dignified for him to be there, eavesdropping at the door. Groping his way, he went back into the room and, after colliding with the sofa, sat down heavily. From the lounge, there was not a sound, an oppressive silence weighed upon the room. And that silence, that darkness, brought sombre thoughts of illness, of wounds. The following day, he perhaps would be in a darkened room, on a lonely bed, tended by Margarida. . . The idea caused him deep dismay.

  He recalled stories that he had heard tell of wounds. At first, a sword wound would give only a feeling of coldness, the pain came afterwards, long-lasting during nights when the bedclothes grew hot and the body was unable to stir. And then he remembered all that Nunes Vidal had said to Carvalho—‘It was the first time that Machado had embraced her, in fun. . .’ And what if that were really true? She too had told him, with a cry of anguish, that it was the first time! It might very well have been a frolic, a piece of gallantry, what the English call a flirtation. Ought he to have forgiven it? Certainly not! Yet it was insufficient to justify a duel. It would have been enough to throw Machado out of the house. . . And other considerations occurred to him; Ludovina had never been more affectionate than of late. Previously, it had been himself who had had to take the lead, to arouse her. But recently, it was she who at times, without any prompting, had thrown her arms around his neck. Could he really say that she did not love him? No! and it was no pretence; he was no fool and well knew how to recognise genuine feeling. So why had she yielded to Machado’s advances? Who could say? Coquetry, vanity. . . Anyway, the punishment was deserved. He would never see her again—and he would fight the man! Then he realised that he had never handled a sword, but Machado had given fencing lessons. He would be the one to be wounded, for certain! And dread returned. He thought he would not fear so greatly a quick death, a bullet through the heart. . . But a serious wound which would keep him in bed for weeks on end, his progress slow and feeble, inflammation, the risk of gangrene. . . It was horrible. His whole being shuddered at the thought. . . But it would end, honour demanded it!

  Suddenly, in the corridor, he heard voices, laughter, the hearty sound of friends taking leave of each other. His heart beat faster, he was walking towards the door, when a light appeared. It was Medeiros, still holding the candle with which he had shown them out.

  ‘Everything’s settled,’ said he, as he came in.

  Behind him came Carvalho, who confirmed it: ‘Everything has been settled.’

  Pale and trembling, Alves looked at them.

  ‘You are not going to fight,’ said Medeiros, as he put the candlestick on the table.

  ‘What did I tell you in the first place?’ exclaimed Carvalho, beaming. ‘Everything should stay as it was, that would be common sense.’

  Then it was Medeiros who explained what had taken place. Nunes Vidal had behaved with extraordinary gentlemanliness. He had begun by saying that, if he had been convinced that there had been any betrayal on Machado’s part, the crime of adultery with his partner’s wife, he would not have become involved. He then said that if they insisted on the duel, they would be obliged to accept everything, without argument: the time, the place, the weapons. And having arrived at the chosen spot, Machado would have taken up his sword and allowed himself to be wounded, like a gentleman. But Nunes Vidal had appealed to them as men of honour and good sense.

  ‘Wasn’t that what he said, Carvalho?’

  ‘And men of breeding,’ Carvalho substituted.

  ‘Exactly, and men of breeding. He appealed to us, asking whether we ought to agree to a duel when there was no justification for it and when, in a letter which Nunes gave us to read, Machado had declared, on his word of honour as a gentleman, that Senhora Ludovina was innocent, entirely innocent, and that nothing had been exchanged apart from some joking letters, and that embrace. . . Well now, as Nunes Vidal had said, “What does a duel achieve? It compromises Senhora Ludovina, leads people to believe that there really has been misconduct, puts Senhor Alves into a ridiculous position, and damages the firm. . .”’

  ‘And Nunes’s dilemma,’ Carvalho reminded him.

  ‘That’s right, the dilemma,’ said Medeiros, remembering. ‘Nunes propounded this dilemma: the gentlemen demand swords. Very well, very well, but if there really had been misconduct, the sword is not enough; if not, it would be too much. . . And in that way, we were agreed that there should be no duel. . .’

  Alves said not a word. But, in the silence, a feeling of peace and serenity was stealing over him. These important propositions of Nunes Vidal, such an honourable young man, almost convinced him that there had been nothing more than dalliance, with no serious intent. Nunes himself had said that if he had been convinced that there had been misconduct, he would not have become involved. Certainly not, for he was truly a gentleman. Well, if it had been mere dalliance, there was no reason to fight; and at that, he felt relieved. A thousand dreadful notions were disappearing and being replaced by others—of repose, tranquillity, perhaps even of happiness. To be sure, he would not forgive his wife even that simple dalliance; nor would he speak to Machado again. But if he could believe that they had not betrayed him, his life would be less bitter.

  That consoled his self-esteem—for it would show that he was an upright and worthy husband, throwing out his wife merely for exchanging a glance. So his honour would remain secure and his feelings suffer less.

