Eca de Queiros Singularities of a blond girl I begin by saying that his case was simple - and that was called Macarius ... Should I tell this man I met at an in n of Minho. He was tall and thick: I had a large bald, shiny and smooth, with re pas white ruffled around to it: and his black eyes, with skin wrinkled round and yellow, and dark circles Papudo, had a singular clarity and righteousness - beh ind his round spectacles with an air of turtle. He had shaved his beard, protrud ing chin and resolute. She wore a tight black satin tie from behind with a buckl e, a long coat Chesnut, with narrow sleeves and fair cannon velours. And by the opening of his long waistcoat of silk, which shone a shackle old, left the soft folds of an embroidered shirt. Was this in September: the nights have come earli er, with a thin, dry and chill darkness ostentatious. I had to step down, tired, hungry, shivering in a scarlet cobrejão lists. Came to cross the mountain and i ts aspects browns and deserts. It was eight o'clock at night. The skies were hea vy and dirty. And, that was a certain numbness produced by cerebral monotonous r oll of the investigation, or was the weakness of nervous fatigue, or the influen ce of steep and barren landscape on the hollow silence of night, or the oppressi on of the electricity that filled the heights - the fact is that I - that I am n aturally positive and realistic - he had been bullied by imagination and fantasi es. There, at the bottom of each one of us is right - so coldly polite to be - a remnant of mysticism, and sometimes just a gloomy landscape, the old wall of a cemetery, a desert ascetic, the whiteness of a softening moonlight, so that this fund mystic rise, extending like a fog, fill the soul, feel and idea, and it lo oks like the more mathematical or more critical - so sad, so visionary, so ideal istic - like an old monk poet. To me, that I cast on chimera and dream away the appearance of the monastery of Rake, which I had seen the light and mild autumn afternoon, in her sweet hill. Then, as night fell, the diligence rolled continuo usly trot tucked up their skinny white horses and the coachman, with the hood on his head buried in Gabon, mulling his pipe - I stood elegiacally, ridiculously, to consider the sterility of life: and wanted to be a monk, being in a convent, still, among trees or in the hollow of a valley humming, and while the water ar ound singing loudly in the basins of stone, read the Imitation, and listening to the nightingales in the bay, to miss the sky. - You can not be more stupid. But I was so, and attach to this provision the lack of visionary spirit - and feel - that made me the story of the man the guns of velveteen. My curiosity got the supper, when I undid the breast of a chicken smothered in white rice, with slice s of pork sausage scarlet - and the maid, a plump and full of freckles, was frot hing green wine in the glass, causing him to fall on top of a glazed mug. The ma n was in front of me, quietly eating their jelly: I asked him, with his mouth fu ll, my linen napkin Guimarães suspended in his fingers - if it was Vila Real. - I live there. Many years ago - he told me. - Land of beautiful women, as I under stand - I said. The man was silent. - Huh? - Become. The man contracted a silenc e prominent. So far been happy, laughing dilate talkative and full of bonhomie. But then pinned his thin smile. I knew I had touched the raw flesh of a memory. There was certainly the fate of that old woman. Here was his melodrama or the sc am because unconsciously established myself in the idea that the fact the case t hat man was to be exhaling grotesque and mockery. So that he said: - I have been told that the women of Vila Real are the most beautiful of the North. For black eyes Guimaraes bodies to Santo Aleixo, braids for Arches: that's where you see the hair, color of wheat. The man was silent, eating, eyes lowered: - To narrow waists Viana, Amarante skins for good - and it all Vila Real. I have a friend wh o came to marry the barracks. Maybe you know. Peixoto, a tall, blond-bearded, ba chelor. - Peixoto, yes - he told me, looking at me seriously. - Came to marry Vi la Real as it was formerly married to Andalusia - a matter of getting the flower to perfection. - To your health. I evidently embarrassed him, because he rose, went to the window with a heavy tread, and then we noticed his thick woolen shoe s with strong soles and leather laces. And he left.
