‘It’s absolutely appalling!’
‘It’s scandalous, Father Amaro!’
With his hands plunged in his pockets, Natário was studying Amaro with a sarcastic little smile, muttering:
‘He hasn’t read it! He hasn’t read it! So what have you been up to, then?’
Terrified, Amaro suddenly noticed that Amélia was looking deathly pale and that her eyes were red. Then the Canon got heavily to his feet:
‘Father Amaro, someone has given us a real roasting.’
‘What?’ cried Amaro.
‘Oh, yes, good and proper.’
They all agreed that the Canon, who had brought the newspaper with him, should read it out loud.
‘Read it, Dias,’ said Natário. ‘Read it so that we can all enjoy it!’
São Joaneira turned up the oil lamp. Canon Dias sat down at the table, unfolded the newspaper, carefully put on his spectacles and, with his snuff-stained handkerchief spread on his knees, began, in his usual slow way, to read the article.
The beginning was of no interest; it consisted of heartfelt phrases in which the ‘Liberal’ blamed the Pharisees for the crucifixion of Jesus: ‘Why did you kill him? (he exclaimed). Answer!’ And the Pharisees answered: ‘We killed him because he represented freedom, emancipation, the dawn of a new era’ etc. The ‘Liberal’ then described in broad terms the night on Calvary: ‘There he is hanging on the cross, pierced by spears; soldiers have cast lots for his tunic, the will of the people has prevailed’ etc. And the ‘Liberal’ again rounded on the unfortunate Pharisees with cutting irony: ‘Regard your work!’ The ‘Liberal’ then made a nimble transition from Jerusalem to Leiria. ‘But do the readers of this article believe that the Pharisees are dead? You are much deceived! They live! We all know them. Leiria is full of them, and we are about to introduce them to our readers . . .’
‘This is where it begins,’ said the Canon, peering at everyone over the top of his spectacles.
This was indeed where it began; it was a gallery of crude ecclesiastical photographs: the first was of Father Brito: ‘Regard him (exclaimed the ‘Liberal’) strong as an ox, astride his brown mare . . .’
‘They even give the colour of the mare!’ murmured Dona Maria da Assunção in pious indignation.
‘. . . As ignorant as a melon, and he does not even know Latin . . .’
Father Amaro kept uttering astonished cries of: Oh! Oh! And Father Brito, scarlet-faced, fidgeted in his chair, slowly rubbing his knees.
‘A bully,’ continued the Canon, who read these cruel words with sweet serenity, ‘rude in manner, but not averse to tenderness, who, according to well-informed sources, has chosen as his Dulcinea the administrator’s legal spouse . . .’
Father Brito could control himself no longer:
‘I’ll tear the man in two!’ he exclaimed, getting up, only to fall back heavily into his chair.
‘Wait a moment, man!’ said Natário.
‘What do you mean, “wait a moment”?’ I’ll tear the man in two.’
But how could he when he did not even know who the ‘Liberal’ was?
‘Forget the “Liberal”! The man I’m going to tear in two is Dr Godinho. Dr Godinho owns the paper, and he’s the man I’ll tear in two!’
His voice had grown hoarse and he kept slapping himself furiously on the thigh.
They reminded him of the Christian duty of forgiveness. São Joaneira unctuously mentioned the blows Jesus Christ had had to bear. He should imitate Christ.
‘Oh, forget Christ!’ yelled Brito, apoplectic.
Such impiety provoked real horror.
‘Please, Father Brito, please!’ exclaimed the Canon’s sister, pushing back her chair.
Libaninho, clasping his head in his hands, bowed before the impending disaster and murmured:
‘Holy Mother of God, we might all be struck by lightning!’ And seeing that Amélia too was indignant, Amaro said gravely:
‘Really, Brito, you go too far!’
‘Well, they drove me to it!’
‘No one drove you to it,’ said Amaro firmly. And in a pedagogical tone, he added: ‘I will only remind you, as is my duty, that in such cases of blasphemy, the Reverend Father Scomelli recommends general confession and two days’ retreat on bread and water.’
Father Brito was muttering to himself.
