The Mandarin and other stories E-Book

José Maria Eça de Queiroz

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

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

The Mandarin is a satire on avarice published with the stories' Jose Matia's, 'The Idiosyncrasies of a Young Blonde Woman' and ' The Hanged Man'.

Leseprobe

Eça de Queiroz

The Mandarin and Other Stories

Translated and with an introduction by Margaret Jull Costa

Published in the UK by Dedalus Limited, 24-26, St Judith’s Lane, Sawtry, Cambs, PE28 5XE

Email: info@ dedalusbooks.com

www.dedalusbooks.com

ISBN printed book 978 1 903517 80 2

ISBN e-book 978 1 907650 34 5

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Publishing History

The Mandarin and ‘Jose Matias’ were first published by Dedalus in 1993. Revised and republished with the addition of ‘The Idiosyncrasies of a Young Blonde Woman’ and ‘The Hanged Man’ in 2009

First published in Portugal in 1880, 1897, 1873 and 1895

First e-book edition 2011

Translation, introduction and notes © Margaret Jull Costa 1993 and 2009

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 WS.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.

THE TRANSLATOR

Margaret Jull Costa has translated many novels and short stories by Portuguese and Spanish writers, among them Fernando Pessoa, Mário de Sá-Carneiro, José Saramago, Ramón del Valle-Inclán, Javier Marías and Bernardo Atxaga.

Her work has brought her various prizes, the most recent being the 2008 PEN/Book-of-the-Month Prize and the 2008 Oxford Weidenfeld Award for her translation of Eça de Queiroz’s masterpiece The Maias.

Portuguese Literature from Dedalus

Dedalus, as part of its Europe 1992–2012 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 City and the Mountains – Eça de Queiroz

Cousin Bazilio – Eça de Queiroz

The Crime of Father Amaro – Eça de Queiroz

The Maias - Eça de Queiroz

The Mandarin and Other Stories - Eça de Queiroz

The Relic – Eça de Queiroz

The Tragedy of the Street of Flowers - 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:

Alves & Co and Other Stories - Eça de Queiroz

The Illustrious House of Ramires - Eça de Queiroz

Contents

Introduction

The Mandarin

The Idiosyncrasies of a Young Blonde Woman

The Hanged Man

José Matías

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 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 wetnurse, who looked after him for six years until her death. Although his parents did marry – when Eça was four – and went on to have 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, where Eça studied Law, 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 with his friend and future brother-in- law, Luís de Resende. 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, and he served there until his death in 1900 at the age of only 54. He had been suffering for years with gastric problems, which doctors diagnosed as gastro-intestinal malaria. He went to Switzerland in search of treatment, but when his health continued to decline, he decided to return home. He arrived in Paris on 13th August and died on the 16th. His wish to be buried beside his grandfather in the cemetery at Oliveirinha was ignored, and he was laid to rest instead in his wife’s family vault in Alto de São João.

He began writing stories and essays as a young man and became involved with a group of intellectuals known as the Generation of 1870, who were committed to reforms in society and in the arts. During his lifetime, he published five novels and one novella: The Mystery of the Sintra Road (in collaboration with Ramalho Ortigão: 1870), 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 works 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.

* * *

Eça wrote The Mandarin in 1880 in order to keep a promise to a friend, Lourenço Malheiro, the editor of the Diário de Portugal. He had earlier agreed that the newspaper would serialise The Maias. When the time came, however, The Maias was still unfinished (indeed it was only published in 1888), and so, while he was on holiday in Angers, he began to write The Mandarin, which the Diário duly serialised in eleven episodes.

