‘Style, my eye! If I bumped into him in the Chiado now, I’d break every bone in his body!’
And he would have too. After a couple of glasses of cognac, França was like a wild beast.
However, some young men, their romantic instincts stirred by the dramatic accounts of the catastrophe, applauded the heroism of the Commune – Vermorel, his arms outstretched like the crucified Christ, crying out as the bullets pierced him: ‘Vive l’humanité!’ Old Delécluse, with the fanaticism of a saint, calling on his deathbed for violent resistance.
‘Such great men!’ exclaimed one over-excited lad.
Serious-minded people around them roared their disapproval. Others moved away, pale-faced, imagining their Lisbon homes doused in petrol and the Casa Havanesa itself consumed by socialist flames. Then the angry watchwords in all the different groups were ‘authority’ and ‘repression’; it was important that society, under attack by the International, should take refuge in the strength of its conservative, religious principles and surround them with bayonets! The bourgois owner of a chain of novelty shops spoke of ‘the rabble’ with the imposing scorn of a La Trémoille or an Osuna. Men, wielding toothpicks, urged vengeance. Professional idlers seemed incensed by ‘these workers who want to live like princes!’ They spoke devoutly of property and wealth.
On the other hand, there were the loquacious youths, the excitable journalists, who railed against the old world order and against old ideas, uttering loud threats, proposing to demolish them with thunderous newspaper articles.
Thus a torpid bourgeoisie hoped to halt social change with a few policemen, and youths with a veneer of literature were convinced that a single pamphlet could bring down a society that had been in existence for eighteen hundred years. But no one was more excited than a hotel bookkeeper who, from the top of the steps to the Casa Havanesa, was advising France to bring back the Bourbons.
Just then a man in black, who was leaving the Casa Havanesa and threading his way past the various groups, stopped when he heard a startled voice beside him exclaim:
‘Father Amaro, you rascal!’
He turned; it was Canon Dias. They embraced warmly and, in order to talk more quietly, they walked across to the middle of the Largo do Loreto and stood there by the statue.
‘When did you arrive, Master?’
The Canon had arrived the evening before. He was in litigation with the Pimentos in Pojeira over a right of way through his land; he had lodged an appeal and had come to Lisbon to follow the case more closely.
‘And what about you, Amaro? In your last letter, you said you wanted to leave Santo Tirso.’
Indeed he did. The parish had its advantages, but the post at Vila Franca had fallen vacant and, wanting to be closer to Lisbon, he had come to talk to ‘his’ Count, the Conde de Ribamar, who was sorting out the transfer now. He owed him, and more especially the Countess, everything.
‘How are things in Leiria? Is São Joaneira any better?’
‘No, poor thing. She gave us all a terrible fright at first . . . we thought she was going to go the same way as Amélia, but it turned out to be dropsy . . . oedema . . .’
‘Poor dear lady. And how’s Natário?’
‘Oh, he’s aged a lot. And he’s had a few misfortunes too. But then he’s his own worst enemy.’
‘And what’s happened to Libaninho?’
‘I wrote to you about him, didn’t I?’ said the Canon, laughing.
Father Amaro laughed too, and, for a moment, the two priests said nothing, both holding their sides in mirth.
‘Oh, dear,’ said the Canon. ‘It caused a huge scandal. Because they caught him with a sergeant in circumstances that left no possible room for doubt. At ten o’clock at night in the park too! Most imprudent. But it all died down eventually, and when Matías died, we gave Libaninho the job of sacristan, which is a really good post, much better than his office job . . . And he’ll carry out his duties zealously I’m sure!’
‘Oh, he will,’ agreed Father Amaro gravely. ‘And what about Dona Maria da Assunção?’
‘Well, a few rumours have been flying around about her new servant, a carpenter who used to live opposite . . . He’s unusually well turned out apparently . . .’
‘Really?’
‘Oh, yes. Cigar, watch, gloves . . . Funny, don’t you think?’
‘Hilarious!’
‘The Gansoso sisters are just as they always were,’ the Canon went on. ‘Your maid Escolástica works for them now.’
‘And what about that fool João Eduardo?’
‘I thought I told you. He’s still in Poiais. The Morgado is suffering from some kind of liver disease. And they say João Eduardo’s consumptive. I don’t know for sure because I haven’t seen him. It was Ferrão who told me.’
‘And how’s Ferrão?’
‘Fine. And do you know who I saw a few days ago? Dionísia.’
‘And what’s she up to?’
The Canon whispered something in Father Amaro’s ear.
‘Really?’
‘In Rua das Sousas, a few doors down from your old house. Dom Luís da Barrosa gave her the money to set up the establishment. Anyway, that’s the latest news. But you’re looking very well, man! The move did you good.’
Guffawing, he planted himself in front of Amaro and said:
‘And to think you wrote to me saying that you wanted to retreat to the mountains or to a monastery and live the life of a penitent.’
Father Amaro shrugged.
‘Well, what do you expect, Master? Those first few hours were really hard for me . . . But everything passes.’
