Quincas Borba

by Machado De Assis

  “You’re the expert, old man, and that’s enough for me,” he would tell Teófilo. “Hand me the pen.”

  Everything there breathed attention, care: assiduous, meticulous, and useful work. From hooks on the wall hung the week’s newspapers, which were later taken down, put away, and finally bound in six-month batches for future consultation. The deputy’s speeches, printed and bound in quartos, were lined up on a shelf. No picture or bust, decoration, nothing for recreation, nothing to admire—everything dry, exact, administrative.

  “What’s this all worth?” Teófilo asked his wife after a few moments of silent contemplation. “Weary hours, long hours, from night into dawn sometimes . . . It can’t be said that this is the study of an idle man. Work gets done here. You’re witness to the fact that I work. All for what?”

  “You get consolation out of your work,” she murmured.

  He, bitingly:

  “Fine consolation! No, no, I’m through with this. I’m going to forget about everything. Look, in the chamber they all ask for my advice, even the ministers—because I really apply myself to administrative things. What’s the reward? To come here in May and applaud the new masters?”

  “So don’t applaud anything,” his wife said softly. “Do you really want to give me a present? Let’s go to Europe, in March or April, and we’ll come back a year from now. Ask for a leave from the chamber, from wherever we might be—from Warsaw, for example, I’ve always wanted to see Warsaw,” she continued, smiling and holding his face lovingly between her hands. “Say yes. Answer me so I can write to Rio Grande today, the steamer sails tomorrow. It’s all said and done. Shall we go to Warsaw?”

  “Stop joking, Nan”, this is no joking matter.”

  “I’m serious. I’ve been thinking a long time about proposing a trip to you to see if you can have a rest from this infernal paperwork. It’s too much, Teófilo! You can barely find time for a visit. A ride is rare. We almost never chat. Our children hardly see their father because no one can come in here when you’re working… You’ve got to take a rest. I beg of you, take a year off. Look, I’m serious. We’re going to Europe in March.”

  “It can’t be,” he stammered.

  “Why not?”

  It couldn’t be. It was inviting him to get out of his own skin. Politics was everything. There was politics out there, but what did he have to do with it? Teófilo didn’t know anything about what went on outside Brazil except for our debt to London and a half dozen economists. Nevertheless, he thanked his wife for the intention behind her proposal.

  “You’re very good.”

  And a vague feeling of hope restored the deputy’s voice to the softness it had lost during that moral crisis. The papers blew encouragement at him. That whole mass of studies appeared to him like fertilized and seeded land to the eyes of the farmer. It wouldn’t be long in sprouting. Work had its recompense. Someday, sooner or later, the sprout would bloom, and the tree would bear fruit. It was precisely what his wife had said with other direct and apt words. But only now was he seeing the possibility of a harvest. He remembered his explosions of rage, indignation, despair, the complaints of a while ago; he was annoyed. He tried to smile and he made a poor job of it. At dinner and over coffee he amused himself with the children, who went to bed later that evening. Nuno, who was in secondary school now, where he’d heard mention of the change in government, told his father that he wanted to be a minister. Teófilo became serious.

  “My son,” he said, “choose anything else but a minister.”

  “They say it’s nice, Papa. They say you go around in a carriage with soldiers behind.”

  “Well, I’ll get you a carriage.”

  “Were you a minister already, Papa?”

  Teófilo tried to smile and he looked at his wife, who took advantage of the occasion to send the children off to bed.

  “Yes, I was a minister already,” his father answered, kissing Nuno on the forehead. “But I don’t want to be anymore. It’s a rotten job, lots of work. You’ll be a chaplain.”

  “What’s a chaplain?”

  “A chaplain is bed,” Dona Fernanda answered. “Go to bed, Nuno.”

  CLXXVI

  At lunch the next day Teófilo received a letter by an orderly. “Orderly?”

  “Yes, sir. He says it’s from the president of the council.”

  Teófilo opened the letter with a trembling hand. What could it be? He’d read the list of the new ministers in the newspaper. The cabinet was complete. There was no change of names. What could it be? Dona Fernanda, across from her husband, was trying to read the contents of the letter on his face. She saw a clearing. She perceived that his mouth was experiencing a smile of satisfaction—of hope, at least.

  “Tell him to wait,” Teófilo ordered the servant.

  He went to the study and returned minutes later with his reply. He sat down at the table, silent, giving the servant time to hand the letter over to the orderly. This time, expecting it, he heard the horse’s hooves and then its gallop out on the street, and he felt good.

  “Read it,” he said.

  Dona Fernanda read the letter from the president of the council. It was a request to speak with him at two in the afternoon.

  “But the cabinet then … ?”

  “It’s complete,” the deputy hastened to say. “The ministers have been appointed.”

  She didn’t completely believe what he was saying. She imagined some last–minute vacancy and the urgent necessity to fill it.

  “It must be some political matter, or maybe he wants to talk about the budget—or assign me some study.”

  Saying that in order to put off his wife, he felt the probability of the hypotheses, and he was downcast again. But three minutes later the butterflies of hope were fluttering in front of him, not two, not four, but a swarm that was darkening the sky.

