ground, as if the storm had tom it up by its roots; it trembled in the air, as if held by an invisible hand, before being hurled into the ocean, carrying in its bosom the desecrators of the church who let out one final howl of despair. The sea opened to swallow the enormous prey offered to it, then the surface closed over again and the immense shroud, whose folds are the waves, unfurled to cover that stone cadaver. Ever since then, whenever midnight strikes, the candles in the drowned church are lit and in the depths of the sea the reprobates sing their psalms of penitence. The voice of Inés rises above them all and from the ocean deep she still exercises her irresistible fascination. Sometimes the ghost of the beautifal woman rises above the waves and drags into the abyss anyone foolhardy enough to surrender to the magical power of her charms. May the Lord keep us from such temptations ... But look, we've reached the shore." The boatman tied up the boat and jumped out. The young man remained for a long time contemplating the ocean. Far off, the waves still gleamed scarlet, but by now the voices of the reprobates, their melancholy tones enfecbled by the distance, were only barely audible on the beach. At daybreak everything disappeared; the red light gradu- ally faded a5 the horizon grew brighter and the waves grew white in the tenuous glow of dawn. The song of the damned also faded little by litele until the last note vibrated alone in space and the singular silence that always precedes the break of day was interrupted only by the eternal hymn sung by the murmuring waves. The Cannibals by Alvaro do Carvalhal I “Rien n'est beau que le vrai These were the words that Boileau put into the critic's mouth and it was not long before all fables, exotic arab- esques and tall tales ~ most of which had their origins in the heroic past — had lost the sovereignty they previously enjoyed in the broad sphere of belleslettres. The only reason that Prometheus, Hercules, Theseus and the Sphinx did not crumble into dust to be scattered by the four winds was because certain models had to be preserved in order to guide the philosopher through the labyrinths of the past. And so, although they still stand on their jewel-encrusted pedestals, they are eclipsed by the brilliant light that only the truth beams forth Do not be surprised if you hear me utter the occasional, brief, querulous complaint as I sacrifice myself to the demands of this pretentious generation, for I make no secret of the love I have always felt for fairy tales. It is a sacrifice. But since | am not given to transcendency, disliking in equal measure both the mathematicians’ unknown, quantity and Don Quixote’s Dulcinea, I open on my lap the chronicle I chanced to find and, making use of the riches to hand, I will thus avoid being forced to invent and avoid running the terrible risk of turning my back on the eruth My tale is a great lover of blue blood, it adores the aristocracy. The reader will have to journey with me through high society; I will be forced to take him to a ball or two and arouse his interest with the mysteries, love affairs and jealousies that are the stock-in-trade of the sensationalist novel. Now pay attention and I will begin the story in the old-fashioned way 25The blue vault of the sky illumined with a million stars the spires, obelisks and arcades of the city’s crumbling architecture. The night was utterly calm, though the cold reminded one of the snows of Siberia. In the ballroom on the other hand, springtime bloomed resplendent. The dizzy- ing excitement of the waltz stirred up passions that later became wild detiriums. Everyone has been to a ball and yet I still feel tempted to describe it, recognising that the exercise would be both immodest and point ‘thousand poets have painted the scene in the polished hyperbole of their verses, omitting not a single brilliant nuance. The reader would be better off, therefore, looking for a description of this ball in some artistically imaginative poem, because all the descriptions ‘cover the same ground. Nevertheless, I give below the bare outlines of a rapid sketch. The sweetest of sweet-smelling flowers arranged in gigan- tic vases of enamelled porcelain; art everywhere, in the frames of mirrors, in the panelling, in the gilded ceilings; the scent of balsam fills these enchanted rooms; in the distance, the notes of a voluptuous piece of music, the inspiration of some genius or other; and, above all, ani- mated couples full of life and love, abandoning themselves to the effervescent dances, scurrying about in a rainbow mixture of colours then parting rapidly beneath the curious gaze of those who are content to be mere onlookers, leaning with a rather studied air against marble columns or reclining on plump ottomans. The majestic sun of a beautiful summer's day does not fall more radiantly on the richly variegated wings and petals of a thousand butterflies and a thousand flowers than do those hundreds of artificial suns whose light is reflected back by the glittering windows onto the sumptuous dresses that the ladies trail across velvet-soft carpets. Just as the priests and priestesses of that intelligent god, Bacchus, begin the libations in his honour in a lukewarm, , as they down their twenti- eth glass of the fervent liquor amidst enthusiastic cries of 26 llow their eyes to shine and their hair to become , so the guests at the ball let the intoxication of all these pleasures awaken long-dormant feelings. Amongst them, however, was one restless, unquict gaze that wounded several of those present who made no at- ‘tempt to hide the passion they were prey to, Affairs of the heart no doubt. Margarida is one of those irresistibly attractive femmes fatales. Any unmarried man who had the misfortune to see her would instantly long to be her Romeo; if married, there would be no shortage of Werthers each willing to blow out his brains just so that she might mourn Her suitors included everyone from the great to untitled commoners from Brazil, a rare thing in these sublunary regions. She was the idol revered by all believers. ‘But why is she so sad and distracted at the ball? She rests her head in melancholy fashion on her pat and does not even hear his loving words, caught up as she is in that feminine reverie which, for the man who loves torment and an infeo. Eleven o'clock strikes. She shudders and gives one last glance at the door. Then, cast down, she sighs and lets herself be dragged indifferently into the whil of a mazurka At that moment, in a separate room, two gentlemen site dandy was slumped in a chair before the blazing fire, his legs comfortably crossed. They were holding a measured, mo- notonous dialogue. ‘T think I have every reason to feel hopeful,” the gentle~ man standing up was saying rather proudly, tugging at his incipient moustache. ‘Pure vanity, Dom Jodo!” retorted the other. ‘I'm a veteran in these campaigns. I pride myself on having Fipped away with my own hand the veil covering even the ‘most sacred modesty, but Masgarida ..” 27“Margarida is a woman.’ “She is, but what makes you think that you will be victorious?” “Everything,” replied Dom Joio, slightly offended by his, friend’s doubts. "Certain small favours she has bestowed, a look returned . . “The delusions of self-love. Look, believe me, she is not, the woman who will raise to your lips the cup of ambrosia that quenches the thirst of love. Margarida is one of the few women who has but one heart which can be given only once.” “And how do you know so much about her?” “If my own wide experience were not enough, one need. only tum to Balzac.’ “I see.’ He smiled disdainfully but added: ‘I might still “What belongs to another, never.” “You mean Margarida .. «isin love. ‘With you, Baron?” “Alas, no, that's about as unlikely as her being in love with you.” “With whom then?” “With the Viscount of... He was interrupted by a voice announcing, “The Viscount of Aveleda.” The two friends both shuddered and rushed to the door. The dance had stopped. The gentlemen gathered at the entrance to the salon, The ladies looked flustered and ‘uncertain, Margarida turned her jubilant face to a and, happy with what she saw, lay back against the pillows of an ottoman, hiding her flushed face behind a fan. ‘Who could it be? ‘The curtain was drawn back to reveal a strange-looking, man standing on the threshold. He was one of those men who defy description and who must be the despair of people like Van Dyck and Titian. He could have been any age between thirty and forty. He was slightly above average 28 height and his pale face bore the traces of long years of, bitterness, a face made more attractive by the short, neat, black beard framing it. He was the very image of Byronic ‘man: ideal, mysterious. Indced his whole life was shrouded in mystery. OF the thousand extravagant rumours flying about, as if in order to increase his fascination, all that was Known for certain was that he came from South America and was well-liked by many learned and reasonable mei He walked slowly and gravely through the fascinated crowd. But there was a concealed effort behind that move~ ‘ment, it was somehow mechanical, automatic, and despite the soft carpets, his steps seemed to echo round the room. Impetuous young Dom Joao, the impassioned youth whom the reader has just encountered, fixed burning eyes on him. Before him stood the man who could snatch from him most cherished hopes. Anger flickered in his mind; rudel; boldly, he made a point of brushing against him, but when he touched the other man, he met something like the inertia of granite, He looked at him more closely and recoiled, filled by an irresistible sense of panic He seemed to see before him the ironic statue of the Comendador. 1 The aim of any story drawn from 2 chro cither be the retelling of memorable events intermingled ‘with a host of factual information or the description of the customs characteristic of people at a certain historical moment, In both instances, the narrator's prime obligation is to place the facts in their correct context. I am perfectly aware of this. Nevertheless, I would happily accept the harshest of criticisms for not having set the action of my story in any one particular country, since, due to an unfortunate omission in the worthy manuscript I have by my side, T have no idea where it takes place. T love fidelity and these three simple words are the reason why I have abstained from using local colour. 2Nevertheless, it was important that the story should take place somewhere. I reflected on this with the maturity demanded by the situation and in the end, giving in to necessity, I almost resolved to carry my heroes off to Japan where anything slightly out of the ordinary would necessarily be labelled ‘supernatural’, for the greater the distance from which we view things, the more they grow in significance, measured by the imagination which tends to be prodigal in baubles and flourishes of all kinds. Moreover, such an readers’ good faith would still not diminish the value of the work, because, though it may not bear the mark of the sort of painstaking study that opens the doors of the academies, it would still retain a moral side that would make it worthy to join the tales that are the luxury of childhood and arc, quite right treasure’. T was weighing up the pros and cons of this plan when a disastrous thought diverted me from the attempt: the thought that w id times in which the puppet plays of Anténio José da Silva have given way to high comedy, in the golden age of the circumspect jacket and the top hat. Japan woul time, I must follow its dictates. I was even for a model in the limp grotesques than go back to the idea of using the comical costumes of the Japanese, 1m to the story, as it certainly deserves. Let the reader choose the setting at will, I wash my hands of it, as Jong as itis set in a country where Dumas and Kock are read and where there are plenty of seminaries, scandals and ris. Imagine the ball. If you so choose, for whatever reason, be it convenience or correctness, imagine that it takes place in Lisbon in the luxurious dwelling of a modern-day equivalent of the lovely Ninon de Lenclos. There we left 30 the sympathetic figure of the Viscount of Aveleda disrupr- ing the harmony of the party with his surprise appearance, ‘We will find him now in the midst of all that sumptuous tumult, weighed down by a deep melancholy, a melan- choly that seemed to be reflected on every face, as if his ‘were an animated mirror. The vague expression on the Viscount’s noble features was such that it gave one an ight into the magnetic forces of attraction and repulsion. The ladies were fascinated, the gallants fearful and bored, the kind of boredom — or rather bad temper ~ that stems from humiliation; for that man who, according to them, ‘was more myth than reality, humiliated them merely by his presence. ‘The Viscount was barely aware of the effect he produced. He had not risen from the chair into which he had slumped and, apart from a few delicate words or gestures he was forced to make out of politeness, he looked for all the ‘world like an unfeeling statue. “Did you speak to him? asked Margarida with lively nterest, addressing a friend of hers who had gone to meet did? ‘And? “Oh my dear, I can’t begin to never met a man like him. The words trip so sweetly from his lips, his smile is so sad... you were quite right: a woman's heart cannot but beat alittle faster.” She was cut off with an affectionate could not bear to hear any more. She was pale, her lips trembled, and her heaving bosom was filled by unfamiliar passions. It was the state of mind of a woman who would not hesitate at the foot of her beloved’s bed to pluck the petals of the sweet-smelling flowers of her virginity. She fell into a languorous swoon, fixing her dark, passionate eyes — which nature designed to make the women of the south so dangerous — on some invisible point in the distance, for her thoughts were miles away in the land of beautiful fantasies. 31‘The orchestra struck up a waltz. Margarida, who loved waltzes, this time declined the libidinous contact of a masculine hand about her delicate waist. And why? Because she had spotted an empty seat next to the Viscount of Aveleda, Her one thought was to take possession of that seat, forgetting — she who had always been so cautious — that she was opening herself up to endless calumnies. ‘Between thought and action there was barely a moment's, She exchanged only 2 few words with the Viscount however, such things were said that they sat for whole he said, at last, in order to break a silence that was beginning to grow awkward, ‘we all feel for you in your sadness. Why are you so sad?” ‘Ie is no fault of mine, dear lady. I would give a great deal to the person who could teach me to feign a happiness Ido not feel.’ respect your sorrows, but believe me when I say that troubles me when I think of them. “And may I know why?” “Because seeing you surrounded by so much that could bring you happiness ...” “A little surface luxury serves at times to conceal great poverty. Does it surprise you to know that there are smiles that conceal tears? Well, there are.” “But I am wounded precisely by the unhappiness I sense in you. ‘T don't feel sorry for myself, Dona Margarida.” ‘Tdon’t feel sorry for you cither. But you suffer, don’t ‘you? I'm not indifferent to the sufferings of others. Or do me in that ‘beautiful hand of yours, white as innocence itself?” Me "Yes, you, dear lady. I see the honey on your lips and, forgive my saying so, the bitterness of absinthe in your angelic voice, your face, your beauty.” 