On returning from Ericeira, Neto had come to see him. And the rogue’s every word had been a stab for Alves. They had had a fine time in Ericeira. They had seen no one, for after all, Ludovina’s situation did not allow of entertainments or picnics, but they had spent a very nice time together, as a family. Ludovina had bathed, she was well, had put on weight, and he had never seen her look so attractive; she had devoted herself to the piano and seemed placid and good-humoured. And after picturing her thus, so healthy, so attractive, Neto had gone away, without uttering the words which Alves was longing to hear—a simple phrase, ‘Make it up!’
For that was now his ardent wish. Yet, out of pride, dignity, a touch of jealousy and ill-humour, he did not want to take the first step. In his view, it was for Neto to bring about this reconciliation—and he now began to loathe him, perceiving that he wanted to keep his daughter at home. It was easy to understand why; in no way did the rogue object to the thirty milreis which fell into his purse each month. Alves even thought about withdrawing the allowance from her, but a sense of chivalry prevented him from doing that.
What tortured him above everything was not yet having been able to see her. In vain did he walk to and fro in front of Neto’s house; in vain, on Sundays, did he go to mass at her church; in vain did he hang around the house of her dressmaker, a certain Dona Justina in the square at Carmo, in the hope of seeing her coming out or going in. He did not see her until two days before Christmas when, as he was leaving a tobacconist’s and lighting his cigar, he caught sight of her from behind. . .
He was so upset, so agitated that instead of hurrying to catch up with her and see her, as his longing insistently demanded, he quickly hid at the back of the shop and stayed there, hesitant, pale and benumbed, his heart pounding. To see her again was all he wanted, but when he recovered and went to look for her again, he went vainly up and down the Chiado, without seeing her—he had lost her. So he went home, deeply depressed, having in his mind’s eye throughout the evening that upright figure, dressed in black, with a yellow flower in her hat.
Yet the spell had been broken, and a week later, when he was going down the Post Office steps, he saw her with her sister, coming up. There was the same perturbation, the same embarrassment, the same absurd impulse to hide in a doorway. . . But in the end, with pounding heart, he decided to face up to the encounter; he quickened his step, clenched his fists, drew himself up. And as he trembled, out of the corner of his eye, he saw her lower her gaze and blush in confusion.
He went home in a state of extraordinary excitement. He felt that he adored her, and his heart fluttered at the delightful idea of holding her in his arms again. Yet, at the same time, he felt a furious, indefinable sense of jealousy, jealousy of other men in the street, of the walks she took, of the words she might say, the glances she might give, to other people. He wanted her with him there, under lock and key, within those walls which were his own—in his home, imprisoned in his arms. And quite unable to stay indoors, he went out, almost at midnight, and went to stare at Neto’s windows.
When he came back, he wrote her an absurd letter, six passionate pages, interspersed with reproaches. But on reading it through, he found it too wordy, not affectionate enough, and tore it up.
That night, he did not sleep. He constantly saw her beautiful face, glowing, her long eyelashes lowered. . . Yes, as Neto had said, she was plumper, more handsome. Oh! what a divine woman. And she was his, his wife! Positively, that miserable, solitary life could not continue!
January passed without his seeing her again—and his passion grew. He was awaiting some chance that would bring them together. Each morning, he imagined that the day would not pass without their meeting, and he was determined to speak to her.
Once already, on meeting Neto, he had referred vaguely to the inconvenience of their separation. But Neto merely shrugged his shoulders, with an air of despondency and paternal suffering. It was very sad, but what was there to be done? Then, one evening in the Martinho, Neto stopped to speak to him again. He said he had been thinking things over and that he felt disposed to take a trip to Minho with his daughter. . . to avoid gossip! Alves was aghast and burst out:
‘But it won’t be at my expense!’