Now, depending on which dictionary you consult, the French expression ‘tuer le mandarin’ [‘to kill the mandarin’] means either to commit some evil act in the hope that no one will ever find out, or to harm someone whom you know you will never meet in order to gain some personal advantage and in the certain knowledge that you will never be punished. The expression is said to have its origins in the ‘mandarin paradox’, first formulated by Chateaubriand in 1802 in Génie du christianisme and later taken up by other French writers. The Mandarin is based on this paradox, which Eça restates thus:

In the depths of China there lives a mandarin who is richer than any king spoken of in fable or in history. You know nothing about him, not his name, his face or the silks that he wears. In order for you to inherit his limitless wealth, all you have to do is to ring the bell placed on a book by your side. In that remote corner of Mongolia, he will utter a single sigh. He will then be a corpse, and at your feet you will see gold beyond the dreams of avarice. Mortal reader, will you ring the bell?

Needless to say, Teodoro – a lowly government clerk with dreams of a more glamorous lifestyle – rings the bell and, ultimately, pays the price for his indifference and greed. What, in other less skilful hands, might become heavily moral, is delivered by Eça with a wonderful lightness of touch, and Teodoro, or, rather, his newly acquired wealth, becomes a kind of touchstone by which others are judged; almost all are found wanting.

In a lecture given in 1871 in Lisbon, Eça, a great admirer of Flaubert’s work, spoke of realism as the only way forward for literature. Nine years later, when he wrote The Mandarin, he found himself in the curious position of being criticised for abandoning the realist aesthetic in favour of fantasy. Eça responded to this criticism in an introduction he wrote for the French edition, saying, doubtless tongue in cheek:

…it is precisely because this book belongs to the realm of dreams rather than reality, because it is invented and not the fruit of observation, that it … more faithfully embodies the natural, spontaneous impulse of the Portuguese spirit.

The truth is that Eça was far too interesting an author to be pigeonholed as a realist or a naturalist, a writer of fantasies, a Romantic or whatever. It becomes clear from The Mandarin onwards that Eça rejected all such labels, and that while the books he wrote thereafter sometimes include fantastical elements – for example, The Relic, The City and the Mountains, The Illustrious House of Ramires – or resort to those favourite Romantic plot devices, fate and coincidence – as in The Maias and The Tragedy of the Street of Flowers – or could be described as social satire – such as To the Capital, The Count of Abranhos – none can ever be neatly labelled as purely and simply fantasy, Romance or satire.

The Mandarin is undoubtedly a fantasy, but it is set in a very recognisable Lisbon, and when Teodoro arrives in China, while the clothes and shops may be exotic, and the landscape wilder and bleaker, the mores are little different from those prevalent in nineteenth-century Portugal. Like all the best fantasies, The Mandarin ultimately has its feet firmly in reality.

* * *

The other three stories in this collection – the first written more than twenty years before the others – reveal Eça in all his literary diversity.

Eça wrote ‘The Idiosyncrasies of a Young Blonde Woman’ in 1873, in Cuba, where he had his first diplomatic posting (an otherwise fallow period in his writing career). It was his first largely realist story and takes a deliberately anti-Romantic stance. A sceptical narrator tells us a tale told to him by a man, Macário, whom he met at an inn. Macário’s whole life has been blighted by his love for pretty, blonde, vacuous Luísa. In the blindness of his love for her – or is it his innocence of the ways of the world? – he fails to ask certain vital questions. What is her real position in society? Is her voluptuous and very dark-haired mother really her mother? Who and where is her father? How do they manage to live? When his uncle (his sole relative and his employer) refuses to support him in his desire to marry her, Macário puts this down to meanness of spirit, rather than wondering if perhaps his uncle knows something he does not. In the end, his romantic attachment to Luísa dies from a severe dose of reality.

‘The Hanged Man’, written in 1895, is based on a sermon given by the Jesuit Father António Vieira, who was considered to be one of the greatest orators of the seventeenth century. Eça’s version follows Vieira’s story very closely, but Eça breathes warm humanity into what was originally a purely moral tale. He puts us inside the innocent wife’s mind as she ponders the consequences of her jealous husband’s foolish actions, and endows the hanged man with impeccable manners and the ability to savour the pleasure of being able to move freely again, as he runs alongside Don Ruy and his horse. ‘How good it is to run again!’ he mutters to himself.

