The Packet-boat

by João da Câmara

D. JOÃO DA CAMARA

 

THE PACKET-BOAT

D. JOÃO DA CAMARA

 

THE PACKET-BOAT

 

MADE ENGLISH BY

 

EDGAR PRESTAGE

 

 

OXFORD: BASIL BLACKWELL

 

1923

100 copies printed.

 

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN.

TO
IPHYGÈNIE

THE PACKET-BOAT

 

IT was at the end of the lane—a lane reduced to ruin by the winter rains, where the marks of the last ox-cart that had passed along it still showed in the dry mud. On one side and another, clumps of lilies mingled the bright green of their large, fleshy leaves with the darker hue, akin to black, of the brambles and hawthorns ; now and again rose up a decrepit cork-tree, here and there silver beeches, while laurels perfumed the air with the good strong scent of their pointed leaves.

At the end stood a house of noble aspect. The ivy had taken charge of it and making use of the clefts opened by time, stretching itself on the bed of ancient yellow moss that clothed every stone of the walls, had joined its delicate leaves to the clusters of the rice-plant that fell in graceful pyramids from the edges of the roof.

A small stairway of six or seven steps, well worn, shaky and broken, led from the court to the hall of the palace.

Above the principal door, from which the paint chipped by the sun had fallen little by little, stood out the family coat of arms, consumed by time, and above it a Count՚s coronet, transformed into a lizard՚s mating place, threatened to fall.

The blackened window-panes, through which the light had a struggle to enter, trembled with age in their leaden frames.

All over the court, in the gaps between the stones, grass grew freely, and in one corner a cricket added its shrill melody to the monotonous croaking of the frogs in the neighbouring marsh.

The Count was in his library, seated in an old leather arm-chair, with metal nails. In his hand he held a Latin book which he was absorbed in reading.

The library was an immense room, lighted by three windows with great embrasures.

Some way off could be seen the village, with its white bell-tower and little white-washed houses, and the tops of the poplars which rose above the roofs and marked the road, leading from one town to another, that cut it in two.

Between the windows and the doors, book-cases held great yellow folios, stout dictionaries and classic works in Latin, Portuguese and French.

On the wall facing the windows, above the white marble chimney-piece, hung the portrait of the Count՚s grandfather, a tall, well-made, attractive looking man, dressed in the style of the time of King John V. His hands rested on his sword hilt, on his breast he wore decorations, and a curiously marked, strong and uncouth shadow darkened the left side of his nose. The frame had lost its gilding and was fretted by worm holes ; at one corner a spider had spun its web and awaited its prey, concealed in a tear of the canvas.

The sun was setting, and to take advantage of its latest rays, the Count had pulled his chair to the embrasure of the window, and with the book on his knee, his elbow on his crossed legs and head resting on one hand, was reading attentively a passage of Suetonius.

Twilight gradually invaded the room; the sun, after having with a last ray played an instant with the venerable head in the ancestral portrait, fell behind the hill, and the varied shadows of the mountains were little by little merged in a common hue.

The Count closed the book on his thumb and proceeded to contemplate the village.

The north wind, entering through the cracks in the walls, whistled sadly in the corridor, the glass-panes rattled in their leaden frames, the night-birds, that lived in the great chimneys of the palace, began their cries, and the Count՚s ears caught the sounds of the village gaiety, which seemed to him like the strange note of a forgotten language.

It was the middle of November and the nights were cold.

The Count looked sadly towards the windows of the labourers՚ houses which were cheerily illumined by the fires burning on their hearths, and trembling with cold in his old grey overcoat he rose, rang a bell and putting his hands in his pockets, began pacing the room.

He was an old man, broken down and almost entirely bald; only two or three tresses of long white hair fell from his neck to the collar of his coat. He wore a beard and it was short and white also. His eyes, whose light age was gradually putting out, were of that ill-defined colour that marks those of the old and of infants still at the breast ; yet their expression was sweet and melancholy. At the corner of his mouth, a vertical crease, which was disdainful and haughty when the Count was serious, lent him an expression of attractive sadness when he smiled.

At the sound of the bell a servant appeared.

He was also an old man, perhaps even older than the Count. He wore an over-coat, certainly green, so ancient was it, if numberless darns in black thread had not hidden the material. He entered, bending from respect and also from weight of years.

“Joseph,” said the Count,—“go and tear up another board from the throne-room^[1] and light the fire.” “Count, I have not the strength to do it myself.” “Call the steward, as you have done on other days.” “He left to-day.” “Why?” “He went to work on the farm of John Pereira. You know Sir, that the man, poor fellow, has a family to keep, and as the salaries are a little in arrear. . .”

“True, I remember that for some time ... Well, poor fellow! But why did he not tell me? ... I forget everything. ... You must give him two pintos^[2] from me. I will help you to tear up the boards.”

The two going out went to a neighbouring room and pulled up a floor board. Joseph sawed it into several lengths, struck a light with a flint, because the Count objected to matches as dangerous,and shortly afterwards a bright, cheerful flame crept up the chimney.

The Count returned and opened his book, continuing to read Suetonius by the light of a piece of his palace. The boards had gone little by little, and now there remained but three rooms intact, those of the Count and Joseph and the library. Boards, beams, doors and windows had been reduced to ashes.

And the old labourers of the village, when they saw the smoke rise from the palace chimney, smiled sadly and said: “Poor man!”

