The Crime of Father Amaro

by José Maria De Eça de Queirós

  Given their generous confidence in her virtue, Amélia even suggested to Amaro that it might be a good idea to tell the ladies that he was occasionally present when she was carrying out her pious work with Totó.

  ‘That way, if anyone did see you going into the sexton’s house, no one would suspect anything.’

  ‘That doesn’t seem necessary,’ he said. ‘God is clearly on our side, my love. We don’t want to interfere in his plans. He sees further than we do . . .’

  She agreed immediately, as she did with his every utterance. From the very first morning in Esguelhas’ house, she had abandoned herself to him absolutely and entirely, body, soul, will and feeling: there was not a hair on her head, not an idea, however small, in her mind that did not belong to Father Amaro. That possession of her whole being had not been a gradual process, it had happened as soon as his strong arms closed around her. It was as if his kisses had sucked up and consumed her soul; now she was like an inert accessory of his person. And she did not hide the fact; she enjoyed humbling herself before him, offering herself up, feeling that she was all his, his slave; she wanted him to think for her and to live for her; she had gladly unloaded onto him the burden of responsibility that had always weighed so heavily on her in life; her views came to her ready-formed from Amaro’s brain, as naturally as if the blood running through her veins sprang from his heart. ‘Father Amaro wanted . . .’ or ‘Father Amaro said . . .’ were for her all-sufficient, all-powerful reasons. She lived with her eyes fixed on him, in a state of animal obedience; she only looked away and down when he spoke or when the moment came to unbutton her dress.

  Amaro took prodigious pleasure in this domination; it was a revenge for a whole past life of dependencies – his uncle’s house, the seminary, the white salon of the Conde de Ribamar . . . His entire existence as a priest was one long humble bow that wearied his soul; he lived in obedience to the bishop, to the ecclesiastical council, to the canons, to the Rule that did not even allow him to have a will of his own in how he treated the sacristan. And now, at last, there at his feet, he had that body, that soul, that living being over whom he reigned despotically. As a priest, he spent his days praising, adoring and sending up incense to God, and now he too was the God of that creature who feared him and who punctually offered up her devotions to him. For her, at least, he was handsome and better than any count or duke, and as worthy of a mitre as the wisest of men. She herself had once said to him, after thinking for a moment:

  ‘You could become Pope!’

  ‘I am certainly the stuff that Popes are made of,’ he replied gravely.

  And she believed him, fearing only that such lofty posts would take him away from her and carry him far from Leiria. That passion, in which she was so absorbed and steeped, had made her stupid and obtuse about anything that was not to do with Father Amaro and with her love. Indeed, Amaro did not allow her other interests or curiosities about anything other than him. He even forbade her to read novels or poetry. What did she need knowledge for? What did it matter to her what went on in the world? One day when she had spoken with some enthusiasm about a dance that was being held in Vias-Claras he was as offended as if she had actually betrayed him. In the sexton’s house he rained down the most terrible accusations upon her: she was vain, a fallen woman, a daughter of Satan!

  ‘I’ll kill you, do you hear? I’ll kill you!’ he exclaimed, grabbing her wrists and fixing her with burning eyes.

  He was tormented by the fear that she might escape from his dominion, might lose her mute and absolute adoration of him. He thought sometimes that she might, with time, grow weary of a man who could not satisfy a woman’s vanities and tastes, who always wore the same black cassock and had a shaven face and tonsure. He imagined that colourful cravats, well-waxed moustaches, a fine horse or a lancer’s uniform were things that held a real fascination for women. And if he heard her mention an officer at the barracks or some gentleman of the town, he would become immediately and irrationally jealous:

  ‘Do you like him? Is it because of the clothes he wears, or his moustache?’

  ‘Like him? I’ve never even seen the man!’

  Well, she shouldn’t talk about him then. Feelings of curiosity and thoughts about other men . . . why, it was just such a lack of vigilance over one’s soul and will that the Devil could seize upon.

