DRAGON’S TEETH

A Novel

FROM THE PORTUGUESE

BY

MARY J. SERRANO

AUTHOR OF “DESTINY AND OTHER POEMS,” ETC. TRANSLATOR OF “PEPITA JIMENEZ,” ETC.

BOSTON TICKNOR AND COMPANY 211 Fremont Street 1889

Copyright, 1889, BY TICKNOR AND COMPANY. All rights reserved. University Press: John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U. S. A.

PREFACE.

IN presenting this graphic picture of Lisbon life to the American public, the translator has assumed the responsibility of softening here and there, and even of at times effacing, a line too sharply drawn, a light or a shadow too strongly marked to please a taste that has been largely formed on Puritanic models, convinced (without entering into the question of how far a want of literary reticence may be carried without violating the canons of true art) that while the interest of the story itself remains undiminished, the ethical purpose of the work will thereby be given wider scope.

M. J. S.

MARCH, 1889.

INTRODUCTORY NOTE.

THE name of Eça de Queiros stands at the head of the list of Portuguese novelists. Born in Oporto early in the latter half of the present century, he was intended for the profession of the law by his father, who belonged to a family distinguished in the annals of Portuguese jurisprudence; but he soon abandoned his legal studies for literature, toward which his inclinations impelled him, and which he cultivated with immediate and marked success, the articles from his pen that appeared from time to time in the various periodicals of the day attracting wide-spread and favorable notice.

His characteristics as a writer are,—to quote from the Preface of the Spanish version of the present work,—

“A vigorous, flexible, and picturesque style, daring and unexpected flights of the imagination, extraordinary judgment, and a marvellous perception of the realities of things, as well as of their comic and sentimental aspects.” “His most marked characteristic, however, is the wonderful power with which he treats the humorous and the pathetic alike, moving his readers to tears or laughter at his will, with a magic art possessed only by the great masters in literature.”

In conclusion, it may be said that the publication of the present work, under the title of “O Primo Bazilio,” produced a profound sensation in Portuguese literary circles, as did the publication, by which it was soon followed, of a Spanish version in those of Madrid, and of a French version, by Madame Ratazzi, in those of Paris.

[Pg vii]

CHAPTER I. HUSBAND AND WIFE.

THE cuckoo-clock in the dining-room had just struck eleven. Jorge, reclining in an antique easy-chair covered with dark leather, closed the volume of Louis Figuier that he had been listlessly turning over, stretched himself, yawned, and said,—

“Are you not going to dress, Luiza?”

“Directly.”

The person who thus answered was still seated at the breakfast-table reading the “Diario de Noticias.” She was clad in a dark-colored morning-gown adorned with large pearl buttons. Her blond hair was in some disorder; her head was small, her profile charming. Her elbow rested on the table, while her fingers with a slow and graceful movement mechanically caressed the tip of her rosy ear. Her nails were long and polished, and in addition to her wedding ring she wore another, set with small rubies, that shot forth crimson rays when they caught the light.

The floor of the dining-room was covered with matting; the ceiling was in imitation of wood, and the walls were adorned with a light-colored paper with a green vine running through it. It was July. The heat [Pg 12] was intense. The windows were closed, but the fervor of the sun’s rays striking against the panes and falling on the stone floor of the balcony without penetrated into the apartment with a sultry glow. That mysterious and solemn silence reigned which characterizes the hour of the early Mass. The whole being was pervaded by a vague lassitude producing a desire for the siesta, or for pleasant reveries under leafy trees by the water-side. The canaries were asleep in their cages, which were suspended in the windows between the curtains of blue cretonne. The monotonous buzz of the flies, attracted to the table by the half-melted sugar at the bottom of the cups, filled the room with a drowsy murmur.

Jorge rolled a cigarette, and, with his eyes fixed on the ceiling, he began to think, as he sat here at his ease, comfortably attired in his blue flannel jacket and his colored shirt without a collar, of his journey to Alemtejo, and to ruminate on the discomforts attending it. He was a mining engineer, and business obliged him to leave Lisbon on the following day for Beja, thence to proceed to Evora, perhaps even still farther south to St. Domingo; and this journey in the month of July, this interruption in the course of his tranquil existence, annoyed him as if it were an injustice of fate that he should be compelled to take it.

