Alves & Co E-Book

Eça De Queiroz

• Herausgeber: Dedalus
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

Alves learns to live with his wife's adultery and reconciles with her. Eça de Queiroz, began his career as a self-declared realist, but as his writing evolved, his novels and stories became a potent blend of realism and fantasy. In this volume, comprising one short novel and six short stories, the reader is introduced to a dazzling variety of worlds and characters - a deceived husband who finds that jealousy is not the answer, a lovelorn Greek poet-turned-waiter working in a Charing Cross hotel, a saintly young woman soured by love, a follower of St Francis who learns that an entire life of virtue can be besmirched by one cruel act, Adam in Paradise pondering the pros and cons of dominion over the earth, Jesus healing a child, and a loyal nursemaid forced to make a terrible choice.

Leseprobe

The Translator

Margaret Jull Costa has translated the work of many Spanish and Portuguese writers, amongst them Rafael Sánchez Ferlosio, Ramón del Valle-Inclán, José Régio and Mário de Sá-Carneiro.

She was awarded the 1992 Portuguese Translation Prize for The Book of Disquiet by Fernando Pessoa. With Javier Marías, she won the translator’s portion of the 1997 International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award for A Heart So White.

In 2000, she won the Weidenfeld Translation Prize for José Saramago’s All the Names and in 2006, won the Premio Valle-Inclán for Your Face Tomorrow: I Fever and Spear by Javier Marías. Her translation of Eça’s The Maias brought her the 2008 PEN/Book-of-the-Month Club Translation Prize and the 2008 Oxford-Weidenfeld Translation Prize.

She has since won the 2010 and 2011 Premio Valle-Inclán for, respectively, Bernardo Atxaga’s The Accordionist’s Son and volume three of Javier Marías’ trilogy, Your Face Tomorrow, and the 2011 Oxford-Weidenfeld Translation Prize for The Elephant’s Journey by José Saramago.

Contents

Title

The Translator

Introduction

Alves & Co.

A Lyric Poet

At the Mill

The Treasure

Brother Juniper

The Wet Nurse

The Sweet Miracle

Recommended Reading

Copyright

Introduction

José Maria de Eça de Queiroz was born on 25th November 1845 in the small town of Póvoa de Varzim in the north of Portugal. His mother was nineteen and unmarried. Only the name of his father – a magistrate – appears on the birth certificate. Following the birth, his mother returned immediately to her respectable family in Viana do Castelo, and Eça was left with his wet nurse, who looked after him for six years until her death. Although his parents married later – when Eça was four – and had six more children, Eça did not live with them until he was twenty-one, living instead either with his grandparents or at boarding school in Oporto, where he spent the holidays with an aunt. His father only officially acknowledged Eça as his son when the latter was forty. He did, however, pay for his son’s studies at boarding school and at Coimbra University, and was always supportive of his writing ambitions. After working as the editor and sole contributor on a provincial newspaper in Évora, Eça made a trip to the Middle East. Then, in order to launch himself on a diplomatic career, he worked for six months in Leiria, a provincial town north of Lisbon, as a municipal administrator, before being appointed consul in Havana (1872–74), Newcastle-upon-Tyne (1874–79) and Bristol (1879–88). In 1886, he married Emília de Castro with whom he had four children. His last consular posting was to Paris in 1888. He served there until his death in 1900 at the age of only 54.

He began writing stories and essays as a young man and became involved with a group of intellectuals known as the Generation of ’70, who were committed to reforms in society and in the arts. He published four novels and one novella during his lifetime: The Crime of Father Amaro (3 versions: 1875, 1876, 1880), Cousin Bazilio (1878), The Mandarin (1880), The Relic (1887) and The Maias (1888). His other fiction was published posthumously: The City and the Mountains, The Illustrious House of Ramires, To the Capital, Alves & Co., The Letters of Fradique Mendes, The Count of Abranhos and The Tragedy of the Street of Flowers.

Like that other great Portuguese writer, Fernando Pessoa, Eça left behind a large trunk containing all his unpublished work. Alves & Co. was one of those manuscripts. It was probably written around 1883, but this is by no means certain. Some critics believe that it may have been part of his projected series of novellas, “Cenas Portuguesas” or “Scenes from Portuguese Life”, but no one is sure. The manuscript bore neither date nor title and, although there were corrections and changes made in Eça’s hand, it was clearly not a finished version. However, his son, José Maria, carefully deciphered what he called his father’s ‘vertiginous’ script and published it, with the title Alves & Co., in 1925, twenty-five years after his father’s death.