  He began to hate everything about the secular world simply because it might attract her and draw her away from the shadow cast by his cassock. On complicated pretexts, he forbade all communication with the town. He even convinced her mother not to let Amélia go to the arcade or to the shops alone. And he was always representing men to her as monsters of impiety, stupid and false, encrusted in sin, marked out for Hell! He told her the most terrible stories about the various young men of Leiria. Terrified but nevetheless intrigued, she would ask him:

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I cannot say,’ he would reply and nothing more, indicating that his lips were closed by the seal of confession.

  At the same time, he would hammer into her the glories of the priesthood. He would make a great display of erudition drawn entirely from his old schoolbooks, praising the work of priests and their superiority. In Egypt, which, in ancient times, had been a great nation, a man could only be king if he were also a priest. In Persia and Ethiopia, a simple priest had the power both to crown kings and to oust them. Who enjoyed an equivalent authority? No one, not even in the Court of Heaven. The priest was superior to the angels and to the seraphim because, unlike the priest, they were not given the marvellous power to forgive sins. Even the Virgin Mary did not have greater power than he, Father Amaro. With all due respect for the majesty of Our Lady, he could say, along with St Bernardino of Siena: ‘The priest is greater than thee, beloved mother!’, because although the Virgin had incarnated God in her chaste womb, she had done so only once, whereas the priest, in the holy sacrifice of mass, incarnated God every day! And this was not just some subtle argument of his own, all the holy fathers agreed.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Oh, my love!’ she would murmur, full of wonder, swooning with sensual pleasure.

  Then he would dazzle her with venerable quotations: St Clement, who called the priest ‘the earthly God’; eloquent St John Chrysostom, who said that ‘the priest is the ambassador who brings orders from God’. And St Ambrose who wrote: ‘There is a greater difference between the role of king and the role of priest than there is between lead and gold.’

  ‘And I am the gold,’ said Amaro, patting himself on the chest. ‘What do you think?’

  She would hurl herself into his arms, bestowing voracious kisses on him, as if to touch and possess in him ‘St Ambrose’s gold’, ‘the ambassador of God’, everything that is most high and most noble on earth, the being who exceeds the archangels in grace!

  As much or even more than his voice, it was this divine priestly power, this familiarity with God, that made her believe the promises which he repeated over and over: being loved by a priest would call down upon her God’s interest and friendship; when she died, two angels would come and take her by the hand and resolve any doubts that St Peter, the keeper of the keys to Heaven, might have; white roses would spontaneously spring up on her grave, as had happened in France with a young girl loved by a priest, as celestial proof that, in the holy arms of a priest, virginity remains unspoiled.

  She was enchanted by this image. When she thought of her grave perfumed by white roses, she would grow suddenly thoughtful, as if anticipating mystical joys, and utter little sighs of pleasure. Pouting, she would say that she wanted to die now.

  Amaro would laugh.

  ‘How can you talk about death when you’re growing plumper all the time?’

  She had indeed grown fatter. Hers was now an ample and homogeneous beauty. She had lost the restless look that had made her lips seem tight and her nose too pointed. Her lips were of a warm, moist red; there was laughter in her calm, liquid eyes; her whole person exu
ded mature fecundity. She had grown lazy: at home, she kept pausing in her work to sit staring into space, wearing a fixed, silent smile; and then everything seemed to fall asleep for a moment, her needle, the piece of cloth she was sewing, her whole being . . . She was imagining the sexton’s bedroom, the bed, and Father Amaro in his shirtsleeves.

  She spent her days waiting for eight o’clock, which was when Amaro would arrive with the Canon. But the evenings dragged for her now. He had recommended great reserve, and she, in an excess of obedience, exaggerated this to the point of never sitting next to him when tea was served, never even offering him a cake. She hated the presence of the old ladies, their cackling voices, the tedium of lotto; everything in the world seemed unbearable to her, except being alone with him. But what a change when she was in the sexton’s house! Her contorted face, her wild breathing, her agonized cries, followed by a deathly stillness, sometimes frightened Amaro. He would raise himself up on one elbow and ask, concerned:

  ‘Are you all right?’

  And she would open startled eyes, as if she were returning from somewhere far away; and then she looked truly lovely, folding her bare arms over her naked breasts, and nodding slowly.

  XVIII

  An unexpected circumstance arose to spoil those mornings in the sexton’s house. This was Totó’s eccentric behaviour. As Father Amaro said: ‘The girl’s turned out to be a real monster.’

