Helena E-Book

Machado de Assis

• Herausgeber: CLXBX
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 299

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2026

Beschreibung

Helena is a captivating early novel by Machado de Assis that weaves together romance, family secrets, social expectation, and moral conflict into a deeply moving story of love and identity. Set in 19th-century Brazil, this elegant narrative explores the delicate balance between duty and desire within the rigid structures of aristocratic society. The story begins with the death of a respected counselor who leaves behind an unexpected clause in his will: his illegitimate daughter, Helena, must be welcomed into the family home and recognized as a legitimate member of the household. Though surprised by this revelation, his son Estácio honors his father's final wish, bringing Helena into a world governed by tradition, reputation, and quiet judgment. Helena's arrival transforms the household. Graceful, intelligent, and seemingly virtuous, she quickly wins the admiration of those around her. Yet beneath her charm lies a quiet reserve, hinting at secrets that complicate her place within the family. As bonds deepen and affections grow—particularly between Helena and Estácio—the boundaries between gratitude, loyalty, and romantic love begin to blur. Machado de Assis skillfully portrays the emotional tension that arises when societal conventions clash with personal longing. Through nuanced characterization and subtle irony, he examines themes of legitimacy, honor, sacrifice, and the search for belonging. Helena herself stands at the center of this moral and emotional crossroads, torn between protecting her past and embracing a future shaped by forces beyond her control. Unlike the author's later, more overtly ironic works, Helena reflects a romantic sensibility while still revealing Machado's keen psychological insight and understated social critique. The novel delicately exposes the pressures placed on women in a society where reputation defines worth and where secrets can quietly determine destiny. Tender, reflective, and layered with emotional complexity, Helena remains a compelling portrait of love constrained by circumstance. It is a story of hidden truths, unspoken feelings, and the quiet resilience of the human heart—an enduring classic that continues to resonate with readers who appreciate timeless drama and refined storytelling.

Leseprobe

Helena

Machado de Assis

Copyright © 2026 by Machado de Assis

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter1

Councilor Vale died at 7 p.m. on April 25, 1859. He died of a sudden stroke, shortly after taking a nap—as he used to say—and while preparing to go play his usual game of voltarete at the home of a judge, a friend of his. Dr. Camargo, summoned in haste, did not even arrive in time to employ the resources of science; Father Melchior could not offer him the consolations of religion: death was instantaneous.

The following day the burial took place, which was one of the most attended that the residents of Andaraí had ever seen. About two hundred people accompanied the deceased to his final resting place, among them representatives of the upper classes of society. The councilor, although he was not a figure inAlthough he held no high state office, he occupied a prominent place in society due to his acquired connections, wealth, education, and family traditions. His father had been a magistrate during the colonial period and a figure of some influence in the court of the last viceroy. On his mother's side, he descended from one of the most distinguished families of São Paulo. He himself had held two jobs, performing them with skill and decorum, which earned him a letter of advice and the esteem of public figures. Despite the political fervor of the time, he was not affiliated with either party, maintaining precious friendships in both, which remained with him at the time of his burial. He did, however, hold certain political ideas, gleaned from the conservative and liberal divides, precisely at the point where the two domains can merge. If no partisan nostalgia laid the final blow, there was a matriarch, and not just one, who saw the best page of her youth buried with him.

The councilor's family consisted of two people: a son, Dr. Estácio, and a sister, Dona Úrsula. She was in her fifties; she was single; she had always lived with her brother, whose household she had managed since the death of her sister-in-law. Estácio was twenty-seven years old and had a degree in mathematics.The advisor had tried to steer him towards politics, then diplomacy; but neither of these projects came to fruition.

Dr. Camargo, a physician and old friend of the house, as soon as he returned from the funeral, went to see Estácio, whom he found in the deceased's private study, in the company of Dona Úrsula. Even grief has its pleasures; aunt and nephew wished to nourish it with the presence of the deceased's personal belongings, in the place of his daily favorites. Two sad lights illuminated that small room. A few moments of profound silence passed between the three. The first to break it was the doctor.

Did your father leave a will?