  CLXXVII

  Dona Fernanda waited, full of anxiety, as if the cabinet post were for her and that it would give her some pleasure as long as it wasn’t bitter and complicated. Once her husband was satisfied, however, everything would be much better. Teófilo was back at five-thirty. From his look she could see that he was satisfied. She ran to grasp his hands.

  “What was it?”

  “Poor Nanã! Here we are, always on the move. The marquis asked me right off to accept a provincial presidency of the first order. Unable to put me in the cabinet—where he’d had a place all marked out for me—he wished, wanted, asked me to participate in the political and administrative responsibilities of the government by taking on a presidency. He couldn’t, in any case, do without my prestige (those are his words), and he hopes that in the Chamber I’ll take on the position of majority leader. What do you say to that?”

  “That we get ready for the move,” Dona Fernanda answered.

  “Do you think I could have refused?”

  “No.”

  “I couldn’t. You know that you can’t refuse a service of that kind to a friendly government. Or else you should get out of politics. The marquis treated me well. I already knew that he was a superior man, but how smiling and affable! You can’t imagine. He also wants me to attend a meeting, the ministers and a few friends, not many, half a dozen. He confided to me that he’s holding the cabinet program in reserve …”

  “When do we leave?”

  “I don’t know. I have to see him tomorrow night. The meeting is tomorrow at eight o’clock … But do you think I did the right thing in accepting?”

  “Of course.”

  “Yes. If I’d refused, I would have been criticized, and rightfully so. In politics the first thing you lose is your freedom. You can stay behind for now if you want. Five months from now—or four—the chambers open. I’ll barely have time to get there and take a look.”

  CLXXVIII

  Dona Fernanda approved of the proposal. It wouldn’t interrupt their son’s education. It was a separation of four months. Teófilo left in a matter of days. On the morning of his sailing, quite earl
y, he went to take leave of his study. He took a last look at his books, reports, budgets, manuscripts, that whole part of the household that only spoke his language and was of interest for him. He’d tied up the papers and folders so they wouldn’t get lost and gave long instructions to his wife. Standing in the middle of the room, he ran his eyes around the shelves and spread his soul over all of them. In that way he took leave of his saints and his friends with genuine regret. Dona Fernanda, who was next to him, hadn’t lived there more than the ten minutes of his farewell. Teófilo had lived there for many years.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of things. I’ll dust them every day myself.”

  Teófilo gave her a kiss … Any other wife would have taken it sadly, seeing that he loved his books so much that he seemed to love them more than her. But Dona Fernanda felt herself lucky.

  CLXXIX

  Rubião, ever since the day of the ministerial crisis, never returned to Dona Fernanda’s house. He knew nothing of the presidency or of Teófilo’s leaving. He lived with the dog and a servant, without any great attacks or long rest periods. The servant carried out his duties in an irregular way, gobbling up gratuities and frequently receiving the title of marquis. Otherwise he would amuse himself. When his master took it upon himself to converse with the four walls, the servant would run to spy on him, listen to the dialogue, because Rubião paid attention to their words, answering as if they had asked some question. At night the servant would go to chat with friends in the neighborhood.

  “How’s the nut?”

  “The nut’s fine. Today he invited the dog to sing. The dog did a lot of barking and carrying on. He liked it a lot and acted like a bigshot. When he’s got one of his spells, it’s like he was the ruler of the world. Just yesterday at lunch he said to me: ‘Marquis Raimundo ... I want you …’ and he got the rest of it so mixed up I couldn’t understand a thing. At the end he gave me ten tostões.”

  “You put them away…”

  “Come on!”

  When Rubião would come out of his delirium, that whole wordy phantasmagoria became a silent sadness for a moment. His consciousness, where traces of his previous state remained, forced him to get rid of them. It was like the painful ascent a man was making from the pit, climbing up the walls, tearing his skin, leaving his nails behind in order to reach the top and not fall back down again and be lost. Then he would go visit friends, some new, others old, like the major’s people and Camacho’s, for example.

  The latter, for some time, had been less talkative. Politics wasn’t giving him as much material for speeches as formerly. In his office, when he saw Rubião appear in the door, he would put on an impatient look that he immediately corrected. The other man noticed it and was lost in conjectures, whether he’d committed some offense out of carelessness—or whether Camacho was beginning to dislike him. And in order to break the tedium or the resentment he would speak strongly, merrily, opening long respectful pauses, waiting for him to say something. He turned in vain to the Marquis of Paranã whose picture still hung on the wall. He repeated the names he’d heard—the great marquis! the consummate statesman! Camacho continued holding his head and writing without cease, consulting his briefs and attorneys, Lobão, Coelho da Rocha, quoting, scratching out, excusing himself. He had a libel case that day. He stopped to go to the bookcase.

  “Excuse me ...”

  Rubião pulled back his legs to let him pass. He took down a volume of Ordinances of the Realm and leafed through it, jumping ahead, going back, idly, without finding anything, simply to get rid of the unwelcome visitor. But the unwelcome visitor stayed right there for that very reason, and they cast concealed glances at each other. Camacho went back to his libel suit. In order to read, sitting down, he leaned way over to the left, where the light was coming from, turning his back to Rubião.