‘All right, all right,’ said Natário. ‘Brito may have committed a grave error, but he will ask God’s pardon and God’s mercy is infinite.’
There was a meaningful pause in which Dona Maria da Assunção was heard to murmur that she was ‘completely drained’; and the Canon, who, during this crisis, had placed his spectacles on the table, picked them up again and calmly resumed his reading:
‘You will be familiar with another such priest with a face like a ferret.’
All eyes fell on Father Natário.
‘Do not trust him; he will not hesitate to betray you; he will take pleasure in harming you; his intrigues keep the Cathedral chapter in a state of constant uproar because he is the most venomous snake in the whole diocese, and yet he is very fond of gardening, for he carefully cultivates two little roses.’
‘I say!’ exclaimed Amaro.
‘You see what I mean?’ said Natário, standing up, his face ashen. ‘What do you think? You all know how I often refer to my nieces as “my two little roses”. It’s just a joke. And yet he even attacks that!’ And with a grim, embittered smile, he said: ‘But tomorrow I’ll find out who he is, oh yes, I’ll find out all right.’
‘Just treat it with the disdain it deserves, Father Natário,’ said São Joaneira soothingly.
‘Thank you, Senhora,’ Natário responded, bowing with rancorous irony. ‘Thank you so much. I’ll do just that.’
But the Canon was reading on in his imperturbable voice. The next hate-filled thumbnail sketch was of him.
‘A pot-bellied, gluttonous canon, and a former supporter of the usurper Prince Miguel, he was driven out of the parish of Ourém and once taught Moral Theology in a seminary; now, however, he teaches Immoral Theology in Leiria . . .’
‘Disgraceful!’ said Amaro, outraged.
The Canon put the newspaper down and said languidly:
‘You don’t really think this bothers me, do you?’ he said. ‘Certainly not. I’ve got enough to eat and drink, thank God. People can say what they like.’
‘But, brother,’ broke in his sister, ‘we all have our pride.’
‘Sister,’ replied Canon Dias with all the bitterness of concentrated rage, ‘no one asked you for your opinion.’
‘I don’t need to be asked!’ she cried, drawing herself up. ‘I can give my opinion when and how I choose. You may not feel ashamed, but I do.’
‘Now, now . . .’ everyone said, trying to calm her down.
‘Hold your tongue, sister!’ said the Canon, folding up his glasses. ‘Your false teeth might fall out!’
‘You rude man!’
She was about to say more, but the words would not come, and she began instead to sigh pitifully.
They were all concerned that she might faint. São Joaneira and Dona Joaquina Gansoso helped her into the bedroom, saying softly:
‘Have you gone mad? Really, woman! Such a fuss! Pull yourself together!’
Amélia called for some orange flower water.
‘Leave her be,’ grumbled the Canon, ‘just leave her be. It will pass. It’s one of her hot flushes.’
Amélia exchanged a sad glance with Father Amaro and went into the bedroom with Dona Maria da Assunção and the deaf Gansoso sister, who were also going along ‘to calm poor Dona Josefa down’. The priests were left alone, and the Canon turned to Amaro.
‘Now it’s your turn,’ he said, taking up the newspaper again.
‘And he really tears into you,’ said Natário.
The Canon cleared his throat, brought the oil lamp closer and read:
‘. . . But the real danger comes from certain dandified young priests who a
cquired their parish posting through the influence of certain aristocrats in Lisbon, and who, befriended by good families with pure young daughters who have no experience of the world, use the influence of their sacred ministry to plant in those innocent souls the burning seed of sin!’
‘Outrageous!’ murmured Amaro, deathly pale.
‘Tell me, priest of Christ, what do you intend to do with that unsullied maid? Do you intend to drag her into the mire of vice? What are you doing in the bosom of that respectable family? Why are you stalking your prey the way a kite circles over the innocent dove? Fie on you, sacrilegist! You whisper seductive words in her ear in order to turn her from the path of honour; you condemn to disgrace and widowhood an honest girl who wishes only to offer you her hard-working hand, and you meanwhile are preparing for her a hideous future full of tears. And why are you doing all this? In order to sate the vile impulses of your sinful lust!’
