IV
Three years' hard labor turned Antonio's tangled vineyards and languishing orangeries into an earthly paradise. The red roses nearly covering the white walls of his golden-thatched farm-house, the round plot of well-kept turf in front, the bright flower-beds and the trim gate, gave quite an English appearance to the little farmstead. All the potsherds and rubbish had been removed from the bed of the stream, while the cascades and pools had been made fewer and grander. Trellises, pergolas, and arches everywhere showed that José had been no less industrious than his master.
Up in the village the gossips had plenty of news to keep them busy. The successive arrivals of Antonio's wine-press from France, of his vine-slips from vineyards all over Europe, and of his books and papers from England were so many nine-days' wonders. Fifty wild stories were set going as to his parentage, his past, and his prospects: but it never entered anybody's head that he had dwelt for years, almost in their midst, as a monk of Saint Benedict.
Antonio was regular in church-attendance: but he took care to conceal nearly all his piety. For example, he denied himself the consolation of occasionally serving the cura's Mass, lest his good Latin and his intelligent grasp of every point in the ritual should betray him. He communicated more frequently than was usual in the parish: but no one ever thought of numbering him among those few devotees in the village who were profanely called os beatos e as beatas—the Saints and Blessed Ones.
What interested the parish much more than Antonio's religion was Antonio's prosperity. It became known that every hectare of his long-neglected vineyard was earning a hundred per cent more than any other hectare within ten leagues. It was also known that he was distilling a new kind of orange brandy for medicinal use, which he exported to Rio de Janeiro at a high price. Rumor said that, when his sea-sand vineyard should begin to bear fruit, Collares would sink to the second place. Most wonderful of all, it was known that the cellars at Antonio's farm contained some curious wooden racks in which two or three hundred bottles of blended white wine were standing on their heads. This blended white wine, according to a villager who did occasional work at the farm under José, was intended to rival French champagne, a famous but mysterious beverage which no native of the parish had ever drunk or seen.
Upon the undeniable fact of Antonio's prosperity the gossips naturally proceeded to erect fantastic prophecies about his matrimonial intentions. No tongues wagged concerning José. Had the gossips known of his hundred pounds, his copper and pewter and fine linen, the case would have been different; but, if they thought of him at all, they regarded him as a wild-eyed, eccentric boor who might go mad at any moment, and was certainly better without a wife to beat or murder. Antonio, however, was worth the gossips' while. During his first year in the parish they mentally married him off to Joanna Quintella, a widow who had lost her husband in the civil wars. Joanna was hardly thirty, had not outlived all her good looks, and was possessed of nearly sixty pounds.
This was just after the monk had sold off his first pressing of wine for fourteen pounds. But, with the growth of his prosperity, his prospective brides advanced in importance. The gossips jilted poor Joanna and betrothed Antonio successively to Catharina Rodrigues de Barros Lopes, the farrier's second daughter; to Maria da Conceiçao d'Araujo, the cura's younger sister; and to Beatriz Amelia Martins, who had lived six months in Lisbon with her sister, the wife of a customs-house officer. But when it leaked out that Antonio went nearly every month to the bank in Villa Branca with drafts from Oporto, Rio de Janeiro, and even London, the match with Donna Beatriz was broken off.
Within the wide boundaries of the parish only one bride remained: but, for a time, not one of the gossips was presumptuous enough to link her name with Antonio's. Ever since she began coiling up her hair, it had been taken for granted that her father would have to go to Villa Branca or, at the very least, to Navares in order to find a sufficiently important husband for Margarida Clara Maria dos Santos Rebolla. When, however, the apothecary received an invoice from Lisbon charging him half a pound for a single bottle of champagne the maiden's fate was sealed. The inquisitive crowd who paid the apothecary three vintens a head for a spoonful of the champagne were disgusted with their bargain: but when the apothecary's arithmetic was applied to Antonio's case they recovered their spirits and unanimously made over Margarida Clara Maria to the young Croesus of the valley who was about to gild the parish with glory.
Margarida's parents were not surprised on learning what the parish expected of them; for had they not already brooded long and earnestly over the same plan? Not to mention the Babylonian wickedness of Villa Branca and Navares, town husbands were not acceptable to the worthy couple, because town fortunes, town incomes, town reputations, lay too much at the mercy of the politicians. Indeed, Senhor Jorge Maria dos Santos Rebolla held politics in so much horror that he would not seriously entertain the idea of Antonio as a son-in-law until he had satisfied himself that the young vintner was unpoisoned by factious doctrines.
