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Based on the novel by
With
To the memory of
Most highly esteemed friend,
my respected friend,
you will have truly understood
my pain and suffering.
I extend my very deepest sympathy
to you and Mr Raimundo Borges on this fatal eve.
You have lost a brother,
but I a son, whom I loved dearly,
a loss as profound as that felt for the angel gone before.
Farewell, my dear friend.
I cannot go on.
My tears will not allow me.
Always look upon me, my dear,
as a true friend to you,
and forgive me for not coming at once to see you.
My regards to your husband.
I remain respectfully,
your very sincere friend,
Maria Rita da Rocha Owen,
Vilar do Paraíso,
23 September, 1854.
Most highly esteemed and respected friend,
you will have truly understood
my pain and suffering.
I extend my very deepest sympathy
to you and Mr Raimundo Borges on this fatal eve.
You have lost a brother,
but I a son, whom I loved dearly,
a loss as profound as that felt for the angel gone before.
Farewell, my dear friend.
I cannot go on.
My tears will not allow me.
Always look upon me, my dear,
as a true friend to you,
and forgive me for not coming at once to see you.
My regards to your husband.
I remain respectfully,
your very sincere friend,
Maria Rita da Rocha Owen,
Vilar do Paraíso,
23 September, 1854.
a film by
The Independence of Brazil
brought a climate of instability and despair to Portugal.
The death of Dom Joao VI left the kingdom divided between his sons,
Dom Pedro and Dom Miguel,
heading the opposing movements of liberalism and absolutism.
A section of the younger population,
who saw their traditionalist ideas toppled in the Civil War of 1847
became sceptical and inclined towards wild passions.
This is the true story
of the reckless passion between José Augusto and Fanny (Francisca).
There was a masked ball in Oporto.
For want of better amusement, José Augusto had gone.
But he quickly regretted it,
mourning for his mother was just over.
Sad?
Camillo's room at the Hotel Paris, in Oporto.
- What are you looking at, José Augusto? - Nothing.
We were speaking about the infinite,
about love and magnetism.
We were speaking about women...
But you seem far away.
Would you like to come and stay with me a while at Lodeiro?
Yes.
Weren't you planning to travel?
I intended to,
but I have to conclude some business first.
Come with me.
I'm not offering anything much.
The house is like a tomb,
with an old, out-of-tune piano
and bedrooms that reek of death.
Of course I'll come.
Two wretches know how to and can console one another best.
How can one be virtuous in a town that prospers but makes no progress?
Here, the literati praise one another because they're all as impoverished.
We have to be wary of gratitude
so we don't get a taste for philanthropy.
Let's go to Lodeiro, my friend.
- What shall we do there? - You can write...
... and I'll walk.
Both occupations are free of ridicule.
Not so!
Even in the halls of the dead ridicule survives.
You just have to read the epitaphs.
But never mind.
Being used to listening to nonsense
we shall see if we find it boring to speak seriously.
Santa Cruz do Douro The House in Lodeiro
Well, well.
So I was right.
You are a Byronist, like five percent of Portuguese dandies.
Five percent?
And the rest?
The rest are simply great men.
Byron is in fashion.
And fashion in literature is the worst there is.
I don't know whether I read that somewhere
or whether the words are mine.
Fashion or not,
in matters of amorous literature,
we are both there in powdered wigs
and buckled shoes.
Is that where you saw her, at the ball?
That's where we met.
You must come to the ball with me.
I'd like to see you show a silk stocking in the delirium of a waltz.
I don't dance.
I'm not a marionette in the arms of an alabaster statue,
the story writer's muse.
But tell me...
What is she like?
Her face seems from another time and place.
She reminds me of the viragos described by Virgil.
I didn't like her.
I can tell you quite frankly, I did not like her.
Then I was told she was well-read.
With women, intelligence is born in the heart,
or will kill it if it comes later.
You know full well that I wanted to find a pristine heart,
a heart without experience and knowledge.
A heart I would teach!
Now that! That's foolishness for you!
Whatever it was, we exchanged three letters,
that's all.
At the third, I packed my bags and came to the Douro.
That's how things stand.
Events exert a pull on us.
What did you say in the last letter?
I called her sister.
When a woman ceases to interest me, I afford her the honour of a family tie.
And what about her?
She replied.
She said more or less the following:
"Your sister!
With such affection I should be sensible of everyone's pleasure."
My boy!
- She got you there! - What? Me?
Didn't you create the need for distance?
Was it not you who calculated the inconvenience of intimacy, as you call it?
Come, my friend...
Let's not be strong when the honour is in being weak.
Distance?
Intimacy?
She ruptured the distance.
Any other would have made the most of it...
You speak of Maria with no respect.
You are obstinate.
You don't forgive Maria for suffering;
that is not love,
you are jealous of suffering.
You're a case worthy of study.
Some days later...
My friend, the eminent writer, Camilo Castelo Branco.
My sister-in-law, Dona Josefa,
and my brother, Raimundo.
Portugal is becoming a model of equality,
among the nobility that is.
In my street alone, there are five barons,
two viscounts and ten knights...
...and every night more.
Do not think I disapprove.
Not at all.
Scepticism brushes its black batwings across my brow,
but for all that, I'm a poor devil,
thinking seriously of a way to become a baron.
Brother?
Can't you manage that through court intrigue?
Now that they want to re-establish the processions Dom Pedro abolished,
and even dress the soldiers as friars,
I could well be a baron.
I'm not lacking in talent.
What's wrong, José Augusto?
You haven't eaten your dessert yet.
José Augusto is in love.
Do you know what love is?
It's the parasite of the soul, the mildew on the vine.
José Augusto loves as one loves for the twentieth time.
A fine lady.
Are there many like her in these parts?
Women dress in such a way as to give lie to the Scriptures.
A husband cannot say "flesh of my flesh",
Half of it is cotton stuffing!
Why don't you go to bed?
I'm just going.
The caretaker had a violent row with his wife and...
Someone, please help! He wants to kill my mother!
Help!
During a dance at Baron de Corvo's ballroom.
A wealthy ass goes where he pleases.
That man laughing over there is Ricardo Brown.
He owes me a duel. Which is not a matter to sneeze at.
Come and see the three most beautiful women in ballroom.
They are not the most beautiful in Oporto.
The whole of Oporto is here.
Come and see.
This is whimsy...
I prefer something more classic.
That woman is in love with someone.
- Who is he? - He's a dangerous man.
Dangerous?
- How? - He has no soul.
What is a soul?
A butterfly has no soul either,
yet knows better than any how to touch flowers.
Let him go.
