The Collected Stories of Machado De Assis

by Machado De Assis

At this point, they were standing next to a window. Tito was sitting on the sofa, talking to Azevedo. Diogo was sunk in an armchair, deep in thought.

  Emília kept looking at Tito. After a pause, she said to Adelaide:

  “What do you make of your husband’s friend? He seems dreadfully vain. He says he’s never been in love. Is that credible?”

  “It might be true.”

  “I don’t believe it for a moment. How can you be so naïve? He’s obviously pretending.”

  “It’s true that I don’t know much about him.”

  “As for me, I seem to recognize that face . . . but I can’t remember where I know him from.”

  “He appears genuine enough, but to say what he said really is a bit much.”

  “Of course . . .”

  “What are you smiling at?”

  “He reminds me of another such man,” said Emília. “It was years ago now. He was always boasting about how he was immune to love. He used to say that, for him, women were like Chinese vases: he admired them, but nothing more. Poor man. He succumbed in less than a month. I saw him kiss the tips of my shoes, Adelaide . . . after which, I sent him packing.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Oh, I can’t remember now. Our Lady of Cunning performed the miracle. I avenged our sex and laid low a proud man.”

  “Well done.”

  “He was not dissimilar to this gentleman. But let’s talk about more important matters. I’ve just received the latest fashion plates from France . . .”

  “And what’s new?”

  “Oh, lots of things. I’ll send them to you tomorrow. There’s a really lovely new style of sleeve you must see. I’ve already ordered a few things to be made up for me in Rio. And there are loads of gorgeous traveling outfits.”

  “There doesn’t seem much point in me ordering anything.”

  “Why?”

  “I hardly leave the house.”

  “What, not even to dine with me on New Year’s Day?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t miss that!”

  “Well, come, then, and what about this man, Senhor Tito?”

  “If he’s still here and if you’d like him to come . . .”

  “Yes, let him come, why not? I’ll keep him on a very short rein. I don’t think he can always be so . . . uncivil. I don’t know how you put up with him. He sets my nerves on edge!”

  “Oh, I don’t much care what he says.”

  “But doesn’t it make you indignant, the insulting way he talks about women?”

  “Not really.”

  “You’re lucky, then.”

  “What do you expect me to do with a man who says such things? If I weren’t married, I might feel more indignant. If I were free, I might well do to him what you did to that other man. But as it is, I don’t honestly care . . .”

  “Not even when he says he would always choose a game of cards over love? Putting us lower down the ranks than the queen of spades! And the way he said it too! Such coolness, such indifference!”

  “He really is very naughty!”

  “He deserves to be punished.”

  “He does. Why don’t you punish him?”

  “No, it’s not worth it.”

  “You punished that other man.”

  “Yes, but it’s really not worth it.”

  “Liar!”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I can already see that you’re half tempted to carry out another act of revenge . . .”

  “Me? No!”

  “Yes, why not? It’s not a crime . . .”

  “True, but . . . we’ll see.”

  “Could you?”

  “Could I?” said Emília with a look of wounded pride.

  “Will he kiss the tips of your shoes?”

  Emília remained silent for a few moments, then, pointing with her fan at the neat little boots she was wearing, she added:

  “Yes, he’ll kiss these very boots.”

  Emília and Adelaide went over to join the men. Tito, who appeared to be deep in conversation with Azevedo, broke off their conversation to address them and Diogo, who was still plunged in thought.

  “What’s this, Senhor Diogo?” Tito asked. “Are you meditating?”

  “Ah, I’m sorry. I was distracted!”

  “Poor man,” Tito murmured to Azevedo.

  Then, turning to the ladies, he asked:

  “Does my cigar bother you?”

  “Not at all,” said Emília.

  “So I may continue to smoke?”

  “You may,” said Adelaide.

  “It’s a bad habit, but it’s my only vice. When I smoke, it’s as if I were breathing in eternity. It lifts me up and I’m a changed man. Such a divine invention!”

  “They say it’s an excellent remedy for those disappointed in love,” said Emília in an insinuating tone.

  “I wouldn’t know. But there’s more to it than that. Since the invention of smoking, no one has ever needed to be alone again. A cigar makes for the best possible company. Besides, a cigar is a genuine Memento homo, slowly turning, as it does, into dust; it reminds a man of the true and inevitable end of all things. It’s a philosophical warning, a memento mori that accompanies us everywhere. That, in itself, is a great advance. But I’m boring you with such a tedious speech. You must forgive me . . . I didn’t mean to go on so. Indeed, it already seems to me that you’re looking at me with such a singular look in your eyes that . . .”

  Emília, to whom these words were addressed, answered:

  “I couldn’t say whether the look is singular or not, but the eyes are definitely mine.”

  “They’re not, I think, your usual eyes. You’re perhaps thinking to yourself that I’m strange, eccentric . . .”

  “Vain, I would say.”

  “Remember the seventh commandment: Thou shalt not bear false witness.”

  “The commandment does specify ‘false.’ ”

  “In what way, then, am I vain?”

  “Ah, I can’t answer that.”

