The Crime of Father Amaro

by José Maria De Eça de Queirós

  A bird sang, then fell silent, and then began again a moment later, such a joyful, vibrant song that Amélia smiled to hear it.

  ‘It’s a nightingale.’

  ‘Nightingales don’t sing at this time of day,’ said Father Ferrão. ‘It’s a blackbird. Now there’s a creature who’s not afraid of ghosts and hears no voices. And the rascal sings with such gusto too!’

  It was indeed a triumphant sound, the joyous delirium of a happy blackbird, which lent a bright, festive sound to the whole orchard.

  And suddenly, for no reason, confronted by the glorious warbling of that happy bird, Amélia, in one of those nervous fits that afflict hysterical women, burst out crying.

  ‘Now, now, what’s this?’ said Father Ferrão, greatly surprised.

  To calm her, he took her hand with the familiarity of an old man and a friend.

  ‘I’m so unhappy,’ she sobbed.

  And he, very paternally, said:

  ‘You’ve no reason to be. Whatever your afflictions or worries, a Christian soul always has consolation to hand. There is no sin that God cannot forgive, no pain he cannot soothe, remember that. What you must not do is keep your unhappiness to yourself. That’s what troubles you and makes you cry. If I can help to comfort you, then come and see me . . .’

  ‘When?’ she asked, already eager to find refuge in that saintly man’s protection.

  ‘Whenever you like,’ he said, laughing. ‘I don’t have particular times for consoling people. The church is always open, and God is always there.’

  Early the next morning, before Dona Josefa had got up, Amélia went to his house, and for two hours, she knelt before the small pine confessional, which the good priest had, with his own hand, painted dark blue, adorning it with extraordinary little angel heads with wings instead of ears, a work of high art of which he spoke with secret vanity.

  XXII

  Father Amaro had just finished supper and was sitting smoking a cigarette and staring up at the ceiling in order not to see the long, gaunt face of the coadjutor, a still, spectral presence, who had been there now for half an hour and who, every ten minutes or so, would ask a question that would drop into the silence of the room like the melancholy quarter hours struck by the Cathedral clock throughout the night.

  ‘Do you no longer subscribe to The Nation, Father?’

  ‘No, I read The People now.’

  The coadjutor resumed his silence and began again the laborious process of collating the words for his next question. At last, he said slowly:

  ‘You haven’t ever heard any more of that scoundrel who wrote the article in The District Voice, have you?’

  ‘No, he went off to Brazil.’

  The maid came in at that moment, saying that ‘there was a person wishing to speak to him’. It was her way of announcing that Dionísia was in the kitchen.

  She had not been to see him for weeks, and Amaro, his curiosity aroused, immediately left the room, closing the door behind him, and called Dionísia out onto the landing.

  ‘I have some extraordinary news, Father! In fact, I ran all the way here. João Eduardo is back!’

  ‘Good heavens!’ exclaimed Father Amaro. ‘I was just talking about him. What an amazing coincidence!’

  ‘It’s true. I saw him today. I was dumbstruck. But I’ve already found out all about him. He’s tutor to the children of the estate owner.’

  ‘Which estate owner?’

  ‘The owner of the Poiais estate. I don’t know yet whether he lives there or whether he just goes there in the morning and comes back at night. All I know is that he’s back in Leiria. And he looks quite the dandy, new suit and everything. I thought I should warn you because, sooner or later, he’s bound to see Amélia up there at the house. It’s on the road to the estate. What do you think?’

  ‘The stupid fool!’ snorted Amaro angrily. ‘When he’s not needed, he turns up. So presumably he didn’t go to Brazil after all?’

  ‘Apparently not . . . because it certainly wasn’t his ghost, it was him in the flesh. Coming out of Fernandes’ shop, too, looking very smart. You had better warn the girl, Father, so that he doesn’t look up one day and see her at the window.’

  Amaro gave her the money she was expecting, and a quarter of an hour later, having rid himself of the coadjutor, he was on his way to Ricoça.