  And he was filled with happiness at abandoning, putting aside, the violent ideas of death in which he had been involved, at entering once more into life’s routine, his business, his relationships, his books. But then, at the thought of routine, of the business of his office, a thought occurred to him that filled him with disquiet:

  ‘And Machado? I cannot speak to Machado again!’

  Medeiros, however, had discussed this point with Nunes Vidal! And it was Nunes who had had a commonsense idea. Nunes had said that, from the moment when there was no more justification for a duel, there was no reason why they should break off their business relationship.

  Alves protested: ‘So is he to come into my office tomorrow?’

  ‘Who says tomorrow, man? This is what Nunes Vidal said: tomorrow Machado writes you a formal letter, which the bookkeeper and the clerks may see, saying that he is going away with his mother, and asking you to keep an eye on his house, and so on. . . Then, at the end of a month or two, he returns, you greet each other, each of you sits at his desk. You talk about what there is to discuss, about the business, and that’s the end of it. You do not have intimate dealings, you even excuse yourselves from being on Christian-name terms.’

  And as Alves stared at the floor, considering, the two of them came down on him in turn:

  ‘That way, you stop everyone’s mouth,’ said Carval
ho.

  ‘You save yourself from ridicule,’ said Medeiros.

  ‘You save your wife from disrepute. . .’

  ‘You retain an intelligent and hard-working colleague. . .’

  ‘And perhaps a friend!’

  Whereupon, tiredness overwhelmed Alves, his tension was relaxed. There came upon him an intense longing to think no more about this upset, to talk no more about it, to sleep in peace; and he yielded, gave up, asked in a trembling voice:

  ‘Then, on your honour, you have decided that this way, everything turns out for the best?’

  ‘We have!’ they both replied.

  Alves shook hands, first with one, then with the other, moved almost to tears:

  ‘I’ve grateful, Carvalho! Thank you, Medeiros!’

  And then, in order to shut people’s mouths, the three of them went to the Public Promenade, where there were illuminations and a bonfire that evening, but they went first to have an ice cream at Martinho’s.

  8 For Alves, a frightful existence then began. Some weeks had passed and Machado had returned. Now, as of old, he occupied his desk in the office with the green repp.

  During the time when Alves had been dreading this encounter, he had not thought it possible that they would ever again spend their days side by side, dealing with their papers, affected by a thousand common interests, still with the lively recollection of that July day. Yet, as it turned out, everything went off nicely and there were no disagreements.

  On the eve of his return, Machado had written him a polite, almost humble, letter, in which a certain wistful touch was to be seen. He said he was about to return, would come into the office next day, that he hoped all thoughts of the past would disappear in their new relationship, which would always be governed by mutual respect. He went on to say that, while appreciating the awkwardness of the new solution, he was nevertheless accepting it only for a time, to maintain dignity and silence gossip, and reserving the right to leave the firm as soon as he could do so without scandal.

  On the day, Alves went to the office earlier than usual and did a clever thing: he told the bookkeeper, in front of the cashier, that there had been disagreements between himself and Senhor Machado and that their relationship had undergone certain changes. These vague words were in fact intended to avoid surprise and comments on the part of the bookkeeper, now that he saw them facing each other—distant, courteous, and addressing each other as Senhor Alves and Senhor Machado. The bookkeeper murmured that he quite understood—and a few moments later, Machado appeared. It was an awkward moment. For the rest of the day, they could scarcely attend to what they were doing, and Machado’s slightest gesture—pulling out his handkerchief, taking a turn about the floor—awoke in Alves all sorts of disagreeable memories. Once or twice, he felt a violent urge to reproach him, blame him for all the unhappy things which now filled his life. But he restrained himself, almost unable to draw one breath after the other.

  Machado’s attitude was respectful and sad. They scarcely exchanged a word. A feeling of constraint weighed heavily on the atmosphere—and the stupid cashier made all this embarrassment more obvious by persisting in walking on tiptoe, as in a house where someone is dying.

  Other days, all similar, succeeded each other; but, little by little, the presence of Machado ceased worrying Alves. He could already look at him without thinking of the yellow sofa. . .

  A routine had become established: the last to come in courteously said good morning; and then, each in his armchair, they spoke only about business, with the fewest possible words. When there was nothing to do, Machado went out, leaving the office to Alves, who went on reading the newspapers, on the sofa. And things went on normally, without friction, because at bottom Machado had nothing but respect for Alves; and Alves, in spite of himself, still retained a store of sympathy for the boy that he had virtually educated. Soon, he was telling himself that, business apart, he was a pleasant rascal; the simple tone of his voice, his pleasant manners, attracted him irresistibly.

  Thus it was that, when the first days of October arrived, all that tumultuous upset in Alves’s life, which for weeks had taken hold of him like a sleep-walker, settled down. Ludovina was in Ericeira with her father, and the memory of the moment when he had seen her on the yellow sofa—the memory which had been like a raw wound in poor Alves’s heart that the slightest movement, the least scratch, reopened—was beginning to fade, leaving no more than one of those numb, vague, discomforts to which the body grows accustomed.