Each word he utters plucks a petal from your crown.
Each smile of his, extinguishes one of the thousands in your world.
Let him go.
I thought you were his friend.
Friendship is no bar to the thanklessness of clarity.
I am thankless, perhaps.
But not slanderous.
He told me once,
he was not long for this world.
To think of death at twenty-five
is either poetry
or a crime.
Is he your friend?
He paid my debts and saved me from death.
That doesn't mean he is my friend.
He who knows what a friend is, knows what a soul is.
The soul is not a seat you offer a visitor.
The soul is...
- Is... - Is...
The soul...
... is an addiction. - A what?
Do not think me ignorant.
One can be naive without being ignorant!
Good Lord!
I can see in your face... curiosity, compassion,
wounded self-esteem,
fear of your own naivety or dogged courage.
All that comes from a reckless love.
Reckless?
The soul is not a seat you offer a visitor.
The soul is...
- The soul is an addiction. - A what?
Do not think me ignorant.
One can be naive without being ignorant!
Good Lord!
I can see in your face... curiosity, compassion,
wounded self-esteem,
fear of your own naivety
or dogged courage.
All that comes from a reckless love.
Reckless?
- So, how's the ball? - Magnificent.
I don't dance and I don't like music, it's true.
I was born to be a judge in the Douro mountains,
where bitches mate with wolves.
I am no part of this society.
Here, dissolutions are simple and spirits sharp.
You have spirit, Camilo.
You will die independent,
riddled with genius and the pox, as they say around here.
And singing the praises of notable barons
whenever I'm called upon to appraise my century.
See that woman over there?
That's Raquel,
married to a man twenty five years her senior.
She's had fourteen lovers, that we know of...
Yet every dubious poet in Oporto loves her;
though any that win favour in that woman's eyes,
win naught but defeat.
Carried away by jealousy and deceived by ideas of rivalry,
they all end up deserting her without being unfaithful.
But you, too, were her lover!
A mild foolishness...
Out of foolishness or foolhardiness, I let her read one of Maria's letters.
Returning it she said,
"I would never be able to challenge you to write to me."
"These things should not be allowed in writing."
You were unwise.
She's a handsome woman,
full-lipped and sallow-skinned like the Creoles.
You were seduced by the prestige of being her lover
but, in fact, you avoided provocative situations.
I pretended to respect her, which she thought sensible.
When you don't love a woman, you have to confuse her somewhat.
It doesn't humiliate her like a simple refusal.
Oporto shows a special condescension towards unfaithful women,
if they are clever enough
not to favour their lovers over their social duties.
Tastes are not disputed as long as no mistakes are made.
It's a mistake to be moved by someone's destiny,
when it's only a matter of loving a man...
Something short-lived and of little importance.
Ravishing Raquel has only one passion:
making a fortune and administering her income...
Her way of dealing with her caretakers or builders
cools the most ardent heart.
Things are made easy for her all round,
deeds, land purchases and so on.
It's less harmful to concede her favours with corruption
than feelings with consequences.
- We'll frighten the cattle at the fair! - And spill the drinks!
We'll spear the cheese and biscuits with our whips...
- And make the women scream. - Ore pro nobis!
- We'll wake the dead! - Ore pro nobis!
When a sad man laughs, he's found someone sadder.
When you suffer at an age to be happy,
you can never believe in happiness again.
Neither by chance or reward.
I know what you mean.
One expects pain forever when one has been suckled on it.
Unhappiness is a kind of renunciation,
it has nothing to do with adversity.
It is the most ardent of mistresses
for whom we sacrifice all:
honour, friends
and even God. - We are twenty-three.
When we are old, will we know what the young are talking about?
I would like to live in a place like that.
To be as I would be in my village if I'd never left.
Here, a woman would be worth the value of her first passion.
The women who live in that house must often come and sit under that tree.
Who lives in that house?
Maria and Fanny.
Let's go.
This is too much sadness...
We are practically in love with women we've only ever seen once.
I shall never forget this place, this day or the longing I feel.
Come, let's go and eat fried fish and find a couple of girls.
You're quite right.
- Which of the two do you prefer? - They're not my type.
What if we were to fall in love?
You? In love?
Aren't you the sceptic?
Isn't your heart like the trunk in my room?
Hard and empty?
Do you think I can't love a woman?
You can.
But only after a galvanic shock,
then you'll drop dead.
I shouldn't tell you this.
Sometimes we utter cruelties to avoid crying.
Look, José Augusto, some people are born to love no one.
Loving another is a nonsense to distract from the horrors of life.
Passion is one of those horrors.
Not passion for glory or for a woman,
perhaps it's a consequence of not being immortal.
It hurts bitterly that I'm not a God.
Let's forget all this, José Augusto.
We'll never go back to Vilar do Paraíso.
Those girls are snobs, and their mother's pretentious.
I wager they would laugh at what makes us cry.
They shut themselves in,
eat croquettes
and giggle at anything.
Friendship is the one thing the gods envy men.
Once again in Oporto, a night at the theatre.
Why don't you acknowledge him?
I don't feed the ego of that buffoon.
Do you think he loves Raquel?
He does if it makes the others envious.
Or if she's unfaithful, or when they say "what a beautiful woman!"
We're all like that.
Love is naught but a crystallisation of desire.
José Augusto is capricious but not perverse.
At twenty-three, nobody is the Marquise de Sade.
Open your eyes and think about that.
I think you're asleep in the shadow of your stories...
Novels are bad for many people but not the authors.
There are those who never find their place in life,
then want to take it by force.
They think they're exceptional
and accuse others of not understanding them.
José Augusto is such a one.
He thinks he's Don Juan or Hamlet.
His mother died before he could see death as a law of nature.
He takes it as an unpardonable slight.
He has a passion for novels.
He reads until four in the morning,
which is too little for a vocation but too much for a squire.
Do you envy him?
I don't envy a man who doesn't take a stand, neither in thought nor deed.
When he's taciturn, he's stupid;
when you think him melancholy, he's just a blackguard.
And even in his guise as a wealthy man, he lies,
with that singular ease I see in him.
I've already suggested he marry an heiress who writes verse,
and will give him a cigar box engraved with the figure of Psyche and butterfly wings.
You moralise.
The country deserves that, being more given to commerce than imagination.
All the poets who retire,
enrol in the Academy and sell olive oil.
The pains we take to be refined mean something.
You pay dearly for virtue if you're not familiar with it.
The sky wasn't made for the sparrows, no matter how high they fly.
I think you envy José Augusto.
Whether he deserves it or not, is another matter.