  His heart beat faster when he saw the newly-painted yellow mansion, the broad terrace along the side of the house, running parallel to the orchard wall, its parapet adorned at intervals with large stone vases. After many long weeks, he was about to see his Amélia again! And he could already imagine her passionate cries as she fell into his arms.

  On the ground floor were the stables, dating from the time when the original owners had lived there, but these were now the domain of rats and mushrooms, and the only light came from narrow, barred windows that were almost entirely covered by thick layers of cobwebs; one entered through a vast, dark courtyard, one corner of which had for years now been home to a mountain of empty barrels; to the right, flanked by two small stone lions, benign and sleepy, was the elegant staircase that led to the rooms above. Amaro went up the stairs to a large salon with a coffered oak ceiling; the room was entirely bare of furniture and half the floor was covered with dried beans.

  Not knowing what else to do, he clapped his hands.

  A door opened. Amélia appeared for a moment, wearing a white shift and with her hair all dishevelled; she gave a little shriek and slammed the door shut, and Father Amaro heard her running away into the house. He stood glumly in the middle of the room, his umbrella underneath his arm, remembering the easy familiarity with which he used to enter the house in Rua da Misericórdia, where the doors seemed to open of their own accord and the very wallpaper seemed to brighten with joy.

  He grew irritated and was about to clap again, when Gertrudes appeared.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Father Amaro! Come in. How good to see you. Senhora, it’s Father Amaro!’ she called, pleased to see a friendly face at last, a friend from town, in that place of exile.

  She led him immediately into Dona Josefa’s bedroom at the back of the house, an enormous room, where, on a small sofa tucked away in one corner, the old lady spent her days huddled in her shawl, her feet wrapped in a blanket.

  ‘Dona Josefa! How are you?’

  She could not reply, seized by a fit of coughing caused by the excitement of his visit.

  ‘As you see, Father,’ she managed to murmur feebly, ‘getting older by the day. And how are you? Why haven’t you visited before?’

  Amaro made some vague excuse about his duties at the Cathedral, and, seeing that pale, hollow-cheeked face beneath the hideous black lace bonnet, he realised what sad hours Amélia must have spent there. He asked after Amélia; he had seen her in the distance, but she had run away.

  ‘That’s because she wasn’t decently dressed,’ said the old woman. ‘It’s laundry day today.’

  Amaro asked what they got up to, how they passed the time all alone there.

  ‘I spend my days in here and Miss Amélia goes about her own business.’

  She seemed to sink under the effort of uttering each word, and her hoarseness grew more marked.

  ‘So the change hasn’t done you much good, then?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Don’t listen to her, Father,’ said Gertrudes, who had remained standing beside the sofa, enjoying Amaro’s presence. ‘Don’t listen to her. She’s exaggerating. She gets up every day, walks into the living room, has a bit of chicken to eat. She’s a lot better. It’s just like Father Ferrão says, good health goes galloping off, but it comes back at a walk.’

  The door opened and Amélia appeared, her face scarlet; she was wearing her old purple woollen dressing gown and her hair had been very hastily arranged.

  ‘I’m sorry, Father,’ she stammered, ‘but today has been rather chaotic.’

  He shook her hand gravely, and they stood in silence, as if separated by a vast desert. S
he fiddled with one corner of the woollen shawl she wore over her shoulders and kept her eyes fixed on the floor. Amaro found her quite changed; her face was plumper, and there was a line at each corner of her mouth that made her look older. In order to break that strange silence, he asked her if she was all right.

  ‘Not too bad. It’s a bit of a gloomy house, though. As Father Ferrão says, it’s too big for us to really feel at home in it.’

  ‘We didn’t come here to enjoy ourselves,’ said the old woman, with her eyes closed, although without a trace of fatigue in her cold voice.

  Amélia looked down, and the colour drained from her face.

