The Crime of Father Amaro E-Book

José Maria Eça de Queiroz

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

Seitenzahl: 813

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

Father Amaro sours for ever the life of the young Amelia   Set in Leira, Portugal in the 1870s, follows the love affair of young Father Amaro with nubile Am elia, and their interactions with Am elia's mother, her atheist suitor, and her mother's lover, the priest Canon Dias.

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Publishing History

First published in Portugal in 1880

First published by Dedalus in 2002

First e-book edition 2011

Translation and introduction copyright © Margaret Jull Costa 2002

The right of Margaret Jull Costa to be identified as the translator of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patent Act, 1988

Printed in Finland by Bookwell

Typeset by Refine Catch Ltd, Bungay, Suffolk

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A C.I.P. listing for this book is available on request.

Portuguese Literature from Dedalus

Dedalus‚ as part of its Europe 1992–2002 programme‚ with the assistance of The Portuguese Book Institute‚ The Camões Institute in Lisbon and The Calouste Gulbenkian Foundation‚ has embarked on a series of new translations by Margaret Jull Costa of some of the major classics of Portuguese literature.

Titles so far published:

The Mandarin (and other stories) – Eça de Queiroz

The Relic – Eça de Queiroz

The Tragedy of the Street of Flowers – Eça de Queiroz

The Crime of Father Amaro – Eça de Queiroz

Lúcio’s Confession – Mário de Sá-Carneiro

The Great Shadow (and other stories) – Mário de Sá-Carneiro

The Dedalus Book of Portuguese Fantasy – editors Eugénio Lisboa and Helder Macedo

Forthcoming titles include:

Cousin Basílio – Eça de Queiroz

The City and the Mountains – Eça de Queiroz

The Maias – Eça de Queiroz

The Illustrious House of Ramires – Eça de Queiroz

THE TRANSLATOR

Margaret Jull Costa has translated the works of many Spanish and Portuguese writers. She won the 1992 Portuguese Translation Prize for The Book of Disquiet by Fernando Pessoa‚ and her translation of Eça de Queiroz’s The Relic was shortlisted for the 1996 prize; with Javier Marías‚ she won the 1997 International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award for A Heart So White and‚ in 2000‚ she won the Weidenfeld Translation Prize for José Saramago’s All the Names.

She has translated the following books for Dedalus: The Adventures of the Ingenious Alfanhuí by Rafael Sánchez Ferlosio‚ Lúcio’s Confession and The Great Shadow by Mário de Sá-Carneiro‚ The Dedalus Book of Spanish Fantasy (with Annella McDermott)‚ The Dedalus Book of Portuguese Fantasy (eds. Eugénio Lisboa and Helder Macedo)‚ Spring and Summer Sonatas and Autumn and Winter Sonatas by Ramón del Valle- Inclán‚ and‚ by Eça de Queiroz: The Mandarin‚ The Relic‚ The Tragedy of the Street of Flowers and The Crime of Father Amaro.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The translator would like to thank Maria Manuel Lisboa‚ Dan McEwan and Ben Sherriff for all their help and advice. I would also like to acknowledge the generous financial assistance of East Midlands Arts Board.

Contents

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

Introduction

Leiria‚ the setting for The Crime of Father Amaro‚ is a small town about 60 miles north of Lisbon. The street that now bears Eça de Queiroz’s name is little more than a back alley. Given the portrait that he paints of the town’s inhabitants‚ this is‚ perhaps‚ hardly surprising. According to Eça‚ the population of nineteenth-century Leiria were narrow-minded‚ credulous bigots. What was offensive to the good people of Leiria‚ however‚ remains a joy to both reader and translator. For the power of the novel lies not just in its unflinching exploration of small-town hypocrisy‚ but in the sheer verve of the writing and in the strength of characterisation. Eça’s description of what he believed to be a stagnant society is bursting with life and humour. From the first page‚ on which we meet José Miguéis‚ the ‘exploding boa constrictor’ of a parish priest‚ to our encounter on the final pages with the smug and pompous Conde de Ribamar and his vision of a Portugal which is ‘the envy of the world’‚ we are treated to a gallery of riveting minor characters: Father Natário is a man with a talent for hatred; the parish priest of Cortegaça is so in love with food that he even spices his sermons with cookery tips; Dona Maria da Assunção with her room full of religious images is agog for any hint of sex; Libaninho‚ who never misses a mass and flirts with all the girls‚ in fact has a penchant for army sergeants; the administrator of the municipal council spends from eleven o’clock to three each day ogling a neighbour’s wife through a pair of binoculars; Canon Dias cares only for belly and bed. Between them‚ the clerics and their devout followers commit every one of the seven capital sins.

As with Dickens‚ whom Eça greatly admired (though he disliked his sentimentality)‚ the secret of his humour lies in the dialogue and in the detail. Eça has as keen an ear for the way ordinary people speak as he does for the puffed-up excesses of politicians and political radicals. And he can give us the character of a person in one telling detail‚ for example‚ the whole of Canon Dias’ saytr nature is revealed in the large‚ hairy hand with which he pats Amélia’s cheek; the vanity of the lawyer and ‘wit’ Pinheiro is there in the way he ‘smoothes his poet’s hair’; Father Amaro’s cowardice is embodied in his undignified flight – ‘teeth chattering in terror’ – from the barking dogs barring his way to Amélia’s bedroom; the fastidious nature of a clerk is summed up in one sentence: ‘Pires took off his oversleeves and put away his air cushion.’ And Eça can puncture pomposity with one well-judged phrase. This is how he describes a section of Lisbon’s petite bourgeoisie‚ incensed by the events of the Paris Commune: ‘Men‚ wielding toothpicks‚ urged vengeance.’ It is not often that one finds the words ‘toothpick’ and ‘vengeance’ in the same sentence.

He is the master‚ too‚ of the bathetic juxtaposition of events. When Amaro and Amélia exchange their first kiss‚ Amélia’s aunt is dying in the next room; when they first have sex‚ Dionísia‚ Amaro’s maid‚ goes downstairs and hides in the coal cellar until they have finished; the lovers’ trysting place is the Cathedral sexton’s filthy bedroom‚ and every sound they make‚ every creak of the bed‚ is heard by the sexton’s neurotic‚ paralysed daughter in her room immediately below.

Equally striking is Eça’s eye for the physical world – when Amaro realises that Amélia loves him‚ he is described as being like ‘a plump sparrow in a warm shaft of sunlight’; when Amaro and Amélia are lying together in bed looking up at the roof beams‚ they hear ‘a cat padding across‚ occasionally catching a loose tile’ or the rustle of a bird’s wings as it alights; and Eça notices how cows drink ‘delicately‚ noiselessly’ and how fields fill up with mist.