Camilo and José Augusto, back in Santa Cruz do Douro.
The great secrets are not the romantic ones.
It's being unaware of them that's romantic.
Let's go the other way. I don't care to be seen.
This is not my place, it's the caretaker's.
You'll see, they'll ask for cigarettes and brandy.
That's what they ask for but is it what they want?
They use those words, but what are words?
They're a kind of law,
but one doesn't know to what it applies.
They're drunkards, and nothing more.
Of visible things, one should not say "nothing more".
I need solitude and you.
And you need me to help you create another heart.
From now on, I shall take charge of you.
The house at Vilar do Paraíso.
When José Augusto arrived at the Owen's house
to make his daily visit to Maria,
he came face to face with Camilo.
Look what you've done to them!
Don't be so hasty, Fanny.
José Augusto didn't notice...
Is it that the dryness of Spring Brings forth no flowers?
My hasting days Fly on with no career
But my late Spring, No bud or blossom shew'th!
My hasting days Fly on with no career
But my late Spring No bud or blossom shew'th!
Camilo had rented a cottage at Vilar do Paraíso
close to José Augusto's house.
"There are secrets among the living"
"that invoke the shadows of the dead,"
Who are you writing to?
To someone whose slave I am.
And who will repay my slavery...
... with tears.
Who?
Is it Fanny?
- If someone loved Fanny, I would kill him. - What's that?
Friendship is usually less bloodthirsty...
My landlady is a pious fish-wife.
When she let me this room with its blue bunk,
she told me all about her dismal ritual
connected to the tragedies of the sea.
And she forgets to put oil in this lamp.
Don't you see?!
I mean that Fanny is not a bored man's plaything.
I am of the same opinion.
She's there in that house between simplicity and spite.
Like Daphne, turned into a bay tree to escape the god Apollo.
You don't love her?
No.
But I know what I'm rejecting.
You wouldn't understand.
Am I, perchance, a cripple?
You think me incapable of loving Fanny?
Well, I shall awaken a great love in her...
A love I would censure,
stirred by my own severity.
Promise, subjugate,
give hope,
feed desire to study the consequences of insatiability.
Brush her brow with a kiss, then pass without touching her...
gaze at her deeply and broodingly.
sow illusion and reap shame, humiliation and guilt.
Produce an angel in the fullness of martyrdom.
You would do that?
Promise, subjugate,
give hope,
feed desire to study the consequences of insatiability.
Brush her brow with a kiss, then pass without touching her...
gaze at her deeply and broodingly.
sow illusion and reap shame, humiliation and guilt.
Produce an angel in the fullness of martyrdom.
You would do that?
Wouldn't that be finer than procreating?
Isn't that to be truly fertile and in accord with God's work?
One doesn't speak of God here.
Why not?
- He's part of my genealogy. - Wait, José Augusto...
We swore to trust one another.
I staked my honour trusting you.
Virtue only interests you as a means to easy triumph.
Perfection alone means something to me.
Even perfection in vice,
independent of agreement with others.
Have you not a soul, José Augusto?
I'm asking whether you have a soul.
A soul!
If I could weep for my deplorable and ridiculed youth...
then yes, I would have a soul.
My ferocity is what keeps me alive.
Isn't that a soul, too?
You are a child, José Augusto.
A child become man through misfortune.
Now I see there are no superficial men.
I laugh at them.
My talent would wrap ten times round your idle stupidity.
And suddenly, a squire like you takes revenge on all.
You taught me that the imagination of even the meanest bourgeois knows no law.
You're one of them.
Would it not be better to snuff yourself out as I did that lamp?
Ashes instead of desire,
conscience instead of passion.
Is that a soul?
The next day Manuel Negrão, by chance, passes by his door.
Hello, Manuel Negrão!
- I'm glad you're here. - Hello there, my friend!
I'm on my way to Lisbon to visit my grandmother.
I well remember the Countess of Magé.
I couldn't pass up the opportunity to stop by here.
Here, where nothing happens.
How are Colonel Owen's daughters?
One corrupts one's talent on amorous banalities,
talking to Fanny on the church steps,
or walking on the beach.
I hold her silk parasol while she takes off her shoes
then I carry them.
It's ridiculous!
Hanging round a girl...
who's always sad and morose...
... and who, in any case, doesn't interest me.
I'll go with you as far as Coimbra.
I'm coming with you.
The troops arrived in Vila Pouca in fine snow.
They were hungry
and wearing white shoes stolen from the supplies of Sá de Bandeira.
I went into an inn
and was just getting warm at the fire,
waiting for a chicken and a sausage from the iron pot,
when António Rangel, McDonnell's lieutenant,
called me from the door.
"Either desert, or come with us at all speed."
"Bring the chicken if you want."
They had to beat a retreat but I took the chicken with me.
I ate it along with the others
in the mountain gorges thick with snow.
Only in Sabroso did we get a decent rest.
The military staff set themselves up in the mansion at Pensalves.
An old woman...
sitting spinning
dropped flax stems on my head.
The wind played with the shutters like a human hand.
I slept like a log in the warmth of the kitchen.
At dawn, the General mustered the men.
I was sixteen
and determined to follow McDonnell to the death.
I know the rest.
"Goodbye, Negrão."
"Take the chicken, McDonnell, and whatever else you like"
"and leave me here."
Tell me, though...
Where was the General?
What General?
General Santiago, that Spaniard the women were so keen on.
McDonnell had demoted him.
Damn it all!
He envied him.
Men like that destroy your self-esteem.
How well he could speak to women!
That tone of voice! That way of looking!
That moustache!
He married a lady who was Dom Miguel's mistress.
He was the only one to sacrifice everything for the cause!
Just look at this foolish Coimbra!
I want an honest idea of my ignorance,
that's why I didn't graduate.
The Maria da Fonte revolution saved me.
Goodbye.
I miss my Spanish cloak.
Keep all this to yourself, I don't like being talked about.
When he left Coimbra, he didn't return to Vilar do Paraíso,
he returned to Oporto.
One day, José Augusto knocked at his door
and, without waiting for an answer, entered his rooms on his horse.
I've been expelled from Paradise.
And Eve?
Did she remain?
It was Eve who expelled me.
We had a serious talk.
Tell me.
I have ten minutes for a serious talk.
Then I have to write a theatre review, or worse.
Well?
An unbearable intrigue unfolded in the Owen household.
Maria complained and accused me of coldness.
The Colonel wrote, from Lisbon I think, to demand an explanation.
The atmosphere became tense and distrustful.
Was marriage mentioned?
No.
And I wouldn't have consented.
You know what I'm like under any imposition.