Its moral focus is very different from Eça’s earlier novels – The Crime of Father Amaro and Cousin Bazilio – in which transgression has tragic consequences. In this essentially comic novella, Eça’s sharp eye for the absurd is tempered by compassion and by the revolutionary thought that forgiving and forgetting might sometimes be the preferable option. He draws great humour from the situation, but also shows remarkable psychological acuity in his descriptions of the betrayed husband Godofredo’s pain and confusion.

In the companion volume to this – The Mandarin and Other Stories – there seemed to be a common preoccupation with reality and fantasy. Such a thread is less obvious here. ‘A Lyric Poet’ can be seen as another droll look at Romanticism; after all, what could be less romantic than working as a waiter in the Charing Cross Hotel? ‘At the Mill’ could be read partly as a homage to Flaubert and Maupassant. ‘The Treasure’ will be recognisable to readers of Chaucer as a variant of The Pardoner’s Tale, which was itself based on an Oriental folk-tale. ‘Brother Juniper’ is a version (with a very different ending) of a story that appears in Little Flowers of St Francis. ‘The Wet Nurse’ is a medieval tale about someone who takes their loyalty to its ultimate, logical conclusion. And ‘The Sweet Miracle’, written for an anthology of stories published to raise money for charity, represents Eça’s belief in the rightness and simplicity of Jesus’s teachings as opposed to what he perceived as the Catholic Church’s more worldly and hierarchical concerns.

Unlike Alves & Co., the stories were all published during Eça’s lifetime, the earliest – ‘A Lyric Poet’ and ‘At the Mill’ – in 1880 and the last – ‘The Sweet Miracle’ – in 1898.

These remarkably diverse stories illustrate Eça’s ability not only to write in very different modes, but to imagine his way into different minds and psychological states; for, as well as his wonderful sense of the absurd, Eça always showed enormous insight into even the most minor of his characters. The novella and the stories are a testament to that great talent.

Alves & Co.

I

That day, Godofredo da Conceição Alves, hot and bothered and still breathless from having almost run all the way from Terreiro do Paço, was just pushing open the green baize door of his mezzanine office in Rua dos Douradores when the clock on the wall above the bookkeeper’s desk struck two, the low ceilings lending a doleful sonority to the cavernous tone of the chime. Godofredo stopped, checked his own watch – which he wore attached to his white waistcoat by a chain of braided hair – and scowled. He had once again wasted the entire morning visiting the Admiralty. It made not a jot of difference that the Director-General was his wife’s cousin, nor that he sometimes slipped the errand boys a tip, and had, on previous occasions, discounted bills of exchange for two minor officials, no, despite all that, there was always the same agonising wait to see the minister, the same never-ending leafing-through of paperwork, the hesitations and delays, like the fractious, creaking, ramshackle workings of an old rackety machine.

‘It’s absolutely excruciating!’ he exclaimed, throwing his hat down on the bookkeeper’s desk. ‘It makes you want to prod them like cattle: “Move along there, Daisy! Come on, Buttercup!”’

The bookkeeper, a sickly, jaundiced lad, smiled. He was sprinkling sand onto the large sheet of paper on which he had just been writing and, as he shook the sand off, he said:

‘Senhor Machado left a note for you. He said he had to go to Lumiar.’

Mopping his brow with a silk handkerchief, Godofredo gave a faint smile, which he hurriedly concealed beneath his handkerchief. Then he examined the correspondence that the bookkeeper was still sprinkling with sand to dry the ink.

A cart thundered and clanked along the narrow street outside, then all was silence. A clerk was crouched beside an enormous crate in order to write a name on the lid. His quill pen squeaked, and, up above, the clock ticked loudly. In the heat of the day, in the stuffy, low-ceilinged office, there arose from the crates, from two other large bundles and from the dust of the paperwork, a vaguely rancid smell, reminiscent of a grocer’s shop.

‘I saw Senhor Machado at the theatre last night,’ said the bookkeeper, still writing.

