Chronicle of the Murdered House
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Chronicle of the Murdered House
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Overview
Winner of the 2017 Best Translated Book Award
Longlisted for the 2017 National Translation Award
"The book itself is strange—part Faulknerian meditation on the perversities, including sexual, of degenerate country folk; part Dostoevskian examination of good and evil and God—but in its strangeness lies its rare power, and in the sincerity and seriousness with which the essential questions are posed lies its greatness."—Benjamin Moser, from the introduction
Long considered one of the most important works of twentieth-century Brazilian literature, Chronicle of the Murdered House is finally available in English.
Set in the southeastern state of Minas Gerais, the novel relates the dissolution of a once proud patriarchal family that blames its ruin on the marriage of its youngest son, Valdo, to Nina—a vibrant, unpredictable, and incendiary young woman whose very existence seems to depend on the destruction of the household. This family's downfall, peppered by stories of decadence, adultery, incest, and madness, is related through a variety of narrative devices, including letters, diaries, memoirs, statements, confessions, and accounts penned by the various characters.
Lúcio Cardoso (1912-1968) turned away from the social realism fashionable in 1930s Brazil and opened the doors of Brazilian literature to introspective works such as those of Clarice Lispector—his greatest follower and admirer.
Margaret Jull Costa has translated dozens of works from both Spanish and Portuguese, including books by Javier Marías and José Saramago. Her translations have received numerous awards, including the International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award. In 2014 she was made an Officer of the Order of the British Empire.
Robin Patterson was mentored by Margaret Jull Costa, and has translated Our Musseque by José Luandino Vieira.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781940953519 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Open Letter |
| Publication date: | 11/21/2016 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 592 |
| File size: | 3 MB |
About the Author
Lúcio Cardoso (1912-1968) is one of the leading Brazilian writers of the period between 1930 and 1960. As well as authoring dozens of novels and short stories, he was also active as a playwright, poet, journalist, filmmaker, and painter. Within the history of Brazilian literature, his oeuvre pioneered subjective scrutiny of the modern self, bringing to the fore the personal dramas and dilemmas that underlie perceptions of collective existence.
Margaret Jull Costahas translated dozens of works from both Spanish and Portuguese, including books by Javier Marías and José Saramago. Her translations have received numerous awards, including the International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award. In 2014 she was made an Officer of the Order of the British Empire.
Robin Patterson was mentored by Margaret Jull Costa, and has translated Our Musseque by José Luandino Vieira.
Read an Excerpt
Chronicle of the Murdered House
By Lúcio Cardoso, Margaret Jull Costa, Robin Patterson
OPEN LETTER
Copyright © 1959 Estate of Lúcio CardosoAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-940953-51-9
CHAPTER 1
Andrés Diary [conclusion]
18th ... 19 ... - (... what exactly does death mean? Once she's far from me — her mortal remains buried beneath the earth — how long will I have to go on retracing the path she taught me, her admirable lesson of love, how long will I keep trying to find in other women, in all the many women one meets throughout one's life, the velvet of her kisses — "this was how she used to kiss "— her way of smiling, the same rebellious lock of hair -and who will help me rebuild, out of grief and longing, that unique image gone forever? And what does "forever" mean — the harsh, pompous echo of those words rings down the deserted hallways of the soul — the "forever" that is, in fact, meaningless, not even a visible moment in the very instant in which we think it, and yet that is all we have, because it is the one definitive word available to us in our scant earthly vocabulary ...
Yes, what does "forever" mean, save the continuous, fluid existence of everything cut free from contingency, of everything that changes and evolves and breaks ceaselessly on the shores of equally mutable feelings? There was no point in trying to hide: the "forever" was there before my eyes. A minute, a single minute — and that, too, would escape any attempt to grasp it, while I myself will escape and slip away — also forever — and like a pile of cold, futile flotsam, all my love and pain and even my faithfulness will drift away — forever. Yes, what else is "forever" but the final image of this world, and not just this world, but any world that we bind together with the illusory architecture of dreams and permanence — all our games and pleasures, all our ills and fears, loves and betrayals — it is, in short, the impulse that shapes not our everyday self, but the possible, never-achieved self that we pursue as one might pursue the trail of a never-to-be-requited love, and that becomes, in the end, only the memory of a lost love — but lost where and when? — in a place we do not know, but whose loss pierces us and, whether justifiably or not, hurls every one of us into that nothing or that all-consuming everything where we vanish into the general, the absolute, the perfection we so utterly lack.)