All these qualities give Eça’s writing a rare density and vitality that lend further substance to his vision of 1870s Portugal.

The Crime of Father Amaro is an attack on provincialism‚ on the power of a Church that allies itself with the rich and powerful‚ tolerates superstition and supports a deeply unfair and un- Christian society‚ and‚ more particularly‚ it is an attack on the absurdity of imposing celibacy on young men with no real priestly vocation. It is also‚ I think‚ like many of his novels‚ a critique of the position of both men and women in Portuguese society of the time. São Joaneira is kindly and well- meaning‚ but with a daughter to support after the death of her husband‚ she becomes the mistress of‚ first‚ the precentor and‚ then‚ the Canon. The old maids in the book are all mean- spirited‚ vain‚ petty and tyrannical‚ but utterly cowed by men’s authority. Amélia is a simple‚ essentially good-natured girl‚ but her whole view of life has been skewed by the overwhelming presence in her life of priests. On the one hand‚ women’s lives are so narrow that a walk alone to the shops seems daring; on the other‚ the foundling hospitals cannot cope with the number of abandoned babies‚ and women who ‘slip’ end up on the street or struggling to bring up illegitimate children on their own. The only woman who appears to have any influence over men in the novel is Teresa‚ the Countess’ friend (whom we meet in chapter III)‚ but hers is‚ in a way‚ the influence of a charming‚ precocious child and depends entirely on that most ephemeral quality – beauty. The men apparently have the power‚ but are‚ in a sense‚ little more than large‚ spoiled children. Dr Godinho‚ for all his booming rhetoric‚ is afraid of upsetting his lovely‚ devout wife; when the Canon’s ghastly but devoted sister‚ Dona Josefa‚ is stricken with pneumonia‚ he is lost and bereft; and every priest’s and every petit bourgeois’ household depends for its smooth running on loyal‚ hard- pushed maidservants‚ who‚ unsurprisingly‚ often seem to fall ill. The men both despise women and need them. The women live in constant fear of offending God‚ priest‚ husband‚ protector or society.

*  *  *  *  *

Although The Crime of Father Amaro is usually described as Eça’s first novel‚ it is also‚ in a sense‚ his fourth. Plagued by his friends for something to publish in their magazine‚ Eça sent them the unedited draft of a novel – the first version of Father Amaro – on the understanding that they would send him proofs‚ which he would then edit and return. For some still unexplained reason‚ his friends‚ in 1875‚ began serialising the unedited draft. Eça was incandescent with rage: ‘May Satan devour you‚ you murderers!’ He eventually forgave them and submitted a longer‚ revised version of the novel to a publisher. This second version appeared in 1876 and was greeted by almost total silence. Eça even had to beg one of his friends to write a review. However‚ despite disappointment at this lack of response‚ Eça had already begun work on a new novel‚ Cousin Basílio. This dealt with the adulterous affair between the ne’er-do-well Basílio and Luísa‚ a bored middle-class wife. The novel was an instant popular and critical success and was immediately translated into several languages. Its success – it has to be said – was due in large part to what was perceived as its racy nature. However‚ when the great Brazilian novelist‚ Machado de Assis‚ accused Eça of squandering his talents and of pandering to the worst excesses of realism and Zolaesque naturalism in the 1876 version of Father Amaro‚ and to a salacious public in Cousin Basílio‚ Eça was stung. He acknowledged the influence of Balzac and Zola‚ but denied that his work was a mere imitation of such novels as La Faute de l’Abbé Mouret. It was possibly in response to this criticism‚ though‚ that Eça went back to Father Amaro and almost completely rewrote it. That third and final version (on which this translation is based) was published in 1880‚ and the title page bore the words: ‘Corrected‚ rewritten and entirely different in form and plot from the original edition.’ In a letter to his friend‚ Ramalho de Ortigão‚ Eça wrote: ‘The Crime of Father Amaro is an entirely new novel; all that remains of the book you originally read is the title.’

So how does this last‚ much longer version differ from the first and‚ in particular‚ the second version? Eça removed the more obviously sensationalist elements – Amaro seducing Amélia in the confessional; Amaro hearing Amélia in labour; Amaro drowning his new-born son; João Eduardo seeing Amélia’s corpse being prepared for the coffin. He gave both Amaro and Amélia more of an inner life‚ so that Amélia‚ in particular‚ becomes a far more interesting and more complex person. He also added two new characters – Father Ferrão and Totó – and fleshed out two already existing characters‚ Dr Gouveia and the goodhearted but virulently anticlerical Morgado. Father Ferrão – the kindly priest who brings spiritual comfort to Amélia later in the novel – provides a necessary contrast to the corrupt and venal clergy who otherwise populate the novel. He also offers a version of Christianity with which Eça had no quarrel‚ the gospel of equality and tolerance preached by Jesus‚ rather than the corrupt version which Eça and‚ in the novel‚ Dr Gouveia detest. Indeed‚ Dr Gouveia – the rationalist doctor – becomes the moral voice of the book‚ expressing many of Eça’s own views on morality and on Church and State. Totó‚ the sexton’s hysterical‚ paralysed daughter‚ is perhaps the boldest addition to the book‚ providing as she does a grotesque counterpoint to the lovers’ sexual encounters. Her cries of ‘There go the dogs!’ underline the animal lust that Amaro and Amélia try to dress up as romantic love.

It becomes clear in this version that‚ as Father Ferrão says of João Eduardo’s article in The District Voice‚ Eça is not writing against the priests‚ but against the Pharisees‚ be they religious or lay‚ for the priests are not the only hypocrites. In the expanded 1880 version Eça gives the likes of Father Natário‚ Canon Dias‚ Dona Josefa‚ Bibi – the secretary general‚ Dr Godinho and Carlos the pharmacist ample opportunity to condemn themselves out of their own mouths. We are presented with a whole society which – with a few rare exceptions – would not know the truth if it was bitten by it. The 1876 version ends with Amaro’s flippant comment that now he is careful only to confess married women. Both versions place the novel in a specific historical context‚ the period before and after the 1871 Paris Commune‚ thus contrasting the smug stagnancy and backwardness of nineteenth-century Portugal – city and country – with the social and political upheavals occurring elsewhere in Europe. The 1880 version goes further and has the unbearably self-satisfied Conde de Ribamar – Father Amaro’s protector – pontificate about Portugal as an ideal of peace‚ prosperity and stability. Father Amaro‚ Canon Dias and the Count are standing‚ at the time‚ beneath the statue of Luís de Camões‚ Portugal’s national poet‚ whose masterpiece‚ The Lusiads‚ celebrates Portugal’s bold‚ heroic past. As Eça comments: ‘a country for ever past‚ a memory almost forgotten’.