  “It’s dark in here,” Rubião ventured one day.

  And he didn’t hear any answer, so intent did the lawyer seem on reading his briefs. Really, it might be inconvenient, our friend thought. He looked at the stern and serious face, the gesture with which he picked up his pen in order to go on with the endless libel suit. Twenty more minutes of absolute silence. At the end of that time, Rubião saw him lay down the pen, tighten his chest, stretch out his arms, and pass his hands over his eyes. He said to him, interested:

  “Tired, eh?”

  Camacho made an affirmative gesture and made ready to continue. Then our man got up and took advantage of the interval to say goodbye.

  “I’ll come back when you’re less tied up.”

  He held out his hand. Camacho shook it weakly and went back to his papers. Rubião went down the stairs puzzled, heartsick at the coldness of his illustrious friend. What could he have done?

  CLXXX

  Leaving there he happened to run into Major Siqueira. “I was just on my way to your place,” he said. “Are you going there?”

  “I am, but we’re not in the same place anymore. We moved to Cajueiros, Rua da Princesa…”

  “Wherever it is, let’s go.”

  Rubião needed a piece of string to tie him to reality because his mind felt overcome by madness once more. He spoke so reasonably and properly, however, that the major found him completely in control of his senses, and he told him:

  “Do you know that I’ve got a great piece of news to give you?”

  “Let’s have it.”

  “It’ll have to wait till we get there.”

  They got there. It was a two-story house. Dona Tonica came to open the grating for them. She was wearing a new dress and earrings.

  “Take a good look at her,” the major said, holding his daughter by the chin.

  Dona Tonica drew back in embarrassment.

  “I’m looking,” Rubião answered.

  “Can’t you see right away that she’s a person who’s going to be married?”

  “Oh! Congratulations!”

  “It’s true. She’s going to be married. It took a bit of doing, but she made it. She found a fiancé who adores her, as they all do. Me, when I was a fiancé, I adored my late wife who was something never seen before … She’s getting married. She found a fiancé. It took a bit of doing, but she made it. A serious person, middle-aged. He comes here and spends the evening. In the morning on his way to work I think he raps on the window, or she’s already waiting for him. I pretend not to notice …”

  Dona Tonica was saying it wasn’t so with her head, but she was smiling in a way that seemed to say it was. She was so excited! She didn’t even remember that she’d courted Rubião, that he’d been one of the last and, finally, the very last of her hopes. They went into the living room. Dona Tonica went to the window, came back, head held high, walking about, reconciled with life.

  “A good fellow,” the major repeated, “a good chap … Tonica, go get the picture … Go on, go get your fiancé ...”

  Dona Tonica went to fetch the picture. It was a photograph showing a man of middle age, short, sparse hair, looking startled, hollow cheeks, thin neck, with his jacket buttoned.

  “What do you think?”

  “Very nice.”

  Dona Tonica took the picture back and looked at it for a few seconds, but she turned her eyes away and remained seated as her imagination went out to wait for Rodrigues. His name was Rodrigues. He was shorter than she—something that didn’t show in the picture—and he worked in a bureau of the war ministry. A widower with two sons, one of whom was a cadet, the other a victim of tuberculosis—twelve years old—a sentence of death. What difference did that make? He was her fiance. Every night when she retired, Dona Tonica would kneel before the image of Our Lady, her patroness, thank her for the favor, and ask her to make her happy. She was already dreaming of a son. His name would be Alvaro.

  CLXXXI

  Rubião listened to the major’s discourse in silence. The marriage was set for a month and a half from then. The groom had to get his house fixed up. He wasn’t a wealthy man, but lived off his salary and had recours
e to loans. The house would be the same one and there was no need for new or fine furniture, but there were always certain necessities . . . In short, a month and a half from then, or five weeks at most, they would be joined in the holy bonds of matrimony.

  “And I’ll be free of the burden,” the major concluded.

  “Oh!” Rubião protested.

  The daughter laughed. She was used to her father’s joking and was so given to joy that nothing bothered her. Even if her father referred to the forty years that were behind her, it was no great blow for her. All brides are fifteen years of age.

  “You’ll see. He’ll come looking for you out of loneliness,” Rubião said to Dona Tonica.

  “Ha! I might just get married myself!”

  Rubião stood up suddenly and took a few steps. The major didn’t see the expression on his face, didn’t perceive that the man’s mind was getting unhinged and that he himself sensed it. He told him to sit down, and he went on about his days as a married man and a campaigner. When he came to the narration of the Battle of Monte–Caseros with the attacks and counterattacks that were part of his discourse, he had Napoleon III before him. Silent at first, Rubião offered a few words of congratulation, mentioned Solferino and Magenta, and promised Siqueira a decoration. Father and daughter exchanged looks. The major said that it was getting ready to rain heavily. Indeed, it had grown a bit dark. It would be better if Rubião left before the rain started. He was carrying no umbrella, and they only had an old one, the only one in the house.

  “My coach will be coming for me,” Rubião argued calmly.

  “It’s not coming. It went over to wait for you on the Campo. Can you see the coach from there, Tonica?”