Not even Maria broached the subject.
And Fanny?
- What about Fanny? - How does she view all this?
How is she reacting amidst all this confusion?
Fanny's an angel!
Quite.
But isn't your constant presence a kind of commitment?
I don't think so.
In any case, I never asked for Maria's hand.
Had I done so, I would have kept my word.
Even if I had to put a bullet through my head on the day of the wedding.
When ambiguity arises, I withdraw honestly.
Quite right.
The following day, José Augusto returned and brought his horse into the room,
indifferent to the landlady's complaints.
Stop! Stop!
This is no place for a horse!
There's no better way to prove the solidity of a house, than by bringing in a horse.
Scoundrel!
I've already told you. This is no place for a horse!
Horses shy when the floor shakes or creaks too much.
You can sleep easy.
This place is sound.
Here is the deepest, most intimate secret of my life...
I love Fanny.
That doesn't surprise me.
It's why you wanted to kill me a while ago.
And Fanny?
Does she love you?
Fiercely!
No-one falls in love like this without knowing one is loved in return.
Well, well.
I know a hundred and twenty exceptions come to think of it.
But how am I to return to Paradise?
Through the gateway of honour, if that's how you left.
Honour of the heart is not measured by any common standard.
Consider the situation.
Maria feels abandoned and now she'll feel betrayed.
Schemes born of passion, widen the circle of our ideas.
I remember reading that, back in Lodeiro.
Think and decide.
I don't know what to advise.
I'm going to write to Fanny.
Camilo left Oporto.
Fanny answered José Augusto addressing him as brother
and forbidding him to talk of love.
He wept and fell into deep despair.
When Camilo returned, he found a very different picture.
José Augusto was loved by Fanny.
Camilo had gone to visit a family he knew in Gaia.
He found José Augusto there.
- Are you going to ask for her now? - I'm going to kidnap her.
- That's a pointless scandal. - Pointless or not, I am going to do it.
I've had two cabins prepared on a boat.
I shall take her by river to Lodeiro, then we'll marry in my chapel.
I have nothing more to say.
Think again.
- It will be today. - What will be today?
Our flight.
Think.
Wait a few days.
Impossible.
- She's waiting for me. - I'll write to her.
She'll understand.
Don't write.
- It's late. - Go then.
Your youth ends here.
In an hour's time, you will be the most ill-fated of men.
Wait.
Save yourself. There's still time.
Don't upset yourself.
Men are never unhappy.
What's a man?
What is a man?
The elopement.
Did you hurt yourself?
No.
No, I'm all right.
Where are we?
I don't know.
Let me rest here...
No, we'd best go on.
Go on?
We're lost.
I don't know where the river is, or the road.
Do you regret this, Fanny?
No! I don't.
When it's light we can go on.
Dawn isn't far off.
They're your letters.
Wait, José Augusto.
Let's hope this horse doesn't take fright, too.
There's some fishwives, I'll ask where we are.
He's afraid they will see he's in a serious predicament.
This is Vilar de Andorinho.
Nearby is the Soeime estate belonging to José de Melo.
I'll ask for help.
Don't leave me here.
I won't leave you.
But you can't walk much further.
Don't leave me alone.
Row!
To land!
Row!
To land!
Row!
What are honest people?
Row!
Have I been asleep?
For a while.
Row.
Row!
To land!
Row!
He's going to kill you, Fanny.
He's going to kill you.
Your love springs from what doesn't belong to you.
It's made with my desire,
my joy
and my suffering.
I gave you a soul
and with it, all that a soul is capable of.
I can wrap that soul in my shadow and take it with me.
And then what will you two do?
Do you think you're a god?
No.
I'm no god.
Ugly, stunted and weak in the eyes.
I need nothing from you.
I exist spontaneously.
Life doesn't upset me.
It doesn't delude me and I don't fear it.
And José Augusto?
José Augusto is nothing more than a poor flunkey.
- Let me pass. - No.
No. Wait. He's a servant and nothing more.
A servant...
... who bows before anything of prestige.
He's a slave to fine words,
fine attitudes
and fine follies.
Your love is a fine folly
as long as I'm with you both.
Afterwards, it will only be a folly.
Get out of my sight,
you wicked, jealous man.
Now I understand why you are hated by honest folk.
When all is said and done, what are honest folk?
A consequence.
Goodbye then, my consequence,
lovely lady of Paradise.
Row!
To land!
Row!
Entering Lodeiro was achieved with the expected discretion.
Fanny withdrew at once to the former room of José Augusto's mother.
The following day.
Don't leave the house.
Rest.
Give your orders.
The house is yours.
I'll be back this evening.
I won't spend much time with you.
Things must be done properly.
We will be married soon.
I must write to my mother,
and my father too.
Love,
and do what you please.
Will you be very late?
What did you say, Fanny?
My mount?
It's ready.
What a fine little creature.
That's a portrait of José Augusto's mother.
Our mistress had lovely dresses.
She did.
Leave it, I'll put it away.
Madam...
The master sent word
not to wait supper for him.
Very well, Clotilde.
What shall I serve?
I have eels in sauce but Madam doesn't like them.
Anything will do.
Tea and bread is enough.
Madam, that's not good for you.
Don't worry, Clotilde, that's fine.
You may come in.
The Master left this note.
"I'm going to Oporto."
Has he already left?
The Master?
He left an hour ago.
Who went with him?
Marques, of course!
A chaplain without a mitre,
a squire without any obligations.
Some have luck,
others have patience.
Dona Josefa sent word to say she's coming to visit you.
I lent him two table cloths and never saw them again.
That's a man's household for you!
They were damask linen, I shall be sorry if they are lost.
When's José Augusto coming back?
In five days.
No...
I don't know. He didn't tell me.
If it weren't for men and their ways, everything would be much better.
Tell me a little of your life in Paraíso.
Well...
I used to tend my flowers,
go for walks in the late afternoon.
I used to sit on the church steps and sketch the fields,
a well, covered with virgin vines,
a mare with her foal...
The neighbourhood children would come and watch me draw.
They used to laugh
as if there were something magic about it.
The sea breeze would blow the paper away and they would chase after them.
The children round here are ill-bred and only know how to beg.
- This is a wretched race. - Why?
Their parents are drunkards.
The children learn only to cuss and how to steal rabbits from their hutches.
They grow up like savages
and one day kill a priest or a friend,
or the mother of their own children...
- They kill? - What do you think?
This isn't a paradise or a greenhouse filled with begonias.
Here, it's a place of envious, wretched people.
They're idle and beg like the blind.
They say it's even worse in the Douro.