"I don't know," Estácio replied.

Camargo bit the tip of his mustache two or three times, a gesture he made habitually when he was reflecting.

"We need to look for him," he continued. "Do you want me to help you?"

Estácio shook her hand affectionately.

"My father's death," said the young man, "didn't change our relationship at all. The previous trust remains, as does our long-standing and tried-and-tested friendship."

The secretary's office was locked; Estácio handed over the key.to the doctor; he opened the cabinet without any outward commotion. Inwardly he was shaken. What could be seen in his eyes was a lively curiosity, an expression that, incidentally, none of the others noticed. As soon as he began to rummage through the papers, the doctor's hand became more feverish. When he found the will, there was a brief flash in his eyes, followed by his usual serenity.

"Is that it?" Estácio asked.

Camargo didn't answer right away; he looked at the paper, as if trying to guess its contents. The silence lasted too long not to impress the young man, who, moreover, said nothing, attributing it to his friend's natural emotion in such painful circumstances.

"Do you know what will be in here?" Camargo finally said. "Perhaps a gap or a great excess."

Neither Estácio nor Dona Úrsula asked the doctor for an explanation of such words. Curiosity, however, was natural, and the doctor could see it in their eyes. He said nothing to them; he handed the will to Estácio, stood up, and took a few steps around the room, absorbed in his own thoughts, sometimes mechanically arranging a book on the shelf, sometimes tucking the tip of his mustache between...his teeth, his gaze falling, completely oblivious to the place and the people.

Estácio broke the silence:

"But what deficiency or what excess is this?" he asked the doctor.

Camargo stopped in front of the young man.

"I can't say anything," he replied. "It would be inappropriate before I know his father's latest wishes."

Dona Úrsula was less discreet than her nephew; after a long pause, she asked the doctor the reason for his words.

"Your brother," he said, "was a good soul; I had time to know him closely and appreciate his qualities, which were excellent. He was your friend; I know he was mine. Nothing altered the long friendship that united us, nor the trust we both placed in each other. I did not want, therefore, the last act of his life to be a mistake."

"A mistake!" exclaimed Dona Ursula.

"Perhaps a mistake!" sighed Camargo.

"But, doctor," insisted Dona Úrsula, "why don't you reassure us? I'm certain it's not an act that would dishonor my brother; it naturally alludes to some error in his understanding... something, which I don't know what it is. Why don't you speak clearly?"

The doctor saw that Dona Úrsula was right; and that, if he had nothing more to say, it would have been better to have remained silent altogether. He tried to dispel the strange impression he had left on both of them; but from the hesitation with which he spoke, Estácio concluded that he could not go beyond what he had said.

"We don't need any explanation," the councilor's son interjected; "we'll know everything tomorrow."

At that moment, Father Melchior entered. The doctor left at 10 o'clock, promising to return early the next morning. Estácio, retiring to his room, murmured to himself:

— What mistake could this be? And why did he have to come and plant this enigma in my heart?

The answer, if he could have heard it, was given at that very moment by Dr. Camargo himself, as he got into the car that was waiting for him at the door:

"I did well to prepare them mentally," he thought; "the blow, if there is one, will be easier to bear."

The doctor was alone; besides, it was night, as we know. No one could see the expression on his face, which was closed and meditative. He exhumed the past and explored the future; but of all that he reviewed and foresaw, nothing was communicated to outside ears.

Dr. Camargo's relationship with the councilor's family was close and long-standing, as Estácio had said. The doctor and the councilor were the same age: fifty-four. They met soon after graduating, and the bond that had held them together since then had never loosened.

Camargo was not very likeable at first glance. He had hard, cold features, piercing and shrewd eyes, with a shrewdness that was unsettling to anyone who looked at him, which made him unattractive. He spoke little and curtly. His feelings were not on the surface. He had all the visible signs of a great egoist; however, although the death of the counselor did not elicit a tear or a word of sadness from him, it is certain that he truly felt it. Furthermore, he loved above all things and people a beautiful creature—the lovely Eugenia, as he called her—his only daughter and the apple of his eye; but he loved her with a silent and hidden love. It was difficult to know if Camargo professed any political opinions or harbored religious sentiments. Of the former, if he had them, he never gave practical manifestation; and amidst the struggles that had filled the previous decade, he had remained indifferent and neutral. As for religious sentiments, judging by actions, no one possessed them more pure.He was punctual in fulfilling the duties of a good Catholic. But only punctual; inwardly, he was an unbeliever.