And turning his back on him, he went home, furious. It was seven o’clock and there was a clear cold moon. He was nearing his door when, on the pavement, he came face to face with Ludovina, who was returning home, accompanied by her sister. Instinctively, he stepped quickly off the pavement, but stopped and with a sudden impulse, turned and called out ‘Ludovina!’ She stopped in amazement. They were near a grocer’s shop, in the lamplight, and went on looking at each other, their faces flushed and, in their confusion, not finding a word to say. Alves was so bemused that he did not greet his sister-in-law, did not even see her. And his first words were absurd:
‘Well, they say that you are going to Minho!’
Ludovina, perplexed, looked at him and turned to her sister.
‘To Minho?’ she murmured.
And in a choking voice he said:
‘Your father told me. . . I thought it a most ridiculous idea! Oh! Teresa, forgive me for not seeing you. . . Have things been going well with you? And you, Ludovina, have you been all right?’
She shrugged her shoulders: ‘So, so. . .’
With a look, he devoured her, finding her adorable in a velvet cape which he did not recognise and which must be new.
‘It seems that you enjoyed yourself very much at Ericeira.’
She smiled wryly: ‘I? Well!’ and she added with a little sigh: ‘I am bored and unhappy. . .’
Tenderness, great pity, overcame him; and, near tears, in a quavering voice, he stammered:
‘There, there. . .’
Then he said casually, but already in an intimate tone, as if from that moment their reconciliation was complete:
‘Well, things are not going well at home. . . Margarida has been very neglectful. And there’s something I wanted to ask you. . . How the deuce do I light the reading-lamp, which I have not been able to put in order?’
She laughed, Teresa also. They knew very well that from now on, Ludovina was once again Godofredo’s wife. She said:
‘If you like, I will come and teach Margarida how to do it.’
His whole being gave a cry of happiness:
‘Do come, do! Teresa can come, too. It will only take a moment.’
And he led the way in, climbed the staircase, opened the door, overcome with pleasure at hearing the swish of her dress going up the stairs.
Hearing voices, Margarida had come running, and when she saw the ladies, she was dumbfounded.
‘Bring me the reading-lamp from the study,’ he said to her.
Ludovina and her sister had gone into the dining-room and had remained standing, their hats on and their hands in their muffs, while Godofredo, just like a child, rushed into the kitchen, then went into the bedroom, hastened to light the candles in the lounge, where there was no gas. Meanwhile, Ludovina was examining the dining-room, the sideboard, the carpet, scandalised by the neglect that she found there—stopping to look at a beautiful cut-glass fruit bowl which had a broken handle. Alves had come home and found it like that.
‘Alas!’ he exclaimed. ‘Everywhere there is destruction such as you cannot imagine. Look, come in here, come and see, come here into our bedroom. . .’
He went in, she followed, blushing like a bride going into her wedding chamber; and she was scarcely inside before he seized her, pulled her towards the wash-basin recess, and there in the shadow kissed her violently, wildly, on her eyes, her hair, even her hat, enjoying the sweetness of her skin, feeling faint from the touch of the freshness she had brought in from the chill of the street.
Quietly, she said:
‘No, no! Teresa is looking! . . .’
‘Send her away, I will go and take her,’ he murmured.
‘You, my love, stay, never let us part again. . .’
And with a kiss, s
he gave her consent.
9 The following day, in a sentimental moment, the weather being magnificent and Alves wanting to give his happy state a more poetic environment, he suggested that they should go and spend a few days at Sintra. It was a second honeymoon. They stayed at the Lawrence, had a small sitting-room to themselves. They got up late, drank champagne at dinner and kissed each other furtively on benches beneath the trees. Godofredo did not leave Ludovina for a moment, eager to enjoy once again the intimacy that he thought he had lost, feeling unbounded delight at seeing her dressing, finding her negligee on a chair, or helping her to do her hair.
After four days, they returned home, continued their honeymoon in Lisbon without a cloud, and with no thought of expense, hired a carriage and a box at the San Carlos. Godofredo was anxious to be seen with her everywhere, so as to shut people’s mouths. At the San Carlos, he would take a prominent box, making a display of his domestic happiness. And as Ludovina had returned from the Ericeira air more robust and content, magnificent in the beauty of a fine brunette, men in the stalls stared at her, and a pair of opera glasses was invariably focused on her.