‘Disgraceful!’ Father Amaro muttered between clenched teeth.
‘But beware, evil priest!’ And the Canon’s voice took on cavernous tones as he spoke these words. ‘The archangel is raising his sword of justice in readiness, and the enlightened inhabitants of Leiria can now view you and your accomplices with impartial eyes. Here we stand, we sons of toil, to mark your brow with the stigma of infamy. Therefore tremble, you supporters of the Syllabus of Errors. You have been warned, you men in black!’
‘Extraordinary!’ said the Canon, as he folded up the newspaper, beads of sweat standing out on his forehead.
Father Amaro’s eyes were brimming with angry tears and he was breathing heavily; he slowly wiped his brow with his handkerchief, then, lips trembling, he said:
‘I just don’t know what to say, gentlemen. As God is my witness, that is the calumny of calumnies.’
‘A shameless calumny,’ they all rumbled.
‘It seems to me,’ went on Amaro, ‘that we should go to the authorities about this.’
‘That’s exactly what I said,’ broke in Natário, ‘we need to talk to the secretary-general.’
‘Oh, rubbish!’ roared Father Brito. ‘Go to the authorities? What the man needs is a good beating. I’ll drink the fellow’s blood!’
The Canon, who was deep in thought, stroking his chin, said:
‘Natário, you’re the one who should go to see the secretary-general. You’ve got a way with words and logic.’
‘If that’s what you want,’ said Natário, bowing, ‘I’ll do it. I’ll tell the authorities all about it.’
Amaro was still sitting at the table, his head in his hands, utterly shaken. Libaninho murmured:
‘I know that none of this has anything to do with me, but just listening to that whole diatribe made my knees knock. A scandal like this . . .’
But at that moment, they heard the voice of Dona Joaquina Gansoso as she came up the stairs, and the Canon said quietly and prudently:
‘Gentlemen, it’s best to say nothing more about this in front of the ladies. We’ve said all we need to say.’
A moment later, as soon as Amélia came into the room, Amaro, declaring that he had a splitting headache, got to his feet and bade farewell to the ladies.
‘Aren’t you even stopping for tea?’ asked São Joaneira.
‘No, thank you, Senhora,’ he said, wrapping his cape around him. ‘I’m not feeling at all well. Goodnight. Meet me tomorrow, Natário, at one o’clock in the Cathedral.’
He squeezed Amélia’s hand, which lay limp and passive in his. Then he left, shoulders hunched.
São Joaneira remarked sadly:
‘Father Amaro looked dreadfully pale.’
The Canon got to his feet and said in an impatient, irritated voice:
‘He may be pale now, but he’ll be red enough in the face tomorrow. I just want to say one thing: this rant in the newspaper is the calumny of all calumnies. I don’t know who wrote it or why, but it’s just a lot of shameless nonsense. The person behind it is a fool and a rogue. We know what we have to do, and we’ve discussed the matter quite enough, so bring in the tea. What’s done is done and let’s hear no more about it.’
Everyone else still looked so cast down that the Canon added:
‘One other thing: no one has died, and there is no need for anyone to look as if they had. Amélia, sit down at the piano and play me that tune I like, “Chiquita”.’
The secretary-general, Gouveia Ledesma, a former journalist, and in his more expansive youth, the author of a sentimental volume entitled Reveries of a Dreamer, was running the district in the absence of the governor.
He was a young graduate and reputed to be a man of talent. When he was at Coimbra University, he had played the leading man in dramatic productions to great applause; and, at the time, he used to walk along the main street in the evening, wearing the same tragic air with which, on stage, he would pluck at his hair or, during love scenes, press his handkerchief to his eyes. Later, in Lisbon, he had frittered away a small inheritance on love affairs with various Lolas and Carmens, on lavish suppers at Mata’s, on a great many pairs of trousers from Xafredo’s the tailor and on pernicious literary friends; by the age of 30, he was poor, full of mercury and the author of twenty romantic serials published in the magazine Civilisation. He was so popular that he was known in brothels and cafés by the affectionate nickname of Bibi. However, judging that he had, by then, tasted life to the full, he let his sideboards grow, began to quote from Bastiat, hung around in political circles and set out on a career as an administrator; he now referred to the republic he had so praised in Coimbra as ‘an absurd chimera’, and Bibi was now a pillar of the establishment.
