The Collected Stories of Machado De Assis

by Machado De Assis

  Nevertheless, they greeted Gomes like the prodigal son.

  “Where have you been hiding? What’s all this business about chrysalises and butterflies? Who do you think you’re fooling?”

  “No, really, my friends. I’m growing wings.”

  “Wings!” said Batista, trying not to laugh.

  “Only if they’re the wings of a sparrow-hawk ready to pounce on its prey . . .”

  “No, I’m serious.”

  And Gomes seemed absolutely genuine.

  Vasconcelos and Batista exchanged a sideways glance.

  “Well, if it’s true, tell us about these wings of yours and where exactly you want to fly,” said Vasconcelos, and Batista added:

  “Yes, you owe us an explanation, and if we, your family council, think it a good explanation, we will give our approval. If not, there’ll be no wings for you, and you’ll go back to being what you’ve always been.”

  “I second that,” said Vasconcelos.

  “It’s quite simple. I’m growing angel’s wings so that I can fly up into the heaven of love.”

  “Love!” exclaimed his two friends.

  “Yes, love,” said Gomes. “What have I been up until now? A complete wastrel, a total debauchee, squandering both my fortune and my heart. But is that enough to fill a life? I don’t think so.”

  “I agree, it isn’t enough, there needs to be something else, but the difference lies in how . . .”

  “Exactly,” said Vasconcelos, “exactly. It’s only natural that the two of you will think otherwise, but I believe I’m right in saying that without a chaste, pure love, life is a mere desert.”

  Batista gave a start.

  Vasconcelos fixed his eyes on Gomes.

  “You’re thinking of getting married, aren’t you?” he said.

  “I don’t know about marriage, I only know that I’m in love and hope one day to marry the woman I love.”

  “Marry!” cried Batista.

  And he let out a loud guffaw.

  Gomes was so serious, though, and insisted so gravely on his plans for his own regeneration, that the two friends ended up listening with equal seriousness.

  Gomes was speaking a strange language, entirely new on the lips of a man who, at any dionysian or aphrodisiac feast, was always the wildest and rowdiest of guests.

  “So, you’re leaving us, then?” said Vasconcelos.

  “Me? Yes and no. You will find me in certain salons, but never again will we meet in theaters or in houses of ill repute.”

  “De profundis . . .” sang Batista.

  “May we at least know where and who your Marion is?” asked Vasconcelos.

  “She’s not a Marion, she’s a Virginie. At first I merely felt fond of her, then fondness became love and is now out-and-out passion. I fought it for as long as I could, but lay down my arms in the face of a far more potent force. My great fear was that I would not have a soul worthy to be offered to this gentle creature, but I do, a soul as fiery and pure as it was when I was eighteen. Only the chaste eyes of a virgin could have discovered the divine pearl beneath the mud in my soul. I am being reborn a far better man than I was.”

  “The boy’s clearly insane, Vasconcelos. We should pack him off to the lunatic asylum this minute, and just in case he should suffer some new attack of madness, I’ll leave right now.”

  “Where are you going?” asked Gomes.

  “I have things to do, but I’ll come and see you shortly. I want to find out if there’s still time to haul you out of the abyss.”

  And with that he left.

  III

  Once they were alone, Vasconcelos asked:

  “So you really are in love?”

  “Yes, I am. I knew you’d find that hard to believe; I myself don’t quite believe it, and yet it’s true. I’m ending up where you began. For better or worse? For better, I think.”

  “Do you intend to conceal the person’s name?”

  “I’ll conceal it from everyone but you.”

  “You clearly trust me, then . . .”

  Gomes smiled.

  “No,” he said, “it’s a necessary condition. You, above all men, should know the name of my heart’s chosen one, for she’s your daughter.”

  “Adelaide?” asked Vasconcelos in astonishment.

  “Yes, your daughter.”

  This revelation was a real bombshell. Vasconcelos had never suspected such a thing.

