The Collected Stories of Machado De Assis

by Machado De Assis

  He took a couple of steps about the room, then left.

  I felt a single tear roll down my cheek. It wasn’t the first bitter tear I would shed, but it was perhaps the first indication of sin.

  III

  A month passed.

  During that time, nothing at home changed. No second letter appeared, and my extreme vigilance proved futile.

  I could not forget about the letter, though. Ah, if it were only a matter of not forgetting, but the first words kept resurfacing again and again in my memory, then the others, then all of them. I knew the letter by heart!

  Do you remember? One of the things I often used to boast about was my excellent memory. Even that gift proved to be a punishment. Those words distracted me, made my head throb. Why? Ah, Carlota, it’s because I found in those words an indefinable charm, a painful charm, because it was accompanied by feelings of remorse—but a charm from which I could not free myself.

  It wasn’t my heart that was to blame, it was my imagination. My imagination was leading me into perdition; the struggle between duty and the imagination is cruel and dangerous for weak souls. And I was weak. It was the mystery of it all that so captured my imagination.

  In the end, time and other diversions deflected my mind from that obsessive thought.

  After a month had elapsed, while I had not completely forgotten about the mysterious stranger and his letter, I was at least calm enough to laugh at myself and my fears.

  One Thursday night, we had a few visitors, among them many of my female friends, although not your good self. My husband had not yet come home from work, but his absence was neither noticed nor felt, given that, however decent a fellow he was, he was never exactly the life and soul of the party.

  We had sung and played and talked amid an atmosphere of frank and generous enjoyment; Amélia Azevedo’s uncle was amusing us with his eccentricities; Amélia garnered much applause with her heavenly voice; and we had just reached a pause, waiting for tea to be served.

  At that point, my husband arrived.

  He was not alone. At his side was a tall, slim, elegant man, whom I did not recognize. In the ensuing silence, my husband stepped forward and introduced him to me.

  I heard my husband say that our guest was called Emílio ***.

  Only then did I see him properly, and I had to suppress a gasp.

  It was him!

  My gasp was replaced by a look of surprise. No one noticed. He, even less. He fixed his eyes on me and, with a gracious bow, addressed a few flattering, courteous remarks to me.

  I replied as best I could.

  Further introductions were made, and for ten minutes, an awkward silence reigned.

  All eyes were turned on the new arrival. My eyes were turned on him, too, and I could see that everything about him conspired to attract attention: a proud, handsome head, deep, magnetic eyes, elegant, delicate manners, an easy, distinguished air, in marked contrast with the affected, prosaically self-conscious air of the other young men.

  My examination of him was necessarily brief. I could not, nor did I want to, meet Emílio’s eyes. I lowered my gaze and waited anxiously for the conversation to resume its normal course.

  My husband took it upon himself to set the tone. Unfortunately, the new guest was still the subject of the general conversation that followed.

  We learned that Emílio was from the provinces, the son of wealthy parents, and had been educated in Europe, whose every corner he had visited.

  He had returned to Brazil only recently and, before going back to his provincial roots, had decided to spend a little time in Rio de Janeiro.

  That is all we found out. There followed many questions about his travels, and he replied in a most friendly, helpful fashion.

  I was the only one who showed no curiosity, because I was struck dumb. I wanted an explanation for that mysterious romance, which had begun in a theater corridor and continued with an anonymous letter and his arrival in my house with my own husband as intermediary.

  From time to time, I would glance across at Emílio and find him looking cool and calm, responding politely to the questions put to him and himself recounting, with modest, natural grace, some of his adventures abroad.

  An idea occurred to me. Was he really the mysterious man of the theater and the letter? He seemed so at first, but I could have been wrong; I couldn’t precisely recall that other man’s features, and while it seemed to me that the two creatures were one and the same, could the mistake be explained by some miraculous resemblance?

  As I pondered this, time passed, and the conversation continued as if I were not there. Tea was served. Afterward, there was more singing and playing. Emílio listened with almost devout attention and revealed himself to be a man of taste as well as a discreet and attentive conversationalist.

  By the end of the evening, he had captivated everyone. My husband was particularly thrilled. He clearly considered himself fortunate to have found a new friend for himself, and another guest for our family gatherings.

  Emílio left, promising to return.

  When I was alone with my husband, I asked him:

  “Where did you meet that man?”

  “He’s a real gem, isn’t he? He was introduced to me at the office a few days ago, and I immediately took a shine to him. He seems to be a good-hearted fellow, plus he’s bright, discreet, and sensible. Everyone likes him . . .”

  And, seeing me so serious and silent, he broke off and asked:

  “Was I wrong to bring him here?”

  “Wrong? No, why?”

  “No reason. After all, what could possibly be wrong about inviting him? He’s such a distinguished young man . . .”

  I brought this new hymn of praise to an end by summoning a slave to whom I gave some orders.

  Then I withdrew to my room.

