Chapters (32)
- Cover
- Title
- Foreword by Michael Wood
- Introduction
- Augusta’s Secret
- Luís Duarte’s Wedding
- The Alienist
- How to Be a Bigwig
- Dona Benedita
- The Loan
- The Most Serene Republic
- The Mirror
- A Visit from Alcibiades
- The Devil’s Church
- Final Chapter
- Posthumous Picture Gallery
- The Chapter on Hats
- Ex Cathedra
- The Academies of Siam
- Fame
- The Gentleman’s Companion
- Mr. Diplomat
- Life!
- The Canon, or the Metaphysics of Style
- The Cane
- Midnight Mass
- Canary Thoughts
- Father Against Mother
- Maria Cora
- The Tale of the Cabriolet
- About The Author
- About The Translators
And she declared that, no, it was the other lady who was truly good, just like her name. Dona Maria dos Anjos was an angel, a real angel! And Dona Benedita underlined the word with the same loving gaze, not persistent or prolonged, but restless and intermittent. For his part, the canon, seeking to expunge all memory of the unfortunate incident, changed the topic of conversation to the weighty matter of which was the best dessert. Opinions diverged widely. Some thought the coconut dessert was best, some the one with cashew nuts, and others the orange one, etc. The author of the toast, Leandrinho, said—although not with his lips but slyly with his eyes—that the sweetest of desserts were Eulália’s cheeks—a dusky, rosy-cheeked dessert. His own mother inwardly approved of those unspoken words, while the young woman’s mother did not even see them, so caught up was she in her adoration of her new friend. An angel, a real angel!
Chapter II
The next day, Dona Benedita got up from her bed with the idea of writing a letter to her husband, a long letter in which she would tell him about the party, name all the guests and the different dishes, describe the reception afterward, and, more importantly, tell him about her new friendship with Dona Maria dos Anjos. The mail pouch closed at two in the afternoon, Dona Benedita had woken at nine, and, since she didn’t live far away (her house was on the Campo da Aclamação), a slave would be able to deliver the letter to the post office in plenty of time. What’s more, it was raining; Dona Benedita pulled back the net curtain and saw the drenched windowpanes; a persistent drizzle was falling, the sky was dark and overcast and dotted with thick black clouds. In the distance, she could see a cloth fluttering and flapping over a basket carried on the head of a black woman, from which she concluded that it was windy. A splendid day for staying at home, and, therefore, for writing a letter, two letters, or indeed all the letters a wife could possibly write to her absent husband. No one would come to tempt her away.