  “Do you approve?” asked Gomes.

  Vasconcelos was thinking, and, after a few moments of silence, he said:

  “My heart approves of your choice; you’re my friend, you’re in love, and as long as she loves you . . .”

  Gomes was about to speak, but, smiling, Vasconcelos went on:

  “But what about society?”

  “What society?”

  “The society that believes both you and me to be libertines; they’re hardly going to approve.”

  “So that’s a no, is it?” said Gomes sadly.

  “No, it’s not, you fool! It’s an objection you could rebut by declaring that society is a great slanderer and famously indiscreet. My daughter is yours, on one condition.”

  “Which is?”

  “Reciprocity. Does she love you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “So you’re not sure . . .”

  “I really don’t know, I only know that I love her and would give my life for her, but I have no idea if my feelings are requited.”

  “They will be. I’ll test the waters. In two days’ time, I’ll give you my answer. To think you could be my son-in-law . . .”

  Gomes’s response was to fall into his friend’s arms. The scene was verging on the comic when three o’clock struck. Gomes remembered that he’d arranged to meet another friend. Vasconcelos remembered that he had to write some letters.

  Gomes left without speaking to the two ladies.

  At about four o’clock, Vasconcelos was preparing to go out, when he was told that Senhor José Brito had come to see him.

  When he heard this name, the normally jovial Vasconcelos frowned.

  Shortly afterward, Senhor José Brito entered his study.

  Senhor José Brito was, as far as Vasconcelos was concerned, a specter, an echo from the abyss, the voice of reality—a creditor.

  “I wasn’t expecting to see you today,” said Vasconcelos.

  “I’m surprised,” answered Senhor José Brito with a kind of piercing calm, “because today is the twenty-first.”

  “I thought it was the nineteenth,” stammered Vasconcelos.

  “The day before yesterday it was, but today is the twenty-first. Look,” said the creditor, picking up the Jornal do Commercio lying on a chair, “Thursday the twenty-first.”

  “Have you come for the money?”

  “Here’s the bill of exchange,” said Senhor José Brito, taking his wallet out of his pocket and a piece of paper out of the wallet.

  “Why didn’t you come earlier?” asked Vasconcelos, trying to put off the evil hour.

  “I came at eight o’clock this morning,” replied the creditor, “and you were asleep; I came at nine, idem; I came at ten, idem; I came at eleven, idem; I came at noon, idem. I could have come at one o’clock, but I had to send a man to prison and I couldn’t get away any earlier. At three, I had my dinner, and here I am at four o’clock.”

  Vasconcelos took a puff on his cigar to see if he could come up with some clever way of avoiding making a payment he had not been expecting.

  Nothing occurred to him, but then the creditor himself gave him an opening.

  “Besides,” he said, “the time hardly matters, since I was sure you would pay me.”

  “Ah,” said Vasconcelos, “that explains it. I wasn’t expecting you today, you see, and so I don’t have the money with me.”

  “What’s to be done, then?” asked the creditor innocently.

  Vasconcelos felt a glimmer of hope.

  “You could wait until tomorrow.”

&n
bsp; “Ah, tomorrow I’m hoping to be present at the confiscation of assets from an individual I took to court for a very large debt, so I’m afraid I can’t . . .”

  “I see, well, in that case, I’ll bring the money to your house.”

  “That would be fine if business worked like that. If we were friends, then obviously I would accept your promise and it would all be settled tomorrow, but I’m your creditor, and my one aim is to protect my own interests. Therefore, I think it would be best if you paid me today.”

  Vasconcelos smoothed his hair with one hand.

  “But I don’t have the money!” he said.

  “Yes, that must be very awkward for you, but it doesn’t upset me in the least; that is, it ought to upset me a little, because you clearly find yourself in a very precarious situation.”

  “Do I?”

