The Crime of Father Amaro

by José Maria De Eça de Queirós

  ‘I will prove to them, with an iron logic, that it is all the result of a rationalist conspiracy. You may depend upon it, Amparo, that it is all a rationalist conspiracy,’ he said, with a little groan, as he pulled on his high boots.

  ‘And see if he says anything about Amélia or São Joaneira . . .’

  ‘I’ll take notes. But this has nothing to do with São Joaneira. This is a purely political trial.’

  He strode majestically across the square, convinced that all the neighbours would be at their doors, murmuring: ‘There goes Carlos to make his statement.’ Yes, he was going to make a statement, but not about the blow to Father Amaro’s shoulder. What did that matter? What mattered was what lay behind the blow – a conspiracy against Order, the Church, the Constitution and Property! That is what he would prove to the administrator. That blow, sir, is the first violent expression of a great social revolution!

  And pushing open the baize door that led into the council offices, he stood for a moment grasping the handle, filling the doorway with the magnificence of his person. Alas, there was none of the paraphernalia of justice he had imagined. There was the prisoner, poor João Eduardo, but he was sitting on the edge of a bench, staring stupidly at the floor, his ears bright red. Artur Couceiro, in order not to look at João Eduardo, had his nose in a vast register of official letters on which he had spread out yesterday’s evening paper, deeply embarrassed by the presence on the prisoner’s bench of that fellow frequenter of evenings at São Joaneira’s house. The amanuensis, Pires, eyebrows anxiously raised, was absorbed in sharpening his quill pen with his fingernail. The notary Domingos, on the other hand, positively buzzed with activity. He was scribbling furiously; the trial was obviously moving on apace. It was time for Carlos to introduce his idea . . . He stepped forward.

  ‘Gentlemen, is the administrator available?’

  At precisely that moment, the administrator called from inside his office.

  ‘Senhor Domingos!’

  The notary stood to attention, placing his spectacles on top of his head.

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  ‘Have you got any matches?’

  Domingos searched frantically in his pocket, in the drawer, amongst his papers . . .

  ‘Have any of you gentlemen got any matches?’

  Various hands scrabbled over desks. No, there were no matches.

  ‘Senhor Carlos, have you got any matches?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid I haven’t, Senhor Domingos.’

  Then the administrator himself appeared, adjusting his tortoiseshell glasses.

  ‘So no one has any matches, eh? Why are there never any matches here? An office like this and no matches . . . What do you do with them? Go out and buy half a dozen boxes.’

  The employees exchanged concerned glances at this flagrant lack of essential office apparatus. And Carlos, taking advantage of the administrator’s presence and attention, said:

  ‘Sir, I have come here . . . I have come here spontaneously, out of a genuine concern you might say . . .’

  ‘Tell me something, Senhor Carlos,’ the administrator said, interrupting him. ‘Are the two priests still in your shop?’

  ‘Father Amaro and Father Silvério remained with my wife in order to recover from the distressing . . .’

  ‘Would you be kind enough to tell them that they are needed here.’

  ‘I am, of course, at the disposal of the law.’

  ‘Tell them to come as soon as possible. It’s half past five, and we want to go home. It’s been like this all day, just one thing after another! We’re supposed to close at three!’

  And with that, he turned on his heel and went out onto the balcony in his office – the same balcony on which, every day, between eleven and three, he defiled Teles’ wife with his gaze, all the while twirling his blond moustaches and smoothing his blue cravat.

  Carlos was already opening the baize door when a ‘Pst’ from Domingos stopped him.

  ‘Oh, Carlos,’ he said, and there was something touchingly supplicatory about the little smile he gave, ‘forgive me, but would you mind bringing back a box of matches too?’

  At that moment, Father Amaro appeared at the door, and behind him came the enormous bulk of Father Silvério.

  ‘I wish to speak to the administrator in private,’ said Amaro.