... All day I wandered about the empty house, unable to dredge up even enough courage to enter the drawing room. Ah, how painfully intense was the knowledge that she no longer belonged to me, that she was merely a piece of plunder to be manhandled by strangers without tenderness or understanding. Somewhere far from me, very far, they would be uncovering her now defenseless body, and with the sad diligence of the indifferent, would dress her for the last time, never even imagining that her flesh had once been alive and had often trembled with love — that she had once been younger, more splendid than all the world's most blossoming youth. No, this was not the right death for her, at least, I had never imagined it would be like this, in the few difficult moments when I could imagine it — so brutal, so final, so unfair, like a young plant being torn from the earth.
But there was no point in remembering what she had been — or, rather, what we had been. Therein lay the explanation: two beings hurled into the maelstrom of one exceptional circumstance and suddenly stopped, brought up short — she, her face frozen in its final, dying expression, and me, still standing, although God knows for how long, my body still shaken by the last echo of that experience. I wanted only to wander through the rooms, as bare now as the stage when the principal actor has made his final exit — and all the weariness of the last few days washed over me, and I was filled by a sense of emptiness, not an ordinary emptiness, but the total emptiness that suddenly and forcefully replaces everything that was once impulse and vibrancy. Blindly, as if in obedience to a will not my own, I opened doors, leaned out of windows, walked through rooms: the house no longer existed.
Knowing this put me beyond consolation; no affectionate, no despairing words could touch me. Like a stock pot removed from the flame, but in whose depths the remnants still boil and bubble, what gave me courage were my memories of the days I had just lived through. Meanwhile, as if prompted by a newfound strength, I managed, once or twice, to go over to the room where she lay and half-open the door to watch what was happening from a distance. Everything was now so repellently banal: it could have been the same scene I had known as a child, had it not been transfigured, as if by a potent, irresistible exhalation, by the supernatural breath that fills any room touched by the presence of a corpse. The dining table, which, during its long life, had witnessed so many meals, so many family meetings and councils — and how often, around those same boards, had Nina herself been judged and dissected? — had been turned into a temporary bier. On each corner, placed there with inevitable haste, stood four solitary candles. Cheap, ordinary candles, doubtless found at the bottom of some forgotten drawer. And to think that this was the backdrop to her final farewell, the stage on which she would say her last goodbye.
I would again close the door, feeling how impossible it was for me to imagine her dead. No other being had seemed safer from, more immune to extinction. Even in her final days, when there was clearly no other possible denouement, even when, terrified, I understood from the silence and the stillness that she was condemned to die, even then I could not imagine her in the situation I saw her in now, lying on the table, wrapped in a sheet, her hands bound together in prayer, her eyes closed, her nose unexpectedly aquiline (I remembered her voice: "My father always said I had some Jewish blood in me ..."). No other being had ever been more intensely caught up in the dynamic mechanism of life, and her laughter, her voice, her whole presence, was a miracle we believed would survive all disasters.
However hard I try to conjure her back, she is no longer here. So why speak of or even think these things? Sometimes, awareness of my loss strikes through me like lightning: I see her dead then, and such is the pain of losing her that I almost stop breathing. Why, why, I mutter to myself. I lean against the wall, the blood rushes to my head, my heart pounds furiously. What pain is this that afflicts me, what emotion, what new depths of insecurity, what is this complete and utter lack of faith or interest in my fellow human beings? But these feelings last only a fraction of a second. The sheer energy of our shared existence, the fact that she was still alive yesterday, that she touched my arm with her still warm hands and made a simple request, like asking me to close a window, all this restores to me an apparent calm, and slowly I repeat to myself: it's true, but I no longer feel the same utter despair, my blood does not rise up before the undeniable truth that she is dead — and I feel as if I no longer believed it, that a last glimmer of hope still burned inside me. Deep in some passive corner of my mind, I imagine that, tomorrow, she will demand that I bring her some flowers, the same flowers that surrounded her in the last days, not as an adornment or a consolation, but as a frantic, desperate attempt to conceal the indiscreet presence of unavoidable tragedy. Everything grows quiet inside me, and that lie brings me back to life. I continue to imagine that soon I will go down the steps into the garden and pick violets from the bed nearest the Pavilion, where there are still clumps of violets to be found in the undergrowth; I imagine that if I walk around the garden, as I have done every day, I will be able to make up a small bouquet of violets and wrap them in a scented mallow leaf, while I repeat over and over, as if those words were capable of devouring the last shreds of reality: "It's for her, these flowers are for her." A kind of hallucination overwhelms me; I can hear her slow, soft voice, saying: "Put the flowers on the window sill, my love." And at last I see her, intact, perfect and eternal in her triumph, sitting next to me, pressing the violets to her face.