When Camargo arrived home in Rio Comprido, he found his wife, Dona Tomásia, half asleep in a rocking chair and Eugênia at the piano, playing a piece by Bellini. Eugênia played skillfully, and Camargo enjoyed listening to her. On that occasion, however, he said, it seemed inappropriate for the young lady to indulge in any kind of recreation. Eugênia obeyed, somewhat reluctantly. Her father, who was standing by the piano, took her hands as soon as she stood up and gazed at her with loving and profound eyes, such as she had never seen before.

"I wasn't saddened by what you said, Papa," the young woman remarked. "I was playing to distract myself. How is Dona Ursula? She seemed so distressed! Mama wanted to stay longer, but I confess I couldn't bear to see the sadness in that house."

"But sadness is necessary for life," replied Dona Tomásia, who had opened her eyes as soon as her husband entered. "The sorrows of others remind us of our own, and are a corrective to joy, the excess of which can breed pride."

Camargo tempered this philosophy, which he...It seemed too austere, with some ideas that were more comfortable and cheerful.

"Let us leave each age its own atmosphere," he concluded, "and let us not anticipate that of reflection, which only makes unhappy those who have not yet moved beyond pure feeling."

Eugenia didn't understand what the two had said. She turned her eyes to the piano, with a longing expression. With her left hand, still standing, she vaguely extracted three or four notes from her familiar keys. Camargo looked at her again with unusual tenderness; his somber brow seemed to light up with an inner radiance. The girl felt herself embraced in his arms; she let herself go. But the expansiveness was so new that she was frightened and asked in a trembling voice:

Did something happen there?

"Absolutely nothing," Camargo replied, giving her a kiss on the forehead.

It was the first kiss, at least the first one the girl could remember. The caress filled her with filial pride; but its very novelty impressed her even more. Eugenia didn't believe what her father had told her. She saw him go and sit down next to Dona Tomásia and they converse in hushed voices. Approaching, she didn't interrupt the conversation, for they...They continued in the same tone, and the conversation revolved around purely domestic matters. She noticed this; however, she was not at ease. The following morning she wrote a note, which was immediately sent to Andaraí. The reply, which reached her hands as she was trying on a new dress, had the courtesy to wait until she had finished. When it was finally read, it dispelled all the fears of the previous day.

Chapter2

The following day, the will was opened with all the legal formalities. The counselor appointed Estácio, Dr. Camargo, and Father Melchior as executors. The general provisions contained nothing noteworthy: they were pious or charitable legacies, mementos for friends, dowries for godchildren, and masses for his soul and for those of his relatives.

There was, however, one truly important provision. The councilor declared that he recognized a natural daughter, named Helena, born to Dona Ângela da Soledade. This girl was being educated at a school in Botafogo. She was declared heir to her share of his estate and was to go and live with the family, whom the councilor earnestly requested to treat her with care and affection, as if she were his own.

The reading of this provision naturally astonished the deceased's sister and son. Dona Úrsula had never known of such a daughter. As for Estácio, he knew even less than his aunt. He had once heard of a daughter of his father; but so vaguely that he could not have expected such a testamentary disposition.

To their astonishment, another and different impression followed. Dona Úrsula completely disapproved of the counselor's act. It seemed to her that, despite natural impulses and legal licenses, the recognition of Helena was an act of usurpation and a terrible example. The new daughter was, in her view, an intruder, without any right to the love of her relatives; at most, she would agree that she should be given her share of the inheritance and left at the door. However, to receive her into the bosom of the family and its chaste affections, to legitimize her in the eyes of society, as she was in the eyes of the law, Dona Úrsula did not understand, nor did she think anyone could understand it. The harshness of these feelings became even greater when she considered Helena's possible origin. Nothing was known of the mother, besides the name; but who was this woman? In what dark corner of life had the counselor found her? Was Helena the daughter of a chance encounter, or was she born from some irregular, albeit true and unique, affection? To these questions...Dona Úrsula could not answer the questions; however, the mere occurrence of them in her mind was enough to fill her with boredom and irritation.