When I asked my candlestick, the maid brought me a shiny brass lamp and antique and said: - Are you with another. It is in paragraph 3. In the inns of Minho,so metimes, every room is a dorm naughty. - Go - I said. Paragraph 3 was down the h
all. At the gateway side of the guests had put his shoes shine: they were riding boots are thick, muddy, with spurs, belt, white shoes of a hunter, owner of boo ts, red high pipes, the boots of a priest, tall, with its tassel of silk, the Ca mbados boots, calf, a student, and one of the doors, paragraph 15, there were bo ots for woman, duraque, tiny, thin, and beside the little boots of a child , all scratched and beaten, and his pipe-major kid fell to her sides with the laces u ntied. Everyone slept. In front of No. 3 were the shoes with cashmere ties: and as I opened the door I saw the man cannons velours, that tied in the head a silk handkerchief: it was a jacket with short branches, half wool, thick and high, a nd the feet thrust in some slippers skirt. - You do not notice - he said. - At e ase - and to establish intimacy took the coat. I will not say the grounds on whi ch he shortly afterwards, let down, told me his story. There is a proverb that s ays Slavic Galicia: "What is not accountable to your wife tells you a stranger i n the inn." But he had unexpected anger and dominant for his long and felt confi dence. It was about my friend, Pat, who was married to Vila Real. I saw him cry to him for almost sixty years old. Perhaps the story is judged trivial to me, th at night was nervous and sensitive, it seemed terrible - but it only count as a single accident of lovemaking ... He began by telling me that because his case w as simple - and that was called Macarius. I then asked him if it was a family I knew who had the nickname of Macarius. And as he said he was a cousin of these, I soon had an idea of his character sympathetic, because Makarios were an ancien t family, almost a dynasty of merchants, with a severity that maintained their o ld religious tradition of honor and scruples. Macarius told me that at this time in 1823 or 33, in his youth, his uncle Francis had in Lisbon, a warehouse of ra gs, and he was one of the clerks. After his uncle was convinced of certain insti ncts and talent intelligent and practical arithmetic Macarius, and gave him the bookkeeping. Macarius became its bookkeeper. He told me that being naturally lym phatic and even shy, his life was at that time very concentrated. A scrupulous a nd faithful work, very few picnic in the countryside, a truly outstanding refine ment and white clothes, was all the interest in their life. The existence at tha t time, was homely and tightened. A great simplicity delves into social mores: t he spirits were more naive, less complicated feelings. Dine happily in a garden, under the vines, seeing running water from irrigation - with the cry melodramas that roared between the wings of Salitre, lighted the wax, were the bourgeois c ontentment that it took only cautious. In addition, the times were confusing and Revolutionaries: and nothing makes a man collapsed, nestled by the fireplace, s imple and easily happy - like war. It is the peace, giving the wanderings of the imagination because the impatience of desire. Macarius the twenty-two, had not yet - as I said an old aunt, who had wanted the judge Curved Semedo, of Arcadia - towards Venus. But by that time moved in front to the Makarios warehouse to a third floor, a woman of forty, dressed in mourning, a white skin and dull, and m ade the bust and round and a desirable aspect. Macarius had his wallet on the fi rst floor above the store, beside a balcony, and he saw that morning a woman wit h black hair loose and curly, a white robe and bare arms, to arrive at a small w indow sill , rocking a dress. Macarius was stated and without any intention that the woman was saying mentally, in their twenties, should have been a captivatin g and full of respect: because their violent and rough hair, the thick eyebrows, lip strong, aquiline profile and firm revealed a passionate temper and active i maginations. However, continued quietly lining up their figures. But at night he sat smoking at the window of his room that opened onto the courtyard: it was in July and the atmosphere was electric and loving: the fiddle wailed a neighbor a Moorish ballad, which then sensitized, and it was a melodrama: the room was a t wilight sweet and full of mystery - and Macarius, who was in slippers, began lem brarse those with black hair and strong arms and those who had the color of pale marbles: stretched, rolled his head viciously from behind the wicker chair, as cats are sensitive to scrub,yawning and decided that his life was monotonous. A nd the next day, still impressed, he sat at his desk with the window wide open, and looking at the building opposite, where those living with long hair - slowly began to trim his sentence of wool. But nobody came to the window sill, with gr een sashes. Macarius was tired, heavy - and work was slow. It seemed that the st