  My sleep that night was not, believe me, the sleep of the just. What irritated me most was the nervous state I got into after these events. I could no longer entirely brush aside these feelings; they happened against my will, overwhelming me and dragging me with them. It was a curiosity of the heart, which is the first sign of the storms to which our lives and our futures succumb.

  I felt as if that man could read my very soul and knew how to choose his moment, a moment when he would be most likely to impress himself on my imagination as an imposing, poetic figure. You, who met him later on, would you not say that, given the circumstances, he did this in order to make an impression on the mind of a woman like me?

  Like me, I say. My circumstances were rather special; I may never have spoken to you openly about this, but I’m sure you suspected as much.

  Had I been a wife to my husband and had he been a husband to me, I would have been perfectly safe. This was not the case. We entered our marital home like two travelers, perfect strangers, entering an inn, where the wild weather and the lateness of the hour had obliged us to take shelter beneath the same roof.

  My marriage, then, was the result of calculation and convenience. Not that I blame my parents. They wanted me to be happy and they died convinced that I was.

  I could, despite everything, have found in the husband they gave me an object of happiness for the rest of my days. All I would have needed was for my husband to see in me a twin soul, a kindred spirit. This did not happen. My husband saw marriage as most people do: as a way of obeying the Lord’s command in Genesis.

  Apart from that, he was always considerate and slept peacefully in the belief that he had done his duty.

  Duty! That was my lifeline. I knew that passions did not reign supreme and that our will can triumph over them. In this respect, I was strong enough to repel malevolent thoughts. However, it was not the present that I found so suffocating, so terrifying, it was the future. Up until then, that romance had held a certain sway over my imagination because of the mystery surrounding it; reality, however, would open my eyes. I found consolation in the hope that I would triumph over a guilty love, but in that future, whose proximity I could n
ot gauge, would I be entirely able to resist passion and maintain intact my reason and my conscience? That was the question.

  In the midst of all these vacillations, I did not once see my husband reach out his hand to save me. On the contrary, when he found me in the act of burning that letter, and I flung myself into his arms, he, as you will remember, rather abruptly pushed me away.

  This is what I thought and felt during the long night that followed Emílio’s introduction into our house.

  The following day, I woke, feeling weary of heart, but, whether out of inertia or exhaustion, I felt all these painful, tormenting thoughts vanish in the morning light, like real birds of night and solitude.

  A bright light illumined my thoughts. It was a repetition of the same idea that kept coming back to me in the midst of all those recent anxieties.

  Why be afraid? I told myself. I’m such a sad, fearful creature; and I wear myself out creating mountains, only to collapse, exhausted, in the middle of a vast plain. No obstacle stands in my path as virtuous, rational wife. This man, if he is the same one, is merely a gullible reader of realist novels. It’s only the mystery that makes him interesting; seen from closer to, he’s sure to be either vulgar or vile.

  IV

  I won’t weary you with a detailed, daily account of events.

  Emílio continued to visit our house, always behaving with the same delicacy and gravity, and charming everyone with his genuinely amiable manner, which managed to be distinguished without being affected.

  I don’t know why my husband was so enthusiastic about this new friendship. Emílio had managed to awaken in him a new enthusiasm for me and for everyone. What caprice of Nature was this?

  I often questioned my husband about this very sudden, very public friendship; I tried to plant suspicions in his mind, but he would not be moved.

  “What do you want me to say?” he would answer. “I don’t know why I like the fellow so much. I just think he’s a really fine person, and I can’t conceal how much I enjoy his company.”

  “But you don’t even know him,” I would object.

  “Now, really! I’ve heard only excellent things about him, and besides, you can see at once that he’s a person of distinction.”

  “Manners can be very deceiving.”

  “So they say . . .”

  I confess, my friend, that I could have forced my husband to exclude Emílio, but when this idea came into my head, for some reason I laughed at my fears and declared myself strong enough to resist whatever might happen.

  Moreover, Emílio’s behavior encouraged me to lay down my arms. He treated me with utter respect, as he did all the other women, and never once revealed an ulterior motive, some secret thought.

  And the inevitable happened. Given his behavior toward me, I could hardly maintain my rigorous indifference to his friendly approaches.

  Things evolved in such a way that I even persuaded myself that everything that had happened before had nothing whatsoever to do with him, and the only connection between the two men was a truly remarkable resemblance, which, of course, I could not confirm, because, as I said before, I had been unable to look closely at the man in the theater.

  It did not take long for us to become close friends, and I was for him what all the other women were: admiring and admired.

  Emílio began to visit not only in the evenings, but during the day, too, at times when my husband was at home, and, later, even when he wasn’t.

  My husband had usually been the one to bring him to our house, but, at other times, Emílio came in his own carriage, which he himself drove with tremendous grace and elegance. He spent hours and hours at our home, playing the piano and talking.

  I must admit that the first time I received him alone, I trembled, but there was no need for such childish fear; Emílio never behaved in a way that confirmed my suspicions. If I still harbored any suspicions, they all melted away.

  Two months passed.