*  *  *  *  *

José Maria de Eça de Queiroz was born on 25th November 1845 in the small town of Povoa 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. His mother returned immediately to her respectable family in Viana do Castelo‚ and Eça was left with his wetnurse‚ who looked after him for six years until her death. Although his parents did marry – 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 when Eça himself was forty. His father did‚ however‚ pay for his son’s studies at boarding school and at Coimbra University‚ where Eça studied Law. After working as the editor and sole contributor on a provincial newspaper in Évora‚ he made a trip to the Middle East. Then‚ in order to launch himself on a diplomatic career‚ he worked for six months in Leiria 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‚ where he served until his death in 1900.

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 only five novels during his lifetime: The Crime of Father Amaro (3 versions: 1875‚ 1876‚ 1880)‚ Cousin Basílio (1878)‚ The Mandarin (1880)‚ The Relic (1887) and The Maias (1888). His other novels were 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.

I

It was Easter Sunday when the people of Leiria learned that the parish priest‚ José Miguéis‚ had died of apoplexy in the early hours of the morning. The priest was a large‚ red-faced man‚ known amongst the other clergy of the diocese as ‘the glutton of all gluttons’. Remarkable tales were told of his voracious appetite. Carlos‚ the apothecary‚ loathed him‚ and whenever he saw the priest leaving the house after a post- prandial nap‚ face all flushed and body replete‚ he would say:

‘There goes the boa constrictor‚ off to digest his lunch. One day he’ll explode!’

And explode he did‚ after a fish supper‚ just when Senhor Godinho‚ who lived opposite‚ was celebrating his birthday‚ and his guests were wildly dancing a polka. No one regretted his death‚ and there were few people at his funeral. Generally speaking‚ he was not greatly respected. He was basically a peasant with the manners and thick wrists of a farm labourer; he had hairs sprouting from his ears and was brusque‚ gravel-voiced and coarsely spoken.

The devout ladies had never taken to him: he used to belch while hearing confession and‚ having always lived in village parishes or in the mountains‚ was oblivious to certain finer points of religious devotion. He thus immediately lost nearly all his female confessants‚ who went instead to the unctuous Father Gusmão‚ who always knew the right thing to say.

And when the pious ladies who did remain faithful came to José Miguéis with talk of scruples and visions‚ he would scandalise them by grunting:

‘Nonsense‚ Senhora! Pray to God for some common sense and a bit more grey matter.’

He found their keenness on fasting particularly irritating.

‘Why there’s nothing wrong with eating and drinking‚ woman‚’ he would roar‚ ‘nothing wrong at all!’

He was a staunch supporter of Prince Miguel‚ and thus the views of the liberal parties and of their newspapers filled him with irrational choler.

‘Damn them!’ he would exclaim‚ brandishing his vast red umbrella.

Latterly‚ he had grown more sedentary and lived entirely alone apart from an old maidservant and a dog called Joli. His only friend was the precentor‚ Valadares‚ who was in charge of running the diocese at the time because‚ for the last two years‚ the Bishop‚ Dom Joaquim‚ had been resting at his estate in Alto Minho‚ a martyr to his rheumatism. The priest had a great deal of respect for the precentor‚ an austere man with a large nose and poor eyesight‚ who was a great admirer of Ovid and who pursed his lips when he talked and liked to pepper his conversation with mythological allusions.

The precentor was fond of the priest. He used to call him Friar Hercules.

‘“Hercules” because he’s strong‚’ he explained‚ smiling‚ ‘and “Friar” because he’s a glutton.’

At the priest’s funeral‚ the precentor himself sprinkled holy water over the grave and‚ since he had been in the habit of offering the priest a daily pinch of snuff from his gold snuffbox‚ he muttered to the other canons as he threw the first ritual handful of earth onto the coffin:

‘That’s the last pinch he’s getting from me!’

The whole chapter of canons laughed uproariously at the diocesan governor’s joke; Canon Campos repeated it that same night while taking tea at the house of Novais‚ the local deputy‚ where it was greeted with delighted laughter‚ and everyone praised the precentor’s many virtues and remarked respectfully that ‘the precentor really was most terribly witty’.

Days after the funeral‚ the priest’s dog Joli turned up‚ wandering across the square. The maid had been taken to hospital with a fever‚ the house was all shut up‚ and the dog‚ abandoned‚ trailed its hunger from door to door. It was a small‚ very fat mongrel‚ that bore a faint resemblance to the priest. Accustomed to being around cassocks and desperate for a master‚ as soon as it saw a priest it would go whimpering after him. But no one wanted poor Joli; they would drive him away with the tips of their umbrellas‚ and the dog‚ like a spurned suitor‚ would howl all night in the streets. One morning‚ the dog was found dead outside the poorhouse; the dung wagon carried it off and‚ when the dog was no longer to be seen in the square‚ the priest José Miguéis was finally forgotten.

Two months later‚ the people of Leiria learned that a new parish priest had been appointed. Apparently‚ he was a very young man‚ just out of the seminary. His name was Amaro Vieira. His appointment was put down to political influence‚ and the local newspaper‚ The District Voice‚ which supported the opposition‚ wrote bitterly of Golgotha‚ of ‘favouritism at court’ and of ‘the reactionary clergy’. Some priests were quite shocked by the article and it was spoken of in resentful terms in the presence of the precentor.

‘Oh‚ there’s certainly been some favouritism‚ and he does have sponsors‚’ said the precentor. ‘The person who wrote to me confirming the appointment was Brito Correia.’ (Brito Correia was then Minister of Justice.) ‘He even says in the letter that the priest is a handsome‚ strapping lad. So it would seem‚’ he added with a smug smile‚ ‘that “Friar Hercules” will perhaps be succeeded by “Friar Apollo”.’

Only one person in Leiria‚ Canon Dias‚ had actually met the new priest‚ for the Canon had taught him Ethics in his first years at the seminary. At that time‚ said the Canon‚ the priest had been a shy‚ spindly‚ pimply youth.

‘I can see him now in his threadbare cassock and looking for all the world as if he were suffering from worms! But he was good lad and bright too.’

Canon Dias was a well-known figure in Leiria. He had grown fat of late‚ his prominent belly filling his cassock; and his grizzled hair‚ heavy eye bags and thick lips brought to mind tales of lascivious‚ gluttonous friars.

Old Patrício‚ who had a shop in the square‚ was an arch liberal and would growl like a guard dog whenever he walked past a priest‚ and sometimes‚ when he saw the plump Canon crossing the square after lunch‚ leaning his weight on his umbrella‚ he would snarl:

‘The old rogue’s the image of João VI!’