32 “Your words flatter but they are also heavy with irony. ‘Can my own unhappiness be such that even my presence makes your sadness, your pain worse?” “Tedoes more than that.’ “More?” ‘OF course it does! Imagine a traveller overcome by the heat, dying and weak from thirst on the banks of a stream hhe cannot drink from and imagine, if you can judge the suffering of that unfortunate man, how hard itis for me to Took at you, to hear your heavenly words, without my heart bursting into tears, without my comparing what I what I was and what I could be.” aps I have not understood. But, my friend, the jn your enigmatic example, even in the difficult position in which you place him, cannot be so unfortunate that he can have lost all hope. And where there's hope, there's...” jope! I imagined him lost in a desert.” “Even so, he might have his faith. The stream might leave its ancient bed in order to bestow on him all its waters." “How?” “By a miracle of Providence.” ‘Do you believe in Providence? For my part I so wore my eyes out looking for it that one day I woke up blind, How could I possibly sec it?” “Blind!” said Margarida, seizing lightly on the word, ‘Blind when you have eyes to see!" ‘I wish I had no eyes, because if I could not see you, Margarida, I would not see how far heaven is from earth, how impossible any relationship between the two of us is. Do you understand me now? Flushed with surprise, Margarida could not conceal her feelings. She looked pale and anxious. Then she recovered her breath and murmured in that melodious, tremulous voice, that expression of truth and innocence found only in women in love: ‘Haven't you guessed? Must my lips say everything that Teel?” 3A poignant smile, bitter and painful, curled the Vis- count’s pale lips. Margarida was breathing hard. “OF what use,’ she went on, ‘of what use are the enigmas you invent when you speak to me, as if you actually wanted to torment me? Does your happiness depend on me? Then take it, it is yours alone. Don’t go imagining any distances or -, for I have courage enough to stand in the blaze of all these lights, before all those ready with their sarcastic remarks, des my cheeks, and say: “Here I am, I belong to you.’ “Impossible.” “Impossible?” “The blind man guesses at the marvels of nature and adores them, but without being able to look on them. Tam like a blind man, Margarida; | adore you but that is al.” “Do you want to kill me?” ‘I love you too much to abandon you to a life of fantasies.” ies? Tell me, Can't you see how distressed I am?” ‘It can be summed up in a word that would have suited the gravity of the situation had it not been so over-used in the dénoucments of novelettish plots. That word is...” mm 1am well aware that a purely dramatic dialogue, sprin- terjections and the occasional long word, with the reality of the comédie humaine. It yout much soul-searching that I placed the ‘scount before Margarida, exposing myself to laughter of those who know nothing of the heart and its language, a fantastic language, which often scoms the present-day to take on the colours of more adventurous times — the most sublimely poetic of times — when a chatelaine would appear, like some airy vision, 4 ‘amongst the flowering pots adorning her balcony, in order to listen in the starlight to the plangent songs of an ‘cnamoured troubador. Otherwise, they need look no fur- ther than the thousands of novels that tum the heads of modem youth. Ido not really know what punishments will be incurred by the protagonists of this true story, as every reader terms his or her imagination, for having given ‘wings, amongst the celestial pleasures of a ball, to the kind of conversation that feeds upon itself. I do not know. They may remain drowned forever in the foolish laughter of the public, as unaware of its own vulgarity as itis of its ability to wound. If that should happen, then it is the events themselves that should be criticised. I am just a simple storyteller. So heated and lively was the conversation between Mar- garida and the that they forgot about everyone around them ani ight of the world of mere mortals. The curiosity of the other guests reached fever pitch. It was not without some concern that Margarida realised this. But at such moments what innocent woman is incapable of subterfuge? Feigning a happiness she did not feel, Margarida reached ‘out a delicate hand to a delightful woman who happened to be passing, It was the lady of the house. “beg you, dear lady,’ exclaimed Margarida, her face red as a pomegranate, ‘please help me to convince this gentle man. I have been trying for ages now to persuade him to recite some of those adorable poems of his. I know he could not refuse a request from you.” “My dear lady" said the Viscount, taken by surprise by ‘Margarida’s providential thought. He tried to hide behind a modest refusal but several people were now urging him to recite his poems. He bowed his head submissively. There was a sudden silence. Both the ladies and the gentlemen present outdid them- selves in shows of intense interest. However, behind a curtain, an attentive observer would 35have spied the face of a young man, whose staring eyes seemed to be ablaze with anger. It was Dom Joio. If I were writing a novel, he would at this point be feverishly fingering the golden hilt of a gleaming dagger. However, let us not spoil our story. Let us send the dagger off to an old theatre or to some deserted forest. ‘was a splendid scene. The light pouring forth from the candelabra was reflected in the mirrors, on the heraldic ses that were already h of bare, breathless face of the Viscount, on the various groups of people, on the different poses struck; all this presented a scene very much to the tase of desire. ‘And the Viscount’s voice rose up in the midst of that silence like the voice of one inspired. In his eyes fickered the sacred flame of the sibyl and his words were listened to as devoutly as if they were the words of an oracle. ‘The title of the poem was ‘Echo’, It had the vigour of an ode, the tender lyricism of an idyll and the profound sadness of an clegy. It was written with such art, though, such harmony, that every word went straight to the heart. ‘The poem's central idea was the metamorphosis of the unfortunate nymph, as she saw and felt her delicate limbs taking on the rough curves of a formless rock while stil feeling her inflamed heart beating in that breast of granite with all the passion and ardour of her desires, her sensual longings, and all che time the rock becoming denser and denser. That was the idea. No poet ever extracted finer, purer gold than he from those familiar themes. When he Came to the end of the penultimate verse, which seemed to hhave been wrenched from his very soul, there was not 2 cheek that was not wet with tears. "That voice, steeped in tender melancholy, those exquisite lines — for they were exquisite ~ filled each breast with ‘vague emotions, with sweet poisons. ‘Te was as if the Viscount were mourning his own misfor- tunes. The lines bore what seemed to be the seal of terrible experience. 36 Margarida was as pale as the camellias drooping on her vvirginal breast. She listened until the end holding her breath. Then she vanished into the crowd of astonished ly when she was far from all the noise did she ding her face in her hands. ‘myopia can see no reason for such extreme the truth is 2 law that bears only cone interpretation. 