‘They are staring,’ said Alves. ‘They are surprised to see us together. . . well, this is to let them know.’
And he slowly drew back his hands from the front of the box, smiling at his Lulu.
On one of these evenings, the Africana was being given its first performance, and Ludovina, who throughout the performance had been tortured by a new pair of shoes, was anxious to leave in the middle of the fifth act. He at once agreed, notwithstanding his enjoyment of Alteroni’s tragic singing, beneath the branches of the manchineel tree, in the tragic light of the full moon. He shepherded her out, gave her his arm, and beneath the entrance portico they were waiting for the carriage when suddenly Machado appeared, a cigar between his teeth. Obviously, he had not seen them, for he continued across the entrance, with his slightly swaying gait, fastening his white scarf and buttoning up his coat. Suddenly, he came face to face with them. For a moment, he seemed to hesitate—confused, pale, his fingers absent-mindedly fumbling with the buttons. Then, very formally, he doffed his hat. Under the high hood of her white cape, she nodded slightly, lowering her gaze, solemn, impassive and unmoving, with her long blue train gathered into her hand. After a moment’s hesitation, Alves finally called out quite loudly:
‘Hello, Machado, good night to you!’
Machado went quickly away.
Next day, when Alves reached the office, Machado was already at his desk. After the usual laconic greetings, Alves went on sorting over his papers, reading the correspondence. Then he glaced casually, abstractedly, at the newspaper. He seemed preoccupied, his mind on something else, and suddenly he leaned back, snapped his fingers and asked Machado:
‘Well, how did Alteroni strike you yesterday?’
It was the first time that he had spoken to him about anything unconnected with the business of the firm! Machado stood up to reply, rather nervously:
‘I liked him very much. . . And. . .’
‘A fine voice, eh?’
And those commonplace words, as soon as they were uttered, were like opening the floodgates of a dike. Alves also stood up, and there was a torrent of words between them, hesitant at first, then warming, getting close to each other again, a lively current of mutual feeling. They were like two friends meeting after a long absence, and each of them recognised in the other what he had always esteemed in him. At a quip by Machado about the tenor, Alves burst out laughing, and a remark by Alves about the playing of the violins greatly interested Machado, making him think that Alves was really fond of listening to music.
Alves then talked about their visit to Sintra; and for a while they chatted about Sintra, each mentioning his favourite places there, the impression they had made on him, as though they felt the need, after that long separation, to compare their respective thoughts and tastes.
Then, as Machado had to go off early, their handshake on taking leave of each other was deeply felt, warm, a complete reconciliation, uniting them again for ever!
So Alves’s life became serene and happy once more. At São Bento Street, order and happiness were restored; at breakfast, there were no more raw or hard-boiled eggs, and already in the evenings the Souvenir of Andalusia restored to Godofredo his dreamlike, happy impression of the gardens of Granada; and all the time, her voice, the swish of her dress, flooded his heart with happiness.
And so the winter had gone by, spring had passed and they were in the first days of March when, as Alves was leaving one morning, he saw Margarida in the corridor, between the two doors, surreptitiously, secretly, handing a letter to Ludovina. It was as though a stone had struck him in the chest. He could scarcely cope with the door catch; at once, he imagined another man, another lover, and his happiness, the happiness that had been so laboriously rebuilt, collapsed again. He felt an absurd sense of panic, as if he were the victim of fate, of a terrible and beastly destiny, the fateful inconstancy of women.
He thought that it might be Machado again, and a surge of blood passed before his eyes, he swore that this time there would be no meetings, no consultations, no seconds—he would go into the office and put a bullet point blank into his heart.