  She had taken a violent dislike to Amélia. As soon as Amélia approached the bed, Totó would pull the covers up over her head and writhe about frantically if she so much as felt the touch of her hand or heard the sound of her voice. Amélia would flee, gripped by the idea that the Devil, catching a whiff of the church on her clothes, impregnated as they were with incense and sprinkled with holy water, was thrashing about inside Totó’s body.

  Amaro had tried to reprimand Totó with high-sounding words, tried to make her aware of her demoniacal ingratitude towards Miss Amélia, who had come to pass the time with her and to teach her to converse with Our Lord . . . But Totó had merely burst into hysterical sobs and then, suddenly, gone utterly still and rigid, her eyes rolled back and bulging, her lips flecked with foam. It gave them both a terrible fright; they frantically splashed the bed with water. As a precaution, Amaro recited the words of exorcism. But, since then, Amélia had decided ‘to leave the creature in peace’. She gave up trying to teach her the alphabet or the prayers to St Anne.

  Out of conscience, though, they always looked in for a moment to see her. They did not go beyond the door to the bedroom, merely asking her how she was. She never replied. Then they would immediately withdraw, terrified of those wild, shining, devouring eyes that moved from one to the other, studying their bodies with an avid curiosity that made her nostrils flare and her pale lips draw back, eyes that fixed with a metallic glitter on Amélia’s clothes and Father Amaro’s cassock, as if trying to guess what lay underneath. What troubled them most, however, was her obstinate, rancorous silence. Amaro, who did not much believe in demonic possession, saw symptoms of insanity in her. Amélia grew more and more frightened. It was just as well that Totó’s paralysed legs kept her pinned to the mattress. Good God, if not, she might come into the room upstairs and attack them!

  She told Amaro that ‘after that spectacle’ she did not even enjoy the morning’s pleasure, and so they decided, from then on, to go up to the room without speaking to Totó.

  This only made matters worse. When Totó saw Amélia walk from the street door to the stairs, she would lean out from the mattress, her hands gripping the edge, desperate to see her and follow her, her face contorted with despair at her own immobility. And as Amélia went into the room, she would hear a short laugh drift up from downstairs or a long ‘Ooh!’ or a chilling howl.

  She was petrified now: it occurred to her that God had placed there, side by side with her love for Amaro, an implacable demon to mock and deride her. In order to reassure her, Amaro told her that Pope Pius IX had recently declared it a sin to believe in demonic possession.

  ‘Why do they have special prayers and exorcisms, then?’

  ‘That’s from the old religion. Everything’s going to change now. After all, science is science . . .’

  She sensed that Amaro was deceiving her, and Totó was spoiling their happiness. Finally, Amaro found a way of escaping from the ‘wretched girl’, and that was for both of them to enter through the sacristy. They only had to cross the kitchen in order to go up the stairs, and Totó’s bed was positioned in such a way that she could not see them when they cautiously tiptoed past. Besides, between eleven o’clock and midday, which was the hour chosen for their rendezvous, the sacristy was empty.

  But even when they entered on tiptoe, holding their breath, their footsteps, however light, would still make the old stairs creak. Then Totó’s voice would emerge from the bedroom, a hoarse, harsh voice screaming:

  ‘There’s a dog outside! There’s a dog outside!’

  Amaro felt a furious desire to strangle her. Amélia would turn pale and tremble.

  And the creature would keep howling out:

  ‘There go the dogs! There go the dogs!’

  They took refuge in the room, bolting the door behind them. But they could not escape that baleful, desolate voice that seemed to them to come from Hell itself.

  ‘The dogs are fighting! The dogs are fighting!’

  Amélia would fall onto the bed, almost fainting with terror. She swore she would never again visit that accursed house.

  ‘But what the devil do you want?’ he would ask angrily. ‘Where would we see each other? Do you want us to lie down on the benches in the sacristy?’

  ‘But what did I do to her? What did I do?’ exclaimed Amélia, clasping her hands.

  ‘Nothing. She’s mad. And poor Esguelhas is a most unfortunate man. But what do you want me to do about it?’