‘José Matías’, written in 1897, is one of Eça’s most famous stories, in which he takes a literary idea – Romantic love – to its fantastical and logical extreme. The unnamed narrator is a Hegelian philosopher on his way to José Matías’ funeral. He recounts to an unnamed silent listener the strange and tragic life of José and his love for Elisa. He sees their relationship as an example of the dialectic between spirit and flesh, between idealism and materialism, and cannot help but feel a grudging admiration for José’s stubborn determination to love Elisa on his own terms, with a love that will not fit comfortably into any philosophy and that sets up a further and perhaps more troubling dialectic, between absurdity and nobility of heart.

All three stories are accounts of one man’s obsession with a woman, a theme that runs through much of Eça’s work, and while Eça sees that such an obsession can be a driving force that reveals unexpected strengths and talents – as is the case here with Macário in ‘Idiosyncrasies’ – he never sees it as an engine that will propel the obsessed person towards happiness or fulfilment. Such obsessive love is based on fantasy, not reality. The narrator of ‘José Matías’ suspects that José simply

…had a horror of the material aspects of marriage: the slippers, the touch of clammy morning skin, the six long months of enormous swelling belly, the children screaming in their wet beds … [and] could never imagine that slippers and dirty nappies are things of great beauty in a house filled by sunlight and love.

José Matías’ love is too pure to contemplate the essentially unromantic nature of married life and children; Macário’s romantic love for Luísa blinds him to the true nature of her and of her life; the husband in ‘The Hanged Man’, eaten up by jealousy and insecurity, is unable to believe in his young wife’s innocence.

Even in his earlier, more realist novels, Eça often made imaginative use of dreams as a way of letting fantasy inform reality, and it seems to me that in his subsequent works, he uses fantasy as a means of illuminating reality, never as an escape from it, recognising perhaps that fantasy – in the shape of dreams, stories and imagination – is vital to all human beings and that maintaining a balance between fantasy and reality is essential to our sanity. Thus the characters and the world described in Eça’s so-called fantasies are as convincing and as real as those in his so-called realist works. He was, in short, far too intelligent, too humane and imaginative a writer to submit to the straitjacket of any one literary school.

THE MANDARIN

Prologue

Friend no. 1 (sitting on a terrace beneath some trees, by the sea, sipping brandy and soda)

My friend, let us succumb to this heavy summer heat that blunts the cutting edge of wisdom and rest a while from the harsh study of human Reality. Let us depart instead for the fields of Dreams and wander those blue, romantic hills where stands the abandoned tower of the Supernatural, where cool mosses clothe the ruins of Idealism. Let us, in short, indulge in a little fantasy!

Friend no. 2

But let us do so soberly and temperately, my friend! And, as in the wise and amiable allegories of the Renaissance, let us add just a pinch of Morality.

(From an unpublished play)

1

My name is Teodoro and I was once a scribe at the Ministry for Internal Affairs and Education.

At the time, I lived at 106 Travessa da Conceição in a guesthouse run by the splendid Dona Augusta, the widow of Major Marques. I had two fellow lodgers: Cabrita, who was as thin and yellow as a funeral candle and worked as a clerk on the city council, and the vigorous, exuberant Lieutenant Couceiro, who played the guitar extremely well.