Senhor Jorge made his inquiries in person. On an October afternoon, just after the heavier labors of the vintage were ended, he called upon Antonio and asked him to sign a petition for the replacement of a bridge which had been swept away on the terrible night of Antonio's fight with José. The monk received his visitor with honor and without suspicion. He knew him as an estimable lavrador, or large farmer: but he had never heard of Margarida. Outside his church-going, Antonio had no dealings with the village.
When the monk had subscribed his name of da Rocha to the petition, the lavrador thanked him and rolled it up.
"Not that it will do any good," he added. "In this parish we've never learned to crawl up the sleeves of politicians. Ah! When the last politician is dead, Portugal will come to life again."
Antonio said nothing. But Senhor Jorge did not desist. To catechise a stranger about his political opinions was always a breach of good manners, and in Portugal it was still dangerous. Nevertheless the lavrador continued:
"Senhor, everybody says you are a clever man. You have been in England and France and Spain and, some say, in Brazil. You have seen many things. I am not a Miguelista; but I want to know if we are any better off under the Liberals."
Antonio took time to think. When he had decided that there was nothing to lose by frankness he said:
"Your Worship is older than I, and far wiser. But here is my answer. I, too, am no Miguelista. If Liberalism truly meant equal freedom and justice for all, I should be a Liberal. But Liberalism in Portugal is only a name. Your Worship speaks of England and France. I have traveled in those countries. One frosty morning, two hundred years ago, the English cut off their King's head with a sharp axe in the name of Liberty: but the Englishmen who did that deed equaled the king before long in oppression and intolerance. Fifty years ago, in the name of Liberty, some Frenchmen guillotined the King of France: but I have seen a French river where, a few months afterwards, the men who did that deed drowned barge-load after barge-load of those who held other opinions. Yes, your Worship. In a single town, in four months, nearly ten thousand were shot or drowned—more than the tyrant Miguel put to death in all Portugal, in all his unhappy career."
"Then the Senhor does not believe in Republics?" asked the lavrador.
"If all our citizens were good and wise and in possession of the whole truth," answered Antonio, "a Republic would be the best form of government. But the Portuguese are no more fit than the French for such an experiment. Nay, I will go further. The Portuguese are not ripe even for the English kind of Parliament. Our deputies are not the true choice of the people. They fill their pockets with the people's money; and their empty quarrels poison the nation's blood. But I have said too much. After all, what do I know of politics? I leave politics alone, and..."
He weighed his words. When he uttered them, they came softly and slowly.
"As for me," he said, "I hope to serve Portugal in some better way."
The lavrador had not understood every word Antonio said, but he felt sure he was on the right side. He rose up with an approving nod and very modestly asked if he might have a sight of his host's famous vineyards and cellars.
Antonio, who was always willing to exhibit and explain everything to any serious inquirer, rich or poor, gladly consented. He made it plain, as they walked round the property, that he had introduced no novelties for novelty's sake, and he was able to give a good reason for every departure from local practice.
On the whole the lavrador was appreciative; but the champagne worried him. He would have preferred to see Margarida Clara Maria in the care of a husband whose wine-bottles stood on their heels and not on their heads. Still, inverted wine-bottles were less detestable than topsy-turvy morals or politics. Antonio seemed to be respectably but not excessively religious; he was healthy; he was industrious; he was unencumbered by relatives; and, best of all, he was successful. What more could be reasonably hoped for in a son-in-law? As Senhor Jorge said good-bye, he wrung Antonio's hand with a bargain-sealing grip which surprised the monk exceedingly.
The very next Sunday enabled Senhor Jorge and Donna Perpetua, his consort, to open their campaign. During the cura's sermon bursts of rain began lashing at the south windows of the church, and it was raining smartly when Mass came to an end. José borrowed a grass-waterproof: but, although the servant could wear this peasant's garment, the master's dignity as a landed proprietor forbade him to do likewise. Senhor Jorge seized his opportunity, and insisted that Antonio should take shelter in his house, which stood less than half a mile from the church.
Gossip nudged gossip and busybody winked at busybody as the two men hastened off together. But Antonio saw neither the nudges nor the winks; and he entered the lavrador's domain talking freely of farming and of weather.
The buildings which met the monk's eyes were not like a farm-house in England. As in England, they formed three sides of a quadrangle: but there the resemblance ended. The square yard was covered nearly three feet deep with gorse-litter. The buildings to the right and left housed cattle, horses, wine-presses, tools and stores of all kinds. The principal façade boasted two stories, the lower serving as a byre. The upper story made some architectural pretension. A broad flight of stone steps climbed up to it; and the front door was set back in a three-arched loggia.
As Antonio mounted the steps he saw that blue and white tiles lined the inside of the loggia and that the stone floor had been newly whitened. His host pushed open the nail-studded door, and they entered a large room lit by three windows in the further wall. Many doors and door-posts crowded the two side-walls; and Antonio knew that these were the entrances to bedrooms not much bigger than his own old cell at the abbey. There were a few pieces of strong old furniture and some pots and crocks even more imposing than José's: but there was no cheerful fire to dispel the rawness and gloom of the stormy autumn day, and, altogether, the place lacked comfort.