1 have here the chronicle which has been deemed authentic. ‘When the maiden (as any chivalrous novelist would call her) retumed to the salon, the Viscount was no longer there. “Troubled, she lost no time in asking one of her friends about his unexpected absence. IF her question was bri reply was even briefer, translated into a mischiev and a gesture that indicated the door g gardens. The pale light of dawn was not far off. The windows were open, ‘Margarida wandered in the gardens from flowerbed to flowerbed, from grotto to grotto. She could be seen walk- ing amongst the trees and disappearing into the shadows like a lovely ghost, but doubtless no one could hear the heavy sighs she uttered. It was that gloomy hour when even the purest woman longs for the wedding bed of She could clearly see the precipice through the concealing flowers, but she loved it. In the shadow cast by one of the many trees with its thick, bare branches in which fluttered a few birds anxious for the dawn, she came upon the Viscount deep in thought. ‘And sitting fearlessly down place, she swore to hersclf, believing in the high value given to her seductive pow she would discover the carefully concealed secrets of that man’s soul. She said: “[ too love the vague twilight that precedes the dawn. ‘The imagination is more open to suggestion; it sees vague, 37and that vagueness awakens in me strange emotions, sweet longings, that transport my spirit. Tell me, do you not feel the same?” ‘Tknow the feeling well, dear lady.” “OF course you do. Some inner voice tells me quietly that every soul has its twin, a twin in feeling and thinking. Do you think that’s tru ‘How should I know? I'm very far from being an abject sceptic and yet I dout “But you believe in misfortune.” “That I feel in every part of my body.’ ‘Do you doubt me too?” ‘Dear lady! Poor child! All your illusions are as yet so green. You find this world attractive because you have seen only one side of it, its pleasant side. Do you imagine that what counts in the world is virtue, greatness of soul, loftiness of spirit? You're wrong. Lies and mere appearance are all that count and in that consists the supreme misfor- tune of my life. I have a heart that burns for love and a hhead that understands it, but no woman, not one, could find in my arms the affections of a husband, because my arms are made of fragile clay or of some substance so soft that they can be moulded into any shape.” “When will you stop talking in enigmas? You said you had a heart burning for love. Does that mean that you love someone?” ‘From the bottom of my soul.” ‘And could there be a woman strong enough or cast down enough that she could resist you? I doubt it.” “That's because you, dear lady, do not realise that the nobility which you perhaps see in me might conceal the presence of an unworthy filibuster. I would love to let myself be blinded by the vain thought that I am loved. Might not the putrefying body of a leper be concealed beneath these clothes? Might there not be cancer, gangrene and plague? Just imagine, and imagine what a wedding night that would be for a young girl, a sensitive plant in fall bloom...” 38 He gave a foolish laugh. Margarida was afraid. From which I conclude, in parenthesis, that the nervous system of ladies must be more delicate than that of the reader, who probably sees no reason to be afraid. This discovery may, I hope, be of some use to science. ‘Don't judge by appearances, dear lady,’ the Viscount continued affably. ' ‘Please don’t think I am any ordinary woman,’ said Margarida proudly. guessed that you were not, and how it consoles me to hear it. Allow me then a strange and even original question: If I were a cold, inert corpse, worked by some ingenious mechanism, though with a living heart beating in my dead body, would you be capable of embracing me without feeling repelled? Would you want to lay your forehead on the breast of a corpse?” ‘What an extraordinary thing to say! But I have an equally strange reply to that strange question of yours, and God knows I do not lie.” Margarida said, ‘Even if the nuptial bed were in a graveyard, I would accept it, desire it. Notice that I am not blushing. If my voice trembles it is with the weight of truth. I neither blush nor exaggerate. Anyone who knows what love is knows that I am not exaggerating.’ The Viscount’s face lit up with radiant happiness. He could only stammer out: “Margarida, my Margarida!” And he placed his burning lips on the half-naked breast of the maiden who, overcome by desire, repaid his daring with another kiss so passionate it took with it part of her life. Then the happy Viscount plunged into the trees with the measured step of the skeleton of popular legend, ‘Margarida stayed behind, almost swooning, her hair dishevelled, her plaits undone, her head hanging forward and her shoulders damp with the morning dew. People will say this was the magical dream of some Oriental imagination, 39‘Then Dom Joio stood before her as if in answer to some ‘magician’s satanic conjurations! IV ‘That’s what I said, dear reader: ‘The figure of a young man, leaning in a tragic pose on the edge of a fountain near where Margarida was sitting, hhad suddenly appeared as if in answer to a magician’s satanic conjurations. Tsay ‘had’ because this all happened in the depths of winter and now the almond trees were beginning to adorn themselves with spring blossoms. “The young man’s clothes and his pretentious, frivolous pose easily identified him as Dom Joio. “Forgive me, dear lady,’ he exclaimed in portentous tones, ‘forgive me for daring to bother you. I could not resist coming here myself in order to write my own diploma of infamy, to tell you that I witnessed everything that happened from my hiding place, and to revel in your shame. Your lover, Dona Margarida...” “Dom Joao!” ‘Don't worry. I am too generous to heap insults on an absent rival. If you want my discretion you need only tell the Viscount of Aveleda of my evil intent. Tell him, dear lady, that I am consumed with the desire to know if a bullet is capable of piercing his skull.” ‘A witness to this scene might perhaps have laughed at such theatrical twaddle. Margarida fell silent with terror. ‘At that moment, the first slightly purple rays of sun fell on the young man’s face, turned towards the east. To her eyes, clouded by too many simultaneous emotions, they looked like streaks of blood. She fled in horror. How is it then that Dom Joio managed to be invited to ‘our Viscount’s party, far less to the sumptuous wedding breakfast? ‘That is what both myself and the intelligent reader would like to know. 40 The explanation lies in the Viscount’s character. He knew all about those young men born in the lap of luxury, swaddled in ancient family traditions, who, as soon as they ence, would sally forth to bars and brothels some risqué novel. He held them in such low esteem that, indifferent to Dom Joio’s threat, he received him exactly as he had before, with all the easy friendliness for which he ‘was known. Perhaps that was a mistake. One thing is certain, the party was magnificent. ‘You can imagine how Margarida felt. She was sur- rounded by what is known as the cream of society, by her best friends, her contented old father, her two brothers — ‘one of whom had launched himself down the rocky road of the law and the other across the marshy plains of dandyism — and, above all, he had by her side the husband she loved with all her heart. ‘What more can worldly ambition ask? She seemed even more distant and thoughtful. They must be sweet thoughts, the kind of thoughts which I believe are only enjoyed on their wedding eve by fortunate young women who have had the good fortune to be given a bridegroom with strong, firm limbs, red lips, white teeth and sensual eyes. ‘We men are too impious to warm our imaginations by the sacrosanct fire fed by those chastest of vestal virgins. ‘What was noticeable at the feast was a vaguely Easter and resolutely un-European perfume, the sweet smell of luxury. There was an indefinable sense of disorder some- what reminiscent of effeminate Rome, the