  All the employees stood up, as did João Eduardo, whose face was as white as the whitewashed wall. Father Amaro crossed the office with subtle, ecclesiastical steps, followed by Silvério, who, as he passed the prisoner, made an oblique, cautious, semicircular gesture, as if fearfully warding him off; the administrator came out to greet the priests, and his office door closed discreetly behind them.

  ‘There’s some compromise afoot,’ muttered the worldly-wise Domingos, winking at his colleagues.

  Carlos sat down glumly. He had gone there to enlighten the authorities on the social dangers threatening Leiria, the Province and Society as a whole in order to play his part in that trial which he believed to be a political trial, and yet there he was silent, forgotten, sitting next to the prisoner on the bench. They had not even offered him a chair. It would be absolutely intolerable if the parish priest and the administrator reached some agreement without consulting him! For he was the only one who had seen in that blow to the priest’s shoulder not the clerk’s fist, but the hand of rationalism. This disdain for his perceptions seemed to him a grave error on the part of the municipal council. The administrator clearly lacked the ability to save Leiria from the dangers of revolution! The gossip in the arcade was quite right – the man was a nincumpoop!

  The door opened a crack to reveal the administrator’s glittering glasses.

  ‘Senhor Domingos, would you mind coming in?’ he said.

  The notary bustled importantly over, and the door was once more discreetly closed. Ah, how that door, as it closed in his face, leaving him outside, how it angered Carlos! There he sat with Pires, with Artur, amongst those subaltern intellects, he who had promised his Amparozinho that he would speak plainly to the administrator. And who had the administrator’s ear, who was called? Domingos, an utter dimwit, who spelled ‘satisfaction’ with a ‘ph’ in the middle. And what could one expect of a man who spent his mornings, binoculars in hand, dishonouring a family? Poor Teles, his neighbour and friend. Yes, he really ought to speak to Teles.

  But his indignation only grew the more when he saw Artur Couceiro, an office employee, in the absence of his boss, get up from his desk and walk familiarly over to the prisoner and say to him sadly:

  ‘Oh, João, what were you thinking of? But don’t worry, things will work out, you’ll see.’

  João Eduardo gloomily shrugged his shoulders. He had been there for half an hour, sitting on the edge of that bench, not moving, not taking his eyes off the floor, feeling as empty of ideas as if his entire brain had been removed. All the wine, which, in Osório’s tavern and in the Cathedral square, had lit flames of anger in his soul and filled his pulses with a desire for violence, seemed to have been suddenly eliminated from his organism. He felt now as harmless as when he sat carefully sharpening his quill in the office. He was overwhelmed by a great weariness, and there he waited on the bench, physically and mentally inert, thinking dully that he would be sent to a prison cell in São Francisco, sleep in a straw cape, eat at the poorhouse . . . He would never again walk by the river nor ever see Amélia . . . The little house he lived in would be rented out to someone else . . . And who would take care of his canary? Poor thing, it would probably die of hunger. Unless Eugénia, his neighbour, took it in . . .

  Suddenly, Domingos emerged from the administrator’s office and, rapidly closing the door behind him, declared triumphantly:

  ‘What did I say? A compromise! Everything’s been sorted out.’

  And to João Eduardo:

  ‘You lucky so-and-so! Congratulations!’

  Carlos thought that this was the greatest administrative scandal since the days of the Cabrals! And he was just abo
ut to retire in high dudgeon (like the Stoic, in the classical painting, leaving a patrician orgy), when the administrator opened the door of his office. Everyone stood up.

  His Excellency stepped out into the office and, very gravely, weighing every word, his glasses fixed on the prisoner, said:

  ‘Father Amaro, who is the kindest and most charitable of priests, came to tell me . . . that is, he came to ask me to take this matter no further. He, understandably, does not wish his name to be dragged through the courts. Besides, as Father Amaro so rightly said, his religion, of which, I may say, he is a most honourable example, preaches the forgiveness of all wrongs . . . He recognises that, although brutal, the attack came to nothing. It seems too that you were drunk.’

  All eyes fixed on João Eduardo, who blushed scarlet. This, it seemed to him, was infinitely worse than prison.

