The Beauty Contest: A Story

by ANTÔNIO DE ALCÂNTARA MACHADO

1

THOUGH certain nationalists in Corisco insisted on calling her Senhorita, her official title was “Miss Corisco.” The town of Corisco was so tiny and poor that, when ten families bought an alms box for the church, there was no money left over to put into it. Hence there were not many rivals to eliminate: Bentinho’s daughter was freckled; João’s sister had something wrong with her hips. So right from the start Conceição was a favorite and was soon acclaimed Miss Corisco.

She started by giving an interview to reporters from the newspaper O Cachoeirense. They asked: “What was t he greatest emotion of your life/” She answered: “There were three. My first Communion, a moving-picture of Rudolf Valentino which I saw in the capital of my beloved State, and . . . the third I can’t tell — it s a secret.

“We respect the secret,” wrote the newspaper, “because of course it cloaks a sweet love story.” Then they asked: “What is your dearest wish?” She answered: “To see Brazil always in the vanguard of every enterprise.”

“An admirable answer,” commented O Cachoeirense, “which reveals in Miss Corisco a patriot worthy to be compared with Clara Camarao, Anita Garibaldi, Doña Margarida de Barros, and other national heroines.”

Finally they asked: “What do you think of love?” She said: “Love, in my humble opinion, is an incomprehensible thing which rules the world.”“Words,” the newspaper pointed out, “which contain a profound philosophy, surprising in view of the youth and sex of the enchanting miss.”

She was photographed in various poses: with a little dog in her lap; picking roses in her garden; with her chin resting on the back of her hands. She gave the journalists her autograph — on rose-colored gold-bordered paper, with faint pencil lines to make it come out even, with the letters balancing along them. Her married brother dictated the sentiments. The representatives of O Cachoeirense withdrew. Miss Corisco went off to sweep the kitchen, which was her duty every day including Sundays and holidays. But next morning, accompanied by her brother, she took the bus to the capital of her state, Paraíba do Sul, to appear before the beauty-contest jury at the statewide level.

The Ciné Theater Esmeralda was full to bursting. On the stage behind the jury the C. Gomes-G. Puccini Music Society was playing two-steps. Every other minute the enthusiastic audience gave a cheer for Brazil and the Brazilian “race.” The candidates filed out dressed in the most refined taste. There were five judges: one Brazilian, two Italian, one second-generation Italian, and one Portuguese. They were overwhelmed with patriotic feelings: they wanted to choose a really Brazilian type. Dr. Noé Cavalheiro outlined the ideal incisively as: small mouth and tender eyes. Miss Corisco, by a three-vote margin, was elected Miss Paraíba do Sul.

Then she heard the first speech, pronounced with such emotion that it choked the voice of Dr. Noe Cavalheiro, assistant district attorney, silk handkerchief and all. He recalled how the ancient Greeks dedicated themselves to a cult of physical beauty. He dwelt on the disadvantage of a mens sana unless embodied in a corpore sano. And though he granted that the beauty of woman had provoked wars and catastrophes, he cited various historical examples of how it had also more than once contributed to the general advancement of nations. He reminded his hearers that Brazil owed much to the love shown it by Emperor Dom Pedro I under the beneficent influence of his mistress the Marquesa de Santos. He then referred to the competence of the jury, its independence of spirit, and claimed that the only dissonant note was his own speech — which called forth the unanimous protestation of the audience.

In conclusion, he intoned an impassioned hymn to the transient pulchritude of Conceição. “Uniting the classic beauty of the Venus de Milo with the stupefying seductiveness of the legendary Queen of Nineveh, Miss Paraíba do Sul, greater than Beatrice and happier than Natercia, has conquered the heart of an entire region! The Fatherland is not only, as certain spirits imbued with materialism seem to think, laws guaranteeing private property! The Fatherland is something more, something sublime and divine! It is the star which watches us from the sky and the woman who sanctifies our hearth! The Fatherland is you, Miss Paraíba do Sul, it is in your eyes that is mirrored all the virile strength of the nation! For us, honest patriots and eternal lovers of Beauty, Miss Paraíba do Sul is at this moment Brazil!” (Prolonged applause. Speaker enthusiastically complimented. Sincere shouts of “Encore! Encore!”)

One by one the members of the jury kissed the delicate rosy little hands of Miss Paraíba do Sul, while the C. Gomes-G. Puccini Music Society vigorously attacked the immortal music of 0 Guaraní.

Very flushed and with her velvety eyelids blinking ingenuously, Conção granted her first interview as Miss Paraíba do Sul. She expressed her opinion on the coming presidential elections, the growing of oranges, the religious question in Mexico, the popular provincial priest Padre Cicero, monetary stabilization, Victor Hugo, Brazilian perfumes, the nineteenth-century writer Coelho Neto, and the decision that cleared the famous madman Febrônic the Devil.

In the Great World Hotel, the pilgrimage to her shrine went on from morning till night. Miss Paraíba do Sul received everyone most amiably with a charming smile on her red lips. The roomwaiter went so far as to declare to a reporter, “She is extraordinarily amiable about receiving people: whoever knocks on the door can go in.” Her brother, without waiting to find out whether offense was intended, instantly assaulted the unfortunate man. They were all taken to police court, but there the prestige of Miss Paraiba do Sul settled the matter quickly, with charges dismissed.