lascivious slave of the Emperors. Petronius could never have imagined sofas or easy chairs more inclined to provoke the passions of the flesh; Voltaire never served such delicious delicacies jin Eldorado; and I say this without fear of contradiction, such costly tableware was never found even at a king’s table, perhaps not even at a pontiff’s orgy. a‘All the taste and opulence of Lucullus were as nothing, ‘compared to that mythological extravagance, ‘The warm air was filled with the intoxicating scent of aromatic gums brought all the way from Arabia and which burned in two large ums made out of precious metals. ‘There were tributes from every civilisation. New surprises awaited the fortunate guests through each. of the innumerable doors that opened on to the gardens. Huge monsters cast in bronze stood on marble pedestals, and torrents of pure water gushed forth from their great jaws into a vast lake rich in aquatic birds. In the distance, jin the west, above the lush foliage of orange trees and flowering acacias, you could see an immense sea of flames ‘whose reflections lightly touched the limpid surface of the ‘waters with the warm colours of the setting sun. The party had reached that point where the love of vards which we Portuguese tend, ignoring ‘any codes imposed by more frivolous etiquettes ~ had ‘grouped or, to put it another way, thrown together, the different hierarchies represented there by men and women, clothed in corsets and velvets, in cashmere, silk and gauze, asked one lady of her neighbour, ‘that today of Aveleda should be even more her companion. ‘What I'd to know is what lies behind that eccentric habit of his of always wearing gloves, even at table." “They say he’s never been seen without his gloves.” ‘He really is most eccentric.” ‘They were distracted by the clegant toasts being made to the bride and bridegroom. Dom Joio got up too, a golden goblet in his hand. Everyone fell silent. They all knew 2 rash nature, as well as his love for Margarida and his hatred. for the Viscount, feelings he boasted about everywhere. ‘Thus there was general surprise when he rose to his feet, as well as alarm that he might do something foolish, provoked perhaps by his youth and by the wine. The Baron — the fone you, dear reader, met at struggled in vain to It is my turn now to bum a grain of incense in the holy censer of friendship. I consider myself happy. And all the more so because, having drained my glass, I the banal custom of wishing the happy couple, whose wedding we are celebrating today, eternal contentment. I will go further than that and predict a long succession of joys and happinesses equal to my happiness today. I drink ‘to you with the resignation with which Christians greeted Cacsar when they were thrown to the lions in the circuses of bloodthirsty Rome.’ His words were greeted by a chill silence. Only the newlyweds bowed gratefully to him, though fully aware of the irony in his word ‘They seem to bode ill those words,” murmured a few voices, as Dom Joao, placing his empty glass on the table, whispered in the Baron’s ear: “Thave tasted the bitterness of absinthe. 1p, Have you sill not given up on that illusion?” asked the ‘Ladore her more than ever.” “Poor man.’ ‘Tomorrow my name will be on everyone's lips. My love is like the love of tigers who, if they are hungry, sometimes devour ... id not repress the laughter with which he iend. 1¢ said in a tone of hilarity. Half an hour later the doors of the salon were opened. ‘The ball was about to begin. BPeople saw Dom Joio go out into the garden but no one saw him come back. He was plotting something. We do not, however, wish to encroach on what goes on inside other people’s heads. We will have no truck with that, however it pains those modern-day Torquemadas whose numbers, as a judicious speaker might put have proved unable to fend off canonization ‘even with holy water. By midnight the salon was empty. And Margarida, shedding tears of modesty, of ineffable sweetness, embraced her old father and her brothers, who then retired to the rooms that had been prepared for them. ‘As she crossed the threshold of her enchanted room, Margarida shuddered, glancing timidly at the white curtains made of fine silk richly embroidered with pure gold that veiled the mysterious marriage bed. Through the open windows she could, inevitably, see the and the thick foliage of the orange grove, ‘wafted to her on the light breath of the balsam-scented breeze. er first night of love, the heart of a virgin inevitably ‘grows languid, gripped by a delicious dizziness, in the presence of such seductive sights, heightened by the harmo- rious music of the spheres, for at such moments, let it be said, even that can be heard But where is the adored husband, why does he not come and fall at her feet? How strange! At the far end of the room, leaning back in an easy chair, the Viscount was distance from very strange design. The fireplace contained a huge fire that bathed the Viscount’s sinister face in brilliant red. Anyone seeing him at that moment in that position would hav imagined they were secing some medieval alchemist dreaming of the transmutation of metals or the el 44 Margarida approached him timidly. “Henrique?” she murmured. The Viscount did not move. "Henrique, my dear,” she said, ‘why don’t you answer was thinking, Margarida.’ “May one know what about, Sir Thinker? she retorted, her pride in her beauty slightly wounded ‘Do you know the story of Hero and Leande ‘Tread it when I was a child. I remember it well. But T have found a certain similarity between their unhappy story and ours, Margarida.” ‘Really? Where then is the storm that will destroy our happiness in an instant? Really, Henrique!” “The difference is that between us there lies an open grave rather than a mere sea. How happy I would be if all Thad to struggle against were the storms You, poor innocent, don’t see the fari over our heads.” "You're frightening me, Henrique. What in the world could destroy our love? What could possibly separate us?” ‘Look,’ said the Viscount, to a sideboard on which stood a glass bottle spoonful of that poison can minutes.” v Wines made from the mellow grapes of the fertile vineyards of Khios a together with the delicious wines of Oporto, Jerez and Madeira, pouring into glasses; precious st aking about the alabaster breasts of women; fragrant clouds entering. through pierced ceilings; the thirst for love inflamed by tear-filled eyes affutter with dark and dangerous desires; the happiness of the beautiful maiden who, tremulous with longing, awaits the moment when she can roll ecstatically 6in the arms of the man she has chosen to conquer her; this wealth of harmonious variety, enough to satisfy the celestial aspirations of a good Mustim, aroused in the troubled mind of Dom Joio all the extravagant imaginings of a delirious nightmare. ‘The sight of bubbling champagne filling glass after glass wounded his blurred vision as deeply as if it were gushing blood. ‘And he drank, he drank camestly, tirelessly. But the more he drank, the thirstier he became. ‘Margarida was the name that was repeated endlessly in his sick mind, the name that tightened his lips and which his hoarse throat did not dare to utter. Dark, repetitive thoughts surfaced, jostled and struggled inside that head, beneath the long blond hair that hung languidly to his shoulders like thick tufts of silk. Te was in this tempestuous state of delirium that he left the banquet in order to stagger out to cool his fever in the flaccid night of the gardens. He felt afraid of the crowds. He feared that everyone's ‘eyes could read his soul’s lugubrious thoughts. He wanted to be alone, so that his repressed tears should not be poisoned by the thoughts of worldly vipers. Dom Joao was an excellent young