The Canon lived alone with his older sister‚ Senhora Josefa Dias‚ and a maid‚ who was an equally familiar sight in the streets of Leiria‚ shuffling along in her carpet slippers‚ with her dyed black shawl drawn tight around her. Canon Dias was said to be rich; he owned rented properties near Leiria‚ gave turkey suppers and had some fine wine in his cellar. However‚ the main fact about him – much commented on and gossiped over – was his longstanding friendship with Senhora Augusta Caminha‚ whom everyone called São Joaneira‚ because she came from São João da Foz. São Joaneira lived in Rua da Misericórdia and took in lodgers. She had a daughter‚ Amélia‚ a girl of twenty-three‚ pretty‚ healthy and much sought-after.

Canon Dias had shown himself to be extremely pleased with the appointment of Amaro Vieira. In the apothecary’s shop‚ in the square and in the cathedral sacristy‚ he praised Amaro’s application as a seminarian‚ as well as his prudence‚ his obedience and even his voice: ‘It’s a joy to listen to! Exactly what one needs for putting a bit of feeling into Holy Week sermons.’

He confidently predicted a golden future‚ doubtless a canonry‚ possibly even the glory of a bishopric!

And one day‚ with great satisfaction‚ he showed the coadjutor of the cathedral – a silent‚ servile creature – a letter he had received from Amaro Vieira in Lisbon.

It was on an evening in August‚ and they were strolling together over the bridge. The new road to Figueira was under construction at the time; the old wooden bridge over the Lis had been destroyed and now everyone crossed by the much- vaunted new bridge‚ Ponte Nova‚ with its two broad stone arches‚ strong and stout. Work‚ however‚ had been suspended – something to do with the illegal expropriation of land. One could still see the muddy parish road which the new road was supposed to improve upon and incorporate; the ground was covered in layers of ballast‚ and the heavy stone rollers used to compact and smooth the macadam surface lay half-buried in the black‚ rain-drenched earth.

The new bridge was surrounded by tranquil open countryside. The river rose amongst low‚ rounded hills clothed in the dark green of new pine trees; further off‚ amongst the thick woods‚ were the small farms that lend these melancholy places a touch of lively humanity‚ with their bright whitewashed walls shining in the sun‚ with the smoke from their chimneys growing blue in the clear‚ clean air. Downstream‚ where the river flowed through low-lying fields and between banks lined with pale willows‚ the broad‚ fertile plain of Leiria‚ sunlit and well-watered‚ extended as far as the sandy beaches of the coast. From the bridge‚ one could see little of the city – part of the cathedral with its heavy‚ Jesuitical stonework‚ a corner of the cemetery wall overgrown with nettles‚ and the sharp‚ black tips of the cypress trees; the rest was concealed by the rugged hill bristling with rough vegetation on which stood the crumbling castle ruins‚ redolent of the past and surrounded at evening by the circling flight of owls.

At the foot of the bridge‚ the ground slopes down to an avenue that runs alongside the river for a short way. It is a secluded place‚ full of ancient trees. It is called the Alameda Velha. There‚ strolling slowly along‚ talking quietly‚ the Canon was discussing Amaro Vieira’s letter with the coadjutor and telling him about an idea that the letter had given him‚ an idea which struck him as ‘brilliant‚ absolutely brilliant’. Amaro had asked him‚ with some urgency‚ to arrange a rented house for him to live in‚ cheap‚ well-situated and‚ if possible‚ furnished; he spoke‚ more to the point‚ of renting rooms in a respectable guesthouse. ‘As you can see‚ dear teacher‚’ Amaro wrote‚ ‘that is what would suit me best; I do not‚ of course‚ require anything luxurious‚ a bedroom and a small sitting room would be perfectly adequate. What matters is that the house should be respectable‚ quiet and central‚ with a kind landlady who does not charge the earth; I leave all this to your discretion and good sense‚ and I assure you that these favours will not fall on barren ground. The landlady must‚ above all‚ be quiet and well-bred.’

‘Now my idea‚ friend Mendes‚ is this: to put him up at São Joaneira’s house!’ said the Canon gleefully. ‘Isn’t that a wonderful idea?’

‘Splendid!’ said the coadjutor in his servile tones.

‘She’s got the bedroom downstairs‚ with a sitting room right next door and another bedroom which he could use as a study. It’s nicely furnished‚ with good bedlinen …’

‘Oh‚ excellent linen‚’ said the coadjutor respectfully.

The Canon went on:

‘It would be a good opportunity for São Joaneira; she could easily charge six tostões a day for rooms‚ bedlinen‚ meals and a maid. And she will have the honour of having the parish priest right there in her house.’

‘It’s Amélia I’m not sure about‚’ remarked the coadjutor timidly. ‘People might talk. She’s still a very young woman … and they say the new priest is also very young. You know how tongues around here wag …’

The Canon stopped walking.

‘Nonsense! Father Joaquim lives under the same roof as his mother’s goddaughter‚ doesn’t he? And Canon Pedroso lives with his sister-in-law and one of his sister-in-law’s sisters‚ a girl of nineteen. Now really …’

‘All I meant was …’ began the coadjutor.

‘No‚ I see no problem whatsoever. São Joaneira occasionally rents out rooms anyway‚ so it’s almost like a guesthouse already. Even the secretary-general stayed there for a few months!’

‘But a clergyman …’ suggested the coadjutor.

‘What further guarantee could one need‚ Senhor Mendes!’ exclaimed the Canon. Then‚ stopping again and speaking in a confidential tone: ‘And you see it suits me very well‚ Mendes. It suits me down to the ground‚ my friend.’

There was a brief silence. Lowering his voice‚ the coadjutor said:

‘Yes‚ you are very good to São Joaneira.’

‘I do what I can‚ my dear friend‚ I do what I can‚’ said the Canon. And in a tender‚ warmly paternal voice‚ he added: ‘And she deserves it too. She’s kindness itself‚ my friend.’ He stopped and rolled his eyes. ‘You know‚ if I’m not at her house at nine o’clock in the morning sharp‚ she starts to get quite agitated. “My dear child‚” I say to her‚ “there’s no reason to get so upset.” But that’s the way she is. When I was ill with the colic last year‚ she actually lost weight‚ Senhor Mendes! And she’s so considerate. When it’s time to kill the pig‚ the best cuts are always for the “holy father”‚ that’s what she calls me.’

His eyes shone and he spoke with almost drooling contentment.

‘Ah‚ Mendes‚’ he added‚ ‘she’s a wonderful woman!’

‘And very pretty too‚’ said the coadjutor respectfully.