They only work if threatened.
They toss their food onto the floor if they think it's too cold or salty.
They don't go to church.
I don't even know if they suffer.
They die like animals in a pen on a pile of straw.
The old women beg until they're a hundred.
I knew of one who came from Marco on foot every Friday.
She spoke about her girlhood.
Do you know what she spoke about?
Her first indisposition at the age of twelve.
It was the nicest thing that had happened to her.
Poor thing!
This girl knows nothing of life.
It's a bad marriage.
What one learns too late doesn't bring experience,
it brings unhappiness.
Will you stay and have dinner with me?
No.
I must go.
Another time, perhaps?
Goodbye, my child.
If it weren't for men and their ways, the world would not be as it is.
You know, it's Hugo Owen who's seeing to my wedding with Fanny,
but he's refused to meet me.
Everyone appears to be calmer now.
You're the only one who knows I'm in Oporto.
You know, José Augusto?
It's bad to be a blackguard twice over.
I know some stories about this woman as a maiden.
Once married, I hope you will tell me.
Let us hope you'll laugh and love her.
Seriousness in love is a great misfortune.
Your friend, Camilo said that.
That hawker of literature we both despise.
You're a wise old child, Raquel,
and I love you.
You're the only woman I long for,
and longing is loving.
You have a silly smile and you love me.
You have a moustache like the gardener and you love me.
I thought you only had three passions...
Reading Byron, marrying rich
and living in a ministerial palace. - Me? A minister?
I may be extravagant but I'm not out of fashion.
They say you are ruined and would marry a rich widow
with a cook, an old dog
and her first husband's portraits in her dowry.
But you elope with an English girl who writes poetry and is comfortably well-off.
The worst situation for a woman of spirit.
- Why? - Why indeed?
Comfort is the religion of lawyers and their wives.
Balzac said "She had spirit despite being a lawyer's wife".
Are you at war with me, Raquel?
And Balzac didn't say lawyer, he said "notary".
To be precise:
"She was faithful, despite being a notary's wife."
What a memory you have.
Romantics have a fantastic memory.
I'm going to the Browne's house. They' re original but not typical.
From now on, you're a typical man.
You'll only save yourself if you go insane.
Then the drawing rooms will receive you again and people will admire you.
Colonel Owen gives you his daughter but no dowry.
Her mother offers some jewels as mere souvenirs.
I'll dispense with the souvenirs.
Those people irritate me.
They think I want their daughter for money and a coat of arms!
I want nothing of those spies.
What spies? What are you saying?
Wasn't Owen Dom Pedro's advisor?
When Oporto was surrounded, he would go to him at eleven at night.
The King would spit blood into a handkerchief, he was already ill,
but he paid attention to Owen.
It's a known fact.
Political hatred painted that picture.
Hatred is a boat, and the rowers have no name.
There's too much hate.
There's not enough.
If there were, we wouldn't be able to bear this life with no glory... no future, nothing.
What has become of Camilo?
He's around. He's writing a lot.
He courts the nuns with surprising conviction.
He's a Lutheran with no doctrine.
- He's coming here for dinner today. - He comes for dinner today?
I think he's already here.
- I've been hearing a lot about you. - Good or ill?
When we hear of ourselves it's always ill.
When it's good, they speak low and between their teeth.
What do they say about me in Oporto?
What they said about Socrates in Athens;
that you're vain and very ugly.
- Will you have lunch with me tomorrow? - I have an article to write.
Will the article pay your lunch?
Partridge and oysters, no.
Virtue is like that.
Give in quickly, repent at leisure.
Would you like a little carriage like that?
José Augusto, would you like a little carriage like that?
They make them here now.
Yes, I would.
I'll have to think about it.
Don't forget lunch tomorrow.
You were the angel
I asked of God to save me.
This is hardly a suitable place for a loner like you.
A loner usually likes to be alone
surrounded by people.
Solitude Oporto style.
José Augusto, let's speak lightly then.
I'm tired of serious topics.
Just yesterday, a woman cited me in a piece on rice harvesting.
These things usually amuse you.
Nothing amuses me,
the poison of success has flooded my mind.
I've lost the feeling for anonymous genius.
There are now those who say,
"This tramp doesn't write badly...!"
And you?
I'm going to marry.
There's still time, José Augusto.
Don't marry.
I love her.
She loves me
and society demands satisfaction of me.
Society demands you throw yourself in the river
and drink bile.
It demands the love of an imposter from you,
and the importance of being the hero
of a mediocre novel.
Is that what you want?
What I feel is perfect love, Camilo.
Beyond perfection...
... is boredom.
Or, when perfected it will really be the end.
Don't marry.
You will kill her.
Me, kill her?
If I love her!
You love through pride.
You love the luxury of loving, nothing more.
Fanny's love
and the friendship of a man of letters like me,
the ambition of a rich man of twenty-five can aim no higher.
What can aim no higher is your malice.
It's already gone beyond the reputation you had.
That's where you're mistaken. It could go much higher.
Do you know who I am, Camilo?
I could whip you right now.
I know who you are,
you're a wretch.
You say a lot in few words.
That's just as well
because I can't stand your moralising stories.
I have to fetch Raquel from the theatre tonight.
If you wish, meet me at Guichard and we'll continue our conversation.
"They are not shares in the railway company."
"They are not yet in the catalogue of Utopias."
"It's a little light reading for your honeymoon."
"Camilo."
Fanny!
Can't you forgive me?
I can.
What I cannot do, is love you.
I could have loved you a great deal, but I don' t love you.
Love is the second creator.
You had no love for me.
You are not seductive enough for me.
And I'm not sufficiently hypocritical for you.
You will forget me.
If anyone exists who could make me forget you,
I would hate that person.
Were those letters so bad?
All I know is that you complained about me to an unknown person.
You said that I didn't understand you.
I offer you the name of sister, Fanny.
Sister.
Your sister,
your daughter,
your friend,
your wife.
Your slave if you wish.
Swear you love me,
that the world is a paradise,
men are good,
God is merciful
and I am your equal,
soul for soul,
blood for blood.
No.
I'm nothing to you.
Your letters have passed through my friends' hands.
They can be copied
and appear in the papers like common stories,
word for word.
To whom did you write those letters?
I love you, José Augusto,
I love you as God loves sinners.
You need to be loved like that.
Vicente!
Here, Sir.
From this day on...
From this day on, I want you to bring my lunch and dinner.
Women annoy me.
Shameful man!
I knew this was coming.
Don't upset yourself, Madam.
Men have hearts like stale bread.
They don't deserve tears, even at death.
Do you want anything?