  One afternoon, I was alone at home; I was waiting for you so that we could go and visit your ailing father. A carriage stopped outside the door. I sent a servant to see who it was. It was Emílio.

  I received him as I always did.

  I told him we were going to visit your father, and he immediately said that he would leave. I urged him to wait until you arrived, and he did so as if some reason other than politeness kept him there.

  Half an hour passed.

  We talked about banal subjects. Then, during a brief silence, Emílio got up and went to the window. I stood up as well and walked over to the piano to fetch my fan. When I returned to the sofa, I saw in the mirror that Emílio was looking at me in a very strange way. It was a complete transformation. It was as if his whole soul lay in that gaze.

  I shuddered.

  I nevertheless made an effort to control myself and sat down again, looking very serious.

  Emílio came over to me.

  I looked up at him.

  His gaze had not changed.

  I looked down.

  “Are you frightened?” he asked.

  I said nothing, but began to tremble again, and my heart was pounding so wildly I thought it might leap from my breast.

  Those words contained the same expression as his eyes, and they had the same effect on me as the words in his letter.

  “Are you frightened?” he said again.

  “Of what?” I asked, trying to smile in order to lighten the situation.

  “You looked frightened.”

  A silence.

  “Dona Eugênia,” he said, sitting down. “I can no longer hide the secret that has been tormenting me. It would be a pointless sacrifice. Whether it makes me happy or not, I prefer to know where I stand. Dona Eugênia, I love you.”

  I cannot begin to describe my feelings on hearing those words. I felt myself turn pale, and my hands were like ice. I tried to speak, but I couldn’t.

  Emílio went on:

  “Oh, I know the risk I’m taking. I can see this is a forbidden love. But what can I do? It’s fate. I’ve traveled many leagues, seen so many beauties, and yet my heart never once beat faster. Fate has reserved for me a rare good fortune or, perhaps, a terrible misfortune, that of being loved or spurned by you. I bow to destiny. I will accept whatever answer you give me. What do you say?”

  While he was talking, I was able, as I listened, to consider my response. When he finished, I looked up and said:

  “What answer do you expect from me?”

  “Anything.”

  “You can expect only one . . .”

  “That you don’t love me?”

  “I cannot and do not love you, nor would I love you if I could or if I wanted to. Please leave.”

  And with that I stood up.

  Emílio did the same.

  “I will leave,” he said, “but I leave with all the fires of hell burning in my heart.”

  I shrugged as if this were a matter of indifference to me.

  “Oh, I know you don’t care. That is what most pains me. I would much prefer your hatred, for, believe me, indifference is the worst possible punishment. However, I will resign myself to it. Such a grave crime should bring with it an equally grave punishment.”

  And, picking up his hat, he came over to me again.

  I stepped back.

  “Oh, don’t be afraid. Do I make you afraid?”

  “Afraid?” I retorted proudly.

  “Or is it disgust?” he asked.

  “Perhaps,” I murmured.

  “Just one question,” he said. “Do you still have that letter?”

  “Ah,” I said, “so it was you who wrote that letter.”

  “It was. And I was the mysterious stranger at the theater too. And the letter?”

  “I burned it.”

  “Just as I thought.”

  And, bowing coldly, he walked to the door. He had almost reached it, when I saw him hesitate and press one hand to his heart.

  I felt a moment of pity, but regardless of wheth
er he was suffering or not, he had to leave. Nevertheless, I took a step toward him and, from a safe distance, asked:

  “Would you tell me something?”

  He stopped and turned around.

  “Of course.”

  “How could you have pretended to be my husband’s friend?”

  “It was an unworthy act, I know, but my love is such that it does not even recoil from such unworthy behavior. It’s the only love I know. But, forgive me, I will trouble you no further. Goodbye. Forever!”

  And he left.

  I thought I heard a sob.

  I went and sat down on the sofa. Shortly afterward, there was the sound of a carriage moving off down the street.

  I don’t know how the time between his departure and your arrival passed, but you found me in that same place.

  Up until then, I had only read about love. That man seemed to feel the love I’d dreamed of and read about. The idea that Emílio’s heart was, at that moment, bleeding, aroused in me an intense feeling of pity. Pity was the first step.

  I thought: “Who knows what he might be suffering now? And, after all, it’s not his fault. He loves me, he told me so; his love is stronger than reason itself. He is clearly utterly devoted, so much so that he opened his heart to me. He loves me, that is his excuse.”

  Then I went over all his words in my mind and tried to recall the tone in which he had spoken them. I remembered, too, what I’d said and the tone in which I’d responded to his confession of love.

  Perhaps I had been too harsh. I could have maintained my dignity without opening a wound in his heart. If I’d spoken more gently, I might have gained his respect and veneration. Now he will still love me, but he will only remember what happened with a sense of bitterness.

  I was still immersed in these thoughts when you came in.

  Do you remember commenting on how sad I looked and asking me why? I didn’t answer. We went to your father’s house, but my sad mood remained.

  That night, when my husband asked if Emílio had visited, I said the first thing that came into my head.

  “No, he didn’t come today.”