Since the time of his graduation from college he had held a position under the Government. This was his first separation from Luiza, and he felt his heart contract within him at the thought of leaving this little room that he himself had helped to paper in the days preceding his marriage, and in which, after rising from happy dreams, the [Pg 13] morning meal was prolonged in delightful abandon.

As he stroked his soft and curly beard, which he wore very short, his eyes lingered with tenderness on each separate article of the furniture which had been his mother’s, and which was dear to his heart: on the antique cupboard with glass doors, which contained the costly Indian porcelain, and the service of silver, bright with constant rubbing, and glittering now in all its decorative splendor; on the old varnished table, familiar to his eyes from his earliest recollection, and on which the few stains left by cup or pitcher were almost concealed by the ornaments that covered it. Before him, on the opposite wall, hung the portrait of his father attired in the fashion of 1830, the face round, the glance animated, the mouth sensual, the medal of Commander of the Order of the Conception decorating his closely-buttoned coat. He had been for many years an employee in the Treasury Department; he was of a sanguine temperament, and was a fine performer on the flute. Jorge did not remember him, but his mother had often assured him that nothing

was wanting to make the likeness a perfect one but the power to speak. Jorge had always lived with his mother in the house he now occupied. Her name was Isaura; she was tall of stature, had a long nose, and was apprehensive by nature; she would drink nothing but tepid water at her meals. One day, on returning from the service of the Holy Sacrament, she expired suddenly, without breathing a sigh.

Jorge had never resembled her. He had always been robust and healthy, physically as well as mentally. He had inherited from his father an [Pg 14] admirable set of teeth and an excellent digestion. At seven years of age he was turbulent and unruly; later on he became studious and a good boy. When he was a student at the Polytechnic School, on returning home at eight o’clock in the evening he would light his lamp and open his books to study. He did not frequent cafés, and never spent the night away from home.

Jorge was not at all sentimental. His companions, who read Alfred de Musset with responsive sighs, and indulged in dreams of being loved by a Marguerite Gautier, called him prosaic, bourgeois; he only laughed. A button was never wanting on his shirts; he was very methodical. He admired Louis Figuier, Bastiat, and Castilho. He had a horror of disputes; and he was happy.

When his mother died, however, Jorge remained for a long time inconsolable. He felt lonely. It was winter, and the weather was bad; his room, situated in the interior of the house, was not a pleasant one, and the wind sighed through it at times with a melancholy sound. At night, especially, bending over his books, his feet resting on a rug, he felt his being invaded by the languor of solitude. He began to experience in his imagination strange desires; he longed to encircle with his arm a lithe and graceful figure, to hear near him the silken rustle of a woman’s dress. He resolved to marry. He had met Luiza one night during the previous summer on the promenade. He fell in love with her blond tresses, her charming profile, and her large hazel eyes. He obtained his degree the following winter, and they were married. [Pg 15] Sebastião, his intimate friend, the good Sebastião, had said, rubbing his hands together, and gravely shaking his head, “He has been hasty in his marriage,—a little hasty!”

But Luiza, Luizinha, soon showed herself to be a good housekeeper. She was an early riser, and had a delightful knack of doing well everything she did. Moreover, she was neat, gay as a lark, and resembled a little bird in its fondness for its nest and for the endearments of its companion. Her presence diffused through the house a sweet and serene gayety.

“She is a little angel,” said Sebastião, later on, in his deep bass voice.

Three years had passed since Jorge’s marriage. What happy years! He, especially, had improved during that time. He felt that his intelligence had become broader, his disposition livelier, his health sounder. Both were happy. Even those who did not know them said, “They are a charming couple; it is a pleasure only to look at them!” And Jorge, now going over in his mind all the little details of his pleasant and easy existence, sent the smoke curling up from his cigarette, with his legs stretched out before him, his soul expanding, and feeling himself as comfortably sheltered in life as he was in his flannel jacket.

“Ah!” suddenly exclaimed Luiza in accents of joyful surprise.

“What is it?” said Jorge.

“Cousin Bazilio is coming home!”

[Pg 16]

And she read aloud from the newspaper:—

“Sr. Bazilio de Brito, a distinguished member of our highest society, is soon to arrive at Lisbon, from Bordeaux. As may be remembered, he went, some years since, to Brazil, where it is said that by his indefatigable efforts he has retrieved his ruined fortunes. He has been travelling through Europe since the beginning of last year. His return to our capital will be a real cause of rejoicing to his friends, who are numerous.”