‘Oh‚ yes‚’ exclaimed the Canon‚ stopping again. ‘She’s certainly well-preserved‚ because she’s no spring chicken‚ you know‚ but she hasn’t got a single grey hair on her head‚ not a one! And her complexion …’ Then more quietly and with a greedy smile: ‘And this part here‚ Mendes‚’ indicating the area of the throat beneath the chin by slowly stroking it with his plump hand: ‘Perfection itself! And she keeps everything in the house spotless! And so thoughtful! Not a day passes without her sending me some present‚ a little jar of jam‚ a bowl of creamed rice or some delicious black pudding from Arouca! Yesterday she sent me an apple tart. You should have seen it! The apples were so smooth and creamy! Even my sister Josefa said: “It’s so delicious you would think she’d cooked the apples in holy water!”’ Then placing one hand on his heart: ‘It’s that kind of thing that touches you right here‚ Mendes. I know I shouldn’t talk like that‚ but it’s true.’

The coadjutor listened in envious silence.

‘I’m perfectly well aware‚’ said the Canon‚ stopping again and weighing each word. ‘I’m perfectly well aware of the rumours flying around … But it’s a complete and utter calumny! I just happen to be very fond of the family. I was when her husband was alive. You know that‚ Mendes.’

The coadjutor nodded.

‘São Joaneira is a respectable woman‚ Mendes!’ exclaimed the Canon‚ striking the ground with the point of his umbrella. ‘A respectable woman!’

‘The work of poisonous tongues‚ sir‚’ said the coadjutor mournfully. And after a silence‚ he added softly: ‘But it must all work out very expensive for you.’

‘Exactly‚ my friend. Since the secretary-general left‚ the poor woman has had her house empty‚ and I’ve had to help her out.’

‘She has got that small farm‚’ commented the coadjutor.

‘A mere strip of land‚ my dear fellow‚ a mere strip. And then there are taxes to be paid and labourers’ wages. That’s why the new priest is such a godsend. With the six tostões that he gives her‚ plus a little bit of help from me and with what she gets selling vegetables from the farm‚ she can get by quite nicely. And that would be a great relief to me‚ Mendes.’

‘A great relief!’ echoed the coadjutor.

They fell silent. Evening was coming on; the cloudless sky was pale blue‚ and the limpid air utterly still. The river was very low at that time of year; small sandbanks glittered here and there and the shallow water murmured softly as it rippled over the pebbles.

On the opposite bank‚ two cows‚ watched over by a young girl‚ came down the muddy path that ran alongside a bramble patch; they waded slowly into the river and‚ stretching out necks worn bare by the yoke‚ they drank delicately‚ noiselessly; now and then they would raise their kindly heads and look about them with the passive serenity of contented beings‚ and threads of water‚ glinting in the sun‚ hung down from the corners of their mouths. As the sun sank‚ the water lost its mirror-like clarity‚ and the shadows cast by the arches of the bridge grew longer. A crepuscular mist rose from the hills‚ and‚ adorning the horizon‚ towards the sea‚ were blood- red and orange-tinged clouds warning of more hot weather to come.

‘Lovely evening!’ said the coadjutor.

The Canon yawned‚ made the sign of the cross over his gaping mouth‚ and said:

‘We’d better get back in time for the Angelus.’

Shortly afterwards‚ as they were climbing the steps up to the cathedral‚ the Canon paused and‚ turning to the coadjutor‚ remarked:

‘So it’s decided then‚ friend Mendes‚ I’ll install Amaro at São Joaneira’s house! I’m sure it will prove to be a godsend to us all.’

‘A real godsend‚’ agreed the coadjutor respectfully.

And they went into the church‚ making the sign of the cross.

II

A week later‚ the new priest was due to arrive on the coach from Chão de Maçãs that brought the post in the evening‚ and so from six o’clock onwards‚ Canon Dias and the coadjutor were strolling up and down the Largo do Chafariz‚ waiting for Amaro.

It was late August. Along the avenue by the river‚ between two lines of old poplars‚ one could see the ladies in their pale dresses as they walked to and fro. Beyond an archway‚ outside a row of lowly hovels‚ old women sat spinning at the door; grubby children played on the ground‚ revealing bare distended bellies; and chickens pecked ravenously amongst the filth and detritus. From around the bustling fountain came the scrape of water jugs on stone; bickering maidservants were ogled at by cane-wielding soldiers wearing dirty fatigues and huge misshapen boots; girls‚ each with a plump water jug balanced on her head‚ went about in pairs‚ swaying their hips; and two idle officers‚ their uniforms unbuttoned over their stomachs‚ stood chatting‚ waiting to see ‘who might turn up’. The mail coach was late. As evening fell‚ a small light could be seen shining in the niche of a saint above the arch and‚ immediately opposite‚ the dim lights in the hospital came on one by one.

It was dark by the time the coach‚ lanterns glowing‚ appeared on the bridge‚ proceeding at the sedate pace dictated by the team of scrawny white horses drawing it‚ and coming to a halt by the fountain‚ outside the inn; the assistant from Patrício’s shop immediately set off back across the square carrying a bundle of newspapers; Baptista‚ the innkeeper‚ a black pipe clamped in his mouth‚ was unhitching the horses‚ swearing softly to himself; and a man in a tall hat and a long ecclesiastical cloak‚ who had been sitting next to the driver‚ climbed gingerly down‚ clutching the iron guards on the seat‚ then stamped his feet on the ground to get the blood flowing again and looked around him.

‘Amaro!’ cried the Canon‚ who had gone over to him. ‘How are you‚ you rascal!’

‘Master!’ said the other joyfully. And they embraced‚ while the coadjutor stood with head bowed and biretta in hand.

Shortly afterwards‚ the people still in the shops saw a slightly stooped man‚ wearing a priest’s cape‚ walking across the square‚ flanked by the slow bulk of Canon Dias and the lanky form of the coadjutor. Everyone was aware that this was the new priest‚ and it was said in the pharmacy that he was ‘a fine figure of a man’. Ahead of them‚ carrying a trunk and a cloth bag‚ went João Bicha‚ who was drunk already and kept muttering the Benedictus to himself as he went.

It was nearly nine o’clock‚ and night was closing in. Around the square the houses were already sleeping; the shops in the arcade glowed with the sad light of oil lamps‚ and one could make out indolent figures at the counters talking and arguing. The dark‚ twisting streets leading down into the square‚ lit by one moribund streetlamp‚ seemed uninhabited. And in the silence the cathedral bell was slowly tolling for the souls of the dead.

Canon Dias was patiently explaining the ‘arrangements’ to the new priest. He had not looked for a house for him because that would have involved buying furniture‚ finding a maid and endless other expenses. He had thought it best to take rooms for him in a respectable‚ comfortable boarding house‚ and (as the coadjutor could confirm) São Joaneira’s house was without equal in that respect. It was clean and airy‚ with no unpleasant kitchen smells; the secretary-general had stayed there and the schools inspector; and São Joaneira (Mendes knew her well) was a thrifty‚ God-fearing woman‚ always ready to oblige.