My existence was one of sweet regularity. During the week I would sit down at my office desk, put on my silk oversleeves and set to work covering sheets of official notepaper in my exquisite italic script, always using the same glib phrases: Esteemed Sir, I have the honour to inform you …, I have the pleasure of sending Your Honour …, Illustrious Sir …

On Sundays I rested. Installed on the sofa in the dining room, my pipe clenched between my teeth, I would gaze admiringly at Dona Augusta whose custom it was, on holy days, to massage away Lieutenant Couceiro’s dandruff with the judicious application of eggwhite. That was always a delightful time of day, especially in summer: the hot breath of noon would waft in through the half-open windows along with the distant ringing of the bells of Conceição Nova and the cooing of doves on the verandah whilst, inside, the monotonous drone of flies hovered above the old cambric cloth (formerly Madame Marques’ wedding veil) draped over the sideboard to protect the plates of cherries. The lieutenant, wrapped in a sheet like an idol in a cloak, would drift slowly off to sleep beneath the gentle friction of Dona Augusta’s loving hands and she, sticking out one plump, white little finger, would plough through the Lieutenant’s thinning but lustrous hair with a fine-toothed comb … In the emotion of the moment I would exclaim to the charming lady:

‘Ah, Dona Augusta, what an angel you are!’

She would laugh and call me ‘Pipsqueak’ and I would smile, not in the least offended. In fact that was the name the whole house knew me by. Why? Because I was skinny, always took care to enter a room right foot first, trembled at the mere sight of a mouse, kept a lithograph of Our Lady of Sorrows that had once belonged to Mama above my bed and had a pronounced stoop. The stoop, alas, was the consequence of the many times I had bent my back before the dons at University, retreating from them like a startled magpie, and before the directors-general at work, in whose presence I practically touched my forehead to the ground. Indeed, such an attitude is only proper in a young graduate, the very basis of order in a well-organized state and, besides, it guaranteed me my Sunday peace, an adequate supply of clean linen and twenty mil-réis a month.

I cannot deny, however, that at the time, as Madame Marques and the jovial Lieutenant Couceiro both had the wit to acknowledge, I did harbour certain ambitions. I do not mean that there stirred in my breast any heroic desire to rule from some lofty throne over vast hordes of people nor that my mad soul longed to ride through the Baixa in a company carriage, with a lackey trotting behind me. No, what consumed me was the desire to partake of champagne suppers at the Hotel Central, to clasp the delicate hands of a viscountess in mine and, at least twice a week, to fall asleep in dumb ecstasy on the cool breast of some Venus. Oh, you young men making your happy way to the opera house, in your expensive overcoats and gleaming white cravats! Oh, you carriages crammed with lovely Andalusian women, rattling elegantly off to see a bullfight – how I sighed for you! For then, the certain knowledge that my measly twenty mil-réis a month and my pipsqueak looks excluded me for ever from such social pleasures would pierce my heart like an arrow which, shot into the trunk of a tree, remained there for a long time afterwards, poised and quivering!

But for all that, I never thought of myself gloomily as a ‘pariah’. The humble life has its compensatory pleasures: opening up that day’s Diário de Notícias on a bright, sunny morning, with a napkin round your neck and a grilled steak on the plate before you; savouring the sweet idyll of summer evenings spent sitting on the public benches in the park; or listening to the armchair politicians running down the country as you sip your coffee at night in the Café Martinho … I never much suffered from unhappiness; I lacked the necessary imagination. I did not torment myself by prowling longingly about the fringes of fictitious paradises that emanated only from my own eager heart like clouds of mist rising from a lake. I did not gaze up at the luminous stars and sigh for a love like Romeo’s or for the social success of a Camors. Being a practical sort of person, I aspired only to what was reasonable, tangible, to what others like myself had already attained, to what a graduate might realistically hope to achieve. And I became resigned to my fate, like someone at a table d’hôte meal chewing patiently on a mouthful of dry bread while he waits for them to serve up a delicious charlotte russe. Happiness would arrive one day and to hasten its arrival I did everything that a good Portuguese and a constitutionalist could do: I prayed every night to Our Lady of Sorrows and bought lottery tickets, the cheapest available.