Dona Úrsula was eminently strict regarding morals. The counselor's life, interspersed with gallant adventures, was far from being a page from catechism; but the final act could well have been the reparation of bitter frivolities. Dona Úrsula did not see this mitigating factor. For her, the main thing was the entry of a stranger into the family.

Estácio's impression was quite different. He had perceived the ill will with which his aunt had received the news of Helena's recognition, and he could not deny to himself that such a fact created a new situation for the family. However, whatever it was, since his father had ordered it, driven by feelings of fairness or impulses of nature, he accepted it as it was, without regret or reservation. The financial question weighed less than anything else on the young man's mind; it weighed nothing. The occasion was too painful to allow for considerations of a lower order, and the elevation of Estácio's feelings did not permit him to be inspired by them. As for the social class to which Helena's mother belonged, he was not much concerned about it, certain that they would know how to raise their daughter to the class she was to ascend to.

Amidst the reflections produced by the counselor's testamentary disposition, Estácio recalled the conversation he had had with Dr. Camargo. This was probably the point the doctor had alluded to. When questioned about his words, Camargo hesitated a little; but the counselor's son insisted:

"What I predicted happened, a mistake," he said. "There was no gap, but an excess. This daughter's recognition is an excess of tenderness, very beautiful, but not very practical. An inheritance was enough; nothing more. Strict justice..."

"Strict justice is my father's will," Estácio retorted.

"Your father was generous," said Camargo; "it remains to be seen whether he could be so at the expense of others' rights."

— Mine? I'm not claiming them.

"To claim them would be unworthy of his memory. What's done is done. Once recognized, this girl should find family and family affection in this house. I am convinced that she will know how to reciprocate with true devotion..."

"Do you know her?" Estácio inquired, fixing the doctor with impatient, curious eyes.

"I saw her three or four times," he said at the end.For a few seconds; but she was very young then. Her father spoke of her as an extremely affectionate person, worthy of being loved and admired. Perhaps it was a father's perspective.

Estácio still wanted to know something about Helena's mother, but he was reluctant to ask further questions and tried to steer the conversation towards another topic. Camargo, however, insisted:

"The advisor spoke to me several times about the plan to acknowledge Helena; I tried to dissuade him, but you know how stubborn he was, and in this case, there was also the natural impulse of paternal love. Our points of view were different. I don't consider myself a bad man; however, I understand that sensitivity cannot usurp what belongs to reason."

Camargo uttered these words in the dry, sententious tone that flowed so naturally and effortlessly from him. His long-standing friendship with the deceased was known to all; could his intentions be hostile to the family? Estácio reflected for a while on the opinion he had just heard from the doctor, a brief reflection that in no way shook his already established and expressed view. His eyes, large and serene, like his spirit...which encouraged them, they landed benevolently on the person they were talking to.

"I don't want to know," he said, "if there's any excess in my father's will. If there is, it's legitimate, justifiable at least; he knew how to be a father; his love was entirely shared. I will receive this sister as if she were raised with me. My mother would certainly do the same."

Camargo did not insist. As for it being a futile effort to dissuade the young man from those feelings, what good was it now to discuss and theoretically condemn the counselor's resolution? It was better to execute it loyally, without hesitation or regret. This he declared to Estácio, who embraced him cordially. The doctor received the embrace without embarrassment, but without fervor.

Estácio was pleased with himself. His character came more directly from his mother than from his father. The advisor, if we discount the only strong passion he truly had, that of women, we will not find any other salient feature in him. His loyalty to his friends was more a result of habit than of the consistency of his affections. Life went by without crises or contrasts; he never found an opportunity to test his own mettle. If he did, it would show that he possessed only average mediocrity.

