All language subtitles for Francisca; 1981

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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 Paraiso,

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 Paraiso,

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 sol!

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 Angusto?

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 Paraiso.

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 Angusto.

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 Paraiso.

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 Paraiso

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 Negréo,
by chance, passes by his door.

Hello, Manuel Negrao!

- 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 Sa 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 Antonio 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, Negréo."

"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 Paraiso,

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.

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.

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!

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 Paraiso.

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?

Is that what you want?

What I feel is perfect love, Camilo.

Beyond perfection...

... 1s 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!

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!

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 Negréao 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 Negréo,
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
the 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 Xl verse XXVII.

Fanny's family did not attend
the marriage by proxy

at the church of St. Ildefonso.

José Augusto Pinto de Magalhaes,

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 Magalhaes,

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?

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 Joao 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 Negréao
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 Paraiso.

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.

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 aroad.

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?

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?

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."

"lI 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 Paraiso,"

"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 is 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.

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