In the meantime, I did my best to amuse myself. And since the convolutions of my brain did not equip me to write poetry, which was what so many of my colleagues did to avenge themselves on the tedium of their profession, and since my salary, once I’d paid the rent and bought my cigarettes, was insufficient to accommodate any vice, I had acquired the discreet habit of scouring the local flea market for incomplete sets of old books and at night in my room I would gorge myself on those curious texts. They always bore portentous titles: The Ship of Innocence, The Miraculous Mirror, The Despair of the Disinherited … The antiquated typeface, the yellowing, worm-eaten paper, the sombre, monkish binding, the little green ribbon marking one’s place – all that enchanted me! The ingenuous words set down in large clumsy print bathed my whole being in a kind of serenity, the sort of penetrating peace one might feel at the end of a quiet afternoon, standing by a ruined monastery wall at the bottom of a valley, listening to the sad babble of a stream.

One night, years ago now, I had begun reading a chapter in one of those ancient folios entitled ‘The Abyss of Souls’ and I was just drifting off into a pleasant state of drowsiness when one particular passage suddenly stood out from the dull, neutral tone of the rest of the page, like a new gold medal gleaming against a dark carpet. I give below the exact words:

In the depths of China there lives a mandarin who is richer than any king spoken of in fable or in history. You know nothing about him, not his name, his face or the silks that he wears. In order for you to inherit his limitless wealth, all you have to do is to ring the bell placed on a book by your side. In that remote corner of Mongolia, he will utter a single sigh. He will then be a corpse and at your feet you will see gold beyond the dreams of avarice. Mortal reader, will you ring the bell?

Startled, I stared down at the open page. That question: Mortal reader, will you ring the bell? struck me as playful, even absurd and yet it troubled me terribly. I wanted to read on but the lines on the page slipped away from me like frightened snakes and, in the emptiness they left behind, pale as parchment, there remained only that strange demand, gleaming blackly up at me: Will you ring the bell?

Had the book been some straightforward tome published in a yellow binding by Michel-Lévy, I would have simply closed it there and then and put an end to such febrile imaginings. I was not, after all, lost in a forest in some German ballad; indeed from my balcony I could see the belts of the policemen on patrol glinting white in the gaslight. But a kind of magic seemed to emanate from that lugubrious book. Every letter took on the disquieting form of symbols in the ancient kabbala, each possessed of prophetic qualities: the commas formed petulant curves like the tails of demons glimpsed in the pale moonlight; in that final question mark I saw the fearful hook with which the Tempter fishes for those souls who fall asleep without first taking refuge in the inviolable citadel of Prayer! Some supernatural power took hold of me, dragged me slowly away from reality, away from reason, and in my spirit two visions began to take shape – on the one hand I imagined a decrepit old mandarin, far off in a Chinese pavilion, dying painlessly at the tinkle of a bell; on the other I saw a mountain of gold glittering at my feet! So real were these visions that I could actually see the slanted eyes of that noble old personage grow dim, as if slowly covered over by a fine layer of dust, and I could hear the light clink of coins one against the other. And sitting absolutely still, my skin prickling, I fixed my burning eyes on the bell perched peaceably beside me on a French dictionary, just as the marvellous book had both foreseen and described …

It was then, from the other side of my bedside table, that an insinuating, metallic voice spoke to me out of the silence:

‘Come on, Teodoro, my friend, reach out your hand, ring the bell, be a man!’

The green shade on the candle cast a shadow round about. Trembling, I picked the candle up. Seated calmly before me, I saw a bulky figure, all dressed in black, a tall hat on his head and his two hands encased in black gloves resting gravely on the handle of an umbrella. There was nothing fantastic about him. He seemed so contemporary, so ordinary, so middle class; he could have been a fellow scribe at the ministry …

His originality lay entirely in the strong, hard lines of his beardless face. His sharp nose, formidably aquiline, had all the rapacity of an eagle’s beak; the line of his lips was so firm as to seem cast in bronze; his eyes, when they looked at me, were like two flares sent up from amongst the swarthy brambles of his eyebrows that met above his nose; his face was deathly pale, but here and there his skin was threaded with red veins like old Phoenician marble.