Nothing, thank you.
I'm going to my room.
- Goodnight. - Good night, Madam.
Camilo had taken up lodgings on the Pinheiro estate,
Manuel Negrão went to see him and found him looking terrible.
Have you read Manon Lescaut?
Do you know who Tiberge was?
He was like him, that man I lost.
I was ungrateful to him,
but not vile.
Of course, of course.
- But you're looking very weak. - Never mind.
He doesn't love her.
It's a mistake.
For José Augusto?
What isn't a mistake?
In nine months, by mistake,
a child can be born
who will continue the series of mistakes and so on into perpetuity.
In nine months,
death will be the midwife of what we conceived in our hearts.
I assure you.
I would give my talent
for the first poor soul to appear
and say
"She loves you."
You loved Fanny?
That's not news!
Console yourself with a lock of her hair.
"He who tells the sad man to rejoice knows little of sadness."
Deep pain grows with consolation.
Alleviating it seems like an affront.
How deep in love you have fallen!
I never noticed that Fanny interested you,
or that she looked at you.
I know you.
Satire will rise above tragedy
and you'll save yourself.
I can save myself
but through the road to hell, which isn't so bad.
I suppose they are paved in the absurd,
betrayal
and slander.
They are bad for you, my dear Negrão, who doesn't like to be talked about.
Go away, I've got to write a review.
You're cured. I can see that.
I'm dead,
but what's the difference?
José Augusto and Fanny went to call on Raimundo and Dona Josefa.
I'm going to consult my friends to see if they approve of my marriage
after the business with the letters.
José de Melo is going to get some of my more intimate friends together
to discuss this question of honour. - You are mad, brother.
Who can judge this better than your own conscience?
Don't get upset.
My heart tells me we will never be estranged.
Gentlemen,
you all know the facts that have brought me sad notoriety.
I took Fanny Owen from her own home and gave her mine.
Now, letters she wrote to another man have come into my hands.
We were already committed to one another.
Should I keep my word and marry her?
Logic demands you marry,
in this case with no logic whatsoever.
I loved Fanny, but I no longer do.
A marriage from pity, if it should tempt you as a new emotion,
will bore you tomorrow.
You are going to question Fanny's past
to shirk your responsibility in a story that has lost the attraction of being a novelty.
I find all this senseless.
If you are not going to marry,
Fanny may find another love to obliterate the shame of the first.
I'm just sorry that our kind of men
makes our ties so strong
that one cannot withdraw the heart
as readily as one extends a hand to a friend.
I shall marry Fanny
but I do not love her.
My conscience is enlightened
but I am lost.
The best way for an aristocrat to enlighten something, is to hang from a street lamp.
Read Byron, Don Juan, canto XI verse XXVII.
Fanny's family did not attend the marriage by proxy
at the church of St. Ildefonso.
José Augusto Pinto de Magalhães,
represented here by his proxy Marcelino de Matos,
do you take Francisca Owen,
represented here by her proxy Jose Melo da Silveira,
as your lawful wife?
according to the rites of the Holy Mother Church?
I do.
Francisca Owen,
represented here by her proxy, José Melo da Silveira,
do you take José Augusto Pinto de Magalhães,
represented here by his proxy Marcelino de Matos,
as your lawful husband,
according to the rites of the Holy Mother Church?
I do.
Ego conjungo vos in matrimonio,
in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.
Amen.
Let's pray.
Amen.
It's raining.
The married couple will be lucky.
Who did Fanny write those damn letters to?
To a Spaniard, so they say.
Slander needs imagination to be pardoned.
Camilo has his finger in all of this.
A Spaniard!
That's his idea.
Words flow from people's memory like water off tiles.
They leave more dirt behind than they take with them.
The same day in Casa da Capela at Santa Cruz de Douro.
Madam,
the master said he had to go to Oporto and not to wait up for him.
Very well.
You may go to bed.
Goodnight, Madam.
Goodnight, Franzina.
Francisca used to speak often to a relative of her mother's,
of the Rocha Pinto family.
Animals are happier,
instinct never lies to them.
With us,
when instinct brings us closer,
duty, convenience
and even worse appear.
You may still be very happy.
This is a bad patch.
All marriages are like that.
Perhaps...
But what consolation is that to me?
I don't want consolation,
I want to die
and I will die.
I have a destiny to fulfil
and I shall fulfil that destiny.
You can't live by feelings alone, Fanny.
No, I can't.
It's a folly that's called poetry.
What exists is energy, matter, blood and flesh.
Nothing speaks to him of me if he feels nothing for me.
I want to win him over,
bind him to me.
Steal him from everything,
from himself.
Steal him from his suffering.
The greed that his heart feels for all that is himself.
In return, I would give him an ardent and endless love.
If I don't see him today,
I'll die.
Fanny, Fanny...
Unhappiness is a rare gift.
Wait!
It's them.
And I don't feel any joy.
What an absurd heart!
When I feel less separated from him,
I give less value to my love.
The men have arrived home.
Good afternoon.
When the men come home, even the green wood burns.
What's the weather like outside?
We know it's windy. It's blowing from the sea.
They don't hear me.
I could confess to a crime and I'd have neither judge nor hangman.
Passion makes light of sin.
What a beautiful expression!
If the angels are pure spirit, they must look like this.
Men and women.
Rather a tree by the roadside,
than a good wife to a husband master!
Once again at Lodeiro.
Little sister...
I find you very tired.
You must look after yourself.
You know...
This stubborn attitude of my father
in forbidding any correspondence with my family,
particularly my mother,
makes me very sad.
Only today, one of my letters was returned.
My letters are returned unopened.
It is Maria herself who readdresses them in her own hand.
It would be better to remove Franzina from the house,
But why?
She has an unsuitable way of behaving.
Don't you see, sister, how she looks at José Augusto?
Whatever is wrong with that?
Don't say I didn't warn you.
Come in.
Don't come so close to me!
You stink!
Do you feel better, Franzina?
May God help you, my child.
You are so young.
I never pondered anything with a restless, closed up heart.
Ah, my dear, my poor dear!
One day, Francisca saw a letter in José Augusto's hands
and she recognised Maria's handwriting.
No, but give me that letter.
What's wrong with you? It's a letter like any other.
No letter is like another.
Some are doves,
others are crows.
I know who this letter is from.
To know so much is mortifying.
Fanny!
My dear Fanny!
The goddess of love usually likes malice.
And the potion against malice
is to leave...
... is to suffer.
Wherever I go, I leave the trace of a crime.
May I be cursed!
We're not unhappy, are we?
We live our happiness ferociously, that's what it is.