Donna Perpetua received Antonio with an attentive cordiality greatly exceeding the utmost a mere weather-bound churchgoer had a right to expect; but the monk ascribed her warmth to old-fashioned habits of hospitality. One after another her three sons, Luiz, Gaspar, and Affonso, strode into the room. After exchanging greetings with the visitor they sat down, side by side, and did not utter a word. Antonio turned to them more than once with remarks or inquiries: but he could get nothing in return save gasps, grins, and flushes. As Donna Perpetua and her husband were not much more at their ease, the conversation soon languished; and, when Antonio perceived that he was doing all the talking, it ceased altogether.
Strangely enough, the whole family appeared to regard the ensuing silence as a thing altogether natural and seemly, like a silence in church. When it had lasted long enough, Donna Perpetua arose from her chair in a curiously formal manner, and, going to one of the side doors, called out, "Margarida!" But the monk, although he was vaguely conscious that the others were preoccupied and constrained, still suspected nothing.
The door opened, and Margarida Clara Maria dos Santos Rebolla came forward into the meager light. Antonia recognized her at once as a damsel he had often seen kneeling on the church floor in the front row of women. So far as his thoughts had ever engaged themselves with her, she had interested him by her dark eyes and by the country bloom on her olive skin. He remembered how, that very morning, she had pleasantly filled in the picture of rustic piety.
Antonio rose as she entered. He saw that her head was rather less attractive without the black lace mantilla she always wore in church. Her face was a little too broad and her abundant hair was braided too tightly. But, to make up for the mantilla, Margarida had adorned her person with unfamiliar splendors. Of her fine lawn camisole only the snowy sleeves could be seen. The rest was hidden by an over-bodice richly embroidered in many-colored wools. Her ample apron was even more magnificent than the bodice. Its bold stripes, triangles, circles, stars and crosses stood out nearly a quarter of an inch from the velvet ground in wools of blue, orange, vermilion and green. The full skirt, rather short, revealed a pair of serviceable ankles. Margarida's ribbed stockings were white, and there was more embroidery on her velvet slippers. But the maiden's chief glory was her jewelry. Heart-shaped filigree ear-rings, of gold purer than an English sovereign, hung from her ears. These hearts were fully two inches long. Her three golden necklaces sustained two more filigree hearts, each as long as her longest finger, and a solid gold cross set with colored stones. The greater part of her belt was also built up from traceried squares and circles of pure gold.
The monk feared that he had gazed too long and curiously either at these gorgeous trappings or at their wearer: for Margarida suddenly blushed crimson from her topmost necklace to the roots of her black hair. Donna Perpetua pronounced a formula of introduction; but, overwhelmed by maidenly confusion, Margarida said nothing in answer to Antonio's few words. She fled to her mother's chair and huddled on a stool beside her.
There was another silence. But Antonio was unperturbed. Not only long years before, as a youth in Portugal, but also during his journey with young Crowberry, he had assisted at bourgeois and rich-peasant functions equally tiresome. Near Blaye, on the Gironde, and again at a tertulia in Valladolid, he had seen the men herding stupidly at one side of the room while the women clung together at the other. A look through the window told him that the rain had ceased; so he resolved to stay ten minutes more, for decency's sake, and then to go home.
"Down in the valley we are less gay than this," he said to Donna Perpetua, without intending to be ironical. "My man José and I are the only human beings within two miles."
Donna Perpetua threw a glance at her husband, as if to remind him of some pre-arrangement.
"If the Senhor is lonely," said the lavrador, "he must come to our serões. On Thursdays, at the full moon. That means next Thursday, about seven o'clock. He will do us a great honor."
"He will indeed," added Donna Perpetua. "And if he plays the mandolin let him bring it with him."
Antonio knew that at the serões, or soirees, of Portuguese farm-folk there was much lore to be learned which one might search for vainly in libraries. Besides, it would hardly be neighborly to refuse an invitation so heartily given and so kindly meant.
"All the honor," he said, "is on the other side. I will very gladly come."
Only at that moment did he discern the position. Donna Perpetua's glance at Margarida lasted not much longer than a flash of lightning; but, like a flash of lightning, it revealed the truth to Antonio. The furtive looks of Margarida's brothers, both at their sister and at one another, confirmed the revelation; and the evident relief and satisfaction of Senhor Jorge established it beyond a doubt.
Not without traces of hauteur in his manner and curtness in his speech Antonio thanked his hosts for their hospitality and took his leave.