‘It will be a home from home. You’ll have two courses at mealtimes and coffee …’

‘And what about the price‚ Master?’ said the priest.

‘Six tostões. Why‚ she’s almost giving it away! You’ll have a bedroom and a sitting room …’

‘A lovely sitting room‚’ remarked the coadjutor respectfully.

‘And is it far from the cathedral?’ asked Amaro.

‘Two steps away. You could go and say mass in your slippers. Oh‚ and there is a young woman living there too‚’ continued the Canon in his slow way. ‘She’s São Joaneira’s daughter. A very pretty girl of twenty-three. She has her moods‚ but she’s got a good heart … This is your street.’

It was a narrow street of low‚ shabby houses cowering beneath the high walls of the old poorhouse‚ with one dim streetlamp at the far end.

‘And this is your palace!’ said the Canon‚ knocking on a narrow door.

On the first floor‚ overhanging the street‚ were two old- fashioned wrought-iron balconies adorned with rosemary bushes in wooden tubs; the upper windows were tiny and the wall so uneven that it looked like a piece of battered tin.

São Joaneira was waiting at the top of the stairs‚ accompanied by a skinny‚ freckled maidservant holding up an oil lamp to light the way. The figure of São Joaneira stood out sharply against the whitewashed wall. She was tall‚ stout and somewhat sluggish-looking‚ but with very white skin. She already had lines around her dark eyes‚ and her tangled hair‚ with a scarlet comb in it‚ was growing thin around the temples and near her parting; but she was also endowed with plump arms‚ an ample bosom and clean clothes.

‘Here’s your new lodger‚’ said the Canon‚ as he climbed the stairs.

‘It’s a great honour to have you here‚ a great honour. But you must be worn out. Come this way‚ and mind the step.’

She led him into a small room decorated in yellow‚ with a vast wickerwork sofa against one wall and‚ opposite‚ a table covered in green baize.

‘This is your sitting room‚ Father‚’ said São Joaneira‚ ‘where you can receive visitors and relax … Here‚’ she said opening a door‚ ‘is your bedroom. And there’s a chest of drawers and a wardrobe …’ She pulled out the drawers and praised the bed‚ prodding the mattress. ‘Oh and a bell you can ring should you need anything … The keys to the chest of drawers are here … And if you want a higher pillow … Now there’s only one blanket at the moment‚ but you just have to ask …’

‘That’s fine‚ Senhora‚ excellent‚’ said the priest in his soft‚ low voice.

‘And if there’s anything else you require …’

‘Dear lady‚’ cried the Canon cheerily‚ ‘what he wants now is some supper!’

‘Supper is ready too. The soup’s been on since six o’clock …’

And she went off to chivvy the maid along‚ saying from the bottom of the stairs:

‘Come on‚ Ruça‚ get a move on!’

The Canon sat down heavily on the sofa and took a pinch of snuff.

‘You’ll have to make do‚ my lad. This is the best we could get.’

‘Oh‚ I’m quite happy anywhere‚ Master‚’ said Amaro‚ putting on his slippers. ‘Remember what the seminary was like‚ and in Feirão‚ my bed used to get soaked every time it rained.’

From the square came the sound of bugles.

‘What’s that?’ asked Amaro‚ going over to the window.

‘It’s the half-past nine call to quarters.’

Amaro opened the window. At the end of the street‚ the lamp was growing dim. The night was very dark‚ and the city was enclosed in a hollow silence‚ as if covered by a vault.

After the bugles came the slow roll of drums moving away towards the barracks; a soldier‚ who had been tarrying in one of the alleyways near the castle‚ hurried past beneath the window; and from the walls of the poorhouse came the constant shriek of owls.

‘It’s a bit gloomy‚’ said Amaro.

But São Joaneira was calling down to them:

‘You can come up now‚ Father. The soup’s on the table!’

‘Go along now‚ you must be positively faint with hunger‚ Amaro!’ said the Canon‚ heaving himself to his feet.

Then‚ seizing Amaro by the sleeve‚ he said:

‘Now you’ll find out what chicken soup is like cooked by São Joaneira. Absolutely mouthwatering!’

In the middle of the dining room‚ which was lined with dark paper‚ the table with its bright white cloth was a cheering sight‚ as were the china plates and the glasses glinting beneath the strong light of a green-shaded oil lamp. Delicious smells emerged from the soup tureen‚ and the plump chicken served on a platter with succulent white rice and pork sausages looked like a dish fit for a king. Slightly in the shadows‚ one could see the delicate colours of porcelain in a china cabinet; in one corner‚ by the window‚ was a piano‚ covered with a faded satin cloth. Sounds of frying came from the kitchen and these‚ combined with the fresh smell of laundered linen‚ made Amaro rub his hands in glee.

‘This way‚ Father‚ this way‚’ said São Joaneira. ‘You might be in a draught over there.’ She closed the shutters on the windows and brought him a small box of sand in which to place his cigarette butts. ‘And you’ll have a little jelly‚ won’t you‚ Canon?’

‘Well‚ just to be companionable‚’ said the Canon jovially‚ sitting down and unfolding his napkin.

São Joaneira‚ meanwhile‚ as she bustled about the room‚ was admiring the new priest‚ who had his head bent over his plate‚ drinking his soup‚ blowing on each spoonful. He was a good- looking man with very dark‚ slightly curly hair. He had an oval face‚ smooth olive skin‚ large‚ dark eyes and long eyelashes.

The Canon‚ who had not seen him since the seminary‚ thought him much stronger and more manly-looking.

‘You were such a skinny little lad …’

‘It’s the mountain air‚’ said Amaro‚ ‘it did me good!’

Then he described his sad existence in Feirão‚ in Alta Beira‚ and the harsh winters spent alone with shepherds. The Canon held the wine bottle high above Amaro’s glass and poured it in‚ making the wine bubble.

‘Well‚ drink up‚ man‚ drink up! You never had wine like this at the seminary.’

They talked about the seminary.

‘I wonder what happened to Rabicho‚ the bursar‚’ said the Canon.

‘And Carocho‚ the one who used to steal potatoes.’

They laughed and drank‚ caught up in the pleasure of remembering‚ recalling old times: the rector’s chronic catarrh‚ the teacher of plainsong who one day accidentally dropped the copy of Bocage’s erotic poetry that he had been carrying in his pocket.

‘How time flies!’ they said.

São Joaneira then set down on the table a deep dish of baked apples.

‘Well‚ I’ll have to have some of that!’ exclaimed the Canon. ‘A baked apple is a thing of beauty‚ and I never turn down the chance to eat one. She’s a wonderful housekeeper‚ our São Joaneira‚ oh yes‚ a wonderful housekeeper!’