Estácio's mother was different; she possessed a high degree of passion, tenderness, willpower, a great elevation of feelings, with touches of pride—that pride which is merely an emanation of conscience. Bound to a man who, despite his affection for her, devoted his heart to fleeting and extraneous loves, she had the necessary willpower to control her passion and contain within herself all resentment. Women who are merely women cry, sulk, or resign themselves; those who possess something more than feminine weakness fight or retreat into the dignity of silence. She suffered, it is true, but the elevation of her soul allowed her nothing more than a haughty and silent demeanor. At the same time, as tenderness was an essential element of her being, she concentrated it all on that one son, in whom she seemed to foresee the heir to her robust qualities.

Estácio had indeed received a good portion of this from his mother. Not being a great talent, he owed his remarkable figure among his fellow students to his will and passion for knowledge. He devoted himself to science with fervor and dedication. He abhorred politics; he was indifferent to it.to the outside noise. Educated in the old-fashioned way, with severity and restraint, he passed from adolescence to youth without knowing the corruptions of the spirit or the deleterious influences of idleness; he lived a family life, at an age when others, his companions, lived the life of the streets and lost the virginity of their first sensations in trivial things. Hence it came about that, at eighteen, he retained a certain childlike timidity, which he only lost completely later. But, if he lost his timidity, he retained a certain gravity not incompatible with his youth and very characteristic of organisms like his. In politics, this would perhaps be halfway to rising to public office; in society, it commanded respect, which elevated him in his own eyes. It is worth saying that this gravity was not that tedious, heavy, and boring thing that moralists assert is almost always a symptom of a weak spirit; It was a jovial and familiar gravity, equally distant from frivolity and boredom, a composure of body and spirit, tempered by the vigor of feelings and the grace of manners, like a sturdy, straight trunk adorned with foliage and flowers. He combined these other moral qualities with a sensitivity, not feminine and morbid, but sober and strong; harsh with himself,He knew how to be tender and gentle with others.

Such was the councilor's son; and if anything else needs to be added, it is that he neither yielded nor forgot any of the rights and duties that his age and the class into which he was born gave him. Elegant and polished, he obeyed the law of personal decorum, even in its smallest details. No one entered a room more correctly; no one left more appropriately. He was ignorant of the science of formalities, but he knew the secret of weaving a compliment.

In the situation created by the counselor's testamentary clause, Estácio accepted his sister's cause, whom he already saw, without knowing her, with eyes different from those of Camargo and Dona Úrsula. She communicated to her nephew all the impressions that her brother's act had left her with. Estácio sought to dispel them; he repeated reflections opposed to the doctor's; he showed that, in the end, it was a matter of fulfilling the last wish of a dead man.

"I know very well that there is no other option now but to accept this girl and obey my brother's solemn wishes," said Dona Úrsula, when Estácio finished speaking. "But that's all; I don't know if I can or should share my affections with her."

However, she isof our same blood.

Dona Úrsula shrugged as if rejecting such consanguinity. Estácio insisted on bringing her to more benevolent sentiments. He invoked, besides her will, the uprightness of her father's spirit, who would not do anything contrary to the good reputation of the family.

"Besides, this girl is in no way to blame for her origins, and since my father legitimized her, it is fitting that she not be treated as an abandoned child here. What would we gain from that? Nothing more than disturbing the peace of our inner lives. Let us live in the same communion of affections; and let us see in Helena a part of my father's soul, which remains with us so as not to deprive us entirely of our common heritage."

The counselor's sister gave no answer. Estácio realized he had not won over his aunt's feelings, nor was it possible to do so through words. He entrusted this task to time. Dona Úrsula was sad and alone. When Camargo appeared shortly afterwards, she confided in him all her feelings, which the doctor inwardly approved.

"Did you meet her mother?" asked the counselor's sister.

- I knew.

What kind of woman was she?

— Fascinating.

That's not it; I'm asking if she was a woman of lower social standing, or...

— I don't know; at the time I saw her, she didn't belong to any class and could belong to any class; besides, I didn't know her well.