reet had a cheerful sun, and shadows in the fields should be mimosas and that wo uld be fine seeing the beating of white butterflies in the honeysuckle! And when he closed the book, she felt running up against the glass, they were certainly black hair. But appeared
some blond hair. Oh! And Macarius came to be pointed to the porch trim a pencil. It was a girl of twenty years, perhaps - fine, fresh, blonde English as a vigne tte: the whiteness of the skin had something of the transparency of old porcelai n, and there was a line in your profile pure, like an old coin, and the old pict uresque poets would have him called - dove, ermine, snow and gold. Macarius said to himself: - She is the daughter. The other was dressed in mourning, but she, the blonde, had a muslin dress with blue spots, a cambric handkerchief pierced o n the chest, lost with lace sleeves, and everything was clean, young, fresh, fle xible and tender. Macarius, at that time was blond with a short beard. Her hair was curly and his form should have that dry air and nervous that after the eight eenth century and the revolution - was so vulgar plebeian races. The blond girl noticed naturally in Macarius, and of course down the window, running behind a c urtain of muslin embroidered. These small blind date from Goethe's love life and have an interesting destination: reveal. Raising her a tip and stalk, gently ea sed it reveals an end, we will run it, preach it a flower, stir, making you feel that a face behind eye moves and waiting - with that old ways are in reality an d art, the novel begins. The curtain rose slowly and peered face blonde. Macariu s did not tell me by pulsation - the detailed story of your heart. He said that this single-handedly to five days - was crazy about her. His work soon became sl ow and unfaithful and her beautiful cursive English, firm and wide, won curves, hooks, doodles, where all the romance was impatient of their nerves. Could not s ee the morning: the sun was beating cheek July and scalded the small window sill . Only in the afternoon the curtain is wrinkled, if running the window, and she stretched a pad on the edge of the sill, was encostarse mimosa and fresh with it s range. Fan who worried Macarius: ventarola was a Chinese, round, white silk, e mbroidered with dragons scarlet feather, a square of blue plumage, thin and trem bling like a fuzz and its ivory handle, hung with two tassels of gold thread had inlaid mother of pearl to the beautiful Persian way. It was a magnificent range and at that time unexpected unwashed hands of a girl dressed in muslin. But as she was blonde and the mother as southern Macarius, with this Valentine's interp retative intuition told her curiosity: is the daughter of English. The Englishma n goes to China to Persia to Hormuz, Australia and is full of those gems of exot ic luxuries, and Macarius not know why that ventarola mandarin worried well: but as he told me - it gave him the goto . He had spent a week when one day he saw Macarius, his wallet, which she, the blonde, went out with her mother because he r mother had come to consider it that magnificent person, beautifully pale and d ressed in mourning. Macarius came to the window and saw them crossing the street and enter the warehouse. In your warehouse! Down just trembling, eager, passion ate and palpitations. They were already leaning over the counter and a clerk des dobravalhes front cashmere. This moved Macario. He even told me. - Because in th e end, my dear, it was natural that they come to buy for themselves, cashmere. A nd not: they did not use Amazon, certainly would not want to upholster chairs wi th cashmere, there were men in their house, so that coming to the warehouse was a delicate way to see it up close, to talk to him, and had the charm of a pervas ive lie sentimental. I told Makarios that, therefore, surprising that he should move loving, denoted as the parent complicity equivocal. He told me that never t hought of that. What he did was reach over the counter and say stupidly: - Yes s ir, they served well, they do not shrink cashmeres. And the blonde looked up at him his blue eyes, and Macario was like to feel involved in the sweetness of a s ky. But when he would tell you a word revealing and passionate, appeared at the bottom of the warehouse's uncle Francis, with his long coat color pinion, yellow buttons.As it was quaint and outmoded acharse Mr. bookkeeper selling over the counter and uncle Francisco, with its close and critical of celibacy, could be s candalized, Macarius began to slowly climb the spiral staircase leading to the o ffice and still heard the gentle voice of the blonde said softly: - Now wanted t
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