“Very numerous, indeed,” said Luiza, in an accent of conviction.

“So much the better,” replied Jorge, sending out a fresh puff of smoke from his cigarette, and stroking his beard with the palm of his hand. “It would seem, then, that he has made a fortune.”

Luiza cast a glance over the advertisements in the paper, took a sip of tea, and then rose and opened one of the windows.

“Oh, Jorge!” she exclaimed, “how hot it is outside!” The glare of the white and garish light dazzled her eyes.

The dining-room was situated in the back part of the house; it looked out upon a plot of ground enclosed by a low fence and overgrown with weeds. Here and there among the weeds, browned by the excessive heat, were a few large stones. A wild fig-tree, isolated in the midst of the plot, spread out its thick motionless foliage, that in the glare of the sunlight looked like burnished bronze. Other houses looked out on the same plot, with their balconies, their clothes spread out on a line to dry, the white walls of their little gardens, and their consumptive [Pg 17] trees. An impalpable dust begrimed, so to speak, the luminous air.

“It is hot enough to suffocate the birds,” said Luiza, closing the window. “Can you not fancy yourself already in Alemtejo?”

She came and seated herself on the arm of the easy-chair in which Jorge was reclining, and ran her fingers through his dark and curling locks, which he wore, in obedience to a caprice of his wife, parted down the middle. Jorge passed his arm around her waist.

“Have you given orders to get my white waistcoats ready?” he asked.

“They should be ready now,” said Luiza. “Juliana!” she called, rising, “Juliana!”

A sound of petticoats stiff with starch was heard approaching. Juliana entered. She was a woman of about forty years of age, and was extraordinarily thin. Her neck, long and withered, rose from out the frills of a shirt-waist, bordered with imitation lace. Her features, livid and contracted, were of a pale yellow tint. Her eyes, large and prominent, were crossed by minute red veins, and moved within their reddened lids with an expression of restless curiosity. She wore a head-dress in imitation of braids of hair, that gave to her head an appearance of enormous size. Her nose twitched continually with a nervous movement; and her dress, flat over the chest, short, and puffed out below by her stiffened petticoats, allowed a small and well-shaped foot to be seen, clad in a cloth boot tipped with patent leather.

The waistcoats were not ready, she said, because she had not had time to starch them. She spoke in a sing-song voice, after the manner of [Pg 18] the natives of Lisbon, through half-closed lips, and with her head bent down.

“But I told you to be sure to have them ready,” said Luiza; “go get them ready now, in the best way you can. They must be packed up to-night in the valise.”

Juliana had hardly left the room when Luiza exclaimed: “That woman inspires me with horror, Jorge.”

She had been two years in the house, and Luiza could not yet accustom herself to the sight of her, to her gestures, to the piping manner in which she pronounced certain words, drawling the r’s, to the noise made by the heels of her shoes, which were furnished with little metal plates, to her pretensions to possessing a small foot, and to her black kid gloves on Sunday.

“She sets my nerves quivering,” continued Luiza.

Jorge laughed. In his opinion she was an inoffensive woman, a good creature, an admirable laundress; and in the Department her shirt-fronts awakened universal enthusiasm. His friend Julião said of them that they were not ironed, but enamelled. She was not an agreeable woman, it was true, but she was neat, silent, discreet. And rising, with his hands in the pockets of his loose flannel trousers,—

“And in any case, child,” he added, “we must not forget the way she behaved during Aunt Virginia’s sickness, never taking a moment’s rest. She behaved like an angel towards her, yes, an angel,” he repeated gravely; “we are forever indebted to her, my dear.” And with a serious countenance he began to roll another cigarette.

[Pg 19]

Luiza, in silence, pushed out with the point of her slipper the edge of her morning-gown. Then, with bent head, her eyes fixed on her nails, she said poutingly, “But that would be no reason for not dismissing her, if she should at last become too disagreeable to me.”

“Not with my consent, my dear,” returned Jorge. “It is with me a question of gratitude.”

A few moments’ silence ensued. The cuckoo-clock struck twelve.