She laughed‚ revealing the fillings in her two large front teeth. She went to fetch the port‚ then placed on the Canon’s plate‚ with a great show of devotion‚ one crumbling baked apple dusted with sugar; and clapping the Canon on the back with her soft‚ plump hand‚ she said:

‘He’s a saint‚ Father‚ an absolute saint! I owe him so much!’

‘Now‚ now‚ that’s quite enough of that‚’ said the Canon‚ but a look of adoring contentment spread over his face. ‘Lovely drop of port!’ he added‚ sipping his wine. ‘Lovely!’

‘It’s the same bottle we had for Amélia’s birthday‚ Canon.’

‘Where is Amélia?’

‘She went over to Morenal with Dona Maria. Then‚ of course‚ they went to spend the evening with the Gansosos.’

‘São Joaneira’s a landowner too‚ you know‚’ explained the Canon‚ referring to Morenal. ‘It’s almost an estate!’ And he roared with laughter‚ his shining eyes tenderly caressing São Joaneira’s ample body.

‘Don’t listen to him‚ Father‚ it’s just a little scrap of land‚’ she said.

Then‚ seeing the maid leaning against the wall‚ racked with coughing‚ she said:

‘Go and cough in the other room‚ will you. Honestly!’

The girl left‚ pressing her apron to her mouth.

‘She doesn’t seem at all well‚’ remarked Amaro.

Yes‚ the girl was very sickly. The ‘poor lamb’ was her goddaughter‚ an orphan‚ and possibly tubercular. She had taken her in out of pity …

‘And because the maid who was here before was carried off to the hospital‚ the shameless hussy … She got involved with a soldier you know …’

Father Amaro slowly lowered his eyes and‚ nibbling on a few crumbs‚ asked if there had been much illness that summer.

‘Just a bit of colic from eating too much unripe fruit‚’ snorted the Canon. ‘People stuff themselves with watermelons and then get bloated with all that water … And fevers of course …’

They talked then about the intermittent fever common in the country and about the air in Leiria.

‘I’m much stronger these days‚’ said Father Amaro. ‘Yes‚ thank God‚ my health is good now.’

‘And may God keep you in good health too‚ because you don’t know how precious it is until you lose it‚’ exclaimed São Joaneira. And she launched into an account of the household’s one great misfortune: a sister‚ not quite right in the head‚ who had been paralysed for the last ten years. She was nearly sixty now and last winter she’d caught a very nasty cold and ever since then‚ poor dear‚ she’d been on the decline … ‘Earlier this evening‚ she had a coughing fit‚ and I really thought her time had come. But she’s quieter now.’

Sitting with the cat on her lap and monotonously rolling bread balls between her fingers‚ she spoke further about that ‘misfortune’‚ then about her Amélia‚ about the Gansosos‚ about the former precentor and about how expensive everything was … The Canon‚ replete‚ was finding it hard to keep his eyes open; everything in the room was gradually falling asleep‚ even the oil lamp was burning down.

‘Well‚ my friends‚’ said the Canon‚ bestirring himself at last‚ ‘it’s getting late.’

Father Amaro got up and‚ eyes lowered‚ said grace.

‘Do you need a nightlight‚ Father?’ asked São Joaneira solicitously.

‘No‚ Senhora‚ I never use one. Goodnight!’

And he went slowly down stairs‚ toothpick in mouth.

São Joaneira lit the way for him with the oil lamp. On the first stair‚ however‚ Father Amaro turned and said pleasantly:

‘Of course‚ tomorrow is Friday and a fast day.’

‘Oh‚ no‚’ said the Canon‚ who was pulling on his cloak‚ yawning‚ ‘tomorrow you’ll be having lunch with me. I’ll call for you here‚ then we’ll visit the precentor‚ go to the cathedral and take a turn about the town … We’ll be having squid‚ you know‚ which is a near miracle here‚ because we almost never get fish.’

São Joaneira reassured Father Amaro:

Don’t you worry‚ Father‚ I always keep the fast days.’

‘I only mention it‚’ said Father Amaro‚ ‘because nowadays‚ alas‚ no one bothers.’

‘Oh‚ you’re absolutely right‚’ she broke in‚ ‘but I put the salvation of my soul above all else.’

Downstairs the bell rang loudly.

‘That’ll be my daughter‚’ said São Joaneira. ‘Go and open it‚ will you‚ Ruça!’

The door slammed and they heard voices and laughter.

‘Is that you‚ Amélia?’

A voice called out ‘Bye‚ then!’ And almost running up the stairs‚ her clothes slightly caught up at the front‚ came a lovely young woman‚ strong‚ tall and sturdy‚ a white shawl over her head and clutching a sprig of rosemary in her hand.

‘Come along‚ dear. The new parish priest is here. He arrived tonight. Come along.’

Amélia had stopped‚ slightly embarrassed‚ looking up at the stairs where Father Amaro was standing leaning on the banister. She was breathing hard from running; her face was flushed‚ and her dark‚ lively eyes were shining; she exuded an air of freshness and of brisk country walks.

Father Amaro continued on down‚ keeping close to the banister to allow her to pass‚ and murmured ‘Good evening’‚ his eyes downcast. The Canon stumped down the stairs towards her saying:

‘And what time do you call this‚ you scamp?’

She giggled shyly.

‘Now off to bed with you‚’ he said‚ patting her cheek with his large‚ hairy hand.

She ran past him‚ and the Canon left‚ having fetched his umbrella from the downstairs living room‚ and having told the maid not to bother lighting the stairs for him:

‘It’s all right‚ I can see. Now don’t you catch cold‚ young lady. I’ll see you at eight then‚ Amaro. Be up and ready! Off you go‚ young lady‚ goodnight‚ and pray to Our Lady of Charity to get rid of that cough of yours.’

Father Amaro closed his bedroom door. The bed had been turned down‚ and the clean white sheets gave off the good smell of freshly laundered linen. Above the bed hung an old engraving of Christ crucified. Amaro opened his breviary‚ knelt down by the bed and made the sign of the cross; but he was tired and kept yawning; above him‚ too‚ through the ritual prayers he was mechanically reading‚ he began to hear the tick-tack of Amélia’s shoes and the rustle of her starched petticoats as she undressed.