Alves, immediately interested, his eyes brighter, put down the letter he was reading:

‘Oh, really, what was on?’

‘The Rag-and-Bone Man of Paris…’

‘Any good?’

The bookkeeper looked up from his letter to answer:

‘I really liked Teodorico…’

Alves waited for him to say more, to make some critical comment, but the bookkeeper had taken up his quill again, and so he resumed his reading. Then his attention turned for a moment to the clerk crouching by the crate. Alves followed the brushstrokes, enjoying the curves of the letters.

‘You’ve missed off a tilde. Fabião has a tilde on the “a”…’

When the clerk hesitated, he himself crouched down, took the brush and added the missing tilde. He gave a further piece of advice to the bookkeeper about a consignment of red baize being sent to Luanda, then, pushing open another door and going down two steps – the rooms on the mezzanine were on different levels – he went into his office, where he could finally unbutton his waistcoat and flop down in his green-upholstered armchair.

Outside, the July sun blazed down on the stone pavements, but there, in his office, where the sun never penetrated, shaded as it was by the tall buildings opposite, it was always cool; the green shutters were closed, leaving the room in semi-darkness; and the two polished desks – his and that of his partner – the rug on the floor, the spotless green of his chair, the gilt frame surrounding a view of Luanda, the white surround of a large map, all exuded an air of neatness and order, a sense of coolness and repose. There was even a bunch of flowers, sent to him some days earlier by his good wife, Lulu, who felt sorry for him having to spend those hot days in his sweltering office, with no bright flowers to gladden his eye. He had left the flowers on Machado’s desk, but without any water the flowers had faded.

The door opened, and the bookkeeper’s sallow, sickly face appeared:

‘Did Senhor Machado leave any instructions about the Colares wine to be sent to Cabo Verde?’

Then Alves remembered the letter his partner had left on his desk. He opened it. The first few lines explained his reasons for going to Lumiar, but then he got down to business: ‘Regarding the Colares wine…’ Alves handed the letter to the bookkeeper.

The door closed again, and Alves again smiled as he had before, but making no attempt now to disguise it. This was the fourth or fifth time this month that Machado had absented himself from the office, saying that he had to go to Lumiar to see his mother, or cross the river to visit a sick friend, or else offering no reason at all, merely muttering something about a ‘minor business matter’. Alves knew what that ‘minor business matter’ meant. Machado was twenty-six and a handsome lad, with his fair moustache, curly hair and natural elegance. Women liked him. Since they had been business partners, Machado had, to Alves’ knowledge, been involved with three different women: a beautiful Spaniard who had fallen so passionately in love with him that she had left the rich Brazilian who had set her up in a house; an actress from the Teatro Dona Maria, whose sole attraction were her beautiful eyes; and now this ‘minor business matter’, which was clearly a more delicate affair altogether, taking up far more room in Machado’s heart and life. Alves could sense this from his partner’s troubled, anxious look, as if he felt uneasy about something, even sad. Not that Machado had spoken to him about it or shown the slightest desire to unburden himself or confide in him. They were good friends, and Machado often spent the evening with them at home – where he treated Lulu almost like a sister – and he had lunch there every Sunday, and yet – whether because he had joined the firm barely three years ago, or because he was ten years younger or because Alves was a friend of his father and one of his father’s executors, or because Alves was married and he was not – Machado always maintained a vaguely respectful distance, and they had never enjoyed the kind of camaraderie that usually exists between men. Alves had, of course, said nothing to Machado about the ‘minor business matter’, which had nothing to do with the company or with him; besides, despite his repeated absences, Machado continued to be a good worker, always active and alert and striving to increase the firm’s prosperity, and often spending ten or twelve hours a day glued to his desk when the steamship was in; Alves had to confess that if, in the firm, he himself represented decency, domestic honesty, regularity and propriety, then Machado represented commercial nous, energy, decisiveness, ambition, and business sense. Godofredo had always been lazy by nature, like his father, who, out of choice, used to move from room to room in a wheelchair.