  ‘Anyway,’ the administrator went on, ‘having considered the matter carefully, I hereby release you. Make sure you behave yourself now. We’ll have our eye on you. Off you go.’

  And the administrator withdrew into his office. João Eduardo seemed too stunned to move.

  ‘C-can I go, then?’ he stammered.

  ‘You can go to China, wherever you want! Liberus, libera, liberum!’ exclaimed Domingos, who hated priests and was delighted with the outcome.

  João Eduardo looked around at the other employees, at the frowning Carlos; his eyes brimmed with tears, then he picked up his hat and left.

  ‘Well, that saves a lot of work!’ said Domingos, gleefully rubbing his hands.

  The necessary paperwork was hastily patched together. After all, it was late. Pires took off his oversleeves and put away his aircushion. Artur rolled up his sheet music. Standing sulkily at the window, Carlos stared sombrely out at the square.

  At last, the two priests left, accompanied to the door by the administrator, who, now that his public duties were over, was once more the man of society. Why had friend Silvério not been to the Baronesa de Via-Clara’s house lately? They had had the most furious game of ombre! Peixoto lost twice. How the man cursed! Your servant, gentlemen. I’m so glad that everything has been sorted out. Mind the step, now.

  However, when he was returning to his office, he deigned to pause by Domingos’ desk and, growing solemn again, said:

  ‘Things worked out well. It’s slightly irregular, but sensible. There are quite enough attacks on the clergy in the press without this kind of thing . . . It could have caused a great scandal. The lad could have said that he was jealous of Father Amaro, that he was trying to lead the girl astray, etc. It’s much better to hush things up. Especially since, as Father Amaro told me, the only influence he has had in Rua da Misericórdia or wherever has been in freeing the girl from marrying that lad, who, as we see, is a drunk and a bully!’

  Carlos was in torment. All these explanations were addressed to Domingos. And to him, not a word! There he stood, forgotten by the window.

  But no! The administrator was beckoning to him mysteriously from inside his office.

  At last! He rushed radiantly in, suddenly reconciled with the administrator.

  ‘I was going to drop in at the pharmacy,’ the administrator said quietly and, with no further ado, handed him a folded piece of paper, ‘to get you to send this round to my house later today. It’s a prescription from Dr Gouveia. But since you’re here . . .’

  ‘I came in order to make a statement . . .’

  ‘Oh, that’s all over with!’ said the administrator briskly. ‘Don’t forget now, send that round to me before six. I have to take it tonight. Goodbye. And don’t forget.’

  ‘I won’t,’ said Carlos sharply.

  As he walked into the pharmacy, he was ablaze with anger. He would send a furious letter to the newspaper, or his name wasn’t Carlos! But Amparo, who had spied his return from the balcony, ran down to him, full of questions.

  ‘So what happened? Did they let the lad go? What did he say? What was it like?’

  Carlos looked at her with fire in his eyes.

  ‘Through no fault of mine, materialism triumphed. But they’ll pay for it!’

  ‘But what did you say?’

  Seeing Amparo and his assistant wide-eyed and eager to devour every word of his statement, Carlos, needing to salvage his dignity as husband and his superiority as employer, said laconically:

  ‘I merely made my views clear.’

  ‘And what did the administrator say?’

  It was then that Carlos remembered the crumpled prescription in his hand and read it. He was struck dumb with indignation; that piece of paper was all he had got from his great interview with the administrator!

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Amparo urgently.

  What was it, indeed? In his rage, and throwing confidentiality and the good name of the administrator to the winds, he exclaimed:

  ‘It’s a prescription for a bottle of Gibert’s syrup for the administrator. There’s the prescription, Senhor Augusto!’

  Amparo, who had some experience in the pharmacy and knew what mercury was used for, turned as red as the gaudy ribbons adorning her false topknot.

  All that evening, the town buzzed with talk of the ‘attempt on Father Amaro’s life’. Some people criticised the administrator for taking the matter no further, especially the gentlemen of the opposition, who saw in the weakness of that particular civil servant incontestable proof that the government, with its profligacy and its corruption, was leading the country into the abyss.