‘Oh, yes, everything passes,’ said the Canon, adding after a pause: ‘Ah, but Leiria isn’t what it was.’
They walked for a moment in silence, immersed in memories of the past, of the fun they used to have playing lotto at São Joaneira’s, the chats over tea, the walks to Morenal, Artur Couceiro singing, accompanied on the piano by poor Amélia, who was sleeping now in the cemetery in Poiais, beneath the wild flowers . . .
‘And what do you think about these goings-on in France, Amaro?’ exclaimed the Canon suddenly.
‘Oh, dreadful. The archbishop and any number of priests were shot. It’s no laughing matter!’
‘No, indeed!’ growled the Canon.
And Father Amaro said:
‘And it looks like the same ideas are beginning to take hold here as well.’
The Canon had heard as much. Then they both spoke angrily about the rabble made up of freemasons, republicans and socialists, people who wanted to destroy everything that was decent – the clergy, religious education, the family, the army and even wealth . . . Society was under threat from these unchained monsters! They should bring back the old repressive methods, the dungeon and the gallows. And above all, people should be taught to have faith and to respect the priesthood . . .
‘That’s the problem,’ said Amaro, ‘they don’t respect us! They do nothing but insult us. They are destroying the common people’s veneration for the priesthood.’
‘Yes, they say the most terrible things about us . . .’ said the Canon in cavernous tones.
At that moment, two women passed by, one, whitehaired, had a very noble bearing; the other was a skinny, pale, listless creature with dark circles under her eyes; she kept her bony elbows close in to her sterile waist and was wearing an enormous bustle, a large chignon of false hair and very high heels.
‘I say!’ said the Canon quietly, nudging his colleague. ‘What to do you think of that, Father Amaro? That’s the kind of woman you want to confess.’
‘Not any more, Master,’ said Amaro, laughing. ‘Now I only confess married ladies.’
For a moment, the Canon shook with laughter, but resumed the plump, ponderous air of a priest as soon he saw Amaro respectfully doffing his hat to a gentleman with a greying moustache and gold-rimmed spectacles who was crossing the square from the Loreto side, a cigar clamped between his teeth and a parasol under his arm.
It was the Conde de Ribamar. He walked amiably over to the two priests, and Amaro, standing to attention, his hat still off, introduced ‘my friend, Canon Dias, from Leiria Cathedral’. They talked for a while about the unseasonably warm weather. Then Father Amaro mentioned the latest news.
‘What do you think of events in France, Excellency?’
The Count held up his hands in a gesture of desolation, a feeling reflected in his face.
‘Don’t even talk to me about it, Father, don’t even talk to me about it. To see half a dozen thugs destroying Paris. My Paris! Do you know, gentlemen, it has made me quite ill.’
The two priests both looked suitably concerned and added their feelings of sorrow to the Count’s.
Then the Canon said:
‘And how do you think it will all end?’
The Conde de Ribamar spoke very deliberately and his words emerged slowly as if burdened by the sheer weight of ideas:
‘The result? Oh, it’s not hard to predict. When one has had some experience of history and politics, one can see how it will all turn out as clearly as I can see you two gentlemen now.’
The priests hung on the statesman’s prophetic words.
‘Once the insurrection has been crushed,’ continued the Count, looking straight ahead of him, one finger raised, as if following and pointing out historic futures discernible only to his eyes, with the aid of his gold-rimmed spectacles. ‘Within three months of the insurrection being crushed, we will have the empire back. If, as I have, you had been to a reception at the Tuileries or at the Hôtel de Ville in the days of empire, you, like me, would say that France is a profoundly and purely imperialist nation . . . That means we will be left with Napoleon III, unless he abdicates and the Empress takes on the regency until the imperial prince is old enough. I would advise this as the most prudent solution and I have already said as much. One immediate consequence will be that the Pope in Rome will once more be the lord of temporal power. To tell the truth, and, again, I have already said as much, I do not approve of a papal restoration. But I am not going to tell you what I approve or disapprove of. Fortunately, I am not lord of all Europe. That would be a burden too great for a man of my age and my infirmities. I am merely saying what my experience of politics and history tells me to be true . . . Now what was I talking about? Ah, yes, with the Empress on the throne of France, Pius IX on the throne of Rome, democracy will be crushed between those two sublime forces, and you can believe me, as a man who knows his Europe and the elements that make up modern society, when I say that after the example of the Commune, we will hear no more talk of a republic, the social question or the people for a good one hundred years.’
‘May God hear your words, Excellency,’ said the Canon unctuously.
Amaro, enchanted to find himself in a Lisbon square in intimate conversation with an illustrious statesman, then asked with all the anxiety of a startled conservative:
‘Do you think these ideas about a republic and about materialism will spread here?’
The Count laughed and, strolling along between the two priests, almost as far as the railings surrounding the statue of the great poet Luís de Camões, he said:
‘Don’t you worry your heads about that, gentlemen. There may be one or two radicals who complain and spout all kinds of nonsense about the decadence of Portugal, who say that we’re stagnating and becoming brutish and stupid, and that they give the current regime ten more years at most, etc. etc. Utter rubbish!’