  Then, realising in a flash how the old woman must have been tormenting Amélia, Amaro said very sternly:

  ‘No, you didn’t come here to enjoy yourselves, but neither did you come here to make yourselves miserable. Being ill-tempered and making other people suffer for it denotes a disgraceful lack of charity, and there is no worse sin in the eyes of the Lord. Anyone who behaves in such a fashion is unworthy of God’s grace.’

  The old woman burst into hysterical sobs.

  ‘Oh, the things God has reserved for me in my old age . . .’

  Gertrudes tried to cheer her up. She would only make matters worse by upsetting herself like that. There was no need to take on so. Everything would sort itself out with God’s help. She would get her health back eventually along with her good humour.

  Amélia had gone over to the window, doubtless to hide the tears that had started to her eyes too. And saddened by the scene, Amaro began saying that Dona Josefa was not bearing that period of illness with true Christian resignation . . . Nothing so shocked Our Lord as to see his creatures rebelling against the ills and burdens that He had sent them. It was an insult to the justice of His commands.

  ‘You’re quite right, Father, quite right,’ murmured Dona Josefa contritely. ‘I don’t know what I’m saying sometimes. It’s the illness.’

  ‘All right, all right, but from now on, you must resign yourself to your lot and try to see everything in the best possible light. That is what God wants from you. I know it’s hard being shut up here . . .’

  ‘That’s what Father Ferrão says,’ broke in Amélia, returning from the window. ‘Dona Josefa feels disoriented here . . . uprooted from the habits of a lifetime . . .’

  Noticing these repeated references to Father Ferrão, Amaro asked if he was a frequent visitor.

  ‘Oh, he’s been such good company,’ said Amélia. ‘He comes nearly every day.’

  ‘He’s a real saint,’ exclaimed Gertrudes.

  ‘Of course, of course,’ muttered Amaro, irked by their enthusiasm. ‘He’s a man of great virtue.’

  ‘Oh, he is that,’ sighed Dona Josefa, ‘but . . .’ She stopped, not daring to express her devout reservations. Then she said pleadingly: ‘But, Father, you’re the one who should come to see me and help me bear the cross of this illness.’

  ‘And I will, Senhora, I will. You need distraction, news from outside. In fact, I had a letter from the Canon only yesterday.’

  He took the letter from his pocket and read a few extracts. The Canon had already taken fifteen sea baths. The beach was packed with people. Dona Maria had been ill with a boil. The weather was superb. They went for long walks each evening to see the nets being brought in. São Joaneira was well, but never stopped talking about Amélia . . .

  ‘Poor Mama,’ whimpered Amélia.

  But Dona Josefa was not interested in the news, being too busy wheezing. It was Amélia who asked after friends in Leiria: Father Natário, Father Silvério . . .

  It was getting dark and Gertrudes went to prepare the oil lamp. Amaro got up to go.

  ‘Well, Senhora, I’ll see you again soon. I’ll pop in from time to time, don’t worry. And try not to upset yourself. Wrap up warm, eat well, and God’s mercy will not abandon you.’

  ‘Oh, come back soon, Father, come back soon!’

  Amélia held out her hand to him, intending to say goodbye in the room itself, but Amaro said jokingly:

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind, Miss Amélia, could you just show me the way out? I get lost in this big house.’

  They left the room and once they were in the vast salon where there was still some light coming in through the three large windows, he stopped and said:

  ‘She’s making your life a misery, isn’t she?’

  ‘Well, what else do I deserve?’ Amélia replied, looking down.

  ‘Shameless creature, I’ll make her pay for it. Oh, Amélia, if you knew how hard it’s been for me . . .’

  And he went to put his arms about her neck.

  She drew back in consternation.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Amaro in amazement.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Pulling away from me like that. Don’t you want to kiss me, Amélia? Are you mad?’

  She held up her hands to him in a gesture of supplication, saying tremulously:

  ‘No, Father, just leave me alone. That’s all over. We’ve sinned quite enough. I want to die in God’s grace, so please don’t ever mention it again. What we did was wrong, but it’s over. Now all I want is for my soul to be at peace.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous! Who put those ideas in your head? Now, listen . . .’

