“Bread!” This word, which is the terror, the hope, and the problem of the poor, frightened her. She endeavored to control herself. She began to play the part of an inoffensive creature, to perform her tasks with affected zeal, to put on an air of patient suffering, casting her eyes up to heaven; but her spirit writhed in secret within her. By the nervous restlessness of the muscles of her face, and the tic of her nose, it could be divined that this meekness was only superficial The necessity for controlling herself induced in her a habit of hatred; hatred, above all, towards her mistresses,—a hatred irrational and puerile. She had had mistresses,—rich, with luxuriously furnished houses, poor, the wives of clerks, old and young, ill-tempered and amiable; she hated all alike, without difference or distinction.
It was the mistress, and that was enough. She hated them for their simplest words, for their most trivial acts; if she saw them sitting down, “Yes, rest,” she would say in her own mind; “let the slave do the work!” If she saw them go out, “Go, go; let the slave stay behind to do what you ought to be doing!” Every action of theirs was an offence to her sadness and her sufferings; every new gown an affront to her gown of dyed merino.
She detested the gayety of children, and the prosperity of the houses in which she served filled her with bitterness. The day on which her master or mistress had any annoyance or showed a sad countenance she would sing from morning till night, in a falsetto voice, the Carta adorada. With what pleasure did she bring the bill the day on which the impatient creditor returned with it, divining that it would cause embarrassment in the household!
“Here is this paper,” she would cry with a harsh voice; “he says he will not go away this time without an answer.” Every occasion for putting on mourning delighted her; and under the black shawl provided for her she had palpitations of the heart through joy. She had seen young children die in some of the houses in which she had been, and not even the grief of the mother had moved her; she would shrug her shoulders, in its presence, with derisive bitterness.
As years passed, these sentiments became stronger. She began to grow old, and with age her conduct grew more odious. That her master and mistress should give a soirée or go to the theatre exasperated her. When some party of pleasure had been arranged, if it began to rain unexpectedly, what happiness for her! The sight of the ladies dressed and with their hats on, gazing through the windows with tedium depicted on their countenances, made her eloquent.
“Ah, Senhora,” she would say, “this is a flood let loose; it is pouring in torrents; it will not stop raining all day! See! see!”
In addition to all this she was very inquisitive; it was nothing unusual to surprise her leaning against a closed door, with attentive ear and eager glance. Every letter that came was minutely examined. She peeped slyly into open drawers; she read over the papers thrown into the trash-basket. She walked with catlike Step, and had a trick of appearing before one when least expected. She scrutinized every visitor. She was always on the watch for a secret, a good secret, which she could use to her advantage.
She was very fond of good eating. She cherished a desire—thus far ungratified—to dine well, with tarts and entrées. In the houses where she waited at table her reddened eyes followed eagerly each plate as it was handed round; and to serve any one twice from a favorite dish exasperated her, as if it were a diminution of her share. Her health had suffered from eating only what was left from her master’s table, and of that not always enough. She liked wine, and on certain days would buy a bottle at eighty reis,[4] which she would drink alone, lying in bed, and enjoying it drop by drop.
She had never had a lover. She had been always ugly, and had never attracted a glance of admiration from any one. The only man who had ever looked at her with anything resembling admiration was a servant in the Casino, of a filthy and villainous aspect. Her thinness, her air of being always dressed in her Sunday finery, had attracted him. He looked at her with the expression of a bull-dog. He inspired her with horror, but at the same time his admiration flattered her vanity. And the only man for whom she herself had ever felt any tender feeling was a servant, perfumed and handsome, who had laughed at her, calling her isca secca. Her interest in the other sex had never gone any farther than this, owing to a sentiment of pique and a lack of self-confidence. An outlet to human feeling was denied her, and from the want of this supreme consolation, both morally and physically considered, had sprung the misery of her life.
She had once entertained for a time strong hopes of bettering her condition. She had entered the service of Donna Virginia Lemos, a rich widow, and an aunt of Jorge, who was very ill with a catarrhal trouble. Aunt Victoria, the inculcadeira, had cautioned her beforehand.