  “Why? Because you don’t want to?”

  “No, Because I don’t know. It’s something one feels, but cannot put a name to. You exude vanity, in your gaze, your words, your looks, but it’s impossible to put one’s finger on the origin of such an illness.”

  “That’s a shame. I would very much like to hear your diagnosis of my ‘illness.’ To make up for that, you can hear my diagnosis of yours . . . Your illness stems . . . shall I say it?”

  “Do.”

  “From a touch of resentment.”

  “Really?”

  “Go on,” said Azevedo, laughing.

  Tito continued:

  “Yes, resentment for what I said earlier.”

  “Ah, there you could not be more mistaken,” said Emília, also laughing.

  “I’m sure I’m right. But it’s entirely unnecessary. I’m not to blame for anything. This is how Nature made me.”

  “Nature alone?”

  “Nature and a little reading. Let me set out the reasons why I cannot love or hope to love anyone: first, I’m not handsome enough . . .”

  “Oh, really!” said Emília.

  “Thank you for that cry of protest, but I think I’m right. I’m not handsome enough, I’m not—”

  “Oh, really!” And it was Adelaide’s turn to protest.

  “Second, I’m not curious, and love, if we reduce it to its true proportions, is nothing but curiosity; third, I’m not patient, and in any amorous conquest, patience is the chief virtue; fourth and final point: nor am I an idiot, because, if, despite all those defects, I were ever to attempt to love someone, I would be displaying a complete and utter lack of reason. So that is what I am, by nature and by dint of hard work.”

  “He appears to be sincere, Emília.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “As sincere as the truth,” said Tito.

  “But when it comes down to it, whether he’s sincere or not, why should I care?”

  “N
o reason at all,” said Tito.

  II

  The day after the scenes described above, the sky decided to drench the earth of lovely Petrópolis with its tears.

  Tito, who had intended to spend the day visiting the town, was forced to remain in the house. He was the perfect guest, because whenever he felt he was in the way, he would discreetly withdraw, and when he wasn’t in the way, he became the most delightful of companions.

  Tito combined great joviality with great delicacy; he could make people laugh without ever resorting to impropriety. What’s more, he had just returned from a long and picturesque journey with the pockets of his memory (if you’ll allow me that image) stuffed with lively anecdotes. He had made the journey in a poetic rather than a dandyish spirit. He was an excellent observer and storyteller, two qualities so indispensable to the traveler, but which are, alas, all too rare. Most people who travel don’t know how to look or how to describe what they see.

  Tito had traveled all the way up the Pacific coast and had lived in Mexico, as well as several American states. He had then taken the steamer from New York to Europe. He had seen London and Paris. He had been to Spain, where he lived a kind of Figaro life, serenading modern-day Rosinas at their windows, and, as trophies, had brought back several ladies’ fans and mantillas. He then moved on to Italy and raised his spirit up to the heights of classical art. He saw the shadow of Dante in the streets of Florence; he saw the souls of the doges hovering nostalgically over the widowed waters of the Adriatic Sea; the land of Raphael, Virgil, and Michelangelo was for him a vibrant source of memories of the past and ideas for the future. He went to Greece, where he evoked the spirit of the lost generations who had imbued art and poetry with a fire that still glowed brightly down the dark centuries.

  Our hero traveled farther still, and saw everything with the eyes of one who knows how to look and described everything with the soul of one who knows how to tell a tale. Azevedo and Adelaide spent many a rapt hour.

  “All I know of love,” he would say, “is that it’s a four-letter word, euphonious enough, it’s true, but portending struggles and misfortunes. The love of fortunate lovers is full of happiness, because it has the virtue of not looking up at the stars in the sky, but contents itself with a few midnight feasts and the occasional excursion on horseback or by boat.”

  This was how Tito always spoke. Was he telling the truth, or was this merely the language of convention? Everyone believed the first hypothesis, because this chimed with Tito’s jovial, playful nature.

  On the first day of his stay in Petrópolis, the rain, as we explained earlier, prevented the various characters in this story from meeting up. They all stayed in their respective houses. The following day, however, proved kinder, and Tito took advantage of the good weather to visit that cheerful mountain resort. Azevedo and Adelaide decided to join him and ordered three of their own horses to be saddled up for that brief outing.

  On the way back, they called in to see Emília. The visit lasted only a few minutes. The lovely widow received them as graciously and courteously as a princess. It was the first time Tito had been there, and, whether for this or for some other reason, the mistress of the house paid most attention to him.

  Diogo, who was in the process of making his hundredth declaration of love to Emília, and for whom Emília had just poured a cup of tea, did not view kindly the attentions showered on the visitor by the lady of his thoughts. For that and possibly other reasons, the aging Adonis listened very glumly to the conversation.

  As the visitors were leaving, Emília invited Tito to come again, saying that he would always be welcome. Tito accepted this offer in a gentlemanly fashion, and then they all left.

  Five days after this visit, Emília went to see Adelaide. Tito was not there, and Azevedo, having gone out to deal with some business matter, returned a few minutes later. When, after an hour of conversation, Emília stood up in order to return home, Tito came in.