Do you love another?
If you do, then I am her friend.
I shall embroider her a shawl to wear at the theatre,
at your side.
No!
I don't want to do that.
It should be designed in blood,
and stuck with needles pulled from my heart...
Do I hurt you so much?
Why don't you go out as before, down to the river
that... flows beyond.
A small river,
not large.
You used to say it was formed by your tears.
That was a long time ago, Fanny.
Ride over the hills on your horse then,
through the pine forest,
where if you shout out, the wind carries your voice to the sea.
Go then.
When you are far away, my heart waits only for your return.
Jealousy...
... disappears like a whipped dog,
and despair hides itself in shame.
I wait for you,
and that is all that matters.
Fanny, men do not want to be loved like that.
We're not made for such a love.
It humiliates us.
Who is the letter from?
The letter? Obstinate woman!
Angel of danger and malice! That's what you are!
Is that why I live like this, imprisoned and watched?
Is that why there is a spy behind every door?
They know whether I'm sad or joyful.
Whether I eat meat or refuse my wine.
They know all and will tell all.
To whom?
Camilo has servants in this house that are more his than yours,
he pays them to know how we live.
Tomorrow he will tell how you beat me,
and all Oporto will now.
Take this letter.
May it burn the breath in your breast,
the breath with which you utter such hateful words.
It was Fanny's idea to spend a while at Bom Jesus do Monte,
Camilo went to see them.
What a surprise!
You look much better.
I am not.
In affairs of the heart, there are no cures.
There are only phases of the same ill.
What are you reading, Fanny?
Byron.
José Augusto's favourite literature.
Listen:
"When you never have been"
"and never will be..."
"... lovers,"
"the earth offers absolutely no other friendship"
"comparable to that of a woman."
Byron is the egoists' gospel.
"She loved her husband,"
"or at least she thought she did,"
"his love cost her a great deal of effort,"
"a painful obligation!"
"She had no reason for complaint or recrimination."
"No problems or domestic quarrels."
"This union was a true model,"
"serene and noble,"
"but cold..."
Don João and the chaste Adelina.
"...this friendship a man feels for another man,"
"she was capable of like no other woman before!"
Fanny...
What is happening to you is horrible.
"Nobody doubts that in this case, as in the case of blood ties,"
"the secret influence of sex does not exercise its innocent power."
Was it he who convinced you of this monstrosity?
Was it he who convinced you?
Not at all.
A woman is capable of anything when her heart is crushed.
You told me that.
You are lost, Fanny.
Now I know a demon called obstinacy.
Yawning has become my most authentic emotion.
I have learnt that one can put more life into affection
when we are far from passion.
Everyone should know this.
They should teach it at school.
No one can reproach me for what I feel.
Camilo went to see Manuel Negrão at his estate, Mosteiro.
Fanny is dead.
I saw her a short time ago.
She has the sickening smell of a corpse,
And those eyes you knew are transparent like those of an owl...
Transparent...
Surely it's not that bad!
I feel pity for all of it.
No one is in their right mind there.
They all weep and fall into deep dejection.
Mortified lives have one compensation.
They end in a smile like you say.
But I could have ended in a smile at sixteen,
far from a mortified life.
You would die heroically, the only way to pay all debts.
Rangel was drowning in debt. That's why he gave his life alongside McDonnell.
Perhaps.
Miguelism was not Dom Miguel.
It was us.
The unfulfilled.
When José Augusto went to stay at the Hotel Barthés in Oporto
with Fanny,
it was with great reluctance that Camilo went to see them.
If you must weep like that, it would be better if you didn't recognise me.
What's the matter, Fanny?
What ails you?
No one tells me anything.
It's not serious.
It's a pain below the left kidney,
and my lungs are affected.
When I was a child I was sick of my chest,
and I coughed a lot.
I used to take poppy syrup at night and it calmed me.
She's very weak.
We're going to spend time in Madeira.
Do you want to come, too?
They never left the mainland.
José Augusto still had the house furnished at Vilar de Paraíso.
When they got back to the house at Lodeiro,
Fanny felt worse and they stayed there.
Dona Maria Rita came to see her daughter.
Fanny...
Maria is going to get married.
What dress will she wear?
Mine will be white satin.
I want my night to be so bright
it will melt the dark.
Don't cry.
Don't listen to me, and don't cry.
The spirit of an invalid
is called presumption.
Is there no man there...
... who will love me?
He loves you, Fanny.
He loves you dearly.
But you are not ordinary people.
The fire burns in the deepest of ordinary things.
You see, José Augusto...
I began badly,
but it doesn't matter.
I will come back.
José Augusto, my son!
What is an ordinary person?
Tell me, José Augusto.
Once, I walked along a street,
one of those no one talks about,
at least not in front of young ladies.
I took it by mistake
for a short cut,
or because something drew me there.
And I saw...
Seated on the doorsteps of poor houses no bigger than dovecots,
I saw...
... ordinary women
so bedecked in Levantine combs and pansy chains
and ribbons and frills and feathers,
they looked like great cradles ready to receive a child,
the son of princes.
They were ordinary.
They taught desire,
the ordinary relative of eternity.
Fanny...
I want to die
before the mystery of our love becomes a vapid sin.
Tell Camilo
I am sorry not to be able to love him.
If I could be happy with you,
I would always see a black cloud in the happiness.
It would be his sadness.
I feel the flame of my passion
would take you
beyond the limits of pleasure.
I want to win you over, José Augusto.
To possess you,
steal you from everyone
and yourself.
From your disposition...
your disposition.
I spoke to you on my star.
Who do you see on that star?
Will resignation be easy?
Do you know, José Augusto...
I no longer suffer with those who suffer.
Your misfortune no longer moves me.
I only long for my heart,
which I lost.
José Augusto is not here, Fanny.
It is Doctor Joaquim Ferreira.
Memory went with the soul.
Maybe there is something!
Let's pray.
What shoes was she wearing when she eloped with me?
What were they like?
Leather, with silk laces?
Or cotton fabric?
If we place a drop of blessed candle wax on her heart,
she'll wake up.
But no one wants to call the dead.
I was much to blame in all this.
Not so.
She was susceptible to this.
As a child she was anaemic,
and at twelve she was very ill.
I rather think one lung was affected from that time.
If only I were certain,
I wouldn't feel this weight,
this remorse,
this darkness.
But you can't give me that certainty.
Only with an autopsy.
Or in any case, a medical report!
I would rather see you distressed than impatient.
There is some outrage that is consuming your heart.
About three days ago, I asked Fanny if I could read her diary.
I found pages torn out.