Despite the stern principles and sound beliefs inculcated in him by the Jesuits as a boy, and despite the fact that he had never himself indulged in any pre-marital affairs or unseemly romances, he felt a vague sympathy, a leniency towards Machado’s ‘youthful follies’. This was, primarily, for reasons of friendship, for he had known Machado ever since he was a cherubic little boy and had always been rather impressed by his chic family, his uncle, the Count de Vilar, his society friendships, by the fuss Dona Maria Forbes made over him, inviting him to her Thursday at-homes – even though he was in commerce – and then there were his refined manners, a certain natural elegance. Alves realised, with some surprise, that he himself could never aspire to such elegance. However, there was another underlying reason for his somewhat reluctant feelings of sympathy for Machado’s affairs of the heart; it was a question of temperament really, for, deep down, this thirtyseven-year-old man – already balding, despite his thick black moustache – was a rather fanciful creature. He had inherited this trait from his mother, a thin lady, who played the harp and spent all her time reading poetry. She it was who had given him the ridiculous name of Godofredo. Later on, his mother’s sentimentalism, which, for long years, had been channelled into moonlit nights, romantic love and all things literary, became diverted instead towards God, her devotion verging almost on religious mania; that former reader of Lamartine became a maniacal devotee of the Senhor dos Passos – Our Lord of the Stations of the Cross – in Graça; she it was who had chosen a Jesuit education for him – and her final days had been filled with a horror of hell. He had inherited some of those feelings; as a boy, he had been assailed by all kinds of short-lived enthusiasms that shifted back and forth, from the poetry of Almeida Garrett to the Sacred Heart of Jesus. Following a bout of typhoid fever, however, he had calmed down, and when the opportunity came to take over his uncle’s import-export business, he became practicality itself, treating life as an entirely material and serious matter; and yet a certain stubborn romanticism lingered in his soul: he loved the theatre, especially melodramas full of violent incident. He read a lot of novels. Grand actions and grand passions excited him. He occasionally felt that he was made for heroism, for tragedy. But these were dim, ill-defined feelings that stirred only rarely in the depths of the heart in which he kept them imprisoned. He was particularly fascinated by romantic passions, not that he himself had ever considered tasting either their honey or their gall; he was a good husband and he loved his wife Lulu, but he did enjoy seeing such passions enacted on the stage or described in books. And he felt intrigued by the romance he sensed was taking place right there in his office; it was as if the faint perfume of romance emanating from Machado made the packages and the paperwork more interesting.

The green baize door opened again, and the bookkeeper’s sallow face reappeared. He had come to return Senhor Machado’s letter, and, before withdrawing and once more closing the door, he said:

‘Tonight is the Annual General Meeting of the Transtagana Company.’

Alves reacted with surprise:

‘Is today the ninth, then?’

‘It is.’

He knew perfectly well that it was the ninth, but being reminded of that annual general meeting had also reminded him that it was his wedding anniversary. In their first two years of marriage, their anniversary had been the occasion for a small private celebration, with all the family invited to supper, followed by a little dancing to the sound of the piano; their third anniversary had, alas, coincided with the early days of mourning for his mother-in-law, when the house was still sad and Lulu still grieving; and now the date was passing and was, indeed, almost over, with neither of them having given it a thought. He was sure Lulu had forgotten. When he left for work that morning, she had been busy combing her hair and had said nothing, but it would be a shame to let that lovely day pass without them at least drinking a glass of port and enjoying a nice dessert. They should have invited his father-in-law and sister-in-law too, although relations with his father-in-law had cooled slightly of late and a rift opened up, all because of a new young servant girl, who appeared to reign supreme in the widower’s house. But on a day like this, as on someone’s birthday, such things should be set aside, and family feeling be allowed to prevail. He decided to hurry over to Rua de São Bento, remind Lulu of the important date and send an invitation to his father-in-law, who lived in Rua Santa Isabel. It was nearly three o’clock, he had signed all the correspondence, and there was nothing else that needed doing; it was the calm that always followed the hurly-burly of preparing everything to be sent off on the steam packet to Africa. He picked up his hat, delighting in the half-day holiday he was awarding himself and savouring the idea of surprising his beloved Lulu with an earlier than usual kiss, when, normally, she was left alone until half past four, which was when the office closed. Only one thing bothered him: Machado was in Lumiar and wouldn’t be able to join them for supper. The bookkeeper, seeing him with his hat on, asked:

‘Will you be coming back, sir?’

