#misterio da estrada de sintra

[shinylitwick94]

Finished reading “O Mistério da Estrada de Sintra”, by Eça de Queirós and Ramalho Ortigão.

This is one of those that has been sitting on the shelf for some ten years now, and I’m happy that I finally made room for it.

It’s fun and cheesy, and notable mostly for:

a) the fact that it was written by two of Portugal’s most well known 19th century authors working together;

b) being Portugal’s first important crime-mystery novel;

and c) the manner in which it was published.

The book consists of a series of anonymous letters by the various characters, written to the editor of a major newspaper, and describing the events of this crime that supposedly took place.

At the time it was actually published in that form, so readers would have been following along in the newspaper week by week as the story unfolded. And, since all characters are all anonymized, the idea is of course that this could very well be a real story taking place in their city right now. It’s that War of the Worlds vibe. This is probably my favorite aspect of the book.

Now the authors themselves years later thought this book rather silly, but nonetheless thought it important to have it published and wrote in the preface of a later edition the following (english google translation below)

O que pensamos hoje do romance que escrevemos há catorze anos?... Pensamos simplesmente –   louvores a Deus! –   que ele é execrável; e nenhum de nós, quer como romancista, quer como critico, deseja, nem ao seu pior inimigo, um livro igual. Porque nele há um pouco de tudo quanto um romancista lhe não deveria pôr e quase tudo quanto um crítico lhe deveria tirar

Poupemo-lo – para o não agravar fazendo-o em três volumes – à enumeração de todas as suas deformidades? Corramos um véu discreto sobre os seus mascarados de diversas alturas, sobre os seus médicos misteriosos, sobre os seus louros capitães ingleses, sobre as suas condessas fatais, sobre os seus tigres, sobre os seus elefantes, sobre os seus iates em que se arvoram, como pavilhões do ideal, lenços brancos de cambraia e renda, sobre os seus sinistros copos de ópio, sobre os seus cadáveres elegantes, sobre as suas toilettes   românticas, sobre os seus cavalos esporeados por cavaleiros de capas alvadias desaparecendo envoltos no pó das fantásticas aventuras pela Porcalhota fora!...

Todas estas coisas, aliás simpáticas, comoventes por vezes sempre sinceras, desgostam todavia velhos escritores, que há muito desviaram os seus olhos das perspectivas enevoadas da sentimentalidade, para estudarem pacientemente e humildemente as claras realidades da sua rua.

Como permitimos pois que se publique um livro que, sendo todo de imaginação, cismado e não observado, desmente toda a campanha que temos feito pela arte de análise e de certeza objectiva?

Consentimo-lo porque entendemos que nenhum trabalhador deve parecer envergonhar-se do seu trabalho.

Conta-se que Murat, sendo rei de Nápoles, mandara pendurar na sala do trono o seu antigo chicote de postilhão, e muitas vezes, apontando para o ceptro, mostrava depois o açoite, gostando de repetir:   Comecei por ali.  Esta gloriosa história confirma o nosso parecer, sem com isto querermos dizer que ela se aplique às nossas pessoas. Como trono temos ainda a mesma velha cadeira em que escrevíamos há quinze anos; não temos dossel que nos cubra; e as nossas cabeças, que embranquecem não se cingem por enquanto de coroa alguma, nem de louros, nem de Nápoles.

Para nossa modesta satisfação basta-nos não ter cessado de trabalhar um só dia desde aquele em que datámos este livro até o instante em que ele nos reaparece inesperadamente na sua terceira edição, com um petulante aninho de triunfo que, à fé de Deus, não lhe vai mal!

Então, como agora, escrevíamos honestamente, isto é, o melhor que podíamos desse amor da perfeição, que é a honradez dos artistas, veio talvez a simpatia do público ao livro da nossa mocidade.

English google translation

What do we think today of the novel we wrote fourteen years ago?... We simply think – praise to God! – that it is execrable; and none of us, either as a novelist or as a critic, wishes, not even on our worst enemy, an equal book. Because in it there's a little bit of everything a novelist shouldn't put in it and almost everything a critic should take from it.

Shall we spare it – so as not to aggravate it by making it in three volumes – the enumeration of all its deformities? Let us draw a discreet veil over its masked people in different heights, over its mysterious doctors, over its blond English captains, over its fatal countesses, over its tigers, over its elephants, over its yachts on which  fly, as pavilions of the ideal, white cambric and lace handkerchiefs, on its sinister glasses of opium, on its elegant corpses, on its romantic toilettes, on its horses spurred by knights in white capes disappearing wrapped in the dust of the fantastic adventures through the Nutty out!...

All these things, moreover pleasant, moving at times always sincere, nevertheless displease old writers, who have long since turned their eyes away from the cloudy prospects of sentimentality, to patiently and humbly study the clear realities of their street.

How do we allow it to be and publish a book that, being all of the imagination, brooded and not observed, refutes the entire campaign we have been doing for the art of analysis and objective certainty?

We allow it because we understand that no worker should appear to be ashamed of their work.

It is said that Murat, being King of Naples, had his old postilion whip hung in the throne room, and often, pointing to the scepter, would then show the whip, enjoying repeating: I started there. This glorious story confirms our opinion, without meaning that it applies to our persons. As a throne we still have the same old chair we used to write on fifteen years ago; we don't have a canopy that covers us; and our heads, which are whitening, do not, for the time being, girded with any crown, neither of laurels nor of Naples.

For our modest satisfaction, it is enough for us not to have stopped working for a single day from the time we dated this book to the moment when it unexpectedly reappears to us in its third edition, with a petulant year of triumph that, to the faith of God, does not not look bad on it!

Then, as now, we were  writing  honestly , that is, the best we could from that love of perfection, which is the honesty of artists, perhaps the public's sympathy came to the book of our youth.

I copied out the whole thing (and apologise for not taking the time to do a better translation) because this preface might actually be my favorite part of the whole book.

Yes the book is cheesy, and oversentimental and all of the other things its authors accuse it of being. Yet, people loved it, and they chose to let it be republished even though they no longer agreed with most of the things in it. I just find it nice and refreshingly healthy, especially coming from these sources.

Anyhow, it was a fun little read, that is probably more important for its context than its content, but I can certainly recommend it to someone who’s curious about portuguese literature.