"Doctor," said Dona Úrsula, after hesitating for a while, "what do you advise me to do?"

— Love her, if she deserves it, and if she is able to.

— Oh! I confess to you that it will cost me dearly! And will it be worth it? Something tells me in my heart that this girl is going to complicate our lives; besides, I can't forget that my nephew, the heir...

"Your nephew accepts things philosophically and even with satisfaction. I don't understand the satisfaction, but I agree that there's nothing more to do than literally fulfill the advisor's wishes. Feelings aren't deliberated; one loves or hates according to what the heart desires. What I'm telling you is to treat her with kindness; and if you feel any affection within yourself, don't stifle it; let it flow. Now, there's no going back. Unfortunately!"

Helena was finishing her studies; weeks later, her family decided that sheShe was to come home. Dona Úrsula initially refused to go and fetch her; her nephew convinced her, and the good lady accepted the task after some hesitation. At home, her rooms were prepared; and a Monday afternoon was set for the girl to be taken to Andaraí. Dona Úrsula got into the carriage soon after dinner. Estácio went to dinner that day with Dr. Camargo in Rio Comprido. He returned late. Upon entering the property, he noticed the windows of the room intended for Helena; they were open; someone was inside. For the first time, Estácio felt the strangeness of the situation created by the presence of that half-sister and asked himself if his aunt wasn't right. He soon rejected this feeling; the memory of his father restored his previous benevolence. At the same time, the idea of ​​having a sister smiled at his heart as a promise of new and unknown joys. Between his mother and the other women, he lacked that intermediary creature, whom he already loved without knowing her, and who would be the natural confidante of his sorrows and hopes. Estácio gazed at the windows for a long time; neither did Helena's figure appear there, nor did he see the shadow of the new inhabitant pass by.

Chapter3

The following morning, Estácio rose late and went straight to the dining room, where he found Dona Úrsula, leisurely seated in her usual armchair by a window, reading a volume of Saint-Clair of the Islands, moved for the hundredth time by the sorrows of the exiles from Barra Island; a good book and a most moral one, though tedious and tiresome, like others of its time. With it, the matrons of that season passed many long hours of winter, with it many a peaceful evening was filled, with it the heart of many an overflowing tear was released.

"Did he come?" Estácio asked.

"It's here," replied the kind lady, closing the book. "Lunch is getting cold," she continued, addressing the...The maid who was standing there, next to the table; they've already gone to call... Mrs. Helena?

— Nhanhã Helena said she's coming.

"Ten minutes ago," Mrs. Ursula remarked to her nephew.

"Of course it won't be long," he replied. "How about that?"

Dona Úrsula was hardly able to answer her nephew. She had hardly seen Helena's face; and Helena, as soon as she arrived, retired to the room they had given her, saying she needed rest. All Dona Úrsula could confirm was that her niece was a grown woman.

A quick step was heard descending the stairs, and soon Helena appeared at the dining room door. Estácio was then leaning against the window opposite the door, which overlooked the extensive veranda overlooking the back of the property. He looked at his aunt as if expecting her to introduce them. Helena stopped when she saw him.

"Young lady," said Dona Úrsula in the sweetest tone she could muster, "this is my nephew Estácio, your brother."

"Ah!" said Helena, smiling and walking towards him. Estácio had also taken a few steps.

"I hope to earn your affection," she said after a short pause. "I apologize for the delay; I believe they were expecting me..."

"We were just about to go to the table," interrupted Dona Úrsula, as if protesting against the idea of ​​her making them wait.

Estácio tried to correct his aunt's rudeness.

"We heard your footsteps on the stairs," he said. "Let's sit down; lunch is getting cold."

Dona Úrsula was already seated at the head of the table; Helena sat to her right, in the chair Estácio had indicated to her; he took his place on the opposite side. Lunch proceeded silently and uneventfully; rare monosyllables, a few gestures of assent or refusal, such was the flow of conversation among the three relatives. The situation was neither comfortable nor ordinary. Helena, though striving to be self-assured, could not entirely overcome the natural shyness of the occasion. But, if she did not overcome it entirely, certain signs of refined manners could be seen through it. Estácio slowly examined his sister's figure.