And he felt so upset that he could not bear the sight of Machado; he did not go to the office; he wandered around the Baixa, with that vision of the maid’s hand, the white paper, Ludovina’s embarrassed look, ever before his eyes. He went home, sombrely and silently, could not settle down, but went from room to room, slamming the doors, like a man suffocating, feeling the very air around him charged with deceit and treachery. Ludovina, alarmed, at last asked what was the matter.
‘It’s nerves,’ was his unmannerly reply. But a moment later, yielding to a violent impulse, he turned on her, declared that he had had enough of mysteries, that life was hell, and that he wanted to know what was the paper that Margarida had passed to her.
She stared at him, astonished by his violence, that strident voice, and her hand instinctively sought the pocket of her house coat. He followed her gesture:
‘Ah! you have the letter there! Let me see it.’
Then she showed that she was offended by such distrust—were the suspicions, the questions, starting again? So could she not receive a piece of paper without his wanting to poke his nose in?
Pale, with fists clenched, he shouted:
‘Either you give me the letter or I will do you an injury!’
She turned very pale, called him a villain and, weeping, fell on to the sofa, her face in her hands.
‘Give me the letter!’ he shouted, standing on tiptoe. ‘Give me the letter. . . And this time must not be like the last. . . You’ll go into a convent! . . . I’ll kill you!’
And he did not wait for her reply; he threw himself upon her, twisted her arm, tore the pocket of her dress, seized the letter. But he could not decipher the writing, it was a misspelt scribble on a piece of ruled paper. It began: ‘My dear Madam’, was signed ‘Maria do Carmo’ and referred to almsgiving, to the little one who was recovering from measles, and to the prayers that they had never ceased to offer for that blessed charity. . .
Trembling, wretched, humiliated, with the piece of paper in his hand, he came and sat down beside Ludovina, who was weeping, with her face in her hands. And putting his arm round her waist, he stammered:
‘There now, I see that it was nothing. . . Forgive me, tell me what it is!’
She pushed him away, rose to her feet, greatly offended. Was he satisfied? Had he read the letter, then? It was from a man, was it?
Ashamed, he stammered:
‘But why all this mystery?’
And as she wiped her eyes, choking back her sobs, lovely as she stood there, he did not hold back, but felt the need to humble himself, fell on his knees, and with his hands clasped together, murmured:
‘Forgive me, little Lulu, it was my stupidity. . .’
With another, even greater sob, she pressed her
fingers to her face. Then, almost weeping himself, he kissed her hands, clasped her knees, then ended by getting up with an effort, clutching her dress and covering her throat with kisses.
And then, in their mutual distress, between embraces, she told him about the alms which she had secretly been giving. It was to a poor girl she had befriended in Ericeira, whom a villain had seduced and abandoned with her two children, one still at the breast.
‘But why did you make a mystery of it, my love?’ he persisted, moved and very affectionate.
Then she confessed that she had already given the girl more than five milreis and was fearful lest he might consider that extravagant. So great was Godofredo’s happiness that he said:
‘Extravagance! Give her another five. . . That is what I intend.’
And it all ended with a kiss.
Only then did Alves feel ashamed of his morning suspicions and his anger against Machado; he had even thought once more of killing him! And now he felt the need to see him again, to shake his hand warmly—feeling at this moment an even greater friendliness towards him, moved by a feeling of gratitude.
Next day, when he came into the office, Alves did not hold back but, for no apparent reason, put his arm around Machado, who returned his partner’s embrace, not finding his effusiveness at all strange, but, to Alves’s surprise, gently and sadly. And his astonishment increased when he found that Machado’s eyes were red, as though he had been weeping.
‘It is my mother, who is very ill,’ said Machado, in answer to his partner’s inquiry.
And Alves, his own happiness interrupted by this bad news, could only murmur:
‘That’s dreadful!’
Yes, things were bad. And the doctor held out no hope. The poor lady suffered from a complex of illnesses, liver, kidneys and heart, which seemed now to be resulting in a complete breakdown of her health. The previous evening, she had had an attack lasting two hours. He thought she had died, but in the morning had been greatly relieved to find that he had been mistaken.
The Yellow Sofa Page 8