But the Count remained cheerful and indifferent. As up to then he had lacked nothing, God knows at the cost of what sacrifices to his poor servant, he did not think about the state of misery to which he had been reduced, or to say better, he did not wish to think.

When he walked back from Mass on Sundays, he talked cheerfully in a manner half familiar, half patronising, with the labourers, who respected and liked to hear him. He entered into the poorest cottage and afflicted by the misery he found there, said quietly to old Joseph, who always accompanied him, carrying the big Roman Missal under his arm: “Joseph, leave a pinto on the table for these poor folk to enjoy their Sunday.”

And he went out, touching lightly with his fingers the rosy faces of the little children, who looked at him with their big gentle eyes, full of wonder and curiosity.

Joseph hung behind as though to obey his master and left a few moments after, carrying in the ample pockets of his over-coat the bits of black bread or meat with the aid of which, and of one more plank, the Count would dine that day.

And the Count continued cheerful and spent his days conversing, as he used to say, with his favourite authors and entertaining his imagination with golden dreams of a better future.

He had a son.

Three years ago his careless disposition had driven him to emigrate to Brazil in the hope of repairing by work the disasters of fortune. It was not ambition that had taken him so far. He was not unaware of the manner in which the Count was supported and his haughty spirit chafed at accepting the pitying alms of the villagers.

One day he informed his father of his intention, pointing out the wisdom of that journey, but hiding from him a good part of the truth, for fear lest the revelation of it should prove a fatal blow to the old man՚s life. After at first scouting the idea as absurd and undignified, his father, with his heart crushed by grief and shame, ended by giving way and sacrificing his pride to the nobler pride of his son.

Having thus obtained leave, the latter started, carrying with him as capital his father՚s blessing and a few pintos which one more mortgage had produced.

The first days were horrible for the Count. He felt an enormous vacuum in that house, which but a little while before had seemed still so full. Later his sorrow grew less and less and he returned to his old habits. He had one more feeling in his heart; hope.

One afternoon there came a letter which said:

 

“My dear Father,

I am getting on well, very well. By the next packet-boat I hope to be able to send you a hundred mil reis^[3], and I will continue to send you that amount every month.”

 

The Count looked up packet-boat in Moraes՚s Dictionary, but found the word had been eaten by a worm.

Joseph cried with joy and that night threw two boards on the fire, accepted a glass of wine from John Pereira, and when he finished the Rosary said to the Count, like one who had prayed it aloud :

“That D. Carlos՚s promise to us may come to pass : SALVE REGINA.”

A month and a half elapsed and the Count said: “What can packet-boat be ?” From the time of Agostinho de Macedo^[4] to the present he knew nothing, he did not read the newspapers, nor would even see them. He detested them with an old man՚s hatred, almost instinctively. When he saw a journal he murmured at once : “Freemasonry,” And he continued to expect the packet-boat as a Sebastianist ^[5] looks for D. Sebastian, with a confidence full of mysteries and small impatiences.

The palace now had scarcely anything left but its walls. Little by little, board by board, beam by beam, the servant՚s room had gone up the chimney and now Joseph slept in the Count՚s chamber.

And the old noble said, as he saw the worm-eaten boards crackle on the great hearth: “Patience, this will be put right afterwards when the packet-boat arrives.” And the servant replied: “SALVE REGINA.”

It was in the beginning of January. The Count began to divide his books into two classes, the useful and the useless.

The useless books were turned into heat, and when he saw their yellow pages curling in the fire, he gazed at them sadly and then raising his eyes to his grandfather՚s portrait, said mentally, as though asking pardon—

“ They are the worst.”

When the useless books were finished, the Count put on one side the best and burnt the remainder. They lasted two days. And as the packet-boat did not arrive, the Count began to scratch his head and look less respectfully at the Roman Missal. Joseph said three times as many SALVE REGINAS.

And the packet-boat did not come and the manuscripts were burnt and the Count set fire to his engravings and only spared Suetonius.

Some days later a letter arrived. ...

The envelope was blue and rather transparent, the handwriting very good, with many fine and thick strokes, like that of a professor of calligraphy. It bore the Brazilian postmark and smelt of coal.

It was Joseph who took it in and running to the library where the Count was instinctively stretching his trembling hands over the cold ashes of the hearth, he entered crying:

“ The packet-boat, the packet-boat.”

The Count shivered, got up and took the letter.

It was perhaps wealth ! A cloud passed over his eyes. He leaned himself against a chair and trembling opened the envelope and read :

“ It is our painful duty to inform you, Sir, of the death of your son.”

The Count could read no more and let the letter fall. Joseph cried: “Lost! Lost!” and beat his head against the wall.

The Count remained silent and fixed his dim gaze on the sheet of blue paper that fluttered on the ground, blown by the wind.

“ Charity is left us Joseph,” he said at length. “Go to those people to whom only yesterday I gave alms and say that the Count asks for the love of God a piece of bread.”

And then sobbing:

“Manuel! My son! My beloved son !”

And as it was very cold, the Count burnt his Suetonius.

PRINTED AT THE VINCENT WORKS, OXFORD.

1. Literally room of the canopy. In old houses of the nobility a room with a canopy was reserved to receive the king in when he paid a visit.
2. An old coin worth 480 reis, formerly the equal of two shillings.
3. Formerly worth £20.
4. An early 19th century writer, the scourge of Liberals and Freemasons.
5. A sect that looked for the return of King Sebastian and refused to believe he had died at the battle of Alcacer (1578).