Presents rained in every day, such as a typewriter and binoculars for the races. An automobile was put at her disposal. The promising young architect Barros Jandaia offered her his professional services gratis. The hairdresser would not hear of charging her, and even gave her twenty coupons for free shampoos with Pixavon. The Cosmopolitan Bookshop offered a de luxe edition of Paradise Lost. And so it went.

Miss Paraíba do Sul was received in special audience by the governor of the state: she answered His Excellency’s questions most charmingly, and distributed Petit Londrino cigarettes (ovals) to the inmates of the state prison. She also visited the City Hall. There an alderman compared her to the delicate violet of our orchards, which not only attracts by its beauty and captivates by its perfume but also conquers by its exemplary modesty.

Fifteen full days. Really busy. Not one minute of rest. Miss Paraíba do Sul hinted delicately that glory was a burden almost too heavy for her fragile shoulders. And entrained in a private car for Rio de Janeiro, the national capital.

At all the stations along the route appeared the judge, the district attorney, the government delegate, the mayor, the federal tax collector, and the sacristan who was in charge of the customary fireworks. The train whistled. Cheers and applause. The train moved on. Miss Paraiba do Sul arrived in Rio with an unbearable headache.

2

THEN began the days of wild hope and suspense. Parties and more parties to cover up the anxiety. And notes from anonymous admirers. And a ball on the Navy destrover Paraíba do Sul. And tea parties with the rivals, spiced with delicious catty remarks. And interviews, interviews, interviews! And pictures of every description in the magazines. One photographer, more daring than most, invaded the privacy of her bedroom and made a very original shot. Next day, on opening their newspapers, the Cariocas were confronted with a shoe and the following caption:

“While Miss Paraíba do Sul was dining, we succeeded in penetrating into her apartment and committing the delicious offense of photographing a little perfumed shoe lying on the dressing table. We were indiscreet enough to ascertain the size . . . it was three and a half! For our readers’ pleasure we show above the slipper of this young Maria Cinderella of Grace and Beauty.”

Such things touch the heart. Miss Paraíba do Sul gave the little shoe to the photographer as a memento. It was practically useless anyway (as her brother pointed out), since its sole was already worn paper-thin. Enormous crowds were lucky enough to see it on exhibition at the newspaper office. There was not one discordant opinion: it was indeed an adorable little shoe.

Finally the great day of the competition arrived. Miss Paraiba do Sul paraded in her bathing suit for all the old men of the jury to appraise her figure, and submitted to anthropological measurement at the National Museum. Her record was discussed by scientific societies and provoked quarrels among people who had been friends since school days.

But it was all useless. It was not Miss Paraíba do Sul who was judged worthy to represent Brazil in the world contest at Galveston.

It is true that she cried. It cannot be denied. Yes, she cried, But only in the privacy of her hotel room. In public she behaved like a perfect lady. She was all smiles with Miss Brazil. Her admirers protested energetically. A group of students drew up a manifesto in her favor. She just smiled gratefully and said the most amiable sort of things about Miss Brazil. She was honored with further titles: Miss Pindorama (Lady of the Land of Palms); Miss Terra de Santa Cruz (after the original name of Brazil); and Miss Simpatía Verdeamareia (after the colors of the national flag). Everyone recognized that the moral victory was hers. His was a consolation.

Once back in the capital of her native state, however, she decided to change her attitude. She sharply criticized the jury’s decision. “Miss Brazil? Certainly a beauty. But a dull beauty. And what good is that without active charm? And no taste at all. You should just see her clothes. All from the bargain counter. What’s more, you can tell from her features that she has foreign blood. Brazil will be represented at Galveston; but not the Brazilian race.”And on she went. Not even the contest’s organizers came out unscathed. “Pleasant enough, but partial. One of them, a bald old fellow with a long beard, was always annoying the candidates with his idiotic gallantries. But he got what he deserved: one of the contestants asked him why he didn’t cut off a piece of his beard and glue it on to his bald head to look like hair. Yes, that’s what she said. Right to his face. Absolutely. And with people around. She actually did. He got as red as a beet.”

Coriseo received back its Venus with a mournful soul. Miss Paraíba do Sul’s father shook his head and murmured: “What injustice! What injustice!”

She and her brother spoke in vain about the moral victory, the sympathy of the people, the protests in the public press. She told how once when she was coming out of the hotel some man had said to her that she was the winner in the heart of the Brazilian people! “What about that, Father?”

But the old man would not be convinced. It was all very fine. But the prize money, the 84 contos, had gone to someone else. “That’s the whole point. Someone else got the money. Injustice. Brazil is going from bad to worse.”

But he soon had to swear he was wrong, that Brazil was get ling on very well, that a moral victory was more than enough, that money never brings happiness —because Miss Coriseo, Miss Paraíba do Sul, Miss Pindorama, Miss Terra de Santa Cruz, Miss Simpatía Verdeamarela was beginning to cry.

Translated by Elisabeth Sprague Smith