man, There was no ‘one more generous and loving. However, the hot breath of society life had besmirched the loveliest flowers of his loyal nature. Do not think, however, that this is the tedious mono- logue of some boring moraliser. For it was society, ladies and gentlemen, yes, the warm breath of society that shaped the delicate flowering of that beautiful soul. It saw that he ‘was rich, handsome, weak and a spendthrift; it bared its ferid breasts to him and prostituted itself to the passions of the young millionaire. Money slipped through his fingers onto café tables awash with alcohol, into the rumpled beds of harlots, into the dusty labyrinth of dissension. And the gallant pamphleteers, %6 the fashionable fops, even a few men of leaming, all applauded greedily, in praise of his vices. The brothel, a vortex sanctioned by the law, was the wine-drenched arena of his first exploits. Weary of wallow- ing in debauchery on the damp floor of the bawdy house, he tured his awakened appetites to the shy young women. of the bourgeoisie. If innocence put up any resistance, the word ‘money’, ‘mumbled in passionate tones by dishonest lips, ensured that modesty would be ? ‘whim. And many an ashamed young girl sold her virginity to him in return for cold kisses and floods of regretful tears. Meanwhile, Dom Joio grew bolder. His triumphs en- couraged the demon of vanity. He put his brilliant con- quests down to the elegance of his bearing, the sweetness of his wor sometimes it sheets and the expensive draperies he was often greeted by aristoc provocative mudity revealed, Jamps, blue veins filled by generous, It was not money, he claimed, opulent palaces to Amongst the upp: everyone shares the same goal; this is self-evident. The man ‘who revels in ancient titles of nobility and in wealth has no qualms about saying to his wife (at the same time looking. out of the comer of his eye at his carefree daughter) in words appropriate to his station ~ just as the man of the people does using the frank language of privation - ‘Dom Joio is a young man of great worth. As well as being ‘immensely rich, he possesses one of the noblest of all coats of sms. A good match inde, a good mate for an hones girl” ‘And he immediately introduces the young man to the a7ladies. The young girl blushes. Dom Joao desires her. The father slyly mentions his daughter's marriage and leaves in search of his cousin the Marquis, looking forward to an enjoyable game of chess. ‘Unaccustomed as he was, the young man imagined that any modest resistance on the part of a woman was pure fantasy; he imagined that she would bend to his affections as a reed would to the warm winds. It was Margarida’s role, therefore, to avenge her affronted sex. Her scom enraged the young man’s vanity and filled his breast, devoid of beliefs, with that most dangerous of sentiments, capricious love, ‘which, like boiling water, sleeping dregs in the Envy, hatred, despair, insanity, vainglo lites about that nefarious and frivolot slope from there to madness. Having downed great torrents of wine, Dom Joio re- called what, for him, seemed the lacerating debauchery of fabulous banquet as if it were a muddled dream. He rested his head on a bunch of creepers that grew thick and vigorous about the bright branches of a Judas tree and let his body slide down on to the fine sand carpeted with fallen petals. His halfopen eyes lingered, fascinated, on the lights from the brilliantly illuminated salons. And the whirling shadows in the distance, swathed in gauze, that were reflected in the mirrors at the far end of the room, he judged to be ethereal, sylph-like visions. The long, sad sighs. All around him he was lulled by the trills of a nightingale that floated to him from the dense orange grove. This only heightened the pain of that poor, suffering soul. To be twenty years old and not to know what it means not to satisfy all one’s appetites; to be proud and inconstant and find oneself condemned to the torments of Tantalus; to feel one’s soul, besmirched by years of wild, extravagant behaviour, suddenly exalted by a pure emotion; to love and be rejected; and to love more intensely than ever, 48 fariously, shamefully, capriciously, and to want to drown that now impossible love in wine: that would go some way to understanding Dom Joio's p ‘Margarida was as happy as any lovely daughter of Eve ‘can be. And he, who had watched her with the voluptuous- ness of a panther observing a delicious prey, had felt that too; he had weighed her movements, the intense languor of her eyes, the fullness of her white breasts, the pallor of her lips. He loved her, but could do nothing: the Viscount of ‘Aveleda was loved by her with all the hungry impetuosity of a virgin breast, whilst he, the dishonoured heir of a famous family, was close enough to imagine in his efferves- cent thoughts, in his fevered delirium, the rapid beating of two lovers’ hearts, knowing himself unable to break the ties that bound them forever. If they could be broken. Had he not had his share of scorn? Dom Joio wept and wept out of sheer humiliation, Lacking @ long beard to pluck, he tore at his hair like a tyrant in a melodrama, considering how far superior the Viscount was to him, He did not have the Viscount’s sad face, his dignity of ‘expression, his sweet, melancholy way with words and he lacked, above all, the mysterious shadow in which the Viscount was wrapped: an irresistible temptation to the ‘Who was this Dom Joao? An effeminate young man, reckless, fickle, with sweet, young lips and pretty eyes, & lover of wine and women, an adventurer and a dreamer; he was just like many other young men, he was what so many might be. ‘Where was he going? What was his fate? He peered into the fixture darkness and thought he could see, as if in sorcerer's mirror, the hours, the days, the years, calmly following one upon the other, monotonous, always the same. He saw himself at last, when he least expected it, grey-haired and old, waking after a night of gross sensual 49ity. He looked back sadly at the past and was surprised that he had lived at all, It was a sad dream. He could not see a single footstep in the shifting sand that might mark his passage. And imagining that he had in fact awoken in decrepitude, he asked: What was the purpose of my life? He contemplated suicide. ‘If my life in the future is anything like the life I led in the past,’ sighed the young man, ‘then I have lived too much. Ihave experienced pleasure, I have known bitterness. Iam sated. The desire for glory, grand ambitions, about which I have heard so much spoken, do not bind me to the world, nothing docs. I will die.” But he felt a light breath of hope freshen his spirit and for a few moments unfamiliar aspirations gilded his over- heated imagination. He was simply the victim of illusory, transient beliefs sted longer, would have worked a mn. Ab, the power of woman! this maclstrom of ideas, he writhed in late when he finally stumbled to his feet. He was thirsty. Innumerable fountains sighed about him. The lake looked Tike a great sheet of tin fallen into a lap of green vegeta- tion. The moon shone directly upon the waters. That ‘exquisite solitude had about it something of the pale cold~ ness of a graveyard; a kind of fear ran through his veins. ‘Dom Joao felt it as he bent over the waters to drink. ‘But why was he trembling as if suddenly in the grip of terror? The unfortunate man was a victim of some infernal nightmare. In the depths of the crystalline waters floated horrible images that fixed on him eyes as inert and bright as shining metal, and almost simultaneously he heard a silvery laugh echoing in his ears. He wanted to run away, but was held there as if by a powerful magnet. ‘Ashamed, he quickly realised, however, what supersti- tious weakness had