He was almost leaning against the railings now and, adopting a confiding tone, he said:
‘The truth, gentlemen, is that foreigners envy us . . . And I’m not saying what I’m about to say merely to flatter, but, as long as we have priests like you worthy of respect, Portugal will maintain, with dignity, its place in Europe. Because faith, gentlemen, is the very basis of order.’
‘Absolutely, Count, absolutely,’ agreed the two priests warmly.
‘Well, just look around you! What peace, what vigour, what prosperity!’
And he made a sweeping gesture that took in the whole of the Largo do Loreto, which, at that hour, at the close of a serene afternoon, contained the essence of city life. Empty carriages rode slowly by; women in twos tottered past, wearing false hair and high heels and displaying the anaemic pallor of a degenerate race; trotting by on a scrawny nag came a young man, the bearer of a famous name, still green about the gills from the previous night’s drinking spree; on the benches in the square people lay sprawled in a state of idle torpor; an ox cart lurching along on its high wheels was like the symbol of an antiquated agricultural system dating back centuries; pimps swayed past, a cigarette clenched between their teeth; the odd bored bourgeois gentleman stood perusing advertisements for outmoded operettas; the haggard faces of workers seemed the very personification of moribund industries . . . And beneath the warm, splendid sky, this whole decrepit world moved sluggishly along past urchins selling tickets for the lottery or for a raffle and boys with plangent voices offering the latest issue of some almanac; they meandered indolently back and forth between two gloomy church façades and the long ranks of houses round the square where three pawnshop signs glinted in the sun and the entrances to four taverns beckoned blackly, and flowing out into the square were alleyways, squalid and dirty as open sewers, issuing from a neighbourhood steeped in prostitution and crime.
‘Just look around you,’ said the Count. ‘Just look at all this peace, prosperity and contentment. It’s hardly surprising that we’re the envy of Europe!’
And the man of state and the two men of religion stood in a row by the monument railings, heads held high, savouring the glorious certainty of their country’s greatness, there, beside that statue, beneath the cold, bronze gaze of the old poet, erect and noble, with the broad shoulders of a mighty paladin, his epic poem in his heart, his sword grasped firmly in his hand, and surrounded by the chroniclers and heroic poets of the old country – a country for ever past, a memory almost forgotten!
October 1878–October 1879
ABOUT THE AUTHOR AND TRANSLATOR
EÇA DE QUEIRÓS (1845–1900) is considered to be Portugal’s greatest novelist. Born in the small town of Povoa de Varzim in northern Portugal, José Maria Eça de Queirós was the son and grandson of magistrates and the product of a secret love affair—his parents married four years after his birth. After studying law at Coimbra, he came of age intellectually as part of the Generation of ’70, a group of writers, artists, and thinkers concerned with breaking socio-cultural traditions and connecting Portugal to the modern movements in the rest of Europe. For six months he worked in Leira as a municipal administrator which provided him the rich setting for The Crime of Father Amaro, the first Portuguese “realist” novel ever written. Much of his life was spent abroad as a diplomat, though he wrote prodigiously—novels, essays, letters, journalistic chronicles, and short stories.
MARGARET JULL COSTA is one of our time’s greatest translators from Spanish and Portuguese. For New Directions, she has translated three novels by Javier Marías—All Souls, A Heart So White (winner of the 1997 International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award), and Tomorrow in the Battle Think On Me—as well as a collection of his short stories, When I Was Mortal. Forthcoming Marías novels translated by Jull Costa include The Man of Feeling and Your Face Tomorrow. Other books she has translated for New Directions include Requiem by Antonio Tabucchi and The Club of Angels by Luis Fernando Verissimo. She won the 1992 Portuguese Translation Prize for The Book of Disquiet by Fernando Pessoa, and in 2000 she won the Weidenfeld Translation Prize for José Saramago’s All the Names. She has also translated the works of Spanish-language writers Bernardo Atxaga, Carmen Martín Gaite and Juan José Saer; and the Portuguese writer Mário de Sá-Carneiro.
Copyright © 2003 by New Directions Publishing Corporation
Translation and Introduction Copyright © 2002 by Margaret Jull Costa
All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in a newspaper, magazine, r
adio, or television review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Publisher.
The Crime of Father Amaro is published by arrangement with Dedalus Ltd., Langford Lodge, St. Judith’s Lane, Sawtry, Cambs. PE28 5XE, United Kingdom
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Margaret Jull Costa would like to thank Maria Manuel Lisboa, Dan McEwan and Ben Sherriff for all their help and advice. The translator would also like to acknowledge the generous financial assistance of East Midlands Arts Board.
First published as a New Directions Paperbook (NDP961) in 2003
Published simultaneously in Canada by Penguin Books Canada Limited
eISBN 978-0-8112-0380-7
New Directions Books are published for James Laughlin
by New Directions Publishing Corporation
80 Eighth Avenue, New York, New York, 10011
Table of Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Half Title Page
Introduction
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII
XXIII
XXIV
XXV
About the Author and Translator
Copyright Page
The Crime of Father Amaro Page 50