Slowly I return to the world. Not far off, probably out on the verandah, a woman remarks how hot it is and mops her brow. I try to recast the spell — in vain, the voice has gone. Through the window, I see the sun beating down on the parched flower beds. Feeling my way cautiously through a now unrecognizable world, I walk down the hallway to the room where the body has been laid out. I know there must be a look of almost criminal hunger on my face, but what does it matter? I hurl myself on the coffin, indifferent to everything and everyone around me. I see Donana de Lara draw back in horror, and Aunt Ana regards me with evident disgust. Two pale hands, sculpted out of silence and greed, smooth the wrinkled sheet — I imagine they belong to Uncle Demetrio. But what do I care about any of them? Nothing more exists of the one thing that united us: Nina. Now, as far as I'm concerned, they have all been relegated to the past along with other nameless, useless things. I see her adored face, and am amazed to find it so serene, so distant from me, her adored son, who so often covered with kisses and tears that brow growing pale beneath the departing warmth, the son who kissed her now tightly closed lips, who touched the weary curve of her breast, kissed her belly, legs and feet, who lived only for her love — and I, too, died a little in every vein in my body, every hair on my head, every drop of blood, in my mouth, my voice — in every pulsing source of energy in my body — when she agreed to die, and to die without me ...
... on the penultimate night, as we were waiting for the end, she seemed suddenly to get better and allowed me to come to her. I hadn't seen her for days because, out of sheer caprice and because she was generally in such a foul mood even the doctor was frightened, she had forbidden all visits and ordered that no one should enter her room: she wanted to die alone. From a distance, and despite the darkness in the room — for she only rarely allowed the shutters to be opened — I could make out her weary head resting on a pile of pillows, her hair all disheveled, as if she had long since ceased to care. At that moment, I confess, my courage almost failed me and I could take not a single step forward: a cold sweat broke out on my brow. However, it did not take me long to recognize her old self, since she immediately addressed me in her usual reproving tones:
"Ah, it's you, André. How could you be so inconsiderate when the doctor has plainly said that I must have complete and utter rest?"
Then in a slightly gentler tone:
"Besides, what are you doing in my room?"
Despite these words, she knew perfectly well, especially at that precise moment, that there was no need for either of us to pretend. I hadn't asked to come in, she had been the one to order that her bedroom door be opened — giving in to who knows what impulse, what inner need to know what was happening outside her room? Perhaps she knew that for hours and hours, and days and days, I had not left her door, alert to any sign of life within — a thread of light, a whiff of medicine, an echo — for the slightest sound or sight or smell was enough to make my heart beat faster with anxiety. And so I bowed my head and said nothing. I would do anything, absolutely anything, to be allowed to stay a little longer by her side. Even if she were dying, even if the breath were slowly fading from her lips, I wanted to be there, I wanted to feel that human mechanism continuing to vibrate until the final spring broke. Seeing me so silent, Nina raised herself up a little on the pillows, gave a sigh, and asked me to bring her a mirror. "I just want to fix my face," she said. And as I was about to leave, she called me back. This time her voice sounded quite different, almost affectionate, very like the way in which she used to speak to me. I turned, and she asked me to bring not only a mirror, but also a comb, a bottle of lotion and some face powder. She said this in an almost playful tone, but I wasn't fooled and could sense the silent, bitter agitation beating inside her. I hurried off to find these various things and returned to her side, eager to detect in this gay façade some flicker of genuine joy. She took the mirror first and, as if to avoid a nasty shock, very gingerly turned to regard her reflection — she looked at herself for some time, then again sighed and shrugged, as if to say: "What do I care? The day is sure to come when I'll have to resign myself to not being pretty anymore." It was true that she was very far from what she had been, but the same mysterious attraction that had once so captivated me was still there. That simple shrug of the shoulders was proof to me that the idea of dying was further from her mind than it seemed. This impression was confirmed when, leaning slightly on my arm, she asked in a voice that struggled to be confidential, but succeeded only in expressing a certain repressed anxiety:
"Tell me, André, does he know the state I'm in, does he know I'm at death's door? Does he know this is the end?"
She was looking at me challengingly, and her whole being, concentrated and intent, was asking: "Can't you see that I'm suffering in vain. You can tell me the truth, I know I'm not dying, that my hour has not yet come." I don't know now what I said — what did "he," my father, matter? — and I turned away, precisely because I knew her hour had come, and that she would never leave what was now her deathbed. Nina saw what I was thinking and, placing one hand on my arm, said, trying to laugh as she did so:
"Listen to me, André: I'm better, I'm well, yes, almost better, I've none of the symptoms I had before ... So don't go thinking you're going to rid yourselves of me just yet."
And wrapping me in her warm, sickly breath, she added:
"I can't wait to hear what he'll say when he sees me back on my feet ..."
I almost believed that her astonishing energy had finally triumphed over the germs of death deposited in her flesh. Reclining against the pillows — she was always demanding fresh ones, stuffed with light, cool cotton — she was busy smoothing her tangled hair, while I held the mirror for her. A divine fire, a marvelous presence seemed once again to be stirring inside her.