  “I was just about to leave when you arrived,” said Emília. “We seem to be at odds in everything.”

  “That is certainly not my intention,” answered Tito. “On the contrary, my one wish is not to be at odds with anyone, and certainly not with you.”

  “That doesn’t appear to be the case.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Emília smiled and said in a slightly censorious tone:

  “You know how it would please me if you were to take up my invitation to visit me, but you have not as yet done so. Did you forget?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “How charming.”

  “I’m always very frank. I realize you would prefer a delicate lie, but I know of nothing more delicate than the truth.”

  Emília smiled.

  At this point, Diogo arrived.

  “Were you about to leave, Dona Emília?” he asked.

  “Yes, I was waiting for your arm to escort me.”

  “Here it is.”

  Emília said goodbye to Azevedo and Adelaide. And when Tito bowed to her respectfully, Emília said with icy calm:

  “There is someone who is as delicate as the truth, and that is Senhor Diogo. I hope to be able to say the same—”

  “Of me?” said Tito, interrupting her. “I’ll be there tomorrow.”

  Emília left, arm in arm with Diogo.

  The next day, Tito did indeed go to Emília’s house. She waited for him with some impatience, and since she did not know at what hour he would visit, she spent the whole day, from the morning on, waiting. Tito only deigned to appear at dusk.

  Emília lived with an old aunt of hers. She was a kind lady, a good friend to her niece, and entirely submissive to her will, which meant that Emília could rest assured that her aunt would always fall in with her every wish.

  There was no one else in the room that Tito was shown into. He therefore had more than enough time to examine it at his leisure. It was a small room, but furnished and decorated with great taste. Light, elegant, expensive furniture; four exquisite statuettes—copies of works by James Pradier—an Érard piano, and all arranged in a most interesting and lively way.

  Tito spent the first quarter of an hour examining the room and the objects filling it. This examination must have had a great influence on any study he might have wished to make of the young woman’s mind. Tell me how you live, and I’ll tell you who you are.

  That first quarter of an hour passed, and still not a soul appeared and not a sound was heard. Tito began to grow impatient. As we know, he could be somewhat blunt, despite his great delicacy, to which anyone who knew him would attest. It seems, though, that his bluntness, which he almost always exercised on Emília, was perhaps assumed rather than natural. What is certain is that, after half an hour had passed, Tito, irritated by the delay, muttered to himself:

  “She’s having her revenge!”

  And, picking up the hat he had placed on a chair, he was just walking over to the door when he heard a rustle of silk. Looking up, he saw Emília entering the room.

  “Were you escaping?”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “Please forgive the delay.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive. I’m sure some serious reason must have prevented you from coming down earlier. As for me, I have no need to ask forgiveness, either. I waited, grew tired of waiting, and would have come back on another occasion. All of which is perfectly normal.”

  Emília offered Tito a chair, then sat down on a sofa, and, apparently accepting his rebuff, she said:

  “You really are a complete original, Senhor Tito.”

  “I should hope so. You have no idea how I loathe copies. What possible merit is there in doing what everyone else does? I was not born for such imitative tasks.”

  “But you have already done something that many other people do.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You promised me yesterday that you would visit and you have kept that promise.”

  “Ah, please do not attribute that to any virtue
on my part. I could easily not have come, but I did. It was pure chance not choice.”

  “Well, I choose to thank you anyway.”

  “That is a way of closing your door to me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I can’t be bothered with such expressions of gratitude, nor do I think they could in any way increase my admiration for you. I often went to visit statues in various European museums, but if they had ever thought to thank me for my visit, I can assure you that I would not have gone back.”

  These words were followed by a brief silence, which Emília was the first to break.

  “Have you known Adelaide’s husband for long?”

  “Ever since I was a child.”

  “Oh, so you were once a child.”

  “And still am.”

  “That is precisely how long I have known Adelaide. And I’ve never regretted it.”

  “Nor have I.”

  “There was a period,” Emília went on, “when we were separated, but that didn’t change our friendship one jot. That was at the time of my first marriage.”

  “Ah, you’ve been married twice?”

  “In two years.”

  “And why were you widowed the first time?”

  “Because my husband died,” said Emilia, laughing.

  “No, my question is this: Why did you become a widow even after the death of your first husband? Could you not have remained married?”

  “How?” Emília asked with some amazement.

  “By continuing to be the wife of your dead husband. If love ends in the grave, there hardly seems any point in seeking it out.”

  “You really are a most unusual man.”

  “Possibly.”

  “You must be if you fail to see that life cares nothing for such demands of eternal fidelity. Besides, one can preserve the memory of those who die without renouncing life. Now it’s my turn to ask you why you’re looking at me with such a singular look in your eyes.”

  “I couldn’t say whether that look is singular or not, but the eyes are definitely mine.”

  “So you think I committed bigamy?”

  “No, I don’t think anything. But let me give you my final reason for my inability to love.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “I don’t believe in fidelity.”

  “Not at all?”