  She did not reply. But at home, as the day for their next rendezvous approached, she would begin to tremble at the thought of that voice which thundered constantly in her ears and which she could hear even in her dreams. And that horror began slowly to awaken her from the sleep that had overtaken her whole being as soon as she had fallen into Father Amaro’s arms. She asked herself questions now: Was she not committing an unpardonable sin? She was no longer consoled by Amaro’s assurances that God would forgive her. When Totó howled, she saw Amaro turn pale, as if a glimpse of Hell had sent a shudder through him. And if God truly forgave them, why did he allow the Devil to hurl scorn and abuse at them through the mouth of Totó?

  She would kneel down then at the foot of her bed and pray endlessly to Our Lady of Sorrows, asking Her to enlighten her, to tell her the reason behind Totó’s persecution of her, asking if it was Her divine intention to send her a dreadful warning. But Our Lady did not answer. Amélia did not feel Our Lady descend from Heaven to hear her prayers as once she had, nor feel in her soul that sweet tranquillity, like a milky wave, which was a visitation from Our Lady. She would wring her hands, feeling utterly defeated and bereft of grace. She would promise then not to go back to the sexton’s house, but when the day came, the idea of Amaro, of the bed, of those kisses that carried away her very soul, of the fire that filled her, she would feel too weak to resist temptation. She would get dressed, swearing that it would be the very last time, and at the stroke of eleven, she would leave, her ears burning, her heart pounding at the thought of Totó’s voice, her belly aflame with desire for the man who would lay her down on the mattress.

  She did not pray as she went into the church, for fear of the saints.

  She would run to the sacristy to take refuge in Amaro, to find shelter in the sacred authority of his cassock. Seeing her arrive so pale and upset, he would try to calm her down by laughing it off. What nonsense! Surely she wasn’t going to let the presence of a mad girl in the house spoil the gift of those mornings together. He promised her too that he would look for another place for them to meet and sometimes, just to distract her, and taking advant
age of the deserted sacristy, he would show her all the different robes, chalices and vestments, try to interest her in a new antependium or some antique lace on a surplice, proving to her, by the familiarity with which he touched these relics, that he was still the parish priest and had not lost his credit in Heaven.

  And so it was that, one morning, he showed her the cloak of Our Lady that had arrived only days before, a present from a rich devotee in Ourém. Amélia thought it wonderful. It was made of blue satin embroidered with stars to represent the sky, and blazing forth from its centre was an exquisitely worked golden heart surrounded by golden roses. Amaro unfolded the cloak and held it up to the window, so that the heavy embroidery caught the light.

  ‘Beautiful, eh? It must be worth hundreds of mil réis. They tried it on the image yesterday. It fits perfectly. Although it is a bit long . . .’ And looking at Amélia, comparing her tall figure with the rather dumpy image of Our Lady, he said: ‘It would look really good on you, though. Let me see.’

  She recoiled.

  ‘Good grief, no, please, that would be a sin!’

  ‘Nonsense,’ he said, approaching with the cloak spread wide, revealing the white satin lining, white as morning mist. ‘It hasn’t been blessed yet. It’s just as if it had come straight from the dressmaker’s.’

  ‘No, no,’ she said feebly, her eyes now shining with desire.

  Then he got angry. Was she saying that she knew better than he did what was and was not a sin? Was she trying to teach him how much respect was or was not due to the vestments of the saints?

  ‘Don’t be silly. Let me see . . .’

  He placed it over her shoulders and fastened the engraved silver clasp over her breast. Then with a smile of devout, ardent pleasure, he stood back to admire her as she stood wrapped in the cloak, frozen and afraid.

  ‘Oh, my love, you look so beautiful!’

  Moving with solemn caution, she walked over to the mirror – an old tarnished mirror in a carved dark oak frame crowned by a cross. She looked at herself for a moment entirely wrapped in that sky-blue silk, glittering with stars of an almost celestial beauty. She felt the rich weight of it. The holiness it had acquired from contact with the image filled her with a voluptuous, pious pleasure. A fluid sweeter than air flowed about her, caressing her body with the ether of Paradise. She felt like a saint on a platform, or even higher than that, in Heaven itself . . .