  And he went towards her again, his arms open.

  ‘Please, for the love of God, don’t touch me,’ she said, running back to the door.

  He looked at her for a moment, in mute fury.

  ‘All right, if that’s what you want,’ he said at last. ‘Anyway, I came to warn you that João Eduardo has come back; he passes by here every day, so you had better keep away from the windows.’

  ‘What do I care about João Eduardo or about the others or about anything . . .’

  He broke in with bitter sarcasm:

  ‘Oh, of course, the man of the moment is Father Ferrão.’

  ‘All I know is that I owe him a lot . . .’

  Gertrudes came in just then with the oil lamp lit. And without saying goodbye to Amélia, Amaro rushed off, brandishing his umbrella and grinding his teeth with rage.

  However, the long walk back to Leiria calmed him down. He put Amélia’s response down to an access of virtue and moral scrupulousness! There she was, far away from him, in that great barn of a house, tormented by Dona Josefa, and impressed by the words of the moralistic Father Ferrão, and that had been her natural reaction, full of fears of the next world and of longings for innocence. What a joke! If he started going to Ricoça regularly, he would have her back under his control within a week. Oh, he knew her well. He would just have to touch her, to wink at her, and she would surrender.

  Nevertheless, he spent a restless night, wanting her more than ever. And the next day, he set off to Ricoça, bearing a bunch of roses.

  Dona Josefa was thrilled to see him. His very presence did her good! And if it wasn’t such a long way to come, she would ask him to do her the favour of visiting every morning. After yesterday’s visit, she had even prayed more fervently.

  Amaro smiled distractedly, his eyes fixed on the door.

  ‘And where’s Miss Amélia?’ he asked at last.

  ‘She’s gone out. She goes walking every morning,’ said Dona Josefa sourly. ‘She goes to see Father Ferrão, that’s all she ever talks about.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Amaro, with a feeble smile. ‘A resurgence of devotion, eh? Well, he’s an excellent man, Father Ferrão.’

  ‘Oh, he’s useless, useless!’ exclaimed Dona Josefa. ‘He doesn’t understand me and he has such strange ideas. He’s no help at all . . .’

  ‘He is rather a bookish man . . .’ said Amaro.

  Dona Josefa lifted herself up on one elbow, her gaunt face aflame with hatred, and in a low voice she said:

  ‘Just between ourselves, Miss Amélia has behaved very badly! I’ll never forgive her for it. She has confessed to Father Ferrão. It’s so rude, since she’s your confessant and has never received anything but kindne
ss from you. The ungrateful girl, the traitor!’

  Amaro had turned pale.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘It’s the truth! Let her deny it if she can. She’s even proud of it. She’s utterly shameless! Especially after the great favour we’re all doing her.’

  Amaro disguised the anger churning inside him. He even laughed. One mustn’t exaggerate. It wasn’t a matter of ingratitude. It was a question of faith. If the girl thought Father Ferrão could provide her with better guidance, then she was quite right to speak to him. What everyone wanted was for her to save her soul, and it really didn’t matter under whose direction that happened. And she would be quite safe in Father Ferrão’s hands.

  Then he drew his chair suddenly closer to Dona Josefa’s bed:

  ‘So she goes to see him every morning?’

  ‘Nearly every morning. She’ll be back soon. She goes after breakfast and always comes back about now. You’ve no idea how it’s upset me.’

  Amaro took a few nervous paces about the room, then, holding out his hand to Dona Josefa, said:

  ‘Well, Senhora, I must be going. It’s only a fleeting visit today, I’m afraid, but I’ll come and see you again soon.’

  And disregarding the old woman, who was urging him to stay to lunch, he hurtled down the steps like a stone and set off furiously for Father Ferrão’s house, still clutching his bunch of roses.

  He expected to meet Amélia on the road and he spotted her near the blacksmith’s shop, crouched down near the wall, sentimentally gathering wild flowers.