He detested Leiria, where people thought him terribly witty, and he would declare to the ladies at the soirées held by the local deputy Novais that he was ‘tired of life’. It was whispered that dear old Novais’ wife was mad about him, and it was true that Bibi had written to a friend in Lisbon: ‘As for conquests, not much to report; the only one I have in my sights is Novais’ little woman.’
He generally got up late, and on that particular morning, he was sitting in his dressing gown at the table, cracking open his boiled eggs, nostalgically reading a passionate account of a performance that had been booed off the stage at the Teatro São Carlos in Lisbon, when a servant – a Galician he had brought with him from the capital – came in to say that a priest wished to see him:
‘A priest? Show him in!’ And purely for his own benefit he murmured: ‘The State should never keep the Church waiting!’
He got up and held out both his hands to Father Natário as he gravely entered the room in his long lustrine cassock.
‘Bring another chair, will you, Trindade! Would you like a cup of tea, Father? Lovely morning, eh? I was just thinking about you, or, rather, about the clergy in general. I’ve been reading about the pilgrimages people are making to Our Lady of Lourdes . . . A splendid example to set! Thousands of people from the very best society . . . It’s so reassuring to see this renewal of faith . . . As I was saying only yesterday at Novais’ house: “Faith, after all, is the real motive force in society.” Do have a cup of tea! Ah, yes, it’s such a comfort!’
‘No, thank you, I’ve already had breakfast.’
‘Ah, no, when I said it was a comfort, I was referring to faith not to the tea! Amusing, eh?’
And he laughed smugly. He wanted to please Natário, on the principle, as he often repeated with a knowing smile, that ‘anyone in politics needs to have the priesthood on his side’.
‘And of course,’ he went on, ‘as I was saying only yesterday at Novais’ house, it’s such a boon to the town itself! Lourdes, for example, was just a little village, but with the faithful arriving there in droves, it’s become a city . . . Big hotels, boulevards, fine shops . . . Economic development going hand in hand with religious renewal.’
And he gave a grave, satisfied tug at his shirt collar.
‘I’ve come to talk to you about an article that appeared in The District Voice.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said the secretary-general, ‘absolutely, I’ve seen it already! A real tirade . . . But absolute rubbish in literary terms, as regards style and imagery . . .’
‘And what do you intend to do about it, secretary-general?’
Senhor Gouveia Ledesma leaned back in his chair and asked in astonishment:
‘Me? Do?’
Weighing his words, Natário said:
‘The authorities have a duty to protect the state religion, and, by implication, its priests . . . Although, let us be clear about this, I have not come to see you on behalf of the clergy . . .’
And, placing one hand on his chest, he added:
‘I am merely a poor priest with no influence . . . I have come, as a private individual, to ask the secretary-general if he can possibly allow respectable members of the diocesan Church to be libelled in this way.’
‘It is certainly regrettable that a newspaper . . .’
Puffing out his chest indignantly, Natário broke in:
‘A newspaper that should have been banned long ago, secretary-general!’
‘Banned? Good heavens, Father! You surely don’t want a return to the days when local magistrates acted for the king! Ban the newspaper? But the freedom of the press is a sacred principle! Besides, the publishing laws would not permit it . . . You can’t present a legal action to the public prosecution service just because a newspaper publishes a few off-colour remarks about the Cathedral chapter – impossible! We would have to sue every newspaper in Portugal, apart from good Catholic papers like The Nation and The Public Good. It would put an end to freedom of thought, to thirty years of progress, to the very idea of government! We’re not absolutists, my dear sir! We want light and plenty of it! Yes, that’s what we want, light!’
Natário coughed very deliberately and said:
‘Of course, but then, when the elections come around, and the authorities ask for our help, we, given that we receive no protection from them, will simply say: Non possumus!’
‘Do you really think, Father, that for the sake of a few priestly votes we would be prepared to betray civilisation?’
And striking a noble pose, Bibi added:
The Crime of Father Amaro Page 17