“I must get ready to make my calls, now,” he added. And leaning towards her, he caught between his hands the graceful blond head of Luiza. “Little serpent!” he murmured, fixing on her his tenderest glance.

Luiza smiled, and raised to his her magnificent hazel eyes, which she had a habit of moving around in their orbits in a slow and luminous manner, and which were so pure and limpid that one could penetrate into their profoundest depths. Jorge bent towards her, and pressed on her eyelids two sonorous kisses which could be heard at a distance; this was a caress which had the virtue of always pacifying her. Then laying his finger on her lip with a playful gesture,—

“Have you any commissions for me?” he asked. “Do you want anything, Luizinha?”

She said that all she wanted was that he should come back quickly. He replied that he was only going to leave cards; he would go like a flash; it was a question of a moment. And he went out with a radiant countenance, singing in his full baritone voice:—

[Pg 20]

Luiza yawned. Heavens! how tiresome to be obliged to dress! The heat was suffocating. She would like to recline in a bath of rose-colored marble, filled with tepid perfumed water clear as crystal, and afterwards, robed in primitive garments, to cradle herself softly in a silken hammock, and be lulled to sleep by the strains of melodious music. She threw off her slipper, and fixed her glance tenderly on her little foot, white as milk and marbled by delicate blue veins, while her thoughts flitted from one idea to another.

It was truly provoking that silk stockings should be so dear! For if that were not the case she would use no others. True that laundresses have the art of washing them all to pieces. But then a blue silk stocking with a little patent leather shoe is so charming, so pretty! And she yawned again. Then she went to the table, took from it a book that bore traces of use, and throwing herself into the easy-chair, gave herself up voluptuously to her reading, caressing her little ear with the tips of her fingers, as was her habit.

The book was the “Dame aux Camelias.” Luiza read a great many novels, and subscribed by the month to a circulating library. In her younger days, when she was about eighteen, she had cherished an enthusiastic admiration for Walter Scott and Scotland. She would have liked to live in one of those Scotch castles bearing the coat of arms of the clan over their vaulted doors, with their oaken chests and their trophies, [Pg 21] their tapestries embroidered with historic legends that the breeze from the lakes sets in motion and seems to endow with factitious life. She had fallen in love successively with Evan dale, Morton, and Ivanhoe, those heroes at once grave and tender, with the eagle’s feather in their caps, fastened at the side by the Scotch thistle in diamonds and emeralds. But now her fancy was captivated by the modern,—Paris with its elegance and its sentimentality. She ridiculed the Troubadours, and placed above every other hero M. de Camors; and her ideal man presented himself to her imagination in a white cravat, in the midst of spacious

saloons, endowed with a magnetic glance, consumed by passion, his lips overflowing with sublime words. For some days past the object of her enthusiasm had been Marguerite Gautier, whose ill-starred love had invested her in Luiza’s mind with a vague melancholy. She pictured her to herself tall, slender, enveloped in a cashmere shawl, her dark eyes lit up by passion and by the fever of consumption; she found even in the names of the characters—Julie Duprot, Armand, Prudence—the poetic savor of an existence dedicated to love; and she contemplated, steeped in an inexpressible melancholy, this life exhaling itself in sighs, passed in nights of delirium and days of sadness, enduring privations, or rolling in a coupé along the avenues of the Bois under a gray sky, while the first snows of winter were falling silently.

“Good-by for a while, Luiza,” cried Jorge from the dining-room, as he was about to go out.

[Pg 22]

“Listen,” said Luiza.

Jorge re-entered the apartment, putting on his gloves.

“Try to come back soon, will you not?” she said. “Ah, and don’t forget to bring me some tarts. Buy them at Bastreleque’s; do you hear? And if you pass by the shop of Madame François, tell her to send me my hat. Ah, listen, listen!”

“Good heavens! what more do you want?”

“I want you to go to the circulating library and ask them to send me some novels. But I forgot—the library is closed. Above all, don’t stay away long.”

With two tears trembling on her lids Luiza finished the last page of the “Dame aux Camelias.” She breathed a sigh, and leaning back in her easy-chair, with the book resting on her knees, she began to sing softly, and with profound emotion, the final aria of “Traviata”:—

The death of Marguerite Gautier, her letters, had produced in her nerves a kind of sentimental vibration.