  “Indeed. Your properties in Rua da Imperatriz are mortgaged up to the hilt; the house in Rua de São Pedro was sold, and the money from the sale long since spent; your slaves have all left one by one, without you even noticing, and you recently spent a vast amount on setting up house for a certain lady of dubious reputation. You see, I know it all. More than you do yourself.”

  Vasconcelos was visibly terrified.

  The creditor was telling the truth.

  “But,” said Vasconcelos, “what are we to do?”

  “That’s easy enough, we double the debt, and you give me a deposit right now.”

  “Double the debt, but that’s—”

  “Throwing you a lifeline. I’m really being very reasonable. Come on, say yes. Write me a note for the deposit now and we’ll tear up the bill of exchange.”

  Vasconcelos tried to object, but it was impossible to convince Senhor José Brito.

  He signed a note for eighteen contos.

  When his creditor left, Vasconcelos began thinking seriously about his life.

  Up until then, he had spent so wildly and so blindly that he hadn’t noticed the abyss he himself had dug beneath his feet.

  It had taken the voice of one of his executioners to alert him to this.

  Vasconcelos pondered, calculated, and went through all his expenses and his obligations, and saw that he had less than a quarter of his fortune left—a mere pittance if he were to continue living as he had until now.

  What to do?

  Vasconcelos picked up his hat and went out.

  It was growing dark.

  After walking for some time, deep in thought, he went into the Alcazar.

  It was a way of distracting himself.

  There he found the usual people.

  Batista came to greet his friend.

  “Why the glum face?” he asked.

  And for want of a better answer, Vasconcelos replied: “Oh, it’s nothing. Someone just stepped on a corn.”

  However, a chiropodist standing nearby heard this remark and thereafter did not take his eyes off poor Vasconcelos, who was in a particularly sensitive mood that night. In the end, he found the chiropodist’s insistent gaze so troubling that he left.

  He went to the Hotel de Milão to have supper. However preoccupied he might be, his stomach was still making its usual demands.

  In the middle of eating, he suddenly remembered the one thing he should never have forgotten: Gomes’s proposal of marriage to his daughter.

  It was like a ray of sunshine.

  “Gomes is rich,” thought Vasconcelos. “That’s the best way out of all these problems. Gomes can marry Adelaide, and, since he’s my friend, he couldn’t possibly deny me what I need. For my part, I will try to get back what I’ve lost. What a stroke of luck!”

  Vasconcelos continued his meal in the best of moods, then returned to the Alcazar, where a few other lads and some members of the female sex helped him to forget his troubles completely.

  He returned peacefully home at his regular time of three o’clock in the morning.

  IV

  The following day, Vasconcelos’s first priority was to sound out Adelaide. He wanted to do so, though, when Augusta was not there. Fortunately, she needed to go to Rua da Quitanda to view some new fabrics, and she set off with her brother-in-law, leaving Vasconcelos entirely free.

  As readers will already know, Adelaide loved her father deeply, and would do anything for him. She was, moreover, the soul of kindness. Vasconcelos was counting on those two qualities.

  “Come here, Adelaide,” he said, going into the living room. “How old are you now?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Do you know how old your mother is?”

  “She’s twenty-seven, isn’t she?”

  “No, she’s thirty, which means that your mother married when she was just fifteen.”

  Vasconcelos paused to gauge the effect of these words, but in vain. Adelaide had no idea what he was getting at.

  Her father went on:

  “Have you considered marriage?”

  She blushed deeply and said nothing, but when her father insisted, she answered:

  “Oh, Papa, I don’t want to marry.”

  “You don’t want to marry? Whyever not?”

  “Because I don’t want to. I’m happy living here.”

  “You could marry and still live here.”

  “Yes, but I don’t want to.”

  “Come on, you’re in love with someone, aren’t you? Admit it.”

  “Don’t ask me such things, Papa. I’m not in love with anyone.”

  Adelaide sounded so genuine that Vasconcelos could not doubt her sincerity.