She was a girl of sixteen or seventeen years old, slender without being thin, of slightly above average height, with an elegant figure and modest manners. Her face, a peach-brown color, had theThe same imperceptible down of the fruit from which he drew his color; on that occasion, it was tinged with a distant pink, initially more ruby, a natural effect of the shock. The pure and severe lines of his face seemed to have been drawn by religious art. If his hair, brown like his eyes, instead of being arranged in two thick braids, fell loosely over his shoulders, and if his own eyes raised their pupils to heaven, you would say he was one of those adolescent angels who brought the Lord's messages to Israel. Art would not demand greater correction and harmony of features, and society could well be content with politeness of manners and gravity of appearance. Only one thing seemed less pleasing to the brother: it was his eyes, or rather his gaze, whose expression of sly curiosity and suspicious reserve was the only flaw he found, and it was not a small one.

After lunch, and a few scattered words exchanged, Helena retired to her room, where for three days she spent almost all her time reading half a dozen books she had brought with her, writing letters, staring blankly into space, or leaning against the windowsill. She occasionally came down for dinner, her eyes red and her brow heavy.With only a pale, fleeting smile on her lips. A child, suddenly transferred to boarding school, no longer sadly relives the initial longing for her parents' home. But the wing of time carries everything away; and after three days, Helena's face already bore a less somber aspect. Her gaze lost the expression her brother had first found in it, becoming what it naturally was, gentle and serene. Her words flowed more easily, more frequently and numerously; familiarity replaced shyness.

On the fourth day, after lunch, Estácio started a general conversation, which remained a simple duet, because Dona Úrsula was counting the threads of the tablecloth or playing with the ends of the scarf she wore around her neck. As they talked about the house, Estácio said to his sister:

This house is as much yours as it is ours; pretend we were born under the same roof. My aunt will tell you how we feel about you.

Helena thanked her with a long, deep look. Saying that the house and the grounds seemed beautiful and well-arranged, she asked Dona Úrsula to show them to her in more detail. Her aunt frowned and replied curtly:

— Not now, young lady; I usually rest and read.

"Well, I'll read it for you to hear," the girl replied gracefully; "it's not good to tire your eyes; and besides, it's only right that I get used to serving you. Don't you think?" she continued, turning to Estácio.

"She's our aunt," the young man replied.

"Oh! She's not my aunt yet!" Helena interrupted. "She will be when she knows me completely. For now, we're strangers to each other; but neither of us is bad."

These words were spoken in a tone of graceful submission. The voice in which she uttered them was clear, sweet, melodious; better than that, it had a mysterious charm that even Dona Úrsula herself could not resist.

"Then let time together make the heart speak," replied the counselor's sister in a gentle tone. "I don't accept the offer of reading, because I don't understand well what others read to me; my eyes are more intelligent than my ears. However, if you want to see the house and the farm, your brother can take you there."

Estácio declared himself ready to accompany his sister.Helena, however, refused. Although it was her brother, it was the first time she had seen him, and, it seemed, the first time she had been alone with a man who wasn't her father. Dona Úrsula, perhaps because she preferred to be alone for a while, told her curtly to go. Helena accompanied her brother. They toured part of the house, the young woman listening to Estácio's explanations and inquiring about everything with the zeal and curiosity of a lady of the house. When they reached the door of the councilor's office, Estácio stopped.

"We're going into a sad place for me," he said.

What is it?

My father's office.

— Oh! Let me see!

They both entered. Everything was just as it had been the day the counselor died. Estácio gave some indications regarding the nature of his father's domestic life; he showed her the chair in which he used to read, in the afternoon and in the morning; the family portraits, the desk, the bookshelves; he spoke of anything that might interest her. On the table, near the window, was still the last book the counselor had read: it was the Maxims of the Marquis of Maricá. Helena picked it up and kissed it.The page opened. A tear welled up in her eyes, warm with all the heat of a passionate and sensitive soul; it welled up, slid down, and fell onto the paper.

"Poor thing!" she murmured.