Her mystery was no longer there.
I cannot even imagine what made her suffer so much.
There's a place that will be forever dark.
Although he believed Dr. Joaquim Ferreira
regarding proof of Fanny's virginity,
which Camilo himself had asked him to verify,
the episode of the autopsy leads one to suppose
that José Augusto wanted to know whether Fanny had had a past.
Do I frighten you, girl?
No, Sir. I just feel uneasy when I come in here.
It's a heart.
A muscle that's stopped...
... like a stopped clock.
You weren't uneasy when you could feel it beating in her breast,
in her pulse.
That's when it was frightening.
Extraordinary things came of it.
The destiny of one man,
of more than one even.
Absolute and vengeful truth was also made there.
Even God on his throne was built within there,
Like a feat of engineering...
a bridge...
... or a road.
Now look.
It's clean, harmless.
With no smell or fire.
With nothing that can cause disorder in the world.
Let me leave, Sir.
Did you like your mistress?
She was a good lady.
But you didn't love her.
She was an angel,
but you didn't love her.
She had virtues, gifts,
marvellous beauty.
But all that was useless to you.
No, don't rush away.
Wait...
What do you do to love someone?
We live torn to pieces, in search of our bodies scattered all over the earth.
The belly screams, wanting to forget sin.
The liver moans, pressed against the right.
And the heart in a thousand pieces,
goes down wretched alleyways seeking the blood it circulates.
Do I frighten you, girl?
No, Sir. I just feel uneasy when I come in here.
It's a heart.
A muscle that's stopped,
like a stopped clock.
You weren't uneasy when you could feel it beating in her breast,
in her pulse.
That's when it was frightening.
Extraordinary things came of it.
The destiny of one man,
of more than one even.
Absolute and vengeful truth was also made there.
Even God on his throne was built within there,
Like a feat of engineering...
... a bridge or a road.
Now look.
It's clean, harmless,
with no smell or fire.
With nothing that can cause disorder in the world.
Let me leave, Sir.
Did you like your mistress?
She was a good lady.
But you didn't love her.
She was an angel,
but you didn't love her.
She had virtues, gifts,
marvellous beauty.
But all that was useless to you.
No.
Don't rush away.
Wait...
What do you do to love someone?
We live torn to pieces, in search of our bodies scattered all over the earth.
The belly screams, wanting to forget sin.
The liver moans, pressed against the right.
And the heart in a thousand pieces,
goes down wretched alleyways seeking the blood it circulates.
It is good to know that I don't make you suffer.
Freedom is this.
I have been much bothered by a black butterfly
that has been flying round me all night.
What can it be?
In days of great sadness
when I have missed you most,
this house has been full of white butterflies.
That apparition was soothing to my heart.
Do you hear?
It's our master.
If he feels like it,
why not go out in the cool of night?
They say he looks like a werewolf,
his eyes aflame,
and his horse's hooves making sparks on the stones.
Let them talk.
"My dear Raimundo,"
"I received your letter which touched me greatly."
"In this situation, there is nothing to ease my suffering."
"I believe this wound cannot heal, except in the tomb."
"Then it will because the idea of going to where that angel of virtue is,"
"suits me well."
"I have lived alone."
"The rector of this parish keeps me company at times"
"and I try to delude my suffering,"
"but the illusion is short-lived."
"This did not happen in vain"
"because from now on life will weigh upon me..."
"I intend to go to Lisbon by road, but I will let you know."
"I will be away all of this month."
"You can see my departure is not so painful."
"See how I lived this year, remembering the year that has past."
"And how I will forget."
"The world is what it is."
"Life is composed of these alternatives"
"but I have been very unhappy."
"Goodbye."
"Send me your news."
"And thank your wife for me, for her kind letter."
"Forgive me for not answering it"
"but the need to catch the mail, and my present state,"
"prevented me."
"I am yours as always, your brother and friend."
"José Augusto."
"Vilar de Paraíso,"
"12/8/54."
"My dear sister,"
"I leave today for Lisbon on the Cysne,"
"I am sick in body and soul."
"Remember me to Raimundo and tell him I hope to see him in Lisbon."
"I offer you my portrait and that of your friend."
"I can only be a friend to those who respect the memory of that angel."
"I shall write on arrival."
"I would ask you to place the other portrait in the drawing room"
"where it was before,"
"Your very devoted, José Augusto."
"Oporto,"
"9/9/54."
José Augusto went to find Hugo Owen
at the hotel where he was staying in Lisbon,
with a view to better examining Fanny's past.
And since I am one of these men for whom love is the source of life,
I have the right to know more about Fanny's past.
Don't perturb me with the memory of Fanny.
Your sense of humanity does not correspond to mine.
You, sir, are an example of the chaotic state of society.
Fine principles but a lack of spirit to put them into practice!
Sensitivity and the egoism that simulates it;
pompous speeches yet a dearth of experience.
There are organisations so weak,
it is hard to credit their existence.
If I asked myself what I am, I would be most terribly embarrassed.
I am incomprehensible, that is the most that I can claim!
But this is not about me at the moment.
It's Fanny and her mystery.
Let silence fall on this mad story that was your life
and that of my sister with you.
It may still be of some use.
The mystery of Fanny, you say!
If there was a mystery,
let it reach maturity.
It may be fertile material many years from now.
It is not for us to uncover it.
Tell me exactly what happened.
You already know that he is dead...
Who's dead?
Another poet?
At this time of year a lot of them die.
Dysentery of the soul grabs them...
... and so, goodbye!
Let me hear, Vieira de Castro.
A friend's death is a serious matter.
There are only two serious things,
honour and money.
Death is merely a moral accident.
Bring us some cognac.
An accident with provocation, Vieira de Castro.
The fact is, his death aroused suspicion.
José de Melo has written to Raimundo for details about what happened.
He thinks, as we all do, there was something amiss.
Why was Fanny's brother in the same hotel where José Augusto died?
All I know...
... is that José Augusto represented society as it is,
talent without common sense,
barbarity mixed with culture;
sensitivity...
... and the most complete egotism.
I don't think he meant to commit suicide.
He took a little opium to calm his usual agitation,
and it seems the dose was no greater than what he was used to.
But the result was fatal.
The result of anything in the world is always fatal.
If he had survived that, too, would have been fatal.
Nothing corrupts fatality.
If fatality were a woman,
I would marry her.
If I should write about this affair one day,
I'll say he died of a brain fever.
It's more elegant.
And readers like that.
Please!
Bring more cognac.
Subtitles by Sheila Cardno and Ana de Freitas
Revued by Melinda Eltenton