  “She’s telling the truth,” he thought. “I need to try another tack.”

  Adelaide sat down next to him and said:

  “So can we just not talk about this anymore, Papa?”

  “We must talk, my dear. You’re still a child and can’t yet look to the future. Imagine if I and your mother were to die tomorrow. Who would look after you? Only a husband.”

  “But there’s no one I like.”

  “Not at the moment, but if your fiancé were a handsome lad with a good heart, you would come to like him. I’ve already chosen someone who loves you deeply, and you’ll come to love him too.”

  Adelaide shuddered.

  “I will?” she said. “But who is it?”

  “Gomes.”

  “But I don’t love him, Papa.”

  “Not now, I’m sure, but you can’t deny that he’s worthy of being loved. In a couple of months you’ll be madly in love with him.”

  Adelaide said not a word. She bowed her head and started playing with one of her thick, dark plaits. She was breathing hard and staring down at the carpet.

  “So that’s agreed, is it?” asked Vasconcelos.

  “But, Papa, what if I was unhappy?”

  “That’s impossible, my dear. You will be happy and you’ll adore your husband.”

  “Oh, Papa,” said Adelaide, her eyes brimming with tears, “please don’t make me marry yet.”

  “Adelaide, a daughter’s first duty is to obey her father, and I’m your father. I want you to marry Gomes and you will marry him.”

  To have their full effect, these words needed to be followed by a quick exit. Vasconcelos knew this and immediately departed, leaving Adelaide in deep despair.

  She didn’t love anyone. No other love object lay behind her refusal, nor did she feel any particular aversion for her would-be suitor. She merely felt complete indifference.

  In the circumstances, marriage could only be a hateful imposition.

  But what could Adelaide do? Who could she turn to?

  She had only her tears.

  As for Vasconcelos, he went up to his study and wrote the following lines to his future son-in-law:

  Everything is going well. I give you permission to come and pay court to my daughter, and hope to see you married in a couple of months.

  He sealed the letter and sent it off.

  Shortly afterward, Augusta and Lourenço returned.

  While Augusta disappeared up to her boudoir to change
her clothes, Lourenço went looking for Adelaide, who was out in the garden.

  Noticing that her eyes were red, he asked her why, but she denied she had been crying.

  Lourenço didn’t believe his niece and urged her to tell him what was wrong.

  Adelaide trusted her uncle, almost because he was so direct and gruff. After a few minutes, Adelaide told Lourenço all about the scene with her father.

  “So that’s why you’re crying, little one.”

  “Yes. How can I avoid getting married?”

  “Don’t worry, you won’t have to. I promise.”

  Adelaide felt a shiver of joy.

  “Do you promise, Uncle, to persuade Papa?”

  “Well, persuade or prevail, one or the other, but you won’t have to get married. Your father is a fool.”

  Lourenço went up to see Vasconcelos at precisely the moment when the latter was about to leave.

  “Are you going out?” asked Lourenço.

  “I am.”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  Lourenço sat down, and Vasconcelos, who already had his hat on, stood waiting for him to speak.

  “Sit down,” said Lourenço.

  Vasconcelos sat down.

  “Sixteen years ago—”

  “You’re going an awfully long way back. If you don’t shave off half a dozen years, I can’t promise to hear you out.”

  “Sixteen years ago,” Lourenço went on, “you got married, but the difference between that first day and today is enormous.”

  “Of course,” said Vasconcelos. “Tempora mutantur, nos et—”

  “At the time,” Lourenço went on, “you said you’d found paradise, a true paradise, and for two or three years you were a model husband. Then you changed completely, and paradise would have become a real hell if your wife were not the cold, indifferent creature she is, thus avoiding some truly terrible domestic scenes.”

  “But what has this got to do with you, Lourenço?”

  “Nothing, and that isn’t what I wanted to talk to you about. What I want to do is to stop you sacrificing your daughter on a whim, handing her over to one of your fellow dissolutes.”