  The disagreeable shock of the re-encounter with Machado had also passed. In the Gilders Street office, the routine of their personal relationship had been established—cool, courteous and tolerant.

  And now, much calmer, Alves could see and feel with renewed intensity the circumstances of his life as a widower, which must be his forever, and for the future he could foresee only discomfort and unhappiness.

  At first, he had thought about leaving the house in São Bento Street, going to live in a hotel; but then he was afraid of public opinion, of gossip. No one knew that he had separated from his wife. It was supposed that she was at the seaside with her father and that Alves went to visit her from time to time; and he had to maintain this fiction by every means. Yet what was to be done about the two servants? He persisted with the idea of maintaining silence about his misfortune, keeping these two creatures under his control, bound to him by the self-interest of a pleasant situation. So he had stayed in São Bento and his life there was simply dreadful! One by one, the comforts he so much enjoyed had disappeared; for the two women, with no mistress to keep an eye on them, had got completely slack, realising that the master would not get rid of them, dependent as he was on their tongues.

  For Alves, the discomfort of the day began at nine o’clock. It was a struggle to ensure that they brought him shaving water, and there was never any hot water. The cook, who now got up late, never had the stove going until ten o’clock. Then there was another struggle to get breakfast, and when it arrived, hurriedly and carelessly prepared, without any variety, it almost made him sick. Since August, boiled eggs had appeared before him every morning—now raw, now hard-boiled—and the same steaks, hard and black, like two pieces of burnt leather. He would sit down, look with disgust at the dirty napkin and feel deeply downcast. Where, alas!, was the time when Ludovina herself used to prepare his boiled eggs, using her little gold watch? There used then to be flowers always on the table, and his Daily News and Journal of Commerce beside his plate. He would open them with a feeling of peace and comfort, noticing around him the sound of her dress, the warmth of her presence, and a faint scent of toilet water.

  Now, when he got home at four o’clock, he found the remains of his mournful breakfast still on the table, scraps of meat on his plate, dregs at the bottom of his teacup, everything filthy and miserable, with flies circling all over it. There were always crumbs on the floor. Every day, something got broken. And at the month’s end there were colossal bills, wastefulness, an absurd piling up of expense. Twice already, he had met men on the stairs, callers for the maids. His dirty linen lay about in corners, and when he became angry and burst into the kitchen, shouting, exploding, the two creatures made no reply, pretended to be concerned, even more hateful than an insolent answer. They lowered their heads respectfully, made a stupid apology, and then stayed there, smirking and sipping glasses of wine.

  But worst of all were the lonely evenings. He had always been a home-loving man, fond of coming home early, putting on his slippers, enjoying his own domestic scene. In the old days, Ludovina would play the piano in the drawing-room for a while; he would go round and light the lamps, like a devotee preparing an altar, for he loved music and he would finish his cigar in his armchair, listening to her playing, gazing at the mass of her dark hair hanging over her shoulders in graceful abandon and intimacy. Certain pieces that she played gave him a feeling of having his heart caressed by something soft and velvety, and made him swoon; one especially, a certain waltz, Souvenir o
f Andalusia. . . How long it had been since he had heard it played!

  While the summer lasted, he went for a walk every evening. But even the sight of the streets revived memories of lost happiness. There would be an open balcony, with a young woman in a bright dress, enjoying the air, and this made him think of his lonely house, now lacking the swirl of a woman’s skirts; and at nightfall, there was a window which revealed the subdued light of a pleasant evening party, and coming from it the gentle sound of a piano. . . And worn out, his shoes dusty, he then felt acutely the unhappy evidence of his loneliness.

  The worst evenings were those when he sought the liveliness of the Public Promenade. It was dread of loneliness that took him there; but the feeling of isolation in the midst of so many people, beneath the illuminated trees, seeing so many men each with a woman on his arm, proved even more miserable than the chilly, deserted drawing-room, with the neglected piano!

  Later on, when winter was beginning, matters became intolerable. November was very wet. He would come back late from the office and after hastily swallowing a boring dinner, would hang about, his feet in slippers, as he wandered in boredom from room to room. No armchair, however comfortable, gave him a feeling of rest and well-being: his precious books seemed to have lost all their interest, because he no longer felt her at his side, sewing while he was reading, under the same light. And shyness, unease, a vague sense of shame, prevented him from going to the theatre.

  And now he always felt restless, for she had returned from Ericeira and he knew she was there, in the same street, ten minutes walk from the house in which he was enduring all the sorrows of widowerhood. Twenty times a night he would mentally make the journey, climb Neto’s stairs, penetrate into the familiar room, its chaise-longue covered in red cretonne. It was in that chaise-longue that she used to stretch out when they went to visit his father-in-law. And envy, despair, came over him at the thought of her there, sitting with some needlework or a book in her hands, peaceful, without a thought for him.