overwhelmed him. The images were 50 nothing but garden statues reflected in the limpid surface of the waters. When we nurture a black thought in our spirit, every- thing around us looks black and ugly too. A pure spirit ‘only roses and perfumes, whilst someone who has plunged into crime sees only phantasms and persecutors. ‘The truth of those words restrained Dom Jodo. But that laugh, the laughter that had sounded in his ears, as if borne on the hissing breezes or uttered by the satin lips of some invisible fairy, where had that come from? From the ballroom perhaps. The young man turned his flushed face in that direction. ‘was broken. after the celebration and the mystical harmonies ant hymns, an immense, melan- spreads throughout a church, so those golden salons that only shortly before were bathed in light, were now plunged in sepulchral silence, the dark windows closed. Dom Joao let out a yelp of fear, like a pig when it feels way that Anténio Dinis made the Dean of Elvas leap up and cry out for revenge, during one particularly picturesque episode in his poem The Hyssop. For he had seriously considered murder. He had meas- sured the strength of his soul and had decided that the name The terrible moment had arrived. A sweet-smelling magnolia tree, crowned with white flowers like so many sleeping doves, raised its bold branches to one window of the palace. A man with flashing wwas leaning against its trunk and staring through that ‘open window into the darkness inside, The man was Dom Joio. He stood there steady as a piece of granite, barely breathing, but feverish and passionate. 51‘The fatal hour had struck when, not far from him, two beings were about to be united, to become one body, two beings whom the poor unfortunate would prefer to have seen separated by the incommensurate distance of a tomb; two happy people who, amidst sighs, caresses, embraces and kisses, stripped of clothes and sorrows, would celebrate the celestial mysteries of marriage. Poor Dom Joio! What furious leprosy gnawed at your 3 light poured into the room and he heard the whisper of faint footsteps. “The young man grasped his bewildered head with tremu- fous hands. His heart beat with fevered longing. ‘Managing to control his despair, he menacingly drew idea flickered in his mind. The y open, might well for revenge would have ight in the flames of his je. On a perfumed night in which breezes which fountains room seems too narrow to contain two souls which, joined together, lace sensual gifts at the feet of the sof love, That was what the young man was an flickered, transparent, across the opposite. It was doubtless the ungrateful y ig to receive the fervent kisses of her longed-for husbai ‘And I, poor wretch,’ murmured Dom Jodo, ‘alone, without light, without hope, alone, hemmed in by darkness and the void." His suffering found expression in a short laugh. He suppressed the pain again, gripped the trunk of the magno- lia tree with sure hands and slithered up it, light as @ serpent. He clutched his pistols to his breast, shook the dew from his hair and disappeared into the foliage. 52. ‘Then a thousand startled birds, woken in their green shelter, fluttered and fled singing into the fading VI situation all newlyweds ‘Though it is not described in the manuscript, one can imagine the turmoil that Margarida felt in the face of such confused suspicions, intensified by the Viscount’s ominous words. ‘What cruel words were these with which her husband when she felt over- ‘whelmed by the languor of exquisite love? ‘The maiden could not have felt more shocked or more terrified had she awoken from a dream of paradise to find herself in the bloody hands of an angry executioner drag- ging her pitilessly up the ignominious steps of the scaffold. ‘Why these dark thoughts, these thoughts of death, when she, forgetful as never before of the fragility of the material body, was filled with joyfl ecstasy in anticipation of unknown pleasures? Shivers of fear ran up and down her trembling limbs. As if magnetised, her astonished eyes fixed themselves on the Viscount and she searched in vain in that statue-like coldness for the attractive qualities that had so entranced her. I don’t know what she saw in his altered features One thing is certain, however, in her terror, far from moving closer, as she would have only a short time before, she shrank back, oppressed by superstitious terrors. "You flee from me, Margarida!’ he said in a pained voice. “You regret being at my side! That is as it should be. 53,You cannot know how much I love you. You cannot know how the dying man loves his final day of life as it rradually slips away from him.’ Your words, your cold breath, the icy atmor- phere that surrounds you tell me quite the contrary. I feel frozen to the marrow and “Fall of fear?” “Yes, full of fear. And it’s a fear I can’t explain.’ id not take long to shatter then, the enchanted prism through which you perceived me unmarked by the deep lines that misfortune carves on the faces of her chosen ones ‘And yet the thick veil that saves me from scorn, from your scom, has yet to be ripped asunder.” “Henrique, Henrique! I sense that something quite extra- ordinary is happening between us. My head is filled by 2 thousand strange conjectures. You seem to me as still as 2 corpse. Tell me who you are, Henrique, because truly I do not know you.” "Not would you want to, tis enough t0 know that I am a poor soul in search of a body to find shelter ins an ardent heart in a breast as cold as the grave. I saw you, a weak creature, through the tears that clouded my vision and, being the person I am, I hoped that my tormenting grief might find some comfort in your consolation. You appeared to me with the divine halo of the superior woman about your lovely head Ir watts long ago that believed yourself capable of washing my leprous, Bleeding wounds with the th no feelings of repugnance. For i the smiling image of woman that filled the sleepless nights of even the ‘most unfortunate of men, Ahasuerus found redemption for hhis misfortunes in innocent Rachel. I glimpsed her in you. ‘You judged me by what I seemed to be and not by what I was. You were conquered by appearance which, more than onc, has made vce and ire eu Ah, what pleasures your love gave me, Margat ae cee T couldn't T was afsid the my vision would disappear in a puff of smoke. Only 34 now do I realise that I sacrificed you, that I perhaps dragged you with me in my fall, poor wretch!” ‘In your fall” ‘No, I still have one last hope. If I lose, I have already shown you the poison I have chosen. I will leave you a widow and a virgin, and rich, very rich. From the starving multitudes who will crowd the gate of your palace, may choose the husband you deserve, one who wi you on earth the happiness of heaven. Don't cry, angel. “And I was so innocent, so carefree! All I had were my beloved illusions. How was I to know that you were the ‘man who would enslave me! And what were you in your past, Henrique, a great criminal!? Do the tears that bathe Your face signify repentance and absolution? I can see how moved you are... The Viscount’s mouth opened wide, as if to contradict her, and out came a satanic laugh. Margarida trembled to the very marrow of her being. At that point a crack was heard outside which could as, casily have been the sound of a dry branch snapping as that of a pistol fired by an unknown hand. ‘The frightened girl ran to the window. The moon still hhung, serene and silver, in the vaulted firmament. The birds warbled sweetly in the upper branches of the scented ‘woods. But it was only a restless breeze rocking the trees, making the lustrous branches of the magnolia brush against the window. ‘T thought I heard..." she murmured and broke off, ‘overwhelmed by a new wave of fear. A gust of wind suddenly entered the room and the fame in the ornate alabaster oil lamp crackled and almost sputtered out, casting a strange light over the Viscount’s face, who sat inert, silhouetted against the scarlet backdrop of flickering flames in the vast fireplace. ‘A “criminal” you said, Margarida,’ exclaimed the Vis- count of Aveleda, ig the word she offered him, “You're wrong. I was always honest and virtuous. No, 1 35,am not stained by any crimes. If only I were, for then, at ‘worst, I would carry my punishment in the impenetrable depths of my conscience and live on through my money. Such crimes remain unseen by society and if it does see them, it respects them.” “What a labyrinth! “Yes, indeed, horrible!” he continued in a tone of expan- sive tenderness. ‘I'm going to be frank with you, it’s time I ‘was. Come, Margarida, my wife, come and sit by my side. Gather together all your courage and listen.’ ‘Speak, speak!” ‘Do you remember the promise you made me, when you were overflowing with love, just as now you are trembling with fear, a promise ‘But I made so many promises!” ‘Indeed you did. The children of overhasty joy. One of the things you promised was that you would follow me ‘Have you forgotten?’ he continued in a cavernous voice. “Were you lying? The lips of an angel cannot lie. It is your husband who holds out his arms to you." ‘But who are you, who are you?” ‘Come and ask that once you have touched my cold, inanimate body, the body of a dead man. Are you afraid?" yh, Henrique!” Cor ‘T feel faint. I can’t take any more, I'm afraid. If only this, ‘were all a drea “You guessed. This is a dream. You can go back to your father’s house. [am not a man.” “Then what are you, poor wretch?” “A statue.” However absurd that reply might seem, it was spoken with such conviction that it would have been enough, in itself, to convince three wise men, a compendium of logic and even St Thomas’ closest, most incredulous relative 36 One should not, therefore, be surprised that Margarida believed him, especially when, having barely recovered from her led surprise, she saw that the Viscount hhad removed his gloves leaving his hands uncovered. Her body crumpled and she fell to her knees, mufiling a cry. ‘The fleshless hands that gripped her were made of ivory. ‘Do you faint?" he cried out in despair. ‘What happened to the courage you promised me? All women ate the same. As my lover, you would have followed me to the grave- yard; as my wife, you recoil at my touch because you find ‘no warmth in my limbs, because I am a statue. And the head that wrote the poems which so intoxicated you, that same head you now find repellent. And the lips that fuelled your longing for kisses with secrets that you learned by heart in order to repeat them in your dreams, in order to wake up saying them, are mine. I still am what I was, were Tto be given the lost hope of your love. What more do you want, woman? Here Iam.’ He made a movement. There was a sound like creaking springs. To her horror, a mutilated, misshapen, monstrous body fell back into the armchair. Legs, arms, even the Viscount’s teeth, white as lovely strings of pearls, fell onto the thick Turkish carpet and were lost in the folds of his dressing gown as it fell from his shoulders. The poor wretch was a freak, a terrible freak, worth a Jot of money to anyone willing to invest. Alas, he was too much ofa poet for that. The civilisation of his day, however, had a remedy for everything. Oh, fortunate age! Margarida felt as if she had turned to stone. But sud~ denly, madness flashed in her eyes. She hardened her heart and, swift as a thought, jumped out of the window, uttering a sharp, sorrowful cry that faded as she fell. At precisely that moment a man holding a pistol in either hand entered by another window and rushed into the room, It was Dom Joao. For his part, the Viscount was considering the collapse of his dreams. Two plump tears fell from his clouded eyes 7as he gazed wildly at the sideboard where he had placed the bottle of poison, his final hope. Since he could not raise it to his lips, he did not hesitate and, in a final death agony, he hurled himself to the floor and rolled onto the blazing coals. He was soon engulfed in tenuous, blue flames that spread rapidly, but even then he did not utter so much as a moan, The sufferings of the soul are so great, so intense, that they efface the sufferings of the body. Or so I have heard fools say, who fall in love, enjoy themselves, eat and grow fat. In complex scenes such as this, novelists tend to resort to the time-honoured words: it was all over in a matter of seconds. Jast this once I will follow suit, for in this instance it is no lie; for when a furious Dom Joio sought someone on whom to vent his rage, he saw only a writhing, shapeless ‘mass enveloped in billows of smoke. He stopped where he was, frozen with horror. ‘A face crowned with flames tumed towards him. It fixed on him eyes which, though they had burst in the ardent vigour of the flames, still rolled in their bloody orbits. vil Jo these diverting, fanciful scenes, as exotic as they are puerile, these ugly, tangled words covering pages with sentences of every conceivable length, bear any resemblance at all to the sweet, unaffected narrative of the story we were promised which, it was said, would be not only true but also elegant? A story! You call this a story? It might serve as one of those stories told on winter evenings to excite crude and childish imaginations, but it is not a story for serious people of culture, people who know by heart the tales of Edgar Allen Poe and Hoffman! Indeed itis not! What is truly unforgivable is the blatant way this wretched scribbler reveals through the plot of this vile 58 shambles his presumptuous intention to make of it a novel, calling what in his opinion is good enough to be a novel, a mere story, and thus allowing himself to be seen as ex- tremely modest. Now, sit, if you wanted to dash off something like a novel, you should have your exhausted heroes rush less precipitately towards the epilogue; you should slow the pace down with odd incidents, episodes and anything else you can think of that might add interest and improve the artistry with which ie is written. It is not enough to string together a couple of insipid dialogues and a few trite, simple-minded intrigues. Dialogues? Why noth- ing could be easier. All that’s needed is to show two people talking, with a few pauses and hesitations thrown in for good measure. If he really wanted to cause a stir, he should enter the field with six, eight, even twenty speakers, throw them all into general conversation and have them speaking cither by tums or all at once, both irately and moderately. Now that really would be an achievement. That would give him a real opportunity to show his mastery of the difficulties of the art, a mastery that no one would dare to deny, once he had found a way to avoid showing us, above the ensuing hullaballoo, how they downed large {quantities of alcohol. In that case we would not be opposed to him putting up a clay stamue in recompense for his Living statue. Alas, he only made use of the most insipid aspect of this type of literature: dialogue, something which, nowadays, not even the most trivial of characters would want to embark upon, although he does to some extent manage to disguise the paradoxical appearance of this device. As for the Viscount of Aveleda, he is certainly the most sympathetic of his creations, as far as one can judge from the rather amateur chiselwork. Nevertheless, what a dreadful fate! The author's perverse intelligence places him in the brightest part of the picture, so that he wins, not our sympathy exactly, but at least a certain degree of benevolence. ‘Then he lights a huge fire, large enough to accommodate 59