me. Zé had gone to the city to see
whether he couldn’t get rid of this
place and move away. As soon as she
recognized me, she invited me in, apol-
ogizing for her weak eyesight.
I went into the empty parlor.
“Aren’t you afraid to stay here all alone?”
“I? I’m all alone wherever I go. . . Everybody has died and left me—my daughter, my grandchild. . . Have a seat,” she interjected, indicating the stool on which I had sat two years before.
I felt a lump rise in my throat. I was at a loss for words. At last:
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“Life is a funny thing, nha Joa-
quina! It seems as
If I were here only
yesterday. De-
spite all your
troubles, you peo-
ple lived happily.
And now. . .”
The old woman wiped away a tear with the back of her sleeve.
“To live sev-
enty-two years for
such an end as
this. . . But
death isn’t far off,
now. I feel it already.”
My heart grew oppressed in this sol-
itude where everything had disap-
peared—the land, the orange trees,
the house, these lives. All but the sil-
ver-haired little old woman, whose
eyes could weep but few tears, so many
had she wept. This trembling spectre
seemed the soul of the ruined farm.
“What is there left to me now?” she mumbled slowly, in the voice of one who no longer belongs to this world. “Up to the time of the misfortune I had no desire to die. Old and useless as I was, I still enjoyed life. Then my daughter died; but my granddaughter was left; she was twice my daughter, and all my comfort. And now, what’s left? All I ask of the good Lord is that he take me away as soon as He can.”
I gazed again about the empty par-
lor. The sewing basket was still upon
the chest, in its accustomed place. My
eyes remained fixed upon it.
The old woman guessed my thoughts, and rising, took up the basket with trembling hands.
She opened it. She drew forth the unfinished quilt and looked at it for a long while. Then, in a broken voice, she said:
“Sixteen years! And I couldn’t finish the quilt. . . No one can imagine what this rag means to me. Every patch has its own story and reminds me of a different dress of Pingo d’Agua’s. On this quilt I can read her life ever since she was born.
“See this patch,
here? That comes
from her first lit-
tle undershirt. . .
“How sweet she looked! I can see her yet in my arms, trying to grasp my spectacles with her fat little hands.
“This blue striped piece is from a dress that her godmother gave her for her third birthday. By that time she was running around the house, cutting up all sorts of capers and teasing the cat, who one day scratched her. She used to call me ’óó aquina’.
“This red goods with the rosebuds goes back to her fifth year. She wore it when she fell on the stones by the brook; that’s how she got that scar on her cheek. Did you notice it?
“This checked patch comes from the
dress she wore on her seventh birth-
day; I myself made it. It had a long