  Father Amaro, though, was admired as a saint. What piety! What gentleness! The precentor sent for him at dusk and received him paternally with a ‘Greetings, my paschal lamb!’ And having heard the story of the attack and of his generous intervention . . .

  ‘My son,’ he exclaimed, ‘you combine the youth of Telemachus and the prudence of Mentor! Father Amaro, you would have been worthy to be a priest of Minerva in the city of Salento!’

  When Amaro went to São Joaneira’s house that night, he did so as if he were a saint who had survived the wild beasts in the Roman circus or Diocletian’s plebs! Amélia made no attempt to disguise her joy and, trembling, she clutched his hands in hers for a long time, her eyes wet with tears. As in happy former days, they gave him the Canon’s green armchair to sit in. Dona Maria da Assunção even tried to give him a cushion to rest his bruised shoulder on. Then he had to give a detailed description of the scene, from the moment when, as he was chatting to Father Silvério (who had acquitted himself very well), he had seen the clerk in the middle of the square, brandishing his walking stick with the air of a bullyboy.

  These details angered the ladies. The clerk seemed to them worse than Longinus or Pilate. The wretch! Father Amaro should have trampled him under foot! What a saint he was to have forgiven him!

  ‘I did as my heart bade me,’ he said, lowering his eyes. ‘I remembered the words of Our Lord Jesus Christ. He tells us that if someone smites us on our right cheek, we should turn to him the other also.’

  The Canon coughed loudly and remarked:

  ‘I’ll tell you something, if someone smote me on my right cheek . . . But those are the orders of Our Lord Jesus Christ, and I would, of course, offer my left cheek. Orders from above! But after I’d done my duty as a priest, ladies, I’d thrash the rascal!’

  ‘Did it hurt very much, Father?’ a faint and unfamiliar voice asked from the corner.

  An extraordinary event! Dona Ana Gansoso had spoken after ten long years of somnolent taciturnity! The torpor that had remained unshaken by parties or funerals was not, after all, devoid of human feeling and had been broken at last by sympathy for Father Amaro. All the women smiled at him gratefully, and Amaro, flattered, responded kindly:

  ‘Scarcely at all, Dona Ana, scarcely at all, Senhora. Not that he didn’t hit me hard, mind. But I’m made of sterner stuff than that.’

  ‘The monster!’ cried Dona Josefa Dias, enraged at the idea of the clerk’s fist unleashed against that saintly shoulder. ‘The monster! I would like
to see him clapped in irons and set to building roads! I knew what he was like. I was never taken in by him. I always thought he had the face of a murderer!’

  ‘He was drunk, and you know what men are like when they’ve been drinking . . .’ observed São Joaneira timidly.

  There was uproar at this. She must not find excuses for him. It was almost sacrilege to do so. The man was an animal, an animal!

  And there was exultation when Artur Couceiro turned up and immediately gave them the latest news: Nunes had sent for João Eduardo and had said to him (and these were his exact words): ‘I won’t have thugs or criminals working in my office, so get out!’

  São Joaneira was moved to sympathy.

  ‘The poor boy won’t have anything to eat . . .’

  ‘Well, let him drink, then, let him drink!’ shouted Dona Maria da Assunção.

  Everyone laughed. Only Amélia, bent over her sewing, turned very pale, terrified at the thought that João Eduardo might starve.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t consider it a laughing matter!’ said São Joaneira. ‘I won’t be able to sleep for thinking about the boy having nothing to eat . . . Oh, no, it’s not right. Forgive me, Father Amaro, but . . .’

  But Father Amaro did not wish poverty on the boy either. He wasn’t a man to bear a grudge. And if the clerk came to his door in need, he would give him some money (not much, because he wasn’t rich), but he would gladly give him something.

  Such saintliness drove the women wild. What an angel! They gazed on him adoringly, their hands almost raised in prayer. His presence, like that of a St Vincent de Paul, exuding charity, gave the room a chapel-like sweetness, and Dona Maria da Assunção sighed with devout pleasure.