III

Amaro Vieira was born in Lisbon in the house of the Marquesa de Alegros. His father was the Marquis’ servant; his mother was the personal maid and almost a friend of the Marchioness. Amaro still owned a book‚ Child of the Jungle‚ complete with crude‚ coloured illustrations‚ on the first blank page of which was written: ‘To my esteemed maid and ever- faithful friend‚ Joana Vieira – from the Marquesa de Alegros.’ He also owned a daguerrotype of his mother: a stout woman with thick eyebrows‚ a large mouth with sensually parted lips and a high colour. Amaro’s father had died of apoplexy‚ and his mother‚ who had always been so healthy‚ succumbed a year later to an inflammation of the larynx. Amaro was six years old at the time. He had an older sister who had lived with their grandmother in Coimbra since she was small‚ and an uncle‚ a wealthy grocer in the Estrela district of Lisbon. However‚ the Marchioness had grown fond of Amaro; she kept him at home with her‚ in a kind of tacit adoption‚ and she began‚ with great scrupulousness‚ to watch over his upbringing.

The Marquesa de Alegros was widowed when she was forty-three and spent most of the year living quietly on her estate in Carcavelos. She was by nature a passive‚ languidly benevolent person; she had her own chapel‚ was devoted to the priests at São Luís‚ and always had the interests of the Church at heart. Her two daughters‚ having been brought up both to fear Heaven and to care deeply about Fashion‚ were at once excessively devout and terribly chic‚ speaking with equal fervour about Christian humility and the latest clothes from Brussels. A journalist of the time said of them: ‘Every day they worry about what dress they should wear when it comes to their turn to enter Paradise.’

Adrift in Carcavelos‚ on that estate criss-crossed by aristocratic avenues full of the cries of peacocks‚ the two girls grew bored. They plunged into the occupations afforded them by Religion and Charity: they made clothes for the parish poor and embroidered antependia for the church altars. From May to October they were entirely absorbed in the work of ‘saving their souls’; they read benign devotional literature. With no theatre‚ no visitors and no dress shops‚ they welcomed the priests’ visits and gossiped about the virtues of the various saints. God was their summer extravagance.

The Marchioness had decided from the very beginning that Amaro should enter the ecclesiastical life. His thinness and his pallor seemed to cry out for a life of seclusion; he was already fond of the chapel‚ but what he liked most was to be amongst women‚ snuggled up in the warmth of their skirts‚ listening to them talk about saints. The Marchioness did not want to send him to school because she feared the impiety of the times and that he might get into bad company. Her own chaplain taught him Latin‚ and her eldest daughter‚ Dona Luísa‚ who had a hooked nose and read Chateaubriand‚ gave him lessons in French and geography.

Amaro was‚ as the servants put it‚ a ‘bit of a namby-pamby’. He never played games and never ran about in the sun. When he accompanied the Marchioness on an afternoon stroll along the avenues of the estate‚ and she took the arm of Father Liset or of Freitas‚ her respectful administrator‚ he would walk by her side‚ silent and shy‚ fiddling clammily with the linings of his trouser pockets and feeling slightly afraid of the thick groves of trees and the lush‚ tall grasses.

He became increasingly fearful. He could only sleep with a nightlight burning and with his bed drawn up near that of an old nursemaid. The maids feminized him; they thought him pretty and would encourage him to nestle amongst them; they would tickle him and smother him in kisses‚ and he would roll in their skirts‚ brushing against their bodies‚ uttering little contented shrieks. Sometimes‚ when the Marchioness went out‚ they would dress him up as a woman‚ all the while hooting with laughter; and he‚ with his languid manner and voluptuous eyes‚ would abandon himself to them‚ half-naked‚ his face flushed. The maids also made use of him in their intrigues with each other: Amaro became their bearer of tales. He became a tittletattler and a liar.

By the time he was eleven‚ he was helping with Mass‚ and on Saturdays‚ he would clean the chapel. That was his favourite day; he would shut himself up inside‚ place the saints on a table in the sunlight and kiss each one of them in turn with a mixture of devout tenderness and greedy delight; and he would work away all morning‚ humming the Santissimo‚ getting rid of any moths in the Virgins’ dresses and polishing the Martyrs’ haloes.

Meanwhile‚ he was growing up; his pale‚ diminutive appearance remained unchanged; he never laughed out loud and he always had his hands in his pockets. He was constantly in and out of the maids’ rooms‚ rummaging about in drawers; he would finger their dirty petticoats and sniff the padding they wore in their clothes. He was also extremely lazy‚ and in the mornings‚ it was hard to wrench him from the unhealthy‚ lethargic somnolence in which he lay‚ swathed in blankets and with his arms around the pillow. He was already slightly hunched‚ and the servants used to call him ‘the little Father’.

One Sunday before Ash Wednesday‚ as she walked out onto the terrace after morning mass‚ the Marchioness suddenly dropped dead of an apoplexy. In her will‚ she left a legacy that would pay for Amaro‚ the son of her maidservant Joana‚ to enter the seminary at fifteen and become ordained. Father Liset was charged with carrying out this pious duty. Amaro was‚ by then‚ thirteen.

The Marchioness’ daughters immediately left Carcavelos and went to live in Lisbon‚ in the house of their paternal aunt‚ Dona Bárbara de Noronha. Amaro was sent to his uncle’s house‚ also in Lisbon. His uncle‚ the grocer‚ was a very fat man‚ married to the daughter of an impoverished civil servant; she had only accepted his proposal in order to escape her father’s house‚ where the meals were frugal‚ where she had to make the beds and where she was never allowed to go to the theatre. But she loathed her husband‚ his hairy hands‚ the shop‚ the area they lived in‚ as well as her very commonplace married name‚ Senhora Gonçalves. Her husband‚ though‚ adored her as the delight of his life‚ his one luxury; he loaded her with jewels and called her ‘his duchess’.

Amaro did not find in his uncle’s house the affectionate‚ feminine atmosphere in which he had been so warmly wrapped in Carcavelos. His aunt barely noticed him; dressed in silks‚ her face heavily powdered‚ her hair in ringlets‚ she spent all day reading novels and newspaper reviews of plays‚ waiting for the moment when Cardoso‚ the Teatro da Trindade’s leading man‚ would pass by beneath her windows‚ tugging at his shirt cuffs. The grocer‚ however‚ seized on Amaro as an unexpected extra pair of hands and set him to work in the shop. He made Amaro get up at five o’clock every morning‚ and the boy would sit at one corner of the kitchen table‚ trembling in his blue cloth jacket‚ hurriedly dipping his bread in his coffee. Both aunt and uncle hated him; his aunt called him ‘the slowcoach’ and his uncle called him ‘the donkey’. They begrudged him even the sliver of beef that he ate for his supper. Amaro grew even thinner and cried himself to sleep every night.

He knew that when he was fifteen‚ he would enter the seminary. His uncle reminded him of this every day:

‘Don’t think you’re going to spend the rest of your life here‚ idling your time away! As soon as you’re fifteen‚ it’s off to the seminary with you. I’m under no obligation to support you‚ you know. I don’t believe in keeping a dog and barking myself.’

And the boy began to think of the seminary as a liberation.