For a moment, Godofredo considered inviting the bookkeeper as well, but then feared offending Machado should he learn, later on, that his place at table had been so easily filled.

‘No, I won’t… If Senhor Machado does come in… he probably won’t, but if he does, tell him we expect him at six, as arranged.’

He felt very contented as he went down the steps, as if he had only got married the day before. He was filled with an ardent desire to go home, and, after all that heat, don his linen jacket and his slippers and sit waiting for supper, simply enjoying being there, among the domestic toings and froings, and in the presence of his lovely wife Lulu. Borne along on the wave of happiness that now invaded his soul came the excellent idea of buying Lulu a present. A fan perhaps. No, he would buy her the bracelet he had seen some days before in a jeweller’s shopwindow: a ruby-eyed serpent biting its own tail. It was a gift with a meaning, for the serpent symbolised eternity, the certain return of happy days, something revolving for ever in a circle of gold. His only concern was that it might be expensive. In fact, it cost a mere five libras, and while he was examining it, the jeweller told him that a few days before, he had sold an identical one to the Marchioness de Lima. Alves bought it on the spot and, shortly after leaving the shop, he paused in the shade, opened the box and looked at the bracelet again, feeling very pleased with his purchase. He felt a rush of tenderness – as often happens when one offers a gift. It’s as if a small door suddenly opens in our natural egotism and greed, allowing in a great swell of latent generosity. At that moment, he wished he were rich enough to give her a diamond necklace, for she certainly deserved it. They had been married for four years, and never a cross word. He had adored her ever since the afternoon in Pedrouços when he first caught sight of her, but – now he could say it – he had also felt rather afraid of her. She had seemed to him so imperious, so proud, demanding and brusque. That, however, was simply the impression caused by her height, her fine dark eyes, her erect carriage, her thick, wavy hair. Inside that tyrannical, queenly body beat the heart of a child. She was kind, charitable, merry, and her temperament was as calm and placid as the transparent surface of a river in summer. For a while, about four months ago, she had grown moody, somewhat melancholy and nervy; indeed, he had even thought… but no, that, alas, had not been the reason. Her nerves were on edge, that was all, and the mood had passed quickly enough; indeed, lately, she had never been more loving, more cheerful, more capable of filling him with joy…

These thoughts continued to dance gaily about in his heart as he walked up Rua Nova do Carmo, shading himself from the baking heat with his parasol. At the top of the street, he called in at Restaurante Mata to order a fish pie for six o’clock. He also bought some ham and looked around for other possible purchases, with all the eager joy of a bird providing for its nestlings.

Then he walked up the Chiado, where he paused to gaze respectfully at a great man, a real character, a poet and historian, who happened to be standing chatting to someone at the door of Bertrand’s Bookshop; he was wearing an old lustrine jacket and a straw hat and was about to blow his nose on a vast flowered handkerchief. Godofredo admired both the man’s novels and his style. Then he bought some cigars, not for himself, because he didn’t smoke, but to give to his father-in-law after supper. Then, finally, he proceeded down Calçada do Correio, which lay glittering, dry and dusty in the sun. He walked briskly, despite the heat, occasionally touching the box containing the bracelet, which he had put in his frock-coat pocket.

He was in Rua de São Bento, just a few steps from his house, when he spotted his maid, Margarida, waiting at the counter in the cake shop. Lulu had not, after all, forgotten that happy date, for Margarida had clearly been sent out to buy cakes for dessert. He went in through the street door. They lived in a two-storey house, squeezed in between two other larger buildings, and painted blue: they occupied the first floor, and although he disliked his upstairs neighbours – noisy, vulgar people – and would have preferred not to share with them the little touches of luxury he gave to his hallway, he had, at Lulu’s request, paid to have the stairs carpeted. And he was glad now that he had, because it was always a pleasure, whenever he went into the house, to feel the carpet beneath his feet and see it rolling away up the stairs, giving the place a sense of solid comfort. It somehow boosted his self-esteem. Upstairs, Margarida, who would doubtless be back shortly, had left the door to their apartment open, and inside there reigned a great silence; in the intense afternoon heat, everything seemed to be sleeping. Brilliant sun flooded in through the skylight; the bell pull, with its large scarlet ball on one end, hung motionless.