"The good times will return, won't they, André?" she said as she struggled with her hair grown dry and stiff with fever. "And everything will be just as good as it was in the beginning, you'll see. I'll never forget ..."
(How I longed to be free of those "good times"! She, alas, would not continue in time at all, but I would, and who would keep me company on the long journey ahead?) When I said nothing, she turned and winked at me, as if to prove that the memory of those days was still alive, days I was trying in vain to bury. And oddly enough, despite that attempt to put on a bright, vivacious, youthful air, there was a stoniness about her face, which lent that wink a grotesque, melancholy quality.
"Yes, of course, Mother," I stammered, again bowing my head.
She shot me a glance in which there was still a remnant of her old anger:
"Mother! You've never called me 'Mother' before, so why start now?"
And I was so stunned that the mirror trembled in my hands:
"Of course, Nina, of course the old times will return."
She continued struggling to untangle the knots in her hair, which formed a kind of halo around her head and seemed to be the one thing still alive: through its resurrected waves, a new spring, mysterious and transfigured, was beginning to flow through her veins.
"You need never be angry with me again, André, and you need never again spend hours sitting on the bench in the garden waiting for me." And suddenly, as if giving in to the memory of that scene, her voice took on a velvety tone, tinged with a childish, feminine melancholy, in which I, deeply touched, felt all the pulsating force of her loving soul. "I'll never again hide as I did that time, do you remember? And I'll never pack my bags to go traveling alone."
Tears, landscapes, lost emotions — what did any of that matter now? In my eyes, she seemed to be dissolving like a being made of foam. It wasn't treachery or lies or even forgetting that was causing her to drown (and with me unable to save her), it was, instead, the impetus of what had once been and that she had so cruelly summoned up.
"Oh, dear God, please don't!" I cried.
Then, still vibrant with emotion, still with the comb in her hand, she looked at me as if she had just woken up. And a great darkness filled her eyes.
"You don't understand, do you, you're too stupid!" she said.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Chronicle of the Murdered House by Lúcio Cardoso, Margaret Jull Costa, Robin Patterson. Copyright © 1959 Estate of Lúcio Cardoso. Excerpted by permission of OPEN LETTER.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Contents
1. André's Diary (conclusion), 9,2. First Letter from Nina to Valdo Meneses, 29,
3. The Pharmacist's First Report, 40,
4. Betty's Diary (I), 48,
5. The Doctor's First Report, 67,
6. Second Letter from Nina to Valdo Meneses, 80,
7. The Pharmacist's Second Report, 92,
8. Ana's First Confession, 110,
9. Betty's Diary (II), 122,
10. Valdo Meneses' Letter, 132,
11. The Pharmacist's Third Report, 140,
12. Betty's Diary (III), 150,
13. The Doctor's Second Report, 161,
14. Ana's Second Confession, 173,
15. Continuation of Ana's Second Confession, 185,
16. Father Justino's First Account, 195,
17. André's Diary (II), 208,
18. Letter from Nina to the Colonel, 221,
19. Continuation of Nina's Letter to the Colonel, 230,
20. André's Diary (III), 236,
21. André's Diary (IV), 250,
22. Letter from Valdo to Father Justino, 258,
23. Betty's Diary (IV), 266,
24. The Doctor's Third Report, 277,
25. André's Diary (V), 289,
26. André's Diary (V – continued), 299,
27. Ana's Third Confession, 309,
28. Father Justino's Second Account, 319,
29. Continuation of Ana's Third Confession, 324,
30. Continuation of Father Justino's Second Account, 331,
31. Continuation of Ana's Third Confession, 338,
32. End of Father Justino's Account, 349,
33. End of Ana's Third Confession, 354,
34. Betty's Diary (V), 362,
35. Second Letter from Nina to the Colonel, 370,
36. André's Diary (VI), 378,
37. Valdo's Statement, 392,
38. André's Diary (VII), 400,
39. The Colonel's Statement, 411,
40. Ana's Fourth Confession, 424,
41. André's Diary (VIII), 439,
42. The Doctor's Last Report, 448,
43. Continuation of André's Diary (IX), 458,
44. Valdo's Second Statement (I), 470,
45. Ana's Last Confession (I), 478,
46. Valdo's Second Statement (II), 485,
47. Ana's Last Confession (II), 492,
48. André's Diary (X), 498,
49. Valdo's Second Statement (III), 505,
50. The Pharmacist's Fourth Report, 513,
51. Valdo's Statement (IV), 523,
52. From Timóteo's Memoirs (I), 537,
53. Valdo's Statement (V), 546,
54. From Timóteo's Memoirs (II), 558,
55. Valdo's Statement (VI), 567,
56. Postscript in a letter from Father Justino, 576,