Francisca Page #2

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Women dress up in such a manner

that they falsify the gospels.

The husband cannot say:

"Flesh from my flesh"

when half of it

is cotton paste.

- Why don't you go take a rest?

- I will in a minute.

The cottier had a strife

with his wife, and...

Please help my mother,

he wants to kill her!

Please help!

During a ball in the banquet halls

of the Baron de Corvo.

An ass loaded with money can climb

wherever he wants to.

That man who is laughing

is Ricardo Browne,

who owes me a duel,

which is not exactly the same

a handful of straw.

Come see the most beautiful

three women in this hall.

Are they not the prettiest

in Oporto?

The entire Oporto is here.

Come see.

This is a chimera.

I prefer more classical things.

This woman loves someone.

- Who is he?

- He is a pernicious man.

- Pernicious? Why?

- He has no soul.

And what is a soul?

A butterfly doesn't have a soul either.

Yet it knows, like no one,

how to touch flowers.

Let him be.

With every word he says,

a flower falls off your crown.

Every smile you send him

will extinguish one of the thousand

lights that brighten his world.

- Let him pass.

- I thought you were his friend.

Friendship does not preclude

the ungratefulness of lucidity.

I am ungrateful, perhaps.

But without any infamy.

He has told me once:

"My existence shall not be long".

To think of death at the age of 25

is either poetry or a crime.

- Is he your friend?

- He paid my debts

and saved from death.

That doesn't mean that he's my friend.

He who knows what a friend is

will know what a soul is.

The soul is not a chair that you

offer to a visit. The soul is...

- Is?

- The soul is a vice.

- What?

- Don't treat me like an ignorant.

One can be innocent

without being ignorant.

My God! In your face I can read

curiosity, compassion,

offended dignity,

fear of your own candor

or of the intention of manly courage.

Everything that ends in pernicious love.

Pernicious...

A soul is not a chair

that you offer to a visit... A soul is

The soul is a vice.

- What?

- Don't treat me like an ignorant.

One can be innocent

without being ignorant.

My God! In your face I can read

curiosity, compassion,

offended dignity,

fear of your own candor

or of the intention of manly courage.

Everything that ends in pernicious love.

Pernicious...

- How is the ball?

- The ball is magnificent.

I don't dance and I don't like

the music, it's true.

I was born to be a judge,

in Terras do Bouro,

where b*tches mate

with wolves.

I don't belong in this society.

Here, digestion is easy

and spirits are witty.

Spirit is something

you don't lack, Camilo.

And you will die an independent man,

all bitten by your genius

and smallpox,

as they say.

And sing the poems of Cames

every time

I am called to testify

in favor of my century.

Can you see that woman over there?

It is Raquel, married to man

twenty-five years older

than her. She has fourteen lovers,

as far as it is known, but all sceptical

poets in Oporto love her.

When each of their victories

in the obtention of this woman's

favors represents

nothing but defeat.

Taken by jealousy and all the

mistakes of rivalry's prejudices,

they all end up as deserters,

yet not being unfaithful to her.

But have you also been her lover?

I've been indiscrete...

For indiscretion or frivolity,

I let her read a letter

that Maria had written to me.

She returned it to me and said:

"I could never challenge you to

exchange letters.

When written, these things

should be prohibited".

- You were imprudent!

She is a beautiful woman,

with a thick mouth and the

dull skin of creole women.

You were fascinated

with the prestige of being her lover,

but, in fact, you avoided

provocative encounters.

I pretended to respect her, something

that Raquel considered wise.

When you do not want a woman,

you should promote her confusion,

something which is not hurtful

like a simple "no".

Oporto is particularly tolerant

of unfaithful women

as long as they are intelligent enough

not to prefer the lover to

her duties before society.

Tastes are not to be discussed,

as long as we don't

make mistakes because of them.

It is a mistake to be tendered

by a destiny,

when it is only about loving

a man,

something brief

and of little importance.

Beautiful Raquel, furthermore,

has but one passion:

To pile up a solid fortune

and administer her rents.

The way she fights

with the servants

or settles accounts

with a foreman,

will harden even

the most enchanted heart.

Truth is, things are made easy for

her everywhere.

Deeds, land acquisitions,

innumerable businesses.

It is more harmless to offer her

favors with corruption

than feelings

with consequences.

- We scared the cattle away from

the fair! - And spilt our drinks!

We smashed those cakes and buns!

- We made women scream!

- Ora pro nobis.

- We blew up mortars!

- Ora pro nobis.

When a sad man laughs, it's because

he found someone even sadder.

If you suffer at the

age to be happy,

you'll never believe

in happiness again.

Neither as a casual thing,

nor as a reward.

I know what that is.

You'll want sorrow forever

if it has carried you in its bosom

and been your nursemaid.

Unhappiness

is a form of renouncement;

it has nothing to do

with disgrace.

It is the most torrid of lovers

and for her we'll sacrifice everything:

honor and friends,

and even God.

We are 23 years old.

When we are old,

will we know what youngsters

talk about?

I wish I could live in a place

like this.

To be what I could have been,

in my village,

if I had never left.

Here, a woman would have the value

given to her

by the first passion.

The women who live

in that house

must often sit

under this tree.

- Who lives in that house?

- Maria and Fanny.

Let's leave.

This sadness is too much.

We almost reached a point

in which we love women

we have seen

only once in our lifetimes.

I'll never forget this place,

this day, the nostalgia that I feel.

Let's eat fried shad

and find two young girls.

You are right.

- Which one do you prefer?

- They are not my type.

- What if we fall in love?

- You, in love?

Weren't you sceptical?

Isn't your heart

like the trunk in my room,

hard and empty?

Do you think I cannot love a woman?

You can. But only as an effect

of a galvanic shock.

You'd drop dead.

I shouldn't tell you this.

Sometimes we say cruel things

so that we don't cry.

Listen, Jos Augusto, some people

were not born to love someone.

Loving thy neighbor is a trifle that

distracts us from frightening things.

Passion is one

of those frightening things.

Not the passion for glory,

or for a woman.

It is perhaps the consequence

of this lack of eternity.

I feel spiteful for not being a god.

Let us forget all that, Jos Augusto.

Let us never return

to Vilar de Paraso.

Those two girls are snobs.

Their mother is a smug woman.

I bet that all of them would laugh

at everything that makes us cry.

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